Over the weekend I went to the San Diego Zoo. This zoo is a very popular zoo nationwide, if not internationally, and it’s a place I plan on going to more often. The adventure around the zoo is a major cardio workout but it’s so worth it. Just plan to spend the whole day there, if not two whole days.

I’m not really writing this to explain my trip to the zoo. However, there was one thing I’ve been thinking about that has been stuck with me ever since: what goes through these animals’ minds when all these foreign creatures to them are staring at them and flashing lights in their eyes? Some of them look completely freaked out but a lot of them actually looked content. Here, take this polar bear for example:

What about this face says, “Life sucks”? That’s right, nothing. Nothing about this face wishes it were elsewhere. In fact, it’s the same face I have had since I moved to San Diego. I know it well. It screams, “Now this I could get used to.”

However, it’s not this face that was the clincher. And I say that as a foreshadowed pun because as soon as the polar bear consumed the ten carrots it was given, it stood up, turned its back to all the onlookers ranging in age from two to ninety-two and took a giant polar bear sized shit, then walked away to play with a blue bucket.

You, my furry sir, are my hero.

So back to the question of what goes through the animals’ heads at the zoo. If I’m that polar bear in the picture, this is all I can think of once he finished those carrots:

“Here, lemme show you what $40 bucks at the gate buys you…. There. Nature. You happy?”

So with my writing returned to its rightful spot, the forefront of my attention, I have made assessments, rearranged a few things, hidden a few more things, and have created my spot, albeit a cramped one.

Introducing, The Cloffice. Oh, and Stella, in case you’ve never met.

That’s right. You are seeing this correctly. There is a desk in my closet. Can I open the drawer? A little bit but I can work without it. And yes, it will be cramped and surely it will be evident when it is time to do laundry. However, the motivation to write because my life depends on it will be just as evident as my dirty socks two feet away.

The truth is I’ve been lazy and have not written anything besides a scattered poem or two in the last year.

And sadly, I don’t feel any better after my admission, even though that one poem the torturous self-critic in me has nothing to bitch about.

What’s so frustrating is the answer is clear and obvious: Just keep writing. And that makes sense. I do believe in “creative juices” and the necessity to keep them flowing. However, the problem isn’t that I can’t sustain the writing process; the problem is that I can no longer start, a linguistic impotency.

I decided to re-read Stephen King’s “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.” I’ve read it several times and each time in the past it has helped get the blood going. Tonight, though, I came across a passage that this time gave me pause, and it’s right at the end of one very important, self-defining chapter.

“You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair- the sense that you can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.

I’m not asking you to come reverently or unquestioningly; I’m not asking you to be politically correct or cast aside your sense of humor (please God you have one). This isn’t a popularity contest, it’s not the moral Olympics, and it’s not church. But it’s writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can’t or won’t, it’s time for you to close the book and do something else.

Wash the car, maybe.”

This is a big “come-to-Jesus” moment for me. I mean, he’s right. I have to start taking this seriously or I am easily going to spend the rest of my life questioning “what if” and wondering “if only.”

I truly believe writing is the one thing I’m good at. Obviously any skill should be refined and mine really could use some refining, but I can at least recognize that while others may solve extremely difficult mathematical equasions in their heads in mere seconds or within .4 seconds mentally decide to and physically hit a baseball 400 feet, my talent is with words. And it’s about time I got off my lazy ass and wrote them down, maybe actualize this ridiculous dream of mine.

Besides, I hate washing cars.

Admittedly, I sometimes fall into the trap of believing a new year is a good reason to make some changes. I haven’t the last few years- this New Years included- but I have made my resolutions in the past, only to watch myself slowly and methodically neglect them while I inched my way back into old habits. The mindset then becomes, “Well, it was the thought that counted. I’ll try again next year… in 8 more months.”

So this year, no resolutions. In fact, this year I’m just going to leave everything as they are, cluttered, and see if I can work my way back to uncluttered. No need to quickly clean up. After 35 years it’s obvious I can’t  start fresh and keep it that way so why not work with what I can do? Hell, I can clean up messes. I’ve been doing that since I learned how to change my own underwear. When people ask what I think my biggest strength is, I reply with, “Taking a pile of shit and making it art.”

Having said all that, I do believe that making New Years resolutions and sticking to them for an entire year is an art, and one that I am not skilled at. So I have respect for those that are able to accomplish goals that took flipping the page of a calendar to come up with. I guess I just don’t understand why it took you all year to come up with it.

Maybe I’m just overly conscious of myself and my surroundings that instead of being able to let go for the year and enjoy myself, I spend all year worrying about what is wrong. You see, I have these more-complex-than-they-need-to-be thoughts in August, too.

I turned the alarm off and the light on, then swung my feet over the side on to the cold wood floor. I use that as sort of a wake up call. Most days I flex my ankles, working out the early onset of psoriatic arthritis, joints popping and echoing, then stand and work out the rest of the stiffness on my way to the bathroom.

This morning, though, was different. I have some days where the typical becomes not typical but this morning’s different was different than other differents, so to speak. Today felt, I don’t know, heavy. It was as if the heaviness I felt from my blanket never lost its weight after getting out from under it.

Why was I carrying this unexplained burden? I have no recollection of my dreams but that’s an explanation that wouldn’t have sat right with me anyway. None of my friends or family unloaded any major news on me lately, disastrous or otherwise.

All through the morning preparation and on my way to work I dug and dug for what was making me feel so nervous and anxious. About an hour into work I began scanning news articles; nothing but stories about the stupid things humans do and bleak future foreshadowing. It was no different than any other day’s morning news but it was as if I was seeing clearer and straight through the bullshit.

That’s when I got creeped out and felt very overwhelmed. A few years back I went through a handful of panic attacks, my first, and learned how to recognize and handle them. Before one came on, I decided to go outside. The space of outside helped. After about ten minutes of waiting for things to get worse, I decided the worst had passed so I returned to my desk.

The rest of the morning I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of what I do both at the moment and in the future was going to make a difference. At some point there is going to be a breakdown in society and structure, and the world as we know it will crumble.

When the world finally does fall apart, will I have spent the time leading up to it wisely?

When I lived in Iowa, I had the perfect person to cut my hair. Her name was Sou. I could go in there, tell her how I wanted my hair cut, and she would proceed to cut with precision and mastery. I always walked away knowing I got exactly what I wanted and completely satisfied. Every time, with no second-guessing. Then I moved away from Iowa and haven’t been satisfied since. I’ve even contemplated never letting anyone else touch my hair unless her name was Sou but the possibility of going years without a haircut was something I just couldn’t justify. Sou eventually moved to the state of Washington so even if I went back to visit Iowa, I would have to plan my vacation there with hers. That was not only not going to happen but seemed rather stalker-ish for just a haircut.

Since I’ve been living in San Diego, I’ve found a few people that have cut my hair but I always come away saying, “Good enough for government work,” which is pretty much like saying, “Not perfect but whatever works.” Last week a co-worker gave me a gift certificate good enough for one free cut at the place he goes to all the time. I knew it would be no Sou but I figured since it was free I had nothing to lose.

I walked in to the place, an old-school style barbershop that was very comforting, and found five people sitting in there waiting for a haircut. Obviously this place has a good reputation, which was also a comforting thought. The banter was friendly immediately upon walking in, as the tattooed punk-rocker cutting hair said, “How’s it going? I’ll be with you in a bit. If you want, there’s beer in the mini-fridge.” And he wasn’t joking. It was packed full of PBRs and was on the house. I am not much of a drinker but was impressed just the same. Others there were smoking cigars, drinking Pabst tall-boys from a can, jovially talking as the three military men in there were getting their razor-cut military fades. The fact that these guys were getting their hair cut there didn’t bother me one bit because this was not that kind of place and it was obvious from the other two waiting to get their long hair simply cleaned up that this place did it all.

I sat down and joined in the conversation, ranging from the U.S. flag to cars made prior to 1950 to the cost of living in Detroit. In between cuts, the guy cutting hair would smoke a cigarette as if each cut was a sexual experience and he had just blown his load but was only needing a break to rise to the next occasion. The term “fluffer” came to mind but that’s as far as I let that thought go. After sitting there for two hours, it was finally my turn in the chair.

“How do you want it?” he asked, so I told him. He informed me, correctly, that the style I wanted wasn’t going to be exact because I simply don’t have thick enough hair nor enough hair. I knew this going in and was okay with that and also was okay with him saying, “We’ll get it as close as possible.” I had faith.

He threw the cape over me, wrapped my neck with the white cloth, then noticed my psoriasis. Now, this has always been my self-conscious hang-up. It has kept me from getting a proper tan due to embarrassment from it and has always been a concern of mine when trying to find someone to cut my hair. Sou never had a problem with it (from what I could tell) and always made me seem to forget I had it. My hair was always cut just enough to keep it and my disquiet covered. Today, though, the guy cutting my hair made it his mission to make it obvious to everyone in the tiny barbershop. He loudly peppered me with questions and told stories of other heads he has seen that had the same problem. He also said he had just the thing to help, too, which I was more than happy to try because there’s nothing like taking pills and using steroidal creams and lotions with no success. His “cure” was a waxy goo named pomade. He explained how to use it, what it looked like, and as he gunked my head with this stuff, he slyly slipped in the fact that he was putting enough oil in there to last a year. I thought he was exaggerating. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized he wasn’t.

I left the barbershop with my hair slicked back like a greaser, as if I should have a pack of smokes rolled in my t-shirt sleeves as I’m hopping into my ’57 Chevy. Instead the smokes were in my pocket as I fell into my Saturn.

I knew upon immediate glance, even with my glasses off, that I was never going to use this stuff. My hair felt as if I could break a board over it without the board ever touching my scalp. I thanked him just the same, gave him a tip (because really, the haircut was free and he was trying to help), then drove off with the strongest desire to wash my hair than I’ve ever had. I hopped in the shower and could feel the water simply bouncing off my head. I lathered up my hand with shampoo and dove in. I scrubbed, rubbed and even tried combing it out. After rinsing, still there. I lathered up again and let the shampoo sit there for a few minutes. Again, still there. I got out and tried to dry my head but my towel simply stuck to my head. It was clear this pomade was not coming out. Then, the phone rang. It was my buddy Nate. I informed him of my situation and he laughed, and rightly so. Then it dawned on me that I should talk to his girlfriend, someone who would have knowledge of what I could do to get this nastiness out of my hair. Her advice was fantastic, a bright light in a dark day. She said to use dish-washing soap to cut the grease. It was genius. She said that I’d have to do it at least two or three times and would have to really rub the soap in. With a new sense of purpose, I hung up the phone and ran to the kitchen to grab the Dawn dish-washing soap.

I went back in to the bathroom, got the water running, got my hair as wet as it could be given the pomade circumstance, and dove in. I rubbed, scrubbed, shined to the point where my scalp was beginning to burn. I rinsed, could start to actually feel my hair, got excited, then sudsed up again. Since the guy said he put enough oil in my hair to last a year, I figured two times of the Dawn cure wouldn’t be enough. I repeated the process six times until my scalp was screaming at me to stop. Needless to say I need to get more dish-washing detergent. I dried my hair but realized I was nowhere near free and clear from the pomade. So I gave up. It was much better than the time prior to the Dawn experience (which was a first) but it still was greasy, stiff, and in some places kind of clumpy.

So now I sit here typing this out, every few minutes touching my hair with frustration. I realize this is going to take time to clean up. I understand hair grows back but at this age, it grows back at a much slower pace than it once did and even not everywhere it used to. And I don’t have Sou to save me.

• I’m pissed off because all this is keeping me awake and I have to wake up in 5 hours to get ready for work.
• I’m pissed off because the drunk assholes at the bar near me have no respect for their surroundings and seem to think that the people they’re talking to so damn loudly are 50 feet away when they’re barely 2 feet away.
• I’m pissed off because I can’t get high anymore to help me sleep.
• I’m pissed off because if I had a bike I probably would have done some riding today and most likely would have been tired enough to get some sleep tonight.
• I’m pissed off because I can’t afford a bike.
• I’m pissed off because I can’t afford a new camera and am constantly seeing things that would be a good picture but the stupid digital camera I have is a joke.
• I’m pissed off because I can’t even afford my regular bills right now so thinking about and wanting a bike and a camera so badly seems so wrong.
• I’m pissed off because I am too damn reserved to let go and have a good time.
• I’m pissed off at some people that do let go and have a good time and then have everything seemingly fall into their lap.
• I’m pissed off because every time I have interest in a female I don’t know how to show it, and I’m pissed off because even if I could, all I feel like I have is poetry and intelligence and that is not enough for women these days and I can’t afford anything else.
• I’m pissed off because apparently, even if I could afford it, women don’t seem to find me relationship worthy anyway so I’m pissed off that I’m pissed off about being alone.
• I’m pissed off because sometimes I actually feel good about myself and that the problem is not me, it’s the women I have interest in, and then reality seems to kick in.
• I’m pissed off that sometimes I simply get my own hopes up.
• I’m pissed off that porn is just straight-up fucking when I want a story to go along with it but every time I try to find a story in porn it’s in German and I don’t speak German.
• Now I’m pissed off at Germans.
• I’m pissed off that I can’t afford to travel.
• I’m pissed off that travel to some countries isn’t even advised, especially the country a mere 30 minutes south of me.
• I’m pissed off that people are so damn ignorant that they ruin it for others.
• I’m pissed off that my father was and still is such a raging asshole.
• I’m pissed off that my brother doesn’t call me and I’m pissed off at myself for not taking the time to do the same with him when every day I tell myself I will.
• I’m pissed off that my mother is getting older and I live 3000 miles away from her (and I’m kinda pissed off that she can’t/won’t visit me… hint, hint, Mom).
• I’m pissed off that I’m grown up now and have responsibilities and completely wasted my youth on, well, being pissed off.
• I’m pissed off that I have several loads of laundry and have to carry it up the street to wash it.
• I’m pissed off that these hardwood floors have to be swept every week.
• And finally I’m pissed off because I know there are things I’m leaving off this list that I will think of later, if not wake me up in two hours to remember them.

Then there are those on the receiving end that don’t let it bother them. Either they’re thick-skinned enough to just let it bounce off them or they, too, accept it for what it is and move on themselves. Neither of those two are a strength I have. Instead I’m caught in the middle of a mental drive-by. I’d say innocent bystander but I’m far from innocent, which leads to the next point.

I’ve made my mistakes in life. I’ll be the first to admit them, too. Hell, I’ll even write about them for all the public to see and read. So I can see where certain perceptions may have lingered long enough with others to where that’s all they can see or understand. What frustrates me about that, though, is I’ve done my homework and while it may not have been turned in on time, it was turned in nonetheless. I’m not asking for a grade, either. Just an understanding that lessons were taught and learned. And maybe even a little credit for it. I’ve said this before in previous blogs but what is life if not a learning tool created by the universe?

I’m learning not to take things so personally. This has been a hard lesson for me to learn, too. I’ve spent years being a self-deprecating martyr. But these last few months have been a re-birth for me of sorts. Maybe it’s just a lack of patience. Maybe I just need to learn that other people either don’t know about my storied past and this Johnny-come-lately re-individualization. Maybe they aren’t willing to take the time to see it and give me the chance to prove it.

Then again, why should I care if they do or not?

About two and a half weeks ago, shortly after my last post, I decided that my destiny, for lack of better words, was my own for the taking. I refuse to be bitter about the fact that it has always been that way and I never realized it until that point but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it was an epiphany that I wish I’d had many years ago. However, I’ve decided to view that in a manner that allows me to believe with the utmost sincerity that maybe it took all the bullshit I’ve been through to get to that level of realization and understanding. Besides, what is life if not an extended learning curve?

I arrived home from the low-paying job I had (yes, “had” but we’ll get to that in a second) on a Friday with despair and uncertainty, bedfellows that I had unfortunately become all too familiar with, their ugly nakedness and all. As I mentioned before, I was struggling to find food and paying rent was always an adventure. I then received an email shortly after arriving home that night regarding how to begin a life as a freelance copywriter. It was as if the proverbial light bulb illuminated itself right in front of me, though admittedly it felt more like I was slapped in the back of the head and my eyes were opened to a new opportunity. So I dove in. I started up my own business and in the first week I had my first two “clients.” I knew I wouldn’t be paid for my time, as building a portfolio was necessary by pro bono methods, but I also knew that it wouldn’t be long before I’d begin to be paid handsomely for my writing skills. What gave me the confidence to take that step? A meeting I had the day before with the owner of a publication company who was willing to publish my first book of poetry, which will actually be my very first book ever published, in the Spring of 2011.  Not to sound egotistical but I’ve always felt writing was my forte and to have a complete stranger agree was very uplifting for my soul. So it made sense that while that slow publishing process worked itself into fruition, there was no reason I couldn’t find a similar path to getting paid for it sooner. Hence the freelance copywriting biz.

One week later I found myself in a job interview and the following night, I received a job offer. It was the 82nd resume I had submitted for a job in a two month time span that was the big winner. I do not believe that there was anything wrong with me because I knew deep down that I had skills that were valuable to any employer; it was just the state of the horrible economy we have found ourselves in. But that was all put behind me when this offer was given. My hard work and perseverance finally paid off and now I only can see the light instead of the walls of a never-ending, breath-constricting, stress-inducing tunnel.

So to quickly summarize, in less than a month I became a soon-to-be published poet, an entrepreneur, and employed in a well-paying job. It amazes me the speed in which good fortune strikes a person. I have often wondered in the past month if I am being rewarded somehow by the Karma gods or have finally paid off my dues for the mistakes I have made in my past or maybe, just maybe, all of these positive aspects of my new life are results from taking a chance on sobriety. However I want to look at it, yet another beautiful aspect of perception, this has been the best month I’ve had since my parents took me to Chuck E. Cheese’s on my 7th birthday. But the fun doesn’t stop there. I have also begun to attend and recite my poetry at public poetry readings. I have this inane fear of reading in public but the past month has taught me and proven that sometimes taking a chance pays off so really, what do I have to lose?

Absolutely nothing. And the perpetual Lewis Carroll Cheshire cat grin on my face proves it.

As of my last post, July 25th, 2009, I had just lost my job and was dreading what the future held. I tried my best to maintain my composure but as quickly as I lost the job, the same went for my composure, as well as a good chunk of my sanity. Fortunately, I was able to find work a week or two after that post. Unfortunately, it came with a heavy cost. My income was completely cut in half due to having to take the first job offered to me for fear that I would not get another opportunity elsewhere. Towards the end of August, early September, the girl-by-my-side was gone- by my own stupid accord, I’ll admit- and the ground I tread was coming towards me at an extremely quick speed. By mid-October my hours had been cut drastically down to part-time and by year’s end I found myself face down on the ground tasting the ground I seemed to have taken for granted for many, many years.

On December 28th, 2009, I gave up smoking pot, something I had done for nearly 20 years on a continual, daily basis. I have no fear admitting this online for the “world” to see, either. I probably should but I’ve should all over myself for way too long and to be quite honest, I’ve been working on starting over fresh since that day so why hold back with it? It’s who I was and now no longer who I am; I am a new man now and if others can’t see it and/or allow me to redeem myself, that’s none of my concern. I am doing this for myself. No offense, dear reader.

Before I continue, I want to state clearly that I am in no way stating that smoking pot is a bad thing. It just didn’t seem to be for me any longer. If you smoke pot and are content with it, by all means Pooky, do your thing. In fact, I will freely admit that I have more respect for those that smoke pot and get hungry than those that drink and become assholes. Not that alcohol automatically turns someone into a raging rager, if that’s a word, but if you can statistically prove that more abuse, accidents, or  purposeful abuse is caused by marijuana, I’ll dress up like a purple Playboy bunny and sing the Barney theme song at the top of my lungs in the middle of the night on a downtown street corner until either 1) my throat goes hoarse or 2) the police come and haul me away (if not the local mental institute’s welcome wagon first). Furthermore, I will also freely admit that I am in full support of medical marijuana laws, if not completely decriminalizing it. But that’s another post all together.

It is now shortly past midnight (PST) on the 1st of February and I am still clean and yes, still very financially screwed. I have been extremely unsuccessful for the last two months in my job search and while I’m thankful to even have a job in this economy, I still have millions of questions regarding my future, if not simply the next few days. The collection agents are on my trail with a daily fury, my refrigerator remains barren of any existence of its purpose, I wake from my sleep still very much alone, and your guess is as good as mine as to what I should do. Sure, many of you will offer up suggestions and advice, of which I am extremely thankful and even inspired, but while I do hear you and even consider them, I still hold fast to the belief that since I put myself in this mess, I am the only one that can clean it up. Call it typical pride from a Greek tragedy and I would not disagree.

As I once overheard someone console another who had spilled a drink and was exclaiming with embarrassment that a mess had been made, it is not a mess, just an opportunity to clean. Time to break out the cleaning supplies and don the rubber gloves. I’ve got some major house-work to do.