I wonder what death tastes like. Does it taste like the blackened bits of carbon that burn forever on the sides of an iron pan?
Does death taste like brown and yellow agglutinated crap served cold?
Perhaps death tastes of the rotting, putrefying meat of dead animals slaughtered for food served steaming hot?
It is often said that the stench of burning human corpses is sickeningly sweet. Perhaps death brings an overwhelming flavor of sweetness with it? Burning corpses layered with fatty oils, burning, smoking greasily, filling the air the nose the lungs the tongue with a cloying odor of blackened leather?
Is death sweet? The aroma of almonds, dead and broken, cut in bloodless slices, layered with caramelized sugar; does death taste like that? Or sweeter still, like the honey of billions of dead flowers?
Or could it be, could it taste like bitter astringent pee? the pee on her labia, like a sharp spice around the honey within?
Oh. Back to her. Her, she, the one who makes me long for death. Her of the twisted mind and tortured soul like me, the one I longed to be with for these wasted years? What of her? She is life itself, and smiles and joy and soft flesh and music and reading and video and laughter and companionship. And death. She is death for me. To long for her is to long for death. O, to taste her would be joy! Joy denied. Love denied. Laughter denied. Companionship denied. The sweet look in her eyes. The poetry of her hands moving about in space, the hands I long to touch, to caress, to feel warm in my hands…. 
A Day Without You by Beloved-Creature
But it is death! It is death to touch her, to want the untouchable. It is death to taste her, death to want to smell her honey, taste it on the end of my thrusting tongue probing her sweetness, stirring our flesh into spasms of delight and ever more desire, fevered heat on every part of our skin, and all is sensing and touching and smelling and tasting without thought. And there is la petit mort also.
That is the death I would taste.
If I had read Shirley MacLaine’s 1983 book, 
He showed up the same day and brought me a padlock. He said to put it on the gun to prevent it from being used. He told me he had a friend in P.I.P., the Peruvian Intelligence Police, who might buy it. A couple days later, he was back with $200. I gave him the gun. Somehow, I hadn’t imagined it ending up in the hands of some Peruvian-style FBI, but so it goes. I had just gotten double what I paid for the little RPG 0.38 from Florida.
Next morning, however, we boarded the train that would take us up the mountain to Machu Picchu. It took half the day. Elsie was very happy. She chatted with the other tourists, who were mostly Peruvians and Germans, and a few Japanese. We were served yerba mate, as a stimulant to brace us for the high altitude. People often pass out up there. There were many stops along the way, and, in fact, the train took a route created with many switchbacks, so it seemed we were forever just going back and forth. Indian women would rush aboard at every short stop, selling trinkets and odd meatless tamales, and then hop off again. An interesting character got on at one quick stop. He was dressed in a very colorful poncho, with the odd-looking, to me, wool hat, with the tassel-like thing on top. 
He stayed with us, and sang songs. Most of the people in our car joined in. I went along as much as I could fake it. Later, as the singing died down, I asked Elsie what the songs were about. She told me the the man was with the guerrillas, and the songs were about fighting and getting rid of the Peruvian government. It was so odd. The rich Peruvian tourists on board had been the most boisterous of anyone, and they had been smiling broadly while singing about revolution! Yet, all I had heard since arriving was how terrible the guerrillas were. A curious place, Peru. Ha! The President of the country was named Fernando Belaunde Terry. Names are given differently in Peru, because Terry was the last name of his mother, an Englishwoman. He was very pro-American, which was something the guerrillas hated. They were, after all, Maoist inspired. My name is Terry, so I often wondered about the looks I’d get from people whom Elsie introduced me to. Did they think I was related? Terry was otherwise not a common name in Peru, and since it was my middle name, I could see how people could suspect a connection. 
Perhaps that was fortunate, since I wore a blue Mao cap, popular then in the US, that I had oddly just bought and brought with me, and wore all over Peru, no one ever questioned me, not even the ubiquitous soldiers with their machine guns, but it was always a possibility. I’ve never been very bright.
From there I could still see the pylons of the old Incan bridge that withstand the river’s current to this day, without anything holding the stones together. I was high though, like being stoned or drunk. I had heard of such wonders before, but not expected to see them. I was damn happy to be visiting such a place. I ran through the ruins of the old Incan village. 
One small building had been restored with wooden cross beams and a thatch roof, and it looked readily inhabitable. I wished I could have slept in it. Elsie seemed to enjoy herself too. 
That’s her among the ruins. Sadly, I was not able to stay the night. There is a hotel there, but reservations were made even then months in advance. The train had to leave around dinnertime, because it had to go all the way back down to Cusco, that excruciating four-hour trip to cover five miles. Well, traveling with Elsie made it all worthwhile; she was ever smiling and full of energy. I depended on her a lot. As we approached Cusco, the train slowed down to a crawl and I was able to look into all the shop windows of the big market along the tracks. In one room, all by themselves, stacked high on a single table, were huge clear plastic bags of white powder. I had heard that cocaine was a big money maker for the government there, but I never expected to see so much all at once, and so openly. Of course, I could be mistaken. It could have been some other sacks of white powder stacked on a table by themselves in a bare room, but who knows?
where I lived.
Grass on many lawns, but some had a car parked on concrete behind locked gates. Her house reminded me of the last place my parents had moved to, the place I’d left when I was 18. This one, however, had hardwood floors throughout, a beautiful dining-room table and chairs, fully modern kitchen, and many rooms throughout. There was even a small room on the first floor that had been turned into a bedroom for me. The family consisted of Elsie, her parents, her brother, who was actually a step-brother, and a sister and brother-in-law. They had two Indian servants who lived on the third floor; they washed laundry in deep sinks on the roof, and hung it to dry there too.
Lima is a grey city. A type of fish there gives off an oil that gets picked up with moisture from the ocean and often blankets the city, which seemed to always have a permanent cloud cover. Many of the old buildings appeared as gray as downtown East Coast city buildings in the US. Perhaps that is why so many arts and crafts in Lima are so brightly colorful. Elsie was free to spend time showing me around Lima, so we went out every day sightseeing, at markets, and plazas, and eating ceviche (pronounced “say-vee-chay”), a seafood cocktail. This differs somewhat from the Mexican version most people in the US are familiar with. 
I think they use that oily fish in it. That was an interesting experience. Soon after eating some I became sick with flu-like symptoms, and everyone understood – I was then cautioned not to eat the ceviche there. Too late. I felt as sick as a jungle dog, but I recovered very quickly.
It reminded me of Juicyfruit gum. We went to a downtown nightclub and danced to US-style rock ‘n’ roll and pop tunes, sung in Spanish, although Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 was broadcast over every radio I heard on every city bus and colectivo I took while I was there. I had worn a jacket to the nightclub, and made the mistake of putting my passport in it and leaving it on my chair as we danced. I had to carry the passport with me, because the military was in control of the city, and could stop people anytime to see their ID. Without it, I could have been arrested. There were automatic armed soldiers near every bank and major business. The Shining Path guerrillas often attacked banks in Lima. While I was there they knocked out power to the city one day. As it was, someone lifted my passport while Elsie and I danced one long set. I told the club manager, and we searched the area, and even the bathroom, just in case it had been dropped. No chance. That screwed up my plans to travel around Peru by train. I needed that passport, or I couldn’t leave the city. I applied at the embassy. I was allowed to bypass the long line that snaked around the entire block because I was a US citizen, but it was still going to take 4 or 5 days. Elsie and I found things to do. She took me to the central plaza in Lima, to the old cathedral there. 
All of the old clergy there had been buried in the catacombs below the main floor. There are rooms full of skulls and bones laid out in circles. Room after room was full of bones, some as full skeletons, but usually piles and piles of bones, some arraigned, some just piled up, from centuries of following this practice, from over 50,000 people. Of course, many of the wealthy also paid to be buried in the church. Elsie freaked the hell of of me when we left. As we were going home in a colectivo, she pulled out part of a rib bone! She had snatched it as a present for me, a souvenir to take home. I thanked her, but I really didn’t know what to do with it. Since we went right back to her house, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, I kept it. It worried me what might happen back in the US when Customs came across that! 
In my real life, in 1984, I had traveled to Peru to visit a pen-pal. We had been writing for some time; she invited me to visit. I had just lost my job. It seemed the perfect time to travel, except I had no money. The bank I used was the same one used by my employer, a printed circuit board manufacturer, and I had free checking there through some reciprocal agreement between my employers and the bank. The company did a lot of work for airlines, NASA, and US weapons programs. I told the loan officer I wanted money to travel to Peru. He asked me how much I needed. I asked for $800, since I knew the airfare was about $700. I really didn’t want to get too much in debt. I had a little money left in my checking account, so as I was at the airport waiting to board the plane, I called the bank and asked if I could get some more money. The limit on money machine withdrawals was $100/day. They asked me for my account number, which I somehow managed to remember, and they OK’d the increased amount. I grabbed the extra money from the machine and boarded the plane for LA International Airport. I had packed my 0.38 special. The Sendero Luminoso, or “Shining Path” Maoist rebels were fighting a guerrilla war all over Peru, so I wanted the comfort a gun could give me. 
Then again, I was supportive of rebellions and guerrilla warfare at the time, so I thought I could even offer my gun to them if I ran into them on the long train ride I’d planned. I had noticed a sign at check-in that said all firearms must be declared, so I did. The counter person seemed shocked, but explained the procedure: I had to put it in my checked luggage, of course, and put the gun in one bag, and the bullets in another. Then they attached a special warning ticket to my bag and sent it on down the conveyor belt to be loaded onto the plane. I didn’t give it much thought until much later. In LA, there was a problem with my ticket. The flight was announced, but the man at the ticket counter wouldn’t give me my boarding pass. I waited and waited, until it was near the time for the plane to takeoff, when he suddenly called me over and gave me my pass. I ran down the moving walkways and up the indoor ramp to the plane. There were two men flanking the door. They stopped me, and I was nervous. I told them the plane was going to take off. They said to relax, that it wasn’t going to take off yet. Then they questioned me about how much money I was carrying. I told them I had three hundred dollars. They asked me why I was going to Peru, and told them about Elsie, my friend I was going to visit. They seemed satisfied with that, and handed my passport and wallet back and waved me on to the plane. I was directed to the only empty seats, just behind a partition. I had noticed that everyone else had plenty of leg room, but I wasn’t going to be able to stretch out. It was going to be the longest flight I’d ever taken. I heard someone say that I must have been the person they were waiting for. Resignedly, I waited for the plane to move. It was already past time for departure. There was one empty seat next to me. I was glad, because that meant I might stretch out that way. Just then a man ran onto the plane and sat down next to me. Shit. Oh, well.
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Saw Karen again, or rather her back. That’s all I see now. I walked into my building with a cup of coffee, talking to someone else who had also been to get coffee, so I didn’t see Karen coming. She, however, saw me, because she instantly spun around and walked back the way she’d come from. Well, that gives me a little more insight into who I’ve been dealing with: a child in a woman’s body – never grew up. And I thought women were supposed to be more mature than men? That’s the second time she’s done that. I’m glad I’ve gotten over the unrequited love obsession, which was really limerence – that kind of behavior might have had a bad effect on me before. It’s pretty funny now. I never did anything bad to the woman, never said anything nasty or angry to her. I’ve always been friendly, and I smiled and waved whenever I saw her anywhere. I could see her not wanting or needing to have lunch together anymore, but to deliberately turn around whenever she sees me? That is just too funny. It’s not like I’d do or say anything to make her uncomfortable. She’s the one who always maintained we were just friends, and that anything else was inappropriate. I wanted to continue the friendship, but I wasn’t going to be upset if she didn’t. She’s acting like a lover scorned, or a teenager. She’s three months shy of 29 years old! 
Well, at least I learned something: I learned why these May-December realtionships don’t work! Such a painful lesson. It’s a good thing I won’t be around here much longer. Too bad. I really liked her, enjoyed her company, and enjoyed listening to her.
Looks like either way I look at it, I won’t be having lunch with Karen again. She IS avoiding me, not that I blame her. I think she did get that email I sent her, my confession of my obsessive infatuation/ unrequited love for her these last few years. I went for coffee just now, at an unusual time when there was no one else there. As it was espressing, I walked over to get some raw sugar to put in it, in and in the corner of my eye, I see Karen walking towards the door of the Cafe. I think, “Well, I can say hello, see if she’s still friendly,” and waited for her to open the door. She never came in. There was no other direction she could have heading, there is only the door to the Cafe she could have been heading to, and straight on. She saw me. I noticed that she did, and her head went down. She must have decided she can’t stand the idea of running into me anymore. Either she is just trying to avoid my asking her about lunch, or she got the email I sent. At least I know for sure now. You’d think she’d have the honesty and consideration to tell me so, rather than avoid me, but after all, she is at least as immature as I still am. I have the luxury of a bit more experience, and tried to get a response from her directly, but she wasn’t having any of it. It’s one thing to lose a relationship; it’s another to lose a friend too. I suppose I’ll have to pretend I never knew her now, never had lunch with her every Friday for three years or so, never had anything in common, never traded movies and books, never discussed politics, Sci Fi, or manga or anime. I blew a fine friendship with my “inappropriate” interest in her. I guess I’ll never learn. 
So, this weekend I have been taking it easy. Last weekend’s mountain hike fucked my feet up. I have a bruise in the center of each heel, probably from walking across so many rockfalls along the trails, and all the other sharp rocks I couldn’t avoid, in a sea of them. My toes, squeezed too tightly in my simple boots, were sore and raw. No hiking in the mountains for me this weekend. Next weekend I will head to Horseshoe Lake in the Pecos wilderness area of New Mexico. It is another 11-mile hike. I took my other boots in and had them stretched in the toes, so they won’t pinch so badly as last weekend. I also bought some heel cushions, just in case. I have looked into buying a new pair of boots, but the 4E width I need was not in stock, and the salesman seemed to think I should get an H width anyway, but he would have to special order them. I don’t know how they will fit the rest of my foot. Well, good shoes are important, especially if one walks a lot or hikes in the mountains at 10,000 feet. These hikes just keep getting tougher, so I’d better get some tough shoes.
He, however, is dying, in an age before heart transplants. They both know this, but the Colonel and the Italian Countess spend as much time together as possible. There are obstacles, in that he is divorced, and the Countess should not marry such a man, but that is just a convenient excuse. The difference in ages is discussed often. No one begrudges them their affection for each other. They spend a lot of time kissing, passionately, in gondolas, in the street, and everywhere they are. Their love is wonderful, perhaps because time is short. The Colonel takes his pills every day, but still has his “twinges” of pain in his heart. Love and hearts, they go together. It is so funny to think that, at least in another lifetime, in a world far away, two people of such different ages could actually love each other, if only for a short time. To be in love so deeply before one dies – that is surely a good thing, although not for the one left behind. But the young woman is well aware of that, and accepts it as much as she can. The two of them pretend at times that they will have five children. Sometimes they pretend to take a train into Kansas City, sometimes they fly into Albuquerque. It is fantasy and love and wistfulness, and romance. It is everything I wished I could have had with Karen, who is almost the same distance apart from me as Colonel Cantwell and Countess Renata.
had tired the poor muscle out. Although we had sex later times, the divorce come not much later after that. I often wonder if that is how she remembers me now. It was the most aroused I had been with her in years and I lost my chance to truly satisfy myself and surprise her with the passion I had not felt in some time. Perhaps it would have made a difference, perhaps not. I know that I rarely drink anymore, and then only socially, and only a single glass. I still wake up with those hard-ons, but now there is no one in bed next to me anyway.
Yeah, yeah, I know; the question of who am I has been asked a trillion times. But, I really don’t know myself anymore. I had this conversation recently with someone who told me he has become a different person many times. What I said was that I have always been able to think of myself as the same person I was from my earliest memories. There was an unbroken chain stretching all the way back. I remember sitting in my grandmother’s house as a child, looking at her copy of the painting The Gleaners. I remember her cuckoo clock chiming. I remember when my brother Pat was born, and I was only 6 years old. I remember many events, of course, as most people do, but I also remember who I was, how I felt, and what I thought. I can remember the curiosity I felt when my mom came home with this new brother. I remember that my brother John and I didn’t want him tagging along with us when he was old enough to walk. He got into our stuff and broke things, after all! 
I remember how stupid my parents sounded when they were fighting. I remember loving them both and going to them when they were fighting, so they’d stop. It embarrassed them when my brother and I would walk right into the middle of them while they were fighting. Sometimes we laughed; sometimes so did they. So many things, people, and events bounce around in my head. My father going to Eisenhower’s inauguration alone – without us! Watching the TV on John Kennedy’s election night, hoping, praying, that he would be elected. I was 10 years old, but my teachers at school were excited about him, and told us how great it would be to have a Catholic in the White House. I was so happy when he won. I remember what I was like in grade school after being out for 6 weeks after my appendix ruptured at the age of eight. I was behind, and worried about it, but my mother drilled me in my lessons every night, and the nun seemed more sympathetic than I thought she would be. I was ecstatic when I caught up to the class. But, outside, I was told I shouldn’t run or do anything strenuous. At that age, the schoolyard was for playing, running, roughhousing. At first I had to stay inside the classroom while everyone else when out for recess. Out of boredom, I raided the round tin of chocolate bars that my teacher kept to sell to us (for a nickel). When they finally let me go outside again, I felt like an alien. I was alone and apart. I didn’t know how to play the new games, and no one would talk to me or hang out with me. They had all known I was in the hospital; they’d been told to pray for me, made to send me a card. I wandered around the schoolyard looking for candy that had been dropped. Loved sweets. My grandmother always had candy in a covered cut-glass bowl. My godfather, the cousin of my mom’s that we called Uncle Fred, always brought candy bars with him when he visited, which was every week.
I never forgot that death, although I had not known the kid at all. It was humbling to learn early on that death could happen at any time. Shortly after that, I was in the hospital taking penicillin every four hours for the peritonitis that results from a ruptured appendix. I remember hiding in the bathroom when the nurses were coming with my shots. They’d given me pills at first, but I threw them up. They switched me to drinking the penicillin after that. It was a foul-smelling, foul-tasting tall glass of thick liquid that I hated almost more than shots. I remember that there were older patients around. One of them told me to hold my nose while I drank. It didn’t help. I remember how relatives brought me gifts. 
Someone gave me a rubber band board. With a pile of multi-colored rubber bands, I could stretch them on the white pegs covering the all-white plastic board, and create designs. I enjoyed it. Someone tried to make me give it to them, which upset me, because I knew how angry my parents could get if I broke a toy. I would be in trouble if the board got broken or the rubber bands lost, but a nurse accused me of being selfish. I had no way to make her understand why it was important not to lend things, so I did it anyway. I was easily shamed, cajoled, or influenced by almost any adult figure, and did what I was told. I never forgot that it is important to share, even if it was potential trouble. I began thinking about sharing as a way to have friends. I always shared with my brother John. Later on, I always wanted to give my sisters and parents presents. I enjoyed giving.
I wrote a love-drenched letter to Kathleen, passed it to her, but I had enemies in class, especially another girl I’d once passed a note to also. She sometimes had a friend of hers trip me as I walked up the aisle to my seat. She was the one, that Janet Blickenstaff, who persuaded Kathleen to give the note to the teacher. The fucking nun read it to the whole class, cementing my reputation as a fool. The nun even called my father to come get me, and he took me home for a spanking with the leather strap. I have no idea why. He didn’t say much. He had read the note. I can’t remember much of what I wrote, just the shame of it, and my father’s anger. Maybe I put in that dream I’d had about snuggling naked in bed with her? I don’t recall the specifics. I remember that dream, but I had no idea of anything about sex then. The embarrassment and beating sure got me sworn off of writing notes anymore. Never spoke to Kathleen after that. The next year they put me in an all-boys class. I went to an all-boys high school after that. It never even occurred to me that there wouldn’t be girls in high school, but I was more interested in school work then. Except, except, well, there was my cousin Teresa that I dated, and fell in love with. I remember how that felt. And how it felt when she made out with another guy at a party I took her to. And how it felt when I heard she’d run away to Texas with an older guy. After that I stayed largely to myself, and in myself. I thought about all of these things, obsessed about them, replayed every word and action, especially what I should have said or done.
So, who cares, right? It’s just one of those things I might have mentioned to my ex-wife, and she would have ridiculed me for saying it. “That’s really interesting,” she’d sneer at me. She was a hard woman to talk to. She loved to spread gossip, talk about other’ people’s lives, her sister and bother-in-law, her mother and her mother’s depression, or her other sisters, or her friends. That was all she cared to talk about. This worked well for her on the phone, because she could call one person, pump them for information under the guise of curiosity and friendliness, hang up the phone and talk about the conversation she’d just had with the next person who answered the phone. She hated it when no one she called was home, especially if she had something she wanted to tell everyone. I was always amazed at her ability to have the same conversation over and over. She didn’t particularly like to talk with me, because I had little interest in the personal lives of other people, so I had little to say. I tried, for a long time, to listen attentively, but not only had I usually heard much of the stories while she talked on the phone, but she had the habit of repeating the same stories over and over, not remembering who she had talked to. This had the effect of making me zone out. She wasn’t saying anything new, or interesting, so my mind would drift off, particularly since she always had the TV blaring. It was very distracting.
I finally got around to fixing the refrigerator today. I had put a call in to the Sears repair people, because I had no idea what was wrong, or how serious it was. The old thing cools really well, and keeps the freezer compartment frozen, so I had no complaints there. However, the freezing cold water dripping onto the top shelf and turning to ice bothered me. I had a large plastic container under the drip, as it dripped at really odd times, sometimes all at once. Long story short, it’s $70 just to get a Sears repairman out, and then parts and labor. It seemed cheaper than a new one. I gave them my credit card info over the phone, but later on, a repair guy called, asked me about the problem, and told me how to fix it. Since it involved turning the refrigerator off and “defrosting” the frost-free thing, I had put it off. I needed some ice coolers and ice for my food, and I couldn’t carry all that on the motorcycle. I have a car, 
but it needed work. First, the “mass airflow sensor” died. Having no idea what or where it was, I asked the dealer about it – would cost a lot for the sensor, then labor, and I would need some other engine work done. For $800 plus bucks, I didn’t trust ‘em. 
I took it to a local mechanic who quickly diagnosed the same problem, but said he could probably clean the sensor and I wouldn’t need to buy a new one. Cool. $257.70 I could save. however, he said the engine had not been running correctly with the air flow off balance, so I’d need a tuneup. It was about time for one, so I told him to go ahead. Still, even though he did a great job, even replacing the crappy battery terminals, the fouled spark plugs, wires, and valve cover gaskets, I still ended up spending $827.70. So, I felt it was money well spent, if I could then depend on the car, in case I needed it. Of course, when next I did need it, the serpentine belt broke, completely shredding over over the engine. 
It was beginning to look like I’d never get those ice chests and ice so I could empty out the freezer.
and cut my face too. 
Got the belt however! It was hard to work on with my hands bandaged. It took me a while to figure out how to replace it, even with a diagram of the path it had to travel, but I got it on last weekend, and everything worked. So, finally I got the ice chests and ice today, so I could empty out the refrigerator. Took three hours from the time I left for the ice and ice chests, took out all the food, and effected the fix I’d been instructed in by the repairman. It all centered around a drain hole for the defrosted ice water that would ice over and prevent draining. Since it couldn’t drain normally, the icy water would overflow into the refrigerator compartment. Twisting a copper wire around the heating element and sticking it into the drain hole was the cure. So far, it’s working. I’m not certain I did it correctly, because the “obvious” place to wrap the wire around wasn’t so obvious to me, but I did get the entire refrigerator and freezer cleaned up. Oddly enough, while it ran a long time to get back down to the cold temperatures, it then stopped cooling, long before it usually does. It used to be near freezing in the back of the refrigerator compartment, but now I’ve had to change the temperature setting I’ve been using all along. I’m hoping this fixes the thing – it often seemed to me to run far too long at a stretch, often long into the night. Of course, it would have been way cheaper, easier, and less painful to buy a new refrigerator. 
an animated film by an Israeli filmmaker who fought in the war in Lebanon in the early 1980s. He had forgotten most of what he did, and travels around in the movie visiting old comrades from the war to see what they remembered. What little they did remember centered around atrocities, young men shooting blindly in every direction out of fear, massacres, and other horrors. This is an army oddly similar to the US army, in terms of weapons, training and sheer chutzpah. I was tempted to think that Israel has no idea what modern warfare is about, and has no misgivings about killing innocent people for no real purpose. Of course, I found that they weren’t really all that different from the US. Our military has done, and is doing, some really horrific things in the name of freedom, democracy, and protection of the “homeland”. I think the US and Israel are evidence of the new way war is fought, without clear strategy or objectives, just fighting and killing with huge tanks, powerful weapons, and clueless soldiers, in hopes it will all come out right if we spend enough money, shoot enough bullets, and drop enough bombs. Looks like something is being done, but all that happens is war continues, with the certainty that even if a conflict ends, another will start. We’ve entered the period of endless, mindless war that was adroitly predicted in the novel 
We took off-the-map trails, found four geocaches. 
Along the way the trail was about a 60 degree angle, down and up again. Going down I managed to slip on some loose rock and spun all the way around before I caught myself. Ripped my middle finger open a little, bled on my backpack and shirt. No big deal. The hike was worse going back up; had to stop often to catch my breath, as we gained a bit of elevation as well as the distance climbing. Made it. Then, on the way back, it hailed! In July! Pea-sized bits on our faces and arms. Stopped under some trees by the last geocache and put on our rain gear, as it was pouring too. Stayed where we were for awhile, as lighting and thunder were arriving simultaneously. We didn’t want to get into an open area where we were the tallest things around. Finally headed on up to the top of the mountain where there was a porch around a gift shop that people drive to. We had coffee and brownies, courtesy of one older hiker. Not a bad day all in all. I was sore in my upper legs later, and then sore on Sunday still, and then sore on Monday. It didn’t hurt to walk upstairs, but downstairs was difficult. I was not used to scrambling down such steep trails with loose footing. Different muscles used, and they complained until today. Today, the pain and stiffness was gone. The cut on my finger was healing nicely.
The belt is a serpentine one, snaking around various pulleys that operate the power steering, the air conditioning, the generator, as well the water pump. Well, that was where I was going after work today, to the dealer for a good, reliable serpentine belt.
Nice gashes near my eye, and the eye was already swollen and dark. Probably have a black eye tomorrow. Scrapes on my left knuckles, my right thumb is torn up, both palms are scraped and full of gravel bits. My left knee hurt, as well as my left shoulder, where my new heavy-duty cotton shirt was torn open. I bandaged what I needed to in order to grip the handlebars and clutch and brakes, and headed home. When I got there, I found a 1 3/4 inch diameter scrape on my shoulder, almost round, looks like the skin had been taken off with a belt sander, and still weeping. Oddly, it is not bleeding much except around the edge, and it doesn’t hurt. 
Smaller scrapes below it, right into the tattoo. Both knees are scraped, but the left one is bleeding a lot. Bandaged everything else up that I’d missed at the auto dealer, after cleaning with a little peroxide.
Sigh. I thought about romance, then living together, then marriage, and children. All the while I knew it was impossible, but I couldn’t stop. There were such highs in that fantasy, romantic and erotic, and such lows when I couldn’t be with you. You made it clear that such thoughts were inappropriate, I know. Compliments were inappropriate; asking you out would be, in your words, “Like a date,” and of course that “inappropriate” idea must have horrified you from the way you said it. Just as well we didn’t spend even more time together: I’d have just gotten worse, if that’s possible, so, thanks for that. Why am I writing you ask? Hard to say. It took me a while to climb out of that obsession with you. One day I looked in the mirror long and hard and realized how old I actually looked from your perspective. I had never been bothered by growing old before, until I realized that being my age meant I couldn’t just meet someone, fall in love, and be with them if they were younger, especially way younger. I had honestly never thought of that before I met you. Suddenly I hated being old. Well, going back to why I’m writing: I have gotten over the obsession. I don’t know how; it just stopped one day. Took me years. Ha ha. It’s hard to believe I could have been such an idiot now. Again, I apologize for the inappropriate remarks, attention, flowers, last year’s X-mas card with the money. It’s finally over for me. I still like you of course, always did, always will. It seems you have little need for me anymore, and that’s OK. You have a whole life to live yet. I like living alone now. I’ve gotten used to it. I’m much more withdrawn now, even misanthropic, not wanting much interaction with people anymore. (how emo) 
I’ve resigned as President of the union. I’m leaving UNM in the fall; Halloween is my last day. I am trying to find a reason for living. I practice guitar,
go for hikes in the mountains, play chess, read a lot. I got some medication for depression, and combined with a little counseling, I think I might be coming out of this emo fog. Hate to bare my soul like this; I never wanted to make you uncomfortable around me. Since we don’t work together, it’s rare to run into you, and you’re too busy, or uninterested in having lunch anymore, so I thought I might as well get this off my chest. Again, I stress this: I am over the infatuation. I would like to resume Friday lunches, or some other day, if that’s better for you. I really, honestly, like you, and I won’t mention any of this ever again if you’d prefer not to talk about my insanity. I’ve been reading lots of interesting comics and novels lately, and getting into some old movies. It’d be nice to share again. Discuss books, movies, politics. It’d be great to exchange books and movies again. I totally understand that you would be freaked out by these admissions, so I understand if I don’t hear from you. I don’t even know if you’ll read this. I just felt I had to write it, and couldn’t wait until Halloween to put it in the mail as I planned. Your friend, Terry
Started raining not long after I got home. I love it when it does that – waits for me to get home. Traffic goes nuts in the rain, and I’m not too fond of riding soaking wet. It had been hot and humid today; unusual for this dry desert-like climate to be humid. So the rain cooled things off, and sounded good coming down, hitting the roof, pouring down the walls, splattering on the sidewalk and patio. It stopped for awhile, and I hadn’t given it much thought until it started in again. Not too hard. Pleasant. Soothing. I got to thinking that I don’t know what to write about anymore, at least as far as my life. The obsessive infatuation I had at least gave me a focus!
We had a great time. We didn’t eat too much, or drink a lot, but we laughed and talked for three hours. It was the best time I’d had in two years. Maya said it was the best date she’d had in a long time. It was fun, and we reconnected. Always had a good relationship with her. We opened up to each other more than usual, and it felt comfortable. A wonderful boost to my morale!
I rented it because there is a 15-year-old French girl at a boarding school in Saigon who meets a 32-year-old Chinese aristocrat. There is love and sex and passion,but the relationship is doomed because, in 1929, this was an interracial coupling, and such things were not approved of. Inappropriate. Ha ha. Of course, I thought of my friend Karen, 30 years younger than me, and the dreams I used to have about her. Her word: inappropriate. It seems so insane now. There was never going to be more than a casual relationship, and I knew it. Still, I imagined we might be lovers, even if we couldn’t marry. I’d have married her. Our mutual love of children would have meant we’d have children, something I would still like. Karen was adopted herself, and she spoke of wanting to adopt a child, but she seemed open to the idea of having one of her own. I don’t know why we talked of all these things. She said she’d like to get married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator, even as my heart skipped a beat imagining that we’d go to Vegas and get married. I’d have adopted with her, married her, fucked and kissed her like crazy. I was way too old for her to even consider as more than a casual acquaintance, but I felt I knew her so well. I have never met anyone in my whole life like her, someone who reminds me such much of myself at a younger age. I felt she was as strange as I am, that I’d find true happiness, a rare connection with someone who went through life in her own private world, much as I always have, and still do to some extent. In truth, I wanted to escape; to escape responsibility, to escape stress, to escape from my life and live in hers. I wanted to watch Science Fiction movies with her, read comics, graphic novels and manga, and watch Japanese anime. I wanted to see her every day, even if it meant we never went out much, if we just stayed in with our computers and movies and books. I was so crazy in love with her, nothing mattered anymore, except her. If she’d been a crazed drug addict, I’d have joined her. If she’d wanted to live in a fantasy world, I have done that, pretended we were children in a never-ending Halloween, with costumes, and props and a horror-themed home. Our home. I’d have robbed banks with her, killed for her, died for her. I wanted to die anyway, because if I couldn’t have her, even for a few years, months, weeks, or days, life was no longer worth living.
Ah, here we go: a dream about kissing. Kissing was always one of my favorite things. IN my dream, I am kissing a woman I know, but it is not anyone I know now. Her features are distinct, as clear as if I know her. Her face is narrow, more narrow than a face usually is, but she has dark hair and large, deep, brown eyes. As the dream started I was approaching her, then kissing her as soon as I got close enough. And this was a real kiss, not like those pecks one gives to family. My ex didn’t like to kiss at all. Her idea of a kiss was a peck on the lips, fast and over with quickly, kind of the way she liked sex. Anyway, this kiss was a real kiss: sensual and passionate. That may seem redundant, but the sensual part was kissing lightly all over each others lips and face, and the passion follows from that. A good kiss excites me, both emotionally and physically. I was really enjoying this kissing, and pressed my lips down deep into those sexy lips one last time, because I woke up right in the middle of the kiss. Damn!
You’d think a little thing like a parking permit wouldn’t get me so upset. I need a permit to park at work. Space is at a premium, so I can understand it; it even encourages people to ride the bus or carpool, which makes sense. I don’t like having to pay, but I pay my fees and keep my permit current. I ride a motorcycle. Very fuel efficient, pollutes little, takes up very little space. I replaced my wind shield last evening. The permit was attached; it cannot be removed and transferred. It shreds if one tries to do so. Previously, Parking Services had told me that if I brought the old permit in, I could get a replacement free. So, I cut that entire section out of the windshield and took that in to parking services to get a replacement. I gave it to this guy Charlie, who was the only person working. I told him I replaced the windshield, so I wanted to exchange the permit. He told me he couldn’t do that. He asked me if I had gotten a new motorcycle, and I told him no. I patiently explained the situation again, and he kept saying he didn’t understand, no matter how many times I tried to explain it. Every time he asked if I’d gotten a new motorcycle, I said, no, I had just gotten a new windshield, pointed to the old one, and said I couldn’t use that one, since it couldn’t be detached. He would just shake his head. I could not believe such density. However, it didn’t bother me. I’m taking bupropion to try and deal with my depression. I’ve been calmer lately. Finally he wants to know if I want a new permit, so I happily say yes, not even mentioning that was what I’d already said many times. So he fills out the the paperwork, removes the old permit number from my computer file, and adds the new one. Makes me sign for a new permit, filling out all the information again, and pay a $10 fee for replacing it. He wouldn’t exchange the permit; he didn’t even seem to understand the concept. But, I figured that they might have changed their policy, and $10 isn’t so much. So far so good. Then he tells me there are no permits to give me! He says they ran out; demand exceeded what they had, and no new permits were going to be ordered since the permit year ends in August. Then they’ll have plenty of new permits to give out. So, I asked him how the parking officer would know I have a permit, if I didn’t have one to display. He tells me that the officer can just enter my license into his scanner, and he’ll be able to tell I have a permit from that. I was dumbfounded. I asked him why I needed a new permit at all, if they could just scan my plate? He just looks at me. Tells me he doesn’t understand. By the third time I had to try and explain to him what I was asking him, and he still didn’t get it, I was getting angry. My voice rose up, and I could hear the anger in my voice. I asked him for the money back. Another teller had come in, so I explained it to her too. She got it, after a couple tries. But, she tells me the supervisor is the only one who can authorize a refund, and the supervisor is off today. In fact she won’t be back until Tuesday because of the Memorial Day holiday. She says she’ll give me her card so I can call her or email her, walks to a desk behind her, and then walks away to help another customer. She even stops and walks back to the desk again, but still no card or number. Finally Charlie asks her if she has a card. She says maybe. He goes and looks for one and gives it to me.
Cloud Level by O’Maolchaithaigh
MM #16, by O’Maolchaithaigh, and 
MM#24, by O’Maolchaithaigh
Started taking bupropion 30 days ago. There’s supposed to be some effect by now, but I’m not sure what to expect. I am hopeful that I won’t feel so irritable and impatient, and at odds with all of humanity. My doctor was ready to put me on another drug, but I’d rather give this one a try. The counselor I’ve seen thinks I should give it 6 months. The other main option is fluoxetine (Prozac). I do not want to take Prozac! I know much of my recent oddness stems from not getting enough sleep for longer than I can remember. I used to get 7 hours a night, and then it became 5 1/2 on average. But, for the longest time, I’ve woken up every single morning about 3:30 am, and I mean awake, as in fully alert and ready to get up for work. Sometimes I toss and turn, trying to relax, and even meditate, but can’t nod off. The clock ticks off the time in half-hour increments until it’s time to get up. Occasionally I manage to get another hour of sleep, but it’s not deep refreshing sleep. Last night was the first time I can remember not waking up at 3:30 am. Got about 5 1/2 hours once again. I hope that holds. Had lunch with my step-daughter Maya. She’s doing well, and preparing herself for surgery next week. She is prepared for the mass in her brain to be a regrowth of tumor, but I think the odds are against it coming back after all that radiation and chemo. It was dead. I’m certain there’s nothing there but scar tissue. I spoke with her about her mom, the Dragon. Maya says she’s doing well, and they talk often. She says her mom is happy, and I’m glad to hear it. Her friend was wrong in believing that perhaps the Dragon and I should talk, and she got in trouble with the Dragon for interfering. I spoke with her also, and she says it’s OK, that she agrees that she shouldn’t have butted in. Too bad; I was actually looking forward to a friendly relationship with the Dragon, at least during Maya’s surgery and recovery. I was briefly optimistic that we might talk again, and see there was something left of the 14 years we were together. Apparently not. I am strangely at peace with that. I remember a lot of nice things about the relationship, and I was getting nostalgic for the companionship and sex. As it is, she doesn’t want or need anything to do with me, and doesn’t want me around when Maya is undergoing surgery, the one time I would expect to be there. Doesn’t make me angry anymore. She can do and say whatever she wants. It’s finally over for me, and that was before the medication showed any affect. I was actually glad to hear that she is doing well.
Another hernia! What fun! I had one diagnosed and operated on several years ago. It was inguinal (D, E,F). Inguinal hernias are a common type of hernia. The inguinal canal is where the testes descend before birth. The canal contains the spermatic cord and blood vessels. When an inguinal hernia occurs part of the intestine protrudes down the canal and sometimes into the scrotum. Hoo boy! was that ever fun to recover from! Painful for a bit afterwards. Lots of coagulated dark blue blood in the scrotum, and all around my penis. Pretty in a way. Scary at first, but normal after such an operation. This time it’s different. I’m not sure exactly sure what type it is this time, but my stomach has felt odd for some time: hard and sometimes pushing outwards. It’s around my navel, so it could be an umbilical hernia (C), which occurs when the abdominal wall is weakened at the point of the umbilical cord, but usually in children. Or it could be an epigastric hernia (A). They are protrusions of fat or sometimes intestine through the abdominal wall between the naval and the breastbone. However, it seems to center around my navel. Instead of the way it looked before, my belly button appears flat and smooth – pushed flat. Thirdly, there is a ventral hernia (B). This type of hernia occurs when scar tissue weakens the abdominal wall such as following a surgical operation. I have a large old scar in that area from when my appendix burst at the young age of only eight. And of course there was the more recent surgery to repair the other hernia. Hard to say. The earliest appointment I could get to see a surgeon is in the middle of June!
Woke up from a nightmare last night. Middle of the night. My heart was racing. I was horrified. It was raining. I lay there for a time listening to the rain. After awhile I heard hail hitting the roof. There was lightning too. In the dream, I had just killed someone, someone I loved. In the dream, I didn’t feel anything. I killed without remorse. That woke me up, I think. I had been thinking (in the dream) I had no feelings in me, but as I came back into consciousness, I realized I did care, and the horrible reality that I could do something like that terrified me.
It’s a special blend of mine: I take a can of “Lite” coffee, which already has half the caffeine of regular coffee, and I mix it with a can of decaf coffee. Still I can’t sleep at night. I’ve tried doing without coffee altogether. After the headaches stop, I feel good, but I still can’t sleep right, not even after months without caffeine. I never get 7 or 8 hours sleep anymore. The amount is not always vital, as long as there is some deep sleep involved, but 5 1/2 hours is my longest time spent asleep, with or without coffee. I don’t think it’s enough time to get a good rest. I’d imagine this is why I’ve been so tense, irritable and depressed, but those things affect sleep, so it’s hard to say which came first. Doesn’t matter what time I go to bed, I usually fall asleep right away, but I always wake up long before it’s time to get up. I’ve gone on ten-miles hikes in the mountains, dropped into bed, to sleep, perchance to dream, but still I wake up, sometimes sweating, sometimes with a bad dream chasing me. It’s aging me fast. People used to think I was younger than I was, but now they’re sure I’m older than I am. I have permanent dark circles under my eyes. My hair rapidly turned from salt and pepper to almost all-white, so I dye it now.
Day 13 of the bupropion regime. Effects are not expected for two weeks, and tomorrow marks two weeks since I started it. Coincidentally, it is also my 2nd counseling session. I don’t know what to make of this drug. I can’t tell what, if anything, it’s doing. Perhaps it’s too soon to tell, as I’m having problems today. I called the ex, who I refer to in this blog as the Dragon, because of the hellfire she spewed out at me prior to the divorce. I had called her last week to discuss Maya, my stepdaughter. Maya’s 2nd brain operation is April 29, and I want to be there. She is going to Cook Children’s Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas, because of the specialists there, not because of her age. She was barely 21 when the tumor was first discovered, and after four years, she was fully recovered, and tumor free. Now, with this mass showing up on the MRI, she must have another operation, to remove it and see what it is. Hopefully it will just be scar tissue from the radiation therapy. Maya said she’d talk to her mom about me going, but her mom is not one to hear about something second hand like that – two years ago she got really pissed, thinking I had asked Maya to tell her I loved her, when in fact I had not done so. I had simply told Maya that I still loved her mom, while we were having dinner one evening. Maya tried to get through the Dragon’s anger, I think, by telling her that I still loved her, but it only made the Dragon mad that I’d “use” her daughter that way. So it goes.
Day nine of my bupropion pill regimen. As per doctor’s orders, I am only taking one/day instead of the normal two a day dose, in order to allow my system to get used to it. In five days I’ll go on 2/day. No noticeable effects as yet. Some of the older drugs caused weight gains, but this one is not supposed to do that. Oddly enough, weight loss is a possible side effect. However, I’ve had the worse allergy symptoms in many years this year. I have to ingest an antihistamine every day just to resemble a normal person, and be able to breathe normally. Something about antihistamines always makes me hungry, especially for sweets, which then make me sleepy. Kind of a trade: the old-style antihistamines made me sleepy; the new ones (lotoradine) don’t. But concentrated sugar makes me sleepy, so sleepy I often sit down and pass out. I didn’t say “go to sleep” because it happens so fast and goes so deep. I need the sleep, so I don’t mind. I am gaining weight however. That is annoying. I can feel the excess weight in my stomach. Ah, well, such is life.
Five more days may give the drug time to have an effect. Perhaps it will take another two weeks for the full dose to really work as it should. I’m not certain what to expect. I don’t want to anticipate anything. I want to know if it’s really going to help. The counselor I saw wants me to practice my mindful eating, and my mediation exercises. Haven’t got around to it yet. I’m still trying to learn guitar and it takes more practice than I’m giving it so far. I went to the campus radio station and took pledge calls last night – killed another evening. Meetings keep coming up, and I haven’t gone for a hike in three months, and haven’t even walked around the ditches like I used to. Union negotiations start soon. The financial situation is already causing a financial burden to hit campus employees, there are firings and/or layoffs here, and people expect the union to prevent such things from happening. I’m worried about my step-daughter, so worried in fact, that I called the dragon!
Finally saw a doctor; got some blood work done to see if there is anything wrong with me, but also told him how depressed I’ve been. I guess this all started around the time my step-daughter got the news she had a brain tumor. That was years ago now. My marriage fell apart, and we divorced. I felt drawn to a woman friend at work, but persistence did not pay off, and that ended too. I’ve joined a mountaineering club and enjoyed some great hikes. I’ve taken up guitar and learned a little bit. It’s hard to maintain any interest, however, when you stay at this level of depression. I just don’t give a shit about anything anymore. I don’t like people; don’t want to be around ‘em. I find myself irritated by every little thing and I don’t care what people think of me or what happens to me. Perhaps in some remote part of my brain I care, because I finally told a doctor what I was experiencing. I can’t say feeling, because, honestly, I don’t feel anything anymore. I can’t concentrate on my work. I keep making mistakes. I can hardly concentrate enough to type on a keyboard without switching letters and words around, sometimes jumping ahead and forgetting to write the first part of sentences. I find myself distracted, sleepless, irritable and sleepy. Sometimes I just space out entirely for a moment, not knowing where I am or what I’m doing. It’s not the typical feeling of losing concentration us old farts get. It actually feels like I lose touch with reality for bit. It is jarring to come back. My personal life wasn’t getting any better: sent my ex a letter when I heard she may have misunderstood things badly two years ago. No response. My friend Karen hasn’t had time for me; is avoiding me. My step-daughter hasn’t called, or responded to comments I’ve left her. These are normal things in my life, but losing touch with reality was disturbing.
shot and modeled by the fantastic 
I watched it heading west on my way home at 3 a.m Friday morning in the western hemisphere, North America. It was not full, but the light it reflected on a clear night was spectacular.
No word from Karen lately. My heart is cold and empty. I haven’t heard from her since Friday the 13th. I sent her an email after we had lunch, wishing her a lucky Friday the Thirteenth, since she likes those movies so much. No response, but I wouldn’t have expected one. It’s pretty rare when she responds to anything, unless it has to do with lunch. She is very busy these days, and often out of the office, so even the people at the cafeteria haven’t seen her there much lately. They know her; she’s very friendly to them all, and wishes them a good weekend on Fridays. She almost always gets a Frito Pie like I do, so they know her as a regular for those delicious things. She gets hers with beef; I get mine with chicken. I went last Friday, even though she didn’t respond to my email, but didn’t see her. No response today either, and a no show. In fact, I checked the status of the email I sent today, and it was delivered, but not opened. However, if she opened it with her cell phone, the University’s email system wouldn’t know. That often happens when I communicate with Philip in the lab, so I never know if he got my emails saying I’d be late, or not coming in. Since he never checks the phone messages, I have to send emails. He always gets them, but the system doesn’t show it.
It’s written by J. Michael Straczynski, and she’ll read or see anything of his. She responded, in her typical wordy fashion: “Not Yet.” Then again, ‘The Changeling‘ is the name of a horror film from 1980, so maybe she thought I meant that? She much prefers movies like that. Perhaps the Clint Eastwood-directed movie with Angelina Jolie is not her style? No, she stays current on everything Straczynski does, so it has to be that one. She probably already saw the horror movie. Actually, the whole idea of a changeling is centuries old; the belief that a baby was switched at birth and a demon substituted, as in: 
– from 1780.
It”ll be two years in May since this happened. I went into the details in earlier posts back then, so no need to rehash it. The interesting thing is that the Dragon is telling people I actually told her I didn’t love her, when I was telling everyone who would listen that I did. So, the entire thing could be a result of miscommunication? She often did that anyway. Her hearing is bad, even when I’m looking directly at her and speak clearly. She’ll tell me I said something else entirely, and insist that I’m lying, and I hate being told I’m a liar. It always made me mad. I couldn’t help it. I would try to show her how she might have misunderstood or not heard right, but since she’s never wrong, she couldn’t even admit the possibility. In her mind I change my story later, even when there’s no benefit to me to do so.
art by: 
12/21/08 
12/28/08
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We flew off to Cusco and visited Machu Picchu. I was afraid to get her pregnant, and she got an IUD implanted in a Cusco clinic while we were there. Sex was awkward. We also had language problems. My Spanish was rudimentary, and her English lacked understanding; a friend of hers had been helping her translate letters. When my vacation there was over, she cried into her dad’s chest while I sat on the bed watching Spanish-language TV with them, her mom and her bother and sister-in-law. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t promised her anything, and I couldn’t stay.
My suspicions that she is reading this blog are redoubled now. Maybe not. Karen thought the X-Men character was a jerk when he took up with his psychic lover after his wife died, and since she sees fantasy the same way, then she wouldn’t have wanted to have lunch with me today, would she? Probably not. I get the feeling Karen is very moralistic in her own way. There’s no religion involved here, but I think she is a big believer in marriage, or monogamous relationships, with no exceptions. I suspected that’s why we had to be just friends. She has to know I want to think about her as more than that, doesn’t she? I am careful what I say, but I’ve never been any good at keeping my emotions out of my face. Perhaps, as I suspected, she is going to tell me one day that she can’t be my friend anymore, because it’s not right to be friends with a married man who thinks about her the way I do. Yesterday, I thought that I’d be fine with that. Right now, I dread it. 
I see her hand on the table in front of me and I want to touch it, feel her fingers in mine, walk with her hand in hand. Sigh! I’m just getting crazier and crazier. Her hands move about so much. She gestures when she’s talking, and fiddles with whatever is at hand when she’s not gesturing. A piece of papers gets crumpled and opened, a bottle label gets torn off; the salt & pepper shakers walk around, balancing on top of each other. I want to grab her hand, feel her touch my hand, play with my fingers. All that nervous energy she exhibits! What should I make of it? Is that just the way she is? or just the way she is around me? Is it a form of repressed sexual energy, as some would have it? I do wonder what she is like as a lover, if she has ever been a lover? She has never mentioned anything along those lines, but she is very protective about her personal life, perhaps more so with me than a closer friend. O, that those hands would explore my body!
