...and we continue.

Waited till after midnight to write this. Feels better.

Not that the writing is any better, but my thoughts seem to come out of the shadows more readily, like they just got invited to the dance.

So the band is setting up and my thoughts are hanging out by the punch, wearing clothes they ordinarily wouldn't, hoping they don't slip and fall on their ass, when the girl they keep staring at gives them the "wanna dance?" look. And they take a few tentative steps toward her.

Realized today this is the one thing I can do, that no one can put a stop to. Oh sure, people can stop reading, I may never be published, but tonight none of that really matters. I don't have to check in with anyone about the things I write, no approval needed, thanks very much.

I could blather on, and have, obviously if you've read this blog, but some people keep reading it.

Doesn't matter if it's pieces of memory; or my notes on how I spent my day, my dreams, my loveless failures. I could write a story about a middle aged man who snaps and chops his spouse into manageable bits while singing, "I've got pieces of April," and no one would really care.

There's freedom in that.

I may be a middle-aged man in a fistfight with poverty, who chases a teenagers ideal of finding perfect love and redemption around the next corner, (see-silly bastard) but once I begin to write...I'm me again.

And as long as I have that, as long as that avenue is open to me, I choose to believe...anything is possible.

The "why"...

I have no solid idea as to why I have a need to write. Yet it is a need as it fulfills something. I suppose the actuality could provide yet another therapist with a down payment on a lake house but it's really not important.

I guess it began with reading. I learned to read very early and found a wonderful escape in books and stories. As my reality in childhood was something I escaped at any given opportunity, reading was an acceptable departure.

Books; stories, comics-didn't matter-all of them took me places I would certainly rather be.

My earliest attempts at writing were what one could call, odd. I remember writing a story about a boy who was so scared of girls he would vomit every time one would one would speak to him. It was only two pages and I showed my Dad, in hindsight never a good idea, and he wadded the pages up and called them "shit".

"Hemingway never wrote shit like this!" I was eleven. No pressure.

So I wrote in secret.

I don't think I showed anyone. But I kept reading. And the more I read, the more I had to. Once puberty hit I learned that girls liked poetry. Never could get behind the rhyming verse, but free style was more my thing. Plus there were no rules to follow. If there were I would have broken them readily.

There is nothing so angsty and ridiculous as a male teen writing morose "no one understand me" poetry." I shudder at the memory and apologize to anyone that ever had the misfortune of reading any.

Then came the "literary outlaws" that defined me in my twenties. I almost killed myself with drugs and alcohol trying to keep up. But to be honest, I never wrote anything of any substance until I got sober. I think it was more the "I'm a creative rebel, no one understands me, fuck convention," posture that females of a certain type found attractive.

Do I detect a theme? Probably.

Writing is something I've always done. Even when making a living for a wife and family by living a life I hated, it was still my safety valve.

Made my living for a couple of years a a journalist. In reality one of the most stifling, pressure filled careers I could think of. But I was published. And on the front page. That in itself kept me going long after the politics and rules had choked the creative side of me into a blue, twitching, mess.

If I could make a living writing what I wanted, it would be a perfect world, but until then...

I'll sleep late, cook for a living, and keep living, one day at a time.

Never say never...ok, almost never.

Screw it. While it may trivialize my daily existence, it keeps the weasels from finding purchase. I suppose one could say..."I'm back."

I have mellowed somewhat since beginning and ending this blog, and have learned some valuable lessons.

The most important is that I get bull goose loony when I don't write, and no one really needs that. Not anymore at least.

And so, we continue...

The last one...

I've decided I have lived my life publicly by writing about it for long enough.

Nothing really comes of it and I fear I am simply trivializing my daily existence by doing so.

I will leave both my blogs up but am retiring from writing them.

I don't know how much time I have left in life and think I would like to keep the rest of it to myself.

Thanks for reading. G

Perhaps...

Hello to all who still read this, or those of you who may be new.

I have been inspired to attempt to find a literary agent to turn this jumbled mess into something worth reading in hardcover form. When enough people tell me something is good, I finally get the message.

Action has been taken. But if anyone knows of an agent or publisher who would have time for this...I am certainly open to it.

Cheers...

The end...and the beginning.

Well kids, it's time to put this one to bed. I bid you peace of mind, because it's invaluable. Anything else, you're on your own. The first post to the new Blog, "Rebel Chef," was posted tonight and may be found at www.rebelchefone.blogspot.com. Cheers

Moving on...

This blog is at an end. It has served me well, and also been a giant pain in the ass for reasons I choose not to share.
I thank everyone who has ever taken the time to read these ramblings and hope if nothing else, it served as a cautionary tale.
I will continue to write, however, a new blog is in the works, "Rebel Chef" soon to be on blogspot, detailing how a man at 49 chooses to start a career, working his way up the ladder from the bottom, without the benefit of culinary school, to become a Chef.
My next post will be my last and a rollout for the new blog.

Thanks again, it's been a wild ride...

The glitter fell off way too soon...

If something seems too good to be true....

Yeah, I know.

The relationship I was in is over. That's all I need to say.

Time to move on.

In the belly of the beast...one more time.

The business. Restaurants...up until now FOH (front of the house) but a passion for cooking, creating and being recognized for my meager efforts has landed me in the kitchen.

Outside responsibilities have kept me from culinary school so I'm doing it the hard way...learning as I go. Apprenticing as a prep-cook under two very accomplished Chef's while working as a line cook under yet another inspiring executive Chef and friend.

In the business, and I'm afraid fast food doesn't count-they could be making mufflers for all the artistry involved-we who work professionally making other peoples food are a clannish bunch-a tribe of sorts.

We thrive in the heat; the flames, the military precision of a "rush"...with the language of a busy professional kitchen almost musical. Orders yelled, responses short, "Yes Chef," being the most appropriate. We are tattooed, with burn marks on our forearms, many in some sort of recovery as the business can take a toll, some waiting with held breath for the after work "wind down" being alcohol, or other substances. Some with families, many divorced, tempers short, expectations high that we can "hold the line" and not be placed "dans la merde" or "in the weeds" forcing the flow to an interrupted standstill.

The customers expect their food fresh-hot and exactly the way they want it. (Often times with special variations as to what the menu items should be, having zero knowledge of the hours of back spasm, heat stroke inducing labor involved in first writing a menu and then preparing the items "as they are"...sure, feel free to throw a kink in the flow, without this, or this on the side or add this....sweet Jaysus...they just don't know.)

But that is what we do. Most of us have tried to live "out there" but we always come back to it. For the most part we are misfits, who understand the others in the tribe, tip generously when we get to dine out (often at places we can simply afford-rarely where we work) but critical to a fault. We could always do it a little bit better.

Two jobs are common-making food for you in one place, then another for the rest of you. We are not paid exorbitant salaries-those of us in the trenches, and ends must be met.

But it's the life-tickets rapid firing into the kitchen-a ballet of organized chaos; fast moves and sharp knives, 500 degree ovens, open flames, crushing criticism for mistakes, but deep respect when it's done right.

The majority of us have not had the luxury of culinary school and those of us who have, started in the trenches anyway- searing 40 lbs of chicken breast, trimming the same and slicing the chicken paper thin. Twenty pounds of homemade potato salad, quarts of dressing made from scratch, flash freezing, washing pots and pans, sharpening knives (nothing worse than being cut with a dull knife-ugly, terrible wound) cleaning grills, using industrial degreaser that scars the skin and burns like hell when it does, sprained backs, hands useless for anything more than curling around a glass at the end of the shift, legs like rubber, knees shot from 14 hours on your feet on concrete- sure order something special, we are more than happy to remove the already mixed cranberries, one by one from your cranberry chicken salad.

At almost fifty years old it takes either clinical madness or deep passion to begin this career move. Which is it? Hard to say.

But I wouldn't have it any other way...

The Man I hope to be...

Yes, I have changed. My oldest friends recognize it as do I.

But there is still a lot of work to be done. I am in a better place, spiritually, than ever before and am thankful for that.

That being said, I am no Gandhi. I am no spiritual giant. I'm trying to make sense of a world I never thought I would be in and am still making mistakes. Sometimes very hurtful, thoughtless mistakes causing pain to people I truly love.

That is one of many aspects of my personality that needs a drastic overhaul.

I had considered ending this blog and starting a new one, but fear this one is just not through. This blog has chronicled my first fifty years on this planet. Fifty years of selfish, immature, dysfunctional behavior. I would like to think that the next part will be the opposite.

I'm not the guy that overcame adversity as a young man and bettered himself for it. I tried self reliance for years, and it failed me.

I stayed on the fringe, off the radar, and have paid a price for it. Some of us have ridden outside the herd for so long, when it's time to come in, we don't know how.

The new blog, starting perhaps on my fiftieth birthday, will chronicle whatever time I have left. Suffice to say, I'm not getting another fifty out of this ride, but will continue to write about the journey, for however long that may be.

I would dearly love to stop doing the things I do that cause people, some who know me, some who don't but know of me, to view me as a complete asshole. I am man enough to own that and will continue to stand strong and work on the Man I hope to be.

You may ask, what would that look like? For me it would be a man with a sense of compassion and responsibility for the people he loves. A man with a sense of honor and guidance. A man who can view his life, not as a series of constant mistakes, but as a series of lessons, designed to get me to that place.

A man with a sense of duty and service, placing his loved one's before all else. A man that can communicate verbally, as well as he does with the written word. There is a big difference in what one may read and the things I say. Having been too scared to talk as a child due to a horrible stutter, I didn't. And no one showed me how. But I never stuttered on paper and took pride and satisfaction in that. But now I have to learn to communicate without blame or defense or reaction.

I hope there is still time. But if not, I'll know I went out trying to be that man, instead of settling for who I used to be.

And that, will have to be enough.

Sometimes the end of the road is the best place you can be.

I haven't written in days. There is a reason for this. The narrative of this "life" if continued, would go on for another ten years, before arriving in the present.

I can't do it to you and I can't do it to me.

Those ten years were simply a loop of everything prior. History does have a way of repeating itself, unless change is initiated. If nothing changes, nothing changes.

The pain. The failure's. The pipe dreams. Struggling. Staying dry and getting wet. One last bad marriage and another disappointed little girl...no need to go through it any more.

It would be repetitive, and I'm afraid, boring because of it.

When I began this blog, I had no idea any one would read it, but I was writing more for me than for an audience. I needed to come to a place of peace with my past, so throwing it all out into the universe was one avenue of healing. More work needs to be done, but what I set out to do has been accomplished.

My today is better than any time in my life. My "now" I would not trade for any ten years I ever had. I am viewing the world through a "new pair of glasses" (thanks Chuck) and I know from where the blessings and changes stem.

I have been blessed by those of you who have read any of this blog, much less all of it, and I thank you. I will continue to post, but from now on it simply be a daily journal, while I begin working on the material contained within for publication as a book.

It's been promised to a few of us that "we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it." For me that promise has come true.

I am at peace.

At last...

A minor surrender equals a very small victory...

I realized I had no where to go. No home, no family or career. I had family in Dallas but I was not willing to subject myself on them. Somehow, I had to find my feet.

I did, and I began to shuffle.

I performed all the exercises I was told to. Prayer; forgiveness, the letters to my Mom and Dad, but they were empty and I felt, pretty futile. I had yet to learn to follow directions with willingness.

It was mentioned I could continue whatever type of recovery I was in living in a controlled environment in Temple. There was a center there for Veterans to stay. The domiciliary. I would have to apply and meet with a board of Doctors.

My options were gone, so I began the process.

A Bluebird bus took me from Waco to Temple for the review board.

The panel was about a dozen medical professionals, headed up by a skinny Vietnamese Doctor.

What a plick...wow, he actually talked down to me in the review. I learned later he did this to all the Veterans, as did the majority of the government teat sucking staff.

With the amount of Vietnam Vets at the Dom I wondered how long before his head was found on a pole.

I plead my case, carefully omitting the real reasons. My alcoholism was holding it's breath, afraid I would spill the beans. I was accepted into the Dom and I felt like my disease clapped me on the back after it was over.

I packed my small amount of stuff, including the coffee cup and moccasins. The jewelry box I gave to my girls.

I shared a room with an old veteran, dying of lung cancer and renal failure. My nights were filled with his phlegmy coughing and moans of pain.

Boy, that was good for depression.

The Dom was across the street from the local college, so I applied for financial aid, got accepted and became an art major. I loved to draw, (see escape) as a kid and I thought maybe I could learn something.

I gained part-time employment as a desk clerk in a local hotel. I kept that until the night one of the housekeepers boyfriends showed up drunk. She met him in the lobby. Loud words were exchanged. He slapped her. I heard a roaring in my ears and everything went red.

The next thing I knew the police were there, pulling me off. Appears I had piston punched him in the face until he stopped moving. I didn't remember it.

I was my Father's son, after all.

So much for kinder and gentler. But that was my makeup, to defend the weak. Did it without thinking, which was good, because if I thought about it, there was no way I would willingly choose to do that. Unless a loved one was in danger...then, all bets were off.

However, I was let go. Whatever. I was looking for a job when I found that one.

Of course I was thinking a lot about my parents. And death. There had to be something after this, I thought, because if not, why bother?

One afternoon I was walking to a convenience store to get a diet coke. The sky was that light Texas blue and filled with huge, cotton candy clouds. So I began talking to my Dad.

I asked him...if there was something else...if we did continue on after this veil of tears, to let me know. I was going to purchase a quick pick at the store for the cash five lotto. Back then spirituality had a price. If any of his answers were yes, if he could hear me at all, I simply asked him to influence the ticket. That was that.

I let the machine crank it out, and I had my five numbers.

I had just finished an episode of the X-files that night when the lotto results came on. I had forgotten about it.

I dug the ticket out of my 501's and watched as one number, then two and three and four hit. I missed hitting all five and won $450.00.

It actually scared the shit out of me.

Be careful what you wish for...