Bob, Aimee, and me (a threesome)

Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around,
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground,
I can follow the path, I can read the signs,
Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,
I can handle whatever I stumble upon,
I don't even notice she's gone,
Most of the time...

...Most of the time
I'm halfway content,
Most of the time
I know exactly where I went,
I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,
Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,
I don't compromise and I don't pretend,
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time...

--Bob Dylan
Copyright © 1989 Special Rider Music
Columbia Records

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An emotionally honest blog is nothing if the author doesn't clear house now and then in this fashion. Please read the poetry above and below and see how a man can miss every signal, all the way along. Why, you ask? Because he may need to be loved so badly that he doesn't notice that he is inserting his own concept of love into a woman's life who doesn't have room for that much of an intrusion.

Now that I've met you
would you object to
never seeing each other again
cause I can't afford to
climb aboard you
no one's got that much ego to spend

So don't work your stuff
because I've got troubles enough
no, don't pick on me
when one act of kindness could be
deathly
deathly
definitely

Cause I'm just a problem
for you to solve and
watch dissolve in the heat of your charm
but what will you do when
you run it through and
you can't get me back on the farm...

Artist: Aimee Mann
Song: Deathly
Album: Magnolia soundtrack






These singers sum most of it up, as far as I am concerned. In the private sector, we call this the bottom line. Supposedly, in this society, that is the only thing that matters -- the outcome, the net net, a story written up in numbers.

But, for me, it is only part of the story. Of course, I would love to make lots of money, and become filthy rich all of a sudden. Not because I want anything in particular for myself except to purchase my time back.

I've reached an age where I would by quite happy no longer having to perform as a wage slave. I'd be happier as a part-time consultant, advisor, and board member. Meanwhile, I could finish my damn book about a media mogul who bores me to tears with his self-aggrandizing moves, including (vomit) a reality TV show that I never watched.

Then, I could work harder on the memoir that this blog has become, and ensure that it would be of a higher and more consistent quality that has henceforth been the case. Some nights, I literally fall asleep at my computer, trying to push these posts out, without much sense of whether they matter to anyone, anywhere, except those closest to me.

But, if I ever can strike a chord that resonates outside of the small circle of my family and attentive friends, it is easy to envision this work becoming a book. That would be fun.

At the same time, I have an undeniable urge to start growing food. The back yard of this place would be fine, despite the dusts of ghosts that continue to haunt the former location of the privy. That square just won't support vegetation, while the rest of the yard is a clover and sourgrass paradise.

My housemate also wants to get her hands dirty, so we have a perfect fit here. The landlady came by the other day and asked if I wanted her to clear the growth from the yard, and I said, "No!" Nature will take care of all that, in due course, and as we plow it back into the soil ever richer will present itself for us to plant lettuce, tomatoes, zucchini, and the other treats common in gardens in these parts.

Hmmm. I wonder if I can grow daikon?

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