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Unlooped since 2009
Dance, monkey!
1:06 PM
I started writing this poem about something superficial knowing that deeper and better things usually pour out once you open the poetic dam! When I don't have anything to write about but feel like writing I find poetry opens it up.
Hope you enjoy!
Long and coarse, brown and itchy
A stand of trees, so to speak
On the point, close to the edge
Difficult to find your way
Through the shit and through the itch
It's raw, it's dry, an open sore
Scratch, monkey! It feels so good
Shave you off, be gone from me
Clean cut wounds are better still
Drag you out, behind my truck
Bleeding, you scream my name
Open mind with closed up wounds
Open window see the view
Pick it, monkey! Chains let loose
Deep thoughts, concerning nothing
Grasp for depth, no depth be found
The itch is back, dance, monkey!
Walking wounded, by myself
Clean cuts are nice, softer still
Stay clear, this monkey throws shit
The wounds are mine, leave me be
Close Call
12:41 PM
Tracy has had stomach issues for the last several weeks. She's better now but we were wondering if she was pregnant. She took a test that turned out negative a week or so ago. But we weren't sure. A lot of her symptoms were very....pregnancy related.
Turns out that she's not pregnant. But we talked about it and came to some realizations. It really wouldn't be that bad to be pregnant. In fact, some primal part of us almost wanted her to be pregnant. I've spent a long time not wanting kids but it seems like something switched recently.
People told us that it would happen and I was not foolish enough to tell them they were wrong..luckily! Eating my words is as distasteful as eating cooked broccoli. I find myself wandering around from week to week wondering what is out there for me. This is dangerous ground for me because one of my reasons to NOT want kids is that I don't want to have kids to try to "figure myself out" or fix my own issues.
With that said, I, for the first time, have a SMALL amount of understanding about how people feel when they just feel like to be complete they need a kid or kids. At some point I wonder if my marauding mentality will somehow be settled with a unique, small version of me running around. It seems like a bad proposition to find out if it works or not. But something feels...right.
Somebody once told me, when I first got Champ
that it would be
two years until we had a kid. That date was a little off, but not too
far off to be considered incorrect!
I think in some way I'm ready to take the plunge. We are still not
going to start trying until next year but for some reason I am not fearful of being a dad anymore. Before, some part of me was scared. Perhaps it's simply that I'm older now and more mature. I feel confident that Tracy and I have what it takes to be together for the rest of our lives. Maybe I wasn't convinced of our ability to raise a healthy child until now.
I cannot define what it is exactly, but a transformation has occurredl. Perhaps it's a paternal instinct. I tried to find a good article or study that talked about paternal instinct and only found this. Which isn't that great but did speak of a paternal instinct.
Regardless of the reason, things are different now.
Working hard? Hardly!
8:51 AM
Sitting at work listening to Pandora and found a new band that I like called Lovage. They have sort of a mixed sound of Poe and Zero 7. While not working I started wondering what I want to do. I don't feel fulfilled in the least. But what would truly make "The Loop" fulfilled?
I dream of things that I want to do. But when the dream sinks into reality it is obvious that it isn't realistic. Last night I started a new racquetball league. I kicked ass. I beat a person that I had never beat before and I attribute it to the 2 weeks of strict practice that I chose to do in between seasons. I would love to own a racquetball facility and teach lessons and host events. But that is not a realistic dream. Not for now at least. While I don't "limit" my ability for success I also have to keep a foot grounded to reality. To build a proper facility would cost upwards of a million dollars and to get a client base and a group of people that would pay to play racquetball when there are 100 fitness clubs that would probably be as cheap or cheaper has little to do with ability to succeed and more to do with having the financing to get it done.
I wonder to myself which injustice is greater. The injustice that I think I can do anything I put my mind to or the injustice that I don't really do anything. Mother tells me that she realized a little too late how talented I was. She spent too much time on the other kids to realize how special I was. But is that the problem? Was she delusional about my abilities? Maybe it's just a cruel joke played on me to convince me that I'm special. In the words of Wes Mantooth: "You know, I understand that, uh, they had to bring a female in, change your diapers, wipe the dribble away from your bubbling lips, rub vasoline all over your heine and tell you that it's special and different from everyone elses." Was it a cosmic lie?
I tend to think it wasn't a lie. I wish it were a lie! It would be easier if I thought I was a daft idiot that really had little expectations.
I dream of things that I want to do. But when the dream sinks into reality it is obvious that it isn't realistic. Last night I started a new racquetball league. I kicked ass. I beat a person that I had never beat before and I attribute it to the 2 weeks of strict practice that I chose to do in between seasons. I would love to own a racquetball facility and teach lessons and host events. But that is not a realistic dream. Not for now at least. While I don't "limit" my ability for success I also have to keep a foot grounded to reality. To build a proper facility would cost upwards of a million dollars and to get a client base and a group of people that would pay to play racquetball when there are 100 fitness clubs that would probably be as cheap or cheaper has little to do with ability to succeed and more to do with having the financing to get it done.
I wonder to myself which injustice is greater. The injustice that I think I can do anything I put my mind to or the injustice that I don't really do anything. Mother tells me that she realized a little too late how talented I was. She spent too much time on the other kids to realize how special I was. But is that the problem? Was she delusional about my abilities? Maybe it's just a cruel joke played on me to convince me that I'm special. In the words of Wes Mantooth: "You know, I understand that, uh, they had to bring a female in, change your diapers, wipe the dribble away from your bubbling lips, rub vasoline all over your heine and tell you that it's special and different from everyone elses." Was it a cosmic lie?
I tend to think it wasn't a lie. I wish it were a lie! It would be easier if I thought I was a daft idiot that really had little expectations.
First Blog
11:58 AM
When I hear the word blog, I can only think of one thing. Mark Cuban. This seems appropriate since I, in someway, relate to him. He's successful, exuberant and has a lot "going for him". Yet, when you experience him, whether in dancing with the stars or in a random interview with local media you inherently say to yourself, "something's off about him."
A site where you post your ramblings as if anybody out there will truly give a shit about what you have to say/think. It's like a journal...but not. In a journal I would write something and knowingly keep it a secret. In a blog, I will write something and unknowingly keep it a secret.
I spent this morning reading through S.P. Lunger's blog which you can find here: S.P. Lunger and I couldn't help but wonder. Is his life better than mine? As I read through the first parts of the blog I had changing emotions. The first emotion was around amazement. I read a deepness that I don't know that I possess. But then it turned into something else. Something..cynical perhaps. Thats one of his favorite adjectives.
My life is less discovered than his. No doubts about that. See Tel'aran'rhiod
But what does that gain him? If I wouldn't have been an S.P. Lunger student for 24 years I wouldn't have known that I was somehow behind the curve so to speak. His life is filled with cynical ramblings that allow him to "project his shit" more profusely than I do.
How many times can you blog? Is it a no more than once a day thing? No more than twice a week? I feel like inundating the blog with entries right now. If I'm the only one that's going to read my diary online I guess I can blog as much as I want.
In proper Schlueter fashion this blog, that nobody will read, will be a key to self discovery. Each new day has a new solution. Maybe ignorance is bliss. Or maybe fuck ignorance.
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