Things to Look Forward to and Things to Be Happy About

The truth is: I've been sitting on the window ledge of a decision that's really nothing exemplary or extraordinary or exciting or really even worth the time I've taken to make a pros and cons list and carefully weigh the unbalanced list of numerous cons on one side against the weight of a single con on the other, but I made the list and I looked it over and I've really allowed myself to nearly commit a serious infraction against myself and the days that remain within 2010. Fortunately, I finally decided to confide in Daniel, and as I did, I realized just how ridiculous my words sounded. Sometimes, all we really need to do is bounce a few phrases off another person who cares and listens to hear just what we need to hear and to see that all the weights and burdens and questions really aren't even worth the time and effort. I'm grateful to have a dude like Daniel in my life, just like I'm happy to have my mom and my sister and a conglomeration of people who constantly remind me to stop taking things so seriously and to stop allowing myself to be a doormat in life. The thing is, I have this desperate need to fit in at times and it carries over into the professional sector at times and I allow myself to get painted into a corner and wrapped up in a box that I subsequently find myself desperate to break through and leave behind. Tonight, I sprang my concerns to a man who returned with his own concerns that he'd been keeping to himself for several weeks and suddenly I saw that all this twisting and turning and feeling that I owe someone one thing or another... it's not always worth it. The best part of being a man in full is knowing when to say when: recognizing your assets and fueling your strengths and recognizing a liability for what it is and agreeing that the best thing you can do is just stop and remove yourself from a bad situation.

This unnatural uncertainty I've been kicking around from one jaw to the other all summer is ready to be simply spit out from my lips and into the pond of life from which we all see and learn and regard. Stick with a good thing in my position with NSU where I can create my own schedule and enjoy guaranteed hours for the next year and take time off when necessary and experience a stress-free, academically charged daily energy (but don't make nearly the money I could--the only con) or kick the NSU work to the curb in an effort to try to balance this rigorous life in academia that I enjoy with extracurriculars and a new relationship and volunteering and a position with a secondary facility to which I really don't feel all that proud or impressed or stress-free to belong. Yeah, written down and looking over one option versus the other really does seem unbelievably silly, but I can't help feeling that it's something I should tough out: get up and walk it off, take it like a man, all that. Crazy, right? Like all the times I've told myself that I'm not a soldier, I'm a human being and here I am taking on undue and unfair psychological stress and pain that's just as bad if not worse than the real daily physical pain I feel at the base of my spine and all the way down my left leg due to this still-not-yet-repaired stenosis thing. Crazy. Maybe I really am a masochist. I certainly have discovered that I am in every other way... why not other than just in pursuits related to any kind of sexually provocative activity? I suppose a true masochist is a masochist from that first cup of coffee all the way to the last cigarette of the day.

So, Daniel and I told each other good night, but just before we parted, he stopped and asked: "So, have you made up your mind yet?" I nodded. Yeah, I think I have. "Good," he told me, "it took long enough." Right, right, right. I headed home, but not before texting one other person for whom I have a tremendous amount of respect: a nurse with a sound mind and just as sound advice. After expressing myself on the matter further than I did the previous time we began discussing the subject, I was told that I was doing the best possible thing in the world if I were to hold onto NSU and let go of the other matter. Permanently. And as soon as possible.

I drove home and thought about having a bite. Instead, I popped in my headphones and posted a few thoughts on Facebook and sent a friend a birthday greeting. And I re-watched the newly released trailer for Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan and almost got turned on watching the thrilling chemistry between Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman and began to speculate at just what the hell the man has in store for the legion of fans he has begun to accumulate... especially with the final ten to fifteen seconds of the trailer and that recently sprouted feather from Natalie Portman's fair shoulder blade and that ominous, deathly symphonic music... the maleficent tones of a Swan Lake reverb... I can't wait for December. That's when I really realized just how much I've missed from this summer break, the holiday in which I planned to only read and write and sleep and catch up on Tivo and spend three weeks being perfectly irresponsible and getting fat on bags of chips and other negative additives to an otherwise healthy diet.

I've read only two novels since June. I've watched only three or four hours from almost one hundred hours saved on my Tivo. I've eaten nachos a couple times, but only in moderation. I've really not slept in. Even the nights I spent alert and oriented and wrapped up in the arms my my sig. fig. to watch the break of dawn and the rise of the sun, I jumped up as early as possible... mostly only into the late morning hours so that I could stay on top of this and that and try to run into work to be sure that I'd not missed anything important while things were quiet. No trips. No overnight hotel stays. No afternoons lounging and burning out by the pool. In fact, the most I've seen of the sun has been the past two days smoking outside the new student orientation and registration for my SNA/SGA involvement. And now, I've only tomorrow and Friday and Saturday and Sunday and this lovely break of mine is over in favor of Addiction Studies and Family Dynamics and Social Problems and Technical Composition and Nursing as a Profession and Pathophysiology and clinical preparation and study groups and highlights and notecards and rewritten notes and all of everything that's coming in September and October and November... all the way up until just before Christmas.

My vow: the next time I accept a position anywhere, I'll be sure to conduct my research and a thorough interview that is just as intense, if not moreso, than the interview to which I may be subjected. I also vow to be true to myself. I refuse to believe the words I was told to accept.. that "it is much easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission" because if you're living your life the way you're supposed to, then you rarely have to ask for permission and even less for forgiveness. I vow to be far more careful of allowing work to define my life. I vow to spend a lot more leisure time with the people in my life who really matter: my mom, my sister, my brother, my nieces, my nephews, Jeremy, Shannon, Nick, the SNAers, the SGAers, these co-workers from NSU who keep begging me to come back, and, of course, this unstoppable, undefinable, wordlessly perfect force of nature called Daniel... the one who really lights my F-I-R-E and ALWAYS allows me to be honest, to express myself completely, encourages me to be myself, accepts me no matter what, and pushes me toward being the best possible Miles I can be.

Thanks, Daniel-san. It's awesome to know that he'll be waiting for my call tomorrow, ready to smile and hug me and ask me: "So... how was it... and more importantly, how was your day?" Good question. Especially when the one asking it wants the real, fully explained answer. Who could possibly ask for anything more than that?

The Disgustingly Harsh and Wholly Hellish Heatwave of 2010

It's almost unbearable. Impossible to even reach just outside the front door to pull any pieces of mail from the box adhered to the exterior wall only slightly beyond the edge of opened doorway. Merely walking from our house's side door and down the driveway to Lola's spot parked along our street yesterday in the late morning hours, I was hideously layered in a thick layer of sweat that left my clothes clinging to every inch of flesh beneath. In fact, it's impossible to even keep our $250K three bedroom in Broadmoor at a comfortable temperature. The heat just seeps in through the cracks and opened blinds and radiates into each and every room despite the air conditioning unit screaming into overdrive and the plethora of ceiling fans and miscellaneous other units attempting to maintain a temperate equilibrium... all failing miserably, leaving us miserably dealing with these final, miserable weeks of summer.

Personally, I'll be very happy when the weather ebbs into the soothing sanctity of sweater weather re-acquaints itself with the Northwest Louisiana area. I only wish it would hurry up and get here. In fact, I'd be willing to wager that each and every non-heat enthusiast is praying from some rain-soaked relief in any form, even if it makes its venture in the form of a decaying tropical storm weakening from its initial coastal impact; however, the two storms that promised us torrents and mild relief melted to nothingness before coming too far inland.

Meanwhile, the ways and means and pursuits of my life are anything other than miserable or unfortunate. I managed to accumulate thirty-six clocked-in hours by the time I clocked out from Thursday's shift; so, I knew that I would be able to only work a few short hours on Friday morning before taking the day off to accomplish the list of to-dos that have been staring at me from the pages of my personal calendar/planner and the gleaming face of the dry erase board affixed to the back of my bedroom door. In a few short hours after leaving Garden Park around eleven in the morning, I'd managed the one-way streets of downtown Shreveport and braved the hoi polloi mixing in the Caddo Parish Courthouse to pay an exorbitant amount for copies of all reports and records related to my past, I'd driven out to the Pines Treatment Center to pick up the discharge papers from the August day of my graduation (five years ago, tomorrow, as a matter of fact), and I came home to write up a full narrative history of what my life was like, what happened, and how things have changed up till today. It's not like I've never told my story before, nor could I argue that I've never had to write it all down. But working and writing your responses to step work is much different, just as writing a brief autobiography is different.

With step work, you're just eager to get it all down, confirming the parts that make up the whole of your life story. Writing the narrative which could, honestly, either make or break my career and on which all future endeavors to success are based is an experience in and of itself. In my desperate attempt to stand out from the others who are submitting similar fragments, I struggled to create something as interesting and honest as possible. When I read the rough draft aloud to Ragan and Mandi at their Saturday morning brunch, I felt that my mission was accomplished. Now, I just have to re-write the copy and make a few here and there tweaks before tying it up and printing it out, ready for submission. Should I be so bold to state that I believe my future's in the bag? I'd like to write just that, but I won't because pragmatism tells me to be a bit bashful and unassuming, sit back, be honest, and jump in whenever I'm asked. Only time will tell.

Yesterday was just as interesting and productive. Following brunch, I ran to see Gena at the Peace of Mind Center to re-up on all my favorite incenses and was turned onto a new option: Moldavite, which Gena assured me was quite popular and well worth the expense. Although I burned two sticks simultaneously last night, I'm planning to save those remaining for relaxation, meditation, prayer, higher powered thinking, and sleep. The packaging suggests that Moldavite is the result of an asteroidal impact with Earth millions of years ago whose benefits range from more positive thinking, more vivid and powerful dreams, proven strength to relaxation... all the stuff that sounds wonderful and alluring and well worth the five-fifty or so it took to purchase the package. After Peace of Mind, I braved the aisles at the Gucci Brookshire's on Line Avenue, spent much more than I planned, then came home to complete the August issue of NSU Shreveport's SNA Nightingale, the student produced, student nurses newsletter, our back-to-class issue.

Finally, I received my late-afternoon, early evening phone calls from Daniel, who seemed a bit distant or aloof or maybe just pensive. I decided to shrug off any definitive plans early on in favor of climbing on the couch and watching a truly amazing and thought provoking documentary circa 1978 called "Word Is Out," billed as twenty-six conversations with gay men and women. Although the hairstyles and clothing and some the idiomatic expressions are a bit dated, the power of these brave souls discussing life and love and growing up gay is apparent. The topics of truth and loyalty and self-confidence and self acceptance and love are beautiful no matter from the time or person they are emitted. Before it was over, Daniel called again, ready to roll and eager to get together. We planned to come back to my house, veg on junk food, and watch one of the DVD's that have been sitting on my shelf for more than a week and begging to finally be watched. Instead, we ended up in the kitchen all night. I made tuna and he told me stories about his youth. We ate intermittent tuna sandwiches sliced into triangles and he eagerly devoured his pieces exclaiming how great the tuna was. We smoked a bunch of cigarettes and I downed a Monster and we talked more. And talked. And talked. And talked. When the sun began to make its early morning appearance, we snuggled together on the couch (funny how much cooler the house is in the pre-dawn hours... in fact, it's downright cold at times), watching a re-run on TVLand and fell asleep there before jumping up around eight and deciding to move to our bed where we slept late. Inexcusably late. Wonderfully late. So late that by the time we finally decided to work our way from bed to caffeine, the house was already hot and we both required showers and shaves and re-donned jogging pants and tee shirts and old running shorts. He fell back asleep under the ceiling fan that's rotating on its highest setting; below its light breeze, he played with Mary Louise until, it seems, the heat overtook him and he gave into a nap.

Chicken's on the counter, defrosting for pasta salads. Sunday afternoon NPR is running through Windows Media Player on my computer. The sig fig is starting to move around. I just looked back there and Mary Louise is passed out beside him. A couple of lazy lugs. But I love 'em.

Life is really good today. Really hot. But really really good.

Monday, Monday

Glad the day's just about over. As hot as I reported the state of affairs in the Shreveport-Bossier metropolitan area yesterday, today's temperatures have risen to compare themselves to the underside of the river Styx. Hot.

Even the lights have flickered a time or two in the past hour, reminding me of winter storms, but there's definitely no rain, no wind, no thunder, nothing electrical. Only a major, inundating drain on the city's power grid as our air conditioners roll into overdrive as we all attempt to cool off a bit. Just after seven o'clock and the mercury still reads a toasty degree at or just above the triple digits. Perfect weather for love and passion and these heated moments of lust and falling deeper and deeper for this overwhelming energy I've found in the sig. fig.

Summer Lovin', Book Clubbin', Staying Cool, and Keeping Control

The first day of the month on the first day of the week. Always a good sign. A positive omen of a great and engrossing and lovely month to come. It has to be because July really kind of sucked for the most part, with one bright, shining, significant exception: the resurgence of something great and wonderful and unexpected in the shape and form of a romance that lay sleeping and dormant for five long years of incredible change, maturity, and movement into the goal-setting, dream-attaining wonderland of adulthood.

Why do they say "fall in love" ("like a fall from grace?" - Mary, The Happy Ending, 1969: "affluent Denver housewife drinks, takes pills, and walks out on her husband after fifteen years of marriage") like it's something that happens when you trip over an uneven span of sidewalk along your path, stumble several steps, and then re-right yourself to a steady stride? It's not that it's not totally the case. I mean, it happens unexpectedly and suddenly and shockingly, and it hits you sideways from somewhere behind you and to the left, deep within your blind spot, that shadowy blur of a gray triangle through which you never even think to look, especially when you've given up on looking and decided that if it ever happens, it's going to have to happen later because right now you don't have the time or the energy or the attention needed to pay to a significant other. How do you make God laugh? You make a plan, of course. Say that there is only one thing that couldn't possibly arrive at a worse time and that's the exact moment when that one thing trips across the uneven concrete, stumbles a few steps, and re-rights himself straight on into your arms that you've slung open to catch him. Yeah. I guess I've fallen in love. And on the eighth day, God said: Let there be love, and it was the best of all.

Last night was the third meeting of the Shreveport-Bossier Book Club, the second consecutive month in which we actually discussed one of the books on our list, the third month after originally meeting to plan meeting dates and meeting times and books to read and wines (that the others, no worries, people... it's not even a blip on my radar) for consumption and foods to devour and discussions to tackle. The first month was Julia Reed's The House on First Street and last night was Ian McEwan's Atonement, a big, sprawling, beautiful story of love and loss and the death of passion in romance through the cruel twists of fate and the lies that children tell. I made my famous chicken salad and Mexican fiesta dip with crackers and breads and a big, fat bottle of Yellow Tail Pinot Grigiot, a wine that I once consumed en masse, and the only idea I could lay my brain on and wrap my thoughts around when trying to determine what my tasteful contribution to Book Club could be since, five years of step work and meeting attendance and a whole lot of soul searching later, I remain clean and serene and sober and grateful. There was just under half a bottle remaining as the ladies began to make their ways to the door (something that DEFINITELY would never have been the case if I were still a drinking man), so I sent the remnants away with the one member of our party I knew would enjoy the grape fermentation the most.

It's hot here. Inexcusably, exhaustively, oppressively, disgustingly middle of deep South summer, New Orleans afternoon, Bourbon Street-caked on hot. It's not like it's the hottest it's ever been or anything, but I'm ready for the summer months to be over and complete. For the onset of sweater weather and no flip flops, driving with the windows down, sleeping with the windows up, planning on camping and pitching a tent and living off whatever the sig. fig. decides to catch or hunt or grab and skin and boil or fry for us to consume. Yeah, camping is a big and great idea, but one that I'm actually, really and truly looking forward to this fall, and I know that there will be afternoons and evenings and late up-all-night-study-sessions in which I'm going to have to put love on the back burner, but I also know that I've come this far and worked this hard, and it's imperative that I keep control, remain on top of my game, and keep on keeping on this path to perfection I'm pushing so hard to reach.

People in love are crazy.

Summer Photos

July 31-August 1: You know it's gotten too late when it's gotten too early. Men not without hats decide to photograph the actions and adventures of the early morning hours of Sunday as they meander through life and love and wardrobe.

Looks kinda like a psychotic Australian sociopath, eh? Nah, not even close. Just a guy on the brink of total global domination.

Same thing, only now placated by the idea. I'm sure he'll be so pleased that I'm posting these on my blog.

Yep. When the googly eyes make their appearance, it's definitely about time to call for sleep.