Searching Within

Journaling

  • Three Petrified Twinkies

    Two Men and a Junk Truck / Habitat for Humanity donation event. The event calls itself a cookout—drop off reusable items, keep them out of the landfill. Free food, giveaways, community fun.

    A few hours declutter at the apartment. I’ve got empty boxes and garbage bags. Found more than clutter:

    • Three Petrified Twinkies
    • A stale bag of milk chocolate Lindor truffles.

    Started the search and sort in the bedroom. Cotton comforter, body pillow, two 24×24 pillows (linens); was tempted to send it all. About to send the body pillow and comforter into the donation pile. When: what if I go car camping and want a little nest in the back of the Escape? Packed it back up in the apartment storage containers. Keeping.

    Old maps for Chicago, Portland, California, Wisconsin bicycle paths way, way old. Event is about landfill-avoidance. Maybe someone historical would want them. Threw them in the donation box.

    Clothes too big: 44-inch jeans, 3XL polos and T-shirts gone. A few right-size items I just don’t want anymore gone. Three cat toys that didn’t entice play, gone. Such as the little plastic gun that shoots miniature puffballs: Max didn’t care.

    Camera bag: haven’t used in more than two years, nicely made, just sitting. Donation.

    Keeping the lacrosse ball Kevin gave me for massaging knots out of my back and shoulders. Old meds and supplements can’t go in the donation box but I want them gone. Why isn’t it easy to make them gone? Goodbye, art pen whose instructions are entirely in Chinese, brand new, never used. Donation.

    Sheesh! Sheesh! Sheesh! What’s up with the boxes and boxes of alcohol pads? Needed them when pricking my finger for diabetes sugar testing. Stopped doing the finger-prick test. Where do I even throw those out?

    Keeping the laminated map of Wisconsin. Corded headphones with a jack gotta go. Don’t have anything that takes a jack anymore. Adapter? No, wireless is what I’d want.

    The 18-inch pencil that’s width-proportionate to its length, eraser isn’t even like a real eraser. Blue. Cool at the time. Time to let it go. Mini table lamp knick-knack, new in box reminds me of the little Pixar lamp that pounds the Letter-I down until it becomes the I. This one might be teal. Works, but I’ve never taken it out of the box. Kind of want it. But do I love it?

    Little tiny rubber finger puppet monster: given to me around 2000. A woman in HR asked for an extra graphics project she wanted a vector, but a photograph with the background removed worked perfectly. Gave me my own little rubber monster finger puppet. Do I still keep this? I never play with it. Not cute enough to display. I think I still have a picture of it somewhere. Too tired to get the camera out, would have to clean cat hair off first. Maybe the memory is enough.

    Tracy and I drove to MediaWest one year, maybe 2004. Pam said: ‘Let’s get you an Illinois Tollway I-Pass.’ Guess what I just found. Do I care? See if there’s money left? Long time ago. This just goes in the garbage, doesn’t it? Decide another day.

    Ugg! Another box of Curad alcohol prep pads 100 medium prep pads. Could probably line a wall with them.

    Donating the Omega Zip drive, circa 2012. Had two back then and sold one to Brian for $5. Why couldn’t he have bought both?

    Oh my god no-brainer: anything with Velcro that I do not need. Even if I kind of need it, out of here. Velcro sucks.

    Fisheye lens add-on for the iPhone back when there was only one camera. Won’t fit mine. Bye.

    Now that I have the Escape: little adapter that turns a cigarette lighter into a USB-B. Brand new. Keeping.

    Tiny prism, original packaging. Belonged to my brother. Label says Tokyo, Japan. Would the sun ever hit it? Could you hang it in front of a window? Keepsake. Deal with it later. When I received a few of my dad’s things after he passed, one was a knife. Maybe 8 inches, wood handle, comfortable in the fist, then the blade. Finland. If you look just right you can see scrolling letters. No idea what they say. Little notch like a pocket knife but doesn’t fold. Found in the back of a drawer in the art chest. Should put it out and use it occasionally. Perfect little knife, just the right size.

    Art chest: not finding anything to get rid of. Pens, pencils, erasers, a different kind of eraser, markers keeping all art supplies. Tape drawer alone: scotch, blue, electrical, double-sided, probably something else too. A drawer of paper none of it printer paper: graph, colored. Notebooks. Envelopes in the next drawer. Could send a thousand envelopes; haven’t sent one in forever.

    Keeping all stencils, protractors, rulers, more stencils. Done with the art chest.

    Bear wall: antique wood boxes stacked like a puzzle. Mostly teddy bears, knickknacks, little wood boxes, books. Lower shelves have art supplies. Can’t find more to get rid of. Checked bottom drawers nothing. Three This End Up bookcases: jumble of books/stuff/knickknacks jammed in every way. Keeping the miniature Stormtrooper, bought him because I wanted him. Expensive. Thought he’d be a posture statue on the counter for figure drawing. New in box. Keeping Grogu. Almost life-size. Body soft, head hard plasticky rubber you wouldn’t want to snuggle with it. Cute. Interesting how many people on video calls comment about Grogu in the background, even though he’s just tossed in a corner on a shelf. Poor guy.

    Technology: two file cabinets with no filing nothing to donate. Baggie of thumb drives, haven’t used in years, better to just buy a new one. Sony recorder battery ancient, no power. Rechargeable via a pop-out USB-B; Apple only takes USB-C. iPhone Voice Memo working fine, so not experimenting and risking losing a recording. One box of cords, neatly bundled, surely don’t need all of them; evaluate another day.

    Jewelry box: nothing sticks out. Moving on. Bathroom: all drawers checked, nothing donatable. Just more alcohol pads. And you know what? Nobody in healthcare realized I never used them. Maybe day one or two. After that: oh hell no. Who needs that step? People freaked out when they found out that I skipped the alcohol wrap. Nothing happened. Grew up on a farm didn’t have thousands of alcohol pads. Tattooing goats, we’d swab the ear (between the veins, careful not to pinch) more about removing oils so tattoo held, not health. I was a kid back then.

    Prick my finger for a diabetes sugar test, want no extra step, no extra garbage from alcohol pad wrappers. (Thankful the diabetes is under control and the daily testing has been paused long ago).

    Kitchen: emotionally and physically painful. Bottom cupboard sweet potatoes with roots growing 8 inches upward. Shriveled potatoes. Three yellow onions. Why did one onion turn to complete mush? Everything moved to the garbage bag; spray cleaner, paper towels, mopping. Philip was in charge of putting groceries away. I never thought to look in that bottom cupboard after he left. My back muscles are on fire during cleaning it up. So now we know where the flies are coming from. Next: a drawer filled with plastic bags Philip stockpiled from the grocery store, way more than needed. Stuffed in so tightly it took forever to dig them out. Doubt he was saving them for recycling. Maybe. I don’t know. Some tall glasses too heavy and thick. Gone. Opened the dishwasher pew, that stunk. Grabbed a few things. More to sort another day. Final count going to donation: overflowing bag of clothes; a box of the most unusual mix of everything, mostly tiny things; one teddy bear brand new that doesn’t match the collection, faring him well; a smaller box with a few kitchen items. Still need to carry down the garbage bag in order to get the fly food out of the apartment. Probably two more trips for the boxes. So tired. Another-day list: place settings, utensils, maybe cookware that never gets used. 33-gallon bag of clothes needs to get down to the Escape. Donation box only half full maybe find a slightly smaller box. This one is from Metabolic Meals, super heavy cardboard. Got the bag of clothes down. Back hurting. Shoes tied, shorts on. Maybe switch to a clean shirt, wash my face. Further tweaked my back leaning over the sink.

    Threw a carabiner in the box to wish it well, that it finds happy homes for all this junk. Maybe some of it isn’t junk. Maybe it’s exactly what somebody wants. At least that’s the prayer I’m sending the carabiner to convey.

    Last question: do I eat before I go, or check whether they’re really serving food at the cookout? Kind of know where to go, drive further past the Dane County Humane Society. Two Men and a Truck depot.

  • He Wrote Back

    Cartoon split-screen grid of the same man singing and clapping in many panels, a cappella multitrack style

    One sure way to get over a crush is to embrace someone new and let yourself be drawn into their life. From the outside, his looks perfect — family, following his dream, asking for support and giving back work made from the heart. Personable and humble. And cute.

    Jared Halley is an a cappella artist. He builds an entire song by himself — every vocal part, even the percussion, recorded separately and assembled into a split screen of as many as fifteen squares, walking into frame for each part when it’s that square’s turn to sing, sound, or dance. I’ve watched for months. I follow him, click like on nearly everything.

    When I was deciding whether I could afford the Escape, I canceled my monthly gifts to two artists on Patreon. Jared was one of them. Not a high dollar amount — but giving gifts while I’m struggling felt like a luxury I couldn’t justify. Then I thought through it, and I wasn’t comfortable having stopped. So I re-upped. I started watching old recordings of his live events, the ones where he just talks to people. Which led me to his newest original, “Rescue Me.”

    I wrote about what it meant to me, and I posted it — publicly, on his page. Everyone else will hear “Rescue Me” as a love song to a person. I swap the “you” for a place. Rescue is the town in California where I grew up. Before the first verse ends, I’m nine years old again in El Dorado County, drowning in a loneliness that was true then and is true now — and the thing I’m reaching for was never a person. It was the foothills, the oak trees, the horses, the clean straw late at night. I used to say “Rescue, rescue me” to myself as a kid, because I wanted the name of the town to have power.

    Two days later, he wrote back. Not a generic thank-you — a real reply. He had read it. He quoted my own line back to me, “a ghost made of foothills,” and said that once a song is released it stops belonging only to the writer; it becomes something a listener can pour their own story into. He said a song becoming a vessel for someone’s memories like that was the kind of gift he most hopes his music can be.

    I cried the hardest I have in months.

    Not because I asked. Not because anyone is paid or obligated to. A person I respect read my words, was moved, and told me so. I have been wanting that since I was seven, carrying a drawing to my mother — the overlapping shapes, the little hole you could see the next shape through — and watching her enthusiasm thin by the third one. The armor I wear held all day. This is what finally broke it. I let it.

    There’s a smaller thing I can’t stop noticing. After I quoted his lyrics, a few lines of my own came out without my meaning them to — “Standing on top of sadness, being loud and grumpy, the only way to keep myself from drowning” — and they fell right into his meter. His song opens “drowning in lonely.” My ear caught the rhythm and my words followed it home.

    I listen to that song maybe ten times a day. Some things you support because you love them. Some things you say out loud because, for once, somebody heard you.

    Look for him…

    Related Post

    Rescue, Rescue Me

  • Moonbutter

    Colin has been instructing me in the Plum Blossom saber form; received next move. Sunday Push, someone brought up who was going and where to see Colin and his band. Moonbutter plays Make Music Madison on the 21st. Colin plays drums and calls it a dad’s band, except there are no other dads. There’s a mom. (Janet sent me the link: Rock, Blues, Alternative. Jam band style. Cover group playing 60s, 70s, and 80s rock with an emphasis on fun.) I’ve never been to Lerdahl Park.

    While Colin and I were pushing. I asked what he plays. Drums. “Oh, you’re a drummer.” I feigned excitement like a groupie fawning over a drummer. Not sure he got that I was breaking push form, being silly, but he put up with me. Then I asked, “So what kind of drummer are you?” He looked at me. “What do you mean, what kind?” I didn’t have the music words, so I did a mime, air drumming, instead. A big, dramatic Phil Collins thing. He goes, “Oh, you mean the fills.” Fills. Oh cool, he knew I was talking about the artist Phil Collins. He guessed the technique. Then it hit me: I’m standing here talking to Colin about Phil Collins and fills. Suddenly we realized there were multiple puns. The whole thing collapsed into ridiculous. To me at least. Colin smiled and agreed it was silly.

    Days later, alone in my apartment, I’m still laughing out loud. Smiling. Just laughing because it was funny and I was there. However depressed I was Friday morning, I feel a little better. A laugh that lasts days is worth noting.

  • Sartre Walks Into a Therapy Session

    After all the discussion and analysis on choices this week, Claude wrote: “You just arrived at Sartre.”

    “Jean-Paul Sartre, existentialist philosopher. His line: “We are condemned to be free.” You cannot escape choice. Even refusing to choose is a choice. Standing still is a choice. “I don’t care” is a choice. Showing up and saying “nothing” is a choice.

    “The people who study choice would say: there is no “no choice” option. You’re always choosing, even when you think you’re not.”

    Oh wow, studying choice is a lot more fun than making choice. Oh. Not true. Thinking about choice in my life is definitely not fun.

    Tim offered me a choice Friday I didn’t want. Now, needing to explain what that felt like and why it hurt. There’s an ask in there somewhere. I think I found it.

  • 50 Miles to Return

    Devil's Lake

    The return period on a pair of white Nike Air Jordan is about to expire. I need that $137.15 back to eat this week. Option 1, free return label. Wrap the shoes for shipping. Figure out the printer. Carry box to UPS. Every step heavier than the last.

    There is an ingenious alternative. I drove 50 miles to Wisconsin Dells outlet mall instead. $15.56 in gas. On paper, the worse decision.

    Highway 12 west. Near tears most of the drive. Fighting to find something — gratitude, maybe — in the sky, the clouds, the green. Couple different times I gave the seatbelt an extra tug so it was really tight. That’s how single lonely people get their hugs.

    Mall was a surprise. Ginormous Nike swoosh, outside on the building, so you’d think the entrance was right there. Not. Half a mile down to the other end of the mall. Clean, shiny, beautiful stores. For about 30sec of every 5 minutes I forgot I can’t buy anything. Then remembered. Then forgot again. The clerk was young, friendly, made me a speedy return. Half mile back to the Escape.

    Could have driven home. Instead, turned off at Devil’s Lake. Changed into boots, grabbed my walking stick, started to climb the South Shore rock stairs. Every rock a new negotiation. Unbalanced, sweating. Probably had no business there. BUT I HAD TO FIND OUT! One tiny hike. Favorite place still favorite? Then changed into my swim top, waded into the lake, kept going deeper until my arms found their swim strokes.

    Free shipping: different cost, apartment alone.

  • You Have a Choice

    I took “you have a choice” and did a core dump. Twenty decisions, each broken into what the thing is, how it cascades into other problems, what it costs, and the full range of choices from all to nothing. The exercise revealed something I didn’t expect: choices aren’t priced in just three currencies (money, time, energy). Several are priced in shame or social risk—and those have the longest record of not happening. One row was misfiled under “lazy” for years when the real price was physical pain.
    Food is a constraint, not a choice. I don’t cook. I’m not going to learn to cook. I’m not reading labels to track nutrition and I’m not counting calories for fitness. That’s a permanent constraint, not a choice up for debate. Which means takeout and delivery are the cost. I need help figuring out the most nutritional and economical way to eat without cooking—not another conversation about why I should learn.
    Repeatedly, a convenient door usually costs the most money, the cheap door costs energy that isn’t always there, and the middle doors have a documented record of quietly not happening. Not a character flaw: the actual terrain.
    Medical screenings and dental crowns are part of a different cost evaluation. Delaying or skipping those to free up money for other things risks health problems that potentially cost far more later.
    Tim needs to hear about Pam, my Financial Advisor, a major historical financial choice. A story showing some emotional baggage that bleeds into today.

  • At What Cost

    Defined by crabby, indulging, standoffish. Black and white thinking. Complaining about complaining. Yes and not all wrong. Scavenging for food? May have to do so this week.
     
    Not enough credit for doing more. Maybe the more this time was about hanging on and letting go. And all the more that came next. I did the homework. The result: Netflix gone. Audible paused. Apple Music gone. Apple TV gone. Shutterstock gone. TurboScribe gone. Many comforts that made being alone bearable — gone. These were the monthly cuts I could make. The bigger savings are locked in contracts or annual renewals I can’t touch yet. I have returns that can further help. All the steps to prepare and go, are heavy. Good next steps are stuck in getting there. From the beginning of this financial indulgence, I’ve now scraped out a few hundred; but, at what cost?
     
    Indulging? Sometimes indulgence and truth are the same thing. The debt is real. The cat bite is real. The weight gain is real. The caffeine withdrawal is real. These aren’t invented complaints.
     
    At least my new favorite song was a benefit of Patreon:


    “I’ve been drowning in lonely
    I’ve been grasping for one last breath
    Hoping someone would show me all I am”
    —JHM
     
    Standing on top of the sadness, being loud and grumpy about it, is the only way to keep from crying. Indulgence is perhaps protection. Trying to stay afloat.
     
    I am all alone solving my own sadness. Again.

  • Question 1 – 06-05-2026

    Finance Goals: slash everything, do no activities or health care, buy nothing, refrain from personal care, create no savings in order to pay off high APR credit card as soon as possible. Find at least $200/mo and that debt will be cleared in 22mo.

  • Down the Hall is Not a Walk

    My new smart watch says it is time to take a walk. Tim says the place to start is put on your shoes.

    Wow. I went so far. Grabbed an Amazon package from the front lobby delivery shelves. Checked the mailbox. What is exciting: DMV sent my certificate and sticker, SiriusXM says my trial ends in a few days, package of CBD pain relieving roll-on gel, two Deming Way appointment reminders.

    With the Ranger I played a game. I never put my vehicle sticker on my plates. I could have but I wanted to see if anyone would notice. In ten years only two times I had to do some sort of extra step. Do I want to play that game again? The sticker is a very pretty green.

    I keep meaning to plug in the codes and use Sirius. Just never got around to the act. Of all the times I just sat in the cab, that was a lot of could have time. Is it still worth the final two days of free?

    Colin says all the soccer parents are using CBD on their kids and praise the results. He said it is expensive. I ordered. Arrived. Should I do something stupid so I have some pain?

    In years and years of paper appointment reminders that I opened not a single one BEFORE the date. I’m 100% sure I could toss these two envelopes, but I will tear them open just to be sure. I was wrong. One letter is about <48 hours in the future.

    What is the watch for? Alicia says to track my sleep. I wanted the one with the leather band. I did the relaxation test. 91/100 with lowest heart rate 64. Rigged system. Goes up to wake up the device.

  • Rescue, Rescue Me

    Jared Halley has a new song, “Rescue Me.” Everyone will hear it as a love song to a person. For me, I swap the “you” for a place.

    Rescue is the town in California where I grew up. So with a song title rescue me, before the first verse finishes, I’m already transported back to childhood in El Dorado County. [Age 9-15, 1978]

    I’ve been drowning in loneliness. That part is true now and it was true then. Hoping someone would show me. Except the someone isn’t a person. It’s the foothills, the oak trees, the horses, the dairy goats, the clean straw late at night. With you I feel bulletproof, and the you is riding free across 500 acres on a horse I loved. You’re all I dream about and all I see, which is another way of saying I only look at the good parts and let the rest go dark at the edges.

    There was plenty at the edges. The darkness, the weight, the confusion of a kid who knew something was wrong but didn’t know how to articulate physical and emotional abuse.

    “Come break my shackles, rescue me.” Everything I loved about that place, gathered into one spirit. A ghost made of foothills.

    I used to say Rescue, rescue me to myself as a kid, because I wanted the name of the town to have a power. I don’t think I can describe exactly what I was asking for. It’s too big to pull one thing out of. But it was never a person. It was the place, and the place and that time are gone, and I’m still slipping into prayer at odd quiet moments.