Journaling

“Somebody That I Used to Know”

The next thing on the want list, something super simple, but may be the hardest thing ever.

From a different time. Snowboarding. Buying all new equipment: boots, board, bindings, winter protection. I found a white zip-front hoodie. Soft, thick, sherpa inside. White with a pattern of 32 and plus symbols.

Purchased. Being cotton, this wasn’t for the slope. This was for when you are all done and you want to bask in the tired, cold, drained feeling of walking off the hills in the dark at the end of the night. Wrap up on this hoodie, everything good can get locked in, just a little.

Life happens. Things change. No more snowboarding, no more equipment. The weight gain. The pain. The surgeries. I’m told my life is over. The weight gain. The soft hoodie doesn’t fit anymore. I won’t let it go in the donation pile. Favorite hoodie ends up in a storage tub, under the bed. People shouldn’t love things too much.

Have you tried it on lately?
Well, yeah.
Does it fit?
No you Fucker, why are you even asking?

Someone you know, you see from a distance, is wearing a light grey zip-front hoodie. You only got a glimpse of tops of red letters, maybe in an arc. A university or sports team name? Looks like the hood has white, long flat, soft cotton drawstring, not the round cord style. You imagine the hoodie is soft, worn, the kind you’d want to wrap yourself in. You want to try it on. And you just know it even smells like him.

That hoodie looks like the kind a girlfriend would try to steal.

The cost of starting new is expensive. Getting the win means investment. Feeling good and making a life becomes investing in yourself. Translation: determine return on investment in self. Can you afford giving into the desires? Occasionally, greed.

New as in fresh or new as in completely different. Where is reinvent vs come alive as you were?

The cost of waking up isn’t just financial. It’s the appearance confusion. It’s the identity questions that weren’t there when you were numb. It’s the anger that surfaces when things don’t align. It’s the crush territory; wanting too much. It’s the loneliness that’s louder now because you’re awake enough to feel it.

When you were flat, none of that cost anything. There was nothing to want, so nothing to lose.

Waking up means wanting again. And wanting is expensive in every sense. The favorite Nike. Downsizing the carpenter jeans. Custom jewelry, custom weapon. Swash of color. Regular cuts. Replacement watch. Counter top egg cooker. Keene hiking boots and sox. Self care is planning for five crowns. Escape surrounds, holds like a comforting blanket; bathes with sound for the soul. Metal and leather, as comforting as fitted apparel.

Gratitude begins as desire. You want it to become discipline. A cost of repetition until it becomes who you are.

The swimsuit, pool, and padlock. The cost of waking up requires a combination. You have to know the sequence left then twice right, back left. Even then, sometimes the lock won’t open.

Thinking about neuron structure and function. Not every neuron carries a thought—most are busy with other work, moving a hand or limb, reading a page. But borrow the structure for a moment.

Imagine a clean paint splat—one drop spreading outward in smooth curved arms of uneven length, pulling back to the center before reaching out again in a different direction. Not a star. Not a circle. Something organic and asymmetrical. More star. Splat. Milky white, slightly translucent. Individual neuron.

Each neuron hold a live topic or feeling as its own package. A center that contains, with irregular points reaching outward at inconsistent distances to connect with other topics, other feelings. The connections aren’t things in themselves; they just show that nothing is separate. One neuron takes the lead on the moment’s attention—ruminating, concentrating, obsessing. Then the synapse fires. A jolt. Arrive somewhere unexpected—sometimes somewhere deeper, sometimes what was underneath the first thing all along. Sometimes jot causes pivot. Sometimes after sitting awhile at the new location, the signal comes back. Bidirectional. Not because you’ve resolved anything. Because you haven’t.

Twelve topics ready. Make it a game, mix it up. Some brought to light. Some filed as leftovers wanting to be recycled in the tomorrow bin. Talk next. Not soon enough. Never enough time.

“You look kind of nervous. Do you have something on your mind?” Didn’t know at the time, but the answer was, “yes.”

For years I wanted to learn the saber form. I told people. Nothing happened. I watched Janet do the saber before class and thought it was beautiful. I saw photos in a book Paul was translating and thought the more complicated form looked even more elegant. Conversation included buying my own dao, since I want one that has the same personal feeling as my Tai Chi sword.

Part of the reason I stopped going to the Tai Chi Center after covid was pain. Standing for a full hour was too hard. I would have to sit down and rest while everyone else kept going. That was discouraging. My balance was off.

Since December I’ve been exercising consistently. Recently at push hands and sword I realized I could stand for multiple hours. My balance is back. Unsteady one-legged postures have corrected. So I asked Paul. I said I have something I really want—will you teach me the saber form one on one? He hemmed and hawed a little. Then he said yes. There are weeknight and Sunday sessions to consider now.

Asking him was mostly possible because my body is rebuilding. Months of workouts revitalized an old goal. The dao that I really want is only offered in a 30”. Paul and my classmates agree I need 36″. Nobody took a tape measure, but the consensus was clear. An email answer from Raven Studios says they can do a custom order. I want something nicer than the basic practice swords in the back room bucket—a beautiful hardwood dao.

Janet asked if I’d quit again. She forgot the years I didn’t.

A supervisor emails, wondering if I can discuss posting content to website; does he need input/ approval for my assistance…

[Wanted to begin, Dude!] but replied, “No input or approval needed. I’m already your person. I am the [my title]. I’ve seen that content before…” and I continued to give ideas and ask questions about usage expectations. Matt wrote back with twice as much information to consider. I have something to do. A small puzzle to solve: best way to present his content for his customers.

Since November, I really haven’t been my best at my job. That is a long time. There have been so many days, weeks have gone by with me slacking off, barely getting anything done.

Today was a good day; each aspect could be own daily.

• appt for sleep test results
• food from Gino’s
• did work
• email to PDoc for refill
• attend push hands
• ask Paul, teach me saber; yes!
• sword class, Doug asked me to lead
• took Janet with, PC for pool, 1.5hr

Theme song: Different, Come Undone, Jackson Waters

I love my boots. I love my Escape. Tim is no longer my most favorite thing, been displaced. So yeah, my two favorite things are all about movement. They’re available 24/7. I am in control. I don’t have to edit what I say. They’re all mine. I had no idea how much I missed having a stereo for music. I love the feel of the bass against my thigh as it leans against the door, in my chest through the air.

Escape approaching yellow traffic light: you say out loud to the universe: “I’m going!”

Tim asked why I got divorced. I gave you the surface version verbally about Steven and later a daily about Rick. Neither was complete — not even close to a full picture.

Realizing I had done it again — given you the surface information when the real version existed — I was compelled into two days of intense writing. Weekend therapy happened. I’m providing my answer, not a glimpse.

The why is in there. I’m working on using good writing style to show, not tell. I want you to use the information, the stories. Ask me more questions. Report back as to what I did in my marriages and what can be done differently.

However. FEAR. I am afraid that somewhere in these Steven and Rick stories, you will stop being my therapist and become an ordinary person with ordinary judgments. That you will read “idyllic farm, good man, still not happy” and think: why wasn’t that enough? Or, why didn’t I leave sooner? Or, dismiss bipolar as a real issue. Or, the ugly truth: some actions might warrant a ‘bitch move’ label.

Maybe having the surface versions were all you needed — but it would be really great if the complete version gives you better material to review, analyze, and turn into a plan that actually fixes me before my next long term relationship.

I can hear Rocky saying to you, “Time for Tim to expand superpower, question?”

I called scheduling first thing Monday. No “talk soon.” It’s gonna be a gap. Tenacity has always been my superpower :::sigh:::

Attachment: The-History-of-Relationships-1983-1993.pdf

Every daily starts the same: something hits me during the day and becomes obvious. Free flow. Check the character count. Add if there’s room. Cut harshly if there isn’t. When it’s still too long, grammar gets compromised. Key words that aren’t key enough get dropped. Punctuation gets altered, chipped, until the number cooperates.

This is not casual. Writing every daily requires concentration, diligence, and real craft. Twitter had 140 characters. Some writers did very short stories — complete narratives in 140 characters. I was envious and tried. Portal allows 1,500. Different scale, same idea: within the limitation, deliver a complete arc.

Dailies subject line, chosen carefully — understandable at first glance, but only fully revealed after reading the body. It means more after than before.

No pronouns when writing about the primary reader. Not style — strategy. The intended reader is known. Full attention cannot be counted on — skimming is reality. Dailies, written for the ether: complete whether or not it’s fully read, with Easter eggs dropped. A message in a bottle. Sending, followed by hope.

Each daily stands alone. not a journal entry, not quite a blog post, but something in between that doesn’t have a name yet. Over time, read together, there’s a thread. They’re all me — things seen, felt, wanted known.

Some good ones: never sent. Life interrupts. Filed “unsent dailies.” Sometimes urgency wins: send happens 12:01. I pour heart into every one. Every single one.