When I was six I loved to dance. I merrily went off to Art Linkletter's dance school in my black leotard and carrying my vinyl shoe case. I thought I could be the next great ballerina. There is a film of me taken by my father on super8 film earnestly shuffle shuffle step stepping. They were trying to get me to skip steps to fit it on the film. I couldn't, improvisation was not my strong point. It is the only film,or photo for that matter, of me dancing. It all went down hill from there. I took dance until I was 3rd or 4th grade. By then it was obvious I wasn't ever going to be a great dancer.

Jump ahead to the year I was 13. I was at a sleepover with 2 other friends. We were playing some sort of a card game and the loser had to do a dare. I lost, over and over . For my dare I had to dance, which I did willing. I thought I did okay. Later I found out later that other two girls were conspiring to make me lose just so they could laugh at my dancing. That was the end of my dancing for good.

Today I am paralyzed when confronted with the opportunity to dance. I want to dance but I won't even dance in front of my family. I won't take an aerobic class or even use the Wii if there are others in the room. I get frustrated by my cowardliness. This weekend we went to a show in a venue that turned into a disco after 11. Like magic at 11 o'clock the chairs got put away, the music started pounding and streams of young people came in ready to party. I loved all that energy. I knew if I jumped in no one would notice my dancing. No one would care. I watched people dance and I knew I was no worse then some of them. They were having fun. Yet I felt so anxious we had to leave.

I know that what happened in the past does not have to control the now. What is the worse thing that could happen?  So much of myself on the inside is nothing like the face I put to the world. My shyness is a wall. How do I change?

One of my earliest memories is of me squishing my own shit in my feet and hand. I squished it like Play-Doh between my toes.

But I can't remember what age I was. Was I old enough to know better but experimenting anyway? Was I really young but somehow retained an instant of memory of a traumatic happening?
I do equate the act with both wonderment and shame, like a straight guy getting caught with something in his butt while masturbating. Assuming my mom was either surprised or fearful, I bet I was very young and somehow remember it.

Can't imagine doing it again, though. How sick is that? Is that really how we all learned; that we just touched and licked and smelled everything we could? That has to be it, but that is really sick. At least, I think it is.

But we do the same things now, except now we commit disgusting acts that often elicit shame upon each other. Our thoughts betray our actions, and truthfully, we want to get caught. Because we want to learn. Go beyond what we are now.

There's a vibe out there; it's a vibe of uncertainty and frustration. It's a feeling that something isn't right and must be changed.

We don't know into what yet. But we will.

"Have you ever been buttfucked by a fat Mexican dude in a ditch before?!"

This wasn't a dream. I knew my eyes weren't open, I knew that I was laying down and I knew I was awake because I felt queasy and tasted vomit. I don't usually feel queasy in my dreams. Naseous either.

"Have you ever been buttfucked by a Mexican fat dude in a ditch before?!"

Louder this time. Different. I remember that he transposed a word there. But still, not a dream. I still had my eyes closed, was still laying down and still tasted vomit. And…peppermint schnaaps. God, how vile. Minty poison.

Where was I? I was laying on my side, without a pillow, and I could smell something more pungent than my bile. Gas. I was out a gas station, in the back of a friend's car, laying against the seat, trying my hardest not to throw up.

Fear came next. Holy shit, this dude was going to buttfuck and leave me in a ditch, or maybe buttfuck me in a ditch; either way, I didn't want to be buttfucked, ditch or otherwise. I preferred not to be left in a ditch, buttfucked or not.

I suppose I could say I was buttfucked and likely garner a helluva lot more sympathy right now. Does getting buttfucked sell?

Either way, I wasn't buttfucked. Nor did I ever have to worry about it again.

Posted today on the Indulgency Pattern:

We should all just be better people. It feels good over the long run and we all know it.

Self improvement is like exercising, sometimes you have to force yourself to create a habit.

Big companies can't change. They must start anew somewhere else.

That's me. I'm insensitive, narcissistic, thoughtless, unromantic and incapable of leaving my comfort zone. Am I really any of these things? Ask my wife, who reminds me that marriage is work and it's high time I step up. What I do know is, I'm tired. Life has become exhausting. There's work, and then there's the kids, one of whom has an anxiety disorder that borders on bipolar disorder. Yeah, not fun. So on the times when I do make efforts to "step up", they work. And then time passes, I get overwhelmed with work or become complacent at the temporary calm of my relationship or family life, and I slip back to my regular uncaring self - someone who'd much rather eat dinner at home most nights, someone who doesn't particularly like shelling out a chunk of the bank account toward babysitting, someone who's two frequently difficult children exhaust whatever energy is left after a full-day of work. Then I have to remind myself, oh yeah, I have a partner in this who is equally exhausted if not more so, who puts in an amazing amount of effort into being a Mom and wife. Doesn't she deserve more attention? Doesn't she deserve some romance? Do I just not care? Are my priorities out of whack? Or am I really an insensitive asshole? I've been married for over a decade. I've been in therapy for about as long. I do all the things a good father should do. As a husband, I can't decide if I'm mentally slow, completely overwhelmed or just don't fucking get it. Or maybe Popeye said it right all along, "I am what I am, and that's all what I am."

My soul was never for sale, but I can't say the same about my integrity. In fact, the last time she asked me to lie, I hated it. I fumed for hours in my head, cursed the skies and everything about the situation and then told the truth in a way that made something that wasn't true seem less like a lie.

It's not enough to want to stand for something, it requires that you're willing to accept the consequences even when you're right. That's when it really hurts. The brief glory of rightness is almost immediately overwhelmed by the backlash from people who aren't used to hearing the truth.
You just called their baby ugly and there's no take backs.

It is freeing, but the world unprotected with white lies and contextual explanations is dangerous. And it's scary.

And it's the only you'll ever know what it feels like to really succeed.

It's not a matter of choice, it's if you're willing to do what it takes to survive. I live in fear each day of not making enough money to keep me fed because I chose not to pursue a salaried job that paid me regularly.

Because I don't have that tether, I'm better prepared to manage on my own, just like most of those migrant workers who used to work in the fields. They found something they were good at that someone would give them money based on and did it.

We all make choices. The people that thought they were safe, are not. The ones that live with a little healthy fear, are.

And why the hell wouldn't I work in the damn fields? That's damn noble work, helping feed the world. Hard to ever go home feeling bad about that.

And furthermore, if my produce prices went up because farmers started paying their workers better wages and some of those workers turned out to be my friends I would gladly pay the extra knowing it was doing good.

So I guess this all just really blows. I get that you're mad. I know I'd be mad. I'm just pissed that we all believed in something that wasn't completely true and know we're being shown proof.

There was a dream that was Rome, but Rome is gone. I hope you can accept this too.

I'm sorry this had to happen to you.

There was a cool breeze blowing bits of my hair into my face. Normally, I wouldn’t have minded, but at this moment, the last thing I wanted was the irritation of spitting fine strands out of my mouth. My fingers curled tightly around the hand clasped in mine. His hand was warm and calloused, every time I held it, I was reminded of the alarm clock that rang at 4:30am. He worked with his hands, building and renovating old houses. I could feel his strength seeping into me through his grasp. We were lying on the grass, staring up at the campanile. The clock seemed to be moving painfully slow, as we waited for it to toll midnight. Each blade of grass seemed to press into my flesh like a thorough acupuncture session. Even through my shorts and tank top, I could feel the strange little pricks to my skin. I had contemplated slightly more sturdy wear, but it was summer in California, and anything more than shorts and a tank top would have left me gasping and sweat streaming down my spine. I turned my head to face him. His long hair spread out around him like a halo.

“I’m scared.”

He turned to look back at me with an impish grin. “There’s no need.”

But how do you explain to your best friend that the thought of other worlds was a bit much, even though you’d been living with it for your entire life?

But I didn’t have time to formulate my thoughts any more clearly. The clock began to sound. First the ringing song, then the chimes for the hour.

One…

I laughed a little to myself, thinking that now would be a great time to recite some childish nursery rhyme, but by the time that one flew through my mind, we were already at

Four…

And I began to hyperventilate just a little bit. The fog started to swirl up around our feet, covering the base of the campanile, blocking our view until it rang

Seven…

And I began to see lights at the top of the tower – steady, streaming, coloured lights. But wait, there had never been coloured lights before. And was that something perched at the top?

Ten…

Right, that was something at the top, and I could see that the fog that billowed around us was actually smoke from the nostrils of this beast. No. Freaking. Way. I was looking at a dragon. I was utterly gobsmacked. And then as the clock chimed twelve, I saw the gates behind the dragon opening wide, as gravity shifted, the grass disappeared beneath us, and our feet shot downwards to the base of the tower – or should I say drawbridge?

For that is where we now were. The world in which we had lain down had simply shifted. Down was now backwards, and the tower became the ground. I stomped on the surface once, twice to make sure that my feet wouldn’t fly backwards. Derek pulled on my hand from a few steps ahead of me. His skin was already taking on an unearthly glow, and his grin had spread even wider.

“Emmeline, come on! We’re going to be late for the party!”

I sighed, looking down at what I had thought was the campanile, and forward at the quite friendly-looking dragon, shrugged my shoulders , and with a grin we were off.