I was not sure I would ever see Pepe (the wolf spider) again. Felipés are all over the place. All sizes. Oh, Felipé is the name of all frogs in my garden, I should’ve explained that at the start.
And we’re back to negotiating about guns. WTF? I guess that’s my MO. I’m at about 5 wtfs an hour. I’ve been higher. I want to clean up my own behaviors. I can’t count on anyone else. Not even God has agency over my own thoughts and actions. Not my addictions, not my past traumas, not my spiritual awakenings, I am solely responsible for my own actions and words. What I say to my son could affect his journey. Duh.
What I’m not saying to my son can also affect his growth. We appear to be in the need of a high-growth period of life, both of us. I am learning to let him flounder and lie. He is learning that having things requires earning money. It’s not a hard formula to understand, even for a college near-graduate. Nice car? Job. Girlfriend? Stable job, stable life, or risk chaos.
I’m also in a learning period. Even as my happiness is busting over into my normal everyday life, I am concerned about money. I can’t blame it on my son. I can’t blame it on my mom or my dad. I only blame myself. And my ex-wife. Well, to be honest, my first two ex-wives. But the $80k the first one extorted from me would not be all that interesting. Now, if I’d invested that money in Dell stock and held it. But we all have stories like that, right?
As I water the garden today a mama Filipé arrives with some frustrated looks at me for causing the rainstorm. Love it. Hate it. Need it. Kind of like love. I want it. I don’t need it. Okay, I’m talking about my girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend. It was a clean break. A clean three-year experience of joy, love, and safety.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a securely attached relationship in my adult life. That would mean my only real “attachment” was my favorite sister. But she exited this timeline when she was 32. That would be forty years ago, if I do the math for you. Making me 22.
Tricky 22.
Pepe was the surprise appearance this morning during the stormy period. He’s moved from Recycle bin to front left corner of my house (from the viewers perspective, not residents of the house). We didn’t talk much. I sang him a little hello song.
hello pepe – so happy this morning
to see you – to see me – to be alone
rains are coming even if you can’t see them
and here is the morning of the rest of time
I’m not big into rhyming. At least not in my poetry. Songs, probably more so. Not sure about that one. It was just for Pepe. I can’t see him from the red rainbow trout comfy chair. I can’t see the hummingbird feeder either. I do have the new glass front door, however, giving me a magical view of my new ornamental grasses in pots. (I’ll share a picture.)
All this to say…
Another morning, another epiphany with no basis in fact. “Have I gone mad?” I say out loud twenty times a day. Much more frequently than, “What the actual fuck?” I’m not sure these are reassuring mantras. Perhaps more is out of balance than I imagine.
In my internal narrative I am self-actualising. All this writing has me thinking crazy thoughts. Has me forgetting about earning money. Same issue with my son, different cause.
I’m going to pin that failure on my ex-wife. She set all this bullshit in motion and she knows it. Dawning on her, over the seven months of chase and capture, she has seen me to be the reliable and stable one. We both knew she was neurotic. I didn’t want to lawyer up and sue for equal custody. Might have been a huge point of failure, when my life flashes before my eyes.
The D was bad enough. After I absorbed her bullshit about me being the reason she was unhappy, I moved along with my life as best I could, under the circumstances. I suppose we all did. She, however, continued(s) to take potshots at me. Why would you incite unrest between your kids and their other parent? Why would you try to harm their father?
Unresolved anger. That’s the only answer I have for it. My girlfriend (now ex) suffers from a similar malady. Or was it sad? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. The mad is usually covering up the sad. Girlfriend was sad. Ex-wife was/is mad (both definitions).
What’s the point of all of this?
Learning my lessons? Trying to navigate the future and my next romantic relationship? Or my resolution to become a monk. Not like a go-away to an ashram monk, more like a homebody.
Okay, that’s not true. I have a lot of social interactions. Yesterday I played tennis with two lovely women and a Porsche-driving dude named Ammad. The ladies were 31 and 35. Single and married. We do a cardio tennis workout on M-W-F at noon, even in this Texas bullshit heat. The court temps can reach 110 degrees Fahrenheit. I remember when I was with the hippie mom, she found some shoe inserts that were supposed to use NASA(tm) materials to keep the heat of the court from heating your actual foot. They were bullshit. I’m sure the heat barrier worked fine on the rockets and recovery vehicles, but they didn’t do shit for her poor feet.
I ate seven squares of this Hershey’s milk chocolate bar I was saving to make magic mushroom squares. So far: mushroom infusion = 0, chocolate consumption = holy shit this stuff is good. I’m working on my intake. I’d like to be more attractive to the single women on the tennis court. NO! Not the 31 yo. Come on! Not her.
Playing tennis a lot I think about what I am looking for in a next relationship. To be clear: I’m closing out 2024 as a single dad. But, I think about it. And watching all of us running around, sweating, and playing “Touch the Fence” gives me a lot of time to contemplate my own fitness and age. I’m ambitious. Less ice cream. Zero alcohol. Well, except for yesterday afternoon. Did you know I have an IPA in my refrigerator with three times the normal ABV (alcohol by volume). That’s how I drink beer, to get high. I understand the 0.0 beer concept, but who would drink this shit for taste? Srsly!
Alcohol has been easy for me. I don’t crave it. My dad knocked the snot out of that euphoric pathway. Besides, alcohol is a depressant. Oh, and it’s poison. Yep, the alcohol in booze is a poison. The buzz is your body trying to adjust and expunge the intoxicants. I prefer intoxicants that are less destructive. Any intoxicant is suspect.
Tennis is an intoxicant for me. Not even just about the young women or tennis skirts. Nope, I’m an equal-opportunity tennis player. But, one of the things the scientists discovered about longevity: positive community. That’s a big factor in how long you will live. The community of tennis players, tennis fanatics, tennis babes and boys, is wide *and* deep.
I’ve been playing since I was like 10 or 8. My dad was a competitive tennis player. So competitive he wouldn’t play with me or my mom at the fancy country club on the lake. He was always working on his serve. And we didn’t really help. Even just fetching balls was disallowed. My dad played tennis with other men. His first heart attack came as he was playing in the finals of a different country club’s championship tournament. This place was super exclusive and expensive. Just four tennis courts, no golf, a swimming pool and a massive Easter Egg Fiesta. Exclusively for generational wealth babies in Tarrytown. That’s the old-money Austin neighborhood where I grew up.
When we moved to the aspirational lake house my life would come unraveled much quicker than you might have expected. I mean, given my dad was a enamored with scotch to an unhealthy extent. I am not. Still. I mean, the IPAs in my house aren’t tasty. They don’t call my name like a pint of Mint Chocolate Chip. I don’t keep ice cream around. Beer? Who cares?
Pepe has been missing for several days. Just gone. I was happy to see him, hence the song. I don’t think it’s one of my best. I couldn’t tell if the spider was smiling. He did acknowledge my torch of water by jumping higher up on his web when I splashed by. “Oh, hi Pepe!” I delighted.
My life is not difficult. My son’s life is a bit more complex. He’d tell you right now that it’s his own fault. He complains “I don’t have a car” and it’s all I can do to keep from saying, “Why is that?” I keep quiet. I don’t know how much longer my “friendly” approach is going to hold up. He’s not making progress. We’re doing a lot to surround him with healthy people and healthier habits. He’s not getting with the program.
“All these old white guys sitting in a circle talking about God and how they try to stay alive by not drinking.” This is my son’s description of a 12-step meeting. “I’m not an alcoholic,” he says. “And I don’t buy the God thing at all. Just not me.”
The disconnection is clear. I guess that’s why he escaped his last rehab a week early “without media leave.” I guess the good news is he felt safe enough (desperate enough) to come to my house for shelter. Not much else. He’d like me to just die and give him the money and the house.
“Um, it’s not about some Christian idea of God that you’re got to get in touch with.”
“Yeah, higher power, still, not buying it.”
“Well, that’s limiting.” I think for a minute. I try and pause and slow things down. “You do understand how you are not alone in all this?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“If you can imagine Nana in heaven, can you imagine how she’d be looking down on your fondly, trying to help? I mean, if that’s your concept of god, ‘grandma in the sky,’ that’s good enough. That’s all you need. A crack in your angry and isolated facade.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s more about asking for help. Doesn’t really matter what ‘god’ you ask. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“Can you understand that you need help?”
“Well, money and stuff, yeah.”
In this morning I lift up my hands to the ‘god of my choosing’ and ask for deliverance. Mine. My son’s is up to him. I’ve given all the guidance, love, and money I can. It’s time to let him go. Give up the ‘qualifier’ in my life and get on with my actions. Taking action is an antidote to isolation and despair.
I don’t think my son understands this yet. He’s still fighting against having his first job.
“I asked him yesterday if he’s ever had a job, for like three months, where he had to show up and do something he didn’t really love doing?”
He hasn’t.
He will.
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