The Vampire Hunter sips his coffee,

The Vampire Hunter, originally uploaded by use2blost.

waiting to clock in.

I'm having a few problems with low-light HDR imaging. I like the concept. The building isn't...ugly. The problem seems to be the photographer. I'm not pleased with the shadows on the statue and the ghosting on some of the foliage. Would have liked to keep the sky, but go darker on the grass. It's funny. This is a shot with faked HDR processing:


Larger

looks better, huh? discouraging. :(

I'm going to quit smoking.

Again.

I have a proven method. Quitting, though extremely difficult, is really the easiest part. This I think is misunderstood by those lacking firsthand knowledge, and forgotten swiftly by those who sucessfully banish nicotine from their lifestyle for an extended period. I know a hiking trail in the Appalachians that makes an eleven mile circle over remote, rugged terrain (actually if you have a mapping GPS, and you're an overweight, out-of-shape smoker, you will show a covered distance of nearly seventeen miles. Evidently staggering from one side of the trail to another in exhaustion significantly adds to the trip.) If I don't want to have a heart attack, I take three days to walk this loop. It's friggin' torture. Also, for some reason, it is my idea of a good time.

Three days without cigarettes, gives me a significant investment, and then making four, is easier. And then making five is easier. And so on. It is the staying stopped that proves my undoing. My life is littered with smoking people that I love and with whom I interact. About nine or ten days into a stab at quitting, I'll smoke a cigarette. Go figure.

Now, if I haven't had a cigarette in 10 hours, and I smoke a Marlboro, I catch a pleasant euphoria. It is mild, and brief, but Ive been doing this since I was 12. My body recognizes this old friend, and the pleasant associations imprinted in my recall. After a day or two this euphoria is no longer mild. As my system withdraws from nicotine and my tolerance is diminished, this euphoric effect increases in intensity, becoming so over powering it borders on unpleasant... Definitely an acquired taste.

Did you know tobacco was sacred, to Lakota (and possibly other tribes...I wouldn't know.) Indians? It is that potent. An old Indian I know will use tobacco in ritual religious observances. It is a powerful herb. After even a brief abstinence, it is a sledghammer blow of altered consciousness. And I love that. I always have. In any form (It made for an interesting youth).

So cigarettes become vice, with buzz as it's object. (An insidious drug, nicotine. Addiction is not so much about getting high...a chronic smoker like myself smokes to stave off that feeling of need, of badness, of wordless discontent that lurks behind everything in my life. It's always there. Soon, it will make me go outside. In certain company, I will be ashamed. ), It seems I have almost gotten two addictions for the price of one.

I begin to have a cigarette every couple of days. They're AWESOME. Somewhere in between booty and ice cream. If you have one with some good coffee, it moves leftward on the BIC scale. I think about the cigarette I'm gonna have that evening, or whatever. With my 30 year history of smoking, plus the additional conditioning I give myself, with these little nicotine trysts, I am painting myself into a behavioral corner. My psych text calls this a powerful reinforcer, as opposed to the normal kind, which is most every other time it is used in the book.

Of course, a bad day is coming. isn't it? A shit hit the fan day. Life is good, but these days are sprinkled among them. The wisdom of the years is slow coming to the likes of me, but some things do sink in over time. I know these days are inevitable, and five or six cigarettes into one of those Days, and I'm well and goodly hooked all over again.

I am afraid that these things will kill me. I am going to try again, during the fall break. I have tried patches, pills, lozenges, dip, gum. Everything. Nothing has ever given me that three day head start I can get by going for a walk in the woods. And since I'll be alone, I won't have to kill somebody. Cause they breathed.

Here goes...

Corncob Graveyard

Corncob Graveyard, originally uploaded by use2blost.

I don't do much B&W. Possibly I suck at it.
However, as I apply for nursing programs, it will help if I've been able to publish in the school literary magazine. Which is printed in black and white.
Since a lot of literary analysis is crap...

Large On Black

Jim

Gazing Away, originally uploaded by use2blost.

Jim called me last night for a ride. After posting about the cigarette thing, I talked to my IRL buddy, Scott. I also played around between my ears, thinking a little harder about Jim than I have been. I am almost positive he lies a little, and he has a couple of behavioral thingies that stand out. I have some questions about the disability/ physical address issue, and a lot of details in general are sorta foggy. I plan to start paying more strict attention (I mentioned Jim to a guy in my small group about a month ago, but my attendance is spotty when class is in session, and nothing has come of it). Over a few more run-ins, I may develop a little more clarity, about Jim’s life.

So, I drive out to meet Jim, and it’s dark. There is about a half a mile stretch of bad neighborhood that is one of three likely parts of town for Jim to request a rendezvous.

The last time I was here I had the chance to (there’s a whole post in here, but jeez, I’m wore out!) buy some crack. I think it was the eye contact (note to self… don’t be eyeballin’ the crack man!). I meant to speak to Jim about some other options. Evidently I dropped the ball. Jim is nowhere in sight. Damn. I turn around, and make another pass. I’m getting a little grumpy…don’t forget, I’ve been on steroids for a week and I don’t have my glasses.

OK, I wanna mention a few things:

1. At this time, I am in a painter’s van, no question. I got paint-spattered ladders strapped to it, big “SPRAY TECH” sticker on the rear window.
2. Umm…of all the construction trades, with the possible exception of roofers, none is better represented in the general crack-smoking population than painters. FYI most guys don’t get into house painting because they were a smashing success somewhere else.
3. Appearances matter, at 10 pm as you fly through the local crackport waggling your wings for the third consecutive pass.

I can’t believe I didn’t get a chance to buy some crack, this time. I was plenty stressed when I finally spotted Jim through the gloom. I swung in, he threw his bike in the van, and we split. I was still riding the warm fuzzy feeling from Jim’s earlier generosity and I had gotten paid for a small job. I wanted to hook him up, so we Taco Belled and got some smokes, and I gave him a little cash. When I let him out, I may have still been a little agitated. I was agonizing about the whole shower thing and suddenly rediscovered my testicles. I decided to offer him a shower.

He told me he was nervous, no thank you

It was uncomfortable. He probably thinks I’m a homelessguyophile (that's sorta funny, to me...but I'm strange). I have decided regardless, to have greater intentionality trying to impact this guy’s life in a good way.

Oh, and I told him I blogged about him…that was bothering me.

Cadillacs...

Jim's Good Side, originally uploaded by use2blost.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Homeless Jim bought me a pack of Cadillacs today. Caddies, refer to premium cigarettes... Newports, Camels, Marlboros and the like. He pitied me in my affluence. My financial circumstances are stressful by my standards, though Jim probably wouldn’t agree. He smelled bad. He called a little squatting spot a place of his own for a week or two, but somehow he lost it. Jim tells me that social security requires a physical address to send a check. A P.O. box is unacceptable. I think Jim’s progress at obtaining disability income runs into a stone wall, here. This hurdle confounds him. Jim needs a lump sum of 300-400 dollars to get his foot in the door and rent some slum property, but he has no slum to send the check to. Hmmm. Direct deposit comes to mind….
I first met Jim last summer, and he has survived the winter. He truly lives Hand to Mouth. I should mention that Jim is dying, I think. The Hole in his face was my first clue. The cancer distorts the whole side of his head, giving it a caved in appearance. One eye twists askew, peering downward and to the outside, oozing pus perpetually. It’s not pretty, and coupled with the smell, it really cuts down on Jim’s attractiveness as an employee. He employs himself, tackling odd jobs, and sometimes gets ripped off. I’m afraid to let Jim know where I live, and this shames me, a little.

Of course Jim panhandles, which I find strange. Here in Warner Robins, my roots go back over thirty years. Growing up as an Air Force Brat on the Base, I never saw panhandling, and I’m pretty sure I never saw it in town. Twenty years ago I saw panhandlers in Little Five Points, when I ran away to Atlanta after flunking out of college. So, I am not shocked (much), but this takes place 5 blocks from my House. Going out for a stroll can bring me across the trail of a homeless guy before I finish a small Hemmingway. It’s kind of new to me.
Anyway, I am favorable disposed toward panhandlers. God is good, and today a home of my own awaits my evening return, but this was not always the case. I remember leaner times, and usually will contribute a buck or two for the Cause when approached. The first night I met Jim I got an inner nudge, a wordless articulation of compassion for this stranger.
I have this little light inside me, you see. It swirls and it twirls. It flits about, focusing on one thing or another. Sometimes it locks in on something like a pit bull, and explodes with brilliance. It terrified me this night. I think it wanted me to take Jim to my house and let him shower, wash his clothes. Spend the night. Have ten hours as a normal American.

Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what it wanted. Instead, I emptied my change into his hands. I had probably broken a hundred for some gasoline, and a carton of smokes. Some Marlboros.

Cadillacs.

Jim probably cleared 15 bucks, plus my last open pack of cigarettes, and a brand new pack from the fresh carton. Oh, Glory. I lavished these gifts casually with a secret shame at my fear, but this windfall made Jim cry. We both went on our way, after a few words on…theology, and economics. I had a hard time thinking of Jim for a day or two, but I got over it. It seems I can do that for a little while.

So Jim and I have engaged in this dance. I am suspicious and freaked out, and I try to catch him in a lie. He is destitute for the most part, and tries to catch me with a few bucks in my pocket. Jim succeeds more often than I do. He has my phone number, and sometimes calls and asks for a ride, or a little money (I have called my buddy Scott and kept him on the phone while dropping money off to Jim… just in case he cut my throat, or popped a cap in my ass.) The hole in his face has to be stopped up with a paste in order for him to swallow properly, and he can’t enjoy anything like coffee or ice cream. Everything must be lukewarm. I guess it’s very painful otherwise.
I will cough up nine bucks and change for his paste prescription or other medication and occasionally get him something to eat. I will also speak to Jim with irritation, if he calls when studies press upon me, or my wallet is empty. The little light inside me can be eclipsed…by a selfish prick, it seems... but I digress.

Today, Jim and I made eye contact across Watson Boulevard. I made a left, waved and then saw Jim turn in my direction. Damn. Looking in the rearview, I became worried that Jim might be able to triangulate my neighborhood location if I continued, so I made a U- turn and waited. I have no money. My financial aid is a month late, I missed my house payment, the water will be shut off Thursday, and my power on the 14th. I’m holding, though. I got one cigarette, my last one.

You would have to be a lifelong smoker to completely understand. As addictions go, smoking is unique. Cigarettes are legal, and the addictive behavior happens in public, it’s easy to forget the strength it has over you. Until you’re broke. (Imagine trying to kick a cocaine habit if you saw crack every time you stopped for a cup of coffee, or walked by a public building, or picked your kids up from school.) I had been starving the monkey on my back for two days. At this point the occasional cigarette I came across simply whetted my appetite; I existed in a state of constant deprivation, and an underlying feeling of piss-off from the steroids they put me on Saturday.
Jim asked me for a cigarette. I declined, and it hurt. I got frustrated. I was embarrassed. I had never denied Jim a cigarette, so he knew something was up. He reluctantly asked for a ride, I agreed, and we headed up town. Jim listened to me bitch, and took the other half of the cigarette. When we arrived at Jim’s destination, his job had been given to a nephew. Too bad, so sad.

We rode back down Watson Boulevard and Jim directed me into a parking lot. He produced a handful of singles, went inside the store, and bought cigarettes. He bought himself some cheap, shitty cigarettes, and he bought me what I smoke. They cost nearly twice as much. He bought me some Caddies.

He bought me some Marlboros.

Jim is homeless. He and I live in totally different economies. Four dollars and eighty-five cents, for me is merely a more pleasant evening, with my legal drug. I can write my paper, study my psychology, be warm and civil to people I bump up against. I’ll spend the whole night without losing my temper. For Jim, four dollars and eighty-five cents is 6 Checker Burgers on Sunday special. Jim gave up a day of eatin’, and I’m afraid to let him come take a shower....

BTW... Check out Mama's writer's workshop.

...

Little Girls Off the Chain

Little Girls Off the Chain, originally uploaded by use2blost.

I stumbled across this next door...I was slowly re-entering the land of the living. About three weeks ago I gotta toothache, and being uninsured and broke, I ignored it as best I could. By Thursday, I felt umm...really scared. My face was swollen, and I felt indescribably bad/sick all over. I called a guy ( I have a dentist in my bible study- Tuesday mornings at 6:00 a.m. baby! sleep is for wussies!) He told me to take these pills and go home, which I did after my history test at 11 (100 Oh, Yeah!)... and I passed out. I didn't do much but take my antibiotics religiously, and sleep a lot until Sunday afternoon.The high pitched screaming was audible before I opened the door to let the dogs out. When I saw what the girls were doing, I reached back in for my camera. Eventually I quit shooting, thinking that they were getting a little outta hand. It's possible that being photographic subjects encouraged them to jump higher and higher. I remember things, from my own childhood, and remain mildly amazed that more grievous harm (or death!) did not befall me or any of my friends.

Me and My Co-Pilot

me and my co pilot., originally uploaded by use2blost.

I'm beginning to suspect my Girlfriend has a better eye, steadier hands, and more of that mysterious photographer thing, than I do.
But it's still MY camera :).



I had a "snap out of it" experience after a few weeks of being really overwhelmed with domestic catchup, and a dwindling bank account. The school year was approaching, and my ability to generate income is cut by 80% when class is in session. I was stressing exponentially, and this was aggravated by nicotine withdrawal.
The clincher was returning from a camping trip to find a a hundred + pounds of rotten meat in my freezer. Shit. That costs money.(Did you know "Shit" was in the Bible? I told my ex-wife's daughter one time not exclaim "Jesus Christ" but rather to exclaim "Shit", because if Saint Paul can say it, we all can. There was stunned silence and long eye contact as she searched my face for evidence I was... Shitting her. LOL. Now, this didn't bring about a drastic change in her vocabulary, but she started to read her Bible...)
Oops. There went my attention span.
Anyway, I recruited Debbie's grandson, and we hauled my garbage can to the place where all the trucks go... which was a big hit, BTW.
I had to do this. The inexperienced victim would be amazed at how much of their neighborhood is blanketed with the stench of corruption when a hundred pounds of rotting flesh is pushed out to the curb. If I left it there, one of little old ladies that surround me was gonna commit arson. Small girls waiting for the bus would vomit. I had to do something, and I was afraid to go alone. My right hand man Colin, made it clear that he was there for me. I didn't have to deal with this by myself. He was impressed with the effluvia permeating my property. In all of his four-and- a half years, He'd never come across anything like this, and he is an accomplished adventurer.
He always loves to help me "Do a JOB!, Chris" , so we rose to the occasion and handled it like the virile, standard-setting pictures of masculinity that we are, hooking up the trailer and hauling our cargo down to Transwaste where it belonged. Watching my role-model break the heart of the receptionist was so uplifting, I was reluctant to leave his company, and afterward asked if he could help me cut grandma's grass. The answer a man like Colin gives to such a request goes without saying, and after a day of such hard work, we needed to play just as hard to blow off our steam. Drinking was out of the question. Colin is a Man's Man in all other ways, but he simply can't hold his espresso, and I fear the wrath of Grandma. What to do? Colin and I are like barely domesticated wolves, breathtakingly handsome and friendly, but wild at heart and dangerous. Unable to come up with a better idea, we got in the van and began to wander in a southeasterly direction, with the merciless Georgia sun setting behind us, not knowing what we sought.
Great minds think alike, and we both saw the fire station at the same time...OH, YEAH! As soon as we approached, those boys recognized our kindred spirits. They could sense our deep respect for the legendary bravery of their fellowship, and the hospitality they showed to two dirty, smelly, vagabond princes is a permanent notch in the belt of honor shared by emergency responders all over the world.
Fireman Mike rolled out the red carpet, showed us all their stuff,

and even went so far as to induct Colin into the ranks of his brave brothers and sisters, presenting him with the prized talisman, a Red Helmet! (I felt a twinge of envy). Probably nothing was gonna top this, at least this evening, so we said our goodbyes, and returned to our home territory. I dropped Colin off and limped home, nursing an arthritic hip, eager to upload my pictures before bed.

Why...

Do they always give you more antibiotics than they do pain pills? I have a tooth that has been killing me since thursday night, and I took the last two Darvosets about twenty hours ago. I actually had to take my GMC 100 final slightly stoned on opiates... I'll post my score when I get it.

The Tooth Thing, and anything like it, makes me aware (painfuly, lol) that I am one of the uninsured. When this comes up, It's always with mixed feelings.

At 41, I am just beginning to experience medical conditions that would benefit from ongoing management by an actual doctor. So, hand in hand with my self-pity (just a little) I keep the background awareness of millions of people with immediate life-and-death health issues that make my own pale in comparison. But my tooth still hurts. affecting my eating, sleeping, and performance. I wonder how much awareness, on a national level is shunted aside, how much action is not taken, because my "tooth still hurts", because I'm "limping away from the wreckage of my divorce", because the "grief over the unexpected passing of my Father still colors my life"...

the Gross Domestic Product of this country works out to about 45,000 per year for every man woman and child. An ocean away, A life flickers out, every three seconds from poverty, and the lack of clean drinking water.

this morning was a little better,

though I still dont sleep well. I went to the men's breakfast, showed my ass a little, and may possibly have convinced some of them that I am a heretic. Feel in the mood to actually write something today, but I gotta go to work.

compassion

I am so glad this week is over. I felt a constant strain, a pressure to do and speak in a way that would honor my father. In the midst of it, as divorce came over the horizon, the situation with my wife was so confusing, her compassion, and the knowledge that the love one rightfully expects from a spouse was absent, were a source of an explosive cocktail of emotion. I was never comfortable enough to concentrate on my grief. Understanding, rage, disappointment, and bitterness were exhausting me, even now I would do almost anything to be free of them, if only for a little while. Every time she tells me to let her know if I need anything it breaks my heart.

He was so cold

YOU MUST VIEW IT LARGE TO READ IT

 the moisture in an air-conditioned funeral home was condensing on his head. this was because he was not embalmed. My father's wife asked them to hold off on the cremation so that my sister could see him one last time.
A couple of years ago, a man co-ordinating a retreat asked me to teach on the study of scripture. He said the Holy Spirit directed his request. I was sick with anxiety. I had never before felt humbled and greatly honored simultaneously. While researching, I stumbled across another author quoting Philip Yancy's Disappointment With God:

• “Power can do everything but the most important thing: it cannot control love. In a concentration camp, the guards possess almost unlimited power. By applying force, they can make you renounce your God, curse your family, Work without pay, eat human excrement, kill and then bury your closest friend or even your own mother. All this is within their power. Only one thing is not: they cannot force you to love them. This fact may help explain why God sometimes seems shy to use his power. He created us to love him, but his most impressive displays of miracle—the kinds we may secretly long for—do nothing to foster that love.”

When It became clear that I was getting a divorce, I purchased the book and read it in it's entirety. In my emotionally raw state, Phillip's writing struck me powerfully. Possibly a week or ten days after I completed it, I found myself reeling from the death of my father. At this time it feels as though I read it years ago.The divorce papers sit in a kitchen cabinet in my new, beautiful, empty house, unsigned. My to do list has been put on hold, at least until tuesday. Since the tornadoes passed through the Macon state campus, I'm told that this semester will not begin on time. Last month, I could look back on the last six or seven years, and God's hand on my life seemed undeniable. My sight grows dim, My dreams are a joke, and I wonder if I deceived myself. I have journals going back to a time when I wrote prayers to a God whose name I did not know, I know If I could bring myself to read through them, I could trace my path as my Savior drew me to Him, and taught me his name. My faith is in shreds, I am suspicious even when comforted. Seven years Papa. 10 percent of my life. I have followed you, as best I could. My anger grows, I am surprised and fear you. I'm sorry. I have never been more aware of the gulf between souls. I know many suffer greater pain than this. I am so tired in the deepest part of me I yearn for rest. Reassure me of your love. Tell me again that this matters to you.

Denied Prayer

He died. It is likely that after 16 minutes of CPR he would have not been himself if he had recovered. It is hard to sort through my feelings. There is bitter disappointment, lonliness, an inarticulate longing for closeness and love. It is strange. I am loved much, and greatly, by many people, but my inner emptiness resounds within my soul...ebbs and flows, retreating when I feel like another moment would be my undoing. I find another hour has passed. I was a failure as a son and as a man for much of our relationship, but by God's Grace, a bridge had been rebuilt and my father knew many of my regrets, and freely forgave me.
I harbor no resentment at the Ancient Of Days, He administers the universe as he sees fit, and some time ago I surrendered, and said "let Him do to me as seems good to Him". I may complain, question, even wallow in childish petulance, but I know I have no where else to turn. When things were inconvenient, and difficult to understand Peter said "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life"

thinking to much

The mystical prescence of the holy spirit is supposed to lead me to understanding,and knowledge? love builds up but knowledge puffs up? Where do denial and delusions of grandeur fit into the picture, and how do I distinguish them from faith? It seems there is a difference between faith of the heart and faith in action, though to be sure either can stimulate the other. Papa, men who witnessed the raising of the dead and heard your audible voice abandoned your son, and even apostolic power was no cure for hypocrisy. What hope is there for me? and why is this life considered by so many to be a vital leg in the process of conformity to Christ when all observation shows us that the human resemblance to Christ's Character is fleeting and infinitesimal? Or is it? lol. we see things that we admire in others often and your word teaches us that our own righteousness is laughable to you. perhaps the perspective to have is a (as far as humanly possible) constant awareness of the need for repentance and and a grateful acceptance of the perpetually renewed clean slate? How many questions is too many? Is there no end to your paradox?
If you want us to know you, could you have not made us smarter?