Time To Reinvent Myself Yet Again

Borrowed from Interment.net
I am worse off now than I was one year ago today. No, I didn’t have an eviction on my record, but I will now. I can’t rely on the county to house me, but I can always go back to the Mission. However, both June N. and Kelly M. have relieved themselves of my property, to which I have no place to store it any more.

It’s as if I wish the promises never happened.

June contacted me, and we had a wonderful time together...and she is very pleasant, at times; but she had one reason to contact me: to get rid of my stuff. Well, now I can’t store my stuff and must live on the streets once again. I don’t know if she’ll re-store stuff or not. But I know that I would have been better off if it were in her hands.

Now, all that I own must fit on my saddlebags. And if I loose functionality of my bicycle, I won’t have the tools on hand to repair it.

And I’ve helped no one. All I’ve done is logged my pain and misery. I can’t see past the solution. You can be the most honorable straightforward man, and yet still not make a difference; in your own life or others. I know I’m not going to live long, but I know I have rare knowledge of this disease that can help someone. How many Software Engineers that have developed state-of-the-art anti-virus software have fallen so far as to not constitute a job at fast food? How many? How many people in your life do you know that have fallen so far? Out of them, how many actually picked themselves back up? How many know how to live of the streets? Sleep under a bridge? Disinfect a computer virus? Build a computer from scratch. Develop database software back-ends in Oracle or SQL Server with an ODBC connection to a Java or C++ bridge. Know the difference between a FAT16, FAT32, and NTFS file system and boot tracks, and know how to edit them in hexadecimal.

I stand alone.

Most men like me fail to the tune of methamphetamine. It’s a terrible drug, and one that solves none of their time restraints; although it appears to. No, alcohol calmed me down enough to code.

As for religion, I have none. In this capital city of Saint Paul, Minnesota, finding a sponsor for a former atheist is difficult. I have none. I now do believe in God, but since I haven’t, I’m shunned. So much for new beginnings.

I don’t know what will happen to me, and I don’t know if it makes any difference anymore, but I now know that it does not matter to anyone.


Without Wax,

Dill Bread From Scratch

(Bread photo courtesy of www.freefoto.com.)
Well, after another day of waiting at day labor, applying at local retailers, donating plasma, I decided to treat myself to a little grocery shopping. Believe me, this was hard because the only place I could find yeast and dry milk (in small quantity) was right next to a large discount liquor store; thankfully, they close early. At last, I bought the final ingredients needed to make use of the bread flour June N. gave me: dry milk and yeast. It made all the difference.

All those lame Adkin bread kits I got from the food shelf produced a mass of dough that took three times longer to toast and wasn't light at all. I tried everything to get those Adkin bread loafs to rise in the bread machine, to no avail. I highly recommend against using Adkin bread kits.

With nothing more than a single measuring cup, I measured all the ingredients needed to accomplish the task. In bread making, wet ingredients need to be accurately measured. Using the Internet, I discovered that 2 tablespoons == 1/8 cup. Since the recipe called for 1 cup + 2 tablespoons of 80°F water, I could easily exactly measure 1 - 1/8 cup water, using the bread thermometer for correct yeast temperature. I also discovered two serving spoons that approximated teaspoon and tablespoon dry measuring tools. This is critical for measuring the sugar, salt, dry milk, and dill. The 2 tablespoons of butter was easily measured from the marks on the butter stick wrapper.

I have yet to slice it. The smell woke me up, filling the apartment with the aromatic odor of dill bread. I just now checked on the loaf and it nearly pressed up against the glass lid, which means it had an excellent rise process. It practically fell right out of the baking pan. I placed it on a makeshift cooling rack, put together from parts from the toaster oven. It’s so light; I can’t wait to slice it!

This is a small success in a rather unsuccessful week. I wish I still had my digital camera so I could photograph it.


Without Wax,

No One Called on Eighth Month

Probably because the phone got disconnected today.

Happy Sobriety!


Without Wax,

From Scratch...

I keep asking myself what I will become. I thought I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t. I must reinvent myself all over again, yet I don’t know what I should be. I thought I could be a symbol; show people how to do it, how to become sober. But I failed.

My mistakes have been chronicled. I have neither sponsor nor sponsee. I met the love of my life, June N., and learned how she fell out of love with me. I know now she will never love me again. I can only image why.

The pity party has started. I’ll start going back to meetings nearly every day, but since I’m not religious, I doubt I’ll have much support. See, Saint Paul is a church community. Either you fain religious affiliation, or you are shunned. Yes, in the process of becoming sober, I learned to believe in God, but I am a former atheist. You mention that term to a sponsor in this town and you can kiss you chances of being sponsored good-bye.

I don’t want to sound like a complainer, but I am journaling this for a reason. I failed, and I don’t want anyone else to fail like I did. I want someone to learn from my mistakes. And just to know, just because someone is sober for nearly eight months doesn’t mean he’s succeeded. There is more to sobriety that just staying sober.

When you build yourself up from scratch, you have to remember all the people you’ve hurt along the way. And just to let you know, I never completed my fourth step. I was once at that point where I could trust enough to work through it, but I didn’t. I lost confidence, and trust.

My sponsee-brother, Mark J., wants me to move to Minneapolis with him, but I’m scared. I know Saint Paul so well. I don’t want to leave. I won’t leave. I will find a way, a path to follow; a new path. I just hope it’s the right path, because I’m really friggin’ tired of starting over from scratch.

But, I have something I didn’t have before: my health. My body works. My mind still works. I still have a relationship with the woman I can’t stop loving, June N., and I learned the most important lesson of all: a man’s word is his honor.

Honor is what no man can give you, and none can take away. Honor is a man’s gift to himself. Never worry of the giving of it; it grows in you, and speaks to you; all you need do is listen. Women are the heart of honor. We cherish and protect it in them. You should never mistreat a woman or malign a man, or stand by and watch another do so.

All I know is that I’m thankful that I had a father for the short time that he lived on this Quiet Earth. Friends of mine didn’t even have that luxury. But I learned a lot from this fine man. I learned a direction. He’s a fine man, and I could be too. I still need a little work.

But just let me say this one thing: I’ve had every drug in my body at one time in my life. Alcohol is the most addictive. I kicked all other drugs, but alcohol is the hardest. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not writing this to brag. I just hope my experience will help someone else.

I’ve been alone most of the last days at the new home, and I know I should get out more, but I feel like I should be alone. I don’t know why. Maybe to re-invent myself.


Without Wax,

Thy Will Be Done...

...not mine.

I give myself to thy to do with me as thou wilt. I know no other way. Not knowing my future doesn't really sit well with me. I can't sleep at night any more.

I want to give up, but I don't know how. My father wouldn't have given up, and I don't know how. But fighting for me has never succeeded. I rented this place with no job, barely enough cash to get in the door, and a wing and a prayer. It was too soon, I know, but I had no other place to go; no other move. In this chess game of recovery from scratch, I botched to middle game.

And I’ve been considering bourbon as a friend. Play the tape forward and it only spells disaster.

See, I’ve gotten and lost four jobs since graduating from The House. I thought this last job at the pizza joint would be permanent, but the weather caused a big slow down in business, so I lost hours. It’s nothing I did, but still I feel like I’m spending more time looking for work than actually working.

I’m tired; I’m really tired. I don’t know if June N. is willing to store my property again; she just got rid of it. I have no other place to store it. But I know I’m going to have to live on the streets again until I can earn enough money to rent again, if anyone will allow me to rent again. I will now have a court ordered eviction on my record. No one will ever rent to me again.

No wonder I can’t sleep.


Without Wax,

Eviction

Well, I didn’t make it. The job I had did not have enough hours. I can’t keep up with the bills. My landlord has filed for eviction. Not only that, but I’ve never had an eviction, so now I’ve got that on my record. I’ll never be able to rent again.

To ad insult to serious injury, I used to have friends that stored my property. I have no place to store my stuff. So, I’ll probably loose all my property.

I’m basically screwed. I don’t know where my property will go. I will have to go back to The Mission to live. And I’m worse off now than I was when I started to get sober.

I figure I’ve got two weeks before I’m escorted out of this place I just recently called home.

Without Wax,

Start of My Demise

All is not well.

I did nothing for my seventh month of sobriety. I haven’t been to a meeting in a while. I haven’t really even updated my blog in a while; although I’m working on my next post in my head.

All this started when my digital camera took a dump. Like the time when my laptop failed, I simply opened it up and started looking for the problem. I got as far as you see and started to realize that I may not be able to repair it myself.

It failed when I was plugging in the USB cable in the dark. I didn’t think I had it in properly, so I jiggled it. After that, it never started up again. I think I shorted something out. I’m going to continue working on it, but honestly, I don’t think I can repair it. Maybe a camera repair shop would have more luck, but I can’t afford that right now.

Actually, what halted my repair was that as I was testing voltage on as many leads as I could when I noticed a (relatively large) capacitor. It’s the black cylinder in the upper right corner of the posted picture and is used to store up energy for the flash. On it reads, “350v”! Sure enough, I checked the voltage and it reports 240v, so it’s still charged. Cross those contacts and you could create your own firework display.

It hit me pretty hard, because photography really makes me happy. I do own a 35mm SLR, which I love, but I can’t afford to develop film right now. Maybe it’s enough just to load it with film and shoot when I can.

Any images that you see are either from the Internet, from a camera someone lent me (like the photo in this post, obviously), or archives shot from before my digital camera failed.

So, it’s made me sad, out of balance, and I’ve noticed a lot has changed in my life since. More on that in the next post...


Without Wax,

I Just Saw Crash

I just saw Crash. You know, Crash. Not the old one with Holly Hunter, but the new one that won the Oscar for Best Picture. It’s an amazingly brilliant film that exposes the racial biases we all still share, even after Martin Luther King, Jr. taught us about our America.

If you haven’t seen it, you must; then talk.


Without Wax,

I Asked Darla V.

I did it. I asked Darla V. if she would join me. I know. I know it's wrong and early and all that, but I see something in her that I need.

And I don't feel like dieing anytime soon. I need her help. I don't know what she has to offer, exactly, but she knows me and comforts me.

I don't know guys. I think that she knows what I'm trying to do. She gets pissed when she thinks I'm doing the wrong thing, and says nothing when she things I'm seeing straight.

But I asked.

I'll know soon if she wants to try this with me.

She doesn't know about this blog at all. I stopped telling people personally about this blog.

It's a big step and I need your help. I don't know if I should do it alone anymore, or with her, or whatever.

I don't want to do it alone anymore.

And she bought her a new bum

Wee little tigger buttoms, in the cold.

Tuna Rice 3

In the end, all tasted good.

I know it was cheap, but it was a nice trick.

Night all,


Without Wax,

Tuna Rice 2

Well, it actually worked. Maybe I pioneered a fine way of making a cheap meal.

Without Wax,

Tuna Rice

June B. always told me I was good at rice. I'm making good of the rice I've got left. I just mixed tuna with rice, in cooking. The balance of rice water, oil, meat, and whatever else might accept the moister is the real balance in cooking wonderful rice. I think I did it.

I just did it.

I'll let you all know how it worked out.

Without Wax,