Goodbye 2009 or Hello 2010

Today, after the snow had fallen, and after I'd delivered the papers, I met with Bailey, and together, we went to chess club.

My spiritual advisor, Rick, tells me that 2010 is going to be a great year for me--my stars are all align, my ruling planet is on the horizon--and despite my dreary outlook, Rick assures me that everything will be fine and adds that I'm lacking vitamin D.

2010. Wow. I can't believe it's already here. I'm not one to make resolutions, but I guess I'm ready for anything, especially friendship and love. Before I went to prison, I had both these things, and I took them for granted. Now that I've been released, I have to admit, I'm lonely. Sure Stella and Warden keep me company, but it's not the same. Butter keeps me happy, but butter doesn't talk to me, doesn't tell me how it's feeling, or what it's thinking. Butter is butter. I enjoy making it and then consuming it with bread or crackers or even on a warm muffin.

Bailey's a great kid. Sometimes, I think we could be friends. But I guess I'm scared of friendship after what happened 20 years ago. Dad always used to say that friends always let you down. Family first, he'd say. But my closest friendships have meant so much to me. Shoot, my best friend knew some things about me that I'd never tell my family. Ever. Family is one thing. Friendships are another.

I finally beat Bailey in chess. I even gave him a second chance, but he laughed and said, "Good game Curt."

This is where it ends. A handshake, a few words, and then I fold up like a metal lawn chair and say goodbye. Maybe in 2010, I'll ask if Bailey wants to hang out and make...butter, or even butter, get a drink and watch a game somewhere.

Happy New Years!

a visit.

My apologies for yesterday's post. I'm not sure what I was trying to say.

I drank six cans of Pepsi this morning, and went to visit my maternal grandfather at his farmhouse, about an hour north of here. He used to be a dairy farmer, still lives in the house my mom grew up in, but leases the land now. The first time I made butter was a long time ago with Mom and Pappy, with milk as fresh as it comes--one of my first memories. Just plain, salted butter, but man was it delicious!

Pappy never visited me while I was in prison. He never seemed angry with me, but there was no denying his disappointment. Things are still terribly awkward between us most of the time. Mom was a bridge, I guess. Just another reason to miss her.

Grandpa, in spite of everything, seems content, and we had a nice visit this time. A full life lived, few regrets. I told him about what's going on in my life, and he listened. He understands where I am now, I think, maybe more than I do. He said: "People say things get better. You work hard, eventually you'll get your house paid, get you kids out on there own, life gets better, things gets easier. It's not true. By the time you're out from under your mortgage, you're too tired to do anything. And your body starts falling apart. Get the mortgage paid, have open heart surgery. Back stops hurting, your kidney fails. The way I see it, if you have something you want to do, do it now, while you're young. Probably won't get a chance to do it later."

Wonder if he's been reading Schopenhauer.

Lying

It was terribly cold this morning. I went to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients to make a new butter--peppermint butter. Even the scarf, wrapped around my head, could not keep me warm.

The peppermint butter turned out okay. I had trouble finding something to pair it with, but settled on a rye chocolate raisin bread.

On my walk to the store, a woman asked me for change and I ignored her. I always feel uncomfortable when this happens. What am I supposed to do? I walked a different route on my way back, but there she was, waiting, her hands out in front of her. She asked me if I had any change, and I said no, sorry.

The chocolate raisin butter had a strange texture, and all I could find to slather it onto was a peppermint gingerbread cookie. But in the end, it was worth the trip.

On my walk to the store a woman with a silver hair growing from her chin asked me for change and I gave her a quarter. She thanked me. On my walk back, there she was, waiting, her hands out in front of her. She asked me if I had any change and I ignored her. I always feel uncomfortable when this happens. What am I supposed to do?

It was cold this morning. But the scarf my sister knit, kept me warm.

After I made the butter, I read some Dostoevsky. Ever since I've come home from prison, I've been doing a lot of reading. Guy's on vacation. He's gone to Miami to celebrate the New Year.

On my walk to the store, I stopped and gave a woman a dollar. She asked me why and I told her that I wanted to give her a dollar. She wouldn't accept my dollar. I wanted to know more about this woman and her silver hair growing from her chin. I could tell that I'd made her uncomfortable.

Dostoevsky writes:

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."

I wonder if this has happened to someone who's met me, before we've even exchanged greetings.

What does one think about Curt Jimenez before knowing Curt Jimenez?

What do I even think about myself?

This blog is a huge step for me, and that's the truth.

I did go to the grocery store. I did bump into a woman. I did make butter. But what do these things mean? Tell me, from these facts, how I feel?

I am happy.

All is vanity.

It looks like I'm going to hit rock bottom emotionally, so hopefully there is nowhere to go but up in 2010.

I like that painting. It's by a guy named Caspar David Friedrich. He was German. I took an art history class while I was locked up, and I really was struck by his stuff. Most painters before him painted people as the primary subjects of their work, or beautiful scenes in nature. He took nature, painted it at its most violent, and stuck something human in the frame being subdued by nature, not the other way around. It was a humble statement, considering how European elites were going about their business at the time.

When I feel really, really depressed, I read Ecclesiastes. King James'. It cheers me up: "For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again"



This painting was by an American, Ivan Albright. Is it a coffin, or a door?

He painted self portraits of his body decaying as he grew older and eventually died.

Winter. Blah.

This Post was Inspired by Carole Maso

Sometimes, it's difficult to post on the blog.

It means so much. Every word must count.

Trim the fat.

No more waste.

There is too much to write about because there are too many words.

But the only word I know that must be written is:

Today.

Today--

I did not make butter and

Today--

I tried to solve a problem. Maybe it was a mystery.

Mysteries are mysteries because they haven't been solved.

I did not solve the problem.

It is a mystery.

But a mystery is a mystery because there is a chance.

Solved.

What was meant by Unsolved Mysteries?

In the back seat of Guy's car, there was wrapping paper.

I wanted to wrap my fist in it and unwrap my fist and say: You shouldn't have!

I tried calling Dad, but he didn't answer.

Stella and Warden saw something that I couldn't and started barking.

They wouldn't stop.

Or maybe, that was a dream I had on Christmas night.

The bed seemed unusually hard.

I was thinking about words.

Then, they meant nothing.

I wanted a glass of water.

But glass and water meant nothing.

My sister called.

She is worried about me.

She says I don't care about anything anymore.

She says I'm quiet. She says I should get my haircut.

I eat ice cream instead.

Sometimes, before the day even starts.

You know that it'll be a good day or a bad day or just another day.

All are tragedies.

A good day is a good day because most days aren't. A good day ends with bitterness.

A bad day is a bad day because of the heart.

Just another day means that you've given up.

Giving up is not quite failing. It's a compromise.

Compromising means your scared.

Fear is necessary.

What I'm trying to say.

Something's happening.

Always.

It is always hard to make out your face in a crowd.

You walk past yourself.

You think: I've seen that person somewhere before. On the news?

At least once in your life, you've walked past a mirror and stopped and really took yourself in, and staring into your own eyes, you've become scared.

oi!

I don't hate the holidays. It's such a funny feeling I get--so many good things, but so many bad things, the emotions all swirling around inside at the same time. Part of me dreads it, part of me wants it to be here as soon as November hits. I want to be around family right now, but I want it to be family I want to be around. And I guess that family doesn't exist.
This Christmas, I hate. I want it to be over.

Polish

I visited Dad and my sister today. Dad was silent, but he's always been very quiet. My sister wouldn't stop talking about her new phone. She kept taking pictures with it, all the time, claiming that she liked taking candid shots best. It was the first Christmas that I spent with Dad and my sister since being released from prison. I thought they would have questions, but they didn't ask how I was doing or what I was doing. It was strange. I guess it was kind of a relief though. How would I explain to them my passion for butter? They wouldn't understand. Dad would shake his head, my sister would take a picture of Dad shaking his head.

After the ham and green beans and baked potatoes, we looked at old family photographs. I miss Mom. I didn't get to attend her funeral and I asked my sister where she was buried, and she told me that she'd been cremated. When I asked where her ashes were, my sister didn't say anything but looked at Dad, who remained quiet.

When Dad finally did speak, he told me that I needed ambition, that he was tired of seeing me making no progress. I got angry because I am making progress! He just doesn't see it!

I left early, because the weather was supposed to get ugly, and watched Mythbusters. There's a saying that Guy always brings up: You can't polish a turd. He says this all the time!

On this episode of Mythbusters, this farcical idiom was tested and was...BUSTED.

http://dsc.discovery.com/videos/mythbusters-polishing-a-turd.html

Merry Christmas!