Some will remember that I went dark from the end of January 2008 to the end of March 2008. Many of the same factors are very much in play today. Balticon is no longer the burden it once was, but I am still all too susceptible to the “winds of public opinion” in terms of how I view myself. The additional twist to the situation is that I’ve become painfully aware of how much I try to be somebody, where “somebody” appears to be the embodiment of all the things for some reason I feel that I am not, and therefore it is more desirable to be that somebody than just being myself. The wired world makes it all too easy to fan the flames of all those rampant neuroses, and all too easy to spend all of one’s available free time on such a pursuit.

As I wrote in my post two years ago, “rationing” doesn’t really seem to work for me – that requires more willpower and discipline than I currently appear to be able to muster. For me, hopping on Twitter or responding to an e-mail on a discussion list is like an alcoholic walking into a bar with a wallet full of $100 bills. Just like back then, right now I feel like the only effective way to keep this problem in check is to abstain altogether. I’m not happy about it, because I’ve met some truly incredible people on Twitter in particular, and its been the only way that I communicate with them. But I really don’t see an alternative right now… maybe if I get a better handle on who I am, or just get myself to stop trying to be somebody, I’ll be able to come back to Twitter, etc. without it becoming jet fuel for my hang-ups. And maybe not, I don’t know.

This doesn’t mean I’m disappearing off the face of the planet, or that I don’t want people to contact me. I’m not becoming a monk or a hermit, I’m not deleting my Twitter account or anything like that. I just need to be smart for once and not put myself into situations that I know are going to cause me all sorts of problems that at this point in my life I appear to be ill-equipped to handle.  If something important happens – good, bad or otherwise – I want to know. If you’re coming to town and you want to meet up, I want to know. But for now it’s going to have to be via e-mail, because I can’t just monitor Twitter and not respond – I’ve pretty much proven that much to myself by now.

I will admit that I’m a little scared as I prepare to “walk away”, “take a break”, “go dark”. I’m afraid that in four or five months time I’ll come face to face with my inability to participate in online communities without feeding my neuroses a banquet. I’m afraid that I’ll ome to the realization that life without participating in online communities is actually a much better experience. I’m afraid that I’ll come back, better prepared to work with my hang-ups and less likely to get sucked into the intakes of my neuroses, and no one will care that I’m back – I’ll be old news, a back issue, a footnote. My inner child has been throwing tantrums ever since I seriously started considering this a few weeks ago, and that is perhaps the most compelling reason to “go dark”. If there is one thing that has started to sink in from all this sitting and studying and practicing, its that if I lean into something and experience a great deal of irrational resistance and turmoil, I’ve probably touched on something that needs attention, a rut where my habitual behaviors and reactions are stuck. It doesn’t make those fears any less real in this moment, but it makes my resolve enough to actually go through with what I feel needs to happen at this point in my life.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying dark this time. Two months gave me a chance to breathe, to catch up, but I don’t think I made much in the way of progress with my head trip. So it is conceivable that I could be “dark” for three or four months, perhaps more. I need to focus my efforts on my physical health, my mental and emotional well being, making sense out of my life post-marriage (including taming the chaos of my living space), and deepening my meditation practice and Buddhist studies. All of these things have suffered from neglect while I’ve sat here in front of this computer indulging my hang-ups on Twitter and a few other online communities, and it is no one’s fault but my own. So now I must “pay for my past indulgences” if you will, and step away from the limelight of social networks and the like, in order to not only restore balance in my life but to lay a foundation for being able to work with these kinds of situations without having to so severely withdraw from the fray.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. It may have been morbid curiosity, it may have been a deep sense of caring, it may have been that which causes us to continue to watch a train wreck even when we’re pretty sure it won’t be pretty. Either way, thank you. I hope to see you again online at some point. If you’re going to Balticon this year, I’ll be there in my role of Benevolent Despot of Operations and Security, and hopefully I’ll se you there. I leave you with a senryu that popped into my head yesterday toward’s the end of a day of community sitting practice; it’s content is not terribly original, but since the words were spontaneous they bear recording.

Mind goes wandering.

Lost and uncertain, gives up,

then comes back to rest.

_/!\_ Namaste _/!\_

Metal sings with sparks
Clashing, rebounding, dancing -
arc of fatal light

Tonight’s #haikuchallenge is from OregonMJW, who is one of those folks who has a great deal of creative talent and a big heart whom I have been fortunate to meet through Twitter. Hopefully one day I will get to meet her in person, much like other good people I have encountered online and then had the good fortune to finally meet in person.

OK, enough rambling – the #haikuchallenge is “lost“:

Paw prints in fresh snow
Snow gently warms crystal gems
Marks of passing lost

My original #haikuchallenge tweet here.

Speaking of the header graphic, that’s a cutout of a photo I took while on walkabout in Patterson Park. I need to post photos from that jaunt, but not tonight.

Duck on the Water (cue Deep Purple)

I must admit that I was pretty darned proud of myself for (a) remembering that I needed new underwear while I was in a store where I could make such a purchase (as opposed to being in the produce aisle next to the visual cue of the cucumber bin), and (b) that I had lucked into a truly amazing underwear sale. I like to think of myself as frugal, or at least somewhat thrifty, because self-delusion is, IMNSHO, easier than admitting the all too painful truth revealed by my bank statement.

I am reasonably certain that the fact that I had not only found underwear in my size, but on sale, and at rock bottom prices, combined with my usual obliviousness, lead to my lapse of checking the packs of jockey shorts beyond the price tag and the size. The “Mogwai” brand should have been a warning, or at the very least, a clue. As it was I was just so damned happy to feed my self-delusions about thriftiness that I scooped up five packs of jockey shorts and headed for the check outs.

So, another way in which I am not a stereotypical guy is that I like to wash new clothes before I wear them. Things generally fit better, and I have found that the incident rate for highly irritating rashes in uncomfortable places became greatly reduced by the “wash ‘em first dummy” policy. So I get home from Target (you know, Tar-je`, the lower end cousin of the fine French retailer J.C. Pen-ne`?), dutifully removed my new soon to be close friends from their packaging, tossed them in the washing machine with some detergent, and went upstairs to get something to drink.

Imagine my surprise when I came back downstairs the next morning and found the washing machine practically overflowing with a year’s supply of underwear. I was pretty certain that I’d only bought two week’s worth, but figured that with new packaging technologies you could squeeze the tighty whiteys even tighter and therefore get more in each pack. Needless to say my delusions of frugality swelled even more, as I tossed an armload of underwear into the dryer and went back upstairs to set up my coffee IV.

I have to tell you, I was mighty happy with the Mogwai brand at first – they fit well, they were really soft and kept my dangly bits warm while I was in the computer room. I guess I’d been wearing them for three or four days when the darker nature of my deep discount underwear reared it’s ugly head. Some friends of mine had been talking up the Heat Flash podcast, and so I’d gone over to check it out right before bedtime. Rumors of Ms. Madden’s naughtiness have not been exaggerated, and when I fell asleep I was more than a little “hot and bothered”, which quite likely fueled the next chain of events.

I don’t exactly recall the exact point in the dream involving the lithe nymph and baby oil where things took a turn for the painful, but I do clearly recall the burning sensation in my dangly bits as my underwear attempted to give me an Atomic Wedgie in my sleep. As I said, the “Mogwai” brand should have been a clue, so I really have no one but myself to blame for violating both rules in the midst of my dream date.

You do know the two rules, don’t you?

(1) Keep ‘em dry

(2) Don’t feed ‘em after midnight

Truth be told, I don’t know what was more embarrassing – the ensuing trip to the emergency room (they’ll be talking about Atomic Wedgie Man and the carnivorous jockey shorts for years to come), or the visit from the weird old Chinese guy who shook his head as he delivered the “product recall notice” for my underwear and wouldn’t leave until I turned over every last pair.

So, this is what happens when one is doing battle in the Cave of Clutter, and decides that certain items have been multiplying like rabbits. Especially if one has a mind like mine, which is not simply twisted, but has actually been tied in a Gordian Knot.

So I stood there in the semi-dark, with the parking lot lights giving almost but not quite enough light to see what I was doing and at some point I had to give in to the faith that I could write in spite of the funky orange lighted shade. So here it is.

Kate lost a dear friend this week whom she had never had an opportunity to meet. After hearing from other sources that Mac Tonnies had apparently died alone while no one at his place of work thought to check in on him after three days of absence, I could understand even more why Kate resembled someone who had taken a hard punch to the solar plexus.

If you haven’t “met” Kate (sadly, the soonest I will likely get to meet the Wyoming Muse will be at Balticon 44 in May 2010), you need to check out Suppertime Sonnets and Kate’s Twitter stream.