Doctor Charlie and Mister Chuck

There’s a notion that our secrets only have power over us when they live in our shadows. Deny them and you empower them. Bring them into the light and they can fade away. I’ve given thought onto  this, and how reluctant I have been to share with all but a few of you closest friends and associates; usually due to necessity of given moments. But I don’t want to turn this into anything more than it is; to give it power it does not deserve. And, if I’m going to move forward in my own age of personal greatness I need to let go of this crippling anchor.

But, first, a touch of background; my grandmother was nuts.

I guess it needs more than that.

My grandmother believed that a hundred thousand million things were wrong with her, for which she pestered and pestered until she was on handfuls of medications. Some she actually needed. Some, even to this day I’m convinced, she most certainly didn’t. But overall, though I loved her very much, she was plagued by this issue; her own hypochondria.

This, in itself, isn’t much a thing, no. But at some point, under her watchful scrutiny, she decided to place this notion squarely onto me. Growing up I received from her an attention I did not want under the burden of first born grandson; something both my grandparents pushed on to me, but her more so than grandpa. It’s actually why we fractured so badly as I got older and asserted my own oneness against their predeterminations. 

At some point my grandmother started to see me as weak; as sickly. I imagine, since I had some

health issues as a child, that this might be considered typical. However, despite my best attempts to be a normal little boy, and later a healthy teenager (To which I was never really either, I suppose.), she would not only hang tightly to the idea of the helpless Charlie, but would see it worsen, despite the very opposite to be true.

For me her obsessive behavior about her health, and mine, would visibly escalate as I got older into something unfortunate, something compulsive, something sick. In me it fostered a fear of medicine to such a degree that Aspirin was only reached for if I had a gaping hole from which blood poured out. It was not the fear of being ill, or even getting older; it was the fear of being decrepit, as I saw a living corpse consumed by chemicals and a variety of debilitating hang ups.

This has stayed with me all through the years, especially after her passing, when there were dozens and dozens of pill bottles worth of medicine that had to be tossed out. She had a veritable pharmacy in her cupboard. And through all that time – the first inklings that something was wrong until her dying day, and beyond – I swore that that would never, ever, be me.

And then June 1st, 2014. Now my mornings include this ritual…

It’s been hard to have to be shackled to my little silver tube. I load it up every day with a dose in the morning, and a booster in the evening; which is only two extra pills. As I jokingly say to those who get to witness this act; “well, okay; now my heart won’t explode in the next twelve hours.” It never gets the look I hope for when I say it, though.

The reality is that, no; my heart won’t “explode”. What this combination of pills does is regulate blood pressure, heart rate, and manage some of the pain that incurs through the day due to the damage my heart sustained from the radiation. I’m not dependent on these pills to stay alive, but if I want to avoid another heart failure - disarm the ticking time bomb in my chest, and live as long and as productively happy as possible, then I have to take them. I’m sitting on a bit of surgery that will deal with some of the damage, and even make one of these pills unnecessary, until I can square away the costs and recovery time. All the while I am actually making a gradual recovery on my own. Barring any unforeseen medical breakthrough, of course.

It’s been almost twenty one months – just shy of two years – and I’m still having trouble coming to terms with my situation. I mean, I know it’s not THAT bad. For instance, and with no disrespect to friends or my cousin, I don’t have an insulin pump stuck to my side, for example. And I’m now able to accomplish feats that most folks with my condition no longer can do more for than to wish they still could. (Even if it’s still just so much, and not full throttle.)

And, of course, there’s the whole sense of pride knowing I’m surviving the after effects of radiation that would have killed most shortly after initial exposure; which should totally by a thing of pride, I suppose. And I do, trust me. But when you’ve built a reputation of being the true-to-life mutant X-man, well, any slowdown is hard to take for the old ego.  

I’m trying to learn to accept this, to own it, and to make it my little bitch. I know it can be beaten, or at least overcome. I’m already doing it now, to the shock of my cardiologist. But I can’t let this be my little demon; it can’t have any power over me, especially since it has earned none. If this is the consequence of deciding twenty five years ago I would not become a seventeen year old corpse, then so be it. I will own this, it will not own me.

Rest easy, grandma; your grandson is more powerful than you had ever imagined.   

Making It So...

Of all the endeavors that come from the human experience, there’s one that perplexes me probably the most. It’s the most essential thing we undertake; whether in creating, observing, or partaking in it. It is, at once, both the most powerful thing we do, and also the most absurd activity we endure and force upon others. We’ll pay for it, decry it, ban it, mock it, and wish we had more of it.

Creativity. Or maybe it’s just being creative? An artist?

However we look at it or express it, the mystery of creativity is an odd and deep subject. Why do we pretend? Why do we celebrate the pretend of others? Why does a musician orchestrate, in prose, feelings, woes, and jubilations? Why do we all start life doodling and storytelling and singing? Where does creativity come from; what combination of factors – both in the brain, and in the environment – trigger creative expression? And, the biggest question of all; why are most of the creative and artistic folks in the world – those mostly at the forefront of the arts – rather unhinged to some degree?

Being an unhinged creative person, myself, I can spend hours sitting in place considering these questions. Sometimes what I come up with can sound quite dismal to the poor pedestrian who wonders into my thought stream. Other times it can sound almost mystical, spiritual even. I guess it depends on what time of the day you catch me at, and how good my last sandwich was.

At its core, physiologically, it’s not hard to see how it comes about, I’d suppose. It’s taken eight million years for the human race to emerge from its primate ancestry into the powerhouse we are, today. Artistic expression, however, is relatively new by comparison; a mere two hundred thousand years by some experts estimates. And, then, it seems that it arose out of a need to express the mysteries that man saw in his world, around him. (No, we won’t squabble over exact definition of “man”, here. Just go with it.) So even though we haven’t been doing it long, we pretty much started out as using it as a tool of expression.

But why? I mean, we can see the physiological roots of it; enlarging brains, new specialized cognitive centers developing, becoming more complex; giving rise to new ways of thinking, social structures, and the creation of ritual and tool. But at what point did some cave man, somewhere, start banging rocks together thinking; “Ugh. Me like’em this noise. What now me do make formalized notation so cave man junior also make noise?”

Staying with our proverbial cave man, I happen to like Scott McCloud’s definition of art, the best... 

Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, Paradox Press, 1993

Though, as an ironic observation, subjects of art can be, and have been, about reproduction and survival. So, there’s that, too.

As a storyteller and graphic novelist, myself, I have always been fascinated by the way we express our ideas and themes not outright, but by using parable, stories, poems, music, and other media to say with a level of creativity what could be otherwise be delivered bluntly and upfront. Moreover, despite the compelling forces in my head driving me to create and share, there’s been this inexplicable notion in the back of my brain that, somehow, for some reason, all this painting and writing, and singing, and stuff is just a little bit over dramatic. I mean, isn’t it?

No one recognizes this ironic absurdity of an “artist” (Which I’m not sure I even am.) questioning artistic expression like the way I do. Despite one whole half of my family being steeped in artistic talent there never was much of a notion in any of my predecessors that art could be a money making profession; let alone a reputable one. So they’ve gone about with real jobs and settled for art hobbies post retirement. (In those few times any of us have actually embraced the idea of actually retiring.) I will be the first one to actually switch gears and make a living directly from art. Or, an art like thing; I’m not sure the difference, here. And even then, my doubt in my own creations adds another level to the discussion of creative, artistic expression. What is art? What makes an artist; despite what form his, or her, art may take?

For me, I question the very nature of why I am compelled like I am to make up a world of stories, and then do everything I can to get you all to share in the tales I spin of that world. And since I do both produce and consume, it’s a double ended mystery for me.  Why do I as much spin a world into existence as I will plunge into someone else’s make believe? What is trying to speak from inside of us, and why does it need to be this way? Does there even need to be a message? If we’re trying to say something, then to who? And why?

In at least as much the how, we know; mostly from interviews with contemporary artists, today, in

both the visual arts, as well as in music and film. They will often speak about utilizing motifs, imagery, and other themes to create moods and communicate specific feelings; to connect with the intended audience. So we know that, as a whole of a species, we share some commonality in creativity; whether it’s as its creator or its consumer. So whatever is going on, it’s going on at some level in all of us.

But then what about the other side of creativity? What about the darker side of the thing; all fits and malfunctions we, as the creative, seem more prone to than the average person? Why do we tend to be more melodramatic, more plagued by emotional instabilities, or haunted by other behavioral issues and mental defects? Why is it we are the ones who tend to act out more than others? Why do we feel compelled, above others, to really dish out a style of our own, to create ourselves as a brand? And why are so many who occupy the grand scale of art also walking train wrecks?

Of course, I’m speaking of the more outlandish among us, the more commercial and proactive. There are plenty of hobbiests, working illustrators and designers, and amateur performers who apply their skill and trade with little more consideration for their outward personality than a new tie, or a nice pair of shoes. So perhaps there’s something to the whole idea of creating a brand out of yourself…?

I imagine I’ll be wrestling with these questions until I can no longer hold pen to paper, and they have to pry my corpse from the art table. For me, all I can say is that I feel compelled to create what I do; for both the act of entertaining – because what more a noble cause than to bring a touch of adventure to the weary, right? – and to convey ideals and messages that can resonate and affect; both in how we conceptualize our world, and how we get along in it, and with others.  And in the act of engaging in the act of being entertained, myself, I seek that out in others.

Because, after all, sharing is caring, right?

Friendly

Highway 17, here in California, opened in 1940 to bridge San Jose and the rest of the bay area to Santa Cruz, replacing older roads and the rail line. And the geographic history of the area has intertwined with it ever since.  But in my time it also held a various dubious title, a claim to infamy both in this state and in the country. 

At one time California Highway 17 was the deadliest stretch of road in the United States of America.

In the last forty years since they’ve made quite a few improvements to curb the nearly one fatality a day statistic it used to be. And now, though still plagued by the occasional wreck (among the many challenges the stretch of highway still provides) it’s far and few between fatalities along its windy mountain lanes.

That almost wasn’t the case yesterday when a dear friend of mine, on her way to work in Santa Cruz, went to pass a slow moving bus and was rear ended.

The for the sake of everyone I’ll just say she walked away with nothing more than bruised ribs. I mean, yes, she’s frazzled; who wouldn’t be? The car is totaled and her and her husband(ish) are now having to deal with the aftermath of their one vehicle destroyed. This just on the heels of her dealing with a small medical issue. So she’s laid up and trying to cope with the fact that no matter how much they try to tame 17, there’s always some demon speedster out there trying to do eighty up a road rated fifty five.

I’m glad she’s (mostly) alright. And I know that they will recover and get on their feet, again, because they are that kind of couple; tough, resilient, and self-empowering between themselves. They’ve been key members of my Rogues Gallery for a while, and I’ve come to respect (and maybe even envy) them for that. In fact, I am lucky enough to have a select group of friends that are unique, fairly giving, and diversely talented and entertaining. And, for some reason, they occasionally like to even let me socialize with them. Heck, they even admit to knowing me… in public… and on purpose, too.

Friendship is a wondrous thing, and probably the other great mystery about the human condition. It basically boils down to finding someone who has some degree of your weirdnesses – or at least something complimentary – and then saying; “yeah, you’re kind of like me, let’s do stuff together.” And then off you go. And, much like a full blown love, our friendships enrich us, help us grown, and untie and bind us into these kind of families that, in some cases, become stronger and more binding than blood relations.

I pondered this over a beer at a bar in the city, rolling over the most awful of scenarios had things not played out the way they did. And moreover, as I reassured myself that they most assuredly hadn’t, what specifically my friends – who I affectionately call my Rogues Gallery – have come to mean to me.

They are my fellow cast members in the show of life. They have inspired me in my endeavors; though sometimes they didn’t know it. They are the giants upon whose shoulder I stand to glean a better understanding of life. They’ve soothed me when my troubled mind boiled. They have filled me with hope when I was lowest. They have grounded me when I’ve sored just a touch too high. The have gifted me purpose when I had no meaning. They have held me when I could not find my feet beneath me.

Often I feel horribly out of place, but then I chat up with my Rogues Gallery and I know I’m right

where I should be; with all the other silly freaks.

As I said, I almost lost a Rogue yesterday. Just the thought of that makes me shudder.  Losing any one of them would be like losing a piece of myself; a piece of my family. More than anything else they mean so much to me, each and every one. It’s not a thing I mind over; there’s no weakness in this. Just the contrary, in them I become stronger. I hope they feel the same way. Because, in the end, that’s what friendship really is; investing ourselves in others for mutual returns that strengthens us all as a whole.

We are each mighty. Our friends make us formidable.

Down the Road that I must Travel

It was a typical summer day in Redwood City California in late July of 2014. Well, not so much for cardiologist Dr. Alex Chen and his new patient (newly turned) forty year old would-be cartoonist Charlie Irons. They were making their first formal in office doctor patient meeting since having first met when Charlie – me – had suffered near fatal heart failure and had ended up laid out at the hospital for a number of days.

Dr. Chen sat across from me at his little computer terminal seriously perplexed by my answer; “No, not really. Should I be?” Which is fine because just moments before I had been vexed by his question; “You’re taking this really well. Aren’t you even mad?”

It’s odd when a health care provider is more upset then you are about something happening to you. Of course, don’t get me wrong; it’s definitely been a bit of a blow having to deal with a heart problem that usually strikes folk in the twilight of their days. But how I got here from there is probably the best explanation for itself. You see, in a nutshell, how I see this is that it’s better to have this issue going into your forties than to be a seventeen year old corpse that my mom has to bury.

If you’ve been reading Stuff over at Neverland Transit Authority, you might already be aware that, as part of the long term side effects of radiation therapy I received for my lymphoma, certain levels of tissue damage are now catching up to me. Those who know me directly can, and have always seen the immediate damage; my teeth. (That has been a costly repair that has to escalate with each new patch job.) Other scarring, and such, has been the privilege of a select few.

What can’t be seen is the internal damage to my heart, lungs, throat, and other soft tissues in the treated regions. And for the past twenty five years, this damage has been the root cause of my hyper metabolism; my Tasmanian Devil syndrome, as it were. So when Dr. Chen sat down to discuss with me the initial prognosis – which at the time was very, very poor, he was bewildered to find a still young-ish man who, instead of being angry, frustrated, and in shock, was talking to a mildly pleasant, upbeat, and hopefully guy.

And rightly so; this attitude has helped me not only beat the odds, but make a recovery Dr. Chen has described as “surprising”. (As of this entry I can now run again, and can lift and move heavy weight; things I was told were pretty much not going to every happen anymore.)

For me, handling a less-then-ideal life has boiled down to this kind of outlook. It first took hold of my twenty five years ago, in the office my surgeon Dr. Rush, as he discussed with me and my parents the procedure I was about to undergo. I was a young, angry, and morose black clad kid of seventeen, caught up in a heap of life I didn’t want, and couldn’t shake. As the doctor spoke I looked out the window at little children playing out on the grass and it hit me; this was going to be a journey that would deliver me from the dark place I had stumbled into. Not the journey I would have hoped for, but the journey none the less. (Not even going to try to draw a Joseph Campbell styled parallel between me and myth, but funny how that seems the case for a lot of people in a situation.)

Getting on to a big day, soon, and in having a gander pack down the path of this life, it’s funny how the twists, turns, detours, and flat out dead stops I’ve had to make – either because of happenings, or of my own idiocy (More frequent then I care to admit to.) – have put me into a most interesting location. At twenty I had pretty much mapped out how life should go, and where I was supposed to be. At almost forty two I’m looking back at the actuality of my life and finding it a bit more interesting than had I had had my own way.

In my creative life this has been an absolute blessing. My illustration and story telling skills were rubbish then, and would not have found the voice they have today without life’s experience to guide them; to flesh them out and create real substance from which to speak. Had I not stumbled down the road some, I wouldn’t have ended up on stage, doing internet radio, or had even had the chance to appear on local TV.

And I certainly wouldn’t have had gained the experience that would bear in me strength to handle adversity, and the fortitude and patience to express compassion and understanding.

This might be my biggest divergence from the norm, I guess. Life beat me down, and rather than wallow where I lay, I got back up, squared myself, and got ready for another round; learning where to dodge, and when to defend. But in being honest and open to my ordeals and predicaments, whether by life’s doing or self-made, not only could I learn and grow, I was able to recognize my struggle in those around me. There’s universality in each and every single path we walk through in life. They may not be going all the same place, but may run parallel – or even cross other paths – from time to time. And though not every hill is the same size all the time, we all know what it’s like to have to climb, and how nice it would have been to have a helping hand, on occasion. And, in helping others,we sometimes don’t realize how we may be also helping ourselves. So I also help, when I can. After all, I know what it’s like to have to make a lot of big climbs.

Ultimately it all comes down to an axiom I garnered from one of the many lectures of the late Alan Watts; I have already failed; I am already dead. What that means is, in life, you are bound to make mistakes; it’s part of the learning process – a gift, really. And regardless of how well off or badly life finds you, we all end up the same in the end. Getting past this fear of defeat, in any form, is helpful. Realizing that the twists and turns life takes you in those defeats can show and teach you more, and better, than anything you could have mapped out for yourself is a very liberating and empowering thing; whether in life, love, a profession, or creative expression.

And who knows, that unexpected turn might lead to the most scenic and beautiful journey of your entire life. 

A heart-to-heart about Love

What is love?

Baby don’t hurt me… don’t hurt me, know more.

All kidding aside, love has got to be one of the most nebulous, vaguest, and yet most powerful things to evolve out of the human psyche when you think on it. Or maybe it’s how the term has grown to encompass so much of our personal likes and desires.

After all, what is it to love that song? Or that book, or TV show? What do you mean when you say I really love this ice cream? Or when you say that you really love the feeling of the beech on your bare feet? Or that you love your country? And how can that be part of the same feelings that bound you to family, friends, or even a lover?

Love, for me, like just about everyone else on the planet, is extremely hard to pin down. It’s a broad definition that covers a more intense form of desire; desire used here to describe the base wants that every animal has. That is, the preferred states of satisfaction, community, and security.

Or is that too clinical?

At any rate, love seems to spring from this basic requirement that we not be unhappy, that our needs are met, and that we belong somewhere. At least, as much as I’ve observed, anyway; both in myself, and in others. Food is a requirement. We need to avoid hunger in order to survive and to thrive. The same thing can be said about shelter, or the occasional involvement of others in our life to accomplish things. Plus we’re very much about the habitual, the comfortable, and the useful; which could explain why I have had a favorite coat through the years.

But love seems to transcend our needs into something else, something more. I mean, think about it; you NEED to breathe, but is it something you LOVE to do? If you’re a student of mindfulness, you may answer yes, but the majority of folks don’t give it a second thought as more than just a process their bodies must undergo to enrich blood with a most needed and precious gas that helps keep them alive.

But somewhere in our evolution the involved feelings and desires to have our needs met grew into something much richer and deeper. Perhaps it’s due to our developing into a seriously social animal? Maybe, like so much of our consciousness, it’s a simple unintended function; the side effect of advancing cerebral functionality? Or maybe there really is something to this thing called love?

In nature animals show all kinds of levels of affection and intimacy. Both tend to circle around the biological urge to mate and continue the line. Species pair up, mate, and raise offspring to maturity before everyone going their own separate ways. As social complexity increases, a variety of species have evolved to form more complex social pairings. Wolves, for example, pack into an alpha pair and betas. The alpha pair mates for life and the pack all takes a turn in raising the pups. Eventually even these pups might go their own way, start their own packs, or join another.

People, on the other hand, are the only animal on the planet to go the steps we do to reinforce interpersonal bounds. And we have some of the most complex and involved boundings on the planet. But is it just because of evolution of the species and our society that creates this thing we call love?

After all, can the love of pizza be really equated to the love of family, or is it all just semantics?

I’ve come to understand that there’s a real difference between the basic desires… the needs… and the more involved objectives… the wants. To live one needs to breathe, stay within a physical comfort level (shelter, climate, relative safety, etc.), rest, consume water and food, and expel the waste of that food. Those are the basic needs of every human body. We all have them, we all carry them out. If you don’t, well you’re probably not alive right now to read this.

However, to thrive – to meet personal goals – is a want. We say to ourselves that we want this or that in our lives, or to accomplish some feat or create a thing. Those aren’t required for life. But we feel the desire to fulfill them in an effort to live.

Love seems to straddle these. And I think this is the great mystery of love; that it’s not just a want, but also seems to be required for a healthy life.

Love fills us, forces us to grow, draws in new forces of life for change, and creates in us loyalties and empathies that enrich us as people. Love can bring out the best in us, give us direction, form communities, heal, and even combat the forces that might seek to undo us; either from within or without. Love gives us strength.

Love takes many forms. We feel it for our friends; showing it in comradely, loyalty, and in the way we open ourselves up to them as we draw them into ourselves. We feel it for our family; giving our time and support to those who have been a part in our upbringing, drawing from our commonality to bolster us in times of need and in times of charity, where we take from our initial concepts of the world and build upon them. We feel it in our communities; where we volunteer our time, energy, and efforts to share with likeminded or with the common interests which reinforce our dedication to each other, our hopes, and our dreams.

And then there’s Love; probably one of the greatest mysteries of the human experience. The desire… the want… to share your life with a special someone, based off a combination of factors that, at times, can really defy our understanding, baffle our reason, and ignite our passions. Of all the wants we experience in our life, Love – for most of us – is the truest, greatest driving force that can exist. What we do in the name of Love, both inside ourselves, and outwardly toward another, can be mind-numbing, humbling, and often times churn and mix us up in ways that both thrill and terrify. It fuels our creativity, lights our passions, and drives us like few things can.

     

There are still great mysteries in The Universe, of which – for the human condition – Love may be the greatest. It’s in it we find our greatest strength; sometimes in our greatest weaknesses. In defying our own logic and rationale it bolsters us and can rise us to new heights of greatness, both within ourselves, and with others. It tears down and builds back up, and makes us better than we could ever be on our one. It can surround us with the comfort of family, the support of friends, or the warmth of a lover.

It’s something I dearly hope… I want… to have again, someday.

I think I can... I think I can... I think I can...

I once was part of a group function in which we filled out a questionnaire about ourselves and then had to hand it to someone else to introduce us all to the group with. About half way down was a curious little question that I answered pretty straight forwardly and didn’t think much of it… until it was read out loud. In response to the question “What do you believe in?” I had a simple, single word answer.

Me.

In a class full of things like “Our Lord and Savior”, “The Mother, Maiden, and Crone”,  “Allah (Peace and Blessing be upon Him)”, and even “evolution” it was interesting to see how mine stood out like a sore thumb. To which, as expected, my answer was challenged in class as a non-answer.

Belief is a word of Norse root that means “to wish”, so I’m not sure what to make out of that. However, its modern usage is far more different and holds much different weight than its inception an eon ago. So, when I say I believe in me, I’m not necessarily trying to be cute, coy, or clever. I’m not putting myself in a place of importance inside the known universe. And I’m not trying to hint at some great philosophical notion like Des Cartes.

No, I believe in me because…

Belief is an interesting thing. Belief has motivated people to make some of the oddest decisions, thrown countries into wars, and dictated – and still does, in many countries, today – social policies. Belief has stymied progress and scientific advancement. Belief has given a weapon to oppressors to use against those they oppress. Belief is the unchanging ideal that is clung to in a changing world; of which shreds us apart as the world tries to move on from it.

Belief, however, can also be the thing that fosters change. Belief in a better tomorrow can make people to disregard old notions of money, power, and security in order to embrace compassion. Belief in the innate goodness in each other can build communities, knock down barriers, and bring people closer together as one. Belief in justice and fair play can end tyranny, crumble corruption, and even bring about peace and equality.

Like all tools, belief is what it’s wielded to be. But it’s also what we bring to it. So it’s important that before we bring to bear the power of our efforts into a belief we’ve taken great care to understand what that belief may or may not be saying, or calling into action. It’s simply not enough to say “yeah, that sounds right to me” and then run with it. A belief requires a base from which to draw from, a root to gather nutrition from. It’s fundamentally important to look at a belief and understand what’s given rise to it. Where does it draw its strength from? Where does this belief come from? What are the reasonings behind this belief? And, most importantly, how do these beliefs benefit the people, places, and ideals it’s being applied to.

Belief is an interesting thing because one can build a belief with, or without, evidence to support it. One that is built on good information and critical reasoning will stand longer, and accomplish more than one that isn’t. In some ways this is where belief and faith are interchangeable. And, actually, at the turn of the Common Era, they meant the opposite of what they do now. However, faith requires nothing of what belief might. Faith has come to stand for the belief in things unknown, trust in things unseen. While a belief can change over time, for a myriad of reasons, faith never tends to wavier; much to its fault. And I’ve already covered my ideas about faith in previous comics at Neverland Transit Authority. (Though I'm still keen to use the imagery of faith to express my feelings, sometimes.)

Approaching the age in which I feel must compelled to act in, I see that lot of people like to believe in something, but don’t necessarily have a belief. That is, to say, they believe it’s good to share, but do not believe in a society that values cooperating toward a common goal, or common good. In some cases there’s simply no conviction to any belief at all. I don’t know if it’s because our world has gotten to the place it has, today, or if simply we’re just not engaging it like we used to. In my youth we believed we could change the world with a rock concert, and did so. We believed our voices should be heard, and made them so

.

Where are our beliefs today, then? Is it now in the inevitable corruption of our politics? The assumption that the world is a tough place and out to get you? Everyone wants what you have? Nothing really matters because it’s all doomed, anyway? Or do we simply just subscribe to the belief that someone else will come along to make it all work out in the end? I’m not a social anthropologist, just a would-be cartoonist; I don’t have those answers, just observations.  But I know one thing for sure; beliefs are a powerful thing, and it would do us good to revitalize them, again. Or, at the very least, take a cue from dear Jimmy Page…

I think a while ago I lost my belief in me. That is I forgot that there are things I can do. I had either let go of the idea, or had it obscured by the things I allowed to block my sight, that though I was but one voice, one set of hands, one heart, I could raise myself up to meet things head on; both in my personal life, and as part of the greater community. I’m not sure how that happened, kind of embarrassed I let it happen, and now determined to never let it happen again. 

So, what do I believe in? I believe in the rule of law. I believe in the rights of everyone to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I believe that given to our own devices people tend to make better choices and help one another. I believe in the power of art; to heal, to express, and to bind and connect us to our fellow human beings. I believe in love; to love someone – anyone – as you feel fit to, the union it can create in us interpersonally, and how love can unite us in times of crisis as well as comfort. I believe higher education for all is an imperative; not because we need a degree to get a good job, but because an educated society is healthier, happier, and able to function toward the ideals it set out to accomplish. 

And I believe in me because I can have a hand in making these things happen.

  

Restrictions May Apply

Over the years I’ve been come to be known as a whirling tornado, a very social Tasmanian Devil, the human equivalent of a runaway freight train, or sometimes the living embodiment of the unstoppable force. And, to some degree, I may have actually earned this. You see, The Rogues Gallery – the title my friends and associates bear; a comic book term – has seen me bounce back from some very nasty predicaments in my life; including injury, illness, the conspiracy of life situations, and even two near death events in the past eighteen months.

“IronChuck” is more than just a clever play on my name; it can be seen as an accurate description, depending on who you ask. However, like all things that age, iron does rust. And, as I get older, I’ve come to understand something very important in life; know your limitations. It’s important to define that a little, though. I mean, we aren’t just referring to the wise words of one tough no-nonsense over-the-top street cop, here…

There are, in fact, many ways to have – and know – limitations. Yes, limits are a boundary of a thing; time, knowledge, distance, area, ex cetera. And this loose definition does cover just about all of them. For example; knowing your limits when out drinking with your friends is a very important thing to have. Or knowing how much gas it will take to get you to the next gas station is understanding both the boundaries of your car’s use of fuel, and how far you can make $20 worth of gas stretch.

Knowing your limits can potentially save your life, as well. Over the past three decades I have had to endure a lot of situations, events, and physical situations to get to forty two…

No, that is not as boast; be thankful you haven’t. (Or, my sympathies if you have.)

This has developed a really high threshold for discomfort; both physically and mentally. By extension, this is my limit to how much I can handle of what life throws at me. And that has gotten quite high, as I have now found out. Both my heart failure and the infection in my gut nearly took me out because I was able to shrug them off for so long, saying to myself; “eh, if it’s really bad, I’m sure it’ll get worse, first.”

And that is not a conceit on any level; it’s just how I have come to operate in life. I was a weakling as a child, so I fixed it. And now I have to understand that, because my limits are so high, I need to pay more attention to little annoyances because something serious might be starting. Think of it as death of a thousand papercuts. My cardiologist was the one to point this out to me as, in the early months of my recovery, he would complain that I was shrugging off serious symptoms like so much a bothersome cold.

But being aware of limits isn’t just physical. There are many times we undertake something and understanding the limits of our ability to engage that situation might be critical to that situation. In every day, that could meaning giving up an aisle seat on a flight because you sit by the emergency door, and can’t – for whatever reason – handle the particular responsibility of that seat. More commonly, a lot of us commit to a situation in our life unaware of our personal limits to be in that situation. Knowing when to ask for help is a great example of understanding limits. Seeing when something is beyond your level of understanding, or you have no experience with something and seeking out some help isn’t a sign that you are weak, or dumb. Quite the contrary, being able to put aside your ego to say to someone “Hey, I have no idea, here; what have you got?” shows that you have a level of comfort with yourself and also prefer to ask rather than stumble blindly on, potentially making things much, much worse.

When setting goals, it’s important to ask; “do I have the tools, or know-how to accomplish that?” If the answer is no, you need to adjust your goals, or how you go about accomplishing them. In this way you can avoid burnout, another example of limits; when you’ve hit your saturation point and enough is enough. The same can be said for friendships and interpersonal relationships. What can you put up with, deal with, and where you have to draw lines can make or break buddies and marriages a like.

Knowing your limits also breaches into honesty, but I’ll be saving that for another entry later on.

A couple weeks out from forty two, now, and I have to say that knowing my limits, and being comfortable not only in them, but being able to tell where and when I can work to expand them –because limits don’t have to always be an absolute boundary – has put me into a better place in life. I’ve learned where to back off my own personal expectations of myself… and others. I have figured out how to set more reasonable goals for myself. And I have used it to expand my health; both physical and emotional.

Like just about everything else you’ll read in the next couple weeks, here, it’s a work in process. But it’s a work in process that is always expanding, encompassing more and more; pressing the boundaries… the limits… of who I am and what I can be.

When you meter your journey in steps, the miles can pass quickly.

Sharing some learning as I hit the Hitchhiker's Birthday mark...

 I gave this a go about two years ago, trying to fill the forty days leading up to my fortieth birthday with forty quips of insight I had gathered about life. It… it didn’t go quite as well as I had hoped. But now I am hitting an even more important milestone in my time in this life; my Hitchhiker’s birthday!

No? Okay, for those of you who either haven’t read it, or share the opinions of Egon Spangler…

Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the story of a guy, his friend, a two headed politician, a girl, and the – well, it’s hard to explain. You see, it all starts when the earth blows up, and… On second thought, you should probably read the book. But one plot point in the story is about a super computer tasked with answering the biggest riddle of them all; the meaning of life. And, after generations of computing, it finally spits out the answer… 42.

The rest of the whole of it is a great read, so I recommend it. But, in my Rogues Gallery – which is, understandably a whole lot of nerd, we’ve given rise to the term “Hitchhiker’s Birthday’; meaning your forty second trip around our star, Sol. So, for the following 365 days you are the answer to life, the Universe, and everything.

That is not a conceit. Well, at least not to me. (If you knew some of my Rogues Gallery like I do…) For me THIS is the big birthday where, as the answer to life, the Universe, and everything you need to get your shit together and really live up to that title. All that stuff you said you’d get around to someday? Yeah, that someday starts at forty two; which for me is in eighteen days from this very entry.
(March 19^th; I’m not counting the day specific. Think of today as T-18 and March 19^th as T-0.)

I think I'm sick of this look.

I like to think of this as not so much a midlife crisis – as no doubt some think it to be – as a midlife reawakening. It’s time to learn from your mistakes and fuck-ups, get it together, and make some kind of mark on life, even if it’s just in clay. And my life full of mistakes and fuck-ups, I’ll tell you what. And having just survived two near misses with death in the past two years? Yeah, I’m all about fixing this mess.

So, in no particular order, here’s a few things I am reflecting on as I prepare for the biggest trip around Sol. This isn’t a self-help inspirational kind of list of stuff, because that’s a crock of crap; something that worked for me, or anyone else, isn’t all bound to work for you. But, take it for what it could be, and run with it.

And today’s is right up in the spirit of all this self-improvement junk…

Accomplishing a goal – weight loss, getting into shape, learning a new skill, doing more of a particular interest or hobby – isn’t so much about doing more of a thing, or less of another (Like eating less and walking more, for example.) as it is simply breaking bad habits.

Eating is a habit we form in response to all kinds of situations, like stress, depression, and boredom. Procrastinating is a habit we form from being uncomfortable, or because we feel over challenged, or simply afraid. At some point these dodges become a habit, and we end up carrying out these habits even when faced with an easily surmountable task. In my case, getting overwhelmed at a moment in time and defeating myself before I even have tried.

I don’t have advice on how to break bad habits. For me it’s just getting on myself about excuses, making a plan... well, more like a guideline... and setting smaller, realistic immediate goals.
As I get better at accomplishing tasks, the goals get bigger. 

Seems to be working, though; I’ve lost some weight, made some art, and put in place some tools to help me succeed. I’m not there, yet, but I’m better than I was just a month ago.
So, take that for what it’s worth.

Roll the Dice

If you're going to try, go all the way. 

Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. 

Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it

And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. 

And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. 

If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. 

It's the only good fight there is.

~Charles Bukowski