Larger than Life (tissue warning)

I recently attended my Uncle Matthias's funeral.

Due to the fact that my father had about 17 brothers and sisters, there are many of my aunts and uncles that I don't really know all that well, and Uncle Matthias was one of those people. All I really remember was that at the baby shower/Wedding reception we had a few years ago, he and his wife Jane brought us a tree to plant for Lilas. According to his Obit, He was a man who loved life and those that were alive.

Let me explain a little bit further. He had a lot of cats. 11 cats, mostly walk in strays that he took care of. He also tended to his garden a lot. This seems kind of like typical things a 63 year old fellow would partake in, but it is a little deeper than that in my family. We are, from my observations, the stewards, caretakers, and the ones most attuned with life and lives.

See, my father enjoys it when the lake water runs over the bank in the stream. I always assumed it made for good fishing, but one day my dad related this to me that made him tear up a little. "Ryan, when I was younger, there was so much bad around me, so much death, then I would see the water rise over the bank. The water was just so full of life, I could forget how tough things were and revel in the living. There was just so much life..."

I think that we as Riojas's are quite attuned to life. We are sensitive to the little behaviors that are exhibited by living things and life in general. That's why we got a tree. I mean, Karen and I were registered at Target for gifts, and we had no place to plant a tree where we were living, other than at my parent's house. It was not a practical gift at all if one looks as it in a useful way. But this one gesture of good wishing seemed more a representation of Life than something that could be used for any useful purpose. My uncle was saying, whether he meant to or not, "Here is life! I'll give you life for your new life starting."

My father also is a man who is preoccupied by the essence of life. He is a hunter and a fisherman, as well as a 4wheeler officionatto, and spends his day at work providing heat to people who are cold. I myself find myself getting choked up about silly things like when people are offered jobs to be able to continue providing for a family. My dad is also an empathetic man, which I inherited from him in spades. We both have a desire to fix bad emotions in other people, to experiment with human reaction, and to make people laugh. By the same token, I guess I share the same sort of anchor to the well being of life to enrich my own.

The format of the funeral was to collect the family and have people share fond memories of my uncle. My dad took a turn.

"I remember that Matthias had a pretty blue car. He would give me and Danny each $2.50 a piece for our allowance and get into his car. Then he would say... 'Hey, each of you gimme a dollar back.' We would give him a dollar and he would peel out in front of the house. We would cheer and yell and have a grand old time. My brother Matthias was someone who was Larger Than life itself..."

I'm kinda choking up right now as I draw conclusions and parallels with my own life. I am seeing with each day that I grow older and older why my dad was the way he is; why he would ask me where I was going before I would hang out with my friends, and why he would give me 5 or 6 bucks to enjoy the outing without thinking about it. That's what my dad was shown about how to take care of someone younger than himself. To be larger than life is what it means to be a Riojas, to be a part of this family, to be a person so tied to the ebb and flow of life.

I now look at my dad with the eyes of a father. I see things that he is too humble to admit. My father has a million people that would take a bullet for him. The conversations I have with people I meet on campus is "your Tino's kid aren't you" that is followed by "Your dad is a great guy!" There are children being born in the family that people, on purpose, are naming after my dad. As sad as it is to lose a brother, an uncle, a father, a friend, a soldier, a caretaker, and a gardener, I believe it is Valentino Riojas's turn to be what Uncle Matthias was to him. It's my father's turn to be larger than life.

This post in particular made, and makes, people in my family cry.

Wasting Time

One quick thing before I earn my nights repose.

I make 9/hour+tips at outback

Take out for taxes and my first paycheck was 75.07 for 10 hours of work creating basically, 7.51 per hour

3 of it went to cashing it
20 of it went to lunch of which I spent 10 on myself
30 of it went to take out for dinner of which I had a wonton or two and bites of each thing

43 dollars in one day converts into five hours that went to expensive food and over 50% of my assets (overshadowed by ridiculous amounts of over draft and credit charges) and 1 hour got to spend on myself for a burrito and a Sobe. Roughly 6 hours in essence got spent in roughly 6 hours. Every hour I do not work is an hour that gets spent in this case. I hope this pattern does not continue.

With this set of circumstances, is it any wonder I flip out at the slightest provocation and stay up all night with indigestion? Add in the fact that I don't really do much for myself and just about everything for the other two and 2/9 of a person that live with me and you will find a guy who just needed a good time for one day. So, I had a much needed release hanging out with my friend consequences be damned. It is 2, Lilas will be up at 7. I will take care of her, fall asleep on the couch and have nightmares of credit card companies calling my phone and doing chores to the point where I work a week in my sleep in reoccurring dreams. Only to wake up to credit card companies calling me and doing chores while I am awake. At this point, I need to say this and once again, consequences be damned. I needed tonight so anyone can say what they will and I will give them the bird and begone with it. Its late and I am going to sleep now.

The Plight of Sir Theodore Ruxbin

since September 2004, I have had one job... That is to say, I have had many jobs, but one occupation. I have lived to be the shining armor clad knight that draws his sword and sacrifices his own life for the sake of those he loves. My battle with the great demons and creatures, dragons and harpies, Gods and armies of the underworld is never ceasing. My kingdom is expanding, and all is well, but I am constantly fighting all of the dark forces of evil to keep it so. At home, I must remain the strong tower that all crowd around for protection and provision. When I can strip off of the helmet, cuirass, pauldrons, grieves, Gauntlets, boots, chain mail, crucifix, and belt with my bastard sword, I still have to pour out my blood upon the altar of the kingdom's prosperity, I still martyr myself in the name of honor, chivalry, valor, ethics, and family. I cannot be a man who rests, but instead be the comfort of all in the province of my service. I protect queen and country. after I strip down the armor, I remain a feral animal. A pelt stuffed with cotton and given marbles in his eye sockets, stitches instead of a mouth, no fingers, no toes, and a posterior that always flat, so that the stubby appendages always open ready to comfort the poor defended royalty in the tower. When I speak, I say only the things the tape dictates. "Everything is well. We'll be fine." And then pop! the tape is done, the princess pulls the cassette from where my manhood should be and plays it over again until, finally satisfied with her level of comfort, she sleeps and so must I now place the facade of the warrior on my shoulders, dawn my helmet, cuirass, pauldrons, grieves, Gauntlets, boots, chain mail, crucifix, and belt with my bastard sword and gallop off to fight the powers of darkness. I watch the sun rise, for I watched it set and failed to rest, and so such beauty is truly hideous in the eyes of those who wished that they be unconscious before this event occurs. I get sloppy in my battles with this darkness and it's minions and now I lie here, tired, vomiting blood and magnetic tape that has jammed in the heads and is spilling from my body like the intestines of the second best samurai in a duel. The cascade of cassette tape is almost perfuse and caught on thorns and demon claws. the cassette doesn't get flipped. No beep to tell me to change the page, no proceed to side b, "Everything is F... sf...sf...sf...sf..Ie..Ie..Ie" Grinding and mashing ensues and then... hiss, the tape is no more.

Perhaps it is all for the best... Maybe the princess might have to face the demons alone, instead of waiting for her talking teddy to strap on his glinting armaments and go gallivanting off into the night... Perhaps the sleeping beauty should get up off of her deathbed, strap on her own armor, and strike the heart of the black with her loyal bruin soldier, cut the darkness with him instead of waiting for him to cut both of their paths. There is no more time to let Snow White apple shop. Now is not the time to wonder what karat of gold that straw gets spun into before that short freaky bastard whose skin is old and still takes your child... now is not the time to tell the poor prince that you must look for Altoids before he gets his green exchanged for a body again. Finally now is not the time to wait for prince charming to wake you up... chances are, prince charming is dead, lying in a puddle of bile and jammed cassette. Too late for the poor bastard. He's getting eaten by the demons and the dragons, as well as the ravens and the vultures. The least you could do is die next to your plush hero while you both don't have a chance.

What's worse, sometimes, carrying his magnetic guts in his arms, the all singing and dancing bear crawls in. He lands on his butt, unable to see, speak or be dexterous, for he was mutilated long before the demons came, for the push bear never had fingers, toes, eyes, or a mouth. He just lies there. The Princess pushes play, and only the sound of gears grinding speakers hissing, and the crackle of tape getting jammed and spewed out of the body greets her needy ears. She tells the bear that he speaks the evil tongue of the monsters, that all she needs is a good word, that it will all be alright, it will be fine,
"...and you can't even help me here. Won't anyone help me!?! You can't, no one can... I hate you and your marble eyes, your stitched mouth, your fingerless paws and toeless legs. I hate your overalls. I hate your hat. I hate the way you never fight for me, and all you want is to be petted, when something so simple as telling me "it is okay" is all I want. Every night that is all I want. And for you to do it until it is so. that is all I want."

The princess then leaves the teddy bear's sword on the table as she runs defenseless into her tower, braids her hair, and waits for the witch to request to hang from the braids to gain access to the princess's heart, right in sword range. Now is not the time to braid, but to take the sword that the bear has left, give herself a makeover, and remove the rope that the evil monsters need to get to her... and for god sake mourn the evisceration of your once mighty knight and best friend in trouble. Or did she not see the brown strips hanging out of the armor? Did you not see the fur ragged out of the helmet? Did you not see the marbles roll down the cuirass and on to the floor. His mouth is open, but cotton and blood, not comfort and words leave his newly opened face. He dies on the floor, in the castle, the only place where he was safe. He died, princess. Wake up yourself... No one else can... then fight! Stop crying! There will be time to cry after the demons are slain! There is too much to do to for anyone to feel sorry about herself. There is too much to rampart without you worrying about fitting it all in... THERE IS TOO MUCH TO DO TO ALLOW FOR WORRY ABOUT WHAT TO DO. The bear longs to speak, but all he can say is what the tape does, and the tape is jammed, stretched out and broken, tangled in the demon's claws and carrion bird beaks. He tried to say it would be okay, but the tape is jammed, falling out of his body. All he could do was be shunned for all that he was... sired in September 2004, the defender of queen and kingdom, the comforter of the needy, the killer of evil, and now, a broken toy lying on the ground... Now is not the time

3 am Philosopny

Welcome to the cycle. A few blogs ago, I mentioned a very sloppy theory on the fractal pattern of life. An entry before I mentioned that I am tired. Syllogistically, I will get progressively tired as I travel down the path to the end of the spiral... Anyway... I'm exhausted. Here is the thing. I have been torn all of my life between what people want from me and everything I want to be. I've got a song about it and everything.

Let's start from the beginning. Long ago I was an introverted chubby Mexican-German crossbred mutt with no friends. I found that no one liked me for who I was, just what they could get out of me. Coupled with my religious beliefs, I turned this social parasitism into a lifestyle. In the end, It's a good system for people that are not me. People start telling me things like "you're the only reason I haven't quit," or "you're like the only nice guy here," or, back in my single days "why can't I find a guy like you?" Last I checked, I was a guy like me.

Here's my problem. I am still an unappealing person, with poor health, an O'douls beer gut, and lacking in social graces that I didn't obtain from watching smart ass movies like Office Space and Tommy Boy. The only difference is that the crowd's face has changed. Same people using me for my niceness and supportive attitude, Same people using me for their good feeling. Different people with biological and existential limitations, but the same people none the less. I'm either a whore or a drug, and when I'm spent I'm useless garbage. I'm hoping I'm a drug because if I were a whore, I would've seen more money for this crap.

There's probably more I could expound upon, but I would rather sleep. If no one reads this, no one will be disappointed.

Chronos Et Veritas

I sit here now, typing one handed, the other hand around a crying baby who would prefer squirming and falling to her doom than sleep, drinking cherry coke reflecting on how far I have come. My boxes are strewn about filled with books, sheets, my music, amd my books of sheet music, while I wallow in my own remorse for the fact that, once again, I am forced to move back into my parents place from Missoula due to money issues... Last year about this time I was typing one handed crying, the other around a stigma of regret that inclined me to prefer squirming to my doom than sleep, drinking a cherry coke and reflecting on how the hell I got here. I had less boxes strewn about filled with text books, bed sheets, my music, and my textbooks of sheet music that I refused to go to bed for, while I wallowed in my own remorse that I am forced to leave Missoula for the first time, due to money issues.

This leads me to a conclusion. The proverbial "History repeats itself" slogan held by High school history teachers and twice devorcays (not too sure on the spelling there) is proved positive in the case of love and life. Once again I'm sitting amidst my failures and miseries... the smoldering pieces of a life set for greatness, but can only achieve mediocrity and blood loss with no gain. Once again I am left with only my closing door and my things. There's a difference this time however. I have more stuff. Another pearl that I have drug to the abyssal floor amidst the water monsters and angler fish and brought to ruin.

The people seem to increase by every monumental failure I achieve. The first one was just me. A near failure at school, a job that was floundering, and a personal failure of my own dealing with my own personal life of lust and self loathing. Then I drove the object of my lust into the hole with me the second time, getting her pregnant, marrying her on a spur of the moment, and starting our life of ruin, getting fired from a pizza place for leaving the back door open once when a half wit bastard operations manager waltzed in. Now, on to the most recent acquisition of post-cataclysmic rubble, My daughter was born into a world that has given her no chance and no hope monetarily. However, I look into my whole upbringing. My father was no older than I was when he had me and I guess by that time he was as desperate.

He had no "father figure" to speak of and well, I had a very present father figure with no reference to a father figure, so to sum up, that's an example of an example of no example. He had his own style of parenting that made me in a lot of ways the way that I am. He was a basic man for whom steak and potatoes were a bit flashy. He was honest to a fault and was always up front with me, especially when he was mad. I feared him and loved him all at once. It was his honesty that ultimately taught me everything that I know about interpersonal relationship. Now, I have only the shady outline of what he knew and what I learned form what he knew. But I digress

Back to history repeating itself. I'd like to propose that history repeats itself, but it repeats itself in a form of fractal geometry. Much like a figure repeating itself over and over, smaller and smaller into infinity, there is a point where the pattern of life creates the same pattern inside of itself. It gets so small that everything, to a final point, becomes blurry. History makes this evident in the events before the printing press. There is a definite schism in history before standardized printing that the pattern of history's fractal becomes clear. Everything after that is definite dates and definite locations, with people and places, until the present, the main picture revealed. Beyond the present is only an assumed pattern of what the past looks like.

The same holds true for human experience, the foundation of history in general. From the time you are born to the time you have your first memory, you have the same fractal. There is your first memory that acts as the printing press of your brain. It's always some intense memory, like falling down stairs or crying when a tooth gets slammed out of your head by the front door. The printing press starts the chronicles and annals of your own life until you are in the present and finding that your future is zoomed in on your past.

My father's printing press for his mind was growing up. He didn't have so much fun with 15 brothers and sisters. he learned to cope and to be simple and to be honest. The fractal continues with my cluelessness and my own experience.

So, finally, the world comes into focus, and I find myself in my own little fractal pattern of striving, failing and moving home to start again...