Sexual Spectrum or — How Every subsequent Y in your road is affected by those who preceded *

          I think a lot.  I ruminate.  Ponder.  Plan for contingencies.  Meditate about the me of today who's composing this beginning sentence of a beginning paragraph which I've just begun with only the title above as my stanchion and which is, at the moment, only based on a couple-to-three ephemeral ideas without a solid bridge betwixt them.

          Today, I think I should list these ideas because that'll make it easier to see where to begin to build bridge-abutments and also will—I hope—help me to remember them before they, like most of my mental messages-in-a-bottle, drift out of reach.

          When thinking about the me of yesteryear, I recall the major decisions which had the most geographical, emotional, financial, and intellectual effect on the me-outcome (more specifically, the where, who, how's, and why's that comprise the me that is today-me).  I realize that I made some of the more drastic course corrections in my life because of the few women I loved in yesteryear and the one I'm currently in love with.

          Bridge.

          Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of thoughts, emotions, suppositions, hormones, taboos, and facts.  Tens of billions of humans have simplified all that, in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children).  I too, simplified it to understand it.

          Not very long ago, I considered everyone who wasn't heterosexual to be homosexual.  When someone claimed to be bisexual—as far as I was concerned—they were homosexual.  I (erroneously) thought this way because I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved.  I love breasts (especially, the pert variety); the shape of the female buttock is wondrous; and I can't get enough pudenda.  Conversely, the penis and scrotum are ugly; testosterone-packed male physiques are as attractive, to me, as inanimate objects, and androgyny is a blah.

          I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates.  The boys I talked with said they also didn't choose.  The girls talked about their unflinching attraction to hard muscles and body hair with the same tone I use when adoring all that's smooth, svelte, and hairless.  I also talked with a few gay guys (who I knew well enough to talk specifics) and they assured me their sexuality had been formed in adolescence and couldn't choose any more than I could—one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart" and said they'd "never be fully accepted by the gay community".

          Bridge.

          In high school, I was informed that approximately ten percent of the population was left-handed and almost everyone in the world was right-handed, like me.  At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned there existed a small number of exceptional people who were ambidextrous.

          The textbook went on to explain these gifted people were capable of doing everything equally well with either hand.  I remember a story about a dead-before-I-was-born president who was innately left-handed but taught as a child (I think the book used the word forced) to become right-handed.  It said he occasionally would show-off his talent by writing simultaneously with both hands and may even have related that he could write in two different languages at the same time (but that might be confabulation on my part).  I also recall something about tutors and nannies being involved in forcing/re-training him to be right handed.  And I recall feeling scorn for the reason he had been was forced to stop writing with his left hand: some fucktard in his family believed the left hand was the devil's hand.  It's possible the school book encouraged my scorn by its choice of phrasing (although I'm sure it didn't use the word fucktard, that's all me).  A quick search would turn up this president's name but since I don't recall it off-the-top of my gulliver I'm disinclined to embellish poor memory with moot facts.

          In college, I was told that about ten percent of the population were homosexual, that almost everyone in the world was heterosexual like me.  At the same time (probably in the same dorm-room bullshitting session) I was informed of the existence of a small number of people who were attracted to both sexes.

          Specifically, one bullshit session attendee alleged, some bisexuals (more of whom, he said, were female than male) were not turned-off by the body, physique, or genitals of their own sex, which garnered nods of understanding from that roomful of hetero-men.  We could get our brains around how a hetero-woman might be capable of seeing beauty in the female form—what was confusing, to us, was how a hetero-man could be attracted to another man.  A joke was re-told (which originated from an unfunny comedian who I can't recall the name of) which said the upside of being bisexual was doubling one's chances of a date on Friday night.  Another bullshitter related a story (which probably began with: my junior high school neighbor's cousin's best-friend once told us...) about how this nameless boy he knew was groomed over a period of years by one of his older relatives to first receive and then give blowjobs and then, later, to give and eventually receive anal sex (his story never contained the word forced).  It was the first time I'd heard the word 'groomed' in that context (and I wasn't alone, because someone went off on a 'bridegroom/groom' tangent).  The nameless boy's story concluded with the allegation that before, during, and after the years of abuse, he was innately attracted only to girls.  The bullshitter telling the story surmised that because the nameless boy had been intimate with a member of the same sex for such a prolonged period of time that he might, now, be able to choose.  At this point the bullshit session switched its focus to the sexual proclivities of Greek philosophers (someone had a philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room.

          Bridge.

          I have grown into the knowledge that gender and human sexuality is a very complex spectrum.  I picture a two dimensional xy Cartesian graph.  The horizontal line depicting the genitalia one is innately sexually attracted to.  On the left is the female pudenda (the minus 5 position); on the right is the male penis (the plus 5 position).  Someone who is equally attracted to both sexes and who chooses his or her next partner based solely on the fickle winds of chance mutual attraction is a 0.

          I think of the top of the vertical line as a measure of how strong one's attraction feels, or how often one thinks about sex, or how often one has the urge to engage in their preferred sexual act (it's subjective and doesn't matter if one plots one's strength point for a given moment in time or for the average over a period of time).  At the top, the plus 5 position, is sexual addicts and those incapable of controlling their constant sexual urges.  Where the vertical meets the horizontal (the zero point) is those who are asexual and incapable of any attraction.  Just above the zero point, the plus 1 position, is those who exclusively pleasure themselves (which would include iDollators).

          The bottom of the vertical line is for all the paranormal innate attractions.  At the bottom, the minus 5 position, is for necrophiliacs.  All of the minus positions cover the range of attractions which society considers abnormal from sexual attractions to inanimate objects, BDSM, and rape.       

         To be accurate and complete, this graph now needs to become an xyz three-dimensional graph in order to measure fantasy versus reality.  What one thinks about when one is engaging in the sexual act is important because it's the brain that's sexual, not the body.  The further along the plus z line the more fantastic one's mental images are from what's currently happening to one's body (within societal "norms").  100% focus on the sex one's body is experiencing—no fantasy—is 0; the further along the minus z line the more disparate the brain's focus is from what is currently being experienced by one's body (outside of societal "norms").  

          Bridge.

          Mental moving snapshots with sound:  My first significant other is berating me for my unwillingness to attend catholic mass.  Her sharp words are intended to make me feel guilty for my lack of materialism and lack of concern for our toddler's spiritual upbringing, which is my final straw (Snap.)  My second significant other's  insouciance becomes unbearable.  No words becomes no love (Snap.)  Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide, while she is on a relationship-sabbatical to locate my current love (Snap.)  Now we are ten years together.  Everything is as wonderful as I imagined it could be.  Better, having chosen not to tolerate the bad behavior of her predecessors, who taught me what type of woman to look for and what, who, and where not to be. 

          Bridge.

          So hey.  I've stopped saying "people don't choose" because some people do.  Maybe a lot of people do (maybe the world is equally divided in thirds: 1/3 hetero and can't choose otherwise; 1/3 homo and can't choose otherwise; and 1/3 are attracted to both, can choose, and do...or let their government/church choose for them).

          There seems to be a large quantity of fundamentalists and conservatives who use the word "choose and choice" with an definite air of certainty...maybe that's because every one of them are near the 0 point, in the middle of the horizontal axis and they've all decided to let their religious and political leaders tell them what choice to make.

          The most important point is everyone should be happy with what they've got (between their ears).  If you haven't yet found what makes you happy (between the sheets)...keep looking.  If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found their happy) stop attempting to make them as unhappy as you are; misery doesn't really love company.

          * Original essay from the spring of 2013; my views on these subjects have continued to grow after talking/listening to different people (over the previous seven years) explain their thoughts about gender and sex.

D’Abord Stalactite de Glace


Fickle icicle – grow n’ shrink

midnight stone

sunlight drink

yester-blowback, reminisce

trickle drip-track

puddle’s kiss.

Danger icicle – toe th’ brink

frightful mass

girth n’ length

knelt a roof crack, precipice

tickle hold-back

parti pris.

          – D'Abord Stalactite de Glace (First Icicle) by Veach Glines

Neither Overwhemed Nor Underwhelmed



What is the cement of memory?

Does what we remember form who we are?

Why do we forget 99% of our lives?


          As I type this opening paragraph, my brain is switching between thoughts about choosing interesting words that will entertain itself as it compiles this sentence and—switch—scrounging thru my memory-attic for events, which can fit in a bright mauve container labelled ‘overwhelming’.   My as-I-type brain just decided that the first event to go in, is

          Witnessing—for almost two full minutes—the 2017 total eclipse of the sun.   I prepared for this event for months.  I bought expensive wrap-around viewing glasses and a phone-app to track where the shadow was going to be.   Weeks before, I drove a few hundred miles to reconnoiter.  I read articles describing what to look for when it happened.   The day of, I woke at 4am for a 5am departure in order to set-up three hours ahead of time.  As the moon began to creep across the sun, I recalled aloud (for the handful of people with me) a few previous partial eclipses and used the term underwhelming to describe those curled and faded polaroid snapshots.—switch—These vague recollections of pinholes in paper and flimsy cardboard glasses are now attached—like a deflated balloon static-stuck to the back of a worn-out child’s sweater—to the overwhelming event.   (I typed ‘overshadowing event’ and edited it so as to not end this paragraph on a pun.)—switch

          The moment when the entire moon’s shadow—the umbra—completely covered the sun:  the blue sky turned black; the yellow corona around the sun became white; stars were visible; the air temperature dropped; the silence of no-more bird and insect noises grabbed for my attention; spots of corona-sunlight, inside of darker shadows, took-on the changing shape (circular to crescent) of the umbra; and ripples of light wavered across the ground like faint “light snakes.”   My senses were overloaded.  I could not catch up.   There was no time to think or focus on the moment.

          —switch—It seems my as-I-type brain considers it's desirable when it-itself is unable to function as it's currently functioning (which, it considers to be its norm; its steady-state; its comfortable, uneventful, default mode; its regular state of being, which is neither over- or under-whelmed) and this asItype brain is not putting anything into its memory.  Short-term memory disappears unless something over- or under-whelms enough to get stored long-term.

          I know if I were not currently writing about thoughts—an act which facilitates asItype to be able, in the future, to become asIread (which, in turn, will become the me that has re-remembered based on what previous-me wrote)—I would, very soon, no longer be able to recall how I occupied myself this mid-November Friday morning.   If I'd instead been studying, reading, hiking, gaming, painting, listening to music, watching videos, talking with friends, playing with my cat, or performing routine chores, I would (probably) not be able to answer the question, “What did you do last Friday morning?”   Because of these words, these paragraphs, this essay (about normally neither being over- or under-whelmed) I can say I was writing an essay about memory.

          Now asItype wonders why are our recollections valued?   Is being able to recall something because it was sufficiently overwhelming/underwhelming to become immediately-permanently locked in long-term memory a prerequisite to being consciously aware of what is important to who we are and who we want to be?  And—switch—let me dig for a stronger, more recent, memory to stick in the intense yellow underwhelming container (next to those partial eclipses).

          Last June, I drove the west-east Going-To-The-Sun Road, through Glacier National Park.  I would not use the word boring to describe the slow procession up and over—but I would not use the word exciting either.  Rivulets of snow melt soaked me a few times (cabriolet top was down) and some of the hairpin turns with sheer drops revealed very interesting views; but a complete lack of wildlife and over 90 minutes of traffic-jams combined to make the 50-mile drive an unsatisfactory experience.—switch

          Why?—my asItype-self asks itself.  What made this memorably underwhelming?

          Preconceived expectations were not met—during my first visit to Glacier National Park (13 years ago) the Going-To-The-Sun Road was closed because of snow (which created—in that 2006-me’s brain—an unfulfilled desire).  On that trip, I felt privileged-lucky to see:  bald eagle, elk, black bears and grizzly bears, and experienced no vehicle traffic or full parking lots. 
 
 
more mind & memory essays:
 
 
 

Winterfall

Find
Where you best - are comfortable at rest
Near the space where the muscles under your face
Unwind, then
Seek the spot when
Your attentive mind - feels evermost kind
Unfocused on the locus while at the same time
Reach, for a
Resolve to abhor
Never to soar - or - teach yourself to become more
Cognizant of whatever you're always most-never
Aware, yet
Don't devolve
Or forget - that every contestant we've never once met
Dies before they consider themselves wise
Careful, there
It's slippery
(You have time - I know, you know there's no finish line.)

                         - Winterfall by Veach Glines

Thanks Fellow Veteran





          Instead of the bland, ubiquitous, cringe-inducing 'thank you for your service' - try asking a question.  And, because I think humorous questions are better than serious ones, try these:
  • Was it an adventure or was it just a job?
  • What was it like to be more than you could be?
  • Was it fun doing more before 9 am than others do all day?
  • Do people expect a you're welcome when they thank you for your service?

Before Looking for an Apartment in Vermont

Thinking about moving to Vermont?    
  • Almost all landlords are members of the Vermont Landlords Association (VLA), which behaves like a guild/insurance company.
  • The VLA has a policy-guideline:  no more than 30% of a renter's income should be spent on housing (rent combined with all utilities and 'housing fees').
  • Member-landlords treat this as law and ask all prospective tenants to provide proof of income.
  • Acceptable documents include recent pay-stub or employer-letter.
  • Landlords will refuse to lease to tenants who's income would cause the tenant to pay more than 30% on housing.
  • The VLA supports its member-landlords with legal assistance and can provide monetary assistance if any tenant behavior results in a financial loss to a member-landlord.
  • The VLA may refuse to assist a member-landlord if employment documents were not obtained or if those documents reflect insufficient income.
Important statistics:
  • Vermont Minimum wage (as of 1 Jan 2020) is $10.96, which computes (for a full-time employee) to about $1,900 a month before taxes.
  • Assume double-occupancy (every minimum-wage worker must have a roommate in Vermont) and 1,900 x 2 = $3,800.
  • 30% of $3,800 is $1,140.
  • $250 monthly utilities (1 BR Apt) $60 electricity; $150 (average) heat; $40 garbage.
  • $1,140 minus $250 is $890.
  • $890 is the maximum rent a landlord can expect two minimum wage workers to afford.
  • In and around the metro-Burlington area (where more than 50% of the state population resides), average 1BR rents are $1,300 (+/- $300) albeit many complexes offer units with all or most utilities included in the rent.
  • To be permitted to afford $1,300 a month, in rent and utilities, the household must be able to prove they have an annual income of $52,000.
None of this is a government regulation/law; merely a guideline, informally enforced by VLA member-landlords.  The results:
  • Throughout the state, housing turn-over (across all levels and types) is extremely low (and not just in the winter).  The reason?  The minimum wage increased 18 cents per hour from last year; which is $30 a month.  Nobody can move if their rent has increased more than their wages.  
  • There is a constant need for temporary, seasonal, minimum-wage workers (50-60% of businesses have help wanted signs).  The reason?  Nobody can move to a state with almost the highest rates of taxation in the country and middling wages, if there is an unregulated "informal gatekeeper" dictating: every household must have over $50K to move here
 The fix is simple:

          Vermont legislature:  Make it illegal for businesses and landlords to request a person's income.

 other very-vermont things worth noting:

Good Day to Be a Crow


          A few days ago, I decided to go trail walking among the falling and yet-to-fall autumn leaves.  At the trailhead, I noticed a list of Vermont's Hunting and Trapping Dates.  Although I hadn't heard any gunshots, I realized that was probably the last thought JFK, MLK, and Theo Van Gogh all had (although Theo had enough time for a follow-up think: "nobody kills the village idiot," since his assassin only shot him off his bicycle and, then, dispatched him with a knife).

          As I got out my reading glasses, I looked down at myself (wearing exclusively subdued colors except for a splash of color on my hat) and read that bow season was already open for deer, and black bear season had been open for more than six weeks.  Which caused me to feel both stupid-lucky and stupid-foolish at the same time – I'd walked in different wooded areas every one of those past weeks not wearing bright colors but with bear spray on my hip. 

          Driving away, I considered what the odds were of being killed by a human compared to being killed by a black bear (and decided it was statistically more probable to be murdered, by at-least a factor of 100).  Then I wondered at the increased odds of being "accidentally shot" by a drunk, stoned, Vermont hunter, during bear hunting season, while wearing a black sweater (and decided it was smart I chose not hiking to Preston Lake that day).

          One line on the list of hunting season dates stuck and wouldn't let go of my shadow:

          Crow   JAN 18 thru APR 8 and AUG 19 thru DEC 16:  Open FRI – MON Only; Closed TUE – THR

          It seems that it is illegal to hunt crows mid-week in this state.  What logic-based data (presumably, closed hunting dates are decided on nesting dates) would support only hunting four days a week?

          Crows – which the government stupidly uses as a category-name for all Corvids – learn from past experiences, pass information along to their young, and (reportedly) are scared away from an area by shooting at them or by using a crow-based scarecrow.

          The federal government regulates an annual maximum number of days in which every state is permitted to allow the hunting of migratory birds.  Vermont Dept of Fish and Wildlife disagrees with the categorization of crows as migratory (considers them a nuisance) and closes "crow season" every mid-week so as to appear to adhere to the letter of the federal regulation. 

 

other Vermont to-see's:

An Amazon God Has Spoken



          As someone who owns TACKLIFE Propane Fire Pit... can you help this fellow customer?

 

Q:    What is the difference between bo7lg5kdnk for 179 and the bo7lg5q78q for 189?

A:     Ahhh young padawan, it is illogical to ask the amazon gods about the algorithm which determines why one ASIN costs ten dollars more than another.  That is a question better answered by camelcamelcamel.  (An Amazon God Has Spoken)


Q:    After watching the installation video, i realized that i did not plug in the wire to the auto starter. once i plug in the wire, it worked.

A:    How did you find out how to make it turn on without using any of your own brain cells?  For 200.   (An Amazon God Has Spoken)


Q:    Can we put this on the outskirts of our garage so we can have some cover?

A:    Based on your vague description (the word "outskirts" and "some cover" are not helpful in specifically knowing your plans, but are helpful in that I think you already know the idea is wrong-headed).  I picture you and your elderly husband placing this large propane fire just inside your open garage door and saying that 'the amazon gods said it would be ok'.  If you do this, you could fail to get sufficient ventilation from the open door that the carbon monoxide kills you before you get a chance to see the plastic portions of your siding melt and the paint catch on fire from the heat.  I put this in the middle of my back yard and could see the heat moving leaves on a branch twenty-five feet above - I recommend you watch the video 'dumb ways to die' for more things you should not do.  You are welcome (An Amazon God Has Spoken).

Other Posts About Amazon

Don't Act Like a Nail and Complain About Hammers

          When caring and cognizant parents recognize a dysfunction in their child, they seek advice from a health care professional.  No matter how immature it is, that child’s mind already began to form a coping mechanism, projecting: ‘this is how you-I-we function, you are normal, I am right, we aren’t impaired, they are all wrong’.

          Children become adults.  The coping mechanisms (of those without caring and cognizant parents) have denied their dysfunction for so long that—in most cases—the dysfunctional adult is no longer able to recognize when they are “unable to get out of their own way.”  And, when others point out their disordered thoughts or actions, their coping mechanism takes over:  better to change jobs, break-up with partners, cut off family members, and then blame them for the change/break-up/cut off.

          Narcissists, sociopaths, and psychopaths are rarely clinically diagnosed; most never have significant enough life-impairment to admit they need assistance from a mental health professional.   People with un-diagnosed NPD appear to act like people with no mental disorders, unless one observes their behavior from a close perspective.  (Because lying and manipulation as well as having no empathy and no remorse are behaviors only noticeable by people who are close to them.  In simple terms:  Friends and family are the only ones who care when friends and family are callous and/or uncaring.)    

          Almost every female in my family is/was a narcissist (it only seemed to skip-over Great Aunt Betty).  Research has identified that female narcissists tend to raise female narcissists.  Point out their lies, manipulations, lack of empathy, or refusal to apologize and they all—bar none—cut off communication for years or…for decades.

          Or… for what is left of our respective time alive—(as I reaffirmed when I wrote to my sister to see if she was still a narcissist).

          She referred to suing our step-father’s estate in the 90’s this way: “…I broke with the hypocritical narcissist and her progeny and have nothing to apologize for in my behavior.”  Although an ironically contorted way to refer to our mother, half-sister and myself, she eventually re-re-re-terminated all our future communications using all the aplomb of a highly-practiced coping mechanism: “I do respect that you reached out, and these emails show how we both tried … I found this worthwhile, too, but I am not interested in taking this any further.”   

          After my friend died in 2018, my half-sister showed all four traits in quick sequence.  I wrote her a detailed letter (mailed in an envelope) and explained how her detrimental narcissistic actions on the phone, in texts, and in emails were affecting me.  I said I’d remain open to future communications regarding her un-diagnosed NPD in the form of envelope-letters, because they require (and show) time and effort.  She replied in an email:  “…I will send via email, since I truly send so few things via post” and—after nothing but (unopened) links and curt texts for about ten months—sent this text: “thinking you’ve made it to Vermont … a new address to send letters?” 

          Narcissists. Do. Not. Give. One. Shit. About. Anyone. But. Themselves.  They also do not keep track of the lies or excuses they use to manipulate (but will quickly claim you're attempting to manipulate them if you quote them).  Their coping mechanism will not permit them to be open and honest with themselves, most of the time, so forget about open-honest words coming out of their mouth.  They also choose not to see their own behavior thru the eyes of other people—and choose not to picture themselves in other people’s shoes. 

          My half-sister was unaware of the irony in sending:  ‘I will send via email’ in an email; unable to imagine her words ‘to send letters’ would remind me of her excuse: ‘I truly send so few things via post’; and—when forwarding memes (like this)—she is oblivious it shows her coping mechanism at work:  using Hallmark-words is efficient, sufficient, and hides that you/I/we are deficient (when we use our own words).  
 
 
 related essay-articles: 

 

Stories of My Demise - Amor Fati and Memento Mori

          Recent essays about Bret and Carol reminded me of a couple of my favorite philosophical theories:   Amor Fati (love fate) and Memento Mori (remember death).  Both Latin phrases are related to the philosophy of The Stoics.

           Memento Mori is something I incorporated into my thoughts long before learning that these unique ideas about death had been codified and given a name over two thousand years ago. 

          Although I understand the useful mental benefits that Amor Fati are supposed to provide, I find myself struggling with the practice of incorporating it into daily life.
   
          In his last book, Ecco Homo, Nietzsche (considered an Existentialist by many - albeit, a label he would have shunned) coined the phrase Amor Fati, which I’ve paraphrased:
          The formula for human greatness is to love fate — to want nothing (which has-happened in the past or will-happen in the future) to be any different than it was or will be.  Do not just ‘bear with’ the necessary hardships in life, much less conceal them, but—instead—love them! 
          I can quasi-successfully get my brain around Nietzsche’s advice:  belaboring our regrets is a dark hole we should be wary of; ‘lucky’ coins provide a single benefit (melt-value exceeds face-value); and, fearing what tomorrow has in store imbues worry but does not alter events.  Therefore (sayeth Fred) ‘flaunt the hardships of life and cherish them, for they are necessary.’  But I say: The hard-knocks which fate has already dealt—or has yet to deliver—haven’t all been (and won’t all be) valuable teaching tools.  I regret stepping in dogshit yesterday, dislike whomever chose not to bag it after their pet shit in my yard, and didn’t enjoy cleaning my shoe.  But, I will remain open to suggestions on how Amor Fati is successfully practiced.

          Pertaining to Memento Mori, the stoic philosopher, Aurelius wrote,
          “Don't look down on death, but welcome it.  It, too, is one of the things required by nature; like youth and old age, like growth and maturity, like a new set of teeth, a beard, the first gray hair, like sex and pregnancy and childbirth—this is how a thoughtful person should await death—not with indifference, not with impatience, not with disdain, but simply viewing it as one of the things that happens to us.” 
          After attending my maternal-grandfather’s funeral, I learned that Papa (1915-1977) had been planning on retiring, and collecting social security later that same year—only an unforeseen heart attack derailed his plans while he was sleeping.  At his funeral, I re-heard the story of his father’s demise at the age of 57 (also, of an unforeseen heart attack) although Great-Papa was rowing a boat at the time of his death.
 
          When I first began to talk about those two ancestors (Papa and Great-Papa) I’d synopsize their lives to underscore how they might have enjoyed the relaxation of a few “golden years” if they hadn’t chosen to blindly focus on, and plan for, the end of their employment years based on the one-size-fits-all, government retirement template.

          In the middle of my 17th year of military service—1999—I was (not partying like it was almost Y2K but, rather, was seriously) second-guessing my oft-stated plan to retire in three years.  Fate reminded me.  My father, Leverett, died of an unexpected heart attack.  He was 60 and driving down a sunny mid-afternoon road.  Needless to say, I stuck to my plan.

          Bring up the subject death and I, invariably, get massive push-back.  Everyone I’ve ever attempted to talk with—about death (theirs, mine, anyone’s) is really invested in the specious idea that it is unpredictable and mysterious and (most important) never imminent.   I’m routinely scoffed at when I explain the primary reason I remained in the military for twenty years (and not 30) was because I did not want to follow in my ancestor’s footsteps (that of working up to the day of demise).  “Oh Veach, you aren’t going to die anytime soon!” I constantly hear from naysayers, all-in-a-rush to change the subject.

          My form of Memento Mori is slightly different from that of the Stoics.  I agree that death is a normal part of life, but I also think it should be a topic of normal conversation.  Bring it up with the kids.  Talk about it over beers with a neighbor.  It needs to be discussed because it needs to be de-fanged.

          Americans avoid the subject of death and dying slightly more-often than they avoid talking about how much money they have (promulgated by a foolish, 1950-era, white, male, corporate-mindset based in privilege, greed, inequality and an unspoken ‘I got mine – you get yours’ doctrine) and ever-so-slightly less-often than they talk about what flavor of sex they enjoy (promulgated by a foolish, 450s-era, white, male, religious-mindset based in close-minded hypocrisy, fear, and an unspoken ‘I hide mine – you better hide yours’ doctrine).

           To treat death as a taboo subject, imbues it with the power of mystery.  It isn't mysterious.  It may not be as predictable as the weather (remember when the weather was never predicted with any measurable accuracy?) but definite patterns can be identified.  Actions can be taken to mitigate impending death.  And, when the visage with the scythe does, eventually, come knocking (as it has for every living thing, ever) if you are someone who practiced Memento Mori and Amor Fati you will not be taken by surprise in your sleep, or in your car, or in your rowboat.  You will be mentally prepared for the end of your life - as any rational person should be.

The First Rule of Philosophy Club is Don't Talk About . . .


          I'm reticent to tell people, in normal conversation, that I've been studying and currently study philosophy.  Even after years of researching different philosophical areas, I don't bring it up unless directly asked.  When I consider talking spontaneously about what I've learned, I feel a pressure-twinge in the proximity of my brain near my conscience, which urges me toward an act of inaction, whichwhen translated into wordslooks like something firmly wedged between modesty and humility.

          Initiation into philosophy club began with reading some books written by some very-long-dead old wise men that had been translated, re-translated, and interpreted (andsurprisingly oftenre-re-interpreted) by less-long-dead (or, occasionally, living) wise people.  The translators and interpreters labeled themselves: Authorand labeled the men they translated and interpreted: Philosopher.

          For me, one book led to another.  One video to another.  Repetition was important.  Re-reading or re-listening became valuable.  Reading a different author/interpreter discuss the same very-long-dead philosopher became most important.  In the long run, all that really happened was I, eventually, gleaned a few insights about the universe; human life and death; society; politics; religions; the brain, consciousness, and the importance of human reasoning; time; logic; as well as how best to cope and how to decide how best to cope (whichsimply putis how to think about thinking and use that self-awareness to best advantage).

          Realization that I was a member of philosophy club occurred when I recognized my ability to become self-aware had increased (I haven't become fully self aware, but, knowing what that means is a valuable step).  Membership brought with it the knowledge that all of these insights were available to everyone who can read.

          Knowledge about knowledge can be meta-knowledge, but it also can be an awareness that everything labeled "philosophical theory or concept" (which I might/might not be able to understand in whole or part) is no different than a single informative sentence.  Because we all know a paragraph will provide more information.  Which leads us to realize that an entire book would be much more informative.  Then we see an entire shelf of books and wonder about the quantity and quality of all that additional information.  Stepping back, we are now far enough away to observe the entire library and realize there are (and were) more library's nearby.  (Library's which are filled with information, library's which were burned to the ground a while ago, as well as library's which were burned to the ground before any author/translator was able to read what all those very-long-dead old men had thought about long and hard enough to write it all down.)

          There will never be completion when it comes to knowledge.  Every theory and concept and idea comes from reading about theories and concepts and ideas.  The result of my studying various types of philosophy isit transformed me from a person of average intelligence into a wise person.

          A wise person once said, "referring to oneself as an artist requires a punishable amount of hubris."

          What an astute phrase within an ironic sentence (since I just made it up).  More accurately, I assume I just compiled the above seventeen words and four punctuation marks into an order, which no person compiled them into before.  I'm not saying the concept is novel.  Certainly, some hundreds or thousands (millions?) of people have already said, or written, about the terms wise and artist in conjunction with hubris.  I may even have heard or read them.  However like George Harrison writing My Sweet LordI have no awareness of He's So Fine in my consciousness, as I type.

          The building blocks of my sentence are both words and ideas.

          I learned, at UW-Milwaukee, that most creative people did not refer to themselves using the term Artist.  Yes, we had gallery showings.  Yes, some of us profited from selling what we created.  But, artist was a compliment-label we reserved for others to use about us.

          Accordingly, when studying philosophical concepts, I learned that most extremely intelligent people did not refer to themselves using the term Wise.  Yes, they were successful authors.  Yes, they may be professors and may possess Doctorates in Philosophy.  But, wise was a compliment-label they reserved for others to use about them.

          I metrecentlya person who creates art and sells it in a gallery she owns and operates.  She constantly refers to herself as an artist.  She also insists, with the bulldozing personality of a stage performer, that other creatives must self-anoint, proclaim, and metaphorically tattoo the word ARTIST somewhere prominent for the world to always read.

          Although I consider her artistic, and can see passion in her work, she is not wise.  She is neither humble nor modest, nor does she possess the inaction firmly wedged between humility and modestly.  Instead, she suffers from an inability to get out of her own way.  She is a business-woman.  She is an activist.  She is not an artist.

Death of a Friend — Bret Harrison (1956 - 1978)


          While I was writing the essay about a recently-made close friend who died, my brain did one of the weird-things-it-does by recalling a teenage friend who died when I was still a teen.  I don't think my brain does this because of my Asperger's.  It probably behaves this way as a result of my decades-old drive to exercise my memory, which has over-time become a force-of-habit.  Maybe everyone's brain does this to some extent (only yours doesn't tease out every detail, write about it, or create art because of it).

          Although—between 1972 and 1976—Bret and I attended the same schools in Peru, Indiana (go tigers) and lived very near each other in Parkview Heights (referred to as, by everyone we knew, a "development" or a "sub-division" rather than a neighborhood) we were as opposite as two teenagers could ever have been.

          I started the eighth grade as new student/new city/new school at Peru Junior High, with about a hundred new classmates (who'd all been in puberty for at least a year already),  Unfortunately, I was a short-for-my-age, prepubescent, 12 year old (a year younger than all my classmates).  It is significant to note that this was my 5th new school since I started first grade at 5 years old at Center School in Peabody, MA (My third grade was in New Haven, IN; fourth was in Fort Wayne, IN; fifth/sixth were in Nashport, OH; and seventh was in Frazeysburg, OH.)

          Add—on top of this abnormal constant-uprooting (step-father's job transfers) and the abnormal disparity in classmates ages—that my authoritarian mother forced me to always wear 'school clothes' when jeans, t-shirts, and "sneakers" were the norm; to always cut my hair short, when long or shaggy was de rigueur; and she, routinely, restricted my freedom ("grounded") whenever I was caught playing with a neighbor's toy from her ever-changing and illogical list of verboten items, which included:  plastic toy guns, BB guns, bicycles ("two-wheelers"), GI Joe ("action figures"), and minibikes.

          This snapshot is the environment which molded me into a shy, introverted, twelve year old (with an inability to make friends) when Bret sat down next to me on the school bus wearing his brand new, flesh-toned, starter mustache.  I'd been riding the bus to school for weeks and I'd never seen him before (on the bus or anywhere).  1970s-kid protocol was: high-schoolers didn't exchange pleasantries with junior high kids so I didn't talk to him because I assumed he was the former and learned from him (years later) that he had a personal protocol:  never initiate conversations with anyone.  Ever.

          My next memory of Bret is when it was already sweater-weather.  I was standing outside the school waiting for the doors to open, talking with no-one (new kid protocol), making eye contact with no-one (kid-who-always-gets-bullied protocol and Asperger's trait).  Regardless, one of the Tully twins decided it was time to pick on me—I never learned if it was Tim or Tom—he said something derogatory, laughed, and slapped the books under my arm to the sidewalk (why didn't anybody use book-bags back then, and, why didn't I use my Boy Scout back pack after this?)  Tully got a jeer of encouragement from other-Tully and a few more from the crowd, I dropped to the sidewalk to collect my homework before it blew away, and some of the feet around me began to step back (space-to-fight protocol) as a low voice said, "Leave him alone."  One of the Tullys started to reply, "Mind yer own...," but was interrupted by an arm with a fist at the end of it.  Stand-turning, I noticed blood coming from a Tullys mouth and blood on Bret's knuckles, who immediately turned and walked away without looking back.  I might have shouted a thanks at Bret's back, but that feels squishy, like a false memory.

          Years later, I asked Bret about it and he said that he definitely didn't recall me being there, and was 'definitely not coming to anyone's aid.'  He said that 'those fuckin Tullys' had always 'rubbed him wrong' and that he just saw an opportunity to punch a Tully and took it.

          It was strange to hear then (and weird to think about now)—Bret had the mind-set, in eighth grade, that some people were always deserving a pop in the mouth, and accordingly, he was going to be the person on the look-out for an opportunity to deliver it.  He'd seen a Tully causing a kerfuffle (didn't matter to whom) and popped that fuckin Tully in the mouth.

          Bret and I slowly became friends and, by senior year of High School, we were close enough that we ate lunch together on occasion, shared a study hall, and worked as primary designers on the Senior class homecoming float.  I learned that he was three-or-four years older than me; he'd been 16 with a driver's license (and a starter mustache) in eighth grade!  He was "held back" several times in Elementary School, because of "poor performance".  His older brother (whom I never met) died young and his mother died our Junior year.  There were many months that I never saw Bret (stories of "juvy-hall" abounded) but I never asked where he'd been when I eventually ran into him, and he never offered an explanation, which may have been why we got along.

          I have a vivid memory of walking up to him after a lunch in twelfth grade, and, as we stood talking about nothing, he looked at me and said, "hey, stand up."  Which caused me to look down then look him in the eye, and I recognized in-that-moment he had actually thought I was so short that I couldn't have been standing.  He laughed at his mistake in judgement so hard his eyes teared up, and that laughter was so contagious, my eyes teared as well.  For months after that 'hey-stand-up' was our inside-joke catch phrase.

           My last strong memory of Bret was after I accidentally locked the keys in my family car at our High School graduation party, and he agreed to drive me home for a spare set.  He drove kinda fast and got pulled over by a deputy sheriff less than a mile from the party.  My parents picked me up at the station, retrieved our car, and Bret's Nova SS.  Then Bret came to my house for his car—but only he was able to return to the party.  I was grounded.  (Because I locked the keys in the car, or, because I rode with a 21 year old after he had two beers, or, because needing to be picked up from the police station upset my parents - I'll never know.)

          Two years later, sometime in 1978, I learned Bret had died of the same disease that killed his brother and his mother.  It made me wonder if the months he was allegedly in some juvenile detention facility were just something (promulgated by Bret) to cover for some health treatments as well as improve his bad-ass street credentials.  Again, I'll never know.

Lose Weight the Hard-Simple Way (Notes on Keto, IMF, A-fib and Insulin Resistance)

          At the end of 2018, I recognized the common early warning signs for insulin resistance.  Over the previous five years, my thirst had increased until—ten months ago—I realized that it was waking me up to urinate/drink more water.  Also, I noticed a significant increase in my heart rate and blood pressure after meals.  About the same time, I noticed I could have an uneven heartbeat (arterial fibrillation/a-fib), which was intermittent and unrelated to meals, exercise, activity level, or anything I could determine by experimentation.

          My a-fib was not directly related to my insulin resistance.  My entire life I'd eaten (by default) a low-salt diet.  Once I learned how much salt, magnesium (Mg) and potassium (K) that my body needed (and wasn't getting) for normal cellular electrical function, I fixed my a-fib with Himalayan salt tablets (2-4 grams/day), Mg (1,500-4,000mg/day) and K (1150-1450mg/day).  All routine muscle cramps and twitches also disappeared along with the a-fib (except when I skip a few days of minerals to test it).

           What follows is a synopsis of my research and subsequent actions, which will - hopefully - save you the many hours I spent reading books and the internet.  Bullet points have been used to simplify the information.  I've followed the bullet points with some slightly-denser paragraphs.

  • All digested food = water, protein, fat, carbohydrates and vitamins/minerals.
  • Healthy bodies require (daily) = water, protein, fat and minerals.
  • There is no minimum daily carbohydrate (carb) requirement.  
  • The small intestine turns carbs/sugars (and any excess proteins) into bio-available glucose.
  • Glucose is used by the liver to quickly provide fuel to the body's cells. 
  • Glucose causes insulin to be created by the pancreas.
  • Insulin attaches to glucose and "unlocks" the "door" of energy-starved cells.
  • Proteins become amino acids, which are used to build/repair cells.
  • Fats (in the absence of glucose/insulin) become ketones to fuel the body's cells.
  • Fats (in the presence of glucose/insulin) are stored.
  • Insulin is a hormone which encourages fat storage and prevents fat burning.
  • When insulin is absent the pancreas creates the hormone glucagon to start fat burning.
  • Eat/snack carbs/sugars throughout the day = pancreas constantly releases insulin.
  • Insulin resistance = "the locks" on energy-starved cells become "jammed".
  • Exercise the body when insulin is present = build muscle (without losing energy).
  • Exercise the body when insulin is absent = burn more fat (but get tired faster).
  • The liver (and other organs) store about 24-48 hours of glucose for immediate use.
  • No carbs/sugar for 48+ hours = liver fuels the body's cells with stored fat (using ketones).
  • Insulin Resistance has been mislabeled as Type 2 Diabetes.
  • Type 1 Diabetes = pancreas produces none or insufficient amount of insulin.
  • Type 2 Diabetes = pancreas produces plenty of insulin but the cells demand more. 
         Shocking Fact #1:  There's no such thing as “Heart Disease.”  This came as a surprise, since my family tree is full of dead branches of male ancestors who died of it — my dad, Leverett:  heart attack while driving; Papa, Milton Bullard:  heart attack while sleeping; Great Grampy, Milton’s dad:  heart attack while rowing — and the list goes on.

          Doctors use the label Heart Disease as a catch-all for a group of symptoms that are merely a list of risk-factors for a person's potential future heart attack.  What all of the men in my family (and tens of millions of other people on Earth) probably died of, is actually Un-diagnosed Insulin Resistance / Type 2 Diabetes.

          Many people’s pancreas successfully continues to make more and more insulin whenever the body demands more and more of it to fuel their cells.  And — here is the important part — some people exhibit no symptoms or the symptoms happen so gradually that they go unnoticed or, since there is no pain involved, many people postpone taking action until it is too late.

          Most important fact I learnedInsulin Resistance/Type 2 Diabetes is curable because the body does not have to use very much insulin.  That came as big news to me.  Contrary to the food pyramid, there are no minimum daily requirements for carbohydrates or sugars.  There are only minimum requirements for protein, fat, and a few minerals – none for carbs/sugars.  Every cell has two entryways (a metaphor) for getting fuel for cellular energy: the cell’s front door and the cell’s back door (door metaphors).

          The Cell’s Front Door:  Insulin is required.  This is the simplest and easiest way for the body to fuel cells.  It’s the body’s path-of-least-resistance, because there are less chemical processes needed when consuming carbs (and logical in a evolutionary context: encourage fat storage while eating rare and difficult to find, very tasty, high-energy fruits).  The small intestine breaks down carbohydrates and refined sugars into bio-available sugars, which enters the bloodstream and causes the pancreas to produce insulin.  The insulin carries that bio-available sugar to energy-depleted cells, and then acts like a key—unlocking the door to the cell—which allows the bio-available sugar-fuel to enter.  And (sticking with this metaphor) each time insulin opens a cell’s door the lock on that door can become slightly worn.

          Insulin resistance is simply fuel-starved cells signaling their locks are getting worn out, and more insulin will be needed to unlock their doors; the pancreas responds by dumping more insulin into the bloodstream.  (And when that’s insufficient, doctors prescribe insulin pills and then injections of more insulin.  These are the same doctors who will never say, “Just switch the type of fuel that you are using to fuel your cells.”)

          The Cell's Back Door:  The less simple and harder way for the body to fuel cells is for the small intestine to contain no carbohydrates or refined sugars, which causes the pancreas to not produce the hormone insulin and, instead, produce the hormone glucagon.  When glucagon is present, the liver dumps its stored bio-available sugars into the bloodstream, and after all stored bio-available sugars are depleted (in a few hours or days) the liver signals the fats cells in the body to fuel the cells.  It does this by creating ketone bodies.

          These ketones carry fat from consumed food, and (eventually) from the body’s stored fat, to fuel the cells instead of using glucose from carbs.  The evolutionary impulse to “find, eat, and store all the sweet food so as to never deplete one’s reserve fuel tank because Winter Is Coming,” was—until refrigerators—the basis for human survival.  Now it is the basis for insulin resistance.      

         Curing insulin resistance is a very-hard-simple act.

How to Begin the Keto Diet - Step 1 – For about three weeks (give or take, depends on how often you succumb to sugar cravings) you need to eat no sugar or carbohydrates.  Zero carbs.  Eat as much protein and fat as you want.  Don’t count calories.  No vegetables except a moderate amount of avocados and greens with coconut MCT oil or avacado oil.  No fruits.  No nuts.  Just eat fatty meat, eggs, and cheeses and good fats.

Every time you eat any sugar/carbs (which includes the milk in your coffee and the greens in your salad) your liver will store it as bio-available sugar.  As long as it is a small amount, you can still go into ketosis.  And - if you are in full ketosis, you'll know it when you no longer feel hungry, have no food cravings, and only feel empty after hours of no food.

If - after days of eating only meat and dairy - you still have cravings and hunger?  You are consuming something you assumed had no sugar.  Alcohol = sugar.  One of your daily supplements may advertise as sugar-free; read the label: many sugar substitutes, like maltodextrin, make the pancreas create more insulin than sugar does.  I recommend using only liquid stevia extract as a sweetener.

Typical keto meals:  eggs, bacon and a whole avocado with coffee with heavy cream, and some drops of liquid stevia; a big hamburger patty, double cheese, fried egg on top, greens with coconut aioli, seltzer water with stevia; a steak with blue cheese and butter, a whole avacado and tea with no sweetener.  The first few days are the most challenging.  Your brain wants the carbs/sugars and it will tell your stomach very loudly that you need, must, get sugars.  Just snack on some pork rinds or some deli meat and cheese or another coffee with heavy cream.

Supplements - Because, on keto, you're never eating enough vegetables or fruits, and you probably weren't getting enough of many of these from the American Diet anyway:  Psyllium fiber pills; Multi-B vitamin; Zinc; Vitamin K (help calcium from heavy cream and cheese get out of my bloodstream); Vitamin D (absorption of other minerals and mood enhancement), Butyric Acid (large intestine health); Omega 3s (skin and cellular health), Turmeric (anti-inflammatory), Garlic (aids in the reduction of arterial plaque); CoQ10 (heart enzyme); apple cider vinegar pills (aids in digestion of all these fuckin pills).  

Step 2 - For the next three months you need to maintain less than a one-meal a week carb or sugar cheat meal limit (never a one day a week).  You are now, also gradually, going to pay attention to calories.  Counting calories is not really necessary, just use common sense.  You are going to eat less because you are less hungry and your body is not craving carbs anymore.

          I recommend a cheat meal once a month.  It's needed so you can experiment with how you feel; how insulin resistant or fat adapted have you become?  If you're doing this only to lose weight, then how much weight do you not lose the week of your cheat meal compared to a week of no cheat meal? 

          This is combined with a gradual phase-in of intermittent fasting (IMF).  This means you need to, slowly, reduce your daily eating/snacking from all day, to eating only within a 4 hour window.  Water, clear diet fluids, or coffee with stevia, are the only things you drink outside of an ever diminishing window of time.  Begin with 12 hours, and reduce it by 2 hours every few weeks until you feed yourself during a 4-hour time window.

          I should go into detail as to why experimenting with long term fasting is the next step.  But, since I don’t consider it a mandatory next step, I will just call this paragraph "Step 2.5"  Your body contains tiny, microscopic, filaments lining the interior walls of all of its arteries.  When we eat, something damages those filaments (research has not determined what hormone or chemical does the damage and some researchers completely deny it happens or that food is the cause).  When we don’t eat they, reportedly, grow back.  When we eat constantly they never grow back and the linings of our arteries eventually get tiny scars and long-term constant eating causes plaque to build up around those scars.  So when you reduce your eating window to 4 hours a day the filaments can grow back.  If you skip consuming anything that can cause the release of insulin for 24 hours (to a maximum of 48 hours) all filaments definitely grow back and autophagy begins.  Autophagy is what it sounds like: the body eating itself - and it is a good thing to do about once a month, because it means the pancreas has depleted glucagon and the body begins to do some "house cleaning" by consuming dead/damaged cells.  I say this step is not mandatory because it is just a way of pushing off a heart attack for a few years or decades.  You can not measure if it is (was) effective until you are crazy old and still alive.

Step 3 – You are now about nine months into your keto lifestyle.  You have – guarantee – lost at least 20% of your body mass.  You have not done much exercise, if any (it's only necessary if you enjoy it or are in some kind of hurry to lose weight).  Your insulin resistance is almost completely gone now.  You are no longer thirsty and - in fact - need to remind yourself to drink water.  You no longer get insulin spikes after meals (except on cheat meals when you consume too many carbs).  You are now comfortable ordering at restaurants (meat, salad, eggs, cheese, add avocado on everything, diet drinks or seltzer with your own stevia drops).  You can skip a day of food when you decide to.  You can also have a huge cheat meal on your birthday or when the occasion calls for it. 

Step 4 – There is not really another step (unless you count eating this way for the rest of your life as a step).  If you want to continue to lose more weight than the current weight you've become = eat less cheat meals.  If you are comfortable with your level of insulin resistance = eat cheat meals more often (recommend keeping a 4 - 6 hour eating window and continuing to skip a day or two of eating at least once a month).  Most important:  pay attention to how your body feels when you eat, after you eat, and during the hours you are fasting – remember how your body felt when you would eat many times a day with snacks, and how you slept then, and how much joint pain you had then, and compare it to how you feel now.

POSTSCRIPT - If I ever had any faith in any medical professional, routine tests would have resulted in prescriptions (for statins and insulin), I would have been instructed “eat less and exercise more,” and provided a less-than-worthless menu-plan prescribed by the American Diabetes Association, based on the Food Pyramid (which is how I got insulin resistance in the first place).  And, for my a-fib, doctors may have recommended invasive surgery to shock my heart back into regular rhythm (based on guidance from the American Heart Association).

          Because I'm retired military, none of that health care would have cost me anything in dollars, just in life-expectancy.  I know people who pay serious money for their insulin (tens of thousands of dollars a year) and one person who had his heart shocked into normal rhythm (a few thousand; but it needed to be re-done a few months later). . .which is the primary reason your doctor will deny any of this is based on valid research and will never recommend ketosis, IMF, and autophagy as ways for you to cure yourself.  Because - how can they profit from that advice? 

          With all that said, the only real way to know if this is/was an effective way to lose weight and avoid insulin resistance - for you - is to try it out.  For me, it's to step on the scales and look in the mirror;  In 8 months I lost 50 lbs and 6 waistline-inches.  And, in the future - if I'm still here - then I have not followed in my male ancestor's footsteps (because I diagnosed my insulin resistance, became fat adapted, fixed my a-fib, and the practice of IMF and autophagy has postponed the inevitable, which is a great title for an essay about Amor Fati and Memento Mori:  My Inevitable Demise).  

Death of a Friend — Carol Turner (1945-2018)


Cecil caught rubbing his head on top of Carol's
          A good friend of mine died last year on the 10th of September.  Her name was Carol Turner and she was fortunate enough to survive 2.5 years after her first brain cancer surgery.  Although I was her neighbor for seven years, Carol liked Cecilmy catmuch more than she liked me (which is not hard to understand, he's a better person than I am).  Cecil was always ebullient when he showed affection for her.  There was no doubt, in anyone's mind, that Cecil liked Carol more than he liked anyone.  When he was around Carol, his behavior was analogous with that of a child who prefers their grandparent over their parent.     

          Over the years, Carol and I (and Cecil) spent hundreds of hoursmostly in the warm weather monthssitting and talking in the courtyard of our apartment complex.  We talked about many obscure things as well as nothing important, mostly we three were just keeping each other company.

          A few people loved Carol and sought out her company.  Most people, however, were irritated by her too-happy, naivete, and seemed to attempt to avoid her constant overly-chipper attitude.  There were two reasons for this:  The first was because Carol was obsessively driven to inject a ray of sunshine into every person she talked to, every day, whenever she crossed their path, no matter what.  Always.  Incessantly.  On top of this, she unfortunately was severely afflicted with an aversion to ending conversations (on the phone or in person).  It didn't matter if you were interacting with her for the first time in weeks, or if you had just finished talking with her for an hour, she had to share, and repeat herself, and chat, and keep talking.   

          The second reason was because almost all Asperger Syndrome traits were evident in Carol's behavior:  She was victim to an excessive hoarding impulse (was ashamed of it, but refused offers to assist with it).  She suffered from a sensitivity to light, odors, and touch.  She had a monotone vocal tone, which was mostly only noticeable when she raised her voice to catch someones attention (usually someone attempting to avoid her).  She had an aversion to eye contact.  She displayed a difficulty in reading the emotions of others as well as communicating her emotions non-verbally (instead, she would explain her feelings: "I'm so excited" or "I am so happy for you").       
 
          This was not something many people knew how to handle.  But, because I possess at least half of the Asperger's traits, I understood why she acted the way she did, and wasn't put-off by her discomfiting behavior.  I would usually steer her repetitious brain-loop dialogue towards new thoughts.  I handled her failure to end conversations by telling her, early in our friendship, that every mutual-goodbye was final.  Once said, I hung up/walked away (no matter if she continued to talk or hollered at my back).

          The down-side of Carol's naivete and her inability to read body language was that she was a horrible judge of character and remained loyal to some terribly toxic people (who she erroneously referred to as 'friends').  A few of them used her all the way to her death.  She would talk about some "really great person" (no matter if it was someone she knew for decades or a new neighbor she only talked to once) and, eventually, I would learn (more often than not) about a large number of terrible things this person had done to her or to other people she knew.

          The death of my friend was not unexpected, nor was it a surprise when it occurred, but the shadow of that friendship continues to remind me that it's gone.  Although I no longer feel sadness, I do occasionally still miss Carol—especially when out-walking with Cecil if he yowls on her porch while staring at her door (now occupied by a new tenant) his confusion then reminds me of our loss.