Lopaka Lounge

I woke up to the sound of Ray breathing heavy. Earlier, in the middle of the night, he was fussing around in the bathroom. After realizing he had gotten up a few times, I asked if he was feeling OK. He asked me for a bucket.

Naturally, I felt compelled to spend the rest of the night in the guest room. Since I was up, I figured I’d go check out the meteor shower.

Shooting stars filled the sky! I went back for my camera but the battery was dead. Pissed off, I grabbed my coat and parked myself on a lounge chair in the backyard. At least I could watch the show.

I just can’t stare into space without feeling humbled — especially during a meteor shower. We’re so tiny! The thought of a teeny piece of debris flying through space for years and years suddenly intersecting with planet Earth in the vastness of outer space boggles my mind. It’s like hitting a rock with a grain of sand in mid-air. That lone piece of debris (about the size of a pebble) flying along, minding its own business burns up in the Earths’ atmosphere in a sudden and quite spectacular display of light and motion. Its little space-rock life snuffed out in a fraction of a second.

What a way to go!

As I lay there watching the sky, off in the distance, a pack of coyotes found some sort of tasty morsel. When you live in rural Arizona, you become quite familiar with the sound of the coyotes when they find food. In this case, with me laying there alone under a moonless sky, a shiver went up my spine. I waited for one more streak across the sky before returning to the warm, cozy guest room.

It was about 3:30 in the morning. The whole thing with Ray, meteors and coyotes had me fully awake. When I find myself in this position, where my mind is thinking of everything at once while trying to sleep, I meditate on the words “Thank You”.

Thank you for Ray. Thank you for a safe home. Thank you for my health. Thank you for my kitty cat. Thank you for my family. Thank you for their well-being. Thank you for my friends and their well-being. Thank you for the meteor shower. Thank you for that killer parking space in front of the post office. Thank you for this warm cozy bed. Thank you for the food that I eat. Thank you for my job. Thank you for my life. Thank you for laughter. Thank you for…zzzzzzz, and then I’m asleep.

If I was not agnostic, I would probably direct my Thank Yous to God. My feelings of God are kind of similar to looking up into space. My feeble brain cannot possibly comprehend the world we live in — let alone the power and force that created it. I have a hard time believing the collective brainpower of the citizens of our teeny-tiny planet can really understand what God is. I also think it’s presumptuous to examine the boundless, unlimited expanse that surrounds our planet and think, “Yep, it’s just us.” That being said, the existence of God is not the subject of this blog post.

I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore. I grew up in a mildly Christian household and went to parochial school for a few years. When I was a teenager, I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Saviour (all those caps!) and, much to the dismay of my younger brother, tossed all my secular music in the trash — a fact he still likes to bring up on occasion. As I got older and realized that my private little fixation on men was actually developing into full-blown homosexuality, Christianity started to get ugly.

There was a couple at our church. Rick and Leah. They were a very nice couple and, from what I remember, quite involved with the church. One day, Rick mustered up the courage to tell the church that he was homosexual. Here was a man in need of fellowship and counseling from his peers. Someone turning to his church for help and guidance — because that’s what churches do, they help people. That’s not what our church did. They turned their back on Rick and he left in shame. I was only fourteen but I remember thinking their behavior was the most non Christ-like way to handle such a situation and once I realized they’d do the same to me, I stopped saying “Maranatha brother” and left. I refuse to associate with an organization that sees me as an abomination.

I’m not an abomination. I’m a fucking bad-ass karaoke rockstar.

So when December rolls around and the dark days and cooler temps of winter start bringing me down, I like to put up a tree and decorate it with lights and shiny objects to remind myself that, come December 21st, the days will start to get longer, lighter and warmer. I have a strong feeling that the origins of bringing a tree into your home right around the Winter solstice was more Pagan than Christian. (Actually, it’s more than a strong feeling but I’m not a historian and in doing some research, it seems everyone has their own theory.)

So, go ahead and put the Christ back in Christmas. I’m not against Christmas, I just want the tree back…

The coffee grinder started whirring away in the kitchen triggering a Pavlovian reaction to kick off the covers and get my ass out of bed. It was clearly going to be a beautiful day but for some reason, I just didn’t feel like being a part of it. Something was bothering me and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Ray was sitting there checking his email when I shuffled into the office. He kissed me as I sat down at my computer. I felt numb and mildly cranky. As my eyes scanned over a couple of emails, Ray started to exercise. I could hear him huffing and puffing behind me. It was annoying — like a secondary alarm clock reminding me that I not only had to regain consciousness, now I had to start exerting a lot of energy.

After taking a healthy swig of my coffee, I mustered up every amount of energy I had to dismiss Mr. Fuck it (that’s the voice in my head that says, “Fuck it, you don’t have to <insert important activity> today.”) I got on the floor and started doing my push-ups.

Mr Fuck it got in my head and would not shut up.

“Why do you even bother working out? You don’t bulk up. You’ll always pretty much look the same.”
“Oh ha ha, now you’re doing curls. Your arms will always look skinny. It’s not going to happen.”
“Squats?? You’re a joke — a flabby-assed joke. You. Have. No. Butt.”
“Perfect Push-ups? Ha! Perfect loser. Face it, your never going to look any different — never.”

I continued my workout while trying my best to ignore Mr. Fuck it. Not an easy task for a man who has struggled with lifelong self esteem issues. My thoughts wandered off and before I knew it, Ray and I were in the car heading to work.

“I’m feeling really discouraged today,” I said. “Why do I do all this working out and running when I don’t see any real results?”

Ray was sympathetic and reminded me that he sees the results and that I just need to not think about it — kind of like waiting for a pot of water to boil. I needed to stop examining myself under a microscope and let the results happen.

I got into work and fired up my computer. I had this longing for someone to talk to. Someone like a guru or a spirit guide. Someone who knew me inside and out and could understand me…like a father. I looked at my calendar. It was July 15th, my dad’s birthday. He would have been 80.

Mr. Fuck it started laughing. It all made sense now. I was depressed.

I was never close to my father. We got to know each other in the last few months of his life. He passed away in December of last year. Turns out he was quite a great guy. Too bad I didn’t find out until he was dying.

I was adopted when I was four months old. I grew up in a loving family and had wonderful caring parents but for most of my life, I have wondered about the biological side of my existence. Where did I come from?

When I was 29, I found my birth mother and was surprised to find that I had siblings. It was interesting to meet her but I still felt as if an important piece of the puzzle was missing — my biological father.  Who contributed to the male side of me? My bio mom said that I look and sound just like my father and that he was a great guy but…who was he?

I fear that I will never be able to solve that piece of the puzzle. Today, being reminded of the death of my father by the date of his birth also galvanized the fact that I will probably never know my birth father (who, by the way, was described in my adoption records as having a muscular build — perhaps he could have given me training tips).

My birth father was 32 when I was born 44 years ago. If he was still alive, he’d be 76. My birth mother claims his name was Charles Long. When she told me that, it didn’t sound too convincing. He was married with children. She might not want me to find him. I can understand why…I guess. They met at Probst Tool and Die in Burbank, California. He was a machinist and she was a punch-press operator. Her name at the time was Kathy Dix. It was 1965. I was put up for adoption the following year.

Did I just give out too much personal information? I don’t know… perhaps I was just hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I put it out there, someone might be looking for me…

Well the bunnies are growing quickly. According to Rabbitweb.net, the “white blaze” on their foreheads is an indicator that the bunny is old enough to leave the nest.

This photo was taken yesterday afternoon. The bunnies were gone this morning.

There were three of them in the little nest. I assume we’ll see them around from time to time as long as the don’t become dinner for some bigger animal. The courtyard is a safe place for them to hide from coyotes.

I love living in the country with the bunnies. I even like the snakes and lizards too. I can do without the insects though.

This photo is an example of how tiny the bunnies are…

So teeny!

On a side note, we celebrated Ray’s birthday yesterday. It was nice to be able to have cocktail hour in the pool again!