I’m writing because that’s what I do. It’s almost who I am.

I’ve been thinking about that scene in Adaptation where Nicholas Cage plays neurotic twin brothers and, towards the last of the movie, the two take a moment during a crisis to share about their past. One of the brothers says that the measure of life is how well you have loved, not how well you’ve done in getting someone to return that love. Insightful and heartbreaking, I thought.

About the only thing I’ve done today is go by the funeral home this afternoon to see Mike. Linda broke my heart with her red-rimmed eyes. It gave me joy to see Mike in his denim shirt and safari vest and for him to have his pipe and leather hat in his grasp. Just had a heart beat skip.

I couldn’t stay but a minute or two. I just couldn’t.

Other than that, I’ve just holed up and tried to keep the wind from blowing me away. Went to the grocery for milk and honey, literally.

I’m so paranoid, I’ve got the front of my house closed up and dark to make people think I’m not here.

Don’t know who I think will drop by or what they could do to me if they did, but I just didn’t want to see anyone today. I didn’t feel companionable. I’ve got to admit, I didn’t even take phone calls.

This isn’t the first time in my life that I’ve isolated, but I hope this is one of the good times and not one of the bad times.

I brought work home over the long weekend and didn’t make an honest pass at it.

This has been a weekend of partings for me. One of my all time favorite public figures, Judge Eugene Matthews, also died. I covered him as City Hall reporter in the 70s when he was a city councilman. He was a civil rights activist in this town when that wasn’t a very safe thing for a white guy to publicly do. Blessed are the peacemakers, Gene. You seemed to be one to me. We went to the same church and I even tried cases before him. Heck uv a guy. Hope someone has the same opinion of me at my death that I have of Gene today.

The OKC art community contributed greatly to the art faculty of the afterlife this weekend. A great many people who pick up a palate and a paintbrush faced funerals in this town. I guess the holidays are tough on everyone, no matter what.

Then, life goes on. Rec’d. an email from Tucson letting me in on the Christmas scoop — what grandkid wanted just what exact size of this or that. Lets you get some perspective. I always try to get my grandchildren something that makes a very obnoxious noise or has a great many small, sharp parts. It’s my not-so-secret way of getting back at my daughter for being a child. I must say that she does so much better a job as a parent than I did, despite the fact my parenting is one of the things in my life of which I’m most proud. As far as I can tell, my daughter’s an actual grown up. No question about the fact that she’s more grown up than I am, but that’s damning with faint praise.

It’s been all silent on the son front. Haven’t heard from the boy and if you live anywhere near Yukon, I hope you go to the discount movie house there and tell the kid he should be ashamed the way he’s treating his poor, old, pitiful father.

According to the IRS letter I got this weekend, maybe they would take Jack instead of an arm and a leg. I’ll have to get with my CPA about whether “first born son” is an option or will it have to be next born, this one already being unfit for grinding into government sausage.

I hear the Red Cup staff 80s prom and birthday party for Daniel was a big success. Heard from birds in the know that it was still going on at 5:30 a.m. and that some of the hosts were back at work just a few hours later. Someone slap that drunk gay guy, willya? Who’s the old guy in the cummerbun? And that wench, Becky, in the blue dress with the black velvet corset strapless top? Bring her to me. Muhwahahahahahahahahahaha.

Saw my hero at Paseo and had a little conversation. He’s perplexed about why he would be my hero. Damn. The guy’s got taste and style. He’s got a cool job and talent. He’s a sculptor on the side. He’s got a prestige address. He’s everywhere cool, so he’s clued into the city. Hell, my only question is why he isn’t everyone’s hero. He even does something I’ve not been able to accomplish and that’s be friends without conflicts with Privacy Shattered Sharon. Damn, Mike. You’re my hero. The fact that you don’t KNOW how cool you are makes you all that more cool.

Also met a guy from New Orleans named Travis, thanks to Skip Z-man. Travis is helping to restore a buttload (technical term of his trade) of old drums down on the corner of Paseo. He was out Saturday night on the corner with some passersby just percussing. The street needs musicians. Hope he gets hooked up with Randy Clemens’ dobro. Red Stripes all around and keep going!

The wind makes me restless. Puts me out of sorts and on edge. The weather’s changing and I don’t like that much. The top will have to go up on the Miata again and this time, it’s likely to stay up for awhile, I suspect. I hate that. One thing and another, and I won’t be going around the lake at night as I often did in the warm summer nights. No one to go with any more, either.

Going to see Mike today makes me want to do some sumii. Maybe this weather will accomplish the goal of keeping me home and writing and painting. There’s a silver lining for you, Pollyanna.

G’nite and sweet dreams,

John

Mike is at Smith & Kernke on 23rd St. and there will be visitation from 2-5 p.m. tomorrow, Sunday, 27Nov’05 with a memorial service later. In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to American Cancer Society or Oklahoma County Hospice.

I was going to edit the blog to include a bunch of names I left out — Brian, his Shadow and Samuel, for example — but I just learned Mike Finley has died.

Oh, how I loved to hear him cackle when he dragged one of our penny poker pots.

He’d wave the stem of his pipe at you before you could say Jack Robinson.

There is a place of serenity where he grew bamboo, his love and livelihood.

Sweet Linda, his wife.

His devotion to Steve and Pat Brainard in Guthrie and the folk music that he carried in his heart.

He’s at Smith & Kernke on 23rd and will be cremated. That’s all I know for right now and I don’t feel much like writing any more.

Thanksgiving Day, what else is there to blog except my gratitude list?

First, I must thank God. I honestly believe that God — a force in the universe that is superior to me by whatever name — intervened to save my life from my own hand and released me from the bondage of alcohol going on 11 years ago. I believe in my innermost self that nothing I have today would be in my life but for that intervention. I would never ask anyone to believe or not believe in God based on what a carnal man like myself believes, but I can say without reservation that I believe in a God that created the universe and is amongst us constantly as a power for love. This God acted to save my life — on June 21, 1995, I was saying goodbye to life and had planned my own death and was resolved to carry out the plan. Obviously, my plans were changed and the next day I was in an AA meeting for the first time. From my perspective, this is a miracle; I know of no other way to regard these facts of my life. Next, I could not have quit drinking on my own because I tried many times in the last 10 years I drank and it was one of the main reasons I wanted to die. After two days of prayer over the Texas-OU weekend, some 100 days after my first AA meeting, I never again craved alcohol. In a single moment, I could feel alcohol’s hold over my mind and body lifted. My life was changed forever for the better, even though a great many sad moments have been in my life since that time. I did not “deserve” this gift. I had not been a particularly good man and had not earned any kind of special treatment from anyone for any reason. It was a pure gift. I’m still not anything special spiritually or much of any other way, but I don’t drink. I can be anywhere at anytime, including bars and at parties, and not have the slightest inclination to lift a glass of alcoholic beverage. It is, to me, a miracle. I am thankful first of all for my very life and, second, for my sobriety upon which all else in my life is founded.

I know some of you may be surprised at that, but there it is and from my heart.

I am thankful for my family. Even the sister I don’t talk to. I’m thankful for a caring and giving mother. I’m thankful for her mental and physical health and active social life. I’m thankful for wonderful sisters who have shown their love for me in a thousand nuturing and caring ways. Jaime, Susan, Mary E., I love you girls. I’m thankful for my son and daughter, two of the finest most wonderful human beings in my world. Smart, funny, and damn good looking the both of them. They grew up before I did and they have been my light on my path before me. I’m especially grateful for my grandchildren, Parrish and GK, who have taught me the true meaning of agape love on earth. How can I not be grateful for their father, my son in law, an honorable and bright man I pray for daily? Jesse, I love you and pray for your safe return home. My mother had six brothers and a sister, all of whom married and had children and her family was an enveloping coterie of love and laughter that helped form me. I’m grateful for my sisters’ children and grandchildren — they make Christmas happen, for one thing.

I’m thankful for my ancestors. Very Asian of me, I suppose, but I honor my father, Jack, and his adoptive mother, Elsie, and my mother’s parents, Pop and Mamaw. All dead now, but still living vividly in my mind.

I’m thankful for my own physical wellbeing. I can see, hear, feel, touch, walk, talk. I was in a courtroom one day feeling sorry for myself when the court called out the name “Hough”. How to pronounce it, the court asked. “Like Rough and Tough” came a voice from the back of the room. A woman stood and gathered her braces and crutched up to the bench joking. If this woman, with her obvious physical disabilities, could joke around and enjoy life, what was so important about my little problems? This story always gives me perspective about the issues that make me wroth and rend my clothes. How important is this? How important will it be tomorrow or a year from now? Is it CP or MS? Is it death, disability or enduring physical pain? Where is it written that I have a right to good health? Stop smoking, John. You are frittering away something very important — your health. I’ll always be grateful to the otherwise anonymous Ms. Hough; she will never know how important a gift she gave to a complete stranger just by being herself. Are you quite sure you know the gifts you have given?

Yeah, I know. Doesn’t sound like me. It is, though. It’s the most truthful, close to the bone me there is.

I am so very grateful for friends. Think of a world in which you are isolated and without people. A horror. I have so many wonderful friends that I couldn’t begin to name them all. I’ve known Mike Elder and Rush Riddle for going on 40 years now. Imagine friendships that bridge five decades. Dennis Whiteman has been my friend for 25 years. I’ll see him this holiday season and be glad of it once again. I’m grateful for the friendship of Bob Owen, who helped me stay sober my first year and has taught me much since then as well. George, Debbie, Gary, Suzanne — the four of you hold my heart in your hands almost every single day and you never once have bruised it. I’m so grateful for the four of you I haven’t the words in my rather large vocabulary. Ralph: “as much as anyone can be”. He’ll understand. Rena, you know you have a special place in my heart. I saw you today at Starbucks and once again you enriched my life. BKMDANO, I’m sorry you don’t read my blog. I wish I could tell you how much your loyalty and example of a man with integrity and kindness mean to my everyday life. I’m getting a little overwhelmed here — it’s hard for me to list my friends and think of how much each of them has meant to me over many many years. Higgins, you are a challenge and a delight. Floyd, you and your son, Kevin, have been so kind that I can never repay. Skip, you Ziusudra, you. Hoffner, I know you don’t believe it, but you really ARE my hero. Larry P, I so admire your energy. Tall Ed, I’m angry with you right now and have been for some time, but I wouldn’t be mad if I didn’t care. Robin Meyers, you are absolutely the best rhetoritician I’ve ever encountered and one of the finest men I’ve ever met, rivaling my all time HERO, the late Rev. Earl Wiggins. Earl, I miss you. You never once told a lie nor disparaged another human in all the time I knew you. You raised four fine children and stayed married for decades to the same woman. You possessed every quality to which I aspire: kindness, compassion, intelligence, love, and the list goes on. If there’s a God and a heaven, this is one man I can say with confidence resides there now.

Ah, the women in my life! I am grateful beyond measure for the fine women I’ve known. I do not wish to be compared/contrasted by them, so I shall not try to measure them against one another. I have sometimes given my heart recklessly, but I’ve never been punished for that, even when one or another of you eventually left me in wreckage. I have loved many of you and many of you, I believe, really loved me. I don’t regret being foolish with my heart, I think the bigger fools are those who never give it up. To love and be loved for a short time is better than to live without love. Some of my loves go on. There are those women who still love me, even if they can’t live with me. I still love at least five women and one in particular I know I shall always love no matter what. I still love my ex-wife, Jeannie. She’s remarried, of course. I say “of course” because she’s too good a catch for some man not to have snagged her. She’s bright and funny and hard working and loyal. She’s the loving mother of my two children. I am grateful that she has been in my life; she saved my butt many times and, I believe, loved me. MB, I shall always love you and I cherish our friendship more than life itself. I would give my life for yours this day and any day gladly. KW, dammit, I still love you. I thought you were The One. Privacy Shattered Sharon, I don’t know what’s between us but it’s undeniably there. There’s one more and you know who you are. There are those women I loved but who never loved me and then there are some I cared about but couldn’t quite love who, nevertheless, loved me for reasons I never fathomed. I have been blessed by many women who have been friends and my share of women who were merely, shall we say?, friendly. Some women friends include: Danielle, one of many beloved secretaries, but the only one with whom I’ve been through so much and whom I’m proud to count among my buddies; Amanda and her mother; Sally Allen, a love from long, long ago; Babs (I am SO Angry with you over your behavior last week!!!); Katie, with whom I practice law; Debbie H, who broke up my law firm, red haired demon angel; Kelly O; Catholic Kelly, who spent some time with me this week when she could not have known how much I needed her simple companionship and was grateful for just that; Mrs. B. Crandall, one of the best and the brightest women ever to be a part of my life; Lynne Davis; my CPA, Denice; Sarah, who sends me emails galore from Tulsa; Jasmine (YUMMM!); the Pink Lady, my tobacconist; Jane Ann, who has cut my hair longer than some of you have been alive; Elizabeth Brown, who introduced me to KW; Leslie Gilkerson, the Evil One who knocked me out years ago by reciting a bit of poetry; Lynn Whitford, who befriended and settled down my sister as long as she could; Juliet, my new friend (I’m not so sure how good a job I’ll do at this new relationship); Marcy Roberts who kneads the kinks out of my social life; Tammy, the ultimate artist’s model; Victoria, my client; Victoria with not red hair, one of the “friendlies”; Michale Edwards, much more than a former secretary; June T, with whom I’ve not had contact for so many many years at her request; Barbara T, now remarried to a judge; Roma, a judge herself; Kevyn Mattox, a client and now a lawyer; Sandy, who broke my heart when she got married, the red-haired beauty from Paseo’s G Spot; Kat with a K, charming daughter of Rena and feisty sister to Charles; I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers Linda; and more, so many more!, including Maria, Mary, Mara, Marlene, … Viva la Difference!

I am grateful to teachers, including those who taught me merely by writing a book. I’m grateful to Judith Maute, a law school teacher, and R.E.L. Richardson and Rick Tepker and a host of others who treated me special in law school. I’m grateful to Clay Lewis, my creative writing teacher and a wise mentor. I’m grateful for my high school English teacher, a little spitfire of a woman who demanded — and got — excellence from us all. I’m grateful to the writers of the King James Bible, the Tao, The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, Guide to Rational Living, and 10,000 other volumes I’ve actually, no bullshit, read. I’m grateful for my students at Heritage Hall, circa 2000-2002. My students still look me up and run into me around town and they never fail to make my day. I’m eternally grateful to my friend, teacher and therapist, Jolly Dr. Max.

I’m grateful to Claude Anderson for teaching me sumii and how to live an honest life. I miss you, brother.

On a global scale, I’m a wealthy man. My material blessings are beyond counting, but I would especially mention what I don’t really own: the art in my house and the artists who created these things that belong to the world and the ages, even though I am the temporary caretaker. Yeah, house, Miata and wardrobe, blahblahblogblah!!! It’s only money, I’ll make more.

I grateful I live in a place where I can bitch and moan about politics and write this blog without worrying excessively about ending up in Siberia or the Sinkaiying desert.

I’ve learned and grown and been nurtured by journalists and politicians, writers and fellow students.

Thanks! Thanks to you all.

Wrist hurt cleaning. (CLEANING?!? Shut up, he explained)

This grey and cloudy Sunday morning, I’m listening to Andrea Boccelli because I’m a sentimental and romantic old fool. If you know what that means, you know what that means; if you don’t, then I can’t explain.

I went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire last night with about 1,000 teenagers out on dates. First, let me say this is one grandparent who thinks it would be inappropriate for my little grandkids to go to this movie because it’s just that scary and dark. I jumped in my seat at least twice and that’s pretty good for “gotcha” movies. Although I’ve read all the books and seen all the movies, it bothered me that this is not a stand-alone movie. You have to know the “backstory” to enjoy this movie. If you’ve just dropped onto earth on your galactic travels and don’t know about the Harry Potter phenomena, you’d be lost as hell. For that matter, the British accents left me scratching my head a time or two — wtf? wha’d he just say? Huh? — and the fact that the story line requires whispered conspiratorial conversations makes the matters worse, imho. The movie’s special effects are, well, wizard. I’m sure that there are young readers out there who are outraged that not every single bit of the book is deeply explored in the movie, but the cuts didn’t bother me much and it was too long a book to expect anything else. Besides, I’m more accustomed to seeing my favorite books butchered by the film remake. That was one of the things we loved about Lord of the Rings — that it stayed pretty true to the books as well as it could be done. I’m still a little hacked off about the complete cut of anything about Tom Bombadill, but that’s fat that’s been chewed thoroughly.

Just finished a lengthy IM with MB in Memphis. She’s such a wonderful woman and I care so very much for her and about her. Earlier this week, at Sue Moss Sullivan’s art show house party, I just had to call MB and tell her about the highly textured work. She would love that stuff. MB says she’s too busy moving into her new house and getting ready for a family Thanksgiving there to do much in the way of creative work, but she also said she has her loom set up in a sunny nook in the up stairs and that image melts my heart. We “chatted” about this and that, but the topics seemed less important than the connection, if you know what I mean. Anyway, love ya, MB.

Speaking of a former, I’m not just single again, but without any love interests at all. Not even anyone I’ve picked out as a “next ex”. I was journaling today about my love life and it seems that a bunch of things have conspired to make me give up some of my adolescent behaviors. Quel Catastrophe! Imagine John Long grown up. No. It’s too much. John, not smoking? Exercising? Eating right? Cooking for himself? No. No. No. It couldn’t be! Don’t you all realize that I should be drowning in self pity, self loathing and substance abuse? Could it be that my adolescent angst has finally run its course? No. No. No. I resist this with every fibre of my being. I’m still the oppositional kid with too much smarts for his emotionally stunted heart and a mouth full of acid sass. What would I be like if I grew up? What would that look like? How would it feel and smell and taste and sound like? Will I have to give up the Miata for a hybrid? Nah. Surely not. Nevermind.

The voices in my head intervened here and I have to stop and come back to this. The idea of growing up and stopping smoking … well, it’s just too much for me to handle this early in the day.