But truth, cher ami, is a colossal bore.
- narrator, Camus' The Fall
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    dear reader/listener/viewer/enjoyer/co-conspirator:
    lest i be judged for it, i inform you now that this project continues to be a scratch pad, a space for experimentation

    in other words, enjoy what you find here, and feel free to participate, but try not to take anything personal, and don't believe that this project presents an accurate view of me or my life

    this is a window, certainly, but one that hasn't been cleaned in quite some time

    your view may be foggy, obscure...you may see things that aren't really there...

    --harold

    want some background music?
    please consider downloading my most recent music podcast.

    and yes, i love my mom and my dad;
    they've always been good to me, no matter what impression you may have received here

    they never locked me in a cellar or anything
     
    highlighted post from the archives: me rambling about a new job (from two years ago)
    i recently messed with the archives, so they may not work correctly, but you may take your chances:
    December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 November 2007 February 2008 March 2008 May 2008

    i once was an active member of the

    association of music podcasting

    musicpodcasting.org

    along with these fine music podcasters:

    all florida indies - bing futch
    audio gumshoe - rich palmer
    audio popcorn - krash coarse
    aural icebergs music cast - tiffany rapplean
    capital rock show - bucket aka jason
    darkhorse radio - alan carr
    ears to hear - jill lawton
    eclectic mix - george l smyth
    homegrown podcast - nic treadwell
    indiefeed - chris macdonald
    le jazz affair - sal calfa
    rubyfruit radio - heather smith
    sober cafe podcast - gracie hollombe
    sundown lounge - larry winfield
    tempo of the down - harold (that's me!)
    the darkcompass podcast - rowland cutler
    the fabrications podcast - matt macfarlane
    the phill(er) - phill ramey
    the radiozoom podcast - john bollwitt
    thepillarcast.com - jon tucker
    uc radio podshow - michael yusi
    zaldor's world - les zaldor

    ¡the text on this blog wants to leap out of its borders!

    this is...

    something that happened

    somethingthathappened.com
    		stories by harold j. johnson, in various formats - including text, audio, video, and podcasts
     
     
    Friday, July 09, 2004  

    Yesterday was better. Yesterday was brilliant. Then again, when I really admit it to myself, yesterday has left me with mixed impressions. There's no doubt, however, that yesterday was Thursday, a day I took the 5 1/2-hour journey to visit my mom, who I hadn't seen since Saturday. I try to visit her once a week and often manage to see her more often, yet the journey alone takes up the better part of a day and it takes a day or so to recover from the journey. Bus lag, I guess. I look forward to these journeys, though. They afford me the opportunity to catch up on my reading and, when I'm not in the mood to read, provide me with an excuse to sit and do absolutely nothing. And if you believe doing nothing isn't possible, then you can call it people-watching, or road-tripping, or meditating, or whatever; but to me, it's pure and simple: I'm doing nothing, and it feels good (though I can't stand doing nothing at home).

    That's the journey itself. The actual visitations are even more fulfilling. Besides giving Mom freedom from The Chair and myself the satisfaction of having been her saviour, my visitations seem to restore some sort of balance to my life. Though I eat as well as could be expected and exercise as often as possible, and though I keep myself remarkably occupied for someone who hasn't managed to bring himself to send out a single resume in well over a year, I still find myself out-of-balance after I've gone a week or so without paying a visit to my ailing mom. The feeling is unrelated to guilt, though that can creep in as well, especially at the thought of Mom being stranded in her room for more than a few days. It's much more akin to a general feeling of unhealth, as at the tail end of a gluttonous week spent gorging oneself with donuts and ice cream. Except in this case, it's my mental health that's being compromised, and the need to get back to the routine of healthy living persists until I pack up a lunch and head to the bus stop for my weekly journey.

    Yesterday Mom was full of energy - quite a contrast to the state she was in a week before, asleep and nearly comatose for the entire duration of my visit - and after untying her bondages, Mom immediately got up and urged me to take her for a walk. Overcast in the morning, it became sunny by noon as Mom and I traversed the premises, circling for hours from one end of the property to the other, Mom hardly faltering in her footsteps - that is, until she noticed the repetition of our course and halted in her tracks, exasperatingly exclaiming We're going in circles! Even then I found satisfaction in the knowledge that this indicated Mom was alert and aware this day, much more than I'd seen in a month, and I was extremely excited to witness the transformation - so much so that I overlooked, until later in the afternoon, the consequences of Mom's cognizance. For as the afternoon grew long and the cumulous clouds combined to draw a curtain over the sun's happy aspect, I began to realize the frailty of my own disposition, a euphoria predicated on the notion of Mom's mental "clarity"; which, when truthfully examined, revealed the terror that so dominates her life, and which exists because of that very awareness of her mental deterioration.     7/09/2004 03:58:00 PM (0) comments





    Sunday, July 04, 2004  

    I have no words to describe the atrocities. Or perhaps I don't feel adequate. I don't feel I have the appropriate verbage. I don't have. What. It. Takes.

    The woman is in a Geri-Chair, a geriatric chair - essentially strapped to a chair, permanently. She's on a multitude of drugs, an arsenal of medications designed to suppress her. When I visit, she's either asleep or asleep, always tied down. I bring her a burger, a milkshake, french fries, tacos, fresh fruit, dark chocolate, Coke - tiny treats to enhance her life. We walk around the grounds of the facility. I talk, trying to feed her memories. She talks, but I rarely understand her meaning. We walk - it's all we can do.

    We can't leave the facility since she's too high. She wouldn't make it past the parking lot, and since I don't have a car, it's ridiculous to even consider. So we walk, in circles, sometimes in spaces smaller than a living room. We stop at drinking fountains. We listen to to the hollering music of ice cream trucks outside the gates, begging for attention as we walk in circles, fenced in our private world.     7/04/2004 06:45:00 PM (0) comments





     
     

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