Dancing man wearing a horse mask cooks wild mushrooms.

Stranded in Motion

That I am in motion, metaphorically-speaking, after a looong period of dormant torment is obvious, but - what direction am I moving in?

I can't remember a time when I've experienced my mind being so cloudy, so unable to plan and decide.  As old patterns start to make themselves known, loosen up, and unravel, I've yet to see new - hopefully healthier - patterns being born.  I feel like a line I am freely paraphrasing written by Edna St. V Millay (my favorite poet):  "...without myself, I spend/long days that have no meaning/and no end..."

I've never been afraid before.  Not really - I've been able, so far, to handle anything Life!'s thrown at me, so I don't see why I feel vulnerable now.  In giving up these patterns, I've, also, given up the security, no matter how false it was, they lent me.  The seductive Devil I know...

I'm sure if I had done all of this during my adolescence like normal people do, I wouldn't be in the place I am right now...

Comeuppance

I've been running around without oxygen and telling myself I am, once again, invincible.  This is why it puzzled me when I found myself laying on the floor of the Hobby Lobby with people hovering over me this morning...

"Are you all right?" asked a worried clerk.

"Am I all right?"  I said.  I, still, wasn't sure what had happened.

I'd passed out while choosing some yarn and another pair of knitting needles.  Personally, I think my psyche couldn't accept that I've become an enthusiastic knitter, and shut me down so it would have time to try to think of some way to divert me from pursuing such a prosaic craft, but...

...I kinda suspect it was because I was going into Day Two of having used no oxygen at all.

Sigh...

I was fine.  Not even embarrassed (I've had practice - its happened before), and I didn't hurt myself when I went down, or destroy any displays, so...no harm, no foul.  Just an indication that I am, indeed, mortal, and need to, perhaps, move a little slower in my quest to 'get better'.  Also, I'd been rushing to beat hell, and hadn't eaten anything so my sugar was low, low, low.  I have to talk to myself about needing to be a bit more considerate with myself.

Yeah.

Smaller leaps of faith, I suppose.

Gratitude

Today, someone asked me what I have to be grateful for considering the circumstances I'm in.  Truthfully, I'm grateful for a lot of things, and I'm not in the worst place I've ever found myself...

I have a roof.  I have food to eat even though I'm not happy about not being able to eat the foods I like.  I'm regaining my health in bits and pieces.  I'm strong enough to take care of Jelly.  I'm glad that, though gone, my little dog is no longer blind and in pain, and that is a hard thing to be grateful for. 

I'm grateful my ex didn't beat me to death.

I'm grateful my own stupidities haven't killed me yet.

I'm grateful for the people who put up with the massive amount of bullshit I put them through.

A lot of things.  Too many to list.

As for the answer I gave the person who asked me, it was simple.  I said...

"This..." and I took a deep breath.  "And I can be reasonably sure of being able to draw the next one."

(Look Ma!  NO OXYGEN!!!!!)

On a Lighter Note...

There was a period following the death of my beloved BuHsi where I wore all these HUGE sunglasses (the pair shown were, I believe, a 75 cent Salvation Army special) because I cried all the time, and I didn't give a rats' ass about how I looked, so my hair suffered greatly.  (Yes, it actually suffered - it cried itself to sleep at nights and tried to commit suicide on several occasions).  Michael, thinking that it would be nice to remind me of the progress I'm making, sent me this with this note:  "You look better now.  Doesn't that make you happy?"

Yes.  Well...

I like that it looks like I have a mustache and have just bitten into a deep-fried turd...

The self-dyed hair is interesting, too...

To be honest, it DOES make me feel better.  Remembering how bad it was makes today seem less...lethal somehow...

Baby steps?  Not yet, I'm still crawling, but...I'm trying, I'm trying...

The Halfnoise of Spiders

Every day, there is at least one moment when I ask myself if this is going to be THE day, the day that I fall over the edge I've been walking on.  I can feel it coming...  I might be wrong.  I hope I'm wrong.  But...I feel it waiting for me.  A Howl like none other.  The mother of Howls.  The Howl at the end of the world.

It scares me.  I'm serious.  Everyone has a tipping point, and most people, fortunately, come nowhere near it, but we've all seen, or heard about, those who were pushed over the edge.  I'd estimate that, at the very least, 40% of the chronically homeless are people who tipped.  They no longer live in the same world the rest of us do, and they never will again, and their lives are spent deep inside their own individual, never-ending Howl.

So, yeah, it scares me.  I'm afraid of being pushed over that edge, beyond all redemption, past all methods of retrieval, into an all-encompassing Howl of Howls.  I'm afraid of losing this world - and myself - and not being able to get back again, maybe not being able to realize that I've left at all.

I have an inner spider.  He's so very patient; he spins and he spins...  I'm afraid that, one day, the webbing that encases me will be complete, and that's where I'll be forever.  Apart from the world, apart from my Self, frozen in limbo, and nothing to wait for but the end of it all at last.

This isn't an intelligent view.  Not a mature view, either.  It's not even particularly articulate or original, but...  it's what I'm afraid of, and fear doesn't give a tin shit about intelligence or reason, does it?

I can hear him spinning. you know...

Inhuman

For the past few weeks, Jelly has developed a worsening habit of reaching out and grabbing my hand as I go by.  I know what it is - he needs human contact, reassurance, comfort of some sort that only touch can give him.  He needs someone to sit with him, hold his hand, tell him that he's not alone...

...and I can't do it.  I just can't.  In fact, it creeps me out.

I must be fucking inhuman.

I want to - I really do - I'd love to be able to sit with him and comfort him, to help him through this more than I do.  He's a good man, and I love him more than I loved anyone in my own family with the exception of my father.  Why I can't give him that simple comfort is a mystery - I just know its beyond me, and I don't know why.

It's funny - we can talk about his dying, and we do.  I don't shy away from that, and I don't hold back when he asks me how I feel about certain things, or what my opinion is.  I can talk without flinching about how it's going to be from what I know from past experience, and I can reassure him that I'll take care of him to the best of my ability, and that he won't have to go into a hospital or a hospice - that he can stay where he's most comfortable, and I will be there until the end.

And I will.  I can do that.

What I can't do, what even drives me away, is the idea of sitting quietly with a dying man and holding his hand so that he has some contact with another human being - something that most of us need at the best of times, much less at the worst.  I can't do it, and I hate myself for it.

So - he's driven to clutching at me and hanging onto me whenever I get near enough for him to do so, and I know it makes him feel abandoned, literally abandoned, for me to tolerate it for a second of so before pulling away and making busy work for myself...and you always know when someone is just tolerating your touch.  We humans are very keen to sense that.

And, so, I'm letting him down and hurting him when he needs me...and I can't seem to do a thing about it.

Not real proud of myself lately.

Surprise...

...I don't like Halloween anymore.

I can't eat the candy; kids don't trick or treat anymore because their parents are sure every other person is a pedophile; the movies aren't scary (even though I sat through all the Old Reliables like THE TINGLER; REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN, THE WOLFMAN; FRANKENSTEIN MEETS THE WOLF MAN; HOMICIDAL; THIRTEEN GHOSTS; MAD LOVE; etc. etc. etcetera like the hopeless droogie I am when it comes to those things); it's too much trouble to dress up (why?  because there aren't any trick-and-treating kids, that's why); and I've lost that ghoulish feeling, whoa-oh, that ghoulish feeling, I've lost that ghoulish feeling, now it's gone, gone, gone...

I'm not even all that thrilled with the new AMC series I'm watching right now - THE WALKING DEAD. 

This isn't like me.  The old me would have kidnapped kids from a nursery school and forced them to dress up like ghosts and witches and vampires and ask for some fucking candy, dammit.  The old me would have dressed-up, decorated the place, played those tacky Spooky Sounds CDs and dared the kids to reach into the skull for their Milky Ways and Snickers.  The new (and not-quite-as-good-as) me sat around in a flannel nightgown smoking pot and ate sugar-free DeMets turtles, sugar-free Russell Stover chocolate-coated coconut bars, sugar-free Doves' raspberry dark chocolate (it'll still raise my sugar because they have lots and lots of carbs, but...fuck it...).

At least, my flannel nightgown was black with orange jack'o'lanterns and white ghosties and neon green skulls on it (KMart - Home of the Totally Tasteless Poor).

Oh, and every hair I have was waving to every direction in the universe since I hadn't bothered to wash, comb or brush it since getting up this morning.  Jelly made the comment that my hair was having its own party, and why weren't we invited?

Guess I was dressed for the day after all.

The new me did housework and laundry and made lunch and dinner and went through a bunch of shit I'd left here (Jelly's) to sort it for the trash and Goodwill. 

The new me is as exciting and provocative as a mud puddle.

The new me is a noisy space...

I Named it Kirby...

...last night, I blew my nose so hard it felt like I'd given birth.  In fact, I named it Kirby and wrapped it warmly in a soft Puffs tissue before throwing it in the trash to fend for itself...

Seriously, I'm feeling better, so I'm eschewing the docs' office in favor of going with Jelly and Rose to Manitou Springs to cruise the shops while they look at, maybe buy, some Christmas presents (yeah - pick the tourist trap with the terribly inflated prices to shop...).  I'll still need oxygen, and I think I'm going to use my walker since Manitou consists of uphill goat paths and lugging that heavy O2 around tires my ass out.

The Scarf - its become my personal bogeyman - is coming along.  I worked on it last night until I got to the point where I was swearing at it out loud.  If I go into one of the shops there and see a black scarf with a rosebud motif, I'm going to jump on it and BURN the cursed thing mocking me at home.

My next project is a shawl, but I'm buying one that's plain - a nice cream-colored one - that I'll embroider with vines and flowers along the edge. Since I like embroidery, it'll be a project I actually enjoy.

(And I decided I need a shawl to drink tea in...  I am becoming a true recluse, and the professional eremite requires the proper clothing.  A shawl is as essential as casting brooding looks at well-meaning strangers and growling at small children.)

The truth is that considering the way the wind is already whipping through the cracks around the windows, I think I'm gonna be a little cold this winter, so I'm getting ready to hibernate.  Sweaters, a shawl, and my awesome collection of hideous sweats will, I think, get me through the frigid months.  I know that the owner, as sweet as he is, isn't about to waste much money on keeping the collection of failures and moral defectives who abide here warm.

Annoyances

This cold is kicking my ass, so I'll have to waste a few hours tomorrow with yet another unscheduled dr's visit.  (My lazy lungs aren't efficient about being able to clear themselves of all the crap in them, so a cold tends to develop into pneumonia or bronchitis) so he'll send me to the clinic next door for chest x-rays where I'll have to wait a looooooooooong time to be seen, then, I'll have to go back and wait more in his office for him to simply tell me to pick up a 'script for antibiotics.  Why not cut all the shit and simply call in a 'script for me to begin with?  I dunno - to annoy me, I guess.  People exist just to piss me off...

Another annoyance is knitting.  Since I can't find the kind of scarf I want, I am forced to knit myself one.  I don't particularly like to knit; I dislike knitting more when I have to work with more than one color (I want a black scarf with a rosebud motif, dammit); and I REALLY hate it when I can hardly see what I'm doing, so I am in the process of annoying myself by making one.

I was knitting while listening to my mp3's "Angry Shit" playlist, and Jelly started to laugh at me.  I paused it to ask him what was so funny, and he said, "You have this fierce frown on your face and you're rocking back and forth with those needles like you're thinking about stabbing them in someones' face.  Surely it can't be THAT bad!"

Yes.  Yes, it is.  Just call me Davida LaFarge and commence with the beheading of all who invented this dull craft, AND all store purchase departments who refused to carry a simple black scarf with a rosebud motif this season.

I have to wear oxygen, too.  I'm so congested my O2 level went down, down, down, so I'm back to 24/7 on the leash for a little while.  It - the cold - is also fucking with my sugar readings as I don't feel well enough to eat as much as I should with my medications, so the readings are artificially low and I'm feeling loopy half the time, and need to chew on glucose tabs (raspberry flavored wafers) to maintain a healthy reading.

The annoyances of Life...

Bleh.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Day...

...and it is.  Snow is expected - brief flurries - in some areas...  Helloooooo, winter (and I worry about my little furry friends now).

I have one badassed cold.  I'm worried about giving it to Jelly, but there isn't anyone else available to keep an eye on him, help him out, so I get to wear latex gloves and a mask around him, and dry out my already parched skin by washing my hands 1,482,630 times a day.

Bob and Gary were around last night.  They want me to prepare to go to Temple.  (The church isn't a temple.  In fact, it isn't called a church by Mormons - it's a Meeting House.  The Temple is a whole other animal, and you need your 'temple recommends' to get into it.)  That takes a year.  A year of no coffee, tea, cigarettes, and special classes, meetings, etc. to attend.  I'd have to spend a mint I don't have on the special clothing you need to wear inside the temple - all white, all specially made right down to the satin slippers and 'Mormon undies' - which, from head to toe, would set me back at least $400 for the cheaper things. (Like a wedding dress or a tux, this outfit is meant to last for years, and only to be worn at the temple, though, so it's all well-made (most of it handstitched) and DOES last - some people are proud of having their temple clothing for 20, 30 years before they had to replace them...)

I'm pretty sure that - once in the inner sanctum - I'd be touched by the angry finger of God and go up in flames...

Besides, in the ritual, I wouldn't be able to go to Heaven as a single woman.  I'd be stuck in the not-quite-here-nor-there, I suppose, waiting for one of my elders to remember I'm waiting there and call me over...  Sigh...  (Because I have respect for the beliefs of my church whether I entertain them or not, I'm not going to relate the ritual here.  People who despise Mormons have enough ammunition to use against them without being able to mock the ceremonies.)


Bob related a cute story from church.  A little one - about four - was concerned because her older brother had devised a cvery crude 'bird trap'.  As he, himself, was only a year or two older, there was never any real danger that he'd actually trap a bird, but she believed he might, and told her mother that she was going to prayer to Heavenly Father that he wasn't successful.

A few days went by, and each day the mother inquired after the success of these anti-bird trapping prayers and was informed that God was 'working on it' by the little one.

Finally, the little girl announced that she knew Heavenly Father wouldn't let any birds be trapped in such nefarious machinery as devised by her evil little brother, and the mother asked why.

"Oh, I prayed and prayed to Him," said the little girl.  "And, then, I kicked it to pieces!"

The point is that the little girl had just heard, via a conversation between her parents, a discussion in which the father, aggravated by his wife wanting to prayer about the smallest decisions, had told her that, sometimes, God wants us to take matters into our own hands and do what we think is the right thing.

Now, that's the kind of little girl I like...

Starring in My Own Sitcom

I'm too tired to go into all of what happened last night...

  I knew Michael was up to something, and when we sat down at our table and I saw there were three settings, I knew something was up.  Some new con job or flight of fancy on Michaels' part where I was not only his girlfriend, but a pregnant one at that.

The other man - an older man named Gavil (I never heard that name before, he said it's Hungarian) - joined us about a half-an-hour after we got there.  Tall, gaunt, and very well-dressed, I could tell he'd been a hottie when he was younger and was, still, a very striking man with large, sad eyes and a quiet voice I had to strain to hear a few times.  He was unfailingly polite, and I was sorry I had ordered two glasses of champagne I didn't drink when he picked up the tab at the end of the meal as I thought I was sticking it to Michael for putting me in that situation.

I thought it was absurd.  Whether Michael pulled off whatever it was he was aiming for is questionable - if Gavil had any experience with Michael at all, I'm sure that he, too, found it absurd.  He, obviously, had money, and Michael, I've both observed and heard, will go through any number of hoops to acquire those desired shekels BUT work...

Who knows?  Michael isn't talking even though I've badgered him to distraction, and when I asked if I'd have to repeat my performance, he said I did not...  Did it fail?  Did he get - or prove - whatever he was striving for?  I don't know.  The best I can do is tell myself I got an excellent - truly exceptional - meal out of sitting there quietly, stuffing myself, while the pair of them made small talk I didn't connect to.  (I'd decided at the onset that the safest thing to do was to remain as quiet and unobtrusive as I could.)  For all I know, Michael just sold my ass to some elderly Arab man whose goons are going to kidnap me off the street in a day or two...

Ya never know.

Michael does fascinate me, though.  He's a little like my ex-husband, Brian.  Both of them can be charming and charismatic.  Both of them seem to feel that other people exist only for their amusement and to advance their own agendas.  Both of them would rather climb mountains, swim oceans, and risk death a thousand times over than get a fucking job.  The big difference is that Michael doesn't have the cruel streak that Brian had - instead of beating someone half to death to get his way, he cajoles; he wheedles; he charms; he swindles.

He has never - not once - left my place without carrying something of mine out with him that he is 'borrowing', never to be seen again...

Sigh...

Queer Eye for the Hot Fucking Mess

This morning, I was given my instructions for how to dress for dinner tonight at the Steaksmith...

"Are you going to spruce up tonight?" said Michael.

"Did I not the first time?  Are you ashamed to be seen with me?  Do I offend in some manner?"

"You looked great last time.  Do that again."

He gave me the stinkeye, and made a face.

"What?"

"Look at you now - I know you haven't combed your hair even though it's hard to tell when you do, you're wearing a shirt at least three times too big for you, and I know if I lift that shirt, I'll find out that you've got that awful skirt pinned or tacked so it'll stay on you, too.  And those socks!  OMG!  Those socks and Mary Janes..."  He rolled his eyes, he looked towards the heavens for God to agree with him.  "You are one hot, fucking mess, girl."

"Eat me on rye, Queer Eye.  I like what I have on, thank you."

He went to my closet and began to rummage.  Finally, he comes out with this light sage, empire-waisted dress with a gold sash and cap sleeves.  "Does this come close to fitting you?"

"Yeah..."

"Will you wear it?"

"Fine...with Mary Janes or sneakers?"

Rummage, rummage, rummage.  He pulls out a  pair of brownish peep-toe shoes with small heels.  "These will do...and, for gods sake, wear nylons and not ankle socks, okay?"

Hmmmm...

My spidey senses are tingling.

The Steaksmith is a place you don't go into unless you have at least $150 on you to spend for dinner.  It isn't the most expensive place in town, but it's a classy place, and this is TWICE he's taken me.  (Where does a gay guy on SSDI get this much money????)  Now, he's all a'twitter about what I'm going to wear?  Something, as Holmes would say, is afoot, I believe...

As he leaves, he says, "And wear makeup.  You look so good with a little makeup.  Too bad you can't do much with that hair..."

(Fuck him.  I like my hair this way.  I LOVE my hair this way.)

Now, it is true that I don't, normally, pay much attention to what I wear, and most of my clothes ARE too big for me, but since I don't make a habit of going anywhere that my clothes matter, I don't care - I wear what's comfy, what I like, and what appeals to me (which is, unfortunately, often a lot of conflicting colors and styles, but I'm not trying to impress anyone, and the squirrels have never complained.)  I discovered a loooooong time ago that when you dress to please yourself instead of others, you find you have your own little style goin' on, and anyone who doesn't like it can suck it.

He picked one of the few dresses that make me look like the Mormon I am.  This is much more misleading than the clothes I wear every day.  Dresses like that have people expecting things like manners and the observation of simply rules of etiquette that I am, frequently, too casual to employ.  In MY clothing, I don't disappoint when I eat with my fingers or say, "What the fuck is that gray thing in my soup?" to the waiter.

And does it make food taste any differently?

I don't mind being a hot, fucking mess, but just for his attitude this morning, Imma gonna order me some champagne and, then, not drink it...

...so there...

Save Me, Lady!

While the visiting nurse was taking over for a few hours, I went to the park to feed my followers...

I sat down on 'my' bench and was preparing to divvy up the food - strange that there were no mouths already waiting to be fed - when I hear this really strange squeaky-giggling noise.  A ball of black fluff runs by - making this noise - scrambles into the bush behind me (about 2-3 feet from my head) and continues to chitter...

It was my only black squirrel, and he was mad-excited about something.

The something came along a minute later - a man had been chasing it...

"I've been trying to get that thing for an hour," he pants.

"You intend to try to catch a squirrel bare-handed?" I said.  "I'm glad I'm here to see that."

"No...  I want a picture."  He shows me his other hand that is holding a small digital camera.  "Black squirrels are rare around here.  I've never even SEEN one."

I told him to stay still for a moment.  I took a peanut out of the bag and offered it to the squirrel who was very hesitant to leave the safety (?) of the bush to come out after this hairball had been chasing him around for an hour.  Finally, greed overcame fear, and he calmed down enough to hop onto the back of the bench and allow me to give him the peanut - and gave the man time to snap his pic.

"I can't believe he lets you feed him like that!"

"He's used to me.  And if you stop acting like a fool and sit quietly - or just go away - the rest of them will come out for food, too.  Squirrels, birds...  I'm their human soup kitchen."

He sat on an opposite bench and they started to creep out, little by little.  He took some pics of them - I hope he got one of the two red squirrels fighting for peanuts because they look like little boxers - and even got some more of the elusive black squirrel.

The weird thing is the noise that little thing made!  I've never heard anything like it - a squeaky giggle is apparently squirrel for "HOLY FUCK, THERE'S A LARGE BIPED ON MY ASS!"  And that he thought safety was to hide behind me in that bush made me all squishy inside - I am a squirrel saint, I am - even though he was probably just feeling more secure in a place he was familiar with (the bush is his hidey-hole while he waits for me).

Sigh...what small things make my life worthwhile these days...

So - What Happens Now?

I was watching the rescue of the Chilean miners, and listening to some shrink talk about how the ordeal was going to affect them.  I thought, "I can relate to this..."  Not that anything I've gone through is as dangerous and horrible as what they endured, but - I've been in a deep, dark hole for years, and, now, I have to deal with re-entering the sunlight, and what that means for me.

I should be happier, but I'm not.

Oh, I'm glad that they've solved the mystery of why I wasn't responding to treatments (some of which actually exacerbated the problems), why I was, still, always sick and had a few dramatic crisis situations, why I'm not fucking dead, and all of that shit, but - what's next? 

How much will I recover?  What have I lost due to misdiagnosis and the wrong treatments?  How much can I hope for?  To work again?  To go upcountry and hike, camp again?  To look forward to a relatively normal life?  I'm afraid to hope for too much, but I keep looking forward at getting it all back...will I? 

I want...

I want...

I want, want, want...but...

I'm told it will be approximately six months before I see 'substantial, marked mprovements' and a year before I can assume I've reached the optimum plateau.  In between, there's a lot of work on my part, including physical therapy, and a lot of diddling about with my medications - most of which Dr. Curry discarded, by the way, leaving me with a total of seven that include three inhalers (no more nebulizer!!) and one I only take occasionally.  My oxygen level has already improved to the point that, soon, I might only need it at night, and maybe not then - maybe only when I'm physically stressed or have other issues with breathing (a cold, etc.) that makes it necessary.  I would be feeling blissed if I could do away with my leash, my O2 converter...

But I won't let myself get too high on this yet.  I've been fucked over before by the medicos, and my trust in them and theirs is, now, close to zero.  While I don't blame them - I accept the explanation that lupus, COPD, CHF and diabetes is a witches' brew of symptoms that all masquerade as other issues - I no longer have the faith I did that They - the unknown They - will take care of me.  Hell, they almost killed me a few times from what Dr, Curry told me.

(One of the male nurses told me that Curry called my doc more than once to jump his ass about what was done to me.  While I think its nice he was a White Knight for me, I, still, like my doc.  I think he really did do his best, and he followed prescribed procedures - what else could he do?  And he WAS the one who, finally, suspected diabetes being the hidden demon in the brew, so...)

Right now, I'm feeling really lost about what to expect from my future.  I don't like not having a path in front of me...  I was prepared to die, oddly enough, but the idea of living is what scares me now........

The Failure of my Flesh

I used to like my body, to appreciate what a wonderful biological machine it was.  Hands, feet, spine, legs...  I liked movement...

Not so much now.

I'm in a skin prison, and waiting for parole.  I want to get the fuck out of this place where everything aches so much and so much has gone south on me.

Wish it were as easy as it is in the picture...

A Different Room, a Separate Table

They tell me life is a banquet; that we are all here to sample everything that life has to offer, and to have a merry, shining time of it, too.

I think I sit in a different room, at a separate table, because I just don't see what others' see.  I don't 'get' it.  I don't want to get it.  The things I see would, probably, disturb most other people... 

Currently, we are living in a society that apparently believes its possible to live forever if you follow The Rules.  That The Rules are, always, changing doesn't seem to daunt them.  They'll draw back, in horror, at the idea of eating a greasy burger and fries, and will gladly consume gallons of over-priced (and relatively useless) pomegranite juice simply because one health guru or another is telling them one is going to kill them, and the other one will make them beautiful with bowels that perform with clock-like precision.  You follow the rules, you'll live forever...

When something happens, and you are suddenly forced to abide by a set of rules that - while not making you immortal - need to be followed in order to make whatever life you have left tolerable, you are faced with making a few decisions.  French fries, or eyesight?  Pizza, or your feet?  You want salt on that?  Well, how about a nice pig valve for your suffering heart since you insist on mistreating it...

I can take pills; I can exercise; I can use nebulizers and inhalers; I can put up with all manner of medical foolishness because I have and I will, but I'm not sure I can spend the rest of my life measuring every fucking teaspoon of low-fat, low-carb, salt-free, sugarless, TASTELESS food I put into my mouth.  My life has become dreary enough without that...

And not to smoke anymore?  Not ever again?

Shi-i-i-i-it... EVERYBODY smokes in Hell...

Uncle...

I can't do this anymore...

No More...

Every time I think I honestly can't stand up under any more pressure, it just keeps getting worse and worse.  Like Dr. Curry, I don't know where to go with myself... I don't know what to do about me...
In the past when things got too tight, I packed up my toys and left the state.   Sometimes, I'd just hitch around for weeks doing nothing but moving - keeping moving kept me from thinking, and that was enough.  I can't do that now because I'm too ill and require both medication and machinery to keep my scabby ass alive.  I'm stuck.  I'm trapped.  I fell on my Fate and I can't get up...

Mary Ellen and Paul want me to move down to Arkansas with them and their four Siamese cats - Belle, Buddy, Jasmine and (I swear) Turdblossom.  It is a sweet gesture, but I don't know how to tell her that living in Arkansas is a bit like willingly moving into Purgatory, and that I couldn't stand living with four felines who are as spoiled as hers.  (In her last email she writes that Turdblossom, who likes to sleep on her head, got testy when she moved in the night and disturbed her.  She wrote, "He struck - like a rattlesnake - and bit me in the middle of my forehead."  She laughed about it.  I would have introduced Turdblossom to my friend, the ball peen hammer...)

I've been through Arkansas a few times.  There was never any option but to keep moving...

I'm so depressed.  The high of getting out of the hospital has disappeared - helped by Gerry taking a bad fall and hurting himself while I was napping - and I'm left with a future I just can't draw much hope from.

Fuck it all forever...

Skeered-ded

I'm in the hospital for heart-related issues, and I'm scared.  I don't know what they are planning for me, what I will have to do about it, and I am thoroughly freaked-out by the idea of surgery ( I know they're talking about surgery, I just don't know what kind or if I'll have to have it {or if I can weasal out of it!}). 

I am disappointed in myself in that I have reached a point of Big Baby-ism in that I sat here and cried simply because I am scared.  What the fuck happened to my balls???  Have I really come to this?  When I realized what I was doing, I smacked myself in the head a few times and quit being such a pussy, but - it's true that I'm afraid.  Very much so. 

I Know Why the Caged Bird...

...bangs its' head against the bars of its' fucking cage until its' brain hemorrhages.  It's because its' in fucking therapy, that's why, and its' being frog-walked into looking at things inside its' head that give it the Screamin' Willies and its' doctor WON'T LET IT HAVE ITS' FUCKING MORPHINE, DAMMIT...

How am I supposed to deal with shit if I don't have a way to get away from dealing with that shit?  Tell me that, Stephanie...and please don't tell me to continue taking my trazodone because all that does is make me feel like I'm wading through thick liquid, inside and out.

Okay... I think the tantrum is over.  For now...

Since neither one of them - the shrink or my doc - have told me to quit smoking pot, I guess I'll have to become a chronic with the chronic.  I'll fit in with the Park People, at least, and we can all sit around staring at our fingers and chewing our hair.  Maybe I can commune with the squirrels, become the Squirrel Whisperer...god knows if I smoke enough pot I could convince myself that I understand the little rodents...

I am antsy and pissy today.  Antsy and pissy and directionless.  Maybe it's time to go to the monastery and sit in the garden, center my antsy, pissy, directionless ass a little bit...

Bleh.

Marked Lack of Enthusiasm

I wish I could get enthused about something (she writes knowing that she drugs herself for fear of feeling much of anything at all these days).  Obsess on politics once more.  Save the Siberian Tree Frog?  Take up the sad cause of one-legged, hydroencephalitic flamenco dancers in Brazil?  I need a reason to keep draggin' my cranky, snaky ass around all day.

Maybe I should fall in love again.  I'll have to choose the right person to obsess over, though.  Someone who is thoroughly inappropriate who will cause me lots and lots of problems so that I'm distracted from, and have no time for, my own problems with myself and my life.  Some complex, and brooding, alcoholic or addict with a history of suicide and/or violence, and, preferably, a dark and horrid past.  Oh!  And please let him be married with a whole herd of children!  I will proclaim, "I will fix him! (or her, I'm no sexist)!", and I will spend the rest of my life insuring that both of us are deeply, and profoundly, miserable so that when the moment for the inevitable murder/suicide arrives we'll both be so, so very grateful...

Anything to avoid the new round of tests I have to go for today in about an hour...

Two Sides to Everything...

We've all heard about the Evil Twin scenario.  Well, I have an Evil Twin.  Unfortunately, I am, also, evil.  I suppose that both of us have a talent for being wicked cunts...

Jelly is going to try to get into a clinical trial at the University of Colorados' Cancer Center in Aurora.  They have what is being touted as a 'miracle' drug for Stage 4 cancer patients who qualify.  It has, literally, cured a few patients already - one man is back to mountain climbing after undergoing the treatment, so...we're hoping he can not only get into the trial, but that it is as successful for him.

The Evil Twin and I both agree that while this might be a Good Thing, it, also, extends the period of time I'm being held hostage to his health care.  Do I mind taking care of Jelly?  Not really - he's a good friend, a close friend, and I love him as much as my black and bitter heart allows that sort of thing.  I don't, however, love the idea of being a caregiver for years.. .and years... and years...

Caring for someone is exhausting, and you tend to forget to care about yourself.  I lose sleep, I forget to take my own meds, I don't eat...  I can't survive taking care of Jelly for much longer.  As it is, my doc is sending me in for more tests, invasive tests, because my heart is misbehaving again, and he believes its due to a combination of stress, a poor diet, the hit-and-miss medications, and lack of sleep (he wants me to get eight hours a night...  I NEVER sleep eight hours at a time unless I'm drugged... Hoo! Ha!). 

So, even though I am glad that Jelly has a reason to feel a bit of hope, I'm a little ambivalent about this - I know how selfish it sounds, but, in a way, I just want this to be over and done with.  I'd like to see him healed and able to take care of himself,  but, if not, I'm not above hoping he goes face down in a bowl of chicken soup one day soon.

Good twin?  Ain't got one...

Nostalgia

I was going through pics last week, and I came across one of an ex-beau, Lance.  He was a small, slight Jewish guy I don't think I ever saw sober.  He always had a bottle of beer in one hand, and a doobie in the other.  He was the only male that we allowed to run with us, and 'us' consisted of me, Cheryl, Andi, The Mummy and Mary, aka the Wolf Pack (the name a bartender who absolutely despised us gave to us - we came in one night, and someone heard him say, "Oh, Jesus, not the fuckin' Wolf Pack, not tonight...").  Lance was allowed to come with us not because he was my boyfriend, but because he did two things that made him essential to our little group - he drove our skanky asses everywhere, and he was our Potty Boy (in some of the sleazier clubs we went into, he stood outside and wouldn't let any of the desperately perverse men follow us in).  He, also, had the gift of keeping his mouth shut about anything that he might hear us say, and was a general good guy all around.

He was our pet, in a way.

So, I decided to draw him.  Not that he'll ever see it - if he's like most of my friends from that period, he's either dead, in prison, or married to someone who crushed his fucking soul - but it's, still, in honor of all the good times we had with him, and all the shit he took from us.

Here's to you, Lance...!

So, I wanted to draw him.

First Church of the Enlightened Bipedal Disaster

This is a crock of shit.  The thing that makes it such a steaming crock of shit is that it's legal.  Yep - I'm an ordained  minister.  I can perform weddings, baptisms and, I suppose, exorcisms all nicety-nice and legal...if I weren't pretty sure that God would send a flock of rabid crows to peck me to death if I did, but - that's beside the point.

However, I would like to announce my most spectacular First Church of the Enlightened Bipedal Disaster.  Anyone who wants to join only needs to send me the true, and unabridged, story of why they qualify to be a true bipedal disaster, their vow of undying devotion, and $25 for me to spend for them at Cripple Creek on the cheap-assed nickel slots.  In return, I'll send you a certificate stating that you are, indeed, a fucking disaster who really deserves to belong to a church run by me.

"Jesus loves me this I know
'Cuz he gave me polio
And he made my Mom a whore
Who lives at the liquor store....
EVERYBODY NOW!....."

Oh, I am so going to Hell if I don't change my ways...

Scratchin' Out a Place to Breath

Up the road a way is a monastery with a beautiful, peaceful garden inside it's walls that is open to the public.  I found it recently - the garden, I always knew about the monastery - and I've been going there lately to meditate and pray because it's so very quiet and serene.

Yesterday evening, I was leaving and Michael comes flying up in that flustery, scattered way of his.   He's wearing skinny jeans in a strange rose color, an eye-rapin' bright yellow shirt, and an eggplant (deep purple) hipster jacket (he is SUCH a gay Mexican...).  He wants to know where I'm off to.

"The monastery."

"What for?  You can't go in there."

I explain about the garden.  I stress the words 'quiet' and 'serene'.

"I want to go, too."

"No.  You are anything but quiet, and peace of mind doesn't know your address.  This is for me, Michael."  He pouts.  He is a purplish, pouting fool.

"Okay - tell me why you want to go sit in the garden with me.  Are you telling me you want to meditate? to pray?"

He hums, he rolls his eyes, he scratches his head (ever so little so as not to spoil the carefully gel'd unstyled-and-wild look), he gives me his best Tallulah Bankhead sigh.

"Maybe I wanna pray.  I don't know.  I'm a Catholic, you know.  I should go there before you do 'cuz you're a Mormon and everyone knows Mormons are evil cult people doing Satans' work on earth."

"Are you trying to persuade me to let you come with me, or to bludgeon you with my cane?  I can go either way, it's up to you..."

Well, I let him come with me. I was surprised.  He sat a good distance away, and was very quiet and sat calmly - not easy for hyperactive Michael - until I got up about an hour later and motioned I was going home.

"That was nice.  I liked that, DuhVeeDuh.  I think we need to do this again." 

Hmmm - I've either witnessed a small miracle, or the monks pump aerosol tranquilizers into the air there...

The Loneliest One of All

I want you to imagine that you are God.  Go on - you are God...  You are God, and there is nothing else.  There is you, God, and NotGod - and NotGod doesn't even exist because you are all there is.  Pretty bleak, huh?  Aren't you nearly insane with the loneliness of it all?  So...since you're God and can do anything with your Godliness, what would you do to escape that loneliness?

You'd set to creating, is what you'd do.

You'd create Stuff.  Stuff to fill up the Void that didn't exist until you, God, created it to put Stuff in.  You'd hang galaxies and quasars and black holes and dark matter, and you'd think the Stuff is pretty damn good Stuff for what it is.  It's beautiful and magnificent and awesome, but you're, still, lonely because the Stuff doesn't interact with you - it just sits there, all beautiful and inspiring, and does nothing.

So, you create Stuff that's alive.  Stuff that moves and breathes and eats and makes it's own Stuff - even more Stuff like itself - but, really, are you satisfied with that?  Observing all of this Stuff - the animals and plants and trees and bipeds and bacterium - is amusing and passes a few hundred thousand years of your time, and you can even play with them by creating floods and feasts and famines and hallucinogenic drugs that makes the bipeds think they've had dinner with you, but that isn't much better than a kid with an ant farm, is it?  No, you're still pretty much alone in the universe that you created, and you're so lonely it fucking hurts...

Hmmm - you get ideas.  You create a cycle for yourself, a very clever one (you're one sha-mart God).  You tear yourself into a gazillion bazillion bits - making each one of them forget that they are you, God - and each one of the living things from one-celled wrigglers to stinkbugs to those noisy bipeds has a little bit of you inside of them.  You have not only, finally, been invited to the party, you are the party, and it will take so, so very long for all of the guests to go home...

...and do it all over again, and you will do it all over again, and again, and again, because you are God, there is nothing else but you, and you are eternally, unbearably lonely.



Sad, isn't it?  Maybe the reason no one ever truly understands anyone else is because that's the one thing denied to God - how can something alone ever be understood by another when there's no one else? 



What if it's not just another theory?

My Following

I am, by now, so recognizable by the squirrels and birds that I feed that they follow me across the park to 'my' bench and patiently await the handing out of the goodies (peanuts, popcorn, apple bits, bread chunks, hamster pellets and whatever I scrounge up).

Little do they know that it's all part of my plan of world domination.  Once they become dependent on me, they'll be forced to do my bidding...

...when certain people in the Obama administration get their eyes pecked out and have squirrels run up their pants, only you and I will know the awful truth.

Alas, Poor Dingo...

Dingo is dead. 

Dead, or, at best, MIA.  She was last seen limping off into the foothills licking her wounds and muttering about "rat bastards" and "fuckin' bipeds".  Those of you who are seeking her are barking up the wrong dog.

Seriously...

Illness and life have worked some mojo on me.  Am I whipped?  Far from it - I'm just not interested in fighting anymore.  Let the asshats have at it - they're happier that way, and - mebbe - so am I.

We all struggle so hard with life, don't we?  When you get right down to it, all you need is a warm, dry, safe place to sleep and take a shit, and something to eat every day.  The rest is gravy, and - sooner or later - you discover that all of that struggling you were doing was, always, with yourself.

...and I think that's where I'm at right now.  The important things are taken care of, and I don't care to change anyone or anything about the world in any way, unh-uh, not at all.  I don't want to be understood, and I don't need to understand anyone.  The world and everyone in it has been fucked-up for a long, looong time, and I can accept that.  Everything comes home eventually, yanno?  Everyone finds their own way; even me.

Even you.

Right now, I'm going to make a pot of tea.  While it's steeping, I'm gonna get into my nightie.  I'm gonna drink hot, sweet, milky tea, listen to Jean Luc Ponte, and not think about much of anything at all, not a thing.

G'night, ya wankers - twist on...

DuhVEEDuh Wears Boring Shoes

I was passing the desk yesterday on my way to the pharmacy, and David, the owner of this madhouse, called me over to tell me that he had a package for me.

"I make sure no one steal this from you," he said.  Apparently, people here are apt to pick up FedX packages willy-nilly (our mail is delivered in a lump that sits on the front desk for us to sift through since all of the mailboxes - those little ones with locks - lack keys).

"If they did, they'd be disappointed.  No one here could fit into size 6 Mary Janes, or would want to, David."

"What is Mary Janes?"

" Shoes.   The same shoes I have on now, but new - I wear them out every 6 months because I have hooves instead of feet."

He considered this a moment, then said, "High heels make you more pretty."

"I have a difficult time staying vertical as it is, David.  High heels would cause me to spend quite a bit of time picking myself up and bandaging whatever is bleeding."

He frowns (and no one frowns like a Greek, lemme tell ya...)  "Boring shoes.  You need pretty shoes.  You buy pretty shoes next time, okay?"

"I'll buy some  gold lame Mary Janes, k?  Mebbe get some that have LED lights built into the heels so all the perverts around here don't loose track of me in the dark."

So, if anyone runs across a pair of size 6, gold lame Mary Janes with built-in LED lights (preferably blinkers), please let me know...

Sick, Sicker, Sickest

Been too sick to do anything but lay in bed and wish that I had someone to hand feed me chicken noodle soup out of my mug with BuHsi's pic on it, and an icy-cold, never-ending peach margarita from the Steaksmith...

No Place for Kids

This morning before I went to see Steph, I ran into a little girl in the hallway who was doing a classic kids' thing - drawing on the wall with a broken crayon.  How sad...  This is no place to bring a child.  I know that someone might not have had a choice, but... it's, still, sad.

I told her to wait a minute, and went back to get a box of crayons and a large pad for her to draw on, but she was gone when I returned - probably afraid she was going to get into trouble even though I'd tried to reassure her she was not.

Ah well... if I see her again, I suppose.

It's disturbing to me to know that there's a child living here.  It isn't a hellhole or anything, not by a long shot, but it isn't a place for kids.  There are things they shouldn't see or hear that might not bother an adult, but...  well, it just isn't right.

Transmutation

I am becoming so unbelievably, insufferably weird that I can hardly stand to be inside myself...

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...Glenn Beck!

I strayed into the Dark Side last night and this morning reading the articles and blogs that spilled from the shaking fingers of shit-scared libs reporting on Becks' rally yesterday.  I - almost - feel a bit sorry for them.  Really - you can smell the rank, damp desperation pouring out of them.

Tee-Fuckin'-Hee...

I can't see what they can find to complain about in regards to Becks' speech.  From what I heard, Beck just wants us to stop acting like greedy, self-involved, intolerant assholes; remember who we truly are, and where we came from; and strive to rise above our own flawed natures to become something fierce and bright.

But...I guess them be those "fightin' words" I hear tell about to them there Democrats...  (BTW, all of us racist, Islama/homophobic, kitten-stomping conservatives are gap-toothed, Klan-loving, warmongers whose poor English is always heavily Southern-accented.  Oh, and we drool, too.  We are the droolingest sons'a'bitches you ever did see...)

I, for one, am grateful that I have some small sense of spiritual assistance.  That, and a healthy fear of ending up in prison having Flirty Gertie carving her name into my rump keeps me from being the nasty, venom-spitting, little Death Badger of Mayhem I am in my blackest heart of hearts.  It's God (Gertie and my proctologist) who keep me humble, remind me that - without guidance - what a little toad I am, and it's that helping hand from a God who watches over fools and drunks (and domesticated - kinda - Death Badgers) that keeps me from drinking a gallon of gasoline and inhaling a match.

Becks' speech asked two simple questions:  Can you be a better person?  Will you try?

I'm sure we can.  I'm much less certain that we care enough to try.

....so there....

I gave this rant (different words, same sermon) while I was helping out in the kitchen at M.H.  I got to the end (or ran out of breath?) and I realized it was one of those moments when the entire room is still and everyone is looking at you as if you had just taken a crap on the floor.  Sandy, a large, golden woman, was standing next to me and she said, "Good Lord - I don't think you've ever spoken more than ten words the whole time I've known you!" and Chad, one of the regular cooks, spoke into a silver ladel and said, "And that was DuhVeeDuh coming at you live from the soup kitchen we all know and love.  Next up - Sandy W. will sing 'God Bless America' while playing the accordian with her knees!"

I don't know.  Mebbe its a sign I'm coming back...  Yeah, but I've been there before, and I'm not sure it's what I want to return to anyway....

The Library

I went to the library today.

I did NOT have a good time.

The library is only about two blocks away.  It should be easy for me to stroll down, return/grab a few books, and come back.  However...

I have to cart a very heavy portable oxygen pack and a very, VERY heavy messenger bag holding my books.  I had ten, so it was like lugging a bag of dead badgers.  I need my walker to do this - I can't carry both - and maneuvering the walker around cracks in the sidewalk and stray rocks leaves a lot to be desired - every few seconds I was getting my wheels hung-up or it was threatening to tip over on me.

When I got there, it was a bitch getting into the place.  I'd press the large button for the automated door, but by the time I got back behind my walker, it would already be swinging shut.  Okay, there's the revolving door, right?  Well, YOU try to get a walker through a revolving door and tell me about it...  Finally, there's the regular, garden-variety door.  I had to turn my walker sideways, open the door, lodge my walker in it, and force everything through doing this weird inch-by-inch step with the oxygen container on the edge of falling out of the basket, and the messenger bag alternately smacking me in the knee and getting stuck.  I was red-faced, sweating and in a pissy mood by the time I wiggled, grunted and forced my way in...

...with easily two dozen people standing around doing nothing but twiddling their thumbs and watching me.  "Thanks for offering to help, but I can do this all by myself, people!  Thanks anyway!" I said, and I was rewarded by watching them all get the same, "Oh..." look on their faces.  I hope they all develop boils on their genital.

Then, I found out my books were late, and I owed them $2.40.  I didn't mind paying the fine, but I DID mind not realizing they were late - I don't forget things like that until, well, I forgot something like that. 

I struggled through the place trying to juggle the oxygen, the messenger bag, my purse, and the walker.  I ended up grabbing books I didn't really want just to get something to read and get the fuck out of there.  I suppose I can spend at least one evening reading about one Chinese familys' odyssey adjusting to life in San Francisco in the '80's...and I'm afraid to look at the others I have in the bag...

I had the same problems with exiting the building with a small crowd of different people watching me struggle without offering to simply HOLD THE FUCKING DOOR FOR ME...  (What's happened in America?  Have we all become so fucking self-involved that we can't hold a fucking door?)

I managed to make it back home where I was sweating, in pain, and in the mood to poke infants with my bony fingers just to hear them cry.  Because I live around lowlifes who can't be trusted, every door in the place has three locks - a regular lock and two deadbolts.  Having to unlock them all is a bitch, but I want to protect what little I have from folks like Michael who have no qualms about lifting anything that isn't nailed down or protected by a guardian troll, so I had to put down the messenger bag, pick up my purse, dig for the keys, unlock the locks (all the keys look alike, of course), open the door, pick up the messenger bag, drag my walker inside, unattach myself from the portable oxygen, find my regular oxygen, and sit my irritable ass down for a few minutes before putting everything away and remembering that I FORGOT TO STOP AT THE STORE FOR SOME FUCKING MILK...

I had my oatmeal plain, thank you, and my tea the same...

I'm Holding Myself Together...

...but I'm still knee-deep in pieces of raw davida...

Yesterday, when I saw S.B. and she asked me how I was doing, this is the image that bounced into my head.  I think I'm going to make a 'real' pic out of this little sketch...

I'm getting a bit tired of seeing her twice a week, to be honest.  Okay, okay - I understand the therapeutic actions resulting from talking through the pain you're feeling, but - do we really need to talk so fucking much about anything at all?  I think about my evil shit all the time, so having to think about it out loud twice a week doesn't seem to be the right thing to do for me.  Some people might respond to, even like, vomiting out all the bad juices, and it cleanses them.  For me, it's only puts them into another set of ears who can't, honestly, know how it feels.  Yes, they can empathize.  Yes, they can offer suggestions (all of which I'm familiar with).  While it might help if I had something dark to confess ("I've been meaning to tell you, Steph, that most of my problems stem from my overwhelming and undeniable urge to peel corpses and make lederhosen from their skins..."), but to continually dwell on the same shit, over and over, doesn't seem to do anything but stir the pot, agitate the evil sewage...

Yesterday, she just happened (yeah...) to have her lunch ready when I arrived, and suggested we share it while we talked.  It was a nice gesture, but I knew where she was going.  "I'm not losing weight because I can't afford food, Steph.  I'm losing weight because I just don't feel like eating.  It all tastes like wet newspaper..."  To make her happy, I had a cup of tea and a slice of canteloupe...

I appreciate the gesture, though.  In her mind, she was helping, and that's enough.

BuHsi

BuHsi was the perfect little dog for me.  She was a comic, a bundle of fluffy love, and an enormous pain in the ass... I loved her.

Most of her things are gone now.  Her little bed has been given to someone elses' beloved pet.  her clothes (and, yes, she loved to get dressed up on her walks) as well.  The shameful amount of treats I had for her (bags of unopened yummies) were taken to her groomer, Margaret, whom she loved enough to allow her to perform such personal humilations as having her anal glands expressed (don't ask), and I hope other little dogs will enjoy the treats after being similarly imposed upon.  Her binky - a small quilt handmade by my sister, Elizabeth - has been washed and stored away.  Her food dish has been washed as well, and is wrapped in that quilt along with her favorite leash - the Bye-Bye leash that made her light up like a rocket each time she saw me take it off the coat rack (A RIDE IN THE CAR!!!!!), her collar and the only stuffie that she loved to sleep on, Jaro.

I have her ashes, and a lock of her silky, white hair to remember all the years she gave to me (and all the times she peed on the floor, barked in my sleeping ear, walked on my sleeping face, begged mercilessly for my food, etc.).  It's not nearly enough, but - it's all I have left of her besides the yawning hole her absence has left me with.

One day, I might be able to only remember the wonderful things, and how she made me laugh, made me feel warm and squishy.  One day.  Not today, not tomorrow, but one day.

Wait for me, baby girl.  Stay close so you can find me.  Mum will never forget you, and all the love you gave me for free...  Miss you, baby girl...

27 Names for Tears

Every time I think I'm coming to grips with losing BuHsi, it sneaks up and gets in my face again.  I've accepted that I'm going to cry myself to sleep until I'm 109 years old, but I thought that I was doing better during the day.

I'm tired of it, really.  Tired of crying, tired of people looking at me That Way, tired of going through enough Kleenex to stuff the Grand Canyon, tired of having eyes that look like I spend my evenings getting punched...  Just tired of grieving like this.

I wish that something helped.  I'd drink drain cleaner and pound nails into my forehead if it would stop.  I'd eat glass and listen to Celin Dion for the rest of my life if it would stop.  I'd vote Democratic, for gods' sake...

I can't forget her last breath......

Bad Moon Rising

I was looking at the moon last night - almost full, and - if scientists are to be believed - shrinking, growing smaller with age - and thinking that I'd like to take up drinking heavily and doing drugs again.  Was I any happier then?  No.  Um... NO... but I rarely knew this.  I spent so much time in an altered state of mind that I only realized I wasn't unhappy until I was sober, and that is a state of mind that can be easily remedied.

What stops me?  I don't know...  Actually, I already have so many drugs running through my system that I'm not sure if I've been able to count myself as 'sober' since the age of ten (I was such a precocious child).  I know that the doctor told me, more than once, that taking up with my friend crystal meth would kill me, but the medical profession has been telling me I'm dying for years now, and, yet, here I am - ticking away whether I want to or not.

All I want is what every person who embraces drugs and booze wants - to stop feeling what I'm feeling.  Why can't they make a fucking drug for that?  Most of the junkies in the world would become Wall Street execs and surgeons if they could swing that; street whores would all but disappear; teenagers would take up rugby or some other shit.

I think tonight I'll be content with getting very, very drunk on Southern Comfort and I will suck the soul out of my bong.  I would very much like to become unconscious before nightfall, and stay that way for a long, long time.

My Inner Child is a Monster

My Inner Child really is a monster, I think.  From now on, I'm abdicating all responsibility for any bad behavior I might indulge in simply because it isn't my fault, but the fault of this wicked and maladjusted creature who refuses to grow up or be restrained.  Anyone who has a problem with my Inner Child will simply have to pay for the extensive and expensive therapy required for them to, finally, sit down and confront her. I myself wish you all the best, but I can no longer be concerned with what she does, why she does it, or the consequences thereof.  Let it be known that this is my final word on the subject, and that anyone who disagrees with me is, in her words, a 'mean poopiehead'.  Also, I have it on good authority that she is training a squadron of highly-venomous wasps to sting them on their assholes, so - well, let's just say it would be prudent to simply nod your heads and agree with anything she says.

The above entry is not my fault.

Again and Again and Again

I just finished reading WE HAVE ALWAYS LIVED IN THE CASTLE by Shirley Jackson.  I don't know how many times I've read this book since I found it when I was ten years old, or why I've read it so many times, but I love the book.  I love Jackson.  I love the way her words fall on the page, in my minds' ear.

There are a few books that I read over and over...

ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVITCH by A. Solzhenitsyn.  This book never fails to lend me some strength.  This one, as well as CANCER WARD are two, I believe, of his best.  They both speak of mans' incredible power to  overcome adversity and shine on through whatever darkness is inflicted on him.

OF HUMAN BONDAGE by Somerset Maugham.  This autobiographical novel rings like a bell, and, again, I love the lay of his words.  He writes so well and so effortlessly (or so it seems) that I will sit reading the same paragraph a dozen times just because it sings to me.

GONE WITH THE WIND by Margaret Mitchell.  Okay - fucking sue me already.  I just like the book, I like Scarlett, and I am deeply and profoundly in love with both Ashley and Rhett.  Bite me...

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by Harper Lee.  This book knocks me out every time.  It's such a shame she only wrote one book because her words take you right... there... and you can't ever forget them.

IN COLD BLOOD by Truman Capote.  Capote wrote a lot, and I like most of it, but this book truly is his masterpiece.  Every other true crime book strives to be as good as this, and none of them has, as yet, even gotten close.

Anything by Tennessee Williams - plays, short stories, interviews.  I love this man, and his wounded characters are the heart of the American south.  No one can do brooding heartache the way he can.

There are others, but it's after three in the morning, and I'm too tired to write about them.  My point is this:  Why do those of us who read feel drawn to certain works and keep them close?  I do notice that the common thread among the ones I read are adversity, and emotional turmoil.  Sometimes, the characters 'win' - like Solzhenitsyns' people  - but, most of them, fail, but fail gloriously, beautifully... you almost feel they sacrificed themselves just for the beauty of their destruction in the end.

Boxed-In Again...

Once Again...

I'm asleep and dreaming my way through this one this time...