Blog Archive


update on the writer's condition

Allophrenia - when, after an extended period of shared isolation with a schizophrenic patient, one begins to exhibit similar characteristics.

the truth is I can't write a fucking thing. my mind is some kind of fog, with death, love, and some irritation blocking out all connection to itself. could be a woman. i dont know. i keep having dreams that i should cut my losses and split. but a smile is god damn difficult to think beyond sometimes, a beautiful smile in particular. then there's that warm feeling of letting it all wash over you, letting the mind drift to places where there might be some chance. what does it mean? what can it mean?

but deep down i see it as a failure of adjustment. we human beings, especially us old dogs, do have such hard times adjusting. no, we'd rather live on in our smelly little burrows, with depression, misery, ideas, and an unwilling nature to change as our only companions in the dark. i don't lie. some of us, the very worst of us truly, will go on kicking every sliver of happiness, easiness, cleanliness of peace out of our lives like soiled garbage. GET IT OUT!! let me rot like before! erase myself from existence, shielded from anything I would later be asked to protect.

but as I've said before: whining never has and never will move a damn thing forward. it only picks open the scabs you've tried to let crust over and scar. but is there not enjoyment to be had in laceration? in picking open dried wounds? i contest there must be. and the world is littered with their corpses, and their stench. there are those hidden individuals who live out this entire interlude of tragicomedy in such a state. opening up old wounds and letting the blood and puss flow out into the world.


an anecdote on work (the release)

but she was there last night. those big brown eyes looking at me from over her shoulder. she put the right index finger to her pouty red lips, gave a "shhhhhhh". she was leaving the place with someone else. and i guess by contrast i was free. but this entire narrative was created out of nothingness; it was only a dream. yet somehow the rest of reality made sense then. it's a constant scrape for meaning in a desert of chaos and self-creation, framed by the brain's frenetic attempt to tie everything together within a linear progression.

still, why do they always come back?

i have to think that the mind itself just gets bored. eventually the brain starts coming up with all kinds of solutions or cures. how ironic if it was the brain itself that could not handle truth. what if this whole god damned mess was simply a competition for serotonin? I suppose it would make all the mystics, all the stoics & monks, the logicians & scientists, the free-lovers and the right-wingers feel pretty damn silly. all these castles built atop a very simple and biologically mandated thirst...our pride would never allow us to swallow such dryness.

i burst through the door like some industrial Ronin. no one was at their post. the redhead, big (400 lbs), volatile, she was absent. Janeene, the office manager, due by 8, missing, presumed shopping. Tim, former rodeo cowboy, voted for Bush, both of them, twice, he wasn't there either. just me, returning from Barbeau's dream interruption, that "shush", feeling very little and wondering what it might all mean, sitting down to the sterile white noise of the office environment; I guess humanity had made it, I thought.

why'd she come again? and after so long? things didn't quite feel right. i should've stayed home but i couldn't afford it. there was the electric, the water, the gas, the cat food, the insurance, the car, the tooth, the foot, the drinking, the lung that didn't inflate correctly, whatever shit was to come, and the off chance that someone would crack and try to kill you.

it was a bad Dr visit the previous morning that kept me company. "chest pains doctor. things don't seem to work right. constant fatigue and thoughts wasted on lives I can no longer live."

one phone call and the woman on the other line had me scheduled for a Tuesday morning, 10 AM. those familiar stinky waiting rooms, with all the people leaking and wheezing, old magazines and hard chairs. these led to suicides no doubt. suicide is in everyone else's best interest.

we waited a long time. after a few hours it was my turn. they took me, weighed me, "oh, heavy for your height", measured my height, "oh, you look taller than that. doesn't he look taller than that?" she turned to the other nurse on duty. they both nodded then led me to a room and sat me on a piece of sterile white paper.

there was a brief period of staring at empty walls and contemplating ending it quickly before the Dr walks into the room. looking over the chart "what is the problem?"

chest pains doc. fatigue and a general lack of movement.

"are you drinking?"

well, yes. of course.

"and how are you sleeping?"

by drinking Dr. i drink until it knocks me out. when i don't drink, life is too big. large jagged corners everywhere, waiting to nick and tug at you. drinking smooths everything out.

but it's my dreams doc that keep me up at night. constant interludes about death, dying and some type of distant happiness. what does it mean doc? it seems im always happier when im not forced to live my life. and each week, one night, usually some Tuesday or Wednesday, a meaningless period in a meaningless corner of space, i get these dreams about the apocalypse. the big one. can you imagine it? dying with all those strangers, pale horses and all that. i guess a certain part of me wants to see the look on Man's face when He finally trips and falls over the shotgun. other times I'm chasing little figments from my past, memories i can't make true again, only participate through like a spectator. what purpose does it serve to remember? when so many of us don't go right, and simply stumble back into the same open hole?

and the Dr reached back in southern drawl and asked "how much are you drinking?"

he wrote me a prescription for sleep medication and sent me out the door. 

The broadness of the human...

I had to share an experience I had earlier today while driving to pick up some stuff from work.

I don't know if you know much about the opera Carmen (Carmen), but it was playing today on the TU classical station. I don't mean to come off snobby, or shed some positive light with these stories, but I'm waiting on laundry and all these magazines scare me. And the books bore me to tears these days.

I'm driving down the BA. Suppose I've been feeling rather stupid lately, or unintelligent, so something with some class might pick me right up. OK. Carmen. Something about listening to other men fuck up as far back as 1875 makes me feel like less of an idiot. Don Jose seems somewhat familiar, some naive dumb guy cursed with the dilemma of having some semblance of heart, a heart that usually tells him stupid things.

Just then, I'm somewhat lost in the drive, some drooling type of state, as Carmen sings a final plea to her Don Jose, begging her relinquishment from prison - the apex of the first act - when this big ol' fat guy on a motorcycle passes my left side at 85 MPH. And to this day, I don't really know what it meant. But my concentration was broken immediately. The motorcycle was old and beat up; there's all these little flaps of cotton loose from the seat and dancing in the wind. Well, as you can imagine, these high speeds make hash of the man's futile little green shirt.

Shouldn't even have to say it, but as he passes I get the full picture in-bloom. Bout four inches, maybe five, solid buttcrack. Shirt flappin' in the wind, like the damn thing is waving "good-bye". There he goes down the highway. And something hit me. Just the broadness of our species. The hominus erectus. The same molecules and combination of elements that gave us Carmen produced motorcycle guy on a Saturday morning. Strange, that's all.

The play in question