Tuesday, January 31, 2006

The Elegent Podiatrist

When I was a kid, I had an ingrown toenail. I went to a podiatrists, but only after it was infected and terribly painful. After I was treated, I got another ingrown nail on my other big toe. It was treated, but then I got another ingrown nail in my other toe. And back and forth it went. They were pure agony. When I was 13, a "friend" of mine, a prick named Danny Howell, thought it would be funny to stomp on one. I nearly blacked out from the pain.

I hope he's out there up to his ass in debt, with 5 smartass kids and a wife who cheats on him.

Anyway, the podiatrist decided to kill the nerve on each big toe, since I seemed to have a bizarre inclination towards the problem. Now, my big toes don't grow on one side, they sort of grow on a slant. It's all true.

There's a lot to be said for the elegance of that solution. Of just killing the nerve that was causing the problem. These days, I find myself unbearably lonely as a result of successfully isolating myself. Virtually all of my problems exist in my head, in the form of depression, self-loathing, anxiety, insomnia, suicidal ideation, and all that jazz. More than anything else, I would like to kill the nerve that is causing me so much pain. The bloody, pus-oozing injury is not in my sock this time, it is atop my shoulders. And if Danny Howell were here, I'm sure he'd stomp on my head to make it worse.

Just a snip at the base of my brain, or perhaps an old-fashioned lobotomy, and suddenly I'd be free of this nonsense. The thoughts of death and feelings of worthlessness would end. The branch would break, and down would come baby, cradle and all. There is nothing wrong with being alone and pathetic if you're not around to judge yourself that way. The world as it is gets sifted through my brain, and I'm left with a series of images, expressions, and thoughts that lead to a devestating conclusion. Whispered in my ear, that assessment becomes a mantra, "Your life has no meaning, you suffer alone."

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Does Dignity Have Cookies?

As many of you know, and many of you don't, I had a little tangle with the law (also known as, "The Man") a couple of years ago. I'm not comfortable with sharing the details, but it had something to do with an unwise act with a public telephone. Despite my having done it, I adamantly maintain my innocence. Regardless of that, I've been on probation for a couple of years now. As of April 2006, that will be over and I won't have to report to a probation officer once a month.

It will be a bittersweet time for me, as I've developed an affinity for being watched by the criminal justice system. Well, perhaps not, but there is something so degrading about the whole affair that I feel as if it is good training for the police state currently under construction by the Bush Administration. And every month, over the past two years, I have used my cable bill as proof of my current address. I can't help by be amused that my parole officer knows that I rented, "Devil's Rejects" and "March of the Penguins" in the same week. He had to have noticed that on my bill, I know I did. It compelled me into a mode of deep introspection that has yet to abate.

But I don't really care what my parole officer thinks of my taste in movies. That is a moon-cast shadow compared to the anxiety and concern I feel regarding the attempt by some in the government to find out what people like myself are searching for on Google. Yes, the scope of the government's request is very limited, mainly to children and pornography. But it's only a matter of time before They are monitoring what each and every one of us are doing on the Internet. I don't like that, because some of the stuff I do on the 'net isn't exactly a source of pride. How can I defend my searching for "Al-Jazeera" one day, and the chick who plays the receptionist on, "The Office" the next?

And that is just scratching the surface. I'm not sure why, but over the years I've searched for fart noises, porno bloopers, gambling, Edith Piaf, marijuana recipes, ex girlfriends, and fainting goats.

And again, we're just scratching the surface.

I'm getting ahead of myself, as Google is the least of my concerns when it comes to personal privacy and civil liberties. The White House (actually, the people in it) have told us not to worry, that only overseas phone calls are possibly being tapped by the NSA. I don't know why that is supposed to make me relax. I have friends in France, England, and Canada. How can I rail against the Bush Regime with my friends across the sea, particularly France? I just know that they're bugging my calls to France. I'm just glad that I don't know anyone in Pakistan. Although my Russian friend who now lives in London did spend some time in Pakistan. Is it legal to tap his phone calls to the US, given that he spent some time in the place that Osama bin Laden probably calls home? I don't know...I don't think anyone does, as "legal" isn't a consideration.

I fuck around with one phone and I get two years probation. Bush fucks around with thousands of phones, and we're supposed to thank him for protecting us. I thought the rule of law applied to everyone in our fair republic? Apparently not...it's good to be the King!

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Chocolate Hushpuppy Hot-Almond Nugget

What word would best describe the opposite of surprise? Whatever the word, and whatever the feeling, I felt that earlier tonight when I made myself a little snack to eat. It was the sort of thing you put together when two factors are at work. The first is hunger and the second is that lack of anything to eat in my apartment. A strong desire for something, combined with an inability to sate that desire, can lead to frustration and the perpetration of activities better left undone. I know, for tonight I created the, "Chocolate Hushpuppy Hot-Almond Nugget."

It reads worse that it is, for it is not a euphamism for a turd. It's actually a monstrosity I cooked up in the microwave about an hour ago, using a cold hushpuppy and a piece of a chocolate bar with almonds. My father made a batch of hushpuppies earlier in the evening, out of a mix sent up from my sister, who lives in North Carolina. We don't really have hushpuppy mix around Boston, but I suspect that it wouldn't be too difficult to whip-up. I'm not sure why he suddenly got the urge to make a batch of hushpuppies, or why he had the urge to put cinnamon in them (he was rebuffed), but there they were, in all their crusty glory.

And I enjoyed them. But they somehow didn't hit the spot. I'm a fat man, so I have a lot of spots to hit. Earlier in the day, I bought a Hershy's bar with almonds, to fill a spot that apparently needed filling at the time. But as the clock ticked towards 9pm, I felt a hunger that the chocolate bar nor the hushpuppies could sate. For reasons that are unclear to me, I thought that cramming a piece of chocolate into a hushpuppy and applying heat would create a taste sensation.

It didn't. With my fat, oily fingers, I made one out of two over the kitchen sink. It's important to mention that my fingers, while always fat, are not usually oily. Doing surgery on a deep-fat fried ball of corn meal made them that way. Eating shit like this is what made my fingers fat, though. But if they weren't fat they wouldn't match the rest of me. Anyway, I dropped this thing in the microwave for 10 seconds.

Why would I make such a thing? Have I no self-respect? Is this how my mind works? Trying to figure out unique ways of cramming things into other things to make them more appetizing? As I stood in my kitchen holding a hot hushpuppy filled with chocolate, and possibly an almond, I had an epiphany, sort of. This moment of profound realization wasn't coupled with any deeper understanding of anything. There was no truth revealed, only an awareness that something very important was happening. Moments like that are really fucking frustrating. All the emotional currency of a guiding revelation, but no actual revelation.

So I ate it, and there was an almond, and I saw that it was good. It certainly wasn't great, but it was better than a sharp stick in my eye. But it did make me sick. And in that moment of sickness, I told myself to stop eating such ungodly crap. Now that I look back on the events of the evening, from the buying of the candy bar and the cooking of the hushpuppies, to the (inevitable?) creation of the CHHAN, I ask myself, "What lessons have I learned?"

None, apparently, as I'm about to go make another one. Mazel tov!

Friday, January 13, 2006

God is Hoggin' the Dip

This morning I found myself watching The 700 Club on one of those religious channels available via cable, like Trinity Broadcasting Network and C-Span. The man on the show was telling me that I'm a terrible sinner, and that I'm doomed without God. If I recognize and seek forgiveness for this sin, apparently, I can gain entrance into Heaven, which by all accounts is quite a nice place to be. If I don't, I'll be sent to a place that is a lot like Revere Beach in August. A mercilessly hot place full of hideous, grotesque abominations. And there will be sand in my crack.

This religious show had me asking myself why God is so eager to punish people. Not only does He set up a very, very long list of sinful activities (coveting!), but we all carry the weight of Original Sin. Because of that minor apple-picking incident decades ago, I'm going to be denied access to paradise and tortured forever if I don't kiss some serious ass.

We all know that most people are not getting into Heaven. A weekend in New Jersey will tell you that. You've already excuded 5/6th of the world's population when you punish non-Christians. And even among Christians, only a very small number of them are prostrate enough to get in.

So God has a party and lets only a few people in. Then he hogs the dip. Meanwhile, the rest of us burn for eternity because our neighbor had a really hot wife.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Triskaidekaphobia Awareness Day

This is just a reminder that tomorrow is Friday the 13th. I'm a little frightened of Friday the 13th, and the number 13 in general. It seems right that a day should be set aside for those suffering from this far from debilitating illness. Tomorrow should be that day, a day for understanding and compassion and sympathy.

Wouldn't that be ironic? Friday the 13th as "Triskaidekaphobia Day?" Big fuckin' ha ha. How droll. Just so damn witty you could jam a hot penny between your toes.

So I'll try like hell to forget that tomorrow is the 13th, but that will ensure that I'll be acutely aware of the date all day.

Happy Triskaidekaphobia Day!

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Personal Inventory

It's getting close to midnight on Wednesday, January 11. My flat is quiet right now, as it usually is at this time of night. The cats are all in their beds, although Impy is still roaming about. Toulouse is wound into a tight circle on a chair to my left, near my bed. There are two chairs very close to me that allow Impy and Toulouse to rest in close proximity while I'm at my desk. To my right is a radio, which is almost useless. There is rarely anything of interest on what is now called, "terrestrial" radio, so it functions mainly as a redundant clock (there is already a clock on my computer). My desk doesn't offer enough space on which to put papers and such, so I have a TV table against the wall to my left. Between the cat-chairs and the table I have very little space in which to navigate my ass as I get behind my desk. The little table is piled high with newspaper articles, parts of my medical records, prescription bottles, a couple of books, letters, magazines, and my beloved camera.

You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their desk. Or perhaps not, I don't know. But looking at my desk in the darkness of my bedroom I can tell a few things about myself. It doesn't exactly take the $3.99 per minute powers of "Cleo" to come to many of my conclusion. The pill bottles indicate a man with a few medical problems. Newspaper articles and commentaries indicate that I have an interest in the world around me. The Venezuelan flag that flaps in the air coming out of the heating vent shows that my politics are odd, and to a person who is paying attention, most likely far to the left.

My desk is set up in such a way that my back is to the wall, and I can see out the window across the room and face the door. Although I put paper over most of my window as to reduce the amount of light. I've managed to create a little nook within which I can simultaneously hide and keep an eye or two on the world via my television and computer. Here, surrounded by my cats, I am somewhat safe. Over the years, I've succumbed to social anxiety and panic that cripples my ability to function in society. At the same time, I have friends and family whom I love, and I like to feel connected in some way to them. The magic of letters and email allow me to do that, as does this 'blog.

My bedroom is very clean, except for the aforementioned clutter. A fan is kept running at all times, mainly as a producer of "white noise." I've come to dislike complete silence. The shelf in my closet is full of letters and various and sundry gifts that I've received over the years from lovers. They all have a very special importance to me, and I just like knowing that they were there. The best part about love is that they cannot, as the song goes, take that away from me. Although memory is fragile, it's good to know that certain moments will forever exist at a certain place and time and nothing will change that. From this room, I am free to visit memories that take me from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston to an apartment in Brockton, to a dinner at Grendall's in Harvard Square and on and on.

I'm a romantic, although that disposition has shifted a bit over time to make way for more cynicism and nihilism. I can't deny that many of the things in my bedroom, and even around my desk, are there out of sentimental attachment. For example, on the wall to my right is poster for a play that ran for a few nights at UMass Boston's McCormack Theatre. There was a beautiful young woman in that play and I had a crush on her. We spoke often, but I was hopeful that it would turn into something more serious. Between classes, I would sit at the back of the theatre, or out front nearby, and watch the actors practice their lines with friends. She was so beautiful, and I haven't a clue where she is, and we never actually dated. But talking to her made me happy, and I saw her play twice. Now I have that poster on the wall to remind me of it. Here in the dark, with just the sound of the fan and my fingers typing on the keyboard, I can visit a place back in 1993. None of the fear or the anxiety or the self-loathing travels with it.

One of my favorite artifacts is a copy of Dostoevsky's short story "White Nights." Upon reading it, I was completely taken with its overflowing romantic sentiment and intrinsic Russian sadness. In the late '90's, every woman whom I attempted to court found herself with a copy of Dostoevsky's bittersweet opus. That should have been a clue right there that they weren't dealing with a well-adjusted individual. Passion is like salt. A little can help a lot, but too much will ruin the meal.

Some may find it odd, or even creepy, to know that there is a fat fellow out there thinking of them. I can't say that I really care, but it's worth mentioning that I only occasionally think of the past at all. And there are many memories that make my skin crawl. Like the time I told members of the Socialist Party of Massachusetts that we shouldn't call each other "comrade" because it sounds strange to the working-class. I feel like a real idiot when I think of that, and I wince at the thought. And that is just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. There are countless memories that cause me to shiver, or bring into mind and body feelings better left in the past. But that's part of the deal. No, they can't take those away from me, either.

There's a Diego Rivera print on my wall that I stole from a hospital. I simply took it off the wall as I was leaving the emergency room and left. Not too far from that is a framed letter from Boston radio legend Norm Nathan. I sent him a holiday card and he wrote me back with some kind words.

These things that I have around me are more than things that I just keep around, but as soon as I'm not around anymore they'll just be...things. The dust bunny under my bed, which is now a monument to my not giving a shit about what is under my bed, will eventually just be a dust bunny. Suck on that.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

October 23, 2003 : The Abyss Beside The Platform

I've never embraced the practice of keeping notes, or a journal, beyond what I occasionally write in here. It's not for lack of trying. Over the years I've bought paper journals, and even a hand-held tape recorder, to help me lap up my insipid thoughts and banal observations. The attempt always failed, yet I find it difficult to stay away from my online 'blog for too long.

That said, there have been briefs periods of success regarding pencil on paper journal-keeping. And that's what I'm going to relate here, a journal entry of mine from October 23, 2003. Partly because I don't have much else to write about, and people have been asking me to contribute to this 'blog more often. It also speaks to the value of journal-keeping. In this case, it allows me to see myself as if I were another person. We lose our ability to see clearly if we get too close to something, including ourselves. Something too close is just as blurry as something that is too far away. One benefit of writing, or any creative endeavor, is that part of you is collected for some healthy observation and analysis. And you can share it, or keep it for yourself. Either way, you're bound to learn something. I have to believe that that's a good thing.

As I said, I tried to write a daily journal in the past. It made more sense back then, as I would often go into the city to work or attend university. Frequently, I would find my way over to parts of the city which I love, like the Theatre District or Chinatown. So that is what I would write about. Naturally, I would include thoughts and observations about some of the people and things I encountered, at least those that compelled me to put pen to paper.

I love watching people and listening to them. My social phobia prevents me from joining in, but that's irrelevent. I don't have to socialize with a volcano or blue-tipped peeping tit-mouse in order to appreciate their magnificence. The same is true with people. And while I enjoy the blurry spectacle of The Masses, I find the individual within society even more compelling. Every single one of us is alone, and we all want to realize some dream. But we have to reconcile what we want and what we have. Human beings are constantly trying to reconcile the perfection that exists in human thought with a universe that is indifferent to our take on it. For a thinking human being, existence is an frozen outpost in a no-man's land between what is and what could be. It's a frontier that few can navigate well. Our frail bodies are the mediocre instruments of our limitless minds. Like Mozart trying to create his masterpiece with a ukelele. While I would like to hear what Mozart would have produced with just a ukelele, I'm glad he had more with which to work.

That is one reason that it is very important to be careful of what one desires. Our bodies, including our brains, have no awareness of how much trouble the mind can get us into. And that brings me to my November 23, 2003 journal entry.

Specifically, the entry reads, "October 23, 2003 8:37PM, logic dictates that I make a choice here." The logic I was referring to was the choice of suicide in the face of existential nihilism. I've always been comfortable with existential nihilism, and still am, but on that evening I was compelled by the logic of the ancient philosopher Hegesis. He felt that life was made up of more pain that pleasure. If that is the case, suicide is the answer.

The entry, and my memory, allow me to piece together what happened next. I was sitting on a bench at the Davis Square "T" station. At that moment, I felt I had to make a choice. I was either to kill myself as soon as the opportunity presented itself, which would be the proper end result given how I had embraced Hegesis' teachings. If I didn't kill myself, I was then either a coward who couldn't take a simple concept to its logical conclusion, or I didn't actually believe that life was balanced too heavily in pain vs. pleasure. Despite a very happy childhood, a wonderful family, a full stomach, a warm bed, and many friends, my mind (perhaps hobbled by mental illness via the brain) crippled me with depression, anxiety, and self-loathing. Therefore, there was (at least at that moment) more pain than I could bear and no pleasure in sight.

I was convinced Hegesis was right. Earlier that night I had a small meal at a Chinese Restaurant on Holland Avenue. I was amused at what the fortune cookie revealed, and I taped the slip of paper into my journal. The fortune read, "Many opportunities surround you." In my frame of mind at the time, I took that to mean that there were many ways to off myself. I could throw myself in front of a bus, or jump off of a building, or eat a pound of limburger cheese. But I had already made up my mind to fling myself into the abyss next to the subway platform at Davis Square.

That is how I found myself sitting in the station, thinking such violent thoughts. How absurd! At one point, since nobody was around, I walked along the platform and passed the, "Do Not Enter" sign. Down the steps I went, and into the subway tunnel. Every few seconds I had to repel a thought that demanded that I stop the foolishness and just go home. I started to imagine what I would look like smashed along the rail, or if I would produce a huge fart just as the train hit me. Time passed, and finally I could hear the rumble of a train on my side of the platform. "If I just stand here," I thought, "I never have to see a loved one die, or feel sorrow or loss again." If I could just wait for the train, I would instantly reconcile my nihilism with a practical course of action. I would traverse the frontier between the intellect and the universe. In an odd way, I was being idealistic. While my method of suicide was motivated, at least in part, by watching too many Bugs Bunny cartoons, at least I was finally doing something with my life...by ending it.

Clearly, I moved. But I had forgotten about this event in my life until I found it in a journal to which I rarely contributed. So here is a great example of seeing myself in a way that I would be unable to if I just relied on memory. When I read this entry, I thought to myself, "What a fucking idiot." So two lessons were learned here. One, that keeping a journal is a valuable way to learn things about yourself. And two, the mind is a wonderful thing, but it can't always be trusted. As you cross the frontier between thought and action, it may be wise to occasionally ask for directions.