Last night I danced like a fat penguin back into the world of bachelorhood and burst from my cocoon of isolation. A social butterfly emerged! Well, for one night, anyway. I know that social anxiety and paranoia will return, it's the nature of my illness. Crippling me with strange thoughts, a desire for self-destruction and a world view that has everyone hating and/or mocking me is what my illness does. It sucks, but at least medication and therapy triumphs on occassion and I'm allowed to feel good about myself, and perhaps even desirable. Those moments fucking rock.
Now I'm back in my flat, of course, with nothing of interest standing between me and surgery on Thursday. I'm a little on edge about it, but for the most part I'm doing well. It will be good to feel the pain go away. I think about the well-being of my friends, and my brother and father, a lot these days. Hideous nightmares and an almost constant sense of urgency plague me. I imagine that something terrible is about to happen, or just has, and I need to do something RIGHT NOW. I deal with it the same way as I deal with most of my insane notions, I take a pill.
Pills, wonderful pills.
I made a major design decision when I removed the "Blue Nude" painting from my wall. I'm still getting used to it's absence. In it's place I've put an enormous wall map that will allow me to track who the US is invading. At some point I'll memorize all those African countries. Perhaps when I'm convalescing next week. You may have seen the "Blue Nude" in some of my webcam photographs. It was painted by a friend of Donna's several years ago, and it's painfully mediocre. It was getting on my nerves, so it had to go...it just had to. If it were awful it would bother me less. In an odd way, a failed attempt at creating art is more compelling than a moderately successful one. We all aspire to greatness, and have experienced and understand failure. But the stink of mediocrity is a foul one. At least when we fail, we can pretend we didn't try. Oh, how cynical. Yes, I'm aware. If you want it, let me know. With the map behind me I look like I'm doing the nightly news when I'm on my webcam.
You can't pick your nose with an oven mitt on.
Returning to my abode this morning, something wild happened on the subway. We call it the "T" here in Boston, because we're so fucking clever. Actually, an advertising firm in the 1960's came up with that at the request of Mayor Kevin White. Now you know. Anyway...the wild thing. I was running down the stairs to jump onboard the waiting train at South Station, and as I made it through the doors I caught the eyes of a young lad who smiled at my Indiana Jones-like last minute leap. Well, it was good for a fat fuck like me, anyway. Then I suddenly heard people yelling, and the guy who was smiling at me looked horrified. I turned around and saw a Korean woman screaming because her ankle was caught in the doors of the subway car. Naturally, people were yelling, "Don't start the train!" and "Open the doors!", that sort of thing. I dropped my stuff and did a Samson immitation, trying to use my pathetic, weak arms to force the doors open. She didn't stand a chance of me releasing her. Then the train started to move, and everyone went batshit. I went batshit. I thought this poor woman would be getting a new nickname..."Stumpy." People were pulling on her, I was pulling on the doors, and in Paris a small dog peed on the Rue de Madelaine. To my amazement, the train did stop and the doors opened. The middle-car conductor showed up and said she should go to a doctor, but she didn't speak English very well and just repeated, "No, I OK" over and over again. I didn't have to hear her spotty English to know that she was visiting, or an immigrant. No American would give up the chance to sue for some fast cash.
When everyone calmed down, I sat and caught an occassional glance at an attractive middle-aged woman who was reading, "Lolita." That book keeps showing up around me. As sweat poured down my fat face, I started to feel proud about what I did. It wasn't much, and I didn't even force the doors open. But most people just screamed and looked on. I caught a glimpse of what it must feel like to be needed. To be of assistance instead of relying on the kindness of strangers myself. It was nice. For a brief moment, my ego developed from a gross little maggot into a fat fly, which was subsequently squashed flat again in due course. Yes, a fly is tiny and disgusting, and look what one of those things did to Jeff Goldblum. But it was good to have even a tiny ego for a moment or two. Although I do have a huge ego when it comes to religion, philosophy and politics. On the subject of me, however, I got nothing. But if you tell me that the invisible hand of laissez-faire economics works...well, then, we have something to talk about. I'd destroy you in a debate. If you try to get me to believe in an omnipotent, omniscent, loving god, then I'd like to talk to you about the Problem of Evil. And if you think gay marriage is wrong and shouldn't be treated as a civil rights issue, go fuck yourself. So that's good, I'm not ego-free. I can prick it up with the best of them.
Cram that in your bong and smoke it, Picard.
No comments:
Post a Comment