Thursday, November 29, 2007

Back On The Horse With Frank

When one has an ego the size of an electron and is ensconced in withering, pathetic guilt, as I am, it doesn't take much to cause emotional upset. Earlier this week, I found out that I forgot to pay one of my bills, a rather large one, and the money for that bill is missing. The details are inconsequential, but if you're kith or kin to me, my reaction was probably upsetting; I took my fuck-up rather hard.

To boost my spirits and escape my gelatinous prison I've decided to pretend I'm Frank (Henry Fonda) from Once Upon A Time In The West, the classic Sergio Leone "spaghetti western" featuring the profoundly moving and powerful music of Ennio Morricone. If you know the movie, you know that Frank is one bad dude. He also has more than his fair share of style. This is not a fellow who is inclined towards feelings of self-doubt or guilt. He's a psychopath on a horse, a leader of men, and a sex bomb. And his eyes...damn.


I probably shouldn't take this too far. After all, it's still not legal in Massachusetts to shoot people who annoy you...this isn't Texas. But I'm being too literal. I just want the Frank attitude. To just mosey through life, taking what I want, free of my annoying, neurotic mind ruining the fun. If I can get Linda to show me how to ride a horse, so much the better to complete the transformation. In terms of neuroses, I'm like a fat Woody Allen, except I'm not a pedophile.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Death

I'm tired of failure, of not being reliable, and of being a joke. I just want to die, and for everyone I know to forget me, and the world to finally be rid of me. That's my wish...my Christmas wish. I want death and the end of me. I'm a failure across the board, and I have not a thing to offer anyone. If you want to murder someone, find me and murder me. Kill me, please.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Festivus Crap-a-Thon

Earlier today I found myself standing in line at the pharmacy at Walgreen's. The store was crammed with people, all searching for Hell knows what, moving up and down the aisles with their miniature shopping carts. Many had the Sunday flier opened up before them and were determined to find a good deal. They sell a lot of impedimenta at Walgreen's, like plush stuffed monkeys wearing Santa hats, plastic toys and Maxim magazine. Everyone there was carefully going about the business of being an American, which means they were buying stuff. And this is the time of year for it; a veritable crap-a-thon.

I was there to buy drugs, which is also fashionable, particularly around the holidays. I've been cuddling up with pharmaceuticals for years now, not to mention marijuana which I only occasionally get to enjoy. And alcohol isn't my poison, so I'm relying on patented molecules distributed by enormous corporations to get me through until January. I bitch about Thanksgiving and Christmas more than I should, though, considering I don't buy many gifts and never go to holiday functions. And on some level I suppose I'm happy that so many people get off on shopping at 4am. As far as I can tell, people really dig shopping. And like NASCAR, the attraction is mysterious.

Aside from the confusion over why people buy the shit that they buy, this time of year doesn't bother me, I suppose. Except for minor irritations, like how it gets dark at 1pm, and the way I have to dodge the Salvation Army whenever I go to the market. They do great work, but back the fuck off, man. If I want to give you money, I'll go over and give you money. And I feel so guilty when I stroll on by. I try to radiate affability, but that ain't easy. You go try to radiate affability. See? I told you. But at the same time I'm trying to seem gregarious and kind, I want to be left alone...with my change. But it's so difficult not to feel guilty coming out of FoodMeister with a 12 pack of Coke and a box of Devil Dogs, but no money for the collection tin.

Recently I discovered Diet Coke Plus, which is Diet Coke infused with b12, b6, magnesium, zinc and niacin. I think they used the term, "infused," which seems a bit generous. I think "dropped in the tank" is more accurate a description. As near as I can tell, though, this new product hasn't improved my life at all. I remain hopeful.

I haven't written much lately, but it's not due to withering depression, jail or rickets. I've spent a lot of time with my beloved, and things have been going pretty well. My tooth is killing me, and a complete stranger called me a "gelatinous pedophile" yesterday, which I think is one of the best insults I've heard in awhile. That's a long story, but I felt compelled to share. Also, I've been having merciless morning anxiety attacks that leave my heart pounding and mind racing. I need to work on that, but I haven't a clue about what to do.

I love you, Linda, and I miss you already. The small of your back exists in an enchanted realm, your body, a place I hope to visit again soon.

More later, Kittens.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Proper Condition

Today finds me suffering from an indelicate migraine, coupled with nausea and a tingling sensation in the back of my neck that promises to grow and make me dizzy as the afternoon progresses. I'm not without an effective, and expensive, tablet given to me for just such an occassion. Migraines, seizures and mental illness; my brain is perhaps a bit too frail and flimsy for life's rugged work.

I can feel the Zomig tablet going to work. It creates a heavy sensation in the gut, and I've generally found it to be effective for migraines, so I'm hopeful. Beyond that, I'm reading a novel sent to me from a friend now living in London. An ambitious project and I'm damn proud of the lad.

More later, when my head is in it's proper condition.

Friday, November 16, 2007

A Little Of This...

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I'm working on a little study of the evolution of the mental health system of the Commonwealth. There's a little timeline on my wall that starts with the Boston Female Asylum for Orphans (1800) and ends with the creation of the Board of Health, Lunacy and Charity in 1879. And there's some stuff in there about Horace Mann and Samuel Gridley Howe. The methods used to "take care" of crazy people have changed a great deal over the years. One major change is that they no longer put you in the nuthouse, give you a cot, and let you live there. That started to change in the '70's, and President Reagan embraced that approach in the '80's and basically emptied the psychiatric hospitals and put thousands of people on the street.

When I'm done with my little analysis I'll fold it up, very tight, and fling it out the window. Avert your eyes, people, nothing of consequence happening here!

One of the most unpleasant things that anyone has to do in this life is ask a friend or relation for a large sum of money. Or any amount, really. I was in a bind that required money to get out of, so I went, hat in hand, to my uncle. Total humiliation. But he cheerfully helped me and I'm out of a jam, and life goes on. It's a car related problem. Owning a car is an expensive proposition; gas, insurance, things that break. The good thing about being poor and crazy is that the poverty distracts you with other, more pressing, issues. Still, I think it would be good to have a shitload of money. Yeah, I'm pretty solid in that opinion.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Of Russian Composers and Vulnerability

It's a relatively mild day, and I've opened a window at the House of Four cats to provide a vent for the smell of cigarette smoke and cats. My father is out somewhere, the cats are spread about, and I'm cleaning. I'm listening to Rhapsodie D'auvergne by Saint-Saëns. I discovered this composer through his piece The Aquarium, which is used to profound effect in the amazing film, Days of Heaven. It's always exciting to find an artist that speaks to you more than the rest, whatever the media. When I was a child, I discovered the works of Tchaikovsky, Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky, Borodin, to name a few. I was, and still am, greatly moved by the music they created. Specifically, Dvořák's 9th Symphony and Slavonic Dances; Tchaikovsky's violin concerto #1, Marche Slav and 5th Symphony; and the piece that I've listened to probably hundreds of times in my life, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade. The same is true with Pictures at an Exhibition by Mussorgsky.

Something about the Russians that works for me...that's true of literature, too. I'm pouring through Dostoevsky's works right now. Not to mention the unpublished novel of a Ukrainian friend of mine, almost complete, that he sent to me yesterday. One time I called him years ago and I heard Marche Slav playing in the background. He doesn't know it, but my opinion of him soared after that. Not that I didn't already have a high opinion of Moisha. I was so honored that he sent me the manuscript and asked my opinion. I intend to work hard to provide a thoughtful commentary. Showing your novel to others for the first time must make one feel terribly vulnerable, like the first time you stand naked before your lover.

In the past few days I've had a nasty time with mental illness, and I do admit that I've been lessening my dosage of lithium because I thought I was doing well. It happens all the time, to all the crazy people, at one time or another. Especially given the unpleasant side effects some medications have. But I have to stick to the program and just resign myself to accept the simple fact that I'm nuts.

Could be worse, could be raining.

Last night, I was speaking (via IM) with a fellow who has bipolar disorder, as I do. He said something about being happy that he is not normal, that he finds his mental illness is a source of creative energy. I told him that if he felt that way, he isn't really mentally ill, which isn't true, but he really pissed me off. In my opinion, there is nothing romantic or interesting about the mess in my head. Racing thoughts leave me weeping and begging for some peace, nightmares disturb me, depression is withering on myself and others, and paranoia makes it almost impossible to function normally in a social setting. I have trouble looking others in the eye, I mumble, and I relentlessly attack myself in my head as being just about every bad thing a person can be. I'm used to this voice, and I am able to ignore it somewhat, but it takes a toll. It never stops. And the guilt...that's another thing.

How boring for you to read this. If I do end up flinging myself in front of the 87 bus, this will serve as a record of my deteriorating mind. Today, at least, I don't see that happening. The most disturbing trend in my behavior is my desire for solitude. I crave it and seek it out to get the eyes off me, as it were. That provides a modicum of peace, but it's no way to live. I love Linda and my friends, and they can draw me out. But every time I go out it's like holding my breath. I can go for awhile, but I need to get back to my flat. So much for my dream of traveling the globe. Social phobia...good times.

More later.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

I Do So Love Her

A cold breeze that smells of rain just moved under the blind, over the bed, past the cat and down across the floor, around my naked feet. Pure bliss at the House of Four Cats. These have been some happy days of late. For some time now, I've been in love with Linda, and she's grown to mean quite a great deal to me. I know what love looks like, and the joy and pain that seems to insist on traveling with it. The oldest stories in the oldest books are about this thing that is very much a living part of my life right now. I have to reconcile two distinctly different aspects of my personality. Something like this...

I'm an existential nihilist and an atheist who believes in class struggle. I'm a Socialist in a world without very many socialists. I don't believe in life everlasting, no heaven, only nothingness after death. But I do believe that, through rational thought and compassion, we might be able to create a better world here on the physical plane. I'm suicidal every day. I used to cut my wrists and once poured muriatic acid onto a cut in my foot. I absolutely despise myself in every way, which is disconcerting and terrifying sometimes. I'm in a waiting room, waiting to die of something. Waiting for it to do the right thing, or the kind thing, and end already.

The other aspect is that I'm an romantic who sees value in whatever is all this. Life is bleak and painful, but it can be made better, even beautiful, if you consider the Muse and take in the scenery. And there is so much beauty in the world, even the death and horror is beautiful in a sad way. I love people, the lies, the way we pursue each other, all of it. My dreadful, horrific fear of social interaction, humiliation, and eventually to be feasted upon out there in the Fens. And when this romantic fool sees a woman like Linda Noble, he finds his whole self motioning as if to speak, seeking her attention, wooing her, holding her and loving her. Those moments with her are priceless and limited in supply. Her by my side in bed, watching a movie, cuddling and fooling around. We try to make each other laugh and we're good at it. She is my confidante, and I will do anything to protect her. I do so love her.

But I'm a grotesque mess. My mind is so flawed, so weak, so pathetic. Oh, mercy.