Saturday, September 05, 2009

Here Comes the Sun

This morning I awoke to find a common situation that is, at the same time, rare in the universe. This universe, anyway. Linda and Annie were sleeping peacefully next to me, and had me pressed against the wall. The window, now unencumbered by an air conditioner, was open wide and a cool September breeze blew across my naked body. Annie and Linda shifted slightly as I pushed away from the wall and pointed my toes at the ceiling. Sunlight poured in and found my toes, first.

My toes have seen a lot in 37 years. In my early teens, I had nine ingrown toenails. Five on my left, four on my right. Eventually, they killed the nerves so that it wouldn't happen again. It worked. The sole of my left foot has an odd scar, caused by muriatic acid and an early attempt at distraction through self-injury.

I've promised Linda that I wouldn't engage in that sort of thing anymore.

My legs reflected the sun like an alabaster statue, making them glow a bit. I feel a modicum of disgust at the loose skin of my thighs, having lost 240 over the last 8 years. My eye then travels to the long scar on my abdomen, which I'm emotionally indifferent towards. It's simply there because it has to be.

My penis is flaccid and lying on a bed of pubic hair, and my scrotum is tight between my legs. It's pleasant to feel the warm sun shining there, in a place that is supposed to be tucked into underwear and covered with clothes. Usually jeans, in my case.

Women have told me all my life that my deformity is of no aesthetic or sexually practical consequence. My penis works, compelled by a very healthy libido. While I understand that, and do not wish to have children, I still find myself in awe of sex for procreation. I'm rather fond of sex, anyway. In a moment of (hopefully mutual) rapture, a new life is created. Just amazing.

I'm very aware of my inability to pull off that magic trick.

Some mornings I live in my mind, where I think about every stupid comment, every mistake, every bad one night stand and every mean thing I've ever said. And every choice.

On this morning, nerve damage from my orchiectomy is radiating up my back. Before I take a sip of coffee, which I can smell brewing downstairs, there are pills to take. Two tramadol for the aforementioned pain, one lithium carbonate, and one levoxythyroxine for hypothyroidism.

The sun and the moon and the Earth all keep my in my place. In that place, I function as best as possible and can't help but be amused at people who talk about "controlling" destiny, or the power of positive thinking, or how organic vegetables will make my life better and longer. It seems absurd to me.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Victory Garden

Tonight I'm considering taking a week or two to mentally convalesce in the psychiatric ward. Generally I've been well, but a silly, personal rivalry has developed between L's family and myself. Some of them anyway. It's hard to explain, but in moments like this there is a lot of self-blame, and after some time it can be withering.

I'm am so tired of this disease. But I'm fighting it. In my free time I do a great deal of reading, and playing with the puppy. A little victory there.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Did Clinton Give Kim the 'Terrorist Fist Bump?'

The level of political discourse in this country keeps pushing downward, to the point where we don't disagree anymore, we embrace alternate realities. When I began getting politically involved back in 1988, for the Dukakis campaign, there were facts on which most of us could agree, even if our opinions were on opposite ends of the spectrum. I admit that maybe my youth has altered my perception. People like me are given to sentimentality. And those were happy days for me, as I found my voice and entered the Socialist Party. Between 1990 and 2000 I had the high honor of meeting some brilliant, passionate people, whom I've mentioned countless times on this 'blog.

Today, it seems as if there is not only a spectrum of political beliefs, but a spectrum of accepted realities. A casual glance at the news, or the Internet, makes it very clear that we all may live in the same country, but we don't live in the same world. The recent success of President Bill Clinton is a political and human victory that a reasonable person might think of as unassailable. Two young journalists were saved from a hideous fate (12 years at hard labor), and North Korea has shown a willingness to talk to other nations besides China. Some good news, set amid stories of yet another mass shooting in Pennsylvania, four more soldiers killed in Afghanistan, and a grisly tale of a pregnant woman murdered for her unborn baby.

According to Fox News, the mouthpiece for Neo-Conservative Rupert Murdoch, President Clinton's successful negotiation comes with a terrible price. Using strained logic, and a bizarre lack of concern for the hostages, Clinton and Obama were attacked for, "dealing with terrorists." What Murdoch is trying to do, of course, is present diplomacy as a sign of weakness.

I'm not going to present my opinion, except to say that Fox News, the largest 24 hour news channel, clearly has a vehement anti-Obama (and pro-Right) agenda.

That's it, the extent of my contention. I ask anyone who has watched Fox for more than an hour over the past 3 months if they see my point. If you feel the same way about CNN and/or MSNBC (coming from the other direction), then I have to ask, why are we getting our news from people who are clearly trying to manipulate us?

In this post-newspaper world (almost), where are we supposed to find actual journalists who are guided by ethics and at least an attempt at avoiding bias? While it may be true that every journalist is biased to some degree, it's also true that objectivity should be the goal. Corruption may be impossible to eliminate among law enforcement people, but that doesn't mean that we should embrace lawlessness. The very concept of journalistic integrity is now seen as an indication of "elitism" and a liberal bias based in the universities!

Do you remember the "terrorist fist bump" discussed on Fox News' morning show? Does that seem like a reasonable observation? Or do you feel like you're being manipulated?

I focus on Fox News because, very simply, I think that they have an unrelenting bias that they embrace and even advertise. Even when they are broadcasting "the news" they are clearly doing so through a distorted lens. They celebrate spin.

Different opinions should be considered, but if an opinion is passionately expressed that goes against your idea of logic and scruples, consider the source. Always consider the source. The fellow with the megaphone isn't right just because the megaphone is loud.

Friday, July 31, 2009

Of Facebook surveys and Existence

Over a week has past since my last post, and much of that computer time has been spent tending a make-believe farm, fighting a make-believe war, and talking to make-believe people, all on Facebook. Not all the people are make-believe, but at least a couple are, and they really want me to buy a boner pill. Or something.

Most of the people on Facebook with whom I am a friend and a "friend" are flesh and blood Homo sapiens sapiens. Except for that fellow in Slovakia, who is an Australopithecus afarensis.

High school type surveys are frequently sent around, and I can't help but answer them. Time wasters. Here's a real example, which I've answered honestly:

Kissed anyone one of your facebook friends? Yes
Been arrested? Three times
Kissed someone you didn't like? No, but sex, yes.
Held a snake? Yes
Ran a red light? Yes
Been suspended from school? Yes
Totaled your car/motorbike in an accident? Big time
Kissed in the rain? Yes
Pee'd in the shower? Yes
Broken a bone? Yes
Blacked out from drinking? Yes
Felt like killing someone? Yes
Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? Yes

And there you have it. La.

These are not questions that adults really find all that interesting, though. Except for peeing in the shower and number of arrests, those I like. I'm a big fan of people telling me what they do in the bathroom and shower. It's revealing about the humans. Peeing in the shower is just normal, but shitting in the shower, that may be rarer. And on the toilet, some stand before wiping, some remain seated. And on and on.

Years ago, a man working for my father's business told me that he showers after every fart. I was 13 at the time, and found that funny as all get out. That man later put my head through a window for calling him a "Fuddy Duddy" in the presence of a woman he was hitting on. If you don't believe me, ask my brother. I stuck to my bro like glue back then, and we spent our days in Harvard Square, mostly at Million Year Picnic, a comic book store.

The question about being arrested also interests me, mainly because I've been arrested several times. One was for shoplifting. Another started as shoplifting, but my attempt to create a diversion for a getaway got me thrown in the pokey on a more serious charge. Long story better left untold. The final arrest was with a bunch of anarchists. Myself and another fellow totally destroyed an inflatable Starbuck's cup in Central Square after marching from Harvard Square. This was years ago, but I still remember him slashing the thing with a knife (he had a large one, I don't know why), while I unplugged it from the blower and crushed the prongs on the plug. It was hanging like a flaccid penis within a minute. Le sigh. Good times.

And then there are the other times that I wasn't arrested, but I was taken to a locked psychiatric ward, but not against my will.

So instead of asking people if they ever kissed a boy or farted in an elevator, I'll pick three questions that actually interest me. To answer, simply make a comment or post it on Facebook. Here goes...

1. Do you believe in an afterlife?
2. Are you generally satisfied with existence?
3. Have you ever forgiven your partner for cheating on you? Or could you?

And if you feel compelled, you can answer the bonus question. Have you ever farted during sex? C'mon, you can tell me.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Of Harpsichords and Eliza

Sadly, it appears to be another lovely day. Drenched in sunshine, nothing between the blue sky with the universe beyond and my fleshy body. Cloudless days make me feel fragile and naked, for when I look up above the horizon I see a beckoning path I cannot take. Damn gravity. Held here, and for what?

Sex, cheesecake, coffee and sex. Ok, fair enough.

Last night, as Linda and I snogged and listened to Donny play the harpsichord, a neighbor's birthday party got a bit loud and the din interrupted our happy scene. From the second floor window of my flat, we could look into the courtyard below, although it was very dark. And from the darkness screams and laughter as children chased each other with water pistols and balloons. My neighbor, T, is a friend, so we said nothing. Weekends during the summer sometimes get loud around here.

As Donny went back to his playing, and I strained to hear the music he produced, I got angry. It was getting close to midnight, and it was time they wrapped up their little shindig. "I'm sorry, T, but it's getting late," I said to myself.

With that in mind, I went to the closet to get the perfect tool for this particular dilemma; my 7.62 M24 Sniper rifle. As I gently swabbed the glass on my Leopold Mark 4 scope, Linda shook her head. "You're not going to shoot another neighbor, are you?" She was referring to a fellow, several flats down, who yelled at me for parking in "his" space. I had to shoot him, though. Had to.

"You know, my love, that raining down death from above is the best way to clear the courtyard and get some quiet for our little concert, " I replied. Linda agreed, of course, but just didn't like it. Neither did I, but that's just the way it is. Some things will never change.

The first one to go down was Mortimer Tosch, another Town Meeting Member and registered sex offender. He wasn't invited to the party T was throwing, and stood at the perimeter, in the dim ring around a streetlight. The cross-hairs settled on Mortimers head, concealed beneath a Oakland Raiders cap, and my M24 (whom I call "Eliza") registered a loud "crack!" and Morty spun around, clutching his neck. And then he fell just as his scream reached me, like a protest from a dead man.

People were scattering now, and it was impossible to see in the darkness. A couple more shots and a few minutes later and the courtyard between the two buildings was as a dark, silent void. Linda shook her head and chuckled as I slid Eliza into her Kolpin Black Rhino gun case and motioned to Donny to continue playing Scarlatti's Sonata in "D" Major.

The police, with their sirens, were harder to dispel.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Of Javier and "WoW"

Javier casually tosses the shoebox full of mewing kittens to the ground. It sits now almost at my feet. If I could somehow distract him, just for a second, for one lousy second. One lousy second later, a car alarm pierces the air and Javier looks around quickly, like a frightened koala, vainly trying to ascertain the source of the hideous sound. At the age of 39, Javier had heard countless car alarms, and his reaction was the same each time; horrified confusion. He had an IQ of 49.

Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed the shoebox and ducked behind a lettuce factory. Javier was on his feet now, and coming towards me. My knife! I searched my coat, but found it in my pants pocket. All the while, Javier gets closer. Generally, nobody gets close to Javier, unless, as he once said, "it's for rapin' or killin' and then rapin'."

I didn't like the sound of any of that. Darren wasn't buying what Javier was selling. It didn't matter if he was a second away from finding me. A half a second is all I need. I use my Putin knife and cut the twine off the shoebox full of kittens.

I'm running now. I have to or the kittens will get me, too. I can hear them behind me, tearing into Javier's liver and playing frisbee with his asshole. That's what these kittens do. And now, they are as free and out-there as Javier's spleen. Man, those kittens. It didn't have to end like this.

Ok, video is uploaded. Enjoy!




Friday, June 19, 2009

Thinking of Iran

Over in Iran, nowhere near Java, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei has told the supporters of Mir Hossein Mousavi to cease protesting the recent election. If they do not, Khamenei has the power to make them stop. He has already blamed the foreign media for causing the trouble that has made a crackdown necessary.

Mousavi's people have yet to respond in a united voice, and as far as I know Mousavi himself hasn't responded.

Iran has ejected the foreign press and even worked to plug holes in the Persian Firewall. Then Supreme Leader Khamenei warns people to stay at home, and away from opposition protests. Eep. It's not as ominous as the silence before Tiananmen Square, but it doesn't look good. At all.

Methinks Mousavi will back off, but many of his supporters will not. There will be a little violence, but with Mousavi appealing to his people to go home, any "revolution" will be over.

Now, an Iranian recipe for a delighful dish called, aash-e gandom, in metric, as it should be...

100 grams wheat
700 grams spinach
50 grams chick peas
50 grams black-eye beans
50 grams lentils
50 grams split peas
2 large onions
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons flour
3 tablespoons cooking oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Directions: Soak peas, beans, lentils and wheat in water for 4-5 hours. Peel and chop onions and fry in oil until slightly golden. Add hot water, peas, beans, lentils, wheat, turmeric, salt and pepper, and cook over low heat for about one hour, stirring frequently. Wash and chop spinach and add to the aash. Cook for another 10-15 minutes. Fry one spoonful of flour in oil for a few minutes and add to the aash. Stir and cook for a few more minutes.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Of Friends and Lovers

This day finds me in the mood to do a bit of housekeeping. Not literally, but my life is full of "friends" from whom I do not hear, and who do not respond to my attempts at correspondence. This has gone on long enough, and I'm using it to justify some sort of overhaul. Mostly mental and perhaps emotional. It's not a purge of people who have moved on, for whatever reason. It's just an updated consideration of those who still seem to want to know me. I don't want to be a pest to C, for example, or A or D. I'm not using their names entire because that's not nice, especially if they see this as a pathetic attempt to get attention. It's not.

Every once in a long while, though, one has to do an audit. The people you really care about deserve it.

I've already eliminated about 20 "friends" from FaceBook, people I never actually met and whp wouldn't know me from a whole in the wall. Beyond that, it gets more difficult to parse. Apocalypse Cow is a friend from my point of view, but I know that the gentleman who uses that bovine nomenclature has a full and busy life, and probably sees me as a mere Internet acquaintance. No matter.

My brother and Linda are my best friends, as is my father. I tell Linda everything, and sometimes I fear that it's a terrible burden for her. She insists that it isn't, and loves me. I once told her that I don't need friends, I just need the woman I love, whatever you want to call that. Lover, or perhaps girlfriend. So in that sense, Linda is my everything, my all, my other self. My mortal beloved.

My advice to the kids is to fall in love with someone who is also your friend. Makes life much, much easier.

So beyond the surviving members of my family (my sister, brother, father and I), I'm close to my father and brother. And there is Linda. I'm not sure if I really want or need friends beyond that group, although I tend to think that I do. To that end, I've joined a "men's group" at my mental health clinic. Before I die, I'd like to challenge my inability to relate to men. It's why I'm there. Onward.

Where are my socialist friends and comrades? I still write to a few of them. Every so often I call David McReynolds and talk about his presidential campaign, or his cat, or something he's written in EdgeLeft. Yes, David is a friend. After that, it gets complicated and brings sadness with rumination. Every comrade has a story. A couple of Reds still think of me fondly, I think. And I think of more than a couple that way. Strong feelings here and there.

Former co-workers? Nope. Kept to myself, mostly, or played the clown. Either way, one doesn't make friends that way.

Neighbors? No friends, but people I'm friendly with and often speak with about this or that. None that I would call a "friend," though.

It paints an unflattering picture, but in my defense I think people generally like me, but I push them away. Far away. These days, I have maybe 4 friends that I could call on to bail me out of jail, not including family. That's a good test of friendship, isn't it? Two are ex-girlfriends and two I met at UMass or through a Lefty group.

Sentimentality is killing me. You can see that, can't you?


Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Trick of the Thing

A car alarm is outside my bedroom window, beyond the courtyard couched in one of the parking lots of the housing project where I live. If it were along the street, the other buildings in the neighborhood would absorb some of the sound. There are trees, as well, that mercifully block the random noises of the city. And the sounds of other cars on any one of a number of busy roads in the area act as a massive white noise machine.

But as I said, it isn't along the street, it's obliquely across the courtyard and two parking lots away, and is not in sight. As I wait for the owner to turn the off the alarm, or for the thief to get away, I shall practice Zen Buddhism. The blare seems uncut by the other building, or by distance, and is shooting into my brain.

I am a leaf upon the wind.

To be honest, it doesn't seem to be working. I'm one for the fast-acting Enlightenment, so I've taken 4mg of lorazepam and 20mg of propranolol. The latter is a heart medication, used to treat angina, and in my case, anxiety.

That will make it easier for me to be a leaf upon the wind.

Ah, and the car alarm is silenced. It pleases me to think that the owner of that car will someday die, just like the rest of us. It's an empathetic thought, and humanizing, so my anger subsides and the gentle, predictable drone of the city is arcing over my flat like a rainbow. Muscles are so tense during these anxiety attacks, but if I focus a bit I can free each limb. A pleasing exercise.

The smell of fresh cut grass and fried chicken is wafting through my window now, although there hasn't been a lawnmower out today. It must be a neighbor's cooking that I smell, and the grass that was cut yesterday morning. It appears to be a fine day outside, weather-wise. The garden is small, but well-tended and should be fruitful. I prefer the word "fruitful" over "productive." That's just the way it is.

Watch someone else soar. I'm not one for the soaring. Avert your eyes.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

What If They Gave A Bris And Nobody Came?

Every nation on Earth that maintains a military more powerful than a child with an air gun needs to have this engraved on every last war memorial:
We are not afraid to use violence to defend ourselves, and will only ask our young men and women to take to the field of battle if every other option has been tried and tried again. The queers can stay home, though, for reasons we can't explain right now. Just trust us, you don't want your gay comrade masturbating in his bunk with a picture of your father, do you? We didn't think so. If you do, don't say a word to anyone. Just a bit of advice for you soldiers.

We will always maintain diplomacy and communication with the leaders of the other nations of this planet in the hopes that even one war can be averted. That said, nasty words about Israel will not be tolerated. Something affable is OK, like a mild Jewish joke or a Seinfeld Roast. Anything more than that and you're an anti-Semite and may be bombed.
If we avoid just one war through scrupulous assessment and self-reflection perhaps all will fall away and this kind of horrific violence on an international scale will become just another barbaric thing humans used to do, like smoking in a hospital, critical thinking and flag-pole sitting. A world of peace, that is all most of us want. Those of you who want war, especially in the abstract, concern that rest of us. They have medication for you now.

There you have it. They can put in on the money, as well.

There's a Jewish mother on a beach with her young son, who is swimming a bit too far out into the sea. The son panics and calls for help, and a lifeguard springs into action. As the concerned mother looks on, the lifeguard fights the swells and white-caps to reach the young man, and drag him back with great effort. On the beach, the child is temporarily lifeless, but the lifeguard turns him over and drains his lungs, and follows that with CPR. The mother is speechless and horrified. Moments later, sputtering water, the kid starts taking deep breaths.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you for saving my boy!" says the woman. They all pause a moment to take in what just happened. Finally, the mother breaks the silence.

"He had a hat."

That's the kind of mild Jewish joke that is acceptable. I even told that one to my Jewish doctor, but he knew it.

Friday, June 05, 2009

Kill Bill and Four Rules

There is a man with a weed-whacker outside my bedroom window. I want to hit him with a banana creme pie. Perhaps several.

Yesterday, I heard the news that actor John Carradine ended his life via hanging. It saddened me, probably because I thought he did such a find acting job in the Kill Bill films. That seems a bit crass, but I never met him, so I only know his work. If you take a look at his obituary you'll find an actor who was quite prolific. Now that his peepers are shut forever, I anticipate a very rapid end to his career.

It's almost common for artists of any media to walk out the proverbial open window. Elvis Presley died in the bathroom, Hendrix drugged himself up and choked on his own vomit, Mama Cass did the same. We all probably know at least 20 famous artists who either committed suicide, or lived in such a way that tempted death. Kurt Vonnegut, whose father was a suicide, and who often spoke of his suicidal desires, died of a fall at his home. I admire him for that. For some, suicide is a "fuck you" to god or the universe, or both. But for Vonnegut, the unexpected act was to live a long life. Despite his mental illness, he wasn't going easily.

This morning I discovered an article, off the AP wire from Thailand, which indicates that Carradine's death is still being investigated as a possible accident. A sex thing, probably, involving asphyxiation. People close to Carradine in life say that he would never have committed suicide.

Anyone is capable of suicide at any given time. Friends tell me otherwise, but they are wrong. Before I tried suicide, people would have said the same about me. That I was in school and working and cared deeply about many things. It helped that they could blame it on Prozac, but by the time of my second suicide attempt it was clear that mentall illness had me. But "normal" people can find a reason with ease. The opposite sex (love, marriage, sex), lack of money, poor health, or just biology and pressure over time can make suicide appealing.

Let me say a word about religion for a second, and then I'll move on. I've been approached 3 times this week by people who are disturbed by my atheism and want to convert me to Christianity. Simply put, they want me to find Jesus. To them, and to others who might want to try, here are 4 facts that you have to overcome. I'm asking you not to try.

1. I really am an atheist, deeply and proudly. I didn't come to it lightly, and I'd appreciate a modicum of respect for my belief, the same you'd give to one of another religion.

2. Stop assuming that I've never looked for god, I have. I've gone to church and read my head off. And for countless hours I've ruminated. I'm an atheist.

3. When you write something like, "Christianity isn't a religion. It is a way to Christ. All the people of those other religions are going to Hell." This is nonsense to me, as Christianity IS just another religion. I know it means the world to you, and has saved you, but for me the Bible is a good book, but just another book on the shelf.

4. Answer my questions, and I'll answer yours, but don't simply go into a diatribe.

That's it.


Wednesday, June 03, 2009

First, Do No Harm

I think that I'm a harmless person, generally, and of a compassionate disposition. One doesn't aspire to harmlessness as a child, and it seems like a easy accomplishment. And it is. I've never been in a fight in my life. Even when I was mugged, I offered no resistance. My brother took off like the wind, but I wouldn't have gotten far that way, what with the fatness.

There has been a lot of suicide this and that, and cutting, and burning. But always, of course, to myself. Sort of defines, "suicide." At some point, I got it into my head that I was going to fail at anything I tried, because I was up against something stronger than ambition or self-respect or self-control. So that was that. Not that I was all that ambitious. But I did have my eye on grad school, and I loved biological anthropology (focus on osteology)

I have a good life. Better than what I deserve. I'm doing my best to put this crushing guilt behind me, and to just be there for Linda and my family and friends. Still, I'm toying at the idea of going through a program that would return me to work, if possible. I'm comforted, but it's a delusion.

Confident or fatalistic, it doesn't matter as either way I'm out-matched, the rest is just aesthetics.

For my friends out there, to the extent that I have any, I don't go a single day without thinking about what a difficult person I can sometimes be. Occasionally, very difficult. I'm not really good at anything and the world is not for me, but I'll ride it out and hopefully make a life while I'm waiting for the Void to open up.

So morose.

Anyway, I'll write more tomorrow. I hope you find the time to read it.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Avranches

The people who make your stuff rule you. So that would mean that Asia (not the band), mainly China, is the real superpower. Not 10 or 25 years from now, but right now. A post-industrial economy, the thing we're supposed to have in the US and Europe, is useless when it comes to meeting the needs of the 6.2 billion people on this planet. In the US we've even given up on wheat to grow corn, which is a marginal food source compared to wheat.

So the day has come when we don't grow anything but corn for bio-fuel and corn syrup. In 1945, 50 percent of the population lived on a farm. Today it's 2%. And the sad tale of industry is certainly well-enough known.

And it's all totally to blame of "globalization." We ask the nations of Africa to adhere to "free market" tenets that Europe and the US ignored when they were developing. Corporations can pass through borders whenever it suits them, perhaps to avoid a minimum wage law, or environmental regulations. Meanwhile we are a world of nations, with very real borders to keep people in or out.

It feels like a canned hunt. And none of us can fight back until we recognize that private corporations are, almost by definition, working against the interests of people. Profit for a few is fine only for a few. It is actually unethical for a publicly-traded corporation to consider the interests of those who don't own stock in that corporation.

So a small number of people control massive amounts of wealth, and with globalization they can bolt at the first sign of unionization, or a political appetite for regulation.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Of Jung and Flaming Bowling Balls

It appears to be a lovely day outside, and there is no reason to assume that it won't be one in here, as well. The cats look happy, the dog is sleeping and the coffee is hot. I have no human interaction of any consequence scheduled today, and that suits me just fine. In a deeper recess, however, it concerns me, and that is odd. I'm vexed a bit at being so content with social isolation, as it clashes with my affection for the other human beings. But it is no matter.

Sometimes, the effective dose for an ailment calls for less of a given medication, not more. I was told that I'm not a good, "candidate for hermitude" given my fondness for people. I'd be too lonely, it was said. And that is probably true, although part of me thinks it may be the ticket to Heaven.

Three people keep me from being lonely (my brother and father, my beloved Linda) in a sort of embrace of identity. The Jungian mask rarely comes off for anyone. We have a lot of layers in our society, that you have to peel through to get down to the hairless ape with a pen and a Social Security number. The minimum mendacity zone that is established with caution and varying degrees of hesitation, or even resistance, is a very good place to roam with one of the other humans.

Right now, on FaceBook, my page says that I have about 60 "friends." I haven't any idea who most of them are, having not met with them in person or even had any correspondence.

But I digress.

Methinks that I am making the world a better place by not seeking friendships that are entirely based on small talk. Fewer humans are subjected to my advances as I seek to deliver myself from loneliness. Linda alone keeps me outside of a melancholy funk of fond remembrances, and I'm given to sentimentality by nature, so it's no small trick.

There is love in all her forms in that single relationship. Enough complexity of emotion and thought to occupy me for a hundred thousand years! And all indications are that she loves me, as well, which isn't easy. Despite the recently sent words of encouragement from an anonymous source, I can really be a jerk. If she ever kills me, I would like everyone to know that I'm not pressing charges. I love her so much I sometimes think I owe her the satisfaction of breaking my nose. Sort of a gift for being hard to deal with sometimes.

My brother, Kent, also gets to be one of the few people with whom I'm totally open. You can't lie to your older brother. He simply knows me too well for me to get away with pretense. And my father and I have been especially close since I joined the Socialist Party at age 17. He eventually joined as well, and we became a father/son team of radical socialists. Ah, good times. He, too, knows me through and through.

He's my father, too, so, there you go.

Ask yourself how many people you truly open up to, if anyone. People say that I am pretty open, but that is all an act. Simple psychology. People have said that I'm quite amusing at parties. That I'm just funny. But that is a big, fat deflection! Aha! J'accuse! Shit, I would juggle flaming bowling balls if I thought it would prevent people from talking to me.

Last night, I found myself staring at the bookcase next to my desk, which contains many books left over from college. Studies in Drama and Symbolic Logic, in particular, compelled thoughts about where I fit in, given what I am. The answer was a bit dark.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Cloves for Your Little Mind

Thank you, AC, for your comment, which is accurate. Sad that so many engage in cutting. I hadn't intended on writing about self-harm, but I sort of went there. I've done 21 stitches worth of cutting, and permanent burns from muriatic acid on my arm and foot. My motive was to distract myself from racing thoughts that included a melange of suicidal contemplation and guilt. So pain and the "rush" of cutting motivated, and sometimes still, motivates me.

It's why one might drink, do drugs, or go to a NASCAR event. To deaden the nerves a bit.




Of Peace

Consider the complaint, "I just want to be normal." I've been thinking about it quite a bit lately. Two friends, both of whom are mentally ill, given to self-injury, and whom are of a sensitive disposition have also asked that of themselves, and of me.

I'm not going to define "normal," as there really is no consistent definition that is worth applying here. The concern we feel isn't even about normalcy, it's about a desire to do things "right." We endlessly ask ourselves if each step is a wise one to take, if we're carrying our share of the load, and the Grand High Pooh-Bah of anxious self-analysis, "Am I fulfilling my responsibilities?"

If you're there for your friends and family and helping to provide for them, then concerns about fitting in fade away. The desire to be normal is an aesthetic concern for the most part. Take a Zen moment with this McDonald's commercial, which seems to be saying that it's abnormal and snobby to dislike football and enjoy independent film.

I'm not really all that normal, but not in an interesting way. I'm not plotting a revolution in my basement or think I can talk to Abraham Lincoln. But I am a good person, defined for me means being compassionate as often as possible. Normal, as I once sought it, doesn't exist. Methinks that cutting is done as a distraction from the mind and all the pain it can cause; guilt, self-loathing, sexual addiction or total lack of interest, regret, fear, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, racing thoughts, all of that. And more!

The last time I cut myself it was out of racing thoughts about a personal matter in my life. Needless to say, I was upset. It is a terrible wound that was done with a pair of scissors. I cut out a triangle about the size of a half dollar and tossed the pyramid-shaped skin away. At one point, the mantra about wanting to be normal started up, but after some painful consideration I decided that what I really want is peace. My life right now is a good one. I'm in love and am loved in turn. My father lives with me, and I cook his meals and do the laundry, cleaning, that sort of thing. He is 76 and very nearly died after surgery for an abdominal aortic aneurysm.

My father and my beloved, with my brother not too far away. None of them judge me, and are instead totally supportive in every way.

Money is tight. It's always tight. Welcome to Earth.

This summer, we will have a tomato garden, and Linda and I have taken to hiking. The last time we hiked, we got very lost. In my view, a scary level of lost. But we are having a delightful time together, walking under a green canopy and over paths crisscrossed with the roots of trees. I try to savor the moments I have with Linda. Much of my time is spent worrying about her or Kent of my father.

It's all very normal, isn't it? This is what people do! If it weren't, I'd still seek out this life. The problem for me, of course, and the two friends I mentioned earlier, is simple. We get depressed or suicidal or in some way frantic or self-destructive. We seem to celebrate drama but in fact we can't stand it. We are governed too much by emotion.

But despite mental illness, I know that I have everything I need to be perfectly happy. My mind will be trained to understand this if I have to waterboard it.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Zhou Yongjun and The Internationale

For those of you who may not remember (or weren't born yet) back in 1989 a group of Chinese activists, comprised almost entirely of students, challenged the government to make pro-democratic reforms. It was on television and everything. They famously assembled in Tiananmen Square, with media people from around the world, and basically demanded concessions, or at least a public dialogue. What about? Basically, democratic reform to keep in step with numerous and far-reaching market reforms.

No need to ask what happened, at least in political terms for China. They crushed the 150,000 or so protesters with the military, killing about 2,500 people. It was, up until then, the saddest day in my life. I was young and felt a strong kinship with these men and women. It's still there now, that feeling, but it's more about being comrades. The cruel, draconian Chinese reaction was shocking to me then, and made me very angry. And as I said, deep sadness followed. Today, looking back, it touches me as I recall the feeling of optimism among radicals here for their comrades overseas. But I should have known.

My father knew. As students stuck flowers into the gun barrels of Chinese soldiers and Dan Rather was effusive over the "televised revolution," my father simply said that it would be over soon. "Trust me," he said, "they're not going to let this happen." I was optimistic and thought great things were about to happen. He was right, of course.

They most certainly did not let "it" happen.

These days, democracy isn't doing well in most of the world, particularly in China. But capitalism, despite the recent banking crisis, is doing fine. Free-Trade Zones all over China look like progress to Americans, because of the mythology connecting capitalism with democracy. Over the years I've found that most people think the protests were about opening up the country to capitalism. They were not. Hell, the students were singing The Internationale, a song of profound meaning and emotional currency with socialists, social democrats, communists and leftist radicals in general. Here's a taste:

Arise, wretched of the earth
Arise, convicts of hunger
Reason thunders in its volcano
This is the eruption of the end
Of the past let us wipe the slate clean
Masses, slaves, arise, arise
The world is about to change its foundation
We are nothing, let us be all
|: This is the final struggle
Let us group together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race :|

There are no supreme saviours
Neither God, nor Caesar, nor tribune.
Producers, let us save ourselves
Decree the common welfare
That the thief might bare his throat,
That the spirit be pulled from its prison
Let us fan the forge ourselves
Strike the iron while it is hot
|: This is the final struggle
Let us group together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race :|

We'd sing the same thing when marching with Jobs with Justice or during our conventions. The tyranny of an undemocratic state is as bad as the tyranny of a corporation without worker control, or at least a strong, politicized union.

I mention all this about that time and place (Tiananmen Square, 1989) because I read this morning that Zhou Yongjun, now a US citizen, was arrested at an airport in China on a vague charge of "political crimes" and/or "fraud." He was returning to China to visit his father, who is ill.

It's easy to admire such a man. Returning to China despite the ongoing danger he faces. The article reads:

At first he was accused of spying and political crimes, but now they have switched to this financial fraud accusation," Zhou's partner, Zhang Yuewei, told Reuters from the couple's home in California, adding that the charge was unfounded.

"He's been under secret detention for a long time, since he tried to enter China last year. He wanted to see his father, who is old and sick, but I didn't want him to go."

Zhou, a leader of the Beijing Students' Autonomous Union, was jailed for two years following the suppression of the movement. He left for the US in 1993 but was sent to a labour camp after returning to see his family in 1998. He returned to the US in 2002.

As I finished the article, on The Guardian Online, I found myself being hopeful. That thoughtful, progressive, compassionate people can be strong, too. Very strong. Far more so than those who choose violence. Isn't that corny?




Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Robotic Sloth

Me go bed now. My name is Darren and me go bed now. With my girlfriend. She does things with me. Sometimes we go on hikes. Sometimes we go movies. Usually we do other stuff.

Gotta go now. Me go bed now.

Darren

PS - I shaved head.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Le Chien

Yes, you're correct, Jean. The drug I need to stay away from is alcohol, which I rarely imbibe but is involved in a disproportionate number of stupid displays on my part. Particularly Sake. The pills are good, though, Jean. They make my noggin work with less fuss.

How are you?

The people who run this place, where I live, are cutting the grass and there is a strong aroma of, naturally, recently cut grass. It's really quite a spectacle that I take for granted. Soon will come the weed-whacking.

I need do the dishes and make the bed. If I don't I'll have a breakdown and end up in the land of graham crackers, plastic coffee mugs and group therapy. Eep.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Fuck me Sideways.

The time has come for your friend, buddy and pal, Darren William Victor Lyle, to head into soltude. To protect the innocent, I'll refrain from naming the people involved in the event that led to my insistence upon leaving people behind and becoming a true Hermit. Hermit. Hermit. Hermit. That is me. I must stop talking to people. I must stop.

My name is Darren William Victor Lyle and I'm unlikable.


Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Of Lady Slippers and Magic Bullets

A previous comment made by Apocalypse Cow deserves a modicum of attention, as I agree with him so heartily. The comment was about lawns, and why people are so crazy about killing crabgrass and dandelions. He doesn't get it, and neither do I. The act of killing one plant and then spending big money to bring in other plants, or use chemicals, is so odd. Now that it is Spring, I welcome anything and everything alive to grow wild and with vigor. That goes for dandelions, too, which are beautiful and arrive early. Indeed, the very first sign of Spring I remember this year is a dandelion poking through a crack in the concrete just outside my flat. It put me in a better mood. After months of a lifeless, shit brown landscape (or white with snow), every bit of flora is like an affirmation.

So leave the dandelions and crabgrass alone. Instead of green lawns, we could have yards from coast to coast growing wild. No two yards would be exactly alike. You could have flowers and blueberry bushes and an assortment of lady-slippers. Some tall grass, which is quite something to see on a windy day, may fill in here or there. It won't look as anti-septic as lawn and lawn lined up through the heart of an entire continent. But that's the idea, of course.

On another note, I just heard received a frantic call from a friend who called to tell me that Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania, a powerful Republican up until now, is now becoming a Democrat! These are happy times for those of us anywhere on the Left. Le sigh.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Flowers of El Salvador

Earlier today I went to a local church which provides a food pantry for the poor of my city. Given that I am one of the poor of my city, I got in line and waited about an hour to get some coffee, mainly, and cereal. There is always a can of Spaghettio's in the bag, and it won't get eaten unless there is some serious starvation at hand. Usually I pass it on to single mothers who have kids who'll eat anything, even Spaghettio's.

My mind wandered quite a bit as I waited for the red door to open. The woman next to me insisted on talking about the flora of her home, El Salvador, and how people "around here" don't know something fundamental about trees and flowers; that if you water them, and it's warm, they will do just fine. It was a strangely comforting assertion. Especially with so many people busily dropping expensive chemicals on their lawn to make it radioactive green. Soon she pointed out the blooming yellow forsythia, the red buds on a crab apple tree, and the green strands of a weeping willow. In her hand was a thin branch, about a foot long, with tiny white flowers. She sniffed it perhaps 20 times.

The woman behind me in line was talking loudly to her friend about "Jim." Apparently, Jim is a pain in the ass and a danger to others. "You can't let him drive to the Christening for Christ's sake! The last time he drove he was on the wrong side of the highway! Take the distributor cap out of the car, and the spark plugs if you have to," was her impassioned plea to the dip standing next to her. She sold me. Although both the cap and the plugs are probably overkill. Either one will do the trick. The Dip was dressed like, well, a dip. He has sweatpants on and an undershirt with some sort of missive printed on the front. It looked like he fell down a lot. He was not a good-looking fellow. There was a kind moment when the woman told The Dip that he should wear his only suit to the Christening. "Everyone would just die," she said, "you look so good in that." I couldn't see it, but that's love for you. To her, he was Prince Charming in that suit. To everyone else, a disheveled dip.

The whole affair spewed a fog of melancholy over me. But over what? The strong correlation between poverty and coarseness? The understated dignity of an old lady thinking of the flowers of her homeland? I think perhaps more the former.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

How To Make Red Dots On Your Kisser

New Crazy and Texas

I'm writing today's missive from The Green Room at the House of Four Cats. There haven't been many postings of late, and I wonder if a high dose of a new psychiatric drug isn't to blame. Not that it matters. The Good Ship Wonder-Nut.

This is my 500th post, which means I get a free sub at Captain Nemo's Pizzeria on Broadway in Cambridge. If I weren't so pre-occupied with suicide, death in general, self injury, sex, and a deep and unabiding concern about my sanity than I might have a witty, or even funny, observation. Instead, a story or two I will relate.

This has never happened to me before, but every so often tinges of a deeper mental illness manifest and frighten. Paranoia regarding the people I love, my neighbors, my family and crowds. Sometimes I'm convinced that everyone I know is talking about me, mocking me. That I have no firm place in the minds of anyone, and that I don't exist. Sometimes I feel as if I'm living in a dream, or alternate universe. The "real" me is still working, has his MA, perhaps, and is normal.

Most of the time, however, I tool around the flat and make love to Linda and clean the flat and read and do normal things, feeling pretty normal when I do them. The weed helps, too.

I need to mention Texas in this post. Odd, perhaps, but the governor of that shithole state, Rick Perry, is speaking of seceding from the USA. Apparently 25% of Texans, so upset about Obama and the $500 million in aid he wants to give Texas, feel the need to go to war.

Bring 'em on, as Bush would say. Texas is where John F. Kennedy was shot, it's Africa hot, people are generally functionally retarded, Bush lives and clears brush, and everyone has a superiority complex that masks how ridiculous they feel deep-fat frying a whole turkey in an old oil drum. They have to go. Bye bye, Texas, we hardly knew ye.

Well, we knew ye pretty well and we didn't like you. Buncha cowboy, homophobic cunts.

Tomorrow, it's post 501!

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The Wandering Eye

My neighbor across the courtyard has a funky mattress. It's not so fragrant that anyone can smell it, but we call all most definitely see it, and it's annoying. It's just sitting there, or rather standing there, leaning up against the red brick wall. Sort of like James Dean in that still shot from Giant. Except it's not James Dean, it's a fucking nasty, wet, semen and piss stained mattress. Perhaps I could put a cowboy hat on it.

Rich people call such things "eyesores." Normally I care not about this sort of problem. If you want to store an old television set next to your stoop, or let your kids write things on the sidewalk in chalk like, "The guy at 104 has man BOOOOOOOBS," who am I to stop you. Living in a free society requires tolerance of your neighbor's ugly yard, ugly kids, ugly politics, second hand trampoline or overly-enthusiastic patriotic comment via a humongous, sheet-sized American flag. And I am tolerant. I understand that life is messy, and that parents don't have the time to pick up all the toys outside. Living in close quarters with others requires understanding.

That said, the fucking mattress has got to go.

Your eye moves from the new buds on the maple tree to the blue jay resting and peeping on one of the branches. From there, your eye picks up the red brick, the green copper on the connected townhouse roof, and then perhaps to one of the better looking residents. Not that guy, not her, either...yeah, her. The green grass is poking through the dark soil and daffodils threaten to bloom soon. But like a fart in a bakery, the visual stench of that fucking mattress ruins an otherwise pleasant experience. It has to go, and I'm going to show it the door.

We move after dark. I shall drag it to the apartment building nearby where there is a dumpster. I shall keep you, dear readers, posted.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Death of an Activist, Teacher and Comrade

Today I simply want to mention the passing of a comrade and member of the Socialist Party USA. Death is a common thing, but impossible to fully comprehend, like Nicholas Cage. Life is full of mysterious goings-on; birth, the size of the universe, the concept of "god," and the success of Glenn Beck. So we just have to get used to these ugly and amazing events and places because we have to, there is no choice.

At any moment someone you love more than yourself could drop dead of a cardiac arrest and you'll never, ever see them again. It's best to try and think of other things. Like sex. Or American Idol. Something.

The name of the departed is Rob Tucker, and back in the early to mid-nineties he submitted many articles to my "Socialist Health Care Forum," the newsletter for the Socialist Health Care Commission I chaired at the time. I edited the SHCF, and published it using the copy machine at work. Literally cut and paste.

Comrade Tucker was a tireless advocate for socialized medicine in the US. That's not an easy thing to be. Like banging your head against the wall. We banged our heads against that wall together for a few years, mostly via correspondence, although I did meet him three times. Conventions in Chicago and Milwaukee, I think.

Rob, my friend and comrade, we will prevail. It may take longer than we thought it would, but we will get socialized medicine in the US. It just makes sense. Now the short obituary.

Robert Whitney Tucker Jr.



Age 77, of Center City Philadelphia died Thursday Feb. 26, 2009. He was born May 7, 1931 in Selinsgrove, PA the son of R. Whitney and Kathleen (Sofley) Tucker. He was a writer and teacher. He is survived by his wife of 45 years, Cornelia, and by a brother, David of Sterling, VA. Services are private. Memorial contributions may be made to American Friends Service Committee, 1515 Cherry St., Phila., PA 19102.

Friday, March 20, 2009

One in Six Billion

I know this actress primarily from Marty, an exceptional movie that also happened to win Best Picture at the Academy Awards in 1955. She appears to have led a remarkable life, in the truest sense of the word. Another actress, Natasha Richardson, died this week, as I'm sure everyone knows. No accident claimed Betsy Blair, time did, which is less newsworthy. And I don't mean that sarcastically, it just is. I mention her here because she was a fine actor who was blacklisted. Some of the greatest artistic talent in the world was assembled in Hollywood and New York in the 1950's, with film and/or live theatre as their medium. So much of that talent was stymied, silenced or scared to foreign shores for artistic statements that were given political and emotional currency in a fashion clearly designed as an intellectual purge of "subversive" thought. It saddens me, but it was a time of heroism, as well.

Over the years, as a Socialist myself, I've tried to stay away from pointing the finger at those artists who aided in the Communist witch hunt. It's distasteful to judge such people. That said, there is a compulsion to celebrate those who chose not to cooperate. Not that my considerations in this matter are of any more importance than a hummingbird fart. Regardless, here are some heroic people worth mentioning: Dalton Trumbo, Sam Ornitz, Adrian Scott, John Howard, Al Bessie, Herb Biberman, Lester Cole, Ring Lardner, Ed Dmytryk and Al Maltz. They are the "Hollywood 10" who refused to cooperate with HUAC.

Dalton Trumbo is probably the most famous, and other actors (Like Humphrey Bogart) fought back. Many cooperated, and some caved-in only after years of exile, like film director Ed Dmytryk. He tried to save his name by naming others. But it was clearly done out of desperation. His failed struggle is the most beautiful and compelling to me. He fought HUAC and they crushed him with a Contempt of Congress charge that got him a year in jail. After being financially destroyed by HUAC and the blacklist, he succumbed. That is infinitely more noble than Ronald Reagan's frantic, smiling cooperation from the very beginning. As President of the Screen Actor's Guild, Reagan had a powerful bully pulpit, which he used to attack the membership of his own union. A spineless punk who could have done a great deal for those he represented, but chose a different road. Like I said, I try not to judge.

But I digress.

The photograph shows Montgomery Clift (one of the greatest actors of all time in my view), Betsy Blair and a dapper Gene Kelly. It's going around with Blair's obituary. They are all gone now, of course.

----------------

Blacklisted actress Betsy Blair dies in London

LONDON (AP) — Betsy Blair, the Oscar-nominated actress and teenage bride of Gene Kelly, has died in London at the age of 85, her publisher said on Thursday.

The New Jersey-born actress, who later married film director Karel Reisz, suffered from cancer and died on March 13.

Mark Searle, at Elliot & Thompson, the British publishers of Blair's 2003 autobiography, confirmed her death.

Blair swapped suburban high school for life as a nightclub dancer in New York, where she met Kelly, then a choreographer on the brink of success.

Blair and Kelly married in 1941 and moved to Hollywood, where he became a major star. She was 17 and he was 29. The couple divorced in 1957.

Beginning in the late 1940s, Blair took parts in "The Guilt of Janet Ames," and "A Double Life." But her movie career stalled after her enthusiasm for leftist causes landed her on Hollywood's blacklist.

"To be very left-wing in Hollywood was to work for the unions, to work for the blacks, the ordinary things that are social democratic principles," Blair told Britain's The Guardian newspaper in an interview in 2001.

Following a part in "Kind Lady" in 1951, Blair struggled to win new movie roles for several years, focusing instead on caring for the couple's daughter, Kerry.

In 1955, Blair took her most famous role, in "Marty," playing a dowdy school teacher who captures the heart of a lonely Italian-American butcher. The movie brought Academy Award nominations for both leading actors_ but Blair lost out on the best supporting actress award, though her co-star, Ernest Borgnine, won for best actor.

Two years later, Blair and Kelly separated. She rarely discussed their split in public, and refused to criticize Kelly, who died in 1996. "I have nothing bad to say about Gene in any way ... We were married 16 years and it just came to an end," she told The Guardian in 2001.

Finding herself more popular in Europe than in the U.S., Blair moved to Paris and took roles in movies in France, Spain and Italy.

Blair later moved to London and in 1963 she married respected Czech filmmaker Reisz, director of the 1960 movie "Saturday Night and Sunday Morning."

For several years, she worked mainly in theater and television and briefly halted her acting career to train as a speech therapist.

However, in 1988 — three decades after her last Hollywood film, Blair returned to the United States to star in "Betrayed" alongside Tom Berenger. A year later, she took a part in the television series "Thirtysomething."

British comedian Arabella Weir, a friend of Reisz's children, said she developed a close bond with Blair.

"She was a tremendously loving, loyal and ceaselessly supportive friend — and really good, often wicked, fun. You could talk to her about absolutely anything — nothing shocked her," Weir told The Guardian newspaper.

Blair was offered a role in 2002 in "The Hours" alongside Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore, but turned down the part to care for Reisz, who died in the same year.

She is survived by her daughter, Kerry, from her marriage to Kelly.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Mind & Body Bundle

It's after one in the morning and, unable to sleep, I'm digesting the events of yesterday. It was a good day, and I don't like to let them pass unrecognized. Linda and I had time to be with each other, we laughed at each other and the world, made dinner and listened to music. She rouses my mind and heart in such a way that compels me to understand something that other people seem to think is obvious, but is not so clear to me. That life can be good.

I've already told Linda that if we ever break up, I'm not going to date again. It's a practical declaration that we've both made. Dating is brutal. An unsavory, undignified process which requires a youthful vigor and, ideally, a job that provides a bit of disposable income. It helps to be naive. It's not a hard decision to make, as these days I'm more of a mind to sit at home and read, or watch an old movie on TCM. Music is good. And carrying a torch for someone is romantic and pathetic in a way that appeals to my sensibilities. It's sort of an emergency plan.

What I have now is infinitely superior, though, and all looks and feels well. Naturally, I obsess over not having enough money, but that's about as common as having a nose. And I have to reign in the self-loathing, at least when I'm with her. Simple.

Yesterday, my doctor looked at the torn skin on my leg (a quarter sized hole) and said, "Oi vey." I agree. As he examined the isosceles triangle-shaped gore, my eyes moved down the white skin of my thigh, to my hairy knee and down to my size 12 foot. I squinted and tried to pretend the wound wasn't there, which was almost possible even in the harsh light of the examining room. Despite that, it's hard to ignore. My skin is so white and the wound is so dark, crimson and black from dried and drying blood. The whitish fat cells within the pink border reveal the real me. Not "me" as an abstract construction of the mind, but as a hunk of meat for which I'm responsible. Insistent nerves will alert my mind if my meat gets into a jam, and one needs a body to live, but the whole arrangement seems odd to me.

My doctor was unable to rid me of the wound. It's too jagged to sew up, so I will apply bandages and wait, probably for months. By that time I may be fond of my colorful little injury.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Walter Benton For My Linda

You rise out of sleep like a growing thing rises
out of the garden soil.
Two leaves part to be your mouth, two tender seedleaves---
and your eyes are wonderfully starlike,
your eyes are luminous and soft as the velvet of pansies.

Darling, good morning.

Our arms are empty of each other for a moment only.
How beautifully you turn --- your mouth tilts to let my kisses in.
Lie still - - - we shall be longer.

We need so little room, we two --- thus on a single pillow ---
as we move nearer,
nearer heaven --- until I burst inside you like a screaming rocket.

Then we are quietly apart - - - returning to this earth.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

The Violated Goo-Gah

The inclination to humiliate myself simply will not cease. Day after day, I just keep getting out of bed. Today I have a very short story...with a picture!

Anywhere between two weeks ago and, say, 3 months ago I was, as a friend of mine calls it, "high as shit." I'm not sure if there was sake involved, but if not, something fermented was in the mix. The point I'm making is that my judgment wasn't what it should...no, actually, scratch that.

What I did, simply put, is piss in a vase that I keep on my bureau in my boudoir. It wasn't a random act of nastiness, nor do I have a problem with the Southwestern motif. It was just that the bathroom in my flat was occupado. And even though I live in a very densely populated neighborhood, packed with stinky human goodness, I had no problem with pissing outside. Thankfully, they never fixed the light in the courtyard outside. There could be 1,000 mimes out there and you would never know.

Now I have to move.

Anyway, that wouldn't work since I was buck naked and the matter was urgent, so yeah, I pulled the vase down and let fly through the tiny opening (see photo). This is indicative of either a tiny prick or incredible aim, or both. Probably just a tiny prick. Like Kim Jung Il. My plan was to empty it as soon as possible. It's noteworthy that the very small neck of the vase prevented evaporation or any kind of olfactory declaration.

So today I was cleaning my knick knacks and goo-gahs and whatever other shit I own and found that the vase was strangely heavy. A half hour into questioning my neighbors I realized, it was my pee! Imagine my embarrassment. It's going to take a long time to smooth that out.

You may wonder why the vase has a black bar over it's eyes. That's because this vase has a sensitive past, and I wouldn't want the wrong person to identify it. The poor thing has been violated.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

The Radley/Bickle Ratio

Imagine a neighbor, or even a friend or family member, who never seems comfortable in your presence. At first you think it is you, perhaps something you've done. Over time, however, you begin to realize that this person seems odd to everyone. Harmless, perhaps, but who really knows. There may be a modicum of curiosity at first, but over short time you lose interest. He or she is there, doing whatever people do, but sort of transparent. Not so much a man who isn't there but a man who is desperately trying to hide. A man who wants to not be here.

Then the shit hits the fan. Or as Kurt Vonnegut used to say before he got old and fell down, "The excrement hits the air conditioning." The mettle of this loner is tested, as is his or her sanity and values.

I've begun to notice the extent to which I'm a loner, but one who is unable to go the Full Hermit. In the abstract, I enjoy the idea of being around people. When the time comes to go public, however, it simply isn't going to happen. And I'm not talking about giving a speech or finding a job. This is minor stuff; cook-outs, Christmas dinner at Uncle Blooey's, going to the library, that sort of thing.

The Radley/Bickle Ratio is my way of using American cinema, which never lies, to figure out how well I'll serve the community, or terrorize it. I am, of course, referring to "Boo" Radley from To Kill a Mockingbird and Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver.

It's very difficult to figure what the ratio is here, but it doesn't matter what are the numbers. Let's say there are 100 Radleys for ever 1 Bickle (you always hear about a Bickle in the news). That guy in Canada who went Creepshow on the bus, he's a Bickle. Crazy but harmless one day, and the next...well, you read the story. Look up "Canada, Bus, Beheading" in Google. The biplar and disabled fellow in NYC who pushed a woman onto the tracks at a subway station, he also pulled a Bickle. Before that happened, he was quiet, poor and crazy. And in treatment.

The Radleys are more difficult to find. They tend to go crazy anonymously. But one damn day, a fire breaks out or a kid sticks a candlepin bowling ball up his nose, and there he is, ready for action. Afterward, he slinks away. He will most likely never do anything of consequence again, but when needed he was there for a stranger. Even if most of the time he likes to be alone in his flat, doing God knows what.

Most loners are neither a Radley or a Bickle, but that's no fun from my perspective. You know, at one time I wanted to be a college professor. These days, the most I can hope for is to either go unknown and die or rise to the level of "Boo" Radley, successfully avoiding a Bickle.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

Spiders and Blood

A white spider, about the size of an aspirin, scuttled across my counter and did what spiders do. If motion pictures are accurate, they play the drums, hate Hobbits, swarm and menace and catch flies. There are no flies in my flat, but there must be something edible for the spiders, because I see one about twice a week.

Sometimes they make a little web in the crease where the wall and ceiling meet. Every so often you'll see one hanging from the ceiling. This morning I saw one, but he wasn't eating or making a web or hanging from anything, he was doing the backstroke in my coffee. An awful way to die, scalded to death by hot, strong coffee. One can only hope that it was quick.

From my perspective, there was something in my coffee, and then in my mouth. Kugel? English muffin? Dabney Coleman's soul? I didn't know, but I carefully felt it with my lips and tongue and then deposited it onto my finger. And then that moment happened. The spider and I were forever woven together in a skein of destiny. We crossed paths, as it were, and it didn't work out well for "Toby. " The spider's name, I've decided, is Toby.

Toby clearly mounted the crest of my "Le Chien" coffee mug and climbed in, or fell in. Unknowingly, I poured hot coffee on his poor little noggin. Fin.

In retrospect, I should have done more than just flick him off my finger and get the heebies. Everyone has a story. Toby could have been a great webber, an enemy of every fly and bug for a mile in every direction. For all I know, he could have been a magical spider, capable of granting three wishes, or some fucking thing.

But that never works out. Remember the Monkey's Paw?

Beyond that there isn't much to talk about in my life. Linda has a dental appointment, and I'm worried about her. Dental appointments are never any fun, what with all the pain and metallic intruments. Vicodin makes it worthwhile, but they offer it rarely. To me, anyway.

Last night, around 2am, I slithered out of bed to pee and listened to the silence as I held my wang in my hand and darted into the bathroom. There was some blood on my hand, but it didn't register. My leg wound is bleeding still, but it shouldn't have been on my hand. Then I was treated to an exciting and beautiful display, as blood took the place of urine and a fountain of red briefly colored the bowl orange. Eventually it stopped and yellow urine was flying.

But I thought it important to make a mental note of it; pissing red, check. Must mention to doctor in a couple of weeks.

It's disconcerting to see blood when you're expecting something else. Like in The Shining when the elevator doors open up and blood gets off. I was expecting Ethel Nichols and her Cocker Spaniel, Harriet! But there was blood. Suprise. Surprise!

Before I go and do whatever it is I do, I want to mention "Anonymous," the person who has been posting nasty and unfunny remarks to my 'blog. They never really bothered me, but my friends thought I should erase them. I figure let it go. I'm glad I did, because this person said some very nice things about me. I'm shocked, really. Just look at the comments at the end of the NPR entry. Just so odd, but appreciated!

---

Look for me on that streetcorner, in that car, outside that window. I'll be there.

Friday, February 27, 2009

NPR Thinks You're Poorly-Educated

There is a really stupid conversation taking place right at this moment on NPR. It's about the link between Obama's leadership skills and his being a pick-up basketball player. The guest on the show even claimed that Michelle Obama decided to date Barack after he played a pick-up game with her brother.

I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean. An odd courtship maneuver. And there are many stories about how Michelle made Barack jump through hoops to get her affection. Had to get a better apartment, job and haircut. No wonder he is president, she never got off his ass. But I kid the Obamas, they love me.

Stevie Wonder claims responsibility for helping get their juices flowing.

Just a note about National Public Radio. It produces the highest quality talk/news radio on the radio, except when Mo Roca is on. That's not saying much, given that Rush Limbaugh dominates the airwaves. Still, it good. What sometimes ruins the NPR experience for me is the confident awareness of everyone on it that only smart people listen. This is a mild delusion shared by the listeners, of course. If you're a graduate student, you almost have to listen to it. Peer pressure.

I would say that NPR listeners and hosts and guests are more thoughtful than intelligent. Doris Kearns Goodwin is on there right now, and she is wicked smaht. She is also wonderfully unassuming and affable. That's rare on there. More important than that, however, are the aesthetics of intellectualism. You know how your favorite radio station plays blues on Sunday morning? NPR is like that, but all the time. They give you attitude, man.

Saying that you listen to NPR helps to get you taken seriously among academics, lefties, gays and lesbians, and people who can't stomach popular culture. I'm not an academic, but I'm a bisexual left wing activist, or was (the activist part). And I enjoy the absurdity of popular culture, but I can totally understand the need to get away from it. Far away.

But sometimes I need to get away from NPR. Certainly when they are fundraising is a very good time. The puns about Balzac and casual references to Proust and Nietzche during an interview with the maker of the "Snuggie" get to be too much sometimes. Just once in a while.

The rest of talk radio is a wasteland.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Where to Store Your Oscar

My dentist asked me to "stop by" at 8am this morning. I can happily report that the xylocaine works. Beyond that, I'm having suicidal thoughts and am a bit emotional, at least for someone who isn't a pregnant woman. While this is going on, the Price is Right is on the gigglebox. It's so interesting how they use sex to sell everything; a trip to St. Louis, a new car, Ex-Lax, whatever. No matter what it is, a very attractive woman is slinking around, smiling broadly, showing at least as many teeth as a healthy adult should have. Probably more. Sometimes the "showcase" involves a sailboat or trip to Aruba, something water related. Sure enough, a bikini-clad model shows up to entice.

As a side note, that picture of Bob and the "Barker Beauties" is now my wallpaper. On my computer.

They are successful in arousing my interest, but not in sailing. Yeah, that's right, they make me a bit horny. And it's not because I'm especially attracted to overly-coiffed Barbie dolls. I find Arwa Damon, CNN's Iraq/Middle East correspondant, far more pleasing to the eye and mind. Whenever she is reporting, free of makeup and seemingly incapable of small talk (with the anchor), I can't help but wonder what she is like in private life. That she is half-Syrian must give her some street cred over there. No matter how complex the situation, Damon breaks it down like a mutha-fucker. And any reporter who covers the Middle East needs to be melancholy, precise and dead serious. Very sexy, but I also wonder if she ever laughs.

The Academy Awards were a feast for the eyes. Men and women of every age, color, size and shape were at least trying to be sexy. And truth be told, there weren't many fat people around, except Al Gore. One of my favorite actresses Kate Winslet was there with one naked shoulder, in a dress that fashion "experts" mocked. The funny thing about the fashion world is that most people in it look as if they were dressed by a retarded, gay man-child. Or perhaps an ape, or a retarded, gay ape-child.

Angelina Jolie tried to look sexy, and pulled it off. Her alabaster boobs were just popping out of her black dress. Like a photo finish in a zeppelin race. Brad Pitt was as cute as a button (I'm so witty). They must look just fantastic when they're fucking. Then again, they probably look great taking a shit or making a bologna sandwich.

Attractive movie stars have to fuck each other; Angelina's vagina would kill most mortals. If a hot movie star screwed me, he or she would never let me forget it. Ever. No matter what we argue about, it would always end with something like, "You're lucky I even go near you, Fattie." You can't have a relationship with someone who treats you like a worshipper. Even a casual fuck-fest type of relationship. Not only that, but there is a package deal. If you boink Angelina, you have to commit to being "dad" to 28 African and Asian toddlers.

Even Mickey Rourke looked good to me. Although methinks it would be more fun drinking with him, or smoking, than screwing. But my standards are different for men than women. Just about all women are attractive to me, except Ann Coulter (gender unclear, though) and the woman who works at the local library. Men, however, are a harder sell. That said, I wouldn't mind a George Clooney/Kate Winslet sandwich. I have the perfect line for Clooney, too. He works with the UN in trying to get attention on Darfur. "Hey, George, I have a starving refuge in my pants. He's very short."

Sometimes I wonder what Oscar sex is like. Imagine you're sexy, in shape, beautiful, adored, half-naked (most of the women, anyway) and you've just won an Academy Award. I imagine it as really...energetic. And Hell knows what naughty things are done with the golden phallus. You just know someone in the history of the award took that Oscar and crammed it up his ass.

Warren Beatty? Elizabeth Taylor? Mr. Bean? The mind boggles.

One last thing about the Oscars. Joan Rivers, you need to give up the ghost. It's time to die. Go into the light. Take Jerry Lewis and Michael Bay with you.

That's all I got right now. I should say that I love my Linda. She is one fine woman. Sexy as hell, an romantic disposition, adventurous (nudist colony!) and the best thing that every happened to me.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Man Who Looks Exactly Like Me Smokes Tobacco From A Bong

Sunday Missing a Friend

I haven't much to say today. My oldest friend has my attention today. Her name is "Chloe" and she lives up in Maine, not too far away. She's funny, fairly smart and I found her a joy to be around. We used to date, and were a couple for awhile. I don't miss that time together. After she found herself and committed to another woman, I was very happy for her.

She and I knew each other for about a decade, making her my oldest and best friend, until Linda came along. But Chloe was still my friend, a young lady who knew me very well. Time was I could make her laugh.

For reasons that I've chosen not to share, Chloe and I have parted ways totally and completely. We rarely saw each other, anyway, which should make it easier. It doesn't, though, because she just didn't want me in her life anymore, even as we saw each other so rarely. Spoke and wrote rarely, too, over the past year.

So I'm spending my Sunday driving myself crazy looking for answers. Nothing feels right today, and this morning had me crying for over an hour. I'm a little strange, but I'm kind and would never hurt anyone. What am I doing wrong amongst people? I'm bad at small talk, but I give good advice and listen when people ask for it. I've also been known to make people laugh.

That should be good enough for a friend. But I'm also loyal.

It's as if I'm sub-human, a freak. The day will come when I'm going to put a gun in my mouth and none of this will matter. Right now, though, I'm just in pain. Nothing anyone can do.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Stimulate Me

This morning I enjoyed the spectacle of Wall Street traders bitching about the Stimulus Bill. Apparently, bailing out banks is super-fine, but helping out homeowners on the brink of foreclosure is morally reprehensible. You may wonder, as I did, how seemingly intelligent people can be so irrational and hypocritical. What "logic" are they using?

You've probably heard the expression, "Too big to fail." When I first heard it used, to justify the $750,000,000,000 bank bailout, I reasoned that it was both a scam and probably a rational necessity at the same time. I'm not crazy about capitalism for reasons that I won't go into here, but I never expected a push to nationalize the banks (surprisingly there is talk that this may be done temporarily). So that means they had to let them fail or bail them out.

So before and after the election, scores of economists and market analysts appeared on television and spoke of how there really wasn't a choice for Bush or the incoming Obama administration; the banks had to be saved to rescue America. Otherwise, everything would fall apart and we'd have to eat our pets.

Hans Gruber from Die Hard had a good plan to get away with an obscene amount of money. I'm sure you all remember that. It failed, but only because of John McLane and that fat, black cop. That was Romper Room stuff compared to the "too big to fail" bank bailout. Here we have most of $750 billion just disappearing, with shockingly little oversight, from the government or the press.

Meditate on that for awhile.

Now we have the Stimulus Bill, recently signed by Obama. Part of which is a $75 billion foreclosure bailout program, headed by Shaun Donovan, formerly of HUD. The idea is that home ownership is highly desirable, and that the government should do everything it can to prevent millions of people from losing their homes, which are also the largest investments most people ever make. A worthwile endeavor.

Capitalists need to shut the fuck up, as they have the stink of failure all over them. Banking regulation, like most regulation, has been cut back over many years in a scheme to create an unfettered, vigorous market. Ironically, and clearly, the less regulation the quicker the system self-destructs and requires massive government intervention. A totally unregulated system would last about 8 seconds, which is good for a rodeo but not for an economy. The angry, self-righteous reaction to the homeowner bailout should raise a few eyebrows, at least. Classist? Yeah, I'd say so, and it shows how the most ardent supporters of capitalism see the system. The governing principles are the same for them as they are for any grifter; get yours, and fuck everyone else.

So it shouldn't have surprised me to see a bunch of douchebag traders complaining about the "injustice" of increasing the national debt. The bank bailout increased the debt 10 times more than the foreclosure program. But surprise me it did. It took balls upon balls upon balls, especially considering that beyond Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, private banks also bear most of the responsibility for handing out "exotic" loans to people who couldn't pay them. Of course the individual borrower is partially responsible, but banks are in the business of providing financial advice. They are the experts, the professionals. The failure to properly assess the ability of a borrower to pay his or her mortgage is primarily a failure in the system.

Permanently nationalize the banks. Provide universal, socialized health care to prevent half of all personal bankruptcy. Arrange a takeover of the automakers, as well, and run them at cost through a non-profit corporation.

But nobody asks my advice, what with all the craziness.