Monday, April 26, 2004
I'm not dead yet, but rather down in the soup in a different way. Some really annoying 24/7 drunk appears to have bought it on the North Side over the weekend. My guess owuld be that he ticked off the wrong person. It's always innervating to know dead people. Innervating? Um, yeah...That's what I meant, and I spelled it right too.
I'm having a bad time of it, going off benzos. Been tending to that blog in extremis. Once--or if-- my thoughts settle down again, I may tend to this one with a little more heart.\\
But no time soon.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Gabba gabba HEY: I've busted the K, and by eight visits. Not too shabby for someone who has been here since October. They like me they LIKE me, Sally Field. This is cool.
I hope the benzo blog gets some attention from any medically-mobbed up readers out there. I mean,it's not yet common knowledge that benzodiazepines are as highly addictive as they are. Lots of ppl still eating Xanax and snorting K-pin (a practice that strikes me as odd, for I never took the stuff to get high). I'm waiting on my first heavy aniety attack to come on. Big truck fast downhill.
This well-pierced eighteen-year-old across the way is smacking on something. That irritates me, da**it. (See, I am trying vigorously not to curse here, all of those asterices I'm producing look irksome here.) Regardless of how alt you are, or seem to be, smacking lips and food and gum is disgusting. A serious essay on this subject awaits, as do jeremiads on the homeless single woman situation and hitchhiking await. I mean, if Viggo Mortensen smacked his lips, I'd be peeved. That says a lot.
hoss, waiting to get back into the Zadie Smith book I'd started, but cannot borrow today.
out and over
Monday, April 05, 2004
The thing to the right has disappeared again. Used the arrows to go back and forts and the green stuff just isn't there. No spanking required--I took a puny swipe at another blogger to be sure, but I'm not convinced that that is a valid reason for removing the green, nor are manifestations of lonely self-sorrow. I'm nuts--remember? I don't like talking sideways, but since I have tried and failed to e-mail Howard, I'm asking here for the stuff to be put back up. I know I'm a damn good writer. That's not enough, however, to get me through what I'm presently going through. Pity, pity, pity. Maggots and sin .
Okay. I want my crap back, even though not a lot of ppl read it. Taking it away, if that has in fact happened, is apt to chase me away as well. That said, no charities are able to help me, I have a fine to pay, and if that last can be done before April's last gasp, okay. I guess I can sleep at the bus stop. Maybe the cops in this fine town would be able to pull the necessary strings.
That said, I had a mess of weirder-than-usual dreams this morning. Didn't sleep last night--allergies and Neurontin causing nasal edema and throat-itch, but took a couple of Benadryl around six, and fell softly into REM. One of those is accessible in dark bytes, and involved Michael, his dank, gloomy house, lit by a computer screen and a bellowing TV and not much else. All of this from the last time I saw him--I'd gone to the house to see if he was still alive, more or less. He took umbrage. Dropped me off at the curb of a busy street, made the point that he 'never' went downtown. I don't doubt that. (These letters are looking kind of funny as they appear: derealisation. Goody. Maybe a breakdown in the next couple of days.)
Michael was in bed. His stubbly face, the windows blacked by tinfoil. He turned his head toward my dreamself, but had nothing to say. Then, a harsh bright classroom, and a professer from Temple, a one-night lover. He wanted me again, wanted to shave me all over in front of the other learners. Gleefully, he wielded his clippers, and began the depilation above a tattoo I do not have, a purple scrawl at the base of my spine. He proceeded downward, and made the point that I have some hair around my a*shole. The classmates found this anomaly amusing.
I couldn't see myself as this went on. I can't often see myself in dream. No derealisation there. Just a lot of debasement and anger, flipsides of great fear? Don't know and can't say. Now I'm going to start my new blog on benzo withdrawal.
c h
Sunday, April 04, 2004
well, shoot fire and save matches. maybe i can bust a grand today. just ten more. been here so long and still needing ten more look-sees to make quadruple digits. some ppl are simply born unpopular. should take on the persona of, say, a hedgehog, and maybe this semi-stuff might get seen.
forgot about the 'spring forward, fall behind' thing. thought that was on easter sunday. got to the library by near-virtue of a kindly female driver, who let me off outside the salvation army. so disorganised today--up at six ay, jittery, nerves frying like butter on glass. no k-pin since a quarter of a mig yesterday and much hearty coffee. made the nerves wait until what seemed like noon, but was actually after--. watched tom selleck romance a young woman whom i thought was a young thandie newton in an awful 80's cowboy movie. could've been seventies, it was that bad. but it kept me, as someone once said, glued to the screen. neurontin helps, and i cant leave lex/this county b/c i'd lose the patient assistance prescription benefits i have today. eating loads of the stuff: your face swells your eyes into hoody slits; the body retains as much water as it can. oh, i'm smoothed out, all right.
just had the idea to begin a withdrawal journal. if the heebie-jeebies that tend to go with it should come down hard, i'd be scrood. damn the things. tried 'em all (including X and Oxy) and this drug--all benzos--holds you as close as an unfaithful lover. you hate it, you want it, you fear trying to leave the house without your orange vial and blue tablets rattling in your bag. you think that maybe you're getting through it: until a mongo anxiety attack, like a semi with no brakes on a steep decline, levels you in public, brings you to your knees, you better believe it, and you will do whatever it takes to get to a safe place, if not exactly home.
interesting, to observe your prose across time and place. factor in 'condition', print the whole thing out, and give it to the shrink--one person you suspect might be kind of interested to read it.
wish there was an "I" counter to the right of the blogging screen. it would be interesting as well to see if that pronoun would stop coming around.
hoss, dry as windblown sun
Saturday, April 03, 2004
Borderline stuff below, and more than several typos.
Haven't started to feel good yet.
c h--'til Sunday
Oh dear. The Mother takes things so seriously. She has never lived in a universe in which eviction is possible. The woman thinks such things happen to bad ppl solely. Talk about "spiltting" (a primitive defense mechanism said to be used by ppl with borderline personality syndrome--since they are not able to process shades of grey in persons or situations, they view the same as either all-good or all-bad; their conceptions of objects does not allow for variations, particularly unexpected ones). I'd say that my mother "splits" as much, if not more, as I do, and that owing to her religious upbringing, cannot recognise, let alone, process, this defense when it arises. For her, it is not only 'normal', but has no deleterious consequences.
So, she wants me to come over for a few days, while my fine ferments and her questions molder in the dark space we share. Together, we are blind as cave-things. Pretty words, but they don't much help our situation. A while back, the eggsperts would have said we were 'enmeshed'.
I don't want to go over there. When I'm ready, I'll tell them about my big bad criminal history. Last time I was there, I almost did. A bit of raging about the oblivious Michael, and I'll be gone.
Okay. Michael. He sent me one of those deadsome fwds. I don't recall its title; I looked at the thing and saw that it'd made quite a circuit, like an exceptionally malignant chain letter, and sort of figured he'd mass-mailed it to his so-called "friends". Right now, I am not Michael's friend. Paranoid old man thinks I'm gonna access his bank account and gun safe. sssssSSSSUUUUUURRRRrrrre, I am. I don't CARE about your money, Mikey. So David screwed you. You didn't see it coming. You said David was cracked out--then why did you TELL him you were leaving three thousand dollars under your pillow? You're an R.N. You've been into drugs and such, and you didn't think twice about sharing that info with a CRACKHEAD? Is that something done by someone who claims a "professional oPINion"? Gag and spit. No, we wouldn't necessarily get on like f*ckbuddies or old chums. But you'd be out at night, asleep during the day. You might have thought about that, but you just didn't want me that close, so you didn't bother to think about anything but your well-protected old butt. I've got a butt to save, too--a butt without income at this moment. I don't want you in my space 24/7, and I'd pay some rent. But all of that is moot. You won't help me when I'm street-low, so SCREW YOU. When you take your head out of your ARSE, that is. Out and over. And please, do not send me anything that has no original thought behind it.
I'm still mad--jealousy over Michael's money is pretty low right now. I itch to send him a taste of Hoss at her crazy best, but I'm holding off. I am not concerned with hurting his feelings, really (though I do feel bad about his tinnitus); I j ust want to LOOk like I did the right thing, if there is one. This """"relationship"""" has run its course, only I'm too chicken to bring that into the light right now. I need to feel good about some little thing, so not firing hard on him is gonnna have to be it right now.
Got what I knew what was coming and still was dreading--my seven-day notice. Predated. Oh, the gall. Although I know I owe the guy, I have several more days than he has given me in which to come up with the necessary funds. I'd like to hear what Landlord/Tenant Services has to say about this predating business. I've had more than a few of these in the past, and never one that was predated. Oh, well.
And I have a fine to pay off--about $100 bucks, to be exact. Were I to concede to go to my parents' home, I'd have to worry about getting back here--for very non-specific reasons, for sure--to go to court and try to explain my predicament (this child of about nine is sitting to my left, and going at her computer in a very professional way...mind-blower, still). I'd like to get in there early and do two, three days while I still could. A hundred bucks is a steep price to pay for being drunk in public.
Ah, the cortisol, the gall--they are probably related in some obscure molecular way. (Just got another eviction notice--for this computer. Be gone in ten minutes.) The "professional" children are not so professional--in fact, they are quite noisy. I'm in a position to be bothered in a big way today. The sunshine won't quit, the air is warm and juicy, and unless somebody saves me, I'm about to go on the street in this mean little town.
I need to get away from these hell-children. If I sign up for another go-round at the puter, the area needs--NEEDS, I say--to be quiet. I hate when it's like this. Serenity now?
c h--and thanks for the comment, and for restoring my missing right side, whoever. Really.
Friday, April 02, 2004
There is still nothing to the right of my blog. There used to be. I don't know if I deleted it (and if so, how), or if someone/thing else did so for me. At any rate, I want it back. I want a lot of things back. MIIIIINE.
The financial assist for rent which I was supposed to get today didn't go down. Place ran out of money, and the guy referred me to an agency that isn't open today. How perfect. Just perfect as a cold rainy day, which is on the table here in Lex. Funny: in that space to the right ofmy writings, which is now dead air, I'd identified myself as homeless in Lexington with no one to talk to. I wasn't actually homeless at the time I wrote that. However, circumstances seem to be changing toward that end, and I am worried sick.
I know worry kills. I haven't had a thorough physical examination in over ten years, and I dread to see the damage that has occured in time intervening. Worry causes all kinds of hormonal disruptions--witness the hairs on the chin, the pelt that would go creeping down my medial thighs if I let it, other things a bit too grisly to mention here. Save cortisol--it messes up your arteries, your heartbeat, the membranes of your brain cells (which can account for a lot of bizarre behavior). The underlying anxiety that is the infrastructure of worry somehow causes cortisol to run riot in uptight and depressed types. I can't shut it off. Let go, let God, some say. But there is Velcro in my brain, which traps the bad thoughts and memories, also lets the gerbils on speed keep on running.
Saw the therapist today. She is kind young woman. This popped out of my yap: "I look back at the years and see a sinkhole where a life should have been." I mean, POPPED. As though I didn't actually THINK it. Since I ambushed her, sort of, by showing up at pretty much the time her workday ended, I wasn't expecting therapy at all--but I feel I brought something up that bears grieving. My whole--hole, I guess, would work better--life, to this point--
outta here. mail to check, food to pick up, another night to keep at arm's length looking at me
c h
Thursday, April 01, 2004
oh. it came out right. it looked right, i mean
weird
There is nothing visible to the right of what I've written here. Strange--seems like there was something there (can't recall what) at least a few weeks ago. Oh well. Nobody told me. What pallid worm of an excuse, it seemed to whisper. Dots in ellipses. Snow on the screen again.
I'd mentioned that I'd e-mailed Mr. Sufferin Bast*d Michael with a fairly outrageous request--to stay with him in his old and awkward, yet potentially charming, house. This, a week and a half ago, it seems to me across the dizzied absence that follows pounding one's cranium against some unyielding object. No, I never actually expected him to embrace the idea; in fact, I was expecting a lacerating response, typed in all caps (Michael does this.). None has come.
What I get instead is a sorry litany of excuses about depressives and professional opinions(his, of course) and some other thing--the thing that would interfew with him bringing his aging Yahoo bimbos to the house and diabetically trying to eff their shrinking brains out. In other words, he meant to Say No. Nancy Reagan would be proud.
Now, I may need a space. I won't know for certain until Friday, but Friday is too far away for me. As those of you who visit would guess, that e-mail got me going good. I may still 'block' any further input, and did delete that particular e-mail, and will most likely sit on my hands to refrain from sending him THIS:
Michael:
You are no angel, and as far as this "professional" shit goes, I'd love to see your opinion on ratty stinky homeless people (although, if it actually got to the point of screwing one, I suspect you wouldn't have one, but your di*ck would be singing at the top of its old lungs). For the few seconds that it could, I mean.
You have a tiny di*ck that doesn't work right (yes, yes, not your professional fault, my dear), and a tinier to the tune of absent heart. What would have changed this scenario? Me being a proFESSional? Yeah, buddy, in thigh-highs, cat'o'nines, and a bleeding master's degree (which is actually about half-finished, although in scattershot way). I'd've beat you to beads of serum on your backside, then lain beneath your waterbed belly and moaned yes daddy yes daddy, oh daddy yes YES YESSSSsssss. Would that, my darling daemon seed, have been enough to keep open your house of drawers? Even though your professional opinion knew that I was ony joking?
This was all for shite. You poor man. You are dying. So am I and ain't we all, but you made money and had fun and I didn't. And when I needed a place to crash--idiot, I had God's Pantry and the Faith Pharmacy and access to bus tokens; all I needed was a job to go to, and and and and and
I can't write this scene again (the way I want this to look is not gonna be the way it does, be warned, dear reader). After you and your headphones evanesced up and away and out of my joke of a life, things just weren't. And angry as I may be today, I know that anger will fade, and something else will arise to make me very very angry again.
Gotta jet. Got a jet. And that's what I'm gonna use to blow up your hose..OH NEVER MIND.
just kidding sqwared
hoss, about to get shot down (by that job place) again
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rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old
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