sometimes

She doesn't want words.
She doesn't want consolation.
She just wants to fuck.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
I'll go inside. Outside. Multiple explosions will happen. Internally. Externally.
Dark bodies will shift and sweltry mouths will sound, poetry attempting to compose stanzas, some kind of escape.
My three year "friendship" with Julie has never been built on trust or companionship. Our association has always been based on easy sex, cocaine, booze, petty theft, you name it. You know, the quality components of a "friendship."

I want words.
I want change.
I want consolation, at least conversation.
I need to speak about the aircrafts crashing inside my head. Passengers are bleeding, helpless. And the oxygen masks are absent.
I want to assist them. I want to kill myself.
A simple transaction. An operation free of entanglement.
A cold black pistol sleeps under my driver's seat waiting to rise from its slumber and sing the sweetest song of salvation.
An explosion could happen. Internally. Externally. Planes crash all the time.
And Julie -- she just wants to fuck.
She's a doll and she has that look in her eyes -- again. Fire. Lust. That undeniable look like a XXX Fuck Goddess ("She could be yours").
She tells me to pull down my pants while she does things with her clothes: she's unbuttoning things, loosening straps, rubbing her pussy. It's all a blur.
My head is a garbled broadcast of psychiatric medications (I'm trying to make changes in my life), banks are flooded with man made chemicals and somewhere back home, where it's nice and safe, is a sheet from the pharmacy: SIDE EFFECTS: IMPOTENCE, CHANGE IN SEXUAL DRIVE. Back home everything is quiet and warm. Conan O'Brien is beginning his opening monologue and people are laughing; people are comfortable; Max Weinberg acknowledges a wisecrack and attacks the drums, his hands move like magic wands, remarkable.
Julie speaks like a 900-number girl, so sexy, she says, "Pull down your pants, baby. You know our routine. I'm high and I want to taste your cock. C'mon baby. Let me see it. I want it. Now."
I know this won't work and now isn't the time for a "I've seen the light" bullshit speech, either. My entire body is shaking. I'm killing time but time is not to be had.
I say, "Julie, look, you don't understand what's going on. I'm, I'm a mannequin and the plastics in my head make my useful parts useless. You, you don't understand."
"Wow. What are you on? You'll have to give me a taste but first lets see what my hot little mouth can do. You know what I can do, baby. I'll give until you're empty and all used up -- and then I'll come back for more and make you give it to me, baby. So c'mon. What are you waiting for? I'm so fucking horny."
With sweaty hands I unbuckle my belt.
With shaky fingers I unbutton my jeans.
I pull down my blue denim and black underwear exposing the dead machine.
Under 1000 kilowatts of burning bulbs there is nothing to hide. My eyes dart like a thief looking for a quick escape, but the exits are zero in number. Her thin body is on top of me. On top of it. That dead thing. Lifeless. Useless. So fucking pathetic.
And she's so amazing. A XXX Fuck Goddess and "She could be yours" but not tonight. You don't work. You're a vain accessory in the dimly lit interior of an automobile.
I hear a siren: The sound of captivity. I'm hoping for a pair of cold silver handcuffs, iron bars, a mug shot and a piss stained floor for a bed.
I hear a siren: The sound of safety. I'm hoping for clean white sheets, a warm safe room, an IV of clean fluids and supervision hours 24 in number.
Some method of escape.
But the sound dissipates.
Her desirous eyes turn away from my lifeless cock and focus on the only sign of life: a rapid thumping lashing from the center of my bare chest.
Like a ghost she slowly lowers herself on top of my trembling body and places her lips near my ear and whispers something, something I need to hear. Like a feather to my cracked lips she kisses me once, twice, again and again.
She quietly pulls the sleeping beauty from under the driver's seat and checks the cold chamber -- two tiny rockets silently wait.
She holds onto me.
I hold onto her.
And time becomes irrelevant.
A simple transaction.
An operation free of entanglement.
We don't want words.
We don't want consolation.
Just some kind of escape.
The sun steadily raises over the frozen city.
Our body temperatures slowly drop.
And snow begins to fall.

mc

off the bus, through the front door, throw down the trapper keeper, turn on the tv and...

reset

I'm unsure how to begin this post. I know this post will be a response, or a retraction of sorts, to "an analysis."
The "target" of that post responded with the following:


Anonymous said...

Please understand what it's like to be me. Everything from me is an "attack" in your eyes, and I never do ANY right.

"You never cared about me anyway."

"Sorry I'm not worthy of your time."

Followed by an apology 5 minutes later? I can't and WON'T deal with bullshit accusations all the time, and you throw out a few every time we talk, even though I try to convince you otherwise.

Go ahead and run my name through the dirt if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I'd never do the same to you.

I hope you get better.


I'm trying to formulate a response to her comments but the only word that comes to mind is "shame." I can't deny a single word she wrote. And I can't explain my inexplicable behavior.
Before I began this post there were so many things I wanted to express.
Bitterness.
Anger.
Remorse.
And now I'm staring at those three nouns, thinking of Anonymous's face and I'm wondering "why?" I have absolutely no right to be bitter or angry, none whatsoever. But I am remorseful.
I wish I could express how repentant I am for intruding into your life. I had no right. You were involved with J, I trespassed and the rest, as they say, is history.
For your sake, I wish we never met. The trust issue between you and J would be absent and you wouldn't have to deal with my petty problems; I'm sure your life would be much smoother and less stressful. I, however, enjoyed every moment of your company.

Christ. This is mind numbing drivel. I'm tracing words of smoke attempting to contrive a cognitive and cohesive story, not even a story but a series of events, a sequence of episodes that my mind has convinced me holds value and meaning. The mind convinces man, but what convinces the mind?

[[R I N G I N G - P H O N E ]]

I just spoke to Anonymous on the telephone and everything is cool. I guess that's how German chicks roll.

mc

an analysis

I should take my medications tonight but I won't be swallowing the two little pills. No.
Highly irritable.
Erratic electricity circulates and the sound rings in my ears. Insects have injected themselves under my cold skin.
Masticate my salty flesh.
Regurgitate those infected proteins and let me swim, sink and succumb into that murky sludge.
She disguised herself as a daffodil of kindness and peace.
Such a wretched whore.
My sickness is an inconvenient complication not worthy of her precious time -- a fucking text message.
Devious cunts crawl under guises of smiles and goodwill. Don't believe their faces. Their words. Don't believe anyone.
Devices drive the corrupt and they will not cease until you have become a wrecked and charred soul: used up, emptied of faith, trust, all those sacred components crucial to establishing meaningful relationships and friendships. You'll become a "ridiculous" object riddled with "mood swings."
Thank you for your faultless analysis, Perfection.

mc

uncle and nephew

peace

World peace begins here:



That is some delicious pudding. Damn. (And yes, I have eaten an entire tub in one seating while watching Oprah. Okay, the Oprah remark was a joke.)


mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King"

chocolate pudding is the greatest -- ever

I would like to apologize to my fellow reader(s?) for the lack of updates. mc's recent ::cringe:: therapy (yes, this treatment includes pharmaceuticals) has produced unexpectedly wonderful results; I'm doing much better. To use an old cliche: I'm feeling like my old self again. The creative stroke is back and "optimism" is no longer a foreign concept.
I hope to add another post tomorrow (Sunday) or shortly thereafter. Until then...

mc
"The Chocolate Pudding King" (Kroger has 2/$5.00; you better jump on that shit.)

comfort

"I miss the comfort in being sad."

Nirvana "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" (29 December 1993, San Diego)

morning

This morning I woke up feeling tired, defeated and angry. Initially this post was going to be about the subject of my anger, but I've decided to let those harsh feelings subside. What's the point? If certain people choose to maintain friendships for charitable purposes then fuck them. I have my fair share of problems but sustaining token relationships isn't one of them.
I see Dr. F. tomorrow, and the appointment couldn't come soon enough. The bad feelings are returning. The desire to escape is strong, and the futility of every passing second is irrefutable.
I dread Thursday, Thanksgiving. Christ. I love my family but holidays are usually anything but enjoyable. When your parents are divorced you're faced with the agonizing mathematics of love and appreciation. "Okay, I'll spend four hours at mom's and then three hours a dad's. But wait, is four hours with mom too much? And what about three whole hours with dad? Christ." Hopefully there will be plenty of alcohol on hand. Booze tends to make family time easier to swallow, so to speak; however, I look forward to spending some time with sister and Austin, my nephew.

Christ.

mc

addition

My nephew (wow, that sounds weird) Austin Bailey:

cracks

Upon hearing of my adverse side effects (slurred speech, memory distortion, confusion and unsteady walk) to Lithium, Dr. F instructed me to cease consumption. She did, however, tell me to continue taking Klonopin for my anxiety/paranoia.
Apparently an alternative treatment for my bi-polar disorder will be explored at my next appointment, one week from tomorrow. Earlier this evening I came home from work and for 10-15 minutes balled like a baby, sobbing uncontrollably; the fear was back and I wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure what was around the corner... A soul curdling fear. Now, typing this, things are quiet and relatively peaceful.
As my condition progressively worsens, I'm beginning to consider some kind of hospitalization. The reality in my head the reality of "the real world" is becoming harder to discern. Hospitalization would be the last resort, and unless things improve dramatically -- and soon -- that could be my only refuge.
My sister gave birth to a bouncing baby boy yesterday. I should be elated. Proud. But that reality feels a million miles away. And I'm here, seemingly unaffected by it all -- and everything else.

mc (Thanks, M)

sunday

Sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy today, and I'm an uncle.
This weekend has been a blur of distorted time lines, slurred speech and other troubling side effects. I've contemplated going to the hospital but I think I'll call Dr. F. Monday morning. Something isn't right.
Fucking meds.

mc

oh christ

Here's the number one reason why corporate America sucks. This song "celebrates" the merge of Bank of America and MBNA -- at the expense of U2's masterpiece "One." Where is the gang from Mr. Show when you need them? Christ.

first

My first appointment with Dr. F. was anticlimactic.
I have a second meeting, which I plan to attend, scheduled for 21 November.
I want to thank those of you who have left kind and supportive comments. Your concerns are greatly appreciated.

mc

soon

In approximately 60 minutes I'll be leaving for my appointment with Dr. F. I wish I could say that I'm looking forward to the experience, but that isn't true.
M called last night; she wished me well with today's appointment. The phone call ended rather abruptly, but I guess it's the thought that counts.
My head is swirling with anxiety, fear and uncertainty, and I feel nauseous. But this is nothing new. Every day is the same.

mc

disambiguation

If I'm completely honest with Dr. F. about my mental situation I will be "involuntarily committed" to a mental hospital/program. I came to this conclusion after researching Indiana's laws and protocols regarding the matter. While I don't consider myself a "threat" to others I'm certainly a "threat" to myself. I'm extremely hesitant about taking pharmaceuticals to address my situation; I'm totally against any form of inpatient/outpatient treatment.
I don't know where to go from here.
As my appointment nears I'm feeling trapped. Cornered. Threatened.
When the concept of death/dying/suicide is a daily thought and constant presence, one forms a symbiotic relationship with the notion and explores it with a logical and inquisitive mind. It's difficult, if not impossible, to fathom the reality of nonexistence. It's also painfully difficult to imagine the pain and heartache one leaves with his or her permanent absence.
Fuck.
I don't know.
I want to disappear.
No new beginning.
No ending.
Just disintegration.
A complete and total removal from everyone and everything.

mc

things

Earlier today I spoke to mom. Apparently last week's mammogram showed something in her left breast and a nodule on a lymph node. Further tests are scheduled for Monday. I didn't react to the news. I couldn't. I suppose on some level I was expecting it. I said, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." She asked me to pray for her. I don't believe in god. I'll hope for the best.

I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.

I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.

Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.

Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.

Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.

Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.

mc

closer

The countenance in the mirror is not a familiar one. Something has changed. My eyes look different. Is it the shape? The color? Something is no longer recognizable.
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:

William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."

In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.

mc

help?

I have scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist, Dr. F., for Friday, 10 November.
I'm tired.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
I'm in need of a reprieve.
Something.

mc