I see people getting annoyed. It’s natural; can’t we rise above emotion? No, that’s why I had my breakdown. I used to edit, I used to write, I used to make music, I used to do things but now all the passion is gone. Art can be passionless, art, to me, should have passion since emotions are unsterile. Art is form, a function, necessary for human life, but to judge it is life’s highest form, highest function. Why not strive to be Shakespeare, if only to fall victim and prey to The Master? Why not leave those foul droppings you were always so sure of that you didn’t leave a trace? Of course you left a trace. They’re foul and they drop.
A moment of clarity. Research has brought me this: “Grandiose delusions. Individuals imagine that they have special connections with God, celebrities, or political leaders.” This from the American Psychiatric Association. So, a confession is in order and this is how I choose to do it. I know they think I’m a threat, but I’m not. I’m torn between my own loathing and my confusion, my mania and my chi, myself and those around me.
There’s more: “Excessively risky behavior. Reckless driving, outlandish spending sprees, foolish business investments, or out-of character sexual behavior.” It’s not just me. It’s the world and I can see why Germany would be such a good place if you’re into Germany. Switzerland if you’re into Switzerland or just plain Liechtenstein for that old world ambience. Spain seemed to go off the rails. Greece is old world but also spun out of control. Is the world run by people LIKE me, who seem on top of it one minute then completely out of it the next? I can write like this, but I can’t put it into a salable form just yet, I need days and days and days of writing to get anywhere near good. It’s all in the rewrite, a blog, a newscast, a Diet Soap if you will. All is as all does and it means so much to me to be part of it.
Rehab? For what? I’m done. Sex? For what? A few seconds of pleasure drawn out to forever by what kink of the mind? Some of us want a second, some an hour and some a day. But it’s all mudslinging and jawboning. Jackasses some, tall boys on the other. What do other people want? Especially when there’s a language barrier? When people want something and want isn’t in the lists. More questions than answers. I can see how someone would get lost in the distractions, hide in a public place then get busted and ousted and freaked and pushed and discovered. How can that be fraud, when the lies were obviously lies and drugs had little effect? Seroquel? The most expensive drug you can find to make a name for yourself? Please, you make me laugh. I’m not a lab rat, a rhesus monkey, or a snake. I can be a true and honest man, capable of being liked and respected. Nothing more than that.
Addiction, like anything else, is unwholesome when it leads to illness or death. We can live for a long time and enjoy life if we keep our addictions to a minimum. I chose the heat, the desert air, like the Coen Brothers or any other Hollywood hustler. It’s Day of the Locust all over again. The anniversaries come and go but anger remains the same. The brutality of the police, the inability to reason, the sad arguments against what should be illegal remain. All these years and these are our choices. Who can you trust? When will I be young again? I am a child at heart. Children are innocent and they are used brutally. I need to make a contribution, not just of money but of time and energy and then to be sapped of reason makes me want to scream and cry and pray. Me? I’m a man who doesn’t pray and yet I want to….
Proper use of grammar is a trick, knowing the rules of grammar helps, but it is not required. Semi-colon or sentence fragment, it’s all going to contribute and make sense. My story must be told in 300 pages or more. And I have two months to do it. There, break another rule. The desire to make public spectacles of ourselves is a tradition and one that is hard-earned. WHAT? Wait…I believe in hard work paying off and anybody who works hard deserves their fair share. It’s lying scum who shouldn’t be allowed to live. They don’t like that. How to explain writing or editing or computer management to others? How can I let two years go by and have breakdown after breakdown? Or seem to be fit for service and yet unable to serve? I need to serve, whether it’s God or Country. But service has a price and being “sick” doesn’t explain it. Do I have to go off meds to show everyone what it’s like? Didn’t the piss covered pants say enough? The dirty clothes, the square narc demeanor? Two peas in a pod, like Tri and me out for a night in Costa Rica. Crazy and weird. Crazy ha ha, funny jajajajaja not funny I want to hurt something. Stu Ungar indeed. It’s also like the time that Asian guy ridiculed me in front of Tri’s brother. I had J-10 in position with top pair and folded on the river to derisive remarks from the winner. It happens. Crazy is what it is. Someday we won’t ridicule ourselves and others. Someday I will be clean. And that day is today.
So much dross. It’s the wheat from the chaff. It’s deciding to love myself or take it on the road. Can I hide in Albuquerque? Would it confuse people? Would it confuse me? High school friend helps lonely sicko? No, that wouldn’t do. Not at all. I have a handicap. I do have certain inalienable rights, and we all agreed to honor that document. It’s what allows this country to grow strong, not weak…to raise the bar, to make a higher standard, but it costs money, our money, my money. I need to give back, but how can I? I need to repent? But how can I? Who can I trust who hasn’t already done enough? Where can I turn in my time of need?
Weed, because it rhymes. Is that worthy of a laugh or two? I got Clyde to laugh, I made Alan laugh, laughter is good but I can’t put on a two-hour show. It’s too long. I’m good for thirty minutes or else I’m going to be writing obsessively, hoping for a plot for my picaresque adventures. Jesus Christ, a good old boy, and savior of billions, has a place in all of this. It can’t be 30 minutes, it can’t be two-hours. Adaptation is over and done with. I would love to adapt Another Roadside Attraction.
More words of wisdom from the internet: “Men may be more willing to report fatigue, irritability, loss of interest in work or hobbies, and sleep disturbances rather than feelings of sadness, worthlessness, and excessive guilt. Depression also puts men at risk for suicides.” Cheery thoughts, no? As Henry Miller would say. Why do I pick degenerates to read? Why can’t I pick a nice Jewish boy like Philip Roth or Joseph Heller to emulate? No, it had to be that German Brooklyn boy who had an aversion and attraction to Jews. A perceived misogyny, later refuted by Anaïs Nin. To collaborate, to revive, to live a fuller life is all I ask and so I will testify right here in this book.
I had an opening written many years ago and I could try to recapture its spirit if not the words. We are born and we aren’t given a chance to explain. Whose face will it be? Whose face? Mom’s or Dad’s? I look like my father, Irving, who doesn’t look like anybody I know. Ann said he was not an un-handsome man, but he is a spoiled brat. And so am I. I know nothing of my father. He has a tattoo on his arm that he calls a mistake, he admitted to a sexual act I’m trying to ignore, he calls infrequently, he emails occasionally, he is retired and I know nothing of him. I went into computers because HE WAS in computers. Now I want something from him. I want some spending cash. I can’t. What I want is to be forgiven. But what did he do to me that needs forgiveness? Years of therapy and I have no idea! Was it my parents’ fighting? Was it my sister dying? Was it me, screaming at the top of my lungs every grade until the fourth? Me crying in the fifth or sixth grade, incapable of blending in, being bullied, abused, laughed at. I was so crippled I made my friends enemies and my true friends angry.