FFF #5

My heart broke when it slipped from my hands and collided with the floor. shit shit shit. where at this late hour am i supposed to find a reasonable replacement?

no worries, friends and neighbors. i grab the car keys and fired up my trusty satron and off i jaunt to the all-night organ dealers of the west side. some have livers, some lovers, some spleen and stomach. what's your fancy? new eyes? tired of blue, try brown. my best worst "friend", cease keeps shop there as well, dealing in hearts. a bit shady to be sure: into the laundromat, up the stairs in the back (behind the "employees only" door), last door on the right on the third floor. past the disheveled children playing with crap they find on the floor, past the dingy smell of weeks old fish sauce, past the reggae booming and swaying from behind the colorful rasta posters, all the way to the back. where light is fleeting and senses are confused, where only you can find a good used heart, cheap, any time of the day or night.

i pound on the door. open up cease, we all know you're in there (you never leave, you dirty slut), so open up the goddamned door. a crack, and a sliver of light after the rustling of chains and complaints of squeaky locks, and the solid thump of the deadbolt withdrawn. what now, he wants to know? what else i say, the usual. you know me.

you're clumsy, he hisses, more than says, and careless and stupid. whatever i mumble. i have a need, let me in you fucking paragon of humanity, you know i'll pay. stop judging me and my oh-so-human way with my own heart. door opens. cease in his filthy jogging suit, tall and lanky with a face you never can quite recall when he's gone, when you're gone from him. cease with his dreads, his liquid swagger on too-long legs. cease who never really fails to light some fire in my chest, despite myself. fire elsewhere, as well.

what did you do with the last one, he wants to know as he rifles through a bowl atop the stereo for keys to the closet. i shoot a look to say no business of yours, m'man. he grins knowingly, unlocks the closet and lo! the light that pours out from collected hearts of man and woman alike, the glory of a little encapsulated soul, all yours for the low-low price of whatever you have on you at the time. whattaya got for me, pretty, he slides his cat green eyes over his stores, turns his back to me and starts doing whatever it is he does to choose the right one.

i sigh. hands deep down in the pockets of my coat, i find gum, old lighters, change, paperclips..nothing of worth to me, certainly, but seems there's always something i can't recall having on my person that is of worth or interest to cease. jeans pockets, my schedule on the back of a reciept. two dollars. a bottle cap. nothing cease, what do you want with this crap? i got nothing, and i got no heart to tell you if it's something meaningful. help me, man, i said. you know the deal, he purrs, and turns to face my offerings of nothing-much in my own clumsy, stupid, careless hands. i want this, his says, and his eyes, then hands drop to my belt. gasping inwardly, i hope against hope that it's not actually the belt he wants, but the treasures buried under. i slap myself inwardly, and meet his gaze defiant as a woman without heart can be.

but he wants the belt. his long agile hands, neither black or white, undo the buckle, and he pulls it deftly from my waist. turning again, he selects a jar from the shelf, and pries the lid off, now holding his/my belt in his teeth. thith one, he says behind my belt, and hands me the warm and slightly glowing object. pleath be more careful. slides the belt from his mouth. smiles that wicked slice of moon at me, and guides me (hand-deep-in-small-of-back style, breath quickens) back to the door. chains rustle, deadbolt thumps home.

and out on the street i find myself, again without recall how i got there, only the spicy smell of night always in cease's place still filling my head with a dizziness i admit i love. beltless and mindlessly, i hutch my jeans back to my waist. new heart in hand, keys at the ready, i'm going home, back to light and safety and clean, somehow still empty despite new heart.

i don't love cease, but i need him from time to time. until i learn to be more careful with my hearts, he'll be that dark and dirty fixture of my life, fodder for dreams that make me bite my lower lip and twist into my sheets. back to safety, back to clean, back to job and housecleanings and safe dull men who do nothing to my pulse, back to doing my wicked work on other people, and losing/giving away/breaking my hearts and then and then again, i'll find my way to cease, to a closet of light, to a shiver on my neck, to dreams of brusing his dreads aside like a curtain to gaze into deep green pools of him.

i turn the key. my tiny new heart beats faster in my hand.

self portrait

spam-o-rama!!

good god. i did a little experiment with my hotmail account..i've been using my ISP for personal mail, and letting the spam pile up in the ol' hotmail account until i had 350 pieces of mail waiting for my attention.

tonight while waiting for my linens to dry, i deleted them, and did a little informal survey as to who i am, or what it is i need, according to these demons. unscientific results to follow..

****

46% were someone trying to sell me something (something material, ala, flooring, radar detectors, underpants )

9% wanted me to take a survey of some sort (including three that desperately needed my opinion on the great bud light/miller lite controversy)

7% assume i need a date, or need help dating

18% were for credit cards, refinancing my home, fixing my credit, etc

6% were offers of education, from being a cop to being a physician

9% guaranteed me longer life thru use of their product (weight loss, hormones, etc)

the remaining 5% were for unrelated things, like jobs, bail and in one instance, rehab

****

there were a few standouts, which i think deserve individual attention.

dating for:
single black men
christians
mormons
AARP members
men in general

Free Diapers for Life! (for me, or what? my non-existent black christian children will be grateful certainly, when someday they exist, but until then, can i have them for myself?)

interestingly, flooring. i suppose i should be grateful that these assholes don't know more about me than they do, but in case you cared, i'm up to my ears in cheap/free good quality flooring, much thanks to warren buffett and my father. so thanks, but no worries.

and strangest of all, i recieved something like 30 offers for underwear. without a doubt, this was the most hawked item in all the spammy goodness. is there some sort of shortage of drawers in the midwest that (praise the lord) i'm not aware of? is the fact that i'm not consumed on a daily basis with the status of my undie drawer indicative of something else? am i hording? will the state troopers bust in one day and relieve me of my riches?

***

anyway, what i can surmise from all of this is that i'm a desperate black man, in need of a date, a college education, and some help with my credit, who owns these things (that i'm fairly certain i do not): a house, a baby, a drug and/or alcohol addiction who rilly rilly wants to lose weight and live to be about a hundred and thirty.

enlightenment and self-awareness come in mysterious ways. thank you spammers of america, for helping me to figure myself out.

any of you women readers want to go out friday night? i'm free, but uh, you'll have to pay.

AA

FFF #4 Ice Storm

the day was hot, but there was ice falling from the sky.

nothing unusual for kansas, really.

i sit in my pyjamas and watch nature confuse itself outside, petting the cat with one hand, the other wrapped tightly around my coffee. i recall an ice storm in june of 1993, that left drifts as deep as three feet, to produce an effect like snow piled high in summer. i was 16.

a storm in december of 1998, when i decided i was smarter than the other motorists, and opted to go for a slow ride around town, to look at the wreckage, but also to see the way that the full moon caused the ground everywhere to glitter and gleam like so much stage dressing. i was 22.

an ice storm in 2000, that actually shut lawrence down for a few days. staying in all day, drinking toddies and watching the longest movies we had on hand. i was 24.

counting today, that's 4 in the course of 28 years, or one every seven. if i live to be the projected 76 years that statisticians say i have (fools don't know that i still smoke, obviously), i'll get a total of 10. and i've seen four. i have six left.

there are a myriad of ways to count your years, from milestones to the change in your auto insurance rates. i choose ice storms. i don't know why, perhaps because it's not up to me when they come, only that occasionally they can and do make an appearance, and i can make one more psychic hash mark counting down the rest of my time within this mortal coil. i suppose it only seems fitting that since precisely no control over the length of time i have is in my hands that i choose a timepiece that has a similar disdain for my wishes and wants.

faraday grumbles in her cat-like way when i get up for another cup of coffee. contemplating my own mortality is thirsty work. i give her one more reassuring scratch between her ears as i wander in stocking feet, back to the kitchen.

By Popular Demand: The Zombie Contingency Plan

my roommate has two of the strangest phobias i've ever encountered in a person.

#1. he's afraid of cotton balls. to the point that you can chase him around the house with them. god forbid we have to walk down the 'first aid' aisle in walgreen's. they're *everywhere*..

#2. he's terrified of zombies.

while i could see no way to help him through his cotton ball issue, i decided to tackle the latter. tried to get him to go see the remake of dawn of the dead. no dice. then shaun of the dead comes out, and i say "Hey! Here's the feelgood zombie musical we've all been waiting for!" since it was billed as a comedy, i managed to get him to go. and he lurrrved it. we've since seen it something like 8000 times.

for his birthday this year, i purchased for him max brook's Zombie Survival Guide. as a joke, only to find him studying it.

one night, over our traditional thursday night meal of half price pitchers at the Chalet, he says to me, "I have a plan." in the interest of public service, i now present to you: The Zombie Contingency Plan.

anyone familiar with Kellogg, the main thoroughfare of wichita? everywhere else in the world it's know as highway 54. and on both the east and west extremes are car lots. literally hundreds of car lots. we live behind one that sells, among other things, hummers. step one of this plan, when we first hear of the invasion of the undead into our fair city, we go boost a hummer. we could fight our way to that lot in perhaps five minutes. if we're at a dead-ass run (more likely), it's down to maybe one and a half. we boost the hummer. yes, they're dreadful oil-guzzling yuppie status-symbols, but they also are rather high off the ground, and that bumper at waist height on a zombie makes quick work of anything on the road.

step two: drive east a biscuit, and stop at Dick's Archery and Outdoor Sports Emporium. while we have a shotgun, and some assorted knives, we'll need something a little bigger. loot said store for weapons and water, and head back into the city (seems dangerous? you'll see..)

step three: we forcibly take over the 11 story old-folks home on Douglas (i forget the name). as old people are, by definition old, they are frail and easy to toss out windows, should they be all zombified. 11 story building stairwells can be plugged with furniture, and elevators can be locked down, providing us with a bird's eye view of downtown, main streets and highways. moreover, old people hoard things. it's weird but true. band-aids, food, clothing, medicine, and likely cotton balls. hopefully liquor and fruit as well. this building also has a flat roof, ideal for spelling out SOS messages high enough that low-flying planes might see.

seems like an okay plan? it gets a little better. he tells me all of this, and i realize that said old-folks-home-cum-impentrable-fortress is right across the street from the hospital. where they have a life flight chopper fueled and ready to fly anytime. provided no one has taken this already, there's a chance in hell we could make an escape, should help not arrive. i tell him this, and he points out that neither of us can fly a chopper. alas.

within a week, i find myself sharing a table in a coffee house with a pilot (Air Capital of the US, it was an odds-on favorite that i could find a pilot anywhere in this town). he gives me his card, and take it, and have to make a snap decision if i can really trust this man. seems i can, at least enough to save my own skin if necessary, and i say, let me buy your next drink as i have a favor to ask of you. i give him the plan, up to the point where we don't have the skills to fly a helicopter. i ask him, can you fly a helicopter? and he, blessedly says yes. he's in. it's just wierd enough to help me make friends, is the zombie contingency plan.

new pilot friend also adds to the plan. his suggestion is that we take the copter to KC, where we could potentially find a plane capable of flying intercontinental. which is to say, if we can't fly far enough in kansas to find safe haven, we at least have a way to get farther. moreover, with a commercial aircraft, suddenly there's the opportunity to take 200 some of my good friends with.

so we were thinking hawaii perhaps? we feel that an island is potentially more easily defensible, at least in the short term. also worth noting, it's paradise, and some of the finest pot in the world is grown in hawaii. we'd be able to farm and fish to feed ourselves, and we can actually dispense with shoes altogether and maybe spend the rest of our lives confined to our island (which we will be renaming Greater Seamanland), but not such a bad place to live and grow old.

there is a lot more fine detail that i've left out (f'rinstance, there's a particular type of knife you want for close-quarters combat), but the above is the gist of it.

so maybe we're crazy, but we're prepared. he has a shotgun, and i have the cell-phone number of a pilot programmed on speed dial, just in case.

(insert long string of obscenity here)

folks,

i actually finally really injured myself at work. range of motion is quite limited, and frankly, it hurts. a lot.

and this of all weeks! i'm covering someone else's shift while he's on vacation, and trying to finish up a class, as well. too much to do, and not much works besides brain and hands.

so i will get back to the zombie contingency plan, probably in a day or two. in the meantime, you'll probably want a machete, or other hand-held weapon for close quarters fighting, and a shotgun for good measure. also, despite the cost, keep the car gassed up and ready to roll. the helicopter, too, if you have one.

does anyone have a paper on software version control i can crib? i'll trade you a bottle of muscle-relaxants for it..

stigmata, and the zombie contingency plan

i don't know if you can tell from the picture, but apparently, i'm suffering from stigmata. such is life. i look forward to channeling a spirit much wiser than myself. be sure to check back in the following days for important dispatches from the Almighty.

i don't want to tell you about the last couple days, suffice it to say that i have been a little not-myself. every now and again, more frequently than i like, i have that "light-headed" feeling people get often when standing up too quickly, and only to have it follow me for an hour or so.

my roomie and i have a zombie contingency plan. does anyone want the details? that is, does anyone out there want to be saved when the undead come to eat our brains? oh, i think you do...

AA

everybody come on down

the circus is almost in town.

when i started this blog, it was to do the journaling that the docs et al recommend when dealing with bipolar. gives you sort of a history of your emotions to go back and look over, when things start going awry, and therefore to learn to recognize your own triggers. interestingly, now that there are people reading this, i'm more apt to keep some of that stuff to myself and that wasn't the point at all. i will tonight head back down that way.

i'd argue that for three weeks to a month now, i've been running too fast in my mind. it's a clear indicator to me that i'm heading for a manic episode, which when unchecked, can lead to a full-bore psychotic break. not the kind that causes me to scale a tower with a high-powered rifle, but the kind that robs me of sleep and clear thought until i necessarily crash. the kind where i can't remember where i've been, don't know what day it is. where i'm no longer really an inhabitant of lovely drury manor.

i went back to lawrence this weekend, as some friends of mine got back in town from research projects/grad school, and we had a little party for them. i prepped for this by trying to focus myself on the things i should not do (stay up all night, take interesting drugs, drink too much, go to bed with random pretty people, spend all the money i had, etc). i drank water all the way there to hydrate myself so i could have a drink or two without falling directly overboard. i ate. i was in a good mood, but not *too* good (i think some of you know what i mean by that) and frankly, it didn't work. i didn't have a chance.

back in the day when i was diagnosed, i was terrified to go see a doc, as i was convinced that i was perhaps schizophrenic. that's how bad it is. there's three of me that live in this head, three of us that split processing time and control of the body. the happy medium is the one i strive to help keep in the driver's seat, but lately she's losing ground to someone smarter, stronger, faster, prettier, needier, more aggressive..all signposts of what's going on. i spent my evening in lawrence feeling fucking-a fantastic, but unable to finish a sentence. i could barely write..

consider using a very slow computer: you type away, only to look up and find your words slowly crawling across the screen, and it's frustrating. now imagine those are your actions, trying to keep of with the speed of your thoughts. you think you're going to go out of your mind if you can't get this brilliant shit out of your head..

it's an interesting feeling, knowing that your entire personality is in motion all the time, changing and folding back in on itself. it never really goes back to any one static phase, but sometimes settles for weeks, months at a time and those are my peaceful, lucid times. in between, in flux, that's where i am now. i need to check this, i need to dive into the pharma i keep hidden in my personal "break in case of emergency" box under my bed (never far away) where i keep the god damn anti-psychotics. i hate them. i hate the way they make me feel, and i hate the way i function and perform while on them. i want to ride this high, as i've wanted to (and have done) on many occasions past. i don't want to come down, but the cost of the high is so much.

the time building up to a full-on mania for me is slick and beautiful. the only things i can use to describe it are those feelings you get when you dance, and the music builds and builds, and you feel like you'll explode. the build-up to orgasm. like the perfect word, the most beautiful painting is right behind the next door in your mind, and you'll do almost anything to break through. free fall.

so if this post is a little disjointed, that's why. i'm having another internal struggle here, i think the first real one since i started blogging, so my writing may change, and maybe i'll not post at all. as i said, now that people are actually reading, i don't know that i want you to know all this. i wish i could step back and make this objective, because the color and feel of it could be an interesting thing to write.

the part of me that remains objective, wise, is somewhere inside telling me to get the risperdal and deal with it. i know there's a break point here, that if i keep pushing it, i'll go right over the edge and who the hell knows what's down there..but there's something so glorious and tempting about walking right up to the edge and looking over, it's something most will never see or understand. people who don't know will tell me, take the pills, chill. do you know what you're asking me to do? you want me to wrap a damp towel over my head and walk uphill to my own execution. that's how it feels.

and as i've felt so many times before, i wonder how far this will go, and how many times i can wander away from myself before i can't find my way back?

LML: Now With Pictures and Links! Holy Crap, Batman!

it occurs to me that not only am i already planning for a vacation that is a month away, i'm already trying to decide what to be for halloween. the thing is, i don't even know where i'm going on halloween yet. i suppose the point is being someone you're not for awhile. is it weird for a full-grown adult to be so into halloween still?

i've always loved halloween, from watching little kids get completely spazzed out at the promise of free candy by the mile, to the weird ass scene in the bars, and costume contests, and how the film/theater/actor friends of mine really really shine on that night. and as it turns out, i can sew pretty well, so really, i'm set. just as soon as i make up my mind.

there's always the halloween party at my buddy reech's place. it's always a good time, lots of silliness and this amazing concoction he calls "rocket sauce".

perhaps i'm really just excited at the prospect of autumn setting in eventually. i despise kansas summers, except late at night. the humidity is still there, but the air cools to a point that you almost feel like you're wading in very light water, and it's a little intoxicating. but it's probably best that the summer's ending, because i do the lawn mowing around here, and the picture above shows my tanning ability pretty clearly.

the best costumes i've ever seen were at my roommate's brother's (niece's nephew's 2nd cousin twice removed's next-door-neighbor's) house party: all of the ghostbusters (complete with light-up proton packs), H.I. from raising arizona (lanky man in hawaiian shirt, pantyhose on head, with a bag of huggies under his arm), and at least three Bettie Pages. the worst one goes to lil bro, who showed up to our own costumed house party wearing a t shirt that said "COSTUME" on it. alas...


good


bad


hilarious

now back to regularly scheduled homework.

AA

i had the weirdest dream last night

so i'm at some kind of resort, and we're (myself and the other people at said resort) walking on the beach. i don't really know any of these people, but i'm comfortable enough in their copmany to be talking with the others as we're walking. there are potted palm trees everywhere, which is odd, 'cause don't they grow in tropical climes anyway? and i have the distinct impression we're going somewhere. somewhere important. to heal, or fix, something.

i see my very bad ex, michael, on the beach, and he has an odd look on his face, like he's in pain. i go to talk to him, being the kind soul (schmuck) that i am. we talk, it's good, and i take him with us wherever it is we're walking to. he puts his arm around my shoulder, and i realize that it's kind of nice to be back in his company, although i feel a little guilty.

when out of nowhere, kurt vonnegut joins the pilgrimage. he doesn't say anything to me, only gives me that look that says "you should know better"..and i know he's doing it because even if only temporally, i'm with michael again. and the kurt-guilt, you can't get past that.

i try to go over and talk to K. but he won't give me the time of day, until i assure him, next time this group of people pass a cliff ('cause there are so many on the beaches, in my dreams), i'll push him off myself. and K. says, no, i'll do it, it's enough that you want it done.

odd that he'd be interested in helping me. but hell, it's my dream. interpretations, anyone?

it was just weird enough that i wanted to share it with the world.