Monday, December 5, 2016

My last case of the Mondays

Even if I don't get this job, it's on my, 'To Do List' to apply more often. I had a job interview yesterday with a company that I've been shopping with since I was a youngster. I knew the drill. Its so fun to talk about fashion anyway, when its not for a certain pretentious aim. I've been so reclusive for so may years that its hard for me to be at ease talking to people about where I am coming from; but in the context of fashion choices, that's a piece of cherry pie. Bedsides, my life in boyfriend is half Italian. Getting out the door to look presentable in any outfit where the gatekeeper is a heterosexual man of Italian descent is no easy task. I wore my glasses so I did not have to figure out any clown makeup, my my black coat, my blue suede shoes that only go on my feet for dancing, and long chandelier earnings. I did not have to hide my personality. Those ladies were just like me. It was a very refreshing day. That 7 11 manager should take note! I turned in an application there too. They never called, but every time I go in the manger asks me a different question about my boyfriend. He probably has the dead bodies of past female applicants in a basement somewhere.

I rained like Humboldt all weekend in Austin. The truck was broken, and because my boyfriend was stalling to fix it in a downpour and I was stalling to answer job interview prep questions, we cuddled up to watch two very different movies about the same dreary topic: What the world of drugs looks like. One was an an abortion called "White girl". One was a beautiful story about a homeless girl called, "Heaven Knows What." They do too much coke in L.A. I'm convinced that is how Godawful movies like White Girl get made. You can't put all your eggs in the basket of a bleached blonde bimbo with a different wallpaper background then the average junkie and expect a good result. There was zero substance. Zero plot honestly. It was just some, 'Is she even 18?' type actress in a middle class flat on a ton of ecstasy taking photos and yelling, "Say pussy!' behind each photograph. I think I caught a venereal disease from watching that movie. I would ask for my money back, but all these movies are free on 123movies. It was godawful self indulgent dribble disguised as eye-candy. I'm sure the only reason the guy from the Hangover whose presence (or missing presence) in that movie (Doug) only reason for staring in the move 'White Girl' is so that the audience knows he has an fairly good sized penis in it. Good for you buddy. Now move on to a movie that matters. Oh my goodness. The film maker, and I'm not even going to look up her name, said that this movie was, Loosely (good word) based on her life. Keep that skeleton in your closet lady! The entire move reminded me of my step sister's life. Maybe its just because she had bleached blonde hair. That's all one can run with in this movie because you never get a glimpse into any motivation for anything.

The other movie reminded me of my friend Seraphim. Seraphim was a weasel good dancer left handed heroin addled street kid that I knew for ten years and can't say a whole lot more more then that. His real name was Joey. When I was on heroin, I smoked it first for a long time. If you only smoke it- and have the money to do that (and I did courtesy of my Uncle Sam college fund) then you'll be an irritable person but not a bank robber. I ran around with a fever telling college professors that I had a problem. But when you actually have a problem you don't tell people anything. Seraphim gave me a problem. I'd walk to the Plaza, a well known bar hangout on Humboldt, asking drunk people where the heroin was. Often they'd be dicks and tell me to walk at midnight into the woods to look. You just walk. It hurts that much. Not today. I'll write more later.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Jake and the Fat Man

Lucian is completely better this morning. His abscess has completely healed. Here he is on his binki. I woke up this morning and he was looking right over me and purring. I'm very happy that he is better. He's a little lover.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

To Do Lists and Gratitude

Yesterday I took my cat Lucian to the vet for what I was sure was a death sentence for both of us. I love him too much to do without him. When something is wrong- from bad health to being forced to fix something too expensive to break- it feels like a God is needed to watch over all of us. I've lived with a few huge loses in my life, and it never gets any better.

I want everything to live in peace without any conflict or strife. It turned out to be an abscess. He was temporarily put to sleep, then it was cleaned up. Lucian was bundled up for me like a little baby in a stork's blanket. I was probably the happiest person in the whole wide world yesterday. Then we got into the truck, turned it on, and it did not start.

What I love about A.A. the most, are the gratitude lists that we keep every day. I put silly stuff on there, and serious stuff. For some reason, since I was 21 years old, I've always been thankful for not having lice. That's on my daily gratitude list. A few days ago my boyfriend told me that he head was itching and the truck did not start. I can handle one thing breaking at a time. Things need to break to force a need to put the money aside to fix it.

Another thing that I like to do are keeping all of my, "To Do" lists. When I cross off the stuff that I bought or did, it feels so good. My 'To Do' lists are divided into two categories. One is things like grocery store purchases. In that category, cleaning things are also on there. But when I need expensive things, like a new truck, they go on a separate list for, "Dreamer" things. An oak sled bed is on that list. I keep the old lists crossed off so I am grateful for what I did accomplish.

Finally, since I'd like the rest of the world to love to the fullest, I can't keep my cat a secret.

I saw a Youtube video yesterday on gratitude that touched me. The video was about a man who flew into New York with his wife to see Hamilton., but he was afflicted with a serious persistent health issue where his throat swelled up and became potentially fatal if not treated.
Side Note: This narrator also dropped that Lin-Manuel Miranda followed him on twitter. Probably because he focused on gratitude. If I had a twitter account (I don't); I'd follow them both.

The video was upbeat and this man made a few light hearted jokes about having the basics, like a job and a partner, covered. He flew all the way to New York to see a Broadway musical that is nearly impossible to get tickets to, and his throat closed up  and he nearly died. But the video was about how lucky he was. The world needs more people like him.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

For Sammy

*I've had that Robert Frost Poem memorized for 23 years.
The first stage of love.

The sunshine was always there. The flowers were always available. Love opens the eyes to what is always there. I love people; my human race.

For a while now I've been in the frame of mind that my blog has gone so far astray from what it was supposed to be; my college class note. Three days ago I checked out of detox (separate from expensive rehab)  and I have come to this conclusion:
I don't want my addictions to define who I am. But if I can say anything to destroy the billion+ dollar business of getting people fucked up and blaming everyone but the drug companies and pill selling doctors, I am very proud to do my part in shedding light on how ugly addiction can be if you take that spiral down.
So three weeks ago I finally made the leap into detox, and I absolutely loved seeing those highly intelligent people (most addicts are awesome when not intoxicated.) Their personality was a mirror for me to understand some things:

1.) Only the strong survive.
2.) That is what I act like to doctors when I want a sedative?!
3.) Everyone had a hard life in that group. So therefor...
4.) I am not so alone in my head.
5.) Five is my cynicism: There were a few very obvious junkies running around trying to manipulate the entire staff. They were too arrogant and/or too far gone to drop the act and ask for help.
6.) Never judge a book....
7.) Listen more and talk less.
8.) Phys patients are really into themselves.
8.) These are my peers and comrades.

The best advice that I could give to someone struggling with alcohol and drug dependency is to go into detox (you'll be okay) then TRY SOMETHING DIFFERENT. What you were doing in the past obviously did not work. We are all in this together, and I want us all to make it out okay.

Yesterday marked the end of legal kratom sales, which I predicted over a year ago. When you're visiting family in Humboldt, and it takes four separate head shops and (I know) health food stores, that is a clear indication that Uncle Sam is stepping in. Plus three of the four Humboldt employees looked at me as if I had just confessed to a murder.

It's midnight. I am a fucked up person. I am a semi-attractive, old, brain-scrambled idiot when I deal with people one on one. That's the truth. Image with words are pointless. Words that don't stick are pointless. You have to hit people with your diction. Or sooth them. You can't just ramble. That does not make for long lasting relationships.

So detox....First, I thought I could never let go to get help. My cat needed me. I live in Austin, Texas in severe isolation with a boyfriend who knows how to keep me in check. I don't see him often, and we are not monogamous. I did not want to leave Lucian in his care, and my catastrophic thinking came to fruition when I walked inside my home after I was discharged. I had forgot why I was there because the urge for people to leave was contagious.

Detox for me was 12 days, and I was discharged without the doctor's consent. When you get into a fight with George Foreman, even if you are Mohammed Ali, you are going to feel it. I don't believe anyone should detox off of hard stuff without help. Its not about strength, its about living. I have something called PAWS (Post Acute Withdraw Syndrome.) That means that, according to the nurse, my brain is wired in a way where I unable to sleep for long periods of time. Eighteen months tops. Maybe that is one of the reasons that I am up still awake. When I came home to a dirty fish tank, a dirty apartment, with dirty dishes, I said, "Welcome to Sobriety" and called the social worker to ask if I could come back. My cat's pee-pee scent saturated the air. I left my cat in the care of my boyfriend, and he did nothing.

I am so afraid that my discourse with people centers only on arguments. That is how some people connect. I'd rather connect with love of course. 

Of course I took people home after I detoxed. Of course I did. That's what I like to do; and in some bizarre way, it makes me feel useful. Now the last man I took in was a drug addict. This was a year ago. With that man, I'd wake up to him snorting crap up his nose in the living room, which made him more angry that happy. When he left, he left all of his clothes. That's avoidance. I had little respect for him. He was some dumb guy on Craigslist that met me through an ad he put out regarding drugs. 

In detox I learned to be proud of speaking openly about my addictions. So here is the breakdown for my life, and we all have different vantage points.

While a student at San Francisco State, I was one of 3 women on my block who was given Xanax for anxiety. I was so naive that I had never heard of that drug. Alcoholics often say that the first drink of any type of beverage felt so good to them. Not me. But Xanax, it was my first love, and a toxic love at that. That was in 2003. Since then, the only other women out of us three is still messed up on it. I think about it every day.

My first love did not love me back. My first person love. In a room full of people, I fucking rock. I'm clever and happy and its easy for me. But put me one on one and I'm up writing a blog about how ugly I am because someone is sleeping in my bed. This is what this blog is about: My failings as a person of substance. 

In A.A., which they let up go to on the ground floor in detox, I heard an interesting story. This guy spoke last. I wish he was not the last so I could have paid closer attention. He was quite beautiful. He had a rope bracelet that tied around his finger. But his long, natural eyelashes are what stunned me. He was young, and he got the last word explaining to us detox folks (we had hospital socks on) that A.A. saved his life. He said something like:"I had any woman that I wanted. I had money and drugs and I wanted to kill myself. I thought those things would make me happy. They made me miserable. Alcoholic's Anonymous made me happy though. I had to leave my native New Jersey to sober up in Texas." 

So naturally, I went again and again to find him, just to fuck him once to understand him. He was there with a group that one day only, and it was simply to support a friend. I saw one of his friends much later in the real outside world, and it never crossed my mind to ask that friend for him number. I don't do things like that at all.

There is a 6'2, ass kicking, woman-defending, sweet man sleeping in my bed right now. I chewed tobacco for the first time today because of him. He does not love me. In a group, I am good company. At home, not so much. I just want to be left alone for the rest of my life so I could say that I never tried, so I never failed. He was very good to hold on to when I cried in detox. I loved being there. I'm a highly reclusive person. I go out to get food, and that is about it. So to be at home with some gorgeous man who is always in his head- I don't understand him.

He not only knew about a strange, highly violent murder, but he knew all the people involved, both victims and assailants. He's from Florida. How can someone who knows stuff like that be so mellow. I tried to figure him out. He talks openly about fighting, but barely. We have nothing in common except sobriety. Having someone not love you is hard. 

In detox, I saw myself in every person there. Until you get it , and I could ramble on and on, but once you understand it, there is no turning back. A silver bullet, bass string, grab a bucket and say, Fuck you to this:

All three of these photos were taken this morning, Natures first green is gold, as they say in The Outsiders via Robert Frost. 

I don't understand that person in my bedroom and its making me crazy. James Joyce's last words were supposedly, "Does no one understand?" That's horrible.But speaking of detox and European writers/ poets, the best last words came from Dylan Thomas. His doctor told him that he would die if he drank anymore. He drank something like 47 shots of whiskey after that and his last words were, "That must be a record." I guess he took that news hard.

I thought if I write and write and write then I would sleep next to that man. The truth is, I'm terrified. In his unreadable brain, he could be thinking how happy he will be to leave my home forever. So I will put my notice in and move. I probably should have cut him off after detox. I wanted to take everyone home with me. My heart is not callused yet. Its the same old shit. I fall for someone and pay way too much for my loss of control.

The video below I try not to watch. Especially when I have insomnia. Ambrose went days at a time, not just without sleep, but in horrific pain. I loved my brother more then life. He hurt himself for a thousand reasons, but none that he deserved. He was always a loving person. When I got the call that he died, I did not really understand but at the same time I knew my life would never okay. I hated myself for taking so much for granted.  I remember that my fiance at the time was wearing a yellow t-shirt. I held him so close because I knew it was over for me once I left him go. About an hour after I got that call I sat on a couch and literally laughed. I said to my ex-fiancee, 'I did not know that I would die today.' What can I say? The title is probably from the Bible verse from Saint Paul:"We see through glass darkly."

Now time to watch a ton of comedy moves and leave words alone.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Epic Questions in Canada

Spreadable Toes

Notice that when I get bored or annoyed with writing something specific out, I'll just start another blog.

This has nothing to do with anything in this blog. My tuxedo cat (he works the night shift) can spread his toes out to bite out any straw or dirt in them. It reminds me of the stupidest idea from my brain in a long time. I've got toe envy. I can't spread them out that far. So, because I'm my toughest critic, I thought (as a college student...that's where Uncle Sam's $$$ went); well I thought that only highly advanced people could spread their feet apart. So one day I met Mike. Don't know his last name. Don't care.

He was an only child from Fredericksburg, Maryland. My own family took the 3 hour, one way, ride so my mother could see her children slip and slide down a rock waterfall like lima beans.

He was confused. Mike was the man responsible for the quote, "You like to swim in the deep end. I love the baby pool." How poetic. Mike towered over me, and I'm not short. He drove a Lexus, which was his identity, or he seemed to feel that way in a good light. One day when we were having sex, I turned around to see him flexing his biceps in the closet mirror window. I dumped him like heavy chair being carried up a flight of stair with no thank you attacked. That's how I spent half of my yesterday anyway.

But his toes! It was not his car that got me. Or that he lived in a safe heaven that my family loved to visit. Those were the happiest times of our lives. But Mike had no place in that life other then be the guy who could....throw tennis balls with his toes! I kid you not. The man is a circus freak show.

So my one week fling with this Mike from Maryland character ended quickly, but he had one funny story that was worth writing down. He was the joke of a funny story that is also worth writing down.

Order of Operations:

The second story hurts me too, so I'll save it for now. The first story is of Mike's first acid trip. I may have peed myself when he told me this story because he never once told it with a laugh. See, I don't care. I'll run behind a tree and laugh until I can compose myself, which takes a while.

So Mike and two of his friends drop acid for the first Mike's parents house. They ate a plate of spaghetti before the acid kicked in. Spaghetti with meatballs.  They must have been famished or nervous because the meatballs went down too quickly.

Mike went to the bathroom to wash his hands, and as he was leaving, one of his two friends spewed meatballs everywhere. Mike yelled, "Help us. He's coughing up his stomach!" The three men ran in three different directions leaving Mike's parents at home to wonder about their cooking skills. And damn if Mike could do that story more justice.

Why does this 6 day affair get a blog? Well, Mike came over one day with a flower in a flower pot- a black plastic flower pot- that definitely was found doing a plastic tumble roll in Arcata. Its the thought that counted, so I was very happy (didn't we break up the following day though???) He had a somewhat scripted ramble that accompanied his makeshift flower pot. He said, "Since your name is Rose [the flower was a purple larkspur], I saw the most beautiful flower on the side of the road and said, "Gotta get my girl that." (Again, it did not last a week.)

So the story that makes us both look funny came from my vicious Boston transplant neighbors. I consider one (out of the three) still one solid dear friend, even though he is punching his was through Massachusetts as I write. The other two were knee deep in imaginary pussy. I hung out with them often (which makes me an authority fearing weed-loving Boston it doesn't.)  The day before Mike brought that long, purple, highway flower over, these Boston neighbors were watching him through their window. In Humboldt it gets boring because you literally watch plants grow. These boys hated my blonde Fresno, Californian roommate, and probably still hate me for picking her over the Japanese violinist.

Side Note: My favorite therapist told me that as long as I don't visit, nor settle in Fresno, I did well by her.

So my neighbors, The Massholes, were joking about Mike banging on the kitchen window, the front door, then coming down to honk his horn, then back up again. One of them even demonstrated his defeated posture when he realized he was not getting on the opposite side of that front door.

"You're roommate has a steady stream of men. And they all look them same;  like a bunch of fuckin monkeys. This one came by in a Lexus yesterday with a dead plant.....He kept banging and waiting. I almost felt bad for him. What was he afraid of? She was back in her bedroom replacing him? Fucking monkeys."

I never spoke up because-wowch!- I did not know that he was that frantic to get me that flower. It did die a few days later. curses to those black plastic pots. This is the blog that does not fit. If I were to snap a photo of someone like this (Meatball Mike) in more blogs, no to even comprehend!!!No sir.

Climb those Appalachian mountains until you touch the sky. And of course, keep that Wade the Duck life persevere on at all times. I'm not alone in the world.