Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Merrily I Go To Have My Head Cut Off

I've been saying that line for years. Since I was 17 years old and new to college. Usually, it was blurted out before high stress. College is rough. Then they give you a piece of paper, thank you for paying thousands in tuition, and remind you to tell the world about what Alexander Pope's vision of what great literature does to their intended reader.

I should just have a resume on the old English writers. That will land me a high paying job. I'll set the world ablaze.

So, two things about the above, because at this point, I assume real literature, and the study of the WORD, is dead. The first: Only very influential people in society at the time were executed in public. It set a warning out. Monks often continued to pray- or have their mouths move for seconds after they were beheaded. Men got erections ("The Hangman's Pose") after being strung up. So I believe (but it's an ongoing argument because the Internet is a venereal disease) that it was Sir Thomas ________? (I don't know) who said the phrase, "Merrily I go to have my head cut off," because he once stated famously, "I am the king's merry servant."

Second, I forgot. I'm exhausted. The day after tomorrow- well today because it's nearly 5am- our Russian Orthodox Nativity- I see "The Judge." It would be better if it was Judge Holden himself. Anarchy is the only authority I'll follow. See how that sentence does not follow? You can't have both.

Now I have a problem with that term in general, just as you can imagine I have huge problems with authority. Some people get jobs reading books to others. I don't know- A Librarian. Others get jobs confusing sex and rape with getting arrested. These people also carry weapons legally.

Fucking A, I woke up in Texas again.

Oh, let me interject about this kid in my creative writing classes at SF State. He seemed cool. Quiet. Did not seem out of the ordinary. Everyone likes The Velvet Underground at that age, and he talked about them a lot. Anyway, we had to read our poetry around a table during class. He was very small in statue. I know two things about him:

1.) He eventually gave this impassioned poetry reading that blew my mind. I'll never forget it's honesty. Lines like, "I've never felt safe. I've always been the runt." That's what I live for. True expression.

2.) He chose to tell the class that he worst memory to date was doing acid for the first time, then ending up in jail shortly after it kicked in.

This blog would be about the entire money racketing, pay your debt to society, drown in red tape and paperwork like Robert DeNiro in Brazil substance. But I'm so tired.


-So Note: My spelling and grammar will slip.

About two weeks ago I went to jail in Austin, Texas. Later I'll get a t-shirt made about it. They don't fuck around here. I did not know that. There is nothing that I did that I have not done before. Must be losing my looks.

In jail they charged me with the felony of spitting on an officer. Nah, I won't explain myself. I respect the people under the uniform, but their actions go against every humane thought in my noggin. Plus, they enforce laws made by corrupt politicians. They are part of a big problem that is the poverty/wealth divide.

California jails are sadistic. But they know that. They'll let you go after breaking your will to identify yourself as a human. "Okay, you know you're scum. You can leave." Thanks O'Brien from 1984! You did not even have to put me in Room 101 to break me. Hey, Bane was broken once too. He used his brain and he waited, in jail.

At first, I lost all memory, which is why I was in jail to begin with. But that claustrophobic setting and just being told what to do (They charged me with talking to a fellow inmate, for one) really annoyed me. Enough to rack up a felony in jail. Enter Dante's Eight Circle of Hell. Isn't that, "Abandon All Hope?"

So day one was spent trying to get people to tell me what happened. In large part, they are not cruel people, just incompetent with a severe lack of communication. Every time I heard the keys jingle, I thought I was getting out. No, they were mad at me. I spit on an officer (allegedly.) So they denied the weird, free, pay us back later bail.

But I vaguely remember the judge coming in to tell me my bail. I straightened up, called him 'sir', and heard an officer behind me say to this judge, "Be careful. I believe we are dealing with a sociopath here." What a compliment! Seriously. I only wish I was one. And coming from that fella? That made me feel good. I use to bury dead animals I found on the road. Give them a improved spiritual send off too.

So the worse I was, the better treatment I got. Except I had to wear orange strips because I was considered violent. Who is afraid of a tiny woman? Especially when you have those batons on you at all time. Yeah, five of them dropped me at once. Like a sheet being firmly thrown into the air before it nestles on your bed. I was slammed on a concrete slab. They loosened my front tooth. I need that in place in order to get laid. Otherwise keep me in jail.

So I was in isolation for a day. After I calmed down I tried to reason with them to let me out. Even going so far as to wave my hand near their face, slowly, while looking directly in their eyes as a Jedi warrior would saying, "I refuse to accept the charges." Apparently, it only works in the movies. Or I need more of The Force in my life.

The second day the Valium in my system left. My tolerance from things that happened to me five years ago went so high, they had to give me benzos to keep me alive. They'll let you die in prison. Now, I've stated that I've withdrawn from opiates (a lot) years ago. And I'm glad I did not have to withdraw from them because the toilet was so nasty, it is forever burned into my memory as the entire jail experience. But I got lucky. Not addicted to opiates anymore.

But Valium can and will kill you if you withdraw cold turkey. It just fries the brain. That's the only way to say it. They helped me with that pain in jail. For that, I love them. Otherwise I'd have lost my mind even more.

As a Side Note, when they released me I continued to go through withdraws. You can't scream out. A heart attack seems to be two seconds away if you don't calm down. Just calm down. It feels like a really bad acid come down, with the acid being really bad, speed laced and you're in a fucking physiological jail. You're thoughts come back too hard and too fast. Did I mention you will die if you're on as much as me now? I said over and over in my head that day, "Not this way. I don't want to die this way." The last withdraw, five years ago, I nearly died from anaphylactic shock. For twenty minutes I thought, "This is it." That feeling will always be with me. I don't want to die. Not that way.

So, on day three they told me that I was not getting out. Too bad as I was catching up my reading. Flannery O'Connor. I now understand Don Quixote so much better now. It was written in jail. He projected images on white walls.

Day three I realized that I needed to get home. So I broke down and told my family, who I knew would deal with the situation. The minute I heard my uncle's voice on the other line, all my "Sir" "Please" etc when away for about five seconds. I knew I was in control.

Then the bail bondsmans come. I did not cry until I found out I was getting out. They won't see me cry when they strip me of hope. Hell no. They do not have the God given authority to tell me my morals are different from theirs. That should be my thesis. Their rules do not apply to me. I jaywalk too, mother fuckers!

They arrested a UT student for that (jaywalking) last month. They don't fuck around here.

The bail bondsman works for a company that sends out poorly outfitted bounty hunters to send me to jail if I flee. Bounty hunters are the worst scum in Texas. They might actually believe that they are moral. That's terrifying. Plus, I keep sending them funny e-mails. They wrote me yesterday saying I need to supply more phone numbers. I replied that I won't run, and if I did I'd citizen's arrest their (in all probability) bleached blond permed hair, acid washed tight jeans wearing bad ass. Wait! No one who dresses like that can be a bad ass. They replied immediately with, "Thank you for your prompt reply." That's it. No mention of anything but that phrase. I'm going to have fun with them. They are just wrong. Just completely void of a soul in exchange for monetary gain.

Then you get a defense lawyer. Mine is like the lawyer from The Simpsons except old. Very old. And very bad insomnia. He told me he gets rapists and murders off, and I'm not, "Lucrative enough" for him. I assured my lawyer that I'd never rape anyone. So I had to convince him what an awful, poorly socially adjusted person I am; and a criminal, I might add, who wants to give him money. I should have just said, "Money!" That's it. Tie it to a fishing hook and wave it above his head. How cool would it be to put these people in a pool filled with money, and see who eats who first?


The final result: Hearing from a defense lawyer that you can't step out of the box. That 'they' want something from me. Some atonement. That means $$$$$$. A felony fight is two grand. I said they should be paying me. It destroyed my life. All my work in college. My ability to move around like a gypsy. Plus, the pain part....

After today I get my blood drawn for any illegal or legal (alcohol) drugs. Plus rehab. Plus a college acceptance paper. A job is key to possibly bring it down to a misdemeanor. That won't happen. Johnny Cochrane is not on our playing field anymore. My lawyer nearly fell asleep while he was giving me this bummer of a speech. We live in a society!

Plus in jail, they wanted to see what type of citizen I was. "Do you own a car?" No. "Are you married?" No. I've been engaged more times then I've been arrested, by either one or two. I can't remember. Basically my situation now is that I did a lot of Ambien and ended up in Texas. Some days there is new furniture in my living room. Last week my home was spotless except for what I thought was a bullet case holder on my desk. My bath mat is missing. I realized completely now that I own a fish tank. With three goldfish. What was I thinking?

That's it for today. Valium puts grooves in one's brain. It hurts so bad to get off of it. But here I go, Merrily to have my head cut off. I'll be a citizen. I'll tip the 15%. Buy a car. Marry that one fella. I think I have a common law marriage now. Warren Zevon is not a genius, but now I get that whole, "Lawyers Guns and Money" thing.

I know I needed for some of this to happen. Court ordered to get a productive life. I've been waiting for this, in some form or another, for years. So I'll run into the busy street lights. I'm ready.





Sunday, November 16, 2014

Electricity


Tuesday, July 8, 2008


Being a lazy bum this summer and renting tons of movies, thinking little, and minding my P's and Q's I stumbled across a memory from my early 20's: a movie about Joy Division. Now I'm 30 and can't listen to them too much for fear I'll go to 'that dark place'; and I'll need an adrenaline shot to the heart to get me on my numb feet once again.

Do we lose something with time and experience? I feel that all I hold close to me diminishes every day I wake up and am expected to join a uniform thought structure of work, bills, and being really active, happy and 'normal'. I never believe it though.

This movie is called, "Control" and you don't have to love Joy Division to love the movie. I'm very disappointed that the actor is blase; that he tries to sing Ian Curtis' songs. That he is not sweating and broken on the stage, like the new Jesus Christ. The real Ian Curtis cut his head off with a bass string at 23. We want him as Jesus Christ- sweating his troubles out, broken and beaten, bloody and weeping, here to blow apart our ennui and make the world fall in love with understanding. The actor sucks. But the movie is great. I am 23 again, confused more then ever, and watching some man's talent and dreams go down the drain. I know about that.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Appetite for Sunshine Inside Human Hearts

Here are an old blog and a letter together. It's been a while since I've seen the 2008 blogs that maybe one repeats itself. But if you look closely at the first, written in Nebraska, then the second complimnents it wonderfully.

Side Note: Not only am I unapologetic for the bolded nonsensical command below, I'm puzzled by why and where that type of coolness went? Maybe dissolved in the Austin heat.

.1) Controversy

"The Star Mites" was the name of a band my friend Trent came up with years ago. He said he was a star that others fed upon to gather strength for themselves, which sucked strength from him (Trent is a paranoid schizopheric).

In that vein I must say that if I conformed to every wish and hope of every random aquiantance I pass in my short life, then my short life would also be a boring and uneventful one. Gossip is the lowest form of communication reserved for the insecure and uncreative. I don't need anyone's permission to live my life. Or their approval to live a life less ordanary.

Tell Them MacCrackin Sent You!

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Preface: This man/fighter/doctor/professor went through sheer hell. His daughter died of cancer in her teens. I saw him before and after the death. In another blog I mention that a professor and I had drinks at a bar in Arcata (Vodka for me, a beer for him.) Also mentioned was sheilding our pain in the safety net of intellectual conversation. Both of us where going through some shit. He's also the man who told me that Frank Sanatria gave one of his two olives from his martini to the person who most impressed him that night. I loved this professor as a lusty, great person. He spent a half an hour on the word, "Inspiring" alone. It's Greek(?) for: To Breath Life into Someone. Literally breath into their lungs. Or symbolically, of course. Americans slightly change words to fit practicality, not spirituality. Fuck you Steven Pinkerton! Whoo brother! I had therapy over screaming that out. You should try it sometimes; that felt awesome!
--------------------------------------------------------
2.

Best wishes to you, Rose

I'll be around this summer on and off - be hiding in an undisclosed location most of the time. Good to have Ewoks and elves in the magical realm who spirit you away from danger -got lucky there though I can't abuse the privilege.

Stay in touch if you desire - I've no crystal ball; been lots of places no human being should want to be, too. Though I resent it when people tell me to hang in there because I can do so much good (I've already done plenty; can't hang on forever), I'm going to be a hypocrite and tell you that you can do the same - if you want; if you don't; others will and it won't matter; unless you want it to matter for you. Camu had that one figured out.

I think what has buoyed me is that good people have always given me hope and chances when I didn't deserve it; or thought I didn't - they recognized something in me that they didn't have and weren't envious or jealous - only prescient and "good" enough to want it to last enough for everyone - that's humbling. You've got it too. You know it but may not believe it or may not care. Been there, too,

Best,

Doc



Friday, November 14, 2014

I'm Going Home


"They're making up things
That we've all heard before
Like romance and engage and divorce
You have to be crazy to stay in this place
You just have to laugh at it all" -The Psychededelic Furs.


For people in my day to day life in the South of Texas' Capital: Austin, this fact may be a tough one to swallow. The fact that I am not a robot. Nope. I have feelings. Just as Frank Black smiles, I too worry that I will bleed. I also have a brain in my noggin that comes up with plans, dreams, hopes, and scemes.

I'll be 36 next week. It may be too old to go under the catagory of Maladjusted anymore. Maybe just plain eccentric. I was the girl with ragged clothes, a puedo-hippies manners, invited to the pool party I saw no point in attending.

The fact that, every day at least one friend comes over, sees a fifty dollar moving kit, and never asks me what I'm up to (most know my lease is up and not getting renued) shows that they all must think I'm a robot.

This comes as a shock to me. All this time I thought they knew that I was a human too. Just like everyone in my fellow human race, I NEED too.

I missed my home for so long. Time to go back now. I did what I was supposed to with my travels, and no one knows how scary, and exhilrating, and painful, and sublime it is to pack up, pick a city, and start a brand new life. I did that for years.

It will take two weeks to pack. Afterward, I officially will retire my gypsy life-style. Give it to the youth. And tell them to record every breath.

As the Quaker's say, "I wish you Love, Peace, Wit, and Turmoil."

Friday, October 31, 2014

One Answer to Cynicism

More often then not, I tend to fall back on what I learned in college as truth, not rhetoric. Especially a Ethics class I took at the community college level before I transfered to a University. We live alone, we die alone, we dance together.

At 25, I worked at a French Cafe outside of Annapolis, Maryland. In the five years, off and on working there, I only had three rude customers. A decade later, I still miss some of them. But there was a time in my personal life that interfered with my happiness.

An understatement.

I came to work on my scooter one day, with no hope that this day would be any different, and the stress and heartbreak at the time was unbearable. Walking into the main office to drop off my backpack, the owner pointed to a guitar standing up, and said it was mine. I was thoroughly confused. And overly excited. There was a letter taped to the guitar, in an envolope with one word written in a thick, black marker: Rose. After reading the letter, I called who I thought would have done this, and got no response. Later it occured to me who did this, which makes it all the more awesome. And yes, I cried from joy, and surprise, and the fact that someone could be so kind with nothing in return. So the concept of Egoism (the one that made me lose so much hope over the years) is bullshit. And this is why:

Dear Rose,

Word has gotten around about your desire to do some guitar playing.
Well, you will need a guitar, hence my little brown friend.

I found him for sale in a parking lot at a Grateful Dead show in Atlanta
around 1987. I had flown into Atlanta for the shows (there were two) and I
was desperate for a guitar so as to join in on the parking lot jamming that
was a trademark event at all Dead show parking lots.

I bought him from a New York Deadhead who needed money for gas to
get home. His history before then is a mystery, but being found in a Dead
show parking lot helps to give the guitar great MoJo.

He hasn't been doing much lately, so I cleaned him up and strung him
with very light strings. Still, your finger tips will get a little sore until you
build up some callouses.

He's not a particularly "great" guitar, but he's friendly and eager to be
used. I would move up to medium lights as soon as your fingers can take it
as he won't sound his best with the light set I put on him.

I'm sure he'll be a good guitar to learn on. He is modst and earnest.
(something we could never say about an electric guitar)

He will need to come back home one day, but only after you've tired of
him or have upgraded to a better axe. When you are done with him, just
leave him leaning up somewhere in the front of the shop and I'll see him
and bring him home.

You might want a tuning fork, the little music shop near your shop will
have one and they can show you how to tune with one.

Have fun and don't worry about bumps and scratches.

Enjoy!

Anonymous

P.S.His name is Harvey, like the big white rabbit. (I think he was a Pooka
before becoming a guitar or he may still be a Pooka pretending to be a
guitar. If you're not sure what a Pooka is, rent the old Jimmy Stewart movie,
"Harvey")

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I'm faily positive I know who the person is behind the awesomeness. One day I was working and moody, and a musician asked me what was wrong. I wanted a guitar, but I told him I'd never be able to afford one. That was about five months before this generous deed. I knew his wife as well. Both very unpretentious, beautiful souls in an environment of snobbery and pretense (Annapolis is the Yhact capital of the country, if not the world.)

After this gift, I never saw either the musician or his wife again. He wanted nothing from me at all. Just to help make me a happier person. The following day I posted a handwritten thank you note on the cafe door with a rose. It stormed that day, and I found my gushing thanks you letter near a storm drain, soaked and illegable.

The timing of this anonymous guitar was divine. There are some things that are too personal (or controversial) even for this blog. But it gave me such hope, when I was in the ninth circle of hell. This man will never know how much that meant to me, and that is the only sad aspect to this story.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Since I Very Rarely Pee My Pants-

Best of Craigslist:

You Farted During "Boyhood" - mw4m
There we were, just enjoying a nice quiet Saturday night at the movies. A slow mover, Linklater's "Boyhood." Some popcorn. A few sodas. Nothing really happens in the film, we found. For about 90 minutes or so we stare listlessly at the screen. It's a thinking man's film, I say. Beautifully shot. It's about life, and death and relationships and things of that nature. Just then, at a brief, carefully-timed cinematic pause in dialogue, an enormous fart from somewhere in the back pierces an otherwise silent movie theatre. It had the impact of a baseball bat hitting a leather couch, or George Foreman working the heavy bag. Whack. Loud, deep and masculine.The seat cushion heroically absorbed most of the blow, but not enough that each and every person in the movie theatre instantly burst into nervous laughter. The laughter continued for what felt like a good 5 minutes, until tears streamed down our faces. Even well after the blast, we quietly chuckled to ourselves with a 'remember the time that guy farted in the movie theatre' gleam in our eyes. And just like that, with a soft chuckle and a deep breath, we were back into the film. Things happened, people drove around Texas, relationships came and went, there was crying, there was hope. It was as if we had all forgotten about the fart that had brought us together that night. As the sun began to set on screen, the teenage boy, no longer a boy, transitions into an adult, before our very eyes, and looks, intently, lustfully into a young girls eyes, as if to lean in for a kiss, and braaaaaaap. Another fart from the back row, like two giant hands clapping together, and the screen goes dark, roll credits. We decided, after laughing our way out of the theatre, and all the way home, that this was the best movie that we had ever seen. I imagine the lone fartist sauntering off into the sunset. His work here done.
If only I could say thank you, kind sir. You are truly a master of your craft.
post id: 4601986978

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

In Memory of Ronnie Launius

This blog is not about Ron Launius, but should focus on the exploitation of murder and the glamorization of criminal activity. I can not express how much my heart is not in this blog...But, I spelled Launius correctly so damn it, I chose to write!

About a week ago, before I drifted to sleep, I thought it would be a good idea to write about him, because I've been trying to get a sense of his personality, and you can't do that with very few provable actions and hearsay. I can make deductions though. By the way, after I thought about writing a blog about him I actually laughed to myself: That's the stupidest idea I've had in a while. But it ate at me and it's 2 am. I'm not sleeping tonight. I'm trying to understand things!

When my tiny, 98 pound aunt carried a 100 pound television from our living room, through our kitchen, and out the front door- which I did not know until I heard a spray of gun shots outside my bedroom window- I decided to take Ken Kesey's advice from the end of, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and help myself to the liquid codeine cough syrup in our home. From there, I realized it helps.

What I'm trying to say is that, about a decade ago, I took the fast spiral down into heroin use. For almost two years. I was also a damn good hustler. Every move becomes like a chess move. Or you could just do what Ron Launius did and grab a gun. Now that I'm older, I'd probably do the latter if I decided to flush my life down the toilet, because I was a young women then.

Was Ron Launius a desperate heroin addict or did the war turn him into a criminal? Probably both. Did he rob a bank to get his wife back safely from bad men who held her hostage? Then exact revenge in the name of his wife? Probably not. Did he kill 27 people? Ah, no. Serial killers don't get that far. I think the police would have bagged him a long time ago with 27 cases, "open at the time of [Ron's] death." Finally, the question that intrigues me most. Was Ron Launius really one of the coldest men a California police officer had ever known? This is where I begin what I believe to be true in his case.

His face was like a sucker punch, because he was beautiful. He was beautiful to me; also my height (5'7), not very heavy, and blonde with blue eyes. As a friend of mine commented when we looked up his photo: He is not at all intimidating. Ah, some of the most dangerous people are the one's you never see coming.

Any heroin addict now knows someone who knows someone who has at least heard of someone connected to them that did something potentially violent to get the drug without paying up. The more the heroin controls you; and this is sheer, raw, and screaming pain- the shorter the chain is in knowing someone who knows someone who has robbed for drugs. In many fashions. Which is what Ronnie did creatively: Robbed smaller time drug dealers.

The pain makes your legs just walk to find help. But I've still known people with integrity, even if it means to take the pain. I wrote a blog about a heroin dealer who looked a lot like Launius (probably why I'm writing this, it now occurs to me) who anyone but me would have described as, "The coldest person I have ever met." When a group of people not connected say, "This guy has anger issues. I won't let you meet him," and the people saying that don't know each other, well, it's probably true.

The fact that at his death at 37, Launius had cirrhosis of the liver, as well as hepatitis, tells me a lot. He was into hard drugs for a long time and was probably a moody person. One who wives estrange themselves from. When you are into drugs that long, you start to know very dangerous people. He was one of them. Yet, people have blogs about his, "character" when all we know is his military history, that he was married (apparently twice), and he helped a murderer cover up a dead body. He may have murdered a narcotics officer. Also that he punched John Holmes in the stomach once, which is baffling to me.

People seem to glamorize him because he was a blond haired, blue eyed enigma, and he was called 'The Leader of the Most Feared Gang in all of Los Angeles.' His life is not to be glamorized or ignored. I can assure you that that man has been through a lot of pain. He chose a bad road; but maybe he had little choice.

To rob someone with the professional ferociousness that he did to Eddie Nash speaks volumes about his history of break-ins. 20 minutes is all it took to reduce someone to beg for their life. Ron Launius cared more about the heroin then humanity. I have no doubt he has the propensity to be a horrendous person.

Now exploiting his death makes me equally irate. Today I saw a photo of John Holmes' post pubescent girlfriend walking with a smile for the cameras and a t-shirt with the words, "Wonderland" across her chest; Okay, she did not know anyone who died. She did not meet anyone who died. Yet she's made it to the big leagues by advising in a Hollywood movie about a fuck face, accessory to four murders, whose dick she sucked. Great fucking life achievement Dawn! She's SELLING MURDER. Period. A whore in every sense of the word.

Finally, if anyone wants to shoot me up with White China heroin, then nearly instantly kill me by putting a lead pipe in a 300 pound man's angry hand, just contact me. They died; at least he died, in bed, on China White heroin, and probably did not have time to think before he was killed.

Epilogue-
Perhaps it's my insomnia, or my distrust of police information in a wikipedia article, or being paranoid about what the media does to glamorize tragedy, but I was wrong about his character. It also shows my anger and my innocents. You can't be labeled a feared gang leader without earning the title. Apparently there is a very well written blog where the guy is not lazy like me and does a lot of extremely developed research. I believe that he was a contract killer and yeah, he probably did kill 27 people. I stand by everything but those facts. I wanted to hurt myself as a heroin addict. I was just so sick of having that drug dependency. Not all people are a like though. He wanted to hurt other people because of his addiction, and maybe he was a sociopath.
Finally, Two things: It was a former boyfriend/ heroin addict that inspired me to write this blog. I finally found his number after ten years of no word, thinking he probably died, but I was/am too scared to call him because he was the coldest man I have ever met. The odd thing about him: I forgot that his middle name is two letters switched from "Launius." I doubt I knew who Ron Launius was at the time, for that to be a subconscious thought. He was mean, but no murderer. So I retract that too. Second thing: Between insomnia and pain pill withdraws, I started to wonder if getting bludgeoned to death in that matter would be painful. That's how my brain works with odd blogs like this one. Of all my blogs, this is the one that does not fit.