Sunday, November 16, 2014


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!


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!

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,



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.



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,


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.

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.

Friday, July 11, 2014

Insomnia/ Alcoholic Momenents of Clarity/ and Nothing about James Brown

It takes about 25 minutes of writing to find a rhythm, then the discipline to go back, restructure the essential rhythm, then presentation! Maybe it doesn't. Someone told me that a concussion can alter a personality. That same person told me that a single episode of drunkenness can do the same. That same person has never been drunk in his long life. That same person annoys me.

A while ago, I wanted to write a blog on how to restructure yourself after severe pain. Ah, it's not even 4am, and L Cohen beat me with his insomniac letter: Famous Blue Raincoat.

Side Note: I think L.Cohen is the man who he writes to in this song.

Being a nerd, or being in love, or caring about something that unites us, is like being lost in a wave. You lose your footing from that cynical cement, and for a moment understand.

Runners get a high like that. So do Elizabeth Taylor-type alcoholics. If she is still alive (in mummy form...don't touch her she is cursed!) she should write a book about her many alcoholic clarities. I've had one in my life at a spa while the most positive gay man made me look hot. As for the runner's high: I used to keep a diary of my jogging times. Its so hard to achieve that type of high. It was one of my things to do before I die, List (that list) but since then, the site went under. There goes my glory for list number 2: My loner trip to the desert of Arizona just for the coffee alone. I will now die unfulfilled, damn it.
Oh, back to insomnia. Yeah, this opiate withdraw is worse the heroin because it lasts so much longer. I'm editing (still no spell check) but I was so sick writing this original blog. Broken and bleeding, bloody and weeping, like Jesus. He's tears ran down in blood.

When day three of no sleep tenses up your spine and breaks you down to anger, use that anger. That anger can keep you from suicide. That anger is a tool to climbing out of the tunnel of pain. Now I can try to describe the pain. Remember in Prince' Bride, where he is 'legally' dead from that torture chamber devise? Remember the scream heard before he died, throughout the entire kingdom? Yeah, that's much better then Requiem for a Dream. If someone poured gasoline all over me, and lit the match to my body, for more then a month, yet somehow I do not die- that is Suboxone withdraw. I drank a lot on day four, grabbed a hammer, took a 40 of the nastiest alcohol, and took a few practice swings at shattering my kneecap so the hospital would have to give me some pain pills. But....the word, "Excruciating" kept coming up. I'd silence the thought with the fact that I'm a bad ass Eastern European soldier for a good cause. But my kneecap never broke. A friend's bad timing. He came in and I was not allowed to do shit but cry and get disarmed. What a friend!

After my brother died, I was put on Valium for a long time. Almost a year. I missed an nurse practitioner's appointment, and I was cut off cold turkey. A great way to drop a lot of weight. It's the Hollywood diet! Talking to a therapist at the time was very important, because all these emotions come back like a tire iron to the skull. I'll tell you what got me through it:

A used bookstore. I was shopping for a Christmas present in a cluttered maze of topics: Poetry, massage, art history. The titles were so intriguing at that moment, because I forgot for so long what it felt like to care about anything at all. It was a mental orgasm. There were so many options, interests, directions to go into. Re-entering life after you don't care takes time.

So a few days ago on zero sleep on day 2.5, at 3am (I always say if you can make it past 3am, it's a cake walk), I youtubed, "How to deal with pain." A man was rambling, like me now, for a while, but there was a gem inside his inarticulate speech. He said that drugs, alcohol, and porn (why porn? I don't know) are an escape from life. We all know that. He followed with, "You are not living, and you might as well be dead." People that take their own lives are often angry. Once that anger is not a tool, it's dangerous.

God believes in blood.

My point: On day 3 of no sleep, I called a nurse about a scheduled sleeping pill to allow me to sleep. Oh how I love it! Laying in bed (for many reasons) is one of my favorite things to do.

Side Note: In my early 20's, I'd lay in bed and just talk and talk and talk.

When I spoke to this nurse I was raw, fragile, and she was rude without a reason, and hung up. At that moment I realized that I was angry enough to get through anything they throw at me- in style.

Alcoholism, for example, is like being on a raft tied to a dock by a rope that slowly comes undone. There is a pier, and you can slowly see your ability to get off the raft and back on the pier slip away and that rope comes undone. Then you're alone on that raft in a sea, going further and further away.

I hope we all make it back.

The closer a nervous breakdown- however short or long- the more you're realize how fucking awesome it feels to be able to smell, breath, to chose.

After my brother died, I had this need to know if he ever went to a certain rock that overlooked the ocean. I wondered if he smelled the ocean air. I wondered how deeply he laughed at a certain Mystery Science Theater movie. I needed to know all the joy he had to have discovered.

I'm often overwhelmed by the choices we have. In a good way. Now find a gem in that mess of writing, if one exists.

In the meantime, music, lots and lots of music, sounds best while in pain or in love. Just keep listening to music. You'll get back on that pier.

Life is chaos that we find meaning to, one day at a time.