it bes that way sometimes

Whether or not we contribute to this life or not is our choice.  If we make the most of it – no matter what our circumstances or where we might find ourselves at any given moment.  Why don’t we?  If you want to do someting or call yourself something, why aren’t you?  (Let’s not talk about me this time.)  What frustrates the impitus?

Anticipation rattles the catapult but there’s no release of the pressure.  It seethes and rots, robs you of sleep and joy;  wasted potential makes your life stink and pervades your thoughts.  Not criminal you say?  But why isn’t it?  Pot is!  Um, who makes these rules?  Don’t we have a responsiblity to our fellow bipeds to do our best; to be a vital part of the whole?

Scripture speaks of the body of Christ (I prefer Yeshua, haMeshiach) being made up by its members; the toe  esteemed or needed no less than the heart – all having unique abilities and positions/stations.  Each necessary for the proper function of the whole.

I once heard this joke about which part of the body rules.  Give up?  It’s the anus.  Think about it.  You can’t shit, you can’t think, your stomach hurts, you have a headache, eventually you croak.  But I meander…and just a banana and an apple keep mine soft and moving.  Sorry, but it might just be a valuable tip to somebody who might be stopped up right now.  Like I said, every little possible positivity is worth it.

And to feel the surge, the stomach turning jump, no matter what it is you’re jumping into: it’s  something thrilling, something rewarding, something positive, that has positive effects on our lives.  Improving us, broadening us.  Opening us to who knows what opportunities, adventures, satisfactions, less depression.

It’s so easy to slide down into that pit, though.  And I can feel it happen when it does.  Only rarely can one talk oneself out of such a fall.  The rise and fall.  Rarely centered.  Mostly hills (mountains) and valleys (crevaces).   Life’s no picnic, but it could sure be worse.

Isn’t it funny that the top chain eaters - the least populas on earth,  enjoy eating the savengers of the greatest portion of this planet?  The scum makers eat the scum eaters.

Being human is rather alien, don’t  you think?  My husband says I’m creepy.  Creepy.  Eeeewww.  I don’t want to creep anybody out, although it is bound to happen – probably with everybody in some way.  Who’s perfect anyway?

  Frohawks.  Scalp/hair decorations are so cool.  Body art that isn’t permanent/invasive.  I’ve never pieced my ears (or anything else), never got a tatoo (but only by chance), never dyed or bleached my hair (unless you count lemon).  Somehow, I think our bodies are made just the way they were meant to be made.  Hair and all.  Although if I was a man, I don’t think I’d like having a beard.  Seems so itchy.  Not inviting to my lips.  If I want to kiss something, I might as well kiss all of it – experience it to the fullest.  And maybe it will kiss me back!  Or touchme!

Boyfriend lets his fluffy, soft tail lightly  brush my legs as he asks to be fed, or just want smy attention.  Dogs wanting my attention creep me out.  But a cat is somehow different – certainly doesn’t crave human interaction like a dog does.  Too demanding.  That’s creepy too.  People need space.  At least I do. 

 Since working on the 6th floor of a 12 floor building, I’ve pressed myself to overcome claustrophobia.  Making yourself do something that scares the shit out of you is good for you once in a while.  But Wednesday, I actually took the girl directly between me and the still open elevator door by the shoulders and physically moved her out of my way as I profusely apologized.  I feel like I have to explain, but I hate theose kind of people who always have to explain themselves;  like I care.  So why do I bother?

I must try harder not to hate.  Focus on the parts that are good.  The moments; the excepti0ns.  The inherent beauty of this dimension in time/space (and who knows what else that we have no inkling of) in which we live. 

Some people live such simple lives.  Like the indiginious folk that live on reed islands in the middle of Lake Titicaca.  I was there in ‘76.  Total head trip, but valuable memory. Or Dick Kopekne, who built and lived in his own log cabin, depending on and shipping in only the bare skeleton of what he needed to survive.  Alone in the Wilderness.  But I can’t help wondering what drove him there.  Or maybe it’s just what he always wanted to do and he finally did it. 

Living with an alcoholic isn’t ideal.  But then neiter is living with a creepy, inappropriate. less than desireable chick (why are females referred to as birds?)  Humans can live in isolation but they tend to get kind of weird.  Rather,  weirder.  I know a guy who hasn’t bathed in 30 years.  Thirty years!  And he doesn’t smell like that – whatever that would smell like.  (But then I don’t shower on the weekdays usually.  Is that gross?  I really think Americans tend to wash their bodies a little to much.  And perfume.  Antiperspirspirant.  Smellaphobic.  What the fuck.  Aren’t smells (some anyway) interesing and sometimes pleasant, or at least unique?  Why not make the most of them too? 

Thanks for listening.

hell 2

  it was a grey haired bar. all the cocktail waitresses should have had grey hair. they had become a bit long in the tooth for the profession, but they had a place at the grey haired bar.
  economics and sports were discussed over bourbon and beer. wine flowed from little bottles and breathed the air at the grey haired bar.
  confession had left a bitter taste in my mouth. i had really expected to feel better afterward, but i guess i should not have confessed my bitter feelings about religion and god in general.
  the bartenders name was Vicky. she had back problems and a prescription for vicodin.  i ordered a rusty nail and two vicodin.
  “I’m out of vicodin” she said. “i have these little morphine pills. 15 milligram”.
  i dont know anything about morphine.
  “gimmee two.”
   she gave me a handful.
   “no charge. i don’t like them.”
   i wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocket.
   i like my rusty nails light on Drambuie but i didn’t complain when Vickie put too much in the first one. she must have remembered on the next three. they were great.
  i was on the Internet soon enough, looking at morphine pills. conventional wisdom had me squirting powdered pills mixed with water up my ass. I’m talking way up my ass.
  ‘PAST THE ANUS.”

the valium she dropped and the crank flashlight

  yeah, that’s right. a crank flashlight.
  if you happen to live in a meth mega-center, a crank flashlight might sound like a flashlight that a tweaker must carry to look for things in the night.
  things that go bump in the night. like a face. looking through binoculars and what do i see? other binoculars looking back at me.
  i quit speed over ? years ago. its my little secret.
    but valiums………….now that’s another story.
   my wife has a prescription for valiums, and she likes them… a lot.
  most people like valiums. the only people i’ve ever met who don’t like valiums are natural born assholes who are addicted to their own assholishness.
  she does not give me valiums often. she almost never gives me blue valiums. one night, when she was stoned on weed, she dropped a blue valium.
  i don’t know about your house, but when you drop a pill in this house, the weirdest shit happens.
 1. it rolls under the microwave, where dusty tumbleweeds obliterate the eyesight.
  2. it rolls over to where the cats eat tuna fish cat food that has slopped out of the little cat dish and rotted for the past five years.
  3. it bounces and the rolls into the bathroom where it comes to rest in a sticky splotch of urine on the linoleum next to the commode.
  4. it lands under the coffee table where we eat. it gets lost behind grains of rice and pieces of broccoli and sandals and besides its indoor/outdoor carpeting that’s been glued to the historical wooden floors that i’ve halfway sanded back to originality, so there are great holes in the carpet for the one blue valium to rest in.
    5. i get out my crank/valium flashlight with the high beam on and crawl like a crackhead picking at bits of popcorn in the carpet.
      viola!! i have one blue valium.
   i let it rest on my tongue, savoring the moment. it tastes bad and i swallow as my eyes close.
    6. it wont go down. it burns my throat like a jagged pill from hell. i puke a little bit, and drop to my knees instantly, my hand grasping instinctively for the crank/valium flashlight savior.
  7. the little blue pill floats atop the moat of vomit.
  8. there is no hesitation.
             9. tired now

lexapro

  i’d been sober about 6 months and was experiencing anger. its pretty common. i saw a doctor about my blood pressure and mentioned the sobriety, the anger. she told me about a pill that might help. lexapro. she said maybe my brain wasnt getting enough seratonin, something along those lines, and that i should take this 20 mg pill. i did.
   i mellowed right out. it was cool. i gained about 30 lbs. this is the price you pay i guess. that was 5 years ago.
  about a year ago i began cutting the pills in half. my wife looked on in horror. she and my mother has secret conferences.
  it all worked out.
  i should mention that i saw another doctor who asked me why i was on anti depressants. i didnt know i was. i didnt know how difficult and dangerous it could be to quit taking them.
   anyway….a couple weeks ago i began drinking again over some emotional pain that i was having. it just went on too long. i figured since i was drinking again, i could stop taking the lexapro.
  yesterday i woke up with a serious hangover and a devastating case of depression to boot.
  i dumped out the booze this morning. it always ends with dumping it out. finishing the bottle never ends it for me.
 i took a 20 mg lexapro just now. i figured its a bad time to go off the reservation. i almost called the mental health clinic this afternoon.
 i’m not of of those maniac depressives. just a run of the mill alcoholic that got mixed up with (ssri)’s? anti depressant seratonin reuptake inhibitors. and booze. and speed years ago. and an alcoholic web that has me trapped like a fly. dont get me wrong. i’ve been happy for a good portion of the last 5 years. just not lately. maybe today is my new sobriety date.
  wouldnt that be something? i’m gonna get off this lexapro too.
    just wait.