Where have you been?

The short answer is I went loopy, did some crazy shit, got myself admitted to a psychiatric ward wherein I attempted suicide (where else is the most logical place?), was sent to a state mental hospital, eventually ended up on the streets of Dallas during the day and at the Mission during the night. Finally, I found placement in a group living arrangement sponsored by the Veterans Administration and the Salvation Army.

What are you doing now?

Vegetating, mostly. My knees have worsened considerably to the point where I now have to wear braces, which I don’t wear unless I have to go out. If I don’t have to walk over a couple hundred feet, why wear the braces? Sick logic, I know.

Are you, you know, alright in the head?

Oh, sure, fine and dandy. All nice and medicated. Stuporized, you might say. Life is bland and I don’t care.

So, why not stop medicating?

For me, medicating the brain to bring the mind into normal alignment is a necessity. Now that I’m no longer driving trucks, it probably doesn’t matter that I don’t medicate, but I want to drive a car sometime in the future and you can’t go around oblivious to the rest of the world. I tried living unmedicated and it totally ruined my previous life. Now, I can look forward to a totally different life, not that it will be all that bad, at least it doesn't look so bad from here.

Can you still write?

I have been working on a memoir project to bolster my sagging sanity and starting a rewrite of The Pastel Cowboy, changing it to first person, besides changing a lot more. Tim? Well, I’ve had some ideas about Tim while my sanity was a little looser than it is now. I'd like to think the current Tim will be completed, but I can't give a certainty to that proposition.

I’ve also been kicking around a short story about a couple of twelve year olds who’ve been thrown together for their teen years. It’s all very complicated about a society on a very large spaceship and boys in spokes having to grow up rimward so their testes mature properly. It’s also about spokeys being taller than rimboys besides not knowing that dirt has an odor, that the best fishing is just past the rapids, and when it’s time to go home, you won’t want to leave.

You see, I’ve lost everything I’ve produced up to the point of my breakdown. It’s all gone, all of it. There was a backup, but that was at home, a place where I won’t be going ever again. “We can never go home again, Todo, I’ve broken the ruby slippers.”

But, that’s okay because here at the Shelter life runs a little slower than out there in the world. I’d like to think I could’ve done my breakdown a little better, but you don’t plan these things to come to a logical conclusion. At least, I didn't fully complete the suicide attempt. Got the sheet around the neck, but was caught before I could apply the necessary pressure. Oh, yeah, they're called chemical restraints and the needle is really long to get deep in the hip. Oh, yeah, it hurts like hell, even when you asked for one. Had an anxiety attack after eating some canned pears. Honest, it was a psych ward. Crazy shit happens in those places.

The one accomplishment so far is finally having the chance to read Atlas Shrugged. I should've read this years ago, but never took a class where it was required reading. Talk about dialogue, sheesh!