CarlHoliday

One of my wife's sisters came up with counting only decades. That way you age slowly and aren't worried about trivial things like a new job.

I went to see a new shrink yesterday and failed to report the outcome of that visit on yesterday's entry. Back when I was first diagnosed of being Bipolar, that shrink said I was Type II which is a milder form of the disorder. Yesterday's shrink said I was actually Type I, good ol' Manic Depression. He based his diagnosis on the severity of my periods of mania, plus my bouts with Major Depression and my one serious attempt at suicide. I have to see another shrink at the clinic next month who will do the "official" intake. Maybe he'll have a different opinion. Frankly I don't give a hoot where I fall on the Bipolar scale of fun and games. At this point in my life, which has been completely destroyed because I didn't fully investigate the hazards of being Bipolar (mostly inattentiveness which was a great hindrance to being a successful truck driver), I'm left with living with my son in a small town (2,075 souls, 2010 Census) on the Stevens Pass highway. Luckily it's a nice town that has a really good Mexican restaurant (their Pollo Poblano is delicious), not counting our next door neighbor selling marijuana to my son the drug deals go down on the street in front of the elementary school, and only one grocery store that sells real tasty and soft chocolate chip cookies.

(Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles) I’ve been living with my son a little over three months and things are going pretty good at the moment. There a few issues going on, but nothing onerous to the point I might consider moving into an apartment. Brownies (Concerto in Jazz byMantovani and His Orchestra) My son smokes, cigarettes, cigars, and marijuana. Last week he made brownies, but the marijuana he gets from the neighbor overpowered the flavor. There was barely a taste of chocolate. If he makes brownies again, I think I’ll eat a bit more than one square. Single Malt Scotch (I Can’t Love You Anymore by Lyle Lovett) My son and I are working our way through a long list of single malt scotch. The latest is 10 year old Laphroaig. Next in line is 18 year old Laphroaig. I’m tempted to get the 25 year old. There are only two problems I can see. The $499.95 price tag doesn’t seem all that worrisome. For a multitude on issues I ran out of my mood stabilizer and have been off them for nearly two weeks. I’m getting a little manic which means $499.95 can be seen as almost feasible if it wasn’t so much money. Except when you’re not running on all cylinders, $499.95 can be seen as a nickel short of $500. So it’s only $400 dollars and change. The other problem is the one liquor store that has it in stock is in the SODO area of Seattle, but tomorrow I’ll be down that way because I have to go to the VA hospital to get a month’s supply of my mood stabilizer and antidepressant. If I feel the way I am at this moment, I just might plan on figuring how to get there. (At Last by Etta James)

Winter finally arrived today. Puffed rain fell most of the day, until there was three inches of soft water covering anything with horizontal surfaces. The National Weather Service advises continued periodic dustings for the next four days. Writer's Block continues. . . .

My mother made a delicious fruitcake with walnuts, those candied cherries (both green and red), dried pineapple bits, all soaking in bourbon. Christmas was one of my favorite holidays.

30 days from today I'll board a train to Chicago where I'll spend one night. Most of the next day will be spent in Chicago's Union Station waiting for the Empire Builder to take me to Seattle, WA. Since my son confirmed he was will to put me up (or put up with me) for however long it takes to get an apartment of my own, I won't have to spend any money in a motel. My biggest expense will be the rental car I'll have until I find a car. 30 days and counting ....

Just because I have double Welsh ancestry on my mother's side (Brandon and Griffith), doesn't mean I'm going to be spending December in Wales. I do plan on setting up my new home wherever it ends up being. Plus, I'll be looking for a cat. I've already named her, Mrs. Beasley. Probably call her Beasley most of the time.

Well, I made it back from a short stay in oblivion. In many ways, it was the waiting that hurt the most. Bureaucratic time runs too slow, especially if you’re caught in the eddies. Basically, my bank did not send out a replacement debit card for my expiring card. After giving it a good wait, just in case some wayward demon had nothing better to do than mess with someone’s life, I called and the rep said, “Yes, I’d waited long enough and he’d send out a new card and, by the way your card has been cancelled.” I think sure that’s okay as long as I get a new card. Then reality slapped me upside the head and I looked at the sorry state of the contents of my wallet: $8. I count it lucky they feed us here at the shelter, otherwise I would’ve gotten awfully hungry between then and now. The request for a replacement card was not fruitful. After fourteen (business) days, I went to see my friendly customer service rep at the nearest branch, which is in fact miles from here, and she found the right person in the myriad of cubicles within Bank O’Merica. That person said she could send it next day air ensuring delivery last Thursday afternoon. I was pleased. Thursday came and went. Friday came, I asked questions of the mail person, and went. Of course, there is no mail delivery over the weekend. Monday, as I was leaving the cafeteria from lunch, our case aide handed me the overnight envelope. I signed out, went across the street to the cash machine, retrieved sufficient funds, bought a candy bar, and then realized Tuesday was laundry day. Yesterday (Wednesday), I got my cell service back and attempted to get the modem up and running. I paid, but the service has a built in delay. I couldn’t get the silly thing to work until this morning. November 9, 2011 is now my day of departure from the shelter. Don’t know quite where I’m going, but I will be going on that day.

Unfortunately, I got to experience not only being cut off from the web, but also cut off via my cell phone. I was truly lost.

Unfortunately, what I didn't want to happen, happened, leaving me out in the dark beyond where those who don't have access trudge through their daily lives.

Back, again.

!

Unless something very important occurs tomorrow, my life as I now know it will be seriously jeopardized. It's not life threatening, but it will be a big bother; and, I'm not in the mood for getting screwed when I didn't, technically, do anything to earn this kind of treatment. Oh, if something doesn't occur, I may be unable to get online for sometime. Oh, and I think I'm going to stay here in Texas, maybe get an apartment over towards Arlington or Grand Prairie, or maybe even as far as Fort Worth. Definitely not Dallas, unless there are some apartments around here that aren't full of crackheads.

nice intro to a bucket full o' intrigue.

What used to come easily now takes a moment or two of concentration. Honestly, I try to stay out of the exposition trap, but sometimes the story needs a bit of placement for it to get out of the starting gate. For dramatic effect it’s far better to jump right in and let the characters run with the plot, but this new story needs a bit of exposition to get moving. It’s good to know I have a starting point, though it is 858 words in and an end point when a potential might have been is turned into a definite it’s not time, yet. I guess it comes from a playwriting class I took back in the late Eighties and learned the lesson of having the characters run the show. Have you ever thought about the word “behead”? Why isn’t it “dehead” or “unhead.” There is decapitate though, if you’re looking to “de” someone’s head without resorting to a word that came into use before the Thirteenth Century. And, whatever happened to beheading as a means of execution? Did America ever delve into the realm of deheading before settling on a short rope slung over a stout limb? I don’t know, but it’s one of those things that bug me.

“Your cousin Neil is going back to the islands to graduate from high school, but we have something extra special for you, too, Pat.” His uncle’s words swam in his head as Pat stepped down from the bus into the small town of Warnton, New York, on that September morning in 1971. For some reason he was immediately reminded of the islands where he grew up, especially the main island where he went to school and where most of the business was located. Only here there didn’t seem much a tourist could d

A story of two boys who meet on a college campus. One holds a secret that destroy whatever relationship that could occur. This is the sequel to my previous story: "Merry Christmas Patrick."

Okay, this is the deal. I've got a sixteen-year-old who is entering college. Yeah, it's a stretch, but skip a few years and suddenly you're in his shoes, too. So, anyway, this kid is entering because his family situation puts him there, probably by a bunch of geezers smoozing away with expensive bourbon and thick cigars who are not mentioned for obvious reasons. So, anyway, this sixteen-year-old boy has an eighteen-year-old assigned to ease his entry and, well, not knowing the kid's age becomes very interested in finding out. Well, of course, he dreams about the kid. Who wouldn't. But the boy is not forthcoming about his age or his history. The sixteen-year-old's problem is he kind of likes the other boy, too, but he has yet to cross the line between knowing you like boys more than you like girls and doing something about it. Plus, he knows he is only a kid in the eyes of every boy on campus, including his assigned "friend." It all sounds kind of interesting: Boy A wants Boy B, but knows he is too young; Boy B wants Boy A, but suspects he's too old; and to top everything off, they are assigned the same dorm room. Just some thoughts about writing project I'm struggling over.

I saw Yoko Ono and Saint Paul on my ceiling today. The image of Yoko Ono was from the top down across her face and depicted her at a much earlier age. Why she chose to appear on my ceiling is beyond me. I would’ve very much appreciated if she had chosen someone else’s ceiling, but that was not to be today. My ceiling is of the industrial blown-in variety and more than likely contains a sizable percentage of asbestos. Whether it is slowly sifting down upon the residents of the shelter is anybody’s guess. Luckily, though, the light coming through the six glass blocks on the sidewall casts changing shadows across the lumps, gouges, smooth parts, waves, and swales creating an odd assortment of images that alter their form throughout the day. I had an argument with myself over whether it was Saint Paul, Peter, or Timothy depicted on my ceiling today and I think it was the way Saint Paul was wearing his halo that gave him the edge. His face could’ve been anyone’s. There is the face of a cat that comes and goes for days at a time. It wasn’t on the ceiling today. Then there is the locomotive coming out of a tunnel. In the morning, you can only see the cab. Later in the day the engine slowly emerges from the tunnel until you can see all of it and the following two cars. It’s all very strange.

Purpose implies some greater being deeming us (the only sentient species on Earth) with tasks more important than our own. There in lies the problem of purpose; if you do not believe in a greater intelligence directing your existence, then you become confused as to the why and how of your existence. For myself, I have no purpose other than being and doing the most good I can for as long as I exist. Unfortunately, the other side of the equation exists for those desiring to be and to do the worst they can (without them we would have no need for prisons). Of course, I cannot say for certain there isn't a higher being getting great enjoyment as I stumble and bumble through life, just waiting for me to make the next big boo-boo.

I received my disability award from the Veterans Administration the other day. A month and a half ago they awarded me 40 percent for my crotchety knees. Now they awarded an additional 50 percent for the bipolar and 30 percent for what is called individual unemployability. In other words, I’m 100 percent disabled due to the bipolar, the knee problems, and individual unemployability. The individual unemployability is the important facet of the equation. They went to great lengths to explain my situation in the unclearest bureaucratese they could come up with. It got so bad, I actually believed one sentence that said I was not 70 percent on the bipolar, but four pages later, they said I was. Maybe they were talking about the combination of the bipolar and the knee problems being 70 percent. They never got around to specifically saying individual unemployability equaled 30 percent. Or maybe it’s 50 percent for the bipolar, 40 percent for the knees, and 10 percent for individual unemployability. I will let the bureaucrats have their way with me and reap the rewards, which, while not substantial, are sufficient for me to live comfortably for four years until I’m old enough to be eligible for Social Security. Since they owed me back pay I received a tidy sum to get my savings in order for the move back home. I figured I’ll need at least a $20 thousand nest egg to take care of buying a car (cheap), deposit on an apartment, furniture, utensils, initial food necessities (e.g., spices, herbs, pasta, beans, etc.), and possibly either a cat or a small dog. Cats are good because they leave you the shit alone or snuggle on their terms. If you end up with one that likes to play, you’re doing doubly good. Dogs are good because you can spoil them and teach them snuggling is the best way to love the human that brings treats and food into the house. Plus, you can go places with a dog that you can’t with a cat. Cats are bad because you have to clean out their toilet every morning. Dogs are bad because you have to follow them around the doggy green space to pick up their turds, which can be unpleasantly squishy at times. The test of the true dog owner is cleaning up after a multitudinous event with lots of squishy to runny turds. Is it proper to take Fido out for his walk if you know the turds are not going to be firm and solid? Do you resort to a diaper until Fido is intestinally better? Properly taught cats do not scratch furniture; though, it does help to buy furniture that is built to handle a scratch or two, coincidentally that's the kind of furniture I like.

it's nice you mentioned efan twice. that means you're a good mother first. it's a shame we can't trade in a few of our "being good" tokens earlier just to make sure efan doesn't have to wear shoddy clothes. if anything can come out of this is he's taking notes and will act appropriately when life kicks him in the butt when he's older.

nice of you to include the bit from Time Bandits,it kind of rounds out your entry's theme.

Been depressed quite a bit lately, it comes and goes, some days are full of sunshine other days, gloom. Seraph74 reviewed one of my stories, Merry Christmas Patrick, and asked for a sequel. So, with doing better to do, I’ve now got a fresh faced sixteen-year-old moving into a college dorm with an eighteen-year-old, who started in summer term, thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts about the cute boy with alluring eyes at the other end of the footlocker. It’s the autumn of 1971, barely two years after Stonewall and Patrick has found a new world where being gay isn’t such a big deal as his aunt and uncle make it out to be, but is Patrick gay? Ask him and he’ll probably simply shrug his shoulders. He’s fairly independent, but personal things are, well, personal and he isn’t all that open about where his interest lies. Though he does think Chris is kind of cute if anyone were to ask. I haven’t come to the spot where Aunt Agnes, his father’s sister, arrives on scene, but she’s sure to show up sometime before the curtain falls for the final time. Well, that’s about it. I guess I’ll go back to being depressed.

thank you for the review.