Jump to content

CarlHoliday

Classic Author
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Posts

    1,821

  • Joined

  • Last visited

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by CarlHoliday

  1. CarlHoliday

    Settle'n In

    By CarlHoliday,

    (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)
  2. CarlHoliday

    Too Fluffy

    By CarlHoliday,

    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. . . .
  3. CarlHoliday

    30 days to go

    By CarlHoliday,

    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 ....
  4. CarlHoliday
    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.
  5. CarlHoliday
    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.
  6. CarlHoliday
    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.
     
  7. CarlHoliday
    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.
  8. CarlHoliday
    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.
     
  9. CarlHoliday
    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.
     
  10. CarlHoliday

    Depressed

    By CarlHoliday,

    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.
  11. CarlHoliday

    He's gone

    By CarlHoliday,

    My roommate of the last four months left for home yesterday, deciding after being away for 15 years the snowy winters of Upstate New York are better than the ice storms in Dallas. I will and won’t miss him. It’s kind of hard living with someone who has to be right, all the time. Yet the sandwiches he smuggled into the shelter every now and then were very much appreciated.
     
    He is the kind of guy who having earphones for his television will listen to the same appliance without the earphones at a volume that is sufficient to ensure sleep won’t come easily, but not so loud as to bother those in the room next door. Yet he was more than willing to give me a ride over to the cellphone store so I could sign up and to Walmart for needed supplies when I started receiving my disability payments; plus, give me a ride up to Micro Center when I was ready to buy this laptop.
     
    Good guy, bad guy. Nice guy, homophobic bastard. Yes, there is that problem, too. If anyone asks me if I know the definition of disparage, I can say I lived with the definition.
     
    On the home front, I’m having a problem with obliviousness. I don’t know if it’s the all the meds I’m taking, but I been having a real problem lately of not being aware of people and things around me. I suspect it might have something to do with the hypomanic state I seem to be in. Yes, I bounced out of the gloom into happyland once again.
     
    Also on the medical front, I have been told not to take aspirin to treat arthritis as it could, may, might, or quite possibly burn a hole in my stomach, leading to all sorts of bleeding problems. So, my good PC prescribed Etodolac, which WILL burn a hole in my stomach if not taken with Omeprozole (to reduce stomach acid) and food. What’s worse could, may, might, or quite possibly or WILL? Aspirin has been working for me for the past 40 years so why stop now?
     
    Oh, almost forgot to tell you, but my ex-roommate let me have his old mattress. It's a real twin bed mattress, which is far better than the thin foam mattresses they give out here at the shelter. Don't get me wrong, he didn't give it to me, but he did let me buy it in lieu of selling it to someone else. Like I said, he is the kind of guy who'll give a friend the shirt off his back, as long as you have the cash.
  12. CarlHoliday
    I was trying to come up with some kind of blog entry today as tomorrow is my four month anniversary here at the Salvation Army shelter, but my mind is in a flurry of needless activity and I can't hold a straight thought for any decent period of time.
     
    I did apply for Social Security today. Big step in the life of every American. I'm going in early because, well, with the bipolar messing up my life for probably a lot longer than originally thought, my chances of having any job more than part-time is slim at best. With my VA disability payment, I should make out okay. If I get a Social Security disability, also, life will be almost rosy.
     
    I can only hope the Tea Party Republicans don't dismantle Social Security in their suicidal attempt to create a government that can run without any taxes. The last thing I want in my waning years is to be a wandering street person begging for sustenance as the US of A slowly implodes.
     
    Posted Chapter 12 of Remembering Tim, leaving only one more chapter until I'm out of previously written stuff and will have to totally create the story from that point forward. I've kind of thought about where the story will go, but am not quite certain how it will get there.
     
    As I said, my brain is fluttering madly as I rapidly rise out of a recent bout of severe depression, so you'll have to excuse the bleakness of this entry.
  13. CarlHoliday
    As someone who has fallen by the wayside on too many occasions, I do not expect to participate in the Rapture tomorrow. It’s been kind of nice in this life and I suspect the next few months (years) are going to be very interesting until God actually gets to actively destroying his Creation. I suppose if you’re the Almighty and you get bored total destruction is a whole lot better than making a few adjustments to the whole Damned mess.
     
    Anyway, I have my Rapture suit ready just in case I am taken up to Heaven where I’ll sing Praises for the rest of What? Certainly not eternity since Time is a product of Creation. When the End comes, that will be the bid End of everything. God, in a sense, will die with his/her Creation if he/she destroys it, which causes me to think this time is just like all the other predetermined Apocalypses. Somebody has been reading between the lines, again.
     
    For myself depression is down, while anxiety is up, up a lot more than it’s been in years. The good news is the VA doubled the disability amount for my decrepit knees, which would be very, very good news if Social Security had approved my claim of disability for being Bipolar, which they didn’t.
     
    It seems, according to Social Security, I’m not totally disabled. According to them, I can go back to a previous occupation, which is, well, true, if you don’t think about it too hard. I am, in the moral sense, between a rock and a hard place. I could appeal the decision, but basically I agree with them.
     
    I’m left with the disability pension from the VA, which is okay (it is a quite a lot of money). I’d rather have more money going into my fading years (short though they may be due to the upcoming Rapture) and dread the day when I have to go down the pet food isle in search of affordable sustenance.
     
    So, you see, even though the end of the World, as we know it, will occur sometime tomorrow (or, today, if you live in that part of the world), I’m quite anxious that I won’t be taken up and will have to live with worsening knees and a flipping mental state into the Apocalyptic Hell which we can all expect post-Rapture.
  14. CarlHoliday

    A cutter

    By CarlHoliday,

    There aren't many cures to depression that actually work, but I do have one that works some of the time. If conditions are right, with a rising mood or a slowly sinking one, an idea gets wrapped by tentative thoughts conducive to further exploration. Plus, word count must not be anything close to a sizeable work. Short, short stories work very well.
     
    One of the people I met at the psych farm was a cutter. He was a nice enough guy, early thirties, okay face, but had the scarred chevrons of a self-harmer. A recent one was bandaged and he picked at the dressing so much he was finally able to start pulling on the stitches. All the while he and I carry on a mindless conversation, my mind couldn't stay focused on what he was saying. It had to watch him tear at the dressing, stitches, and scar. One of the Psych Aides and asked me to leave. My new friend left the ward with a new bandage on his arm and a security guard on the other arm.
     
    But todays story goes back to an earlier boy, who by the way wasn't a cutter, but did have the means to inflict some form of self-harm. That earlier boy became the focus of an older boy or he thought the boy was older. About a year after the event in question, the boy learned they were the same age. When you have the self-esteem of dirt, the social skills of shrubbery, and you're scared shitless some boy is going to catch you admiring his nice ass, well you tend to shy away from any unexpected close contact.
     
    So, today's story is about a cutter who has a problem. A football player says he's cute (in a cuddly sort of way) and the cutter reacts in the only way he knows how. In many ways it's a sad story. Then, again, it's not a sad story at all. I guess it kind of depends on how you look at yourself.
  15. CarlHoliday
    As I slip further down the slippery slope there come pauses where normal function is enabled for brief periods of time. Today I had to go to a class on time management. It was either take it now or wait until July when it will be considerably hotter. I’ve decided I do not like the hot, humid aspect of living in Dallas. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a great town and would love to live here, but I’m too used to living in the Pacific Northwest where 100 degree weather is a rarity, not the norm. Besides, there’s nothing like looking out the window and seeing a high, snowcapped mountain.
     
    I didn’t call the crisis line as I’m not suicidal. I did try to get in to see my psychiatrist, but I have to wait until my appointment in June. So, I’m left to slide down as far I will go this time. I’m at level four and holding. Ideation is strong, but action is lacking. I still have a strong desire to keep on getting on. If I sink further, I will call, even if ideation is still only vague. How many clicks are there between four and five?
     
    Mostly, though, I have to solve the problem of Remembering Tim. I’ve lost all the old stuff and will have to create a new narrative. In a way this is good as I can push into uncharted territories that will have to lead to one or two inevitable conclusions. I’m fairly certain the structure of the new stuff will be radically different from what I wrote before. Right now I have four more chapters until I have to begin rebuilding the story of Geoff’s love for Tim, so I still have some time to figure out what I’m going to do.
     
    Luckily I have lots of time and focusing on what to do with Tim keeps my mind off dangerous destructive thoughts. Also, there are the anthologies. Summer is in the bag and Autumn is flitting around as it tries to achieve a story thematically related to Legends. So far I have two, maybe three, story lines that I’m trying to ferret out of a mind troubled mind.
  16. CarlHoliday

    Level Three

    By CarlHoliday,

    The last office building I worked in had three sub-basements. Actually, there was a fourth one, but no one worked there othere than to check for water seepage. I had a friend who worked on Level Three and she did not like it down there because she didn't have a window to see outside.
     
    I've pretty much decided to call the crisis line tomorrow morning, unless something dramatic happens between now and then.
  17. CarlHoliday

    Level Zero

    By CarlHoliday,

    I know I’ve said I hate being bipolar countless times here since being diagnosed three years ago, so you are excused if you do not wish to proceed.
     
    If I called into the Veteran Crisis Line right now and they asked the inevitable question, I would have to say, on a scale of one to five, I’m at about a two with my ideation of suicide. Two’s a good number. There’s a lot of space between two and five. Been to five, it was not fun. Five is a bad number as everything is seen in terms of its potential of inflicting grievous harm.
     
    The problem is I think I’m heading to level five. It could take a few days, so there is no reason to fret. I could, just as easily bottom out tomorrow and bounce back to the banality of my usual drugged state. It’s easy to get by at level zero. I’ve been doing a pretty good job of it the past few months.
     
    I know I’m heading down, though. All the symptoms are here to support a deep, down cycle.
  18. CarlHoliday
    I wish I would’ve had my laptop when I was at the funny farm, as it is not all was lost to the vagueness of mental instability. About a week into my stay one of the resident’s, D_____, sister agreed to bring in five composition books (those with the scrambled black and white pattern on the cover), so I was able to write an entry for nearly every day after that until I finally gave up in March.
     
    D_____ is a good ol’ boy from north central Texas who is proud to say both he and his daughter received their Bachelor’s degrees from the University of North Texas. His only problem was episodes of major depression if he went off his medication, which is why he was in Terrell State Hospital. The other interesting thing about him was his interaction with the resident flamer. D_____ claimed to have friends who were gay, but he was totally intolerant of K_____ who, unfortunately, didn’t know when to turn it off.
     
    One day, in fact the day before D_____ was to leave, we were standing in line to go to lunch when K_____ got it into his head to touch D_____ on his head, neck, and butt. Of course D_____ wasn’t going to have any touching of any kind, but despite repeated requests to stop, K_____ continued until D_____ blew up and grabbed ahold of K_____. It was a wonder D_____ didn’t hit K_____. He said he wanted to, but with only a day to go, he didn’t want to risk being taken down and put in one of the calming rooms (No, the walls weren’t rubber. I checked.) Two psych aides pulled K_____ away and he began his expected claim of total innocence, which only got him threatened with an injection to calm him down.
     
    The procedure for giving a patient an injection seemed to require bull-dogging the victim to the floor followed by a number of psych aides holding him down while turning him over so the nurse could inject the medicine in the hip. Usually, all the patients were sent to their rooms before the injection was given. I guess they didn’t want to upset us. Heck, seeing some psycho go off the deep end was upsetting enough. Luckily, injections were a rare occurrence on our ward.
     
    The ward was co-ed with one wing for women and the other for men and a common dayroom. The one rule strictly enforced was no touching, but for some reason I was seen as having a good shoulder for crying on. I was yelled at a number of times, but still they came to me to have their cries. One girl was starving herself and she cried a lot because she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. After a week, she was gone, possibly to the clinic to have a tube inserted in her nose.
     
    The good thing about being sent to the fruit orchard is there are so many stories, if you pay attention, that is. Once I started my journal, practically nothing went by unnoticed.
  19. CarlHoliday

    Life in review

    By CarlHoliday,

    Went to the VA hospital today for an interview about my bipolar disorder. Seems I asked them to consider this as a service-connected disability because I’d seen a psychiatrist when stationed in Abilene, Texas, back in 1971 and ’72. I thought all I was asking for was a reconsideration of the existing disability on my decrepit knees, but, no, they wanted to know everything about the nutso side of me.
     
    As interviews go, it went well, I suppose. I don’t expect anything to come of it because the maximum retention period for military medical records is 10 years, which places me way out in left field as far as looking at what the shrink had to say about me way back then. I do have a chance, though, if there is a notation in my service record of being referred to a psychiatrist. That would be sufficient for a claim to be considered.
     
    The interviewer was kind of cute in a motherly, medicinal way. I kept getting distracted by a fold in her blouse between two buttons which showed just a bit of her right breast, which, in turn, got me pondering the size of her thighs (a fetish of mine). I’d already seen her ass which hung daintily from relatively narrow hips. She was short, slender, and looked like she worked out on a regular basis. Her blonding page boy was neatly trimmed. If I was so inclined and had the means, I might have been interested in finding out her relational status with members of the male sex.
     
    The questions went back to my childhood and progressed forward to today. As usual this brought up a lot of memories I would prefer being kept under the carpet, but she had to establish the total nature of my manifestation of bipolar disorder. She was neither condescending nor seemingly interested in my answers. She just entered what I said into the computer, though her leading questions were a bit pointed sometimes. She didn’t want me holding anything back.
     
    I kind of liked her reaction when I said I knew I liked boys more than girls way back in high school, which is one of the reasons I was not involved in any, zero, activities. My self-esteem had been beaten down so much by my parents that the very thought of interacting with my peers was totally abhorrent. Besides, I didn’t want to get caught with my eyes staring at boys’ behinds. I was very much into asses back then. In fact, there was this boy in fourth, fifth, sixth, and beyond who had the cutest ass you’d ever want to ponder; and, the way he wore his Levi’s, woof, what a sight. My eyes followed him wherever he walked.
     
    Anyway, after about seventy-five minutes, she called a halt to the interrogation and set me free to wend my way back to the shelter. You’d never know it by the way the locals talk, but Dallas has a terrific transit system, which includes light-rail that actually goes somewhere, at least it goes where I want to go. My trip from the shelter to the VA Medical Center takes about an hour and that includes the fifteen minute walk to the local station. (I could ride a bus over there, but that wouldn’t get me any exercise, which I desperately need.)
  20. CarlHoliday

    Easter Sunday

    By CarlHoliday,

    I spent Christmas at The Bridge, a homeless shelter on the southern edge of downtown Dallas. I’d been brought there by the Dallas police, in lieu of going to the psych emergency room at Parkland Hospital (the local charity hospital). It seems you can’t just say you’re suicidal on Christmas Eve, you actually have to have the rope around your neck, your feet dangling over the railing, the gun at your temple, or the knife or razorblade at your wrist to get a free ride to a warm place for the night.
     
    This is not to say The Bridge wasn’t warm because it was, warm. The sleeping area is a big shed-like structure where they lay out foam mats on the concrete floor. There are gas heaters spanning the ceiling and humongous ceiling fans moving the air around. (The sign on the motor has a likeness of an ass’s behind and the words “Big Ass Fans”; honest, there is a company called the “Big Ass Fan Co.” They have a website, too. And, we all know an ass is what you need if you want to make a mule.)
     
    That was the only night I spent at that shelter. The next night I ventured out to the Union Gospel Mission, a place of long lines, peppery food, naked men, and a good night’s sleep only to be forced to get up at an ungodly hour to get naked again before hurriedly dressing so you can catch a bus back to The Bridge where you spend the day.
     
    But, today is Easter and, no, I didn’t go to church. I had enough church out at the Mission during the month of January to last me for a long, long while. The Mission preaches along a fundamentalist line, i.e., they take the Bible literally, factually, which reduces all the metaphorical stories to nothing more than pap. If you get too wrapped up in the facts, you run the risk of losing the significance of faith. (There I’ve had my sermon for the day.)
     
    Today at lunch we had a slice of ham, a dollop of fresh mashed potatoes (not that icky boxed stuffed), a serving of red beans (we get lots of beans here, lots of fiber), and a slice of white bread. Texans (maybe it’s a Southern thing) seem to be big on bread. We always get some kind of bread with lunch and dinner, usually of the white, non-fibrous variety.
     
    We also had our meal served to us by a group of do-gooders who were willing to give up a part of their Easter Sunday to come down to the Salvation Army homeless shelter and do the Christian thing. I said “thank you” anyway. I mean they could’ve been home watching the game or outback setting up the barbecue for ribs and beans later this afternoon when the kids come over with the new grandbaby.
  21. CarlHoliday
    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!
  22. CarlHoliday
    Thanks to all who expressed concern here and otherwise.
     
    I've only come back due to the amount of concern.
     
    This is not a rash decision, nor has it been taken lightly.
     
    Life has come to a point where it the option was to truly go insane as my world crumbled around me, take the ultimate exit, or to attempt to walk away.
     
    I choose the latter.
     
    I've been nutso before and, trust me, it ain't no fun being in a world unto your own, especially when no one notices. I went off my rocker and totally ruined my life, but did anyone say anything? Nope, not a word even though I was spouted off the craziest shit.
     
    Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.
     
    Ain't goin' down that road ever again.
     
    But aren't you doing something crazy, now?
     
    Actually, yes, I am. This is totally whacked, but as far as I'm concerned it's better to do it now when I have an ounce of sanity than later when I'll be so far around the bend that I might just off myself to relieve the pain.
     
    You see, I know how to do it right this time around. I know how to do it so that it gets done right the first time and knowing that I know is scary.
     
    Right now, I'm in a position that I might just have to do something drastic and that doesn't make the camper feel all that well.
     
    So, in a few minutes, I'm putting on my winter coat, hat, and throwing the backpack over my shoulder and hitting the road. I've got about six hours before I'll feel totally safe.
     
    Wish me luck.
     
    is still going through with this.
  24. CarlHoliday
    Had a wonderful time in Wyoming last night and this morning; got me a couple of fantastic Wyoming blow-jobs.
     
    Let me tell you right now, if you want a blow-job to remember for a long, long time, well head right on over to Wyoming.
     
    Now, Wyoming isn
×
×
  • Create New...