A Picture is Worth a Million Wounds

 you chose the paintings

your nephew created

over your daughter-- 

because you

"can separate

the art

from the artist"

(he always was the artful dodger)

he gave you two gifts,

decades ago,

before my lips finally let it go.

even after telling you

The Whole Bedside Story, 

you've kept them

as your outside view, 

proud to give the artist glory. 

I see him every day because

his creation

is cherished more than

hers.

I let go, but

you keep him

in your sight

and smile at

his handiwork 

come sunlight.

you hold him tight,

like your purse

to your side,

where, tucked in the

hidden compartment

she's secreted the curse.

don't be alarmed by it,

it's just another verse.

Virginia would write you blue

and explode with red rage,

like the Confederate grey POP! of

the backfiring of a car,

furious with you over an

explicit war

that didn't exist,

a chance longtime missed.

you should have started a war,

a bull run

across the battlefield:

dug an ocean to reach

me by paddle,

walked through fire

from Tallahassee to Seattle

your parents calling me a liar

and you did nothing,

which is nothing new.

he should've lost

and lost to you.

but who's afraid of three guineas?

of Virginia and her wolf?

let her line my coat pockets

with boulders

hanging heavy

sinking me

down,

just another proper noun

left to drown, 

anonymous.

I have been weighed and

measured.

the coat on

my shoulders

led me to water,

but The Lady of the Lake

has no power

because

I'd swim through hellfire

to my father,

clad yourself in armor,

for not one hand

will ever again

harbor

threats of a cutting fuhrer

from a broken mirror.

I would rather

sit at the docket

on judgement day,

in a courtroom up, up, and away,

to where the

alien Good Men go to play:

I would rather die

than subsist on

all your lucky pennies. 

both pieces: two halves of one show.

and you, content with the intermission,

and you, satisfied with your conclusion,

there won't be an intervention,

it's nothing the family wants to mention,

no one took to my father's prescription, 

so send a good intention

but stay in suspended animation.

many pieces: a whole punch,

you can brag how bad I am later

to the Ladies Who Don't Lunch;

those who know

"It's happened before,"

and those who have been caught

here in the motherland

of haves

and the precious few who have not.

acrylic windows to the world

what do you see there, 

on that canvas?

a broken-down sack,

stretched burlap?

but never the attack

on your 11 year old girl,

"Because we can't straighten out

The Facts,

and that's the way of the world."

remember, she can separate the artist

from the entitled act:

"the torn hymen of a child"

no painting speaks to that.

yet protect the robin's eggs

listen for their peep,

and 'neath their mother's wing

they will find a sleep

without having to stay alert

for a creak

or the creep

up the stairs

whose affairs

are simply to fuck me

till it hurts.

so how about fuck you,

woman for whom I'll never weep:

you let your daughter crack.

I wasn't a bird,

I couldn't sing,

but you stand guard at

his shitty painting

unlike the child

you're exhausted of parenting.

you keep them, you said,

because

They Make You Happy. 

they're bright, colorful,

cheerful, thoughtful,

and it's a helluva moment,

learning your mother is cruel.

But those burlap sacks

Spread, open wide,

like my skinny legs

that barely held me up after,

cracked like robin's eggs:

The Play Is The Thing.

art is more

than what it makes up for.

a screaming violent rainbow

painted off a palate thick with

psychosis,

misdiagnosis,

his intentionally missed doses:

the slickest of black.

how easily those hands

of creation

just as deftly wreaked

devastation,

across my body

long gone slack.

and as I stare upon "the art"

i see the fucking artist

every

goddamn

time.

he's hanging in your bedroom,

easy and comfortable,

if I only had a noose,

Dear Dorothy,

I could let my art loose:

Pollock his body with bands

of yellow crime scene tape,

splatter him with

bright red stop signs,

as if "Stop!" ever halted a rape.

i wonder if it makes her feel

as powerful as he did

when he painted my body,

my world,

in hateful hues

of reds and bruise.

that night

a teardrop of blood

wept the length

of my leg

and murdered the sheets of

pink roses stretched across

my daybed,

a bloody bouquet,

while in the downstairs bedroom

he fucked my best friend.

ah, but those hands!

they could paint a chapel!

ah, but those hands,

they can crush an apple.

(easier than popping a cherry)

when i see his work

hanging,

framing

my mother's bedroom office,

i wonder if she ever thinks

of him

using those talented digits

to insist,

up to his wrist,

stealing her daughter's innocence

with his fist.

and how, at her insistence, 

there was no justice

because sometimes,

justice is nothing more

than a promising list,

a lullaby,

to pacify

hypnotize

into believing

Their Lie.

and I'll die a victim

at the hands of all like him

my finger on the trigger;

their hands are so much bigger

than even the one ive been dealt.

because no one wants to

stir up Granny's stew,

or upset the Texas crew.

Besides, what's a girl to do?

other than stare

at her office wall,

and the yellow legal pad

that should paper it all.

Or do like y'all,

in order to stall, 

in order to

forget

what feeling like felt:

May the Lord bless you.

What feeling like felt?

I'd rather fold

than play

the hand

that I was dealt.

How to Survive a Successful Suicide!

Completely overhauling and thoroughly cleaning a room is difficult enough: What stays, what's trashed? Is there room for this stupid thing I really wanna keep? Which boyfriend gave me this memento and did I like him enough to keep it? Size 2 jeans can go straight to the donation box! Etc., etc. But then come the pictures and letters and oh, to hell with this.

Five of the loveliest, most beautifully designed greeting cards sent from Daddy throughout the last year of his life—2011 through spring of 2012—and one Saint Jude prayer pamphlet blessed by his local bishop, imploring his God to heal his chronically ill daughter. While he was slowly dying a prolonged, agonizing, tortuous, memory, mind, and dignity-robbing death, he just continued sending these cards, as if I was the one in that god-forsaken nursing home 1500 miles away, alone and terrified.

"Just another note to let you know...I'm thinking of you. All my love, Lily Glirl. Get well soon! Daddy."

I could barely make out the handwriting in that card, as it was his last and his penmanship had deteriorated to scrawls and scratched-out first attempts. The cards had been boxed up, hidden away, forgotten. During the time period he sent them, I was such a mess they likely weren't appreciated when received. So, it's actually like... I don't know. Waxing poetical, it's like the skies rained down the most precious gifts I didn't know I needed, right when I needed them most.

There were cards from Mom, too, ancient (my first birthday!) all the way up to now. They're each perfect, as Mom is a greeting card master, always lasering in on the best ones. During my early days at Publix, she started quietly leaving bright, encouraging cards on the kitchen table, the foot of my bed, or by the coffee maker. That was a tremendously precarious period. Not only was I petrified and anxiety-ridden over returning to work after a five-year lapse, but as a cashier, all I did was stand for 6-8 hours a day: it crushed my knees, ankles, and back and the pain was unbearable; was unfathomable. Tack on that I was also fresh as a delusional daisy from the nutty greenhouse and we had all the ingredients for another breakdown. "Here we go," I thought. "Chalk up another failure."

A few days later, I came home to a darling card with four little ballerinas lined up at the barre, but the fifth one's hanging upside-down on the barre looking bored stiff and ready to cause trouble. The cover print: "There are two kinds of people in this world—YOU and everyone else." Mom filled out the inside with:

"Never forget all the ways you are different are what makes you so special. You are NOT ordinary—you are special because of those very 'differences'! Never settle for anyone who cannot appreciate that, my extraordinary daughter!

Love—Mom."

After the cards, I found Mom's handwritten notes. All are from 2012 on—as in, post-suicide attempt and the period of rebuilding my life (very quickly), getting a new job, and adjusting to this new thing called living...and happiness? But Christ, please believe me, it weren't no cakewalk. So if things got particularly stressful or I still felt like the ultimate failure, I'd come home to these handwritten, block-lettered notes on my desk:


"You are special and I am PROUD of all that you have accomplished—and that you WILL accomplish—one day at a time. Love, Mom."

There's also a note about fixing the bathtub on the back of that paper—because that's my Mommy, and why waste scratch paper?

Christmas, 2012 note—6 months post-suicide attempt:

"There was not a single card that even came close to saying what I wanted to tell this Christmas of 2012.

You have been re-born this year in every way that matters.

You have taken everything that was broken and, piece by piece, step by step, you have repaired what was broken in ways that make the broken places stronger.

I am proud of you in ways I cannot find words to express...

I love you always—I will always want to kiss the broken places and make them better, but you have learned how to do that yourself. Love, Mom."

This is the last, I promise, and it's very short. Here's a pic of the cover:

This one arrived during another attempt at getting clean. The inside Hallmark greeting:

"Hey, whatever gets you through the day."

Mom:

"Scream, yell, punch the pillows, it's all okay—anything to get healthy! I'm here for you. Mom."

Who does this?! What kind of parents DO this? I gave up the caps-lock a few years back but Christ, who DOES these things? I've fucked up in almost every goddamn way possible; I was a horrible daughter, horrible child. Even in my mid-30s, there were times I'd get so frustrated, so...annoyed when my dying Daddy called me every hour, almost on the hour, every single day, rambling on incoherently about how the nurses were trying to kill him and his second wife was evil (fact—sorry, had to say it) and I had to get him out of there or he would die. All I needed to do was steal a Hyundai and drive from Florida up to where he was—Wisconsin—and bust him out! But to be sure to bring a coat, maybe a red windbreaker, because it was very, very cold up there right now. Can't I please do this? Can't I save his life? Because he'll die in there if I don't do this. Annie, please get me out of here!

When I'd carefully point out that the rheumatoid that had been eating away at the cartilage in his knees (his entire body) for over 20 years had recently rendered him unable to walk, he would pause...then brightly respond, "Sure I can! These doctors don't know a thing!" My estranged older brother had told me how Dad tried to stand recently and immediately hit the deck. He would never be ambulatory again—but I'm supposed to steal a fucking Hyundai (a Hyundai?! The guy was a Cadillac man his whole life! That, dear friends, is dementia), drive to Wisconsin, shanghai him by way of wheelchair, I guess, windbreaker zipped to the collar, and off we'd go, back to safe and warm Florida, where those who loved him best and most so desperately wanted him.

I'd see his number on caller ID sometimes and ignore it. It was too much. Fuck, it hurts. He didn't call another person: certainly not the estranged brother who lived about 4 miles away from him, as he honestly didn't seem to care; he did call my little brother about half as many times as he did me, which I'm sure was so difficult and stressful for such a young guy trying to finish college and start a life. But I was Daddy's operator...and I let the fucking line go dead. Who—you tell me who in their right fucking mind—would do such a thing, commit such an atrocity, to a man who not only thought nearly singularly of his ailing daughter as he day-by-day wasted away like a rotting fruit carcass, but who also spent 68 years acting as the greatest daddy any daughter could ask for, could love? Who?

Me, this human being right here—that's who.

*****

My mother and I have had a bipolar/borderline disorder relationship since time immemorial. Seriously, before I was even born, there was conflict. (Ask her about being in labor with me and how I ruined her bladder.) It heightened in my twenties, simultaneous to the development of my bipolar and, later, drug abuse, which escalated things just a tee-bit. Mom was the easiest target for my rage—because I knew she was absolute living, breathing, walking, talking, unconditional love, and no matter how fierce our fights—even the one that led to the suicide attempt, which was the catalyst for the overdose—she'd still love me. She'd still sit at my bedside for three days while I was in a coma, a ventilator snaked down my trachea—just like you used to see on E.R., with the silver tube rapidly but very, very precisely shoved down your throat into your pharynx and suddenly, oxygen. Then she sat there for another week or so while I recovered; while I babbled like a 3-year-old, unable to get the right words out of my head and into my mouth; while, as the nurses and Mom tried to sponge bathe me, in a delirious fit I screamed that Mom was trying to stab me in the throat with a toothbrush and send me to a padded room. She just continued scrubbing my armpits, completely unphazed. However, my outburst startled one nurse who perhaps thought I was backsliding, so she asked me what year it was and who the president was. I remember screaming, "Noy shtoopid! 2012! And Olabama. Obadama. Obamamama." Pause. "The black guy."

She found me dead in my bathroom. Dead. Not unconscious or comatose, but dead. My mother saw her baby girl dead on the bathroom floor, right before her eyes. I don't know how I ended up in there, considering the veritable prescription panacea I'd eaten a day-ish before—and we're talking heavy duty psychiatric drugs and, oh my god, so very many of them—significant triple digits in total number of pills taken is my wager, knowing what I had at-hand and my sincerity to get. it. over with. But somehow, at sometime, I pulled a temporary Lazarus and toddled to the bathroom—where I proceeded to eat all of the OTCs I could find and successfully unwrap. (I can't open those damn blister-packs when awake and aware, but it would seem I function better mostly unconscious.) No recollection of any this...or of Mommy looking for me, calling my name, opening the bathroom door, or feeling it thud against my motionless, insensate head. I don't recall the paramedics' arrival, or if it was one of them or a physician who left the giant, fist-shaped bruise on the middle of my chest (which makes me think the administration of pre-cordial thumps followed a lot of CPR).

Mom doesn't know, either; too much chaos. What she did get to experience during the week or longer I was hospitalized was being told—repeatedly—there was zip-zero chance of survival, but hey! If I did live, I'd be a vegetable! Mercifully, and because my mother knows me, she begged whatever universal forces power this planet to either let me survive and come back whole—to come back as me—or to let me die rather than exist and not live.

Once I got out of the loony bin (only a week's stay, but the best experience of my life—and that's not sarcasm), Mom and I didn't speak much for about two-ish months. Then one day she asked me to lunch and when we came home, I stopped dead in the middle of the family room, grabbed her by the shoulders with all the ferocity a newborn daughter withholds for her life-giving mother, buried my head in her delicate clavicle, and sobbed, "I'm so sorry, Mommy. Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" until all of the strength left my body. And my mother held me, soothed me, rubbed my back, held me so tight my arthritic joints ached but I didn't care.

"Oh, sweetheart girl," she said. "I know you are—and it's okay. It's all okay, and it's all going to be okay."

And for two years, it really, really was.

After being fired from my job one year ago (don't even ask about it), I slipped into a funk, as anyone would. But as a bipolar being, depression is my go-to setting, so the funk easily slid into said depression...which has gone full-throttle mixed-episode of depression and anxiety. This is how that goes:

That's it! Literally, this is what I've been going through for the past, I dunno...eight months? Well, all my life but for now, it's active. Once in a blue moon, I'll visit like, a friend I'm extremely comfortable with. Otherwise? Sorry, I'm slouched in the recliner in my pajamas binge-watching the new season of Longmire. True, I feel like shit physically and the nausea is unfuckingreal and now I'm passing out due to weight loss and—you got a problem with it, too fucking bad—if it weren't for marijuana, I'd easily be fifteen pounds thinner and much, much sicker, not to mention I would have hospitalized myself at least 6 weeks ago due to the excruciating pain and nausea, as well as the inability to eat, which the weed helps with somewhat. Come arrest me, I don't care. The shit has kept me going for three months. Irony is, I hate the stuff. Regardless, thank Jebus I don't have to lie or make up excuses about not attending said invites: I'm sick, I can't make it. What I haven't told them is yeah, I'm sick, but the idea of leaving this house gives this fucking ulcer about 12 more ulcers.

How the hell did I get here?

Well, it is one of my writes, after all; no one expected anything more than my standardized stream-of-conscious-mess. But, honest to the confounding, profound, unending love of my parents, you could offer to grant me the greatest writing talent ever known and still, I wouldn't change my style. Nope, not even for Faulkner's ability and supreme talent. Not even for Ms. Virginia Woolf herself. Oh, you heard me. Juvenile and unpolished and poorly crafted as it is, I wouldn't write Annie other way. Because whatever talent I do have—what tremendous talent I once had that promised a future I cannot even conceive of, cannot even think of as it was filled with everything bright and proud and all I always wanted most and couldn't be further from, it hurts too much to consider—all of it came from my parents.

However different, extraordinary, special, "special" or—yeah, "accomplished" I just can't accept at this point—my parents may have thought I was or think I am, I'm not. I became infuriated and annoyed with my father when he was dying; I ignored him. Those could've been precious words exchanged, but I'll never know. I suicided in my mother's house after giving her decades of unbearable grief and turmoil, then potentially terminated any future with her, with us, with me, with you.

That's the very definition of selfish. But I do not believe suicide is a selfish act—not always, anyway. But that's an argument—I mean, book—for another time.

Aw, fuck it. We're goddamn human. I know this. But it doesn't change my feelings on the past. It doesn't make slinking out of bed in the morning any easier:

Then there's anxiety and body dysmorphia!

Ever.Single.Day. When the depression/anxiety is active, that is. Which is pretty much ever.single.day, just to varying degrees.

Side note: That's me at the computer each day, in love with you all...then after being asked to go outside and interact! With people!! But I digress.

I know I didn't really want to hurt my father. It was just killing me, that I couldn't do what he actually wanted me to: steal a fuckin' Hyundai, zip up some magical red windbreaker, and haul ass to Pewaukee, WI! You cannot fathom how much I wanted to, how I dreamt of it, tried to figure out an actual plan, asked a few friends if they had ideas, talked to my family for ideas... I just wanted to see my daddy one more time. No, that's not true. I wanted to save him. And as the person he turned to for saving, I should have been able to do that one thing. This didn't mean I had to save his life; I just had to get him out of that fucking hell-hole and back home with us, safe and loved and tangible, within arm's reach; so close, I could reach out and stroke his crippled hand; so close, I could reach out and throw our cell phones from the driver's window of the Hyundai as I drove us back to Florida and freedom.

It didn't happen. Of course it didn't. I never saw him again. That's okay, though, because I was told he looked nothing like his former, vivacious, sparkly-eyed self. He was shrunken, bedridden, stripped of dignity: a barely-breathing corpse. Last I'd seen him, he'd been far from well, but he was still, mostly, and in all the ways that counted, My Daddy.

My mama is in the other room, moving extremely heavy furniture she has zero—prepare for the caps-lock—ZEEE-ROOHH business moving. And all around the house! The woman is 68! I'm 38 but because of my stupid rheumatoid, she won't "allow" me to help. Now she's mowing the lawn. This is ridiculous. More so because she's like, 28 times stronger than me. 128 times stronger than me. God, she's a wonder. And I cannot wait to write my first book...all about the fascination, the enigma, the marvel that is my mother.

"I will always want to kiss the broken places and make them better, but you have learned how to do that yourself."

Like hell. If I learned how to do it, I learned this healing at the hands of a medicine woman who never had anyone, ever, kiss a single one of her broken places—whether it was her body or soul that suffered, it was my mother who treated and disguised every bruise, blemish, and break. It is how she first came to know nursing; it is how she was born to know it.

And of course, Daddy taught me how to laugh through the pain, and to never—not even at death's door—forget those you love, and to, in whatever way you can, continue caring for them. As of today, that lesson has been learned.

My parents. God I adore and worship them. They'll never, ever know.

God honesty sucks. I mean hurts.

But after the pain, after the seemingly endless tears finally dry up or wash away and you can see the world—see everything!—clearly again, then sweet Jesus, suddenly...you're breathing...on your own.

You beat every damn odd. They call you a miracle. You don't feel like one. 

In fact, you feel like a vegetable.

The most valuable lesson, which is also the most easily forgotten, is that whatever it is, honey, it's just one day—not forever. If anyone knows about looking forward to tomorrows, you can betcher' bottom dollar it's Annie. It's just today—not the rest of your life.

*****

"You have been reborn this year in every way that matters."

Two people brought me into this world and shortly after, baptized me. They lit that baptismal candle together. That light...gimme a sec.

That's their song below, Mom and Dad's. If you can't spare literally 2 minutes and 30 seconds to listen, it's okay. Really. Know why?

You're human. And we each make choices, good and bad, that can lead us to the most remarkable journeys. Yes, the depression/anxiety is...well, my hands are shaking just thinking about it, but I swear, I see the smallest light. Yes, two days ago I told my shrink I feel like the utmost failure and didn't see a future for me—and this is true. But I honestly do see the smallest of lights.

That light at the end of the tunnel...my parents lit it. And without a hint of religious overtone, I say that light is them, just waiting until I need them most, in whatever form they can present themselves.

Perhaps via cards and letters.

Christ, here come another flood of tears. They can dim the light so easily... As do the contrails of smoke rising from millions of churches, where the devoted and the keening kneel and donate their dollar for a candle rental and a useless prayer. It's the grey cloud in my skull that dims the exhilarating shock of nature and the preternatural power of the world. But goddammit, there's a light; their light.

And if it grows too dim, I'll just follow the ghostly, beckoning wisps of their candle...and see clearly again.

For Daddy: Our favorite singalong song.
I'm so sorry I didn't answer.

I only wish my words could just convince myself that it just wasn't real...but that's not the way it feels.

The End of the Beginning.

Mid-December, 2010:

January 10th, 2011: The Beginning of the End.

Currently, too many friends watch, hear that video and see themselves: more than a nod of recognition. Rather, a break through reflection.

That was the beginning—the beginning of what should have been my end.

However, I survived. Barely, but survived, nonetheless.

How?

Another entry, if I ever get there. Entailing the nightmare many months long…too sordid, terrifying, exhausting and, honestly, the details are mostly unremembered—foggy, at best; black wholes, at worst.

Survived, nonetheless.

Why?

Fuck if I know.

…Yet.

Today was, for me, a busy and tiring one, typical for any other body, but mine?

I took a shower.

Pin on me a flower!

All day, here, there, everywhere and while enduring day-to-day living, I thought of Lazarus.

"Laz, buddy, I feel ya'. No—seriously—I feel you. By God, did anyone, after witnessing the miracle, help you home or…bring to your…cave or street corner or wherever the flurk you lived, like, a bowl of chicken noodle soup or—I dunno—fluff your pillow, tuck you in, buy your groceries for a week or…shampoo your hair? 'Cause this waking the dead shit is killing me! Jesus wept!"

A body dead four days portends…catastrophe? A body bedridden three years tends to…atrophy?

Life don't give a shit 'bout health woes, thoughs, so at you it continues to throws fast-bitch after fast-bitch until…

Brain: blows.

Your Rye writer, however, was lucky, in that she had one helluva "Fielder" playing Catch-her.

For now, alls I want yous to knows…

I'm living proof:

You, too, can catch those fast-bitches…then strike the motherfucker out.

I'm living proof.

Waking the Dead is the beginning of an end.

"It's not up to you."

The downside to the upside:

The decision is one on which our upside-down minds cannot always depend.

However…

This doesn't preclude waking the dreams of living the happy end.

Goddammit, I'm beginning, living proof.

Written in twenty minutes, first entry in over a year, no reread or edits—no coherence.

No apologies.

Dammit: I'm barely awake, half-dead, and written un-proofed.

"But It Did Happen."

is it so wrong that i want my father to die?

am i a wretched, horrific, grotesque for feeling at this moment simultaneously nauseated, depressed and enraged that my father's slowly being extubated, is coming around, showing some small signs of — what? — activity? mumbling? drooling? i wouldn't call it "signs of Life," sure as hell wouldn't call it that because now that they're weaning him off the life-supporting nipple of the ventilator, the doctors, undoubtedly pleased they've "cured" him of the infection that rushed him into the ICU, onto the respirator, allowed, like a stealthy snake, a central line to invade his body, those doctors discovered:

whoops. Ray done had himself a series of small strokes while he was put under these past several days, that there machine doin' his breathin' for him. dang the bad luck!

an ambulance just screeched past the house, down the road, engine roaring like a semi-truck and i hope like hell that if they're on their way to the sickbed of some elderly, decrepit human goddamned being that, really, is no longer being, that ambulance speeds and squeals in futility; that they're too fucking late.

let's hope i'm a Sherwood Anderson-grotesque: worthy of sympathy and compassion. i doubt most of you consider me such, but here's to hoping. consider the Magnolia. consider the grotesques. consider sympathy and compassion: understanding.

***

what, in the name of my father's God, kind of condition is My Daddy going to be in now? fucking christ! his brain wasn't assuredly annihilated previous to this holy hell? how much longer? how much more? i've endured years of "everything happens in threes" and those threes — you can't fathom, i couldn't relay to you what triumvirate of kingdom come, what will was done — but i survived, i lived and i was either a child, a naive, innocent Lily of a Daddy's Glirl or a junkie, untreated bipolar, for fuck's sake.

but i lived. not sure how, not sure why, to what end or purpose, but....i live. i am, somehow, alive despite or, perhaps, in spite of, it all.










threes? threes? fuck your father, son, your whoring ghost — she caught the last train for the coast! bye-bye, Miss American Pie!

and today's Buddy Holly's birthday. you've gotta be.... completely forgot until.... was going to post "Everyday" with the caption "BUDDY HOLLY LIVES" but, no, no he doesn't, regardless of the cool graffiti testifying otherwise. Daddy loves Buddy, owned one of his greatest hits albums with that cool graffiti spray-painted on a whitewashed brick wall; i used to stare at that album cover for hours while listening to the spin, hiss and pop of Buddy and his Crickets.


whitewashed. every fucking thing. every goddamned day.


"....goin' faster than a roller coaster...."


why. can't. it. just. stop.

i cannot take one more thing; not. one. more. my friends — oh, what in the hell? — so many of them, you, are suffering, losing loved ones, struggling with your own health issues and here i am bitching and moaning—

fuckit.

i want for my father to die, peacefully; to go gentle into that good night. i want for this to happen right away, as soon as possible. when we last saw his mother, dying in a nursing home, i was fifteen; she was in and out of dementia (mostly in) due to her massive stroke (strokes?), one leg amputated due to years of ignoring or not treating her diabetes, horrible diet, and she'd been dropped by an orderly, her shoulder dislocated, had been trying to tell the physical therapists, nurses, everyone, "My shoulder....he dropped me...." but no one listened and they continued to put her through hours of PT every day, Buddy, every hellacious day, and she cried, moaned, begged them to stop, called out for her sons, but they rotated that arm, shoulder every fucking day, Buddy and when we flew in from Florida to see her in Denver, she immediately burst into tears and slurred, "My shoulder, Raymond....he dropped me. The man dropped me...." and my father knew exactly what she meant. she managed to garble out a bit more about the PT, the agony, how she tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen and my father, already five years into the crippling battle with arthritis, stormed to the nurse's station but had it been the 80s, his healthy days, that man, "The man" would've been found and hurt.

when we left that day, My Daddy stopped me on the sidewalk, turned me towards him, made me to look him in the eyes. i'd been sobbing at the sight of my dying Nana; Daddy, who i've seen cry four times in my Life, was teary, his face set and serious.

"Annie, promise me...."

"Promise you what, Daddy?"

"Promise me you'll never let me end up like that. Don't ever let me end up in a place like this — like Nana is now. Okay?"

"Okay, Daddy."

"I mean it, Anne Michelle. Never. Don't ever let me end up like my mommy."

"I promise, Daddy. I swear. I'll never let that happen to you."











why'd you make me break my promise, Daddy? why did you do that?



why is this happening? why does this shit continue to happen, this succession of bullets, this one after another of—

i want it to end. now. right the fuck now.


go back and read something not about me. i'm sick of me, my bullshit, my fucked-up, so-called-life. go back and read about true tragedy, about real sadness, about the lives of others, what i consider my best writing because it is, likely because it has absolutely nothing at all to do with self-centered, narcissistic, me, me, fuckin' me:


The Louder Actions: For Chelsea King

"I guess everybody has their own idea of fun."


better yet, read somebody else, their real lives, their unfiction, which is far superior to this, my above, before, too much, too much written shit: Kaplowitz: Tales From Dank Ct. Vol. 1



whatever the hell you decide to do . . . .


don't you dare judge me. don't you even think to do so.

******

i love you, Daddy.


now please — let go.


keep your end of the bargain, your promise and just....


give up.

Are You There, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner? It's Me...Mmmooom? What's My Name Again?

Sherif Ali: What are you looking for?

T.E. Lawrence: Some way to announce myself.

Sherif Ali: Be patient with him, God.

***

Are You There, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner? It's me.... GET YOUR ASS OFF THAT GODDAMN COMPUTER AND COME EAT SOMETHING, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!

Since I have such difficulty with my memory these daze, barely able to recall my own first name (but I'm pretty sure Mom's wrong—I don't recall even my full name running that long), I'm going to refer to you, my true golden-god, by alternating designations. You are, after all, a triumvirate, just as their Capital-G God is: the father, son and the holy spirit. Ghost? Depends on the house of worship. He's got a jazillion names beyond that: Yahweh, Yahoo (moniker specific to the tent-revival peeps), Lord, Dad (familial term specific to...well, him, but in his son's form. Also, specific to some humans "touched" by his finger who think they are him - or him, but in his son's form. See: David Koresh, Manson—or did Charlie state he wasn't Capital-G God? Well, the idea's been got).

Anywho, that's how I'd like to play this prayer: I'll dial out to Jebus, another holla' made to Saint Peter O'GoddamnToole, and a shout-out to Ol' Billy-Boy. Cool? I knew it would be. You're always cool with me. Because, well, you are me. That is so cool. Since we're on the topic of cool, let's jump on the....

***

O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole: Are you immortal? I often wonder this. You are, after all, 877.11 years-old. Well, you look that old. You're actually 77.11 years-old, but looking upon you in your current state, especially

when I juxtapose your current visage with photos of your younger face...........

chiseled lines..............

pierce-me-blues......................

golden locks......................

sucha' lean, mean fightin' machine........................

I'm sorry — what?

Is it wrong that I want to have sexual relations with Lawrence of Arabia-era you, Saint Peter O'Toole? Even Noel Coward told you, "If you'd been any prettier, it would have been Florence of Arabia." No? It's not wrong? Really?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Truthfully, sex with you is sex with me, not to mention the unmentionable: it's STD-free!

Sincerely....

Anyway, when comparing the two yous, when I'm finally capable of detaching my longing Lawrence look to that of you as now, the cliché "That man is older than Capital-G God!" comes to mind. So does the image of an extremely bloated bullfrog. I am truly sorry for thinking such sinful, yucky thoughts about you, O' Great And Powerful O'Toole. Do you forgive me? You do?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Fuck the Academy. I'll steal you a real goddamn Oscar - none of this "Lifetime Achievement Award" bullshit! I'll pry a statuette from Heston's cold. dead. hands.... "Moses." Psshhht! What did that staff-wielding asshat know about Moses?

Auda abu Tayi: You will cross Sinai?

T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!

Auda abu Tayi: And you will take the children?

T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!

Two years! TWO. YEARS. That's how long you worked on Arabia, sand all up in your gorgeous grill, that blasting sun tanning your golden skin into leather, the HEAT - okay, so it's a dry heat but THE HEAT! And, may I repeat:

TWO YEARS!

One of you's still above ground, makin' movies; the other?

Not so much.

Suck it, Charlie.

And, uh, hello? Anyone see The Ruling Class? Well, I did and I know that you not only portrayed, but in fact were, GOD. You, Dear GOD, did-indeedly-dude, RULED that classy ass! How do I know? First of all, I have eyes but, secondly, you said it yourself:

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

See. See?!

Well, of course you see - I mean them, they, the 3.14 pieple reading this.

Even if you pieple didn't see The Ruling Class, you damned well better have seen Lawrence of Arabia and, again, you - O'MyGod O'Toole - stated it clear:

T.E. Lawrence: "Do you think I'm just anybody, Ali? Do you?"
 

Hell no I don't and screw Ali and the rest of 'em for even thinking so!

"Just anybody."

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PIEPLE?!

Back to you, Sir Incredible Peter, and your immorality. I mean, immortality - potential: I have a very important question to ask you re such - and need-to-know-the-answer, STAT. And, based on both your real-life life-longevity and the cinematic discussion, exchange of dialogue that occurred between you as T.E. Lawrence and your desert guide, Tafas, I think you may have my need-to-know-STAT-answer:

Tafas: Is [Britain] a desert country?

T.E. Lawrence: No - a fat country. Fat people.

Tafas: You are not fat?

T.E. Lawrence: No. I'm different.

Are you still there, O' Mighty And All-Powerful Peter O'Toole? You are? Of course you are. Thank you for your patience, Peter, which stretches and runs as long as your O' . . . . so hard . . . . lived years. To my point: I have never been fat, though, at times, (ahem) chubby. However, I am suddenly, amidst this "fat country," very much not fat. No. I'm different. Quite.

Saint Peter, I did not, two entries ago, understand how 7 pounds in 7 days went by the wayside, waist-sides, into the desert wastelands, but I am further confounded, perplexed at how, from the day of that entry - Saturday - through the less than 48 hours skipping into Monday morning - 5 more pounds somehow . . . . slipped from my skin like so much Sahara silt into an Arabian wind, sandstorm — dust-devil.

Devil dust.

I do not, currently, resemble a picture of youth; I do not feel within me much sense of longevity.

No. I'm different.

What is it, All-Powerful, All-Knowing Great-god-A'Mighty Peter O'Toole, that's making - keeping - me different?

"I can't stand light. I hate weather. My idea of heaven is moving from one smoke-filled room to another."

Indeed, we are one and the same.... O'MyGod O'Toole, maker of heaven and mirth, from your lips to....well, mine. Then, from mine again? I dunno. This is weird. We're the same entity so I guess from our lips to their ears? How the Hell does that Capital-G God keep his phony-baloney straight? I can barely manage you, Oscar-less My Errr... Wiener!

So that's an idea of heaven, afterlife; what about here, now, Life?

"For me, life has either been a wake or a wedding."

. . . . Oh, Toole? That doesn't encourage me - much.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: I can't marry a second time.

Lady Claire Gurney: You're already married?

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: August 28, in The Year of Me, 1964.

Nearly, but no. However, the prospect of proposal encourages a bit more than say, it once did.... Need more encouragement, though. Marrying only to wither away into some....nothingness doesn't encourage much courage. I beseech you exercise your freedom of speech from your ruling ass, O' Lord!

"The only exercise I take is walking behind the coffins of friends who took exercise."

Mmm. Good God Sainted Sir, you are, indeed, a noble, brave knight (Brits be damned; Micks are far nobler and more worthy of knighthood!) for I do not take in even that much exercise. Never have. Now? Couldn't if I wanted. Unless you count "driveway-dropping" as exercise.

That, and excessive masturbation.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: For what I am about to receive, may I make myself truly thankful.

Hi, Mom!

What, you really think I can go....fuck-all, I've lost count....THAT LONG without sexual satiety?! Besides, GOD SAID IT WAS ALL GOOD!

She doesn't care. Sincerely - she doesn't.

"My dear sir, it haunted me for the rest of my life."

Oh, Toole, stop now. It's very difficult, living this invalid's Lif- "life" and I daresay even though we are one and the same, you know nothing of such loneliness.

"I'm the most gregarious of men and love good company, but never less alone when alone."

Well. I dared sayed too....daring...ly? That's what I get for taking the Lord's name in vain. Must be hard, being a god.

"I'm a working stiff, baby, just like everybody else."

Oh.My.GOD, O'PeterO'Toole! Are you daring me to again daresay? "Working stiff?" Really? Mmmm.... That is MOST un-pious speak!

Sooooooo . . . . how stiff do ya' work that baby, O' Peter-Oh-Toole?

"I wouldn't mind being a lord, though."

Oh, COME ON!

"The damage has been done."

....Wait. What are we talking about here? You mean my sexy-speak? I was just messin' around, you know that - seriously, you - we - know that. So, what damage done, darlin'? Little context, Lord O'MyGod O'Toole? Do it for the pieple.

"I'm 70 years of age. How do I look? You must understand, I've been very, very athletic in my life. I played every sport when I was a boy. I was a champion swimmer, a semi-finalist boxer at bantamweight, a cricketer. I played rugby when I was in the Navy...I was born fit. My dad was the same. And I've kept it up. I mean, I still play cricket."

....The pieple have no idea what the hiz-ell you're talking about, Petey. Even I'm a little lost. Bloated bullfrog? That how-do-you-look? That damage? The boozin', carousin', smokin' an—

"I stop from time to time. I didn't smoke for months until last week. I couldn't see myself at a film festival without a cig in my mouth. I'd feel foolish."

Yeah. Me, too. Then again, you're me. Only I'm not in my 70s. Chronologically. Internally, we add up the same: old, damaged, un-exercised, un-exorcised, lewd, smoky and foolish-fucktarded.

I'm tired, Dear Wouldn't Mind Being A Lord. Tired and in pain. I do not know the cause, the culprit, likely won't know for some time because free medical care, as it currently stands, is a slow, tedious, arduous process - akin to crossing the Arabian desert.

Okay. That's a bit hyperbolic.

But I am so very, very tired — and in quite a lot of pain. When your ribs crunch into your pelvis whether seated, supine, hunched (proper posture went by the waist-side long ago) and your chest crushes (pain one breath away from a name), you're wont for a very specific, special name for this, these pains. It's beyond the everyday arthritis pain; nothing at all like the shock-to-the-system pain of bloomin' ovarian cysts. It, very simply put, hurts.

The not-knowing: it damn well 'urts!

T.E. Lawrence: Of course it hurts. The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.

See. See? This is why I come to you, Saint Peter, for you not only have so many answers, but you have The Answer - The Great Answer to all of Life's questions. I knew you would.

This is why, O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole, you are so. god. damn. cool.

***

Club Secretary: I say, Lawrence! You are a clown!

T.E. Lawrence: We can't all be lion tamers....

T.E. Lawrence: It's my manner, sir.

General Murray: Your manner?

T.E. Lawrence: Yes. It looks insubordinate, but it isn't really.

General Murray: You know, I can't make out whether you're bloody bad-mannered or just half-witted.

T.E. Lawrence: I have the same problem, sir.

T.E. Lawrence: I pray that I may never see the desert again. Hear me, [g]od.

******

"And let them ask anything. I think that if you try to rehearse the question first, it's not too good. Whether it seems frivolous to you or not, ask it. We'll take the gloves off."

William "The Sound and The Fists of Fury" Faulkner

Hello, Faulkner....

Nice to see ya'.

It's beeeen uh looonnnng tiiiiiiiiime—

You're just as lovely....

As you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Used to be.

How's your new Life?

Are ya' happy?

Does it remind you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

Of Mississippi?

Just like you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

That's the birthplace

Of Conway Twitty.

Born in Friars Point—

But that ain't the point.

Because you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Were born

In New Albany.

But wrote all about

Yoknapatawpha County.

It sure read pretty—

Goddamned hard to me.

Which is why-eyyy-yyy-yyye

I end this ditty—

Ain't it a pity....

'Cause ain't nothin' rhymes....

With Yoknapatawpha.

"Pointless . . . . like giving caviar to an elephant."

I know, I know, Bill. I expected that response. How did I know? How'd I know to expect it?

I've been repeating this axiom for a number of years but, I do declare, Southern truisms should be declared and repeatedly:

"Billy-Boy knew his shite."

But, of course, you know this.

Many - most - of the 3.14 pieple reading this, however, do not.

Bill, we both know that "[e]verything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency" just to get the goddamned book - blog - whatever - written, so you forgive me my pointless, inelegant elephantine ramble—

But hold the caviar.

Yes. As you should.

"Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency to get the book written."

See. See, pieple? Billy-Boy here knows his shite.

Bill also knows o'tools: as in which a writer requires. Tell these here folksy, Faulksy.

"The tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey."

Billy, I don't need whiskey, but, like you, the tools I do require as a writer are tobacco, paper and food.

In. that. order.

We both know this wasn't always the case.

Food and tobacco always ran in nose-to-nose for a first place tie.

Now . . . . well, I don't print anything out, so paper's unnecessary and, as aforementioned, I don't need whiskey - never have been a drinker - but my appetite for tobacco rages insatiable while my desire for food?

Gimme a seventeen syllable word for "nil," Bill.

I mean, really — what the Yoknapatawpha?

"If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything."

Hm. This is a point.... Not a pretty one, but a point, nonetheless.... I would like to regain my appetite, yes, a voracious one, yes! But dining on the dead? Well.... I'll leave that to those who prey on Capital-G God.

Ohhhhhh . . . .

"I'm bad and I'm going to Hell and I don't care. I'd rather be in Hell than anywhere where you are."

See? See? This is why you are so. goddamning. cool.

But you know this....

Okay, O' Litterateur O' Lafayette: what else ya' got?

"A gentleman can live through anything."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hm.

I—

Bill, y'know, you and your big words. Define "gentle" for me oh-so-vocabulated-one. And need we be so gender-specific, sir? Rather sexist, if you ask me. What? Say again? IN REGULAR SPEAK, DAMMIT! I ain't got no "Faulkner-to-Dumbass" thesaurus at-hand!

"Man performs and engenders so much more than he can or should have to bear. That's how he finds that he can bear anything."

Food for thought. Like how you worked "engenders" in there despite keepin' on with the sexist-speak: "MAN" CAN! You are such a southern smartass. Ooh, whatta' Rebel!

Huh?

"I believe that man will not merely endure. He will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance."

Bill, I am giving you a look.

I get your gist but if you keep up the mucho-macho shit, I'm gonna prevail on your inexhaustible sass with a can o' WHOOP-ASS!!!

This WOman is, like any man, exhaustible. Exhausted. Perpetually. This exhaustion is enduring, I can tell ya' that. Apparently, so is my voice, since I just told you that and so much more - will continue to do so. Forgive me, Faulkner, for I know not what I do. You do forgive me? Ah, I tell ya - this, just another reason why you are so. damn. cool.

You're a compassionate sonofabitch, Billy-Boy. In fact, I'm willing to say with my inexhaustible voice that your compassion endures beyond....well, that of any man.

Me? My compassion? Well, we are one and the same, ain't we? Just....minus the talent....and the vocabulizin' skillz.... However, as far as compassion runs, yes, we measure up as equals: mine endures. It, in fact, bleeds, it runs in such enduring strains.

Howdyasay?

My spirit?

Gimme' a twenty-two syllable word for "wan," Man.

"I decline to accept the end of man."

Are you— Did you seriously just smartmouth me AGAIN?! A mule may labor ten years willingly and patiently for the privilege of kicking you once but I ain't no virtuous woman, never have been, so patience goes by the board just to get the damn Bill KICKED-IN!

What the sam-hell did you just say to me?

FINE. I'LL REREAD IT. YOU JACKASS!

You decline to accept the end of man.

Well whoooo-hooo! GOOD FER YOU! I decline to continue losing weight at unfathomable rates! I decline to accept feeling like donkey shit every hour of every day! I decline to tremble in fear as I await these chest X-Ray results and the vast array of tests to be performed, results yet to come! That's what I decline! So why don't you just go FAULK YOURSEL—

"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid."

Oh. I see. That's better.

Wait — you callin' me base, Bill?

No, no, no. I didn't think you were. This is why you are so. damn. cool.

Come again?

"The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat."

Wow. Well . . . . I'll be damned. I . . . okay. I don't know what to say. That . . . . yeah.

I'll remember you said that, Billy-Boy.

"Woman."

Hot-damn, won't I remember you said that....

"Fear is the most damnable, damaging thing to human personality in the whole world. We have to start teaching ourselves not to be afraid."

Last word freak....

***

"I reckon I'll be at the beck and call of folks with money all my life, but thank God I won't ever again have to be at the beck and call of every son of a bitch who's got two cents to buy a stamp."

Faulkner's resounding, righteous, reckoning resignation from The University of Mississippi's post office

University of Mississippi professor: "Mr. Faulkner, what did Shakespeare have in mind when he put those words in the mouth of Othello?"

Mr. Faulkner: "How should I know?"

An elderly woman who slipped into a writing class Bill taught at Chapel Hill got up and read an involved passage from one of his books, then queried:

"Now, Mr. Faulkner, what were you thinking of when you wrote that?"

Mr. Faulkner: "Money."

"People need trouble — a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. Artists do; I don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. Only vegetables are happy."

Billy-Boy On My Current "Happy" State

******

"The artist is of no importance. Only what he creates is important, since there is nothing new to be said. Shakespeare, Balzac, Homer have all written about the same things, and if they had lived one thousand or two thousand years longer, the publishers wouldn't have needed anyone since."

William Faulkner

"I was apprehensive about bringing off this Homer."

Peter O'Toole

******

"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Q'Toktok: Are you enjoying your ox testicle?

Homer: Oh, yes — very much so.

Q'Toktok: Really? You sure you wouldn't rather have a coconut? They're delicious.

Homer: No, I'm good…. Ohhhh, great. Now my testicle's got ants on it.

"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Jebus, we both know that, for me, you're really Homer J. Simpson. We also know that we are one and the same. Which means you wrote my second-to-last blaaaarrgh entry wherein we definitively established:

I 100% do not have testicular cancer.

Which means I get to keep my balls so yeah, the potential for ants remains. Ah, you're always right. Why do I ever question your wisdom? Mark that one up as a big, fat, delicious.... Mmmmmmmm.... D'OH!-nut on my behalf.

We know that the "J." in Homer J. Simpson actually stands for "Jay," but I'm gonna say the "J." stands for Jebus instead. So, Homer Jebus, let me ask you this:

Wha....

Hmmmm....

Why....

Mmm....

If—

What the hi-diddle-eee-ho-there, neighboreeno is wrong with me?!

....And why are you building that chapel?

"Because you're all terrible sinners!"

Since when?

"Since I got here! Now grab a stone or go. to. Hell!"

Well, Homer Jebus, would that I could lift a stone, I woul- wait. No I wouldn't. "I may not know much about God, but I have to say".... I don't believe in building cages for him. And I actually do know much about Capital-G God, too, which is why I wouldn't lift a ston—

WILL YOU JUST ANSWER MY QUESTION?!

"I gave you a glittering Vegas, and you turned it into a skanky Atlantic City!"

Mmmm....

You mean.... Me fail drug tests? That's unpossible!

But...I have over 2 years clean! Yes, yes, over 1/3 of my liver was shot whence I got clean but the liver heals thyself! Like your flying, barbeque pig: "It's still good, it's still good!"

Right?

"Well, let me ask you this: Shut up."

You potation and glutton your way through Life, yet manage to endure, prevail; how can a human being possibly bring off this Homer, Jebus?

(Homer Apprehension: the videos have a tendency to not load on first attempt, require a little "retoole-ing;" simply reload the page, which generally solves the problem.)

"Mmmm.... I see."

Okay, Marge, okay. I see, too.

So you're not a human being, Homer Jebus; you're for fake. You live in a made-up world in which you can visit other made-up worlds. Hell, you're erasable! Your mistakes are erasable! Mine?

Not so much.

The intentional mistakes inserted into your for fake world, Life? Well, Hell! They're intentional! For fake for fun! Nothing could possib-ly go wrong! Me? My Life?

Welcome to Brilliant McSexyAss Land where anything could possib-lie go wrong! And thiiiiis health helicopter ride? It ain't the first thing that's ever gone wrong in Brilliant McSexyAss Land. No. Far from it.

Still, we two are eerily similar, Homer Jebus.

Let us never speak of this "shortcut" again.

******

T.E. Lawrence: The truth is: I'm an ordinary man. You might've told me that, Dryden.

William Faulkner: By temperament, I’m a vagabond and a tramp.

Homer J. Simpson: Why are you torturing me? I'm just a man!

******

Duderonomy:

I am not a fan of anyone who rails pro-religion or anti-religion; rails are for trains. And coke-fiends. Whichever, both are too damn speedy, dangerous, liable to run you down without warning. Potentially, kill you without braking or a look-back.

I do not like that.

Bible-thumpers? No. Not a fan. Angry atheists? Nuh-uh. Not a fan. The Great Purge of July, 2010 (aka, deletion of Facebook "friends" from my list) included people from both sides of the tracks. Obviously, I'm an atheist, so why would I ix-nay my fellow non-believers?

Because there's a fine white-line, former fiends, between love and hate. Religious zealots (ha) incense me, yes, but so do angry atheists and if the latter are so blinded by the "light" of what they deem as "THE Capital-T Truth" that they cannot discern they've now crossed the line — become just as zealous as the bible-thumpers they so deplore and rail against — well, then, here's you a one-way ticket for the next train on outta' Tolerance Town. Because I don't like meanness; I do not like rails; I do not like hysterical blindness; I do not like people who blissfully, ignorantly dance o'er the thin line of Love and hate; I do not like dancing - at all - I suck at it; I really don't like cocaine. Never tried it, but speedy drugs scare the crap outta' me. No way. I preferred to risk my Life suckin' on Fentanyl patches, thank you very much. Yes, I indeedly did like that.

Not anymore I don't. No. I do not like the fever of the flavor of Fentanyl. Nor any other drugs. Save the good kind that keep me sane. Right now, you do not believe I am on those drugs; you think I have on my tongue a host of bodies of Christ! innumerable narcotics!

No. I do not. I am making a point. That point is: to each their own. But allow me to....allow a more learned, articulate poet (I ain't no poet anyways, and don't I know it - in many ways) make the point for me. Homer, oh great and epic one, if you will:

Are you still there, 3.14 pieple? It's me.... Mmmooom? What's my name again?

If you're still there, 3.14 pieple, it's me.... QUIT. GODDAMN. SMOKING!!!! I just wanted to thank you for listening to me and my conversation with my god, as I know him...s. Funny that my personal Jebus just-so-happens to not only work as a three, three, three gods in one! but - and I really did not notice this until I hit my Homer:

"I enjoyed it. The only thing that wasn't enjoyable was in the green room. I said, 'Can I have a drink?' 'We have lemon juice, apple juice, still or sparkling.' I said, 'No, I want a drink. No drink?' I said, 'All right, I'm fucking off. I'll be back.' A man with earphones said, 'No! No!' Eventually, this vodka was smuggled in." —Peter O'Toole discussing his mostly-enjoyable experience at the 75th (2003) Academy Awards

"Pouring out liquor is like burning books." —Faulkner on the importance of being earnest— or a Barn Burn-erest....?

"To alcohol: the cause of — and solution to! — alllll of life's problems!" — Homer Jay Simpson, epic poet; epic DUFF-drinker

Crippled Christ on Cloudy Crutches. My-eyye god... is a drunk-en god! He....wanes? Stains? Drains? Potation... Potains?

Seriously — what the Yoknapatawpha?

Well, seriously, my god(s) are, like me - well, they are me - which is why my Facebook religious views stand as Peter O'Toole speaking as Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney speaking as a "delusional" man (relative to your perception of the character) speaking as Capital-G: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

Me, Myself and I. Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner. The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Allah. Yahweh. Muhammad. Dad. KNEEL before ZOD!

I do not care. Truth is, I stopped believing because Sundays are for football. That's it. That and the fact that circa the time of my, "Sorry, Journey, but yes, I am going to stop believin' no matter how much Steve Perry implores me not to," The Bucs sucked. The Suckaneers. Hence....me of little faith.

You? Believe in whatever you want. I won't judge you, you don't judge me; I won't force my beliefs on you, you don't try and Journey your beliefs on me. I like that. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure I do. I think I do. Do I? Wait - hang on a sec—

Mmmooom? I like being tolerant of other pieple's religious beliefs, don't I?

Okay. IF YOU DON'T THROW THOSE GODDAMN CIGARETTES IN THE TRASH, GET IN HERE AND EAT SOMETHING THEN GET IN BED AND GET SOME GODDAMN REST FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, I'M GONNA BEAT YOUR SKINNY, SCRAWNY ASS! does, in fact, like being tolerant of other pieple's religious views.

Ain't that so. damn. cool?

***

Regardless of whether I've got a sinus infection, tapeworm, TOOMAH or absolutely zip-zilch-zero wrong with me, I know this much:

"It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: SHe made the books and SHe died."

William Cuthbert "Billy-Boy Faulking" Faulkner — Who Knew His SHite

....She. She. Definitely a female designation, name — Mary?

Too pure.

. . . . Margaret?

Got it!

Judy. Judy Blume.

Hot damn, I knew it would come to me! Thank you, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner!