June 12, 2001
The subject is lonliness. My lonliness, perhaps resonant, but mine alone, nonetheless. My life has been spent alone, though different from lonely, it seems so pertinent- a living allegory, metered out among the years of solitary experience.
My abusive, mostly single mother, enslaved to her generation's particular sensabilities and duties, pressed me into the service of father surrogate, housekeeper, mother and victim. This removed me from any real supportive relationships, maternal, fraternal or even filial. What few tendrils of memory I tenuously grasp before the age of thirteen grind with tattered survival. Every person I'd ever trusted sought to play out their pleasures and pains over my thinning sanity. I learned, excruciatingly, to rely and and relate only to myself- the alternative, well, horrifying.
With my lovers, I reflected what they solicitted, the few friends entertained the smallest facits of my most facile interests. Nothing ever of any real depth, nothing of personal challenge or cosmic extrapolation. And I bought into this co-dependent behaviour until I self-destructed, the shear weight of a heavily armored, rock solid, iron facade teetering on an almost non-existant foundation crushed me almost utterly. And here I am today.
My ever hovering fatigue plagues me and I can chose nothing other than to succumb. Until the eve'n of the morrow, I leave this subject unfinished and hopefully any who read this, well.
June 11, 2001
Tonight, I feel the pressure to write. It's something that comes upon me that I fight- so afraid I won't be able to withstand the work involved. So afraid I won't be able to say what I need to. The fear is still here with me while I write, the overwhelming need just outweighing my silence.
So, what do I say tonight? What's on my mind? Where do I go with so many thoughts, emotions, pains, with so much lonliness and that crushing tiny cog in an enormous wheel feeling? I wonder (in the truest sense of that word) how so MUCH Life can be experienced with sanity left intact. This is no idle question, this is my life.
Two weeks now and the nausea that I've felt everyday for over six years (and most days since I was 26) frothes up throughout my body- so invasive that my mind wallows in the shaking and lurching: churning acid burning out reason, ticking out minute after endless minute- no surcease, leaving, like some mindful cruelty, enough memory of what I used to know to be true- hours with out pain. I find I mourn, my dying no longer a romantic notion but ugly, maddening reality.
My attempts at eating are spurious, driven more by a desperation for self nurturing, those pickings leaving me sweating and vomitous. Fevers that raise no temperature, aches from no flu- systemic vibrations that riddle and wrack- the songs of my body- weak dirges, a personal funerary requiem, that at its ending will come my own.
The medical tests are predictable and tediously unnerving. I've developed an intense aversion to blood tests and, with the barbarous nature of our "modern" medical systems, they're unavoidable. There are the orfactory and sensibility assaults of stool samples for the ovid presence of possible parasites. Has there been liver damage caused by the poisonous medicines that I gamble will offer me a bit more time? Have I developed any of the cornicopia of ailments that continually threaten HIV positives: diabetes, lypodystrophy, malnutrition, chronic fatigue, wasting?
Endless, mindnumbing philosophies crowd my brain- the micro fine neurons firing off so rapidly, I huddle in the darkness of "core" to keep some sense of self alive. I do not want to die. I will sometime (probably soon, the thoughts persevere) and I have no idea what to expect. I have no one and nothing to swear by- no God, god(dess), Higher Self, Holy Intermediary. What can I hold onto in the dark, when the pain and fear become so crushing I'm afforded no luxury of doubt? There is a racial impetus to "get your affairs in order" before The End comes and I have vaults, libraries, treasure stores, entire hidden cities, dust enshrouded tombs, caches, caves, crags, secreted rooms, -a universe- full of Myself that physical/psychic disabilities have left me unable to touch much less explore and set to order.
Perhaps, this is what I attempt in my writings here- the weaving of the thinnest of threads linking my core with my spirit. I miss it all- even the painful boredom, doubts, reactionary rashness- of a body without the sharp lashings of constant illness. At the least, in this time, I endure. I endure
January 01, 2001
Well, the true Millenium change has occurred. I spent a very quiet New Year's Eve awaiting calls from those I loved and reading with classical music playing lightly in the background. I don not like drunken behavior and as everyone knows- "it's amateur night for drinking" with the inevitable bad behaviour amplified drastically. Not for me, buddy...
Christmas, last week, did little to raise any holiday spirit and certainly the wisps of "good cheer" had long ago dissipated. The plans I had made months ago had fallen through and I really was in no mood for anything but. So, alone as most always, I huddled into the vast universe of a book and wiled away my evening with cold water and popcorn. I fell asleep before midnight. No big deal...
And that's the rub. I enjoy reading, drinking cold water and eating popcorn all by myself. But it isn't all I want from my life- not close. This night planned for romance, gentle conversation and passion. A night of moonlight and stars, huddling together from the chill and laughter. A glass of champagne raised to new, bright futures and ancient powerful alignments. Long kisses, short stories, strawberries, chocolate, fresh warm sheets and candlelight. Spent desire and sleeping into the new year. Those were my plans and I missed them with a few tears, sighs, reading, drinking cold water and eating popcorn all by myself.
December 21, 2000
"The Circle of Hell Which is DMV":
(or"The Continuing Saga of the Whining Man")
Day 1- Monday, December 18: Needing to get my final piece of identification settled to complete my name change, I spiritedly ventured to the DMV here in San Francisco for an afternoon of waiting for the privilege to fork over money to "legitimize" my own identity. I had expected the typical big city officialism: the clerical dullard's glaze, the cattle call line, the unnecessarily complex and redundant paper trail. What I hadn't prepared for was the potential depth (irony intended) of Old Boy, governmental excreta.
After 47 minutes (I timed it), my turn arrived at the window. The clerk was pleasant enough though his terse questioning of my reasons for the name change was offensive- it started with "so, this is for your wife?" Presently, he informs me (rather smuggly) that my licence has been suspended since August of '99. Shocked, I asked for clarification- which he could not "officially" give to me. He did say that it had to do with a missed court appearance for an expired tags fix-it stop. His instructions were at least explicit if annoying- the fines must be met and would require a trip to traffic court where I would need to obtain an abayance or some such. Yippee. He weakly attempted to to give me hope with "we're open until five, you could go (accross town), pay your fine (assuming guilt on my part) and come back to get this done>" It was 4:30 pm...
Day 2- Tuesday, December 19: It's 10:30 am and I've managed my 40 minute- 2 1/2 mile way through the Muni/Metro public transport system which I like to call the "Mobile Ellis Island"- and I swear I don't mean that bitchy. It's after the body search and trudge to the pit that is purposely decorated in the late nihilism period, that I wait another 47 minutes (again timed- and weirding me out to boot) for another turn at the Great Machine. Told that if I plead guilty I may go to "instant arbitration", else it would be a 6 week wait for a hearing. Hmmm, throw myself worth and pristine driving record before some rheumy eyed, pocketed official and get a speedy if not impartial trial or wait an eternity to play step-and-fetch-it to a dubiously titled "His Honor"? I ventured the former.
The judge reviewed my case (after another 30 minute wait.) He actually officiated in a kind and understanding manner. He understood that I did not own the car in question, the notification had been sent to an address I'd moved from and I believed that the tags were the responsibility of the car's owner. The judge reduced the $240 dollar fine to $25. I walked to yet another line to wait an additional 20 minutes to pay $25 for the fine and $7 to have some unfriendly clerk write three lines on a small piece of paper (the abayance.) Feeling happily sprung from some long term sentence, I walked to the bus stop and eventually arrived home.
Driving (illegally, I might add) to DMV, I assumed this would be it. I would wait out the line and finish with this irritating experience. I filled out the DMV form for the second time, stood in line for 47 minutes (yee gads!) for a second time and finally arrive at a window attended by a dour old woman with eyes a strange combination of wolfish and blase'. She began to process my paperwork (for the second time) and informed me that it would be $67. I was stunned. I asked what the fees were for, she informed me "$12 for the new licence and $55 to reinstate my suspended licence." I of, course had only the money for the new licnece. Knowing I had no choice, I left the DMV without completeing my mission, for the second time.
Day 3- Wednesday, December 20: Up with the sun and curmudeonly resolve, I waited until 10:00 am to arrive at the DMV. Filling out the vile form for the third time (yes, you have file the same form every time because they pull it apart and they must have their infernal copies), I stood in line again for 47 minutes (I see a great need for some kind of independent study/investigation into this very unnerving time coincidence), found myself with the same gruff old bat and gritted my teeth against any untold disaster that might occur. Again, she processed my paperwork informing me that it would be an additional $12 dollars for the name change. I honestly could have struck her then. With the particularly cold, reasoning ire that is THE measure of how deeply upset I truely am, I began to dissect her, the DMV and the idiocies of the "Process", my voice restrained, chilly and deadly in tone.
In these situations I always ask for a supervisor- someone who has actual authority to make decisions. He spoke english as his second language and though not, in itself, a brand of incompetence, it can be a frickin' boulevard of miscommunication. This was indeed the case. Added to this, he seemed very fatigued, harried, defensive and, I'd bet real money, edging toward "postal". I explained to him how I had come three days in a row, been subjected to rudeness and worst of all been given three differing amounts for fees I owed, additions given each time. I asked him why receiving a total seemed impossible, that not everyone can just whip out a checkbook and pay any amount off-handedly. I had to bring a set amount (especially since I had to borrow some of the money.) I did not even venturing into the complete, unavoidable fleecing so many fees seemed to be.
Angrily, his voice rising with the moments, he insisted these fees must be paid to which I repeatedly and through various grammatical hoops tried to agree with him. I asked him to explain the fees and after some kind of mental leap on my part, finally figured out that the "name change fee" meant the same as the "new licence fee". I dismissed the supervisor, who had by this time reverted to his native language, by speaking firmly to the clerk and finishing my business. Walking away, he still mumbled under his breath and marched red faced toward his desk in the middle of Hell.
December 19, 2000
There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
- from "Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan Dune by Frank Herbert
Once again the culture of experience differs drastically with that of common sense. I know I am probably preaching to the converted but many times I feel the need to illuminate my own personal journey through this miasma we call life. The following statements are true, no one was hurt in the making of this journal entry...
Recently, I decided I wanted to go back to work, actually this was a necessitybut I digress. Having attended a seminar at Positive Resources here in San Francisco on the intricacies of disability law and applying my somewhat detail driven mental faculties to the subject, I framed choices based upon what I thought were valid guidelines. A porn store decided I had what it took to be a qualified representative of their image. (Is there snickering going on..?)
I liked the job: good hours, fine location off the Castro, a clean well-appointed store, and of course, an employee discount that I would actually use. I had made arrangements to use a tax ID number, which upon gleefully tearing open my first check I found was NOT possible for their accounting department. Thinking I'd do the lawful thing and contact Social Security- I received the shock of immediate monetary suspension.
In a heat of survival, I quit my job ten minutes after I'd hung up with the SS (pun intended.) The primary idea in getting employment was to augment my offensively low pitence from the government- working as a clerk in a porn store doesn't pay well but the stress levels are low which was another major concern in my choice. I had reduced my hours already due to being physically exhausted.
In these last two weeks since, I've been notified that the suspension will be permanent- hopeful only 'til I've "paid back" the money I'd made during my three + weeks of porn clerkdom. I've found myself depressed and with some introspection, discovered the underlying emotion- anger. I'm angry that the few choices left to me were taken away, that in my struggle for basic survival, I'd been coldly denied the only acceptable avenue that has been stuffed down our collective throats since consciousness, namely the fucking work ethic and participation in the greater good of society. All hogwash, of course.
And the missing common sense in this paradigm is readily visible: the active discouragement of reemployment, adding to the national, regional and local tax base, the availability of talent and education. Idiocy and typical. So, I now have no choice but to seek out less "official" venues. Hmmm, wand GB Jr.'s now in power. doesn't look good.
Well, I'm tired and neew to sleep (it's been almost 48 hours, now- another story for another day.) Take care, dear readers and take wht you can, share with those who need it and for the sake of all our futures, vote next time...
December 15, 2000
Well, here begins (again) the first entry of a new volume of my on-line journal. This is also the first day of "official" launch of "Razing Kainne 2.0". I've been up for a few days until 5, 6, 7 etc in the morning to get this site revigorated- I hope you like it. But let me tell you, writing now at 2:48 am after working on this stuff all day, I'm tired and may wander some as I write. BE WARNED...
This redesign has been good practice of my somewhat stall HTML skills. I even had to reference some very simple code on a few things. Goes to show that a person can lose what they don't use. To top things off, my computer has been suffering from the demands I've put on it. Everyone say "Poor Mars..."
As the next couple of days go by, I will fill you all in on what's been "up" with me since July of 1999 (see Journal Vol. 2.) Right now, though, I tire and just want to say "Welcome" to all...
Something to think about today/tonight: With the White House in the hands of a proven fool, where do we all move toward from here and what do we do to protect ourselves?
See you in the camps...
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