Forgiveness?

Corrie connected to me via Facebook. You know, Facebook, how they have those statuses people put up. Well, Corrie had added a comment to one of her photos and she replied. It made me feel good that she actually talked to me and I guess she isn't ignoring me. She's just been very busy. I guess I have to. I wish we could reconnect or hook up again. She is like my sponsor, but the sad thing is, she's rarely there when I need her and sometimes I think she needs me more than I need her. She's been doing better with her life I think. God is taking her somewhere, so she says. I'm not sure where, so I guess we'll have to wait and see.

It makes me think about God. I think my faith is stronger now. It was days ago. Things at MJ's home are fine. She won't be out on the streets. Don't know all the details, but it doesn't matter because things are fine with her now and I can rest more easy. My neck aches and it's a bit stiff. It's getting better though. I think it's from all the stress from the past couple of weeks. With work and with MJ. It's just been deeply stressful and now that my work has settled down I think this is my body's way of telling me to take it easy. Now I have to take it easy.

So I've been thinking more about God, more actually about Satan, or the devil, if you like. You know how God's always helping you out, doing shit in your world so your life can get better. I wonder if there's another force, another negative force, called Satan trying to make your life miserable. Just when your life's getting good, Satan comes along and does shit. I try not to think about that too much because then life can get pretty dark. It's better to just think about God. Plus my life is pretty dark enough already as it is. You've read the blog, so you'd know.

I've also been thinking about forgiveness. There was something on a church program I saw on Sunday because I happen to be off that day this past Sunday. Well, this program I saw said we have to forgive everyone, that's how we move on. That's how we travel from the past to the future. It made a lot of sense, but there are just some people I can't forgive. There's someone I consider Satan's helper. She came into my life and destroyed it. I wonder though if she had her own illness to deal with or if she's just some crazed motherfucker. Should I forgive her and just move on? I don't know. I mean by being angry with her and trying to avoid her, that all arises from fear and I know fear is a bad thing. I can't just move on, can't forget about her. She ruined my life. I don't want to ruin her life. That's just crazy. I don't know what I want to do. I want to know she'll stop hurting me. That's what I want. But I have no way of knowing that. They say if you have God on your side, you don't have to worry. So what? I forgive her and move on? After all she's done to me. She's one of the most evil people that I've met on this planet, except for someone else.

I remember the good times we had. They were far and few. I remember how helpless I felt when I was with her. How lost I felt. Now, I don't feel so lost. A part of me prays she's doing better, but a part of me hopes she's dead. It's frustrating. That people who hurt me are still alive. But wishing them dead isn't good. There's just something bad about wishing them dead. Not so much that it's bad, but the fact that it still gives you pain. That's the bad part. And I don't want that pain. I want to move on, but I don't want her hurting me anymore. Is that bad? Is it bad for me to not want her hurting me anymore? She still hurts me. Still in the shadows. Whenever I take a drink, I see her. She's there. She wants to get inside and we want to destroy each other. She's like a big cock penetrating my vagina, just thrusting hard and it hurts bad, hurts real good, maybe I want it to hurt, maybe then I can feel something, maybe I feel I deserve it? It makes sense after all the crap that happened to me when I was a kid. But then I don't deserve it. I deserve God's love because God is out there with open arms. God is my new Father, my only one. But then there's that saying about forgiving your brother. If you don't forgive your brother how do you expect God to forgive you? I just do. I'm good, my brother's bad. But then I have to forgive my brother. But he hurt me. I want him to stop hurting me. I can't be sure he'll stop hurting me. One time I told him not to hurt me anymore and he said okay, he won't, but he did, and it hurt real bad. Maybe it's like being a Jew in a concentration camp with some German officer telling you one thing, but really he's going to take you for one of those gas showers and you're loathe to trust Germans again. That's how I feel. I can't trust that guy not to hurt me again. And then I feel the only way he won't hurt me is if he's dead, but I can't kill him. I can't kill these people and God won't kill them for me. It's annoying that he won't do that. So what am I supposed to do? It's better to just live your life and not worry about all that. But I have all this pain and it hurts and I don't know what to do. Don't want to end my life because my life's pretty good.

I don't think God's a hoax now though. I think he's real, tangible, something I can feel. God's alive and he's trying to help me, but I'm scared God, scared that if I let go, I'll get hurt again. I trust you, but I don't know, I'm scared to let go. Scared to open my heart to them, Lord, because if I do they're going to hurt me again, and it's just better not to open my heart to them, to be guarded because they hurt me. Will you help me find the way, Lord? Do I even want to find the way? I don't know.

I don't know.

I'm Coming Back

I haven't written here in a while. I don't know if it was hard to write, or just hard to sit here and stare at the computer and share my feelings when I'm a wreck, even though sometimes you just have to. That's when the writing's good and it's too bad that you have to be almost dead to be a good writer. Of course, that's not true, that's a myth. I mean there are many good writers out there who've killed themselves or had sad lives. You can be a good writer and have a good life.

Lots of things happened. MJ's mother died. Her mother was a friend of mine in a way, like how you go over to your friend's house and his mother's there making you guys lemonade. She knows me, I know her, and I hate losing her. Hate losing a good woman. Yeah, she was sickly, and I knew she was heading downhill, but I didn't think it would be this soon. Thought she'd be able to fight the good life, but now the good lord has taken her.

Frustrates me because I'm wondering why the good lord didn't take the other sister, but then that's mean I suppose. I'll say nothing about that. I will say that MJ's been having a rough time, but this entry isn't about her since this is my blog. I just wish I could do something for MJ. If she were here I'd have her crash in my pad until she gets a place of her own, but she's in another city, so there's just no way. And I gotta live the days wondering if she'll be stuck out on the streets pimping herself, spreading her legs for any Tom Dick Harry or Marianne because sometimes that's the way you gotta live. I don't want MJ to live like that because she's pure, a good soul, someone who doesn't deserve to be kicked in the mid-section like that. She deserves better, but of course, God being the old joker he is doesn't really give a fuck and would probably let her get kicked until she's bleeding. I just don't get that Book of Job and yet it's my favorite book of the bible. The guy's just take all this shit from God but yet he still likes God, until he finally gets the last straw. I mean some of the stuff is alright, but it just goes on and on, with more suffering and you're thinking wtf is God doing! He's just chilling with Satan and having some fun. I mean is that what God does? Has fun with people? I wonder about that.

God puts all this crap on me when I have to work my job doing the day shift crap. 3 days shifts. Fuckin' day shifts, I hate 'em. This week's a stressful week and I have no breathing room, I have no life. Boss is out of town, so now we get to do all the managerial bs. I don't like doing managerial bs. I'd rather write. So now I have no life. It reminds me of this zen story. This guy is saying how he really wants to find God and the zen master smiles and says "Really?" Then the zen master grabs the guy and throws him underwater and holds him down. The guy's waving his hands frantically and after a few minutes, then zen master lifts the guy up. The guy's gasping, coughing, spitting up water. Finally when he's done and he's caught his breath, the zen master asks "When you were down there, what is it you wanted most?" The guy says "Air!" The zen master lets the guy go and says "Come back, when you want to find God as much as you wanted air." It's like that. Like I have no air. Now I realize how much I want to write. I'm almost hungry for it. I say almost because I want to read too. So much I want to do. I want to talk to MJ, to see if she's alright. Want to talk to the Donut, hang out, stuff like that. MJ, Donut, and I have a good talk. We hang out and just shoot the breeze, that's the kind of talk we like. Just easy living. We also get to bitch about our day, how it hampers our life, and wouldn't it be better not to have that day. Not so much the day, but what we do in it, the work that we do. We don't like it. Least I can speak for Donut and I. We'd rather be home doing other stuff. Being wage-slaves isn't really all that fun. I'd rather just write. Make my living doing that. Don't have to worry about scheduling my holidays. Don't even have to worry about booking a day off in advance. Don't have to worry about office politics.

Got some writing gigs coming up. Going to have fun writing a novel with some pals in November. The classic Nanowrimo. Means I'll be off this thing for a while. That's okay though. I haven't written here since July anyway, and nobody really reads this. Kind of glad in a way. Either way, it doesn't matter because it's more a personal project of mine anyway.

Guess that's it for now. Boss comes back Tuesday and I can get my life back then. Fuckers.

Makes me think of why I work at this stupid place. Don't want to manage the place. Just want to be a writer.

I was watching some God show just now and it made me think that God was here watching out for me and that he's watching out for MJ and everything's going to be okay, but sometimes I don't know. Sometimes I don't know what God is doing. Oddly my faith is still there. Although weak, if you want to call it that, I'd say it's still there. I wouldn't call my faith weak, I'd call it little. Sometimes it's bigger, sometimes it isn't. I mean it used to be bigger, back when Corrie was in my life and she actually cared. I mean she cares now, but she's busy, I understand that. Too busy for me? Feels like it sometimes. Everything is about me, I guess. She's supposed to be my sponsor though, least that's what I feel. I'm supposed to call her if I need to talk, but she feels so far away. Can't just pick up the phone and tell her I'm falling to pieces and I need a hug, or for her to hold me and pray for me. I like the way she hugs me, close to her, as if she doesn't hold me tight enough, I'll fall away, down into the depths of Hell. She's a good hugger like that. A small person, but powerful. Maybe one day I can return the favor for all she's done for me, but I don't know if I can. I think she's messed up her life. Or did. With that one guy. Left him, went with another guy. This guy seems pretty good.

In a way, I'm part of that family. Saw her druggie sister. She works near where I work. Great, good to see you, just don't try hitting me up for cigarettes you underage bitch! Yeah, she was nice to talk to before she tried to use my friendship with Corrie to get drugs. I don't need to buy that shit again. I'm trying to live a good clean life, and I don't need that stuff messing up my life. Even though I wouldn't be using, buying them would just be going down that road again, but the druggies don't understand, they'll just use anyone or anything to get what they want or think they need. It's like the opposite end of the spectrum. Corrie's this angel, and this other girl isn't, but then Corrie isn't the angel that she appears to be. I mean I think she's an angel, but she's got darkness inside of her which she tries to hide. Doesn't want to accept. There's that saying "shake hands with your devil." It's in a Robertson Davies novel...Fifth Business, I think it's called. She won't do that. Not for a while. Hey, she has God now, don't need to worry! Yet, she'll fuck up, but hey, she has God to solve all her problems so she can keep fucking up all she wants and be okay, I mean what is that shit anyway? I mean not so much Corrie, but a lot of Christians. You think to yourself "They're supposed to be Christian and they're doing this??" They act like shit, and blame it on "Everyone's a sinner." Fuck that shit. If you're going to fix your life, then fix your life and stop shitting on other people. It's so damned annoying when you live in your glass house behind that fancy name of Christian which gives you the right to destroy the world but still be forgiven. I mean not every Christian is like this. There are some really good people who mess up from time to time, but are trying to change, and are honest about this. They don't sit on their high horse telling you what a shit you are and how if you seek Jesus you'll be cool like them. These guys admit they're a mess, and say they're trying, and have hope that they'll succeed by having faith in Jesus. That's what Christianity is. It's not telling others you suck, and you'll only be cool if you're with the J-Man. It's about stability, focus, a center, inner peace, that kind of thing. When you have Jesus on your back, nothing else matters. He's got your back. No worries.

Some guy told me that the devil created Buddhism. I wonder if that guy was brain-washed. Some of these guys see there alone eating a sandwich, and hey, it's swell that they don't want to grab your cock or any weird shit like that. Instead they see you're alone, which means you probably have no friends, and that's the time they want to tell you about this great guy. They always start off that way. They start off slow, deceptive, almost like a salesperson, and say "Let me tell you about this cool guy." The cool guy is Jesus. Once they say that name. Omg! It's "Fuck the Jesus freaks man!" Then they wonder what you believe in. They counter with the stuff from the bible. Turns out if you read the bible every day you'll be okay. Um, yeah.

How many people have actually read the whole bible? I've read it twice. It's one long book.

This God show had it right. It's not about religion. It's a relationship. That I can believe. It's not about reading the bible. It's about connecting with Jesus and talking to him. And yeah, digging in the bible to find the answers. That's what it's about. Who cares what city the Wise Men stopped at to pee? Like I don't give a fuck. What I care about is when they nailed Jesus to the cross, and come on, that's pretty gory stuff (wish I could've written that), and then he comes back from the dead! But not just him coming back from the dead. It's what he teaches. He's like "you don't do this, do this!" Sadly not every Christian does those lessons, especially the ones who preach this shit. It's one thing to preach it, another to actually do what you preach. Practice what you preach. And a lot of those idiots don't.

I'll tell you what though. I believe in God because I know he's real. Not because some book told me because what I felt. Don't know who he is, but the bible seems to show me some answers. I like the bible, not some preacher's interpretation of it.

I said enough. I'm glad I said it. It needed to be said. Happy writing.

Conversation with self

Self: You need to clean your place.

Self-prime: Fuck you.

Self: {Silence}

Self-prime: Found my batteries. See, I don't need to clean my place. Clean your own place.

Another Entry

Oddly enough, I just read the last entry. I feel pretty much the same, except now it's MJ that's doing her own thing. It's summer and she's usually out and about in the summertime. MJ's one of the last people I cling to I guess. Cling wasn't the word I was looking for. Probably one of my rocks I would say, like Corrie.

So yes, I've been feeling lonely, though now I feel alright. I wrote last night, edited a story, got a lot done. It's better staying up and not going to bed until very late. I have to remember that. I went shopping to after midnight, like a vampire but I didn't have to worry about any idiots with little children misbehaving. You know, the kind that just run around and do whatever they want and the parents just stand there looking all embarrassed and you wonder why these people have kids when they're not even old enough to bet at Vegas or shave. It's really annoying. I have nothing against the kids, more against the parents who are just like the kids. It's the whole saying "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Last night was pretty good, bought a couple of burritos to eat with my coffee. Came home, did just that. I hadn't done that in years, it felt great. I just felt at home. Hadn't felt like that in a long time. The night is my home; the day time . . . I don't know what that is. It's a painting. A painting I just walk by. It's Norman Rockwell, and I'm not much for Norman Rockwell. I like Salvador Dali. His stuff is fucked up, but isn't the world just as fucked up. It's that fucked-upness that's more real than that painted reality.

Then of course, there's Jesus. Jesus is the reality. The real reality. He is beyond the fuckupness or the painted Norman Rockwell reality. And during the past week, I thought to myself, out of everyone I know, Jesus hasn't let me down. Pretty much the only guy I can talk to. I mean sure maybe I could talk to MJ, but she wasn't home. I wished she was home, but I also want her to have a good time and not stay home just to listen to my problems.

This is where the reality is, Grieve Table.

Corrie got baptised the other week. I also realized she goes to a different church. I was invited to go to the baptism, but I work Sundays, and this past Sunday I was invited to a church carnival. Still couldn't go. Almost could. I ended up working a little later, but it would've been a rush. I would've just went to see Corrie and not for the sermon and I thought that would've been sacreligious so I didn't go, and it would've been a rush. I'd be in and out. A quick hello, a quick hug. I miss that hug, I miss Corrie. Maybe we'll see each other sometime in the future I don't know. The writing keeps me strong. That's what keeps me going. I write because I need to write, if I didn't I'd be dead.

Things are actually going well for me today. Yesterday was another story, and popping online there was nobody there to talk to, but I knew life wasn't hopeless. I just made my own destiny rather than having them make one for me. The coffee helped. Coffee is my friend.

The grief for my uncle subsides and I'm glad. I thought what would happen if his wife showed up at my work. I'd give the natural sorry and we'd all move on. Hiding behind politeness. But now the bitch is alone, and I'm kind of glad for that. Too many bitches in the world thinking they own it. It's not fun owning something where the only one in that something is just you.

I guess that's it for this entry. I'm not sure if it was a long one or a short one, but I'm okay. That I do know.

Left behind

There was a time I had a group of people I hung out with. That time I wasn't sober. I enjoyed their company, they enjoyed mine. I suppose I needed them at the time and I wondered if they needed me or were they just growing. They were cool, drank a bit themselves, mostly smoked pot, but I didn't do that shit. Too much hit is too much for me. I'm not that crazy. Not that pot smokers are crazy, but we all have our own poison or vices or whatever you want to call it. Nowadays these guys have kids and families and I sit at the bar, but it's just me, and eventually I don't sit there anymore because if you want to sit there you gotta drink and I don't.

I do sometimes, but less. Now I'm trying to work out more, if you can believe that, maybe even eat healthier but you can't escape addiction or maybe I'm just using that to escape. Reality is never reality. I wish it was. I wish there was an actual reality (there is, but I'll get into that later), but everything is so false. The way people speak, the way they act, it's false. It's not who they are. Who they are is when you leap into their bedroom and find out they're wearing panties when they should be wearing briefs or vice versa. Or maybe they have a line of cocaine stashed under the bed and you're interrupting their midnight snack. It's the coke that makes them who they are, makes them the great players of the world, but really they're cokeheads. Makes me wonder if I have to be cokehead in order to be a great player in the world.

There is an actual reality like I was saying and that reality is Jesus. Oh no, here is comes, you think to yourself. He's going to go on preaching now and we didn't come here to listen to that shit you're probably thinking. I'll say this. When I went that direction, things got better for me. Here's the kicker though. The person that led me in that direction, Corrie, I haven't talked to her in maybe a year? I miss her. She used to visit me every now and again, but she's been busy. It's more than that though. She's grown. Maybe she's outgrown me? That's what I think. It's not her fault, it's just the way things are and that saddens me because I think I really need her to help me in this world because it feels like its falling apart and yet, she was the person who led me to the door. That was her job I guess. I went through the door and now I have a new teacher named Jesus.

It's not that I think Jesus is a hack. I think he's great and holding on to him and following him is probably the smartest thing I've done in a long time. What's sad is there are some who believe in him who are hacks or are hypocritical. These guys hide behind the phrase "we are all sinners." Yes, dipshit, we are sinners but does that mean you can sin 24/6. 7th day you go to church. I mean these guys tell you how you need to pick up your life and be with Jesus but here they are trashing their lives away. I'm speaking in general I know. Well, let's get specific then? I'm thinking of Corrie. Well, Corrie is an alcoholic, but doesn't know it yet. I assume she's getting better. She's also filled with problems. I mean she gets through it with her faith and she doesn't judge me. No, scratch that. She does judge me. Because I don't go to church on Sunday. Here's the kicker: neither does she. Well, she does, but not every Sunday. We're not all perfect though, but we're trying to be is the phrase that comes to mind. Corrie's not that bad though. She doesn't rag on me like some other people would. I just haven't seen her in a long time.

Funny, actually I can't think of anyone I know who has that hypocritical Christian flavor. I mean I've met people who are like that. But, personally, I don't know anyone who is really like that, thankfully.

Corrie was my light though. When things were down, I could always go to her for a pick me up and now I can't. Makes me think I have to let her go since she has her own life. Have to try and continue without her because I have God now. It's hard especially when God is not in physical form, but that's the whole point. If he was in physical form you wouldn't be able to touch him like you can now.

I had a friend I had known for 14 years. I haven't heard from her since Christmas. I sent her a card though for Christmas. Not her birthday. I remembered her birthday, but a week before and I had too many things going on to get a birthday card mailed to her. Haven't given up though. Maybe this Christmas I'll send a card. No email from her which is alright seeing as how my previous email account is deleted or something happened to it. That's the only one she knew. I don't remember what email she used because we both started talking on this gaming site that she no longer plays on. I miss her. She was part of my stability. It was like I could do all this other stuff, but then when I went on there, I'd see her and things seemed right again, just normal. Now I feel like I'm in a strange city with no friends.

MJ? MJ is still around. I'm scared though at how long she'll be around. She hasn't been online a lot lately, but that's because it's summer or close to summer and she's been going outside. Ordinarily I wouldn't worry so much, but added with Corrie and my other friends, it scares me a bit. I mean MJ is still in email reach and I can always call her if I needed to. But T, the one I've known for 14 years, I thought she'd be in my life forever but I haven't heard from her in forever. Maybe it's the whole when we see each other again, it'll be like we haven't been apart for a while, you know catching up where you left off kind of thing?

There was this group I used to hang out with online a couple of years ago, maybe? I've stepped away from them. Partly because of all the online drama that happens. I miss them though, but I can't go back there.

So this makes me left behind, alone. The co-workers I bonded with years ago, after the pot one's grew, they've grown and moved away. I still talk to the pot ones from time to time, but they're less druggies and more responsible, more family-oriented. They have kids, if you can believe that. Well, you probably do, but I still can't. I picture them as those 20 year old partiers. Fuck, they're like 30 now. Or the oldest is 30. We're all getting old and they've all grown up. Grown up without me and here I am with the only friend I've got at the moment. My writing. It's the only thing that's been constant to me throughout my entire life. Maybe the only friend I can count on?

I know that's not true. I know there are still friends in my world, starting with MJ, but I miss my old friends. I miss T, I miss Corrie, I miss . . . goodness, those online people. I miss the gamers on that gaming site I used to be on.

I miss some of my old writer friends which I've met 5 years ago maybe. A few of them have gone their own way. Presently more are going their own way. Moving out of the city or just becoming more busy with real life. The older you get, the more busier with real life you get. I get that.

And even though my old friends pass away, not as in the dying sense, but just drifting off, I have other old friends wanting to sneak back in my life. Let me rephrase that, old people wanting to sneak back into my life. People I've known from my school years who never gave me the time of day then, but now want to hang out with me because they have no one else. They ring me up on facebook and say hello, and I want to say fuck off because they never talked to me then, so why talked to me now. There's this rich bitch that used to know us back before she was bitten by the rich bug. Seen her a few years ago with her mom. They both weren't pleased I was working at a restaurant with no future ahead of me. Didn't mention I wrote stories. They believed what they wanted to believe. A few months ago, they see me again, and they were happy to see me, impressed by my ability to work hard and enjoy what I do. They want to be my friend, but I don't want to be theirs. Maybe that makes me too proud?

It annoys me how people want to know me when they see me. Not because they want to hang out with me, but out of pity because it looks like I'm alone. They think I write because I have nothing else to do. I write because I'd rather not do anything else. I love to write.

My dad told me last week actually about the constant of family. How you can always depend on family throughout the years. How friends come and go, but family will always be there. I'm beginning to think that now. Though my idea of family is limited. Mother, Father, siblings. That's about it. Cousins are crazy hacks. Uncles are either crazy drunks or just dead. Not dead like my nice uncle, but dead in spirit.

Yeah, I can't wait to go to Heaven. I'll get to hang out with a lot of people. Oddly enough, some of them will be some of these idiots I spoke about in this entry.

The Police?

I just finished writing a novel. The novel is about this abuser that's abusing his wife. Anyway, the story is from his point of view, and he's trying to explain why he's innocent. It's a touchy subject. Also it's a personal one for me, so I really have to super edit the novel. I definitely want to get this one out there. I'm going to send it to MJ. She likes reading everything I write, so that's one reason to send it. The other is she can let me know how it is. A thumbs up or thumbs down kind of thing. It's always a thumbs up. Thumbs up means I got something; thumbs down means burn it.

I'm feeling better than the last entry. I feel like I haven't written in ages, but it's only been two weeks. I feel better, though naturally I have something on my mind. Lately I've been working out a bit, trying to myself into shape. Not to be some sort of athlete, but to be something presentable, something alive. I'm mostly dead right now. This working out thing is working out and I enjoy it. It's tough work though. Especially when I have to wage-slave in the mornings.

What good are the police? Why do they exist? The police provide order for our society, but when you want a police car, they're not there; and when you don't want the police, they're there. They patrol because it's cool and makes them look good, but they don't see anything. People are too smart for them. They patrol when they feel like it and when they get a lucky break, some kid who's jaywalked or something, they lean on that person like there's no tomorrow. They book the hell out of them, wave their gun at the kid, trying to impress nobody that's really there, because they really have nothing better to do. While they're booking the kid, some other person has made off with a kid, or killed someone or beaten a wife black and blue, and the police go to these calls and stand there as if dumbfounded, take information that maybe gets used. They have a job to do. Counseling is for counselors, not the police. I don't even think they're detectives. Not these street guys. All these street guys do is patrol the streets and try and make the police look good.

There was a report recently in the paper about some guy who got mugged. He's a crime writer for the paper. He gets mugged and sure, a police cruiser comes by once the guy calls them. The police luckily caught the guys. Where were the police when the crime writer was getting mugged? That's my question. They weren't there. They claim to patrol, but they don't. Who's fault is it really? Is it the smug police officer, wearing the fancy badge, and lamely walking the streets because he got a new outfit? Nowadays we have to do our own patrolling, our own defensive measures. It's illegal to carry a concealed weapon, but what do you do when someone draws a weapon on you? You can't defend yourself. Some can. Others can't.

The police are after the fact. They get there after. After the event has happened, not before and not during. A crime has just been committed, you have to call the police to make a report. This is to prevent the crime from ever happening again. That's nice. Someone else won't get hurt because the police have the information to nab the perp. But what are you going to about your scraped off face? The police just nod and tell you to get looked at a hospital. You made the report and it's just a matter of time that they'll catch the perp.

The police tire me. I don't think it's respect I have for them, but fear. I wonder if many of us are like that. An officer stops us and our first question is "Problem, Officer?" which translates to "Please don't arrest the fuck out of me, please!!" Behind their polite words, firm stance, is a gun ready to shoot you down. They don't need their gun to shoot you down, they just need their uniform and their arrogance and their bravado.

All they do is walk the streets. I could do the same thing too, except in my case, I would have a gun and I would use it. Too many scum getting away with shit and all the police can do is just nod and say "Better get to the hospital and have that checked out."

There are ways to defend yourself. Most of us don't know how to do that. And I'm not talking Martial Arts, I'm talking street smarts. Not walking into a dark alley, stuff like that. We're relegated to defending ourselves. Sure, they have defence classes. So then if we defend ourselves, what do we need the police for?

Sick

There's good news and bad news about being sick. The good news is you can't do anything else except stay home, drink fluids, eat soup and sleep. The bad news is you can't do anything else. Here's the bad news for me, I can't do either. It's my day off, so this is when I can do that stuff. Drink juice, eat soup, eat toast, look at the screen. Figured I'd come and write in here. It's a gloomy, rainy day outside, one I love. I haven't been outside yet today for obvious reasons. I need to buy more food. I have enough to last for maybe a week? Did another meatloaf, so that'll last me. What I need is more soup, more medication. I have a bit more nyquil left, probably only two days worth, but I need more.

When you're sick, that's when it's all shot to hell. That's when you need food and drink. I can survive 8 hours with just coffee and water I discovered. Foolish to actually try it, don't ask why I did, but still foolish. But when you're sick, there's no way you can do that crap. You have to take care of yourself because if you don't, you don't get better. And if you don't get better, you get worse. There's things to be done, but it's hard to do when you're laid up in bed. Feels like just the time I'm sick is when everything happens. Family calls, friends want me to come out. I'd love to come out and play, but I can't. Need to stay here and get well. My family...well, mother's day is coming up, so you know where I'm headed. Have to get better before then so I can spend time with the family. Never seems to be time for just me. If there is time for me, I'm recovering from all the time not spent with just me. Spending the time trying to get better. Kind of funny too when I have someone asking me "how was your day off?" How about you fuck off and let me worry about that?

I don't do anything special because I'm too worn out to do anything special. To worn out. This year is the worn out year, though I felt myself lately starting to become stronger. Mostly thanks to Grieve Table. Grieve Table, Grieve Table, making me stronger. I can feel it. I feel important. I'm walking differently, slower, more cautious. Cautious about the world around me, the world that's going to eat me alive if I'm not careful. Everyone around me is zombies and they want a piece of me. Those zombie writers are write. Zombies are everywhere! They're on the streets, on buses, in subways. They were suits and ties or fancy dresses and are too suited to play with themselves. Those are the zombies. And they're just killing to eat you alive if you're not like them. Why would I want to be like them anyway?

People ask me what I do, do I go to school. No I don't go to school. What I do is write. But to them writing is not really doing anything. You have to be a lawyer, a doctor or some hotshot zombie-ass businessman to actually be doing something. I could care what they think. I could whine and cry about how they don't get me, or I could say fuck them and just do what I do and write.

"What do you write?" Does it matter? I write what I write to stay alive. If I'm alive, doesn't that matter? Apparently not because I have to do something with my life. But if I were dead or almost dying then writing to stay alive would be important. They would say "OH God! Yes, write to stay alive, don't die, don't slit your wrists, we love you!" But did you love me when I said I write and didn't do anything else. No you didn't? It's only at the brink of death when you realize how important I am.

Funny. I realized that myself. That's because I gave in to what everyone said. Gave in to the fact I was a loser, which I wasn't, but I thought I was because they said I was and so I was. And that's what I am now: a loser who writes. Difference is, I'm happy.

The orange juice goes down smoothly, the car on the street slides by. We're all living our lives the way we see fit. Last bit of toast goes down. I am doing something with my life. I'm trying to live and get better.

Molesters

They come in all shapes and sizes and I wonder why someone would enjoy touching a kid's ass at 13. I'm walking down the old neighborhood where my folks used to live. We were down there for a holiday, visit the ancestors so to speak, and we meet this one aunt. Or not an aunt but a family friend. It's always the family friends it seems because they don't have to have any accountability. They're not related. It's just a gig. They just come in and go. I'm walking down the street and the lady is behind me pinching my ass from time to time. It makes me uncomfortable, makes my cock throb. I'm at that age where I could sperm anywhere maybe. The ripe age. I don't know what makes me adorable. What makes a lady want to touch a kid's ass like that? I'm half your age lady. I could understand if the person was in high school or maybe early College but we're talking an old lady. Not an old lady close to her rocker, but an old lady according to a 13 year old. An elder. They say, respect your elders. How can you respect someone so...monstrous? They say women can't be monsters or molesters. They're gentle, they're nice. It's always the guys. They're the horrible ones. Creepy guys hiding behind bushes. It's a myth. They're everywhere in every shape and size. Thin, fat, short, tall, blonde, brunette, those fuckers are everywhere and they infest our human condition and you wonder how to get rid of such contagion.

Talking to my dad the other day. He made contact with some old relatives back in the old neighborhood. Mentioned her name. Assumed I didn't know who she was. I remembered. Oh boy did I remember. She told him she remembered me. He assumed she must've seen me as a baby. Forgotten I saw her when I was 13. Yeah, she remembers me. I remember you too you sick fuck.

Makes me wonder about justice. Makes me wonder about going up there and ripping her eyelids out, then again, you wonder how this monster came about. Maybe she got infected by a monster herself. Who's to say I'm not a monster myself? Sure I didn't do that shit, but I've done shit myself, I'm no saint. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, is the saying. I've touched a boobie when I shouldn't have. Sure it wasn't someone half my age. That would be stupid. I've looked at porn at people have my age. Am I like her? Am I like this sick mother?

Turns out there's a guy back in the old neighborhood, related to us, who "might" be a molester. That's not talked about much, but let's just say the people watch him closely. Makes me wonder about myself. Was I ever in his hands? Don't think I was, but if I was, it might explain a lot. Probably just reaching, reaching for nothing.

I do know about you though, girly. What kind of lady touches a kid's ass? I thought about going up there and ripping off her eyelids but really it all comes from the pain. That's what it all is. Pain. There's that ache. It's not a physical ache. It gets you in the heart, like a fist in the heart. It wants to rip at your eyes, make water come out of them, so you can't see. Pain makes you blind. It makes you do crazy shit to end the pain. I can see why people attempt suicide, or cut themselves just so they can feel the pain of the cut. It's not because they're sick bastards...Okay, yes they are sick bastards, but the pain of that cut is supposed to take away the pain of the emotional hurt. I get that now. I get why they do that. Couldn't before. The emotional hurt is big. I've forgotten how big it could be.

Sure I could go down there, tell her what a sick fuck she is. But why bother? Why bother talking to those demons? Why bother paying attention to evil? If you ignore evil, it'll go away. Not the same as pretending it doesn't exist. Why pay attention to evil when there's so much of good to pay attention to?

I never told MJ any of this. I didn't even really think about it until this past Friday when my dad mentioned that person. Made me think. Made me want to get on a phone and call her, but she was sleeping. Least I think she was. Couldn't bother her. She can't take away the pain. What could she say to take away the pain? It's been more than 10 years since I was 13.

Happened a long time ago. Wasn't even a big thing, though it feels big to me, feels big to a 13 year old. People don't get that and it's funny because I don't care what they think. I was having this conversation earlier with somebody: "Who cares what they think?" That's what I said. Now, I say it to myself: "Who cares what they think?" I know what I know.

Was I cute? Was I attractive at 13? I was shy and silent. Maybe easy prey? There's no easy prey, just prey. And the predators are just sick. That's all there is to it. I don't care if they were molested before. Doesn't change the fact, that stuff is still sick. Get help if you were molested before. Don't use that as an excuse to hurt other people. Sick fucks. Can't kill them. They're human.

Words in the night. Left work in a rage that night. Had to go. Had to go. Took care of my pain. Dealt with the pain. You don't deal with the pain, it deals with you, destroys you. I dealt with my pain. Talked to D, not about this. Just talked. Forgot about this crap. Forgot about this crap until now because I remembered. I told myself I had to write about it. Writing is what gives me freedom; writing is the weapon I use toward these sick fucks. Or the sick person who decided to touch my ass at 13. Don't try to hide it. It wasn't playful, it was sexual. I know that now. Difference is, you knew it but didn't want to show it.

Don't hate you though. I feel sorry for you. Feel sorry that you have to stoop to that level. Me, I don't need to do that. I write, that's what I need to do, and that's what I do.

Guy with guitar

I'm on the bus, just heading home from work and there's a guy in the bus with a guitar sitting at the back. I'm sitting near the back but I'm facing the front because that's the way my seat is positioned and his seat is sideways. I noticed that when I got off at my stop. The guy's playing was soft and rhythmic. I think it's what you call acoustic guitar, but I don't know any of that terminology. The guy took all my hardships of the 9 to 5 gig, just wiped them away, and I think that's what art does. It kicks you right in the stomach making you feel something. Either good, angry, disturbed, happy. It never makes you feel bad. Unless it's crap, which it usually isn't. The only crappy art is by someone who's trying to be an artist, but you know they're not. You know they're a business tycoon making fun of the artist. Art is different, it's airy, it floats. It's not heavy like money or business.

I thought of that New Orleans song by The Tragically Hip. I don't know what the title is, but the lyrics go something like "New Orleans is sinking and I don't want to swim." Also thought of "The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel. The guy wasn't playing any of those, but the music reminded me of those songs. I thought of myself walking the streets and feeling good, and a part of me wanted to be that bum I saw on the street that day. The one I gave that dollar to. He looked happier than I was. His life looked better than mine, and it'd be nice to have his life, only problem is I need food and money. I need money to pay bills and eat and just live. When I say live, I don't mean live, like get a big plasma flat screen TV and a state of the art sound system for my CD's. I mean just your basics: food, clothing, and shelter. If I had just that and my art I'd be happy. Of course, I don't just have that, I have added stress of the nine to fiver. I've almost become one of those...yuppies? That's not exactly the word I'm looking for. I think you know what I mean. One of those nine to fivers, work 5 days a week, weekends off, nothing but work, home, kids, spend weekend at home with kids, go back to work Monday. Yes, actually I think it is the word Yuppie I'm looking for. Young Urban Professional.

I don't want to be a yuppie. I don't want to live at my job. My job's just a gig to get me some money to support my writing habit. Maybe in a way I'm like a junkie? That's what I am, and I love it. I envy those guys like Kerouac or Bukowski except in some ways they're mythological legends. Their art portrayed them as the happy-go-lucky free-spirited kids. Kerouac died though, unhappy, a drunk, in his mother's basement. Bukowski? Well, I don't know if he chose the life he had. I think he just got the life he had. Those were the cards that were dealt to him and he took it as it was. He did quit the post office, but was he happy? Or was he miserable? Was he hiding behind his alcoholism? I sound like one of those stuffy turncoat professionals now.

I like their life. Just kicking back with a beer and writing. That's the kind of life I like. Not this nine to fiver, Monday to Friday, married with children shit. Then again, maybe one day I will get married. Maybe one day I will have kids? Don't plan on it though. The marriage thing, I don't know, I could maybe do that, but I could never stop writing. I have a small joke to myself, that writing is like my second wife. I could not live without it.

But yeah, that guy with the guitar. He played for maybe 10 minutes of my bus ride home. He was awesome and unfortunately I had to get off and go home. Go home and prepare for another day of work the next day, or the next evening. In case you were wondering, I'm a wage-slave. I'm not going to let that bring me down though, not going to let that stop me from doing what I love. Not going to let that stop me from writing. That's why I'm here now. I told myself I need to write this. Grieve Table, Grieve Table, Grieve Table, need to write, putting it off for too long. Maybe it's not only my uncle I grieve for, but the world. The world I'm forced to live in. The world with its suits and politics and fancy talk which can be translated into "I'm really an asshole, but I want to look good." Fuck the suits with their fancy talk; fuck the mothers with their kids they don't know how to take care of, letting them run anywhere the kids want, and the mothers give you that apologetic stare of "Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Yeah, well, wait until he becomes Ted Bundy then we'll see who bites. You gonna give him a cookie everytime he does something bad? Of course you will. Then when he murders someone, he's going to get a big steak dinner which is going to come out of your RRSP savings that you saved from having worked your wage-slave job. That is, when you worked. Because sometimes you didn't work. Too busy supporting your husband's alcholic habit. And I'm not talking about a cool alcohol habit like Bukowski or Kerouac, I'm talking about the kind of shit that just drinks and sits there. Doesn't do anything. Least Bukowski wrote.

Some mothers are actually great, and sometimes I'll see them, and sometimes I won't. Usually because they're home taking care of their kids.

This world is messed up. I think Hemingway summed it up best when he said "The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for." Throughout all the ugliness there is still some beauty in the world. That's what I want to hold on to, that's what I want to deliver, and that's what I want to love.

Good Day

So I was just looking over my past entry and I remember the last interesting encounter I had wit a bum. It was 10 years go maybe, in a January. I was also downtown and it was snowing I believe. There was a bum on the street, stocky kind of guy, wanted a quarter or something. Spare change. I gave him a quarter I think. Back then I didn't have the amount of change I do now, or maybe I just didn't have the amount of generosity I do now, I don't know, but that's all I gave him. In return I wanted something else. I asked him where I could find a gun. His body shrank and curved away from me, as if he wanted nothing to with me. I thought to myself "I gave you a quarter you dumb fuck and now you won't tell me where I can find a gun??" I mean it works on all those damn TV shows. People know where you can find a gun. This guy either didn't know or wouldn't tell me, and you know what? I could not find a damn place with a gun! It was frustrating. So really damn fuckin' frustrating. I bet now I'll find some or there'll be people out there who will know where I can find one, or will probably have some of their own. Well, I don't need a gun now! Maybe it was good I didn't find one then. Might've gone to jail. In a way maybe God was looking out for me. Who? Yeah, God. I do believe in God, Jesus, and all that stuff. Weird way how I got to thinking about that.

Few years ago, I believed there was a God but I didn't do all that Christianity crap. Primarily because the last church I went to, or the last group of people I was with were kind of elitist almost. They accused me of doing things against God. Sure, after hearing the bit about the gun, you'd agree, right? No, things like yoga or meditating. Those things. So I said to myself "fuck them" and never went back. So a few years ago, I got dumped. I had a good friend, Corrie, actually. She used to work with me and she was worried about me. She said maybe it'd help if I went to church with her. My first thought "fuck that", but you know, something about Corrie's posture. A sad hope. So I thought I'd give it a shot. Then January 8, 2007 I let Jesus into my life and things continued to change and get better. In the February I had three stories published, all within that month which was overwhelming since I was used to maybe one every maybe 3 months or more. I got over being dumped and got my life together. Things have been better ever since, minus the part about my uncle, but even that isn't so bad.

Granted I don't believe in some of the Christian extremist crap you might hear about. Say, I don't know, bombing some abortion clinics. I'm not Christian to say you all suck and are going to hell. I'm Christian because I suck and don't want to go to hell. Simple as that. Though there are some mistakes I still need to rectify. People I need to forgive and all that. That's the hard part. But Christianity is a journey, it's a path. It's not like hey you're Christian, you're fixed! It's more like hey, you're Christian, Jesus has got your back. Which he does. I mean He's not happy with everything I do, but that's it in a nutshell, he has my back.

I know people, actually come to think of, a lot of people who practice tarot reading or some other kind of divination. I don't think they're going to hell. For me though, I stopped tarot reading years ago. Mostly because I wasn't getting the answers I wanted. The answers I was getting was the truth though, and that's something I couldn't or wouldn't accept. Does this mean I won't have my tarot read? Of course not! That's stuff is fun!

There was some bit on TV about delving into the spiritual realm, trying to go to places where you have no idea what's going on. So I'm on the fence about tarot reading. As long as you control the cards and the cards don't control you.

I loved MJ's response when I told her about a friend reading tarot: "Those are evil!" My reply: "No they're not!" and I proceeded to tell her what they were. Funny though, there was a friend I had years ago who thought the same thing or she had someone say something to her like that. Something like "I'm gonna do tarot on you!" Luckily for her, she knew me, and she knew you couldn't hurt someone with tarot cards. The only thing the cards do is tell the truths, and I say truths because it gives you different paths you can take. I am, of course, maybe oversimplifying the tarot. It's really an interesting thing to study. Funny thing is they even have a Christian deck.

So the whole point of this entry before I went on this tangent was I had a good day today. It was cold and when I came home, I had a long nap and when I got up, I heard it snowed. So hopefully, tomorrow will be an even better day. Work situation was worked out. Still taking it a day at a time. The morning was a bit of hell for me, for like two hours, but the rest of it flew by nicely, though unfortunately I had to work 8 hours in the whole day. I don't like the whole 9 to 5 crap. But it went alright. I got to come home, talk a bit online, check email, then sleep. Sleep is what I needed. And surprisingly I feel a whole lot better.

I miss Corrie though, I really do. She was like my rock, though we all know, it's Jesus who's the rock. Wherever she is, God Bless.

Downtown

So I was forced to actually get out of the place today. I wanted to just stay in, do nothing, maybe have a nap, but I had bills to pay. I started off with a walk to the bank. There was no one around except a mother and a baby carriage across the road. I was happy there was only one. Just the one brave soul willing to brave the cold weather that was today. Not that it was extremely cold, but just cold enough not to take your baby out for a stroll. It was a bit cold for me in my leather jacket, but I wanted to wear it. I wanted to keep everyone away again. I wondered what it'd be like to wear black gloves, but then it would feel like I needed a knife to cut someone's throat with. It's one thing to be an outsider; another to be an outsider going to jail. Still, wasn't too bad. Not too many people on the streets, except for the cars, they annoyed me. They think they have the right of way just because they're bigger than I am. I can see that they're hard earned money was well spent in paying for that driver's license of theirs because I could tell they didn't really pass their driver's test. I don't see how idiots like that could pass. Bullies on the road, that's what they are. Just because they own something that can go really fast, they become bullies. One day I'll have to take down their license plate, follow them if I can, then put a note where they're parked saying something like "You're driving sucks bitch!" And I would think about slicing their tires but I wouldn't do that.

Fortunately there was no bank line-up and the banking went quick and easy at the machine. No need to go to any straight-laced suited tellers who think they're so cool just because they work at a bank, think they own your ass just because they can deny anyone having a loan. As if your life is in their hands. As if they're doctors or surgeons. Stupid professionals. They go to school for 4 plus years and all it gives them is a touch of arrogance, bitchiness, and hypocrisy. So polite and straight-laced, until their break when they're smoking up their lungs with that cigarette shit. Yeah, real classy!

The mood of the customers going to the bank was bleak. Maybe as bleak as mine? They just wanted to get in and out, get back home, get out of the weather. I just wanted to get away from them.

I got home, messed around a bit on the computer, had a bit of lunch: leftover meatloaf. Didn't feel like going back out, but then got the courage from a coffee cup. Went downtown. The ride there was alright. I got to read a bit. Paid my bill and then walked to the downtown mall.

As I'm walking I stop at the crosswalk to cross, waiting for the light to change with some other people. Behind me, on the corner is a bum squatting with a hat in his hand saying "spare change" and of course I ignore him just like everyone else. Then I realize the plan I had the other day. The other day I realized that I could be one of those bums. One of those losers with no jobs because I don't play well at my job, or maybe it's a mental illness. I work better alone, away from everyone else. Maybe some of these guys on the street have the same problem. Maybe they could find a job, but they find it hard keeping one because they can't work well with others, because others don't work well with them, or else, they hate the politics like I do. Figure I could be one of these guys. Figure how lucky I am, and I can't even give one lousy dollar? Fuck, I don't even need it. I mean it's just one dollar. Of course, this bum could just take it, add it to his collection, get a bottle of beer or wine and just drink. But it makes him happy. I know what it's like to be at your low and to need something, something just to get you through the night or day and sure alcohol isn't exactly a healthy choice but I hate to see people in pain.

So I heard the bum and proceeded to ignore him, then realized what my plan was. I reached into my back pocket where I had put the dollar I planned to give some bum on the street and put it in the guy's hat. I felt so good. It was unbelievable. Think I said something like "There you go man." He gave me the peace sign and I gave it back to him. Yeah, we know what the world is about. Not like those idiots who frown because they're pasta's overdone or there's tomato in their sandwich and they don't like tomatoes. Are you allergic to it? No, they're not allergic, they just don't like it and they want a new sandwich, like fuck that shit, take out the tomatoes and eat the fuckin' thing because the guy I saw today squatting and begging would probably crave any kind of sandwich. Sometimes I think some of the suits are bums.

I felt good though after giving that guy a dollar. I have 9 more. Parking's a bitch downtown. I think like 5 dollars or more? I don't have a car, I don't need to park, I can afford to hand over a dollar.

Had lunch downtown. It was all right. Got depressed, almost cried in food court. Too much stress in life...

Came back home on the subway. The faces like Ezra Pound's poem. Didn't want to be there. They all got that dead 9 to 5 look. Made it home safely, but it was exhausting.

I get to work tomorrow. Looking forward to coming back home.

Best thing about today, or second best thing was giving that dollar to that bum and him giving me the peace sign. Best thing was talking to MJ and friends. MJ's worried about me, but there's nothing I can do, except try and get better. I know I can get better, it's just going to take time.

Gloomy Day

It's a nice gloomy day outside and I wonder if they'll be out there. The mothers with their baby carriages. Hogging up the sidewalk, with 2 or 3 other kids with her. All of them smiling at me as I walk past, excited at the wonderful season yet to come. Why do they smile at me? Why do they care? Another place, another time, I would probably get a frown. Maybe it's because they are out in the open and having a relaxing walk. I can't begrudge them that. They have their freedom. Mine is within the confines of my place.

I was walking home last night and there was this guy in front of me on the sidewalk, walking slow. They walk slow when the weather's nice, it's kind of irritating. I just want to get home, but this guy's walking slow. I could pass him hurriedly, but I don't want to be rude, so just hang back and walk at his pace too. It's so slow, I think I might fall down and die, that's why I have to keep moving because if I stop I might as well be dead, like an old person in a retirement home playing shuffleboard and having their pee emptied out by an orderly. It's a sickening thought, though one I will have to face eventually I suppose. Maybe when I'm 71 like my uncle? I don't think he had it that bad, but he still had it bad. He took it stride though, I know he did. Which is why he didn't opt for the Chemo. That was brave of him. He knew he lived a full life though. And he did. Kids, grandkids. What more could you ask for? Sure the family had some turbulent times in the early years, but everything worked out for all of them. The kids are all successful: One's a banker, the other a teacher, and the third manages a meat plant. They're pretty up there. Not sure if that is the measure of success, but it is one of those readily seen successes. They have professions.

Of course, my success is not seen. My profession is the writer profession. That's only seen when I'm like Stephen King or someone of that caliber. There is a debate on his quality in literary circles, but the mainstream loves him and he's loaded. My point isn't the quality of his fiction, but in that amount of money he makes. After that, people start thinking you're cool, that your profession is cool. Not the people who want to be writers, just the others; the 9 to fivers, the wage-slaves I suppose or the big CEO's or the stuck-ups, suits. Once you make that big fat cash, it's all of a sudden "Wow, you're a writer, that's awesome!"

So I'm walking home, and eventually the guy keeps walking when I have to turn to go into my place. So thank god for that. Finally I'm in and safe. My meatloaf dinner is waiting for me, and it's good to be sitting down having a salad and meatloaf. A proper dinner for what seems like ages. Not that spaghetti is bad, but I never have time to do a salad or vegetable. I should do that more often.

Today is a busy day. I can't go to the poetry reading. Too much on my mind. So I plan to stay home, but I have bills to pay which means I have to go outside. It's my day off. Wish I had two, but I just had one. Wage-slave life is all I can say to that. I'm hoping they won't be there, the mothers with their baby carriages and they're whiny kids.

The best thing to do is just to do it and not think about it. I can't wait to get back home though. Back to my place, back to my space. Life doesn't suck, just some of the people I bump into that I don't know. Faceless people. "The apparation of the faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black, bough."

Nothing really

I haven't went out today. Didn't really need to. I have the groceries and all I need to do is make the meatloaf. I've been spending time on facebook, or I could see wasting time, but I was using my time on facebook, kicking back, relaxing a bit. I did know I had to get back to writing in here, or writing something. I realized I need to write, it's almost like a drug and I get why some of these guy like Bukowski or I guess even Balzac wrote. I don't know too much about Balzac and one of these days I'll have to read something he wrote, but apparently he used to make strong coffee, like really strong coffee and write in the night. My kind of hero. Bukowski used to drink, like most writers.

Yesterday was okay. I got through it. The weekend was rough and Monday was, I guess, the recovery period. I guess you just take it one day at a time. I realized also that this blog, called Grieve Table, initally about the grief I'm going through about my uncle, can also be extended to the grief I feel about the world because there is a lot of grief. At this moment though, I feel really good, really relaxed. I took this thing on facebook, I guess it's a survey thing. It's about common fears. They list the fears, 62 of them, and you mark off which ones you are afraid of. 1-20 means you're normal; beyond 20, paranoid; 30 or more, you need counseling. I got 35. In a nutshell, if I can remember, I'm afraid of open spaces, closed spaces, heights, men, women, thunder, lightning, the dark, dogs, frogs/toads, snakes, jumping from high places, being touched. So a nice test case for those pill pushers. Here's one funny thing, I'm not afraid of tornadoes. Also another funny thing, those fears I have most of them I conquer. I still have them, but I still conquer. You'll find me walking on a high place; and you'll also find me hanging out with men and women. I might even hang out with a snake.

These shrinks think they have me all figured out. They think I'm some kind of whackjob, and really, I am, but I'm a lot different too. I've been conquering fear all my life.

I wrote in my other blog, the normal one. It really good. That one, a lot of people see; this one, not many. That's alright though. This one is supposed to be cathartic. The weather out there right now, looks really good. Good to me, at least. Looks cloudy and breezy. I like that. It's not sunny. Wait until summer gets here. That's when all the mothers with their strollers start hogging the streets, and I'm not talking nice strollers with the high backs and the nice seat for the kid to be ridden in, I'm talking about these big ass things. They're like those horse carriages back in the old days. Except instead of a horse, it's a mother pushing. Or a father pushing.

I don't get the whole kid thing. That's just simply it, I don't get it. I'm not a parent, so I wouldn't know. Maybe when and if I do become a parent, I'll get it; but for now, it just irritates me. I know it does, but I don't bother them and they don't bother me. It's a free world, they're allowed to roam where they will. In the winter, I'll be happy again when they have to hibernate back into their houses. Don't get me wrong, some kids are great. There are great kids out there that I could hang out with, but some are just brats. I don't like the brats, the little beasts of society that claw and pinch their way to take over the world. It's those that become spoiled little rich kids, and eventually leaders who don't do shit, and sadly there are a lot of those. I wonder if there is a leader who believes in what he or she is doing. I'm negative about the world I guess. Whatever happened to integrity? It's these themes I had going for me in this one novel series I'm writing, but it didn't permeate as well as I wanted it too, which is okay, because sometimes the story takes on a life of its own and you can't force it, have to just let it go where it wants, nurturing it, every step of the way. Of course, if it comes totally off the path, you can either let it, and turn it into something else; or gently bring it back onto course. Maybe the stories are like my kids, and some of the world find them to be brats. That is kind of funny because I do have stories out there that would make people cringe. But really, they're not that bad. Just unusual.

I wonder what this blog will turn into. So far it's been a good day. Tomorrow is my day off. Who knows what I'll do then.

Grocery Store Blues

I went out to buy groceries today. I'm actually going to make dinner, meatloaf. I've always liked meatloaf, but I didn't have all the ingredients I'd need to make it, primarily, the meat. It was weird buying all the stuff. Dry Mustard, bread crumbs. I never heard of dry mustard before, but yes, the grocery store carried that. And who knew there were such things as Graham cracker crumbs. When I found the Graham Cracker crumbs, the box had a picture of a cheese cake. So now I know what you use that stuff for. I mean, I've heard of Graham Crackers, but Graham Cracker crumbs? Of course, it's crumbs from Graham Crackers, duh, but to actually have a box of that stuff, wow. Bread crumbs I've heard of before. That's the kind of stuff you use for shake n' bake. Can you believe it? I'm talking recipes here.

The grocery store wasn't crowded but there was the occasional mother with child. One of them appeared to following me. Of course she wasn't. We just happened to be going down the same aisle. I proved my theory by going to another aisle. The lady didn't follow. Some older lady was hogging up the meat aisle. I saw some firemen make it through and grab their meat. I managed to grab my ground beef when she moved aside a bit. Didn't want to tell her to move. Didn't want to talk to anybody. Just wanted to grab my shit and get out. Like a drug dealer before getting caught by the cops, except in this case, the cops are everyone in that store. Plus old people don't move. They own the joint, so you let them have their space. Besides, if it were prison, you wouldn't shove them aside, unless you wanted to be fucked up the ass. They've been fucked up the ass longer than I have, so now it's their turn or boy they have a strong grip. This is before they take viagra.

So I end up in the grocery aisle and one lady comes behind me. Her husband is there. I don't want to say their losers, but they had the whole grocery shopping look. They too wanted to get out of there, except in this case me and the other lady in front of me were holding up the line. It wasn't bad though, could've been worse. It's always worse in the express lane. Sure it's fast, but the attitude with the people in that line is that it's too slow. Which is why I go in the regular lanes. I don't need that shit, I really don't. I'm just a guy trying to get stuff to make his meatloaf.

The cashier was nice to me and had a warm smile. The bagger appeared soft and gentle, gentle enough that he'd probably hug me. Something I could use. That's what I always looked forward to from Corrie. Whenever I would see her, she was hold me and clutch on to me like there was no tomorrow and I liked that feeling because I'd do the same with her. I considered her my sponsor, my sort of guardian angel. She's hardly around though. Haven't seen her in months.

MJ, yes, is one of those online people, but we've hung around physically. She lives in another town, a better town I think. Though there's that saying, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Her town is quiet, less selfish, more accepting. Could be what I see though, not what actually is, I don't know.

Groceries in hand, I'm heading home and some lady is hanging off to the side like a hooker in daylight except she doesn't have on slutty clothes. She's just there and I wonder if she's one of those survey/quiz people that stop you on the street to see if you have time to take a survey/quiz. I have five bags in my hand, so no I don't. She doesn't stop me though, and I see, in her hand is a small purse. Maybe she's just waiting for somebody. I don't acknowledge her, she doesn't acknowledge me, it's best that way. I just want to be left alone. I don't need people pretending they care.

Like that one lady who ambushed me at work. Girl, but now a lady. Wondering why she doesn't see me anymore. Fuck, they always ambush me at work, I hate that. Why don't those idiots leave me alone? They tend to think that I don't like them or something, and 90% of the time that is the reason! My good friends don't ambush me at work.

I go to work in about 2 hours.

I wondered what my uncle would think as he's going to the grocery store. I think he'd think the same. Just to get in and get out. He's a likeable guy though.

Tim Horton's Sanctuary

On my way to work, I saw a dead cat on the road. At first I was hoping it was a stuffed animal, but I don't think it was. It lay there, motionless, with its eyes open. The cat was white and had brown stripes. It's funny how lifeless it looked, just laying there. I could've just picked it up and thrown it aside, it seemed t be that light, but I left the cat there on the side of the road. It was next to some styrofoam box. Hopefully the cat will be at peace. It looked like it would be. I felt bad I didn't do anything more for it. R.I.P. Cat.

It was an alright day, not too cold, not too hot. I wore my leather jacket to keep everyone away. As I'm walking down a sidewalk these two girls are up ahead holding flowerpots. One is on one side of the sidewalk, the other is on the other side. They're both walking toward me. I go to the right side, hoping the one on my right will go to her friend on my left. She doesn't though, and this probably causes me to walk in between them. Thinking it might be some kind of sick threesome, but these girls are young, probably 15 or 16. Cute, cool, dead. They're wearing black, but not goth style. I walk on the grass to pass them. It's early in the morning, Sunday, 9:35ish. I'm trying to walk briskly so I can make the stop past the bus station. Saves me 10 minutes of waiting at the bus station and plus I'm hoping to catch another bus that comes from there which takes me to my destination but quicker. I miss that one, of course, again. Getting back to the girls. I'm on the grass, and the one girl on my right has her head lowered and looks like she's bobbing her head to some beat and she asks me "Are you down?" She sort of stumbles while she walks and I realize she's probably drunk. She's young though and almost cute and I sort of want to reply, but then I don't want to get involved in that crap. I have too much going on, and don't need to be at their level. Their level isn't exactly lower than mine, but it's different, it's loose, it's without boundaries.

She looks cute to hug though or take care of because I know what it feels like to have nobody take care of you. And she reminds me of Corrie a bit. The almost same physique. The innocent body, almost china doll, but with that defiant look. The girl doesn't give that look, but you can tell the rebel is there. Maybe she's kidding around? Or maybe she just wants to have a good time? I want neither as I continue walking. Like I said, I miss that bus I wanted to catch so I end up catching another one that strangely enough gets me there at the same time I would've got there had I got that quick bus.

I get a coffee at the coffeeshop. There's a nice girl serving and I don't know what to feel. She's not really into serving it seems like, but it's morning, who is? I just get a coffee. Usually I get a muffin as well, but I didn't feel like eating. Stuff going on, nothing I can't handle. There's always something going on, but I get by. The thing with my uncle kind of topples everything down, but the grief for my uncle, I'm dealing pretty well. Strangely enough, it's a catalyst for these words. Maybe I should dedicate them to my uncle? I don't know. My friend works at the coffeeshop, not MJ, another friend. Actually the one who came by my work the other day. She's doing prep work in the kitchen and her back is to me, so we miss each other, again. That's okay though, I wasn't in the mood for full conversation. Oh yeah, once I got my coffee, the server told me to have a good day in that sweet voice she has. Almost like a light soda. I was going to say light perfume, but I don't know what that is. So a light soda, like 7-Up or Sprite.

I sit down at a table and write two poems, then write a bit in my journal. One of the poems is about the dead cat.

After a rough day of being a wage-slave, I'm glad to return home. The bus ride was eventful. Quiet, restful. I read on the bus. The bus driver made me feel warm as I entered the bus. Just her smile and her presence. When I got off at my stop, I was ready to go home. I walked and some girl on a tricycle or something rides by from her house and says "Hi Neighbor!" I'm not her neighbor. I live 4 blocks down. Maybe more. But definitely not her neighbor. I want to ignore her, but she's a kid, and I figure I should be nice. Downaways I lift up my hand a bit for a small wave, but it doesn't register which is fine by me. I wonder how a kid like that can be open to strangers. I'm a stranger wearing a black leather jacket, you're a girl in lovely pink shirt. Does it cross your mind that I could be one of those adult sickos? Now I know why parents say don't talk to strangers, because some strangers are so whacked out of their mind, almost like me. Except I wouldn't be doing that sexual stuff, that's just dumb. I'd probably just scream "fuck off!" from the top of my lungs because they're invading my space. Of course, I don't do that, they're just kids, but I just ignore them. That's if I'm not up to conversing. And usually I'm not. I just want to be on my way. Damn where's the snow? When it's winter these kids don't bother me. There's no soccer ball rolling my way so I'm forced to kick it back to them, when I'd rather just stick a knife in it and hear the pffffffffffft sound as it deflates and see the horrified look on the kid and this crazy fuck who just walked down the street and happened to meet his soccer ball. And then the father would come out all tough like and say "what the fuck you do that for?" My reply: "Because I felt like it bitch, now get back in that house, and shut the damn door, fuck your wife, or do some shit because you stay away from me while I'm trying to walk home!" Sometimes though it's the whiney mother who comes out screaming and being the gentleman I am, I wouldn't smack in the face, but I'd just complain about her letting her kids run around without a leash! Some of these kids should be on a leash! It's summer though or nearing there and you have to put up with some of this shit. Better just ignore these people. Better if winter were here, with snow covering all this happy stuff. Happy happy. People outside drinking beer, enjoying stirring the meat on their barbecues trying to look all cool.

I was just glad to get away from that kid. There'll be more of those as Spring increases and Summer rolls along.

I went to Tim Horton's got a chicken salad combo with a cafe mocha for a drink. The girl was new and she was nice. Probably a lady. She didn't know what a cafe mocha was. Or she guessed. She told me she wasn't sure and asked if it was coffee and hot chocolate, so I said yes. She forgot the topping on it (the whipped cream) but I didn't bother. She was so nice to me, I didn't care that she forgot the topping. Fuck the topping, it's still good mocha. Double chocolate donut since Lent is over. Fat city. The guy at the sandwich counter hands me my chicken salad sandwich to go. He's lightly unshaven, big, but looks nice enough. The whole experience made me feel good. Tim Horton's a good place to go.

Finally, I get home to my safe haven. It makes me like my place even more. Keeps everyone out. Funny thing, I'm at work, and some girl (lady now) I used to go to high school with, she was in my french class. She knows my family. Wants to know why she never sees me, says I should come to one of the gatherings. I let her know that I'll think about it. The gatherings are filled with mostly losers. One of them broke my face. You can't see it when you look at it, but it's there. A doctor noticed it like 9 or 10 years later. Offered for me to see a specialist. I considered it, but then I didn't go, cancelled the appointment because I didn't want to turn into Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson pre-molestation accusations. Could be the cause of my allergies or the more extremity of my dust allergies. It got worse in 1992 the year after I got hit in the face with a soccer ball. Let me rephrase that: It got worse in 1992, the year after someone kicked a soccer ball in my face. I remember who you are, don't worry. And yes, he was at my uncle's funeral. So yeah, me go to one of those gatherings and he might pop up? That'd be a joke. Still I might just go to one of those gatherings. Make an entrance, then leave.

Now I sit here with these thoughts. And you know what? Today I was thinking about how it's only God who has my back. It's not something I can prove, it's just something I know. Maybe more on that another day. For now, I just sit here with these thoughts.

Bus Ride

Yesterday I'm on the bus unfortunately. It was going to work again. It was the day time, but at least it was Saturday. Saturday you get some of the evening customers rolling in. The bus was semi-crowded. Semi-crowded is basically not packed, but most of the seats are taken. I was able to find one of those side seats on the back and it was really comfortable. That was wear I read my book. I enjoy reading on the bus, but I don't enjoy those sad faces or miserable faces I see. Maybe mine is one of those? There was a poem by Ezra Pound:

The apparition of the faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Something like that, might have messed that up real bad and if I did, sorry Mr. Pound. I think that poem was called Station in the Metro. I did it in school years ago...god, like more than 10 years ago that's for sure. 1992 maybe.

This one lady who wasn't sitting too near me. She was in one of those regular facing seats, still near the back and she was frowning and teenagers to her left play fighting. One guy dropped his keys while he was lightly slapped in the back as the slapping teen flew to another seat closer to the back door. The teen who was slapped put his iPod back together (rich spoiled motherfuckers if you ask me, which makes me sound like an old person). I saw his keys, and so did the lady. The lady told him about the keys. He picked it up, then moved to where his friend was. The bus stopped at the bus station and people got off. The bus got less congested but I had to move to one of the facing seats, which was worse for me because I ended up sitting behind the frowning lady and that felt so congested. I was able to read, but it was better in the seat I was previously in. Maybe that's what I get for being greedy? Should've stuck to the side seat. Sure it's weird, but at least it made me feel better.

We're riding along and some lady in a dress, lady with a bad figure, but she was probably old as well, so that's to be expected. Anyway, she was hoeing her lawn or something. That was a sad sight for me. It meant summer was coming. Then I see a couple of guys fixing a fence.

The mall was even worse. Mother's Day capitalism? Consumerism! That's the word I'm looking for. Everywhere stores are telling you what to buy for Mother's Day. And this isn't the regular flowers or jewelry stuff, this is weird shit. Like Aprons which say "Kiss Your Mother" or stuffed animals which aren't bad, but some have writing on it and it's not the traditional "I love Mom". It's something else and I didn't bother looking at it. It was...shameful. What has the world become when people actually buy this shit? They buy it, the mother gets it, happy for a day, then tosses it.

Christmas I can sort of understand, but Mother's Day? Whatever happened to just getting a card for your mother, or flowers or candy...or a mug which says I love Mom, or even taking your mother out for dinner? I mean are you so strapped for time that you have to buy one of these lame gifts?? I think you are. Nowadays people don't have a brain, the stores tell you what they know you should buy. Not think you should buy. Don't be so complacent, these guys are brainwashers. There's a science to this stuff, they do studies. Don't blame the little sales clerk in The Bay who thinks he or she is hot shit just because he or she is working in a respectably known sales outlet. It's the head head people. These sales clerks are just what Bukowski refers to as "wage-slaves". 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. Though nowadays people almost work 7 days.

Other than that, the ride home was decent and then once I got home I got to really get cracking on writing my script (for Script Frenzy).

And now, I'm back to today where I have to get ready for work. Today is Sunday. As far as my uncle goes, I hadn't really thought about him. I guess that's good, means things are getting better.

Leather Jacket

I donned my black leather jacket today. The weather was right for it, and it wasn't exactly cold enough to wear my winter jacket. One thing I like about snow and winter is nobody is outside. They're all in their houses, and they leave you alone. Now with Spring along, and soon to be Summer, people are outside, and some of them even want to say hi to you, or wonder how you are. I'll tell you how I am. I feel miserable. My uncle's gone, I feel like a part of me has been ripped out by a bear's claw or something. Sure my uncle and I weren't close but we weren't estranged either.

After a donut and coffee with my dad, I headed to work. I was hungry though, and I could've got something to eat. I was starving almost. Just a burger or even a muffin. But the problem is some of those places know me. They see me almost everyday, so of course they'd know me. Then they'd ask that dreaded question: How are you? I don't know. I don't feel great, but I don't want you hugging me or want your pity. I don't even know you. If you really knew me, you'd know I was a writer. You wouldn't ask me why I wasn't married. You wouldn't even gasp at the thought of me working in the same place for over ten years. Oh, and you wouldn't ask me how school was. I don't go to school anymore. Haven't been there for nine years, and I guess I have the Mark Twain saying "don't let school interfere with your education."

It'd be easy to answer the "How are you?" question if someone I knew wasn't dead. I mean, what do you want me to do? Say, "I'm rather sad actually because my uncle passed away on March 31st and I feel like a part of me has been ripped out, how are you?" I mean how would you respond to that. I mean fuck, I just want my burger and want to just sit in some place alone and eat it. Sure, now that I've lost someone, everybody wants to be my friend, everybody wants to talk to me. People actually care how I'm doing. They didn't care when I got something published or when I wrote a poem and thought it was awesome.

Maybe they see something in my eyes? Maybe they see a sadness and want to help me. Seems like everybody wants to help me. Some want to marry me off, others want to give me food. I'm too thin for them. First of all, I don't want to get married to one of your loser daughters; and second, I cook my own food. I believe in the whole you reap what you sow kind of thing. I mean work is important, and if you want to live, you have to work at it. I'm not going to sit on my ass and hope somebody gives me a handout. My parents, on the other hand, yes, they provide me with food sometimes. That's a given, they're parents.

So yes, today I didn't get anything to eat before work. I didn't pass out though. Once at home, I dived in to some salmon sandwiches. The salmon was canned and my mother had given me those. Thanks mom.

Yesterday, I was depressed and I managed to get in two cups of chicken cup o soup. That really hit the spot. It was like a warm friend coming over for dinner. I slept in today. Woke up at 11:30am. Didn't do much.

A friend came by work. A good friend. Couldn't say how miserable I was. Actually threw up about a half hour before she came. She asked how I was. I said I was good, which wasn't a total lie. I was good because she showed up. It's always good to see a good friend.

After work, I had donned the leather jacket again, black. I felt I was brooding, felt dark, maybe almost like Batman but without saving anybody. Just walking in the night. The night felt alive to me, felt real. The day...I can't go out in the day. People. Smiling, people.

I know this grief thing is supposed to get better, but I don't know. Maybe it will? Having some food in my belly is a start.

Tonight an online friend talked to me. Asked me how I was and I said I was a bit better which was true. I don't mind her asking me how I am, or even MJ. Those two know me. I think that was the highlight of my day. Actually MJ texted me today. Asked me how my day was going, I replied "It's going alright." In other words, could be better. I wish I could smile more, but there doesn't seem much to smile at right now. My life isn't a total wreck, I know that, so I'm not going to go slitting my wrists or anything like that.

Bedtime soon for me. I'm still hungry.

March 31st - Day it happened

It was Tuesday after 10pm and I just came home from work. It was a pretty good day, of course it was still winter. Technically getting into spring, but winter still had a few things to say. I took off my wintercoat, hung it up, then checked my messages on my phone. My mother left a message for me, asking me if I wanted to come over for dinner either Wednesday or Thursday. Thursday I was working a bloody day shift and knew I'd be tired probably, or just wanting to stay home. Wednesday, I had planned on going to a poetry reading. The poetry reading, I should say. Happens every fall and spring. Plus April 1st would be opening night. I didn't have a poem ready, but I knew I'd be doing one the next day. Something in her voice.

Now, I already knew my uncle had cancer. I think I found out in February, it was pretty recent, that's for sure. But he was doing fine, then March 27th my dad had send me a text message telling me my uncle was in palliative care. I didn't know what the fuck that was. I figured that just meant he's back in the hospital getting some kind of care for cancer people. I debated going to the hospital, but I thought I wouldn't. I have a thing against his wife, a 10 year old grudge I suppose. Then Monday March 30th, I happen to bump into my mother on the way to work and she told me she went to visit my uncle, and for some reason I asked which hospital. So she told me, told me what the room number was. I resolved to see him on April 1st. Yes, poetry day. It was my day off, and the least I could do was pop in for like a minute, then head out. I never really had anything against the guy, he was a really nice person. I'd just be in and out, didn't have to talk to anybody.

So flashforward back to the phone message my mom leaves. She was wondering if I wanted to come over for dinner. My first thought was no because it's opening night! Something in her voice though, and it was then and there, I made a choice. A choice which sort of stunned me. I mean I could've had dinner on Thursday and still made the poetry reading. A part of knew though, I just needed to be with family. So I called her and said I could come over.

Next thing I do is check my cell. There's a message on it. It's voice mail. It's from my dad. It says my uncle died at 5:45pm. I thought "well, I don't have to go through the stress of having to see him" but I was also...stunned, shocked. He was just in the hospital maybe Friday or Saturday and now the guy's dead? I didn't understand it. I mean I knew he'd die. One, he's 71 years old; and two, he has cancer. I mean he's lived a full life. I mean if he was 30 I might be more surprised.

The next day I go for dinner to my mother's. She heard about my uncle as well. We don't say much about it, but enjoy a nice dinner at home. It's just the two of us and it feels homely. If that's the right word. Feels like I hadn't been there in a long time (which is almost true, last time was Christmas).

Work the next day was hell for me, obviously. I didn't tell anyone. What do you say? I chose not to say anything. There were times years ago when I could say something, but those co-workers are gone. Now I have a completely new batch. It was the bloody day shift. Went through it all right.

Came home. Only person I told really was a good friend of mine, someone I could turn to, someone who's been through this numerous times she could probably get a doctorate in death, or dealing with grief. MJ's dealt with this stuff for years it's crazy.

Facebook. Everybody has facebook. Nearly everybody. So what do I do? I tell my facebook people on Friday. The people on my facebook are people I can turn to. And boy, when I put down my uncle died, they sure did turn to me. Sent condolences and kind words right and left, it was hard to duck as the kind punches kept coming. Almost knocked me out in a gush of loving tears. I'm lucky to have such good friends.

Here's the clincher: One of them happens to know a co-worker. Then my work knows. Saturday they gave me a card. Saturday was the funeral. I didn't go to the funeral. I didn't want to go. Too many people, some I didn't want to associate with, and also it would've been too emotional. Maybe some of those idiots would fault me for not going to the funeral? I couldn't care less. I made my choice. My father had showed me the nice ad in the paper they put. I was wondering if I could probably send flowers. So after we had coffee, I headed to a newspaper stand and bought a newspaper quickly before work. Flipped through to find the ad, found out, and saw they weren't excepting flowers but donations. Fuck that donation stuff. I mean I do like donating, but I was hoping to send flowers to be a presence at the funeral. Sure I wouldn't be able to go, but my flowers could and it would've been a good gesture.

Later that week my eyes hurt. I never knew your eyes could hurt. I mean I heard someone say that their eyes hurt from crying and I thought they were crazy or doing some kind of hyperbole kind of shit, but no, that's seriously true. Your eyes can hurt from crying and they did hurt. I could handle the pain though, but it was cool in a way. I never experienced that before.

Things were fine afterwards. Let's see, we're heading into Easter Weekend. Boss was out of town, we managed all right. I was back in the game. Easter Sunday got to kick back, finally a day to myself free from worry. Boss back on Tuesday.

Then yesterday. Fuck was yesterday hard. I don't know why. Poetry reading. I hadn't attended for two weeks. The first because of my mother's dinner. The second because I worked. So I go there, but I didn't feel like going at first, thought maybe I should just stay home and rest, collect myself more. I was there though, and felt so false. Felt like I was crumbling inside and all these people are giving me warm welcomes but I just wanted to run away and hide in some corner and I didn't know why. One guy I knew, a good friend as well (on facebook too, but I guess he didn't see the post) asked me how I was doing. I was doing great. I was reading a lot, doing some 50 book challenge. We talked about that. I read my poem to the audience. I was glad to get back home though. It was a great night, but I just couldn't feel it, didn't feel it. Almost like watching this great movie at the movie theatre and then some idiot starts talking on his cell phone. That's what it was like. This time, this idiot was telling me "Your uncle's dead, your uncle's dead." I was trying to tell that voice to fuck off.

I don't think I was ready to go out. I mean earlier in the day I had to go grocery shopping and that was primarily to re-stock my espresso.

I can now understand why people don't want to attend a party after a person has died, or a loved one has died I should say. They're just not up to it. At least not yet. That's how I feel. I mean I'm totally welcome to go to the poetry reading next week. They'd welcome me with open arms, but am I ready or brave enough to take my arms from clutching myself and clutch onto the others for dear life. Can I really do that? I feel like if I let go myself I'll fall, and I don't want to fall. I don't want to fall down. Worse, I don't want them to see me crumbling, fumbling, crying like some crazy shit who's just done too much drugs and should be tossed out of the building for being a nuisance. Of course, they wouldn't think that.

And on the other hand, I should go. Get out of the house sort of thing. MJ says that's a good idea. She's nice like that, not pushy. Has those welcoming arms. I could fall into those arms, even though, it's just as hard, but we've known each other for so many years, and heck, I've helped her through rough times, she's helped me. It'd be weird not falling into her arms, though there are times it's hard. Hard to talk to her. Not because it's her, just because I don't know the words, don't know where to start, and the funny thing is, she's felt that way before and my advice to her: Start from the beginning.

So I suppose that's what I'm doing. This blog will contain my grief. I plan to talk about my grief for a year. I'm hoping before that year that things get a lot better for me. Will I delete this blog after a year? I don't know. It's now April 17th 12:38am.

I already have a blog, but I figured I needed to be more in depth with this. It would also be cathartic.