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| Another short Story |
| 06.29.04 (10:55 pm) [edit] |
6-29-04
Hello, all
Today I had my long-awaited psych eval. The doctor seemed to be in his late 60's, and was sharp as a tack.. He’s clearly on the ball, not one stuck in what he learned in med school. I’ve tried to explain what my symptoms are to several people, and, because it’s kind of strange, it takes awhile to explain. Nor with him. He got everything I was saying right away.
He upped my meds from150 to 225 mgs. Of Effexer, and I’m really, really, really disoriented, so if this entry is odd, well, forgive. Its like being drunk without the fun part. I talked to Sonja for a long time after work. I thought that I had posted this, but I only wrote it, so now I’m re-writing it.
I had a couple of bites of black beans that I cooked, but nothing else today. I don’t have to worry about the bulimia for the next few days, because with the increase in dosage, I’ll be too nauseated to eat. That’s it. I’m too twisted to write more & what I wrote earlier is incoherent. Thanks for talking me through a really weird couple of hours, Sonja, you’re a peach.
Oh, If you post, check back. I ALWAYS respond to posts. Please post.
Thor
The Romantic
She arrived more than half an hour later than him, as usual because of her commute, and let herself in with the key he had given her a few weeks before.
She called to him and he answered back. She followed the voice to the dining room where he was setting the table. She hugged him from behind and kissed the back of his neck.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Can’t you smell it? It’s your favorite. I even made those rolls that you like.”
She explained that she had caught cold and couldn’t smell a thing. He looked into her bloodshot eyes, poured her a glass of wine, and told her to go lay down and wait for dinner. She put Marvin Gaye on the stereo, swallowed a couple of Tylenol, kicked off her shoes, and curled up on the couch beneath a throw blanket. Popping a eucalyptus cough drop in her mouth, it occurred to her that he was using the fine china that he had inherited, and she wondered what the special occasion was.
He put dinner on the table, pulled the rolls from the warmer, and lit the candles. Originally, he had an entire evening planned. He had stopped by an “adult gift shop” on the way home, and bought bath beads, “love oil”, and edible panties. The plan was: a romantic dinner, a candle-lit bath, then fun and frolic in the bedroom. She had been complaining that their sex life was in a rut, dull, predictable. Tonight was supposed to change all that, add some spice.
But now that she was sick, he thought it best they just relax, watch some tv, and turn in early. He woke her with a kiss, but pulled back sharply, smelling the fumes of the cough drop.
“Hi,” she said, opening her eyes, smiling, stretching.
“Hi,” he replied, and tried to smile, but only accomplished a nervous grimace-grin. “Dinner’s ready.”
As long as he could remember, he had despised the smell of cough drops, and never, ever used them himself. The medicinal smell conveyed sickness, bacteria, contagion. Since childhood, he turned his head away from the smell, held his breath, turned his back. The smell meant germs. No smell, no germs. It wasn’t logical, he knew, but it was one of those silly childhood things that hang on.
All through dinner, she was asking why the big dinner, what the special occasion was. His answers seemed incomplete, evasive, and she was certain that he was hiding something. He kept assuring her that he was only trying to be romantic, spontaneous. He didn’t want to tell her that her cold had delayed a night of passionate sex and make her feel like she had spoiled things. Just cuddling on the couch would be fine. The goodies could wait.
She was certain that something was very amiss. He would get lost in thought and not answer when she asked what was on his mind. And the way his head turned away when she spoke to him. Very odd.
If he hated cough drops from childhood, the previous year had driven the point home. All through dinner, his mind kept drifting to thoughts of his mother, especially those last few months when he had moved her in with him so that he could take care of her. Disease had ravaged her lungs, and her every breath was a struggle. She popped cough drops like candy, keeping her sinuses open, coughing up mucus, phlegm, blood. Then a question would bring him back to the moment. What was he thinking about? “Nothing”, or “work”, he’d reply, not wanting to discuss his mother. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be just for them.
After dinner, he cleared the dishes and they retired to the living room for tv and cuddling. She checked the tv listings, he checked the answering machine. The first one was from Gary, saying Saturday’s game would be at his house. The second said: “Hi. This is Jenny. You were really sweet. I’ve changed my mind. Call me. Can’t wait to hear from you. My number is...”.
Trying not to sound too jealous or possessive, she asked about the “Jenny” call. A client from work, he said. He had quoted her some figures that she thought were too high, but apparently, she changed her mind. Why her phone number? She works out of her home. Why did she call him at home? His number is on his business cards. She was skeptical, but decided not to press it further.
They sat together on the couch, but as she sucked on her cough drops, one after the other, he subconsciously began to slink from her. They went to bed early, and he only kissed her goodnight on the cheek. Instead of falling asleep spooning around her like usual, he was now facing away.
He drifted off in minutes, but her worried mind wouldn’t let her sleep, despite the NyQuil. She got up to get her book from the dresser, and she saw it. On the floor between his dresser and the wall was a bag from The Playground. She looked inside to what he had bought. He never bought things like that for her. No creams or oils, and certainly nothing as exotic as edible panties!
Suddenly, it all became clear: this was for Jenny, from the answering machine. All evening he had been trying to break up with her. Some people do it in fancy restaurants to avoid a scene. He had fixed an extravagant dinner to end it with her, but had somehow lost his nerve. That’s why he had been so cold, so distant, so lost in thought. He had been thinking of her.
She grabbed her clothes and dressed in the bathroom so as not to wake him. She returned and cleaned out “her” drawer, the one he had cleared for her. Gathering her things - toothbrush, a few pairs of panties, a beige slip, cut-off shorts and a t-shirt, she put the key on the dresser and left.
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| De-Bunking Atrology |
| 06.29.04 (12:02 am) [edit] |
6-28-04
Hi again
I haven’t thrown up today, but my chest hurts from how frequently I have been the last month or so. Stripping the lining from my esophagus is what put me in the hospital in April, and I can feel the damage accumulating again.
Another component of my OCD that I didn’t mention is: teeth chattering. Here’s how it works: I’ll hear a part of a sentence, usually a prepositional phrase, and I’ll have to chatter my teeth the same number of syllables. Not hard or loud, just softly and over and over again.
I had a long phone conversation tonight with a friend. We grew quite close very quickly. She was crying because she’s going out on a date with someone and would rather be dating me. I was flattered but bewildered. I’m not used to someone feeling that strongly for me, though I do feel similarly toward her. I understand me falling for someone, but fail to see what I have to offer that would attract someone to me for more than a short fling. I’m not talking about low self-esteem here, just low self-efficacy.
I’m tired & want to go to bed. I’ll write more extensively later this week. One of my jobs is as a a staff writer for a magazine. So, today’s post is an article that I wrote. I wrote this, but they refused to publish it, because it’s an attack on astrology & the magazine had an astrology page & didn’t want to offend the author. Pussies. Anyway, enjoy. I’ll be back to fiction tomorrow.
Please keep posting comments. I love it. On previous posts, you’ll find my email address. Don’t be afraid to use it.
Thor
The Warping of Astrology
"Lady luck is in your corner" "High stakes ahead" "Financial concerns are the trend for today" "Travel is on the horizon" Sound familiar? Open any newspaper in the country and you'll find some huckster peddling generic advice under the guise of horoscope, "predicting" your future.
How did this happen? How did we come to have such hokum, or, in carnival terms, humbug, be so pervasive in our society? To those of you who take offence at my suggesting that astrology isn't real, read on, I'll explain.
I have friends who are True Believers in astrology, and we have arguments about it all the time. Once I can pin them down to exactly what sort of “power” the stars can have over us, it always comes down to gravity. Their argument goes along the lines of: the moon has gravitational pull, even on a glass of water, and our bodies are 70% water, which explains the higher statistics of births, crimes, etc. during full moons. Stars are so much bigger than the moon, therefore…
Which is where that argument falls off. You see, although it is true that stars are infinitely bigger than the moon, they are also so far away that my body right now has more gravitational pull on you than even the nearest star, except the sun, of course. If gravity really has an effect on us at birth, then you should find out where the doctor who delivered you was standing.
What's more, remember that stars are so far away that the light we see is from where they were years, even millennia before. And stars move. But let's back up. First, it's important to understand where astrology came from.
Astrology had the same roots as ancient astronomy; as a means to tell time. Before there was January, March, July, there was Gemini, Taurus, Aquarius. Then, certain very perceptive people began noticing that there were certain things that you could glean about people from the time of year of their birth.
This must have seemed mystical at the time, but with greater understanding of child psychology these days, we know that the first 6 months of a child's life is crucial. Remember, we're talking thousands of years ago, so several factors apply that are not so much of a concern as they are today. The amount of daylight in the summer vs. winter, for example, as we now know about seasonal lack of sunlight depression. Also, there's the type of food available in different times of year, amount of heat/cooling available, etc. The list is longer than I can imagine, not being an archaeologist.
Somehow, this transmogrified into the stars having some effect over or behavior instead of just marking time. This is now a demonstrable fallacy. You see, the horoscope that you see in the newspaper is based on were and when the stars were in the sky well over 2000 years ago. Remember, stars move.
The zodiac signs are in a line that the Earth follows around the sun, and now, not only are the zodiac signs no longer where and when it is reported in the papers, in fact there are now 13 signs, not 12. The constellation Ophiuchus, the serpent bearer, has inserted itself in the line. Here is how it shapes up, the real times vs. what we're told in the papers:
SIGN GIVEN DATES ACTUAL DATES
Capricorn Dec 22 – Jan 19 Jan 19 – Feb 15
Aquarius Jan 20 – Feb 19 Feb 16 – Mar 11
Pisces Feb 20 – Mar 20 Mar 12 – Apr 18
Aries Mar 21 – Apr 19 Apr 19 – May 13
Taurus Apr 20 – May 20 May 14 – Jun 19
Gemini May 21 – Jun 20 Jun 20 – Jul 20
Cancer Jun 21 – Jul 22 Jul 21 – Aug 9
Leo Jul – 23 – Aug 22 Aug 10 – Sep 15
Virgo Aug 23 – Sep 22 Sep 16 – Oct 30
Libra Sep 23 – Oct 23 Oct 31 – Nov 22
Scorpio Oct 24 – Nov 22 Nov 23 – Nov 29
Ophiuchus Nov 30 – Dec 17
Sagittarius Nov 23 – Dec 21 Dec 18 – Jan 18
This means that about 1 in 20 of us are born under the sign of Ophiuchus and don't even know it. Which actually means nothing unless you believe in astrology and newspaper horoscopes, in which case, you've been believing people who either have lied to you all your life about the zodiac signs, or who are too stupid to know when the astrological dates actually are.
In either case, your choice of advisors is iffy at best. But let's go back to the real reason for astrology: keeping time. Again, because of the time of birth, there were certain inferences that one could make based on birth times and sociological effects that time of year had on primitive societies.
What if this is still true? What if, just as cold, light, and food resources were major factors for man 2500 years ago, there are things that tend to affect modern children? Does being born in the spring alter one's basic perspective due to sunlight, being outdoors, etc.? Does it affect a child to be born in the fall when their birthday occurs during the holidays, with everyone feeling warm, cheerful, familial? Does a birthday during the school year change ones perspective as opposed to during the summer when your birthday isn't recognized in front of the entire class and it's harder to gather all your friends for a birthday party?
These are the sort of sociological things that we should look at, study, and spend our time and money on, not whether Venus is rising in Scorpio's 3rd house. When we understand more clearly the things that shape us, then maybe asking someone their sign will really mean something.
Until then, if you still want old advice that means something, try Poor Richard's Almanac.
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| Bad Poetry |
| 06.28.04 (11:15 pm) [edit] |
6-27-04
Hello all.
First things first: My bulimia log. Today, I ate a small piece of lasagna, early afternoon. So far, so good. Then, on my way back from work, I stopped at convenience store for gas, and they were giving away doughnuts. I ate two. Then by the time I got home, the grease from them was sitting heavy on my stomach and I threw them up.
I had a busy day, my daughter spent the night last night, I cleaned house, and she had her first piano recital this afternoon, then I went to work. Not much time for anything else, and now its very late, so I’m going to bed. I’ll talk more about my life/history/mental illness later this week, I promise.
In the meantime, here is a poem that I wrote about a year ago, and it illustrates why I no longer write poetry: I’m no good at it. But, my friend Sonja liked it, so I’ll post it. Here ya go.
As always, please post comments, or email me. I’m so grateful for the responses so far. Oh, one other thing, I now have several links to other blogs, mostly very political people. Please check them out, become aware of what’s going on in this world, & VOTE!
Thor
A Poem
I want to make love to you
And then again
And then again tomorrow
I want to lay next to you
Sweating, breath returning to normal
I want to sleep in the bed you’re in
One arm casually draped over
Feeling the steady rise and fall
Of your body
I want to take hot summer
Afternoon naps with you
The ceiling fan not doing its job
Two fingers barely touching an arm
Because its too hot to cuddle
But too good laying together
Not to touch
I want to hear you enter the shower
My eyes full of soap
And see you as I rinse off
You, there, waiting your turn
Under the spray
Your hair all
First-thing-in-the-mornin g mussed
And pillow lines down one cheek
I want to fix you tea
As you huddle under a blanket
On the couch, watching TV, sneezing,
Using up boxes of tissues
I want to see your face
Looking at me That Way
When I don’t expect it
And don’t deserve it
I want to hear you belch
Unexpectedly
Over pizza and beer
And watch your surprised expression
I want to speak in
Half-sentences
Playing the knowing game
That lovers do
I want to hear old stories
Of your childhood
As your voice grows softer
Merging with the crickets
And turns into the soft
Snoring rhythm
That I love
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| Today's Short Story |
| 06.26.04 (10:26 pm) [edit] |
6-26-04
Hello, all
First things first: the bulimia-log: Today, I had a breakfast of broccoli, cauliflower, and chopped carrots in a cheese sauce. It wanted to come back up, but I fought it and all was well. I should have taken the sign and not eaten again today, but I got hungry again about 6:00 and had some refried black beans on crackers. Not so lucky there. They came back up about half an hour later.
I went to the library this afternoon and got some material on bulimia and OCD so that I can learn a bit more about my condition. I also got Doctor Sax by Kerouac because Supertoy said that one of my stories was reminiscent thereof (Thank you for the compliment, Supertoy). I haven’t read that one yet, but I just checked it out, so...
I have my daughter tonight, so I’ll keep my blog short tonight I’ll write more about my mental health status tomorrow. Thanks to everyone for reading & your support. Please post ANY comments you may have about my blog or if my stories do anything for you.
My apologies for this story, though. It’s the most cheerful story I’ve ever written, and I’m posting it for my best friend, Kari. She always says that I write too dark, and always wants happy stuff out of me. This is the happiest story I’ve written, but it’s also weak as hell. It’s not one of my favorites. Call it an exercise in description, which I’m also told is sorely lacking in my other stuff.
HOWEVER: two quick notes about this story: in the story, I gave the girl Kari’s hair, and my daughter’s eyes. Enjoy, and if you don’t, don’t hold it against me, I warned you. A better one tomorrow, I promise.
Thor
The Couple
Jeremy rang the little bell of the apartment with some trepidation. Jacqueline. What was he doing with someone named Jacqueline? Jeremy and Jacqueline; that’s six syllables between them. It sounded like a couple from a country club. What would they name their kids: Penelope and Alistair, or Skip and Buffy? And yet, there he stood, bottle of wine in one hand, flowers in the other.
He had gone to the florist, and asked for roses. Then, he thought, roses were too heavy-handed for a third date. Daisies were too light, daffodils too plain. The clerk, with decreasing patience, suggested carnations. In the end, he settled for a mixed bouquet of various flowers and colors, which, to him, looked like it belonged in some old lady’s house.
Jacqueline opened the door, and the sight of her could not have been more striking if it were a blow to the head. He couldn’t believe that someone this beautiful was real, much less dating him. Her skin was light brown, the color of coffee with too much cream. Her eyes, at first look, you’d call green. But, on closer inspection, the only way to really appreciate her eyes was to start in the middle. Her pupils were large pools of India ink, deep enough to dive into. Shooting out from the pupil, like rays from the sun, were beams of brown exploding into a sea of steel green; the color of your favorite park on a cloudy, late autumn day when colors belie their original intent.
But it was her hair that really got him. Her hair was a mass of long, thick curls that would not, could not, be tamed. It was a medium brown that reminded him of Bert Lahr’s mane in The Wizard of Oz. The closest you could come to controlling it was how she now had it: in a ponytail that was slung over one shoulder, cascading down her breast. This completed the cowardly lion image in how the tail would swing around of its own accord to tickle his face.
She thanked him for the flowers and told him they reminded her of bouquets that her grandmother always keeps in her house. He smiled.
He presented her the bottle of sangria, imported from Italy in a triangular bottle. He knew they would be eating Italian, and the man from the liquor store said that it would be perfect.
He complimented her on the spaghetti, but she pointed out that it was linguini noodles. They hold the sauce better. The meatballs reminded him of his mother’s meatloaf, and, in concert with the sauce, the flavors blended into what was easily the best Italian meal of his life. She explained that it was her Grandmother’s recipe, straight from Italy, which was why she was so pleased that the wine, too, was imported Italian. The man at the liquor store was right, it was perfect.
She spoke extensively about her family, She told stories from the old country, her grandparents’ immigration, and of her extended family. He was impressed at her history. He envied it. He knew that his family was Irish and German, but had no real connection, no solid family history.
With dinner over and plates stacked in the dishwasher, he was sent to the living room to start a fire. This was definitely his territory, as all through boy scouts, he was always the first to get a fire going. He settled on the couch, and she came in with a tray of apples, cheese, and Chardonnay. He uncorked the bottle while she sliced the fruit and cheese. He was delighted at how well the tastes went together.
They fed each other and laughed like lovers. She asked about his siblings, and he told her he was an only child. She told him about her brother, (Jonathan) and sister, (Juliet). All he could think of was that if they all got together, it would be twelve syllables worth of names in one room. Conversations would take forever.
She asked if he wanted to play chess. He said yes, and giggled.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
He explained that, in school, they called it “chest”, making adolescent jokes about getting girls to play “chest”.
“Well, if you play well, you just might get to play ‘chest’,” she said coyly.
“Does that mean I should win or lose?” he asked.
“It means you should play well,” she said, and pulled out the hand-carved chess set that her father had made for her. She opened with her knights, preparing to defend against a Fool’s Mate, which he soon understood, as she began moving her pawns, exposing King and Queen.
While they played, they talked about chess strategies, pets they had had, and travel. She said that she had a book of National Parks, marked the ones she had visited, and said that she wanted to see them all. He said that he always wanted to go to Greece.
In the end, she won with a triumphant “checkmate!”, and jokingly accused him of throwing the game. The truth was, he hadn’t seen it coming, and was only two moves from the win himself, and showed her so.
They put the pieces back in their drawers and finished the wine. She challenged him to a rematch.
“No, thanks. It’s getting late. Besides, we’ve already put the pieces away.”
“I was thinking about a change in venues,” She said with a wide smile. “How about a game of chest?” She stood and sauntered toward the bedroom door.
“Jeremy and Jacqueline,” he thought. “Maybe it doesn’t sound so bad after all.”
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| more history/ short story |
| 06.26.04 (12:33 am) [edit] |
6-25-04
Hello.
Well, first things first:
I had no breakfast today, usually don’t. I’m a vegetarian, and had a BBQ tofu burger for lunch, but that came back up almost immediately. Then I had a sandwich for dinner, and that stayed down. All right, enough of today’s bulimia-log. Continuing my mental health saga:
One of my two brothers committed suicide when I was 11. I myself have made 2 serious attempts. At about 16 or 17, I swallowed a fistful of various pills and drank them down with as much beer as I could swallow. I woke up, many hour later, in a pool of my own vomit. I guess I was drunk and threw up. Then about 4 yrs. ago, I headed to the west coast on my motorcycle. I was intending to drive off the California Coast highway. My bike broke down in Idaho.
I have an intricate game that I play in my head as part of my OCD. It is tantamount to syllable counting, but it involves putting syllables into patterns, like street lights, stop lights, the orifices in the head, etc. It’s very time consuming, distracting, emotionally draining, and frustrating. It is a non-stop thing.
I have an 8 yr. old daughter that I treasure. She’s the only reason I’m still breathing: because I don’t want to saddle her with the burden of a parent’s suicide.
In the last few years, the depression had become overwhelming, like a hunk of obsidian in my chest. In the last year, my bulimia has gotten WAY, dangerously out of control, and the OCD has a more interesting life that I do. I really don’t want to live this way for the next few decades; it’s unbearable. If it weren’t for hope that I have from my therapist and promising new marvels in psycho-chemistry, I would do it, daughter or no. But I have hope. And people who love & support me. I owe so much to the love from my father, one of my sisters, my remaining brother, (who I respect beyond words), and my best friend Kari.
One of my greatest joys is writing, as you can see from my daily short stories. I have one novel completed, am working on two others, and two plays as well. I have three other novels in the back of my head knocking, waiting to come out.
I write in my head, then put it down longhand, then transcribe it to computer. How I write is this: I don’t think of interesting characters or situations to put them in. In fact, one could say that I don’t write at all. It’s more like I watch these characters lives, then write down what I saw, like transcribing a TV show. My first novel was written WAY out of order: chapter 14, then 7, then 39, then 2, etc. I often didn’t understand what a character was doing or why until an earlier chapter appeared in my head & it explained it all. It’s very odd, from my point of view, and I have no control over it; no pondering what to do next or how to get them out of a situation. It really feels more like reporting than writing. All I have to do is choose the right words to describe it.
Anyway, enough for now. Here’s today’s short story. Enjoy. As always, post replies or email me at:
my_colours@hotmail.com
Thanks for reading,
Thor
Truth and Beauty
“So is this ‘truth’ or ‘beauty’?” she asked with a thick French accent.
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning away from his charcoal.
“I’ve taken a few art classes myself, you know. My art teacher kept saying that art is about either truth or beauty, and sometimes both. So what will this be, ‘truth’ or ‘beauty’?”
“Beauty. There is no truth in art,” he said, and continued to sketch.
“That’s not what my art teacher said.”
“That’s not what a lot of people say, but that’s the way it is. Art is there to be beautiful, not truthful.”
“Goya’s work wasn’t beautiful,” she retorted as a slight pout appeared on her lips. “And he was a great artist.”
“Goya didn’t tell the truth. People running, screaming in torment? That was, at best, memory filtered through imagination. You think they stopped in mid-scream to pose for that? That’s not truth. That’s the horrific made beautiful through the skill of a talented artist.
“Monet did the same thing, sort of. He took an ordinary garden and made it amazing on the canvas.”
“How can you be so cynical?”
“Because,” he said, sighing. “Because, my dear, we, in this life, are doomed. Doomed to want what we can’t have and only be offered that which we do not want.”
“What are you talking about, ‘doomed’? I thought we were talking about truth and beauty/”
“I’m telling you the truth about beauty. The human condition is wanting what we can’t have and the only things we can get, we don’t desire. As an artist, we present the truth about beauty, which is that it is desirable, but unattainable. We want the hearts-and-flowers, the happily-ever-after, but that’s not real, it’s not the truth. What we desire but can’t have is therefore relegated to paintings and fairy tales.
“So now I’m going to paint you, a beauty, which is what I can’t have.”
“You can have me,” she said seductively.
“No, I can only rent you. But that’s okay, I’m painting beauty, not truth. Take the Mona Lisa, for example. She was most likely a prostitute like yourself, but Louie the Fourteenth fell in love with her, with the fantasy of her. Hung her at the foot of the bed. And why? Because that’s all he, or any of us can keep: the fantasy, the illusion. And that’s the truth.”
“Mona Lisa was a prostitute? How disappointing,” she said, and pouted again.
“Exactly my point. We want the beauty, not the truth. That’s what art is all about. That’s why I paint, because I can’t have.”
“And now you’re painting me.”
“Right. And the Mona Lisa is one of the most famous and expensive paintings in the world, so you’re in good company, sweetheart.”
She scratched her ear, then returned her hand to her lap.
“No, a little more to the left,” he corrected her. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“So what is it that you want but can’t have?” she asked.
“I want you not to be a prostitute, and to fall in love with me. I want to rob a bank and get away with zillions, just like in the movies. I want my paintings to sell at auction for top dollar. But the truth is: Van Gogh died a pauper.”
After a few minutes she sighed heavily, looking bored.
“So what do you want?” he asked, to keep her focused.
“I want a rich, handsome American to fall in love with me and write me love poems all day.”
“Why an American?”
“To take me away from this life, this city, this country. Americans love to travel. Look at you. You didn’t stay in America. You came to Paris to be a famous artist.”
“Yeah, and look at me now. A one-room studio apartment with a community toilet down the hall. You see? I was right. We never get what we want, and only want what we can’t have.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said sadly.
“But I’ll tell you what. I’ll put myself in this painting. A rich, handsome, American artist, painting you with love. I will hover over you with affection, and you will be glowing, basking in the attention. Then, generations from now, people will see it and say: ‘Look at the happy couple, They must have been so much in love’. How does that sound?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I’d like that,” she said, and smiled her best Mona Lisa smile.
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| my history/ short story |
| 06.24.04 (10:04 pm) [edit] |
6-24-04
Hello to any and all readers.
On request from readers, I’ll get more personal from now on. On request from my best friend, I’ll post more cheerful stories for the next few days.
Regarding my mental health: I started this to keep track of my bulimia, but it’s becoming clear that I need to do more than that. My primary diagnosis is OCD, which is obsessive/compulsive disorder. It’s mostly associated with people who wash their hands a thousand times per day or flick on and off light switches. More commonly is things like teeth counting, syllable counting, counting stoplights, etc. I do all of the above CONSTANTLY. It’s exhausting. My secondary diagnosis is dysthymia, which is basically long-term depression. In my case, I’ve felt this way as long as I can remember. I’m discouraged, have NO self-esteem, am hopeless, and have insomnia. Next, I have bulimia, as the title suggests, and lastly, I have reoccurring, pretty much daily anxiety attacks.
Currently, I’m taking Effexor, 150 mgs, but that just not cutting it. I do have an appointment with a psychiatrist on Tuesday, though, and my meds will be adjusted after my psych eval.
My brother committed suicide when I was 11, and I have no memory of him. In fact, I have virtually no memories at all of my childhood. My first real memory is answering the door on the day he died, and having a man from the coroner’s office come in and tell us he was dead.
I remember feeling depressed as a teen, in fact, although I have some periods better than others, I’ve felt this way as long as I can remember. I don’t remember when the OCD started, but it’s been a real problem for about a decade. It’s exhausting and very distracting. The bulimia I started at about 15 as a way of losing weight, but it took on a life of its own, and it comes and goes in cycles that are completely out of my control.
Today, I ate a bowl of chili, but threw it up, breaking my two day vomit-free streak. I’ve got a lot more to unload, but I’ve just dumped a lot out, so I’ll take it easy on you, gentle readers, and end today’s entry. Here’s a more cheerful story for you, Kari. Well, it has a happier ending, anyway. Thanks to all for reading, and, as always, feel free to post responses or email me at:
my_colours@hotmail.com
Namaste,
Thor
Heaven and Hell
“I don’t believe in Hell,” she said, and lit a cigarette.
“Why not?” he asked, then took a drink from his beer.
“Because I know what Hell is, and it doesn’t scare me.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you just said you didn’t believe in Hell.”
“Well, first of all, there is no real Hell; no lake of fire or brimstone or anything like that. That’s just a boogeyman story to scare people into being good. I mean, if you break a law, you may or may not get caught, but if there’s a Hell, you always get caught. It’s just a way of controlling people.”
“So what sort of Hell do you believe in?” he asked.
“Hell is the absence of Grace,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I live in the absence of Grace.”
“What are you talking about? Are you cursed or something?”
“No, I’m not cursed. I’m not superstitious. I live in a state of lack-of-Grace. Have been since I was nine years old.”
“What happened then?” he asked.
“My parents died. We were hit head-on by a drunk driver. I lived, they didn’t.”
“Jesus. That’s rough. What was that like?”
“It felt like God had washed them away with the tide and the angels had forsaken me.”
“Come on, you can’t blame all that on God. I mean, shit happens. Bad things happen to good people all the time. It’s just fate, not punishment.”
“No,” she said. “It’s more than that. Like, you know the serious religious types? The kind that handle snakes and speak in tongues and drink poison and stuff like that?”
“Yeah...” he said hesitantly.
“Well, those are the people that feel the power of God, really feel it. They’re moved by the Grace.
“There are three levels of Grace. Those people are the first level, the people who live off of Grace.
“Then, there are the everyday people who have Grace in their lives, but take it for granted. They don’t really feel or get moved by it. They’re usually not aware of it at all.
“Then there’s people like me. Let me tell you, when you’re out of Grace, you can feel it. When you drop from level two to level three, it’s like a brick falling off a skyscraper. You can feel it fall, hell, you can hear it hit.”
“So why do you think God would turn his back on you?” he asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. The only thing I know is that there’s only one thing left for people like me.”
“And what’s that?”
“Moments. I live for the moments I can create. That’s why I brought you home with me tonight.”
“For a moment?”
“Yeah. That blissful, erotic moment of orgasm. Those moments, those scant seconds of joy that I create are all I get. They’re the only connection I still have to Joy,” she said, then took one last drag and stamped her cigarette out in an ashtray.
“You’re pretty deep there, girl.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t mean to be such a downer. I bet you didn’t expect a bunch of crap unloaded on you when you bought me that first drink tonight.”
“Well, I knew you were different.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Even from the end of the bar I could see that. I didn’t know what it was, but I could see something special in your eyes. But, to be honest, no, I didn’t know what I was getting myself in for. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying myself, though,” he said, and smiled.
“So you want to go to bed now?” she asked with a sly smile.
“No. I mean, yes, I do, but no. I think I’d rather have another beer and talk some more. You know, create a few more of these moments. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s very okay,” she said, and her whole face smiled. She sttod and went to the refrigerator for two more bottles of beer.
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| short story |
| 06.23.04 (9:02 pm) [edit] |
6-23-04
In the words of Neil Diamond: Hello again, hello.
Okay, I’ll stop that. Today was a good day. I ate a box of macaroni and cheese that I had fixed before going to bed, and that stayed down. Two days in a row without throwing up. That’s probably the first time in two months. I worked today, and went out back for lunch. People started showing up. People seem to rally around me wherever I go; it’s strange. I’ve been told that I’m easy to be around. Which is good, because I like people.
Not much happening. I’m going to bed now. Here’s another short story. Again, feel free to post or email me.
My_colours@hotmail.com
Thor
The Traveler
It was day 5 on the road, and a low-level depression was setting in that would not be helped by another fast-food burger and only stopping to crash when he was so tired that he was in danger of actually crashing.
The physical fatigue of sitting in the same position for endless hours wasn’t the biggest problem, though. What drained him was Seattle, where she was waiting. Seattle was so... wet. Wet and far from home. Home, where “rainy” was a season, not a daily adjective. The occasional hurricane was far preferable to precipitation as a way of life.
He loved the sun. He loved wearing shorts all winter long, and going surfing in January. Warm was a way of life. He hated the idea of exchanging warm and moist for cold and damp, but he also hated the idea of living without her.
He decided to treat himself a little. Stop at a reasonable hour, find a restaurant and eat a decent meal, have a beer or two, hang around people for awhile, and get his mind off of turning around and heading home. He pulled in to the next town - Glen’s Ferry, the sign said. From the highway, it looked small enough to spit across, if you had the wind at your back. Real people in a town that size. Cozy.
It took a six minute cris-cross of the town to figure out which was the main street, and find a gas station. The pumps looked like they belonged in a museum, but they still worked.
The attendant, (who checked his oil and air pressure in all four tires without being asked), pointed him to Liz’s Diner, and his two choices for lodging: one, eight blocks down, and the other, “much nicer” place was on the same block as Liz’s, but the opposite corner. It was a boarding house, mainly, but “Miss Margaret” had a couple of rooms to rent by the night. Apparently, though, Miss Margaret wouldn’t tolerate any “shenanigans”.
Liz’s turned out to be a truck stop diner without the truck stop. He ordered an open-faced roast beef sandwich, smothered in gravy, served with real mashed potatoes made with real butter.
While he was eating, the local sheriff, or constable, or whatever, came in. He was wearing a brown uniform with a big gold star on his chest, and his cowboy hat came off the minute he came through the door. He and the waitress greeted each other by name, and she told him the specials were chicken fried steak and meatloaf. He sat at the counter and ordered the chicken fried steak, but told her to wrap up a meatloaf sandwich for his lunch tomorrow, because, apparently, he “sure would hate to miss out on the best meatloaf in the state”.
The Sheriff diced his food and mixed everything on the plate together, then hardily dug into the mish-mash of chicken, breading, mashed potatoes, and corn.
The traveler paid his check and nodded to the sheriff as he was leaving. He headed straight to Miss Margaret’s. She looked him over, then gave him a key to room 9, upstairs, last door on the left. The upstairs bathroom was the door right before his. She told him that she’d be doing laundry in the morning, so he was to slip the key in her mail slot when he left. Then she warned him about no “shenanigans”.
He asked where he could get a beer. Miss Margaret frowned, told him about the bar two blocks down, then assured him that she meant it about the shenanigans.
He retrieved his overnight bag from the jam-packed back seat, and took it up to the room. No tv, no radio. It did, however, have a wind-up alarm clock; the kind that glows in the dark because the hands are coated in uranium. The furniture looked like it came from some grandma’s spare bedroom. Everything in the room was older than he was, except maybe a few of the cigarette burns in the dresser doyly and the stolen Las Vegas Hilton ashtray.
He walked the two blocks to the bar, ordered a beer, and went straight to the jukebox. Finding no music made by anyone still living, he shrugged and dug out quarters from his pocket for the pool table.
He shot by himself, (the other two patrons were too interested in scintillating local high school football talk with the bartender and were probably too old to pick up a cue stick, anyway).
He sank the 8-ball on the third try, and looked up to see a new guy picking out a stick. The guy found one he liked, then came over to the table, put two quarters on the rail and asked, “Play for a beer?”.
The traveler won the first game, accepted the beer and a rematch, despite the fact that someone had found Bob Wills on the jukebox.
Half-way through the second game, however, he realized that he was being hustled, which he really didn’t mind, as long as the stakes were only a beer. After losing the second, third, and fourth games, he begged off of a fifth, and headed back to Miss Margaret’s, and maybe a shower before bed.
The boarding house was deathly quiet. He felt like he was seventeen again, coming in past curfew, trying to sneak in without waking the folks. Now, as then, though, a squeaky stair gave him away.
On his way down the hall, he noticed the streak of light crossing the wood pattern on the floor. It came from the open door across the hall from his room. Fishing the key from his pocket, he took a sneak-look into the room and was greeted with a friendly “Hey” from an old man sitting at a kitchen table. He replied a perfunctory “Hi”, and opened his door.
“Hey, come on in and have a drink,” the old man called to him. He paused, thought about it, then, mentally shrugged and turned, leaving his door open, key in lock.
The old man was sitting at a 1950's-era Formica table. On it was a small tumbler, half-filled with a tea-colored liquid, a clear plastic gallon bottle, also half-full of the same liquid, a toaster that looked at least as old as the table, a stack of tattered, off-sized, weathered papers, and a small olive green radio playing music that sounded like it was piped in from the bar’s jukebox.
Instead of one room, this was more of a double-room, remodeled by knocking a hole in the wall. This front room was a kitchen/dining room with the living room/bedroom further on.
The old man was at least 85, and had the jovial face of someone neighborhood kids would call “Gramps”.
He pulled up a chair and sat as Gramps rose and retrieved another small tumbler from the cabinet. As Gramps brought the glass over, he noticed it was mismatched to the sightly chipped one Gramps himself was drinking from. Gramps filled both glasses from the giant bottle of cheap, Canadian whiskey.
“Ice?”
He shook his head.
“Me, neither. Straight up, like a man.”
Gramps asked where he was from, where he was going, how long he was staying, and the rest of standard casual conversation. Then, he asked about her. All about her, the color of her hair by firelight, what music she listens to, how to make her laugh, the first time she said “I Love You”.
In return, Gramps volunteered his own information, like the fact that he was a retired army officer, served in “the big one”, and the only thing that got him through it was the thought of his dear Eloise, who married him the minute he got home.
Eloise gave up the ghost at 63, but not before she gave him three children, who in turn produced nine grandchildren, including one stillborn, and one who died when his car was hit by a train. The ones remaining spawned eleven great-grandchildren, (so far), and one great-great grandchild, named Eloise.
Throughout the conversation, he kept talking about what his Eloise would say about this, or think about that, and kept refilling the glasses.
Glancing at the stove clock, he realized that he and Gramps had been talking for over an hour without exchanging names. Against the outside wall, beneath the window, was a long, low bookcase crammed with books. They were old hardbacks. Not modern hardbacks with missing dust jackets, but old ones with fancy bindings. They used to be various colors, he could tell: majestic blues, reds, sandy tans, blacks, and deep, chocolate browns. But now they were all aged to a near-uniform dull grey-brown, the gold lettering no longer clearly legible.
It was then that he realized where the stack of papers beside the toaster had come from: Gramps had cut them all from the books - they were the fly-leaf pages inside the covers of the books.
He turned his head slightly to get a better look at the papers without appearing overly nosey or rude. He saw the top page. It read:
“Saying I Love You
For the very last time
Is hard as a hospital
On a moonlit summer night.”
He finished his half-full drink in one big gulp, and involuntarily shuddered. He said goodnight to Gramps, and thanked him sincerely, with his Sunday manners.
He went back to his room, closed the door, undressed, and climbed between cool sheets into an amazingly soft bed.
Hearing the crash of railroad cars in the offing that sounded like thunder, he closed his eyes, dreamed of a long rain in Seattle, and smiled.
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| Another story/good day |
| 06.23.04 (12:37 am) [edit] |
6-22-04
Hello, again.
God, I hope somebody somewhere is reading this.
Anyway, before I post another story, I have today’s entry in my mental health saga. Today was a success story. Today was the first time in weeks that I haven’t thrown up. I had a 6 inch vegi sub in mid-afternoon, and it stayed down, and just now, at bedtime, I got hungry, so I opened a can of chili beans and had three or four spoonfuls and put the rest away for tomorrow.
I saw my new therapist this afternoon. He seems a lot more active and involved in my case than my last therapist. Don’t get me wrong, he was a very nice guy, but I don’t think he knew what to do with a chronically depressed OCD patient with bulimia. I have a full psych eval with the staff psychiatrist next Tuesday to assess where we should be going with my meds.
I’m pretty happy right now, it’s been a good day all around. I think I’ll close now. Thanks for reading, if, indeed, anyone is out there reading. Here’s a story.
Thor
The Missionary
Vincent Morelli was at his neighborhood watering hole, on a bar stool, downing drinks that he hated. As he neared the end of his fifth glass, Harry Viola came through the door.
Harry and Vincent’s father had grown up together, playing stick-ball not three blocks from where they now sat. They had been altar boys together. They were best men at each others weddings, Godfathers to each others children, and, when the pasta, beer, sausage and canollis finally got too much for Francis Morelli’s heart, Harry Viola became his best friend’s pall bearer.
“Hey, Vinny! How you been? How’s Paulie? Ya heard from from Paulie?”
Vincent glanced up in the bar mirror at Harry, but said nothing and returned to his drink and the candle burning in the teardrop-shaped red glass holder. Th bartender motioned Harry over and whispered something in his ear.
“Aw, geez, Vinny. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I hadn’t heard.” Vincent gave a slight nod and shrugged. Harry ordered a whiskey sour and another round for Vincent.
“Say, whatcha drinkin there, Vinny? What’ll ya have?”
“Fuzzy navel.”
“Fuzzy navel? Since when do you drink fuckin fuzzy... Oh, right, right,” he said, remembering how , just at few weeks ago at this very bar, he and Vincent had harassed Paul round after round for drinking fuzzy navels instead of a “man’s drink”. Paul, in turn, threatened them with eternal damnation and excommunication for persecuting a priest.
No one was more proud of Paul than Harry, who, secretly, and when he was drunk, sometimes not-so-secretly wished one of his own boys would have gone into the priesthood.
“Make that two fuzzy navels,” Harry said, and they drank to Paul. Vincent and Paul had gotten drunk here his last night in the states. Paul with his fuzzy navels, Vincent drinking bourbon and water on the rocks. Paul had lit every candle in the place, occasionally burning his hand trying to get it out of the candle holders.
Like a mouse lost in a maze, Vincent tried. With everything in him, he tried to understand why Paul was leaving, and more, to convince him to stay.
“I’m a priest, Vinny,” he kept saying. “It’s my job to serve mankind.”
“I serve mankind every day. Right here, on the docks. I unload food that feeds families, and toys for kids at Christmas, and clothes and blankets that keep people from freezing in the winter. And I don’t have to go 15,000 miles to do it.”
But I don’t work on the docks, Vinny. My job is to feed souls, not bellies.”
“There are souls right here that need you, Paulie. You want to save souls? Move to the east side. Open a mission there.”
“My calling is to serve mankind, Vinny. I go where I’m needed.”
“Then serve ‘em here where they speak English. You leavin is killin Ma.”
“Hey, Ma is proud of me. She gave me her blessing.’
“That doesn’t mean she wants you to go, Paulie. That doesn’t mean she’s not worried sick. Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a priest in a Muslim country? Don’t you read the papers?”
“Yeah, Vinny, I do. That’s why I gotta go.”
And so it went, hour after hour, until the blinding morning light shown down, exposing Paul’s pressing itinerary. They took a cab to the airport, stopping first so Paul could kiss his mother goodbye.
That was nine weeks ago. Nine weeks to the day. Vincent pulled the telegram from the American Embassy out of his pocket and let Harry read it.
It had arrived mid-morning, expressing condolences for the execution of an American priest and three converts. Converting from Islam to Christianity, it explained, was a capitol offence, as was harboring non-Muslim literature. The four had been found with a trunk full of Bibles.
The trunk that Father Flannigan had sent. Father Flannigan had used second offering every Sunday for a month to fill up that trunk.
The telegram went on to say that Paul had ignored numerous warnings not to wear his collar in public, and finally an official order to leave the country.
Vincent turned down Harry’s offer of another round. Saying goodnight to Harry and the bartender, he drained the last of his sixth fuzzy navel and left the empty glass by the red teardrop candle holder as he moved toward the door. As the nub of the burning candle went out, so did Vinny.
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| A short story |
| 06.21.04 (10:58 pm) [edit] |
6-21-04
Hello again.
Well, before I post another story, I'll put down my day.
I didn't eat today, so I was safe, but the I got hungry at dinner break at work and had a Quizno's sub at about 6:00. An hour later, I was in the bathroom at work throwing it up. I don't even know the last day I went a whole day without throwing up.
On a better note, I gave my notice at work tonight, at the telemarketing company. My doctor and therapist will be happy about that. My bulimic cycle has gone straight through the roof since starting there, and I can't afford to go on there. If I don't quit, I'll end up in the hospital again very soon.
Another good note: my other job, working for a kareoke company has just increased from one night to five, so that will more than make up for the cash from the other job.
Well, that's about it for now. Here's the story. Feel fre, again, to email me at:
my_colours@hotmail.com
Thor
The Dancer
On his way to the studio, he stopped by Blended Liquors, as always on Friday nights. He bought his usual two shooters of peppermint schnapps, and downed them by the end of the block. Then came Binaca to cover the alcohol smell. He preferred scotch, but with the schnapps, Mrs. Tiddwell assumed the smell was just the breath spray.
Mrs. Tiddwell, he knew, frowned on drinking, but without a couple of belts, he couldn’t bring himself to even go inside, much less actually dance.
Tonight, they’d be concentrating on the Foxtrot, as they had for the past month, although they would still touch on the Rumba, the Waltz, the Cha-cha, and the Texas Two-step to avoid getting rusty. Eventually, he knew, they’d get around to the Mambo, the Hustle, and who knows what else.
Mrs. Tiddwell always teased about teaching him to Tango, which terrified him. He’d have to get half tanked for that. The Tango is so... sexual.
It had been a year-and-a-half since he had been the third caller on WJZZ. He won eight lessons for knowing “I Don’t Know” is on third.
The thought of actually going to a dance lesson was mortifying. It was so public, so exposed. It took an act of sheer willpower just to show up at his cubicle everyday.
So, he kept his certificate for eight free lessons in a special section of his accordion file. It had far more compartments than he need. They were labeled, in order: Bills, Bill Receipts, Appliances Receipts & Warranties, Car Title and Repairs, Insurance Policies, Coupons, Pay Stubs, Bank Statements, Personal Papers (Which contained his birth certificate and vaccination records), and way in the back, in the penultimate compartment, was a partition marked “Winnings”, with one lone certificate inside. The last compartment was labeled Company Photos, which contained selected snapshots of company picnics and Christmas parties.
And there the certificate would have stayed, probably forever, except for his one bad habit, his guilty pleasure; eavesdropping.
It was Claire. Claire, from the cubicle next to his. Claire with the auburn hair. Claire, who used to wear glasses that made her look so smart, until she switched to contact lenses, which looked good on her too, because they didn’t hide her face. Claire, who always smiled at him and said “Hi”, or “Good Morning” to him even though he never could bring himself to actually say hello in return, only managing a nervous smile and a little wave with the fingertips. Claire, who was so smart, but didn’t like to show off because most people are of only average intelligence, and she would never want to make anyone look bad. Claire.
It was Suzanne from accounting, that Friday afternoon. Suzanne, Claire’s best friend who stopped by for her usual mid-afternoon chat, which stretched her ten minute coffee break into half an hour. She had asked Claire what her plans were for the evening.
“Nothing, really, I was just going to order a pizza, then snuggle up with Haagen-dazs and some t.v.”
Pizza and t.v.! That’s what his Friday nights were like! He had never felt closer to Claire than he did at that very moment
Then, Suzanne said: “Naw, come on, let’s go dancing”. And Claire agreed. Dancing.
He got almost no work done the rest of the afternoon, longing to go dancing with Claire. But who was he kidding? He had never danced a step in his entire life. Not even as a child, alone in his room, for fear of being walked in on, discovered, exposed. Dancing. Going dancing. The idea was as foreign to him as eating soup with chopsticks.
So, on his way home that night, he made a decision. It took three scotch-rocks that first night just to get him in the door. That was the night that Mrs Tiddwell discreetly mentioned no drinking without embarrassing him with an actual admonishment.
By the end of his eight free lessons, where he got fairly good at the box-step waltz, and a rudimentary education in the Cha-cha and the bare basics of the Rumba, he has seen enough of other dances to make him want to learn. So, he began paying for the lessons. And this night, like every Friday night for the past seventeen months, he danced with Mrs. Tiddwell, going over the steps again and again, eagerly anticipating learning each new dance (except for the Tango, which made him nervous).
He twirled Mrs. Tiddwell across the dance floor, practicing for that one night when Suzanne would suggest to Claire that they go dancing, and Claire would say “Sounds like fun,” and then, looking over at him, Claire would ask “Hey, Harvey, want to come?”, and he, now knowing how to dance, would say “Yes”.
At the end of the evening, Mrs. Tiddwell told him how well he was doing with the Foxtrot, really coming along. He had no delusions that he was in any way graceful, but her compliments secretly delighted him.
Again she brought up the Tango, and yet again he deferred, but she persisted. After great trepidation, he finally agreed, but only after extracting a promise from her to go very slowly, with only a few steps at a time. Mrs. Tiddwell smiled the demure smile of a parent who has gotten her child to eat broccoli.
He paid for the next four sessions, said goodbye to Mrs. Tiddwell, and started for home. He stopped back at the liquor store for a pint of Dewars.
Once home, he poured himself a scotch-rocks, put the dance receipt in the accordion file, and turned on the radio. He took off his loafers because he liked how his socks slid across the linoleum floor. Retrieving the push-broom from the hall closet, he went into the kitchen where he danced, and danced, and danced... with Claire.
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| Short story / bulimia |
| 06.21.04 (11:25 am) [edit] |
6-20-04
Happy Fathre's day
I took my daughter and her friend to the drive-in last night, and her fiend spent the night. We saw Garfield and Harry Potter 3. In the morning, I fed them waffles and sausage, but I didn't eat.
I had a few bites of pasta stroganoff in the afternoon, but very little, so there was virtually no chance of vomitting.
Then my sister's car broke down, so she, dad, and I played musical cars to get it to the shop. I ate some chex mix in the car, but when I got home, that came up.
Then, after work, although I hadn't eaten, I threw up the liquid I had drank at work. It tasted of bile. I don't decide when to throw up, it's like the decision is made for me and I just comply.
If I have a big meal, that will definitely come up, but if it's medium or small, it's completely random as to if it will come up or not.
I've started to get a little scared about what the doctors are saying. If it hasn't started already, the doctors say that I'll soon start throwing up pieces of my esophagus. They stuck a scope down my throat, and I guess I'm starting to do some real damage.
That's about all for now. Thanks for the emails about my last story, I'll post another one now. I'm hoping that someone out there, someone else with an eating disorder will read this and write me, maybe make me feel a liitle less alone if I know someone else is as out of control. Bye for now, feel free to post replies or email me at:
my_colours@hotmail.com
Thor
The Businessman
The waitress refilled his coffee for the umpteenth time, which she really didn’t mind, because of the three patrons in the all-night diner, he was the only person who was sober. Also, she thought that he was quite handsome, and he gave her a dollar tip every time she filled his mug.
Earlier, they had been talking. He explained that business wasn’t going well, so he didn’t want to go home, face his wife, and tell her the bad news. He wanted to stay there until it was time to go to work. He explained that he worked so many late hours that he kept a razor and toothbrush at work, so he really didn’t need to go home.
The waitress was polite, and he started by giving her a twenty dollar bill to keep his coffee fresh. For the past few hours, though, he had been pouring over papers from his brief case, spreading them all over the table, calculator in hand, and accumulating a few coffee stains on the sheets here and there.
He knew that this wasn’t exactly an executive hangout, so between the large tip, his suit and briefcase, and light flirting with the waitress, he was certain that he’d be remembered. He was surprised by how well he could keep his concentration on his work.
Every few minutes, though, thoughts of how this night began flooded his head and his hands would shake, but the waitress would think that’s from the caffeine. Even now, he couldn’t believe it, and it had all happened so quickly, it was like a dream.
********* ********* *********
He had been grateful for the lights of town, because he’d been catching himself nodding off, being the only car for miles on the dark highway. The bright orange streetlights were a welcome wake-up.
He had told his wife that he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow afternoon, but once he got on the road, he drove on through, not wanting to spend another night in another lumpy hotel bed. Also, truth be told, he was looking forward to coming home, snuggling in his own bed, spooning up against his beautiful Suzanne, feeling the comfort of her naked skin against his. He would figure out tomorrow how to tell her about the trip.
His sales, although up more than anyone on hid division, were still below projections, because of the downswing in the market. Although still the top salesman in the company, this quarter’s earnings weren’t going to be enough to afford to build the pool. Not this year, anyway. Not unless Suzanne got a job. As if that would ever happen.
Getting off at his exit and navigating home was all automatic. That is, until the last turn, when he spotted the black BMW parked in front of his house. What started as curiously unusual became alarming. He recognized the car. It was the one that Steve, his boss, had received from the company as a result of record-breaking sales last year. His record-breaking sales that Steve took credit for. He drove past the house and parked around the corner.
He keyed Steve’s Beemer as he passed it on his way up the walk. Letting himself in the front door, slowly turning the deadbolt so that it was a light click instead of the usual heavy crack, he entered the foyer, and noted Steve’s black raincoat on the mirrored hall tree, and his shoes on the floor next to it. For the first time since moving in, he kept his shoes on as he walked through the house.
In the living room, he noted the smell of the fireplace, and saw the orange of the streetlight streaming through the bay window, glinting off of half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table. Climbing the stairs, he remembered to step over the squeaky one. The bedroom door was open and light was streaming out. For awhile, he thought they were still awake, and moved millimeter by silent millimeter, listening to their rhythmic breathing.
The candles were lit. The sex candles. And not a few of them, either. All of them. She even brought the big one up from the fireplace hearth and put it on his dresser. She was on her side, turned away and Steve was behind, spooned up against her. Reaching one hand in, he grabbed the small jewelry case from his dresser, the one containing the purple heart that his father had been awarded posthumously. He put it in his pocket.
He stood there for some time, watching them breathing, his breaths coming much faster than theirs. He didn’t know what to do, and a thousand scenarios floated through his mind.
He could storm through the room, making a scene, or he could start a fight, whack Steve with his new 7 iron, or take off his own clothes and turn this into a sordid scene from one of those dirty letter magazines. In the end, though, he just turned to go.
He remembered to skip the squeaky stair again, which was trickier on the way down. He stopped in the kitchen more as a habit than anything else, and looked in the refrigerator. He found a bottle of juice, opened it, and as he was taking a long, thirsty drink, he thought he smelled gas. His first thought was that the damned pilot light had gone out again. Then, a hardened smile rose on his face, a giggle ensued, and he nearly choked on the apple juice.
Closing the refrigerator door, he went to the stove, and inhaled deeply. Gas, yes, definitely gas. He thought of the candles in his bedroom. The sex candles. He tucked the bottle into the pocket of his jacket, right next to his father’s purple heart, which pretty well filled up the pocket. Then, reaching out both hands, he turned all four burners on high. No flame. The pilot light was definitely out. Then he turned on the oven, past 500, all the way to broil, and pulled the oven door to the halfway point, where it would stay open by itself.
He locked the front door as quietly as he had entered, and went in search of a cup of coffee, and an alibi.
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| bulimia / short story |
| 06.20.04 (1:48 am) [edit] |
6-19-04
Hi again.
Today I took my grandmother to the grocery store, but first we had lunch at Burger King. I had a vegi burger with no fries. Tonight, I took my daughter and her friend to the drive-in. We saw Garfield and Harry Potter 3. We got pizzas, a pepperoni for them, mushroom and onions for me.
I only ate a couple pieces, so I thought I’d be okay. Then, about halfway through Harry Potter, I knew I was going to throw up, so I went to the bathroom and did the deed. Then, after awhile, I ate another piece. I had the smallest one, so, again, I thought I’d be okay. But, when I got home, I threw that up, too.
It’s like I have no control over it. Sometimes I can have a good meal and keep it, then another time I’ll have just a light snack and lose it. Although if I have a big meal, I will definitely lose it, if I have a small or medium sized meal, it’s completely random. I don’t make a decision to do it, it’s more like it is decided for me and I comply.
I just got some good news today. My other job just stepped up in frequency and dollars, so I’ll be able to give my 2 weeks notice to the telemarketing job that’s causing me so much stress. With any luck at all, that will cut down on my “episodes”.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what the doctors have been telling me, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m a little scared. Okay, more than a little. The telemarketing job is literally killing me. The lining of my esophagus is burning away, bit by bit. They tell me that I could well start throwing up pieces of it, maybe already have.
On a more literary note, I’ve sent one o my short stories and a script I’ve written from it to a film company that makes short films. I try to get published in such a piecemeal fashion instead of an all-out effort that I’m not certain I’ll ever get published. Just part of my self-destructive nature, I suppose.
In closing, I’ll include the short story in question, in hopes that you, dear reader, (if, indeed, anyone out there is reading this) will read and enjoy. Goodnight. More tomorrow. Feel free to post comments or email me with the subject BLOG at:
my_colours@hotmail.com
Thor
The Trucker
“You smell like a trucker,” Shelley told her as she climbed into the car. “And you look like hell.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a rough night,” she replied.
“Are you ok? What are you doing out here?”
“I had a flat back by Farmington road, and my spare was flat, too. I just came from Brian’s house. We were studying for a test.”
“And you walked all this way in the rain? Wouldn’t it have been quicker to head back to Brian’s?”
“Yeah, well...” She trailed off. She didn’t know how to tell Shelley that she couldn’t bare to face Brian tonight, maybe never could again.
She faced the side window, effectively cutting off further conversation with Shelley. She thought she heard Shelley mumble something about how lucky it was that she spotted her, but ignored it. Shrugging, Shelley turned up the radio while she stared out the window, watching the raindrops hit. A few minutes later, streetlights began appearing. Shelley turned off the radio and cleared her throat.
“So, do you want to go to a gas station, or what?”
“No. Take me home. I want to go home,” she said, with force.
“Okay, no problem,” Shelley sais, surprise in her voice. “Hey, are you okay? I mean really?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
Shelley dropped her off at her house, and made sure she got inside before driving off.
“You smell like a trucker,” she thought as she closed the door and leaned against it as the tears welled in her eyes and began pouring down her face.
She stood there for a long time, dripping and leaking on the carpet. Then, realizing that her parents would be home soon, she took herself upstairs, surprised at how much energy each step took.
Turning on the shower, she undressed, like a snake shedding its skin, and dropped them in a pile on the floor, not bothering with the hamper. The sound of the spray hitting the tile reminded her of the rain hitting the pavement as she was loosening the lug nuts and jacked up the car. The umbrella, a present from her mother on her thirteenth birthday, lay on the passenger seat, folded. She found it impossible to change a tire and stay dry at the same time, so she had resigned herself to a good soaking.
It was only after the car was raised that she reached into the trunk and found the spare to be as flat as the one she was replacing. The car was lowered, jack thrown in the trunk, car locked, umbrella up, (though only perfunctorily, as she was already drenched), and she began walking.
She hadn’t gone fifty yards when she heard an engine. Turning, she saw a big-rig with full trailer running lights down the side. Though it splashed her as it passed, the air brakes sounded, it slowed and came to a complete stop.
She ran to catch up to it, climbed up the passenger side, and opened the door. Of course he would help. Climb on in. Couldn’t leave a lady to walk in the dark in the rain, now could he? Climb on in. Not safe for a pretty young thing out here all alone. Climb on in. And she did.
He asked if she were hungry. She said no. Well, he was, so would she be kind enough to hand him his lunch box? It was in the back, in the sleeping compartment. She was amazed that there was so much room in the cabs of these things, even a bed. She grabbed the lunch box, but when she turned around, he was Right There, right in front of her. And, suddenly, she was on the bed so quickly she didn’t even realized that he had grabbed her. And then, again, he was Right There, right on top of her, pulling at her clothes, her underwear torn off in one quick, painful wrench.
It took hours, it took seconds. And when he was done, he grabbed her like a bouncer with a drunk and threw her back out the door she had just come in.
She landed flat on her stomach, and thought she felt a rib crack. The clothes landed on her back. His lights had disappeared in the distance by the time she got her breath back and stood. Numb, she dressed and began staggering, then walking, just following the road, until Shelly spotted her and picked her up.
It was only now, here in the shower that she realized she had left her umbrella in the cab of that truck. Her mother had given her that umbrella for her thirteenth birthday. She’d never see it again.
“You smell like a trucker,” she thought, as she sank to the shower floor, and put her arms around her legs, pulling her knees up to her chest, holding herself, sobbing.
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| My first blog day |
| 06.18.04 (10:58 pm) [edit] |
6-18-04
Hi.
My name is Thor, (yes, that's my real name). I live in Colorado, and I'm writing this because I'm bulimic. I thought maybe, well, I don't know what I thought except that I'd like to talk about it, get some of it off my chest.
I don't journal or write in a diary, but I thought maybe if someone else is reading this, maybe I'd write.
I started a new job recently. Wait, let me back up. I was hospitalized back in April because I've burned out the lining in my esophagus. They said I stand a good chance of developing cancer in the next year if I don't stop. After the stay in the hospital, I cut way down, down to once or twice per week.
Then I started a new job a couple of weeks ago, and it went up to 2 or 3 times per day. I know I'm killing myself, but I don't know how to stop. I've been doing this almost continually for twenty years.
On a personal note, I'm 38, divorced, a father of an 8 yr old daughter whom I treasure, and I'm a writer. When I say I'm a writer, I mean I write short stories, have one completed novel, (none of which are yet published) and am working on two more. I also write frelance for a couple of local magazines, but none of that pays the bills. So, my new job is as a telemarketer. It gives me time to write, and I don't have to think about it when I'm not there.
However, as any of you who have done this horrid job know, the presure to produce is incredible, and they threaten your job more often than a McDonald's.
I took the day off today, but threw up once anyway. Don't know why. I never know why.
Two other things before I get feedback about it: First, unlike a Lifetime Movie, I do not binge, sitting on the bathroom floor with a box of doughnuts and a bag of cookies; even the smallest meal can come back up. All I need is a tall glass of water for lubrication.
Secondly, yes, I am seeking treatment. It has been hard having no insurance, but I got hooked up with the local mental health dept, and have a newly acquired therapist and an appointment in ten days for a psych eval with their psychiatrist in charge of medication.
Speaking of medication, I'm currently taking Effexor for depression. Let's hope they can do something for the bulimia, but I really don't think it's a medication issue.
I guess I'll close now. There's a lot more to say, but there's time. Thanks for reading. Feel free to post comments, or, if it's too personal to post here, feel free to email me at my_colours@hotmil.com
Thanks again,
Thor
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