tBlog - Bulimia

Bulimia

Blog For Free!

Archives
Home
2004 September
2004 August
2004 July
2004 June

My Links
Iconoclasticdeer's Blog
Presentmoment's Blog
Silversparrow's Blog
Iconoclasticdeer's Blog

tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images

Sponsored
Blog

Bookmark this site!

Novel, new Chapter

09.06.04 (1:03 am) [edit]

8-16-06

Hello

I haven’t blogged in two weeks because I stopped getting responses. But I’m blogging today. I’ve only thrown up maybe 5 times in the last two weeks, which is a wonder. My medication is working well and I’m starting to function in the real world.

I don’t have much drive to write, but I’ll post the next chapter from my novel, Walking Wounded.

Thanks for reading.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 8

by Thor Cameron

PASSING INTERESTS

Nancy slipped off her shoes and stretched her feet over the coffee table, crossing her ankles as she

leaned back. Pauline refilled her wine glass, finished the bottle into Nancy’s, then relaxed back in a similar pose.

"So," Nancy continued, "I said to him ‘Mel, you just keep an eye on the stock, and leave the purchasing to me’. I mean, he ordered from a company that charges triple what we usually pay. Triple."

"Maybe he’s getting a kick back," joked Pauline. There was a pause as both sipped their wine.

"Where’s Jenny?" Pauline asked, looking around.

"Camping for the weekend with her Aunt Anna and her girlfriend."

"Your sister or his?" Pauline asked.

"Jimmy’s sister Anna and her current lover," Nancy answered nonchalantly, monitoring Pauline’s reaction from the corner of her eye.

"Her what?" Pauline asked.

"Well, Anna’s a lesbian."

"And you let them take Jenny camping? That’s an impressionable age."

"Having straight parents didn’t make Anna straight, so I fail to see how having a lesbian aunt can make Jenny a lesbian," Nancy answered. There was another pause as Pauline took a long drink, nearly draining the glass.

"So how are you two doing now that he’s out of the picture?"

"Well, Jenny seems O.K. with it. Before he left, there was a lot of fighting and slamming of doors, and I could really see that taking a toll on her, but she seems... calmer now. He doesn’t call as often as she d like, but..."

"And what about you?"

"Ah yes, what about me?" Nancy began and drained her glass. "More wine?" she didn’t wait for a reply, just walked to the refrigerator for another bottle and began working the corkscrew into it as she came back to the couch. The cork emerged with a softly audible pop, and she proceeded to refill both glasses.

"I am... better. Yes, definitely better. I was tired for a long time. Tired of coming home every night and having something to fight about. Every night. I was tired of being married to someone too boring for even obligatory corporate parties. I was tired of explaining to people how my husband was an author that writes stuff none of my friends read. Or would read. I was tired of being married to someone who has all these people running around in his head. I swear, I think the only reason he writes books is to keep his sanity, keep all those people in his head straight. Then, for a while, the fights stopped. I guess I just got tired of fighting. That’s when I really knew it was over."

"What do you mean?" Pauline asked. "You knew it was over when you didn’t fight?"

"Well, you see," Nancy explained, "In songs and poetry, you always hear about love and hate. But that’s not it at all. Hate isn’t the opposite of love. Hell, I hated Jimmy for five years. I hated him because I cared so much. I wanted things to work out. I wanted us to be in love again. I wanted my husband. Then, one day I realized well, no, not one day exactly. I mean, I had felt it coming on for a while. Kind of like how you watch the sugar bowl empty, day after day, one spoonful at a time into your coffee. But then there’s that one day, that morning, sit down at the table and see a spoon sitting in a perfectly empty, china bowl. After it was empty there was nothing more to fight about.

"That was the beginning of the end as they say. I didn’t have it in me anymore. I didn’t care. And it resounded in me like a church bell, or a gong. That’s what it was: a giant, seven-foot Tibetan gong, telling me that the opposite of love is indifference. And when I thought about Jimmy, I couldn’t feel anything. I just didn’t care. Then I thought ‘Why am I married to someone I don t care about?’ That was it." Nancy took another drink.

"And now?" Pauline inquired.

"Now I’m... relieved. Like dead weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel, well, free really, I guess."

"Free?"

"Yes, free to try new things, dabble into a few things."

"Like skydiving?"

"Well, not skydiving, but yeah, things I never got around to trying," Nancy said with a sly grin. She looked at Pauline’s dress from the corner of her eye as she drained her glass and reached for the bottle.

Pauline excused herself and went to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror for what seemed like a very long time.

Nancy was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, rolling the wine glass between her hands. Her eyes had fixed on a spot in space, and she was breathing deeply through her nose. She could smell, at least she believed she could, the lingering odor of Jimmy’s cigarettes. She made a mental note to have the carpet, upholstery and curtains cleaned. She picked up her pumps from under the coffee table and took them to the shoe tree in her bedroom closet. When she heard Pauline emerge from the bathroom, she called to her.

"Pauline, I’m in here. You’ve got to see these luscious red stiletto heels that I bought. I haven’t had the courage to wear them yet, but…"

My Novel, Chapter 6

08.01.04 (4:25 pm) [edit]

8-1-04

Hello and Happy August

First, a mental health update. I threw up twice on Friday, but overall, the episodes are down. The medication really seems to be working. I'm happier, my moods are up, I haven't had an anxiety attack in nearly 2 weeks, and my bulimia is way down. Things are going well.

I've been talking to my therapist & right now, he wants me to think about what I want from therapy, what I want from my life. That's a tough question, but I'm working on it & I'll let you know.

Here's chapter 6 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. Read earlier posts for the earlier chapters. Thanks for all your support.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 6

SARDONIC SUNDAY

Dear Nancy,

I’m taking a break. I have two small piles of notebooks in front of me. One empty, one scribbled in. Yes, I still write by hand. I haven’t changed. Then again, I guess that’s why you divorced me; I haven’t changed much. Sorry, I won’t be bitter. Yes, I’ve started on the new book. Yeah, good for me, and all that. You see; I don’t need you here to have conversations with you. Arguments, either.

It’s Sunday morning. Remember when we used to stay in our pajamas, reading the paper and listening to the radio until noon? Then, one of us would cook some omelets. Usually you. You were always a better cook.

I’ve learned something about myself recently. I’ve learned that the smell of panic, sweat is different from normal, hot August sweat or workout sweat. I am now familiar with the smell of my own panic sweat. That alone has changed me more than words can say. It is amazing how often lately that I am at a dead stand still, I’ve stopped and can’t remember where I’m at for a moment. Then I say to myself ‘what the hell am I doing?’ Then, as I’m trying to place the last few minutes piecing together my life, then I realize that never mind what I’m doing, what the hell am I doing?

My back hurts badly today. Stiff and sore. I need one of your backrubs. But that would actually be pretty rude. O.K., I guess I have decided not to send you this letter, so I am free to say anything I want. I spent the night in someone else’s bed last night. I never sleep well in a strange bed, that’s why I always needed a massage after vacations. It was good last night, really good. Not the sex really. I got to relive how good it feels to curl up around a woman. I remember her going to sleep on my chest. Every movement of my hand changed her breathing. It felt so good to be that connected to someone again. I felt like a man again.

That’s always when I felt strongest, most alive:when you were asleep and I could watch you dream. If you were having a bad dream, I could touch you. Not hard, just enough so that you could feel that it was my touch. Then you would settle down, draw towards me, comforted by my hand.

You’ll be delighted and miserable that the new book is moving smoothly. Delighted because well, let’s face it, that was really what the whole divorce was about. Wasn’t it? Look, let’s not lie about it. Especially because I’m talking to myself here, so I’d have to recite your lies too. The fact is that you’re a company woman who would have been much happier marrying a junior executive.

On the other hand, barring that, you would have been well suited with a housewife. Househusband. You know what I mean. And I tried to do that. You know I tried, but when it comes down to it, I’m an author.

Did you know that every morning I’d say good-bye and watch you drive off from the window? Then I got to be the one leaving for a while, meetings with agents, editors, publishers, lawyers, promoters, cover design consultants… my God, the meetings! I remember feeling sorry that I had written anything to begin with. When I would leave, you were never watching for me. You never looked out for me. It was like when the door was closed, the door was closed. Y’know?

Then when the first book did so well, that was O.K. for a while because I hit the bestseller list. Then you were O.K. because you were married to a best-selling author. Then, when it dropped off the list, who was I then? You were married to an obscure bookworm who wrote a book-of-the-month club alternate last June. The second book did pretty well too, but not a bestseller. Not even the one month.

I was still watching you leave every morning, feeling the distance between us grow as you backed out the driveway. Leaving in suits that I had brushed lint off of, in blouses I had ironed. How many people do you know that can say they have a best-selling author do their laundry? The laundry.

Yes, the laundry. You really did want a househusband, didn’t you? Even after I got published. And that’s pretty damned good baby, I’ll tell you that. Even after, you still would rather come home to a stack of folded towels than a stack of my filled-in notebooks with the whole chapters in one day.

Do you remember that day, by the way? Do you? I wrote three chapters… three whole chapters. They barely needed polishing, just grammar and such. Three chapters in one day. It was a day of pure, intense devotion. You came home and asked what was for dinner. I told you that I hadn’t cooked. Then you went down a list of things that I was supposed to have done. No, I hadn’t fixed dinner. Or mopped the kitchen. Or vacuumed. Or scrubbed the tub for your Friday night bath. Or done any of the damned laundry. I was giddy with the high from writing all day and took you into the living room and showed you my stack of work. You said, ‘is that all you’ve done all day?’

I grabbed by car keys and took off as fast as my car could go. I stopped by the liquor store, and then went to the park. To our park, where we’d go to commune with nature when we first moved here. I drove there, parked, got drunk and cried. I went there to cry because I couldn’t cry in front of you. You don’t understand crying. You would’ve started crying too, but that you would have spoiled it ‘cause your tears are never tears. Your tears are shields and spears. Alternately, and sometimes simultaneously.

You would’ve placated me, and then turned it into your needs, wants, etc. Funny now that I think about it. When I was upset and disappointed in you, by the end of the conversation, you had me twisted around to the solution that my dissatisfaction with you was really me not living up to your standards, not giving enough, being enough for you. Every issue that made me angry with you, you turned around into a deficiency in me. Mount up enough of those deficiencies, and you have a good excuse for divorce.

But do you what the really funny thing is? You’ll want to sit down for this one, ‘cause this is fall-down hysterical, honey. The funny thing is, all I ever really wanted, all I ever really wanted from you was to be able to touch you and have you respond. I just wanted to be comforted by the fact that you were comforted by me. But the only time I ever felt that was when you were asleep.
Go back to sleep. I miss you when you sleep. I miss you in my sleep.

Me, I’m gonna read the Sunday paper. Alone. Probably grin a couple of times thinking about how I ‘got lucky’ last night. But y’know what? I don’t think I’ll ever feel lucky again. I love you.

Your ex-laundry man,

Jimmy

My Novel, Chapter 6

08.01.04 (4:25 pm) [edit]

Novel, chapter 5

07.28.04 (10:23 pm) [edit]

7-28-04

Hello, all

Yesterday, I ate once, but threw it up. Today, I had two small but good meals and they both stayed down. I have an appointment with my doctor tomorrow to discuss my meds & I must say I’m pretty happy with what’s going on. The side-effects are down, my bulimia episodes are decreasing, & my mood is up. Though I said a few days ago that I wasn’t feeling sexual anymore, that’s starting to change, too. Mind you, I’m not nearly back to my old randy self, but it’s getting better.

I had a good, relaxing day today, & haven’t had an anxiety attack in several days. Life seems to be getting better.

Here’s chapter 5 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. Thanks for all the support. Check previous posts for the first chapters.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 5

DINNER

Nancy walked into the foyer and unloaded her accouterments from the day. She hooked her purse on the hall tree, set her briefcase on the floor by it, shed her coat, which she hung over the purse, doffed her shoes, and began unbuttoning her skirt suit. A scent came to her. She inhaled deeply, and smiled.

“Jimmy,” she called, aiming toward the kitchen, “what are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”

“In here,” he called.

“What are you making?” she asked, entering the kitchen.

“Oh, not much. Just marinated Cornish hen in burgundy sauce, those potatoes that you like and sweet peas with chopped leeks.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“You’d better be. I don’t do this for all my women.” She swatted him playfully, and then came up behind him and hugged him while he stirred the pots.

“How long till dinner?”

“Long enough for you to strip and put on your robe. I’ll draw you a bath after dinner, and, if you’re really good, I’ll rub your feet while we watch some T.V.”

“You’re too good to me Jimmy.”

“Damned right.”

She emerged from the bedroom some minutes later, looking more relaxed in her terry cloth robe. The table was set and the plates, fully dressed, were waiting on opposite sides of a large, round candle, which Jimmy was in the process of lighting. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket, turned to the wall and dimmed the lights. As Nancy moved to take her seat, her smile began to fade. Jimmy stepped behind the chair, and in grand, gallant style, offered it to her. Her expression became blank as her eyes meandered over the table, slowly scanning left and right, then she took the proffered chair, scooting herself in.

“Wait right here,” he said, and went to the kitchen. He returned with a dark green bottle, struggling to pull the cork out smoothly. He poured the wine as the worry lines began to appear on her forehead. He sat down and began eating with enthusiasm. Nancy picked up her fork slowly, deliberately, just as a marionette with a very patient and skilled puppeteer.

“Well, how is it?” he asked after a few bites.

“It’s wonderful,” she said flatly. “Jimmy, it’s delicious.” There was a long pause.

“Jimmy?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? Everything’s fine. Isn’t it?”

“Jimmy, what’s all this about?”

“All what about? I had some time today, so I decided to spend it pampering you.”

“Jimmy, you never go all-out like this unless I’m feeling terrible or you’re feeling terrible. Now, I had a lousy day, but it was nothing special. So…” she trailed off.

“So?” he responded.

“So, what’s wrong Jimmy? What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”

“Jimmy?” Silence. “Jimmy?” Silence. “[i]Jimmy[/i],” she said, more insistently.

“I got a call from Mike.”

“’Mike and Kathy’ Mike, or your editor Mike? Is Jenny O.K.?”

“Editor Mike. Yeah, Jenny’s fine. Kathy called, they’ll drop her off on their way back next week.”

“So what did Mike have to say?”

“The book has stopped climbing and, in fact, is falling. No best-seller this time.”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, I really am, but it still wasn’t too bad, was it? I mean, it didn’t do as well as the last one, but they can’t all be best-sellers, can they?”

“No, I guess not. It gets worse, though.”

“Oh?”

“The publisher has declined the paperback option.”

“What? Why?”

“Apparently, they feel my writing is too heady and pretty much only appeals to the National Public Radio crowd, and apparently the NPR listeners are intellectuals who buy their books hardback. In short, I’m not marketable enough for the paperback crowd.”

“Oh, Jimmy, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Is Mike going to try another publishing house for the paperback rights?”

“Yeah, but he seems to think it’s a lost cause.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“Start a new book, I guess.”

********* ********* *********

After Jimmy finished the dishes, and Nancy took her bath, they sat down on the couch and cuddled watching T.V.

“Hey, Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you umm…” she trailed off.

“What?”

“Have you given any thought to that job?”

“What job, sweetie?”

“The teaching position.” There was a pause.

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Well, the book didn’t do so well…”

“So you want me to grade papers at a community college?”

“It’s not just grading papers. You could really do some good there.”

“Nance, I’ve already got a job. I’m an author. I write books. That’s what I do.”

“But the book’s not doing so well.”

“So I’ll write another one.”

“In what? A year? Two? Another two years waiting for an income?”

“Hey, Wrong Wind wasn’t a best-seller, but I still sold a lot of books.”

“Not enough. What if the next book doesn’t even do this well? And the teaching job dries up then? What then, Jimmy. What then?”

“So you want me to teach the MLA handbook and grade punctuation to 50-year-old divorcees and 20-year-old trade school dropouts? No thank you.”

“Don’t make it sound so dismal. There are some up-and-coming writers out there. Think of yourself as a talent scout, looking for the next Great American Novel.”

“Nancy, I’m trying to [i]write[/i] the next Great American Novel.”

“But that’s not happening right now, is it?” There was an awkward silence.

“Besides, you can still write in the evenings, on weekends…”

“Nancy, that’s a joke, and you know it. You’re asking me to carry two full-time jobs. Nights and weekends are our time together. You’d never let me get away with spending all that time writing. No way.”

“Jimmy…”

“What?”

“We’ve got to do something.”

“Why? What’s wrong with what we’re doing? We’re getting along fine.”

“But we’ve got a 5-year-old daughter, and raising a child costs more everyday.”

“Nancy, do you know what you’re asking? Years ago, when we first moved in together, this was not the deal. You said you’d work, I’d write. That was the deal.”

“That was before Jenny.”

“Jenny doesn’t change anything.”

“Jenny changes everything.”

“Nancy…” he began, but was cut off.

“Jimmy, all I’m saying is just think about it, O.K.? Just think about it.” She rose from the couch.

“You going to the kitchen?”

“No, I’m going to bed. You need something before I go?”

“No, I’m fine. Goodnight.”

“Night Jimmy. I love you.”

“I love you too. Sleep tight.”

“Just think about it Jimmy, okay? And come to bed soon.”

“Okay, I will. Kill the T.V., would you?”

“Sure.” She turned off the set, and then turned to leave the room.

“I love you,” she called over her shoulder.

Jimmy sat for a long time, then pulled a clipper from his pocket and trimmed his eight fingernails. He looked at his wedding ring and folded his hands together. He walked over to the wall where the framed covers of his books were hanging. He stared at them, one by one, for a very long time. Then he lay down on the couch, looking at them from across the room, staring at them, until he drifted off to sleep.

Novel, Chapter 4

07.26.04 (10:42 pm) [edit]

7-26-04

Hello, anyone reading

Sorry about my dereliction of posting duties. Here’s what’s happening:

I’m doing much better now. I’m still vomiting about 3 times per week, but the anxiety attacks have decreased greatly. I’m taking Effexor and Buspar, and after a couple of weeks, they started working well together. The anxiety is way down, the mood is up, and I’m feeling much better.

I really appreciate all the posts, emails, & support from you people. My relationships with S & K have grown recently, They’re really great girls. They’ve really been there for me & I hope I have been for them, too.

I don’t know what else to say, things are going much better for me right now. Please post & I’ll post more often, I promise. Here’s chapter 4 of my novel, Walking Wounded.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 4

WHERE THE FOOTBALL FALLS

Jimmy was getting the sheets and blankets out of the linen closet when he felt the deck of cards hit his foot. He stacked blankets, top and fitted sheets, spare pillow and pillowcase, then the cards on top. Once he had made the foldout couch, he suggested some gin. His mother, Hannah, always liked gin. It had been the family game as long as he could remember.

She and Nancy sat down at the kitchen table and shuffled while Jimmy poured a round of drinks.

“Nancy you’re at 460, Jimmy’s 455, and I’m at 440, which puts us all in striking range.”

“Hey Mom, remember that weekend that we went up to Uncle Bobby’s cabin?” Jimmy asked.

“A late spring storm hit and it took us five days to get down,” Hannah explained to Nancy. “We played gin all weekend. We said to 10,000, but I don’t know how far we got.”

Nancy sat back and watched the glances between mother and son. She loved when they reminisced. Jimmy picked up, evidently collecting nines.

“Uncle Bobby introduced me to Vonnegut that weekend. ‘Cat’s Cradle’, as I recall,” Jimmy said. His mother collected a meld and fitted it to the far left of her hand.

“That was when you got so desperate to read. Everything he could get his hands on, Nancy. He was reading like he was the first to discover English. He had books all around the house. A dozen or more. He would pick up one, read a chapter, then put it down and pick up another.”

“Fruit and books.” Jimmy said. “That’s all I remember.”

“That’s right.” Hannah remembered. “That was the summer that you had that big growth spurt. We brought home a bushel of fruits from the Farmer’s Market it seemed like everyday. He ate like a hog and went through books like a saw through a log. I swear to God, he even had a book that he held and read while he mowed the lawn.”

“That was the last year I played sports. After that, between growing six inches and a couple hits on the field, my ankles and knees hurt all the time, and it just wasn’t worth it.” Jimmy said and discarded a three.

“You got your hands on the ball once,” she said as Nancy laid down an ace.

“Yeah, that should have been a touchdown.” Jimmy smiled.

“No, it wasn’t a touchdown,” Hannah said.

“Wait, what happened?” Nancy asked.

“You should have seen him, Nancy. It was a fumble, Jimmy fell on it, and then realized his head was on the goal line. So he stretched his hands up, held the ball in the end zone, and started yelling ‘Touchdown! Touchdown!’ Of course, it wasn’t.”

“I was robbed. The point is to get the ball across the goal line isn’t it? Well, I did that. It should have been a touchdown.”

“That’s funny, that’s really funny.” Nancy said, and picked up from the deck.

“I was robbed. That should have been a touchdown.” Jimmy said.

“No Jimmy, you weren’t robbed.” Hannah said, and picked up Nancy’s discard.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what you were like that winter?” Mom asked. “You’d be sitting around the house, and anytime anything about football would come on TV, you’d complain about that play endlessly. I told you that it wasn’t just where the football falls that counts, but where you have control of it. Then you started researching rules to find out how much over the goal line you had to be. I swear, you were obsessed.”

“I hardly think the term ‘obsessed’ applies,” Jimmy replied, while picking up the three of clubs.

“No, it does apply. It was like you were trying to find out how little you could do and still make a touchdown. You do the same thing today, to this very day.”

“What are you talking about, Hannah?” Nancy asked, and drew from the deck.

“It’s all he does. All either one of you does. You find out how little you need to get by, and that’s what you do. And that’s why I’m not a Grandma.”

“You’re crazy,” Jimmy said as Nancy discarded six of hearts. “Hannah...” Nancy started.

“No, I m serious. You used to live in that ratty little apartment, decided that you wanted this place, and voila, suddenly you make enough money to become homeowners,” Hannah said. “Now you ve just eased into this quiet, sedate, comfy life. You’ve found out how little you can do to be happy and stopped there.”

“Mom, what’s wrong with being happy?” Jimmy asked.

“Nothing, Jimmy. Being happy’s what it’s all about. But now, it’s time to go a little further,” She said, laying her hand down, and put her last one face down on the discard pile. “I believe that’s gin.”

“What do you mean ‘go further’, Hannah?” Nancy asked.

“Look at her Jimmy,” Hannah said. “She has the same love in her eyes that I had for your father. You love her so much your heart aches. You don’t get to just sit there and rest on your laurels. It’s time to do something. Look at her, Jimmy, she wants you.”

“She’s had a couple tonight, mom.” Jimmy said shyly.

“So what? Liquor is the original aphrodisiac.”

“I don’t want to sit here discussing aphrodisiacs with my mother,” Jimmy said.

“Let her talk, Jimmy,” Nancy said.

“Yeah, be quiet and let me talk. We all want to pretend that we aren’t sexual creatures, but we are. Parents pretend their children are still virgins, children pretend their parents never did it, but the truth is we all do it. Sex is a wonderful thing. So is being a parent. Having something so wonderful come from something so wonderful is an indescribable joy. It’s the joie de vivre. The raison d’etre of the whole human race.”

“Okay, enough French,” Jimmy said.

“And let’s not forget that Nancy’s a few years older than you.” Hannah said.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Nancy cried. “I’m only thirty-one.”

“I don’t mean that you’re old, Nancy. You’re a perfect age to be a mom. I just mean that you shouldn’t wait to long, wait till you two are too set in your ways. You would have beautiful children. What are you waiting for? Jimmy, take your wife upstairs and give me a grandchild.”

“Mom!”

“Nancy, take your husband upstairs.”

“Mom...”

“Go. Now. Please, go. It’s time I got to bed, anyway. Go.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Nancy rose and held her hand out to Jimmy. She glanced at Hannah, and smiled. As she turned, Nancy thought she saw Hannah brushing away a tear.

Novel, Chapter 3

07.21.04 (12:47 am) [edit]

7-20-04

Hello.

My posts have been iregular lately, and so my readership has dropped off. If anyone is still reading, please post & let me know you're there. If you like my blog, please bot it & keep track of me.

I haven't thrown up today, but I haven't eaten today, either. I'm still feeling weird & out of sorts from the medication. My appetite is way down.

I'm very tired & not sure what else to say, please post any questions or things that you still want me to expound upon. Thanks for reading.

Here's chap. 3 of my first novel. On request, I'll post a cast of characters tomorrow.

Thor.

Walking Wounded, Chapter 3

'CAUSE SHE’S ALWAYS GONE TOO LONG

Jimmy smoked. When she was home, he never smoked inside; she hated it. But he smoked inside when she was gone, even though when she got back she’s be able to tell.

She seemed to be gone a lot lately. Trade shows, conventions, and seminars, both organizational and motivational; all networking opportunities. And that’s what she was about these days: networking.

When she was gone, his every day became Sunday. Sleep late, drink coffee, read the paper, try to work, nap, listen to music and smoke, nap, try to work, then stay up very late watching TV, fall asleep in the lazy-boy, and sleeping late again. He stopped showering. He rarely brushed his teeth when alone. He opened the refrigerator. Frequently. He drank milk and juice from the container. His typical meals were: kippers and cream cheese, or peanut-butter-and-jelly: all on crackers. Anything on crackers was a meal. Crumbs accumulated throughout the house.

He kept a pack of cigarettes in both pockets of his thick blue robe, and several lighters. The pockets were huge, though, and there was still plenty of room for pens, remote controls, and his hands. His hands were usually smoking or in those pockets when she was gone.

He could never write new material alone. The best he could do was to use the time for re-writes and polishing. He phoned Anna. Frequently. She heard from him daily, which gave him ambition to work. Anna was whom he wrote for, but Nancy was why.

He rarely spoke when alone, seldom ever spoke to himself. But during his solitude he listened. For days on end he could listen, uninterrupted, to the people in his head. He alone was witness to their lives, and his job was to chronicle their stories for the rest of the world who would otherwise never know these people existed.

He seemed to spend a great deal of time wandering from room to room, searching for something, and wondering what it was he was looking for. He’d know it when he saw it. When he’d find himself in the bedroom, he’d often open one of her drawers, just to get the smell of her.

He paced. He straightened. He fidgeted. He smoked. He played with the growing stubble on his face with the tips of his fingers as he raised the cigarette to his lips. He stared at her portrait from his lazy-boy. He smoked.

Novel, Chapter 2

07.19.04 (11:47 pm) [edit]

7-19-04

Hello, all

I had an interesting & sweaty weekend. I helped a friend move. She bought her own house. You go, girl.

On the one hand, I’ve thrown up every day since my last entry. On the other hand, I’ve learned that spicy foods, especially Italian, are triggering me like crazy. So, I’m going for a more bland diet right now, & I haven’t thrown up today.

I was almost in a wicked fight last night. They thought it was 5 on 3, but then when two of my buddies came back in and evened up the odds, suddenly a few of them changed their minds and that pretty much defused the situation. There was some chest thumping going on & I think that everything’s clear now, but I’m really going to have to be on the lookout for the next couple of weeks at work.

I’ve been kind of disoriented lately. I think it’s the medication. It’s helping the depression, but hurting in other ways. I feel so spaced out all the time. I don’t feel sexy or sexual in any way. Antidepressants have had effects on me in the past like inability to attain an erection, and the opposite: the never-ending erection. This is neither. I can have an erection, and, afterwards it will go down, but mentally I’m just not into it right now. Maybe that will pass. I think that it’s a combination of the two drugs, Effexor & Buspar. Since its two drugs interacting, it may take a few weeks for side effects to calm down. I hope they’ll calm down.

Anyway, here’s today’s entertainment post, chapter 2 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. As always, thanks for reading & posting.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 2

CONVERSATION IN THE CORNFIELD

Nancy walked into the coffee shop and scanned the crowd with her eyes. They locked on to her target and her face turned into one of those ‘a-little-too-happy-to- be-real’ smiles. She made her way to the booth where Jimmy was busy using the corner of the table to bend the fork tines into alignment. She took off her coat before sliding onto the opposite bench.

“Hi Jimmy,” she said.

“Hey, Nance. You’re looking good today. Really good.”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said, then fell silent, fidgeting, looking around the room for someone who would bring her a glass of water.

“Sooooo...?” Jimmy started.

“So?”

“So, you look like the cat that ate the canary,” Jimmy laughed.

“Have you ordered yet?” she asked, by way of reply.

“Yeah, just now. I got a cup of joe, and a vanilla cappuccino for you. I didn’t order anything to eat, though. You hungry?”

“No, I had a late lunch. You can get something, though.”

“I’m not hungry, either. So what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I m fine, Jimmy. Its good to see you. You must ve missed me an awful lot since Tuesday night. What s wrong? You look all nervous.”

“Well, uh... Hey, you want to go for a drive?”

“Sure. I ll get the coffee to go.”

Jimmy s eyes followed the curve of her calf as Nancy pressed the pedal, and moved the stickshift of ‘the buckboard’, her primer-gray truck. It always struck him as funny, this woman in a business suit driving a clunker farm truck. Jimmy tapped his pack, and pulled out a cigarette with his lips. He rolled his window down a crack, and, though he knew it irritated her when he smoked in her truck, he lit it.

“I thought you were quitting,” she said.

“Trying. I switched to lights. So, how are you feeling? You’re looking better,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“I’m feeling a lot better. I’ve still got a little tickle in my throat, though,” she said, sipping at the Styrofoam cup. “But I’m feeling a lot better, thanks to your Hot Toddies, no doubt.”

“Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t be smoking in front of you,” he said, rolling down his window, making motions to flick the butt out.

“No, no, its all right. Go ahead and smoke. Its okay.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course, I’m fine,” she said, but he threw it out anyway.

A few moments passed as Nancy fiddled with the radio. She finally settled on a Beatles tune as they headed out of town, and to the old back farm roads.

“Hey Nance, is there any particular reason for this joyride? Or are you just looking for an excuse to knock off work early?”

“I’m feeling awfully giddy today,” Nancy said, no longer able to contain her smile.

“‘Giddy’? You’re ‘giddy’?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, giggling.

“Only my grandmother uses that word. That’s up there with ‘flabbergasted’,” he jibed. She was laughing aloud, now.

“What brought on this wave of giddiness, pray tell?”

“It’s like a fuse I lit years ago is about to explode,” she replied, still chuckling.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, and went unanswered.

They stopped in between two huge fields: one wheat, the other corn. Apparently, both were doing well this year. They got out of the truck, and sauntered across the street to the cornfield. Several rows into the field, his image of her became a strobe light of Nancy / cornstalk / Nancy / cornstalk as they walked.

“Kaboom,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The fuse you lit. Kaboom. C’mon already, talk,” he said, smiling.

“Well, not ‘Kaboom’ just yet. Soon, though.”

“Nance, how long are you gonna keep me in suspense? I mean, obviously you want to tell me something, it’s big, and you’re about to explode. If you want to prolong the suspense, fine by me, but just don’t have a heart attack before you tell me, or I’ll never know.”

“Okay, okay, here’s the thing: Ever since I started with Kosac Systems, Inc., I’ve taken advantage of certain educational opportunities. Seminars, training sessions, certifications, even if they had nothing to do with my job. I mean, I’ve only got a Bachelor’s, so I figured if I wanted to get promoted, I’d have to get noticed. I used these as networking opportunities. Well, it has just paid off. Big. Really big,” she stopped for dramatic pause. “I got a call from the President. Okay, not The President, but our President, at the home office in Philadelphia. He made me an offer. They’re expanding the office in Des Moines, opening up a second office to handle the new areas and traffic. He wants me to go up, choose the location, rent the office space; I mean build it from the ground up! I get the Des Moines city division!”

Jimmy estimated that her voice had raised nearly two octaves in the last three sentences. There was a long pause. He wasn’t sure that she was finished. He wasn’t certain how he felt, though she was bubbling with excitement. He had never perfected appropriate enthusiasm for other people’s excitement. When he tried to match it, he became noticeably phony. If he responded naturally, it became uncomfortably understated. He opted for an air of barely-contained enthusiasm, and hoped it was appropriate.

“Wow. Wow. That’s fantastic! I don’t know what to say. That’s terrific, fantastic!” Jimmy finally said, and grabbed her arm, halting their progression through the corn. He pulled her to him, between two tall stalks. He hugged her with excitement, enthusiasm, and joy. She held him and felt him breathe. She held him until about nine seconds after it became oddly long for friends.

“I’m so excited,” she said, by way of cover as they broke and began walking again. “It comes with a company car so I can get rid of that damned old truck.”

“I like that damned old truck. It’s a classic,” Jimmy replied defensively.

“You can have it,” Nancy said. “And do you know what else you can have? Death.”

“What? Why?”

“I figure its just too much trouble to drag a fifty gallon tank up to Des Moines for one damned fish. He probably wouldn’t survive the trip, anyway.”

“Death will never die. When that fish’s time comes, he’s just gonna swim into a corner and mean away.” Jimmy said, grinning.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about getting a bigger tank, and I want more than just one mean fish in it,” Nancy said. They fell silent and made their way through the cornfield, listening to the whistling-brushing sound as they walked, a single row of corn passing between them. Jimmy spoke first.

“What if you didn’t take the promotion?”

“Yeah. I talked to Barry about that. He made it pretty clear that if the Prez-slash-CEO gives you ‘The Call’, you go. Period. Besides, why wouldn’t I want to go? I’ve been working a long time to get a break like this.”

“Well, this is your home town. Your family’s here. You don’t know anyone in Des Moines...” he trailed off. “Well, there’s Steve.”

“Yeah, Steve,” she said, unthrilled.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, taken aback.

“Steve was always... temporary,” she replied coyly.

“What do you mean, temporary?”

“Well, first of all, he’s decided that being a paralegal is unfulfilling, so he’s leaving for Law School, which saves me the trouble of breaking up with him.”

“Breaking up with him? You guys have been going out for, what two years?”

“Two years and three months. Two years too long, if you ask me. I’ve always known that I couldn’t settle down with him. Steve is like a male version of me,” she said. “Remember when we went to that gallery opening last summer? What was his name?”

“LeSage,” Jimmy enumerated.

“Right. Remember, we were so impressed with his art? I mean, it was unbelievable the images he makes, and they’re twisted, but so real. Then he made an appearance and we were so disappointed. I mean he was really gifted, but so dull. Then we decided that being talented was so cool that it was okay not to be interesting.” Nancy paused for effect. “Steve is not talented. Or interesting. You’re both,” she stated. They began walking slower.

“Well, thanks,” he said hesitantly.

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”
“I don t know anybody in Des Moines unless you move there.”

“Why would I move there?”

“Because I m going to be there, silly.”

“Nancy, don t play games with me. What are you saying?”

“I m saying that I want you to move to Des Moines with me, you moron. You can polish your novel up there as well as you can down here. And you won t have to pump gas on the side, because I’ll be getting one fat raise. Hell, you could even finish your degree there if you wanted to. No pressure, really. Damn it, Jimmy, I’ve always known that Steve was temporary, because I’ve always thought of you as permanent. I always thought that we’d get around to it eventually, but it seems that we no longer have the luxury of ‘eventually’. I’ve always thought of you as ‘The One’. And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because, as long as we’ve known each other, with all the guys I’ve dated, you were the only one who ever looked at me with The Look.”

“What look?” he asked, and came to a standstill. As she turned toward him, he was struck by how beautiful her face was, framed on all sides by long, silky corn leaves.

“The Look of Love. Do you even know how you’ve changed my life, Jimmy? You’ve infiltrated every aspect of my life. I think about things differently and laugh at things other people don’t understand, because in my head I’m thinking about what you’d say, with your strange sense of humor. I mean, we’ve never even slept together, but you’ve even invaded my nights. When I was growing up, getting calls in the middle of the night was never a good thing. Someone had died, or was in the hospital, or an accident, or something terrible. That’s how normal people live. They sleep through the night, and two a.m. calls are a bad thing. Then, in college, I learned that two a.m. calls were party calls. When I’d answer the phone and one of the sisters would ask ‘What time is it?’, I learned that you’d better answer ‘Its party time!’. Then, after college, I thought I could return to normal sleep. But not with you, oh, no. Now, a middle of the night call is you, telling me you’ve discovered that one of your characters was molested, or had an affair with another one of your characters. They're so real to you. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that with this job, I’m gonna need my sleep. I can’t afford two a.m. phone calls. If you want to talk to me, don’t call. I want you to just come to bed and put your arms around me and whisper it all in my ear. I’ve been waiting for you to.”

There was an uncomfortable pause while Nancy wondered if she had said the right things, and Jimmy worried that he might say something wrong and wreck it all. They turned and started heading back. Jimmy’s head was bowed, as though weighed down by the sudden rush of blood to his face. He felt, but could not stop the transformation to an expression of pure joy.

“It’s turning into a beautiful sunset,” he said. “It’d look great from the back of your truck, looking over this cornfield.”

“You know what’s in the back of my truck right now?” she asked. “A cooler, with a sixpack of beer,” she said with a wide smile, which only solidified his own beaming face. When they cleared the field, Jimmy hopped in the back of the truck and opened two beers. Nancy turned on the radio, and then joined him.

“What about Death?” he asked her as she nuzzled against him. She put a thoughtful expression on her face.

“We’ll give him to your sister.” The sky turned pink and orange.

On the radio, Jim Morrison sang. “Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on, now touch me...”

Novel, Chapter 1

07.16.04 (1:23 am) [edit]

7-15-04

Hello, everyone

I’ve become aware of two things:

First, I’ve slowed down on my posting because I sort of made this pledge to post a new story or article with every post, but I’ve been too busy to type in new stuff, so I haven’t been posting.

Secondly, I’ve noticed that my replies from you folks have been almost exclusively about my posts, not about my stories, so it leads me to believe that you don’t care so much about my stories, so I’ll post more often with fewer stories. Sorry, Kim, I haven’t finished typing in the one I promised you, but I will soon.

Now, the update. I went for about a week without throwing up, which is astonishing. However, the last four days, I’ve thrown up daily, but only once per day, which is still good. My meds still have side effects that are disorienting, but I’m told that will go away in a week or two.

I’ve been so encouraged by you folks, I’m very grateful. Thank you for all the kind words and support. I find that I am loathe to post without a story, so here’s the first chapter of my first novel, Walking Wounded. I hope you like.

Thanks for reading,

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 1

THAT LAST SUMMER

Dear Danny: You were wrong. You were so very, very wrong. I’m not sorry at all that I didn’t go with you. The weirdest things have happened this summer.

I hope you get these letters. I keep up with Grateful Dead dates and try to send a week ahead of them. I just hope you’re checking the general deliveries. Just in case you do get this, here’s a twenty. Just thought I’d ‘miracle’ you a little bit today. In case you didn’t get all the others, this is the third letter I’ve written you. Hey, that’s sixty bucks I’ve blown on your pot-smoking butt. You owe me big.

Anyway, back to you being dead wrong, no pun intended. No, I couldn’t have worked on my book following the Dead. I got a job running a cash register at Billy Karr’s drug store, part-time. That’s just cigarette money. It’s left me a lot of time to spend writing. I’m proud of how it’s going so far. So, what I’m saying is that some good has come out of me staying here this summer instead of following the Dead.

Anna freaked everybody out. She laid a couple of bombshells on the folks. She changed her major from math to business/marketing, meaning she’s not going to be a math teacher like the old man. Since I can’t even balance my checkbook, it looks like no one is following in Dad’s footsteps. He was a trifle upset about that.

BUT THEN... Then she came out to them. I mean, no big shock to anyone paying attention, but to Mom and Dad? When the word lesbian was actually spoken, I swear Mom turned a shade of grey/green/white I was unaware that living flesh could attain. Anna and I were on the couch. She was squeezing my hand so hard I thought it would break. We all talked it out and everybody cried and hugged.

I was pretty proud of Mom by the end of the night. She looks little, but she’s really tough as nails.
I don’t think it bothered Dad nearly as much. I mean, sure, she won’t be giving him any grandkids, but I’m the only one that can carry on the family name, anyway, so I think that’s what he’s most concerned about.

Oh, and she’s a vegetarian now. I guess when she gave up meat, she went all the way.

Okay, there’s something else that happened. This is kind of big. I was riding my bike west of town, just tooling around the old farm roads, putting some miles down. It was just after sunset, and beginning to get dark. I was cruising around a bend in the road when I saw this car pulled off to the side.

It was still running, and the driver’s side door was open. I pulled off my headphones and heard this couple screaming at each other. They were standing in front of the car, in the headlights, screaming at the tops of their lungs. Not just screaming, but serious “hatred-death-bodily-ha rm” screaming. It sounded pretty serious, so I slowed down, went past them a ways, then stopped. It was starting to sound violent.

The guy spotted me, and then started yelling. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” and stuff like that. He started coming toward me, cussing at me, so I got off my bike. I called to her, and asked her if she was okay. She stated yelling for me, “No. Help me. Don’t leave me,” and stuff like that. As this gorilla came towards me, I saw he had a knife. Now, I don’t mind going toe-to-toe with anybody. Hell, even I even duked it out with Tony Sims a couple of times, but I’m not looking to die.

He started swinging this blade, and I got the idea that he’s used this thing before, which bothered me. We started dancing around the bike; I was trying to use it as a shield while he tried to jab at me. Then I thought I should do something before he stabs me, so I tried to grab his hand. Bad move. He cut me, and it hurt, so I kicked him in the nuts. He stopped breathing and grabbed his crotch. I thought that this was working pretty well, so I kicked him in the groin again. He dropped to his knees and threw up.

I went over to the girl to see if she was all right, and the guy got in his car and drove off. I took off my t-shirt and wrapped my hand in it, then got her to straddle the handlebars, like when we were kids, and rode to a phone.

It turned out I was bleeding pretty badly. His knife must have been dirty or something, ‘cause I got a pretty bad infection from it. They had to amputate my pinky finger, and half of the ring finger. Its okay, I still have enough left for a ring if I ever want to get married.

But, the thing is, I feel weird now, like a piece of me is missing. Not just the fingers, but like a part of my soul is gone. I feel like a freak. They made me go to a shrink to make sure I wasn’t too “traumatized”. I’m not suicidal or anything, but I am sort of weirded out. Like when I grab for the soap in the shower and it slips ‘cause I don’t have a full grip. I mean, going away to college is spooky enough, but now I’m, I don’t know, some kind of freak. It’s gonna make picking up girls a lot harder.

But, hey, there’s an upside to all this. You know what’s really strange? Ever since this happened, I feel kind of relieved. This is gonna sound weird, but I don’t really mind missing the fingers so much. Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do? I’ve always wanted to play concert piano, or the violin. I know. I can’t even play ‘Mary had a Little Lamb,’ but, growing up, the kids in school that had complained about piano lessons, I just wanted to punch them. I wished my parents would pay for piano lessons. Now, I guess it’s a good thing the folks saved their money.

The cool thing is, now I can tell people that I was a concert pianist, or violinist, or something like that. Then all I’d have to do is show them my hand and say: “But since the accident...” It ought even up my chances at the college girls.

Back to the girl, Nancy. She and I have been kind of seeing each other since then. She s a few years older; she s this junior exec in an accounting firm, or something like that. She s tried to explain what she does, but it’s way too boring. She wears pantsuits, and has an expense account. She takes me out, like, three or four times a week. I can’t help thinking that it’s guilt about the fingers.

Don’t get me wrong; we’re not exactly dating. I mean, we don’t kiss or hold hands or anything. It’s not really romantic. She just seems really attached to me. I’m not sure if it’s guilt, or loneliness, or what, but it’s like I’m her new best friend, which is all right by me. I like her a lot, we have a good time together, and it does my reputation a lot of good being seen with an older woman. Mom and Dad seem happy that at least one of their children is dating someone of the opposite sex.

Well, listen. Roll a fat joint and smoke one with Jerry Garcia for me. Take pictures and tell me all the stories this fall. See you in the dorms. Try not to freak out too much when you see my hand. And don’t spend the $20 on dope. At least, not all of it. Get a sandwich or something first, eh?

Your Buddy,

Jimmy

The Lord's Prayer

07.10.04 (3:40 pm) [edit]

7-9-04

Hello, everyone.

Sorry I haven’t posted in almost a week, I’ve been in a funk. I’ve been having 2 or 3 panic attacks per day. I called my doctor, & he prescribed a regimen of Buspar to accompany my Effexor. And, after only a couple of days, it started helping. The downside is that the Buspar makes me a bit nauseated and dizzy, sort of out of sorts, like I’m in a dream.

I had very little to eat on Monday, Tuesday, & Wednesday, but it all came up anyway. Thursday I had two sandwiches, & they stayed down, & today, I had another sandwich, also good. It’s been awhile since I went 2 days in a row without throwing up. I’m encouraged.

I don’t know what else to write, except a note to my regular readers: Since I’m not real tight about posting daily, please bot this blog & stay up with my updates. Also, any questions about my mental history, diagnosis, etc. are always welcome. Please feel free to post, I always respond to my posts. Thanks for reading.

Here’s an article that I wrote for a religious mag. I’m not a Christian & don’t quite buy into all of this, but a freelancer has to write for his audience. Hope you enjoy. If any of you happen to know anyone in the publishing community, I have a novel completed & 2 more in the works. I realize I’m just fishing, but if you don’t cast a line, you never catch the big one.

Thor

A Discourse on The Lord’s Prayer

The word “patter” as in “pitter-patter”, or mumbling background noise comes from the Latin “Pater Noster”, the first words in the prayer “Our Father”. The word patter became used for noise because of the mumbling, repetitive recitation of the rosary by Catholics. After reading the prayer, not just reciting it from memory, I thought that it needed a closer look.

Now, mind you, I’m not a Christian, and the Bible is not my Holy book. However, as most open-minded people throughout history have discovered, wisdom can be found in any religion. If one believes in a God at all, it is a powerful prayer.

It begins with “Our father”. Not “Oh, All-powerful Creator of the Universe”, no. He started with “Hi, Dad”. God is meant to be thought of as accessible, close. Some omniscient creator in the sky is beyond imagination, but “Dad” I can grasp.

“Who art in Heaven”. Though it may not be our parents, we all know someone who has died, grandparents, perhaps, and people tried to comfort us with the assurance that they were in a better place. So this places the aforementioned “Dad” in a place. Now, no matter if you are an evolutionist, creationist, or some combination thereof, the matter in this universe came from SOMEWHERE, so one way or another, God is our great-great-million-times -great grandfather. So, now we have “Hi, Grandad in Heaven”.

“Hallowed be thy name”. You are so special to me, even your name is sacred. Do you know that there was a time when God was given a name that had no vowels so that there was no way to even pronounce the name of God? These were times when to speak the name of God was a capitol offence. Only the high priests could speak God’s name, and then only at certain times under certain conditions.

There is a scene in Monty Python’s Life Of Brian where a man is about to be stoned to death for speaking God’s name. His defense? He said that he didn’t know what the big deal was, his wife made a wonderful meal and he said that it was good enough for Jehovah. The stones came flying.

You are so precious to me that even your name is sacred.

Next, there’s a big chunk that all goes together: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven”. Only in the past few hundred years has the world begun moving away from Kingdoms. Yes, I know about ancient Greece and the origins of Democracy, but for most of human history, those were isolated an ephemeral instances. Widespread democracy is a very new phenomenon.

For most of our history, the King’s word was law. When the King said “off with his head”, they took you out back and the axe fell. I mean right now. When the king said it, things happened, no messing around.

In the first dozen or so books of the Bible, the history is repeated over and over. Here’s how it goes: When they followed God’s law, which is to say, they made God their king, they prospered. When they turned away from God, they were conquered. Now, God’s kingdom is Heaven, but now the prayer is asking for God’s will to be here and now. God as King. Not Caesar, not little tin god megalomaniacs, not fallible emperors, or Councils, or Pharos, or Judges, or Shahs. God as Absolute King, here and now.

“Give us this day our daily bread”. Now, this is a very strange sentence that required a lot of research. At first, this doesn’t seem to fit. It’s the only part that asks for worldly things. Why not daily water? You’ll die of thirst before hunger. There is something else going on here. In Matthew 4:4, Jesus quotes Deuteronomy 8:3 in saying that man does not live by bread alone. Deuteronomy 8:3 says that man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God. So, it’s not literal bread that the prayer is asking for, but for sustenance. Secondly, there is a slight mistranslation. It’s not daily bread, but more closely tomorrow’s bread that the prayer asks for. That’s tomorrow with a capitol “T”, which is to say, the afterlife.

And what is this “sustenance” in Heaven? The power of God, or the Grace of the Holy Spirit, if you will. Give us the strength and power of the Holy Spirit, just as if we were in Heaven.

“And Forgive us our trespasses”. I’ve done wrong in my life, so I’m asking for compassion in the form of blessing. We’ll get back to forgiveness in a minute.

“As we forgive those who trespass against us”. There’s an old saying: Anger is a cargo that only damages the vessel that carries it. Forgiving you helps me. I don’t need to waste time and energy by carrying around things that only cause frustration, like hate, grudges, spite, and the like. So, I forgive you. This also harkens back to God’s will being done. Forgiveness is a Holy, spiritual thing, so, the King’s will be done.

Now comes the big one. “Lead us not into temptation”. Why? What’s wrong with a little temptation? What’s wrong with even giving in to a little temptation? Buddhism addresses this, too as a central theme. The Buddhist take on it is different from one of sin, but the reasons behind it are essentially the same. Keeping with Christian terminology, though, we’ll talk about Sin. Sin isn’t sin because of what you get or do. The problem is what you have to sacrifice in order to get it. Let’s look at this carefully.

I’ll go back to the fable of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. First temptation: Turn rocks into bread. That’s not too hard to manage for a man on a spiritual fast.

Next temptation: Jump off a cliff and the Angels will save you. Well, Jesus could have done that, been spared, but God would have to get involved, and God doesn’t play Truth or Dare.

Then, the big one. Kneel and I’ll make you a king. Now, if one believes in the holiness of Jesus, passing this up would be simple. He would already be a king without Satan. What does Jesus say? “Go away, I don’t need you”.

If only we were all that strong. Because we’re not. We are weak. Very weak. You want proof? Ever hear of a show called Survivor? A group of people are put in relatively primitive conditions, and rather than leaning on each other, coming together, they tear each other down, one by one. Any for what? Money. The network flashes cash and people turn cutthroat. Wolves behave better. How about a show called Fear Factor, where people are put neck deep in spiders, eat raw cow brains and maggots. Why? Money.

But, contrary to popular belief, it isn’t money that’s the root of all evil, it’s the love of money. It’s how badly you’re willing to humiliate yourself to get it. It’s not the alcohol that’s the problem, it’s praying to the porcelain god at 3 AM. It’s waking up in God knows whose bed. It’s the embarrassing stories that your friends tell you the next day because you were too drunk to remember. It’s not the high that’s the problem, it’s that you’re willing to steal from your mother and use the rent money to buy the drugs. It’s not the payoff that’s the problem, it’s what you’re willing to endure, how much you’re willing to debase yourself for that payoff.

And as far as sex is concerned, it’s the awkwardness of putting your pants back on in the back seat of a car. The disappointment on her face, because, at 17, he’s no Casanova. It’s the whispers in the school hallways and around office water coolers because of the embarrassing things he’s told about her.

Or, how about adultery? Try looking your mistress in the eye as you’re putting your shirt back on to go home. Or looking your spouse in the eye that night. Do they just not know, or are they pretending not to know because lying to yourself is easier than facing the pain.

Compared to that, tell me I’ll have my own kingdom if I kneel for an instant, and I’ll be on my knees before you can say “Jackrabbit Slim”. Because I am human, I am weak, and I do things to humiliate and debase myself in order to give in ti temptation.

Not right now, of course. Now, I sitting here, safe and sound at home, discussing things intellectually, but flash that cash, and I’m eating cow pig intestines on national TV. That’s why the prayer asks to be saved from temptation, to save me from myself.

There is a song from the Police called Synchronicity II that goes: “Every single meeting with his so-called superior is a humiliating kick in the crotch”. How many of us have done this, continue to do this? We sell ourselves, hour by hour, to a tyrant. Why? Again, for money. We don’t need that big house, that new car, that DVD player, but we think we do. We are afraid that love is not enough, so if we don’t provide our spouses with a never-ending string of luxuries, they will leave us. So we kneel before the Almighty Dollar, our king.

If it hurts us as parents to see our children humiliated, how much more so does it hurt God to see us do the same? So, at this point, let’s back up to forgiveness. I forgive you because I feel sympathy for you, because I, too, know the pain and humiliation of doing wrong. Therefor, just as God forgives me, I, in turn, emulate that by forgiving you.

“Deliver us from evil”. What is evil? Evil is the word that we give to the fear of bad things happening. After bad things happen, is it evil that you feel? No, it’s suffering. Evil is just the fear of potential or eminent suffering. So, the prayer is really saying: “god, take away the fear”.

“For thine is the Kingdom”. You have the keys, I’m turning my kingdom over to you.

“And the power and the glory forever”. In early versions of this prayer, this part isn’t there, but it seems like such a nice way to sum up the rest of it, so let’s keep it in. Now, altogether, we have:

“Hello, Grandfather in Heaven. You are precious to me. Your Divine will is so impeccable, I wish that the Earth acted with the same perfection that Heaven does. Forgive me for my wrongs, and I, in turn, forgive others. And don’t let me fall into the abyss of humiliation, but save me from that risk, and fill me with the Holy Spirit. You get all the credit. Amen.”

Now, that’s some prayer.

Happy 4rth

07.06.04 (12:41 am) [edit]

7-5-04
Hello, all.

Hope you had a happy 4rth. I had a family BBQ, ate 2 vegi burgers, potato salad, etc. I had the biggest meal I've had in months. Of course, it came up. Later, I had a few spoonfuls of potato salad & that stayed down.

Today, I ate another vegi burger & that came up. Then I took my daughter & her friend to the drive-in. We saw Siderman 2 & 13 going on 30. Enjoyed them both. But, I ate some snack foods there & they came up, too. I had 2 bad anxiety attacks today. Tomorrow, I see my therapist & I'll talk to him about some medication for the anxiety attacks.

Sorry, no story tonight, I'm too tired to type it in, but my entry for tomorrow will be entertaining, I promise.

Thanks for reading & all the support.

Thor

Gambler short story

07.03.04 (9:44 pm) [edit]

7-3-04

Hello, all.

Sorry about no post the past few days, it’s what happens when you get ungodly busy between quitting one job & starting another. I’ve been working both & it’s been hectic, but I’m back on track now.

To update you on my life: Tuesday, my doc increased my meds & I was nauseated for several days. I didn’t eat, therefore didn’t throw up Tuesday, Wednesday, & Thursday. Friday, I felt a little better & ate a sandwich., which stayed down.

Today, I ate another sandwich, but it came back up shortly thereafter. Later, I had a couple bites of broccoli, rice & cheese, but that came up, too. It wasn’t the nausea from the medication, it was just the bulimia taking control. It’s really starting to hurt in the chest like back in April when I was hospitalized. I’m really tearing myself up inside.

Tomorrow, I’ll have my daughter during the day for a BBQ, then I work that night. I just got a phone call while writing this. I just found out that my ex-wife’s boyfriend proposed tonight. I don’t know how I feel about that.

There are a few things. First, I really, honestly don’t want her back. Secondly, I also don’t want to be replaced in my daughter’s life. Third, it’s been 6 yrs. this month since the divorce, and now she’ll be getting married again. I feel so lost with her getting on with her life, and I’m still nothing but a fucked-up mess, like I’ve been my whole life. I’m 38, and can’t get my shit together for anything. I feel lonesome and pathetic.

Not actually feeling sorry for myself, just feeling lost, and kind of sorry I’m alive. I’m tired of feeling so confused & without direction.

Anyway, here’s tonight’s story, this one’s probably my favorite. If any of you out there know anyone in the publishing industry, send them my way. I have a novel & 2 more I’m working on.

As always, feel free to post, I always respond to my posts. Goodnight & enjoy the story.

Thor

The Gambler

Farley lay in bed, sweating. The hotel room was, as far as he could find, the cheapest in town. He always went to the cheapest hotels, saving his money for the game. This place defined the term “flea bag”.

His room was on the third floor with a picturesque view of the brick wall 17 feet away. If he leaned out the window, he could see the black alley covered in grease from the Vietnamese restaurant. For twenty minutes every day, the alley took on a rainbow sheen as the mid-day sun made its way between the buildings.

His breath came staccato as he tried to take deep breaths, but somehow couldn’t manage it. Even with the window shut, the wafting smell of grease was oppressive. The bed was squeaky, steel springs, circa 1935.

When he first arrived, he had flipped the mattress over to avoid sleeping on a large burn hole. When he saw the stale-brown bloodstains on the other side, he understood why the last tenant had preferred burn-side up. The “clean” bed sheets he had been given were stained, used-to-be-white linen. Two top sheets, no fitted sheet, jailhouse-issue plastic pillow, no pillowcase, and an army surplus army wool blanket. The whole issue you could turn in every three days for another “clean” set, which he hadn’t bothered to do in the nineteen days that he had been there.

He first met the woman in the room next door on his second day. It was just past noon - first thing in the morning for them. She was sitting on the fire escape, chain smoking, drinking Jack Daniels straight from a pint bottle; the square one, not the flask. She had once been pretty, he could tell, and although not unattractive now, her sullen face belied too many Jack-for-breakfast mornings and her drooping eyes spoke of too many nights in an open-mouthed, drunken haze.

The radio alarm went off. There was no way to set the alarm anymore, it just went off anytime it wanted to. There was no way to turn it off, either, without unplugging it. He found he liked the surprise. It was kind of like rolling a hard 8: you never know when it’ll pop up. The radio no longer got FM, which in most towns meant AM evangelists or the local “beautiful music” station - which was currently playing the elevator version of Eleanore Rigby.

He kept the damned thing because the glowing red digital clock still worked, though, to be honest, time didn’t really mean much to him anymore. The only time that had mattered in years was daytime and nighttime, and he didn’t need a god-damned broke down clock to tell the difference there: he could just stick his head out the window and give his lungs a fresh coating of alley grease.

Night time. That was really the only time that mattered. Nighttime is when the games begin. In any town, he’d start withe bridge bums. They didn’t know anything, they were just tramps, transients. But they knew where the local shanty-town was. Two bucks to the bums for a quart of beer. In shanty-town, they didn’t know where the action was, either, but they knew who knew. They were the permanent ones. They lived here, knew the town. One thing about bottom feeders: they know where the shit falls from. Ten bucks to them for a fifth of vodka.

On to the hook-up man. Gas station attendant, liquor store clerk, bartender, guy from the tire place, whatever. Always a low-flying job, ‘cause he’s too unstable for any kind of career. Perpetually in debt to the pit-boss, but they keep letting him back in ‘cause he brings in fresh meat, like Farley. His payoff? Twenty bucks, maybe fifty. Whatever the stakes were to get into the game.

The game. Farley brought a hand up and combed it through his hair. “The game,” he said aloud. “The game, the game, the fucking game,” palm slapping his forehead every time he said it. On his third night, she had come home at the same time he had, around 4:30. He had a small wad in his pocket. Earlier, he had been up 5 grand. He dropped most of it, but was still up more than 15 hundred, and still reeling from the adrenaline high. His trembling hand fit key to lock just as she came stumbling down the hall.

“Have a good night?” she asked.

“Yeah, I made some cash. And you?”

“I had a pretty good night, too. Yeah, a pretty good night.”

He had heard her through the wall, fumbling around the room. The shoes dropped, one by one, the bed springs squeaked, the light but deep snoring began. He couldn’t sleep, though. In fact, he wasn’t tired at all. The night kept replaying in his mind, fingers drumming against his palm, still rattling dice no longer there.

He had heard of people who get a hand or foot amputated and get phantom pains - still feeling the severed limb. He understood that. On nights like this, he understood, ‘cause he could still feel those dice, rolling around in his hand. The adrenaline was pumping, so he gad decided on a walk.

He stopped at an all-night liquor store, and picked up a bottle of Old Granddad to keep him company. Dawn came, and the city grew louder. Traffic packed and then slowly loosened up, which signaled mid-morning. He thought he’d head beck to the hotel for some shut-eye. The walk made him tired but not sleepy, so he tossed the empty bottle and found a liquor store for another spot of Granddad.

“Will that be all?” the clerk asked.

“Yeah. Uh, no. Give me a pint of Jack, too.” The clerk reached behind him and grabbed a slim bottle.

“No, the square bottle. And two packs of smokes. Marlboro red. Hard pack. And some matches, too.”

The radio turned off as arbitrarily as it had come on, so the only sound left in the room was his other luxury: an eight inch, mint-green oscillating fan that, as it reached its apogee on the right side, gave a pinging sound for just a moment before it began its arc back to the left. He knew that this was the only sound in the room, yet somehow he could still hear the echo of a loud bang, like a door slamming or a dictionary, falling flat.

For weeks the five of them had been meeting on the fire escape for breakfast: The hooker and Jack Daniels, the gambler and his Old Granddad, and, of course, the Marlboro man. He had been having a good run; a little up, a little down. When he’d come home with cash in pocket, she’d end up on her knees, earning her share of his winnings. When he’d come home broke, she’d buy breakfast, and no blowjob.

“Whores,” he thought. “The only commodity you can sell and still keep the product.”

He had come home “up” for three night in a row. 750, then five grand, then eleven-hundred. Not a lot, but enough for him to stick around. And then, there was last night. He had been up last night, way up. Nineteen grand up. Then, in two seconds, it all went sour. The dice that had been magic for him all night suddenly turned on him, hated him. They didn’t just have snake eyes, but fangs, too.

Thinking back, Tony, the pit-boss must have switched on him, but at the time, the fever was in him. He couldn’t stop rolling. No matter how far down he went, he couldn’t stop rolling, because he’d been up, damn it, he was up.

“How much is he in for?” he heard Tony’s boss ask him. The answer turned his fevered sweat ice cold. He heard the snap as the dice crashed together and stopped rattling in his hand. His gaze found a window. It was daytime. It had been daytime for some time.

They gave him three hours to come up with the cash. They put a tail on him in case Farley got the idea of skipping town. The guy waited across the street at the bus stop while Farley shook down his own room. He pulled out everything: the stash that he keeps in his dirty socks, the false bottom in his suitcase, what he keeps taped to the underside of his toilet tank lid, everything. He even found a $50 that a previous tenant had tacked to the bottom of a dresser drawer.

In the end, he was still almost seven grand short. He went to the fire escape for a smoke. She was there, lighting one cigarette with the butt of another.

“How’d you do last night?” she asked.

“Not so good. Really, really not so good.”

“That’s ok, I’ll buy. Back in fifteen minutes,” she said, and groaned her mother’s morning moan as she stood. Her footsteps clumped down the hall. And his body was in action before his brain understood what he was doing.

He searched her place. He didn’t ransack it; just a quick, thorough once-over. He found the cash in her panty drawer. Her lack of imagination astounded him. In a neighborhood like this, it was a miracle she wasn’t robbed everyday. Nine thousand. Perfect. He took what he needed, put the rest back, then headed back to Tony.

It was almost an hour before he got back, and there was a ruckus in the room next door. A man and a woman were shouting. Most of it wasn’t discernable, but “What did you do with it?”, “Where is it?”, and “I don’t know” came through pretty clearly.

There was a slap followed by a loud complaint from the bedsprings. Then again. And again. He shouting grew louder and more hysterical until suddenly a loud bang echoed against the bare walls of his room. Then, everything was very, very quiet.

Except for the rhythmic pinging of the fan. And the echo of the bang. The fan and the echo. The echo. The echo.

The radio sprang to life again, and the room filled with some philharmonic’s version of “Goodnight, Sweetheart”. For the second time that day, Farley’s sweat turned cold.

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.

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.

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

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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