"i drank beer waiting for the day to come"
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may 19
It's WEDNESDAY, I received my overpriced junkfood at 5:30 a.m.
Only 7 more times will I go through that ritual.
I did not write a posting the last two days because the waves have been
choppy and empty.
First, I could not get Lance (les Webmaster) to answer les phone. After
three days I became convinced that he was a full corpse lollygagging next
to his phone, needle hanging from arm, OR, perhaps he was half dead in
les hands du ALBANY's finest.
But he answered in a discombobulated rush at the last moment last night
- and so - we go - onwards.
Not that the boat hasn't been rocking on les local level. SGT. Nelson
is the one - - who brought up the website at a briefing last week. One
by one, more and more guards, they come to me and ask, "I'm not mentioned
in that website, am I?" WEll, maybe. (Apparently it's news to them that
I have been mentioning names all along.) Willy. CATON. Donna. Batka. Becky.
O'brien. Rogers. Useless Michelle Davis les mental health string puller,
Dr.Wong les money grubber. Nuanes. Trujillo. Wiess. Rita Burger who INDIGNANTLY
treats inmates like SHIT - and BRAGS that all the cards are in her hands.
Listen to this - when I tell the others they are BARELY mentioned "no problem."
I then tell them that the one who gets the WORST is Rita Burger. They SNORT
I tell you. They SNORT with laughter because they SEE why that useless
impediment, les poseur, would draw attention what with her endless attempts
to bitchilly cover up her important mistakes. She is the one who CAUSES
inmates to have their pants halfway on only yo be told, "no wait - you
can't go - there's been a mistake" And one of her coworkers told me - just
yesterday - "you know what her actual title is? ....INMATE REPRESENTATIVE."
It is she who must shown the card game know as "52 pick up." Later.
But where were we before all these interruptions....
there was a fight in the chow hall yesterday...
No - too cheap - further further - ha yes ... les Royal Hotel in Vancouver.
Let's blurt it out. Let's put away and forget it and swim in a raft
of Rita Burgers. A sea of gnarling teeth.
"Enough mumbo jumbo - get on with it already. I'm rotting here."
Who said that?
It can only be les cheesecake with the human features plopped on. I'm
saying it's Morty the Mortuary Pie. If you SQUIRM in front of him his expression
doesn't change. And he's here. And he was there.
Even now he is clearing his throat with annoyance.
So, let's move onwards.
I do solemnly swear that I went to Canada to START SOMETHING (anything)
on FIRE... to therefore BE INSTITUTIONALIZED, to therefore solve my PROBLEMS.
I was DROWNING in San Francisco. Nothing was forthcoming. No other way.
And as one sees THAT SORTA ONSET the pendulum SWINGS from one wicked conclusion
to les other.
Suicide or Jail.
Jail - it became a pamphlet full of options. All bleak but LATER possibilities.
Whereas MORTY offered only darkness, my dead head thunking on a cold steel
table. Jail offered the promise of later life. But danger was everywhere.
Les maids at les Royal Hotel seized on me. Some days bringing the manager
and INSISTING on entering the room. How cheap human suspicion is when it
comes at a time like this! And if they knew what I was debating, what harm
would they cause? And likewise - to WHOM should I have applied in San Francisco?
I can just SEE it.
"Hi, I've been living here in S.F. for a year. I know no one. I work
alone on les eke squeaky bike for Special T. Delivery. I have come to the
conclusion that I can no longer DEAL with PEOPLE at ALL. So THEREFORE
I'm thinking of either exiting the world or starting a great big old fire.
Got any advice?"
Yes, yes. To whom should I have made that speech? "Could have gone to
some clinic," I here some BITCH in cyberspace saying. Yes, and they would
have taken an action which would have SNIPPED my apartment out from under
me as I lounged at some HELLHOLE by force for a month - or just long enough
to ensure I lost it all.
So - sensing the loss, logic - as it were - dictated that I FORCE the
best out of bleakness.
And so, in those final months, then weeks, then days of deterioration
in S.F., I CRYSTALLIZED the serious option of doing what Kurt Cobain done
did do - but only TEMPORARILY. What if I just force the hand that's jabbing
me? And in this context on dull, restless anxious evenings I drank beer
waiting for the day to come. And in this joyless plotting I thought along
the lines of: if this MUST happen, then I should go to FRANCE - or ITALY
- or SOMEWHERE. Wouldn't it be BETTER than PURE rotting in an American
jail. Every time I glanced at a French newspaper I would LEARN and GROW.
Yes, yes, I sought not to have a TOTAL LOSS. A "temporary Cobain" with
a few piffling flaming ruffles and flourishes of value.
But, you must realize that thinking down these paths was not EASY. It
was hard to take actions in this awful direction. To do anything was to
MAKE IT REAL. After all - nothing had happened yet. Oh - I'd lost my job
and couldn't sit forever but there was this string of days wherein TODAY
nothing had to be done. And in THAT way - any necessary action to get to
FRANCE, (ho about applying for a passport) fell to the wayside.
As if SOMETHING ELSE would happen. Something would WALK into my room
and change this intense feeling of disaster. Remove the bags from under
the eyes ands the nervous suspicions of ALL other humans.
So FRANCE - it was gone. Right out. And in this pathetic way, my inner
eyes focussed sarcastically and seriously on MONTREAL.
Who would like to be the first to hop from their chair and accuse me
of lazy ENTHUSIASM for this plan? There have been SO MANY that want to
FLAVOR my case THAT WAY. What I NEEDED in S.F. was a way out that did NOT
involve other people. There were none. And so - there was no other way.
And so I journeyed, in the end, only to Vancouver. And I could go no
further. It would have to happen HERE in Vancouver - almost America.
What ever the result - I would learn no French. I would only get the
second rate economy ticket thru my Cobainish journey. I would only just
SURVIVE.
Weeks past in uncomfortable suspicion.
What American comes to just SIT in a Vancouver Hotel room over the holidays?
I went out only for beer, cigarettes, newspapers and food, and yes, to
just STAND outside while the maids barged in.
And the weeks passed.
And here again came the crossroads wherein I knew that soon my credit
card would maximize itself. And eventually that day came. Les machine at
les Royal bank says NO MORE. Still a wad of cash in my pocket, but the
time had come to SELECT a TARGET. I roamed at night - looking.
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