More Death

More news I suppose. MJ's grandmother has now passed away. I wrote in here last year maybe about how MJ's mother died, well, now the grandmother's gone too and I think how unfair it is that God's doing this. Or I don't know if he's doing this. I mean he is obviously doing this "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away", but why did he have to take both people within a year almost. It's like MJ has all this bad luck and I really don't like it because she's a great person with so much to give and here she gets dealt all these bad cards. I mean when does it end? How does she keep on going? I mean how can you after all these deaths that come. I'm sure if she's totalled up the number of people who have died in the past five years, that she'll lose count.

I got a call this Sunday unexpectedly. I guess it was a shot to the heart. The grandmother was a good woman, healthy too, so I expected her to live a long time. Sure she was in her 80's, but she looked like she could live until 100.

I haven't really felt like doing anything. I can't be there for MJ, not physically because we live in two different places. And sure she knows all this, but it still hurts me that I can't be there. I know life is like that and you just have to run with it, but doesn't mean I have to like it. It's hard doing anything and yes, I guess it's like losing somebody. I mean I wasn't related to this lady, but she means more to me than some idiots in my family. In a way she's more of a grandmother to me than one of my grandmothers. One I hardly knew, but she was alright. The other I knew more, and she was alright I guess. I didn't understand her. Maybe I was just too young. Maybe I didn't like the fact she enjoyed picking on my sister. I told you, my family's fucked up. I read that back in an entry I did.

It's hard to reach out to people. I mean there's so much death people want to hear about. Eventually they don't want to hear about it. The first couple of days, they want to console you and want you to talk about it but not really. After that, they're tired of hearing it because they don't want to know that life can get depressing. They want to live their own lives. I guess I can't blame them. I'm like that too sometimes. Maybe I was like that on Sunday, getting that call from MJ. I didn't mind talking about it. Took me by surprise. MJ knows that though.

What do I say to people though? It'd be different if it was someone I was related to. They could all relate to that. But if it's a person I know, that I've only seen twice? They don't get it and I can't explain it to them. I mean what do I say? My ex's grandmother passed away and it makes me sad? First, they're going to tell me, she's my ex and ex's are ex's. You don't go back. It's the rule. Ex's can't be friends. Second, she's not my family, so why do I care? Third, that's your ex's problem, they'll say, go get a drink and celebrate.

I don't want to celebrate. I want to comfort my friend. I want to leave this place, go over there and cook a dinner or something. Watch her eat, do dishes, and while she sleeps, read a good novel or something. Instead I'm here. I go to work where all they care about is making money and shafting other co-workers just so they can make more money. Not all of them are like that, but that's the atmosphere I get I guess. Why can't they just be happy with what they got? Life's too short. Just enjoy what you're making and stop trying to get more. What do you need with more? How much is enough? It's never enough you greedy bastards. I'm just happy to go, make a bit of cash, come home, and write. That's the life I want. What the fuck do I need a big screen TV for? What I do need a car for? I don't want to drive so fuck off. I don't need all that crap. Life's too short. I'm happy with what I have. I have good food and good friends. I mean what more can a person want? I have an okay family. Half are decent; the other half I couldn't care less, those selfish fuckers that they are. I mean why are they even still here. Some of them have one foot in the grave, but fuck, they're taking so long to die, it's annoying, and here this nice grandmother is gone and it's not fair because she's a cool lady. Take one of my idiot family members, Lord, I mean really. What about my aunt? I mean how long is she going to be a bitch? And hey, you have two to choose from!

It's hard to reach out to people. What am I going to say? They have their own lives and they don't want to talk to me. I can only write what I feel I guess. They only have so long that they can talk to me. I mean they're alright. I don't want to bring them down with this depressing shit. They want to be happy. I understand that. I can't even write a poem. Too much in my head to bring it out on the page I guess. So many things going through my head. Partially worried about MJ. She's surprisingly strong so far and I'm so grateful for that. Maybe the past deaths have made her stronger. Just wish I could be there.

I don't know. I don't see the point in being here. I'm trying to look for answers but the answers aren't there. I still have faith in God and things are working out for me, but how can I say to have faith in God when MJ's not getting a break. How many times has she prayed? I don't know. How many times have I prayed for her? So many times, nearly everyday. I don't know. It's not that I lack faith in God because my faith is still strong, I just wish I knew what to do. I don't know what to do. I have skills and I have all the necessary tools, I just don't know how to use them. I can produce magic but I don't know where to start and where to end. I want to be able to stand up, but how can I do that when all I want to do is just lie in bed and not wake up. Wake up to what? Wake up to a store clerk who doesn't look at you when you're buying chips? Or some car cutting in front of you when you're trying to head to work? Or the stupid security people again. Have to deal with their fake hellos and shit when they screwed me over. You know it's a little over a year since the final screw happened.

I always say if you don't know something, use what you do know to find out what you don't know. I guess I could do that.

They Call Her The Bitch

Imagine you're in high school. You're walking down the hall and these girls are in a group huddled with their school books that they don't read. They're wearing low cut skirts because it's winter and they laugh at you walking in with your parka, blue jeans and bulky blue sweater. And for god sakes, what the fuck is that on your head!!! And your ears too?? They're like freakin' 80's headphones!

These girls snicker and laugh and talk amongst themselves and are late for class and sit in the back because nobody sits in the front, except you. They throw the best parties. You don't know that for a fact, but you hear of it. The reason you don't know is you're never invited. They make it a point not to invite you. To invite you, wouldn't just get them ridiculed, it just, ewww, no, why would they invite you. That thing on your head!

It's not the girls that bother you because there are maybe 5 in total, but 4 of them just ignore you and don't really do anything unless they're in a group. It's in the one that does it. The one that instigates everything, the leader of the pack. And if you didn't think women could be wolves then you're living in the 1920's or something because they can be wolves and they'll eat you all up, tooth and nail! This leader, the one who taunts you all the time and gets her friends to join in, the one the teachers choose to ignore because she seems decent enough (despite her grades) you call the bitch. It's not only you that call her that. A few of you others do. Because she doesn't just pick on you, that wouldn't be fair. In her mind, she believes in equality. In her mind, there are plenty of losers in the school to pick on. Why are they losers? Well. They're just not like her.

So you leave high school, leave all that shit behind and go to College and get a life, and who gives a fuck about her that now she lives in a trailer park taking care of two or three kids, she's lost count, while her husband has sex with her sister? Life is good for you.

Well, there's only one problem: The bitch exists. Not just in high school. You'd think they'd only be in high school, but sadly they're adults too. My aunt is one.

For years, her place was THE place to go to. Our family would gather there on Christmas or holidays and she had a pretty big family and we'd play with the kids and eat the food that she cooked herself because she was a good cook and always put out a good spread. It was important to put out a good spread and everyone knew she put out a good spread because she always made sure to invite the popular people as well. I mean the family she couldn't help but invite because they're family, but she also hooked up with the popular people and they all knew who she was. But to be popular you had to live popular meaning whatever was unpopular you had to let them know. So she was gossip central, putting down anyone who didn't meet her standards even though her standards were pretty low. Forget the fact that her husband used to hit her as well when he drank. I mean yeah, that made him bad ass. But when you got my dad hitting my mom, well, that just makes my mom bad ass. See the double standard? Protect the family; protect the clique, that's important.

And the worst of it is when she tries to suck our cocks and to pretend to be the sweet whore that she is. Because her clique is dying and she needs to keep it up. I'm the crazy one for talking about her. I'm the crazy one for saying she's a bitch when she really is. But that's okay, because the problem with bitches is that no matter how much they try to hide it, everyone will see the bitchiness within them. And I'm not talking about being a bitch one day as if being moody or angry. I'm talking about being a bitch everyday 24/7 and making a career out of it. That kind of shit is crazy, a disease, and a result of obvious low self-esteem. Now I have nothing against fat people but when they put someone down because of the way they look, well, then it's something. Because most fat or big people I know are really decent human beings. Every chance she gets, wherever there's an opening, she takes it and cuts a person down by a sword, making herself look like a champion, that people forget her shortcomings that she seems within herself.

I'm quite happy though because her career is coming to an end. Her husband (who turned out to be a really decent guy after he stopped drinking) has died (may he rest in peace). Her son's life may be falling apart. Other than the fact he chose my dad's side during my parents' divorce, I got nothing against him. I have no anger with him or his family. My beef is with the bitch aunt. And I'll watch while her ivory tower comes crumbling down. Dance on her grave? No, I probably wouldn't attend the funeral or I'd have to think about it. So much to think about. So much grief.

Most of my family is fucked up, but I have a few good family members and I have my friends and I have my writing, and yes, there's God too. I'm surprised at how big God is. I mean when you have God in your life, you don't have to worry about the Bitch because usually the Bitch doesn't have God in her life because if she did, she would have no need to be a bitch.

The Unlikeable Writer

First I should apologize. My uncle is a writer, and for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you've encountered him and he's put you down.

Writers are usually invisible. If we're lucky to have supportive parents, then great. Mine weren't supportive. My interest in storywriting was to them hopefully a phase. I mean every kid has an imagination and creates. That's what lego is for; that's what Barbie dolls are for. But I mean to actually do this as a career? Naturally there is more to the story, and one of these days I will write that story. I have part of it written down, but it's not the whole story. Basically, my parents hoped I would choose something more lucrative and more professional. Yes, there are professional writers, and yes, writing is a profession, but they were hoping for something more traditionally professional, like a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher. Something with more weight to it. Or maybe even a business person.

So yes, I was very happy when I found out my uncle was a writer. I wanted to be one. Not so much because he was one, but because I wrote stories. Then after elementary school, I stopped because of my lack of support from parents and peers too. (Of course, I had never stopped creating, so in a sense that writing drive never died). Then after high school, that writing bug was still there and I wanted to write and I did. I kept my work hidden. I chose to go into teaching, but still, I took a writing course on the side. It was an option. Now I'm not a teacher and I'm a writer. The friends I had during high school aren't my friends. Some of my family aren't my family. Of course, I have new friends, and now I have supportive writing friends. This is more than ten years after high school. Forget about the friends I had in elementary. I had at the most two.

What's my point in telling you all this? Writers come from humble circumstances. At least most do. A lot of people don't get us, or understand us. We read people nobody's ever heard of. Bukowksi, Kerouac? Who? Yes, they're famous, but you'd be surprised how many people don't know who those people are. My parents don't, my family doesn't. Most of my "friends" don't. If someone I met from high school comes along and I say something along the lines of "My writing is sort of like Kerouac's." There reply is "Cool. Who's Kerouac?" And it's only cool because now that we're out of high school, they're not cool anymore, so they want to get into my good graces, but that's for another blog entry one day.

My slave labour job, nobody knows who Kerouac is. The people I serve don't know who Kerouac is. Are they stupid? No. They're not in the same world I am, and my world is really really small compared to their world. That's what writers have to live with. Most of us have nobody who shares our passion or understands why we would wake up at 2am just to read a poem. I mean why would you read a poem? You did that in high school. It's like gym class. You do it once, just to get your high school credits, after that fuck that shit.

My uncle grew up poor, but he wrote, and after he became successful, he forgot where he came from. He forgot the struggles, in fact, ignores them. He becomes unnerved when a restaurant doesn't have a real tablecloth on it. Becomes unnerved if the pizza isn't like the pizza he got in Italy. I mean, my goodness, just be thankful you're getting pizza, or getting food. Be grateful you have food on your plate because there were days when you didn't have food on your plate. As writers, we're thankful, we're grateful. We're grateful when people read our work. He's expectant. You have to read his work because it's the best. If he's the best, then I'm the best. I mean really, screw that crap, because the best are those whom we follow or model. People like Hemingway, or Tolstoy. To me, those are the best, and those we can never hope to emulate.

With so many talented people, writers are grateful when someone comes up to them, holds the book in their hand and asks a writer to sign it. I know I am. I mean you chose to pass that new Stephen King book. I mean wow. I mean why? Stephen King is awesome! You wanted to try something new? And you liked what you read? Well, I thank you, dear reader, I really thank you! Because I'm a poor boy and nobody loves me, but you made my day, like that kid who's on the street selling lemonade that nobody really wants to buy and if someone does buy it, they either know the kid, or just trying to make the kid feel better. Writers are like that kid with the lemonade.

So if you're going to be a writer, remember where you came from. Remember all the hard work you've done. Remember all the people who've helped you obtain your success; and help people obtain success. Don't just turn up your nose at everyone and hang out with losers who do the same. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you're cool, just makes you a stuck-up bitch.

Doctor Rant

So I was doing a little eavesdropping when I discovered something about pills. There are some that cause low sex drive. It also made me realize something else. Doctors don't care. They're interested in treating whatever is harming or hurting you, but they never give you the full story. I mean they'll say something like "it has a few side-effects," and you'll see the list of side-effects on that little paper you get from the pharmacy, but they don't stress the side-effects part. It's up to you to stress it.

Pills, pills, pills. Doctors and the pharamaceutical companies are working together. The doctors are helping to sell their products! If you have a cold, let me recommend Bartie's Cold! No, don't take Tylenol because Bartie is an up-and-comer and I want to help him out. You want to know the real treatment? Rest and fluids. Should I blame the doctors? I mean should I really blame them when our society is so damned lazy and looking for a quick fix? A society that is too lazy to cook dinner and just get their dinner from a fast food joint. Get the nice Family Meal from KFC because it's made for families. No cooking involved, no washing dishes because you're not using any. I mean what has our society come to! I mean yes, I eat KFC myself. But everyday? Who has KFC everyday? For lunch and for dinner! They don't serve breakfast, but if they did, you know where you'd be going. You don't take care of your body, so it's no wonder you're getting sick! Meanwhile these loonie doctors are picking up on that and trying to make a fortune out of it! They're selling you want you want. Pills. A quick-fix. Just give me something to get me through this day. What you need is to eat healthy, eat more fruits, shit like that.

The worst is when you see some five year old with a hamburger in one hand, a fry in their mouth, and with their other hand playing with the toy they got from McDonald's! They don't even want the meal. They want the toy and McDonald's knows that! Here, here's a toy made from people in another country who get crappy wages and not-so-good working conditions! Meanwhile, inject your body with grease! Lots of grease, lots of sugar!

I still have my beef with doctors. They don't tell you this stuff. I mean there's the usual exercise and stop smoking and stop drinking, but they don't say "cut down on the fast food and eat a fruit!" They're not interested in lifestyle changes because that would cut down on the kickbacks they get from selling pills! Pills is where the money is at! We want them, and they want to give them to us. Our society has bought into this whole magic pill crap. And Prozac isn't to blame. We are. We wanted it. Prozac is also not a magic pill! But when we get it, we feel better (or think we do) and think that's all we need. Who cares about group therapy or trying to solve problems? I like my Prozac, and I think I'll up the dosage because half a pill just isn't working for me!

I know I'm going to sound like a scientologist, but it's all in the mind! It's a really sad world we live in.

A Year Later

My dad reminded me around April 1st or so that it was one year since my uncle passed away. And then I remembered I started this blog a year ago. So I thought I need to write an entry since it's a year later, but technically it's not a year later yet for this journal. April 17th will be the anniversary of this blog and I have to say things are fuckin' awesome. It's unbelievable but I made it. I had one hell of a year and I can't say too much specifically what happened, but those who know me personally will know. Like MJ knows. She's been so supportive of my bad year. It's strange. Well, it's not really strange because I know when someone you care about dies, it does affect you. But when it really happens, you don't realize it. The world looks so morbid, and I guess it becomes morbid or sad or listless or mean, and cruel like one of Mr. Burns's hounds from The Simpsons cartoon. Maybe you hear something in my voice now that tells you things are better because I do feel a lot better.

They had a special poetry reading this past Saturday and I went to it, despite my boss being away for vacation. Funny thing is around the same time last year he had a vacation. So I guess we've come full circle. I'm really happy. But it just didn't happen. It was a journey, a hard journey. I could not have done it without my friends though and God of course. I hadn't been to a poetry reading since that one time where I read that one poem and the whole night just didn't feel exciting. Being at that special poetry reading was different. It was a party, a celebration, a re-birth maybe. A lot of my outlook though has been more positive, it was like I knew I had to go in that direction. It made me realize that I had to make the choice to be happy. I mean there are things to feel miserable about, and things to feel happy about. They're both there, you just have to take your pick. Sometimes it's hard to feel happy, it really is, and that's when you write, or you hold on to your friends. And I mean your friends. Not those idiots who don't want to listen to you whine anymore or have better things to do, or wonder why you don't get over your grief already. Who the fuck cares whether it's been one day, one week, or one year? Everyone has their grieving process. I mean, okay if you're stuck in your room, with the walls painted black for a whole year, then yes, something's obviously wrong, but if you're still doing shit but you're still sad then that's alright because you're still trying to get through the world, and some people just don't understand that. It's like they don't want to be reminded that the other person's dead. But sometimes, people need someone to talk to about their grief. They don't want you to fix their grief, just they just want to talk. It's how they express themselves. Sometimes it's hard to write. I have those times that it's hard to write. So I can understand that. Sometimes the griever just wants to talk or have a drink with you. I mean nothing big, just listen or just keep the griever company. Okay too creepy, MJ just showed up. Maybe she needs to talk? Time for me to blow this post and see how she is. Later.

Words

They're coming to get me, they're coming to get me. They wear blue, they were black, and have golden badges on their chests and lapels like massive body strength wanting to consume me. But they won't get me, they won't get me, because I write this, because I write. They can't stop the writer from writing. They may have muscles, but I have a brain and that outdoes any muscles or politics that they may have. I'm a rat in a maze, I'm a rat within walls eating cheese, chewing my way out and I'm inside them chewing their skin and drinking their blood in a wine glass because I feast on their authority because I don't respect it. Useless cops with nothing to do and I don't mind because I don't see them and they don't see me and yet I had to call them when I was in trouble. I did my job, they did theirs and we parted ways and it's too bad, it's too sad we couldn't be friends anymore, but they stabbed me in the back, fucked me up in the ass and it hurt pretty darned good, so there is nothing I can do except hold you, hold my writing, hold what keeps me alive, because without it, I would have no support, no rock, except for Jesus, but it's hard to hold on when you're falling down a well, and you need something to help you scrape along the sides. Something to help you open your eyes so you can see Jesus, and once you get that first step, then, and it's only then that Jesus becomes alive in your eyes. He's there, just standing there, not moving because he wants you to come to him. He's too lazy to come down and save you, you have to save yourself and only then do you get the goods that heaven has to offer, and you think it's all bs, but once you get out of it and see all this shit, you're thinking it's pretty good and then once you're in, you're in for life, and it's a good gig, the people are good, and you don't mind their company. Sure there a few bad apples, but you ignore those because their ticket is almost up anyway, and you don't worry about them because you're hanging with the Big J eating and drinking his good wine without the hangover the next day, and that's heaven when you can get drunk and not have a hangover the next day.

So they can't get me, they can't get me, I'm too smart for these rich pricks, obsequious dicks with guns on their sides and badges close to their heart. They respect the badge, but they respect the green as well. It's money that talks, money that makes decisions, money that tells you who's right and wrong. Money writes the rules, the government doesn't, only think they do. They only do because they're rich and he who has all the gold makes the rules and that's all bs, so all you can do is smoke a joint and write whatever you do and keep moving in the world because when you stop, that's when you die, that's when you've given up. And as long as you're moving, then that's something, because most of these political bastards have stopped moving and smoke up their money, and once it's gone, they have nothing because young up-and-comers are coming up with more money taking them over. There's always a bigger fish. And meanwhile you're just floating on the street, high as a kite, still surviving, still living and that should be worth something. It's something when you can write.

Fear

Why do you fear? Why do you let them control you? Because they do. They're bigger, they wear uniforms, they are the law. They're not the law, the law is in your mind, that is the law. The law is what you control, what you know. That is the law. I don't understand. If that's the law, then I can do anything I want. Precisely. You control what you do, they don't. You make the choices, they don't. You can choose to stand up or sit down. Then I choose to sit down, what's the point of getting up when they're there? They're not there, you only think they are. You decide if they're there or not. It's your mind that decides. So they're not there. They're not there and it's only you with a blank slate, with a blank piece of paper to tell the story of your life. What's that life going to be? What are you going to tell the world? When you're dead and gone, what's the legacy you're going to leave behind? What legacy? I have no legacy. But you do. Everyone has a legacy. You are your own legacy. What's the legacy you can leave behind? What words can you leave the world? What will they know you as? Who will you be when you are gone? That's your legacy. And people in uniform won't stop you from that legacy. Nobody can stop you from that legacy because they don't exist for you. And when they don't exist, they can't touch you.