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.

Dead

Oddly the last time I posted was in October 1st and since October 8th life for me has been hell. The police or security or whatever you want to call them, rent-a-cops, I really don't care, but they're idiots anyway. They finally screwed me over for the last time, but that's not what bothers me. What bothers me is they're still alive? And what bothers me is that all their body parts are still together. I'd like to cram a screwdriver or a drill in their ear or something and make them bleed the way they made me bleed by stabbing me in the back, and I still bleed from their betrayal. Why should I have to leave my job? My job is going well. It's just seeing them around, seeing them everyday doing their stupid patrols which is not really anything but trying to look pretty. They got swanky new uniforms now, but that still doesn't hide what they really are. Just a bunch of politicians really, that enjoy kickbacks from the rich and enjoy harassing the lowly.

I talked to Jack Kerouac the other day. He's my mentor. I asked why I should bother going to work, why I should bother getting up. I mean who really cares anymore. Why wouldn't I just put a bullet in my head? I mean what's the point of life anymore, when you just don't feel like going to the mall maybe? I could say going to work, but I do like work, it's just they're around and that's what makes work suck for me, otherwise I'd like work. So I asked Jack K., I ask him why I should bother getting up. Why? And he says to me "The writing man, the writing," so that's why I'm up today. That's why I'm writing in here again. This is what makes me live. I mean yeah, my friends and MJ, they all help me, but they can't be here for me everyday, 24/7. I mean they got their own lives, and MJ's not in the same city. I mean I wish she was, but she isn't so not like I can cry on her shoulder or maybe I still can but it still hurts because what can she do. There's only so much she can do to make me feel better and she's tried, but then it all boils down to me. I mean I have a great life other than work.

Why should I quit work? I mean yeah, I thought about it. Sure, MJ just suggested it like 10 minutes ago, but I thought about it before. I thought maybe I should go find another job, work in the post office like Bukowski did, even though he's tried to warn me about working there. I mean it sounds like a good gig. Someone else said I should work there too. Seems like a good gig.

Something to think about I guess. I feel better writing all this. One reason I can get up in the morning, to write. That's my only reason or main reason for living I guess. It's like the blood that flows through my veins. Without it, I'd be dead and I think that's true.

Those cops though, they screwed me over bad. They're not the friendly people you learn about when you're in Elementary School. No these guys are different. In it for themselves. They don't know what justice is. They're too scared, too small. Yes, I know the law's the law and I have every right to press charges, but they won't let me press charges.

Not all the security are bad. No, not all of them. Just the head guy, like the head vampire in The Lost Boys. Keifer Sutherland wasn't that bad. It was the head vampire that was. Him and his little minion. The little minion caused the most betrayal because him and I were close, but now we're not, and he's a Jesus lover and that prevents me from slicing his throat because you don't slice a man of Jesus even if he did betray you. Doesn't mean I have to like him though. I stay away from him, he stays away from me. Don't give me this crap about forgiveness. You just want me to forget you stabbed me in the back. No, I won't forgive you, I just won't know you. You want professionalism, dick, I'll give it to you. Professionalism is knowing your there, but not acknowledge your presence. So I won't acknowledge your presence, because really, why should I? When you caused me this grief.

Other than those idiots, that's why I'm alive, that's why I wake up today and go where I'm going. It's the writing man, the writing.

Forgiveness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't know.