Monday, June 08, 2009
Warning; This blog was written on a fulll moon while I was trying to tie my nuts to the shower rod.
Tempting the fates.
I am well into becoming a coot, and so far, I haven't yet got those designer diseases all those around me seem to have, HIV, Chlamydia, about seventeen types of cancer, Alzhemers, AIDS.
What's wrong with me?
All the papers and airwaves are full of these maladies that so feed the Medical-Industrial Complex. I should at least have erectile dysfunction, turn gay, hang myself by the nuts on some chower curtain rod.
All I got is insanity.
The insane live long and prosper?
Well, I have not prospered, but each day seems to be an exercise in hiding ones nuttiness.
"Why?" asked the psychiatric nurse told to take my creative writing course by her doctor and mine. "He's pretty shaky. We'd better keep an eye on him. Take his course."
"Why hide your nuttiness she called from the back of the class after I said you've got to at least act normal. "Otherwise people won't talk to you."
As she sat down, I caught her hands outstrecthed, picking stars.out of the air.
I almost had the recurring fantasy of crawling into my safe, secure stawberry vagina from which I cold sometimes raise a periscope while not compromising my safety and security.
My nurse stood up again,and announced 'a propos of nothing, "Women have a right to full sexual gratification."
"I'm doing the best I can," I quip, thinking of the six lovers I had had in as many years--which probably had landed me in the jigsaw assembly plant in the first place.
Can I help it? Women lead me by the nose,-- or the other appendage.. Men don't f8ck women. Women f8ck men. For this insight I went mad?
Ever since a child, girls would, for some reason, spread-eagle themselves in front of me and it seemed to carry into my adulthood and teaching later--"it's not what you are saying. It's your body language. I could tell you were a horny bastard from the word go."
Probably my innate helplessness. What am I going to do with this? Well.
A contemmpraty of mine once wrote a novel about it, GOLDENROD. Midas with a penis.
Well, I must have had mhy own novel in mind, CANADIAN GIGOLO.
I as sure Richard was probably Geared and I could show him a thing or two.
Nah. It was Midlife crisis, getting all the girls you never got in high school while under the greasy hood of some '57 Chev. Thank God I was socially awkward, and like all male idiots, having a mechanical bent. I would have populated much our lunchbocket Hamilton, Ontario.
Also thank God I was mad. "Who'd want to go out with that crazy bastard?" He pours ketchup into his chicken soup...wants to make it more like borscht. Garlic-snapper. Ukie.
"It's not us women, " an intelligent blonde had said in class.
"Men have these weird midlfe crises. They destroy themselves and their families."
And yet at forty, do you have to run the beat the devil, the IV stand, the bedpan?
Run for your life and score as many of the enemy as you can.
Ah, Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater.
Ate pumpkin and something ate my brain.
Breakdown or breakthrough?
Today, I like to think I'm wise....But my penis droops and my body won't do half of what I tell it to do.
Lying in my rubber room. Immobile.
Says an orderly: "
See? This is the guy who had been telling us for years what to think."
He of the perfect pshysical health and schizoghrenia.
I think I hard finally picked up a new designer disease at the time.
David Carradine Syndrome.
But they took away the rope.
Do all marathon lovers eventually go mad?
Incredible lightness of being.
Till they come and take you away.
Not in the majority.
They're coming to take me away, away.
But I don't have cancer.
And I'm not on crack. I generally remember things.
Just for a while there, even go after the crack of dawn.
And I'm beginning to worry about that.