I can't stand religion.   ANY religion.

It's bullshit.

I want to get a copy of each and every 'holy book' on this poor dumbass planet, throw them into a cement mixer, toss in some water, set it spinning, break them down, mix them all together, then make toilet paper out of it.   Or print fucking parking tickets out of it.

It's just fucking paper, you stupid fucks!

How can people be so foolish?   It defies belief.

I just want to shake these jerkoffs.

The holy bible my fucking ass.

I've got your holy bible right fucking here.

It's all crap.

I'm really happy to be part of the 100 word community.

It's a living thing, or so it seems to me.

That is one big piece of my day; I posted my April hundreds, read lots of others posts also.

And:  Kellys left tonight, down to the coast, Houston tomorrow morning, accompanying her mother, who has a lump in her lung.  M.D. Anderson hospital, in the Med Center there in Houston.  Now that's pretty goddamn heavy.

Last:  Meeting Jon, who I sponsor.  Made certain he's solid in step three, then on our knees, the third step prayer.

One hundred.

I read many peoples hundreds yesterday and today, and some of my old postings.  I'm enjoying our 100words community.

And I've been nosing around the new site.  Seeing the photo of Riverdame-- how cool is that?  I've been reading her for so dang long, now I can picture her as she writes.

Fun.

And I've posted some images of paintings as my 'mug shot'.  A risk--  almost no one sees my paintings, I'm so dang shy about it all.


I'd intended Houston today, that art show.  Maybe tomorrow.

This 'place' is so important to me.  I'm sure glad we're here.

Oddly, it comes through the olfactory cortex-- it's as if I can smell this 'vision'.

Yeah, it confused me, too.

And scared me:  I thought I was headed into the 'psychotic features' of bipolar-1.

They call them 'features'.

As if it's something you'd order:  "Yes, I'll have a psychosis, please."

Fuck.




An epileptic friend explained--  I'm experiencing the aura of temporal lobe seizures.

Phew!  I'd thought it was something serious.




Pickover calls it "The Light of the Storm."

It's powerfully attractive, and dangerous, simultaneously, like redheaded women.

It happens when I'm tired, stressed, or both.

Like earlier tonight.

I'm on that spiny Arabian, the slick little bitch stutter-steps  Right!  Left!  Right!  and I'm in the dirt.

A mistake.

I chase that piece of shit down, jump her, ride her hard-- hard.  I'm kicking the shit out of her, hacking that bit halfway through her head, she's taking hard instruction and not enjoying it.

She goes wild.

She tries to dump me, tries to run into trees.

Sorry, bitch.  Too bad about your mouth.

Nice boots, huh?

No quarter.

She couldn't believe it.

I don't like being thrown.

She came to understand that.

We got to know one another.

Six years, seven maybe, I'd tell the barber "Think short.  Short.  Just this side of marine."

Then I had those dang heart attacks, and died, and all, and for whatever reason I've since embraced my  Sampsonesque side.

My hair is longer than yours, and pretty as a broads.

I put essential oils in it, rosemary and lavender.

I'm having a good hair life.

It's just lots of fun.

I recommend it.

I never thought to grow it again, I thought I was done with the wind blowing my hair around.

My long hair just covers up my red neck....

Casa de Luz.

We sat in the clean lines of that beautiful dining room.  We chose a table in the sunshine cutting through the gray of the evening. 

Organic vegetarian food, probably the best in Austin.

Every time I've eaten there I've enjoyed the experience -- and it is an experience -- I've felt good afterward, grounded.  Nourished.  I feel that now, four hours later, the result of eating good food prepared thoughtfully, an environment conducive to peaceful, enjoyable dining.

It isn't cheap, but better by far than our usual haunts, worth the extra five bucks or eight.

Austin at its best.

I loaded M$Office2007 onto Kelly's puter.  And iTunes, and imported some CDs for her, taught her how to import also, and how to load the mp3 player I gave her yesterday.

THAT was fun -- it's the one she really wanted; she was going to settle for another but I came over with the exact right one, brand new, white and shiny.

Anyways.  I downloaded other software(s) and cleaned her puter up some, deleted some shit-ware that puter companies load onto new machines; especially virulent is that goddamn macafee junk --  I'd like to burn their fucking buildings down with everyone inside.

I'm not going to be able to do this without help.

I'm at Kelly's house, taking care of her plants and cats while she's gone; down to the coast today, Houston tomorrow, accompanying her mother for cancer treatments.

No problemo.

Except that the schizaphrenicat needs liquid anti-biotics twice daily.

She's clawed me the one time I've done it.

I know myself.

I'm hot-headed.

I'll lose my temper.

I should have considered more carefully upon accepting this.

I don't want to mistreat this animal, and I won't.  Kelly needn't worry.

But I'll need help.

What are you doing tomorrow?

 

 

I got clawed some more this morning, and lots of howling, pissing and moaning.  The bitch tried to bite me too.  A goddamned nightmare.  And I'm losing it; I'm taking it personal, I'm not enjoying getting clawed and bitched at and fucked with.

I called the vet Kelly uses; turns out they will give the cat her meds for five bucks, and they're teaching me, to boot.  Twice a day is ten bucks, but who's counting?

Not I.

The vet tech made it look so easy.

I'm gonna turn this into a positive.  I'm going to learn this.

 

South Austin.  The vets office.  9:40pm.

A deeply upset woman, carrying a badly mauled cat, without question puts up the $500 deposit for emergency animal care.

Turns out the cat isn't hers.

A friendly neighborhood stray, badly injured,  instinctively knew where to go.

The cat knew this woman is great.

My new hero!

I don't even know her name.

She's from Chicago, got her a loving heart, caring eyes.  And she's oh so lovely.

I watch it all unfold.

I want to marry her.

Ok, so I don't want to marry her.

But she sure is something.

Any meeting can be the one that saves a persons life.

I forget -- sometimes -- how much pain I was in, how scared I was in the beginning.

It might be any alcoholics very last AA meeting, maybe they'll say "Fuck it -- I just can't make this" and go drinking.

Happens every day.

It's actually a huge responsibility.  Remain awake, maintain sincerity, honesty, hospitality.  Keep cognizant the fact that at least two people in the room are in deep pain, keep my cruel comments to myself; alcoholics are so goddamn sensitive, one smart-ass comment and someone might be drinking tonight.

My mother -- loving, intelligent, uneducated, deeply damaged.  Sexually abused by her father, her step-brother.

They ruined her life.

Unconsciously, but with deep intention, she ruined ours.

Work it out or pass it on.

She didn't have therapy.  She had Jesus.

Always, she's refused discourse.  I learned young -- lie.  Fuck her, fuck that control freak Jesus jive.

Fingers crossed behind our backs, we've reached detente.

Tacit agreement:  I lie.  She clams up about Jesus.

I've never wanted her religion, or any.

I've never doubted her caring.

We talk, now, we laugh, we cut up.  We have fun!

Happy Mothers Day.

It's not like I've had some big day.

I don't want to write fill material but ...

Yesterday was jam packed, action packed, but I felt that I ought write about my mother, what with it being Mothers Day and all.  So you missed all that fun.

Heck.

Today -- lazed.  Read.  Went to a nooner AA meeting.  Played with the cats.  Spent the last two or three hours setting up this laptop, stripping off all the crapware loaded by Dell, putting on the best anti-virus, the best anti-malware, blah blah.

I enjoy doing this but it's hardly interesting to read.

So much of my interaction with my dear sweet mother has been filtered through primitive religious dogma.

I'm her child.  What the fuck does religion have to do with that?

What does Jesus -- an interesting, arrogant, delusional, raving seer, if he lived at all -- what does this fuck have to do with my mother and I?

Why did she beat on me when I was a kid, for questioning nonsensical lunacy?

She goes berserk if we don't go along with her ridiculous, delusional storylines.

Fucking control freak.

Religion is intolerable.

God?  Sure.  Creative Intelligence?  Why not?

Religion?  Irrelevant insanity.

Mike is really moving, taking all I can give, looking for more.  You can't ask for a better guy to sponsor; he's seeking it out.

Later, met with Jon, lining him out, fourth step work.  He's new to it, and much of this is counter-intuitive, but he's a worker.  Fun.

Then.  I was going to hang in the late meeting, have some fun, ended up sitting next to Levi, who's brand new to AA.  We talked late into the night.

You can't guess; who's gonna stay sober, who isn't.  Pray for them all, see what happens, watch it unfold.

Into Great Silence.

Spectacular cinematography.  As in, unreal.  As in, time and again I wanted to stop the film to a still.  Time and again I wanted -- ached, almost -- for scenes to continue on.

I've not drawn since before I died, only a time or two.  But I kept thinking of the challenges involved in drawing the beautiful images in this movie.

Drop the religion and you're golden.  They could live this way without the lame storyline; it's beautiful.  But it's been a monastery for centuries so I guess you're gonna have you some Jesus hogwash.

See this movie.

So I've got this big hard-on to load this  Great!  New!  Free!  Efficient!  Best ever!  anti-virus software.

So I install this prick.  First off:  It scans the entire goddamn computer.  WTF?

It's going to take HOURS.

Possibly years.

Well, let it run.

Meanwhile, check email.

The email software starts to open -- CRASH!!

Fuck.

Oh well, let it scan; check that darned email later.

-----------------------

(WAY later...)

Yay!  The scan's done!

I just opened the email client.  It's trashed.  Hosed.  Wiped clean.

All my settings, all my email -- gone.

Jesus fucking christ!

Yeah, I'm wearing a big happy hat now.

Fuck.

Artistic success, fame, talent -- none of this grants immunity from pain, addictions, problems.  Anyone can come from a broken family, alcoholism, whatever.  And anyone can come to 12 step recovery programs and get help.

Except that famous people sortof can't, not always.  Other recovering people are not immune to their celebrity, and they're treated differently.

I'm sure this happens in LA or NYC, maybe everywhere.

It happens in Austin a lot.

I do what I can not to react.  And of course that's a reaction, too.

It's a pain in the ass.  They need help, much as anyone else.

I sat in the tub, shower turned off, fifteen minutes, conditioner soaking into my hair; I do this maybe twice a month.

Call me a metro-sexual.  I'll beat the dogshit out of you.  Try me.

I've got to take a leak but I'm holding it.  Then -- I pissed myself, to see a tiny bit of what my mother goes through every fucking night.

I'm gonna buy diapers, go to bed at eight, and not up til six, and lay in my waste.  Seven days.

Maybe I'll gain some fucking compassion, and go to Phoenix and help my mother.

I'm in my shrinks office this morning, he's asking me what's shakin', I'm telling him the tale -- I'm here, I'm there, I'm everywhere. 

But my here there everywhere is not in the same neighborhood of my here there everywhere of five years ago.

I'm so goddamned lucky.  Not all of us find medications that help us.

Am I a wreck?  Yeah, I am, much of the time.

But I'm not constantly in the type of pain I lived in from age 12 to 46.

I told a guy in the waiting room to have hope.  We can find help.

A neighbor woke me this morning, early (for me), asked for my help.

She's a good broad but doesn't know my habits.  I hope she got someone to help her move her danged couch.

Up, finally, out the door to the post office, flirted with pretty Leslie -- stuck a sticker on her hand to start our conversation -- asked her what it's like to be 23, pretty, and single in Austin.

Seems it's good.

The tea sent to Judith, I'm onward, meeting Metal Mike, and Barry, the role of sponsor.  Very productive.  I love them both.  They are willing.

Now, on to Kellys.

Goodnight!

Tomorrow would have been her 49th birthday.

May 24, 1958

I'll never forget her birthday.

I'll never forget her voice.  I'll never forget her eyes.  I'll never forget her soft red hair.

I'll never forget her.

Seems I love her more as the years roll.

It's different, of course, especially now she's gone nine years.

Regardless, she's much on my mind, she's set deeply into my heart.

First love.

It wasn't her fault, nor even mine -- we were children.

We never stopped caring for one another.

I was always happy to hear her warm voice, carrying her smile.

Katherine Eileen.

Art flowed out of her; she could draw, paint, she could pretty much create whatever she wished.

She worked passionately.

She could radiate joy, she had a way of happiness that she could sometimes get to; it was a trick, it was dishonest I think, but when she got there she was just so goddamn free, her smile went to the core.

She was dishonest.  Which is to say:  She was a liar.  She gave her soul to cover her mothers lies turned life.

She was broken.  She never got free.

She was an exceptional human being.

Katherine Eileen.

I've spent so much goddamned time trying to get linux to work on various computers.

A waste of time.

All over the place, I read that linux is ready to take over the world.  How it can be used to extend the life of an older computer.  How it's so goddamned wonderful.

It's shit.

It is absolutely not ready for prime-time.  Don't believe these fucks.

Four hours tonight.  Four hopeful, expectant, almost happy hours -- I was willing to spend the time, hoping for good results.

Bullshit.

Don't waste your time.

It isn't ready.

What a pain in my ass...

We prayed.

I'd prayed before we met.  Asked to be given whatever might be helpful.  Whatever might bring more to our time together.  That I get the fuck out of the way.

He's an artist, through and through, to the core.  A holy man, to boot.

I don't say that lightly.

He's got a native sense in matters of the spirit.

I'm not saying he isn't a train wreck.  He's fucked, just like you, just like me.

But he gets it, and gets it fast.  And when he gets clean his eyes shine bright, a deep yet brilliant blue.

Jon.

Two months in; finally he's calming, easing into this way of life.

Easing into faith.

Easing into peace.

Easing into ease.

It's been difficult; comically, he's struggled to find ease.

I do the same.

So do you.

I stepped back, best I could.  Detached.  Watched him wrestle himself.



Jason.

I love this fuck.

Family man.

Broken man.

Journeyman.

Gutter tough.

Street smart.

Ready to rock and roll.

Ready to do the deal.

No wrestling here.

I'm glad he's back in the fold.




I'm smiling, just considering.

I hope you have something makes you happy as this does me.

"Let's eat together, go for a walk, go to a coffee shop and read or write or scratch ourselves, or each other, whatever."

I'm all tired and fussy but it's a good idea.  And fuck tired and fussy, anyways; I slammed some coffee, jammed out the door.

She made this great salad; we ate, beat the cats some, enjoyed the day streaming in.

Then:  Onward!  The Outlet Mall!

I bought myself and each of my brothers the same summer shirt -- fun.  Paid WAY too much for sunglasses.

After shopping, I bought Vietnamese, then home, tea, rest, laughter, peace.

Seems that George is just another human being caught in his destiny --  I'm not saying he isn't a piece of dogshit; very clearly, he is a piece of dogshit -- but it all started before he was even born; his grandfather and father in Skull and Bones, and young George got into Skull and Bones (it was the thing to do, given his heritage, same as my going into the construction trades as my father did) and now can't get out, or won't.  For him to get out he'd have to cop to everything and I don't see that happening.

Fuck it.

I don't want to write tonight.  Some days -- not often as before, but it happens -- some days I don't want to take the time to write anything, much less try to cut it into something nice, something I give a shit about.

I love the disipline, the fact of all the words that I've gotten because of this commitment to write daily.

But I've got a headache, I don't want to look at this computer screen, I don't want to type anything, I don't want to try to say anything other than fuck it.

So.  Fuck it.

I'm going on and on.  Full moon fever.  I intend to stop soon, right after this sentence, which might go on for quite a ways but even if it does we know that there is an endpoint, that it is finite, and not infinite, you know as do I that very few people are able to carry on and on for pages and pages with one sentence, that there was only one Faulkner, and he's dead now, and for me to try to carry on as he did just because he was able to do so is a foolishness on