The Death List

I thought about death once. My own. The following is the list of the things I'll miss once I am dead, or that I will no longer be able to experience, which appears in Salvation Diary 4, and was compiled in 1990. It is by no means exhaustive:

Death. No more plays by Chekov, books of Henry James, Beethoven symphonies, Cuban women or ladies from Puerto Rico and New York (except for those Skanks on Staten Island), Emerson essays and poems, old Bob Hope movies, and volleyball. No more Michelle Chandler, Haiku poems, Quevedo, rabbits, Playboy (articles), Campbell Soup, Brando movies, Bob Dylan, and algebra. No more Rembrandt, thunder, Canadian women, Cagney movies, and ant encroachments. No more boomerang bombs, calluses, compressed air, El Salvadorian women, Dante, Boogey woogy, Pink Panther films, seasons, Plato, Acetylcoline liberation, iguanas, grammar, national parks and monuments, sandwiches, porcelain, gorillas, Darryl Hannah, leather and lace, radio astronomy, Tanzanian women, veils, H.G. Wells, flies and fog. No more Malagasy women, Kafka, Sepulveda and Roscoe Boulevards, Christmas and everything that goes with it, apples, Hume, mammary glands, Monet and mosquitoes. No more Fonda movies (Henry or Jane, you can keep Peter), lycanthrophy, British (Kay Parker, Sara Jane Hamilton, Diana Rigg, and Linda Thorson notably) and Brazilian women, The Beatles, elves, sneezes, tugboats, otters, baths, kazoos, jellyfish, Goethe, macadamia nuts, doors, Ray Bradbury stories, saturated fat, nosebleeds, Yeats, Vladimir Horowitz, Abbot and Costello, Kierkegaard, Danish women, airplanes, health insurance, legumes, newspapers, xylophones, marathon running, llamas, Hallmark cards for all occasions, Buster Keaton films, Yazoo river rides, Schultz, Dylan Thomas, retrograde motion, operas, Salinger books, salt, income tax, resonance, Venezuelan women, Parmesan cheese, dolphins, basketball, M&Ms, diets, latitude, lemons, gamma globulin, kumquats, servomechanisms, Joanna Storm and Spencer Tracy movies, porcupines, curry, fatigue, cottage cheese, Thoreau, Cole Porter, Nat King Cole, termites, poker, sonic booms, rain, Lzaak Walton, Ten Years After, anxiety, deodorant, Halley’s Comet, Italian women, and fishing. No more ice cream, Dostoevsky, evaporation, skyscrapers, sky, pressure, football, mushrooms, Schubert, and rust. No more Olivier films, zebras, heartburn, lettuce, Columbus Day, Pink Floyd, avocados, pizzas, Spinoza, ethics, Eskimo and Ethiopian women, giraffes, calories, John Rawls, cosmic rays, Bazooka Bubble Gum, mildew, jackalopes (known to the ancients as “deerbunnies”), Armenian literature, arrests, kaleidoscopes, gelatin, chairs, Sackbut music, love, air pollution, Credence Clearwater Revival, Thomas Hardy, Mahler, chestnuts, Russian women, prairie dogs, unemployment, Jules Verne, samurai comic books, women from the Dominican Republic, AT&T, “Cheers,” humidity, Carl Sandburg, Carl Sagan, pineapples, surrealism, women who get mad at you without telling you why, and magnetic resonance. No more greenhouse effect, libraries, tides, George Santayana, Dana Delany, Costa Rican women, sunburns, water polo, massages, Matisse, and margarine. No Icelandic women for sure. No more Arthur Miller, grapes, the sweet lyrical voice of Janis Joplin. No more equity, Doppler effect, Yukon women, mahogany, furniture, laser light shows, Led Zeppelin, chocolate cream pie, Dupont, earthquakes, indigestion, Laurel and Hardy, bevel gears, Clark Gable films, mineral water, woodpeckers, John Locke, Darwin, Butane lighters, crabs, rapid transit (not that we have it now), Marquez novels, smoke, Mark Twain, fantasies, Australian trips and women, heavy metal hard knacky acid rock music, drug addiction, Renoir, balloons, fables, sauces, Frankl, sailing, Kim Catrall, pheromones, Philippine women and Saudi Arabian women. Say goodbye to echoes, butter, bananas, bagpipe music, prejudice, Jennifer Connelly (who I’m secretly in love with, please don’t tell) and Meg Ryan, Tchaikosky, ping-pong, George C. Scott movies, rockets, orchestras, softball, American Samoan women, elevators, Buddhism, chrysanthemums, enzymes, Twinkies, Doyle, Yosemite National Park, Judith Wright, San Luis Obispo, Ann Marten, perception, stores, Rhodesian women, John O’Hara, making of beds, Paul Schofield movies, the Uncertainty Principle, shrimp, Fritos, morning dew, broccoli, Kayak women, scene design and stage lighting. Astalavista to time, tunnels, and tulips. Sayonara to Steinbeck, pigweeds, Jethro Tull, ballet, fashion, chocolate, beavers, eclipses, Salvation Armies, Janine Turner, Tillich, fireworks, rocks, refrigeration, rainbows, Valentine’s Day, Victoria Jackson, Kim Novak, Carrie Fisher, and Teresa Ganzel. Adios to Oscar Wilde, dreams, Dutch and Flemish women, buses, adenosine triphosphate hydrolysis, Elizabeth Perkins, Joanna Storm, cinnamon, trips to Arizona, Led Zeppelin, idealism, linoleum, irony, fruit, James Ward, blackjack, Scandinavian women, tears, Poe, integrated circuits, Sir Isaac Newton, Jack Nicholson movies, Gabonese women, Herman Melville, instinct, concerts, wallpaper, divorce, Joyce, Byzantine women, law, Hemingway, civil rights, sequoias, Paleolithic art, and rent. Aurevoir to mom, Cheryl, Kari Lynn, Patti, Michelle, Terri, Debbie, Janine, Jan, rubber, and French women, Auf Wiedersehen to Norwegian women, loans, halitosis, George Orwell, scorpions, vegetables, peafowl, Lois Aryes, symphonic poems, plumbing, Isaac Singer, quela, Hesse, limericks, ham, rain forests, Kathleen Sullivan, “Get Smart,” Michelangelo Buonarrotic, heat, geckos, German women, short stories, “The Man from U.N.C.L.E” (the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement), Trappists, pepper, Jugs Magazine, Redwood National Park, telescopes, facades, Doritos, Czechoslovakian women, bank holidays, and bikinis. Adieu to crabgrass, jade, Madeline Stowe, Milton, lathes, engines, inflation, fractions, justice, Teresa Ganzel, daisies, fairs, jealousy, The Who, antacids, cellophane, Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, microphones, Ukrainian women, satire, Mary Louise Parker, ladybugs, gifts, quadraphonic sound, Synge, Jimmy Stewart movies, Fourth of July’s, amino acid, covalent bonding, and Harold and Maude. Arrivederci to diarrhea, marsupials, swimming, rivers, Scottish women, poetry, pencils, February, Shannon McCullough, hydrogen bombs, education, iodine, miniature golf, lavender, scale, vinyl, plastics, parrots, wheat, Saint Patrick’s Day, civilization, automobiles, Shaw, Pali literature, spring, hats, Emma Thompson, malts, violin music, Hitchcock, films in general, tile, oranges, onions, O’Neill, soup, locusts, television, Persian women, Joyce Carol Oats, Handel, happenings, April, fruit bats, koans, mirrors, pollution, Shakespeare, “Bewitched,” Elizabeth Montgomery, grass, Latin women, women of Mozambique, Nevell Shute novels, wind, cashews, Faulkner, cycles, pistachios, Sartre, Rachel Ashley, cherries, elephants, Arabian music, Christianity, credit cards, Sophie B Hawkins, Equatorial Guianian women, body temperature, sex, emotion, ducks, hate, mucilage, color, Irish women, liberty, lizards, lubrication, cold, Gallup polls, Tracy Winn, luminescence, Gustave Moreau, Mongolian women, Inge, consciousness, pumps, oak trees, sculpture, DNA mingling, Strindberg, Voltaire, Tennessee Williams, gasoline, Indonesian women, laxatives, metaphysics, harvest moons, Ruth Gordon, Rita Hayward, lakes, William James, Kant, Japanese women, Goodyear, blimps, memory, wolves, art, Thornton Wilder, cable television, cysts, ethnic groups, Cyndi Wood, fire, checkers, the Rolling Stones, Bach, euchre, Finnish women, college, tea, Joseph Conrad novels, “Green Acres,” Solzenitsyn, the Blues, Terri Garr, exobiology, thirst, dogs, carbohydrates, flannel, Cambodian women, aleatory music, church, tamales, enchiladas, sparrows, orchids, South African women, ventilation, Neil Simon, Mary McDonnell, picnics, nagging, shunsho, parakeets, Schuler, energy, fear, blood clotting, landscape painting, Cassandra Peterson, John Houston films, Hawaiian women, land, tacos, philosophy, ships, Moria Kelly, Uccelo paintings, quantum mechanics, laundry, snow, Ugandan women, keys, grease, metal, Frost, impressionism, May, Marina Sirtis, forests, nuts, radio, obscenity, volcanoes, Yugoslavian women, fountains, Liszt, allergies, flowers, roads, Olympic Games, vibration, Amazon women of the moon, farce, trips to Fiji, chivalry, ornaments, soap, Swiss women, Virgil, baseball, saving and loan associations, pulses, alcoholism, dry cleaning, Balinese music, Tawny Little, feedback, Chinese women, skepticism, obsidian, perfume, backache, epics, coconuts, plaid, sap, oceans, school, disease, anthologies, dachshunds, Mimi Rogers, friends, coughing, Richard Wagner, aristocracy, fish, Chilean women, rhinos, peas, smut, monopoly games, Greek women, melons, natural gas, classical gas, Marisa Tomei, Kelper’s laws, horses, pearls, smog, pancakes, Jung, helicopters, Malaysian women, Islam, pens, symmetry, Katie Couric, Portuguese women, masks, Victor Hugo, Korean women, streetcars, whales, giger counters, motion sickness, geometric problems of antiquity, “Star Trek,” and “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” Jazz, mint, Dali, electricity, Schumann, organ music, sports, croquet, bankruptcy, comedy, tournaments, Rumanian women, wax, bias, felt, days, bugs, dandelions, sugar, pears, scurvy, belligerency, excretion, light, Kenyan women, “The Invaders,” gin rummy, Taija Rae, George Kaufman, Indian women, bears, women of Hong Kong, Nietzsche, paring of finger and toe nails, haircuts, liberalism, Vulcan and Betaziod women and some Klingon babes (and let’s not forget those Orion Slave Girls (they’re so green!)), horseradish, potatoes, Swedish women, silt, unions, marching, June, gophers, Picasso, Syrian women, verbs, harmonies, the Milky Way, interest, genetics, Sinclair Lewis, music, learning, Gaelic literature, food, ivy, marriage, melodies, Mexican women, penguins, value, Swift, fasts, lightening, motels, games, Hungarian women, chamber music, fever, carrots, eggnog, walruses, beds, lobsters, Israeli women, glass, linen, skywriting, soybeans, police, Transylvanian women, groups, Las Vegas women, mistletoe, hail, Paganini, weather, incense, liver, Mozart, intuition, Guatemalan women, plays, Virginia Woolf, gardens, muffins, logic, Lithuanian women, hamsters, limits, water skiing, halls, lotteries, cholesterol, arithmetic, denial, Ethiopian women, Ferris wheels, Flaubert, envy, athlete’s foot, dandruff, attorneys, Easter, cartoons, erections (or lack thereof), Natalie Wood and Bogart movies, court, Egyptian women, Chopin, astrophysics, barbeques, acne, waltzes, ballads, Joe Cocker, watercolors, art deco, cheese, family, American women (despite the Guess Who song), customs, evil, Three Musketeers Bars, greed, astronomy, depression, equations, dance, chess, nights, enamel, wintergreen, almonds, cake, waves, clouds, humor, cats, hygiene, Ionesco, milk, Jack Benny, labor, inertia, mantras, mustard, Jamaican women, nationalism, itches, Hegel, Homer, handball, kangaroos, kites, water, weaving, warblers, nonconformists, culture, boats, drainage, factories, corn, debt, anecdotes, detective stories, education, engraving, drama, August, dates, celery, eating, wood, Vonnegut, bowling, cloves, walnuts, Kubrick films, horror stories, literature in general, knots, language, mufflers, numbers, smell, pantomime, Rachmaninoff, rice, riddles, Saxon women, silk, Van Gogh, Christina Applegate, Rabelais, photocopying, theater, Judaism, hedonism, hummingbirds, moonlight, internal-combustion, hair, women of New Zealand, Anne Archer, Bob Hoskins, hotels, mysteries, Elvira Mistress of the Dark, Thurber, science fiction, newts, jeeps, hallucinations, hiccups, motivation, vacuum cleaners, reading, writing, Nigerian women, miniskirts (or lack thereof), waterfalls, macaroni, mountains, Ibsen, Desiree Cousteou, nihilism, identity, money, koalas, honey, noise, turtles, tomatoes and toads. Farewell to laughing and crying, peanuts, pears, and pianos. So long to sleep and waking up, screws, combs, Kickapoo Indian women, names, meat, government, animals, touch, tables, tulips, telephones, tempera, Tennyson, pies, plants, personality, songs, parody, Susie, Bobbie and Shannon, terns, and relativity.
And pinochle.
Lists.

And that's just off the top of my head!
Also women in general (I can do without the men).
Girls too.

Salvation Diary 5

"Salvation" Artist Amanda Milke
http://paintsplatters.wordpress.com/




Dispelling my hunger, I went down and talked to Noah awhile. Noah is such a soothing influence in my life. I am so glad I have made her acquaintance and that we have become fast friends. I consider her advice invaluable, and she knows just how to cheer me when I’m blue. A witty, “Click-click-click,” of her black-horned tongue usually does the trick, or a cheery, “Hello!” A “Do dee do dee do dee dooo!” never fails to brighten my spirits, and of course the endearing wolf whistles, offered with sly mischievousness, are always welcome.
Noah, being a parrot, is a very discriminating creature. My roommate, Dennis Castle (the slayer of horses), came up to her one day and asked, “Hi Noah, what’s happening?”
“Fuck you, asshole!” was her steadfast reply.
Everybody was in a tither at work today, anticipating tonight’s Second Annual Achievment Awards Ceremony and Banquet, to be held in the chapel. Mr. Vasquez was running around, making sure everything was clean and shinny for the festivities. Mrs. Johnson came over and helped out in the kitchen. It’s all a very grand affair.
The purpose of the ceremony being to honor those residents who have achieved various lengths of sobriety: two to five months, those who have completed the six month program, and graduates who departed the center and have begun their journey into the “real world.”
The whole thing went rather well, actually. I was very impressed.
The beautiful Stacy arrived, escorted by Charles the counselor.
Alas, I have made the decision to give her up, as I feel she is too young and inexperienced for me. And too skinny. I shall attempt to let her down easy.
I must be honest now. I admit that I have fallen deeply in love with another. She is also a counselor. Stacy and I have not been, as of yet, intimate, so I have not been unfaithful to her, and I feel good about that.
The object of my affection goes by the name of Jill, a strikingly gorgeous, more mature woman, with shoulder length, flaming red hair, and large, bountiful breasts. I’m enamored of her, and I’m positive she feels something for me also, by the occasional looks she casts in my direction of coy disdain.
But I digress.
As I was saying, it all turned out rather well. I had expected a ho hum and boring presentation, but most of the evening was devoted to the guys, and some of them had the chance to speak, and what they had to say interested me. Most spoke of their appreciation of the Salvation Army, and how they were getting along amongst many and varied diversities. Almost everyone got a chance to go up on stage and shake the Major’s hand, shake George Staub’s hand, and get a certificate. Our own Jack Crosley got special mention and plaque, for always being ready to lend a helping hand when needed (carpet shampooer). I didn’t get didily.
I dreamt of Jill this evening. We were running toward each other in slow motion, within a field of golden flowers.
　
　
November 2 Friday Day 51
　
I slept as late as I could this morning, wanting to end this day as quickly as possible. I have come to my senses, and now realize that I should never have resumed smoking. That the excuses and rationalizations I employed are not now, and never were valid, and that they don’t work for me today. Accordingly, I’ve stopped smoking again, and my quest for sleep is a physical manifestation of the idea that if I’m not conscious I’m less likely to smoke.
It’s not too hard to stop smoking really if you never think about it.
I wrote a lot today, again not requiring a great deal of thought.
Surprisingly enough, I’ve discovered that I enjoy writing immensely. Besides being therapeutic, it is a nice challenge to be doing something somewhat useful, to force myself to do something on a daily basis, even if I don’t want to do it sometimes. I’ve never done this before. You could say there hasn’t been an over abundance of discipline in my life.
The more I write; the more I enjoy it.
I talked to Noah quite a bit today. We discussed the Gulf crisis. Noah thinks we should kick Saddam out of Kuwait, but under no circumstances invade Iraq. I don’t know if I agree.
Work went smoothly. A little hectic in the beginning, then slowing down to nothing.
Tomorrow I will continue the pursuit of the Zen concept of Empty Mind.
　
　
November 3 Saturday Day 52
　
I woke to the sound of my roommate Gordon being upset. He was upset because a mutual acquaintance of ours was being thrown out for suspected pilfering. This friend had worked as an upholster, and some of the furniture in his area was found stuffed with clothes. Gordon felt that the dismissal was unjustified, for various reasons, probably good ones. The staff felt that the dismissal was justified, and were quite adamant about it. Though I feel for the man, I’m staying neutral.
I don’t need a lot of controversy in my life right now.
I scored a whole bunch of alcohol, alcoholism, and A.A. related books last night, even a Big Book (the main text used by Alcoholics Anonymous). The man in charge of sorting through all the donated books in the warehouse brought them over, and I got first crack at borrowing them forever. They’re now stashed in my locker.
After lunch I went to the park and sat in the sun for the first time in about a week. The new sprinkler system that was in the process of being installed while I was living there is proving to be very effective. One can’t find a dry place to sit hardly, and if you do find one, be very alert. Don’t be listening to large, Mickey Mouse looking, radio headphones, and expect the sprinklers not to turn on suddenly, showering hapless victims repeatedly as they try unsuccessfully to gather their once dry belongings.
Back at the ranch, I showered and returned a call to my mother. She had called while I was at the park. She was wondering if I was all right since I hadn’t called her last week on my birthday. I hadn’t called her on purpose. I had been a little mad at her, and resentful, and was punishing her by not calling. Why had I been upset with my dear, sweet mother? Because she had lied to me, that’s why. She had sent me a card which stated that she “couldn’t think of a thing to send me,” for my birthday that is. Here I am with absolutely nothing, nada, and she can’t think of a thing to send me! I’m so sick of this Alanon, though love crap, I can’t believe it! Parents all over the place raise their kids with a predisposition toward alcoholism, screw up their early childhood by drinking around them, then kick them out into the world, saying, “Make something of yourself, your not me responsibility anymore. So don’t come around asking for any favors, or even anything for your birthday, like some boxer shorts, or something.”
Poor, poor, pitiful me.
As soon as I got on the desk at three-thirty, Gordon’s lovely daughter came in and caught me off guard (which isn’t hard to do) by saying, “Hi,” to me.
I said, “Hi, hi.” Can you believe that. How lame.
“I’ve come to see my daddy,” she said. She’s so cute.
I said, “Okay.”
Then she turned around and began to completely ignore me.
Such is the effect I have upon women.
The remainder of the evening was just as exciting.
　
　
November 4 Sunday Day 53
　
Some days are better than others.
Such wisdom.
At two minutes to five I was suddenly awakened by a sharp, insistent pounding on my feet. I lifted my head up, and exclaimed, “Uh, wawa,” as I perceived the Wolfman lumbering (and I mean lumbering) away.
This of course was my wake up call.
I made it to the desk by six. A nice, ordinary day today working with my buddy, Mr. Vasquez.
He had an appointment with the doctor tomorrow, so he asked me if I could help out if needed. I said, “Sure bet, boss.”
He also asked me if I would mind doing tomorrow’s devotions. I said, “Yes, of course,” being the very helpful individual that I am.
After work I forgot all about quitting smoking and lit up in the bathroom. I don’t know why I did this, and as I finished my fourth cigarette I began to wonder about it, because I started to feel bad.
As I lighted another I realized why I had began smoking again. I’m addicted to nicotine.
I got too busy feeding my addiction and reading a Dean Koontz novel to worry anymore over the matter.
But later, when I got into bed, I thought about it again, and again felt real shitty. I tend to do this to myself quite a bit.
　
　
November 5 Monday Day 54
　
Well there’s not much to talk about, because I slept through most of the damn day! At eleven-thirty I climbed out of the sack, and was still fairly disorientated.
Excuse me, I did get up briefly at ten after seven, and read, bleary-eyed, the morning devotion to an unappreciative audience, then went straight back to bed. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Fatigue is also a symptom of the H.I.V. virus (everything is a symptom of the H.I.V. virus), but I’m not really fatigued. Once I’m up I feel good, and am quite energetic.
As I showered, I promised myself that I would get up at five tomorrow, no matter what, and do all the wonderful things that I want to do, like go to Union Station, exercise, read and write, stuff like that.
After dressing, I wrote until it was time to go to work.
Work picked me right up. I enjoy the job, and enjoy talking to people. Mr. Vasquez seems to like me, and my work. Not that the job is all that difficult. One just needs the proper temperament.
One of my new friends came by the desk, and we made plans to go to the movies on Sunday, and see the new film, “Jacob’s Ladder.” His name is Warren Bahr. When he first arrived at the center I thought he was a smart-ass, but I soon grew fond of him as we got to know each other. He is short, about 5’7”, with brown hair and eyes, a tad heavyset, with an amiable disposition. It doesn’t seem like too many things bother him. He appears dedicated to the program, and to his children, which he talks to over the phone almost everyday. He is divorced, but has a decent relationship with his ex. He is a member of the maintenance crew, and helps to fix all the things that go wrong around here. I admire that ability, to look at a machine and instantly know what is wrong with it and how to fix it. I cannot do that. I am liable to make the problem ten times worse just by getting near it. Warren is a bowler. He spends a lot of his time in the basement working on the pin-setting machine for our two bowling lanes. I sometimes sit and watch him work, and help out by handing him tools he asks for. He is a simple, basic, uncomplicated, easygoing fellow, in tune with his environment. Hell, I just like the guy, that’s all there is to it. I hope we stay friends.
He, like the rest of us here, has been decimated by the compulsive use of drugs and alcohol. Cocaine got him. He had been making good money doing what he enjoys, and what came naturally to him. A pretty sweet deal, by anyone’s reckoning. Coke took it all away. Now he tells me that he will go to any lengths to stay sober.
Just like me.
I wish him well.
　
　
November 6 Tuesday Day 55
　
I slept and wrote today. And ate some dinner.
　
　
November 7 Wednesday Day 56
　
I slept, and did not write today.
Because I’ve had so much trouble getting up in the morning lately, I thought it would be a good idea to wait until eleven p.m. and start writing, and write all night long. That’s what I did last night, or tried to. I got tired after eleven-oh five and went to bed, falling asleep shortly thereafter. I figure part of the problem may stem from my inability to get to sleep once I’m in bed. Sometimes I can’t get to sleep for many hours, and have stayed up as late as three o’clock. Of course, then I’m way to tired to get up at five when my alarm clock goes off. Maybe I’m suffering from some form of latent depression that does not manifest itself during my waking hours. Oh well, this really is the least of my problems.
Today the Salvation Army gathered together those of us who experienced birthdays in the month of October, and treated us to a nice steak dinner in the small dinning room (why this was not done in the actual month of October is unknown to me, but I’m sure there is a very good, logical answer… somewhere). It wasn’t a particularly nice steak; rather it was like something you might find at the local Sizzler restaurant, half stringy fat, but the whole, overall meal was very nice. The Major and his lovely wife (Mrs. Johnson (also a Major. Married officers share the same rank in the Salvation Army) also celebrated a birthday in October, on the sixth), his sister Bonnie, George, Clarence and his lovely wife, Pattie (who is the Major’s secretary), their daughter, and Dr. Ed (the man who would be taking over from George, who will be leaving us later in the month), were all in attendance. I had the dubious distinction of sitting at George’s table. I, unlike a lot of people around here, am quite fond of George, and consider him to be very knowledgeable toward issues concerning alcoholism and addiction (for a non-alcoholic), and I enjoy our brief conversations. Tonight I found out that he is looking forward to his upcoming move to Phoenix, and will be living closer to his wife’s family home, which is in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico (a place I enjoyed calling immensely while working for AT&T). I also learned that he would one day like to camp out, and have breakfast, on the rim of the Grand Canyon, in Arizona.
I, myself, have had breakfast on the rim of the Grand Canyon, in Arizona. I have also flown over it in a small airplane, and have ridden down into it on the back of a donkey. My butt hurt for days afterwards.
My group counseling sessions have been mysteriously moved to Wednesdays, starting tonight. We talked about how we felt about group. I said that I liked it, that I got more out of group counseling than I did any other aspect of the center’s program (except what I do for myself, like attending A.A. meetings, and writing). George does have a tendency to dominate the conversation though, but he always has a lot of interesting things to say.
We also discussed the alcoholics, or drug addicts ability to consciously forget, ignore, or not care about, all the pain and misery that using brings about, thus making it so much easier to take that first drink, or drug, again, and again. All we do remember are the so called “good times,” (euphoric recall). This is a major problem for us. I can’t begin to remember how many times in the last year I’ve relapsed with booze, using the same old tired excuses: it won’t happen again (it always does), just this one time (it never is), I can control it (I never do), I’ll stop before it gets out of hand (I can’t). I have done this over and over.
Now I consider the experiences I’ve had with relapse to be my best defense against them reoccurring. I may have come to a point (I pray) were my pain and discomfort have reached a high enough degree that I do not wish to experience them again. I believe that I now may have gotten it through my head that total relapse, and all the horror that goes along with it, will occur, without fail, after I take the first drink. If I continue to remember what will happen, and keep caring about myself as a human being, I’ll be alright.
To make not taking that first drink the most important thing in my life, and go to any lengths to maintain that attitude, can be my only goal.
Nice talk. Talk is sometimes all that alcoholics do.
Tonight, while everyone else had gone to bed, I stood looking down from the second floor into the atrium, and got an idea for a story to write. It’s always a good idea to get an idea for a story. We shall see what comes of it.
　
　
November 8 Thursday Day 57
　
I won a game of video chess today. Slaughtered the fucker! Well, maybe not slaughtered… barely squeaked through is more like it, but it felt like a slaughter.
That was the high point of my day.
I actually talked to Stacy this evening. She’s a nice girl. Now I understand how young she is. She hates school, doesn’t study, has a B average, likes Morro Bay and Monterey (like I do), is going to take a break from school after the semester, and uses words like, “awesome.”
It reminds me of myself when I used to use phrases like, “to the max,” and “far out.” She makes me feel old.
I still say those things. And “groovy,” too.
I noticed some pimples on her face, which seemed to make her more approachable. Strange. But I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore (even though she’s the prettiest girl who comes around here). I’m much too busy being in love with Jill… and Gordon’s daughter, Dori, and this girl who was at the A.A. panel this evening.
Her name was Christen. She was very thin, and blonde, and pretty, with longer hair than Stacy’s. She has green eyes. I like green eyes.
Debra, my second wife, had green eyes. Probably still does.
Christen stated that tonight was the first time she had ever spoken on a panel. A panel virgin. I, myself, am a panel virgin. She was a little nervous, as virgins are. Her voice was soft, just above a whisper. I was sure that some jerk in the back of the room would shout out, “Speak up!” or “I can’t hear you!” thereby interrupting her, and increasing her nervousness, but no one did. I sat in the first row, directly in front of her, so I had no difficulty at all in hearing what she said.
What she said was that she was fourteen months sober, and that she had never been on a panel before. I don’t remember her exact words because her speech was somewhat disjointed, and not completely coherent, but I was able to put together most of it.
Her father is an alcoholic, and had been recovering up until a week ago. Today he suffered a massive heart attack. As she spoke her voice grew stronger and more self-assured as her nervousness subsided and her pain became more apparent. I could feel the strength of her pain and anger.
I admired her ability to know what to do in a time of crisis. She made the choice to come to this panel and be with other alcoholics, rather than delve into self-pity and remorse. Christen choose to strengthen her resolve and not take a drink, or use some drug to help ease the pain she was most certainly experiencing. She choose to talk to us instead. To share her experience, strength, and hope, in order that we who listened to her story may gain. And by doing this she gained also.
This symbiotic relationship we addicts have is the very essence of A.A.
She said that she did not have many material possessions, no husband, not even a boyfriend. She said that she lived in a small, claustrophobic, bachelor apartment, just as I had once done.
I could relate to what she must have been feeling, her loneliness and isolation. That is what drew me to her.
We were different though, her and I. She knew how to deal with her situation in a positive manner. Her to break her isolation, and search out other people who could help her. I did not know how to do that, and all to often wallowed in my loneliness, and embraced my isolation, cherishing both and eventually turning to the bottle.
She knows how to stay sober for fourteen months.
I do not.
I learned a lot from her, and I learn from others like her.
I held her hand at the meetings end, as we all recited The Lord’s Prayer.
This is about the only time I get to hold a girl’s hand anymore.
It felt good.
I told her that I admired her courage, to get up and speak in front of sixty strange men.
She said, “Thank you.”
I told her that I hoped things turned out alright for her father.
She said, “Thank you,” again.
I will most likely never, ever, see her again. I wish her exceedingly well. I wish her father well. I wish everybody well (except Saddam, all other ruthless dictators, and child and animal molesters).
I love her, for being who she is, and for showing up.
　
　
November 9 Friday Day 58
　
I was going to get up real early and go downtown to the V.A., and see about getting my General Discharge from the navy upgraded to an Honorable. When I woke up though, I found myself for some reason glued to my bed, and was not able to leave it.
When I did finally free myself, I smoked a little, read a little, and wrote some. I won a game of video chess, and lost four. I talked with some people, and some people talked with me. I talked with Noah the parrot, and she talked with me. We discussed the Special Theory of Relativity, and that a lot of what happens in this world can only be labeled good or bad, depending on your personal frame of reference.
Noah wondered whether the degree of heartburn suffered by munching down too many sunflower seeds was the same for a bird traveling on a train at 90% of the speed of light, as it was for a bird sitting in a stationary fashion (relatively) at a train station.
We couldn’t figure it out.
At work, Jack told me that he’s quitting the desk to become a driver next Monday. He told me that he couldn’t get along with Victor (there had been a slight altercation a day or two before), and that he had been on the desk too long anyway, and wanted a change.
I will miss him at the desk, even though we didn’t work together very often. He has been a calming, and steady influence for me. But I’m sure he’s making the right decision for himself.
I have gotten along with Victor pretty well recently. We talk about “Star Trek,” and exobiology. He insists that one day it may be possible for Klingons and Vulcans to mate with humans and produce viable offspring. I maintain it would be easier for an elephant to mate with a flea, due to the incompatibility of our respective genetic material.
But one never knows.
　
　
November 11 Saturday Day 59
　
During the morning hours everyone was cleaning and painting around here, so it was hard to find a nice quiet bathroom stall to sit down in and contemplate the meaning of the word “Omm.” After ten, things settled down a bit, and I was able to proceed with this task.
I found, much to my amazement, that there is no meaning to the word “Omm.”
There is no sound issued from one hand clapping, either.
However, I did discover a hardy, somewhat absorbed, sonorous thunking noise derived from slapping one hand against a toilet bowl.
Abandoning these lofty investigations into the realm of perfect meaning, I descended towards the omnivorous video chess machine, only to discover the meaning of the word “humiliation,” as the hideous device had its way with me.
After lunch I went to the park to see what I could see. There was an Arts and Crafts Fair situated there for the weekend, and I desired to check out the arts and crafts (I wanted to check out the women). There was square dancing, and Jazz music, and nice paintings and photographs, tee shirts, mobiles, candles, jewelry, and various arts, and various crafts.
I made a stop at the thrift store on the way back, and picked up some more dress clothes. One sport coat, two pairs of socks (brown and white), a couple of shirts, pants, and ties.
Mr. Vasquez finally got around to purchasing a new parakeet today (at the Major’s urging, I’m sure). A Norwegian Blue. I went down to the atrium and looked at it. It seemed a little nervous in its new home. It just sat a the bottom of the large cage, eyeing me with audacious suspicion. The other parakeet did nothing to help matters, looking down from high on its perch, with haughty malevolence.
I said, “Hello,” to the new bird. The bird said nothing in return.
I noticed that the bottom of the cage where the bird was standing, was damp.
I hoped that soon the bird would fly up to its perch to join its parakeet partner. It probably just needed to be alone with Esmerelda for a little while, and get used to its new surroundings. I would come back and check on him in the morning.
Hoping that it was a male, I christened the new bird, Thornton.
I said, “Hello Thornton.”
　
　
November 11 Sunday Day 60
　
Thornton was found this morning, still on the bottom of its cage, only today he was dead. I was the one who found him.
Maybe we should have dried the bottom of the cage, or something.
Poor Thornton, bless his little parakeet soul. We hardly knew ye.
Mr. Vasquez will attempt to get another bird from the bird store, free of charge.
It won’t be Thornton, though.
Today seemed like a normal Sunday (except for Thornton’s untimely demise) I was a little tired, but felt all right. Until the Major threatened me with physical violence, that is. After chapel, he was walking out of the building with another Major buddy of his. One of the guys had left the door open, and I hadn’t noticed. Whenever I do notice, I close it. It’s closed 99% of the time. The Major closed it and pointed to me, saying, “If you value your head, or any other part of your anatomy, keep this door closed!” I nodded like a dumb ass.
He was worried about the building’s air conditioning system becoming over taxed as it attempted to cool all of Pasadena.
What upsets me about this is that all week I do a very good job (or try to), and work very hard at making sure there are no major malfunctions around this place, and am usually fairly successful at it. Twice a week this dimwitted, moronic asshole comes over here, airing a distinctly superior air that he insists he does not have while in chapel, and goes about making snap judgments about everything. His whole impression of me now must be that of a total incompetent boob, who can’t even keep a simple door closed, thereby increasing his electricity bill ruinously.
Am I rushing to judgment as he is? Am I being too harsh? Too bitter?
Yes, and delightedly so!
I shouldn’t get too worked up about it I suppose. I tend to be a bit thin skinned, due to my basic lack of self-esteem. It doesn’t really matter anyway, what this guy thinks (typical alcoholic attitude).
Unless they decide to throw my ass out of here.
The rest of the day was alright. I didn’t do much. I was tired and a little overwrought. I watched the end of “Jaws,” “Married with Children,” and finished Twilight Eyes, the Koontz novel I had been reading. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will quit smoking and get my life back in control.
What makes me feel my life is out of control? I’m smoking, spending money, not exercising, not reading the literature I told myself I would read, failing the schedule I had made for myself, sleeping too much, and farting around too much.
And stressing out about it.
All that makes me feel bad (I make myself feel bad).
So tomorrow I’ll fix all that stuff. Really! The first step is to quit smoking again.
　
　
November 12 Monday Day 61
　
I didn’t fix anything today. When I woke up, when I finally woke up, I was filled with resolve. I intended to fast for three days, give up smoking, and stop drinking coffee. I woke up at twelve, and at the two o’clock break I was choking down donuts and swilling coffee. I had resumed smoking by eight.
But I continue not to drink! That is the main issue, I know can do anything (eventually) as long as I don’t drink, or use psychoactive drugs.
I have sixty days sober today!!! One of my janitor friends, a Mr. Rockoff, gave me one of his extra Sixty Day chips. A good thing too, as I seem to be having difficulty getting to a meeting that gives out chips, or any outside meetings lately. If I had a sponsor type person, as A.A. suggests I have, they would probably tell me something like, “Go to 90 meetings in 90 days,” meaning that I should go to as many meetings as possible while in early sobriety (or one meeting a day). He would also say something like, I should find a meeting that gives out chips, and take chips when warranted, because it’s not only for my benefit, but also for those in attendance with less sober time, so they know it’s possible for them to get a chip as well.
It’s excellent advice. I’m just not following it at the present time.
The last time I sponsored someone, I relapsed.
Mr. Vasquez went and got a new bird today. He exchanged Thornton’s little dead body for it (straight out of a scene from Monty Python: “This bird’s dead.” “No it in’t” Yes it is.” “No it in’t.” “My dear fellow, I know a dead budgie when I see one,” on and on). I guess he didn’t bother to tell the pet shop people that we had allowed Thornton to stand in what amounted to a lake of water all night, catch parakeet pneumonia, and keel over and die.
Our new bird is blue, just like Thornton used to be. And like Thornton, it started out life in the residence at the bottom of the birdcage. Must be some kind of budgie initiation ritual. There is wild speculation that the other, yellow and green bird, Esmerelda, killed off Thornton in the middle of the night, but I don’t believe it for a minute. She doesn’t have the close-set eyes of a killer parakeet (although she does sport a slight smirk).
Hoping that it is a male, I’ve named the new bird, Jasper.
I said, “Hello, Jasper.”
Mr. Vasquez and I work well together. He is opening up more and more, telling me of his past, and to even things out, I do the same (tell him of my past, not his).
I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with another counselor. Her name is Shirley, and she is a very nice, attractive, brunette lady. She usually works on Tuesdays, but she stopped by tonight.
It’s so easy to fall in love.
　
　
November 13 Tuesday Day 62
　
Jasper is still alive! I got up early to check him out. He’s even sitting up on a perch, though a discrete distance from Esmerelda. I hope we’ll have good luck with this bird.
After breakfast I took a little nap.
After lunch, I wrote a little, down in the lobby, where Shirley happened to be, looking bright, beautiful, and as spunky as ever.
I like spunky women. They have so much SPUNK!
I like ones that aren’t spunky, as well.
Later in the evening, I could be found in the lobby once again, innocently reading a collection of 24 Terror Tales, while surreptitiously waiting for Jill to arrive.
When she came in, she pretended not to notice me.
Her cool aloofness turns me on.
I’m sure I affect her also, although probably not the way I’d like.
At nine, my friend Warren Bahr, and my roommate Dan (a very good looking, reticent, red haired person), went to a local coffee bar (as opposed to an out-of-state coffee bar), and drank coffee and played cribbage. The place looked like something out of the sixties, people in strange dress, using drugs, and singing protest songs (“Save Our Boys in Saudi Arabia”). I hadn’t played cribbage since I’d been in the navy, but I managed to keep up. We played two games, Dan won the first, and Warren and I tied for the second. We got back to the residence ten minutes before curfew.
I stayed up until one, finishing an apocalyptic novelette of Stephen King’s, entitled The Mist. Very interesting, and very creepy.
Based on a true story I’m told.
I went to bed determined to get up and go to the VA in the morning. I had a right attitude. It’s good to be alive.
　
　
November 14 Wednesday Day 63
　
Up early, and Jasper’s still alive. He is sitting a little closer to Esmerelda this morning too. Sly devil.
I wrote and read today, and lost a game of video chess. Chapel was brief. The Major and Mrs. Johnson were not there.
They were A.W.O.L.
I guess I forgot about going to the V.A. today.
George was not at our group counseling session either. He’s letting Dr. Edmund Reitz gradually take over his responsibilities. He began the group by writing two words on the blackboard, “Blame,” and “Responsibility.” He asked each of us (about twelve) how we used these two concepts. He told us that we were wasting our time by blaming other people, places, things, and ourselves. Instead, we should take responsibility for our situations, and do everything in our power to effect a change in our lives.
Our answers, almost to a man, did not follow the Dr’s game plan. None of used blame as a cop-out.
“Ultimately,” I said, “I could blame my natural parents, whom I’ve never met, for providing me with a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and drug addiction. I could also conceivably blame my adopted parents for the drinking and smoking I was subjected to when very young. My God, my dad owned a liquor store! I could blame my dad, for dying when I was eleven. I could blame society, for condoning alcohol and tobacco use, advertising agencies for depicting drinking as being sexy, and smoking as glamorous. But again, ultimately the responsibility is all mine. After realizing that I do have a problem with alcohol, that problem becomes mine, and mine alone. No one else can help me if I don’t want to help myself. For a long time I did not want to help myself. But I now realize that denial plays a big part in this disease, so I can’t really get down on myself for the time I wasted continuing to drink. Once I became aware of the nature of alcoholism, any failure to take appropriate action to abstain from drinking lies on my shoulders alone. To blame is an exercise in frustration. Nothing gets done while blaming people. If I were on a ship that struck an iceberg, and was knocked overboard, I could spend all day blaming the iceberg for being there, or the lookout for not seeing it, or the captain for running into it, but it would still be my responsibility to start swimming. My being here at the A.R.C. is an example of my taking responsibility for my life. Right now, I feel that this is the best place for me to be. I can learn about patience here. I can hopefully come to grips with this problem in a realistic manner, using all the available means at my disposal.”
All of us that were there, basically, stated that it was our responsibility to take care of ourselves, and deal with our addictions, as well as any other of life’s problems.
I beat Warren Bahr at cribbage, the read until I fell asleep.
　
　
November 15 Thursday Day 64
　
Back to work today. I slept in a little, then talked to Noah, and looked in on the two little parakeets. They seem to be doing well. Nervous creatures.
I began to read, The Damnation Game, by Clive Barker. I like his prose style. The book has to do with gambling it seems.
One of our male counselors is taking over for George in the substance abuse seminar. His name is Richard Bennett, an older, black man. More Christian orientated than most of the other counselors, he talked tonight about fear. He asked what fear meant to us. A few vague replies came forth, “The unknown,” “Death,” “Pain.” If he had asked me, I would have said fear is a survival mechanism. Animals need to feel fear when the situation warrants.
I have a small fear when I am on the edge of something that drops down a great distance, or rather, a height where there is no railing to hold on to. This trepidation does not interfere with any other aspect of my life, so it does not appear to be what could be called a phobia. I can control this fear, or actually, manage it, while I am doing something that necessitates my being in a position that triggers it. An example: the mule ride I mentioned earlier, that Jan and I had taken down into the Grand Canyon. When starting the descent we were assured that no mule had ever walked off the path, taking itself, and its rider, down the cliff face, a shear drop of probably a thousand feet or more. It was a scary ride, no doubt about it. Looking down those cliffs, knowing that one misstep, or if the mule spooked for any reason, my life would end. This produced a good bit of anxiety within me. But in my mind, intellectually, I knew that the ride had to be fairly safe, or the folks who provided the service would be out of business (although it does provide a small amount of genuinely sick pleasure for me to imagine this admonition of the mule train driver, as one in his party falls helplessly over the side, their frantic screams diminishing the farther they drop. “There goes another one. Now see how important it is to stay together! Some people can’t follow simple instructions!”) I could hold on to the animal with my hands and legs, which allowed me some form of action, thus lessening my tension.
When we approached the end of the trail, though, which emptied onto a plateau overlooking the Colorado River, I would not get near its edge for love or money. Jan said to me, “Come over here and look at this,” referring to the breathtaking view, as she stood right at the lip of an unprotected, 500-foot straight fall. I walked over and stopped two feet behind her, looking down into empty space. At times like this my mind plays funny games with me. It lets me know how easy it is to fall over the edge. A simple stumble, a quiet gust of wind, a slight bump from someone behind me, a deliberate push from a homicidal maniac mass serial killer, an earthquake, avalanche, alien invasion, anything. I could easily visualize myself falling, arms flaying outward trying to grab hold of something, too scared to shout or yell, watching the jagged rocks beneath me getting closer and closer, faster and faster. I would flap my arms like a bird, and try to arrange my body in position to do the least damage, failing miserably as I landed face first upon the hard, unforgiving stony terrain, splattering all over the place with a squishy plopping thud!
“Come closer,” she commanded.
“No way,” I told her.
“Chicken,” she teased.
“You got that right, my little apple dumpling.”
A little while later she told me that as I walked away from her she tripped and almost fell over. In my mind, I saw her falling, and heard her terrible screams. I thought about what life would be like without her, how much I loved her, how much I would miss her, and what I would have to tell her parents. I felt guilty for letting her get that close to the edge to begin with. All these thoughts came in a single second.
It did nothing to make the trip back up the canyon any easier.
My point is that fear is a necessary and important aspect of life. As is pain. They help to keep us alive. If I am nervous about going to high places where it would be possible for me to fall, it is less likely I will go to those places, and less likely I will fall and die.
I will never be a construction worker on a skyscraper.
I will never climb mountains, and I think that those who do are absolutely bug nuts.
I like fear. I think its nifty, especially when you’re with a cute girl at a scary movie.
Unlike pain. Pain is almost always painful.
The opposite of fear, I think, is security. I like security more than fear, and much more than pain.
But too much of anything usually turns out to be detrimental to one’s well being.
Too much fear makes a fellow jumpy.
Too much security makes him stagnate.
The only thing that I ever had too much of that didn’t hurt me in some way was good, old air.
But tell that to the man in a hurricane.
　
　
November 16 Friday Day 65
　
This morning I got up and went to the bathroom, as I am often do. This is a place of sanctuary. Where a man can rest, think at leisure, and plan for his future. A place where dreams are brought to a practical conclusion. A place where one’s identity can be concealed, privacy assured, and meditation possible, all done with pants neatly tucked around the ankles. John Steinbeck has written that the bathroom is one of the few places were women can be frank with each other. Where pretense is discarded, and the feminine façade forgotten. Where women can talk without fear of being overheard by men.
I don’t know what that has to do with my particular situation at the moment, but that’s what Steinbeck wrote.
There I sat, perfect in my tranquility, at peace, pursuing the state of harmony that is No Mind. Zazen. Searching for enlightenment. My eyes were closed, and my breathing soft. I concentrated on a point near the back of my skull. Gradually I sensed a brightening from behind my closed eyelids. A soft white light, emanating from a virtual point, far away, which was coming closer to me, without sound, without heat. It was is I were floating with no weight in my body, no mass, no sensation, through a dark tunnel toward a light, which with each passing moment (though I felt no sense of passing time), gains in its cold (though I feel no sense of temperature) brilliance. I then believed I could hear a sound coming from far away. I felt the sound growing in intensity, a surging, crashing, violent cadence, a seething explosion of noise, like a gigantic tidal wave breaking over an entire city, over and over, faster and faster, louder and louder. My body vibrated….THE LIGHT…..THE LIIIIGGHHHHHHHTTTTTT!!!! I’M ALMOST THEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRREEEEEEEEEE…..
“Attention in the residence. Attention in the residence. In approximately five minutes the water in the building will be turned off for approximately fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
My body deflated as it was wrenched back from the infinite.
I heard Warren Bahr stumbling around, working in one of the shower stalls. I felt sure that it is he who was responsible for the last message over the P.A. system.
I continued to hear him tinkering for the next five minutes.
I kept quiet and smoked an unauthorized cigarette (cigarette smoking is only allowed in the restrooms after ten p.m. It was nowhere near ten p.m.).
“Hey Tommy! Bommarito! Come here for a second please,” I heard Warren call.
“Whatayawant?” Thomas Bommarito, the residence laundry person asked, as he entered the room. He is a thin, recovering junkie, with a receding hairline.
“Do me a favor, will ya?” Warren asked.
“What do you want, Bahr?”
“I need you to… see this valve. I need you to turn this valve off when I turn the water back on.”
“Why?”
“So it won’t squirt out all over the place, you lop.”
“I’m not going to get wet, am I?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why am I not going to get wet? You’re going to go downstairs and turn on the water, right?”
“Right.”
“And then the water is going to come shooting out all over the place, and all over me, right?”
“No man. You won’t get wet,” Warren assure with deceptive childlike innocence.
“Why don’t we just turn it off now?” Tommy retorted, not one to be taken in easily.
“Because, if we did that, it would melt the washer.”
“Why?”
“Because I just heated this valve here, see. And if I close it now, it will melt this washer. Once I turn on the water, it will cool the valve, and then we can close it.”
“Okay.” Tommy thought a moment. “Explain to me why I won’t get wet again?”
“Well, don’t stand under it, for one thing.”
“You see! I will get wet. It will squirt out all over and soak the shit out of me.”
“No it won’t, you lop. Right now the systems not under any pressure, so all the air has to come out first, see. You’ll have the air coming out alooooonnnngggg time before the water does. But you’ve got to hold this, just like that. All right?”
“All right.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
A few moments passed of uninterrupted silence.
Then I discerned a snake-like hissing sound. Then a sput, spat, sputtering sound, then a “Godddaammmmnnnnn iiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttt!!!!!!!!! Goddamn it Bahr! Baaaaaahhhhhhhhrrrrr! Motherfucking, cocksucker! Baaaaaaaahhhhhhrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!
Kevin Rockoff came in, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m soaked! That’s what’s the matter! I knew this was going to happen. Goddamn Cahr!”
Warren returned, effortlessly deflating vindictive expletives from Tom, while he began flushing the toilets for some reason. One of the toilets, two stalls down from my position, would not stop flushing, and soon overflowed. I could hear it start to splatter on the floor, and looked down toward my feet. A pool of water had reached the floor drain, but the flow was faster than the drain could accommodate and began creeping towards me.
It invaded my stall.
I stood on my toilet, buttoning and zipping my pants. I opened my stall door, and leaped to safety.
I passed Warren on my way out. He was puttering around under one of the sinks.
“Goddamn it, Bahr,” I said.
“Yeah,” Tom followed.
Warren later confided in me, “I knew he’d get wet.” He smiled when he said it.
I had planned to go to the park after lunch, but it was too cloudy. I stayed at the residence and read instead. I also wrote.
Skip (Charles) Grinnell is taking over Jack’s position at the desk. A slim, dark haired, Caucasian fellow. A honky. He wears a mustache. He has held a job at the desk before, it seems, during an earlier appearance here at the A.R.C. He seems highly intelligent and capable.
I relieved him at three-thirty, and Victor and I started our long evening.
It was hectic for the first few hours. At four, several events occurred simultaneously. The boys came home from work demanding their room keys, a Major Lund checked in for a stay with us (freeloader), and Major Johnson came by to greet him.
I usually only see major Johnson, in my official capacity, on Sunday mornings, which is usually enough for me. As chance would have it, someone had left the front door open, right as the Major stepped in.
“Try and keep this door closed, will you, Rick.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I will kill the next person who leaves it open.
Otherwise it was a rather unexceptional night.
We lost two people by the end of it. They didn’t return by the midnight curfew. I wish them well.
I’ve forgotten to relate something.
A few days ago I passed on the street, Mr. T. Piles. He was the man I had caught drinking with the breath-a-lizer a few days previously.
I didn’t really know what to expect from this confrontation. Would he be angry? Would he get violent? How would I react in his position?
What he did was shake my hand. He admitted to me that he had had a hell of a lot to drink that night. I asked him what he was going to do now. He said, he didn’t know, that he might come back to the center after his thirty-day suspension was over, and after George Staub had left. I wished him good luck.
I’ve seen him since, wandering around.
In the Park.
　
　
November 17 Saturday Day 66
　
I got out of bed at a little after ten. Not that I hadn’t woken up any earlier. Warren had stuck his head into the dorm on two occasions, trying to rouse Dan for one reason or another. Probably to go bike riding.
And I had woken at breakfast time, but considered what was most likely being served, pancakes or French toast. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed for fried bread. Eggs maybe.
After I did get up, I went downstairs and ate a couple of chocolate donuts from the pile set out near the canteen for the extra duty workers. Then I walked to the store to buy some more smokes, telling myself I would quit tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
I read a little bit after I came back from deciding that I’d quit smoking tomorrow. I planned a leisurely afternoon, have some lunch, maybe play a game of video chess, wash up and get dressed for work, write, then fuck off until three-thirty.
Victor changed my plans for me.
Mr. Vasquez had spent last night out on the town (out catting around probably. Shameful for a man his age), so Victor, being such a swell guy and all, covered for him during the morning shift. But Victor had traffic school to attend at noon, and he asked me if I could help out for a while so he could go. Always ready to lend a helping hand, I acquiesced.
I began at twelve-thirty, and except for a few minuscule breaks, didn’t stop until midnight.
Mr. Vasquez returned about two minutes after I started. He gave me three canteen cards for helping out, the disappeared into his room until three o’clock.
The Salvation Army Corps, up on Walnut Street, was holding some kind of Thanksgiving dinner tonight, and when Mr. Vasquez did come down to work, he was kept fairly busy shepherding volunteer workers (dishwashers and bus people) back and forth.
The Corps (the actual Salvation Army community church) gave the ARC ten tickets to the dinner, but only one of our guys wanted to go, Jesus Ibara, a diminutive, Latin person.
Robert also picked up the weekend video.
Which was “Total Recall,” starring Arnold Schaurtzhisname. I had suggested it.
Robert was out of my hair for most of the evening, so I wrote.
When I got off at work at twelve, I wrote some more. I decided to stay up all night and do it. Right now, in real time, it is 4:08:44 a.m., on the eighteenth. I may do this more often, it is so quiet and peaceful, although I am confined to one of the upstairs restrooms.
They’re having a big party at the house next door. I can hear Mariachi music faintly drifting through the morning mist.
　
　
November 18 Sunday Day 67
　
Now I remember why I don’t stay up all night a whole heck of a lot. I tend to get very tired when I do.
I wrote until I ran out of paper (I vowed to never run out of paper again. Never, ever), then read. Soon it was time to go back to work. I didn’t shower, but shaved. I noticed some blackheads high on my cheeks, and squeezed several of them until they burst and spewed forth dead white corpuscular material here and there. When my face got so sore that I couldn’t squeeze the blackheads anymore, I noticed a red spot on the right side of my face, and wondered of it.
Along with flakiness of the scalp, the information I had gathered concerning AIDS symptoms told me that dry patches could also appear on the face. Thinking about this red spot, and about the possibility that I may be infected with the HIV virus, got me super depressed. I kept looking at the spot, poking it, and comparing it to the other side of my face. Was there a red spot there too? Maybe. Maybe just the beginning of one.
I looked and looked.
The spot didn’t look real bad (as if I knew a good looking spot, from a bad looking one), maybe it had been there all along. I decided to put it out of my mind and not worry about it anymore. Then I went to work.
Talking to Wolf Pandolfi did not exactly brighten my spirits. Wolf is a big, bearish man, on the high side of fifty. He told me about his new freezer, and how much meat he can cram into it. He told me of his love life (the visualization this inspired was truly frightening), how good he is at his job, how much he hated George Staub, what he was going to do for the rest of the day. There was no stopping him. If I were to actually enter into the conversation and attempt to relate some exploit from my life, he would stop talking long enough for me to have my say, then resume his narrative at where he left off, and at the same steady pace. He is relentless. If I try and escape by reading the newspaper or a book, or busy myself with something, it does no good. His assault is merciless. He will continue to talk no matter what I do. I can only pray for seven o’clock to hurry up and get there so I could go to breakfast, and be rid of the Wolfman for at least another day.
The front door managed to keep itself closed while the Major was here. I couldn’t wait for him to leave the building this morning so I could sit down. I have a tendency to stand whenever he’s around, as if I were being alert.
After he left I sat down in my chair and relaxed so much that I almost fell asleep.
At one point Mr. Vasquez looked up at me from where he was sitting at his desk, and said, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bread pudding at lunch.” He is diabetic. I asked him if he felt bad. He said, yes, he did. He said he was having trouble seeing.
This scared me a little. It didn’t seem to faze him though. He continued to run around like he always did. Later he told me that he couldn’t see, and that he was going upstairs. I reminded him to get some medicine, and get some rest.
“I did take my medicine,” he told me. “You can’t take too much, no.”
He continued, “I’ll go up and start running some samples [urine], and maybe rest a little. Give me a call at number twenty-six, at around twenty to five, will you?”
I told him, yes, that I would be happy to do that.
He seemed to be alright after his rest.
I called my mom when finished working. She is well. She told me that in a little while she was going to go into her backyard and pick up Skeeter’s poop (her small Pomeranian type dog), and then go over to Alice and Lester’s (closest friends) house for dinner.
I asked her to have a good time, and to make sure she washed her hands.
She asked me what I wanted for Christmas. At first, I told her that I couldn’t think of anything. I was being obstinate. Later, I offhandedly mentioned that I could use a small tape recorder (for writing purposes), and she said that she had just seen one at the store the other day. I also told her that I could use some underwear, that I couldn’t get any around here. She asked me what size I wore.
She let me know that she might come to visit around Christmas time. It would be nice to see her.
I took a little walk. When I returned I ate early dinner, and then watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation.” I had wanted to watch the television adaptation of Stephen King’s novel, “It,” at nine, but nobody else seemed very interested in watching. Most of the guys here felt the same way, that King’s material is too psychologically intricate to transfer well to another medium. Our crowd here at the Salvation Army is extremely astute.
I read for a while, then went to bed. I had a little trouble falling to sleep.
　
　
November 20 Tuesday Day 68
　
I got out of bed for lunch, the went to talk to Noah. I washed up, and got ready for work, then wrote a bit. At two, I stopped and went to the dinning room, and had some coffee and a donut, then took my position behind the desk.
I continued to write until Mr. Vasquez came back from across the street with the day’s mail, appointment slips, passes for the upcoming weekend, and the counseling books that the counselors use to document their client’s progress, or lack thereof. George treats these books as if they were the Crown Jewels. I am one of the few clients who have access to them, and accordingly one day when no one was around, I took a tiny peek at my file. It contained about five rather innocuous entries, each stating something like, “Doing very well,” or, “Doing fine.” That was good to know. What a relief.
No problems at work this evening. Counselors came and went, as counselors do. Bible Study (which I had to miss. Mr. Vasquez took off for Smart & Final, and Star Video) and group Counseling. The last counselor left at ten-fifteen, quite later than usual. She had come in especially to see a client who had checked out of the program earlier in the evening, at five-forty three, to be exact. Obviously she had missed him, and seemed upset and concerned about his leaving. But that’s how us alcoholics and drug addicts are until we finally make the decision to stop using. We come, and we go.
It began to rain at about ten o’clock.
An older gentleman, bearded and dirty, came in from the street to my desk seeking shelter from the rain. I felt sorry for him, but there was little I could do for him other then tell him to come back in the morning to enter the program. He had been here before, and I had told him the same thing. The strength of my concern for him was tempered by his lack of motivation to help himself. As my mother has often told me, “You have to want to help yourself first.”
The old man stood outside under the building eaves for a while, protecting himself from the fine drops of plummeting water. He stood, wondering what to do, I imagine, or waiting for something to happen, just as I had once done on many occasions while I had been an amateur homeless individual.
My roommate, Gordon, came by, and spoke to the man briefly. Gordon told him of the Ryder trucks that I used to sleep in, which I had told Gordon about. The man left. Maybe he went there.
That’s where I’d go.
Shortly after ten, Mr. Vasquez left to pick up Matthew Moore from his outside job. Matthew usually uses a bicycle to get back and forth from work, but it was not operational tonight. Its chain was broken. Besides, it was raining. While Robert was gone I had the place all to myself.
I stood outside and watched and listened to the rain.
　
　
November 20 Tuesday Day 69
　
I made it up for breakfast, then walked to the store to purchase some cigarettes. I came back and smoked a few, then laid down on my nice bed and read a little, slowly drifting off to sleep.
When I awoke, I showered and dressed.
I met Jerold Schimmele, the resident’s senior janitor, at the elevator. I told him that my mother had said hello.
He looked at me quizzically. “Your mom said hello, to me?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“But she don’t know me.”
“Ah, there’s where your wrong, Mr. Schimmele. She knows you intimately. She knows everything about you.”
“She does?”
“Indeed. I mailed her the evidence in case I don’t survive.” The elevator door closed between us.
I sat in the lobby to write. After a while my counselor, Richard, came out with another client he had been talking to. We said hello to each other, and went inside the dinning room and started our session.
He told me how fine he was, and I told him how fine I was. We were both fine (some say that means, “Fucked up, Insecure, Nervous, and Emotional”).
He likes to talk about his Higher Power. He depends on his a lot.
I have some trouble (as do many) with this concept. I do believe in higher powers, or rather, a power greater than myself. There are many powers greater than myself. The influence alcohol has over me is one of them. Whenever I consent to take that first drink, I am powerless over what happens next, and my life becomes very unmanageable. My whole life is an example of that. Therefore, for me to maintain some semblance of manageability in my life I must never take that first drink! One day at a time. More fundamentally, I am also powerless over gravity as long as I stay near the surface of this planet (and even if I weren’t, gravity would still keep me in an elliptical orbit around the sun, as it acts over very large distances),
and I do not often put my belief in that particular powerlessness to the test. I am also powerless over other people, places, and things… and women. There is only one thing I may have a small degree of power over (if you insist on calling it that) and that of course, is myself.

Erin Meets The Hippie Kitchen

While walking with my lovely case manager, Erin, last week, from Yoga Class, she expressed a desire to check out the Hippie Kitchen.
"I want to go to the Hippie Kitchen with you sometime," is how she put it.
"It's open Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, from nine thirty, to twelve," I told her.
I later Emailed an invitation to go next Tuesday, and asked her what time she wanted to go.
She replied, and asked, "How about nine o'clock."
I replied, "We could go at nine, but we'd have to wait thirty minutes for it to open. Why don't we go at nine thirty? It would be so much easier."
I'm such a smart ass.
I collected her at her office yesterday morning promptly at nine-thirty.
"Ready for some beans and salad?" I asked her.
"Oh, don't they have something else for breakfast?"
"No, I'm afraid they don't. It's pretty much beans and salad all the time."
We walked west on Sixth the short distance to Gladys, passing a group of Hispanic school children who for some reason were standing near the parking lot where the Metro Transit Authority employees park their cars. They couldn't have been more than four or five years old, dressed in their school uniform, and escorted by their teacher.
As we passed they all smiled and waved at Erin, ignoring me completely. Erin smiled and waved back.
"I thought you didn't like kids," I said.
"I like ethnic kids, and kids in other countries. I just don't like bratty American kids."
"Huumm, neither do I."
We have so much in common.
Walking with Erin is harder than walking with my friend Ron because I have to keep up my end of the conversation. Fortunately, Erin is so nice, honest, and open, that I enjoy talking with her very much.
"How far is the Hippie Kitchen?" she asked.
"Not far. It's just across the street from Gladys Park, where the elite homeless hang out. You must have passed it when walking back with Julia." (see, "The Price Is Right")
"Man, we had to walk so far that day. The bus stopped and everyone got off, and we just sat there..."
"And the driver said, this is the last stop."
"Yeah. We asked the driver, don't you go to Alameda? And he said, no I don't. But we have to go to Alameda, we said. Julia asked him, can't you go there just this once, giving him her cute, pouty smile. And he said, no, I can't. Just walk straight down this street and you'll get there.Eventually."
I had to chuckle. Erin and Julia were not familiar with the ways of the MTA, and that most of the drivers were demons, straight from the bowels of hell.
We arrived at the entrance to the Hippie Kitchen in short order, and took our place in line. Erin liked the little parakeets in their cage, who greet all the patrons by chirping and flying about. The water hippie asked us if we wanted some water. We declined.
The Hippie Kitchen made a liar out me by serving tuna and noodles that day. And salad. This is only the second time I've seen them serve something other than beans and salad.
Hippie bastards.
I gave Erin an oven mitt I happened to have on me, as the plates of food we were about to receive at times get too warm to hold on to comfortably.
"You go first, so I know what to do," Erin commanded.
I dutifully entered the kitchen and received a plate of noodles and tuna, Erin followed. I moved down the line and got my salad, and then my pre-buttered bread and a plastic spoonfork. Then we went outside.
It was crowded, the garden area filled with all types of indigent individuals. Erin followed me as I found two stone benches to sit on.
"They have some salt, pepper, and hot sauce over there if you want," I told her.
"I think I want mine plain," she replied. "This is good," as she began to eat. "I like this salad."
Homeless people walked around us, some eyeing Erin suspiciously.
We talked while we ate. Erin was inquisitive today.
"Have you ever been married, Rick?"
"Yeah, twice."
"How old were you when you got married?"
"Eighteen."
"Wow, that's young. Why did you get married at eighteen?"
"Young, and stupid, I suppose." At the time it seemed like a good idea.
"How long did it last?"
"Two years."
"What happened?"
"The same thing that's happened to all of my relationships... alcohol. Then somehow I wound up living with her aunt, and we goy married..."
"You married your wife's aunt!?"
"Yeah, mainly for convenience, so she could get money while I was in the navy. She looked like Ann Margaret."
"Who's that."
Oh, the young. "She was an actress."
"What did your first wife think about you getting married to her aunt?"
"Well, we had been living together for a while before we got married, but by that time my first wife was already married to one of my friends."
"Wasn't it awkward at family gatherings?"
"We didn't have any family gatherings."
We continued to eat and talk.
"My friend Ron volunteers here sometimes."
"You met him at the VA clinic?"
"No, actually I first met him while I was the residence manger for the Salvation Army in Pasadena. Ron had been the residence manager here, just down on Seventh Street, which is now closed. He got caught using, and was given the choice to either re-enter the program, or get thrown out. He choose to re-enter the program, but in Pasadena, rather than here, where he'd be in a program with people he had just had power over."
"Humm, I've had experiences with alcoholism in my own family, and they mean drunks."
"Well, I was never like that. I just wanted to party all the time. In fact I don't understand people who don't drink. There was a great line Jack Lemon said in a movie called Under the Yum Yum Tree. He said something like, "I can't understand people who don't drink. They wake up in the morning, and that's as good as their going to feel all day!"
She smiled.
"How old were you when you started drinking, sixteen?"
"Oh, younger than that. My dad owned a liquor store right across the street from Universal Studios, and we made delivery's in there all the time. That was fun. After he passed away my mother sold the store to someone, and I used to hang around there after school. One day I took a half pint of booze home, put it in some Kool Aid, and my world changed forever."
"Do you think you began drinking because your father died?"
"I don't know. I witnessed his death. We lived in a small apartment, and one night I heard weird noises coming from my parents bedroom, so weird that me and my sister got up to investigate, and my dad was having a heart attack. My mom was trying to get a nitroglycerin pill into him... well, by the time the ambulance got there it was too late."
"But I was lucky," I continued. "I had the best parents in the world."
"How old were you when he died?"
"Eleven."
"Gosh."
After a while she said, "I'm full now."
She had almost finished her whole plate.
"I've had enough of these macaroni's. Thank you for bringing me here. I might not have to eat my lunch now."
"It was entirely my pleasure."
We disposed of our plate in special receptacles devoted to receiving them. A man named Rocky came up to us and introduced himself, and told us a story of how he had just avoided a fight. We shook hands and thanked him for the information. He may have been a tad inebriated.
As we walked back, Erin said, "Oh, I remember why I'm mad at you..."
"I didn't do it." Always deny.
"I read about that "Two Dollar Bill Ploy..." (see, The Price Is Right, again)
"And I was thinking, I would have bought your coffee anyway. I'm going to get some lavender tea, and I'll buy you some coffee, from right over here." She pointed to the deli on Central.
"It's my turn to buy."
"No, no, you bought my breakfast, I insist."
So we went inside the small deli, and sure enough, she bought some lavender tea for herself, and I picked something called a red eye, coffee with espresso on top. Fancy smancy.
And we returned to her office, our adventure completed.
I had to go rest up in my box. We still had Yoga Class and Support Group to get through.

So Much To Talk About, So Little Time

The Planet Vulcan


The demons have infiltrated the Veteran's Administration. Bastards!
I was uncharacteristically late for today's Garden Club due to an early appointment at the opthalmology clinic at the downtown V.A.
My dear sister and I differ on our approach to personal health care. I tend to take a pro-active path and regularly see my doctors as often as they can stand it, when Cheryl will wait until she's half dead before going. I figure that I'm at an age when all kinds of nasty diseases are out to get me, and my traitorous body is getting tired of maintaining it's optimum proficiency.
For instance my eyesight is getting worse very quickly. I like my ability to see very much, and use it almost on a daily basis. Just six months ago I was able to read a book with little trouble while riding on a bus. Now I have to take my reading glasses whenever I plan to read something outside of my box.
So I didn't mind going to the opthalmology clinic, and was seen by the demon ophthalmologist just five minutes after my eight-fifteen appointment time.
"We haven't seen you for a while," she said, trying to catch me off guard.
"Yes," I replied.
"So we're going to have to dilate your eyes."
Oh great! These damn ophthalmologists are always doing that. They can't wait to dilate your eyes.
She gave me an eye test before administering the dilation solution. My right eye seems to be doing better than the left. Then she made me sit in the waiting room for the drops to take effect. I was forced to watch the CBS Early Show, and part of Rachel Ray, while my eyesight slowly deteriorated. Finally she called me back in to the examination room.
When the human eye is artificially dilated more light enters than would normally be the case, which makes the eye unusually sensitive to bright lights. Painfully so.
So what does the demon ophthalmologist do? She shines a great big white light into each eye to take a peek at my poor retinas. Blinding pain flashed into the back of my skull, but I did not show it and allow her the satisfaction that she was getting to me.
"You have nice, young looking retinas," she told me.
"Oh that's good," I squeaked. At least one thing in my body looks young.
This is not the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. I once had laser surgery in both eyes. They kept shooting lasers into my eyes while telling me not to move. I felt like shouting, "Stop shooting lasers in my eyes and I'll stop moving!"
After afflicting as much discomfort as possible, she finished.
"You know about to signs of retina detachment, don't you?" she asked.
"Ah, I guess."
"You know, floaters, sudden loss of sight... That's something you'd probably want to take care of on the day it happens."
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind." You can damned sure that if I suddenly lose sight in one of my eyes I'll let someone know about it!
I got out of there while the getting was good. Fortunately I had brought my sunglasses with me, and was able to stumble home without incident.
The Garden Club was finishing up when I arrived. Erin and Paul were out there, as well as Hardy. "We found this pineapple out here today," the lovely Erin reported.
Sure enough there was a lone pineapple sitting majestically in the middle of our garden.
"That's very weird," I said, "as we never planted a pine tree."
Paul had planted about a million of his infamous earwig traps. There's going to be bitter tears in earwigtown tonight, I thought.
"They've invaded our new grill, you know," I told Paul and Erin.
"Oh no," Paul said.
Erin and I went over to it an inspected its interior. It looks like an oil barrel on legs turned sideways, with a section that opens, and a little stovepipe deal on top. We opened it up and a single earwig was in there crawling around. These bugs are everywhere.
I discovered that Erin had seen the new "Star Trek," film at a fancy IMAX theater last night. She said it was amazing. I happened to see it yesterday myself, but I didn't need some twelve story screen to do it. No I watched it in the comfort of my little box, while writing"The Magic Garden," post. I'm not going to say how I was able to watch this movie at home on the same weekend it opened in theaters, but I assure you I did.
In the film, the time-line is somewhere between "Star Trek, Enterprise," and the original show starring Bill Shatner, with a young and uppity Jim Kirk, Spock, Bones, and so on. A rouge Romulan from the future, named Nero, comes back in time and starts turning Federation planets into little black holes using something called Red Matter. Those damn Romulans are always causing trouble. They're worse than the demons.
So he destroyed the planet Vulcan, and killed Spock's mom. Well I've got news for director JJ Abrams. I've seen the planet Vulcan, and Spock's mom (lovely woman) on the original series, so they couldn't have been destroyed! I may have seen them on "Star Trek, the Next Generation," too. So what have you got to say about that JJ? Not talking are you. I thought as much.
As I squint through my reading glasses trying to write this with the effects of the eye dilation solution still in affect, I appologze for any misspellled word.

The Magic Garden

First off dear readers, please take a few moments to visit the site below to read Linda Milazzo's piece on the gentrification of skid row, and the criminalization of poverty. I wasn't as upset as she was by the portrayal of the homeless population in the film "The Soloist," but her point that the law enforcement community has been used to deliberately rid the area of the homeless to make way for the affluent is well worth reading. It also furthers my long held belief that the police are little more than hired thugs for the rich and well heeled.
http://www.laprogressive.com/2009/05/10/joe-wrights-the-soloist-exploits-the-skid-row-community/　
Now to our garden.
Last Monday morning, promptly at nine o'clock, I found myself sitting outside Erin and Paul's office waiting patiently. I always find myself doing this as Erin and Paul are late for 98% of our scheduled activities, today's being the Garden Club. I had two big buckets of garden water sitting there with me.
(an amendment to the line above. It is now two twenty one in the afternoon of the twelveth of May, and I am being held at gun point by Erin and her minions who, shall we say, object to being characterized as being late 98% of the time to scheduled activities. "You forget Yoga Class, Rick" she is saying. "And I get there early, so that must count for something!" "Okay, okay," I tell her, "just don't shoot." "Don't worry, it's not loaded. But I can still karate chop the hell out'a yah." "Alright, ninety per cent?" "Nope." "Eighty five?" "Anything more than seventy six and you're still in trouble." "Seventy six it will be." "Good.")
Hardy, another earnest gardener, came up to me, and asked, "You put that stuff out there, didn't you?"
"What stuff?"
"That stuff out there in the garden."
"No. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Sure, sure you don't." He walked away.
Soon Erin came out, when she was damn good and ready. I stood up.
"Hi Rick!"
"Hi Erin. How was your weekend?"
"Fine. And yours?"
"It was good. I got a lot of work done."
"You always say that."
"Where's Paul?"
"He's running a little late."
"Did you see our new cactus?"
"I sure did. Where did that little guy come from?" She was referring to a three inch tall barrel cacti sitting patiently on the windowsill we were standing next to.
"From the ninety nine cent store. I got it yesterday."
"I like it. It's already got a little flower growing on top."
That was true, it did have a little flower growing on top.
We walked out the short distance to the garden.
"Hey, what's this?" Erin asked.
She was looking at our tomato plants. Underneath their leaves where little tomatoes. And two oranges sat under our dwarf orange tree, and various little peppers sat under our various pepper plants. They were not connected to the plants in any way, just sitting beneath them.
"Wow," I said, "I certainly didn't expect this."
"Rick, did you do this?" Erin asked.
"I most certainly did not."
"I think you did."
"I think you did."
"I didn't do it."
"You get here before everyone else."
"I didn't do it." She smiled, and we began our gardening activities, mine consisting of raking the many leaves that had fallen during the week. Erin began to water the plants.
Paul came out. "Hey, what's this?"
"Our garden grew some oranges, tomatoes, and peppers," I told him.
"Wow, cool," he said.
"I think Rick put them there," Erin said.
"I think Hardy put them there," I said.
"I didn't do it," Hardy stated.
Paul checked his earwig traps. Two tuna cans had been placed in the ground and filled with cooking oil. During the last week hundreds of the dumb little bugs had crawled into them and drowned. Thus continued Paul's pathological addiction regarding the genocide of these creatures.
Since no one else seemed to want to do it, I harvested all of the fruits and vegetables.
This phenomena, of fruits and vegetables appearing unexpectedly, is not without precedent. During the tenures of case managers Michelle and Marisela, this kind of thing happened all the time. Michelle founded the Garden Club, and walked outside to find the same thing.
"Rick, did you do this?" she asked.
Always with the blaming.
"Do what?"
One time we found a coconut out there, which was decidedly odd, as we had never planted a palm tree.
As the famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes put it. "When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
"I think we have to come to the realization that we're dealing with a magic garden here," I told Erin and Paul.
"Sure Rick."
"Sure."

Salvation Diary 4

"Salvation" Artist Amanda Milke
http://paintsplatters.wordpress.com/




October 19 Friday Day 37
　
Apparently my request for another parakeet has been rejected. I had filled out a parakeet purchase order:
ITEM: REPLACEMENT PARAKEET – BLUE (Melopsittacus undulates)
$17.00 - $25.00
DUE TO THE RECENT LOSS OF OUR BLUE PARAKEET (SKIPPY)
SURVIVING BIRD (ESMERELDA) APPEARS TO BE FORLORN
POSSIBLE PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA EXPERIENCED
HOPEFULLY SITUATION MAY BE REVERSED
WITH INTRODUCTION OF “NEW BIRD”
SUGGESTED NAME: THORNTON
IMMEDIATE ACTION ADVISED
Mr. Vasquez called me over.
“Mr. Joyce, a word with you please. What’s this parakeet psychological stuff? Don’t make waves. I’m just waiting for the other one to kick off. Request denied. And don’t go saying anything to the Major! I got rid of the fish, you know!”
Under the circumstances I’m left with only two alternatives. Do nothing, and hope that the Major will rectify the situation all on his own; or buy a bird myself and donate it to the center, anonymously perhaps. For the time being I can only do nothing.
A lady came in at about mid-shift complaining that one of our ex-clients was abusing her nineteen-year-old daughter. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing we could do for her. The center is not responsible for the people who leave here, nor are we responsible for their conduct outside of the residence. How could we be? We suggested she contact the police.
Alcoholics and drug addicts are just like everybody else, except they happen to be alcoholics and drug addicts. There are good ones and there are bad ones. Well adjusted and maladjusted. Some people are sicker than others.
A couple of empty bottles of whiskey were found in Rodolfo’s locker today. This was the second time he’d left the center due to resumption of usage. I wish him a quick return to sanity, and peace for his family.
　
　
October 20 Saturday Day 38
　
I don’t believe I slept more that thirty minutes last night. For some reason I just couldn’t nod off. Worried about Esmerelda, I guess. I kept doing the Toss and Turn Fandango.
I forgot about running this morning, or even going to Union Station. I did manage to lose a game of video chess, and after lunch I went to the Thrift Store, and looked for possible gifts for my family for the upcoming holiday season.
Work was boring. Victor thinks I’m his boy.
I called my mom at about ten-thirty. No change, everything is still hunky dory.
I caught a guy who had come in after drinking tonight. He blew a .10 on the Breath-a-lizer. I told Victor about it, and he had to throw the guy out. I didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. I had been in this man’s position once. I knew what it was like to be thrown out and be put on the street. But I have had to look at it realistically. It was now my job to help enforce the rules of the house and center. I did not force this man to drink, and he knew that if he came back and blew dirty he would be asked to leave. If he’s drinking, even though he knows he may loss the roof over his head, he may more than likely have a drinking problem and the sooner he knows about it the better. Lastly, I wouldn’t be doing him a favor by letting him get away with drinking around here. That would be tantamount to enabling him to further progress into his disease, prolonging it, worsening it, making eventual recovery that much more difficult. I won’t do that.
As with Rodolfo, I wish this man well.
　
　
October 21 Sunday Day 39
　
I got up at ten minutes to five and ran around the park a couple of times. I was back by five-twenty, showered and dressed, and was at work by five-fifty.
Then I spent 95% of the next 17 hours behind the desk. Charles Perry, who was to relieve me at two-thirty, had been on an emergency pass for the last two nights. He was supposed to be back last night before curfew, but had called, asked for and received an extension good until his shift started this afternoon. He had been visiting his mother in the hospital, he told us. This is the second emergency pass Charles has taken, since I’ve been here, to visit his poor, sick, mother.
Such a good son.
He called me today at one-thirty, and hour before he was to relieve me, to say that he would be in sometime tonight.
Very good of him.
I had they distinct honor and pleasure of working his shift.
Let tell you why I love life so much…
　
　
October 23 Monday Day 40
　
I slept until ten-thirty because I was such a tired fellow. But I was refreshed. I told myself that I had no time to run, or exercise, which was a big lie. I still felt good though. I felt good even after losing another game of video chess. I did manage to get a lot of reading done before I went to work.
I continued to feel good while at work. It all went very nicely because it was very busy, not like yesterday when time stood still. I had my five counselors to deal with, Bible study, and group counseling. The time flied.
We discussed historical biblical figures during Bible study. Isaac, Moses, and Noah, to be exact. It was a good review. I had forgotten who Isaac was.
We sort of discussed stress management in group counseling. Another good review.
The only other interesting event of the evening happened when we attempted to get a urine sample from an Hispanic gentleman, who had been throwing up all over the place last Saturday night. He has been telling us that he hasn’t been able to pee for the last 48 hours. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. I don’t think Mr. Vasquez did either.
Somehow this guy snuck in and lifted his key, last Saturday, without me seeing him. He won’t do it again, not while I’m on duty at least.
Anyway, he was given an ultimatum. Either pee tonight, or be terminated for refusing to take a drug test.
He waited until Mr. Vasquez went on his rounds, then asked me for a cup and went into the head. He returned with his lukewarm sample a short time later. I couldn’t leave the desk to watch him provide the sample, and so couldn’t be sure it was genuine. We shall see.
　
　
October 23 Tuesday Day 41
　
I just couldn’t drag myself from bed at five o’clock when my alarm went off. I just couldn’t do it.
I tried, but I just couldn’t do it!
My peepers were cemented together.
So I slept on for another hour, and at six, I pried open those peepers, and turned on my little nightlight, successfully pissing off everybody else in the darkened dorm, and began reading from the Bible.
After a chapter or two, I made a decision and acted upon it.
I got up.
Then I dressed. Having accomplished this, I felt guilty and angry with myself for not having the where-with-all to get out of bed earlier.
I added this onto my list of things to feel guilty and angry about (I’m up to the eighth volume), then went down to have some nice cereal for breakfast.
Fruit Loops.
After devotions I went to Union Station. They are getting used to seeing me there now. I don’t ever say anything to anybody, or share during the meetings, but they are getting used to seeing me. I sit in my chair and chuckle every once in a while.
This meeting is really good for my head. It’s so unpretentious, it’s almost shocking. I remember a television show with sweetie Sarah Purcell (oh, where is she now?!), called “Real People.” I never saw anything like this on it.
I feel like singing and dancing every time I leave this meeting!
When I got back, I went to say hello to Noah, the parrot. Noah is just fine. She gets very excited now, and makes the strangest noises when I come around. Then I mimic her. She doesn’t know what to make of that.
Not to change the subject, but when I think about it I often marvel at what a magnificent organ the brain is. What indiscriminate pieces of information it retains.
I played a game of video chess, and lost badly. This is getting to be a habit.
I worked out for a half an hour, then went running to make up for this morning, and so I wouldn’t feel guilty and angry anymore. As I completed my second lap around the park, I had a little trouble catching my breath. I attributed this to the heat. No big deal.
I guess the Hispanic guy did give me a genuine urine sample last night. It was dirty. Cocaine. He doesn’t live here anymore.
I returned to the residence and wrote, ate lunch (tuna), then went back to the park to lie in the sun and think about what I should do tomorrow, then went back to the residence, took a shower and put it back, read and wrote, ate dinner, wrote some more, finished writing, went to Step Study class, learned all about the first three steps of Alcoholics Anonymous again (I know Al’s whole speech by heart now), read, checked out the female counselors who work on Tuesday nights, and went to the outside A.A. meeting in South Pasadena.
The leader of the meeting was Sue, a beautiful girl, probably born in Sri Lanka. Quite unsurprisingly, her complexion was rather dark. I’ve noticed her before. She actually smiled at me at one point. I can’t remember the last time a girl smiled at me for no reason.
She’s a heartbreaker, no doubt about it.
The speaker was very interesting. I thought he would be a dud, but it turned out rather well. His name was Joe, an ex-hippie, somewhere around his mid-forties, I’d say. I could relate to his story. He had been thrown out of an entire country (Ireland). I had only been thrown out of a state (Arizona. My mom packed me up, bought me a ticket, and made sure I got on the bus to L.A. “Good luck,” she said).
Later in bed, I read a little from Stephen King’s novel, Misery, a very well written piece of work. Very interesting. Then I went to sleep, anticipating all the neat stuff I’m going to be doing tomorrow.
　
　
October 24 Wednesday Day 42
　
I dragged myself out of bed this morning and went running while listening to the Eagle’s tell me how life in the fast lane will really make me blow my mind. I came back and read the paper. The stuff in the Middle East is still dawdling on and on. Looking at the movies playing around town, none interested me.
I had been thinking about visiting a Buddhist temple, or church, as I am interested in learning first hand about this religion. All I know of it I have learned from books. I imagine there must be one downtown somewhere (there’s one of everything downtown), and I’ll be going there next week, so I’ll check it out then.
Today we had eggs over easy for breakfast. I allowed myself to eat them as long as I cut out the yoke, which has all the yucky cholesterol. I know, it’s my favorite part too, but the whole point of eating is to stay alive and healthy, right?
The usual crowd gathered at Union Station. The subject of the meeting being making amends to those we alcoholics and drug addicts have hurt in the past (Step 9). Most of us got to talking about how hard and scary that would be when we finally got around to doing it. A man by the name of Dennis, said this, “As usual I seem to look at things from a slightly different point of view. We all seem to concentrate on how hard it will be when we have to face the people we have harmed because of our behavior. But I’m thinking of all the benefits we will receive once we have attempted to do so. The freedom from guilt and worry, peace. The chance to start fresh, with all the garbage from the past behind us. That my friends, is worth having.”
I agree. As for myself, most of those I have hurt I’ll never be able to find.
After the meeting I went back and said hello to Noah. Noah was fine.
I lost a game of video chess. I exercised for about a half an hour. While doing that I decided to skip lunch, and relished the thought of all those unconsumed calories.
It was ten-oh five when I finished, and I knew that the movie, “Atlantic City,” with an aging Burt Lancaster and Susan Sarandon had started at ten, so I commandeered one of the video game TV’s, and watched it. A very good film, four star. I began playing video chess with the other set while watching it (a sure sign of addiction). I won for about the first time in three weeks.
I started another game and won that too.
I now know the secret of video chess. It’s either that Burt Lancaster, or more likely the lovely Susan Sarandon, has a detrimental and disconcerting affect on neighboring video machines, or the trick is not to concentrate very hard.
I played to a draw on the third game, and so quit while ahead.
I went out to the park to lie in the sun. I was beginning to get dark. I thought of myself with melanoma.
While watching “Star Trek, the Next Generation” (This one about another of Wesley’s experiments gone awry. He managed to zap his poor suffering mother into a warp field bubble. They should beam this kid into a supernova), this evening, Victor came by on his rounds and gave me a hard time about using the video TV’s, even while no one else was there. He didn’t make me turn it off, but did manage to irritate the hell out of me.
I began thinking about how it was a year ago when I had my old apartment, when I could, and quite often did, stay up all night watching T.V. (the epitome of couch potatoeness), when I had privacy, when I could eat whenever I wanted, smoke whenever I wanted, and drink whenever I wanted. I isolated myself pretty well in those days.
Then I thought that I wanted those things again, and I wasn’t doing anything to get them back by sitting around here.
All this thinking left me with an nostalgic emptiness, and thinking about nostalgic emptiness’s led me to think about how to fill it, and I knew the answer to that one. Alcohol would fill it up real well. I’d feel just great with a few shots in me.
You see, this is how the process of relapse begins. One of the ways, at least. It’s about forgetting the bad times, and glamorizing the parts we tricked ourselves into believing were good (euphoric recall). Having been through this process a few times in the past I could recognize it for what it was, and hopefully counteract its progress by remembering that the past wasn’t so great. I remembered the sleepless nights, the puking my guts out, the loneliness and uncertainty, how miserable I had been. The lies I had to tell.
I lost that apartment, that job, that girlfriend, by doing the very thing I had just been contemplating. Taking a drink. One would be enough, because an alcoholic can’t have just one drink. I thought about what would happen if I had just one drink.
I would be back in the Park almost instantaneously.
I didn’t what to go back there, so I thought about what I was doing here, and I knew that I was okay. That I was doing what was best for me, and exactly what I needed to be doing right now. The slow and sure path. The harder path. Too many times my impatience had tried to destroy me. I could not let that happen.
So I calmed down. My life was bound to get better if I was patient.
You see how easy it is to fall back. How insidious this disease can be, and is. It is very often like this. That it’s not the major crisis’s of life, the deaths, the divorces, job losses, that foul us (although they can, and certainly do), but the little frustrations and stresses that can quite literally tear us apart. The simple fact that Victor was being Victor could have gotten me back in the Park. Anything could.
I need to be constantly vigilant, for I know that unlike myself at times, my disease is always patient and waiting.
　
　
October 25 Thursday Day 43
　
I slept until nine, or so. For some reason I’m having a heck of a time getting up in the morning. When I was drinking I never had any problems at all getting up. I had wanted that first drink and cigarette of the day too much. But I’ve had trouble lately, and this throws off my whole schedule, which in turn increases my general stress level, which I don’t need but I think I can handle.
My schedule mucked up, I found some time to lie in the sun and do some reading before cleaning up and getting ready for work.
Which was kind of fun today, because I got to work with Jack Crosley for the first time. He and Charles had traded shifts it seems.
Jack is an interesting young man, very quiet and stern, but I’ve seen him break into a smile every now and then. He is the senior deskman, having been here longer than Charles, myself, and Victor, about nine months in all. He reads about a book a day, all fantasy and Sci-Fi stuff. He has a peculiar habit of making little grunting sounds, gurgling out of his belly, as he walks. He is short, with dark hair, with a facial scar that runs from the corner of his mouth to his ear lobe. I have heard rumors of Jack experiencing a great personal tragedy in his past, something about his wife and children being murdered. He talks little though, and nothing about himself. I like him, although he is hard to get close to. He at least helps me do some of the work around here, unlike some others I could mention, who will remain nameless.
The luscious Stacy is not coming in this evening. She is supposedly cramming for her midterms. All of us at the Salvation Army’s Pasadena Adult Rehabilitation Center wish her much success.
We discussed the myths vs. facts of alcohol and drugs in tonight’s substance abuse seminar, and the A.A. panel was made interesting due to the lively and uninhibited discourse of the two female panelists. One of these was a flight attendant who had worked for PSA (Pacific Southwest Airlines). I talked to her after the meeting, and we reminisced about the 1978 PSA crash in San Diego, which I had almost been on.
Yet once again, I had escaped the yawning jaws of death.
Alas, the end of another day approached. Tomorrow I would go back to County Hospital.
　
　
October 26 Friday Day 44
　
Well, the day started out good enough, but then I woke up.
After that it was all down hill.
I had a dream about a dog. The dog was running around and I was trying to catch it. We were playing. I had the feeling that we were friends, this dog and I. As in real life, when a sock, or some such object of woven material is thrown, a dog will run like the devil, grab it in it’s teeth, bring it straight back, and when you attempt to get it back from him (or her), it won’t let go. You can tug, pull, plead, coerce, but it won’t let go. It’s playing.
Thus “Tug-Of-War” was born.
My dream dog wouldn’t let me catch it.
For some reason this dream was oddly comforting to me, and I did not want to let it go.
So I continued to sleep, or tried to. I woke briefly every now and then, and I would think to myself that I really should be getting up. I had told myself that I would go running this morning.
Time kept passing.
I even tried to talk myself into not going to the dermatologist, but I couldn’t quite do it.
I got up and made it down to breakfast, which I ate, scrambled eggs and everything. I reasoned that I would be missing lunch today, so it was alright to eat eggs. Cholesterol be damned!
After devotions I checked out of the residence and walked to the bus stop on Fair Oaks. I didn’t feel like sitting down, so I stood while waiting. It was seven-thirty six, and my appointment was for nine, and I only had the one bus to take, so I should have had plenty of time, although I had no idea when the next bus would arrive.
A longhaired, disheveled fellow in dirty jeans stopped and waited with me. Not so long ago I had looked just like he did.
After about ten minutes a bus came. Of the two buses that stopped here, this was the wrong one. This bus wouldn’t go anywhere near County Hospital. Unless hijacked. It stopped, let someone out, then continued on its way.
After another five minutes another bus came. It was the right bus this time, the 483. It was jammed with people, like a can of Vienna sausages, so instead of stopping it passed me right by, laughing as it did so. I felt intense anger. I looked up Fair Oaks, as the bus stopped at the next street, California Ave. It let a whole bunch of people off there. I decided to walk over to that stop, thinking I’d have a better chance to catch the next bus. I began worrying about being late for my appointment now, knowing that the buses typically run thirty minute apart.
As I was half way to the next stop, another, relatively empty, 483, passed me right by. I felt now like killing something.
I finally managed to get on a bus about twenty minute later, and made it to the dermatologist by nine-oh two.
They asked me to take a seat. I had my Stephen King book to keep me company, so I sat on a long cement bench, with about a billion other patients.
At eleven-thirty my name was called over the P.A. system, directing me to door D. I slid the door closed behind me. It was sliding door, like in a warehouse, but much smaller. A young man looked in from another door, and asked me if I’d ever been here before. I told him yes, that I had, last June. He told me he’d be right back. I said, okay.
He came back with my file. I told him about my rash, that it was a lot better now, but that I’d still like a doctor to look at it, and that I wanted some more medication. That’s how us alcoholics and addicts are. We always want more medication. It doesn’t matter which kind.
He looked at it and said it was healing well. He told me he’d give me more ointment. I had him look at my feet while I was there. He did this.
He asked me if I had a lot of dandruff.
I answered, “Yeah, I have recently. I had been using cheap soap on my hair, but now I’m using some dandruff shampoo and that seems to be working.”
“Are you in any of the high risk groups for AIDS?” he asked.
I replied, “No,” and swallowed painfully.
“Have you had any homosexual encounters in the past?”
“No.”
“Have you been with any prostitutes recently?”
I said, “No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Why? Because flaking of the scalp is one of the symptoms of the AIDS related syndrome. But you’re not in any of the high-risk groups, are you? So there’s nothing much to worry about. People get dandruff all the time, you know.”
He told me to wait outside and someone would call me when my prescription slips were ready.
Not surprisingly, I got to thinking about what he had told me. He scared the hell out of me.
I thought about a time around early August, when I had a one time casual sexual encounter with this girl I had met in a bar. I had been drunk, and probably wouldn’t have had anything to do with her if I had been in my right mind. Not necessarily sober, but in my right mind. That had been at the beginning of my living on the street period, and I wasn’t used to it yet. I would drink and talk to anybody, just for the company. One thing led to another. She may have been using a dirty needle, or had been sleeping with somebody who had the disease. The point was that I did not know.
Now I was thinking, oh shit, do I have it?! I had had that horrible dandruff and thought my hair was falling out. I had attributed it to the soap I had used upon entering the center, and now the Head and Shoulders seemed to be working, but my dandruff still must have been noticeable for the doctor to see it.
I thought, this is just great, just what I fucking need! Right when I’m doing everything within my power to get my life together and feel much better about myself, that’s when I get some untreatable, terminal illness. Typical.
I wanted to get tested for the HIV virus as soon as possible, or faster. Not knowing was going to drive me batty.
I thought about the very real possibility of a premature death. I was once asked to make a list of the ten things that made me the angriest. Death was right at the top. I don’t have a whole lot of faith in having an afterlife to escape to, so for me death is the end. It was something I definitely had not planned on encountering soon.
For such a long time I felt so safe and secure in the knowledge that I could not possibly get AIDS because of my long, monogamous relationship with Jan, which even predated the AIDS scare. Now, after one reckless incident my very life was in danger.
There was no endless future for me anymore.
Who could I blame? Myself ultimately. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I hate blaming myself for things that go wrong.
I continued to freak out until I heard my name called to collect my prescription. I took it immediately to the pharmacy as I knew it would take a couple of hours to be filled.
Then I walked around the hospital thinking about AIDS.
I decided to treat myself to something from the cafeteria. I ate a huge burrito with everything on it. I told myself that it didn’t really matter if I got fat if I was going to die of AIDS anyway. It didn’t matter if I smoked, either. Or drank.
I would not drink. I would not drink. I would not drink, no matter what! No even if I tested positive. I won’t spend the rest of my life in a drunken stupor.
How about one last binge?
No! My whole life has been one last binge! I know what happens when I start drinking, I would not start that process today.
So I wouldn’t drink, and I wouldn’t have to get thrown out of the Sally again. What would I do?
Find out for sure if I had it, for one thing. Of all the things the doctor could have said, he had to mention the fucking dandruff. Talk about of coming out of left field.
What would I do if I had it?
I don’t know. Die, I suppose. Everybody dies at one time or another. It’s not a big deal really, is it?
Your god damned right it is! This is my life on the line, not somebody else’s. This is the big R, reality in all its glory. The very thing I have so often tried to avoid in the past. Or ignore. This is what it was like to be a big time grown up. I’d rather be a kid again, even if I had to wash the dishes.
Death. Shit, I didn’t want to die. Even if I had the HIV virus it could be ten or twenty years before AIDS set in.
It could be tomorrow.
In ten or twenty years a cure may have been found.
Pigs may fly someday too.
Death. No more plays by Chekov, books of Henry James, Beethoven symphonies, Cuban women or ladies from Puerto Rico and New York (except for those Skanks on Staten Island), Emerson essays and poems, old Bob Hope movies, and volleyball. No more Michelle Chandler, Haiku poems, Quevedo, rabbits, Playboy (articles), Campbell Soup, Brando movies, Bob Dylan, and algebra. No more Rembrandt, thunder, Canadian women, Cagney movies, and ant encroachments. No more boomerang bombs, calluses, compressed air, El Salvadorian women, Dante, Boogey woogy, Pink Panther films, seasons, Plato, Acetylcoline liberation, iguanas, grammar, national parks and monuments, sandwiches, porcelain, gorillas, Darryl Hannah, leather and lace, radio astronomy, Tanzanian women, veils, H.G. Wells, flies and fog. No more Malagasy women, Kafka, Sepulveda and Roscoe Boulevards, Christmas and everything that goes with it, apples, Hume, mammary glands, Monet and mosquitoes. No more Fonda movies (Henry or Jane, you can keep Peter), lycanthrophy, British (Kay Parker, Sara Jane Hamilton, Diana Rigg, and Linda Thorson notably) and Brazilian women, The Beatles, elves, sneezes, tugboats, otters, baths, kazoos, jellyfish, Goethe, macadamia nuts, doors, Ray Bradbury stories, saturated fat, nosebleeds, Yeats, Vladimir Horowitz, Abbot and Costello, Kierkegaard, Danish women, airplanes, health insurance, legumes, newspapers, xylophones, marathon running, llamas, Hallmark cards for all occasions, Buster Keaton films, Yazoo river rides, Schultz, Dylan Thomas, retrograde motion, operas, Salinger books, salt, income tax, resonance, Venezuelan women, Parmesan cheese, dolphins, basketball, M&Ms, diets, latitude, lemons, gamma globulin, kumquats, servomechanisms, Joanna Storm and Spencer Tracy movies, porcupines, curry, fatigue, cottage cheese, Thoreau, Cole Porter, Nat King Cole, termites, poker, sonic booms, rain, Lzaak Walton, Ten Years After, anxiety, deodorant, Halley’s Comet, Italian women, and fishing. No more ice cream, Dostoevsky, evaporation, skyscrapers, sky, pressure, football, mushrooms, Schubert, and rust. No more Olivier films, zebras, heartburn, lettuce, Columbus Day, Pink Floyd, avocados, pizzas, Spinoza, ethics, Eskimo and Ethiopian women, giraffes, calories, John Rawls, cosmic rays, Bazooka Bubble Gum, mildew, jackalopes (known to the ancients as “deerbunnies”), Armenian literature, arrests, kaleidoscopes, gelatin, chairs, Sackbut music, love, air pollution, Credence Clearwater Revival, Thomas Hardy, Mahler, chestnuts, Russian women, prairie dogs, unemployment, Jules Verne, samurai comic books, women from the Dominican Republic, AT&T, “Cheers,” humidity, Carl Sandburg, Carl Sagan, pineapples, surrealism, women who get mad at you without telling you why, and magnetic resonance. No more greenhouse effect, libraries, tides, George Santayana, Dana Delany, Costa Rican women, sunburns, water polo, massages, Matisse, and margarine. No Icelandic women for sure. No more Arthur Miller, grapes, the sweet lyrical voice of Janis Joplin. No more equity, Doppler effect, Yukon women, mahogany, furniture, laser light shows, Led Zeppelin, chocolate cream pie, Dupont, earthquakes, indigestion, Laurel and Hardy, bevel gears, Clark Gable films, mineral water, woodpeckers, John Locke, Darwin, Butane lighters, crabs, rapid transit (not that we have it now), Marquez novels, smoke, Mark Twain, fantasies, Australian trips and women, heavy metal hard knacky acid rock music, drug addiction, Renoir, balloons, fables, sauces, Frankl, sailing, Kim Catrall, pheromones, Philippine women and Saudi Arabian women. Say goodbye to echoes, butter, bananas, bagpipe music, prejudice, Jennifer Connelly (who I’m secretly in love with, please don’t tell) and Meg Ryan, Tchaikosky, ping-pong, George C. Scott movies, rockets, orchestras, softball, American Samoan women, elevators, Buddhism, chrysanthemums, enzymes, Twinkies, Doyle, Yosemite National Park, Judith Wright, San Luis Obispo, Ann Marten, perception, stores, Rhodesian women, John O’Hara, making of beds, Paul Schofield movies, the Uncertainty Principle, shrimp, Fritos, morning dew, broccoli, Kayak women, scene design and stage lighting. Astalavista to time, tunnels, and tulips. Sayonara to Steinbeck, pigweeds, Jethro Tull, ballet, fashion, chocolate, beavers, eclipses, Salvation Armies, Janine Turner, Tillich, fireworks, rocks, refrigeration, rainbows, Valentine’s Day, Victoria Jackson, Kim Novak, Carrie Fisher, and Teresa Ganzel. Adios to Oscar Wilde, dreams, Dutch and Flemish women, buses, adenosine triphosphate hydrolysis, Elizabeth Perkins, Joanna Storm, cinnamon, trips to Arizona, Led Zeppelin, idealism, linoleum, irony, fruit, James Ward, blackjack, Scandinavian women, tears, Poe, integrated circuits, Sir Isaac Newton, Jack Nicholson movies, Gabonese women, Herman Melville, instinct, concerts, wallpaper, divorce, Joyce, Byzantine women, law, Hemingway, civil rights, sequoias, Paleolithic art, and rent. Aurevoir to mom, Cheryl, Kari Lynn, Patti, Michelle, Terri, Debbie, Janine, Jan, rubber, and French women, Auf Wiedersehen to Norwegian women, loans, halitosis, George Orwell, scorpions, vegetables, peafowl, Lois Aryes, symphonic poems, plumbing, Isaac Singer, quela, Hesse, limericks, ham, rain forests, Kathleen Sullivan, “Get Smart,” Michelangelo Buonarrotic, heat, geckos, German women, short stories, “The Man from U.N.C.L.E” (the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement), Trappists, pepper, Jugs Magazine, Redwood National Park, telescopes, facades, Doritos, Czechoslovakian women, bank holidays, and bikinis. Adieu to crabgrass, jade, Madeline Stowe, Milton, lathes, engines, inflation, fractions, justice, Teresa Ganzel, daisies, fairs, jealousy, The Who, antacids, cellophane, Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, microphones, Ukrainian women, satire, Mary Louise Parker, ladybugs, gifts, quadraphonic sound, Synge, Jimmy Stewart movies, Fourth of July’s, amino acid, covalent bonding, and Harold and Maude. Arrivederci to diarrhea, marsupials, swimming, rivers, Scottish women, poetry, pencils, February, Shannon McCullough, hydrogen bombs, education, iodine, miniature golf, lavender, scale, vinyl, plastics, parrots, wheat, Saint Patrick’s Day, civilization, automobiles, Shaw, Pali literature, spring, hats, Emma Thompson, malts, violin music, Hitchcock, films in general, tile, oranges, onions, O’Neill, soup, locusts, television, Persian women, Joyce Carol Oats, Handel, happenings, April, fruit bats, koans, mirrors, pollution, Shakespeare, “Bewitched,” Elizabeth Montgomery, grass, Latin women, women of Mozambique, Nevell Shute novels, wind, cashews, Faulkner, cycles, pistachios, Sartre, Rachel Ashley, cherries, elephants, Arabian music, Christianity, credit cards, Sophie B Hawkins, Equatorial Guianian women, body temperature, sex, emotion, ducks, hate, mucilage, color, Irish women, liberty, lizards, lubrication, cold, Gallup polls, Tracy Winn, luminescence, Gustave Moreau, Mongolian women, Inge, consciousness, pumps, oak trees, sculpture, DNA mingling, Strindberg, Voltaire, Tennessee Williams, gasoline, Indonesian women, laxatives, metaphysics, harvest moons, Ruth Gordon, Rita Hayward, lakes, William James, Kant, Japanese women, Goodyear, blimps, memory, wolves, art, Thornton Wilder, cable television, cysts, ethnic groups, Cyndi Wood, fire, checkers, the Rolling Stones, Bach, euchre, Finnish women, college, tea, Joseph Conrad novels, “Green Acres,” Solzenitsyn, the Blues, Terri Garr, exobiology, thirst, dogs, carbohydrates, flannel, Cambodian women, aleatory music, church, tamales, enchiladas, sparrows, orchids, South African women, ventilation, Neil Simon, Mary McDonnell, picnics, nagging, shunsho, parakeets, Schuler, energy, fear, blood clotting, landscape painting, Cassandra Peterson, John Houston films, Hawaiian women, land, tacos, philosophy, ships, Moria Kelly, Uccelo paintings, quantum mechanics, laundry, snow, Ugandan women, keys, grease, metal, Frost, impressionism, May, Marina Sirtis, forests, nuts, radio, obscenity, volcanoes, Yugoslavian women, fountains, Liszt, allergies, flowers, roads, Olympic Games, vibration, Amazon women of the moon, farce, trips to Fiji, chivalry, ornaments, soap, Swiss women, Virgil, baseball, saving and loan associations, pulses, alcoholism, dry cleaning, Balinese music, Tawny Little, feedback, Chinese women, skepticism, obsidian, perfume, backache, epics, coconuts, plaid, sap, oceans, school, disease, anthologies, dachshunds, Mimi Rogers, friends, Beatles songs, coughing, Richard Wagner, aristocracy, fish, Chilean women, rhinos, peas, smut, monopoly games, Greek women, melons, natural gas, classical gas, Marisa Tomei, Kelper’s laws, horses, pearls, smog, pancakes, Jung, helicopters, Malaysian women, Islam, pens, symmetry, Katie Couric, Portuguese women, masks, Victor Hugo, Korean women, streetcars, whales, giger counters, motion sickness, geometric problems of antiquity, “Star Trek,” and “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” Jazz, mint, Dali, electricity, Schumann, organ music, sports, croquet, bankruptcy, comedy, tournaments, Rumanian women, wax, bias, felt, days, bugs, dandelions, sugar, pears, scurvy, belligerency, excretion, light, Kenyan women, “The Invaders,” gin rummy, Taija Rae, George Kaufman, Indian women, bears, women of Hong Kong, Nietzsche, paring of finger and toe nails, haircuts, liberalism, Vulcan and Betaziod women and some Klingon babes (and let’s not forget those Orion Slave Girls (they’re so green!)), horseradish, potatoes, Swedish women, silt, unions, marching, June, gophers, Picasso, Syrian women, verbs, harmonies, the Milky Way, interest, genetics, Sinclair Lewis, music, learning, Gaelic literature, food, ivy, marriage, melodies, Mexican women, penguins, value, Swift, fasts, lightening, motels, games, Hungarian women, chamber music, fever, carrots, eggnog, walruses, beds, lobsters, Israeli women, glass, linen, skywriting, soybeans, police, Transylvanian women, groups, Las Vegas women, mistletoe, hail, Paganini, weather, incense, liver, Mozart, intuition, Guatemalan women, plays, Virginia Woolf, gardens, muffins, logic, Lithuanian women, hamsters, limits, water skiing, halls, lotteries, cholesterol, arithmetic, denial, Ethiopian women, Ferris wheels, Flaubert, envy, athlete’s foot, dandruff, attorneys, Easter, cartoons, erections (or lack thereof), Natalie Wood and Bogart movies, court, Egyptian women, Chopin, astrophysics, barbeques, acne, waltzes, ballads, Joe Cocker, watercolors, art deco, cheese, family, American women (despite the Guess Who song), customs, evil, Three Musketeers Bars, greed, astronomy, depression, equations, dance, chess, nights, enamel, wintergreen, almonds, cake, waves, clouds, humor, cats, hygiene, Ionesco, milk, Jack Benny, labor, inertia, mantras, mustard, Jamaican women, nationalism, itches, Hegel, Homer, handball, kangaroos, kites, water, weaving, warblers, nonconformists, culture, boats, drainage, factories, corn, debt, anecdotes, detective stories, education, engraving, drama, August, dates, celery, eating, wood, Vonnegut, bowling, cloves, walnuts, Kubrick films, horror stories, literature in general, knots, language, mufflers, numbers, smell, pantomime, Rachmaninoff, rice, riddles, Saxon women, silk, Van Gogh, Christina Applegate, Rabelais, photocopying, theater, Judaism, hedonism, hummingbirds, moonlight, internal-combustion, hair, women of New Zealand, Anne Archer, Bob Hoskins, hotels, mysteries, Elvira Mistress of the Dark, Thurber, science fiction, newts, jeeps, hallucinations, hiccups, motivation, vacuum cleaners, reading, writing, Nigerian women, miniskirts, waterfalls, macaroni, mountains, Ibsen, Desiree Cousteou, nihilism, identity, money, koalas, honey, noise, turtles, tomatoes and toads. Farewell to laughing and crying, peanuts, pears, and pianos. So long to sleep and waking up, screws, combs, Kickapoo Indian women, names, meat, government, animals, touch, tables, tulips, telephones, tempera, Tennyson, pies, plants, personality, songs, parody, Susie, Bobbie and Shannon, terns, and relativity.
And pinochle.
Lists.
And that's just off the top of my head!
Also women in general (I can do without the men).
Girls too.
And that’s just off the top of my head.
Death is exceptionally discouraging.
Some will cheerfully tell me, why Rick, you’ll be reunited with all of those things and people when you get to Heaven, where all the angels live.
I say to these hopefuls, there’s not much evidence for that. As a matter of fact, there’s no evidence for that.
They will say, you must have faith, my son.
To which I say, faith is believing without evidence. Would you buy a used car based on only the word of a used car salesman.
To which they will tell me, yes, of course, Heaven is there for all, just believe.
To which I reply, yeah, and the Tooth Fairy and Tinker Bell shack up with Santa in Paramus, New Jersey, next door to Bugs Bunny and Wonder Woman.
Am I being cynical? Am I being harsh?
Yes, and delightedly so!
Cynicism based on fact is cool. It almost turns into satire.
Whatever happens I won’t drink and I feel good about that decision.
And I’ll continue to write. I’ll write down what happens each day. I know it helps me, helps me a lot. I don’t know why, but it does. Maybe it will help somebody else, if someone else ever reads this. I’ll write about what it’s like. If I stay sober, that is. If I do drink, I won’t be writing much of anything.
Hopelessly reflecting on death would be a great reason to start drinking again. A perfect reason (maybe not perfect—yes, yes, it would be perfect), if I were going to start. Relapse is about making excuses. But I’m not going to start.
I’d start smoking instead, which is what I did. I walked to a local liquor store and bought a pack of cigarettes, and smoked some, after over thirty days of abstinence. But I won’t drink.
No matter what!
After I picked up my medication I walked to the bus stop in a somewhat somber mood. A man was already sitting at the only bench. A heavy-set lady of Slavic ancestry joined us. It became clear they were both employees of the hospital. They conversed.
“I was in the laundry room today. Gee, that place is big,” the man said.
“I don’t know, never been there,” the lady replied in some Slavic sort of way.
“It’s huge. They have dryers, must be as big as a truck,” he continued.
“I don’t know, never been there.”
“I’ve been all around the hospital. Almost ever single place.”
“In one year, I’ve only been to the first and second floor,” she said. “I’m too afraid I’ll get lost.”
“Almost every place. I’ve been in the jail ward a couple of times.”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been there.”
“There’s only one place there that I haven’t been to yet,” he added, “that I want to go to. The morgue.”
“Ah! I’ve been there,” she shouts. “Second floor. Oh, you should see it! Rows and rows of dead people. They have all these tables, must be fifty, at least, with dead people on them. They have all the bodies covered, you know, with the plastic.”
“Ah huh, body bags.”
“Yes. The body bags. So you can’t tell if they’re men, or women. Rows and rows. You should see them all.”
This was about all of that conversation I could take. I moved further away.
I returned to the residence after a thoroughly disgusting bus ride, totally depressed.
I was late for work, but my tardiness was excused because I had been on a legitimate pass. The idea of spending the rest of the evening behind the desk with Victor did nothing to cheer me.
Everything that could go wrong during the shift, did go wrong. I won’t go into it. I survived, and did have tomorrow off.
My birthday.
　
　
October 27 Saturday Day 45
　
I slept in a little. I hadn’t planned on doing a whole lot today, so I didn’t need to get an early start.
I got out of bed around ten, and felt like taking a walk. I went to a liquor store a few blocks down Fair Oaks, and bought some more cigarettes and a Playboy Salute to the Female Form magazine, so I could look at the pictures later, and torture myself over all the beautiful women I’d never meet, get to know and love. I was still depressed from yesterday you could say. Depressed and anxious. On the way back I bought two shredded beef tacos as my birthday present to myself. I was thirty-five today.
The tacos were delicious.
I remembered my last birthday, when I was isolating in my little bachelor apartment in North Hollywood, drinking rum and watching TV.
I thought about the birthday before that, when I had got home from work expecting to have a nice dinner with my lady, and celebrate a little maybe, only to find the house empty, with Jan out visiting one of her friends. I suppose I had isolated from her too, by that time.
Come to think of it, I had isolated from her for most of our entire time together. No wonder she left.
I sneaked my Playboy into the residence (this magazine is considered “porno” by the Salvation Army, and warrants expulsion if found among ones possessions, just like empty liquor bottles). I read for most of the day. Played bingo.
I read an article about AIDS. I found out that it usually takes four or five months for the body to start producing the HIV antibodies, so I had a while to wait before the results from any kind of blood test would be definitive. I had to learn more about the disease. I should find out if flaking of the scalp occurs after only a month after infection. I know that even with knowledge, I won’t know if I’m infected, but at least I’ll be doing something.
I also know that worrying won’t help matters.
It’s hard not to though.
Noah the parrot wished me a happy birthday.
　
　
October 28 Sunday Day 46
　
I went back to work today. I began at six a.m. At least I was working with Mr. Vasquez.
It was good to be working. It felt normal, and helped to keep me normal. It’s good to work. I had the opportunity to get some writing done while behind the desk. It’s good to write. It’s good to get these thoughts down on paper. It’s like confession for Catholics, I suppose, it takes a weight off one’s shoulders.
When I did get off work I felt lost, actually. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, not wanting to do much of anything really.
Do you think I’m making too much of this AIDS thing? Getting all worked up over nothing. Maybe I am. Let me explain something that I might not have made sufficiently clear earlier. I am not one who is usually prone to hypochondria (although I do like to be pro-active in health matters (if not drinking). A lot of men take better care of their cars than they do themselves), but hardly knowing the woman I shared the dalliance with, I do remember that I was not particularly impressed with her character, which really doesn’t say much for me really, now does it? However, it does say a lot of the state of mind I occupied at the time. Pretty sad.
She very well may have been an I.V. drug user or exceptionally promiscuous (if she took me on she had to be). That would place her in the high-risk group for AIDS, which places me into it as well. So my concern stems from the fact that before this encounter I had been 100% sure of not having the virus. I can’t be 100% sure anymore.
Such is life.
I guess if one has any sex at all one can’t be 100% sure anymore, so I should quit crying like a little baby, and get on with life.
Makes sense to me.
All I can do now is not drink, first, last, and always. Tuesday I can go to the library and do some more research. That may help to make me feel more secure. Probably not.
Then I figure, sometime after New Years I can take the HIV antibody test.
It’s a long time to wait, especially when you’re afraid of the answer.
At eight p.m. I went down to the video game area in the basement and found Jack Crosley there, watching T.V. Mr. Gant, one of the house janitors, was there as well. We all watched a fairly decent, though thoroughly implausible sci-fi movie, “Lifeforce,” concerning parasitic space vampires, a subject which fascinates me. It had been directed by Tobe (“Texas Chainsaw Massacre”) Hooper, and stared Steve (“Helter Skelter”) Railsback, and the lovely French actress, Mathilda May, who was the best thing about the movie. Our old friend, Patrick Stewart, of “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” was in it as well.
Jack didn’t say a word throughout the whole movie. That’s why I like him so much. He’s so comfortable to be around.
　
　
October 29 Monday Day 47
　
I’m really getting into a funk. I’m developing relapse warning signs, and feel like I’m on a dry drunk.
I woke late again, missing morning devotions. Mr. Vasquez peeked into my dorm while making his rounds, searching for stragglers. We looked at each other, and I mumbled something about the time, and he told me that I was alright, and to go back to sleep.
I followed his instructions.
At least I now had a reason for sleeping in. When I get depressed I tend to use sleep to escape. I knew that Jack would be coming in later to shampoo the carpet in my dorm, so I got up around nine-thirty, and moped around while avoiding people.
I began to feel better once I was at work, but I soon discovered we were to have liver tonight for dinner.
Figures.
When I was but a small child I had a habit of throwing my liver out the kitchen window when my parents weren’t looking. I did that because of peer pressure (my friend Terry, my parent’s best friends son, who I ate with regularly, made me do it). I don’t really mind liver.
I don’t really like it either.
During Bible Study, we discussed some of the similarities of the major religions practiced in the world today. A progressive subject for the Salvation Army.
I missed George’s group counseling tonight as we were rather busy behind the desk. That’s a shame, because it’s the one activity I believe I receive the most benefit from.
I went to bed right after work. Hopefully tomorrow I can start to get my act together.
　
　
October 30 Tuesday Day 48
　
I felt good today. I farted around until after lunch, then walked to the library.
As I made my way up to Walnut Ave., on this bright autumn day, I once again marveled at the intricate architecture of the Green Hotel. It felt great just to be walking around, watching the people go from this place to that, the hustle and bustle of Colorado Blvd. Everybody busy looking at things.
Pasadena has a wonderful modern library. No card catalog here. All the titles are listed on computer, with many terminals located throughout the building. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.
AIDS, of course, is the end result of infection by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (H.I.V.). The simplest description of a virus could be to say that it is a tiny bit of self-replicating nucleic acid (DNA or RNA, the stuff of life). Frisky little devils, a virus reproduces by invading a host cell and subverting that cell’s own metabolism to such an extent that it is transformed into a factory for making more viruses. The damage this does to the host cell, depending upon the type of cell, the pervasiveness and the virulence of the infection, become observable in the form of various diseases.
Viruses are able to invade a cell by attaching it to specific receptor areas on the outside of the cell membrane, in a lock and key sort of an affair. If a virus does not find the right receptor it cannot invade and reproduce. The virus itself has no mechanism for reproduction. It must find a host cell to help it.
Unfortunately for us humans (and other creatures), viruses are very clever about doing just that (without even having brains. See, there’s hope for blondes after all (I’m very sorry about that. I love blondes, for many reasons, they’re vast and profound intelligence not the least among them)).
The Poliovirus usually infects the cells lining the stomach initially. The key finds a lock and opens it. But it interacts in such a way with these cells that little, or no damage or injury is sustained. But for still unknown reasons, the virus sometimes moves on, or migrates to other parts of the body, looking for more locks to open, and finds the cells of the brainstem and spinal cord, where it meets the right receptors and goes wild, causing in most cases the inability to breath and paralysis of the limbs.
“The human immune system has the inherent ability to recognize 10 million configurations of molecules. Viruses, parasites, fungi, bacteria and their toxins; pollens, strange blood cells, and a host of human made pathogens are scanned, evaluated and accepted or rejected. At the same time it’s guarding against these external dangers, the immune system monitors cells of the self and mops up behind the minor accidents that occur constantly within our bodies. It also rides herd on cells in the process of becoming cancerous” (“Viruses: Agents of Change,” Giudici Fettner 1990, McGraw Hill, N.Y., p. 51)
Some viruses have unique ways of beating our body’s own natural abilities to combat infection. The Myronvirus, which various strains are responsible for millions of deaths due to influenza (probably the most devastating killer of human beings in our history), seems to be in a constant state of genetic mutation. Once an infection has successfully been fought off by the immune system, the body will become immune toward repeated attacks by the same agent that caused the original infection (by the production of specific memory cells and antibodies). If this agent itself changes its own genetic makeup in subtle but important aspects, which may also increase or decrease that agents degree of virulence or lethality, the immune system has no way of recognizing it and subduing the virus with preexisting defense mechanisms in a quick and efficient manner. It must start from scratch, taking a greater amount of time to respond.
And this time the virus may be a hundred times deadlier.
Other viruses reproduce quickly after the initial infection for very short periods of time, then turn dormant for months or years, until for one reason or another they suddenly reactivate and create havoc within us.
The H.I.V. virus attacks, or reproduces with the human T4 cell, a white blood cell that is one of the many defenses the body uses to ward off infections. H.I.V. undermines the very system our bodies have created over hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary trial and error to protect us from viruses such as H.I.V. Not only does H.I.V. survive and thrive, but by significantly decreasing the immune systems ability to function, a host of other opportunistic diseases that are normally held in check by a healthy immune system, are free to move in, grow, proliferate, with devastating results and almost always fatal repercussions.
A person experiencing extreme immune dysfunction brought about by H.I.V. infection will go through wave after wave of dreadful illness, from deadly forms of pneumonia, to cancers of the blood or lymphatic systems, until the body is weakened to such an extent that death is the only certain outcome.
The H.I.V. virus, like any other bacteria, fungus, or pathogen, will affect different people in different ways. The immune system in some individuals is better equipped to fight off infections, due to good general health, adequate nutrition, little exposure to toxins in the environment (man-made or occurring naturally), and a predisposition toward health in the genetic makeup (or else everyone would have died from influenza or the Plague (unless they were isolated on Gilligan’s Island, or something)). Other individuals are not as well equipped, or adapted. Some people get sick a lot, others can live a hundred years without catching a cold. H.I.V. may enter the system of some and pass out again without gaining a foothold. Or upon infection may lie dormant with a persons body for the rest of their lives, during which that person is free to infect others by using one of the various well known routes of transmission.
Most cases of H.I.V. infection that become known to public health authorities occur when a patient has developed some form of the AIDS Related complex, or full blown AIDS.
“The great killer of AIDS patients is Pneumocstis carinii pneumonia, which is caused by a fungus carried harmlessly by the majority of adults. Those with AIDS also suffer from common bacterial infections such as staphyloccus and streptococcus; from mycobacterium (the tuberculosis agent) and Pseudomonas bacilli; from protozoan disease toxoplasmosis avian-intracellulare, which infects many animals and birds; and from various rickettsia (which have habits halfway between those of the viruses and those of bacteria and are carried by fleas and ticks) and spirochetes as well as a panoply of viral infections. All these agents are handled with aplomb by a competent immune system (p.49).”
After initial infection by the H.I.V. virus, a person will typically develop H.I.V. antibodies (the immune systems response to infection) after anywhere from two weeks to six months, or more. This incubation period must pass before the infection may be detected by way of a blood test. The test screens for the antibodies, not the virus itself. Usually no other symptoms will transpire during this time.
The intermediary period between initial infection by the H.I.V., and full-blown AIDS is ill defined. Some believe that the symptoms characteristic of the AIDS Related Complex actually signal the onset of AIDS itself. Nevertheless, the symptoms usually ascribed to AIDS Related Complex include: swollen glands, unexplained loss of appetite and weight loss, leg weakness, fever lasting more than a week, night sweats, persistent and unexplained diarrhea, persistent dry coughing, white spots in the mouth, Shingles and lymphoma.
Also, “Many of the AIDS patients have seborrheic dermatitis and dandruff, frequent genital tinea, and athlete’s foot. You’d expect these kinds of diseases to increase in those who have T-cell abnormalities or cellular immune deficiencies” (The Truth About AIDS Evolution of an Epidemic. Ann Guidici Fettner and William A. Check PhD 1984, k Holt, Pinehart and Winston, New York, p. 171-172).
Great.
I have a dry cough sometimes too.
Wonderful.
Actually, I felt a little better after I finished reading. Dandruff or seborrheic dermatitis can be a symptom of the AIDS Related Complex, but nowhere did I find any mention of it being a symptom of initial infection. The dandruff appeared only a month after the episode of possible infection (and only after I began washing my hair with hand soap), and it seems to me that with this particular virus, one month would be a tad too early for symptoms to start manifesting themselves. It’s more likely just a plain old case of oily scalp.
And a plain old case of smokers cough.
But then again, I can’t be sure.
I will have to wait and see.
It also eased my mind to learn that the H.I.V. virus is very fragile, and relatively hard to contract, that not all people who are infected with H.I.V. get AIDS, that there is a possibility I am immune to the virus, and that if I had been infected the virus might have already have passed out of my body altogether.
I will still wait until after New Years to get tested in order to decrease the chances of getting a false negative result.
So what I will try and do now is to put this in the back of my mind for the time being and get on with my life and continue the program with the best of my feeble ability until circumstances warrant alternative action. What else can I do?
This whole AIDS experience, no matter what the eventual outcome, has been in ways very beneficial. Like watching the last act of “Our Town,” I have remembered, and been made to realize and appreciate how precious the gift of life and self-awareness is. How wonderful and momentous it is, and that each of us only has today.
How easy it is to forget that. How most important it is to remember.
　
　
October 31 Halloween Day 49
　
Halloween! All Hallows Eve, and All saints Day!
Big Deal.
Or as J.D. Salinger would put it: Very big deal.
I did manage to wake up fairly early, only because I needed to go downtown to make a dentist appointment. The dentist will be paid by the county of Los Angeles, which is why I have to go all the way downtown (yuck!), because that is were the dentist is. I’ll probably have to wait in line with a billion or so people in front of me. But the price is right.
After I heard the breakfast call, “Good morning gentleman. It’s breakfast time! Breakfast time!” given by Harry Gomez, the mad, but cute Spanish breakfast cook, I got dressed. Then I laid back down again until I heard the last call for breakfast. The line thus shortened, I went down to eat.
I slipped away before devotions (something I’ve been doing a lot lately), and showered and dressed.
I grabbed a bag lunch from the kitchen (consisting of a sandwich made from some unspecified meat and cheese product, a bag of potato chips, two containers of frozen apple juice, two packets of mayonnaise, two packets of mustard, and a rotten orange), and was on my way.
I walked to the bus stop on Fair Oaks. The 483 came just as I finished a cigarette, as it should. The bus was very crowded, with standing room only when I first got on, but by the time I reached the stop at Pico and Grand, I was the only one left on board (which in itself tells you something of the character of the area I was visiting).
I waited for the 38 bus, which arrived just as I finished another cigarette. I missed my stop, and continued on the bus many miles past my destination, until the bus just wouldn’t go any further and the driver made me aware of my error.
Things like this happen to me all the time.
Finally making it to the Claude Hudson Medical Center (Mr. Hudson being the celebrated orthodontist, founder of the NAACP, and spelunker), the scene resembled the Woodstock music festival between sets from Joe Cocker and The Who, with millions and millions of folks desiring care for their decaying and rotten teeth.
Fortunately for me, all I had to do was make an appointment to come back at a later date. This took less than ten minutes. I’d get my chance to wait in line on Dec Sixth.
When I finished my business, I walked north on Grand Ave., looking for a 483 bus stop while checking out the scenery. It looked like an interesting place to live, to grow up around. I personally, wouldn’t want to live or grow up there, but it looked interesting. When I travel through communities or streets like these, I often wonder what secrets lie behind the walls, doors, and windows of the run down houses and businesses.
I found a 483 stop, and the bus got there a little early, before I could even light up, but I boarded it just the same. It took me straight back to the ARC, and as luck would have it, right in time for lunch.
Now I could save my bag lunch for a snack later in the evening.
I wrote in the canteen area for the rest of the day, until dinner time, then I continued to write in the lobby, watching the counselors come and go, and the neighborhood children come to the desk, dressed as goblins and fairy princesses, and beg for sweets, which fortunately, Mr. Vasquez had the presence of mind to keep in ample supply.
I remembered Halloween’s of my past, my friends, my sister. And I marveled at how fast life and everything goes by.
　
　
November 1 Thursday Day 50
　
I woke up in time for lunch. Lunch seemed to call to me.