Me and Mr. Jones

Whatever. So I can’t wait until the weekend to update you on the status of the crazy pills. Why? Because it is hard to concentrate due to the fact that I have a headache. And I’m sleepy, despite the fact I slept 10 hours last night. This day is hazy. Subsequently, I am very lazy. I’ll keep on taking the pills for now, but I’m curious about something. If my anti-anxiety medicine stresses me out because I’m so worried about the side effects, is it working?

The unspeakable visions of the individual are often minute and insignificant. I focus upon my right hand as I write.

The nails on my fingers are broken and scratched, uncut because this morning while I was in the shower I could not see them in the cloud of steam. I was careful to care for my hands, push down the cuticle like my mother always taught. But without my glasses and with wet fingers the loose ends of this hand, the one gripping the pencil, remained unseen. Unnoticed, and now blatantly uncut. Nevertheless, they were there. They are truth.

Now, while in the position to contemplate the ends or beginnings of the world, I am stuck meditating on my broken nails. What do they signify? Etched in hardened tissue they are reminders of my lack of control. All that I hoped for today, and if today then perhaps forever, was some control over myself. I want to tame the loose and lazy. Present the world with practical and polished. Well manicured nails represent the self I plan to be.

However, I suppose broken nails represent the self I am. They tell the story of my natural body, my normal habits. They become the truth of all. Unspeakable visions made flesh.

I see myself as what I can be–manicured nails and a storybook life. But it is not good to dwell in dreams. I come to terms with this by scratching the pencil across the page. When still, my mind and thoughts are glorious…profound. When I set them down on paper they are merely truth. Chicken-scratch printing with passive voice and split infinitives. Perhaps when read by another they seem hurried. Unfinished. But to me, they tell a story.

My broken nails are my glory.

Yes, thanks for asking, I am feeling a bit dizzy. This could be a combination of factors including medication, hunger, or excitement. And Tony is smoking something in the bathroom that I couldn’t help but inhale while brushing my teeth. So again, don’t just assume it is the crazy pills. You have no way to prove it.

You know, you are going to have to stop obsessing about this sooner or later. Your constant questions and concerns about the effectiveness of these things I’m swallowing are keeping me from sleeping soundly at night and getting things done during the day. Perhaps if you just let it drop then the pills could do whatever they do and I could do whatever it is I want to do. Can’t you take comfort from the fact that last night I proved everything is still functional? Don’t you understand that you’re making me nervous, the exact opposite of how I’m supposed to feel? I’m beginning to think perhaps you need some crazy pills.

Let’s just agree to stop talking about this for the rest of the week. If by then there is something worth mentioning I’ll tell you and we can make a decision at that point. Okay? Okay.

And just to distract you I’d like to take a minute to explain the idea of eternal return with a little help from Milan. I’ll let him start:

“Putting it negatively, the myth of eternal return states that a life which disappears once and for all, which does not return, is like a shadow, without weight, dead in advance, and whether it was horrible, beautiful, or sublime, its horror, sublimity, and beauty mean nothing.”

So this is a bad thing? Nothing even matters?

“If every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. It is a terrifying prospect. In the world of eternal return the weight of unbearable responsibility lies heavy on every move we make.”

So then, it is a good thing?

“If eternal return is the heaviest of burdens, then our lives can stand out against it in all their splendid lightness.”

So what you’re saying is that heaviness is bad and lightness is good?

“The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.”

I’m not a woman, but I, too, long to be pinned down by a man’s body. So what does this all mean? Oh yeah, I remember, that I should try and stop thinking about the crazy pills. I’ll give it a shot. I promise.

I’ve completed the circle, so to speak. Swallowed the other half of the pill to total 10mg in my system, drugs dancing in my brain. Tomorrow I start just taking them whole, and from then on I will be my other self. Or this is how the theory goes.

No side effects to note, except the one I may be creating by worrying. I’ll give it a few days before I actually validate it with words.

Before I went to sleep last night I started wondering about the other half, those with tame emotions and logical minds. Those who do not take pills. Those who function as they should. Or rather, how we deem productive. Those who haven’t been touched by fire.

Of course I am no Nijinsky. And I won’t be cutting off my ear nor drowning myself in a river. But I will feel lost without my tension, anxiety, and desire. A lot of what I do comes from those areas that complicate the simple tasks and easy conversations. My status as outsider helps me understand and relate…to myself.

Am I being preliminary? Most certainly. Pretentious? More than likely. But at least I am also sincere.

Starting tomorrow I will swallow it all down. Let’s hope that Tony will still be around to keep me company.

So, it is official. I am in the club. I just swallowed my first dose of psychiatrist prescribed crazy pill. Soon it will be digested and working its magic on my brain. Adjusting chemicals, re-routing impulses, and (according to all of the websites I’ve been reading) possibly screwing up my libido and causing erectile dysfunction. That part, hopefully, is highly unlikely.

Tony doesn’t see my taking a pill as any big deal. He has already swallowed a bottle of something he found in the dumpster last night and washed it down with a little Scotch. “Breakfast of Champions,” he quotes.

But Tony doesn’t remember that I have a long history of pills. Of course, I wasn’t taking these pills, but all the other crazies in my life were. Luke was always on something–Lithium, zoloft, I dunno. Bipolar, manic-depressive, and prone to going many days without showering. Then there was C., who deals with some depression and OCD tendencies and is overcome by kitties. And Micah with his beautiful insecurity, Michael with his tortured musical temperament, and my sister. She was always a little on edge, probably why she writes so well. She swallows pills, too.

I would like to know how this miniature, white half-moon is able to find its way from my tummy to my mind? I gave it lots of company for its trip: coffee, oatmeal, fake sausage, and sinus medication. What if it gets lost? What if, instead of causing seratonin to flow free up in the attic, it makes other things flow down below?

Well, depending on what is flowing, I bet that could help me find some balance as well.

Crazy people of the world, UNITE!!!

I am a victim of my own body. According to Tony, I do not always meet his requirements of absolute-sexiness-all-the-time. The following is the list he dictated to me just this morning:

1. When I wake up and my hair is ajar, lobsided, or sticking straight up and relics of yesterday’s product can be seen.

2. When I am sick and stuffy and blow through a box of kleenex an hour.

3. When same sickness causes me to cough and occasionally hack in order to clear my throat. Especially when this sounds similar to my mother’s own throat habits.

4. When I use the restroom and simultaneously blow my nose while he showers.

5. When, while feeling sick and sad, I mope around explaining that I feel sick and sad.

6. When, while explaining that I feel sick and sad, I get interrupted by a hacking cough/runny nose and follow this up by trying to give him a kiss.

7. When I freak out because I realize that my mother used to do a similar thing and it always repulsed me.

8. When, after freaking out, I sit down to type this list and expect I’ll be able to come up with a nice even number of 10 things and realize I only have 7 so decide to include two other anecdotes not-related to the situation in order to achieve goal of list of 10 things.

9. When I try to get a suntan two years ago and decide to only put sunscreen on my nipples because I figure that would really hurt if they got burned and soon manage to fall asleep so my entire body gets burned (which really hurts) except for two white circles around my nipples that resemble mis-placed mickey mouse ears.

10. And finally, when I am 15 years old and get drunk with my friends Billy and Frank while staying the night at Billy’s house and we all decide to go outside in his front yard and smoke a cigarette Billy got from one of the older boys on his highschool golf team only I am so drunk I can’t walk so they carry me outside and unfortunately we get discovered by a police car driving through the neighborhood and while trying to explain to the officer I am not drunk I pass out at his feet and knock out my front tooth on the hard surface of the road and have to get a root canal and subsequently that tooth (or what remains) becomes progressively discolored over the years and makes me a bit nervous to smile fully from time to time.

So there you have it, through no fault of my own I don’t always measure up to Tony’s high standards. Well, fuck Tony. Not everyone can be as perfect and attractive as a made up lover who stars in my blog.

So, I am not a religious person. Nor am I what you would call a “believer.” I basically believe in the controlled chaos provided to us by our brain’s habit of putting some order into things it perceives. And that’s about it, really. But, I figured writing to you would be a good gimmick. So here goes…

First some background information. I live with Tony, who is nothing if not over-dressed, and we are our own version of a family. The building we live in has walls so thin that every morning we hear our upstairs neighbor having sex. Well, sometime he doesn’t have sex with another person, sometimes he is simply watching porn and most likely playing with himself. But we hear moaning, almost daily. Tony loves it. It puts him in the mood.

We live in a city, with some snow on the ground, and I go to school. Tony entertains himself. He’s like a dog, really, and has no real concept of time. Other similarities? Both Tony and a dog are either asleep or awake, horny or asleep, and always wearing a tuxedo. Well, not all dogs wear tuxedos, this is true, but all of those other things fit the bill.

I never talk about my school, or most things in the present, but I reminisce about my youth and my desire and a list of boys that caused me some joy and sorrow, and forced me to write. Really that is most of what is important. The writing and the boys and Tony. But lately that isn’t so important to me anymore.

That’s why I thought I would write to you, to see if you had any perspective on these issues. You are a figure of some historical importance, and to those who think you are important you are also wise and forgiving and can do a little magic. I like magic. Well, I like the kind that is staged and performed by David Copperfield on television. Do you know him? He performs miracles. In fact, I once saw him walk through a wall. You ever see that? Cool.

So I’m curious about your story. The one that jumps from age 12 to age 33. The one where you are a star. What was left out? What about all of the boys you fell in love with in your youth? What about your dreams of winning a Nobel Peace Prize? Or, better yet, a Nobel prize in literature. Yeah, what about that? Did you ever think there was a possibility that these were just pipe dreams? Did you spend some time re-evaluating your situation? Did you wonder if it were important to start working out? You know, sculpting the old abdominal muscles so people still find you attractive? Speaking of which, have you ever considered a haircut and a shave? I have some nice product you could try. It makes your hair look full and shiny.

I know I’m asking a lot of questions, but I reckon you probably have a ton of time on your hands. There isn’t really a lot of work for you anymore. And now we have all of these flashy and stylish celebrities to measure our own lives against. So, since you are out of work–perhaps you could take a moment and offer me some suggestions? I would appreciate it greatly.

Well, my best to your family. Hope you and your boyfriend had a nice Valentine’s Day. Tony and I just sat around and listened to the guy upstairs play with himself. Yeah, I guess you’re right, it was a nice day. Thanks for pointing that out.

Tony, being “ironic”, has painted a silver cross on his head. “I’m ash and you’re lotion,” he jokes. Then he lifts his jacket and unbuttons his slacks to show me the red underwear he has on today. “For luck,” he explains, “the dragon must be close to your skin.” He is extremely impressionable. And he loves superstition and hoopla.

I am trying to sort out all of his symbolism and am getting a bit confused.

Today is an important day on the calander. How do I know this? It says so on my calander. And the TV said so, and Google. Everything that is important in life, rituals and anniversaries and celebrations, people tell you what you should know and how you should behave. And then you do. Well, we do.

I’ve managed to avoid a couple of these–the religious ones I can mostly cast aside because I’m not religious. (Although I do buy an awful lot of stuff in December…) The personal ones I often forget. And the cultural ones, well, I like to drink so anytime someone says that on this day you should drink and celebrate I am usually amenable to that.

But for some reason, and it may be Tony’s red underwear, I feel like today can be important. I’ve been hoping and searching for something to give me a kick in the pants. And when a calander day is set aside for both lent (season of responsibility and giving shit up in a masochistic fashion for spiritual glory) and luck (dress up in robes and ask your ancesters to bless you and bring you fortune) I can’t help but feel a bit turned on.

Yeah…I think I’ll go play dress up with Tony. At least it will distract me from the monotony.

Have a good year.

type for five minutes without stopping to see if there is a chance that at some point a moment of epiphany might drip from my moving fingers and if this is indeed the case then i may go and shower satisfied that i do indeed have small illuminated moments like matches in the dark that although may not be automatically summoned have the potential to occasionally make themselves known and if i knew this then showering and going to the allergist and doing my taxes and then rushing home to clean up and do some homework so i have time to eat and work out and find a job and settle down and get a 401K plan or Roth IRA or whatever suze orman thinks i should get so i can make joint decisions and be smart with my money and no cheese or smoking or drinking or anything else might actually be okay because i could escape it and let some of the words which carry knowledge (accidental though it may be) that appear sometimes perhaps help me to escape doldrums or boredom or just the commonplace usual life that i seem to be striving for although also fighting desperately against and i could feel okay or at least throw some things off the cliff to hear how they sound so i can be happy again to feel safe with you…

I must remember to screen our movie selections more carefully. “Put your palms face down on the desk and don’t lift your feet from the floor until I return.” is now Tony’s favorite refrain before he leaves the apartment to go anywhere. Even if he is just stepping out on the stoop for a smoke.

This bossiness isn’t really appealing to me. I can understand how certain sexual situations can be enhanced with a bit of role-playing, but in general I do not need to be told what to do. Sometimes I ask for a bit of re-assurance, but I cringe when my ego senses that some command is actually insinuating that I don’t understand something. And in my mind I boil. Hot like the teapot she used to scar her leg. (Come on folks, it’s a movie reference–keep up!)

But I’ll let him have his fun. Lord knows I couldn’t stop him if I tried.

Of course this isn’t always a healthy choice, but I generally choose the path of least resistance. And although I have my moments of anger and annoyance, it is easier than trying to explain myself. Why is it so hard to make myself understood? I am to the point that I just don’t attempt any type of serious conversation because I know his response will be boredom, or silence, and more than likely he’ll just try and remove my pants.

Is there ever a point of enough is enough? The moment I arrive at questions like this, I shrug them off because how can you get enough love and comfort? Or throw away the pleasure of falling asleep on a soft, yet muscular chest? We both hurt, and suffer our frustrations, but there is a balance. The compliment of black and white. The dignity of the tuxedo has never been questioned. I suppose I probably shouldn’t start now.