Dearest Jennifer (Genny): A psycho breakup letter

Dearest Jennifer,

This is a very difficult letter to write. I really don’t know what I want to say or how to say it. I’ll try to be brief.

I don’t think we should see each other anymore. Reason: I am certain that I will be hurt too badly and I just couldn’t stand to get any more attached, only for it to end in sadness later. Reason why I’m certain it would end in sadness: 1. It always does. 2. I am too immature and unable to handle the emotional stress of a relationship. 3. You are a sweet, free spirited person who deserves someone who is not a manic-depressive emotional cripple.

The reason I don’t exhibit erratic behavior around you is because when I am with you I feel happy, wanted, fulfilled. When I don’t hear from you or you don’t return my calls or call when you say you are going to, I am quite different. 

 

My rational mind says, “Don’t sweat it. She probably just got busy. Besides, people have lives to live. Be patient, etc, etc.” 

 

But Satan or my evil other self tells me, “Man, the reason people always flake on you is because you are boring. You’ll always be unloved and alone. See, if she doesn’t call, this proves it.”

Anyway, I can’t see putting you through another negative experience with someone who is, in all probability, as screwed up or more so than the person you just left. It’s not that I don’t wish it could be different. I cannot begin to express the joy that your company, conversation and hugs have brought me. But I am just a poor beggar, enjoying a handout from a table he will never be able to sit at.

I am ashamed to be 27 years old and so fucked up inside. I am living in a self-created hell of rejection and loneliness. Because I know you will eventually reject me or break my heart, I am sparing myself and you unnecessary pain. I am also wasting and ruining another friendship.

But shouldn’t life be less painful? I think about what others have, ie happiness, love, fulfillment—and I want to cry. Then I become frustrated, then angry, then listless and resigned.

If I knew for certain that I was going to be this FUCKING MISERABLE a year from now, I would kill myself today. I just don’t have the strength to believe in myself anymore. Get counseling, you say? Sure, anyone can pay someone to care about them for an hour, but I have to live with myself day in and day out. I am getting sick of it.

Anyway, as you are obviously too well-adjusted and happy to be dragged down into my pseudo-psychotic self-pitying bullshit, I hope to spare you the worst of it by not letting you get involved with me. Please don’t be hurt or offended. That’s my job.

You will have no problems finding someone who will make you happy and be a strength to you. I radiate only insecurity and guilt. I am not worth it. We can still “be friends” and talk, etc. I don’t want you to feel guilty or like you have to be nice to me. I am an asshole, you’d do better without me. Feel better?

You never have to see me again or call me if you don’t want to. I expect that anyway. So don’t feel bad. I’ve gone on too long, so I’ll shut up now.

Goodbye,

Andrew

Genny Friendzone Rant (Explicit)

It's all over between me and Genny. She wanted to relegate me to that expansive circle of acquaintances that includes, oh, Satan, Saddam Hussein, Herman Munster, the Elephant Man.
 
That's right; we're "just friends." 

Ok, so I have to regret the passage of the cheesecake without having more than sampled the crust. But what can I say. I like to lick my lips, fondle the fork, toy with the topping, before committing the irrevocable act of Tasting. 

Well, I could have picked up on the signals better I suppose: 

Like when she said, "What do you want to happen tonight?" 

That was my cue to say, "Whatever you want to happen." 

"You make me so wet." 

"I want you to feel comfortable touching my breasts. " 

"Tell me if I do  anything you don't like," (followed by a quick fondling of my penis).

"You have a wonderful penis." 

"Let's get stoned and forget all our sensibilities." 

Ok, do you think she wanted me? 

Now, thanks to my quadmate, Ed, I know the difference between a bitch and a slut: 

"A slut is a girl who fucks everybody; a bitch is a girl who fucks everybody but you."
 

Andrew Letter 47 - Another day, another love, and I discontinue Zoloft

 

8-1-92

 

Dear Mom,

 

Well, here it is, and it would be day 8 of z-treatment, however, I was forced to discontinue due to a bad reaction.

I believe the drug was beginning to make me more unstable than I would normally even be. I would be ecstatic, unstoppable one day, and the next I would be angry, frustrated, experience fear and "antsyness." Then, depending on what thoughts would come flying into my mind, I would either feel like crying for 3 hours or curling up in a ball on the floor to avoid acting on ideations of self-mutilation.

It sped me up way too much. I had a near episode at work when a client became abusive. It was all I could do to control my breathing and stand there and not kill him. Someone would say something, and I would find myself applying all the cognitive therapy techniques in reverse. So, in a nutshell, I was freaking out. I also was not eating or sleeping satisfactorily.

I believe that the answer to my problems lies in applying the techniques in the book, not in chemical enhancement. It is just not for everyone, I guess.

On the upside, the other day, right after the day I cried and curled up, I met another girl. It came about through natural circumstances (not the personals). I was reading by the pool and went in the rec room to check my mail. There was a girl in there racking up the pool balls, and she said "hi" to me. Pretty soon, we were playing pool, then making plans for later on. We took a ride downtown to the concert in the park and then walked around town.

It was incredible. The conversation never lagged. There was no uncomfortableness. I could really tell that this girl actually liked being with me. She was excited, I was excited. Like being a teenager.

Just the day before, I was on the floor waiting for girl #1 to call, and she never did. That fueled my reality distortion that I was worthless and would die alone and miserable. And as if by magic or God or Instant Karma, the next day I meet my new friend Kathleen.

Now, she is really cute! She's also 25, closer to my age. And she lives right in the apartment complex. I will refrain from saying "I think I'm in love," although you know I must be thinking it. Anyway, we have a date tonight, and I feel confident, happy and not at all awkward. I will continue this after I get back ...

Mom, I think I want to marry this girl. Although it was not exactly a "date," we rode bicycles in the park and ate at a nice restaurant afterward. There has been no physical contact, which, although it would be reassuring, is not really necessary at this stage. We are just friends. I want to be with her all the time, and I could go on and on with praises for her, but I have to go to work.

So, you see ... the lesson is ... I sure as hell don't know, but I'm just going to go with it. We are going to see each other tomorrow. She initiated it. It is so nice to feel wanted. After we become good friends, we shall have to do some camping together. And get engaged ... sigh!

Well, gotta go, I'll be riding my cloud to work tonight.

 

Love, your incredibly joyous son,

Andrew

Andrew Letter 46 -- Zoloft and Genny report July 29, 1992

 7-29-92

 

Dear Mom,

 

Hi there. It certainly was nice to get your letter, and to talk to you the other day. I really was feeling blue, and your letter really made me feel loved. I appreciate the care package; Zoloft, Stephen King and Feeling Good. I've gotten into the first couple of chapters, and it really makes sense (the therapy, that is). It is practical, not a bunch of that namby-pamby psycho mumbo-jumbo that I eschew. I look forward to using it if I ever have another depressing thought.

As of right now, I have been on the Zoloft for 5 days. If I don't level out pretty soon, I may have to decrease my dose to 25 milligrams. I am just too HAPPY.

Right now, I've got reason to be, though. Last night, I went on my first date in over a year. I met a girl (through the personal ads), and I really like her. I feel very comfortable around her, and she is a very open, warm, caring person. I AM IN LOVE. Well, we'll see. I have been lonely for so long, I'd probably give my heart to a shopping cart lady. I had even considered dating the clients where I work. Reason prevailed, however.

So, I've only met this girl less than 24 hours ago. We spent 2 or 3 of them on the phone, and 7 or 8 of them walking, talking and eating together. She is a very intelligent girl, especially considering she is only 20. And cute. She looks like Jodie Foster and Tatum O'Neil. And she likes me! I have to resist saying it is too good to be true because I don't want to make a self-fulfilling prophecy come to pass.

I am wondering, though, with this medication, if I would be capable of feeling sad if she were to chop off my hand with a meat cleaver. I'd probably just say something like "Oh, hey! That wasn't necessary, but no problem, I'll fix it. Let's see ... "

I have told key people at work to monitor my behavior, although telling my friend Brian was not a good idea. He tried to get my goat by commenting that I was "one speed, a hundred miles an hour, and maybe I should consider Quaalude to go with it." He just wasn't catching any fish.

My other friend. Mona just called. She's the one I have been confiding in at work. I had told her I had a date planned and she just wanted to check up on me. She is the Med Tech at the Manor, so she is keeping tabs on me, and plus, she is just a really nice person who cares.

I am just as happy as a clam. The little things that would irritate me, like traffic, or turning off a light or forgetting something and having to go back and get it, do not even raise my blood pressure. I may even become a productive member of society. It's scary.

One thing that concerns me is that I am already very skinny. I must weigh about 135. Down from 160. Now I realize that 135 was my drivers license weight in ‘84, and that I did have a beer belly that I was trying to lose from last winter. But the belly is long gone and this Zoloft kind of suppresses my appetite. And I am more active and burning more calories than ever. I am afraid I will burn up like a stick of incense and vanish into thin air.

But if I do, at least I'll be Feeling Good. I can only hope that I'll get as much accomplished as possible in straightening out my life before I have to go off of the drug. 

I feel like Charley or Algernon. Or like I woke up inside someone else's body. Someone who is happy, well-adjusted, smiles a lot, giggles occasionally and is completely unacquainted with malaise and melancholia. I can stop and be pensive and not fidget in my chair, but it seems that my mind is always going, thinking happy thoughts until the moment I conk out. I am just so motivated that I am worried that I may have to take a class or two just to have an outlet for this energy.

Now is the time for me to decide, as they currently registering. My life is uncomplicated right now, though, and I like it that way. I have time for people and recreation and do not like to crowd my schedule up. Now, this sounds more like the Andrew I know. Fun, fun, fun. No work, all play.

But I really think I should pursue writing as a goal. It just makes sense. If I get depressed due to genetic causes and am losing my hair from the same genes, should I not make use of the Writing gene in my makeup? I am not worried about it though, I expect it will be an inevitability. I just have to live a bit and experience life and keep gathering memories, so I'll have plenty to write about.

If I can overcome my fear of making changes, meeting people and doing new things, I will be content. Well, anyway, my little black flight recorder is going all the time, so eventually, I'll have to get it all out on paper.

I'll have to go now, it's getting late and I expect a call from Jennifer.

 

 

Love Ya--Andrew

 

 

P.S.  My posture is improving. I have stopped “slouching.” Oh, and I can play guitar just like Jimi Hendrix. Eh, not quite! Bye!

 

P.S.S. Disregard these statements. I was on drugs. Should I send the Zoloft back with Steve or mail it in a package? Depends on if you trust him with all that medication. Kidding, kidding, gosh...

 

 

Friends ('92 - Genny era love song channeling James Taylor)

 

Demons When I Sleep ('90s era possession)

Got to hurry. Much to do, little time. Its back. And I can't stop it, though I think I can fight it for a while longer yet.

Like, I forgot to turn the T.V. on before I went to bed the other day. Which I see now was foolish. Without the hypno-therapeutic trance-inducer pounding my eardrums, I realized a disturbing fundamental fact:

I hear voices.

Naturally, they are subdued when I have real audio input. But in total, stark, fluorescent silence, they come out in force.

I've always slept with the T.V. and/or radio on. This seemed like the lesser of two evils. I would be hearing voices, but they would be pre-programmed, FCC approved and filtered for the general public. So, instead of listening to Satan directly, I got the Government version.

Same shit, different tube.

So, I was sleeping rather peacefully, as they weren't in the room yet, when I start feeling the heaving in my chest, like someone was using my chest cavity, breathing through me. I could feel and hear voices clambering, in what seemed like a multitudinous arrival.

One by one, demons, seeping in through my pores, my mucous membranes, my bronchi, were announcing their names, titles & job descriptions, along with their arrival times. Some were disheveled and complaining, others seemed cheerful enough.

After the last few stragglers entered in, I guess I dropped off to sleep. Or I woke up. Whichever it is, it is the one I am currently living in and writing from.

I barely had time to fill out my time card.

I had something really important to say, and now I can't remember what it was.

Goodbye.

The Particle Lapse ('90s era enlightenment)

Of the 27 times that I have been sucked up into the partical lapse, the last time was certainly the scariest. I normally am given a warning of some gentle nature. Once I was watching televixen and I was told by a gleeming pair of dentures that my turn was next. I smiled knowingly. "Your turn is next" was an old adage of the coffee room. You were going to get the axe. History.

So, I bundled up my soul and got ready for the escalator, the chair-lift, the steamship (to take you across to the Entrance of the Clouds), then the ice boat, the trolley car, the tube tunnel subway car, then the incredibly long wait in the refueling station. I was ready for the 86 hour trip. But, to get to the Highest Court, it is necessary to commute this great way.

Anyway it seems like a science fiction story even to me, when I ponder it late at night. Then I usually get exhausted mentally and fall asleep. Not something I care to do much of these days. In these times of so many mirror dimesions with rubbing compound and earwax, too many of us still base our little worlds on just the obvious.

There's ever so much more to be seen but the obvious. My entrance into the Next Life told me that. It wasn't meant to be fair. There was nothing in the part-icles of ice that clung to our beards on the ski-lift. Not one express written anything, not even a warning lable saying "You tear off this tag and you are going straight to mutherfuckin hell!"

So, I said, onward and upward. Hi dee ho.

So I kicked off my shoes and put on my travellin' sandles. Given to me at one of those spiritual traffic crossings where a School Guard jumps out in front of the traffic for you.

So it was with our first trip. I was seeking an alternate dimension within our own, and LSD seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Mild fever came over my body and sweat glistened in beaded patterns on my forehead. I screamed. It did not matter.

There I was. And there I wasn't. I had achieved Non/Being. It was gratifying and terrifying. Give me more or none of it. It was like junk. A powerful weight of peace on you, heavy. So much was the traffic of souls going on that I had no inkling of before.

Blurred images of batteries being painted by some Mexican for sale to his relative.

Blackness.

Total and complete blackness, for two days and nights.

Fabulous nights.

At the Tropicana.

chnk--

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ zz z

Friday, July 3 1992, the morning I had an epiphany (or maybe I was just super high)

Dear Day,

You suck. And now there's too much light. And I can't stand anything right now. Ok, so I've got a few problems, so put me away. At least then I won't have to be responsible anymore.

Enough. Self-indulgent childish rubbish! So, what deep things have you discovered, my blue eyed son?

All right, I’ve been keeping it a secret. I have some real inside shit on the, um, running of the Universe. Yeah. It's definitely not your average 3 foot, wading-only, no diving thought. After all this buildup it has to fail miserably. Yeah. But I found out, just before I sat down, no, after. And then I smoked some pot.

With a vengeance! I was wiping away hostilities from 1992, some painful thoughts from today, Friday, July 3, AM. They were bad thoughts, they needed killin'. So I lost some math skills in the process. So, indeed! I really wasn't goin' to use them anyway.

So I killed these bad thoughts and in the process there was this leftover space in my head. Four centimeters, I think. Anyway, it wasn't being used, it was just sitting vacant, ready for a blinding revelation of wisdom (which I do get by the way, believe it or don't). It is at times like these when they come. You know, when your brain is between channels and you just let the static play at full volume.

Suddenly, a voice (James Earl Jones, to be precise) says unto me: "Hey, you. On the couch. Drop that pipe and get thee to a typewriter for I have words to speak unto thee!"

Before I could even get up he just started talking, like I'm supposed to be getting it all down. Yeah, right. This supernatural voice doesn't know me very well.

Ok, so one thing stuck in my mind as being important. I forget what it was, but it's the reason I'm sitting in front of the typewriter. Oh, yeah.This voice, God, or Satan or some radar-connected intergalactic being revealed to me THE REASON WHY THINGS HAPPEN.

I don't believe you've caught the super relevance and interconnected significance of this magnitudinous statement. Hmmn. Maybe I won't tell you what it is. You don't seem impressed enough. Well, ok, since you beg.

It's all very simple really. The reason why things happen is so that later, when there is a dull moment, say throughout an eternity, you'll have something to have a good laugh about.

You’re sitting there, in heaven, in the front office, you know just chit chatting with the Staff. It's shift change or something. A couple thousand years go by between each breath. The conversation got old, oh, a few millennium ago.

Then someone cracks a joke, “Hey, what about that time you went fishin' and the mosquitoes almost ate you alive.”

“Yeah. And the next day, when I opened up the camper and…”

“Yeah, yeah. You've told it 14.82 million times! They followed you into the house. Like the terminator. And got you. It's funny. Ho. Hum.”

Constant Confusion (date approximate)

This life's sweet mystery/is still eluding me

I can't sustain my energy/this mindless game is draining me

 

Deck is stacked against me/Don't think I can win

Odds are always against me/It's them & me again

           _    _    _    _

 

        Cause I live in

        Constant confusion

        Confusion's confusing me

        Constant confusion/constant confusion

        Obscuring all I see

 

So many times, I start and fail

So many times, I just give up

Chronicles of my spastic journey

Tortured tales of a mind fucked up

 

Victimized by Reagan

Arrested under Bush

If I don't wind up dead in jail

I'm gonna kill, I'm gonna kill! 

Andrew Letter 50 - Depression and apartment life at The Colony Inn

 

 

Hello.

Well, in case you haven't already heard it through the Buck-vine (Steve, I mean), I am now an apartment-dweller. I have a studio with a private sink, common shower and toilet (shared with 1 other roommate) and common kitchen (shared by all four). It is a "cluster" type, if you will. Anyway, gas, electric and cable TV are included in the monthly sum of $239. There is also a swimming pool, sauna, gas barbecues, recreation facilities--all river close and bicycle range from work. Sounds like a travel brochure.

So, anyway, I have been letting myself get into a rut, and I've settled into a more or less depression. I had a talk with a clinical psychologist available to me through The Manor. Well, he said, he didn't know if it was a genetically based organic type or just psychologically triggered situational depression. I showed signs of both.

Well, anyway, I am doing all the right things, he says. I told him I exercise, and sometimes this makes me feel better. I also have a very good relationship with one of the female staff members. Although she is married, I find her to be very open and truly caring. I unload all my problems on her.

That's good, he says. Healthy. Free. She has her bad days too, then I cheer her up. It's nice.

But, alas, my depression is strangling me. I have no social life outside of work. I cannot bring myself to go out alone into the world and mingle. I would dearly like to, but I have developed a crippling form of shyness called the "that's OK, you probably wouldn't like me anyway, ho-hum, too hip, gotta go" disease. I may be more or less anti-social. But I'd like to have at least one other person, if not a whole group of friends, to be anti-social with. I am a loner, but even a loner needs lovin'.

Keep watch over yourself, he says, and see if you get better, stay the same or get worse in the next two weeks. If you stay the same go get some counseling in the private sector, and it ain't cheap. Or read this book "From Sad to Glad." If you get worse, come to me, and we can talk about medication. That's the only way I am allowed to work, is with a program of medication and counseling.

But, he says, he wants to know if you had a history of depression. Does it run in our family? Does it, I says! A mighty river of depression, a veritable grand canyon of misery. But she’s all pulled out of it. So I believe it must have been situational, with you as with me.

Well, just thought I'd write to tell you about what's going on in my life-- "O." I got no plans, I ain't goin' nowhere. I'm setting minuscule daily goals so that I don't fail attempting anything difficult. I live a boring life. Maybe Steve was right.

At least I'm looking better. Since my depression started, I've lost fifteen pounds. Maybe I can market this weight loss program. Limited food intake, exercise and lots of sleep. For when you are sleeping, your body has time to really burn up those fat cells, at the same time you are unable to eat to replace the calories.

Anyway, I'll bore you no longer.

Here's my address:

1225 Nord Ave #167 

Chico, CA 95926. 

 

My phone# (916) 343-2372

 

C-Ya

Andrew Letter 44 - Steve and I fight, and I start packing

 

 

Dear Mom,

 

Hi there. Well, I'm taking a brief moment from packing to write you on the status of my voyage. Snag city.

I don't know if you knew already, but I got my RV. It's an ex- air force SAC mobile command center. It is a 1963 Dodge UPS type vehicle, with an air conditioner, power converter and multiple lights and wall sockets, plus a couple metal desks and a shelf.

I bought it for its rugged tires, straight six cylinder engine and oil filtered one barrel carb. It has a roof rack and roll out awining. It weighs 7000 lbs. Anyway, I can fit everything I own in there.

And its a good thing. Steve is being a major weenie right now, and I fear that I have become like Tim in his estimation. He simply has no respect or liking or even tolerance for me anymore. He has again let things (which I have really conscientiously tried to avoid doing) bug him, like drinking the last of the milk. Or eating his 2 day old left overs. Or having my laundry in the washer when he wants to use it.

I don't know. He never said a word, and now it's over. He has told me that we are 180 degrees opposite and that he finds nothing in me to admire. He says he wants to have people who are his equals living with him. I, in short, bum him out.

But the thing is, I see no clues, so I proceed cautiously. I do things around the house if I think there's a possibility he will wank about it. So basically, when I do good, there's no clue that it mattered any, and it I miss something, it goes into my file.

I really have been trying to read and please him, but the man is an ocean. I can't see past the surface of calm and general disgust. I have tried to salvage it, really. I kept appealing to emotional sanity, that we could work it out. He said, “Why Try?”

He is completely isolating himself from any of his friends who he feels have not reciprocated exactly to his requirements. People are just liabilities to him. Friends are bottom line dollar amounts. He is going to wind up old and alone just like grandpa.

I cannot stop him. I am caring less. I have indeed recognized and been grateful for the opportunity he has given me to stay here thus far. And he had earlier spoken of paying rent if my trip were delayed much further.

But the other night, when picking up on some negative vibes emanating from Steve, I mentioned that I really wanted to talk to him about paying rent, and staying there for a while longer.

At first he said sure, rent might appease him. Then he gets second thoughts. He wants female roommates, and he feels I'd be a problem. "I'd rather see you packing," he says.

So, I'm packing. Again. And I'll be unpacking again soon, too. And so it goes.

I am not ready for the trip. I am not sure where my life is going. I need to find a partner. I have been desperately searching all the usual places, including some naughty workplace note passing. But I have suffered only rejection. I am not their type. I seem to be nobody’s type. 

I hope the people with the room for rent call me back.

I am enjoying my job (and my weekends on the river) and the weather and the people I work with (clients and staff). My main admirers are all mentally ill. 

I wrote a letter to a girl at work and told her how great she was and how would she like to go camping for six months and such. She was very nice not to hurt my feelings. We are friends now that I know I am not her type and that she has a boyfriend and that she is trying to get her life back together from drinking and drugs, and maybe nine months ago she would've, but now she's too responsible. 

I believe her. I still like her, regardless, and I'm glad that I got it off my chest, so now we can be friends.

There's another great girl where I work (who's married--dammit!) who has been a particular comfort to me. I'm glad I don't lack for human contact entirely, even if I have to get it from co-workers and not at home.

Steve really bums me out. What can I do? I'm out of here.

It's way, way past that. He practically ridicules me when discussing my situation. He gets sarcastic and feigns mock incredulity, mimics me and taunts me. He does not speak from reason, but from those black, grandfather, pit of nothingness emotions which I cannot fathom. 

He is intensely bitter. I hate him. I wanted so much for us to be friends, but nothing ever works out. I am everything he hates, a suckhole liability, an unnecessary expense.

I got nowhere to go. I'm looking. Fast. Two or three days max. If I have to sleep on the street in my van or whatever. He needs his space or whatever, and I haven't got time for the pain. I'm trying to put my own life together and I don't need someone telling me I'm worthless, nothing to admire. Fuck him!

Look who's bitter. Way to spread a little family joy around, yeah. Sorry. You don't need it. I don't need it. 

 

He drives me to it by tearing me down so much, but I really don't want to be bitter and hate him. But he will just never understand that he was young and stupid once and not too far from recently. He thinks I should have all the answers, firm plans, never change my mind, never get confused. He can have his equals. I'll just take fellow human beings. 

I cannot say for sure who is to blame for the terrible way things have ended up, but they were destined. I fought the deterioration as long as I could, but he just gets nasty and there's no use. He is like I was as a teenager, emotionally. “I don't want to talk about it, you'll never change me, Why Try?”

Why try to get along when you can just cut someone out of your life? Adios, Familia. Nice idea, while it lasted. C-YA.

Greed, in the end, destroys all things. His greed, my greed. Life can suck. It can be great. I guess it's who you hang around with, how you look at it, how content you can be with what is sent your way.

I am guilty of letting Steve do me a favor so now he can hold it over my head forever. Enough. Forget it. Move on.

I really don't know how much closer I am to deciding what I'm doing with my life, but I'm doing some serious reflecting on what I want out of it. And what I have to do to get it. I am too carefree, but not carefree enough to live the carefree life to the fullest like it was meant to be lived. I get scared.

 

“What a sissy,” Steve would say. Such male bonding. Oh, well, I gotta go pack.

 

See ya when I see ya. Bye.

Andrew

More personal ad reply rambliings

5-2-92
 
Dearest Girl of my Daydreams,

Hello! I am very pleased to have this opportunity to pour out my soul, heart, lungs and innards into the empty void of this blank piece of paper. It is so refreshing to give utterance to the yearnings and wanderings of the mind and soul. It's easy, it's fun and it's non-toxic just like Play Dough.

Sorry to be ramblin' right off, however, ahem, you haven't introduced yourself yet. I will quickly take up the silence and tell you who I am. 

My name, is Juan Valdez. No, it isn't, and I am feeling not a little bit giddy, so I'll just settle THAT down right away. Hey! My name is. It really, really REALLY is--Andrew Paul Golding, aka "Hoody" or "Drew."
 
My current occupation, besides being a reformed window horticulturalist, is graveyard attendant at our local board and care for the mentally ill. I am currently living in Chico with my Uncle Steve. 

I have a past which, though not as colorful as that of river barge captain, but more interesting than full time caterer to the whims of Establishment Pigs and those who would strip us of dignity respect and 40 years of freewheelin', ramblin' and boogyin' and partyin' (but not to excess, that would be BAD). 

Let me be serious for just a moment. The typewriter on my lap, and leaning back in bed a bit too far and, you know, the blood wasn't getting all the way up to the top part of my brain. So now I am functioning a bit more goodlike. 

My name really is Andrew, and I'm just a lonely fool whose been lonely too long and whose lovelight has grown dim but who, like the solitary miner for a heart of gold, keeps a faithful watch for the morning sun bringing a new day and a new day's chance of finding his treasure. Yeah. 

I am, in fact, a very groovy and hip guy who, through slight disaffection with society (possibly due, in part, to the Rodney King Beating) has become slightly out of touch with the basics of human interchange. 

I live with my uncle, like I said, but would love to become self-sufficient real soon. In Chico, minimum wage jobs are competed over fiercely, so I am lucky to be employed and have an uncle who is understanding, to a point. 

So here I am, in Chico, since last year when my educational plans were temporarily set aside, as my Grandfather deteriorated and died. It was time for him to depart, all his life having been used up long ago. His only activities were TV watching and smoking cigarettes (even after they brought the oxygen machine). 

The magnitude of the isolation he suffered, self-imposed, through years of minimalism in the areas of human grace, was immense. He believed in the work ethic. And the save ethic. He died very well off for an uneducated North Dakota farm boy. But he shut himself all up inside and never let anyone in. Please, let me learn. 

So, who are you and what do you want in a guy? I tell you, it's a jungle out there. Don't just fall for the guy with all the stats.
 
Honey, you need a rebel. You need someone who hasn't got his priorities in order, who favors fun over futility, taking a vacation over toiling in vain. Hey, I don't have a prescription for life, but I do have a plan for a pretty cool six month camping trip, not for the timid of heart or committed of career path. 

I will, eventually, in say six months to a year, pick up the pieces of my life and make a nice little niche for myself, hopefully involving ownership of rural property and the raising of animals. Music figures in and video, art and writing. I hope to be a decathlete of the humanities. And I want to learn a trade.

I am 27 years old, a bit of a dreamer, but the right lady in my life could be a rudder in channeling the wind in my sails. I am an adventurer at heart, afraid I'll wind up a Walter Mitty, or worse, like Grandpa -- old and alone. I could use a friend, I could be a good friend. 

Ask me anything. What's fun? Driving to some isolated river or lake, canoeing to a remote campsite with the choicest of organic party supplies, tent & sleeping bag and living like Huck Finn for a while (Huck Finn with a girlfriend). Stargazing, fishing and bathing in mountain streams. Yeah. 

Work six months in a bum job, take six months vacation, travel extensively. Please, say you approve. Later on, six months to a year or so, we can get our lives on track and work toward that mythical Apple Pie Picket Fence Pension Plan. But for God's sake, lets enjoy this thing called youth and not waste it with the entangling encumberments placed on us all to readily by reality peddling establishment elitist dogs. Yah! 

What else could you possibly want to know about me that you wouldn't want to unfold in the natural language of romance (you tell me what you like, I tell you what you want to hear, etc)? I will ask you a question--don't write if you can't answer honestly--oh never mind, that's a leading question. 

I believe in love, despite economic or societal or any other constraints. I believe in fidelity and honesty, in hard work for the things that are good in life and in the bliss of kicking back and having fun in Nature. I love the quiet, majestic flow of a river or the smell of pine in cold mountain air. 

Oh, come on, what have I got to say to get you into my camper van? Ok, let's hear your version. I may be wrong: "Give me the gritty city and the sweatshop, yeah." Nahh! 

I like cats. I don't smoke cigarettes. Kids are optional and later (when I've matured satisfactorily). Let's discuss this further (unless you believe I am hopeless).  I don't know you at all. I'd like to. You seem sensitive, not the Beverly Hills 90210 type.
 
Please respond. I'll be waiting. And waiting. and come on...please? 

To us, to the future, to the moon,
 
Andrew.
 

 
19 Garden Park Dr.
Chico, CA 45926
916 345-5401

Sorry bout the red ink but you need it when you make these little goodies. And the paper gets a C- (weak)
 

 

 

The Story of My Life (Chico era personal reply draft)

This is the Story of My Life.
 
Hello. stranger! I am very pleased to be meeting you. I am hoping that very soon we will at least be friends and openin' up to each other and havin' a real real time together. Like, can you comprehend?  If you are young, attractive, insane of mind and single, then please respond. 

I have waited my whole lifetime (or at least the last six months) in search of a woman-child or female creature who, being of acclaimable spirit and quite herself in her ways, would consent to spending some golden moments, some precious time, with the old Hoodmaster. Hoody. That's me.
 
O.K., so you expected Walter Maverick? No such luck. I am still in search of a direction for myself to go in. You know, regarding life and stuff. But I show some promising potential, I think. I believe we could enrich each others lives regardless of what type of people we both are. 

Unless of course you are a member of George Bush's personal entourage. I am of liberal mind, I believe, and find it personally unconscionable to get involved with "the Man" in any way. I get pulled over by him enough as it is. The last time was in Gridley. Talk about straight! 

Well, any-who, I sure hope I can rise above all that and somehow get around to asking you out for a date. Cause that's all I is tryin' to do any-whee. O.K., I could fall madly in love with you. It's not out of the question. In fact, I'd be diggin' it.
 
Ya know? It's real alone-ly bein' alone. I would like to make-ay you life less lonely too, honey-sweetness. 

I can't be makin' description desecration of myself cause I ain't that vain.
 
O.K., so I am a sex god. But, no really, you must take a chance on me, as I am on you. We can only talk, meet and see what is and what should never be. It couldn't be that bad. I is of the human species as like are you. It could be we have nice time together, love-lorn longfelt love of my heart. I wait for you call.
 
Andrew Golding (you friend) hey-mon
 
345-5401
 
You Friend - Hey Mon
 

 
 

The Esplanade Manor News and Review (April 29, 1992 -- week of the LA riots)

In the wake of the acquittal of four LAPD officers indicted on charges of police brutality in the videotaped beating of black motorist Rodney King, several instances of unrest were reported at the Esplanade Manor here in Chico.

Pat Rupp announced that he could not sleep.

Melinda Long, shoeless activist for the rights of the mentally ill, teamed up with long-time police benefits show entertainer, Anita Rose, in a singing duet consisting of a two hour set of slave music and a Vaudeville purse act. Proceeds from the event will be forwarded to Rodney King to “buy himself something nice.”

Arvada King (undetermined relation) announced that she would be retiring after more than 10 years of service at the Manor. Said King, “I drive in the fog sometimes at night—I don’t want to be mistaken for a black motorist and beaten.”

In widespread defiance of authority, clients at the Manor have been smoking in their rooms and allowing the cigarette butts to smolder on their carpets.

One client, Elizabeth Coolidge, announced that she would keep an all night smoking vigil outside her room until she had consumed 56 cigarettes, one for each of the inflicted blows on the taped beating.

Other clients, demanding cigarettes, donuts and coffee stormed the kitchen and SNC office.

One client, Janet Cree, an undercover CIA agent, on assignment from West Sac., was seen taking part in the looting. She emerged from the kitchen with 5 cans of Folgers, with a street value of $500.

Larry Rowe was arrested for public drunkenness, but this was believed to be unrelated.

Dennis Shoenick and love guru, Glenda Stowe, began a week long love-in to protest the violence.

Mark Ginter used the opportunity to promote some of his more controversial art pieces, in particular, one depicting a black man engaged in full penetration intercourse with a white woman.

Bob Shepherd today said that he would be doubling his medication until further notice.

In the confusion following the kitchen break-in, staff members were seen loading their cars with meat and dairy products from the well-stocked Manor refrigerator/freezer. One female staff member made off with an entire pie.

A fire gutted the smoking table, but determined residents sat at the table throughout the blaze and continued to sit on the charred metal frame well into the morning.

Sereena Mills staged a one-woman hunger strike slightly after lunch but reversed her decision when she discovered that mashed potatoes and gravy were to be served for dinner.

Medication Attendant Steve Knorr barricaded himself inside the Med Room, responding only to knock knock jokes and requests for Pamprin, which he slid under the Med Room door.

Night shift attendant Andrew Golding called for an end to mopping and sweeping duties because “those mop and broom handles look an awful lot like nightsticks.” When asked if this ban would apply to pool cues, he responded curtly, “that is an entirely unrelated matter,” and stalked off toward the Rec Room.

Desiring to take part in the incendiary protest, Mike Goldman, an Antabuse patient, helped out by making non-alcoholic Molotov cocktails.

Dan Beacon was arrested in Sacramento for looting a Thrifty Drug store.

Steve Couvrette, weekend night staff, only had two words regarding the violence in LA—“Send me.”

Great Hair Day (more Esplanade Manor Era '90s crap)

You know what?

Fuck it, cause I'm having a great hair day. At least I got that. I need not tell you that in today's emotional currency it is equal to a malted milkshake, a cigarette, a small bong toke. Nice.

Like I said, it's a great hair day as I see it for a couple of reasons: 

1) I can get a fine tooth comb through it.

2) It has a shiny, bouncy appearance, quite unlike its usual mosquito nest of dried coyote thistle. 

3) Jesus himself would have been happy with the peace, love and understanding generated by my flowing amber locks.

4) Why the hell not feel good about something when everything else seems so wrong.

Like my $4.50 hr. job at the Esplanade Manor (for the mentally ill, it is understood locally). And my luck (or lack of it) with females--and I've tried, goddammit, really I have.

Like the Adventuress Wanted dual ads in the Chico and Sacramento News and Reviews.

Like the Adventuress Wanted sign with phone number posted in the window of my travelling Green Metal Army Van Camper.

Like the emotionally suicidal letter to Wreath, with whom I will have to work forever knowing that she knows that I know that she knows that I want to fuck her like a bandit.

Like all my admirers being mentally ill. And you can't date the mentally ill.

Although, within their own society no one wants for sex for long. It is paid for with cigarettes, coffee & lifelong mementos. It is sad to see some people part with their durable goods for something so cheap, almost without value but precisely beyond value, like the rise and decimation of some crazy postwar European economy.

Masturbation is free. Always will be. You know that’s one thing the Bush Administration really hasn't tapped. Like Abstinence. Hey! Masturbation, it's the right thing to do. Yah! We going to show you how to POMP YOUSELF UP.

And all those uncomfortable tv ads for petroleum based lubricants. When you’re down on your luck, I know you all sympathize--Have a sex change and become a girl with far away eyes.

And just what the hell is being accomplished here?

Later.

Wreath Picture Story (1992)

Today I drew this picture. And it offended Wreath. And she said something about it. It hurt my feelings, but I didn't show it, naturally. Oh, you know me, as transparent as a speedboat.

So I hid it pretty well, and then excused myself for the day and (it was time to go already) did a Clyde Blankenship. Yeah, I cursed Wreath all the way home. And it didn't make me feel better.

The only thing that made me feel better was 1) resigning myself to the fact that she has no taste 2) running to the marijuana, putting a pipeload in the pipe and smoking it down fiercely 3) perhaps knowing that I would eventually talk to you about it and it would be all better.

Here is the offending picture. It's a joke for crying out loud. And I mean CRYING. I don't know what possessed me to draw it. Satan? Perhaps... But some people appreciate my work, my art MY REALITY. MY WORLD. MY ... I... Wahhhhh!!! A-Haught...a-haugh....whaaaaa!!!! Haaaaaaa!!!

Hard to tell just what emotions were expressed there but it sure felt good. Primal. I think I am cured. Goodbye!

Wreath's not human (1992)

Well, she's not human--I can see that myself

And she's not the kind you can buy off the shelf

Lovingkind maiden of mental health

I wanna tell ya, man she's something else

Medication queen of the morning madness

Dispenser of happiness pills and gladness

On a bike, in the wind, it's a different girl

Heading out all alone in this sidewalk world-- letting her hair unfurl

Vocalist Ad (1992, Chico News and Review)

Vocalist/Front Man Available for Garage, Parties--) Club Dates....

"A class-conscious, politically aware 27 year old subculturally insignificant partier type individual, with equipment, image and experience is seeking select musicians to form a junked-out, farm animal bleating, unpopular band to begin at once enraging and entertaining the public at large. Also play a little guitar."

"Musical influences? Influenza? The Today Show, Cheech and Chong's Next Movie, Humpback Whales: the sine wave collection, Spinal Tap, Walter Mondale, ETC, Jeff Beck, Carlos Castaneda, Eric Clapton, Evita, Carlos Santana, Beethoven, Jimmy Page, David Bowie, Hair, Led Zeppelin, Cat Stevens, Samantha Stevens, Patty Loveless, Jimi Plays Berkely, The Who, Madonna, The Dead and Jerry, Mudhoney, Nirvana, Wasted Youth, Flipper, oh, hell…whatever."

Call Andrew at once for more information: 343-2372

Captain's Log Re: Wreath

1-2-3-4 (5) Captain's personal log. Damn! God-damn.

 

I sense a great burden of emotion, and I'm constrained to write. Wreath, goddammit now, I really wanted to go on that bike ride today. It was not just some "wild hair" that I might have had, it was our first date you cancelled.

 

I knew it was too good to hope for. Too wild of an assumption. You're toying with me. I am nothing. I should have known I didn't stand a chance.

 

So I may cry in my beer while you file your nails and get ready to spend this memorial day weekend with your old friends from Magalia. Be Careful, Honey Child. May we ride bikes again on another day,

assuming no one snatches you up this weekend forever.

 

Goddamn fuckin' tragic, the way I've fallen for you all of a sudden. You matter more to me right now than, oh, say alot of things, and I don't just mean like brussel sprouts, which I wouldn't like anyway.

 

Honey, please don't change over this weekend and be gone forever and ever. I couldn't stand that. I so recently found you. You are a treasure. One in a million. 

 

I may be a compulsive wretch, in writing these desperate words of praise, but at least I'm a wretch with taste. You are the finest. And well, to be without you or at least the hope of you in my heart, is, well, unfulfilling, to say the least.

Ok, well, my brain and body are conking out on me anyway.

Letter to my ex co-workers at Hondo Die Supply

 4-10-92

To all my dear friends at Hondo:

Well, here I am still in Chico, and there you all are. I miss you all, miss my old crappy apartment, my mail order Mexican girlfriend and that dirt-bag band I was playing with. I miss driving that piece of shit orange truck and all the big time money I was making there.

At this point, you may ask, "Well, so what?" 

Good point. I miss the good times that were under my nose, but which I could not appreciate (due to sinus congestion). 

Anyway, after my uncle decided to  keep the house, I figured I'd better stay and make a go of it up here and so here I am, still working at Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for the mentally ill. The pay is $4.25 per hour, but the work is kickback. One hour of work per 8 hour shift (a little mopping and trash) and the rest is reading, playing pool or eating in the kitchen.

Everyone here is nice, with the exception of Arvada, the graveyard supervisor who I work with 3 out of 5 nights a week. She has been nicknamed the Queen of Ice because of her chilly disposition. She plays her fucking country music all damn night and picks at a scab on her wrist (which is turning green and looks cancerous, or at least like an animal bit out a chunk and puked it back onto her arm).

The patients here are your average Winchell's Donut, trailer park, shopping basket, bowling alley types. They are all chain smokers and chain coffee drinkers. They would sell their soul or body for a smoke and 25 cents. 

One lady watches her purse for hours on end, waiting for it to do acrobatics. Another says she's from Mars and took a crap in the dining room the other day. She's better now that they increased her meds. 

Most people here just shuffle around like zombies. Glenda Stowe, a night robe clad, Bible totin' granny, yells at the top of her lungs at voices she hears in her head all day and night. 

Most are delusional, paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive or psychotic. Some are just drunks, druggies or bums. But their social security allotment is more than I make in a month.

I go fishing every other morning, right after work, in the Sacramento River, which is about 10 minutes out of town. I bought I kayak for fishing the inaccessible spots, and the first day I used it went great. The thing is homemade, so I worried about leaks, but there were none. 

The second day, I took it out and capsized it. I had to abandon ship, as I was drifting downriver with no paddle. I salvaged everything except my lunch and my pride. I still have not caught a single fish in that river, though they leap out of the water right in front of your face.

I had to quit hanging around with Brian (what is it with people who have this name) a fellow I met in class, when I was still going. We'd watch football, drink beer, fish and get high -- which is all fine. He'd usually pay. That was also fine.

Then he began making homosexual advances and innuendos, so I had to shit can the relationship. He'd say shit when we were playing pool in a bar like, "So, you wanna go home and have some oral sex?" Why can't women ever ask me this?

Chico is a small town, so although this dude is out of my life, he still works at the Chevron downtown. I'll miss the bong hits, though.

My plans are this: 

Sell my car and get a van. Save enough money for a six month U.S. tour. Find a cheap trailer park slut who wants to cut loose and then blow this town. 

After the trip, we'll either return to Chico and work for a while, then save up and buy a trailer. My ultimate goal is to get about five acres of land, grow pot on it and pay my property taxes. Then die.

I'd like to get a dog, too, but that's optional. No kids. I'll probably wait until I come back to town, and then join a band. Maybe take a class or two. 

Anyway, L.A. doesn't seem to be in my plans, except as a party stop along my voyage. My best regards to you all, till we meet again.

Love and (heterosexual) kisses,

Andrew

Mental Love Song (4-3-92)

I’d foam at the mouth if it got me put under your care

I’d take off my clothes and run around in my underwear

I’d howl like a banshee and bark at the moon

Yes, for you I’d go as crazy as a loon

For you I’d baste myself in peanut butter

I’d stand in the corner and just let my eyelids flutter

For you I’d give up my sanity

If being mentally ill could get you next to me

When you’re near, the rest of the world’s out of focus

When your gone, I’m like a Catholic that’s Popeless

I long to see you dressed up all in white

Even if it’s because I’m institutionalized

I’ll take medication, if it helps me to see you

Be my conservator, baby, you know I need you

A million voices in my head can’t be wrong

Be my Faye Wray, and I’ll be your King Kong

I’ve got those psycho self-destructive

Bipolar schizophrenic blues

Beautiful Gal (Another Wreath Love Song - 92)

 

                                                                                                                           4-3-92

You're such a beautiful gal

And you work for a guy named Hal

If I could, I'd like to be your pal

But you're such a beautiful gal

 

Tall, but not lanky

Monday mornings, never cranky

Like to know -- are you into any hanky-panky?

God damn, you're a beautiful gal

 

It only takes a giggle

(I like to watch your body wiggle)

There are places I'd like to tickle

'Cause you're such a beautiful gal

 

Your name sounds like a whole bunch of flowers

I could stare at those pretty dark eyes for hours

You know you're the reason I been takin' showers

You're such a beautiful gal

 

Some day when the time is right

After I been up drinkin' coffee all night

Gonna call you sweet baby in the AM light

Gonna call you my beautiful gal

 

In your cow colored jeans you're a dream, my queen Wreath

I just want to see for myself what's underneath

When I die, to you my worldly goods I bequeath

'Cause you're such a drop-dead gorgeous, fucking beautiful gal