Freeway sentinels (1994)

So I can’t believe I didn’t tell you about those hooded freeway figures, spaced out evenly, as if dispatched as sentries. These grim sentinels stood over 40 feet tall and had a beak and claws. With its body shrouded, these were all you could see. And, oh yeah, I was drivin’ when I noticed them. They was standin’ in pairs, by each freeway overpass and off ramp.

I swear it was the night I came down with a death chill, which first I thought was the flu, but without the diarrhea. Yeah, but now I only catch glimpses of these little flying things (they could be mosquitoes) and cats in the corner of my eyes. I haven’t seen the devil in over 4 months.

I have been growing this pot, which looked pretty good at first, but a lot were males. They smoke ok, kinda fresh, the shoots’ll get ya fucked up—in a nice schoolyard kind of way—and even the broad leaf (when smoked damp, like tobacco) gives good smoke—always accompanied by coffee or beer.

I got unemployment checks comin’ in (to pay the rent & PG&E) and $ in the bank. Dope in the ground is better than $ in the bank, because in the end you may not find any dope for sale and you may have spent the $. Never mind that. Uh.

Exerpts from: Cuss Words That I Use (1994) unabridged

Fuck:   Pronounced fuhk, a quick little outburst, used monosyllabically, to display mild distaste for an event, situation, person or object.

           

            Pronounced faaahh—ck to indicate increased displeasure at the above.

Fuckin’ A:       Used mostly in commiseration circles to affirm something negative, eg. “Did you get another parking ticket?” “Fuckin’ A!”

            Can denote surprise, awe or wonderment, as when one sees a really bitchen monster truck crushing old junk cars.

Fuck You:       Can be directed at a person, object or nothing at all, if one is sufficiently pissed. Caution: not to be used indiscriminately around strangers who are bigger than you.

Fuckin’ Jesus Christ:  Pronounced gee-sauce, not necessarily blasphemy, but close enough. Conveys a pseudo-righteous disgust, complete disbelief or exasperation.

Fuck off:         Means “I hate you”  “Go away”

Fuck off and die:        Copulate with insect repellent and terminate. “Go to hell.”

Fuckin’ shit:    Used to describe objects which have fallen under your disfavor. “What is this fuckin’ shit?”

Fuckin’ bullshit:         Used to describe events, actions or things which do not live up to your expectations.

Fuckin’ suck my dick, you fuckin’ fuck:       Can be used whole or in parts. Suck my dick—fellate me. You fuck-- n. A person who is an asshole can be designated as a fuck.

Fuckin’ son of a bitch:            Not related to canine parentage, simply another exclamation of dissatisfaction or a description of an unsavory person.

Various critiques and letters to celebrities (1994-ish)

ART BELL IS A FUCKIN WEIRDO.

Ya man so what

Ok then

---

Made yourself cry lately, bad boy?

---

Dear Mel,

I purchased your Marijuana Grower’s Inside Edition. You stupid-head.

---

Hey Tom Snyder! Yer cool, man, although I grew up w/Ackroyd doin’ you, and I honestly don’t know who does a better Tom Snyder. Any way

---

You suck, Steve. That is all.

Oh, did I say that?

---

Your kind is easy to find                                    I wish I said this to somebody

Like earthworms after the rain

---

Dear George,

I have been watching your show “The George Carlin Show” & have been a fan of yours ever since “Toledo Window Box.” You have spoken for more than one generation during your career as comedian and, well, whatever else it is you do. I personally was edified way back when, listening to your “hippy dippy weather man” and “the dog is licking his balls.”

Um, so what am I trying to say? George, do you still smoke pot? I don’t work for NORML or anything, I am just a consumer of all things cultural.

Do something for the cause, please, my older generation role model, sir. Use your prime time power of predilection to expedite the legalization of or benign pant-friend, marijuana. Don’t be afraid. Just cuzz you’re rich and can buy the real good stuff. You must realize—you are a spokesman. Do your job, be honest and let’s see some cutting edge TV.

It’s nothing new, but persistence—not knuckling under—is what pays. So, do it. Be our hero. Tell the networks that you smoke buds. Deal with it. Don’t be a coward, you only live once.

Your friend, Andrew (a friend in weed)

PS. Was that too preachy? Sorry. Bud. Do it! Be a man, don’t back out now…

---

Dear Thomas Brothers Map Co.

I recently purchased your California Road Atlas. You have set the standard in road atlases. Atlas’sz—whatever. You guys are good. I’ve followed some of your roads on very enjoyable excursions. Yet, I still find myself lost from time to time. Can you help me?

"P" Rap (1994)

“P” Rap

Hi Ho Hi Ho. It’s off the dope I grow

If you’ve never planted seed then ya just don’t know

First you sow, but ya just don’t throw

Not the surface of the ground but just below

Next important item—the H20

It’s gotta be pure as the melted snow

So to the mountains I go

Tell me more, brother, rap on

Well there’s ever so much more to be covered, son

Because of sentencing guidelines

Dontcha buy no gun

If they don’t stick ya in the ground

Then they’ll put you away

In some lightless tomb

Ya might as well be dead

So don’t forget what I said

No gun, no run, you see them pigs are fat

But rather than that

They’d just shoot you in the back

And that’s a fact

Now back to the story of the little bad seed

Grown up real sturdy

Well foliated weed

With just the warmth of the sun

And some dirt’s all you need

Make small patches so they won’t be (seed)

By the ‘lectronic eye, only feared by the greedy

Cuz more than 10#’s in 3 months is overdoin’ it

But if ya got it covered, brother, see to it. I’m in to it.

One whole page (1994 rap attempt)

One whole page                                                          NOT WORTH IT

Dedicated to rage

And the occasional taste of pain

When I injure my brain in an insane way

I think it’s safe to say, I have

A knack for the inane and I inundate

Everything that I say with hate, tied up with

A piece of tape, I meditate, skip the parade

Stay home and gape at the waste paper

Basket and ask it, do you have a clue? How are you?

And where do I find a new suit? It’s my

Duty in life to remain fulfilled, with every

Little vibe that I feel I make it real

Can’t say I haven’t mastered the profession

Of letting my hair down, I’m downtown

Cause that’s where all the mighty fine hos be around—EE YEAH

Big bad scary God (1994)

He’s a big bad scary God and He’s watching you

Waiting to thump you right over the

Head and

Send you to hell the minute you masturbate

Yeah

He’s a big bad scary God so you better be smart

Don’t read nasty magazines

And don’t eat beans

And fart in church

On Sunday mornin’ smellin’ fine

He’s a big bad scary God and He’ll kick your ass

So don’t you light up

That marijuana cigarette

Shut up, wear ties and keep your

Goddam liberal druggie talk

To yourself

He’s a big bad scary god and he hates queers

Almost as much as

Democrats and immigrants

And the poor (lazy)

Welfare bastards

Sittin’ at home tradin’ food stamps

Drinkin’ beer and fuckin’ and

Makin’ more poor little bastards

For us honest, hard working taxpayers

Like you and me to

Feed

He’s a big bad scary God and he hates niggers

Or colored or black or whatever

Those jigaboo fried chicken gold chain wearin’

Caddilac drivin’ crack smokin’ polyester

Neon bell bottom pimp suit wearin…

Death March (April 1994)

4-94

I’ve been bad, I’ve been good

Faced the things I thought I could

Said my prayers, sang my song

Watched the days grow sad and long

Now I got no one, now I got no one

I seek for things without going to far

I lust for a life not bitter or hard

God picked me up and we rode in his car

Then he kicked my out of the passenger door

Now I’m walking, now I’m walking—on

Life’s a death march

The tired and slow

Are obliterated beneath

The wheels of the strong—

Take me somewhere I can belong

In the shade of a tree

By the banks of the river, yeah

With a fishin’ pole in the sand

And a sizeable joint in my hand

Rienna gone (another unsent letter, reminiscing and ruminating about lost love)

 Hello there! Sorry to have taken so long with getting your boxes to you. I've been putting off the inevitable. Believe me, just sitting down to write this is turning out to be more difficult than I had expected. I feel all my tear duct and throat lump centers pulsing and awakening, and I did not want this to happen.

I try to be objective about it all -- you and me -- and remember the reality of our parting, the reasons...but it all gets lost in this pool of sentimentality and mush. I miss you. I can't bear to think about it, about you, for too long. I guess I had forgotten, being busy with work and all. But now, with nothing but time on my hands to reflect and rehash and reminisce -- I am feeling the tug of strong feelings (dammit!) and I guess I'm just still in love with you...and I thought I'd recovered.

Sincerely, Rienna, you are the most incredible woman I've ever been blessed to have such a relationship with. The months I spent with you were the happiest of my life. You came into my life so freely and brought nothing but joy. So, naturally, your leaving should produce some sadness, unless I'm a callous, unfeeling fool.

I can't help wondering if there was anything I could do, could have done, still do -- to be with you again. I don't think there's anything that means more to me than you. I guess I'm deceiving myself. Things weren't perfect. I know that I became shallow, unappreciative, undemonstrative -- I don't know. Maybe it's just one of those things, no one's to blame. 

You were up front with me from the beginning. You stayed true to yourself. I thought that I could change you, make you want to settle down with me, but that didn't seem possible. So I rode it out, just being with you, for as long as I could before you'd go. And now you're gone, and I'm kicking myself for allowing the woman of my dreams to slip away. What a fool, huh?

Maybe we just made each others lives a bit more bearable in an otherwise crappy time. I hope I didn't bring you any pain or cause you to go away with my crappy behavior. Everyone gets a little blind -- I just hope I didn't act like too much of a jerk by not realizing what I had.

I just don't want it to be over. I want you to come knock on my window and say, "Just kidding. I never moved. You were dreaming. Now move over, so I can get in bed with you."

I'd ride the range out to Nebraska and carry you off, but you might have a new beau, and I don't have my six shooter handy. I'd probably die on the spot anyway. I'm too immature to handle thinking of you with someone else. Intellectually, I can, but that's not the part of me writing to you right now. It's my abdomen, my innards and glands, my watery left eye and quivering, taut lower lip which speak.

I was hoping my brain would catch up, and I'd impress you with my detached sensibility, but fuck it, not on this occasion.

On the lighter side of the news, I've got a job interview tomorrow, as a clerical Jack-of-all-trades with a local appliance repair co. Temporary work to relieve a pregnant owner, as receptionist, dispatcher, order desk, etc. Starts @ $6.00 per hour. Not in the bag yet, but it's only 3 blocks away on 11th Ave. Pray for me, eh?

Striper Song and other 94 nonsense

Gotta lay offa them stripers

Cause my arm’s about to explode

Can’t get enough of their action

Can’t think of any other mode

We came to see if what you’re doing

Is within the legal limits

We came here to tax your fun

And about that bag, can we see what’s in it

(2X Mercury outboard) Merry Christmas Mass

Sinbad the Sailor saw Robert Taylor

And promptly kicked his ass

Old man, you’re just jealous

Young men wag their fingers

Sickly youth ask for a cigarette

Or something else to smoke

I don’t write that often, nor produce voluminous amounts—however, when I write…it can be pretty bland at times, yes. Or un-thought-out. Spotty at best. Been raining for a week now, damn. Leaky roof, chasin’ the cat round and round. No need to go out, people comin’ right to my door with their damn-ass business. Ha. Can’t talk to you now, Molly, I’ve got a zit on my nose. No don’t let your hair down, aww. Just leave the scrub brush and the rubber stamp, you can pick up your stickers Tuesday. Yes, bring a check. $115, the price of an ounce (or $12 in Mexico). A day’s work. Flood advisory—get camcorder.

motivational procedures

2-12-94

Getting a good buzz going. Necessary before going out to print. I first need to:

a)     wake up

b)    warm up and drink coffee

c)     get motivated

d)    get more motivated

e)     if I get any more motivated, I’ll need to lie down

Guntwert Thomas

2-11-94

Please allow me to introduce myself: Guntwert Thomas. I am a digger, my first job out of the Academy Scholastia of Central Continent Seven. I live on the upper deck above the trolls (trolly car tube dwellers). I got this special accommodation after my graduation test scores were shuffled, processed and collated along with the cards of every other human being on earth. I must have been a hair’s breadth away from a different stack, one with entirely different accommodations and job description. Judging by the company I keep on this deck, at any rate.

 

no feelings 1-2?-94

1-2?-94

I have no feelings whatsoever

Not “what” so ever but not

So severe

I have no feelings not what so

Ever but so severe

So what.

I have no severed feelings what

So ever in my life

At this time. I have no severe

Feelings of severation whatsoever

At this time. Thank you very

Much!! Fuck you!!!

 

Cigarette butts 1-26-94

 

1-26-94

There shall be no more

Cigarette butts

Feeding hungry ashtrays

Or cluttered like dogs

On the kennel floor

Or rolled up nicely and

Arranged neatly in the driveway

Like little seedlings

Row by row

1-24-94 Rienna is leaving

1-24-94

Rienna is leaving me in a couple of days. I’ll tell you all about her soon. I can’t now cuz I have to get shitfaced and keep my spirits up and it hurts to talk about her. We just had sex. A few hours ago. Don’t you forget it. I used the last non-studded condom. I am getting shitfaced. Either that or I’m insensitive.

I promise I’ll tell you all about it. Some day, soon, I’ll disclose everything. And then I shall die.

1-22-94 Coffee Scrying

1-22-94

I read my future in the coffee scum this morning

A particularly hardy flotilla of

Congealed creamer with

A speckled smattering

Of dried instant coffee bits crowning

It like some volcanic mountain

Chain, bleeding their

Carob rivers into the

Miasma of lighter colored

Café muck all whirling in the

Center and breaking up—

Forming eddies and

Jet streams

Oh the…topology

What will mankind do on this

Incredibly shrinking planet?

Waters rising, forests becoming

Waste places

Then some cataclysm or other

Wiping the cluttered surface clean…

The Non Dairy Garbage Scow Armada

Has all broken up

Into a million

Tiny

Bits

Polluting the now uniformly tan

Slightly acidic

Caffeinated sweetened

Rapidly cooling

But still just about right beverage

For my enjoyment

Journal entry with guidelines for journaling

1-21-94 SO FUCKIN WHAT

Ok. If I’ve been neglecting to write, it’s because I’m busy living my life. Or at least guzzling enough beer and combusting enough doobage to convince myself that’s what’s been happening. I promise heretofore, that my entries, though sparse, shall be at least worthwhile with all the following included:

Indicative handwriting

Foul curses

At least one hard, noteworthy fact

Expired use of poetic license or licentiousness

So. I’m 5’9” and I’ve shaved my beard off.

La Dee Da. Here’s the poem then:

“What use,” she cried, “to stay in one place”

“Almost as absurd as wearing the same face”

No one told me as I was drivin’

That there’s an end to that horizon

At the end of the road is a beaten down fence

The boundary beyond which nothing  exists    

Is sacred anymore                              makes sense

Where pipers mill about smoking cigarettes

Unstable, the lot of them

Soon to be crowned oyster Princesses

Get seasick and ask for

A Rolaid

You see drivin’

At this pace can be quite relaxin’

Catching one-eyed furtive glimpses

Of daisies

Going whirring by                                                  STONER

1-21-94 Journal entry

1-21-94 So What! I can’t believe you’re hounding me for not spending more of my life keeping you up to date. I will not be accountable to you, so fuck off.

The Dark Clouds of November (Rienna is having doubts about me already, and I try to reassure her with this dumb letter, which I never sent))

Hey babe, howzitbegoin'? Don't know zackly why I's be writin'. Jess couln't stop my wheels from turning over and over our discussion the udder day. I was left wit me confidence a bit low about me ankles, not's to say dat's not where it belong. 'Guess I's been kinda inna daze lately these last 3 months. Uh, mmn. I shall recap:

August - Another sucky month in the life

September - Met a real cool girl, don't know if we're just gonna be friends or what, but I'm really diggin' her and like having her around. She's great!

October - Have been to heaven. God this chick is something else! I can't believe we've been spending all this time together, makin' luv and gettin' along real good. Too good to be true, overload, could this actually be my life?

November - Well, I guess I had to come down. Although, I'd rather have died in October and preserved the awesome feeling in its purity. But life goes on. Things change. Have I changed?

I know this is an inadequate, subjective review, but not altogether incorrect. I guess you've discovered my depth to be a bit shallower than expected. Oh yeah, I may be shallow, but at least I am dense -- uh, yeah. Wait, no...Sure I am. Thick as a brick. And fake as an artificial eggplant.

You are probably realizing right now just what a selfish, insensitive oaf I am. Or you figured it out long ago but feel sorry for me or I don't know what. I know that in regard to your feelings, I have been blinded by my own. 

Feeling as strongly for you as I have has made me hazy as to fact and fantasy. I mean, did we or did we not make love? And was I mistaken, or were you enjoying it just a little bit? 

I have been a neophyte my whole life, a tadpole, not even a frog waiting to be kissed. I am one generation removed from charcoal on my way to diamondhood. If I could be everything you wanted in a man in a day, I would take the class, do the ritual, whatever it took. But molding me into the fine human being you desire and deserve may take a long time -- more than a week. In fact, I don't even know if I can get the parts.

What I'm tryin' to say is that I really like you, have never met anyone like you and really want our relationship to continue and grow and not wither and die like a weed. 

I have been brought down from my heady high by your sobering words. I don't wish to take anything for granted. I'm grateful for all the time you've spent with me, your easy friendship -- you're a really great friend. You absolutely blow my mind as a lover. Makes me want to cry. Oh, well. 

I'd do anything, anything not to let those moments fade. So I have been pretty much dazed, first trying to get used to life being so great, now wondering if I can handle things as they were before we met. I don't know. There'd be a huge hole right in the center of me which, if I didn't cover it up before leaving the house, would be evident to all.

But I was smart. You broke my heart already when you let me close. I knew I'd never survive another thawing and refreezing of my heart, so I let it shatter in the privacy of my own home. The thing is: all those frozen pieces want to melt and run back together.

What kind of stupid methaphor shit am I talkin' anyway? What's my point? I don't know. What I really want to say, I guess, is this: I grew up like a puppy without much love. I don't really know what it is for sure, but I believe in it. And I've never been in a relationship where I've felt all the things I feel for you. It's hard to explain, I have nothing to compare it to. This is so new to me.

But I want to make it work. I'm not talking about changing myself into some someone else just so you'll like me. I'm talking about understanding where you're at and doing what I can to always be there for you and make your life pleasant. I don't want to crowd you or choke you out by smothering you. I want you to like me and I hope that you do, but I don't want to be manipulative, overtly or covertly. 

Be free to be yourself and do your thing. If I fit into your plans, I'll rejoice. If not, don't weep. I've already done that -- it's too dehydrating. Stop me if I'm being to melodramatic. 

"I'll miss you."

"I'm just going to the store."

"Oh."

What can I say that hasn't already been said by the Prophets? Work with me and I'll work with you. Be real with me, and I'll always be your friend. Love me, and I'll love you like an ever flowin' river. Not some dried up creek bed, some seasonal stream, but  a mighty flood, a torrent carving out new landscapes and taking you places that never existed.

Journal entry for 12-12-93

12-12 or so 93 It’s raining and the mud, I mean window caulking is getting soft and smeary on the window panes. I’ve been sick for a while and hadn’t had much to tell you.

Last night I dreamed about fire, or a fire up in the mountains of Lake Isabella. I was watching the smoke and flames come up over the tops of some nearby hills and I was wondering if I could get out or not.

I also dreamed I met one of my old bible study brothers and he said he was getting tired of it, too. He wanted to get out, he said. He asked if he could come have dinner at my house sometime. And I said, “You wish to dine at my house? Me, a sinner?” And we both laughed, although it was serious.

The night before I dreamed I saw my dad walking around this indoor/outdoor mall kind of people expressway. Like New York City—you, know kind of a crowd. He was wearing a white suit and had this rad Jesus hair. It glowed. I followed him for while about 10 feet behind him. I could sense that he knew I was behind him so I turned away for a second, pretending to be interested in some arcade game, but when I looked again for him he was gone. I ran in the direction he had been walking but he was nowhere.

 

Journal entry for 12-4-93

 12-4-93 Had all kinds of profound thoughts & deep feelings but I forgot to write it down.

Journal entry for 11-30-93

 

11-30-93 thru 12-3-93 I go to city Friday take unx to the airport, then he’ll be all gone bye bye.

Pot Proverb

 

11-30-93 The hand of the cultivator is full of weed, while the hand of the non-horticulturally inclined scratches after stems.

YER STEWPID

 

Pissed at Earl

11-29-93 Did I say I have to report in now? Did I? Well, fuck you, Sergeant or whatever the fuck. So, now I’ve done it. Can’t believe I was sooo naïve but now I’m sure as fuck gonna buy me a gun and kill all the niggers I see. That’s a joke, son. We don’t call 'em niggers. No, sir. No, we don’t even call 'em “'em,” on account of that’s differentiating or de-ussifying, yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, fuck Earl, then, how about that? No need to be a racist when there’s so many reasons to hate people on an individual basis. I don’t hate that wuss behind your back little sniper, I simply pity the fool, and I will hurt any man who tries to take what I got. C-I-L-L. Sing me a song, you’re a singer.

 

Road Rage

11-26-93 So. I hope I’m not too late. I’m getting irate, sitting behind this big diesel belching smoke fucker of a truck drivin’ son of a bitch. Get out of that cab you asshole, I swear to God I’ll fucken do you right here. Do you hear me?! Shitbag! I’ll…

Sloppy Jack

11-26-93 You hoo! Sloppy Jack, here. I got my gut bag all bundled up and I’m ready to hop in my Ferrari and hope, just hope I can make it to the Waste Treatment plant before it’s too late. You see, last night I flushed something that should never have been flushed down any toilet anywhere. I had no business drinking that plutonium solution the night before either, but now it was all water under the bridge so to speak.

 

Love vs. Zoloft: which is better for depression? (Another unsent Mom letter)

Surprise! Just thought I'd write'cha cuz I'm sittin' here @ work w/nuthin' to read and just had to do something (other than work). So, how's the good life? 

I can say w/out hesitation that things have never been better for me. I have never been happier or had such predominantly good feelings about being alive. I have been afraid to blink or go to sleep, for fear of waking up back in my old reality.

Did I mention that I was in love? Oh, yeah. Well, I still am. She's great, Mom, just absolutely the most amazingly wonderful girl I could ever hope to meet. You'd approve, I just know it. I've written her four or five love letters and -- get this -- she didn't recoil in horror! She likes 'em. She's even encouraging me to write more. I told her to buy a filing cabinet...We've gotten past all the awkward stuff and have the most perfect relationship. I never thought it could be so good, so hang-up free, so real. 

I've been off Zoloft for about a month (I've taken maybe 100mg in the past 4 weeks to minimize the effects of withdrawal). I've been waiting for the malaise, the pessimism, "the grumps," the irrationality, but nothing uncontrollable has come up.

Yesterday a kitten of mine was killed. We found her in the alley, rain-soaked and run over. I was very sad, having become attached to this cute little animal. So I waited til Steve and I finished work, put on some sad music and bawled like a baby -- for a minute or two. I still get sad when I think about Scruffy, poor, unlucky little cat.

But I feel more human, like those wires that were disconnected by the Zoloft (negative emotions) were reconnected and configured correctly. I was definitely drugged those months that I lived my same old crappy life but without the normal crappy emotions associated with it. I would not recommend use of this drug without concomitant therapy or some program to actually change the circumstances of depression.

Perhaps we're different, you and I, in this regard. I am certain that my depression was a normal reaction to living out a boring, dreary script, concocted by distorted thinking. How I got to feeling so alienated in the first place is a mystery. All I know is that for years nothing was clicking for me, so I'd add this to my wall of isolation, and I developed few interpersonal skills.

Then I meet this girl and I'm on a high, and this feeds my sense of well-being, which provides me with all kinds of impetus to be a better person. It's a victorious cycle. I know the trick is not to hinge my total happiness on any one thing (or person). Rienna is absolutely the best thing to happen to me, but she has just made me realize that I'm alive. 

Not much has changed in my life but my attitude. Instead of feeling cheated, I feel blessed, and people can see that things are different with me. I'm more patient. I smile and joke more. I have time to talk to people. I don't avoid eye contact...How many times can one be born again?

I'm not sure how long this newness will last, but I am determined not to forget these beautiful days, should darker ones appear on the horizon. Life is cool.

Steve's gearing up to go, and business is picking up. I'm getting lots of practice and feel a bit more confident about the prospect of handling things alone. Tomorrow I will play "boss" while Steve plays "dumb employee." I'll be earning the profits and paying him the peanuts...actually, he just gave all us peons a raise (from 5 to 7 dollars an hour). This is it! Wish me luck.

Dear Mummy (Update on Zoloft, Big City Graphics training with Steve and -- I MEET RIENNA!)

 Dear Mummy,

I just thought I'd write you to see how yer doin' and let you know what's going on in my life. Nothing. Well, how about you? Did those Tony Robbins tapes provide you with any insights? What did you decide about the Zoloft? Are you still taking it? 

I heard mention of serotonin in a book I was reading about the occult, saying that it was thought to be linked to extrasensory powers. I hadn't noticed.

How's the gang? Kids back in school? I really enjoyed lounging around in your spacious accommodations--it was a nice change from lounging around in that dingy cavern that Steve calls a shop.

Speaking of which, the day is coming, getting nearer and nearer, and there has been little in the way of work. Perhaps one job will trickle in per week, some piddly little order, just enough to keep Steve bitching. 

Anyway, I've only progressed a little further in the business than I had been at the time of our visit. I've learned some of the quoting procedures. Sometimes Steve will give me a quote to work on, and we'll come up with the same exact figure, through completely different means. All in all, I'd say I need to shift into high gear if I'm ever going to be able to handle the myriad of problems that lie, unforeseen, in the murky future. 

I just can't seem to get motivated to work after my long, boring night shift is over. I start fading out just as Steve gets to work. Then, when I wake up in the afternoon, Steve's ready for his nap. Then there's the problem of my weekends falling on different days than his. We seem to be drifting in different directions, so I'll have to rely on you to interpret his silences.

What else is new: Let's see...I met a new girl at work. She is around 30 (much better than 45), and she seems to be interested in me. I have been pursuing her ruthlessly (under the careful guidance of Nancy, a very helpful co-worker who enjoys matchmaking). Anyway, we have exchanged phone #'s and have a date for later this week.

I find that emotions are sneaking back into my empty shell of a heart. After months of being blunted, I welcomed them, even if they aren't my favorite ones: sadness, melancholy, pathos, achey-breaky nervous butterfly stomach, churning anticipation, etc. It was easier to shut them all off, but I suppose I'll have to deal with them.

Just the other day, Steve practically insulted me to my face, and I felt nothing. I'm used to getting rattled and walking around in a funk for days. Now, it seems like every criticism just rolls off my back. 

With this girl, I intellectually recognized the opportunity and thought to act on it, although I really had no feelings, either of hope or fear of rejection. I simply didn't care. But I began to entertain the idea of asking her out, and this gnawing process began. Now, I'm all screwed up. Well, that's love for you. I think she likes me, but I'm afraid to hope it.

Anyway, you'd better send me some more medication, just in case. I'm getting near the end. Unless you think it's time to quit. But remember I told you about feeling side effects from discontinuing last time? 

If I miss more than 3 days, I get this odd, disoriented feeling, like someone keeps spinning me a quarter turn to the left. It can be quite jarring. I'm not sure if it's the Zoloft or the anti-histamines, since I usually miss them both at the same time. Oh, well. (That pretty much sums up how I feel about things in general "oh well"). 

Back to my girl. Her name is Rienna Young, and she seems to be my type, a real down to earth girl. So if you have any supernatural entities please offer supplication on my behalf. Well, I got's to go now. I'm at work, naturally, so I should get to it. Talk to you soon, I hope.

Yours,

Andrew 9/7 AM

 

Arvada

 

She sits behind the desk, a-pickin’ at her skin

Solitaire and country music and stories that take too long to finish

The spot behind the chair has worn away with years of

Accumulated friction of wall/chair, wall/chair, wall/chair

54 years old and lives alone, cause husband’s gone and kids are grown

She don’t know that I’m writin’ this song to say

Arvada, you’re the queen of cold, reluctant grandmother to the loons,

Washer of soiled laundry and occasional ashtray wiper

Step aside, you’ve had your day

You ruthlessly refuse a cigarette to shoeless Melinda, 

Night-shuffling, bloodstained beauty 

(who’s butt was once seen by Mark Ginter, 

a uni-hemispherical brain child).

Nonetheless, Melinda’s toes, blackened, stubs, 

Partially amputated and covered in 

Cigarette ash on the soles, will walk on 

Unadorned by podiatric protection

FOREVER AND EVER UNTIL ALL HER SLAVES ARE FREE,

Cigarettes or no. Amen.

So go on, 

Go on back to your ten acres in Princeton, 

Down the foggy 45,

Into the night turned morning of your after work hours

Take your Tahoe, your Reno, 

And your stories about your precious son

And your goddamned world’s only electric river ferry

And your purple polyester pants and green windbreaker 

And GO

Journal Entry for 4-16-93 (Bitter Betty, LSD Anniversary)

I can smoke today (although I would even if I couldn't). I changed my answering machine message and am very happy about that. I think I'll call Bitter Betty and let her in on my ever changing message machine dementia. She'd like it. Maybe she'd even fuck me. And I could cup her swollen tit in my hand.

Oh, and today is the 50th anniversary of the accidental creation and use of the drug lysergic acid diethalmide. Said the creator, Albert Hoffman, who now resides in picturesque Switzerland, "It can be dangerous in the hands of the ignorant."

59761 -- D

59572

59481 -- D

59532 --

60026

Journal Entry 4/93 (Date Approximate -- Colony Inn Era)

 Opening Sentence

1. I upchucked last night.

 

2. Perhaps that second Tsing-Tsao was a mistake. Or it could have been the red tag "reduced price" beef...nah...

 

3. Have you ever sweat poison out of every pore? And then that's not enough, so you empty your stomach contents. After that, the bowels and bladder let loose. If you live through this toxic purging, you will have some cleaning up to do. It is best to throw away the undergarments. 

Last night's episode took me to the stomach stage. It was grisly enough. I barfed on the floor and on my pillow. I did not even attempt to get up or to remove my face from the puddle for a full five minutes. 

Then, I suddenly (or so I thought) stood up, washed my face and collapsed into bed. This was possible for me to do all at once with no intermediary actions because I live in such a small apartment that the floor, sink and bed are all in standing or collapsing distance. 

Somehow my pillowcase (now discarded) had been concealing a leaking feather pillow inside it, which has leaked its wretched innards all over the floor. Must be catching...

Unfiltered reasoning behind why I wrote the previous vile, disgusting evil letter to Genny (early 93)

1.  2 day old liver -- dogshit

2   Like a Toy --

3   2nd fiddle, or 3rd

4   How long has it been?

5   I feel castrated

6   I have no worth, self-esteem

7   Guys like Matt, who obviously could give a shit

8   So I'm fucking immature

10 Do you know how I feel? Do you have any idea? Do you even care?

11 I don't like being teased

12 I should have went home

13 I don't like this or need this

14 I have a Goddamn Ego!

15 My whole thing is that I have no romantic life, no sex life, no lover, and it has me depressed. And then you come along and give me just a little, just enough to make me remember that I have a soul and feelings like everybody else and then at the last moment withdraw, take away or stop the flow of love and I just feel like shit. I mean you give me a little of what everyone longs for and you take it a away and give it to a guy like Matt.

16 Contradictions -- "I love you" but yet you'll have sex w/Matt casually but not me cause you're not sure what you want fuck that.

**TRIGGER WARNING**One of the most hateful, vile things I have ever committed to paper: why would I post it then? **EXPLICIT**

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Preliminary note from 2021

 

What follows is a glimpse inside a very sick mind. I, Andrew Golding (or the person residing in the body belonging to him at the time) did sink to some pretty hateful levels, cognitively. I never acted on these thoughts, nor did I ever send this letter. I doubt that I ever intended to send it. It sat for decades with all of my other unsent correspondence, drafts and journals. I am including it, not because I am proud of it, but precisely because I am not proud of it, and so I feel obligated to own up to it. 

 

I eschew the re-writing or redacting of history (usually done to cleanse the narrative of the sordid details of misdeeds by the author). I recoil when I read this now. I was truly lost. I am glad to say that I didn't remain in that frame of mind for long. However, I did think those thoughts, apparently, and I did write them down. 

 

So, as ugly as it makes me look, here it is: uncensored, unedited and unmodified from its original format. I purposely left all grammar and syntax errors in place. There is simply no making this look good, so why even try?

 

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                                                                                                                    2/18/93

OK, Goddammit! (like my tone so far?) Get the fuck out of my (for lack of a better word) life! Bitch! How's that? But before you do, here's a little of the poison which has been brewing in my evil black cauldron of hate -- a poison I credit you with supplying key ingredients to. God how I hate you. Learn your fucking lesson, naive one: NEVER NEVER cuddle with a psychopath. Never involve yourself in the affairs of a maniac. You are already lucky that among other potential serial killers I am but a wannabe. But if I could ever kill another human being in a fit of unjustifiable passion it would be you. Go on with your stupid game playing indecisive life and to hell with you. Fuck Matt, Fuck David, Fuck Robert, FUCK OFF. Move back to Michigan, change your name. Just leave me to live out my lonely sentence in my own miserable solitude! Bitch! I don't need your goddamn pity or your monthly sympathy calls. Fuck you and your goddamn gender. You all are sows. Bitches. Cunts. Hell with you all. Remember laughter? Remember reasonableness? Intelligent conversation? Not me. Fuck everything and especially fuck you. Do you have to torment me by existing? Why do I have the misfortune to be plagued by thoughts of you daily? What good does it do me to be reminded of what I loser I am? Of what I will never attain? Fuck all your positive thinking crap. I worship Satan. He suits my needs. I am going to hell after a nice 27 years of mental purgatory. I would have done anything for you once. If there is love then I loved you. I can't love anymore. Why the fuck should I? I wish I never would have met you. Or that I could cause you the kind of inner grief you cause me to this day. Satan, give me the strength to never forget what fucking pain women cause. Don't ever EVER call me again, if you know what's good for you, and learn your lesson, bitch. I am your monstrous creation and I resent my existence. I am mad. I could kill you. You are fortunate that I am a procrastinator. I just never get around to some of the things on my list.

        Check TIRE PRESSURE

        BUY EGGS

        DO TAXES

        KILL GENNY

Thank you for making me aware of my true calling in life: To alienate as many people as possible. I've said all I care to. For now. I suggest you move. Then I won't be tempted to kill you while you sleep, perhaps cuddling with some other bozo. Anyway, FUCK OFF once again. See you in hell. Bye. Bitch!

        Andrew

Reduced to Ashes (2-17-93)

Reduced to Ashes

A jar of dust is all I am

All I have done, a memory

Nothing left of things unsaid

Now dust is all that’s left of me

Ashes, my friend

I took my chances when

I lived my life and then

Reduced to ashes in the end

I had a love back when

Hope was yet unspent

I opened up my heart 

Time and again

Can’t run away

And then came the day

Now it’s all turned grey

No more to say

Reduced to ashes

Reduced to ashes in the end

Dear Brain, would you please shut up now? (The Genny saga continues, overanalysis ad nauseam) Early 93 unsent

To analyze or not to analyze. Well, pro-wise, I believe that I need to discover what it is I'm feeling, if it's valid and what course of action I need to pursue. On the con side, sometimes it is best to leave well enough alone.

Problem: all is not well enough. Either I need to change my expectations, priorities and requirements, or I need to hold onto them (however foolish and unreasonable) and search for a person (perhaps mythical) that can fulfill my ideals. 

I will try not to overgeneralize. I am stuck between feelings of amorous affection for you and the desire to cut of any emotion at all so I won't be hurt when you finally tire of me. It is obvious that the feelings can never be mutual. Whatever stage of maturity you have or haven't reached, you are at least certain that you don't want a relationship. And am certain that I do.

I would be very willing to try to be the gallant sideline gentleman in your life, perhaps occasional intimate friend, who is always secretly hoping you'll come around one day and feel for me as I do for you. But I don't feel very mature. I am all fairy tales, hormones, daydreams and delusions. I can hardly handle a missed phone call; what would happen if you went away forever?

You have said that you are just not certain about anything. I find that I need a certain amount of certainty in my intimate friendships. I mean, I don't even like the idea of a non-committal relationship. You have been through a lot, and it has left you doubtful, pessimistic about relationships and even a bit paranoid to become involved.

You seem to have feelings for me at times, and then a sort of aversion at others. Whatever the cause, past relationships or whatever, you are at a place where you don't want to give your heart away. You are a very self-reliant individual. I don't think i is fair to either of us to deny our basic natures. 

I'd love to have a friend/lover who is as intelligent, beautiful, warm, honest and genuine as yourself. In fact, if you were not in the place in your relationship history that you are, you would be an ideal candidate. Thing is, I think you are like a field that needs a seven year rest. You have become emotionally drained by previous failed relationships and are burned out on the idea.

I do not take this personally. The fact that you've spent as much time with me as you have tells me that, in spite of your current state of mind, you at least see something interesting or attractive in me. Thank you for giving me some self-respect. I feel like less of a loser than before I met you. 

I still have a long way to go, and the problems I need to work on are not the kind of problems you have the time or emotional strength to deal with. You need to take some time and decide what you want and then find someone stable, who will provide you you with more than vast grief.

I can't help thinking that there must be someone out there that wants to commit to a long-term monogamous relationship. Which is a fancy way of saying I'd like the other person to love me. I have no delusion that this kind of thing is instant or magic. It takes work.

I am willing to do some waiting, but ultimately, my ideal is set. You may never be ready to commit to anyone again. It could take ten years. I don't have that kind of time to wait before I start working on my dream. I just can't handle too long in limbo.

We could commiserate together, but it would leave me more miserable at the end of the "co" part. I just have to let you go. It's not fair to place demands on someone emotionally. It can't be done. I'm finished. Bye.

Genny, Part Two (Love, depression, obsession ) Early 93

Dearest Genny,

Why I choose moments like this to write to you is a mystery to me. I write because I must; I am compelled to write or die. If I do not find a release for my emotions, I will implode and fall to pieces on the floor. I wish I knew God. I hear He's the one to talk to when you feel like you're going to die of heart sickness. 

Where do these feelings of utter despair come from? Why can't I let go, disengage the wheels of depression, which ceaselessly circulate painful thoughts through my head, like some horrific merry-go-round of madness?

OK, get a grip. Breathe. Count. It's OK.

No, it's not. Not OK. Nothing's OK. Everything hurts. It hurts to sit here. It hurts to think. It hurts to try to plan alleviation of my suffering because all it involves is the same old worn out remedies that don't work. 

Who the fuck am I? Where will I be in ten years? Will I always be this godforsaken depressed?

My rational mind, usually present to offer reason and good hope, has seemingly gone to sleep or left the room. Anyway, I'm in here with a big tangled ball of confused emotions and no one to tell me, "It will pass." God, I feel like I'm on an all night acid trip. No control. Well, some, but I'm just hanging on. 

So, why do I want to bum you out with all this? Cause you're my friend, and I need you. I hope I don't alienate you with what I'm about to lay on you. Please don't run and hide in the nearest bushes.

I am suffering from a scriptural malady: "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life." I keep hoping for the elusive "happy relationship" and fooling myself. 

In the past few days, since sleeping over at your house and your telling me that you love me, confiding in me that you think you are pregnant with Matt's child and, in general, spending more time with you than usual, I have come to a very painful conclusion: I am in damn-fool, head over heels, muddle headed, puppy dog love with you. 

I never got over you. I can see more things to like about you than I did before. Spending a few months getting to know you as a friend only made me feel even more deeply for you. And for a while I thought I was maturely accepting my status. I had to balance my supreme love of having you around with my fear of succumbing to my obsessional nature.

I never want to lose your friendship. It means too much to me. But, oh, Genny, the struggle!

When I saw your ad in the personals, I wanted to cry. How can you? How can you be looking for friends? It sounds so deceptive. I guess I just feel rejected because you told me, "I'm not the one" and "I can't date you." Oh, Genny, why not? Am I really that smothering?

All I want is a little of what I've been without all my life. A little affection, warmth, compassion. I swear I'd never put you through any trips. I just want someone to be in love with. Someone I like, feel comfortable with, who excites me, makes me feel wonderful -- to be specific: you. 

How does someone wind up with a girl like you? What are you looking for? Is there no possibility for a relationship between us?

I remember a night, not too long ago, when you told me some very naughty things, and I did not take you up on it at the time. Biggest mistake of my life. When the moment is there, it is like magic. But like most magic, the spell wears, off and I am left with a pumpkin. 

Cinderella spent too long dancing. She should have left the ball early and rode off into the night with her prince while they still had the carriage.  Would have saved the prince a lot of door knocking. And trying to fit a lot of smelly women's feet into a slipper that could only be filled by one beautiful Princess.

Oh, well. What this has to do with my life or yours is suspect. My analogies always have loose ends. 

But Genny, you mythical Goddess, I've never stopped regretting that we never made love. I reckon I'd probably die contented if we ever did. I do love you so much, in so many ways, it's hard to conceive. 

I was not kidding when I said I'd marry you in an instant and raise your child as if it were mine. God, Genny, if you are the prize, I don't care what Herculean feats I would have to perform, it would be worth it. 

If, on the other hand, I had to sit back and watch you find happiness with another, I'd still not want to lose you. But I'd have to be pretty stoic about it. I'm not a hard person to be friends with, just freaking impossible is all. 

I mean, I don't ask much, just that you spend the rest of your life with me. Be my love, we'll be partners. We'll live for today, plan for tomorrow and love every minute. That's about it.

Tell me please that I'm wrong or that I'm right, but please, put me out of my misery. I'll wait for you. Think it over. I'm always here for you. I'll always be a friend, maybe not a great one (I'm kind of moody). 

Well, I feel a little bit better, but only because writing takes up energy I'd have been spending freaking out, and now I'm tired. You must be, too. My letters are draining. If I don't send you this, it's cause I've gone past the crisis stage and am dealing with it on my own. If I do, then I really am crazy. 

I love you

Andrew (Drew) "Hoody" Golding

Another unsent, unfinished puppy love letter to Genny (exact date unknown)

Dear Genny,
 
If this ever finds its way into your hands then I am stupider than I even give myself credit for. You see, when I start writing letters to a woman, it is the beginning of the end. It means I have fallen head over heels in big-dumb-puppy love. 

I find that after a couple of days in your wonderful company, I am a pleasant mix of confused, elated, excited, afraid, hopeful, pessimistic, amazed and going on crazy. But I feel good. 

I guess you know me to be an emotional person. One who falls in love very easily. A fool. But I know my heart. I watch over it. I observe it as it goes through its changes, makes its mistakes and pays the price. My mind is rationally taking notes on life as my heart experiences upheaval and renewal.

I know how I feel about you as a person. As someone with whom I have shared friendship, ideas, beliefs, trust, heartaches, good times, music, food, and a warm blanket by the fire, I can say that I really do love you. I will always care about you, desire your friendship, be concerned for your well-being and be there for you if you ever need me. 

I could not honestly say that about Joy. Even during the best moments, I held a piece of my heart back. I had my own doubts. I was not truthful to her or to myself. She was saying "I love you," "Your all I want in a man," "Let's move in together," etc. etc. while we had only known each other for a week. It was too much for my little brain to handle. 

When she later came to her senses and said,"Let's cool it," I must confess, it didn't bother me nearly as much as I had expected. In fact, it was a relief. She was not what I was looking for, but I just couldn't reject her when it seemed like she liked me. I have since learned to be honest with myself about my feelings (ha) or to try to be.
 
I never stopped liking/lusting after you. I just kept on finding different things to like about you as we'd spend time together. You seemed sympathetic, aware, understanding, pretty, funny, "wacky", in general a real joy to be around. I can't help feeling very strongly about you. 

We have shared some intimate times, which I will never be able to forget. I hope they don't have to just be memories. I don't know if you could ever see yourself with a guy like me, and I could only dream of a girl as wonderful as you, but I just know that I love being with you. 

You turn me on. You make me feel all squishy and weird. Lying next to you, I felt a combination of blessed contentment and tortured restraint. I want to make love to you so much. God, you are so beautiful, and so near, yet I don't want to make you feel smothered, or like the object of unwanted affections. I can't help wishing and hoping, lusting and longing. 

You see, its not just dumb-puppy-love My feelings for you are based on what I know about you as a person, your convictions, your taste, your likes and dislikes. I like who you are. Messy room and all. You are cool. I dig you. 

I find you so pleasing to be around. I couldn't hope to meet someone who has been a better friend or anyone who is more attractive to me. I am in love with you and that's that. Oh, please please, say that there could be a chance.
 
I would give anything, do anything to make it work. I guess I really sound pathetic. Oh, well.