Impressions 1/18/23

 Sixty years and one more just a few months down the road. Every day I'm reminded that I have fewer days ahead of me than lie in my past. I like to think I've made peace with this fact but I could be deluding myself. I know what it's like to think I'm about to die and it ain't a pretty sight. I've made up my mind to pass peacefully in my sleep, as if I had any say in the matter. And yet for some reason I feel it can be no other way. I hope it's not. Nothing else sounds good.

I see a psychiatrist every few months. She had convinced me to stop smoking marijuana and even though it's been hard, even though it's now legal, medicinally where I live, I have done as she's asked and in a couple of months it will be exactly 2 years since I imbibed. Not that she's the only reason I stopped. My wife didn't like it. If I were being honest I'd have to admit that the last month or so when I smoked regularly I was beginning to act strangely. The paranoia was taking root. I still feel some of the after effects, though I'm unable to give much of a description of what those effects entail. It doesn't matter. I feel better, even if I've lost the excitement and insight that getting high afforded me. 

This psychiatrist has sort of a form questionairre that she usually trots out asking me more or less to rate how often I've felt normal, as compared, I suppose, to being schizoaffective/bipolar. Most of the questions are easily answered but the last one is tricky. It's the one that wants to know if I feel as if I would be better off dead and, consequently, if I've had thoughts of ending my life. I always answer in the negative and it's true, I don't think about killing myself. I don't really want to die. I like to read too much, there are too many books and authors I want to read, I'll never have enough time in what I have left to touch all of them. And I still love music, even if I'm currently fascinated by Black Metal...not that I listen to it exclusively, I don't think I could do that, but for a couple of hours every night before I go to sleep I will play BM on Spotify and it seems to condition my brain to have interesting dreams. If there's any kind of music that would provide a perfect soundtrack for desolation, isolation and thoughts of suicide, it's Black Metal. One subgenre that I enjoy is evcen called DSBM: Depressive Suicidal Black Metal.

Listening to this stuff, most of which promotes Satanism and at the very least anti-Christian sentiment, is somewhat conflicting because even though I don't feel like much of a Christian these days (I feel ostracized from the community of believers because I don't think I'm 100% on board with their dogma and I think the religion has been diluted to the point where it's hard to recognize the real thing, and I certainly am not the one to know that "the real thing" actually is), nevertheless I do believe I'm a forgiven Christian, it's just that it's hard for me to believe in the versionS of Christianity that have been presented to me. 

The last two and a half years have seen me back in a mental ward on more ocassions than I care to count. I had a good run of well over 10 years when my medication was keeping things in balance (of course I was smoking marijuana most of that time, too, so that could have been either beneficial or perhaps I could have felt even better had I not been). Then I decided to go to a facility that I was under the impression would provide help for my sleep issues (insomnnia, later developed into sleep apnea). What happened at that place was like a living hell on earth that I don't even want to try to describe, as if I could. Apparently I had a psychotic episode while I was there. 

It took some time to get over this episode after leaving this place and I continued to get high. From the way things looked this marijuana usage tended to exacerbate what I thought were further, oncoming psychoric episodes (whether they were or not I don't know, I just felt it best to err on the side of caution). I had myself voluntarily commited to a hospital. Not long before this first visit I'd learned about COVID, when it first came to light on the evening news. I'm guessing my first commital corresponded with the first major nationwide outbreak of the Coronavirus. It was weird. I was there for a couple of weeks which seemed like much longer, and on the trip home 50 miles from the City I had to wear a mask for the first time in my life. Then, when I got home I was expected to quarantine for 5 days alone in the bedroom. No problem. I'm an isolated person anyway, for better or worse. 

Anyway it was expected that I find a psychologist and do thererapy as part of my treatment. At first I was on board. There was a place in a small city 25 miles from home which offered services so I made an appointment to do an intake. When I got there they paired me with a young woman who could not have been over 30 years old. She couldn't have been in practice for very long but it wasn't so much that she was young but I felt I needed an older MAN who might understand me better. Perhaps my expectations or understanding of what the therapy would entail were skewed but what made me decide to absolutely NOT do this therapy was when the psychotherapist asked me if I believed in God.

Part of me was aghast that this would be a consideration for psychotherapy. I suppose I over-reacted in regards to that, it probably says a lot about me. I'm sure it does. But when she asked I could only think about church people and denominations and such that I couldn't square with what I believed God truly was. In other words, I think I believed in God but this was probably not the same God that most Christians or even religious people believe in so I just answered "No."

Ever since then I've felt a bit haunted by that response. It comes back at me when I listen to music that is vehemently anti-Christian and makes me wonder what it is I find in this genre that I am relating in such a strong way these days. Why do I no longer feel like reading the Bible? Why can't I even make myself pray? I remember once, a couple of years ago when I was trying to find a church congregation to "hook up" with I went to my old church (before I initially lost my faith), the Methodist church, and I took communion and when I went to pray after recieving the "wine" I could only think of one thing to say, "Oh, Lord, please open my mouth". I don't know exactly what I meant by that but I'm guessing it has to do with my stubborness in regards to prayer. I can't help but wonder, in my heart of hearts, if Jim Morrison was right when he said "You cannot petition the Lord with prayer". 

I have confessed Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour. But on the other hand I have explicitly stated that "I don't believe in God". I am afraid that this makes me apostate and if such is the case...well, I guess that's not the best place to end this bit of confessional rambling but circumstances dictate that I wrap it up now. Perhaps later.

Random Top 10 List (July 3, 2017)

1. Wack-a-Doodle
2. I don't trust you any farther than I can throw you
3. Fanatics
4. Procol Harum
5. Devastation
6. blu-ray waterproof
7. Rock Jelly
8. the sound of a Wurlitzer
9. ninth on a list of ten
10. Doodle Wack-a

Rock and Roll will never die

Channelin' Lectric Chairs

I woke up from a dream in which I slept but never dreamed. Then I got caught between the poles that sever sleep and wakefulness. I said to myself, "This must be Nirvana" and felt a wave of nauseating bliss which woke me to prove it's cherished point, you have no choice, you cannot be both the dreamer who dreams and the sleeper who sleeps without dreaming at the same time. Simply can't be done.

I felt the throbbing stab of a pain in my neck. Pretty sure the culprit is the pillow I'm using, it's not firm enough. Of all the pillows I own it is a shame to have to admit that it's the only one I can stand to sleep on. And it makes my neck sore as hell. Agony suppressed via ancient Chinese martial arts. Did I sleep too long on that one side, could that have been a cause? And if no, why not? Indeed, why not? Make that query to anyone you meet and they'll say "just because". Only a fool would deny that this statement is the bare truth.

I thought I would try to channel a spirit. I felt an other-worldly sense of cannabis prophecy come on, strong, yea, TOO strong in my bones. I've seen  'em channel spirits and figured, I know I could do that, too, right? Why the hell not?

This is the prophecy that was given to me at approximately 7:42 CST on this very day of January 29 in the unlucky year of 2017, soon to be known as The Year of the Soulless King.

O, King of this valley
Where the hearts are heavy and the days are long
He's the king of that valley, yes he is
It is a valley filled with bloodshed and bones
King of this valley, that ground he's standing on
He's well aware from where it came and from whom it belongs
Banes and bleeding heads and hearts
Your love did surely tear us apart
Your face down in the quicksand
When your ship comes in, you got to be there
You got to sing some creepy Delta blues
Some Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon Jefferson

Robin Rimbaud - Emily

Bipolar Confessional - the Playlist

A significant lot of my poetry at Bipolar Confessional, the blog. Not to be confused with this gorgeous piece of curation. A soundtrack for this website, at least for the time being.

Matlock, Mason & the Blue Vampire, Chapter One: A Faltering Start/A Startling Fart

CHAPTER 1...Matlock, Mason and the Blue Vampire

Doyle Matlock was working the graveyard shift at the Take It Or Leave It convenience store, chugging Monsters and stealing dirty magazines from the shelf. Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, all the big names along with the seedier variety of High Society, Cheri and the classy Club and Club International imprint. Once a week the periodical distributor would swap out 3 or 4 titles, replacing them with new issues. The manager and the store owner's wife would always take a paper bag each, presumably at the request of their husbands, and fill it with the fresh stuff. Likewise, though management had no idea, Doyle followed their lead in packing a copy of each "adult" magazine in his own paper bag, which was large enough to accommodate not only the magazines but a 6-pack of Michelob beer and several sticks of beef jerky as well. He liked to skim the most expensive brand of beer that he could rarely afford to buy for his own. Doyle Matlock never looked a gift horse in the mouth when it came to his impressive collection of contraband.

Yes, there's one thing you can say about Doyle Matlock. One thing, no make that two. The Matlock family name is not well known in these parts for it's generosity. Many an enemy has he made by clinging to the bizarre code of ethics he'd derived from the text of all the "adult" magazines he was reading through on a practically daily basis. Sort of a cross between Hugh Hefner's hedonistic Playboy Philosophy and his own cherry-picked values and morals, every one of which is dragged down by the weight of values and morals.

The second thing you must know about the Matlock's is that they are not to be fucked with. Yea, as I said they made a lion's share of enemies throughout the course of their incredibly violent reign of power.

But, listen. Sit your ass down for a minute and hear me out. Whose to say you might walk away from this communication and dismiss it as the lunatic ravings of a second generation Rosicrucian.

Contrary to popular belief,the legendary evening in which Matlock first established his rule of the Take It Or Leave It is a subject near and dear to the hearts of women between the ages of 34-56. But no matter how wretched their existence became, Doyle always rose above the failures of his family. Though it does them no good at this point you know at least it's the thought that counts.

Doyle Matlock's face is filled with dread the moment he sees me, slapping down a five dollar bill to pay for some donuts, I'd recognized him. I thought, You bastard, you ain't-a gonna git away this time. Yes, overdone southern charm and all, I called him out by name.

I said, "What the hell you so frightened of? You think I'm looking to hurt you?"

"Word on the street that you is," Matlock said, demonstrating his poor grasp of vocabulary and proper grammar. "Yeah, boy, word is you the devil himself. I can see it pourin' out of ya like an aura. An aura of so many colors. So many, many, beautiful, pretty flowers. God I love flowers. Who don't love flowers? You can't claim to have a soul in your body if you don't like at least a few different flowers. Flowers and grammar and damn if it ain't the devil, wouldn't you know he'd be here, tagging along to get a glimpse of the Big Man."

"Well I ain't no goddamn devil, boy, you better hear me and get this straight. You don't know the goddamn devil, you hear that, Boy? You ain't never dealt with the goddamn devil. I just want to know if you've seen that Mason boy loitering in the vicinity of your premises?"

Doyle's countenance fell.

"I don't know who the hell you're talking about, Hoss, you said the name was Mason? Is that first or last name o' Mason?"

"It doesn't matter anymore," I said. "I've already lost interest."

"No, brother, it does matter."

"Okay, so it matters. Have you seen him?"

"Yeah, I seen him a couple ern hours ago. He come in here, I think he was high on methamphetamine, he kept talking in a strange language, gesticulatin' all over the place. Said he was gonna be a poet, wouldn't you know it? All high-falutin' and every which way. Got words leakin' out of him like ethanol fuel from a hole in a gas can, just a' waitin' for somebody to come along and put the flame to it."

"That sounds like Mason, all right," I said, rubbing my chin like a rogue plotting schemes in a Victorian tale. "He do like to go around thinkin' he's something special, don't he? What with those clever turns of phrase and mildly confusing couplets tainted with the magnetic lust for fame."

Doyle scratched his own beard, contemplating how much information he thought would be prudent to share. "I'm telling you it HAD to be methamphetamine he was riding. Damn tweakers get a look in their eye, ya know? It's unmistakable. Hits 'em long before their appearance starts going to hell."

Now let me stop for just one moment to tell you that my opinion of tweakers is set on a sliding scale based upon their ability to procure excessively potent marijuana in large amounts at reasonable prices. Mason's been a tweaker for years, this is common knowledge in Meeker. It's also a solidly grounded fact that I don't like poets. Since this particular speed freak had no connections for the wacky backy that meant he had two strikes going against him. I aimed to locate the loser and deliver that third strike.

"But did he tell you were he was going? What he was going to do?" I asked, by this point ready to drop all formalities and leave Doyle Matlock counting cigarettes and fudging inventory reports. I needed to know where the man had gone and daylight was burning like a library of banned books tossed into a pile in front of the building, doused with kerosene and set ablaze for the whole town to see.

Matlock coughed, wiped spittle from his chin, coughed again, wiped an even larger gob of slobber off the counter where it had sprayed in an arc and splashed with an audible *plop*.

"Fuckin' poet said he was going to the Watering Hole. Said he had some business he had to take care of with a regular he'd met there a few nights ago. Said this dude had some sharp teeth. Said he thought he might be a vampire and he wasn't kidding around, there was a healthy amount of fear in his eyes that flared when the suggestion was contemplated. A vampire, Billy, can you believe it? A true blue vampire! An actual dead person with lethal chompers that'll come up on ye in the middle of the night and try to take a nibble o' yer blood, that monster will just as soon bite you as tell you your house is on fire and when he DO bite you, mister, you gonna live forever, too, but you gonna find that the worst curse the Lord above could ever levy against the human element of His creation is to live forever. Especially when it means you gotta drink blood to survive and you gotta watch out for wooden stakes, crosses and garlic. And get this, you have no reflection in the mirror or really any reflective surface...It means you will live on until the end of time and afterwards but you can never see what you look like. After a couple hundred years I warrant you're liable to forget so the rest of your days, at the very least until someone gets smart enough to put a stake through your heart, you're gonna walk and talk the moonlight hours without a clue as to what you even look like. Some might say that could be a liberating experience but just as many will point out that it's hard to maintain effective grooming habits, including the management of one's hair, when you've been robbed of the ability to gauge your appearance."

This was news. I was hoping vampires wouldn't rear their ugly heads in this tale. They may still not. I could put the kibosh on the whole undead thing in a heartbeat and the mood I'm in right now makes that sound like the most prudent option.

"So Mason's got himself entangled with a blue vampire, you don't say?"

"I don't say. But that's what I said. I mean that's what HE said. Who knows how far you can shake a stick at a tweaker, you know? Who knows if that's Pinocchio's nose dribbling snot, distributing it throughout the short hairs of his unkempt moustache? It's hard to tell, but that's what he told me. Be honest I thought he was full of shit, myself."

"He probably is full of shit, Doyle ol' boy. But vampire or not he probably was on the level about heading to the Watering Hole. Looks like that's going to be my destination too but I will tell you that of all the places I might want to spend the rest of this evening, the Watering Hole is not on that particular list."

"I hear ya, chief. I try to avoid that dive whenever I possibly can."

"Smart man, Mr. D.M. Matlock. You are an intelligent human being. What time are you getting off work anyway? You think you might want to accompany me? I could use another hand in subduing Mason when he finds out what I'm there for."

"Billy Jack, I appreciate the offer, I really do. Your confidence in me is inspiring. But I don't think any higher of that cesspool Watering Hole than you do and besides I owe money to the bartender. I think you're going to have to make this visit all by yourself. Besides, I'm gonna be here another three hours or my ass is on the unemployment line. By the time I'm clocking out Mason will either have already moved on or be laid up in a hospital bed."

I turned it over in my head. On one hand like I said it would have been nice to have some backup muscle in case things went awry. On the other hand I was not looking forward to walking into that joint with Doyle Matlock in tow because indeed he does owe money to the bartender just like he probably owes money to 75% of everyone else there. His inability to keep his debts paid has made him a very unpopular man in certain circles, the Watering Hole definitely at the top of that list. It would have been social suicide to be seen with him. It could have defeated the entire purpose of my presence in that shithole. After I contemplated the enigma for a moment or two in silence I came to the realization that the latter scenario was more probable so I was glad he decided not to go.

"You're right, dude. I'd better go now before that blue vampire sends him out on a stretcher. Doyle, thanks for this. I can always count on you for solid information. Y'know not everyone has a grapevine connection like I have with you. Maybe I'm gettin' too sentimental and gushy but I have always felt like you and I had a good thing going, I ask you a question, you generally give me a good, useful answer. That's an arrangement which many better men than I would kill to have. You always give me great intel and when I shake your hand I hope you know that I'm squeezing it as hard as I do because it's a subliminal signal that I appreciate the way your calloused fingers slide across the back of my hands. It's a feeling that's almost sensuous. No, did I say "almost"? Indeed it is the most sensuous sensation I've experienced since adolescence. Stay true, Doyle. I'm outta here."

"Buh buh buh buh buh bye bye Billy Boy," he half sang, affecting the tone and mannerisms of Jackie Gleason. "Good luck with your tweaker. And watch out for that blue vampire."

I turned my head, fixing my gaze on the surprised countenance revealed in his facial features.

"Son, there ain't no such thing as blue vampires. Just meth junkies, their crap poetry and the tall tales they weave."