Dear Diary

My cats won't go near me though they do stare at me more than usual. I think they can smell my wound on its way south of cheese. I want a hip cat, a ship's cat, I want Lucifer Sam to be my lap cat.

Been taking Percocet for my pain. However, it makes me drowsy and lazy and so I thought I would try something more natural and easier on the stomach. I had to dig the pipe out of the junk on the top shelf of the closet. Mo-Nika, my Tai nurse, feather dusted away the dust. I sneezed. Ted Danson hissed.

I thought, once upon a time, that marijuana was great, that it was ambrosia sent from heaven, or after listening to Ben Harper, a gift from the earth. Oh diary, Percocet gives me an upset stomach but weed, well,it grows on the Tree of Knowledge and after eating of it's fruit last night I was hyper aware of the screws in my arm--piercing flesh, muscle, and bone.

If I could be doing anything I pleased right now, I'd be sailing on a modest sail boat at night, never more than fifty yards from shore. I'm sipping cold ones with Butch, a kind hearted Hell's Angel. Mo-Nika serves us Chinese trial mix in her own hand crafted oragami tea cups. On shore, the Robinson family is racing ostriches, tigers, and ponies. The moon is big and green in the sky and all the stars are out, orbiting planets and all. Under the table where Butch and I are playing chess, is Willow, a giant Huskie, snoozing, tired from all the excitement he shared on shore with Shania, the Robinson's bitch.

And there in the corner, out of the lantern's light, curled up in a black ball of crumpled, salty fur is Lucifer Sam...The hippest cat that ever did breathe.

me in hospital bed 

To Wake Up A Dung Beetle

Why can't I have an exo-skeleton? Curse my soft, vulnerable flesh. I am pecking at my mother's keyboard with my left hand while my right arm hangs limp, throbbing in a pain that not even a hanffull of oxi-codiene can relieve. There are metal screws holding my upper Humorous bone together--not a laughing matter.

I got in a bike accident on Wednesday on the ride home from work. I never expected at a quarter to four, that I would be bleeding in the back of an ambulance instead of cooking up a stir fry dinner at five till four. Oh how mislead the futurist are!

Spent a night in the hospital before my surgury yesterday. I'll write more about anestasia, and drugs later, after all, I will have plenty of free time this summer, being poor and unemployed, not to mention handicap. It could have been worse, much worse.

Mind as Layers of Film

I decided to start reading the Bible this morning. That is my own journey, one that I want to keep private, but at work today, thinking about what I read in the first couple chapters of Genesis, a question continued nagging me and so I thought I would raise it here on blogger.

The story about Cain's banashment after murdering his brother Abel, really gripped me. I was imagining Smeagol murdering his best friend Deagol. While reading the Holy word of God, Peter Jackson's film was flashing through my head. Abel as Gollum: balding, rotting teeth and skin, isolated and lonely in some far off mountainous region on the edge of the earth. Poor Gullum. Poor, sad, Abel.

And so my question is: How can I possibly come to the scriptures clear minded with today's pop culture icons swimming in my brain? My mind is one of those old slide screens and playing on it are years worth of television and film clips. The A Team, CHiPs, Star Wars, Saved by the Bell, The Matrix--is this what we are?

Eurika! God is like the Fonze. Please.

And so, as I read from the Bible, the reel changes, God, the Isrealites, Jesus, they are projected onto the screen over top the pathetic images that have crept into my head--or burst through--over the last 25 years. How is the media mediating our conception of the creator? We are banished to the desert, a neon, vacum tube desert. Can we ever go back?

Glass Slipper

Went and saw, The Cinderella Man, last night with my family at the new Mega-Plex theater at the Alderwood Mall. Didn't even recognize Lynwood, someone went and turned it into an amusement park of eateries and retail shops. It looked like Las Vegas--or Tomorrow Land, except with less fake rocket ships and more storefront windows and tropical islands, measuring three square feet, rising out of the red brick and asphalt sea. Cities are looking more like Disneyland everyday.

The movie: It was amazingly good. A little too good. During the fight scenes, my heart was beating out of my chest, my muscles were clinched, I was possessed, so was everyone else. People were clapping, twitching, crying. How emotional. "No." I thought, and then green computer code streamed over my reality. "Get up Trinity, get up". I couldn't get up though. I was hypnotized--dodging punches, throwing punches. I looked to my right where my dad's eyes were wide and his legs were jabbing at the floor. I looked to my left and my brother was bobbing and weaving. The crowd breathed heavily as one--still and then sudden panting, heaving--hysteria. "That was either the best movie I have ever seen or we have just been brain washed," I told my family as we left the theater. They rolled their eyes, sick of my conspiracy theories. But people were acting weird as we shuffled out of the giant theater. A woman walked into the men’s bathroom in a fit of mania. People were laughing and tripping and rubbing their eyes. It took a minute for us to get our bearings, and then all make the same comment, "what a good movie." I was expecting daylight outside, forgetting how late it was. Night greeted us when we pushed out the doors. Well, by night I mean that dark muted orange fuzz that hangs in the air--a Las Vegas night. At midnight, my mom drove the car north on I-5, my brother, dad, and I were asleep in the back seat of our pumpkin-mobile.

Problem Finally Solved

I am working on a grand unified theory of human motivation. So far, collaborating with my partner (fishing buddy), we have come up with only two attitudes or longings behind the actions of all human beings:

I just want to be loved and Fuck it.

Interesting, the second attitude, Fuck it, is really only a rejection of the prime motive, I just want to be loved.

Joy

I read CS Lewis's, Suprised By Joy, this weekend. Although he thought diary keeping a waste of time, I will still record here, in my diary (of sorts), that this book is one of the most profound books I've read to date. I highly recommend it.

Smashed

A child of alcoholic parents will often sneak into the liquor cabinet while his parents are passed out in the lazy boy chair, bloated and red, not exactly snoring as much as wheezing, and take the bottles of liquor to the kitchen sink, where he will pour the contents down the drain. The look on his face, as he stands on a stool above the sink, is contorted in anger and hatred, tears fill his eyes and run down his cheek, dripping, mixing, swirling with whisky. The child is scarred for life. After all, children are the most delicate of creatures and should be surrounded with Care Bears and puppy dogs.

The first thing Dad is going to want when he wakes up and rolls his dry yellow tongue in his mouth, is a shot of Bourbon. He'll stumbles to the cabinet with his stout crystal glass in hand, a film of dried lip and rum smeared on the rim of the glass. To a drunk, washing dishes is pointless. Why worry about the external filth in one’s surroundings when one's insides are filled with disease? How surprised he'll be to find his medicine gone. Confusion first, then panic, not a panic of the mind, not rational at all, much worse, a panic of the body. Trillions of cells halting on the streets of the kingdom Body. Traffic accidents, workers abandoning their machines, all cellular citizens holding their breath with eyes in the sky--and then come the screams. A trillion angry citizens revolting, animating Dad into a seething maniac. "Where the hell is my god-damned Whisky?! Junior!!!"

Two strong possible outcomes follow: Junior will get beat within an inch of his life as an entire microscopic civilization launches weapons of massive emotional destruction: the belt, the fist, the dinning chair, or, the Kingdom Dad, looks to higher purpose, virtue, balance, an economy of H2O instead of yeast waste. In the second case, dad realizes his wasted life and the potential for positive pleasures in fathering his son. This scene would end with dad and junior embracing in tears, back lit in amber.

I would have liked to sneak the television out of my parents armoire and smash it to pieces in the street with a shovel this past weekend. We could have then all embraced and talked about real stuff. Stuff that isn’t from the TV.