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July 25, 2003
Speaking of letting it all hang out.. "What we need is a major e-vent, apocalyptic in nature. Naturally I would like survive and I'd like it if you were to survive, too. It would be nice to have someone to have a conversation with after the debacle." -ts Extreme weirdness. Fear and Loathing on a deep space scale. Like the damn oppressive fogbank looming over all the underworld today, and for the past several daze. The haze, the Jamie Lee Curtis fog creeping down Pine Crest yesterday like a gang bang spirit posse, moving north and uphill, not content to swallow all of overpopulated creation but this tiny blue pine tree wagon circle robin egg san-you-very-much-uary as well. Up the Hill. Over the river and through the voods to grandmutti's haus vee go, me and mein schatze and her cholly chumping chigglebox. Until the other day I had no idea that swimming pools existed at this altitude. Sweet Alice swims and sunbathes today, explaining away two sets of vampire teethmarks on her lower leg and inner-upper left thigh. Different size incisors. The lower set small, a tiny ankle-biter vampire. The higher set more difficult to explain away in a bikini, clearly an act of passion, consented of course.. And I, like Hogan's Schultz, know nothing. How could I? After damn near three hours in a 4th class doctor's office waiting room for the exam that never came. To whit: Ugh. Another pastel nasty bad-carpet, foam ceiling tile and fluorescent lit medical waiting room. Whazzit been? Two hours? Three. A mandatory court-ordered psych evaluation and the doctor hasn't shown. What was it Chinaski said? "Nobody suffers like the poor." And a radiology clinic of all places. So here's me and a lobby fulla old birds waiting on mammograms. Swell. Swell breasts. Swell-ing. Breast swelling. Brain swelling. My consolation, my one mild triumph (aside from not having breast cancer) is that I managed to vibe out the television for the two hours. Since I was first patient of the day, the receptionist gave me a choice. Naturally, I said no. On the woman's four subsequent visits to see if others-in-waiting wanted the tube on, I scowled and directed menacing vibes at any face belying the slightest interest in the evil box. Of course, evil eventually prevailed. The whole experience of subjecting oneself to psychological examination in a broken-winged, flailing attempt to get help has, for me anyway, resulted in a kind of emotional bends. God only knows how long it'll be before I can come up for air again, breathe again the clear oxygenated air that only the sane and native jungle-dwellers know. I have but one goal now. One. Very clear. Call it a 5-year plan, a 5-day plan, whatever. I must get my writing circulating publicly. This means an agent, an editor, a publisher, one or all of the above. And it means making a living from my writing (as I have done briefly on a few occasions). I must. It is a moral imperative of late. I am quite sure that if it doesn't happen soon, I will wither and die. Getting financial and medical help for my chronic depression is in every way secondary. But it must also happen, for without it I am all the more likely to cease to be. If you know an agent, an editor, a publisher, tell them what it is that appeals to you about this mad, rambling work of mine. I need all the help I can get. I must publish. It is all I can think about anymore, the only pursuit that makes my poverty worth it. Which leads me to the title of tomorrow's rant: Go Spec Yourself!! -RSM the Duke of Tunnel Vision
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