My father has pneumonia.
He's on a respirator now. Why does all this sound like a final struggle for survival to me? Why does this sound completely opposite from the man that I spoke to over the phone no more than a day or two ago? He was so vibrant and strong, so ready to leave the hospital as soon as the infection drained. Now his feeble body is growing even more so. Does he even want to hold on now, or is he doing it for us?
He has an almost childlike desire to move on. To see what's on the other side of the great fold. No one wants to say the word, and neither am I, but I wonder, what is going on in the mind of that man. Is every day so gray and so the same now that he doesn't want to return to it? I say this because I wonder what about my gray days? Have I given up somewhat too? Have I said, along with him, that this is as far as I want to go? Do we end together? We didn't begin together, so why should I finish my life on this planet with him? He is set to move on, he's had enough. He's tapping out. I'm not even pinned to the mat yet. I'm not going anywhere, my soul is. My heart is. My pain is. I don't want him to leave. I want him to hold on, but is that being selfish? He was looking pretty bad the last time I saw him. I don't like seeing him like that. I would like to see him in a hospital bed even less. That's my father. I love him.
I need to find something to do. A hobby. Something to take an hour or two out of my life that I really like to do. I used to like slot car racing. But I don't know of anywhere that has any here in the city. Let me check the Internet. Hmmm, there's only one on West 46th street. Might be worth looking into. Rev up an old hobby. Just a change of things, or sorts of faces and life. A change. Maybe that's what I need.
Monday, it was brutally cold. I didn't feel like going outside, so I stayed in and kept warm. I was supposed to head out to the Metro- politan Hospital and get an eye exam but I just became a cold weather bitch and stayed home. Maybe I can wait out the entire winter here like a grizzly bear and wake up in the spring. This would work if I had a female bear in here to be with while I waited out the freezing temperatures. We can keep each other warm with body heat. I need to think about something else.
I have to mentally prepare to go down to North Carolina and deal with the un-deal-able. This has given me dismal, alone, reproductive thoughts. Approaching death feeds your imagination, makes to seek solitude, seek pussy, seek sadness. You get hungry for something to fill the hole that the parent that you loved is beginning to vacate. I am not doing well with my father not well. Today I have to deal with WECARE and I really don't want to be bothered with her this week, I really don't want to be dealing with Charliqua's shit. More and more of her going on, more threats as to my benefits, more and more. Now this is where erratic things might occur. Being that I'm stressed out as it is, and I don't like dealing with her in the first place, I might just punch her in the mouth. Knock a bunch of her fucking teeth loose.
But that would not work out. Things would fare badly for me. The product of being under stress. Boy I need to do things differently this year. This is the pits in anyone's book. I'm in the crack of the world's ass, eating shit daily. I make hot coffee and find that I have no hot water. That's not good. No shower today. I'll just chill and wait. Then I'll send this bitch an email and see if she can give me another day to get out to see her. Charliqua Lovebiscuit. My anal canal.
She is such a crap of a person. I try to feel sorry for her, her job, the position that she is in every morning to get up and do that job, and that there are NO jobs out there to lateral over to something better, but when the system you work for is corrupt what do you do? When you find that they make you a shit for pay, do you then allow yourself to be shit? How low do you stoop for a dollar? To survive? Are you going to tell me giving head in a back alley for $20.00 is not a better occupation? I shouldn't talk, I'm part of the system too, but I've whored with the streets. I was the tramp of the gutter at one time, sleeping in parks and libraries and transit stations. I did all of this. So maybe I can't judge someone who doesn't want to go through it, but Charliqua is a trip.
Fuck her...and I don't mean it literally. I wouldn't fuck her with a rusted dildo. I feel for the man that does. I'm sitting in my home today, rotting away, going from one day to the next, before the Internet, writing, or smoking dope. I did a little of that. I want to get to working on my novel again soon. I went to a Staples copy department and priced the printing out of my Novel for sending to the publisher....$95.00. Shit. Now talk about commitment. I've got to scare up money, print and mail the fucker. I can do it, it's no mean feat, but shit. $95.00 may not be much to you, but to me it's a king's ransom.
I sleep much to keep from being depressed. Sometimes sleep is the best medicine. It makes the day rush by, makes the pain go away. I need a job. Someplace to go daily and talk to people. To interact...not that workmates are the best people to interact with, but I could use any human company. I think that I can do better than spending time with myself.
Time with myself...I've had about enough.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2010/01/torrential-downpour-of-soul.html
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