I’ve arrived at the conclusion that sexual orientation is a complete fiction. No one is innately disposed in any direction. This is true for at least me… Last night, I thought of what it would be like to go to Polly’s house at night. Creep up the porch to the front door. What would I feel? And I realized that I don’t feel related to the family at all anymore. I feel totally detached from them. Plus, they probably feel the same way regarding me. I could just see myself on their front porch, entirely a stranger, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was a little scary to imagine… Polly still hasn’t tried to call me… I saw some political headlines and was only disgusted. Politicians are the most impotent people on earth. It is so corrupt and dependent on big money that nothing will ever get done. This reminds me of a dream I had. I was in church, and the place was just packed with worshippers, more than I’d ever seen. I was happy about this, and after service I asked Tori what was going on. She told me that World War 3 had just been declared. But the surprising thing about my dream is that I was devout during the service. I prayed along with everyone else. Suddenly our small church had grown into something big and very real. There were no unbelievers. The need for religion was undeniable as the end of the world had begun.
Quarter of ten. Back from my blood draw. Very mass production and computerized at the lab. Not very comfortable. No one can be personal with you. We treat our dogs and cats better than people. There’s something wrong with that. The best part of the excursion was the taxi ride with Eric. It’s good to be home again. The sun has come out… My conscience doesn’t kill me like it used to. Even when people upbraid me, I don’t take it to heart anymore. It isn’t worth it to beat myself up… It’s my life and my house, so I feel like going back to bed. The depression gets worse and worse, because I feel like an anachronism while the world moves ahead faster and faster. The computers are getting smarter than human beings. But no matter how I complain, I know it’s a useless move. Polly wants to turn back the clock to the 1950s; I want a return to the 1970s.
One o’clock. Finally went to the market after first resting in bed a while. I felt cold and more dysphoric than ever. The sun has managed to stay out, thankfully. To be feeling so terrible must implicate the medication; I can think of no other reason why. But I got a chore done today. I’d been putting it off for months. And my blood wasn’t green.
Quarter after six.
I had a flashback to last December, the night when Pastor D– picked me up and we went up on campus to Blue Christmas. It was a strange experience. Pastor dropped a remark about Trump that made me wonder. He said he believed Trump was the Antichrist. I was incredulous, and told him so. It was embarrassing for both of us, though I think it was harder for him. Ever since then, things have been awkward between us. Pastor probably regrets having said anything like that. He exposed himself and made himself vulnerable. My response was rather knee-jerk and thoughtless. While my state of mind was commonsense realism, his was farfetched fantasy, and a part of himself knew it was silly and childish. It’s like the daydreams about Santa Claus I had as a second grader. I hadn’t thought of those things in many years. I believed in magic. I swallowed all the lies about Santa Claus I saw and heard from my parents and the media. I believed it because I wanted to. I guess it’s called the will to believe. But of course, as I grew older and began to question what I’d been told, I realized that the facts didn’t support the belief. And as Richard Dawkins has already said, the God delusion is the same thing… Anyway, I feel bad for Pastor and I regret the awkwardness between us now. Two months seems like forever ago. I hadn’t thought about my situation with the church until last night. I’ve kept attending because they don’t want me to leave. A church group is similar to a family, with all the members being interdependent. However, my loss of faith is irrevocable. When you don’t believe, you simply don’t believe…
Four thirty five. I’m seeing how disorderly I am in my housekeeping. I ordered two gig bags for my basses because I want to go get my white P copy from the church and bring it home. Work with it, optimize it for playing. Put round wound strings on it. Set the intonation to perfection. Maybe shine it with some Windex. Restore it. Funny, I don’t remember what year I bought it, but I think it was 2011. I know I had it when Henry was still alive. My memory of when I used to drink is toast. Polly sent me an Easter card in either 2011 or 12, and around that time I played that bass in the living room. Also, Kate bought the strings for it, which would be in the fall of 2011. I made some recordings with Audacity on my computer that year. I remember making a trip to Radio Shack one night that fall. I bought an adapter or something so I could feed my bass’s signal to my computer. It didn’t work very well. But I made some recordings and emailed them to Kate. They were bad. I was always drunk and impaired, couldn’t hope to have played well. It’s a miracle I was functional enough to write to her. But concerning ever getting together with her, it couldn’t have worked. I wasn’t mature enough to be a husband and stepfather. Nor was I healthy enough. So, there’s likely a meaningful reason why I want to work with my old white Precision copy. Bring it up to par and up to date. The instrument symbolizes myself in my dissolute past.
Two fifty. Almost time to go to my appointment. A date with fate in a black taxi. I’m not having a good day. This tablet is freaking me out. I posted a rant about how I feel to my blog. It’s been a long day and it isn’t over yet. I feel the way most artists do when privacy is menaced.
One o seven. I need to figure out what is really bugging me lately, and I think it’s my coming colonoscopy. I complained of an invasion of privacy, and a camera up the butt can be no other than that. So I might as well talk about my feelings rather than let them infiltrate all my other thoughts. I feel that a colonoscopy is not only an invasion, but also a violation, even though I know it’s supposed to help me. Medical procedures, from a psychological point of view, are often strangely sexual. I feel the same way about psychotherapy. The bottom line is the word rape, and the word violence is related to the French viol, for rape. Once, when I was psychotic, I was in a bathroom of a phlebotomist and saw lingam and yoni in all the plumbing. The faucet looked like a phallus, the basin like a womb. I wonder if everyone has that experience subconsciously? Likewise, the fiber optic tube of a colonoscopy resembles a very long phallus inserted up the rectum and into the colon. So that whoever invented the procedure was probably anal sadistic, to use a Freudian term. I’m likely making too much of a fuss over a little thing. Everyone over fifty years old undergoes this operation, but still I must confess that I’m not mentally prepared for it…
Quarter of one. My mind is crowded with memories, all competing for attention. Mostly I wish to confess being a utilitarian, whether that’s good or bad. Everybody wants to be happy, I reckon. My sister would disagree, saying that what’s important is not our happiness but God’s plan for us. Well, not everyone has God on their side. I don’t know if I am saved or a lost soul, and it makes no difference if I reject the religious terms and use my own. I suppose I’m not alone in my epicurean beliefs. I regret that some of my friends are altruists to the hilt, for I don’t share their motives. It’s okay to derive pleasure from life, and even better to spread happiness around. Relieving the suffering of others is always a good thing; everyone understands pleasure and pain: that’s why utility makes excellent sense. But all my defense aside, at the kernel of my being is an egoistic impulse, and nothing can change it. People argue that egoism is childish and immature, and something to outgrow. Still I can’t envision me putting myself in the front line in some war I don’t believe in. And the more sober and conscious I am, the more convinced I am of my position… Hey look— Heidi is here!
I prefer having good friends with high intelligence. I never wanted to get married because I knew I’d become bored with the same partner year after year. Or maybe I’m just an introvert and prefer solitude? I have loved a few people in my life. I know I am different from most people in being androgynous. Maybe less so than I think. Social norms and rituals make us feel like we have to jump all the same hurdles. The honest person struggles with that more than others. It seems to me that schizophrenia is a symptom of modern life. It is a mirror held up to society, and it seems to say, This is you. The thing I like about Anne Sexton is how honest she is about feeling lost and helpless. She begs for a world where people can just spill their guts and admit to being weak and human. It could be that schizophrenia is a little like that. Sexton contemplated religious conversion, but had to confess that believing is not the same as needing to believe… When we are honest, not one of us fits the round holes of society perfectly. So we do the best we can. Some of us write about our lives in hopes of broadening the human reality. Of raising consciousness. The better we write, the better the guideposts we leave behind.
If love finds a way, great. But it must be a true love, one that I’m sincere about. I wish L— were available. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve met in a long time. It’s not so much a sensuous or voluptuous beauty. Something purer, more angelic or divine. The other night I dreamed I was holding and caressing her right hand under the table. In reality once, she grasped my hand and pulled it to her abdomen, holding it there as she spoke to me. Well, I can dream about her. Pretty soon I will pick up Nietzsche where I left off. Zarathustra so far isn’t outrageous. A little selfish passion is more than okay, it’s probably right. It takes courage to be true to oneself. To dare to love somebody desperately. Romantic love can’t be wrong. And I think of my dull family, utterly gutless, bovine, stupid. Intelligent people do like Lord Byron. They take risks for desire. They are more like Kate, or like my mother: nothing stopped them, not fear, not guilt, nor any useless inhibition. I wish for one more chance, the propitious opportunity, the auspicious moment. A chance to go for it though I break my leg— or my heart.
Seven o’clock. Out of the monastery, into the world, which begins with a new house. One of the workers wants to be friends. I’m a little wary. We don’t see the powers directly; we only see the effects. Most assuredly there exist principalities of both light and darkness, and it is said that Christ is the Light of the world, and that darkness hides from it. Some of the effects of darkness are ill health by substance use; sexually transmitted diseases; and depression and other mental illnesses. If the contrasts were less extreme then they wouldn’t be so noticeable. Maybe I’m just a bit panicky after the step I took this morning. I wish my intuition for the invisible were more receptive. As it is I only pick up on signs here and there. However, it’s been a long, tiring week, and the weekend may offer rest and some insight. The light and darkness ideas may resolve into shades of gray, a more realistic perception. It’s possible that my notions from Ephesians are merely psychotic. A little caution doesn’t hurt, still. This weekend is clear of any engagements. Time heals all wounds. I do wish that my life wouldn’t keep moving in circles. Maybe there’s an issue I must resolve with Laurel Hill before I can move on. But I grow tired of maybes. I hope for a refreshing sleep tonight. Over and out.
One o’clock. Lisa replied to my email, saying that the holidays seem to bring everything to a head. She said being true to my convictions is important. I just got tired of hearing a lot of secondhand opinions on what makes the world go round. I know I confessed my feelings to the right person. Lisa is very sincere in her faith, a true believer; more so than Pastor. So now I guess I don’t have to go to church Sunday. I can stay home and enjoy my house and my great dog. I won’t be ungrateful for the way life has been kind to me after a long severe test, not unlike the trials of Job in the Old Testament. I look back on the trailer metamorphosis with some doubt now. Was it only my imagination that made it seem purposeful? My life has been restored to me after a loss. Is that really like Job, or did I cling to any hope to keep me going? Eight months was a very long time to wait. I was extremely patient and persistent through the whole ordeal. I think I deserve a respite for a few weeks. Time to put down roots and get used to being home. I couldn’t care less about Christmas since what I went through. I still identify better with Job’s adversities and final restoration.
There’s still room for some things to be mysterious, but eventually people will know everything. Except… I had a dream the other night that one of the packers had found my old scarlet King James Version and returned it to me. It was a bible I had donated to De Paul’s many years ago. It was returned thinned out and with a note addressed to me urging me to read the book. Before that, I had a similar dream of graduation from group: I was given two books, one of them a pocket New Testament. In both dreams, the emphasis is on the New Testament. Perhaps there is still something I’m not understanding about Christ. Or maybe it’s not a matter of understanding?