Archive for the 'PTSD' Category

Make Believe Bitches & Money

Know what I love?

I love to day dream about gettin paid.

Yeah that ain’t working — that’s the way you do it!

I like it when loose US $50 notes flip & tumble-roll in the air like feathers escaped from a big fluffy-goose bed. I want a pile of money big enough to lay back & relax in like it was a recliner chair.

Sip on chilled neon sweat-drip glass fulls of Dexedrine-spiked & iced Alien Turd tea. With my mind on my money & my money on my mind!

There is a tall highway over-pass a short walk from town. When I want to off myself — if you don’t have days like that…get out of my face — I think about how I might jump off it. Should I so choose. But I want to go out First Class — and that crumby old bridge, from even a suicidal standpoint, is a whole low-rent load of going out coach.

I want so much money I can plunge beneath an oxygen squeezed crater-load of it until I suffocate & die. Like an Irishman near drowned after an inadvertent slip & fall into a whiskey vat; fighting rescuers off bravely and resurfacing only to demand tequila & cans of Guinness pub draft beer.

I know what you’re saying. “But Mike E: if you have so much money you need 3 bitches & a swiss bank account — why would you want to commit suicide?”

Not a reason on all sweet momma Earth. Money is the solution to all my problems. That’s why I love to day dream in my spare time about getting paid.

When I occasionally wish I were dead it invariably is because of Smoldering Abject Poverty. Sometimes I want to commit suicide. Yes. And you know what? I’m proud of it. Why? Because one day I might. It does suck that bad to be me. But I am also a fantastically wishful thinker. My fantastically wishful thoughts are why I assiduously choose to live & not die.

Like when I comtemplate suicide by Benny Frank asphyxiation instead of landing my ass in a (with my luck) barely alive pile of gut-splinters up the street.

But don’t worry. I’m too lazy to kill myself. And it’s not like I sit around & think about it all the time…

…I think about 3 bitches & Swiss Bank-loads of dough mostly.

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Chronic Unemployment: the Case For.

I did the weirdest darned thing tonight. I worked.

It happens. Not often. But very occasionally my friends who own the Weathervane Music Hall pay me $25 to wash glasses when the bar closes after an exceptionally busy night.

‘Seeing ya’ll cold lazily cocktail-drink kick it while I do your work fills my heart with joy.” I told them. “This makes me happy!”

Weathervane bartenders hate to wash glasses after a busy night. But I was pleased as punch to. Did it cheerfully!

And did one smash of a job I might add: evidenced by the most recent comment — left by the boss lady herself — on my mySpace page.

I’m really not so spectacular a dishwasher. But she was desperate for one. And really I wasn’t so giddy about it. But I am desperate for money.

Speaking relatively, then — it was way frikkin awesome!!

In a small town like this finding work is purely an inside job. No one hires some jerk of the street to schlep for nickles & scuffle for a dime. Jobs here are got by personal invitation – either from the boss or a worker who is your friend.

I am eager to work. I do have a few stipulations. It must be freelance. It must. It is in my blood to freelance for money. Beyond that I’m flexible. I’ll do about anything. As long as it is not permanent I am not picky.

And I am as local as they come around here. People like me. I know employees. A few bosses even. My grueling need for cash is no secret. But work is never – ever – offered to me.

Maybe you think I could find work if I really wanted it. Let me tell you a story. Once I walked into a restaurant where several friends worked. I asked who was washing the dishes that night. No one! So I grabbed an apron & put the swab to the suds & got my scrub on. No one asked me to. I just did. Because no one would hire me to work. So I jumped in and hired my damn self.

And the restaurant people went along with it! I was hired.

Only they didn’t want to pay me. They wanted me to wash dishes from 11PM to 4AM every Friday & Saturday. But not for money. So I worked an entire weekend for free.

“Well,” I thought to myself. “Of course they don’t want to pay – I’m Mike E!!”

I’m pretty sure people think there is something wrong with me.

There is. I am an incest survivor. You may not know why that matters. Can you take me at my word? Life for incest survivors is not easy. People kill themselves over this shit. All the time; for a reason.

Post Traumatic Stress. Happens to every rape victim. Especially the children. And suicide – like chronic homelessness – is one bell-clear symptom of a big old honker Post Traumatic Stress Injury.

I feel like I have no place in the human community. Do I? Shit I can’t tend to my own human needs.

Not here in Brattleboro. I’ve lived here 20 years. Yet I cannot earn the money I need to feed & shelter myself.

There is no place for me in my own damn community.

On the bright side:

It’s kind of like blind folk whose other senses sharpen to compensate for their lack of vision. Smoldering abject poverty has worked a wonder job on my imagination. I’ve become a fantastically wishful thinker. With unshakable faith in the potency of make believe.

These are the disco-bomb best things about being Mike E.

Plus on balance my adult life spent mostly jobless & homeless has provided me more energy for art. Just a little more than I would’ve had with some dumb job for the last 15 years.

I am in the terminal grip of a stress tizzy. It is very difficult to write under such stress. I can write better. I will. I want to. But this is not about how well I write. My blog is a tool I use to improve myself in my time of great peril & adversity.

If I didn’t write I’d want to die. When I write I want to live. Write to survive. Live or die.

They say every story has conflict. That’s mine.

Over time a job you hate fills the soul with pools of stagnant misery. Perhaps the soul knows it needs art to survive. But the job rewards with money. Covers what one basically needs to be human. Suppose I had these things.

Would I write anyway?

Sure. I’d write. For hope. Because I like how the keyboard makes my fingers move. Write to make words go. Love to make words go!

I say a lot of nonsensicle scribbles. No. I mean really. Like one I wrote way back at the beginning of my blog. It goes

Go GO! Go Mike E go go Go!!

Gonna get $200

e.z.

When I pass Go!

I call that a linguistic Digger. You wipe out sometimes when you write to make words go & go faster still. Hell I say a lot of stupid shit.

I’m a daredevil. What the hell?

My oracle is the reward to risk ratio. Think on this: Every year thousands of Americans die in their sleep. That’s right. Rest up! For what? You’ll never know. You died in your sleep & missed it.

No reward. Bad risk.

So what about that job? No thanks! People drown every day in those pools of stagnant long-term employment misery.

If I had a job I could still make words go. Yeah. But I want to take those words out for, like joy rides.

All the way out to the edge. To where you know it’s gonna get stranger. Where you can only go when words are your sole hope.

When you’re so poor that you haul out & steal yourself a rollercoaster. Because you can’t afford a car & sweet SHAZAM! You must have a fast way to blow town.

For fun mostly; that’s what happens when rollercoasters get left just kind of laying around.

Night On the Hustle

I quit selling partyWhatevers some years ago; shortly after I learned I had PTSD. I realized that there was Just No Way. The stress would kill me. Or else I’d be caught & screwed for it in imaginable ways.

Quitting that racket has been a noble if thus far tragically nonviable undertaking. While far from stable, the shroom business provided me with the occasional 2 to $3000 stack. And they help out considerable.

Since then I’ve been so broke that I wonder if it’s Wrong to sell a kidney. I can see one circumstance where it could work…maybe. But I won’t spell it out because that’d make it sound like we had unlawfulness on Open Container speedWay.

Less complicated is the question of whether it’s moral to sell marijuana to a grown adult.

Can I get a Hell YES from the People!!

It is not only Moral but judicious. Especially if someone wants to buy it. If no one does then it’s inadvisable — since you’ll likely get stuck trying to pawn it off while you don’t smoke it (yeah right) for half the next week.

I can’t sell pot anymore either. Because that shit happens incessant.

Consider the scenario: You get ‘cuffed (loaned) an ounce of pot by a friend who made no bones about their certainty that they would regret it. It’s not that you’d ever rip them off coldly — an incontestable truth which ultimately sways your friend over his, and your own, better judgement — but still.

For ten thousand reasons the last thousand fronted ounce deals have rarely concluded happily.

This time it was almost different. You owe $300 for zip. To repay you need sell six of the ounce’s eight eighths for $50 each. That leaves you ideally with one to smoke and one to sell. But you haven’t eaten for two days. You need a pack of American Spirit menthol to smoke & a few pills to stay awake. Plus you owed someone $20 from party Whatevers last week…the same Someone who happens to score the first satchel.

So a fiddy spot poofs before you’ve started. You still need to sell six eighths for $50 to break even and gain just one bag for profit.

Since you sell your next bag to a Friend you can only get $45. Because it is unconscionably difficult to charge a friend $50. Then you remember: I never sell pot to strangers!

At this rate you’ll be $15 ahead if you sell every sack at $45. And that of course presumes you dispatch the entire ounce in one night. Makes you a touch nervous, that bitchy $15 thing. Jumpy. Better go pack a bowl & smoke it to calm down.

Plan to sell that bag for $45 firm — tell ’em it was a fiddy minus five for the very small bowl you packed (a couple tokie-tokes down the line it manages to fetch a half-respectable $30).

The margin is tight but the night goes well. Even managed to swing off a couple for full price to students from LandMine college…You go to sleep in the morning — finally — with $249 cash and one eighth left to sell. Get $50 for it and you’ll be just one dollar short!

All told, an exemplary night on the Hustle.

Except when you wake up in the morning and reach into your pocket to count your dough you discover, with violent dismay, that you slept on & miserably squished the last of the stash.

Now. You can — and will — traverse great lengths to convince potential flat-sack Custies that the buds are provably none worse for the wear.

‘Provably?’ One asks opportunistically. ‘Then smoke some with me right now. To prove it.’

Of course you have no choice — what good is a man’s Word if he don’t back it up? Plus the dude promises to pay full price for the sack — should he deem it ‘untarnished’ — even though the two of you just smoked from it.

A gamble for sure — but if it pays off you sell the sack and get stoned.

Desperate gambles rarely pay off.

The best you can recoup from the eighth of Flatties is $25 plus a loose speed pill or two. You pop these and do a little hypovent-O-freak out, quietly, by yourself, on a bench at the train station. You chose the train station partly because you like trains. And sitting there when everything sucks makes you feel like you’re off for something better.

It is also one place your debtor is sure to not inadvertently find you.

The train station in Brattleboro is a few hundred feet away from the bridge across the Connecticut River. Just past that is the local Wal Mart — built when Vermont wouldn’t allow them. The river forms the border with New Hampshire.

3-odd miles or so past the Wal Mart is the Hinsdale Off Track Betting & Poker Parlor. You may want to try there if you’re short on cash after a typical night on the hustle. In fact you may just want to skip the Hustle altogether and make straight for the OTB. I occasionally have won respectable sums from paltry investments. In other words I have triumphed mathematically at the races. It happens.

Not so with one single damn ounce of weed on the Cuff. Can’t recall breaking even — and for certain I’ve never done better.

Well then. Thanks for reading…I got to go now & scoop up a few bucks I’m owed for washing dishes (hired & fired in a day. Sad story) last weekend.

Then I’m off: to the Races.

It has been a real pain in the ass to write lately.

As my regular readers — and friends from around town who happen by the speedWay — know, I’m shall we say temporarily between homes. This entire blog is composed (on my own laptop — thanks mom), variously, at coffee shops, bars, late at night in the 24-hour computer lab at a nearby college…wherever I can thumb a free lift for a few hours on a loose wifi signal.

The Gonzo Fantasy piece, for example, was finished and posted on battery power between 7 & 9 AM from the stoop in front of the Weathervane bar.

I’ve written 75 posts that way — a damn fine accomplishment if you ask me.

But the whole shenanigan has lost some luster lately. Not the blog — certainly not my readers! — or the writing act itself. Being homeless, though. It’s gotten to be hard on me.

It’s preposterously stressful. More precisely put:

It sucks donkey balls.

Well, one might ask — then Why Don’t I Do Something About It??

Anyone who asks that very likely has never been homeless for a stretch of time. Most everyone hasn’t. So if you wonder, I respectfully ask you:

Precisely what do you propose?

First off, a bit about the reason I’m homeless — which I’ve been chronically, off & on, my whole adult life…

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’ve talked about it a bit in some previous posts. Homelessness is a classic symptom of PTSD. Unfortunately having a home is no cure, as I’ve learned the hard way when I have lived somewhere.

Another symptom of PTSD is a lack of awareness of being struck with the disorder. For years I assumed my Problem — among other things — was homelessness itself. But it’s not. So, when I have lived somewhere — before I knew about PTSD — inevitably something else would go Wrong. And the stress I once associated with homelessness would merely be transferred to a different, equally maddening Problem.

Ususally a broken car, lost job or some other Factor which would contribute heavily thenceforth to my inability to pay rent. And soon enough I’ll be homeless again.

So goes the insidious, oft-cruel nature of PTSD.

But…why does Mike E have PTSD? That’s a fair question. Not sure if everyone will be comfortable with the answer; but then I’m not precisely comfortable reading Ishtar’s first-hand accounts of the daily viciousness in Iraq. The viciousness bothers me. But I read them anyway because Ishtar writes them well and I want to Know.

I had pedophiles in the family.

What can I say?

It happens. And it fucks life up for people.

And it’s important for me to say so. Same way it’s important for people to know how fucked up everything is in the Congo or Darfur. It’s essential that I write about it tonight, too — because as I said it has been a real pain in the ass for me to write at all lately.

Reason for that is on account of being homeless. It drains me. Makes it hard to come up with something to say…so I guess that’s the Story.

What can I do but write it?