I’m going back to see Doc Pace at 11 today.
I’m sort of disappointed. I’ve been back on the meds for almost a month, but I’m definitely not seeing improvement like I was last time.
How crappy for me.
I hope that changes. I feel like I “missed my chance” at getting somewhat functional again.
I didn’t think you were supposed to be depressed when you’re on anti-depressants, even if you’re taking the anti-depressants for pain management.
How doubly crappy for me.
For five days,
and five nights,
I have toiled to the brink of exhaustion.
Sweat has poured
in buckets from my skin.
My mind has raced
and twisted and turned.
Blood has dripped
from my battered fingers.
And tears have flowed
from my bloodshot eyes.
My unseen foe,
myself,
has pushed me to the edge,
and I am weary to the bone.
My body shakes in fatigue,
and I feel I can continue no longer.
Were there a god
upon whom I could call
I believe I would be tempted
to pray for merciful Death.
I would be hard pressed
not to beg for her comfort,
her solace,
her rest.
But for now my race is over,
my work is done,
my toil now suspended.
I sit before my computer screen
and let escape a gasp of relief.
Thank God,
there is no school on weekends.
L.
10/13/95
“Why?”
you ask,
“do you write so much
about woman?
Her soft lips,
blazing eyes,
tender touch,
flaming spirit,
and burning soul?
Why her throat,
bared to your teeth?
Why her breast,
filled with passion?
Why her hips,
shaped to entice your lust?
Why her person,
wild as untamed horses?
Why her chin,
more high and noble than any king?
Why her kisses,
more honest and devious
than any manchild ever born?
And why her song,
the hypnotic song
of the siren?”
.
And I,
in humility,
must answer,
.
“My good friend,
It seems to me,
You have answered
your own question.
What more stunning creature,
could enchant such a man as I,
.
As Woman?”
L.
10/12/95
Lit up by the shining full moon,
Enwrapped by the biting October wind,
Roofed by the clear bright stars,
Standing with the hard, cold concrete
beneath my feet of ice,
I wait.
Time passes in circles,
Each breath is hours from the last,
Each heartbeat stumbles before the next.
There is no traffic,
this time of night,
No passerby to break the silence,
No owl in this city
to keep me company.
My thoughts have traveled
a million light years and back,
and again,
they rest on you.
Reality swirls
and is an extension of imagination
From the dark alleyway
a stone rattles against a brick,
From the black shadow
your form explodes into the light.
Your passionate greeting
leaves me bonless
trembling,
aroused.
We walk to the river,
along the bank,
Saying much,
but nothing on our common mind.
L.
10/10/95
Cute,
Funny,
Is how the exercise began.
She was reading from a book,
The Three Bears.
As I listened,
Amused,
I began to recall.
There was a day,
a time to be more precise,
when I told this story to my daughter,
Kayla,
Each and every night.
I spoke the parts,
Papa was gruff,
Mama was motherly,
and Baby was small.
Her eyes were wide,
Expectant,
Like each time
was the very first.
“Hot stuff will burn you, Daddy,”
“Porridge is like oatmeal,”
“She broke it on accident, Daddy,
That’s ok, isn’t it?”
Though I am not given
to public grief,
The tears flowed beyond my control.
Not that I attempted to control them,
That would have meant futile madness.
I make no apology,
for apparent melodrama,
I simply explain my loss,
my grief,
my pain.
L.
10/6/95
Her Cherokee blood,
Her dark hair and eyes,
Her wild intelligent spirit,
Fighting to break the chains
Shackled on her in childhood.
Knowing what freedom was,
Yet afraid to test the water,
Fearful of the mythology
and superstition of her youth.
In my haste and excitement,
I pushed her into freedoom,
And in terror,
in shame,
She huddled back into her prison,
and ran away from me.
L.
10/4/95
I walked along the shore,
Thunderous crashing of surf,
against the rocky cliffs below,
Cold wet spray of water
against my face,
Salty smell of the mighty Atlantic
burning in my nose.
Out over the water
I could see the proud ships
of my homeland’s navy
Coursing through the waves.
I sat upon a rock
and thought a while,
Remembering times
when I was quite young
And my father brought me here.
I miss my father.
We were great friends,
He and I.
We still speak,
every few weeks.
I drive the many hours,
Once or twice a year,
to see him,
hoping to recapture that something
That doesn’t seem
to still be there.
L.
10/4/95
Questions,
fill my wandering mind.
Where do I go?
What do I do?
Where have I been?
What have I done?
Junctures and crossroads,
Backstreets and alleys,
Highways and byways,
Life.
There has been much pain,
much sorrow,
loneliness,
and gloom.
But, too,
there has been happiness,
joy and contentedness.
Days of sun as well as rain.
There will be more of all,
I suspect.
Though I face the future,
with all its fearful consequence,
I just can’t wait to go on.
L.
10/4/95
Wild.
Stormy.
Emblazoned with electric flashes,
The blue flames streaking across the sky.
Thunderous silence of pouring rain.
By the strobe-like lightning
she danced across the field.
With her hedonistic pleasure
she compelled me to follow.
A silent zombie,
I traced her steps,
to the edge of the abysmally black forest.
Without thought or hesitation
I shuffled into the yawning deep.
Stumbling,
Falling,
Rising again,
to follow the dancing spectre.
There,
and there again,
the glimpse of her form,
Enticing me,
in this midnight game of follow the leader.
For hours she led,
For hours I followed,
Til at last,
beyond all time,
we came to her abode.
In a perfect circle,
In a break amongst the trees,
Where the rain crashed,
and the lightning flashed,
Where the moon was black,
We stopped.
Centered in the circle of trees,
Within her now concentric dance,
An altar beckoned me forth.
As I approached the marble slab,
Her movements transformed,
From the insane,
to the insanely erotic.
I, the sacrificial lamb,
and she the acolyte.
I lay upon the stone,
Obedient,
Subservient,
Expectant.
It was here,
the spawn of Hell was conceived,
And here,
the concept of Heaven was born.
L.
10/4/95
Death,
She is a comin’
for every man but me,
I am not afraid of her,
Nor is she of me.
.
I’ve danced with her,
and laughed at her,
While jumping from a plane,
I’ve done things
that other beings,
have often called insane.
.
I’ll ride her tails,
through starry trails,
And skitter all through space,
And all the while,
I’ll fly in style,
And chuckle in her face.
.
If she wanted me,
I clearly see,
She’d done already came,
But I’m the thistle,
the fatty gristle,
That Death just couldn’t tame.
.
And since she can’t
or won’t or don’t,
I’d like to change my plea,
I’m still sure ,
I’m not afraid of her,
But I think she is of me.
L.
10/4/95
Jagged
Vertical
Sheer
and perilous.
I stand on the edge,
Staring down into the abyss.
Mesmerized by vertigo,
Enraptured by fear,
Enslaved by terror.
This is the pit,
The dark swirling mist of insanity,
where I search for my soul.
Deep within the pit of Hell,
Where phantasms taunt
and lure.
The siren’s song is sweet,
the cinders’ smell stings.
It is here that I flirt with Death,
Her hypnotic promise of orgasmic pleasure
Softly whispered,
Yet powerfully received.
She calls to me,
Enticing me to surrender myself,
release my grip on consciousness,
relinquish my hold on stability.
With her sensuous hips,
her luring lips,
her blazing emerald eyes,
she tempts me.
I am transparent,
my weakness naked.
Her dance is erotic,
sensual,
sexual to the core.
I have found myself,
but I do not fall,
I jump.
L.
10/3/95
She came to me,
From the darkness that she prowled.
Her black eyes
and razor teeth
blazed with bloodlust.
She beckoned to me
from the moonless night outside.
I could not help
but invite her,
for she held me,
mind and body,
with but a thought.
Her hunger had driven her to my window
and mine had led her to her prey.
I knew she felt my yearning,
my lust for what she could give.
She paused above me,
Astride me in my bed,
and I saw the vortex in her eyes,
The pit from which there was no escape.
I gladly bared my throat,
and my dark desire fed her ravishing need.
L.
10/3/95
Don’t be afraid to live,
If you’re afraid to live, you’re already dead.
Think for yourself,
Don’t let anybody think for you.
Don’t believe everything you hear,
Just because you hear it, doesn’t mean it’s true.
(Especially from preachers and politicians.)
L.
10/2/95
I am not afraid of gods.
For if we be not gods ouselves,
And masters of our own fate,
What is the point of life?
L.
10/2/95
I come to you in your dreams.
Silently,
I watch your fantasies,
Your nightmares,
Your hopes.
I am there, waiting for you to notice me.
When you see me, you incorporate me,
Add me to the backdrop.
I whisper your name,
And you smile.
You can’t believe that I am here,
That I am more than your mind’s prop.
I don’t mind, as long as you are near,
As long as I can hold you.
As long as I can kiss you.
I tell you I love you,
And again, you smile.
The nightmares have stopped.
L.
6/20/95
Is that you have to y’know… take them.
I am soooo the world’s biggest procrastinator, and the meds have eroded my memory until it’s a pile of green-grey mush.
Years of pain killers and muscle relaxers will do that to a guy.
I think I need one of those little pill box things that separates your pills into days of the week.
So the wife calls me up while she and Kayla are at the Walmart.
“Grab James and come on!” and tells me why.
I grab the boy, we hop in the car. He’s asking what the surprise is all the way there, but I won’t tell him.
Ivan Koloff, The Russian Bear, a pro wrestler from back when I was a kid was over there signing autographs.
Here’s our poloroid of us.
I don’t think he cares much for the way Pro Wresting is these days.
He was incredibly friendly, and we yacked a bit about the old wrestlers.
I remember hating him, then loving him, back and forth as the storyline progressed.
He’s probably best known in tandem with his real life nephew, Nikita Koloff.
It reads,
To James + Dylan 1/19/07
Best Wishes my friends
Ivan Koloff JN 3:16
(Dylan is a friend of James that we happened to bump into there.)
Those were the days. Summer was forever, girls were suddenly fascinating and mysterious, the good guy always won, and Pro Wrestling was real.
The 2007 North Carolina Science Blogging Conference is here!
Look at the folks showing up for dinner tonight!
We were too slow to sign up, and missed the 150 person limit.
Coturnix has set up a links and live blogging page for the conference, so don’t forget to keep an eye on that! See what all your favorite bloggers in attendance are talking about, and hopefully find some great new science blogs to add to your list of favorites.
Reed Cartwright is escorting Professor Steve Steve to the conference, so now Janie’s really bummed we’re missing it.
We’ll be keeping our eye out for insteresting tidbits to pass along to you, though.
Lucifer,
I have been called,
Not completely erringly.
The devil in Levi’s, chaps and spurs.
Black Stetson to shield me from the weather,
And to hide my burning blue eyes.
Wicked and passionate,
Wild and unchained,
Ridden, but not broken.
I am never alone,
but always tortured by loneliness.
I’ve been many places,
Seen many things,
Enjoyed the company of princesses,
and harlots.
Swapped tales with sailors from all over,
Traded fists with soldiers.
Slept in the homes of statesmen,
and the gutters of Philadelphia.
Killed, Robbed, Loved,
and Lost.
Yet I am here,
to tell the story,
I am the Devil.
Wicked and passionate,
Wild and unchained,
Ridden, but not broken.
Not once.
Not ever.
L.
4/5/95
From whence came the art:
That image is titled Don’t Mess with Tex, by nevrlndtink1226.
Georgia.
Summer.
Night.
Hot and sultry,
Steam and sweat.
She is here,
I can feel.
She stands upon the porch,
Near the willow branches.
Still in her riding boots,
Crop and tack at her feet.
Her hair hangs unfettered,
on this breezeless eve.
With ice procured from her Kentucky bourbon,
She caresses her throat,
Melted ice mixing freely with the sweat,
Running unhindered to her opened blouse.
Her eyes are closed,
Her lips barely parted in small relief.
But they slip gracefully to a wicked smile,
At the sound of my bootfall on the bottom step.
Her eyes slowly open to reveal
The burning, jealous, emerald green,
That I have come to know so well.
She is a she-devil,
And I am lost.
L.
4/5/95
From whence came the art:
That image is titled Howdy Pardner, by Harpersbizarre.
Self Portrait
About me…
(Click the pic for more about me.)
Sometimes there are things I want to address, but outside the context of UDoJ. I’ve been thinking about setting up a separate blog for that.
Here it is.
First of all, I was going to say that I’m the author of U Dream Of Janie and Kissing Corporal Kate. But the truth is the girls have taken on such a life of their own that I’m really just the secretary that takes dictation.
Contact:
I can be reached by Email at loufcd AT gmail DOT com.
Except where noted, all original material on this blog is covered under the Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial- Share Alike 3.0 License, the terms of which can be read by clicking the image above.
