Generic Post
By
George S Geisinger

Here it is early evening, when I'm just getting started on a new blog post. That patriotic post I've just registered on my own blog was way too much of my own opinion to put on someone else's blog, by my way of reckoning. What I'd like to do is write under a thousand words again, and post it on that site that only takes flash stories.
Or, if I get too long winded, I'll put it up on Yezall Strongheart's blog, just for the heck of it. Therefore, this blog needs to be generic enough that I can post it on any blog I can get into. I'm going to have a little fun writing something here that's a little bit more carefully innocuous than usual. Or so I thought.
That's a nice word, innocuous.
How do you like that word?
I won't insult your intelligence by defining it for you. I'm going to assume you are in possession of a dictionary around your house, if you find yourself at too much of at a loss as to how to interpret some of my language in this writing, or in any of my attempts to wax philosophical whilst I write away on my text editor.
I've come upon my vast vocabulary in the English Language honestly enough. My parents and grandparents were all avid readers, with better than average educations, and I must say, I learned more about the English Language at home, that I ever learned in school.
Mother's education was as an English teacher, and my father's stilted language never once lost me, in the process of understanding anything the man ever said, whether his vocabulary was obscure or direct, I was always proficient at comprehending my own father's meanings well enough.
I've always doubted whether my understanding or interpretation of my father's pompous language, was something that my very survival might have easily been derived from, or, if I ever got lost in my father's specific meanings of the things he said to me, whenever he said something and I was there to hear him say it, I always understood his meaning.
Mother always said that my Dad habitually used the biggest words to say everything, and it was always getting him in trouble with the back woods people he was trying to preach his sermons to on Sunday mornings. It was always because he had been a voracious reader, and possessed a extensive vocabulary, replete with options for the most obscure words to use in the English Language.
Dad was an unsuccessful Methodist Minister, who got moved around every single year, when I was little, to give him yet one more opportunity to prove himself to be a competent minister of God, in the SW Pennsylvania Conference of the Methodist Church.
Nonetheless, Dad was summarily discharged from his job with the church. He was always talking over the tops of the heads of his parishioners, Mother said. I think she was making excuses for my Father's incompetence, just because she was his wife, and the mother of his children.
Mother was always saying that Dad's vocabulary was well over the heads of all or his back woods parishioners, who could not understand his way of putting things in his pulpit, which was what cost my Dad his affiliation with the Methodist Church, in the first place.
But Dad was never a theologian; he was always a philosopher. He always ran his church services over at least fifteen minutes, to get across all of his pearls of wisdom, which I think people didn't like. I think Mother was in denial about Dad not being unqualified to be a minister of God for any kind of a church.
Anyway, it was Mother's rationale for Dad getting fired from having been an ineffective Methodist Pastor of a long series of assignments to a number of Methodist Churches, which turned out to be a devastating fact for my Dad to have to live with, as an individual and a self-imposed minister of God.
He was found to be incompetent.
He went back to school and earned himself a Masters and a PhD, which was all a waste of time, because the man refused to get a job with his PhD, in spite of the fact that we all knew he got job offers in the mails from several colleges and universities, to become a professor in their school.
The old man never would respond to any of the job offers he got. He just chose to desert us, and took off for the beaches of Florida, to sun himself, I suppose, while he left a family of four teenage children and a wife to starve in a small, coal mining town in SW Pennsylvania.
And I said I was going to write innocuously! More like writing another poison pen letter to my late father, is what this reality show of mine has turned out to be, whether I intended to write this way or not. I'll never tell. I should come up with more ten cent words to augment this paper, like my late father would have done.
He was definitely a pompous bastard, I'll give him that.
In some way, I think this is all a cheap shot at my father, now that he's dead and gone. He is not here to defend himself against my endless list of accusations and indictments of his misdemeanor during and after he disabled Mother, by attacking and breaking one of her arms, and leaving us all with nothing to live on in a small, coal mining town, to fend for ourselves in our impressionable adolescence.
Mother always had a Bachelor's and a teacher's certificate, from before she got married. But she always said she didn't really enjoy teaching, and didn't care to pursue it any further. Aunt Vi, whom we all moved in with after Dad deserted us, was a mathematical genius, who worked on some of the first government computers the world had ever known, back in the 1950's and the 1960's.
She had a Masters Degree in mathematics from Stanford University, of all places. Aunt Vi was a mathematical genius, and understood things about me that I never understood about myself. I kept forgetting that Aunt Vi always told me, that I should never try to sell anything, because I never had the constitution of a salesman.
My sister eventually achieved a Masters Degree in deaf education, and learned sign language, as well as everything else she needed to know about how to educate the deaf. But there were no jobs in her field, when she moved in with and married a college professor in Oregon, who was local to the university that had granted her, her Masters.
My sister has always been the most successful of the four of us siblings, who works for an agency, as a professional case manager in the mental health field, which encompasses the majority of her professional experience, up until the present moment, and her husband's son, and the son's family, sound like a revelation to my sister, as she cannot have any children of her own.
Aunt Vi and her Masters in Mathematics, had a wonderful time with the Federal Government computers, back when one computer took up a whole room, when each cell was occupied by a vacuum tube. She earned her a good living there, and what Mother needed after Dad left for Florida, was a job. The Proving Ground that employed Aunt Vi, was versatile enough to employ Mother as well.
My two brothers and I all managed to eventually be awarded Associates Degrees, the oldest becoming an EMT, and subsequently a Paramedic, in addition to being an Electronics Tech for the Navy for sixteen years, as well as doing something or other for the Air Force for about four years there.
He still works telemetry in a local hospital setting, though he is, technically, old enough to retire. His wife secretly tells me that my brother is being held by his employment, by the strength of her will, because of none other reason than doing his job at one of the local hospitals, that otherwise the poor man is a couch potato.
I've been an insatiable reader, and a voracious devourer of books, for several years, until I finally became a person who could write as insatiably and voraciously as I once read classic fiction and philosophy. Recently, I've become a prolific, self-published author of autobiographical stories, and a little bit of fiction writing mixed in, every now and then.
As my one of my fellow Indie authors has commented, I've become my own reality show, to find myself writing an awful lot about my own life, and the lives around me, to be a spokesperson for a Lost Generation, as I've begun to think of My Generation, which is the Baby Boomer's of this country.
I became a prolific author, because of my otherwise unfortunate happenstance that I accidentally overdosed myself on my psych meds on a regular basis, and during the span of six to eight weeks, I was rendered virtually incapable of speech, at least twice in recent times.
Eventually I became especially gregarious and verbose, struggling to write down every thought and word that comes to me, which makes my speech quite stilted and long winded, to a fault I'm afraid. I'm not any less of a philosopher and propound-er of nonsense than my father ever was.
But, at least I've made some attempt at not becoming a father of schizophrenic children that I never could have supported anymore than my father ever could. I had a great state of a very healthy libido, by the same token that I'm to understand that was my father's state of being was when he was young, as well.
But my Father had this very wealthy family who pressured my Mother into marrying him, to “fix” my father from some kind of malady, which was known by his parents to be whatever my father's “condition” was after WWII. That was 1946, when my parents finally got married, I think, and Dad didn't go through a breakdown until 1950.
My parents were friends in their own childhood, and used to play with each other when they were small. I've been given to understand that my father was a very thoughtful, very kind man, who eventually took on a role of harsh disciplinarian, to which he could not apply any measure of reason or moderation.
Nonetheless, my grandparents knew something of my Father's “condition” before he and Mother were ever married, and in those days it was a wife's duty to submit herself to her husband's will as much as he demanded her to obey him.
Dad's concept of being obeyed was way over the top, and he was still being a bully with me, when I was a full grown adult, because I obviously disobeyed him. When he was giving me a ride to the airport, to fly back to mother, after I was grown, my father tried his best to start something with me from behind the wheel of his car, at sixty MPH.
Mother fell for all of that old fashioned nonsense. She owed it to her husband to obey him, and submit to him, whether he was reasonable or rational, or not. Her marriage vows were more sacred to my mother than the safety and security of her own children were.
What she found out was that her two sons and her unborn child, (me), were all threatened by my Father's untimely, and irrationally violent nervous breakdown, until she had to pray for our safety when I was still a bun in the oven, as far as my Mother was concerned.
She told me about the whole ordeal when I was an adult, myself.
Happily, my father never took the lives of any of us, the way I always thought he would do, when I was growing up in his house. Dad liked to whip us all, and used us all as his personal whipping post, to be his inspired, aberrant children, to be expected to obey him, regardless of the fact that my Father never wanted anything worthy of being obeyed anyway, as far as I was concerned.
But, notwithstanding the beatings, my Father's bark was much worse than his bite, and the man finally proved himself to be a very well educated, coward and bully, who liked to pick on his own little children and his devoted wife, who would do, mostly, whatever the hell his irrational will was, anyway.
We, his children, were all subjected to suffering, more or less, from the schizophrenic gene which Dad had in his parental gene pool, until all of us got sick with the schizophrenia, at least as much as to be noticeable to the people around us as Dad's illness was.
We are all four of us a bunch of fruitcakes, to become some kind of schizophrenic mirror image of our father, in one way or another. My grandfather was a brilliant and responsible man, who made a singular contribution to the war effort, in WWII, which is another story.
But my paternal grandmother's side of the family was the culprit, who all had the reputation of having “skeletons in her closet,” of people in her family, who were mentally ill, like my father was known to be, to pass it on to all the rest of us, as Dad's kids.
Fortunately for all of us, Dad and Mother both had some money in their families, such that we have all got a modest amount to be relied upon to be utilized for our care, now that Reaganomics has slammed the door shut on all the Federal social programs; nonetheless, we are all somewhat taken care of.
 
 
Picture
The heavy oak paneled door was firmly closed, its shiny brass latch securely locked; until she had taken her eyes off it for a moment. She had turned away from the door to return the broom to its cupboard when a gust of wind blew a shower of rustling variegated yellow, orange, brown and red detritus at her back and into the hallway yet again. She turned and stared in open mouthed disbelief at the wide open door, helplessly watched the swirling leaves scatter across the floor of the poorly lit hallway. The single naked filament bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered uncertainly, as if it too were a victim of the autumnal gusts playing with the leaves. It had taken her ten minutes to sweep up the litter of the garden from the Italian marble tiles, push it over the granite doorstep and onto the grey flagstones of the yard. Closing the door against the wind with some difficulty, she had pushed it snugly back into its frame. It was heavy, she had locked it securely, yet now the open doorway gaped at her as if in mocking mimicry of her own daunted disbelief.

With the hallway floor cleared again, the door thumped shut again, its latch clunking as it fell heavily back in place. She pressed her palms flat against the smooth surface of the polished wood, listened to the sound of the wind outside, barely audible, its howl muffled and subdued to a distant groan. The flickering lamp painted dancers on the walls, all in black, capes flying like the wings of bats. There was a smell of damp, of moss and leaf mould and of decay, her nostrils flared at the affront. She tested the latch gain. Once again the door was secure, but when she turned away an icy leaf laden gust wrapped her skirt around the backs of her legs like footless stockings. The chill spreading up her spine had nothing to do with the arctic blast. 
“I don’t think we are going to find much shelter here, Jenny.” He had slipped the haversack from his back and held it one handed, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness and illuminating the cold grey stone walls of the ruined manse. The blue tinged beam had found only inky blackness where once had been a ceiling and a roof.
His companion, blonde hair pulled tightly back, purple knitted bobble hat pulled down over bright blue eyes, chuckled through unpainted lips. She was already rummaging through her own un-shouldered burden, dragging out a sleeping bag and looking around what must have once been a hallway. The Italian marble slabs under her feet were cracked and broken, many were missing. Sparse clumps of long dry grass sprouted between those that remained like dry and brittle hair on the wasted skin of a desiccated corpse. She shook her head in mock disappointment. “Somehow I knew this wasn’t going to be a surprise five star hotel.”  A sudden gust of wind threw a shower of autumn leaves into the air, into her face. She spluttered leaves from her mouth, waving her hands around like a demented windmill. When he had finished laughing, when she had finished pouting, they hugged. He kissed the end of her upturned nose and smiled into her eyes. “This passageway is like a wind tunnel, I’ll see if that door will shut.” He nodded to indicate behind her. She turned to look.    
But there was no door hanging there to shut, even its hinges had long gone. The frame was crumbling, varnish long flaked away. They watched in fascinated silence as the translucent figure of a woman, dressed like a maid, frantically swept at nothing through the empty doorway.…


For the other side of Dan, and more stories like this follow this link.  http://www.amazon.com/Ian-George/e/B0087DTR6K/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

 
 
Picture
John Andrew AKA  “Big Jack” did live, his ghost still haunts The ship Inn. Which is shown here at the bottom of the Saltburn hills, Cleveland, England. As recently as 2009, spiritual encounters had been witnessed there. The rest is fiction.

Standing atop the hills above the Ship inn at Satlburn, you can see why it was a smuggler's hideaway, the hills around are steep and anyone trying to catch you would be easily out run.

It was there that an eerie experience happened a while ago.

I was standing watching the bay, with its shallow beach strewn with pebbles, when I noticed what I thought was the sea mist rolling in. This was different to the usual sea mists as it was a lot mores dense.

I was just about to go and investigate, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Tha don’t want to go down there laddy.”

Turning I saw and old man, with a grizzled face wearing a sailors cap and an old rope knit sweater, as they used to at sea long ago.

   “What do you mean?” I gingerly asked.

   “You think, yon mist is from the sea, well if you look and listen, you will find out.”

   ‘I did wonder why it looked more dense, and grey than any mist I had encountered before.’

Listening carefully I could hear what at first sounded like a roaring tide, but having been told to listen carefully I opened my mind. “Am I right, that sounded like cannon fire?”

   “Tha’s right there young man, now watch and I will tell you the story later.”

 As I stood watching, two ships came around the headland, one flying a strange flag, the other flying the flag of the excise men of the King.

With cannons firing the King’s ship was forcing the other one further into the shallows, knowing how treacherous the beach I waited. And there it was, the sound seamen hate, no matter what country. The sounds of your ship running aground, the timbers tearing apart as waters flooded the lower decks. As I watched, from the smuggler's ship; I assumed it was smugglers otherwise why would they have been run aground. Five men came running ashore, wading slowly through the waters. The King’s ship sent two longboats ashore to chase down the men.

As the men stumbled up the pebbly beach, feet slipping on the wet rocks, they were met by a hail of musket fire, from the soldiers of the crown, all five lay dead on the rock strewn beach, blood washing to and fro in the water.

  “Finally got you, Will Harrison,”the captain of the guard called.

Turning around to go back to the longboats, the soldiers were met by a volley of pistol fire from the inn, the ensuing fire fight last only a few minutes, as the men inside were not going to expose themselves to musket fire, and the soldiers could not possibly take the inn, without a siege as it backed on to the steep cliffs behind, and the men inside had a clear field of fire, any assault was just madness.

  “That was the end of that,”the seaman said.

  “How do you know it so well?”I queried.

  “I ran the inn for the next 40 yrs, my ghost is still here.”

  “So you are…”

  “Yes. None other than John Andrew, ‘Big Jack’, ‘King of the smugglers’and he most feared of all smugglers in the area.”
                                              
A day or two late I was standing looking out across Satlburn bay, I could see what I thought was the sea mist rolling in, with the rip tides and shallow beach, Satburn  is a death trap for unknowing seamen, as it is so easy to go aground on the shallows.

 “Not again,”  I muttered as I looked at the mist.It appeared to thickening into the same grey, cloying fog that had hid the ghosts of the past last week, as they had chased the smugglers ashore. “It can’t be happening again,”I muttered thinking nobody was in earshot.

  “Aye laddie, it is,”came  the voice from behind me. “Surely it is.We call them 'Smuggling fogs' they cling to the shoreline, only a true seaman from the area or someone desperate, would try to get to land in them.”

Vaguely in the mists, I could make out the shape of a vessel approaching the headland. “If I am not wrong, isn't that the Prospero heading ashore.”

 “No, lad, you are right, she is coming in.”

 “ The story is she was lost at sea in a storm, only John Andrew survived.”

 “That was his version to hide the truth.”

 “What did happen then?”

As I watched the mist, the Prospero came closer inland, still wide of the headland point and in full sail.Then there was a terrible wrenching sound, as she hit the hidden rocks and keeled over. Men were trying to get to the boats and above all else one man stood taller.

 'Mad Jack’as he was known, stood on the gunnels and shouted to the crew.”Any man that follows me will be killed.”

Knowing his reputation, the crew stayed still, even though they out numbered him.They had seen him take four or five men down at a time in a fight, and were not keen to risk their lives.

As John Andrew aka ‘Mad Jack’leapt for the only boat and made for land. A gun fired on the ship, and a crewman fell to the floor.

 “Right lads, we can’t chase him down but we will catch him one day.”Mason Friggett, the Prospero's mate said.

 “John Andrew, may you and you your family be cursed by the Ship Inn, and may your spirits never leave the house,”Richard Jacklin, the coxswain yelled at the back of the rowing boat.

With the mist clearing, I could just make out the shapes of men climbing the rocks on the headland and coming around the point.  Misty shrouds were now moving towards the inn, engulfing the whole bay. “What is happening now?” I asked.

  “History is folding, in the mists, you are getting a chance to see the real John Andrew.”

  “Andrew, we want's ours,”called one voice.

Another yelled, “If you don’t give it to us, we’ll take it by force this time.”

A voice from the inn yelled “Simon Miggins, you always were a hothead, you can't get me.”

 “This time John Andrew, we are prepared for your treachery.”

 “Jacklin, might have known, you would be here, never did trust you.”

There was an unearthly roar as the Prospero let off a broadside. The four cannons fired, although landing short of the target, the cannonballs had the desired effect. Unsettling Andrew for a short while, but adding to the mists with a powdery haze that hid the men as they crept up the pebbled beach. The windows were rocked and cracked by the shockwaves. The men opened fire at the front, where Andrew was holding ground, firing at will but with deadly accuracy, one shot caught Andrew in the shoulder, and spun him to the floor.

“Right, get him,”shouted Jacklin.

The crew rushed forward and dragged the bleeding and severely wounded Andrew from the house.

 “Where's our share of all the loot, Andrew?”asked Miggins.

 “Everything is tied in to the house now, you cannot get it,”Andrew laughed.

“Right men, we can’t have the money he owes, so we’ll take it out of him,”called Friggett. “Rope him  up, we’ll take him on the Prospero.

Remembering his strength, Jacklin made sure Andrew was semi-conscious as the crew tied him up, and dragged him to the boat, heading out to sea and the Prospero.

“Okay me hearties, we’ll keel haul him then,” Friggett yelled, as one length of rope was handed to young Paul Marler, as he swam under the Prospero, a short while later emerging smiling.

The crew tied both arms to the ends of the rope, as they pushed Andrew to the gunnels, and hurled their  injured former captain overboard..

“Heave to lads,”called Miggins.”We don’t want us to be outdone by him dieing on us.”

The laughter I heard was like an evil wind going over bones of the long dead.

I watched both in horror at this cruel punishment; which involved the man been dragged under the keel of the ship, barely able to breathe. Andrew seemed to be still breathing, despite the gunshot wounds and the keel-hauling.I guessed the crew were counting on his immense strength to get him through, as part of the punishment. Barely breathing, he was dragged out the last time. Untied and sent ashore in his boat, it hit the pebbles, and tipped him onto the beach.

 “ Right lads, set her sails for the seas, we have had our day finally,”Friggett called.

Turning to query what had gone on, all I saw was a whiff of pipe smoke, as the old sailor disappeared.

Seeing my puzzlement, one gent said “That were Paul Marler, you were talking to then.”



This story along with others is for sale from me, for a donation to my writing costs at my blog :- http://hereiamattheedge.blogspot.co.uk/

Grab a copy of my new top book, with the end of 2012 and EL James and her copycats maybe the ghosts are coming after you again and you have to believe I am pleased, as that is my top genre.

http://www.amazon.com/Sea-ghosts-Extended-version-ebook/dp/B0088QPW92

 
 
 The day becomes evening, and the challenge returns to write something new and different again, with all the things I've already written to stand the test along side of what I'm doing now. I've been writing a lot of the one thing I've known how to write for, as just about all my life. I've long since produced impromptu psychological case studies of myself, for the inspection of clinical psychologists or MD's, especially when I'm coming apart at the seems in the ER. It may not float anybody else's boat, but it gets me a lot farther than almost any other project I can think of.
I've had to produce such work repeatedly to psych triage's and with MD's, under duress.
The evening time is my time of crystal clarity, when my thoughts flow easily and with alacrity. With the evening getting on into medication time, my state of mind is still pinging off the caffeinated coffee I had this morning in psychotherapy, to make me alert for that discussion. This is one definitely poignant points of entry into a brand new, quite unique and original book project, hopefully, while I take a little bit of a writing break from collecting the blog entries which pertain to my mental health, for eventual publication in my new book.
I'm just beginning to rise to the challenge. It's going to take a lot of work.
My psychotherapist wants a psychological case study of my own publications, for the benefit of the psychological community and for publication as a patient's eye view of schizophrenia for the public benefit. Well, I'm collecting my own, pertinent blog posts, registered over the past year, because I happen to remember that my blog has been endowed with a significant collection of diverse entries regarding my psychological history and personal revelations about my own, personal mental health. She wants a book. I've already got a book.
All I have to do is collect the chapters!
I'll simply collect as many statements as I've already published on my blog, and I'm going to be calling it A Psychological Case Study, by yours truly. It's a brainstorm, a stroke of mind over matter for me, to so easily come up with an entire book idea, out of the things I've already produced. I already have a year's collection of blog posts to refer to and copy as liberally as I please, and can make a single file of as many chapters as I can find that are pertinent to the project. Then I can edit the lot of them on my own, before I submit the document to my therapist for review.
It's like going for an advanced degree in psychology, by compiling a complete dissertation from my own, personal stories. I can simply let my therapist know that I've begun the book project, and that eventually I'd like her participation in the project, to help me get from point A to point B with the project she has suggested. I don't think I'll include this chapter in the book project, because it amounts to giving myself a pep talk about being diligent with another book, since someone else I know is spoiling for me to publish asap. It reminds me of the days I wrote Flower Child and Damn Yankee.
I have a bright and promising future as an Indie writer, and the subject of a psychological case study of myself is exactly what the doctor ordered. Most of the writing is already done, and I can search my files for more full length stories, if I find the collection of blog posts too brief to suffice. If I need the full length stories for filler to actually construct a book, I resort to considering the many of those that I already have in supply in major proliferation. Even at that, most of the writing is already done. It will just be a matter of cutting and pasting, and a little, further organization to make the chapters as coherent as is humanly possible.
My psychotherapist likes the idea and so do I. It fits right into just exactly what I've been working on all day and all evening long for better than a year now. It's my greatest reason for all the writing I've been doing with such diligence. I've been around long enough to know that if you want to do just about anything, and do it well, you have to practice that very thing, day in and day out, like I've been doing with my writing for quite some time now. Organizing another book is right up my alley. I'm really pumped about this. It's a brainstorm.

 
 
Heart Attack
By
George S Geisinger

There comes a time when the only thing I can think to do is write. My thoughts are random, like my writer friend's thoughts are random. I aspire to the the ultimate random set of thoughts. I no longer expect myself to be coherent. To blazes with coherency. I went to a doctor, a cardiologist, and she did everything except blatantly predict I'd have a heart attack, in so many words.
One of my adrenaline glands is overly pumping in the vicinity of my heart.
I get the old fight or flight reaction around my heart, whether I need it or not. It won't quit. I don't know when the heart attack is coming. I just know it's on the way. I think maybe I shouldn't have anymore caffeine, because of my heart, but I'm enjoying the little bit of caffeine I get. I only have one cup of coffee a week, what do they want from me?
I'm going to have to have some chocolate tomorrow, if I can just get to the Country Market in time to get it. With this late night vigil, I'm likely to be sleeping all the live-long day tomorrow. My idea of having a good time is getting a little bit of a harmless buzz off something innocuous, like a dose of caffeine. I don't smoke, drink or have a girlfriend. Leave me alone about one cup of real coffee.
I don't really care all that much whether I die or I don't, just so long as I don't kill myself with deliberation and forethought. God wouldn't like that. There's no one to mourn me all that much anyway. My brother would get all my money, and he'd probably tell me, after I'm already in my grave, that he can't afford to send his son to nursing school, when he would have plenty to help with his son's schooling. It seems to me that he should support is son's ambitions.
The man has no concept of his overall worth.
We were poor people when we were growing up, and I was poor when I was a drug addict/alcoholic in my cups, on the streets of Baltimore City. I might have had a heart attack a couple of times, but the doctors couldn't find enough evidence to convince themselves. I enjoy writing late at night, when my mind is finally clear enough to be coherent, in spite of my overall incoherency.
I think I'm leaning on that word too hard.
There was a long time that I starved on the streets of Baltimore, and only managed to keep up a little hovel of a flop house for myself. All my money went to the dope man, and it wasn't all that much money in the first place. It was just that the dope man was better at taking my little bit of money away from me, than I was at getting myself the things that I needed to live – like food, for instance.
I was in the ER once, and told them I felt a horizontal pressure on my chest when I was sitting up on the gurney. I told them I took a whole bunch of useless books out to the street for the trash men to pick up, and couldn't catch my breath when I tried to go back inside the house. It was the wrong thing to do, to carry out all those books right after a heart catheterization.
It messed up my EKG, big time.
When I was just a kid, I took two robin eggs and stoked a fire all night in the woods. I ended up collapsing next to my fire the next day. I used to pass out all the time, from all the recreational chemistry I was playing with when I was a college kid. It was bad enough I was passing out when I was a high school kid. I had to do it for a whole forty years thereafter.
No wonder I broke my hip. I was a hip fracture begging to happen, from the time I was seventeen. I would provoke all sorts of medical tests when I was young. I think it was just because I had mother's major medical insurance, and the doctors saw an opportunity to make themselves a little bit of money off me. Why not? I was passing out, and apparently having seizures.
I finally got to the point where I was falling accidentally, and couldn't help it. By that time, it was only a matter of time before I seriously hurt myself. My first injury was a sprained hand, with the bones sticking out of my fingers. The thing that I needed was a little bit of action in this very dull life of mine, and all that pain from breaking my hip took care of that.
One time I had a dream I was the first human being who figured out how to fly without the use of an aircraft. Actually, it was only a dream, since I'm well aware of the occult flying experiences by the shaman who practiced all sorts of levitation. The day came when my fall ruined my driving hip, and I think I'll never drive a motor vehicle again in my lifetime.
I was walking down the hallway at assisted living at the time. The next thing I knew I was about half way to the floor, falling rapidly and violently. I was always falling down, my whole life. This time it was my right hip that was hurt. I broke it. I treated all the onlookers to a lot of noise, while a struggled to deal with all the pain.
It was by far the worst pain I ever experienced. I couldn't stop screaming for the longest time. I made a spectacle of myself that day. I finally had to stop making so much noise, because everyone at the ER already knew I was in a lot of pain. There was nothing else to tell them. My entire body hurt that day, and I had no idea where the major injury was located in my body, yet.
It took me a night's sleep in my own bed to figure that one out.
That scene was almost three years ago now.
I had a heart echo a little while ago, and that's how I know about my hyperactive adrenaline gland near my heart. They found the over active gland in the heart echo test. My family has a lot of heart pathological history. My brother wears a pace maker. The thing about my heart that's so much fun, is that I can be very cavalier with the ladies.
Yet I have managed to stay single my entire adult life.
You're in trouble, because I'm a rambler, a gambler, and a sweet talking lady's man.
It's a lot of fun being single. I've even gotten to the point where I realize I'm too old for most of the girls I find charming, and don't want to come off like a dirty old man anymore. It's one of my goals to avoid behaving like a dirty old man around the cute young women. They tell you, when they advertise Viagra on the TV, to ask your doctor whether your heart is strong enough for sex.
I'm pretty certain the answer to that question is No.
Besides, I've been there, done that. I don't need to do another woman.
I've been going to see doctors, and going to live in mental hospitals all my life. It was my method to avoid dying of malnutrition on the streets of the city. Starving to death was a viable possibility that I found awfully likely until I got sober and stayed sober.
The thing about living in assisted living is that this place is just enough of an institution for my druthers. I don't feel the least bit put out when I go walking around this enormous assisted living home with my ever-present rollator. The food's not too good here, and the amount of babage is very limited in this warehouse for little old ladies.
I give this kitchen a good, solid C rating.
The one thing I miss seeing are the twenty year old women walking by. They are really exciting to have around, and there are so very few of them to watch around this warehouse for little old ladies. I've made myself a reputation for not putting up with any of the cougars around this God forsaken place. Now, people mostly leave me alone.
I've finally found the institution of my dreams. I'm not the slightest bit inspired to run away from this place. I've been a runaway my whole life, and the idea of running away from senior living just doesn't make any sense to me, whatsoever. I like the way reading some of my writer friend's novel has lubricated my writing acumen.
I've talked to my confidant most of the evening, and it happens to be getting late. I've decided I don't care what time it is. I don't have any caffeine in my suite, and there are a couple more days till I can see my therapist and get my weekly dosage of the sacred elixir. I've gotten so I crave the adrenaline rush that's going to be my downfall one day.
The worst part of my upper and lower GI turned out to be inconsequential, and I'm expecting to get a lot of pain in my chest one day, and pain down my left arm. I think it's likely to be the end of me, like it was the end of my dad. He died at seventy, and I'm sixty one. It's gotten hard to say what the Holy One might have say about all this, because He's been significantly quiet for quite sometime now.
I've heard a lot from God over recent years, and I think He's being quiet around me is because I'm really succeeding at living my life well these days. His silence I consider to be a vote of confidence in my overall well-being. God has a lot on his mind, with all the duties He has to take care of, which I really know nothing about.
I'm just grateful to have this time to write to my heart's content.
There is a question whether I can have my gall bladder out, to relieve some of the discomfort in my middle. I'm not at all certain whether the surgeon will be inclined to do the surgery when I have this heart problem, but maybe it wouldn't be all that tough for me to go through. Or, maybe she's going to decline to do the surgery in the first place.
Who knows?