Holiday Reprieve and Repose

BuddhaWell, after my most recent insanity (Three-Fisted Punch), including a trip to the Kansas State Highway Sherriff’s Department and local hospital, totaling my car, and purchasing a travel trailer while delusional, I’ve managed to enjoy at least one holiday this season at home with relatively little drama and unplanned expense.

I’m at a loss for my most recent symptoms, which include blackouts and fainting spells – not at all a part of psychosis or schizoprenia. I’ve been seeing a neurologist and have had a battery of tests, including an electroencephalogram (EEG) for the head, an electrocardiogram (EKG) for the heart, and magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) for the brain. I’m thankful that I have insurance at this time, but this is short-lived because through this last upheaval I managed to quit my job as well.

So, now unemployed, I’m left wondering what comes next. For now I think I can manage through January (maybe even February) without a job, but I need health coverage and some added stability with my sanity. Being delusional every six months has proven to be very destructive and costly.

On an up note, I am happy to be safe at home, warm and fed, drinking a spot of coffee and enjoying the company of my ever-loving cats.

Storm Prose

She sat dismayed, staring out the window, shadows cast from stars and steeples. Dismayed with November, and who was to say she would not remember gazing at the shades of Southern-facing slopes in the distance, dancing in the sky in the way only mountains sway, slopping and dipping, turning and finishing with a snap in the sky. The source of her dismay was not the dismal scent of stereophonic traffic, it was the stammering and stuttering laughter, a nervous twitter of excitement, her excitement at the candid expression.


Three-Fisted Punch

I found Oz. Found the Cloud in car form. Found myself lost, yet again, driving aimlessly, directionless, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the stories I hear. As I drive through Kansas, I find myself locked up in jail, at the hospital and then finally, riding shotgun on a trip that started out with me and me alone missing a flight to Ohio.

Three weeks ago I planned to visit family for Thanksgiving. Caught up in conversation with myself, I lost track of time and ended up missing my flight. Silly as I am, I think driving is the solution, instead of waiting for the stand-by flight the next day. Not twelve hours into my trip I am already lost and confused, failing to follow a strait line through the Heartland. As I drive I hear the voices talking, telling me the story of places and the future.

By Day 2, my phone is dead. By Day 5 I’m in the middle of nowhere, calling on a rural neighbor’s phone for help. I’ve got a hotel room and I am waiting for my brothers to arrive. There’s a carload of people and a plan to find Chinese food as a subterfuge for setting the stage for all things greater, all things magic. Christian is in the car with me but he’s not slick , in my shoes, to escape the Sheriff’s questioning. His words fall like bricks and the squad cars surround me as the Authorities nearly tackle me to the ground.

My car is impounded and liberated at the same time. Christian is free to leave me in the dust and continue on with his plan, whatever it may be, while I loiter at the station and the officers sort through it all. He’s pissed, however, because I won’t let him dominate the operation using my car without me. As a show of force, he appears before in cloud form and attempts to play the harpsichord and pluck my life force. In exchange, I play my own magical maneuvers, and ensues the battle between two sorcerers. After demonstrating how I can make him piss and shit his pants, I’m on the floor, passing out over and over again. By now the ambulance has been called and I am whisked away, but not before I can knock my fists together three times and deliver the final blow and he’s not gone when I arrive back at the hotel where my brothers arrive a few hours later.

In tow on the way home, I chatter endlessly as the story of sorcerers, as the story arc evolves from the American’s East Coast/ West Coast Car War to the Spaniard’s bipole Blood War. And the visions are horrific, in my mind, as the war they are fighting is not the war they are winning.

Your Water War is not my Blood War.

Not Your Family’s Chevy

Chevys begat Lunch
And Lunch began the Ocean Language
Which stemmed from the Family and the family of Family Language
Wherefore all Mexicans are not low riders or high riders
And not all Blacks are Rastafarians (your JaMons) or your Chocolate
And not every white person annihilated the Native American with Dinner.

And the Ocean showed me signs and symbols, where the Chevy stood forth and claimed a foot hold on all cars, but not one Chevy knew the right person to “friend or foe”.

Before Thanksgiving I headed off East in my car to join family. I ended up getting lost, yet again. I am not a Chevy. I feel more like the Mexical Roy’al Telephone family, Taco Bell. With all these voices swimming around, Ma Bell has nothing on the stories I hear when tapping into the switch.

Line after Line, I am riding high octane without the fuel for translations between Bells. Fainting Bells, Bell Flowers, Bell Weather Trails, and Climbing Vines. Who am I and what am I becoming? Where have I been, where am I but lost amidst a sea of start points and end games with no one to clue me in on how to get out of this hell. Is anyone out there? Is there anybody listening? Does anybody care at all?

More coherent thoughts to follow in subsequent posts, but for now, this is a map for Family Language.