A Pill

It's me versus the glorious morning to come. The complexion of the firmament beyond my storm window, inside window, screen and drawn blind is clearly changing, I can see a faint, blue glow around the edges and against the wall. This while the birds are starting to, ever so gently, peep and chirp. Who could complain about these first few minutes of the day? Sunrise is at 6:49am and it's currently 6:44am. 

It's beginning to happen; the withering fear and inescapable pain of an anxiety attack. And in the background the lonely condition of life itself from which none of us can ever be free. The unspeakable horror of being trapped in this solitary confinement would be too difficult to accept if we weren't born into it. This morning, I'm particularly vulnerable to the familiar sorrow resulting from that ambient solitude. Go away. Cold comfort is found as my mind reminds me that it's not just me, we're all alone together. I'm afraid, though, and in a cheap state of panic. Garden variety, very tedious. In parts of the world a poisonous snake bite may be from a common snake, one that kills often. Also garden variety. The world is full of common pain that is anything but common to the victim. Death is common, garden variety, and tedious. My chest hurts, and it's now 6:45am. And the birds...cheep, cheep, cheep. 

As 6:46 slips onto the clock, I'm up on one elbow, patting and stroking our dog, Annie. A smear of white and yellow to the blue now. The day is beginning and nothing will stop it. Sweat rolls down my forehead to my cheak. Are those tears mixed in? I believe so. No smell of coffee and cigarette smoke. Oh, yes, my father is dead, that's why. It's my turn to make the coffee, forevermore. To feed the stray cat, Blackie. To give Annie some wet food that Panther will move in on before Annie has a chance.  And the birds outside getting louder, so many of them in that little maple tree...cheek, cheek, cheek. 

My face is wiped dry with my sleeve, and I'm starting to get angry. There was sleep, I felt it. Why should I awaken to this? Where is the morning grogginess? The slight stumble as I get my bearings? None of that here, just a jolt and awake and in the jaws of it all. Chronic depression and anxiety. How nice that it has a name. Eyes closed, but I can still see through my lids that the room is getting lighter. The day is here. The day is here. The day is here! The birds outside are oddly silent. 

There must be a pill I can take. I'll look. A pill. A pill that will extinguish this fire in my belly, this ache in my chest, the machinations in my mind that make it all happen. More sleep, a pill, after I feed the pets and make the coffee that nobody will drink, but the ceremony, established by my late father, must continue. The pill is downstairs. I'll go get it. 

A pill.

Of Mail Order Brides and Dust Bunny Panties

It's 5:22 in the morning and Turner Classic Movies is on the tube. They're showing a 10 minute long documentary about mail order brides, it was produced in 1938; "The Lonely Hearts Club." Internet dating via Western Union and the US postal service, except the first date is actually the marriage ceremony. Apparently, in 1938, about 100,000 marriages were arranged this way. My father used to work for Western Union back in the 1950's, when people sent telegrams with candy ("candygrams"), a doll (yes, "dollgrams."), and the one we've all heard about, the singing telegram, which dad couldn't do as he couldn't carry a tune. Or even carry the case the tune came in...I picked up that gene. When I used to sing The Internationale at Socialist Party National Conventions my own comrades gave me the stink eye. There is a limit to solidarity, and I found it. Regarding my father, the last birthday gift I gave him before he passed away was a doll from a, "dollgram" he may have delivered 60 years ago. But I digress.

They didn't have these back then.

Expertly crafted dolly

A mail order bride catalog must have been priceless to a fellow, cloistered away on an isolated farm in 1938, with only his naughty hand, a bowl of dust, and radio shows like The Shadow and Little Orphan Annie, to keep him company. Now he could choose to complicate matters by finding a woman for companionship, and the unspoken, smoldering resentment that only a wife can   provide. If the woman liked what she saw in reply, she'd pack her bags and bring her heart, mind, and boobs to an equally sequestered, lonely individual and take the big marriage jump. Or they could just live and love together without marriage. What an exciting time it must have been for the new couple! Instead of living alone, smack in the middle of nowhere, with chickens and sheep and other things found on a farm, a woman could embark on an exciting adventure that involved moving in with a complete stranger, with different chickens and sheep and things, a few states away; Nebraska to North Dakota, Wisconsin to Wyoming, Ohio to...another part of Ohio, perhaps. Ah, love!

A Chicken

So that's what I watched on TCM just now. A ten minute long documentary about what Craigslist was like in 1938.

Another matter, of far greater consequence to me, is on my mind right now. A nightmare roused me from my warm, comfortable bed and snoring, adorable wife, at 3:21am. I've been up since then. Ugh. So I made coffee, smoked my pipe, and listened to Edith Piaf's La Foule several times on my computer, before putting the tube on.

A goddess in my world; Ennui, angst, sex, heartache, existential nihilism, style...French stuff. 

Oh, how it was a remarkably vivid nightmare. In it, I was a midget, or a Hobbitt, perhaps. Lilliputian. Freudian psychoanalysis would classify this as a sex dream. That I'm worried about my penis size, ability to satisfy my wife, achieve orgasm, ED, being testicle-less...something, anything dick/sex oriented. My wang may be a little small, but it's, "fun size."

Sometimes a Freud is just a Fraud. 

But no, I was diminished physically and emotionally. Literally and figuratively looked down upon by my brother who mercilessly attacked me verbally because I am mentally ill and had to go into a nuthouse. This is the opposite of how he is. In reality, I can always count on my older brother for anything.  He's a rock, he's the Coliseum, he's a rock, he's the Louvre Museum. A living safe haven for me, the flying arch that prevents a catastrophic failure in my structural integrity. It's impossible to imagine a world where he isn't supportive and a very kind big brother. I really lucked out having a brother like that. Does all this sound maudlin? It is, but it's true. He's busy, so it isn't often that I see him, but we speak on the phone frequently and always have something to talk about. Hopefully, he won't read this, because that is a lot of pressure to put on the poor guy. But his just being out there, to offer a kind word if needed, is a source of strength.

My brother, the flying arches that
hold me up

That's why the dream freaked me out and I fell out of bed and got 3 or 4 large bunnies of dust stuck to my underwear. My favorite pair. I'll probably have a nightmare tonight about dust bunnies. Time to sweep out that room. And yes, I wear women's underwear. They're comfortable as all Hell and there are no balls here that need support. I don't know where the Hell they are. Probably sharing a flat in Portland, Maine or something. What do they do with the things they take out of you? Did my gall bladder end up in a non-Kosher hot dog? Are my tonsils in a can of cat food? One wonders.

We now draw to a close, the first real post of my new blog, "House of Five Pets." My old blog has 800 posts and 32,000 hits, and I may bring some good ones over here for the two or three of you who read this thing. The old blog also has a lot of embarrassing revelations. I'm not ashamed of having had my balls removed to head off testicular cancer that was most likely developing. Or wearing women's underwear is no big deal. When you buy it online they give you the men's sizes! They're so damn comfortable, too.

Until next time, dear readers, stay classy. If you drive around Boston, please stop at the crosswalks and watch for pedestrians. They took my driver's license away (because I have epilepsy) and I returned to walking and taking the subway everywhere. I only drove for 5 or 6 years, so I'm a pedestrian at heart. So take it easy on us, driving brothers and sisters.

This is just what I look like wearing them. Except
he's attractive and I'm fat, misshapen and hairy.

May Day Bee Knee

Boston May Day 2012

My first blog entry in my new blog. The blog I used to have has 800 posts, but for reasons I won't go into, Google screwed me and now I have to start another email account and blog. Because my thoughts need to be posted so absolutely everyone can have access to them. The world deserves that, deserves me. I like these images. Capitalism most certainly is dead, and unions are just the bee's knees.