A Night In, With Saki

By all accounts, via email and blog commentary, “Night of the Saki” played like a horror movie. Most of the elements that contributed to that aesthetic were accidental, like the black void of my bedroom with no candles or lights. And naturally it didn’t help that I was shirtless. There is some sort of correlation between dark thoughts, angst and shedding one’s shirt. I’m seen enough episodes of cops to know about this phenomenon. For men, anyway. When women get angry with me, or depressed, they never just decide to go topless.
That’s the kind of world we live in. Don’t look at me, Choochie, you live in it, too.

I apologize for my lack of eloquence, but in fairness I polished off that whole bottle of sake myself. A young lady and friend asked me this morning, via email, if I was depressed. No, I’m not, but I’m fixated on physical and emotional pain. It’s no wonder that people need the pleasant fiction of religion to get through the day.

Today I went to my doctor, the man responsible for keeping me healthy. I’m meant to address my B12 and vitamin “D” deficiencies, which is easy enough to do with a syringe and needle. He also felt this and that, we talked, we laughed, and he kissed me full on the lips during the “strip to your underwear” exam. Well, that last part is my attempt at humor. An amusing lie.

What I learned, though, is that there is nerve damage from my second orchiectomy, which is causing frequent low level pain in the place where my balls are supposed to be. This isn’t a complaint, as I’m acutely aware of how lucky I am to have had those nuts removed before cancer ate me.

Lou Gehrig, who by coincidence died of Lou Gehrig’s disease, once said (in a famous speech) that he was “the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.” With all sincerity, I feel that way about myself. I’m the beneficiary of incredible kindness.  Compassion is the greatest thing humans and animals have brought into the world. Nothing compels it but empathy. Religion tries to scare it into us, but that won’t work without a threat of action in this world, not the next, or the one after.

Enough of that.

Today I’m going to convalesce, finish reading “Definitely Maybe” by Strugatsky, and take an audit of my CD collection. My eyes keep moving to the window in my bedroom, and Annie sitting on the bed, clocking the squirrels. Outside that window are more people than have ever been on the Earth at any one time, about 6.5 billion. A few miles above our heads is the Void. The Void of space.

Within us, another Void, that will be revealed in Time. Space and Time are like Jules and Vincent. They always get their man or woman.

An IT Puzzle & Being “Stab-Worthy”

Can I trace an IP address past a “proxy” server? It’s been fascinating to study, but I still don’t know if it’s impossible or easy. I’m tracing the IP address 193.200.150.125. As far as I can tell, it’s a proxy server located in Germany. I got this piece of useless but interesting information earlier today:

Fascinating how they work, these proxy servers, but not helpful to me. I’m doing this in an attempt to find out who is attempting to leave cruel comments after every post. Such commentary inspires a desire, on my part, to identify to whom I am speaking.

I say, “attempted” because they really don’t bother me. The comments themselves, anyway. It just annoys me that someone out there wants to hurt me. Wants to exercise cruelty with me.

I’m sure most of us remember that episode of Seinfeld, where Julia Louis-Dreyfuss’ boyfriend was stabbed by his ex. During a date with Julia, no less. She found herself more attracted to the fellow, because he was so bad that he was “stab-worthy.”

Depending on the person, that can be a compliment or a heart-breaker. Show yourself, Baraka, and be judged. J’Accuse!

Addendum

“Normal” is a label, and part of our identity. Most of us wondered about it many times a day, back in high school. Is it “normal” to masturbate, fantasize, fixate, follow and then get hit with a restraining order? Probably not.

Just go see Woody Allen’s Zelig if you’re unclear about how people like to feel normal, and fit in.

When I say that I’m abnormal now, it’s because I feel that I am. There was a time when I saw myself as pretty much part of the crowd, in the margins perhaps, politically.

One problem I have is that many, many people will not talk to me. They don’t want to catch my crazy, or something. There are other people in my life who love me and will defend me with vigor.

So I identify as “abnormal” because I’m treated abnormal (ECT isn’t to dry your hair), and in my mind, justifiably so. I’m certainly not happy with racing suicidal thoughts, regret and fear. This is not the life of a man, it is the life of a fern that dreamed it was a man. Or something.

And Baraka, you’re correct that the first suicide attempt was probably a cry for help. One doesn’t know at the time. The experience is the same, with the stomach pump and carbon drink. The second suicide attempt was very near successful, and if only I succeeded, for your sake. If I had died on that sidewalk in Copley Square in 1999, you wouldn’t read my blog, because it wouldn’t exist.

Then what would you do? Tell me your name, man! Cough it up!

Il et toerro.

Drifted Asleep

Some years ago I carefully, then quickly and without care, opened about one hundred plastic blisters, each containing 25 milligrams of diphenhydramine hydrochloride. That’s more than what they recommend for efficacy. The reason that I so flagrantly disregarded McNiell’s (makers of Benadryl) dosage instructions is simple, I’d planned to commit suicide.

And it would have worked, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids.

That act was followed by an awful scene of panic.  Sandra (my girlfriend at the time) was being her dry, academic self as she asked me over the phone, “Whatever did you do that for?” Meaning, of course, my overdose. The pain in my stomach was increasing, as was my determination to lie down and sleep. But there was Sandra, like a British officer in Shaka Zulu, acting like no emergency or brush with death was worth altering her very collected demeanor. For Christ’s sake, what would the Queen think?

Anyway, that was in 1998. Since then I’ve been trying, via therapy and medication, to overcome my illness. Not a single day has gone by since 1998 when I didn’t try to think of ways to improve myself, and control the manic episodes, suicidal depression and erratic behavior. In addition, there have been seven hospitalizations, 15 sessions of electro-convulsive therapy and all sorts of drugs taken. And talk therapy, which is an awful experience. For me, that is.

On that day in 1998, I effectively did die. The person I thought I was is no more. He is a dead parrot. What you see when you see me (rare sightings in public) is a dead parrot nailed to a perch. That’s exactly how I feel.

Up until that day, for 26 years, my name was Darren W. Lyle, student at UMass Boston majoring in evolutionary biology and ancient history, and an employee of the Fairmont Copley Plaza in Boston. Night Shift. The friends I happened to have were, and still are, very accomplished; Clare, Adam, Moisha, Linda, Sandra. They are all doing very well. Most are married, one has kids, three are working to get (or have gotten) a graduate degree.

Up until that day, I got up and did what I had to do, every day, just like everyone else. There was no “pass” that I could use, I was normal. My opinion of myself was low, but at least I was normal.

Normal.

My illnesses provide daily reminders of why I’m not normal anymore. Of why I could never speak in front of 75 people, like I did in 1992 at the convention of the Socialist Party USA in Milwaukee. As Chair of the Health Care Work group, I also self-published a newsletter. People submitted articles from all over. This was between 1991 and 1998.

While I was in Milwaukee, I met and worked with Frank P. Zeidler, that city’s “Sewer Socialist” mayor for so many years. He helped me get a motion passed, and I was at a dinner with him and a bunch of other Reds. The greatest honor of my life. Mayor Zeidler is gone now. Anyway, that was in 1992.

I made the Dean’s List at UMass Boston for all my time there. Early to mid-90’s. And I really loved every minute of school. Well, most minutes.

Naturally, there are many moments that I think on proudly. They are all from before 1998.

After you try to commit suicide, people have a tough time trusting you again. One must be careful not to build a nest in the heart of one who won’t be around for long. And the struggle of the illness itself is rather unpleasant. Two anti-psychotics caused grand mal seizures, and my memory is unreliable at best after the “shock therapy.”

When I walk about in the world, going to an appointment or buying bread, I feel like an old man. Withered. I’m here, but something that once was part of me is gone. It died in my bedroom in 1998, with my girlfriend on the phone as I drifted asleep.

 

Opportunity

I remember you at the bus stop near the BU School of Dentistry. We didn’t say much to each other on the bus except, “hello.” That surprised me, as we had such a good rapport upstairs, in the dentist’s office. I first saw you four months ago, and your smile grabbed me first. A broad smile from a large, happy person. Green eyes and the alabaster skin of a New Englander.  But it was your smell, as you hung over me, assisting the dentist. The aroma was of clean clothes, no perfume and shampoo.

It was odd seeing you on my bus, mere feet apart, but determined to keep our faces forwards and not converse any further. To help ensure that outcome, I kept my eyes fixed at the street below the window. When I knew I could, however, I looked at you. You’re beautiful and I wonder what knowing you is like. Maybe you’re a pain in the ass. I don’t know.

You were reading a book a bit too intently, but I caught you steal a glance at me twice! The second time, the look was accompanied by a delightful half-smile. She was sitting inside and a seat was open next to her. She hadn’t asked me to sit down, but this was a perfect opportunity.

But not for me. I had to get home, and wait for my lady. And considerations of life weigh in. Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream.

Crazy McFatfuck Has Nightmares

Every night, with rare exception, finds me fitfully roaming through nightmare after nightmare. No drug will stop them, nor will an enjoyable evening, happy conversation or love making just before I go to sleep. They are consistent only in their power to disturb me, and always leave me feeling much abused and cruelly manipulated by morning. In a fashion similar to an excellent novel or film, which can provide a transendant emotional experience that adds up to a whole lot more than a series of images or words. But not quite like that, as the emotional currency that we use against ourselves can be more evocative than the works of all but a few truly gifted artists. The language of a nightmare draws upon a rich lexicon that is made up of more than thoughts of people and things meant to create an emotional response. That would be bad enough, and sometimes, for whatever reason, the power of a dream ends there. But sometimes, a dream (or more often a nightmare), cheats and uses emotion itself to create a response that is unearned. One may only remember a collection of random events of little or no importance; walking to the store, getting on a trolley car, or climbing a flight of stairs. If it were a play or novel, we would be waiting for something to happen. But the mind is a stage where you (all of you) is both the performing artist and the audience. You are relating something to yourself, and it that’s what I mean by efficiency. Perhaps a better word would be elegance.

In that sense, every dream and every nightmare is sentimental. It is an unearned appeal to emotion. But the emotional power is found to an astounding degree, regardless. That’s why you can never explain the dream or nightmare to other people. It’s usually embarrassing to try to do so. For example, the things that happened to me in my nightmare last night made me wince upon remembering. I awoke covered in a cold sweat and with a terrific headache. From there, I sought only to escape myself via some distraction, via the television or even stroking the cat. One way or another, I had to get the fuck away from me. Pills help. But if I tried to tell you about it (which I wouldn’t), you would laugh at the seemingly random imagery and get really uncomfortable as I earnestly tried to relate something impossible to relate. Your dreams are produced, composed, written, choreographed, acted and performed by and for you.

Intuitively, one would assume that crazy people have stranger dreams and more horrifying nightmares. I’m not so sure, and I think that I’m inclined to believe that because I doubt other people are as fucked up as me. And to some degree, that may be true. The sane people I know tell me about dreams where they are knitting an enormous sweater while Dane Cook plays darts with Ned Flanders in the background, or some such shit. I ache for that kind of enjoyable simplicity. I suspect that my stupidity and mental instability leads to indecipherable iconography and random imagery, coupled with very disturbing feelings. More intelligent and stable people perhaps have more ordered dreams, with less spillover from one part of the brain to another. They may find themselves having sex with a set of bagpipes in the back seat of ‘57 Chevy, and wake up feeling violated, but it is still vaguely coherent.

As for me, I don’t know what the fuck happened last night. Anxiety was in the background, guilt was absolutely dripping from everywhere, the images were horrifying and complex but they could be related and still have power. One part that I can remember will go with me to my grave, but most of it is thankfully gone. But I still feel like a used rubber, flung from a speeding car (perhaps a ‘57 Chevy), smeared and stuck to the windshield of a tractor trailer. And this happens five nights a week. I kick my own ass beneath the sheets. As for the other two nights I don’t sleep at all. Yeah, I know, woe is me. The world ain’t easy.

Bono, Tear Down This Wall!

The falling of the Berlin Wall 20 years ago is something I’ll never forget. Matters of such consequence are rarely recognized as such until history has provided some distance and perspective. Not so in this case, for me or anyone else I knew back then.

As soon as we received television news reports and video of people mounting that wall and chipping at it with hammers, tire irons, pipes, fists, whatever, everyone knew that Berlin was the place to be. If you didn’t care about politics or history, there was still an enormous party as people gathered from East and West. One of the greatest cities of the world was reunited for the first time since the end of World War II. Some were so young that they never knew a unified Berlin. Others had been nursing a broken heart since the partitioning.

No matter your age, class, gender or feelings about the aesthetic value of large, concrete walls, if you were a Berliner you were happy. The insanity was over, and Berlin would be free to enter the 21st century as a single city. And oh, mama how I wanted to be there. Chipping away at concrete is hard work, but I would have taken a few shots, had a few beers, and found a süße frau to show me the ins and outs of Berlin.

As is the case now, I didn’t have the schmutziges geld then. Damn poverty!

There is no use crying over spilled walls. I’ll have to be satisfied with just visiting some day. And it just so happens that there was a chance to do that, and see mega-band U2, at the same time.

The European MTV Music Awards gave out 10,000 tickets to a concert given near the Brandenburg Gate. Sounds marvelous. Here’s a peek.

What you don’t see in this picture is the irony. The sign says, “Freedom” and the celebration is about…hating walls. But stretched all around the crowd, from one side to another, was a fence with plastic tarp. In other words, a wall. Why? Simply to keep freeloaders from ogling Bono without paying. Odd, though, since it was a free concert. Here’s the new Berlin Wall, already down, as the concert is over.

Isn’t that just horrible? Oh, wait, that’s the real Berlin Wall. This is the “Bono Wall” here:

This wall is a mere six feet high, and is apparently surmountable simply by standing on someone’s bike. Still, that isn’t the point. The people of Berlin are a wall-phobic people. Sure, beating the hell out of the last one, and making a few Deutsche marks out of left over spray-painted fragments, was therapeutic. Still, it would have been nice if someone showed a little wall sensitivity, particularly given what was being celebrated.

The Blue Flower Ball

Today finds me weakened and ill, a victim of a “cold,” or rhinovirus. It seems that most people in my life have this adorable little organism dancing a jig in their bodies. And if you don’t find it adorable, you have to at least admit it is aesthetically appealing on some level. Green and blue and brown like a miniature planet Earth. Here it is:

The little blue stars and green triangles make it look almost friendly. Regardless of appearances, however, this little fucker sailed up my nose (or one of his 100 cousins), landed on a healthy cell, and went to town.

Ever so gently, and with loving receptors, the cold virus made my immune system look stupid as my defensive dendritic cells helplessly let my fat face get invaded. Once it gets out to the other viruses that infecting me is a cake walk it’s going to be a sad state of affairs.

More later, dear readers.

In Praise of Sex

You may wonder why I placed naked photographs on my blog. Part of the reason is that I really enjoy nudes of men and women, but mostly women. A naked woman is perfect in every way, despite age, weight, skin color or hair. The imperfections reflect the inner, unalterable, perfection. You dig? The same is true for men, but it’s surprisingly difficult to find a picture of a naked man that isn’t in a sexual context. Briefly I included a nude of myself, but took it down after some internal discussion about the matter. But I did find a wonderful photograph, very touching to me. The image is about intimacy, sex, and comfort with that special human being. Physical comfort, and also a comfort of the soul, as well.

Not nude, except for the feet, but whenever I try to find photographs of nude, gay men making love or just holding each other, I get gay pornography. Young men with a “six pack” and enormous cock ejaculating on this or that. A lot of pictures of young men getting off, who are very aware of the camera. And orgasms are the bees knee’s, so who’s complaining.

For couples, sex is about desire, being “horny” and getting off.  But it’s also about the honesty of the naked body, kissing, touching, rubbing and scratching all those spots we can’t get to ourselves. After a day at work, where it’s made clear that you are NOT special, sex with the one you love is an affirmation through words and touching. The woman becomes a Goddess and the man a God, and we have only one member of the religion of ourselves, and that is the person we love. Together there is joy and safety and love.

Sex without love is great, too, but it’s like swimming in the shallow end of the pool. The trust, affection and knowledge that comes with spending many years with another human being allows one to open up more, to transcend countless petty concerns that keep us here.

I look forward to Linda and I becoming that Little Nation of Two every night. Whether sex is on the agenda, or cuddling, or massaging, or whatever, what I find is familiarity and love and safety in the arms of the woman I love. Life definitely has moments that make it all worthwhile. We don’t have to be alone. We don’t. Surprising comfort that is, isn’t it?

Of Swank, Nudism and the Human Body

Today finds me ill, with a bad cold. That means chills, aches and pains, and mucus. Lying in bed, my mind is racing despite having taken two Vicodin, seven Xanax, and smoked some pot. The pot was hard to keep into my painful, withered lungs.

I’m wearing Linda’s underwear, which is perfectly comfortable given my lack of testicles. My Obama shirt is keeping my nipples warm, which is a crucial aspect of any sick man’s recovery; warm nipples. Socks embrace my feet.

The stereo is playing Marni Nixon sings Classic Kern, as in Jerome Kern. She is singing, “The Song is You.” Annie is in the window, which is still a bit open against the cold, but the lights are off and the blinds are drawn as much as possible. I detest sunlight. I’m not sure why, but it makes me very unhappy.

Today, I wanted to write about sex a bit. But it doesn’t seem necessary. Nothing I do hasn’t been done 1,000 times before, and better, by someone else.  So I’ll make it quick.

Hilary Swank apparently got into trouble with some fans last week when she revealed that she doesn’t bother putting a top on in the morning, and that her boyfriends 6 year old son has often seen her magnificent Swank breasts.

My response to the story was a total lack of shock, followed by me imagining what she looks like naked, and then I moved on. But there was more. The comments section of this particular newspaper was full of Swank criticism! She was called, “trailer trash” and “vulgar.” It was at that point that I realized I had to say something, using my only megaphone. The Velvet of Pansies.

Linda and I once went to a nude camp, for one Saturday night. That provided two days of surreal nudity in public. We conversed with a Providence doctor, who happened to be in fine shape, about this and that. All the while pretending that vagina lips and cocks weren’t getting sunshine. Soon after, we swam and found that swimming nude is pure heaven. It’s just right. The campfire that night also felt right naked, except for the spark that sometimes flew out and threatened a vulva or a scrotum. Or anything, really.

Generally speaking, however, my clothes are on. Linda is the sole benefit of nude tomfoolery. But why are Americans so squeamish about breasts? And nudity? Let’s start with boobs.

They are not a sex object, except in the mind of the wanna be beholder. They have a function, to feed babies and put the right stuff in their bellies. Cow milk is not a good thing. Women now want the right to feed their babies out in public places, and yet some are facing resistance! This is from a culture where boobs are used to sell shows and movies and cars and everything else. You will see a breast on the BBC, but never on NBC. It’s silly.

This plays into why it is silly to over-react when your child sees you naked, or wants to play naked, or sees non-sexual nudity on television. If Hilary Swank had jumped up and acted mortified, it would have added negative currency to an aspect of the female form. It’s much better to she trust, and make it clear that it’s no big deal.

By the time most teenagers are ready to take their genital out for a walk, they’ve seen countless violent acts on television and in movies, with parental consent. They’ve seen a lot of sex, too, but not around their parents. Most of us will not wield a .357 Magnum or fight vampires, but we will wield a wet vagina or erect cock.

It’s not vulgar to talk about sex with your children, it’s vulgar not to. It’s crass to pretend that a guy getting his head shot off is “ok” but a man holding his wife and moaning while coming inside her, that’s verboten.

Personally, I keep clothes on as much as possible, outside of the nudist camp. I’ve lost 250lbs over the last 10 years, and a lot of loose skin makes me quite the unappealing nude sighting.  But when I was at that camp, walking outside naked and being seen was liberating. All the things I tried to hide, like my small dick and empty scrotum and large breasts, were just out there.  No physical secrets. Everyone was nice, too. Should go back there.

Hilary Swank is right. It’s a young child and it’s no big deal. It contributes to a healthy view of sexuality. And she does have a nice rack, too. I know because the kid Twittered, “Dad’s gf has supa supa teeeeeeeeeeeeeets! Where’s my binky?”