My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes. Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose.

Well, after five sticks, four at home and one in the e.r., I have a new needle. Hopefully, the fucker’ll stay in my arm.

So, I’ve had a needle in my neck for trache related IV anti-biotics. It’s been a little creepy having such a thing outside the hospital, especially since it wasn’t used to administer narcotics. That’s just the association I’ve developed with having a needle in my neck. Yes, there’s a needle in my neck, but if I’m getting Propofol or Morphine it really doesn’t matter. At any rate, I really had to go out today, needle or not.

I decided to go for a tattoo, one I keep trying to get, and a latte. I got to the tattoo shoppe at 2:30 PM and they were already booked. I couldn’t believe it. I had to make an appointment for Sunday. The latte, however, was excellent. Of course, none of this particularly interesting. The interesting part, at least to me, is that at some point during my travels the needle came out of my neck. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t bleed. I didn’t notice. So, obviously, I’m a highly evolved zombie.

So, I’ve been falling asleep and waking up listening to my iPod. I had more really bad dreams last night. I used to have fake bad dreams about zombies and what-not, but lately I’ve graduated to real ones. Anyway, I had a particularly bad dream and woke up with a start listening to Radiohead’s Creep. It just seems fitting to wake up that way.

This is whorey, but does anybody have a good .mp3 of this video?

So, right now, I’m in my room with an IV bag attached to a coat-hanger, duct taped to my ceiling fan and a needle in my neck. The juxtaposition is odd, I’ve never had an IV in my neck outside of the hospital. It’s nothing serious, just a few days of anti-biotics for the trache, but it’s weird. 

Some family friends visited yesterday, they prayed over me. They mean well, but getting prayed over never makes me feel anything but uneasy. It just feels a little weird, like maybe you’re “going somewhere.” I mean, I pray, but not like that, with “please Jesus” and “thank you, Lord Jesus,” every few words. My prayers are conversational, one-way, but still conversational. I think God knows me enough to where I can just talk (not literally), and sometimes swear. I like to think God’s cool enough to be called a fucker and take it, He knows what’s in your heart anyway, and that’s what’s sometimes in mine.

I had terrible nightmares. Sometimes I miss the exhausted, empty sleep before Ativan.

I’m thinking about someone again. I think about said person a lot.

I’ll write something better after I wake up a bit.

These pictures are for Jonny, an awesome fellow.

Me and Catcher at the airport

Me and Catcher on Venice Beach

Me and Catcher Shopping

I’m back from the hospital, again. Last night was definitely better, but things have been worse.

I keep thinking about certain people, one in particular. I could write much more, I surely could, but I’m tired. Exhausted, really. I want to sleep for thousand years sometimes, but only sometimes. There are reasons to wake up, not always many, but enough. I wonder who’s thinking about me while I think about them.

You know, I’m in the hospital and all. There’s a needle in my neck, I’m not breathing amazingly well, but I really don’t particularly care. I had a really nice evening, nice enough to kill the worrying. My iPod’s on nice and low, Aimee Mann, Elliott Smith, sad songs lulling me to sleep, but I’m not sad. I’m falling asleep happy, in this dark place.

So, I went for a tattoo, stopped for a latte first, drove to the hospital. My trache loves me like Jesus and Bono, who I actuality think are the same person.

So, I’m on the plane yesterday watching Cool Hand Luke on my newly acquired iPod Touch, courtesy of my friend, Celeste, and the Ellen Show. I hadn’t seen the movie since I was sixteen for a “movie analysis” class. We’d watch movies and write essays about them. Back then I could always do critical analysis, identifying symbolism and what-not, but until yesterday at twenty-four thousand feet I’d never “felt” the movie.

I’m lying there, trying not think about anything for awhile, not the trip, not Sara, not getting back to Tampa, absolutely nothing but watching a movie. Of course, I forgot that Cool Hand Luke begs one to be introspective.

So, I’m watching, slowly identifying with Luke stronger and stronger through his struggles. Lots of us have some Luke inside, some more than others, but he embodies very common human experiences and emotions. The sky outside the plane was so beautiful, we’re flying in and out of soft white clouds, the movie’s almost over. I’m doing fine until his talk with God at the end of his last escape-attempt, at which point everything that has happened over so many years hits me and I start sobbing.

I think, “You fucker, what are you doing? What the fuck’s wrong with you?” but I couldn’t help it. I’ve had that talk with God so many times. I’ve asked why He built me not to fit, and then stacked the deck against me so that maybe I can’t win. I don’t mean that in a “I so wish I could walk” kind of way, but generally in how I think and feel inside, I never really feel like I fit anywhere, like I know I’m in the wrong place, but I don’t really know where the right place is either. Actually, the right place is much clearer, but getting their is often murky. I’ve asked God about that too. I’ve begged forgiveness, asked for help, but just like for Luke, God never answers back, never directly, if at all.

I’ve been broken like Luke too, praying to God that I’d do anything, so long as I didn’t get hit again. Still, even after being completely broken, and knowing he was broken, it didn’t stick, he kept going. No help from anyone, let alone God, Luke tried one more time to make his way on his terms. He died trying to find what he wanted, but he died smiling. 

I think that inability to quit, that little spark that God gives people, that He gave me, is often the one gift we get. It’s also a sadistic fucking joke. He knows how I feel, I’ve mentioned it before. I doubt that most prayers start with, “listen, you fucker,” but mine often do. God’s just out to watch and listen, which is why I do pray, but He sure as shit isn’t out to answer back openly. We have a very plain relationship, I don’t pretty up my prayers. God gives us free will, but I also think He gives us traits and circumstances that make us more fun to watch. At any rate, He didn’t answer Luke, and He’s not going to answer me. I’m going to do what I do until I can’t do it anymore. I just want to die smiling, with a cool hand.