grahamfacekillah

Well I have completed 40% of my social experiment...county jail that is. I get to read a lot of Henry Miller. I laugh my ass off as I sit on a steel bunk bed and gym mat mattress. His lust for life, well more like his lust for living in the present keeps me hoping the following day will be an adventure. Camus' the Stranger helped me cope with solitude of living among strangers and just living in a world that is not my own creation. I could write stories of what I have experienced in there, but that is for another medium.

I awoke to thunderstorms and wanted to walk in them only to remember that I gave my boots to a friend that was in more need than myself. A punk house was recently evicted, so a few of my friends are couch surfing. Mid Missouri is not the place to try and find shelter in March. It is lovely one day and painfully frigid the next. I am in some rough waters financially, but not to the point of eating out of dumpsters and in soup kitchens.

My closest relative (other than my mom) is dying and my sobriety is giving me painful chills from the past as well as the glory days I had with him. I have to gain the strength to see him as he is on a morphine drip and is unable to breathe. I know it is from the lifestyle that he led of Winston's, Busch beer, heroin, OC, any good score, painkillers and San Quinton maximum security prison...but those were the salad days of his to the stories I grew up on and the fast times when he gripped life by the balls. Fuck, he lived. His brother, my father, blames him for all my problems, yet he drinks himself to sleep because he cannot express grief. I wondered where he disappeared when his dad died, but I was little then, unable to understand what drinking was, yet alone know what a bender was. He left me to sulk in my sadness and I had no idea how to cope. I guess I know where I get my secretive habits and covered addictions came from.