Sometimes you read something in someones journal that really fucks with you. Nothing that a few bottles of shitty Chianti and a pack of squares cant cure, but I only have one bottle and no smokes and all of about a dollar to my name. I can tell that, by the end of the night, Ill be into the brandy that I keep around for my Christmas pudding. Funny thing is that I havent had a drop of alcohol since well before New Year. Thats what a right shitty journal entryll do to ya!
The one of which I speak hit right to the core of my own guilt and self-hatred. When I read stuff like that, it shocks me that Im still able to look myself in the mirror. What an absolute fucking bastard I am! Usually, I cant quite remember why it is that I hate myself so much. Well, thats not quite right I know, but I often forget. What I dont possess is any memory of the moment moments, I should say. I remember what came before and then some time afterwards, but the moment - no. For all thats really in my mind, its all a complex conspiracy, something that was done to me, some grand lie involving many other minds, but not my own. Nevertheless, as much as I might hate it, Occams razor must rule; its just too bad it cant rule my wrists and have done with.
The doc switched me to a new med and drastically reduced my dose of Seroquel. For a while, I wasnt taking any at all. Now, I dont know if Im psychotic or not, but the reason I take the meds is to forget even more, to forget the before and the after, to forget the simple explanations, to forget what Im told I did, to forget my crime.
Many people think I should have done time, but they have no idea of the time Ive done. Nine years nine years alone, without love, without a lover, without pride, without honor, without the ability to do one goddamned thing for the ones I love, to be ostracized, banished, to have my old friends spit on the ground when they speak my name. Nine years sneaking around, afraid of the shadows, afraid that I might run into someone I know, someone I love, someone who now hates me, someone who now hates me with such justice. Nine years in and out of hospitals, my kidneys weakened by the meds and the overdoses, my brain fried to the point that I cannot even tell time, to the point that I lose time like an hourglass loses its sand. Nine years of unemployment, to be fired again and again because I cant seem to figure out what day it is much less when Im supposed to be in, to get one step ahead just to be knocked back three. Nine years staring at crappy, old snapshots, loving someone who used to be, someone whom I had a good part in changing forever, someone I havent seen in nine years, whose life could be good or bad, familiar or strange, someone unknowable. Nine years of coping with what I cannot cope, of violence within myself that I tried to explore safely with such damning results, exploration meant to eradicate, not exacerbate, violence in me who hates all forms of violence. Nine years in the company of mostly men, when all my life was in the company of women, when I hate men so, when I love women so. No, Im sorry, two years jail time would have been exceedingly merciful compared to the nine years behind these bars and in these chains of my own making.
The damned thing is that I still think I can hang like Christ and absolve the world of my own sins, when the world is replete with sins such as mine. I assume that my self-aggrandizing long-suffering will somehow sponge up the evil of the world, will somehow prevent others from making the same mistake as I made, whatever their reasons. My guilt serves no one and accomplishes nothing. I might as well be jaded, cold, and carefree. The innocent are still wounded and beauty is still smashed. I would do anything to regain my status as victim. Being the guilty is much worse for anyone with a conscience. The fucking problem really is that most people dont have a fucking conscience. Most people go on committing the same sins over and over again without ever even having the goddamned decency to seek absolution. If they did, they would find, just as I have, that absolution is about as impossible a thing to achieve as forgiveness.
[And now he really starts blathering on in ranting drunkenness]
Now, do any of you really need to ask why I call myself Jake Marley? If you havent figured it out yet, do a few clicks here and there, then read the goddamned book. A Christmas Carol is all about a man who is already damned, for whom absolution and forgiveness are an afterthought, who goes to the one person he could almost call friend to inform him of the Hell that awaits him. If you think my journal and my blog are bleak and negative, take them for what theyre meant to be a warning of what awaits you lest you come my way! No one ever fucking listens!!!
[A lot of stuff deleted here]
I think Ill quit while Im behind. The Chiantis gone and its time for the brandy. Ill spare you all of that.
and the auld triangle went jingle [bloody] jangle all along the banks of the royal canal Brendan Behan & Shane MacGowan
Edited by the crazy old cat man to say kitties rock!
The one of which I speak hit right to the core of my own guilt and self-hatred. When I read stuff like that, it shocks me that Im still able to look myself in the mirror. What an absolute fucking bastard I am! Usually, I cant quite remember why it is that I hate myself so much. Well, thats not quite right I know, but I often forget. What I dont possess is any memory of the moment moments, I should say. I remember what came before and then some time afterwards, but the moment - no. For all thats really in my mind, its all a complex conspiracy, something that was done to me, some grand lie involving many other minds, but not my own. Nevertheless, as much as I might hate it, Occams razor must rule; its just too bad it cant rule my wrists and have done with.
The doc switched me to a new med and drastically reduced my dose of Seroquel. For a while, I wasnt taking any at all. Now, I dont know if Im psychotic or not, but the reason I take the meds is to forget even more, to forget the before and the after, to forget the simple explanations, to forget what Im told I did, to forget my crime.
Many people think I should have done time, but they have no idea of the time Ive done. Nine years nine years alone, without love, without a lover, without pride, without honor, without the ability to do one goddamned thing for the ones I love, to be ostracized, banished, to have my old friends spit on the ground when they speak my name. Nine years sneaking around, afraid of the shadows, afraid that I might run into someone I know, someone I love, someone who now hates me, someone who now hates me with such justice. Nine years in and out of hospitals, my kidneys weakened by the meds and the overdoses, my brain fried to the point that I cannot even tell time, to the point that I lose time like an hourglass loses its sand. Nine years of unemployment, to be fired again and again because I cant seem to figure out what day it is much less when Im supposed to be in, to get one step ahead just to be knocked back three. Nine years staring at crappy, old snapshots, loving someone who used to be, someone whom I had a good part in changing forever, someone I havent seen in nine years, whose life could be good or bad, familiar or strange, someone unknowable. Nine years of coping with what I cannot cope, of violence within myself that I tried to explore safely with such damning results, exploration meant to eradicate, not exacerbate, violence in me who hates all forms of violence. Nine years in the company of mostly men, when all my life was in the company of women, when I hate men so, when I love women so. No, Im sorry, two years jail time would have been exceedingly merciful compared to the nine years behind these bars and in these chains of my own making.
The damned thing is that I still think I can hang like Christ and absolve the world of my own sins, when the world is replete with sins such as mine. I assume that my self-aggrandizing long-suffering will somehow sponge up the evil of the world, will somehow prevent others from making the same mistake as I made, whatever their reasons. My guilt serves no one and accomplishes nothing. I might as well be jaded, cold, and carefree. The innocent are still wounded and beauty is still smashed. I would do anything to regain my status as victim. Being the guilty is much worse for anyone with a conscience. The fucking problem really is that most people dont have a fucking conscience. Most people go on committing the same sins over and over again without ever even having the goddamned decency to seek absolution. If they did, they would find, just as I have, that absolution is about as impossible a thing to achieve as forgiveness.
[And now he really starts blathering on in ranting drunkenness]
Now, do any of you really need to ask why I call myself Jake Marley? If you havent figured it out yet, do a few clicks here and there, then read the goddamned book. A Christmas Carol is all about a man who is already damned, for whom absolution and forgiveness are an afterthought, who goes to the one person he could almost call friend to inform him of the Hell that awaits him. If you think my journal and my blog are bleak and negative, take them for what theyre meant to be a warning of what awaits you lest you come my way! No one ever fucking listens!!!
[A lot of stuff deleted here]
I think Ill quit while Im behind. The Chiantis gone and its time for the brandy. Ill spare you all of that.
and the auld triangle went jingle [bloody] jangle all along the banks of the royal canal Brendan Behan & Shane MacGowan
Edited by the crazy old cat man to say kitties rock!
i like it so much though.
more later, sorry i haven't kept in touch!
god... i love the auld triangle.
I actually got beat up by 2 members of the popes 5 years agao at the Fleadh Festival on Randall's Island, NY. I was pretty drunk and belligerant. Those days I say are gone...really.