Monthly Archives: November 2013

shut up and write: my first short story (or essay) 11-13-13

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For some reason I failed to understand I was John Wilkes Booth. Except I wasn’t. I could view my grizzled, wild eyed visage as if I were on top of this crazed killer of our President, holding him down so he could not escape. But then, I felt my own body, pinned tightly to my bed, frozen and heavy. I had surrendered to my fate, a grim smile crossed my face.

I knew I had to get up. I could imagine myself, awake and alert, and ready to fly out the door. I had promised to be somewhere. Perhaps to meet with my fellow conspirators. My body felt as though it had been beaten. Of course, it had been beaten, you idiot, you shot Abraham Lincoln! Don’t you remember? Remember? I am lying in bed. I had been tossing and turning all night. Even though I’d committed no crime, I felt like a fugitive. I’ll be late. I hate to get up now.

I sprang to my feet, and once erect, I felt fresh and alert, ready for the day, 8:25 am. Holy crap! Just enough time to dress and go, except I need to shave, and I need to clean out the cat box, and I should…..just go…Go!

So, here I was, desperately walking as rapidly as I could, down Valencia St. I knew it wouldn’t be long, perhaps even this sunny morning, that my fate would catch up with me. I had killed the President. My mind had failed to sort out the conflicting data swirling around my sleep deprived brain. I still felt as though I were John Wilkes Booth, a well known actor, who had made his escape to San Francisco, after depriving a much despised Lincoln of his life, and for just cause, I grant you. ‘Enough of this shit!’ I thought. This is not a day in which to be anyone other than myself.

As if to remind me of my true identity, I felt pain in my upper chest as I walked towards Borderlands. Is it my heart? I thought, idly. Such pains have so many origins. If I die, I die, I thought. For Booth life is but a brief affair, a Borderlands. Where else might I be heading in this odd place between sleeping and waking. Am I truly sitting here in a well-lit, comfortable coffee shop, writing much as John Wilkes Booth would have written, ink upon page, albeit with a quill and not a Bic.

Why would I think that I, an obscure fellow at best (still with the nineteenth century prose style, I see), but why consider myself to be a killer of Presidents? For the fame? the recognition, for the purpose of saying things are not as they seem, or maybe as a desperate attempt to alter the course of history. But then, it struck me as certainly as the hammer pounding in my head, I was also Booth’s captor. I held him down, with a grim determination. Damn you! and Damn what you’ve done! At the same time, I recognized that all of this was my brain’s attempt to make sense of the sleep paralysis which kept me pinned to my bed, seemingly unable to move.

There are so many inputs, so many possibilities, some leading to precious or not so precious insights, others leading to a one way ticket to the looney bin. It is hard to get my brain to work properly at times like these. I feel as though my brain is like a typewriter missing a few keys, leaving the reader to guess the intent, filling the gaps with their own narrative. That might be an interesting project for someone with absolutely nothing else to do, I thought.

You see, I am a writer, as you might have guessed by the meandering nature of the previous prose. I am never at a loss for words. My only restraint being the merit of the words. Does anyone benefit in any way, from adding my words to a brain already filled with useless junk?

Whoever said, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” clearly had no experience with bedbugs. As a longtime resident of San Francisco, I had more than enough experience with the little bloodsuckers. They were the cause of my sleeplessness. In a demented sort of way, I admired these bugs. They were damn near impossible to eliminate. I could kill them by the millions, the trillions, and no matter, they still would find……but enough about bedbugs. That is not a fit subject for man nor beast. After all, as a writer, I must consider my market. Bedbugs do not make for enjoyable reading, so I thought instead of the opportunity afforded by this unpleasant yet intriguing state of mind. Why the hell did I dream of John Wilkes Booth? What did that say about me? It is also interesting that I was both Booth and the man holding him down. How could that be? So here I am, on the lam from some heinous crime, and it is I who shall bring myself to justice. One of the first things I learned on my journey to the clear light, it’s all me, every last bit of it, even the bedbugs.

Dipshits

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It is after midnight. The perfect time for a dipshit. It is also appropriate that I am posting this on an extinct blog. I lost faith in this irreverent blog because my dipshittiness almost got me sued. There was a time when I was a true dipshit. I didn’t take myself as importantly as I do now. Now, all I do is write poetry and transcribe someone else’s thoughts, dreams, and desires. Which is fine, but……what about my own? Mine have been on hold, until I get that job, have that money, get rid of the bedbugs, fleas and whatever. My true mojo was out there in that indefinite future. The same future in which everyone recognizes my genius, and where I don’t get laid every night because sometimes I just need to take a break from all that female adulation. Pretty fucked up, I’m sure. Hey, maybe I’m just a dipshit in disguise.

Just one of those guys

a dipshit in disguise

walking through his neighborhood

and never sees a Goddamn thing

His hopes and dreams

recorded for anyone to read

long after he’s died

a dipshit in disguise

Hey, that was supposed to be funny, and it turned out sad. Much like my life. But nobody cares about an uneventful life, if I’m going to be sad, I need to be SAD in a big dramatic way. You know, wearing the same clothes for weeks on end, so sad that I forget who I am and need to be put away somewhere, except these days there is nowhere to be sent, so I would just wander the streets, all my old friends avoiding me when they run into me in some doorway, lying in my own urine. Now that is a degree of despair which demands attention. It is the sort of thing a dipshit daydreams about, isn’t it? A way of gaining attention, instead of living up to what it means to be a human being.

But dipshits are angry little brats who never asked to be a human being, and quite frankly, resent it. There seem to be more dipshits today than when I was growing up. It used to be that no one ever aspired to be a dipshit. If you wanted someone to straighten up and stop embarrassing you and him or herself, just call them a dipshit. Back then, only Beat poets would welcome the company of a dipshit. Today dipshittiness is a growing industry. Comics? Most of them are just dipshits. Our culture has turned away from erudite humor, and have settled for dipshit culture. They are everywhere. I can’t go down to the local Walgreen’s without there being at least a couple of dipshits standing in line, if you can call it standing. Usually they are weaving around the line, and swaying on their feet like a drunk, except dipshits are drunks that never become sober. There am I, obviously a very important person compared to them, and I get more annoyed by the minute, muttering under my breath, “dipshits!’. Now, I do make one significant exception in regard to dipshits. I cut teenagers some slack because teenagers by their very nature have always been dipshits. That is what a dipshit really is, someone who is not a teenager, acting like a teenager.

As I admitted above, I am a closet dipshit. I used to be a dipshit right out in the open. I didn’t care. I missed the days when I was a teenager and shot my mouth off at every opportunity, regardless of whether I was making a fool of myself or not. A lot of people pointed out that I was a fool in those days. My teachers, my brothers, my sister, who often called me a dipshit, and my mother. My mother went to great lengths to explain to me that it was a sin to call someone a fool, then minutes later called me just that. My mother was a real dipshit, but saying that to her would earn me a good smack in the mouth from my father. Actually my father never smacked me, but come to think of it, I never called my mother a dipshit either.

When I think about it, being called a dipshit is a double insult, not only are you shit, you are a dip of shit. In other words, you aren’t THE SHIT, you are just a dip of it. You aren’t enough to bother with, an irritant, a bad joke, sort of like a flea. Even a punk is a step above a dipshit, because a punk knows better, and a dipshit never ever knows better. A dipshit can be counted on to do the faux pas, the wrong move, to be in the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time, or just some sort of mistake in the scheme of things, awkwardly existing like a meal that absolutely no one has ever ordered. But there you are. After a while, you begin to stink from neglect. Such is the life of a dipshit.

Maybe this post will revive my dipshit spirits. Maybe I will retrieve my wise ass reputation, which was never wise in anyone else’s eyes, only stupid, only just being a dipshit. Maybe I will post more onto this defunked, debunked, defucked, blog, and make it relevant again, maybe I can go back to not being important or special, not the sort of voice in the wilderness you want to heed, but the sort of voice in the wilderness that irritates you to no end. Advice from a dipshit. What happens when an entire society descends into ineptitude and even mayors and congressmen, and sports figures are dipshits too! Doesn’t that change what it means to be a dipshit? When dipshits cease to annoy or offend, they have lost their right to being called such.

In ancient Rome, the dipshit had a special status. He would stand in the Forum and defecate, urinate, or masturbate, in plain view of the crowd. Then, whatever this filthy nitwit had to say was considered to be an oracle, the voice of the Gods, or failing that, he was considered to be quite wise. Could this be the origin of the expression: “Holy Shit!” You’ve got to admit, when a guy dumps a load, or shoots a load, you tend to notice. What he says would probably be remembered. But he would be considered a real jackass, a real dipshit.

I make no claim to be the voice of the Gods, and I have no plans to defecate or masturbate outside the local Walgreens, but I feel that my dipshittiness serves a purpose, if only to puncture my toxic pride, and the toxic pride of others.

It remains to be seen if there will be more posts like this one, or if this blog, which isn’t quite dead, but certainly smells funny, will become active once again. If dipshits could read I am sure they would enjoy this post. But a dipshit must never be made to feel good about his or her self, their magic lies in their utter disregard for themselves, their total lack of ego. Others might mutter, “Look at that fool, he doesn’t give a shit about anything, including himself.” to which I’d say “I disagree. I think he gives a shit. Didn’t you see him at the Forum?”