my chair is right on top of a little stain in the unprotected woodgrain of the floor, where the the varnish is worn away, and where I bled a little. The stain is shaped like a foot—sort of—where the gash on my eyebrow left the outline of a very big toe, and my split upperlip produced a big, round heel stain, enhanced with a spray effect from my labored breathing.
These events fascinate me, since I was unconscious for most of them. My friends tell me of events involving me as though another had come temporarily to live my life, and hurt me. Not unlike someone I might once have called, 'lover'.
These events release (or evict) my mind from cogent thought; images become inaccessible things; vertical becomes a feature of chronology; time ceases to be a thing which flows, and instead becomes a collection of places to visit; my own body becomes an alien geography; and spoken words become bereft of meaning while all the meaning in the world can be held in just one kind or familiar face.
These events bestow on me an abject unconsciousness that is blissfully silent and painless at its start, but which has become increasingly difficult to return from with each sucessive seizure. This time it has taken me a whole week; usually it's no more than 48 hours. That may be due to a new medication that has side effects of drowsiness and dullness and ferocious nausea, all of which is making my return to reality more difficult, my resumption of things like writing, like posting these pages, like going to work prohibitively difficult. I feel so terriffically miserable right now, that my first words to my Neurologist tomorrow will be some obscenity like, 'go to hell!' or, 'I'd rather fucking die!'
the cutest little phone man was clambering all over the telephone pole in my back yard on Monday—he had really the nicest ass I have seen in a long time, especially the way he was positioned with his ass projecting back at my kitchen window—and he was very handsome besides. I first noticed him when I got up to piss, around 10:00 AM. I went back to bed. Then, through one half-opened eye, I noticed that the webcams I usually monitor overnight were unavailable—all four of them. "Hmmm," I thought, "a pretty phone man out on the pole, and my DSL seems fucked-up." This week has not gone well, and the DSL screw-up is only the second of four disasters.
I captured the techno-Adonis before he fled, and brought him with me into the basement, where he pretty much said, "Yeah, I probably fucked it up on the pole, but I can't touch those lines because they don't belong to Bell Atlantic, they're leased. I didn't need to point out to him how absurd that is, he understood the absurdity that he obviously touched the line to break the connection, but isn't allowed to touch it to reconnect it. I hesitated after being so informed, and watched him use some of his really cool gadgets for reporting in to the office the fact that he was done wreaking havoc and ready to move on. I was resigned to the fact that he was not going to fix the DSL, and after a long pause, I realized he's not going to have sex with me either. I came back in the house and called MSN.
I think this new medication makes me horny, in addition to its other less desirable effects. It's still not worth it. If it made me irresistable to sexy young linemen, then maybe I would put up with its nasty side-effects, but it doesn't do that.
he was maybe 5' 6", close-cropped dark brown hair, a fresh-faced pink complexion—not brown or olive, and white-blue eyes. His arms were thick and muscular, and covered with very fine, dark hairs. He had an attractive curve to his lip that made me think he must kiss with a fervent severity, and it made me wish, quite sincerely, that he wanted to.
and one final observation on dependancy: I have become dependant on DSL. The fact that it is always connected is a feature of its digital architecture and not originally intended as a marketing tool, but shortly after installation, this feature of constant connection becomes indispensible. Not to mention download times which, for once, are reasonable. I always knew I would one day like living near the phone company central office.
DSL on the other hand is not essential; I can live with losing DSL once I become dependant on it. Not so love. Therefore, I'd prefer the lineman fix my DSL rather than close in on me in a corner of the basement with his ample affection and fervent lips. I wish he'd return to me the connection he broke, rather than leave me in the risky position of utter dependance on love with absolutely no control over it... But I got the thing in between the two; not as good as having him go back up and fix his mistake, but not as unbearable as having him be sweet as well as beautiful. He just did neither. And though I'd rather not, I can live with that.
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