Drag drag drag myself out of the warm covers in the freezing bedroom on a hot muggy day that I don’t don’t don’t want to face just yet. Groggy from all of the action my mind had while I was sleeping. Sleeping can be so tiring sometimes. The memories of my activities fade with each move I make out of the bed and towards the bathroom to release a night full of liquid. Groggy I stumble back in my room to try and pray to my God not yours although they may have met at some Deity convention we don’t know about. I smoke and wonder what would Jesus do if he had these habits of smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My muzzled pounding thoughts expire to endless words spewing and I have no control. It makes no sense to be this tired and unmotivated and think so fast and too much. Even my God cannot quiet my insides.
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Posted by richhillenjr
I woke up in an episode of Charlie Sheen’s new television show for some reason. I was dumped off or fell into it. I felt beaten up and dirty. I watched how they referenced 2 and a Half Men and even got the characters to appear and wondered how they got the rights to do that. The set looked funny and sparse.
I ended up at the exit of a Hooters restaurant and I was counting my Hooters’ t-shirts someone gave me. I started talking to one of the waitresses about her bad tips because they worked near a casino and there were too many older people at they’re establishment. I watched her collect dollar and coin tips and felt bad. Then a group of teenagers drove by and threw more coins at the waitress walking me outside the restaurant. They were customers being assholes. I asked the girl if there were any bars near by to pick up take out. She pointed out several and I spotted a liquor store and realized it was earlier in the day than I thought it was. I checked my pockets for money as I walked towards thee illuminating lights of the store that sold liquor. I had enough to get drunk and that was ok with me as I tried to figure out where I was and how I got there.
On my way to pick up some beer and whiskey I checked my voicemails on my cell phone. It was Rebecca my first true love of my youth. The first one I planned to marry. It was a weird message to me. Apparently we were still a couple or a couple again. She was angry and forgiving for something I had just did which explained my abandonment in this town wherever I was. She wanted to remind me about November. I had no idea what she was talking about but happy she wasn’t mad about whatever I did that day or the day before. I forgot about buying the booze and woke up.
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Posted by richhillenjr
Sorry for not filling these pages for a while faithful and infidelic readers. My mind and body have been under major construction and most of my creative focus has been drained on the artistic outlets that I make money on and the rest of my energy is kind of lost. I’ve been lost yet searching while waiting for my mental, physical and spiritual portals to show me some light and it’s been found. Perhaps the following will explain a little so be patient or skip to the good parts.
As always- thanks for reading.
I recklessly take new medications with out reading the label and the big slip describing all of the side effects. I take the pill then either the pill works, doesn’t work I feel the side effects or I don’t. Then I read the side effects if something feels wrong.
I finally went to see a neurologist after 5 years of being diagnosed with Trigeminal Neuralgia, a facial nerve disorder is how I describe I to most people but it’s much deeper than that or it wouldn’t be nick-named as the “suicide disease”.
It took 5 or 6 months of waiting for this appointment because having Medicaid as my insurance I am on a lower priority rank at the office. Medicaid even provides me with rides to and from my house which can be nerve racking and a God send at different times depending who the driver is.
I met with a beautiful Asian Dr named Dr Tracey Wang. I was expecting an old unattractive woman for some reason. I don’t even know why this was an issue-I guess it was more of a passing observation. She did a lot of standard physical tests like reflexes on my legs, knees, arms, legs and even my face. I was in pain when I got there and purposely didn’t take any of my pain meds so she could see my pain if possible. The cold medal of her small reflex tool did cause pain on my face.
When she was finished checking my pain she moved on to tell me what steps I need to take next. She wrote a referral for an MRI and another brain scan of the face that I can’t remember what it’s called, a referral to pain management who may be able to write prescriptions for pain medications because this doctor my new family doctor do not like to prescribe pain medicine. Hopefully I won’t need pain medication with the new anti-seizure medication.
I filled my prescription for the new medication Oxcarbazepine (Trileptal) on my way to stay at my mother’s. I stay there every Friday night in case my uncle needs me to help him with work on Saturdays doing minor office cleaning a few blocks from my mom’s house. I was planning to stay at mom’s until the following Tuesday in case my sick aunt needed watching over if my uncle had to go anywhere like his Doctor appointments because my mom had preplanned a vacation. I watched some television and did a little writing and went t bed at a decent hour because I was called into work for 8 am Saturday morning. I took the Oxcarbazepine (Trileptal) for the first time that night.
I woke up late with little time to get ready and have coffee the next morning and I couldn’t get off the couch I normally sleep on. My face was half numb and half hurting. My arms were numb and semi seizuring. My eyes were blurred and swollen. I made some quick instant coffee and could barely hold the cup. I took all of my morning medications and debated skipping the new one but took one anyway assuming this was all just a side effect that will pass. I sat on the porch and tried to steady myself for a morning smoke and coffee with shaking hands and face. I called one of the other workers to let him know that I was running late. He made a sarcastic remark about me hurrying up that I took serious and sent my anxiety through the roof. I eventually settled a bit and got my ass off to work. My co-workers looked at me like I looked the way I felt. I felt like I had the worst hangover ever. I haven’t had a drink in a while either. I went to work slowly but found myself feeling better once the pain medications kicked in. I made it through work and then a visit to see my uncle and aunt. Great aunt and her “man” of almost 20 years. That’s another story. I eventually made it back to my mom’s and was in and out of it for the next 4 or 5 days.
Every day I’d wake up at different times with various symptoms and deal with it the best I could. I watched a lot of television and barely did any drawing, writing or reading. My mind and body went through changes each day. I did manage to check the side effects each day to make sure most of them were normal ones and I didn’t need to go to the hospital or stop taking the new medication. Since I had to stay at my mom’s anyway I stayed “on call” until Thursday when I had a group therapy thing that night with rides set up through medical insurance . .bla blah.. If you’re still with me folks keep reading. I might actually have a point to these 3 pages of 16 point type.
What I thought was going to be a mini-vacation at my mom’s house for 4 days turned into a 5-day rehabilitation and medication adjustment. The seizures and numbness lessened and now I am just numb in the tongue for some reason. The pain lessened the 2nd day and my dizziness and sleepiness continued but that’s understandable because I take several pills with the same side effect.
This is the first time that I am giving new medications for my Trigeminal Neuralgia and my bipolar a chance for more than a few days in a while. Usually, if I don’t like the side effects I stop. Also, having jobs and many commitments I had to stop taking come meds or I’d lose my job and relationships. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have the freedom and time to give medications the proper time to work through my system and adjust to them and see if they will work. It’s also the first time I feel hope and faith through the temporary side effects to feel better. If it means a few weeks or a few months to find out so be it.
I might end up stop taking some of them and trying it again and that’s ok also because I’ve learned that treating rare neuralgic disorders and mental illness is not an exact science. Sometimes faith and hope is the most important ingredient to the recipe of mental, emotional, physical and spiritual wellness.
Oh yeah -Doctors, lawyers, psychiatrists therapists, group therapy and 12-step meetings are also part of the mix to my personal recovery. If I keep it all balances and don’t let myself get overwhelmed then I might even grow up and out of whatever it is I am now and was before
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Posted by richhillenjr
Yeah. I haven’t had writer’s block per say. I’ve been busy having my 19th nervous breakdown and drawing to pay rent. I love drawing but I miss writing as much as I normally do.
So, here’s a well something I wrote based on a few dreamses.
It was group therapy. It was forced therapy. It was a family reunion of the family that never was but perhaps should be. Grammar school orgy. Grammer school orgy. It was a film making table reading in a locked room. Forced filmmaking. Script reading. It was confusion. Both of my, well 3 of my (2 are brothers) friends who made make write score create direct films -William Hellfire and the Martin Brothers-Andy and Jim Martin were there as counselors or doctors or caretakers or leaders or patients taking charge. They had their latest cast or character actors who belonged here with me along with Kat Dennings with the personality of her character Max in the non-hit TV show 2 Broke Girls, another friend Cherie, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Andy’s friends Rick and Pat and Hellfire’s latest young hot sultry actresses ready to do anything. Anything. Non of the other girls mattered. I liked Kat. I was really into her this time and not the average young skinny wild ready for anything models (although she was young and not fat-she was older than and heavier than most girls I dream about and the ones in the room).
The reading was tedious. Repetition and such. Words. Just words. I kept thinking. The padded walls became more apparent. Was it part of the set or part of the prison? The cell. The reading? The words. There was a window in the corner left right over the top wall. I was padded and bars decorated the outside. I think it a was plastic window. No glass for the loons. This loon.
We could hear the heavy storm a coming. Rolling round the bend. A hurricane. An avalanche? The doors were bolted shut and we hung out in the lobby of the built in movie theater we found though a secret compartment and sneaked in and ate popcorn and drank coffee and soda. Mr Hellfire always had a stash of liquor with him to share and some took some and some turned it down. This was our scared straight therapy I proposed in my mind. The party was just beginning and I felt like I just begun as well. I never began. I never stopped or started. No one understood why we were there and most of us didn’t care or cared too much. We fluctuated back and forth. An orgy. An evening of days spread across the calendar of my subconscious or maybe I was part of someone else’s dreams.
The storm subsided eventually and I dreamed my way onward onto a floatation vehicle. A car. A Delorian. A delirium. Ruins of the storm maintain the balance somehow and the roads –Who needs roads?- I see foreign flying vehicles. Ed Woodian saucers like whipped by me on the way to Gary’s house. Flight attendants offer my navigational gal Friday pills for the ride and I steer along seamlessly despite the nausea.
“Go ahead and vomit” I tell Gary but Gary never gets sick.
We arrive in his underground tavern. Cavern to find his equipment ready to go. We park. Hang out forgetting the therapy of filmmaking and ballet dancing. When he’s ready for me to leave the BitchCave Gary confidently hands me a package. I knew what to do as I climb into a new flight device. Airplane maybe?
Flight of the dead. Dead musicians, friends, loves and my own life obliterated into one pile of ashes from the exhaust flames of a flying saucer. I’m still high from the flames and the guilt.
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Posted by richhillenjr
Events cruising like Al Pacino through
Mutated sexual caravans filled with
Like-minded creatures of the day light
Bump Bump Bump
Her affordable anguish seems to cost
Her fiancé more than her
Mangle is such a felicitous word
Bang Bang Bang
Aortic anvils drop
Falls rapidly in the ruins
It’s delightful to my
Bye Bye Bye
Leave a Comment » | America, American Dream, Anti-Social, Anxiety, Art, Blog, Camden NJ, City, Commentary, Courtesy, Dating, Depression, Digital Art, Drugs, Erection, Exploitation, Facebook, Family, fear, Friends, Fuck, Happy, Hate, Heart, Job, Love, Masturbation, Obsession, Photographer, Poetry, Prose, Psychiatry, Self help, Sexuality, Stress | Tagged: 18th century French poetry, AL Pacino, Bang, breathe, Bump, Bye, Cruising, dead poets, Digital art, Gay bars, Hillen art, live, living poets, poetry, poets, Rich Hillen Jr peotry, Work | Permalink
Posted by richhillenjr
Sickness of my psyche
Rapes my body furiously
Like a grape devouring a sunset
Exhausting my entire vessel
I am vacant and wearied
I run in slow motion to
The food truck of love
Careful to avoid every crack along the way
To avoid herniating my dead mother’s discs
Hopscotching the bricks of the city with
Carmelita as she flirts and leads me on and over to
Successive numbered city blocks until she has
Vanished permanently from my sight
I move on lost in the darkly lit city
Lost in my contemplations
I find my filthy white car and
I try to drive it around as people cheer me on
I leave them behind and fall asleep at the wheel
I wake up in my motel room and I try to wake up
And pack a weeks worth of belongings into my
Panic fills my essence
Relief arrives in the form of Carmelita the motel maid
In my room with the manager telling me to take me time
He lifts her skirt to reveal her big pantyhose covered ass
They tell me to help them and I can stay for free
Arousal versus my need to flee
The sickness of my psyche
Leave a Comment » | America, American Dream, Angels, Anxiety, Art, Blog, Camden NJ, Cigarettes, City, Coffee, Dating, Death, Depression, Disorder, Dream, Drugs, Experimetal, Exploitation, fear, Fiction, Friends, Guardian Angel, Happy, Hate, Junky, Karma, Kiss, Movies, Murder, Music, Nightmare, Nothing, Obsession, Photographer, Photographs, Poetry, Prose | Tagged: Anthony Robbins, Care free, Charels Bukowski, Charles Manson, Donnie Darko, Dreams of granduer, eye, facebook, fire, Hippie, INSANITY, Jack Kerouac, Jane Doe, John Smith, Kevin, MMurder, motel money murder madness, nightmare, poem, Poet, poetic equations, poetry, Poke, Relieved, Rich Hillen Jr, self help, Tony Robbins, Water, wet the bed, writer | Permalink
Posted by richhillenjr
Ezra POUNDed my head today
I woke up in the (William) BURROUGHS of my mind
Unable to NEAL like Cassady and pray
I write like I am an ARTHUR (Rimbaud) of many poems but
I am really a HUNTER (S. Thompson) of words
A Patti wordSMITH
I am hungry for an Allan GINSBERGer with cheese
Flap JACK Kerouac rhymes touch my soul
I search as (Henry David) THOREOUly as I can for the
Right (Edgar Allan) POEm to come along and
It all seems so (William) BLeAkE like
Tasting rotten (Walt) WHITMAN chocolates
My creativity takes it (Gregory) CORSO
As I ponder on about Emily needing DICKenson
I have to make my MARK like TWAIN
And do as I WILLiam and say FAULKner you
I WILLiam SHAKEspeare this feeling
I want to have my (Robert) FROSTed cake
And (William Butler) yEATs it too
Mark my (William) WORDSworth
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Posted by richhillenjr
The Deadly Secret
I’ve heard that term so many times. never thought it would apply to me. It did.
I had trouble breathing 4 -6 months ago.
Months went by and my left arm went back and forth from slight pain to numbness sometimes. My chest was occasionally tight. My breath was short and became shorter every few days. My little secret. My deadly secret.
I mentioned it briefly to a couple people but I wrote it off as a panic attack or being out of shape and they agreed. No big deal. I took extra anxiety medications. It sort of went away. I tried to convince myself it went away. I’m too young to have a heart condition, right? So I kept my deadly little secret.
I went back to my cigarette smoking, too much coffee drinking and over eating bad foods. Ate, drank and smoked as much as I wanted for a few months ignoring the arm pain and shortness of breath.
My deadly secret was about to surface. It started off like most days. I woke up in the morning and had my usual several cups of coffee, an energy drink and as many cigarettes as I could smoke. No breakfast for this guy.
After a long urination, my breathing became difficult. I assumed it was anxiety or another panic attack so I took my anxiety meds and was stupid enough to light a cigarette. I’m always stupid enough to light a cigarette.
I had to put the cigarette out before it was finished. This went against one of the rules of my smoking rulebook. Rule 3: Never put out a cigarette before it is finished. You can see how serious this was getting that I broke a smoking rule.
I decided to go the hospital. My roommate was home and asleep because it was Labor Day. I didn’t want to bother him. I packed a bag and wandered to my car. It got worse. I tried to get in my car and couldn’t make it. I stumbled back in the house.
I tried to wake up my roommate but didn’t have the energy to do much more than knock and slightly shout his name. No answer.
I called 911. I couldn’t breathe and figured an ambulance can get me oxygen faster than driving to the hospital. I searched for a small paper bag to use to breathe in and out of. All I could find was a paper grocery bag. I used it until the medics arrived.
The medics arrived within 5 minutes or so. Luckily the hospital was close by. I was put on oxygen right away and wheeled away into the ambulance by 3 or 4 medics. It was so nice to breathe.
I spent 6 hours or so in the emergency room and was diagnosed with bronchitis and discharged. There was a huge note on the release forms that said “DO NOT SMOKE” so of course I smoked while I called my roommate for a ride home.
It was hot and humid when I got home and I had trouble breathing. Our air conditioner was broken so I called my mom and asked if I could sleep there. I packed my over night bag etc and settled in at my mom’s.
I had one more cigarette and tried to sleep. The symptoms all came back and my heart hurt this time. My mom drove me back to the hospital and after hours in the emergency room I was admitted with a heart attack and I was to have triple bypass heart surgery asap. I did.
This all could have been avoided if I didn’t keep such deadly secrets.
3 Comments | Anti-Social, Anxiety, Blog, Cigarettes, Coffee, Death, Depression, Disability, Drugs, Exploitation, fear, Heart, Pain, Prose, Self help, Sociology, Work | Tagged: ambulance, bad health, breathe, breathing, cigarettes, DEADLY SECRET, Death, Heart Attack, heart condition, heart surgery, hospital, smoking, stitches, triple bypass surgery | Permalink
Posted by richhillenjr
I hate poetry. It’s for cowards that don’t have the balls to say what things directly and tell you what they really want to say. That’s what I used to think. I thought that for the years I’ve been writing my ramblings and prose because a lot of the standard poets I’d been exposed to were boring. All fluff and evasive.
Let me back up. As a teenager I loved poetry. I loved rock music and I especially loved the lyrics. I loved the Beatles. I had no idea what their words meant all of the time but I got something out of it. In the 8th grade I discovered Jim Morrison. Well, the Doors then Jim. I followed the trend of what everyone else was listening to and since there wasn’t much great popular music my Middle School and High School were into classic rock. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, AC DC, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors etc. All great lyrics. I loved the simplicity of some and the complex descriptives of others.
Then I found the book called No One Here Gets Out Alive, the biography of Jim Morrison. I fell in love with his persona. I bought every Doors album and learned every lyric. I bought Morrison’s poetry book. Morrison led me to reading William Blake and Dylan Thomas. This was poetry I thought was cool. Many people I know call him a hack. Maybe he was but so am I and almost every artist, musician, writer, director etc. that I love.
Jump ahead to my mid 20s. I lived with a couple of friends and one was into a lot of the art, music and books that I was. He had spent his entire life building up knowledge of beat writers and their influences and punk rock and it’s influences. I grilled him for knowledge and books and records. I learned constantly about writers and bands I heard of but didn’t get into. He was my muse.
It was my second childhood of many more to come. I was making art constantly, listening to the Sex Pistols, The New York Dolls, the Velvet Underground, Patti Smith and reading William S Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and eventually Arthur Rimbaud and Jean Genet. It was a learning experience I will never forget. I started writing poetry, lyrics and short stories. They weren’t the best but I was trying to find my voice if I had one.
I started showing my art in galleries, coffee shops and book stores. I was actively participating in poetry readings. It was one of my many new beginnings. These artists and my friend have become part of me on a deeper level that is still with me today.
Years past and I evolved into other creative activities. Life started taking over like working and paying bills and girlfriends. I kept going. From that point of my life I knew I was an artist and had to create on some level or another.
Back to poetry. I went through a period and all I wrote were prose. Mostly simple stories and journals sometimes incorporating heavy descriptives then back to simple writing. I was developing as an artist, a writer, whether I liked it or not. Even when I’m not drwing or writing
About 9 or 10 years ago I got heavy into writing and I wrote and wrote non stop sometimes. That’s when I stopped liking poetry. That’s when I came up with my opinions stated in the first paragraph. That’s when I thought all poetry sucks. Then I remembered Charels Bukowski and a lesser known and in my opinion the greatest poet ever, Steven Jesse Bernstein. I prefer their prose but I love the way they write poetry. No rules. Just say what you want however you want.
My life’s mission statement is stolen from a poem by Patti Smith’s poem calle Babalogue that she recite before performing her song Rick n Roll Nigger. “I am an American Artist. I have no guilt.” I try and remind myself of that everyday.
The reason I was thinking about all of this is because I was at my favorite coffee shop last night for internet access since I don’t have it at home and I discovered that there was an open mic planned for the night. I hate open mics these days. I wasn’t in the mood to hear a bunch of people singing and guitars etc. then I found out it was a poetry and spoken word open mic. I thought this might be more interesting. I over heard some of the people that were there and went back and forth whether they are full of shit or interesting. I went with interesting.
I listened and there were some pretty good poets that also knew how to read it aloud. I listened to each poet and considered reading. Once I mentioned it to the older woman sitting next to me she gave me a push. I was actually a little afraid of reading. I picked out a few of more short more powerful and humorous pieces and eventually I read them. I could feel the energy of the room rise with each word that came out of my mouth as I read from laptop. I was nervous but still pulled through. I tried to be humble afterwards knowing how great I was, I am, as people complimented my poems.
It was a good night. I felt good having read after years of being out of the scene. It got me to thinking about poetry and my personal history and my mission statement. I am an American Artist. I have no guilt.
I might even go back next time.
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Posted by richhillenjr