Dreams of Stains, Refrains and Delorians on Film

May 4, 2012

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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Life is Changing and Changing

November 14, 2010

Life is changing and changing. I heard that if your not changing and growing then you are dying. If you are a creative person and you are not creating then you are dying. The past few months have been different to say the least. The past few years have been unusually different to say the most. Some days I’m so focused on  my goals and dreams and other days I’m off the races in my mind and can’t function. I don’t know f I am growing but I am changing.

It seems like I keep waking up and everything that has happened in my life was a dream. Good dream and bad dream. One day I’m living in an apartment I can’t afford even though I had a job and I was whacked out on pain meds, psych meds and life in general the next day I’m clean and sober with less Psych meds living with my parents helping my sick father who eventually died. Then I’m in house with my mother and I lose my job but I have money in the bank and a little unemployment coming my way so it was comfortable.

I published not just one novel but three books within a moth. I felt great creatively and spiritually. I believe those are connected. Life is rolling along one day at a time. Then the pressure starts hitting me to think about a career. A job. Something. My mother and my friends think it’s time I go to work. I secretly disagreed.

What I thought was an epiphany turned out to be a fantasy and an unrealistic reality. I thought that I wanted ot get into Drug and Alcohol counseling. I talked to some people and researched half assedly. I found out I needed two years of recovery to get into the particular places I was looking for. I used it as an excuse not ot look for anything else.

I woke up one day and I am suddenly renting a house from a friend and out of my mom’s house. I still have no job and my savings are dwindling. No muney and more bills. I have a house mate. We started a business venture that may or may not pay off but we at least started it.

I went form no job plenty of money living with mom creating every day to sharing a house with a friend and business partner with no job and no money and less motivation to write and create. My energies are in the business. No income is expected for a while but I refuse to work. Sure I do a little part time work for an uncle but nothing serious.

My anxiety levels and agoraphobia keep me house ridden for days sometimes. I hate socializing. What happened to “good time Charlie” as an old friend once called me?

It seems I went from mr social guy to hermit overnight. It did take years. Some say it’s part of me growing up. Some say it’s my mental problems. Some say “get a job, ya bum”. Some say nothing at all. What can they say?

It’s not easy being human. I was going ot say me but I know everyone has problems. They just don’t wear them on their sleeves or like merit badges on their chest like I do sometimes.

I never thought that I’d be at a place in my life where I refused to look for a job. I’m not sure if it’s stubbornness, fear, my determination to succeed in other areas, or my mental illness and anxiety.

I went from having a job and lots of money living with my mother to no job, no money, paying rent etc. I keep waking up everyday in a different state of mind with a different focus and different awareness. I wonder who am I? Where am I going? What am I doing? Then I run away and hide in other thoughts that either thrill me or upset me fro the day.

The only thing I know is that tomorrow is another day. I never know what is around the corner and if I at least try at life I will feel a live. I hope. I always have hope.


Bad Boy: A Poem (sort of)

September 9, 2010

Bad boy. Bad Richie. I disrupt my spiritual sideshow with questionable intentions. Intentions are always questionable. Hot in the cold and hotter in the heat. I ramble and get my point across despite my confused tongue. You know. I know. She has no idea.

Simple. Low intelligence maybe? Uneducated. Bewildered from my inconsistent actions. I am a unique breed and she can’t comprehend me. You can. Can’t you? Sometimes I understand myself and then I hide in a quiet corner of the closet with a flashlight so I can breathe. How does she breathe?

My thoughts are much more scattered since they did away with the Dewey Decimal System. You’d think that my mind would sharpen with modern technology but it’s dull. Dull. Bent. Maybe even warped a bit.

Modern science tells me why but I don’t believe them. Them. Who? Modern religion tells me a few things and I can’t hear out of my right left ear. Canada. Hmm. Far enough for hope and close enough for fear. Eat my heart again. Lumpy gooey goings on.

Celibacy is one thing but my fear of her is another. Thing. Her. Bad boy.

Maybe its not so bad. Maybe trails of bitterness lead to the road I wanted to take anyway. I made a wrong turn. Flat tire. Out of gas.

The song goes on after skipping a few times but it’s on repeat so I can take comfort in something now. Wonder what she is.


It’s Not About Me

June 25, 2010

“What do you mean it’s not about me?” I asked.

“It’s not about you man.” He said.

He went on to explain that it’s about being a decent human being and working with other people that need help. In a sense, in order to maintain my own spirituality and well being I have to lose myself in helping others. Give to receive and that kind of shit. That was a long time ago and every day just trying to do what I want to do is a reminder that it’s not about me.

I got up early this morning because my mother needed my car moved so she can get out and do her volunteer work with Meals on Wheels. It’s not about me. I like to relax on the porch with my coffee and cigarettes and write in the morning and the landscaping service shows up. I can’t stand the noise and my allergies get aggravated. It’s not about me. Our neighbor is painting the windows in the house with a friend of his and they are in and out of the house and I hate to have strangers or any outsider around especially when I am trying to relax on the porch It’s not about me.

I stay aggravated half the day because everyone seems to be interrupting my plans and what I expect. It’s not about me.

I get a phone call from someone trying to get sober that I’m not always real crazy about because I’m not sure if he’s serious or not. He wants a ride to a meeting I committed myself to that I don’t even like. He calls three times so I call him back and say that I’ll take him. It’s not about me. I have to leave early for this meeting and pick up hot dogs every week and I don’t even like the meeting. It’s not about me. I get a phone call from the only other dependable member of the group for that runs this meeting saying she won’t be there tonight. I have to do most of the other responsibilities tonight. Once again, it’s not about me.

For the past year or so the theme of my life has been that saying and I still need and get a daily reminder that it’s not about me. It’s about doing the right thing, helping others, taking actions against my will and trying to conform my will with God’s.

It’s not about me.


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