wednesday, january 12th (2004)

6:16 p.m.
"A story idea."

"Pull down your pants and let me see you pee."

Is that what she said? Kids have this natural fear of things they don't understand. I didn't understand much of anything, even for a seven-year-old, but was she supposed to be talking like this to me?

She repeated, "Pull down your pants; let me see your 'pee-pee.'"

I'd misunderstood her, but I still didn't quite understand. Was she talking about my 'down-there'? That's what my mother and I called it, and I thought we were the only two who talked about it. It was my first time staying with Gamma and Papp, and it was traumatic.

Earlier that same day, I had had to discuss my down-there with my mother. I'd awakened with a pain down there that just couldn't be avoided any longer. My mother came to wake me for school. I tried to tell her then, but she continued, "And remember, Papp is picking you up from school today because you're staying with your Gamma and Papp tonight, okay?"

I didn't answer. I stammered. She came close, sat on the bed. "I hurt," I said.
"What?"
"Down there."

I didn't point, didn't motion with my head or even my eyes, I just said the words. She put it together.

"Can I see?"
I nodded, blank.
"Can you show me?"

I lay back on my bed and lifted my middle up and pulled my pajama bottoms and underpants down just enough so my bruised apple-looking "down-there" plopped out.

She jumped up and ran to the doorway. "Phil, could you get me Dr. Delojune's number?" She looked back at me on the bed, still in the hiked up position, fingers cocked at the waistband. "Oh, honey, do you think you can put it away without hurting yourself?"

I shrugged and pulled my bottoms up and collapsed into a crying fit and had my first panic attack. I didn't know that's what it was at the time, but I've had identified ones since, and I know that's what it was. I became confused, out of sorts, and broke out in a cold sweat.

My mother rushed over and pulled the covers over me, and suddenly she became one of those women I'd seen on the church TV. "Jesus, are You with us?" My mother was always asking questions, and I never felt sure whether or not I should answer. I did that time. She stared her question right into me, "Jesus, are You with us?"

I cried out, "Yes!" Miraculously, the panic attack subsided.

At the doctor's office, my mother said, "Can you show the nurse your 'down-there'?" and "Can you show the doctor your 'down-there'?" Everybody was clued in on what we call that. So that's why, when Gamma asked me to show her my pee-pee, I wasn't sure what was going on at first.

But thinking back on it now, why was Gamma wanting to look at my down-there? Touch my down-there?

She did. She gave it a once-over that I felt was a little too aggressive. She told me to undress - and she stood there while I did it! - and she left me in the bathroom with nothing but a bathtub three inches full of scalding hot water and a bar of Ivory soap. She returned with my pajamas and I was crouching over the water, slowly, delicately lowering myself into the water.

She told me to get on in. "I put some salts in it; that'll make you feel better! You'll see. And Papp and me'll pray for you tonight. That'll really do the trick!"

I'd gotten a shot from the doctor, and I don't know if that kicked in right then or if Gamma was right. The second time my balls touched the water, the tingly sting felt good. It sent a shiver down my spine. I spent most of my bathtime looking down at the rippling magnification of my down-there.

Gamma knocked on the door. "Papp needs some time in there. Are you just about done?"

I jumped into action. "Yes, ma'am, just about." I ran the soap quickly down my arms and then rubbed my face hard with my soapy hands and splashed, splashed, splashed myself clean. I forgot about my soreness and put the towel right to it, like always, and boy was that a mistake!

Another mistake: Gamma didn't leave me any underpants to wear. I didn't want her to see me naked, again - or Papp, for that matter - so I put on the pajamas without the underpants (top and bottom) before I opened the door to call out to Gamma that she forgot my underwear.

She didn't respond the way I'd anticipated. She said, "You don't wear underpants with p.j.s, do ya?"

And of course I answered "No," because we were taught not to talk back to our elders. But still, everything Gamma said to me on this night made me nervous. It was the first time Gamma had made me nervous. But not the last time.

Out of the bathroom and to the right was Gamma and Papp's bedroom, uncomfortably small and dead center of the house since the add-on. Out of the bathroom and straight ahead was the air conditioning unit. Dogleg to the left of there a short hallway led to the off-limits living room and the picture of Richie. Out of the bathroom and to the left was the Red Room. It was Richie's room. I didn't know about that then; I didn't know who Richie was - or who that picture in the living room was of- until I was 16 and had my driver's license.

That had something to do with it. I walked in unannounced on a conversation about him. (I'll get back to Richie later.)

Gamma tucked me in. I'd asked her if I could sleep on the top bunk, and she just said, "No, no, we wouldn't want to lose ya." I didn't ask again; Gamma with her Dutch and German heritage was not a force to be reckoned with.

Funny, I was a lot more scared of tall and lanky, couldn't-kill-a-fly-if-he-tried-to Papp. That's how I heard him described all my life, but I never bought it. He didn't do much talking, and I wasn't just nervous about his silence, I was terrified by it. I confessed to Gamma when she hugged me goodnight that I was scared. Not of Papp, just scared. She promised me I had nothing to worry about. "Angels fly around this room. Every night."

I was thrilled. The angels she talked about, as best as I can figure out, were the headlights of cars hitting three of the four walls like a whoosh of angel wings. But the red walls of the bedroom made the spinning lights look more devilish.

And then, there he was, just outside the Red Room door, taller and lankier than ever in those over-long boxer shorts and A-shirt. I just caught a glimpse of him as another car passed. Whoosh.

Sweat beaded up on my forehead. Here comes panic attack #2. Or was it?

The next round of lights showed Papp standing now inside the Red Room door. And the next, a flash of light next to his leg revealed that he was holding a long, sharp knife. I tried to cry, but couldn't. A whiny moan came out of my mouth. But she didn't hear me; she couldn't hear me at that level. I had to moan louder and louder, slowly but surely louder.

"What's wrong?" she called out. Papp slid back into the hallway right outside of the room.
"I'm scared," I said.
"There's nothing to be scared of. Jesus is watching over this house. Go to sleep."

I tried, but he came back. I moaned again. This time, Gamma said, "Goodnight, Rich-- Dickie, shut up and go to sleep."

She wasn't calling me "Rich-Dickie," I know that now. But for the next 11 years from that night, I thought she'd called me Rich-Dickie. I stopped cry-moaning as much because of that as because Papp disappeared. I wasn't convinced he was gone for good so I kept myself awake as much as I could through the night.

Yeah, there were angels. There were swarms of red angels flying round and round my room. I don't know if I fell asleep and woke up later or if I just blinked my eyes, but the angels were gone. The swarming stopped. I lay there on my side, facing the door, watching the door.

The bed springs in the bunk bed over me creaked. I held my breath. For some reason, I knew it wasn't Papp. he couldn't have got past me without me noticing unless he was a ghost, and I wasn't scared of ghosts. I'm still not.

I saw a little upside-down monkey head peer over the edge of the bed. I recognized him right away as one of the toys on the top bunk come to life. I smiled at him, and that's when he showed me his smile, lost his balance, and flung himself into an acrobatic routine on the floor. I leaned up on one elbow and covered my face from dimple to dimple, supressing my laughs.

Gamma had laid out the next day's clothes neatly on the miniature rocking chair in the middle of the room. The monkey put them on, underpants, jeans, T-shirt, in the order Gamma had laid them out, and they fit him. He wasn't my size, but the clothes fit him.

It was a wonderful show. If I hadn't yawned, I think the monkey would've entertained me all night. But as soon as I did, he quickly pulled off my clothes and tossed them on the rocking chair, or at it, hopped up on the top bunk, his little foot coming closer to me than ever when he stepped up on my mattress. I felt a slight indentation. As soon as he was out of sight, he was sound asleep. I wasn't far behind him.

The clothes didn't manage to climb up the chair and refold themselves the way Gamma put them there. When I woke up the next morning, they were still crumpled in a sort of pile in the middle of the room.

8:35 p.m.
such an imagination!

monday, january 10th, part three (2004)

8:29 p.m.

I've had panic attacks all throughout my life. Uncertainty was often a main trigger for an attack. I remember having a panic attack in NYC when M was in town. I was with JH then and we were in some restaurant and I had an attack caused by I don't know what, and I had to go out and sit on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant by myself and sweat it out. Back then I always considered them flashbacks to bad acid trips (all but one (bad)), and maybe they are, or were. Or are. Maybe I damaged my brain just like they said I would. They'd say it serves me right.

I watched Dr. Strangelove in its entirety for the first time yesterday. It was very good. I turned to it because the TV guide gave it four stars. They very rarely give these out. I've taken to watching any movie I see with a four-star designation. The movie after it was called Portrait of Jenny. It also got four starts. R came home and I started watching it and he joined me and we watched the whole thing and I really enjoyed it.

I've been watching a lot of TV lately. Probably too much. I guess my brain is going to turn to mush, like an egg boiled, frozen and microwaved.

I took my Cymbalta early tonight, as per my doctor's recommendation: I took it at 6:05. R got home about 10 minutes ago. It's 8:47 now. I thought I was gonna write something creative. Instead, I just drew a television.

8:48 p.m.
The question isn't when will I get sleepy. The question isn't when will I go to bed. The question is when will I wake up?

BIG BLUE
Started in Jacksonville, Florida. That's where I first noticed it for what it is, so that's where it started. Everything kind of imploded. I didn't even realize the fuse was lit. But I wasn't the one who lit it. It was JG. Maybe even SN. He was certainly the one who fueled the flame.

Actually, I don't know that. I don't know why I say that. I don't know SN well enough to say he was the cause of all this turmoil just because I think I know JG well enough to say it wasn't her. I don't know anything or anybody concerned in that situation. Not well. Not even me. Maybe even least of all me.

At least that's the way it turned out. Maybe that was the case or maybe that was the cause of all my turmoil. Either way, it doesn't matter. This is where I am now. No matter how I got here, this is where I have to go from.

~
JM always said I shouldn't doodle while I'm writing, that I was letting energy out that should be used for writing. That I should utilize every drop, that otherwise I was wasting my creative flow--my talent even. But I've come to disagree with her. The doodling keeps the flow going. It's like opening a vent on a pot to let out a bit of steam so the contents won't rise up and boil over and not only be wasted, but create a mess as well.

My love affair is with a little blue and green pill. I think it's working out quite nicely. I believe it's taking (or should that be making, or causing?) its intended effect over time and is agreeing with me rather well. I feel a ripple effect. In my life, and particularly in this night. I should go to sleep and see if my dreams will guide my Big Blue story.

monday, january 10th, part two (2004)

8:32 a.m.
From the NashFae website:

The Faeries are both gay men, and men who prefer to use any other moniker that might describe them, as well as women who wish to be part of the group, and people who choose not to be called men or women, and beings who choose not to be called people. Faeries are organized as a group attempting to create community out of ritual and cooperation, except for faeries who are attempting to create community out of subversion of process and structure, as well as some faeries who wish to create chaos, often celebrating it, often not admitting it.

Many faeries are spiritual, lifting whole or part of their spirituality from any one of the world's religions or spiritualities. Some make a mix. Some react against spirituality and religion as its own evil, some find a spiritual path in reacting again spirituality.

Some faeries just want to dress up in drag and perform in the woods, some want to dress up and not perform, some faeries want to dress up anywhere they can, some faeries don't dress particularly different than they would in any other environment.

Some faeries combine their spirituality with sex, some don't, some are part of the faeries just to get laid. Some resent that. Some just want to drum by a campfire, and some want to camp far away from the drumming and get some sleep.

This is what faeries are, except for faeries for which none of this applies.

monday, january 10th (2004)

7:40 a.m.

R thinks that fat guy four houses down is gay because he has an Equality sticker (=) on the bumper of his car. But R thought MKM was a lesbian for the same reason. I think this guy down the way is just a liberal, like MKM. But unlike MKM, he's a drunkard. I see him walking up and down the alley, "walking" his dogs, always with a cocktail in his hand, no matter what time of day it is. I saw him around Christmas at about 6:30 or 7 in the morning with a very thin eggnog.

This morning, it's warmer out than it has been. The weather reports have been saying it's going to get warmer for days, but the weather hasn't borne out the reports.

I went down in the basement to feed Raz this morning as I do every morning, and the dehumidifier was humming away, drawing up moisture from its frozen ribs and then dripping it right back out onto the basement floor. I took the bucket from it yesterday to wash the kitchen floor and forgot to replace it, and forgot to put it back when I was done. The bucket was outside the basement door leading into the back yard. I opened the door to get the bucket, and that's when I noticed the weather, the nicer weather.

I replaced the bucket, fed the cat, then came back upstairs and admired my cleaning job (oops, a small puddle of water still remains!), and I opened the back door and stuck my head out to feel the day that's coming.

At first, I thought I was hearing a radio announcer, but then realized it was live voices, a man, mostly, and a woman, bellowing out over the neighborhood. It was the voice of the fat guy and perhaps the woman I've seen him with once before. I assumed when I saw them together before that they were a couple--I could be as wrong as R. They were in the middle of an argument. Their voices were raised and both of them sounded like victims.
"Well, I did this and then you did!"
"No I did not! It was you!"

I'm not even sure what the they were saying. When couples fight there is so much coded language, an outsider would have to be trained to understand the morsels of anger flying back and forth. I couldn't help myself. I stood their {sic} listening even though I didn't really understand.

The fat drunk guy has been building a fortress in his back yard for as long as I've lived in this neighborhood. There are eight-foot walls on three sides, nestling his house in arms of adobe. And since last summer he's been building some sort of a two-story structure in the middle of his back yard. It's not a garage, there's no entrance for cars that I can make out. Right now, the structure is just a sore thumb, a big pink structure with the logo of the pink outer insulation repeated on the outside wall. Around Thanksgiving, he added holiday wreaths and garland to the side of the structure to try to camouflage its incomplete state. One of the door-sized windows on the second floor was open. I didn't realize this until it was closed, shut quickly.

Maybe he saw me standing halfway out of the back door of my house, four yards away, listening to their argument. Or maybe it was her, embarrassed that this drunkenness always gets to this place. The structure is well insulated. As soon as the French door window was closed, the argument was barely more than a muffled hum, like many other noises in the neighborhood, not decipherable as an argument and not decipherable as coming from there.

I pulled my head back into my house, back into my own business, sort of. I picked up my journal and started writing.

Just a few minutes ago, R woke up, and he and Jesse came downstairs. He let Jesse outside and he went to his computer to check the weather, to see whether or not it would be a good day to hang laundry out on the line. Shortly, Jesse was running up and down the length of the fence, whining/barking. I looked out to see the fat drunk guy's four dogs running down the alleyway, and then the fat drunk guy himself, carrying a convenience store size cup - a Big Gulp or something like that, and something makes me think it wasn't full of Mountain Dew. Not from a fountain, anyway!

violation

Last night, about an hour before I got home, M tells me, she was at her desk on the computer, little P was in the bedroom watching TV. M went toward the kitchen and noticed a middle-aged white man with shoulder-length hair standing on the back porch (the main entrance) looking into the bedroom window at P.

M opened the door, asked the man if he needed something. He asked if they rented trailers. She said no. He asked if they had horses. She said no. Bones was going crazy, he followed the man as he walked up the driveway to the street. Good thing. M watched him for a minute then called the police when he sat and lit a cigarette across the street (not directly across the street but at the T about 100 yards from the house).

Two policewomen showed up in a cruiser and questioned him, and, after M called and asked for an update, came by the house and told her he told them he was looking for a trailer or land to rent (the confusion mine). They couldn't arrest him because he wasn't on the property.

I asked M if P knew about the incident. She had told her, and she was a little scared, and, M said, it gave her a good opportunity to explain to P not to talk to strangers.

J arrived home shortly after I did. He was worried. I asked him how he was, he said, "All right." I said, "How are you really?" He said, "I wish I didn't have to be worried about my family." That's understandable, that fear. My fear extended to the fact that there's a closet full of guns in the house. It's usually locked, but I wondered if they weren't sleeping with a gun in their room, in the room they share with P.

I didn't think much about the peeping tom until I went out in the middle of the night to smoke a cigarette and write. All the lights in the house were on, including the front porch light (which was on when I arrived home and turned off; it was back on). I sat on the porch kind of spooked, unable to write.

Later, after I finished my transcribing work, I took a puff, then took a shower, and got more spooked as I thought about someone looking in at me, even though it's not very likely. While I was in the shower, I almost convinced myself I was going to see a shadow pass by the shower curtain

When I get spooked like that, I try to surrender to the idea that I might die, and that's not really such a bad thing. It's part of life, right? If it's my time to go, it's my time to go. But I did think it would be an unfortunate way to go, naked with the shower water running on me all night long, and maybe for days, since I don't see M&J every day and they don't bother me in my room.

We all woke up alive and okay, I'm happy to report.