More familiar with psychology than much of anything else, I tend to be conscious of my mental state. Even more and because popular American culture, I adopt a personal nomenclature. We all do. Let’s be objective and agree Sigmund Freud’s been ascribed, as has Jesus, many catchy phrases he’s never said. I’m not misquoting Freud today, or the good Lord. I’m distorting the Kübler-Ross model. That’s a hypothesis the mortal Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced and called the Five Stages of Grief. The woman apparently anticipated my writing trials and my preordained lack of tribulation.
My three-plus years of lacking success in all aspects of my politicized life have taken their toll. If I were a younger and dumber man, I’d be ripe for the onerous machinations of cults such as Scientology, or God forbid, the Tea Party. Lucky, I’m debatably wise and recall a lexicon – a map, I believe it’s been implied – of my subjective reality. Dr. Kübler-Ross would say I tread five distinct paths.
That first step off my front stoop has been taken with unkempt with feet. And there, I’ve met Denial. The fact is plain in all those overlooked typos and grammar errors. Yet today, I insist I scrub them out with each revision and only grow new pimples to which I’m curiously blind and don’t see. Before I find them – and many times after I do – I get angry.
My Anger comes expressed as righteous and useless threats. Convenient or not so much, its vitriol has been especially cast toward Republicans. Now, if I were to adhere to fairness and meditation, the blame truly rests with the Tea Party. I like RINOs. But a funded band of retired, SSI-collecting racists has yanked responsible leaders ever Rightward. Or, more accurately described with every adverb: backwards, downhill or Southward. Here it is 2012 and the Confederacy rises again in the plugged hearts and senile minds of a once United America. Gop-inducted citizens (pronounced a coined ‘gawp’) act as the evil Moral Majority buried last century. And that just makes my skin burn and itch – which I’m sure had been their everlasting intention.
There is no debate anymore. Who can I possibly strike a Bargain with? I don’t talk to myself. I’m sure many people do and I safely assume they find there is no solution other than the conclusion they are truly helpless. Then comes a cornucopia of flimsy coping mechanisms. Not me. I can’t afford fresh fruits and vegetables – not living in a small apartment at the corner of the largest sprawled metropolis of the United States. Instead, I apply gray muscle and manpower and re-write. All those revisions are evidence of my mental state – especially those nine manifestations of my Pazuzu Trilogy. Alas, rejection from the field of professional publishers make me Depressed.
I fight away that unproductive dismay tooth-and-nail. Many artists embrace such sour reflection and insist they grow. Yet, personal revelation is not my goal. At my age, I want evidence of my living efforts. Something tangible must exist before I die. In that respect, I’m like the pharaohs and prepare for a corporeally-present afterlife. We all do and most fall short and merely dream for a lazy heaven. For me, death and Depression are as being asleep. Nothing gets put on paper.
Hardened by fear and urgency, I can’t Accept failure. The prospect doesn’t exist – ask any successful someone in the field of Business. The prospect is simply unrealistic and the only “out” is to die trying. Me at this point, I’ll likely die depressed or angry. That’s depression making my options flowery. I’ll very likely die angry because I haven’t gotten my revenge. That what’s my life is really about. It’s the same for everyone, isn’t it? Vengeance has been an American value since 9/11/2001. It’s new – Pearl Harbor was a whole other scenario and only old, wayward voters really remember WWII. We live in a different world.
More modern-day and personal, I once had a roommate who had already made arrangements for vindication in his afterlife. The man planned to crest a burning hill in Hell and piss upon all his enemies. He assured me they’d all be present and there with him. I’m sure Jerry Falwell is there already and prepares a place for me. I’m certain no one’s awarded his wickedness. Anyway, heaven is said to have no vacancies. The Jews, Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses have all made their reservations and have taken the full limit of the available space. Infinity my butt, mercy and justice are incompatible. Someone has got to stand forever at the bus stop – or the shore of the Styx, if that’s one inclination. The Bible even says God won’t bother to build subdivisions. And after an eternity, I suppose one’s soul will be motivated to walk itself into everlasting furnace just to get warm. So therein is your reason to help a brother. I’ve heard there’s some incontinent and harried fiend waiting for us all atop a sodden brimstone hill. You folks really should read my writing. God only knows my plans for any one of you.
Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.