here’s a picture of dante as a seven-week-old kitten. good-night everyone

i saw a new psychiatrist today. he’s an old man with a long white beard and long white hair. he looks like a wizard. he is dr. wizard. he was very kind to me. he said i’m in rough shape, but that he was going to help me feel better and finally sleep again . . . gave me a prescription for some medication, the name of which i can’t make out on the paper he gave me. apparently it’s a mood stabilizer and does something to my brain to shut it down for six hours so i can get some relief from this utter horseshit i’ve been dealing with. he advised me not to drink or do a bunch of drugs, and i said i was gonna try to do follow through on that . . . though he did sanction the occasional LSD trip, what with it being berkeley and all, as long as i don’t overdo it. i mean, hell, it is therapeutic, and i’ve got two tabs that i was saving anyway. . . .

i noticed that during the entire session he kept looking at my hands, which i was wringing and pulling on and so on. i wasn’t nervous or anything, but i guess i was real close to crying in front of this dude within 10 minutes of talking to him, and somehow that distracted me enough not to do it. maybe next time i’ll just let loose and lay it on him. he was so gentle and grandfatherly that i reckon he’d be OK with it. and anyway, i really need to cry. i need to cry so badly i think i’m gonna bust.

anyway. thanks dr. wizard. he said in so many words that he’s gonna save my life, at least for a little while longer. i’m 30 years old for shit’s sake and i’m already out of juice. how do other people do it? keep going? i guess the answer is that some people just don’t. i asked my sister today if she’d understand if one day not far from now i just died in the snow somewhere. i told her my dream was to be in some sort of shootout in the snow . . . you know like i plugged a few guys who were after me, but they plugged me too, and there i am bleeding out into the cold winds of a blizzard i’ll never escape from. wait, maybe that’s just the ending to one of my favorite movies. . . .

well, shit, whatever. it’s not a bad way to go.

my sister said she’d understand, but that the knowledge of my impending death wouldn’t make it any easier. yeah i can see that. after all, it’s not so much the death itself that puts your tit in a wringer, sad though it may be . . . but rather all the years you gotta keep living on after someone is gone and you missing the hell out of them, what with them being gone forever now.

i’m going to take these god damn pills is what i’m going to do. we’ll see what happens. that’s all you can ever really do is wait around and see what happens. it’s just so damn lonely anymore is all. i’m serious as a heart attack: can someone come on over and just hold me? i know that sounds sadder than hell, but i really do mean it. i’m real honest on this website and that right there is an honest sentiment. i’m so tired, man. i just wanna fall asleep with someone still awake in my bed, you know? like reading right next to me. i wanna get under my comforter and burrow my head into someone’s side while they’re sitting upright and reading . . . maybe put an arm on my back or something if they’re feeling generous. is anyone looking for a boyfriend? i’ll come to you, if that’s what it takes, provided you’ve recently washed your sheets. i sure will do that. it’s just so damn lonely.

you know what a guy from work did for me the other day? he gave me a card for a free acupuncture session. on the card it says the free session does not include a $10 new client fee, so he gave me $10 too. can you believe that? he said: “you need some rest, man.” maybe he reads this, or maybe i just look like utter shit anymore. another guy i work with, this real son of a bitch i like a whole lot, a friend of mine, he gave me an ativan to sleep. it worked, but i’m out of them now. i sure am thankful for that sleep i got though.

really though, can you believe how nice everyone has been to me? i’ve gotten a dozen or so emails from a dozen or so strangers and faraway people who have written to me to say they understand how i feel, and they wish there was something they could do to help me. i got people coming over to my house to watch movies with me, people going on walks with me, people going grocery shopping with me, people driving me around in their cars and talking to me. i get so choked up about it i can hardly breathe. not since dante got sick have i experienced such an outpouring of generosity and thoughtfulness from so many people. i don’t mean to get all sentimental but it’s true. hell. everyone’s rallied to save the starsailor. i don’t know what i did to deserve this. the only thing more i could ask of you fine people is to make sure my dead bullet-riddled body stays in the snow. don’t you dare touch it!

ok, well . . . i’m going to climb in bed with dante and read MOBY-DICK and pray to our heavenly father who art in heaven to please oh my god let me fucking sleep a dark dreamless sleep tonight. i am so sick of sleeping for 20 minutes and then waking up in a panic all drenched in sweat because of the horrifying nightmares i keep having. i know that a few paragraphs up i made a desperate plea for some goodly person to hold me and share my bed with me, and so my current sleep habits sound less than appealing . . . but i’m telling you: i’ll even out with you in the room. jesus christ, it’s so damn lonely anymore. i’ve had a lot taken away from me recently, and have been given a lot back by a lot of real good people . . . but man oh man if one amongst you could just freakin show up at my fortified compound on the oakland-berkeley border and put a gentle hand over my head or my back or whatever, i sure would appreciate it. the heat is on and my cat is freshly brushed (lol). the refrigerator is full, if you can believe it, but only cuz i have no appetite and haven’t eaten more than a few apples in the last week and a half. you can have whatever you want. i’ll make you breakfast and drive you to work in the morning. i’ll give you a big-ass hug and a friendly letter you can open after i’m gone. great creeping jesus, people! you won’t find a better deal than that!

also:

OK: Laura Rokas and I are going to Japan in late February / early March. Yeah. We decided today that it’s gonna happen. I tell you: I’ve been finding flights for like $450 out of SFO. I’m so excited . . . I haven’t been back to Japan since 2010, where I spent New Year’s, and where I slept on a train and on the floor of an internet cafe after watching whatever the equivalent of the ball dropping is in Shibuya Crossing. It was a hell of a time. Laura? Let’s have a hell of a time. Why not? I don’t know what the fuck else to do anymore . . . now that there’s no sign of life . . . it’s just the power to charm . . . I’m lying in the rain . . . but I never wave bye-bye . . . but I try, I try.

Oops. Anyway: It’s going to be the cutest thing that ever happened. I’m leaving this entry here as a promise to myself and to Laura and to the rest of this godforsaken earth that I’m going the hell over there cuz I gotta. I gotta get out of here for a little while. I gotta have something to look forward to again, now that everything I was looking forward to was unceremoniously launched into the huge hot nuclear furnace called the sun!

Mmmmmmmhmm!

Well: I did it. I successfully delivered the letter I’ve mentioned all night. It was a long walk and it was pretty cold outside . . . probably I only saw five or six people the entire time I was out there. I mean, hell, they don’t call it Ghost Town for no reason.

Now I am back in my fortified compound on the Oakland-Berkeley border, and I have made some god damn tea and a salad, and have held Dante several times, and have turned on the heat, and have put on a melancholy album (lol) because I have had yet another miserable fucking day, so why not:

That’s me and Dante, I guess, on the back of the huge turtle that I’m pretty sure is the same one from ‘The Neverending Story’. Well, whatever.

Sad paragraph #1: Around this time of year, people always say that “I can’t wait for this year to over” horseshit, as if that means anything. I mean . . . get real, buddy. If you think for one second that January 1st is the signifier of a new dawn in your life, then you need to freakin graduate from elementary school and open your freakin eyes. This is a slip-n-slide straight to hell the whole way through. I’m sorry! It’s not a question of whether or not you’ll go down, it’s a question of how long you can circle the drain. And listen, I’ve been shit on my entire life, all the way up until tonight, and so on, so if that counts for anything then go ahead and let it count. In one calendar year I have lost my grandmother and my uncle, have dug my grandmother’s grave with my own two hands, and committed her to the deep. . . .

Well, at least Leila came back. And I have a Christmas tree.

I said today: CUTE THINGS ONLY FROM NOW ON. I apologize for this entry. I really don’t want to talk like this anymore. I want to forget everything, and be as empty as I was the day I was born. It’s just that I really have lost eight god damn pounds in the last week and a half . . . I’m all skin and bones, man. I’m seeing my psychiatrist tomorrow I guess. Under the bridge on MLK Blvd. a guy got in my face and screamed at me because I wasn’t born in Oakland. Woof. You know, I don’t go around assuming that every scary person has a gun, though I will say this: had he, for some reason, hated me enough to put a gun in my face, hand to God, I would have told him to shoot me. I’m not even kidding. I’m sorry if that sounds really sad, but at least I’m being honest??? Kelsey came over the other night, and we talked for a long time about this screaming nightmare I’m living in, and then I said, you know, let’s walk on down to Missouri Lounge and get a shot and a beer and sit beneath the heat lamps. She said she’s going through some shit too. Anyway: Around Broom Bush Cafe, where my friends and I used to go every Sunday (RIP), this big huge dude was staggering around all fucked-up like. I told Kelsey to get on the other side of me, away from the sidewalk. I saw this dude lurch behind a box truck and emerge on the other side walking parallel to us at the same pace. He kept looking at us. He was obviously following us . . . maybe seven or eight feet away in the street. After a block or so, still walking, I held up my hand and told him to back off. He pretended to not know what I was talking about. We kept walking and he kept following us. I held up my hand again: “Back the fuck up, dude. Leave us alone.” He laughed and asked me what time it was and we kept walking. I figured, you know, this guy is too stupid to even know where he is or what he’s doing. He was still scary as hell though. Not knowing what else to do, I stopped dead on the sidewalk and put Kelsey behind me. We just stood there and watched him keep going. He turned around and kicked a puddle and water splashed all over the place. We crossed the street and got the hell away from him. I was surprised that I just automatically did all that stuff. I wasn’t afraid. I guess I figured as long as Kelsey lived, it was OK if I died. I could die there so that she could get away. Yeah. I mean—who knows. But I really would have done that. I’m not so sad I want to die . . . just tired of all of this, of course, as I’m sure many of you are as well. I don’t want to throw away anyone’s stuff ever again. I don’t wanna get thrown away either. I’m not afraid to die. I did a bunch of things that were pretty cool. I knew a bunch of cool people. That’s good enough for me.

it’s true: i love my friend tombo. thanks for being my friend tombo.

i’m on my way to rachel’s to give her her letter

my old room in ghost town, on mead avenue

june 2014

Back in late November, when I felt absolutely insane, I wrote a post about running into my friends from Donut Farm who I hadn’t seen in a long time. Of the three girls I knew there, Rachel K. is somehow the only one I haven’t run into. Well: I sure do feel like I’ve woken up from a long dark dream—and, almost as if I were in The Program, I have this real urge to make amends for things I did in the past, no matter how minor, so that like a ghost with unfinished business I can right my wrongs and move on from this godforsaken hole~

AND THUS: I am currently writing Rachel K. a letter. I am going to walk down to West Oakland where I used to live and put it in her mailbox. There’s that Werner Herzog quote about how all truly important things in life should be done on foot, or whatever. . . . Yeah, it’s gotta be on foot. I’ll walk down Telegraph until I get to the Korean billiards house and creep up her darkened stairway and drop the thing in the box. It’s OK if she never replies, or forgives me, or whatever the hell else, because that’s not the point. The point is to just say something! And then walk away and accept that the act itself is enough. I love Rachel K. very much, and I think about her all the time, and I miss the hell out of her. I just gotta say I’m sorry before the whole world finally fucks me into the grave once and for all, any day now at this rate. . . .

I took these pictures of Rachel and her animals in December 2013. That was Four Little Secrets the rabbit and Kilgore the stray dog, who I named. Man, that was a good time. I love you dude.