The Closing Chapter of My Life

After yesterday’s failure of a post, I should not be doing this.  My computer turned on in the middle of the night.  4chan’s /b/ board covers this type of thing.  I could use Firefox and Adblock; then I would not have to watch ads.  But, the internet itself can draw users into a secondary and pointless world.  I still write, like people always wrote.  I can estimate what good the learning is doing me, but it will not be useful.

I have my sickness, and this is a little bit the thing keeping me permanently occupying a new reality.  Even before that, I can’t lie abed while awake.  It’s not good.  The bed seems to get a dip down the center.  I am not ever going to fix that.  I challenged myself to post with a recorded time around five a.m.  It’s six minutes to.

People die and are not always killed, but my experience has been from age eighteen that I have lived through an attempt on my life.  The attempts are not always conducted suddenly, nor does there always seem to be any way to avoid attempting it.

My father crashed his airplane on a carrier deck in World War Two and killed a couple of sailors with flaming gasoline.  I have to get in touch with the County of San Diego today to see what that paper I signed ( a lien), in order to receive services, ended up debiting me, because I told my father not to include me in his will.  I just note that to show how threats can cause a person to suddenly change things around.  I do not actually believe I will benefit from my parents.  It’s just one of those safety nets we lose when we are adults, and recoil from the prospect of geting left to our own resources.  So, we are indoctrinated to see the world that way.

The County actually causes impoverishment of the people this way, and the state through taxes, the feds through taxes, and the city by making all library sales final.  I had found a book, but the librarian, Deborah Barrow, is a thieving nigger and I guess I bought it.  The city has another way, with parking fines.  I have two hundred in these, and five hundred in meter fees, but the tickets came in one bunch, and the parking went the year.

The year I spent with the cancer is one day at a time, so it’s 365.  Right now, the ebbing of the energy in my biological clock makes the morning a down time.  My wife Elizabeth is an adultress, so we could point to The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne and say it is all good.  I can’t go over there, so it changes the picture of my relationship with my son.  I have seen it before with my daughter.  She is weak ( the wife), all women are.  She has bedbugs or whatever and will want to move to Riverside to draw resources from her sister.  I can’t imagine being able to leave San Diego to follow her, see my son, and assert my rights.

There is no recourse in the courts.  Judges do not have to know you to immediately recognize who to favor, and it is not men, and it is not respondents.  The courtroom is a sacred place, and real things are conducted there expediently.  They did not set that up to keep everybody busy.  They get things done.  Like I say, my biological rhythms are low.

I have an hour today to create a record of a job search.  It used to take under five minutes to fill out my weekly claim online, but I am in the fifth tier and Nevada is paying it.  My last day working was when Jackson died.  My neighbor Hiram says I have a buffer zone, in a spirit of not having to worry about it for another fifteen weeks.  He makes money walking dogs.  I could walk dogs, and I could blog, but making money with it is not my bag.

That’s not it.  I don’t see how a person gets from point A to point B.  Giffords is a funny case.  Only pictures of her before being shot in the head are broadcast.  My head sounds loud in the dark, in the quiet.  It has tinnitus.  I feel better that Mike West is over his pain.  There are these updates on a web page called, ‘care pages’.  His wife Pat wrote them.  I was wasted when one came through, so I put a single-word reply.  I just could not function.  A vaporizer gives us more than we want.  The next one said about the funeral.  I have a doctor’s appointment.  It got late fast, twenty-five minutes, and I can hear what sounds like showers running.  No, that’s not happening.

I worked in Idylwild at a chemistry job, and I misspelled the name of that city.  I do not want to wake up the computer to ask it the correction.  There seems to be a lot of trade secets in chemical lab technique.  They have lots of things to accomplish more detailed syntheses than the ones making meth.  This place  made phosphorus compounds.  Where carbon joins to four other atoms, P joins to five.  I quit after one day becuase the smell from chlorinated benzene was on my hands and clothes, and the baby was so young.  But, I had two chemistry jobs, if we include my personal meth lab.  The owner of that shop is the only person to ever call me, “Mr. Billinghurst”, in the real sense.  I like the synergism of working on one subject in several places.


Though he dreaded it beforehand, the visit in April 1972 was passing uneventfully for Kirk. But on Saturday afternoon his father took Patrick out on an errand and left Kirk at home to watch TV, instructing him to sit still and make sure he used the headphones so as not to “disturb the neighbors.” Kirk immediately noticed that the headphones were stuffed with cotton. Picking them apart, he found what he later described as “shiny silver pellets.” Alarmed, he called his mother, but she told him not to worry. Later that day Kirk noticed that his fingers were red and sore, as if “sunburned.” When he visited his father over the next seven months, he noticed the pellets would often turn up nearby—in the pillow he slept on, under the cushion of the couch he was sleeping on and, finally, stuffed in a sock draped over his thighs when he awoke one night. Kirk began to break out in a rash, then in sores that wouldn’t heal. His hair began to fall out. Almost two years later, after visits to no fewer than 16 Houston doctors, it was determined that 13-year-old Kirk was stricken with radiation poisoning—and the suspicion was strong that his father had administered it with the pellets.


I’m glad I found that.  If you say that your father tried to kill you, the general response is, “All right.  Why did you try to kill your father?”  My brother is 56, my father is 88.  They’re all accounted for.


One Response to “The Closing Chapter of My Life”

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