Now that, dear readers of this web site, is what you call an Anxiety Attack. These days my fear about such episodes is that the pill I take will not work. As it is it takes too damn long to fully kick in, though that might just reflect my tendency to wait until I am totally freaking the fuck out before I take it. Lorazapam. I took one whole pill. I usually split it in half. Part of what keeps me from taking them had been that I cannot drink for a while afterward. I am fine with that, though, more than I might have been a year ago. As my doctor and others often ask about my drinking: “Why?” Well, the reasons are that I like it. I like the buzz and the blackouts, as well as the company of others who share this weakness. In the past a day without drinking seemed like it would be a big deal. These days I’m OK with it, though I know what role it plays in my life and I have set a goal to quit altogether by 50. It is amazing how deep the anxiety goes. It’s not just in my head. I feel something akin to indigestion. I guess this is part of why I don’t eat much when I am in drinking mode. When sober I eat like a cookie monster.
That feeling of not wanting to be anywhere, I guess you could make that the calling card for anxiety. That sums it up nicely.
Anyway, enough of that. Back at another library where I hope to calm down and just do this, write some more. Not sure how long I will last since batteries on tablet and phone are winding down faster than usual.
Remembering my thoughts about Arlington, started in the previous posting… One could talk all day about that place. I guess all cemeteries operate with the risk of colliding sentiments. Grieving families in one space intruded upon by curiosity seekers and goth types looking for a deathly thrill. I have come to object to the use of tombstones and cemetery items as Halloween decoration. It is using something decidedly not funny and making it a trivial amusement. I would not take my objections too far. I’m not going to start a petition or call Congress. Just leave it out there for others to digest.
Still feeling like the anxiety wants to return. Not going to let it.
I was thinking earlier I should re-write my story about cunt, and record it in a Joe Frank kind of style. I have recorded the story but it sounded poor. I for some reason thought it would make sense to record it while walking over the RFK/Triborough Bridge. There is too much noise for recording anything up there, and I also find that walking while recording results in a not so subtle huffing and puffing that intrudes on my delivery.
The story is about the first time I saw it. It was in the 6th grade, on a school bus. One of the older kids had a copy of “Hustler” and he was the star of the moment because of it. Lines of kids 3 deep stood between me and the magazine. Everybody was whispering the word: “Cunt. Lookit that cunt.” None of the boys said it too loudly, a deference I interpreted as intending not to offend the girls on the bus. The girls, in fact, could probably heard the mumblings just as well as I. They seemed as interested in the magazine as were the boys. The first thing I saw of the magazine was its cover. I do not remember who or what was on it. Then the kid in charge of the “Hustler” opened to a two page spread of a fat woman lying on a beach, or near some kind of body of water. Her pubic hairs reached up past her stomach. One finger of her right hand pointed toward the squall of hair between her legs. A crass, almost disdainful look in her face seemed to admit that this was a nasty looking thing, while also asking “You want this? Here it is. Come and get it.” I felt like she was talking directly to me.
As nasty as that woman’s hairball cunt in “Hustler” magazine looked to me I knew even then: I wanted it. It made my mouth water, same as it does today.
My grade school stories could possibly fill a book. I should not be afraid to name names anymore but I am. There is a great irony about a particular path taken by a few of the kids from my grade school class. In the last couple of years I saw that they had been honored by the school for their athletic achievements — from over 30 years ago. They were summoned to give speeches to the student body extolling the virtues of athletic achievement and the role being a jock plays in developing a healthy mind as well as body.
Now I have no problem with these individuals, the two athletes chosen by the school’s alumni office to return as kings to the site of their grade school conquests. It is fitting to the nature of southern schooling that athletes would be specifically chosen for this role. I cannot imagine being contacted by that school or my high school to discuss my time and travails as a classical pianist in New York.
But that’s not really my beef with this. It is the irony of it all. What happened was that one of the teachers was fired because, in her words, “They said I favor the athletes too much.” I remember her saying it with resignation, not to mention a whiff of admission of guilt. She knew this was true because everybody knew it was true. So now, decades later, the move to have her fired has come full circle, and the very athletes she so conspicuously favored are being singled out for praise and adulation by a student body of presumably preening youths. Can that teacher who was fired on account of favoring these athletes have her job back now?
There must be more to the backstory of all this. Maybe the teacher was only guessing that she was being fired for favoring the athletes. No, I think she knew, everybody knew. But why were these two individuals chosen when there must have been dozens of other decent athletes over the years? I guess if they have maintained open contact with the school they could have manufactured this arrangement. But it sounds more like something that would be suggested by the school and hard for the athletes to refuse versus something these men would have forced into happening.
The school just was not that infatuated with its athletes when I was there. These guys do not appear to have pursued any professional athletic pursuits. They are bankers and insurance salesmen.
…
At a Starbucks after being evicted from my table at the library. I did not realize growed-ups were banned from the children’s section, or that I was even in a children’s section. Fuck that. I left, and got my Starbucks Birthday Freebie, which I don’t think I deserved because I waited a few days to get it. The barista seemed to think I was supposed to get it earlier, but he comped it for me anyway. That was gracious of him. There are only 3 people in this world who consistently remember my birthday. One of them, my sister, got it wrong for the first time I can remember, thinking it was on the 31st, not the 30th. That actually had me wondering if I didn’t get it wrong myself. But no.
Anxiety has receded. Still a little shaky but the pill works.
Batteries running low… Going to walk and walk and walk until the sun goeth down.
