Melting Pot

Yes, it's true.  I'm losing my mind.  Most people hear that they think it's a metaphor.  I wonder what it could be a metaphor for.  There isn't enough space for metaphors.  That's the way it seems to me.  Of course the ones who covet metaphors and innuendo are the one who mask their real feelings at all cost.  How dare someone ask for real compassion in a world of sarcastic love.

My sister fucks every man she goes out with.  She even fornicates with the ones she despises.  She calls them her "bulls".  She likes them well hung and without sentiment.  That's what she tells me.  She says, "Women don't want cry babies for a man.  We want men who are strong, arrogant, and willing to force us into submission.   I like my men to treat me with respect when we're out and then take me erotically and forcefully when we have sexual moments."  Sexual moments she says.  As if I don't know what she's talking about.  I know what she does with men's penises. 

She has her limits, though.  She refuses to see a man more than a dozen times.  Beyond that, she says, it either turns ugly or falsely romantic.   And they say I'm the lunatic in the family.

I dreamed that I had a dinner party.  Only monkeys and donkeys were there, eating and carousing.  As the night was wearing thin, the Dalai Lama walked in with a platter.  On the platter was my sister's head.  I ate her eyeballs.  They popped in my mouth like cherry tomatoes.  I woke up in a sweat with an erection.  After I masturbated, I wondered if my dream meant I was sexually attracted to the Dalai Lama or donkeys or monkeys.   

That's how I know I'm crazy.   I can't get a grasp on what is real and what is fantasy.  That dream is as real to me as the conversation I had with my sister about her "bulls".

The other thing I know about me is that I really am losing my mind.  Ten years ago a stroke flooded my brain with blood.  The left side of my brain is slowly shrinking.  That's the thrill.  That's the thrill of the chase.  I am chasing my own dementia with a bag of gas in one hand and undying flame in the other.

"Time to get down from the counter.  It's time to go."

The woman with the white coat is always taking liberties of me.  But I've got this situation sorted out too.  If you want to hear about it I'm going to write it all down.  I don't really care if you read it or not.  I'm writing it anyway.  For me, you see.  For me.  And that is the only thing that seems to be clear to me.  Because I remember that I used to think my life was for others.  Or maybe they used to tell me it was.  I used to think that my life wasn't my own.  I lived for my parents and the people I associated with because they made me who I was - who I am.

But then I found a secret.   I found out that nothing is as relevant as the effect it has on me.  I don't know if this is a "universal truth" so don't ask me if it applies to you like that pedantic Doctor Kimberly.  He's a goddamn pedophile who'd love to stick his dick into bung hole if I'd bend over for him with my pants down.  That's not compassion, by the way.  Just so you know.  That's rape.

And so my parents their actions affected me.  And my sister's - hers too.  And this here, now in my room, is Jacob.  He's my roommate.  He never tries to rape me.  He's the reason I started writing.  He's my inspiration.  He's got a book.  It's over three hundred pages so far.  It looks like a regular book but there's no writing on the spine.  There's just print on the cover.  It says, "This book belongs to Jacob S."  But Jacob didn't write it there.  It's not his handwriting.  He told me so.

"This says it's my book," he told when I was watching him write.  "I didn't write it.  But it says its mine, not yours.  You can't read it yet.  But when I'm finished with it you can read it." 

That's the way he talks.  But it doesn't bother me.  He makes sense to me.  Even though he told me I could read it later, I didn't want to wait.  I was secretly wondering if my patience could hold out.  And I knew that it couldn't.  Because I also know many of my weaknesses.  One of them is my lack of patience. 

I'll tell you about it.

Jacob doesn't like to be called Jake, so don't think about him as Jake.  One day Brownie spilled some seeds on the floor.  She stood there trying to point it out, "The tile's thieving my seeds!" she yelled.  A newer orderly came a' sweeping.  Jacob was just sitting there staring at him.  "Feet up, Jake, feet up."

Jacob decided to go ballistic: "You goddam jigaboo; you black mambo snack raping and pillaging." he jumped up and started running around.  But no one stopped him.  One of the nurses just was standing by hardly watching.  I stood up because I was going to stop him.  But the orderly he stopped sweeping and put his hand up in front of me.  He didn't say a thing.  He looked at me and back at Jacob.  Jacob wore out and sat down on the floor; the orderly finished sweeping.  Don't worry about the orderly's name right now he'll be back later.  But I think you see that I was not practicing my patience there.  The black orderly practiced my patience for me.  But I'll come back to all of this later.  Right now I want to talk about Jacob's book and how I found myself looking in it.  And I found myself staring right into infinity.

Jacob's book is forbidden to everyone but Jacob.  He writes in it constantly.  He carries the book with him at all times.  It's his number one rule.  The only time he doesn't have it with him is in the shower.  When he showers, he doesn't bring it with him.  Easy enough right.  No, not easy, we share the same shower time.  And there's no way out of that.  I've feigned sickness, tried sleeping through it, tried showering at a different time or swapping shower times.  It was all to no avail. 

Then I devised a plan.  I was impressed with my brain for once.  My shrinking, withering brain.  I came up with an idea.  Naturally I was thinking that if I could just get Jacob out of the way while we were in the shower I could sneak a look in that book. 

That's what started everything in motion.  

This is what I did.  And this is what happened.