The Last Three Nights Followed by Today

Three nights ago, I felt my heart stop while I was sleeping. I have no idea how many people have lived through such a thing. It hurt. There was no sharp pain in my left arm, so I knew it was not a heart attack. It hurt until I noticed it was my heart. I don’t know how to explain it. The voices in my head claimed that they were trying to intentionally slow my heart to kill me and how dare I actually retain any control over my own body. I actually felt my heart physically stop. It felt like a lifetime before I could start it again, but for all I know, it was as instantaneous as the thought, “Oh, hey, my heart just stopped. That’s what that is. Well, I hope it starts again, soon.” Really, that is all I did to start it again.

Two nights ago, I was physically attacked in my sleep again. I am still working the things they left in me back out of my body again. All the tell-tale signs were, as usual, present. What else was there to do? I made myself beautiful yesterday morning and went out to enjoy the gloriousness that is life. Living well is the ultimate revenge. Okay, I did that, AND I spent hours downloading human rights treatises and declarations off of various websites most of them associated with the United Nations. Has anyone else heard of ICTY and Rule 96? Or know that human rights include not only political, civil, social, and economic rights (among others) but also silly things like basic dignity and freedom from torture and slavery?

Apparently, living well worked. I actually managed to lure myself a cuddle bunny for the night. Yes, all we did was cuddle. Don’t start reading projected innuendo into my statements. Luckily, or maybe subconsciously strategically, my choice of snuggle bunny guaranteed that I was not attacked in my sleep last night. Yeah, he was snuggly.

Not so long ago, I interrupted my “walk of (misplaced) shame (since I only literally slept with the man)” at the Caffé Trieste where I partook in a delightful trinary conversation before heading home to change into my Halloween costume. Happy Halloween, everybody! Today, I am a glam rock star complete with faux fur and soon to be with Kiss-style Demon makeup in red. Sigh, I meant to stop in the library sooner to post this and check my email, but Gaynor and Vrαnαs distracted me with yet even more delightful conversation before I could breakaway from MELT! and venture the extra block and a half down Columbus to do this. YEY! I hope the glitter in my hair doesn’t get all over everyone tonight, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

They Still Sneak Like Ninjas.

I have been attacked in my sleep so many times.  Last night was the most recent.  All of the normal signs of being physically attacked and violated in the night were there when I woke up, and at least, there were none of the extra ones.  My body knows when it is violated.  It knows when it started, in the psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview, and it knows every time since: at my parents' house in Iowa, at my friend Carmen's home, and at the residence hotel where I stay now.  The obvious thing about it, though, is that is serves no purpose.  There is nothing to benefit from attacking an innocent woman in her sleep.  You cannot use physical abuse on someone to suddenly make her guilty of something she never did.  I mean, really, anyone who could survive that psych ward where they electrocuted me while asking me content free questions, among other things that violated the Geneva Convention, cannot be phased by being continually physically abused and violated after the fact.

Funny, though, how removing someone's quality of life, forcing her to live pennilessly, making sure most days go by when she does not know if she will eat and definitely not sure if what she its will or will not be contaminated, removing her ability to financially support even a basic living, taking away her ability to ever be employed in the country where she is a citizen, making sure she has no sense of physical safety nor mental security anywhere, and physically violating her repeatedly to maintain that she will not have any privacy of any sort makes her value certain things differently.  Yes, I want peace and love in this world.  However, if we cannot ALL have it, if I must suffer as everybody's public victim alone in order for the world to never have peace and love, and if I am denied any more of the things for which I wait in order to maintain some openly acknowledged program of oppression against me that has already been proven time and time again to be completely ineffective at reaching some goal it has likely lost sight of, I have nothing I can do but fight for the things I believe in.  I have nothing else.

Just imagine what might have happened had you been gentle.  Just imagine where we would be had you asked nicely.  Just imagine what this world could be if you had bothered to be humane.

An Update to the Things for which I Wait as Posted Here in this Blog on October 1st, 2009...

1.) Finding a real place to live-- someplace that is not a residence hotel with "co-habitants" in the shared kitchen
UPDATE: The "co-habitants" are usually babies as if someone were planting eggs in the microwave. I would still rather have a real home.

2.) Someone to publish (or at least buy) my writing-- be it my memoirs, my fiction, my poetry, my board game, or even my half-baked TV pilot
UPDATE: I am still waiting.

3.) The City of San Francisco to clean up its water-- I mean, really, children drink this water.
UPDATE: I am tired of feeling slowed down, and I am tired of constantly sleeping.

4.) Some form of employment-- preferably writing related or something else suitably intellectual
UPDATE: I don't want my brain to fester. I need to keep sharp with a (as previously stated) suitably intellectual occupation. I would prefer one in another country. I am told that global climate change has left the UK less harsh in the winters.

5.) The voices forced into my head to go away-- You try keeping yourself together with people screaming at you constantly.
UPDATE: The voices are at least quieter now. I would prefer them completely removed.

6.) A sense of physical safety-- I would like to be able to have a trusted friend touch my hair or back without it making me cringe in pain.
UPDATE: I also need to be able to sleep in peace without worrying about being attacked as my REM cycles.

7.) A sense of privacy-- I would like to someday have the security to know that every moment of my life is not watched, listened to, or recorded.
UPDATE: Even "third party" cameras annoy me. Do I need to quote certain US Supreme Court rulings about our right to privacy here, too?

8.) News that someone at the Iowa Board of Medicine actually cared to investigate the medical malpractice I was forced to endure
UPDATE: I need justice to be less slow for the wicked.

9.) The FBI to take me seriously when I say that I was physically, emotionally, and mentally wronged and violated while in a psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview this last May
UPDATE: I know they know. I know how they know. They know I know their faces.

10.) Someone to tell me the truth-- preferably Mr. Johnny Depp
UPDATE: I am still waiting. The truth is enough; however, if the beautiful personality of Mr. Johnny Depp should also choose to woo me (and it is his decision on that, after all), that would be frosting. I do love frosting.

Speaking of frosting, the best way to keep from having to fight these battle on my own is to have someone else take care of--
a.) love through equality and equality through love for all humanity,
b.) ensuring humanity's survival of global climate change without altering any natural cycles of the earth on which we all live (You know, no altering of nature through any biochemical, carbon dioxide-base, or any other molecular or sub-molecular methods.),
and
c.) educating our world about other cultures and all of their inherent beautiful aspects in order to save us all.
What did you expect me to say? Take the US off of its petroleum dependency? Not that I would complain...

Headache... I think I am in water withdrawal.

I saw my old friend Rita yesterday morning for the first time in YEARS.  She looked amazing.  It was wonderful to learn that she is still out traveling the world and living well.  We sat outside the Trieste and caught up in much overdue fashion.


My mom's visit came to an end Sunday morning.  Oddly, I just received a call from her minutes ago.
MOM: Is there something you want to tell me?
SQUID: Mom, I really think it's the other way around.  I'll talk to you later.
And with that I got off the phone. 

I did successfully accomplish organizing, notarizing, and mailing a great deal of paperwork yesterday.  It felt great to have all of my details finally in order.  Now, I feel like a responsible adult in writing.  Yey!

My list of writing projects has neither increased nor decreased as of late.  I am still frittering away at this keyboard in an effort to finish a.) my first full-length novel, b.) a project that I think might end up short story length, c.) my first Science Fiction TV pilot, d.) a screenplay set in Chicago, e.) a transcontinental children's fairy tale, f.) my third and fourth volumes of memoirs, and g.) my lowest priority--a young adult fiction project.  Oddly, never actually finishing anything and just cycling through and around each of the projects continually makes trying to convince people to pay me for writing them rather difficult.  If I could just finish one of them!

I was thinking about venturing into sustainability and helping build homes out of compressed earth bricks in Chiapas.  It sounds like that project is quickly coming to an end, though.  Where might I speed off to in order to help the world (through the means I am allowed)?  Sigh... if only... if only...

Here I Sit, Again, at Caffe Trieste on a Monday Afternoon.

... and in brilliant company at that.  Yey!  I actually tried taking a nap after lunch and couldn't get my REM to cycle.  So, here I sit, typing away.

The Sleepiness Still Makes Me Angry.

I have been constantly groggy lately. I can't explain it a all. I am prone to doing things like writing manifestos and crafting inflammatory blog posts when I feel like someone has made an effort to slow down my brain.  I wonder what sort of battle I will choose today. I can't stop yawning... this one will be quite a wave-maker, I hope. 

Mom is in Town.

Sunday night my mom flew to town.  I assume she has been worried about me.  I did, after all, fly to a foreign country and beg for political asylum less than a week ago.  Sadly, I feel like I worry her more about my life than I worry myself about my life... That is saying a lot. 

It is great to see her, and we have had some oddly entertaining errand-running, coat-shopping, downpouring-rain-avoiding bonding time since she arrived.  I suppose we will get up to some museum-going today.  Thank goodness she never takes issue with how much coffee I drink.

Yet Another Long Overdue Update

I just tried fleeing the country and seeking political asylum. This is what you do, I had assumed, when your own government refuses to protect you from being physically harmed and violated, mentally tormented, and emotionally abused. I was sent back to the States by the US Embassy in Mexico City at my father's expense because, although I felt safer in Mexico, they insisted I be here instead. Here is how this all happened...

Wednesday the 14th of October after being here in San Francisco again for 1.5 days, I found an amazing fare online for a Mexicana Airlines flight straight from SFO to MEX. I asked my exboyfriend to switch his birthday gift to me from a delicious dinner at Gary Danko's to a roundtrip ticket to Mexico City instead. He kindly complied after a bit of convincing.

At some point that afternoon after procuring bibimbop that made me physically ill at a place called Golden Gate Perk and before dropping off my room and mailbox keys for a friend to be able to check on my things, I happened to download and install some Windows XP updates that incapacitated my tablet. I am trying to update my blog from a library computer, so we will see how many tries it takes for me to finish it. The computer now does not allow me to login nor does it allow me to access the BIOS during startup. Curious, isn't it?

Well, I took the flight from 10:40PM on the 14th to 5:00AM on the 15th from San Francisco to Mexico City. The voices in my head were screaming and screaming all day and night until the plane reached a certain altitude. After that and until I returned here in the States, there were only two intermitent, normally-volumed voices in my head that could comment on everything around me my eyes could see.

Anyway, I arrived at 5AM and immediately tried using my debit card at the ATM in order to obtain local currency. It did not work. Huh. I had money in that account when I boarded the plane. When I checked my account's AVAILABLE balance (note, not ACCOUNT balance) at an actual Wells Fargo ATM the previous afternoon, it indicated that I had enough money to carry me through living in Mexico City until my next direct deposit would come through from my insurance company. So, I exchanged what cash I had on me and took a taxi straight to the embassy of an EU country that I was sure the US would not pick a fight with should that I seek asylum there.

I arrived too early for them to be open, but following the advice of two local men, I stayed in a well-lit, public place until the time that their doors would allow visitors. I bought some coffee and water, and I waited. Once the sun had brightened the sky, I walked back to the embassy where I was greeted outside the doors by a representative who asked me for anything he could bring inside to present my case. I gave him what I had, and I waited. Eventually, a gentleman from the embassy came to me, told me I did not present enough grounds for gaining political asylum, and sent me to my own embassy.

So, I walked through the neighborhood crying until I could find the US Embassy. Trusting that my own government would do anything at all ever helpful for me was my first mistake on that trip. The US Embassy told me that they only deal with visas, notaries, blah blah blah... (The implication being that they could not help me convince my home country to ensure my physical, mental, or emotional safety.) In fact, help with visas, notaries, blah blah blah was all they offered me. They refused me any real help.

So, I left and called a newspaper in Mexico City called El Universal and asked for a reporter. We agreed to meet at 1PM right there at a coffeeshop next door to the US Embassy. That just meant I had to keep myself awake until our meeting. I sat on a couch in a neighboring hotel lobby, scratched out some notes of what I wanted to say, and waited for our 1PM meeting. The reporter's name was Doris, and she was thorough, professional, and respectful.

After my meeting with the reporter from El Universal, she pointed out that people were amassing nearby along the major boulevard near the angel monument for what she called a “rally.” The U.S. Embassy later called the same thing a “demonstration.” All I know for sure is that if there were no injuries, which I am told is true, it was peaceful and therefore NOT a “riot.” Because the rally was about to bring hundreds of thousands of people to the angel monument and move to fill the Zocalo, the reporter suggested that I take refuge in the U.S. Embassy. We parted ways beside a group of police officers in riot gear lining up along the street, and I proceeded to the front gate of my own embassy. They turned me away at the door. In recap, the first time I approached the U.S. Embassy they refused to help me, and the second time I was turned away at the door.

I walked down the main boulevard past many various groups of police officers who were out and about, it seemed, because of the large amount of people that were about to march by. I took a right, as the directions the lady reporter had given me required, on Juarez and soon found the Mexican Office of Foreign Relations. At the main desk there, a lovely lady tried to help me sort out my bank and ATM mess. I ventured forth to speak with representatives at a bank who could not help me but did help me exercise some Spanish vocabulary that I had not used in over a decade. After returning to the giant building marked Secretaria de Relaciones Exteriores and after a great deal of trying to figure out what to do, I was allowed upstairs in the building to use a phone authorized to call the United States in a final effort to reach my bank. My bank, of course, refused to help me.

The next thing I knew, the entire office was looking after me. They called the U.S. Embassy on my behalf, and after much passionate dialogue, they convinced my own embassy that they needed to actually help me on some level. They fed me my first and only meal of the day and found me a place where I could spend the night. They called my family. They even tried calling my doctor here in San Francisco. They took care of me in every way possible, and for their kindness I will always be grateful. I should do more for them than merely mail thank you cards. This I know. However, I have nothing else I can offer them as thanks, yet.

The place that took me in for the night was a shelter for victims of domestic violence, I think. If I translated the postings on the walls of the office properly, that was the main intention of the facility. There were two sets of police guards that one would have to pass to get in and a 24-hour medical staff. I slept for over 10 hours waking only once in the night.

Oddly, when I awoke, the once clean table had a mostly drunk plastic water cup on it with cigarette ash inside. I pointed it out to the lady who came to retrieve me from my room once the representative from the U.S. Embassy arrived over two hours late to pick me up. I was groggy all morning despite all of that sleep. The representative from the U.S. Embassy told me that it was due to the altitude. Funny, I didn’t feel that sleepy at Yosemite even while or after driving over the 9500 feet high Tioga Pass.

The U.S. Embassy told me both that the hundreds of thousands of people in the peaceful “demonstration” had no injuries and that Mexico City was and unsafe place for travelers from the States. It made no sense, but what could I do in my groggy state? I was in their hands from the time they picked me to the time they escorted me to the security screening area of the International terminal of the airport that afternoon. They had managed to convince my father to buy me a one way ticket back to San Francisco.

I had an uneventful flight to Houston, an uneventful layover, an uneventful flight to San Francisco, an uneventful taxi ride into the city, and rather unceremonious (thankfully) arrival in North Beach. The neighborhood was in full swing when I got here. It was as though the entire city were in the middle of one giant party.

Saturday morning I reached a few conclusions about why I should never have allowed the U.S. Embassy to convince me to return to the States.
--My first cup of coffee of the day already had a sleeping agent in it. As did the glass of water served to me by hand at my local coffee shop. I had expected so much more from Sally.
--I am no safer here than I am in La Ciudad de Mexico. I did try to flee this country for a reason. Those problems had clearly not resolved themselves during my short absence.
--People actually openly and honestly tried to help me there. I know most of the neighborhood I live in, and I know people all over San Francisco; however, with the exceptions of Gaynor, a collection of bartenders, and some old friends, very few people here are outwardly and genuinely friendly towards me. If I am singled out specifically here, it is for irrational maliciousness against me. People go out of their way, as if those strangers could recognize me, in order to specifically be cruel to me.
--By Saturday afternoon, my skin was already crawling with the antagonism I could feel in this city directed towards me. I was free of that while in Mexico City.
--The money my father was forced to spend to bring me back to the States could have easily supported me in Mexico until my next direct deposit from my insurance company. I know I have to pay back my disability insurance once I am finally able to, and I know that it is even not enough to support myself on here in San Francisco. However, money goes so much further in Mexico City. It is some place both where I can afford to live and where people treat me well.

Right now, it is Sunday night. My mom is expected to arrive, oh, about right now at the Oakland airport. She will go straight to her sister’s place in the East Bay, and I will probably see her in the morning.

My efforts to seek political asylum from the United States did not work, but I am staying in contact with the friends I made while in La Ciudad de Mexico. Maybe I could find my self a job in a foreign country. Finding a job (and therefore a way to support myself), finding a real home, finding a non-assholic significant other, finding physical safety, and even finding a sense of usefulness in the world is not happening here. I am ready to turn away from the San Francisco I have done nothing but care for and support for years and find a place to live that has the ability and moral convictions to actually care about its own people.  Don't get me wrong.  I know that not all people have an irrational need to persecute me on a personal level, and I know that there are also a great many people here who are already fighting the good fight through whatever means they are expert.  I have just fought too long and hard for the health of my mind to let it slip away in a body that has neither privacy nor physical safety. 

I am going to post this now without double-checking it for typos.

A Long Overdue Update

Now, let me see if I can keep straight when it was that I last posted to this silly blog thing. I believe I need to start with Fleet Week Friday, my last night in town before I zipped off to Gold Country and Yosemite for a wedding reception and my birthday, respectively. Hmmm…. what an odd odd night was that Fleet Week Friday.

Just in case anyone doesn’t know, Fleet Week is the, well, inappropriately named weekend when the city of San Francisco fills with sailors, the Blue Angels make the buildings shake, and there is a great bunch of revelry in general. I was only here in the mighty San Francisco for the first official night, last Friday night. In order to support my troops whom, by the way, I get to know very little about due some sort of lack of national and world news here in San Francisco, I wore my navy blue dress with all the fringe, a pair of sparkly tights, and my red spool-heeled t-strap Mary Janes, and I went dancing.

I couldn’t help from shaking my fringe; even though, some twatty little girls kept trying to physically infringe (pun intended) upon my solidly held dance space. I mean, really, the only thing that can usually move me off a dance spot is a man trying to hump my leg. Let’s be honest, if I wanted my leg humped, I would get a pet dog. My friend Helen even introduced me to the bassist Dave for the band at Maggie McGarry’s that night. He subsequently kept shaking his head at me as if to say, “No,” while he played and didn’t even acknowledge me when the music was done. Needless to say, the evening ended uneventfully, and I went home to sleep until it was time to pick up the rental car for my drive.

In the morning, I walked myself over to the Avis on Fisherman’s Wharf to pick up my rental car. Low and behold, I know the owner of that Avis office. She looked at me and said, “You look familiar.” The only response to that, of course, was, “Are you Andrea?” I knew her from years ago when I still lived here in San Francisco permanently the last time. She has only gotten prettier and healthier looking. I tried to tell her that, but I didn’t want it to come off as though I were flirting. She is married, after all.

The drive out to Sonora was rather uneventful, though, full of beautiful country scenery. I was tempted with the idea of buying a pumpkin from a local produce stand. Luckily for my ability to transport my luggage, I did not do so.

The wedding reception was that afternoon. I walked through the dining room in my red dress as though I were a Spanish lady with an orchid behind my left ear. ‘Dabs and Evilia looked all stunning in their big-city wedding clothes. Michael and Kathrin looked all gorgeous in their (Marine) dress blues and rousched (Is that how you spell that?) white gown. ‘Dabs and Michael’s parents threw a mighty fine, intimate party for us all.

After the reception, we met in Sonora’s historic downtown for various drinks and tasty Mexican food. We tried The Sportsman, the first place I have ever seen where you can buy beer and guns all at the same place, before settling in at the Office, a Clamper bar. The Office had a wonderfully well-stacked jukebox that I neglectfully spent more time perusing that chatting with my friends. Whatever. They still love me.

I slept oddly that night. I thought I heard the audio from a television show broadcast directly into my room at the charming Spanish mission-style Days Inn while I tried to sleep. My ears are prone to playing tricks on me.

Sunday morning’s breakfast was spent at Michael and ‘Dabs’s parents’ place there in Sonora. It was quite the breakfast feast that their mother spread for us, and we chatted lightly outdoors at the patio table while we ate. When I was finally ready to head out on the road, their mother also gave me almost bugged-out eyes of worry about the drive on SR-120 to Yosemite. Their father also double-checked that I knew the route. They really are such a wonderful family.

Once I hit the mountain-hugging highway, I understood why they worried. Little did they know, my sporty hybrid could hug curves like an eighty-year-old letch. That drive was more fun that it should have been.

Yosemite was gorgeous. I don’t know quite what else to say about that. This particular National Park has epic landscapes, majestic monoliths, and some of the biggest trees this world has ever know. Due to the drought (which no one told me about until I arrived there), the waterfalls were dry. Sigh, global climate change. We all really ought to do something about that. I drove into Yosemite from the west that day and out through the south.

The B & B I stayed at, the Hound’s Tooth Inn, was adorable. Despite how packed the park was, it was also rather vacant. For the amount of charm you get for the price, I found that odd. I happened to be able to photograph a stray tuxedo cat while stopping to smell the wares of their rose garden, and my room (#7) was clean, new, and too romantic, I must admit, to be in alone. I mean, really, it even had a fireplace.

After a quick nap in my room, I found myself chatting over complimentary wine in the common area with a cute (taken) Brit traveling across California with his life partner while they were both on holiday. I asked him about his research, I chatted about my diagnosis, I even recommended that they see the Racetrack Playa while in Death Valley. It was quite a comfortable and delightful chat.

After not finishing my half-glass of red, I sped off to the Jackelope themed bar & grill at the Tenaya Lodge for dinner. The coffee was nothing to be messed with, and the cute, tattooed bartender seemed more shy around me than the cute, non-tattooed bartender who met me when I sat at the bar. While I ate, the bar filled out with cute, manly types who all ignored me. I tried sitting outside by the fire; however, it was rather chilly, and the coffee was making my hands shake. I was in bed (alone and) early that night.

Sleep was much more comfortable that night than at the Sonora Day’s Inn. I heard some rustling around from what seemed like the attic above me, and my rest was only interrupted by the sound of a door shutting that occurred sometime in the dead of night. I’ve needed that kind of restful sleep for quite a while.

I quickly enjoyed a light breakfast, seemingly, right when it hit the serving area in the common space. Then I was off to Yosemite! It was birthday, you know, that Monday. I spent it driving all over that amazing park. I hiked the Mariposa Grove in my black dress and red heels, and I made it all of the way across Tioga Road to Lee Vining and Mono Lake. With any luck, I will have photos to share some time soon.

Mono Lake has an amazing, alien-looking landscape full of salt. I know my photos could not bring justice to the beauty of that, apparently, mostly avoided lake, so I bought postcards at the visitors’ center before heading back across the Sierras and the snow-speckled Tioga Road. I had somehow managed not to notice any snow on the way there. Well, I’m not know for being the most the observant person in the world.

The fog rolled in, and a few lonely raindrops fell, shortly after I passed the Toulumne Meadows and the White Wolf turnoff. I tried to stop to photograph the fog, but that romantic weather phenomenon moves around with a mind of its own. It cleared to a regular level of visibility when I finally found a turnout upon which to stop the car.

I made it to the valley floor just in time to photograph the monoliths I have managed to forget how to tell apart in the glow of the setting sun. Beautiful. There is nothing more to say about that. I hope my photos turn out as well as I think they should. This was all on the way to the main dining room of the Awahanee Hotel (if I spelled that correctly) for my birthday dinner. The three-course prix fix is quite the steal there. I chose the boysenberry pie for dessert. My night’s sleep at the Hounds Tooth Inn after my birthday dinner was some of the soundest sleep I have had in a good long while.

I was up at 3AM to dress for my drive back to San Francisco. I had planned on getting in earlier than I needed to in order to return the car, but (thankfully for the detriment of the drought conditions) the rain, the fact I could get myself lost near Modesto (How did I end up asking for directions at the Kaiser Permanente in Modesto?), and the eventual morning rush traffic, I arrived just a little late. The conditions turned what should have been a 3.5 hour drive into a 7 hour one, after counting the time spent unloading my luggage before dropping off the vehicle. It’s a good thing I left as early as I did.

I stopped by to check on some friends at various neighborhood establishments, checked my mail, called a hospital about a bill I never received, and ended up putting together some mail to send tomorrow morning. Gaynor is doing fabulously at MELT! . Peg even stopped in to chat with us before a group of regulars appeared to sing me happy birthday. The BBC radio chattered in the background as I typed away at this silly machine trying to write a specifically and multiply addressed letter.

I quickly stopped in Ireland’s 32 to say, “Hello!” to Grasshopper and Ruce. I just wanted to make sure they knew I made it home safely after such a long, mountainous drive. There was, oddly, a group of pool players in the upstairs bar, something I had never seen there before during the Tuesday night open mic. I believe there were more yuppies playing pool upstairs than there were musicians playing music downstairs.

From there, I meandered my way on mass public transit back to the neighborhood in order to sit here at Specs, drink bourbon, and compose this entry which I plan on posting later. My mind is full of all sorts of beautiful things I need to get done with my more immediate future and, or course, vastly beautiful things I plan for my distant future in this world. San Francisco is such a beautiful city.

Stretchy Stretchy

I am having yet another day when I feel like someone else’s walking chemistry experiment.  I have had this raging hormone imbalance for days now.  I am so choc full of testosterone that my natural ladylike figure, personality, and demeanor are starting to go by the wayside.  I have a sneaky suspicion that some unknown, invisible enemy has been trying to turn me into a violent person by injecting me with testosterone in my sleep.  Well, it didn’t work.  All it has done is make me drink too much and act like a calloused bastard. 

Sitting is Specs last night, I actually found myself going out of my way to be mean to people through brutal honesty.  Once I got drunk enough, though, I wandered into Vesuvio, found the closest Johnny Depp look-a-like, and flirted the living daylights out of him.  It didn’t hurt that he happened to be an old friend of mine and a local musician named Caleb.   He is (still) as cute as can be, though, sadly, has a girlfriend. 

I used to think that my natural, ladylike ways could never been turned asunder.  I was wrong.  Inject me with testosterone and I get obnoxious, mean, and funny-shaped.  Oh well, at least it has helped what I have started to think is an anthrax breakout on my face from living at Carmen’s for two weeks get itself under control.  It also lowered my voice to make me more of a sexy, husky alto.  Most importantly, it couldn’t harm my charms with the menfolk, as any man near me could attest.  It just made shooting the non-charming ones down actually enjoyable. 

I am toying with the idea of going abroad some time in November.  It would be a short trip to someplace affordable.  International travel is easily done on pennies if you know what you’re doing. 

Speaking of travel, I leave for a trip to Gold Country and Yosemite tomorrow morning.  YEY!  It’s a combination wedding reception for very good friends and birthday gift from my parents.  It is going to be so much damn fun.

Food Poisoning

Yesterday was mostly delightful... until the food poisoning. Grasshopper, Lee, and I just hung out, ate some soup, and sang some songs last night. I think we all contracted food poisoning. Mine was out of my system before the night was over, but those two seemed to have a slower reaction. I should really call to check on them.

Before the food poisoning attack, I had a mostly wonderful morning and afternoon.  I stopped at the Vesuvio for some morning (Amaretto and) coffee.  I stopped by the Tel-Hi Neighborhood Center for their Breakfast for Books event.  I stopped by the Caffe Trieste for coffee and wi-fi.  I stopped by the Nature Stop to buy a few grocery odds and ends.  All before stopping there at Grasshopper's place for some dinner and singing.

Huh, when I arrived at my shoebox last night after visiting Grasshopper's place, the main screw that holds the lock and handle in the door fell out and landed on the floor. After breakfast and before I paid my rent, I asked my landlord to fix it for me. He is such a sweetheart; he took care of it immediately for me.

I stopped here at the Caffe Trieste to drink some coffee and use the internet. And now, I am off to volunteer at the J. Porter Shaw National Maritime Library. It should be a good day, assuming the city water doesn't get contaminated any time soon.

The Update

The Update...

... on cute boys who carry guitars: I met a new one for the collection on Thursday night. He was named for an African country.
... on the voices pumped into my head: They're still there. There are just fewer of them, and they are a bit quieter, now.
... attempts to kill me: Nothing new to report here that I know of.
... the progress of my writing: I have revisited "CALIX, Set Sail." I should really call my friend Christian to see what else it was that I was supposed to add... other than another entire hour.
... my paranoia and delusions: I still love the world and wish it would save itself from wallowing in its own excrement. Take that as metaphorically as you need.
... Grasshopper: We are friends. We are friends who do NOT have sex. Yet, we are friends who sing for the fun of it. Yey.
... the music: I am trying to help Grasshopper find a regular weekly gig on some evening for a psychedelic jam he can host.
... my physical health: I'm alive and kicking and feeling fine.
... the city water: Now it makes me "hyper." Two cups of coffee this morning with Amaretto in them were much too much energy for me.
... all that I wait for: There is still nothing to cross off that list.

Gandhi's Birthday

I was awakened this morning from a tenuous sleep because my heart was pounding pounding pounding, my body was shaking, and something was coursing through my veins.  The voices in my head told me that as I slept yesterday in the late afternoon and early evening enough timed-releasable cocaine had been shoved into my body to kill me with an overdose this morning.  I am very grateful they failed.  It is hard to fight an enemy that even your friends will not acknowledge.  Just like, it is hard to learn a truth that even your family will not tell you.  The only way I have to fight an invisible evil is to never let it hurt me, to never let it ruin me, and to never never never let it stop me from seeing, living, and experiencing all that is beautiful in this world.

There is no end to what I can accomplish. And the more that the invisible evils harm me, the easier it becomes. This world will never be mere sorrowful, miserable ugliness so long as am here. And should that something kill me, all my dreams will force themselves true upon this world. Should that something kill me, my beauty will live forever, and the world will break under the heel of all the fantastic and wonderful things I want for it.

Even if this be mere paranoia and delusions of grandeur, at least they are beautiful and want nothing but love in this world.

Waiting

This is a list of things for which I wait.

1.) Finding a real place to live-- someplace that is not a residence hotel with "co-habitants" in the shared kitchen
2.) Someone to publish (or at least buy) my writing-- be it my memoirs, my fiction, my poetry, my board game, or even my half-baked TV pilot
3.) The City of San Francisco to clean up its water-- I mean, really, children drink this water.
4.) Some form of employment-- preferably writing related or something else suitably intellectual
5.) The voices forced into my head to go away-- You try keeping yourself together with people screaming at you constantly.
6.) A sense of physical safety-- I would like to be able to have a trusted friend touch my hair or back without it making me cringe in pain.
7.) A sense of privacy-- I would like to someday have the security to know that every moment of my life is not watched, listened to, or recorded.
8.) News that someone at the Iowa Board of Medicine actually cared to investigate the medical malpractice I was forced to endure
9.) The FBI to take me seriously when I say that I was physically, emotionally, and mentally wronged and violated while in a psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview this last May
10.) Someone to tell me the truth-- preferably Mr. Johnny Depp