THE UNWITTING MEMOIRIST
January 20, 2021
Pre-Game God: B.C.
For most of my life I was so far gone , that there were cracks every once in a while. There would have to be, because I had no language for God , no language for the nightmare that I was living , a double nightmare for all that I could sense that was wrong but couldn’t explain or describe or fix.
So dreams would come, prophetic allaying dreams. Colorful, brash and helpful. Ladybugs would appear: one always crawling on me, come to visit me through my window, thousands in a shower in the sky: one yellow and black one that alighted on my forearm one day as I cried fitfully, as like a ray of beautiful truth so quiet that I stopped at once as if I’d been faking, and it was all a lie but this. Until I shook her off like a childish fantasy, passing out deep into sleep eyes wide awake again and falling crying into my friend’s arms because the pain was the only reality I could accept as true.
Then God came and my ladybugs flew away, like thousands of tiny red composites of my anger, only once dear friends, all swallowed into the Final blue sky. The dreams that were always there but now in trickery, as they’d been infiltrated once I no longer slept. I put my hand to my friend’s arm surrounding me and felt the embossed scars of cuts and slashes because she had problems too, and I opened them, and I stepped away until I fell and fell and fell like Shel Silverstein, Falling, falling falling … But Falling Up
The Unwitting Memoirist
November 21, 2020
There’s No More Material: the Power and the Glory
I’m currently (side) reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, one of my favorite authors. He was introduced to me in my Major Figures in Literature or some shit class, back when I was an English major.
Can you imagine being 13 in 2nd grade? Why not? I’d suppose because most people would say, because you’re not supposed to be so old in such a low grade. Like that. They’d answer you with the question rearranged with no real comprehension.
That’s a scene in the book. The city is godless and all the priests are being hunted down and shot. The living ones won’t dare to do it, degraded into a life of humiliation. They back away in fear from the pleas of the people with their hands up as if under a gun. Nobody can be trusted. The hostility toward God has reached a breaking point to where the townspeople have descended into hell. There’s no more material because there’s not too many books and so few examinations. It’s funny how in the world you need actual material to graduate, but in the spiritual world, all you need is to graduate from the material.
Imagine that you’re ahead because there’s so few books so you’ve read them all, but you’re behind because there’s nothing to be tested on. The intellect has reached a breaking point. Where will it go? There’s no more material.
The Unwitting Memoirist
October 21, 2020
Pigs at the Dinner Party
I’ve always had big rhinestones on my fingers, furs around my neck, a glass of Yellowtail in my wine glass. I’d be invited to lavish parties where I would delight in a secret game called, guess who’s the pig? Is it the handsome man in the tuxedo, or the perfectly coiffed woman in the corner? It’s a glorious game, honestly dahling because they’re all dressed up as if they weren’t the pigs that they are.
I’ve always had silk robes and elitism. Why, when I was molested as a kid, I thought, how droll. What are you some fucking animal or something? Simply base dahling, these people are fucking pigs.
I’d watch hours of TV and never want to go outside because they were all so dreadfully boring. What with their secrets and scandals and talk dahling. Honestly I’d say, if you’ve been to one restaurant, you’ve been to ’em all, and I’d laugh and laugh with Biff and Tiff on the telly.
I was so fucking rich, dahling, that honestly I was poor. When I had no dough for my smokes, I’d pick em up off the ground and pretend I was tying the old shoe. But dahling if you caught me, I’d smoke it right in your face and tell you that I was hard up. I’d blow the smoke in your face, tossing my scarf around my neck wondering how dull it must be to be so judgmentally dull.
When I was very young, you see, maybe 7 or 8, I had this imaginative thought that I could run away from the world. That I’d run into this black void that ceased to be the world. I didn’t want to kill myself dahling—how dreary, no; I just wanted out. I looked out of my window and saw them burning and looting, my parents on drugs and thought, really dahlings, crack? Ugh, I almost fainted. I nearly fled to the summer home in complete horror of what the neighbors might think if they weren’t, you know, crackheads too. Honestly dahling, I deemed myself above it all relatively early you see. Oh sure, I had my torch too, but kind of half heartedly, you know? Like it wasn’t really me dahling. Like I had to do these perverse things that these perverse people were making me do to fit in with them. And honestly dahling, when the torch burnt my fur, that was enough for me. I only come to their parties now to play my game. Who’s the pig? Only there’s no policeman there dahling, I wish.
The Most Regal Unwitting Memoirist
September 27, 2020
To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar
I spent a lot of time in drag clubs in my early 20s. Not because I was getting some confusing pu*sy d*ck in the stall of a dimly lit bathroom, but because it’s where I felt the most comfortable.
I wasn’t cross dressing or pre operative myself. I just didn’t express myself as a woman in the way the world thought I should. I used to be very angry, but I don’t think I was ever angry about that. I’ve always also been tomboyish. I just wasn’t ready to wear a dress or lower my voice to shut the world up. So I went to drag clubs, where I felt comfortable amongst people who I thought were freaks.
I like alternative communities, like where people express themselves with gaudy makeup, crazy clothes and accessories fake happiness and lip syncing because that’s who they feel they are; and the world doesn’t know that you can see something as wrong without judging it because you’re fucked up too. And that’s why you feel comfortable there, because nobody’s judging you for that.
The Unwitting Memoirist
September 25, 2020
Real Sci Fi: the Degradation of Technology
There’s so much yet I’ve got to discover about sci-fi, but the crux of it seems to rest on the idea of superior machines, intelligent robots. They are often hard to destroy by humans even though they’ve been made by humans.
In the real world, humans try to make other humans robots, but it doesn’t work. I guess the idea is to degrade the human machine in order to make the human life forms that create them appear like intelligent life. Perfect Androids only work in movies, right?
Humans don’t work as robots. When they can’t cross the street or walk eat or sleep without looking at their machinery, or drive, they bump into things and kill themselves. Casting themselves constantly on their machinery produces abortive feelings. They appear lethargic themselves when their machinery requires tethering to or docking at a wall plug to charge. Their machinery begins to seize and smoke when they are without their phones.
So maybe I’m wrong? I read once that makers of such machinery don’t even allow their own offspring to have what they’ve made. They know it’s degrading. And that makes them intelligent.
The Unwitting Memoirist
August 14, 2020
A Note on Fear: the Art of Scaring People, Childhood Triggers and Ellen “DeGenerate”
For some reason, I’ve been watching a lot of these bashing Ellen “DeGenerate” videos, and one thing that jumps out at me every time is literally the person that jumps out of the box next to the guest chair and scares the shit out of her guests. Fear Factor and Scare Tactics at least had the decency to have “fear” and “scare” in the title, and at least you knew what you were getting into when you went on the Eric Andre show: Eric wasn’t all like, “I’m kind”.
I don’t know why, but people who are utterly delusional about themselves in a totally evil way are endlessly fascinating to me. I used to be obsessed with sociopaths—dated one, the idea of this robotic cyborg human with no feelings and emotion like The Terminator. Then I got bored when I realized that these people weren’t cool like Arnold Schwarzenegger; they were just really f**kin traumatized because they’d been locked in a closet for like 12 years.
And scared shitless and consistently all of their lives by parents and guardians hosting a this is your traumatized life talk show, jumping out of boxes and from behind corners whenever we were just all innocently talking and fearlessly discovering in God. Then we gotta act like this is all cool and normal and not call out the host because the host is kind, and we just have all these problems now and just randomly start screaming for no reason because the host is kind. Cue applause.
I wonder if “Scaring People” is in the DSM 5? I used to do that too, and I was pretty traumatized. I’d wait outside the bathroom for my cousin and scare the bejesus out of em. One time, he dropped to his knees and proclaimed, “Lord Jesus!” And I’d double over like Ellen, uproariously laughing at Taylor Swift writhing in fear on the Ellen DeGeneres Show bathroom floor tiles in front of millions of people, and just shy of her head touching the toilet bowl. Because, I mean it’s funny, but seriously what is so funny about that?
I think you gotta be careful when you’ve been traumatized, you know? Weird things start bein funny and makin sense; everybody starts scarin everybody until everybody is a walking ball of laughing smiling fear and nobody is themselves. My favorite episode might’ve been Bruce Jenner explaining to Ellen how since he’s always been a traditional man, he’s never really accepted gays like Ellen while he himself was dressed as a very horrible looking woman named Caitlyn Jenner. Or when that kid ran away from her like she was Satan himself. BOO!
Ha ha ha ha
The Unwitting Memoirist
August 11, 2020
Teasing Kids, Ellen “DeGenerate”, Christian Science & The Myth of Happiness
OK, I’m not sure who started the playground rumor of Ellen DeGeneres as Ellen “DeGenerate”, but I remember when my 3rd grade friend Sara DeRoches ran crying out of the gym one day when they began chanting Sara “Lots of Roaches”. Adults are so childish, but they make connections.
Pop news is usually not my thing, but this latest tea on Ellen DeGeneres (Show) being the devil incarnate is interesting because apparently she grew up as a Christian Scientist. At first, I went “Aha!” because I thought that meant she was a Scientologist, but apparently she might only just be a “primitive Christian”.
Or at least that’s how Scary Mary Baker Eddy described it, Christian Science that is: a return to “primitive Christianity and its lost element of healing”. Eddy was one of the founders. And who here among us *hasn’t met a “primitive Christian”? I mean, doesn’t Ellen’s whole message of kindness while allegedly being Baphomet explain everything? Anyone?
I def don’t wanna be one of these people who dog piles on another human being just because it’s the “now thing”, but frankly I’ve had enough of Hollywood Hell and its televised bright shininess of colorful sexual deviants, demonic agendas, world destruction and inane clapping audiences. Christian Science doesn’t really believe in illness, but mental issues that cause illness and a “praying the gay away” of sorts to make it go away. So maybe we can all join hands for Ellen, and pray on behalf of Eddy’s idea of “malicious animal magnetism”, the idea that we can harm others with bad thoughts.
It sounds like body thetans and that contract Scientologists make you sign for one billion years that you’ll never leave. I had to think about it for a second, but I think it was Oprah’s couch that Tom Cruise jumped on, and not Ellen’s. Anyway, he’s radically happy like Ellen. God never said that your happiness had to come from a genuine place, did He? It can come from a black void can’t it? Or like a switch when the television comes on.
The Unwitting Memoirist
August 4, 2020
The Time I Almost Judged Joel Osteen: Ode to the Prosperity Gospel
A couple of years ago I found myself ready to judge Joel Osteen. Gavel ready, finger pointed just like my daddy Satan. What’s shocking about that is that I used to LIVE for Joel Osteen. What changed?
Well, I forgot you see; I forgot who I used to be; and when I tell you I used to be as live as all outside and buck the f**k. Good thing my 30s have been a perpetual nightmare of reminding me of that. I’m making peace with that, but I’m “humbled”. Or hobbled—one of those, same thing. It’s tough to encounter the same spirit of who I used to be in the world now that I know a different spirit, but it’s why we forgive, because I’m reminded that I didn’t come out of a box like this. It’s kind of like when Kathy Bates put that cinder block between James Caan’s ankles and took a sledgehammer to his feet in the movie Misery because he’d been out of his room trying to escape. Life has a way of doing that when you get a little too big for your britches.
There were people like Joel Osteen, and a lot of other “cheesy” self help gurus that were very critical to my early development. I grew up in terrible dysfunction, and the first taste that I had of a message telling me that I could think different, and that the thinking could be positive, was the movie The Secret. And I was off to the races.
I became a frothing at the mouth self help junkie: I read any & everything that I could get my hands on. The cheesier the better. I’d spent most of my life hearing and seeing little to no positive messages about life and myself, and so I needed it. It was the early beginnings of God’s love for me, though I didn’t know it at the time.
And Joel Osteen, well, he was one of the vessels. Good thing I’ve always outgrown people though so that I could take what I needed and leave any attachment to the person behind. It was good prep work for moving on and having no sole authority when I came into God. But just because I didn’t need Joel anymore, doesn’t mean that I could judge him. I’d traveled all this way, too far to do that, only to travel right back to Satan who was waitin at the doe to take a sledgehammer to my feet.
So cheers Joel Osteen; this is my ode to the prosperity gospel. You don’t know where people have been in their life to need that type of message, and to need very desperately to believe in it. It didn’t lead me directly to God, but eventually it did about 15 years later. Prosperity and God’s timing is funny like that.
The Unwitting Memoirist