Yes, Jace Lives, Sort Of - And, I Quit.

Jace was found wandering the city streets for hours in the early morning two days ago in socks, sweat pants and a shirt. Injuries to feet, leg joints, (basically a worn out body), mind almost empty and mild hypothermia. He cannot sleep. His PTSD has taken over and he can barely feed himself.

He is staying in a shelter with off and on access to Internet and telephone service because people who give a fuck about him are trying to keep him from killing himself in more productive ways than throwing him into a drug rep's orgasm (hospital) like his biological parents, or abandoning him after being mind poisoned against him like his sister Jill was by his sick, fucked-up parents.

Oh, and: I Quit.

I can't handle all this family bullshit. I don't have one and Jace's is hell bent on portraying themselves as having done their best when I have access to all of Jace's email, writing, online friends and accounts which show otherwise.

Someone has to take over for me because I can no longer take over for Jace. I will comment, but this will be my last post.

If I see a single "I told ya so" from one of those fucking stalkers, I promise I will hunt down your IP addresses and do everything in my power to make your lives somewhat worse than they obviously already are.

P.S.: You have NO RIGHT to know where Jace is. Don't even ask.

Addict's Almanac

Street Roots, a Portland nonprofit paper that assists the city's homeless and impoverished citizens, is running a short-term autobiographical column by Tye Doudy. The Addict's Almanac offers a thoughtful peek into the brutal lifestyle of heroin addiction and homelessness. Tye's prose is peppered with reflections that humanize America's untouchable class, reminding us that these non-entities were once people just like you and me, still are like you and me, and could be you and me. Between the past and the present, he glimpses into the future, putting truth to the junkie's lie and making self-aware forecasts that peer hopelessly further down the spiral to this lifestyle's inevitable end.

Please read the excerpt below, and then use the link to continue following his story.

August 6, 2008

"The smoky interior of the Roxy, with its smells of clove cigarettes, coffee, and greasy diner food, is an oasis. Those old familiar pulp fiction posters on the wall and the same Skinny Puppy songs playing on the jukebox. Small groups cluster at tables and in the booths. Gothic kids and punk rockers drinking the all-night coffee and chain smoking. Flamboyant gay guys sitting at the bar talking loud and looking around to see if anyone is paying attention. No one is.

I spot an associate sitting by himself at one of the small two-person tables and make my way over. His name is Joe but he goes by Ashes, and Ashes looks loaded. He barely looks up when I sit down and from the length of the ash on his smoke I can tell he was on the nod. His hooded eyes finally look up and find mine as the waiter takes my order for coffee and toast. He tucks a long strand of greasy hair behind his ear and through missing teeth tells me I look like hell. Coming from him this is truly something.

Ashes has been on the streets a long time. He was already “old” when I first hit the dope road all those years ago. Beneath his long and tattered leather jacket and his Sisters Of Mercy T-shirt his thin frame shows the wear of the longtime dope fiend. His arms are covered in homemade tattoos and scars from past abscesses. He is somewhere in his late 30s but looks a decade older. Anybody with eyes would make him for an addict. He’s about as trustworthy as a rented snake, and he is the closest thing I have to a friend at this moment.

My first question is, of course, is he holding and second, can I get him to kick down a little something. Even a rinse would set me straight and buy me some time to make a plan. No junky wants to give up any dope ever, but I have some leverage as he has no hustle and he knows I will make some money today. He supports his habit by spare changing in the transit mall. Not a sure thing, even on a good day. A real loser’s gambit. Real bottom of the food chain shit. So I get him to agree to get me well as long as I take him along on whatever scheme I cook up for the day.

In order for me to get the fix, we first have to go back to the squat he shares with some other scumbags under the Jackson Street overpass. We leave at once. Fuck the coffee and toast. It’s only a few blocks away and as we make our way to the spot, morning people are beginning their day. Office workers are emerging with their overpriced Starbucks beverages and service workers are on their way to their shitty jobs serving shitty food to shitty people.

The pedestrians avoid eye contact and keep moving. They’re not scared, just seen it all too many times. Anybody that lives or works downtown is so used to this that it’s like rain to them. Something unpleasant but inevitable, just part of the city. When we finally reach the overpass and duck down through the hole in the freeway fence the smell of shit is a shock. The whole side of the embankment is dotted with small white flags of used toilet paper marking each pile of human excrement. There are no public bathrooms open at night in this area of Portland so people do what they have to do whereever they can. No matter how many squats I’ve been in, the smell of piss and shit always takes my breath away for a moment. This is the bottom. Truly, it would be hard to fall any lower than this. Maybe dying of AIDS in a welfare hospital would be worse. Maybe."

read the rest of Addict's Almanac.

Taking a Break; Please Fill In

It is with effort that I did not title this "I Resign." With the most recent events of researching/dealing with the information about Jace's trials and tribulations among the Monsters of Medicine and the situation with Mike and Heather (no, Mike, no personal assaults here, I want peace)... I feel overwhelmed.

VictoryGrey has been posting things that this blog is about: her life struggles in this antisociety and things that Jace would have found personally meaningful.

There needs to be more. I know that the other members of this blog have complicated lives, but I used to believe in the concept of "Society" and how that was what separated us from chaos. Now I see that we live in anti-society. Chaos through self focus. If this blog means anything to the members, please, please, please contribute. I have in mind the idea of abandoning it, as mentioned before, since it does not seem to attract much more than "Jace Smacking." That's not why it was resurrected to begin with.

Lastly, go see MY blog for a little tale of society.

Jace's Emails to Betraying Family Members

Click HERE to read in Rich Text Format.

phantom limb syndrome [Previously Unpublished]

"As I had been looking online for his current email address I discovered his blog (on Blogger, of course) and that he's in a 4-year relationship. That produced a jittery response in me, and for a solid hour it was all I could think of (foot-tapping and all). I was waiting at the DMV for my replacement driver license, so it didn't interfere with life, but I was still a little surprised that my reaction was that intense. Yes, after 16 years he still matters to me. Closure is never what I've wanted there, only acceptance."

i am not at all shocked or surprised. i was with jana for about a year when we (her & i and john&tammy) ran into kristin at Barnes & Noble. i had an intense reaction. It offended jana. It took quite some time for her to be "okay" with and "understand" the situation.

 She had never been through what i had been through. Her longest relationship was "dating" and it lasted weeks to a month or so. She had zero relationship experience prior to me and in the end it really showed, despite spending 7 fucking years at it with me.

 Lazy, selfish, insecure emotional child.

 i would have extremely intense reactions to crossing paths with her today. 

i have enough of a reaction to seeing kristin briefly through her blog, though it somewhat relieves me to find that she is exactly what i expected, as lame as that is. When she appeared at Barnes & Noble, i was pissed that, after months of not wearing it, i was wearing the hooded, over-sized sweater i had that she made fun of, and she even commented to tammy that i was "apparently still the same old jace" ... it pissed me off. i think i threw the fucking thing in a drawer and let it sit for a year or two before jana encouraged me to get rid of it with the clothing we were taking to the Salvation Army shop.

 It bothered me to continue to see [name]'s selfishness in her blog. It annoys me that judy never changed her address with the university, despite me telling her, twice, about mail coming to me. It would bother me to run into any of these people. Most of all, elise.

 i've fantasized about her showing up on my doorstep looking to make friendly and me telling her off, and then realizing that i am not sure i could [tell her off].

These things affect us. We only think we're beyond them because the parts of our brains containing these people stop being referenced. They go dormant. When something directly accesses those parts of our brains, we are shocked to find them still there, and then shocked to find them still the way they were last time. These parts never really go away. We just stop accessing them, for the most part. This is why i envy people who have made friends with their former lovers/mates. It allows a person to change that portion of their brain that holds the internal existence of the person and takes away the potential for future shock and surprise.

phantom limb syndrome, specifically pain, is the exact analogue to my loss of lovers. It happens for the same reason. It also happens because of the other things i said about memory of lovers in the previous email: the brain content is still there. In this case, though, that entire section of brain material becomes "illegal territory" because the removal of the "limb" is painful. This is why people try to close it off, shut it down and eliminate all paths to it. Pathways to these parts become active or available after long periods of dormancy by simply attaining a new lover or mate; it is by association with having had one before... "Which one was that? OW!" and then "and the others... OW!" [insert stimuli and responses here]

[written by Jace, previously unpublished. Originally written 2/2/08 at 4:54 AM - Intransitivus]

"i'm relieved ..."

in reference to me not wanting to have anything to do with my father any longer.

but, he got to put me in a 304 situation. this ignorant asshole who knows nothing about the system tells me that i just had to get out of there instead of getting to the core of the problem... you don't get to the core of anything but following orders from staff and doctors about taking medication on time, as prescribed, despite your "real" doctors or what YOU know about YOU, no matter how old or young you are, and no matter how educated or ignorant you are.

i was one of the most educated people there... well... actually i was one of the least EDUCATED, yet more than two other patients told me that i gave them more clear information than any staff or doctor and that i seemed extremely intelligent.

but who does this asshole of a "father" listen to? does he listen to his son, who has explained the system to him several times? no. he listened to: "the professionals."

i hate my father.

he thinks it's great to have me out of the family.

so what THE FUCK is the reason why i was 304ed after NOT killing myself and solving my own problem? i could have been out of his list of self imposed problems (money, anxiety) for years if he'd just accept my RIGHT to DIE.

but then, it's not LEGAL to die by your own hand in this society is it?

someone call crisis on my father. he needs a ride through the system so he can "get to the bottom of the problem."

610-791-3188
610-703-9887

i could destroy his career like jefferson destroyed mine. but i have impulse control. i think about things. and i think THIS would be far more educational and constructive.

you want to know the story of my life in relation to my father?

PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH

i was an autistic child.

his way of teaching bicycle is to tell you to do it and then get mad and walk away when you get frustrated with him and the bicycle. me. my sister. same with math. "You don't speak English? That's ok, I'LL TALK LOUDER AT YOU AND POINT AT THINGS VIOLENTLY! PROBLEM SOLVED!!"

MONEY. That's all that matters to him. That's all that matters to his parents. That's all that matters to the whole fucking family. Work, get married, have children, work to raise your children, get to an old age spoiling as many grand/great grand children as you can before you just... die.

MONEY.

"i'm relieved you want nothing to do with me'" i paraphrase.

"i'm done with you." he said.

My "father" lives in a large, beautiful colonial house with enclosed back porch. You'd think he was someone... "important" ... he might say... IF he had any perspective. He has beautiful land that he thinks he must maintain to some sort of suburban standard. Ridiculous. Does he enjoy it?

i asked that question of the two of them repeatedly and they didn't even comprehend the question without me explaining it.

They want to sell it and buy a condo.

makes me want to fucking puke.

i hate my life, but that was my home and they want to trade it in for a fucking condo?

a $400,000 (more??) home and they want to trade it in for a motherfucking condo??

un.real

i've been told to write a book. If i live long enough, and some editor can remove enough material and still have the publisher go ahead, maybe then... someone might fucking get it.

But probably not because people don't really read much. THEY SEE BIG WORDS AND LOOK AT SHOCKING PICTURES AND WATCH FOX NEWS AND TALK ABOUT KILLING TOWELHEADS. They don't think or read.

i hate being here.

no one learns, and i lose to your ignorance

the repeating dream:
i entrusted the care of my cats to a household of other people.
those i trusted and believed in
when i returned,
no cats. nothing said to me
i had to ask about them
they were dead.
no explanation.
ever.

combined with the dreams about "my other house"
forgotten, abandoned, animals suffering...
where is it???

BRING ME THERE!!!!

this is hell. sleep, stage 5, R.E.M.
hell. most active and restless stage of sleep.

cannot focus
art projects
no rest
unable to
let things go.

"why can't you see that every thing's broken?
why does it seem this life's turned grey?
i can't believe in anything sacred
when i don't believe that i am real."

i am alone
locked in my memories
there's nowhere left for me to hide
but i am not real..."

"... why does it seem that everything's different
and why does it seem that only you are real?
i don't believe in anything sacred
so why do i feel so damned alone-

-i need someone to break the silence
that's screaming in my head
and in my soul."

-- track 4. wither, blister, burn and peal.
-- track 9 is even better.
-- maybe this is the best album they made.
-- you figure out who it is.

i am afraid
i want to live my life, but
fearful of evil abuses
like the 302/304
done by my biological parents...

they've learned NOTHING.

NOTHING

"i'm finding it so hard to hold on"

but there's no out for me, just more

PUNISHMENT

that's all you get

too painful to read it, but, apparently,

not too painful for me to live it.

i'm punished for fighting and punished for trying to die,

even though my suicidal gestures have been only that,

... really.

what i do, never enough - what i've tolerated doesn't count.

my disability means nothing; i don't even have one, cunts.

i've nothing left to give because i've given it all,

yet i'm told to "give", "be", "do", "shut up"

"write a book", "he's manipulative"

faith, self love, trust in jesus

pray, masturbate, wish upon a falling star

humanity, just beasts

the world, nothing & nowhere

fuck, shit, piss.

pointless entry

pointless blog

in the end,

i get nothing,

so i'll give nothing.

five step program

1. people want to get to know me, at first, but they don't want to read about me.
2. within a few months, they develop feelings for me and become frustrated by what they don't understand, still refusing to read what i've written. they want me to communicate, but i'm too tired of saying the same things all over again. i've written most of it down several times.
3. there are conflicts. These could have been avoided had people learned about me.
4. they develop animosity towards me and insecurity around me. they refuse to acknowledge it, while pulling away, emotionally.
5. then they leave me with no remorse or guilt and complete justification. a few words of pseudo excuses. i cry and they feel nothing.

takeout only

i can't ignore the world's demands

but it sure as hell ignores my needs

autism so deadly

when i cannot sleep,
the organ in my skull breaks down.

when i am drugged to sleep,
the organ in my brain self-tortures.

i become fear. need. loss. hopelessness.



(EDIT: an NPR interview with an insomniac author, which i've not listened to)

peace so delicate, silence so deadly

i think i just made peace with my neighbor, Dotty. i apologized for my mother's unwarranted phone call. Dotty told me her sister died recently; that she's been in a bad mood, too. Her best friend, she said.

"I've lived here too long to be nasty. I'm not a monster." i said i know. i said i wanted to make peace; she said she wants that too. i wish the same were possible for the other neighbor. but we cannot talk.

we never know each other until we talk. even then...

silence is deadly.

if only we were built as stronger creatures so that we COULD talk when we should.

i, too, am not a monster.

bait animal, for your ego and betrayal

people who think they know something about something are dangerous. people who tell you they care about you are the worst of those.

First, no, I haven't been actively avoiding you.

That three year gap of time where there was ZERO response to my attempts at communication... that wasn't avoidance... no, not at all, you fucking borderliner.

We haven't been in each other's lives for years - since high school, really, and I am often surprised with the strong attachment that you have to me.

Oh, i don't know, it couldn't have ANYTHING to do with all that talk you made about how we were close friends and how you wanted us to be able to share personal things with each other. How you maintained a close connection via email for years... until after you visited me and started to avoid me. Oh, you didn't avoid me, that's right. Silly me. You were just thinking. You fucking revisionist liar. Oh the convenience of self delusion!!

When I saw you last about 3 years ago, things weren't going well for you. At that point, I did not know exactly what to do or if it was even my place to do something. I will also admit that it made me uncomfortable that you were sharing so much with me

How fucking DARE i share my personal life with my FRIENDS! Friends aren't people to share one's life with. Certainly not people to look to for support!!

and [name], and that you sent me those text messages later on that night. I didn't really know how to respond then, and I'm still not sure how to respond now. The last phone text message you sent me about a year ago

So you'd been thinking about it that whole time... right... three years ago... a year ago... Not avoiding me... no...

made me feel very uncomfortable and I felt like if I did respond at that time it could have made things worse for you and, quite frankly, I didn't want to engage in a dialog with you.

Nothing to do with YOU at all...

I was offended and felt that your message was in appropriate. So I chose not to respond, which I still feel was the best choice for me personally.

Oh yeah, it DOES have to do with YOU. It's ALL ABOUT YOU!! HOW FAMILIAR!! 100% the same as john and tammy being mad at me for feeling offended by their behavior... OH WAIT, here comes another one! i shared my feeling of offense and YOU MAKE IT ALL ABOUT YOU AND HOW MUCH I AM THE ASSHOLE!!!

I am concerned about you, Jace.

LIAR! You don't avoid someone for more than three years when you feel concern for them!! YOU FUCKING FAKE!!!!!!!

There is a lot going on in your life that is making you unhappy. I want you to feel better and have the relationships in your life that you need. However, I am not the person that can be your therapist or even your friend. I know that this sounds harsh, but I'm speaking from my heart with honesty.

You're speaking out your ASS with EXCUSES for not being what you CLAIMED.

I don't know what your life is like right now, if you are still as unhappy as you were 3 years ago,

You don't know because you didn't give the slightest bit of thought to it. Because you don't give a shit about me at all, you have avoided me and now are able to claim ignorance. NO FUCKING SHIT you DON'T KNOW. Your logic is flawed and you contradict yourself from paragraph to paragraph, let alone along the time line of our "friendship."

and if you are still getting help. I honestly hope that things are going better for you. I may be stepping out of line here, but I think you said also that you think you have Asberger's Syndrome - if so, the only recommendation I can make is that you get yourself a good cognitive-behavioral therapist (not just any type of therapist, but a CBT therapist that has been trained in this specific type of therapy that has shown to be effective) that can help you work through some of the issues associated with that (if you still have on-going issues).

i already let you have it via email for your ignorance here. There are enough blog entries and comments around the web from me on ignorant professionals... like you are attempting to become. i hope you don't get your PhD. For the sake of other people.

And, finally, signed with the greatest heap of insincere buck-passing, fake bullshit:

I really wish you the best and hope that you can move on with your life with love and hope.

Sincerely,
[another liar]

Another elise. or jana. or even just yet another generic fucking sociopath-to-be borderliner.

Thank you for breaking my heart, my soul, my will and my ability to try.

Thank all of you.

who are you when you're alone?

i know who i am
do you know who you are?
which version are you right now?
which version is "the real you?"
when you're not under someone else's influence,
who are you and does it matter?

a friend, lover, care taker, trainer, controller, manipulator, transactional opportunist?

"i'll be better," you said.

this, is not. you're another step over the line.
"the counterbalance" it is not.
that's transactional thinking, which i don't do.
remember?

do you even know who i am,
for all your research?

i should have stopped.
december should have been all i needed.
now i know that it is meaningless,
who and what i am... meaningless.

you've taken more leeway than i've authorized.
but i guess i have no rights, right?

you're finding ways to fault me for your insecurities,
damn me for my honesty, and take a superior position,
just like everyone eventually does.

i'm autistic, not stupid, remember?
i'm not a child, i'm traumatized.

i know a lot more than it seems
and i have a great statistic for being correct.

don't come around again if "that" person is the real you.
the december you.
the aggressor
transactional relationship manager.

i'm so tired of false advertizing, taking the blame, and then being beaten for standing up for myself. so if you're not you, collect your possessions and stab me on the way out. i'd rather it be a real blade, in my flesh, instead of soured memories and hidden injuries for a fucking change.

women want a man they can change.
men want a woman who will stay the same.

everyone, male or female, wants to change me.
control me. shape me. be superior than.
so, why should i behave better?

there's no reward,
save for the limited, one year grace period,
plus or minus six months,
which sours soon after.

why should i continue?
give solid reasons.
the statistics are horrific and stacked against me, long term.

i should sell every belonging,
adopt out the cats,
drive far away,
end it all in isolation.

no notes to misconstrue.
no resolution for you.
no corpse to display.
no wishes to betray.
no memory
to defile and whitewash.

just... nothing
nowhere.

who are you when i'm nowhere?
you can be whoever, whenever.
what ever. no change, really.

this is not a threat.
this is a feeling.
it has a cause.

ultimately,
like myself,
irrelevant.

trying to reason with an unreasonable girl

three years ago (as of September 2007) elise crushed my heart and soul. i did this to my fist after losing yet another round of trying to reason with her in chat. i beat my fist into the keyboard until blood sprayed around. my brain suggested that i might stop at that point so as not to break any bones (i've never broken any bones).

so i'm dangerous, right?

wrong.

this is me. my hand. my chest. my body. and this is what was done to my mind by elise. i did this to myself and a keyboard. the keyboard did not represent elise. it represented the irrationality and illogical madness that drove me to near insanity. it was me, beating the shit out of a communication device that failed. my keyboard. my mind. my hands.

other people's insanity is something i have a hard time with, being high functioning autistic. no matter how much i try to reason with someone, they remain unreasonable and my brain "short circuits."

i had to be told.

i had to be told that i could not make sense of something that was not sensible.

i had to be told that it is not possible to rationalize something that is irrational.

i had to be told.

no matter how hard i try to tell elise, or any of the others, how much damage they do, they don't get it. incomprehensible.

three years ago... and it still hurts worse than anything else ever did.

i've moved on in action and in loving, but this...
this is still inside.
it will never leave me.

not ever.

wanting to hold and be held

a few good days,

as i've written before,

usually p r e t e x t a crash.

it is part of the sleep deprivation

the t o u c h deprivation.

that crash is n o w.

tonight.

this m o r n i n g.

alone. open.

after a nice chat: a l o n e.

after nice email: a l o n e.

after a nice introduction: a l o n e.

a f t e r reviewing words

sent to elise

which earned me the most recent "called the cops on me" episode.

reminded why i am typing in this fucking little box,

on the fucking little internet,

to fucking no one. a l o n e.

b e c a u s e of her.

& her.

& her.

& her.

& her.

& i s t i l l want

e a c h.

& i can't touch h e r yet.

or her.

or her.

& i will never know h e r.

or h e r.

or h e r.

& her.

alone. o p e n.

wanting to be held and to h o l d.

can you i m a g i n e?

some of them act like i'm "dangerous."

the judy. the elise. the jana.

i appreciate caution

those who have not been with me

who do not yet know me; it is s e n s i b l e

in this s e n s e l e s s world of selfishness & opportunism.

but for those who had me

in their grip, o w n e d

why fear m e ?

with s w i f t n e s s they kill,

and .i. am feared?

closed eyes.

calloused skin.

irrational minds.

and i .m i s s.

e a c h

o n e.

in this crash, i would

a c c e p t.

i would o f f e r

i would g i v e

even e l i s e.

i would a c c e p t.

i would a l l o w.

after being m a d e fool of,

i would .s t i l l. hold,

t e n d e r l y.

i don't think they understand...

to be truly alone. none ever were.

they don't have that p a t i e n c e.

to be

alone. o p e n.

w a n t i n g to be held.

knowing .H O W.

to h o l d & 

.be. h e l d.

raped

beaten

ruined

you liars

i hear the ocean calling

outside my third floor window
cracked an inch to cool the studio
the sounds of waves crashing
on a rocky shore that isn't there

the shade flutters in and out
wind blows with intent
if i don't look, i can see it
the ocean calling me

you brought me here, now
throw me over the ledge

i want you to see me smash
at your hands, on the bottom

outside my third floor window
no air flowing from the opening
the sounds of waves crashing
on a rocky shore that isn't there

watch my blood run down the edges
along the cracks in my skull, lapped
your wolves of desire and possession
thrown to, by your haste and cruelty

see the ending you wrote for me
watch my water turn clear in earth tears

you brought me here
years ago now,

finish what you began

this is how my life ends

this is how my life ends
this is how my life ends

not with a bang but a whimper.

(with apologies to t.s. eliot)

the catch woke up screaming again

and no one is here to come ease my mind...
because i'm alone, as you left me, elise.

you said i was "a catch"
when you dropped me...
fucking prove it.

you can't, can you?

i should be satisfied with what i have...
yes, i know this... having had so little,
having anything at all should be enough.

but i want more.

i shouldn't have to suffer dreams like that...
it's proof of the considerable damage done,
that i have no control over how it affected me.

we don't select our nightmares

those who have done the damage owe me reparations,
which will never come from their selfish hands.
just as their apologies came from insincere mouths of words,
following up the words they used to bait me.

all equally dishonest with themselves and, ultimately,
misleading me through a waste of life,
leading me right back to where i started.

here i am, quivering and distressed,
the dream flashing before my open eyes...
playing back, interrupting reality

always expected to be responsible;
why no one else needs be so but me...
just another double standard i'm forced to live.

all i can do is be what i've been made,
suffering the time between moments,
alone, with only cat ears to hear me.

at least i'm honest about myself,
unlike the criminals who made me,
those who put me here

"[to roast] in an inferno of incredible horror."

weak forces

you identify me,
become the synonym to my heart,
my needs...

i am everything to you
for a moment,
an unmeasurable fraction of time.

i enter your event horizon,
yours forever... then,
you reverse polarity

return to your origin;
the antonym of my heart.
i have no needs before yours

foreign matter,
you are immune to me,
eyes closed, deaf to my sounds

i was everything, and became-
...
yet you still remain everything,
to me.

each and every one of you.
forever, till death and beyond
if there is such a thing.

feelings... what's left to say?

nothing new. not here. not out there.
drama for drama. hate for hate. hate for love.
everyone is better and no one is allowed to differ.

so read it all over again.
from my retracted apology to elise,
to this acknowledgment that my blog is pointless.

when nothing changes, i remember why the idea of dying seems so ...

comfortable.

i changed so much to be part of you,
and you.
you,
and you...

fit in
earn respect
belong

much ventured
little gained

i see nothing else to offer...
reject, insult, rape, pervert,
abuse, steal and kill.

you will.

fuckin' blah blah blah...

as good as it gets?
afraid so.

the start
and
the end

nothing much of value
in between,
before
or after

a few good moments does not make a good life.

about my "donate" paypal button...

...it's there because i am disabled and i cannot work. There are people who are responsible for this. i've named them. They aren't going to do shit for me and i have no rights because no one is willing to fund the protection of my rights. So, fuck justice. i put up a donate button instead.

i'm embarrassed, but i am not yet finding a way to earn suitable income by selling art/music. Hell, i can't sell what i cannot make into a deliverable product, and i can't make deliverable product without suitable income. Chicken and egg. Catch-22. Oruborus. Cliche.

My debts are many. Several of my debts are my own fault (spending on art materials and studio equipment as a distraction from depression and suicidal ideation).

However, i DO own a car (there is no decent mass transit system where i live; it's lucky i am within a 2 minute walk to the Giant grocery store), and i DO own a home with a monthly mortgage. i DO need to eat, dress myself, clean myself and my home AND i have CATS to care for.

i'm not making it.

i'm getting behind.

i'm also running out of server space for my website, blog and email. i THINK i'm paid up for the next year, but i only have 100MB. It's ridiculous.

If you decide to donate:

• Don't do it unless you can afford to and are not doing so out of misguided affection or guilt by association ;-)
• If anyone wants to fund an upgrade to 300MB, go here, add up the cost per YEAR to know what i pay for a year, then use the DONATE button on my website or blog, donate whatever you feel comfortable helping with, and make a note in your donation that it is for funding a hosting upgrade.
• All other donations: please use the NOTE feature of paypal donations to indicate what you want your donation to go towards (home maintenance, water/heating/communication bills, cat care, art/music supplies, health care, etc).
• i do not want anyone to send money intended for my own personal debts. i'm not asking for a way out of my stupidity, just some help with the stuff that disability does NOT cover that it SHOULD cover (like cat care, healthcare, non-food items for daily life like TOILET FUCKING PAPER, which foodstamps does NOT cover).
• If you would like to buy an art print from me, i am trying to find out a way to set that up so it's easy. For now, if you know something of mine that you like and want to buy an art print (we're talking official art purchase here, not donations, so this is like buying art at a gallery show), let me know via email.
  

like i said, this is embarrassing, but i have no pride anyway, so fuck pride.

"the catch" turns 32

yeah, "the catch"
as in "catch 22"
"you're great, but you're not worth my effort"

she actually said this bullshit...
"jace, you're a catch,"

as she was snipping the line,
tossing me back into the salt water,
her hook still embedded in my torn flesh.

"a catch"
"a real man"

you know what this "real man" wants to do?
spit in elise's face, just like pat did.

another year of my life gone and
all i have to show for it is the bullshit lines
the erratic, selfish and cruel behavior
handed to me by women like her.

if this is what you are,
and how you've treated other people,
you deserved getting spit on.

all i am, today...
naked, cold, fearful, traumatized.
as you, and those like you, have made me.

disturbed

there are people who find my blog and my artwork to be disturbing. i feel the reality escapes them: these disturbing words and images are the result of being disturbed by cruel and unjust events, often targeted directly at me. the majority of these experiences that have disturbed me are psychologically violent, not physically violent. imagine how much worse my words, my art and my reactions would be if i were not trying my best to exert self control.

i wish to take this concept, embed it firmly in your mind, and have it become conscious before the next time you judge me as one thing or another. in fact, i wish to take this concept further; use me as a starting point for considering what happens to the minds of people who are physically/sexually abused, are witnesses of physical abuse and/or have seen the bodies of their neighbors shredded by shrapnel, limbs twisted and crushed, hanging by loose flesh and burned into forms unrecognizable.

can you imagine this horror?

i have friends who know many more disturbing facts than myself about our country, government, businesses and associated selfish, terrorizing, sociopathic authority figures and organizations. They were once asked (and i paraphrase) "How