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Musings Of A Negativity Addict

By Duane Brooks

For Elizabeth Irene Brooks, who for the vast majority of my life was the ideal mother;

And for Maurice Moyes, who for the period of my life afterward has been the ideal friend.

Foreword

Well, here I am again, again sharing myself with you in a book. This time around, however, as shall be explained, the format is different. Last time the form was a straight memoir. This time it’s a series of entries in a journal.

Let me tell you how this latest book came into being. As you of course remember, I already shared myself with you in a straightforward memoir (Tales From A Lifelong Neurotic). My hope, as I told you at the beginning of that book, was that writing said book would provide a closure from my various hang-ups, including those that were brought about by the pain and discomfort that my osteo-arthritis-afflicted left leg have visited upon me. Well, good news and bad news. The good news was that writing Neurotic did indeed provide closure. Whenever I peruse that tome I get a sense of uplift, a sense of catharsis that easily provides a balm for my assorted discomforts. The bad news is that since I wrote and published it I’ve felt a whole new neurosis. At first I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I really and truly thought that writing/publishing Neurotic would make me entirely happy but the reality was that it didn’t. What happened was that a new and improved (that phrase is meant to be ironic) neurosis sprouted up within me. For a while I mused and mused but I just couldn’t come up with what exactly the matter was. Then, during one of my nightly self-talk sessions, it came to me out of the blue. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, striking my mind and my psyche with such force that it embedded itself within them and gave me no choice but to concede its rightness.

I had become a Negativity addict.

I shall elaborate.

What I mean is that I had been feeling Negativity for so long (remember in Neurotic I told you about that time while I was a little kid when I went to my beloved Uncle Artie for help concerning a problem and after he gave me that help I brought up some trivial matter I’d been worried about?) and so deeply (remember in Neurotic I mentioned my suicide attempts?) and in so many different ways (racial discomforts, intense self-doubt, paranoia) that Negativity had become part of me. It had become ingrained within me, seeping into my every pore, drenching every part of my being to the point where positivism and happiness had become genuinely alien emotions, where I sincerely wasn’t comfortable with them, where I actually shunned them.

And something else was at work. In the huge-hit theatrical film Scream 4, “celebrity victim” Sydney Prescott (Neve Campbell, of course) tells a television interviewer how she, after the Woodsboro murders, had to re-invent herself, had to come up with a new identity for herself beyond being “Ghostface”’s intended victim. Earlier, during an episode of the TNT network’s Dallas reboot, Bobby Ewing (Patrick Duffy, of course) freely acknowledged that, since his mean, evil brother J.R. (Larry Hagman, of course) was dead, he had to re-examine himself, had to find out who he was beyond being the Ewing family’s White Hat. The situation that both said characters faced was the precise one facing me. Since my hang-ups no longer weighed so heavily upon me, I was faced with the task of discovering and coping with Duane Brooks—not Duane Brooks the morass of insecurities and paranoia and neuroses but Duane Brooks the man, the individual, the human being. Well, in point of fact, I simply found that task to be overly daunting. Indeed, I was afraid of it, cowered at the thought of it, found it to be to be flat-out terrifying. Thus I in effect shied away from it.

Now I’ll tell you why this tome has the format it does.

The reasons it does are two. First, in Neurotic, the doings that went toward impacting my emotional/psychological self that were the focuses were mostly external—being terrorized and tortured by my high-school classmates, my Mom’s death, being harassed and victimized by my cousin and her daughter. In Addict, however, the goings-on that affected my mind and my psyche that are the subjects were mostly internal—the result of attitudes and emotions that had been created and stored up since I was a kid. These, need I say, are intensely difficult to relay in standard memoir form. Telling of them in a journal format, on the other hand, allows for more leg room, permits me to detail how my internal self shaped the rest of my self without (I hope) being repetitive and boring. Secondly, concerning Neurotic, the attitudes and the emotions that were the points of the book were fairly recent, having originated as I came to go farther in life. Regarding Addict, however, the conditions of my e./p. self that form the heart of the book took root in my adolescence. I trust that it need not be said that such conditions are close to impossible to accurately depict in a memoir, which by its very nature depends on external happenings. A journal, on the other hand, allows for more flexibility regarding telling of inner concerns.

One other thing you need to know before we start. As was the case with Neurotic, I’m turning out Addict largely, if not mostly, for myself. Although naturally I fervently hope that you, the reader, greatly benefit—in the sense of getting hope, the gong of recognition, uplift—from partaking of it, the fact is that, as was mentioned earlier, my continuous Negativity brought me much, much inner grief and pain. Indeed, at times it seemed as if the ache within that it caused was going to burst out of my chest, leaving it in shards. It’s my great hope that compiling/publishing Addict, as did writing/publishing Neurotic, brings about a catharsis/closure inside me, is the cause for the end to my ever-present inner hurt.

All right, that’s it—no more need to explain. I will now let you experience Addict for yourself. And while, as I said, I didn’t have you primarily in mind as I was putting it together, my sincere intention is for you to get as much benefit from it as I passionately hope I will.

Saturday, March 22, 2014:

2:31 P. M.—While I was riding the bus coming to Oakland, I was sitting near this trio of older black “street” folks. They were gaily talking and laughing amongst themselves. My Unhappiness meter was going at full blast, so in my mind I flatly turned against them. “No wonder this country has a history of hating us [blacks],” I said to them (to myself). “The three of you are being loud and obnoxious and uncouth. Why don’t you all act with some decorum? Why don’t you all act civilized?” Seriously, that’s what I actually said to myself.

2:51 P. M.—Just finished these two hot dogs that my roommate so graciously cooked for me (It’s by far not the first time he’s done this). My Unhappiness meter is up to high again, so here I’m looking with dismay at the rest of the day and (seriously) worrying concerning what it’s going to be like. This despite the fact that I’ve got ahead of me engaging in (newly-discovered) meditation, seeing to sending an e-mail to the Beautiful Marie, and calling Ms. Praither to tell her that I won’t be talking to her on the phone most of next week, since I won’t be getting a phone until the end of next week.

3:13 P. M.—I wish TO HELL that I didn’t feel this incessant Unhappiness, that Negativity was not such a part of me. How the HELL did I get this way, anyway? Was it the mental illness? Did it come from the fact that I’m just made out of greatly poor stuff? What caused it? Whatever did, the fact is, I hate being the way I am. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I genuinely would like to overcome this continuous Unhappiness and to feel inner peace. Oh, well, the meditation that I’m about to embark upon could very well do it. I’ll see.

4:13 P. M.—Right now I’m feeling this tension in my chest. It’s a kind of tightness, a tautness that feels as if my heart is being forcefully pulled from both the left and the right side. What it is, of course, is the fact that my UM is continuing to go full-scale. More to the point, it’s the fact that I’m worried sick that my Unhappiness will go on throughout my life, that I’ll always be Unhappy—until the day I die. I know, I know—if you think your situation is hopeless, it will be. But that’s what my clinging to Unhappiness has done to me.

5:10 P. M.—Well, it’s finally happened. Today my Sprint account was ended, which means that I can’t use my cell phone until I’m earning a regular income again and can afford to re-instate said account. That means that I can’t make any calls out until Maurice instills a phone of my own in the apartment. I’m terribly antsy about it even though I fully realize, intellectually, that there’s no reason to be—I can no doubt use my roommate’s phone to call David and Ms. Praither (and tell her that I won’t be calling her for at least most of the coming week). However, my UM has me seeing the aforementioned situation as a major setback. It’s part of the consequence of Unhappiness becoming who I am.

Also: The fact that I’ve turned to writing as a way to cope with the reality that Unhappiness has, in effect, become my bag greatly buoys me. After all, writing has saved me in the past; who’s to say that lightning won’t strike once more? And it was the legendary television host Dick Cavett who told an interviewer: “Writing is to me the greatest talent.” In all, good omens for writing being my salvation as far as my hanging onto Negativity is concerned.

6:41 P. M.—Just had one of my Dark Rages. Although this time it was a different kind of Dark Rage. In the past, my DRs came out of my being pissed because I was put out in some way or because of unfortunate stuff that happened to me. This time, my DR (for the record, it was about the truth that I’m ineligible to be paid during my extended medical leave because I work part-time) was about…my embedded Negativity. Since Negativity has become so much a part of me—due to my having engaged in it for so long and so intricately and in so many different ways—what I do is, emotionally and psychologically, intensify the magnitude of the wrongness (?) of the situation, see a situation as more serious and more insurmountable than it actually is. Hence the new breed of DR.

10:20 P. M.—Once again I’ve been going off into a DR (this time first concerning the “right” questions to ask of the media, then regarding what/who was really and truly responsible for the great social changes of the 1960s and the 1970s). The reason was not because I was mired in Negativity but because I wanted to avoid being mired in Negativity (and, frankly, I’m coming close to being impacted by the Negativity of the lead character of this long-long-long-since cancelled TV detective series that, truth be told, most folks didn’t care a crap about even during its run). A little while ago I had yet another uber-bang-up time with my renovated sexual fantasies, thus emotionally/psychologically I’m feeling no pain. I greatly wanted to keep the momentum going, thus I distracted myself (so was my intent) by engaging in a DR. I know, I know—that was entirely the wrong kind of distraction, but I was close to being desperate.

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Sunday, March 23, 2014:

12:10 P. M.—What I’ve been thinking—and greatly concerned—about is tomorrow, when I take up with Maurice the subjects of getting back in touch with the Beautiful Marie through e-mail and the disk drive he said he said he’d get for me. Frankly, it’s the latter subject about which I’ve been the most concerned. It’s basically paranoia, I know, but I’m worried that Maurice will hold out on me because of some wholly arbitrary (on his part) feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to publish a memoir—now or ever. In my paranoia, I’m thinking of 1) these scenes from the Fox network’s medical series House (which I’ve never, ever seen) where the program’s lead character, Hugh Laurie’s Gregory House, resolutely blocks this one young doctor’s efforts to move upward in his career; and 2) going back further, Dwight D. Eisenhower, at the outset of his first presidential campaign, telling a group of television executives (as quoted by David Halberstam in his classic media chronicle The Powers That Be), regarding using TV in his bid for the White House: “I don’t like it when you have to rely on the integrity of the man and not the integrity of the institution.”

2:04 P. M.—I’m asking myself: “What would make me happy? Genuinely happy?” And my answer is: “Being able to resume my courier job at WPIC and going back to earning a regular income so I could have my computer back, have my cell phone back, et al.” Having those conditions resumed would of course mean that the pain and discomfort of my left leg clears up. If I had my computer back, that would mean, of course, that I could go ahead and shop Neurotic around online entirely on my own (with guidance from Maurice, natch) and I wouldn’t have to depend on any other place’s computer. Also: I’d have my own cell phone again and I could make calls whenever I wanted and I’d have calls incoming again and I wouldn’t have to wait for any other cell phone or depend upon any other phone. The plain truth is, I hate being deprived of my computer and my cell phone. Hate it! Hate, hate, hate! Damn, how I’d love to have them both back! It would make me really and truly happy.

Also: Another point in favor of employing writing as a way of dealing with being consistently Unhappy is the fact that, even though I haven’t written a new blog in several months, my blogs continue to amass readership. That certainly, definitely means that there’s still considerable interest in my Internet writing.

5:24 P. M.—Just got finished seeing—actually, re-re-seeing—the very humorous and charming and well-acted Natalie Portman-Ashton Kutcher theatrical romcom No Strings Attached on DVD. While I of course dug it as the highly qualitative film it is, re-re-seeing it stirred up two not-very-comforting emotions within me. One—and this hit especially hard during the Portman-Kutcher scenes—a deep, visceral anger at not having any regular income so I can do the activities I like to do (my computer work, talking with friends on my cell phone, et al). I wished, and still wish with all my heart that I could go back to the way things used to be. By that I mean before this damned osteo-arthritis hit, when I was working at my job and earning a steady income and could well afford to do the activities I dig. I hated, and still hate, not being able to no longer use my computer, to no longer use my cell phone, to not be able to get a haircut, etc. Secondly—and, again, this went particularly deep during the times when Portman and Kutcher were together—a burning gut loathing for all my ailments. I’m talking about my clinging to Negativity, the mental illness, the osteo-arthritis, the seizure disorder, the enlarged prostate, all of it. While re-re-seeing Portman and Kutcher especially, I was, and still am DAMNED PISSED that I have so much going for me and yet have all these ailments. Sacreligious as it is, I yearned, and still yearn, to look up to Heaven and say the following:

“God, why did you fuck me? You gave me so many admirable traits—intelligence, skill with language, good looks, personal appeal, wit—yet at the same time you allowed me to fall victim to Pervasive Developmental Disorder, osteo-arthritis, and all the rest of it. And, to top it all off, you let me grow up amongst, and go to school with, the most callous, the most insensitive, the most flat-out vicious bunch of brutes and skanks on the planet [the latter being, of course, my former high-school classmates] who repeatedly terrorized and tortured me because I wasn’t ��cool’ [i:e; thuggish] like them—and during one reunion had the GALL to list me, along with this female former classmate, as ‘Class Pest.’ Why the HELL did you do it, God? Why did you give me so much with one hand and take away so much with the other? Tell me, God. I would really and truly like to know.”

I know, I know—all this hearkens back to the bad old days of the 1980s, when, as I said in Neurotic, I seriously blamed God (among so many others) for my “non-life” as well as majorly ignoring the cold, hard reality that, as John F. Kennedy put it: “Life is unfair.” However, those were, and are, my feelings, justified or not.

10:32 P. M.—Well, tomorrow morning will be when I talk to Maurice—whether in person or over the phone—concerning how to get the Beautiful Marie’s Virginia address now that I can’t send her any more e-mails and whether or not he’s discovered anything as far as a disk drive goes. Frankly, I’m rather nervous about it. I ask myself: Suppose there’s no way for Maurice to find out where the Beautiful Marie lives now; will that mean that I’ll have to give up contact with her altogether? What if Maurice hasn’t yet come across a disk drive; will I be able to bear waiting longer? And if Maurice doesn’t show up at the office in person, will my roommate allow me to use his cell phone to call him? And: Alas, the paranoia I have that Maurice is deliberately holding out on me, or would, regarding a disk drive (see earlier comments concerning Hugh Laurie’s Gregory House television character and Dwight Eisenhower’s presidential-campaign hesitance about employing TV, as quoted by David Halberstam) is still with me. This despite the fact that the man has proven time and time and time again that he simply isn’t like that.

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Monday, March 24, 2014:

10:08 A. M.—In around a half-hour I’ll be going over to the office to see if Maurice is there and to (so I hope) elicit information from him concerning the Beautiful Marie’s Virginia address and the disk drive. On the way to the main room from my room I had to use the bathroom, which once again brought into focus my enlarged prostate, which again brought into focus my hanging onto Negativity, my osteo-arthritis, and all my other ailments. All of which again brought up my (gut) feeling that I shouldn’t be saddled with all the shit I’m saddled with given my intelligence, my deftness with words, my handsomeness, et al. Again, my visceral self is very angrily wondering why God (it must have been His doing) gave me so much on one hand and took away so much on the other hand. My visceral self asks: Did He do it for the purpose of teaching me humility? Did He do it to, since He gave me so much, keep me from getting a swelled head? Did He do it because He just plain woke up on the wrong side of the bed the morning He created me? I fully realize, intellectually, that to ask these questions is to return to the dark days of the 1980s, when, as was mentioned in Neurotic, I actually pinned my “non-past” on God (among others) and is to thoroughly, totally backhand JFK’s famous observation (“Life is unfair”). But, rightly or wrongly, that’s where my heart and my psyche are at now.

2:50 P. M.—Good news! I’m in the library right now and I just saw and printed that eight, count ‘em, eight more of my blogs got increased readership. Besides being fantastic in and of itself, that development bodes well for my continuing to write as a way of dealing with my obsession with Negativity. Let me say, said occurrence came in the nick of time. This morning I in essence floundered, unloading upon my roommate my various frustrations (he tried to tell me that my situation could be far worse but, as in the grim days of the 1970s and the 1980s, I was too far off in outer space to listen) then unloading them upon Maurice (this, alas, after the two of us had worked out that he’d take me food shopping this Thursday, after the two of us had worked out that we’d also see about that flash drive this Thursday, and after he’d given it a good shot as far as getting me hooked back onto Yahoo [he said he’d resume operations in that area this Thursday]). Happily, though, Maurice assured me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with taking my frustrations to my roommate or to him as long as I wasn’t loud or angry or aggressive and that it was perfectly natural for me to do so.

5:17 P. M.—Paranoia continues to rage within me. It still concerns whether or not Maurice will come across regarding that flash drive (despite, I know in my head, the heaping mounds of evidence that clearly says that he will). But it’s also taken to envelop whether or not he’ll buy me another notebook so I can continue this journal when he takes me food shopping this Thursday and, to inch nearer in time, whether or not I’ll be able to use the computer room when I go to People’s Oakland to partake of their breakfast tomorrow morning. While the intellectual part of me fully understands that my insecurities are wholly unnecessary and, indeed, more than a little neurotic, they have had one beneficial effect: They’ve made me less antsy about doing a book tour when/if Neurotic is published. Given the way, emotionally/psychologically, I’ve turned myself inside out concerning whether or not Maurice will come through for me, I see myself so damned relieved that my memoir is at last published that I’ll gladly do whatever it takes to ensure that it gets read. So in that sense paranoia is working in my favor.

7:04 P. M.—At the moment two comments that I experienced in the past have become stuck in my head. One was by this psychiatrist, Dr. Juan Pinchera, that I went to in the 1980s (“You have to compete against yourself, as in golf”), the other was by, of all people, the veteran TV-talk-show whiner Gore Vidal (“Write something, anything—even if it’s a suicide note”). Both of these statements have, for different reasons, become stuck in my craw. The first saying sticks because, in point of fact, it was of the many, many, many positive remarks that genuinely spoke to me but that, back then, I was too much of a space cadet to heed. What Pinchera was saying was: When you have a mental illness, you have to gauge yourself according to what you’ve done before, not according to others or any one person (Heaven knows, I did that again and again and again during the 1980s, and I did it yet again today while I was in Starbucks. I looked around at all those gorgeous, sexy, sparkling young folks and did the why-the-hell-wasn’t-I-like-that-when-I-was-young? routine). You must judge yourself, said Pinchera, going by your own individual progress. The second utterance has touched me because, disregarding who made it—Gore Vidal will always stand as easily one of the most overrated, over-praised public figures in America—it’s a spur to continue engaging in writing as a way to cope with my ever-present Negativity. The statement—not Vidal himself, but the statement—easily stands alongside the advice the 1970s writer Judith Wax gave this one young fellow who was looking to go into writing: “A writer writes.” And both comments, quite frankly, envelop what I’m doing—turning to writing as a way to cope with my neuroses (once again) and, not incidentally, exercising my writing ability.

In sum, a pair of sayings that are very much worth remembering—and very much worth acting upon.

10:30 P. M.—Two occurrences happened over which I’m fighting like hell not to go ballistic.

First, some background explanation is necessary. It has come into being that whenever I try to log into my e-mail I’m stopped because (so it’s claimed) I have the wrong Yahoo ID or password—even though I’ve been using my own in both cases. This morning Maurice graciously (as is his wont) offered to help me get the correct Yahoo ID and password but he had to cut it short as it’s quite a long process and he assured me that he’d get back to it Thursday morning before he takes me food shopping. The elephant in the room, however, is that when I was first notified that I needed a new Yahoo ID/password I arranged to have a new password and I wrote it down. Indeed, it’s in my room somewhere. I’ve vowed that tomorrow after I eat lunch—which will consist of one of the TV dinners that Maurice, again graciously, bought for me—I’m going to hunt down that new password. However, I’ve also come to realize that, since I can’t log into my e-mail, not only can I not keep in touch with the Beautiful Marie, I have no way to shop my memoir around to publishers once I get a flash drive. Thus I have a full intent to look for my new password tomorrow after I eat lunch.

Second: When I came into the office to take my evening meds, I wound up telling The Evil Frank about this very journal. To which he replied: “You’re writing it down every time you feel unhappy?” Now the fact of the matter is, I did not give Frank the full lowdown concerning the context of my writing. Thus it was entirely understandable that he’d assume that my writing was a way for me to wallow in my hang-ups. Then too: When I subsequently told him: “Writing has saved me in the past; who’s to say lightning won’t strike once more?”, he made it clear that he understood what I was saying. However, fixated-on-Negativity me only really heard his first reaction. Thus I’ve been having to fight like hell against it being the latest rock that starts the latest emotional/psychological landslide within me.

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Tuesday, March 26, 2014:

8:42 A. M.—On this, the morning that I head for People’s Oakland to partake of their breakfast and use their computer room, I have come to a major realization concerning my DRs. To wit: Whenever I go off on my inner tirades about blacks or about liberal guilt or about whatever, I in reality am not ranting regarding my supposed subject. What it is is, I hate the hell out of my present condition (not being able to use my Internet service, not being able to use my cell phone, et al) and I hate myself like hell (for having become so fixated on Negativity) so I take my anger at these subjects out on blacks, liberal guilt, etc. because, quite simply, they’re convenient targets. It goes back to when Mom was intensely frustrated—scared peeless, actually—about the one situation in her life that she couldn’t control, namely her upcoming death, and she continually lashed out at me because, well, I just happened to be there. The same principle is essentially at work concerning my DRs.

10:14 A. M.—I’m at People’s Oakland right now and I’m having difficulty logging onto their computer. Frankly, it makes me all that more sore that I can’t use my own Internet service—as well as, in all honesty, my own cell phone—and it makes me hate my physical situation—my osteo-arthritis—that much more. Right now I desperately want my situation to be what it was around this time last year, when I was earning a regular income and thus could afford to do the activities I very much like to do and that very much benefit me.

11:44 A. M.—I’m back at the apartment after having had (a most pleasant) breakfast at People’s Oakland and after having successfully used their computer to see and to print the latest blogs of mine that got added readership (For the record, there’s four—hooray!). Even though, as was mentioned, my using the computer was successful—with the help of this very nice lady called Anne I not only got my own user name and password but she was quite helpful in highlighting and printing the blogs that got increased readership—there’s still a very significant part of me that greatly resents not being able to use my own Internet service (and not being to use my own cell phone, not being able to get a haircut when I feel I need it, etc.). What the hell is this? Could it be that I’m inflexible, not willing to adapt to changed conditions? Could it be that I’m flat-out spoiled, that I have a tendency to get peed off when things don’t go exactly my way? A little while ago, I had a DR over the fact that, over the past 40 years, blacks, women, and now homosexuals/lesbians have become angrier and more militant in seeking equal rights but, as usual, my DR wasn’t about that subject at all. It was a way to avoid facing the aforementioned questions concerning myself, as I found, and still find them to be rather daunting.

3:17 P. M.—This afternoon I’ve been searching, searching in my room for somewhere I might have put where I’d written my new password. Alas, I didn’t find it. Which means that, as of now, there’s no way I can get into my e-mail. And if I can’t get into my e-mail, then not only will I not be able to correspond with the Beautiful Marie (for the time being) but, far worse to my mind, I won’t be able to shop my memoir around online, since there’ll be no way to check to see if there are takers among publishers online (and no way to for anybody to contact me online to tell me what he/she thinks of said tome—all of these being conditions that are true, again, for the time being). Oh, well, again, if you think a situation is hopeless, it will be. Thursday Maurice will be back on his computer—and his phone—trying like hell to retrieve my password for me. It’s very likely—in fact, a certain definite—that it’s my obsession with Negativity that’s gotten me so antsy regarding the situation, that has me jumping up and down (inside) concerning it.

6:33 P. M.—A couple of major thoughts have hit me, both of which revolving around my present situation.

The one has to do with my three, count ‘em, three suicide attempts. I’ve taken to asking myself: If by some happenstance I did manage to kill myself, what really and truly would be accomplished? And I’ve come to, in all areas, intellectually, emotionally, and psychologically, fully realize the answer: Basically nothing. Yes, I’d be mourned and folks would grieve for me—not, certainly, definitely my bitch cousin and her bitch daughter, and I’ll go into detail about that as I go on—but otherwise there would be no genuine change whatsoever. My suicide wouldn’t teach anybody anything, nobody would get any Vital Lessons from it—of course not my rotten cousin and her rotten daughter, who very likely wouldn’t even attend the funeral; hell, it’s very likely, indeed, a certain definite that they wouldn’t even give a crap. Essentially everything and everybody would proceed as before, with there being no real and true change whatsoever. And even if by some miracle my suicide did provoke honest change, what the hell good would that do me? I’d be dead. I’d never see it, I wouldn’t be aware of it in any sense (I am well aware and have long been well aware that the looking-down-from-Heaven notion is and has always been pure romanticism and has and has always had absolutely no basis in reality). So those are two very good reasons to stay away from suicide: If I offed myself, nobody and nothing would be impacted in any consistent, major capacity and even if such did happen, there would be positively no way I would know about it (Also: Even if by some strange twist of fate I could arrange it so that I could kill myself, it would very, very likely—indeed, certainly, definitely—turn out like all the other such attempts. Namely, I’d chicken out half-way through, call the paramedics, my stomach would be pumped, and those I know who have been down this road concerning me before would get understandably fed up and would arrange to have me put back in the WPIC Ward, this time not for a few days but for an indefinite period until it was 100 percent certain that I’d gotten my head together. And the cabin fever—to use my therapist’s phrase—that I would of course succumb to because of it would no doubt drive me loony).

The other thought has to do with my book(s) being published. If worse comes to worse and there’s no way that I can get back into my e-mail, I can possibly bypass online entirely and shop my tome(s) around through regular mail, like I did with my first two memoirs. That is, of course, assuming that I go back to earning a regular income and have money of my own again. Perhaps entertaining such a thought amounts to defeatism—continuing to dwell on Negativity—but that would certainly, definitely be one way to go.

10:05 P. M.—My accumulated Negativism—or paranoia—continues apace. A considerable part of me fears that when I meet with my therapist Sue Rudisin tomorrow and tell her flat-out (not with shrillness or rancor or any kind of confrontation) that the facts that I have to stop using my Internet service and my cell phone, that I can no longer get a haircut when I feel I need one, et al have gotten me off the fence as far as wanting my leg to get better goes, that they’ve made me genuinely appreciate my job, and that they’ve made me sincerely want to go back to work and go back to earning a regular income so I can again afford to do the things that I like to do and that are beneficial to me (indeed, it can easily be said that my getting osteo-arthritis, like being in the WPIC Ward, has been a blessing in disguise in that it’s caused me to honestly value my job) will lead to her reacting negatively (denunciation, bluntly asserting that it’s highly doubtful that I’ll ever go back to work). This despite the reality that until very recently I myself was torn concerning the subject of going back to work (on the one hand, I very much missed not earning consistent income; on the other hand, I very much liked having whole days off and, of course, being able to rest my leg). Then too: Sue has proven time and time and time again that she is in no sense a callous, unfeeling bureaucrat, and my being bugged is essentially a continuation of my fixating on Negativity.

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Wednesday, March 26, 2014:

9:07 A. M.—Major revelation time. As I mentioned in Neurotic, at the outset of the classes at 3501 Forbes, I sincerely felt that such classes were wrong for me. Although in time I came to see the (considerable) worth of those classes—and the (considerable) worth of those attending them with me—at the beginning I honestly believed that I merited the kind of therapy Elyn R. Saks, the author of the (deservedly) much-praised memoir The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Into Madness got for her schizophrenia: specialized, weekly, one-on-one sessions with a specifically-trained psychiatrist. When the 3501 Forbes classes began, I was damned sore that I didn’t the aforementioned sessions (and hence, as I wrote in my memoir, I at first sat through said classes silently, not participating in any sense. More recently, I have been—seriously—bugged because I wasn’t getting the kind of treatment the uber-beauteous cinema actress Catherine Zeta-Jones got when she had her bipolar disorder). Although, as was said, I have come to see, and appreciate, the titanic merit of those classes—and the titanic merit of what my brother and sister classmates had to say—I have also come to see that, basically, I have kept the attitude that I had at the start of the aforementioned classes. Deep down, I have always felt that a fellow of my intelligence and refinement (as I’ve always seen myself) should get specialized, hands-on treatment—and that I shouldn’t be lumped in with lesser, essentially “street” folks (as I, rightly or wrongly, have always felt I have been).

11:01 A. M.—A little while ago I was with my therapist Sue Rudisin and I must say that she answered all the questions I had quite well, whether they were about my writing (“[Writing is] a gift you have…[Writing is] a marvelous tool [to deal with your mental condition]”) or about the fact that my bum leg, as has been mentioned, has been a blessing in disguise in that it’s caused me to genuinely cherish my job (according to Sue, it’s good that I honestly value my job and the fact that it enables me to afford to do the things I like to do and to interact with really and truly superior girls) or about whether or not my considering other options as far as getting my book(s) published is continuing my Negativity addiction (“You’re exploring other options [for getting your book(s) published…You’re looking at other avenues”). And as we walked out, Sue lauded me for “working hard [to stay on top of your mental situation]…challenging your thoughts.”

In all, a most productive session, indeed.

11:55 A. M.—Yet another example of my Negativity fix. As was mentioned, Sue Rudisin satisfactorily answered all of my questions. And just now in the library I saw and printed the fact that one, perhaps two, of my blogs got increased readership. Moreover, I just remembered (indeed, I wrote about it in Neurotic) my next-to-last day in the WPIC Ward and one of the staffers, Sherry by name, encouraging me to write a book covering my having a mental disorder (So much for my Negativity-obsessed notion that my writing has been and still is disregarded by a callous and insensitive bureaucracy). Yet despite all that, a noticeable part of me feels quite antsy and does not look forward to the rest of the day. My Negativity fixation still runs rampant.

3:13 P. M.—A prediction I’d had happily came to fruition. I stayed in the heart of Oakland a half-hour longer than I normally would, figuring that seeing the fourth hour of the Today show—the only media that, as I pointed out in Neurotic, these days I partake of with any regularity—would uplift me, would boost my spirits. Lo and behold, I was right! Spending time with my girls Kathie Lee and Hoda did indeed cheer me, did indeed make my heart sing. Their chat with the ever-energetic, ever-vivacious actress/author/radio host Marilu Henner especially activated my good-feeling meter.

And before I caught the Today show, I got a prior cause for cheer: Jason Doptis (my new job supervisor, remember?) came over. He was genuinely happy to see me and I pressed home how much I honestly want to come back to work and how much I sincerely miss everybody there. In sum, quite a successful conversation.

6:08 P. M.—“What would have to happen in order to make you majorly happy, in order to get you to cease your fixation on Negativity?”

That’s a question I’ve taken to pondering quite aggressively recently. And so far I’ve come up with one answer (there are likely others, but this is the only one that I’ve come up so far): Have my two books published. When/if Neurotic and the other book I’m working on are published, then folks will get in touch with me who have read them—either by e-mail or by regular mail—and (so is my hope), like women who were suffering breast ailments did when my Today girl Hoda Kotb went public with her own breast cancer, let me know that I am not alone, let me know that—speaking specifically about my own case—there are others who are as screwed-up as I am and from adolescence into their adult lives as I’ve been. That will completely clear my head, will thoroughly, totally wean my eyes off Negativity.

10:03 P. M.—Right now I’m fighting off my tendency to be Hurt And/Or Offended—at The Evil Frank (Let it be said that when I use this title, I’m fully being ironic. He’s not evil at all, just annoying. At times). What happened was, while I was in the office exchanging dialogue with him, I told him about the fact that my bum leg has been a blessing in disguise because it’s caused me to genuinely appreciate my job. To which The Evil Frank said…nothing. In point of fact, after a while he asked how I was faring with my orthopedic surgeon. And, as is my wont, I went ballistic inside, going into an inner tirade about how The Evil Frank Doesn’t Care About Me At All. Among the many (many) reasons this freak-out-within was misguided was—and, indeed, I dealt with this in Neurotic—there is scant reason why Frank should be buddy-buddy with me given that we disagree on so many points, that the two of us simply don’t jibe, politically, culturally, or otherwise.

So there.

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Thursday, March 27, 2014:

8:56 A. M.—Throughout most of last night and this morning I put myself through this and that and the other—all because The Evil Frank didn’t respond when, while I was in the office last night, I remarked to him how my bum leg has turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Throughout this morning I was having DRs (still to myself, thank Heaven) about blacks and hair-shirt guilt and how America needs a king and how majorities—all majorities—are simpleminded and stupid and on and on and on (Indeed, I was not unlike Alexis, Joan Collins’s Dynasty character who, during one episode, went bananas and vowed to destroy literally everybody, the Carrington family, the Colby family, and the Dexter family). All of it—every single bit of it—was initiated by, once again, The Evil Frank refusing to respond to me last night. Frankly, it all—most of last night and this morning—proves decisively how valuable my job at WPIC is. Had I still had it, then I would still be earning a steady income and I could still afford to do the activities that I like to do and that are beneficial to me and my mind/psyche wouldn’t be so screwed-up (It all also proves how helpful it will be when/if my books are published. Then, as has been mentioned, the feedback I’ll get concerning them will tell me that others are as balled-up as I’ve been—and from childhood into their adult periods as I’ve been—and that too will clear up my mind/psyche).

12:45 P. M.—From being impacted by The Evil Frank’s non-response to being impacted by Maurice’s response. This morning he was taking me food shopping (after we’d tried unsuccessfully to reach Yahoo by phone) and, while we were driving along, I told him that I was off the fence as far as going back to work was concerned. I disclosed to him that I greatly want to go back to work, that I greatly want to return to earning a steady income so I can go back to doing the things that I dig doing and that help me. From there he informed me that if I do get a knee replacement (which I’ve been pushing for, inwardly and outwardly), that’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to resume my courier job as, afterward, I’ll be laid up for months; that what I should do, if my leg hasn’t cleared up by next week, is arrange to see my orthopedic surgeon and see what he can do about it; and that my best bets are to consult the People’s Oakland job supervisors and Patti Krebbs (my CEO job coach) to see what other job I can get that will pay a similar income to my courier position (Maurice did say that there’s a possibility that my leg could heal).

As Maurice said: “Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

7:05 P. M.—Overall, I’d say I had quite a successful time of it. First, while I was at the library not only did I see and print that yet another one of my blogs has increased readership but I also saw and printed a very cool online item regarding my big-screen girl Sandra Bullock’s plan to bring her Miss Congeniality cinematic series to television as a weekly series (The gal who aggressively charmed me in not only the Miss Congeniality series but in such other classic pictures as Speed and While You Were Sleeping and The Net and All About Steve is now—prepare yourself—50 years old. Can you dig it?). Then I found and attended the Mercy Hospital building where the Invisible Villages meet and was part of an exceptionally outstanding session. Finally, when Megan, one of the members, and her husband dropped me off at the spot Downtown where I can catch the bus that will take me to Oakland, she very graciously gave me eight dollars with sincere assurances that I am under no obligation to pay her back (I had earlier informed her and her hubby of my current financial situation).

In sum, I did indeed have a very successful time of it—certainly, definitely nothing there that would prompt any dredging up of and dwelling on Negativity.

10:32 P. M.—Great news! While I was at the office getting my meds, The Evil Frank informed me that the cell phone and the flash drive Maurice ordered for me should be coming real soon. When you put this very positive information together with, this morning, Maurice assuring me that he’d hook onto a chat room on his computer and I can ask him concerning the results any time (regarding, of course, my hooking back onto Yahoo), it can be said that today turned out to be quite happy for me indeed. The task that is now before me is to continue the mood of optimism I feel and to capitalize on the good tidings that have come my way (eagerly look forward to the arrival of the cell phone and the flash drive, freely employ both when they do arrive). That means not giving in to discomforts or hang-ups in any sense. In any sense.

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Friday, March 28, 2014:

10:23 A. M.—In point of fact, I have good reason to be happy. Maurice showed up at the apartment an hour ago not only with the non-food items I couldn’t afford to buy yesterday but with…the flash drive. He, bless him, put it into my computer and showed me how to transfer what I’ve written so far onto my computer using it (As Maurice explained it, I can still use my computer, I just can’t use my Internet service). Maurice also pointed out, alas, that since I can’t get into my e-mail, there’s no way I can shop my books around to publishers or self-publish my books and tell publishers to contact me through regular mail (The latter has been ceased as far as transactions go). Right now I’m at People’s Oakland having had another quite pleasant breakfast and preparing to again use the computer room to check out and print blogs that have gotten added readership. I fervently hope I’ll be able to pull it off with no, or, at most, minimal assistance from that nice lady Anne.

11:01 A. M.—I’m still at People’s Oakland and, hurrah, I logged onto my blogs absolutely on my own without needing any help from anybody. Unfortunately, when I went to Anne to solicit her help to highlight and to print the blogs that have amassed the increased readership (there are three—yaaay!), I was told that since what I seek isn’t an “emergency” item, I’ll have to go to an actual member for help. The bottom line is, neither Anne nor anybody on staff can assist me in printing my blogs being that that’s not, according to People’s Oakland, an “emergency” endeavor. That means, of course, for now at least, I’ll have to rely on the library for seeing and printing blogs as far as computers go (Actually, Maurice in his way provided an omen as far as this development goes. While he was telling me about using the flash drive, he alternated between People’s Oakland and the library in talking about places where I can use it). In truth, it underscores how crappy this entire situation is, and I wish to hell that I could go back to my WPIC job, earning regular money again and engaging in the activities I like and that greatly help me again.

12:43 P. M.—I’ve been going off on tears within concerning my former high-school classmates, my former job supervisor (about whom I talked in Neurotic), black this and black that, who/whatever. In point of fact, my various tizzies aren’t about anybody or anything in my past. What all my inner turmoil is about, to come out with it, is that I, for now, no longer have the easygoing, freewheeling financial situation I had before. I don’t have paid extended medical leave as I work part-time, so I’ve had to do without the activities that have so benefited me (my work with the Internet service, talking with friends on my cell phone, et al). And my Yahoo account has for some reason—I swear I do not what it is—conked out on me so I have to hold off corresponding with the Beautiful Marie and publishing my books. Those, not anything else, are the reasons for my inner roiling.

Yet a considerable part of me is ever-hopeful that my situation will change, that my leg will heal altogether and that Maurice will be able to hook me back onto Yahoo.

3:09 P. M.—Well, it happened again. I was feeling agitated about my financial situation and my situation regarding Yahoo (I’ve even taken to wondering whether or not I should ask God to help me) and I figured tuning in to the fourth hour of the Today show would lift my spirits, would give me a much-needed emotional boost. Would you believe it again did? Spending time with my girls KLG and Hoda Woman again lifted me up, again gave me cheer at a time when I badly needed it. The highpoints of the show came when, during their “Scoop” portion, Hoda made reference to her pre-Today period “when I used to be a journalist” and Kathie Lee added: “An award-winning journalist”; when this relationship expert to whom the girls were talking, referring to their earlier words, told Hoda that she was “making happy with Kathie Lee”; and when, during a segment with this Sea World expert, Kathie Lee spotted a flamingo and piped up: “[The flamingo’s] legs are as long as yours, Hoda.” (Fun truth: Not once during the show did a celebrity of any kind turn up) All throughout the program I was smiling and enthused.

So, again, hanging out with my Today gals proved to be the balm I needed to dissipate the clouds that were within me.

6:47 P. M.—Before I settled in to conduct my latest self-talk session, I had a major inner meltdown—albeit in a different sense. Rather than have a DR and dredge up this and dredge up that, I was going to town on fantasies that I was whatever kind of Big Guy, that I was “commenting” on whatever Social Issue I let into my mind, etc. The reasons I did it were as follows:

Distraction—While I was in the office taking care of business (I’ll elaborate later), The Evil Frank initiated a set-to between us regarding the phone that’s in the apartment, with me pointing out that my roommate said that the phone is in his name and that it’s his alone and Frank arguing that the phone is for the apartment and that it’s as much mine as his and, finally, his waving his hand and closing the conversation; I completely realize, in my head, that in the first case he was in no sense being negative toward me but had my interests at heart and in the second case it was his way of ending a debate that was clearly going nowhere; yet I was afraid that the ever-Negativity-fixated me would distort these acts into putdowns of me, so I diverted myself by going nuts;

A sense of liberation—I’ve been involved in so many good things today—Maurice finally bringing the flash drive and teaching me how to use it, viewing the fourth hour of the Today show at a time when I very much needed a pick-me-up—all of which culminated in…while at the office getting my dear, sweet, loving cousin Marily on the phone and her telling me that it’s OK to ask God to heal my leg and thus make it possible for me to go back to work and for Him to make it possible for me to hooked back up to Yahoo; that it’s OK to, when I ask God for these blessings, have a dialogue with Him, like the Tevye character had dialogues with God in the classic play Fiddler on the Roof; that it’s OK to make the aforementioned requests of him daily; and that it’s OK to do my other coping activities (my self-talk sessions, my writing) during the time I’m having my sessions with Him.

Alas, since today in so many ways turned out so well—especially in the area of talking with Marily—I subconsciously felt that it all right to loosen the reins, to slack off, to play hooky. Thus the (different kind of) meltdown.

10:32 P. M.—Once again I had an uber-bang-up time with my sexual fantasies—especially since I let myself run with the one post I’ve written that genuinely hits a nerve with me. Namely: “How I would love it if I could spend my nights making love to [the daytime-soap-vixen-turned-international-pop-singer] Teri Ann Linn!” And especially since I let myself run with the notion that being with Teri, making love to her every night has been my big dream. Also quite arousing: Imagining myself sitting in front of the TV set watching Boomerang—easily the best black theatrical film ever made—seeing my girl Robin Givens in one of her many bedroom scenes with Eddie Murphy, and saying to her (actually, to the TV): “Robin Givens, you are so damn hot! Words are inadequate to describe what you do for my libido.” That vision perfectly sums up where my gal stands as far as my sexual fantasies are concerned. Unfortunately—and this almost always happens after a particularly successful sexual-fantasy session—I’m now in the midst of a Negativityfest, as I’ve been dredging up this negative memory and that negative memory and what-would-so-and-so-say? and what-would-such-and-such-say? Appallingly, my ODing on Negativity has even enveloped the very writing I’m doing. Such things happen almost every damned time after I have a mega-successful time with my sexual fantasies.

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Saturday, March 29, 2014:

10:24 A. M.—A very significant part of me wants to say that this is the absolute worst time of my life, what with my not being able to use my Internet service, my cell phone, not being able to get a haircut when I need it, etc. But then another very significant part of me says: Is it, really and truly? I look back upon much of the 1980s, when I was super-tense and super-uptight about my “non-life” and my “non-past,” when there was all that clutter and that tight-as-a-drum feeling inside me (Actually, as I noted in my memoir, it was the Asberger’s). And I also look back upon much of the 1970s, when I was mega-tense and mega-uptight “religiously,” when there was, again, all that clutter within and I was doing all these counter-productive things (taking three baths a day, taking literally all night to say my prayers before going to bed, et al. In point of fact, that was the Asberger’s also). And, let us not forget, during both periods, I had no idea, as I have long had now, that there was anything wrong with me. I basically accepted my looniness as reality. So, no, this is not the absolute worst time of my life. This time around, I’m fully aware and have long been fully aware that I’m fouled-up and thus can take action against it. In decades past I essentially saw my neuroses as the truth.

6:03 P. M.—Another catastrophe has befallen me (although, as will eventually be explained, it actually isn’t that much of a catastrophe). What happened was that, as I was transcribing Addict to my computer, I must have hit a forbidden key, as I could not only not delete or backspace but could no longer use the cursor, period. Naturally these conditions peed me off (and still do to a degree) even though 1) I had already written most of what I’d intended to write of Addict on the computer; 2) I wasn’t planning on writing any more of Addict on the computer after the allotted time on the weekend; and 3) come Monday I can tell Maurice about the computer messing up and ask for his help in clearing things up after meeting with him. Yet since said breakdown has occurred on the heels of my other deprivations (my unpaid medical leave causing me to have to suspend my Internet service and my Sprint service for the time being, to not be able to get a haircut, etc; the fact that, for whatever reason, I can’t log onto Yahoo), it seems to me as though, as the saying goes, when it rains, it pours.

10:11 P. M.—A brief while ago I had what could easily be called one of my three or four best sexual-fantasy sessions ever. It came about because, quite simply, I sharpened up my regular fantasy where I make hot, steamy love to the daytime-soap-she-babe-turned-global-pop-crooner Teri Ann Linn. I posited it so that I (in my head) was the only man in her life, sexually and otherwise. And I again imagined myself sitting in front of the television set watching my gal Robin Givens coming on to Eddie Murphy in their iconic theatrical picture Boomerang and saying to the TV (in my mind, to her): “Robin Givens, you are so damn hot! Words are inadequate to describe what you do for my libido.” Thus was created a marvelously fitting vision of just where she stands in my sexual-fantasy pantheon. I had other visions of myself being in fierce sexual combat with other women but the ones where I was making it with Teri were the ones that, frankly, fueled my sexual-fantasy time, were the ones that, in all honesty, made the sexual-fantasy mare go. And thus, during said time, I was completely concentrating, completely focused and therefore all—repeat, all—discomforts and hang-ups and neuroses left my head and stayed out. Thus not only was my latest sexual-fantasy period a top-drawer distraction, it was a time of sheer, unvarnished pleasure, a monumental turn-on.

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Sunday, March 30, 2014:

10:22 A. M.—Earlier this morning Tamera, the staffer who holds sway over the office on Sundays, came over to see if she could fix my computer. Well, she fiddled with it, worked with it, and she discovered that now the keyboard doesn’t work at all. This of course has put me in a major, major funk—despite the fact that when I meet with Maurice tomorrow morning, as I’m scheduled to, I can ask him whether or not he can fix my computer. It all brings to mind this item I once read. During the 1970s, the esteemed political reporter-writer Richard Reeves revealed that Ted Kennedy, the consummate domestic liberal, had concluded that the country’s domestic problems were unsolvable. Thus, according to Reeves, he was studying to see whether or not those problems could be spread around, so that the entire nation would bear the brunt of those difficulties, rather than a few select groups having to experience them. Upon reading the aforementioned item, I very much approved of what Kennedy was doing. Now, however, I say to myself: “Wait a minute! You said you supported the Senator’s plan to have had the country’s hardships spread around, did you? Well, consider this. The facts that you can’t use your Internet service or your cell phone for the time being, that you can’t get a haircut right now make you super-antsy. How would it impact you if Kennedy’s plan went into effect today and you had to give up these things for good? And how would it impact you if, the Senator’s intent having come to fruition today, you could no longer afford to buy qualitative food for yourself and had to live in substandard housing? I’ll tell you how these conditions would impact you. They would have you going absolutely bonkers. You just plain couldn’t bear it if you had to undergo these conditions, especially having to permanently—permanently—do without your Internet service and your cell phone and having to substantially—substantially—cut back on haircuts. There you have it.”

2:07 P. M.—I’m still distraught over the possibility (as a significant part of me sees it) of being further stymied as far as publishing my books are concerned. Such a scenario honestly rips me up inside. However, I also have in my head the examples of the English professor Norman MacLean, who turned out his first book—to critical raves—when he was 72 years old; the stand-up-comedy legend Rodney Dangerfield, who didn’t hit it big until he was literally middle-aged; and, finally, the Greater Boston stage actress Catherine Zirpolo, who didn’t embark upon her theatrical-acting career until she was—and this is a genuine mind-blower—75. I can easily turn to these examples whenever I need to be buoyed in concern with my books being published.

6:44 P. M.—Saw Boynton Beach Club on DVD a while ago. Actually, watching it created mixed feelings within me. On the one hand, I fully dug it as the frequently charming, often moving, always, always excellently-acted film it is. On the other hand, the scenes where Joseph Bologna, portraying an especially spry and tart 70-year-old, is at his computer really and truly set me off. They reminded me of my own lack of Internet service (for now). However, I have come to realize that another way to look at said scenes is that, since the Bologna character is in his 70s and at his computer, then I just may not get my Internet service back until I’m in my 70s. It’s certainly, definitely an alternative to seeing Bologna before his computer (for the record, he was involved in online dating) and aching inside because I don’t have my own Internet service (right now).

What I’ve also been doing is lashing out (within) at black whatever, hair-shirt guilt, and any Social Issue that I let into my head. When I do this I am in no sense exhibiting any “curiosity” or any social conscience or any social interest or even dealing with The Contradictions And The Stupidities Of The Human Race. What I’m doing, in effect, is what Mom did with me during her final days. That is, she struck out at me because she was frustrated and scared peeless over the one situation in her life, namely her upcoming death, that she couldn’t control; I just happened to be there. I’m basically doing the same thing. I’m loony inside regarding the facts that, for now, I can’t use my Internet service, I can’t use my cell phone, I can’t get a haircut, I can’t log onto my e-mail—and recently that my keyboard, for whatever reason, has stopped working—and I can’t do a damn thing about these conditions (for the time being), thus I lash out (inside) at whatever targets are convenient, those being in my case black you-name-it, breast-beating guilt and so on and so on and so on.

10:41 P. M.—Right now I’ve fighting, and not altogether successfully, my post-sexual-fantasies tendency to let fly with my hang-ups. As it always is after a mega-bang-up time with my sexual visions, it’s The Media this and Hair-Shirt-Liberal Guilt that and Blacks Are whatever and What-Would-So-And-So-Say? everything. Oh, yes, as is my wont after an especially enjoyable time having said visions, I’ve been going to town with my hang-ups, absolutely ODing on neuroses (Indeed, if Pat Buchanan knew the stuff I let into my head during such times, he’d unquestionably be an admirer of mine). Why do I indulge in such lunacies after particularly successful sexual-fantasy periods? Maybe it’s because, as this one therapist to whom I used to go claimed, I honestly feel that I don’t have a right to be happy (During especially pleasurable sexual-vision times, as I’ve pointed out before, all, repeat, all discomforts, hang-ups, neuroses leave my head and stay out entirely). Maybe engaging in said looniness is my way of (silently) expressing my guilt over having had such a non-PC good time. Or maybe after having had no flakiness in my head for so long, I subconsciously feel that it’s OK to loosen the reins, to slack off, to play hooky. Whatever the reason, it is, I know, I know, a monumentally bad habit and, I know, I know, I need to cut it the hell out. I fully, fully realize that I only demean myself and that I am and always have been better than that.

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Monday, March 31, 2014:

9:48 A. M.—In around a half-hour I’m going to keep my scheduled meeting with Maurice so we can go over how to get me hooked back onto Yahoo (and so I can show him the correspondence I got regarding my cell phone and tell him about the difficulty I’m having with my keyboard and get him to fix it).

2:14 P. M.—I got quite heavy bad news earlier (Ironically, it came after Maurice fixed my keyboard). When I went to get this month’s bus pass I was told…my payment was only until March and that if I wanted a bus pass I’d have to pay for it myself. When my medical leave ends and I go back to work, I can resume getting a free bus pass (so I was told) but for now I’ll have to pay for my own bus pass. Well, let me say, after I was informed of this I had The Meltdown That Ate Chicago (to myself). I screamed—and I’m saying screamed (again, to myself): “Look, I’ve been working here [at WPIC] for 24 years now! For most of those years I had to take shit from a cunt bitch job supervisor [Debbie, as I related in Neurotic]! Can’t you cut me some slack from your fucking rules?” I even took the line (so help me) that I was somehow being punished for coming down with a physical ailment, an ailment that was not my fault to begin with. It all means that I’ve got to forego my original plan to spend time with my gals Kathie Lee and Hoda on the Today show, as I should get back to the apartment complex as soon as possible so I can call Maurice and tell him what’s happened and work something out with him.

3:18 P. M.—Being here in Starbucks with all these sprightly, gorgeous, sexy young folks brings up decidedly mixed feelings. Cutting one way, I’m coming dangerously close to reviving the bad old days of the 1980s, when I consistently wailed about my “non-life” and my “non-past.” Cutting another way—and, truth be told, this notion took root much earlier—I’ve been facing the possibility that being deprived of my Internet service, my cell phone, and now my bus pass (the third-named for the moment) are blessings in disguise—because they have given me impetus to have and to pursue a dream, namely to get my books published. The fact that, again, the English professor Norman MacLean didn’t produce his (critically-lauded) first book until he was 72 has fervently added fuel to the my-dream-is-to-publish-my-books notion. I’m also thinking back to when I was in the Ward and I was conversing with Sherry, one of the staffers, and one of the doctors and she fervently encouraged me to write and publish a book about my time with my mental illness. Both she and Sue Rudisin referred to my “gift” for writing.

10:23 P. M.—Meltdown time (within) once again. I had another super-monumental time with my sexual fantasies and, as is my wont afterward, I’ve been going off on a tear (again, inside) about, among other things, critics of Hollywood, about those who gripe that Hollywood hates older women, that Hollywood hates women who aren’t conventionally beautiful, that Hollywood hates minorities, etc., etc., etc. My tear has been, to be precise: “No, Hollywood hates anybody, any group that won’t bring in tons and tons of money.” And I was feeling like I was being very truthful and very incisive and that I was Cutting Through The Bullshit—until I asked myself the genuinely pertinent question: “However correct you may be, what does anything concerning Hollywood, apart from being a subject for your online writing, have to do with you and your day-in, day-out life?” And I remembered that it’s been quite some time since I saw a first-run theatrical film (these days I usually see pictures on DVD); that, however correct Hollywood’s critics may be, I don’t work in Hollywood, thus its doings don’t personally impact me; that my fondness for “entertainment news” is tied to my fondness for entertainment and is absolutely unconnected to any “curiosity” (in the large sense) or any social conscience or social interest I have and so on and so on and so on. Indeed, a considerable part of me wants to ask myself, regarding not just my “interest” in Hollywood but my tendency to, especially at night, dredge up negative memories, to climb the wall (once again, within) over what Whomever Might Say and the like: “Why do you, particularly at night, repeatedly fill your head with stuff that, apart from you dealing with it in your online writing, has absolutely no relevance to your real and true life right now?”

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Tuesday, April 1, 2014:

3:10 P. M.—Happy surprise(s)! When I met with Vince Cunningham, my new counselor, earlier today, I told him of my sojourn to People’s Oakland and I told him of my twice making clear to the Orientation leader a group of us saw—Becky by name—that publishing my books was my major dream and that the first time she said: “Maybe you’d be interested in our Creative Writing class,” and the second time she responded: “You’d be interested in our Creative Writing class, our computer class,” and that those replies had me wondering whether or not I’d made myself absolutely clear or, by having that worry, I was only being full of myself, guess what he said? He said: “You should go back to [Becky] and make it clear just what you meant.” And then Vince read the excerpt from this very compilation that I’d printed so far. “[This is w] ell-written,” he commented. After which he told me that—and this sincerely blew my mind—it’s good to have a dream, that you shouldn’t give up on your dream just because fulfilling it takes time, that you should certainly, definitely go after your dream, and that you shouldn’t let anything or anybody stop you from fulfilling your dream. Also: When Vince asked me what specifically I was doing to bring my dream to fruition and I answered him—I told him of my arranging with Maurice to send a correspondence to Yahoo informing them of the difficulties I was having logging into them, continuing to write in my journal—he freely told me that I was doing what I should do in order to make my dream a reality. And here I’d been beating my head against a wall (inside), worried as hell that Vince would throw cold water—in whatever capacity—upon my dream!

6:58 P. M.—While I was at the library I got the word, which I didn’t hesitate to print, from www.blogger.com that three more—three more—of my blogs got added readership. Certainly, definitely more encouragement to stay with writing as a way to cope with my continuous Negativity, considering the fact that, again, I haven’t written a new blog in several months. Also: Getting off the subject of my imbedded Negativity for a bit, today’s warm spring weather provided ample opportunities for girl-watching, bringing out squads of hot young chicks sashaying around with their long, flowing hair and their short shorts (and their billowing skirts) and their thong sandals (and, in the cases of their laying out upon the grass near the library, their bare feet).

I want to say also that Vince Cunningham’s encouraging words concerning my big dream—which is, once again, to publish my books—have absolutely encouraged me. They’ve provided the spur I could very much use to press on in the direction of seeing my books in print (and to not get in any sense antsy just because accomplishing my dream will take time).

Thank you, Vince!

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Wednesday, April 2, 2014:

11:29 A. M.—I have ample, ample reason to be happy! First off, when I went down to People’s Oakland—and after having yet another quite satisfying breakfast there—I, fortunately, was able to get a few minutes with Becky, the counselor who led a group of us through Orientation yesterday. When I sat down with her, I reminded her of her responses when I twice let it be known that publishing my books nationally was my big dream. I then made it clear that writing my books is more than just ways to respond to my mental illness; it’s a major thing for me, a serious dream. I pressed home that having the books nationally published really and truly is my big dream, not just a notion I have to get me through my mental condition. To her great credit, Becky assured me that she in no sense meant “to minimize [my] dream”; that she only meant that there are resources at People’s Oakland that could help me exercise my abilities; that she is fully aware that “people have little dreams and big dreams”; and that she’d like it if I would share “your books, your memoirs” with the folks at People’s Oakland. Our discussion concluded with Becky, bless her, again clarifying that she in no capacity intended to “minimize” my dream.

In sum, a most productive discussion.

That was the first good thing. Secondly, I was a little while ago in front of one of the computers here at the library and I caught and printed that six, repeat, six more of my blogs increased in readership. As the pre-California Governorship Arnold Schwarzenegger used to say when the shooting of his films would go well: “Very nice, very nice.”

3:10 P. M.—Once again the fun balm of the fourth hour of Today gave me cheer at a time when I very much could have used it. The highlight of today’s show when, during the “Scoop” section—indeed, it was the very first thing they did—Kathie Lee and Hoda lauded the fact that Today’s 80-year-old weatherman Willard Scott is set to marry his longtime girlfriend. The gals showed a photo of them together and they genuinely make a cute couple.

And: A possible victory could come from the jaws of defeat. As it stands now, I only have a dollar bill left out of all my money, and I need that dollar to pay for bags when Maurice takes me food shopping this Friday. For a while it looked like I would no more be able to print blogs of mine that got increased readership (It costs a quarter to print these babies). However…as I left Falk Clinic after seeing Today, I found a dime. Combined with the change that I already have, I’ve now got 15 cents. I just need to ask my roommate (or Vanessa, our two-houses-down neighbor) for a dime and I should be set to do my printing tomorrow. I was actually hoping to find 10 or 20 dollars so Id be able to get something to eat at McDonald’s and have money for non-food items (Maurice has been the one who has gotten those for me) but this could easily work out.

6:38 P. M.—Hot stuff happened on the way back to the apartment: I found another dime. This means that, combined with the dime that I already found and the pennies that I already have, I have the 25 cents I need to, tomorrow, go over to the library and print blogs that have added readership without having to ask my roommate or Vanessa or anybody else for anything. At first I thought my (intensely) good fortune could be an omen or a sign (not “divine intervention”; as I detailed in Neurotic, I’ve been down that road before and have gotten fiercely laughed at because of it). However, upon further reflection I have come to realize, and to completely accept, that my finding that added dime was neither an omen nor a sign but simply a significant item of positivism of the kind that, in all honesty, I should be dredging up and dwelling upon, rather than the sort of negativism and negative attitudes that, alas, have been lodged in my head since the dawn of time.

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Thursday, April 3, 2014:

12:38 P. M.—From the start of the morning I’ve been going after everybody (in my head). While I was at People’s Oakland having a by-now-typically pleasant breakfast I went after this one very good-natured and friendly lady (not a staffer) who offered me two of her Fig Newtons. I went after this sprightly and very good-looking blonde staffer who very cheerily answered my query as to where the milk was (she didn’t work in that particular area so she didn’t know; incidentally, before too long the milk did show up). And I went after my roommate for asking me to clean the bathroom and for asking The Evil Frank to help me (my outrage was, of course, based on memories of earlier clashes I’d had with my roommate—and, truth be told, the bathroom is rather dirty and it doesn’t take that long to clean). All of my internal attacks came about because I was once again feeling super-agitated over the reality that my dream of getting my books published was coming to fruition right away (This despite the fact that Vince Cunningham’s very sensible words, having to do with how I shouldn’t give up on my dream just because it takes time, still resonate in my head and there’s still the hugely apt examples of Norman MacLean, the English professor who didn’t publish his premiere book until he was 72 years of age and Catherine Zirpolo, the Greater Boston stage actress who didn’t begin her theatrical career until she was—this still freaks me out—75).

7:00 P. M.—The latest rock that started the latest emotional/psychological landslide was loosened, for a change, not by The Evil Frank in any way but by…Megan, with whom I attend meetings of the Invisible Villages acting troupe (and who, incidentally, last week freely lent me eight dollars).

Here’s what transpired.

Megan, per her request, was reading one of my latest blogs and, hurrah, was quite impressed with it (“You write very well”). After she read it, she, myself, and Jim Walsh, the head of Invisible Villages, got into a discussion of my writing and I let it out that it was my big dream to have the two books I’d written published but that I was currently stopped due to the fact that my Yahoo ID/password had been declared invalid and Maurice (I didn’t use his name; I called him “my head head staff person”) had written to Yahoo and I hadn’t yet heard from them. “Oh, yeah,” Megan said. “That kind of thing is frustrating!”

Now of course she said what she said not to put me down or to be in any sense negative but out of consideration for me. But mired in Negativity as I am, her remark to me was a reminder of the super-angst and the inner mega-turmoil that I’m going through due to the long waiting period I have concerning Yahoo’s getting back to me (and also, to me underlined the fact that I can’t use my Internet service just yet). Had Megan said something like: “Yeah, this kind of thing [hearing back from Yahoo] is a process,” or “Yeah, getting books published is a process,” that would have soothed me, would have brought me calm. But Megan has no way of reading my heart or my psyche, thus what she said sent me into an emotional/psychological tailspin. I was an e./p. mess, hating my physical ailment, hating my not having Internet service, hating not being able to use my cell phone, hating The Evil Frank (the perfect, perfect scapegoat), hating this, hating that, hating, hating, hating (Fortunately, however, I kept my meltdown inside me, not allowing it to be external in any capacity).

It all, need it be said, proved how much of a basket case I’ve become.

10:33 P. M.—When I laid down in my room after coming back from Invisible Villages (and after having my daily dialogue with God asking for His help in making things better), I, rather than beat myself up over what happened earlier, went over the positives concerning myself. Namely:

No matter how much crap I willingly engage in, no matter how much stuff I willingly let into my head, I continue to do a first-rate job of keeping it there; I still, and this was by no means the case in the 1970s and the 1980s, do a top-drawer job of not letting any, repeat, any of my looniness show itself either in external word or external deed;

As was, again, not so in decades past, I continue to recognize all—all—of my hang-ups as precisely that—hang-ups and thus still do not take them seriously in any capacity; regardless of how much junk I allow myself to indulge in, I am still at the point where I completely acknowledge that it is junk and, once again, this was so not the case in decades of yore, refuse to give in to it in any sense;

I thoroughly, totally recognize, and accept, that when I moan and groan that I don’t have anybody to talk to, that I’m all alone, etc., what I’m actually saying is: a.) “I want to use my cell phone again,” and b.) “I want somebody to hold my hand and make decisions for me, I want somebody to pat me on the head and tell me I’m all right, I want somebody to always, always tell me what I should do”;

I am beginning to be at the point where I fully realize, and accept, in all senses, emotionally and psychologically as well as intellectually, that whenever I’m hurt and/or offended by any memory whatsoever or by anything I hear, overhear, or am told or by how I’m responded to in any sense, that what I’m genuinely experiencing is my continuous refusal to really and truly acknowledge the fact that, despite my Asperger’s Syndrome, despite the fact that I’ve made a (fairly) good life for myself regardless, despite the fact that I’m (moderately) productive—i:e; my online writing—regardless, the world does not and never will revolve around me.

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Friday, April 4, 2014:

1:12 P. M.—Three very, very good things took place just now! First, I discovered that I don’t have to turn in that $50.00 money order and that $12.50 money order I saved in order to pay for Smile and Dine and for the phone, respectively. According to Maurice, since I’m not earning income right now, CHSC will pay for the former. Thus I was able to—I’m smiling like crazy here—deposit the money in the bank. It’ll be sitting there waiting for me tomorrow morning and hence I can use the money to buy some lunch and to at last, finally get a haircut. Hoo-rah! Secondly, I got to talking with Maurice while we were driving along—first to Citizens’ Bank to (so was the intent) cash the money orders (I found out from Robyn, the stunning teller, that I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to cash them as my checking account is so low), then for me to go food shopping—and I told him of my (unnecessary, I know) fear that living in a supportive housing project and all that entails will prevent me from following through on my big dream of getting my books published. Maurice, for his part, warmly assured me that said condition and all that’s involved with it will not in any sense be an obstacle. When I brought up what Vince Cunningham said regarding how nothing and nobody should keep me from realizing my dream, he told me in effect that my dream was entirely worthwhile and that I shouldn’t worry one bit about having my books published because with time and effort, they will be. And when I mentioned how frustrating it is to have to wait for Yahoo to clear me before I can log onto my e-mail again, Maurice said that I shouldn’t be concerned because I can use the time to better get to know the computer, to become more genuinely proficient with it, and to work on my second book. Ho-la!

Finally, I noticed and printed on the library computer that three more, three more, of my blogs increased in readership.

A trio of good happenings, eh?

3:14 P. M.—Once again the fourth hour of the Today program, with its greatly attractive and appealing hosts, KLG and Hoda Woman, brought joy and uplift at a time when I could have very much used both of the aforementioned. Interestingly enough, the highlight of today’s broadcast that I saw—I, sad to say, missed the first half-hour—came with the positively final segment, which consisted of the romance novelist extraordinaire Jackie Collins giving the girls, and us, a sample of recipes from her Lucky Santangelo Cookbook (“Lucky Santangelo” is, of course, Collins’s most famous and most beloved literary character). Two highly engaging bits of candor: Collins freely acknowledged that the dishes her cookbook teaches you how to make are “fattening” (translation: not drearily Good For You) and, as the show was going off, Kathie Lee openly admitted that she didn’t have the slightest idea who would be on next week (She eventually recovered).

10:33 P. M.—I’m here to say that my latest time with my sexual fantasies came damned close to being, quite simply, the best that I’ve ever had! Because I imagined myself coupled with women who in no sense have serious images (the Swedish-born supermodels-turned-starlets Victoria Silvstedt and May Andersen, the daytime-soap-she-looker-turned-global-pop-singer Teri Ann Linn) and I went to town imagining my gal Robin Givens in her many, many sexy film/television roles, especially in Boomerang, which to this day stands as the best black-oriented film ever and imagining William Hurt and Kathleen Turner in their many, many sexy scenes from Body Heat, which to this day stands as the best film ever, period. In sum, I had perhaps the most bang-up time with my sexual visions—most assuredly the closest to it—that I’ve ever had. It was genuinely to employ a much-dated word, a corker.

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Saturday, April 5, 2014:

3:21 P. M.—Well, it at last happened.

It finally took place.

I at last, finally got a haircut with the money I was able to withdraw from my checking account.

AND I FEEL GREAT!

It was so damned good to have at long last gotten my hair cut—including getting my beard, moustache, and sideburns trimmed—after having gone so long with my hair lengthy and flowing all over my head. And…I also got a Pizzeria at Subway in the heart of Oakland and THAT FELT FANTASTIC, ALSO! It was so very, very good to have at last eaten an entire meal outside the apartment complex. It all went down just marvelously. Finally, here at the library I caught and printed the fact that three more of my blogs got more readership.

This has been quite a good day.

11:03 P. M.—Concerning my sexual fantasies—indeed, concerning my sexual side overall—I’ve concocted several comments that tell of my honest feelings in this regard, and that may tell of a sincere passion of mine. And it all—all—involves the daytime-soap-she-babe-turned-international-pop-crooner Teri Ann Linn.

To wit:

The online post I once wrote wherein I said: “How I would love it if I could spend my nights making love to Teri Ann Linn!” continues to stick in my craw, to hit a nerve with me. And when, while conjuring up my sexual visions, I imagine myself saying things like: “You look up the expression ‘hot chick’ in the dictionary, right away you see Teri’s picture,” and “[Teri is] genuinely sexual napalm!” and “There’s nothing like the sight of Teri in a two-piece,” it has an effect beyond simply sexually arousing me, beyond simply turning me on. They really and truly hit me where I live, honestly stir my emotions besides the sexual ones. Also: When I envision myself with Teri, telling her: “Hooking up with a girl like you, making love to you every night is my dream,” I’m more than sexually excited—I feel a deep and intense stirring in my heart. It also wholly moves me when I, in my head, say (to an imaginary friend): “Teri’s the one! I can easily imagine myself spending the rest of my life with her.”

Could it be that my passion for Teri Ann Linn goes beyond simply envisioning her as my make-believe girlfriend? Could it be that she stands, in my mind, with Robin Givens as my pure-and-chaste-from-afar love goddess?

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Sunday, April 6, 2014:

6:00 P. M.—Just got finished re-seeing I Think We’re Alone Now, the much-lauded filmic documentary centering on Jeff Turner and Kelly McCormick, these two “obsessed fans” of the 1980s pop-music sensation Tiffany, on DVD. And I’m damned glad I did! Not only is it a greatly incisive and sensitive documentary by and of itself but it’s quite uplifting to spend time with a pair of fellows who are essentially kindred spirits.

Consider: Jeff Turner, especially, has a lot in common with me. He too was picked on and kicked around excessively during his high-school period and he too has Asperger’s. Also: Speaking specifically to my always-there hang-up of fretting over What-So-And-So-Would-Say, Alone shows Jeff reading media coverage of his attempts to get close to Tiffany, which label him a “stalker” and “an obsessive fan” and…he laughs about it, he kids it, he has a sense of humor about it. Kelly, for his part, only becomes emotional—in fact, shrill—when telling of his love for Tiffany. At no other time does he become strident, including when relating how others have reacted to him (Kelly was born intersexed, meaning being born of both genders). In point of fact, like Jeff when going over media reports about him, he’s lighthearted concerning it, even jokes regarding it. And when the two at last and they go off to a Tiffany concert together, Kelly freely admits that he’s very, very low on money and that he can’t get around by himself thus he has to depend on Jeff. And: Both of them count on monthly benefits from the government for income, a situation in which I myself stand a good chance of being in the future (I damned sure hope not). So, in all, re-seeing I Think We’re Alone Now re-acquainted me with a couple of guys who are in essence soul-mates, and thus re-lifted my heart.

10:06 P. M.—It’s major revelation time again. In earlier times—and, quite frequently, these days—I’ve been in a tizzy over the fact that (as I’ve seen it) there’s been this tendency in America, if not in the world, to attack or dismiss everything and everybody that and who existed and/or originated in the past. I’ve long had my nose out of joint over (again, as I’ve perceived it) folks and institutions and attitudes who and that lived and/or started in the past being under attack or being dismissed. I’ve very often felt, and to a considerable degree still feel, that, due to hair-shirt guilt, there’s this desire in America, and in the world, to forget everything and everybody that and who was present and/or began before the millennium, that because of said guilt there’s no, or little, respect for history, no, or little, regard for tradition, that everything and everybody from past times is openly looked upon with shame, if not outright contempt, et al, et al, et al.

Whenever I go off on these tangents, it’s emotionally fulfilling (to a degree) and a useful catharsis (ditto), until I clear my head and force myself to face the real and honest truth about myself. Which is:

With a few exceptions, I do not give, and have never given, actually, a rat’s ass about the past.

Here it is. I am not and never have been a dyed-in-the-wool nostalgia buff. The Great Figures and The Great Events of the past, while I have intellectual respect for them, do not and never have sincerely moved me emotionally/psychologically. When, during the 1972 presidential campaign, George McGovern exhorted: “Come Home, America,” I was deeply moved (I was backing and working for McGovern). Now, whenever I look back upon his urging—and, indeed, this has been widely noted since—I ask myself: “’Come home’ to what? Widespread and deep-rooted racial and religious hatred? The Great Depression? Two World Wars? The anti-Communist witch-hunts and blacklisting? Did McGovern really and truly want to return to any or all of these things?” Whatever was McGovern’s original intent, his call amounted to a monumental prettifying of this country’s very-often-shameful history.

I said earlier that there are “a few exceptions” to my indifference concerning the past. Actually, there are three. The first two are the days of John and Robert Kennedy. What they contributed to this country—their wit, their idealism, their sincere desire for social change—has always resonated deeply inside me, has always greatly moved me (despite the rather hotheaded revisionism to which both of them have been and still are subjected). The third exception is the Hollywood films and television of the 1960s, which featured “decorative actresses” (models, Playboy Magazine pictorials, beauty queens, Vegas showgirls) appearing scantily dressed. As a girl-watcher of long standing, I look back fondly upon this time, a time when smokin’-hot chicks dazzled us with their succulence and their charm on both the big and the small screens. Indeed, it was the 1960s actress Thordis Brandt who completely spoke for me, as was quoted by the cinema historian Tom Lisanti in his best-selling filmic overview Glamour Girls of Sixties Hollywood: Seventy-Five Profiles: “I think it is wonderful how people are still interested in actors from the Sixties. It was a wonderful time in Hollywood.”

So, except for the aforementioned folks and the aforementioned time, whenever I’m hurt and/or offended by any negative treatment of anything about the American, or world, past or anybody who lived/started in same, it’s basically just one more of the plentiful cases of—isn’t it painfully obvious by now?—me clinging to my own discomforts, racial and otherwise.

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Monday, April 7, 2014:

3:08 P. M.—Today on the fourth hour of Today (which, as has been noted before, has become my go-to source for emotional boosting), the highpoint was, during their “Scoop” part, Kathie Lee and Hoda celebrating the show’s sixth anniversary. They did it by presenting various clips from past programs—including, beguilingly, one wherein they both laid upon their backs with their feet up in the air—and thanking their staff “for putting up with us.” It was a lively and most ingratiating segment and a hell of a lot of fun to see.

Yet, uncharacteristically for this hour of Today, there was, for me, a downer. The girls were talking with the veteran actress-author Marlo Thomas about her newest book, a compilation of interviews of women who have changed course and followed their dreams in midlife, and, along with Thomas, were two examples of same. What made this segment a (personal) downer was that one of said examples spoke of looking on the Internet to give her friend the kind of service she herself eventually started as a business and, afterward, Thomas herself relating how this one woman sold her belongings on E-Bay in order to finance her dream. Both of the aforementioned served to remind me that I myself am still without Internet service and how damned frustrating it is to have to wait to hear from Yahoo. Even now, being here in Starbucks, it’s frustrating to be amidst all these young folks, busy with their computers and me realizing that I’ve been so limited in regard to the use of my own.

6:05 P. M.—I received a correspondence from the Social Security place informing me that…I qualify for benefits. According to said missive, starting in July I’ll be getting $980.00 a month. Now this is very, very good news, even though I still fervently, fervently want to go back to my courier job so I can you-know-the-rest and I still fervently, fervently want to get hooked back onto Yahoo so I can you-know-the-rest. Even so, very, very good news, no question about it.

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Tuesday, April 8, 2014:

3:14 P. M.—GREAT NEWS! After I saw and printed the latest blogs of mine that have added readership—an additional regulation-two; hoo-ray!—while at the library, I went over to Jude, this gorgeous and appealing librarian whom I’ve come to know, and initiated a conversation. In time I told her about how my Internet service has had to be discontinued because of my unpaid medical leave and about how I can’t get into my e-mail because, for some reason, my Yahoo ID/password have been declared invalid. What Jude did, eventually, was to turn me on to hot mail. With her intensely valuable help I logged onto hot mail and…I WOUND UP AT LAST, FINALLY SENDING A CORRESPONDENCE TO THE BEAUTIFUL MARIE! Also: I found out (from another good-looking and good-natured librarian) that it’s entirely possible for me to shop my book around to publishers using hot mail. How about them apples, eh?

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Wednesday, April 9, 2014:

2:21 P. M.—Today is turning out to be ONE GREAT DAY. First I saw Maurice and I brought to his attention the arrogance that The Evil Frank has freely meted out to me over the last two days. As might have been expected, Maurice stood up for Frank. However, in the tradition set by The Lovely Brianna (with whom I dealt in Neurotic), he did so in a sense that was in no way demeaning to me (And when I told Maurice about what Frank had said about his plan to conduct regular inspections, he assured me that Frank intends to inspect all the rooms in the complex, not just mine). Afterward, when I kept my appointment with Dr. Wexler and I told him of my big dream to get my books published, he seemed to be genuinely impressed and warmly wished me good luck (Later still, when he told me I’d be back to see him in a year, he lightly said that by then my leg should be better and that my books should be published). And when I got to the library I noticed and printed that—yippee!—another one of my blogs got added readership.

Now to the good, good, GOOD stuff. When, while still in the library, I went to Writer’s Market to find publishers to whom to shop my memoir, I discovered that the listings for the aforementioned magazine, while intricate as far as those kind of publications go, are rather vague—indeed, entirely unhelpful—when it comes to publishers who will accept memoirs (In point of fact, you’d have to pretty much go through the entire publication with a toothcomb in order to find such publishers). Yet…when I enquired at the desk as to whether or not there is a publication to which to turn that will tell specifically of publishers who will take memoirs, this very nice male librarian brought out Literary Market Place 2014, which—cheers here--lists the exact publishers who will accept memoirs. And then I took down the precise info that I needed concerning a couple of them (e-mail addresses, names of contact folks), went into the computer room, logged onto www.hotmail.com and, with the invaluable aid of Joanie, this blonde, beautiful, and boundlessly friendly librarian whom I’ve come to know and love…I SENT QUERY CORRESPONDENCES REGARDING MY MEMOIR TO SAID PUBLISHERS!

At last. Finally. And, of course, the way is paved for me to send more query missives through hot mail and for me to check it out when I get responses.

Could it be that God has answered my prayers, albeit not in the way I originally expected?

It very well could be.

6:08 P. M.—Something happened concerning me while I was on the bus today that is a cause for reflection.

I’ll specify.

While I was riding the bus this afternoon there was this one young lady who was standing next to me talking on her cell phone. At one point she mentioned, clearly referring to me, “this elderly man with a cane who should be allowed to sit down.”

Well, well.

When I heard that I was (as I still am, looking back upon it) a bit taken aback. After all, while to be called “elderly” by and of itself is not negative, it can have a negative connotation depending on how it’s said. And I myself have never, in the emotional/psychological sense, considered myself to be old or even middle-aged. However, there was the aforementioned young woman calling me (not pejoratively, I know) “elderly.” It was a bit jarring.

Yet the up side was “(and still is) that it was (and remains) only a bit jarring. I was, and continue to be, thrown by the girl’s description of me but only a little thrown. By contrast, had I been the age I am now and I heard somebody—especially a young, attractive woman—call me “elderly” during the 1980s, well, I would have gone postal, very likely outwardly as well as inwardly. I quite possibly—indeed, it would have been a certain definite—would have screamed out loud, would have literally jumped up and down, would have literally waved my fists in the air. Hearing myself referred to as “elderly,” had I heard it in the 1980s, and were the age I am now, would have had me going nuts. Now, however, hearing it only impacts me marginally. For the most part, I’m unaffected. For the most part, I staunchly avoid getting caught up in any I’m-60-years-old-and-I’ve-never-whatever spasms. I have, it greatly pleases me to say, long reached the point where the majority of my serious attention is on what my life is in the present, not on what it was in the past.

10:31 P. M.—Good tidings here. This time, when I went to the office to take my evening meds, I was fully, fully accepting of the reality that The Evil Frank does not have and has long not had any desire to be My Buddy. Thus I went in, exchanged only as much conversation as I absolutely had to, hurried it up as far as doing my business was concerned, and left without saying one word (One point in Frank’s favor: He let me have this extra meal that was sitting in the kitchen). In all, an uncharacteristically successful time getting and taking my evening meds, without The Evil Frank being any kind of rock that starts any kind of emotional/psychological landslide.

An issue that I force myself to face whenever, as I very often do, I risk getting seriously caught up in Negativity: What would happen if I “snapped”? What would be the result if I got so overcome by my discomforts, if I obsessed so much about my hang-ups that I, to put it bluntly, literally went crazy? And I always know full well what the answer is: As would be true if I committed suicide, basically nothing. What would occur would be that I’d get put either back in the Ward or in Woodville. And in the case of the former, I’d get the same callous treatment, the same lack of consideration, the same insensitivity that I experienced when I was there before. And nobody on the outside, including those who know me, would be in any real and true sense impacted. There would, as would be the case if I offed myself, no Lessons Learned, no honestly lasting remorse, nobody would honestly feel for me in any way (This would be especially true of my bitch cousin and her bitch daughter. Far from being remorseful or regretful, they would say, in effect: “It’s about time. It’s what should have happened all along. Actually, he should have been made to stay in the Ward much longer”). And even if, by some happenstance, folks were seriously affected, even if my descent into madness Taught Folks Something, the fact is, as would be true if I committed suicide, I would never know about it—or, at very least, I would only very marginally know about it. I would be literally living in my own world, shut off from everything and everybody, with no—or very little—genuine knowledge of what was going on in the real world. The fact of the matter is, everybody—everybody—would go on as before, with nobody—nobody—really affected or even truly sorry in any capacity. It all makes for further impetus to, in the name of reason, quit clinging to Negativity, to quit being scared crapless to face and to adapt to Duane Brooks beyond the insecurities, beyond the Asperger’s, beyond the mental illness.

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Thursday, April 10, 2014:

1:32 P. M.—It was a productive time at the library today. I saw and printed that more regulation-two blogs got added readership and…not only did my hot mail reveal that one of the publishers to whom I wrote about my book got back to me (she said that her company doesn’t take “electronic submissions”) but I sent query correspondences concerning my book to two more publishers. What’s more, all the time I was on hot mail, I didn’t have to ask anybody for help in any sense. I did it all, all on my own.

A productive time, yessiree.

5:34 P. M.—Tooting-my-own-horn time again. This afternoon I was riding the bus to Oakland from Squirrel Hill and I was sitting in back of these two middle-aged black women who were chatting between themselves. I don’t know what prompted it, but all of a sudden one of the women turned around and (briefly) looked at me as if I had 1,000 heads. Then the other woman, obviously referring to me, spoke of “one…who’s sitting behind me.” I didn’t catch any of their conversation beyond that but in the old days they would have had me running to whatever Male Authority Figure, bleating as to Whether Or Not I Should Be Offended—or, at the very least, would have had me inwardly raging and ranting against black “street” folks, against Breast-Beating Liberal Guilt, et al, et al, et al. Yet, happily, what I did, beyond firmly reminding myself that, again, I had no firm idea what they said, was to say to myself: “You’ll never see either of them again, so what’s the big deal?” And then I simply disregarded them, put them both out of my mind. Could it be that I’m at long last, finally getting some—dare it be said?—gumption, racially and otherwise? It’s very much a possibility.

10:36 P. M.—These past two nights have been extremely happy—and not only because I had monumentally successful sexual-fantasy periods.

Some explanation is needed. After my sexual fantasies, I always go over to the office to take my evening meds. Well, the fact is, on weeknights, The Evil Frank is there and, while I’m taking my meds, something about my conversation with him usually winds up peeing me off, whether it’s his not saying anything when I talk about my writing or his changing the subject when I do so or his being overly blunt with me regarding something or whatever. And I usually wind up leaving the office and spending the rest of the night—need I say it?—Hurt And/Or Offended (This despite the fact that Frank has long, long made it perfectly clear that, because we’re so far apart on so many matters, he has no interest—none—in being My Buddy). The past two nights, however—last night and just now—I’ve taken a different tack. What I’ve done is, whenever, I’ve gone into the office at night and Frank’s there, I haven’t engaged in any more dialogue with him than I’ve absolutely had to. I haven’t even looked at him when I’ve gone in. And I’ve hurried up when taking my meds, I haven’t in the least dawdled. And when I leave, I just leave, there’s no “Good-bye,” not even a “See ya”—nothing. I just go (And when Frank gives me his “See you later” as I’m going out, I just say, “Yeah,” and that’s literally it. I don’t stop in my forward motion, I don’t even look at him). And it’s worked. For the past two nights, The Evil Frank has not behaved and spoken offensively (as I define it) in any sense—primarily because, for the last couple of nights, with me it’s been in, do my business, and out before he can say anything. And for the rest of the nights, I’ve been feeling no pain.

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Friday, April 11, 2014:

3:14 P. M.—SEN-SATIONAL NEWS! While here at the library I sent hot-mail inquiries to the regulation-two publishers and after I did so I checked my inbox and saw that one publisher, namely one Megan Trank, the managing editor of Beaufort Books, got back to me and asked me to send her sample chapters of my memoir.

Oh, wow!

The question now is: Do I take my flash drive out of my computer and, with the help of good-hearted librarians, send said sample chapters tomorrow, or should I wait until Monday morning and ask for Maurice’s help? There are powerful arguments in favor of both. Looking to the former, it could very well impress Megan if those chapters are sent in as early as possible, sitting waiting upon her desk (or wherever) when she gets in Monday morning. Looking to the latter, Maurice could very well help me get those chapters to where there’s no writing before or afterward and thus make them less sloppy (in Megan’s eyes).

I am, in short, experiencing what could be called a happy dilemma.

10:27 P. M.—I have come through the fire and made it unscathed. Twice.

I shall elaborate.

Two and a half hours ago The Evil Frank came over to engage in his (with my help) Friday-night cleaning of the bathroom. And all while he was here I engaged in my new strategy toward him. Meaning that I didn’t speak to him any more than I positively had to and, overall, shut down on him emotionally/psychologically. AND IT WORKED! The only time he did anything that in any capacity got to me—silently reaching for a nearby roll of towels and, again silently, continuing to clean the bathroom wall after I had asked him: “Anything else?”—I was able to just turn off on it, bat it away, flick it off me (Although, to be fair, afterward he said, concerning something I had done: “Thank you, Duane,” and after that told me that I had done a “good job” mopping the floor the first time I had done it). And when I went over to the office to take my evening meds, I did what I had done the first two times I went over there while Frank was there: I went in without looking at him, I didn’t engage in any more conversation with him than was absolutely necessary, I hurried it along doing my business (taking my meds), and when I left, I just left, without initiating any good-byes (When Frank said: “See you later,” all I said was: “Yeah,” without pausing or even slowing down my forward motion or even looking at him). And would you believe it…I FELT MARVELOUS! Not once, not once did I have any kind of piss-fit, as I almost always have had upon leaving the office when Frank has been inhabiting it.

I have at last, finally started to fully, fully accept that The Evil Frank has no and has long had no intention of being My Pal. Score one for me.

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Saturday, April 12, 2014:

12:41 P. M.—I have come to completely realize that my situation regarding The Evil Frank is still very much like my situation regarding my slimy cousin during the time I was moving into the apartment complex and for a while afterward, when she was being so slimy toward me. I incessantly grieved because “Cousin Ruthie” was being so mean and because “Cousin Ruthie” was being so rotten and why was “Cousin Ruthie” always so hard on me and blah blah blah. I simply could not, or would not, accept the cold, hard reality that, for whatever reason, “Cousin Ruthie” died along with Mom and that this was a new—and horrific—person with whom I was dealing. Much the same, sad to say, has been going on within me regarding Frank. A significant part of me continues to get the feeling that this will be the writing or that this will be the insight or that this will be the thought that will Turn Him Around, that will get him to extend his friendship to me.

I’ve just got to—got to—get rid of that rather pathetic streak that’s alive within.

3:04 P. M.—OUTASITE NEWS! Around an hour ago I sent chapters from my memoir, along with an e-mail, to Megan Trank of Beaufort Books. That’s right, I took my flash drive out of my computer and brought it to the library with me and with the invaluable help of one of their computer room’s good-looking, good-hearted librarians, I sent two chapters from Neurotic, accompanied by an e-mail, to Beaufort Books’ Megan. There were interruptions along the way—the librarian had to help others, she got into a chat with this elderly patron, she had to take a telephone call—but the two of us at last, finally got it done. And, in point of fact, I’m feeling pretty damned terrific! Honestly, I’m pumped. It all makes me damned glad that I didn’t wait for Monday morning and for Maurice to help me. Now those chapters, and the e-mail, will be ready and waiting for Megan when she arrives Monday morning. And the fact that they were sent so early, that they’re there for Megan when she comes in could bode well concerning her acceptance of Neurotic. It could very well say to her that I’m genuinely serious and genuinely enthusiastic regarding wanting to see my book published.

Looks like my dream of getting my books published is having the makings of coming true.

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Sunday, April 13, 2014:

6:39 P. M.—Imbibed in a third viewing of the cinematic documentary I Think We’re Alone Now on DVD. And a realization I’ve come to was solidified. Not only are Jeff Turner and Kelly McCormick, the “obsessed fans” of the 1980s singing sensation Tiffany who are the subjects of said documentary, appealing documentary focuses, not only are they real and true kindred spirits—they are easily role models (hated phrase) concerning my own mental condition.

Here’s how.

First, even though Jeff and Kelly, like me, were scorned during their early years—Jeff, in particular, was, as was I, harassed and brutalized mightily during his period in high school—neither, unlike me, spend their time ripping themselves apart over this and over that and over whatever nor do they spend their time being down in any capacity. On the contrary, Alone includes plenty of testimonials as to Jeff and Kelly’s positive natures, their upbeat spirits, their being wholly on the side of life (Jeff Buddy Douglas Hawes: “I genuinely like Jeff…It’s a positive experience for me to be around Jeff…I enjoy being around Jeff despite his foibles”; Don Birkhimer, the pastor/leader of this church that Jeff attends: “[Jeff is] a blessing to me…He is kindhearted…If he meets you, he is your friend for life”; Kelly Pal Abby Pollock: “[Kelly is] one of the strongest people I’ve ever met…She extends herself out and goes the extra mile for everyone she knows…She is an incredible listener”). Also: Alone clearly shows that Jeff and Kelly’s positivism, their upbeat tendencies, their long-live-life attitudes in no sense come out of any neurosis they have about always wanting to be praised, or fear that they won’t be praised (hang-ups I most assuredly have). Au contraire, their positivism, etc. are parts of what they really and truly are, arise from what are genuinely their natures. Alone freely reveals that Jeff and Kelly’s positive outlooks flow from what is honestly within them, not from any fanaticism concerning getting, or not getting, approval (an obsession of which I myself, alas, am almost always guilty).

Then, too: Also unlike me, Jeff and Kelly, as Alone fully depicts, don’t spend their waking hours having tizzies over how they are, or will be, perceived. At one point Jeff is seen reading media accounts of his efforts to personally connect with Tiffany, which, as is the media’s wont, brand him a “stalker” and “an obsessed fan.” And Jeff’s response is…to laugh it off, to poke fun at it, to turn it into a subject for humor. Kelly, for her part, only rants, only gets choleric when relating her love for Tiffany. It is literally the only time during Alone that she screams—at no other time, not even when she talks about how she was backhanded during her adolescence (Kelly was born intersexed, meaning that she’s of both genders). Then her tone is calm, collected, even lighthearted (These scenes flatly show that they’re both light years ahead of me. I incessantly wring my hands over the notions of my being the target of backlash, of being under siege, et al).

Finally: It’s abundantly clear from viewing Alone that Jeff and Kelly’s participation in no sense came from any desire to be celebrities, to achieve national profiles. Instead, it’s quite obvious that our guys are in the doc solely to express their love for Tiffany, that they see said doc as an outlet to voice their devotion to her and absolutely nothing more. They couldn’t care less about being Public Figures, about being Media Darlings (I, on the other hand, tend to have far too many daydreams about being some kind of Big Guy far too often).

Thus I, through my ever-beloved, ever-trusted DVD player, have discovered two guys who are not only engaging filmic-documentary subjects, not only honest soul-mates—they’re real and true mental-illness heroes, folks to whom I can look up and, in truth, seek to emulate as far as my own mental condition goes.

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Tuesday, April 15, 2014:

5:08 P. M.—This day has really and truly been, for me, a day of discoveries.

Item: This morning I managed to catch Maurice as he was going into the office and, having done so, told him what The Evil Frank said about planning to come over tonight at 7:00 P. M. for Inspection and told him of my paranoia that Frank will have me doing more to keep the apartment clean than doing the dishes. Replied Maurice: “That’s not paranoia. Frank will tell you that you need to do more to keep the apartment clean…You need to learn the kind of living skills that will enable you to become truly independent [I’d begun our session together by pointing out to Maurice that it had been roughly two, two and a half years since I’d applied for an independent living arrangement an asked him whether or not there was anything he could do to speed up the process.; his response: “(Other living places’) waiting lists take years, Duane”]…If a landlord [at the kind of independent-living place you want to be in] saw all those papers and stuff you had on the floor of your room, he’d tell you to either clean it up or move out.” And when I—twice—expressed my fear that Frank’s wanting me to do more clean-up work at the apartment would impinge upon, or just plain stop, my dream of seeing my books published, Maurice—twice—answered: “I don’t see how it would.” Maurice concluded with: “The thing is, you’ve been pursuing your hopes, your dreams to the extent that you’ve ignored the smaller things that may seem insignificant but that are very important in the long run.”

Item: When I kept my appointment with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Siska wound up informing me that I had the option of being fitted with a leg brace—which, he went on to say, will go a long way toward easing my pain. Happily, before I left, I was given instructions on how to get to where I can be fitted with the aforementioned leg brace.

Items (indeed, Super-Items): When I went to the library, not only did I witness and print the fact that—a genuine mind-blower, this—ten of my blogs got increased readership but when I went to hot mail I got word that two publishers wanted me to send them two sample chapters of my book and the work itself, respectively. Being in that, three cheers, I brought along my flash drive, I, with the cherished assistance of the attractive, kind-hearted librarian who helped me send those two chapters to Megan of Beaufort Books, sent what was requested.

Added item: When The Evil Frank came by for Inspection, not only did he stay but for a few minutes but he made no insistence that I do any more housecleaning. On the contrary, when he checked out my room he assumed I’d vacuumed it and pronounced it to be all right. In point of fact, except for warning my roommate and me not to use the microwave because the grease that coats it could start a fire if it’s used and asserting that the top inside of the oven could stand to be cleaned, he proclaimed the apartment to be all right regarding cleanliness.

As the then-popular 1970s song put it, happiness runs in a circular motion.

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Wednesday, April 16, 2014:

3:04 P. M.—I’m currently undergoing a test of my new resolve.

An explanation.

Earlier Vince Cunningham and I were at the welfare office Downtown seeing to my benefits and looking to re-instate my food stamp account (As of now, I have zero dollars in said account). The lady who saw us—which, by the way, Vince and I had to wait around two hours to see—told us, among other things, that I’d have to produce bank statements of my checking account and of my savings account before my food stamp account can be brought back up to speed.

So when I stopped off at Citizens’ Bank in Oakland afterward to get the aforementioned statements I got a rude (well, an inappropriate) awakening. I could only get a bank statement for my checking account as…technically I no longer have a savings account. As the teller who saw me explained it, the reason has to do with how the account has been set up by my filthy cousin.

Now, obviously, what happened was that said filthy cousin, out of pure meanness, deliberately barred me from said savings account. While it is of course a grave insult, the reality is that no real and true harm has been done. I’ve gotten along perfectly well all this time without having to turn to the savings account and, let’s not forget, there is that monthly $721.00 that I’m going to get in benefits beginning in May and that also-monthly replacement $980.00 in SSI (as best I recall it) that I’m going to get beginning in August. However, steeped in Negativity as I am, my emotional/psychological self only sees the insult my bitch cousin has wrought me and, alas, I’m quite aggressively fuming and fussing about her. It’s my hope that with my new resolve—my firm intent to keep in mind and emulate my mental-illness heroes Jeff Turner and Kelly McCormick from the cinematic documentary I Think We’re Alone Now—I can rise above my visceral reaction and fully recognize that while my dirt-bag cousin clearly meant to slap me in the face, the actual hurt is, at worst, very minor.

Moving on: Here at the library I’ve discovered and printed that six more—I’m saying six more—of my blogs got added readership.

(More good tidings: While driving us to the welfare office Vince asked about my writing and, when I told him about the publishers who have expressed interest in Neurotic and have asked to see excerpts from it and the entire book, respectively, he was quite impressed. “I know a famous author,” he told me. And we both facetiously agreed that when I do become one, I won’t forget “the little people”)

6:44 P. M.—My meeting with Maurice this morning yielded some positive dividends. First, while it was a downer to have him reveal to me that, even with a leg brace (which, as Dr. Siska said, will go a long way toward alleviating pain), it’s intensely doubtful that I’d be able to resume my courier job considering all the walking involved, it was good to hear him say that if I really and truly want to keep up with all the beautiful girls with whom I worked, I can do so through correspondence and e-mail. Then, it was good to hear Maurice talk about how, with the benefits I’ll be receiving, I’ll be able to use my Internet service again, use my cell phone again. Finally, it was first-rate that he agreed (with his refusal to argue against me) that my no longer working (which, let it be acknowledged, is the best avenue for me to take) means that if/when my books are published, I’ll be available to go on book tours. Thus meeting with Maurice proved to be a session laden with positivism other than the directly practical (brainstorming about what to do about my tax situation, et al).

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Friday, April 18, 2014:

2:58 P. M.—One word, and only one word, fits today: Relief.

I’ll clarify.

First, when I looked in my room for the W-2 form Maurice had quite fervently urged me to find, I didn’t find it. Anywhere. I looked and looked and looked but it was just plain nowhere to be found. Thus I finally had to give up hunting for it. Doing so made me uber-antsy—Maurice had made it abundantly clear that that W-2 form was crucial to my clearing up this tax situation—but I had to do it. I consoled myself by (incessantly) reminding myself that 1) I had come up with and presented to Maurice all the other forms and papers that he needed to see and to have and there has been only one time (well, maybe two times) in the entire period that I’ve been at the apartment complex that he’s had to come over to see whether or not I was ready to meet with him, so he knows damn well that I’m not some careless, irresponsible dilettante who just shrugs things off; and 2) Maurice is not and never has been the kind of person who arbitrarily yells and/or denounces in any case. Thus I was comfortable (in the main) using the hour I had before having to get my dinner ready to engage in sexual fantasies (My time doing so, incidentally, went through the proverbial roof now that I’ve added the frequent Baywatch she-babe Alazea Davila to my line-up of make-believe partners).

All right. Cut to this morning, when Maurice drove up the driveway, we saw and greeted each other, and he invited me into his car so he could take me food-shopping. I got into the car, fastened my seat-belt, the drive began, and I told Maurice flat-out—flat-out—that I looked all around my room but I couldn’t find the W-2 form. I stressed how sorry I was and that, in the future, I’ll make sure to put all important documents and all important papers in a special folder, where they’ll be sure not to get lost. And Maurice…understood. He didn’t bellow or deride me in any sense. He didn’t even seem all that angry or even disappointed. He just said, in effect: All right, we’re going to have to get Jason [my job supervisor] to send a form, even though it’ll take time. That was the sum total of his response.

And too: As the two of us were driving along, I reminded Maurice of what he said about how there’s nothing wrong with unloading to him or to anybody, as long as I don’t get loud or aggressive or angry, and asked if it would be all right for me to cash in on what he said. When Maurice replied in the affirmative, I told him how good it was that he told me it’s important to give my tax situation as much priority as working with my books, not more priority or have the former be the only thing, then I told him how good it was that he told me that nothing, nothing should envelop my life so that working with my books is crowded out. Maurice’s response was to assert that there’s absolutely no reason why taking care of my tax problem should keep me from my books; that even famous, successful folks have to tend to their taxes; and that seeing police in regard to getting this tax matter settled is basically like taking Physical Therapy—an activity that certainly, definitely didn’t stop or even interfere with me seeing to my books. Hearing Maurice say all that most assuredly put me in a good frame of mind and mood.

Continuing: When Maurice and I got back from food-shopping, he made some calls and arranged for this cop to come out and interview me. From what Maurice said I gleaned (falsely, as shall eventually be noted) that if said cop didn’t show up in the next 15 minutes I was free to go to the library. However, when those 15 minutes passed and there was no cop, Maurice wound up saying: “You can take your lunch to your room and eat it there and I’ll come and get you when [the officer] comes.” Thus I faced the scenario (as I then perceived it) of spending all, or most of the, afternoon being interviewed by the officer and entirely missing out on going to the library to, among other things, check out whether or not any, or all of, the publishers who asked me to send them parts of and all of my work, respectively, have yet responded. Well, in time, the cop, a middle-aged black man, did show up and when I asked—uber-respectfully, of course—how long the interview would take, he replied: “Less time than it took for me to park.” And when I enquired—again, of course in the most respectful tone—if he would be the final law-enforcement officer to whom I would be speaking, his answer was that I might have to speak to a higher-up law-enforcement person and that would be it. And surprise, surprise—I got away from the interview in a very brief time, in plenty of time to head for the library and check out what, if anything, the aforementioned publishers had to say (They hadn’t yet responded).

Finally, would you believe it? The Beautiful Marie at last, finally got back to me. She began by saying that it was perfectly all right that I took a long time getting to her, as she doesn’t get back right away to folks she knows. And the rest of her hot mail was equally lovely, filled with news concerning her yoga class and being genuinely impressed by those publishers writing back to me requesting to see chapters from my memoir and the memoir itself.

Yes, today relief was the key word.

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Saturday, April 19, 2014:

1:51 P. M.—During my period at the library this time around not only did I get and print the news that more regulation-two blogs got added readership (oh, yes!), not only did I send off query hot mails to two more publishers concerning Neurotic (one of them being based right here in Pittsburgh; maybe the fact that a local guy is submitting a proposal for a book publishing will go over with her). I also got to at long last print that part where I go into detail as to why Jeff Turner and Kelly McCormick, the focal points of the big-screen documentary I Think We’re Alone Now, are, for me, mental-deficiency heroes. I did so just in the nick of time, as beforehand I’d been laden with Negativity about…well, laden with Negativity in general, as has become my wont (Being around all these gorgeous, sexy, alive young folks in the heart of Oakland and, now, in Starbucks has me working hard to fight off a tendency to return to my 1980s bleating regarding my “non-life” and my “non-past” as well as having to stave off any inner whining as to how I’m-60-years-old-and-I’ve-never-blah-blah-blah). However, having printed the aforementioned excerpt and reading it over give me renewed gumption. It’s sincerely a tonic to read in-depth about Jeff and Kelly’s positive dispositions, their upbeat outlooks, etc. It really and truly is uplifting to intricately read about how they don’t spend any of their time tearing themselves apart over whatever and to read heartfelt testimonials about what life-embracing folks they are from those who know them. Indeed, it all spurs me on to fully realize yet again, for one thing, that there are other late-starters in life (It can be safely be said that the stand-up-comedy icon Rodney Dangerfield, who didn’t hit it big until he reached midlife, never, ever looked at all the young comedians who were active during his period—many of whom he had helped—and go into any why-did-it [success]-happen-so-late? spasms).

So visiting my mental-illness heroes once again, this time through print, once again gave me a significant lift. And, once again, just when I was badly in need of one.

5:52 P. M.—A setback here.

After I put my flash drive into (what I thought was the right place in) my computer, I turned it on and…it didn’t work. Nothing worked on it. I put said flash drive in different places but still…nothing worked. I finally had to give it up because, of course, I didn’t want to risk damaging the flash drive or the computer but, true to form, the setback—and that’s exactly what it is; it needn’t bring anything to a screeching halt nor is it even a major impediment—has unleashed within me a truckload of Negativity. I’ve been going on and on about how The World is impeding my working on my books and why is The World conspiring against my attempting to get my books published, etc., etc., etc. There are, naturally, many, many reasons why this carrying-on is entirely baseless but the leading two are 1) this being the weekend, there’s only one quota of this book being transferred into a computer—today, Saturday—that I do anyway (I have a personal code that has me shying away from working on my book on Sunday as, to me, it’s wrong—i:e; sacreligious—to do that kind of computer work on God’s day); and 2) up until now I’ve been transferring the written parts of my tome to computer (actually my flash drive) with no screw-ups whatsoever; moreover, when I did that extended re-printing of the first part of this book I did so without running out of printer ink and when I printed that part of this tome concerning my mental-illness heroes Jeff Turner and Kelly McCormick at the library, using my flash drive and with the ever-invaluable help of the ever-attractive librarian who’s assisted me before, it all went off without a hitch. But tethered to Negativity as I am, this molehill is in my eyes a very big mountain.

My hang-ups continue to make themselves very much known.

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Sunday, April 20, 2014:

10:05 P. M.—Uber-insight time.

It came to me during my late afternoon-early evening self-talk period. I was, as has become my custom during such sessions, ruminating on my continuous hanging on to Negativity and what, exactly, I can do about it. It was in the midst of said ruminating that it hit me like the proverbial bolt of lightning, burrowing into my head with painstaking fervor.

My addiction to Negativity—indeed, to neuroses in general—has to do with how I was in the 1980s.

To clarify:

I’ve already mentioned, and more than once, that, during much of the 1980s, I was all a-tizzy over my “non-life” and my “non-past.” During a great deal of that decade, I incessantly turned myself inside out over my (Asperger’s-fueled) conviction that I Had Never Lived, that I Had Never Been Part Of Life, that I was, as I relentlessly termed myself, a consummate late-bloomer. Moreover, I was 100 percent positive (because of the Asperger’s) that I was literally the only person alive—alive—who was in this particular situation, that my situation was unique in all, all human history. Well, in point of fact, I fully realized during said self-talk period that my fear, my intense fear of reliving those days is basically behind my needle being continually stuck on Negativity, on hang-ups overall.

Here’s what it is. My fear, and it’s a mighty one, is that if I fully let go of my relentless grasp of Negativity, if I really and truly allow myself to be not Duane Brooks the tangled mass of insecurities and neuroses but Duane Brooks the actual man, the actual person, then I’ll again go through all the I-never-had-a-life stuff that I put myself through three decades ago. And, so my fear goes, because I’m 60 years old and thus am genuinely headed for seniority (during the 1980s I was in my early 30s, a far, far cry from being any kind of senior citizen), I’ll buy into it entirely, intellectually as well as emotionally/psychologically. Finally, and here’s where my fear absolutely kicks in, I’m afraid that I’ll regard the solid examples of other late-bloomers, of others who didn’t get rolling until late in life (the stand-up-comedy legend Rodney Dangerfield, the longtime film critic Stanley Kauffmann, the 70-year-old cabaret performer/virgin Pam Shaw), as I did three decades before, with a steady onslaught of nit-picking and yes, butting. I do not, do not wish to return to those fiercely self-pitying—and rather pathetic—days. Thus I hang on to Negativity, to neuroses in general, as a way to (so I see it) stave off plunging back into that 1980s abyss.

OK. So now, as the veteran writer/conservative icon William F. Buckley would put it, the question becomes: What, exactly, do I do—do—to quell my fear? What, precisely, do I do—do—to get myself to completely release my grip on Negativity and hang-ups and neuroses and be Duane Brooks the real and true person without falling back into that 1980s rut of I Never Lived?

Three things.

First, I can (continually) remind myself of the good and the positive things about myself and in which I’m involved. Like the fact that, in dealing with these two books, I for once in my life—my blogs notwithstanding—have, to employ Mom’s phrase, “the eye of the tiger” (my blogs notwithstanding, I have never had a burning passion, a gut desire to do any creative endeavor I undertook—or, for that matter, to do anything; now, in working with my books, I at last, finally have a serious dream, namely to get said books published); the fact that I’m still engaged in writing in the first place, having fully recognized that it’s rescued me in the past and will do so again, provided that I engage it with the correct mindset and the correct perspective; the fact that I certainly, definitely do not want to return to being what I was in the 1980s, that incessantly self-pitying, rather pathetic wreck, always, always going on and on about my “non-life” and my “non-past,” nit-picking and yes, butting to death any and all attempts to help me. All of the aforementioned show, if I may brag here, growth and a maturity and a sense of perspective that I most assuredly did not have in the 1980s (or in the 1970s, for that matter). And that, frankly, is something of which to be proud.

Secondly, I can (again, continually) remind myself of the (plentiful) examples of other late-bloomers, of others for whom the ball didn’t get rolling until relatively late in life. And I can do my damnedest (once again, continually) to stay the hell away from any and all temptations to pick nits or say: “Yes, but…”

�� Finally, I can continue to really and truly get into my sexual fantasies, to keep on getting genuine excitement and genuine pleasure from them now that I’ve honestly solidified them and allowed them to go wherever my aroused libido takes me. In his classic memoir/self-help book Man’s Search For Meaning, Viktor E. Frankl—who, as a prisoner in Nazi death camps, went through far, far worse pain and torment than that which I’ve ever gone through or ever will go through—related how, whenever he and his fellow inmates did activities that gave them momentary pleasure—putting on shows for each other, et al—even though the pleasure they reaped from them was, as mentioned, momentary, still they would give them a much-needed emotional/ psychological lift. My sexual fantasies, if I go about them in the right way—think only of the chicks who turn me on; keep out all, all Negativism—can do, indeed, have done, the same for me.

These are the emotional/psychological—and the intellectual—avenues down which I can travel in order to avoid hurling myself back into the abyss I was in during the 1980s—and to get myself to once and for all let go of Negativity and to entirely be Duane Brooks the actual person, not Duane Brooks the ripped-to-shreds-inside mass of hang-ups and neuroses.

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Monday, April 21, 2014:

6:09 P. M.—Two very good things happened to me today about which, quite frankly, I should feel better about than I currently do.

The first thing was that, while I was in Starbucks earlier this afternoon, being amongst all those hot young chicks, many of whom freely displaying their luscious long legs and their beautiful bare feet, more than ever threatened to revive within me the 1980s tizzies I had regarding how I Never Lived, how I Was In The Nest All My Life and all the rest of it. And, as usual, the fact that I’ve had a milestone birthday and thus am really and truly nearing the end of life didn’t help one iota. However, I dug in and thought of all the other folks who didn’t get going until they were fairly far along in life (primarily the late-to-the-spotlight comedic legend Rodney Dangerfield) and, hurrah, hurrah, I managed not to succumb to my three-decades-ago mega-angst.

Now to the second thing. Around a half-hour after I got back, I went over to the office and, after Maurice bestowed upon me a TV dinner (this being Easter Monday, Smile and Dine is not in operation today), I asked him about this place in front of this box on the floor where Tamera, the staff member who set my keyboard right this past weekend, said I could put my flash drive, rather than remove said box almost entirely so I can take said flash drive out when I need to take it to the library. And Maurice, for his part…came to my room and pointed out the exact place in front of the aforementioned box where I can the flash drive.

Yet despite these very good, very positive occurrences, I’m, overall, feeling neutral emotionally/psychologically. It’s genuinely a mystery.

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Tuesday, April 22, 2014:

3:07 P. M.—Once more the fourth hour of Today provided a welcome, indeed, much-needed oasis from the considerable tension and angst I was undergoing. Yet on today’s show there was an uncharacteristically weird segment. It had to do with KLG and Hoda Woman, wearing slickers over their dresses, and these two housewives, outfitted in red parkas and slippers, and this nutrition expert standing before plates of snacks and—this was the weird part—actually pounding with mallets the snacks that are the least good for you. So help me, these girls were actually beating with mallets ice cream sandwiches, pancakes topped with butter and the like. Again, weird. And not like the fourth Today hour at all.

5:36 P. M.—A somewhat curious happening has taken place. Throughout most of today I was, as has become customary for me, tense, awash in discomfort and paranoia, simply swimming in Negativity (Indeed, the only real and true letup for me came, as was mentioned, while watching Today’s fourth hour). However, now that I’m back inside the apartment, I feel calm, relaxed, even, as much as is possible for me, at peace.

I said at the beginning that the aforementioned states of mind and of psyche are “a somewhat curious happening.” That somewhat was employed because, having reflected, I know full well why I’m more at ease now, nearing the end of the day, than I was during most of it. Those reasons are:

(1) I’ve written my major revelation (my fierce fear of returning to what I was in the 1980s) and what I intend to do about my situation (continually go over in my mind the good and the happy and the positive things about myself and about which I’m involved, continually go over in my mind other late-bloomers) down; thus I have them down on paper, which, as Pastor Niermann said of writing overall, is great therapy;

(2) I’m having my standard self-talk session, which means that, as was mentioned, it’s starting to be the close of the day, I’m laying down upon my bed, I don’t have to be anywhere, I don’t have to do anything—thus my mind and my psyche are entirely at ease, entirely at peace; thus I have plenty of elbow room to be calm and collected, to think clearly and to reflect with maturity;

(3) my nightly sexual-fantasy session is coming up, which has become something to genuinely look forward to now that I’ve solidified my visions and given myself room (in my head) to go wherever my aroused libido takes me.

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Wednesday, April 23, 2014:

11:53 P. M.—Two occurrences took place this morning over which, quite frankly, I AM ECSTATIC!

Number one: During my appointment with Sue Rudisin, I told her what I’d discovered concerning why I cling to Negativity and to hang-ups in general and what I’ve been doing, specifically, to end the fear that I have.

And what happened as a result?

First, when I told her that my not wanting to go back to the bad old days of the 1980s, when I would regularly tear myself apart over my “non-life” and my “non-past” shows a lot of growth and a lot of maturity on my part…she agreed with me (Actually, she agreed when I mentioned having achieved a lot of growth). Then: When I asked Sue if all of what I told her had validity, if, judging by what I’d told her, I was going down the right track…she praised me for “challenging my thoughts” and called my conclusions and what I’ve been to alleviate my fear “excellent.”

All right (She later asserted: “Your hard work and diligence are noted,” and termed my writing “one of the wonderful things you do”)!

And now to number two:

A little while ago, while I was here at the library (and after I discovered and printed that—oh, man!—four more of my blogs got added readership), I checked out publishers and discovered that—oh, man, again!—one of them, namely Jeff Schlesinger from Barringer Publishing, and this honestly blows my mind, has good things to say about my writing (“I find your writing, sense of humor and honest style quite refreshing”) and wants me to send a couple more chapters.

It’s raining men! Hallelulah!

2:41 P. M.—Two very good things transpired earlier.

One, with the ever-invaluable help of—oh, happy day—the blonde and beautiful and boundlessly friendly librarian Joanie, I sent two more chapters, along with a hot mail, to Jeff Schlesinger of Barringer Publishing (In his hot mail to me he asked me four questions. In my hot-mail response I answered the questions I could answer).

Two, I was able to catch the first half of that genuine pick-me-upper, the fourth hour of Today. This time around there were two high-spots, both coming during the opening “Scoop” portion. The first one came when the girls showed People Magazine photos of stars (Julia Roberts, Michelle Pfeiffer, Leonardo DiCaprio) with superimposed pictures of their younger selves. The second arrived when Hoda (lightheartedly, as usual) told Kathie Lee that her “evil photo” wouldn’t be run because, in all honesty, there was absolutely no interest in it and KLG pretended to cry on-camera (She, of course, quickly, “bounded back”).

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Thursday, April 24, 2014:

10:58 P. M.—Deliverance came in twos this morning.

An explanation.

Before I met with Maurice, I was a literal basket case over my coming (indeed, this afternoon’s) meeting with Dr. Gannon. A significant part of me was climbing the walls (within, of course) over whether or not she’ll accept my conclusion as to why I continue to hold on to Negativity and to hang-ups in general, over whether or not she’ll accept my stratagem for dealing with my fear, whether or not she’ll size me up as a basket case, et al, et al, et al. In point of fact, I sincerely tore myself up.

But…

When I met with Maurice, after a while he asked me to get my Access food stamp card which, we both agreed, was in my room. Well, thinking Maurice meant a new Access food stamp card, I looked and looked and looked but couldn’t find it. Thus I brought my old card to the office, grimly preparing myself for whatever negativism (I perceived) would come from Maurice. Yet when I arrived at the office I discovered that…I had the right card after all.

OK!

(What wound up happening here is that Maurice left a message with Vince Cunningham to call the office and Maurice will let me know when Vince gets in touch with him)

The second way in which deliverance showed itself…

After a while Maurice asked about my writing. I told him about Jeff Schlesinger getting back in touch and quite lavishly praising my output and requesting that I send him two more chapters. “That’s great,” Maurice said, smiling. “It’s always great when your work gets that kind of response.”

And it’s because of these two happenings that I’m no longer tied up in knots over my upcoming appointment with Dr. Gannon. The two said occurrences have made me feel good enough to have given me backbone and thus have made me feel confident that, pace my earlier internal hand-wringing, Dr. Gannon will neither dismiss my conclusion nor my fear nor my solution for handling it offhand, that she’ll, as did Sue Rudisin, laud what I’ll say.

(Incidentally, I found out and printed that another one of my blogs got more readership. Nice)

6:49 P. M.—This past afternoon, as far as I was involved, rocked and rolled.

It, from my vantage point, began with Dr. Gannon. We got to her office, we sat down, and, when we got settled in, I asked her a question that had been on my mind almost from the end of our last session: When we last met, did I in any sense rant and bellow? During our last appointment, was I in any capacity excessive? Dr. Gannon’s answer: “I never felt threatened [by you]…I never felt like you were acting inappropriately.” That query having been answered (thank Heaven), I moved on and told her my insight as to why I keep hanging on to Negativity and to neuroses overall and what I’ve been doing to deal with it. As I did with Sue Rudisin, I made it a point to be calm and collected and to not belabor anything.

And what was Dr. Gannon’s reply?

First: When I told her about how, during the 1980s, I was neurotically obsessed with My Lack Of A Life and My Lack Of A Past, she, bless her, tried to convince me otherwise (“You’ve lived at the apartment complex, you’ve held a job, you’ve had a real life”). In time, however, as I related to her what I’ve discovered concerning myself and my strategems for coping with it, she said: “Cool” and “Good,” and at one point said that what I was setting out to do was to “turn over a new leaf.” Finally, I asked her whether or not all I had told her had validity. Her answer: “Yes. Positively.”

I left Dr. Gannon’s office with relief flooding through my veins.

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Friday, April 25, 2014:

3:28 P. M.—Last night, I’m happy to say, was a two-time triumph for me. And both of these triumphs, interestingly enough, happened at Invisible Villages.

Here’s what transpired.

First, we were all sitting around, as is our wont, just shooting the shit (It’s more correct to say that just about everybody else was sitting around, as is the wont, just shooting the shit; I, as usual, was sitting at a table somewhat apart from the others, reading. Also: Jim Walsh made it clear near the end of our meeting’s allotted time that, from here on, he wants us to spend only 15 minutes socializing and the rest of the time working on our scenes). During the shit-shooting, it was brought up that I don’t have Access transportation and that I’m eligible for it. Afterward, conversation centered on the fact that I’m soon to get a brace for my bum leg. What was then discussed (mostly by the others) was the notion that it would be quicker and easier for me to get a knee replacement. When I told the group that my orthopedic surgeon convincingly claimed that such an operation would take months for me to recover from, they responded that such an operation was a relic of the past, that these days it only takes around a week to get better after a knee replacement. Then—and here’s where the first triumph came in—this one member, an especially loud-mouthed, rather obnoxious woman (Jim has told her more than once that she always thinks she’s right “because you talk louder than anyone else”) claimed that I was a victim of racism, contending that as “a black man,” I had been denied surgery that would be best for me. Of course both Jim and myself slapped her down (“Oh, come on,” I said to her. “Don’t be PC”), however, the damage had been done; her rather minimizing remark bugged me. However…as the conversation went on, it came to touch on work those of us of Invisible Villages were currently doing and the aforementioned loud-ass chick said: “Duane handles [acts out] a poem very well.” From that point on I made up my mind to forever put my attention on the loud-mouth’s compliment, not on the hair-shirt-liberal-guilt comment that came beforehand (And, three cheers, it worked and is still working. I have yet to be majorly bothered by the loud-ass’s breast-beating-liberal-guilt assertion whenever my thoughts turn to her).

Second triumph: When our allotted time ended and we were all preparing to file out, Jim came over to where I was sitting and lightheartedly urged me to take part in discussions rather than sit by myself partaking of my reading material. As was mentioned, his entreaty was lighthearted (“I’m not giving you an order. I’m not saying I’m going to shoot you”). Yet, steeped in Negativity as is usual for me, a large part of me heard his call—which, as the man himself freely acknowledged, was not intended as any kind of attack or was even all that negative—and (inside) reacted defensively. Fortunately, however, I very soon bounced back and fully saw the reality of what Jim had said and of what he meant.

In all, a night of triumphs all around.

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Saturday, April 26, 2014:

10:32 P. M.—Before getting into the vital question I asked myself during my self-talk session last night, I want to bring up a stratagem that I find works for me whenever I find myself engaging in one of my key hang-ups.

To wit: Whenever I discover myself getting into the tizzy of What-Would-So-And-So-Say? and What-Would-Such-And-Such-Say?—beyond the obvious response that such inner hand-wringing is basically just more of my never-ending clinging to you-know-what—I usually embark upon two strategies for dealing with it.

One, I normally tell myself: “There is no way, no way you’re ever going to become any kind of celebrity, gain any kind of profile. Not at your age and given the fact that you’re essentially a writer. So quit knocking yourself out over it.”

Two, and I find that this is also quite helpful whenever I feel the desire to be anybody’s or anything’s guardian…well, an explanation is necessary here.

One of the most ingratiating attributes concerning the iconic TV host Dick Cavett is and always has been his witty self-deprecation, his always-lighthearted refusal to bestow upon himself any kind of Greatness.

Very well. Cut to the first personal/professional memoir from the veteran television sports commentator Howard Cosell, wherein Cosell brought up Cavett and at first made some crticisms of him that were, in the main, rather mild. Then Cosell weighed in with: “I also think [Cavett] takes himself too seriously, is much too self-absorbed,” and, afterward, termed Cavett “a shy man.” Much later, New York magazine came out with an article wherein the writer favorably quoted one New Yorker as asserting that, on the scale of self-importance, another, quite prominent New Yorker “falls somewhere between Erica Jong and Dick Cavett.”

Moral: How folks respond to you is always, always beyond your control. So why go into a piss-fit, outwardly or inwardly, over it?

I usually employ this two-pronged maneuver whenever I find myself getting super-antsy about What-Whoever-Would-Say or feel the desire to be anybody’s or anything’s protector. And it normally turns out to be quite effective.

Now to last night’s self-talk period.

It was during said period that I asked myself the following question: “How would it impact you if you, from here on in, just ignored any negative feelings that came into your head, just didn’t acknowledge any of them at all, in any capacity [The impetus for enquiring this of myself came from the therapist/career-counselor Barbara Sher, who, in her iconic how-to book Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want, provocatively—in the positive sense—argued that: (1) “(S)uccess does not depend on how you feel”; and (2) the tenet that you can only excel when you have good feelings is a “mistaken notion”]?”

My allotted time ran out before I had a chance to effectively answer that question but said query continues to resonate inside me.

6:37 P. M.—It at last happened. It finally happened.

I printed the excerpt from my manuscript wherein I tell of my realization and of the fears associated with it.

I didn’t, to tell the whole story, do it accompanied by the warm, cheerful help of Joanie or the other good-looking, good-hearted librarian—the help I got was from this younger fellow with whom, truth be told, I’m not all that friendly. However, I did, with his help, print what I wanted and needed to print. And, what’s more, I didn’t even need his help that much. I did most of what I needed to do—instilling the flash drive, logging on to the manuscript, highlighting what I wanted and needed to print—myself. Really and truly, all I needed him for was to show me that I could delete this extra word that I wound up printing and to clue me in on when I could actually print. Other than those external directives, I, I’m happy to say, did the steps myself, unaided.

And: It was, and still is, quite buoying to read over what I’ve printed, to actually see my conclusion and the fears that go with it written out (There’s one typo and one grammatical error but the way I see it, they cancel each other out).

Happiness abounds.

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Sunday, April 27, 2014:

6:03 P. M.—A lot of things happened today that are beginning to come together in a very positive sense—and are positively impacting my fear of my returning to the grim days of the 1980s, when I relentlessly tore myself apart over my “non-life” and my “non-past.”

Item: I once again saw on DVD the Natalie Portman-Ashton Kutcher cinematic rom-com No Strings Attached and, since it’s almost May and thus close to when I’ll start to receive my benefits and thus close to when I’ll be able to get back my Internet service and my cell phone, I was able to fully relax and fully get into Attached as the often warmhearted, frequently touching, always, always charming film it is. And this time I was able to drink in the sprightly good looks and unforced chemistry of Portman (who, quite interestingly, was one of the picture’s executive producers) and Kutcher sans any grieving over what I don’t have.

Item: Earlier today I overheard my roommate tell somebody over the phone—as best I remember, it was a friend of his—that after 11 or 12 years of living here at the apartment complex he’s “bored.” That should certainly, definitely be a convincer (to me) that in no sense do the staff of CHS dictate terms as to how any resident spends his/her time. Thus it should be a convincer (again, to me) that nobody and nothing associated with CHS will in any capacity stop or even hinder me concerning working on my books.

Item: I’m remembering the comment of the 70-year-old cabaret entertainer/virgin Pam Shaw: “You’re never too old for anything. Just look at Joan Collins.” Of course that’s a major corrective to any self-punishment I might mete out regarding I’m-60-years-old-and-I’ve-never-whatsit.

Item: I’m also remembering this magazine story (it was a tabloid story, but even so…) on Collins herself and her then-beau that was entitled: “Joan Collins: A Bikini Babe—at 70!” The story had photos of Collins and her then-guy at the beach, with her looking POSITIVELY SMOKIN’ in a tiny bikini and ending with her asserting: “Torrid and satisfying sexual affairs are not the sole province of the young.” Another prominent corrective to any breast-beating I may engage in because I’m-60-years-old-and-I’ve-never-(fill in the blank).

Item: A bit of background is necessary here. During my 1980s self-immolation, I incessantly dwelled on the longtime TV sportscaster Howard Cosell, as he, to my then-in-incredible-disarray mind and psyche, was the closest thing to a kindred spirit there was. In thinking of Cosell—and this stretched into the 1990s, when my I-never-lived self-torment returned—I’d think of this one advertising executive calling him, to TV Guide magazine, “a freak personality” with “a limited following,” and of the later comparison of him, by the then-New York Times television critic John J. O’Connor, to J. Fred Muggs, the chimp who regularly appeared on the Today show of old. I’ve come to completely realize that my self-torture was in large part based on my feeling that I myself deserved these pejoratives. And I greatly fear that I’ll feel I will should I revert back to that three-decades-ago self.

All of these recollections and all of these realizations come together to say that, in the case of my roommate, I should, in the name of reason, stop the inner head-clutching and the inner breast-beating over whether or not I’ll have a free hand to work on my books because, as clearly evinced by said roomie, I clearly will. And in all the other cases, that there are possible ways to prevent my 1980s self-destruction from recurring (do activities I honestly like, continually keeping in mind other late-bloomers and others up in age who remain active), provided I summon the will and the courage to employ them.

In all, it’s starting to be a very useful melding.

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Monday, April 28, 2014:

12:10 P. M.—I got a terribly momentous telephone call this morning. Mr. Falls from UPMC called the office (i:e; Maurice) wanting to speak to me. When I got on the line he gave me the 411: I can, considering my bum leg, get a temporary job with UPMC where I don’t have to do as much walking or standing as I did in my earlier courier job. I can work in said temporary position for three months, then, if my leg gets better, I can be eased back into my courier position. I’ll work less hours in the temporary spot but the rate of pay won’t decrease. It all sounded very enticing—until after the call, when Maurice informed me that the benefits Mr. Falls said I’ll still get will be work benefits; my Social Security benefits will be nonexistent.

So the choice is clear: Either I accept Mr. Falls’ offer of working temporarily in a position that will allow me to do less walking and standing and earn the same amount as I did before or I turn down the aforementioned offer, give up working regularly altogether, and get income from Social Security benefits.

In all, quite a daunting choice. And one that certainly, definitely needs to be given a lot, a lot of thought. It most assuredly is one that needs to be the lead subject of tonight’s self-talk session.

Also: I have come to yet another insight. This one isn’t quite as groundbreaking as the one concerning my relentless hanging onto Negativity and discomforts, et al and my fear regarding my 1980s self but it’s pretty damned heavy nevertheless.

And that insight is…

My mega-angst over my “non-life” and my “non-past” was, quite simply, the absolute worst period of my life as an Asperger’s Syndrome sufferer.

I mean, consider: First, my “religious” neurosis during the 1970s, as painful as it was to bear, had to do with God, who, frankly, is not of this world. He, after all, is the Supreme Being and, therefore, is not one of us. My pain about my Lacking A Past, on the other hand, involved my sincere (however unwarranted) feeling that I was not like everybody else, that I had been entirely cut off from life, that I was, in essence, an alien. Secondly, concerning my “religious” self-trauma, the fact is, we don’t see God with our eyes every day or even some days (Although we of course know for a fact that He is real). Conversely, regarding my Absence Of A Life, the truth is, I saw evidence of what I perceived to be true all the time in others—in others I saw in the media, in others I passed on the street, in others I would be amongst in establishments (grocery stores, drugstores, fast-food places, et al). All around me, everywhere I would turn, I would see reminders, namely other folks, of my Lack Of A Past. Indeed, reminders would come at me in a steady onslaught, with me unable to escape. Thus my ache over my supposed spending all of my past cut off and shut off weighed far more heavily upon me than my ache over doing right by God.

And that, frankly, is why I fear a return to how I was three decades ago (and am determined that it not be so). My hang-up over not offending God is, I know for a fact, gone, over, fully behind me. My hang-up over Never Having Had A Life threatens to come to the surface and spill over, like lava within Vesuvius.

6:06 P. M.—The fourth hour of Today to the rescue once again! Once again said show provided joy and uplift at a time when both were in short supply concerning me. This go-around, the highpoint was the gals’ chat with Dame Julie Andrews and her daughter, Emma Walton Hamilton, who were guesting in order to promote their latest children’s book. All of them were positively delightful (and Hoda Woman once more freely displayed those ever-SEN-SA-TION-AL long legs) as they gabbed about Andrews and her daughter’s latest work, their method of collaboration, and how it was like for Emma growing up with a mega-celebrity mother. In all, it was a segment that couldn’t help but bring a smile to the face and warmth to the heart.

And: Some more memories I conjure up that prove to be effective whenever I find myself going whole hog on Negativity, which is and has long been one of my leading neuroses.

.When the longtime novelist-screenwriter William Goldman came out with his first novel, the critics fervently denounced it, they didn’t have one good word to say about it. Ever since then, the man, in an appalling display of terminal thin skin, has conducted a one-person scorched-earth campaign against the entire critical community, blasting them during literally every media appearance.

.When Whoopi Goldberg’s (hugely-underrated) 1990s TV sitcom premiered, Entertainment Weekly magazine aggressively panned it, likely on racial grounds. A brief time afterward, Whoopi included a scene on her show where, during a telephone conversation, her character—a former singer who buys a rather run-down hotel—unleashed a sea of venom against said magazine alone (Seeing the scene, you wanted to say, as I want to say whenever I look back upon it: “Whoopster, come on! Get a grip, girl”).

.And, last but most assuredly not least, it must not be forgotten that there was once this politician from California—his exact home town was Whittier—who would also go ballistic at the reality/notion of criticism of him, who also looked upon any and all those who criticized and/or disagreed with him as evil enemies. And he retained this attitude when he became President of the United States of America. And it caused him to do things like allow—indeed, encourage—his Vice President to go around hollering and ranting and screaming that literally all those who parted company with his boss and/or knocked him in any sense were dangerous traitors; to wage a virtual hate campaign against the media; to, along with his subordinates, relentlessly denounce the official inquiry into his acts, by both the media and Congress, as a liberal vendetta against him, etc. We all, of course, firmly remember what eventually became of him, do we not?

It is these memories that go a long way toward clearing my head whenever I discover myself swimming in Negativity.

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Tuesday, April 29, 2014:

11:02 P. M.—Here at the library I just got word back from one of the publishers to whom I sent a query regarding my memoir. In the publisher’s response I was notified that what are expected from me, among other things, are 1) “a detailed table of contents”; 2) a detailed description of why I’m the perfect person to write this book; 3) detailed information as to the other kinds of books out there that are similar to mine and precisely how they’re similar. Needless to say, I have to wait until tomorrow and bring Neurotic to the library with me, as I don’t remember the titles of all the chapters and what they’re about right offhand. Yet all that material that the company wants has got me thinking: Do I really and truly want—need—to go through all the trouble, all the gymnastics of getting said company what they want? When Jeff Schlesinger of Barrington Publishing has already written to me twice—the only publisher I’ve written to who has done that—each time requesting to see two chapters I’ve done and I just as well wait to see what he has to say? Or, once I get my Internet service back, thanks to the benefits I’ll be receiving, I can, with Maurice’s help, self-publish Neurotic through that online company he told me about and, thus, I don’t have to wait for anybody? Or am I just shying away because publishing my memoir is turning out to be far from a snap and I’m disappointed? Do I want somebody to hold my hand?

Those are the questions facing me.

12:41 P. M.—I’ve been re-re-re-checking out the therapist/career counselor Barbara Sher’s (written “with” Annie Gottlieb) best-selling how-to book Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want. More to the point, I’ve been re-checking out her chapter “Hard Times, or The Power of Negative Thinking.” For the most part, it’s quite a stimulating chapter. In it she deals with what she calls “the ‘Yes-but’ game” (an activity in which I myself have very extravagantly engaged); what she identifies as the right kind of complaining (“The truth is that it just isn’t human nature to feel good all the time. And when you’re feeling bad or hurt or angry or frightened, you should be allowed to make a fuss and your body knows it!”); the effectiveness of writing down the fun you can have with your negative feelings (“Exaggeration, self-parody, melodrama, defiance, and obscenity are all useful weapons, and anything is a fair target: yourself, me, your goal, mother, flag, and country”); what “[t]he operative principle of Hard Times is” (“’Get it off…and then get on with it.’ You’ve got to let negative attitudes and feelings happen [emphasis Sher’s]. Only then will you be ready for positive problem-solving, planning, and action”); how it’s not necessary to feel great in order to do well (“Human moods have remarkably little to do with effective action—and it’s a good thing, or we’d still be living in caves”); the worth in keeping an “Actions & Feelings Journal” ( to keep a record of your daily accomplishments, to allow the self-discovery that actions and feelings don’t necessarily go together); and, finally, how useful it can be to look at your mirror reflection and denounce yourself (“Applaud yourself. Enjoy your negative feelings. And then roll up your sleeves and get down to business”).

Barbara Sher undoubtedly has a very large amount of thought-provoking things to say.

3:07 P. M.—A very gratifying occurrence took place while I was in the lobby of Falk Clinic waiting for the fourth hour of the Today show to come on (I usually watch it on this television that’s where the patients wait to be seen by their doctors): Jason and Cathie (the latter being one of the women with whom I worked during my period as a courier) came over to where I was sitting. Cathie split off, and, when Jason and I were together, he asked me was I coming back to work. I had to, of course, level with him: I told him I rather doubt it. I then remarked that I intend to call him before too long to get the e-mails of him and of the beautiful girls with whom I worked so I can keep in touch with them. Jason, for his part, replied by asking me to have Maurice call him tomorrow (I assured him that I will). In all, a very good reunion/discussion.

As for today’s Today fourth hour itself, the highlight, besides being able to once again savor Hodie’s always, always SPEC-TAC-U-LAR long legs, was the girls’ chat with the two-time Tony Award-winning actress Sutton Foster. They were all thoroughly charming and totally lively as they talked of the titanic success of the Broadway musical in which Foster’s currently appearing (she portrays a girl who has a scar on her face and who is looking for love; said musical is set in 1964); the fact that the Foster character’s scar is not visible (the audience is invited to simply imagine it); and the vast influence Foster’s mother had upon her life (she repeatedly told her daughter to be proud of herself and that genuine beauty comes from within; Foster sees her musical as a tribute to her Mom). The segment, from beginning to end, had me smiling outwardly and glowing inwardly.

6:11 P. M.—Rising-above time here.

Around an hour ago, I went to the office to get my 5:00 med and my food. Natch, The Evil Frank was there. When I went in to the kitchen, I didn’t see my meal so I asked him where it was. He rather snappishly responded: “I have no idea, Duane.” That of course bugged me considerably (and still does when I think back on it), despite the facts that 1) when I walked in, he greeted me and said my name; 2) after his snappishness he asked me how my day was, then asked whether or not I went to People’s Oakland (I told him that I did and told him of the again very pleasant breakfast I had while I was there), then asked whether or not I used their computer while there, and when I responded that I used the one at the library, he reminded me that, now that I’m a full-fledged member, it’s perfectly all right to use their computer; 3) as I was leaving and he said: “See you later,” I continued my policy of just saying: “Yeah,” and going right on walking, without stopping or even slowing my forward motion or even looking at him; 4) his aforementioned snappish tone was simply the latest in a monumental mountain of proof that, since he and I are so far apart on so many matters, he has no desire, none, to be A Pal Of Mine; 5) my being bugged by him basically amounts to my still clinging to Negativity, which, I do because I’m scared crapless that if I entirely let go of it, if I entirely allow myself to embrace contentment and happiness and positivism, then I’ll slip back into etc., etc.

Thus the time has come to do a considerable amount of Rising Above.

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Wednesday, April 30, 2014:

10:49 A. M.—Hope is unquestionably on the horizon.

While here at the library, I, as has become the custom, looked up on hot mail publishers to whom I’ve written concerning Neurotic. Get this: Jeff Schlesinger of Barrington Publishing wrote me back once again, this time saying that he’s interested in the added chapters I sent him and that he’ll get in touch with me next week (His daughter’s set to graduate from college so he’ll be out of town attending her graduation and celebrating the occasion).

I was all broken up with my usual stuff (dredging up negative memories time and time again, paranoia regarding What-Whosit-Would-Say, et al) beforehand. I am most assuredly not busted up now. What I am now is—dare it be said?—thrilled.

Also: I’ve decided that I’m going to excerpt that part of the manuscript wherein I talk about, during the grim (for me) 1980s, I literally believed myself to be a freak and the human version of a bright ape, epithets that were employed to describe the veteran television sports commentator Howard Cosell. After all, it was the fact that I willfully gave myself these descriptions that was largely responsible for my ripping myself apart during the 1980s, for the truth that, three decades ago—and even, for a time, two decades ago—I experienced what was positively the worst period of my Asperger’s-stricken life (However, if it turns out that that younger fellow, with whom I don’t get along that well, is the sole librarian-on-duty, all bets are off. I’ll wait until tomorrow when, I hope, Joanie or that other great-looking, great-spirited librarian will be on deck).

2:14 P. M.—Well, I did it. I printed the excerpt from my manuscript which deals with that time during the 1980s when I was afraid, deathly afraid that I was guilty of having the same attributes that were ascribed to Howard Cosell. Happily, again I did almost all of the procedures on my own, without help from anybody. It was only toward the end that I needed help—and, even then, basically just being told when it was OK to print. So now I’ve got the two print-outs that most delineate what I put myself through in the 1980s and my fears concerning them. Very good!

And: I managed to withdraw $2.25 from my checking account from Citizens’ Bank here in Oakland. That means that I’ve more than enough money to afford to resume getting print-outs of blogs that have added readership and to afford to print-out Jeff Schlesinger’s latest hot mail to me and to be able to put in a quarter in order to get a cart when Maurice takes me food shopping this Friday (I had completely depleted the money supply I had when I got said print-out of said manuscript). Again, very good!

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Thursday, May 1, 2014:

11:58 A. M.—I got a multitude of surprises this morning—half of them happy.

Leading off: When I met with Maurice this morning, he called Jason and, alas, he had to leave a voice mail. Then he tried to call that dentist place for me (they’d sent me a card notifying me that I’m due to come in for a checkup) and found out that…he couldn’t get through (Maurice felt that there was something wrong with the reception and suggested that we try again tomorrow). It all meant that—hurrah, hurrah!—I could go right out and didn’t have to spend any more time. Which was good since I wanted to go to the library before going to Invisible Villages so I could print the blogs that got increased readership and Jeff Schlesinger’s hot mail and so I could write to The Beautiful Marie.

Yet first I was scheduled to meet with Vince Cunningham, who was supposed to come by my place at 10:30 A. M.

Thus I waited until 11:00 A. M. for Vince to arrive. When he didn’t I walked out the door to (so was my intent) the library. I, however, got only a few steps when I heard my name being called out. I turned around and, ta-daaa, there was Vince, seated in his car with his head out the window (“You got a few minutes?” he asked). I got in his car, and he proceeded to show me a clutch of papers, some I could keep for myself, others I had to sign. And I found out from him that my Social Security benefits could very well begin today or, if not today, then in a couple of days (Ho-la!). Best of all: My entire time with Vince took around 10 or 15 minutes. And he drove me to the library to boot. Ho-la twice!

And now that I’m here at the library, not only did I manage to print that four more, four more of my blogs got added readership and print the latest Jeff Schlesinger hot mail but I also got to send The Beautiful Marie another hot mail.

Good day, sunshine!

6:29 P. M.—Today on Today’s fourth hour the high-spot—besides Hoda’s ABSOLUTELY FAB long legs—was the girls’ segment with the Emmy- and Tony Award-winning actress Swoosie Kurtz, who all throughout was positively warm and charming as she talked about her latest book, a tribute to her life with her mother (the Kurtz mother’s mantra: “I love life”). Due to Kurtz’s highly restrained and ingratiating presence, her love for and devotion to her mother unabashedly shone through and made her time on the show a flat-out heart-melter (Also notable: At the end of a segment featuring a trio of cancer-stricken women, Kathie Lee, in a refreshing display of honest emotion, was so emotionally overcome by said women that she had to literally leave the set).

As for the Invisible Villages meeting afterward: Linda, the loud-mouthed, obnoxious member who last time shook me up—in the negative sense--with her claim that I was being victimized by racism because I wasn’t getting a knee replacement, struck again. This time it came after I told the assembled group of Jeff Schlesinger’s hot mail informing me that he was interested in the latest chapters of Neurotic that I’d sent him and that I’d hear from him next week. Linda then weighed in with talk of publishers who want money to publish books up front and that those who do are basically scam artists. She had me feeling quite negative toward Schlesinger until I realized that 1) it’s far too early in my dealings with him to worry about whether or not he’ll want money up front; 2) as Jim Walsh bluntly pointed out, not all publishers are like that; there are those who will pay you before they publish your book; 3) (and this, to a considerable degree, is the real and true issue) Linda has by now fully demonstrated that she is no expert or professional on anything (Jim himself told her, and it’s by far not the first time he’s said this, that she thinks that by talking louder and longer than anybody else, she’s right). Thus I, happily, managed to rise above Linda’s again-loudmouthed (and again-simplistic) asserting.

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Friday, May 2, 2014:

4:35 P. M.—Two very, very pleasing occurrences happened today, occurrences that were both greatly uplifting and greatly warming.

Number one: While Maurice was driving me to this place where I can go food-shopping, we were talking about our plans for the weekend and I told him of how I’d read the therapist/career counselor Barbara Sher telling, in her sold-like-hot-hams how-to book Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want, of how negative thinking—in which, Heaven knows, I’ve engaged literally without letup—can work in your favor provided you do it correctly. I told Maurice, among other things, of my plan to, if (as I quite fervently am hoping will happen) my Social Security benefits are present at Citizens’ Bank in the Giant Eagle Market District tomorrow, but a couple of spiral notebooks so I can keep a Hard Times Notebook and an Actions & Feelings Journal, both of which Sher advises us to keep. To this Maurice said: “You’ve really been focused on your writing…It’s entirely admirable.” And after I detailed what Sher urges to put in said Notebook and in said Journal (in the former, our negative feelings can be dealt with through exaggeration, self-parody, melodrama, defiance, obscenity; in the latter, we can keep records of the date, what we did to accomplish our goal, and how we felt about it as we did it). Said Maurice: “That sounds like a good plan.” Finally, after I let Maurice in on what I (considerably) fear will happen if I entirely let go of my Negativity, my discomforts, et al, he asserted: “I don’t think you have to worry about that, Duane…The fact is, you’ve come such a long way since the ‘80s in terms of maturity, you’ve gotten life experience…You’ve worked at [WPIC] for the last 23 years, there’s your writing…You’ve really come a long way in dealing with your problems. You’ve really been admirable in coping with your hang-ups.”

Now all that provided, and still provides when I think back upon it, a sizeable boost in the emotional/psychological, and even the intellectual sense.

Number two: The high point of the Today show’s fourth hour today—besides the thrill and the joy, as always, of being able to drink in those succulently long, succulently shapely Hoda Woman legs—and the surprise, was seeing a second segment, within the show, featuring the In Style magazine editor Bobbie Thomas, who usually comes by Today to do segments handing out beauty tips. Well, she did another segment within today’s outing, this one giving tips on how women can make themselves more glam around the eyes. The segment was effective mostly because Bobbie was less giddy, more restrained than she was during her first segment and, truth be told, she is whenever she does her Today portions (Another noteworthy factor: This was the second Today fourth hour wherein there was not one celebrity guest of any kind. Not one).

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Sunday, May 4, 2014:

1:00 P. M.—A major breakthrough came during last night’s self-talk session. Actually, it was a series of breakthroughs.

Here’s the explanation. Up until now, almost all of the leading insights I had involving my obsession with Negativity and with my discomforts, et al and the fear that accompanied it and the like were matters that I knew were true in my head but for the most part that’s all they touched. In the main, they didn’t reach my heart or my psyche. However, with last night’s self-talk period, they at last finally got through entirely. I now grasp emotionally/psychologically as well as intellectually that my incessant clinging to Negativity and discomforts, etc. comes out of the fear that, otherwise, my 1980s self that was always, always saying that I Never Had A Life, that Literally Everybody In The World Had A Life Except Me, blah blah blah will return—along with the sense that, now that I’m 60 years old and am genuinely headed for senior-citizen status, those sentiments will be truer than ever. I also get, in my heart and in my psyche as well as in my head, the truth of Barbara Sher’s statements, in Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want, that our moods have little to do with whether or not we’re successful, that it’s a falsehood that we have to feel marvelous in order to do marvelous work and so on. I knew all these things were true intellectually but, starting with last night’s self-talk, I now know them e./p. Also: When I went to Citizens’ Bank in the Giant Eagle Market District and was told, in effect, that my Social Security benefits hadn’t arrived yet, I was of course disappointed but in no sense did it rip me up inside. I realized in heart and psyche as well as in head that even though said benefits hadn’t come that day, this being the month of May, they’ll show up before too long (and, too, I can ask Maurice when I see him tomorrow whether or not those benefits will come through direct deposit—and can also ask him to call Vince Cunningham, since the latter was the one who told me that the benefits would come yesterday and I can ask him just when they will come).

It used to be, as far as Negativity and my discomforts and the like were concerned, I could be summed up in that famous Smokey Robinson lyric—“Outside I’m masquerading/Inside my hope is fading”—but no more. Within me “my hope” is in no sense “fading”—e./p. as well as intellectually.

6:03 P. M.—Three major discoveries have been experienced by me today. And they all say some pretty revealing things.

First up: Throughout this morning and early this afternoon I’d planned that Boynton Beach Club was going to be my Sunday DVD-to-watch. As I mentioned earlier, when I saw (that is, re-re-saw) it a while ago, I dug it as the qualitative film it is but my enjoyment was marred by seeing the Joseph Bologna character at his computer, which reminded me of the fact that I (however temporarily) ceased having Internet service. Yet I’d planned to view said picture today because, well, this month my benefits are supposed to start arriving, which means I’ll be able to get back my Internet service this month. Thus, so my reasoning went, I could watch Boynton with a completely at-ease head and heart and psyche, not feeling any pangs whatsoever. Well, as the time got closer to my allotted DVD-watching period, it grew on me more and more that the film that I really and truly wanted to see (yet again) was Scream 4—it’s faster-paced, it’s more gripping, the dialogue and (let us acknowledge it) the acting are spicier. Finally, I came to see, in head and heart and psyche, that the main reason I wanted to watch Boynton had to do with my hang-ups; I wanted to experience the reassuring balm of seeing 60-year-olds who were happy, who were having romantic/sexual affairs, who were entirely embracing life. I wouldn’t in effect be watching and savoring a picture, I would in effect be engaging in therapy. In the end, I opted for cinematic quality over therapy and (re-re-re-) watched Scream 4. And despite the fact that it must have been around the third time I saw it…I genuinely dug it. The film thoroughly, totally engrossed me (well, re-re-re-engrossed me); all while (re-re-re-) viewing it I was entirely absorbed, there were only (at most) two times when Negativity touched my mind and both times I easily overcame them, not once did I pick at or play with my fingers while the picture was running—and not once did I notice the time in any capacity. In sum, re-re-re-viewing Scream 4 was for me a tonic in the very best sense. I’m damned glad to have done it.

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Monday, May 5, 2014:

12:12 P. M.—Major, major breakthrough time here.

This morning marked yet another morning that I was going through my stuff, dredging up this negative memory and dredging up that negative memory and actively seeking out negative memories and all the rest of it. These tendencies stayed with me as I embarked upon my quotas of turning out my manuscript.

But…

Very early in my writing I once again thought of Barbara Sher’s words in her book Wishcraft regarding how our moods have nothing to do with competent action, how it’s a fallacy that we have to feel good in order to do good work and the like. So what I did was to simply turn away from negative feelings (of whatever kind) altogether and put my attention on my writing. And guess what…IT WORKED! Despite my letting this Negativity and that Negativity and Negativity, Negativity, Negativity and discomforts, discomforts, discomforts into my mind, I was still able to be attentive to my writing, was still able to give it my full concentration and focus, was still able to do my usual plentiful amount of writing and not majorly screw up in any sense. And it was all that, all this that taught me an uber-valuable lesson that stays with me even now…

It’s OK to have negative feelings of whatever kind as long as you don’t allow those feelings to distract you from or in any sense negatively impact what you should be doing.

It’s a fact I’ve learned that has buoyed me like no other.

(Major Very Fortunate Happening time: When I went on the computer in the library to check out blogs that have gotten increased readership, to check out whether or not The Beautiful Marie wrote me back, and to check out whether or not Jeff Schlesinger got back to me, I discovered that I couldn’t get through. And I couldn’t get through because…my library card had expired. And…I was told that I had a $5.00 overdue fine to pay. Now this was mega-bad news indeed because 1] I only had $3.00 in solid cash and 2] I’m going to need to get into the computer to receive Schlesinger when he gets back to me this week as, last week, he assured me that he would. Thus it was with considerable trepidation that I went up to the customer desk and filled out the renewal-of-card form. Then…When the fellow behind the desk told me of the $5.00 fine, I somewhat hesitantly asked if it would be possible to pay my fine with the $3.00 I had with me and pay the rest at a later time. And the fellow…said that I could. Thus I handed over the $3.00 feeling intensely relieved.

Incidentally: Four more, four more of my blogs got added readership, The Beautiful Marie didn’t get back to me, and Schlesinger didn’t either)

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Tuesday, May 6, 2014:

8:08 A. M.—During my self-talk session last night a thought hit me that has since remained (and has been further endorsed; I’ll explain in time) and that could very well impact me permanently.

To explain:

While I was into my self-talk last night, I thought of Dr. Gannon and Maurice’s words as to how my past 23 years working at WPIC constitutes my having had a life. It hit me, pondering on what they said, that maybe, just maybe they were on to something. What has further nudged me in this direction is that, just now, while I was taking my morning meds, I got into a discussion with this staff person with whom I’ve clashed in the past—indeed, just before I took my morning meds, we had a mini-clash—and during said discussion I got into the fact that I won’t be working any more. She proceeded to ask how long I’d been at my job. When I told her I’d been working as a WPIC courier for 23 years, she remarked: “Wooo! That’s a long time! A long time!” Thus there’s yet another voice in favor of the argument that my working life and the length of it mean that I indeed have had a life, a past. It in sum is shaping to be a case of if-enough-folks-tell-you-you’re-drunk-you-should-seriously-consider-lying-down.

Returning to my self-talk period: I also thought about my attitude(s) toward Howard Cosell, who, let it be acknowledged, greatly fueled my super-angst during the 1980s and who greatly fuels my fear that it’ll come again should I permit myself to entirely embrace happiness and positivism. Specifically, I thought of Cosell’s being termed “a freak personality” and of his being likened to J. Fred Muggs, the Today show chimp of old and of how, during those dark days (for me) of three decades ago, I would very often imagine myself as deserving said epithets. And it came to me…Cosell very much merited being called those things—not so much because of his broadcasting style (I never, ever saw him in action) but because of his overall look and his overall public persona. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t conventionally handsome; he was flat-out grotesque, with his bulbous, extended nose; his long, heavy-lidded face; his garish, affected hairstyle; and his bombastic, ever-preening air (Indeed, upon a first look at him, he did somewhat resemble a simian). When, in one of his memoirs, he asserted: “Have I made compromises? Yes, because I am human,” it caused me to raise my eyebrows and still does whenever I think back upon it, because very, very seldom did Cosell come across as genuinely human (In point of fact, the only time I saw him come off as honestly human was when he was on a talk show with this rather shallow and silly past-middle-aged female television personality and she went into this monumentally self-righteous tirade as to how athletes should be role models for young folks and how young folks need heroes to look up to and how athletes need to be heroes for the benefit of young folks and blah blah blah. The talk show’s host valiantly tried to make her see reality [“You can build a tower of Oz to the point where it becomes a paranoid fantasy”] but no dice; the TV personality went right on ranting. Finally Cosell told her, somewhat hesitantly: “You’ve a right to your own opinion.” For that single moment Cosell came off as an actual person, wore a sincerely human face). I know, I know, Cosell was the very first sports commentator who called Cassius Clay by his new, chosen name and was literally the only major one who publicly stood up for him when he openly fought being inducted into the Army. However, since I am not nor have ever been, to employ my Mom’s phrase, “into black” and am not nor have ever been, for the most part, a sports fan, Ali never meant much to me—in any capacity.

Thus went my 1980s mega-lament that I was like Howard Cosell. And thus goes my current passion to avoid returning to feeling, to the point of consistently tearing myself apart inside, that I am like him.

7:22 P. M.—The staff member with whom I’ve collided in the past who was so positively provocative this morning was so again—albeit in a very different way—this afternoon.

It happened when, after I saw Maurice come out of the office (it was a great surprise to me that he was in today), I went inside to speak to him about various matters (when he’d be able to get me my leg brace, how I can apply for Access transportation) and, during a lull in our conversation, I again got to talking with the aforementioned staff member and I told her that her comment as to my having worked at WPIC for a long time has greatly impacted me, has caused me to greatly reflect on myself and on what I’ve done before. Said staff member replied: “[Now that you’re not working any more, y]ou can do anything you want. You can travel, go to other places, travel to other countries, do nothing…I went to Africa. I never thought I’d go to Africa. If you would have told me I’d be going to Africa, I would have said: ‘No way.’” Not a precise answer to my original comment but more favorably provocative words—words that further quell my fear concerning CHS dictating how its consumers, apartment-complex residents or whatever, spend their time. And further (indirect) assurance that I’ll always, always have a free hand in regard to my dream of having my books published.

Afterword

Well, here I am, having reached the end of my time keeping a journal concerning my obsession with Negativity and with my discomforts and all the rest of it. Thus the question begs itself: What have I learned from my period being screwed up? What knowledge have I gained due to my time employing the wrong way of evading tumbling back into my 1980s I-never-lived self—which is, in the final analysis, exactly what my relentless clinging to Negativity and my discomforts and the like amounts to?

For starters…

I’ve learned, thanks to Barbara Sher, that having negative feelings and discomforts and everything else do not have to be hindrances. From Sher I very firmly got the message that your moods have nothing at all to do with whether or not you do well, that you can feel absolutely crummy inside and still do quality work. It’s a lesson that, as I’ve documented, I’ve twice put to use in turning out this very manuscript. Even though, while twice working on my manuscript, it was negative memories, negative memories, negative memories, discomforts, discomforts, discomforts, etc., etc., at no time was my writing impacted. Both times while engaging in my writing, no matter how much crap I let into my head, I was attentive, I was concentrating, I was focused. At all times, both times, I was completely attuned to what I was doing, and at no time, no time did I majorly screw up while writing. Thus was the Sher point made: It’s not necessary to feel wonderful in order to do wonderful work.

Also: I’ve learned how vital it is to have momentary pleasures. I’ve discovered that it’s greatly important to engage in activities that, if only for the period that I’m engaging in them, uplift me, be it having my sexual fantasies or viewing the fourth hour of the Today show or watching DVDs of qualitative films. It is partaking of these joys, however for-the-moment, that, as Viktor E. Frankl—who, as has been noted, was in a far worse situation than that which I’ve ever been or ever will be—pointed out, can be intensely buoying during the period you’re imbibing in them. More important, they can bring about a “bounce” (a political term for the good feeling voters have for a presidential candidate after a successful nominating convention) that can last after the particular engaged-in pleasure has ended and can, at least for the time the “bounce” is underway, see you through tough emotional/psychological times, can significantly ease the burden.

Going on: Another lesson I’ve learned is that, in carrying around your Negativity, your discomforts, etc., one word is absolutely crucial: perspective. It’s positively necessary to maintain a sense of proportion concerning e./p. ailments. It was Dick Smothers, the straight-man half of the veteran Smothers Brothers comedy team, who told a journalist, in reference to the period after the CBS network cancelled their “controversial” comedy-variety show and his brother was near-incessantly stewing about it while he was pursuing his passion for auto racing: “While Tom was spending 18 hours a day hating the world, I was spending 24 hours a day loving it.” Indeed, I’ve found out that, even when the weight of your e./p. albatross is bearing upon you the most, there’s always reason to be happy and exultant, always something about which to smile and be upbeat.

To proceed: I’ve also learned how important it is to have a dream, a goal. The truth is—and I’ve mentioned this before—except for my blog writing, literally all my past creative endeavors were done in the spirit of dilettantism. I was never serious, really and truly, regarding any of them. With working to get my books published, however, I finally had a serious dream, a purposeful goal. I was at last involved in a long-range creative pursuit about which I was, to employ the word of my good, good friend Maurice Moyes, “passionate,” rather than a long-term pursuit I undertook as a lark/whim or as an outlet for my hang-ups in the worst sense or as a means to satisfy some frivolous fantasy (During her final days—of which I’ve spoken in the past—my Mom called all the creative doings in which I was involved up to that point “these nice little things you do.” I indignantly called her on that and she wound up sincerely apologizing, but I’ve come to realize that, considering the fact that none of said doings were done because I had a burning need to do them, were the result of wings intensely beating within, she in effect gave them the term they deserved).

And to take up the subject of my ever-present fear of going back to my 1980s I-never-had-a-life self, many folks, from my great buddy Maurice to the Invisible Villages head Jim Walsh, have told me, when I’ve spoken to them concerning my no longer working that the fact that I’ve worked as a WPIC courier for the past 23 years means that I’ve been working there for a long time—and half of them have said flat-out that that means that, pace my fear, I have had life experience. Not only that, but, after the latest Invisible Villages meeting, I had a sit-down with Patti Krebbs, my former CEO job supervisor, wherein she fondly told me that I’m “quirky, in a good sense” and with equal fondness added: “You’re unique, you’re different, and there’s nobody like you.” These comments raise the issues of 1) whether or not my 23 years working as a courier for WPIC does, as I’ve been told (directly and indirectly), mean that I have been part of life after all; and 2) considering what Patti amiably told me, whether or not Not Being Like Everybody Else is actually all that bad—as long as I’m not singular in the Howard Cosell sense, as long as I’m not “a freak personality” or the humanized version of a bright chimp.

At last finally: I have fully come to terms, e./p. as well as intellectually, with what my Curiosity and my Social Concern are and have always been (for the most part) all about. In truth, neither is nor has ever been (in general) genuine. In truth, what I’ve engaged in has been (again, in general) neither active and sincere curiosity nor fully-functioning and heartfelt social interest. It was (once again, in general) sheer, self-serving assuaging of my own discomforts, pure and simple. What I’ve been involved with, broadly speaking, is not a love/hate affair with The Black Community or with The Liberal Establishment or with The Media (on the whole) or with Hollywood (collectively) or with politics (at least, not since the Democrats won the White House in 1976) or with America or with The World or with Humanity. What I’ve been involved with, again, broadly speaking, is a pure-hate affair, and a one-sided pure-hate affair at that, with what I’ve read and heard and been told and overheard that has hurt and/or offended me personally. That’s it.

So these days I just try to go about my regular, day-in-day-out business and do my damnedest to rise above my Asperger’s, to significantly move forward. It hasn’t been easy but, if I may toot my own horn here, I continue to be in there swinging. During the 1990s, when my I-never-had-a-past uber-breast-beating of the 1980s returned, both my Mom and my Dad asked me, at different times and with the same level of exasperation: “Why don’t you just live your life?” That, in these times, is exactly what I’ve been trying to do—one day at a time.

I like to think that, overall, I’ve been successful.