feb 26, 2001
5:22 PM
I am writing this off-line from my
apartment in
highland. It's off
Baseline.
rumor has it that there is an
Albertson's nearby. I'm not really sure what my
address is. It's a little back/
guest house. I can't fit my
wheelchair in the
bedroom or bath
room; so you can
imagine how I've been living.
The
stove's
pilot light leaks but won't light.
The
sink leaked all over every
bathroom item that needed to stay
dry.
The old
bitch that owns the place still has half her
shit here
cluttering my space... strangely
familiar scenario.
I'm moving again to a bigger place. Soon, I hope.
Hew-
bird is here
squealing happily to a
guitar solo on the stereo.
For those that care, it's
Fuel.
From the
front window I have a choice of 2
views to focus on.
Nearest is the
driveway for the front house...
A line-up of
trashcans
carpet s
craps
car with a badly
neglected fuel injector
unusably filthy
gas bar-b-q with a brand-new, shiney tank
undead shrubs
a boogie-board ...with
bricks stacked on it...?
milk crates
porcupine
lawn decoration, sun bleached
magenta and green. He's upside-down with his
quills stuck in the ground. Poor guy.
A pitbull/
dingo mix with mighty
proud hemoroids
second choice is the top 1/3rd of the
San Bernardino mountains. The cloud over the peak is so dense that the whole hill is blackened. Like somebody set the base aflame and
let it ride. But you know me,
I like it. It's black.
I had to leave my life-long house (not home) in
Colton when my
grandmother spun certifiably out of sync with this plane of
reality. It was somehow
triggered by my borrowing 1 of 2 large, full, bottles of
oregano from the
spice rack. I was going to use it to
flock the base of a
miniature I just finished.
Damn me to hell.
I haven't bought any
oregano to sit by my new
salt and pepper shakers yet. I haven't decided yet if
oregano is my bane, or the standard of my new family
crest.
I was sent to a
nursing home by
adult protective services (APS) while I looked for this apartment and waited for my section8 voucher. I thought it would be a short, easy stay, but I found myself
trapped there for 17 days. The nursing home's
social worker told me that my case was APS's exclusively; no other entity could aid my situation till APS released me to my own custody... Yes, APS had CUSTODY of me! By going to them for h
elp I had signed my life over to them. And I couldn't leave the nursing home, or handle much of my business affairs, without going through them. Biggest problem in this is that APS completely forgot about me for 2 weeks while I rotted in that sea of crippled gang members, brain-dead
addicts, and various other creatures that wear
adult diapers and play
bingo for peanuts. Worst insult is that APS told me they would be there to meet me when I arrived. I can't describe the overwhelming feeling of dread choking me when I was greeted instead by Nurse Linda.
the nurse had a sing-songy voice from an old school
disney cartoon; perfect for lulling rabid 'tards.
"nooo-o, nobody from adult protective services is here riiiight nu-ooow, BUT I know of some GREAT people over here in the activities room that CAN'T WAIT to meet ye-ouew... EVERYouuuNe, this is Daaarill. daryl this is ethyl... dharma... drink juice... stories... keno night..."
There's plentyofroom at d'hotel californyah...
in the middle of my nursing home
stay I had to return to grandma's with
the police to collect my stuff.
I have most of my belongings but it was like pulling rusty
nails. My grandmother layed claim to most
everything that I have. If I couldn't provide documented proof of ownership or it wasn't
medical equipment she told the
cops it was hers. I didn't fight it. It isn't worth the effort and
I don't have time to go to court. The cop had no real power in the matter; he just looks
impressive.
She claimed things that were gifts from relatives of hers. The most insignificant of things. And with the most
illogical,
asinine reasoning. No shame at all...
My copper
piggy bank -- "my sister gave him that, it's mine!"
(If only I had put my initials on the 1200+ pennies in there...)
My grandfather's
dog tags -- "you were never in the army! It's mine"
("nerve gas from Operation: Camel Thunder put me in this chair! The VFW has proof..." {I
pocketed them when she wasn't looking, along with his
Masonic ring})
my area
heater -- "Steve gave him that and Steve's room is colder. I'll hold on to it."
(The only gifts I ever got from Steve were free
John Deere promos... oh, and a dislocated
petela bundled with accusations of molesting his son... with a sword... dressed as a
zombie pirate... "arrrrh,
scourge of all necromancing
butt pirates
Stride be. arrrh")
the gifts from her, she can keep. I don't want them.
But her logic is still a
pentium dividing by zero.
How in the fuck did I ever get A+'s in Psychology, Critical Thinking and Philosophy coming out of this
gene pool?...
My TV -- "I gave him that for finishing highschool but he never finished college. It's mine!"
(It's steve's actually! I 'traded' the time before last that he 'left forever')
my computer desk -- "I bought that with his
first computer. He doesn't have that computer so he doesn't need the desk."
(I DO miss my
Laser128; but the desk was
FUBAR. I just didn't appreciate real
oak at the age of 13)
my
microwave -- "I just bought it! I have the receipt..."
(She DID kinda hafta buy it for my room... I'M NOT ALLOWED IN HER KITCHEN!)
Grandma just can't seem to find the keys to the tool shed so I can get my $2000 generator... How convenient. I'm supposed to return with more police, a social worker, and my receipt from honda. seems pointless though.
While we were picking up the stuff she tried to get me in trouble with the police...
"When you pick up your fridge be careful of all those
open bottles of booze."
"Don't forget that
whiskey in the closet. Two big bottles."
I think the cop saw my need for a swig of
indifference now and again. He was
silent.
And then, the one that should have worked:
"what about that
rifle of yours!
Don't forget it. I don't want illegal things
in my house."
(oooh, you mean my unregistered, illegally modified, 12
guage roomsweaper with the
pistol grip? My Columbine After School Special!? Thanks so very fucking much for reminding me
while a cop is within arms reach!... kill her! kill her!
kill her! kill her! kill her! kill her! kill her! kill her!)
I managed to calmly say "no, that belongs to Steve."
"No, that's yours!"
"It's Steve's.
What would I be doing with a shotgun?!"
(Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!
Kill her! Kill her!)
I haven't figured out exactly
why yet, but the subject was dropped there. The cop had no reaction what-so-ever.
So, now I have moved by the kitchen where my
phone line was just installed. A cluster of the previous inhabitants furniture is lending altitude to my
powerbook. the dressers are obviously
jacked from a
camper shell. They're the kind that have drawers to small to hold more than 2 thin t-shirts.
I only have the single phone line and need to keep it open for vital calls from housing, disabled services, doctors, my attendants, my wheelchair pimper... I'll go on-line tonight long enough to send this text to my family; my real family. The people that have noticed my absence.
It's gonna be awhile before I can get back to the things that made my life livable. Maybe I'll show up for my
BattleTech game next time if I can manage a decent
shower.
I still have many hard tasks ahead of me. But I also have a unique opportunity to pick and choose who gets in
my life this time around.