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T. Michael Barclay's "Asylum Earth" takes a slightly different look at people, places and events that shape the planet we are confined to. It's overwhelming evidence that the patients are indeed running the asylum.
Friday, January 23, 2004
CONFESSIONS OF A LOST SOUL –
You Do What You Have To Do . . .
It was early, real early; I didn’t want to move for fear of waking up whatever it was that I had sold my soul to on this most awful of nights. Who, it didn’t matter, they were each like separate chapters in my life. I close them as soon as I can.
I could hear the cars on the street below. I remember what it was like to get up early and drive to a normal job. I knew that there were people driving to work with what they thought were problems while sipping that first mug of a new day’s coffee. Problems, they had no idea . . .
I didn’t want to turn over and face what I had become in the early morning hours. I didn’t want to admit what I was, what I had turned out to be. I really, really needed to pee, that deep ache of your bladder pressing against the stomach kind of need. Getting up meant facing the last ugly reality of a long night of ‘several’ realities. It was better, far better to just lie in the dark and pretend for a few more minutes that I was somebody normal, somebody with a regular life, if even for a few more minutes.
A full nights sleep, what is that? These early rising, carefree, coffee drinking commuters know what that is like, don’t they? It’s been so long, I forget. I try to think back when I started this profession that made me work all night pushing my body to extremes all those tailgaters know nothing about. They get up each morning without having to face the fact that they spent an entire night of giving up every fiber of their dignity, going until you collapse over and over in a heap of sweat feeling nothing but failure.
How do I face it yet again? Another long, long night of selling what most people hold precious and private, making yourself feel something you cannot feel. And, the verbal joust, the gut wrenching mental masturbation, saying all the right words, you hope at the right time. I try and tell myself that family and friends will never know, but they will, they always do. Why, because the proof is always there for them to see. What is this self-destructive behavior and when did it start? What drove me to this point?
Thoughts swirl through my head but I dare not move. To move is to wake up something I had rather stay asleep. Worse I might stir the passion again, to start up again and I’ve just had all I want considering the meager wages of sin.
The sun is beginning to rise and soon I will have no choice but face the hard cold facts. If I can ease the pillow over my face, I can escape for what, an hour, a half-hour? When is the last time I went to sleep before the sun came up? When was the last time I had a normal morning, a morning like those office workers playing bumper tag below? I am going to have to move, but not just now.
A shower is going to feel good, but not make me feel good. I cannot wash off what I am. I cannot wash the facts down the drain. I can dress up, but everyone will know what I am, it is going to be right out there for them to judge me, they always do. I can be clean on the outside, but never on the inside, because I know who and what I am and there are spots that will never wash off. I made a decision to start down this path, a path that is accepted in some small circles, but for the most part, not understood or much tolerated by the vast majority.
Thinking that I can do this and get away with it was my first mistake. Thinking that I would be judged for my inner person and not what the public saw was foolish on my part, but the lure was just too strong. The fast money, the competition, the danger, the roll of the dice, playing on peoples weaknesses, all seemed too easy. How could I have been so wrong?
I can tell by the sounds of the day that I might as well just get up and pee. I am going to have to face the ugly reality I face sleepless morning after sleepless morning. I look over and see no signs of respect, what did I expect? There is no emotion, just staring, like I am an animal, a piece of meat.
They know that I cannot resist, I will not be able to sleep until they own my very soul. One after damnable one, each one using me, making me do things I do now want to do and throwing me away. After such a long night, one of an endless number of nights spent like this, I just wish people thought I did something acceptable, like prostitution, or dealing drugs, even pornography.
But no, they know what I do, late at night, over and over. Tonight I will have to face blank page after blank page again, like I do every night, until one of us is finished, because, as much as it hurts, I am . . . a writer.
Wordsmith
You Do What You Have To Do . . .
It was early, real early; I didn’t want to move for fear of waking up whatever it was that I had sold my soul to on this most awful of nights. Who, it didn’t matter, they were each like separate chapters in my life. I close them as soon as I can.
I could hear the cars on the street below. I remember what it was like to get up early and drive to a normal job. I knew that there were people driving to work with what they thought were problems while sipping that first mug of a new day’s coffee. Problems, they had no idea . . .
I didn’t want to turn over and face what I had become in the early morning hours. I didn’t want to admit what I was, what I had turned out to be. I really, really needed to pee, that deep ache of your bladder pressing against the stomach kind of need. Getting up meant facing the last ugly reality of a long night of ‘several’ realities. It was better, far better to just lie in the dark and pretend for a few more minutes that I was somebody normal, somebody with a regular life, if even for a few more minutes.
A full nights sleep, what is that? These early rising, carefree, coffee drinking commuters know what that is like, don’t they? It’s been so long, I forget. I try to think back when I started this profession that made me work all night pushing my body to extremes all those tailgaters know nothing about. They get up each morning without having to face the fact that they spent an entire night of giving up every fiber of their dignity, going until you collapse over and over in a heap of sweat feeling nothing but failure.
How do I face it yet again? Another long, long night of selling what most people hold precious and private, making yourself feel something you cannot feel. And, the verbal joust, the gut wrenching mental masturbation, saying all the right words, you hope at the right time. I try and tell myself that family and friends will never know, but they will, they always do. Why, because the proof is always there for them to see. What is this self-destructive behavior and when did it start? What drove me to this point?
Thoughts swirl through my head but I dare not move. To move is to wake up something I had rather stay asleep. Worse I might stir the passion again, to start up again and I’ve just had all I want considering the meager wages of sin.
The sun is beginning to rise and soon I will have no choice but face the hard cold facts. If I can ease the pillow over my face, I can escape for what, an hour, a half-hour? When is the last time I went to sleep before the sun came up? When was the last time I had a normal morning, a morning like those office workers playing bumper tag below? I am going to have to move, but not just now.
A shower is going to feel good, but not make me feel good. I cannot wash off what I am. I cannot wash the facts down the drain. I can dress up, but everyone will know what I am, it is going to be right out there for them to judge me, they always do. I can be clean on the outside, but never on the inside, because I know who and what I am and there are spots that will never wash off. I made a decision to start down this path, a path that is accepted in some small circles, but for the most part, not understood or much tolerated by the vast majority.
Thinking that I can do this and get away with it was my first mistake. Thinking that I would be judged for my inner person and not what the public saw was foolish on my part, but the lure was just too strong. The fast money, the competition, the danger, the roll of the dice, playing on peoples weaknesses, all seemed too easy. How could I have been so wrong?
I can tell by the sounds of the day that I might as well just get up and pee. I am going to have to face the ugly reality I face sleepless morning after sleepless morning. I look over and see no signs of respect, what did I expect? There is no emotion, just staring, like I am an animal, a piece of meat.
They know that I cannot resist, I will not be able to sleep until they own my very soul. One after damnable one, each one using me, making me do things I do now want to do and throwing me away. After such a long night, one of an endless number of nights spent like this, I just wish people thought I did something acceptable, like prostitution, or dealing drugs, even pornography.
But no, they know what I do, late at night, over and over. Tonight I will have to face blank page after blank page again, like I do every night, until one of us is finished, because, as much as it hurts, I am . . . a writer.
Wordsmith
Thursday, January 15, 2004
TOILET TRIVIA -
Is It Ever The City’s Fault? . . .
Not since my father told me the septic tank was a ‘kiddie’ pool have I experienced the pleasure of being up to my arm pits in familiar feces. My wife and I were awakened in the early hours yesterday by the unmistakable aroma of our sons ‘No, you change him’ diaper. Reconciling this situation brought about a couple of realities; first, our son is a couple of rooms removed from us. Second, his diaper was not even wet!
A quick check or our facilities brought us to the shocking realism that we might have a tiny plumbing problem. Considering that it was coming up through the bathtub and shower drains, I quickly surmised that we were indeed having a Lysol moment. My wife, ever into her own world, was busy taking the logically challenged tactic of flushing our collective toilets. This produced the almost immediate result of simultaneous toilet high tide and the most distasteful drain belching known to humankind.
Proving that being logically challenged is a family trait, I called the city public works department to report our problem. This produced as pleasant an exchange as you can have describing, to a complete stranger, that your bathtub and toilet have far more in common that one would like. We were promised that a ‘crew’ would be dispatched with great haste and try not to light a match.
We live in a small town and I suppose six hours is a reasonable reaction time, although convincing my now visibly bug-eyed wife was another problem. Within a span of about ten minutes we had three city trucks, a car and eight of the finest examples of our tax dollars at work right there in our front yard. Watching what amounted to our local version of a ‘Chinese fire drill,’ would at least make for an interesting afternoon.
The local utilities hierarchy was in full bloom. The man that arrived in the car, remained in the car, one can assume happy to be supervising in a delegation of authority sort of way. The driver of the larger ‘tank’ truck had his helper fetch a long handled shovel so he would have something to lean on. The driver of the second ‘bobtail’ truck called via mobile radio to verify the address that he promptly received from - you guessed it - the man in the car.
We now had six people standing over a manhole (every notice that women have never lobbied to have that description changed?) watching one person work. A pressurized hose was inserted to determine of there was in fact a ‘blockage.’ Confirmation came quickly in the form of my wife bolting from the house screaming something about who was going to clean the walls.
With this event came a simultaneous evacuation on the sewage drain side of a tiny piece of white PVC pipe. Well, you would have thought the whole crew had won the lottery. Seems that this occurrence is concrete proof that the problem is on the ‘property’ owners side of the sewer system (everybody knows that their pipe is green!) and a spontaneous picking up of shovels and rolling up of hoses began. With that, we were bid a ‘good luck’ and the city was off like it was last call at the ‘Beer & Brat.’
Of course now it was well after 5:00p and any call to a plumber would result in the normal emergency time and a-half charges. So, we decide that we can just rough it for one night. (‘We’ being interpreted rather loosely by the only other one of us not in diapers)
As I drift off to a bathless sleep I can only dream that considering what the plumbing company is going to do to me tomorrow, I wonder if it would be too much to ask for a kiss first!
T. Michael Barclay
Is It Ever The City’s Fault? . . .
Not since my father told me the septic tank was a ‘kiddie’ pool have I experienced the pleasure of being up to my arm pits in familiar feces. My wife and I were awakened in the early hours yesterday by the unmistakable aroma of our sons ‘No, you change him’ diaper. Reconciling this situation brought about a couple of realities; first, our son is a couple of rooms removed from us. Second, his diaper was not even wet!
A quick check or our facilities brought us to the shocking realism that we might have a tiny plumbing problem. Considering that it was coming up through the bathtub and shower drains, I quickly surmised that we were indeed having a Lysol moment. My wife, ever into her own world, was busy taking the logically challenged tactic of flushing our collective toilets. This produced the almost immediate result of simultaneous toilet high tide and the most distasteful drain belching known to humankind.
Proving that being logically challenged is a family trait, I called the city public works department to report our problem. This produced as pleasant an exchange as you can have describing, to a complete stranger, that your bathtub and toilet have far more in common that one would like. We were promised that a ‘crew’ would be dispatched with great haste and try not to light a match.
We live in a small town and I suppose six hours is a reasonable reaction time, although convincing my now visibly bug-eyed wife was another problem. Within a span of about ten minutes we had three city trucks, a car and eight of the finest examples of our tax dollars at work right there in our front yard. Watching what amounted to our local version of a ‘Chinese fire drill,’ would at least make for an interesting afternoon.
The local utilities hierarchy was in full bloom. The man that arrived in the car, remained in the car, one can assume happy to be supervising in a delegation of authority sort of way. The driver of the larger ‘tank’ truck had his helper fetch a long handled shovel so he would have something to lean on. The driver of the second ‘bobtail’ truck called via mobile radio to verify the address that he promptly received from - you guessed it - the man in the car.
We now had six people standing over a manhole (every notice that women have never lobbied to have that description changed?) watching one person work. A pressurized hose was inserted to determine of there was in fact a ‘blockage.’ Confirmation came quickly in the form of my wife bolting from the house screaming something about who was going to clean the walls.
With this event came a simultaneous evacuation on the sewage drain side of a tiny piece of white PVC pipe. Well, you would have thought the whole crew had won the lottery. Seems that this occurrence is concrete proof that the problem is on the ‘property’ owners side of the sewer system (everybody knows that their pipe is green!) and a spontaneous picking up of shovels and rolling up of hoses began. With that, we were bid a ‘good luck’ and the city was off like it was last call at the ‘Beer & Brat.’
Of course now it was well after 5:00p and any call to a plumber would result in the normal emergency time and a-half charges. So, we decide that we can just rough it for one night. (‘We’ being interpreted rather loosely by the only other one of us not in diapers)
As I drift off to a bathless sleep I can only dream that considering what the plumbing company is going to do to me tomorrow, I wonder if it would be too much to ask for a kiss first!
T. Michael Barclay
Monday, January 12, 2004
WHAT’S WORSE THAN SUICIDE? –
Apparently In Tanzania, Trying To . . .
A man in Tanzania has come up with a unique way of getting around the little matter of explaining to his wife why she saw him in bed with another woman . . . he simply said, “Sorry dear, I can’t hear you, I’m busy hanging myself.”
Not satisfied with that answer, she had the forethought to get a knife, and fighting the urge to play ‘slice the salami,’ she cut him down. What started out as a simple turn at mattress mambo was fast becoming the ultimate; ‘What you get for what you got’ scenario.
To add insult to injury, it seems that attempting to commit suicide is against the law in Tanzania! What with all the stitching of wrists, healing rope burns and pumping people’s stomachs, one can just imagine the drain on the government coffers. So, they passed a law that basically said . . . “If you are going to do it, do it right.”
The logic here seems to be that if you think you have enough problems to just end it all, think again. You could have more problems and we are going to show you exactly how that works.
So, as the sun sets on our little Tanzanian genius, he is faced with one really pissed wife, a none to happy girlfriend, the minute matter of marital infidelity and a hefty fine for attempted suicide.
Oh, and he needs a new rope!
T. Michael Barclay
Apparently In Tanzania, Trying To . . .
A man in Tanzania has come up with a unique way of getting around the little matter of explaining to his wife why she saw him in bed with another woman . . . he simply said, “Sorry dear, I can’t hear you, I’m busy hanging myself.”
Not satisfied with that answer, she had the forethought to get a knife, and fighting the urge to play ‘slice the salami,’ she cut him down. What started out as a simple turn at mattress mambo was fast becoming the ultimate; ‘What you get for what you got’ scenario.
To add insult to injury, it seems that attempting to commit suicide is against the law in Tanzania! What with all the stitching of wrists, healing rope burns and pumping people’s stomachs, one can just imagine the drain on the government coffers. So, they passed a law that basically said . . . “If you are going to do it, do it right.”
The logic here seems to be that if you think you have enough problems to just end it all, think again. You could have more problems and we are going to show you exactly how that works.
So, as the sun sets on our little Tanzanian genius, he is faced with one really pissed wife, a none to happy girlfriend, the minute matter of marital infidelity and a hefty fine for attempted suicide.
Oh, and he needs a new rope!
T. Michael Barclay
Sunday, January 04, 2004
ASK YOUR MOTHER! -
More Information Than We Need To Know . . .
I just saw a commercial about ‘stretch marks’. I’m serious as a heart attack. I was more like listening to a TV program while I was on my computer and they came to a break and announced; “This blah, blah, blah program is brought to you by . . . stretch marks”!
They then proceeded to show a woman (Believe me my attention was now on the screen) about fifteen month’s pregnant wearing a ‘halter’ top, for Christ’s sake, and then went on about some cream or another. I’m in my office and don’t have cable hooked up . . . This means this was on network TV!
Well, that should just about clear up any confusion on the part of today’s kids trying to figure out the ‘Viagra’ and ‘Levetra’ spots.
You know, it’s okay for you women to have a little talk with our daughters about that ‘Tampax’ commercial or the utopia scent douche spot, but how do you suppose we fathers fold that into a conversation with junior? “Oh, no Son, it’s really very normal and actually a good thing. Now try and not tease you Sister, ok sport?”
The timing of these things leaves a little to be desired as well . . . “Hey kids, just as soon as you’re finished watching that ‘Preparation H’ commercial, it’s time to eat’!
“Sure Son, I’ve tied it, doesn’t taste worth a damn, but it seems to work pretty well. What’s it for? Let’s say we wait until after supper to discuss that.”
The ‘condom’ spots used to bother me until Bob Dole started doing them. Then it dawned on me that the analogy between condoms and politics is so logical I can’t wait to explain it to my son.
I can remember when the worst advertisements on television were the Marlboro Man and the Hamm’s bear trying to corrupt the younger generation. Well, guess what? I can put a pretty good argument together to convince my kids not to smoke or drink. But, by limiting or eliminating these advertisements we opened up a whole lot of commercial time for products I’m have a much harder time with.
“No, serious Dad, how do you use that Preparation H stuff?”
“Well, Son, remember where your Mother told me I could stick the Super Bowl?”
Wordsmith
More Information Than We Need To Know . . .
I just saw a commercial about ‘stretch marks’. I’m serious as a heart attack. I was more like listening to a TV program while I was on my computer and they came to a break and announced; “This blah, blah, blah program is brought to you by . . . stretch marks”!
They then proceeded to show a woman (Believe me my attention was now on the screen) about fifteen month’s pregnant wearing a ‘halter’ top, for Christ’s sake, and then went on about some cream or another. I’m in my office and don’t have cable hooked up . . . This means this was on network TV!
Well, that should just about clear up any confusion on the part of today’s kids trying to figure out the ‘Viagra’ and ‘Levetra’ spots.
You know, it’s okay for you women to have a little talk with our daughters about that ‘Tampax’ commercial or the utopia scent douche spot, but how do you suppose we fathers fold that into a conversation with junior? “Oh, no Son, it’s really very normal and actually a good thing. Now try and not tease you Sister, ok sport?”
The timing of these things leaves a little to be desired as well . . . “Hey kids, just as soon as you’re finished watching that ‘Preparation H’ commercial, it’s time to eat’!
“Sure Son, I’ve tied it, doesn’t taste worth a damn, but it seems to work pretty well. What’s it for? Let’s say we wait until after supper to discuss that.”
The ‘condom’ spots used to bother me until Bob Dole started doing them. Then it dawned on me that the analogy between condoms and politics is so logical I can’t wait to explain it to my son.
I can remember when the worst advertisements on television were the Marlboro Man and the Hamm’s bear trying to corrupt the younger generation. Well, guess what? I can put a pretty good argument together to convince my kids not to smoke or drink. But, by limiting or eliminating these advertisements we opened up a whole lot of commercial time for products I’m have a much harder time with.
“No, serious Dad, how do you use that Preparation H stuff?”
“Well, Son, remember where your Mother told me I could stick the Super Bowl?”
Wordsmith
Thursday, January 01, 2004
THREE DOG NIGHT –
Assuming, Of Course, You Can Read The Day After New Years Eve . . .
A ‘three dog night’ comes from how cold it was on a given night in the far North. The colder it was, the more ‘dogs’ you needed to cuddle up with . . . lousy sleeping conditions, great band!
I had a ‘standard’ poodle named Scruples. Scruples was a wonderful dog and smart like all poodles. One day I decided that I was going to teach Scruples to ‘fetch’. I took her out into the back yard, threw a Frisbee out about fifty yards. Scruples sat down and just looked at me as to say . . . “Now, that was the single dumbest thing I ever saw a white man do in my life. Now you are going to have to run all the way out there and get that thing!”
She never, never, ever chased that Frisbee or any damn thing else.
Scruples was the smartest dog I ever knew . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Assuming, Of Course, You Can Read The Day After New Years Eve . . .
A ‘three dog night’ comes from how cold it was on a given night in the far North. The colder it was, the more ‘dogs’ you needed to cuddle up with . . . lousy sleeping conditions, great band!
I had a ‘standard’ poodle named Scruples. Scruples was a wonderful dog and smart like all poodles. One day I decided that I was going to teach Scruples to ‘fetch’. I took her out into the back yard, threw a Frisbee out about fifty yards. Scruples sat down and just looked at me as to say . . . “Now, that was the single dumbest thing I ever saw a white man do in my life. Now you are going to have to run all the way out there and get that thing!”
She never, never, ever chased that Frisbee or any damn thing else.
Scruples was the smartest dog I ever knew . . .
T. Michael Barclay
