Not Perfect, Not God
So I killed my own sister. Or
half-sister. I'm guessing she had a different dad. But I don't know
that. Her name was Sarah. Or Sara. I forget. I could look up her
grave, and read the gravestone. I've never been. Sarah Salazar. I
remember that. There was an army commercial with a soldier in his
uniform, with the name Salazar, that reminded me, long ago. I like
to think of myself as a psychiatrist. It seems like a fun job, being
involved intimately with people's mental lives. A military
psychiatrist seems like the best gig. Hardcore and real. So that's
what I am, in my own head. I am a pacifist, and aware of the hell of
war, and the need for peace between individuals of all stripes, gangs
of all colors, countries of all flavors. My dad gave me an “I hate
the dodgers” t-shirt when I was a kid. We went to a demolition
derby, at the Dixon May Fair, when I was in college. His all-black
Model A Ford was named “Ozzie.” And I remember looking at
Soldier-of-Fortune magazine, when I was a kid, at the nearby hobby
store. I brought home a stack of porn magazines from a flea market,
that I hid from my dad, and was going to sell at SI (but instead just
gave them away). I could have been expelled!
Anyway, I was a lector for the Newman
center at Davis, while I was an undergrad at UCD. I always
considered the Eucharist to be symbolic cannibalism, so Hannibal
Lecter, from the book/movie Silence of the Lambs, was relevant in
multiple ways: cannibal, lector, genius, hardcore. I've always
wanted the insight, brilliance, and lethality of a “monster” like
HL. Happiness and love, but also an instrument of hell for evil
people, enemies, those who would restrict my freedom, those who hate
me, causes of suffering. Vengeance and justice, embodied in the form
of a Godly assassin, a living vigilante nightmare for the cruel,
brutal, depraved, and wicked. But I've moved beyond this, this
desire for violence, this eye for an eye that leaves the whole world
blind. I've had my fill of satanism, vampire mentality, demonology,
and obsession with the dark, death, murder, revenge, and hate. I was
immersed in this, for years, getting satisfaction from movies and
music, and being rather solitary, despite the company of my
telepathic voice, taking medication for psychosis and schizophrenia.
My birthmother, Annette Riddle, is schizophrenic, too. I knew this,
and told the doctors, when they diagnosed me; maybe... I'm not, or
maybe I shouldn't have told them, leading to the conclusion of
hereditary mental illness. Or maybe Annette is happy, telepathically
communicating with her friends, in Eugene, OR. So maybe one, both,
or neither of us has an affliction! I've related to mutants on
x-men, Harry Potter, vampires, neo, antiheroes like HL, Pai Mei, even
Sauron and Kaiser Soze. I've willingly let the movies I've seen
become personal, hypnotic, and living within me, within my mind,
within my mental life. My latest gig has been being none other than
God Himself. When will I grow up, and be a boring person, the man I
really am, and nothing more? I've been the body politic. I've
pondered being a “global telepath.” I've taken everything
personally, seriously. But I'm moving toward Buddhism. Why, the
Buddha, of course. How could I be anything but? Well, everyone has
a buddha nature, so it's not that big a deal. But narcissism,
egocentricity, and self-absorption, of someone who wants to be the
alpha male, big dog #1, president, etc. can make life interesting,
even if it's all a delusion, a farce, role-playing, mental
masturbation, and utterly pointless.
So, first I was bipolar. They
prescribed lithium, a mood stabilizer. But the highs, the mania, why
would anyone want to lose that? Every test in school has a deadline,
a speed component, and thinking and speaking quickly, while being
happy, that's what I remember myself as being, not someone who
vacillated between unhealthy extremes of depression and unrealistic
elation. Basically, I think I just annoyed someone by being happy,
and ended up getting medicated for it. There's a t-shirt with a
happy face, with a bullet-hole in his forehead...so that, in a
nutshell. Since then, I've identified with the buddhist “no-self”
and seriously considered there's no “me” there, in that maybe I'm
channeling the thoughts and experiences and realities of everyone
else, including maybe animals, if not insects. I'm a microcosm of
the greater world. It's the perspective of a mystic, an adept, or
maybe Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. The question remains, am
I the cause, or the consequence, of society around me, or both, or
neither? How am I different from everybody else? I'm plainly weird,
but how weird? I've defined myself by books more than movies or tv,
more recently, such as Neuromancer, or that story I've never been
able to find from one of the Year's Best Horror and Fantasy series.
Ah, life.
So anyway, Sarah Salazar (SS!) was
my sister, who I met after my birth-family hired a detective and
located me in the dorms at UCDavis when I was a sophomore (wise
fool). I got a call from my birth grand-uncle, Mel Lindley,
Annette's mom's brother, who lived in Paradise, California. Elba
Davenport (Annette's remarried mom), also lived in Paradise, in
another home. SS reminds me of nazis, Eugene reminds me of eugenics,
and Paradise reminds me of Hell, Norway (there was a fire in Paradise
that made the news, a few years back). Hell is a real place, too!
(It snows there). Sarah lived in Lancaster, and unlike me, hers was
an open adoption, and she both knew and lived with her birth-family,
in Paradise, off and on. Sarah was beautiful, younger than me, age
17 I think, and I was excited to know her and make and have a friend
for life. I drove down to Lancaster, where her family live(s?/d),
and met some of her family, before -after promising to drive safely-
driving her in my brown Honda civic, on the way to Davis first, so
she could meet my roommates and see my college, and then Paradise,
with her belongings in the back. We didn't make it. I crashed. She
was ejected, and died. I hope she's in Paradise. I don't believe in
souls, or a heavenly afterlife, but still, I hope she's there, on the
off-chance I'm wrong. I think it's just a dream people have, or -in
some cases- need to believe in, that can be simulated in dreams.
Morpheus is the God of dreams, and heaven is just the projected
memory (presence?) of the deceased, whom some of us choose to believe
are still alive, and inhabiting some actual heavenly realm, and not
just the brain/imagination of a dream-God that's
telepathically/psychically-broadcasted to us as we sleep. Maybe
both or neither, in some sense? It's interesting to think about.
So, anyway, I was speeding, driving at night, on god-knows-what
freeway, when she lit up a cigarrette in the passenger seat. Which
was stupid. I thought I'd try one, too. Which was even more
stupid. Then she lit the cigarrette, with my head turned, which was
when I veered left, onto the gravel in the center, which caused me to
over-correct, and flip down the embankment on the right, ejecting her
(no seat-belt). I found her by a tree, unconscious, with labored
breathing . I got a cut on my left elbow. I ran to the store nearby,
losing one of my sandals in the process (eve and adams?), and started
cpr when I didn't feel a pulse or breath, until the ambulance
arrived. A helicopter came, and reporter(s?) with cameras, too. It
was in the middle of the night. The police drove me to the hospital,
where they eventually told me that she had died (I'm not sure when).
I called my parents, and my dad came to pick me up. I forget the
town we were in. I saw it on a package of prunes, once. But I
forget the name. My dad drove me to the crash site, after buying
trash bags to put her stuff in, and we picked everything up. Take me
away was a song on a cassette of hers. We brought it all to her
parents' house, and I apologized and explained what happened, to her
family. Her dad was angry, and a woman (aunt?) was also angry. I
cried, deeply, in the car with my dad. I returned to Davis, and
resumed my job as a student housekeeper. I told some of them about
it, and one guy thought the accident must have been sexually
influenced, like a blow job or something. It wasn't.
Anyway, it was a nightmare. I
shouldn't have been speeding, she shouldn't have been smoking, or not
worn her seatbelt, I shouldn't have asked for a cigarette, I
shouldn't have taken my eyes of the road, I shouldn't have veered
left, I shouldn't have overcorrected, and (maybe) I shouldn't have
attempted cpr. That's a whole lot of error (7 or 8). Jeezus. I
sometimes think it wasn't my fault, like maybe it was David, in my
head, punishing me / pre-emptively killing my reputation, for being
pro-life, or not gay, or being dark, or god knows what. I really am
sorry. I told her family that she told me a joke, which was true
(but left out the part about the cigarettes). Death-sticks, as star
wars called them. I kind of considered myself as like darth-vader,
screaming down the freeway in my tie-fighter. I'm hardly a jedi.
The only time I've ever sword-fought was with noodles in a swimming
pool, and I got smacked in the face! Sarah's family got like a
million dollars, I think. My dad luckily had insurance. I bought a
card to send the family, thanks for your understanding I think it
was, but I never sent it. As you might imagine, it was also rough
meeting with Annette afterward (years later?), when I took Amtrak to
Oregon. I haven't talked to her since, although I've looked online
and believe she's still in Oregon, somewhere (else). So I'm hardly
Hannibal Lecter, either. I married Sara Brown, and she drove a black
honda, with an srs airbag, which is all weird. My name in Spanish is
Isai or Jesus, but I'm hardly the messiah, either. That's not to say
maybe I shouldn't give it a shot. ME 2!
My blog says I'm God, but for now I'm
going to try being a middle-aged man, without a girlfriend or wife,
living alone, and trying to climb his way out of hell into health and
sanity, as a brother, son, friend, dog-walker, and roommate,
interested in life, almost everything, really. Well maybe I've
outgrown roller coasters. The crash, I've said, would have been fun,
like a rollercoaster, if my sister hadn't have been
unbelted/ejected/suffering/killed. Honda means deep in spanish. So
i've been a deep thinker, like the Han, duh (ethnic chinese). I
won't think anymore when I'm 6 feet under. I'll only be 2 feet
under. Unless I'm buried with a wife and child. That would make
6. I'm interested in travel, music, movies, nature, dating,
reading, the news, comedy, exercise, vegetarian cooking, restaurants,
writing, a few tv shows, martial arts/self-defense, dogfish (pro
ultimate frisbee), plays, religion and spirituality (rituals,
variety), maybe getting another degree, meditation, and yes, drugs.
I want to look good, feel good, be motivated/dedicated (m.o., dead
cat!) to goals objectives discipline to etb etr, and be healthy,
wealthy, and wise. I want love. Maybe I need to come clean about
some stuff. Lover = hell over. IN LOVE=NO EVIL. Hell is he will,
well is we will. So get social, be a part of a community
(cum-unity?). Fall in love = fell. Ugh. Fell street is in SF.
Suck fuck city. There's a Jessie street, too.
The woman I was dating at the time
of the accident, Ellen Covington French, is now Ellen Trainor (ET!).
She could have been Ellen Teshara, also ET. Covfefe? I have a
possible interpretation! Fe =iron. Or faith, in spanish. Faith
twice, right and left. Co =company. v- vampire. Do vampires have
no reflection, or shatter the mirror, or both? I forget, lol. I'm
overweight, and have a gut I want to lose, muscle I want to gain,
flexibility too, on the way to some form of martial mastery, ideally.
But I'm 46 years old, maybe too old to start this shit. I'm an
ancient one. Who wants to be in the company of a vampire, anyway?
Only Havelock Vetinari and Woland. Ok, not an immortal. Just me,
JLT. Hopefully not jailtime (!) I've also wondered if my driving
was influenced by anyone else who might had poor reflexes. I guess I
should move on, accept full responsibility for the death of my only
blood-relative, other than Annette (I'm honestly not fully certain
she's my birthmother!) (I haven't met Richard Stollnitz, although
I've been given another name for a possible paternity, too.) I'm
grateful for self-driving cars, and am glad I didn't have sex with my
sister, or end up being an assassin, like I was honestly tempted to
become, despite being the boy who had been awarded “most kind” in
grammar school (st. stephen's). I'm glad I survived, and was with
Sara, even though that's over, too. Every day is a new day, and I
guess I'll start over, March 24, 2018. I can still play around
with being God. It may seem crazy, but I think I've hit on something
good, helpful, and wise.
The other thing about me, besides
the accident, was I spent 10 months in jail, charged with assault and
battery on a police officer. Or police officers, since I was
wrestling with like 3 of them. There was a group of like 10 of them,
all told. This was in Sacramento. God's country. I had stopped
taking my medications (I forget which ones I was on at the time), and
was living in a room and board that wasn't very healthy: there was no
caretaker living with us, the quality and quantity of food was poor,
and there were tenants who were really messed up (one was using
needles), and one of them wanted to fight me, which I have never done
(except for a short , mad, tussle in grammar school). I don't know
why he wanted to fight me. I told him to call the cops, and he did,
and then I got on the phone, and told them that I had killed someone,
which the police dispatcher didn't take seriously (rightly), but I
was crazy, and insisted they send police over, because there was a
body in the house (a lie). Was that a crime? Lying to the
dispatcher? A free-speech infraction, or violation...they don't call
it that. I believe I was under the assumption that everything would
be fine when they discovered nothing was actually wrong. But I was
having heavy delusions of roommates spotting aliens in the sky; that
I destroyed 2 universes just by thinking (my brain had two electric
“pops” that I interpreted immediately in this way, for some
reason); I had called my mom a bitch the day before, on the phone, I
think; and I retreated from the police (“here, look where the body
is!”) while they had lasers trained on me (!!); and then I gave one
cop my right wrist to handcuff, while not giving him my left, to see
if I could escape him (I was thinking of it as a chance to have fun
-i like wrestling- and also a way for me to train the police (!));
and then, when they finally subdued me, I was looking out of the
police car for that spaceship I had in mind from the day before). I
needed to be on medication, or go to the hospital, or somehow
extricate myself from that house, that roommate (eric), or the
police, who had a station nearby, and whom I was actually happy to
have there, because I was thinking of myself as more of a cop than a
psychotic patient or criminal, and Eric was the real criminal,
anyway, for instigating a fight, in my view. He had a pet bunny, I
remember. White. So I went to jail, including time at Atascadero
State Hospital, because I was deemed “incompetent to stand trial,”
where I ate well, met some interesting people, got to play basketball
and pingpong, learned the difference between G/NG/NGRI, went to
buddhist services, saw a few movies, and used their library. I
bought a radio, while there, and an it's it almost daily. My cells
in Sacramento were trippy, I remember, because I saw all kinds of
representations in the paint on the door, among other things (like
string that could be made into a garrote, or the light settings that
could be adjusted to create different feeling-tones, or the toilet
that could be transformed into a telephone (no joke!)). Also, it
seemed like I was in a chinese submarine, waiting to be visited by
Stalin, or seeing a punk Hitler in the mirror... Well, anyway, that
is all behind me, and I hope and pray nothing but sanity, health,
love, friendship, and happiness await.
Manslaughter looks like man slaughter
(like a slaughterhouse for humans?!), or man's laughter, but this was
a girl's tragedy, nothing funny about it. So I killed my own sister
(not intentionally, of course), and went to jail for hitting a cop (I
gave the officer a half-hearted gut punch, the “fight” was never
serious).
Not much of a God, eh? Compromised,
you might say. Or human, like everyone else.
Maybe I feel subhuman, possessed even,
and am trying to make up for my mistake.
quote
The man who makes no mistakes does not make anything
