LONG SLOW DEATH IN ENDLESS REHAB

 Breathe a sigh of relief. My previous saints and sinners post is gone.

I know of three people who enjoy reading about my past. Four people politely tolerate it. The rest can't wait until I write another post about my grim agony and long, slow death here in godforsaken rehab.

My literary efforts go up in smoke like a '75 Ford Pinto.

Anyway, I enjoy writing. It's my best reward to my selfish self.

I'm not in the mood to supress my past and dish out all the crap I'm going through here in (physical) rehab. I'm in an extremely foul mood with everything in general.

Everything concerning the bogus concept that life is a gift, rainbows are on the horizon, the angels above are playing harps and singing just for us....is absolute bull. At least for me at this moment.

I want my past back - - when I could walk without any aide, drink myself into oblivion, do devious things that would make Satan blush, gleefully escape the L.A. vice cops.........and, when reasonably sober, I could perform half a dozen Scriabin etudes on a concert stage without a hitch.

Right now, in this dire illusion of pseudo - reality, some of the fingers on both my hands are numb. They've been that way for months but I never bothered to mention.

A bitch of irony for a pianist, huh?

What's causing it, I wonder? Is it the dozen or so of the meds that they ply me with every morning?

Modern medicine can kill you faster than drinking, having sex, and practicing the piano five hours a day. 

I still have the flu or whatever the hell it is....about three weeks of coughing and spitting up phlem. Not a pretty sight, boys and girls.

I completely (and I mean completely) lost my sense of taste for nearly two weeks. My tastebuds are slowly, very slowly, coming back to life.

I could slightly taste the ham and sweet potatoes at lunch today.

I don't have covid - - although there are now 8,555,703 strains of it.

If you sneeze from a pansy, it's covid.

If you fart from eating your grandma's jambalaya, it's covid.

Whatever.

Love me or hate me, you'll seldom read a pathological collection of thoughts like mine.

I still can't walk, still in pain. There's no end to my agony.....and I could write over a dozen problems I'm plagued with now.

Including a gigantic cyst on my right arm which is horrifying. It will be removed....soon....I hope.

I'm no longer a human being, as if I ever was one.

Thanks to anyone who read this.

And many thanks to the few who tolerated my previous post.

Jon 💙  perhaps still alive

BTW

I always love your comments and I always try to reply to them. Just a few minutes ago, the "reply" thing has stopped working. It stopped right after I replied to Jo's comment. 

Update - - Blogger must have heard me. Today (Friday) the "reply" thingie is fixed!

This was a crappy, dire blog post.

I should apologize.....(?)

Just to annoy you *smile* - a few more of my ai creations.

SAINT OR SINNER?

 

After reading posts from this blog, it's probably obvious that I am two people - - I have two distinct personalities.

I am a saint and a sinner. 

I've always been an enigma, and it's difficult for me to figure myself out.

St. John......or Rasputin.

Let's begin with the saint.

I was always timid, gullible, shy, self-conscious. Incredibly self-critical. Deep down, I probably have more feminine traits than masculine. I'm passionately romantic, hopelessly sentimental. I'm notoriously sensitive. I cannot deal with criticism. 

My Interests are vast. I love art and literature, but my absolutely greatest love is music. All kinds of music but specifically classical - - which stirs the depths of my soul. I am immersed in the beauty of ballet, and mesmerized with the addictive intoxication of opera - which evokes intense joy or (often) tears of sentimentality. Puccini is my ultra favorite opera composer......but Wagner is a religious experience (try Parsifal or the Walkure, if you dare).

                    *** *** ***

I am an independent thinker. I'm not influenced by trends. I don't fall for the bullcrap media propaganda that circulates.

I don't like other people to think for me.

I'm also a loner. I like people and enjoy their company, but I've always enjoyed my own company. I don't need another person to make me feel whole.

                    *** *** ***

How about the sinner.

When I emerged from my timid teens and my father's abuse, I transformed myself into a different person. I literally forced myself to be someone I never knew. I escaped reality with booze, drugs, and rampant promiscuity. I was stunned to discover both men and women were attracted to me. And I eventually took full advantage of it. When you're young, blonde, and inexperienced in Hollywood, anything can happen.

I became addicted to danger. Can you imagine a very intense and passionate relationship with an incredibly handsome ex-con who was in prison for armed robbery and attempted murder? It was a fantastic adventure that I'll never regret.

This is the only photo I could find on my cell phone of me when I was in Hollywood. Take it or leave it......the skull symbolizes danger

I became tough, streetwise. I knew the drug dealers, pimps and hustlers....and other undesirables. An infamous underground film director offered me a role in a gay porn film. Of course I declined. I had at least some semblance of dignity. 

I'm the one who was being mugged late at night in downtown Los Angeles and I slashed the mugger's hand with my knife.

I'm the one who can be brought to tears from a beautiful passage in an opera or symphony.

Saint or sinner?

Both.

I undoubtedly inherited these traits from both my parents.

My mother was not only beautiful but also brilliant. No exaggeration. She was an extraordinary pianist. Had an insatiable quest for learning. She and I both shared the same interests. Music, art, literature, history. She was very creative, compassionate, forgiving, and honest to a fault.

Despite all of her positive traits, she had (like myself) very little self confidence. She always looked gorgeous.

My mom, in her early forties. Her hair was naturally light, but she was notorious for dying it different colors.

My father was her direct opposite. Shrewd, crude, sneaky, vicious, vindictive, critical, condescending, and absolutely the most violent person I ever knew in my entire life. The fear of him that I had is completely impossible to describe. To this day, I still shudder at the insane things he did. His blind rage was definitely an insanity.

Yet, he was meticulously neat and clean, a good provider, and an extremely hard worker. He was definitely a workaholic. Hyperactive. He was absolutely brilliant at making things and fixing things. He loved music. And, unbelievable as it seems, he was a good cook.

Dad and me, not a flattering photo but it's all I have available  here on my cell phone

In wintery Atlantic City, a few days before I was born. His hair looks dark on photos. It was actually light and he had very blue eyes. He definitely wasn't good looking......when I was grown, he often said he envied my looks (!?).

I admittedly inherited some of my father's bad traits - - but thank God I was never violent and never had a temper. I'm passive and (usually) easy going.

As a child, I had many "artistic" interests. I was constantly drawing and painting, and reading books. I much prefered to be in the kitchen cooking with the ladies rather than outside with the men, discussing cars and sports.

Actually, I was terrified of men - - was afraid of being near them. It wasn't until years later that I discovered there were good men, not monsters like my father.

I'll be shockingly honest. In my wild youth I was (unknowingly) seeking a father figure. Why, when I was twenty-three, would I be having a relationship with a fifty-year-old man? ( a wealthy ex-model ). He had class.

Sorry if that's disturbing. This is true confession time.

I was never an effeminate child. I swam, rode my bike, played ball, climbed trees......roller skated (roller skates? holy crap).

I never cried. Learned to keep the agony within. When I was fourteen and my father beat the shit out of me and fractured two of my ribs, I never cried.

When I was seven years old, in a VERY freak accident (not involving my father) one of my fingernails (right index finger) was completely ripped off to the root. I never cried. My father carefully bandaged it. I was never taken to a doctor. They were the good ol' days when home care remedies were supreme.

The fingernail took a long time to grow back.

This "confession" is getting too long. I've told far too much - - and not enough - - trying to unravel the enigma that is myself.

Thanks for reading this. And possibly understanding.

Jon 🤎  hesitant to post this

Afterthoughts

I tried many drugs in my destructive youth, but never ever liked them. Drugs unnerve me.....and I don't have an addictive personality.

Booze was my weakness back then.

The fingernail incident when I was seven. I was playing near an old shed with a friend. There was an unusual sort-of-padlock on the door. I (foolishly) stuck my finger in it, which somehow got caught. While frantically trying to get my finger out, my entire fingernail ripped clean off.....

I still get the chills thinking of it. It took months to fully grow back.

It's impossible to describe my extraordinary existence in one blog post. I have incredible stories to tell. Some might be very shocking.

I'm not bragging about my (very many) sexual exploits. I'm not proud......but I'm merely telling the truth. I want to be totally honest about myself. I don't want to bury the past.