Category Archives: writing

Antici….: Jessie’s First AMA

tim-curry-rocky-horror1-165937

I see you shiver!

Hello my lovelies! I asked for it, and you gave it to me. So here you are! Answers to the AMA (Ask Me Anything) questions I requested on Facebook and Instagram! Excitement abounds, as we hold our breaths in antici….pation!

Let us begin, shall we?

  • Chad jumps in with a toughie! He asks: “How hard is it to continue to blog? Do you run out of ideas? What percentage of comments about your blog do you find frustrating?”
    • I’m overlooking the three-for here, Chad, because they are interesting questions . To your first point: yes and no. It’s something that I enjoy doing. It makes me happy to toss my brain droppings at an unexpecting world. But it is one of those things that can get easily lost in the shuffle of life. I try to schedule out a day or half-for blogging once a week. And, of course, it limbers me up to work on other writing, as well as helping me schedule that other writing work in. It’s a practice, like Kung Fu or something.
    • Do I run out of ideas? Oh good gracious no! I hold extensive conversations with myself, and sometimes I just have to settle the issue in a blog. Or I can always do an AMA…
    • The comments that frustrate me are the ones that are never posted.
  • Jenny asks: How does she get the black, henna tattoo she gave herself while mildly intoxicated and disturbed by puppies, off her hand?
    • Baking soda? Strong detergent that removes oils, rubbing alchol, mineral spirits? Good luck.
  • Deborah asks: Is there another job or skill, trade, or occupation that you ever considered trying or at least learning besides your writing?
    • Kudos on a good question. I actually didn’t formally study writing in college. So, I suppose the answer is, I have! I took an audit on small business planning and propsal writing at Temple. I trained in ESL and taught in Costa Rica for three years. I also trained to be a paid, written translator, which I did more towards of the end of my time there. I gringofied text to ensure native usage.
    • I also studied film and art, and that came with some unusual uses, and joys. Including: screenwriting, story boarding, classical oil painting, how to coil a cord, wire things, sound edit, sculpt, draw from life, draw the human form. I also took a lot of wonderful humanities courses, such as Shakespeare (history plays and tragedies), Medieval European History (plague! yay!). I even took a class in which I wrote both Jungian and Freudian analyses of fairy tales. That’s how I discovered Joseph Campbell. Yeah, so no regrets there really.
  • Charles asks if I have any advice for aspiring writers. Mos def!
    • Firstly, write. Write some more. Then more. Just, you know, write a lot. Write about your characters, write about the setting, the view point, what you want to say. Write everything about your story. Then forget about that stuff and let it inform your work from the background. And keep a way of recording your thoughts with you at all times. Ideas are slippery.
    • Secondly, STUDY YOUR CRAFT! You may have the bestest idea ever ideaed in the history of ideas, but execution is everything. There are standard guidelines regarding formatting, beats, plot points, etc. Learn these things! Find freedom in the form. Practice writing synopses. If you see a film or read a book, ask yourself: What genre is this from largest concept to smaller? For example: Comedy, Crime, Heist. Base your stories on one or two word ideas, such as “unrequited love.” Constantly challenge your characters, and raise the stakes. Conflict is drama. Try explaining books or movies in two sentences or less. “While facing threat X, hero must deal with Y and Z, , in their struggle to accomplish A, while learning the value of B and C along the way.” This will keep your mind right when you find you get bogged down in details in your work. Fake being a Pro until you are.
  • Lisarae desires to know: Who inspires me the most, living or dead and why.
    • Everything inspires me. Life is. And it doesn’t last. I don’t need to say “Yes!” to it all, but if something bothers me, that is inspiration as much as any joyful example. I make my meaning and justice as I can. I question everything, find what’s interesting, satisfy curiosity, take in what is good for me, reject what is wrong and try be free and young of mind. And when I fall, I just drag along until I can stand again.
    • Mente sana en corpus sanum.
    • Also, I totes made up that answer because I can’t think of just one person. But it doesn’t make it less true. Carl Sagan & Walt Whitman are big influences.
  • Barbara wants to know my shoe size:
    • Six female. Exactly six. And no other size ever. Just how it be.
  • Barbara also was interested on where she could see my answers.
    • Here, darling.
  • Dave demands to know why reality programming is so popular.
    • Money. A little while back the writer’s union striked. The studios realized it was cheaper to just send out small video crews, use non-union talent, and no script. Pay your writers!
  • Seth states that his questions are too niche to garner much reaction.
    • Well, you write broad statements.
  • Jo Ann has a thought experiment: There is a room with a single light fixture in the ceiling, no doors or windows. Turn off the light switch, where did the light go?
    • Oh my god why am I sealed in a windowless and doorless crypt! Is there a bottle of wine down here? And I can’t reach the light, which is on the ceiling.
  • Mark got all deep with: Do the answers meet my expectations?
    • Do I have a choice?
  • Jak came in with: Have you seen “The Witch?”
    • Yup. Loved it.
  • Jezebel wants dirt: And asks if I could marry anyone else, who would it be? (proviso: cannot be Morrissey)
    • I’m not married. I tried it out, and I’m not a fan. The legal and health stuff is important, and I kinda like Quaker weddings, which are legal in the Quaker State. But, yeah, in general not a fan of weddings, and marriage just seems artificial, and harder to get out of than in.
    • And, Stan, obviously.
  • Joe asks: What is the best, Baltimore-based, crime/drama that he should absolutely watch?
    • It begins with a W and ends in IRE. Jerk.
  • Sue wants to know my favorite food.
    • That which I grow myself, of course.
  • Kelly Anne asked a question about event horizons
    • Kelly Anne thinks I’m Neil DeGrasse Tyson.
  • Marilyn wonders what advice I’d give to an eight-year old.
    • Run!
    • Get dirty, turn over rocks, ask questions, question authority and received wisdom, read books, try something that scares you regularly.
  • @sperzeproski Wants to know which is my favorite Star Wars movie, and why?
    • The first one. Star Wars. It’s a revolutionary sci-fi-action, drama film that changed how films would be made forever. The story follows a young farmboy named Luke Skywalker, who dreams of leaving his nowhere planet, until he discovers a message in a second-hand space MacGuffin that contains a desperate plea for help from a beautiful Princess dressed in white. Luke’s search for answers soon leads him on the adventure of a lifetime, as he joins a group of rebels fighting an Evil Empire with the power to destroy planets, and discovers that he can control a powerful Force that can work for good and evil. This film changed the cinematic landscape forever. Gone were the taut, pessimistic dramas of the early seventies, while the film industry embraced an optimistic view of good vs evil. The models, and computer tracking developed by the need to shoot realistic models with complex movement, introduced film to computers.
  • Fruitocrat came up with the winner: Why are you scared [to do an AMA]?
    • Tom Hardy says that he looks both way before he crosses one-way streets because he has no faith in humanity. Personally, I find that revealing personal information can be used against me. And faith in humanity or no, people terrify me.
    • But, to by honest, I had a fun time! Although I had to skip a bunch of questions that assumed I was Google, I enjoyed answering, and evading, everyone’s questions!

So! What do you think of my answers? Should I do this again? And, if you want me to clarify or call BS on my answers, drop a comment below!

While you’re here: Please check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


The Anals of History

giphy-2.gif

” I spent a great deal of time sitting in the bedroom writing furiously and feeling that I was terribly important and that everything that I wrote would go down in the annals of history or whatever. And it’s proved to be… quite true.”

That magical time of year has arrived, my friends. Morrissey’s birthday? My birthday? Well, yes, but more importantly, it’s that time of year when I get pinned and mounted like a butterfly by my former mental health provider! And damn but they must hate butterflies. Yes, I’ve gone through proper channels, but in honor of Big Mouth’s birthday, and Morrissey’s, I’m about to write some highly inadvisable wroth born of misery.

So, if you follow my blog, you may be familiar with last winter’s hits, The Soil Falling Over my Head, and Much Ado About My Last Post , which detailed my previous encounters with the bloated Alien Queen that dwells in the gaping and unshaven cave where the heart of my former mental health provider should be. And while my previous, purely satirical, hypothetical post by Kylo Ren First Order Counseling Kinda Sucks, By Kylo Ren/Ben Solo may or may not have reflected anything IRL, I cannot say. What I can declare without hesitation is the full-on, non-consensual, raping my last few weeks of “therapy” felt like.

Just like Kylo, it began with a bad match for psychiatric care, which happens. So what’s a compliant client/patient to do? Like a pale, wounded Frodo asking Sam to move in with him — read the book! — I spoke about it with my therapist. Obviously, I was asking for it because we all know Frodo gets screwed, and definitely not by his “beloved Sam.”

Somehow, I forget how cruel people are, even those you’ve shared your troubles, wishes, hopes, sadness, and regrets with. I feel as though I have been beaten about the head until my ears ring, my other front tooth broken, and I have to call out of work again. But enough about my attempt at marriage. I have never personally experienced such cold, callous treatment from a mental health professional.

It was as if, this woman who had greeted me with warm smiles for two years transformed into the Bitch of Buchenwald before my eyes.

The first session after my complaint about the psychiatrist consisted of her trying to sign me up for an “intensive anxiety group” at another facility. Besides my general feelings on “group,” which essentially consist of abject terror of people, and the notion that someone may want me to friggin’ pray. I can’t pay an Uber to take me there 3-4 times a week. She knows this. But when I asked about keeping her as a therapist, she sunnily declared that I’d get a new one there. Not one word about what we had been working on in therapy was uttered by her. I brought it up. She swatted it down.

First off, I thought she was trying to be slick and get me to sign myself out of care there and into another program of my own accord. I later learned, by calling this other facility, that the program was a 60 day, out-patient, Benzodiazepine detox consisting of Group several times a week, and a once a week a check in with a psychiatrist. It was their doctors who raised my dosage of those by a milligram in less than a year. So now they kick me out for it? Not only was the program grossly inappropriate for me, but it did not consist of individual therapy at all, and they had no therapists taking new clients at the time.

After leaving and feeling dead inside for a day or so, I thought perhaps I wasn’t seeing things clearly. So I went back to her the next week. Again, no talk of the issues we had been working on. She started in asking about drinking and marijuana use. I responded as I always do, I have one or two drinks sometimes, and once and a while, with months passing in between, I may have a draw off a bowl.

Now, I have zero money, live in the midle of nowhere, with someone who doesn’t care for it, and I wouldn’t know where to find it if I wanted. Furthermore, I don’t know what’s in that stuff anymore. I don’t eat meat because, besides the inhumane treatment, its contribution to Greenhouse emissions (between 75 and 85%), but also because I have no idea what they feed or inject or do to those animals.  And while most doctors I report this to are mainly concerned with the alcohol because of my medications, she declared that I needed to accept a drug and alcohol diagnosis for marijuana, along with mental health to continue on there.

But no, apparently I’m a vegetarian, asthma and sinusitus sufferer who tokes up any old street weed and smokes cigarettes? Yeah, she added that to my diagnoses as well. I am that jerk who coughs when I smell cigarette smoke. It just makes no sense, unless they are bilking Medicaid, or have been all this time. (Yeah, I saw that segment on John Oliver on Rehab and “Liquid  Gold.”) It’s like they think those with mental illness don’t use the interwebz or like the phone. Urgh.

Now, to be clear, I live in a Medical Marijuana state. And in the past, like a dumb, young farm-boy trying to bring his droid into a cantina, I had asked about it because of my diagnoses. At the time she said she had referred other clients to prescribing doctors, but now my diagnoses, my mention of the state’s program, and my honestly reported use of marijuana became bargaining chips. I was told I had to accept the Drug & Alcohol diagnosis for marijuana to have PTSD on my chart, or I was out.

I had a heroin problem in the past on and off, between my dad dying a few days before I began my senior year of college, and my ex-husband who broke both my front teeth, on separate occasions, stole my money, beat me until I told him where I hid my money, etc. But I have 10+ years in full remission, not that I count, because I don’t for some reason. I was NOT taking a drug and alcohol diagnosis. After what I went through to lose that stigma and regain my life.

I left the lilacs I had picked from outside my house on her couch, and left. And now I’m out in the rain. I do have things moving through proper channels, etc. I had an intake elsewhere, and I’m waiting for an individual evaluation. But, yeah, I was fucked. Hard and without mercy.

So, in honor of my Mozzy, myself, and the three day weekend everyone gets because of my birthday (you’re welcome), I’m just laying this out there. Not to be spiteful. Not to hurt. But to help…me. Because I know my value now. Sure, I have my Morrissey/Smiths playlist on. It’s raining. And I spent the past few days crying into my pillow. But seriously, those unholy assholes. Without mercy. Kicking down a person they are sworn to protect. Thanks for the sodomy without the reach around!

Truly a story for the anals of history.

PS– I bet they never have optioned IP and never thanked the Academy. Ya know, like I have.😘

While you’re here: Please check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


First Order Counseling Kinda Sucks, By Kylo Ren/Ben Solo

last-jedi-kylo-smash-helmet

I’m now in treatment for my RAGE issues. It’s not easy.

Today we have a guest-writer. His name is Kylo or Ben. Give him a warm welcome.

-JL

Hey, it’s your boy. Kylo. I’m feeling pretty fed up today. Like I’m busy. It’s not easy to finish what Grandfather started. And now I’m like Supreme Leader Ben or Kylo or something, I haven’t decided on my Supreme Leader name yet.

So, here I am, and I’m totally trying to stop myself from destroying shit with my light saber. I have recognized that I’m not great at controlling my RAGE. And it’s not really a Supreme Leader thing. I’ve also got this Rey thing going on still, but I feel cool about it. I mean, like why wouldn’t she want to kill the past and rule the Galaxy with me? I don’t really get it. But you know maybe it’s like a girl thing. Like hormonal? I don’t really know much about girls. But I feel we can work it out. We just need time to talk. Maybe I’ll show her my swoll chest again. I don’t know.

But, like I said, I’m trying to work through my destructive RAGE tantrums. So I’ve been working on it with my space shrink. I just started to see this new guy. Apparently space shrinks are super rare or something. Because I’ve seen three different space shrinks in 6 months at First Order Counseling. And I find this taxing on my faith in the First Order to really provide me with adequate mental health services, without me RAGE-killing again. So I think that’s counter-productive to like stated treatment goals.

I mean, they actually gave me to some nobody, who is definitely not anything like Grandfather. And he barely listened to me, Supreme Leader Solo…no!….I’ll figure the name thing out later. Anyway, like the first thing out of his mouth was how much he’d like to cut down on my anti-RAGE pills. So, naturally I immediately needed an anti-RAGE pill. But like this guy just like totally couldn’t even read me. Even though I’m sitting there wearing all black because that’s how I feel on the inside. Not to mention my throbbing red facial scar.

Then I told him about how my sometime Father, and my royal, politician/general Mom totally made me go live with my weird Uncle with the creepy robot hand. Then, I mean get this, my uncle tried to kill me. IN MY SLEEP. I was fourteen. Fourteen. And you know what this guy said? He was like: you should totally go volunteer at an orphanage. Like what part of “I killed my own Dad” do you not understand?

Moreover, I don’t need to just have something to do with my time. Seriously like this Supreme Leader thing is way harder than I thought. Plus ya know, the Rey thing. I mean that doesn’t worry me too much. But like I’m busy here Dude! Not to mention that if I volunteered at an orphanage the only advice I could give them would be: burn down your enslavers, kill the past, then go start up your own badass club with some OG space-wizard dude and a ginger kid with space lasers. Huh. Hux. He’s such a bitch, but now he’s my bitch.

Anyway, so this guy sucked. And First Order Counseling is like: this our only dude right now. I hope they can work something out, or then I’ll be RAGEing out while having to find some space shrink out of First Order coveRAGE. Yeah, people will fall by my hand and sick Force skills if this doesn’t work out. From the very people who are supposed to be helping me with my RAGE issues.

But anyway, so I do get to see my space therapist tomorrow. I really like them. They like actually pay attention to me. But their power is limited. And I may have to get my Knights of Ren (is that still a thing?), anyway, I have back-up. I’m primed to order those dreadnoughts out. And you know, my sweet TIE Silencer.

OK, my point is: I have to worry about being Supreme Leader now, Force-slapping Hux, and the whole Rey thing, which ya know, is still sorta on my mind a little bit. I don’t need more crap on my plate right now, especially not from the people I’m trusting to help me work through acting out in RAGE. So yeah, that’s sorta where I am now. Thanks for listening. RAGE out.

(What? You thought I’d say “Peace out.” 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 Losers.)

By,

Kylo Ben Ren Solo

While you’re here: Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


Self Portrait: Work in Progress

 

20180418_134154534010310.jpg

Still a work-progress. I admit I even added my beauty mark in “post.” Self Portrait, Jessica Lakis, oil on canvas paper, 2018

So. I dare to suspect beginning to form an inkling of what I am doing/becoming, and what I need to do. On a Universal-scale, I’m just as stupid as algae or when I was 19. But I think I’ve gotten something close to the human-being I was before November of 2016, with a little extra knowledge gleaned, I would hope. And don’t mention the “XXXtreme Winter+!” That must end. Momma needs to be outside! I have a new garden extension planned.  And camping and hiking and boats and water and swimming and fish! And I have been locked in this house nearly every day with a bored Border Collie since like November. She wants out too.

Earlier in the winter I was in a bad way. So I just started finding stuff to do to keep me from breaking into tears all the time. Sometimes I had to work hard to hold them back. But it got easier. Cleaning schedule. Learning vegetarian cooking. Encouraging the growth and maintenance of a way more awesome haircut. I picked up, cleaned, fixed up and started playing some old instruments. And, indeed, the painting above was a part of that.

The cleaning up — of both my environment and of myself — that was the basis. I believe I was sitting on my couch one day and was repulsed by the floor. So I cleaned it. And you know how it is when you make a clean spot, gotta finish it all. Cleaning and improving my environment helps give me a feeling of control. I get to grapple with CHAOS in my own little sphere. As to myself, I learned from working freelance for so long that I have to get up at a certain hour every day, get a shower, have coffee, put on clothes, makeup, and do my hair. It just makes me feel better. And, hey, “the other” will notice. So extra points for not smelling and dressing like a pig.

The vegetarian thing I just had to do for many reasons, mainly for the greenhouse emissions. Also, ugh, what the hell with what people do to animals? Just, no. I still eat fish and any crap you can pull out of water because my family came from frickin’ islands, OK? Learning how to cook vegetarian was fun, and got me interested in cooking and possibly eating again. I do notice a lot about me has changed, and I lost weight, which is reason enough right there. I have been vegetarian or meat-adverse most of my life. I like good bread. Bread and beer built the Pyramids, not aliens.

As to my hair, well, let me tell you: I let it get really long on top, dyed it back to black *eh-hem*, and kept most of the rest shaved. Then when I went for a proper cut with me Mum for our long-delayed Mother-daughter beauty day (MOM!), Adrienne, with whom you can book here, tidied it all up. I love how the front just wants to be up! Can’t take the wall bangs out of the Jersey girl, I ‘spose. But this is a big deal for me. I love the time with my Mom, and I get to feel like a real girl with a cool haircut.

The painting was a way for me to get back to something I used to do more often, and was talented at. It’s been a learning curve, but I adore using oils again. Oils are my favorite medium, they just cost a lot even to pick up again. But, most importantly, I found a non-verbal way to express myself. Because I needed that. I had no words. I had to get out what was on my mind elsewise.

Oh yes, I fixed up my Dad’s 1964 Guild guitar, restrung it and have been playing that again. I can play Dirty Ol’ Town, and several other Pogues songs. It’s not my fault that I can’t replicate the sounds of Johnny Marr, but I’d love to meet whoever could and sing along with them. I sing to the Pogue songs too. It’s part of the fun! I also got some issues with my violin arreglado, and my old flute back!

Of course, this is all good, but friggin’ time keeps marching on. So I finally got a new pocket calendar. And I did start back using that, which helps my anxiety a lot. At least I know what to expect sorta. And I’ve done some really impressive, next level adulting stuff. “The Other” took me out for sushi because I got him a tax refund. I just got some stuff done. I made days for it, like I made a day to write this blog. And the more I use it the calendar, the better I feel. I know what money is going where when. And when I can spend time writing. I can plan around things. It’s soothing.

But this is a busy time of year for my second job as a farmer with aspirations to self-sufficiency. We planned out a new bed, I have most of my herbs from last year. Heck I even have seeds from last year. I planted this one awesome orange tomato two years in a row. I just save some seeds. Like that place in Norway or whatever. The Seed Vault. But we’re also trying some traditional planting methods for this area. I figure if it worked for the original folks who lived here, why am I not planting like they did?

Finally, this is the beginning of camping, hiking, boat, water, swimming, fishing season. And I can’t wait. Last year I did part of the Appalachian Trail for the first time on my birthday. I almost got hypothermia, but it was awesome. Solo is coming out the day before my birthday. But I’m thinking maybe another adventure this year, as the nation is good enough to celebrate my birthday with a three-day weekend.

So, that’s about where I am right now. Although I’m currently concerned about the nice weather keeping me away from writing. I have a project I’ve been eyeing up. But, April is rough. I have to knock the winter off everything and get the creaky old bones moving again. And go out on a hike my Border Collie. It’s good for us both.

“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
– The Wasteland, by T.S. Eliot
Arrivederci! Ciao! Salvete!

While you’re here: Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.

 

 

 


Predictions Five to Punish my Pride

share_temporary31327896.jpg

Ugh. It’s still me.

I always say that my two greatest motivators are Vanity and Anger. I hasten to add that somehow these emotions eventually turn to the Light Side. I’m not truly certain of that last fact, but it helps me convince myself that I’m not an absolute monster. However, I am certain that at some point vanity and self-respect meet, as do anger and motivation. Who knows? Who cares? I actually care. And about who cares. That’s the problem. Or have I been taught it’s a problem?!

Look, I obviously need to examine this thoughtling a bit more deeply, and with my therapist.

Until that undoubtedly world-changing — and stilted, trite, and poorly edited — post, I offer this abbreviated list of what my Pride, Insecurity, Awkwardness, Anxiety, Mood Issues, Social Anxiety, and PTSD will probably cost me if I’m lucky. I need hopes.

1) All of the souls of those I’ve held hostage and forced to listen to Morrissey and/or my lectures on the Late Republican Roman era will haunt my waking life.

2) If there is an afterlife, I will be similarly bound and forced to listen to derivative drivel obviously written for culturally uninformed troglodytes and watch historically inaccurate depictions of Roman warfare in Caesar’s Gallic campaigns.

3) Someday, someone smarter than I will call me “basic” for loving The Plague and Camus.

4) I will never have enough fame or money to exact all of the revenge I seek.

5) I will be having a bad hair day and wearing the wrong shoes when I finally meet Adam Driver and/or Morrissey.

I’ll also probably die first in the zombie apocalypse.😒 Therapy tomorrow. Breathe. Listen to Morrissey.

While you’re here: Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


Puddems is Murder

“Hi, my name is Puddems, and I love murder.”

Delayed onset hangover today after the Eagles Super Bowl win! Go birds! But don’t expect my cat to celebrate a bird win. He’s into MURDER.

But he’s also working on a budding musical career! This is my translation of his latest hit in waiting. He based the lyrics and melody for this magnum opus on the The Smiths anthem Meat is Murder, from their 1985 album of the same name.

Listen here to compare!

Puddems is Murder

The mouse I make shriek and cry
And the frog that is full of slime
These awesome creatures must die
These awesome creatures must die

A death for no reason
And death for no reason is murder

And the baby bird that can't fly
It's not succulent, tasty, or kind
It's death just to please me
And death just to please me is murder
(I love making animals die)

And the vole that I toss with a smile
It is murder
And the legs that I pull off the mice
It is murder

I'm just a natural, normal feline
The shattered creature I leave to die
'Cause I got wetfood inside

I don't eat my kills
I don't eat my kills
It is murder

Because I'm a flippin' cat
A cat who loves murder

Oh sweet murder!

Oh murder!

Tune in later for Abbey’s new song: Take Me Home Abbey Road!

While you’re here: Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


Misery Dizzery Dock

red ridimg hood

A hey there little Red Riding Hood! *shiver*

Misery Dizzery Dock

Misery dizzery dock
I can’t out-run the clock
Bread crumbs and pies
and pluck out the eyes
Misery Dizzery Dock

Ring around the rosey
a pocket full of fleas
Ophelia and her posies
will force us to our knees

Misery dizzery dread
streams of whiskey and not bread
The Wolf in the bed
Or trusted by children instead
Izzery mizzerly doc

ADdercop! ADdercop!
SiT not by me!
It STings! It Bites! It Chews!
Kiss a cop! & Take a knee!
And please ignore the news

Misery dizzery red
Computers in my head
Rosebud his sled
Luke and Leia are dead
Misery Dizzery Izzery Pizzery
Dizzily head to the block.

by, J.Lakis, Feb. 2018

Hey-oh my friends! Thank you for tuning in to my doggerel, but I’ve been really sick. I spent a lot of time bored, hopped up on meds, and in between sick-sweat dream naps. So I wrote some of what I’ll kindly call poetry. This is the first bit I cleaned up some. Let me know what you think in the comment section below! Or add your own verse! Go Eagles! 🙃

While you’re here: Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.


Self-Portrait: Mid-Winter

share_temporary1100710481.jpg

Self-portrait, oil on canvas paper, Jessica Lakis  (WIP)

I have to light a fire. Every morning I must clean and light a wood stove. Sweeping before and after fire-making.  I empty the soot and ash into a black metal can with a handle and shovel. (Is this what is called a “scuttle?”) I will empty the ash on the compost. I let the dog out with me while I gather the tinder and wood from under the kitchen porch over the basement entrance, where Stan has stacked it.  Hauling the wood up the curving basement stairs, all the stairs curve here, I trip a lot. It’s been below zero C for weeks. I detest the cold. I curse a good deal. Sometimes it’s my Father’s voice mixed with Walter White. “Jessie! Your mind isn’t on what you’re doing.” Fair enough.

After earning the Tom Hanks moment of achieving the early human magic of fire, tea or coffee may now be had. And that’s how about every day has begun for weeks. I place humidifiers and air cleaners to protect my assaulted sinuses and lungs. I long to open the windows. But still I must clean. I have finally begun to realize and actually do what I need to survive this bleak, blear of holidays and the long nothing afterwards.

For weeks I waited for Star Wars. Stan and I made a date of  seeing the new Star Wars: The Last Jedi, which I adore. I even like Rose. She seems closer to me. I tingled to the new connection between Rey and Ben Solo (I suppose that’s what everyone calls Kylo Ren now). It’s unexpected and gorgeous. But a dark and heart-gutting story. Leia’s key role underlines how much I miss her, and will. My champion on screen and off, she’s gone forever. Nevertheless, my bright spot of December unleashes sobbing. I feel as though Star Wars has caught up with current events and the current mood. And I think of what Yoda tells Luke: failure the best teacher is.

Although I am back in therapy, my mood drops. I still had two weeks until Stan’s vacation. I begin to feel lonely and sad. I cry everyday, and every Sunday night sends me into a terror facing the loneliness of the next week when Stan goes back to work. All through the freezing weather and short days. I am tired of telling others that I don’t have the money for presents, so please don’t get me one. Even though Stan and I have permanently sworn off Christmas because we are both unbaptized nonbelievers, and we don’t have children, I am still sad. Like the O’Henry story, but neither of us has hair to sell or an expensive old watch to pawn. We instead spend our gift cards on gifts for each other. Trips to Michael’s! See Star Wars again. We are very happy.

I start recovering myself by doing more. I decide cheese sandwiches is not a healthy diet, and begin working on vegetarian cooking. Cooking in general. And Stan roasts a pork loin and eats it with my cabbage, potatoes and beans the week of the New Year. I shoot the old shithouse on the hill with a 20 gauge on New Year’s eve. I am ashamed that no one had shot the shithouse with a shotgun before. Stan throws M80s. It was dangerous, and fun.

Having found myself utterly without words to express what is happening to me, so I draw. My mother buys me a portable easel with a large, partitioned drawer. She’s also added a large tube of Titanium White, medium, and turpentine. So I begin to oil-paint. And without having used oils or drawn the human form for ages, I obviously attempt a self-portrait. I cannot correct the fractured skull I under-painted.

I start again. I suddenly realize that, better than the small makeup mirror, are selfies I take under the light I want. I suppose I never thought of it because I’m old. I began painting for an hour in the morning and one in the evening, to let the paint dry. The under-painting worked. Suddenly I’m doing classical thin to fat oil. What I learned in college and from my father over years rush back. Every piece of advice. Every admonition. Suddenly, a passable painting emerges from the cheap canvas paper. In the background I paint the design of the carpet at The Overlook Hotel from The Shining. It seems appropriate. I am proud, even seeing the flaws. Soon the crying drops away, and I just paint.

I become a happy hermit again. Oblivious to the problems outside my door. I chuckle at the ridiculous headlines of “like, really smart” and “a very stable genius,” which pops up as Breaking News from the NYT to my inbox. “President Trump declares self “very stable genius.” tee-hee-hee! The anxiety is a bit harder to ditch, but somehow I manage. Black box pinot noir contain four bottles of wine, and cost 22$. I add seltzer, and let myself have one or two in the evenings.  My tongue loosens with Stan, and we communicate and assist each other with each others’ “goals” for the New Year. We play games and “art” together. Talk about improvements to the house.

I lose some of my cool when my Mom texts me, at an inopportune moment, with several times and dates to choose from to see my sister’s show.  I feel hassled and annoyed. And again someone wants to pay for the tickets I cannot afford. The internal drama and stress family issues cause me ensues. Does my sister still hold a grudge over me? Is she simply the same little sister who tortured me between play? My younger sister who convinced me to clean her room for her. Made me feel guilty unless I slept in her bed. And would wait at the top of the steps for me, then jump out and scare me. I was certain I’d find my end at the foot of those long wooden stairs. I get the distinct feeling that I’m someone she calls on a schedule, like a grandmom. I wonder if it’s possible to love without liking. Perhaps I am to her a childhood playmate from whom she has moved on, but calls on birthdays. But she never speaks of it to me, so I don’t know. My Mother wants to keep us together as a family.

That drama still ongoing, I have fitful desires to go outside because the temperature is just above freezing. I enjoy being the local hermit again. I race Abbey down the lane because it’s too cold to walk. And then there’s my four sets of curving stairs. One second floor bathroom. I suppose I’m exercising. I still dance in the morning or whenever I really feel the urge. I stretch to the rhythm of The Smiths. My body commanded to move as though I were leisurely yodeling, or growling and gargling over a sharp, embarrassing and private pain. I add The Pogues. Angrier displaced Irishmen. Infinitely unhappy, but determined to live while they can.

At last, I find myself able to write and paint at once. Something I haven’t done since high school. So, I suppose I’m managing myself better. Perhaps in a few months Scatman Crothers will have to save either Stan or myself. Save us both!

In the meantime, I have a fire to tend.

 

While you’re here:  Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate. 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.

 


Much Ado About My Last Post

morrissey-cereal

I adore watching Morrissey toss his Fruit Loops at a skinhead in the Alma Matters video. It feeds my soul.

I really need to thank all the folks who responded with encouragement to my last blog.  I had reached that “I just ran out of bullshit” moment from Network, that proceeds the more famous line, “I’M MAD AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!” And yeah I proceeded to reach that moment, and a lot of the reason was down to the equal amount of flak I took for my last post.

In my last post, I questioned my very right to ask questions, have feelings that are uncomfortable yet are still legitimate, such as anger from feeling as though I had been wronged in some fashion. Even though I have mental health issues. I decided I did have a right, just like everybody else does.

Let’s posit a purely hypothetical scenario in which my attempt have a phone call returned somehow became just stupid crazy. In fact, in this scenario, the call that eventually resulted not in an apology or explanation from the individuals involved. It came from an an unrelated person I’d be soft for, calling to ask whether I was considering suing their organization (just weird), and whether I wouldn’t mind taking down last week’s blog. (Hell naw! And you gotta earn those Google stars, baby.)

But, we’ll say, I did reach out to people and organizations that could help give me answers, encouragement, and advice. How happy I am for hypothetical people like that. And the support from my family was and remains beyond anything I had hoped for. So, I’d like to thank all of the good folks as well. The people who did agree that I had a right to be upset, and to be treated better than I had been.

I only feel bad that the earful I had to give to the only person who called me from the other side of this hypothetical scenario, was completely innocent of the bullshit I had called out. But, hey man, I hadn’t even showered or brushed my teeth by whenever near noonish it was.  I was spending the day in bed breaking down Hamlet’s soliloquy into modern language, and wondering whether anything in my life is worth enduring the pain I’ve been feeling. So, I don’t feel that bad that the right message went to the wrong person.

One thing I have certainly learned, in this purely mental exercise, is that there are people and organizations that can help advocate for my rights, that I do still retain. The woman  from NAMI was interested in my hypothetical tale, and she gave me a bit of advice and kind words. You know, treat me with the dignity and respect I deserve, just like everybody does.

 

*I also want to thank my oh-so patient Stan, and my dear friend Nicole, for insisting that I fix my hair color yesterday, get a shower, and have something to look forward to. *smooch* And thank my parents for calling me Ralph Nader all my life! 😁

 

While you’re here:  Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of crazy stuff I like and hate! 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.

 


Just Like Everybody Else Does

 

 

“I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does.”               – Morrissey

Invalid feelings and desires. That’s how I feel when I express myself as someone suffering from mental illness. It’s as though — once I’ve come out and said, “Yes, I suffer from Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, fill the blank” — that even the others who I’d expect to understand, write off every feeling or thought I have because I’m crazy.

It’s soul crushing. Admitting to having mental health issues demotes me from the status of human being to somewhere between a dog and a chimpanzee. Like maybe I can qualify for “personhood” and humans can’t use me for inhumane cosmetics testing, but other than that, my feelings and rights don’t count.

A man kills a church-full of people, and suddenly the talking heads are on about “mental illness.” Because, crazy people! People with mental illness are 10 times more likely to be a victim of violent crime than the general populace, and no more or less inclined towards violence, but so what? It’s much easier to discard a human being’s rights than the NRA’s cash. It doesn’t matter how you feel about the 2nd Amendment, the pattern of dehumanization is there. Crazy people check your rights at the door, maybe we’ll treat you as well as a dog.

And that’s just one issue in the public sphere that has me pissed again. But do I have the right to be pissed? I mean, seriously, if I’m crazy then you don’t have to listen to my crazy thoughts and feelings, right? I must be having “a bad day,” or be “overreacting due to past traumatic stimuli.” My thoughts and feelings are invalid. Perhaps my family has changed from using the term “dramatic” to “sensitive,” but I still feel limitations.

But, family, eh? What are you going to do? What about when it’s my therapist or psychiatrist? Then what? When the very institution I’ve given myself over for treatment for the past five years, suddenly makes it glaringly obvious that my questions are not welcome. I can follow all the damned rules, but why can I not question my psychiatrist’s “discomfort” with helping me through something? Is there “a no questions” rule for crazy folks as well?

I use Pennsylvania Counseling. I’ve been receiving my therapy and psychiatric visits with them since 2013, when I moved from Philly. In Philadelphia, I worked with Thomas Jefferson’s various outpatient clinics since I was 19. I am committed to my treatment. I spent 2009 until 2013 with Dr. Serota at Jefferson. And before the Obamacare federal expansion, he’d help me renew my Medical Assistance every year. He’d fill out the “Health Sustaining Medications” form. And he’d mark me as disabled, so I could still work if I could and get Medicaid. More than that, he was a kind and gentle man. And he liked to talk about film and literature with me. He made me feel like a human being. I wasn’t just “good girl.” *pant pant pant*

I always feared, when I moved to the Susquehanna Valley, I’d get some friggin Mennonite with a stick so far up their asses it kept their bonnet on. And wouldn’t you know it! Bingo! 

If Pennsylvania lost the Medicaid expansion, I’d be shit out of luck. Forget how long I’ve been receiving treatment at my current facility.

This place won’t touch a thing that would help me get services I need. And I’m a compliant patient. I go to my therapy, when I remind PA Counseling that my therapist has been out since Labor Day, and I’m in a bad way and get a damned appointment.

With a few exceptions, I have not generally experienced that Germanic, Prussian tendency to “just follow orders” and expect everyone else to goosestep in line that I expected here. Although I’ve had my share of nightmares in which I’m in a re-education camp though. And some printed dress down to the ankles wearing, post-stroke Nurse Ratched, Sarah Huckabee Sanders bitch wants to usher me to the gas chambers. Usually because I didn’t take Jesus into my heart.

Pennsylvania Counseling won’t just won’t return my calls. Or they call at 4:59, leave a message then bugger off. Talk about treating the mentally ill in crisis with dignity and respect, and generally making me feel as though I don’t matter.

But now, having experienced it, all I know is I have very limited options for care in my area. And no one cares because I’m crazy. And definitely not a human being with the right to a question, feeling, or opinion of my own, just like everybody else does.
“Sit crazy girl! Sit! Good crazy girl.”
Rough! Ruff!

 

While you’re here:  Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of crazy stuff I like and hate! 😊

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap Like and Share on Facebook! Follow and share on Twitter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


%d bloggers like this: