The Creature From The Closet

This morning I opened the door of a closet in my kitchen I do not use. There was a toaster oven I had avoided using for months due to a break-up. It was time to put the past to rest and use the thing. As I was pulling it out, a strange long armed creature stuck it’s arm out to grab mine. I kept carrying the oven out with the creature hanging on me. Setting the oven down, I looked at the thing that had attacked me:

A potato.

It had sprouted in the dark.


The potato had fallen behind the oven and in the dark, grew sprouts reaching for the warmth of a window beyond the closet door. Reaching for LIFE. Reaching for LIGHT. 

The potato had probably been much bigger but the sprouts had used all the energy of the body. It was shrunken and the  3 sprouts that had seemed to cling to my arm were pale and purple at the same time. I remembered I had a pot of soil in my spare bedroom (storage). I cleaned some debris off it and dug into the dirt and placed the potato in the dirt, put it with my house plants near a big window and soaked it with water. 

I felt a need to reward this thing with some nurturing after the months of mindless toil and desperate growth. It was no longer a “thing” to me. I realized it had been born in my imagination as a “creature” before it could be a “thing”. Potted to try to give it more life, it became a thing. If it takes the buried reach of nurturing I gave it, it will become another house plant thing. All my house plants are like harmless stupid people. They sit, mind their own business and grow or wither and die. I play god with them and the sun-god helps me. 

It never ceases to amaze me how life is TRYING all the time on this planet. Rising from the most adverse even poisonous of circumstances. It reminds me of how there is a SEED of that in all of us. From our own darkness, with a spark of hope, we try to reach out and GROW and reach for life. A better life than the darkness of our own inner closets. 

Drowning Inside

Drowning inside  myself for a moment

My life flashes before my eyes

within that suffocating

Breathless moment

All memories

All my life

Flash before my eyes

My mind’s embrace of what the heavens

And hell’s gates



Drowning inside myself for a moment

I pause in life

A realization of all I was

Now am

I inhale in a gasp

Pushing the occupants

The events

My memories 

Of what was behind my gates

Of heavens

Of hells


Past memory lane

Now here

In the present lane of life

Joyful for that Drowning

Joyful for all I lived

Inside the gates of 

My heavens and hells. 



When I was 8 years old, I was put into a children’s psychiatric hospital as an out patient. Meaning, it was like School for me. Go in and go out. I was put into it because I was crying in school a lot. It was like a very ugly habit. I have made sense of some of it as an adult. I was an anxious kid. The short version. Other kids there were very VIOLENT. I was never beaten but did see the results of other kids being attacked. As a result of that year of my life, I endured a lot of mental illness teasing. Harassment. Ridicule for many years. I dealt with my issues with drugs and alcohol in my teens. I voluntarily sought help from psychiatrists. I read much about minds and emotion. About mental health. I still do. My identity for many years seemed to be, “mentally ill person”. Something like that. 

But that changed. 

I am Scott who has some problems some times and far fewer in mind NOW than ever before. I can look inside myself and SEE what is ailing me. I know my emotions and mind states. I do not deny anything about me. I am like a computer that examines itself. Runs checks on all mental systems. On my emotions. 

I have come to see and understand that the sickest people in the world are not nor ever were those like me that were given help and then kept going in life and GOT MORE HELP.  The sickest people are those IN DENIAL OF THEIR OWN MENTAL ILLNESSES. Those often with power over others. Those that may suspect something is sick inside themselves but have not the courage to open it up and look at it or are in denial of what sickness is THERE. 

I used-to think I was weak with a label of “mentally ill” due to an anxiety disorder and being very sensitive. As I grew, I realized I was the STRONG one because I could FACE my problems. I could FACE  drug and alcohol problems while others pointed the finger at those around them and lived in denial of their own sickness and flaws. I came to see that being “sensitive” was a blessing and a curse because I could feel deeply not only of myself but of Others – and that feeling others was such a blessing.  A GIFT at times. 

I had a big strong older brother that would ridicule me for how I was, so weak to him and his friends. So weird! I learned who the truly SICK person was when my mother lay dying and much of the family wept around her except for… my big strong older brother who could not cry or let himself cry. I felt for him. Having had much practice all my life, I wanted to reach inside him and show him how to weep. To immerse yourself in grief and as the tears flowed… let go. 

I dropped the label of being “crazy” long ago. Now when someone calls me that I embrace it, laugh about it and jokingly seriously correct them: “I am not crazy. I am creatively ECCENTRIC!”.

I look at the insanity in the houses of power in the USA and world. At how some have few qualms about killing masses of humans and other life forms and think… “Now THOSE are some CRAZY SICK  BASTARDS”.  I look at the insanity of the president of the USA. Of how many psychiatrists have talked about how clinically insane he is and I think….

Damn but I am one sane sonofabitch….

And a bit Eccentric too 😉

Ancestral Voices

When I was born I am sure the Voices took care to be quiet

And not terrify 

Or drive me mad 

From their thousands long dead 

Recent dead throats.

They were a faint rocking murmur 

Waves of generation 

Back generation

Connecting their voices

Their languages changed 


The further back they went  until….

There were a few voices 

Of faint clicks 


And snarls.

As a babe 

Then child,

The voices were a sea deep inside my consciousness

Slowly poking 

Prodding at me with THEIR long dead

Even recent dead


In my teens I thought the voices were the drugs I was using

Or using to silence the voices

Voices that spoke in so many ancient

And recent tongues

All so familiar because … 

They were my ancestors

alive still inside me

With death, 

Their voices not silence

Merely passed on through my parents 

From theirs

And theirs 

And 2 mirrors face each other and you see infinity

And that was 

Those were the voices inside me.

As an adult I would feel them crowded behind my eyes by the thousands

Watching all

Murmuring whispering laughing crying comments of everything in my life

I treated them with humor and compassion…

“Hush now,

I have to focus here

Finish this bowel movement

This job

This drive to work 

This meal 

This conversation

Or we’ll all be lost without being passed on.”

I did not pass them on but there was gratitude

That their thousands could vicariously live through me

at times like a mad crowd trying to experience all I 




Smelled and felt.

They made me realize the joy of living


The rain


A cold winter’s day

panting in the heat



They were… ALIVE IN ME

All my ancestors going back to the most primitive incoherent yet…..

FEELING….. One’s. 

When I became sick they ran through my body like a maddened fever

All of them trying so hard to heal me

Making me sicker at times by whispering ancient even poisonous remedies.

Despite them 

Or because of them,

I healed I lived       until…

Those mutant cells grew in me and there was nothing THEY could do

Or the doctors

And I lay dying 

And dying

The greatest sadness 

The greatest joy,

Was hearing the thousands goodbyes 

Of ALL my ancestors

As they slow died


As they had died before 

often in each other

lights that flicker and die 

And in a rush of final consciousness to me,

Gift me with their entire life stories




Sensoried experience and sensation

Like thousands of orgasms

They died inside me as 


Closer to death I heard the last voices

Men women and children

At times I felt even the unborn had tried to talk to me

To share that limited womb experience,

I heard the last voices




Raging and hating… 

Against this dying with me

And vicariously from behind my eyes for the most unfathomable numbers of times.

Finally I knew what it was like to be like other people around me had been


This is ME

My birth voice beyond the ancestral multitudes I was born with

My ONE voice…

Hearing that last voice

I let go … 

And now within you…

Within your mind with these other multitudes…

I tell the tale of ancestral voices. 

A Face

When I see your face.

It becomes a blur

Of all the faces of you

Half remembered

A blurred stream of faces

Of every moment I saw your face

Your life

For all those years

Thousands of pages of slightly changed faces

Altered by a moment

A month 

A day 

A year

A Decade

All merging into EMOTIONS

That defined you

in my mind


And what so many refer to as a “soul”. 

Perhaps a face is only a flash of an image in a moment

Or maybe

the sum of all emotion we felt 

Projected into space and time as who we believed a Person Was

And now IS

Inside us

In               Memory. 


I watch a romantic comedy 

Stone faced 


Like this old man,

Then my body convulses a little from my heart

Tears come to my eyes

A smile

And I am a young man again

For a moment. 

I go through a playlist of songs I’ve saved

Hearing a song I loved at 16

My body comes alive 

Like a puppet on strings

my soul like bronc horse rider

Trying to ride it

Lest it toss me down to a place I can’t rise from

Finally I control it

But my body 

My limbs twitch to the music

My throat becomes raspy 

Remembering how I’d sung along with that old song so long ago

I try to ride my body through that song

Old body rider riding that emotional young horse

Until the song ends

this old man breathing hard

Relieved his heart did not give out

Body riding that old song

That young mans song

Of an old man’s youth. 


I do not believe in fate

 yet at the same time I have become resigned,

 accepting of what will happen to me.

 It is like being born 

and at the same time being led to the gallows: I accept it.

 Yet with each, I will dangle by a rope, 

a cord for a short time in the air, 

STRUGGLING to live and breathe.

 In one, I will. 

In another I will not. 

Yet accepting of it does not mean I will not in the end

 and the beginning

                                              Not Struggle. 

Struggle is life

In the beginning 

In the end

Yet always one inevitable outcome

But it is our strength in life


Hanging from a cord

Or a rope

Or suspended in the air and time between. 


Sometimes I see myself sitting near a small fire 

A fire that is another person


Or just some other living thing.

A fire that I feed

By pulling something from inside myself that is inexhaustible 

And feeding it to the fire

That other person

Other life form

To nurture it

To keep it burning

As I

Reach my hands out

Warming myself

My heart

All that I am

With the warmth of that fire

That other person

Other life form

With the energy that flows between us

back and forth

Both of us giving 

Both of us flames in our own ways to ourselves

And Others. 

A Day At Work

I almost got another hernia at work this morning. I was talking with the guys that work the loading dock and one of them pointed to a crudely written sign on a wall that read, “JIM IS A BITCH!” I started laughing. Then H pointed to another much larger on another wall that said, “JIM IS A BITCH!”. I was crying and holding my poor guts. Big breakfast eater I am. Crying. Gasping. What did Jim DO to deserve such attention? He erased some note of work starting date by H. It was a joke for me all day. As I mentioned to the boss, “This is going to make Jim a very important person! People will come to the loading dock and see THAT SIGN and wonder who this BITCH JIM is? What made him so infamous? MAYBE someone, when asked will point to Jim and say, “yes that is Jim the Bitch”. Our maintenance man that says “fuck” every other word. Knows it all. Inspired me to repeat to him what my dad used-to say to me many times: “Try listening for once! Just shut-up and listen!”. A lesson in talking mouthes, babbling minds in motion and only talking shit and fuck every other word. Ahhh well I love Jim. He is a character. He was in the military and knows all there is to know about bombs and guns. Doubt if he ever read a book about such.
As I told H, “I am going to be VERY careful with you so that I do NOT get MY name on that loading dock wall so that people can pass me working, nod knowingly and go, “ahhhh so that is SCOTT that is a ________”. I think and hope that H and B and I are all cool. As I told H, ” I never mess with anyone. If I don’t like them I try to get along with them or ignore them.”
Speaking of which…
The company ass kisser of Forever left for a week. Walking through the parking lot I noticed his van was not there. Ahhhhhh. His van sounds like it is going to explode any moment when he drives it. It stinks too. Old piece of shit but runs. $3000 in repairs would help. When we pull out of the parking lot after work, I keep a distance expecting that thing to blow any moment. We wouldn’t miss M because…
When I got inside the factory, there was a sense of almost … JOY. Because M the ass kisser was not there. He is the kind of idiot that will stoke the wood burning furnace so it is HOT in there so HE CAN WEAR SHORTS! It was nice to feel a faint chill.
Then I saw those notes on the loading dock wall….
Angry Bob (brain damaged worker – yes literally) asked me about some material. I had no idea what he was talking about. He was getting flustered and with Bob, there is some mild anxiety he could explode through the windshield of reality and hurt people. Nice guy otherwise. But … gotta be careful with someone whose first name is, “angry”. I think? Ok maybe “Bob” is. I smiled at Bob and said, “oh yeah you are right (you crazy brain damaged fuck!) that stuff is there for M to work on.” (Ok now go out and smoke for a while and look angry. Bob.)
No squirrel to greet me after work for a peanut butter hand out. Will have to buy it a watch or something. Note to self on shopping list: NON SALTED PEANUTS FOR SQUIRREL.

Dreams Relative To Current Physical Ability

Last night I dreamed that I was running. I have not been able to run in over 20 years. Some of the places I was running in were weirdly familiar, a mix of memory of local places. Reality and fiction pasted, quilted together. I did not feel my breathing. I did not feel an exertion. I felt movement looking around me. I was aware I was running. I was running at times very slow but I was running. Other times I thought oh I am running for 12 hours this is normal and I am faster than many others! I was often racing past people in such dreams. All this normal in a dream of a few minutes.  I awoke from the dream realizing that I often dream of running. Long ago I was a distance runner. It was the greatest joy I have ever had  – except perhaps the years when I had a dog.  I remembered having dreams many years ago when I WAS a runner, of FLYING like a bird. Jumping and my body floating to where I wanted to go. Like a balloon or human bird. At times I still feel I should be able to do that while awake. To defy gravity as I live.

Maybe some day when older, I will simply have dreams of being able to walk. Yes last night I dreamed of walking…