Well, so. Today is Thursday, that means therapy, and on this windy, ominous(?) day I think I might bring OSU Barbie “Primal Scream” to Fetter’s office. No black mold on that one, my most disturbing(?) of all my art pieces, though that’s open to debate, as who cares about some poor student chased out of the Journalism Graduate School when there are OSU football players to celebrate? Seeing as my Risperdal almost completely blocks any ability I have to cry over things that are important to me—Leg’s declining health front and center—I don’t think I’ll need any tissue as I discuss how ripped apart and absolutely furious I was to be harassed by the top brass at Ohio State, all males, holding the purse strings, laughing their way back to their 50-yard line seats while I paced around in a circle on suicide watch at the old Harding Hospital on 161 (May she Rest In Peace).
Ah, memories of the way we were, do I leave “Primal Scream” with Fetter, or drive around looking for a Boren Brothers trashcan…all I know is I want to somehow come to peace with the fact that OSU is very likely still to this day, two decades after “Primal Scream,” chasing away women who brush up against that white male elite with box seats and loafers, with a soft mid-section, beer sippie cup in hand, chanting “Three Cheers For Jones Junior High” and all that nonsense. Perhaps I’m meant to join forces with these women, but I’m not going to pull a Lorena Babbitt (or whatever her name was—Google it). I’m much more interested in the Lost Boys, perhaps Lost Girls, maybe doing some matchmaking and pairing them up together.
Jesus, screw meds, I really, really want the release tears give me, but no, I feel absolutely nothing except some mild annoyance and the occasional ability to chuckle when I see an Apocolypse Now brigade of police helicopters on their way to the Franklin Park Conservatory, like two days ago. I really wish a copter could set down in our disheveled patio, but maybe the police horse brigade might stop by during my art show, allowing people—should there actually be anyone here—a chance to pet the mighty steeds.
No, I’m not going to display “Primal Scream” at my house, in fact I don’t want to be present should it ever be displayed (which it won’t). I’m leaning towards just handing it over to Fetter, our esteemed OSU graduate (and football fan) to do whatever he wants with it, maybe store it in his basement, or better yet burn it along with the journal of mine he has containing mad ramblings about obsessions with Army Generals (and other creatures).
Ah, Insanity Art, let’s just build a big funeral pyre and burn everything, then gather up the ashes and bury them in a grave next to those in the cemetery next to the state institution for the insane. You know those cemeteries, the ones with markers listing only numbers for those buried there. Yup, right here in Ohio, Arlene is taking me to one this Spring, I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll bring some ashes to scatter. Or maybe not, I’m just angry thinking about OSU, lost dreams, outrageous behavior, messed up priorities, evil white men, you know the cast of characters and who always gets hurt. The one with the bleeding heart, maybe I need a tattoo after all, but maybe not.
Where do I belong, I don’t know, in the alleys I guess, with cysty Legs, slowly inching along, and with Lily, pulling hard, trying to get ahead but always facing resistance. Yup, that’s where you can find me now, or driving a late model car with stained seats. I’m not in Washington, I’m not doing the talk circuit, nope, I’m just one of the forgotten ones, who can’t seem to get anyone to e-mail me back with information I am looking for and need for my on-going art projects. Guess I’m on my own, so what’s new, maybe as a last ditch attempt I try to email someone at The Wall Street Journal, maybe they can help me follow the money (and find out who’s the Republican/Independent mayor candidate for Columbus). Or at the very least, get me the cellphone number for the Puppet Master’s office down in the basement of the Washington Post—you know all these reporters know one another.
Oh well, I see blue sky out my hospital window, and perhaps I can get the hounds rallied for a walk soon. Gotta call mom and see what she’s up to for the day. Keep on keepin on, ride through those emotional hangovers, help the Lost Ones to laugh, they need it. See ya.
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