Wednesday, December 17, 2003

Blood Written

Demobilization—that's what began first. I myself, I think we need something like "dehoboization," but that's just me. Can't stand seeing them longing and melodramatic hobos walking and asking for my dollars.

I've seen what the government's done to us when we leave war. There's been strikes a-plenty, all ending with nothing—nothing gained, and something lost. Which equates to nothing. Sad it is that it is this way, sad indeed. I can barely keep my jobs I have from seeing how it is to work; lucky for me I've got a good enough job.

I was scared when the red scare scared me. I—I locked all me windows, barred all me doors, and when my wife Mortha was sleepy walking in the morning, I a-woke and hoisted me gun. My eyes were long and scared. I ended up screaming, "Commie bashturd," loud as my longs could scream. And I shot, but hit the ceiling 'stead of my wife. Think I went crazy; think I know I'm crazy. They all say I'm crazy here at this home—this place where they keep me all under surveillance and tied up most of the time. But I doubt it—I doubt it; I don't think I'm crazy at all. Now that Palmer guy—he's crazy. Getting me all worked up over them Commies. Making me all jitters. Now he—he's crazy—not me. And it makes me scared what he says—it makes me crazy, even though I'm not crazy.

Emma Goldman—now there's one sexy chick. Sexy as whipped butter being whippered into shape. If that isn't creamy I don't know what is. I went to one of her speeches—'fore I was brought here to the nuthouse—and she was fire. It was like there was fire all round. It was like she was a fire lady. All I could think about when I watched her speak was how sexy she was—how passionate she said things from her voice, it was a very hurting powerful. Badly, though, she was sent off—but you know, she'd changed me—and I wasn't longer scared of Commies. I was just scared of everything else. More or less I'm sick of talk of Commies, realizing there wasn't much to be scared of. I realized Palmer was a hic, and hics—hics should be hitten down on the ground, to end their torturous lives. I'd do it meself too—I'd plow a bat into his face till it was bloody—that I think would be mighty funny—then I can call him a bloody red, with all the blood on him—then turn him in as a Commie.

Round this time that Harding man—he came president. He was a real boozer, I didn't like him none—something like a boozermachine. I once heard he got such drunk one night that he couldn't run the white house—that he was so stoned he just couldn't do nothing but be stoned. I heard instead he ran round the white house screaming such obscenities that can't nor won't be repeated. I can understand the man—and I know what he screamed. I used to be quite on the bottle myself—I miss them days. They was a mess and a blur—something like Commies all in a soup. But this Harding guy, I didn't like him none—didn't like him and his Ohio Gang. Those gang—they was moochers. They mooched and mooched till they finally—some of them least—were caught. It's darn right they get what's coming to them too—damn moochers. I never done any mooch, and I'm glad. They here—they say I'm too mad here to be a mooch—don't know if I believe them though; I myself, I think it's mad to lock someone such as me up and deal with me. I'd say they was crazy—and as alcoholic as Harding. Harding he had a heart attack. I now kind of wonder what for, too—wonder if it was over some passionate love affair he was having—some squeege he was getting on the side dish—some mystery platter. Maybe it was just him missing being stoned. Not sure—but I know that if I had a heart attack, I'd be glad if I was him and it happened, cause boozers like that aren't good for nothing—nothing at all.

Silent Cal he was our next pres after. The man was radically pro-business—and the people her say I'm insane—I think he was insane. Man was as cold as cucumber—cold as a blizzarding snowstorm that just froze you frostbitten—he barely said anything—and when he did, it was always cold and distant. It was like the man was some silenced deer in the woods all bleeding in silence—the man, he was something like the anti-christ—he didn't know nothing. I heard he was once at a party—just being there like always—and someone asked him to say least three words. All he says is, "You lose." More like he loses—he's a loser. I don't go any respect for such a cunt as him. Always quite like some bashful blear—I don't like him none at all. It's cause of him the economy's controlled mostly be them rich moochers—them lucky sons of britches. I don't have any patience for some man like that, not at all. I'd silence silent Cal for real if he wanted it—not just silenced but I mean silenced.

Hoover he took over after Mr. Silent Atrophied Cal the Silent Man. And he's president right now—and he seems like a good man from what I see—though the economy's still only going for them rich people.

The 20's—they been a good time as well as bad. There's been much racial discrimination—specially from them punks the Ku Klux Klan. Now them guys—they are crazy. Good thing that man Stephedson he was put in jail—he's a bad man—and because of this, the post-WWI-grown clan, they fell to pieces. Good riddance is what I say—them guys got guts for keeping up the status quo when there really isn't one.

This age it has been labeled as the jazz age—and jazz is good indeed. I listen to it as much as I can here in the nuthouse—it's soothing. There's also ample amounts of good literature—specially poetry. Poetry is something I really like—and in this day and age there is much of it.

Then there's them Fundamentalists. Them crazed dastards. They don't understand nothing. The bible isn't meant to be taken literally like they think—as well as organized religion that is the dumbest thing I've ever seen. God he isn't about church—God he is about personal devotion and divinity. He's bout being your own with—not bout being communitied with. And me I don't believe in God either. I don't believe in anything till I can believe in it for a reason—and with God there ain't none at all. God he's just trying to comprehend something we won't ever understand—and if we do then I—I'll be long dead bless me soul—my accused crazed one at that.

I got a teary story to tell. It ain't for the squeemish neither. It's bout death and killing. You see, when I was still my last year of high school—there was this religious zealot—he went to my school and never he never shut up about God. He would talk bout God in everything he said and done—when he ate food he'd talk to the food like God gave it to him—and when he'd answer questions in school he'd talk to them like God gave it to them—and when he fell down or up some stairs he'd say God done it to him—and you see he had this mother and I hated her. She'd come to my house all the time by my parent's orders—and you see she'd tell me all bout God—all bout what she thought was God. And I'd just act like I was listening and I would just look in her eyes. And when I looked into her eyes I swear I saw craziness in there—a type of craziness that was zealous and insane. And I tell you I just couldn't stand it—it was mind-numbing. She'd come to me every day, tell me bout what a horrid kid I was for not believing in no God—and then my parents they would back her up—and she—she would always talk bout her son and how great he was and how amazing he was.

It ventually got the point where I just couldn't handle it none longer—I just blew up. So as I was walking home one day—I spotted her boy walking home, his backpack on his back and him with his hands gnarled together in prayed. And something in me just cracked even more then—I just couldn't stand it. All bout my mind I was seeing his mom talking to me gain and gain—as if she was some repeating record. And it wouldn't stop none—it kept going and a-going and a-going till I was insane and I couldn't stand it. And she was saying in my head—she was saying bout her son, and just then I stared again and there was her son again, only farther up the street this time. I don't know what happened then—it was all a blur. It was crazy.

They was fundamentalists—him and his mom—and they was also zealots. I couldn't stand them. And that day I just popped. I couldn't stand it no longer at all. I ran up to her boy as he was walking on the cement—and then I just punched him straight in the head and heaved off his backpack as if I was stronger than ever. And then I took his backpack and I threw it right on his head hard as I could, and I kept doing it and doing it—his mom's face coming into my mind again and gain as I did it—as if I was going crazy—which I wasn't mind you—and all my anger just sploded then. I couldn't handle it no more—I couldn't take it all inside—all my thoughts of revulsion of what his mom had said bout God just powered me and made me beat and beat her boy till I was tired and all panting. And I couldn't—I didn't—want to see what I done when I was finished. I just stared there forever and ever—till finally I did see what was there—and it wasn't pretty at all—it wasn't pretty none. Blood was all that I could see—blood as if it was a river coming from her boy. I almost fainted then—I couldn't believe it none—couldn't believe I had this in me.

I didn't want no one to find out what I done—I looked round—and somehow there weren't no cars round at all—they was all back at a stop light little ways back—all of them, least to my recollection.

And so I hid that body somewhere where none could find it—but some still did and they had me as a witness as his case—and I just couldn't speak none—I couldn't tell them what had happened—not even make it up. Then I was I was taken to a psychiatrist and he said I was down with something—I couldn't remember. But I know that I was blocking out what I'd seen and done. And this lead to nother thing—and I just couldn't do nothing any longer. I just all spurned up—then they sent me here—and here I am in the quiet of not I'm writing this with my blood. Cause they don't give me pens nor pencils—they too afraid I'll hurt meself or even worse. And maybe I would maybe I wouldn't—but I know that I ain't crazy. I know that I still see things they way them are—I just act like I don't when other people they are around. And I'm always living with my guilt for what I done—but still I know I liked it—if you knew what it felt like you'd like it too.

And so that's about all that's happened—I came into this just saying what the 20's been to me, cause I don't think I'm going to live much longer—I'm getting to the point where I don't want to live none longer—since I'm here in this place and they won't let me out. Each day I'm getting what I can and I'm I'm putting it under my bed where they can't see it—in a special place. This will be going there too—and I guess someday someone will find it—and they will know what I was about in some ways. Although I do think I haven't said what me name was yet—but I will at the end.

My name it is Silivan Taylor—and that is all the rest there is to say here. I've been draining so much blood day-by-day to write this here that I feel like I'm going to faint—might as well and it here I think I should.
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