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Streams of Consciousness
by
Michael Walker
11 Nov 1999

The thing I care most about is money. Not boys not girls not dogs cars or sunsets. It’s dough, cash, greenbacks. The thing that says love like no touch (or rub) can. No body, no thing, says it better or proves its sincerity more than the man who is willing to pay as he says the words, "You are really worth something."

If I had to write my own eulogy, I’d say, "Here was a guy whose beautiful eyes and sincere smile made a difference. The eyes, brown and tender, could not hide, however, his terrible pain. The pain that stemmed from his belief that all roads lead to loneliness; that all people care as much as they can but invariably do what all people do – abandon each other.

When I look at myself in the mirror each morning, the first thing I think is usually that my beauty, which is a s deep as my aging skin, is fast becoming overrun by dryness and wrinkles. I try to calculate the odds of keeping my fast fading looks one more day and they are not good. Time, the bastard, is gaining on me.

I know I’m good at making people feel great about themselves. What I cannot do is sustain the energy it takes to keep reminding them. This is why friendships and love interests are so hard for me – I lose interest and the other party sees me for the fake I am.

I feel incompetent when I try to understand humans. Their odd and futile ways confuse me. There are times when I want to smother them all and put them out of their misery; and there are times when I hate them for I can feel them swimming in my blood. How did they get there I agonize to myself when this occurs.

People admire me for my good nature and the vengeance with which I try to be a good person. And they are taken aback if I show any signs of weakness or of being like they are I know I annoy people when I cut myself down. I do it with a fury that no man or child should have to bear.

A few events from my childhood that shaped who I am today are:

-- being shuttled around from foster home to foster home for the first 18 months of my life. there are no memories of this, of course; merely the residual fear that I must have done something wrong to deserve it.  naturally the best reason I was turned away -- this is true -- was because I cried too much.

-- Ann W’s death. the fast seizure, the three or four day lingering;  my memory of me punching my pillow when mom came in to say she was dead. so much for her lovely Jesus Christ.

-- being bullied in school. faggot pansy sissy boy freak wacky queer momma's boy jerkoff baby we're gonna kill you, you little bastard fuck who doesn't even have the same last name as his parents.

-- inept social workers. blue-gray walls of institutional paint; the smell of rubbing alcohol; little kids with vacant stares of incomprehension and fear in their eyes; dirty floors; meeting the siblings; the one-armed blind man who manned the elevator; the fear of being sent back.

-- adults who expressed love with money. take this but don't tell your mother. take this but don't tell your father. take this but don't tell your parents.

-- 30 --

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Copyright © 1999 by Michael Walker

Michael Walker is a freelance writer in Washington, DC.  He is also the founder and proprietor of DREAMWalker Group.

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writer_mike's world ©
Michael Walker 1999-2004

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