Friday, January 5, 2018

Thursday 26 March 1998

Yesterday I didn't write anything at all because I felt just fine—fairly calm and comfortable with the world. I guess the point of my new journal being—I'd go to therapy if I could afford it, but I just cannot. I mean, I really cannot. I was going to a therapist last summer or so—a guy I called "Guru Dave"—and damn if it wasn't really helping me. I had to pay $20 a visit—which is even a lot for me, but my insurance was paying the balance, however much that was. But then my insurance ran out, and I certainly can't afford to pay more than $20 a visit. The insurance I have pays for something like a dozen visits in a two year period—so I guess it's like if you're having a crisis. It's not meant to pay for a long term like every week indefinitely thing. The thing is—I really really think our whole society—our whole world—would be so much better off if everyone who wanted it (and lots of people who needed it were convinced to want it) could go to free therapy on a regular basis. Yeah, but who's going to pay for this? I mean, it's expensive. Just the $20 a visit co-payment is really beyond my means—it's, well, like anything else in the heinous new modern world of plastic wealth. I can pay for it—I just can't afford it. I can pay for a lot of things—but I have a $20,000 debt. Any money I spend is money not going to pay off that debt. Why do I have a $20,000 debt?—more on that later—it's got to be good enough right now just to admit it. My theory is that a lot of people have huge debts and aren't admitting it. That kind of denial is eventually going to lead to lots of crisis situations.

To get back on the subject, this journal is my supposed solution to not being able to afford therapy. We'll see how it works, okay? Right now it's looking good. Two days ago I was ready to go through the roof—but I wrote in my journal instead and calmed down. Yesterday I felt better. Today I don't know. I'm just trying to get oriented today. I woke up and didn't know where I was. Like I said, the concepts of where I am, who I am, what is home, and when is now are all complicated subjects. Actually, now is now—that's easy. I'm a guy named Travis Williams and I live in a suburb called Hollywood in a city called Portland in the state of Maine on the East Coast of the United States of America. I might add that I am fictionalizing these details in order to be able to tell the truth more effectively. A work of fiction cannot be, I don't think, by its nature, libelous or incriminating—and so we'll call this a work of fiction with the usual disclaimers like any resemblance to things or people living or otherwise is simply a coincidence of the highest order, etc., etc.—of course, we know about fiction that this is a lie—it's not coincidental—it's all based on something actual. Fiction is lies, lies, lies—but it's all true. That's how I named my small publishing company: True Bullshit Publications—"We Publish Fiction!" more on that later.

Okay—anyway, Portland is a sleepy seaside micro-metropolis—kind of an upstate New York town on the sea (Upstate Upstate On-the-Sea)—voted the "Best Place to Live and Drive" by Sport Utility World magazine—there's a lot of outdoorness, rednecks and stupidity, but also a lot of tolerance and hard working, humorless hard work for social change. The lobster is what this city was built on—lobstering, the lobster harvest, and lobster export business (you can only eat lobster so often yourself). Everything is lobster that and lobster this—Lobster Hardware, Lobster Paint, Lobster Realty, Lobster Oil Change, Lobster Rooter, Lobster Thermodynamics... You get the picture. The word lobster becomes abstract and absurd after awhile if you say it enough times.

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