Outside the hospice I laugh; what's that guy doing selling cheap Van Gogh prints in the parking lot. Who pays for that? Especially here? Once again, I have a tin ear for my own culture: a couple hours later, there's my sister, with "Starry Night" in her back seat.
I have this book idea, called Madhouse Diary. It's all over my blog, or it will be soon if it's not. The book would be my own re-do of Dad's self-published manuscript from 1989 or so. The title of it then was Love, Lust and Schizophrenia, Volume 1: Snakes and Other Lowlife. I still blame myself, somewhat, for not telling him to save his money and not self-publish.
It was a sad story how badly done the thing was, from start to finish. Dad never sold to anyone outside his own circle of friends and relatives, and to this very day his multiple hundred copies of the first edition are taking up space in some storage locker.
Not long after, or before, the Van Gogh scene outside the hospice, Dad asked if my sister or myself would like to take the manuscript and do more with it. He said we were "welcome to it".
After I had time to think about it, I realized a semi-autobiographical manuscript is not the worst legacy, even if the story is a bit disjointed and written in the style of a person who rarely reads books of that genre, or any genre.
Whenever I have something tagged with Madhouse Diary, it means it is a possible scene in my own remaking of Dad's story.
(November 2006)
Showing posts with label madhouse diary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label madhouse diary. Show all posts
Monday, November 27, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
Doing a Double (fiction excerpt: Madhouse Diary)
(10/2004)
Ed on Madhouse Diary: Doing a Double
Dad worked in a mental hospital. He'd come home at 4:30 except on the days when he worked double shifts. Then he came home after 11:00. When he was mad at us kids for fighting or generally being difficult he'd remind us that just to keep us in clothes was costing him two sixteen hour work days a week. Every Sunday night and every Thursday night was the schedule. I guess he had Saturday off. He usually slept all day. His snoring was loud enough to make us all understand that we better be quiet. I counted sixteen hours on the clock one day and realized that, as far as functioning through the day, sixteen hours was more than one day. It was all the day's life drained from it, and some of its bones ground into dust as well. I was a kid then, and I knew that a length of time you wouldn't even be bothered doing fun things had to be torture. Dad was a big strong man but we knew he was killing himself gradually.
Years later I'd work a couple sixteen hour shifts to see what it was like. I didn't have kids at home, I wasn't working in a mental hospital, and I wasn't an overweight smoker like dad, but I bet I felt something like what he felt. You don't want to feel that. Around the fourteenth hour I remember something like madness creeping in, then fleeing quickly and leaving me with a queasy sense of triumph that I hadn't fallen into the abyss. There was some gateway that opened in the mind during the double, but it was easy for young, fearless me to see it as a fearful place and step away from it. But was Dad able to avoid its lure?
The whole notion of working in the mad house is a Dickens nightmare. How did Dad come to it as a viable employment option? He could've worked fifteen miles closer to home at something far safer. Safer both physically and mentally. I worked it out in my mind that something about being in the crazy house made Dad feel justified in being in a terrible mood all the time. When it came time to voice his state of mind to the world, what else need he say besides "mental hospital" and "kids at home" before even the most cold-hearted listener would begin to think, that explains it.
(Written 10/2004)
Ed on Madhouse Diary: Doing a Double
Dad worked in a mental hospital. He'd come home at 4:30 except on the days when he worked double shifts. Then he came home after 11:00. When he was mad at us kids for fighting or generally being difficult he'd remind us that just to keep us in clothes was costing him two sixteen hour work days a week. Every Sunday night and every Thursday night was the schedule. I guess he had Saturday off. He usually slept all day. His snoring was loud enough to make us all understand that we better be quiet. I counted sixteen hours on the clock one day and realized that, as far as functioning through the day, sixteen hours was more than one day. It was all the day's life drained from it, and some of its bones ground into dust as well. I was a kid then, and I knew that a length of time you wouldn't even be bothered doing fun things had to be torture. Dad was a big strong man but we knew he was killing himself gradually.
Years later I'd work a couple sixteen hour shifts to see what it was like. I didn't have kids at home, I wasn't working in a mental hospital, and I wasn't an overweight smoker like dad, but I bet I felt something like what he felt. You don't want to feel that. Around the fourteenth hour I remember something like madness creeping in, then fleeing quickly and leaving me with a queasy sense of triumph that I hadn't fallen into the abyss. There was some gateway that opened in the mind during the double, but it was easy for young, fearless me to see it as a fearful place and step away from it. But was Dad able to avoid its lure?
The whole notion of working in the mad house is a Dickens nightmare. How did Dad come to it as a viable employment option? He could've worked fifteen miles closer to home at something far safer. Safer both physically and mentally. I worked it out in my mind that something about being in the crazy house made Dad feel justified in being in a terrible mood all the time. When it came time to voice his state of mind to the world, what else need he say besides "mental hospital" and "kids at home" before even the most cold-hearted listener would begin to think, that explains it.
(Written 10/2004)
Friday, October 06, 2006
Madhouse Diary (fiction excerpt--takes place in October)
(12/2004)
I began to imagine the snow was falling outside, even though it was a clear night and the temperature was an October mild. In my mind, though I knew it to be true, I wished we could all go out and make sure. Someone noticed me kind of squirming in my seat, and I found myself explaining the whole notion.
"That's cool," said Tabitha, but everyone else was quiet. Another long silence followed. I started thinking, this is the last time these girls will invite me anywhere with them, now that I'm talking like a 15 year old. Plus I kept clearing my throat, that last big cough not really all the way done with me. Finally Annie spoke.
"Now you got me thinking it's snowing outside." And we were all laughing again. But this time in a frantic, convulsive way that made me forget what it was that was funny. I figured that pot didn't really do anything to me. I was high on my nervousness, just happy to be around some attractive women who found me at all interesting. If I stopped to think about the last couple years, the end of my marriage, the ugly blows life dealt me, the state of the world, I could've been weeping with equal intensity.
(written 12/2004)
I began to imagine the snow was falling outside, even though it was a clear night and the temperature was an October mild. In my mind, though I knew it to be true, I wished we could all go out and make sure. Someone noticed me kind of squirming in my seat, and I found myself explaining the whole notion.
"That's cool," said Tabitha, but everyone else was quiet. Another long silence followed. I started thinking, this is the last time these girls will invite me anywhere with them, now that I'm talking like a 15 year old. Plus I kept clearing my throat, that last big cough not really all the way done with me. Finally Annie spoke.
"Now you got me thinking it's snowing outside." And we were all laughing again. But this time in a frantic, convulsive way that made me forget what it was that was funny. I figured that pot didn't really do anything to me. I was high on my nervousness, just happy to be around some attractive women who found me at all interesting. If I stopped to think about the last couple years, the end of my marriage, the ugly blows life dealt me, the state of the world, I could've been weeping with equal intensity.
(written 12/2004)
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