Friday, December 4, 2015

Buzzkill light year if not for the birds....

Left Anaheim Memorial Hospital 5 am after sleeping cramped on a vinyl sofa, better than the cold cement I'm used to.
Ready and nervous for my street performance event, I hardly slept a wink. And with benzodiazapine withdrawl in full effect, gnashed my teeth, and twiddled my toes most of the night.
Found out vending machines now take ATM cards, I enjoyed a couple soda pop and snacks. My bank card worked like a charm. No real poor people snatching fees included, all seemed to be Wells Fargo, in my decoder of bad events to come.
Going to Starbucks to land my phone on a groovy revival unit on their tables, I had the hospital staff summon a taxi. Not even sure yet what company she called, but they were there within a few minutes.
Had this big festive, anti-anxiety plan together to write signs in my sketchbook, and deliver a winning show of performance and community financial unity.
What a fantasy I had going on, that the city of Cypress, would accept this newly groomed at Ross dress for Less by a lovely, patient girl named Alana.
My hair was fantastically engineered by a humble but adept, hardworking asian woman. She took the crazy curl monster full of split bends, and carefully commandered my head dressing.
She washed my hair with car and longevity, giving this lonely traveler the feeling of another human being crafted for such a service.
OOoooh, aaaah, I tried to keep  my prattle trap shut, as she was professional and serious. Most Asian women born outside the land of the gabby salons, tend to be shy and willing to lie.
We were both surprised at how young each other looked.
"Clear consciences," I quipped.
I saw the result, and put up at $10 tip after a modest sum of $17 was expected.
She wanted no internet credit, as I offer the truth in advertising to deal to the finest quality, not Costco style, but simple craftsmanship and care, and real true selling points. Not a way to lure and hide a naughty defect, of both character and product/service itself.
So, five A.M. arrived and the hospital security guard reassured a restless actor things would go well.
Cab came and whisked me to the Starbucks and ducks a lucky drug dealership full of coffee potless, busy, cafeenders on Valley view and Lincoln.
The driver and I discussed my books, as an incident had occurred which brought me to the topic of my personal and universal sexual conditioning topic where I will explore our plight: The Owner of a Boner, it will be entitled. LOL
The rather thoughtful driver reflected some interesting atrocities we face, and we shared some info and interest in the subject.
The darkness still lingering, Starbucks oasis of light, approached and got my debit card ready for a transaction and tip.
The screen like a big screen TV was in the back seat, yet, still with no glasses and brain damage, (who would've thought) I couldn't see or operate the damn thing and my card was initially declined.
I knew with simple math and overdraft protection there should be no problem.
Suddenly the driver became concerned and he tried, and Declined again.
WTH? I thought this isn't good, I could feel the arrival of the Buzzkiller serial episodes with me. Nearly threw up as a happy performer is probably the better than a stage heckling the crowd. OH boy.
WEnt to Chevron and inexplicably their ATM wasn't working.
Driver questioned me as if to suggest I had purposely obtained a ride knowing I didn't have funds.
I squealed that was preposterous.
Apparently jaded, or stiffed one too many times, he told me to just leave.
I said I'd get with the bank and straighten the matter, but was pushed out with a heavy lack of trust and really hurt my feelings.
Shouldn't he notice my big morality chip on my shoulder, and truth telling fixations? lol
Went marching out of car and left my phone behind...
Hence no FB updates, as my G4 and I were satellites orbiting in different directions and there was no way to catch the irritated driver.
As tears began to pour down on the poor, I realized I had no cash either, which meant no coffee or communication.
I lost it completely. Oh yeah, big heaving sobs, gallons of fluid flowing from my eyes, I walked out of Starbucks and hid myself in between a store and a pillar. \
Cars drove by my emotionally discharging ass and none even looked concerned. I could hear the echo of my meltdown sounds coming off the walls.
I yelled at myself: No PITY, NO FEAR, NO anger and remembering my own rule of faith: Everything that can go right, will go right, even if it seems wrong.
Didn't exactly do much at that point.
Starbucks did not want me doing banking business on their busy coffee scheduling phone, but offered a call to a friend to pick me up (and probably deliver from their midst.)
I called, Tonto, former decade old friend of the Bipolar American, who antagonized me for two months and when I improperly stiffened and met her demeaning, demanding, words with improper protest, I was thrown out and she told me to basically lose her number. (And kept all my stuff, prescriptions, blanket, toothbrush etc. with no remorse.)
I made an exacting call that I was penniless, no caffeending, and it was imperative if she was to see me ever again as a friend, that she come to my emotional rescue.
Have no idea if she even got out of bed that day.
So, I took my sobbing, freaking bones across the street to begin a pre-dawn begging session with busy commuters.
Yeah, that went well.
One young woman, student, beautiful caring eyes handed me a few one dollar bills before I even asked. I fell to the public sidewalk in front of my junior league college, Cypress College, in of course, Cypress. Dynamic.
Sobbing, now uncertain if I should entertain as I had no promise of food or shelter, or even a luxurious bus ride to the bank to attack the whole industry with a dry tongue chapped from all my complaining.
I pulled out the sketch book, and instead of those positively clever signs I fashioned while living my debut performance fantasy, I scrawled in ball point: HELP.
REally creative, but certainly fitting the fearful fit I was being served by the humble pie delivery service: Buzzkill lightyear, I growled, outloud in fact, is doing it again to me.
Boo hoo, I could not imagine a more pathetic polar on the side of the road, and in front of an educational institution putting secretaries and bottle washers into the workforce by the dozens.
FUCK THEM, I thought, which triggered the opposite reaction: Bipolar Rage and Raving.
Now, it went from help poor little polar cub, pay her cabby and redeem her tab, be it small but personally offensive.
While suddenly bursting into mother code of a loose tongue tied to it's post for too long, I realized, hell I owe money to almost everybody and everything I ever did/done/or served. Not a credit report I was willing to let slide either. Family, veterinarians, libraries, you name it, I let them suck it up.
Whoops, made me madder and more vulgar.
Luckily, it was still half dark, and the college vacant of ears, such as security.
I raged, and began writing signs like NEVER QUIT, Help the fallen human, and other weird stuff until suddenly with odds on buzzkill could provide, My pen ran out of ink and I was so poor I didn't have a spare.
I went nuts. Threw the pen to the streets, got all paranoid up, and began casting doubt on my stage of events.
Yelling, muddling through physical hostile effects, cars averted and hid from the mad woman, now clearly being seen in the predawn.
Yup, I'm a real sweety pie, with a mouth of a cobra, and the spit to go with it. I thought of putting up a flag, owning the sidewalk and selling it as my property.
Losing it, they call it.
I fell to my knees, clasped my hands in begging disgrace, when suddenly I heard a familiar sound. A FUCKING MACAW.
My Sky and her kin, are quite distinguishable, and this was from the parrot store caddy corner from the college.
The birds were signalling the mad woman just as my baby would do to me when mama left balance, for beast like ravings.
Whoops. Birds had heard and I knew in my heart I had to see them and discuss my plight.
I grabbed my now scattered belongings and body language lavished with hateful tones, I hit the strip mall and found a bunch of bewinged on lookers awoken by my words.
 Then the birds said NEVERMORE.
Not really, but they chided me a bit, and suddenly began the entertainment. The rolled on the bottom of cages, beeped, blurted and made me laugh and smile.
They came to my emotional rescue, these caged sages.
I expressed my discontent for their plight of caged living and lack of flight, but they all were trying to get my attention.
Before I knew it I was singing to them and laughing at their antics: Street performers one and all. LOL
My depression alleviating songs rang out of the anger throated, detonated, actress/author/songwriter/juggler/code talking vagrant.
My mood simply couldnt remain ugly with such beautiful spirits to cheer me up.
However, next door, some serious eyes peered out of the door as I rolled on the ground with them, showing them what coolness is when smoking cigarettes, pronounced them heroes who needed freedom from their sight restricting stack of metal and bars.
Yeah, we ministered to each others plight thru windows and security bars...Sick degrees of Separation I told them and that I shall come into the store and meet eyes with all of them once nine oclock had arrived. Sucks because we were a hoot and holler, gang of birds of a feather: Clipped and weathered was I too.
Philosophy for intellectually inclined parrots I guess. lol
I returned to my college front post and began a physical show only a diehard with a cast iron skill could foster.
Still feeling rejected, no one stopped to see just how clever I was.
I had picked up a spoon on the pavement and used it as a prop to show me eating dirt.
Guess the busy, possibly precaffeended crowd didn't get my gone with the wind jokes.
Tried to write them, but nobody gave a rats ass.
The ones with out tinted windows just seemed concerned.
Great start. Wow.
Then I used guilt, one sign read: Do you even have a heart left. Cold blood in your veins?
That pretty much got me back where I started, heckling the crowd from a stage.
Bright light came up and it just got embarassing as I was shockingly angry at everyone.
Then to show my massively amazing poetry recitation, I hit it with Edgar Allen Poe's the conquerer worm.
I thougth they must now see how clever and intellectual I am. They must notice my GPA status and worth.
Really, I was a child looking for some pudding or something. IDK. lol
Then bird sounds rang out again.
Another round of bird to human meltdown therapy.
U turn around back to the windows with awaiting birds. Big caustic, suddenly, feeling sad for the worlds lack of my version of compassion. Comparing my deeds as I crossed the hectic traffic.
A homeless man the day before I had bought cigarettes for, suddenly showed, and I hugged on him like he was evidence of the deficiency of everyone but me.
Yeah, that thinking gets little in the way of workable, growth, and character changing events. Delusion of diffusion, I went back to birds for advice and to suddenly write their story with a tear in my eye.
They could have given a shit about my nightmare awaking debut, they simply wanted their own kudos, and to see me smoke cigarettes.
I started to come out of the cloudy part of the mind storming the castle of hassle and harassment, and just fucking played. Much to the concern of others now occupying this strip mall.
Tried to not look crazy, but yet, the birds insisted upon my bobbing my head and beeping. Surely these people knew I had to do these things...(or did they)
I grabbed my stuff headed back to the beggar corner of my public property event and found security and the Cypress police looking on.
Oh Shit, I thought well here we go back to the looney bin or even just shackled and tackled.
They let me finish my last stanza of my amazingly repetitive poetry recitations, then approached.
Sit on the grass they demanded.
I said, that is the college grass, that sidewalk, I own it.
But I knew if I pursued this farce of an argument we were gonna be taking a ride, in front of all the onlookers who were previously castigated by a delightfully speedy, angry lip quipping.
I submitted.
Put your hands on your knees and keep them there,  they instructed for the second time in two weeks.
During my tirade two weeks prior, not a performance, a diatribe against the world, I couldn't keep my hands on my knees.
I confessed to them it must be something passive aggressive, as I analyzed my lack of focus. ( probably right as police delighted with their presence and impounding of me and my vehicles regularly over the years)
This time, I kept those damn hands clutching my knee caps as embarassment became overwhelming. How could I this clever artist and actor be demeaned in front of this cheap, greedy, self centered crowd.
The cops, all four of them (no swat team for the fly this time, or fire trucks and ambulances which usually arrived concurrently) gently questioned me. Each asking the same: Do you want to hurt yourself or anyone else.
No, I sheepishly answered with some question as to whether I was being true or not, but yet, scared to see my own intentions and agenda.
They patted me down, asked what and where I was staying and doing.
Gotta get money to get my car back and get home to Weldon and make a new start.
Next question: how?
IDK, I creeked out with sudden burst of tears.
Need to go to hospital again, and the regular check up.
They offered no money as I explained of my hunger, no money, darkened reputation put on by cabby...I had eaten chips and soda, I was hardly starving for god sake, but my drama queen continued.
They just told me the school was in fear, the community probably equally disturbed, and they said, "just move it on the other side of the street and try your luck there."
Cool, I passed the police are you insane test. Hands still on knees, but only on one knee as I proposed to myself I looked my stylish with two hands on one knee.
(really we should all visit the mental ward which is my thought processes....)
I then gave up and went back to the birds who were excited I was back. The owner came in and close the security gate barrier and we could see each other more clearly. I spoke of Sky and her antics, and drug use, and they seemed to listen.
The patient but busy owner let me in b4 opening, and the place went fucking wild. Birds of all kinds, words, sound effects, emotional personal expression, burst out: I was shocked  it was like a royal homecoming. The owner couldn't settle their need to be attended by me, and subsequent sound of the sqawk of rebel parrots.
We were one.
Healed by the first eye contact, I could see and feel their pain filled cramped cages, and visual obscurity, and we really got it on. I went to each, trying not to leave even a flighty finch out of my visit up close.
I offered my hair and some groomed me, and touched them and never did they show aggression as I had on the streets of Cypress.
The owner was uncomfortable but afforded me the time to commune with the likes of Maxwell who was small and colorful, but also trying to speak to me. He had a verbal train on his own track. I can't hear the little birds as well as the defeaning, articulations of macaws, but I put my ear to the cage and picked up such phrases as "thank you." Polite.
But he seemed disappointed I couldn't auditorilly collect the messages and repeat them. What intense eye contact we all made. Amazing.
Then I heard the familiar verbal command of a blue and gold macaw being held in the back, kenneled as owners were doing something and bird needed some extra safe confinement, I guess.
Blue and Gold is same, looked just like Sky, but wasn't my baby.
Had a needy demanding look like my little Earp too. Got me all sadded up, missing my baby, being cared for by my sister who has an actual home, not living the life of pedestrian poorhouse bipolar.
Never to be forgotten what happened there. I don't know how to even describe it, words are poor too, poor symbols for real spiritual gathering.
I left telling them General Macarthur like, "I shall return." I guess to buy them all and have a wickedly noisy home life on the streets. Hey they could live in the trees me in the park.
WEnt to Ross dress for less, that almost closed as I approached seeking lost items and sympathy probably.
Leftover bag in hand, I was told by a customer of a homeless shelter, Baptist Church quite a ways from that intersection.
I had no other choice, use my $2 left for a bus to then have to walk many miles to reach a possible haven for the home free, lets call me, us.
Hardly a bus rider, I could barely figure out how to get off the damn thing, get the door to open, as the whole bus load yelled instructions at me.
Now for the long walk to something possibly, but not confirmed, to be of help. Hungry, penniless, I cried again barely started my journey a rest stop, and sobs.
Bikers and walkers flew by the tearful trekking into the unknown fearfully, not faithfully, me. Wow, I was so dissappointed they didn't pick me up like a lost infant and take me to the orphanage.
Kept going, then dropped on the lawn in front of Knotts Berry farm.
Suddenly a lad appeared next to me, with a back pack claiming to be going to the same place, but unaware of its real properties. He claimed to have to panhandle, and had his marijuana stolen. Bummer about the pot, I selfishly thought, as one hit would have bit into my still heckling the rich luxury car drivers, and employed road workers.
Noel, led me down the street kept asking me questions and keeping my mind of my smoking hot feet, affectatively arched down appearance, until we kept reaching milestones along the way.
With no water available, he gave me gum to milk some saliva onto my chapped tongue and lips. I surfaced enough foamy liquid and took my thyroid pill, like someone who wanted to live...well sorta, you know the story. Hatin' it here. lol
I couldn't complain to a young man in a worse position than I.
Then in the distance, blind as a bat I am, I could detect a Wells Fargo Bank.
Oh, shit, verbal warfare words began to back up in my throat. I told Noel, stay put, I'm roasting bankers, we will have food. I'm not sure I was kidding.
Got in the front doors, but tension rose, as my English, male sounding personality slipped in the lip socket before I could get a button, zipper of something over the enraged quipper. The shrill quill of my demands of explanation probably were audible to most of Buena Park.
Manager and reps held together to fend off this offensive, tired, pain ridden, revenge seeking woman.
"If you don't stop talking like that you're going to have to leave," I was warned by a young man, muscley and in shape to toss this battle trap out the door.
They made some calls, I drank water like a pole vaulter, or whatever, and we found out they put a hold on the card to protect me from fraud.
I scorched back about the cabby, my phone less ness, loss of book material, etc...
They offered no apology. "It works now."
I grabbed my own face as if to protect them from a responsive bite.
You need to find the cab and the phone.
They hardly felt the need to even help. "it works now, go get something to eat."
Jesus, H, Christ, I burned Catholic vulgarities as they directed me to Tmobile to have them help me.
Yeah, we got more on this shit.
T-mobile did indeed help, but certainly didn't have to. A crew of delightfully sympathetic, and technologically advanced 20 somethings googled for me, as we had to figure out even which cab company picked me up.
Yes, it's always complicated, as it was today to...but I digress.
These lovely people, and customers gathered with possible solutions, and now maybe I can identify the company and try to find my phone.
Kind of bitter toward cabby, but will pay as long as phone comes home. I now am more pushing back at this buzz killer stalker of mine. lol Murphy or whoever.
New law in town, Faith.
Noel instructed we keep heading for the church and not get 25 cent corn dogs from weinershnitzel as I had impractically suggested.
"You need your money for other things, let's keep going."
We were practically 50 yards from the church, but the currents of food cooking on the wind was driving me mad.
He was right, If I am to get my car and dignity back, I need to humble foul grumbling and get there.
We arrived and the guard dog wanted to eat me, immediately.
Oh those intuitive animals: Angry crazy woman approaching, bite her sorry ass.
Lucky the chain didn't quite reach, and now more aware of my emotional distressed out, I realized dog knew better. But hey, don't bite me. I heckled the dog as I ate jewish rye bread offered for the bread loving poor people.
No butter, I quipped. Then a few rounds of blasphemy, delicately hidden behind hate, I found a dollar in my pocket. An extra I didn't know I had.
I saw a vending machine with 7up, my sin of the flesh, carbonated, teeth destroying soda pop.
I bought a can and sat with my friend talking about how I shouldn't talk anymore. Yum, the soda tamed the beast, best left back in Cypress, and I fell to the ground on my blanket.
Friends, busses don't attend all roadways, theres a lot of walking on the homeless circuit, lot's of lugging things in back packs, which luckily I was smart to buy.
Anyway, I got treated to a home style cooked meal, and some amazing eyes which met with mine. Yeah, they wondered if I was a Brit, or if I'd ever shut up, but treated me as I was just being me, with no more need to sample my sad story everywhere, as we are all in this same shape and boat.
Anyway, family and friends, I still persist and pursue the goal of retrieving the 5150 mobeel and coming home to Navajo ave. in Weldon to plant a Stake with a new flag: Bipolar Cuntry be aware I"m protecting my one citizen from more damage: me.
Want my macaw to come home so it's all work and luggage from here.
Got no benzos for the comforts of withdrawl, and short of funds, got a little bit of shit and waiting for a good hit. Fell to low, as there is no methamphetamine faster than me, but it kills the pain.
I'm on old traveler in training, but I as the sign said, NEVER GIVE UP.
Love you guys, gotta go, as i am buying all the used books in front of the library. Told them I'll be back with my car to pick them up. Unreal synchroncity going on here. Donate books to all who aid this weary, bleary bipolar on her way back up the record of truth.
I'm no BS kids, I"m TS, the shit.
Watch for me, gotta find the
Riding busses is fun, get to see great people.
Thanks to all, don't worry, the world appears to be leaning my way. Buzz a bee, have and hive my orders in order of, oh hell, lol, I'm working it kids.....Love to All, Laura

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

The Street perfomer wants her car....

Dear Supporters of this bipolar American,
I'm currently trekking thru Cypress in search of the funds to recover my impounded car, which you will find a pix of on the right side of this blog:
AKA, the 5150 mobeel.
My long road from ragged jagged points to lows of a nadir I be, the car, a white camry with my book, The chronicles of the Bipolar Reporter etched in the paint is being held hostage for a grand or two by now, as it was not acceptable to the rich and preposterous of Long Beach on NOv. 3 where it broke down.
I consumed a large cup of coffee and began my riff raff, as I am just that, dancing, feigning intoxication, and dancing for a crowd of cheery, shocked on lookers.
It seems my latent,  not latex, rubber stampers, talents are appearing one by one, to my own amazement. I juggle, dance, speak in code and rap like a black man.
Yes, it's what I have and will use on the public right of way to possibly, not panhandle, oh no, that would be illegal, but slyly without harassment, ask for help to obtain my car/book mobeel and return to Weldon, where my home sits in ruins.
Awaiting my administering this beleaguered home contained one mad elder abuse tracker, reporter who traced the culprits of murder, greed and mayhem until the courts finally agreed and gave:::::Probation.
Yes, they got white collar hot am I under, thunderstruck, I myself served 8 months for a tiny bag of methamphetamine which I truthfully directed the police to find.
Thank you California for Proposition 47, which unfortunately was a bit late, but sound of mind, you changed the charges from felony to miss duh meaner.
Now, down to sacks of clothes, a haircut, a hernia from carrying my leftover thanksgiving belongings, missing my bi polar meds, I'm heading for street performance.
Let me explain:
They towed  my car to impound where it is over a thousand dollars for this aged, disabled, garbled fool to retrieve.
But, aye captain, heres the rub: now they sell it for pennies on the dollar and put the balance of some extraordinairy mathematical terror on my CREDIT REPORT>
IOU, good people I did not pay, my family whom I did not properly care for, BUT NO to the impound your dog, cause I want my car.
NOBODY but I the dues you owe my righteous in your face nation, should drive this automobile.
I lived in it with my fallen hero, BOXER, RIP, Dukeskywalter, the golden paw of reckoning, who died while I was incarcerated in Lerdo for my honest tell tale heart.
My bird, SKy, blue and gold macaw, spent time in the rolling roost, and her hero name, Skyette Earp, has been taken from my care and car home, leaving behind plumage, droppiings, and seeds.
This is my hope and dream: To return to my vanquished home in my automobile, dignified, vindicated and ready to start over.
Sidewalks are Public right of way, I"lll serve up ;the best Charlie Chaplin, no harass meant (wink wink cadilacky villa) hoping for help in a dinero, espressed in beans coffee, or you know what I'm saying.
LOve to all. Wish me Luck. I*"ll keep you updated on FAce book, take a look. this lemon is needing aid.  FAllendarity and GROUP HUGS MUTHERFUCKERS>>>
(with the best of intentions I do curse this madness)
LOve to all, hardworking, schooling, sweethearts......LAurA HART YOUR Servant BPA

Friday, June 12, 2015

Out of Lerdo jail- casualties of war UPDATE

After 8 months of incarceration I was released last week to a world that changed completely.
Rest in peace Dad and Walter, my two supporters. Walter aka dukeskywalter has been part of both business and pleasure. Always by my side, the boxer lost his life to cancer.
My father, a bi polar american who lived the way of the great fathers, died 4 days into my lock down. One of the last things he did was put money on my books.
Because he and I came to terms that I wanted Nothing other than to know my origin of existence. How could I be in a world with no fair play? Good intentions are up hill wind in your face. But I'm sure when I say there must be freedom for all.
Not my dads bag, he just wanted me to be safe, the rest of the world be damned.
Not me.
Kern county sheriff's arrested me Oct. 23, 2014, and spit me back out, charges dropped, on June 4, of this year.
It's much different out here now, it was an ordeal to be in jail with no ability to reach the people I love and who love me, without money and assistance.
August 29th and I'm still trying to understand all that I have to process as being shoved behind walls, only to languish everyday in a dark, dank tank somewhere on the outskirts of Bakersfield.
I must tell you putting people or any other life form in a place where it is meant to be crushed, demeaned, and practically useless takes some serious reflection abou-t what we mean to this world.
Most in the jail, pre trial, but previously judged before the whole system then kicked to the curb with no acknowledgement when it's all over.
Sad seeing so many young people, locked up for being poor, not able to afford bail, no individual representation, and not much hope that after the whole put on ice capades is over that anything will change.
I was amongst those judged to be a Problem to society. Yeah, I would say I am a problem to any system that considers harming those most oppressed, scapegoating young people with the cause of the blight out in our current social structure.
I'll get around to telling you, I put up a fight while I was in there. A fight for my right to a life not overtaken, judged, insulted, by those who write laws that make criminals as a consequence.
I was offended.
I am offended, not just for me, for everyone who has to suffer this system.
There is always something you can do. In the tiny cell, with the scant attention from guards, the food stuffs offered to simply keep us alive, there was a growling and it came from me.
It hurt to feel the brow beating everyday from middle class workers who "guarded us" or transferred one time human resources, now only bodies needing to be in certain places, fed to live, and healed only if the injury was obvious.
Me, it made my blood boil, and a watched pot does boil over and in the most unexpected ways.
I will make an effort to tell the story of my arrest, my protest, my passion to overcome the situation, and the humor it takes to make it happen.
Stay safe and awake and I'll be back.
Yours....The BiPolar American