“‘Peace, peace’ but there is no peace!”
—The Bible—
—Old Testament—
—Refrigerator Magnet—

“I haven’t known peace and quiet for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like!”
“Someone’s got it in for me...”
—Bob Dylan—
—Idiot Wind—
—Mantra(s)—

Even when I thought that I was finding peace, rest, restfulness in contemplative prayer, part of me said, “you faker! yer lyin’ to yerself!”

I was right.

By any standard, I’m on enough antipsychotics to put a sex-starved bull elephant to sleep and yet I’m failing.

I’m failing. People are knocking on my door. Hallucinations just are not that kind of loud. The biggest lie is that I believe that I control my delusions, like picking a movie on a streaming service. “I’m feeling Jane Austen all over.” But what comes on my screen is the worst Nicholas Cage movie ever. And he’s been taking every paying role for a decade, so there are some bombs out there.

Things are sidetracked. Hoodwinked. I spent most of my night writing a threatening letter to my electricity provider. I am facing persecution on so many fronts and there are too many Crazy 88’s and I’m no Kiddo. I’m weak and lazy and I wasn’t around long enough to grow up. Unlike Billy Pilgrim, I became stuck in time. In my 20’s, in the summertime in England (will you meet me?). Betweentime. I will always crave and only at death escape betweentime. Time after time after time. As I always say: do not trust Burnt Norton on time. Time is nothing but the big and little hands on my stopped watch.

Digital watches are just too, too gauche. And I am such a cad (Susan told me before our first kiss). We were such Frannys and Zooeys, such Benedicks and Beatrices. Fireworks stored in a match factory. I loved her exponentially because she said “cad.”

Has anybody seen my gal?