July 1st, 2001

Doom

Oh, gods ...

Well ... it finally happened ... there is a stack of envelopes with checks in them with stamps on them with NO money in any of the accounts to cover them ... NO money coming in ... NO money left at all. Three years of looking for a job and not even getting a half-assed offer. NOTHING. I've applied for so damn many things ... and most of them wouldn't have even paid enough to come close to matching our "burn rate". This sucks. I guess we're going to have to take out a mortgage on the apartment just to have money to LIVE on. Fuck the world. Fuck the damn bastard-assed shit hole of a world that wants to kick you when you're down. Eight years ago I was making a six-figure income ... I go off to try to develop something that I believed in, got totally screwed ... and now I can't even find a shit job paying 1/3 of what I used to be making. If it wasn't for The Girls, I'd be happy to just turn into a "mad bomber" and go blow up some fucking banks or maybe turn psycho terrorist and just LASH OUT and go for maximum body count. But, nooooooooo ... but there is NO "plan B" ... we've been trying to WORK out a "plan B" but NOBODY wants to play. I don't know how we can survive if I have to go back to school to get re-trained in something. Right now I don't want to work for anybody ... I just want to fucking KILL everybody. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Maybe I should pray to be hit by a truck tomorrow. At least the family would get money to live on.

Fuck this god-damned shit hole of a world.



                    LONG PAST THE LINE OF PAIN


                    what structure has the day?
                    what purpose
                    lurks beneath
                    the random cruelty
                    the incessant waves
                    of pain and anguish
                    that are its signature
                    its telling mark

                    I see nothing but intent
                    to craft a prison
                    that none escape
                    a place of torture
                    where dreams go wanting
                    and nightmares are the real
                    a dark perversion
                    of what our world should be

                    who is behind this,
                    these cycles of failure
                    this pattern of doom?
                    too many things
                    fall to coincidence
                    to have coincidence
                    be plausible
                    in these days

                    and each new day
                    brings with it depths
                    lower than before
                    fresh horrors
                    which threaten to destroy
                    unseen terrors
                    which suddenly appear
                    and from which we can not flee

                    nothing we do
                    matters now
                    the probability envelope
                    has collapsed
                    as it always does
                    ceding the abyss
                    we just wait the conflagration
                    the searing come to flesh and mind



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                06/30/2001

                    Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp
 
 



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Doom

An anniversary ...

Sixteen years ago today I quit drinking.

Sixteen years ago I was consuming pretty much a fifth of gin a day. I went into the out-patient chemical dependence program because it was the single most perverse thing I could think of doing at the time.

Little did I know how fucked up everything would be 16 years down the line. If I was shown the future and given a choice, would I have still quit drinking?

I don't know ... this whole financial thing is SUCH a fucking nightmare ... we have automatic checks that hit on Tuesday that we don't have money to cover, we have insurance payments that need to be in by the end of the week that we don't have money to cover. I have no clue where the dollars will come from. No clue.

I am a total failure. Sixteen years ago I was a Vice President in a Public Relations agency, making what eventually grew into a six figure salary. I drank to be able to stand work. I didn't hate EVERYTHING about my job, but it was definately one of those "soul crushers". I hated my idiot co-workers, I hated the psychos that were most of our clients, I hated the morons that were our primary and our ultimate audience, I hated having a dictatorial and abritrary boss. I kept a fifth of whiskey in my desk "just in case". Sixteen years ago I felt like prisoner in a cage with no future. I was a failure, but it was just me. Just me. I had a lot of money, but focused on my studies and my writings because there was nothing else out there for me.

I quit drinking, stayed sober. Nobody understood that my sobriety was really a huge "FUCK YOU" to the world. I figured if I was damned, if I was going to be a prisoner, if I was going to be endlessly tortured, I'd choos my own hell. So, I let go of the ONLY COMFORT that I had ever known ... I put down the bottle and the sweet oblivion that it offered. I walked out into the killing light of day saying "OK, motherfuckers ... here I am, no buffers, no crutches, have at me".

And, of course, it did have at me. NOTHING CHANGED in terms of my inner anguish ... NOTHING. Only my pain was more immediate, unfiltered by the booze. The hatred I felt for everything around me grew deeper, sharper, more bitter. Then came the car crash. Now, our company had been having trobles before 1993 (I'd been sober 8 years at that point) ... the industry we were in was going through some changes and we kept finding ourselves the "budget item" that was being cut at client after client, but the car crash I was in in the Fall of that year (odd, how I have forgotten the date) was the coup de grace. I was told that the company could not function without me (on top of all the other problems we were having) and so as of the end of the year we went out of business. I was told of this decision, by the way, while still in the HOSPITAL.

So, what to do? I had started Eschaton as a way to market my poetry (which I had been self-publishing since the 70's) earlier in 1993. The P.R. company had a slug of money left, and when we liquidated the stock, I had a relatively big pile of cash. I decided to try to make a go of it as a publisher (since the act of creating books was personally rewarding on a lot of levels), and launched into putting out "metaphysical" titles by other folks.

Now, at this point I was BURNED OUT ... as I noted above, I had been through 8 years of sober HELL, dealing with stressors that I would have previously just "drank away". I never again wanted to have co-workers, I never again wanted to have employees, I never again wanted to have a boss like that, and I certainly never again wanted to have to answer to psychotics and morons the way I had to on a day to day basis in the PR firm. The publishing thing looked perfect ... I never had to TALK to anybody ... I never had to SEE anybody ... I never had to REPORT (well, except for sending out royalty checks to the authors) to anybody. It was me, my computer, voice mail and a fax machine. Like the Simon & Garfunkle lyric goes:
                    I have my books and
                    my poetry to protect me
                    I am shielded in my armor
                    Hiding in my room, safe within my womb
                    I touch no one and no one touches me
                    I am a rock, I am an island


At first Eschaton looked on-target (although our first book got totally screwed when "outside forces" did a 180 on us, making it viturally unmarketable), with things moving along as I sort of expected them to. Unfortunately, we were never able to get the books into the major bookstore chains (a VERY difficult task), which led us to the whole Access debacle and the current state of the book company.

Somewhere along the line there, my accountant suggested to me that I sign up with Rexall Showcase International, to provide a bit of an income stream while the publishing biz was still ramping up. What I did not anticipate about RSI was that the network marketing biz is all about "people persons" and not about facts, figures, and the delivery of information. The same stuff that I was running away from ... having to TALK TO PEOPLE ... in the publishing biz, was the key ingredient in the RSI biz, I just didn't realize that yet.

Anyway ... here I am today ... 16 years sober ... a total failure. I'm now discovering that the VERY SAME STUFF that is necessary to make Network Marketing work is what appears to be necessary to get a job. The Wife is constantly on my ass about "call somebody and talk to them" ... "find out about X from Y" ... etc., when MY "life experience" is that NOBODY is EVER going to help you out on the phone ... that every exposure to people who don't "owe you" something is an invitation to kick you when you're down ... and, frankly, that's all I've gotten in this job search ... humiliation, denigration, and (of course) rejection.

16 years sober. 16 years ago I was a boozer with a big salary and no future. Today I'm a TOTAL FAILURE with no money and no future AND a family that's having to watch me trash THEIR futures too. This is almost more than I can stand. I love my daughters "more than life itself", and I'm beginning to seriously think that their lives would be MUCH better if they had "a future" and no Daddy, than having a clearly CURSED TO HELL Daddy that was ultimately going to drag them down to a life of anguish and ruin with him.

I really hate the way this world is set up. There is no reason in Hell why I shouldn't be successfully enjoying the fruits of my labors, even if in the employ of somebody else, but EVERY THING I HAVE EVER TRIED ... hell, EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER BEEN ASSOCIATED WITH (cf. the Sacred Sexuality Conference) has gone down in flames with NO GOOD REASON why it should have. The only thing I can figrue is that I am accursed, that I have been touched by the hand of evil fate and there is nothing that is going to change that.

I am so SICK of being the fucking doormat of fate. I am so SICK of writing poem after poem of stuff I FEEL which is all about how FUCKING MISERABLE it is to be me. I am so SICK of seeing shit being rewarded in this world, and truth being ground down. I am so SICK of it all.

Goodnight America....


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