In my journey in trying to find a place to live, a city, town or village I can call home, I have to be mindful of the fact that racism can rear its ugly little head from time to time. Typically, small towns have a conservative mindset and may not be readily accepting of outsiders. I do like small towns, though, because its far away from the hustle and bustle of the larger cities and you can breathe easily there and, in my case, lack the substances I was addicted to for years.

But racism doesn’t exist solely in small towns; large cities like Seattle, New York, Boston, Nashville, Portland and L.A. have also sprouted incidents that would shock any decent living person back to the Stone Ages. In fact, where in America can someone be immune from racism? These days that’s probably an impossible proposition but I’m hoping a small, liberal-minded, artistic, immigrant-welcoming town like Port Townsend would fit the bill.

So far I’ve been exposed to incidents in this town that smacks of racism, and interestingly, both relate to Obama. In the first incident, I overheard two women speaking at a bar. One woman said, very clearly, that Obama did nothing in his eight years in office but fund ISIS. That’s just her opinion, of course, but it speaks volumes. In the second incident, a police cruiser was speeding up a main drag, its lights flashing and siren blaring. This man came up to me and asked, “Do you know where the cops are going?” I answered, “No.” He said, “They’re going after Obama because he’s busy fucking himself, and Hilary’s helping him do it.” Well, to me, that’s a strange statement for a white man to make to a black man out of the blue, but I could be wrong. At least the owner of the pickup truck I took the picture of in Port Hadlock is doing his best to address racism. Kudos to him.

You know what I’ve begun to notice in Port Townsend? I’ve run into at least four people who speak in word salad, what Wikipedia calls logorrhea. They just go on and on speaking incoherent gibberish which, to them, must make sense, but to other people, is just mindless one-sided conversation that could make one’s head explode. As soon as they think they’ve found an audience (that is, me) they unload every single idea that pops up in their minds. Very tiring, to say the least. Maybe they’re schizophrenic, or aspie like myself, or suffer from brain damage. Whatever it is, I hope it doesn’t happen to me. Then again, if it did, I wouldn’t be aware of it. Somehow, though, I get the feeling that if I stick around here, it’ll happen eventually. Yikes!



600 Pound Gorilla Trapped In My Head

3-days-rwanda-gorilla-safariI recently wrote a letter to my sister telling her that, me being saddled with PTSD, Autism and Bipolar Disorder, is like waking up one morning to find I’ve been locked alone in a house with a 600 pound gorilla. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Does that 600 pound brute want to play or take me apart? Can he be placated or put on ice some kind of way? What can I feed him? Should I keep running from him, hoping he never catches up to me? I could always burn the house down, but that’s like throwing out the baby with the bath water. Anyway, it is what it is. That’s about the best metaphor I can think about mental illness. My troubles, I would say, is not the trifecta of mental illnesses – that would be schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder and Autism – still, it’s coming pretty close to it. I recently started Lamictal. We’ll see how that does.

I’d spent the weekend, BTW, getting myself together at a Crisis Clinic because I’d locked my car keys in my car, went on a trespassing frenzy, including into a police precinct’s yard, and other things I’m not proud of. I guess I need to get back in control, or else.