Category Archives: comedy

A Day In Provence (French Chronicles) by Matt Carlson

Jie Jie Sola-Binna sat at her desk, in her illegally built wooden house in the countryside outside the village of Cou-Poux (neck poop) where she lived. She had had it built by her son Tony and his friends, from the left over monies of her dead husband Jackie. It was a modest house, but well put together mostly, though the tin roof made it insufferable during the summer months. She wrung her big old hands together while staring at her computer screen, the arthritis taking a toll on her hands the more she aged. She was close to 70 years old now and had on occasion thoughts of death. She knew that that day was coming and she wondered about her existence, had she lived a life worth living? Hell, no! Of course not. The fact that she hadn’t already killed herself or one of her two children when they were young had always amazed her. Now, of course, she was glad that she hadn’t, she loved her grand kids who lived next store, or at least the youngest one who still lived there. It gave her something to do, something to ease the pain of her own painful thoughts. Life had seemed like that: just a series of painful memories or realities in progress. She alone knew that she suffered from BPD (borderline personality disorder) but she had pretty much control of that today – or so she thought. Nothing was perfect or forever.

To her,  her whole life seemed like something that should never have been. I mean, her own Mother hadn’t even wanted her, so she grew up living with her grandmother, and a private Catholic school, always feeling a sense of being abandoned, of not being worthy of love. So she never really learned how to love, or to show it. No one had shown her! What could you expect? You can’t wring blood out of a stone, she thought. Later on, she pushed away the feelings that she had for other girls. It was considered wrong to love other girls like herself, and yet the other girls liked her for her masculine side and look. She was a bit comforting, until you got to know her. She’d always kept her hair short, never wore make up and just wasn’t like any of them. She wasn’t feminine at all. But took up the role, the only one this world had offered up to her: a woman. Then she got married to a man she didn’t love, had his children, worked as his secretary and then when he died, she was relieved. He played the guitare alright, was a good provider, drank himself to sleep every night over a bottle of wine, had an erection whenever it was necessary and then ka-poot! He died. And in any case, he hardly ever spoke, for God’s sake, so conversation sucked big time. He spent most of his energy working with his hands or on graphic projects; he’d been a graphic artist. Still today people didn’t know exactly what that meant. To Jie Jie, they had carved out a decent life together, but a modest one. She still wondered about her missed out life as a lesbian. and at least now, if there weren’t any conversations, it wasn’t due to the fact that you had nothing to share with your significant other.
Jie Jie wasn’t a happy woman, she never would be and had decided that she could live on, knowing that. She loved her kids now, her grandkids too, tolerated her daughter-in-law Dee-Nuh, and still managed to maintain a friend or two, or three. Her sons, Tony and Bertrand were good kids, though they too had their demons. The oldest was very technical and good with electronics, trying these days to make some extra money in landscaping , cutting trees and such. He was a bit slow in the matter of understanding relationships and so on, but so was Jie Jie, so was Bertrand. They together had no love, but they had blood. For the three of them, it was the same, they had never leanred about love, so didn’t know how to show it, to express it. All too stressful that. It was easier to talk about mundane things, or things outside of oneself, like culture, or  work, the house. Anything too personal was avoided. Love would remain an intellectual concept far from their realities.
The youngest was the gay of the family, artistic (well they both were) and was attempting to work as a hypnotic-therapist. Well, at least he had been. He wasn’t able to do anything anymore. She thought of Bertrand’s ex boy friend and how much she hated him. That whole relationship had been a mistake, she thought. But in reality, it was mostly because the ex in question totally had had her number and would have nothing to do with her. She hadn’t been able to manipulate him the way she had the boyfriend before. And now her poor Bertrand was still a mess (three years practically) after the break up. She remembered that day when HE (the ex boy friend) had come over to her house, without calling and run off with Fee-Fee and Fantabulous, the two Yorkshires that she’d been baby sitting together with Bertand for five months (Bertrand was recovering from his back “ ak-si-dent” she would say). True, her and Bertrand had kept them initially temporarily (the boyfriend was working in England) but then, when her Bertand had had that back “ ak-si-dent”  (again due to the ex!) well, she just didn’t want her little precious boy to suffer anymore. The dogs had to stay! That she had lied to the Gendamerie about everything didn’t faze her. That she had said he had broken into her house, while they were bother there didn’t faze her either, that she had said he had attacked her either…didn’t faze her. It was all about the result, not what you did to get what you wanted….And of course he hadn’t hit her physically, it was the emotional cost that he had put upon her that she would make him pay for! And in reality, it wasn’t about her son, it was about her ego and the abandoned feelings that he had brought back – the ex had revived all that by breaking up with her son and then the gall of running off with Fee-Fee and Fantabulous! Those dogs, yes, she had really loved them! 
She would make him pay, “Elledgmother-fucker-cock-sucker-in-hell-bastard-theive-hateful-hateful-hateful-black-hearted-son-of-a-bitch,” her rampage began and ended before she realized she was still at her desk, with her painful hands irating alone there…
“Oh, I think I’ll make some tea,” she sighed.  The BPD had roared its ugly head yet again; the sleeper has awakened.

Change In The Air at The Château de La Reine Blanche by Matt Carlson

Cars sped by on the cobble stoned road. People ran around inside the Rene La Gall Square in their jogging clothes & earphones. Gelledge with slumber in his eyes, similar to having a sleeping bag on his head, walked around & outside of the square. It was chilly early morning: the leaves already carpeting the dirt  but mostly cement floors. His two small off leash dogs sniffed and peed alongside while visiting the row of trees on the outside of the square. Inside the park, two men were holding canon-like devices and blowing leaves and other debris off into a corner. The noise was annoying to say the least.

A woman with large breasts and a large basset hound walked by smiling at the two small white dogs. The three dogs stopped, sniffed butts, each taking a pee, then went away from each other – apparently there wasn’t much to communicate today. The woman wished Gelledge a nice day and walked off – her breasts rising as she did so. Gelledge spoke briefly to a pleasant man in black while their dogs made acquaintance with one another: this time a beige blind Pug.

Back at Le Château, Patches lay in bed half asleep,  knowing that someone would be coming soon to get her up. She had as usual, peed on herself during the night but the huge diaper with double protection absorbed most of it. She didn’t really care about things like that any more. Her brain was on a defensive roll. It kept her from realizing what a horrendous state she was in, constantly keeping her from seeing the hard reality that was.

A few weeks ago she had stated to Gelledge who rented her alcove, “I’m thinking about getting an electric car subscription…” Gelledge had looked at her with mild surprise. “You do realize that you are in a wheel chair and that you can barely use your right hand to stuff food in your mouth, right?” There was a pause. “I don’t wanna break your bubble, but you know that’s impossible right?”

It was brutal perhaps, but with everything in perspective, it was only very honest. Patches was ‘out of her hat’ so to speak and no one was saying anything. She spent her days, from the time getting up until going to bed in conflict with everyone around her. Unfortunately, her mouth& tongue still worked – not very well but enough to piss everyone and the queen of England off, so to speak.

If it wasn’t “Merde, merde, merde,” it was “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” or telling the poor cat  named Bat-cat, “Get down Bat-cat, down, down…,” from where ever the cat was. Or it was “No, Bat-cat, no, no Bat-cat!” and so on. Or she would make phone calls, which sounded always the same: “Phuckett. P-H-U-C-K-E-T-T…my number is….” It was always about an order for something, pills, diapers, clothes… And often times the person on the other line had a hard time understanding what she was saying. During the day as she had nothing to do but eat, go to the toilet and make green stools and piss (she did that a lot) she tried to tell people what to do & constantly. Needless to say, the hired help (mostly paid through the social system) were always leaving. No one could put with her for very long…And in Patches’ mind, all was well. She refused to see her true state of ineptitude on all levels. In her mind she was still designing rocket engines to go into space and the people picking up or cleaning her inert body were secretaries, assistant engineers or associates of the firm.

Brandon, her live in helper was also at the end of his rope. He could hardly speak civil like to her any more; and it was rubbing off in other directions and onto other people. His self imposed 24/7 enclosure in his bedroom was getting to him – that and no girls! Yes, all work and no play was not healthy and the word work wasn’t so easy to define anymore either. He felt like he was always working, but in truth he was unfocused. Nothing was really getting accomplished. Dealing with Patches just made things worse.

And Mahta, the tall, beautiful black as night Camorian had left the fold, or rather had been fired months before. She hadn’t told him about the baby. a little baby Brandon of sorts, named Ahmed jr.

Maybe if he’s known that he’d had a son, life would be very different. Patches yelled from downstairs, “Rob, wil yi tk mo t th tlet pleeze..?” It was hard to decipher what she was asking, but he knew. He waited for the phone to ring, the answering machine to pick up, then finished reading his article before going downstairs.

Diapers in The Castle by Matt Carlson

It smelled. Really bad too. Gelledge quickly opened the window as he climbed down the stairs to the first floor. Someone, or rather one of the Life Assistant replacements had once again NOT taken the used diapers down to the cave/ trash area. He reached under the stairwell and grabbed an aerosol can marked ‘BIO Air Scent Lavender’ and sprayed the offending black plastic bag which sat on the cat’s enclosed cat litter tray. Gelledge imagined correctly that Ninja, the calico cat probably didn’t care for that bag on her litter tray house anymore than he did, having to smell it. He knew that dogs had one hundred times the sense of smell more than humans, and so he wondered what the ratio was for cats.

It was one of those days to try and stay focused while hell was being raised at the Chateau  La Reine Blanche. Patches was always screaming, or refusing something or displaying her unhappiness, which was constant. It was her home, it was her disease too and she made everybody pay for it. That is to say, that her frustrations and anger were such that everything was an excuse for being mean. It made her feel better somehow.

The long line of Life Assistants: Algerian, African, Romanian, Bulgarian, as well as other 3rd world countries, succeeded one after the other. They were all incompetent of course, as none of them had any experience upon arriving at the castle with Patches They were cheap labor. They had no idea that hundreds had gone before them, all replaced or who had quit. They all hated the bitchy white woman in her wheel chair, though they did feel sorry for her sometimes. When their employer, a company called Planitnow hired them, it seemed exciting knowing that they would actually be working in a castle, in the center of Paris, near the Goblins. They told all their friends and families. But the bubble of fantasy popped fast enough as the rude, dictator of the apartment known as the ‘Galleries’ started telling them what to do on their first day. Of course, there was only one at a time and for one shift at a time too, usually for a few hours – but sometimes  for the entire day. Patches required full time help as she could only use her right hand and unfortunately, her vocal chords. So she had at least three different ‘slaves’ at her service. Mostly all paid by social security.

“No, not there, it goes on the left.” The tall, large, sweet spoken older woman with glasses and skin ‘black-as-night’  hesitated. Should she put the plate in the other cabinet – or just on the left in this one? Patches could not explain herself clearly about anything so following her orders was tough. One usually wanted to just do the task as quickly as possible and at one’s own volition, but Patches wouldn’t have it. “No, no, not there,” she continued in her pigeon sounding French. “It goes on the left, on the left, LEFT, LEFT!!!!Oh, fuck, fuck fuck…!” She now screamed. Her brain short circuited when she wanted to make complete sentences. Frustration leaked in like greasy car oil, dispersing itself in her cerebral pathways. The poor woman was so surprised she dropped the plate ; it crashed to the ground.

Now the real fun would begin as Patches would dictate every movement to the woman in order to clean it up:

” Take the broom and the dust pan – no the other one, it’s in the corner”, and… “don’t throw it in THAT trash, it’s the other one- under the table!” Then, “You”ll have to move that small table, then bend down – no, not like that, not there…! You have to separate the pieces from the rest..” Then, “Move me please…turn my chair so I can see better – you missed a piece…”….”I’m thirsty, wa… wa…water please!”…Thirty seconds later, “Toilet!” She would announce. “Take me to the toilet. Hurry, hurry, it’s an emergency! i can’t wait! Oh, shit, shit, SHIT!….” Anguished by the stress and the volume of the words, the assistant began rushing to get to Patches. But what was there to do? She was in a wheel chair! How was she going to get her onto the toilet? Precipitating, she bumped the wheel chair into everything, the wall, the table, a door…Patches began screaming once again, ‘Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck:”…Now Patches would begin to explain about the “People Lifter” called Tony for short. It was a strange metal device, automatic, that lifted a person up so that you could transfer them into another place, like toilet, bed, another chair and so on. But you had to belt her up, tighten it, make sure Patches feet were in a stable position and get her to hold onto the bar in front of her. Once up in a secure position thanks to Tony’s mechanical abilities, you had to wheel her over to the toilet, pull her pants down and do everything in reverse!….The long day had started. They had made it to the white throne too late – now pants, plastic covering and diapers had to be changed!

Being Patches assistant was as if you no longer had control of your own body (if you let her, that is), Patches wanted to control it (your body) for you. Her body was now useless, it peed and pooped, it consumed food… but it didn’t work properly anymore. The brain, the muscles, the nerves, the cells were degrading… Crazy with anger, she wanted to manipulate  your physical actions. It made people very mad and they simply flipped out; most of them having no idea of what her illness was… But then conversations were a two way street. Patches didn’t care about them, she only wanted what they could do for her. The assistants weren’t stupid either, they sensed the anger, the perverseness from the shriveled woman with a C formed body, in a wheelchair, her twig like arms from branches of a forgotten tree. They hung there static, waiting.

Gelledge had told her off immediately the first time when she had attempted to do dictate his body –  It’s why he no longer helped out, unless there was an emergency of some sort.

“That’s enough Patches. I am doing this – this is my body and my task. Stop telling me what to do – that’s enough. You want to do it? Then come over here and do it. If you can’t, be quiet and let me do it.  I will not tolerate being ordered around, so stop immediately.” The tone had been set. Patches knew that she would not be able to get away with anything with Gelledge.

One morning, no one came to get Patches up. She sent a text message to Gelledge asking him to help her. He went downstairs and into her bedroom. With a dry mouth and disheveled look, she got it out that she needed someone to get her up. Now Gelledge had witnessed her morning ritual more than once – knowing that never in a million years would he follow it and if he tried to, he would probably kill her in the process.

“Okay look Patches, Since you have no one this morning, I will get you up. BUT, hear this: I will do it my way and no other. I will not be rubbing your feet, getting you your meds, fixing an elaborate meal – you’ll have what I have – I’ll put you on the toilet, get you into some clean clothes too. That’s it;  take it or leave it.” Patches frantically began pushing on her telephone screen, a look of panic on her face. Gelledge giggled inside, he had her number. Still he felt sorry for her…

Paris Times “The Aftermath” by Matt Carlson-

Paris Times “The Aftermath” by matt carlson

We were back in Paris, back in the Chateau La Reine Blanche (the white queen); back with Brandon Smerque and Patches Phuckett and they’re boxing style relationship: she was still in her wheel chair and he was still hiding out writing or doing political research in his room on the first floor; back with Carlotta, the Bulgarian house keeper who wore her heart on her sleeve and also was the life assistant to Patches; back with Narnia, the calico cat who for the last seven years had never socialized with another four footed creature until now…

Fatty and Finny had arrived. Two loveable Jack Russels, Fatty with her black ears, black spot on her ass with white eyelids matching her short hair jacket of sorts; Finny with one tan ear, one spotted ear and a tan spot on his butt. Big sister and little brother adorable and ready to take Paris by storm, but first there was the cat to initiate. Narnia has been hiding out pretty much, but also quite curious about these two invaders on her territory. A little poop here and a delicately placed urine puddle There… but who was messaging who? It was their version of Internet, more interactive with odors in real time.

Getting back to Patches and Brandon…

(Scenario) Brandon is building shelves above the newly installed Happystep, a large platform which can lift and take down again a heavy wheelchair with a person in it. Patches arrives at the front door around 9 p.m.. Her battery operated remmote control opens the front door and she slowly moves into the entry hall. She quickly surveys the scene with squinting eyes and gnarled hands.

“Hey Brandon, looks good,” she says.

“Thanks,” he replies while continuing his work.

“There’s water on the floor,” she says.

“Yea, I can see that Patches.”

“Well, could you clean it up?”

“No, not right now. I’m doing something else.” Brandon’s eyes widen slightly in annoyance but Patches doesn’t see it.

“Yea, well Brandon, I just can’t do anything if there’s water on the floor!” She insists. Patches is in ‘conflict mode’ and nothing will stop her now that she has chosen her battle: the water puddle.

“Do you want to come in then? The water can wait.” Brandon moves a few things out of the way of the giant red and white mechanical platform.

“Well, I don’t think I can do that when there’s water on the floor, Brandon!” The volume of her voice goes up a notch, she begins to spittle and lose her words.”C…c…could you g..get the damn th…things out of my b…bag pluuuease?!”

“Let’s get you into the house and then afterwards I’ll get your stuff out of your bag.”

Patches fumed in anger. Unable to do anything by herself (aside from pushing onto the screen of her smart phone and using a big spoon to shovel food into her mouth – most of it going onto the floor) she is always stewing in frustration. Anger is never far away.
Brandon gets her on the platform, pushes the ‘down’ button and waits for the contraption to stop. The next step is to lift Patches from her electric chair to a smaller chair on wheels, the only one suitable to circulate from one room to the next. There is just too much stuff everywhere. Patches doesn’t believe in throwing things away.

“Goddamnit Brandon, gru black mon blah gr smm…!” The spicy mix of MS and anger are reeking havoc on her ability to yell coherently.
“Uhhh, could you repeat that in English?” asks Brandon with a slight smile.
“I…I c..c…cain’t do any…any..aA..anything with that damn water on the floor over there! FUUUUck!” She screams suddenly.
The puddle of water in fact is from her cat Narnia, who has left an important message in the far corner of the kitchen for the dogs.
Brandon ignores her, grabs her and lifts her into the awaiting chair. Patches screams her bloody head off. Fatty and Finny who were quietly laying on their bed upstairs are now at the stairwell gate wondering what the hell is going on.

“I need to eat now, could you get me my dinner?…I need my stuff out of my bag…That water, is that cat pee?” Patches is on a roll.
“Patches, just simmer down. I’ll get your dinner in a minute, I’m going to finish this first. Your bag and the water puddle can wait.”
Patches begins to scream bloody murder, only half of it is understandable. The same themes are repeated over and over, she becomes threatening telling Brandon “Beurk, blah, blah, blah….fuck…g….ge…get an…another job if…if….grrrr blah shshshh….it…”

There is an ensuing battle. Fortunately Brandon closes the door and I don’t (with F and F) have to listen to it.
I’m back in Paris!

FRESNO TIMES (N° 11) Clash At Yosemite Lakes Park by Matt Carlson

Piddy and Diddy had been married now for a number of years and their life together, though complicated, was comfortable financially. Diddy had his Broker’s License and had established himself at Yosemite Lake’s Park as the main real estate agency. Piddy, through the love of her Father, a man who loved to play with money, had given his daughter half a million dollars.

Of course course Piddy’s sister Clara and her Mother Edna were scandalized, calling out injustice. A family war broke out that would never be healed again, even after Diddy had had the biggest of all houses in the park built for Edna, complete with fancy doors and southern white front porch columns making Tara in Gone With The Wind look small in comparison.

“You’re just an evil daughter!” Edna screamed out at Piddy. “Wheeling &  dealing behind my back to get at your Father’s money. I should of had that egg ripped out the moment it got fertilized!”

Piddy’s eyes rounded out in surprise then narrowly focused at her Mother. She’d held her tongue too long. She was gonna take down this old croony for good now – she didn’t need her bullshit any more.

“You are the poorest excuse  of a Mother – all you think about is yourself. You’re a cold, calculating, old bitch…. it’s a miracle Papa slept with you twice at all. No one else would have! And Papa gave me that money ‘cuz he knew I was the only one smart enough to do anything with it. What did you do to ever help him out? All you’ve ever done for years is get on his back and complain! Bitch about your clothes, bitch about your house – now you’ve got a fucking mansion and you’re still bitching!! Well, you know what? I’m sick of it.”

She picked up her her purse, turned towards the door, paused and then turned back towards her Mother and said, “Just fuck off now and forever. I don’t need anymore of your whining and complaining. You’ve got what you wanted, just get on with your life and leave Papa alone. And me too. I’ve had it.”

And out she went from her Mother’s house on the hill with it’s exquisite decor and fancy garden landscaping, then got into her brand new Porcha 901 and sped off down the road. She was barely 30 years old, rich, brazen and free from her Mother once and for all. Today she had lots to do: houses to sell, rentals and she had just been elected President of the Home Owners Association of the park. There were weeds to be pulled out there – too many old gezers with their narrow minded ideas. She loved a good fight and was ready for them!

Edna, in the meanwhile sat down in her beautiful kitchen with all the latest modern appliances. She and her husband Bill had been separated for many years, but they still saw each other on ocassion. Their two daughters were the connecting force, otherwise they would’ve chosen to not see one another, although, this was a quandry for her and her Mormon religion. She still loved him but could do without him. He was always getting involved in some some ‘cock- a – mamie’ scam in order to make money. He had already lost millions several times!….And he was not a practicing Mormon either. Her body was a temple, so she didn’t drink or put unhealthy things in it, while Bill was like a fish consuming alcohol like it was water.

And now this final betrayal, giving all that money to Piddy! Such an ungrateful child…She pursed her lips and without thinking ground her teeth together too, her left leg began tapping all by itself. Passing the living room mirror, she looked at herself, a slight woman, quite thin, 5 feet, 5 inches tall with a roundish formed black dyed permenant sitting high on her head to make her look taller. Her clothes expensive and exotic looking, but still she had aged considerably. At 60 the wrinkles were taking over. She decide she would make a hair appointment for the afternoon, get a pedicure. That would help her think about something else other than the selfish daughter of hers’.

Paris Times (N°10) The Borderline Nest by Matthew Carlson


Jie Jie (rymes with fly) Solla Bina and her “paralyzed” son “O”, were doing nothing in particular that day at Terre de Poux (the Land of Head Lice), the village she called home. They had eaten their BIO (health food lunch) of egg plant and tomatoes farcies (stuffed tomatoes) and fresh bread without glutten. She had made the bread herself and was pleased too of the current state of her affairs.

Her son had moved back home to Terre de Poux and that was a good thing. Now she had both of her grown sons with her and even her grand sons all living in the same place. With her eldest son and his (ughh!) English wife Deena (she looked like a blond Sarah Palin and wasn’t much brighter) Famous for her comment of : “I can see Russia from my back yard!” wouldn’t have made Deena laugh. She was an English woman who had a complex about being English, and had moved to France to be different in the eyes of all who knew her. Jie Jie detested her but had daily contact with her;  it couldn’t be helped. Her son needed pussy and he got it from her. Too bad kids were the final outcome, she could have really done without being called Grandma.

Though Jie Jie didn’t realize it she suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder. She like her son, whom she had passed it on to thanks to her constant non validation of his emotional and early psychosexual development, were now using their twisted vision of the world to thwart “O”‘s ex.

They had no empathy towards anyone, had no idea what that meant. It was all about filling that forever empty void inside themselves. The word “integrity” had no meaning either as integrity was a by product of healthy emotional and psychosexual development. Since neither had ever experienced that development, the word integrity meant nothing.

They were very much alike in their respective personalites and in their profound dislike of one another, there was still some kind of connection and a great deal of complicity as they shared a similar vision of the world. Years ago, Jie Jie had tried to will away the newly attached fetus from her insides to no avail. The damn thing had to be born…It had happened so soon after the early (happy loss) of a second son, but when she fell pregnant again there was nothing else to do. She gave in to having O; she had had no choice.

Adding to the complexity of the situation  was in her own unresolved past childhood where her Mother hardly raised her, had never truly loved her. Lacking any mothering tendencies, her own Mother, a bitchy self loathing bitter woman,  had always managed (with very little money) ways of keeping young Jie Jie in all girl schools away from home. Her Father was an alcoholic, a depressed man, capable of violence without any apparent cause. He would at times just stare at her like some kind of strange household object that someone had dropped off by mistake.

Jie Jie felt abandoned her entire life and needed incessant validation from anyone who could give it to her. The constant invalidating of her own emotions, forced her to alter those emotions, forced her brain to take charge of them. She became an experienced manipulator, a kind of copycat of anything that might bring her more self esteem. A mask of what she was not. Inside it was like a devouring monster, constantly needing to be fed. No matter the consequences for others’, as long as she got what she wanted. But her appetite was never ending. It grew as she got older.

O was in his forties, a good twenty years younger than Jie Jie. The difference from her was that he knew he suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder. At least three psychiatrists had diagnosed him. He had,  like so many other people with BPD followed therapy, but in his need to conquer and manipulate his therapists, well, it never worked out. In the beginnig it would usually be “Wow, such a terrific therapist” but when (or IF that happened – not all therapists understood the manipulative power of people with BPD) it would become the devaluating of him of that therapist: “She’s so stupid and never says much… or if she does it’s just like two words. I’m smarter than she is…”

O was at THE major crossroads in his life. But unfortunately didn’t really completely get that. Even now as he suffered due to terrible back surgery following the diagnosis of The Horse Tail’s Syndrome. All of his nerves from the belt below were being pressed upon by discs in his back that had slide down. They pushed onto this zone where so many internal messages are sent. For months, he felt little downstairs and had learned what it was like to wear diapers as an adult. Hard on’s were something of the past.

The usual stress and unbearable panic related to his recent break up with Gelledge, had already and for years been going directly to his back. Think a thought, get some stress, it would sink down there to his back. Nothing would come out of his mouth, he could’n’t get the damn words out. Those months of talking about non-violent communication and even doing work shops, had been no good to him. He could imitate the information like a parrot (his Mother was exactly the same) but could in no way apply it. Tools of emotional stability were necessary, tools that are developed through healthy emotional development, cognitive differentiation. You cannot build something on air.

O had assumed that changing jobs from being a graphic designer to a hynotherapist was the answer to his inner demons. It had helped him in many ways, but like his Mother he had no self love. You couldn’t find, learn to give and recieve love through a hypnotic tape. He didn’t know what love was. And he hated his Mother for that on some level, though he couldn’t remember all of the emotional stunting that she had done to him.

The constant lying and manipulation had started so young, too the regular trips to the public restrooms where he got off on old men sucking him off. It was a sexual release but also an emotional one. A narcissistic one. A kind of emotion validating of his immense and ever growing narcissisme. No one else mattered as long as his beast inside could be fed too.

The sequestering of his and Gelledge’s two black & brown York Shire’s Fing and Fong had seemed right somehow. After all, Gelledge had brought them over to the front gates of  Tete de Poux at his Mother’s, given to O, the day before his accident. Returning after the hospital, though O had hardly seen them much for months, but was elated to see them. They were a bit reticent however, their first person or caretaker was Gelledge, not O. The transition was not a smooth one.

O had once again manipulated slowly so as things were not obvious. But from day one, he had decided (with lots of perverted discussions with his Mother and brother) that he would somehow take everything away from Gelledge. The dogs, the house, everything that mattered to Gelledge. O’s jealousy too had finally begun expressing itself. Gelledge had everything that he did not, was everything that he was not.

Gelledge had left for the summer to work in Italy. It was for this reason he had left the dogs with O. But then Gelledge had stolen money from O! Well, it wasn’t really a theft mind you, he had only transferred money from one account to another in order to pay bills. Bills that were in O’s name – though shared all of their bills together. And true part of the money really did belong to Gelledge as he had been paying too for that Life Insurance Policy where he was the beneficiary. But still, it felt like a robbery to O! Being Borderline, nothing could be in the middle – it had to be black or white! He lamented loudly and regularly to anyone who would listen to his story, to his lies. He had to somehow destroy Gelledge. After all he had abandonned O; he knew too much about how he fonctioned inside; was too much in his head; somehow he had to kill the thing that walked around now in his head.

Lying there on the bed, he heard a rucous and something fall. Jumping up and there was Gelledge running off with Fing and Fong in his arms! His Mother was sprawled out on the wooden porch.

She screamed for her other son Eddie who’s house was on the hill above her own, “Eddie! He’s stolen my dogs!”

O ran pretty fast for someone who was supposed to be paralysed. His canes, throwing them aside with intense anger. “You bastard” he screamed in French. “You stole my money, now you’re stealing my dogs!”

Gelledge sped quickly through the immense field before him, Fing and Fong in his arms. They were actually quite heavy. When O had stopped pursuing them, he knew it was not over. He placed Fing and fong on the ground hoping that the five month forced seperation of his beloved dogs had not broken their connection together and that they would run like the wind and follow him.

“Come on you guys, let’s go!” They understood instantly and ran as fast as Jack Russel’s; they got it that their Gelledge had come to rescue them! They ran and they ran as fast as they could. their persuers not far behind. His car wisely parked on the department road on the bottom of the vast field, so when they reached the edge, Gelledge picked them up in his arms and looked off to the right. Eddie’s old white van was bearing down towards them loudly. The pedal pushed to the floorboards. The two brothers intently watching Gelledge’s movement as he got to the edge of the field and began crossing the road. They breaked suddenly only feet away and O jumped out like a mad man yelling at the top of his voice. There were no signs of any disability as he ran towards Gelledge and the dogs. Gelledge was prepared with his key and in a flash had opened the car door and thrown them inside to safety. He too jumped in & slammed the door closed while locking it. O furiously arriving  just as the door slammed in his face.

O screamed and kicked the door and the window non-stop as Gelledge calmly and with purpose started the car. Gelledge thought the window would break as the force of O’s uncontrollable feet and hands crashed repeatedly against the side of the car. It was crazy – like a scene out of a movie. How could this be O?

“Fuck you Oliver”,  said Gelledge with force. He never once saw the madman’s face, never even bothered to look. It wasn’t about him anyway. Pulling the car out quickly he breathed a sigh of release. The van did not follow them. He looked at the dogs and gave them a reassuring hand. Would they try and locate him through twitter or google? In any case he had already shut off location services. He had come to rescue his dogs from the Borderline Nest at the Tete de Poux,  where they had been kept against their will. Kept away from seeing him. They hadn’t understood as to why they had been kept at Jie Jie’s with O.

Why had Gelledge been gone for so long? The dogs had had no clue. But now, it didn’t matter they were safe once again and in Gelledge’s arms…Lots of kisses and play time to be had together. It was as it should be.

Paris Times (N° 9) Crazy “O” in Provence (a story of fiction) by Matthew Carlson

“O” was short for Oliver, after the tree. But in french the sound “O” is also “eau” (water) , so a play of words too. O loved visual things, that’s why he had finally settled on graphic design after art school. It was also because it was the only thing he understood. It was a way to live out his emotions, because otherwise there wouldn’t be any expression of them.

Hard times had fallen on O, but he had no one to blame but himself. He had planted the seed of miscontent and made it his M.O. : his way of dealing with everything around him. It had to be conflictual. It was all that he knew. Or conflict with no words at all. The mask. He had learned that from his alcoholic Dad and evil Mother Jie-Jie. She had accidently killed her baby boy fetus just before getting pregnant with O. How could she have known that that giant vibrator would damage her unborn kid? True, she didn’t want to have it, the first one already had been too big! And then before she knew what happened, she got pregnant again. She tried to will it away but it was of no use. O was born during the summer and she felt stuck, sticky and hated being a Mom again.

O had made considerable progress the last few years living with Gelledge. They had bought a house together in a small village in Provence and though the inheritance that was promised from Gelledge’s family never arrived, they did the best they could with what they had. At least the inheritance from O’s deceased Dad had come through. Gelledge had pushed for O to invest together as the money was being spent without any consideration. O didn’t like to count his money, only spend it.They had named the place, Le Pin Pasteque (the watermelon pine tree) after a certain time and were rather good at organizing parties in their countryside ruin of a house. Gelledge had bought a wooden chalet and they put it up together. When O had had the first of his many Borderline Personality attacks, Gelledge had thrown himself into rennovating, adding on two large rooms in wood and getting tendinitus all over his body. He paid for it with over three years of physical therapy. O didn’t seem to notice.

O stood by most of the time, saying nothing and doing almost nothing. He was able to do gardening, since it fit into his conception of visual pleasure and though it would never be Brad Pitt’s and Angelina Jolie’s beautiful garden, it was okay on some level. The rest of the house, he could do little. There wasn’t enough money, so why even try? Though he did get persuaded to do the kitchen counter with a sink in it. He even had a little fun doing it. But their arguments between the gay couple were often and there never seemed to be any solution. O had absolutely no idea of what a compromise was, being Borderline well, it could only be a black or white answer.

Of course through the early years, Gelledge had no idea he was dealing with someone suffering from BPD (boderline personality disorder) and questioned himself numerously over the years to make sure it wasn’t HIM that was crazy. Upon seeing on Google the profile of someone with BPD, he too a huge sigh of relief. His lover was written all over those pages!

When O had left their home after too much water under the bridge, he said he was going to stay with his Mother. Gelledge never knew if this was the truth as O always lied. Once even during one of his hospitalizations when Gelledge visited, one of his “tricks” was there. Surprise! The guy apparently came regularly to cut O’s hair. That of course was a final straw, but Gelledge was an accepting person and also considered O’s emotional state. He really believed that O could turn himself around and become someone better. And too, O had taken care of him with his HIV woes.

Fast forward into late 2014, O had completely lost it. One week before Gelledge was to leave for a summer job in England, his back gave out suddenly. Strange the timing…The day after Gelledge had left him the dogs for a few days so that they could re-acquaint themselves with him. They hadn’t had any contact for a couple of months.

Laying in the hospital, only morphine could calm the pain. And it felt great. Jie-Jie of course was there, she would take care of him….and the dogs. She was a parasite in life. She always longed for what she didn’t have and with that, would do her best to get what others’ had, no matter the cost. Her son O was born too soon after the accident and besides she never really wanted kids. It was just something you had to do back then. She would have much preferred to be with a woman, her husband wasn’t what she had wanted. But it became something practical.

She had never cared for her son’s lover. Something about him grated on her nerves. She could never figure out what it was, but she knew he had something that she didn’t. So holding on to Fipus and Freedom seemed to be a good choice, though she had said when offered a Jack Russel years before that she preferred French Bulldogs. When they rushed O into the hospital, she didn’t bother to telephone Gelledge though their relationship had been on it’s eleventh year. She didn’t feel like it.