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Bob Flanagan
Pain Journal

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July

What's with my siblings? Is it survivor's guilt? They hate me for all the attention I've gotten over the years due to the CF, and they feel guilty for that and for being the healthy ones, the bad ones, the survivors. But fuck it, it's time to grow up. Time is running out. If they want survivor's guilt, I'll give them a whole shit load of survivor's guilt real soon. A lot sooner than they realize. As far as details of the day and the life go: I'm dirty, need a shower and a shave. Finally brushed my teeth. I think they're rotting, but I don't want to do anything about it. Carl was here cleaning up while the painters and roofers were patching up and I was spitting up, as usual. Congested. Bad bad, dizzying headache this morning, but better now, thanks to Mr. P. No real buzz anymore, but it still quells the spells. And speaking of pain, I again promised Cathy Busby an article on pain for her book. That was last Friday, and still no article. All I am is a pain in the ass with my false promises and procrastination. I took all the '95 journal references to pain and wove them into an 11 page massive tumor. Now I've got to operate on it to see if it's benign or cancerous. And the final detail of the day is I got commissioned by someone at MGM to write ad copy for a film about a guy dying of AIDS who throws himself one last going away party. Am I the right guy for this job or what?

*

I wuz asleep. But now I'm not. Drugged. Groggy. Headache. Sweats. The Prednisone. The Percocet. The Oxazepam. Distracted as I write because I'm watching Jack Nicholson in "Wolf" on TV. Strangely flat and compelling, possibly completely stupid, but queer as hell. Good TV, none the less, for 5 in the morning. As I said, I wuz asleep after returning home exhausted from Dana Duff's birthday party in Culver City. Exhausted from dealing with Sheree, stoned and creative and panicking over her "reading" at some leather lesbian soiree. I got real exasperated, fucking nasty with her. The Prednisone. Spent the whole day in Photoshop putting a birthday cake into a 10 year old photo of Dana and me, and then smack dab in the middle of the cake is my big dick (what else) with a candle in it. I think I'm obsessed with these cybor penises of mine because sex in the real world is so much more difficult these days. We did manage to fuck this morning, if that's what you call it. I tweaked a hard-on for the camera and Sheree stuffed it in and rode it a while as she choked me, and snapped a few photos for Aura Rosenberg's book of men's faces in the throes of orgasm, but there was no orgasm here, thanks to the almighty Zoloft. Afterward Sheree did get off a get off with the assistance of the vibrator on her clit and my teeth on her tit. But later that day it was my fangs in her jugular while trying to help edit her damn lesbian piss tape while she raved and yammered and drove me nuts. I didn't want to be mean. Didn't want to say "Shut up!" But I'm just as out of it on my drugs (Prednisone) as she is on hers (pot). It all just made me feel shittier and more anxious, so I took more pills, Oxazepam. Sheree's pretty understanding about the whole thing, or so stoned she doesn't give a shit. So all's right with the world. The sun's coming up. The headache's subsiding (Percoet). And we're watching "Wolf." The new day awaits. Grrrrrrrr.

*

We thought we could sit forever in fun, but our chances really were a million to one. Home from the last night of CF summer camp, the last campfire, the last roundup for me, and somehow I pulled it off. I sang at the campfire, I went around to the cabins and sang goodnight songs to the kids, and I sang dirty improvs at the counselor meeting afterwards. Considering all I could do during the day was lie around wondering how it was I was going to do anything ever again, it's a miracle I dragged my ass down there and slipped into the groove again, singing the old songs like I'd never been gone. I'm amazed I had any reserve left at all. Suddenly I could not only breathe, but I could shape that breathing into some decent singing, not like it used to be, but what I now lack in physical ability I make up with experience and a sense of showmanship that I've picked up along the way. If I wanted to I could really do something with the singing, even now, even with the oxygen. I'd be unique, that's for sure. Who wouldn't give the pathetic oxygen boy a chance? Not that it wasn't work for me, it was. It took every ounce of oxygen to get those songs out, but I did it and I did it well. I even introduced my "Supermasochistic Bob" song and they loved it, both the clean version and the real version. I feel kind of weird about the last "Jenny" improv and the "Suck My Jesus" song that I sang for the counselor meeting. A little over the top perhaps, but that's what they asked for. After a long week of hard work, and the sadness of the last campfire where the kids remember all their dead friends, I perform kind of a service by singing these ridiculous over the top songs. I relieve the tension of the week. I'm as close as they get to getting drunk and tearing the place apart. But I still feel kind of weird about it. But fuck it, I'm home. Obligations done. Naked now. TV. My own work. Fucking Sheree. My life and what's left of it.

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