Osama bin Laden vs Sharon Sampon

MAY 14^TH, 2003

I can’t remember any dreams I had last night but I woke up in a relatively good mood.  I remembered the first Journal I started on Monday, September 10^th, 2001 so I got it out of the trunk of my car, it is hand-written in script, in pencil. It reads “Can’t remember any dreams I had. Woke up feeling good about where I am at in my life.  All the years I invested in raising children was a good thing - they will be good citizens.  Now, I hope to teach them about using their intuition, etc-- but first I have to teach myself.  It will be a good thing.”  I think I shall also have to teach them something about  using  Chase charge cards, Computers and the Internet, and Cuba.

Poor Howard, tonight we were talking over dinner and I was telling him a funny story about how DDT can sometimes have a strange effect on people, like the people who spray lawns and stuff.  Then we started talking about birthdays and he asked me when my parents’ birth dates were and what their names were, because he couldn’t remember.  He was talking about how tired he was and all of a sudden he thought about his 13 year-old son and muttered to himself that “he’s three”, probably because he was remembering something that happened when his son was that age. Now, why is it that during my psychological interviews after my psychotic incidences it was a sign of stability if I could remember the birth dates of my children etc--but they kept me confined to a mental institution for quite a while after these interviews, even though I was following all rules and obeying all signs.

I wonder if men are expected to remember these dates to show a sign of stability, since they can’t seem to remember them in or out of a mental institution. Honestly, I have never been present during one of these interviews but I am curious if an important date asked of men is “ to remember the last time they had sex or whatever.”

Anyway, Howard was so confused, he then started searching for more food to eat, opening the garbage can he discovered an old dried up piece of pound cake and was going to start eating it, just like George Castanza on Seinfeld.  It was so funny I just had to tell someone but Camille wasn’t home so I decided to write it in my Journal. But I am still a little worried about Howard because this confusion could mean he needs to be admitted to somewhere for an exam of some kind.

MAY 15^TH, 2003

I’m glad no one is watching me while I am typing on my computer, because I get so frustrated trying to get  information early in the morning when everyone else is doing the same thing I look ridiculous. I am concerned about Howard and his boys going to Canada because of the Sars Virus.  I wanted to look up to see if possibly it is spread by using dirty needles or something - but  apparently it has not been around long enough for anybody to know anything about it at all. 

Tonight while recycling and sorting garbage I could not help but Pray for our world situation once again.  I remembered the story of the poor Cuban refugee mother and her son who tried to get to America along with other refugees on a small boat.  She did not survive but her small son did. There was a custody battle down in Florida. The relatives here in America wanted to keep the boy here but the father in Cuba wanted him to be returned and so he was. Knowing what we do about the History of Cuba, maybe she was trying to escape the oppression and poverty or maybe she was trying to escape the stench of rotting garbage or maybe she was trying to get away from an abusive husband. We will never know. Now I feel bad because I wrote Cuba on a garbage bag and I don’t think that is a good idea because that little Island might sink if they have to support any more garbage. 

I hope none of the children in my old neighborhood are bitter, because a lot of us tried to teach them not to litter. It would make me feel better if I could write them a letter but I don’t know where they live, but maybe that explains why Camille’s doorbell keeps ringing and there is nobody there.

M