Memoir fragments: “Two years all but homeless”

From his notes that might become a memoir: “The ‘Frenia: Neologisms & Word Equations”. Steve Mini from the 6ix.

I remember spending two years all but homeless, because I adamantly refused to take my medications for paranoid schizophrenia, and was absolutely out of my mind. What did I do? I hopped on a bus in Toronto and transferred cities and got out of the bus, a few hours later, in Ottawa, broke and crazed, and checked myself into a homeless shelter in a new city.

I knew nobody in this new city, but I was adamant: no to meds. I also thought that secretly someone was trolling my mind with synthetic telepathy via satellite somehow: that they could read my thoughts and communicate with me telepathically. I was hearing voices that I thought weren’t my own.

Maybe it was the Russians. You ever think about that? Perhaps I was an enemy on foreign Canadian enemy soil. There is no such thing. But when you’re ‘frenic, you come up with a few dandies sometimes. At least, that’s what I did.

I ended up changing my name to a travel alias. George Ohwell. What had happened to me was certainly Orwillian; The joke was on me. So for two damned years, nobody knew my real name and everybody called me George. George Ohwell. Perhaps I was safer that way; only G-d knows.

At the shelter, absolutely refusing to show ID, I was helped regardless by a kind old soul, who took me in, wrote down George Ohwell, and helped me get government issued documents by that name, without any identification papers.

It was official. I was all but George Ohwell in practice as well as in theory. I even had a library card with George Ohwell written on it. I was going places. And fast. As fast as I could walk, that is. I don’t drive and recycle everything and keep a low profile, as well as a low carbon footprint.

2.0

From Ottawa, it was easy to walk into Gatineau Quebec. It was right across the bridge. I had a couple of girlfriends in and around the area, I was fortunate to be quite charming in my yout; Some were from Gatineau, QC and some were in Ottawa proper.

… (fast forward past the homelessness part): I used to walk to Gatineau by crossing a bridge, and drink a beer there. Eventually, the most curious of things happened. Somebody from Quebec invited me to live with them and co-rent a room; which I accepted, having had, thanks Heaven and G-d hisself, just enough for the rent every month and a little extra for myself. I was poor; I would eat at the soup kitchen in Ottawa, then walk all the way back to Gatineau, every day.

Somewhere, in either city, I can’t recall, I met a young’un, a bambi, as I often called them, someone too young to sleep with, someone that could only really be your friend. I was all prim and proper, and fretted about such stuff. Heck even if she were of age, what’s that, 16 in some parts? I still felt it proper to only sleep with women 18 and older. We became great freinds, and chilled together, but I suspected that young bambi wanted something more than what I could offer her, that is to say, she wanted more than a friendship. Now I’m not sure, because I made sure nothing happened, and never advanced anything, but I always did wonder: did this young bambi have a crush on me?

I always figured, because she would come around with two best friends, two young men, that one or the other would have made an excellent partner for her. But no, she always seemed to suspiciously want to hang around with me, which I, being paranoid, suspected.

One or all of these fine young folk were indigenous, and we ended up calling ourselves “the wolf pack” for some reason, don’t ask me why. At any rate, I’ve always been a lone wolf, so I took to this monikor, this wolf pack, rather well.

Perhaps I was never officially inducted into this pack, perhaps the pack lives on, today, without me; it’s membership closed even to my own persons, who may or may not have named the whole shabang. I don’t really remember. But hey, wolfpack, if you’re out there, and remember me from Gatineau QC over in Ottawa, Ontario. Say hello. Gosh you’re probably adults now. Are all three of you still friends? Were those two male friends, your cousins, or brothers? I’m confused.

Sincerely,

George Ohwell

(Steve Mini from the 6ix).

647 986 6324 text me.


Fragment 3:

One day, I was “fortunate” according to the voices in my head, to be served a heart in the soup kitchen. At first, I thought nothing of it, and almost bit into it; but then I realized, nope, it is, literally speaking , the heart of an animal that I was served at the counter, over in the soup kitchen. I might still have a picture somewhere; for I was an amateur photographer, though not many pictures survive, if any. I’ll have to look.

But anyway, a heart. In my soup. Who would have thought?

I would have taken it, and held it high, and allowed all the other patrons to know me by my real name, and bang my chest, et cetera. but I did nothing of the sort. In fact, I said nothing to the soup kitchen, and deposed of it ingloriously. I am paranoid schizophrenic at times, and laugh curiously to myself, about jokes nobody understands, but I never did act on impulse. I don’t obey the voices, and thankfully, I was never dangerous. I’d like to think, after all these years, that me and my voices have a working relationship, and that they have rightfully subordinated. I’m still wary.




A Memoir: Money = G-d = Evil

Rough drafts, released in the public domain. I suppose a final draft won’t be published, perhaps self-publishing on Amazon’ll have to do some day. 647 986 6324 text me if interested. Steve Mini. (Nobody really ever does “and then they publish your released information”).

When I sat down to write a memoir, I thought to myself. What does a poor, pleb of a pauper like me, have to say, that nobody has ever said before? With aplomb I say unto you, that money = evil = G-d, and that, therefore, a kind sir(s), that money is evil and so is G-d.

Why that hyphenate? Because I assume already that you know that which I assume, and won’t tarry on for very long. Perhaps I meant something else entirely, in which case, no to you; Such is the way of secrets, of hyphenates and aphorisms.

This knife of wit shall grow dull with the scraping of time, and even the old joke, now new and fresh, that money is evil, and that therefore, so is G-d; shall know it’s time.

Perhaps one day, when I’m a rustic millionaire in a painting, remembered as such, though often opposed and sentimentally blind, I’ll be remembered, not for my wealth, but for my art, which is, the last indignancy. No to G-d.

Shall I proceed to explain the why and how, or are we, men of wit, already in agreement that we already know the rest, having been said by better men, and that we shall now agree, that money is evil, and therefore, G-d hisself is so, just this one last time, for old time’s sake.

I’ll give you a buck to publish, but you won’t give me a dime to write. But I don’t have a buck, how’s that for G-d; Up next: The Sermon on a mount (Whilst mounted up, a High Warlord Warlock on my PvP mount, I wrote a sermon.

Nobody gives a damn. Go broke you hobo-looking maniac of a lunatic. Said the voices in my head (Paranoid Schizophrenic, by the way).

That’s not at all what I felt, however. Curious that even I, am opposed to myself. Perhaps I am opposed to being evil; but I am evidently so. Therefore, please give me my money now.

Your evil persons, rather inept

Steve Mini from the 6ix, from his “Neologisms and Word Equations: The ‘frenia”.