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Bob Flanagan
Pain Journal

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August

New month, same old body, feeling older than it is or will ever have the chance to be. I'm afraid my heart's starting to give out. My ankles have been swelling up since last week when I was Mr. Troubadour at camp. In contrast to the great burst of energy I had "way" back then, today I can barely move without being severely short of breath, and can barely stay awake when I'm not moving. While trying to help Sheree with the Pee Boy fountain this morning I couldn't help stepping outside myself to catch the irony of me huffing and puffing trying to get our naked white nasty dick-holding boy to pee in the bowl properly, working up a sweat trying to get the pump connected the right way, frustrated as hell cause my own pump felt so fucked, my connections all kinked and haywire, and even my dick not much good or much use to anyone. Feeling sorry for myself I guess. But if not me, then who? What bothers me most is that it's so hard to do work. I just want to lay around all day and watch TV. I have 20 or 30 different projects or commitments to work on, not to mention the IV antibiotics, the breathing treatments, the physical therapist, pharmacies, doctor's appointments-how can I resist just curling up on the couch, watching the OJ trial, and saying, "Fuck it?"

*

Ants are crawling in and out of my teeth and around my eye sockets and my nostrils. The moisture is draining out of me and I'm starting to shrivel up. My little apple head effigy looks great, almost as good as the real thing, the real thing being me, when I'm dead, buried with a video camera to document my ongoing "deconstruction," but Sheree's having second thoughts. Now she wants me cremated so she can keep my ashes. Of course Kirby's rooting for plan A, the video burial as a ready-made ending to his "Bobumentary." So to placate Kirby and to sell Sheree I came up with this apple head prototype. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to interest a collector or two. I also did a pretty good drawing today for the "Bobumentary": it's a drawing/ montage of "me" with a big hard on, standing at a dark room enlarger to which I've attached a needle, something I did 20 years ago because I couldn't get up the nerve to stick a needle in my dick without automating it this way. Now, at Kirby's request, I'm in the process of illustrating this and other auto erotic "torture" machines I've designed over the years. And they're working out real well, despite the fact that the computer kept giving hell. Sheree had to take the external drive in for repairs. It's ok, and so is my stuff. Not only is the computer fucking up ( Photoshop was also a real stubborn bitch today, too) but my body is still on the fritz, even though I'm feeling better and doing more. I'm all filled up with fluids, from my right arm pit, to my ankles, with a large protruding abdomen in between. Looks like I'm pregnant. Feels like I've had an enema. More to worry about. But now I've got to sleep.

*

I feel like Superman, Underdog, Popeye-not the macho heroes, the bloated Thanksgiving day balloons. I feel like I'm walking on the moon. One small step for man, one giant leap closer to the grave. I'm the Pillsbury Doughboy, overdone, crumbling. Nothin says lovin like somethin in a coffin. Heh, heh! I'm really feeling the pressure of having to get my life in order before my body gives out entirely. The dying part will be easy (for me), but the constant interruptions, the drives down to the doctor's in Long Beach (even Kirby's had it with that), the drug deliveries that don't come, the oxygen which runs out in the middle of a movie, assuming I have enough energy to drag my ass out of the house to go to a movie, the true humiliation of having to watch Sheree work like a dog to take care of me who used to get so hot being her slave, sickness or no sickness, what a whining wimp I've become, "no" is the first word out of my mouth, it's part of my breathing now, no . . . no . . . no . . . I see it like a knife in Sheree's back every time she hears it, and she's getting tired of it, too, but I'm doing the best I can, that's my mantra these days, but so what?, it doesn't take the sadness away, and maybe I'm not always doing the best I can. I ain't no super hero, that's for sure, and this is no fucking holiday.

Los Angeles 1995

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