Late summer in Branson – 1995

August to October

I worked at a cafeteria style pizza and pasta place run by some friends of mine. I helped and tracked a friend’s progress as he grew a pot crop. I drove drunk. I went to bars and just observed, or, almost wordlessly picked up tricks. I’d go into the woods by myself, smoke pot, and tramp around high. I took many, many pictures.

I went to the lake a lot, too. I called ___ a lot. I stayed away from my parents, and now, again, my home, a lot. Memories crashed over me. And I cried, or was numb, frequently.

When I dissociate, the people, the lights, the signs and sights of Branson become surreal, distorted, and ludicrous. I am equally angry, terrified, confused, and worried. Will this be the extent of my life? I cannot stay here much longer. I must go heal elsewhere, in private. I must leave again soon.

Summer in Branson, 1995.