"Oh...That Giant Door Being Slammed Shut..."

“ Oh…That Giant Door Being Slammed Shut, Was But An End To A Forty-two Year Old Friendship…Who Knew?  “

05/30/12

As always to my very dearest friends, and constant, every loyal readers,

I find, as I get older, the less I seem to know, or understand, or validate, or…forgive; our lifespans are just not long-enough to hold decade’s grudges, against another, in anger, never speaking to them for much of one’s life.  Too soon the time rushes ahead of us, and, yes, the years accelerate to very near the speed of light; how then can we afford to waste even a precious moment of it in arguing, contention, or to find our sense of trust has been abrogated into meaninglessness.

Upon some—perhaps—clinical observation, the appearance of ‘life-long’ friends is probably no more than a thousand years old, no more than a ‘wink’ of geologic time, and a necessary nod to increased lifespans.  For think of it, where you a Neanderthal, who only lived for thirty-thirty-five years, no one lived long-enough to secure any kind of lasting friendship.

But with the advent of medicine, and the concurrent movement of populations to the cities, and therefore, affecting the compositions of ones’ tribe, we now live long enough, yet still desire a close-knit ring of family and friends.

 And, since little else can be predicted, or counted upon, this need for ‘closeness’ has become much more important, for we find in those individuals a reassuring comfort, ones who supposedly ‘love’ you (a much more recent emotion), and who will--for better definition’s sake--cover your back, as in old warrior days.

And this need to establish ‘base camp’ friends has become even more critical as the dreadful world shrinks, and in a hundred realities, enemies of all sorts lay in wait to rob you, hurt you, separate you from your new tribe, or, simply kill you, not just locally—though that, in itself—would be overly sufficient to fan our fears; but now, by push of button, can send missiles all the way around the world, for any, trumped-up reason at all.

Stepping from your front door, has again become as dangerous as was leaving the relative safety of the cave.

And no…I do not mean Face Book, with its shining galleries of total strangers…friends of friends of friends, indeed.  For we have seen that phenomenon fail at every needed tribal level, except—perhaps—to exchange recipes.

And so, sometimes, in chance, opportunity, shared interests, situations, as well as a certain physical, or soul-revealed affinities, a friendship will be born; and should all of the above requirements last, the friendship grows, as does mutual admiration, which—over time—develops into its own kind of love and regard.

And, should this ‘tie’ become strong-enough, it sometimes leads to lasting friendships that transcend the years; 

and, with age, somehow mellows into an ever-safe regard and sense of care, so that, if—for some reason—the friends move away, even a considerable absence will not tarnish it; its just like picking up where one left off…there is no sense of temporal restriction.  And one hopes to hold that friend close within one’s heart all one’s life.

When even long-time friendships seem to fade and fall way, it is because we change; and as we age, we metamorphose into caricatures of our once younger selves. Our heaped-upon dangers, sentiments, fears, obligations change, even if our base core-needs remain,

Although we plainly cannot hope to keep pace, yet we are flogged ever onwards, committed to a new reality. With time now measured into gigabytes, and processors whose dazzling speed amazes, yet, this inevitable onrush of rapid information must surely bottleneck somewhere…usually at the physical end of the spectrum; one can only read, or retain only so much material.

And as people change, with time and distance, and need—sometimes—others are recruited to become members of the tribe.  Cruelly put, it is not unlike giving a child a new toy, to find he has lost interest in one that formerly went to bed with him every night. And soon, these lonely, and discarded toys get either donated, or thrown out into the trash.

And that’s precisely the feeling when a friend one has known for forty-two years not only severs that relationship, but does so in an unforeseeable, and painful way. No sense in trying to apportion blame.  But has irreparable harm been done?  Almost. Almost to a micron’s worth of care.

“ The Players And Their Positions “

About three years, ago, now, more or less, as I never counted, I received a telephone call from a friend, whose wife I went to High School with, and with whom I had decades of shred experience, antics, sadnesses, and happy times, including her marriage to a man who since 1982, has also been my friend. Now, mind you, he already knew my late Uncle had left a little bequest to me.

On this occasion, he was most upset; their car, upon which they most heavily relied, had broken down, and needed $1,600.00 to repair.

In just a matter of a day or two, I telephoned him back, and sent to him a check for $2,000.00, to cover the repair, fill the car with gas, and then take his wife and himself off for a little, week-end stay.  I told him the check was not a loan, and that there were no strings attached.

Fast forward to the present.  The little money I received is gone, used—in part—to make repairs to the house.  And I am not only back on SSDI, and all its follies, but, have coincidentally maxxed out a credit card, which will be hell to repay.

Only just three months before, they had gone on a shopping spree, and bought new telephones, a new laptop, stereo equipment, and a large-screen, plasma TeeVee.

And the month after that, the husband—who had a cracked tooth just before his wisdom teeth, and went to a boutique dentist, for a titanium implant and a crown. Funny, but I currently have two teeth, side by side, that will see pulling, before they see a titanium implant.

But…I digress.

Two weeks ago, I spoke to him, and told him of my situation, and that—while it killed me to do so, I asked if they might pay the ‘two grand’ back to be…even $200.00 a month, for ten months would have been nice, and would have brought my credit card out of the stratosphere.

When I happened to call again, the wife literallyscreamed at me…how could I?  And that they didn’t have the money, and that she was being    threatened with being laid-off., etc., etc., etc, One shrill shriek after another. Until I said, hey, its O.K., don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.  Frankly, since she worked evenings all

the time, I really hadn’t even spoken with her in over two years; it was her husband and I who spoke with some regularity, and had enjoyable conversations about art, music, literature, though, he would not let me send to him a couple of my diary entry poems as they were, “too long.”

I tried to telephone a number of times, but could not get through.  It was only when he called me  that I found that she had ‘blocked’ my number, and, for that, I was pissing mad.

When he began to explain what had happened, though—to do so might further ‘stir things up’, I told him to just let it go, and forget it.  And when he told me he would speak to her about unblocking my telephone number, I told him that it was alright, that, when he wanted to call me—as I rarely go anywhere—I’d be glad to speak to him.

While it sounds quite odd to say, with my stress level make so much higher, my consequent  pain levels rose, until I was unhappy, suddenly feeling the true weight of m years, and as I was depressed, frankly—my dear friends—I was in sorry shape.

So far, I haven’t tried my luck in successfully dialing them, I suppose I really haven’t wanted to.  Perhaps that makes me something of a shit, but, I have other friends to call, who have not blocked my number.

A week ago, for almost two weeks I felt very hurt, that she would go so far as to block my telephone number.

But then, while I was in rehab. After having had my appendix removed too late, another friend came by fairly regularly to check the house; I had an already stamped, and addressed envelope to them, with poems and some writings inside that they had told me they did not have time to read, and so, I wasn’t going to mail it.

But when my friend saw the stamped envelope, she mailed the letter to them anyway.  Now…come one, if you didn’t want to read something, you could have made paper airplanes of it, in sailing it into the trash.  Hell…I would have never known.  But what the wife (my former friend did), was to write ‘Return To Sender’, with an arrow to my return address, and had it mailed back to me, unopened. I found THAT out, after I had returned home, again.  And, even though I had never been my intention to mail it…still, it hurt my feelings.

And, if I can now correctly recall, that, after my ‘breakdown’ in 2002, I did not hear from them for five years, until one Christmas, I decided to call THEM.

I guess, in a way I still love them, but I fully understand that they—and a few, local others—are friends enough, that they have become so entrenched in their lives, that they really do not need anyone else. A mere shade of how they and I were twenty-eight years ago.  But then, everything was so different then.  But was I the more constant friend?  I fear that somewhere in my heart of hearts, I felt betrayed.  Or maybe it was natural of them. Or just maybe, we have conflicting views of what a ‘life-long’ friendship should be like.

Double hell…I’m 58; she’s 59; and he’s 62.  We’re all a little too old, I think, for any of us to act like little, mean-spirited, temper-tantrumed kids, who need putting down for a daily nap.

I only know that, with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Pain, RA. Chronic Fatigue, and other diagnoses that provide me with wailing agonies of pain, is that I’m getting too old for drama, or all this lingering stress.

And I am almost more than willing to let this long-time friendship just slide off the end of the world into oblivion; of course I’ll still take the husband’s calls, but in this matter, I can see them—too—tapering off until who knows what whom is doing?

I mean, the very last time I laid peepers on them, was when they—by invitation—attended my late Mom and Dad’s memorial service in late February, 2008; of course they looked great, seemed glad to see me, and to pay their respects to my mom and dad, staying, even for the buffet after the service.

Although we live only thirty-eight miles apart, they might as well live on the far side of Jupiter, and much too far to try to drive.  I guess, by then, every bush, and rock, and stone had been seen, and identified, and soon-after, became boring, much too boring to last an hour’s drive each way.

I guess that I could understand this, as it became a chore for me as well.

Am I perhaps just over-reacting, moody as I don’t feel well…or have we reached the “Rubicon” at last?  For while love (or whatever one should call it) can last, apparently without regular tending, like a desert plant), it would seem that trust can be shattered quicker than the terra cotta pot its in.

All I can say for sure is:

‘ La Rapidite Avec Laquelle Se Fane Amitie’ ‘

( The rapidity with which fades friendship )

Perhaps…you, my dearest friends can—with your comments—help me to somehow, find my way.  For, perhaps, it is I who is wrong, and over-reacting.  For maybe in your greater knowledge and understanding, and support can relate any similar situation that may have happened to you.   Maybe, I have-in my agonies of illnesses, simply lost my way.

After all, I have a quite personal investment in this friendship, one especially forty-two years long, so that an impending migraine fogs my mind, and makes me much more easily hurt.

Has the bridge already been burnt? And left me with no way to cross? And to try to swim my way across a river, made now, much too wide?

Please forgive me for airing dirty laundry, but I am in great, and greater pain—today—and still smarting from the past two weeks. Life is nothing, if not odd.

Please know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

"The Miracle Of 'Paying Forward' A Blessing..."

“ The Miracle Of ‘Paying Forward’ A Blessing, That Truly Makes The Angels Sing “

05/28/12

My dearest, kindest friends, and ever-loyal readers, you know you have my greatest thanks, and loving gratitude.

Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly bad, in a thousand agonies, whose ‘global pain’ is relentless, and often makes me cry; I rock back and forth, and cry for all of us; for so many have their own hellish pain, and/or mental anguish that never seems to abate.  Or a sadness, or a sorrow, or needs that bear down upon one’s shoulders, causing me to wonder if there’s any sort of happiness left in the world.

And I would ever wish you in less pain, whether physical, or mental, and a respite from care, and all of your accumulated grief.

Sometimes, it helps (a little, anyway) to hear a story that elevates, and makes our very beings that much stronger; for hope, and demonstrated love is such a powerful anodyne.

And so—my dearest friends—if I may, I want to weave a tale to tell you that even simple faith and good helps us to find our true radiance;

and even if this story it makes you cry (as it did me), the tears were as a cleansing, and refreshing stream to wash-away the lines of care and subsequent despair, even if for just a little while.

Because a ‘life’ lesson learned is not quickly forgot, nor should it ever be.  And so my offering to you this time, is one of joy that, in remembering, will always serve to warm our hearts, to better help us through the bad times.

At least, that is my full intention.

“ The Miracle Of ‘Paying Forward’ A Blessing, That Truly Makes The Angels Sing “

I consider myself most fortunate to have made a friend, some four years ago, when we both happened to be in a nursing home rehab…she, for a recent stroke, and me, to try to recover from the ill after effects of having had my appendix removed too late.

I was immediately drawn to the sound of her always kind and pleasant voice, and so, wheeled myself in wheelchair down to her room, to strike up an amiable conversation.  At the time, neither of us knew from those unusual beginnings would emerge a lasting friendship to this day.

What struck me was her kindness, and her generosity of heart; a musical voice and laugh that belied her pain.  And soon I discovered that she was at her happiest, whenever she could ‘do’ something for someone else.

Of course, there were times, when she was taken full advantage of, by dissembling individuals who needed cash for a mortgage payment; who needed money to repair their cars, and once—that I recall—she paid for a person’s veterinary bill.  And, of course, has yet to see the first penny paid back, nor, given the time which has elapsed, will probably never, ever be paid back.

And these ‘loans’ are but a hardship for her, as she tries to live, as do I, on nothing, and frequently must do without, after all the bills have been paid. I’m sure thousands of us at MDJ experience the same.

She has a niece and ‘nephew’ who—frankly—are self-serving, immature, little shits, who BTW, also owe her tons of money.

You’d think, that in some measure of gratitude, at Thanksgiving, they might call her up, and take her out for a wonderful, Thanksgiving meal; but they are enmeshed in their own lives (until they need something of her), and so, she faced another Thanksgiving alone, in a too-quiet apartment, the holiday, in not being in any way a holiday, was just another, empty day.

My friend who now can hardly walk, for an unending sharpness of such pain, so that she can only take a few steps at a time, and needs a walker, and electric cart, is diabetic, older, and legally blind, and is too often left alone, has too many empty holidays like that.

And even though I telephoned her, to wish her all the blessings of the day to try—without much luck--to somehow cheer her up, there was a quiet knock upon her door.  I hung up then so she could find out who it was.

At the time, her Primary had ordered she be seen by a nursing service, and, at the door was an unknown woman with her daughter, to bring my friend a paper, grocery bag FULL of Thanksgiving food.  This, my dear friend, in such a state of rare excitement, told me later.

There was turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, rolls, green bean casserole, and, at the bottom of the bag, a small, entire pumpkin pie, with a container of whipped topping to put on top.

The lady, smiling said, “I helped make the mashed potatoes!” And so it seemed that this lady had a friend at the agency, who—with her family—instead of giving Christmas gifts, worked on these wonderful food ‘baskets’ to have delivered to all the agency’s ‘shut in’ clients.

As all this food was brought out and given to my friend, she teared-up, and began to cry.

From a nothing day, my friend could suddenly have her favorite: a sandwich made of turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and mayonnaise on toast.  It happens to be one of my all-time favorites, too!

And, had the story ended there, it would have been heartwarming enough for a blurb in ‘Reader’s Digest’.

But, about two weeks later, my friend got a call from the lady who had personally supervised the Thanksgiving mashed potatoes, for, it, and my dear friend’s reaction had proved—somehow-- to be some vital life story to the lady’s daughter, about how those with nothing are so honestly grateful—really—for any kindness shown.

The lady mentioned that, as Christmas was coming up, she and HER family proposed something miraculous to my friend.

She said in effect, “If you could have anything at all you wanted to eat, price NO consideration, what would it be? We live not far from ‘The Lone Star Steakhouse’, so…think about it; ANYTHING that you might want.  Again, no limit as to price.”  And to call, and let her know.

Now I know, my dearest friends and readers at MDJ, too often we hardly have enough to pay the bills, or try to save the house, so that food is often treated as a secondary expense; how many times, without counting, have you, or you and your family have had to fall back on cheap, bulk food.  Tasteless, mostly; starch predominantly, as you strive for that which is edible and filling, to answer poorly to a need in assuaging hunger pains, as I do—myself—to find something to eat, from rice to PB&J’s, often without the ‘J’; on more than one occasion I have dined, standing at the sink, on mayonnaise sandwiches, never mind the need for protein, or to count calories, as anything remotely food-like in the house is what we have to rely on.

When my friend told me, I asked her what she had been thinking of, for such a grand, and unbelievable offer required lots of thought and due deliberation.

She told me that, in day-dreaming she envisioned steak; a porterhouse two inches thick that overlapped the plate. 

Of monstrous shrimp cocktails, with the most enormous shrimp that could be had.  And baked potatoes loaded up with real butter, and tons of sour cream.

Her dreams went on to where they picked out for her, the largest lobster in the tank, at least a three-pounder, prepared, and already stripped from its shell, to dip in a large bowl of melted butter.  What could be more delicious?  And then to finish off with a huge piece of New York cheesecake covered in chocolate.

And, on all this she could have eaten well for several days at least, while savoring every, single bite. Who wouldn’t, faced with such a feast?

All these foods were as dreams in themselves, especially as she now is terribly poor, and, since her dear husband died, some seventeen years before, she dimly, now, recalled these foods in a kind of disbelieving awe.

And so, for almost a week she thought of it, letting her imagination soar, for the lady’s words of  “anything”, and, “no limit as to price”, she told me that it might easily come to $150.00 or slightly more.  And all for one, knock-down, drag-out epic meal that she would have remembered, both for the kindness of the offer, and—of course—for the delicious food, itself.

But, my joyous friends, this is where the miracle, passed down, begins.

When she telephoned the lady, she first thanked her for such an act of generosity and kindness.

But my friend had been thinking about it, and had decided, hoping in no way to offend.

She said to the lady, “I know about how much my wonderful meal might come to, and while I would enjoy it, still, that cost would make a lot of spaghetti, to take to a local homeless shelter so that they might have a hot, and home cooked meal over the holidays, and there would be sufficient spaghetti to feed everyone there, with maybe some left over for the next day.

The lady was not only not offended, but was moved, herself, to tears, and…daughter too, for my friend was willingly giving up a chance to revel in wonderment of one person’s thoughtfulness, and, let’s be frank, as humans, she did think of all that glorious food.

But took, instead, a greater joy, in knowing that some sixty people would be fed spaghetti loaded with meat, and cheese, and toasted garlic bread.

And warmed herself to sleep, imagining happy, stuffed, children having real protein for a change; in having little stomachs full, to run around with spaghetti sauce still opon their faces.

From what I later heard, the unexpecting, and surprised shelter leaders were delighted, and effusive in their thanks.

Though they will never know my friend, or even of her generosity; yet, to be in such a somber and depressing place, where all hopes are very nearly gone, and they may think themselves forgotten,

My dear friend passed up a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ chance, to have wonderful treats the kind of which she hadn’t seen in years, and years, still…she passed a major blessing on, with no thought of herself.

Which truly makes the angels sing, amid a flood of evanescent tears of joy, to assure her place in Heaven.

Now I realize what ‘giving’ means: to give altruistically to someone who has less, and is despairing.  To try to help in whatever even small way I can; for example, if—in my cobwebbed cabinets—I may find two cans of corn, surely, there is someone for whom that might be dinner.  For I may be only hungry, yet, they may be starving.

I understand that so many at MDJ suffer fully as I do, with near-unending pain, or mental anguish, or with brutal, self-serving spouses, or dysfunctional children, trying to live on fumes, just to keep a roof over our heads, and pay the bills, while trying to keep fed, you can still report abuse, or, make room at your crowded table for a next-door senior, who has nobody.

And, too many times, there just seems to be NO blessings to be had, much less pay forward.

So…you do what you can do.  And if you can still share SOMETHING, be it neglected clothes, or whatever, little, extra comes your way, perhaps in giving of yourself, the knowledge that you’ve helped, somehow, I can almost guarantee it will help you to feel better, and to add some needed harmony to the house.

The ‘gift’ becomes self-serving and selfish when you actively expect thanks, to somehow bolster your own sense of having done that which was right, while—perhaps—mentioning to the prospective donor how much it cost you, both in time and effort, making sure they know at what a real cost of how much you had to spend. For, all of these things cheapen the ‘blessing’, until it is it is a blessing no longer, but a measure of your own trials, and discontents.

If anything—then—I would urge you to consider stepping back away from that which you would care to pass along. Remove from it your desire to be noticed, and rewarded for your seeming goodness, for it—too—will turn an altruistic kindness into something premeditated, and…frankly ugly.

Did you know that ‘blessings’ paid forward have a ‘boomerang’ effect, that cheers both of you, and, as it is paid forward grows—in spirit like an avalanche,

For it is truly hoped that, as it advances, the goodness grows with it; you really need know how or where.  But yet a seed of hope is planted; and, like my friend who willingly gave up a dream, to pass it along, not just one person was helped, but fifty or sixty…and their precious children,

And those wonderful acts of sacrifice do not go unnoticed, for those at the shelter will know of ‘someone’s’ kindness.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

If anything, it will tell you that you are not alone; we all—indeed—are all in this together.  And I wish so much that from that sense of strength, you will find new purpose, a sense of hope, and, lessened pain.

I only ask you think of it; and if you have, in fact, nothing currently to give, you can—in your nightly prayers gives thanks for—really—all you DO have, and in your prayers, you can pray for hope, health, and deliverance for those who have even less than do we, and are, by default nameless and forgotten.  Pray for their peace, as well as peace for yourself; and in shame, I must confess to you—my very, dearest, sweetest friends—too often, my own prayers are scattered, like a freight train, pulling an unaccountable number of cars, I ask (no, rather, plead) for some many venal things, like giving God a Santa’s wish list of ‘things’ I think I need, whether it be a legitimate (perhaps) request for end of pain, and mental conditions, to asking, without pride, for money to help me pay down somehow, a maxxed-out credit card, to having more money coming into the house, and a subsequent relief from all my financial woes.

Thank Heaven’s for my own soul’s sake, I pray for all at MDJ., my dearest friends who have befriended me, that your pain and despairing be made whole again, and that you arrive to a place where you are not afraid, and know no need, and are happy once again, so that you may truly delight in life, in love, as gently cared for by friends and family, who would do almost anything to see you finally pain-free, and joyous.

I will admit to you (as I have doubtlessly done, so many times before), although I do not have a lot ( and this I would ask you to please give great consideration to), I still have a roof over my head, some food, and hot water, and air-conditioning. I would NEVER knowingly watch a friend’s fall from grace, to be thrown out in the streets; for in my love for them, I would gladly take them in until they had re-established themselves.  How could I do otherwise?  While making some claim to humanity?

I ask you, please, to think of these things; how grateful would YOU be to be taken in and comforted, when there was no hope left; as many people (such as myself) could not live out in the woods, homeless, starving; for I am more fragile that I think, and rather would be dead.

For, blessings both large and small can be passed forward, in ways that you may never know.  The point is that it is not important for you to know, but, rather, just to act in a time or place, where blessings are born.

No matter how much is your pain, to speak to others politely, or to converse to a senior is still a start.

And if you are always vigilant, and, with your cell phones, take videos, and report spousal, child or pet abuse, in ridding the world of one, small, but telling evil, you have taken strides to emphasize the good.  And, who knows if, in doing so, a precious life might have been saved? How wonderful is that, my dear, dear friends?

And, who knows? Sometime when you are in agony, in trouble, have forgotten your way in life, or are lost, some stranger may come up to you (and you will be strangely not alarmed, somehow) to say to you, “Don’t be afraid.  I can help.” You may be in despair, trying to feed your family near the end of the month, with NO chance of any, extra money coming in; you may be stranded, somewhere, in your car too close to evening and getting dark, either broken down, or out of gas, and, who—frankly, considering our debilitating illnesses and pain can even try to change a tire?

So I would kindly ask of you, dear friends, to consider the magnitude of deciding to feed a homeless shelter instead.

And, when you do pay forward a blessing, by all means ( if you so believe) to offer up all, as a gift to the Creator, that it may prove to Him to be a happy, wondrous thing.

For in that basic equation of: A + B, you become the ‘ + ‘, that steps away, when giving thanks that a blessing has been wonderfully passed forward.

For, every time you offer up even some slight thanks to—perhaps—an Infant King.

You will be truly blessed, my friends, and as glad, my dearest friends, to hear the angels sing!

Please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

P.S. Today is Memorial Day; please consider all that you been given, and who made that possible.

" How High The Sky, How Deep The Sea "

  “ How High The Sky, How Deep The Sea “

( impressions of a friend’s personal odyssey)

05/24/12

I once asked my dear and loving friend to explain ‘Bipolar II’ to me.

And in a quiet, contemplating voice, he spoke of errant, mood-cycled tortures without end; and sighing, he replied, “ How high the sky, how deep the sea.”

As subtle as the slightest loss of sleep

gives ‘way to a guarded, tightly-coiled emotion,

I rush heedlessly to appointments I must keep; my mind is lighter than before with every, transient notion.

My ordered, ‘safe’, and normalized routine

Is not enough to keep me, and I begin to crave escape,

Into some greater, much less dependable scene,

That would—in going out each night—find me more happy, and elate.

Unsatisfied with my usual attire,

My accustomed clothes depresses...

I pull from hangers shirts and pants,

While hoping—something—will inspire,

And when caught sight of, suitably impresses.

I anger at the slightest thing

And jump at every sudden noise.

But, where’s my watches, chains and rings ?

While searching for that ‘right’ cologne

Whose aroma never cloys.

Soon, I reject old friends to seek

 some new, more entertaining crowd

To pass a boring, tiresome week;

They’re jokes just irritate, although I find I laugh too loud.

I’m filled—now—with energy and joy that dares to chase the sun.

In my car I drive for hour by hour

Outracing everyone.

Ablaze, on fire, each night, no matter where I went,

In such euphoria, happy, now, one never stops and thinks;

The more my popularity soared, the more I spent

In buying ALL the House round, after round of drinks.

Whenever barely hungry, I shoved-through that noisy, sweating crowd as best I could,

To random, eat by handfuls, buffet hors d’oeuvres,

the kind that sometimes upscale places serves,

it, nonetheless negated all my need for food.

Amid that thousand, painted nameless faces, now, each my ‘new best friend’,

For I was crowned as King in all these places

While I still had cash to spend.

Oh…of all those frenzied, half-remembered nights,

As seen through an alcoholic daze, and smoke-filled eyes

the mingled laughter, singing; of conversations impossible to hear, the distant argument, the petty fights,

could scarce be heard about the music with its compelling beat, for I was ‘free’ and danced, and danced, until—at closing time—the music dies.

Until the wild dancing, flashing lights had finally stopped,

And like unhappy, penitents to the exit door were led.

But first, the mounting tabs had to be paid, as change and sodden bills upon the wetness of the bar were dropped,

And still the party gathered, and I had no thought of bed.

There always was another place to go, and so

We staggered down darkened, secret streets to some new, scarry place instead,

Down dangered streets and alleyways no one should ever go,

We passed where one or two or three had fallen down; where not a few had vomited.

To try to carry on, this time to some raunchy place where freely flowed both drugs and alcohol,

While off in darkened corners deals were made.

And I admit I freely sampled all,

Yet, in my full-flung manic phase, not once was I afraid.

All through that noisy, endless night, I reigned as King,

though—in truth—I had long-forgotten where I had left my car.

I winnowed-through my courtiers, those still standing, who could dance and sing,

I brought them back to the elegance of my hotel room, as, it wasn’t very far.

They fell about me one by one in that glittered, high-priced room;

And lay about like damaged dolls, without a face or name,

Their party masks askew, revealed a saddened sight among the gloom,

And suddenly, in my exhausted state, I felt a stab of fear that, could I be the same?

I hurried packed my bags and left, too chilled and tired to be alone.

I then began the long drive home.

This cycle slows with my stumbling through the door of where I lived.

A silent, and accusatory air awaits me as I weakly climb the stairs, my belongings dropped carelessly in the hall.

I had soiled my finest clothes, and gave away, or sold, or had stolen all my chains and rings, arriving home at early dawn, wanting to be full forgived.

As I drop my sodden, and odiferous clothes, I only want to sleep, and sleep is all.

My memory’s an echo now, of how very close to danger one can get.

I crawl most gratefully into my bed, and pull the coverlets like a shroud about my head, piled soft, with my familiar pillows there.,

And slowly, I forget

That in my reckless wanderings, and the many risks I took, I could have been hurt, arrested, over-dosed, or dead…although…at the time, I never seemed to care.

Although I cannot, cannot think yet of tomorrow,

I know that the opposing cycle will soon have me depressed,

Days of despairing will appear, all to my sorrow,

and this ‘bottoming-out’ to nothingness.

In a way, I miss parts of that other side of me,

While, granted, not as manic, for a while, I had an easy laugh, and knew some daily joy.

Somewhere between the peaks, to live as others do—perhaps—some seventy-five percent, that, lasting be

achieved by all that medication, and therapy employ.

For someday, someday, someday I hope to be as free, from all the agonies of “How High The Sky, How Deep The Sea.”

Beginning or, End?

Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles.