" Flying Monkeys "

“  Flying Monkeys  “

05/18/12

Oh…my very, very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers, I do think of you often, and hope that you’re feeling better, made comfortable, and loved, cared-for by both family and friends; your days as sweet as the Dandelion wine my Grandfather used to ‘put up’ in the basement during the “Great Depression”.

I always wish you well and safe, free from any lingering distress that you may have, so that you know a lingering peace—instead—with sleep that restores; waking ever from dreams of blissful happiness, to find that happiness had wakened long before you, and was patiently waiting for you to get up, and begin yet another, blessed day.

Preamble:  I

I must admit my frank surprise to you, dear friends, that when I first embarked upon this reverie, I was SURE that—in the title—the word was spelled, ‘Monkies’. This was axed by spell check, leaving me to telephone my local library  (wherein, they doubtless think me mad….as I have made calls like this to them before!), to find that the ‘correct’, proper, ‘third-person singular (or, whatever)’ spelling was—in fact: ‘Monkys’--which to me somehow, did not look right;  further search by the Reference Section, determined that it be “Monkeys’, so, I can hardly argue with either them, or with Merriam Webster, so… right or wrong, it will always be, ”Monkeys” for me!  I cannot tell you what crushing weight was removed from my chest in finally finding out the truth.

But…in my secret heart, wherein pots of gold from neglected rainbows can still be found, along with unicorns, and faeries, and all things still magical, somewhere, ‘Monkies’ will remain; chock-a-block with Mad Hatters, Pirates, Dragons, and Angels.  These I absolutely make NO excuse for, and I am glad that they are there, if nowhere else.

Preamble:  II

On seldom, rare, and wondrous occasions my dear friends, when—at last—the pain pills slowly begin to make known some desired effect, and--for a little while--most of these damned agonies retreat to a bearable distance (though, never completely out of sight), I sometimes­­--with a cup of fresh coffee--and my cigarettes, sit back with eyes half-closed (all the better so as to not spill the coffee, or—perhaps—place the cigarette in my ear, I guess).

I try to make myself as comfortable as I can in the office chair in my so-called ‘Study’; granted, calling it my ‘Study’ is pure pretense, since it is—in fact—my former bedroom, which currently houses my computer, office furniture (an old bedroom set my mom and dad bought for me from Sears when I was nine !); a china cabinet of assorted memories, and a pretty ‘wingback’ recliner, a round rug, hand-woven in India, AND, myself, of course. And Daisy!

Eventually, I see an electric fireplace here, and more shelves for knick-knacks—some of which have been saved, now, for half a century—and

books, and pictures on the walls, a table to hold my humidor of cigars, next to the chair, all done up, and secure, with dear Daisy curled-up upon the rug, near me; how pleasant is the picture that it conjures up.

It seemed rude and somehow indecorous to just call it a ‘man cave’, or a ‘den’; and even I have not aspired to such vain gloried revelries to ever call it my ‘Library’, since it IS a double-wide, mobile home after all.

Nonetheless, during these brief respites from the admixed torture of assorted agonies, and of migraine that would sap all my attention like some ravening, black hole, I set my thoughts afloat…’wool gathering’, what it once was called; or, ‘day-dreaming’, if you prefer.

Most anywhere else than on troubles and trials of the day, and the recurring themes of insufficient ‘money’, or of what can I possibly later have for supper? Or wondering IF there IS anything for supper.

No, my friends, while these ramblings may be  the product of an idle mind, God bless ‘em, too, as I find it perfectly acceptable—necessary, even—to at times, make good my escape.

And since they are quite without direction, or motive, or desire, I never quite know what—in the now, dusty, cobwebbed filing cabinets that compose my mind—will bubble up to the surface…to madly mix my metaphors.

So, for some unfathomable reason, this afternoon, I found myself thinking of:

“  Flying Monkies “

Of course, my dearest friends, by now, everyone on the planet has seen the film, “The Wizard Of Oz”, at least a thousand times, unless—of course—Ted Turner bought it up, as he did with, “It’s a Wonderful Life” (and good thing, too, as one year at Christmas, on cable TeeVee, I found it showing on no less than twenty-three channels, until it became like the sound of nails across a blackboard; ‘though, I will admit, I liked “Pottersville” much more, thinking it   more fun and interesting!  If your memory is still good, can you recall a scene of hookers being forcibly removed into police vans, from a dance hall called the ‘Apache’ ?

Nevertheless, the ‘Wizard Of Oz’—seen, now, about every Easter—made in 1939, somehow, even when I was young did not exactly throw me into thralls of wondrous delight, nor, peals of laughter.  In fact, I found a lot of the Technicolor parts to be too bright, too loud, and too frenzied.

Instead, I much-preferred (and still do), the sepia-toned, black and white segments before the whole “Oz” part; I loved the tornado, the blustering of the increasing wind across a simple Kansas farm; personally—and a psychiatrist might find of it to be of some interest now—I loved the part where Dorothy, upon checking out an empty house, finds that all have retreated to the safety of a storm cellar, in effect, saving their own asses, locking her out.

Notice that beyond a perfunctory call or two by ‘Auntie Em’, when it came down to brass tacks, folks, no one gave a shit about Dorothy, or her obnoxious, little dog, “Toto”, which was fine, as I hated them, too. Even though I was very young when first I saw the movie, other parts annoyed me equally as much.

For instance, say what you will, I hated ALL the ‘Munchkins’, and—in much later years—mused about the potential effects of dropping upon ‘Munchkin Land’, a one or two megaton bomb, actually, same as by the “Grinch” upon “Who-ville”, God… I couldn’t stand their stupid piousness, especially, “Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two!” Now go and put a ‘ting-ting-la’, in your, ‘Fah-who-for-aze…’!

Now, please do not mistake my almost carnal love for Dunkin Donut’s Munchkins, actually, a brilliant, marketing idea, on what to do with all those unused pieces of dough from the center of a doughnut; for, late at night—sometimes—I

think I would gladly kill, for a large bucket of the glazed, and white, powdered sugar versions, with about a quart of milk!

But, as usual on these cloud-like journeys, I digress.

Back we go to ‘Oz’, and all its machinations.  I also found that I most intensely disliked the “Good Witch”, of wherever.  Played by Billie Burke, her accent and her voice were as painful as imps from hell, playing my spine like a

xylophone.  I did find fascinating, the notion of a witch getting ‘offed’ by a falling house.  What would be the odds of that?

And somehow, after due consideration, I found that scene of the “yellow brick road” (especially where it describes an intersection out among unrecognizable fields of endless corn) to be a metaphor for life, and…sure as shootin’, friends, the passage of my life DID seem to be not unlike some journey of the subconscious, along an unmarked road that began--as life begins—at some single point, at birth, to spiral out and beyond, unmarked; often with no direction, but as an admitted sameness.  Sigh.   Life—however bland—is never static for, like that intersection of yellow brick, that appears as if from nowhere, leading—perhaps—to somewhere, to destinations that at the moment we are not privileged to see; we thus, for the most part—then—make our judgments and decisions based—not so much on fact—but rather chance or faith that, no matter what, all will in general, be well.

This is the mystery of the ‘journey’, and the ‘Quest’, wherein none of the puzzle-pieces fit together ‘till the end.  Should we turn this way or that? At each branching of the road, we make our choices, and take our chances, not knowing what may be ahead; these are the risks we blindly face.

And yet, what would—at first—seem to be random, and unpredictable, finally—I most sincerely hope—will full-describe an ordered path…with every turn linked—somehow—to every other turn; it is the realm of ‘Trickster Gods’; of obstacles, and riddles posed by an otherwise silent, yet, imposing Sphinx.

The path(s) ahead, are different for each one of us, but all of us must choose.  We all hope to choose both wisely, and well, and—except for some occurrence of apparent self-destruction (for that is an option too)—I think that we succeed.

I liked the ‘Wicked Witch’, especially as she so closely resembled my bitch of a Grandmother; yes, friends, even children know when they’re loved, and when they are only treated with indifference and frequent punishings.

The ‘evil’ witches’ castle guards—with their grey, radiator- painted hands and faces did not startle me, nor did the first sight of the mighty ‘Wizard’.  Too many metaphors would find later expression in life.

“Poppies…pretty poppies”…oh but could I—too—be made as drowsy, wanting nothing more than total, ‘light’s out’ sleep.  I crave it now much more than I did then.

However, midst the tawdry dreck, what petrified the absolute pure, bat-shit out of me (and, still disquiets) were those goddamn, flying monkeys;  I found them to be nasty, spooky, horrific, and in their masses, relentless, over-powering, inescapable, the perfectly combined substance of haunting nightmare.  And indeed, those little bastards gave me bad dreams, from which I could not find protection from, or hiding place, nor any solace; in a hundred, nightmared-dreams they chased me, and all I could see were monkey claws and teeth.  What teeth!  And an evil visage upon each one.  Oh how I hated them!  And still do!

Years later, now, in cheaper, novelty catalogues, references can regularly be found to them, on mugs, and magnetic, refrigerator magnets, and upon variously-sized signs to hang in any room.

 They’re now considered to be an iconic, comic warning of impending, easy ire, which--I can understand—alerting all, of possessing a short fuse, or an intolerance against challenge, or simply, in a kind of, “I told you so!” advertisement  that the person who dwells within will likely go from ‘zero to bitch’ in five second’s flat.

And, come now to think of it, in consideration of all that is pointless, venal, stupid, or willfully destructive in the world, and in my life…perhaps a warning mug, “Don’t Make Me Summon The Flying Monkeys!” wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all.

And so, my very special, dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers, thus I have passed-away another afternoon, unto evening, peaceable preoccupied.  Too soon—untreated—I already feel the pangs of onrushing pain, which I must attend to, as well as somehow figure out just what-in-hell there’s left for supper.

Its twice as hard—somehow—to decide when the cupboard’s bare, as when it is full to overflow.  Strange, huh?

And so, with your most kind permission, I shall close for now, now that base realities are settling in, again, and all need tending to.  But…it was fun, while it lasted, wasn’t it ?

Please do take care, and know I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles