'In Vain I Turned To 'Craig's List'..."

“ In Vain I Turned To Craig’s List To Catch Sight Of, Much Less Catch, Some Wayward Dreams “

05/23/12

To my always dear, and understanding friends, and constant, ever-loyal readers,

While this is like to be no more than selfish , or self-serving exposition, there are times when my ‘global’ pain surprises me, and, when in the usual consideration of all my varied illnesses, something ‘new’ will hurt to point of agony.

Such was the case when—yesterday—I once again fell off and on asleep, to find myself hanging over the arm of the office chair I have there.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid, for I had a bed awaiting my return; call it but yet another wretched passing of the night ‘til dawn.

For when I finally awoke—sufficiently—to rouse myself back to bed, the damage had been done, and I had once again sprained my back so that every, other step cut like a knife.  So agonizing it was, that it caught my every other breath, and make me cry…twice.

That sprain—allied, already with a hundred, other pains, made me tremble in its totality, and force. It mangled my already unsure step, and getting dressed was a nightmare in itself.

Today was occasioned by a visit to my Therapist, and the County bus (late, as usual), provided a most bumpy ride, hitting every pothole known to man, while being sped to our separate appointments by a doubtful, sweating, pleasant—though somewhat confused--driver who did not know his route.

Two passengers and I were tossed-about like lifeless rag dolls, first against the rails, then against the seat backs, until the entire right side of my back thrummed with a staccato pulse that kept time with every lurch.

Upon our arrival there, I discovered that—with each, halting step—I now apparently require major assistance just to get down the steps of the bus.  Did I want to use the wheelchair lift?  “Not yet, I think”, though…that will be coming soon, one day.

The visit went as most of them do: a brief recounting of my illnesses, depression, and panic, and a decided anxiety, so Shrink will change me from Klonopin to Ativan, whenever my current script for Klonopin runs out.  We’ll see what esoteric magic can be found in trading off.

I was late in getting home; the scenic tour of pain not having yet been done; and I was truly grateful to arrive home…I call it my “little, slice of Heaven,” and to dog, and to a quiet house.

I made a cup of coffee, and took a pain pill, while waiting for my back to settle down.  My only accomplishment for the day, was that I got up, and nicely dressed for Shrink, and—if it may be deemed some triumph over Agoraphobia—then, I did so, by leaving the house for my appointment.  It remains ironic that I can—with much prodding and reluctance—take a ramshackle, County bus some miles to see my so-called ‘Providers’, yet, many times, I cannot leave the house to get the mail.

Sometimes, my very, dearest friends, especially when the house is silent, or while waiting for coffee, or while lighting yet another cigarette, I pause to try to turn my mind off, allowing it to roam, choosing to ponder—instead—soft, and gentle thoughts, far , far away from the reality that I know only too well.

And should I be depressed enough, the body, and the mind are, for a while, battered by tumultuous regret.  Thoughts arise, unbidden from the depths of past memories, and these are both sad and sweet. These transient thoughts somehow justify the past, leaving only shadows of ‘wants’, desires, or needs, for, really, all are different, like a picture puzzle of five thousand pieces (each one a stray, and sovereign memory trace) that somehow defines a previous life, into a cauldron of other puzzles, other pieces, hoping that—somehow—the whole will be arrived at, even if one can but only secure the puzzles’ outlines.

If you have had a chance to view my profile, and to examine the photographs therein, you will see my attempts to redecorate my home, making it a safe, and comfortable asylum; giving free reign—when it could be afforded—to make a statement that—at last—is IS my home.  Beyond the locked, front door, chaos and monsters roam, and other, assorted horrors I am unwilling to bear, that cause me to be afraid.  Made ten times worse because I live alone

Though, at times, the decoration has slowed to a stop, for want of funds; it is then that ‘little’ details are attend to, admixed with larger, wilder ‘dreams’, three or four of which come to mind; impossible ? Who can say?

For there are so many things that everyone ‘needs’ such as food, shelter, clothing, reliable transportation, and funds—sufficient—to give full answer to these ‘needs’.  And (although there IS a marked difference, there are so many corresponding ‘wants’.  In no hierarchy of importance, these would be represented by safety, comfort, ease, better health, no pain, depression, nor despair.

There are—of course—still ‘things’ I want (but cannot possibly afford), and so these idle, lambent thoughts defy reality; surely, I know that much.   However, day-dreams follow idle thought, as day follows night. And yet, they cannot be gainsaid just because in ‘real’life, they may be unattainable.

How often, have I warmed myself with them, holding them close, wishing, hoping, wanting, as if wishing hard-enough, or—and this is probably shameful, to include their evanescent longings in my furtive, nightly prayers.

For, to dream high and wide; to soar above the baseness of reality, in concentrated conjuring, at least take some consideration of this awful pain away; and so, I would concede that it might have some purpose, after all.

What better place—I thought—to turn for such advertised amusements: a compilation of ‘Wild West’ bartering, desperate sales amid the pure oddity of personal ads; where fortune and often sheer folly intermingles.

I refer, of course, to “Craig’s List”, with all its unique bizarreness, for here, I surely thought I might find my Grails, things I want, but can hardly afford.  Yet…I find that I still want them, even more—perhaps—because of my age, and illnesses add to the search a certain desperate hopefulness; to be able to full-enjoy my ‘wants’ while I can still enjoy them, if that makes any sense.  And even there—among the throng of ‘Craig’s List’s’ oddities, I found I could still subdivide them into ‘needs’ and ‘wants’.

My very, dearest friends, and constant readers, for those of you yet unfamiliar with ‘Craig’s List’ (and, who is ‘Craig’, anyway?), it has become a widely-known compendium of offered services; work for trade; sales of just about anything that can be bought or sold, employment offers, and the infamous ‘personal’ advertisements, that sometimes beggar the credulity; but as my dear friend Luis once opined,”(whatever) That which you are seeking for, is also seeking you.”

By now, having perused it, in all its stained, and often venal glory, I think—at last—I have narrowed-down my search, in hopes to find that small evidence of my Bliss.  They are incontestably benign, but nevertheless reflect the odd chance, the ‘one-in-a-million’ opportunity; the ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ deal that bespeaks to both my ‘needs’, while taking into full consideration, my lack of funds.

1)           If only but I could, I would like to give my dear dog, Daisy, the “works”; baths to kill what fleas she has, and to make her skin supple, kill the constant itching; all her shots, and flea and heartworm treatment, plus medicine for her arthritis, and her missing fur; have her dental work taken care of; her nails trimmed (and, painted pink…for, after all, she is a lady); and treatment for her million allergies.

At fourteen, she deserves such comfort, beyond that which I can provide.  For over twelve years (since she first adopted my late mother and me), she has been more than a friend and a companion.  She eats when I eat, and follows me into the Study whenever I would want to use my computer.

And so very often—now—during nights where sleep for pain eludes me, if, in the usual course of events, I now find myself out in the kitchen, half asleep, I need only look to see her curled-up on the rug near me, snoring, lost in some old dog’s reverie.

Never once—in twelve years—has she stolen from me; made off with my medications; neither has she ever betrayed me, or involved me in a lie, nor attempted to hurt me in any way.  That kind of loyal caring rarely makes it way to a human set of ideals, and self-sacrifice.

Sometimes, I look at her while she’s asleep, and wonder why she both tolerates and trusts me…a trust that was never blind, but, rather, took years to build, as she had arrived to us most horribly abused.   I often wish that either she could speak, or that I could better know her mind, her wants, her needs.  And where—at fourteen, now, it hurts, and why, and how much.

I can only (barely, now), most painfully get down on the floor, beside her, to scratch her ‘tummy’; to pet her, telling her that she’s a beautiful girl, and to tell her over and over again, just how much I love my ‘buddy’ and my ‘pal’. Of course I pause to kiss her forehead, giving her a ‘million, puppy kisses’.  

2)           My kitchen. ‘B.W.I.H.M. ( back, when I had money), or, what was—in fact, left of it, I decided that since I rarely go out, cannot drive, have no car—instead—having to rely upon the often uncertain whims of my neighbors for shopping, etc., that if my house was to be my prison, that I would make of it as pleasant a prison as possible, indeligibly placing my mark upon it, making of it MY home; My story, and My saga.  I had built-in shelves torn out; donated lots of my mom and dad’s old furniture (don’t forget, after I returned home to stay, there ensued twenty-six years of utter sameness; not a book out of place, nor picture moved, and with drapes and carpets that were at least twenty years old), repurposed what furniture I could, and had that horribly old and stained carpet pulled up, new plywood and bamboo laminate installed.  I bought new curtains, on the cheap, and bought furniture that was on sale, close-outs, floor models, and some things that were even more on sale as they were ‘scratch-and-dent’, or had some little piece broken off, or, some little grant money, when it could be found.

Not all changes were vanity inspired, for, after all, the mobile home is thirty-four years old, and began to develop holes in the floor, a front door with no weather stripping, whose frame, in fact, had deteriorated.

As a hopeful caveat for all of you who must make home repairs, but do not have the ability to do so yourselves, based on my experience, I would most heartily recommend the following: A) Get EVERYTHING in writing, signed by both parties.  Have them keep within a reasonable degree to a budget; list everything you want done, and lastly, get a time estimate for how long the jobs will take.

In my case, the ‘contractor’ added new mini-blinds to all the windows not curtained, which was nice; but then, they never did put back what they had moved, or boxed up.  Its been a year + now, and I still have NO idea where the glass shelves to my mother’s curio cabinet are.

B) Because I knew them, and thought that I         could trust them, I mostly left them to their own devices, while I tried in vain to void ALL the noise !  They stuck my work in-between jobs, and NEVER worked an eight-hour day, or forty-hour week; and so, an estimated three-week job stretched out to almost three months.  And things from the original game plan just never got done…like a fireplace for the living room

3)           NEVER try to live in the middle of a major remodeling.  The noise of saws, and hammering scared hell out of Daisy, and threw my anxiety level into the stratosphere; had I to do it all again, I swear I would have grabbed up Daisy and my meds, and escaped to Aruba for two months.  For when they ‘did’ my bedroom, for example, dirt and clutter, and pieces of wood and nails littered the floor, and at the end of each day, I never knew where my bed would be. There’s nothing for the already, rattled nerves quite like the interrupted sound of sawing, followed by the crash of something being thrown, followed by a singled, uttered, “ SHIT !”.

4)           Always make sure that the workers are licensed and bonded, and that your project list does not exceed their ability to actually DO the work.

Hence, regrettably, when they were tired of working on my house, they simply stopped.  They never helped unwrap glassware, or knick-knacks, but left them—unidentified—in various boxes I still have yet to go through.

The ‘new’ walls look great, as does the crown molding they placed in most of the rooms; however, the master bedroom closet never had the laminate put down, and the ‘funds’ ran out before anything could be done in the kitchen.  And that had included painting it, repairing a corner of the ceiling, and putting new linoleum on the floor.

Now, whenever I chance to look-about the house, I am, for the most part satisfied…and grateful that as much work as was done got done. Of course, it didn’t help that the so-called ‘contractor’ was an alcoholic, and—when drunk—acted strange, silly, and extremely stupid.  Imagine my surprise when he telephoned me, one odd night, babbled on about things that made NO sense, and then signed off by calling me ‘sweetie’?  Tears of Christ.

3) A Grand Piano.  Although—by dint of struggle and strife—I have managed to keep a ‘Studio Upright’ that my mom and dad bought for me in 1967, when we were returning home from France (my dad was in the Army, stationed there; of anecdotal fact was that I was born in France in 1954, during dad’s first tour of duty there), having had to keep it in storage without climate control for years, rendered it impossible to retain tuning as the sound board was warped; but the casework was always beautiful, and inside—just by chance—was stamped the very town (Verdun) that I was born in, there never was a question of throwing it away, even though it is unplayable; it has too much sentimental value, and, currently has found a home in my bedroom, against a newly-painted, burgundy wall.  On the piano top I now have battery-run pillar candles, and a couple of my hats, and, strangely, does not look out of place across from the bed.

However, in my newly re-arranged living room, I now have ample space under a bay window for a grand piano, six feet, ten inches long, or seven feet, five inches long.  I have always wanted to have a grand piano in my home.  Why not a ‘Baby Grand’ you might ask?  Well, to be frank, my dearest friends, the length of the case determines the length of the strings; and while Baby Grands may look lovely, and take up much less room, the strings therein are much shorter, causing(to my mind and ears) tones that are shallow, shrill, and too ‘bright’.

Its only with the longer ‘Grands’, that the strings (and, coils for the bass notes) emit a deep sonority, and better expression. And a super ‘growly’ bass.

I have seen—and played concert Grands that were in excess of thirteen feet long; this is just too long for me, and makes the piano somehow look odd, and ill-shaped.  It may be perfect for the concert stage, but—frankly—is just too long to have in a home.

I already have an armchair the proper height, I hope, to place in front of the keyboard, as ‘regular’ piano benches have always given me lower back pain.

Of course, the casework could be ebony (black), or wood, and I especially like the French Provincial legs, and carvings.

It wouldn’t have to be in perfect shape, or of a certain age, as I would fully expect the case and legs to have nicks and scratched…not pieces broken off; the important thing would be that it stand up to moving, delivery and set-up, and retain a tune.  And besides the lovely tones, having such a piano in the house gives to it a certain éclat or élan (stylishly approving), making me—with my other oddities and eccentricities, a true ‘boulevardier’ (man about town), or, as my most dear friend, ‘Strenuba’ would doubtless say,” Now, there’s three words to take your hat off to.” And if I must abide in some cage of my own making, it may as well be gilded, ornate, and over-the-top.

‘Missed Chances, Damn Craig’s List, Anyway’

Once, while with nothing else to do, I again turned my fleeting attention to Craig’s List, and some offerings that had been already been a week into their posting.

There—something like four days earlier—I could NOT believe my surprise, for, yes, there was for sale, and Knabe Grand Piano, 7’5”, that had been languishing in a church Hall in St. Petersburg, a city maybe forty-five minutes away as the crow flies (personally, I never could understand that phrase, or of its validity; maybe, ‘as the crow drives’ would make better sense; but, friends, I fear that I digress).

The asking price was just $200.00 !!!!!!!, and the tiny Craig’s List photograph seemed to reveal an instrument that was infinitely still playable, and with most reasonable wear and tear.  I telephoned my cousin, and left for him a message telling him to please, please, please grab a friend, take his truck, buy the piano for me (as I would pay him back, and make the delivery worth his while).

It was—of course—long gone by then; I even suspect that it was sold the very day the ad came out.  Well...damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, had I only been but four days early, it well might have been mine.  And, it would have been perfect.

In my younger days, I used to compose for the piano, and while notation was as painful as trying to read Babylonian, I would record my compositions, and, if memory serves, I still have them, somewhere in a dusty and neglected bag, hidden in the closet.  Who even plays cassette tapes these days, anyway?

And while I have not played much since 1995, I now have diabetic neuropathy which has already claimed most of the feeling in the last three fingers of both my hands.  And so…dearest friends, I’d love to play—again—before I can no longer do so.

4)           A nice, substantial electric fireplace for my Study; my decorating scheme—as such—is a admixture of ‘Victorian; Museum; Steam Punk; Asian and African Art; plus ‘Found Things’; Art work that I have done; Silks and Damasks; with dark jewel-like colors everywhere; and Grecian, and Egyptian motifs’.

I find that I like elephants, as they imply wisdom, memory, and care-giving; I also like zebras, because—frankly—though they are uniquely beautiful, they are mean, vicious little bastards.  I know a nurse who somehow, with her late husband purchased two; she told me that—in feeding them hay with a pitchfork—one has to back slowly out of the feeding area, with pitchfork tines pointed at them, lest they suddenly attack.  Now, that’s gratitude for you.

5)           And lastly, because I’ve really gone on entirely too long, and besides, no one can really help me, even if they wanted to;  does anyone know an Editor who might be interested in my many, diary entries here at MDJ, for possible publication?  On many an occasion, my dearest friends, your comments have stated that I should seek publication.  I know I would truly love to see myself in print.  Maybe, someone out there in MDJunction Land knows of a sympathetic Editor?

Can magic still be worked?  And while—like so many, many videos, ask you to kindly click on the ‘like’ and ‘subscribe button’, still, I request some help from you, as all my solitary attempts have proven fruitless.

I know this entry has been too long, and has—perhaps, by now—weakened your kind attention.  Consider it sprung from a day’s loneliness and pain.  For which I most sincerely apologize.

Meanwhile, my dearest, truest friends, what does remain unchanged is my loyalty to you, and gratitude for your having befriended me; and, for ever granting me a pardon  for my elaborate hopes, dreams, desires, without which, there would be little point to continue on.

In my heart’s thanks, I can only wish for you days of lessened pain, or—better—of a complete relief from pain, depression, fractured thoughts, sadness or despairing.

I wish you be in full, surrounded by genuine love and caring.  May all your days be peaceful, with a quiet that soothes and comforts.  Of never knowing want, or need, of having sufficient to share.  Of strength to stand tall, in reporting abuse.

I also wish you balmy afternoons of quiet contemplation; able to capture in your mind’s eye, all the glory of Nature, and of Goodness, as well as Laughter’s ability to mend hearts and heal.

And at the closing of each day, I wish for you—not the exhaustion that pain can cause, but of a sleepy, dreamy tiredness that comes from having a kind, and untroubled soul.  I then wish for you the sleep we knew as children, innocent, and with clarity of mind; to sleep an undisturbed and blessed sleep, nurturing, and life-sustaining, kept ever safe and well by sweet angels to guard you through the night.

Please always know you occupy a large place in my heart.

‘Zahc’/Charles