" A Sunday Mosaic: A Confusion Of Errant Thoughts, And Lost Desires "

“ A Sunday Mosaic: A Confusion Of Errant Thoughts, And Lost Desires “

07/29/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

‘ Present Tense ‘

Just before 5:00 a.m., I was dragged from a deep, black, and dreamless fitful sleep (is this what death is like?), have to get up, and run to the bathroom too late; with every stumbled step, I just peed myself a little more, and guess I will have to start wearing Depends, again, although the plastic makes me feel hot and uncomfortable.

Daisy—of course, much wiser than I—took advantage of the situation by wanting ‘out’ probably eight times, until she was ready to settle down on the carpet, and look at me.

Shoot, thought I, I might as well stay up, even though I still feel tired, and putz-around, making coffee, getting my pills ready for the week in my ‘seven-day’ pill box, and hoped to write a diary entry for today.

Further, I am—again—waiting for the air-conditioning repair person to come out to the house; for although my central A/C unit is probably two years old, or slightly less, and is a ‘Rheem’ ( you might want to remember that name, should ever you have to replace your existing unit ).

This past week, it gradually stopped delivering wonderfully cool air into the house, until the temperature in the house got up to 80 degrees ( I know, not much too many), but at that temperature, both dog and I have trouble breathing, and…we both ROASTED, sweating, and miserable.

The visit, yesterday, cost $304.00 (which I do not really have, and so slapped it on the charge card, oh boy).

Yesterday, the unit’s coils were frozen, and it needed four pounds of Freon, to boot.  Now, dear friends, I could be mistaken, or misled, or both, but I would have thought that an almost brand-new, out-of-the-box, 3-ton, A/C unit would have cruised for maybe five to ten years before evidencing the slightest peep.

Of course, I cannot—now—find the paperwork, nor the warranty, but I would guess—following the nature of ‘shit karma’, that it would be just a shade past the warranty.

When I quizzled the repair person, he told me that while ‘Rheem’ central A.C’s are assembled in the good, old U.S. of A., the parts are made…guess where?  Where very nearly everything else we buy comes from: the ‘Land of the Lotus’, if I am not mistaken.

Funny, but the unit this one replaced purred along for almost fifteen years before the heating element crashed and burned.

And while I can understand, though dislike the concept of ‘planned obsolescence’, this is almost like pre-planned, and arranged obsolescence.  Less than two years of functioning, trouble-free life?  I find it shameful, wasteful, costly, and—in general—a huge pain in the ass.

I am SO thankful, I happened to have an ancient, small, ‘window-shaker’ of an air conditioner, propped up in the window in the ‘study’; I had been retreating there just to cool off.  Plus, I had my cousin buy for me a cheap, box fan I can drag nearly everywhere in the house, or, as I like to refer to it: ‘my, little, slice of heaven.’

After the repairman leaves, and—hopefully—I am once-again in full, surrounded by blissfully, cold air, I think I might just go back to bed, to try to get more rest, of course, but, more, to try to make quiet, and less-anxious, a fitful brain, that—like an overweight hummingbird—sees nectar all around, just none nearby.

And until I am able to somehow ‘settle down’, my mind will rush to a thousand places, both attracted to, and repelled by, any, stray notion it might uncover.

I am hoping for a royally, quiet day, free from turmoil, worry, suspense, pain (bet you thought I had forgotten about that!), and general crumminess.

‘ Future Tense ‘

Even as the ‘future’ is unfolding, now, all around us, in every cell, and every part of Man and Nature, still, I find that I avoid it as much as is humanly possible.

Oh, keep a calendar of my future doctor’s appointments, and further limn there, when my shower days are, and when my cousin might be coming to visit.  I write down the dreaded day I have picked, during which to sit down, and spend the morning paying, and paying, and, paying bills of all sorts; big ones, little ones.  All—frankly irritate me—especially when my income is stretched to it last tensile erg, and beyond.

I no longer drive, nor do I have a car; so, I must throw myself in full upon the kindness of the County Medicare Cab.  They require that I make a reservation two weeks before a doctor’s appointment.  However, that is about all they will do; should you—for example—come away from a doctor’s office with scripts for medication, the County cab will not stop, to allow you to have them filled, which I think is slightly stupid.  Do they think that no one ever leaves without scripts?

To counter that, I happened to find a local Pharmacy who will not only come out to the house to pick up my scripts, but they will also fill them, and deliver them to me, charging me only the standard co-pay for the medications.  Sometimes—though—they get a little slow.  I have been waiting now four days to have a number of my medications delivered to the house. Oh well, come Monday, and I’ll speak to the Pharmacist himself, rather than try to deal with inconstant underlings.  And, quite a few of my medications cannot be just stopped at once, and then re-started, without major upset, and/or the beginnings of a really nasty withdrawal.  See what I mean about, ‘shit karma’.

Well…one does what one can. And then—projected out into space, and into the future is a growing grocery list of more and more things I am now running out of.  And since my rather pitiful SSDI check will not slide into home base until August 3^rd,  I am forced to watch and wait, and to—perforce—make up wild concoctions that pass for lunch and supper.  I CAN tell you that there’ll be a LOT of rice cooked, with cans of soup poured over it.  Thanks to Medicaid, my $16.00 a month in Food Stamps hardly pays for the plastic bags to bring the groceries home in.  Dee-ammn.

‘ This Just In ‘

While speaking with a dear friend, yesterday, we BOTH decide that we want Olympic-style ‘gymnast’ bodies; ones that are in top form, and at the top of their game.  They all seem so happy, goofy, and care-free, and why not?  The world is their oyster; they exude charm, and radiant health, and probably have never been in lasting, or debilitating pain.  Or stymied by panic, and anxiety, or agoraphobia.  AND have all their teeth, no wrinkles or grey hair. This is probably the very best shape they will ever be in.  And I—for one—would like to sign up; I’d be glad to step-out of this shell, and leave illnesses, and all that willingly behind.  I think what affects me most is their singular joy to be alive.

‘Past, Perfect Tense’

Often, my very dearest friends, I choose to not look ahead—but rather, turn—to look behind me, into the Past, instead.  And while so many images that lie there, lost in errant memory are flawed, and skewed by time, my goodness!, they’re supposed to be.  All the better able to pick and choose; to dawdle here or there.  To make-up one’s own reality.  Its an escape of course.  But sometimes, wouldn’t we all like to just escape?

Please tell me...if you were so inclined, and could travel back in time to stay, and live, what would it be?

Moi-meme (myself), I think about 1910, now one hundred, two years ago.

Think of it: many of the so-called ‘creature conforts’ were available then.  Electricity.  Electric light.  Cars.  Telephones. Indoor plumbing.  Even air-conditioning, I believe.

Of course, medicine was primitive, and without the plethora of medications we have today. There was aspirin, of course, discovered in 1890, I believe.

I could get used to some Victorian folly of a mansion, and could most easily be convinced to don a ‘morning suit’, with a swallow-tail coat, double-breasted vest, with lapels, pencil-striped pants, and, shoes with spats.

Well. So far, the A/C guy hasn’t shown, and I’m actually a little sleepy.  I think I’ll just go to bed, and deal with all that squak later.

But, before I go, dear friends, I happened to run across a 1918 recorded disk of the Sterling Trio, singing, ‘Everything Is Peaches Down In Georgia.  I really hope that you may like it.

Sterling Trio - Everything Is Peaches Down in Georgia (1918)

Forgive me, my dear friends, but—somehow—I am very, very sleepy at present, and hope to take full advantage of it with a hoped-for, soothing nap.

As always, I hope that you are ‘cool’ despite this awful heat, and comfortable.  I wish you a day of no, or of lessened pains, with friends and family who love you, and care for you.

And, please know I love you so very dearly!,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Pain: Scattered Thoughts And Notions "

“ Pain: Scattered Thoughts And Notions “

07/27/12

To my ever, dearest, dearest friends, and constant, treasured readers,

Today—of course—is Friday, heralding, soon, an end to another week, made more or less unremarkable by utterly rampaging pain that just won’t quit; but, my dearest friends, this is hardly new, or newsworthy, for I know that you—too--suffer from illnesses and pain.

Would that I could take it from you, and, from me, so that all of us could finally take a deep breath, and relax, and begin to enjoy what life has to offer.

I cannot thank you enough for your kindness in befriending me, and keeping me ever close; for I would gladly hold you close, and pray for you, and ever wish you well.  And I thank you for your patience in reading my diary entries, something that gives me both a sense of purpose, and…makes my heart happy!

And as today is Friday, I thought I would try something different, I hope, that, in addressing pain, would seek to address it in alternative ways.  I most sincerely hope that you may find favor with it, or, failing that, find that it warrants criticism.

Either way, your comments both delight and guide me, and ever let me know that you are somehow near, my dear, sweet friends.

Onward…

‘ Conjugated Pain ‘

1)           In Latin: ‘Dolor’

2)           In Ancient Greek: ‘Odynia’

3)           In French: ‘Mal’

4)           In German: ‘Schmerz’

5)           In Morse Code: ‘P’ ( dot-dash-dash-dot )

                          ‘A’ ( dot-dash )

                          ‘ I ‘ ( dot-dot )

                          ‘ N’ ( dash-dot )

6)           In ‘Texting’: ‘ R U N GR 8 Pain ?  Me 2 ! ‘

7)           ‘ Pain, In The Style Of Keats ‘

An Ancient Ode To Pain

Across carnelian skies

Her chariot doth race;

A wan and desperate Isis

Flees a pain

She cannot bear.

Her heart’s compass—a familiar strain

that tells her sweet Osirus lingers there,

And surely, he will soothe-away each tear

That e’re would glisten fair,

Upon her beautied, marbled face.

End

8)           ‘ Pain, In The Style Of Edgar Allen Poe ‘

Ode To A Dread Concantination Of Pain

There is a mon’strous pain,

an endless pain,

that consumes the Soul again,

and, still again.

In such a fever’d state of languished agony,

dark agony,

the Pain seeks to destroy,

the Soul destroy;

and to debilitate.

And, always to remain.

End.

9)           ‘Pain, In The Style Of e.e. cummings ‘

To Pain

The trouble with great pain is that

It sneaks up to knock one flat.

End

10)     And, lastly, my dearest friends, I would like to conclude with a poem, hopefully in the style of, and in tribute to my very dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba’, a member at MDjunction, and a superb poet in his own right.

Lament To Pain

Suffering, despairing;

gripped by pain, entire.

The awful sound

of nerve ends

screaming, dipped

in molten fire.

And steals from sleep

to ever tire.

Darkness, ever seen

through blind,

half-opened eyes.

Pain is the

Devil’s Liar.

End

My dearest friends, I wish for you a safe, pain-free, and enjoyable weekend, surrounded by family and friends who love you; I wish you a pleasant weekend, kept cool, protected from this awful Country-wide heat wave.

And I wish for you a quiet weekend, free from distress or despair, secure, and with all the happiness that your most kind hearts can hold, now, and always!

Please know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Today....Aurora.....Tomorrow.....Anywhere "

“ Today…………..Aurora…….

…..Tomorrow………….Anywhere”

O7/20/12

“Today, Aurora…Tomorrow,…Anywhere”

I

Just past midnight, of a new—though—ordinary day.  Aurora, city of mountains, evergreens, forests.  Cloud-brushed city, you were sleeping unaware of the monster plotting mayhem, murder.

II

Yet you were wakened from a dreamless sleep, Oh fair Aurora, disturbed by gunshots, chaos, screaming.

III

Friday, and ordinary day, as usually they are, be quick, Aurora, for there is horror here, and smoke, and victims.

IV

Perhaps in your delicate contemplation, most noble Aurora, that you did not suspect fear and terror, people running, wounded, bleeding.

V

Outstretch your arms to them, oh delicate Aurora, let them find some quick refuge from a madman’s savage desires.

VI

Oh weeping Aurora, yes your tears are honest shed.  The quiet peace has been sundered by the pain and anguish, and sight of spattered blood.

VII

Find out, oh wise Aurora how one killer chose where to go, and not who to kill, but, everyone.

VIII

Please pray for them, oh silent, weeping Aurora.  Because of this, a baby has been killed, possibly even as it slept, and more…eleven more?

IX

Oh humbled, wise Aurora, for there is pain and suffering—still—from Columbine, and elsewhere across the globe.

X

We will pray with you, oh mourning Aurora, for prayers and tears and grief, for the victims, and for ourselves.

XI

Oh quiet, saddened, Aurora, for we have become afraid; one maniac can so easily erase a life, leaving a void, which can never be filled up with enough tears.

End

‘Zahc’/Charles

"In Mundi Per Fumus et Ignus",(the world by smoke and fire, consumed),Part II of III

“ In Mundi Per Fumus et Ignus “

( the world by smoke and fire, consumed )

Part II of III

From the days of having worked the night shift in a locked Adult, Intensive Care Unit, of a private Psychiatric Hospital, now, some thirty years ago. [ from the cycle: “Various Songs and Sorrows”, originally written, 2007 ]

Then, in an ‘augen blick’, he was on his way to us.  With little time—now—to prepare ( and with the deputies speeding to us, pushing their modified Ford ‘Crown Vic’s’ to an early junk heap), vainly we assembled the palace troops, and Lordy, Lordy, what denutted, and demoralized bags of shit we were.

“Read: In Case Of Fire, Break Glass”

Scarcely one—in—five—of us had any degrees to speak of.  A goodly 30% were horrifically overweight, and others—in accord with Sanford Binet—logged-in solidly low-normal scores on the I.Q. test, but only if you closed your eyes and counted to seventy as low normal.

Some were students, some were night-shift sleepers, and some were utter misfits who could not work anyplace else…or…any shift else.

None of us were friends who even occasionally got together after work.  Instead, at end of shift, and having clocked out, we pretty much all ran to our cars as if our asses were on fire.  None of us really knew the other, nor did we particularly care to.

Yet, we were—by default—pledged to uphold the sanctity of the shift, the safety of our charges and ourselves, and to try to make the world safe for mental health!

The denouement—as it does so often in life—arrived, not with a paean sung by angels, but as some lowly—and, somehow forlorn—sound like a rusty hinge on a back screen door makes, flapping in the breeze.

Our little, ‘Princeling From Hell’ was half-carried, half-dragged onto the Unit like a dead Pharaoh, or Caesar, or, if you prefer, like two hundred pounds of potatoes, still in the sack.

He was cuffed, restrained and chained thrice over (or better), and with chains ten times the tensile strength of any that ever followed Jacob Marley, in Dickens’s, “A Christmas Carol”.

Uno, Dos, Tress, Quattro…count the number of chains and cuffs loosed, and piling up at his feet. And…with MY luck of the draw, it fell on me to try to admit him.  In the ‘business’, it is referred to as, “shit karma”.  The deputies—meanwhile—had been mandated to leave one of their numbers behind, to help if needed.

In truth, though, all traces of law enforcement were swept away down the hall like a gathering cloud of pixies, and, in an ‘instanter’, they were all gone.  Gee, thanks Officer Friendly!

Before me sat a young man (about seventeen years old), quiet, affable, too embarrassed to smile, but nevertheless unable to refrain from letting a sheepish grin peek out from time to time.  Just like a boy whose been bad.

I sniffed the air, but could detect no brimstone in it.

And although he was beginning to bruise widely from the number of, and force of his restraints, he never complained.

My own adrenalin level had anticipated his arrival.  Now, it just made me jittery, with a sick stomach, as proper spook-prone as a new colt, and I brought up a nasty burp mixed equally of anxiety, and too much lousy coffee.

Hell…I might was well have been speaking to a teenage kid, having knocked on the front door to sell me magazines.

End of Part II.  Part III to follow.

And as always, please know I love you dearly!

P.S. Should you find these, particular diary entries to be entertaining, or, of some interest, please let me know, my wonderfully dear, and precious friends.  I value and treasure so very much your most kind comments, and/or criticisms, as they help me find direction, and hopefully, purpose. Thanks !

‘Zahc’/Charles

"In Mundi Per Fumus et Ignus" (the world by smoke and fire consumed, Part I of III

“ In Mundi Per Fumus et Ignus “

( the world by smoke and fire, consumed )

Part I of III

From the days of having worked the night shift in a locked Adult, Intensive Care Unit, of a private Psychiatric Hospital, now, some thirty years ago. [ from the cycle: “Various Songs and Sorrows”, originally written, 1977 ]

To my always dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,

At different times in my life, I have found myself bitten by the ‘writer’s bug’; in which often days were given up to scribbling, sometimes with thoughts and notions that out-raced the pen almost.

None of these ‘efforts’ have ever been published, and I happened to chance-across this piece, today—actually—while looking for stamps, and telephone numbers; that is about how organized I am.

Many things were packed away in boxes, or simply rubber-banded together, and stashed up in a cabinet in the kitchen; or, as pieces held in an unsecured fashion by paperclips, or, in loose sheets, many now left to scatter away in the wind.

Whether any or all or some or none of it may be suitable for publishing is debatable; whether they may even be worth reading is—of course—completely up to you, dearest friends.

It is my fondest hope that you may find it entertaining.  Please know that, except for some ‘artistic embellishment’ ( if such a thing exists ), every bit of it is true, and did happen; I was there to see it.

I ever rely upon your most kind comments and criticism as they provide me with direction, substance, validation, support, and encouragement, even as your criticism charts my way.  For both of these, and more, you have my hopes and heart in gratitude to you.  Thank you. ‘Zahc’

“ Subset Two: Song Of Awe

During those frequent lost, and heated years, we received ‘admission’ calls from eleven at night, to seven in the morning, from a six-County, catch basin.

For no reason—other than pure spite, it seemed ( as was demonstrated with superb clarity, later, when my late mother and father, and later, myself, chose to move into this large, rural, County, who inhabitants on the East Side thought themselves better than those living to toward the Western end, and vise versa, which remains a mystery, as BOTH sides are equally poor, and ever fighting for Government funds)—the majority of the worse calls we ever got came from the opposite side of our own County.

From where ‘ere wide the “Human Development Center” of East Pasco County cast their nets, it was sure money that whatever arrived would be as a Chimera woven of understatement, if not—indeed—a Hydra, gainsaid by pure lies and mendacity.

“ Bright Was The Moon, And Wide “

One night, though, it was the County Sheriff’s Office who called, in no less than the person of the Sherriff—himself—and assorted deputies on site, and by car radio.

From their animated and collective voices made higher in timbre, and growing expletives shouted from different ‘loci’, it was plain that whatever they had so cavalierly stepped in to

grab by the tail, clearly strained their credulity (usually, the province of three half-peanut shells, and a pee), and had them pissing themselves in excitement, and fear.

If you happen to recall at all, that announcer’s hysterical and trenchant reportage of the crash of the “Hindenburg”, you will have captured with exact fidelity the Sheriff’s voice when he called.

Apparently, one, young man (making feral sounds) kept them ALL at bay—among other ways—by (throwing) whole railroad ties at them, scoring for both distance, and accuracy.

While The deputies—all armed—on other occasions, and so easily enjoined to do so, did not simply draw their weapons as one, and pepper the man’s ‘gudderim’ with a hundred, anonymous, but sufficient shots to transport the little son of a bitch (amid chariots, and choruses) way, way, way into the next world, I will never know.

We, meanwhile, had put the call on speakerphone with the volume turned as high as it would go, and were poised around it, quietly listening, some of us with lit cigarettes—ignored—as utterly rapt an audience as had ever been thrilled by Orson Welles’ “War OF The Worlds”, more, even than Welles—himself—could possibly have hoped for.

That they were in some kind of train yard was negotiable.  The vision, though, of shouting, running, full-bellied and bellicose deputies and town cops cursing and stumbling over the tracks, and—at times—each other was incontestable.  And, unforgettable.

Mingled alarums of, “He’s there!, No, over here!, There’s the bastard now!, Roy, you move to the left…goddammit, I said to the left!” along with varied imprecations, at times made a static of their exchange.

Sometimes, though, either Chaos, or its stunt double, blithely steps in to further stir an already stirred shit pot, for at least two, maybe, three things happened almost at once.

Just as a fevered, and apoplectic Sheriff began to castigate his men, “ Are you guys pussies, or WHAT????”, the young man [later documented AS witnessed], caught in a web of flashlights, decided to make his escape by, LEAPING from a crouched position, a full ten feet, or better to the roof of the train shed, and scampered-away, jumping from place to place, roof to roof.

An interminable silence fell over the airwaves as everyone froze like statues.  My co-workers and I merely blinked at each other, wide-eyed in disbelief.

My own sense of credulity had taken a bullet, since, as any wise man will tell you, sometimes there IS truth in advertising, and, at once, I felt a pang of regret that I had taken my degree in Psychology, and not Archeology.

That little, reedy, thin, small voice of Conscious fairly boomed: “ Does the study of the mind still interest you, buster?  Enjoy what’s out there, for you WILL know it, but never understand it.  Often, what cannot be caught or tamed must be killed.  Easy as that.  Plus—kiddo—every night, you are literally risking both life and limb, for a measly three bucks, twenty-three an hour, when you could be home.  Safe.  And in bed.  Ta Da, I giveth you the locked ward.  Please enjoy your stay.”

The Sheriff—left standing there, pee-pee in hand (metaphorically)—coughed, and choked a couple of times and then came up for air. [That oughta learn ‘ya to swallow all your chewing tobacco at once!].

This, then, is the ‘amok’, spoken of in fear, awe, and loathing by ancient races.  The kid’s ticket might have been a bellyful of various drugs, combined with youth, and general good health to make him spin-out at thousands of r.p.m. faster than any of us did. Or ever would.

In time, the deputies cornered their exhausted prey, and with tsunamis of tear gas spray, and the liberal use of the baton to subdue him  (think: “ Die, you little f*****!”), with a concerted rush, a dog-pile was formed of law enforcement agents.

By now, as you may guess, the town had been emptied of cops, everybody wanting some part to play in the hunt.  Who will ever know for certain how many other crimes went unchecked or unanticipated, when everyone was playing down at the railroad yard?

Part II of III to follow

My dearest, precious friends, and trusted, constant readers, please know that I think of you often—even as I am hoping, soon, to return to some semblance of health, and lack of pain, myself—and wish for you days of lessened or of no pain, illness, or despair; surrounded by family and true friends who love you.

May your days be free of want, or need.

I wish for you blissful nights of soothing, and restorative sleep, as ever kept safe, and watched over by gentle angels.

And please, please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles