"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