' A Jar Of Pickles '

‘  A Jar Of Pickles  ‘

04/07/12

To my ever dearest, kind, supportive friends, and loyal readers, I thank you for a friendship that has come to mean so much to me; it is a thing I value, and truly treasure; in addition, I am ever grateful for your readership, and for your thoughtful comments; for they remind me just how wonderful you are, and how wonderfully accepting of me you have been.

In knowing you, and reading your diary entries, and treads, and ‘hugs’, I’ve found a genuine privilege, and the pleasure of a gladdened heart; I most willingly credit you with my transformation from idle loneliness, to feeling as if I might have some purpose after all.  And that also makes glad my heart.

And should I prove in some small way to be of help or interest to you, dearest friends—instead of a continued rant about my pain, or of my circumstance, or of the thousand irritations that these days seems to diminish me—in lack of self-aggrandizement and complaining, I find in your special friendship an anodyne to pain, and a greater understanding that causes me to treasure our similarities and differences, and makes so crystal clear your added meaning to my life, and better appreciation of your beautiful uniqueness.  And for all those things, and more, I shall be as ever grateful to you.  I wanted you to know that.

Some twenty years ago, more or less (as memory often is an irresponsible, and unreliable liar, in choosing what truths it wishes to recall and follow), while still my health was good, I had moved back home, then stayed to try to care for my elderly, and increasingly ill father and mother, my schedule was often full, with working full time nights, and running errands for my folks in the morning, after work.

I would do the grocery shopping then, on my way home from work.

On one occasion, I stopped at a grocery store on my way home; and after having worked the night before, was naturally tired, and wanting nothing more than to discharge my errands, and then get home as quickly as I could, in hopes of finding no elapsed calamity had occurred meanwhile, and so I could have a quick bite of breakfast with my mom and dad, and then hit the bed as soon as I could.

For those of you who have ever had to work at night ( and, try to sleep during the day), it is in direct conflict to a zillion years of evolution, as—perhaps—9/10ths of the globe snooze the night away, while being up and functioning during the day is taken, quite for granted as the ‘norm’.  Our bodies simply are not used to working a ‘night shift’, and so, trying to sleep days, when all the world seemed to be awake, moving, and making LOTS of noise, daytime sleep becomes as precious as spun gold. And since I was usually on my feet for six of the required eight hours, I was ALWAYS tired, and, frequently just exhausted, and whenever I had to ‘stay up’ to run errands, I wanted them done and over as quickly as possible, before I fell asleep at the steering wheel of my car.

When usually I had groceries to get, it was from a list, pretty-much adhered to, and so looking neither to the right, nor to the left of me, I would try to breeze-through the store as if on roller skates, particularly as an hour spent at the store, was a potential hour less sleep available to me.

As was usual at that time of morning, and—really, too often an occurrence at stores during the day—there would—out of maybe twenty-five registers, be only two open: one for those with over-ladened carts, who stretched behind out in a line like coal cars, into the man aisle, and pushed by understandably sullen customers, and one ‘express aisle’, wide-advertised with admonitions of ‘ten items, or less’, that I wondered if in presenting twelve items, would warrant the death penalty ?  Were the managers armed?

Oh well…on this particular day, it happened that I had, maybe, eight items in my cart, and I most gladly steered-around all the other shoppers to race to the express line.

But somehow, there was a problem, a quiet commotion, something serious that ground all commerce to a halt; I scarcely gave it notice as I put my trophies on a conveyor belt that had ceased to function.  And waited.  And waited.  The problem seemed so inconsequential to have left me in a state of stalemate with the cashier.

On the conveyor belt ahead of me was a single, large jar of pickles, and the customer, a tiny lady in perhaps her late eighties trying to proffer to the cashier a small and crumpled coupon.  The bright eyes of that older woman, and her faint, apologetic smile while not quite knowing what the commotion was about as she was hard of hearing, began to fade as the cashier explained and explained to her that the coupon—for a goodly amount off—was for the purchase of three jars of pickles….not one.

I could not help but see—somehow—the light go out of her as she gently put the jar of pickles back on the conveyor belt, and, slowly began to limp away.  I watched all this.  Could her simple happiness depend upon a stupid coupon being able to afford a simple treat? How often in life are we all similarly crushed when even little, minor dreams are taken from us and destroyed?

Without thinking, I told the cashier to get the lady back, and to put the pickles on my tab; for God’s sake, they could not have cost more than three dollars.  “But you don’t have to do that, sir,’ the cashier, who was maybe all of eighteen said, “Its not necessary.”

I saw that single jar of pickles, and the distance from it to an old lady’s happiness.  “Its alright”, I told the cashier as she gave the lady her pickles, “I want to do it, and I think it very necessary.”  The cashier shook her head as if in disbelieve, or else that I had lost my marbles; but I hardly cared.  What I was watching was that older lady, who—in some confusion—smiled at me (and yes…that tiny radiance was there!), and, in taking the jar from the cashier, slowly carried it out of the store, cradling it in both arms.

And these twenty-some-odd years later, what I can still recall are her crinkled, fading eyes, and the uncertain, hesitant, but miraculous return of her small, but happy smile.  After a lifetime of dreams fulfilled, and—more often—dreams that failed, that morning, her hopes were pinned on a simple jar of pickles.

As Humans in an indifferent world, while we do on brief occasion experience the ethereal, and the ecstatic in our hopes and expectations, too often we—too—well know when dreams are lost, or pushed aside; to have our even tiny hopes destroyed; our hopes ground into powder often by an idiot, whose only power is to say, “NO”, and who do so only because they can.  Except for the occasional fantasy that we entertain, I think that—by and large—our true hearts and souls are made content by that which is more reasonable, which should be more easily attained, except for life’s real, and drummed-up demands.  And while it has become a catch phrase about ‘random acts of kindness’, what about ( instead), my dearest, sweet and loving friends, ‘random acts of Altruism’, done without thought of thanks; or expectations of repayment; or of seeking self-appointed sainthood?   For ‘good’ that’s done for ‘good’, rather than for ‘Self’?  In this case, is full-derived the term: selfishness.

That long ago, jar of pickles did not confirm upon me any moral superiority, but, later—though—it did allow my soul to rest more easily in itself.  And, you know, dear friends, I may have even slept a little better that day…who knows?

My very dear, and dearest friends, and ever constant, loyal readers, I wish for you a long, and pleasant weekend (and more!) of much-lessened, or of ‘no pain’; compassionate in your dealings with others; full-surrounded by those you most love, who truly love and care for you;  happy, balmy days and afternoons free from want or care; quiet, and lazy afternoons free of worry; and oh…dear friends, of untroubled nights, of solid, blissful sleep, kept ever safe, and comfortable by, “flights of angels to sing thee to thy rest!”

Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

' Oh Why Must Each Hoped-for, Pleasant Night...'

‘ Oh Why Must Each Hoped-for, Pleasant Night Be Torn Asunder With Hellish Dreams, Instead?  ‘

04/05/12

To my very, dearest, and sweet friends, and both kind, and constant, ever-loyal readers, I first want to speak to you of my complete thanks, and gratitude for your befriending me, and…abiding with me, even when my complaints of wracking pain, or nerves, or want have doubtless become too tedious; for you have great pain yourselves, or mental heartache, or despair, or of financial want equally as oppressive

Yet, in full demonstrating your patience, love, and support of me; and, in reading my diary posts with some regularity, how much you elevate my heart.  And it is to you, my dear, dear friends I ever hope to be a willing ear, to be ever ‘there’ for you when you might need me most.

While I will not bore you with shadowy details, as the recollection of horrid dreams was of possible interest, only to those—in ancient times—who visited the ‘ Oracle Of Delphi ‘, to be given a shouting, screaming, weeping session of hallucinatory dream interpretation as it might apply to future successes in battle, or in life.  And thus, emulating Cassandra’s gift of foresight, ‘dream-reading’ is highly speculative, very subject-influenced, and now often, the province of dream dictionaries, or of two-bit fortune tellers.

Plus, as an added bit of trivia, some time ago, it was discovered that the river that ran beneath the ‘Oracle’ contained a natural hallucinogen, which I am sure made for some very, interesting prognostications; yet, the ‘Oracle’ was well-known, and feared; its garbled readings were surprisingly correct.  But they were to a most subjective audience who could interpret their meanings any way they secretly wanted, and that—alone—skewed the Oracle’s correct predictions of the future.

Today we are still very much influenced in our regards to dreams from the work of Sigmund Freud…that, the subconscious is the source of dreams, usually recapitulating the frustrations, desires, needs, and problems of the day, in a sort of metaphoric ‘short hand’, so that they could be worked upon for resolution by the conscious mind while at rest.

But there are, my dearest friends, so many kinds of dreams, so that they occupy different subsets within a dreaming whole.  And if the source of all these nocturnal thoughts is the primitive brain, it is now overwhelmed by other concerns than securing food; finding a mate; reproduction; safety; and the successes of the hunt.  Now, in a broader sense, new subconscious ‘anxieties’ have been thrown into the game.  Such modern issues as the societal consideration of illness; the need for medication; the lack of funds; the attempts to find, and keep a job, no matter how we may personally loath it; the worries of living a sub-par life on current Entitlements; trying to keep the house out of foreclosure; keeping the family car wheezing along; the fears of growing crime, and the ‘Fate Of Nations’. While most may find a root in more primitive fear, there is yet more than enough to be the wellspring of utterly hellish nightmare, which does not so much ‘problem solve’, but rather finds its course in disrupted, broken sleep, headaches, middle-of-the-night continued worries of the day, which are worries every day.   And, frankly, all the subconscious can do is throw shit at it.  And make one tired and exhausted all the next day.

While I have addresses the subject of ‘Nightmare’ in other posts, last night, was one of unalloyed horror, as nightmare cascaded into nightmare, like some retrospective of the works of Stephen King, and others.  Dreams that disturbed, destroyed any chance of rest I might have had, gave me a rollicking headache somewhere around 1:30 AM; and in a state of such shallow sleep, with bathrooms calls thrown in, I feel—this morning—as if I had stayed awake the entire night, underscoring agonies of pain, even though I took extra pain medication, AND, and an extra sleeping pill.

Whether this tendency to nightmare is abetted by my illnesses, my singular loneliness, my continual financial problems, my medications (a likely suspect, owing to their side-effects, a near-empty pantry (and all, so early in the month!), I do not need my subconscious to ‘nail bite’ me into being often—really—too tired and mind-fogged with despair to even try to problem-solve during the day.  I fully know that the difficulties of life will still there upon the morrow.

Sometimes, even a major life-altering problem can be solved, if dealt with in small, discrete, and solvable steps.  Some problems know no solution, while others quite depend upon the so-so, transient, unreliable intervention, and assistance by others, or outside agencies who may not simply give a damn about your needs and problems. And, to having to rely on these most unreliable things is the surest path to folly and frustration.

My previous day had not been remarkable by any immediate disaster, yet those accumulated ‘disasters’ remain. There was no parting of golden clouds, while angels descended carrying wads of cash.  And yet my often and unutterable pain, depression, agoraphobia, and other ‘woes’ must somehow cloud my nighttime sleep.

And when—at last—I locked the doors for the night, left lights on in the house, whistled for my dear Daisy to come into my bedroom to curl-up upon the rug next to my bed, and having medicated for the night, and having had a blissful shower, and clean, crisp linens, and a fragrant room, I slipped into bed, tired, and wanting only to sleep.

After having said my jumbled prayers, closed my eyes to let my body relax as much as it could, so I could hopefully drift off—and with unbroken sleep—awake today with some much-needed sense of recuperation and allowing mind, body, and soul to seek its rest.

Instead, my needed sleep was broken into a hundred pieces by nightmare that panicked, unsettled, and disturbed.

And no…one nightmare did not seem enough, for they assailed me all through that restless night.  Each one was a tortured mix of people, events, and monsters.  And this is almost every night, so that I need some kind of nap in the afternoon—which seems—somehow—bereft of horrors, in order for me to halfway function the rest of the day.

Perhaps, my dear, dear friends, and gentle readers, that you might kindly comment if you have the same trouble; and—if so—what effective steps were you able to take to rid yourself of unending and terrible nightmare.

I really want—and need—to sleep.  The occasional ‘happy’ dream would be more than welcome.

Meanwhile, please allow me to wish for you days of lessened, or of ‘no pain’; freedom from want or care; surrounded by those who truly, truly love you, and care for you; quiet afternoons that bring you satisfaction, and—yes—delight, because you well-deserve it; and nights…oh, soft and gentle nights of blissful, and restorative sleep, kept in the care of blessed angels.

And, please always know, I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’