“
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
