" On Yet Another Melancholy Monday "

“ On Yet Another Melancholy Monday “

08/13/12

To my wonderfully kind and caring friends, and—as always—faithful readers,

This past weekend has been one of utterly, unbearable illness and pain.  Sometimes, dearest friends, I find I cannot rest, nor even move-about, wanting, only, to somehow dose-up sufficiently to become completely numb; pain and distress often mark the progress of my days, and it is to unheralded misery—robbing thought—that brings me to my entry for today.

Clinically, I find it interesting that—at times—an intolerable level of pain can be so easily raised, and raised, and raised again; until I am quite at a loss about what I should do.

I then turn to you, my most dear, and special friends for comfort, and for forgiveness, as this kind of pain does not kill, but, might as well do so, so vacant have I become, that in any lesser state, I should be thus reduced to haunting my own house of horror.

There should be—must be—some anodyne, some panacea, some blessed relief; for it seems so long ago, that I had not one complaint, that it seems now, to have been a dream, conjured up of wispy clouds, smoke, darkened mirrors, half-remembered prayers, songs of the soul, and—perhaps—more than a bit of longing.

Has my immune system been so compromised that I should be in such thunderous agony; the kind that find evidence in tremors, fatigue, alarm, sweating pain from every pore? How can I hope to endure that which is so largely invisible to anyone outside the compass of my own body?

I did not intend to make of this a rant, although I chafe, and rage against this whoresome state.  I need—dear friends—your strength, and hope, and ability to remain stalwart, steadfast, even though I crumble inside, and am make weak and ineffective.

Yes…I would tear this pain from me, even as it tears my corporeal flesh into disseperate atoms of agony.  I have overdone my opiates, and do not care, rather, choosing some brief oblivion instead.  Why cannot I have it?

From long-ago memory, I recalled a song, written by M. Balfe in 1852 ( I believe ), in his operetta, ”The Bohemian Girl”, which upon its debut, took all Europe by storm; while I cannot—now—remember the title ( for those of you interested enough, to sift through all of ‘You Tube’, I shall try to remember the lyrics.

‘The heart bowed down by weight of woe,

to weakest hopes will cling.

To thought and impulse while they flow,

that can no comfort bring, that can, that can, no comfort bring.

To these exciting scenes will blend

o’re memories’ pathway thrown;

for memory is the only friend,

that grief can call its own…

That grief can call its own,

that grief can call its own.

For added fun, Balfe’s operetta was reprised in a 1936 (?) film with Laurel and Hardy, called—also—“The Bohemian Girl”, I think.  Interspaced with the usual hilarious madcap antics of Laurel and Hardy (whom I personally adore!), Balfe’s memorable tunes are pure eye and ear candy; several of his songs were performed therein.  Should you have some spare, quiet time, I urge you to try to find this treat on the aforementioned, ‘You Tube’. 

For—though you must sift, most wisely—through the wide variety of ‘You Tube’ offerings, yet, should you persist, you will surely find gold among the dross.

My dearest friends, and ever-patient readers, I but ask of you to please, please forgive me for being less than pleasant; I know that you—too—suffer greatly from pain, despair, depression, aloneness, or mental anguish.  Would that I could, my precious friends, I would gladly take it all away from you, in sincerest hopes that comfort, serenity, and peace would soon follow.

Whenever I think of you—which is often—I see in my mind’s eye, represented by countless points of light, as twinkling stars that grace the heavens; lights of friendship, shared-life sagas, and yes…shared, and well-understood pain.

I am so ever grateful to you for your having most kindly befriended me, and for your continuing care and regard.  I cannot convey to you how it sustains, and comforts me.

I keep you very close to my heart; I particularly wanted you to know that. 

And, please always know I love you very dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

"An Anti-Republican Ode, Requested By A Dear Friend"

“An Ode To The Republican Party Convention, To Be Held In Tampa, Florida”

(Requested by a most dear, Democratic friend)

I

Four years enduring a National trauma,

under the misguided rule of Obama;

harks not to a future, but to ‘Futurama’.

Four years one cannot forget.

II

The Homeless, the Aging, the Poor are just tired;

as are the Jobless most recently fired.

All drowning in unsecured credit are mired;

to see tripled, the National Debt.

III

The Electorates—shocked at the news of the day:

of rogue shootings and crimes that just won’t go away.

So what does the ‘Man in the street’ have to say?

That Homophobes choose Chick-Fil-A!

IV

Though baffled, befuddled, we must give our thanks

for the corporate bailout of car makers, and banks.

Of course we need warships, and Humvees, and tanks;

our incomes just buy less each day.

V

O’re far deserts of sand, over land, over water,

our poor soldiers fight in wars that get odder;

losing their lives like expendable fodder.

For naught, but to secure the Oil.

VI

But quick! Tell you Mom and Dad, Grandma, or Grandpa,

there’s to be a Republican Convention soon held in Tampa.

While ideologues race to the bit they will champ-a

notion that makes one recoil.

VII

Some Republican candidates were already fail’in;

some dropped out early, because they were ail’in.

But there’s always a chance that we still could have Palin!;

a laugh is a laugh, after all.

VIII

While the economy languishes, sunk in a pit,

could we trust a front-runner whose first name is ‘Mitt’?

It sounds like the name of a pet, or a glove that won’t fit.

His woeful predictions appall.

IX

But what of this candidate’s offshore accounts?,

hiding millions of dollars in varying amounts;

what there are of his tax returns fail to announce:

his duplicity makes him a thief.

X

While we’ll probably see an upset in the Fall,

remember those running are sociopaths, all.

When elected, their hidden agendas appall;

a tin-God for Commander And Chief.

XI

In actual truth, we should bow down to the knees,

as desperate supplicants, so eager to please;

for our new owners and leaders will be the Chinese!

Capitalism’s ruin, they’re bent on.

XII

In 2016, there’ll be another election,

with the same awful candidates for our inspection;

in hopes they’ll assure our Country’s resurrection.

At least we’ll have Hilary Clinton!

END

With ever-fond regards,

‘Zahc’/Charles