' The Continuing ' Tail ' Of The Pony, Part III '

09/11/11
To my very dear friends, and loyal readers, who have been following the antics and aggravations of my finally being able to actually own a little, 43" high, chocolate Shetlandpony, whose name--at least--has been more or less settled upon, "Charlie Brown", is--perhaps--a slower amd more involved process that I had ever imagined, never having before ever owned an horse in my life.
First....the 'mysterios lady' who owned them was finally successfully contacted. As both of the Shetlands cost $500.00 ( Cydi, my nurse wants the little female, while I want the cute, chocolate gelding ), this 'person; will accept, as payment, $100.00 a month, but at the $250.00 mark, a piece ( which math I still cannot figure out ), said she would give both the ponies to Cyndi, who will then keep them on her farm; copies of 'papers' will be sent, until the balance is paid off, which by my reckoning, will take until about January of 2012.
In exchange for stall, feed, vitamins, and vet care, Cyndi will be ableto train both ponies to pull carts, and give chidren rides upon. And, perhaps 'show'.
And, since I will be sole owner of 'Charlie Brown', I will have to be first introduce to, and then become invvolved with pedegrees, bloodlines, papers, and official registration, during which I will have to come up with an appropriate name to horse, 'Officialdom'. "Charlie Brown" will just be its stable name.
And so, since overall money is short, I was questioned not once, not twice, but thrice about whether I really wanted to ' go through with it '. And, although I am on SSDI, and will have to do some necessary belt-tightening, every 'YES !!!' I uttered only made me more convinvced that I really and truly DO want this little chocolate pony, about whom I was told, that it has 'the disposition of an angel'. I imagine that having had it gelded has a lot to do with its disposition ( Hell...even I get 'shooting' pains 'down there', just thinking about it. Yikes !).
I find that about every other day or so, I think about 'Charlie Brown', and of how very much I want to go see it, feed it treats, pet it, talk to it, getting to know it, and....maybe go on a little cart ride once in a while.
It did finally dawn on me, so much did it make me laugh, that at 58, I will have every, little girl's dream come true ! LOL. A pony of my own. It'llbe my little holiday gift to myself ! With no need for wrapping paper, although,I might ask Cyndi to at least tie a little bow in its mane for me.
And...just how wonderful is that, my dear friends, and readers ?

Love to all, whether 'two-footed', or 'four footed' !!! 

'Zahc'/Charles

' The Continuing Saga Of The Pony, Part II '

09/08/11
My very dear friends and readers, for those of you, my dear readers, who have been following the twisting course of my diary entries, you will doubtless recall that, several days ago--quite on impulse, sight unseen--I had become aware that a 43" high, chocolate Shetland gelding'might' be for sale, and that, suddenly, I both needed and wanted that pony, and why, and that arrangements for its care had already been agreed upon, the news--today--is anti-climatic: while my psych nurse ( who has fourteen horses ) has my signed, but blank check for $100.00 as a down payment to give this 'lady' ( about whom I know nothing ), the both of them seemed locked in a game of 'phone-tag'.
Messages are left, but not retrieved in time, phone messages are received, but not conveyed; confusion has been the watchword of the day, the week, practically, and all I can do, really...is nothing, 'til I get the word, one way or the other.
And while I fully realize that the purchasing of a Shetland pony is not like casually slipping into a WalMart for a couple pairs of socks ( which, BTW, I could use ), still...the absolute stopped enertia of not knowing is driving me only slightly nutz. Intentionally, spelled, with a 'z'.
When I spoke with Cyndi, I told her that--should it be necessary--I would gladly empty out both of my little savings accounts, and promise to be a good boy, and maybe not eat for the rest of the month, but that I m-i-g-h-t just be able to scrape together another $250.00. And that's only provided this unknown person will, a) even entertain the idea of selling me the pony, b) that the price will still be $500.00, and c) she accepts holding the note, so to speak, until I can rustle-up the remaining $150.00
Its just all in so much limbo, now. And....I would really, and truly hate to have my heart set upon a thing, only to have it broken, though...all of us at MDJunction live with broken hearts, in one way or another.
And so, gentle readers and friends, what appeared as a dream, and is passing as a dream, may well end, as do dreams, by waking to an often cruel reality.
I wish for all of you, 'pain-free' days, 'Me Days', even, if you can, happy evenings, and nights of utterly blissful, and undisturbed sleep.

love,

'Zahc'/Charles
 

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'A Response To A Letter From My Friend Of Thirty-six Years, " Tenar " '

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01/25/12

As always to my dear, dear friends, and gentle readers, I must continue to ask your most kind pardon; not only am in compete pain, with a sick stomach, and '5-'alarm' headache, which nothing will touch, I fear--because of lately mounting stress, that I now am so depressed, and washed-out. In addition, I have begun to experience tiny--yet noticable--panic attacks, that I did explain to my 'Shrink'.

I feel as if I'm being cornered--trapped--in situations quite above and beyond my control.

Thus, in finding no safe place to be, I now can with more more clarity understand my dear, dear friend's 'Strenuba's' latest poem, which I urge all to read, as it is both powerful AND true.

Forgive me, please, dearest friends, for I'd rather be 'helper', than 'helpless'.

But please NEVER forget, how very grateful I am for your most kind friendships, and your supportive, and encourageing PM's, and hug, and comments, for, sometimes, that is the thread of hope to which I cling.

I love you dearly.

'Zahc'

01/25/12

My dearest 'Tenar', or, dearest Boops, if you prefer,

Including former hospital stays, I think--but, today, as I have a monster 5-alarm headache, and am unusually depressed--, by my estimation, my current 'Shrink', is number seven.

Although I would disllike to qualify the breed, I am afraid that I would have to side with Agatha Christie, as, in, " All Tigers breed true."

For, in my checkered past, I have had a couple who were not so much 'pill machines', though, one was, these sattraps are more like ' pill guessers ', always reaching into their Pandora's box of samples, about which they knew nothing save what the pharmaceutical rep. had told them. These Shrinks are among the dangerous ones, as I was made to be a guinea pig in an experitment run by the pharmaceutical house, as, any untoward side-effects were to be reported only to the pharmaceuticals first, instead of the CDC.

I have had ( in hospital ) two, who spent maybe two minutes with me, once, barely pausing at my table as I had my lunch.

I had one, who was a complete ego-driven bastard, who laughed at me, even as he tried to increase in the number of drugs that I was taking, until I was on seven; on one occasion, he went down a twenty drug list, to see which ones 'I' thought might help best; and when I gainsayed all, he got pissed and said, " How do you expect me to help you when you are non-compliant ?"
He was the one who--in having sloppily-written a script, when called by the pharmacy, he accused me of altering the script, and then, he dismissed me from his practice; what a prick ! I have since heard from others that he is a dick. Still.

I then had one who--as some test--took me off ALL my meds, declaring that withdrawal would be but a minor thing, and placed me on new meds ( none of which worked ) and that was in June of 2006, quite possiby the worse time of my life. I went to pieces, went into withdrawal, and nearly lost care of my mother. ( I also had pneumonia at the time, on top of food poisoning ).
Frankly, dear, only God, and pure tennacity kept me out of the hospital; when he again saw me, he took me off the new shit, and placed me back on my old meds., that had proven to be as reliable as really any of them can be. Just in time, for me to go into the regular hospital for advanced pneumonia,( left, lower lobe, and pneumothorax ), which required an eleven-day stay, and chest tubes. I had to remain in bed sitting up, and since the staff was always on the run, my pain medications were often hours late.
And then ( pardon me, as it STILL riles me ), the fuck ( and his co-psychiatrist wife, abruptly up, and jettisoned their practices after 8 and 1/2 years, with less than two weeks' notice; so quickly, that not even their reception staff knew whether they'd get paid, or have jobs.

That brings me to my present Shrink, one I feel is about like the rest of them, but, I can tolerate him better, and he won't up and screw with my meds.

There are but few other Shrinks in this County, and, I really don't know their reputations; only that, as a 'new patient status' first visit, the waiting time is about six months to a year and a half.

In many ways, I may have inherited a mutt, but, overall, he's probably the best of the litter. At least--in his own way--he listens to me, and we've made some positive medication changes fairly recently; and, he gives me at least 20-30 minutes for a session, rather than the five he is supposed to do for, ' medical management '. Part of that is because he's the only therapist I see, and, I complained about wanting more time.

So, there you have it.

I suppose that if I lived in a larger, metropolitan area, there would be more choices to sellect from; but, in verity, trying to find ANY Provider that one can establish the necessary rapport with is a pain in the ass.

Actually, dear, to be candid, whenever I hurt at this level, AND slide into a huge bout of depression, as I seem to have done since I am feeling cornered, AND stressed-out, and anxious, with little panic attacks filtering in, everything's a colossal pain in the ass.

And about all I can do, is try to keep distracted, dose up, or try to sleep it off, or, to paraphrase Winston Churchill's: [ try to }, " Keep Calm, And Carry On"; though, I much prefer, " When in danger, or in doubt, scream and yell, and run about !" I think that is from Edward Gorey.

As always, dear 'Tenar', I thank you for a most dear friendship that has lasted centuries, and ever for your kind concern, care, and love.

My dear, please, please do take care.

I love you,

Charles ('Zahc').

'While The 'Pit' Is So Easy To Fall Into, Crawling Out IS Most Difficult '

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01/27/12

As always, to my very, very special, and wonderful friends, and constant loyal readers,

Although my heart is always full, in gratitudefor all your demonstrated caring, kindness, and support, without which, I think I truly would be lost, I know I can never thank you in near-full measure.

You cannot know how much your PM's; hugs; and comments to my diary mean to me, for I am quite unused to such caring, although I treasure it.

My entry--today--will be a composite one, based upon a letter I earlier wrote to my dear friend, 'mabri', and of things I wish to speak to you about.

For some time, now, in addition to the ususal allotment of often unbearable pain ( from which there is no escape, save for pain pills, and praying, and--of course--no little regard to YOU, for how wonderful you have been to me ), I have also been gripped by small panic attacks that unsettle me, and a giant cloud of blackest depression that saps all my will, and further very much limits the scope of my endeavor.

I think I come by these depressive states naturally, as eveidently passed-down through the maternal, famial line; to wit: my grandmother in her youth, required two stays at what they then referred to as a 'rest home' ; my dear mother, AND her older sister were pagued by bouts of deepest depresion; my mother--at one time--was hospitalized for it for six weeks in 1970; and, mom also had a cousin, who was so depressive, that--for weeks--as I've been told, he could not even get out of bed. And so, I would not doubt that genetics play a sigificant part to this, and many other illnesses.

However...having thus said that, I must tell you that these 'blackest' of depressions are not so easily resolved; sometimes, it just takes time for me to cycle out if it...slowly, and then, I have to work at it.

And..having crawled by often bleeding hands up and out of this endless abyss, this may no doubt sound odd, but I then experience a period of what I cannot but describe as 'depression hangover', as the depression does not leave all at once, and along with 'insipient, Migraine hangovers', they are not--in fact unlike severe, alcohol-inspired hangovers, as I still feel weak, with motivation lacking, and with a mind fog so intense, that it feels as if my very brain is full of cotton, and is--in consequence--very sluggish to respond to thoughts, and ideation.

The title of this entry should probably be:

' While The 'Pit' ( Or Abyss ), Is So Easily Fallen Into, Crawling-Out Is Most Difficult '

There are, of course, 'triggers' that compel one to become so depressed; and while I throughly dislike the use of the phrase, " It IS What It IS', because it has become a catch-phrase, much over-used these days, perhaps, if I insert that portion of the letter I sent, it might help explain those externalaties over which one has little, or no control.

I would have to say, my dear friend, that I am completely unaccustomed to such kind generosity, without implied, or direct expectation of reciprocity; too many of my neighbors ( and, some of my ' friends ', alas ), come to me, with both hands stretched out; for what they would often want to 'do' for me, comes with it an implicit price tag; many times, this is so transparently craven, that, it still amazes me. I think, because I get SSDI, but hardly go anywhere, and do not work, nor punch a time-clock, that my SSDI is as 'free money', and that I am a convenient ( and, apparently, bottomless ) 'bank' to them, whenever they need cash.

For example, my neighbor will go shoppping for groceries for me ( when she does plan to go to the store ), but, in tacit payment for her services, I usually tell her to buy what she might serve her family for dinner that night, my treat. And yesterday, while my grocery tab came to something like #125.00, $22.00 of it, were for things for her. It is something I am used to; as it is the 'price' that must always be paid. In verity, dear Becky, I would not expect her to shop for me for free; there must--the equivalent--of gasoline, and time involved to be accounted for. And...at least, if I DO pay for her trip is lke goods, then I do not feel guilty in asking her to shop for me, when she goes.

Then, there are the more blatant offers of 'services-for-cash'; although I have put it off, as its too early in the year, already, a neighbor has been bothering me to come and mow my yard for $30.00. Funny, but, this was the SAME neighbor who 'cooks' one hot meal for me a day for $100.00 a month; and yet, to take, and later pick up Daisy to the vet's ( about, perhaps, 4 miles away, each way, she would not take her for any less than $20.00, which of course, is 'highway robbery', and paid--in part--her gasoline for the coming week. We BOTH know that.
Sometimes...her conception of a 'hot meal' has been, two double cheeseburgers from McDonald's, or, two burritos for Taco Bell, or ( should they have gone to a restaurant the night before, and I am serious, dear 1 ), I get the contents of their 'doggie bags', or--and I shudder to think of it-- whatever remained on their plates.

And, sometimes, when she's too 'tired', or had a 'rough day', she brings nothing to me, telephoning, instead, to see if I can 'get by' for that night. Of course I can, dear, and do subtract that from the $100.00 I give her for the month. We have roughly reckoned up abut $3.30, a day, for one meal.

And yet...some time ago, when she was $200.00 short of her mortgage payment ( and, noneof her three sons would gie or loan it to her, guess what ? It was to me she came. Of course I loaned it to her, with the proviso that the next two months of meals would cost me nothing.

And, while, dear Becky, I fully expect to pay for services that I can no longer, or no longer want to do, as I understand that this is how the world works, the more insidious, blatant, 'fox-in-the-henhouse', bright-button-eyed look of purest greed does set me back; and to most of these prospects, I just say no.

And so, dearest friend, I am humbled, and surprised, being quite unaccustomed to kind generosity that does not come with a price tag attached to it.

That was why that absolutely beautiful gift basket sent to me from the 'Agoraphobia Group' at holiday time, made me cry; it was completely unexpected, demanded mo payment, and,for a long while, I could hardly believe that such caring did exist...that I truly did not feel worthy of, yet, I shall treasure that gift in my sweetest memories for as long as I draw breath.

Since ever I was first declared disabled in 2002, my life has--perforce--been filled by a succession of 'takers' and 'users', and while the scope of their ususery sometimes floored me with its base greediness, I realized that I would have to pay for all those things I could no longer do myself.

Last night, I went to bed much earlier than my want, and slept patchily, with interrupted wakenings to let Daisy out, or, being roughly dragged to the surface of consciousness by dreams of nightmare that went on, and on. Or, bathroom calls.

And--of course--woke early, still in a world of pain, with a continued headache as a spike through my left eye, and beyond, across the side, and top of my head.

Though my dear friend, the black depression that has gripped me for this long time, now, is lightening--as last--I do believe.

Let us be in accord: sometimes Life gangs up on me, and I feel most helpless bfore its inexorable onslaught; much of it revolves around things that I cannot change, or things quite beyond my wishes, or control.

And since I have a maternal familial tendency towards black depression, I cannot vouchsafe that I will not always be cut-off at the knees by it; what I CAN do, is think about the scale and scope of genuine caring, and support from all my friends at MDJunction; step-up my prayer of true grateful thanksgiving; remember the love my mother and father had/have for me; hope with in heart, that, somehow, I may thus help another; consentrate onmaking my diary entries less about me, and my pain,and more about things that might prove to be of some help; give thanks for the few, 'outside' genuine friends that I have left; and give my dearst Daisy some extra, needed attention.

So I am particularly happy to say that--I think--that long spell of helpless depression is slowly lifting from me.

And it is to YOU, my most dear friends and readers to whom I attribute at least 90% of my assent.

In closing, please allow me to wish for YOU days of lessened, or of 'no pain'; wonderful days of rare finds and sweet surprises; quiet afternoons of healing thought and comtemplation; and, of course, balmy nights of blissful, restorative, and undisturbed rest, for sleep, as Whitman said is, " Nature's soft nurse ".

Your most kind readership, and comments remain--as ever--an unalloyed joy for me, for which I also thank you.

I love you,

'Zahc'/Charles

'Welcome Back, Oh Sad, And Deep Sweet Melancholy, My Old, Old, Friend '

' Welcome Back, Oh Sad, And Deep Sweet Melancholy, My Old, Old Friend '

Jan 29 2012

01/29/12

In grateful dedication to, among others: 'River'; 'mabri'; 1magicman'; and, 'DenverCowboy'

My dear, and wonderful friends, and ever kind, and loyal readers, for you are as one in the same, I cannot ever thank you for befriending me, and pausingto read and contemplate oft times, my illnesses, complaints, and selfish sadness; for in my heart, I know that you hurt as much as I, and often more.

And were I able, I would you have no pain, sickness, or despair. I would that you become much as you were before such dire ailments had changed you, limiting your actions, and disrrupting all the aspects of your daily life.

I often pray, and wish for you, my dearest friends no pain, and a return to ancient normalcy, when illness was unknown, and never thought of; and that you and your families know no need or want, or sleepless nights of worry and concern.

And, were I so able, I would erase from your minds and faces, all the lines of care, mind fog, and dissapointment.

Would that you be strong, again, and free to frollick with your children, ( or, grandchildren ! ) laughing, running, playing games of 'hide-and-seek', and to further enjoy more quality time with your understanding spouses.

Of getting out, without fear, or dreaded anxiety, to go where e'er you so desired, free from the strangulated, and unnatural limitations of Agoraphobia, so that you never would feel trapped, nor compelled to stay at home.

To rise from the cold couch, to find new energy to further make of each day, a gladdened, new-found puzzle piece to add to that mystery of a Future filled--not with fear--but of satisfied anticipation, instead, as Life inexorably, yet fleeting passes.

To my dear friends who are Bipolar, I would ever seek to take the sine wave that peaks with mania, and bottoms out with depression, some better median find; perhaps, not at just 50%, but at a more pleasant 75%, and so, have your shifts and cycles level off.

And, of my friends who cannot breath on their own, I wish a calmness, and an end to labored breath, to find some ease of spirit, there; with lungs that thus reject the infiltrete, and fuction as they were supposed to do. For it is truly fearful, having such labored breathing; that it--alone--exhausts, and makes sleep difficult.

And if I could someway work my will, my heart would hold carefully to itself, all who have PTSD, and have been abused, for that is an evil thing, and I would ever stand by you, in complete safety and protection, help slay ALL your monsters, sending them ( and I am not afraid to say this, for fear of censure ) to the deepest spots of Hell, there to remain, to never, ever, ever hurt you, again.

Forgive me, my dearest friends, for I still hurt in a thousand places, and have been--most lately--in a phase of darkest depression. Even as it slowly lifts, a bubbled-up, and oily black remains, as some heart-ache's debris, and, even as I work my way back to the surface, a sadness, and sweet melancholy fills my empty shell.

By now, I know it well, for this has happened over and over again, choreographed like some mechanical ballet.

And for a time, this 'depression hangover' leaves me listless, and bereft of higher intellect; so routine it has become, yet possessing such a lingering power, that I can actually feel this stage of depression settle o're me, like a cloud, that fully takes its time to disperse, in leaving me.

During it, for it lasts some days, into a week or more, I feel a deep, and sweet melancholy; a sighed tiredness, and a looking back to all that might have been.

Sometimes, this phase causes me to become angry, distant, easy to made angry, and with a grumpy disssatisfaction for all things; I am often glad that I am--perforce-- alone, so as to not inflict my choler on someone--perhaps--who does not merit it.

And, in passing, I am left weakened, just a little more than last time, as it seems to take so much from me.

And all happiness has fled, reluctant in its return.

And I am duly made aware of that which I can no longer accomplish, or even care to try, if that makes sense. I see my part-remodeled home change to an almost unrecognizable pit of dirt, and dust, and accumulated trash, and dishes in the sink; of whisps of shed Daisy fur...everywhere.

And so, I asked my dear C.N.A. to come out on her day off, for two hours, just to try to return the house to one of human habitation. I thank God for her, and for her kindness, as she's a wonder, and knows my habits. And can--in two hours--take at least the rougher edges off the house; of course, I cannot pay her now, but she has agreed to wait until I have my two showers this week, plus the laundry, so I can write her one check that then can be safely cashed, although, it will shudder my frail SSDI.

This depression 'aftershock', is so severe, my friends, and makes me tired, that today, while though it is a quiet Sunday, with absolutely beautiful weather, outside, I shall--again--stay in, and soon will try to lie down for a much hoped for nap.

For, now matter how strong, and durable the cup, should it develope but one crack, then it is, in whole, made useless, no matter how intricate the design, or pretty, the colored glaze.

And so, my dear, dear friends, and loyal readers, I shall close for now; my entire body aches with a dullness, and all I want to do is nap, wherein, hopefully I will sleep.

I am sure that--as I lie there--trying to compose myself, mind and body to relax--that I shall think of you, and of your aggregate kindness and support; your caring, and...your love.

And as I close my tired, and blurry eyes, I shall say a prayer for you for a day of lessened, or of no pain; of quiet, free from consternation, free from want; as I would most willingly awake, and rouse myself, to dry your honest tears.

Please always know, that I love you dearly,

'Zahc'/Charles

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' Thoughts For January 31st,; A Title Too Long To Print '

 

‘ February; Computers...;A Final Clean-up Of The Tired Remains Of January's Indifference; And A Hint Of-Pre-Spring Love; Juvenile, But Effective, With Flowers Echoing A PromisedSpring; And The Inherent Sweetness Of Stuffed Toys, And All That '

01/31/12

My very, very dear, and constant friends, and ever-loyal readers,
A few, quick observations, before all traces of January are filed, and put up in already dusty boxes; as the weather-still cold in most climes-does show signs of renewal: our friend, the Crocus manages to bloom through still drifting snow, quite two months earlier, did the Lenten Rose.
For all who make some fulsome plans for Valentine's Day, they are aware that NOW the clock is ticking off the days before such celebrations as are called for; and, within the next ten days, it almost will be too late to order anything appropriate by mail.
I somehow recall some decades-now-ritual at school, wherein the construction paper envelopes that we affixed to the side of our desks; upon the teacher's ‘whistle blow', all raced around, to hand deliver little cards, or homemade substitutes, or, among the more affluent, those tiny bags of little, pastel hearts, which said such bromides as ‘ Please be mine'; or simply ‘Love'; or some such drivel. These mints, to me, always tasted more like chalk.
The night or two before this ‘diaspora' of assorted, little cards, was supervised by my mother, to ensure that every classmate got one, so no one would feel left out.
However, even in an elementary school classroom, there was a social rank and order, as, when we raced around to deliver our cards into each other's hastily-made envelope, I hardly need mention that the more popular children got the most cards, until their envelopes were filled to overflowing; and even at this early age, a pecking order had been unconsciously established,
While the foreign, odd, or alienated children got few to none; I was lucky to get one or two, and sometimes I got none, and was ashamed when the teacher had to intervene, so that no child's envelope was empty.
And this was the way it always went, from about second or third grade, until sixth; each year, I took my piteous envelope home, as my dearest mom and dad wanted to see it.
A hushed, and pained exhalation followed, when, in turning my envelope over, only two, or three cards fell out upon the dining table.
Second grade is not too early to know the hurt that came from that, especially when those with bulging envelopes had several duplicates from their cadre of well-wishers.
Of course, now at fifty-eight, I hardly care, except I had early learned that those who were attractive, and popular always won.
And so, the template was created early, one that would follow me down the years ‘till now.
It was they, who almost always got the better jobs, despite their skills. And although I did not seem to be a monster, nor an outcast, I know that I was clearly perceived as being one.
Whenever the teacher asked a question, and for a show of hands, I was rarely called upon...unless no one else knew the answer. I was actually looked at, and passed over, as if the teacher hoped that someone else would have the right answer.
And in recess, or-later-in gym, the ‘choosing-up of sides' often meant that NO one chose me, and that the ‘Captain' of the team gave out a disgusted sigh, and later, curse, when the instructor finally assigned me to a side.
It happened so often, you'd think that I would be used to it, and, in some oblique way I was; but, still...while early names were being chosen, I always had some small thrill of anticipation that I actually might be picked; I guess the baseball bat was not long-enough to measure by hand's breadth to ever get to me.
In those long-ago days, no one even knew of A.D.D., but all I know is that school bored me; I couldn't seem to concentrate on silliness, and found the sights outside the windows of more interest.
I hated every bit of school, and was-at last-so glad when-upon my graduation-that it was done. The ‘popular and pretty' could now go to hell.
I had my few friends...all losers, too.
What helped, was that I harbored some secret thought ( shared-perhaps-by some, more enlightened teachers ), to wit:
1) That I was clearly runaway more intelligent than they.
2) ( And this I gradually learned as Life took over ) that exterior ( only ) beauty did not, nor could not last; for if they did not radiate a beauty from within...a kinder soul,; a more forgiving heart, etc., that they, in time, would resemble no less than crumpled shells of plain ugliness.

3) And that popularity is a most inconstant thing; and while money and power do help, in general, without a sense of self-effacing humor, nor joy within, the same crowds who would carry you on their shoulders one day, might willingly trample you beneath their feet the next.

I probably spent a large portion of my adult, working life, in pitched battles with these bastards; you know them, even as adults: the supervisor's pet; the ones who slide effortlessly into promotions they neither deserved, nor earned.
And I survived in that atmosphere of trench warfare by being on time, keeping busy, ‘listening' for every bit of extra information I could glean, by insisting on excellent evaluations, and by going that old quote: ‘extra mile'.

For, while there really is no true egalitarianism in the classroom, there also in none in the adult, business world.

Please, please always remember that, and do not despair, for, in surviving, you have developed ( inside ), an arsenal of ways to cope, and to succeed.
It also never hurts to smile, and to be polite, giving authority the base respect that the position deserves, not necessarily the person who has it.

Now, my dearest friends, I must close for now, having gone on too long, as usual, and try to save this document to file, a new experiment for me.
As always, I wish for you a day or lessened, or of ‘no pain', heartache, or despair; I wish a quite afternoon for you, and-especially-a night of blissful rest, watched over, and attended to by hosts of sweet angels...just because you deserve it.

Please also know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'/Charles

' My Dearest, Phantom Friends...Where Are You ? '

01/28/12

For weeks, I have been trying to breathe the breath of Life into this lump of clay; this cat'swangle of musings; this tired and tedious testament; this....'Blog' ( the very sound of  'blog', describes it to a 'T'.

My dearest, phantom friends...where are you ? Hid away in some pocket of cybercloud, always looking, never finding ?  Where are you when I need you ?

Surely, even if you fell across this blog by sheerest accident, you could at least tarry for a while, perhaps, relaxing, kicking off your shoes, and from them, the dust of an hectic day.

I understand that there are--indeed--a bazillion blogs out there, many, better looking, more dressed up.  But while I cannot vouchsafe their design, and thus--perhaps--their allure, I had hoped, hoped, yes...hoped someone, and few, and many would stop by, to partake of my trenchent dialogue.  Maybe even ( and my heart quickens to the thought ), linger long-enough to perhaps leave some small part of you here, by making comment to my effort.  For, surely, that would help to keep me on ( or nearer ) beam, and not fall off again.  And again.  And again.

Is the Earth not big-enough a place, to assign me some little notice ?

Or, have all joined FaceBook or Twitter, content to send out tweets to the sweets ?

While I do not have the glamour, nor the sensationtionality to go viral, I had hoped I could provide--at least--a pleasant, and innocuos read.  Even spelled wrong.  For that is part of my charm.

E'en still, I would wish you all good health, prosperity, and oodles of love forever, 'long as love lasts.

So....peace to all...and happy be.

Love,
Charles