" Flying Monkeys "

“  Flying Monkeys  “

05/18/12

Oh…my very, very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers, I do think of you often, and hope that you’re feeling better, made comfortable, and loved, cared-for by both family and friends; your days as sweet as the Dandelion wine my Grandfather used to ‘put up’ in the basement during the “Great Depression”.

I always wish you well and safe, free from any lingering distress that you may have, so that you know a lingering peace—instead—with sleep that restores; waking ever from dreams of blissful happiness, to find that happiness had wakened long before you, and was patiently waiting for you to get up, and begin yet another, blessed day.

Preamble:  I

I must admit my frank surprise to you, dear friends, that when I first embarked upon this reverie, I was SURE that—in the title—the word was spelled, ‘Monkies’. This was axed by spell check, leaving me to telephone my local library  (wherein, they doubtless think me mad….as I have made calls like this to them before!), to find that the ‘correct’, proper, ‘third-person singular (or, whatever)’ spelling was—in fact: ‘Monkys’--which to me somehow, did not look right;  further search by the Reference Section, determined that it be “Monkeys’, so, I can hardly argue with either them, or with Merriam Webster, so… right or wrong, it will always be, ”Monkeys” for me!  I cannot tell you what crushing weight was removed from my chest in finally finding out the truth.

But…in my secret heart, wherein pots of gold from neglected rainbows can still be found, along with unicorns, and faeries, and all things still magical, somewhere, ‘Monkies’ will remain; chock-a-block with Mad Hatters, Pirates, Dragons, and Angels.  These I absolutely make NO excuse for, and I am glad that they are there, if nowhere else.

Preamble:  II

On seldom, rare, and wondrous occasions my dear friends, when—at last—the pain pills slowly begin to make known some desired effect, and--for a little while--most of these damned agonies retreat to a bearable distance (though, never completely out of sight), I sometimes­­--with a cup of fresh coffee--and my cigarettes, sit back with eyes half-closed (all the better so as to not spill the coffee, or—perhaps—place the cigarette in my ear, I guess).

I try to make myself as comfortable as I can in the office chair in my so-called ‘Study’; granted, calling it my ‘Study’ is pure pretense, since it is—in fact—my former bedroom, which currently houses my computer, office furniture (an old bedroom set my mom and dad bought for me from Sears when I was nine !); a china cabinet of assorted memories, and a pretty ‘wingback’ recliner, a round rug, hand-woven in India, AND, myself, of course. And Daisy!

Eventually, I see an electric fireplace here, and more shelves for knick-knacks—some of which have been saved, now, for half a century—and

books, and pictures on the walls, a table to hold my humidor of cigars, next to the chair, all done up, and secure, with dear Daisy curled-up upon the rug, near me; how pleasant is the picture that it conjures up.

It seemed rude and somehow indecorous to just call it a ‘man cave’, or a ‘den’; and even I have not aspired to such vain gloried revelries to ever call it my ‘Library’, since it IS a double-wide, mobile home after all.

Nonetheless, during these brief respites from the admixed torture of assorted agonies, and of migraine that would sap all my attention like some ravening, black hole, I set my thoughts afloat…’wool gathering’, what it once was called; or, ‘day-dreaming’, if you prefer.

Most anywhere else than on troubles and trials of the day, and the recurring themes of insufficient ‘money’, or of what can I possibly later have for supper? Or wondering IF there IS anything for supper.

No, my friends, while these ramblings may be  the product of an idle mind, God bless ‘em, too, as I find it perfectly acceptable—necessary, even—to at times, make good my escape.

And since they are quite without direction, or motive, or desire, I never quite know what—in the now, dusty, cobwebbed filing cabinets that compose my mind—will bubble up to the surface…to madly mix my metaphors.

So, for some unfathomable reason, this afternoon, I found myself thinking of:

“  Flying Monkies “

Of course, my dearest friends, by now, everyone on the planet has seen the film, “The Wizard Of Oz”, at least a thousand times, unless—of course—Ted Turner bought it up, as he did with, “It’s a Wonderful Life” (and good thing, too, as one year at Christmas, on cable TeeVee, I found it showing on no less than twenty-three channels, until it became like the sound of nails across a blackboard; ‘though, I will admit, I liked “Pottersville” much more, thinking it   more fun and interesting!  If your memory is still good, can you recall a scene of hookers being forcibly removed into police vans, from a dance hall called the ‘Apache’ ?

Nevertheless, the ‘Wizard Of Oz’—seen, now, about every Easter—made in 1939, somehow, even when I was young did not exactly throw me into thralls of wondrous delight, nor, peals of laughter.  In fact, I found a lot of the Technicolor parts to be too bright, too loud, and too frenzied.

Instead, I much-preferred (and still do), the sepia-toned, black and white segments before the whole “Oz” part; I loved the tornado, the blustering of the increasing wind across a simple Kansas farm; personally—and a psychiatrist might find of it to be of some interest now—I loved the part where Dorothy, upon checking out an empty house, finds that all have retreated to the safety of a storm cellar, in effect, saving their own asses, locking her out.

Notice that beyond a perfunctory call or two by ‘Auntie Em’, when it came down to brass tacks, folks, no one gave a shit about Dorothy, or her obnoxious, little dog, “Toto”, which was fine, as I hated them, too. Even though I was very young when first I saw the movie, other parts annoyed me equally as much.

For instance, say what you will, I hated ALL the ‘Munchkins’, and—in much later years—mused about the potential effects of dropping upon ‘Munchkin Land’, a one or two megaton bomb, actually, same as by the “Grinch” upon “Who-ville”, God… I couldn’t stand their stupid piousness, especially, “Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two!” Now go and put a ‘ting-ting-la’, in your, ‘Fah-who-for-aze…’!

Now, please do not mistake my almost carnal love for Dunkin Donut’s Munchkins, actually, a brilliant, marketing idea, on what to do with all those unused pieces of dough from the center of a doughnut; for, late at night—sometimes—I

think I would gladly kill, for a large bucket of the glazed, and white, powdered sugar versions, with about a quart of milk!

But, as usual on these cloud-like journeys, I digress.

Back we go to ‘Oz’, and all its machinations.  I also found that I most intensely disliked the “Good Witch”, of wherever.  Played by Billie Burke, her accent and her voice were as painful as imps from hell, playing my spine like a

xylophone.  I did find fascinating, the notion of a witch getting ‘offed’ by a falling house.  What would be the odds of that?

And somehow, after due consideration, I found that scene of the “yellow brick road” (especially where it describes an intersection out among unrecognizable fields of endless corn) to be a metaphor for life, and…sure as shootin’, friends, the passage of my life DID seem to be not unlike some journey of the subconscious, along an unmarked road that began--as life begins—at some single point, at birth, to spiral out and beyond, unmarked; often with no direction, but as an admitted sameness.  Sigh.   Life—however bland—is never static for, like that intersection of yellow brick, that appears as if from nowhere, leading—perhaps—to somewhere, to destinations that at the moment we are not privileged to see; we thus, for the most part—then—make our judgments and decisions based—not so much on fact—but rather chance or faith that, no matter what, all will in general, be well.

This is the mystery of the ‘journey’, and the ‘Quest’, wherein none of the puzzle-pieces fit together ‘till the end.  Should we turn this way or that? At each branching of the road, we make our choices, and take our chances, not knowing what may be ahead; these are the risks we blindly face.

And yet, what would—at first—seem to be random, and unpredictable, finally—I most sincerely hope—will full-describe an ordered path…with every turn linked—somehow—to every other turn; it is the realm of ‘Trickster Gods’; of obstacles, and riddles posed by an otherwise silent, yet, imposing Sphinx.

The path(s) ahead, are different for each one of us, but all of us must choose.  We all hope to choose both wisely, and well, and—except for some occurrence of apparent self-destruction (for that is an option too)—I think that we succeed.

I liked the ‘Wicked Witch’, especially as she so closely resembled my bitch of a Grandmother; yes, friends, even children know when they’re loved, and when they are only treated with indifference and frequent punishings.

The ‘evil’ witches’ castle guards—with their grey, radiator- painted hands and faces did not startle me, nor did the first sight of the mighty ‘Wizard’.  Too many metaphors would find later expression in life.

“Poppies…pretty poppies”…oh but could I—too—be made as drowsy, wanting nothing more than total, ‘light’s out’ sleep.  I crave it now much more than I did then.

However, midst the tawdry dreck, what petrified the absolute pure, bat-shit out of me (and, still disquiets) were those goddamn, flying monkeys;  I found them to be nasty, spooky, horrific, and in their masses, relentless, over-powering, inescapable, the perfectly combined substance of haunting nightmare.  And indeed, those little bastards gave me bad dreams, from which I could not find protection from, or hiding place, nor any solace; in a hundred, nightmared-dreams they chased me, and all I could see were monkey claws and teeth.  What teeth!  And an evil visage upon each one.  Oh how I hated them!  And still do!

Years later, now, in cheaper, novelty catalogues, references can regularly be found to them, on mugs, and magnetic, refrigerator magnets, and upon variously-sized signs to hang in any room.

 They’re now considered to be an iconic, comic warning of impending, easy ire, which--I can understand—alerting all, of possessing a short fuse, or an intolerance against challenge, or simply, in a kind of, “I told you so!” advertisement  that the person who dwells within will likely go from ‘zero to bitch’ in five second’s flat.

And, come now to think of it, in consideration of all that is pointless, venal, stupid, or willfully destructive in the world, and in my life…perhaps a warning mug, “Don’t Make Me Summon The Flying Monkeys!” wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all.

And so, my very special, dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers, thus I have passed-away another afternoon, unto evening, peaceable preoccupied.  Too soon—untreated—I already feel the pangs of onrushing pain, which I must attend to, as well as somehow figure out just what-in-hell there’s left for supper.

Its twice as hard—somehow—to decide when the cupboard’s bare, as when it is full to overflow.  Strange, huh?

And so, with your most kind permission, I shall close for now, now that base realities are settling in, again, and all need tending to.  But…it was fun, while it lasted, wasn’t it ?

Please do take care, and know I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Another Goddamn, Useless Night, And Empty Day..."

“ Another Goddamn, Useless Night, And Empty Day: A Bitter, Angry Essay, As—Soon—I Shall ‘Celebrate’ Ten Years Of Failing Disability, And, For What?  “

05/18/12

My wonderful, and ever-dear, and constant friends, and patient, loyal readers, I remain ever grateful for your having befriended me, with all my obvious faults, and lack of character; it is obvious that you—in your kindness, and caring  see something that I cannot see; and I truly thank you for ignoring all the glaring flaws that I CAN see, and detest in myself.  Yet, in your support, and of staying by me, I know I could not stand alone.

Each of you is precious beyond pearls in your own ways, and I seek pardon from you, even as I seek forgiveness from a God I sometimes think has in full abandoned me when you have not.  So many times—now, through the course of another night of agony, migraine, depression so deep, that I cannot see the bottom of it into days that pass in languid despair—it is YOU who, made in flesh and sinew, have become the Angels that I ask for.

You help sustain me, when in utter disgust, I cannot sustain myself; you are as tiny, welcoming stars in an otherwise bleak and blackened firmament; your calm, welcomed, and reasoned voices help stay my hopeless rage, when all that I can do is rock in a pain severe-enough to make me cry and cry in sadness and in pain no one should ever have to endure…and yet I know you have your pain too, and so I love you for making room for me within your hearts.  And part of your families, when I am so awfully alone.

And so I have pledged to be ‘there’ for you, and by your side, to help protect you, and should any, little, well-intentioned part of my entries prove to be of any help to you, then—my most dear friends—my lonely heart is made happy.  I am both gratified and thankful to you when you read my diary posts, and I treasure every comment you may care to make.

I—for the most part--am pleased with my entries here at MDJ, and hope that I have not become so tedious with the frequent repetitions of my ailments, which seem to grow and grow larger with each year.  Soon, my friends, I shall have been ‘disabled’ for ten years.  And in that decade have watched as both mind and body have slowly but inexorably been torn apart.  Each year, it seems my collective ‘conditions’ find me less and less able to function, mentally, or physically, until now, when I often want to do nothing at all, save stay in bed, and keep well-medicated.

But it is not my want to thus toss-away a day, ‘though darkest, deep depression will cycle in, and must be endured until it wanes; and—even then—it leaves me in a fog, dull-witted and heavy headed, and bereft of purpose or of action as the ensuing, ‘depression hangover’, slowly leaves my system.  I find that migraines do the same thing.

And with each bout of pain, despairing, or depression, I feel—somehow—a little piece is jaggedly torn from me, not unlike ripping a coupon out of a magazine.

Few and fewer things now give me purpose, or direction, or hope, or pleasure, or reason to live.  I have little family, and none of us are close; I have no spouse, nor precious children to hold near my heart. I fully know that I am indulging, now, in rampant self-pity, for which I apologize.

“ A Not Untypical Night… And How Was Your’s?  “

05/18/12

I am beginning to just give up, as some lost cause, any regulated, and reliable sleep; if a bathroom call does not disturb me, there’s always a ‘Reader’s Digest’ stack of saved nightmares to wake me up.  Maybe, Daisy will want out; perhaps my sleep is too shallow to maintain, despite the sleeping pills. Granted, there are those among you who—especially when so medicated—could fall asleep while standing up (I actually saw this once, at work!), it seems I could swallow half the bottle just to make my eyelids heavy.

Any errant noise—outside—will startle me awake, as will the beginnings of an early morning storm.  At that first, precise crack of thunder is followed by the shock wave that ‘bumps’ at the house, I am awake and out of bed.

Two nights—ago—somehow my inner alarm failed to wake me to the bathroom, and, some time after 3:00 AM, I woke to find myself drenched, disgusted, and mad as hell.  So now I have to wear ‘Depends’, lest I ruin a mattress I cannot possibly afford to replace?

Infants wet themselves all the time, and nothing is thought amiss; my idiot cousin in Kansas (and may he, and his sister always find of it a better clime!) wet the bed, until he was thirteen.  How he must have been embarrassed, especially on a rare, sleep-over at my Aunt’s house, when—after looking at a late night, double feature horror film we shared the same bed, when—voila—his tiny bladder would be as empty as his tiny skull, and he would wet us both; I awoke to find the sheets wet.  He would snooze through it, only wakening when I reached over and punched him…at least once or twice.

Of course, (and this is only PART of why I so dislike him AND his sister) the little bastard would start to cry, waking his mommy and the rest of the house, where there then began a routine worthy of the Marx brothers, as mommy sat on a dry spot on the bed to dry his ‘widdle tears’, while looking at me with daggers drawn.

Sheesh, no wonder I couldn’t stand any of them, though they did have one, remaining grace: a swimming pool, with all the pool toys in existence, and an actual, real, genuine, be-damned juke box that didn’t require money!!!! How many times—that summer, and others—did I listen to Nat King Cole’s rendition of: “Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days Of Summer”!  I still think that having one’s own juke box to be as bathed in fortune, and ‘High Fidelity’.

But I digress, as so often I do nowadays.

By the time I had changed out everything, with mind still full of champagne and cobwebs, I was too awake to fall back into any semblance of sleep; and so, I lumbered out to the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee.  By now, it was something-past 4:00 AM.  Again, I sat out in the kitchen (now, my ‘second’ bed), had a cup or two of coffee, and fell asleep from six ‘til seven, or so.

I telephoned my dear friend Joan, who was just getting up; my dear friends, although I love her dearly, she can go to bed, and fall asleep in five minutes or less, says she doesn’t dream (or, at least does not remember any she may have), and can wake to hit the bathroom during the night, and then fall back instantly to sleep. G-r-r-r-r-r.  AND, get this, without any sleeping medication whatsoever!  Maybe it’s a ‘pay-back’ blessing from Providence for her generosity, her openness, her kindness and radiance of spirit, and tender, sweet, forgiving heart.  Not like me, folks, for sometimes I suspect that the nightly devils that I fight are ones of my creation, in part payment for my being such an ill-tempered, stubborn, and sometimes just an old, evil-minded jerk who must have—of necessity—frequent, little chats with my Creator for some much-needed course correction.

And while I don’t think I ever set out to hurt anyone (I could’ve socked my rat’s ass cousin harder, really, than I did), the list of things for which I seek atonement easily rivals, now, the list of all that I am truly thankful for.

We each must find our way; make our beds (mine, twice!), and lie in them.  Thank Heaven I have nothing that warrants my attention today as well, and providing Daisy isn’t sound asleep in doggy dreamland I have vowed to set her upon anyone who disturbs ANY kind of rest I may be able to salvage, today.

For my poor eyelids are as half-drawn as old window shades.  And I’m tired, besides.  Brother…what a way to start a weekend; otherwise, every day is a clone of the other, so that ‘calendar’ time is just a place to write upcoming appointments on.

And should the constant intake of pain medication save the day, then—perhaps—I’ll find some needed rest, by and by.  I hope.

And so, to all my dearest, dearest friends and readers, can I still wish you ‘goodnight’ if it is almost 10:00 AM?

Please always know, I love you 24/7!

‘Zahc’/Charles 

' A Brief Encomium To Mother's Day, May 13, 2012 "

" A Brief Encomium To Mother's Day, Sunday, May 13, 2012 "

http://youtu.be/pVBdF2QU3Kk

 Sunday, May 13, 2012

I accidentally stumbled across this, pretty, little video, that somehow needs sharing, with just the 'right' mother.

And while everyone's circumstance is different from abusive and uncaring to absolutely stellar, my dearest, sweetest mother passed away on February 6, 2008, I shall always be grateful fo her ( and to my dad, as well!), for their support of my endeavors; for always being there for me most willing to listen to me, and to offer that advice that--I so very often needed; their hope and dreams for me, wanting--whatever I did do, to always be happy, all while loving me unconditionally.

Until they both had died, and as I had no siblings, they were my world; I find I think about them often, whenever a major decision has to be made; will always miss them their kisses, and embraces, and their strong arms that wrapped around me, keeping me safe, and sometimes--when I am lost in nightmare or a thousand agonies of relentless pain--I find I cry out to them, especially when the nights are so cold and bereft of comfort.

Now that I am older, and what very little family I have left is so distant, uncaring, or estranged, besides my golden memories, what few friends I have in life have slowly, silently gotten old, and have ever moved away in search their own Quests--perhaps--drifting away; there remains my dearest friends at MDJunction, who still have room in their hearts for me, and who occasion an utter gratitude in me, which in turn, makes my heart so happy; for without your kind caring, and support, I--Daisy--would be ever sick, and ever alone. An I truly thank God for you.

And would always wish you safe and well.

And whether you are male of female, with children, or without:

1) If you have ever intervened, and thus kept a child safe from abuse or harm, then, you ARE a mother.

2) If you have ever held a child or an adult when they are scarred, or paused to wipe-away a tear, then you ARE a mother.

3) If you have ever stayed up, sacrificing your own sleep to tend to someone who is either ill or lost, then, you ARE a mother.

4) If ever to a legitimate charity, you have donated even a dollar, so that it might help, then, you ARE a mother.

5) If--in pouring rain, on your way to work--stopped to help a senior change a tire, then, you ARE a mother.

6) If you have ever directed someone, or, provided them with resources to help the cope with unbearable pain, then, you ARE a mother.

7) If you have ever held a trembling hand; steady an uncertain gait; done a neighborly kindness; comforted the dying; or--for a while--set aside your layers of anonymity to uphold that which is right, while eschewing all that is evil, then you--my very precious friends, have proven yourselves to be mothers, and--as such--deserve all good feelings, and adulations of the day.

It is NOT a matter of sexual orientation, nor of so-called masculinity, or lack thereof; but, rather attests to our greater sense of Humanity, and our places in that giant scheme.

Please know that Sunday, the 13th, I shall be thinking—not only of my blessed mother--but if all those 'other mothers' who so wonderfully surround us, even now.

Please always know I love respect and love you dearly,

 

'Zahc'

" ...As I Would Always Keep You Near My Heart! "

“How Often—My Dearest Friends, At MDJunction—Do My Grateful Thoughts And Thanks Turn Ever To YOU, As I Would Always Keep You Near My Heart!”

05/12/12

To my ever, dearest, and most wonderful friends, and—of course—to my supportive, kind, and encouraging readers, I find that I can never thank you enough for your befriending me; your patience, whenever I might stray, or lose my thought.  I thank you for your caring, and your continued concern for Daisy’s, and my welfare; your tolerance, whenever I would wax long in complaint about my often agonizing pain.

Your most kind concern sustains, and lifts a spirit that would otherwise know no hope; and in your comments, ‘hugs’, and ‘PMs’, and further contacts, you make me somehow feel much less alone, whether in sadness, or in suffering.

To me, this is made all the more remarkable, because I know you have pain; experience distress, and loneliness; have been egregiously abused (for which I anger, and shed for you honest tears, besides the ones I shed for myself).

Yet, amazingly—somehow—you have kept me close to you, even when I would rage against inequities, or, when I am in such global pain, that—for me—the so-called ‘Pain Scale’ will never accurately assess my illnesses, or my dark despair.

How many times have you read about my killer migraines or my monthly lack of funds on which to live?  Or, paused to hear me repeat again, and again, my nightmare-filled and saddened attempts at some kind of rest that might hope to restore, but so very rarely, ever does.

Perhaps, it is—in part—because you KNOW, and have experienced many of the same illnesses, and pain, and suffering that I do, which makes you a wise, experienced arbiter of my complaints.  While—on the other hand—too many, now, it seems—‘real time friends have left with hardly a backward glance or thought, preferring—instead—to gladly leave me to twist in the breeze of their subsequent intolerance, and lack of patience.  And, often, when they’ve remained to take from me all that I can offer, step-back into veiled cloaks of invisibility, knowing that—financially—the ‘well’ is dry.

Even my Pain Doctor seems to view me as some ‘billable commodity’ (and, he’s reputed to be among the ‘good ones’!), willing to see me for the least time possible, knowing that my need for pain medication is great, and that I accept his careless scripts with trembling hands; it is a dangerous game we play, for without some amelioration from often unendurable pain, what life I have would quickly fall apart, and the pain—untreated—would have me in the hospital; or ( as has tragically happened to many others) look outside for that which can be purchased in the street. Or—frankly—my dearest friends—as I know you can fully relate to this—would have me looking for some weapon to successfully terminate a state of being, while though unasked for, is nonetheless relentlessly evil, and unbearable.

And so, again, and again I would wish to convey to you my constancy, my friendship, my caring, and my gratitude to you for so many, many things, for you know I ever keep you safe within my heart.

And, always wish for you days of lessened, or of ‘no pain’; with psychiatric, or physical conditions kept at bay, and more under your control, with just the right, attending medications to confer upon you some larger measure of peace and contentment.

I always wish you be surrounded by family and friends who—even as they ‘know you’, still love you and care for you, so that you may never have to feel alone.  I wish so much for you days free from needless stress, or panic, or anxiety…days of purpose, and determination to succeed. 

During—now—the month of May, I wish for you more prosperity, with pantries’ full, and, somehow, income sufficient to see you comfortably through the month.  And the month after…and the one after that, and so on.

I wish that your everyday begin with a sense of glad anticipation, and a smile; of days of discovery, and personal achievement. 

I further wish you afternoons of quiet contemplation, or the resumption of happy recreation; of wonderful times spent with true and truest friends, even if its just to play cards, or kibitz (the point being that you’re together).

I fully wish for you the availability, even in some slight fashion, to enjoy Nature’s wonderment and beauty. If you cannot readily get ‘out’(the same as I), the delightful panorama of the world, and Nature’s bounty still can be viewed through the window; oh please, do not let this calming ‘greenness’ pass you by.

And then, my very, very dearest friends, and loyal readers, as the day inevitably winds down to the advent of evening and night, I so wish you not ever be afraid of the coming darkness; think—instead—it meant to heal, by restoring  your strength  for the ‘morrow’.  And to that end, I wish your sleep be natural, full, and free from problems from the day before; free from stress, or wakefulness, especially of nightmare: to allow your subconscious to gather ‘all your ducks in a row’, without scaring or disquieting you, leaving you to wander-through a darkened house that—at that time—might seem too quiet, or too empty.

And as always, dearest friends, I wish for you “flights of angels, to sing thee to thy rest.”

Please, please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’

P.S.  It is with no small sense of astonishment, and sudden, surprised discovery, to learn that—since about the end of July, 2011—THIS diary entry marks the 200^th, that I have so-far written to you.  And in those numbers, should I have ever proven to be of some, small help, or amusement to you, then, my wonderful friends at MDJunction, then, my heart is truly gladdened within me.  And I thank you for your constancy, your help, your readership, AND your friendship!

May your gentle hearts be filled with all the genuine happiness that it can hold!

‘Zahc’

" Ahoy ! Dangerous Iceburgs Ahead "

“ St. Petersburg Junior College, Second Semester Piano, 1973: Ahoy! Dangerous Icebergs Ahead! “

05/11/12

To my very, dear, dear friend, ‘Strenuba’,

The Saga Continues!

By the time I had signed up for the second semester of piano at St. Petersburg Junior College in the spring of 1973, my instructor, Ruth Watson, and I were face to face with a number of Chimeras, both separately, and together. Quiet, and mild-mannered Ruth had her reputation as a piano instructor to maintain, as well as her reputation, in general.

She and I had—in the previous semester—had, in fact, played a giant hoax, a musical ‘Ponzi’ scheme upon the entire music department (students, and instructors, all), for at about  a third of the way into the semester, she realized—hopelessly—that I simply could not learn to read music; it was worse that sweating bullets.  As the term progressed, in abject horror, she discovered that I was merely watching her play, whenever she lost patience with my remembered, elementary school level exposure to ‘music’; her humor was not improved to learn that I had bought a record of the Polonaise I so wanted to play, and was listening to it at home, over, and over, and over again.

Well-before the start of second term, she had already resigned herself to the nail-biting knowledge that she had hitched her wagon to a poseur, a dummy, an idiot savant, minus the savant part.

We all got our grades at finals by performing our chosen pieces before ‘Jury’, comprised of all the music instructors, plus their students.  And while many hesitantly played simple offerings tentatively, as if afraid of the piano, or the audience, or both, I—in a kind of youthful hubris had chosen as my piece, a Chopin Polonaise: Opus 40, the Polonaise ‘Militaire’, which in its complexity, simply blew the doors off everyone else.

For the second time down the rabbit hole, what was I to choose? Chopin being a hard act to follow; never mind, the bar had already been set too high by myself; there was no one else to blame.

The stairs leading up to the stage of the music auditorium were—in fact—not unlike those leading to the guillotine, and I suppose that were one to place one’s head inside the piano case, and then let the lid fall full force upon the neck, it would, somehow, be sufficient to render one headless.

I had already experienced a horrible case of ‘crash-and-burn’, when I went to a friend’s recital, to watch him play that old saw, “In A Persian Market”. For a while, he managed to hold his own, until the unthinkable happened; from either having to ‘perform’ in public, or in being ill-prepared, at one point, he simply stopped playing, sitting there, looking at his outstretched hands; his mind, a complete, and utter, and horrible blank.  For fifteen minutes all was quiet, as he sat there.  My toes began to curl up in my shoes, and if there is such a thing as living death, brother, he had found it in spades.

Just as people who in sympathy, nevertheless began to grab their coats, the damn of memory somehow broke, and he replayed it AGAIN from the beginning, with sweat dripping from his face, and a kind of lost, mindlessly hysterical look on his face; one I shall never forget, ever.

Anyhoo, I guess we all must choose our own paths to perdition; I obviously having not learned that most valuable lesson, called, ‘vamp ‘til infinity, wherein, if one suddenly loses all track of what’s being played, one either tries to gracefully end the piece (not unlike trying to land a 747 with only one engine working), or, one just makes up shit, until one can skip hastily off the stage, and into oblivion.  Its best to have a running, waiting car there to make good one’s escape.

For my second dose of piano STD, I again rather rashly chose—this time—a nocturne by Chopin, Opus 50, #2 (I think) in F-minor, a most beautiful, and simple piece until the end, where I did notice a LOT of little notes all bunched up.  “Oh well”, I said disarmingly, ”I’ll worry about that later. And, indeed, with Ruth’s kind help, and in listening to the recording, I was able to memorize the nocturne; the memorization was never difficult, but the attempt to actually ‘read’ the notes were.

Remember about all that jumble of notes I mentioned before the end?  That meant a lot of very fast, and precise playing, and there, I was stuck, a gone gosling, a dead duck, for the notes were to complex for me to count up the lines, as I would have done in third grade.

Both Ruth and I knew we were cut off, and in deepest shit, no less; for this semester, in addition to the Nocturne, I had to ‘sight read ’a piece ( which plainly I was genetically unable to do), and to play scales.

And, since I could not play the end of the Nocturne, Ruth and devised a plan, whereby at a seemingly casual, and arbitrary signal, she would interrupt my playing, saying, “O.K., that’s enough.” Or, had I left to my own devices, I would have, at some point, gone over the Falls in a barrel of our combined making.

And so, dear Bryan, I began to play those languid, liquid notes of Chopin, carefully, ever watching for Ruth to save my ass.

Sometimes, the Fates pause to smile and to forgive such youthful recklessness, and…right on target, she stopped me, well-before I had made a spectacle of myself, in front of God and all, and I left the piano, suffused in a kind of sweat that unleashed the predatory responses in lions, and, amid actual applause I did not in any way deserve, I left to have my grade determined by the music faculty, and was somewhat surprised, though, pleased, nonetheless, when they gave me another ‘A’.

Both Ruth and I laughed about it later, me, more than she, for once again, we had successfully engineered a true, ‘fate d’copmplie’.  Her reputation remained intact, while I wisely headed for the hills…well, maybe not so wisely, since in 1975, I foolishly challenged the Oxford Entrance Exam, in English Lit.

Why in hell I thought I had a chance is beyond me, and I am now thoroughly inclined to lay all such wild antics at the feet of reckless youth, wherein myself, and others of that age tackled the most improbable of ventures, in a ignorance of youthful bliss, without ever reckoning up the costs of failure. As I recall, we just went on to bigger, more elaborate projects, sure that we would succeed.

If age has taught me to be more wary, in trade, is an exuberance that knew no shame.

I hope this may prove to bring some lightness to your day, dear, Byran, and I ever hope you feel better, and much-improved.

Love,

Charles.

" On Why You Should Read My Blog "

05/10/12

To my friends across the Nation, and the World,

I thank those of you who have--in reading my Blog--have returned, again, to read each new and subsequent entry. 
I fully understand that everyone is busy, in conducting their own lives, and so, that time is both a precious and short commodity.
And so you must--perforce--choose among the bazillion Blogs out there which ones that may appeal to you so that you'll be inclined to opt for mine, with all its frequently, boisterous despairing, inferences, or transient moods.

Granted, to be quite honest, this is but a shameless desire for ever greater readership, my friends.  One I make no excuse for, for--frankly--your return readership makes my heart glad.

I would also like to read your helpful comments, questions, requests, for just as every musician wants and audience, every even would-be writers dearly seek readers.

I have always loved the dictionary with its lists of arcane; archaic; seldom-used words, for they, too, have retained a magic for me, with their often strange meanings, and possess a music that still delights the ear, and surprises the inquiring mind.

But the purpose of my Blog is not so much to increase your vocabulary, but to find in my readers, some synchronous joy in sounds and meanings; so many never used today.

I also have--like so many other 'Bloggists'--my opinion of the world which I wish to share.  And while your belief systems may differ from mine, I really do not think they differ much.  For all of us seek meaning in Life, want love, and security, in an atmosphere safe, and free to thrive.

We want happiness and health for our children, and ourselves; we want enough to eat; and the ability to go to bed, each night, unafraid of violence or corruption.

We want to sing, to give our thanks, to have friends.

I hope we--as one--are tired of guns, of armed fighting, sick of seeing blood.

And while I cannot offer these most precious things to you (though, with all my heart, I would, if but I could), I can still write of them, making comment on the 'Human' condition.

For there are times that--regardless of who, and where we are--know nightmare; have pain, and sometimes, from a sense of pain, and hopelessness, we cry. Our tears are the same, and equal in the sight of our Creator, no matter in whom you believe.

In each of us, there exists a strange dichotomy, and inheritance from pre-recorded time: that of being fully capably of ethereal beauty, or, utter, bestial evil.  Too few recognize that--although--ingrained, it does remain a choice; a conscious choice we make consciously.

I think (and hope!) withing the main, we would rather be kind, than cruel; we would rather help, and to destroy.  And yet--somehow--it is the evil in us that too often comes to the fore.  Why is that?

Are we THAT misled by others, who etch--in human misery--their own agendas?  Please, dear friends, I urge you think on it.

For, although we shall never meet face to face, I still bear no enmity to you; in fact, I would rather see you well.

Let others 'saber-rattle' as they are so inclined to.  Let us--instead--possess the bravery to unmask evildoing, and refuse to willingly be a part of it.

During the current span of my years, I have seen boundaries redefined, cultures rich in beauty uprooted, or obliterated, governments, and Nation states, and tyrants fall, deposed by a greater goodness.

Worse, I have in horror witnessed the sacrifice of our children; it seems not enough that they be starved, abducted, mutilated, abused, and killed.  For who but we can ever be their Voice, their Champions?  Who will speak for them, protect them, nurture them, and love them?

This is often why I despair, and why I cry, and why...I write.  In hopes to address our commonality, rather than our insurmountable differences.

That is--in part--my dear friends, why I urge you to read my Blog.  And other Blogs like it.

My friends, I wish you peace.
Charles