" One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish...Who, Fish ?! "

“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish…Who, Fish?!”

Part II of II

06/24/12

To my very, dearest, and most precious friends, and every patient, and loyal readers,

I must—once again—ask for your most kind tolerance, and patience, as, yesterday, in trying to compose what I hoped would be a humorous, diary entry, it is abundantly typical of me that I would somehow veer completely ‘off topic’, and thus, lose the thread of both intended thought and meaning.

It is now my fondest hope that you will excuse my turning an innocent entry into something of a ‘rant’, and by making of this entry two parts, add rant, and original thought together.  Sigh.

I admit, my dearest, faithful friends, that I have no one but myself to blame, as present illness, unending pain, worry, migraine, and ‘mind fog’ in some dreadful combination caused me to fully  ‘jump the trolley’ of my thoughts off the tracks of my intention.  And for that—and, for so very much more, I sincerely apologize, and again ask for your most kind indulgence, and forgiveness.

So…in a concerted effort to regain what I had hoped would be an entry that was funny, interesting to read, and free of my usual bombast, I will—with your permission—simply start over from the beginning.

As always, I remain ever grateful for your having befriended me, and for keeping me close to you; and please know that I love you dearly, ‘Zahc’.

My late father was an avid, outdoor sportsman for much of his life, until age, and illness forced him to stop; during the ‘Great Depression’, both he and a brother would go out into the woods, shooting wild turkeys, birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, all of which were dutifully brought home to his mother to find a necessary place in the family cooking pot.

While on assignment to Alaska (before he married my mom), he would fish for salmon in rushing, ice-cold streams, or—with friends—go out into the frigid, uncharted, and dangerous wilds to hunt for bear.  There were no restrictions as to either in those, long-ago days.

But fishing, I think, remained his favorite pastime.  And would continue until his age, and health prohibited it.

In one of my previous posts, I mentioned our ‘death-by-driving’ summer pilgrimage from Texas, where we lived, to Tarpon Springs, Florida where my mother’s people lived.

These awful trips were not my first encounter with the town of Tarpon Springs, as when dad was in Korea, mom and I lived with one of my ‘bat-shit-crazy’ Aunts, while I attended—there first and second grade.

Its funny how many stories pour-forth from other stories, and I will only say—regarding school--that there were teachers, there, who had been in saddle sufficiently long as to have taught both my mother and sisters.  And, in passing, it always makes me laugh, now, that my first grade teacher, Helen Winslow (how come we never forget their names?) from a certain angle looked EXACTLY like George Washington, but with a dress on.

And, sometimes, when my father WAS home, we tried in vain to do ‘dad-and-lad’ stuff, hopefully to make of me less a nerd and to spend time doing stuff my dad liked, in hopes of trying to find something, anything that might make of it a ‘bonding moment’.

Regrettably, this proved to be a daunting task, for my father and I could practically not be more unalike; he loved fishing, I hated fishing, and would get bored easily; neither had I any interest in hunting, camping, sports.  I guess I was either more like my mother, or else I was the prodigy of aliens, as even my mom loved football !

So, on one eventful occasion, while I was in first grade, dad decided that nothing would do but that we journey to the ‘Sponge Docks’ in Tarpon Springs ( the diving for, and the collection of sponges, being the major export of that small town), which was then divided into three social groups:1) Afro-Americans; 2) Caucasians, many of whom could trace their lineage’s back to and before the Civil War, and, 3) Greeks who had for some hundred years immigrated to America, and settled in Tarpon Springs.

And so, Tarpon Springs had its own considerable part of town, unsurprisingly called, “Greek Town”, which consisted of restaurants, gift shops, fishing boats, numerous curiosities, ‘sponge boats’, and the infamous ‘Sponge Exchange, in which, the hauls of sponges brought back were assayed, weighted, dickered-over, and sold to be distributed nationwide.

Centered around the harbor were scores of wooden, fishing boats, of particular Greek design, in which the prow was always much higher than in regular boats.  One could see them clustered and tied-off to the dock on a main street of Greek Town, called, “Dodecanese Boulevard”, Greek, for ‘Twelve Islands’, whose translation means absolutely nothing to me to this day.

However, in 1953, Hollywood thought the life of a ‘Sponger’ to be of such epic interest, that they made a movie of it, called, I believe, “Beneath The Twelve Mile Reef”, a tepid, little potboiler starring Robert Wagner, Terry Moore, and Gilbert Roland.

I am listing the link to it below for at least three reasons: 1) To show you the town I roamed as a child, and, actually liked; 2) It was the site of one of my father’s and my more goofy ‘bonding attempts’, and 3) so that if ever you cannot sleep, this, B- cinematographic excursion into dull’s-ville, ought to help put even the most stubborn insomniac into a coma.

                     http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0045551/

And to all who dare, I wish you Godspeed, good luck, and a thorough night’s sleep!

In either 1960, or 1961, on one of my dad’s leave time, he decided that nothing would do, but that we go ‘deep sea’ fishing, on one of two, large, commercial, tourist boats; ours was called—for some unfathomable reason, the “Miss Milwaukee”.

The general deal was: for a hefty fee, each boat would carry some 40-80 tourists out about ten miles from shore to spend a half-day fishing for dreams.  Upon drop of anchor, these would-be sportsmen would line the decks on both sides of the ship to prevent it from keeling over, I guess.

Every man (and woman) forced to stand shoulder to shoulder could not cast their lines into the water, but simply released them to drop in front of them, and…………..wait.

If NOBODY got a bite, the boat would up-anchor, and move a couple of miles away to try again. Minutes would pass like hours for me; and while my dad loved it, I hated almost every second of it, but for dad’s sake, I did give it my best shot.

So far, despite a growing sense of utter boredom, everything went well; dad expertly baited my hook, and with good reason: I could never handle a fish hook without necessitating a visit to the emergency room to have it removed from whatever part of my body it had gotten driven into.  And, besides, at that time, I was just six years old.

So kindly imagine if you will, forty or so tourists, with lines dropped straight down in front of them, with me, at my dad’s side, all the way at the end, a place that could neither hide me from chaos, nor avoid some kind of disaster.

For some reason, I could not get the release mechanism on my ‘rent-a-rod’ to work, and in flopping the rod up and down, and around, finally gave a titanic snap to the rod, which not only released my fishing line, but, with the wind, and the Fates against me, carried it all the way across all the other men’s lines, putting them all into a huge, gigantic, tangle when I started to reel the line up.

Pandemonium reigned supreme, while everything ground to an abrupt halt, as everybody—including the boat’s helpers—tried, in vain—to untangle line after line after line.  The delicate salt air quickly became empurpled with curse words I had—at six—never had heard before, and I certainly had no clue what the ‘F’ word meant, though, in time, I would.

It did not take an Einstein, however, to become aware that all these anglers were pissed, and the gravity of the situation grew as my dear dad gave me one of those, ‘just wait until we get home, buddy’ looks, and in quick succession, my rod was wrenched from me, and I was banished inside to the cabin, which had tables and benches, and a very, small lunch counter.

There I met an older woman, wearing a red-plaid, flannel shirt over her shirt, who was sitting there, playing dominoes, you know, the old kind that were made of genuine ivory.

As she and I sat there, playing dominoes (which was lots more fun for me than fishing, anyway), I paused to look around me to see the hand-written menu over the lunch counter. Their prices, while a little steep at the time, and their offerings amazed and delighted me.  Plus, as you might know, only once have I ever been seasick, and, I was hungry, and, I thought that eating aboard the boat was a neat experience.

I ran out to my dad, who—with all the others, were still struggling to untangle their lines, and shouted, “Hey dad…they have ham sandwiches for fifty-five cents!!!”

And as if I had not done enough, the very mention of ham sandwiches induced probably about twenty of the fisherman to lean over, and lose their cookies.

My dad, now with absolute murder in his eyes, searched through his pockets, and gave me a dollar, while pushing me back into the cabin before any of the pissed, and now vomiting anglers could get to me. And of course, all that motion caused the boat to sway back and forth, inducing ‘mal de mare’ to the fisherman on the other side of the boat as well.

None of that even reasonably occurred to me; I was happy, enjoying my coke and ham sandwich, while playing dominoes with this elderly lady, whose name I will never remember.  I had a great time, in spite of the promised ‘talking to’ I would get upon returning home.

But friends…it shows—among other things—how little it takes to make a six year old boy happy.

Never mind that—on reaching ‘port’, I was shuttled quickly into the car to wait, as my dad, and others got the fish they did catch cleaned and gutted.  Around that portion of the ‘docks’ were three or four fat, happy cats, in anticipation of a grand ‘fish dinner’ consisting of discarded fish pieces and entrails, thrown into the garbage.

I think I would have gladly gone again, but strangely, was never asked to.  Yet, for me, it had been great fun, and a chance to be with my dad whom I loved with all my heart.  I never did get that ‘talking to’, and I think that somehow my dad knew that this was probably the only way we could bond, and do something together.

Later, my dad would leave to be mustered up somewhere in South Florida, to nervously await the outcome of the Cuban Missile Crisis. And while the utter gravity of the moment escaped me, except for those useless ‘duck-and-cover’ exercises at school, where, upon a signal, we would—in effect—hide under our desks, while our teacher ( George Washington-in-drag ) stood under a reinforced door frame, in case we were attacked by the ‘Commies’.

How very stupid and innocent we were in those days.  For a direct exchange of nuclear missiles with Cuba or Russia would have just vaporized us, and probably have ended civilization as we knew it.

And even though at six, I could easily read at twelfth grade level, of geo-politick I knew nothing.  In general, I was just a happy—though naïve—little kid.  And while times have changed, and certainly events, people, and places have been altered, age, and illnesses have encroached, and happiness? It swings to and fro like the pendulum on a giant grandfather clock, with days of ennui, depression, despair, and all that shit, have rendered happening—now—into gratitude, at best, or thanks, somehow, the naiveté of that six year old boy remains.

And you know…maybe that’s not such a bad thing, after all.

Meanwhile, while I am still ill, though I hope the pneumonia is slowly going away ( Whew!), I want to thank you for being my dear friends, and for your kindness, your caring, your encouragement, and for your patience in reading my diary entries.

I wish for you days of ‘no pain’, free of depression, mental anguish, or despair; I wish for you  a most wonderful weekend, full of joy, hopes-fulfilled, and delight. 

I wish you be free of need, with more than enough to last the month without worry, or having to ‘count pennies’.  I pray that you be full-surrounded by family and friends who love you without question or compromise.

I wish for you balmy and contemplative days, and nights of quiet peace.  May your gentle sleep be unbroken, nor visited by dire nightmare, but with—instead—rest that is restorative. But, as always, watched-over, and kept ever safe by sweet angels.

Please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish...Who, Fish ?! "

“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish…Who, Fish?!”

Part I of II

(  Part II to follow, tomorrow )

06/23/12

To my very, dearest, and most precious friends, and ever patient, and loyal readers,

My late father was an avid, outdoor sportsman for much of his life, until age, and illness forced him to stop; during the ‘Great Depression’, both he and a brother would go out into the woods, shooting wild turkeys, birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, all of which were dutifully brought home to his mother to find a necessary place in the family cooking pot.

And, for all of you who view such activities as somehow, ‘anti-animal rights’, please for a moment, if you can to recall, that these were very hard times, indeed; and ANY extra food that could be procured helped save the family from starving.

And in today’s lousy economy, where bills and income, and foreclosures and mounting debt, many of the things my grandparents did, would—if applied today—would go a long way towards our present survival, and return to monetary responsibility.

And while—for a moment—this is completely off the rails of what I intended—as subject—to speak to you about, I will gladly share some of their survival mechanisms that helped them not only through the ‘Great Depression’, but beyond, into the war years.  And we would be, I believe—as representatives of a diminishing ‘Middle Class’--better off and, in consequence, better able to survive these black days that seem to stretch endlessly in front of us.

1)           My grandparents converted their entire back yard into a vegetable garden; as each child in the family became old-enough to do so, they were assigned tasks of watering, weeding, and harvesting the vegetables as they ripened.

2)           Since my father was the eldest son, quite often, he labored alongside my grandfather, and, whatever money they earned that day was given to my grandmother to run the house.

3)           The ‘family car’ stayed parked in the garage, as everybody walked to work, or hitched rides on trucks; the only time the family car was used, was to take the family to church on Sunday.  And, on rare occasions when there might have been a little extra money in the house, sometimes after church, my grandfather would take the family out of town to a particular, Amish-run restaurant for lunch.

4)           Baths were taken once a week on Saturday night in an old, aluminum tub, large-enough to sit in; their supply of hot water came from the side-mounted reservoir on their wood-burning cook stove.  Each child, by age was thus bathed, so if you were ‘first’, you got a tub of hot, soapy water, which—of course—became increasingly cold and dirty, even with the sometimes addition of hot water from the cook stove.  So…child #6, to be bathed, got a regular, rotten deal, as you can well-imagine.

5)           My grandparent’s house was like a revolving door for many of my grandmother’s relatives.   So, the household was composed of six children, two adults, and  my grandmother’s mother (a woman of indeterminate age called Susie), for whom was kept a giant bottle of whiskey, that she referred to as her ‘medicine’ in a cabinet, in the living room, and who got from my grandfather one, giant spoonful a night, which always made Susie ‘feel’ so much better!

There also was my grandmother’s brother, Uncle Harry, who, despite having NO teeth, nevertheless would get into the family apple barrel in the basement, and eat apples, practically core and stem, and all, and who would—at times—make my grandfather most unhappy. My dear grandfather, who would not mince a single word, would yell, “Harold…stay the goddamned hell out of the apples!” Just how effective this dictum was is unknown, but my grandfather was a huge, bear of a man who took shit from absolutely no one, a trait, I think, my own father fully inherited.

At one time, my mother’s Aunt stayed with them; her talent was (for any of you old enough to remember it!) to play the piano at a local theater, in hopes of adding emotive qualities to the silent films that were playing.

6)           Everybody did whatever they could to live and ‘make due’.  An elderly woman who lived down the street made candy, to sell to the kids.  My grandmother at one time, took in washing, and fine embroidery work, for the still-rich people in town.  And (since among other things, my grandfather was a butcher), anytime that someone had a pig, or a cow that needed to be slaughtered, my grandfather would do it, in exchange for a portion of the meat.

7)           My grandmother canned enough vegetables to last the Winter, whose jars were lined up in the basement.  Can you possibly imagine just how hot that wood burning stove made the kitchen through the summer?

8)           Meanwhile, my grandfather brewed his own beer, and made dandelion wine from the press that the kids periodically added to.

9)           Their refrigerator was a giant, zinc-lined box, in which perishable foods were kept cold by the ice the town’s iceman, delivered from a horse-drawn wagon; as the kids gathered around him, he would shave off little pieces of ice for them…a special treat in summertime.

10)   My dear grandmother, and her mother made ‘hand-me-down’ clothes for the girls, and ‘darned socks’ until each sock looked like a little mass of train-track marks.

11)   Nothing...and I mean nothing was ever thrown away.  When, in due time, clothes were unrepairable, they became cleaning rags.  And when THESE wore out, they were given to an old man with a pushcart, who collected rags in exchange for sharpening knives and scissors.

12)    Shoes were always an expensive commodity; if a hole was discovered in the sole of the shoes, they were packed down, and covered with cardboard, until, also ‘hand-me-down’ shoes could be purchased.

13)    Everyone struggled during a Depression that lasted from before 1929, until—really—after WWII was declared. So, having ‘done without’ for so many years, ‘rationing’ was easy enough to do.

14)    In addition, my grandfather worked as a chauffeur for a rich banker that lived in ‘mansion Ville’; it was my grandfather’s task to take the banker’s family out to the country to go to a pricey, weekend lunch.  As part payment, the banker let my grandfather take my dad along with them, and also treated them to lunch (of course, sitting far away from the banker and his family)!

In those, far-ago days, their lunches paid for them, I shall never forget my dad telling me that his father would learn over, and whisper to him, “No matter whether you may like the lunch or not…to always eat the meat, Bud, “always eat the meat.”  I now suspect that it was an admonition, to ‘eat the meat’ for its protein value.

And, while no one had anything, so that the added protein value of a paid-for lunch was of mentionable importance, it is also an object lesson, sometimes, of who lives in such times, and who doesn’t, for ironically, during the heigth of the Depression, when banks were being closed, that it was this very same banker who later leapt from an upper office window to his death.

By now, my most dear, and precious friends, I have—by now—gone so far astray of my original topic, so that I shall have to divide it up into parts I and II, is is—nevertheless—a character study into the minds of both my dad AND mom, that I thought that it needing explaining.

It was—of course—a lengthy period of time in which, perhaps 98% of the general populace was desperately poor…but, that they somehow survived.  My grandfather turned his backyard into a vegetable garden; the neighbors, next door, kept pigs in a sty at the end of their backyard (and, what a sweet, mid-summer smell drifted over to my grandfather’s house!).

I guess the important points elucidated here, particularly in present times that monetarily are not much different from theirs, is that they took certain, common sense measures, and so, as bad as the ‘Great Depression’ got, kept their families together.  They always had shelter, and enough to eat.

Now granted, times change.  People and places change. Situations change.

But if only we could adopt their persevering mindset, we would go further to remedy our own, current bleak situations.

While I am not in any way suggesting that everyone take baths from a single tub on Saturday nights, we could—if forced to—probably use our cars less.  And while too much of America is presently in such dire straits, keeping the family safe, under shelter, and well-fed, may prove less hard to do.

For, although everyone that still makes up what is left of the so-called ‘Middle-Class’ today is broke, with many health issues, and unsecured debt up to the eyebrows, still…everyone has a talent.  Some can sew.  Some can paint (as in houses); some can even rotate baby-sitting, or mowing lawns.  I’d very much like to see the ‘barter system’ come back with a will, with say, electric, or plumbing work, done in exchange for like labor, or services, or even food.  Start an ‘open pantry’ on a table in your living room.  And should I, for example, need a pound of coffee, I could trade it for the pound of sugar, and pound of butter I DO have.

If done among neighbors, it would save on having to drive to the grocery store, waste gas and time, when maybe you just happen to have an extra pound of coffee.

For those who like to hunt and/or fish, I’m sure there would be a regular, sustainable market in trading them for other food or services.  We already have a model for success, if we only but look to our history.

And while it is so easy to bitch, moan, and complain, and to especially apportion blame to others: bankers, lawyers, government, and failed, corporate America, and certainly they have done more than their share of economic and social damage to the Country, please keep in mind that they were not alone in this present, deplorable state we find ourselves in.

It took millions of our fellow Americans, each armed with a teaspoon, to help dig the enormous grave we now find ourselves in.

How many times, were mortgages granted to those who could never pay them?  How much student loan was applied for, with NO intention of ever paying it back?  I even ask you to kindly look within your own wallets.  How much unsecured debt do you have, that even trying to pay the minimum each month is a ‘roll-of-the-dice’ nightmare?

A television is fine.  But, seriously, did you really NEED that 72-inch, plasma set?

Owning a cell telephone is—today—a necessity, in case of emergency.  But did you need that $400.00 smart phone, with so many apps you’ll never use? And a cell-phone plan that costs a couple of hundreds a month? Please try to convince me that ‘texting’ is even necessary, particularly when each text may cost you something?

Since I am disabled, I applied for, and got a re-conditioned cell telephone that is free, and gives me 250 roll-over minutes a month.  It is a ‘no-frills’ model.  And yet, one can select the background, and from TEN ring tones; I just want my telephone to sound like a telephone…that’s all.

And, to be honest, I—too—am part of the dilemma, as I live (?) on SSDI, a predetermined amount each month, yet, when I got a pre-approved credit card with 0% a.p.r. the first year, after I had wisely transferred to if all of my outstanding store card’s balances, went on to almost max-out the card, until now, I have to throw to it every spare dime I can get my hands on.  To even envision my ever completely balancing out this credit card, will require an austerity program almost beyond what I and Daisy can ’austerely’ live on.

And, STILL, there are ‘things’ that I want.

Oh my dear, and sweetest friends, and ever patient, loyal readers, I have so jumped ship on my original topic, which—initially—was hoped by me to be humorous, that I fear I shall have to ‘divvy’ up this diary entry into two parts.

I will keep the original title, as that was what the entry was supposed to be about…not another semi-rant.  It must—in part—be due to how completely horrible I still feel, if I may presume to use that as an excuse. And, while ‘pay day’ is still some twelve days away, I find that I have just $47.86 in my checking account, whose balance I check by telephone at least twice a day.

And all the while, I both pray, and cross my fingers that all the checks I have written have been processed through the account; still, $47.86 leaves me with no money to purchase any food that I might need, or ‘surprise bills’ that may still come through to be paid.  It becomes the dread of becoming, ‘Overdrawn’, and the fees that accompany it.

And so, dear friends, please let me close for now, especially since its ‘medication time’ again.

Please, please, please always know how very much I love you.

‘Zahc’/Charles

"How Very Quickly Can A Pleasant Exchange Become A 'Rant'"

“ How Very Quickly Can A Pleasant Exchange Become A ‘Rant’”

06/20/12

To my very dearest, dearest friends, and ever loyal readers, perhaps I should try to explain myself; presently, I am still very ill with bronchitis and pneumonia, and my Primary, now, wants me to try a new antibiotic. Will this one work? Who knows…only, that I would rather be sick, stuck at home, than sick, trapped in some hospital.  With this in mind, I may have inadvertently increased the length of both my illnesses, and my utter frustration with them; and, as you know, dear ones, since I first fell ill with all this shit just before the end of May, it has just gone on and on.

In the Physician’s Desk Reference ( P.D.R.), which is now bigger than the bible, surely is there no anodyne, no palliative, no ever feeling better? I had sought to answer in a more pleasant tone, my friend ‘mimi’s’ thread, but I regret my ire got the better of me, and so to ‘mimi’; ‘jpooh’; and ‘damsel’, please, please accept my most sincere apologies.  It is my fondest hope that they ( and you ) will forgive me.

06/18/12

My dear friends, 'mimi', and ‘jpooh’, all my regards for the start of a wonderful week!

Mimi, I especially want to thank you for posing a most compelling question about 'safe zones'.

And while I am probably not alone in this, but my 'safe zones' change, expand or contract, due mostly to how I am feeling that day. I know that sounds simplistic, but as I seem to have inherited a bucketful of physical and psychological illnesses, these--in turn--greatly affect my 'sphere of influence'.

Part of the problem is that I no longer drive, nor do I have a car. That eliminates probably 90% of my opportunity to explore, more--gradually--at a time. I am very much dependent on neighbors to shop for me; or, failing that, pay the $30.00 delivery fee to a local grocery store that nonetheless is impossibly too far away to walk with portable oxygen, and a cane.

I can take the County cab/bus that conveys me to my doctor's appointments, but, nowhere else. So, to a degree, I am already trapped by circumstance.

And, if I have had a particularly bad night before, or am in pain, or feeling ill or depressed, there are days that pass during which I cannot even go out to my mailbox.

Living as I do in Florida, I could blame the heat, no sidewalks, limited public transportation, lack of a social network to go to movies, restaurants, etc.

It would also seem that I am adversely affected by the random movements of large numbers of people, which is why I will never go to the mall, for example.

And, sometimes, living alone with Daisy makes me less likely to engage in social discourse; many times, errant telephone calls just annoy me, and distract me, much less having unannounced visitors.

Not to mention--at 58--a fear factor of traffic, loud voices, crashes, unexpected hyper stimuli

which cause me to panic, and to be further agoraphobic.

Some days ( especially after having read disquieting or horribly shocking news ) my safe zone is measured by the inside of my house, as a lot of things just scare me now; I am afraid of robbery, assault, worse, because of my having opiate and narcotic medication in my possession. And on 'bad' days, I don't even bother to look out of my windows, nor open the blinds.

I am being as completely honest with you as I am able. Yes, sometimes my home is an admitted 'velvet prison' by choice, I suppose.

Any help or suggestions, or encouragement would be most welcome.

My dear friend, 'damsel',

At this time of a day which has been long, ( as I'm still most ill ), has proven to be one remarkably free of anything purposeful that I might otherwise have contemplated, and...maybe done. All I did--dear--was exist--which I guess beats the alternatives. But the question still begs an answer.

What do we as nominal personalities have to do to, in effect, earn our keep as so-called individuals with perhaps decrepit bodies, and clouded minds, but, still, with some idea to make of each day a day worthwhile?

Were we kind? Did we help another find his or her way? Did we comfort or feed a child, stop to assist someone elderly? Or, did we--instead--pass away the gloom of another long, long day, measured only by our ragged inhalations?

It is thus easy to confuse one day with the next, and...why not, as they begin to run together like a water color picture, but without the definition, or the clarity.

This is not an exciting life. It is, rather, an eat, bathroom, computer, eat, sleep cycle of monumental unimportance.

And--of course--I am in an assorted agony of pain, congestion, and lack of volition.

Often, I am most heartily ashamed to have to beg for services for which there is always NO money.

And, as afternoon passes into evening, into the inevitability of night, heralding yet another day too soon upon us, what have we to say for ourselves?

So subtle it is, my dear friend, how dreams unravel, and die. And--in consequence--how little we seem to care about it.

I DO have a quiet, little house, dear 'damsel', and since the volume on my computer is turned down, and Daisy is quiet, as is the neighborhood, I think that I---too--would like to dose up, don my best pajamas, and crawl gratefully into a freshly made bed, and would probably doze until the middle of the night. Should I--perhaps--lift dear Daisy into the bed with me; could she then get down without assistance?

Let us say that I am depressed, and miserable. Let us further say that I feel numb (except for pain), and so feel nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

I passed resentment, earlier, with my last, uncontrolled coughing fit. I feel both sweated and chilled.

I have no one to love me, nor could I expect such devotion to what now amounts to being old and ugly, and in more need of a nursemaid, than a true companion.

I often feel as if I'm sitting at a deli counter, holding a ticket upon which is written the 'sideways eight'...infinity.

No wonder I am sometimes afraid to go to bed at night, though my sometime afternoon naps produce no such nightmare, no such fear.

"Real-time" friends are so few; I'd have to Google-Earth them. And why not? They have their own lives, into which I have been most marginally scripted. But, funny...that's the way of it.

At least four times--today--I have dipped into the well of pain medications;; but they will not cure pneumonia, now of three week's duration. Nor, will they tidy-up a broken heart.

My SSDI is just a tease income; my $16.00 a month in food stamps just baffles me, for who can eat a seventeen cent meal? When did I gladly sacrifice fun for quiet, and reliable safety? Not even little goblins rattle my front door knob. And the mail was--as usual--an assemblage of junk, fliers, and bills I cannot pay.

Have I quite forgotten how to laugh?

My fourteen year old dog, Daisy, comes up to me to put her head on my knee; her brown eyes are so large, so inquiring. She cannot tell me where she hurts. I don’t know who needs consoling most. I love her frightfully, clinging to another life in the house.

We both ate Banquet spaghetti dinners, a buck a piece; I gave her all my meatballs save one.

Soon time to dose up again. There is a pain that NO medication will touch.

I used to be a person; now, every day is like being on 'house arrest'. Damn the Lupus. Damn the Fibro. Double damn with sugar on top, the Agoraphobia.

Yes, dearest 'damsel' the bed DOES have its allure, for I am tired, and...tired of it.

But shit...it was never my intention to invade your pleasant thread by pissing in the soup, and making of this a rant. I am so, so sorry, dear. For, if you cannot forgive, please forget. These typed kilobytes will all too soon pass away, as they should.

Heck, I'll probably use this someway in a diary post; nothing wasted. Nothing lost.

Please do take care, as two things will never change: 1) my gratitude for your having kindly befriended me, and 2) that I love all of you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

"What Do We Seek? What Shall We Ask For? A Father's Day Tribute"

“What Do We Seek? What Shall We Ask For? What Can We Hope For? What Will We Live With?”

A Special Tribute To Father’s Day!

06/17/12

To my always dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers, remarked upon the calendar—today—is “Father’s Day”; and I can well-understand that, for too many, today is just another day.

You may have, in your experience, memories of drugged, or drunken, ‘fathers’, either abusive in the extreme…or absent, it merely shows that practically any male can father children.  And for you—my dear sweet friends—I wish for you a most quiet day, with all foul horrible thoughts expunged for the day.

For others, having had ‘step-fathers’ was either a joy or a torment, and for you—too—my heart goes out to you.  I most sincerely hope any gap was filled by some kinder male role model, who tried to provide you with a respectable, loving influence in your lives: it may have been an uncle, a neighbor, a family friend, minister, or guidance counselor.  Someone who might ably assist you through childhood, with values learned to last a lifetime.  And for you, on this day, I sincerely wish you peace, and that any scars remaining were not of your doing, nor, were they your fault.

Biologically, for any male, the biological act of making children is easy…sometimes I believe too easy, for it does not mandate any further involvement, or concern.  As the saying goes, “Any man can be a father.  It takes a special man to be a ‘dad’.

For many—today—whose fathers are still alive, and who loved you at birth, and love you still, these decent men fully deserve praise for having nurtured you, been ‘there’ for you, even in difficult times, and who—in general—delight in you, I would urge you please, do not let the day go unrecognized, for the very special place they occupy with your heart.

And, although it is ‘Father’s Day’, I most firmly believe a sincere regard of thanks must be paid to the mother who might have had to work two jobs, while still taking care of you and loving you. And…for that bond that should exist for having carried you through nine, long months; there is that unique bond between mother and child.

My father and mother were older when they married, and older, still, when they had me.  A boy who did not survive preceded me; and, when I was born, twenty-four weeks premature, and at slightly over two-and-a-half pounds, and very, gravely ill, my chances of living were reduced to a mere ‘coin toss’ of the Gods; and after I was born, my mother could no longer bear children.

So, while I will admit that—in caution, and fear—I was brought up most carefully, and knew, on some subconscious level that I was loved, neither did my father spare the discipline whenever I really needed it.

My father, having served his Country in WWII, and Korea, gave his health, and his all to promote our freedom, and after a five-year illness, which was terrible to behold, especially as it could not be undone, my dear father died in 1998 at the age of seventy-nine.

Who knows the chaos that attends fertilization?  Or what genes, and chromosomes will be passed along?  But when I was growing up, my father and I could not have been more different.  His hobbies and interests were not my hobbies or interests.

Yet, I knew who to go to whenever I was in trouble, lost, or simply needed direction.

Our, little family ‘unit’ consisted of just three people, and mom and dad were my whole world.  And I loved them completely.

When my mom died in 2008, at age 91, for the very first time, I felt what it is like to be truly alone.  When my Therapist asked me if I felt some degree of relief, I angrily told him no, but that I DID feel lost, without a centering, and infinitely empty.

After all, my mother and father had been there for me all my prior life; and, I must admit, for some time, I felt abandonment issues.  I had taken care of them as they became elderly and ill, for almost sixteen years.  I felt a certain terror, wondering who, now, would take care of me? The State?

Ho, Ho….I’ve seen the way the State works, with all of its abusive indifference.  And fully know that, if any time I become a problem, an interruption, or…as I have already seen, a relegate to some ill-though-out program, which makes no sense, compromises my wishes and/or my dignity, and has zero funding, besides…just how few telephone calls would it take to have me yanked from my home, my ‘assets garnished’, to find myself in some incredible cheap, nasty, hellhole of a nursing home, and there left to rot?

Dear friends, if you think me over melodramatic, I can in all truth tell you that such things happen every day.  And, things much worse than that, I assure you.

On yet another personal note, I cannot seem—as yet—to be rid of this pneumonia, whose infection is now spreading to my sinuses and left ear.  So I would most humbly ask for your continued kind, thoughtful, healing thoughts and prayers, my dearest, precious friends.

And so today, Sunday June 17^th is, in effect, my dad’s Day.  And on this hopeful, quiet day, I shall cast my many thoughts back, back over the years, and decades, to give my thanks, my gratitude, and all my love to my mom, AND to my dad, who was not just a father, but a friend; one I shall dearly miss as long as I exist.

And to all my dearest friends, about whom I so often think, I wish for you a quiet, peaceful day, one remarked by ‘no pain’, despair, mental, or physical anguish, but surrounded—instead—by those who truly love you.  May today be a true testament to your fathers, past and present.  And I most sincerely wish for you a day of joyous celebration, love, and healing.

Please always know that you remain securely in my heart,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" A Hearfelt Message To My Dearest Readers "

To my very, very dear friends, and constant, loyal readers,

It is among my dearest hopes, in writing my Blog, to make friends around the world, and to bring to you posts that I most sincerely hope will be worth reading.

I have--regrettably--read as my readership has fallen into a kind of abyss, which, in fact, is quite my own fault.

A dear friend of mine, who has a most successful Blog, kindly told me where I had been making my mistakes.

Although I think I may have 'content', I tend to post it so irradically, that no one will ever know when a new post will appear.  And for that, I am so very, very sorry.

I know my posts tend to run long...my first mistake; but another one I inadvertantly made, was in not posting with any regularity.

And so, in an attempt to try to win my dear readers back, I will endeavor to launch a new post every Wednesday, or Saturday without fail, and to not overload you with saved up, multiple posts.

And so--today--I have begun my new program of submitting Blog entries one at a time, today on Saturday.

As always, your comments are most welcome; and your readership brings me a singular joy.

So...dear friends, I would ask that you please check my Blog on Wednesdays or Saturdays for a new entry, which I hope you may find to be different, and...of interest.

Meanwhile, I wish you health, security, and a lasting sense of peace !

And, please always know, I love you dearly,

Charles/'Zahc'