"B~O~O~O~O~O ! And To All, A Most Happy Halloween !!! "

“ B~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O !

And To All, A Most Happy Halloween !!! “

 

 

( “From goulies and ghosties and long-leggedly beasties and things that go bump in the night Good Lord, deliver us!”—from an ancient Scottish prayer, often mistakenly attributed to the Scottish poet, Robert ‘Robbie’ Burnes. )

 

 

 

 

10/27/12

 

 

 

To my very dearest friends, and always kind readers,

 

 

In less than a week from now, it will be ‘Halloween’!  A time of chills and thrills, sudden, ‘surprises’, cackling laughter, ever deepening shadows, misty, full-moon nights, pumpkins, lit by candle from within, black cats, noisy, ‘spooks’, spider web (hopefully, without the spider!), candy corn, and the joyous peals of children’s laughter as they, in every manner of costume, trudge—holding half-full bags of, ‘treats’--from welcoming door to welcoming door.

 

 

Can witches aboard broomsticks, flying fast and low, be seen outlined against the moon?  Can you hear the rattle of chains, the squeal of rusted door hinges, or the, ‘whooshing’, fluttering of bats as they—too—fly through the air?

 

 

For children, it once was—and still should be—a time of pretend, of being anything they may want to be; walking single-file (accompanied by adult supervision, and in, ‘safe’, neighborhoods) down sidewalks in a thousand neighborhoods, looking for the houses that invite with porch light on, and welcoming open front door.

 

 

There to, ‘show-off’, their many wildly colored, and wonderful dress, to adult homeowners who suddenly, ‘have to guess and guess what each little, ‘treater’, represents.

 

There are always costumes of the, ‘Superheros’, in current vogue…Batmen, and Batgirls, Supermen, and, Supergirls; and let us not forget, ‘X-men’!

 

But more traditional outfits include a spate of would-be Firemen, Princesses, Farmers, Faeries.  Witches, and Ghosts, plus costumes that reflect childhood, ‘want-to-be’s’.

 

It is the children who know exactly what Halloween is about: the chance to play, and to pretend; to assume—for one, brief night—whatever persona they choose.

 

And they LOVE it!   Fully as much—if not more—than the candy treats they hope to receive.

 

I ask you, my very dearest friends, when was the LAST time you went out, ‘trick-or-treating’?  Not—mind you—as one of the supervising adults.  But rather, part of that happy throng that delighted in playing, ‘dress up’?

 

 

In October of 1963—when I was nine years old—was the very last time my mother and father allowed me to go from door to door, in costume, yelling, ‘Trick-or-treat!!!!’, jostling my way to an open front door to be given my, ‘bribe’… goodies, against potential, ‘tricks’.

 

 

I chose my own costume, and was very proud of it.  I had on a plastic face mask that was held in place by an elastic band over my ears and around the back of my head.

 

The mask had two, little holes beneath the nostrils to facilitate breathing, and into them I attached a long, black moustache.

 

I wore a long, black raincoat I had, with my galoshes for shoes.  I wore a plastic, black derby, and carried a plastic pumpkin.

 

That Christmas—before—I had asked for (and had been given) one of those children’s, ‘doctor sets’, that included a bright red stethoscope, a, ‘doctor’s bag’, and a bottle of sugar, ‘pills’.  And so, I wore the stethoscope around my neck.  Somehow, I also managed to carry a grocery bag to collect candy in.

 

And I was set!  For that one night—anyway—I was not a nine year old, ‘Zahc’, but rather, the nefarious, Dr. S. J. Smith. [I made up the name!].

 

My mom and dad thought I looked SO cute, that they brought the camera out; and somewhere, lost amid the numerous and ancient family albums is a photograph of me, leaning slightly (and, menacingly!) at the camera, holding out my plastic pumpkin.

 

 

And oddly—somehow—the personage of  Dr. S. J. Smith lingered on for a number of years, as whenever my folks needed a form witnessed, I would scrawl upon it, ‘S. J. Smith, M. D.

 

 

And out I went, coming home again, and again so that my dear father could upend the contents of each, nearly-full bag out upon the dining table.  And what a cache of treats there were!

 

 

Little root beer barrels, little grape barrels, toffee, gum, boxes of raisins, the odd candied apple, popcorn balls, home-made cookies, jellybeans by the kilo; and candy corn, candy corn, and more candy corn.

 

 

Since we lived at Ft. Hood, Texas, and in a duplex on base, there were miles, and miles of sidewalks to cover, not to mention repeat visits to houses that gave out the best stuff!, a veritable mountain of candy quickly formed on our dining room table.

 

 

Of course—even in ‘those’ days, there were warnings of apples containing razor blades, and of loose stuff being, ‘doctored’, with poisons.  And so—from that enormous ziggurat of treats—my mother and father discarded anything loose; there went the candied apples, the popcorn balls, the cookies, and the jellybeans!  While I wanted to at least try a couple of cookies!

 

 

Both then until now, I have never been particularly fond of candy, per se., though—certainly—chocolate has NEVER been a stranger in THIS house!  And at Easter, those super, super sweet Cadbury, ‘eggs’…WOW, a guaranteed ‘sugar rush’ in every bite!

 

 

However, this general dislike helped to make me more popular than my, ‘geekishness’, would otherwise have conferred as I was the ONLY kid on the block who still had Halloween candy in May!

 

Of course, the next year—when I was ten—I was deemed, ‘too old’, to go a trick-or-treating, but—instead—took on the duty of handing of the candy, while my folks mostly just watched TeeVee.  Sigh.

 

And although that was almost—gasp!—fifty years ago, some things—thank God—seemed to have remained changeless:

1)           The childhood ability to, ‘pretend’, to imagine, to don personas as they would socks.

2)           The ability to dream, to laugh without self-consciousness.  To have fun on an elemental basis.

3)           Most importantly—unlike adults—they have retained the ability to, ‘play’.

 

 

Admittedly—though—ideally, children have time to do these things, quite apart from duty and expectation, until such time as they—too—are expected to don the mantle of responsibility, the, ‘rite’, of passage—as it were—in order to become respectable, if predictable, ‘grown-ups’.

 

 

Though in the traditions of the Amish community, there is recognized a set time from about age sixteen to marriage, as, “Rumspringa”, or, ‘youth period’, during which the strict tenets of Amish belief are relaxed, to allow an individual time to, ‘play’, or to, ‘blow off a little steam’, before having to settle down, start a farm, marry, and have children!

 

 

Well before the time we become, ‘adults’, ‘play’, as such, is literally beaten out of us with, ’grown-up’, responsibilities, duties, and obligations taking the ascendant.

 

 

‘Play’ is thought of as wasting time, effort,  money, and considered—moreover—to be juvenile, and unproductive. It is even thought—derogatorily so—as being foolish or downright, ‘silly’. And we learn our lessons only too well.

 

 

Oh, one might—on occasion—play tennis, golf, or go bowling, etc., these pastimes are actually more like work, as they are ordered, have specific rules, and—in general—involve a decided measure of competitiveness!

 

 

‘Play’ knows no hours, no rules, nor any competition to be thoroughly participated in and enjoyed.

 

 

I would think that we all would like to be happy, secure, and fulfilled.  But in striving to become so, somehow, ‘play’ (for the most part), got left out in the rain and sleet.

 

 

I kindly ask you to consider this: about the only times we—as adults—‘play’, is on those rare occasions when we frisk-about with our pets, or actually get down on the floor to play with one’s children or grandchildren.

 

 

And when the grandchildren have left, or gone to sleep, how often have you sat down to really read, “The Cat In The Hat”, by Dr. Seuss?  Or picked up a couple of crayons and tried to color?

 

Admittedly—then—we NEED to, ‘play’; to, ‘cut loose’, to relax, and have fun!

 

 

And yet, I would propose that we need to consider, ‘play’, as a measure of happiness, well-adjustment, and…sense of peace.

 

If I may illustrate on a very personal basis, after my last, diary post, entitled, “A 2^nd Rate Heaven?”, I asked for comments; the ones that I received were—without exception—extremely well-thought out, considerate, literate, and insightful!

 

 

I especially appreciate the comments made by dear friends, ‘Tenar’, ‘AmyLouLou’, and, ‘scorpioj’, who suggested that—in truth—I was, by illness and pain, too preoccupied with being miserable to be…well...much of anything else.  And that, my dearest friends occasioned in me a lot of, ‘soul-searching’, and necessary contemplation.  How very, very right they were!

 

That is—perhaps why—Halloween is my particular, personal favorite among all recognized, American Holidays.

 

 

 

Although it is--among adults, especially—a quality practically buried somewhere in the past, the notion of, ‘play’, can still be found, if truly searched for.

 

 

While I am not particularly recommending that you seat-yourself on the floor of a toy store, and begin playing with trucks, and making, ‘truck sounds’ (though about ten years ago, I did just that—in a local pharmacy--playing with toy dinosaurs while waiting for a prescription to be filled!  Of course I got stared at.  But at that very moment, I found I was laughing, and genuinely having fun!  And…I bought four or five toy dinosaurs to bring home!), you can certainly start off small.

 

For example, the next time you have to go grocery shopping, pretend that you are someone else. At the register, assume a different voice, a different body posture.  You can be—really—anyone you want from rock star, to historic figure.

 

Do not leave a toy section in a store unexplored.  If the mood strikes you, buy a couple of toys for yourself!

 

Try to look at Nature the way a child does, full of colors, changes, magic, and wonderment.

 

We all could use a little childlike, ‘awe’, in our lives.  Please note that I did not say, ‘childish’.

 

And on this upcoming Halloween, as you’re standing near the door to, ‘ooh and ah’, each costume while giving out candy, if you simply cannot dress up in character for the evening, at least save some of the best candy you like for you!!!!!!!!!

 

My very, very dearest friends, please know that I think of you so very often, and want you to be well, secure, happy, and able to freely enjoy life.

 

And please, please always know that I love you dearly!

 

'Zahc'/Charles

"A 2nd Rate Heaven?"

 

“A  2^nd  Rate Heaven?”

 

 

10/25/12

 

 

(When a savaging of pain, weariness, and overuse of medication would make even a brief, but fitful dream a bizarre, and twisted metaphor)

A note to all my wonderful readers:

While I realize that the description of persons, places, and events, along with any subsequent allusions to any apparent, ‘religiosity’, may—in fact—be counter to one’s particular ideations, affiliations, or beliefs, and—therefore--found to be offensive; in my defense:

1)           It has never been my intention to cause offense, or to—in fact—try to change one’s core values.

2)           The following exposition, and, ‘title’, were the result of a dream I had had, and as such...the contents, and any implied suppositions, and/or conclusions to be made are completely beyond my control; and do not necessarily reflect my own judgment or value system.

 

Thank you

 

 

To my very, very dear kind friends, and faithfully loyal readers,

 

This morning I discovered that I had—once again—fallen asleep out at the kitchen counter.

 

Both Daisy and I seemed to be locked into a repetitive cycle, where she kept wanting to go, ‘out’, to pee…or…to, ‘catch her breath; my subsequent 40-90 minute sleep cycles naturally involved my rousing to let her go out, then to settles down—having a couple of cigarettes while I waited, and then—once she was in—I found myself too drowsy to do anything more than to put my head into my arms and drift off.

 

This was repeated over and over again; for some heretofore not observed reason, Daisy would go out the patio doors, come back in about five feet, and then go out again.

 

Although relatively unwise to do so, I finally drifted off to sleep leaving the front door unlocked, and the patio doors open about eighteen inches.

 

I do not, ‘sleep’, for very long, but—when I do doze off, I sleep deeply, quite unaware of anything around me.

 

I have done this a number of times before; and in this neighborhood, leaving the front door unlocked and wide open, with the lights on in the house is the surest path to folly, robbery, and, ‘who-knows-what-else?’.

 

I know I fall asleep deeply-enough to enter the, ‘dream state’, and as I wake up so often, I always remember my dreams.

 

And should these dreams prove disturbing, or unsettling, a subsequent, ‘after mood’, can often affect me all day.

“A  2^nd. Rate Heaven?”

 

 

I opened my eyes to find myself in a fair-sized waiting room; it had two, opposing doors, but no windows.

 

It was very crowed inside, with single persons, and couples (of all ages) milling around constantly with no apparent purpose.  There were no chairs or benches, and people were sitting-about on the floor, looking at others constantly in motion.

 

Suddenly, I was aware that my late mother was with me.  It was difficult to stay together with all those people jostling around.  Somehow, it dawned on me that there were countless, other waiting rooms such as the one my mother and I were in.

 

There seemed to be a particular gathering of people at one side of the room, and I made my way through the crowd to try to find out just what was going on.

 

It seems that everyone was being given a clipboard on which there was an obvious, lengthy kind of test, or examination; one that everyone HAD to complete, and turn in.

 

In addition to the usual requests for name, age, marital status, income, telephone number, and place of residence, there were oddly worded questions about one’s life, one’s goals, one’s hopes, one’s dreams, and accomplishments.

 

There were questions that related to beliefs, and to important, ‘life events’.  And small essays dealing with character, talents, interactions with others, and…since it was as a typical test, there were a few mathematic problems to be solved.

 

And while there was no implied, ‘time limit’, in completing the test, there was an air of extreme urgency among the crowd, to submit the finished test as soon as possible.

 

Somehow, my mother was either exempt from the test, or else had long-since completed it, for she—too—wandered-about expectantly, but with no apparent sense of urgency.

 

Once completed, the tests were pushed through one of a number of slots on the walls.

 

I due course, each person’s test had been graded, and returned to them; the standard grading of, ’90-100, 80-90, 70-80, 60-70’, and so on, was written at the top right corner of the test in red pencil, and circled.

 

At the end of the waiting room, there was another slot into which the now graded tests were pushed, and, from a set of large bookcase, there opened a door I had not previously seen.

 

Those with sufficiently high test scores were allowed entrance into what looked to be an endless hallway; those whose test scores were considered too low were—instead—shown to a—now—exit door, leading to something outside.

 

Briefly, my mother and I were separated in that milling crowd, though I could see her stepping through the door of, ‘acceptance’, into that endless hall.   I chased after her as quickly as I could to be with her, and pushed my way past people lining up, try to find my mother again.

 

Imagine—if you will, my very dearest friends—a building kind of like a mall, but one, one hundred thousand (or more!) times larger than any you might ever see, and with multiple levels, elevators, escalators leading to a ceiling one could not see for clouds.

 

In it were countless stores, food courts, and rest areas, with entertainment.  There were salons and make-up studios, to make one beautiful; clothing stores—without seeming end—from which to choose one’s preferred attire.

 

There were food courts that appealed to every kind of taste imaginable.  And places to rest, to contemplate, before moving on.

 

Here, there was no sense of urgency, only one of delight.

 

I lost sight of my dear mother as she entered a particular salon, and was—in fact—dragged-back through the entrance to find myself propelled through the exit door, and to the outside.

 

There…I—and countless others—slowly made out way on an endless gritty, rocky beach,  beside a vast and utterly motionless sea, gray/green in color, under an equally gray and oppressive, empty sky.   Occasional fits of sullen breeze wafted to us the smell of decaying seaweed.

 

The sun—above—was but a faint and distant smudge amid the grayness of infinitely-high, and overcast clouds.

 

There was no feeling of temperature, only of endless desolation, and loneliness.

 

We finally approached a vast, and uncompleted ruin of what might once have been an elaborate resort.

 

Once inside, I walked, and walked and walked down seemingly unending halls of rooms that had no facing wall, and no door…clearly revealing the occupants inside.

 

There were sensations of pain and despair, yes…and an overall sense of hopelessness, shame and suffering.

 

For—no matter what the person’s original illness(es), or disease, or injury was, it was changed—somehow—in order to be seen displayed on the outside of the body.

 

There were those, for example, could be readily seen greatly enlarged, and diseased organs; on the front of some of their bodies could be seen masses of intestines, exposed and enlarged brains.

 

Some were missing arms and legs, while others had arms and legs too many. Some had two or three extra sets of teeth, or grossly enlarged ears, or noses.  Some—I guessed by way of personality—were made monstrous by the addition of horns, hooves, tails.

 

None of the rooms were furnished.  Instead, individuals, friends, couples, or families were huddled-together on stained mattresses, covered by dirty sheets; they were in constant motion, trying to find more comfortable positions.

 

Oddly, not once was I appalled by these sights, nor did I feel any sense of danger, anger, or outrage.  If anything, I felt a feeling of reluctant acceptance, even—cooperation—as groups tried to make room on the mattresses for new arrivals.

 

For a brief while I, ‘rested’, with a young couple who not only tried to make room for me, but to offer enough sheet to be covered.

 

The young man looked as though his intestines—having become five times their normal size—had burst-through the front and side of his abdomen.  His young wife was as equally affected, though I cannot now recall how. 

 

All I do know is that they were unhappy, miserable, but willing to share their space with me as they were able.

 

In time, I grew hungry, and found my way to an enormous cafeteria, whose various serving lines stretched almost out of sight.  And all were filled by people standing there, waiting to be served.  I picked up a tray, and found a place in line.

 

Before me, I saw all manner of delicious food, whose appearance, and aroma made my mouth water.  I could not reach any of it, though.

 

Further and further down the serving line was displayed the finest foods and beverages in all the world.  Yet, no one would serve it to me.

 

On my plate—instead—was placed bits of dry, stale, insect-eaten and moldy crackers and bread.  The only thing available to drink was bitter, brackish, contaminant-filled water.  I gagged as I tried to swallow it, and found myself crying, frustrated, and feeling unutterably lost.

 

I was—at last—truly, truly alone; I had no mother or father to console me.  No friends to comfort me.  No former co-workers to speak with.  Not even the briefest of kind acquaintances could I find to help me.

 

And while there always was a sense of passing time, time—itself—had ceased to mean anything.  This, I believed—must be what the conception of, ‘eternity’, is like.

 

Just before I most gratefully awoke, I had a sudden, puzzling thought: there was no appreciable torment by demons, nor was there endless fire.  Certainly none of the screaming, etc., one might associate with, “Hell”.

 

So…where was I?

 

Stuck in amber, forever in a place that was neither, “Heaven”, or, “Hell”.  It was—to me—sort of like some mid-point reality; someplace where they truly, truly evil did not go, but again, neither was it, “Heaven”, certainly not in any of the ways I had always thought of, believed in, or hoped for or even, ‘wished’, “Heaven”, to be.

 

However, my most dear, dear friends, and constant, loyal readers, it was a dream, just that and nothing more.  Something conjured up from the Unconscious, as may be affected by fatigue, illness, pain, depression, or sense of loss.

 

As such, though, I would think that my unconscious brain would—instead—concoct a dream more pleasant, more endurable, more evanescently, ‘happy’, in order to help cope with the rigors of daily living.

 

And…I must admit that I do—from time to time—have much more pleasant, even entertaining dreams.

 

My questions, then, to you my dear friends are:

 

1)           What do YOU think about the dream?

2)            Have you—in the past, or presently—have dreams like that?

3)           If so…what do you think they represent, or mean?

4)           Do you think there is a purpose for such dreams?

5)           Or a purpose?

6)            What—if anything—do you think we should know, and/or learn from these kinds of dreams?

7)           Or, of, ‘dreams’, in general?

8)           Do your dreams affect—in any way—the way you act, behave, or, ‘feel’, upon awakening?

9)           If so, do the, ‘affects’, of your dreams last part or all of the day?

10)    What do you try to do—if anything—to try to have more, ‘good’, dreams, than, ‘bad’? Do you ever, ‘journal’, or, write them down?

11)    And finally, how often do you experience, ‘bad dreams’, expressed as a percentage of all remembered dreams that you may have?

 

 

I have tried to relate to you the both the substance and nature of a most unsettling dream I had only last night; I have tried to be as accurate—factually—and as truthful as I could possibly be regarding subjective, concurrent emotive states.

 

I am most interested to hear your experiences, and your opinions, and any conclusions you may have.

 

Once again, I thank you so very much for your kind and caring friendship, and for reading my diary entries, and making comment to them, as I value greatly your opinions.

 

Please know, my very, very dearest friends that I think of you so very often, and want you to be safe, secure, in, ‘no pain’, or as lessened pain as is possible, and…happy, and well-loved!

 

And please always know that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"And Now--My Very Dearest Friends, And Ever-loyal Readers--Its, 'YOUR', Turn!"

“And Now—My Very Dearest Friends, And Ever-loyal Readers—Its, ‘YOUR’, Turn!”

 

 

 

10/22/12

 

(Note: I am SO very happy and glad that my dear cousin (who knows light years more than do I about the computer!) was able to correct my horrific error, and to breathe new life into this diary entry!)

 

 

 

To my very precious and dearest friends, and patient, constant loyal readers,

 

 

As you know—in the usual scheme of things— every musician most wants listeners; every painter most desires viewers, and…every, ‘writer’, most needs readers.

 

The, ‘wanting’, the, ‘desire’, and the, ‘needing’, are but integral parts of artistic expression; that  which is inherent to an individual’s sense of personal development, satisfaction of Self, and personal fulfillment.

 

And, while one may argue the merits of, ‘art for art’s sake’, surely, such endeavors cannot long survive in a self-created vacuum, by ignoring the reactive state of response by listeners, viewers… by readers.   Particularly when such endeavors are intentionally placed anywhere within the public forum.

 

Then, it is only natural to expect comment, both good and bad, comments that concern matters of quality, purpose, meaningfulness (including the degree to which a piece is found to be meaningful), and effectiveness.

 

Oh…I suppose—in not wanting, nor caring about readers—I could pen my thoughts in the traditional way, by writing them into a bound, blank diary, ‘book’, with hasp, lock, and tiny, little key, and then keep the book safely tucked-away somewhere in a dresser drawer, or stuck someplace, under a mattress.

 

And there is nothing wrong with that; many people, ‘journal’, by making, ‘log’, entries in their book, thus keeping track of everything from dreams, to, ‘secret thoughts’, to hopes, wishes, ‘goal progress’; these diaries may contain little poems, illustrations, drawings, lists of similar or dissimilar, ‘things’, ‘likes’, ‘peeves’, or little vignettes that describe  one’s life. 

 

This is fine; I heartily encourage everyone to journal with some regularity, using a diary as a way to fix certain moments or conditions in time, so that they may be read later (over time) as a way to discover all kinds of insights about one’s self, as they pertain to self, or to the many interactions of self with others.

 

When I first began to keep a diary at MDJunction—if memory serves correctly—I could have chosen to limit its views to just myself, or to a specific group of persons, or to all members at MDJ.

 

Again…any one of those choices would have been perfectly agreeable and understandable.

 

In choosing—however—to make my diary entries accessible to the widest possible audience at MDJ, it personally revealed both a, ‘want’, to write, and a, ‘need’ to have an audience, in order to be read…in order—perhaps—to be understood.

 

And while it has been—on a number of occasions—suggested to me that I write for myself alone, in choosing to seek an audience it cannot help but make me aware of that audience.

 And, of their needs, wants, situational difficulties, searchings—perhaps—for greater clarity, information, or…of simply wanting to be entertained.

 

Thus, in having sought an audience, I have tried to post regularly on a variety of topics:

1)           Because—in some perceivably meaningful way—to offer my caring, my support, and my desire to always help wherever possible.

2)           Because I, ‘needed’—through exposition—to find myself, to understand myself better.

3)           Because I imagined that—hopefully--I had something to say that might prove to be worth saying.

4)           Because it pleases me to be read.

But, more importantly (for me, anyway!), has been the desire to:

 

1)   Express my complete gratitude at having been befriended by you, my dearest friends.

2)   To always try to let you know that—although your, ‘conditions’, may cause you to feel isolated, and apart--you are not, ‘alone’, nor do you ever have to feel alone.  Nor, to have to bear great suffering in silence.

3)   To ever try to assure you that you are unique, special, especially when illness (physical, mental, or both), pain, despair, familial, or societal expectations would try to, ‘diminish’, you, or question your sense of, ‘worth’.

4)   To strive to be, ‘ever there for you’.  To use this diary forum to try to comfort you, with entries on various conditions, such as, ‘P.T.S.D.’, ‘Depression’, ‘Domestic Violence’, ‘Bipolar Disorder, etc.

5)   To try to be of any help that I can by providing information, and/or links for further investigation, and entries that have addressed, ‘financial need’, etc.

6)   In writing entries that detail my own pain, health problems, and health concerns, agoraphobia, panic, depression, declining health, age, pet care, etc., such that you might be able to identify with and understand only too well that, with which you most personally identify.

 In trying to establish commonality of, ‘needs’, and equality in being to show that—after all—‘we are all in this, together’.  And that—out of this—will develop a meaningful rapport, a shared dialogue that can only facilitate the understanding of others in relation to one’s particular situation.

Since its onset on July 31, 2011, my diary entries have taken many forms; that of, ‘question’, ‘rant’, ‘poems’, and exposition (written often in series, or continued parts).

 

On occasion, owing to the rigors of personal illness, pain, distress, situation, and—what I can only refer to as, ‘mind fog’: a  lamentable difficulty of expressing thought, recalling memory and experience, when neither words, nor ideas necessary for exposition be found—I have, sometimes, ‘re-entered’, a diary piece that I had some time ago written.

 

I am so very glad that I have even found such a, ‘diary forum’, at MDJ.

 

I am also grateful that you take time to pause and read my entries (even though perhaps too many of them are overlong in the extreme!).

 

And—as was stated earlier—as a so-called, ‘writer’, I find great fulfillment in being read.  And, ever so much more so, when I can—by reviewing statistics on my diary’s, ‘dashboard’—calculate the relative number of, ‘hits’, and thus readers of my diary both weekly, and, from the beginning.  And this makes my heart so very, very happy!

 

For example, since the end of July, 201I (when I wrote my first diary entry), I have now written (or...resubmitted!) just over 277 entries. And my, ‘total’, number of, ‘hits’ (the majority of which I hope may read each entry in its entirety) to date, is, 52, 085!

 

After the first year of posting entries had passed, my, ‘regular’, readership has varied from 753 readers, to an all-time high of 1,327! I have NEVER had an audience like that, EVER!  I cannot believe how very blessed I have been.

 

And while—of  course—‘average readers, per week’, astound and delight me, on a more personal level, it is your, ‘comments’ made below each entry, that make my heart the happiest, and gives me a sense of purpose, and fulfillment!

 

I rely—not only on, ‘numbers of readers’, but upon your kind comments, as—at MDJ—they are like a barometer that tells me whether I may have been of use, of comfort, of service, and of interest to you; they provide much-needed clues for course correction. 

 

Your comments—as criticism—help direct me, help hone whatever, ‘craft’, I may have, and show me how I may prove to be of best help.

 

I am very much interested in what you’d, ‘ like’ to see, ‘want’ to see more of (or…less of!), and what you feel you, ‘need’, to see.

 

And so, now—my most dear, dear friends, and ever-loyal, gentle readers—it is YOUR turn!

 

I would very much value and appreciate your making comment as to the course, direction, benefit, value, purpose of my entries.

 

I welcome constructive criticism, ‘thumbs down’, as well as, ‘thumbs up’ remarks, as well as encouragement and/or concerns; suggestions you may have regarding content, relevance, need, value, style, length, language, composition, voice, purpose…really, comments that will convey to me what you think, feel, hope, dislike, or want.

 

And, while the majority of past comments that I have received have been singularly warm, supportive, and encouraging (which—of course—makes my heart very happy!), still, I cannot be content, nor satisfied with my efforts if they are—in the main—failures in any way.

 

My very, very dear friends, and constant, kind readers, I am hoping for many, many, many to write and make comment; even if—in the past—you have read my entries, but have never before felt the need to leave comment.

 

But this is—particularly at present—so very, very important to me…as a person, a member of the larger MDJunction community…and lastly, as a writer.

 

So I would ask of you: please, please take a moment or two to respond with your comments.

 

I would be overjoyed to see most of the page taken up in comment response!

 

I do think about you often, my precious friends. And ever-wish for you, ‘pain free’, or days of much lessened pain; surrounded by family members and friends who love you for who YOU are!

 

And, I wish most for you all the happiness your kind hearts can hold…and more!

 

And—as always—please, please know that I love you dearly!

 

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles