" A Most Scattered Saturday "

“ A Most Scattered Saturday “

08/11/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and, as always, to my ever constant, and loyal readers,

I must fully confess to you—my most dear friends—that today ( and…to a large extent, yesterday too! ) has proven to be far and away, a most unusual pre-weekend, and weekend for me.  And, I hardly know quite where to begin.

One of my dearest, local friends—Joan—is again in rehab, following two hospital stays for a urinary tract infection that was for so long undiagnosed, that it became septic, and—among other, horrible effects, was that it caused her blood sugar to skyrocket (in spite of having been given multiple injections of insulin), her blood pressure to drop dangerously low, and—in process—cause her to become so confused, that—at one point—she thought that she was back home in New Jersey; even the timbre and tone of her voice was altered.

It was hell for her, I know.  And disturbed me very greatly.  But, her health was somehow stabilized—sufficiently—to have her transferred to a rehab facility, to try to regain her ability to walk.

This is now her second admission to rehab; each time, the infection has returned, and—besides her complains of pain and discomfort—I can tell it in her voice, and in her subsequent confused state.

I often telephoned both the hospital, and the rehab, nursing home, for continuing information from the nurses there.

When I spoke with Joan, last evening, she was—again—very confused, and disoriented.  When I spoke of it with her nurse, I was told that much lab work had been ordered, as well as a third U/A (urine specimen) for C & S ( culture and sensitivity ), which should, in a few days, reveal whether or not the infection has returned.

It is for times like these that I most resent not being able to drive, or have a car.  I must rely on the telephone to get any kind of update at all, and—frankly—feel quite helpless; besides…I feel as if I somehow should be there.  But, once again, illness, pain, and agoraphobia, added to the very real chance I might pick up some bug, there (as my Plaquenil lowers the immune system), has, regrettably, rendered me less than useful.

About all I have managed to do, is to pay her bills (with her checkbook), and to try to run interference between my dear friend, and—frankly—her less than stellar nephew and niece, who I pretty much know have been going through her affairs, to see what she’s worth.

I have met them several times, and I was unimpressed, as both of them have demonstrated themselves to be, well...rotters. And, I am pledged to Joan as her friend to thwart them at every avenue.

And, in that regard, my very dearest friends, I can be a bitch-on-wheels, should I need to be.

Then, in the past few weeks, my dear dog ‘Daisy’ has given apparent evidence of the beginnings of a slow decline; after all, when she adopted my late mother and me, the vet then said that she might already be 1.5 to 2.5 years old, and this November 17^th ( her arbitrary birthday!), she’ll be thirteen.

If you happen to go to my profile page, I have there posted two photographs of Daisy, taken about three or four years ago.  Suffice to say that she no longer resembles the full-coated, somewhat aloof dog at the time, but, since she has been trimmed, looks more like a large ‘Jack Russell’ terrier, but more skinny.

In addition, she is now blind in her right eye, and has the beginnings of cataracts in the left.  About which, there’s nothing that I can do, as the operation to remove her cataracts costs roughly $3,500.00  (which I don’t have), and, even if I could, at her age she might not survive the procedure  (which I don’t want!!!!!).

So I made an appointment for Daisy to be seen by a Dr. Weston, who has a mobile vet practice, and can come out to the house.

Fortunately, Dr. Weston was pleased by what she saw, but added that she believes Daisy to have an enlarged heart, a possible leaking mitral valve (all associated with age), and arthritis, in addition to a severe allergy to fleas, and to so many, other things.

Now, my dear companion is on about six medicines, which I have to crush, add water to, and give by syringe (without the needle), as should I attempt to try to put the pills down her throat, she fights like seven demons, or sprays me with liquid medication, or…most usually, just ‘pa-too’s’ it out on the rug.

With the Dr.’s visit, AND the medications, the bill came to $302.00, which I—perforce—had to throw on the old credit card; but I love Daisy so much…she’s been my little pal, and my buddy.  Usually, when I eat, she eats; when I go to bed, she saunters in after a while to curl-up on the rug beside my bed.

I really do think that happy dogs can smile, and Daisy’s smile makes my heart happy!

And then, there was last night, and a chopped-up attempt to sleep; maybe I just have too much on too little a mind, but I made the bed a combat zone, kicking-off pillows, throwing aside sheets and blankets (as I cannot seem to cool down, or to get very comfortable).

Necessarily, my dreams were a pastiche of colors, sounds, movements distorted and painful.

Nightmare followed nightmare, as does the moon, the sun.

However, once in a while, a kinder God will visit upon me some pleasanter dream; and in the one just before I awoke, were choirs, dancing in exotic, many-colored robes, all having a wonderful time of it.  Until—in my dream—I found myself singing-along with them!

And what might this happy lot be singing?  I know, because I remember most of my dreams.  It was to the late Bob Marley’s, “One Love”.

And for those of you unfamiliar with the song, I will try to copy the You Tube link for you.

http://youtu.be/dH5dXcX2gSw

I hope that this link will transfer from Microsoft Word, to MDJunction, as it is an engaging tune, in this case, recorded on multiple tracks, with performers and singers around the globe in perfect synchronization.

In other news…several days ago, one of my good friends (who lives in Tampa, Fla.), and who is a rabid Democrat, asked me to compose a poem, regarding the upcoming Republican Convention to be held in Tampa, sometime soon.

And while I am quite a-political in my notions, and—further—have most strenuously avoided any reference to politics, or specific religion, lest I cause arguments (I figure everybody either has, or will develop their own feelings on these subjects), I only mention it here, because it was difficult to write, but I did finish it, and had it put out in the mailbox—today—in hopes for a Monday delivery.

The rest of the day has been given over to pain, and penitence, pestilence and poverty.  I had hoped—maybe—to order-out for some Chinese food, late this afternoon, but the place I have ordered from many times, before, no longer delivers.  Shit.

So, now, looks like it’ll be another damn Saturday night, having to suffer-through my own abysmal cooking abilities.  Sigh.  Sheesh, sometimes (well, actually MANY times), my dearest friends, that being severely agoraphobic AND not having a car proves to be a royal pain in the ass.

And…if you will kindly excuse the dreadful pun, I rather had a ‘yen’ for some Chinese food, c’est soir.

However, my question to you, my dearest friends, and most kind readers is this:

How do YOU spend your weekends, especially THIS weekend?  Are you going to go out, maybe grab a bite of supper?  See friends?  Go to see a movie?  Or do you plan to just relax, stay home, and take it easy?  Do you have a regular weekend routine?  Or will you just ‘wing it’, maybe staying inside, in the relative cool, watching TeeVee with family, or, by yourself?

I would very much appreciate it if you might respond, in the ‘comment section’, below. Maybe it’ll give me a few alternate ideas, on how to spend a weekend!

But regardless, my most wonderful friends, please, please always know that I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

“Within The Secret Gardens Of The Heart, Displayed, Are Intimate, and Tonic, Flower’d Joys Arrayed”

08/09/12

Oh, my dearest, kindest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

I have always loved flowers; pretty ones, unusual ones, striking ones, which range from the deep, dark red of the rose, “Mr. Lincoln”, to the odd, Venus Flytrap.

I dote-upon, and can spend hours, and hours poring through nursery catalogues to see their many-splendored offerings.

And, as the dreaded heat of an August summer wears on, and on, I eagerly wait until Fall, when—hopefully—the incinerator that is Florida finally begins to cool, until it is safe to venture outside, knees pads on, attired in ‘work clothes, and trowel in hand; and there with potting soil, cow poo, top soil, and mulch,( and, convenient rolling seat to sit upon), take precious seeds, or seedlings, in hopes of transforming a rather plain, and quite uneventful stretch of weeds, and lawn, to make of it a sheltered paradise.

That is the wish I entertain, and have entertained for the past twenty-six years.

There are—however—probably six or seven things that have ever thwarted my most plangent effort.

1)           Always, cash has been a problem.

2)           Somewhere in that 26 years, I was altered, made the worse, changed from an energetic thirty-two year old, with more ideas, than sense, into the fifty-eight year old wreck I am—regrettably—today; full of pain, illness, anxiety, agoraphobia, and now on oxygen @ three liters, 24/7.  In addition, I seem to be allergic to nearly everything that groweth, or, creepeth upon the ground (think caterpillars, spiders, snakes, and biting flies).

3)           Until I became ill and disabled, I worked full time night shift, so the majority of my ‘off-the-clock’ time was consumed doing errands for my late mother and father, or, just trying to somehow, get enough sleep to make it through the next night.

4)           While some people are admittedly born with a ‘green thumb’, mine is of the most ebon shade of black; plants recoil from my touch

5)           I once tried to make the outline of a huge, flower plot in the side-yard, using a hose to shape the outline, and the amending the holy Hanna out of the soil, which was mostly sand.  I must have purchased $200.00 worth of various flower seeds  (which looked SO pretty on the packs), only to discover that the ants, and the birds LOVED the seeds, and they proceeded to eat every last, blessed seed.

6)           If you will observe on Google-earth, a map of Florida, and then drop down the west coast, until one reaches the mouth of Tampa Bay (on the map, it looks exactly like some demi-Godling took a bite out of the peninsula), you will find yourself in the vicinity of where I live.  For you gardeners out there, we are talking zone 9; there’s only two more zones, until one runs out of land at Key West, and finds oneself walking out into the water.  What zone 9 means, is that, probably 9/10ths’ of everything listed in the plant catalogues will just shrivel up and die here.

I longed for tulips, I dawdled over daffodils, I loved the oriental poppy; all for naught, as none of them would ever survive the heat and the humidity here.

How do I know this to be true?  Because one year, I was given (and bought more) a box of dahlia bulbs, which actually grew, and looked astonishingly beautiful; in fact, cars passing by would slow to take in the sight.  Until arrived the relentless heat of July.  I couldn’t get home early enough to keep them watered, and, in a short while, the sun burnt them to the ground, and the bulbs rotted.  Damn.

I did grow an orange cosmos from seed (until the local bunny rabbits on the loose, ate them to the ground)…think of a very fat, bearded, and bespectacled Elmer Fudd…{…kill the wab-bit}.

And so, my dearest friends, in 26 years, I have little or nothing to show for it, save for an unquenchable desire to plant AND grow something very, very pretty, and to—somehow—feel a part of the whole ‘creation/seeing new life emerge’ thing.

This summer is no different, dear friends.  I have my handy, dandy flower catalogue (it is one I’ve always liked) from “Bluestone Perennials”.

For those of you who are itinerant gardeners, or those who routinely (and with great success!), plant flowers all the time, I must tell you that this catalogue is wonderful, and can be had for free.  Again, dearest friends, I am not getting a dime for indorsing this company.  But, to get a general look-see, go to:

               www.bluestoneperennials.com

Otherwise, their mailing address, and telephone #  is:

            Bluestone Perennials

            7211 Middle Ridge Rd.

            Madison, Ohio, 44057

            Telephone #: 1-800-852-5243

            Hours of operation: Mon-Fri,

            9 a.m. to 4 p.m. ( E.S.T )

There are many reasons why I adore this particular catalogue:

1)           For each genus of plants, they provide two graphs, one, for length of blooming time, and the other, for sun or shade requirements.

2)           Each established ‘seedling’ is about 3” high, giving it a head start over trying to cultivate from seed only.

3)           Their pots are 100% biodegradable

4)           I believe they guarantee their plants to arrive in good condition AND to grow  (with no particular time limit), or they will issue a replacement, or a refund.

5)           Bluestone offers a huge variety of perennials, that—generally—cost about $7.95 each, plus, of course, shipping and handling.

6)           The photographs of the flowers, scrubs, ferns, ground-covers, and trees are gorgeous!

7)           And, for those—like me—likely to step on a rake, therefore bashing in my conk, they offer already planned gardens for shade, for butterflies, for direct sun, and for the newcomer.

I’ve already been poring over, and poring over their catalogue, and I think I have narrowed it down to just three or four perennials to ‘experiment’ with:

1)           When money frees up, of course, I think I may get a few “Stella D’Oro” day lilies, as with some protection, they might survive up under the front hedge, where the hedge has gotten spotty.

2)           For the full-sun area, I like the ‘Gaillardia’, Mexican and Indian blanket flowers; I first discovered them—on my way home for work, once—growing in a vacant lot in pure sand!  And with no care, whatsoever.  They love the hot sun, love poor soil, and infrequent waterings, and these, I think might look pretty out around the mailbox, where no hose would reach.  In short….MY kind of plant!

Even though I will now have to have someone to plant them for me, and then put in a soaker hose on a timer out at the pump, to give them a trickle of water, still, I am excited about fixing the yard up, and maybe making it look pretty.

And although I don’t go outside very often, I can still see them through the house windows, as they grow, and gently sway in any fit of breeze.

And I know that—even obliquely—I will have tried to capture a little bit of glamour, and beauty, and calming effects of such wonderful flowers!

My dearest friends, and loyal readers, my questions to you are:

1)           Do you garden, at all?

2)           If you have a garden, what plants do you have in it?

3)           What are you favorite plants, and why?

4)           What plants—if any—help you to ‘feel good’?

5)           Where do you get your plants?  From a neighbor? From seed?  From a local ‘home-improvement’ store, in their garden department?  Or, do you buy from catalogues?

6)           Do you ever have cut flower arrangements in your home?  And why?

Please kindly share your thoughts, feelings, and experiences with planting flowers, or flower beds.

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

‘Zahc’/Charles

"To Combat An Otherwise...'Somber Saturday', Some Fun!"

“To Combat An Otherwise…’Somber Saturday’, Perhaps A Little Levity Is Most Called For As A Necessary Diversion!”

08/04/12

To my very dearest, and kind friends, and ever loyal, and wonderful readers,

Today, dear friends, I thought to somehow, escape the ordinary tawdriness of pain, to focus on—instead—some little bit of levity, as a diversion, and a much-needed anodyne; and so, for some, strange reason, my thoughts turned to the “Limerick”.

Everyone is familiar with Limericks, usually bound-up in a collection of utterly dirty—though sometimes hilarious—rhymes.

Perhaps most widely recalled are the infamous, and seemingly numberless Limericks that begin thusly: “There one was a man from Nantucket…”

The Limerick, according to Wikipedia ( which manages to say so much, but describe so little!), is usually attributed to the County of, and the city of the same name, Limerick, Ireland, where it was first recorded in the mid-eighteenth century as an often sung, bit of salty, tavern-style verse.

In the mid-nineteenth century, the Limerick saw greater recognition, and refinement in the many of the nonsensical, poetic works of the English poet, and satirist, Edward Leary, of “Jabberwocky” fame.

The Limerick enjoys an often irregular metered, rhyming scheme of five lines; wherein, lines one, two, and five share the same rhyming word, while lines three, and four rhyme separately in the form of a couplet.

Thus, the rhyming scheme would look something like this: ‘ A, A, B, B, A ‘.

In addition to the aforementioned lines of doggerel that begin with, “ There once was a man from Nantucket “, I am, for some unknown reason, drawn to the works of the humorist, and artist, and illustrator, the late Edward Gorey, who wrote of the despairs, loneliness, and assorted horrors of childhood ( his must have been a doozy ! ), reprised in his famous little, black doll with no arms, which can sometimes be seen sitting on chair back, or in a neglected corner, which—nevertheless—adds its own, dire presence to the scene.

Further, Gorey wrote Limericks in French, a most daunting task which I admire, but—no longer being in possession of any of his printed works, I can only now recall one, most faultily, and incompletely.  And will spell most horrorifically…all of which I lay the blame to temperament, folly, and the infallibility of memory.  It, of course, goes quite without saying that I can no longer remember the first TWO lines:

A limerick re: the little, black doll, with no arms,

by Edward Gorey, …………….a’hem:

Da-dah, de, da-dah, de dah-dah,

Da-dah, de, da-dah, de dah-dah,

Tout noir, et sans bras,

C’est un affraiz voir(e).

En effete, absolutement le fin.

Or….

…..All black with no arms,

it is an awful sight ( or view ).

In effect, absolutely the end.

Also, as in some strange footnote to the above, when I telephoned my friendly public library to gather what little information I could, and, to attempt, without success, to find that particular Gorey limerick, or further, to try—hopelessly—to remember, and translate my dreadful French, ( whew…), I was told that currently, an actual Gorey-inspired little black doll with no arms, can be found in the form of a plush toy, on Amazon.com….for $39.95!

But, as is usual, my dearest friends, I digress.

The limerick that the reference person at the library provided was,

‘There once was a young man named Mallory,

Who lived on an insufficient salary. ( please, my dearest friends, I am ‘winging it’ here!)

When he went to the stage,

His awfully small wage,

Put him up in the second-class gallery!

For fun, I offer my own, pyrrhic submission into the melee:

There once was a poster named ‘Zahc’,

of aches and pains, he did not lack.

With his long hair, and long beard,

and O-2, he looked weird,

he loves you, and won’t take it back!

Gosh…that was…awful.  Limericks are deceptively difficult to write, but can be pointed, or pithy, or silly, or just lots of fun.

They’re kind of like little, musical passages; bits of remembered song, or verse.

And since they are only five lines long, and irresponsibly silly, the personal creation of a limerick is my request for the day, from you, my dearest friends, and loyal readers.

Just use the typical opening: ‘There once was a…’, and then let your wild imaginings roam, and blossom.

Your limerick can be—really—anything you so desire it to be, and say; it can be nonsensical, with far-stretching rhymes.  It can be personal.

And for today’s needed diversion for us all, I ask that you would please summon-up your own limerick(s), and place them in the ‘comments section’, below.

Remember, my most dear, and wonderful friends, this doesn’t have to be a ‘migraine-maker’ at all; just let yourself go, and have a little fun.

I bet we have limerick-makers out there aplenty!  So….please enjoy!  I most look forward to your submissions!

And…please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'/Charles

" Comfort Food: Recipes From The Heart "

“ Comfort Food: Recipes From The Heart “

08/07/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

How many food, or, food-related (edible) items would you guess occupy the shelves of an average-sized, grocery store in America? Please keep in mind that this list does not include such items as paper plates, puppy kibble, light bulbs, or wrapping paper.

Would you guess 20,000; 40,000; 50,000?

I earlier placed a telephone call to a local (and, my favorite, by the way!) grocery store, and was referred to their corporate office for more exact figures.

Would you believe the approximate number of food, or food-related (edible) items is more like 84,000+ on any given day.

Of course—notwithstanding—probably fifty types of salad dressing, ten different kinds of mayonnaise (or better), frozen, canned, deli, or prepared foods, such as rotisserie chickens, and the like, that still represents a most daunting variety of brands, sized, types, flavors, additions, and tastes in a bewildering display, bound to dazzle and confuse, to both, ‘woo and to shoo’, prospective shoppers who—for the most part—really have NO time to idly muse-through the store, zigzagging across aisles, bumping into people with their carts, knocking over precarious displays so dangerously stacked along the way.

I think, for the most part, the average American grocery shopper is as hunted prey, overwhelmed by variety, hampered by a lack of time, AND, a negligent wallet; weighed down by screaming children (who want everything), or ‘shop-blocked’, by those who simply must read every word of every line printed on a package or can.

Although I am beginning to drift hopelessly off-topic, I must say that grocery shopping is probably one of the most labor-intensive activities—short of indentured servitude—ever contrived by the mind of Man.

There’s just too much to take in, and so little time to take it in with.  So, with so very, very much to choose from, I doubt that any one person could successfully sample even a one-hundredth of what’s available; in fact, I would tend to believe that—aside from the occasional brand, or product drift—the average shopper probably stays within about a one hundred, different items, purchased over the course of a year, with identical items purchased over and over again.

To a large extent, our shopping is governed by preference, either to a taste, or to a particular name brand.  Personally, I know I cannot abide stewed okra, or zucchini, for example, but oddly, I do like okra when it is breaded, and fried.

Then there are some people who would not even sit in the same room with a Brussels sprout…I, among them!

And while we often complain about the effects of overeating (Americans, by the way, taking the Olympic Gold in obesity, and obesity-related health problems), no one will deny the nutritional benefits of food, taken in proper proportions, and in a sufficient variety to maintain health.

However, food plays an integral part in our development as ‘social creatures’.  And, as part of that tacit, unspoken, social contract, the preparation, sharing, and the eating of food precedes written history.

For Neanderthal, I would imagine that pure survival depended more on always moving, stopping but seldom, always looking for food, or hunting for edible prey, than on reproduction; it—of course—goes quite without saying, that one cannot reproduce if one has starved to death!

And so, to a Society that had only the rudiments of oral language, the giving, and sharing of the kill was probably one of the very few times when Neanderthal could ‘relax’, as it were, and bond together as a tribal unit.

Thinking upon it, we are—in point of fact—not that much changed from those so long before, in that food still functions as a societal, ‘bonding-to-fellow tribe members’ act of preparing, and sharing, and being surrounded by those one loves.  And, trusts, hopefully!

How closely DOES the Present mimic the Past?  I give you the Saturday afternoon, picnic’BBQ’, where family, and friends gather together in a modern rendition of a tribal unit.  If there is an open grill (with, of course, the exception of ‘vegans’!), eyes, noses, brains turn to the ritual of slapping monstrous pieces of raw meat upon fire. Many of us actually salivate at the very thought.

And so, it is—perhaps—inevitable that out of these preparations, availability of, and presentations of food, that ‘comfort food’ would naturally evolve.  This, then, elevates food, beyond its being nutritious, past taste, even, to where just the particular food conjures up a recollection of this tribal bonding, and when successful, its ability to engender calmness, happiness, feelings of security, of plenty, and by itself, an active memory trace that recalls happy times.

I would dare imagine that the majority of us have fond ‘food’ memories, and favorite dishes, and particular meals, that evince in us something of a quiet joy.  Thus taken in an emotional sense, food is quite removed from its nutritive value, and—instead—makes us to feel cared for, accepted, loved, part of our own ‘tribe’.

Of course, when the result is excessive, or faulty thought processes, food—itself—equals love; during these, particular times, we eat—usually alone—for all the wrong reasons, until food-thought becomes an obsession, becomes bizarre, or pathologic.  Such as anorexia, bulimia, binge-eating, food-specific affective disorders, hoarding, over-eating, and, so on.

But in the usual course of events, as we develop and grow, experience the larger world around us, and the relative safety, and protection of a modern tribal unit, comfort foods are bound to occur, and do seem to evoke feelings of harmony, comfort, relaxation, acceptance, and, the ability to recreate, and have fun!

Most of us have—I would suspect—a list of ‘comfort foods’, which are as unique as is the individual.

‘Comfort foods’ can be any one food, or group of foods prepared in a particular fashion.  Please do keep in mind that I refer to these ‘foods’ for their ability to engender pleasure, and satisfaction, beyond that which individual preference and a full-stomach provide.

For example—for me—fresh-baked bread is a comfort food, as I recall—when I was very young—my mother baking bread ( always two loaves…one for us, and the other for a neighbor, or, someone who was ill), and how the smell filled the kitchen, and how glorious was the taste of it—still hot—slathered in butter!

Good, old, ‘mac-n-cheese’ is also a comfort food for me, but with a proviso: it must be the same recipe my dad used to make, though, in actuality, any good mac-n-cheese is still appreciated!

My question to you, my dearest friends, colleagues, and gentle, loyal readers is this:

What is, or are YOUR ‘comfort food(s)’?  Please feel quite free to list any particular food, or recipe that you prefer.  It can be a casserole, a single food, or dish, that you associate with happy times, not just those, that are taste-preferentially guided!

And, should you feel most strongly about a certain ‘comfort food’, please relate both the food, linked—where possible—to a particular time or event in your life. And if you would, kindly, please enter it to the ‘comment’ section, below.

As always, I thank you so very much for your most kind participation, and, please know I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Nightmare, Ever, And Again "

“ Nightmare, Ever, and Again “

( or, ‘Why cannot I simply dream of fond delights, instead of never-ending, bizarre, and hellish dreams, that in my shallow’d sleep, would seek an evil, and prolonged disturbance’)

08/01/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and most faithful, loyal readers,

I ask you, dearest friends, from where springs corruptive nightmare, that steals true repose, and makes a mockery of decent sleep?

And while I would gladly side with Scrooge, in that nightmare would soley be the product of, “ a bit of underdone potato,” so that, his statement to Jacob Marley, “ There’s more of gravy than of grave,” would seek to place the blame of resultant nightmare on poorly prepared food, taken just before bed.  I only wish that it were so, and so easy.

Freudians might well argue that nightmare is the product of an unhappy subconscious, that seeks to telegraph its miseried state to the sleeping conscious brain; however, this message is warped, and twisted in a thousand ways, so that, in an attempt by the conscious mind to seek to make some sense of it, often, nightmares, horrific, and gut-wrenching nightmares are the result.

Frankly, dearest friends, on these occasions, which occur more often than they do not, I wish the subconscious would just shut the hell up, close-down for the night, take a mini-vacation, leave town, and change its name.

For—except for a few nightmares that alert the conscious that the body is in peril, or, for example, when the bladder is full, and needs immediate emptying!—the remainder are just punishing, cryptic, and stupidly annoying, besides being genuinely upsetting, and frightening.

And when shallow sleep is punctuated by too frequent nightmare, any chance at restorative repose is chopped up and thrown into a blender.

Funny how, upon my frequent wakenings, when nightmare was the cause, I seem to remember all of them, and they disquiet me. And this further makes sleep patchy.  On many days, I have to have a one or two-hour, ‘lie-down’, to last the evening; but somehow—physically—I pay an enormous price for naps, as I always feel about a hundred times worse, and inevitably must dose up with pain meds to survive another day.

I have no idea why the equation of nightmare + sleep is so all-encompassing, as I have major nightmares most every night, but, my body—by then—does feel better; but, during the day, whenever I nap to NO nightmares, yet, physically, I feel worse !  Why?

Is it the medications?  Or, my faulty disposition?  As the song said, “ Is it turtle soup, or, the mock?” 

I put, then, the question to you, my very dearest friends; should your sleep be too often riled by distressing and evil nightmare, please comment, below, with your kind thoughts on the matter.

In conclusion—though—I would like to address what, among other things, I think our dreams SHOULD be about.  And so, will leave you with a poem on dreams that I submitted as a diary entry on January 8, 2012.  I hope that you may find some enjoyment in it!

Meanwhile, as always, my very, very dearest friends, please know that I think of you so very often, hoping and praying that you are well, and that I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’

 ‘What Should Our Dreams, To Us, Convey...? ‘

I

What should our dreams, to us, convey...? Something no worse

than sight of dewy petals, as from some rosebud burst;
or, some happy, half-remembered bit of childhood verse.
Or like some wind-up circus where-at first-
is seen a pretty lady on a horse, while acrobats and painted clowns rehearse.
Of princely hoards of candies, rare, surrounded with sufficient icy lemonade to quench one's thirst.

III

Conveyed should be the views of fabled past,

Where dashing, charging knights slay all monstrous dragons to the last.

Of banquets in a castle hall, where noble knights and princesses dance a slow pavanne neath roped, candled chandeliers that hang bright overhead, each tied, held fast;
where  heavy, ancient, oakened doors creek on ironed hasp.
The tales of Quest, and rightfully boastful songs by morning's awakening, too quickly fade and pass.

III

Our dreams should reveal the wayward path to a secret garden shown;
with scent of brilliant flowers all unknown,
to mingle with the gentle smell of grass new mown.
A quiet place to which the rancors of a pained, and half-resented day have flown.
A most delightful place, a tonic for all previous sins; a chance to redeem, and to atone.
And...thus forgived, to lie in this magic place, alone.

IV

This gardened spot should with its sheer evanescence sway.
All through the night, all pain forgot, as are the trials of a pain-filled day.
Those mossed, and twisting paths would surly find a way
to some safe pace, where even tired adults can play
to their delight, with unicorns, and other such-like mythic creatures stay;
and, all can as joyous, happy dance through a bright, and cloudless day.

V

Our dreams should be as sacred as an hymn
heard in some vast, and cloistered stained-glassed cathedral, when

choruses of angels lift up their voices, with a merciful and joyous theme within,
that would enthrall a tired, and weary soul, and then
lift it as well to such an holy place, to which a loving

God would descend,
to offer soothing, healing touch, and to all would beckon, " Enter In."

VI

Our dreams thus revealed, should in a voice...a quiet sigh
explain to all who walk but painfully, while though, in shuttered dreams can fly !
And rise like gilded birds, who, soaring ever high
Can hardly see the earth, below, nor indeed anything beneath a brighted sky;
that we-perhaps-could do all things, if only we but try;
could we but overcome our foes, our fears, our pains
that, daily, would confront us with their dissembling lies.

VII

Our fever'd dreams should nightly take us to a place
wherein all past and present ailments race;
far flung from despairing or repressed horror to that space
that knows no limit, off ‘ring cure to that disease which ‘has no face.'
Instead, forgive us, and the mockery of those who cannot understand our souls are banished, ‘till just a trace
of it remains. And we awake, thus chastened, with drying tears upon our face.

VII

Must we awake-instead-garlanded with pain, despair, and longing full arrayed?
For we, too, were young once, and fearless, thinking

ourselves invulnerable, unafraid;
ignoring future ills and sorrows as they came, to leave us reeling and dismayed ?
In base reality, we now awake to find, again, our faces lined with age, with load of care displayed;
Again, the daily loneliness, and dreadful, whoresome pain, is trotted out upon the stage: a one-act scene of misery and deprivation played;
when, in some peaceful, guarded, healing dream, ALL tortures can be waived.

End

I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'