Friendship. Of All Things

Breath is difficult. Not because I am thousands of feet above the level of the sea. Not because I am getting older. It is because my brain finds it difficult to spare the energy needed to tell my lungs to fill with air. I can feel the computer of my mind going into overdrive as it struggles to process the eternity of beauty before me. Stone upon stone, the wonder builds up into mountains. Mountain upon mountain, the grandeur forms canyons. Above it all, the blue sky unites the shouts of color below, bringing them together into a hymn of joy at wonder of life. Finally my brain can take it no longer and I stare dumbstruck, mouth gaping, drained of thought – a wanderer who can no longer find his way. Above me I hear a raven caw. Perhaps it cackles in anticipation of a meal. Ravens have seen this phenomenon before – a silly creature standing in the full sun as its skin roasts and the air sucks away every bit of moisture – nature’s jerky machine, predating Ron Popeil by several eons. But the ravens and I are not alone.

Before me on the ground Adam paints. Adam Weinstein. Musician. Painter. Schizophrenic. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Many terms have been used to describe Adam just as they have been used to describe me. Today both of us can add a new label – the label of friend.

Adam paints on a board in the dirt. His canvas is taped to the board, his tubes of paint are strewn all around him. He uses the plastic bottom from a recyclable grocery bag for a palette. Colors fly onto the canvas. He groans with frustration as the mountain air and sun dry the acrylic almost before it leaves his brush. He ends up painting with both fingers and brush. The painting reaches a point that many would call beauty.

“There. I probably should leave it. It is good as it is.”

Adam pushes beyond into a place that he finds upsetting.

“Damn.”

He waters down a brush and swathes the entire canvas. Brown and beige shades from the water fill the sky, mountain and canyon.

“So you’re going to use the canvas for another painting?”

“No. I have to fix it.”

I watch patiently. Filming him as he works.

Out of the chaos a new form takes shape. More color. More contrast. More passion - until a new image lifts Adam’s heart and mine as I watch his act of beauty and creation. From somewhere beyond us and yet right here within each of us creativity, nature – you chose a name – find a path of rebirth – a reshaping of something in our own image to find harmony.

Can I remake my life as Adam remakes the painting? Perhaps all of us labeled as mentally ill, handicapped, or simply misfit – perhaps all of us period – must occasionally find a way to restore our beauty. Thankfully, this day I need not do it alone. I travel to do a favor for a friend whose body is dead but whose memory lives on within me and in the hearts of his other friends. I travel with a new friend. Today I will call and talk to other friends. And even more. Raven, stone, canyon and sky – these also give me the strength of friendship – they may dry and tear my flesh but I do not fear this. I do not seek it, but I do not fear it. To fear death is to deny that I, the raven, and my friends are united by bonds that extend from the stars to the quantum particles that unite us all. Who am I to deny this unity? Others may call it by other names but I today I will call it the friendship of all things. Today I have enough hope from this friendship to fix my painting a little - to capture just a bit more of the wonder that surrounds me. Thank you my friends. Thank you.

I Miss You Steve

Your name is Steven. I always called you Steve. I never asked if it bothered you. If you minded you were too kind to say. I will call you Steven forever now – now that it doesn’t matter. It is just too hard to call you Steve anymore. Steve is alive forever. Today I start a journey to California and I will be taking Steven Bock with me one last time.

Your life was a full one. You actually were a rock star – not just an imaginary dream or a drunken tale – but an actual, honest to God Rock Star. If times had been different I might have written about your journey to the Iowa Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and your days in the California sun playing with most of the names people read about in Rolling Stone. But times were what they were and now I write this as you sit in Rock and Roll Heaven.

You made me laugh. We laughed as we shared stories about the 60’s and 70’s and what it was like for me to dream of being a rock star and for you to actually become one. We giggled like young girls as we gossiped about our friends and family - telling tales and exaggerating faults to create humor to hold back the darkness that waited just beyond our laughter.

You dyed your hair red. We were getting ready for one last tour, the Where’s Steve? tour. We spent hours at music stores talking about different types of guitars, amps and something you called heads. I tried to follow, but your decades of experience let you run through the terms too fast for me to keep up. It was okay. Watching your face while you talked was enough. I donated the amp and head we bought to Uptown Bill’s. New musicians will play it there. I will tell them your story, letting them know that the amp they play through once was played by Steven Bock of Truth and Janey, Steven Bock of Nowhere Fast, Steven Bock my friend.

You made a music video. You and Brenda recorded a song for David and me while Joe recorded it. I can watch it whenever I want to see you sing again. But I will have to wait a while. I will have to wait and see how I feel in a few months. Right now it is still too close to when I heard your voice and saw your smile. Your death still is too bitter.

You talked openly of death. I admired your bravery for choosing how your life would end. We weren’t sure of what exactly happens after death. We thought maybe it is just a change in vibration like changing keys on a guitar. I did make a promise. Wherever you go, if it is possible I will look you up. You can count on it.

Mary and Chocolate

Date: Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Medication: 2000 mg Depakote, 2.5 mg Zyprexa, .25 mg Klonipin
Mood: 8
Sleep: 6 hours solid sleep – 9pm-3am, brief nap this morning 4-5am.
Food: Still fighting craving for sugar – have regained 4 pounds since starting new medication. Will try to walk and swim more.

Spent 4 hours with Rejeanne, Caroline and the grandchildren yesterday.

The other day I was sitting with some friends in the plaza. Suddenly, the sun highlighted a red blossom across from where I sat. I stopped the conversation. We watched the flower for a moment. Some returned to conversation. I did not.

Scene remembered from day just prior to returning to the hospital:

I sit n the Bread Garden Restaurant and Store with Mark G. who says he is a Buddhist teacher. Buddha is said to be kind so I imagine that he does not mind that often Mark becomes angry and defensive when teaching or “making a point”. I am facing the buffet. I hear a voice speaking softly. “We will bring her to you. Just remain calm and watch the buffet."

A parade of women visit the buffet. Most of them seem to be looking at me as I sit ramrod straight. One woman in particular seems very insistent that I notice her. I vaguely recognize the line of her jaw and the color of her eyes – once again it is Mary, my first annulment/marriage. My mind refuses to let go of the illusion of “one true love” and the idea that we are meant to find the “one” best suited to us or die alone. When my mind is in this mode Mary appears. This incarnation is dressed in smart Martha Stewart with short flipped hair dyed a multitude of hues. She wears enough gold and diamonds to ransom a prince. I ignore her. I hear the crowd quietly sigh in sympathy as she walks away from the buffet and I do not so much as nod in her direction. She tries to gain my attention once more a bit later but life and I are no longer interested in the idea of specialness. We simply sit and wait to see what comes next. I hope it has something to do with chocolate.

Emily and Steve

Sunday, August 2, 2009
7:09 A.M.
Mood: 7 of 10
Sleep: Slept sporadically, but my guess is I got at least 7 or 8 hours total.
Meds: 150 mg Depakote, 5 mg Zyprexa, 1 mg Klonipin
Diet: Had major sugar binge last night – ate 2/3 box of peanut butter Captain Crunch

More Events

Wherein I continue my journey though the chasms in my mind to me after all these years. I travel to places seldom seen by me – stretching ahead and behind, leaving me breathless with the possibilities of this day.

The day before my last trip to the hospital I met a man outside George’s Gourmet in Iowa City, Iowa। The man was late middle age or lets face it - old. His hair was long and it stank, but so did mine I imagine. Georges is a restaurant and bar which I used to attend frequently during the 1970’s. It was where the most argumentative intellectuals in Iowa City tended to congregate. Although, Dorothy Parker will turn in her grave at the comparison, many at George’s consider themselves members of a Midwestern version of the Algonquin club – that early 20th century bastion of New England intellect. I never felt like I belonged at Georges. My comments were good but I lacked the tenacity and mental elbows to make them heard.

But that was 1970। Today it is July 2009. I am on my way to a brief stint in the hospital to adjust my medication for bipolar disorder, although I do not know this at the time. As I sit on the old church pew outside of George’s a man approaches me. He claims to be a descendant of Emily Dickinson, a great, grand nephew twice removed or some such. He recited one of her poems.

He ate and
drank the
precious Words –
His Spirit grew
robust –
He knew no more
that he was poor;
Nor that his
frame was
Dust –
He danced
along the dingy
Days
And this Bequest
of Wings
Was but a Book –
What Liberty
A loosened Spirit
brings –

I wept. It was a poem that I had written a paper on while I attended Clinton Community College the semester when lack of funds prevented my return to the University.

Weaving, the man paused in front of me to light up a cigarette।

“So, you’re a writer?” He nodded his head toward the notebook I was filling with words as quickly as possible।

“Some have called me so.” It was always best to appear enigmatic while at George’s.

He laughed.

“I’m the grand nephew of Emily Dickinson.”

My breath stopped. I was in the presence of greatness – someone who shared DNA with one of the most insightful writers of the English language. A writer who had inspired me years ago to write a paper that my professor suggested I submit for publication. I never did. Instead I locked away the words in the cabinet of my mind only to have them loosed and tossed free on the summer breeze by this old man.

While reciting, the old man stood a bit straighter and punctuated his performance by poking the sky with his cigarette. He finished with a bow.

“So what have you written?”

“Well, I wrote a fictionalized autobiography. It is call Just Dale.”

“Just Dale?”

“Yes, I am trying to lay down all the labels I have picked up over the years.”

Another laugh.

“Well, that’s a good goal. So this book of yours, is it on online?”

“Yes, you can order it on any of the popular sites.”

The old man, nodded, gave me a half salute then shuffled onward. The tears dried on my face. Emily became dust long ago. Soon I shall join her. But till then I’ll dance along the dingy days with a spirit her words helped free.

WHAT BLIND, SELF CENTERED DRIVEL THIS IS.
STEVEN BOCK IS DEAD! HOPEFULLY I CAN FIND SPACE IN THIS SELFISH HEART TO WRITE ABOUT HIM TOMORROW.