Apology and Question

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Have A Nice Day

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And fuck, yet again. I have censored my blog and my thoughts by sharing them. It becomes harder and harder to write exactly what I feel and think. I feel constrained to write something happy or else risk re-hospitalization, divorce, or some other pleasant fate. But if I censor my writing I become a thing trying to sell an image of myself to other things. I have traveled that path. It was not pleasant.

My writing is, was and I believe always will be a selfish act. How could it be otherwise? My writing is selfish because the words I share all arise from within my brain and my SELF. Thus, they are SELFish. Perhaps there are other sources for the words. Perhaps there is some magical force or being that exists outside the laws of nature. I certainly hope not. Otherwise, I should have to reconsider the reality of the visit I received from Gaia in Japan, and such a maneuver likely would land me back in the hospital – not a happy fate. At least not from my perspective, although there are perhaps some who would prefer that I live out my days in some safe place. If I am honest, at times there is a part of me that yearns for this safety – a simple cell where I would not have to face the demands of others. Yet, I am fairly certain that soon I would chafe at the boundaries set for me. (I hear the thoughts of others as they judge and classify my words as being typical of the hysterics of a manic-depressive. So be it. I just don’t care anymore. Who is there that is not to some extent insane? I have yet to meet them.)

It will soon be time to howl at the moon and drive off into the distance for a time. Isn’t that what crazy people do? And, as I said in my book (with a line stolen from a friend): “I am crazy, and I have the papers to prove it.” My most recent evaluation and hospitalization have shown me that I do not have control over my mental state. Despite the years of the best efforts of medicine and at least some work on my part I am still classified as “very unstable”. Very well. Let it fly then. I have been very crazy before and it is virtually a statistical certainty that I will be so yet again. But, importantly to any sane person reading this, know that you need not fear me. Since becoming sober (and insane at 10 years sobriety) I can recall no instance when I was a physical threat to another person. I do not recall stealing from anyone. I do not recall lying (well, at least not to the point of being pathological or malicious about it). I know many sane people who have engaged in all of the above and yet I am the one hospitalized for being crazy. Is it any wonder that I find this situation confusing? Yes, a lengthy road trip is probably a good idea. I do love humanity (most of it anyway) but I find it easier to deal with people in small doses. A road trip is a good way to have solitude without being totally alone.

Many times I trust no one. I feel as if people expect things of me that I cannot give them or that I come to expect things of others that they cannot provide. Yes, I know that AA says an expectation is a resentment waiting to happen. This observation does not change the feelings – it only makes me ashamed of having them. During the periods when I distrust others I am difficult to be around. I try to be kind, but I am distant and cold without meaning to be so. Perhaps this is why I identify so closely with David. Institutions truncated his social skills, just as alcohol and drugs truncated mine. It takes great effort for him to fit in and be normal. Despite his best efforts others often critique his behavior. I sense that David is aware of this and that it causes him pain. He works hard to improve his skills and he is changing – but I imagine sometimes he feels as if the length of the road is just too great and the grade is too steep for him to manage. His frustration and shame at the situation can erupt into rage or despair. I feel that way often – even though I do not have David’s history of trauma to explain my actions.

Yet David and I did his laundry yesterday. I brought Rejeanne some roses yesterday. I drove Adam on some errands. Today I will have lunch with Oliver. I will walk. I have written at least this drivel. In a limbo of habit I move forward. Perhaps my emotions will catch up with the motions. Yes, once again, I know AA says “Fake it til you make it.” Today there is little comfort in that phrase – in fact it pisses me of for its triteness – like telling someone, “Have a nice day.” But enough whining. The sun shines out the window.

There. That’s good. Good to have a happy ending. Have a nice day!

Note Bene

Rejeanne in case you are reading this and are wondering if still love you – remember that I always have and never will not love you – it’s just that I AM CRAZY and I don't do a particularly good job of being the kind of husband you deserve. I accept full responsibility for my craziness. It is NO ONE’S FAULT. But a lot of times I feel like I have only one leg and I am being expected to run the marathon – I hobble as best I can but will never keep up with my two legged fellows. Rest easy my love and have a great trip to Florida.

200 mg Depakote

Not sure what else to say today.

You Look In The Mirror

You look in the mirror. You see beauty there – the joy that the face before you is a thing of wonder no greater nor less than the universe entire. You are the only one that can see it. Others may see you as beautiful, but they are looking in their own mirrors. The beauty you see is yours alone. Experience has shown you that it will not last, but it fills this moment completely.

The beauty you see today is different than yesterday. Is that another fold there? Has another hair turned gray? Are the eyes rimmed with a bit more red? Others may judge the changes harshly and label them ugly. You judge them beautiful and this is enough.

When you see beauty in the mirror your power is great. Many in the world are jealous and try to cloud your vision. You will not let them. Not now, not in this moment. You look more deeply into the eyes and see the truth that remains. The mirror reflects beauty. Transitory. Illusory. Wonderful. Beauty.

You know the religious and philosophical teachers who claim to have discovered the certain path to this beauty – calling it by limiting names like salvation, redemption, or enlightenment. You know of the neural pathways that create the sensation of beauty. You know of the salesmen who claim to sell beauty in little jars. Yet none of these can dim the vision before you or make it less complete. Perhaps a God who made man in his image will come from heaven to reveal the one true source of all beauty. Or perhaps a day will come when someone captures this beauty perfectly, pinning it to acid-free paper in a nitrogen-filled case for you to study. Most certainly, people will try to sell you their version of beauty – each claiming to have the most wonderful product or best understanding of what makes one beautiful.

Thankfully, as you look in the mirror, you know that none of this matters. Beauty regards beauty. Carbon, oxygen and trace elements regard silver behind a piece of glass. There may be more, but just now this alone is enough. Neither divine or profane, neither requiring nor accepting any adornment, free of human judgment or need for certainty. Free. Simple. Beauty.

This Breath

There is cause for joy in this breath or there is no joy. Letting go of the need for more than this breath is my greatest source of peace. Grasping and holding have never brought me happiness. Fighting for more and seeing the pain it causes others has only brought me pain. Even the meaning of these words I now write is something that I must let go – else I will find myself defending it against others who feel I am in error, or who believe they offer a clearer path. I laugh at myself for writing such silly thoughts. Why would I ever want to defend them?

Fighting to prove that my words are correct only blinds me to the beauty of this breath. I accept that every word I write or speak, that every action I take likely is “wrong” or “bad” from someone’s perspective. I accept that if I do not fight for myself some will take things from me. Yet, when I fight for myself, or to acquire and protect the things I think I need there is no joy – only a false happiness followed by despair. I must focus on my breath – only within it is there joy for me. May I find the courage to leave behind the need to seek more than the simple joy in this breath, this very one, right here, right now.

Should There Be A "Where's Steve?" Tour?

I step into the dark of early morning. I pause on the steps. Guilt has me in its grip. I should have made coffee for Rejeanne before going out to waste another day. I know that thoughts filled with should are nothing but illusions of how I think the world ought to operate – but they are persistent. I go back inside and check the coffee – there is almost a full pot from yesterday. I start to make a new pot because I should make fresh coffee for Rejeanne. Then I remember that Rejeanne actually prefers to be frugal and drink day old coffee. I leave my shoulds behind, make it to the car and head into town.

As I drive, I think of Adam Weinstein. Adam is on a roll just now. His art show went well and he is hearing encouraging buzz about his music from the west coast. There are rumors of a show and even a tour. Perhaps Adam will be able to live out his dream. That would be fantastic – at least part of me thinks so, the part that I want to reinforce and nurture, the part of me that knows that the only true joy in life comes from giving. But I would be less than honest if I were to say that there is not at least a small part of me that is jealous of Adam’s success. This part has been trying to help Adam “organize” things and give him “advice” as though he needs my help. He needs my friendship as all of us need friendship from each other, but as for “help” that is something for which only he can determine the need. Unasked for help is interference.

Yesterday I sent an email to help Adam organize things with a mutual friend. In the email I told the friend I would give him the copies of the tapes I made at Adam’s show. I did not ask for permission from Adam. I just assumed that it would be a good idea. I think part of me wanted to help but I think I may have wanted to insert myself between Adam and the mutual friend – to somehow take partial credit for Adam’s talent. Was I hoping that some of Adam’s luster would rub off on me? Did I have such a low opinion of myself that I thought I needed it? Perhaps. But I am better at catching this thinking than I used to be – better at minimizing the damage it can cause me and my relationships – at least some of the time.

I pull over and send Adam a text.

Have I upset you? Call me when you wake.

The phone rings minutes later. His voice is full of sleep.

“Hey. Want to go for breakfast?”

I laugh. “Sure. When?”

“I can be ready in a few minutes.”

We order breakfast at Perkins’. Way too much food filled with way too much fat and sugar. But it is what it is. We eat much of it in silence, both minds whirling, wondering what the future will bring if Adam does become famous. For a moment I envisage myself as a sober Hunter Thompson – following Adam’s band across the country, writing stories, blogs and reviews – finally rolling everything into a wonderful book that everyone will want to read. Another Rolling Stone in a country so obsessed with self-aggrandizement that it often loses all perspective. We are just naked apes after all. Why must we insist that our actions be seen as the most important, or the grandest creatures in the universe?

I smile at Adam. I don’t know what to say to be helpful. I don’t trust myself to be unselfish. Excitement is not my friend. But I must try. What other choice is there? Shall I give over entirely to my desire to play king of the hill, to become as Adam puts it, “The monkey with the most bananas?” I practice my breathing for a moment. The bill comes. Adam asks for permission as he reaches for it.

“Can I get this one?”

I smile. “Sure thing, buddy, sure thing.”

As I wait, I recall Steven – Steven Bock of Truth and Janey and Nowhere Fast. Steven was the only other famous and/or nearly famous musician I knew. He died this summer. He and Adam played together once, and Steven told me he was impressed. After the cancer took Steve, Adam and I went out west to leave a portion of his ashes in the Pacific. We met a friend of mine who knew a few people in the world of music. He and Adam hit it off very well…and as the movies put it, the rest was history.

Before his death, Steve and I had been working on a project that Steve called, The Where’s Steve Tour?- a dark bit of humor in the face of his impending death. Steve is gone now – any tour by Adam could certainly ask the question “Where’s Steve?” But perhaps, in some strange way, Steve’s dream is coming true posthumously. If Adam does ride a wave of success to fame and a national tour, I will imagine Steve watching and smiling, happy that the Where’s Steve Tour? came off at last. Steve will bear witness that the kindness Adam and I tried to do for him, yielded joy in world that is more about love and dreams than about guilt and should.

Grey Skies and Wandering Rocks

Grey skies of autumn cast pearl light on the slate window sill. Slow jazz wafts over the tables of people chatting over their morning coffee. The music is something French. Heavy orchestra with a harmonica and a sultry female. This morning’s coffee is dark roast. Less caffeine but a stronger flavor. Another day is beginning.

I wrote one piece – I did not like it. This is the second. It will be today’s. Writing for a blog is a little bit stifling. There are not many readers but just the fact of knowing that there are a few constrains what I write. I tend to over edit. I want to sound more polished than I feel. Therapy transitions into work very quickly unless I make sure I slow down and see and listen to each word as it appears on my screen. It is difficult to listen to the voice of the writer. The critic in my head works very hard to shout him down. Writer and critic wrestle in a Sisyphean struggle so ancient that sometimes I am drained. Yet I must write to live. Time has shown me this time and time again. And, may I be forgiven my pride and self-indulgence, I do love it when people tell me they like what I write. Thus, like Odysseus and his Wandering Rocks, I am trapped between two huge cliffs that may close on me at any moment. Odysseus’ stones threatened to smash his ship. My rocks threaten to crush my spirit. One rock says “write regardless of what people think, for in that way you achieve the most honest healing” and the other says “write and try to be loved for what you write”. The gap between the two rocks is made up of my desire not only to live but to be loved. It is a struggle at times but in the end I am grateful for it. Much of my life I was asleep, unable to see the beauty in life and the joy in writing about it. Better to live and face Wandering Rocks than sleep and be buried by them.

Home On The Street

I walk the streets of Vancouver. I am headed to a local Tim Horton’s coffee shop. A breeze blows a piece of paper to rest against my leg. Some poor soul has written an essay about families and holidays. He (or she?) clearly comes from an unhappy home. As I read, I am so grateful that my family is unlike the author’s family; so grateful that my holidays were spent in warmth and love. I reprint the letter here, as a reminder for those of us with healthy families to be grateful for them.

Heading into another season of “holidays” leads me to wondering about home again. Judgments from my past take me far from the image of home that is shown on television. But then did that home ever really exist? Was there ever a land of homes of Swiss Butterball turkeys, tables groaning under too many dishes to mention and families who spent weeks together smiling and telling amusing anecdotes about their childhood? Did anyone ever inhabit a home with no embarrassing secrets, free of dark jealousy about inheritances, and without grudges so poisonous that they often stifled conversation? Is it just me, or has home always included at least a few scenes not fit for prime time? Am I the only one who suffers from the cognitive dissonance of pretending reality is like television or a Hollywood script? Am I the only person on the planet who is tired of “faking” it till I make it? Am I simply being immature and self-centered? Perhaps so. Perhaps I am the only one who sees the white elephants in families and wants to point them out. After all, I have been hospitalized for “seeing things” and for being unable to “fit in” with normal society. Perhaps it is best that I simply accept my fate of being out of synch and to not discuss things that make others uncomfortable. I do love my family. I do not want to cause them harm. Yet, how can I say that I know them when we cannot trust each other with our secrets, when it is not polite to discuss hurtful things, not nice to want to clear the white elephants from the room – when it is insane to want brutal honesty rather than feigned love and caring?

So be it. I will go through the holidays yet again without bringing up anything uncomfortable. We will discuss the weather, football and how tasty Aunties chocolate pie was. That will be pretty much it. We don’t agree on politics or religion so those topics are off limits. None of us remember the past in the same way, so discussions of that end up in arguments. In the end, we will watch television until it is time to say goodbye. Duty has brought us together. Once that is fulfilled, we are grateful to part. We are not people who would spend time together in any other setting.

Yet I am too harsh. There are moments when the smell of the oak trees and the rustle of the wind in the leaves will bring back a memory of laughter, a recollection of a hug, or a time when as children we were unaware of the things that seemed to be upsetting the grown-ups; like the time when we snuck off to the pond to go skinny-dipping. True, we got a damn good spanking for doing it but it was worth it. Yes there were good times and I would love to celebrate those. It’s just that I don’t know how to celebrate the good times without honestly facing the bad ones. It seems false somehow. It cheapens the memories of the good times, makes them seem less real if we cannot also have the strength as a family to face the things that have brought all of us pain. It makes me feel like I should be ashamed of my family, like we have some things to hide that are so terrible that they are worse than the things faced by other families, like my family is the worst one ever, or that we lack the moral strength and courage to be real and honest with each other. How can I celebrate good times in a family of shame? How can I lie?

But this is ridiculous. My family is my family. I cannot change them. I will be polite. I will say the right things. I have learned the lesson of the perpetual silence. No sense making a fuss. The holidays will soon pass and we can return to the path of ignoring one another.

Thankfully, I have also learned that home is not a place or a particular group of people. I am at home wherever my feet happen to be. I can find friends at every turn. I can make friends by learning to be a friend; someone who is honest, someone who pretends as little as possible, someone who tries to share a little love and kindness with everyone.

I weep for the author of the note. How sad that he will spend the holidays in such a sad state of affairs. If I knew who he was I would invite him home to my family. We will have the turkey. We will have a table that groans from the weight of all the tasty dishes set before us. We will laugh at tales from our childhood. We will watch a football game and shout for the home team. Our family could pose for the ads you see on television. We might even do that someday, if they pay us enough. :-)

A Far Country

In a far country - far, far from here - a young man sat with his coffee thinking of ways to be a better human being. He thought, “Fix this. Fix that. When will I be done fixing myself?”

He had honed the art of self-examination and improvement to the point of insanity. Placing himself squarely at the center of the universe he assumed full responsibility for his fate in life, responsibility not only for his fate, but the fate of all those around them. His sense of duty came from beliefs so deeply ingrained that they flowed through him in his blood with every beating of his heart; the belief that there are no such things as accidents, that God is in control; that God has set up a rule of laws and that man has freewill to choose; and, thus the man’s fate is in his own hands – make the right choices and live a life of happiness, make the wrong ones and suffer eternal damnation. The man saw his life as a test in how to make the right choices. He was certain all of his pains were of his own making, that he is a case of “selfish, self-centeredness”, and that all his actions were “self-will run riot.” Buried in these thoughts, the black of his coffee looked darker and darker.

Meanwhile, deep in the limbic system of his brain his amygdala twitched sending a bit of hormone to the right temporal lobe. The hormone caused a tiny seizure, a seizure so small it could scarcely be detected by even the most sensitive instruments. But its impact was enormous. The young man saw a bright light. He heard a voice, “All is well with you. All of the universe is one with me and you are one with me for now and always.”

Trembling, the young man asked, “Who are you?”

“I am known by many names in many lands but you may call me God.”

The voice and the young man conversed for what seemed hours, yet when the light faded the young man saw that only a two minutes had passed.

The young man rushed home to write down all that he had heard. Next day, he made copies of his writings and shared them with all of his friends. After a few days of sharing and talking with others the young man was exhausted, hiding in his house and refusing to talk with anyone. During this dark times the young man worried that he was not being a true messenger of God, that he still was doing things for selfish reasons, that he did not deserve love from anyone. His friends brought him food but he would not eat. They sang him songs but he could not sleep. Eventually, the exhaustion passed and the young man returned to his life.

Periodically, the young man had further seizures and saw the white light. He continued to write and publish his conversations with the one he “chose to call God”. These periods of writing and sharing were followed by periods of exhaustion. People told him that his writing inspired them and they flocked to hear him read from his work. Their praise comforted the young man during his dark periods. But the young man still was obsessed with the idea of fixing himself to become a better messenger for God. He dreamed that somehow, someday he would find a way to be beautiful enough and good enough to deserve and experience love.

One day a psychiatrist traveled to the young man’s country. He went to several of the young man’s lectures. He nodded to himself and smiled secretly. Then one day he cornered the young man after a lecture, “Young man you are seriously ill. You are having temporal lobe seizures, the bright light is nothing more than a patch of neurons misfiring, and the revelations are nothing more than a severe case of hypergraphia. You must take these pills. They will make you stop worrying about fixing yourself. They will make you understand that you are worthy of being loved.”

Much relieved to find out that he simply was ill, not evil, the young man took the medications offered by the psychiatrist. Amazingly, the seizures stopped. The young man no longer saw the white light and no longer felt the need to write and share his writings. He took some classes at the local community college, became a phlebotomist, settled down, and started a family with his high school sweetheart who had stood by him faithfully for years. He thought he felt like most other people thought they felt most of the time. He even was pretty sure that he was worthy of being loved.

His former followers became very angry with him. They challenged him to debates about God. But with his mind clear for the first time in his life the young man could easily refute their arguments for the existence of magical white lights and a divine being. He carefully explained how the brain worked and the phenomenon of temporal lobe seizures to all who would listen. His explanation only upset them. They shouted at him.

“Hypocrite. Back slider. You think too much. You know you will go to hell.”

Over time, doubts began to re-enter the young man’s mind. His doubts were not about bright lights, magical beings or even temporal lobe seizures. Deep inside he still doubted that he was worthy of being loved. His friends and family tried to comfort him. They tried to tell him that they loved him. He tried to believe them. He tried very hard to believe, but trying was not enough. The dark times began to reappear. It was helpful to know that the dark times were not a sign of a character deficiency but the pain of them still was very real and powerful. It was if he knew that he had a broken leg. He was no longer ashamed of having a broken leg but the lack of shame did not heal the leg or relieve its pain.

On the darkest night in many years, the young man went to the highest bridge over the deepest river. He could not see the water. He only heard it rushing by far below. The young man climbed the railing and was just letting go when he heard a voice.

“That probably won’t help matters.”

“Who, who is that?”

The young man almost fell as a dark hooded figure spoke again, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“But how can you be me? I am over here.”

“Come and I will show you.”

Intrigued the young man got down off the railing and followed the hooded one to a bench under a streetlight. The man pulled back his hood to reveal a beard and full head of the shiniest silver hair the young man had ever seen.

“So, do you recognize me now?”

“Santa Claus?”

The hooded man laughed. It was the most comforting sound the young man had ever heard.

“No. Not Santa Claus. Try again.”

The young man looked very closely at the one with the hood. Then it struck him. Something about the eyes and nose. Something so familiar…

“You are me! Me when I am a lot older.”

“Got it on the second try. Pretty good.”

“But how, how can you be here and in the future?”

The man in the hood held up his hand. “That would take more time than we have. Let’s get to it. You know how you saw a bright light once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you have figured out by now, you weren’t talking to God.”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

The grey haired man laughed again. “Take my word for it. You weren’t. If you go around thinking you are talking to God you will end up talking to doctors in psych wards for a very long time. Trust me. I know.”

“Well, who was I talking to?”

“The only other person there dummy.”

“You mean myself? I was talking to myself?”

“Bingo. Got it in one this time.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the ground. “Guess I should have finished things off on the bridge.”

“And what exactly do you think that would have gotten you?”

“An end to this mess anyhow.”

“Quit being such an idiot.”

Anger flashed in the young man’s eyes as he looked back up. “Look who’s calling me an idiot. Some old fart, off his medication.”

The old man smiled. “What I mean is that you have no way of knowing that you are not exchanging one mess for an even bigger one.”

“You mean like, hell?”

Shaking his head the old man answered. “Not if you mean lakes of fire and things like that. I just mean that you do not know what happens after death. No one does. So why waste life? Why not enjoy each breath?”

The old man continued as the young man leaned back to listen.

“See, it’s like this as I see it. All we have or ever will have is right here right now. Anything else is a guess. What happened in the past is a matter of debate – ask any two people and you get two completely different recollections of what happened just yesterday. Try to project the future and you can get probabilities, but never certainties. The only true certain thing is what is right in front of us. We can try to see beauty or pain in this moment, that may be the only real choice we have.”

“But that’s just your opinion.”

“Yes. It is the only one I am entitled too. You must have your own opinion. You cannot have mine.” Again the laugh. Again the deep sense of comfort.

The old man began to fade. It started at the edges. The feet. The legs. The torso. The arms. Soon there was only the face and then it too began fading.

Panicked the young man shouted, “Wait! Wait! I have so much more to ask you.”

Another laugh was followed by a smile. “It’s okay. It really is okay. Just know this. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. And remember, the Walrus was Paul.” More laughter as night replaced the face entirely. “Seriously though…know that I am you and believe that I love you even when it seems like no one else does.”

Stunned, the young man sat down on the bench. He remained there as daylight replaced the streetlight. He rose and went home to his family. They were eating breakfast. The you man wished that he could be certain that his vision was true. He wished that he could be certain of anything. Then he looked at his wife and daughter. Right here. Right now. Nowhere else. No when else. He hugged them both and ate his eggs. From somewhere he heard laughter.

Even More Vancouver Photos

Sweetie

You have not slept since 3 pm yesterday. Your hair is blond (maybe) and you are ordering donuts at 5 am. Your blouse hangs off one shoulder, letting your partner know you are interested, definitely interested. Your partner’s hair is red and he keeps it cut short to hide the fact that there is less of it today than yesterday. You overlook the loss of hair for the sake of his biceps and buttocks. You talk loud and slur your words. The clerk is confused and you have to repeat your order several times. Donut holes. 8 of those, 6 of these, 4 glazed, 4 powdered. Oh and yes, one Strawberry and one Maple.

Your partner puts the back of his hand on his forehead and says in Scarlett O’Hara’s voice. “Maple? Maple? Why chil’ you must be mad!”

You laugh too loud.

Minutes from now you will be snuggled in the loft across the street, firing up the hookah or bong or whatever and eating donut holes faster than you ate pizza the night before. You and your boyfriend, yes please let him be your boyfriend, it has been so long since you had one of those, will wrestle and manage some form of love. You will loose consciousness in a rapture of sensation. Another day will pass as a taxi down below carries a businessman off to his cubicle.

You will wake sometime around noon. You will see your partner is nearly bald. The sunlight will have aged him at least a decade as you slept. He will lie on his back hiding the gorgeous butt and instead show you a belly that has not seen abs since high school. His prick will be a wilted cucumber above two small prunes. Your underwear will hang from the lampshade. The garbage can will overflow with beer cans. The pizza and donut boxes will be nearby – left there in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before you passed out.

You’ll fire up the bong or hookah or whatever to get the strength to call your father. The phone will ring in his cubicle.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey darling, what’s up?” You’ll know he is pretending not to notice the stoned tone of your voice. You’ll know he knows you are simply calling for money. Money is the only reason you ever call him. You feel it is his duty to provide it. After all he was the one who brought you into this world. You did not have a say. You never got a vote. It is his fault that you are here, now he should accept the responsibility.

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

You hate when he calls you sweetie. It is the same term he uses for your Mother. You are not your Mother. God no. No. No. No. Not your Mother. The one who hates you and who slices you up so bad with her dry insults that you can hardly stand to talk to her. But your Dad is unconscious most of the time. Sweetie is the only term of endearment that he can think of. So you accept it from him. Only from him though. Anyone else who calls you sweetie will be slapped silly.

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

Silence. You really hate this part. The little waiting game. You have stated the problem. His job is to solve it. He so desperately wants you to ask him. You so desperately don’t want to.

He caves, as he always does. “How much?”

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

“Western Union okay? Or should I wire it to your bank account?”

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

The click of the phone in your ear will sound like the lid of a casket closing. You’ll know you have thrown away just a little bit more of the closeness you and he shared. The images of him bandaging the “boo boo” when you were six, buying you the car when you were sixteen and hugging you when your first true love left you will fade a bit more.

You will take another hit from the hookah or waterpipe or whatever and nestle against your new boyfriend (even if he doesn’t know it yet). You will fluff up the prunes and try to rouse the cucumber. Nothing. Just deeper snores.

Sighing, you will roll on your back and rub yourself. You may have to take another hit or two, and you may have to rub for quite a while, but eventually you will find sweet release - a moment when there are only donut holes, firm buttocks and laughter; a moment when you don’t have to feel so far from all you once loved; a moment so joyful that you don’t mind when your new boyfriend wakes and calls you sweetie. You will snuggle close to him. He will hold you close. Maybe not forever. But close enough for now.

Pictures from Vancouver

Some photos taken out of our hotel window.

The Beauty of Lizards

Night makes mirrors of the windows. I drink coffee sitting in Sandburg’s city of the “broad shoulders”. Random thoughts. Nothing in my head but mush. Struggling to write, I reach for my old familiar muses of sadness and despair. Nothing. Perhaps the rare burst of love and happiness are waiting. Again nothing. But I will write. Keeping the words in my skull leads to abscesses of the brain. Maybe the lines will come from a little gratitude…a little chance for wonder…maybe…

Beauty buys coffee and flashes a smile. Beauty sleeps in the bed where I slept. Beauty flows by in the traffic that is somehow choreographed to the beat of Marvin Gaye as What’s Goin’ On floats from the speakers. I stare at a sparkle of light in my cup until it dissolves into a prism of color. The prism expands, filling my vision. It is enough.

I find myself running in the backyard of our Nederland house. The grass is brown from the late summer drought that bakes everything. Soon the rains will come drenching the black gumbo clay, flooding streets, and bringing the occasional hurricane.

The yard is full of hazards – stones, cockleburs, and sometimes even a piece of glass. These are nothing to me. The soles of my feet are black, tanned leather from months and years of going barefoot across lawns, cement and gravel.

I am running to Jeff’s house. Jeff of the red hair and so many freckles it is hard to tell if his skin is white with red spots or red with white spots. His house is across the field from mine. We spend days together running in the sun, building forts in the empty lots, crying when we are forced to come in at night.

Today as I run, something catches my eye. There, on a firethorn bush, the kind with the orange-red waxy berries, is a tiny lizard. It writhes in agony. It was put there by a jaybird or a maybe a mockingbird. I have watched them do it. They will catch a lizard and then stick it on a thorn until it stops wriggling, making it easier to eat I guess.

As a child I found this horrible. But today’s journey through the scene is with eyes a half-century older. I see only harmony here. Nothing terrible. The birds chicks are waiting for the lizard to stop writhing. They will quickly eat it, growing strong to make more chicks. The lizard’s young will be fine, they are able to fend for themselves as soon as they hatch. Life has deep wisdom and beauty.

The same is true for we naked apes, or, if you insist, we pinnacles of creation. We will find ourselves writhing on our own thorn someday. The thorn may be cancer, simple old age, or something as spectacular as a hurricane or other natural disaster. Regardless, we will pass from this life. Our passage may be peaceful or in agony, but pass we will. Today I see my future passing as a thing of beauty. I am fortunate beyond measure to simply have glimpsed life, much less experience it for more than half a century. I may see the future end of my life as beauty or tragedy. I will seek to find it beautiful. Not a goal to be sought but a flower to be appreciated once it is offered. Until that time I pray to smell every flower, know that the world is filled with love not evil if I only choose to see it, and see the beauty…share the beauty…live in the beauty that is all around me.

The Beauty

Comfort of Old Men

We are the old men. We sag in inappropriate places. Liver spots have replaced the cuteness of freckles on our skin – skin that has begun to resemble tissue paper, tearing easily, leaving us wondering “now where did that cut come from?”. Our movements are accompanied by unconscious moans, grunts or wheezes. Flatulence has become an art form. Hair sprouts evermore profusely from our nose, ears and ass while it leaves our heads. We would take decisive actions for self-improvement if we could remember what they were. Yes, we are the old men; those who have lived far beyond the 30 to 40-year warranty originally granted out species.

Sometimes we are enraged and fearful of the decline. We buy ever more expensive cars and homes. We fluff up and pamper the little bits of beauty nature has left us. We scramble after women younger than our daughters. Unable to love ourselves as we age, we push away those who would love us. Fearful that they will not love us enough to care for us, we fight to pass laws that conserve our control over the world’s wealth and power. We dream that science may discover a way for us to be immortal. We claim ultimate knowledge of what is the “right” path for creation based on our religion, philosophy or science. We are willing to sacrifice anything for more life – our peace of mind, the planet’s resources, and our children’s future.

At other times we glimpse the beauty of the cycle of life and death. We welcome each day with wonder. Letting fear drop from us, we can see deeply into a butterfly’s wing with the same wonder and joy of a child. If we do not have grandchildren, we smile and wave at the children of others. We form new friendships over a cup of coffee. We get out and wander around – not worrying about how we look, knowing that even a toothless, hairless smile can dress up even the poorest suit of clothes. Embracing our frailty, we willingly hand over the power for decisions to our children. We know that they will make mistakes but we recognize their right to make them just as we made our own. We accept that we are not in charge of their future, just as our parents never were in charge of ours. We share our possessions with those who have nothing because we know living in a “dog eat dog world” creates dogs not human beings. We find peace.

If we are truly lucky we simply accept that we are old men growing ever older. We relax and enjoy each breath. We have nothing left to prove. We find peace knowing that the only lasting legacy is our circle of friends. Grand ideas, monuments, empires – and yes we old men, all fade into starlight in the end. May I be lucky enough to be the starlight seen years from now by another old man as he looks up into the night. May I begin shining today.

Morning Prayer

I think sometimes writing is a form of prayer for me. A prayer to understand others and be understood by them. This piece is a bit wordy and pedantic but it is what was there in my head. Sometimes I AM wordy and pedantic. I will send the piece on and I know at least one person will read it. To that person - thank you.

Fall's bite is in the air. A few early risers are on their way to work – coffee shops, restaurants and maybe a grocery story or two. I “camped” at the apartment last night. Grace and I are redefining who we are as a couple once more. Neither of us is certain of where the journey will take us. There is certainty of a deep and abiding love, all else seems to shift before us. Perhaps change and uncertainty are inevitable.

READER – SKIP TO ENDING UNLESS YOU ENJOY PSEUDO-PHILOSOPHICAL DRIVEL

Last night I visited with friends. Conversation ranged wide and far. At the end of the evening, the discussion shifted, as it inevitably must – to the topics of religion, spirituality and science. After all I live in a university town. Not much light was shed on the subject, but I did learn one thing. Unlike my younger days, I am able to discuss the subject without becoming too upset. I think it is because I have made at least some progress in accepting the idea that there very likely are no certain answers and that if there are, I for one, do not know them. Life is easier when I accept the certainty that I likely will remain uncertain about much of it. Unfortunately, some are not willing to allow me this simple luxury. When I say, “I’m not certain but based on what we know the probability is…” they use the gap in evidence and proof that my position is meaningless. Then they strive to convince me of the certainty of their position without providing any evidence other than faith or intuition. When I hold fast to my need for evidence, they can become frustrated and assert, “You know in your heart (or more grossly put – your gut) that what I am telling you is true, you simply are refusing to accept it.”

Nothing could be further from the truth. It is just that my life has led me not to be concerned about placing too much reliance on “my heart” or faith in some “certainty” as a guide for my actions. My first inclination is to look to the evidence – or as I define evidence, those phenomena that all of us can share and validate independently of one another. Then when I have exhausted the evidence, as I certainly will because our knowledge is incomplete, intuition may indeed be of help. When I trust my heartfelt “revelations” and the certainty they bring, I can I end up in places where I can no longer distinguish revelation from hallucination. In Japan, my gut once told me that I was speaking with the goddess Gaia. Luckily, I still had sufficient reason to check out the evidence before following her guidance. Gaia offered me the certainty of my gut feelings as a basis for my actions. Instead, I chose to base my decisions on probabilities rather than certainties. Was it more probable that I was speaking to a god or that I was in a hotel room withdrawing from some fairly potent psychotropic medications? I chose the probability that I was in a hotel room. I have little doubt that my life is better because chose probability over certainty.

I am confronted with the certainty versus probability dilemma every day. I accept that I can never gather full evidence for each and every decision. I cannot become a heart surgeon in order to decide whether or not to follow the direction of a heart surgeon. Does this mean that I must resort purely to my gut and base my life on emotional choices? I have made, and undoubtedly will make some choices this way and suffer the consequences. However, I also know that it is possible to examine my life through the lens of science and reason, weigh the probabilities and accept life’s uncertainty. When in this space I need not fight anyone or anything. I can accept myself and others. Rather than judging another I can simply reflect on the question – “I wonder why they think that way?” I need not fear them. I need not judge them.

ENDING

Will this winter be colder than normal? Will there be a deeper friendship and love between Grace and I? The tiny mammalian brain atop my limbic system wants definite answers to this question. It is fearful that without certainty its life will end. Thankfully, my brain is a human brain. This brain tells me that the answers to these questions are still uncertain – yet it also tells me that I can look to the almanac for probabilities about the weather and that “more will be revealed” in the course of time. Meanwhile, the probability is that life will continue for this day and that my “job” is to simply be alive and try to act with kindness.

Outside, fall continues to come on. Inside there is warmth and a parade of people at the coffee bar. Tall, short, fat, fit, perfumed, “au naturale”. Human. What a wonder and what silly little monkeys we are. We are tiny beyond insignificance on the cosmic scale, yet we are able to view and at least comprehend that very cosmos. Some Native Americans called themselves human beings, meaning it as source of wonder and humility – not as a statement of our certain position as rulers of the planet. Today I am a human. It IS wonderful of that I AM certain. Well, at least for the most part.

A Second Hill

The road is dark. Ahead in the tall grass of the ditch two red dots reflect light back to me. The dots scurry away. I come to the stop sign for the highway leading to town and take a right. Southward I can see the glow of the city. Another day has begun.

As I head to the bottom of the first hill a white t-shirt flashes in my headlights. I catch a brief glance of a young man – arm raised, black baseball cap, jeans – as I whiz past. I tap my brakes in anticipation of stopping but decide it is best to be safe. I speed back up for my journey into town.

At the bottom of the second hill I change my mind. I turn around at the next crossroad and head back up the hill. I drive further than I remember traveling and I begin to wonder if I imagined the man. Then I see him. He his carrying a paper bag. Too many hours of watching cable news makes me wonder if the bag contains drugs, or worse, a gun. He sees that I have returned and the look of hope in his face makes me commit. Drugs, gun or not – I stop the car. This could be seen as risky behavior – perhaps I am embarking on yet another episode of bipolar mania. Oh well, may as well relax and enjoy the ride.

I am relieved when I see a face that looks sober. The face smiles as the young man wearing it slides into the seat next to me.

“So, where do you need to go? Iowa City?”

“No. I’m going to Solon, is that okay?”

Solon is the exact opposite of where I was heading but I have some time to kill before the coffee shop opens.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

I press the gas and we head north into the night. We ride for several moments in silence before the young man extends a hand.

“My name is John. And yours?”

I shake John’s hand. I can feel the calluses of carpentry or farming.

“I’m Dale. So, John what brings you out so early?”

“I got a DWI and they let me out of jail early.”

I laugh. “I’m familiar with DWIs.”

John tells the story of my life at his age – too much to drink, too little patience and a fear that life will never be what I expect and need it to be. Of course there is a woman and there is a fight and there is the heartbreak of separation. I resist the urge to give direct advice - difficult for someone of my immense wisdom. But I cannot resist a statement or two aimed at sharing personal experience.

“Yeah. I remember that I used to think, ‘I don’t get in trouble every time I drink.’ But then I came to realize that pretty much every time I got into trouble I had been drinking.”

John agrees and laughs obligingly but I can tell I have gone a bit too far. I retreat.

“But in the end I guess each of us has to find their own path…”

I hear a deeper note in John’s voice, “You got that right.”

Then we reach the end of our journey.

“Up here on the right. The brick house just past that car.”

I drive away. As usual I reflect on my actions. Dissect is more like it. Was it a good thing to help John? Was I engaging in risky behavior associated with being bipolar? Was I simply being self serving, trying to play out some role as a good Samaritan? Would it have been better for John to suffer the full consequences of his DWI by having to walk to Solon? Like it or not – this type of chatter follows me every day. I practice my breathing and by the time I reach the coffee shop, I am able to let go and leave it to life to sort out. I meant the act as one of kindness. That is the best I can do. The universe will have to determine the cosmological significance of me meeting John. I will settle for a good cup of coffee.

Anniversary

September 11, 2009

200 mg Depakote

Mood – 7 out of 10 (where 10 is God’s orgasm)

Today is the anniversary of the loss of my kidney and the death of my business career.

It is 4:30 a.m.

I grind the coffee. The coffee comes from Café del Sol a cooperative that supports people in need. The grinder looks as if it might be a transformer in disguise; red metal, two feet tall with a huge mouth of a lid to receive the beans. It makes short work of the pound or two of coffee that I put in.

Once more I am at Uptown Bill’s Small Mall, about which my brother said, “You would be lost without that place wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. I suppose. Or at least someplace like it,” was my reply.

I am grinding the coffee and doing a little clean up as payment for my parking space this morning. I would park near my apartment but the students are back at the University and there are no spaces. My off-street parking in the alley is filled by someone else’s car. Once again, the Mall is the place of easiest refuge.

I look around for another task. The water cooler is at the end of the table where I sit. The bottle is empty. Just a second while I change it. There. The bubbles rise to the top in a hypnotic pattern as the water fills the cooler.

Simple.

Help out a bit.

Grind coffee.

Watch bubbles.

Write.

Feel better.

Why is it such a challenge to remain focused on just helping out bit and then relaxing to enjoy the present moment?

As they say, if I knew the answer to that one I would write a book. Wait a moment. I did write a book. It didn’t have any answers for anyone but me, and that answer was simple – just be Dale. Do not take on any great causes. Do not feel that I have to fulfill anyone else’s desires for whom or what they expect me to be. Care and be kind to others but do not take on their pain and try to carry it as if it were my own. A tall order to be sure but one I must follow if I want to stay free of hospitals; if I want to be present enough to see a butterfly as it lands on my arm. Just now there are no butterflies. It is night outside. There is a fly under the neon. It lands on the table just outside my reach. Its wings reflect a prism of light when I look closely. It is enough. Did I rate my mood as 7 on a scale of 10? Make that a 7.5.

Broken Ones

September 10, 2009

Depakote 200 mg

Mood – 6 out of 10 (where 10 is equivalent to the Big Bang)

Tomorrow is 9/11. I remember what happened just before and after that date 8 years ago.

The urologist. “You have kidney cancer it must come out.”

The psychiatrist, “You have Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder, er…mental illness…er mood disorder.”

The employer, “You should go on long term disability.”

The insurer, “On your behalf, you must let us file for Social Security Disability Insurance.”

I still do not understand those times. They opened cracks in what I used to call a soul.

“What can I do with bipolar disorder?” Follow the doctor’s orders. But mental illness is an area that has little certainty. We can set a broken leg. We can put stints in arteries. We cannot cut or sew up the wounds of the mind that we label mental illness.

“What does long term disability mean?” I have a contract to receive payment, but don’t insurance companies decide to cancel benefits all the time? My trust of companies is pretty low based on my experiences with them. The phrase, “it’s just business” sends a chill to my core. I become fearful of losing the benefit.

“What does Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) mean?” It means that the insurer lowers their payments by the amount I am paid by SSDI. I become fearful of trying to get better and learn how to do job. If I do try to get better, if I do try to work again and go off of SSDI will the insurer become angry and find a way to cancel my long-term disability? If I don’t work again will I sink further into my illness like so many seem to do?

These are not unique questions. I am not alone. There are many of us. The broken ones, the ones that much of society does not want to look at too closely. I know. I was part of “successful” society once. I wore the suits. I flew first class. I made the deals. I looked with what I thought was great compassion on those less fortunate. Today, I wonder if my compassion was little more than condescending pity.

In my suit of the best Dormeuil money could buy I would think; “How sad are those poor souls. How sad they lack my talent, skill and enterprise. I suppose we must make allowances and give them something to live on, but we must be careful not to give them too much or we will destroy their motivation to improve themselves. We must make them want to improve their lot in life. We must motivate them to mend themselves.”

Now that I am bipolar and disabled my view is a bit different. I live in the world of broken ones, or at least those that are labeled as broken. We are the ones out of the mainstream. The ones that cannot (and yes sometimes will not) fit into the categories the world has given us. We sometimes spend countless hours hating ourselves and wondering if we should simply disappear and cease being a bother and source of pain. Each of us began life as a mother’s dream of having the perfect child, a bit of china so pure and rare that all the world would come to admire it and in their admiration stand in awe of the parents who created it. But it was not to be. For us, our mother’s dream of china turned into potshards, the broken bits left in the potter’s yard after the workers have gone home.

Yet even among the broken pottery there is beauty. Yesterday I spoke with Scott P., my oldest friend. I worried that I had upset him with my recent whining and rambling. But like every time when I call him, we soon were laughing as though no time had passed since we shared our radical days of the 70’s. His laugh and my response put a few shards back together that I had forgotten. I remembered that my cracks are of long standing. I have been a little bit “weird” from early on. As a result, I have a long history dealing with being cracked. I do well with it so long as I don’t forget to be loving and kind. And then the most important shard fell into place - with a friend weirdness is all right.

I pity the successful one I once was; the executive who often was afraid to take time for friends, especially those who could not directly further his business goals. Today he seems the broken one to me. He is the one whose life was segmented into pieces – work, play, family, friends, etc. He is the one that could do the most horrid things because each piece stood on its own and after all, “it’s only business”.

Since becoming broken, my life is much richer than before. This morning I met with Tom and watched as he ate waffles with the real maple syrup I brought to him from the Kalona coop. He told me about Dorothy and how it was going to be difficult to lose her. I spoke with Janet about her poetry and shared how I have learned to use writing to overcome darkness and despair; despair like that she feels when she hears the timer go off on the machine they have given her to dispense her medication. I listened to another friend speak of her longstanding loneliness and fears about the challenges of credit card debt. The dogs licked Tom’s plate clean of the few pieces of waffle he carefully leaves for them each morning. Behind the counter Tim served coffee. Through it all there was some pain, how could their not be? Yet, mostly there was simply a deep harmony as our laughter and warmth held the pieces together. This crazy glue, made of true compassion not pity for each other, allows we broken ones to make new pots from the broken china of our mother’s dreams. Many of our creations are odd and some are outright bizarre. This is okay with us. Broken or not we can be at peace and live life fully. In fact we have an advantage, we can relax and be ourselves, we no longer have to pretend that we are “normal”. In this state we are able to take whatever piece comes our way and piece it together higgledy-piggledy into our art.

I smile as I write this. Only yesterday I was sad that I would never be normal again. I was filled with pain about my illness and saw my life as a failure. Today I recall Scott’s words, “I’ve known you were nuts since the 70’s. I like you anyway. Did you think after all this time you were going to trick me into thinking you were sane or something?” We laughed until any strangeness between us faded into the warm fall air. Potshards need not remain broken. Friendship’s crazy glue can piece them back together stronger than ever before.

Kindness to Kindness

Fear and doubt. Fear and doubt. Oh, and add healthy doses of self-hatred and guilt. These emotions often dominate my life. There are days when the blackness they cast almost makes it impossible to move. Often the emotions have a face, the face of my mother as she sat for days on end in her housecoat watching the television, or the face of my brothers and father as they watched her illness and now mine – unable to talk openly about it. And yes, most especially my face in the mirror – a man whose sadness makes it look older than many who are his same age – a man who often begins his days writing drivel such as this. Even now, as I watch these words appear on the page the committee who live in my head shouts.

“Everyone else is fine. You simply are projecting your self-centered pain upon them.”

“What’s the point?”

“Why do you bother?”

“Stop this silliness at once. Cease bothering the world with your self-pity.”

“Sharing all your nonsense just brings others down and makes their day darker. How selfish of you.”

“Voicing your fears only makes them more real you know.”

The committee’s chatter is with me always. Even on the brightest of days I can feel them. They nestle in a dark corner of my brain in angry silence; waiting for the right moment to pounce on any sign of happiness or joy. I have spent years in church pews, 12-step rooms, psychiatric hospitals and with therapists trying to destroy the committee. Yet it remains. Some days, like today there is only one arrow left in my quiver, one last bolt to use in trying to silence the committee – it is the shaft of writing. Fuck the committee. Fuck each and every member. Let my words slay them for yet another day.

AND I share what I write. The committee finds this idea hilarious. It loves to pounce on the idea of sharing.

“You realize it is all just ego on your part don’t you?”

“Your grandiosity is showing.”

“You better spend more time editing and making sure it is the best you can possibly do before you share it.”

I share anyway. Damn the committee. I know of at least one or two people who say they like what I write and that they want to read more of it. Today that is enough. It will have to be. I feel as if writing honestly about what I experience in this moment, this very one, may be my only defense against the committee. Even if later I find my writing to be less than truthful or perfect it is the only thing I can think of to offer life at the moment. Trying to capture this tiny second of the eternal universe is the best I can manage just now. May it be enough for life. May it be enough to silence the committee. May it be done on a path of love and kindness.

The phone rings. It is a friend from Little Rock, Arkansas. Larry Atkinson. We have seen one another maybe a dozen times but have talked on the phone for hundreds of hours. He carries the ghost of addiction, as do I. We will talk until there is nothing left to talk about. Perhaps life meets kindness with kindness once again. I will act as if it is so.