Christmas Memory I'd Like to Forget

Christmas Memories I'd Rather Forget

Crash Christmas

Like the previous story concerning a loved one's last Christmas, the season may have bittersweet memories for some of us. For many years, I suffered from a bad case of after-Christmas blues. Sure, I loved watching my two daughters open their gifts on Christmas day, but soon after, I'd lapse into depression. It took me awhile to figure out the reason. I finally figured it out. My mother's second husband, the man who I once called Dad, managed to wreck the family car at Christmas time more often than not it seemed.

This man, an inveterate impaired driver, got too many chances to cruise the roads stinking drunk. I know that sounds impossible these days, that someone could continue driving while intoxicated and stay out of jail, or keep his license, but in the 1950s and early 1960s, laws weren't what they are today. So, one year, let's call him Dan, drove through a gas station with my mother's pink Thunderbird. When I say "through a gas station" I mean he drove through the station--its walls, its office, etc.

The first year I lived with him in Las Vegas, he wrecked the family's car again, and since he was a regular in the emergency room of the hospital, he managed to renew his acquaintance with the orderly there who had helped him the year before. (I don't know how many wrecks this was for him.) He managed to slide on his ass across the road, tearing the skin off his back, the back of his head, his legs. Unfortunately, he hit another car that year. I don't know what became of the people he hit.

Crash Christmas did not miss a year. The next Christmas season, we lived in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, California. Drunk again, Dan drove over an embankment on Pacific Coast Highway. After a crash that left him with broken ribs, things got ugly between my mother and Dan. I never even got to finish the year at my school. We moved back to Las Vegas with about a week left in the school year. I remember the teacher in Vegas looking at me like, how in the hell can I grade this kid. I guess I had no transcripts. Gee, I hope I at least got all "A"s. 

The point is, sometimes the holiday season rings the wrong bells. Remember, giving often involves understanding. I got over my post-Christmas blues. If you are, or know someone who is afflicted with the holiday blahs, be kind and do your best to create a tradition that does not include the problems.

WRESTLING DEMONS-- BEWARE THE FULL NELSON!

I have a friend who has been diagnosed as being possessed by demons. That the individual who "found" the possession is some sort of "psychic healer" makes little difference. My pal is both proud and distressed by her supposed affliction. No, she's not involved in devil worship, but she is an epileptic, and perhaps the healer is more possessed with a stereotypical view of my friend's real problems than by reality.

Most of us somehow wrestle demons. My most vulnerable time is at night, when my pain medications battle my mood and the other medications I take. I seem to have the situation well-in-hand at present, but there have been times when the demons threatened to overwhelm me. When I began a new pain medication about a month ago, one night, late at night, when I could not sleep, I got up and went into the bathroom and cried. I felt overwhelmed, frightened, and helpless. This match-up with the demons proved to be most difficult.

While my issues may be different from yours, our problems do tend to build up. We may wrestle with the demons others bring to our lives. Perhaps it is in the form of a spouse's alcoholism or drug use. Maybe we are dealing with a child who is self-destructive on some level. Or maybe we have no employment and little hope of finding any. I know people who I consider in a worse situation than I am. There are those across the world who suffer, without an end to their suffering in sight. Want to feel fortunate? Take a look at the problems of your friends, neighbors, and fellow world citizens. But when the demons are attacking you, none of this matters. Your distress may seem insurmountable.

Here's the thing, sometimes all we have is hope. Prayer, spiritual meditation, friendship, or even your dreams can help put your problems in perspective. The presence of demons makes every problem seem worse. When all else fails, try a headlock. Demons are suckers for the headlock. Remember, do not compound a bad situation by making bad and harmful choices. It's exactly what the demons hope you will do. Fight them and make sure any decisions come from a mind that is "Wise." Demons hate wise minds. Good luck.

A Happy Little Halloween Poem--Oh, surely you cannot be believe me capable of that.

Upon a Mountaintop in Greece
FC 10/19/13


Orpheus
singer and poet beyond all others
offspring of Calliope
and perhaps the son of a god
began his climb
to the temple of Dionysus
though he worshiped none but the Sun
As he ascended
some maidens joined him
forming a procession
some walked behind him
and some led
The maidens wore gossamer robes
that sometimes shimmered in the morning light
and sometimes the light shone through
Some of the women
carried cages full of doves
or birds of song
one led a lamb
another a fawn
and one pulled geese behind
another led some ducks
and even a swan
came along
golden baskets laden
with all manners of fruit
and vessels full of wine
the maidens carried
Thus the poet
passed the hours of his climb
in conversation with his fair companions
One, perhaps the most lovely of them all
asked him
“Are you the one called Orpheus?
Who sings and speaks such sweet words
and harps so well
that none can ignore
your godlike spell?”
Without a hesitation
he replied,
“I have no equal
in music nor in verse.
I have beguiled all souls
of Heaven, Hell, and Earth.”
So gazing at the maidens
he walked up the mountainside
No, he was not blind
though he took no comfort in women
since his bride, Eurydice succumbed
victim of the satyr
and the serpents
She, taken down to the underworld
and left behind
But atop the mountain
near dusk
Orpheus and the maidens
at the temple of Dionysus
sat in a meadow
kissed by all manner of spring flowers
The poet sang
and spoke words of beauty
beyond what all others might speak
The maidens gathered round him
listening, it seemed
as he sang
recited
and stroked his harp
Though the women, feigned delight
in their eyes
no worship could be found
for Orpheus
or his arts
Then the full moon rose
blood red in the sky
Orpheus sang and sang
and drank wine
more and more
as the fires roared
The maidens undulated
to some unheard sound it seemed
the moonlight shining through their robes
the colors gem-like
green, red, blue, and silver
reflected off the cloth
As the night wore on and on
Orpheus hunger began to grow
as if by magic
the maidens seemed to know his mind
Within his view
one reached inside the cage of doves
then, while staring in the poet's eyes
she snapped the neck of the bird
so that he heard the “crack”
then she yanked the feathers off
and with the sharpest knife
gutted the creature
and when she had done
licked her fingers
Three doves upon a spit
were prepared for him
And he asked
the most beautiful maiden
who kept near him
all through the day
and the night
if she were not hungry
for three doves
fed barely one that hungered such as he
and certainly not two
But she shook her head
and said, “These are made especially for you.
I have no love for the flesh
of doves
touched by such fiery flames.”
So, Orpheus ate
while the women waited upon him
filling his cup with wine
every time its contents vanished
Then sated
again, he sang and sang
spoke his poems
harped
Again the women danced
again, the music not his
but as if they moved
to some rhythm of the moon
until, too drunk to sing or stroke
another note
he stopped
With that
his most beautiful companion
straddled him
and took his hands in hers
her eyes promised much
as did her thighs
Though Orpheus thought
to keep his love for his wife pure
What harm could a kiss or two do
On such a night as this?
The mist had begun to settle on the mountaintop
and would not such contact warm him?
The beauty leaned down
her mouth swollen with desire
her lips red
and wet
closer and closer she leaned into him
but instead of easing toward his lips
she found his neck
and ripped the thin skin there
with the sharpest teeth
Orpheus tried to escape
but the women then swarmed over him
He tried to scream
but one woman bit his lips
and silenced him
They pulled and pulled at his limbs
as if he were one of the doves
and no matter how he struggled
he could not move
from their clutches
Then, in the moonlight
with his eyes
grown huge with fright
Orpheus saw
one of the maidens had a knife
she carved away at him
he felt his arm give
and pull away
and another arm
and a leg, and another
all this he saw
until his eyes
were filmed with blood
Then, he breathed his last
as a maiden
carved away his head


The maidens spent some days
upon the mountaintop
They sent the head of Orpheus
downstream
floating
where two women found it
first imagining it a dream
For some days
all the voices of nature
unheard
for the wailing of the mortals
for the greatest of the bards.

Depression is a Disease!

In no uncertain terms, I tell you depression is a disease. It is a vampire if you will, sucking the blood (and the soul) from its victims.

I am doing well a majority of the time, but nights are scary sometimes. My mind races when it should be resting. I worry. I work on poems, blogs, or my books in my head. Unfortunately, I am a pain patient as well as a depression patient. As I chase the aches with pain medication, I’m never quite sure of what my body’s and mind’s reaction might be to the ingestion of these pills. Sleep is never the immediate result though. I chase the pain, and often, I chase the mental pain as well, just seeking rest. It doesn’t matter if I have napped during the day or not. Sometimes—and yes, this is weird—sometimes I am too tired to sleep. I ache, am uncomfortable, and I get stuck on one subject buzzing my cranium.

Sometimes my soul goes on a trip to hell. I pray for release. I look at my being as reprehensible. I lose track all the tools I possess to deal with these feelings of sadness. I’ve tried a million different things to cure the insomnia and the night depression: the hot tub in the middle of the night, midnight snacks, a stiff shot of single malt Scotch, surrender, stretching, pain patches, etc. Nothing works long term, not even changing up what sometimes works. I had sleeping meds but I quickly needed more. My tolerance for pain medication must be prodigious. (Once, when taken to the hospital with severe pain that attacked my lower limbs out of nowhere, the hospital gave me seven shots of morphine before it had the desired effect. Seven!)

Look folks, this is my day. I am used to it. No worries here. It is the day long depression that scares me. Luckily, I am currently out of that cycle. But damn, it is a disease. If I could will it away, or pull myself up by my bootstraps, trust me, I would. I am one lucky guy. Think I don’t know that? But I got this disease that plagues me. No, it’s not boils or raining frogs, but nonetheless, it is a modern plague.

Be kind to your friends and family who suffer. God bless you all.

BEGUILING MERLIN

Of course we are beguiled. The world of social media, news at your fingertips, and up-to-the-minute stories on your favorite stars keeps us glued to screens whether on the phone, tablet, or computer. So how much is too much?

Does anyone still notice when people in the stores and out on the street go about talking into their Bluetooths? How about standing in line at a take-out or fast food joint and having the person in front of you taking orders over the phone, meanwhile, these orders have not been “hashed out” (pun intended) as of yet? How long does that take? Everything is now in this new world. And instead of looking at each other, we stare at phones and tablets, wasting time.  Ever watch the teens anyplace on a date? Can you imagine staring at the phone instead of each other? Wow, not in my day. (Maybe she’s just not that into you?)

Books, movies, videos, news—everything comes on a small screen. Our attention is focused on four to 11 inches of our surroundings. (Easy to steal that Smart Phone? Damn right! You used to have to pay attention to where you were walking.)

They say the world is getting smaller. We can Skype friends across the world--we used to marvel at such futuristic technology fantasy when we would watch some 1940’s Buck Rogers serial at the kids’ matinees at the movies. Yes, the world has gotten smaller. It is all encompassed in a few square inches of our phones.

So we are beguiled. It is magic. And meanwhile, we don’t look at each other. I admit, I am often guilty. Perhaps it all started with television. I was glued to that little screen as a child, and yes, the screens were tiny despite the fact that a piece of furniture that weighed a ton housed the tube. I faithfully watched cowboys in their white hats on TV on Saturday mornings, well, even later if my grandmother didn’t toss me out of the house. Our channel six smoking cowboy played those movies all day. The cowboys rode pass the same rocks on the Hollywood movie set, probably near where old Charles Manson and family had their digs.

We are all guilty of not paying attention, to the world, and to each other. Our universe has gotten smaller, no doubt. Expand your mind friends. Stop reading this and go look out the window at least.

Respect and Disrespect, Forgiveness, and Surrender

I have recently been a part of a couple of discussions when respect, or more accurately, disrespect has been the subject. The issue doesn't resonate much with me. In my years with the U.S. Postal Service, disrespect whizzed about constantly. One man's disrespect is another man's insubordination. I admit to being disrespectful and insubordinate at the Postal Service. For many years, my job there made me nuts. But more accurately, I was just a angry guy put in a bad situation. I bear a lot of responsibility for some crappy behavior over the years. It doesn't make me proud.
Hey, you know what? I'm not wild about working. I never much liked the Postal Service. I've worked as a reporter and writer, either part-time or full-time, but even though I learned a lot from it, I gave those jobs up. While I liked working on articles about 90% of the time, the only writing I would do for free is the book, story, or blog that I want to write. I expect my dislike of "working for the man" made me unhappy. It hadn't much to do with whether I thought my boss was an idiot and  he disrespected me.
There is no sure way to be respected by everyone. No matter who you are, expect "disrespect" at one time or another. So? Who cares? Disrespect is not a big deal. Your mate might disrespect you at times, surely your boss will, your kids, the checker in the grocery store, the dude who cuts you off in traffic and flips you the finger... Need I go on?
More important to humans is self-respect. Self-respect comes from a source far more important than some nitwit who cusses at you in a fast food restaurant. Who cares what he thinks?
The right to respect is not in the Constitution. In the middle ages, earls, dukes, princes, etc. could come to your land--whether you were a free-man or not--and take food, goods, and sleep with your unattached daughter without paying or even a thank you. If you felt disrespected, you could take your case to a court filled with more earls, dukes, and princes. The little guy usually lost these suits.
The rudest billionaire in the world might disrespect you, but what does it matter if one has self-respect? "Disrespecting" is no reason for fighting, arguing, or even comment. It is a fact of life, and such behavior only demeans the individual who acts rudely or insensitively.

Next on my list is forgiveness. Tonight, while watching television, a special on the Amish community mentioned the 2006 murders of ten Amish children in a Pennsylvania school. Some of the families of the victims attended the funeral of the killer of those school children. They forgave him. Why? Because they left their anger behind and put their trust in God. This is a very powerful notion. Forgiveness is a very liberating action. It's not always easy. But imagine the freedom forgiveness brings. I am going to work on this. If a group of men and women who lost their children in a senseless act of violence can forgive, then who am I not to forgive the wrongs that I perceive have been done to me?
Forgiveness goes along with the freedom that surrender brings to the human spirit. When one surrenders to emotions, and to the sadness or despair brought about by depression, it is the first step to figuring out what's wrong. Fight depression all you want. If a person fails to accept that there are reasons for depression or anxiety, how can the feelings be examined or resolved? Sometimes one has to surrender to move forward. Self-examination requires a clear head. Fighting depression often means accepting that something is wrong.
Finally, there are no easy fixes here. Becoming a better person takes a lot of work. If I happen to find the magic pill anytime soon, I will let you all in on the source. Until then, try surrender.

Eat My Liver with a Few Fava Beans! or; Is It Too Late to Apologize to Eugene Debs for Failing to Vote for Him?

This blog has nothing necessarily to do with the Maenads. Maenads were Dionysus' hand maidens I suppose. And, after a bout of carousing they tended to get a little hungry. Consequently, maenads might have torn the head off a bunny and eaten it raw. Humans, other creatures, and even those horrible, little, dried fish sold in large containers in Chinatown, would have been devoured in large numbers during these celebrations. Okay, look, those little fish were probably off limits to them as well. (Those fish snacks taste like they have run over by a truck and left out to dry.) Their half-life in your system is like two months.

Anyway, yeah, I know, if you read this you might wonder, well, how is the goofy guy doing today. Is he miserable yet again? No, I am quite well as it turns out.

First, my aunt is delightful, as is my cousin, Julie. Seeing them made me happy, fulfilled, and ready-to-move-forward with life.

Second (because I know second comes after first) Hyperbole and a Half author Allie, who also suffers from depression, posted one of her enlightening blogs after a long hiatus while she dealt with the D-ogre. She so gets it, and believe me, that is an unfortunate thing. Depression unfortunately is a little like being an alcoholic--the D-bug sits inside your mind and awaits one to let down their guard. It is going to pop up now and again. One is never free from the specter of misery. Ah well, no matter.

Third, yeah, I am still paying attention, thirdly...I am dealing with disappointments without breaking down and falling, yes, falling, one-third of a mile down the canyon of despair. You know, I am alive. I did not run off for the Golden Gate Bridge for a little spring plunge. I was needy, and I got a response from someone who probably was more needy than I. The response was appropriate, reassuring, and just a bit maddening. In the meantime though, I have developed other friends who can listen.   I rediscovered the magic of my marvelous aunt, met wonderful Julie, and I still have some wonderful FB friends who listen. I thank those friends: Maureen, Shelley, two Jackies, Lori, Nurin again, oh, not to forget Rhonda, and if I forgot anyone for their kindness to me, well, the one friend is left off for her benefit, and the others are oversights. Oh yeah, my wife is incredibly patient. Mea culpa for something.

I got a lot of stories what family life would have been with a parent that would have left me far more wounded than I am now. What's that--fourth? Yeah, so fourth. I was reminded my good fortune because, having spoken so much about my family during my aunt's visit, that I avoided most of the violent beatings dealt out by my father.  (I remember only one, and vividly--the damage to this four-year-old came complete with welts from his belt.)
I was always so uncomfortable around my father--scared. It didn't matter what the situation--time at the dinner table came with instructions for my silence, and a story of the Tower of Babel--that somehow related to being a four or five year old and wanting to speak. One meeting between my father and I, after high school, came with his admission that if he had ever had another boy later, that he wanted to name him Frank, since he didn't see me, and, because apparently he needed someone to carry on his name. Imagine that. I hadn't seen him in six years I suppose, and that was my howdy-you-do.
Unfortunately, my mother did her part in providing mental abuse, some physical abuse, and virtual abandonment.
What I saw in my Aunt Mary was a person who loved children and people. She was safe haven. She still is. I could have handled having a really great Mom. Maybe next life.

Finally, and fifth (of fifthly) we visited the open studio showing and art sale of fantastic artist Nancie Crowley. Nancie Crowley (nee Campbell) graduated Hoover in 1958. This was also my Aunt Mary's graduation year at Hoover. Of course, we walked into the studio without knowing the world shrunk to so darn small. Ms, Crowley welcomed us warmly, and told us some of the methods of her artwork.

So this is what and how I am. I know sixthly does not necessarily follow finally--but it just seemed like I had a little more to write. So, sixthly I am done now.

You know, nothing excites me more than learning a little more about how humans interact.

Post-finally, or seventh, or point seven, life involves suffering. You want easy, become a blender. Very few folks get attached to a blender, and very few blenders (under six percent) become obsessive about humans on Facebook. I do suggest that  a blender Sophia Loren met online showed up on her doorstep in Naples a couple of years ago.

Hope you all are well.

Frank C.

IT'S A MIRACLE! TRAIN WRECK CALLED OFF.

The close-up shown here is of one of my Aunt Mary's favorite sculptures, The Ecstasy of St. Theresa by Bernini. My aunt arrived by plane today. She's visiting with our family and one of my cousins.
Aunt Mary is my favorite aunt ever. In general, I am not an "aunt" kind of guy. Another aunt of mine, my mother's sister, was the type of woman who gave young boys socks for Christmas. Not socks and a toy--socks. (Who does that?) While the sock-giving aunt might actually have given "warm and fuzzy" (socks) for the holidays, my Aunt Mary delivered "warm and fuzzy" feelings and memories for holidays, or any other occasion one might chance to enjoy with her and her family.
I remember my aunt as being one of the few safe-havens in my life. She was charming, giving, beautiful, and full of grace. For a kid (me) who had few interactions with so-called "normal" women, (my mom's friends seemed just slightly less crazy than my irresponsible mother,) Aunt Mary was the type of person that every child would want for a parent.
She is not so much older than I am, yet even as I approached manhood, even when I had the chance, I'd never really talked with her. I have loved and admired her for all these years, and yet, I never sat and really traded "thoughts," or known how she felt about the important things.
Well, nothing has changed my excellent opinion of my favorite aunt. In the brief time we have exchanged some messages on Facebook after decades of no contact whatsoever, I've learned a little more about her, her life, her kids and grandkids--but there is nothing like face to face contact to get a handle on how a person conducts their life.
She is wise. She is kind. She is still a lovely woman.
But even more than that, after a few hours of conversation today, I am excited about what I have learned. Aunt Mary makes me want to be a better person. Yes, I'm  lacking--I know I am. I've been through counselling enough to know I've got problems. I allow my emotions to get the better of me. My behavior hurts my relationships, and my marriage. I'm self-centered and possess a temper. I'm defensive. Yeah, I'm even grumpy (sometimes.)
But just being around someone who is kinder, more charming, more giving, and more spiritual than I am, makes me want to do better. It's exciting. Truly. It's exciting to learn from such a great person, and the idea of personal growth is exciting. I'm pretty sure if I do better, it will benefit all the people I love.
So, Aunt Mary, thank you so much. You honor my house with your presence.
God bless you and thanks for being in my corner for some 60 years. Not only has God been looking out for me, but you were too.
And while I am at it, thanks to my wife, Lynn, for nearly infinite patience, years of love, care, and concern. I  am truly blessed and probably unworthy.
Frank

POSSIBLY YOUR FINAL LOOK AT THIS TRAIN WRECK. (Are those crickets? Hello is anyone out there?)

I admit it--currently I am a bit of a train wreck. My latest episode of depression is raging. The leg pain that stems from my back problem is making my nights miserable. And, I truly wonder what I am all about when I spill my guts publicly for all to see. Am I really trying to help, or just crying out for it?
I started this blog maybe 18 months ago because I wanted fellow troubled souls to know they are not alone. So far, I have only six followers and .over 2000 page views. Several people read this blog consistently--if two is several. I hoped to reach more with personal stories about my battle with the beast of depression. The interest is absent and it costs me a lot of second-guessing? And have I really helped anyone?
Keep your eye on this spot because next time this blog comes out--if there is a next time--these personal confessions of mine may cease.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, in these blogs and on Facebook. Strangers, long-lost friends, family, and my local friends and acquaintances are privy to my innermost battles. This used to be the stuff I would discuss with my counselors or very close friends. For some--for me, this blog and FB has become a spot to tell all, or nearly all.
Again, pay attention to this part, because it might be your last glimpse at the destruction I have caused. Last year, in the month of August, I sat with a friend I worked with, but someone I really did not know that well, and cried like a baby. In the midst of recovering from a severe episode of depression, I spilled my guts. Some friends of mine know my issues, revealed to them via emails and messages. Some family members don't know about it though, yet I revealed these secrets to mere strangers. Why?
It is important to me to stay on top of my moods, but am I just sharing them because I am looking for help or for sympathy? If I share for sympathy, I may well never recover (or develop) my sense of well-being.
Often I feel like one of the nerds on The Big Bang. Whenever they meet up with one of Penny's old boyfriends, their inadequacies in the "Manly-men" department are apparent, not only to the audience but to the nerd characters. Am I manly-male? No, sorry, I am woefully inadequate. It's not that I can't pound a nail,  or run a chainsaw, but I am pretty self-obsessed. If any poor feminine soul were prepared to take me home to mother at this late date in my life, they would find a guy who likes to write romantic poetry, is editing a vampire novel that strangely mirrors more about his depression than his desire to possess the women in the book, and who needs a nap more often than his two-and-a-half year granddaughter. Any takers?
What comes from all this honesty then. It is that I embarrass my family and come out looking neither attractive, well-rounded, or even sane. I am some anachronism--an effete being better suited to a bed in Victorian England, dashing out poems, consumptively coughing, and awaiting death and a headstone in some London graveyard. Ah, sounds at least somewhat romantic, except I haven't written that famous book of poems or even a passable novel. Actually, such romantic artists were pretty rare even in Victorian England. The Pre-Raphaelite artists I admire so much, tended to be fairly long-lived womanizers who rarely allowed a setback to stop them. That ain't me babe.
Look, I hate getting old. I hate my friends are getting old, but I also hate that people just sort of go away and disappear. But one can't simply stop living because life is unkind. Where this leaves me is unknown, but I think it is time for me to pull back and share a little less than I generally do.

I GET SCARED SOMETIMES.

I am a sufferer of chronic pain who also suffers from depression. Consequently, I take medications for both problems. Recently, I began to get migraines, and, when they didn't disappear, my doctor gave me another drug.
My pain meds are pretty heavy duty, but I limit them. I take depression pills in the morning, and pain pills at night. One of my pain meds, I'm slowly trying to eliminate since I retired. After, I will try to get rid of the sleeping pills (it's a small dose.)
I take some pills because I take other pills. It's like chasing your tail. Nonetheless, everything I take, I try to take the least amount possible. It's hard to be ready to go in the mornings, when the pain often keeps me up at night. And if the pain doesn't keep me up, it's because I have nuked it with pain medication. There is no way I am up and at 'em to greet the day.
The worse thing is, pain drugs often exacerbate the depression. And now, we have added yet another pill to the mix. (Since the migraines are gone, I am skipping the headache pill tonight. I hope it helps. I think it is the cause of this new relapse.)

When I started taking the pills for migraines, they gave me an old-school anti-depressant in a small dose. It is a standard treatment. The docs aren't treating the pain, but trying to break the cycle.
This is how the beast re-entered my live! Since I started those migraine capsules, I noticed, I am getting those old crazy thoughts again, especially at night. Those "you should disappear off of the face of the earth" thoughts.
Depression, is a strange sort of disease. I can give you a very good argument for the futility of life when I am descending into hell. I will spare you this. I'm not looking for anyone to feel sorry for me, or to offer advice. I am a little scared though. I've been through this before, but just because I am familiar with it, hell is still terrifying.
That voice inside (this is an expression, I don't hear voices) tells me what a bum I am. It tells me that I'm a poor excuse for a human. The worse thing about it is this--I don't want to be fixed when I am in this mood. It's insidious. I don't want to be saved. I don't care to hear the arguments about the beauty of life. This is depression at its most evil.
I am one of the lucky people though. My novel needs finishing, and, I want to write another book after that. So, this ego that needs to be fed keeps me getting up in the morning. I love to write, and I want to be heard, so, before I can check out, I've got things to do.

I don't suppose I have much of a point in this piece. My ego keeps me alive, even though at some moments, I think the world doesn't really care if I live or not. Here's the advice to people who suffer from the beast of depression. Find something to do. Write or draw or pet your dog or go be nice to someone you don't know. Volunteer if you can. Kiss your children. Do something. Your life depends on it.

God bless you all. I really am okay.

Even the Rocks Change

I used to surf at Sunset Cliffs in San Diego. Days at the beach at the Cliffs or Ocean Beach turned into early evenings, walking to the car in the parking lot, or parked along the street, the sun setting over the Pacific.
I remember a day spent there, one spot, all guys I knew, John Belik from Hoover (he lives in Maui now,) Rick G. who lived in OB, Paul, and some other guys. All along the Cliffs, one place was breaking that day, but oddly, it was breaking at five-to-ten minute intervals. We sat on the beach, waiting for the next set, and when we saw it, we paddled out, caught waves for maybe ten minutes, and then the waves quit, and we sat and waited for more. I swear this is true. We were there probably three hours, just our crew. I surfed naked that day. Ugh, better not to think of it. It is not something I will never do again, surfing naked, but that day, thanks to our surf scientist, John Belik, we had this idyllic day along the Cliffs, all to ourselves for awhile.
Two of the guys I surfed with that day are blind. One of them, got beat up one day at the top of the Cliffs after arguing with another surfer. At the time, he had been a regular at the Cliffs for over 20 years. Someone younger and stronger came along, and well, there you go. We are not all that removed from the law of the jungle.
There is only one problem with this scenario. It is that the law of the jungle was written when people didn't live very long. Women died in their 30's, often from complications of childbirth. Men, well, if the wars didn't kill them, something else would--disease, violence, their jobs. During the day at the Cliffs I describe above, we had our own war, Vietnam. I had worked with guys who had been injured in the war. I'd gone to school with them, drove them in my taxi when I drove a taxi. Surely, I went to school with guys who went to Nam and never came back.
Now we have a war, but no draft. And short of finding that 40 or 50 year-old guy who beat up my friend, and doing a dozen-guys-in-their-60's beat down on him, I haven't any plans. Wait, I am meeting some old high school chums in San Diego in August. I do have plans!
Today, while thinking of seeing those folks in San Diego, I thought about running naked about the Cliffs. Not once did I consider doing it again, so Hoover High chums, no worries. But I thought, even the rocks have had some 25 or 30 years to wear away since I last surfed the Cliffs. I bet that little footpad at Abs Beach is worn away. I fell off that once, long ago. I hated it then, and though I got over my fear of heights long ago, I probably would feel no more comfortable there today. But imagine, the freaking rocks have changed. How old does that make a person?

As you all know, I write what I please here. So, I thought about falling off that perch at Abs, actually I slipped down the face of the rocks with my big green surfboard. Recently, I read a book--a very basic book I might add, about quantum theory, and I have decided, because I spent so much time on top of that damn slippery rock, waiting to inch my way down to the beach, I had like a billion more chances to fall down that thing than most of the guys.
Let's make "R" the rock at Abs. "F" stands for me, at the top of the rock, not wanting to go down the slippery thing. We take "JD" for the regular John Doe. So, R x JD x milliseconds spent at the top of the rock, squared... Then take R x F x MS squared. Holy crap! You see what I mean! I couldn't help but fall down the rock! Where was the tunneling effect when I needed it?

Bless you all. Watch out for slippery rocks.

How Old Is Old?

So, I just turned 62 recently. In my past, I've been ill and broken at times. Fortunately, the body and mind is an amazing thing. The worst I have been hurt, or sick was with Hepatitis 40 some years ago. I've suffered a broken leg, and my back has been drilled, cut, jacked up, and treated to an artificial disk. My nerves have been cut... oh, there are too many procedures back-wise that I have been through. I've been fried, frozen, and been in an operating room, on the table, when there was a hammer present. Yes, Virginia, I have been hammered.

OH MY! You are old!

Depression has always been the worst of my ailments. And so what? It is a disease, and I am being treated for it. You know, it feels often like a problem with me rather than anything that has happened to me. But yet, it is a problem I can't kick by myself. Too bad. I'll make it.

Buddha said suffering is a part of life. Man and woman will suffer. But imagine...62 years. Humans did not used to live so long. A woman giving birth in her 30th year used to be an anomaly. Women died in childbirth. Men, women, and children used to die from countless diseases, and from the effects of war, hunger, even environmental effects. (The pipes that brought water into Rome were made of lead, for instance.)

My friends have their own problems. They have their own aches and pains, their own mental issues, even their children might have illnesses or problems. Certainly no family goes unscathed in this world. My wife lost her brother when she was in her 20's. Her father too was gone in her 20's. Her mother lived to be 92, but my wife was only about 50 at the time. She has seen death. And her cousin lost two children to death, one at 16 or 17, and the other before the age of 25.

I admit to you, despite a rough go my first 25 years perhaps, I have been pretty lucky. A lot of my luck stems from the woman who raised me for the second part of my "childhood," and for the 42 years since I met her--my wife. (Yes, I am still a child in some many ways.) I have been ungrateful at times for such gifts. Shame on me, but she has truly made me realize that life is so much better if one accepts the responsibility for being polite and ethical. I don't claim saintliness yet. Certainly, I am a work in progress. 

But we still suffer. Man and woman suffer. I realize each and everyone who reads this will be afflicted somehow. But imagine--62 years is six decades of wear and tear and sun and pain and cracks to my head and fat lips and thinning hair and graying. 

We suffer, and yet we are still beautiful. I know men and women from Facebook who graduated either the same year, or about the same year as I did, and they look handsome and beautiful. I never noticed this when I was a teen--that older women were gorgeous, but maybe I was blind to that. (The first beautiful woman over 70 who came to my attention--no, not saying my graduating class is that old yet--was a writer, ex-spy, and Countess I met in Santa Barbara. I was in my late 30s and found her elegant, beautiful and charming.) 

So now, I am in love with a woman in her 60s--my wife. I find women in their 50s and 60s and into their 70s often head-turners. Younger people are certainly handsome or beautiful, but if, after 60 years of broken stuff, illnesses, childbirth if applicable, head bumping, Tabasco Sauce overdoses, and hammered fingernails; if you pull off attractive and charming, it is not likely to disappear so quickly.

It is man's lot to suffer. It is part of us. So we do. Hey, we have some claim to it--to the aches and pains and bad feelings. But, in spite of it all, I get messages from people I would expect to be in a crisis of self-pity for all their problems. More likely they are LOL, Ha Ha, or cracking a joke. Well done people! You are my heroes.

Please my friends. Live as comfortably and as happily as you can, Expect a bit of trouble to enter your lives, but you made it! Fill in an age and think about it. YOU MADE IT! And you will make it through most of these turmoils, without ending up squished in the middle of the road. But, let's face it...there will come a time when you won't make it. Oh, well, that's part of how it works. 

God bless you all. Wishing you great happiness, health, and wealth.

Keep your suffering to the minimum.

Relapses, Ophelia, and Elizabeth Siddal--The First Super Model

The painting is by Millais, a pre-Raphaelite painter. The model, who may be the subject of my next book, is Elizabeth Siddal. Siddal was a poet, artist, and very popular model for a lot of Pre-Raphaelite art.
Elizabeth spent weeks in a bathtub posing as Ophelia from Hamlet. Ophelia legend has it that she walked out into a stream and floated on her back, singing and awaiting death as she moved with the current down the river. She succeeded at the suicide.

Lord May I Come?
By Elizabeth Siddal

Life and night are falling from me,
Death and day are opening on me,
Wherever my footsteps come and go,
Life is a stony way of woe.
Lord, have I long to go?

Hallow hearts are ever near me,
Soulless eyes have ceased to cheer me:
Lord may I come to thee?

Life and youth and summer weather
To my heart no joy can gather.
Lord, lift me from life’s stony way!
Loved eyes long closed in death watch for me:
Holy death is waiting for me

Lord, may I come to-day?

My outward life feels sad and stillLike lilies in a frozen rill;

I am gazing upwards to the sun,
Lord, Lord, remembering my lost one.
O Lord, remember me!

How is it in the unknown land?
Do the dead wander hand in hand?
God, give me trust in thee.

Do we clasp dead hands and quiver
With an endless joy for ever?
Do tall white angels gaze and wend
Along the banks where lilies bend?
Lord, we know not how this may be:
Good Lord we put our faith in thee

O God, remember me.

Elizabeth Siddal died of an overdose of laudanum, a solution of opiates mixed with alcohol that was a popular, over-the-counter drug during the 1800s. 

Anyone who has gotten better after depression fears a relapse of the bad times. A any moment a sufferer may fall prey to the disease, at least this is the perception of the victims of depression. It is a scary concept, I admit. Thank God for anti-depressive medications. They help a lot. But sometimes, they stop working as well.

The lovely young lady who posed for the picture above, Elizabeth Siddal, took her own life in 1862.  I suppose she just decided to "fall asleep." This beautiful and talented woman died at 32 years of age. The pre-Raphaelite writers and artists were drawn to melancholy. They were a lot like the Goths are today I suppose. The 1850 and 1860s, were still tough times throughout the world. The population battled incurable diseases, hunger, and wars still fought by staging huge battles and sending the soldiers, row upon row, into the fray. Many battled mental depression before Freudian psychotherapy. Laudanum may have been prescribed for the condition I expect.

Even today, depression is no walk in the park. It still can lead to self-harm or death. Sufferers can still relapse. But we, the people with the disease must count our blessings even in the midst of a severe episode. There is help out there, unlike the time when poor Lizzie took her life. So, if you suffer depression, call a mental health care professional. Americans can get appointments they can afford, or there are free services online for depression, even suicide hotlines.

Don't just give up.

Think you have nothing to offer to anyone? That is why I started this blog. Who knows more about depression than someone who has suffered its consequences. Please folks, even if you are suffering your own tough times, you can talk with other folks who suffer. Be proactive and help.

Atheists/God/Undecided/gob spelled backwards is bog!

So I have a friend who says she is an atheist. Now I was nominally raised as a Catholic, and have described myself as being that, or agnostic, or once or twice as a comic book Rosicrucian. I admit to fit none of these categories presently. But, I do believe there is something bigger out there--something beyond our ken which orders our existence.

I have no actual argument against one being any religion or non-religion. If you say you are an atheist, I might argue that the beautiful things in this world must have some orderly way of coming together that is unexplained. If you argue for atheism, I ask you to stand up for the "godliness" of humans. Think out your point. Explain it. To dismiss God/god without explaining how the world comes to such beauty is a cop out. If you give me as your deity mother nature, Zoroaster, pagan gods, or witchcraft, please give it some thought.

This is my beef with atheists who say God/god does not exist. It is entirely too easy. I can no more prove to you that God does exist than you can prove that he does not. So, I believe in some force. Call me a superstitious idiot if you choose. It doesn't bother me, especially if you have a poor response to why I am so dumb.

I have heard good reasons people don't believe. That is all I ask. Then we are friends. Ah, heck, we will be friends anyway, but I want to be persuaded that you aren't just angry because the God that so many people seem to worship has let you down. 

Look, I am actually starting to believe that there are something like ghostly spirits. My proof? I admit, it is largely anecdotal. Also, ghosts are talked about throughout the world and throughout the religions.

You don't have to believe in ghosts. I really dislike the shows when people go into some creepy place and turn on a bunch of infrared lights and claim they "feel" a presence. I'm not buying it. You tell me I that you have seen a ghost, let's talk. But please, if you strike me as crazy as an UFO investigator claiming you have been abducted, I don't believe it. Sorry. I know, nearly infinite worlds and stars--then why did they take you and not Einstein. Sorry, perhaps that is mean.

Order and reason is perhaps why I believe in some higher power. Yes, I see many things I can attribute to a cruel deity. I see school children dying, mass suffering, and evil. I'm not blind. I can't give my god or supreme force a name or even a face, I can give you examples of art so beautiful it makes some people cry; of music that thrills, heals, or changes lives; I have read books that take the imagination to other worlds with words that touch the soul (if I have one.) And maybe, just maybe, our God or gods have a mean streak. Maybe it is too much to keep track of all this goodness and evil. People die--in horrible manners. How can one conclude that God could not exist in such a world of such suffering, if to die is to end the suffering? If there is nothing beyond, then expect no quarter in our duel with random events.

No, I haven't an answer to satisfy believers or non-believers. I can't quote Jesus, Allah, or anyone else to give comfort. I offer only belief in whatever seems persuasive at the time. Yes, call me wishy-washy on a matter of such importance. I agree. I may just be one monkey typing on one computer in an infinite universe full of computers and monkeys. If so, I wish I had come up with the Bible, the Koran, or Shakespeare's collected works.

Peace and happy new year.