Time is Aging

So many shapes, sizes.

Some oblique and detractors.

Some manic from nearing disaster.

Time is aging…rounding off jagged points of view.

Time has become minimal.

Urging my black and white mind with visions basic and new.

Paper Thin

I don’t know exactly where or when it happened. Don’t really care? Of course, I do. AA meetings have always had a Stepford feel to me. Something beaten down into our souls. So far in grained that the recourse, production and aesthics of it all are similar to a faded water-color painting.

You don't need drugs to show you heaven, baby  'cause there's plenty clean in hell
You don’t need drugs to show you heaven, baby
’cause there’s plenty clean in hell

How does one get over the hump? How do you focus on something that is the same something as the something before.

For instance, today, I went to my home group. Like the good recovering alcoholic/addict I am. I listened not intently to Jim babble about the existentialism in his recovery. Jeanie complained about her constant struggle with a higher power, even after 35 years. Suzie reread from the Came to Believe book. Re-emphasizing the same verbage we just heard. And, finally, Roy coughed, spat, picked at his nose and pulled out a nasty example of a snot rag to dispose of item once lodged in his over the top broken blood vessel nose.

Focus Ruth! That’s what I kept telling myself. Keep your eye on the ball! Don’t let up or it will all go down!

So, an hour after saying my usual assault of verbal AA redundant diarrhea and listening to others with the same affliction; I felt better. I felt good.

Dare I say what has been said before me? Keep coming back, fake it ’til you make it!

These are Ambien dosed alcoholics that are laced with an Oxy dependency.  They have found volunteer work with the government.  There  are the spoiled middle aged men that drive horribly reproduced sport cars on inheritance bestowed upon them by Mommy and Daddy.  There is of course, the twenty-something’s trying against all odds to free them selves from the trailer and it’s trash.  Usually these kids look like deer stuck in headlights.

My heart goes out to anyone who has battled a bias of some sort from the day of their conception forward.  The inspiration in that there is no reliance on anyone but themselves…lifts me up.  I have been there.  Hiding from the emotional abuse.  Wanting so badly for a beating instead of the constant threat of one.  Drinking myself into another dimension and passing out and coming to.

I drank on a regular basis; a half a gallon of Vodka (cheaper the better), a twelve pack of beer (cheaper the better) and would find that I had gone past the point of drunk and remained stone cold sober.  A life time of blackouts and gray outs and pissing my life away with bad choices.

In these little church basements, Veteran’s Halls, Rec Rooms and seedy old abandoned by life state offices…there is and are, pamphlets, books, coins and hoards of militant looking eclectic persons.  By day and by night and everyday of the week…a hand is out.  I received at hand in an old gymnasium on the State Hospital grounds in New Hampshire.

Norma had been the women’s name.  She had more years of sobriety than I had living on this earth.  She smiled, shook my hand, offered me a burnt but wonderful cup of coffee and led me to a chair.

Since that day my drinking has never been the same.  Being clean tends to put a damper on the edgy chaotic life we all strive for when overly fed on booze and ego.

To be a regular and a fixture in the halls is a privilege to which many Ambien and Annie Grace’s will never see.  For the bottom has been covered over by a regular visit to dishonesty.  For the rest…the twenty-something’s clinging to a hope that lived inside them on the days when Dad didn’t come home or Mom was out using?  They are an testament to true strength and belief in there being plenty excuses to use but no reasons.

 

 

Sometimes I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
You know I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
And when my mind it gets to worryin’
And I just can’t get no rest
Oh Baby, that’s when I call you up instead

It’s after midnight baby, I’m sittin’ here all alone
I tried to call your number baby,
But you weren’t at home
I been a good girl baby, through with all that mess
But the way I’m feelin’ now, darlin’
Well it scares me half to death

Well I miss that feelin’, of fallin’
On over the ledge

That summer night in Texas, baby
Too hot and wet to sleep
I heard you pull up in the distance
You’re comin’ to get me relief
We went screamin’ down the highway, baby
So much faster than we should
You pulled me over in the moonlight
Man, I still can feel that hood

Well I miss that feeling of fallin’,
On over the ledge
When that rain starts baby, I want to take a real
Good look at that ledge

It ain’t something you get over
You might think you made it through
You can turn your head and walk away
But it never takes it’s eyes off you

It’ll push your foot right through the floorboard
Make you cut them streamers down his back
You waste what’s precious and you can’t afford
It runs your life right off the track

Keeps you boilin’ in that poison
Only the truly twisted know so well
You don’t need drugs to show you heaven, baby
’cause there’s plenty clean in hell

That miss that feelin’ of fallin’
Of fallin’ on over the ledge

When the blues start callin’ I want to crawl way up close to the ledge

miss that feeling of falling
miss that feeling of falling

You Say You Want a Revolution

Start the Revolution Without Me
Start the Revolution Without Me (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The U.S. vs. John Lennon (soundtrack)
The U.S. vs. John Lennon (soundtrack) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the midst of social media, I have found one redeeming quality; the right to be proven wrong.
There has been a growing long distance relationship between myself and a heterosexual male from Detroit
This meeting of the minds happened over a year ago and I am grateful for the growth it has given me everyday of my ‘not always politically correct but trying’ life.
Who doesn’t love a verbal or written spar? I have always relished in it. And, for that matter, my upbringing has called for it and embraced it. Though often I hear these words, your mouth is always getting you in trouble.’
So be it. My buddy from Detroit miles and piles of shit in between our locales, is liberal, political, substantial and disabled! What a find! With very little encouragement on my part, D, as I will call him, will find the smallest hole in an argument and take it to the highest plateau…drop it and see what it hits on it’s way down.
Today and tonight our focus is on Too Much Government! Too Many Cooks stirring the Biochemical Pot, so to speak.
Perhaps, D is right, it isn’t that there is too much government but more along the lines of too much trash talk and not enough put your money where your mouth is.
Why dwell on our Dumbed Down Ambien’s of America‘s Upper Middle Class Wasteland?
Yet, spar with intellectuals who want to see change.
In a simpler manner and/or along the lines of a story I will explain exactly what I mean:
I had met Ambien/Annie Grace who could have be easily mistaken for a Brittany or a Katelyn or a Mercedes!
I had asked, ‘so you are voting for Obama, right?’
Response, ‘Nope, my Father Floyd says he wants to ruin Medicare and offer hand outs to the poor.’
Aghast I spoke with as even a tone as I could muster, ‘but you’re gay! How could you even remotely think of voting for someone who can’t stand the ground you walk on?’

Response from Dumbed Down Twenty-Something, ‘gee, I never thought of it that way. I don’t plan on getting married any time soon, though…if that means anything’

What is right? What is wrong?
If we don’t push our educated selves into seeing beyond the glass slipper we will fail to make any change. To educate via a high education is one thing. To acquire the necessary depth it takes to make ineffectual effectual actually requires the wanting to go beyond words and to search for their meaning.
Thank you, D, you are a delight in a world ashen and paled by devices devised to make us more convenient.
Shame on you parents, colleges, workplaces and a vast array of other Holier Than Thou Institutions for sending these kids out into the world with their thumb up their ass and their diploma a flag of still waters running not so deep.

Good to not be Home

The Healing of America

Home is not where the heart is. It never has been. Auburn Street Concord New Hampshire, not At Home!

It is by far the most pretentious and stereotypical white bread neighborhood north of the Mississippi and south of the Canadian border.
So, stay and be miserable? . I’m not trying to be mean but the homophobia and finger pointing is beyond compare. I don’t think I’ve ever been happy there. Not with the forced gratuities on the Cape with Marcie the Super Cousin. Not with the faculty from State of New Nowhere University. Not with Mother Theresa offering up my lack of accomplishments like hor- d’oeuvres at a UNH X-mas party for passed on professors.
Something I don’t share….I cry every night before bed…I am indeed what most men would want to take home to meet their mothers. Quiet and stupid without authority.
In May, the progress I’ve made will revert back to, yes, Mum. No, Daddy! Did I clean my room? Yes, now can I go out and play…no, I promise I’ll only hang out with myself and not come in contact with anyone who has different beliefs than I. Or, should I say, you?
I will hoard dirty dishes, I will eat like no tomorrow, I will mistake my pills for PRN’s and I will avoid anything referring to adulthood.
This will be the course of action that Ambien Grace will take from the moment she unhooks herself from a free volunteering ride and sets sail upon the distant shore of fantasy movies and bad hair music. The thoughts will come back as they always do…
Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if I found a new home? How would I go about making a new home? I have no skills other than basic ideas on how to take pictures of trees. I don’t do well in crowds or speaking to others for extended periods of time. I slur my speech and on frequent occasions, I stutter. Anxiety is what my mother builds her hold over me with.
To top it off, I’ve become the Blob in the movie, Weird Science! Larger than fiction and most certainly, truthfully fat am I. Giving up smoking is one thing but this I didn’t bargain for. The dimples have left my cheeks and moved south to the other cheeks. My breasts are in need of a motorized Scooter and for the most part, I’ve seem to have lost the willingness to care about any of it.
I went to a spot today to try and find me but…
I went to the only spot I could think of you possibly being at.
Of course. You weren’t there. But I actually tried for once in my life. Because you mean the world to me
Sorry my sentence is horrible…I’m sorta crying…

Needless to say, I didn’t find me.

back rooms and alley ways of a homophobic America
back rooms and alley ways of a homophobic America

Quick question for the fans of Ambien Grace:
If your heart knows you better than you know yourself…how can that be if you are heartless?

Gibberish and other Kinds of Love

 

there is no such thing as a freak...some of just require more attention then others
there is no such thing as a freak…some of just require more attention then others

To be distracted from one’s goal in life is to be…well, stupid!  Most think of my generation and particularly, owner’s of Ambien bodies and minds, as lost without a cause.  Similar to wandering ’round in the English language, making a mockery of it and giving up on stuffs that are just too difficult to follow.

My mind is not a parachute it is never open and therefore, my thoughts fall to the ground like scattered sedatives from a bottle with no message in it.  English is not my native tongue.  Gibberish laced in acronyms has become my generations say so.

Monday morning, I eat my big breakfast with some other big girls.  I walk around and attempt to look like I’m exercising my right to be fat.  Our volunteered to uncover the vast wasteland of ignorant debutantes, supervisor, mentor and ‘friend’ when issues arise; readies the orders for the week.

Perhaps, scrubbing graffiti of the under side of bridges or making friendship bracelets for old ladies in nursing homes.  But before I go with my tans and my blues, a thought for the day:

How do you make love stay?

1. Tell love you are going to Junior’s Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.

2. Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.

I think everyone should learn from my mistakes.  Love and Ambien Grace do not mix.