Appalled! Embarrassed. Ashamed. American. There should be no doubt that Donald Trump, who I refuse to call, President; Has every intention of provoking a master race for himself. And, himself only!
First, the poor, than the…uninsured or those lacking good insurance, the arts, veterans, meals on wheels, those searching the truth…etc., etc.
If the American people are not watching closely and take their eyes off the ball; The one empowered will be the more so… powerful. The ‘masters’ of the human race.
“It is always a great honor to be so nicely complimented by a man so highly respected within his own country and beyond,” Trump said in a statement. “I have always felt that Russia and the United States should be able to work well with each other towards defeating terrorism and restoring world peace, not to mention trade and all of the other benefits derived from mutual respect.”
Good intentions will always be pleaded for every assumption of authority. … It is hardly too strong to say that the Constitution was made to guard the people against the dangers of good intention. … There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but they mean to be masters.
Sometimes there are little ghost towns with in the little villages. Small nuances, distorted realities of how life could have been. Burbs, set amongst small town chatter of even smaller small talk, discuss the ‘stuff that brings matter to life.’ Often, these shanties are often refered to as, rehabs. Tired stretches of road that hold a promise to the end of self imposed misery.
My posse frequents one such group of forgotten cottages , the Last House on the Road. The Last House is an old old old administration building. It had been part and parcel to an orphanage, that became a monastery and eventual, a catholic school. The drunks it current houses may know nothing of the vast history, other than, its tiny little well manicured cemetery devoted to townies, orphans from centuries past and occasional, nuns that have moved on to meet the maker.
I had attended a ‘low income’ rehab. I had no choice. I had no money. I had no insurance. I had no soul!
The day I entered rehab…after several weeks of detox and dubiously looking at what I had made of myself, in the non-breakable mirror; only one promise needed to by made and paid.
The action had not been to remain sober ’til my dying day. The plan had not been for a speedy recovery and devote myself to the betterment of addicts everywhere.
The promise had been simple:
I promise to pay back…Farnum Center…at least one dollar a day…until my room and board in recovery…has been paid back.
Honestly, the point had been simple, the sober powers that be knew most would not be able to ever pay…in full, what it costs to sober a dunk up and/or ween an addict off. To me, a dollar sign could never replace what rehab gives to those who are willing to let go of their will power. To be handed back a life. Whether you began your descent into the madness of addiction at 20 or 65! When clean and sober…everyone is returned to new born baby status. And, to be able to begin anew is a gift that has no price tag.
Back to the story at hand…the ‘promissory vow’ of one single monthly dollar in repayment, was the addiction counselor’s way of bringing the ‘small child’ back to adulthood. That by agreeing to payment…the addict has begun the teeny tiny steps towards making amends!
The State of New Hampshire has decided to revoke funding to ‘rehabs that tend to attend to the uninsured’! After next month, the 60 thousand dollars that aids to the functioning of non profit recovery centers…will be gone. Generally speaking, only the rich shall survive. After all, I’ve been ’round the recovery block a year or to…most who need the help the most…are not working, stable persons with insurance. Typically they are, unemployable but filled with talent, young people without support (because addiction is a family disease) and with holes in the bottom of their shoes.
How do I know? That had been me.
When I walk…meditate at the Last House…it helps me to not forget. The Last House is now part of a working farm which is part of a piece of N.H. Forest and Nature conservatory. The wonderful owners of the farm have allowed for the recovery center to take over some of the old and need of repair…buildings of history.
The dogs and I have seen crying young twenty somethings…suitcase packed…awaiting a ride…postponing the inevitable. Cabs from several towns over have sat outside the female housing unit…running in idle…again awaiting to whisk a recent ‘quitter’ away.
But…we have also seen small community gardens erected by persons that are participating in twenty eight to as long as you need, programs. We’ve passed groups of smiling faces on the dirt road that leads to the corn fields. They are happy, at ease and have a slight hitch in their ride. Their stride displays a promise to keep on keeping on…but is doing so with uncertainty.
My last day at rehab…we attended an outside meeting. The meeting hall filled with smoke. That should tell you how long ago I got sober. Coffee cups over flowed the card tables. Blue and gold velvet special message signs for special people… hung off the walls of particle board. It had been a lonely but lively room in a Unitarian basement.
As we, a crowd of graduates from the class of fall term 1995 Farnum Center, a plane flew overhead. It had a tailored lettered kite dragging behind…
‘We are here for you…Call today!’
Immediately, for I had been traveling in a pink cloud since the booze left my system, I realized that my conscience contact with my Higher Power…was receiving an answer.
The plane had been advertising a special for new car buyers. It need not have mattered. It could have been a sign for male enhancement. It had been a sign nonetheless.
The times have been rough. The times have been noteworthy. The days and nights filled with moments of being human…again.
The thing rehab promised me?
Life would be conducted sober and semi serene…It would not be easier!
Shit if I know what I would have done without detox and a program. I recall, at the time, my choice had been rehab or running a kitchen at a dude ranch in Montana with a bi-sexual couple…that wanted to make nice nice.
Shame on the state of New Hampshire. Shame on the powers that be. We have per ca-pita, the largest under aged addiction to alcoholism than any other state. Perhaps, New Hampshire will see their own sign. Perhaps, it will continue to come in the form of meth overdoses and prostitution and child abuse. Perhaps, the state will continue to have to pay for those addicts in other ways and forms.
User’s information guide and/or tourists redneck bucket list currently is Franklin New Hampshire:
Along with this step by step instruction kit you will also receive a penicillin shot for any little virus you may have received while visiting. As well as, a year’s subscription to the community channel currently located at 10- WFSH-Where Franklin Shit Happens.
In this the biggest little Junkyard in the world: a tourist can find more than they purchased at the welfare office.
Down on Central and Main or somewhere close to there is the newly constructed and still under O.CE.A. lock down, M.M.M (Museum of Meth Mayhem).
This little sugar shack has been established in honor of our fallen antagonist the underwear dealer. This young man took procuring and producing Meth to new heights by constructing a mini lab in his underwear. Invention is the mother of necessity, as the Po’ folks say.
Another little known landmark? The Daniel Webster Birthplace! Who is Daniel Webster? Damn if anyone knows but his fuckin’ statue is everywhere.
Franklin motto: If you didn’t have any bad habits when you came into town you’ll get them while you’re here!
“I live in a sexy town. The uglier the better” one Mr. Dick Spay states with affection.
Dick goes on to give a little ‘behind’ the scenes look at the town for our viewers.
‘Lesbians, queers, drag queens, Baby Mommas and Bar Flies! All you can eat and see on a Tuesday afternoon at the Smokin’ Dragon. What other town can boost three head shops in a block radius, a pawn shop and a down and out tattoo parlor?Why it’s the small businessmen that keeps this little Tea Party going. Just ask the councilmen with his hand in your pocket. Heard once a description to beat all ’bout this hole…’
Driving into Franklin is like biting down on a long cut wad of wintergreen Skoal after brushing your teeth with dollar store brand cinnamon toothpaste.
Of course, Dick forgets to mention the ACME Staple company out by the Franklin Falls. Just ’bout every half-breed in this place has been hit by staple fever.
An aside commentary for a moment:
Shit this town is sexy. It is dirt on grunge on white boy gone gangsta’. I walk into the Good Gandhi Store…I’m famous. Everybody in a wife beater knows my name. And, for a worn out and hung up wet 47-year-old Lesbian to be a sex symbol?
That’s saying something.
Lesbians are loved in Franklin. The men? Well, better than porn two women together. The women? If she’s paying…she looks just as good as any man.
Definition of Franklin: the not neutered well hung male Pitbull in landform.
Most tourists traps offer this:
Four star hotels, four star restaurants and five hundred-dollar hookers. But what Most traps don’t get is this:
Franklin lays it’s self down like a woman who you’ve been trying to catch for years. Just out of reach. A hand’s off gesture given underhanded-ly with the wink of her eye.
The chase is on via hidden walkways covered over in moss. The road traveled is dark, dank and dusky. Kinda horrifying-ly turning the watcher on at every turn of the dial.
Franklin is what the Heartbreakers meant solemnly to all of America:
She was an American girl raised on promises….
God it’s so painful when something that’s so close
Is still so far out of reach
…after all she was an American Girl
Franklin New Hampshire a cut price town in a low budget land!
I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts