Once a Deadhead…Always a Deadhead

In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
_Jerry Garcia
Deadhead: are the large group of devoted fans of the Grateful Dead. Mainly Hippies the Deadheads have created a counterculture that exists at any Grateful Dead or Dead.  Many Deadheads recreation-ally use marijuana and LSD especially during the concerts though this is not the case for all Deadheads. Many types of people are Deadheads, even some politicians such as Bill Clinton have called themselves Deadheads. Deadheads generally don tie-dyed clothes, the trade mark Birkenstock sandals, and many have dreadlocks. They are laid-back and fun-loving, as well as non-judging and accepting of all types of people.

Cycle of Abuse: 15 in 1982

I have read many, many, despondent writers, poets, etc.  Persons who, now in adulthood, have come through some depressing, harrowing, childhood situations.  On occasion, I have run across documentaries, news item, etc.  About pre-teen, teen, and young adult suicide.  All due to having lived at the violent hands and words of parents that outwardly appeared ‘normal.’  That inwardly, were the devil’s hand puppets.

Back in or around the early 80’s: Our house had burned down.  Down to the ground.  Standing stoic were the scant charred…2 by 4’s, abandoned ashen table ware and counters.  For all intensive purposes, my fifteen year old eyes witnessed nothing but a shell.

As I have said before, some memories blare at me such like the horn of an irritated driver.  Loud, clear, vibrant.  Other memories, due to my need to persevere, are faded and clouded.  Such like a watercolor painting you once adored but can, now, barely remember.

My siblings had long since been kicked out of the house.  It seemed to be a rite of passage.

You’re eighteen.  You did something to piss me off.  You are now no longer allowed on the land of misfits.”

Generally speaking, both, Bud and Sybil,  were conversatinally gone…Way before being physically excommunicated.  My sister enjoyed the company of questionable boyfriends.  A habit I firmly believe was thrown upon her by my father’s physical abuse.  And, my mother’s lack of emotional attachment.

My brother had his friends.  He partied.  He defied.  He had tired of protecting his mother.  And, at one point or another, during a physical altercation with my father.  There had been threats of guns and severe violence.  Best guess would be that was the point of no return.

After our house became a  photo source for neighbors.  After the smoke cleared, clothes of creosote were tossed and generations of knick knacks were tossed into the trash.  After the chaos of destruction became nothing more than local gossip…I was assigned the task of cleaning pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters.

In other words, our small but precious gallon jug of empty Riunite…that had been filled to the max with change; had succumbed to being spare change among broken glass.  And, it had been my assigned duty to clean each and every piece of  current currency…metal.  imageedit_8_8297636672

“Scrub it clean!  Here’s the toothbrush!  Now get at it.”

Had been the order barked out by both my father and my mother.

Sitting there between the lilac bushes and partially singed grass,  a stool, a toothbrush and pounds of  spare change… lay an endless fall.

With September sun beaming down.  I can still recall how sweat would douse the corners of my mouth and then, splash upon the tainted dime or penny.

My depression ran deep.  And, I had been fully aware of it.  Not knowing at the time about my father’s thirst for killing or psychosis.  Not being fully aware of the how and why of my mother’s terminal sadness.  Not being aware of much.  I knew that life in the Bowley household was not like the pretty white houses with laughter…that dotted the rest of the street.

My brother had since joined the Air Force.  And, my sister had married.  Still there had not been much connection between us.  It seems to me, that had been a scenario my parent had derived.  Either consciously or not.

Indeed, I had been my father’s favorite.  Which meant sports, sports and more sports.  Which meant teaching CCD, being active in youth group and singing in the church folk group.  Which meant I received far more than my share of…

“You can do better than that!  Are you stupid?  I don’t give a flying fuck what other parents do!”imageedit_4_3845432106

Either way, I was a lost budding young adult woman.  In a lost land.  With a bit of house insurance money left over.  My mother begged my father to take her to visit her favorite child, Bud!  Bud, my half-brother, had begun the pursuit of his second marriage in two years.  He had, also been affluent in the use of cocaine.  He had joined the Air-force!

Bud had been stationed in Florida.  And, my parents believed they deserved a break.  A break from the hustle and bustle of rebuilding life after a house fire.

Therefore, it was only reasonable that I should remain behind.  Only reasonable to think my best friend, Michael and, most importantly, his mother, would take me in.

This is where Black Beauties, booze, bad behavior and LSD come into play.  I had indulged at a very young age in Yukon Jack.  But my current course of plaid catholic school skirts, smoke and dope and sex…was in over drive.

Mimi, Michael’s mother, had seen this.  She had known what was about to come.  My intention had been death by over indulgence.  Dropping blotter, smoking weed, playing both sides of addiction against each other.

Mimi in her own hippie way, felt the only need for a deep, profound, change in my behavior…Would be therapy!

It had worked.  I met a wonderful woman named, Eileen.  We met once a week on the second floor above S n W sports.  Her office was filled with Buddha, warm thoughts and reflective flowing waters from an over sized fish tank.

My renewal was instant.  The remorse, guilt and shame that was felt became something talked about in open conversation.  I had not started the house fire.  But my intention on that fateful weekend…was to stay home.

Could I have stopped it?imageedit_11_5911877311

A kind woman in pastel flowing skirt…told me…


My relief and new-found comfort within my own skin…Quickly dissipated.  For as soon as my parents returned.  And, even with Mimi’s glowing recommendation.  It was apparent that I would not longer be allowed to see Eileen.

My father ranted and raved over and over again…

“No daughter of mine is going to see a shrink…”

And, my mother…

“You heard your father!”

Funny, I was conceived in the tunnels underneath the New Hampshire State Hospital.  Or, that my father was once deemed insane.  And, my mother a manic-depressive with suicidal tendencies.  Yet, snipping possible self harm in the buttocks, while I was still young.  Seemed out of the question.

Looking back on my vivid with gray strands of depression, as a child and teen.  I think how fortunate I am to have survived.  To be able to function.

Course, there is much more to my parent’s love story.  Much more to the dysfunction.  Starting a few years before my birth and flourishing years after…My disowning the ‘family.’imageedit_14_9427699938



Junk Yards


…The room further our had a smell of hummus and patchouli.  The hallway, leading into the ‘unnamed’ room?  Bare from top to bottom, such as, what someone would find in an office building filled with accountants.

The ‘unnamed’ room had been loving called such because it had seen more than it’s share…More than a living room does.  More than a kitchen does.  And, perhaps, more than a bathroom.

It was New Year’s Eve day, 1988.  The small for it’s size, apartment building/dorm/co-ed frat house, sat close enough to Northeastern, but not too close.  More importantly, while up on the roof on a clear night…not only could you see forever, you could see the ‘green monster’ that out stretches Fenway Park.

radio shack

In it’s heyday, the ‘unnamed’ room most likely housed a large Irish Catholic family.  Currently, it’s tin ceilings were decked out in an array of tapestries…made in Bangladesh.  An over stuffed couch, bound by duct tape, originally from Kenmore square with a free sign pinned to it’s arm.

There were several Lava lamps of various fluorescent colors.  One stand up model Bong.  Several packages of opened and unopened Zig Zag rolling papers.  Even more than enough…Bic lighters.  A calico cat named Garcia.  An episode of Gilligan’s Island playing on a black and white RCA TV, approximately 12″ tall.  The sound had been turned down…but everyone knew the episode.  It was a favorite among Potheads…

‘Smile You’re on Mars’ had been in a tie with Twilight Zone…when it came to stretching the outer limits of the philosophical mind.

With all of this…exterior stimuli…And, a Dead bootleg from Sullivan Stadium turned to 10 on the Radio Shack tape player…Marie, still felt alone in the bathtub!

Marie, two boys from Northeastern and a black lab, named, Duke, stood in the bathroom directly at the end of the only other hallway.

For as long as she could remember, and most likely will recall in the years to come…Marie started each chase of a high…the same exact way.  With the same exact thoughts…zig-zag1

“I get embarrassed just thinking about where I am.  Every high I chase is not something I want to take…it’s just a given.  And, it would appear, I’m in a constant search for the ‘giver’.  I know I’m an addict.  It’s like the elephant in the room no one wants to talk about.

Been down this road before…almost totally fucked up.  Right there at the edge of no return…and, then…The memories of that first rehab.  That weekend furlough where I picked up the black truck driver who had smuggled in an ounce of weed.

Why is it, when you’re physically sick, there are matronly nurses, flowers and balloons?  In the shithole I went to…being emotionally sick…there had been vomit bags, decks of cards missing at least two spades, and, walls stained with too much smoke…”

In between the knock on the door and Duke lifting his leg on the sink, Marie had been offered a sort of ‘peace’ pipe.

‘Do it…it’ll bring ya’ into heaven on the back road…’

A nameless boy had been, oh so encouraging, when it came to taking a hit of the Iron Lung pipe.

Names were never important when it came to free drugs.  Looks were important.  And, also, a willingness to succumb to ‘you’re interrupting my high’ sex!

There is an unwritten hierarchy when it comes to the ‘becoming’ of an addict.

First, there is the booze.  Booze is easy.  Booze is acceptable.  Booze is cheap.

Second, Liquid Incense, Buzz Juice, easily obtained at any Head Shop.  Quick high…ten to twenty seconds.  Days of recuperation.

Third, Pot, weed, grass, Mary Jane, whatever…a drug of choice to catholic girls.  Cheap, easy to hide and fits nicely into the pack of Marlboro Red’s…

Fourth, mushrooms, shrooms, again, easy access.  Just visit your local dairy farm impersonating an agriculture student from New England College.

Fifth, LSD, blotter, acid.  This drug is like the ‘last toll’ for 100 miles.  This is it!  LSD is a chemical substance developed by Albert Hoffman.  Acid, originally, had been devised for chemical warfare.  It should be noted that Blotter, is cut with Strychnine, rat poisoning!

Two items of note:

Strychnine can cause severe muscle spasms and irreversible scarring of the liver and kidney.

The second, more disturbing side effect for the Tuning In Enthusiast?  A bad trip.  Because the drug has never really been regulated, hallucinations and uncontrollable terror, confusion, etc, come to visit you…and never leave.

This elusive high was known to drive, Crazy Eddie, up into a tree, never to come down…at least, that is the urban legend, Marie had been told.

In other words, a long strange trip can indeed,,,turn into a forever, long strange trip.

Regardless, Marie enjoyed the out of body experience and was willing to play the odds.

After Blotter, there is Coke, cocaine.  After, Powder, Crack cocaine…a step down.  A poor man’s drug.  Then there is H or Heroin.

Of course, there scads of choices, but the ‘Monarch’ notes on drugs can be endless.


It had been in between the verses…

Now when your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister, he explains
That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations…


Maybe you want somebody you don’t have to speak to
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

That, Marie took pipe in hand.  Held the Beaver Bic up to the chamber, flicked, shut her eyes…inhaled…

that Marie, out of nowhere asked,

‘Is this the hash…that just came in?’

Nameless Boy number one, answered.  The boy that just gave Marie his BU, stone gray sweatshirt;  had been from Rhode Island or some place small.  Maybe Delaware!


With one boyishly, charming nod of the head, NO!  Marie, began to think twice.  A habit she was not fond of doing.  Handing back the pipe to it’s owner.  Marie stumbled out of the tub, fell over Duke, and banged her head on the lid of the toilet.  It appeared as though…Marie had seen a ghost.

Was she tripped up?  Fuck, yah.  Had she smoked a joint to prolong the hallucinations?  Amen, yes!  Was she ready to finish a game of Mexican?  Sure as shittin’!  There was still a half of Jack left!

Marie, however, did not take that last, long, forever, and ever, eternal hit.

“Crack?  I’m not up for that!  I’m an addict…for fuck sake!”

Had the seed been planted?  Perhaps!  Is that what it takes…to get sober?  What made her stop?

Maybe that is how recovery works…by not working.  By prying, pushing,..tugging at its victim…until the time is right.


junk yards 2.jpg






Junk Yards


Tears out running laughter.

Prosthetic limbs handled by the pain sniffing feral crackheads.

Bakers dozen when it comes to counting the sleepless dead.

Baggies of junk

filled by money makers.

In it now…

with blown veins…

brought to you by heaven’s break down lane.

junk yards 1

Did I say that I want you?
What if I did and I’m a fool you see
No one knows this more than me
I come clean

Read more: Pearl Jam – Just Breathe Lyrics | MetroLyrics



I Want a New Drug

Cover of "Midnight Express [Blu-ray]"
Cover of Midnight Express [Blu-ray]
drugs (Photo credit: the|G|™)

Having been in A.A., twelve years running. And, I do mean running. Running from my ego, my self will run riot, my directing, staring and bowing before a large audience of one…I learned something as important as keeping an eye on the sunny side of the street and practicing the art of making mistakes and assuming something’s will never change. I have learned friendships reoccur when the fear of your incarceration could turn into an international event.
Every morning without fail two things happen. Typically after two strong cups of coffee I find myself upon the throne with this mantra, ‘grant me the serenity to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. Help me to be a better person today than I was yesterday.’
Yet, today or over the past week, this lesson has been discovered; perhaps, I cannot let go of some of my glorious faults…however, I can dull them down for public viewing.
I know these three statements for fact:
I never said I was nice.
I am an asshole
I do not play well with others.
Generally, I am best kept under lock and key and surrounded by four legged beings that understand the uneasiness that resides in me.
This morning though I have sworn off friends. I do not keep them. I do not partake in the meaning of trusting someone other than myself. So on and so forth.
However, this morning after the ritualized bathroom break and meditation I discovered several emails, phone calls and text messages have arrived from persons I do not call friends but would aid and abet in a crime if necessary.
Why the twisted panties and shouting out from as far away as L.A.?

Limassol (Lemesos), Cyprus
Limassol (Lemesos), Cyprus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dear Friends
I am in Limassol Cyprus at the moment, I am here for a conference and
I just had my bag stolen from me with my passport and personal
effects. I have been trying to sort things out with the necessary
authorities, I need some assistance from you.

Let me know if you can be of any help.


Where the fuck is Limassol Cyprus and how on earth would I have found myself there? Later on in the email that had been sent to just about everyone that despises me and puts up with me…
‘there has been talk of drug smuggling and I may need financial assistance.’

I watched Midnight Express. I have sat next to persons who will remain nameless as they put a little blotter between their heal and their sole/soul. A little LSD between the U.S., and wonderful England tucked away from Big Brother and the Queen’s prying eye.
I have sat on a horrid bus in Miami’s little Cuba or Little Havana or whatever the fuck you want to call it with Shepard’s, not the biblical kind, up my ass looking for drugs. DEA officers essentially providing me with a GYN exam for free.
With the above experiences under my belt I can in good confidence let all who lie in wait of my release from Limassol Cyprus…
I am an asshole.
I never said I was nice.
I do not play well with others.

And, I would like to add to the above:
Once you have been deloused…you never look at life the same. I am not imprisoned in a foreign jail just visiting this planet.

 I want a new drug One that won't spill One that don't cost too much Or come in a pill
I want a new drug
One that won’t spill
One that don’t cost too much
Or come in a pill