Canada…or, Bust!

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She had thoughts of continuing her book.  The book that sat lazily in her mind and on a cloud somewhere.  Perhaps, somewhere over, Canada.

Canada?  Why the fuck not!  Her wife had offered up, Mexico!  And, though, South of the Border did offer some fine Tequila an a funky worm.  The trek from Northern New Hampshire would surely send one of the six cats over the edge.

As a writer in earnest, Marie had known what it was like to be without a homeland!  She lived out of her tent in a friend’s backyard, West side of Key West.  And, though, it may not have seemed like Marie was quote unquote, poverty stricken…She had been living only on egg salad subs and cheap vodka for six months or more.  Occasionally, stealing the lone bike that would lean against the random telephone poles down on Duval Street.

When Marie first arrived, the chickens running loose and the antiquated uni-sex bicycles concerned her.  It seemed the furthest point away from sanity, one drunk could be

…Old Town Key West, was nothing more than a Cuban cigar waiting to be lit up!  Filled with filth and history and tawdry experiences.  Than after a good romp in the Florida sun with Marie’s newly found S n M queen/girlfriend, Jamie, things were not as bleak as they seemed.

After all, egg salad had been known for its nutritional value and vodka had very few calories…Particularly when drunk straight up.

And, whilst playing ‘remember when’…Homeland, popped up in Marie’s chaotic mind.

“Why should I be embarrassed?  Run away like Anne Frank.  Hide in an attic until President Doom and his militia come looking for my green card.”

Why it was just yesterday that a friend decided to ‘quit’ Facebook.  That she no longer could bear the thought of reading post upon post about some jackass who cannot finish complete sentences.  Marie had considered sticking her head in the ‘proverbial’ sand!

Yet, when ever thoughts of pulling a Rose O’Donnell.  Nearing fifty and prone to arthritis, the going rogue and leaving the ‘nice’ girl act behind, all seemed intriguing behaviors for a new-found disgust for America, but physically, not a possibility.

Furthermore, Marie and her wife were not ones to hide out in the woods.  Shit, Marie couldn’t even get, Eileen to eat in cafe’s that were more than five miles past a city line.

Therefore, the idea of moving to Canada!

In the end, Canada, was a bad idea.  Northern New Hampshire was bad enough.  Pipes freezing.  Daylight lasting fifteen minutes.  Walking with the perpetual hunched look for six months out of the year.

And, so, the ‘book’ got taken out of the attics of Marie’s mind and…dusted off.  She had a magnificent secret that she had wished to convey.  The ‘book’ would be Marie’s pride and joy.  Depicting her families lies, murder, suicide, babies born without a country.

Earlier today, Marie had gone to visit her ‘not aging politely or gently’ parents.  As she sat in the sun room (a room that is to offer warmth on cold winter days…but fails to come through on its promises) Marie wondered…

Look at them?!  Dementia, COPD, Martyrdom, Ignorance being Bliss!

The ‘book’ would have to wait for another day.  Today she was busy being upset.

‘How dare my fucked up parents fall into the ‘too elderly and down trodden’ to be angry at them…group.

 

a Sober Groundhog

In rural New Hampshire, as in rural, North Carolina, the days can collect themselves at your weaknesses.  There is no sightly or unsightly difference between one day to next.  I suppose I took other states hostage…during my addictive haze!  Ohio, Maine, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, pretty much the southeast coastline…and a few places in between.

However, for aesthics purposes, I will attend to the states of my mind, New Hampshire and North Carolina.

The days in mid winter are long though short.  Almost as if, what little light you see, you want to capture in a Bell Jar and hang on to for dear life.

To a deeply satisfied with self, addict.  Days, night, hours and seconds, are all relative.  A sort despondence occurs.  Like the final break to a bough that seemed strong enough to hold back the stormy weather.

My days were never different.  Dusky, dirty, impoverished, self seeking and evermore…uncertain.

An existentialist would say that, to truly know oneself you must hit rock bottom.  Without rock bottom there is no growth.  No knowledge of your inner most virtues.

 

I have hit, hopefully, my only needed twice…rock bottoms, in two states.  The days not much unlike each other.  Bright and sunny and full of hope, to someone else.  My more recent rock bottom found me entombed by my will run riot.  Incarcerated by four walls, two big bay windows and a bed.  The whole in my soul had ridden it’s high horse for a full year of anti social behavior.  Indeed, I had known sobriety.  I grasped it in my sweaty hands…five years prior.  I also let it go…as if it no longer wished to be caged.  I let it go driving down the highway with a tall boy between my legs, motorcycle weekend on the horizon, in a Scooby Do mini van…looking to get laid at a bar in Haverhill, Mass.

Had I a death-wish?  Honestly?  Every alcoholic, addict, abuser, I know…has a death-wish.  We believe ourselves to be like a cat.  Fighting it out until our last life, the 9th, is used up.  After relapse, when I begun my descent into madness and mayhem; I averaged a gallon of cheap Vodka and a case of beer per day.  Course, the bouts with blotter had to be put aside.  The pills?  Too obvious to those who watched my behavior like hawks.  Booze had strictly been my downfall.  Though, when offered, I did not turn down the occassional chance to do illegal drugs.

It’s all relative!

This different day set in rural New Hampshire.  Started out with neither a bang, toke or pop.  The night before I had been dragged kickin’ and screamin’ to a local AA meeting.  Course my captors had us leaving for our destination way too early.  Therefore, I had the misfortune of stopping by Home Depot after eating a, this is a bad idea, large greasy fry from Burger King.

Today, I cannot stand overhead lights.  Matter of fact, if it doesn’t fit in a lamp…it doesn’t come into my house.

I walked that 1,000 mile journey to the 24 hour chip.  Claps, not judgement, all around.  I who had been so tough as bitten nails, found myself weak in the knees.  Scared of having to deal with the shit storm I had brought about.

That meeting could have happened last night.  With vivid detail, I can list who was there, what hung on the wall, the speaker and the kind of donuts being handed out.

After all the well wishes from past friends with sobriety…I laid myself down for a long winter’s nap.

I don’t cry.  Given my family history…tears were for those of lesser value.  The kinds of people who get picked on.  And, that was not for me.

I cried that night.  Thoughts rambling around, mixed with Dead tunes and burning incense.

One thought:

“Once you say out loud you are an addict.  That is it!  You are banned for life from enjoying a drug or a drink…ever again.”

I hold no one responsible for my illness.  And, yes, there had been lovers than neccessary.  As well as, a wife and children.

Awake and awakening…that morning, I saw part and parcel, the same shit different day.  I had dragged my partner from North Carolina to New Hampshire…promising…change.

Neither one of us found change.  You cannot always rebuild a love that has been hit with a shit stick.  Lesson learned!

“Once I used to believe
I was such a great romancer
Then I came home to a woman
That I could not recognize
When I pressed her for a reason
She refused to even answer
It was then I felt the stranger
Kick me right between the eyes”

Thing is, the woman I did not recognize had not been my wife.  It had been me!  Some serious decisions needed to be made.  A complete life change and the slightest misgiving that…I would have to take care of myself…for once.

The first week in February is tough, up north.  People are generous with their disdain for continued windchill factors.  The ice on the windowpane never melts.  And, the air seems stiff with indifference.

I believe my sobriety date is in and around Groundhog day!  I cannot be absolutely sure.  I could ask my ex wife.  However, after that fateful day…we did not do much intellectual chatter.

And, though, the room spun, the shakes made my insides feel like roadkill, I opened my eyes to ‘same kind of day, but slightly different’.

I stayed locked up in that room for a week.  The detox that time around had been much more physical and far more, mentally grueling.  My legs bare and barely movable, made it to the bathroom, the kitchen and back to the bed.  The sheets were laden with sweat and tears.

Different?  Just a tiny, fragment of an inch!

Oscar Wilde once said,

‘No good deed goes unpunished!’

Certainly he was right.  Yet, the morning seemed lighter.  Easier to take.  The bedroom mirror was not my enemy.  It had been an example of what good could come…if I work for it.

I suppose, with deep philosophical thought, it simply could have been that…I changed the prescription to my spiritual glasses.  Fortunate was I to know there had been a way out.  I know for a fact that those different days.  Days that do not come very often.  Those times when something is left of center…are a precept.  A saturating desire to believe in something greater than I.

15 years later, I still struggle.  But I struggle with life on life’s terms.  As do…most adults.

Help come with Faith

Addicted to the Groundhog

Freedom minus fear = FAITH
Freedom minus fear = FAITH

Mr. Bill,

When I had been nine years old my mother took me to the pediatrician.

‘Doctor, I think she has a drinking problem!’

Had been my mother’s cry for help.

I remember the day vaguely. I remember my youth in bits and spurts. And, I remember a family torn apart by a single substance.

I realize most persons turn off immediately…when they hear the words; alcoholism, addiction, recovery and worse of all, the Big Book!

I shut down, as well, when in the grips of something beyond a brown bottle in a brown bag surrounded by a brown spiritual tunnel.

I can only best describe my addiction with one story. One or two short sentences that could pretty much sum up the some of my life…that taints me still.

I had been driving home from a nightclub called, the Ramrod. And, yes, let’s just assume, it was a hardcore gay bar. Somehow or another…I found myself, along with two other budding drunks, unable to get out of a traffic circle in York Maine.

Literally, I had been so blitzed, so far gone…I had been driving a large piece of deadly machinery…in a dream…in a blackout.

‘Sometimes the lights all shining on me…

Other times I can barely see…’

Yeah, I had been a Dead Head and damn proud of it.

Eventually, the York P.D., saw of my dilemma and offered a free room for the night, that happened to come with it’s own bars!

So many other stories could follow. So many tales of…Whoa, it’s Me...So many times I could not lift stop the early morning shakes without lifting a shot of Vodka first!

Yet, I come to write this letter today…not in homage to Dr. Bob, Bill Wilson and/or Alcoholic’s Anonymous.

I write…today…which is something I had only hoped to do…in the midst of addiction.

Fourteen years ago, give or take, my own personal Groundhog came out and saw the Shadow. A gloomy chaperon that had been twenty years in the making. A dark lumbering presence that took hold of my soul which once had shone a myriad of colors and shook it out a damp, absorbent spiritual pitch black.

I do not preach A.A., from the rooftops of barren and antiquated churches. No, I tend to steer clear of lack of moderation soapbox lecterns.

I do, however, write the right, talk the talk and practice, daily, what is easier to understand…

Bill, I have found that I have faith. Silly, as it sounds, I believe in believing.

Even, you, Bill, a practicing Buddhist, would agree…

‘We live in an imperfect world. Both physically and spiritually! A simple world of mishaps designed for persons that over complicate it!’

Therefore, my sobriety is a gift…Yet, the biggest gift? A peace of mind. And, that is a behavior we can all impart on others.

Thirty five some odd years ago…when my mother grasped at the metaphysical broken straw of anticipation…the physician only had this to say:

Oh, she’s just going through a growing stage.’

I had been at the age where playing with G.I. Joe dolls were the par. Not breaking into the liquor cabinet and mixing Yukon Jack with grape juice!

This past week, I nearly lost my mother to her Higher Power. Yet, the difficulty came from another world. An unexplored realm that had placed itself uneasily in the attic of my horrid past.

I faced a demon…aptly named, my father and found the serenity to help him through the trauma of nearly loosing his one and only love of fifty years. Without overt detail. This man, this paternal figure and this blurred spot of anger, became my responsibility.

The shallow breathing and the hallowed feelings of displaced musing consumed my entire body. Everyday I traveled the twenty miles with a need aching from within. I rode with my passenger, hate, strapped in with pride.

Bill, what can I say? Who can I thank? Where did I go? And, how did I maintain?

I simply gave up. I simply gave in.

It had not been easy. I scratched and clawed at the bark of the trees set in serenity amongst the country roads. I walked and hiked with four legged friends into the woods. I strolled out with a sense of faith stronger than before.

My meditation had been easy enough

...help me to be a better persons today than I was yesterday…

And, please help to keep all creatures

great and small safe and far from harm

to the best of their ability…

Oddly enough, a larger than life, Snow Owl, had flow before me, quietly leading the way. My faith had found it’s wings. It had been found without my will. It, FAITH, had been placed there by someone greater than me.

Peace Out-

RandomwordbyRuth

Excerpt from As Bill Sees It

The achievement of freedom from fear is a lifetime undertaking, one that can never be wholly completed. When under heavy attack, acute illness, or in other conditions of serious insecurity, we shall all react to this emotion- well or badly, as the case maybe. Only the self-deceived will claim perfect freedom from fear.

Bill W.

by special virtue alone every road leads back to another
by special virtue alone every road leads back to another

Billie Don’t Be A Hero

1977 Shopping bag against Anita Bryant
1977 Shopping bag against Anita Bryant (Photo credit: blacque_jacques)
ANITA BRYANT SUCKS ORANGES
ANITA BRYANT SUCKS ORANGES (Photo credit: spike55151)

Tragedy strikes small towns everyday.  Bodies dredged up from the river.  Someone’s mother having had one too many wild nights.  Children needing a transplant and the only comparable donor is an Uncle who does not believe parts r just parts. Yet, there is a humourous light on the horizon.  Everyone shout, ‘back in the U.S.S.R…..you don’t know how lucky you are!’ Today in, Anywho, Wherethefuckarewe, God Bless this Mess, America, I am allowed to hold hands with my spouse of many years in public and only received a handful of scuffs and glares.  Today, I suppose the gay community should deem itself lucky.

Yo, Mother Russia what have you got to say for yourself:

Vladimir Putin - Caricature

…law passed with near unanimous support by Russian lawmakers and signed by President Vladimir Putin in June. It bans the “propaganda of nontraditional sexual relations” and imposes fines for providing information about the gay community to minors.

Guess Mother hasn’t had her morning cup of octane grade Vodka yet!  Let’s have a check in with our correspondent down south of the Mississippi line:

‘Anita?  Anita?  Anita Bryant are you there?  Come in!’ Yes, well it seems Anita has found another Russian defector seemingly going unnoticed as, Phil Robertson from the financially prudent and trailer park ladden series, DUCK DYNASTY!

“…a man’s ass can’t compare to a woman’s vagina!…”

Duck Dynasty joins Chick-fil-A

Thank you Phil for setting us straight on what is deemed ‘beautiful and loving’ in a redneck’s eyes.

Phil did receive a huge like from a huge fan: Sarah Palin

“I can see Russia from my kitchen window and I know they hate those ‘Gays'”

In the midst of these domino effects readying the world for more humanly decay, is a lone bright star.

Billie Jean King!  As a child of the eighties, Billie had been the era’s Ellen.  Fortunately, Billie has not sold out and devoted her life to giving prizes to a public that not too long ago would have strung her up by her tennis shoe laces.

Don’t Boycott the 2014 Olympics set to take place in Sochi!  Send every light in the loafers, rainbow studded, rugged and fleet of foot gay and lesbian you can find.

Who’s leading this pack of gender benders?  Ms. Billie, of course.  This woman scared the shit out of many snot faced kids.  Not by her simple ‘I am who I am’ attitude but by her prowlness on the court.

From the "Battle of the Sexes" tenni...
From the “Battle of the Sexes” tennis match featuring Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs at the Astrodome in Houston, Texas. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

She still looks like she could kick some ass.  Simply put Russia you have been checkmated with a big old lesbian…there should be an Olympic medal for that.

Though we are proud of Ms. King’s representation of the LBGT community.  It is important to note that many Russians when drinking Vodka and eating Potato Stew and thinking about those ‘gays’…can become violent with and ugly.  God only knows they are ugly enough without bouts of misdirected anger.

Therefore, we should send Billie off with an oldie but American goodie:

Billie, don’t be a hero, don’t be a fool with your life
Billie, don’t be a  hero, come back and make me your wife
And as Billie started to go she said  keep your pretty head low
Billie, don’t be a hero, come back to me

Read more:  Paper Lace – Billy Don’t Be A Hero Lyrics | MetroLyrics