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Please check back soon to see new multimedia work from our writers.
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Photo by Jose Olivares 2016
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Meet Our Writers
Maria Musa
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Sprout Wings
People always want answers To the most mundane of happenstance There is no event too random No idea too grand Trying to minimize what is already small Or even when it's way too big We want answers we're not ready for If I could guess what the future held I'd be rich! What will I wear, where will I live Will I have any friends, will I be happy....bah! We have to stop wanting this path You can't sprout wings on answers The only way to do it right Is to start living your questions. |
Not Forgotten
Compassion With all that's crazy in the world today Do you think people have this quality anymore? Or is everything we do self-centered? I often wonder at the sense of pride We get when we believe we Are helping others True compassion is an act of sacrifice Not helping others just to make Yourself feel good True compassion gives everything For another's well-being When you can accomplish this Then you have performed an act Of Compassion Ask a mother about it Its an act of sacrifice |
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Shawna Roseman
I don't remember much of my life but this is my life story. I was ten years old when I moved to Reno, Nevada with my family. I never really liked it here. Then as I grew up, I learned that I was gay. When I was fifteen, I told my parents I was gay and I got slapped and pushed down the stairs. I was told to get out.
I then moved to the streets, it was cold and very stressful. My best friend Sarah begged her mom to let me stay with them. I loved it there. They were great people. I got into a program called the Half Dollar Court. That was a great program. Then everything fell apart.
Sarah's mom lost the house and I went back to the streets. Then I started thinking of places to go so I figured Job Corps. It worked for a month before I had a seizure and they told me to get out.
I then went back to the streets. I was still looking for things to do but I did find one and it was a magazine job. I liked it but I think I gave up on it because I came back to Reno. I lived in Reno for a little bit, homeless. Then I got a girlfriend--at least I thought. She lived in Pennsylvania. I couldn't handle her attitude so I left and went back to Reno. I was living on the streets. I started using drugs and not doing well. I thought I ran everything.
Then I got into trouble and went to jail. They wouldn't let me out. I had to do a program. So I got into this program and I liked it. This program has done well for me.
I am learning I am not the only person in this world. I am also learning to be forgiving. I have come a long way. I am going to be going to school.
I then moved to the streets, it was cold and very stressful. My best friend Sarah begged her mom to let me stay with them. I loved it there. They were great people. I got into a program called the Half Dollar Court. That was a great program. Then everything fell apart.
Sarah's mom lost the house and I went back to the streets. Then I started thinking of places to go so I figured Job Corps. It worked for a month before I had a seizure and they told me to get out.
I then went back to the streets. I was still looking for things to do but I did find one and it was a magazine job. I liked it but I think I gave up on it because I came back to Reno. I lived in Reno for a little bit, homeless. Then I got a girlfriend--at least I thought. She lived in Pennsylvania. I couldn't handle her attitude so I left and went back to Reno. I was living on the streets. I started using drugs and not doing well. I thought I ran everything.
Then I got into trouble and went to jail. They wouldn't let me out. I had to do a program. So I got into this program and I liked it. This program has done well for me.
I am learning I am not the only person in this world. I am also learning to be forgiving. I have come a long way. I am going to be going to school.
Stephen Popovich
“Houris”
This is for Mel,
My dancing "Houris"
Gone too soon.
Gonna miss you sweetheart.
Luv ya, Pops.
Perhaps there is something to those seventy- two Houris promised in the Koran. Not the whole virgins in paradise, milk and honey thing but more of a touching of souls thing. I have been pondering on things like this more and more lately. Over the past year or so there have been so many changes in my life. I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers.
I will never forget the day I was “ Recalled to life “. This was delivered to me by a sawed off, over caffeinated, Punk Rocker who I have come to love. She was the first person in many years to see something in me. To this day, I wonder what it was and why we seemed to “Click” with so little effort. She brought me back from a self imposed exile. I had all but quit on life. Since that day I have been trying to re-learn life in a more open and involved world.
This has not always been easy, I had spent my years on the Street building up this armor of indifference. Not caring had been the method I used to avoid the pain of life. Caring, whether about people or ideals, leaves you vulnerable. It is so much easier just to wall yourself off from the world. Vulnerability, out on the Street, is like a drop of blood in the water, it will bring the sharks down on you. Opening yourself up again goes against all of the old survival instincts.
I would like to think that it had to be Kismet that brought us together, the first of my Houris. At the time of my greatest challenges, a beautiful, compassionate soul entered into my life. She has been with me through Heart Attack and Lung Cancer, Chemo, Radiation and recovery, always as my friend. Yet, her greatest gift to me has been the shepherding of me, gently back into a society that I had abandoned.
Over the past year, circumstances beyond my control have forced me into a world full of Doctors, Nurses, Social Workers and Therapists. My life had been changed by a few simple words “Without treatment, a year perhaps a bit more”. Those words, oddly enough, provided a new sense of clarity in my life. I was in a bit of shock, obviously, as we left the Doctors office that afternoon. The decision for treatment was a no brainer, I now had a very real goal, literally, in my life, surviving Stage III B Adenocarcinoma.
Having so recently re-joined the Human Race, I made up my mind that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on it. The world of Doctors and treatments is complicated, sometimes mind- bendingly so. You need a lot of friends. I was bred with some manners and over the years I developed a bit of charm. I used them both shamelessly, it was the only thing I had to work with. Little things like remembering names and being polite became important. I built up my connections at St. Mary’s and around town.
All through this journey, my Houris have accompanied me. Sometimes for the long haul and sometimes just long enough to get me over the next hill. Some inspired, some counseled, others brought nothing but smiles and laughter. Each gave a little of themselves. I cannot find the words to describe what I have felt, Magic is as close as I can get. These souls have man- aged to touch my heart. My Houris, their efforts have made it so much easier to maintain a positive attitude. Shared compassion, moral support, unasked for and freely given.
I have never read Clinton’s book “It takes a Village”, yet I have embraced the concept in the title. No matter what the crisis, having friends, people who care, will make a major difference in your recovery. Houris you meet along the way provide access to new sources and help to build your support family. All that is required is honesty and respect for each other. Meeting my Houris, becoming friends, has been the best part of my illness.
I could do pages on the joys of Radiation therapy, the fun of Chemo. I’ll skip over most of it. Each morning as I was positioned to go under the Cyber Knife, I followed the advice of one of my Houris. “Think of it as a Time Machine” and so I did. For all thirty two sessions after the Nurses had left and closed the six inch thick, lead lined door I would envision some sunrise or vista from my past. My body lay still as the Cyber Knife whirred, buzzed and hummed around me, I watched sunrises in my mind. After five minutes or so I would hear the words “Relax we’re done.” and I would slowly return.
Chemo was harder, there are a lot of needles involved and I really hate needles. The Houris of the Infusion Center were gentle and missed only rarely. Sitting quietly while a Witches brew of toxins is pumped into your body is hard. Meditation and the knowledge that there would be a little steroid bump the next day made it easier. I was lucky I missed most of the side effects people had so gleefully told me about. I lost some hair.
After seven long weeks my treatment was done and the real fun part of Chemo therapy began. To celebrate my freedom from treatment, I took in a Baseball game with friends, this would be one of my last good days. Throat swollen shut by radiation, I couldn’t enjoy a Hot Dog, drinking a Beer was hard. Over the next couple of weeks, everything I was told about Chemo came true. I was sick as a dog, so sick that as I lay in a fetal ball on my bed, I wished for death. Through all of this my Houris watched over me, some in person, others by phone, one from across the country. I had reached out in fear and need and she had responded. During this last phase I was miserable, I couldn’t eat, I lost 25 pounds I couldn’t spare. Weak as a kitten, my body trying to purge the accumulated poison from itself. The worst weeks of my life. I doubt I could have made it through this by myself.
At first my recovery was slow, it took months to gain 6 pounds and go over 130 pounds again 20 more to go. Regaining my strength is an ongoing challenge requiring constant work. Through all of this I’ve had half a dozen of my Houris trying to fatten me up both physically and mentally. Keeping my spirits up.
This oddball crew of friends, Therapists, Social Workers, Nurses and Bartenders is the core of my support group. A family of like minded souls who with their compassion, have made me a better person. I feel honored to call these people my Friends.
Next month I start a new phase in my recovery. This one should be easier, I have the benefit of past experience and a more positive attitude towards life. I have built a community of kindred spirits, my Houris, in whom I have complete trust. With these people and others I meet as I go through surgery and treatment at U.C. Davis, I will get through this.
I hope that I’m not limited to just 72 Houris. Each of these kind souls, in their own way has made me a better person. Given me a sense of belonging, of being a part of something bigger and the desire to make it better. Having a purpose makes life worth living.
This is for Mel,
My dancing "Houris"
Gone too soon.
Gonna miss you sweetheart.
Luv ya, Pops.
Perhaps there is something to those seventy- two Houris promised in the Koran. Not the whole virgins in paradise, milk and honey thing but more of a touching of souls thing. I have been pondering on things like this more and more lately. Over the past year or so there have been so many changes in my life. I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers.
I will never forget the day I was “ Recalled to life “. This was delivered to me by a sawed off, over caffeinated, Punk Rocker who I have come to love. She was the first person in many years to see something in me. To this day, I wonder what it was and why we seemed to “Click” with so little effort. She brought me back from a self imposed exile. I had all but quit on life. Since that day I have been trying to re-learn life in a more open and involved world.
This has not always been easy, I had spent my years on the Street building up this armor of indifference. Not caring had been the method I used to avoid the pain of life. Caring, whether about people or ideals, leaves you vulnerable. It is so much easier just to wall yourself off from the world. Vulnerability, out on the Street, is like a drop of blood in the water, it will bring the sharks down on you. Opening yourself up again goes against all of the old survival instincts.
I would like to think that it had to be Kismet that brought us together, the first of my Houris. At the time of my greatest challenges, a beautiful, compassionate soul entered into my life. She has been with me through Heart Attack and Lung Cancer, Chemo, Radiation and recovery, always as my friend. Yet, her greatest gift to me has been the shepherding of me, gently back into a society that I had abandoned.
Over the past year, circumstances beyond my control have forced me into a world full of Doctors, Nurses, Social Workers and Therapists. My life had been changed by a few simple words “Without treatment, a year perhaps a bit more”. Those words, oddly enough, provided a new sense of clarity in my life. I was in a bit of shock, obviously, as we left the Doctors office that afternoon. The decision for treatment was a no brainer, I now had a very real goal, literally, in my life, surviving Stage III B Adenocarcinoma.
Having so recently re-joined the Human Race, I made up my mind that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on it. The world of Doctors and treatments is complicated, sometimes mind- bendingly so. You need a lot of friends. I was bred with some manners and over the years I developed a bit of charm. I used them both shamelessly, it was the only thing I had to work with. Little things like remembering names and being polite became important. I built up my connections at St. Mary’s and around town.
All through this journey, my Houris have accompanied me. Sometimes for the long haul and sometimes just long enough to get me over the next hill. Some inspired, some counseled, others brought nothing but smiles and laughter. Each gave a little of themselves. I cannot find the words to describe what I have felt, Magic is as close as I can get. These souls have man- aged to touch my heart. My Houris, their efforts have made it so much easier to maintain a positive attitude. Shared compassion, moral support, unasked for and freely given.
I have never read Clinton’s book “It takes a Village”, yet I have embraced the concept in the title. No matter what the crisis, having friends, people who care, will make a major difference in your recovery. Houris you meet along the way provide access to new sources and help to build your support family. All that is required is honesty and respect for each other. Meeting my Houris, becoming friends, has been the best part of my illness.
I could do pages on the joys of Radiation therapy, the fun of Chemo. I’ll skip over most of it. Each morning as I was positioned to go under the Cyber Knife, I followed the advice of one of my Houris. “Think of it as a Time Machine” and so I did. For all thirty two sessions after the Nurses had left and closed the six inch thick, lead lined door I would envision some sunrise or vista from my past. My body lay still as the Cyber Knife whirred, buzzed and hummed around me, I watched sunrises in my mind. After five minutes or so I would hear the words “Relax we’re done.” and I would slowly return.
Chemo was harder, there are a lot of needles involved and I really hate needles. The Houris of the Infusion Center were gentle and missed only rarely. Sitting quietly while a Witches brew of toxins is pumped into your body is hard. Meditation and the knowledge that there would be a little steroid bump the next day made it easier. I was lucky I missed most of the side effects people had so gleefully told me about. I lost some hair.
After seven long weeks my treatment was done and the real fun part of Chemo therapy began. To celebrate my freedom from treatment, I took in a Baseball game with friends, this would be one of my last good days. Throat swollen shut by radiation, I couldn’t enjoy a Hot Dog, drinking a Beer was hard. Over the next couple of weeks, everything I was told about Chemo came true. I was sick as a dog, so sick that as I lay in a fetal ball on my bed, I wished for death. Through all of this my Houris watched over me, some in person, others by phone, one from across the country. I had reached out in fear and need and she had responded. During this last phase I was miserable, I couldn’t eat, I lost 25 pounds I couldn’t spare. Weak as a kitten, my body trying to purge the accumulated poison from itself. The worst weeks of my life. I doubt I could have made it through this by myself.
At first my recovery was slow, it took months to gain 6 pounds and go over 130 pounds again 20 more to go. Regaining my strength is an ongoing challenge requiring constant work. Through all of this I’ve had half a dozen of my Houris trying to fatten me up both physically and mentally. Keeping my spirits up.
This oddball crew of friends, Therapists, Social Workers, Nurses and Bartenders is the core of my support group. A family of like minded souls who with their compassion, have made me a better person. I feel honored to call these people my Friends.
Next month I start a new phase in my recovery. This one should be easier, I have the benefit of past experience and a more positive attitude towards life. I have built a community of kindred spirits, my Houris, in whom I have complete trust. With these people and others I meet as I go through surgery and treatment at U.C. Davis, I will get through this.
I hope that I’m not limited to just 72 Houris. Each of these kind souls, in their own way has made me a better person. Given me a sense of belonging, of being a part of something bigger and the desire to make it better. Having a purpose makes life worth living.
Road trip by Stephen Popovich
Vague memories of one of the most outrageous and debauched road trips that never actually happened. It all started on a beautiful summer evening at a BBQ in my backyard. It was the early 80’s and Reagan was in the White House. Nancy was telling us to “Just Say No” and liberals across the country were depressed. Having finished my duties as host and BBQ Master. I took up my usual position on a stool behind the patio bar, as others began the job of cleaning up the debris. Better to cook than to clean.
This was a party of mostly old friends who gathered on the patio and around the bar. I began to build the first of many batches of my infamous “Papa Dobles” a particularly lethal type of daiquiri. This cocktail, the house specialty of the Floradita Bar in Havana, Cuba supposedly was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite libation. Think lemon-lime Slurpee with three shots of rum. Soon the booze and the bullshit were flowing freely. Serving this cocktail to the unsuspecting should be illegal.
Fairly early in the evening (I say early because at this point the old gang was still reasonably coherent). Lori, David’s girlfriend asked me about my t-shirt. This t-shirt, one of my prized possessions a Russian red thing of beauty with one of my favorite H.S. Thompson quotes on its front:
“When the going gets weird
The weird turn pro.”
Lori’s innocent little question, “What the hell does it mean?” put the key in the ignition and started the evening’s odd journey.
Those words were the beginning of an hours long semi-literate, semi-drunken discussion on the merits and wisdom of Thompson’s work as a whole and individually. The pro side, No Good, Dave and myself versus the more puritanical Rev. Bill, the Pollock, and Flash Gordon. As usual the other Steve, Mr. Rogers, steadfastly rode the fence. My roommate Phil, who wasn’t much of a reader stayed for the entertainment. We had all done this kind of barroom oratory before. A kind of bare knuckles debate.
The women, being wiser than the men, had retired to the spool table, far enough away to avoid our conversation, yet close enough to be first in line when the blender stopped whirring. I half watched the girls as they sipped cocktails and chatted amiably amongst themselves.
On our side of the patio, the discussion began harmlessly enough, trying to list all of the drugs from the beginning of Fear and Loathing and Las Vegas.”
Quart of ether ☒
Wad of blotter ☒
Bag of mixed uppers ☒
Bag of mixed downers ☒
Mescaline ☒
Half a salt shakers worth of pink Peruvian flake ☒
Cocaine, this was a drug that we could do further research on. Sending Phil to the kitchen for an empty salt shaker. We adjourned, en masse to the massive old oak desk in my office/library/bedroom. There by the simple use of trial and error and a Ohaus Triple Beam, it was determined that 4 or 5 grams equals half a salt shaker. At least that’s what I poured out onto my glass topped desk began to chop.
The Reverend who had spent most of the last hour denouncing Thompson’s work as hedonistic and excessive, positioned himself to be near the front of the line. Bill’s disdain for recreational drug abuse vanished if the dope was free.
The Rev. Mohler was born with the soul of an accountant and grew up to be one. Bill’s date, as Swiss exchange student called Marta, joined us at the desk. I don’t know why but this woman annoyed me from our first meeting. I’m a sucker for a woman with an accent, not this time, she struck me as more of a Nazi than a neutral.
Maggie, my long-suffering love interest arrived as I was laying a set of “railroad tracks” the length of my desk. She rolled a bill as I put the finishing touches to the tracks, for this and because we slept together, she went first. I took my turn, doing my best Hoover. I passed the bill to Marta and stepped back outside.
On the patio, I found the two abstainers, Marsha and Jean along with Leslie, No Good’s better half and our resident lightweight. I went to the bar and set to work cutting limes, lemons, and oranges. A proper “Papa Dobles” requires fresh juice, lots of fresh juice. Les offered to help and I accepted, she juiced as I poured and measured, three drinks per blender, three shots per drink, light, dark, 151.
As I poured out the third round of drinks, I studied my victims, wondering which ones I would find on my floor the next morning. No Good, Dave and I pondered over the term “a wad of blotter.” We agreed it must be a lot, but what is a lot of acid? 50? 500? 5000 hits? A reefer was produced and the conversation twisted. The best trip, the worst, the weirdest.
Flash Gordon and I told the story of Hitchhiking Jesus up on Skyline on a foggy night. He got us so high, we came down. It started on a Wednesday night, my father and I were arguing about something, who knows what. I was sixteen years old, we fought about everything in those days. I stomped out of the house and went to pick-up my partner Flash. We decided to go shoot some pool in The City. I had a four-way hit of blotter on me, we split it on the way to Palace Billiards, the largest pool hall west of the Mississippi River. We pushed pool balls around the table until they closed the place. We were pretty high but not so far gone as to be totally useless. We headed south out of The City. Just past Pacifica on Skyline Boulevard we hit fog, serious fog. We crawled along at ten miles per hour for what seemed like a long, long time. Then out of the fog, on the road’s edge stood a sort of robed figure with his thumb out. We stopped, we had to. Flashed jumped out so the stranger could ride in the middle. As we started to roll on down the road, the stranger looked us over and pronounced, “you guys are tripping, seriously tripping.” It was true, driving slowly in the fog had put an edge on our high. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” He produced a vial of herb, some papers, and rolled a reefer. “This,” he proclaimed, “will give you a high like you’ve never experienced before.” We fired up and passed it back and forth a couple of times, our new friend didn’t partake. He announced, “this is where I get out.” How he knew where we were was beyond me. You couldn’t see the side of the road, let alone a road sign. We stopped and let him out, he raised his hand said, “bless you my children” and vanished into the fog. “Weird,” Flash and I said almost in unison. I put the roach it the truck’s ashtray. Within a hundred yards we were out of the fog, and there was out turnoff, the route down the mountain and home. Our high had altered when we left the fog. There was a clarity to it now. We finished the ride home in silence. The next day we talked about the strange hitchhiker, or mutual hallucination. There was no roach in the ashtray.
Mike and Jean making “Flaming Groovies.” A Flaming Groovy is a plastic garbage bag set on fire, as it drips molten plastic, it makes a weird “thwoop, thwoop” sound that entertains the very high. While sitting around the fire they saw flashing lights and fled into the underbrush. Hiding from imaginary cops in a patch of poison oak. They were both pretty miserable for almost a week.
I told the story of Kat and I finding a red tide at Sunset Beach. I think Kathy volunteered me for the job, anyway I was drafted to help supervise about twenty of the younger students from “Daybreak” the hippy free school I attended after being booted out of high school. Three weekdays at the beach, camping out with twenty tie-dyed hippy kids, eating vegetarian. The work wasn’t hard, we helped keep camp, kept an eye on some of the older kids. Trailed behind, sweeping up stragglers as we toured Old Monterrey and Cannery Row. On our last night, Kat and I took off after dinner to get away and walk together on the beach. As we walked along the surf line we noticed that the sand thrown up by our bare feet sparkled. A red tide is an algae bloom and as it washed ashore it brought with it phosphorescent plankton all along the beach. We raced back to camp yelling, “the sand sparkles! It’s crazy, you’ve got to see this!” Some people thought we were high. A few followed us back to the tideline, their cries of delight drew the others to us. Soon there were twenty-some Daybreakers, romping on the beach, sending glittering, glowing drops of seawater in every direction.
Red tide at Sunset Beach, the sand sparkled even if you weren’t zinging.
Dave told the story of my suicide attempt at Anno Nuevo, how I had begged to be chained to a rock in a tidal cave. Never mind that we didn’t have a chain, never mind that the tide was on the ebb, never mind that the cave flooded to a depth of two inches, never mind that we’d been high on mescaline for six weeks. I was tired.
Oddly enough, after that story, Maggie came to sit by me to hold my hand. She and I had grown too complacent in our lives, her gesture reminded me of what we had had. We listened to the others tell stories of cars lost in The City after Grateful Dead shows, Winterland, New Year’s Eve. Watching the sun rise over the Bay on New Year’s Day just before we found the car.
The last tale, reminded me of another sunrise on another trip from a few years ago. Maggie and I had driven to Las Angeles for a wedding. She was a bridesmaid, I was decorative proof, in a suit and tie, that she really did have a relationship. (I had managed to avoid several other of her family’s affairs.) I clean up pretty well under the right conditions. As part of our negotiations prior to the trip, Maggie, who in no way is any kind of an outdoor person, agreed that we would camp out a couple of nights. On the way down, we spent a night on the beach near Carmel and Maggie had gotten through it okay. After four and a half days of being on my best behavior, I needed to do something that was more me. Leaving L.A., I pointed the M.G.B. towards San Bernadino, even Maggie could tell that this was not the fastest way home. I told her that I needed some time in the desert, away from civilization and noise.
I could tell she wasn’t overly enthused with this change in our plans. I told her about the incredible scenery we would see as we went north on 395. China Lake, the Alabama Hills, Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the continental U.S, White Mountain. Maggie wasn’t buying it, all she could see was miles and miles of dirt, rocks, and sagebrush. We drove through the Bamas, a massive pile of granite boulders, I showed her spots where movies had been filmed. Whitney Portal was a little better, there were trees and it was cooler. She still wasn’t happy. I promised her a fancy dinner with wine, tablecloths and candles, she was dubious.
Lone Pine in those days wasn’t much more than a wide spot in the road. As we drove down the mountain and into town I prayed that the Sportsman’s Café was open and that my old friend John was still the chef. The first part of my prayer was answered when I saw the sign from a distance. I parked out front and we went in. Maggie went to the ladies’ room for repairs, I went to the bar for beer. After being served and taking a healthy draught of beer I asked the bartender if John was in the kitchen. She lit up a bit and said yes, he was. John’s friends by association are good people. I gave her my name and she went off to let him know I was at the bar.
John beat Maggie to the bar by a half a length so she witnessed his greeting. I was yanked from my stool, enveloped in a bear hug, and loudly smacked on each cheek. John is not a shy person. We did the “it’s been years” thing and I introduced him to Margaret. John is a charmer, even at 70-something, he was a force of nature. Drinks were ordered, I was forgotten, and Maggie got the full John treatment. Other than to wonder aloud how a beautiful lady like herself could be in company with a thug like me. I might as well have been wallpaper.
Some people think of John as a San Santa Claus like figure, with his long white hair and beard, a persona that he wore well. I've always thought of him as God, since our very first meeting. We’d met while I was climbing the south face of Mount Whitney with my partner Greg taking a break on a ledge, we discovered that we had no way to light our joint. This started an argument, a loud one. Then came the voice of God, a deep bellow.
“Hey you guys, come up thirty feet or so when you'll see me. I’ve got a Zippo.”
We climbed. As I came up over the ridge I saw a large man dressed all in white with long white hair and beard. He was sitting on the ledge putting his alto sax together.
After a couple of minutes, John was going at full tilt planning an elaborate evening meal. We were told to have one more cocktail and we'd be seated for our dinner. An imaginary tip of the hat and John was headed back to his kitchen yelling out orders before the door was even half closed.
Maggie turned to me with a million questions in her expression.
I told her how John and I had met on the mountain. How we would go out to that same spot out on the ledge to play his sax, sometimes for hours. I told her how we’d kept in touch, how every year I tried to plan a week in Lone Pine, mountains, desert, stars, and quiet. Hunting cottontail for the pot. Bouldering all over the Bamas with Mount Whitney always looming the background. The simple allure of the place. I shared bits and pieces of John's backstory. LA, jazz man, junkie, how he and his wife Babe and the boys moved to Lone Pine in ‘67 not knowing a single soul in town. John in his own words came here to either get well or die. Maggie was trying to take it all in, she knew I went to the desert yet she had never really asked me about what I did or why I did. it she was amazed that I knew a place like this, in the middle of nowhere. I was enjoying this, Margaret was a hard woman to impress, let alone rattle. She was saved by John coming out to seat us.
He led us to our booth, “the best” in the house. This was where John served Royalty, Maggie rated. Wine was poured, and our waitress introduced, and soon the meal began. Starters and salads were served, our wine glasses were freshened up.
We ate and sipped wine. Maggie needed details. I told her of other trips to the Alabamas. It was a pleasant, leisurely affair. As we finished our salads the waitress re-appeared to whisk our dishes away and then came John.
He was wearing his chef's hat, bearing a huge rack of lamb, a waitress brought garlic mashed potatoes and braised carrots. John was grinning as he carved the lamb and served the meal. We were told to enjoy and if we need anything to just raise a finger. He then left us with our feast. We ate slowly, talking about the day for at least an hour. We finally gave up any pretense of eating and John was back, supervising, clearing away, and setting up.
There were the sounds of a mild commotion in the bar. I slid out of the booth as Babe came into the dining room. We met and hugged, Babe a small woman, the polar opposite of her husband. I started to introduce Margaret but John was back to take over. Desserts were ordered, and coffee poured. John sat next to Maggie, Babe next to me, neatly trapping us together in the booth. Babe gently interrogated Maggie, John and I talked about our old climbing partners. How’s old so-and-so doing what's up with the crew.
The dessert was cleared and brandy took its place. The conversation grew more general as they close the dining room around us. I looked at my watch, it was almost midnight. It was late, we needed to go. One more round was ordered, a bed was offered and declined. I had told Maggie that they would ask but I needed the stars. John asked if I was going to the old spot and I said yes. He said, “no take this lady to Eureka Valley, by the rock on the west side. In the morning you will thank me.” I objected. I'm driving my M.G. not my truck. He pointed out that I'd gone at least that far in an overloaded old Caddy. Even Maggie had heard that story of me wrapping the exhaust around the rear axle. He insisted that Eureka Valley was the place. The road out had been graded recently, drive right up and camp. After some thought, I agreed.
It was nearing 1 a.m. when we left the Sportsman's, after promising babe and John that we'd be back in the morning to have breakfast with them. We pulled out onto the deserted highway and I drove south. The “Keeler Dump” sign was still there, a bit more bullet-riddled than the last time I'd seen it.
We headed east out into the desert on the dirt road. John had been right, the road was smooth, we made good time covering the twenty-some miles to the turnoff, trailing a long cloud of dust in our wake. There was enough moonlight to bathe the hills and desert in a silvery monochromatic light. The sky seemed to be overwhelmed with stars. Stars that urban dwellers never see. I spotted the rock outcropping in the distance and soon found the trail leading up to it. A hundred yards and we were there, an area of soft smooth sand a fire pit in the lee of the rock. I pulled off the trail and shut down the engine. Maggie and I sat for a moment or two listening to the quiet.
They say that God looks after drunkards and small children. It must be so, the tent went up quickly and without a hitch and 15 minutes later we were settling in for the night. The opening faced east, we looked at the stars and I pointed out the faint glow of Las Vegas 200 miles away. There seem to be a weight to the silence, we whispered to each other. I fell asleep with Maggie nestled in beside me. We slept hard. I awoke with Maggie's head still resting on my shoulder, through the flap I could see the first hint of dawn.
I lay there quietly for a while, listening to and watching the stillness of the morning. Finally, my bladder forced me to ease out from under Maggie and step out. The moon had set, I slipped on my boots and watered a sagebrush on the far side of the fire pit. On the way back, I tripped over a small pile of pine branches, a small gift from the site’s last visitors. Turning the M.G.’s headlights on, I went in search of sage knots and other kindling. As I wandered, I began to notice something, and some things began to make more sense. I built a small fire, got the camp box from the car and started the coffee pot going. As the sky started to lighten, I wished the water to a boil. Timing is everything.
Waking Maggie has never been an easy thing to do. Over time I’d developed my own method, get her sitting up and put a mug of fresh coffee in her hands. This morning it was cowboy coffee sweetened only with a healthy dollop of cognac. She stared morosely at the oily black liquid for a moment, then took her first sip. I got a malignant glare and then Maggie took another sip. I sat down with her and lit a cigarette. We sipped coffee and passed the smoke back and forth between us.
I moved closer to Maggie, tapped her shoulder, and pointed up the valley. I received another glare and a half snarled “what?” “Watch, just watch,” I soothed. She looked back up the valley as the sun lit the western slope. At first it was the usual sage gray drab but then the color began to show, and a pastel palette exploded over the desert. We watched in awe as the shadow line brought the colors racing down upon us. Then we were in the sunlight laughing, hugging, and jumping up and down, surrounded by millions and millions of tiny desert flowers. Maggie wanted to explore but I stopped her by pointing to her bare feet. We wandered over acres of desert, every vista was better than the last. Each new perspective opened up a dozen more. A couple of hours later, we came down and walked back to camp hand in hand. At camp, we had cold coffee and cognac, sitting in the shade of the tent examining the flowers that we had gathered. Too soon, it was time to go. Reluctantly, we dressed and broke camp. We drove out of Eureka Valley in a comfortable silence, back at the highway, under the bullet riddled dump sign, I stopped and put the top down. Then we motored back into Lone Pine in style.
Babe and John were drinking coffee at the bar when we got to the Sportsman’s. It was in the back-bar mirror that we got our first look at ourselves, rosy cheeks and rat nested hair with bits and pieces of wildflowers sticking out at odd angles. Babe took Maggie in hand and they went off to the ladies’ room. John joked about sending out a search party. I told him a lady like Ms. Margaret never rose before nine, even while sleeping out-of-doors. His booming laugh turned heads in the restaurant. I asked why he hadn’t just told us about the spring bloom. He said that a lady like Margaret deserved some sort of a surprise on her first trip into the desert. I had to agree. The girls returned, and we moved to a table.
It was a fun meal, filled with laughter and over too soon. We finished our goodbyes in the parking lot and headed north. We took our time. Maggie was seeing the desert through different eyes, enjoying it. We watched the sun set at Lake Tahoe. That night we ate cold lamb, sitting naked in bed in our hotel room.
As Maggie and I sat at the bar half listening to the conversations going on around us. I had a wicked thought enter my mind. I leaned in close and whispered into her ear, “should I tell the story of you dancing naked in the early morning desert?” For this, I received an icy smile and a love tap on my kidney. As an act of contrition, I suggested we slip off to my room for more coke. The smile this time was a little less frosty, there was no rabbit punch. We’ll fool them, I told her, we’ll split up and then meet in my room. Like most drunken plans, this one was doomed from the start. I found Maggie alone, sitting on my desk, smiling, this time sincerely. I unlocked the drawer that held my stash and pulled out my personal baggie of coke, spooned a pile out for our lines. Maggie laughed, I looked up then followed her gaze to the window. Five of our friends, like street urchins from a Dickens novel, had their faces pressed to the glass. I made a come on in gesture and poured more cocaine out onto the desktop. Once more the ritual of snorting cocaine began, cutting and chopping. The credit card in my hand moved under its own volition. Chop, chop, chop, spread out, chop some more. Next came the shuffle, moving the pile back and forth and then the split. My audience was growing restless. It’s funny how coke brings the greed out in people. We joked about it, we called it “some more, you want some more?” I finished playing with the piles and with a couple of sweeps of the hand I laid out the rails. Maggie and I started at opposite ends, this time and we each took our hits. Passing the rolled bills like batons, we stood back to watch the melee. It went faster this time, the Papa Dobles and cocaine had found balance.
Outside the other Steve, Mr. Rogers, had taken over at the bar. Leslie and Marsha cut and juiced. Mr. Rogers measured and concocted. We had quit numbering the batches by now. The party’s vibe was changing, it had loosened up. I took the gunfighter’s seat at the bar, back to the wall, Maggie beside me. My patio bar had a name, “The Original Crazy Dave’s.” There was a sign to prove it. Dave and I had stolen it several years ago after some punk show in Berkeley. I had parked my truck right under it. We hadn’t noticed it on the way in, but at two in the morning after a few drinks, there it was, screaming take me home with you. There were tools in the truck. We could reach it from the truck bed. It was too tempting, we had it off in under two minutes. Crazy Dave’s was getting ready to rock. Someone had put the Stones on. It was Flash Gordon who resurrected the “fear and loathing” debate, for reasons of his own he had fixated on the ether. Strangely enough, none of us had ever done it, at least not to the slobbering stage. Several of us had used it back in the “free base” days. Prior to Richard Pryor doing his thing with it. Free base, the first warning sign of crack. None of us had any interest in either uppers or downers, drugs from our youth, stuff for teenagers. Seen from the ripe old age of 25 or 26. Flash was still hung up on ether. We finally told him to think of it as nitrous oxide with drooling. This left us with one item unchecked on Gonzo’s list of goodies, mescaline.
For my friends and I mescaline was the summer of 1976, our bicentennial year. The mere mention of it put a smile on everyone who had been there. Even Marsha, our one true abstainer was shaking her head no, silently laughing. Newcomers got quick condensed versions. The word funny was used repeatedly. In the spring of ’76 by some strange unholy alignment of the stars or who knows what that led Dave and myself to a small bar in the City called the Club Car. There we ran into a mutual friend, a bass player called Spider. We had a beer and then almost as an aside he said he could get mescaline but there was a catch. The man who made it sold it only in batches of the same size he cooked. Ten thousand hits at sixty cents each. Spider was looking for partners, were we interested? He had about $1,200.00, 2,000 hits. Dave and I were doing math in our heads, he was saving money for a new van to haul his drums. I had my pot funds plus some legit money in the bank. By the end of our second beer, the deal was done. The next night we were back in the City at Spider’s parents house in the Marina, a block from the Palace of Fine Arts. There we met a chem major from Berkeley who called himself John. He showed us his product, you could tell he was pleased with his labor. Two Nob Hill grocery bags, each with five industrial zip-lock bags, each bag contained a thousand-inch-long gelatin horse caps of mescaline mixed with Nestle’s Quik chocolate mix. Chocolate mescaline. We discussed dosages, one was plenty for most people. We were told it came on slowly through the body at first and then the head. Both of them had done hits about an hour ago. They both reported a nice body buzz. John was sure colors would start within the hour. Neither Dave or myself wanted to drive back to Mountain View ripped with eight thousand horse caps in the trunk. We took a leap of faith and bought the mescaline untried. Piles of cash appeared and changed hands, hands were shaken and goodbyes said. I drove my grandmothers borrowed Nova back down the peninsula just like the little old lady who owned it.
Once we finally got back to my house, we hauled our good inside and spilled it out on the kitchen table. We sat and stared at the pile of bags, eight thousand light brown capsules, a street value of $24,000 dollars. This was, by far the biggest deal we had ever done. It made pounds and kilos of weed or ounces of coke seem insignificant. We debated testing methods, we both had to work in the morning. Settling on splitting one and snorting a half each. Never, ever, under any circumstance, snort Nestle’s Quik. It went in easily enough though the hint of chocolate made it a slightly odd experience. This was just after ten o’clock. As recommended, we stored the mescaline in the freezer, filling it almost completely. We waited, playing with the half dozen caps left on the table. Then the nasal drip began, first as a drizzle, then as a deluge, chocolate flavored snot, dripping and oozing down the back of our throats. Beer was of no use, not mixing well with Nestle’s Quik. Brandy was better, cutting through the chocolate. By eleven thirty we both had a solid body high going. We waited for the visuals to begin. Dave left at midnight, we were both starting to worry a bit. Forty-eight hundred dollars is a lot of money. I wandered around my house aimlessly, stared into the freezer at all those horse caps. I gave up and went to bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow of my waterbed, someone threw a switch and I had colors and movement, boy did I have colors. After an hour or so I turned off the bedside lamp and I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I was still awake, up and making coffee at dawn. I was at work before 6 a.m. idiot grin plastered to my face. Hiding in my office, I pretended to do my weekly reports and other paperwork. I went to lunch at eleven and didn’t bother to go back. Eating at the bar of the Brave Bull, I began to recover, the idiot grin slowly slipping from my face. Tipping Ted the bartender a couple of hits of chocolate mescaline, I gave him prices for a hundred, five hundred, or a thousand. He was a solid coke customer, so I threw it out to him. Who knows? Dave and I had to move quantities and do it quickly. Back at the house I made some calls and left a few obscure messages on the machines. Dave came by after his shift, around two, his morning had been a bit rougher. As a waiter he had to maintain while working with the public. Last nights experience had caught us off guard. We decided to try again, this time forewarned. A simple backyard BBQ with the girls, Maggie and Lori. A night in, nobody was leaving this party until after breakfast. Dave went home and I took a nap.
Maggie woke me by plopping down next to me on the bed. We greeted each other, and she slumped down against me. I heard about her day, the woes of working in a modeling agency part time. Somewhat soothed after her venting, I told her of our plans for a quiet night at home just the four of us and a test batch of mescaline. Maggie was agreeable for the most part, a bit skittish, she’d never done mescaline before. I told her that I’d guide her, she would have people around her who cared about her, Lori and Dave. She said she would think on it. We went to the kitchen to see what we needed for our simple cookout. A list was made, and Maggie volunteered for the store run. I was sent to the showers. On her return Maggie found a cleaner, fresher version of myself. I was wearing my oldest Levi’s, butter soft and well patched and a “Wounded Knee” T-shirt. I was just finishing setting up the patio for our BBQ. Feeling a bit overdressed, Maggie went to my room to change. She came out in short-shorts and one of my tie-dyed shirts. We did the prep work together, tri-tip marinating, potatoes wrapped in foil, salad made and in the fridge, we were all set. As we waited for Lori and Dave out on the patio, I talked to Maggie about mescaline. It was part Carlos Castaneda, part B.F. Skinner, we talked of set and setting, the importance of being at ease, of being comfortable. I promised her I’d be with her the whole time, ready to talk or to hold her as needed. There was no cause for fear.
A bit after six we heard Dave’s van pull into the gravel drive, doors thudded and a moment later Dave and Lori came in through the side gate, fashionably late as usual. I poured a white wine for Lori and pointed Dave to the fridge next to the bar for a beer. We sat around the patio discussing the menu, making sure that everyone was hungry, and ready for the night ahead. I lit the fire adding our bit of smoke to the thousands of other Friday night BBQ’s going on in Silicon Valley that night. This is where our little suburban cook out veered away from the others. Dave took four of the horse caps from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and laid them on the plate in front of him. He explained our plan to the girls, we’d do it now, we knew from experience there was plenty of time for dinner and with some luck the mescaline would be kicking in as day turned to dusk. Dave handed out the caps. I made a cutting motion with my hand to Maggie. She shook her head no and took the cap, washed down with a swallow of wine. The rest of us followed her example. That done we shifted into an easier mode, we were committed now. Dinner was over and done with before we knew it. The girls called for more wine. I opened their second bottle.
Dave and I drank beer while we played ping-pong. Ping-pong was our warning, the canary in the coal mine. As we played, the ball developed a certain strobe like quality, trails and strobes, this intensified. Soon, it was, serve, stare, wait, strobes and trails. We gave up and sat with Lori and Maggie, talking softly and laughing. Sometime after full dark, I went into the house and got an old bed spread out of my closet. On my way back out I volunteered Maggie to help get it laid out. We collapsed giggling from the effort. We lay on the back lawn, her head resting on my chest, watching the sky. Dave and Lori came over to join us. Conversations were started, shifted, lost focus, and died of their own volition. Looking at the stars consumed us. Stars both real and hallucinatory held us, helpless with amazement. We could no longer tell the difference, there was none, it no longer mattered we were past caring about something as trivial as reality. It had been quiet for a very long time, each of us wrapped up in their own special world. Maggie moved so that we lay face to face. She whispered, “let’s go swimming.”
This seemed like a beautiful idea. I pondered for a second. Dad and Betty were gone, out of town somewhere. Access to the pool was easy there wasn’t a fence between our backyards. I laughed out my consent and we were up. After shedding our clothes on the deck, we dove in, gliding the length of the pool. We emerged gasping, our senses overwhelmed by the texture and feeling of water on hyper-sensitive skin. Clinging to the side of the pool and each other we rode the wave of rushes. I looked up in time to see Dave and Lori dive in. They came up alongside us, grabbing the pool’s edge, a look of stunned awe on their faces. After a few minutes I managed to get a “whoa” out. Dave replied a bit later, “no shit.” We hung on to the side of the pool for a while, until our brains adjusted to these new sensations. Maggie and I exchanged glances and together, we swam to the steps. Leaving the pool, the feel of cool air on naked wet bodies was almost as intense as diving in. Dave and Lori got out, we grabbed our clothes and headed into the house. Dave collected the quilt from the lawn on the way in. Maggie gave them towels and they disappeared into the darkened living room. I followed Maggie down the hall to my room and into my bed, still wet from the pool. We heard giggles from the living room. After that all I was aware of was Maggie.
I am cursed with being an early riser by 7:30 I was up and putting a pot of coffee on the stove. Sitting on the back patio, sipping my second cup, I heard the shower in the master bathroom start. Maggie was up and about, I brought her coffee as she finished. The quilt on the living room floor was stirring, I informed it that coffee had been made. Maggie came out, wearing my robe, we sat in the morning sun, drinking coffee. Lori appeared next, joining us on the patio, followed a bit later by Dave. We tried to describe to each other the feelings and sensations of the previous evening. Trying to depict the psychedelic experience with words is like painting a portrait with a rag mop. It’s too disjointed, too personal. Everyone agreed, the pool had been the climax, pushing us over the edge. After that, by some unspoken means, we had all known the communal part of the night was over. As we talked on the patio there was a lingering vibrancy within us, a psychic hangover. Breakfast was called for and we moved to start putting ourselves together to face the world.
After breakfast we split up, the girls going home, Dave and I off to visit some of the dealers we knew. Passing out samples, singing the praises of our wares. We were busy, by Sunday night we had moved 5,000 caps, recouped our investment and were beginning to show a profit. This left us with 2,900 and something hits which lasted for most of the rest of the summer.
The talk at the bar was still all about trips and tripping. We were pretty much unanimous on wilderness, the great out-of-doors, beaches and parks were named. San Gregorio, Anno Nuevo, Yosemite, and Big Basin. Anywhere away from city lights and noise, where you can truly see the heavens. The time was obvious, late at night when you can feel the silence, be absorbed by the Milky Way. Out of all of us, only Maggie was certain she knew the perfect place. Sunrise in the Eureka Valley in the early spring, there was no argument from me.
Like all good road trips this one has had its share of detours. I’ve gotten lost going down memory lane, it wasn’t planned, I just followed the signs until I reached the end.
May Day
This May Day will be the 48th anniversary of the first time I was Tear Gassed. I was a tall skinny Kid, 13 years old. It was my first protest march, several hundred Students had gathered at UNR. We were going to march through Downtown Reno, past the Casinos chanting “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh, NLF is going to win” and other inane slogans. It was the first time I felt the power that lives in a Mob, it was intoxicating.
We didn’t get very far, a deputy with a Bullhorn told us to disperse, get off of Virginia St., then they lobbed in the gas. Those in front turned back, those behind us kept on coming, as we collided the cloud of gas drifted over us. That was it, the military phrase is “We retreated in some disorder” in reality everybody turned and ran. Once clear of the gas cloud there was an attempt to reorganize but it was over. I rode my bicycle home with tears and snot running down my face, I was smiling through it.
I’ve been to a lot of May Days and Protests since then, some of them stand out in my memory. May Day in Golden Gate Park, Led Zeppelin played a free show. A 100,000 people marching down Market St. protesting the war in Vietnam. Getting gassed again in Berkeley and then again at another rally there. Angela Davis, the San Quentin Six, AIM I’m not sure anymore, we marched for many things back then, Power to the People!
I’ll be out there again this year, showing my support for the Wobblies and Occupy and anyone else who opposes the Idiot who currently resides in the White House. Trump must go, and the Left must unify. The only way to stop this madness is for all us to stand together. Everybody has to unite on this, Hard Left and Moderate Democrats, we must prove to the public we are inclusive, open to everyone.
That’s my Rant, I’ve given you some of my Street Creds, come join me and other like minded people this May day. This could be the most important march I’ve ever been involved in. Trump is unfit for the office he holds, he must be held accountable for his misdeeds.
Stephen Popovich
This May Day will be the 48th anniversary of the first time I was Tear Gassed. I was a tall skinny Kid, 13 years old. It was my first protest march, several hundred Students had gathered at UNR. We were going to march through Downtown Reno, past the Casinos chanting “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh, NLF is going to win” and other inane slogans. It was the first time I felt the power that lives in a Mob, it was intoxicating.
We didn’t get very far, a deputy with a Bullhorn told us to disperse, get off of Virginia St., then they lobbed in the gas. Those in front turned back, those behind us kept on coming, as we collided the cloud of gas drifted over us. That was it, the military phrase is “We retreated in some disorder” in reality everybody turned and ran. Once clear of the gas cloud there was an attempt to reorganize but it was over. I rode my bicycle home with tears and snot running down my face, I was smiling through it.
I’ve been to a lot of May Days and Protests since then, some of them stand out in my memory. May Day in Golden Gate Park, Led Zeppelin played a free show. A 100,000 people marching down Market St. protesting the war in Vietnam. Getting gassed again in Berkeley and then again at another rally there. Angela Davis, the San Quentin Six, AIM I’m not sure anymore, we marched for many things back then, Power to the People!
I’ll be out there again this year, showing my support for the Wobblies and Occupy and anyone else who opposes the Idiot who currently resides in the White House. Trump must go, and the Left must unify. The only way to stop this madness is for all us to stand together. Everybody has to unite on this, Hard Left and Moderate Democrats, we must prove to the public we are inclusive, open to everyone.
That’s my Rant, I’ve given you some of my Street Creds, come join me and other like minded people this May day. This could be the most important march I’ve ever been involved in. Trump is unfit for the office he holds, he must be held accountable for his misdeeds.
Stephen Popovich
Lisa Lee
|
"Screams from Cocoons"
How can there be angels who refuse to fly because their wings feel so heavy it hurts to exist? Would a butterfly ever trade its wings and a life of floating on a breeze watching helping flower blossom, grow die and be renewed for its old life of a crawling caterpillar scraping by? Would you trade your wings so you could crawl your whole life? You do. I’ve heard the butterfly scream at that moment of emergence from chrysalis, when the cocoon tears, breaks and it awakens to a new life. The creature it was born to become. Change is painful. Painful transforming the comfort of a life you know even if it is scavenging in the dirt—parasitical existence. How do caterpillars know when to stop crawling and when to start spinning a cocoon, a safe womb to begin the process of a whole new perspective of life in flight and beauty and freedom. Everything happens at the time it was meant to. This moment is precious because it’s all we have. The only thing that truly belongs to us. Our one possession we squander, and so, piss on the face of creator and creation. We do not accept our wings as divine gifts and tools to lift us to the next level. But as weights bringing us down. So learn to fly. Or crawl and die. Get high. Dumb yourself down and crawl. You should have faith, go to great heights and jump. With wings you ought to be able to figure it out. Or you’ll just get high fall fast hard and die. Death is better than living in fear of yourself. Fearing the beautiful creature you are and will become. Fearing change. Metamorphosis. You are perfect. With all your flaws, perfectly flawed. So quit fucking yourself up. Don’t stop breathing, walking, functioning, living because the gift of tattered wings are too heavy to bear. Because the saddest thing I’ve ever seen is an angel who cut off his own wings. |
"Mirror"
Existence as a divine mirror cracked, hurling out the sparkling remains without losing its true integrity as sacrosanct reflection. Each of us —fragments-- hallowed immaculate pristine in our own articulation of the sacred spiral in which we all undulate. The people populating our lives essentially are aspects of the One divine self —fragmented-- but unified through our connection to one another woven together again. What you love/hate in others is what you love/hate in the reflection of yourself. Existence is a mirror. |
"Life in a Specially Marked Package" by Lisa Lee
So I missed the week in kindergarten when they taught social skills and the art of flirting. (Maybe that's why I needed to get hit upside the head to know a boy REALLY liked me.) And I didn't get the memo in school that said self-mutilation was a bad thing...but then what do you call anorexia, waxing, plucking, suicide exchange for a vision of perfection. At least I know I'm flawed and make no apologies for my scars. I guess I could stop wearing them as a badge of honor--war wounds--and take them for what they are HEALED. And I guess lacking social skills allows me to see people as people, not stepping stones, doormats, or rungs in the ladder. And then there's all those years of television I just haven't seen, not plugged in to the mass media coverage of this tragedy or that massacre or the perfect fictional families and friendships. FICTIONAL.
I've spent too much time in libraries where social skills are not a requirement. Paper graveyard, rotting trees grooming the plots of dead philosophers, mad poets, ravings of those who truly lived and gave back knowledge freely given. Cemeteries are rich, fertile. What seeds has your mind sown from the tiny lives of people who lived in the real world outside of boxes, cubicles, condos & SUV's? Out of strip malls and Starbucks, tanning salons, cosmetic surgery and starvation. People who may have starved, yes, but NOT FOR FASHION. Men and women with self-accountability, self-acceptance, who did not choose a ready-made life manufactured and manicured. SUCH A NICE PRETTY LITTLE BOX. But all boxes buckle from pressure. Get what you need, give something back. Color outside the lines and live a little, make love often, laugh constantly, breathe deeply. If you stray from the path, leave a fucking trail. A trail of hope, help, blood, tears, soul, shit...leave SOMETHING...or stay in your fucking box and be crushed.
Not everything beautiful has to be destroyed.
Donald Griffin
"Chapter one"
During the period of my mental illness( addiction) I resemble the black race. Lost, shattered, confused, and moving in a silent State of Mind. The inner standing of myself echoed a sarcasm tone. Mentally dehydrated, physical appearance deflated, SOUL lacking in the proper nutrition's. The prayers that once prayed for me resonated through my broken soul vibrating shaking and breaking the chains of addiction. Replenishing me from dehydration, the mental blockage shattered into pieces and the silence replace with knowledge the Sun on my black skin was the fibers and protein I needed to gain my strength to Freedom. NOW. Young, Black, and Powerful. I Walk the Underground Railroad with Harriet to bring those into Freedom that no longer want to be slaves but the sad thing about it most don't even know their slaves.
"Miss Lady"
An average woman is a turn off. A street woman is just that. An educated woman is stuck in fantasies and nonfiction stories of titles. The truth is she's Beyond average. The streets she walk is outlined and paved in gold. The times she's most educated is when she's outside of a book and thinking for herself. Her speech is in perfect alignment with her actions. Her descriptions are compliments self building and encouragement. Be not intimidated the butterfly she gives you where once caterpillars of unsure confidence. She's her.
" First name Crystal last name meth"
My mental sobriety date is like 5 seconds ago. I have to remember she's forbidden, like politics and religion. She goes hand-in-hand with addiction like Jesus and those Christians. She show no cause like Klan members and racial killings. My mental sobriety date is like one second ago. The best way to get rid of her is to Let Her Go.
During the period of my mental illness( addiction) I resemble the black race. Lost, shattered, confused, and moving in a silent State of Mind. The inner standing of myself echoed a sarcasm tone. Mentally dehydrated, physical appearance deflated, SOUL lacking in the proper nutrition's. The prayers that once prayed for me resonated through my broken soul vibrating shaking and breaking the chains of addiction. Replenishing me from dehydration, the mental blockage shattered into pieces and the silence replace with knowledge the Sun on my black skin was the fibers and protein I needed to gain my strength to Freedom. NOW. Young, Black, and Powerful. I Walk the Underground Railroad with Harriet to bring those into Freedom that no longer want to be slaves but the sad thing about it most don't even know their slaves.
"Miss Lady"
An average woman is a turn off. A street woman is just that. An educated woman is stuck in fantasies and nonfiction stories of titles. The truth is she's Beyond average. The streets she walk is outlined and paved in gold. The times she's most educated is when she's outside of a book and thinking for herself. Her speech is in perfect alignment with her actions. Her descriptions are compliments self building and encouragement. Be not intimidated the butterfly she gives you where once caterpillars of unsure confidence. She's her.
" First name Crystal last name meth"
My mental sobriety date is like 5 seconds ago. I have to remember she's forbidden, like politics and religion. She goes hand-in-hand with addiction like Jesus and those Christians. She show no cause like Klan members and racial killings. My mental sobriety date is like one second ago. The best way to get rid of her is to Let Her Go.
Wendy Wiglesworth
I walk around in circles
most of the time
maybe thinking they're all afraid
of what I might find
about them or me
I'm not quite sure but
I can tell you they're definitely scared for sure
because I'm different
and they plainly see
that I totally know where I'm at
But they don't
I think maybe
they never will
see, unlike them
I have the will
to wake up on the daily and survive all this shit
please understand
it's making me sick
sick and tired every single night
I guess I missed my flight
but I know it's not
without good reason
too many people here are committing treason and
there's not many
who can call them out on that
me I fucking live for that and
not for the pride
or the trophy of telling
totally opposite
cuz maybe they'll hear it and see it for once
I'm the one
that they'll hear it from
and believe it and see it
maybe even just once
I only hope
because hope is one thing
I think everybody needs
and I guess I'm the asshole
but I'm not full of greed
I joke and say it's evil but
I know it's straight good
good all day
always for the greater good
but it's really hard
which is why
I joke I joke I joke
cuz otherwise I would choke seriously
so I'll be the the one
that everybody calls
when they're pissed off
or have nobody else to blame because
it's all about the greater good
cuz once that's all done
I can finally go home
cuz I'm tired
I don't know where to go
so walk around
Circles here we go. ☆《WENDY》☆
most of the time
maybe thinking they're all afraid
of what I might find
about them or me
I'm not quite sure but
I can tell you they're definitely scared for sure
because I'm different
and they plainly see
that I totally know where I'm at
But they don't
I think maybe
they never will
see, unlike them
I have the will
to wake up on the daily and survive all this shit
please understand
it's making me sick
sick and tired every single night
I guess I missed my flight
but I know it's not
without good reason
too many people here are committing treason and
there's not many
who can call them out on that
me I fucking live for that and
not for the pride
or the trophy of telling
totally opposite
cuz maybe they'll hear it and see it for once
I'm the one
that they'll hear it from
and believe it and see it
maybe even just once
I only hope
because hope is one thing
I think everybody needs
and I guess I'm the asshole
but I'm not full of greed
I joke and say it's evil but
I know it's straight good
good all day
always for the greater good
but it's really hard
which is why
I joke I joke I joke
cuz otherwise I would choke seriously
so I'll be the the one
that everybody calls
when they're pissed off
or have nobody else to blame because
it's all about the greater good
cuz once that's all done
I can finally go home
cuz I'm tired
I don't know where to go
so walk around
Circles here we go. ☆《WENDY》☆