Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming

Ah the persimmon, a word from an extinct language of the Powatan people of the tidewater Virginia, spoken until the mid 18th C when its Blackfoot Indian speakers switched to English. It was putchamin, pasiminan, or pessamin, then persimmon, a fruit. Like the tomato, it is a ‘true berry’.
 
Here in this postcard we have a painting of four kaki: the Japanese persimmon. Of these four fruit, one is nearly ripe; three are yet to ripen. They have been picked three days and shelter under crinkled leaves, still stalked. Now, the surface on which these astringent, tangy fruit rest, isn’t it wondrous in its blue and mottled green? It is veined, a ceramic surface perhaps? The blue-green mottled, veined surface catches reflected light; the shadows are delicate but intense.
 
You told me that it troubled you to read my stories because so often they stepped between reality and fantasy, truth and playful invention. When you said this I meant to say (but we changed the subject): I write this way to confront what I know to be true but cannot present verbatim. I have to make into a fiction my remembered observations, those intense emotions of the moment. They are too precious not to save, and like the persimmon benefit from laying out in the sun to dry: to be eaten raw; digested to rightly control my ch’i, and perhaps your ch’i too.
 
So today a story about four kaki, heart-shaped hachiya, and hidden therein those most private feelings, messages of love and passion, what can be seen, what is unseen, thoughts and un-thoughts, mysteries and evasions.
 
                                                                            ----
 
 
Professor Minoru retired last year and now visits his university for the occasional show of his former colleagues and their occasionally-talented students. He spends his days in his suburban house with its tiny non-descript garden: a dog run, a yard no less. No precious garden. It is also somewhere (to his neighbours’ disgust) to hang wet clothes. It is just grass surrounded by a high fence. He walks there briefly in the early morning before making tea and climbing the stairs to his studio.
 
The studio runs the whole length of his house. When his wife Kinako left him he obliterated any presence of her, left his downtown studio, and converted three rooms upstairs into one big space. This is where Mosuku, his beautiful Akita, sleeps, coming downstairs only to eat and defecate in the small garden. Minoru and Mosuku go out twice each day: to midday Mass at the university chaplaincy; to the park in the early evening to meet his few friends walking their dogs. Otherwise he is solitary except for three former students who call ‘to keep an eye on the old man’.
 
He works every day. He has always done this, every day. Even in the busiest times of the academic year, he rose at 5.0am to draw, a new sheet of mitsumatagami placed the night before on his worktable ready. Ready for the first mark.
 
Imagine. He has climbed the stairs, tea in his left hand, sits immediately in front of this ivory-coloured paper, places the steaming cup to his far left, takes a charcoal stick, and  . . . the first mark, the mark from the world of dreams, memories, regrets, anxieties, whatever the night has stored in his right hand appears, progresses, forms an image, a sketch, as minutes pass his movement is always persistence, no reflection or studied consideration, his sketch is purposeful and wholly his own. He has long since learnt to empty his hand of artifice, of all memory.
 
When Kinako left he destroyed every trace of her, and of his past too. So powerful was his intent to forget, he found he had to ask the way to Shinjuko station, to his studio in the university. He called in a cleaning company to remove everything not in two boxes in the kitchen (of new clothes, his essential documents, 5 books, a plant, Mosuko’s feeding bowl). They were told (and paid handsomely) to clean with vigour. Then the builders and decorators moved in. He changed his phone number and let it be known (to his dog walker friends) that he had decided from now on to use an old family name, Sawato. He would be Sawato. And he was.
 
His wife, and she was still that legally, had found a lover. Kinako was a student of Professor Minoru, nearly thirty years younger, and a fragile beauty. She adored ‘her professor’, ‘her distinguished husband’, but one day at an opening (at Kinosho Kikaku – Gallery 156) she met an American artist, Fern Sophie Citron, and that, as they say in Japan, was that. She went back to Fern’s studio, where this rather plump middle-aged woman took photographs of Kinako relentlessly in costume after costume, and then without any costume, on the floor, in the bath, against a wall, never her whole body, and always in complete silence. Two days later she sent a friend to collect her belongings and to deliver a postcard to her husband. It was his painting of four persimmon. Persimmon (1985) 54 by 36 cm, mineral pigment on paper.
 
‘Hiroshi’, she wrote in red biro, ‘I am someone else now it is best you do not know. Please forgive’.
 
Sawato’s bedroom is on the ground floor now. There is a mat that is rolled away each morning. On the floor there are five books leaning against each other in a table-top self-standing shelf. The Rule of St Benedict (in Latin), The I-Ching (in Chinese), The Odes of Confucius, The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter (10th C folk tale) and a manual of Go, the Shogi Zushiki. Placed on a low table there is a laptop computer connected to the Internet, and beside the computer his father’s Go board (of dark persimmon wood), its counters pebbles from the beach below his family’s home. Each game played on the Internet he transcribes to his physical board.
 
He ascribes his mental agility, his calm and perseverance in his studio practice, to his nightly games of Go in hyperspace. He is an acknowledged master. His games studied assiduously, worldwide.
 
For 8 months in 1989 he studied the persimmon as still-life. He had colleagues send him examples of the fruit from distant lands. The American Persimmon from Virginia, the Black Persimmon or Black Sapote from Mexico (its fruit has green skin and white flesh, which turns black when ripe), the Mabolo or Velvet-apple native to Philippines - a bright red fruit when ripe, sometimes known as the Korean Mango, and more and more. His studio looked like a vegetable store, persimmons everywhere. He studied the way the colours of their skins changed every day. He experimented with different surfaces on which to place these tannin-rich fruits. He loved to touch their skins, and at night he would touch Kinako, his fingers rich from the embrace of fifty persimmon fruits, and she . . . she had never known such gentleness, such strength, such desire. It was as though he painted her with his body, his long fingers tracing the shape of the fruit, his tongue exploring each crevice of her long, slim, fruit-rich body. She had never been loved so passionately, so completely. At her desk in the University library special collection, where she worked as a researcher for a fine art academic journal, she would dream of the night past and anticipate the night to come, when, always on her pillow a different persimmon, she would fall to ****** and beyond.
 
Minoru drew and painted, printed and photographed more persimmons than he could keep track of. After six months he picked seven paintings, and a collection of 12 drawings. The rest he burnt. When he exhibited these treasures, Persimmon (1989) Mineral pigment on paper 54, by 36 cm was immediately acquired by Tokyo National Museum. It became a favourite reproduction, a national treasure. He kept seeing it on the walls of houses in magazines, cheap reproductions in department stores, even on a TV commercial. Eventually he dismissed it, totally, from his ever-observant, ever-scanning eyes. So when Kinako sent him the postcard he looked at it with wonder and later wrote this poem in his flowing hand using the waka style:
 
 
*Ah, the persimmon
Lotus fruit of the Gods
 
Heartwood of a weaver’s shuttle,
The archer’s bow, the timpanist sticks,
 
I take a knife to your ripe skin.
Reveal or not the severity of my winter years.

I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.

Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

I need to finish the story for convenience I have the original Aftermath to be read first on the bottom
What was not stated in Aftermath was my concern for my writing you can’t write with two legs
Screaming when I got to the hospital my kidneys were of a concern eight alieve three times a day about
Thirty aspirins something like Tylenol didn’t count them no relief my mistake I would bang my ****** leg
Against the wood of the desk that would make it crazy for a few seconds so I finally had to stop for over
Two months well the devil won it seemed when I talked to my cousin I was at eighteen thousand reads a
Little while let me break in here for a second I know I’m talking about numbers it isn’t ego if I come in
Contact with any of you in any setting and I pass you by with just a glance I am your sworn Godless
Enemy I have just joined the cruelest damnable assassins Hell has ever released on the world I know
What awaits the lost even the Apostle Paul worked fervently because he knew the end cost of God’s
Holy severity can I do less I look but I take in all manner caring thoughts but without fail I am led to that
Future now no one even gives the last day a thought I will put this in as an excerpt this is the dream I
Had when I was seventeen or it starts this way your life began in the great head waters at Eden they will
End at the mouth of eternity. I was given a view into the celestial I was just a teenager while a sleep this
Dream came I looked into the heavens and saw two great wheels made of stars the hands of God started
To pull the wheels down as I continued I knew what was occurring God was stopping time. The wheels
Stopped then God turned to the seamless darkness grasped it and started to lift as he did it tore away
Reveling the bright true world of the spirit that was before hidden this was alarming since I hadn’t made
My peace with him Not long after this I was seventeen working at the refinery I just walked out of the
Boiler room into the section that was known as the flathead when a voice said time is finished all life and
Its concerns flowed out leaving me with the greatest sadness other men standing by laid down their
Tools and started milling about mindlessly on this wise in some manner this will happen all over the
World the great enterprises so important to man and society will halt government rule and authority
Abolished in an instant majesty and power will take the reins the river previously known will be
Empowered its first charge make the deserts bloom as a rose…

And I take the liberty to insert I am a person of deep feelings to make the case I wrote two pieces for
Roberta Merrifield’s birthday sorry your flowers are late then I forgot your card this was talking about
Her friends as flowers each of them need to go to their door and imagine nine hundred people standing
There reading about their lives that are filled with grace and beauty and earthen treasures that are in
Vessels of clay but to see them truly you will be speechless so I return to the numbers so it was
Eighteen thousand a little later when I couldn’t stand the pain any longer I called my retired preacher
Uncle and our pastor brother Russell I explained to them about being whipped and my writing had to be
Shut down it was thirty five thousand reads then so keys were stilled my lifeline to needy souls was at
A deadly stillness so then two months later I wrote fourteen pieces bringing the total to four hundred
And fourteen pieces and then Gods love demands the his heart be represented this is the one I am
Pleased about the most I wrote a piece called the mirrored pool over four hundred souls read this I’m
Sorry this is too important to excerpt it in you are not obligated to read I leave that to your discretion

Mirrored Pool
Wonder for all the hurts
First I knelt just to see my reflection then the depths started to reveal first the flowing thoughts were
Restrained and then a bubbling seemed to dislodge from greater depths hard truths churned with
Violent twisting but the motion made it impossible to turn away there were great large white clouds
From depths then even above the pool they rose fourteen stories high the sensation was you were
Standing outside clear air intoxicating views the pulse of many were throbbing in your ears their
Thoughts and dreams were known and their sorrows were weights that pulled you from the heights
It was a colossal game of tag and you were it first reaction fear then the appearance of bundled gifts
Broke down the fear it was promise in different sizes that met the required needs it was like a divine
Warehouse had just made a delivery there were cards with names and writing gave clarification tears
And smiles intermingled then the outer knowing postulated the difficulty the puzzle an enormous
Streaming that was now congested and it was beginning a vortex all was understood now human thought
With doubts was pulling the answer into this destructive hole where was one to find the lever to stop
This action that would disallow was the answer to touch the water bring the finger to my lips possibly
A blazing thought would occur that would strike the mind no all that brought was words that had the
Letters jumbled they made no sense unless there is a special book that is alive in it the letters and words
Are already set but they cover every act in the human condition the broken can pour over the pages
You won’t find thorns to repel your efforts there are thorns but they will speak and assuage your hurts
At the most basic and needed levels the points of your hurts will begin to dissolve from your eyes to
Your mind this inward rush and power will dislodge even spears driven deep by enemies carried for
Years you searched in vain over sad and lonely paths and days now you journey is at an end thorns of
Suffering for another produces profound power and mercy go in peace beloved one another bears your
Burden now maybe words cut you at depths you can’t even identify what if there is an antidote in a
Book you pick it up with trembling hands your body tingles from the knowledge that this is ancient texts
It will have a revival of appreciation in this world of texting but with gentle fingers and eyes that glow
With respect as you see the wisdom and the love cannot be denied you leave the world you know and
With total abandonment you swim in this sea of words until the your tears spill on this rich world of
Words those cruel barbed words that pierced tender skin and have bled internally all of these years
Begin to dissolve with stories and accounts of betrayals then the swells love and mercy you read about
Restoration not always found after apologies are given but the teaching of forgiveness strikes a cord
You have been made free from your prison the tangles of life are great as a great black cloud it hangs
Over head many are its troubles this isn’t mild but the disruptive made to strike and pierce deep the
Hidden that steals the morning blessing while other feast your hunger and unrest only enlarges a
Tormenting unquenchable fire a slow burn this is a forest being burned at the thermal level the hidden
Roots a slow process destructive but not so visible agony torture I have seen men crawl in war or fire
Fighting that where all else is lost you will know greater thrills than any other living soul with the
Desperate and those heavy burdened unable to stand a word will flow it puts out fires and gives
The luxurious buoyancy heaviness changed to joy the bouncy laughter every outward blast attack
The enemy launches is within its pages they are repelled overwhelmed by love you suffer unduly
If you don’t hold this fortress this informative book of stratagems that have made everyone a victor
Who has ever found themselves at their wits end no place on earth has a contingency plan though it
Will make the greatest claims all is just empty air when life as it too often does ***** the very air of life
Out we practically are unconscious but this help this rescue is activated by one name it’s not just a book
But the word is a person what a pool you will find what a reflection will engage you beyond your hope
To imagine just say Jesus all will be total peace your heart will know no more sorrow peace will surpass
Sorrow love will disallow the specter that was once a constant it will disappear it will return to the
Darkness from which it came stand in this newness totally free abide by still waters as the good
Sheppard stands by bless you

So the success against the evil one stands like this while he body slammed me the number of
Souls touched has risen to sixty three thousand five thousand while I was in Braidwood so I
Thank the father whose love and concern never wavers by Christmas I am hopeful I will reach
A hundred thousand if I make heaven I don’t want to see you at judgment and hear you say the
Words of that old song he knew I was lost but said nothing to me!!!!!!!!!!

The Aftermath
Please read this to see in my limited way I want to show you your true worth and value and you will see
what the devil never can get.
This is what I would stand and testify in church but what I have to say is lengthy here it can be read or
Not I would first say this to love souls is agonizing it comes with pain and great tears I went to the site
Where they started the church years ago on my Grandma Brown’s front porch as I set there I pleaded
With God to help me make a difference I turned and looked down the old street that held so many
Memories of course Tommy and Elise and Glena are the only ones that remain but I looked farther
That’s when God moved wave after wave of hard rocking sobs that lasted for thirty minutes or more
And after getting back home some will say this is foolish and I’m the first to know we can’t take the devil
On by ourselves but overcome with emotion I turned from the computer and spoke to evil its self that I
Was declaring total war for souls this is what it has cost me so far at the time I had one open wound on
My shin above the ankle two appeared directly above the first one then one to the side and then I knew
What was to come because I have sleep apnea I sleep in a recliner I knew the sores would ring my leg
And they did you can’t lay your leg out on the ledge with open wounds with nerve endings screaming
Then it jumped to my other leg so that was the first volley when I write I get lost time doesn’t exist many
A time daylight would surprise me coming through the window then the onslaught increases I go to the
Hospital I got there in early afternoon they got me in the room at ten thirty but just before a lady comes
In and takes my blood pressure it is close to perfect and then she comes back in five minutes and tells
Me take these three blood pressure pills trusting her I take them well about twelve or one they come
Into and take my blood pressure they had driven it down to seventy over thirty and plus my first
Experience with morphine I was sick and strangely loopy I wasn’t in the bed I couldn’t lay my legs
Down and no one else was in the room only one bed I did set at the end of the bed with it all the way up
In the back I put my head on it and slept comfortably one funny they have it posted call don’t fall I didn’t
Do this on purpose but when I was pulling the drawer out of the stand it came out with a wonderful
Crash Steve the male nurse made record time from down the hall at the nurse station he lunges in the
Room it wasn’t humpty dumpty just the drawer I couldn’t tell if he was relived or ticked off then it was
Their shot back over the net intravenous antibiotics five days needed a doctor from disease control to
Release me then there version of cons scarring kids with tales about prison to keep them messing with
Drugs scared straight now was scared healthy I walked out the same as I walked in I got a bill for thirty
Thousand well at least I didn’t have a bad heart then it was eleven weeks at the wound center this was
Where I met as I lovingly call them my healing angels they finally got all twelve open sores to close then
for the rest of the problem it was six weeks three times a week forty five miles to and from hundred
Degree heat every day you have to pay a hundred and seventy dollars yourself for the compress wrap
Material then you turn around a pay for compress socks that insurance doesn’t cover least the inside is
Pure silver so missed the Olympics but I got silver in fact every six months I will get silver again this is
Kind apropos I asked the compress wrap therapist where Lymph edema comes from and I will spare you
The pictures but the infection and lymph edema pictures even grossed me out but interestingly the
Therapist said an ancient king in Israel had the disease hello devil no cure just mange it from now on
This is the biggest cut of all someone else has to put them on I have always been called a free spirit
Try to take off on your own and what say hey stranger would you put these on my leg it’s like trying to
Put a baby squirrel skin on a full grown body the therapist does speeches internationally with a doctor
From India she asked permission after taking pictures to show the audience I wouldn’t want to see that
Show give the devil his due he is good at being bad I crossed swords with him he rampaged all over me
I didn’t include everything I have gone through and that doesn’t include my poor wife but I am profane
Corrupt undone should I speak to you of such great things as eternal verities matters that involve where
You will spend eternity there is the cleansing of the word the cleansing of changing my corrupt nature to
His by the spirit but know this no one will ever approach or in any way defile the very ones that as the
Finest gems will be placed in his Holy diadem this takes the cleansing of suffering and brokenness with
The heart Broken for souls and the most necessary of all this nature that is too much like the evil one
That’s what he doesn’t get the more he beats up on a person he is doing God’s work of purifying the
Most elemental evil that must be scourged if I touch you it has to be purist intentions of holy deign
We are awash in the lowest dregs dare I say quick sand only holiness can enable us to traverse this
Killing place of a dark and ever turning evil that compounds itself the devil will never lose the majority
On The Broad way that leads to destruction but there are the blessed few that stop and say oh no this is
Not for Me I was his child and I will be again thanks for the load you made me bear serving you devil now Only Love will be the weight I feel it comes by a great price of God Himself and His people

I need to finish the story for convenience I have the original Aftermath to be read first on the bottom
What was not stated in Aftermath was my concern for my writing you can’t write with two legs
Screaming when I got to the hospital my kidneys were of a concern eight alieve three times a day about
Thirty aspirins something like Tylenol didn’t count them no relief my mistake I would bang my ****** leg
Against the wood of the desk that would make it crazy for a few seconds so I finally had to stop for over
Two months well the devil won it seemed when I talked to my cousin I was at eighteen thousand reads a
Little while let me break in here for a second I know I’m talking about numbers it isn’t ego if I come in
Contact with any of you in any setting and I pass you by with just a glance I am your sworn Godless
Enemy I have just joined the cruelest damnable assassins Hell has ever released on the world I know
What awaits the lost even the Apostle Paul worked fervently because he knew the end cost of God’s
Holy severity can I do less I look but I take in all manner caring thoughts but without fail I am led to that
Future now no one even gives the last day a thought I will put this in as an excerpt this is the dream I
Had when I was seventeen or it starts this way your life began in the great head waters at Eden they will
End at the mouth of eternity. I was given a view into the celestial I was just a teenager while a sleep this
Dream came I looked into the heavens and saw two great wheels made of stars the hands of God started
To pull the wheels down as I continued I knew what was occurring God w

Not a poem,;

A Repost:
Stay healthy beloved readers. I send you all my healing love:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Use apple cider vinegar or any vinagar asap even if you feel no tickle add sea salt gargle gargle gargle every hour if possible before and after eating! Or blend garlic and add vinagar gargle it!
men please do it! Go bathroom kitchen sink and look up at the ceilling open mouth wide gargle deep it shall burn a bit spit it out  do it sgain many times until it hurts no more.
Acid gets virus hiding in throat to come out and avoid getting the bicho nano bug into your lungs!?

A healthy immune system begins in the gut with a healthy balance of beneficial bacteria.

For far too many Americans, Candida overgrowth compromises the immune system, as it is constantly fighting the battle to keep Candida in control
If you do become ill, DO NOT feed the virus or the Candida with sugar. Yes, you need to drink a lot of fluids, but don’t drink sodas and sugary juices at this time. Cranberry unsweetened read lable cocktail has sugar get unsweetened one or grandberries fresh into blender or lemonade with stevia is a good choice. Try it warm or cold.

Gargle. Gargle. Gargle. Gargling lowers the viral load, leaving your throat body with fewer invaders to replicate.

So sip on this Mother Earth Organic Root Cider warm. Cold’s and flu often start in the throat or the nasal cavities.
At the first sign of a sore throat or sinus infection, sip on the root cider! If you don’t have it, use apple cider vinegar
Also flush your nose deep each side lean over sink to right and left sides flush nose for God's sakes alternate sea salt baking soda or use vinagar to nose too!? Rubb garlic on your nails eye bows.

Also, remember that a fever is one of nature’s means to fight infection.
Of course, you don’t want it to get too high (higher than 102) and drink plenty of fluids to prevent dehydration.
Filtered apple juice has boron brings down fever fast 4 to 6 onz every hour or if too sweet delute it half water half juice!
Vitamin A, vitamin D, vitamin E, and vitamin C are all vital nutrients for the immune system.
If you have any lip mouth sores you need to ballance minerals too much vitamin requires minerals fulvic humic

If you take high doses of vitamin C to fight a virus, remember that you should not abruptly stop taking vitamin C.
You should titrate down.
Vitamin C is needed by the immune system to make interferon, which the immune system produces to protect healthy cells from viral invasion.!!!

Zinc has been proven to be effective against the common cold and to be effective as a topical treatment for ****** sores.
ZINC It is believed to be effective due to preventing replication of the virus.
The immune system needs selenium to work properly and to build up the white blood cell count.
Berberine is an alkaloid compound found in several different plants, including European barberry, goldenseal, goldthread, Oregon grape, Phellodendron, and Coptis chinensis.

It has antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, antiviral, anti-parasitic, and immune-enhancing properties.
It’s been proven effective against a vast array of bacteria, protozoa, and fungi.
It can be used topically on cuts and other wounds, and it’s perhaps most commonly used to treat gastrointestinal issues.
Probiotics are always helpful in maintaining gut health, especially when the body is under a viral attack that involves the digestive system.
Probiotic foods and drinks without added sugar can help maintain a healthy balance of bacteria.

Garlic is anti-viral, anti-fungal, and antibacterial.
You can take garlic in a tonic or if you can handle it, chew raw garlic.
It not only will help fight the virus, it will help **** any secondary infections trying to take root.

Echinacea not only supports the immune system, it also has been proven to reduce the severity and duration of viral infections.

Colloidal silver is believed to interfere with the enzymes that allow viruses (bacteria and fungi as well) to utilize oxygen
A double-blind trail showed elderberry extract’s ability to reduce symptoms of influenza and speed recovery.

It also showed elderberry’s ability to enhance immune response with higher levels of antibodies in the blood.
It is believed to inhibit a virus’s ability to penetrate healthy cells and protect cells with powerful antioxidant S. Elderberry has also been shown to inhibit replication in four strains of ****** viruses and reduce infectivity of *** strains.

The flavonoids in green tea are believed to fight viral infections by preventing the virus from entering host cells and by inhibiting replication.

Though double-blind clinical trials are needed, olive leaf extract has been shown to inhibit replication of viruses. In one study, 115 of 119 patients had a full and rapid recovery from respiratory tract infections while 120 of 172 had a full and rapid recovery from viral skin infections such as ******.

Pau d’arco has been used in indigenous medicine for generations. One of its compounds, lapachol, has proven effective against various viruses, including influenza, ****** simplex types I and II and poliovirus. It is believed to inhibit replication.

Studies have shown that glycyrrhizin, a compound found in licorice root was more effective in fighting samples of coronavirus from SARS patients than four antiviral drugs. It reduces viral replication, cell absorption, and the virus’s ability to penetrate cells. It is also being used to treat ***.

St. John’s Wort has been proven effective against influenza, ****** simplex, and ***.

If you’re prone to viral infections or are dealing with a chronic infection like ***, as mentioned above, the first step is to get your gut in shape. This is absolutely imperative. The best article to do that with is Best Supplements To **** Candida and Everything Else You Ever Wanted To Know About Fungal Infections & Gut Health. Everyone who is chronically ill has an abundance of Candida. Yes, everyone.

Provided your gut is healthy, or if you just feel the need to skip that part, here are the supplements to take in order to make sure your immune system is able to fight off viruses:

While there are most supplements listed above, the combination of these listed here is more than enough to balance out the body and ward off viral infection.
~~~~~~~
A Repost By Karijinbba.

A Masque Presented At Ludlow Castle, 1634, Before

The Earl Of Bridgewater, Then President Of Wales.

The Persons

        The ATTENDANT SPIRIT, afterwards in the habit of THYRSIS.
COMUS, with his Crew.
The LADY.
FIRST BROTHER.
SECOND BROTHER.
SABRINA, the Nymph.

The Chief Persons which presented were:—

The Lord Brackley;
Mr. Thomas Egerton, his Brother;
The Lady Alice Egerton.


The first Scene discovers a wild wood.
The ATTENDANT SPIRIT descends or enters.


Before the starry threshold of Jove’s court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered
In regions mild of calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,
Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,
Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives,
After this mortal change, to her true servants
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats.
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key
That opes the palace of eternity.
To Such my errand is; and, but for such,
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds
With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould.
         But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway
Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream,
Took in by lot, ‘twixt high and nether Jove,
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles
That, like to rich and various gems, inlay
The unadorned ***** of the deep;
Which he, to grace his tributary gods,
By course commits to several government,
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns
And wield their little tridents. But this Isle,
The greatest and the best of all the main,
He quarters to his blue-haired deities;
And all this tract that fronts the falling sun
A noble Peer of mickle trust and power
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms:
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore,
Are coming to attend their father’s state,
And new-intrusted sceptre. But their way
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood,
The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger;
And here their tender age might suffer peril,
But that, by quick command from sovran Jove,
I was despatched for their defence and guard:
And listen why; for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in tale or song,
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.
         Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,
On Circe’s island fell. (Who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
And downward fell into a grovelling swine?)
This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks,
With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son
Much like his father, but his mother more,
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named:
Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age,
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,
At last betakes him to this ominous wood,
And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered,
Excels his mother at her mighty art;
Offering to every weary traveller
His orient liquor in a crystal glass,
To quench the drouth of Phoebus; which as they taste
(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),
Soon as the potion works, their human count’nance,
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed
Into some brutish form of wolf or bear,
Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat,
All other parts remaining as they were.
And they, so perfect is their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely than before,
And all their friends and native home forget,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Therefore, when any favoured of high Jove
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade,
Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star
I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy,
As now I do. But first I must put off
These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris’ woof,
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain
That to the service of this house belongs,
Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,
Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar,
And hush the waving woods; nor of less faith
And in this office of his mountain watch
Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid
Of this occasion. But I hear the tread
Of hateful steps; I must be viewless now.


COMUS enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the
other: with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of
wild
beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel
glistering.
They come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in
their hands.


         COMUS. The star that bids the shepherd fold
Now the top of heaven doth hold;
And the gilded car of day
His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream;
And the ***** sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.
Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.
Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed;
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sour Severity,
With their grave saws, in slumber lie.
We, that are of purer fire,
Imitate the starry quire,
Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,
Lead in swift round the months and years.
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move;
And on the tawny sands and shelves
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook and fountain-brim,
The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove;
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love.
Come, let us our rights begin;
‘T is only daylight that makes sin,
Which these dun shades will ne’er report.
Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport,
Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame
Of midnight torches burns! mysterious dame,
That ne’er art called but when the dragon womb
Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the air!
Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,
Wherein thou ridest with Hecat’, and befriend
Us thy vowed priests, till utmost end
Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
Ere the blabbing eastern scout,
The nice Morn on the Indian steep,
From her cabined loop-hole peep,
And to the tell-tale Sun descry
Our concealed solemnity.
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.

                              The Measure.

         Break off, break off! I feel the different pace
Of some chaste footing near about this ground.
Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees;
Our number may affright. Some ****** sure
(For so I can distinguish by mine art)
Benighted in these woods! Now to my charms,
And to my wily trains: I shall ere long
Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl
My dazzling spells into the spongy air,
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,
And give it false presentments, lest the place
And my quaint habits breed astonishment,
And put the damsel to suspicious flight;
Which must not be, for that’s against my course.
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,
Baited with reasons not unplausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares. When once her eye
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,
I shall appear some harmless villager
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
But here she comes; I fairly step aside,
And hearken, if I may her business hear.

The LADY enters.

         LADY. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now. Methought it was the sound
Of riot and ill-managed merriment,
Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe
Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds,
When, for their teeming flocks and granges full,
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth
To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers; yet, oh! where else
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out
With this long way, resolving here to lodge
Under the spreading favour of these pines,
Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-side
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit
As the kind hospitable woods provide.
They left me then when the grey-hooded Even,
Like a sad votarist in palmer’s ****,
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus’ wain.
But where they are, and why they came not back,
Is now the labour of my thoughts. TTis likeliest
They had engaged their wandering steps too far;
And envious darkness, ere they could return,
Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish Night,
Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars
That Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps
With everlasting oil to give due light
To the misled and lonely traveller?
This is the place, as well as I may guess,
Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth
Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear;
Yet nought but single darkness do I find.
What might this be ? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men’s names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemished form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honour unassailed. . . .
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
I did not err: there does a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.
I cannot hallo to my brothers, but
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest
I’ll venture; for my new-enlivened spirits
Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off.

Song.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen
                 Within thy airy shell
         By slow Meander’s margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale
         Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
         That likest thy Narcissus are?
                  O, if thou have
         Hid them in some flowery cave,
                  Tell me but where,
         Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere!
         So may’st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven’s harmonies!


         COMUS. Can any mortal mixture of earthUs mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence.
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night,
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard
My mother Circe with the Sirens three,
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul,
And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept,
And chid her barking waves into attention,
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense,
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself;
But such a sacred and home-felt delight,
Such sober certainty of waking bliss,
I never heard till now. I’ll speak to her,
And she shall be my queen.QHail, foreign wonder!
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed,
Unless the goddess that in rural shrine
Dwell’st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest song
Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog
To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood.
         LADY. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise
That is addressed to unattending ears.
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift
How to regain my severed company,
Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo
To give me answer from her mossy couch.
         COMUS: What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?
         LADY. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth.
         COMUS. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides?
         LADY. They left me weary on a grassy turf.
         COMUS. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why?
         LADY. To seek i’ the valley some cool friendly spring.
         COMUS. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?
         LADY. They were but twain, and purposed quick return.
         COMUS. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them.
         LADY. How easy my misfortune is to hit!
         COMUS. Imports their loss, beside the present need?
         LADY. No less than if I should my brothers lose.
         COMUS. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom?
         LADY. As smooth as ****’s their unrazored lips.
         COMUS. Two such I saw, what time the laboured ox
In his loose traces from the furrow came,
And the swinked hedger at his supper sat.
I saw them under a green mantling vine,
That crawls along the side of yon small hill,
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots;
Their port was more than human, as they stood.
I took it for a faery vision
Of some gay creatures of the element,
That in the colours of the rainbow live,
And play i’ the plighted clouds. I was awe-strook,
And, as I passed, I worshiped. If those you seek,
It were a journey like the path to Heaven
To help you find them.
         LADY.                          Gentle villager,
What readiest way would bring me to that place?
         COMUS. Due west it rises from this shrubby point.
         LADY. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose,
In such a scant allowance of star-light,
Would overtask the best land-pilot’s art,
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet.
        COMUS. I know each lane, and every alley green,
******, or bushy dell, of this wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood;
And, if your stray attendance be yet lodged,
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark
From her thatched pallet rouse. If otherwise,
I can c

she liked the color yellow because it calmed her
its brightness soothed her soul
and the sight of a yellow flower
always brought her joy
it illuminated her dark days
and stormy weather
it always seemed to try so hard
to be happy
A quality she could relate to

but one day, she met a boy who liked orange
a color she always said she hated
its hue too close to yellow
but too different to be enjoyed
she never wore the color orange
felt as if it drew attention to her
when she was content enough
to be invisible
in the corner of the room

her favorite color was yellow
and his was orange
but she never liked that color
with its harshness and severity
it reminded her
of traffic cones
and reflector vests
of emergencies
and warning signs

But one day, she realized
he reminded her of the color yellow
he soothed her soul
illuminated her dark days
and calmed her storms
he never seemed to try too hard
but always managed to make her smile

she realized yellow and orange
weren't that different after all
and when the two hues came together
her, perpetually the color yellow
him, forever orange
she felt like the only girl in the room

the colors yellow and orange
started to bleed together
and orange came to remind her
of fallen leaves
and clear sunsets
of butterflies
and sprinkled zest

and in time
as she grew to love him
the color orange started to become
just as beautiful as yellow

Photographs by Avedon

This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago.  Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west.  Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem.  Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference.  In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun.  This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.


Join my warmth and
my chill,
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
warms,
but still not
strong enough
to dispense
the lingering,
residual, remaindered,
breezy chill
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
emanates from,
the shadows
of the
deep wooded hillocks
of the
Berkshire Mountains.

Join my warmth
and my chill!

Upright jolted,
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.

For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
bookshelf explorer,
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.

Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
his "Havedons"
of the
American West.

These uncommon people
with whom I share
uncommonly little,
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
too oft,
go off first to
fight wars
in my name.

Photos untitled,
words unneeded.

In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
called the
United States of America,
top of the line here
would be
insurance agents,
secretaries and maybe even,
the waitresses.

But their eyes,
oh their eyes!

Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
immeasurable ache,
heritage pride,
heretical heartbreak,
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.

Disjointed,
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...

Yet, nothing eradicates
this ******* chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
eyes discolor
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
Avedon's words:

All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth

Pass over,
pass by,
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?

It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury

What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
existant both
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
one can.

Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
American cousins
share my Sabbath?

Are they allowed
this luxury,
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?

Constant risk every day.

Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?

Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
discipline of
severity unended.

Is the prudence of
self-forgetfulness,
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?

Among the resolutions
I need
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:

How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.

Will sunset end these
troubling questions
of which you have
your own,
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)

Perennials flower everywhere,
in Auschwitz,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
that lead
to the mecca of
Las Vegas.

Perennials flower everywhere.

In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
impoverished words

Havdalah^^ thoughts,
separations celebrated.

Distinctions noted,
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
Sabbath and
the six weekdays
of labor,
between sacred and secular
and
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.

I know
just one thing
to be true:

The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
whatever day
you choose to
abide there

I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
and the
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.

I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
restful sleep
in the
Sabbath Cathedral
in my heart.

Together,
at last,
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.



August 29, 2010
Lanesboro, Mass.

He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.


He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.


He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.


He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.


This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.


This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.


Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?


Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.


Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.


Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

But when their flight had taken them past the trench and the set
stakes, and many had fallen by the hands of the Danaans, the Trojans
made a halt on reaching their chariots, routed and pale with fear.
Jove now woke on the crests of Ida, where he was lying with
golden-throned Juno by his side, and starting to his feet he saw the
Trojans and Achaeans, the one thrown into confusion, and the others
driving them pell-mell before them with King Neptune in their midst.
He saw Hector lying on the ground with his comrades gathered round
him, gasping for breath, wandering in mind and vomiting blood, for
it was not the feeblest of the Achaeans who struck him.
  The sire of gods and men had pity on him, and looked fiercely on
Juno. “I see, Juno,” said he, “you mischief—making trickster, that
your cunning has stayed Hector from fighting and has caused the rout
of his host. I am in half a mind to thrash you, in which case you will
be the first to reap the fruits of your scurvy knavery. Do you not
remember how once upon a time I had you hanged? I fastened two
anvils on to your feet, and bound your hands in a chain of gold
which none might break, and you hung in mid-air among the clouds.
All the gods in Olympus were in a fury, but they could not reach you
to set you free; when I caught any one of them I gripped him and
hurled him from the heavenly threshold till he came fainting down to
earth; yet even this did not relieve my mind from the incessant
anxiety which I felt about noble Hercules whom you and Boreas had
spitefully conveyed beyond the seas to Cos, after suborning the
tempests; but I rescued him, and notwithstanding all his mighty
labours I brought him back again to Argos. I would remind you of
this that you may learn to leave off being so deceitful, and
discover how much you are likely to gain by the embraces out of
which you have come here to trick me.”
  Juno trembled as he spoke, and said, “May heaven above and earth
below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx—and this
is the most solemn oath that a blessed god can take—nay, I swear also
by your own almighty head and by our bridal bed—things over which I
could never possibly perjure myself—that Neptune is not punishing
Hector and the Trojans and helping the Achaeans through any doing of
mine; it is all of his own mere motion because he was sorry to see the
Achaeans hard pressed at their ships: if I were advising him, I should
tell him to do as you bid him.”
  The sire of gods and men smiled and answered, “If you, Juno, were
always to support me when we sit in council of the gods, Neptune, like
it or no, would soon come round to your and my way of thinking. If,
then, you are speaking the truth and mean what you say, go among the
rank and file of the gods, and tell Iris and Apollo lord of the bow,
that I want them—Iris, that she may go to the Achaean host and tell
Neptune to leave off fighting and go home, and Apollo, that he may
send Hector again into battle and give him fresh strength; he will
thus forget his present sufferings, and drive the Achaeans back in
confusion till they fall among the ships of Achilles son of Peleus.
Achilles will then send his comrade Patroclus into battle, and
Hector will **** him in front of Ilius after he has slain many
warriors, and among them my own noble son Sarpedon. Achilles will ****
Hector to avenge Patroclus, and from that time I will bring it about
that the Achaeans shall persistently drive the Trojans back till
they fulfil the counsels of Minerva and take Ilius. But I will not
stay my anger, nor permit any god to help the Danaans till I have
accomplished the desire of the son of Peleus, according to the promise
I made by bowing my head on the day when Thetis touched my knees and
besought me to give him honour.”
  Juno heeded his words and went from the heights of Ida to great
Olympus. Swift as the thought of one whose fancy carries him over vast
continents, and he says to himself, “Now I will be here, or there,”
and he would have all manner of things—even so swiftly did Juno
wing her way till she came to high Olympus and went in among the
gods who were gathered in the house of Jove. When they saw her they
all of them came up to her, and held out their cups to her by way of
greeting. She let the others be, but took the cup offered her by
lovely Themis, who was first to come running up to her. “Juno,” said
she, “why are you here? And you seem troubled—has your husband the
son of Saturn been frightening you?”
  And Juno answered, “Themis, do not ask me about it. You know what
a proud and cruel disposition my husband has. Lead the gods to
table, where you and all the immortals can hear the wicked designs
which he has avowed. Many a one, mortal and immortal, will be
angered by them, however peaceably he may be feasting now.”
  On this Juno sat down, and the gods were troubled throughout the
house of Jove. Laughter sat on her lips but her brow was furrowed with
care, and she spoke up in a rage. “Fools that we are,” she cried,
“to be thus madly angry with Jove; we keep on wanting to go up to
him and stay him by force or by persuasion, but he sits aloof and
cares for nobody, for he knows that he is much stronger than any other
of the immortals. Make the best, therefore, of whatever ills he may
choose to send each one of you; Mars, I take it, has had a taste of
them already, for his son Ascalaphus has fallen in battle—the man
whom of all others he loved most dearly and whose father he owns
himself to be.”
  When he heard this Mars smote his two sturdy thighs with the flat of
his hands, and said in anger, “Do not blame me, you gods that dwell in
heaven, if I go to the ships of the Achaeans and avenge the death of
my son, even though it end in my being struck by Jove’s lightning
and lying in blood and dust among the corpses.”
  As he spoke he gave orders to yoke his horses Panic and Rout,
while he put on his armour. On this, Jove would have been roused to
still more fierce and implacable enmity against the other immortals,
had not Minerva, ararmed for the safety of the gods, sprung from her
seat and hurried outside. She tore the helmet from his head and the
shield from his shoulders, and she took the bronze spear from his
strong hand and set it on one side; then she said to Mars, “Madman,
you are undone; you have ears that hear not, or you have lost all
judgement and understanding; have you not heard what Juno has said
on coming straight from the presence of Olympian Jove? Do you wish
to go through all kinds of suffering before you are brought back
sick and sorry to Olympus, after having caused infinite mischief to
all us others? Jove would instantly leave the Trojans and Achaeans
to themselves; he would come to Olympus to punish us, and would grip
us up one after another, guilty or not guilty. Therefore lay aside
your anger for the death of your son; better men than he have either
been killed already or will fall hereafter, and one cannot protect
every one’s whole family.”
  With these words she took Mars back to his seat. Meanwhile Juno
called Apollo outside, with Iris the messenger of the gods. “Jove,”
she said to them, “desires you to go to him at once on Mt. Ida; when
you have seen him you are to do as he may then bid you.”
  Thereon Juno left them and resumed her seat inside, while Iris and
Apollo made all haste on their way. When they reached
many-fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, they found Jove seated
on topmost Gargarus with a fragrant cloud encircling his head as
with a diadem. They stood before his presence, and he was pleased with
them for having been so quick in obeying the orders his wife had given
them.
  He spoke to Iris first. “Go,” said he, “fleet Iris, tell King
Neptune what I now bid you—and tell him true. Bid him leave off
fighting, and either join the company of the gods, or go down into the
sea. If he takes no heed and disobeys me, let him consider well
whether he is strong enough to hold his own against me if I attack
him. I am older and much stronger than he is; yet he is not afraid
to set himself up as on a level with myself, of whom all the other
gods stand in awe.”
  Iris, fleet as the wind, obeyed him, and as the cold hail or
snowflakes that fly from out the clouds before the blast of Boreas,
even so did she wing her way till she came close up to the great
shaker of the earth. Then she said, “I have come, O dark-haired king
that holds the world in his embrace, to bring you a message from Jove.
He bids you leave off fighting, and either join the company of the
gods or go down into the sea; if, however, you take no heed and
disobey him, he says he will come down here and fight you. He would
have you keep out of his reach, for he is older and much stronger than
you are, and yet you are not afraid to set yourself up as on a level
with himself, of whom all the other gods stand in awe.”
  Neptune was very angry and said, “Great heavens! strong as Jove
may be, he has said more than he can do if he has threatened
violence against me, who am of like honour with himself. We were three
brothers whom Rhea bore to Saturn—Jove, myself, and Hades who rules
the world below. Heaven and earth were divided into three parts, and
each of us was to have an equal share. When we cast lots, it fell to
me to have my dwelling in the sea for evermore; Hades took the
darkness of the realms under the earth, while air and sky and clouds
were the portion that fell to Jove; but earth and great Olympus are
the common property of all. Therefore I will not walk as Jove would
have me. For all his strength, let him keep to his own third share and
be contented without threatening to lay hands upon me as though I were
nobody. Let him keep his bragging talk for his own sons and daughters,
who must perforce obey him.
  Iris fleet as the wind then answered, “Am I really, Neptune, to take
this daring and unyielding message to Jove, or will you reconsider
your answer? Sensible people are open to argument, and you know that
the Erinyes always range themselves on the side of the older person.”
  Neptune answered, “Goddess Iris, your words have been spoken in
season. It is well when a messenger shows so much discretion.
Nevertheless it cuts me to the very heart that any one should rebuke
so angrily another who is his own peer, and of like empire with
himself. Now, however, I will give way in spite of my displeasure;
furthermore let me tell you, and I mean what I say—if contrary to the
desire of myself, Minerva driver of the spoil, Juno, Mercury, and King
Vulcan, Jove spares steep Ilius, and will not let the Achaeans have
the great triumph of sacking it, let him understand that he will incur
our implacable resentment.”
  Neptune now left the field to go down under the sea, and sorely
did the Achaeans miss him. Then Jove said to Apollo, “Go, dear
Phoebus, to Hector, for Neptune who holds the earth in his embrace has
now gone down under the sea to avoid the severity of my displeasure.
Had he not done so those gods who are below with Saturn would have
come to hear of the fight between us. It is better for both of us that
he should have curbed his anger and kept out of my reach, for I should
have had much trouble with him. Take, then, your tasselled aegis,
and shake it furiously, so as to set the Achaean heroes in a panic;
take, moreover, brave Hector, O Far-Darter, into your own care, and
rouse him to deeds of daring, till the Achaeans are sent flying back
to their ships and to the Hellespont. From that point I will think
it well over, how the Achaeans may have a respite from their
troubles.”
  Apollo obeyed his father’s saying, and left the crests of Ida,
flying like a falcon, bane of doves and swiftest of all birds. He
found Hector no longer lying upon the ground, but sitting up, for he
had just come to himself again. He knew those who were about him,
and the sweat and hard breathing had left him from the moment when the
will of aegis-bearing Jove had revived him. Apollo stood beside him
and said, “Hector, son of Priam, why are you so faint, and why are you
here away from the others? Has any mishap befallen you?”
  Hector in a weak voice answered, “And which, kind sir, of the gods
are you, who now ask me thus? Do you not know that Ajax struck me on
the chest with a stone as I was killing his comrades at the ships of
the Achaeans, and compelled me to leave off fighting? I made sure that
this very day I should breathe my last and go down into the house of
Hades.”
  Then King Apollo said to him, “Take heart; the son of Saturn has
sent you a mighty helper from Ida to stand by you and defend you, even
me, Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who have been guardian
hitherto not only of yourself but of your city. Now, therefore,
order your horsemen to drive their chariots to the ships in great
multitudes. I will go before your horses to smooth the way for them,
and will turn the Achaeans in flight.”
  As he spoke he infused great strength into the shepherd of his
people. And as a horse, stabled and full-fed, breaks loose and gallops
gloriously over the plain to the place where he is wont to take his
bath in the river—he tosses his head, and his mane streams over his
shoulders as in all the pride of his strength he flies full speed to
the pastures where the mares are feeding—even so Hector, when he
heard what the god said, urged his horsemen on, and sped forward as
fast as his limbs could take him. As country peasants set their hounds
on to a homed stag or wild goat—he has taken shelter under rock or
thicket, and they cannot find him, but, lo, a bearded lion whom
their shouts have roused stands in their path, and they are in no
further humour for the chase—even so the Achaeans were still charging
on in a body, using their swords and spears pointed at both ends,
but when they saw Hector going about among his men they were afraid,
and their hearts fell down into their feet.
  Then spoke Thoas son of Andraemon, leader of the Aetolians, a man
who could throw a good throw, and who was staunch also in close fight,
while few could surpass him in debate when opinions were divided. He
then with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “What, in
heaven’s name, do I now see? Is it not Hector come to life again?
Every one made sure he had been killed by Ajax son of Telamon, but
it seems that one of the gods has again rescued him. He has killed
many of us Danaans already, and I take it will yet do so, for the hand
of Jove must be with him or he would never dare show himself so
masterful in the forefront of the battle. Now, therefore, let us all
do as I say; let us order the main body of our forces to fall back
upon the ships, but let those of us who profess to be the flower of
the army stand firm, and see whether we cannot hold Hector back at the
point of our spears as soon as he comes near us; I conceive that he
will then think better of it before he tries to charge into the
press of the Danaans.”
  Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. Those who
were about Ajax and King Idomeneus, the followers moreover of
Teucer, Meriones, and Meges peer of Mars called all their best men
about them and sustained the fight against Hector and the Trojans, but
the main body fell back upon the ships of the Achaeans.
  The Trojans pressed forward in a dense body, with Hector striding on
at their head. Before him went Phoebus Apollo shrouded in cloud
about his shoulders. He bore aloft the terrible aegis with its
shaggy fringe, which Vulcan the smith had given Jove to strike
terror into the hearts of men. With this in his hand he led on the
Trojans.
  The Argives held together and stood their ground. The cry of
battle rose high from either side, and the arrows flew from the
bowstrings. Many a spear sped from strong hands and fastened in the
bodies of many a valiant warrior, while others fell to earth midway,
before they could taste of man’s fair flesh and glut themselves with
blood. So long as Phoebus Apollo held his aegis quietly and without
shaking it, the weapons on either side took effect and the people
fell, but when he shook it straight in the face of the Danaans and
raised

A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,

I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!

Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,

I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!

For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,

Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!

Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,

A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!

Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,

Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,

Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!

Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;

I finagle in my filigree!

How does one deduce bravery?
By the weight of the task
or the severity of the situation?
No.
One succeeds in such a scenario by
their sheer sense of confidence
in their own actions.
Know
and you shall succeed.

Kiss me:
Once to unearth your secret crush
Twice when it's early and you don't want to leave
Three times to whisper you love me
Four times to send your apologies
Five times before breaking my heart  
And six before I take you back again
One hundred to show how much I mean to you
One hundred and one for that "other" girl
102 before I realize just how much time
I wasted being with you

I never put away all of these socks,
there's just something so final about putting away
all the socks. When I close the drawer after putting away
the clothes, its like saying "remain here for awhile,
for I do not plan to wear you again for some time".

But putting away all of the socks
is like saying "stay here,
I'm not going anywhere". What if
something pops up though?
It gets cold, a friend calls
with exciting plans and I must say,
"No sorry, I just put away all of my socks"

Whats the point in putting them all away if I just
go right back and take some out? Might as well
leave a pair or two by the shoes, at the ready.

Plus whenever I put away all the socks
I find the stragglers, the lone socks, the swiss socks,
the worn out ones and then I have to make difficult
decisions. Weighing the severity of the tears against
how uncomfortable they'll be. Designating indoor only
socks and how many more wears a sock can receive before,
garbage. And every time I put on a sock like this I shed a tear
because socks don't receive burials. Socks are easily replaced.
It's just not worth the trouble to put away all these socks.

Dear all of the above,

Why do you ridicule me so?
Severity, Severity, more than you’d ever know
The extent of beauty I see in the world
Perplexed by the forbiddance you administered, hurl!
Why me? Why someone who has been doing nothing
but describing beauty his whole life? Irony
Why me?

The supreme experimenter
The great accursed
Anonymous
Sad clown
Sad clown

Why me?
A Poet.

One specifically who followed in the footsteps of Poe
not through choice or influence
but because life chose a similar path for me
Dear life,
Dear nature,
Dear conscious, subconscious, unconscious,
Dear collective conscience,

Dear existence,
Dear heavens,
Dear spiritual realm,
Dear all that is and isn’t,
Dear all that can be seen, and cannot…

Dear knowledge,
Dear intellect,
Dear intuition,
Dear emotion,
Dear regret,
Dear regret,
Dear regret…

******* CIRCUMSTANCE!
CHANGE **** YOU!
For the love of everything pure.

Please
Please
Please

I’m sorry
I’m so sorry
I’m SO *******
sorry…

If I could just go back
If I could just…

Please...
It’s funny how it rhymes

Samir… Severe
Please no.
This isn't real.
Please?...

In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning
of a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure waves
flushing over the by now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto an unimaginable
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
during which he's dazed with wonderment
while covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to confine
his usage of the opioid to a social occasion.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use; indulging on weekends,

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetfulness where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system,
thus making it less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it, without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the dangerous substance, he begins to suffer
from its unpleasant side-effects that show up
a short period of time following his last use.

The pleasurable, but short-term, therapeutic
effects of the hard drug are now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others, with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The onset of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who had thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, has advanced to problematic use.

The drug has become an integral part of a daily
routine that is gradually heading towards chaos.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester inside
him: the opioid is tightening its grip on him,
as his body's physical dependence on it
is now generating his addiction to the drug.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied
by emotional and behavioural problems:
the duo classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the torture of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the sedative increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car or
working at his job; always desperate to avoid
withdrawal symptoms as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high, swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the opioid,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the cost of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body is low on the drug.
The more he indulges on the sedative
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts: a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies and personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are also not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: an ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Instead of a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one is indulging in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or while engaged in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain, Happy Hormones,

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the 'feel-good hormones', that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain, which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones, cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain, whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for
the sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
a spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
is the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that over
time, the regular surge in happy hormones
disrupts the resilience of the reward region
of the brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability
to produce the 'pleasure juices', or respond
to any stimulus other than the one being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often, coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and he wouldn't
know whether he's coming or going.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses his job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
completely losing touch with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has taken a turn for
the worst. Besides his strong cravings for it
to ward off withdrawal as well as to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more

crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern
of drug use, he would stop at nothing
to feed the habit: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations in which they never
could feel at easy with him around their home.

Wallets, jewellery, gadgets, or any other
easy to carry household valuables, that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For days at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
prolonged periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son, who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who buries his head
in low self-esteem to conceal the frequent
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little, or no influence, over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would crash wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Tired, hungry and sick, the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is currently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his hurting family proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction
he staggers into another rehab facility.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain, whose structure and functions are

badly impacted by years-long use of the drug.
The healing process is a labour of discipline
and commitment, coupled with patience
in order to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task he's
expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the murky shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them were 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', were
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it many times before,
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction,
which convinces him the only option available

is to indulge on the drug, is blocking him from
seeing the available escape route. It has shut
off his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it hurts
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
More than any other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices he
slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control.

In a fit of extreme anxiety the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him, closer and closer,
to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction: to unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experience of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "

when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.

his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.

on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.

as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.

he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.

he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.

his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.

he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.

m.f.

When Gods tried to churn ocean
For nectar with Meru mountain

Firstly it was poison which came
Because of its severity all life forms
Where in great threat

All Gods prayed him

He decided to take the poison
And save the world

Which eventually made his neck
Blue in color

So we call him Neelakanta

He has a third eye

So we call him Trinetra

He is the destructor of Evil

He wanders in Cementary
To pacify and soothe the spirits

By doing Shiva Tandavanam (dance performed by shiva)

And saved us from those spirits

Shiva is his name

Chanting his name can save you
From any hazardous situation

Idealism boards its boat
and sails out to the ocean
and its middle reach.
Out as far as it will dare
it takes its detached opportunity
to yell its prayers
back at the beach.

"Wouldn't it be better,
if things were just [x] way?"

"The problem is that we're [here]
when we should be [there]."

Both bare and shoed feet
fist up the sand
and shout
shout, shout back --
They shout back,

"In the mid, your world is gold.
Here on the land, everyone's stomping toes.
On purpose. On accident. It happens.
**** happens. As far as living goes,
reality just is. So, sink with your conviction.
We challenge form, train adaptability.
Super humans laughing up from the tar.
We've come so far. We've come so very far.

It's still nothing."

There is a new word describing me
type one, type two, type three
nothing is as it once seemed
brown bandages become red, ******
catheters go up my urethra
when I refuse to take your drug test
by accident.
I'm clean, now, clean and pure
I take Abilify to make sure
and remember that it's all an imbalance
and remember that everyone else is balanced
and remember that the whole ******* world is balanced
on a tether formed by gravity
gravity-- the severity of this situation-- is lost on me
and on that tether we all walk
unbridled by the weight of our bodies
we can shake all that makes us human
and pathologize every thought crime
every idea needs to be cleansed
with a catheter into the brain
we would be able to test it for drugs
and find that all I was high on was existence
and how terrible it is
that we will all die
but that shouldn't bother a doctor at all, now
should it.

What is the meaning of a letter?
They resemble the severity of the talk
of the shame
of the crying

Or maybe they mean laughter
happiness
hope

What is the meaning of a plus or minus?
a plus or minus can ether mean life or death.

Ink.
You grow up knowing that red automatically means
F

in recent years I learn that its the colors like
yellow
purple
pink
that symbolize the F.

The harsher the mark, the better the grade.

Shouldn’t it be the other way?

I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices

and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes

1561

No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay—
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away—
The Snow and he are intimate—
I’ve often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity—
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens—
His Larder—terse and Militant—
Unknown—refreshing things—
His Character—a Tonic—
His future—a Dispute—
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out—

Frenchie. there's a lot that i'll probably never tell you. either in fear that it will drive you away, in spite of the numerous times that you've told me you won't leave or run because the chance of something scaring you off is slim. or simply because it slips my mind. trauma, am i right? you say a lot, and i mean this in the best way.  you can talk, and you can tell me as many things as you want, and i'll never properly believe them because i've learned that words are ****. then again all we have are words, smiles, and through-the-phone, air-blown, crush-induced kisses that bring back memories, and yet rewrites them as something entirely new and, of course, much much better. something ours. i hope it's never given to another person, this sweet kiss of life, the final kiss of death, an angel brings me to heaven, enter whatever aesthetically pleasing line you want but it will never be as good as, "and so the lion fell for the lamb." haha. it's 11:16 pm, August 9th. and i'm laying in bed. for reasons i'll try to explain in a second, i'm tearing up, as i have been for a while. i think i first started tearing up the first time we called, which isn't so much a bad thing as it is a surprising thing. because it was a sad happy cry. it's similar to breaking a piece of jewelry that you really enjoyed, but then buying something much better. you loved that plastic, feeble, oversized, first love bracelet, but now you have a moonstone or (enter favorite gem) filled, perfectly fitted, wifey-made promise ring. you'll keep the bracelet somewhere, forget about it, find it again, and again, and again. discovering it under blankets, and pillows, and promises that we've tossed around ourselves. it will peek from inside my black coffee, in the dirt i praise, in the trees, in the music we'll listen to together. in the color brown, Frenchie, that's where you'll see, i'll see, we will see, that piece of plastic. dark brown, the colors of his eyes. my favorite color for the longest time. i don't want it to mean him, so it doesn't. but that's where it comes from. i'll find it, we'll find it, up until you get tired of seeing it, of seeing me see it, and take my hand, begging to throw it out. but, my to be discovered favorite gem filled, wifey-made perfectly fitted promise ring, it might take a while, with me quietly begging for your help, to get rid of him. not because i want to wear it, but because i horde emotions the way i horde stuffed animals. it's a labrinth to find the bracelet, we have no map and somehow we have to get from this forever smile to the closed-off corners of my mind, where even i, as it's supposed owner, struggle to collect, and comprehend, and conquer my horrid thoughts. but Frenchie, we laughed. and it was the first time in so long that i've been able to laugh with someone like that, and not worry, and not expect, and not be afraid. except, since we're here it's already obvious, that ended up making me afraid anyways. Random, but there's this song in my head right now. "make me behave like an animal." Sir Chloe's Animal, everything by Sir Chloe is absolutely incredible. but, let's continue. you may not believe me when i say this, but i'm scared out of my mind so entirely that every second between our conversations is an hour added to my inevitable future breakdown. how weak, and pathetic, and disgusting, i know. i have told you so many times that i can't like people, that it's so hard for me to connect to someone new, and yet it's day three and i'm imagining that i'll be happy if only you'd hold me, as if that's what you want to do, as if that will heal me, as if that should happen. as if i'm taking things slow the way i want to, and yet don't want to. if i could properly explain in words, i'd tell you with lengthy descriptions, both vastly and vaguely, calmly and excitedly, slowly and quickly covering deep hidden and obvious and in-between meaning, proving how desperately i want to be with you, be yours and you be mine, and how, ****, how i hope you don't **** me up. because all i can think when we talk is "****." you breathe, and, between each of your heartbeats, i figure out that i like you more, and more, and ****! the way your face looks so angelic when you sleep makes me just think "god, she's going to really hurt me. she's gonna **** me up, and chances are i'll thank her for it." to be hurt by you? that would be a blessing, and yet i'm shaking. what a interesting concept. i'm sure this is proof that i'm ****** up already. i keep bringing up the time. three days, Frenchie. Three. and that's it. that is literally it. that's all we've been. so explain, please, why the first few words you said had me ranting to my friends. please, tell me, how within a day, everytime your name popped up on my screen i would giggle like a child. please, explain to me, why everytime i talk about you, my cheeks hurt so much from smiling. i'm crazy, absolutely crazy, and i know my friends have to be thinking so too, because it's been. three. *******. days. but why? as in, why is that so bad? three days, what's so wrong with that? why does liking someone have to have a time? let me explain something that i've been thinking about. two years, on and off, thirteen breakups. that was Justin and I. roughly six months after the final one, i met you. "cause everytime you hurt me, the less that i cry." i'm way too good at goodbye's. i never particularly got that song the way i do now. had we stayed apart the first to the maybe fifth time we broke up, i would have took longer to heal. but it was time thirteen, so it was all expected, hurtful of course, but expected and so, it was almost boring. almost. it would have been if it didn't rip my heart out. i rebounded. hard. many times. many people. zero regrets. but this connection to you, sometimes i catch myself fearing i'm picking up where Justin and I left off. which, yes, is really toxic. but then i remind myself, this is how a good portion of relationships start. if i like you, i'll act like it. if i want to be with you, regardless if we just met, i should act like that. right? right, that's what normal people do. but we already explained i'm not normal. i'm ****** up, and i overthink. i'm ******* up. so ******* up that i can't hold eyecontact with you because i was "trained" not to, because i'm not used to, because it makes me nervous, because i hate the way my eyes look and i believe that you shouldn't have to look at something so disgusting. god here we go, i'm talking about him again. blaming him with my "trained not to" rather than blaming myself for letting it  happen. i let myself feel like that, i let myself bow down. that's on me, that was my weakness. admittedly so, yes. i'm scared of looking in your eyes. maybe out of submission. or maybe i'm afraid of seeing what i once saw in his. but truth be told, i think i'm scared of looking into anyone's. maybe i'm once again overthinking things and it's just regular anxiety. "regular anxiety," what an interesting statement that even I can't properly explain. and by the way, i never want to compare you to him, not even the good things. (just realized this entire thing is bipolar and has been written and rewritten to a point where the overdramatic stuff became simple conversation). but why not the good things? because i don't want you to be like him in any way, and i don't want to be with someone like him again. i realize that i will eventually, and might have already without properly realizing it, compared you to him. but, as i like to say, if i don't look at it, it isn't there. so we're not going to pay this any mind. there's so many things that i can say behind all of  this but my mind is going too fast, and it also just realized that most of this is literally so ******* stupid that i should shut up about, i was truly overreacting. maybe if i remember, i'll retype this until it sounds less crazy and obsessive. good thing i edit before i show, so yes i was planning on showing someone. but probably not a lot. only a few trusted people. but now that i read and reread i might just keep this to myself. not that it will matter if i explain, seeing as i might never show this to you, but it's nice to give this to a ghost of you, although it leaves my imagination running wild trying to figure out how you would respond. everytime i type something i want to rewrite it, and i have been rewriting it by the way, because there's no way in hell this captures a fraction of a fraction of the surface of how i'm hurting, even though i've been typing for almost two hours trying to find better words and longer sentences. this all sounds so meek and weak and pathetic in comparrison to the metaphoric erruptions and hurricanes and other natural disasters. haha. this doesn't feel natural. it's like i'm begging for attention, or manipulating you more. fun fact, he called me overdramatic, and manipulative, and tons of other things i won't get into, so i often use the words on myself. because it was and is accurate. i keep making myself out to be a victim and he said i always did that too, that i always victimized myself. he said it a lot. let me explain: i panic so much, i get sad over the smallest things. for example, he was mourning over the death of his mother and started yelling at me and wouldn't tell me that he loved me back, which i shouldn't have gotten mad over but i did. he told me "jesus, i can't even ******* miss my mom without having to make sure you're not having one of your episodes." of course i apologized, and tried to fix my issues myself when he got tired of me or in general and hung up. literally, believe me. i'm so ******* sensitive and it's annoying and i'm annoying, i'll never understand how i got the amazing friends that i do. Apollo knows that i don't deserve them. and please ******* please, i just want to stop crying because it hurts so bad. but after writing it down i feel so much  better. i stopped crying, this is part of my editting by the way, and i feel much better writing to you, ghost Frenchie. but really. it. hurts. so. bad. so bad to a point where my heart seemingly stops, i'm left breathless and NOT in the best of ways. and then said heart explodes. over. and over. and over. in milliseconds, again and again and again, all while the usual me laughs and tries to make my eyes look lively, you might get this but there's so many hours of the day where i hope no one can see the pain i'm in. because i literally have zero ******* clue how to explain the way that i feel. eeehhhh, how edgy. i'm sooooo misunderstood haha. when it hurts, my jaw clenches, i'm no longer in control of my breathing, my head hurts, my brain becomes helium and all i can think is "fuuuuuuck." but ****, as well, because. "i don't wanna be your friend, i wanna kiss your lips." i just want to touch you, and lay on top of you, legs around your waist, snuggled into your neck, breathing in your scent and finding shelter in it, listening to you sing whatever song you put in the background, the smell of **** and cigarettes and us. and beg you please, between each kiss, each time my hand finds yours. please, promise ring, please, please. please. learn how to love me. love me, please. heal me. please fix me. please make me okay. because i'm not. and i haven't been. and i don't know if i ever will and, ****, i swear i'm calm now. but knowing that, knowing that i will never be okay? that hurts worse. because it's proof that i'm aware i'm nowhere near good enough for you. i added on to Justin's issues. I don't want to add on to yours. "But J, remember, I told you that making sure you're okay is giving me something to take off of my life." but you need to focus on you, i can't just take all of your attention. i know that seems like i'm wanting you to tell me "i want you to have it," but that is literally the way i feel, please don't tell me that. i want you to drink water, and eat, and call me. god i feel awful for not calling you today, holy absolute wow. Frenchie, you're hurting on your own without my added everything. You deal with so much, you've dealt with so much, from your birth to the girls and boys of your past, and **** it. ****. we're talking and i should make the most of it, but i really just want to make you okay. i lied to you, y'know. you asked me about my best quality. i told you that i gave good advice, but truth is i probably don't. i think that my best quality is that i make jokes out of everything, i try to make people laugh all the time. that's not always a good thing. last time i texted, i said something about holding you and giving you a watermelon to make you happy. that might have ****** you off. truth is, i doubt there's something only seen as good in me. there's always a second face to everything that i am, i'm a two faced, four faced- no no. twenty faced *****, and not even like a bad ***** i mean like. little ***** baby type faces. and i know for a **** fact that your life has been worse than mine, Frenchie, my issues are literally nothing compared to yours. so, once again, i can't let you add my issues to your own, and yet here i am pouring myself out and begging ghost you to fix me. i mean what you don't read can't hurt you, but something tells me that i want to give it to you. everytime i think about showing you this, i cringe. because jesus three days, man, and i'm writing this absolute *******? and yet i can't just stop. i can't just leave. i'm too selfish for either of those. i have **** to say, and call it growth but i'm gonna ******' say it! y'know? someone's gonna read it eventually. half of me hopes that they send it to you without my permission, but the fact that i'm writing this out proves that it's more than half of me that hopes. and yet the thought of you reading this makes me wanna swallow rat poison. i can't just let you free, y'know? give you the chance to run without wanting to grab you by your legs, pull you back, breakdown and just ******' scream that you're mine, MINE MINE MINE, until you feel sorry for my hoarse voice from crying, scared because now you know, now you ******' know, Frenchie. the opening to run, the ability, it's here, it always has been. but you won't take it, you won't, will you? will you? no, i don't think so. because you've been through worse, because you want to convince me i'm not as bad as i make myself out to be, because you're not afraid, because "it takes a lot more than this" to scare you. don't you see? i'm manipulating you into liking me, Frenchie, i am. i know what to say, how to say it, i read people, i get under their skin, and then i play victim when they flee my spiders web. and i love it and hate myself, haha! ******* ****, please, ****, oh, please, like me. oh, Artemis. please. i want to try, and i will, but, seriously, don't. do not trust me. don't love me. don't like me. run. please. please. you shouldn't, i'm not good, i'm really not. and no one gets that. i'm the Jerry of the world, people are attracted because they feel sorry for me. that's my magnet's secret. pity. **** it. listen, i'm proud and upset at the fact that i'm doing this to you. i've admitted it, dearest Ghost Frenchie, and yet continue. because in the ways that i want to show you my crazy, use it as a "please help me" and keep you here, i do actually want to try for you. read that as many times as you want, I want this. I want to try, but this is my warning that maybe no one will read. this is an entire universe of new things and old things i haven't or thought i couldn't feel. i've thought about it, and i've almost done it, but i can't block you, save you, and leave it at that. because i actually want to try and be good enough. i had cried to my friends saying that you would hurt me, but i wonder if i'd end up being like your exes and just be more proof that you don't need that this world is ****** up. oh wow, there i go again with my manipulation. just. ****. i want to be with you, even though i don't deserve it, even though i have no right to, even though i know that you, lovely butterfly, have a life ahead of you. though small, i'm still a spider. this has been on my mind for so many hours that i've spent typing this, but i should have said so much more to you when you told me that you were having a bad night. you admitted that you were too stressed to even eat and that you didn't want to take it out on me, calling wouldn't be a good idea because you didn't want to snap at me. can i please just say that, good Aphrodite, the fact that you're humane enough to say that, to warn me, means so much. you don't want to take it out on me, you didn't know for sure if it would happen but you wouldn't even let it happen because? ****, because you're, ****,  you're a good person. you care about me already, and that's so ******* heartbreaking and heartlifting at the same time because, AH! ****, she LIKES me? likes, me? likes. me. Frenchie. likes. J? and at the same time. why? Frenchie seriously likes J? Haven't they warned her? i almost didn't text you, i almost just left you on open, just so you could come to me when you wanted to. i don't know why, but i responded. sort of like a puppy, y'know, that's just been yelled at. or, rather since you have cats, a kitten literally just purring and rubbing themselves along you even though they clawed your wall and you screamed. i was hesitant, but i knew that you'd try to be nice, i think? truly, i don't know my reasoning behind that, but you responded anyways. and maybe i'm wrong, but you sounded so soft and it made me smile. because you were trying, and it's dumb that i have to say that but, relationship wise, it's been so long since anyone has TRIED. when you leave me on opened or when you don't respond, my heart drops. which isn't to make you feel bad, because i know you're either frustrated, or busy, or it's a habit, but it scares me. because, again, three days??? and yet you leaving for a little just freaks me out. also, allow me to admit this. while we called, i have reasons for why i'd wake up everytime you moved. i was scared that i'd wake up and you'd be gone. not to be creepy, this is supposed to be romantic, but at least twice i remember waking up, and you were asleep, and i looked at you. god, you're literally so beautiful, Frenchie. you're literally so unbelievably gorgeous that the sun pales in comparison to your radiance. can i say more depressing, Justin related things? i shouldn't, because him being mentioned is literally making me look worse, but i never really feel up to talking about it with anyone besides, well, you. talking about exes with you, it's just, comforting. you telling me you were having a bad night gave me these wretched flashbacks and- oh, ****! this isn't meaning never tell me, like, please, please, always tell me, just, uh, let me explain cause, uh, ****, oh, Hades, it hurts. it's dreadful, really. he, uh,  he would get upset about something, or really anything that he could think of, and uhm. just, haha, stop talking. for uh, for literal hours.. and hours. and hours. out of nowhere. i wouldn't know why, so i'd blame myself and then i'd spam him, thinking that would make him want to answer and begin my whole, "please, don't leave, please, Justin, please, i'm sorry, i love you, don't leave, you're supposed to be my daddy, please, you're supposed to be mine," skit. i mean, see? proof. he couldn't deal with his own issues because i needed attention and reassurance. all. the. ******. time. i won't give excuses, he really just needed space. but space felt like a break, which sometimes he made for. but, right, for me, Justin was famous for his "just leave me alone's" and then the "i don't want this anymore" or "i'm really tired of you" haha. or it was the whole, "you're just not what i need in my life." or i mean "there's someone else" or, of course, haha, the, uh, last one, my personal favorite "we're just not compatible." like, oh, really? i mean, yesterday you hit me and told me that i was a ****, like? we're not? we? we aren't? compatible? wow, like, really? so, no future together? like, uh, oh! c'mon Mistah J!  ouch that hurt to say, but please laugh because haha, TRAUMA, am I right? but, wait? does that count as trauma? hm, i mean some of it was traumatic, right? wait hang on, yes. wait. being beat- ? well, not beat! i mean, like, i could still, y'know, move-? jesus **** what is wrong with me. i don't want to call it traumatic cause victimizing. haha, ****- but uh anyway. i'd be left trying to off myself in some petty way. because i felt like if he couldn't love me, if he, Justin Ryder, the long-legged **** who knew me better than anyone, couldn't love me, honestly, who would? "But, J like. you have friends!" yeah, i do, and i did then, too. but these lovely, amazing friends didn't come to mind the way they sometimes do now. sometimes. i mean, why do i feel like it has to be romantic for "i love you" to count. i say "i love you" to my friends all the time, honestly, because they need to hear it and i've lost so many people without telling them, y'know? but anyhow, right, no one came to mind. just him, and his lack of love for me. i mean, he was God. he was MY God. he was my world, everything, my reason to breathe, the reason i existed. i loved him. more than i've ever loved someone in my entire life. and, i mean, that's why i let him come back so many times, with open arms and apologies from me that should have slithered from his own serpent lips, the reptile. they rained from mine, eagerly, harshly, on repeat, no questions asked. he hit me, i apologized. he made a mistake, i said "i'll never do it again." i blamed myself for a lot of things that he did to me, gave excuses for him, too. y'know, the cliche "you don't know him like i do." god, i mean, i was right about that. no one knows Justin Ryder the way that i do. i hope no one ever does. Frenchie, dearest promise ring i keep referring to for poetic purposes, you asked me if i was over him. i am. i don't want him back. but if he ever texted or called, i'd break down, lose myself, hysterical hurricane J. not because i miss him, just because of the **** that i went through with him, Frenchie. it's small, y'know, compared to what others have went through. but it really, i mean, REALLY, made a huge impression. i don't want him. i keep saying that, everytime i do it becomes less believable but please understand that it isn't him, it's what he did. but **** there i go putting the blame on him again. Frenchie, are you over her? see, the fact that someone came to your mind means that sometimes you question it. unless you really just thought to yourself, "who, am i over who J?" maybe i'll never know. but you should know this. desperately, quite desperately, i want to tell you that your smile makes me feel safe. and i haven't been able to feel so safe from such a small thing in months, almost a year. because how could i trust his smile, y'know? even before the very end, in the middle, in the first time, how could i ever trust his soul-stealing smile? especially when i saw him making it at whatever girl he chose next or, funny thing, even during our time together. i want to explain to you, Frenchie, that i know you need space, and that, even though i realize that, i'm so terrified of ******* up the way i did with him. when i'm upset, i need to be smothered. not everyone is like that, i have to cope with it. haha, wow what a *****, i have to cope with your ways of coping, god i annoy myself. but. regardless of the amount of friends i have who assure me that, "J it wasn't your fault, Justin was the issue, J you weren't the toxic one" i can't believe it. i refuse to think that it was just him. another lyric so a song i enjoy "it takes two to toxic," i keep thinking of songs, but i think you understand that, too, my adhd love. i should have, could have, done better as a person for him. not saying that i regret not, but the fact that i could and i didn't? maybe i should have shut up, maybe i should have said more. everything was beyond the severity of walking on eggshells, which he said often that he had to do around me because, i mean, i've explained that. it's just more proof, you see, that i was too sensitive, proof that i should have been tougher, said less, comforted more. but didn't he know how he made me feel? that i was trying, truly trying my hardest? didn't he know that i loved him so entirely that i gave up my best friends so he'd look at me. didn't he know? didn't he? honestly, how could he have not. i worshipped the literal ground he walked on, didn't i? did i? or am i exaggerating again? should i have ran? yes, no. yes. maybe, or maybe he should have? i don't know. **** me, this? this really, this isn't about him. but it is. because he made my head all ******, the time with him anyways, cause once again it was me, too, and everything is like, oh, ****, a minefield or something. and i don't want you to think that i'm not over him. because i am. him, as himself, i'm over. but the way he made me feel, the experience, the way he changed me? i don't know. did i change for the better or the worst? i wish you could have known me before, maybe you would be able to tell me if the me that i am that now is better. but maybe if i knew you before, my time with him never would have happened. but i hate myself for it. "it" as in everything from the time i got with him to now, every word i've now spent almost three hours revising and rewritting, i hate myself for. that's what's ******, i don't even hate him for it or this, i literally just hate myself. i sound like such a ******* idiot for all of this,  but i'm not, Frenchie. i'm not. well, hang on, i mean i am. i'm a literal ******* *******. haha. but this is how i'm trying to explain to you, and if you ever read this maybe you'll get it. but, i want to make you happy. me. i want to make you smile more and laugh like you did, like WE did. and i know that i got attached so ****** quickly so my whole "it's hard to love people" thing seems fake. but it isn't. i can't. i literally can't tell you how hard it is. and this right here, this is hard, too. because i'm fighting with the "oh, J!! this is different" side of me and the "**** her, *******, everyone is the same" side. i'm pretty sure i told you this, but i broke up with my last girlfriend because she actually gave a **** about me. and it made me want to puke. when i did, when i left, she told me that she was in love with me. and i ran to the bathroom. and proceeded to cry, getting rid of my lunch and dinner, and almost just ended it right there because i thought, "****. if someone can love me, can say those three sacred words, to me? TO ME? i must be hiding so much from them." i just want to scream. yknow? to the world, to my friends, my family, you, that "i'm ****** UP IM ****** UP IM ****** UP PLEASE LEAVE" but "oh, gods, don't leave." please, ******* ****, if you're not ready, if you don't want me, please, tell me. if i'm too much, especially after all of this, holy ******* ****, please, tell me. because i can't take it. i can't. tell me now, these three days in where i'm confessing i want to be with you, that you can't. because i wouldn't be able to handle it much longer than from here. oh, **** yeah, it's going to hurt so much. i kept saying that i didn't want to like you. but everything draws me in, dearest Edward, and it ******* *****. it. *****. because i'm beyond aware of possibilities of the failure. and, yet, i couldn't be happier. in the middle of my frequent breakdowns, i'm so entirely full of joy. my mother tells me that i'm glowing from how entirely, like, happy i am. you're miles away, Frenchie, and yet you make me happier than i've been in a long, long, LONG time, dancing and singing around my room like an absolute idiot because i'm thinking, y'know, MAYBE. MAYBE THIS IS THE ONE. "J MAYBE YOU CAN BE LOVED, AGAIN. MAYBE SHE'LL LOVE YOU, MAYBE YOU AREN'T AS BAD AS YOU MAKE YOURSELF OUT TO BE." and everything looks so ******* amazing with you in the picture. and, still, i always ask myself, is this too fast? am i still not ready, still taking things too fast, should i shut up, am i hiding too much, doesn't she get my bipolarness and bpd? you do right, you do? oh ******* ****- **** all that, those last few questions are entire other things, and it's now 2:07 in the morning and i'm ******' done. the end done, I won't write anything else. except this. Frenchie, I know you love being called that, but there's something so entirely personal about being called by your name. sometimes I catch myself slipping on typing. maybe it was a mistake to tell me your real name.
frenchie.
sydney
a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet

From the kingdom of death thou wildly run,
as though to die not; as though all shall be fun.
Even though thou might not be as fine as mine,
And hesitate once not, like many other minds.
Under the staggering sun thou art the sun itself;
Unlike the universe any mortal shall never have.
To thee but heaven shall never be adequate,
To thee whom fate shall not mind; but dare not ever bend.
Thou, who deemeth everything is futile and late;
Thou, who hath neither words nor poetry in thy hand.
Thou art at times like a piece of youthful innocent art,
Which amorous feeble hands long to tear apart.
Like a flower t'at grows on the window behind the curtain,
Thou shall return to youth, and be younger-every now and then;
For with thy playfulness thou shall bitterly mock Determination;
Whilst thy childishness shall help thee dream of, and silently miss Salvation.

And whenst all t'is business is to say goodbye;
Thou shall still stay, forever and never die.
For thou art undead, and forever and ever immortal,
No stab canst wound thee, as no torpid wound of thine fatal.
Thou art a fatal prince-yes, a wicked, wicked heir;
Heir of cheerfulness-of a soul so full of spirits yet fairness.
Ah! And so thus thou shall leave behind not t'is worldly affair,
Thou shall be eternally bent upon it, and makest of it, thy happiness.
And when at the very end, all dead souls should awaken and retaliate,
Thou shall stay calmly and twitch not by heaven's wooden gate.
Thy agelessness is a mirage no blunt living soul can afford;
Thou art infallible, unlike the decrees of our dear Lord,
For thou shall never dwell among a thousand earths
And be lain among lilies and roses yonder, of irrevocable green hearth.
Thou art, in any midst of grievousness, cold with mirth;
When there is no more born thou art blessed with anew, birth.

Thus thou art forever unsinned, and shall be so gullible;
Thou art an adult inside; 'spite appearing so weak and feeble.
People canst, by thy comely appearance, fall deaf and misunderstand,
Thinking thee a ruddy friend; a robust and sincere fellow.
But thou art indeed, and in truth-a witty and good-hearted man,
As bold and ever unhesitant, but caring and good-willed, as tomorrow.
Thy naivety thus fights against, and befalls any mercilessness,
Thy delight is but our timid society's frank joyfulness.
And every song is benignly rooted in the delicacy of thy tongue,
To whom thy streams of love, as well as hate, shall belong.
But again, more and more loving hearts shall complain-
For when they fade and ought to disappear; thou shall firmly remain.
And duly thou defeat for evermore any tainted miserable heart,
Especially hearts that hath no beat when they supposedly beat, and are alive.
For thy heart is as fresh, and inevitable-like a solitary work of art,
But innocent and intelligent-like a young sword; or the neat blade, of a cold knife.

So whatever love claims to be love-which is too proud, though clear and sanguine;
Is not at all, or by any chance-pure, tolerable, nor delightfully keen;
For love is not the same as pleasure-as pleasure is not love,
Love is the one no senses canst touch-nor for pride move.
Ah, thee, we canst but teach thee more lessons of love itself;
For there are more than our anxious souls canst tell;
Love is not something t'at canst one satisfy, nor is for one to drink;
For any to satisfy or drink is yon that makes oneself sink.
I figurest above are imminent to thy knowing;
For thou shall still mature more; and be independent in thy living.
For family is still more essential than any money or gold;
To which we humans oftentimes too sternly hold.
Ah, but thy journey is still upwards and steep as a hill;
An endlessness our mortality is but too scared to feel.
So be wise and fill thyself with rich wisdom likewise;
And as thy findeth bitterness on due roads-turn to poetry, and seek its advice.

And so to thee hath a world of supremacy be assigned,
So thus I entreat-t'at be with thee all the reciprocal goodness-and dexterity!
Ah, and by thy cleverness shall all be mutually aligned,
For naive thou art still, about the very course of extremity!
But severity shall not burden thee, as to thy endurance and good will,
Thy willingness to share, and rely and lean on how such fellows feel.
Thou refilleth 'em always, with endless and plentiful splendours,
Thou cheereth 'eir minutes, and stay comely at all 'eir breathing hours.
As every single day's dates themselves, thou art undeniable;
Thou art real in thy eternity, though sometimes unbelievable;
Thou art worth all the bogs who are so merrily singing-
Thou art so graceful, thou art everything!
As in both reality and dreams thou art present,
Thou who art obscure; but coincidentally, sharp and inherent!
Ah, thee, thus I hope t'at every poem-such as t'is, shall make thee even more truthful;
For poetry itself is relief; and our most reliable urge to be brave, and thoughtful.

I sit in my seventh grade health class
*** ed freshman year
My twelfth grade english class
And they talk about ****.
They talk about it like it's an idea
A textbook definition
A rare shadow of society
That doesn't happen to real people
At least not people you know.
They act like there is only one way it happens
It's either a creepy forty year-old man who comes into your bedroom uninvited
Over and over again.
Or, as you grow up,
A boyfriend or date with whom you are, in their opinion,
'Stupid' enough to get drunk with
Passed out on a bed
Your clothes are like weights that anchor your heavy soul.
Maybe my form of abuse was different
As I was in his bed
Which felt more like a coffin full of spiders
As spirits plucked every last bit of life from me
Like guitar strings.
He was not a crusty old man with years of experience molesting children
He was my beloved fourteen year-old cousin
Who had struggled with Aspbergers his whole life.
I had looked up to him regardless.
How could I hate someone who was sick?
How could I hate someone who may or may not have
Understood the severity of what he was doing?
He only molested me once
But it molded my impressionable mind
Like silly putty
From then on I only fell for men
Who had bloodstained hands
And crooked smiles.
It is no wonder that at sixteen
Even after I had dealt with the aftermath of his hurricane
Another boy took advantage of me
And left me seldom sleeping.
It is no wonder that I did not recognize his abuse right away
Or that even though I knew he had wronged me
I would not call it assault.
It is no wonder that instead of press charges or tell my parents
I chose to avoid it
Confiding in my therapist only because I was backed into a corner
Treading quicksand all the while.
The harder you fight, the faster you sink.
After I told about my molestation at fourteen
My parents, although they were extremely supportive,
Told me to keep it quiet
Not to tell everyone.
Their intentions were exceptional
But they made me believe I had something to be ashamed of
When I realized this wasn't the case
I screamed at the top of my lungs
Shouted across the valleys
I was going to be heard
And when I joined forced with others who
Had dealt with similar events
Our ashes piled together
Created a smoke signal so vibrant, so immense
That people had to intentionally avert their eyes in order not to notice it.
We are not the bruises of society
For you to poke and **** at
To see how much our wounds hurt.
We are not for your corrupt education system
Your industry
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different chapters
Different pages
Different font styles.
My story is mine
And I do not get to pick and choose
Take my assault off the shelf just when it looks pristine and proper
I live with this everyday
And just as burn victims still have marks that remind them
Of the incident
I still have pieces of me
That struggle with this event on a daily basis.
But I choose to use it in a way that makes me whole.
I cannot change the story
But I can change the ending
And I accept the fact that it will never be a porcelain doll
But it is my battle scar to show as I please
I am a survivor
That is my bragging right
And no one else's shame.

Writing always seems more urgent
When it's written in italics,
Even when the topic,
Is rather mundane.
Consider this example:
I like to eat sandwiches

Furthermore, everything
Seems much more urgent,
When written in bold font,
We revisit the example:
I like to eat sandwiches

...and a step even further,
Writing seems absolutely
Crucial when written in,
Bold font, with caps-lock,
Once again, we recapitulate:
I LIKE TO EAT SANDWICHES

At this point, it seems as though
I am imparting unto you matters
Of the utmost severity, that could
Be the difference between life and death,
...but really, I just like sandwiches.

This amuses me.

I remember when I was at the concert.
I could feel the tsunami of the crowd
As the headliner started.
Nothing to hear but screaming and music.
Electricity shot through the veins of all,
Some intoxicated, some not
we all feel the same musical passion.
The time of excitement was now.

Pit after pit of swarms engulf the crowd.
******* in the unexpected but willing.
But to protect a friend,
I was a fortress against the mob.
Listening to the music, the lights flashed.
and from nowhere known,
A natural weapon struck my face.
Turning around, feeling no pain,
But assured of the severity
by the river of blood I unwillingly donated.

Into the washroom, I stumbled.
Blood mixing with the nectar of life.
Outside to the medic I casually waltzed.
Swollen eyes, nose, and disappointment.
Hearing the music from outside the hall,
my heart dropped, I blew the plans of fun.
But never fear, new friends are made.
The blood stops its own current,
and memories are established.
Stories to tell in the future.

1.) I hate that you ruined my chance to be a kid. You stole my childhood and teenage years, you know? We all it isn't like the movies, but I never even got a chance to try. You made me scream so quietly that when I couldn't shush you anymore it became like thunderclap, deafening anyone close. I  pushed people so far away that they became islands to me, and I couldn't swim. That, or I wanted them to love me so badly that I squeezed them into oblivion and suffocated them with my demons.

2.) I hate that I felt unloved because of you. I could have been loved, you know? It wasn't like I was a *****. There were boys that wanted me, even ones I wanted too. But you made me this tumultuous fire that too many lovers saw only as a sultry, exciting spark until it completely engulfed them, burning them to a crisp. I spent my young love years unloved and assuming any flaw was a cause for expulsion, and any affection was a sign of destiny. They both were neither.

3.) I hate that you made me feel lonely. You kept me in a tower, and fed me just enough so I wouldn't die. You gave me this grand craft that, previously, I could barely use except to stare at blank computer screens and wished my fingers could pour out the things in my head. You gave me this gift that kept me breathing, but also kept me lonely. If I didn't know how to write so well to myself, maybe I would have screamed enough for somebody to listen.

4.) I hate that you stole my intelligence. I might be brilliant. I couldn't even think about that, was convinced it was a fluke that I was so smart when I was little. But now that you've sorted out yourself, I can feel it re-emerging and I feel so sick knowing how much better I could have been; what I could've done. The years wasted, only able to use that brilliance to keep myself from cutting my own cord.

5.) I hate that you make me a lot to handle. You make me bubble with thoughts and words and sometimes, a lot of times, it overwhelms people. I'm a tornado, a twister, in constant, energetic motion. Not many people can keep up with me, and it makes me lonely. You made me lonely because no one wanted to stay; that or they couldn't. Its hard when a new person all the time.

6.) I hate that you made me so strong. I've been on the brink of death, destruction, ruin, pain, and yet I've always come back. For the severity of the things in my head that storm themselves around, I'm an anomaly. I spend half of an intake therapy session having to go into gory details of my inner workings, because without a record its not as easy for them to see me. Yet I never fall, no matter how much sometimes I wish I would. Guess, just like you, its in my synapses.

7.) I hate that you've alienated me from my family. They are nothing like me, and they don't understand me. Very few of them try, even less sympathize. Many call it a phase. Like my entire existence the past couple years is just a new level of the teenage rebellion I never had. I now know what kind of people they are, what kind of people they are capable of being. Their jokes and energy aren't worth the words they inflict behind closed doors. No family should question me on everything. No family should call my life a phase. No family should think the person I love most isn't worth it because they haven't met him.  No family should ask me to hide who I am because its better that way. I don't regret walking away. I regret having to.

8.) I hate that you make my relationship harder. I feel things too hard, and I know that's my issue. But it being such a core part of my system makes it hard for me to integrate files. We're learning, and growing, like we always do. I can't help but smile at how he motions just like I do. He's the only one I've ever met who keeps up with me. Everyone else I've always left behind, one way or another. Though hard, you do make my relationship stronger.

9.) I hate that I love parts of you, because they're my best parts. I'm already smart, but you make creativity a shade of bold that I can't even comprehend. Its hard to share with my peers when they stare at me like I'm an odd anomaly. You make me an anomaly, but as a writer, a creator, an artist, its remarkable. I can write about people like no one else I know can. I can write about emotional experiences I've never felt, but you've helped me see. If I can feel a glimmer, of that emotion, I can understand depths I've never felt. You've made teachers think I was abused, beaten, and much more, even when I wasn't. But I could feel it. My devotion to my art makes that pain a worth and I hate that.

10.) What I hate the most, though, is that I don't hate you. You have made me who I am. I wouldn't quit you, even if I had the choice. You make everything harder, and you make me scream, and you make me work. But you also help me be brilliant, and help me be understanding, and help me shine. You help me love and grow and breathe, even when you're crushing my lungs. Its maddening and barely makes sense, but I know that much. I know that no matter how angry, upset, shameful, any negative emotion, that behind it, that's not my strongest feeling towards you. My strongest is that you are one of my favorite things about me. I hate that people can call me crazy because of you, but I accept it because I'm my happiest crazy. I'm my happiest with you.

1
you were what Adam called poetry those first days in the garden; there were no words to encompass You so he used all of them

2
I have heard voices at the bottoms of bottles, always emptier

3
I am angry at my hands for being too weak to turn house keys, maybe you would've let me in if I was strong enough

4
it's all my fault, I know it. the day my father loaded his fear into the back of a pickup truck and drove away was the day I learned that leaving is just coming back, falling out of bed when I thought I felt your warmth beside me

5
show me a word that doesn't look like loss when you hold it to the light too long; there isn't one

6
maybe if I didn't cry so often I would feel fuller; if I was fuller I would have more to pour out to you

7
love me with a depth and severity that would make hurricanes green with envy

8
we want so much and we desire so deeply, it is no fault of our own that we always feel so disconnected; empty of a thing of which we have never felt full

9
playing foul piano chords to an audience of my nauseating loneliness, roars of applause come from your side of the bed

10
it's okay that he only calls when the morning after has proven to come too early & too bright, you've always been the warm & familiar darkness