t  h  i  n  k  i  n  g.

Anyway… here it is.  An old poem that was written by me writing as a writer who was writing a character named Jack. (huh?) That is, this is from a short story I’ve always meant to turn into a novel. Someday, eh? So much unfinished business in a lifetime.  And so many lives that live inside a single person.

I walk alone through darkened rooms made cold by night’s descent

No wood burns snugly in the stove to warm my heart’s content.

No blankets lie upon my bed to fill my soul’s desire.

My flame’s burned out, my hands without

My love’s extinguished fire.

I’ve been absent since mid-December, so I missed the opportunity to say happy holidays, Merry Christmas, happy New Year to all of you.  Belated wishes.

Where did I go?

For the first time in 17 years, I went home for Christmas.

(Chris, Shawn, Mom, Buddy, Aunt Nina)

The above was taken at (sister) Shawn’s place in Alabama on Christmas morning. But during the week prior, I’d stayed almost exclusively at Mom’s.  We enjoyed a quiet week of relaxing, catching up, a little bit of working, and a lot of laughing.  I had plenty of time to wind down from a hectic 20-year period of stress.  That is, this was my first Christmas entirely away from my sons.  I miss them, of course; but WOW! was it ever nice to be free for a 25-day break from home and work.

So I relaxed, enjoyed the family, a carefree pace, the scenery, my camera, and (admittedly) quite a few hours of television. I’d never heard of The Big Bang Theory and I’d never seen an episode of CSI (the one with Gary Sinese). Also, while at Shawn’s, I discovered there’s a channel that plays Christmas music all day long while warming the cockles of your heart with a virtual fire.

After two weeks of hanging close to home and visiting family, Shawn and I headed south to my hometown – Slidell, Louisiana.  Our first drive-by tour was to the old neighborhood.  The house we grew up in on Frederick Drive:

That front perspective represents many things…

• Little girl weddings on the front porch. Roy Rogers was the man I adored as a child. He reminded me of my Dad.
• The tree house in the Sweetgum tree that is now only a pile of rocks to the right of the post.
• The wooden post!  How many bikes and cars drove into it! How many times did I do backflips off it?  I always wondered how and why it was there and how old it was.  It’s survived intact during my lifetime, but it was there when I arrived.
• The big oak tree in the neighbor’s yard was my mother’s nightmare. As she worked away in the kitchen (after a long day of working away from home), she’d see my younger brother, Chuck, and his friend, Emile, flying through the air… a rope swing that saved their lives every time they jumped from the highest limbs.
• The yard where we played 1-2-3-Redlight, Red Rover, and Colored Eggs.  My older brother, Buddy, and I used to play touch football with his friends. And Buddy taught me the game of Mumbly Peg, which appealed to my tom-boyish nature.

We surveyed the town for old friends, memories and remnants of hurricane damage.  We didn’t have to look hard for any of those things.  Within minutes after checking in to the hotel, we met with my old friend, Jackie.

(Jackie, Rupert, Chris)

We drove past the school where we spent most of our lives and, while there (after hours) took photos of the arrival/dismissal area.  It looks just the same, but smaller.

The following morning, we had an unexpected visit with my brother, Buddy.  The three of us went out to see the sights. Hurricane damage has not destroyed the beauty of the town or the natives.  I didn’t appreciate it so much while I lived there. But this time I felt a longing to be back there and never to leave.

On the way back to Alabama, we stopped off at Aunt Mary’s in Mississippi.  Dad’s other sister, Aunt Gussie was there, as well.  Shawn, Buddy, Chuck and I grew up wrapped in their nurturing and love.  It was so good to see them.

(Aunt Gussie, Shawn, Chris, Aunt Mary)

From there we went to cousin Elaine’s, where we enjoyed an evening and morning of lively girl chat and soulful laughs.

(Shawn, Chris and Elaine)

A blog post does not do justice to a three week (plus) holiday vacation. During the last week of the trip, I was joined by my Canadian Sweetheart, Channy.  The laughs, visiting, eating and fun-loving went on and on.  Channy had the opportunity to meet almost everyone in the Alabama realm.  We’ll plan another trip for a tour of the Deep(er) South so he can go scouting for ‘gators, nutria, saints and swamp jerky.

I have returned to Buffalo feeling renewed with the love of family, and gratified by the knowledge that home is not so out of reach as I used to think.

If that’s the case, I’m prepared.  That is, I’m better at knowing what doesn’t matter.

I have a theory about what matters, but only to me.  For myself, it’s not all simply about love.  And frankly, I get sick of hearing things like that. “Only love matters.”  Right. We’re not all cut out to be an integral part of a familial, communal dynamic. Some of us are staunch loners and define “love” in very different terms. Based on my definition, love is NOT the only thing that matters.

Maybe what matters is perfection. Perfection is so motivating! I’m not talking about full time or material perfection here.  Oh, Jane’s life if perrr-fect! She has two beautiful children, a lovely house, that brand new Volvo, and… and Bob! Have you seen Bob in a speedo? Oh. My. God! I bet he’s great in…

No! No, I’m referring to those ever-so-brief moments when we achieve our own perception of the ideal. An ideal relative to any given thing, whether it’s love, physical accomplishment, professional achievement, being in the right place at the right time… maybe with the right person.  Perfection IS motivating because it can only ever be a moment in time.  It’s so painfully and beautifully precarious.

All the rest of the time, we’re watching for it, trying to get it, looking for another glimpse of it.  If we have any sense, we recognize it often out there in the world or somewhere in our lives. Perfection may be personally elusive, but it never stops existing.

There are many moments when I’m sure I have exactly everything I need.  I experience brief instances when life feels (and thus it must be in that moment) perfect.  It’s defined by contented, festive joy adorned with hearty laughter that could liven me for days on end.  Or I stumble across considerate gestures and kindnesses. Or I suddenly realize I have enough money to pay the bills and the patience to sit down and pay them.  I often realize on a Sunday night that my weekend was perfect because I enjoyed relaxed laziness that concluded with a night of dreams.  Good or bad, I’ll take ‘em.

Such is the burden and the balance of life: In one hand we carry with us those insatiable voids, and in the other, the perfections. Maybe that’s the answer to What matters?  That you should endeavor to carry neither too much nor too little of either.

Maybe an evolved earthly soul is one who walks utterly upright, but perhaps with the limp of experience.  His perfections come through in his smile and posture, while the voids can be perceived in his pained stride. He is ready for the “next” where and when nothing matters at all.

Apparently, you don’t fully understand the gravity of the situation here. Perhaps I should explain further….

Yes, it’s snowing. Oh sure, it looks pretty as it flutters and gently falls from the dark skies through the haze of the street lights, but it’s f-ing snow. In order to have it snow, it must be cold. When it’s cold, I am no longer allowed to wear comfortable shorts and breezy t-shirts. I must now don long, itchy, constricting pants and longer, heavier shirts. A hat must also be worn in order to keep my sweaty, heat-throwing head warm.

With the pants comes the loss of the many man hairs that dot my slender, yet somewhat muscular legs… turning them into soft, smooth lady-like legs.

As the air turns colder, certain hanging parts of my body cannot breathe as easily as they once did. This triggers sweating and subsequent rashes and various bruising of my scrotal sac as my moisture-laden boys bang around in tightly enclosed spaces. I’m all about the comfort, baby.

Also, as the snow accumulates on the ground, I am required to removed said snow by trudging through it while pushing a mechanical device designed to throw said frozen water particles from an area I don’t want it… to an area I do want it, thus creating a path for peoples and vehicles to move freely. The device is quite cumbersome and rattly, which causes stresses on my person and facilitates the moisture build-up and subsequent uncontrollable ‘leg-sticking’ and banging around.

Bleh. Winter sucks.

All kidding aside, it does look nice. Not near as nice as you do in my eyes…but it does…look…nice!

me, my abode, and my sanity-seeking place, Forest Lawn Cemetery.

And in those final moments they let go of the rules and obligations by which they’d chosen to live… and counted only the love. Set in stone.

I never thought I’d see the day when writing reflections, observations and perspectives would become a boring endeavor. But it has. And if I can’t take interest in the writing, I wouldn’t expect you to take interest in the reading.

Mind you, I haven’t stopped writing. I’ve been researching, outlining and doing preparations for my first novel. I’ve attempted to write long fiction in the past, but until now, I’ve never been quite so impassioned about it.  For the first time EVER, working on a novel-length fiction just feels right.  I’d like to think that I’ll be using all the things I’ve learned in life to inform the story, keep it moving, write it eloquently and leave the reader feeling enriched.

But that is yet to be seen.

I won’t be removing the blog because I think there are some valuable posts about organ transplant/donation and maybe a few personal observations worth a look.  And I guess there are some purely entertaining pieces, too.  (I notice on my stats that I get frequent views of “Adeiu to Poo,” a wordplay account of a septic tank cleaning.)

In any case, I won’t be posting again until the story begins to take real shape.  When that happens, I’ll be happy to share and eager for your feedback.

Thanks for reading me. Best of luck for a beautiful autumn.  I will check in with you all sometime during the winter holidays.

~Chris

will I find my craft

taking on water

before I realize

there’s a hole in the bottom?

How many times

do I bind my own wrists,

relinquish the helm

to a higher authority,

before I trust the power

of surrender?

Judging from the shine

still upon the compass,

who knows?

I have learned from interviewing clients over the years, any time an answer begins with, “Well, I, uh…” an excuse for failure is about to ensue.

So, go ahead.  Ask me the question.  I know you’re curious…  How am I doing with the drinking?

Uh, well, I… I made a good start of it.  I went to many, many meetings (about four) where I learned that it takes a lot of failures to make one success.  And that a few successful days does not forever make.  (There’s no such thing as “forever” for alcoholics. There’s only one day at a time… a succession of 24-hour days.)  I learned that alcoholism comes in many varieties and degrees, but control (and the lack of it) is the bottom line challenge.  ”You gotta work the steps.”  True that.

I love the 12 Steps.  I love the principle and concept behind AA.  I love the AA camaraderie.  I miss it.

I feel embarrassed for having announced that I was going to the meetings, and admitting that I have a problem with alcohol.  Or more accurately, I feel embarrassed that I couldn’t stand with my commitment.

If it’s any consolation to those who feel concern about me and my challenge, and who may be disappointed, let me share this.  It’s not really anything reassuring, but it exposes the fact that we’re all learning and evolving creatures…

At one of the meetings, a lady was speaking about her progression into addiction.  I related to her story because of her ability to remain a high-functioning individual, to keep her life in control and her problem out of the spotlight.  Attractive, intelligent and professional.  She referred to herself as a “high bottom,”  meaning that her so-called low point happened before her life spiraled into lost relationships, arrests, employment mishaps.  High bottom.

When she said the words, though, I thought she said “wide bottom.”  Wide bottom?  I was aghast at the crude sounding term.  (Really? This, from the gal who named her cat after man crotch?)  Yeah.  Up until that point of her testimonial, I had been enthralled with every word.  But she lost me at “wide bottom.”  From that point on, my mind kept wandering, asking questions like, “Why would they call it wide bottom?  Is that the name of some kind of popular drink?”  I vowed to google the brand name as soon as I was back home.

I tried to imagine the conversation I’d have with Channy later, explaining with authority that I was, apparently, a wide bottom.  I could hear him laugh at the term, which irritated me.  I decided at that moment that there was no way in hell I was ever going to refer to myself as a wide bottom, no matter how true it might be.  And further concluded that I’d have to advance to the next level of alcoholism so I could avoid ever being called a f-ing wide bottom.  The lady talked away about how successful she was in concealing her sneaky alcoholic tactics, and I was feeling madder and madder that she’d so readily accepted such a demeaning designation.

When she finally repeated the term during her talk — HIGH bottom — I was so relieved to hear the correction that I mouthed the word “oh” to myself while she was still talking.  A few people looked at me.  I smiled as one who “gets it.”

So… to all you wide-bottomed high bottoms out there, I salute you, raising my glass in a toast to THIS 24 hours:

Bottoms up!

Not that I’ve ever come close to doing myself in.  Its  just that when I find myself in the grips of the “black dog,” I wish there was an immediate (and permanent) solution to my hopelessness.

Today I actually heard my inner voice egging me on. “Do yourself and everyone else a favor,” she says. An image came to mind then: Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf (with that ugly prosthetic nose) walking into the river, her pockets full of rocks.  She and her nose, both out of their misery once and for all.  And I wonder why she chose that method.

Damn, there’s an Undermining Hormonal Bitch that lives inside my head and every month she asks what kind of perfect storm I’m waiting for.  ”You know it’s coming,” she says.

Who in the hell IS this person?  And why won’t she leave me alone? Go away, Bitch, and take your dog with you!

If only my clients knew how black my thoughts can be at times.  (That’s another highlight reel Undermining Hormonal Bitch likes to play inside my head.  ”You take too long on your projects, Chris.  You suck.”)

The cool thing about being an astute writer is that even when I’m in some sort of shithole head space, my “reporter” self kicks in, starts analyzing, taking notes, jotting down humorously ironic “taking oneself out” scenarios.  I made myself laugh imagining that if I ever DID decide to call it curtains, my planning would hold some bad karma-inducing flaw.  For instance, I’d drive off a cliff, but land on a house full of children…something horrible and unforeseen like that to ensure my place in eternal hell.

Having now shared those disturbing thoughts, I feel somewhat relieved.  Take THAT Undermining Hormonal Bitch.