Lungs in Crisis - Update

March along with the first quarter of 2005 saw me continuing to run through, or should I say crawl through the illness maze that I have been trapped in since April 2003. Two years now and no answers, solutions or even really good ideas can be seen anywhere on the horizon.

After 2004 I held out faint hopes that 2005 would show some form of improvement regardless of how minor. However, as we stand on the eve of April I have had pneumonia and am now wandering the corridors of my second bout of bronchitis since January 1st.

The medical professionals who are doing their best to care for me have just about played ever selection in the antibiotic jukebox. Therefore, they selected an oldie but a goodie for the latest battle, Doxycycline is now the antibiotic of choice.

As someone who used to cringe at the thought of taking something as inconsequential as acetaminophen for pain I now walk around with a virtual pharmacy in my bag. On the average day I take the following combination of meds: the antibiotic of the week, sonata for sleeping, Benzonatate for cough, Mucinex to break up mucus, Advair inhaler for opening airways, Aciphex for acid, Xanex for anxiety and Zoloft for anxiety, plus the occasional Tylenol for pain.

All in all an exciting way to spend ones forties.

demonology 101

twisted demons wrap themselves around the cerebral cortex squeezing reality from the mind like toothpaste from an old tube of crest cinnamon flavor. dreams, phobias, psychosis and hysteria all rage forth into the ether of the subconscious fleeing the self induced destruction of sanity. desperate in their attempts to find a dark hole in which to hide from the promised fire works. screams of horror emanate from the soul still occupying this shell of a body.

outside the body superstition has been replaced by science and new beliefs. no longer is humanity subjected to the ancient rituals. the demons possessing this one miss the old days. the father merrins with their holy book, holy water and holy cross, screaming in latin for them to leave the body behind and return to the bowels from which they had crawled. half the fun of possession was battling the old fools with their ancient rites foolishly believing some water, some paper and some wood could remove them from the soul before destroying god’s creation.

science on the other hand was nothing more than a party crasher, removing the fun, the spirit, and the joy of battle for the human mind. no more fun and games. no more taunting the priests. drugs numbed the being to their presence and the introduction of electrical current to the brain made the whole place rather uninhabitable.

no possession lacked the spirit of the old days. torture a few souls and than leave just as the party is getting started. next thing you know his evil majesty himself would begin outsourcing possession to those imps who scurried around the gates of hell begging for human flesh. there had to be a better way for a demon to make a living.

dancing with destiny

upon a windswept beach, world all but forgotten. a driftwood fire dances to the music of creation. accompanied by a lonely foghorn, the crashing surf completes mother nature’s rhythm section. the fertile lushness of the night sky is shrouded by the ethereal glow of pre dawn. a quiet fog hugs the shore, a lover searching for the warmth of another. an old, hand-sewn quilt lies upon the sand. a half empty bottle of chardonnay and an empty paper cup anchor one end, three empty and three full corona bottles anchor the other. the quilt itself is home to the intertwined legs and warm beating hearts belonging to the souls of two scarred and battered beings. veterans of the war games lovers like to play they had given up the ghost of their remaining dreams. believing that love was just another escapee from pandora’s box. a ritual created not by lovers but by players for manipulating the naïve, the gullible and the lost. forever cynical they roamed the outskirts of life neither expecting love nor contributing to the carnage. but even those drowning in cynicism can still respond to the touch of a fellow worshipper at the altar of lost love. in a cantina, on the coast of nowhere they sat drinking away the pain. as often happens in lonely bars around the world, war stories were shared, scars compared. debates of who suffered, who bled, who lost more when compromising in the faint hope of appeasing the demons. when the old bartender was ready to close they found themselves walking shoes in hand along the shore. the salt of their tears mixing with the salt of the early April breeze. in the damp evening air they soon began to sober, realizing to their surprise that the attraction they felt went beyond the cosmetic enhancing alcohol provides. throwing caution to the wind they awoke sleeping sea lions chasing them into the ocean until exhausted themselves they fell into the water convulsing with the laughter that can only come with release of great emotions. dripping salt water marked their trail, following them until they found the embers of a fire left behind by some clandestine midnight lovers. while she stoked the fire he went to his car returning with the alcohol and the blanket. lost in the comfort of an early silence they contemplated that this had the feel of something more than a one-night stand. like the dragons of yesteryear fear arose but the lord and lady drove a spear through its heart refusing to give up without a fight.

the old quilt was the home to the intertwined legs and joyful hearts of two souls dancing with destiny.

california

confusion: a trees reflection
leaves of fall and spring
orange the new green

black

cobwebs shroud the window
darkness disguises truth
empty memories embrace the wind
solitude becomes a mourner

eroded

whispers danced across dust particles traveling from room to room. carrying messages of betrayal on the wind. she said. he said. someone said something about someone. she believed it. he denied it. mistrust wounds the heart after years of unfettered loyalty. sacred vows before humanity. promises of honor, of truth, follow a righteous path never straying from death do us part. unless flights of the mind captured in a dream of promise represent betrayal of the symbolic bed. lips never touched. limbs never intertwined. intimacy never crossed the boundaries of the physical world. intellectually though he chased her through clouds of reason. debating god and the existence of evil. sharing scars stimulating thought. always remaining true though to the one who bore his child. not good enough he discovered to late. his heart, his truth could not stand long against the onslaught of her bitter tide. eroded feelings weakened by lies expressed in the bosom of long forgotten love bring him to his knees. pleading for a moment’s peace before the spirit of an uncaring soul.

trapped

within his mind he is conscious of his fate. trapped within a body in which alzheimer’s has become the dominant force. like a man trapped within a sound proof room, he can make all the noise he wants but no one can here him scream. within he remembers all that is passed but by all appearances that which once was him has gone. to those who love and care for him: he remembers walking, he no longer walks. he remembers singing, he no longer sings. he remembers recipes, he no longer cooks. he remembers baseball, he no longer plays. he remembers swimming in the river, he no longer swims. he remembers his childhood home, he no longer remembers the room in which he spends his days. he remembers 1946, he does not know it is 2005. he remembers fear, he is still gripped by fear. each sound brings terror. what is that round object on the wall that tick, tocks the day away? what is that square device hanging above, with flashing light and moving people? who is that person sitting by the bed repeating hi dad over and over? why are they in the room? he wonders, where are my parents, forgetting they have been gone for twenty years. where are my siblings, forgetting they to are gone. he wonders why he has been abandoned. left alone in this place with strangers poking his arms. washing him. dressing him. feeding him. within he cries look at me. here within. it is still me. help me. help m. help. hel. he. h. .

rated z

sat upon the steps in a cold, spring storm face upturned to the darkened clouds. chemical raindrops mixing with the salt of forgotten tears. questioning all that has come before. choices made, roads followed, trails blazed. brains washed, faith lost, hearts broken. chains that bind one to the past. another ghost of marley moaning in the darkness, mourning all that has been lost to the folly of the ancients. brick upon brick of social mores built for the purpose of guiding the future. unchanging, lacking flexibility, unable to adapt to the societal changes punching through the shroud of forgotten beliefs trained to march in lockstep with all that has come before. unquestioningly accepting paths designated safe for all ages.

purgatory

for months he struggled with conflicts, within family, within his social circle, within the world in general. he tried meditation, he tried worshiping daily at his local parish, he went on retreats, and he tried self-help, herbal medicine, and home brews. when all else failed he returned to convention enlisting a psychologist and a psychiatrist in his cure. hours of therapy, followed by bottles of pills failed to provide peace for his trouble mind. left without hope he began an internal quest for answers. he examined the conflicts, he rewound the tapes for hours on end searching for clues, anything that might bring peace to his troubled mind. maybe, he thought maybe it is within that the problem lies. maybe my actions are responsible for the despair and darkness wrapping icy fingers around my tattered soul. maybe actions that have damaged me are but a reflection of actions brought by myself damaging others. anxiety felt by me has been created by me, brought to bear on me by an image trapped in mirror of my own creation. blame so easily cast may have become the bane of my own existence. damning me to an earthly purgatory of my own creation.

broken

formless the creature clung to the tiles protecting the worn roof from the elements. accompanying minions scrabbled sideways across walls and down the chimney side. within the abode rested the human manifestation of whose mind would be shredded this evening. unawares the body slept bereft of premonition his soul drifts about the land of nod. above and beyond this realm a signal was received the creature began a slow snakelike slither down the roof leaving a snail like trail of slime in its wake. minions increased their scrabbling a frenzy of minions instinctually aware that table scraps would soon sooth the emptiness inside. a locked window was no match for the creature who oozed between glass and the frame. across the floor up the bedpost wrapping itself around the victim’s skull. within his mind pleasant dreams soon turned dark, circus clowns replaced by their decayed ancestors from the renaissance. childhood memories of family outings to amusement parks eroded into fun houses stolen from the dark side of some hack horror writers mind. blood rivers replaced the friendly waters of a small world. brain matter still pulsing with life clung to the walls and ceilings. mad music from the mind of a court jester executed at the dawn of time echoed through out the macabre display. bittersweet explorations of loves once lost faded into fabricated displays of sacrifice showing his still beating heart being ripped from his chest by a series of ex wives and girlfriends. childhood toys came to life creating a flurry of debris shredding his childhood escapades into confetti for the celebration of all that is dark. his body began to shake and shiver in a vain attempt to awaken the mind within. too late, the last shred of sanity snaps throwing him into a maelstrom of permanent nightmares. in the morning his unmoving, comatose shell lay on the bed awaiting the caretakers winding through the suburban streets preparing to remove him from his once comfortable life to one built around feeding tubes and morphine drips trapping him in a surreal world of unknown origin.

in the corner of his room the creature clung to the ceiling. if one looked closely one could almost discern a glimmer of satisfaction with another psychosis well created.

Chicken & Noodles

When my parents were first divorced, my mom found herself the sole provider for three children. My father swimming in a sea of alcoholism had no concept of parental responsibility and was inclinded to spend his money on a case of Hamm's beer rather than pay child support.

My mother never complained and became expert at creating inexpensive menus which, while not being the most exciting meals on the planet managed to keep food on the table until she became more successful.

Of all the inexpensive meals she created chicken and noodles was while not the worst, my least favorite. More than likely it was because it was the least inexepensive meal meaning that it was the one she chose to serve most often.

The creation of this meal required a canned chicken. Not chicken parts but a complete cooked chicken in a can including bones and the broth it was cooked in. The chicken was removed from the can and the meat was picked from the bones. The meat was added to the broth that had been retained from the can. At the same time a package of egg noodles was brought to a boil and cooked until tender. The noodles were drained and added to the chicken mixture. Simmer for ten more minutes and it was done.

At least once every two weeks chicken and noodles would be the meal of choice. I grew to despise those nights. At times it would take an hour or more to finish my meal. My only salvation from table isolation came when we had a babysitter. I was usually able to convince them to let me have a chicken and noodle sandwich, meaning I could take my meal outside.

Flash forward to the present day. When I arrived at my mom's for my visit I was beset by an undeniable craving for chicken and noodles. Why I have no idea but there it was,

Unfortunately at least for now that craving will remain unresolved. It seems that not a single market in Bullhead City carries whole canned chickens. They have canned chicken that is similar to canned tuna but according to my mom the only way the recipe will work is with the whole chicken in a can.

So no chicken and noodles for me this week. When I return to Los Angeles I will search out a canned chicken for my next visit. Now I just need to make sure my mom has wonder bread on hand.

Metal Monster's

rooms filled
with one armed bandits
singing siren songs
of easy money
desperate seniors
wind snakelike
between the machines
hypnotized
by ringing bells
blinded
by flashing lights
willingly donating
portions of retirement
to the patron saints
of get rich quick

The Box

there is a box in the back of the closet
filled with yesterdays memories
and dreams that never came true
every once in a while i open it up
setting the moths of hopelessness free
there is a photograph from christmas morning
taken when i was three months old
the only photo of my dad i still posess
a smile of pride fills his eyes
i have a monkey in my arms
there a pictures of girls i've loved
and friends i have left behind
each photo brings a bitter tear
i should toss them all but i know i never will
there is a rosary my great grandmother held
every morning during mass
the beads are worn from her nightly prayers
reflecting her undying faith
while my path may not have followed hers
the rosary reminds me of those simpler times
there is a comic strip from the sunday times
with charlie brown simple wisdom
he lies awake alone in the dark
wondering who cares for the caregiver
there is some letters from a long lost friend
who turned his back and walked away
never knowing the pain he caused
or the wounds he left behind
all this and so much more
fill this box of moldy memories
reminding me of days gone by
and where i used to be

coupe de ville

his ghost rode along, in the passenger seat
an unusual position, he was used to driving
unable to feel the cool, blue leather upholstery
he allowed the memories to overwhelm him
warm as the wind dancing across the mohave
in the early eighties, lucky in New Year's pool
winning enough to buy his dream car
a white cadillac coupe de ville interior draped in red leather
his friends called it his pimp mobile
for him though it was a dream come true
unfortunately like most dreams all it took was a bit of reality
and poof it was gone
coming home from work Saturday night late
he wrapped it around an old pine tree
just blocks from his suburban home
his pride and joy was converted into a steaming bucket of bolts
he was lucky to walk away with a whole in his lip
with an insurance settlement and a bit of serendipity
he found himself at a government auction
bidding on a 1977 two tone blue coupe de ville
with the winning bid he purchased the last car
he would ever own
a brief moment of passing time
and cancer was his passenger
in his lungs, his back and his liver
despite the pain, despite the fear
he found solace behind the wheel of his cadillac
windows down sunroof open
he drove without direction
allowing the wind to carry the pain and fear away
leaving him alive in the moment
remembering the feel of eight cylinders on the open highway
chewing up asphalt leaving the onslaught of mini cars
eating the dust created by his detroit dinosaur
when driving was no longer possible
he placed his baby in the garage
unwilling to ride along not ready to surrender control

sixteen years after his passing
he found himself in the passenger seat
chasing memories across a desert
green from the latest record rains
the sun roof was open
the windows down
don henley was singing about the hotel california
he looked to his left content in the knowledge
that after a brief absence his dream car had returned to the family
his step son was sailing down route 40
for a brief moment it was as if a window had appeared
the boy, now a man, glanced at the passenger seat
sensing in some way that he was no longer alone
he smiled as if to say its okay dad
the old cadillac is in good hands

Reflections of Life in The Cold Grey Light of My Monitor

 When I posted last Friday I had no idea that a week would pass before I would be able to post again. It was not exactly the week from hell but it came close. Maybe the week from Purgatory would work,.

Last weekend I bought a new tower for my computer. Over the past few months I have rebuilt my computer, housing the new equipment in the same old clothes. With increased processing speed I decided it was time to up the power in the tower. While a necessary step it created a Frankensteins monster of related problems.

First the computer refused to acknowledge the existance of the second hard drive I installed. While booting up my second cd burner was also ignored. Once those two problems were corrected I made the always fatal mistake of assuming that all would be right in my little world of electronics. WRONG!

When I rebooted the system it was as if the barbarian hordes had been huddled near the gates of Rome only waiting for an unsuspecting guard to open the gates. No sooner had the DSL connection been made when my computer was overwhelmed by the waiting masses. Stopping the onslaught proved to be impossible. The only option I had was to cut the power.

Over the past week using all available tools I began the tedious process of removing the invaders one trojan horse at a time. Finally on Thursday just before I was to leave for my moms I finally eliminated the last of the hanger ons.

While the work was time consuming it was worth it because I was able to recover all of my data. No programs were lost and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

It seems that my computer has begun to mimic my own life. I rarely have had any computer problems but it seems that the longer my own illnesses have continued my computer had developed its own set of health problems.

This week while repairing the computer I was fighting off my tenth bronchial infection in the past twelve months. Regardless of what health steps I take my lungs just seem to embrace any virus that comes along.

I completed another round of testing and am still at a point where no cause for my ongoing medical problems has been identified. I have visited most of the specialists in the area and they are batting 000.

The next step is to find a doctor at one of the research hospitals in the area who might have better luck determining the overall cause. Only time will tell.

Flashback Friday: Sea of Negativity

Sea of Negativity first appeared in August of 2004.

As a family they swam in a sea of negativity. Located just two blocks down and three blocks across from the sea of tranquility.

Mama lives for her soap operas, live or on Tivo. Her tables are cluttered with various publications monitoring the personal and/or professional lives of her favorite characters/actors.

When she is not watching she does her best to create a living soap opera within her own four walls. Tranquility has no meaning within her personal dictionary. Every event by her design becomes a mini drama.

Several years ago her son was diagnosed with a common yet curable form of cancer. Reason for concern yes, reason for obsession no. She thrived on discussing his illness with anyone who would listen.

"My son, you know my son? No. No matter. Wonderful boy has a terrible illness. Cancer. Doctors say he will be fine but what do they know. And the stress let me tell you about the stress I am under. Going to the doctors. Going to the hospital and back to the doctors. And does my ungrateful son appreciate me. No. Just today I visited his home and he asked me to leave. He said he was tired and needed to rest. Can you imagine asking your own mother to leave? I was only going to stay long enough to straighten the house, wash the dishes, and cook some meals for him. "

On and on she can go a marathon of words concerning her son.

Don't mention her husband or you will really get her started.

Married for forty-five years and she claims to have been happy once or twice but cannot for the life of her quite remember the year. Her husband is no good she says. He cheats on her and moves out for months at a time. She loves him though and always takes him back. Never questions him. The more damage he does to the marriage the happier she is. Provides her with grist for the gossip mill she shares with the girls between commercials.

Now the husband would say he strays because she is impossible to live with. Everything must be an issue. Nothing can be simple.

This complaint of course flows from the mouth of the king of complications. He never misses a short cut or a scam. He is first in the line to collect a freebie and cannot be found when a bill is due.

Each morning he springs from bed with big plans for making millions, each evening he goes to bed a day shorter and not a dollar wiser. He has alienated every close friend he ever had with get rich schemes that have gone awry. He wanders into grocery stores and shop lifts for the thrill of it, despite the twenties he has stashed in his pocket.

This moment in time is never enough he is always searching the horizon for the rainbow he believes is his due. Not to mention the pot of gold. Though while wallowing in the mire of his own creation he cannot afford a pot to piss in.

Their daughter lives her life as a woman scorned. Nose in the air she expects prince charming to fall at her feet with pockets overflowing with rubies. She is oblivious to the attitude she projects and the scorn being tossed like a football behind her back.

In her eyes it is her world and she is only allowing the human race to borrow her playground for a short while.

Like her father she believes in instant gratification and feels it is beneath her station to work for anything. Also like her father she believes that the opposite sex is just a tool for use, that can be easily be disposed of. Though unlike the father she has a little flame still burning in her soul that prevents her from doing so.

What she does though is somehow worse.

She met and married her first husband with in a week. She says it was so he could get his papers to stay here in the US. However, everyone knew the real reason. Ten years and two kids later they were divorced. Like everything else this family does they botched the divorce. Unable to agree on custody he kept the son and she kept the daughter. Clueless about the work required for a successful marriage or divorce for that matter, she has only succeeded in creating another dysfunctional generation in a long line of dysfunctional generations.

One week after the divorce was final she married the boyfriend of the nanny who had cared for their children. The excuse being that he needed his papers but of course everyone just kind of smiled and went about their business without question.

Now five years later that marriage has also imploded. This time she was smart enough not to have children. However even in the ruin of a doomed marriage she is waffling not sure if she should follow through or not.

The son having recovered from cancer floats on a sea of listlessness. He has been in college for twelve years and does not possess enough credits to graduate.

He has never married and cannot even lay claim to a permanent address. Sometimes he can be found at his mothers, other times at his sisters, never in one place for long before restlessness sets in.

When the four of them are together you can cut the tension with a knife. The room is filled with negative energy. Their conversations, it has been noted, has a similar affect on ones brain as the sound of nails on chalkboards does. Everyone speaks at once. No one listens. Foul language rules the table. If a comment slips out with a lack of negative connotations it is not from a lack of effort.

All in all these are people who are only happy when they embrace their own unhappiness. They continue to grow and thrive in a sea of negativity.

Sleepless

last night in the dark, alone in his bed, he heard the wind whisper her name.
his heart cried out. he reached for her, but a dream can never be the same.
she was not there. at least not in the flesh, he grew cold remembering he was alone.
how he wished, she was there by his side. his trembling hands reached for the phone.
but the echoing raindrops, falling like tears, carried his thoughts away.
he drifted back, into his world of dreams, remembering other days.
he remembered when, they were apart and how his world became a dark, desperate place.
he remembered wishing, he could change the story, but the past he could not erase.
so many nights, he stared at the stars, remembering their forgotten love.
the way she talked, the way she walked, all this he was dreaming of.
he remembered when, back together again, they made love for the very first time.
she was drunk, he was scared, but their emotions seemed to rhyme.
her touch was delicate, her kisses light, and the love….well you know.
it was the best, far surpassing the rest and in time it continued to grow.
so many memories, fill the dark spaces that his fear begins to fade.
his breathing slows, his heart grows warm, remember the love they made.
slowly he drifts, off into sleep a sleep filled with dreams of her
the whispering wind may forget their love, but his heart belonged to her.

March Madness

Today was a day filled with frustrations and consequently I do not feel very creative.

I spent most of the day fighting my way through a bureaucratic jungle. Unfortunately I discovered much to late that the road I was on was circular in shape and no progress whatsoever was made.

Company A claimed that the problem was not theirs to resolve and referred me Company B. Who in turn after requiring twenty or so minutes of torturous hold time spent listening to a repeating message proclaiming how important my phone call was to them, informed me that the problem lie with Company A. Returning to the phone maze belonging to Company A the drone I spoke to informed me that the problem could not be resolved without the assistance of Company B. Gritting my teeth I returned to the sinister brainwashing experiment that passed for hold time in Company B’s world. When a human being (and I use the term loosely) removed me from the solitary confinement of the waiting ether, they informed me that I had been misinformed and that the solution to my problem lie solely with Company A. By this time it was after 6:00 PM and Company A was closed for the day. Which means I get to pick up the trail in the morning and hope beyond hope that I stumble onto a service rep who is using more than their brain stem to function and who may be able to resolve my problem.

To top off the perfect day I went to the doctor and I have bronchitis for the eighth time in the last twelve months. Time to begin another round of antibiotics and another two or three weeks of feeling like crap.

she is in love with love

she claims she loves you
however, her actions
reflect her words to be lies

if she loves you
would she not rush to your side
while you suffered in silent pain
awaiting the doctors verdict
on the condition of your bones
if she loves you
would she not defend your rights
as the father of her children
from those who wish their paths
to follow a crooked trail
if she loves you
would she not spend her time
arm in arm, hand in hand
sharing both the good and bad
building a foundation from that love
if she loves you
would she criticize
emotions long hidden
from your daily life
unleashed by sudden stress

if she loves you
she would support you
she would defend you
she would grow with you
she would comfort you

she does not love you
she loves the idea of love
she loves a romantic song
she loves a romantic movie
she loves candlelight and wine

she does not love you
love requires dedication
she has none
love requires work
she expects love to be
love is not a fairytale
she wants happily ever after

she does not love you
she cannot see the world as it is
she lives in a bubble of her own creation
she expects love to follow the script
she accepts no deviations
she wears chartreuse blinders
she never sees the rainbow of love

she does not love you
she is in love with love