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Thursday, January 31, 2013

Friends, We Never Were.

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The next day we left from the job in Key West. When we arrived back at the house, Andy decided we were going fishing. It wasn’t a choice for me to go along because he needed me to help man the boat. As we loaded it with gear I pointed out that the water line on the canal was ten inches lower than it had been, as indicated by the wetness on the coral. Though I am a novice when it comes to the ocean, it sure looked to me like the tide was out, which meant we couldn’t get out of the canal, past the coral flats that separated us from the ocean. Andy rudely said that we were fine, and that I didn’t know what I was talking about. 

Well, maybe I didn’t but it was a big boat with a draft that barely passed through the flats when tide was in. We only had one route to take that was marked by flags that were not very easily seen. Even though I knew it was a mistake, I got on the boat and he raced to get us to open water. As we raced across the reef, we kicked up a hell of a cloud of muck, leaving a grey and yellowish trail ten feet wide and spreading as we sped along. 
Thoughts of the last time we had been out, and how I was working the bow, keeping at the ready for anchor duty, were running through my head. A sense of pride filled me as I held me eyes steady on the horizon that day, letting my knees bend in response to the waves moving the boat as it rose and fell beneath me. 

When I weighed anchor at his command, to move to a different spot, the turnbuckle had worked itself loose by the boat tugging in the rough waves. The pin had backed itself out completely, so we lost the anchor. It surprised me when I pulled only a line out of the water. I instantly sensed that there must be some kind of nautical folklore about it- perhaps an Omen or a superstition regarding some kind of doom. It was shameful of me to not have inspected the fastenings but then again, it was HIS boat, he should have said to do it. HE was the Captain, and I was in his care. That’s all there is to it. Filled with pride for having adapted to being on a boat in the ocean, I never revealed my thoughts or my willingness to foolishly accept responsibility for Andy’s boat and anchor. 
We ended up cutting the fishing short because we were taking on water, as indicated by the lights on the dash that said the bilge pumps were not shutting off. We raced back to the house.
The next day, we awoke to find the boat sunk where she slept. Seawater was two feet over the water line, which meant that the bilge pump couldn’t keep up with the leaking. The battery had become shorted out when the water reached the terminals. The entire Pentax Diesel engine was under water- under SALTWATER. 

Andy became agitated and in a panic, while scratching a hole in his thick skull as he tried to awaken what was left of his brain in order to come up with an idea. So badly, I wanted to say that I tried telling him not to take it out when we did but I kept quiet as his rat ran on the wheel in his head, chasing cheese it would never get. We unloaded the boat in a mad scramble.
After the boat was emptied, I asked him if we could use the boat winches mounted on the seawall where she was tied up. They looked like they were used for lifting boats out of the water, to me. They were rated for fifteen tons each according to the stamped information on them but, of course, one didn’t work. The winch at the stern did work, which I explained is where all the weight is at, and most likely, the leak. He said that wasn’t what they were for, and that I didn’t know what I was talking about. His genius idea was that he was going to run to Home Depot-a two hour round trip, to buy treated lumber, so WE could build a dry dock to put it on, while making the repairs. 
After remaining quiet and biting my tongue, I asked him, “How would we get the boat on it, if we could possibly build such a thing?” A long back and forth argument ensued, trying to get him to listen to me. We had the crane system, the winches or one at least. All we needed to do was attach it to the stern, take the weight off so it would stay afloat, letting the water run back out of the leak to sea level- at least. Then He could get under it to inspect the hole and possibly repair it, with some type of marine product for underwater emergency repairs, long enough to get her to a place where it could be tended to properly by a competent marine mechanic. He kept dismissing me- even though I was a highly skilled carpenter with a builder’s license, and all the expertise to help solve the problem at hand. Andy insisted that I was to bow to his supreme knowledge- even though he knew that I knew he could barley sling paint. 
What was going on in his head? I can only intuitively speculate. He must have started feeling a range of worries and emotions that were a result of his own insecurities. Everything came to a head while on our way to Marathon to get supplies for building a failure.  
 
Despite my assistance, he insisted on building this, so-called “Dry-Dock”. God only knows what he thought he was going to build. Every time he asked me something, my explanation or idea only conveyed to him that he was clueless, to which he’d say that I didn’t know what I was talking about. 
Finally, it sinks in that Andy and I are not, nor had we ever been, friends. He had been jealous of Danny and I since we met him in 2000. He had ruined expensive equipment at Prospect Studio, bringing Cocaine, Heroine and dirty skanks with him. Andy had stolen from us, and ripped us off for over fourteen hundred dollars when we worked for him on a Crystal Springs project in Grand Rapids. What was I thinking? Here I was, over twenty five hundred miles from home, trying to salvage my reputation with the court, win my kids love and admiration back, while trying to piece my life back together- all while working for someone who has never treated me right or even deserved any of my time. Holy crap! Had I made a mistake or what? Even though I am realizing I am being abused, it doesn’t really sink in until the phone rang. 
Andy happened to pull into a Tom Thumb convenience store, so he could buy a pack of Camels and some Sparks, when Julie called me. Andy then say’s, “You better not be talking to your ol’ lady when I get back”. As he gets these words across my ears, I see a claw hammer on the floor between the seats in my peripheral vision. Instantly, I saw myself bury the claws into the right side of his skull, ripping a large piece of bone from it, killing him. I imagined how I would spend my life in prison for losing control of myself, which frightened the hell out of me. Andy wasn’t worth that. What Julie and I said to each other, exactly, I cannot recall but as soon as he was out of the van and into the store, I jumped from the van and dashed across the highway to a marina Tiki-bar.
Coincidence or irony, I am not sure, but I immediately called my friend Dennis Smith who explained that he was in the Keys working with a roofing crew. I quickly explained that my distress was presently in the Keys, where it looked as though I might be stranded. Quickly, I became pleasantly astonished that my very good friend was also in the keys. And he was not just in the keys but right across the street from where I had ran to hide! How could it be that so many people that I knew, were here?

Monday, January 7, 2013

Robbery of the Heart


We all get robbed in a way, robbed by someone, but we forgive him or her anyway, for ourselves. It’s the only way we can carry on, fulfilling our obligations to those who are entitled to them, our loved ones. The constant reminders of being victimized by my ex-wife, coupled with the loss of my family, identity, business and manhood was the main source of fuel for the vehicle that slowly carried me toward complete destruction- a final release that I miserably sought for subconsciously one drink at a time. The words of my ex-wife would, and sometimes still, echo in my head like a movie that I am being forced to watch. Visions of her and our children bombard me. Little did I realize it was part of my medical condition, Frontal Lobe Syndrome, compounded trauma and PTSD- Shell shocked. My days would come and go, unknown to me. I rarely know what day it is or what time it is. My life is sometimes a blur and I am a madman. Some one should have hospitalized me. Alcohol was the only medication readily available. It was as if I was a Marionette. I had little to no control of anything. Food is of no concern. Bathing and grooming are of no concern. My only concerns were tobacco and alcohol, and weed if I could manage them. I didn’t drink to get high. I drank to die. 

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Strife


Her name was Laura Larson and she had a son with this guy she had been with for a handful of years. The son was five or six years old. At one point in the relationship, they had broken up. She went away, met another man from Brazil whom she ended up with another child- a girl. It was the little girl that stayed in the bedroom that was in the front of the house, the first room on the right as you walked up to the front door. The room had a couple windows, one facing the road. They were extremely messed up- covered in what looked like mud or brown paint. I soon learned about this room where the “man” kept the bulldog puppy- and a small amount of information that was, to me, pertinent to the welfare of this child. It would be several days, to a week before I would digest it all. I’m not convinced I wasn’t supposed to be there to help the child- sent by angels to save her life- I’m sure. Was this a test of my ability to care for others, while still dealing with my own misery? 
The smell that came from that room was terrible and would keep me out of it until I had a better understanding of what that room was, and what it meant. When I learned that the child was sleeping in there, knowing it was the dog’s room, I really started working towards a solution. I witnessed his dog training techniques- holding the dog with one hand by the back feet, while smacking the Dog about the face. I visualized the scenario: the dog and child were put together in hopes that it would kill her. It would appear as if it was only a room the dog was left in routinely, and the child had gone in there. Not being the child’s room- that she wanted to play with the puppy. It’s amazing she didn’t die from the fecal contamination! There was a small piece of foam rubber that resembled a crib mattress. It was soiled in shit. Poop smeared and caked on all walls, doors, and window surfaces four feet up everywhere. In the meantime, the man-ling was getting his paycheck cashed and getting the word STRIFE tattooed across his upper back. He was intentionally torturing the little girl, tormenting the household mostly because he wasn’t man enough to accept his failures at being able to maintain and contribute to a household, to correct his mistakes and accept his future, his fate. He was angry at her for who knows how many selfish reasons but the most important issue was over her bringing another child, from another lover she became acquainted with after their break-up, into the scenario when he finally decided he wanted to try again or when she decided- either way… an attempt at salvaging what they once had as a couple for the sake of the children- or their son. We call them sore losers where I come from, and as for the mom, Laura, it’s a sad day when a woman is so emotionally crippled, and lacking in confidence and self-esteem because of nurturing deficiencies in her up-bringing and relationships, that she fails in her responsibilities by getting knocked up regardless of whether she has the means to care for an additional child. Man he was, in Earthly form, but this man-ling was just a piece of shit that hadn’t yet found his calling as a prison inmate.
Strange, just as the shit was smeared all over the room, he was smeared all over that child and her mother’s life. Her starvation for attention and affection was what would lead her to throw herself at my feet briefly and was my foothold to motivate her to change the situation. With my influence, and mentioning the child protective authorities coming and taking her kids, she would walk into that disaster to face it head on, as far as the “living condition” and the dog being housed in the same room. The situation with the man-ling would be a whole ’nother battle that she would have to deal with entirely on her own. As I think about it now, I had an opportunity to have him arrested for negligence and abuse at the least but I didn’t have the hate or anger or maybe the ability to call the police, of all people, or the comprehension of the dynamics or the big picture but I knew the child’s living situation had to be addressed. Whether she left or he left, I don’t know but I think they did end up splitting up completely. It’s too bad it didn’t happen before the man-lings iguana bit their son. It had no cage, sometimes kept in the little girls room but was left free to roam around the house, causing for the boy’s nose to need to be sewn back on. It was a nasty scar. The Iguana was large, which three plus feet, in my limited education, is large. It was never taken care of and got “misplaced”, and after the eviction was later to be found in the walls of the house, where it died. It must have been a nice surprise for their landlord the day he found it.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

...so, I was glad to build the Baptism Pond. The people who made up the congregation were always there to lend a hand or just spend their time, doing whatever needed to be done. A pretty good amount of them, if not the majority, were recovered from the streets and cleaved to the church out of their earnestness in keeping away from those things that robbed them of life. Many were divorcee's, single parents and fatherless, finding alcohol and drugs and prostitution, and the edge of their graves. Ancil was known to them as a healer. Many had been healed by him- leaving behind a legacy in crutches and various braces, and even wheelchairs. Even if it was the mere decision to truly choose good and end a charade, they were healed just the same. His own son and daughter were not strangers to the world's games involving being coerced, hounded and bamboozled by persons interested in separating them from their money with any of the highly habit forming and dangerously addictive salves that those who lost all but hope, to find the goodness in life, will try. His son was a recovered addict, having a lengthy history in the streets with intravenous drug use that all but claimed his life. One of the ladies had her eye on me but I was no where near recovered- merely struggling with the reality of trying to find my way back to what was important to my existence. I could have manipulated her for selfish reasons but, thankfully, I was just sober enough not to prey on her- having the realization that there was respectability in keeping my grief my own. I loved her by staying away, not to share my poisoned existence with her in her efforts to keep her family intact, and to be a mother to her children. Though it was something I yearned for in the deepest pit of my heart and soul, I was just honest eough with myself or dare I say wise enough, to know it was wrong........
Born in Norfolk Virginia, on a naval base, my life has been a continuous existence of confusion. Occasionally finding an identity through various interests and exposures but being stripped of the self esteem it takes to venture confidently into any one thing for very long, consequently finding drugs and alcohol, and the vermin that goes along with the low style of life. I took to band in the fourth grade, music being a mother to me, it was always around the house or in my crib, in the form of a record player, old country radio,or a wind-up toy that I found as my coupling device in my crib. I can still hear the windings and grindings of the gears that worked the mechanical beauty. 
       Having no bonds being fostered or maintained, I in turn rejected my mother by throwing the bottle from my crib at the age of one or a little more. I would strip the clothes from my body that she dressed me in. I would bite the kids that approached my crib in the yard, where I was placed away from immediate ear-shot. I would smash my head into the floor wrought with un-understood frustration, all they did was laugh and watch. To this day I cannot remember being in a hug with my mother, only once, when I forced it on her when our grandfather died of cancer. 
      Trombone suited my frame and was paired up with me by a person acting as counselor to the would be musicians of my class. I was eventually plucked from the Coopersville Junior High School band to play with the Coopersville Senior High School Jazz band. Featured at all the Home Basketball games, as well as the parades and some other things that I cannot remember because of the status of my medical reality. I will sight that I was well hated by the rest of the high school for my achievement. The Interlochen School for Fine Arts presented me with an award, a seventy-five percent scholarship. Only one is given out a year, provided they can find someone deserving. My mother didn’t allow me to take advantage of that award due to our seeming poverty.
      Moving out at the age of 15, after my step-father ran off with my Uncle Gary’s wife (my mothers brother), I found refuge in my then best friends home with his parents. We spent a lot of time in the woods and fields, running the trails and creek beds, fishing, hunting, hiking, mostly just plain living. Those were always my toys, ever since the age of 7, and it was all I had in life. I didn’t feel deprived, I mostly felt relieved. No more did I have to sneak around trying to escape the militants of my home life. Having to judge my soon to be had beating by feeling the hood of the car or truck to see how warm it was, regulating the inevitable. The men my mother brought home were only a catalyst.     
     Eventually I found my way into the construction trades at 18. My mother put me in the hands of a plumber she knew from the American Legion, and at that point it is the best thing she ever mustered to do for me. Bob Bolthouse was his name “Midwest Plumbing”, a then failing business only providing a steady source of drinking money and drugs for his two sons, one of which was like a big brother to me, Bill. It was through these people that I was found by Paul Valdamar Jensen, one of there friends and a Finish Carpenter who took me on after deciding I had a brain in my head. It was Paul’s guidance that helped me the most through the forming of my manhood. He and I are still close friends to this day. After a skiing accident, where I had gave him some mushrooms and he ended up with a bad rotator cuff injury, I inherited the business. Immediately I went from making thirty thousand a year, to making seventy thousand a year! I found my true identity as a finish carpenter, and my grandfather’s spirit was there helping me. Little did I know, having had some psychic experiences, I was going to lose it to a semi collision at the age of 26 or 27. I still don’t have the details correct.    
      Afterwards I didn’t know I was hit. My wife of seven years soon traded up for a guy on A.O.L. She took everything I had up to that point, leaving me homeless, penniless, and unable to care for myself, and without family and friends who were willing to help me pick up the pieces, or who had any idea how to help me to begin with. I lost out on a several million dollar settlement. Therefore, my sentiment is, I am a very wealthy man.
      Alcohol became my reality. Cocaine was found soon after she left, being that I was in the streets trying to find friendship and support. All that found me was crack cocaine and the people who were trying to figure out where the next “twenty” was coming from. They recognized my misery and took full advantage. Being lost in the streets, anyone who would have been able to help me, would never be able to unless they kept up with the county jail or I called someone.
      Meeting Dan DeRuiter in 1999 or 2000, reunited me with music and rekindled my lost love of music and art, and wanting to be a musician. We bonded instantly, made several recordings, and performed all over the city of Grand Rapids. Every open mic, every festival we could get into, every corner we could play on. We would just walk around playing frisbee golf, carrying a guitar and a few harmonicas. Stopping and resting, playing music. Everyone knew who we were. Always clad with bandannas, having “exceeded our daily allowance of fun” on a daily basis.
      I would find my way into the hearts of a few women along the way, who would recognize what I was doing to myself, and why. They would try to guide me to the hands of someone who would facilitate putting my life together. I would become despondent and slip into hopelessness often due to the dissuasion of doctors who just assumed I was seeking scripts. Little would they give consideration to the fact that if that was the case, I wouldn’t be in their office, I’d be in the streets.
      The last woman, before this lapse of reason, to try to help me, guided me through the court system and helped establish visitation rights to my children and got me into the hands of medical persons who could continue my care. I had been struggling to keep in accordance with the doctors up to that point. She did quite a bit for me, though she couldn’t do a thing for herself, being an addict. We were always late for my appointments, though she did get me there, because she was always busy rolling a joint    
at the last minute.  Danny facilitated her and I getting together by booking a repair job at her home. She latched right on to me, and I stayed. Dan was pissed about it, mostly jealous, admittedly. 
      Danny died on 6-6-06. I almost followed him, losing my wolf-shepard (Dusty) three days later, and a grandfather a few days after that. I went on a drinking spree that was just a blur. My friends were concerned I wouldn’t pull through it. I must admit that I didn’t want to pull through it. I was done in life. I had all I could stand. It was a visitation  with my children, which coincidently their mother called and said she didn’t think they should be dictated to when they would see me, being they were in their teens. I willingly agreed with her. One year of being able to see them after 12 years of them being taken away, after all that fighting in the courts, was now reduced to “when they felt like it”. All for nothing.  Somebody found out what happened and saw an opportunity to sneak in the back door. He promised me a job, which I needed to make 2500 bucks to appease the friend of the court and stay out of jail, AGAIN, over child support. The last thing I said was “I’m going to Florida to make some money, I’ll be home in a few weeks”. “O.K. Dad”. 
A year and a half later I got out of the Key West (Monroe County) Jail and called a friend. I begged him to get me back home where I belonged. He spent his last $220 to get me back. I got off the Greyhound 48 hours later and went right to his house where he put me up and put me to work in his shop. Two weeks or less after that I was working in a cabinet shop that he helped found, making 10 bucks an hour, with the statement the “If you can find better out there be our guest and go take it”. I stomached it and was happy because ten was more than what I got in Key West, (working in a ship yard eventually, on junk boats that were resold as working vessels). 422 days in the county jail, four arrests, and a felony cocaine charge, with no cocaine. I should have known when they railroaded me on a drunk driving accusation on the first arrest. Arresting me because I had long hair, was not ever seen there, and wearing a bandanna. Fifteen times, they kept asking me where the drugs were. The charged me with a dui, kept continuing the case, and three months later the Judge said “time served”. Time served for what? I was arrested on another bogue charge within a few weeks, after being pigeon holed as a sex toy by the mental health person I sought refuge and assistance from. He placed me in a “mens home” where I was approached and reacted upon vehemently when I didn’t respond to the attempts. The last one where I was cleaning the bathroom, per our chores that week. He came in and decided to take a shower and carry on a conversation with me for the duration, stepping out from the shower and trying to initiate the response of my eye contact. When I kept at my job and gave no glance, he became violent in his reaction. Shortly after I was stopped on my way home from work and arrested on a felony cocaine charge. The place I was staying was a sober living unit. I was very pleased with my sobriety in the face of demons, only to be wrapped up by the corruption one more time. This time losing everything I had, materially, that meant a great deal to me. I went before the judge, and prosecution filed for continuance after continuance. Finally, I had my say- declaring I had no substance abuse problems there, and if I had a simple substance abuse issue, I would have never left Grand Rapids, where I had places to live (for free) and plenty of drugs and alcohol to be had! The judge said “Mr. Polk, I just can’t believe you are in such denial over your issues”. He gave me a “364” day sentence, short a day from a year so they could stick me with probation, that they would inevitably fail me at to wrap me up for more taxpayer money on another charge, strictly business. BUT actually ROBBERY. I was released the day before Valentines day, went immediately to the “Safe Zone” for homeless people to sleep, and set up my sleeping record on their files. The next morning an old man, whom  was a known “silent perp” preyed on homeless people for sexual favors. This man is the most wealthy person in Key West. I took a job offer at seven bucks and hour, and was grateful. I ended up on Baliss Key, I think that’s the right spelling. I was helping fix up a home. Little did I realize I was with demons and pirates on an island ten miles west of Key West and only one way back, on the boat of the home owner. On the fourth night there, I was attacked and beaten up because I claimed to not have any cigarettes. They left me to sleep on the beach in my hammock, where I had been sleeping being that I was afraid to sleep with them. They said to go about my business and leave them alone, that they were “going to make a power play”. The next morning I have learned that they drank all the booze, threw the man’s rifle in the surf and trashed the home they were fixing up. Slinging cooking oil all over the newly finished drywall, etc...etc...
      The ride back to K.W. was a long, uncomfortable, silent journey. I will never forget that experience of being on the island and what went down. I saw an amazing thing in the evening sky, being awakened at about 2 am, just in time to see it. I slept in the hammock on the south beach every night, staring up at the stars for fear I’d miss something. And I would have, if I was drinking and hanging with them.
      It was right after this episode that I called Bob Smithe. I finally realized I would never make the money needed to escape, and if I stayed and tried to, I would get re-arrested, which I did, for “trespassing”, I triend fighting it but they said I was crazy, unfit for trial, and so was railroaded into another stay. Finally escaping.
      Now the chronological aspects of it are off a bit, I can’t  help it, but it’s the essence that’s important. Now after getting back to Michigan, finding the refuge, work being provided to me because of the knowledge of my skills, and taking another stab at re=establishing myself as a professional...I was again arrested, mostly because the State Police cruiser that day was the new Charger and I had to get a better look at it. Bob sped up and the cop started following us, pulling us over because of tinted windows. You’d think I had a better story to tell from here on out, it actually does get better.  The cop pulled my I.D. , I lit up a cigarette because I knew what was going to happen next, only not why. He said I was a felon with a warrant fresh from Friend Of The Court for child support, and he took me to jail. Bob got me out on work release and every dime I earned I saved. The first thing I bought myself was a pair of good sneakers, Swagger scent deodorant, and “The Blues Collection” boxer shorts from Fruit of the Loom. While at Bobs house working on his property, his wife showed me her new computer. In short, I had to have one too. She placed an order for it and when I got it, I went right to work trying to figure out how to publish the music, as Dan had requested of me prior to his death. 
      My heart never let me forget of the void in my soul. I got the big idea to join a dating site, frustrated with the women who are routinely attracted to me in the regular places I found them at. I spent eighty-some dollars and joined eHarmony. within 2 months Jenny and I found each other. By next Christmas I would find her and I together in a very intimate relationship. I had finally found her, and she, myself. I can’t begin to say how happy we are, despite the regular problems we are all facing in living in a society based on money, and having nearly none. I finally won my disability claim about the same time as her and I got together. She has a connection with everything I am living for, supporting me beyond my own comprehension.
      Two years later, her and I are still very much together, the music is published. I am continuing my efforts with “Theknewbluessociety”, where I publish all of my photography. Myspace is the site I use to catalog my writing, publishing it from there on the internet. Reverbnation.com/thebandanabrothers
  is the main place of Prospect Studio’s affiliations and developing relations, especially staying in tune with where the next possible opportunities may manifest themselves from. I continue to write, and lately illustrate, working mainly toward the completion of publishing a children’s story that I have an enormous bet on.
      This brings us to the present, hopefully this completes an image of a real nature in the minds of those interested in knowing Zachery S. Polk.
 written by Zachery Scott Polk July 27, 2010
On Sunday evenings, I rode my bicycle down the Musk-Ottawa Trail out to Ravenna to decompress with some beer. It was always an enjoyable journey, enjoying the stars and the fresh air. It was a six-mile ride for a jumbo bottle of beer but I didn't mind at all. Six miles to a place I had never been to before in the daytime was a challenge. I had no idea where there trail went to or if I'd even find Ravenna by taking it but it was better than sitting in the van I slept in, in the back yard. ....
After managing to find Ravenna, where the trail went right through, I purchased my beer and headed right back in the direction of home. The trail took me across a bridge that was an old train tressel, a large stream or small river was rushing below, creating a roar in the distance below as it spoke with it's rock crashing waters. This is where I stopped and sat, drinking my beer and smoking with the sounds and the stars- basking in what seemed like the only beautiful love that the world had to share with me that I could take for my own. ....
Stopping at a crossroads, I spun around to find no sign of where the trail was. Finally, I decided that the trail was the one that was a bit smaller in width. It then occurred to me that I may have gotten turned around in my confusion. A panic set in. A few deep breaths later, I recalled how the various explorers circumnavigated the globe using the stars. Feeling I could use the stars, I located the Big Dipper. It was the position of the Big Dipper that helped me decide which way to go, and it's a good thing I looked because I was going the wrong way- of course. ....
One Sunday night, on my way back home from getting two jumbos of beer, I hit a bump in the path as I neared the house. I had already drunk one, having the other one in my backpack to have when I got back. This bump sent me flying over the handlebars, onto the asphalt, face first. Somehow I managed to land without busting myself up anymore than a scraped palm from trying to push the Earth out of my way. The bike came down after me, making a pretty ugly heap in the pathway. When I regained my composure to inspect the bike and the unharmed contents of my pack, my attention then turned to the bump in the road. It was then that I recalled a very small bump from when I had earlier traveled through. What I found was a long fallen tree that measured two inches at one end, and four or five at the other end, stretched across the path. The small bump was the thin end. Someone had placed the tree across the path to impede with trail-riders. There were a couple Busch beer cans laid by it. Someone must have thought it was real funny while they had taken a moment to think of it, probably laughing about the prank while they imagined a person tripping over it in the dark- ruining their trip to the beer store. I imagined the giggling as they did it. Strange as it was, and scary as it was to almost lose my beer, I couldn't be sure if it wasn't my own practical joke. Or maybe it was one of my Grandpa's jokes, in my subconscious. I never exactly recalled but I could see me doing something like that. Confused about the situation, I proceeded back to the house, and climbed into my Uncle Bill's old camper van with dusty and my jumbo. We listened to the radio I had strung out there on an extension cord, happy we had these moments to be together. ....
When some money started to come together for me, I'd drive to Danny's. He agreed to come and see what I had been doing, and to help me with some painting, providing a bit of a buffer between my family and I. He kept landing these apartment jobs, where people had been evicted, eventually coming into a bathroom renovation for an excessively large breasted Troll. She seemed nice enough but the bathroom was in a trailer for the Twentieth Century. They were calling them "Modular Homes" by this period.....
The heat flew right out of the place, and it was a Pig-sty but we could drink and work, and smoke weed, so we didn't care. It was a paying gig. Yet another thirteen year-old girl threw herself at my attentions- the woman's daughter. The child was misleading with her seeming maturity between her being very well spoken and having what looked like a fully developed body. At some point her mother placed herself in my view, guiding my attention to her and her breasts, stating her daughters age, and that I should ignore her attempts at getting too friendly with me. I'm not sure if I was interested in the woman or if I decide to become interested because it was there. At some point I think I said to myself, "Any woman with that pimply of a face has to be capable of loving a person. With Roseola that bad she had to be loyal". Despite her having actually to "rehab" the working bathroom for me to use it, and that the place looked like a third world country, and doors were ripped off of the hinges, which should have clearly indicated a lurking violence, I drifted into their reality with my heart. It wouldn't be long before she would drive out to get me. I insisted on following her home in my own vehicle, and hitting a deer, which ruined the front end of my truck. I needed my truck for a buffer but not to provide a cushion for deer, it was so I could leave her house on my own.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

A weakness overcame me and my knees quaked and trembled- threatening to buckle. Needing something to eat NOW!! I was sapped of almost all of my energy, I scrambled for the kitchen and grabbed the first edible... Italian bread loaf. Tearing open the bag while peering thru the cellophane at it’s bakery goodness, I assembled it and ate it in my mind, as I glanced around at food-stuff number 2...peanut butter, and slathered it on the open face of half the loaf. In moments I was holding an Italian peanut butter sandwich!  I sunk in and grabbed a mouthful. Instantly I was at battle with this sandwich to shred off a bite. I think my second wind kicked in because I was so hungry- it was like somebody turned on the Nitrous, I mean- talk about an Italian grinder! I was a grinding machine, man. My face muscles got a workout.

Now, factor in having pretty severe dental issues. Meaning, chewing capabilities. I only have about a twenty-five percent chewing surface. I was ready to have the rest pulled and get dentures but now, Hell, I might as well make a hobby out of getting them fixed. Oh well, the food. 

Yeah, I was starving, actually legitimately starving but I found myself with a sandwich that was like rawhide before it’s put through the tanning process. I chewed and chewed anyways. I think I considered just eating all the peanut butter and giving up but I am German,... and Polish. I bought this bread on sale only a week ago, it was reduced! I picked it out for a pasta meal that was interrupted by the dictation of life and necessity.

....Slowly destroyed by our consumerism. What a sad view, to watch love and passion in it’s truest mystical form wilt away like the wax of a candle or the fading of light on the last day of the age of visions. Desperation makes us push on. So I chewed and ground and chewed and swallowed, and I didn’t quit until it was gone! I bought this bread with money, they most valuable thing we as consumers have. It separates us from those that do not have money. I may have paid a dollar for it when it is almost three dollars when it’s fresh. But I’m me, and it was on sale. I didn’t think hard to see it was a good deal but I also didn’t plan to save it for another week, waiting for the next Sunday dinner to come around.

Every week it’s the same thing, I get stuff on sale, plan a meal that never ends up happening because someone has to work until midnight all the time, or the kids are not really hungry, so why go thru the bother? So the stuff goes bad and ends up dog food or compost fodder, OR on a feed pile for wildlife. Now that I have this in a different perspective it looks a little bit better. I guess I am actually still coming out ahead, or with a benefit, however small. Deer in my front window and coincidental chicken feed along with free time to do some personal time investment. Gives me something to work with, and a focus of efforts, even if I have to remind myself daily. I mean, I did eat a leather sandwich.

So why didn’t I just eat the loaf when it wasn’t so old? Stubborn maybe. I don’t know, maybe I am hard-wired to do everything the most improbable way possible. Maybe the psychological and physical abuse endured growing up engrained it in my head that I am chronically punishing myself- lingering from childhood. This would explain why I don’t feel any differently in my mind and soul, as I did when I was any other age. The only things that changed are my growing knowledge and pursuit of a higher spiritual  and emotional awareness. See how twisted the writing paths of conscious thought are, to start with a seed and grow fruit?