Thumbing Through Memories, Tales of Hitchhiking Including a Close Call

In my late teens and early twenties I used to hitchhike a lot. This was the early and mid seventies (1970s, not 1870s) when people were still thumbing their way distances both short and long. In those days when you got to the end of University Avenue in Berkeley where it connects to freeways via an on-ramp, you would invariably see hitchhikers, up to a dozen or so, many with signs indicating their destinations. You don't see any hitchers there today. At all.

Most people who hitched were young. Teens through maybe mid-thirties but most in the early twenties, I’d guess. Everyone knew there were risks involved but those risks were greatly exaggerated by adults who acted like hitchhiking was a virtual guarantee of an early death. For my part I never mentioned hitching to my father who would have had a conniption fit if he knew. (Of course if he’d have flipped out if he’d had any inkling of my drug use — the sex he would have been fine with.)

I had some, shall we say misadventures hitching one of which, that I’ll save for last, was a real doozy. Here are some of my experiences.

Conspicuously white. Once a friend of mine and I hitched most of the way to L.A. for a wedding. We  departed from Chico in the far reaches of the Sacramento Valley. We started with a ride from friends then were on the lonely rode. The last ride dropped us off in the middle of Compton, not the safest place in the world for a couple of white boys. From there we called our friends in LA who, realizing where we were, made haste to retrieve us. Sitting and waiting at a bus stop in the evening we got all manner of looks and a couple of cars stopped and asked if we’d like to join them. For what was not specified. Thankfully our saviors arrived before any trouble could beset us. We’ve been told in intervening years how lucky we are. Some of that I put down to white people paranoia but it surely was not the safest place for us to be hanging out.

Another ride was the subject of a much beloved post on this here blog.  It concerns my curious decision to drop acid before thumbing the 180 miles or so from Chico to Berkeley.  I turned  the blog post it into a composite of several trips. Here they are:

The acid trip trip. In my defense my brain wasn’t fully developed yet (not sure it ever has been) and I didn’t always make rational decisions, indeed I rarely did. This was the only time I dropped alone which was weird in itself, the fact that I did his BEFORE hitching is positively bizarre. Fortunately I took a small dose that didn’t last long. It did make for an interesting journey though in truth I remember little about it other than not being bored for a second and developing a totally different perspective on automobiles driving fast. They appeared variously to be gigantic and frightening killing machines and wonders of science fiction existing in a pungent haze of real life. I was mesmerized.

The cop stop. I only told part of this story in that post. Yes a cop pulled over and frisked me because I was hitching illegally (right there on the highway)  but there was more to the story. He technically arrested me for it bringing me in to see the judge (very small town). Besides hitching illegally I held no ID. A call was made to a friend in Chico who verified my identity. I was issued a warning and happy holidays and the same cop dropped me off at a spot where it was legal to hitch. (I was lucky the judge was in; the cop had told me that he often left early on Fridays to go fishing. If he had I would have spent the weekend in the hoosegow.)

The boys in the van. A big van pulled over, the side door slid open. "Hi" came from a chorus of shrill girlish voices. There were four or five young men. "We're going to San Diego!" they trilled. "Come on in.” I was very protective of my masculinity as most young straight men are so offered a thanks but no thanks. A few faces frowned for I was a cute young thing. The door quickly slammed shut and the van sped off. Weird.

The storytellers. Two older guys picked me up. By older I mean they were probably in their late twenties. The gents ignored me as they shared reflections on the woman they had shared the night before, “she made my dick throb” I remember one of them saying. Was she a hooker? Was she drunk? What was the full story here? I’ve since wondered if they weren’t making the whole thing up for my benefit. In any case I while I was no virgin I was still a neophyte at sex and had never considered intercourse with a third party present. I was impressed with their cool detachment but they really won me over when they gave me a beer.

The attempted pick ups. Twice I was picked up by what were then called chickenhawks, that is older gay men looking for a young partner for a sexual encounter. Both used the same introductory line, one I found most curious: ‘how’s your sex life?” I immediately recognized it as a weird pick up line and in both cases told them how much great sex I’d been having with my girlfriend. In both cases the men got the hint and the remainder of the ride passed in silence.

Not included in the post was what was perhaps my most noteworthy hitching experience. Which I shall recount here for the first time.

The big scare. I was 20-years-old hitchhiking in Marin County. I started to get into a car. The driver looked and sounded a little sketchy. I was about to close the passenger door when I noted that there were no door handles on the inside of the car. Talk about red flags.... I got out and said I had to make a phone call. The driver practically pleaded for me to stay and then offered to wait for me. I ran into a nearby store and didn't emerge until I saw that he'd driven off. Was he a serial killer? Perhaps the Zodiac himself? Did I come close to being raped and murdered? I may have been dumb but I wasn’t stupid. Thank goodness I noted the absence of the door handle literally a second before the door closed perhaps sealing my fate. I’ve hardly given that experience a single thought in the fifty years since. I suppose my brain didn’t want to contemplate my close call. It’s now so far in the past that thinking about it today doesn’t bother me. Actually it makes for a pretty good story. 

I Give a Character a Name and Reminisce About An Old Crush Named Fawn

This is not Fawn but it's a nice enough photo

I’m writing the sequel to my much-beloved novel, Threat of Night. I needed a name for a character. Sometimes a name will just pop into my head. Other times I have to craft one. Sometimes I honor someone from my past by using their first or last name or even both. I spend a  lot of time on names. They’ve got to be just right in order for the character to come alive for me. I can’t just use a filler and, for example, call someone Bob Jones, until I think of a permanent name. I could no more do that than not know whether the character was male or female, old or young, black or white. So like I was saying I added a character as I was writing today, the secretary for a mob lawyer. I immediately pictured the woman. She was young and pretty. Also reserved, someone more comfortable having tea with a friend than sitting in bar sipping cocktails waiting for a man to come along. She had a good, if in some ways stifling, upbringing. She’ll probably meet the right guy soon enough and let her hair down, so to speak. This will put her through some changes, getting out more, expressing her opinions, having sex, maybe regularly. Things could turn sour but likely she’ll start to enjoy life more and feel closer to a liberated woman, though the novel and thus the character are set in 1942. So the name that occurred to me for this character was Fawn McLaughlin. For half a second I thought I’d made it up out of thin air. Then I realized there was a person of that name in my life many years ago. I was a nineteen-year-old university sophomore at some random party the likes of which were all over Chico in those days (and maybe still are). There was a keg or two or three and a lot of young people milling about. I saw a really cute girl and having had a few was feeling bold. I approached and her said, “don’t you know me from somewhere?” This was, of course, a clever turn of the phrase, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” She recognized my clever wordplay so was amiable to chatting with me. Why not? I was pretty cute in those days.

Her name was Fawn and I thought it the most beautiful and perfect name for a pretty girl imaginable. She was also a high school student, though a senior and only a year younger than me so don’t get any ideas there was anything creepy about this. Actually it was an unwritten social rule that college boys didn’t date high school girls, even if the age difference was only a couple of years or less. After all you were in college to date college girls. But this was a hard and fast rule that was neither particularly hard nor fast. No one said anything or looked at me askance when I squired the young lady about.

The truth is I remember very little about our time together. For one thing it was fifty years ago and for another it came at a time when I was a heavy drinker — indeed most of my youth was at a time when I was a heavy drinker.

I remember having dinner at her house. It was a grand place. Big. Really nice furniture. During the course of the meal Fawn’s step father decided to mess with me by asking the stereotypical question: what exactly are your intentions with my daughter, young man? He was just messing about but it took me a few terror stricken seconds to realize it.

Fawn and I never consummated our relationship. I don’t know why. It could have been that she was a virgin and meant to stay that way for the time being. There were also logistics. For the last time in my life I was sharing a bedroom and of course she lived at home.

A few months later I went to Europe and by the time I returned Fawn had gone off to college. I have a vague recollection of seeing her again and wondering why I didn’t forgo Europe and follow the lovely Fawn to the ends of the Earth. I’d enjoyed every second with the totally unpretentious and charming Ms. McLaughin.

A few years later I had a brief and oh-so-strange flirtation with an evangelical church (that made for this popular blog post). At the church I met a young woman who had been a classmate of Fawn’s and remembered me being with her. She suggested to me that Fawn could have really used some ministry. I’m sure that nothing could be further from the proof.

Of course I googled Fawn and she’s doing well. You can check her out yourself if you’ve a mind to. She’s both a wonderful memory and a source of regret. Should I have made more of the relationship? Could I have? I guess in some respects we were the proverbial two ships passing in the night. In any case she had and still does have, a great name. One she now shares with a fictional character of my creation.

When Dirty Fingernails Cost Me a Marriage and Other Memories and Reflections

When I was in kindergarten I proposed to Stephanie Muller. She turned me down because my fingernails were dirty. Many years later I heard that Stephanie was a heroin addict. Years after that I was in a teaching credential program with her brother and from him learned that Stephanie was not only clean but working in a program in which recovering addicts helped people knew to recovery. Admirable. 

Stephanie’s brother (whose name I’ve forgotten) invited my wife and I over to his house for dinner. We had a nice time with him and his wife, who I somehow remember was a nurse, but we’d finished in the credential program and moved on. I’ve not seen or heard from him since that dinner. I suppose they waited for a reciprocal invitation but I quickly forgot about him and got busy with getting sober, my teaching career and my wife’s pregnancy, all of which happened soon after the dinner. Evidently I liked John but not enough to maintain contact with him.

I remember nothing about Stephanie other than the very early crush and the rejection and don’t remember much more about her brother other than he shared my fondness for foreign beer though he swore he’d never been drunk. I thought it odd that anyone who liked beer so much had never had one too many. Indeed I still find it strange though I’ve never doubted the veracity of his claim. Mind you there’s a lot about the lives of “normal” people that those of us in recovery find strange.

I recently thought of a woman who was in my large circle of friends in the late seventies when I was a hot shot reporter and a bon vivant. She was neither particularly attractive, nor accomplished, nor especially witty nor especially anything other than really, really nice. She always seemed to just be there. Everyone liked her but she never had a boyfriend and didn’t seem to be especially close to anyone. One night I was in my cups (as was generally the case back then) and it occurred to me that what she needed was a lover. I figured I would be doing her a favor by offering my services. Mind you, I was far more delicate and tactful in suggesting she avail herself of my body than it may seem to the reader. My offer was that we have a physical relationship with the understanding that it could develop beyond that ( I had no expectations that it would, for in those days I was averse to the very notion of committing myself to one woman). I was stunned — no, I really was — when she turned me down. So stunned that I repeated my proposition reasoning that she must not have heard me correctly. She again said thanks, but no thanks. Well I never. Life went on in our circle. Later she had a very brief fling with an eligible bachelor who by his own account to me, was merely using her. I rather think this story reflects poorly on men.

I’ve admitted on this blog that I was a cad (and perhaps a bounder) as a young man. I am not proud of this, though I’m not really ashamed either. Maybe I should feel terrible about the way I behaved toward women but what would be the point? I’ve spent enough time in self-flagellation over past misdeeds. Yes, I used women. I was callous. But I never harassed a woman or assaulted one. I suppose it sounds like I’m excusing myself in a boys-will-be-boys sort of way. But the truth is that I was no different than most men of my generation and far better than the majority.

More than that though I was a victim of a sometimes hellacious childhood with a schizophrenic mother. I was raised in a sexist environment, aggravated by my participation in the male-dominated environs of sports and I was a practicing alcoholic. Considering all this I wasn’t all that awful. (I guess not being all that awful is damning myself with faint praise.)

More importantly I’ve strived to be a better person. I raised two daughters — okay, my wife helped — and they are both strong feminists and able professionals and I’m proud of them beyond words. My wife can further vouch for my good behavior. 

I’ve always not just liked women but been fascinated by them. Endlessly so. Maybe the circumstances of my childhood contributed to this, particularly not having had a “real” mother and no sisters. Women I 've been with have often commented on how I seem to really appreciate them and on how loving I could be. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all. 

How would I feel if one of my daughter’s came home with someone like me? If he resembled me in my twenties I’d be mortified. If he was more like me in my late thirties and beyond I’d embrace him.

So I’ve gotten on a bit of tangent in remembering my rejected marriage proposal and years later meeting my intended’s brother. A lot of people pass through our lives. This is especially so for teachers. I was thinking recently of a woman I had a brief fling with in 1979. I could neither conjure her name nor an image of what she looked like. I found this both frustrating and sad.  Life moves pretty fast as Ferris Bueller famously said. You meet someone, know them for a bit and one day is the last day you ever see them. Other people stick to you like a barnacle whether you want them or not. There is one person who was my teaching colleague for over twenty years. We were classroom neighbors for much of that time and were generally friendly and confided in one another though two epic blow outs marred our friendship. We stayed in touch for awhile after I left the school we worked at. But now I think of him with utter contempt. Some of things he said and did are unforgivable. He was clearly a badly damaged soul who had a gift for endearing himself to people, despite, for example, being a bigot. Yet if I saw him tomorrow I would greet him warmly and have a nice chat. It’s what you do in a polite society. 

I’ve met new people since I re-started at the school in San Francisco where I used to teach. There’s only one person still there from my previous tenure and one other person I know from another school. I’ve gotten to like some of my new colleagues. The school is shutting down in June and I won’t return to it after my wife and my vacation in May so I’ll only be associated with them for another seven weeks. 

People come and go. Some refuse to marry you on issues of hygiene, others say yes. Some people become life long friends, while other’s hurt you or you hurt them or you hurt each other. There are, I note, very few people who I’ve gotten to know well that I “hate.” One springs to mind — again from my halcyon days in the seventies. He was well liked by many but had a nasty disposition and for reasons I never understood or knew, was contemptuous of me to the extent that he made that clear before a large group of people one day. Not something you forget or forgive. As it happened I rarely saw him after that. He’s a very small exception to most people that I’ve gotten to know. 

Yeah, things generally work out okay. I don’t think Stephanie and I were a good match anyway.

I Learn of the Death of a Former Comrade and Share Regrets

Mark was a singer too. Photo courtesy of the N&R

Another lesson learned too late.

When I knew Mark McKinnon he was in his mid and late twenties. Mark was six feet five inches tall, muscular and looked even bigger with his long blonde hair and beard. His body was not sculpted like a body builder but lean and hard. We were writers for the Wildcat, the student newspaper at Chico State University. Mark was a few years older than me and a couple of decades wiser. He was always, kind, generous and thoughtful and had robust sense of humor. Like most of us in that time and place he had a fondness for getting high but he was generally able to show restraint and I never saw him wasted.

I believe Mark had been a baseball star in high school. I saw him hit monster home runs in softball games. He could have been physically imposing but that wasn’t his style. He was too nice a bloke. Befitting his size he had a deep rich voice that would have been good for voice over work or narration.

On hot days Mark generally went shirtless and wore shorts. He couldn't very blend into a crowd.

For a time Mark ran the Associated Students film series. This was back in the days before streaming, DVDs or even VCRs. If you wanted to watch an old film you had to wait for it to show up on television, where it would be constantly interrupted by commercials. You couldn’t record anything then so whenever it was on was when you watched it. The AS film series would allow you to see a classic film or two every weekend sans commercials. My wife and my first movie date was to see The Thin Man at the series. Anyway Mark was a classic film buff — rather a necessity for the job. He would write a preview for whatever film he was showing in the Wildcat. One weekend he had Duck Soup. Knowing I was a Marx Brothers aficionado, he let me do a guest write-up.

Mark and I were at the Wildcat went it went into negotiations to go independent, free from the strictures of the university. This was in the shadow of the Sixties and there was still an air of rebelliousness on college campuses. Coming from Berkeley and being a veteran of campus riots (I suppose I earned a purple heart for having been tear gassed) I was all about sticking it to the man but more than that people like Mark and myself were idealists who saw the desperate need for the community to have an independent newspaper, that unlike the town's daily, told some hard truths and did some series digging.

Along with a dozen or so others, Mark and I were co-founders of the Chico News & Review which is still extant today. Those were heady times and I had great affection for most of my comrades, Mark and Bob Speer in particular. They were like big brothers to me and I doubt either ever had any idea how influential they were in my life or how much I admired them. I remember Bob (who ultimately served on the N&R for decades) with great admiration and affection. Both Bob and Mark were quintessentially nice people. They were never snarky, only gently teased and were always thoughtful. 

The biggest regret of my life — which still pains me today — was leaving the N&R after two years to take a position with the Cal State Students Association. It was a job I was ill-suited for and sent me into a spiral of excess drug and alcohol use and wandering the country taking menial jobs only righting myself six years later.

By then I’d lost touch with everyone at the N&R, including Mark. I probably last saw him in 1979. I googled him once a few years ago and saw that he was teaching at Butte College (just as I was — and still am — a teacher). I meant to write to him but put it off. That was a big mistake. I googled Mark again his morning already mentally composing an email to him. But before I could find an email address I saw his obituary. He’d died six weeks ago at 71 of cancer. Among his survivors was his wife Wendy who I remember Mark dating.

As obituaries do, it highlighted what a marvelous person he was.  But there were no embellishments or exaggerations, you could tell that he was genuinely loved. I’m sorry that I never saw him in the past forty plus years and sorrier yet that I didn’t email him after googling him. I could have told Mark how fondly I remembered him and what a sweet and positive impact he’d had on me. I wish I’d gotten to know Mark better and I wish I’d met more people like him in my life. I would have liked to update him on my life -- I know he would have been interested -- and heard more about his. 

If you’re thinking of contacting someone you haven’t heard from in a long time, don’t hesitate.  Don’t think you might be bothering them. Don’t think it’s not a good time. Don’t think they might not remember you so fondly. Don’t think. Just bloody well do it. You'd hate to reach a day when it was too late and you were saddled with a regret. Trust me on this one.

Advising my Twenty-Four-Year-Old Self

Left to right, me, my brother his first child, his wife, brother-in-law and mother-in law.

Confident. Happy. Self-assured. Long blonde hair kissing my shoulders. A short, slender but healthy-looking lad. In one photo (above), grinning broadly as I lean against my older brother, who is holding my first niece. The other photo (below) reflects a seemingly more serious young man, staring confidently into holding the ever-present beer. I was hundreds of miles from home participating in a three-day debauch. There would be good food, booze aplenty, and young women my age. I'd be on the prowl. There was also the security of the family: Father, brother, aunt, uncle, cousins, and more. Old acquaintances to renew, new friendships to be forged. Me at the apex, still climbing higher.

I was recently sent two photos I'd never seen before taken in the summer of 1978. I was then twenty-four and a few months away from meeting the love of my life, a woman who has been my wife for the past thirty-three years.

At the time the pictures were taken, I reckoned myself to be on top of the world. I was young, handsome, athletic, witty, charming, sociable, and enjoying success as a newspaper reporter in Chico, California. I was also a lothario, and indeed the pictures were taken at a huge July 4th gathering in Mendocino during which I had a one-night stand (with the sister of a woman I'd seduced at the previous year's bash). I was also arrogant, self-centered, and cavalier. I'd enjoyed a lot of success early in life, first as a soccer star and then as a journalist. I had also suffered mightily having had a paranoid schizophrenic mother who had made much of my childhood a living hell. But that was behind me. Mom couldn't touch me anymore, and having survived those horrors, I thought myself invincible.

Studying the photos, I was awash with nostalgia and — as the cliche goes — memories came flooding back. I was really very happy back then in a way I would never experience again. Depression and anxiety were as yet unknown to me. But I was a practicing alcoholic, a smoker, and an occasional drug user. I was too hedonistic to contemplate my future. Ten months later, I would make a decision that did irreparable harm to my future, which was followed over the next few years by other impulsive life-altering decisions that did further harm. (Somehow, I came out of all these missteps, got married, got sober, became a father, and started on a teaching career that has lasted for 34 years.)

I've been wondering what I'd say to the young man in those photos if the universe somehow allowed me to travel back and speak to him.

Probably something along the lines of the following:

Don't leave the newspaper for a few years and then only for a better such position or a similar position in a better place.
You will meet the woman of your dreams soon, treat her well from the beginning.
You might as well start easing up on the drinking now and don't start using cocaine. The sooner you realize that you're an addict and go into a 12-step program, the better.
Get over yourself. You're no damn better than anyone else. Respect and learn from your elders. Look up humility in the dictionary and practice it.

Yours truly.

Watch out for impulsive decisions. Think several steps ahead. Live in the present but have an eye on the future. Know where you're going.

Have a regular exercise routine.

Be an honorable man.

Don't use women.

You've got a lot of pain stored up from your childhood. Don't hide from it. Deal with it. Counseling will help. 

Psychiatry is useful but seek alternative methods too. Be careful about side effects when prescribed medications.

Love yourself. Forgive yourself. Love others. Forgive others.

Look for the good in people. Don't obsess about negatives in others.

Yes, you're an excellent writer, but take your craft seriously and practice it daily.

I have good news for you: You will have a long, happy marriage and two wonderful children you will adore, and you'll be a good father. You will also be uncle to four children and grand uncle to seven more. You'll be good at it and much loved.

You'll have a lot of good friendships, but don't cast friends aside for petty reasons. Keep them close to you.

You're going to be blessed with excellent physical health. Be grateful.

Invest in something called Apple computers as soon as possible. Watch for it.

I love you.

The twenty-four year old me was not a bad sort. He'd been dealt a bad hand early in life and would later have to deal with PTSD from being an abuse survivor. He be beset bypanic attacks, have to recover from drugs and alcohol and would suffer severe depression. There would also be instances of injustices suffered and bad luck but the lad would prove resilient and well, here he is today doing all right. I envy and pity my younger self. He threw so much away, wasted so much time, hurt some people and spent years staggering around high and confused and purposeless. But he found resources within himself to improve his lot and become a dedicated family man and contributing member of society who, as a teacher, positively impacted a lot of lives. That 24-year-old version of me had no idea what was to come.

I miss him. I miss that time. I am him. I am that time as much as I am today. 

Wherein the Author Recounts the Horrors of his Childhood

Yup, that's me.

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie
- From Starman by David Bowie

When I was a child I could often hear my mother yelling in the other room. There was no one else in the house but me. But she’d been screaming at someone using an ugly, angry voice. Sometimes she’d yell directly at me, although she was really just yelling in my direction. I was only rarely the target of her ragings and never for anything I’d actually done. I’m pretty sure  that I didn’t exist to my mother during her psychotic  moments. I would plug my years or turn on my record player or the TV full volume. Today I’m hyper vigilant and noises of all kinds bother me. Mom would sniff a lot and never seemed to blow her nose. Now when I hear people sniff it drives me up the wall.

The insanity stopped the second my dad or my big brother would come home. It wasn’t until my early teens that she could hold it in no longer and would rave regardless of who was home. I’ve told people this and many have been highly skeptical about my claim that from my earliest memories until adolescence my mother could turn her insanity off as simply as a spigot. Facing that skepticism has been one of the worst things I’ve gone through in my life.

My mother was schizophrenic, although never formally diagnosed. To the best of my knowledge she never underwent a psychological exam nor talked to a counselor. Ever.

I’ve successfully blocked out a lot of the particulars of my mother’s insanity. But I’ve never been able to shake how it felt, the overall terror. It was a constant drumbeat. Growing up I was used to it and at the same time every second of hearing her ravings was like being slapped across the face. I was formed into an adult living in that dichotomy. I was a happy child, I was a miserable child. Everything was great. Everything was terrible. My mother put me through hell, but my dad was an angel. Emotionally I clung to my father. He was kind and loving and fun. Nothing was enough to make up for what my mother did to me, but dad did his best. Yet in my teen years I rebelled against him and most of what he stood for. After all it was the Sixties and change was everywhere and living in Berkeley I was ensconced in the middle of so much of it.

Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.

I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.
- From Old Man by Neil Young

When my father realized the truth about my mother he was, not surprisingly, devastated. His perfect world was flipped upside down. But one of his responses was to take extra care of me. This was no mean feat for two reasons: he was already a superstar father and I was doing things like trying to grow my hair long, opposing the war in Vietnam and listening to rock music. In all three cases quite the opposite of what he would have wanted. Still our bonds were firm, especially because of sports. He not only came to all my soccer games, but he came to all my practices. Meanwhile he took me to sports events of all variety: football, basketball, baseball, track and field, boxing, soccer and ice hockey. He was my best friend. My mother was my worst enemy.

I went off to college at 17 and in no time at all I was using and abusing drugs and alcohol. The booze, in particular, kept me sane. I had a lot of hurt stored up and it was bound to manifest in strange ways. The booze was a social lubricant that allowed me to be fairly normal in social situations and downright charming when I wanted to be. Sobriety I could handle provided I knew when my next drink was. Of course there were times when I took far too much of my medicine. In my sodden mind getting too wasted or suffering a hellacious hangover was always a small price to pay for the benefits of being high.

Even before I got sober there was trouble brewing in the form of panic attacks. Lucky me suffered (make that suffers) from a particularly virulent strain that is to the regular panic attack what the atomic bomb is to dynamite. I wouldn’t wish these ten megaton panic attacks on anyone no matter how awful a person they be. I am fortunate that none have ever occurred when I had a ready means of suicide at my disposal or I’d be long dead.

While I was drinking, the panic attacks, and the much more frequent problem of the fear of them, could easily be treated by alcohol. Once I ended my relationship with liquor the panic attacks became a much greater and more frequent threat. Enter pharmaceuticals. Since my condition was (is) so rare it took awhile to get me on the right medications. And when I say awhile I mean over 25 years. In the mean time I went through a cornucopia of meds. Some were not effective. Some were highly effective but with unpleasant side effects such as feeling like a zombie. One of the worst side effect was from a med that gave me horrible rages. This is not good look for a middle school teacher nor for a father. Fortunately I was off the stuff quickly before I did too much damage. (I did make one daughter cry during a rage and went way overboard scolding a student and got written up for it.) In addition to disbelieving accounts of my mother’s ability to turn on and off her rages, people have questioned my panic attacks. Many dismiss them as normal experiences, even enlightening ones, that I certainly need not take meds for. Others suggest I exaggerate and still others say that they’ve had many such attacks themselves. In 12 step groups I’ve been accused of trying to make myself different, a sure path to slipping back into using. These comments have frustrated, depressed and angered me. It is difficult not to be believed or having your pain dismissed. Rarely is one’s physical torments similarly dismissed, but when it comes to emotional anguish, everyone fancies themselves an expert.

No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
- From Behind Blue Eyes by The Who

I still deal with the aforementioned hyper vigilance. My most effective means of dealing with it is by having headphones with me during my commute. In addition to sniffing, gum chewing, people yakking on cell phones and many other sounds drive me up a wall. While the hyper vigilance is almost certainly a direct result of my upbringing there is less certainty about depression. I’m bi polar, although in the past three years I’ve spent far more time depressed than normal or manic. The depression has been a constant companion, which is odd because it was never invited and won't take my broad hints to please leave.

Yes I see a psychiatrist. I’ve seen various shrinks since I was 16 with decidedly mixed results. Fortunately the doctor I’m seeing now is probably the best of the lot. And yes, I have benefitted from a 12 step program too.

My life has not been easy to live. But I here hasten to add that I am enormously lucky, grateful and satisfied with it. I’m proud that despite my ongoing psychological torment I’ve had a successful marriage that is now 30 years old. I helped raise two daughters who are excelling as human beings and who I couldn’t be more proud of. I am — if barely — a functioning member of society and have been a teacher for 33 years. And while my emotional state has been a constant source of trouble, my physical health has been excellent, as evidenced by my recent ten mile run, and the regular clean bills of health I get from my physician. On balance I’ve done okay.

I still think about my mother. Several years ago, after decades of loathing the woman, I forgave her. She was not at fault. I’m sure at no point did she ask to be schizophrenic for purposes of tormenting her youngest son. Nonetheless I still re-visit those horrors of childhood (generally not on purpose) and mostly I think of that poor little kid I used to be. Whether at five, eight or eleven. I want to hug him and tell him everything will be all right. I want to tell him that it’s okay to cry, even if it’s just once. I want to reassure him that mom’s insanity is no reflection on him. I want to tell him to remember in the future to take it easy with the medicines of his choice. I want to tell him that someday he’ll meet and marry the woman of his dreams and it will be wonderful. More so than he can possibly imagine. I want the poor kid not to suffer. I want to protect him. Rescue him. Love him. He didn’t deserve to be exposed to a schizophrenic mother. He got a tough break to start life. What I really want to do is tell him I’m proud of him. He’s tough.

When you were young and on your own How did it feel to be alone?

A young man is so strong, so mad, so certain, and so lost. He has everything and he is able to use nothing. - - Thomas Wolfe

Walking through the park near the creek on a warm Summer day the breeze is light and comfortable and I am lost inside myself. Thoughts forming and exploding and thinking of getting a beer or maybe just wallowing in self pity because another romance failed. It was never going to work out anyway, I mean she was troubled and intellectually incurious and I put too much pressure on her from the beginning because I was needy. Like a lot of 21 year olds are, you know. Especially ones with fucked up childhoods and hundreds of unresolved mommy issues. She moved back with her boyfriend. Better for her and for me but still I hated that I was alone again and that I’d have to look, prowl, cruise. Rejection and pain were just too constant and so I walked down to the creek and looked at the goddamned water and felt raptured into melancholy and I contemplated how tragic and romantic a figure I was. If only some cute chick was looking at me now she’d see how lonely I was but also how cool and handsome -- and she’d want me. But there was no one around except a family having a picnic and a couple of teenage boys throwing rocks into trees.

I felt a million miles from when I was a teenager. What an idiot that virgin kid was who collected baseball cards and watched Hogan’s Heroes and didn’t know enough to get high. I was hopeless then, now I’m just — I thought this then, ya know — a victim, a victim of the capricious nature of females who always seemed to latch onto me until someone else came along or came back or the ones who wanted to stay with me forever were not the right ones, too clingy, besides I was looking for perfection. I’d mess it up. I knew it, I’d mess it up. The tragic figure. I’d probably be dead in a few years then people would miss me. Now I just looked at the fucking creek.

I was hungry. I needed a cigarette and a beer first or during or right after. Shit, thinking all this stuff through was a pain when I needed nicotine, alcohol and food. I was doing some deep thinking. All about me and who I was because I was into some deep shit. I was no ordinary dude, I was clearly special. A talent of the first degree bound for all kinds of glory and renown and there’d be money too. But that was coming later. Right now I needed to head over to the liquor store or maybe the Taco Bell first. But the hell with this stupid creek and the whole damn park and feeling bummed because another chick had split on me and man I had felt like the greatest man alive when I was with her. She was so foxy and other dudes would stare at her when we were together and think that I must really have it together to be with her and they were surely jealous.

So I got a taco and a burrito and gulped them down. Over to the liquor store for a couple of beers and a pack of smokes. Back to the park to explore what was going on in my brain. Easier with a full stomach and would soon be ideal what with a buzz going. As for later, there had to be a party somewhere in the evening and if not there were the bars and I’d meet someone pretty and the whole process would begin again but this time man I’d be the one ending it or it would go on forever.

Meanwhile I was a tragic, lonely — and here’s the real key — misunderstood figure. No one, I mean no one understood me. I was too deep for that. Maybe, maybe I’d end up with a chick who was so perfect that she’d understand, but even then not wholly and completely and totally because that was impossible, I was just way too complicated for that. There was a lot going on with me and I was special baby.

Drank the first beer real fast. Lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I was hooked on tobacco, which had been the plan. Yup, since I was 15 I’d been determined to be addicted to cigarettes. That would be cool and part of who I would be and was and am and all that shit.

I started to sip the second beer and think about my strategy for the evening. See what my roommates were doing, maybe call a friend. Somebody would be up for going out, doing something, finding some tail. Hell yes. Then it came, this deep sorrow all up in me, this sadness like you wouldn’t believe. It made me just want to cry. Goddamn it was awful. It was about maybe that chick or how life fucks with you or my childhood or the time I had a bad acid trip but it hurt.

Gulped the rest of my beer and boom! it was gone. I was me again and ready to do. No more sitting and brooding, time to make it happen. Fuck this park. I crossed the street and headed towards home feeling damn good -- I mean really fucking A good. Had it whipped, man. Why should I have spent all that time moping by the fucking creek when I could have been doing. Feelings, man. Those would kill you. No need. Just deal with the happiness, the rest was bullshit. Yeah I was contradicting myself but that was just all part of my complexity that was so damn appealing to everyone. Well anyone with a brain.

I walked the beautiful tree lined streets of Chico, past white picket fences and perfect lawns and houses that all seemed to sport fresh coats of paint. It was the middle of the Seventies and things were looking cool every which way. The economy was okay, Nixon had resigned, Vietnam was over and Blacks had civil rights and music was good, movies were good, TV was good and everything was just getting better in the country. Sure there was still shit going on but we had a strong and active press that was exposing the worst of it just like with Watergate. I still thought that United States basically kind of sucked but it was at least a place where you could change things and the art and culture were advancing. Hell, I had money in my pocket and I didn’t work, just went to school in a bucolic setting where there were parties all the damn time and lots of young people and places to go swimming. And it was only a few hours from the Bay Area and home. Life was good, man.

I shared a nice house with two other dudes and they were cool and we made dinners together and would go out together to parities and to movies and to the bars and man I loved, loved, loved being 21 and not having to use a fake ID. What more could you want? And tonight was just going to be another opportunity and I was going to make the most of it and if nothing else, if absolutely nothing else, I was going to have FUN. Get drunk, laugh with friends, dance meet some chicks. Maybe get laid. Why not?

Our house had a big yard perfect for when we hosted keggers and also perfect for tossing the ball around or just sittin’ with a beer and relaxing. The house itself was functional. Nothing special but we had bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom and it was clean and sturdy and not too far from anything. That’s all you needed. Got home and roommates were out but there was beer in the fridge and it was my brand bought by me so I could have at it. I called Ed and he was home and we arranged to meet at Madison Bear Garden at 7:30. Cool. I blasted some David Bowie and my head bopped and my mind whirled and when the record ended I fell straight to sleep on the sofa for one glorious hour. Woke up when roomies came home, Rocky and Dennis with some other dudes. More beers and they had news of a party. Perfect. Would meet Ed then head to the party.

Was 5:30 so got into Dennis’ truck and we picked up burgers. Brought them home and mindlessly chowed down. Finally time to wander up to the Bear. Ed already there and a couple of beers ahead of me. I caught up quick and we took off for the party. It was boomin’ music, kegs of beer as in plural and lots of people about half of them chicks.

I whirled and twirled on the dance floor. My mind was a blur of everything all mixed up and coalescing into one thought: let’s have some fucking fun! By god I did. I sure did. So much that I couldn’t remember it when I woke up the next morning. That was all right. There’d be hangover stories to swap. Staggered out of bed and Dennis was up sipping instant coffee, he said let’s go to the upper park and swim today. Shit yes. Breakfast, then packed the truck with beer and food and on we went.

Sat there in the cab of the truck laughing and drinking and for just a moment I thought about how I felt the day before looking at the goddamned creek and how I had been sad about it for some reason as if it had been important and that maybe I needed to reflect on things more and plan and try to understand. Rapidly came the next thought: to hell with it. Then I took a big swig.

Who was I Dancing With and Why Can't I Go Back in Time?

The same old crowd
Was like a cold dark cloud
That we could never rise above
But here in my heart
I give you the best of my love
Oh, sweet darlin'
You get the best of my love
- From The Best of My Love by The Eagles

I’m listening to The Eagles song, Best of My Love. Powerful memory -- more of visceral feeling -- of dancing to it with a young woman at a party while in college. Saturday night. A slow song, we were clinging to one another, maybe a little drunk. I don’t remember who it was, or what she looked like. Long hair though and she was about my height. She smelled sweet but not too. A nice soap and shampoo rather than perfume. Her hair against my cheek tingled. I liked her a lot. At least that night, at least during that song. What else might have happened between us that night or after I don’t know. I know that I was experiencing perfect happiness. Young, handsome, healthy, a bright future a pretty woman in my arms, an alcohol buzz.

That moment, the time of my life is gone. Forever. Listening to the song brought a whiff of time back but nothing I can hold on to. I’m left staring at a computer screen typing words about it rather than living it. I can’t go back and see who that woman was. I can’t go back and have that dance again. I can’t go back and change anything. It’s all happened. I ache for it. The passage of time is a harsh demon, slapping us with taunts about what we did wrong and about joys we’ll never feel again. We are left in now. This permanent place we are stuck in. There is no escaping it, there’s no alternative.

Goddamn it, life hurts like hell sometimes. The bittersweet is almost the worst of it all. No wonder I have panic and depression. So many aches through the course of life, so much gone forever. I’ve got more out of life than maybe I deserve and it's not nearly enough. I want a time machine. I want to be able to replay parts of the past. I want….

So here I sit relentlessly sorry for myself and ungrateful and obtuse and disingenuous and afraid. Afraid to move forward. Looking back, looking in the mirror but lacking vision, soul, a cure for my angst. Reveling in melancholia and surprised when I’m blue but at the same time feeling that I earned it. Yeah I earned the miseries through years of dastardly mistakes and bad behavior and belligerence and egocentricity and malice afore and after thought and abuse of whatever the hell I could get my hands on. Now. Now clean. The family man. The good citizen. The beloved teacher, co-worker. The grumpy neighbor and gym member. The hassled commuter. The runner. The blogger. The instagrammer. The movie watcher. The man and the mission and the mania and the moment and the morbid and the morose and the masterful melancholic moper. I come at you with blue eyes and blonde hair and a blood stream teeming with medications. Yes I’m the medicated riding the bullet train to nowhere. Man. Where to go? Travel. See other places, other people. Think other thoughts. Dance alone. Drink tea. Stream my unconsciousness right around the globe and up and over and under the madness of this old world. Why stop while I’m in perpetual heat? Why not got on? Still the dreamer the believer in glories to come. Lord what a mess. What a manic mass of myself. Where?

Where?

Where? Seriously, I mean where is that dance? Where is that young chick? What happened to that five minutes? Where? And why the fuck do I have so many questions that go forever unanswered? Can’t someone please tell me where that time went? Did it just vanish into the ether? Is it still out there somewhere? Can I find it? Where do I look? Do I go into a trance? Will meditation suffice? Peyote? Zero gravity? Space travel? Do I look for it in dreams? Can I at least get a map? That would be a start.

Time. Is it just a human concept? Are today and all the yesterdays and maybe even all the tomorrows snaking around each other? Can I jump from one to the next? There must be a way. Is it dangerous? What the hell is deja vu all about, anyway? And what about the supernatural? Is there really anything to any of it? Ghosts for example. Or angels. I really like the idea of angels, especially of the guardian variety. Maybe I’ve been surrounded by angels all my life, watching, envious of the mortal’s life on Earth. Sometimes life doesn’t seem to be all it’s cracked up to be. But I guess it beats the alternative all to hell. So to speak.

Okay so maybe angels, maybe ghosts, I don’t know. What I really want to learn about is time travel. I’d be more than happy to travel as a spectator. I want to see that dance. See that woman’s face. I’d like to watch the whole party unless it was one of those in which I got stinko and made an ass of myself. I get the feeling that that wasn’t one of those nights. Beside the point. Why not time travel? Or just a TV into our past? Sit back and watch the show we created. Otherwise what was it all for if we can't get a replay?

Maybe if there’s something after death it will include a tour of one’s life. Not the flashing before eyes deal but a real good look. I’ve often thought we get to live it over again. Over and over. And we get to do different things like as we repeat our lives we get better at it. If that’s the case then this must be one of my first go-rounds because I’ve done some serious fucking up. Then again with how good it’s turned out in so many ways maybe I’m more toward the middle of my chances. If this is really the case I wonder how many times we do it? If I’ve got a lot more shots at this one I could really make something of it. I’ve had a lot going for me. Sure some obstacles but I’ve done pretty well with those, all considered.

Who the hell was that dance partner? It’s turned into a real poser.

Do You Dream of Unearned Glory? I Sure Did (Do)

He saw that his brother had sworn on the wall
He hung up his eyelids and ran down the hall
His mother had told him a trip was a fall
-- From Broken Arrow by Buffalo Springfield

There was a time in my life when I thought that any day fame and fortune were going to tap me on the shoulder and invite me to revel in them for the rest of my days. I would enjoy the company of beautiful women, many of whom would be my lovers, as I traveled from one exotic locale to another. My opinions on all matters would be sought as the press hounded me constantly, splashing my picture across newspapers and magazines. I would be renowned for my ribald stories, my dances with bacchanalia and the trail of broken hearts left in my wake. But I would also be known for my wisdom and insights into matters of the day. My popularity would be boundless.

Less specific was exactly how I attained such fame. Was it perhaps for my feats on the soccer field? Or had I overcome my total lack of musical talent and become a rock star? Or was I a critically and commercially acclaimed actor? Maybe I had authored several best sellers. Most likely it was some combination of the above. The details of how were not nearly so important as the what of my celebrity. I often pondered such things while under the influence of alcohol or drugs or more likely both. But I could find myself contemplating my future glory while perfectly sober. It was not uncommon for me to fall asleep with such visions cavorting in my head.

I was a dreamer and one with a rich imagination who could conjure amazing fantasies without prompting. What I was not was a goal setter or a worker or a practical man with a plan. That was boring stuff that I couldn’t be bothered with. It would come in due time. I had the cart well before the horse, fully expecting that I could enjoy my world wide notoriety in advance of doing anything to achieve it.

I had no script in progress nor was I taking acting lessons but I rehearsed my Oscar acceptance speech and imagined the post event soiree. Well after my playing days ended I fantasized about scoring the winning goal in a championship match and the humble remarks I’d make to the press afterward. Despite having not the slightest musical talent visions danced in my head in which I stood on stage soaking in the rapturous cheers of an adoring audience.

By my late teens and early 20s my fantasies were fueled by alcohol. The intoxicating effects of alcohol filled me with intoxicating thoughts of glories to come. When alone I even acted some out.

On into middle age and a career in teaching and a family and the fantasies had not yet abated. Now they centered almost exclusively on the successful publication of and critical and popular acclaim for my novels. I was barely pecking away at one of them. I would spend more time pretending to be interviewed about my book then I did writing the damn thing.

I’ve learned many lessons in life and one of the most important is that there is good news and bad news about success in life. The bad news is that in order to attain success one has to work very had and the good news is that all one has to do to be successful in life is to work very hard. For most of my life I have assiduously avoided hard work. Oh I’ve worked as much as I’ve had to to get by, but not enough to realize my wildest dreams, or even approach them. My wildest dreams have been, admittedly, pretty damn wild but many of the rewards one reaps from the efforts have been denied me. Life being a journey not a destination as the old bromide goes.

Working toward something is rewarding in and of itself. The hours I’ve spent actually working on a novel and not my interview with the New York Times have enriched my soul beyond measure.

Sometimes I clean the kitchen. I empty the dishwasher, fill it up, take out the compost and recycling and wipe the counters. In some regards its a futile task because within 24 hours the whole process needs to be repeated.  There’s no getting away from doing because the alternative is to let the mess stay. Besides I enjoy the process. I’m almost disappointed when it’s over. Is there nothing else that needs to be washed, tossed or buffed? Oh well, it’s done and there’s the clean kitchen. Not really a great achievement but it felt good doing it.

Satisfaction comes from the process. As a teacher I enjoy seeing students improve and take pride in their growth, but the real pleasure comes not from encomiums but from doing it. If the process is done correctly then the results will come. When I was coaching soccer I told my teams not to worry about the score to just keep playing the same for the whole match. If you do that and do it well you'll either win or lose and if the latter only because the other team was superior on that day. I wanted my teams to play at the same level whether the score was tied or we were down or up by several goals. You have to do. When its over you can take pride in your performance and if you win you've got cause for celebration. If you lose there's no shame.

I like the process of writing. If feels good to string words together into sentences and paragraphs to express ideas and tell stories and relate incidents. Motivation is difficult. When you've got no deadlines and there are a million distractions and ideas are not flowing from your fingertips it can be extremely difficult to produce. A lot of people pooh pooh the idea of writer's block. These are people with one thing in common: they've never had writer's block. Its so simple to discredit another person’s problem and so hard to try to understand and sympathize. I’ve heard people dismiss those who suffer from depression. Yeah I guess it sounds stupid for a healthy, successful person to have depression. Nonetheless it is real and it is awful. Yet people do sympathize with someone passing a gall stone or suffering from bronchitis. Imagining someone else's pain is neither pleasant nor easy, particularly when it psychological.

I've covered fantasy, the process and sympathy. That's quite a spread. Maybe a major publication wants to interview me about it. I should prepare.

"We're Dixie and Dean!" Vague Memory of one Night's Debauchery

This is all pretty vague I mean its a story about a time in which I was pretty drunk but I’ve got the main outlines right for sure.

I’m not even sure exactly when it was but I had to have been between 20 and 22. It was one of my visits — maybe more like pilgrimages — to see my cousin Steven. I say cousin but that’s kind of a stretch. We were like fifth cousins a couple of times removed. He was four years older than me and a hero and role model. He was also the first openly gay person I ever knew. Steven was brilliant, funny, imaginative and a raging alcoholic. He had more personality than ten normal people combined and rock star good looks. When Steven entered a room it lit up. This isn’t just my opinion either. Everyone who knew him felt the same. From when I first met him at age 15 and he got me drunk for the first time in my life, I was over the moon that such a cool guy liked me.

Whenever I was in the Bay Area and had a chance I would head over to Marin County to visit Steven. (He was never once, to my knowledge, ever called Steve.)  Of course this meant a night or two of pure debauchery and unbridled fun and continuous laughter. Sometimes I brought whatever woman I was dating at the time and they were always impressed with Steven but their presence inhibited the extended bacchanalia. On this occasion I came alone so the sky was not the limit but the starting point.

Steven had two friends named Dick and Dan who I’d once met at a party. They were a couple and one or both was quite wealthy. The first time I saw Steven after briefly meeting them I asked about the two but as I was already under the influence and botched the job. “How are Dixie and Dean?” I asked (there was a legendary British footballer named Dixie Dean). My malapropism elicited gales of laughter from Steven it also led to a running gag in which one of us would say: “I’m Dixie!” and the other “I’m Dean!” and then we’d both exclaim “We’re Dixie and Dean!” followed, of course, by more yuks.

On this occasion Steven and I started by “fueling up” at his abode and then went to a favorite watering hole that was a large bar nestled in a very heavily wooded area. We mixed silly antics with serious discussions of philosophy, politics and culture all of which was augmented by large quantities of booze. Eventually this rustic setting wouldn’t suffice for us and we decided to take our revelry on the road. This we did. Our last stop was at the majestic home of the aforementioned Dick and Dan, aka Dixie and Dean. Here my memories are especially hazy so much so that I can only unequivocally say that Steven ended up going upstairs and slumbering (and whatever else) with our two hosts while I snoozed on a sofa in a den.

It should be of no surprise at all that I awoke with an epic hangover. Mini jack hammers were being operated inside my brain and sand had somehow been poured into my bloodstream. The only thing mitigating my suffering was that I remained a little bit high. As I became more and more conscious I realized what a dandy spread the two Ds had. It was damn near a mansion. I took in the high ceilings and classy artwork and  modern furniture with great wonder. But I also increasingly felt the effects of the eve’s drunken spree. Lo and behold a quick glance outside the glass sliding doors revealed that there was a swimming pool in their massive backyard (along with a spectacular rose garden). I had never tried leaping into a pool to ease the pain of a hangover before but this was just the occasion for it. Absent a bathing suit I stripped bare and ran towards the pool. Without the slightest hesitation I dove into the water. The effect was bracing. I had the twin sensations of feeling wonderful and horrible at the same time. The decision to go into the pool was a wise one for my hangover’s sake but this was too painful a morning after for a simple swim to cure.

I splashed around for a bit until I noticed someone at the side of the pool watching me frolic. It was either Dan or Dick or Dixie or Dean I couldn’t possibly say at the time, let alone know lo these many decades later. He may well have been enjoying the sight of a cute naked young man in his pool and I was somewhat aware of that but really didn’t care. Mainly because he was holding something that I had not thought of needing. A towel. “You’ll probably need this,” he trilled in a saccharine voice. I thanked him and got out and followed him into the kitchen which also looked out onto the yard. The blessed man then proceeded to make both an omelet and bloody marys. I was delighted by both.

That’s where my memory about that particular visit ends. I could fictionalize a longer version, but I rather like this one. 

A Brief History of Mine

A photo I took of my heart at rest.

You're walking meadows in my mind
Making waves across my time
Oh no, oh no.
I get a strange magic
Oh, what a strange magic
Oh, it's a strange magic
- From 'Strange Magic' by Electric Light Orchestra

I lived through my own death during my tragic youthful romanticism. Plying my love wherever it would go wearing a corduroy jacket with a smiling notebook in one large outside pocket and a pint bottle of whiskey in an inside pocket and daring dreams of literal insanity in my pants pockets. I was you once, wow.

This all derived from the battered childhood mind of loose cannon existence being torn between athletic fields and psychedelic experiments and a flailing family and baseball cards of silly desperation while playing hearts in the back room and trying to read Bertrand Russell. But come through I did with kisses from Linda and then broken heart oh what a feeling to see the love you had for someone being turned into the soft pain of the love unrequited the rending of your soul. Linda the first to devastate me with that ugly all encompassing pain.

Sometimes never and always occasionally I looked forlornly for an answer but finding it forgot the question. Tattered remains of happy parties an angel perched on my tongue but lost among the cocaine’s saliva and the persistent battering of too much but never enough liquor twisting my brain into forgetting.

Happiness.

Those were the days of curiosity and wonder. That is when — early twenties — I was invincible in my belief in the inevitability of everything I did and anything I could or would try. The appeal of my cutseyness and the perfect orgasms of handsome bodies thrashing desperately for totality.

I was a reporter. A writer. A god to myself and you could never imagine the assuredness with which I bum rushed life. Sublimating the titanic insecurity that lurked always beneath. Because Chico. Because Richard. Because talent. Because pain and love and intoxication and long tanned female legs and glory and reward and recognition. There I was and that was me and I flew soaring with clouds. Not the metaphorical kind. I did indeed reach the stratosphere. Imitable me.

Sexy.

Flirting. Rejected. Accepted.

See me now. Scribbling notes. In a class. Interviewing. At home. In a bar. Lascivious. Too much tequila one night. The next just right. Too much gin then. Never say when.

Chico was a party down town and I was made for it. I played some soccer, took some classes, chased some girls, drank some booze and then some more. I wrote and wrote and reported for the school paper and then helped found the News & Review, an independent local paper and I wrote some more and met women and drugs and made friends and got angry and got happy and swam in the creek when it was hot.

I cheated and lied but only when I talked and then only to gain an advantage or get laid or score drugs or money for drugs or booze or rent. But people liked my cute little blonde head.

Life.

So what I did, see, was leave it all behind. Took off. Gone. To another city. Another job. Then another city and many other jobs. Then back to Chico. Then back home and many more jobs always missing what I had done what I had become and who I was and not bothering to think why I left all that happy perfection and why I was working in a bank or a gift shop or department store or a sandwich counter or an accounting firm or a law firm or a textbook store and this failure to wonder anymore made me and was caused by drink. Drank. Drunk.

Oh and then panic. Terrifying horrific soul shattering mortifying crippling panic and its wee little brother anxiety that wrenched my nerves and made me realize that hell existed but not in the bowels of the earth but in the bowels of my brain. Only more drink protected me.

Then hey, why not, let’s try teaching. I decided that in a bar my wrist weary from hoisting frosty mugs of hops to my orifice. Glazed eyes and numbed brain and obnoxious laugh and a life altering decision. Three years later I was a teacher. Holy cats. I was also married and soon to be a father. Holy cow. And then I stopped the drinking and using forever — so far. Holy porcupine. Here I am, been teaching for 30 years, almost. Is this what I was supposed to do? How did I get here? How am I near retirement? How am I not the famous and fabulous and fantastic writer I was headed to be? Why am I?

The numbness of so many years of anti depressants and soft jazz and vapid television and insulating my psyche with trite trivia while passing on the gaseous sense of domesticity.

I would

We go not where we intend unless by extraordinary design or luck or pluck or wisdom. I was a vessel for my own tears and hyper depression and screaming panic. I let it revolve around and down and up until I couldn’t do anything but those simple tasks in front of me while my creativity vacationed. Lazy bastards. Listen to the soft wind caress your inner ear and miss the expositions without.

Undaunted.

I go on and force the love and desire and mental drive to be and think and ponder and bury the anger in deep sands of time so that the focus can be on the rich possibility of poetry prose and colliding music. Singing and being and providing and all the pain has got to be channeled now.

My premature death is over now. I carry on with the vision of word warrior. Beautiful symphonic friendships and the wife of eternal bliss and why wait at the door. Knocking it down. Pushing in. Blasting. This stops on the evermore and I rush to the pacing rhythm of life’s soul. Who am I to be me anyway? I am just the pocket of resistance that limits the bloating of resentment. The prepositions of variance. The key to oneness and everything to everyone. Who could I ever be to me other than the self created from the miasma of yesterdays. Pleasing to the eyes.

I limped sorrowfully where today I dance naked with the angelic visions of what I’ll really be: the me I always was meant for. Not the carbon copy. The original. The authentic. The true self. Beloved. I kiss for the future. Mmmmm.