George S Geisinger
Here it is early evening, when I'm just getting started on a new blog post. That patriotic post I've just registered on my own blog was way too much of my own opinion to put on someone else's blog, by my way of reckoning. What I'd like to do is write under a thousand words again, and post it on that site that only takes flash stories.
Or, if I get too long winded, I'll put it up on Yezall Strongheart's blog, just for the heck of it. Therefore, this blog needs to be generic enough that I can post it on any blog I can get into. I'm going to have a little fun writing something here that's a little bit more carefully innocuous than usual. Or so I thought.
That's a nice word, innocuous.
How do you like that word?
I won't insult your intelligence by defining it for you. I'm going to assume you are in possession of a dictionary around your house, if you find yourself at too much of at a loss as to how to interpret some of my language in this writing, or in any of my attempts to wax philosophical whilst I write away on my text editor.
I've come upon my vast vocabulary in the English Language honestly enough. My parents and grandparents were all avid readers, with better than average educations, and I must say, I learned more about the English Language at home, that I ever learned in school.
Mother's education was as an English teacher, and my father's stilted language never once lost me, in the process of understanding anything the man ever said, whether his vocabulary was obscure or direct, I was always proficient at comprehending my own father's meanings well enough.
I've always doubted whether my understanding or interpretation of my father's pompous language, was something that my very survival might have easily been derived from, or, if I ever got lost in my father's specific meanings of the things he said to me, whenever he said something and I was there to hear him say it, I always understood his meaning.
Mother always said that my Dad habitually used the biggest words to say everything, and it was always getting him in trouble with the back woods people he was trying to preach his sermons to on Sunday mornings. It was always because he had been a voracious reader, and possessed a extensive vocabulary, replete with options for the most obscure words to use in the English Language.
Dad was an unsuccessful Methodist Minister, who got moved around every single year, when I was little, to give him yet one more opportunity to prove himself to be a competent minister of God, in the SW Pennsylvania Conference of the Methodist Church.
Nonetheless, Dad was summarily discharged from his job with the church. He was always talking over the tops of the heads of his parishioners, Mother said. I think she was making excuses for my Father's incompetence, just because she was his wife, and the mother of his children.
Mother was always saying that Dad's vocabulary was well over the heads of all or his back woods parishioners, who could not understand his way of putting things in his pulpit, which was what cost my Dad his affiliation with the Methodist Church, in the first place.
But Dad was never a theologian; he was always a philosopher. He always ran his church services over at least fifteen minutes, to get across all of his pearls of wisdom, which I think people didn't like. I think Mother was in denial about Dad not being unqualified to be a minister of God for any kind of a church.
Anyway, it was Mother's rationale for Dad getting fired from having been an ineffective Methodist Pastor of a long series of assignments to a number of Methodist Churches, which turned out to be a devastating fact for my Dad to have to live with, as an individual and a self-imposed minister of God.
He was found to be incompetent.
He went back to school and earned himself a Masters and a PhD, which was all a waste of time, because the man refused to get a job with his PhD, in spite of the fact that we all knew he got job offers in the mails from several colleges and universities, to become a professor in their school.
The old man never would respond to any of the job offers he got. He just chose to desert us, and took off for the beaches of Florida, to sun himself, I suppose, while he left a family of four teenage children and a wife to starve in a small, coal mining town in SW Pennsylvania.
And I said I was going to write innocuously! More like writing another poison pen letter to my late father, is what this reality show of mine has turned out to be, whether I intended to write this way or not. I'll never tell. I should come up with more ten cent words to augment this paper, like my late father would have done.
He was definitely a pompous bastard, I'll give him that.
In some way, I think this is all a cheap shot at my father, now that he's dead and gone. He is not here to defend himself against my endless list of accusations and indictments of his misdemeanor during and after he disabled Mother, by attacking and breaking one of her arms, and leaving us all with nothing to live on in a small, coal mining town, to fend for ourselves in our impressionable adolescence.
Mother always had a Bachelor's and a teacher's certificate, from before she got married. But she always said she didn't really enjoy teaching, and didn't care to pursue it any further. Aunt Vi, whom we all moved in with after Dad deserted us, was a mathematical genius, who worked on some of the first government computers the world had ever known, back in the 1950's and the 1960's.
She had a Masters Degree in mathematics from Stanford University, of all places. Aunt Vi was a mathematical genius, and understood things about me that I never understood about myself. I kept forgetting that Aunt Vi always told me, that I should never try to sell anything, because I never had the constitution of a salesman.
My sister eventually achieved a Masters Degree in deaf education, and learned sign language, as well as everything else she needed to know about how to educate the deaf. But there were no jobs in her field, when she moved in with and married a college professor in Oregon, who was local to the university that had granted her, her Masters.
My sister has always been the most successful of the four of us siblings, who works for an agency, as a professional case manager in the mental health field, which encompasses the majority of her professional experience, up until the present moment, and her husband's son, and the son's family, sound like a revelation to my sister, as she cannot have any children of her own.
Aunt Vi and her Masters in Mathematics, had a wonderful time with the Federal Government computers, back when one computer took up a whole room, when each cell was occupied by a vacuum tube. She earned her a good living there, and what Mother needed after Dad left for Florida, was a job. The Proving Ground that employed Aunt Vi, was versatile enough to employ Mother as well.
My two brothers and I all managed to eventually be awarded Associates Degrees, the oldest becoming an EMT, and subsequently a Paramedic, in addition to being an Electronics Tech for the Navy for sixteen years, as well as doing something or other for the Air Force for about four years there.
He still works telemetry in a local hospital setting, though he is, technically, old enough to retire. His wife secretly tells me that my brother is being held by his employment, by the strength of her will, because of none other reason than doing his job at one of the local hospitals, that otherwise the poor man is a couch potato.
I've been an insatiable reader, and a voracious devourer of books, for several years, until I finally became a person who could write as insatiably and voraciously as I once read classic fiction and philosophy. Recently, I've become a prolific, self-published author of autobiographical stories, and a little bit of fiction writing mixed in, every now and then.
As my one of my fellow Indie authors has commented, I've become my own reality show, to find myself writing an awful lot about my own life, and the lives around me, to be a spokesperson for a Lost Generation, as I've begun to think of My Generation, which is the Baby Boomer's of this country.
I became a prolific author, because of my otherwise unfortunate happenstance that I accidentally overdosed myself on my psych meds on a regular basis, and during the span of six to eight weeks, I was rendered virtually incapable of speech, at least twice in recent times.
Eventually I became especially gregarious and verbose, struggling to write down every thought and word that comes to me, which makes my speech quite stilted and long winded, to a fault I'm afraid. I'm not any less of a philosopher and propound-er of nonsense than my father ever was.
But, at least I've made some attempt at not becoming a father of schizophrenic children that I never could have supported anymore than my father ever could. I had a great state of a very healthy libido, by the same token that I'm to understand that was my father's state of being was when he was young, as well.
But my Father had this very wealthy family who pressured my Mother into marrying him, to “fix” my father from some kind of malady, which was known by his parents to be whatever my father's “condition” was after WWII. That was 1946, when my parents finally got married, I think, and Dad didn't go through a breakdown until 1950.
My parents were friends in their own childhood, and used to play with each other when they were small. I've been given to understand that my father was a very thoughtful, very kind man, who eventually took on a role of harsh disciplinarian, to which he could not apply any measure of reason or moderation.
Nonetheless, my grandparents knew something of my Father's “condition” before he and Mother were ever married, and in those days it was a wife's duty to submit herself to her husband's will as much as he demanded her to obey him.
Dad's concept of being obeyed was way over the top, and he was still being a bully with me, when I was a full grown adult, because I obviously disobeyed him. When he was giving me a ride to the airport, to fly back to mother, after I was grown, my father tried his best to start something with me from behind the wheel of his car, at sixty MPH.
Mother fell for all of that old fashioned nonsense. She owed it to her husband to obey him, and submit to him, whether he was reasonable or rational, or not. Her marriage vows were more sacred to my mother than the safety and security of her own children were.
What she found out was that her two sons and her unborn child, (me), were all threatened by my Father's untimely, and irrationally violent nervous breakdown, until she had to pray for our safety when I was still a bun in the oven, as far as my Mother was concerned.
She told me about the whole ordeal when I was an adult, myself.
Happily, my father never took the lives of any of us, the way I always thought he would do, when I was growing up in his house. Dad liked to whip us all, and used us all as his personal whipping post, to be his inspired, aberrant children, to be expected to obey him, regardless of the fact that my Father never wanted anything worthy of being obeyed anyway, as far as I was concerned.
But, notwithstanding the beatings, my Father's bark was much worse than his bite, and the man finally proved himself to be a very well educated, coward and bully, who liked to pick on his own little children and his devoted wife, who would do, mostly, whatever the hell his irrational will was, anyway.
We, his children, were all subjected to suffering, more or less, from the schizophrenic gene which Dad had in his parental gene pool, until all of us got sick with the schizophrenia, at least as much as to be noticeable to the people around us as Dad's illness was.
We are all four of us a bunch of fruitcakes, to become some kind of schizophrenic mirror image of our father, in one way or another. My grandfather was a brilliant and responsible man, who made a singular contribution to the war effort, in WWII, which is another story.
But my paternal grandmother's side of the family was the culprit, who all had the reputation of having “skeletons in her closet,” of people in her family, who were mentally ill, like my father was known to be, to pass it on to all the rest of us, as Dad's kids.
Fortunately for all of us, Dad and Mother both had some money in their families, such that we have all got a modest amount to be relied upon to be utilized for our care, now that Reaganomics has slammed the door shut on all the Federal social programs; nonetheless, we are all somewhat taken care of.
I've often wondered how the other half lives. I mean all the married people. How do they live? I've heard a lot of cynicism about how reality sets in, soon after the ceremony, and I've been around enough married couples who've been married for a lifetime already, who fight constantly to do the least little bit of communicating with each other at all. I've had enough experience to be familiar enough with the Halleluiah Hula that I don't believe risking everything to get a sex partner is worth the heartache.
I've comforted friends who have cried the blues because their spouse didn't want to have kids all of a sudden, when having kids together was my friend's point in getting married to the girl in the first place. I've heard how depressed it made him feel that they'd never have a family of their own. I've known such people whose wives became pregnant soon after the blues hits the husband. I've been to friend's homes, when they've got their own rug rats cluttering up their floors with “toys,” which seem to be the things which take away all the secure footing in the entire house.
I've made public statements that I feel uncomfortable around children, until some public places ask me to go away and not come back, under threat of a trespassing charge. What kind of trumped up crap is that? I'd rather not be around my friend's kids, because their kids make me nervous. I'm not on the verge of committing a crime. I just want to stay away from having any kind of interaction with kids, who are the epitome of vulnerability, and I don't want to be around with that sort of state of mind under foot to have to concern myself with.
Friends go through all the baby-proofing of their houses, just so the little ones theoretically can't get ahold of anything that could hurt them, only to have their two year old eating Cheerios off the bare floor in the kitchen, after they've gotten to the food by dumping it out onto the floor, because they're hungry at a time that doesn't make any sense. The whole ball game baffles me completely. How do guys like that ever get to the point where they justify their own behaviors and belief systems? How do they ever get past the cynicism to actually manage to have a successful marriage and a successful fatherhood?
It's all too dangerous for an old fall risk like me. I never know, when I'm in such situations, when I'll be tripping on the “toys” and falling headlong into wherever I end up, with the baby in my arms at the time. Gee. Just the kind of circumstances I'd like to avoid forever. What I am is a confirmed bachelor, since the get-go. I've only wanted to marry one girl, but the time came between us – before the ceremony – when getting married just didn't make any good sense to me. In those days, I had no substance and no job. I was a no count kind of guy, who had an illness that was going to keep me a no count kind of guy for a long time.
I've known guys who did everything they could possibly think of to get married, and failed, only to succeed when they least expected it. They've done everything they can think of to make themselves attractive, only to find that maybe they didn't want to be all that attractive after all. I knew a guy who told me all sorts of things about how his marriage that were not the least bit idyllic or desirable, and he told me flat-out that if I wanted her, I could have her.
I've known guys who tried to get pregnant with their wives from way back, but when the object seems the most illusive to them, is exactly when they actually succeed in achieving a pregnancy. I've known pregnant women who go through the most unspeakable discomfort, who drive their husbands nuts for nine months time, who just need another guy, a confirmed bachelor man to talk to, who knows how to be kind, in a platonic way, to a tormented female.
I've known guys who went through all sorts of changes, just to find themselves in the sites of some woman they've scarcely noticed in their mutual circles, someone who is unflaggingly obstinate about how she wants decency in their marriage, to a point of distraction from the consummation of the marriage in the first place. How does a guy marry a girl who has no passion whatsoever? How does a guy get past the time he wants what he wants when he wants it, only to find he gets what she's got when he gets it? How does a guy trust in a situation like that?
It's occurred to me that I've gotten relatively close to getting married any number of times, but my fear has always rescued me, and I've undermined the process every time. I realize I'm more than a little bit cavalier with the ladies, as a focus of my social behavior, but in recent times I've been living in the hen house, being the only rooster who can't be caught, while the senior citizens in this crazy house try their darnedest to make anything at all happen between us. It's going on, on the internet, too. The case of the lone gentleman, who doesn't want what he thinks he wants, most of the time.
George S Geisinger
There's a storm brewing outside at the moment. You can see it accumulating in the clouds overhead, just outside my window, way up over the tall trees, which trees, all still have their foliage from the summer. I'm always impressed with the ferocity of the storms down here in the Tidewater Area of Southern Virginia. They are all more passionate and furious than any of the storms I'm accustomed to, from all those years I lived in the Baltimore/Washington Metropolitan Area, way up North of here. It must be that we're more exposed to the Atlantic Ocean and the Chesapeake Bay down around here, at least, that's the impression I've got.
Another thing about the Tidewater Area, is that one gets to see a lot more of the US Naval Aviation going on down around here, than you ever see up home, because there are the great Naval airports here, not far away, and all the fighters come and go, patrolling around this place, near the Norfolk military bases, where there are all the major military establishments around here. I'm really expecting that the sky is just going to break loose at any moment now, but it hasn't happened yet. All that's happened is that the sky has gotten dark, with the sun going down, and my lunar muse seems to be stimulated by the darkening of the angry skies overhead.
There was a contractor in my suite this afternoon. He & I proved to be contemporaries, with a lot more to talk about than first met the eye, concerning the music industry of our mutual times, back in the 60's and the 70's. None of the placid old fuddy duddies around here know anything about all those great guitarists of the 60's and the 70's like ole Stuart did. Tommie knew, but he left town.
Stuart was able to shed some more light on things like, who was around doing the best guitar music during those days gone by and scarcely noticed. He even mentioned some names of guitarists I wasn't at all familiar with. It wasn't surprising, considering my head was in the clouds until just very recently, concerning the music industry of those times. I was too busy blowing my mind in those days. I was stoned and I missed it.
Stuart sealed up the windows here in my suite, at the Brighton Dam Apartments, here in Ginger Beach, and regardless of whether I've got screens in my windows or not, I'm securely sealed behind the closed windows, nice and snug by now, thanks to Stuart, with nothing being freed up to open, here in my suite at all anymore. I don't hear any thunder in the air yet. We're a little bit off the direct flight path of the US Navy Fighters just right here, where I live, so we don't hear the jets from right here in the building, at all. Anyone who would want to attack the east coast of the USA by air, would be very well advised to do it elsewhere, other than around Norfolk.
The fighters around here sound significantly formidable.
I'm well situated here in this place, in a very stable, large two story, brick building, with everything going for me to be able to weather any kind of storm that blows in around here. A few months after I arrived in these parts, we were evacuated to circumvent a presumably fierce hurricane coming our way. We arrived back home here, after weathering a lot worse conditions in Richmond, than the conditions turned out to be for those who stayed behind, right here by the bay. It sort of seems like a conflict in terms, that Richmond got hit harder than Ginger Beach, but that was what we were told when we finally got home.
As I write, all the thunder clouds outside have grown darker and darker. All the heavens outside seem to grow more and more the furious by the moment, around here. I keep pausing in my writing to glance out the window. The trees directly in my line of sight are standing stock still, and the clouds just get more and more ominous by the moment. I used to enjoy going for rides in the country, when I lived in the country up in Maryland. I've asked around since I've been down here, and it sounds like there must not be any real country roads, anywhere around in my local area down here.
It's a moot point now anyway. I have no way of going for a ride down a country road anymore, now that I've moved down to my new digs in Ginger Beach. I've sold my car, and let my driver's license expire since I've been here. There isn't anything I can do about it, either. Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone.
They paved Paradise, put up a parking lot – Jonie Mitchel.
The hour is just about the time of sunset, but I'm not writing about that. I'm writing about the weather that seemed to be developing around here as I wrote. I fully expected to experience a cloud burst before this much time elapsed. But the clouds have been darkened by the sunset, and the evening darkness has set in, without any sign of the usual telltale developments of any kind of severity of weather making itself obvious outside my window, as the time goes by. I must have been mistaken. I've seen enough storms in the past year and a half, since I've lived here, to know that what I expected to develop must have blown right past us.
Now that it's pitch dark out my window, we've lost power for a minute, from a lightening strike I never really even noticed. It's raining cats and dogs outside, all of a sudden. I didn't really think I read all those thunder clouds so completely wrong. I guess I got my thunderstorm after all. It's almost magical to hear the sound of the rain outside in the dark night air.
I'm certain I wouldn't be so enamored with it, if I had to be outside during all this rain. There is something romantic about the Native Americans, who used to live the way the four-legged lived. I've always used to consider the ways of the two-legged and four-legged, whenever I used to drive my car around, out in the weather of rural, Central Maryland. I'll never grasp that lifestyle now that I'm indoors all the time, at a retirement community.
The storm must be several miles away by now, the way all the effects of the breakage in the electrical current after dark, was the only clue left in this environment, for the old hippie to imagine what it's like to live in a wilderness, now that he's sitting alone in these very comfortable surroundings, here at assisted living, down here in Dixieland. The two-legged is cut off from all of his most harsh reality contacts, as he sits in quiet comfort, here in the Deep South, where he has to live now.
The man was a boy scout for a few months, way back when he was young, but he learned so little about what it required, for a man to live well, out in the wilds, from being a boy scout so late in life, when he scarcely every went camping with anyone. It would be an insult to the Human Beings, to infer that he has any idea what the Too Many to Count have reduced the Human Beings to, who used to live free in this land before the locust people came.
The only thing the two-legged knows about the wilds, and about living wild, he accomplished by wasting away his brain on his own, personal experiments with what he calls his recreational chemistry, which the old, used to be, long haired hippie freak finally notices, as the storm finally blows in on the other side of his secured window. The lightening, which somehow brings him no thunderclap that would be audible to him, lightens up his window sometimes, for him to see in his seat indoors, at the moment, which is not any matter of consequence to him in this environment.
There are other two-legged, the man understands, who live out under the skies these days, but nobody around here hunts game with a bow and arrow anymore, including our wish-he-was Native American, from before the time of the White Man. The homeless people around here are not likely to be anybody the man might know. Now, up home, the guy used to see some homeless people he had been in the laughing academy with, in days gone by, but it was wasted effort to try to talk to any of them. They were just needy people, and he obviously wasn't, in his latest circumstances.
He'd go buy some cigarettes, and go out to the traffic lights, where the latest Human Beings beg nickels and dimes, and give the cigarettes away, for absolutely nothing, talking trash and acting a fool among the tribes of the disenfranchised. He realizes that's what it would amount to, and he dismisses the idea before it gets a foothold on his thinking. For our man to buy any cigarettes, would be like our man buying anybody alcohol, and the guy refuses to go there.
Well, the storm seems to have blown on through by now, and the ground did get wet, after all. The guy is just as glad he doesn't have to sleep in wet clothing tonight, as he tries to think of how he can wrap up this little piece of blogging he's been exercising over too much time to do anything much else, in this dark night. There's the muffled growl of some kind of jet outside, just as the man wants to let this thought go altogether.
Some outdoors man I ended up to be, coursing through the wilderness on paved roads in a climate controlled automobile, on four wheels, then breaking my hip while I'm walking indoors, necessitating me to have to walk almost exclusively indoors with a rollator all the time. I don't even feel competent to walk simply using my cane anymore, although I might take the chance I'll fall, and trying it again sometime.
My spiritual experiences with nature are valid enough, I'm certain, but I'm so far removed from those experiences now, I don't see how I'm ever to retrieve them. I've set myself on a quest here to write about my spiritual connection with Nature here, and find myself failing utterly.
I've managed to get my writing noticeably closer to my actual schizophrenic thought processes, according to my observant, former therapist, but whether anyone will ever want to spend much money on my writing based on this analysis, while I'm freely demonstrating schizophrenic thinking and writing like it, too, neither he nor I can imagine.
I figure it's worth a try though, and I continue to post writings here and there on the world wide web. My memories of a traumatic personal history are not likely to attract a lot of readers, either. I think my writing might go the way of my crocheting. I might abruptly leave off with it, while the telltale signs of it would simply remain in place, where they are, either selling or not, I can't honestly say I'm too involved anymore.
George S Geisinger
The boy, Jungle, reaches into his pocket to get out his crescent wrench. His bike needs just a little bit of tweaking, as he stops to tighten a bolt, just as he remembers doing when he was only a little bit younger, as he would have liked to have done in this one, very hectic situation, but everything happened so fast.
Oh, how Jungle wishes for those days now, as he gingerly picked himself up off the ground, painfully enough, where he'd just now plummeted headlong from his brand new, Japanese Racer, just because some bolt had come loose on him at high speed, that was supposed to be holding his handlebars in place, on his brand new bicycle.
He had a bad accident.
Jungle had lost control of the new bike at high speed, going down hill.
He had run out third gear to top speed, on the maiden voyage of his brand new, birthday bicycle. The boy had managed to wreck the darned thing, just going down the closest hill away from the house, for his first time out, since he'd just gotten the darned thing as a birthday present that same afternoon.
Jungle was doing something like a full, headlong, downhill, 35 mph, on a bicycle no less, when he'd hit a large stone with his front tire, which threw him royally. It had been a quick moment of violence, which he had been out of control of entirely.
He'd hurt himself, too.
Jungle hadn't been able to steer the new bike away from the big rock by the side of the road on the big hill, in his out of control careening along, on his way down past the old motel, near to where he lived in those days. He never made it down the hill, with his shoulder bothering him right away.
Jungle tried to pick up the bent up new bicycle from down on the ground, where it had landed him abruptly down in a heap. He tried to carry the bike back home with him, but found his right shoulder hurt him too much to withstand the weight of the bicycle at all.
He was forced to leave the wrecked bicycle behind, struggling to even walk home without it.
The boy was hurt.
He gave up trying to lift the mangled weight, and started walking home in pain, with his hands in his jacket pockets, to support his sore right shoulder as best he could. He thought sure he'd broken a bone somewhere in that shoulder. Jungle was a little boy again, as he arrived home, moaning and groaning to beat the band, when he finally got home out of the cold March air.
The boy was only 15 years old that day, and it was his birthday bicycle, back in the mid-1960's, when he was still a youngster. His folks had just traded in his trusty old, fat tire Schwinn, to get him this new, candy ass, light weight, lousy Japanese Racer he thought he wanted so badly.
Boy, had he been wrong to let that old bike go!
That old fat tire Schwinn had been a classic, even back in Jungle's adolescent days, while it was still a lot newer bicycle than it would be now. It had belonged to his uncle, when the man had been a boy, back whenever, and the old bike was a collector's item, even by the time his folks had traded it in on the brand new bicycle.
Well, Jungle didn't want the darned bicycle, or any other bicycle. They could leave it where it was or cart it off to the dump, as far as he was concerned. He refused to ever ride a bicycle again. Jungle was yelling with pain.
He was done with bicycles, he was in so much pain that day. Thanks for the birthday present anyway, folks, and his folks ended up carting the brand new wreck off to the dump. But for some reason, his folks put up with Jungle's yelling, and took him to the ER.
The entire investment was a waste of money on the part of Jungle's folks, but it was only one of the first of many wastes of money his folks would squander on the rebellious boy throughout his youth, until he finally got ahold of himself as a younger-middle-aged adult, quite some time later.
Jungle was supposed to be a very bright boy, and did well enough in school without ever cracking a book, the whole way through high school. Buying him things, like a college education for instance, when the time came along for the investment, proved to be something like buying the boy that bicycle. His tuition money turned out to be a big waste for his folks.
Jungle only arrived back home more hurt and no more educated, apparently, than he might have been if he'd never gone to college at all. The years after he came home again, turned out to be worse than a nightmare for all concerned.
His folks held the 15 year old to his word, and carted the wrecked bike off to the dump, never to supply him with another bicycle, until he was back from college, living in some God forsaken place down by the city, where the distances were long, and the young man couldn't afford a car.
Jungle never asked for another bike, after the one he'd gotten that green-stick fracture from, with that new bike of his. His folks were trying to teach him to watch what he said when he wasn't feeling well, but he missed the lesson altogether.
The incompetent Japanese couldn't even tighten up all the bolts on the darned thing before they sold it to his folks. He might have checked out that little bolt himself, if he'd have thought about it, back when he was still 11, or 12 years old, back when he was still hanging around with his favorite pal, the wretcheder, ole Buddy Beam himself, from way back up North, where Jungle had a little bit of training about how to keep up a bicycle.
Buddy Beam turned out to be a tinker, and when Jungle showed up on his doorstep at the age of 20, the boy, Buddy Beam, turned out to have become an auto mechanic. Figured. That guy was always tinkering with something, back when the two young men had been boys.
He hadn't seen ole Buddy, ever since his family had moved South of the Mason Dixon Line, back when the two boys were only 13 year old friends, of a soon almost-forgotten yesterday. Jungle and Buddy would scarcely ever see each other again.
When they did get together, it was like two strangers meeting after a whole lifetime apart. They didn't remember the same things at all, from back when they'd been 13. They were 20 by the time they got together again. It might have been a lifetime, for all they knew. Buddy Bean remembered one thing, and Jungle remembered something else entirely.
They turned out to be strangers to each other at the age of 20. But Jungle's folks helped him to look up his old friend, when college was out for the summer, before Jungle's summer job finally started hiring.
Jeez! Jungle's shoulder hurt, back when he'd been 15 years old.
It was a short ride, but a long walk in the cold breezes of mid-March, way back up the hill toward home, to his grandmother's house, from halfway down the big hill. The boy came into the house with his whole family at home, in those old days of glory, long gone by now, lost into the mists of his tomorrows, as he remembers his youth.
His effusive complaining about the pain in his right shoulder, and his vulgar language, and explicative's about his accident on the new bicycle, convinced his folks to take the boy to the ER for an X ray of his shoulder. The X ray showed what the doctor called a green stick fracture to his right collar bone. No wonder it hurt. He'd broken the darned thing.
Jungle was not tiptoeing around with a lot of delicate wordings at the time, either. He'd been shouting obscenities until he'd finally given up on shouting altogether, when he was finally getting the medical help he thought he needed.
The doctor strapped his upper arm to his side, with an ace bandage, and put his lower arm into a sling, which was the way doctors were treating that sort of fracture in those days. The result was a shorter right shoulder than his left shoulder turned out to be, later on in life. Jungle went home only slightly feeling any better, and attended high school down there in Dixieland with a broken collar bone, until it finally healed up, in what seemed like an eternity, back when he was an adolescent boy.
Jungle was still going out with the beautiful little Peaches, who loved to ride on the center bar of his fat tire Schwinn. He was left without any bicycle to ride on at all, since his folks had traded in the old bicycle, to get the new one. The boy's rash statements that he would never get on another bicycle, became a nuisance by the time he met up with the MP's on the military base.
Jungle found out what the MP's were like on the roads of the Proving Ground, where the beautiful, little Peaches lived with her folks, back in those days. The boy got caught hitch hiking on a military base, and boy, did he get hassled by the pigs that day. He found out what it was to be hassled by some smart mouth MP. The guy acted like he wanted to shoot the kid for just touching his car door.
The bastard needed to get a life, treating a hurt child the way he treated the Jungle.
Jungle was the name his sister and her girlfriends called her brother George, because of that popular TV cartoon of the times, called George of the Jungle. In those days, all the kids in their circles had to have a nickname, and Jungle was George's name. It was much later on in life, that Jungle would finally permit his own sister to call him Georgie.
The beautiful little Peaches soon complained that their friendship was “not the same anymore,” for some mysterious reason, and the boy was left out a girlfriend, as well as without a bicycle. It all might have kept the status quot, would it have been to stop and tighten that one darned bolt, but the boy did not have his wrench with him, and the accident was beyond his control.
He was going too fast to stop when the problem developed.
The problem, and it's apparent consequences, had caught him totally unawares.
George S Geisinger
The old man shuffled slowly down the public sidewalk near the rest home, ambulating quietly but deliberately past the little cops of trees by the side of the road, with some considerably focused amount of effort on his part, with his very necessary rollator helping him to do the walking down the short distance he planned to walk, outside of the rest home, as he breathed heavily through an oxygen cannula to his nose.
A rollator is a fancy walker, with four relatively larger wheels than an ordinary walker, with a sort of high seat in the middle, used for resting. A rollator is generally used for greater ambulation than any sort of ordinary walker, and you always have a seat with you, to sit on temporarily, to take a break from your walking, if you ever need to rest along the way.
He kept the bottled oxygen cradled in the basket of the rollator.
A rollator could get you there faster than a two wheeled walker, if he could walk faster, and it looked like a far more sophisticated machine than a walker ever is, although the two gadgets cost about the same amount of money, and they function just about the same way, one as good as the other, although the one with four wheels happens to be a little more mobile than the more simple arrangement, the two wheeled walker.
Neither one is anything like a wheelchair.
A wheelchair is another matter altogether.
There was even more of a complication to the man's ambulation than simply having to hang on to a rollator, to keep himself from falling down anymore. He had been a smoker for 50 years, beginning in earnest in his youth, when he was well under age, after toying with cigarettes frequently from a very early age in his childhood. The complications to his health stemmed from smoking all sorts of things from very early on in life.
He'd not only been known to smoke cigarettes, but he'd been known to smoke reefer, hashish, rush, and PCP soaked parsley flakes, as well as dippers, which were standard cigarettes dipped in PCP, in order to make cigarettes into an hallucinatory chemical. PCP is actually a very powerful horse tranquilizer, used commonly to execute horses, but it is also a powerful hallucinogen when administered to human beings. The man had always preferred the hallucinogenics, relying on them to keep him isolated from the harsh realities of his youth.
The poor guy had smoked all sorts of things, with the solitary exception of never having smoked crack cocaine, or should we say, he avoided free basing cocaine early on, when people had just begun to experiment with that venue of getting high. He was becoming accustomed to being the fall risk he had finally become, which had a major detrimental effect on his walking, with increasing significance, the older the man became. At this particular time in his life, the man was aging rapidly, as a result of his breathing disability. All the smokeables had taken their toll on his respiratory system.
He had done almost all of the hallucinogenic drugs one could imagine, until he was almost grown. But he never took heroin, and avoided cocaine almost completely. One of his foster home buddies told him that all you had to do to get hooked on heroin was taste it once, so the man would never taste it, out of a healthy aversion to the chemical.. The worst things he took were things like PCP, LSD, magic mushrooms, and mescaline, for the purpose of escaping the horrors inherent in the staunch realities of his childhood.
The system had gotten him involved in the Program of Sobriety while he was still in his teens, and he had succeeded in getting himself started in a meaningful sobriety, as well as making the most of his higher education, by getting an advanced degree in Information Technology. He was a natural at computers, and made a lot of money in his lifetime, determined to make the success of himself that his parents had failed to accomplish.
All of the ongoing complications of needing to avoid having another fall, which necessitated some sort of regular, ongoing manual support when he walked, prior to his 60th birthday, he certainly could not go around play soldiers in the woods anymore, not that he particularly wanted to as an adult.
But the woods still had a certain allure for him, anyway.
Gazing wistfully toward those old trees and the unkempt undergrowth around them there, the old man couldn't help but wonder what it was that he ever saw in such places as the woods. He couldn't help himself from wondering what the whole big idea of going into the woods to play, as a child, had actually been for him. Then he remembered that the woods were always the safe haven for the boy that he used to be, that he'd frequently resorted to going and hiding in the woods, at any given moment in his rocky, unstable childhood, as a refuge, from his intoxicated, irrational parents.
The old man could remember his addicted, violent parents, who were seemingly unending in their abuse of the old man, who was remembering his life as a small child. He remembered his abuses frequently, as if they were an albatross around his neck. He could only stifle his urges to throw temper tantrums the way he used to do, when he had finally ended up a ward of the state. The thing that had accomplished that whole ball of wax, was the arrest his parents when they got carted of to prison for drug trafficking, when the guy who was an old man by this time, had still been a little boy.
He remembered as if it were yesterday.
He was passed around to all the foster homes for the remaining years of his childhood, until he had finally succeeded in raising himself, because there was nobody else to do it. He had spent his time with Voc Rehab, getting a degree and a job in computer technology, when IT was a new science, first opening up. His occupation in life did a lot to help him develop his independent resources. The man conquered all of his own addictive habits while he was working and reading books, to further his informal education, until he finally kicked the last of his addictions.
After 50 years of being addicted to nicotine, the man finally kicked the cigarettes.
There, surrounded by those trees and that undergrowth, in an entirely different day and time, the boy could be free to imagine all sorts of elaborate fantasies, and he could smoke cigarettes as a juvenile, if he might have had any cigarettes on him at the time, to smoke on those rare occasions he could find to comfort himself in his childhood, with a false sense of impunity from his domineering, manipulative parents, at any given moment of his turbulent, abused childhood.
The smoking was a matter of rebellion against his elders in his family, even as an adult, a good 50 years into adulthood. It took the death of all the elders in his family, for the man to finally triumph over his nicotine addiction in his own senior years. The time came, in the Rehab, where he'd gone to learn to walk again, after his very violent fall, when he finally realized he was cut down to about 5 cigarettes per day, when he was accustomed to smoking more like 50 cigarettes per day.
The damage was already done. He had already gone through whatever withdrawal he was going to go through. The only thing remaining for the man to do, was not go back to anymore smoke breaks while he remained at the Rehab. His nicotine addiction was already licked. It was only the old man's part to claim his victory and stop going to that outdoor place where there were a few die hard old men and old women, wasting their time and his, by sitting around in wheelchairs smoking cigarettes. It was no longer an attractive behavior in the mind of the man himself.
His chronic emphysema was cumulative, as it took over more and more of the old man's lungs, until he was finally forced to carry a heavy bottle of oxygen 24/7 everywhere he went, before the man was even 65 years old. His memories of childhood play, had grown dim in his many advancing years of living, as his brain got less and less oxygen from his debilitated lungs.
His gait slowed down to a snails pace, as he coursed wistfully past his symbolic little cops of trees, outside his rest home, where he liked to take his symbolically defiant little walks in his old age. There was no way, by this late date in his life, that the old guy could lick anything or anybody, except for resisting his addictions, which just happens to be no small matter for many a human being, in this day and time.
The fancies of his youth have left the old man bereft of his imagination at the moment, as he realizes easily enough, the necessity of walking with a rollator, his perpetual precaution against being fall risk, medically speaking. A while back, the man had fallen violently and broken his right hip, precluding any further driving of an automobile, without spending an awful lot of money to get the controls of a car altered to be specifically adjusted for his most recent physical disability.
He wasn't too alert anymore, either. The old man had become an invalid, living in a rest home with the other forgotten people of life. Every once in awhile he could go for a walk outside on the sidewalk, to look on without passion or fancy, at those few old trees that were there, in that little bit of a woods, down the street a little bit from the rest home where he'd chosen to live out his old age. All of his walks always took him to the same place, which he practiced as a deliberate act.
It had been a major effort for him to quit smoking.
If it not become so difficult for him to supply his habit in Rehab, the man would have picked up a smoke a long time ago by now. But the way things went, he would have had to walk five miles each way, in a blizzard after dark, to replenish his supply of smokes for that final moment of weakness. It had been quite awhile since he'd smoked at all. It was just not feasible for him to go get cigarettes, in spite of the intensity of his craving.
He had a severe case of the jumping heebie jeebies for a cigarette, one desolate evening at the Rehab, where he was relearning how to walk again. Since he could hardly walk down the heated hallway to get to his suite, from the dining room where everyone ate their meals. He was learning how to walk again, after that horrible fall he'd gone through. The man finally decided it was a fool's errand for him to try to walk five miles in a blizzard to get a hold of a pack of cigarettes.
It was a profound revelation.
He'd been given a titanium ball joint surgically, in his right hip, which was really quite sturdy, but it rendered him a perpetual fall risk, medically. The idea was that his hip would work like any normal hip, within reason. The idea of losing his balance and falling down again, was clearly something for him to avoid altogether. The only thing he could do this late in the game, was to keep himself on his own two feet whenever he walked. The reason for all the precautions, was not that the titanium was brittle. Titanium is anything but brittle.
That was far from the point.
The one thing that made him a perpetual fall risk, was the idea that all the human things around the titanium ball joint inserted into his femur, could possibly break in such a way that no orthopedic surgeon, regardless of his skill in surgery, would ever be able to repair the damage caused by another fall, so that the man might never be able to walk again in his lifetime. Rehab drummed that message into the man's subconsciousness mind on a daily basis. Our man even had trouble saying the message to himself coherently.
It was a medical imperative that he avoid falling at all, ever again. It was his responsibility to maintain the functionality of his right leg.
The old man gazed into those little bit of woods, and remembered playing soldiers in the woods up home, when he was little. He would simulate the noises of the imaginary battle with his own voice, and go cavorting around in those woods, flopping down on the ground anytime he liked. He'd been young and carefree then, or was supposed to be, with the few things he found to entertain himself, in an atmosphere around a house with a couple of junkies for parents, trying in vain to raise him, while actively feeding their own addictions.
As a child, the boy had fended for himself with as much ingenuity as he could muster, like his parents did, who would manipulate everyone around them, to get everything they had, from their own cigarettes, to the food on their table. When the boy had become a man, by the sweat of his own brow, as the addicted son of a couple of heroin addicts, the boy learned early about the value of money – and the value of a good education and a good job.
Now, the old man turns his rollator around, and slowly makes his way back to the rest home. His walk is almost over. He never did hear from his parents again after they'd been arrested for drug trafficking. Social Services saw to that. He was shuffled through the system, and learned in the Program of Sobriety how to lick his addictions like the craving he had for the reefer and the alcohol, which were bad enough addictions in the first place. He learned how much of a key it had become for him to avoid the alcohol.
Then, finally, he conquered the cigarettes.
He never had a wife or children, because he was too wary of others to trust anybody well enough to marry them. He got a job with computers when he was still a young adult. In those days all the professional programmers were using COBAL. Now that he was old, with enough of his own resources under his belt to be able to afford to live alone in a rest home for the remainder of his old age. He was slowly suffocating to death on emphysema. No one ever came to visit him in his old age.
There had never really been anyone he let into his life all that much.
George S Geisinger
The two legged had plenty on his mind, to make the driving that much more dangerous than usual. Besides that, it was very late at night, when the man-made stone that goes on forever across the land, was usually safe for the four legged to walk cross without being bothered by the suicide machines. The four legged were going about their business.
The two legged drove one of those suicide machines the four legged had always thought were some other kind of creature the Great One had made for all of the wild creatures to all have to deal with, whether they wanted to or not. The two legged had been to a sacred gathering of the strong in the faith of the Holy One. His thoughts were crowded with ideas he had been given in the gathering.
There were plenty of other two legged who would go there to that gathering. They would speak words of significance with one another about the Holy One. They did not carry steel barking sticks to their gathering, like some of the two legged would carry out into the woods on certain occasions, to bark at the four legged, and kill them for venison.
But this two legged was about to kill a four legged, whether he wanted to or not.
The four legged had been on their way to a stream they all knew, to get a drink of cold water, the way they always did late at night. They were all going, the one along with several of her sisters, and one of her sisters had just taken a few more clattering steps further in that direction when it suddenly happened.
There was a moment when there was suddenly an unfamiliar sound. Then. Thud! The four legged felt a great pain, and looked around herself, not comprehending that she was flying at the same moment she was dying. The four legged felt a sharp pain in her underbelly, as she shot several feet in the air, while her world careened out from under her altogether.
She found a way to look at all the things around her, from this novel perspective of being several feet up in the air. Her middle felt very open and airy, very uncharacteristically cold, for being her own middle. She came down and tried to run, but her heart was not strong enough to carry her.
Her heart was quite painful, as her middle was also painful. Eventually she landed, with a painful plop, and after running a little way away from where she'd been hit, found she did not have enough strength left in her, to stay on her feet any longer. The doe found that her middle was hanging open, and she attempted once more to rise, but failed.
The suicide machine had stopped a little way down the road, and just sat there, for some reason the four legged could not understand. The two legged was staying inside the suicide machine, and did not seem to be concerned with where the four legged had gone. For some reason, that fact reassured the four legged, that there would be nothing further from the two legged for the four legged to have to concern herself with.
Her sisters had scattered, when the suicide machine had hit the four legged. There was a lot of what happened that none of the four legged understood. They knew that their sister had been killed. They had no idea why or how. They only knew she was dead and gone.
George S Geisinger
The man cannot find a concept of community with those around him. There has never really been a concept of community where he's been almost all of his life. His father's professional background was unsuccessful, and the family did not have a stable basis of constancy to fall back on, anywhere they went. The problem was not simply isolated to his childhood, either.
The man was a transient, all his life long.
They moved around every year, for his first several years in life, and there was always something inside of the boy that was never really resolved in the man. There is an irrational fear that had finally reached a point of definition for him, and the man finally knows why he has been afraid all his life.
It should have stopped him from running altogether, and it did, but it did not help him to be more comfortable where he was. He likes it here, but wants to run away anyway.
It isn't his fault.
It was a concentrated form of child abuse that had made him a shape shifter all his life. It was confusing to those around him, because the man could not maintain a consistent persona throughout his dealings with anyone around him. It has been a matter of torment that had done this thing to him, and few have any concept of the extent of the torment itself.
But the knowledge of it didn't resolve his feeling of being an unknown and unsettled individual in all of his social pursuits, throughout his life. There have always been people who knew the man, and then noticed the man disappeared from their circles abruptly.
There had always been a question about whether the man had lived or died.
There was no way for the man to transmit the answer to such a question to the people who matter the most.
His removal from the society of his friends had been so frequent. so abrupt, with no coherent statements tossed around among those that matter, about where he'd gone, or why. He imagines there must be hundreds – even thousands – of friends of his, who honestly have no report, no clear concept of where the Shadow had gone, or how he fared in life since they'd last seen him.
He had his concept of diary keeping settled relatively well. He could make observations about his surroundings rather easily. The Shadow was indeed a writer. The issue of circulating his documentation was part of the problem. No one knew, by enlarge, where the boy or the man ended up going on to. He would just disappear from their circles and never come back.
That was his MO.
He can remember events, and chronicle things that have transpired around him rather accurately. He's a good historian of things that had happened around him, and to him as well, up to a point. But the man is not so good at congealing his experience into a cohesive, whole concept of human dynamics, nor is he good at publishing his continuity of life to his many friends, would know and understand what had happened to him.
He is always bailing out of awkward situations.
But how does one arrive at a concept of community? How can one man, who's been betrayed and abused by so many, begin to trust one solitary environment, such that he feels comfortable enough to stay put, long enough that he can develop friendships and put down roots where he is.
What he wants to do is the same thing as he'd always done. He wants to runaway. He wants to devise a plan to engineer his own escape from his very stable environment, so that he can generate even more perplexed people, who cannot know where he's gone.
This is his instinctual response to staying in one place for the better part of two years. He's been brought up to be runaway, and he is finally more reserved at doing such things than he's ever been before. The other thing standing his way, where he is, is that he truly likes it where he's living.
The man is not interested in leaving his place behind. It has proven to be too secure for leaving. He has no idea where to go, so he postpones all plans to run, and all plans to travel. His relative safety and comfort of his current circumstances are significant enough.
He understands he has no comparable place to turn to.
There are his many friends, and those he knows who care about him. There are also people he cares about the most, well enough to know about them, specifically, and that those people are significant to him, right here where he is. The Shadow no longer has any place to run.
He's been edged out of the places he used to run.
Then there are people he will not associate within his environment. They managed to get themselves classified as dangerous to his best interest. The man is not interested in flirting with danger anymore than he can avoid it. He'd done too much of that already. He figures it won't be safe to associate with those people at all, so he just edges them out of his circles altogether.
Avoiding eye contact, and not responding to them is effective, by enlarge.
The man is a shape shifter. A loner. He has a way of being one thing at one time, and something else altogether at another time. It isn't a matter of integrity, it's a matter of definitions. There are times the man can be the life of the party, and has the love and respect of all around him. Other times, he is unable to be the slightest bit social with anyone.
Those times will shift him into his time in his suite, where he will become something – someone – else, entirely. The use of power plants had done enough of the work on his thinking and perceptions to narrow down his feelings of brotherhood and trust of others.
The Shadow believes he has known few brothers.
There are a very few, indeed, that he will actually admit that he knows significantly, any dynamics of those around him. Mostly, the man does not figure he knows others hardly at all. It is only that others know him, and that he will freely tell certain people certain things about himself.
Then there are the things he'll write, and things he won't.
George S Geisinger
The boy was taught by his grandfather's grandfather to sing his Spirit song to the eagle to know what the Great One had to say to him. The eagle would always answer his Spirit cleansing from above, and tell the boy the answer to the Sacred question on his heart.
These were the old ways of the Human Beings, from before the locust people came into the land. It took the slightest bit of singing his Spirit song, then listening, on the part of the boy. The Spirit song had always had the power for the Human Beings, in the past.
The boy sat and cleansed himself before the Great One.
He had always been spoken to by the eagle when he cleansed his heart in silence.
It was a reinforcement of his Spirit song that the eagle would always give the boy a reply, whenever he lived with the Human Beings. In the times of the Too Many to Count, the locust people came to be in the land, they began imposing their ways on the Human Beings.
They were always taking things away from the Human Beings. The Too Many to Count would take their Spirit ways away from the Human Beings too, like they took everything else. They took their land, the Buffalo. Finally, they took their children.
The children of the Human Beings were taken into schools and taught how to speak the language of the locust people, and to know all the ways of the Too Many to Count. There was no Spirit power in the ways of the locust people. There was only stronger violence in their ways.
The Human Beings would have kept fighting the Too Many to Count, but all the locust people would do was kill, and kill. The Human Beings tried to wage war against the Too Many to Count, but they did not have the power to win their war against them.
There was no heart in the locust people's ways at all. The locust people took away the Spirit names of the children and would only name them in their language. Their language had no heart. Their Spirit ways had no heart. The Too Many to Count had ways that only made the Human Beings sick, and they killed a lot of them.
They cut the children's hair, and gave them books, taught them to read. There were so many locust people, it did not matter that the old ways of the Human Beings were being destroyed. It didn't matter to the Too Many to Count, but it mattered to the Human Beings. Little Elk was brave, and would not let the locust people cut his hair until he talked to the eagle.
He wanted to talk to the eagle, and he sat a long time out front of the locust people's school for the children of the Human Beings, listening to the Great One, before he heard the eagle call. He heard the eagle respond to the cleansing of his Spirit in sacred silence. Finally, the eagle called once. The boy sang his Spirit song, and the eagle remained silent.
He sang his Spirit song to the Eagle, and there was no reply. The power to speak with all of Nature was gone from the Human Beings, and the boy knew. The boy got out his knife, and cut his hair, because the Great One had not spoken. The boy knew the power had gone to the Too Many to Count. The Too Many to Count were here to stay.
They're Not Locust
George S Geisinger
Desolation was only a step away. I wrote that statement about the Locust People very carefully, then spoke my mind to my Higher Power, and then to several people I happen to know are friends. My Higher Power opened a doorway to a new friendship, directly from a casual acquaintance, as I reached out for a new friend to talk to. I've expanded my own horizons.
My new friend understood I had a need to talk, and gladly accompanied me to dinner.
It was as natural as sitting down to eat with my late grandmother, late mother, or late aunt.
All of them are long gone by now, but my listener was willing and cooperative, as any late relative of mine would have been. I spoke fluently. I told much of the tale of the two legged and the four legged. I spoke much of the tale of the Too Many to Count, the tale about the locust people, which subject I've broached before I've posted here.
I have not held back, except to withhold self-focused violence.
The four legged have considered the two legged, and all of their running around in their suicide machines, and the four legged does not understand the two legged at all. How do they kill so many four legged, with something the four legged can't even notice, until it's too late? The two legged are very dangerous animals, who seem to hate the four legged, and covet even the ground they walk on.
Why do so many four legged need to die at the hands of the two legged?
It doesn't make sense.
The four legged have made themselves as harmless as they can muster. They could not be anymore harmless than they already are. They never hurt the two legged. They never do. Why is it that the two legged have to grab the four legged, and throw them up in the air so violently, or is the suicide machine some new creature made by the Creator Himself?
The Creator won't say.
He's been silent toward the four legged for a long time now.
The two legged speak a different language than the four legged do. It's not even safe for the four legged to attempt to speak to the two legged. They are mortal enemies, the two legged and the four legged. They always have been. There is something lethal about even trying to get a drink of water on the other side of the man-made stone, when the four legged has to cross it, the stone goes continuously around all over the land in every direction.
The two legged have always hunted the four legged. They've hunted them on all that man-made stone endlessly, every which way the four legged turn. Then, sometimes the two legged will stand far off, and there will be a loud bark. Then one of the four legged will drop away, and the four legged who survive can't ever understand.
There is some ancient folk lore among the four legged, about the time before the two legged would even bark when they hunted, but the four legged would die anyway. The two legged are very dangerous creatures. They have powers to kill in ways no four legged can understand.
The two legged reasoning is not clear to the four legged.
The gentlewoman I shared table with this evening was easy to talk to. I made a new friend out of an amicable acquaintance. I've always enjoyed an entirely different and more positive mood after a little bit of supper, than all that heavy desolation I suffered before supper. I had gone downstairs here at assisted living, and found a working woman who thought my joke was funny:
“I went to Hawaii to get laid.” I don't know how they spell it in Hawaii!
She said she would probably have laughed in front of everybody – and lost her job! Another one of the working ladies, the one whom I thought I had offended with the joke, was not at all ruffled by my sense of humor. I imagined it. She was only concerned about how some of the elderly might have reacted – if they would have even heard the comment in the first place.
Many people around here in assisted living are as deaf as a stone.
Many of them can't hear anyone say a word in this place. They're constantly yelling at people because they have such a challenge even hearing their own voices. She was taken off guard at my comment, but the activities director had no problem with me, personally. She even appreciated my thoughtful public apology, which seemed pointless to all those deaf people.
The whole issue was resolved with just a few casual words.
My grand dissociation was greatly exaggerated, or created by my chemical imbalance.
Maybe it was a drop in my blood/sugar level.
That's why I do what I do: I pray. I reach out to people. I write. I fight the depression and desolation with every ounce of strength I can muster, because I'm well aware that when I fall into the depths of desolation like that, which does happen to me far to easily, my life is temporarily in danger from my own hand.
I'm learning to defuse the bomb before it goes off. I occasionally become at least slightly dangerous to myself. It's not a game to me. It's deadly serious stuff. It's something my chemical imbalance does to my brain, whenever I get to certain junctures in my conceptualizing. It does happen to be a significant problem for me sometimes, like before a meal, for instance.
I've learned how to survive a mood like that, harmlessly enough.
People are always telling me to take it a little easier on myself.
At least I've learned to do all these other things, and avoid doing anything too irreversible, like yelling in public, or attacking my own body. I've learned that the hard way. I've learned to take the most severe depressions and desolation’s of my heart and soul, with a grain of salt; and avoid doing anything too drastic. I've learned that those moods are dangerous, and that I should do certain things which are basically harmless, until I feel better.
I've learned how and why to fight back against a state of mind like that one.
My Maker taught me in my heart, how to fight back with my writing and my talking, against the desolation and depression. Those concepts are very dangerous to my health. I've attempted suicide once before, way back in 1975, with thought patterns like the one I've opened this story with. I refuse to submit to my own self-loathing. I owe it to myself, as well as to my Maker, to take thoughts like that one in stride, to the best of my ability.
I can write it all down, so it sounds like a brief sci fi story. I can get into it and out of it again so quickly, but then I have to gravitate toward something and someone else, anything more positive than anything I've written otherwise. I've learned that I'm at war with a state of mind which threatens my very existence, until I give it the full treatment. At long last, I feel relieved enough to do the good work that I've accomplished while fighting the good fight.
My Higher Power made me individually and significantly.
He has called my name from the place where souls are made.
It's important for me to do battle against all those kinds of thoughts, and to see them, to look at them, for what they really are. They are only bad thoughts. Those thoughts are a bad mood, and nothing more. I needed to cheer up when I think like that. I am no longer in much more danger than any ordinary man would be. By this time, the fire has gone out of my mood.
I've struggled to disarm the mood, and have won the struggle.
George S Geisinger
The locust people, the Too Many to Count, are everywhere around me now.
I can't find any other conclusion about life to arrive at, about my surroundings.
I have no hiding place, except sitting alone in my suite and writing in my notebook. There is really no one to understand me at a gut level around here anymore. My instincts are too young for the crowd around here to comprehend. I would do a lot better to live around a younger generation, like my own generation, if there were an environment like that anywhere around, for me to transfer to.
But there's not.
They don't speak my language here, and sometimes I'd like to speak that language with someone, just to be free to speak my mind freely, for a change. Many of them say they care about me, and maybe they do, at that, but most don't seem to understand what I have to say, whenever I dare to let my hair down at all.
I end up perpetually struggling at the impossible process of being me.
I always have to be careful I don't offend someone.
There's no hiding place for me now, except for when I'm alone in my suite, where there are not those whom I have to apply to, to gain understanding with, by using the few, carefully chosen words to express myself, the way I've always had to do here. Everywhere I go, there are the locust people, the Too Many to Count, who refuse to understand, who cannot understand, who are offended by my very rhetoric, not to mention my point that I'm trying to make.
My Spiritual beliefs and my sexuality are a stench in people's nostrils around here.
It's not only unnerving, it's debilitating.
Everyone needs to have someone to let their hair down with, if they can only find someone who can except that sort of casual behavior out of them. All I know is that I have fewer and fewer people to relate to as time goes by. I find my plight to be one of isolation and lack of communication, from all three of my closest friends.
The only shield people I held on to, to get away from the Too Many to Count, the locust people, were the Program people, or some of the employees around here. Now, I don't even dare utilize those venues. That's become plain to me. Those folks in those places have turned on me significantly, and demonstrated to me plainly enough, that they can no longer be trusted to treat me with deference, without taking unkind offense at me, in one way or another.
The Program people are too dangerous to my health, just as the locust people are.
It's a lonely, desolate place to be.
I told a joke in public the other day, and my closest friend among the staff looked at me with fear in her eyes. That's what was there. Fear. Now, I feel that I've offended her significantly, and don't understand how to recover my place with her at all. I leave her alone. She was my closest friend on the staff, and now I leave her alone. I've ruined my place with her so significantly, and sometimes wonder whether some of my arguments with my editor are chasing her off, too.
There are very few Human Beings left, who naturally agree with my position about very many things at all. I find that those that do know, who seem to understand, are less accessible to me than everyone else is around here. There are those who agree with me, who have also been required to perform with a code of ethics and code of behavior they adhere to.
They work here.
It's part of their job to get along with me.
There are only the locust people, and the only one I have to talk to is one or other of them. He's my brother, my sponsor, or my editor, and if I let fly with any of the street dialect I have a tendency to resort to in my speech, anyone I have access to say something to, only gets offended at my rhetoric, and never even considers my point, much less comprehends it, in the first place.
The only recourse I can see at the moment is to keep writing for my audience, wherever, whenever, and whomever they might happen to be. It is only important for me to continue to create a body of work. I continue to feel I'm compelled to write what I'm writing, that I'm addressing a specific audience. That my audience is not necessarily my brother, my sponsor, or my editor.
My most significant audience is somewhere else, maybe at some other time altogether. I don't think I can travel in those circles at the moment. I think I can know now, what the Native Americans were going through, when they all of a sudden found out how ruthless the locust people were around them; of how the locust people would not permit the Human Beings to practice things like their communing with their ancestors, which was their Spiritual Life.
I have had seen visions and dreamed dreams. I am a shaman. If I tell any of these people about that, they'll be certain to lock me up, as a derelict and a rebel, too dangerous to have on the streets, or walking the halls of assisted living. The locust people talk a good game, but their hearts are empty, like their words.
They talk about their god all the time, and yet they fear death.
A single word of differing perspective about their god will do the trick. It sets them off right away. Also, if I try saying anything suggestive to any of the attractive women around here – and it seems like there are nothing but old women and old men around here, except for a few staff – it seems that all those people will shut you out, at the very mention of their god, or at the very mention of any sexual suggestion, or the mention of any sort of Spiritual belief other than their own.
It's a lonely road to travel.