"When the going gets weird, the weird turn Pro"
Hunter S. Thompson
Entries from January 1, 2008 - February 1, 2008
Jimmy
He is five years old, with an impish grin, a personality far too grand for the olive complected, scrawny yet strong assemblage of arms, legs, and jet black hair. His smile containing his entire young soul, beaming bright enough to erase all doubts of God, in those that were fortunate enough to be baptized in it. Born into strife and poverty, he is blissfully unaware that his very existence is the cause of bitter conflict. Two families torn asunder at his conception, one Italian, one German, during a time in the tenements of Chicago, where the mixing of nationalities was met by the shunning of both.
His father, a handsome German youth of questionable intentions, afflicted by heart disease and alcoholism, was a tenant of his mother’s fiercely proud Italian family. Della was the second youngest daughter in a family of nine, a bit homely and recalcitrant, an easy mark for the suave flirtations of the older German boy living in one of her father’s buildings. The two enjoyed their secret meetings in and out of the shadows of disapproving eyes, until Della’s belly began to swell with the exuberant life of her first born son. Disowned by her family as a whore, disowned by his family in shame, the two struck out to brave the waters of life in their cardboard vessel, certain to sink and perish.
At 6 months, Jimmy’s father was arrested and jailed for a bungled robbery, a get rich quick scheme born of laziness and a lack of ambition, fueled by whiskey courage. He met his father as a cuddly three year old, and was soon to welcome a brother and two sisters each a year apart. Poor, ill, with little success in securing employment, the ill fated family were at the mercy of Jim Sr.’s family, and were just barely able to scrape together the funds necessary to keep a shotgun apartment roof over their heads.
Five year old Jimmy, this effervescent little soul, lies in the parlor that his parents converted to a bedroom with a sheet and clothespins, with his younger siblings. He says his prayer to a deaf saviour, pleading not to wet the bed again tonight. It is a cold winter, all the children shivering in their thin blankets, and the single wood burning stove which provides heat, is at the very back of the apartment, in the rickety little kitchen. Through the parlor, through his parent’s sleeping room, through their closet to the bathroom, and through the bathroom to the kitchen, the staves of wood not enough to keep the frost off the bedclothes in the front rooms, a seemingly endless distance to where Jimmy lies cold and fearful.
He just knew, that tonight would be the night that he wouldn’t have an accident. Tonight he wouldn’t wake up to needling pinpricks of pain, caused by the wetting and freezing of the sheets, to his skinny little legs. He would be warm like his brother and sisters that didn’t wet the bed, and were allowed to cuddle together in the bed across from him. Every night the same dreaded fear, chased away by optimism and prayer enough to allow his little eyes to close in slumber, to awake in pain and suffering. He would lie there, in that damp freezing bed, fearful to wake his mother and father, afraid of the yelling and the blows to his backside that were sure to follow the discovery of soiled sheets.
I cried today hearing this story from the man I love, my Jimmy. He has often said to me during the many cold winters we have shared together, that no matter what struggle life may bring, he will always feel grateful for a warm house. I finally understand why.
His father, a handsome German youth of questionable intentions, afflicted by heart disease and alcoholism, was a tenant of his mother’s fiercely proud Italian family. Della was the second youngest daughter in a family of nine, a bit homely and recalcitrant, an easy mark for the suave flirtations of the older German boy living in one of her father’s buildings. The two enjoyed their secret meetings in and out of the shadows of disapproving eyes, until Della’s belly began to swell with the exuberant life of her first born son. Disowned by her family as a whore, disowned by his family in shame, the two struck out to brave the waters of life in their cardboard vessel, certain to sink and perish.
At 6 months, Jimmy’s father was arrested and jailed for a bungled robbery, a get rich quick scheme born of laziness and a lack of ambition, fueled by whiskey courage. He met his father as a cuddly three year old, and was soon to welcome a brother and two sisters each a year apart. Poor, ill, with little success in securing employment, the ill fated family were at the mercy of Jim Sr.’s family, and were just barely able to scrape together the funds necessary to keep a shotgun apartment roof over their heads.
Five year old Jimmy, this effervescent little soul, lies in the parlor that his parents converted to a bedroom with a sheet and clothespins, with his younger siblings. He says his prayer to a deaf saviour, pleading not to wet the bed again tonight. It is a cold winter, all the children shivering in their thin blankets, and the single wood burning stove which provides heat, is at the very back of the apartment, in the rickety little kitchen. Through the parlor, through his parent’s sleeping room, through their closet to the bathroom, and through the bathroom to the kitchen, the staves of wood not enough to keep the frost off the bedclothes in the front rooms, a seemingly endless distance to where Jimmy lies cold and fearful.
He just knew, that tonight would be the night that he wouldn’t have an accident. Tonight he wouldn’t wake up to needling pinpricks of pain, caused by the wetting and freezing of the sheets, to his skinny little legs. He would be warm like his brother and sisters that didn’t wet the bed, and were allowed to cuddle together in the bed across from him. Every night the same dreaded fear, chased away by optimism and prayer enough to allow his little eyes to close in slumber, to awake in pain and suffering. He would lie there, in that damp freezing bed, fearful to wake his mother and father, afraid of the yelling and the blows to his backside that were sure to follow the discovery of soiled sheets.
I cried today hearing this story from the man I love, my Jimmy. He has often said to me during the many cold winters we have shared together, that no matter what struggle life may bring, he will always feel grateful for a warm house. I finally understand why.
tater
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Steps
His fingertips fluttered upon his cheek, following the lines he found there. Tracing the canyons of insecurity, wondering at the genesis. Time? Worry? Bad habits coalescing as a stamp for others to eyeball and cluck at inside the silence of appraising glances? A mirror reflecting his internal dialog of disappointments, thoughts half spoken partially submerged and constantly seeking their outward expression, cracking his facade of smooth proficiency and competence with faults of truth.
These moments of lucidity terrorize with their implications, spinning his world, exposing the cables and supports which keep the scenery standing on his constructed stage. Broken links and doorways to brick walls clutter and obstruct his perception of self, and beg to be set right and reordered. A new year with a variety of possibilities impossible to construct, without razing the littered set to its foundations. His eyes stare back at him unblinking as he reflects back on choices and actions, voicing the rhetorical question, seeking to divine the first wrong turn that had brought him here.
If love is the foundation, then honesty is the rebar which strengthens and defends against these unexpected storms. The answer as definite as these worry lines, etched upon this fading child face. He will admit those things he is powerless over. He will realize love is a power greater than himself which can restore him to sanity. He will turn his will and life over to the care and nurture of this new realization. He will not shun the burden of taking a fearless moral inventory with honesty as a klieg light, exposing all those fearsome dark corners. He will share the nature of those wrongs with all in his circle of love, readying himself to be cleansed of these defects of character plaguing him. Humility allowing the genuine task of asking this cleansing force to remove his shortcomings and provide shelter and serenity, after completing the Herculean task of compiling a list of amends to those he had harmed, and making such amends whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. Such is the nature of deconstruction to the core of love and honesty.
The new year a process of rebuilding, and being consistently aware that success depends on honesty, and being able to promptly admit those times when he is wrong. He must open himself up to the love surrounding him, suppressing will of self, in favor of the greater truths he keeps in conscious contact with.
His expression lights up as he caresses the honorable sashes of age on the corner of his eyes. The light of spiritual awakening dancing across his features and cleansing away his sorrow. He makes a promise to himself then and there, that he will take these simple steps and practice them in all his daily affairs in order to know peace, and will reach out to those he sees suffering, that they may find the truth they struggle to return to.
These moments of lucidity terrorize with their implications, spinning his world, exposing the cables and supports which keep the scenery standing on his constructed stage. Broken links and doorways to brick walls clutter and obstruct his perception of self, and beg to be set right and reordered. A new year with a variety of possibilities impossible to construct, without razing the littered set to its foundations. His eyes stare back at him unblinking as he reflects back on choices and actions, voicing the rhetorical question, seeking to divine the first wrong turn that had brought him here.
If love is the foundation, then honesty is the rebar which strengthens and defends against these unexpected storms. The answer as definite as these worry lines, etched upon this fading child face. He will admit those things he is powerless over. He will realize love is a power greater than himself which can restore him to sanity. He will turn his will and life over to the care and nurture of this new realization. He will not shun the burden of taking a fearless moral inventory with honesty as a klieg light, exposing all those fearsome dark corners. He will share the nature of those wrongs with all in his circle of love, readying himself to be cleansed of these defects of character plaguing him. Humility allowing the genuine task of asking this cleansing force to remove his shortcomings and provide shelter and serenity, after completing the Herculean task of compiling a list of amends to those he had harmed, and making such amends whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. Such is the nature of deconstruction to the core of love and honesty.
The new year a process of rebuilding, and being consistently aware that success depends on honesty, and being able to promptly admit those times when he is wrong. He must open himself up to the love surrounding him, suppressing will of self, in favor of the greater truths he keeps in conscious contact with.
His expression lights up as he caresses the honorable sashes of age on the corner of his eyes. The light of spiritual awakening dancing across his features and cleansing away his sorrow. He makes a promise to himself then and there, that he will take these simple steps and practice them in all his daily affairs in order to know peace, and will reach out to those he sees suffering, that they may find the truth they struggle to return to.