'My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
T. S. Eliot, from The Wasteland (1922)
The small god of the world will never change his ways
And is as whimsical--as on the first of days,
His life might be a bit more fun,
Had you not given him that spark of heaven's sun;
He calls it reason and employs it resolute
To be more brutish than is any brute.
Goethe, from Faust
"There is no happiness in comfort; happiness is brought by suffering. Man is not born to happiness."
Dostoevsky, from Notebooks: Idea of the Novel
NANCY & ME
Notwithstanding those infamous authors who invented the mendacious memoir: Clifford Irving, who in 1972 penned the fictitious autobiography of Howard R. Hughes; Binjamin Wilkomirski (Bruno Doesseekker) whose 1996 memoir, “Fragments,” offers the harrowing, but wholly fictional, story of the Nazi concentration camp he survived as a Latvian Jewish orphan; Misha Defonseca (Monique De Wael), in “Misha: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years,” spins a yarn out of whole cloth about a woman who, rather than living with wolves and killing German soldiers, grew up a Belgium Catholic; Nasdijj, a Native American who, in his youth, was sexually abused by his white father, and in his adult years adopted a child with fetal alcohol syndrome and tended to his brethren suffering from AIDS (his real name is Tim Barrus, a white man whose only writing experience is in the field of gay pornography); Laura Albert (J T Leroy), who in her 2006 novel, “Sarah,” and the short story collection that followed, “The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things,” constructed a fiction written in the persona of the son of a West Virginia truck-stop prostitute, after which she had the half-sister of her friend impersonate the fictitious mother in public readings; James Frey, who in 2005 reinvented himself in “Million Little Pieces,” as a hopeless drug addict who sought redemption in rehab (it wasn’t true); Emily Davies, whose pseudo-memoir, “How to Wear Black: Adventures on Fashion’s Frontline,” chronicled her made-up experiences in the fashion world (plagiarized passages were rampant); and Margaret B. Jones (Margaret Seltzer), who gave us the 2007 gang memoir, “Love and Consequences,” this story is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth (aren’t all narratives, in some sense, fabrications?)[1].
While the story is true, I don’t have to invent a pseudonym for the subject of this tale. Why, because the name she gave me was made up to begin with. She told me her name was Nancy, and I believed her. But if her name was a lie, her physical presence was very real, sometimes surreal. I intend for her story to be a recurring narrative for awhile. I’ll sort of serialize it and see where it takes us.
[1] Those of you interested in postmodern/poststructuralist (deconstructive) literary theory might consider the case of Paul de Mann. After his death it was discovered that he had written anti-semetic and pro-German articles for the Nazis in the 1940s.
March 8, 2008
March 7, 2008
Written on the Wind (True Story)
She punched in the keywords “Privacy Boundaries” and there it was, just like the lost WWII squadron in “Close Encounters”. My girlfriend, Brigitte, had gone to the library site at Bruce State University and the first thing that popped up was the abstract for my dissertation. It was registered under the Communications Department. Is that my discipline? Well, not really. Actually I have a doctorate in English Language and Literature. But I wrote every word of it. For a long time I thought I would never see it again, after all I wrote it for someone so psychotic that; a) I never really believed a major university dissertation committee would allow someone as dysfunctional as Nancy to get a degree and; B) I was resigned to the fact that her meticulous thwarting of my every attempt to find out her real name and where she went to school would forever prevent me from seeing the fruit of my…err…research. I first met her at Angel College.
March 6, 2008
The Rise of Plutonism
1991Although it was hardly noticed at the time by reviewers, on July 18, 1990 a two-volume work was published in Milwaukee, the manuscript was written in prison during the previous year and a half by Zeke Pluto. “Anarchies of Reason” and “Anxiety of Contentment” set out the Plutonic Signifier’s philosophy.
It was evident from a close reading of the work that Pluto had strong pretensions to entrenching a major religious movement, and that he considered the world as a whole to be in danger of forever corrupting itself. There were, he argued in the book--as he had earlier and repeatedly argued in the public arena in Queen City and elsewhere in the mid-west--twin perils threatening "the fabric of humanity." One was the “soulessness” inherent to unchecked technological growth, the other, "rampant utilitarianism." It was his experience in foster care, military service and prison that taught him "the truth" about the New World Order's' Conspiracy to rid the world of "altruistic collectivism" by means of political coercion, ideological domination, and spiritual corruption.
The rubric, New World Order," hitherto an umbrella term, referring to those economically affluent nations defined as the First World, took on, in Pluto's theory, a new meaning, one that within a decade was to capture the minds of millions worldwide. For Pluto, "altruistic collectivism" was synonymous with "virtue." By contrast, "New World Order Conspiracy" was synonymous with "moral corruption." Pluto's ideological tracts were full of appeals to individual Edenic innocence and vulnerability. Considering the "inexorable insidiousness" of the New World Orders' political project, Pluto wrote, "how could their unfortunate victims be blamed?" The politics of the mass consumer culture conspiracy were such that its proponents were precision disseminators of "dialectical perfidy." Their ideological apparatuses were marked by what Pluto deemed, “pseudological” distortions of truth. According to Pluto, modern life itself was a calculated device, an epistemological and ontological trap. The bourgeoisie working class worldwide and the global under-class were the victims, not the beneficiaries, of technological progress.
Pluto positioned himself in "Anxiety of Contentment" as a man who had experienced, and who would forever reject, not only the depersonalization of progress, but also the destruction of a sensibility of communal obligation and therefore life on earth. The threat, as he perceived it, concerned the integrity of self-identity and personal autonomy, and the New Order’s attempt to deliberately sever the connection between material progress and moral responsibility. He told his readers:
"The ideological functionary bides his time, insidiously categorizing, quantifying and appropriating the unsuspecting target's ontological center with his pernicious psychosocial machinations, indoctrinating through a dogma of false consciousness and thus alienating the subject from the bosom of the natural world. The New world Order ideologue marshals every resource available to undermine the foundations of core selfhood. Systematically, he blurs the distinction between ego and machine, striving to sever the ties between self and language. Technology, misused, is responsible for weapons both inert and organic that present the most dangerous and immediate threat to mankind. Only through an unremitting and thorough rejection of technological meliorism can we prevent the impending apocalypse."
In “Anarchies of Reason” Pluto outlined his mission: he would expose and then annihilate the looming threat posed by the rise of technology. Pluto not only warned his readers of what he considered the life-threatening dangers to mankind; he also explained his role in combating those dangers. His message was apocalyptic: "Should schizophrenic technology, aided by consumer ideology, triumph over being," Pluto wrote, "its inexorable movement will be the funeral march of mankind, and this planet will follow its orbit through the ether, without any human life on its surface, as it did millions of years ago. And so I believe today that my conduct is in accordance with the will of the unnamed and prime mover. In smiting down the technologies of materialism I am defending the Lord's creation."
By 1992, Zeke Pluto's attraction reflected his cults' propagandists' political skill in creating a hero of the man of the streets, and in glorifying him as an innocent victim of a soulless society. Pluto did not impress all observers.
Theologically, Plato's dogma was predicated on those gaps that comprise the contradiction between faith and disbelief. His ministry was an attempt to reconcile this paradox. Pluto understood that, if the Bible tells us that "God is our refuge and strength, / a very present help in trouble (Psalms 46:1), we should also understand that, as Thomas Szaz put it, "If you talk to God you are praying; if God talks to you, you have schizophrenia." It was within this schizophrenic rapture that mediated God's "talk" that Pluto found the core of his doctrine. Schizophrenia, in fact, came to define Pluto's ideas on how one should live. That the "New World Order," a post cold-war euphemism for the "ancien regime," would associate this sensibility with silent minorities and the fanatic fringe was typical of pre-genocidal propaganda historically.
The left colored him as a racist ethnocentric while the right saw him as an immoral Jeremiah born of anarchistic revolutionary forces. So it was easy for conservative talking heads, like Howie Boekrusch, and liberal byte-spinners, like McCarthy Magwitch, to condemn Pluto's ideas according to their self-tailored political agendas. In one famous tract, Boekrusch (pronounced Buckrush), compared Pluto's cult members to the Hutu minority, who, in Rwanda in 1994, butchered 800,000 of the Tutsi majority. The colonial construction of this bloody rift was never mentioned. In a similar fashion, Magwitch had excoriated Pluto on theoretical grounds, claiming that the totalitarian bent of his group should be less influenced by Stalin and Mao than Marx and Trotsky. The charge was that Pluto had abandoned all things socialistic and even democratic, applying violence as a means of internal allegiance in the same way that dictators resorted to terror as an instrument of domestic policy. Both views held some truth.
March 5, 2008
Claude Guerre 1957 (Fiction)
Now the fall and winter of our discontent gives way to the hopeful uncertainty of spring. To live with uncertainty is to be in the real. Illness banishes that most cherished myth of the healthy: the denial of finitude.
FUBAR plays Happy Hour this Friday at the Heidelberg Club Above in Ann Arbor (5:30-8:30). Please attend.
The fictions that randomly appear are excerpts from a manuscript I began some years ago. A central strand of the story has to do with the rise of Zeke Pluto and the cult of Plutonism. A parallel narrative thread concerns the sordid history of his father, Claude Guerre. I would only add that memoir, unlike autobiography, is a sort of creative non-fiction. This isn’t that. What follows is a story loosely based on my own childhood memories of growing up. Here is an excerpt.
FUBAR plays Happy Hour this Friday at the Heidelberg Club Above in Ann Arbor (5:30-8:30). Please attend.
The fictions that randomly appear are excerpts from a manuscript I began some years ago. A central strand of the story has to do with the rise of Zeke Pluto and the cult of Plutonism. A parallel narrative thread concerns the sordid history of his father, Claude Guerre. I would only add that memoir, unlike autobiography, is a sort of creative non-fiction. This isn’t that. What follows is a story loosely based on my own childhood memories of growing up. Here is an excerpt.
1957
Sergeant Love
When Nancy was 10 and Celeste was 14, they would often sit in the dark at the top of the stairs and listen to Sgt. and Mrs. Hank Guerre fight. The Sarge would choke Jean while she would cry and taunt him derisively. A typical bout would begin with an enraged Hank accusing Jean of cheating. A charge which she would invariably admit to and sarcasticlly beg forgiveness. Hank's response to this was to abuse and berate her in the cruelest way--physically and psychologically. It was also his habit to follow these horrible sessions by sitting his blood son on his knee and asking him me who he loved the most, the Sarge or the boy's mother; and who little Claude would want to live with if they ever divorced. During the worst of these tirades he would threaten to kill their mother if she ever tried to leave.
On one such occasion, it was a scraping noise in the kitchen that woke Hank. Puzzled, he stumbled downstairs. The closeness of the overheated living room stoked his raging hangover. He crouched behind the banister, silently spying on her. Then, emerging from the alcoholic mists that perpetually swirled around him, he focused his attention on the shabby, lumped form immersed in the dirty dishwater of fish-stick cookie sheets and ketchup enameled plastic plates. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, Jean paused. "Sweetie. Do that in the morning; what are you, nuts or something!" he said. Clutching her nightgown to her neck, she gasped, "don't scare me like that. Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you? You like that, don't you? Sneaking up on me, terrorizing me...owning me. What do you want?" "Why do you do this stupid shit at night? What's the matter with you? Huh? Who you tryin to kid with this phony clean up bit; you're a lousy wife and a bad mother" "Leave me alone, you stupid Flyboy; I can't stand you. I HATE YOU! I hope you die; and if you don't, I hope I do." "Have a gin honey, let's talk about my transfer. They wanna send me to Laos. It's near a place where there's trouble, Viet Nam. The whole fuckin country is off limits to dependents. That means you guys can't go; and you're not staying here without me. Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do!" "You coward. Why talk about this now? Are you afraid the kids will see you cry and whine, afraid they might see the yellow side of their big military hero daddy? You're not chicken, are you Sarge?" "Come on, Jean. We haven't talked in a long time."
Jean paused nervously, then, "You want to talk. Ha. You haven't heard me in years, and its been even longer since you said anything I listened to." She laughed, her head shaking with the palsy that always came when she said things that provoked him to hit her. "You curse and insult me and then expect me to talk to you. Get serious, Sarge. For Chrissakes, I'm afraid to go out. I have no friends. The only ears for your wicked bullshit are the children's, ours and the ones you adopted for money; but then they were all forced on me. What happens when they begin to see who you are; when they see how you treat me?" "That's old stuff--" "Cut the shit. What do you want? Say it and leave." "They want to send me to a combat zone. No Families. I'm not going--not if I can't take you." "I'll write the Base Commander and make sure you go. Bet on it, brother." "You're not fit to take care of these kids. If I go, you go. I can't live without you and the kids. We're supposed to be together, a family. Let's go somewhere else. I'll put in for North Dakota, Minot. We'll start over. I can't keep living like this." "That's the truth," she said sarcastically, but it's 'we', and we will. I can't take it anymore. I've had it." "Why do you talk like that," Hank threatened. "That's why I've got to get outta bed and correct you. I don't want the kids hearing this. I don't talk like that. That's what you'd do if I was gone; turn them against me, make them hate me. Jesus Christ, Jean, I'm gonna find a way to take them from you. Show em how you cheat. You wait; I'll get even. They'll know what's what before they start acting like Tuttle's.""Tuttle's," she laughed. "I'm not even a Tuttle. I don't even know my daddy's name, you ignoramus. My mom's family is all they know. Without me they'd be like you, ignorant New Hampshire Canooks. You're nothing! Trash!" Hank glared at her, "I'll take the kids and leave, live in the Base housing area." "You don't have the guts," Jean snarled. "Go ahead, they're right upstairs." He hesitated, "you're crazy. I'll see you tomorrow. You look like a witch. Go to bed, witch!"
She smiled painfully, "No kidding? and you're a regular Rock Hudson," her hands shaking violently, the scouring pad rattling against metal the only sound now. She turned to wipe her eyes hoping he, the house, the kids, and her miserable life would all disappear. She implored him. "I can't take it anymore. It's killing me, making us all crazy. Let's separate. I'll take the kids to my moms in Indianapolis. You go to Asia--or wherever it is; and when you get back we'll make a fresh start. Things will be different. Your transfer is lucky. We can get out of this backwater and start over. I can work at Fort Ben, near my mom." Hesitation, and then anger filled Hank's heart. "You won't get my kids. You've tried to wreck my home for years. Crying to your sisters, cheating and lying. Well it ain't gonna work. Those kids are my life. Without them I'm nothing. I've waited all my life for this and now you want to ruin it." He paused, confused and wounded. No woman could ever understand his love for his children." He faltered, unsure. "The law can't help me. You're their mother; they'll give em to you." "You coward. How dare you say that! You don't even want them! Neither your own or the one's the state pays for!" "Shut up!" he said menacingly. "We'll see who wins. Go to bed. You're always making up lies about my kids. You've never told the truth. Fuck you! Fuck you! Bitch! The Air Force is my life; but you don't care; all you want to do is put on some makeup and cheat on your family. Who you been seeing? You lying cheat."
"I can't stand you. I detest everything about you. I loath the ground you walk on. Get out of my life! Get out! I hate you, Hank! It's killing me. It's wrecking my family. My children can't sleep. You're killing me, making me old. I won't let you do it!" "You're ruining my family! But you won't get away with it. You married me for better or for worse--you have to take care of my kids--" his voice seethed,--"our children." He raised his hand, but then turned toward the stairs. "I'll see you in the morning, witch!" "I want a divorce," Jean cried. "I'll write to my Congressman and you'll never see those kids again. Family man. Ha! All you care about is yourself! You can take your son. You only care about the Guerre blood anyway. Take him and get out. Go play soldier dad with someone else, his mother, your saint; she was lucky! she died." Hank erupted, "you don't talk about her like that. Never!" His enraged shriek gave way to an eerie quiet, brooding and ominous, the silence of attentive ears, of witness; the eye of the storm--and still, Claude, Hank's blood son, slept. Jean said, "you'll come back to an empty place. You'll have to start a new family; peddle your drunken misery somewhere else." "Shut up, goddamn it, shut up before I knock your teeth down your throat."
"You took a 16 year old virgin and knocked her up. What a man. What a man! You with your smiling crewcut and shiny ribbons, pouring your meanness and ignorance into what little innocence my miserable childhood left me," Jean said, her ire now beyond fear, calculated to incite. "Bellowing to the young G.I.s about your bravery and spouting your ugly Catholic morals; and all the while suffocating my body with your pitiful manhood. You force yourself on me like an animal and call it love. Your slobbering lust filled me with babies while it drained me of passion, of kindness. I hate you! I hate my kids! I hate myself. Don't you hear my screams? That's not love, it's desperation, terror. You don't satisfy me, you hurt me. My tears only make you madder. You ignorant fool! Please stop, leave me alone. But you can't! Having me is the only power you've got. You don't love me, you love controlling me. You know how to manipulate me; keep me trapped me in this rotten corpse of an apartment. You poke holes in your rubbers to make me pregnant--you're unbelievable! I've washed and fed you and your filthy kids, and for what? Another black eye, another six months with my jaws wired--'I slipped on the ice again, kids'; 'It's my arthritis acting up...I hate this limp'--no thanks. You pollute this house with your evil ways, your disgusting habits and your uneducated gutter talk. I've heard enough of your stupid shit!" Jean was over the top now. Big talk, little action; that's your middle name. Hank the blowhard. You dumb ass. I've had it with you and your precious little boy; crawling with lice and stinking up the place. It's been too long. I'm through! Get the hell out and take him with you. Go back to the hole you crawled out of before you were suckered into the military, back with those greaseball, hood brothers of yours in New Hampshire, spread your loud mouth lies there, go back and live with your shit-faced sister, and take your slut mother with you."
Hank slapped her hard across the mouth.
Smiling tearfully she ran into the living room, screaming for the children to come down and rescue her. Hearing Celeste on the stairs she gathered herself, grabbed a butcher knife and cursed him, slashing furiously at his face before he had the sense to block it with the dish rack, knocking the knife to the floor and sending the clean dishes crashing down on her head. She stumbled and collapsed on the shard strewn floor where she lay exhausted and bleeding. Celeste and Nancy, staring from the landing, frozen with terror, now ran down the stairs to her, frantic and crying hysterically, begging him to stop. Celeste, her nightgown falling open at her breast, bent towards her weeping mother, who was trying to sit up. Celeste lifted her gently, but Jean brushed her aside, saying, "leave me alone. All of you. Leave me alone! Just go away." I'm sorry mom. What did you do, dad? Its my fault! You're not my dad. Why do you hurt mom.
I'm sorry--"
Hank paused in stunned silence, full of rage, disbelief and self pity. He shoved Celeste away and carefully checked to see if he was all right, then as he glared at Jean, crawling in an inhuman way, struggling from her knees to her feet, and pushing her blood clotted hair from in front of her face, he said in a small, impersonal voice, "get to bed, the fights over."
Celeste hesitated, to terrified to believe him, but held her tongue. Jean eyed Hank warily, "I'm not staying here with you; you'll kill me, you bastard." Moving in the fearful crouch of a wounded animal, sniffling and crying, gingerly feeling her bloodied nose and lip, she stood up and shielded her face. "The hot water's running, Sam said cautiously. Jean slowly turned, shutting off the noisy faucet. "Get to bed," Hank quietly repeated. Celeste and Nancy moved toward the stairs, haltingly, but unwilling to get between them, sensing there was nothing else they could do. Celeste, turning on the landing, urged Nancy to bed, comforting her. "I'll be right up, don't worry, go to bed: Celeste will be right up." Jean!" Hank interjected. "Jesus Christ, what now? she wondered aloud woefully. "Look at me," he extended his right hand and looked victimized, flaunting the superficial nick on his knuckle that had already stopped bleeding.
She threw him a dishrag, "here's something for that awful cut, Sarge. You act like you're one of those phony martyrs at your stupid church" Jean sagged, finally crumbling to the floor in a sitting position, back against the refrigerator, knees bent and held tightly together in front of her, as Hank awkwardly picked up the rag. Hank twisted it tightly around his knuckles, and eyeing her coldly, said softly, "You know you love me, and that eats at you, don't it. You love me. This is it. This is love, baby."
After making sure the water was shut off, Jean stooped disconsolately, inconsolable and humiliated, clinging to her sad self, her head lolling on her left shoulder; and like all of those cruel epiphanies that shatter human illusions, noticed the tarnished wedding ring at the now distant end of her arm. As she stood, hypnotized by its tawdry dullness; that woeful symbol of blind commitment that strangled her spirit; at night, through long days and in public and private drudgery, in domestic misery, children's flu's and birthdays, in the toilet and pantry, that attended to excreta and mending, that pulled back and cleaned the foreskins of her infant twins, that accompanied her in truth and deceit, through light and darkness, that reminded her at cocktail parties and illicit rendezvous, during bank signings that gave access to her hard earned money, that cut off all circulation in the same way that the man who gave it to her suffocated her self, she tried to gather, to compose herself for the next outrage. If this ugly little band stood for an eternity of pain and shame, of desperation and enslavement and premature old age, it also represented the truth behind the illusion of a moral pillar who, in reality, would be nothing without the foolish integrity she invested in the insidious ring's pitiful glare--a foolish belief that sustained her. Suddenly, through the veil of lies, she felt the soul sucking power of social wifery; they were in a death embrace to the end--after which their sweet repose would give way to that worm of time which would erase all traces of his fleeting self importance and her deformed image of love. In truth, this insignificant, self-deluded joke of a man could never stand without her. She was caught in the trap.
Hank railed on, "--My will has survived combat in war; so listening to you tell me how bad you've got don't mean nothin. Those days when I worry about the kids--not you--its like something’s after me but I don't know what. Are my kids safe? You don't think of me like that, like someone who cares. You think you've suffered. What about me? I sacrificed for you and the kids. Jesus Christ, how many times have I worried that you would run out on us, or worse, take my kids, wondering whether your threats to kill them were true or not. Last week when I got home one day nobody was here. I looked everywhere and started asking the neighbors. You made my ulcer start bleeding; even the doctor said so. Where were you? Hiding in the cellar, feeling sorry for yourself, bawling about how bad you've got it. I never know when your crying is a bunch of bullshit, you're such a goddamn liar. Liar! Liar! I never know what I'll come home to, you bitch. Your hysterics make me a bad soldier. My buddies have happy homes; their wives treat them right. Why? Because they love em. Get it. I hurt my career by marrying you. I should have left you to some cock sucking second louie. But no, I had to love you; act like a mom to our kids. Everything I dreamed of, down the drain. I hope you're happy." Jean, drone-like, poured two steaming cups of hot water from a tarnished electric coffeemaker.
"Get your own instant and sugar, Henry, it's in the pantry." "I go TDY," Hank whined, in a sad voice. "I went to Thule, Spain and even volunteered for Wheelis so that you could have time alone with the kids." Jean, who had heard it all before, sat back against the stove, sipping the scalding coffee, saying nothing. Her face regained its color and her eyes recovered their focus. Hank quickly extinguished the small flicker of mutual recognition, "What did you do? Went snowmobiling with 3 young officers; that's what you say?--, anyway. Jean dunked her dried cinnamon toast and said nothing, though she gave him that tight-lipped look, her way of hinting she was about to speak, a cue which he invariably ignored. It went right by Hank. "I never trusted you. I can't believe you! I'm no fool, Jean. Jesus says to forgive, turn the other cheek; but when a woman's cheated once they'll do it again. A woman who lies to her husband is a sinner. I hate to say it but I never believe you. A man can't forget once he's been lied to."
This monologue caused Jean's face to contort with anger, but she turned away just enough to keep it from Hank. He sensed her distress and tried to backtrack from the dreary litany of perceived miseries; but the words wouldn't come. He wanted to say that maybe things could be different; that moving away could be a new beginning; that they were getting older and wiser; that the children were growing up, and with the onset of adolescence the family would come together; that they had a duty to raise future citizens America could be proud of--but he wasn't smart enough for this.
Hank, the victim, reappeared. "What have I done to deserve your hate. You don't really hate me. Do you? Do you? Hank snarled, "well I hate you, too. Every couple argues and says they hate each other, but they don't mean it. It's just talk; just a way of getting along."
"What in the hell are you saying, Henry; and don't bring Jesus into this, he never beat his wife. You're just lying to yourself if you think our hatred equals love. It never has and never will, you pathetic little NCO. We don't like each other, Henry. That's our problem. What did you need me for? Why marry me? You should have found somebody else--anybody else."
You're not Catholic, Jean, so you don't understand, marriage is holy, it's a sacrament. It's our duty to have kids, that's why I won't use rubbers, it is my duty to God. Our marriage is even more sacred because of our kids, and we've got to stay with those kids. We can't let them down, they can't see our holy vows as a lie. I won't let them! How will they know what's good? What's right? That's not gonna happen here, Jean, I won't let it. They've gotta have a home, a place to protect them from the world, to teach em about life. Maybe our kids will be famous, war heroes or inventors. Their dad's a brave person and their gonna be too. The two girls'll be okay, too; marry some rich guys or become nuns or nurses. I've done my job. If they turn out bad it's your fault. Maybe they'll help their country in other ways. Jesus says be fruitful and multiply, well that's what I'm doin. Don't you see, that's why were married, and that's why we're staying married! You've hurt me but I've stuck it out for the kids. Everyone that knows us is on my side." Jean's reaction, a silence born of futility, manifested itself in the sag of her blood-matted hair into the empty cup before her. "Are you starting to understand me," he said. A leaden silence prevailed, hanging in the sticky steam heat air, acrid and oppressive. "Honey, Hank whispered," after a heavy pause, "look me in the eyes; don't turn away, look at me."
The rest of the house was asleep; Celeste had eventually crept from the landing to her bed. Jean, emotionally drained, in a moment of profound emotional despair, looked at Hank with a resigned fatality, strangely smiling--or was it a grin-- with her soft blue eyes. Her eyebrows, carefully framed by thin eyebrows penciled in a pseudo Egyptian style, were, in Hank eyes, as close to perfection as anything in this world; and even when he hated and despised her most, those flashing eyes always penetrated his instinctive meanness. Their incontestable beauty was the closest association with actual love he could make; for whatever reasons, incomprehensible to logic, the concepts he attached to love were objects or physical characteristics, tangible things, rather than human actions and behaviors; his capacity to empathized was grounded in aesthetics not morality--this lowly Sergeant; but he didn't know this.
"Baby," said Hank, wanting to hold her, "let me kiss you. Kiss me. You're still my wife, sugar, and I love you." Jean was unmoved; staring quizzically, as if looking at an animal, her eyes blinking, flickering robotically' like an automaton or zombie. Sad, bitter instincts and grim habits took hold. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying here with me. You love me." Stiffly, he drew her to him; she resisted weakly before giving in. "Sweetie," he said with twisted sincerity, "let's have another baby, to celebrate our new beginning. We'll make a new life as a sign of our love. Let's do it. Come on. Let's start right now. Let's make a baby. You want to make me happy, don't you? It's me and you against the world, baby. I can do anything with you behind me. I'm really a good guy, you know." She paused, shaking, then struggled to a knee; but the sad habit which she was now powerless to fight cancelled all resistance. Mechanically, she stacked the cups in the sink and picked up the broken pieces of glass and china and, to save herself. "I will survive, somehow, I'll make it until he's gone; I'll find a way, somehow. I can bear it," and the hope of a time beyond the present sustained her as she lowered the clattering dishes to the sink.
Over time, little Claude learned to sleep through these awful episodes.
Sergeant Love
When Nancy was 10 and Celeste was 14, they would often sit in the dark at the top of the stairs and listen to Sgt. and Mrs. Hank Guerre fight. The Sarge would choke Jean while she would cry and taunt him derisively. A typical bout would begin with an enraged Hank accusing Jean of cheating. A charge which she would invariably admit to and sarcasticlly beg forgiveness. Hank's response to this was to abuse and berate her in the cruelest way--physically and psychologically. It was also his habit to follow these horrible sessions by sitting his blood son on his knee and asking him me who he loved the most, the Sarge or the boy's mother; and who little Claude would want to live with if they ever divorced. During the worst of these tirades he would threaten to kill their mother if she ever tried to leave.
On one such occasion, it was a scraping noise in the kitchen that woke Hank. Puzzled, he stumbled downstairs. The closeness of the overheated living room stoked his raging hangover. He crouched behind the banister, silently spying on her. Then, emerging from the alcoholic mists that perpetually swirled around him, he focused his attention on the shabby, lumped form immersed in the dirty dishwater of fish-stick cookie sheets and ketchup enameled plastic plates. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, Jean paused. "Sweetie. Do that in the morning; what are you, nuts or something!" he said. Clutching her nightgown to her neck, she gasped, "don't scare me like that. Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you? You like that, don't you? Sneaking up on me, terrorizing me...owning me. What do you want?" "Why do you do this stupid shit at night? What's the matter with you? Huh? Who you tryin to kid with this phony clean up bit; you're a lousy wife and a bad mother" "Leave me alone, you stupid Flyboy; I can't stand you. I HATE YOU! I hope you die; and if you don't, I hope I do." "Have a gin honey, let's talk about my transfer. They wanna send me to Laos. It's near a place where there's trouble, Viet Nam. The whole fuckin country is off limits to dependents. That means you guys can't go; and you're not staying here without me. Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do!" "You coward. Why talk about this now? Are you afraid the kids will see you cry and whine, afraid they might see the yellow side of their big military hero daddy? You're not chicken, are you Sarge?" "Come on, Jean. We haven't talked in a long time."
Jean paused nervously, then, "You want to talk. Ha. You haven't heard me in years, and its been even longer since you said anything I listened to." She laughed, her head shaking with the palsy that always came when she said things that provoked him to hit her. "You curse and insult me and then expect me to talk to you. Get serious, Sarge. For Chrissakes, I'm afraid to go out. I have no friends. The only ears for your wicked bullshit are the children's, ours and the ones you adopted for money; but then they were all forced on me. What happens when they begin to see who you are; when they see how you treat me?" "That's old stuff--" "Cut the shit. What do you want? Say it and leave." "They want to send me to a combat zone. No Families. I'm not going--not if I can't take you." "I'll write the Base Commander and make sure you go. Bet on it, brother." "You're not fit to take care of these kids. If I go, you go. I can't live without you and the kids. We're supposed to be together, a family. Let's go somewhere else. I'll put in for North Dakota, Minot. We'll start over. I can't keep living like this." "That's the truth," she said sarcastically, but it's 'we', and we will. I can't take it anymore. I've had it." "Why do you talk like that," Hank threatened. "That's why I've got to get outta bed and correct you. I don't want the kids hearing this. I don't talk like that. That's what you'd do if I was gone; turn them against me, make them hate me. Jesus Christ, Jean, I'm gonna find a way to take them from you. Show em how you cheat. You wait; I'll get even. They'll know what's what before they start acting like Tuttle's.""Tuttle's," she laughed. "I'm not even a Tuttle. I don't even know my daddy's name, you ignoramus. My mom's family is all they know. Without me they'd be like you, ignorant New Hampshire Canooks. You're nothing! Trash!" Hank glared at her, "I'll take the kids and leave, live in the Base housing area." "You don't have the guts," Jean snarled. "Go ahead, they're right upstairs." He hesitated, "you're crazy. I'll see you tomorrow. You look like a witch. Go to bed, witch!"
She smiled painfully, "No kidding? and you're a regular Rock Hudson," her hands shaking violently, the scouring pad rattling against metal the only sound now. She turned to wipe her eyes hoping he, the house, the kids, and her miserable life would all disappear. She implored him. "I can't take it anymore. It's killing me, making us all crazy. Let's separate. I'll take the kids to my moms in Indianapolis. You go to Asia--or wherever it is; and when you get back we'll make a fresh start. Things will be different. Your transfer is lucky. We can get out of this backwater and start over. I can work at Fort Ben, near my mom." Hesitation, and then anger filled Hank's heart. "You won't get my kids. You've tried to wreck my home for years. Crying to your sisters, cheating and lying. Well it ain't gonna work. Those kids are my life. Without them I'm nothing. I've waited all my life for this and now you want to ruin it." He paused, confused and wounded. No woman could ever understand his love for his children." He faltered, unsure. "The law can't help me. You're their mother; they'll give em to you." "You coward. How dare you say that! You don't even want them! Neither your own or the one's the state pays for!" "Shut up!" he said menacingly. "We'll see who wins. Go to bed. You're always making up lies about my kids. You've never told the truth. Fuck you! Fuck you! Bitch! The Air Force is my life; but you don't care; all you want to do is put on some makeup and cheat on your family. Who you been seeing? You lying cheat."
"I can't stand you. I detest everything about you. I loath the ground you walk on. Get out of my life! Get out! I hate you, Hank! It's killing me. It's wrecking my family. My children can't sleep. You're killing me, making me old. I won't let you do it!" "You're ruining my family! But you won't get away with it. You married me for better or for worse--you have to take care of my kids--" his voice seethed,--"our children." He raised his hand, but then turned toward the stairs. "I'll see you in the morning, witch!" "I want a divorce," Jean cried. "I'll write to my Congressman and you'll never see those kids again. Family man. Ha! All you care about is yourself! You can take your son. You only care about the Guerre blood anyway. Take him and get out. Go play soldier dad with someone else, his mother, your saint; she was lucky! she died." Hank erupted, "you don't talk about her like that. Never!" His enraged shriek gave way to an eerie quiet, brooding and ominous, the silence of attentive ears, of witness; the eye of the storm--and still, Claude, Hank's blood son, slept. Jean said, "you'll come back to an empty place. You'll have to start a new family; peddle your drunken misery somewhere else." "Shut up, goddamn it, shut up before I knock your teeth down your throat."
"You took a 16 year old virgin and knocked her up. What a man. What a man! You with your smiling crewcut and shiny ribbons, pouring your meanness and ignorance into what little innocence my miserable childhood left me," Jean said, her ire now beyond fear, calculated to incite. "Bellowing to the young G.I.s about your bravery and spouting your ugly Catholic morals; and all the while suffocating my body with your pitiful manhood. You force yourself on me like an animal and call it love. Your slobbering lust filled me with babies while it drained me of passion, of kindness. I hate you! I hate my kids! I hate myself. Don't you hear my screams? That's not love, it's desperation, terror. You don't satisfy me, you hurt me. My tears only make you madder. You ignorant fool! Please stop, leave me alone. But you can't! Having me is the only power you've got. You don't love me, you love controlling me. You know how to manipulate me; keep me trapped me in this rotten corpse of an apartment. You poke holes in your rubbers to make me pregnant--you're unbelievable! I've washed and fed you and your filthy kids, and for what? Another black eye, another six months with my jaws wired--'I slipped on the ice again, kids'; 'It's my arthritis acting up...I hate this limp'--no thanks. You pollute this house with your evil ways, your disgusting habits and your uneducated gutter talk. I've heard enough of your stupid shit!" Jean was over the top now. Big talk, little action; that's your middle name. Hank the blowhard. You dumb ass. I've had it with you and your precious little boy; crawling with lice and stinking up the place. It's been too long. I'm through! Get the hell out and take him with you. Go back to the hole you crawled out of before you were suckered into the military, back with those greaseball, hood brothers of yours in New Hampshire, spread your loud mouth lies there, go back and live with your shit-faced sister, and take your slut mother with you."
Hank slapped her hard across the mouth.
Smiling tearfully she ran into the living room, screaming for the children to come down and rescue her. Hearing Celeste on the stairs she gathered herself, grabbed a butcher knife and cursed him, slashing furiously at his face before he had the sense to block it with the dish rack, knocking the knife to the floor and sending the clean dishes crashing down on her head. She stumbled and collapsed on the shard strewn floor where she lay exhausted and bleeding. Celeste and Nancy, staring from the landing, frozen with terror, now ran down the stairs to her, frantic and crying hysterically, begging him to stop. Celeste, her nightgown falling open at her breast, bent towards her weeping mother, who was trying to sit up. Celeste lifted her gently, but Jean brushed her aside, saying, "leave me alone. All of you. Leave me alone! Just go away." I'm sorry mom. What did you do, dad? Its my fault! You're not my dad. Why do you hurt mom.
I'm sorry--"
Hank paused in stunned silence, full of rage, disbelief and self pity. He shoved Celeste away and carefully checked to see if he was all right, then as he glared at Jean, crawling in an inhuman way, struggling from her knees to her feet, and pushing her blood clotted hair from in front of her face, he said in a small, impersonal voice, "get to bed, the fights over."
Celeste hesitated, to terrified to believe him, but held her tongue. Jean eyed Hank warily, "I'm not staying here with you; you'll kill me, you bastard." Moving in the fearful crouch of a wounded animal, sniffling and crying, gingerly feeling her bloodied nose and lip, she stood up and shielded her face. "The hot water's running, Sam said cautiously. Jean slowly turned, shutting off the noisy faucet. "Get to bed," Hank quietly repeated. Celeste and Nancy moved toward the stairs, haltingly, but unwilling to get between them, sensing there was nothing else they could do. Celeste, turning on the landing, urged Nancy to bed, comforting her. "I'll be right up, don't worry, go to bed: Celeste will be right up." Jean!" Hank interjected. "Jesus Christ, what now? she wondered aloud woefully. "Look at me," he extended his right hand and looked victimized, flaunting the superficial nick on his knuckle that had already stopped bleeding.
She threw him a dishrag, "here's something for that awful cut, Sarge. You act like you're one of those phony martyrs at your stupid church" Jean sagged, finally crumbling to the floor in a sitting position, back against the refrigerator, knees bent and held tightly together in front of her, as Hank awkwardly picked up the rag. Hank twisted it tightly around his knuckles, and eyeing her coldly, said softly, "You know you love me, and that eats at you, don't it. You love me. This is it. This is love, baby."
After making sure the water was shut off, Jean stooped disconsolately, inconsolable and humiliated, clinging to her sad self, her head lolling on her left shoulder; and like all of those cruel epiphanies that shatter human illusions, noticed the tarnished wedding ring at the now distant end of her arm. As she stood, hypnotized by its tawdry dullness; that woeful symbol of blind commitment that strangled her spirit; at night, through long days and in public and private drudgery, in domestic misery, children's flu's and birthdays, in the toilet and pantry, that attended to excreta and mending, that pulled back and cleaned the foreskins of her infant twins, that accompanied her in truth and deceit, through light and darkness, that reminded her at cocktail parties and illicit rendezvous, during bank signings that gave access to her hard earned money, that cut off all circulation in the same way that the man who gave it to her suffocated her self, she tried to gather, to compose herself for the next outrage. If this ugly little band stood for an eternity of pain and shame, of desperation and enslavement and premature old age, it also represented the truth behind the illusion of a moral pillar who, in reality, would be nothing without the foolish integrity she invested in the insidious ring's pitiful glare--a foolish belief that sustained her. Suddenly, through the veil of lies, she felt the soul sucking power of social wifery; they were in a death embrace to the end--after which their sweet repose would give way to that worm of time which would erase all traces of his fleeting self importance and her deformed image of love. In truth, this insignificant, self-deluded joke of a man could never stand without her. She was caught in the trap.
Hank railed on, "--My will has survived combat in war; so listening to you tell me how bad you've got don't mean nothin. Those days when I worry about the kids--not you--its like something’s after me but I don't know what. Are my kids safe? You don't think of me like that, like someone who cares. You think you've suffered. What about me? I sacrificed for you and the kids. Jesus Christ, how many times have I worried that you would run out on us, or worse, take my kids, wondering whether your threats to kill them were true or not. Last week when I got home one day nobody was here. I looked everywhere and started asking the neighbors. You made my ulcer start bleeding; even the doctor said so. Where were you? Hiding in the cellar, feeling sorry for yourself, bawling about how bad you've got it. I never know when your crying is a bunch of bullshit, you're such a goddamn liar. Liar! Liar! I never know what I'll come home to, you bitch. Your hysterics make me a bad soldier. My buddies have happy homes; their wives treat them right. Why? Because they love em. Get it. I hurt my career by marrying you. I should have left you to some cock sucking second louie. But no, I had to love you; act like a mom to our kids. Everything I dreamed of, down the drain. I hope you're happy." Jean, drone-like, poured two steaming cups of hot water from a tarnished electric coffeemaker.
"Get your own instant and sugar, Henry, it's in the pantry." "I go TDY," Hank whined, in a sad voice. "I went to Thule, Spain and even volunteered for Wheelis so that you could have time alone with the kids." Jean, who had heard it all before, sat back against the stove, sipping the scalding coffee, saying nothing. Her face regained its color and her eyes recovered their focus. Hank quickly extinguished the small flicker of mutual recognition, "What did you do? Went snowmobiling with 3 young officers; that's what you say?--, anyway. Jean dunked her dried cinnamon toast and said nothing, though she gave him that tight-lipped look, her way of hinting she was about to speak, a cue which he invariably ignored. It went right by Hank. "I never trusted you. I can't believe you! I'm no fool, Jean. Jesus says to forgive, turn the other cheek; but when a woman's cheated once they'll do it again. A woman who lies to her husband is a sinner. I hate to say it but I never believe you. A man can't forget once he's been lied to."
This monologue caused Jean's face to contort with anger, but she turned away just enough to keep it from Hank. He sensed her distress and tried to backtrack from the dreary litany of perceived miseries; but the words wouldn't come. He wanted to say that maybe things could be different; that moving away could be a new beginning; that they were getting older and wiser; that the children were growing up, and with the onset of adolescence the family would come together; that they had a duty to raise future citizens America could be proud of--but he wasn't smart enough for this.
Hank, the victim, reappeared. "What have I done to deserve your hate. You don't really hate me. Do you? Do you? Hank snarled, "well I hate you, too. Every couple argues and says they hate each other, but they don't mean it. It's just talk; just a way of getting along."
"What in the hell are you saying, Henry; and don't bring Jesus into this, he never beat his wife. You're just lying to yourself if you think our hatred equals love. It never has and never will, you pathetic little NCO. We don't like each other, Henry. That's our problem. What did you need me for? Why marry me? You should have found somebody else--anybody else."
You're not Catholic, Jean, so you don't understand, marriage is holy, it's a sacrament. It's our duty to have kids, that's why I won't use rubbers, it is my duty to God. Our marriage is even more sacred because of our kids, and we've got to stay with those kids. We can't let them down, they can't see our holy vows as a lie. I won't let them! How will they know what's good? What's right? That's not gonna happen here, Jean, I won't let it. They've gotta have a home, a place to protect them from the world, to teach em about life. Maybe our kids will be famous, war heroes or inventors. Their dad's a brave person and their gonna be too. The two girls'll be okay, too; marry some rich guys or become nuns or nurses. I've done my job. If they turn out bad it's your fault. Maybe they'll help their country in other ways. Jesus says be fruitful and multiply, well that's what I'm doin. Don't you see, that's why were married, and that's why we're staying married! You've hurt me but I've stuck it out for the kids. Everyone that knows us is on my side." Jean's reaction, a silence born of futility, manifested itself in the sag of her blood-matted hair into the empty cup before her. "Are you starting to understand me," he said. A leaden silence prevailed, hanging in the sticky steam heat air, acrid and oppressive. "Honey, Hank whispered," after a heavy pause, "look me in the eyes; don't turn away, look at me."
The rest of the house was asleep; Celeste had eventually crept from the landing to her bed. Jean, emotionally drained, in a moment of profound emotional despair, looked at Hank with a resigned fatality, strangely smiling--or was it a grin-- with her soft blue eyes. Her eyebrows, carefully framed by thin eyebrows penciled in a pseudo Egyptian style, were, in Hank eyes, as close to perfection as anything in this world; and even when he hated and despised her most, those flashing eyes always penetrated his instinctive meanness. Their incontestable beauty was the closest association with actual love he could make; for whatever reasons, incomprehensible to logic, the concepts he attached to love were objects or physical characteristics, tangible things, rather than human actions and behaviors; his capacity to empathized was grounded in aesthetics not morality--this lowly Sergeant; but he didn't know this.
"Baby," said Hank, wanting to hold her, "let me kiss you. Kiss me. You're still my wife, sugar, and I love you." Jean was unmoved; staring quizzically, as if looking at an animal, her eyes blinking, flickering robotically' like an automaton or zombie. Sad, bitter instincts and grim habits took hold. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying here with me. You love me." Stiffly, he drew her to him; she resisted weakly before giving in. "Sweetie," he said with twisted sincerity, "let's have another baby, to celebrate our new beginning. We'll make a new life as a sign of our love. Let's do it. Come on. Let's start right now. Let's make a baby. You want to make me happy, don't you? It's me and you against the world, baby. I can do anything with you behind me. I'm really a good guy, you know." She paused, shaking, then struggled to a knee; but the sad habit which she was now powerless to fight cancelled all resistance. Mechanically, she stacked the cups in the sink and picked up the broken pieces of glass and china and, to save herself. "I will survive, somehow, I'll make it until he's gone; I'll find a way, somehow. I can bear it," and the hope of a time beyond the present sustained her as she lowered the clattering dishes to the sink.
Over time, little Claude learned to sleep through these awful episodes.
March 4, 2008
Mission Accomplished
3/4/08
POLITICS
Before there was a war on terror there was a war on drugs. Way back when there was even a war on poverty.
We should be in control of the biggest drug dealers in the world, I mean we’ve got an entire army positioned right at the heart of the global narcotics trade, Afghanistan. So how’s it going in Afghanistan?
Six years and billions of dollars, that’s what the U.S. has spent in Afghanistan. And for what, the situation is this: the Taliban operate with impunity while provincial governors ignore their drug dealing. The drug kingpins trade guns and money for the radical militants protection and transport to market. Friday’s official report on global opium production notes that Afghanistan produces 93 percent of the world’s opium poppies. It’s probably just a coincidence that the Taliban has renewed its strength in the face of concerted U.S. anti-insurgency efforts. Much like Iraq, I.E.D.s, suicide bombings, and attacks on police are also on the rise.
America’s presence has only exacerbated the problem. Ironically, the drain of forces being deployed in Iraq has destabilized what was once a manageable conflict. According to the Associated Press, the plus 6,500 dead in Afghanistan make 2007 the bloodiest year since the 2001 invasion. In a recent independent study co-chaired by retired Marine Corps Gen. James Jones and U.N. Ambassador Thomas Pickering, Afghanistan is on the verge of collapsing because of waning international support and a growing insurgency. Top U.S. intelligence officials informed Congress that the Karzai regime controls only 30% of the country.
Since 9/11 Congress has appropriated 140 Billion for the Afghi war. Osama bin Laden is at large on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. The Karzai defense ministry dismisses the U.S. National Intelligence Director’s assessment that the Taliban control 10 percent of the country, and local tribes hold authority over the rest. While the Karzai government rejects this assessment, the State Department’s report on the drug problem confirms McConnell’s views.
The 2007 poppy harvest produced all time record numbers for the second year in a row.
Where's the Suboxone???
POLITICS
Before there was a war on terror there was a war on drugs. Way back when there was even a war on poverty.
We should be in control of the biggest drug dealers in the world, I mean we’ve got an entire army positioned right at the heart of the global narcotics trade, Afghanistan. So how’s it going in Afghanistan?
Six years and billions of dollars, that’s what the U.S. has spent in Afghanistan. And for what, the situation is this: the Taliban operate with impunity while provincial governors ignore their drug dealing. The drug kingpins trade guns and money for the radical militants protection and transport to market. Friday’s official report on global opium production notes that Afghanistan produces 93 percent of the world’s opium poppies. It’s probably just a coincidence that the Taliban has renewed its strength in the face of concerted U.S. anti-insurgency efforts. Much like Iraq, I.E.D.s, suicide bombings, and attacks on police are also on the rise.
America’s presence has only exacerbated the problem. Ironically, the drain of forces being deployed in Iraq has destabilized what was once a manageable conflict. According to the Associated Press, the plus 6,500 dead in Afghanistan make 2007 the bloodiest year since the 2001 invasion. In a recent independent study co-chaired by retired Marine Corps Gen. James Jones and U.N. Ambassador Thomas Pickering, Afghanistan is on the verge of collapsing because of waning international support and a growing insurgency. Top U.S. intelligence officials informed Congress that the Karzai regime controls only 30% of the country.
Since 9/11 Congress has appropriated 140 Billion for the Afghi war. Osama bin Laden is at large on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. The Karzai defense ministry dismisses the U.S. National Intelligence Director’s assessment that the Taliban control 10 percent of the country, and local tribes hold authority over the rest. While the Karzai government rejects this assessment, the State Department’s report on the drug problem confirms McConnell’s views.
The 2007 poppy harvest produced all time record numbers for the second year in a row.
Where's the Suboxone???
March 2, 2008
One Month Out
“The future ain’t what it used to be.”
-- Yogi Berra
The next morning, Friday, I felt groggy, sicky, slightly dizzy, and generally worn out. After my suboxone experience on Thursday, I decided that ¼ rather than ½ tablet would be the proper dosage. Over the next week, I took ¼ tab sublingually in the morning. Although miraculous is too strong a word, the suboxone had a wondrous affect on me.
It literally quelled my desire, for sex, for beer, for everything. Twas passing strange, doggone it. For me, a control freak whose identity has been defined to a great degree by chasing my desires, it was an epiphany, a chemically altered perspective that validated Heisenberg’s principle. It cleared my head. As the chemo fog lifted so too did the opiate haze dissipate. My thinking became more focused.
In practical terms, the suboxone does two things for the addict: it negates the craving, the oxy junkie typically craves more every 4-6 hours; secondly, it negates all withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps the molecular structure of the buprenorphine opiate is such that it lasts longer than the time interval from dose to dose. Whatever the case, there is neither craving nor withdrawal. It unshackles the addict from constantly watching the clock and thinking about when he’s going to get his next fix.
Although the chemically induced happiness was nice, cozy and comfortable, it was also, for me, a false paradise. I was sick of being sick, and fed up with taking medications. After a week, on Friday, January 25th, I met again with Dr. B., showed him the pills I had left, and told him I was ready to wean myself from everything. After patiently listening to his advice that I continue on the smallest dose for 2-4 months, I said I was ready for the fast landing.
This is how it went: after a week on the minimal dose, on Saturday, January 26th, I cut the pill in half and took this dose for 3 days. On 29, 30, and 31, I took a quarter pill, and on February 1, 2, and 3 (Super Bowl Sunday), I took an eighth. That was the last time I took any pills of any kind.
It’s been one month now, and I’ve been to the gym for the last 21 days. I swim a ½ mile everyday, and alternate between cardio and weights every other day. But this story is a little too nice, don’t you agree. You may ask, “well Randy, how was the 4th, 5th, 6th, and those days that followed your last dose?”
Here’s a brief primer on withdrawal (this is taken from, “Suboxone The Drug Blog”: “Withdrawal produces drug craving, muscle and bone pain, insomnia, diarrhea and vomiting, cold flashes with goose bumps (‘cold turkey’), kicking movements (‘kicking the habit’), and other symptoms.”
The 1st day I felt pretty good. Days 2-8 were miserable. The suboxone was a godsend, but there really is no magic bullet. By a hardcore addicts lights my withdrawal was fairly easy. There was no vomiting, but I did experience a low-grade manifestation of the rest of the symptoms.
As I say, it’s been a month since I quit (kicked, if you will) and life is beautiful. After two weeks, the feeling that something was missing from my life, that an old friend had died, the psychological pull, began to ebb. Although suboxone helps if you really want to quit, will power is still a key part of the therapy. Exercise (if you can do it) helps tremendously. Endorphins work and they’re cheap!
-- Yogi Berra
The next morning, Friday, I felt groggy, sicky, slightly dizzy, and generally worn out. After my suboxone experience on Thursday, I decided that ¼ rather than ½ tablet would be the proper dosage. Over the next week, I took ¼ tab sublingually in the morning. Although miraculous is too strong a word, the suboxone had a wondrous affect on me.It literally quelled my desire, for sex, for beer, for everything. Twas passing strange, doggone it. For me, a control freak whose identity has been defined to a great degree by chasing my desires, it was an epiphany, a chemically altered perspective that validated Heisenberg’s principle. It cleared my head. As the chemo fog lifted so too did the opiate haze dissipate. My thinking became more focused.
In practical terms, the suboxone does two things for the addict: it negates the craving, the oxy junkie typically craves more every 4-6 hours; secondly, it negates all withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps the molecular structure of the buprenorphine opiate is such that it lasts longer than the time interval from dose to dose. Whatever the case, there is neither craving nor withdrawal. It unshackles the addict from constantly watching the clock and thinking about when he’s going to get his next fix.
Although the chemically induced happiness was nice, cozy and comfortable, it was also, for me, a false paradise. I was sick of being sick, and fed up with taking medications. After a week, on Friday, January 25th, I met again with Dr. B., showed him the pills I had left, and told him I was ready to wean myself from everything. After patiently listening to his advice that I continue on the smallest dose for 2-4 months, I said I was ready for the fast landing.
This is how it went: after a week on the minimal dose, on Saturday, January 26th, I cut the pill in half and took this dose for 3 days. On 29, 30, and 31, I took a quarter pill, and on February 1, 2, and 3 (Super Bowl Sunday), I took an eighth. That was the last time I took any pills of any kind.
It’s been one month now, and I’ve been to the gym for the last 21 days. I swim a ½ mile everyday, and alternate between cardio and weights every other day. But this story is a little too nice, don’t you agree. You may ask, “well Randy, how was the 4th, 5th, 6th, and those days that followed your last dose?”
Here’s a brief primer on withdrawal (this is taken from, “Suboxone The Drug Blog”: “Withdrawal produces drug craving, muscle and bone pain, insomnia, diarrhea and vomiting, cold flashes with goose bumps (‘cold turkey’), kicking movements (‘kicking the habit’), and other symptoms.”
The 1st day I felt pretty good. Days 2-8 were miserable. The suboxone was a godsend, but there really is no magic bullet. By a hardcore addicts lights my withdrawal was fairly easy. There was no vomiting, but I did experience a low-grade manifestation of the rest of the symptoms.
As I say, it’s been a month since I quit (kicked, if you will) and life is beautiful. After two weeks, the feeling that something was missing from my life, that an old friend had died, the psychological pull, began to ebb. Although suboxone helps if you really want to quit, will power is still a key part of the therapy. Exercise (if you can do it) helps tremendously. Endorphins work and they’re cheap!
March 1, 2008
That Night...continued
“An Idle Mind is the Devil’s Workshop.”
-- Sister Ruth Marie
There is one uglier, wickeder, fouler
than all! He does not strike great
attitudes nor utter great cries, but
he would happily lay waste the earth,
and swallow up the world in a yawn.
It is Boredom!—an involuntary tear
Welling in his eye, he dreams of scaf-
folds as he smokes his hookah. You
Know him, reader, that fastidious
Monster—hypocrite reader, my fellow-
Man, my brother!
-- Charles Baudelaire
-- Sister Ruth Marie
There is one uglier, wickeder, fouler
than all! He does not strike great
attitudes nor utter great cries, but
he would happily lay waste the earth,
and swallow up the world in a yawn.
It is Boredom!—an involuntary tear
Welling in his eye, he dreams of scaf-
folds as he smokes his hookah. You
Know him, reader, that fastidious
Monster—hypocrite reader, my fellow-
Man, my brother!
-- Charles Baudelaire
That night (Thursday, January 17th, 7pm) happened to be the evening “Trees” had scheduled for a rehearsal. Lindsey, Jesse, and their percussive confederate, Nicole Falzone, were in town to play a gig at “Johnny’s Speakeasy” on Friday the 18th, a very cool underground music venue in Ann Arbor. At about 4pm I took one whole suboxone tablet.At about 4:30pm it hit me, the stuff he gave me in the office and the one I took after that. Never mind the tolerance I had built up over the last 8 months, I was suddenly higher than I had been since the early eighties, and, as I remember it, the buzz was totally heroin. Unlike those salad days, however, it was no fun (it probably wasn’t then, either, foolishly, I didn’t know any better). I started nodding out, projectile vomiting, sweating profusely, and scratching like a hound. It was too much for me. It slowly dawned on me through the narcotic haze that it’s somewhat of a guess to know how much an addict needs, and Dr. B. had overestimated my tolerance. Put on the Charlie Parker jams, I was gone.
The chickens had come home to roost. I decided the show must go on, and I had to attend the practice. I looked like warmed over death. They recoiled in horror at the gaunt, wraith-like figure I presented. I could see the grayish blue pallor of my skin, and the sickly glow it affected, reflected in their eyes as we hugged in tearful reunion. And I do mean tearful. It was like the pharmaceutical apocalypse had come to my little private Idaho. Praise God!
In spite of our collective doubts, I wasn’t sure how my hands would work and they probably wondered if I could play that high, it sounded great.
Next: The Birds, the Trees, and the Suboxone wean.
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