Wordland and Other Thoughts

4/28

I know my current diary cannot compete with the adventures that beset us in Mexico, but one must sometimes make bricks without straw, especially when one’s mood disorder persuades one that one is incapable of making a ham sandwich

This third person neutral prose troubles me. What is the proper usage to acknowledge a reading audience today? You may find it will best serve you to speak in the second person. Or is it better when I speak and the audience becomes the thou, and mutual recognition occurs. When one speaks of one doesn’t one seem some faceless automaton who obeys the directives of the audience and writer? There remains it, the more personal third person, he, and the alternative, she, and the most awkward of all, he/she—which I think has thankfully left the language.

(Among languages English is known for its common sense. As a mutation of Germanic and Romance languages, English is endlessly adaptable, unlike French, a language jealously protected from contamination from inferior tongues. If I could write in any language in 2006, I would choose English. What a luxury that it is my native tongue!)

Interesting to consider how these different usages affect the topography of Wordland. I speak of Wordland, of course, the land that language generates in our brains. Now that I am using the first person plural, do we feel more included or does it strike us as an imposition?

Wordland is nothing like reality. In Wordland the sound of a muffled gong at twilight should generate, at the very least, either leather or brass in the reader’s mind. Or not? Please write.

Perhaps the affinity for image generation from language determines the audience for poetry and the best-written prose.

If words paint they do so through the transducer of the brain, integrating the senses, dominated by vision. Much easier to describe a thing than a sound, smell, touch or taste.

If there is a wide range in our ability to transform language into an ersatz sensory experience, unique to each reader, there must also be a Jungian commonality that allows us to speak of written works to each other for purposes of discussion in Wordland.

Here it gets dicier, because it is words interpreting words until a new commonality of terms becomes the playing field. An upper level rink in the Galleria of Wordland, in other words. One must have a tremendous commonality of language simply to agree to disagree. In disagreeing through the common use of language, one is more in agreement than otherwise.

The existence of literary criticism is evidence of a general understanding of language.

Language need not be propaganda, or a puzzle of texts and context, assumptions deconstructionism, which I poorly understand, sometimes implies.

Language need not have an ulterior motive. It doesn’t have to be used. There can be honest language.

I write a blog without remuneration and only the faintest assurance than anyone reads me.

Why, then, do I write? To write. It’s a pleasure to write. If I do well, the thoughts I put on a page eventually assume a life of their own apart from me. I enjoy that. I also enjoy the progress I’ve made as a writer. For most of my life I was primarily a poet, but I have made some strides in prose in the last few years, and this blog, in addition to its therapeutic value, gives me room to practice.

I most envy the prose style of C. S. Lewis, who always makes me feel like just the two of us are sitting by a fire with a glass of port and talking. I don’t know how he achieves such intimacy in prose, but I suspect it has something to do with humility—not my chief virtue.

Recently I’ve been writing about depression. I didn’t e-mail anyone about it because I thought it wasn’t worth reading. But as T. S. Eliot said in our encounter at the end of my essay on his Four Quartets:

CE: Do you think my attempt to make your work more accessible to those who may not be among “the elite” of any value?

TS: I cannot pass judgment on what you undertake. It would be presumptuous. Let the reader decide.

CE: Good advice.

TS: The only advice.

The link to this issue with that essay is, btw:

T.S. Eliot: Four Quartets

(It’s been nearly three months since the publication of Melic’s last issue and no one to date has written me about the Eliot essay. I’m wondering if anyone has yet managed it. If anyone has, I’d like them to know I’ve revised it, especially the muddy “Overview” section, and I’d be happy to e-mail a revised draft to any who wish it. Just write me at cechaffin@hotmail.com with the subject header, “Eliot.”)

As to my mood, I think I am ascending out of the Slough of Despond, so cross your fingers because human kind cannot bear very much reality.

I intended to write today about our landlord, whom we nicknamed “I’m Not Crazy,” and our new neighbor from Manhattan, whom we nicknamed “I’m Not Creepy.” But I’ll save that for tomorrow, along with the Naked Tile Guy I met at an Irish bar tonight. Not to mention the hippie who pinched my nipples there, then ran after me when I was leaving, screaming “I’m not gay! I’m not gay!”—while begging me to slap his face in retaliation, indeed insisting until I touched his cheek with my finger, something he apparently needed for his primitive version of atonement.

I also want to write about the saga of our dog, Kenyon, and our grandson, Jacob. Something occurred between them 21/2 years ago that nearly tore our family apart, and I recently had a healing experience that seemed to put a cap on the trauma.

To be continued....



4/29 I'm Not Creepy and I'm Not Crazy


Why then has our landlord been christened “I’m Not Crazy”?

It’s simple. When we were first applying for tenancy at his little chalet in the redwoods, he would often call before 8 AM, hardly the hour a writer is generally conscious. One morning he called me to discuss the placement of various skirts around a chimney on the roof of his property, going on at length. I told him I was confused but was willing to listen. He concluded the conversation apparently satisfied, not realizing that he was not speaking with his carpenter. Afterwards the phone rang again, but I chose not to answer it, fearing it was he again. So it was. He left a message. “Doc, I’m sorry I called you earlier about construction issues, I want you to know, despite the appearance, that I’m not crazy.”

When a new acquaintance and prospective landlord feels the need to assure you that he is not crazy, the opposite suspicion blossoms. Hence his moniker.

Near us is another residence, one we considered before renting ours, into which a new tenant just moved. I’m Not Crazy warned us that a new tenant might be moving in, and that he hoped we’d get along. I told INC that we would do our best, but that we considered him our village god should any disputes arise. He gave me an anxious smile.

That same day I thought I heard a car, and going out back discovered a man with disheveled white hair that drooping in curls, a five-day beard, and polyester slacks, looking as seedy as a displaced professor. I approached him and he introduced himself. “I’m just killing time,” he said. “I’m just killing time. I hope you don’t mind. This is so beautiful. It’s the only place I’ve applied for. I hope you don’t mind. I’m just killing time.” He was obviously enraptured by the redwoods, but I found his social graces lacking; not that he was offensive, only in a world apart, in a word, creepy. There are better ways to introduce oneself. “Hi, my name is ___, I’ll be your neighbor, how are you? I hope you don’t mind, I’m just enjoying the view of the woods here. It’s really spectacular.”

Now it was none of my business, but seeing as how this man might be destined to be our near neighbor, I called I’m Not Crazy to render an opinion. I told him his prospective tenant seemed a little creepy to me. He responded by saying “We’re all different, you and I are different.” To which I said, “Yes, but although we are different, I don’t think either of us is creepy.” And that was that.

I’m Not Creepy turned out to be from Manhattan, where he just sold his co-op for God knows how much money. He’s been very friendly, just gave us bookcase today that he didn’t need, but his boundaries are shaky, the kind of person who immediately tells you about his most intimate struggles as if you had been bosom friends for a decade. He desperately wanted to tell me about his troubles with the co-op board, etc., etc., and I could have cared less, but he did go through four glasses of wine in less than half an hour while first visiting with us and unabashedly recited his travails back in Manhattan. At least INC seems harmless.


Thine as Always,

CE

Micromanaging Melancholy

Yes, give up hope all ye who enter here. I persist in my depression that began three weeks ago, give or take a few mixed states.

I have settled into my negative personality. I imagine explanations for every blow of Kathleen's criticism, though it rarely comes--I am nevertheless prepared for that iron rain.

Everyone ignores me, I am invisible. I sit on the deck and read Keats by the redwoods and wish to become insensate in their towering excellence, their ramrod-straight striving for the sun without apology.

Love Keats' "Ode to Melancholy," one of the best poems I know that tries to make sense out of manic-depression. "Ode to a Nightingale" and "Ode to a Grecian Urn" skirt the same subject but not so personally.

Kathleen is happy. She tells me I am negative and boring. I wholeheartedly agree while in this state. I am grateful for her company but have no right to expect anything more than a grudging tolerance for my existence. She tells me she loves me but I know better; that's the transparent habit of compassion she's developed for a nobody of no consequence.

I am too tired to catch her in the lie; after all, what difference does it make if I cannot imagine being loved, much less feel love?

It's amazing how very bad Keats was until the last years of his life. The transformation is quick and unforeseen. Beforehand I would never have imagined him becoming a first rate poet, rather relegated as a minor Romantic hack. Only five of all his belabored sonnets are worth saving. Then come "St. Agnes" and the incredible Odes. Go figure.

Dead at 25. Lucky bastard. I see my last twenty years going by in a "poof" of forgettable gray negatives of nothing some fools might mistake for a life.
So much for the happy ramblings of the depressed.

NOTE: None of the above should be construed as strictly true or even what the writer believes, rather a sour exhalation of melancholic vapors.


Thine in Despondency,

Anonymous

Update

Last night I said to Kathleen, "Kenyon is old and boring." Whereupon she burst into angry tears and left for the upstairs, where we now have a full-size bed. I was afraid to sleep with her and didn't. She claimed I harped on Kenyon's age, I thought I just mentioned it. In trying to clarify my remark this morning, she broke into tears again.

Why are men so stupid?

Kenyon isn't boring when we take him swimming, and he was frisky this morning as he danced around Kathleen with his favorite sock in his mouth. I fear Kathleen without a dog and want to get a puppy. She feels a puppy would shorten Kenyon's life, displacing him.

She is always right because it is her dog.

But Kenyon may have another three years, and I dread the day he goes to doggie heaven, as my sweeheart will weep for weeks.

Can't be helped, I guess.

***************************

I've had an awful cold, so bad I needed a chest X-ray. I didn't see anything serious on the X-ray but I'll wait for the radiologist's imprimatur. What's so strange is that I know I'm coughing out of my anterior left lung, and recumbency worsens it, and I've been doing so for two months with various shades of productivity, presently yellow-white. This means it was time to check for TB (from Mexico), lymphoma, lung cancer and other delights. I'll have four weeks off the damn cigs Monday as will Kathleen.

I hate going to doctors. Luckily I saw a PA. Ka-Ching!

I had to tell him how important I was. He told me he knew that I had to know everything. Wise man.

Strange, I always hated hospitals and clinics, even when I worked in them or managed them. I hate the sterility of it all, the implied inhumanity.

Shit, as we have no insurance, they wanted $318 for the chest X-ray! But I get a 30% discount if I pay the bill withing 45 days. Could illegal immigrants be driving the price up? Hmmm.....

*****************************

Our check from Principal is late this month so we are being forced to be sober because we can't afford booze. I'd like to cut back on our drinking anyway, but as we so recently achieved smobriety, better one thing at a time, so I'm told.

Just a note for today. I'm computer-impaired as I left mine at my sister's like a blockhead. (You know, last minute, I'm telling myself "Don't forget the computer, Doc, don't forget..."

And then I do!)


Thine,

CE

The Sky is Falling

As part of my treatment for depression I try to stay busy and avoid being alone, even though I can't stand my own company. So I just finished five days with my oldest daughter and grandson Jacob, and am now visiting my two younger daughters in Long Beach, CA.

Yesterday I had to drive to San Diego for a doctor's appointment, about 100 miles from here, a two hour drive. After my appointment I stopped at Costco for my prescription, then got on the road about 1 PM. But I miscalculated. It was Good Friday and the last day before spring break for many students. But worst of all, it began to rain and rain hard. And nothing so paralyzes SoCal drivers as that strange liquid.

It took me four-and-a-half hours to get back to Long Beach, and I only narrowly avoided rear-ending several herky-jerky drivers who seemed driven by Brownian motion.

Now I used to write a regular column called "View from the Left Coast," but each of the three magazines that featured it eventually went belly-up. Either my column was a curse or this is simply a reflection of the instability of small presses, especially web publications. In any event, since my column on SoCal drivers in the rain is no longer available online (previously published in Savoy, I reprint it below.

I would happily write a column for an e-zine again but I would insist on being paid. Not a lot--just enough to make me feel like a real writer, not some cyberhackwhore who gives it away for free (as I do here!)

Here's the column:


The Sky is Falling!

With our annual rainfall around thirteen inches, the Los Angeles basin qualifies as a desert. Though our climate is labeled "Mediterranean," a low elevation hike in the foothills will quickly convince you by its spiny barrenness that this is a desert-- unless you prefer a jaunt downtown, where the traffic court building has huge planters filled with nothing but dirt. We survive by stealing water from Arizona and Northern California (see Chinatown), though desalinization plants (one is currently being tested on Catalina Island) will make all this moot in the future, given technology's exponential progress.

The Sons of Champlin sang: "Why Do People Run from the Rain?" In LA we don't. Instead we undergo mass paralysis. Freeways move slower than Mississippi mud. Millions call in sick. If "Nobody Walks in LA," then when it rains, we need a stronger pronoun than "nobody"— and "Mad dogs and Englishmen" has already been co-opted by the noonday sun.

Why, when it rains, do our freeways slow to the tempo of blood through plaque-filled coronaries? Our road surfaces are good, their drainage is good, there's really no reason to go less than 60 mph on the freeways when it rains. Yet magically, when it does rain, the freeways fill like seats for The Phantom of the Opera when Michael Crawford was still appearing.

Here's some possible reasons for this peculiarly LA phenomenon, something I've never witnessed in Houston or Seattle:

1) Braking in rain requires longer distances.
2) Water from puddles can impair brake function.
3) It's harder to see through rain.
4) A gray sky makes gray freeways treacherously indistinct.
5) People fear rain by force of unfamiliarity.
6) Not everyone has a SUV just yet.
7) Rain makes Angelenos mooningly homesick for their more temperate birthplaces, since anyone who lives here and was born here is a rarity.
8) Culture shock, or geographic/habitat dystonia, i.e., rain is natural, and LA, artificial.
9) The old man is snoring.
10) The spermatozoa-like rivulets on carnuba-waxed Jaguar hoods can be hypnotizing.
11) Leaking sun roofs and convertible tops.
12) Rain makes one concentrate too much on driving to employ a cell phone effectively.
13) All of the above.
14) None of the above.
15) #5, again. And again.

I asked my favorite California Highway Patrol contact, Officer Judy, to explain the phenomenon.

CE: Why is it that Angelenos go into paralysis when it rains?

OJ: Isn't it obvious?

CE: To you, perhaps.

OJ: We have a term for it.

CE: Yes?

OJ: Toxic Terrapinization.

CE: Huh?

OJ: Notice how each driver feels safe in their carapace, err…vehicle. They can see out the windows of their shell and proceed. When rain smears the windows people begin to lose faith in their vision and thus retract their heads and limbs, so to speak, and proceed at turtle speeds with their heads up their asses. Notice I didn't say tortoise, though perhaps I should, since the tortoise is a desert animal and rain in LA forces drivers into an unwanted state of evolution, back into their amphibious past.

CE: Are you sure it isn't because they can't use their cruise control settings?

OJ: Shit, those aren't any good on our freeways, anyway. Even at 2 A.M.

CE: But don't the windshield wipers help?

OJ: Oh, no, they make it worse. Most people don't know how to turn them on, and those who do are frightened by the noise. It reminds them of the score from Jaws, another aquatic nightmare.

CE: That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.

OJ: Sillier than a cop named "Judy," whose initials remind us all of a great friend of the force, or as we affectionately refer to him, “Bronco-Man?” Strange that grief over his murdered wife nearly drove him to suicide. Hey, you know if anyone’s picked up the reward yet? Rumor has it the killer had a limp and a bad arm.

CE: Oh, stop it. The Smothers Brothers show was canceled ages ago and hear I’m giving you a second chance for notoriety and you’re turning into a bore. What, did your mother contaminate your DNA sample, too?

OJ: No, actually, I think that was my dad. Or a sperm bank.

CE: No wonder they canceled the show, with lines like that.

OJ: Stop rubbing in the carnuba wax.

CE: Ouch!

OJ: As I was saying, the AQMB (Air Quality Management Board) has succeeded in reducing smog for over thirty years, I'll have you know, but they haven't made much headway with this other unwelcome toxin. As all well-informed Californians know, rain spoils the lettuce in our irrigated central valley, causes weeds to sprout in our planned communities, and forces the homeless inside, which frustrates do-gooders, and worst of all, it can ruin the crease in your chinos in a society where appearance is everything. Didn't you know most women under thirty iron their jeans?

CE: I uhh… no……

OJ: Rain is poison. We don't want it. We don't need it. The only people that benefit from the uninvited liquid are the owners of local ski resorts, but they have snow-making machines now so who needs it? Someday they may even progress to permanent synthetic snow, the kind which has successfully adorned Disneyland’s Matterhorn for fifty years. In short, rain is the enemy of the state. Mayor Yorty told me so himself.

CE: You don't look old enough to have known him.

OJ: Give me a break. I saw him on videos then met him through channeling, dufus. Where have you been?

CE: I like to read books and don’t believe in reincarnation, FYI.

OJ: God, you journalistic-literary types are so out of it. See, rain also interferes with our psychic reception, and that's big business. It's hard to get a clear reading from Mafu when it rains. Since a lot of people rely on channeling for automatic driving, so they can use their commute time to practice the saxophone or other important business, having their guidance severed is a crippling blow to transportation and commerce.

CE: So you're telling me that enough drivers depend on spirit guides that when rain impairs communication with the upper reaches, it affects traffic?

OJ: What planet did you say you were from? This is LA!

Per usual, Officer Judy proved a big help in understanding “Toxic Terrapinization.” I'm curious whether it affects Phoenix and San Diego similarly, but not curious enough to go down there and wait for a year just to see some real rain.


Thine in Truth and Rain,

C. E. Chaffin

Back to Depression with Kenyon

Kathleen’s in NY until 4/17 and I have sunk into a depression. As a bipolar I, I knew I was in a mixed state at the motel in Fort Bragg. As my last post described, our new abode filled me with anxiety for the very contrast between the starkness of our indoor environment and the luxuriance of the coastal redwoods. I started lithium while there, and by the time I arrived at my daughter’s, near Sacramento, I had all the symptoms of depression, though masked by lithium.

I added olanzapine last night and today obtained a prescription from my new psychiatrist for fluoxetine and buproprion. Unfortunately my debit card won’t work to pay for them yet, as the money I gave my daughter to help obtain a lawyer put me in the hole again, from which my sister again extricated me, generous soul, with the admonition not to try to pay her back her loan until I was settled.

I do not regret the shame I felt in inconveniencing her, as the money I gave my daughter was to help with the custody battle for our grandson, Jacob, with whom I feel a special bond. But when depressed it is rare that I feel I am doing the right thing; in this I felt I was, which was a miracle, as with regard to everything else, while melancholic, I feel that I might as well throw darts. “Do I dare to eat a peach?” How about watermelon? Sit or stand? Drink or not drink? Walk or sit? All such considerations are only pointless exercises in the indecision of existential despair.

When depressed everything looks strange to me. Every place I go it seems I’ve never been there before. My own body becomes alien; my spirit has abandoned it. I seek distraction as I am incapable of pleasure. In the worst depressions I cannot eat or sleep. This one has not gotten that bad yet, and won’t, as I have quickly attacked with medications from long experience.

It is not surprising that I have finally sunk into a depression after the last year-and-a-half. I am not Superman, after all, and life takes its toll. And the increased medications, though they keep the abyss from completely swallowing me, only do so by clouding my vision and slowing my synapses. This is, of course, better than the hypervigilant deer-in-the-headlights anxiety that would otherwise attend me. What’s terrible about melancholia is the need to act, to do something, anything, while you cannot bring yourself to act. It’s like trying to run in place in cement. There’s a desperation that requires you do something but there’s nothing to do, only the sense that something must be done and done quickly, else you are damned.

I am not alone in this mood, however. Ever since he was separated from Kathleen, Kenyon has been moping. He doesn't want to go on walks, eats little, and when I leave him alone he just stares into the distance, sitting, waiting for Kathleen to come. It' unnerving. Today I let him out and positioned himself on the grass near my daughter's door, always looking in the distance as if Kathleen might arrive at any second.

The best thing in all this has been playing with my grandson, Jacob. But I'll save that for another post. He is so rambunctious there is not time for me to stew in my own juices for long. He left for his father's today and I miss him terribly already.


Thine in Truth and Art,

C. E. Chaffin

We Move into the Former Home of a Slacker-Stoner

We moved into our new domicile on April 1, no fooling, located about four miles east of Mendocino, a small coastal town in NorCal. Although in the middle of the redwoods, the rental was our third choice. Due to “poor” credit (naturally besmirched by our homeless adventures to Mexico and back), in every competition for a rental the landlord invariably chose the party with better credit, despite bribes and proof of income.

Yes, bribes. I offered our first prospective landlord, whose income I learned was only $1500/mo., $500 extra just to choose us. She wouldn’t take it, choosing a single woman to live near her instead. Then her property would likely have seemed overpopulated what with me, Kathleen and Kenyon wandering around. I also think our energy overwhelmed this solitary artist who struck me as a chronic depressive besides. She missed out because I’m really good at raising such people out of their doldrums, which helps protect me from my own melancholy, which I’m suffering today—but I’ll get to that later.

Our next and preferred choice of all remaining rentals had a panoramic ocean view overlooking Highway 1 from the east. It was also the most expensive we considered. As if it mattered. Shot down by poor credit.

What, you voyeur, you want an actual number? Our best, Equifax: 539, “poor.” But I’m working on it.

Our third choice of rental, in which we now live, is situated in the coastal redwoods, as I noted above. Built a year ago, the walls are pristine white. The two-level modernistic dwelling has three skylights and lots of large windows to make it seem that we are living in a reverse terrarium. From inside a white vacuum we gaze out upon a wet, lush forest. Our outdoor deck is flanked by two large redwoods on each side.

Between the bare walls we sleep on two thin futons that our new landlord kindly lent us yesterday. He’s new to the business, likely why he trusted us in the first place with our poor credit, also the reason his former tenant was such an irresponsible pig, as the place was not clean when we moved in, but filthy in the way only a slacker-stoner could make it filthy.

We found no evidence of food in the cupboards but mouse turds nevertheless. Kathleen deduced the mice must have subsisted in part on pot seeds. Though the house was emptied of most objects (save the garage where many had been hastily thrown), it had the pervasive odor of Humboldt County grass, a smell Kathleen, being from NY, did not at first recognize. And although smoking had been forbidden by the lease, there were ashes everywhere, and the cupboards were littered with scraps of bud, so much that they amounted to at least half an ounce when collected. The linoleum in the kitchen had been repeatedly burned by dropping ash. The dishwasher had never been used. I found the original instructions and sample detergent within. (This may be in part explained by all the pizza boxes in the garage.)

Based on the evidence, we suspect this young man was self-employed in the growth and sale of pot, although like many dealers, he was only barely successful—because he liked his product too much. While I was gone yesterday Kathleen saw him creeping around the property, which spooked her. He had already stopped by the day before “to get some stuff.” When accosted by Kathleen he sheepishly explained he had returned for his “alfalfa seedlings,” not yet sprouted but supposedly contained in three 36-pocket plastic trays. Only a horse would need that much alfalfa, but I wasn’t there to intimidate the bastard, he had the cheek to ask Kathleen to help him carry his projects to the car. She said his eyes were strangely clear, nearly colorless, and although wispy and slight, that he gave off an air of hidden malevolence. Later she saw him creeping across the driveway up the hill to examine something. We both assume he had some gardening to attend to and hope he took care of it.

Wait—I just went downstairs to find another scraggly stoner at the door with a large, glass bowl held out like an offering. “Is Nathan here?” he asked. Now I was pissed; not only had Nathan shown up twice, but this was the second stoner who came here to buy some pot, so I assume by his proffered container, blithely parking in our driveway and disturbing our privacy. I told the young man that if I ever see Nathan again that I will kick his ass, and to spread the word that there was a new sheriff in town who didn’t sell pot.

You can’t imagine how uncool such a frontal assault is in drifty NorCal. The poor boy was in shock, so much so, I expect, that he got his diesel Mercedes stuck in the mud near the top of our driveway. I went up to help him, explaining I was pissed at Nathan and not him. Finally he managed to back his car down and escape with his belts screaming under the hood. I’ve noticed a lot of screaming belts in up here. Is it the moisture or just the quiet? Could cars actually be that noisy everywhere?

After this I went up the hill where Nathan had skulked to see what I could see. There he had hidden nothing but a Shop-Vac and two trashcans with five gallon buckets inside. I was expecting to find some dopage but I doubt that place gets enough sun. If Nathan comes back a third time, too bad; we don’t know where his vacuum or trash cans and buckets are, period (although we will be using some that very much resemble his). We learned this strategy of passive ignorance in Mexico. If the poor buy starts to whine, I’ll let him know that he is illegally on our property and thus in grave danger. (Jack: “Is there any other kind?”)

I shouldn’t be so hard on these slackers, it’s just a territorial thing—that Nathan was skulking around without identifying himself while my deaf wife was home alone. Kathleen opined that the reason Kenyon didn’t bark at him was because he seemed such a nonentity.

The 60s were never over; they just moved north.

As for my melancholy? It has to do with the cognitive dissonance of living in a sterile fish bowl while being surrounded by a lush forest. Add the fact Kathleen leaves for NY on Thursday and we have no bed as yet and our arthritis medication has not arrived from the Internet—

No, I think it’s mainly the stillness here! I’ve never lived in a place so quiet, where the refrigerator makes the most noise and you can hear a mouse fart. Strange. I did not know I was overstimulated; now I am suffering understimulation or stimulation withdrawal, not to mention withdrawal from my favorite stimulant, nicotine.

I’m sure I’ll become accustomed to this new space eventually but for now I find it kind of spooky. It’s as if I, too, were deaf, as there is nothing to hear. This must be somewhat how it is for Kathleen (without her hearing aid) all the time. Peaceful but slightly disconnected, so I suppose, and then there is always the issue of safety—you can’t hear a creeping stoner, for instance.

Kathleen loves it here, by the way. Her hearing aid normally picks up so much ambient noise that she finds the quiet delicious. “In the city all I hear is noise,” she says.

I’m still mad at Kenyon for not barking at a potential intruder. Then, to be fair, Kenyon don’t hear and see like he used to. And neither do I.


Thine in Truth and Art,

C. E. Chaffin

Epic on Addiction: The Deprivathon Entire (thoughts while quitting smoking)

The Deprivathon



I

Nothing fills the body like tobacco gas
sating each bronchiole
until alveoli collapse,
punctured bubble wrap,
Yet it is not the health risk I address but slavery,
the false comfort of stuffing the God-shaped vacuum
with dark matter.

Inscrutable face of the known universe
know that without tobacco
my chest is an abandoned altar,
my lungs empty gloves.

This day
by the grace of the unknowable
I will not smoke.


II

How can I wax oracular about a deadly habit? Shall I say, "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by white voodoo missiles from the military industrial suicidal tobacco coven,
Red Man's revenge funded by oil-wealthy Oklahoma Indians,
saw the blue smoke climb the undefended caves of their nostrils like mutated kudzu planting a Manitou deep in their unsuspecting ribs
to one day metastasize and waste their brains for the prize of a green oxygen tank and a wheelchair!

O Cancer! O Emphysema! O Stroke! O Coronary!
O insidious degenerative enzymes from secret hybrid leaves developed for mass destruction!
O refreshing Salems in a waterfall among the green ferns!
O perfect models with khaki slacks and sweaters tied around their necks sailing off Martha's Vineyard, liberated by Newports!
O Marlboro man who never talks but rides by purple mountains and orange sunsets in his fleece-lined suede jacket!
O Virginia Slims who keep that weight off for a woman who is only a clothes rack for designers, X-Ray clavicles and Botox.
O be happy, go Lucky, Winston tastes good, the pause that refreshes, smooth, smooth, smooth as polished agate.
But I'm not starving hysterical naked only addicted to inhaled nicotine jolting the brain in seven seconds, instantaneous pleasure loop hydrogen jukebox!


III

Mornings are made worse
by smoking too much under the influence of alcohol
the night before, which temporarily dulled
the pain of inhalation. You wake up
feeling like a crematorium,
still, have to have that morning rush
while listening to the coffeemaker
hum with the refrigerator.

I can’t ignore the pleading quality of machines—
a whir, a whine, as if a wish for petting,
as if they sympathized somehow,
could understand the loss of choice.

It’s said "one of three" will die from smoking
but this is only pseudoscientific propaganda.
Easier to see the damage in finely furrowed faces,
gray with sunken cheeks
who purse their lips to make it easier to exhale
against the increased resistance:
The blue bloaters of emphysema.

Then there are the barrel-chested wheezers
who hyperventilate to compensate:
The pink puffers of chronic bronchitis.

Yet none of this so terrifies
as does the black crab.

Lung cancer patients stink.
No one wants to play with them
on the field or at the rink,
no one wants to stay with them.

Because cancer is possession by an alien—
cells gone native, cells too stupid to know
they destroy their host,
mole burrowed deep, tiny claws
scratch at the pulmonary tree
in the darkness of blood and bronchi.


IV

Depression and loss look much the same
along life's hedgerow, still, differ
as hawthorn from holly, as grape from pear.
Loss is a coin tossed down a well
until you hear the plunk of water and weep;
in depression you never hear the coin
drop.

Nicotine, like benzedrine,
has antidepressant properties.
Deprived, the mind shudders
like an old engine.
Who will pull this train?
I think I can, I think I can,
desiring this man's art and that man's scope
the sea has jaws and a gray-green coat.
what hangs from the jaws is pulverized
to pebbles until the shingle rattles
before an otter floating in the caramel kelp.
The disconnection, stoppage, hesitation, grappling
for numbers, addresses, details, sans nicotine
I mourn the vanished power of the stimulated reign.



V

My parents smoked, it was not unpleasant.
It was present at Christmas with the holly wreath
and the brown couch with the little nubs
and the wrought iron legs from which my mother read
Hiawatha to us while smoking.

Mom smoked when I was a fetus.
Bad, bad mother.
Mom withheld her nipples from me.
Mean, mean mother.
She tried to nurse my older brother but failed.
Weak, weak mother.
At birth I knew what she knew:
There must be a substitute.


VI

I saw the spirit of fire,
Tobaccohontas
in her coronet of coals
dancing in a leaf skirt
of golden brown,
her incendiary thighs

burning burning burning.

Before her only God breathed fire.
Afterwards came dragons,
venomous snakes and toads.
Finally man's penis swelled
and woman's labia grew
bloody-purple, pink and wet.

I heard Tobaccohontas speak:

"I burn for you, Brave.
Do not forget your love.
Cleave me with your tomahawk,
undo the seam so lightly stitched by nature
or my own nails will ream it,
drive your spear into the ravenous slit
beneath the golden curls of my mons,
pound me as a bear ruts a sow
in a ditch littered with salmon bones and acorns.
My mouths have swallowed
the seed of many warriors, come.”

Ah, Tobaccohontas,
I once fingered your moist fragrance
in blue pouches of Drum tobacco.
Your scent still calls me
from the tent of the elders
puff by puff
but moderation is beyond me.
I must devour and be devoured.
Hear me:

My lava grows hard in your ocean.
Your undersea cleft shapes me.
My tip breaks off like a coal in your wet purse.
I shudder, deflate and die.
You are the siren of my death.
I stub you out in ashtrays
as if they were vampires’ coffins
through which to pound my stake.
Now I can only suck
the memory of your forbidden pleasure
and cast its usage toward some future
beyond obsession. Forgive me
Princess; you were the best.


VII

Withdrawal still twists me on its spit.
I suck my toothbrush in a rage,
spit out toothpicks like a nail gun.
When then is there an end to it?
Was slavery worth the wage?
No—I must—can’t—think of it!
I’ll wash my inside windows today.

After the Windex and the suds
the accumulated slime runs
yellow and gray onto my rag,
phlegm of oncology.
the same sick mucous color you get
from washing an ashtray—
I was living in an ashtray—no;
I was a living ashtray.
.
Yet when the windows were done
I was at a loss at how to reward myself.
A glass of water? A walk in the park?
A swim at the gym?
A pitcher of warm spit?
Nothing beats a cigarette.

I must hold on hold out hold to
hold forth hold back hold sway—
Mommy, don’t let me die an ashtray.


VIII

There is an absence greater than absence of life
there is a hollow hollower than death
when the lights go off in the gunman's eyes
and every man becomes a purse.

There is a loss greater than loss of pleasure
when there is no breast or nipple
and the nurse removes your pacifier
and the wailing of your deprivation
goes unnoticed in the bassinet
and your infant body shakes
into the grief of sleep.

Or when standing at the railing of your crib
and there is no mother
and no substitute for mother
in the endless darkness—
“Why can’t you change yourself?”

After such abandonment you may spend your life
seeking a fix like the milk-dewed nipple
in the rhythm of the bliss of your sucking,
the warm pillow of breast pressed against your face


IX

There is so little poetry left
I suffer its loss as much as cigarettes.
It may leave a bigger emptiness.
Love or addiction?

Sometimes I think addiction
especially when I am around poets
and feel the heat of their narcissism
rise like steam from a meatloaf,
the endless infantile hunger to be heard.
The problem is that poets can’t give themselves a fix,
they need an audience for praise.

Plato was right and wrong.
He never imagined the democratization of poetry,
fearing Aeschylus and Aristophanes
not Angelou and Bukowski.

You say I am writing prose now.
I say form must fit function
in this proliferation of venues and dilution of talent
on the Internet and in overpriced coffeehouses.
What do I really think?

Forget poetry, poetry sucks.
Poetry sucks donkey dicks in the dead of night.
Poetry sucks the butt holes of rabid bats
Poetry sucks the big Walla-Walla like a Staubsauger.
Poetry is a concentration camp for narcissists.
Poetry is eternal competition with every poet, living or dead.
Poetry causes stillborns, curdles milk and stains the altar with pig’s blood.
Poetry is bread in the mouth of a pigeon spreading Legionnaire's disease.
Poetry is the word flu.
Fuck poetry.


X

When asked why she didn't quit,
Bette Davis replied, "Then how would I talk?"
gesturing with her cigarette holder.

And what if I become seriously depressed
when the faces of familiar cars look strange
and I am frightened by doorknobs and tea kettles,
when whatever spark of self I knew
flies up and out the chimney into the wailing dark?
Will I zero-sum suck again?

That is always one danger: when smoking
or not smoking appear equally pointless
in a universe without pity.
Ergo, “Who cares if I smoke?”
In that state, which always returns
I vow to pretend to care
against all evidence.

The other danger is similar—
on a very good day, say your daughter’s wedding
or grandson's baptism, when the joyful
conviction of invulnerability
whispers, “You’ve achieved control
and can have just one.”

I have decided
when I get the urge
to imagine a silver angel
with glacier-blue eyes and crystal hair
swooping down like Winged Victory
to pluck my desire in her gleaming hands
and throw it back to heaven as a spent coal.

Quitting Smoking Day 6; Update on Our Situation

First, as of yesterday, we moved into our own rented domicile, and slept on linoleum in sleeping bags without a chair to sit on, in a house schmegged up by a former stoner tenant with ashes and bud trace everywhere--and seedling pots, and mouse turds in the cupboards.

But at least this slacker launched, since 33% of men 24-32, I read today, are still living with their parents.

Anyway, our new landlord, whom we call "I'm not crazy" Bill (because one morning he called me to discuss the building of a water tank and only afterwards realized I wasn't the contractor--so he left another message assuring us he "was not crazy," and it stuck).

Very nice man; as a landlord he has a lot to learn. Still, in that he's not charging us to crash in the redwoods in the modern two-level studio with the large windows and skylights until the place is ship-shape, hey, where's the downside?--only in our aging bones. Send us a mattress ASAP.

Kathleen proceeds to NY on Thursday for a spell; I proceed to Rachel and Jacob's (first daughter and only grandkid) on the same day and will stay until I'm not welcome, but I figure the more babysit my boy, the happier mom will be, and I might even get three days without a scene. One can hope. "Daughters are forever."

Finally, today, below, the conclusion of The Deprivathon, the longest poem I've ever penned. It may end more with a whimper than a bang, but isn't that the way giving up an addiction goes? I mean, being a non-smoker becomes almost commonplace? (Although I do describe my greatest know dangers for recidivism.)

Anyway, for those who haven't glanced this way, since I'm not announcing a new blog until I post the poem in its entirety, the work covers the first six days of withdrawal. That was enough time for God to create the world, likewise enough time for a poetic journey in a world of video blogs.

Thanks to C. Bagley for hanging with me for the duration!


Thine as ever,

Dr. Chaffin


*************************


The Deprivathon, Day 6


X. Will I Make It?

When asked why she didn't quit,
Bette Davis asked, "Then how would I talk?"
while furiously gesturing with her cigarette holder.



And what if as a non-smoker
I become seriously depressed
when the faces of familiar cars look strange
and I am firghtened by doorknobs and tea kettles,
when whatever spark of self I knew
flies up and out the chimney into the wailing dark?

That is always one danger, when smoking
or not smoking appear equally pointless
in a universe mostly composed of dark matter
so why should I care if I smoke?
In that state, which will come again,
I must pretend to care against all evidence.

The other danger is similar
as on a very good day,
say your daughter’s wedding or grandson's baptism,
when the joyful conviction of invulnerability
convinces you you’ve finally got control
and you can have just one.

Yet on a day like this,
betwee cycles and rather stable,
I choose to imagine a silver angel
with glacier-blue eyes and crystal hair
swooping down like a winged victory
to pluck my desire in her gleaming hands
and throw it back to heaven like a coal.




Finis

Day 5: Hollow Men and Poetry Addiction

Day 5


VIII Hollow Men

There is an absence greater than absence of life
there is a hollow hollower than death
when the lights go off in the gunman's eyes
and every man becomes a purse.

There is a loss greater than loss of pleasure
when there is no breast or nipple
and the nurse removes your pacifier
and the wailing of your deprivation
goes unnoticed in the bassinet
and your infant body shakes
into the grief of sleep.

Or when standing at the railing of your crib
and there is no mother
and no substitute for mother
in the endless darkness
might as well change yourself.

After this you may spend your life
seeking a substitute
for the milk-dewed nipple
and the warm pillow of breast
pressed against your face during
the rhythm of the bliss of your sucking.


IX My Poetry Addiction

There is so little poetry left in the world
I suffer its loss as much as cigarettes.
It may, in fact, leave a bigger emptiness.
Is it love or addiction?

Sometimes I think the latter, especially when I am around poets
and feel the heat of their narcissism rise like steam from a meatloaf,
most without craft, an ear, rhythm or form,
who cannot write a sonnet to save their souls
despite their endless infantile hunger to be heard.

The difference for these junkies is external dependence:
Only another can shoot you up with self-deluding praise.

Plato was right and wrong.
He never imagined the democratization of poetry,
fearing Aeschylus and Aristophanes
not Angelou and Bukowski.

You say I have switched to prose.
I say form must fit function
in this proliferation of venues and dilution of talent
on the Fleet Street of the Internet and overpriced coffeehouses.

Forget poetry, poetry sucks as much as cigarettes.
Poetry sucks donkey dicks in the dead of night.
Poetry sucks the butt holes of rabid bats
Poetry sucks the big Walla-Walla like a Staubsauger.
Poetry is a concentration camp for narcissists.
Poetry is eternal competition with every poet, living or dead.
Poetry causes stillborns, curdles milk and stains the altar with pig’s blood.
Poetry is bread in the mouth of a pigeon spreading Legionnaire's disease.
Poetry is the word flu.
Fuck poetry.

Quitting Smoking Day 4: Continued Unrest

Day 4


VII Continued Unrest


I can’t rest without a cigarette.
Withdrawal still twists me on its spit.
I suck my toothbrush in rage.
When then is there an end to it?
Was carbon slavery worth its wage?
No—I must not think of it!—
I’ll wash my windows today.

After the windex and the suds
their slime runs yellow and gray onto my rag,
that same sick mucous color you get
from washing an ashtray.
I was living in an ashtray—no;
I was a living ashtray.
I don’t want to die an ashtray.

Yet after the windows were done
I was at a loss at how to reward myself.
With a glass of water? A walk in the park?
A swim at the gym? Shit!
Nothing trumps a fucking cigarette!

I must hold on hold out hold to
hold forth hold back hold sway—
Mommy, don’t let me die an ashtray.

Quitting Smoking Day 3: A Sexualized Vision of My Addiction

VI: A Sexualized Vision of My Addiction

I saw the spirit of fire,
Tobaccohontas
in her coronet of coals
dancing in a leaf skirt
of golden brown,
her incendiary thighs

burning burning burning.

Before her only God breathed fire.
Afterwards came dragons,
venomous snakes and toads.
Finally man's penis swelled
and woman's labia grew
bloody-purple, pink and wet.

I heard Tobaccohontas speak:

"I burn for you, Brave.
Do not forget your love.
Cleave me with your tomahawk,
undo the seam so lightly stitched by nature
or my own nails will ream it,
drive your spear into the ravenous slit
beneath the golden curls of my mons,
pound me as a bear ruts a sow
in a ditch littered with salmon bones and acorns.
My mouths have swallowed
the seed of many warriors, come.”

Ah, Tobaccohontas,
I once fingered your moist fragrance
in blue pouches of Drum tobacco.
Your scent still calls to me
from the tent of elders puff by puff
but such stoic moderation is beyond me.
I cannot sample you, I must
devour and be devoured.

My lava grows hard in your ocean.
Your undersea cleft shapes me.
My tip breaks off like a coal in your wet purse.
I shudder, deflate and die.
You are the siren of my death.
I stub you out in ashtrays
as if they were vampires’ coffins
through which to pound my stake.
Now I can only suck
the memory of your forbidden pleasure
and cast its usage toward some future
beyond obsession. Forgive me
Princess; you were the best.

Quitting Smoking Day 2

Day 2


IV Withdrawal

Depression and loss look much the same
along life's hedgerow; still, differ
as hawthorn from holly, as grape from pear.
Loss is a coin tossed down a well
until you hear the plunk of water and weep--
in depression you never hear the coin
drop.

Nicotine, like Benzedrine,
has antidepressant properties.
Deprived, the mind shudders
like an old engine.
Who will pull this train?
I think I can, I think I can,
desiring this man's art and that man's scope
the sea has jaws and a gray-green coat
what hangs from the jaws is pulverized
to pebbles until the shingle rattles
before an otter floating in caramel kelp.

This disconnection, stoppage, hesitation, grappling
for numbers, addresses, details, sans nicotine
I mourn the vanished power of the chemical reign!


V Their Fault

My parents smoked, it was not unpleasant.
It was present at Christmas
with the holly wreath
in the brown couch
with the little nubs
and legs of wrought iron
from which my mother
read Hiawatha to us
and smoked.

My mother smoked
when I was a fetus.
Bad, bad mother.
My mother withheld
her nipples from me.
Mean, mean mother.
She tried but failed
to nurse my older brother.
Weak, weak mother.
At birth I knew
there was something even better.
I was born for cigarettes.

We Found a Rental! Quitting Smoking (Again!)

It’s after 3 PM and neither Kathleen nor I nor Kenyon has had a cigarette. We’ve taken our Wellbutrin and slapped on our nicotine patches; unfortunately, Kenyon had no hairless place to put a patch, but unlike humans he has no power to obtain cigarettes without our help, so he’ll just have to go cold turkey.

We quit last year from September through December but faltered on New Year’s, not from partying but from an emotional blowout with our son, the details of which I am not at liberty to share. Suffice it to say I wouldn’t buy a used car from him, although he is a handsome and lovable young man.

Further, today we were confirmed as new tenants in a spacious, light-filled one bedroom house along a whispering creek in the redwoods. If things progress as planned we’ll actually be moving in next Saturday. Having a place of our own (as you may not be able to imagine if you have not been virtually homeless for well over a year) is to us a scary prospect. We will be pinching ourselves for weeks in gratitude and disbelief, and then, like all humans, we’ll begin to take it for granted, and later aspire to a larger place. Such is our fallen nature; for now we have a chance to be grateful.

Instead of blogging for the next week, I invite you to come along on my journey of quitting smoking. There will be a poem posted in parts with each blog rather than more prose accounting of our adventures. I’m also going to change key words in the description of my blog to garner more attention, like free sex and drugs. Please ignore that ploy.

I think those who have been cigarette addicts will enjoy the poem, and those who have not may gain compassion for our minority, especially in view of the new Calabasas, California law that allows smokers to smoke in public only in their cars with the windows rolled up. To defend free speech for Nazis and the right to Internet porn is all very well, but where is the ACLU when it comes to smokers? Herein lies the ongoing Puritan hypocrisy on which our nation was founded.

As for hypocrisy, think of George Bush encouraging us to have private Social Security retirement accounts and private health care accounts while he and congress pile up a trillion dollars in debt. Yes, Americans: It is your responsibility to plan for the future while the benefits Government promised you go down the toilet. So kind of Uncle Sam to demand a virtue from the populace he cannot perform.

I have one word to prepare baby boomers for the upcoming crash of Medicare and Social Security: Sacrifice! This seems to be the one thing no one in America is prepared to do, especially our representatives. As George Harrison sang, “I, Me, Mine.”

Now for today’s installment of “The Deprivathon,” a poem I admit I did not compose spontaneously. I am revising an earlier draft from when I quit for six months in 2002. I want to thank Jim Zola for a critique of that earlier draft, my co-editor for Melic’s last issue, who (among a few others) actually had the patience to read the whole thing in its earlier form.

Happy no trails! No fuming!


C. E. Chaffin



The Deprivathon

(A diary of quitting smoking)


Day 1


I Invocation

Nothing fills the body like tobacco gas
sating each bronchiole
until alveoli collapse
like punctured bubble wrap,
yet it is not the health risk
but the slavery I address,
the false comfort of filling
Augustine’s God-shaped vacuum.

Have mercy, God, for without smoke
my lungs are empty gloves,
my chest an abandoned altar.

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
This day by the grace of God
I will not smoke.


II Howl

How can I wax oracular about a deadly habit? Shall I say,

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by white voodoo missiles from the military industrial suicidal tobacco coven,
Red Man's revenge funded by oil-wealthy Oklahoma Indians,
Saw the blue smoke climb the undefended caves of their nostrils like mutated kudzu planting a Manitou deep in their unsuspecting ribs to one day metastasize and waste their brains, the Nobel Prize is a green oxygen tank and a wheelchair!
O Cancer! O Emphysema! O Stroke! O Coronary!
O insidious degenerative enzymes from secret hybrid leaves developed for mass destruction!
O refreshing Salems in a waterfall among the green ferns!
O perfect models with sweaters tied around their necks and khaki slacks sailing off Martha's Vineyard, liberated by Newports!
O Marlboro man who never talks but rides by purple mountains and orange sunsets in his fleece-lined suede jacket!
O Virginia Slims who keep that weight off for a woman who is only a clothes rack for gay designers, tennis anyone?
O be happy, go Lucky, Winston tastes good, the pause that refreshes, smooth, smooth, smooth as polished agate… hack hack….
but I'm not starving hysterical naked only addicted and I hate to smoke but hate not smoking more because
inhaled nicotine jolts the brain in seven seconds, talk about a hydrogen jukebox, instantaneous pleasure loop!
It calms, suppresses appetite, grants euphoria, helps concentration, ask any student, nicotine works long after caffeine quits.


III Consequences

Mornings are made worse by alcohol at night
which dulls the brain to pain of inhalation;
you wake up feeling like a crematorium,
still have to have that morning rush
or fear you won’t awaken.

I can’t ignore the pleading quality of machines—
a whir, a whine, as if a wish for petting,
as if they wanted a cigarette—
addiction is a machine.

No addict can adequately apprehend,
foresee or even imagine his actual end.
"One of three" they say will die
from cigarettes but this is only
pseudoscientific propaganda.

Is easier to see the damage
in finely furrowed faces,
gray with sunken cheeks
who purse their lips to exhale
and afford increased resistance
to move their palsied bellows.
These are the "blue bloaters" of emphysema.

There are also the barrel-chested wheezing types
who hyperventilate to compensate.
These are the "pink puffers" of chronic bronchitis.
I learned these facts in medical school
where I took up smoking as a tool
to study past the point where caffeine fails
but my excuse is only a denial of death.

Yet emphysema, chronic bronchitis,
the risk of stroke and heart attack
do not terrify like the black crab of cancer,

Lung cancer patients stink.
No one wants to play with them
on the field or at the rink,
no one wants to stay with them.

Cancer is more feared because more alien
a thing inside composed of altered cells,
cells you were never born with, cells not yourself,
that mutating Manitou within
that killed Bob Marley and the Marlboro Man.

Update on Kenyon; Operation Seagull and the National Debt

Yesterday we went to Van Damme State Park beach to exercise Kenyon. He continues to limp on his left forelimb, which the vet diagnosed as osteoarthritis—no need even for X-Rays. Yet it still grieves us to watch him lope unevenly rather than run outright.

At the beach we tossed a chartreuse tennis ball into the Little River and watched him swim and fetch, gradually working up to the ocean, where he braved bigger and bigger waves to fetch his ball. Because he has one cataract his vision is not as keen as formerly, so we also use a green 7-Up bottle half filled with water for fetching.

Kathleen and I also engaged in a little batting practice with a piece of driftwood and Kenyon’s soggy tennis ball. She hit it hard twice but more often whiffed, for which I blame my pitching. Kenyon meanwhile played catcher and chased down every missed ball before grudgingly, and with much encouragement, returning it to the pitcher.

The good news is that Kenyon’s personality has made quite a comeback, overcoming his canine PTSD in increments. He will now wander out back of our motel without accompaniment, though most of the time he still stays very close to Kathleen. When we come home he now greets us with as many items as he can stuff in his mouth, including his favorite sock and rawhide bone. (Sometimes he gets two socks in his mouth but it’s hard to add the tennis ball.) He’s been up in our bed to be doted upon but has trouble climbing up without help. It’s always the left front leg that gives him trouble. I suggested a neoprene sleeve support to the vet, but she’d never heard of such a thing, so I think I may go to the local dive shop and have them make one.

As we were preparing to leave the beach yesterday, Kenyon happily tired out from his swim and fetch session, we noticed a mottled brown seagull flopping around in the parking lot. From a distance it appeared to have a broken right leg. On closer inspection I noted that it had been hamstrung by a long leader used for salmon trolling (which I believe is out of season and illegal now), including a hook through his right flipper and one deep in his gullet. I threw a towel over the bird and lifted it carefully into a box in the back of our beat-up van. As we drove back to Fort Bragg he escaped from his box and began fluttering amidst the luggage in the back (which made me feel like Tippie Hedren in a phone booth). Kathleen steadied Kenyon but he wasn’t terribly interested, once again confident that he is the center of the universe.

Returning to the motel, I called a number of state agencies for wildlife rehabilitation, only to receive the final recommendation that I should call a local vet. Your government at work. “Save the teacher’s union, not the seagulls.” As all the vets’ offices had closed, and being a qualified physician and surgeon myself, I thought it would be easier if I did the job. With the help of Suzanne, our motel manager, and Kathleen, I was able to remove both hooks and untangle the leaders and snap-swivels from the bird’s right wing.

Its tongue had been partially severed in the middle by the fishing line. The hooks were large and of stainless steel, so wire cutters were of no use; I had to crimp the barbs and back the hooks out, which worked, although “Benny” (I named him afterwards but his pronoun will now change from “it” to “he,” though I have no idea how to determine the sex of a seagull) was obviously in pain during the operation on his gullet. I did learn that the pressure of a seagull’s bite is not powerful enough to seriously injure a human finger, although it can be impressive to the uninitiated. I wore gloves in any case. Afterwards Kathleen soaked the gloves in detergent.

Only then did I realize that “Benny” might have given us the bird flu! Oh well. I wouldn’t have done anything different if he were the first North American case except to wear a mask and quarantine him. I don’t recall any cases in seagulls or vultures anyway, as their scavenging ways require a very aggressive immune system.

I let Benny down in the storeroom after the operation and he could walk normally again, but I wasn’t sure he could fly. Suzanne suggested we keep him in a box overnight to rest. This morning I released him and he seemed dazed; I gave him some bread and sardines and he ate them, though his aim in locating the morsels seemed a little unsure. Concerned that he couldn’t fly, I gave chase to him on foot, feeling like Rocky Balboa, only to see him take off from the parking lot, whirl around the trees at low altitude, and then land in the middle of Highway 1. What a bird brain is Benny! Kathleen and I raced to the median and held up cars in order to shoo him off the road. In the gas station across the street I couldn’t capture him with a towel, but he finally took off and flew back across the road. There he located a pool of fresh water flowing by the curb and drank his fill. I watched him a little longer before leaving him to his own wiles and the elements.

***************

Yesterday we learned that we’d been declined as tenants for a second hoped-for rental, and we know it’s our credit scores doing the damage. As mad poets, Kathleen and I are occasionally seized by guilt at our joint unreliability when confronting the mechanics of modern reality. We’ve owned three houses between us and have nothing to show for it. We’ve both been through bankruptcies. In Mexico we spent way too much money, including the little amount of equity (by today’s housing market standards) we managed to recover when we sold our re-financed condo.

Sitting on the bed together, admitting our lifetime lack of interest in things material as well as our failure to cross the ‘t’s and dot the ‘i’s of modern living (we have no health and I have no life insurance, though we do have car insurance), Kathleen remarked, “It’s not so bad, Craig. That’s just who we are. We saved a seagull in distress that other people at the State Park ignored. We helped bring back Kenyon’s health. We had a good day.”

And you know, she’s right. We are truly God’s children, and though that’s no excuse for not doing better in the real, material world, we’re just the kind of people who more easily give away a dollar than pinch a penny. We do, however, believe in karma, that the good we’ve done in our lives (though it will not insulate us against suffering as this blog has pointedly illustrated) will ultimately rebound to us in times of need—and it has. “Cast your bread upon the waters.” “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things will be added to you.” “Behold the lilies of the field.” And so on. For us this is not an excuse but a matter of faith. We are not in denial about not building bigger barns. We’re just not very good at it, but God is faithful even to the foolish.

Now I did pay all our bills yesterday, including half of the money my sister loaned me short-term when Child Support Services left us penniless again two weeks ago, and I am current with the car payment, the motel bill, the storage payment, and child support, so it’s not as if we’re totally irresponsible. What truly galls me is that three years ago, when we sold the condo, I was entirely debt free. But when I went to purchase a car, I couldn’t get a decent loan because, God, of all things, I had “no credit.” No payment records. A debtless soul. Thereby I learned again the logic of American consumerism: if you can’t be trusted to keep on borrowing, we can’t trust you to keep on lending.

So a word to the wise: do not become debt-free. Pay your credit card bills on time; in fact, it’s best to run up large bills and make large payments for at least six months to improve your credit. But never, never get entirely out of debt or the system will punish you for your frugality.

And remember our great example: a government of the consumer, by the consumer, and for the consumer, shall not perish from the earth, as Congress has just raised the national debt ceiling to nine trillion dollars—$9,000,000,000,000—more eggs than a million seagulls could lay in a lifetime. Still the thinking goes that compared to our yearly GNP it’s not that bad. Besides, if American credit goes down the drain, the global economy will tank as well, because those who have invested in our debt, like China and Japan, would be shaken to the core. Thus they would do anything to prop up the credit of the U.S., as we are all so economically intertwined—like mating snakes.

The moral of my story? A penny borrowed is two pennies earned.

And don’t waste your life on wounded seagulls unless you’re willing to pay the price.


Thine as ever,

C. E. Chaffin

Headlines!

Headlines 3/15, 3/16, 3/21

I expect my readership to be middle-aged educated upper class whites, as I like to think of myself, despite my late bout with homelessness and poverty. Well, at least I’m educated, though my siblings may argue I lack a degree in social graces.
Unfortunately this antiquated medium of print has already become passé on the net, as video blogs are all the rage. Yet if you shake your head at just the right frequency while staring at my beaming portrait, it will appear as if I am in motion. The General Theory of Relativity completely supports this illusion.

Are you moving your head? Good.

So today let’s make a nod to Jon Stewart, who bombed at the Oscars (one reason to preserve Bob Hope’s head in liquid nitrogen), returning to the mordant ramblings to which my tiny readership has become accustomed. I keep no stats either for my blog or my magazine, which incidentally just put out its last issue:

www.melicreview.com/current/

Its theme is Death, one of the four great themes in the history of English literature (which includes the subsets of loss and grief, naturally), the other three great categories being Love, Nature, and God. Trust me on this. I’ve read a lot.

*****************

3/15

Quick cut to today’s headlines, which could be any headlines from any day, unless flattened even more by Botox, as history is mainly mundane (exceptions like 9/11 and Pearl Harbor and JFK’s are exceptions, as is this tautology in my normally taut prose). These headlines have been filched from The Press Democrat of Santa Rosa, followed by comment.

“3rd mad cow disease case found in the U.S.”

The animal was sent to anger management class.

“Pat Robertson critical of Muslims.”

This is news?

“Speaking of radical Muslims, he said: “These people are crazed fanatics, and I want to say it now: I believe it’s motivated by demonic power. It is satanic.”

Obviously Pat doesn’t know Satan. Satan would never expose his evil so publicly; he much prefers to pull the Alzheimer-laden strings of American Evangelicals to discredit Christianity.

“Isaac Hayes has quit ‘South Park,’ where he voices Chef, saying he can no longer stomach its take on religion.”

Hmm... this came after the first episode to mock Scientology, Isaac’s “religion,” after years of pummeling Christianity. Isaac’s “hot-buttered sell-out” only demonstrates what we already know: the Stepford Scientology Celebrities march in lockstep when Hubbard’s cupboard is raided. It’s not,” whose ox was gored,” but “don’t step on my blue suede engrams.” If Scientologists actually read this criticism I will be forced to look for rattlesnakes in my mailbox, the old Synanon trick.

“Carla Martin, prosecutor against Moussaoui for the Transportation Security Administration, e-mailed seven witnesses yet to testify, including portions of last week’s trial proceedings, and seemed to tell some of them how they should testify.”

This may spare Moussaoui the death penalty. Perhaps she is a closet opponent to it. But her real mistake? Not meeting privately with the witnesses the way most prosecutors do in their slanted prepping. Her temptation? The ease of e-mail. “The road to hell is paved with digital convenience.”

“Franciscans settle sex charges for $30 million.”

Imagine falling that far behind on your internet porno bill—but enough celibashing.

Quantum sufficit: “The former host of the 1980s game show, “Press Your Luck,” died when his small plane crashed into Santa Monica Bay.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

“A 12-year-old girl recanted her report of being sexually assaulted by a stranger in a school bathroom.”

Hard to keep up with Britney Spears. Oh the pressure of puberty!

“Democrats cautious on Bush censure.”

Obviously their handlers have not yet seen the new opinion polls they immediately commissioned.

“Colleges open minority aid to whites.”

Glad they decided to continue minority aid.

And what did you have for breakfast today? I had a Hostess blackberry pie, near 400 calories of carbs—Mmmm, delicious—though I hate how the little seeds stick between my teeth.
*************
3/16:

“Feds cutting back on testing for mad cow.”

Obviously the anger management courses are working.

“Rice mending fences.”

Rice is an excellent source of glue, though one grain would stick out in Condie’s throat as in that old joke about the starving Ethiopian. This might be her only way to achieve love handles.
.
“Lightning blamed in W. Va. mine blast.”

If we can “blame” lightning, the pathetic fallacy is alive and well. Then we are a Protestant-based “guilt” society; thus in Japan they “shame” lightning.

“Shuttle won’t fly until July, Nasa says”

Airplane psychologists are interviewing the shuttle about her hesitancy.

“Bush stumps for Medicare program.” Bush admitted the program began with “a little confusion.”

Question: How can the confused properly identify confusion? An Alzheimer’s patient might as well question another’s memory. (What did I just say? Whose memory? Where’s my pudding?

“Milosevic had access to alcohol, drugs.”

No better place to score than in prison.

“Khamenei unbending as U.N. debates Iran nuke issue.”

Interrupted during his Yoga class?

“China adopts plan to spread prosperity to 800 million poor.”

Sounds as easy as peanut butter. Have they never heard of Lyndon Johnson?

“Obscure official now talk of town.”

Formerly obscure?

“Judge to limit data feds get from Google.”

Why not just ask Google to censor their information as they happily did for China?

“87 found slain in Iraq bloodshed.”

Glad to know they weren’t bloodless zombies.

“Aryan case gets under way.”

They’re going to need a lot more beer for this one.

“Moment of silence draws suit” David and Shannon Croft say a teacher told one of their children to keep quiet because the minute is “a time of prayer.”

But it’s OK, I suppose, to tell the class to shut up for five minutes during the condom distribution?

“Israelis seize 6 W. Bank prisoners”

Liberate to incarcerate. Perhaps the Palestinian jail didn’t have a decent deli?

“FBI documents may show wider surveillance”

In a related story, the American obesity epidemic continues.


***************

3/21

“IRS moving to allow sale of tax return information.”

Are they jealous of Home Security privacy invasion? Or just eager to make further profits on their theft? Just like the government to steal from you and then sell the goods back. I’ve often wondered where all the knives and nail clippers confiscated at airports will end up. My guess is a government warehouse, from where they will eventually be sold to an enterprising Arab at 5% of their value.

“In ’05, airlines lost 30 million bags.”

And that was just the drugs.

“Bush’s Iraq picture grim, hopeful.”

Hopefully grim? Grimly hopeful? Oh fuhgedaboutit.

“Neighbor kills boy on lawn”

Glad to know it wasn’t on the street. Actually, the man loved his lawn. “Martin, 66, allegedly told police he had several times had problems with neighbors walking on his lawn.” One wonders: Bermuda? Dichondra? Decorative trolls? Or was his little black jockey defiled?

“New Iraq violence kills 39”

What makes it “new?”

“Australia begins cyclone cleanup”

Cyclone not cooperating, insisting that it flosses and bathes twice a day.

“Hoard of Cold War supplies found inside Brooklyn Bridge”

Class action suit begun from all purported owners of the Brooklyn Bridge to recoup stale survivor crackers.

“More indictments in scheme to defraud Red Cross

More than 61 people obtained free ATM cards in Bakersfield, CA, for access to government funds, claiming Katrina had induced PTSD in a town where the failure of air conditioning poses the biggest natural threat.

“Community college degrees may get tougher”

Eighth-grade reading equivalency threatened!

**************

I think that’s enough milking of the news, which is like shooting fish in a barrel. Strangely both Kathleen and I never understood that metaphor until our 50s, when we realized it wasn’t meant to be live fish swimming around but stacked, salted herring. The image of shooting live fish always seemed a little difficult to us, especially if they were small, tropical fish. And speaking of that, infants have a disproportionately strong grip, which makes me doubt "Like taking candy from a baby" as well.

I’m sure all of you have heard by now about the Ambien-induced sleep-gorging. People sleepwalk and chow down, even cooking in their sleep. One woman claimed to have gained 100 lbs. in her sleep-gorging. This gives new meaning to the question: “How’s your new girlfriend?” “Well, I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”

What about smeared bacon and eggs?

All for today, the Vernal Equinox, first day of spring. This means that Easter will be the first Sunday after the first Monday after the first full moon after today, as my mother so well taught me, which for us Lutherans always gave the holiday a nice pagan flavor. And we know for certain that Jesus was born on Christmas because otherwise the retail industry would suffer--unlike Jesus. As I’ve long preached, "Let's not take ‘X’ out of X-Mas!

And now a moment of silence as I pass out.


Thine in Truth and Farce,

C. E. Chaffin

Beach Glass and Glass Beach

I forgot to mention a very disturbing dream I had last night, which I attribute to eating a Uno bar before sleep. Chocolate has psychedelic properties, I’m convinced, and I think it raised my dopamine levels, which are low in Parkinson’s patients but high in schizophrenics.

For starters, Kathleen, Kenyon and I had visited Glass Beach the day before. Glass Beach used to be a dump before 1970, on the coast at the north end of Fort Bragg. Since its closing it has been transformed into a cove of shingle, pebbles and sand with a higher proportion of sea-smoothed glass than any other beach in California.

I collected beach glass in San Clemente for a decade, and after becoming choosey—that is to say, I came only to accept beach glass for my collection whose rough edges had been sufficiently sculpted into dull gems—I was able to fill over half of a medium-sized fish bowl with specimens. These included one yellow piece, one red piece, and two blue fragments I assumed were from Milk of Magnesia bottles. I was proud of my collection,

Then we visited Glass Beach, whose smoothed glass fragments were so plentiful the guide book said, “Be sure to visit it in full sun to see the glitter of the glass and ceramic on shore.” Imagine my surprise, even wild joy, when after years of collecting I could fill the same fish bowl in one day if I tried.

This experience reminded me of the principle of diminishing pleasure in unexpected returns. After the rare and unpredictable joy of finding one or two worthy specimens a day in San Clemente, to find such a plethora of specimens in Fort Bragg devalued my earlier exertions with the sweep of a magic wand. I found three blue specimens at Glass Beach in one afternoon, even a specimen of reinforced glass with the wires visible within, something I’d never encountered before. And I didn’t even look very hard; I was half-hearted about the effort. At first happy, my happiness had been diminished by an unprecedented abundance, as if the glory of my former finds, purchased with great effort, was now too easily attained--like climbing Mt. Everest via a helicopter. The value of these easily found specimens caused a great inflation in my spiritual economy, much like Twain deriding heaven as a boring vacation destination where harps and clouds and saints were all too commonplace.

I cannot help but think that the shock of the ease of collecting my previously hard-won trophies put me in an unconscious spin, which may have been the cause of my dream (combined with the late dose of chocolate).

In my dream I was seeking heaven or some sign of heaven on earth. Through secret communications I was directed to a group of people in a spacious, rustic house of great proportions. There the goodness was overwhelming. The presumption of eternal life and the ultimate triumph of goodness in this world was a given; people were confident in their faith and full of good humor, though also cognizant that they were an anomaly in this world of evil, which required of them a strict secrecy.

Amazed, overjoyed, I socialized with these souls who seemed to live in a glorious eternity most would never attain, much less suspect as a mode of being obtainable on earth. This vale of tears was completely subsumed by the generous smiles, glowing miens and forgiving natures of the secret conclave—all attractive, gracious, well-spoken, and guiltless while enjoying caviar and drinks.

Yet as I listened to their conversations, it occurred to me that they seemed somewhat bored, and that their concern for genocide in Darfur and Rwanda and the destruction of the Amazon Rain Forest had been superceded by their supreme and well-justified confidence in the future, knowing how it would all turn out. Gradually my joy at having discovered these spiritual giants was dampened by my disappointment, not in their self-satisfaction, but their seeming unconcern with the world’s current needs. To find my more spiritually advanced brethren unable to share the desperate compassion I felt for those on this dark planet still suffering, however blind, made for a guilty disillusionment on my part. Not that I found this company of saints evil, or proud, or condescending, or unconcerned, simply above the fray and thus slightly bored. However much I wanted to stay in their company I began to feel uncomfortable, as if I didn’t deserve to be in their company, while at the same time my sinful resentment surfaced in the suspicion that they might be “too heavenly minded for any earthly good.”

Like the unexpected and easy harvest of beach glass, these beings’ angelic, joyful insularity became too easy to countenance. Mournfully I realized I could not stay in their number, that I must return to the struggle of those still suffering on earth, however blind they might be to the all-conquering faith of the spiritual cognoscenti. They did not need to nurse AIDS patients because, as in the words of Dame Julian of Norwich, they knew that “All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Their company struck me a little like an inauguration gala just waiting for the second coming. In contrast I felt like a spiritual Neanderthal who wanted to return to the playing ground when the victory was already assured. In my heart I felt it was too early to celebrate the triumph of goodness, however much I ultimately believe in that outcome. We parted amicably and though I sensed no pity on their part, I considered the price they paid for their assurance and easy grace: they were no longer in the fight. There was no point anymore, in their view (though never directly stated), to get their hands dirty as Mother Teresa had.

I woke from the dream with a sense of regret; I felt I belonged with them; I was grateful to have discovered their secret society; at the same time I was not content to rest on the promise of faith when so much still hung in the balance.

The whole dream was like an acid flashback; twice before as a teenager I had similar visions on LSD, visions of humanity united in a loving, telepathic unity of eternal spiritual bodies (“How does it feel to be / one of the beautiful people?”) But it was not for me; even wigged out on acid such a blessing seemed premature. As lucky as I was to encounter them, I knew I could not continue among them without the eventual tug of a spiritual lack, and this grieved me to no end, as their attitude toward the ongoing spiritual battle confirmed my best hopes for humanity. So I left each time discouraged but resigned to my lesser fate of trying to love my neighbor in this fallen world despite my many defects.

Sometime ago I wrote a love poem to Kathleen wherein I theorized a similar phenomenon. Here’s an excerpt from “About the Bracelet”:

“What if all the righteous faded
by subtle increments to stark transparency
until no one could see them but themselves?
Left to our sordid board games,
would we even notice their absence?
In this scenario, you'd have disappeared
before we met.”

This stanza plays off the cabalistic notion that if only a few righteous men remain on earth, like Abraham arguing for Lot, they retain the power to extend God’s compassion before the inevitable day of judgment.

A strange dream, no? Yet the scriptures encourage me against any such premature fulfillment: “We have this treasure in earthen vessels, for we walk by faith, not sight.” “God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise.” “I have come not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.”

The parallel to the disappointment of Glass Beach is obvious, though I don’t know if it’s fair to blame the chocolate.

I’d like to close this account with a poem I wrote about beach glass before I knew about Glass Beach.

Beach Glass

Stone-smooth
and soft to thumb
down in a palm
like a familiar coin
but heavier,
its once jagged face
has suffered the sea
and no longer fractures light
in glints and glares.

Ground to dull edges
by sand,
it welcomes light evenly
and glows
luminously green
beside the dark,
wet pebbles.

I do not know if nature’s transforming magic (in the face of man’s irresponsible litter), would have inspired me to pen this encomium if I had encountered Glass Beach before beach glass.


C. E. Chaffin

Chaffin "Light"

If you care to notice, though few will, I have already revised the poem posted in the last entry. Some poems I’ve revised 100 times, appearing in successive publications successively altered, but I’m told Yeats suffered from the same obsession about his own works, though I would not dare compare my work to his. I now try to limit myself to five revisions per piece, though my as yet unpublished poem, “Message from Mexico” is undergoing its 30th, an exception to my recent practice perhaps justified in proportion to the suffering Kathleen, Kenyon and I endured in Mexico.

For what it’s worth, here’s a non-poem about writing poems that I sometimes share with my students:

how to write a poem

see
hear
smell
touch
taste
relate
remember

(the brain will mix it)

write it down
say it out loud
edit

put it away for a month
say it out loud
edit

put it away for a year
say it out loud
edit

publish maybe


In posting a “new” poem I obviously violated my own advice. Still, verbal artistry is wonderful in this: one can continually alter former works, unlike a finished sculpture or musical recording, although painting in oils may allow similar advantages.

We have our eyes on a rental here, but until our butts are there ensconced I will say no more for fear of bad luck. For now our address is

P. O. Box 2436
Fort Bragg, CA
95437

should anyone want to snail mail us. We have no phone. I already blogged about cell phone difficulties.

On to lesser things...

Our prospective landlord, incredibly, gave us the same quote about the Mendocino Coast that we’d heard about San Miguel de Allende: “This is the largest outdoor insane asylum in the world.” Whether due to crystals or a nexus of free thinkers telepathically attracting others, or mercury in the seafood, or tannins in the redwoods, or any other number of reasons, I don’t know. This signature quote does give us hope, however, that we may fit in and be of benefit to the community, as Kathleen and I each have four degrees of sanity. Both she and I have graduated from mental hospitals four times. To have your sanity so affirmed by the authorities is some comfort, especially when you meet so many people more deserving of a stay than yourselves. I mainly suspect they pass for normal out of cowardice, unable to confront their insanity and submit to treatment—spiders inhabiting the fringes of society, fringes on a mud puppy’s neck, like the overwrought turquoise and silver jewelry adorning nonagenarian pedophiles.

Did I actually write that? Never mind, I have four degrees of sanity.

I read yesterday (in The San Francisco Chronicle) that the chief neurosurgeon of an area hospital was arrested before a surgical procedure on suspicion of drunkenness, while crudely railing against the nurses. Abusive, he shoved a cop and would not stand still for the breathalyzer—which registered the presence of alcohol but could not determine how much because of his lack of cooperation.

All ye who fear the breathalyzer after a good party, heed the example of this neurosurgeon, who should know something about drunk driving from experience. (As residents we called the neurosurgery ward “the vegetable garden”— for all the comatose head-injury patients on life support. “Cabbage patch dolls” also enjoyed some currency.) So if they put the mouthpiece in and say, “blow,” squirm, squirm I say! Squirm against the dying of your rights! The worst you’ll get is resisting arrest.

On to even less important things. The legal tangles described in my last prose blog were untangled with an alacrity beyond belief; the government removed the levy from our account the very same day I called. The CSS officer said he went out on a limb for me since I had been sending generous support to my daughters in the absence of any court order. Sometimes good deeds do go unpunished. A miracle.

Perhaps our luck is changing.

We continue to rehabilitate Kenyon. He saw the vet today, who did not recommend X-Rays, believing his joint problems indicative of his age. But Kenyon is gaining weight and we’ve had him swimming nearly every day in the cold Pacific, good therapy for his joints. Unfortunately his eyesight isn’t what it once was, so I go through ten fetching sticks in a session. I plan to obtain a floating fluorescent object soon as a visual aid for his seagoing routine.

I splurged and bought Kathleen new hiking boots today; she claimed they helped her hip and back when we hiked to the beach for Kenyon’s session. Since she’s been nagging me about new hiking boots for at least two years, the expense was definitely worth the escape from her whining, self-pitying, constant verbal abuse. I couldn’t eat breakfast without hearing, “What about the boots?” These boots are made for nagging...

When she again claims, “I have nothing to wear,” I can now say, “But what about the boots?”

Among our other secret clichés we’ve added a new one—a “sign- countersign” device. Imitating Nelson of the Simpsons, one of us says “Hmm-hmh.” The other replies, “Hoo-Haw!” This links Al Pacino’s self-parody with the smartest show on television. Thus when we meet strange people, who seem to make up the majority here, we use our code to acknowledge when they say something really strange. Of course our code also warns them that we may be even stranger. Then every married couple has its peculiar private language, else it is no marriage.

(Aside: I can’t think of a worse movie I’ve seen in recent years than “The Informant,” where Russell Crowe and Al Pacino try to out-underact each other. Although Pacino begins with his usual frothy, alpha-male shtick, Russell Crowe’s understated performance dampens Pacino’s overacting below the Steiger counter level, making for an incredible collision of bad chemistry and worse acting. Anyone who can make it through the movie, which I couldn’t, is invited to be a stand-up guy and explain its merits on this blog.)

Geoffrey Rush, Johnny Depp, Edward Norton, Ian Holm, and other dramatic chameleons—the younger Brando, for instance—have my votes for best acting. But what do I know? In my academy ballot I voted for Kodak as best picture with Fuji as second choice.

Hey—we just bought a digital camera for $9.99! (I said we’d been splurging since the levy was lifted) and I may soon be able to add photos to this blog. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Given that I can bloviate 2000 words in an hour before my back gives out, I suppose the word count, in my case, should be adjusted upwards.

So do I have anything of substance to say today? Just that we’re happy, happy for the first time in years. And what I mean by happiness is a general contentment in our surroundings and the hope of a home after protracted homelessness. Joy is entirely another matter, but happiness has to do, in my humble opinion, with the fortuitous concatenation of circumstances and personal preferences. I think Fort Bragg is the first place in my entire life where I have chosen to live intentionally; everything that went before had to do with finances, education, or propinquity to family. I spent fourteen years in SoCal just to be close to my youngest daughter, Sarah, while my soul continually longed for the north Pacific coast.

You can buy Dungeness crab here for $3.99/lb.! And the waves, the cliffs, the knotted Bishop Pines, the wind-twisted Monterrey Pines, the mammoth waves crashing on the dark rock bones of the continent, the gray whales spouting offshore—it’s a terrible place to live and I don’t recommend it to anyone, as my tastes in geography are contrarian. I love wind and hail and rain and cold and that green-gray sweet mother of us all, the ocean, with her thundering froth. So don’t move here, don’t talk about the Mendocino coast except in terms of dismissal and disgust. That we are happy here should only be interpreted with our four degrees of sanity in mind, as we seek a cold, damp habitat with no Costco, Wal-Mart, or even our favorite French restaurant, Jacques-in-z-Box.

So, a little fluff about nothing today. I had more momentous things to say but my back is giving out. I’m fond of physical pain, btw, because it helps stabilize my mood as a bipolar. When depressed I’m absolutely grateful for pain’s distraction; when manic I don’t have any and pay for it later. (Then in that state I can’t be bothered with sleeping, eating, or anything but my progress towards the New Jerusalem of my quasi-religious psychosis. As one friend remarked, I become “The Kentucky-Fried Christ.”) This manic side also distinguishes me from Kathleen in our degrees of sanity; she’s never been to a mental hospital in handcuffs, while I have twice. Then we do share going to jail in Mexico over our dog.

Kathleen just informed that once she was taken to the bughouse in handcuffs. I am in awe.

I should mention that I narcissistically googled “C. E. Chaffin” today and found 12,700 references, but was happy to see my blog listed first. As I do not advertise or promote myself beyond my anemic mailing list, this implies, I think, that my blog is getting more hits than any of my other writings. If you’d like to be added to my mailing list, please write me. My e-mail is available on this site. If too lazy to look it up in my profile, here it is:

cechaffin@hotmail.com


All for today,

Dr. Chaffin “Light”