When Your Heart Is Broken - A Work In Progress
Category: News & PoliticsBy: eat-the-press-do-not-read-it • 3 weeks ago • 60 comments
WARNING: Content may be offensive to Sissies, Tight-Arses, Trumpers, DumFugazies, Right-Wing Gun Slingers, Communists Singers and regular peoples.
Skip it if you are offended by words, but not deed!
When Your Heart is Broken and Your Teeth Aren't:
Do you weep dry tears, squeeze your eyes, howl feebly at the waning moon, or as I do now, remain silent, lost in a slowly retreating mind, as the woodworms from the "on-set of Alzheimer" creep, ever so closely, senility smiles, shows its gnarled fangs and repeats over and over, again and again, that I can get a Free Medicare Review at no cost, saving me millions, increasing by Social Security payment, but first I must buy "Car Shield,", Lock Guard, Safe guard, More Private Health Insurance, Home Title Protection, Eruption Protection, Crones Disease Erection Protection, Triple Fire Protection for my house, phone, car, computer, tablets, TV's upgrades, etc., or, I will have no teeth in the morning.
Who wants false teeth, when FALSE NEWS is free?
Why pay for "Falsies" when, "Free Silicone Injections will soon be free, thanks to the generosity of the caring Conservative Tight Wad Conservative Republicans who had an epiphany when they realized that they are on a Stinking, Sinking Shit Hole Ship, piloted by none other than that Crazy Lovable Clown, "Dirty Diaper Donnie," the man who made brown spots in underdrawers acceptable truck drivers and for Senior Republican Senators.
My cellphone rings hourly, text messages every freakin' second, FB ads are everywhere, account receives 90 emails per day with lies, bull chips and thing, I do not need, because me freakin', frackin' cell phone will no longer be able to receive calls, post, text, not even "tell me the truth" online, if I don't upgrade immediately.
No on-line service for days, weeks, months, years, decades, and you imagine a world without bullshit? We, you and I, Honey, will be completely isolated from our virtual world, where the majority of us find acceptance, respect, using a fake name, photo, while postings to thousands of people we never met.
We will be forced back, shoved into "boring...boring" reality, if we don't pay for the upgrades that we all need, right this damn minute...or no soup for you, no teeth in the a.m.
So, of course, I submitted to the Gods of Instant Communication, who, only HE/SHE, has the power, the clout, the conservative Republican clout to connect strangers to each other, and strange strangers in Outer Space. Who wouldn't want that?
So, I call to upgrade, today.
Don't wait, lose your life savings today?
Naturally, I sold the house, the car, auctioned off the furniture for pennies on the dollar, emptied out my son, grandchildren, and incoherent relatives account to Save the World from Bernie Sander's Socialism.
"Praise the Lord and Passed the Ammunition."
Friends, and nearly nude.communists, let me ass you, Right Chere, Right Now, on this God-Given' Free Platform, the one and only true communicator, "theNudeTalkers.communists", don't yo'll have this same compulsion?"
Come on, admit it. We all like Free Shit.
I tell myself, that no one in this, chere Modern-Up-To-Date World of "Rush-Rush-Rush, Run-Run-Run Mother Furkas," would be stupid enough to do otherwise, except "Demon-crates"! Those filthy "Monkey Pox" infected homos. What say, UHaul?
Alway, "Do Right!" Never Get Lit At Night!
Even Joel Oil-Sting, draped in his "Holy Roller", $4000 designer suits, gets "free shit!"
You, too, fellow fiends, can get free junk from your "House of Worseness" ...er..."Worship", if'n only, you believes, and make damn sure you send in your tithes.
'Cause GOD NEEDS YOUR MONEY TO FEED THE POOR!
HE AIN'T GOT NO MONEY OF HIS OWN! - (Joel OilSteen has it all!)
Amen, Brother Ben & Sista Arse Kickers, if'n you want urine Arse Kissed, you have to wash it first, in the Holie Waters of Holly Rollers, while talkin-In-Tongue to the White-Blue-Eyed-Blond JESUS,on sale at Reverend Oral Fleeces' Church of the "How Big Is Your Wallet - How Small Is Your Mind!"
It is the Tempple, da place where yous should be right now. Where the Good/Sometimes Bad, Reverend Fleece, when not in jail, likes to sing his favorite sonnet, "Kiss My Arse You Rottin Sons of Bitches "Cause I'ma gonna beat you in the teeth if you don't send that tithe," that he penned while being in the Pen.
Can I get a "Halijah"?
Well, then, kiss my Muther FurgarTer Arse, too. After all, isn't that what da Jesus want from us all? Free shit to hoard, to show off to others who have less?
Gods want us to damn well get the things we want, or take dem from da poor, 'cause they are poor and ain't gonna notice. Rich people do if you snatch a penny off da floor.
Like a Facebook Moroon , I fall for every promising free scam offer, and can no longer pick up my cellphone because it is load with "free offers," none of which are FREE.
Detection vs Election
Have you ever had the Mid-Term erection blues, er, "election" blues, when you were rewarded fer all your fine work with a mini stroke that ripped at your consciousness until it was shredded, or there is nothing left?
Did you experience: Silence, no thoughts, Ok eyesight, no hindsight, no brain connection, no comprehension, no fear, nothing. except silence and nothing a toll (those are island somewhere).
Anyway, it happened to me, unexpectedly, about 5 years ago.
My wife, Misses Boomb-Ba Chick-Chick, and I, were watching TV, in our upstairs love nest, with opened window dat we love to scream through to scare are drunken neighbors Hillary and Bill, two horny, uncontrollable wife-swappers.
You see, me, Ethel and I, are nudist, sun worshippers, and we enjoy the feel of the warm Sun was warm on our backs, and a slight, summer breeze gently caressed are naked arses.
We often smiled at each other, as we read "Melanoma's Autobiography", told by an idiot, full of Botox, and Stuffed with Silicone, sold only by "Maroon Hunter Bilden, exclusively in the former Confederate states, where there are no jobs, not even blow jobs!
(NOTE: This is a work in progress. If you would like to see the rest of the story, put $50,000 in one-dollar bills, in an unmarked enveloped and send it to "The Bird Drooping Institute - A Think Tank for Maroons, No Idiots, Please, " % of Mildew, Ohio.
I will send it back to you in ten months, ten-folds. You, too, Trump Wits, can be as rich as Joel Olsten, who yesterday blocked be on Facebook, 'cause I wouldn't spend him any more money, Honey. Can you believe "dat" ?
STOP! (Not edited. Revised several times, but it still does not make any sense.)
as we so often do, now, still affection after 48 years, but more subdued. I was sitting on the couch, and no more than 3 feet away to my left, by wife sat, quietly reading a book. She can devour a book in a day, that may take me a year to finish.
I am visual. I like film, TV, videos, artwork, while she loves to read. We are so different, yet the same. I am effusive, explosive, she like her father, by nature is quiet, graceful, thoughtful before she speaks.
I felt what appeared to me to be a small drop water move ever so delicately within my left ear, as it has done hundreds of times, when from a dip in a pool, I shook my head like a wet horse, leaned my head down in one direction or another, and tapped my head like a Marx Brother Maroon. It usually worked.
Not this time. Instantly, everything changed, perhaps for the remainder of my life.
I could see, but not hear, think, comprehend, or communicate with anyone, not even myself.
Nothing, no connection with my mind, no thought, blank, no sense of time, panic, pain only blank, blank, blank nothingness.
Less than thirty seconds later, I surmised, the fluid moved again. Instantly, I could hear faintly, see, think, as all my senses returned. A panic fear shot through my mind, body, soul, and every fiber of my body.
I turned slowly toward my wife to explain what had happened, but the word stubbornly refused to exit.
It was as if the words I wanted were on an elevator, the doors open, I could see them clearly stacked neatly in the back of the elevator on the floor. They just refused to jump off before the door closed. It was a stalemate, the doors remained open. The helpless awkwardness of frozen speech began to thaw slowly and word by word I began to speak haltingly.
My wife looked at me inquisitively, but I was unable to articulate what just happened.
I leaped up from the couch, ran into the adjacent bedroom, immediately and called me doctor.
In those brief moments, when I was in a vegetable, completely detached, mindless, empty, nothingness state, I now realized that that was worst situation for anyone, anywhere to encounter. Alive, but totally unplugged.
The corridors of my mind were empty, "no echoes of my mind" played sweet, poignant music, only silence, stillness, no consciousness, no thoughts, no awareness, no comprehension, no sound, no nothing.
Gradually, within the ringing of the phone, I recovered enough to be worried. Very worried, to communicate with the doctor's office what happened and got an appointment immediately.
As a sophomore in college, during my Spring and Summer break I took a job as a psychiatric aide at the NJ State Hospital during my college break. It was 1963, we, as a nation, thought of ourselves, as an Enlighted Mental Health World, but in reality, were not much removed from the purveyors of "Snake Pits," who used shock to jolt the so-called "insane" back into their senses.
Although, at that juncture in psychiatric history, Electric Shock Therapy was the preferred, modern-day therapy staff psychiatrists, aides, nurse assigned to our ward used to subdue a screaming, ranting raving patient who had deceived the health care providers by not swallowing their pills, and within a few days, returning to an all-consuming madness,
He was a kind man but spoke with a broken English/German accent making it difficult to understand.
Witnessing first-hand the horrific, tortuous contortions caused by this brutal procedure, shivered as I looked upon a comatose, eyes wide-open patient blankly stare.
Where is their mind, I asked myself? It appeared that they, too, were mindless, unable to speak, move, hear, blink...only stare vacuously.
Gradually, they would come to slowly, calmly, and gradually, appear to regain their sense of self.
It was spooky, haunting, and troubling to me that in our so-called enlighten era, we were resorting to this bizarre, beastly apparatus, as a "therapy tool", instead of what it appeared to me to be, a form of "torture."
That vacant stare haunted me for nearly 75 years, until the moment I had that mini-stroke and entered into their world for what may have been seconds, in retrospect, seems like an eternity.
To this day, I take my medications religiously, driven by the fear that it could happen again, but, this time, permanently.
Nothing has ever frightened me, as much as that incident, nearly five years ago, which has had other lingering effects, that make be aware that, perhaps, the end is near.
I often harkened back to my memory of that summer in Morris Plain, New Jersey, when I looked into a patient's eyes and knew that their mind/consciousness was gone.
In that moment, in 1963, staring into the eyes of an attractive, lovely woman, possibly in her young forties, as I held her by her upper arms to prevent her from falling, I witness a fate worse than death.
It was at that instant; I knew that I had Psychology was not a course of study any longer for me. That Fall, I returned to college, I switched my major to English Literature, with a minor in Theater, and never looked back.
Fantasy and play acting were more comfortable for me than reality, and much more fun. Besides, drama classes drew attractive, liberal female students who welcomed openly, even reached out to the broken, twisted, odd males, referring to them as "mysterious, brooding, intellectual, sexually attractive in a weird way"!
I was accused, for a moment, as being, "talented, different, exciting, and potentially interest" in a sensuous way by a very attractive female theater major, who seemed so far out of my purvey, that I could only nod my head up and down as she spoke, lost in her beauty. Did she not know that I was a mini-Quasimodo, without the muscle or humpback?
Now, in this, perhaps, "Final Chapter of My Life of Little Quakes & Big Mistakes", the expected, family disease, Alzheimer, is forcing me into a slowing creeping silence.
For a compulsive talker, a gabber, a run-on comedian, would be writer the reality of silence is not something that I cherish.
I, too, often, wonder: "Will I, too, stare for hours at a blank wall, drooling, with a protective helmet on me head, lock in a hospital ward, nursing home, or worse, at home, drain of mental acuity, every dollar my wife and I have, as it did my second oldest sister, and my mother, turning them into stoic, or in articulate best of burden, prisoners of their mind."
Am I next? Doomed my genetics, I cannot stop from asking myself?
At nearly 81, my life seems to have flown by so quickly. At times, I struggle to remember it.
Then, there are moments of clarity when the floodgates open and the memories cascade like an unrelenting flood: Details, vivid memories, childhood friends, whose names I had lost, return with clarity, their faces, voices, childhood games, places of play, rewinding the film of my youth in vivid colors, tones, feeling and sound, I had forgotten.
I can't stop writing...no matter how senseless, how vapid, or how little of an audience, and I crave an audience. I need an audience. I want an audience, to say, "Yeah, man, I know what you are saying...I feel your pain. You are not alone."
It appears to me, that my memories were never growing older, never changing, never fading, they, simply put, were never lost. I had been looking in the wrong room, not the happy, cheerful, warm one with sunshine, whispering aromas of freshly baked, homemade bread, homemade butter, a meal in itself of my hurtful, disrupted, happy at times childhood.
The images, smells, laughter, that I had long forsaken come rushing back like the wind in one's favorite tree, moments before a Spring shower. My eyes tear, I hear the thumping of my heart.
Excitement, fear open the door to my past, a past that I shuttered, nailed shut long ago, that I barely remembered it. Like the movies at the Alhambra Theater of East Third and Springfield streets, in East Dayton, a working-class, safe neighborhood.
We walked to the cinema, once per month, or, when the new movie was released. Admission was a dime for kids, a quart for adults. Kids movies were every Saturday 10 am, till 2pm. At three the adult films were shown, and only kids with adult could attend after 3:00 pm.
We walked home with our friends, or ran as fast as we could through the back alley, if it was a scary movie like "The Mummy", or the shivering triller, "The Swamp Monster"
They were my sanctuary. In seconds I was transformed, drawn into it, all else was gone. Such a release to dream, feel, be somewhere, anywhere than here, in this dimension. I soared, sucked up within the movies. They were my respite.
Like all of us, my journey was arduous, exciting, meaningless, painful. It drew me from the Midwest to California, New York city, Montreal and eventual to Europe in search of I know not what. No matter how intriguing, how adventurous there was a nagging sense that something was missing.
My wife brought me back from the dead, revived me with passion, love, a sense of confidence long since drained. The metamorphose completed, we began a life of our own.
Our life has changed, evolved, incrementally, over the four and a half decades we have been together. Moving from raw, sweltering, unrelenting passion to love to marriage to a home, and a child.
Now, we spend our time, laser focused on our two grandchildren. Two gifts from God, two bundles of joy, rapidly growing up and drifting, drifting away. Embarking on their own paths, as we fade into memories.
We want to cling to them, to hold them, to never let them go, but they must for they are the future and, we are the past, the present for now, for this moment.
My son is approaching 41, still struggling with alcohol, cocaine addiction, fits of anger, possibly mental illness. We are exhausted with his struggle. Fearful of how it will end.
Like so many modern parents, we ran the gauntlet, suffering the blows lashing against our backs from psychologists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, AAA's 12 Steps, "Tough Love" to "Tough Shit".
How, we asked ourselves, does a young-man with an I.Q. of 128, a straight "A" student, soccer player, our Sun of sons, with so much promise, a young high school student, who never missed a day of high school in four years, a recipient of a Congressional Award for public service, winner of numerous scholarships, a college student who spent two years at a highly rated university turn into a cocaine addict, drunk like my father, filled with anger, rage, and mental issues
I am retired, my wife should be, but refuses. At 72, she is up at 5:15 am, out the door by 6:15, drives to her work, 50 minutes away where she is a principal of a Pre-school, supervising 8 teachers, 12 aides, and dealing with distraught, at time angry, hurting parents of disabled, mentally challenged, often abused children.
My wife, Pamela Ashby Roberts, is a bright, creative women, sensuous, compassionate woman whose innate leadership abilities, strengths, drive, tenacity has held our family, our daughters-in-law (who has custody of our grandchildren) family, and our son's chaotic life together for far too long.
In 1974, I was in a state of funk, after returning from Hollywood, where me would of been career blew up, returning to my hometown with my tail between my legs, shattered that the "could of, would have, if only" syndrome hung over my head like a black rain cloud, ready to turn into a full-blown storm at a drop of a hat. (So, I never wore a hat.)
Meeting my wife was a God send. A gift. I returned reluctantly to teaching, talked my way into a job that barely covered the bills, as an Improvisation Theater Teacher at a Free After School Program for Kids, Adults and Nut Jobs in search of the dreams I had just lost.
There she was...this sensuous, voluptuous, full figured, stunning woman. I wanted he right then and there. It was lust at first sight. She was assigned to Stiver High School Auditorium at 6:00 PM to teach piano, and I was assigned there, to teach Improv.
Not one student showed. It was a fortuitous moment. I could not stop staring at her, nor stop looking her up and down vociferously. I did not approach her, or advance. I was a good 20 paces from her. She stood my the piano, with her back to the stage and I was "God Smacked" at the doubled door entranced the the auditorium/Theater.
Years later, she told me that no man had ever, so bluntly looked her up and down, and down and up again with the intensity that I did. She said it turned her on, as well.
Truthfully, I was afraid to get any closer. I wanted her right, then. Right there, right now, and was terrorize what I might do.
So, I rattled on now stop for nearly an hour, and when we realized no students were coming... I asked her if she like Chinese Food.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. She had one a light, blue, see-through blouse, a white bra, capable to restrain her 42 D cup fabulous breast from bursting forth. White petal pusher pant, so thin I could see the color of her light, blue "unmentionable."
She has been the financial foundation for three families; ours, the grand-kids living with their mother, and my son's. But we survive to stay alive on the love of our grandchildren, and the tenacity of my still beautiful, loving, smart wife. She is the leader of our pack, not me. I am along for the ride. The rode we traveled took a few unexpected turns, but we survived, we thrived, we did not die.
I suspect that is why we went "ga-ga" over our grandchildren. I never knew how much joy a baby girl could bring into our life, until, Kaitlyn, now, 15 entered into our life and took center state.
My son, like so many of his peers, has struggled with alcohol and drugs, employment issues, a terrible, quick temper, terrible friends, and even worst, terrible women, caught up in varying degrees in their terribleness, fueled his dissent, and created 20 plus years of brutalizing pain.
Today, he is working his way out of a stormy past that hurt us, himself, and anyone he had contact with...that is what addiction does. To this day, pangs still burn even though the fires were extinguished long ago.
We, my wife and I, and our son (our immediate family) have healed, a little bit with each passing day, but the wounds are still sore, not as much, but they linger in the quiet of the night, in our dreams, our hopes for the future.
My wife made certain that our grandchildren would have had a good, exciting, interesting life, filled with more " Goodtimes " than bad, more U ps, than down, more Jingle than jangle!
To this day, to this hour, to this moment, no matter how bruised, we are grateful for the ride.
Bob Dylan's haunting, poetic lyrics cling, for me "to the shadows of my mind", lingering like the unseen parlor dust, in this old historic, haunted house that creaks out, only at night, softly mirroring every word of Dylan's song, "The times they are a changin'".
Indeed. they are.
I would prefer, they didn't.
Is that not what our journey is ... embracing change, understanding, enlightenment?
Currently, as grandparents, we are caught in their web...willingly. But "things they are a changing"!
A Work in Progress:
My granddaughter, a sensitive, beauty, is going on 15. Her brother, only 11 months behind are known as "Irish Twins". Their love washed over us like Niagara Falls in the Spring, washing us clean, renewing our sense of self.
Colin is 14, Kaitlyn at 15 is evolving faster than any parent or grandparents wants. Stay still, we are not finish hugging you.
They are as different as night is too day.
Until their teens, the oldest looked after her little brother, as if he were her charge.
In first grade, she ran as quickly as she could to the playground to make certain her brother, (the little, blonde, quite by nature brother was not alone. She made sure he had someone to play with, to talk, to run like wild fawns.
Now, when I ask where is so and so, they shrug, "I don't know, as if they don't know each other, or who I am referring. They still are close, but drifting away on their own skiffs, as the seasons, interests pull them in different directions.
My wife and I have been together for 48 years, married 46, drawn to these two gifts from God, as a flowering plant is to the Sun. They brought us joy, a renewed sense of life, a mission, unfiltered love. I never knew I could love as much as we loved the two of them.
As teenagers, their closeness is sliding, sliding away as it must. As grandparents, we understand, but the sense of loss is still there. It is incremental, as, at our age we are becoming.
I know longer have regrets, my wife, I suspect, has a few. I wonder at times that maybe I may be one of her regrets. Then she smiles at me, and my inter tears are washed away.
My wife is the anchor, the mast, the lifeboat in our life; the focus, the center of existence.
Now, they, as we were warned, are slipping, slipping away from us, as they spread their wings, mature, map out a path with my wife tender nudging.
I miss their hugs, their laughter, their crawling bodies on my lap, their joy. I feel lonely, a little abandoned, under appreciated. Although my wife has been the beacon in my life for the past 48 years, we are still close.
Over nearly a half century our relationship has grown. The passion has waned, grown into joy, understanding, conversation, trust. It is nice to be loved, and to love.
I had four older sisters, and one younger one. Growing up in the forties, sisters did their thing, and out raced out the door of 30 N. Terry Street, in a working-class neighborhood, filled with friends, adventures without fear.
Things were different. Milk was delivered in class bottles by a horse drawn wagon. " The Ice Man Cometh" via the same route, the same means. He was a strapping giant of a man, decked out with a mahogany leather apron, a block of ice resting on a leather pad atop his shoulder, secured by a sharp, sharp hook that he squeezed in his right hand balancing it every so expertly.
He was efficient, competent, polite. He moved swiftly, adroitly, finished his job the same, as if it was one ballet movement.
"How much do you need, Mrs. Roberts?" He slammed the huge chunk on our large, wooden round, hardwood kitchen table and with a swift movement of his ice pick, cut off the exact amount my mother needed.
He glanced at me, winked, held out a piece of ice that broke off in the process. I chewed on it and watched and, he gracefully exited our grey, unpainted duplex, two story wood framed house.
On Tuesday the Vegetable vendor clumped down our brick street. His horse was magnificent. But he wasn't. He was reticent, only repeating, "Vegetables! Vegetables!" he sang, with a musical tone that lured, enticed, invited every home-bound mother, grandmother, eldest daughter to the cobbled brick street to pick carefully thorough the variety of items, as if they were precious gems, delivered to front of their home.
I was born in 1942, 5 weeks after Pearl Harbor. Vegetable gardens in the back yard's was commonplace, but the Vegetable Vendors had a variety to choose from.
We had a two-party dial phone that rang with an edgy, guttural, menacing sound, like rotators' grousing.
In the 50's with the end of WWII, death of FDR, Truman, and Eisenhower, and the economy booming. Swing was big, jazz, blues, and the rise of Rock 'N Roll promised a new world with endless possibilities.
My world began to crumble, then crashed into sharp shredded memories filled with fear, drunkenness, abuse, as I fished out my dad from one neighborhood bar to another dragging him home for dinner.
The worst was the chaos that ensued when my father, drunk beyond anything I had ever seen, awoke the household (my mother, me and my four older sisters with the stumbling noises, laughter that my father and his lover, Virginia made, as he pushed her upstairs to our bedroom.
I awoke to my mother's shrill, angry voice, "Get Out of my house, who do you think you are. You are not coming in here. Get out!"
I leaped out of bed, rushed to my mother side, only to see this incredibly, sensuous, drunk Elizabeth Taylor, black-haired, big-busted beauty struggle toward the top of the stair, while my father, laughed, fell and staggered to get up from the bottom of the stairs.
"I hope, Mrs. Roberts, that when I become your age...I'll look as good as you do," which to my raven-haired mother was the equivalent to throwing gasoline on a raging fire.
When the siren, a beauty passed around from one drunk patron to another, until she found one that would pay her apartment, rent, pay for groceries, and their bar tab, or she would move on.
I didn't see what the problem was. She could sleep with me in my bed and mom and dad could sleep in their metal springs squeaking bed, seemed like a logical solution.
Then there would be no problem and we all could go back to sleep, including my giggling sisters who, as the noise, shouting and tensions increased stuck their heads out from their bedroom, which was only 4 feet across the top of the stairs.
Six people lived in a two bedroom, two story house, with no bathtub only a commode, sink, mirror, screened window for ventilation during all the season at the end of the narrow room, lighted by a single, light bulb with an off-off string.