H is for Heroin

If you are a writer, you are always looking for fodder to keep the reader interested. In going back through my diary of four years ago, I came upon a passage describing a brief scene I encountered while my daughter Meghan and I sat on her hospital bed in the hallway in the Emergency Room. It was just another one of her many visits to the hospital for mental breakdowns, but that particular time the place was hopping, so we didn’t even have a room. There was a young girl in her late teens or early twenties in the bed just in front of Meghan who was writhing in pain with her mother standing over her and trying to comfort her. At first I thought she was having appendicitis or something, but quickly realized if she were that sick, she wouldn’t be in the hallway of the emergency room. It turns out it was her birthday and she got loaded up on smack just before she went to the birthday party her mom had put together for her. The load was bad, so she was in agony. She puked her birthday cake out in front of us and the male nurse who was in charge of the hallway apologized for not being able to keep us from being directly in view of the onslaught, then went to get her some medicine. He took his time getting it for her and while she was whining and crying, he asked her “are you ever going to do heroin again?” Of course she said “no,” but I saw her mother’s agony and knew that this was an ongoing battle and I also realized that for this woman, it probably wouldn’t be over soon. I thought about the girl, a beautiful one at that, making a conscious decision to become a heroin addict and my Meghan, who through no fault or choice of her own was on a similar journey and I also thanked God that my children had never made decisions that would purposely destroy them and cause a mother’s terrible heartbreak. There are always worse situations out there. One must remember that. Again, I have shelter, clothing, food and peaceful surroundings. Taking a look at the rest of the world, I realize that what I take for granted doesn’t exist for many. The Middle East, South American and African continents are fraught with conflict and wars, children lose parents, parents lose children, post traumatic stress is normal and the oppressors lose their souls to power and greed. There’s a show on TV about people who try to save whales from Japanese whalers and the head of the operation stated something that often rings true about humans “we as a species are insane.” Even the whales know it as they look at us through pitying eyes.

The Beauty of the Morning Routine

I have this routine I go through every morning. When I wake up, I wonder what the weather is like outside. Is it sunny or cloudy? Generally, I start out on a happier note when the sun is out. Next I pry myself from the bed after listening to the news the partner left on before he went to work. Then I turn on the burner for the tea water and with my first cup of green tea, I head for the computer. It's the smartest piece of technology I own. I still have a dumb phone and I don't even own an ipad. As much as I would like these modern conveniences, the computer has pretty much become the focal point of my life and I'm afraid of what mobile devices might turn me into. I use it to blog and for my on-line sales. Which leads me to my next step. I check my e-mail to see if any sales occurred while I slept. Then it's on to e-bay and etsy and facebook. Finally, I create a blog or "bliary" which I choose to publish or not publish. If I don't feel like writing on a particular morning, I go back through four years of previous writings and pull from them. It's a nice stash to rely on. It used to be I wrote every day without fail, but things like my daughter's mental illness, my partner's cancer and the stress of trying to keep a small business afloat got in the way. By and large the body of work from the past appears to me as drivel now, but that's okay. There are kernels of thought sprinkled here and there that I can go back to and develop. I can also look out the window in front of this desk and see the changing of the seasons. Today is cloudy and the maple tree in front hasn't even begun to show signs of life. Just before I sat down, I saw a red cardinal sitting on a branch. I tried to get a good picture of him, but he was too far away. Next I saw his mate land where he had been. I love birds and even in this ruinous end of the city where houses sit partially decayed and unkempt by unscrupulous landlords, the birds visit and make everything seem better. Technology be damned, the sound of birds in the early spring can still stop me in my tracks. I'm happy for that. I really am. So that's it. My morning routine.

The world is shapes and colors.  I used to teach a lesson about  synesthesia.  I found an article in U.S. News and World Report years ago on the phenomenon of synesthesia.  It's rare, but in some individuals, when they experience one sense, another comes into play.  Many artists and musicians have it.  For example, when a young man heard a car go by he saw dots.  When a girl kissed her boyfriend she saw orange sherbet foam.  When a woman heard her husband's voice, she tasted warm buttery toast.  According to the researcher in the article, all the secondary senses involved in the experience are primitive.  W. Kandinsky paints to sounds.  The colors and images come from the sound.

My first car was a 1978 Mercury Cougar, a gas guzzling beast.  I loved that car.  When my son was little and the muffler fell off, he used to say "go fast Mommy" so he could hear the roar.  I'll bet a synesthete would have gone nuts if s/he had heard that monster flying by.  Gray, red, purple, black dots -- the speed of sound.  What a light show