Monthly Archives: July 2010

A Writer’s Dream

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Words of different colors, shapes, sizes, tastes and sounds tumbled from his mouth, falling onto the table and spilling over onto the floor where they skittered about, disappearing under rugs, under doors, swirling about the room, in the air, into and out of cabinets and drawers. They were everywhere, out of control, unmanageable.

He was dreaming!

Here he was a writer and words were dancing about so quickly, so frenetically, he could not make sense of them. Had he ever made sense of them? Really? Or were those just moments of luck when a sentence that escaped his pen held its shape?

As an increasing number of words poured out of him and scurried about, they now began to make an inexplicable unpleasant noise, a cacophony of clatter, crunching sounds like knuckles cracking, skidding, spinning, tapping, a beating out of rapid disjointed impossible to follow rhythms. Yet he knew they were pleading with him. With him! What could they possibly want? They are all, he knew, each of them, living beings, so they could not possibly be pleading for some kind of meaning. Like all living things they, above all perhaps, were born with meaning. They would live forever with their meanings. So what then? What was it they were pleading for? There was a yearning, he felt it.

He awoke sweating.

The sheets and pillow cases were soaked. He got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap, poured himself a glass of cold water, and drank it. He changed the sheets and pillow cases and showered. He drank another glass of cold water from the tap, peed, went back to bed, and fell asleep.

This times the words poured from his mouth, eyes, ears, nose, they flew from the palms of his hands, his arms outstretched, somehow he knew they needed to be outstretched. Why? Was this some kind of crucifixion?

The words again produced a cacophony of wild indecipherable noise and again he heard pleading and, more evident now than before yearning.

He wanted to shout out to them but his mouth would not work. He wanted to shout, “But you’re words! You have meaning! Why can’t you tell me what you want?” But try as he might, he could not speak.

It was then he saw the little boy looking up at him. The boy had dark hair, deep chocolate eyes. And although the little boy’s mouth did not move, the little boy spoke to him. The little boy smiled and said, “They want what I want, what everyone wants, what every living thing wants.”

The writer woke up and said, “Purpose.”

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The LIE

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With a nod to W.C. Fields, let me say I spent a month on the LIE yesterday afternoon. Fields said the same of a weekend in Philadelphia.

One car had a bumper sticker that read, “I Drive the LIE, Pray for Me.” I will. However, I will not pray for the nitwit guy in the pickup truck splattered with bumper stickers that read, “Eat Shit” and, “Looking for a hot lunch? Eat My Shit”. Now there’s a fella who is not getting enough oxygen.

The LIE, full name Long Island Expressway, is a 71-mile stretch of highway that was built from 1939 to 1972 and first opened to traffic in 1940. I would imagine when it was first built it provided more than enough room for those rambling along its surface.

Not so today.

Today, it tests the limits of those with the greatest patience and, if you’ll permit me, calls into question the sanity of those who live within its grasp and pay large amounts of money to reside in settings that require steady doses of the LIE experience.

What I get a kick out of (though I must confess there is bit of a mean streak deep inside me that would like to run the little shits off the road) are drivers that swerve in and out of lanes as fast as they can to gain a car length and put life at risk. What exactly travels through the mind of someone that jumps from one lane to another in a burst of speed only to discover they are merely one care length ahead in a line of cars that is so long it extends through several time zones?

I do like Long Island very much, once I am here. It is the getting here and the leaving here that makes me long for country quiet and a cup of mint tea.

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Eight Years Sober

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If anyone told me years ago that I’d go eight years without drinking or smoking pot I would have immediately concluded they were smoking better weed than I ever smoked, and truth to tell, I smoked some good weed. But here I am, eight years sober today, July 12.

Without question sobriety is the most glorious presence in my life. All of life is here for me and I get to live it and experience  it, good and bad, as me. And isn’t that the point of life in the first place? To live it being who you are? Not some distorted version of yourself. Not as someone whose health: emotional, spiritual and physical is at risk because of the large amounts of alcohol and drugs your body is ingesting.

In my last days of using I was high on pot at all times and drinking 10 to 14 large glass gin and tonics every night. Being asthmatic, I would put myself through three or four nebulizer treatments daily so I could keep my lungs open for pot. It is a miracle I am alive.

I remember when I first went into a 12-step program, which works if you work it because if you truly work it you are wedded to rigorous honesty, I’d hear people refer to themselves as grateful recovering alcoholics. I’d hear people say this and think, Oh for God sakes, give me a break. But, I had a long way to go at the time. They knew this. I didn’t. But I do now. And now, with all my heart and soul I am proud to say I am a grateful recovering alcoholic.

I know there was a time, years in fact, when I  believed it was impossible for me to live life without the presence of pot, and, after my one mother’s suicide in 1992, the presence of alcohol. I have, however, learned a remarkable thing. What feels impossible may not be impossible. If you think it is impossible for you to be free of alcohol and drugs, you too have a right to discover that what feels impossible is not impossible, it simply feels that way.

Now, I am proud to say, it is impossible for me to live life with the presence of alcohol or pot. I love life this way.

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Feeney, the White House, Editors, Elected Officials & Criminal Investigations

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If New York State enters into a contract allowing Timothy J. Feeney to once again impact the lives of survivors of brain injury and those who provide services to them, several things will take place. Before I get to them, let’s review some of the facts.

  • Fact: For more 15 years now Timothy J. Feeney has misrepresented his educational credentials to New York State Officials, people with brain injuries of all ages, children with disabilities, educational institutions and healthcare providers.
  • Fact: Feeney’s so-called PhD and so-called Masters Degree were issued by Greenwich University, a now defunct diploma mill whose degrees are not recognized as valid anywhere in the world.
  • Fact: The New York State Department of Health now knows Feeney has misrepresented and continues to misrepresent his credentials.
  • Fact: STIC (the Southern Tier Independence Living Center), the provider likely to be awarded the contract and give the work to Feeney and his people, has been fully informed of Feeney’s past and present misrepresentations.
  • Fact: STIC and the New York State Department of Health have been informed that Feeney is under contract with the Fort Ann Central School District in New York’s Washington County to work with children (children!) with disabilities , where he is again misrepresenting himself in the process. Fort Ann has been informed as well and has continued working with Feeney; so much for putting the children first.
  • Fact: If Feeney is part of the contract he will be getting paid in taxpayer dollars, Medicaid dollars which means your money and mine will be paying a dishonest individual.

If New York State enters into any contract which allows Feeney to be part of the Statewide Neurobehavioral Project, an entity that wields enormous power over the lives of survivors of brain injury and their families as well as those who provide services to them, then New York and STIC are making it clear they have no respect for people with brain injuries. Why on earth should those of us who live with brain injuries have to deal with someone who lies about who they are? Someone who is unqualified?

And what was the dysfunctional thinking and the behind the scenes backslapping that went on that led to the decision to contract with someone everyone knows is a fraud? What did not go on behind the scenes was any real concern for those of us who live with brain injuries, our loved ones, and the honest healthcare providers that do give a damn. What did not go on was any respect whatsoever for the hard-earned taxpayer dollars that will pay Feeney and his crew.

Back to what  will take place should Feeney and his people be involved in the contract.

  • Letters will be written to the editors of all daily newspapers in New York State and neighboring states detailing the actions of the State and Feeney and STIC.
  • Letters will be sent out to a wide array of State and Federal officials, including President Obama, Healthcare Secretary Sibelius, as well as various members of law enforcement given that historically Feeney has interacted with the judicial system again misrepresenting himself in the process.
  • Last, but by no means least, letters will be sent to CMS (Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services), the Federal Agency the oversees the spending of Medicaid and Medicare dollars in all states, and an agency that will not be pleased to here New York has knowingly entered into a contract with someone they know is misrepresenting his credentials.

The ball is in the court of the State and STIC. We’ll see what happens.

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Enough Loss

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Watching age begin to take her from the world. This all-heart German Shepherd who would give her life for me. This dear friend who loves me and I her beyond words.

Her eyes watch mine now, knowing, it seems, what may be right around the corner for the both of us. Enough loss, enough loss.

Oh my dear God keep her in my heartbeat always. Always, please.

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