AUTUMN GHOSTS

 September Mists

my back yard yesterday morning

I saw old autumn in the misty morn

stand shadowless like silence, listening

to silence, for no lonely bird would sing

into his hollow ear from woods forlorn....

Thomas Hood


Note:
Some blog posts shouldn't be published and this is definitely one of them. I wrote it solely for myself. 

A melancholy mood, this early morning, when mountain mists filter the light of the rising sun - gently fusing with unexpected illusions of sunlight and bittersweet echoes of distant autumns.

The quote from Thomas Hood is one that I remember from my school days, when I was deliciously young and California autumns stirred the restlessness and romanticism in my uninitiated soul.

Somewhere in my collection of memorabilia, I have a letter written by Thomas Hood that I got at an auction. I've been meaning to frame it for years.

I've always loved autumn, for as long as I can remember, but it wasn't until this morning - while gazing out at the foggy back yard and drinking a cup of hot tea - that I suddenly realized the significance of autumn in my life. Many of the major events of my existence happened in the autumn.
I suppose I should mention my birth date, December 13. It seems much more like winter, but was in fact technically the end of autumn.

All of my autumnal memories have come rushing back at once, and in the crowded fervor it's difficult to put them into reasonable perspective. 

During my childhood in Southern California, autumn only existed in mild, tempered versions - usually marked by wildfires and magically potent Santa Ana desert winds. 

My maternal grandmother died in New Jersey when I was sixteen. It was mid-October and my parents and I drove back east for the funeral. I remember how breathtakingly glorious the autumnal scenery looked on that drive across country.

Only a few years later came the surrealistic autumn of eternal fires. Southern California was burning with dozens of wildfires. The small rural town where we lived at that time was completely surrounded by fire and there was no way out. My parent's perpetually turbulent marriage was in Crisis Mode, and my father was more violent than ever.

For some insane reason, after the fires died down, my parents decided to take a trip. I went with them only because I feared for my mother's physical safety. We went to the Grand Canyon and Utah, and I can't remember where else. This diversion restored my father's sanity. At least briefly.

These memories are worthless to anyone but myself, yet they are haunting my thoughts, demanding release.....

Then came the monumental autumn, the turning point. I was nineteen. It was September. My father - my mortal enemy - and I had one of our worst blowups ever. One of very many. He pulverized me, choked me into unconsciousness. No exaggeration - I was out like a light. I later got a gun and was going to kill him. I've written about this in previous posts; no need for rehashing details.

It took weeks for my physical wounds to heal. The mental wounds never heal - but I was very used to that. 
By early October (Oct. 3rd, to be exact) I took off for Hollywood, immersed myself in the intoxicating ecstasy of self-destruction.

My metamorphosis took place during those weeks in October. I was absorbed by the sheltering darkness of the midnight streets, stifling reality with booze and drugs, quenching the loneliness with unspeakably illicit pleasures.
My eternal reign of darkness began in that distant October and I savored it.

The following summer my Mother moved to Reno and filed for divorce.
In September I drove up there to stay with her for a few weeks. Another autumn, more poignant memories.
It was a rare respite without the threatening shadow of my father. We hiked, explored the mountains, scoured the shores of Lake Tahoe, visited Virginia City.....

My father, ever the thorn, found out where Mom was - drove up to Reno, begged her to come home. She foolishly acquiesced. 

I remember driving back to Los Angeles on a chilly October night, leaving the healing respite of the Nevada mountains, entering the smog-drenched purgatory of Hollywood.

I'm overstaying my welcome. I've said enough. But there are so many more memorable autumns......

Someone I loved very much was killed in the autumn.
Soon afterward, I left California for the final time in autumn, when I was 34.

Moved to the Missouri Ozarks in October.
Later moved to Texas in September.
After a dark eternity, I finally emerged from Texas and moved to Tennessee. In October.

Autumn, for whatever reason, has always been a very significant season in my life. I have no doubt that it holds a great future finality for me.......

I hear the echos of those distant autumns- - they haunt the present silence and solitude of misty September mornings.






New post on my photo blog, Unintentionally Gay

http://cabinetofcurioustreasures.blogspot.com 








 

THE HOUR OF FINAL SLUMBER

"Life dances wickedly
over the special hour 
I've chosen for slumber."

Jon V.
from Dreams of Escape




I was deeply upset to hear of the recent suicide of our fellow blogger, known as Jay in VA. His final post is moving and disturbing. 
His blog was called  Welcome to Jay in VA - - I'm sorry I don't have a link.

Since I didn't know him personally, and since I don't have full knowledge of the details, I feel that I have no right to divulge his real name or any tangible information.

I will say, however, that I read the local news coverage proceeding his death and have absorbed the gist of the story. It is a despicable and all-too common occurrence in America: 
these wild media witch hunts, in which self-righteous, hypocritical bastards (media and law enforcement) are intent on stalking and destroying others. Privacy is invaded, reputations are shredded, and the victims -  with little other recourse - choose death rather than eternal damnation from their persecutors. Guilt before proven innocence.

Enough said about this intensely tragic  incident. 
Pax Vobescum.

 *  *  *  *

I've always believed that most people who commit suicide, if given a second chance, wouldn't do it again. Yet there are times when a grim situation leaves no alternative. The well-meaning optimists always say that things aren't so bad, things will get better. That isn't always true.

There was a long-ago time in my life when a self-inflicted death at an early age seemed like an intriguing notion. In the infuriating naievity of youth, I thought it would be glorious to die at age twenty-five. While I was still young enough to make a goodlooking corpse. I even went so morbidly far as to plan my own funereal. I wrote down details: corpse dressed in white, white candles, white roses.....a recording of Billie Holiday singing "Gloomy Sunday".....

Now, in the sobriety of more mature years, I desire cremation - - as did my parents. No service, no eulogy, no nothing.....to ashes I return.

During the dramatically turbulent duration of my life, I have admittedly pondered the idea of suicide on many occasions. When I finally realized that 95% of my problems were caused by other people, I decided that it would be more productive to kill the sons-of-bitches who had made me miserable, rather than to kill myself. 
It's a delightfully selfish and satisfying fantasy.

Long ago, in my destructive youth, I made a few half-hearted suicide attempts. After a particularly fierce blowup with my father (one of very many) I locked myself in the bathroom and hacked at my wrists with a pair of scissors until they bled profusely.

My objective wasn't death. I simply wanted escape - - escape from the sheer agony of my situation. There are times when the detrimental insanity surrounding us is so overwhelming, that we seek an instant resolution to suppress the silent scream - -no matter what the price.

I remember when a potent bout of drunkenness and intense despair inspired me to climb an overpass above the Hollywood Freeway. It was late at night, way after midnight. I stood, poised, ready to leap.... then clumsily lost my balance...fell backwards onto the pavement.

Saved by the imbalance of Fate.

I pacified myself by saying that if I had jumped - with my foul luck - I would have probably landed on a northbound truck and wound up in Oakland.

 Here's the infamous overpass.

I don't know if it still exists.

Much more disturbing were the times my mother was on the brink of absolute desperation from the relentless agony of my father's abuse.

Mom was never suicidal, never truly wanted to die. She was normally very level-headed and long-suffering, but - much like myself - she could only endure so much. 

In a moment of absolute despair, she swallowed the entire contents of a bottle of aspirin (and I don't know what else).....and refused medical help. Those insane times of my young existence are often merely a blur. I stayed by her side for days, tending to her, until critical danger had passed. Her ears rang violently for a long time. I believe this ugly incident had a negative effect on her health in later years.

Why would I reveal these private things in a public blog?

Because mental anguish - no matter what kind - is devastating and can  induce abnormal behavior in otherwise normal people. We all have a breaking point.......and the fragility of others should not be judged harshly.

 

FAREWELL TO A SEASON

End of Summer

There is a hollow sadness 
that seems to cradle the end of summer. 
The long days are waning, 
the yawning sun 
is casting shadows 
that slowly stretch across the weary burn 
of empty fields, 
reaching towards a promise 
of cooler regions.

Greedy blackbirds 
pick through the remnants 
of broken days, 
scouring a drooping shrug of trees,
ravaging the overripe fruit, 
savoring the last sweet drops 
of what once was a golden bounty.

All the busy places
that you thought you knew 
have suddenly stopped to listen, 
and the silence that awaits them 
yields a pang of distant echoes,
warm memories now past.

Jon V.




These words were the beginning of a blog post I was writing last night. I thought they sounded rather poetic, so I chopped them up into haphazard lines and rendered them into the facsimile of a poem.

That's how my poetry is conceived, more or less. Brilliance has nothing to do with it.


I summoned the courage to drive to town yesterday (Friday). I got cat supplies, groceries, beer. A watermelon, a honeydew melon. That should sustain me for awhile. It was a hot day, sunny, 90 degrees. Summer still lingers in these hillbilly hills - but the atmosphere has changed, the light has changed. Autumn beckons distantly.

My holiday weekend? Nothing special. Doing necessary things, repairing things. Endless, endless things. Rearranging some furniture. Unpacking the hopeless mess of chaotic junk in the garage. Painting the kitchen cabinets.
I had thirty kitchen cabinets in my Texas house. I only have eight here. Should be a cinch.

Working on my memoir - - as if anybody gives a damn. The burden of my extraordinary existence lingers like a heavy weight and needs to be released. There are things I have to say while I still maintain a semblance of lucidity.

My initial concern, my main concern is that so many people who touched my life are still alive. There are risks in offering the details of your life for public consumption - dangerous risks. True identities must be well-concealed. I have apprehensions.

I seem to be talking to myself again, talking nonsense which is important to no one but me. Living alone in the wilderness does strange things.

A coyote ventured onto my back porch two nights ago. Ripped apart a cardboard box and some remnants of trash that I had out there. Dragged them down an embankment and left them by my car.
Coyotes were howling nearby last night for hours.

One unrelated thought:
I need to render Love Letters to Ghosts into a Kindle book. Soon. Soon, I hope.

Enjoy this last unofficial weekend of summer!

http://cabinetofcurioustreasures.blogspot.com