Category: Friendship

Jeff Died. Heartbreak or Suicide.

A TRAIN OF THOUGHTS RUN THROUGH MY BRAIN

A friend of mine, Jeff, was found dead in his apartment. He worked for me for many years. I don’t know any details yet and I’m not sure that I will. He was totally depressed after retirement. He had at least a million dollars saved and a huge retirement package.

Jeff was forced to retire after working at OHSU for more than 40 years. He didn’t have any health issues and so I don’t know the cause of death. He might have taken his own life but I don’t know that. I will really miss hearing from him.

Jeff and I were friends for more than 20 years and he worked for me for at least 10 of those years. We became quite close and he told me a lot about himself, his family and his life. I knew him before he went through rehab for drinking and probably other drugs and I knew him after he got through rehab. I knew he was depressed and that he didn’t really want to go on living once he was forced into retirement but I didn’t think he would take his own life but I don’t know. Unless his friend Shirley contacts me to tell me what she knows, I may never know what happened.

I spent the day he died on the phone with people who knew Jeff and wanted to console me. My son came over and we had dinner together and before that he and my daughter went out for a hike in the snow.

I went upstairs and ate some Ginger snaps and drank a cup of tea and watched something on Netflix or YouTube. It’s hard for me to keep my mind off of what happened to Jeff. I want to know how he died. I want to know if there’s going to be an obituary… whether there’s going to be a memorial service. I’m just filled with questions. He didn’t have any family until he found some cousins some years back. His mom had passed away and he never knew his dad. I want to know who’s handling taking care of his body and his burial. Hopefully he had directives and plans for all of that. I’m just at a loss.

I talked to his friend Shirley for about an hour that night. She doesn’t know what he died from but he was in bed when she found him and he was already cold. He had lost so much weight and he was a tall bean pole anyway. He was so skinny he couldn’t keep his pants up. She had been taking him brunch and dinner everyday because she was worried about him. The day he died she had taken breakfast over. He sat in his chair. When she went back that evening with food, he was still sitting in his chair with the breakfast plate in his lap, only partially eaten. After he ate what she brought for dinner, she saw that he climbed into bed. The next day when she took a new breakfast, she found him dead.

She didn’t know the cause of death, but she’s calling the coroner’s office today. My friend Judith, who also knew Jeff, said he died of a broken heart. That might be. He was so hopeless and lonely. He really wanted a female companion and he did not want to retire.

He had FB friends but other than Shirley and James, he didn’t see anyone. He had, in the last years, found family and was so thrilled. He had photos, and histories… they were quite well off. He found out who his father was and found his half brother. His half brother is coming from California to settle Jeff’s affairs. If family members are his beneficiaries, they’re going to inherit quite a fortune.

The cousins I contacted are in shock. I also contacted his oldest friend… since childhood, and he’s really shocked, too.

Shirley doesn’t believe he would take his own life. She’s known him longer than I have, so I tend to believe her. No blood, no vomit, no pained look on his face or uncomfortable posture. It was as though he just passed over.

I hope his brother arranges some kind of get together.

I hope I learn more. If his brother doesn’t arrange to clear out his apartment, I’m going to go over and help Shirley do it.

I tend to believe that I will never find out the real cause of his death, that thought is good enough for me. He was miserable and no matter what I said to him it didn’t change how he felt. Jeff loved food. For him not to be eating meant a lot. Maybe he just let go.

You and I both know that we can’t control another person’s life if they don’t want to live. It’s really their own personal choice and we have no say in it no matter how much we love them. We have to let each person that we love walk their own path without our interference. But we, who are Left Behind in these circumstances, suffer a great deal of loss and pain. Jeff now is out of pain; he’s out of misery.

It seems like he had been to the doctor but wasn’t going back. He was having back pain. He really didn’t see any reason to go on; he had no purpose in life, he thought. He was lonely and miserable and had obviously started drinking again after years and years of abstinence. Jeff was done. He wanted to step off and he did.

For some reason I decided I would go over and help Shirley clean the apartment. Jeff’s brother has come and gone. He took what he wanted. I don’t know what he took since this is the first time I’ve been in his house. All of the furniture is still there. Nothing worth saving really. The books are mainly packed up. I gathered up all the DVDs, CDs, videos. His old friend, Shirley, is cleaning his kitchen, bathroom, and getting rid of his clothes. His electronic devices are still there, nothing worth much. I spent all my time today gathering papers from every drawer, nooks, crannies and shelves, in every room. I’ll spend tomorrow sorting. I don’t have any more heavy things to lift, thank goodness. There is one small table I want… well, two, but I’ll check with Shirley. I don’t really have any right to them. I’m just doing this to honor Jeff. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was wild in his youth, but always kind and a loyal friend. He was my best employee. Really brilliant. It’s so sad he had only found his family in recent years. I just want to help preserve something of him.

He had a nice home. Books, entertainment, money but even with friends and new found family, it wasn’t enough to make life worthwhile without work. I’ve never been depressed so I don’t understand it.

He obviously had kidney problems because they don’t just fail suddenly but he never said a word. Maybe I’ll find evidence of it in his papers. Funny, he was a wonderful archives assistant, yet his own papers are in total disarray. His place is beyond dirty. He could have easily hired a house keeper. He ate very well. He loved food. Good old fashioned American fare. But, once forced to retire, he lapsed into drinking again. Dammit!

When I got home from Jeff’s. I took a bath using a CBD bath bomb. That was so relaxing. I have another day over at Jeff’s to be done with not only his paperwork but boxing up his books and throwing away a ton of paperwork, knick knacks, clothes and the like.

There’s no one who gives a damn but me and Shirley. Today, Shirley stayed and helped haul stuff out to the dumpster. I have gathered up at least 2 boxes of things to send to his family. I’ll have a large box of his writings. I actually don’t know what to do with them. The boxes will go to Powell”s bookstore or to the Goodwill or the management co. will deal with them. There is a box full of land deeds from his family. I wonder if they still own all this land and just don’t know about it. I’m going to try to find out who to send them to tonight.

Nobody is here who cares.

Shirley is my age and a long time alcoholic. But more importantly, she’s a Blood/Blackfeet Indian. She’s been married to a white man for 23 years who’s been in love with a black woman for the last 5 or 6 years. She’s full of tales of abuse and fighting, of arguing, of jealousy and the cops coming to the house. Funny though, I like her as long as she doesn’t say anything about trump. How can a Canadian-American Indian say anything good about trump. The only thing I can figure out is that her husband is a racist/ redneck and so she’s getting her political views from him.

She’s a tiny, skinny woman and a hard worker and strong. She’s been married 5 times but only has one, gigantic, son who is 32 and a daughter. She’s toothless but has a good figure and I think at one time was probably quite attractive. She has bronze skin and deep brown eyes and a typical Indian nose… long, slightly hooked and wide, on a round face with high cheekbones and with long black hair that she dyes. She’s letting it grow out and the white is shockingly white. She tells of Indian wisdom and yet she allows herself to be humiliated. She says she is stuck in this relationship. Her husband is one of Jeff’s oldest friends and Jeff was the best man at their wedding. She came to love Jeff as a brother and cared for him, having him over for all holidays, sending him home with food for him to cook or with leftovers every week, taking him shopping. James and Shirley were companions to Jeff through rehab but now everybody drinks and smokes. She got a call from James twice while we were working and he wanted her to take his stimulus check and go out and buy whiskey and beer.

She told me the story of a time that he burned her with chile by throwing it on her off the stove and all over the couch. Now James has had a stroke and he can’t walk and he can’t hurt her anymore and the black woman doesn’t want him. Shirley wants him though, at least she needs him. Yesterday, I had to deliver Jeff’s keys to her house. Shirley wasn’t home but James was laying on the couch yelling at me to open the door. At 1st I didn’t hear him and so he yelled forcefully to open the door. Their house is cozy. They have nice things.

Shirley has worked hard all of her life. She got fired just recently though because her company found out she had voted for trump, that’s what she says. They said it was ethical for them to fire her. Between James and Shirley’s social security and maybe retirement they probably have enough to live on without Shirley working. She could put James in a nursing home and she could move back to the reservation where she has family. She might be happier there but she wants to stay close to her son Calvin even though her daughter lives on the reservation.

It’s not funny how we get stuck in situations that are not good for us and yet we stay. I wish Shirley all of the best. I think I might miss seeing her. I couldn’t really socialize with her at home, but perhaps I could meet her for coffee some times. She’s a very generous person. Perhaps if she moved back to the reservation she could see how trump is a bastard.

I’m happy. I hope you’re happy too. I have a sense of accomplishment for working over at Jeff’s even though it was not my responsibility. I feel good that I was able to do something for him even though he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to his material belongings now that he has passed on to something, somewhere, we know not where or what or how. For now his family will have a sense of who Jeff was though they barely knew him. What a terrible father he had not to let his other kids know about their brother. He was all alone for many years. He was the offspring of an affair… but unwanted. That’s very sad.

Bye, my friend.

Adrian has Passed On

Adrian was an old friend. I knew him from high school. A Swedish boy with white blonde hair and, gleaming, even whiter teeth. When he smiled he lit up a room. He was more than handsome.

Adrian came from a large family. I believe there were 5 boys and one sister. Each of them with the same hair and teeth and confident and charismatic demeanor.

After high school I was searching for life’s meaning. Not finding what I was looking for in LSD and other psychedelics, one day Adrian knocked on our door.

His had been a similar path but according to him he had found “the way”. He had a Bible under his arm and was ready to show us “where the light was”. He was determined to drag us to church.

After a few determined visits, we acquiesced and followed him to Maranatha Church, where Reverend Wendall Wallace preached and held sway.

In red cords, a red and blue flowered shirt and barefoot, I sat in a pew near the back. Richard Probosco played the piano and the choir sang and rocked back and forth clapping in synchopated rhythm in their black robes.

Wallace was on fire as he preached to a congregation of black and white and the young and the old. The auditorium was packed.

I didn’t really hear his words but I was moved deep inside somewhere, without comprehension. This wasn’t the 1st time I was moved by music and rhythm and I had smoked some weed before leaving home, which increased the warmth and sensuality of the atmosphere.

I was moved but also apprehensive because I knew where this was going. I was in no way naive. And then it came: the invitation to come up front and give one’s life to Jesus. The music and the singing were pleading and Wallace’s voice was trying to draw us in. ” Is there anyone here”, he said, who will come down and give their life to Jesus? Jesus loves you”, he said again and again, with pregnant pauses, while he waited for responses.

A few people responded and began to walk down the aisle towards the altar. “Okay. Why not?”, I thought. “Let’s go.” I walked down the aisle and knelt at the altar and said, ” Jesus, if you are who you say you are then show it to me”.

At that moment I felt that I was flying through the air, through the clouds, at a high rate of speed. I don’t know what that was but it was very real. I stayed there kneeling for I don’t know how long but I eventually stood up and Wallace took my hand and lifted it in the air while he praised God and shouted Hallelujah.

Something really had changed. From that moment I started looking into The Bible like I had looked into Eastern religions previously. Adrian had located a huge house in northeast Portland that had stained glass and beveled glass windows that reflected rainbows on the floors and the walls. He convinced the church to support this house where “hippies” who were being converted to Christianity could live while they were in the process of changing their lives.

I lived there at the House of Rainbows for a time. Food was provided, the utilities and rent were paid and a ride to church was provided every Sunday and Wednesday nights.

Adrian, from that time onwards until his death was a street evangelist. He spent all of his time on the street bringing people out of drug addiction and alcoholism and violence to give their hearts to Jesus. But he not only preached the gospel but but he provided food and housing and clothing.

In spite of Adrian’s well meaning efforts towards me, I was always a skeptic and never a true believer in spite of my experience at the altar at Maranatha church. I tried for years but it just never rang true to me. I haven’t had anything to do with any church since the early 70’s. But I can’t deny the good that Adrian did for many, many people, perhaps hundreds of people.

I haven’t seen Adrian since around 1972-74, but he frequently comes to mind. Many were convinced that Adrian and I would hook up but we didn’t ever have that kind of relationship. The women at Maranatha made me a patchwork quilt of embroidered squares and one of the patches had a picture of Adrian and I as a married couple. In spite of the fact that Jack and I married, we had that quilt on our bed for many years until it was destroyed in a house fire.

Adrian was the witness who signed our marriage license and reverend Wendell Wallace married us out in the forest on a beautiful sunny August day.

Adrian and Wendall Wallace signing the certificate of marriage
Reverend Wendall Wallace. Blessings

I called Jack yesterday and told him that Adrian had passed on. He was only 74, our age, but apparently had been ill and died of an injury. We commiserated and were sad at his passing. Though we are not believers we are certainly appreciative of all the good that Adrian did in his life. Who can fault a man who has spent his life helping so many get off drugs and alcohol and has shown them a way to live that is not harmful to themselves or others.

Good bye, Adrian. You’ve had a good life. We loved you. Many have loved you.

Notes from an Arizona Trip – points of interest… not!

Or what I thought was important to note. This is probably the most ridiculous travel blog ever written. I find it hilarious and terribly boring.

Tuesday

  • Shopping plazas
  • Saguaro cactus
  • Bougainvillea
  • Leafy spurge
  • Palm trees
  • Bottled water
  • Arizona sycamore
  • Mormons – Meacham
  • Snowbirds

Wednesday

  • Airplane flight
  • to house
  • Irene’s shop
  • Lunch at Mortenson’s – tuna sandwich – beers
  • Heatherbrook Square
  • Dr. office
  • ASU campus – t-shirts
  • Plaza – Chophouse – Village shops
  • Home – #10 Pasta – Italian sausage and red sauce, sharp cheese, crackers, peanuts, smoked oysters, called home, wine and beer, cannoli

Thursday

  • Sweet rolls, coffee, freshly squeezed OJ
  • Borgata – galleries – cars – rich people
  • Biltmore Plaza – ate outdoors
  • Esprit, Gucci, Saks, Sharper Image, Cappricio, Williams-Sonoma, Imagin
  • Scottsdale – pepperoni cheese bread
  • Nellos
  • Larry’s job
  • walked
  • It. Nacho – Corona and lime
  • Fresh
  • Cranberry
  • Walked in drops (6)
  • Knots Landing
  • Mikki volleyball – Won

Friday

  • Toured Ghetto
  • Spaghetti Co.
  • Heard Museum
  • Chips and salsa and guacamole – margaritas
  • Ahwatukee – exclusive homes
  • Chimichanga ****

Saturday

  • Fresh squeezed OJ
  • Mikki, Larry, Jack and Karen
  • Apache Junction – the mining camp
  • Superstition Mts.
  • Botanical Garden
  • Canyon Lake
  • Mikki sat on a cactus “gets cold” and sleeps in car
  • We ate gourmet lunch
    • fresh tortilla chips
    • ham and turkey and cheese – Kaiser roll
    • Tortellini salad
    • Claussen pickles
    • Pepperocini
    • Cheese bread
  • Salt River for tubing
  • Twins won
  • Hors-d’oeuvres -Jack took nap
  • American Bar and Grill – new buildings but 20’s or 30’s, live jazz, good drink
  • Bed

Sunday

  • Juice and coffee – left
  • McCormick Ranch
  • Boulders
  • Coffee, sweet rolls (free) (unbelievable)
  • Montezuma Castle – scenery changes
  • Oak Creek Owl
    • fag Mexican waiter (did I really write that?)
    • Outrageous food and drinks
      • Cajun Tenderloin
      • Nova salmon
      • Beef tenderloin grill
      • Salad
      • Bread
  • Through Sedona to Oak Creek scenic drive
  • Learned Apache from Larry
  • Slide Rock – Jack does Apache elbow dance
  • Ferrari caravan (20)
  • Sedona, good ice cream, chocolate, big rattler
  • Arroyo Pollo – Canyon of the Chickens
  • Tlaquepaque – galleries, shops
  • Spanish villa
  • Pepper wreaths, pottery
  • Drive home
    • Radio stations: Utah, Wyoming, Texas, S. California, Colorado
  • Got 8:00 home
  • Hebrew National hot dogs
  • Barbecue 10:00 – 90 degrees
    • Salad
    • Pasta
  • Little Larry talked ’til 1:30 AM

Monday

  • Ate outside with mist – 91 degrees
  • Bare Covers
  • Skateboard 8 store
  • Tip Top Nursery – Eucalyptus, cactus, etc.
  • The Island – Luxury waterfront living – 2 sets – model homes
    • Val Vista Lake – Breckenridge Homes, clubhouse, lagoon, two boats, bars, racquet room, weight rooms, recreation rooms, receptionist, exclusive
    • Ahwatukee – House of our Dreams
    • Santa Fe Dreams – right on South Mts., Two pink Spanish, unbelievable house, out of sight
  • Returned – outrageous eucalyptus tree
  • Came
    • hors d’ouvres
    • shrimp croissant, yummy
    • marsala lemon
    • salad
    • Pesto fettucini
  • Fell asleep on the floor

Tuesday

  • Irene and I walk
  • Burger King
  • Left for Mogollon Rim
    • Bee Line Highway to Payson thru Indian Village
    • Pine forest
    • 60 degrees on Rim
    • Heard elk singing
    • We yell from Rim
    • Pine tree hit by lightning scored spirally
    • Fountain on Fountain Hills 100”
  • Ate Mediterranean chicken salad
    • Fresh French bread
    • brewed coffee
    • Too cold to drink wine
    • Kahlua and beer
  • Saw Dymaxion Automobile
  • Mikki won game

Wednesday

  • Larry, Irene work, and play
  • Casa Grande Indian Ruins
  • Phoenix Zoo
  • Cactus place

The End

Then we flew home.

You Know You Wish You Knew This Before.

Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them.

Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through.

Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first.

Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first.

Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us.

Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe.

Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time.

Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything.

May we grieve loss without personalizing it.

May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.

(~an excerpt from ‘An Uncommon Bond’, available at any bookstore through Ingram Distribution, and on Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, audio) at https://www.amazon.com/Uncommon-Bond-Jeff-Brown/dp/0980885957/)

Stay Away from Married Men: Why I don’t sleep anymore.

  • Sleepless

My dearest,

I lay awake and my mind dwells on the unfathomable words you have spoken on my unfulfilled desire to give you my heart and my life. More than anything I want to give you my time. I am lonely. I hear words that I don’t understand and I spin them around in my mind. I try to hear your voice. I try to remember how you said them and what they might have meant.

I lay awake and suffer because of my own decision to stay. I could leave. I don’t have to be here but you are so beautiful to me. Your skin, the color of your hair, your lips and more than that your eyes. But I don’t understand you. The trouble is that I know the truth. I am alone. You’re not. You want me to make that easy for you.

I lay awake with unshed tears and trembling body. I haven’t seen you… it’s only been two days and I miss your touch. I want you to want to me like I want you but I can’t say for sure that you do… I can’t say that you don’t.

I am like so many women who want more than they can have. Am I unrealistic? Should I be satisfied? Don’t I remember the last time you were here and the words you spoke? But they don’t sustain me.

I lay awake because I cannot tell you what I am feeling. What does “I love you” mean? Don’t those words leave so much unspoken? I want to tell you that I want you in my world. I want to be with you every day. I am alone. I eat alone. I walk alone. I travel alone. I shop alone. I sleep alone. I look at the stars alone. I experience the moon and Mars alone. I only have the hour that you give me at random times on random days as I am getting less time with you. I do remember Friday and Saturday last week but what about this week?

I lay awake and breathe. I feel my body. My hand feels the soft skin of my belly, the muscles under the skin of my thighs, my bones that surround my heart and my lungs. It all feel so precious to me. It is the treasure that I give you every time we lie down together. I look at the dark ceiling and picture your face above me. There are things that I don’t understand. Your kisses are so real, at times they hurt. I am left with bruised lips. Your hands are so soft and sometimes so hard when they delve into my soft places. So quickly you roll off and push my arms and legs away from you as you lie spent next to me, too hot to breathe. I want you to hold me as you swiftly pull on your pants and pull your shirt over your head. My body pleads for you to hold me but you have to run. So few are the times that I have been able to curl up in the crook of your arm. I can count them on one hand.

“I want to go home”. I know what you mean. You have to go home. You have given me an hour by your watch, which you keep glancing at. No, I don’t forget last weekend when you crept away in the early morning hours just before she arrived home. It was sweet sleeping with you.

I lay awake. It’s 3:00 in the morning and I shed tears that you don’t want to see. “Look at your eyes”, you say. “Your face is different”. My tears are my blood that I cannot give you… they are the beat of my heart as I hold it in my hand and ask you to take all of it. My tears are my hopes and my dreams and thankfulness. They are my tide that has come to shore and overflowed my banks. You have rejected them and I cannot stop them. I cannot stem them anymore. I cry because I want to give myself to you… because I want you in my world… because I don’t want to wonder anymore… because I have only hurt once before and I am scared… because you are so different from me and I don’t understand you… because I don’t know the future.

I lay awake because you say that you love me and I am not sure what you mean. I asked you one time, “what about me?” You quickly said, looking into my eyes, “When she leaves, my children are coming and I will buy a house and then marriage”. But you leave and I don’t know what you have said. Have you said that you want to marry me? You wear a wedding ring. Some days you don’t… most days you don’t. What do the days mean when you do? Questions. I have questions and no answers. When will she go? Will she really go? When your children come will you still want me? Can I meet your children? Can I meet your family? Can I meet your friends? Could I be more lonely than I am without you?

I lay awake and wonder. I only have this. Am I being fair? Do you give me as much of you as you have left over? Left over. Am I the splinter that never ceases to molest you? Or am I only the sure thing, a diversion? That is why I lay awake. Why can’t you call? Too many questions.

My tears will come now though you reject them and tell me that you only want us to be happy. I will cry when we are together and it may be the reason that you do not come to see me. I want to release you. I need to release you and be with you either because I choose to or leave you because I need to release myself.

I have always said, “Leave when you have to. Stay as long as you can.”

Not always the best advice.

Burning Pepe with Ritual.

A little bit of knowledge can be dangerous… as this story proves out.

I don’t know where to begin because I don’t think that I’ve told you enough about my past with Santeria, Palo and Vodou, but this memory came to mind this afternoon and I wanted to write it down. Perhaps, I’ll even publish it without giving you the proper context. To help a little you could go into some of my blog posts that are tagged with Santeria, Palo and Ramiro and the like… yet it might not help at all. But let’s get right into it, anyway.

Without going into any great detail, suffice it to say that I had been living with a Santero (a practitioner/priest of Santeria. My break with him was tragic. After being with him for several years, to better understand him and the culture of Cuba and its people, I studied Cuban spirituality and simultaneously, Haitian spirituality which, of course, both derive from African roots.

In my studies, I came across primary resources written by priests. Primary resources, of course, are documentation that record first hand experiences. These books or pamphlets or diaries recorded the rituals of their religion. I had watched many rituals performed in the years spent with the Cubans. I always felt though that I was standing at the door with the door just barely cracked open and me, I was peeking inside of a room not truly being able to enter, to participate or to even understand what I was seeing.

This new found knowledge, accompanied by my first hand experiences with Santeros and practitioners of Palo and Vodou, proved to be dangerous weapons in my hands.

After my break with Ramiro, I was left with many accoutrements, but this is another story. My heart had been broken and I had seen too many things. I wanted to relieve my broken heartedness and I also wanted to affect others with what I knew. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone, that was not my intention. But these two things alone are a dangerous combination. I wasn’t looking for revenge but this is how it was perceived.

Pepe was a friend of Ramiro’s and appeared on the scene to “soothe my pain”. I didn’t want a boyfriend, I wanted Ramiro back but I wasn’t getting him back, so Pepe became a friend. But this was not how Pepe saw it.

Pepe would not go away. He tattooed my name on his arm. He led his friends to believe we were lovers. That, we never were. My mistake was to allow him to continue to be my friend even when I realized that he was unreasonable.

My reasoning was that Pepe was nice enough. Pepe cared for me. He was willing to tolerate that I was still in love with Ramiro and that I didn’t love him. In a selfish way, Pepe was my connection to the Cuban community and vicariously to Ramiro. In some odd way this helped to ease the pain, to have somebody familiar around.

This is how the problem started and I am the only one to blame. Pepe was insistent and I suppose you could say that I allowed it, I left the door open, I was too tolerant. But as he became demanding, I became frustrated at first and then afraid. I didn’t believe he would hurt me but he had become frustrated, too. There was an element of him being out of control. Here again, I won’t go into unnecessary detail about his fits of frustration. He was refusing to just be my friend. Though I would lose my connection to him, to the Cubans and to Ramiro, it was time for him to go.

I wanted him to know that I was serious. I wanted him to know that I could make him go away. I knew in no uncertain terms that it had to be final and permanent. I thought that my most powerful ability was to use his own beliefs against him.

I knew too much and yet I knew too little. I never should have done this but I did. This wasn’t the first time, nor was it the last that I used what I had learned, that I used ways that I had no business using.

Whether you believe this or not is neither here nor there to me. I don’t care. But this is what witnesses have reported. These are the consequences of my actions. I followed the directions to the letter. There are times that I regret what I did, but they had the results I was looking for. I never heard from Pepe again.

I wrote Pepe a letter simply asking him to leave me alone. I sprinked into the envelope, powders and ashes of certain and specific animal bones, crushed plants, rocks and metals procribed in the books of priests. I carefully copied, by hand, certain ancient symbols drawn in the books. I sealed the envelope and drew certain other symbols that crossed over the seal, so that when opened, the symbols would be torn in two.

Pepe recieved the letter. According to witnesses, when he tore open the seal, a cloud of dust rose into the air covering his face and flew into his eyes. He was blinded momentarily and had trouble breathing. The dust caused sores on his face and neck that lasted for weeks.

Pepe was out of my life for good. I haven’t heard from him or about him for years. I hope he’s OK.

Love Wrapped Up in Christmas Cards

My mom loved getting and giving cards for all occasions. At Christmas time, she had a list a mile long because she had a very large family and many friends. When a card would come in from someone not on the list, they would be added.

My cards this year.

Mom would set up an aluminum TV tray (remember those?) in front of her living room chair. Beside her was a tall stack of cards with envelopes and her list with names and addresses. From right after Thanksgiving until her list was complete, this is where we would find her, when she was not at work, or cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, shopping and wrapping presents.

For Christmas, as the mail came in, she’d cover the fireplace mantel with cards, then when there was no more room, she’d tape them on the door jams in the living room. Every year, when the holiday season was over, she would gather the cards and stash them away in a box along with her list.

Mom and me in 1966. See the Christmas cards?

When Mom passed away, it was hard to throw away her memories that were her only treasures. She didn’t leave us money or property but she left us something more precious, her unconditional love for everyone. Cards and photos and letters were overwhelming as evidence.

I’ve never sent cards at Christmas. Kristi (my sister) had taken over this tradition from Mom. But this very special year, my cousins (on mom’s side) and I decided to send cards to each other. We needed to say, “I love you” in a very tangible way. Some of us are very alone or suffering in other ways. There are well over 40 of us. In such a large family, one never knows what heartbreak might be.

I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me. I could feel Mom stirring in my heart and see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in her chair, head down, handwriting her cards as I wrote my cards, addressed the envelopes and stuffed them into the mailbox.

And now, I rush to get the mail everyday to see who has sent me a card. I think it’s my turn to keep the tradition, Mom.

This has been heartwarming in a cold and dark night. Our world has been turned upside down and this small gesture of sending and recieving cards has brought much needed joy and comfort. Thank you, cousins.

I love you all.

I’ve No Apologies to Make

I’ve done many things in this life, it’s been long. I may have hurt a person or two and maybe it was you,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

I’ve looked death in the face, and while others died, I’ve escaped,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Lovers I have lost in a maelstrom of words,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Friends and family left for a time, it was just to find some peace of mind,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Memories fill my mind and searching my heart, no regret I find,

So, I’ve no apologies to make.

I Am Here but Peripheral

I Am Here but Peripheral

I have no importance here. I try to talk to everyone. But no one talks to me. When I join in conversation, I feel their disdain. I have nothing authoritative to say because I am not an expert on anything, they say. Look it up, they say, with a slight sneer contorting their lips.

When I explain that my education and experience and research gives my opinion authority, I am scoffed at.

When I talk I am ignored or am made to feel foolish or am misinterpreted

I sometimes feel loved but that changes moment by moment. I reach out to embrace. I have been told not to embrace. I embrace too much. No one reaches out to embrace me.

No one consults me and if I offer the wrong advice, words chastise me.

No one tells me where they are going nor if they are going.

I don’t feel welcome at the table.

I ask all the wrong questions. Words and looks say I sound stupid. I have been told that my questions are stupid.

Sometimes none of this is true. Sometimes I want to run away.

I am not needed. I am peripheral.

Death and Strange Elixers at the Altabier.

I went for drinks with friends last night at the Altabier Restaurant and Bar. I like going there, alot. I can ask for a pizza that suits my strange tastes.

First, I had a drink called the Cloven Hoof. I should have known better but it started out with a lovely smooth scotch and some other tantalizing ingredients. I tried sipping it but it lured me into slamming it. Down the hatch!

My second drink was an Old Fashioned. Four Roses bourbon, smooth and golden and heavy, laced with just enough ice in a crystal glass. It sparkled like a deep amber elixir with the Mosca cherry hiding half way down. Though I wanted to dive for the cherry, I sipped and chatted about death with my friends. The sky went black and the lights of the city came on and the voices in the bar grew louder, candles were glowing and flickering and time slipped by.

Todd talked candidly about his wife dying just a month or so ago. Noelle, remembering how her husband and she were driving cross country to move to Portland with their two cats, got in a terrible accident that killed her husband and the male kitty, while she and the female kitty survived, was drinking a strange concoction called, “Making Brandy Great Again”.

When I met Noelle, 15 years ago, the scar that slashed across her forehead and between her eyes was red and angry, still. Her scar now, is still clearly visible but “no longer angry nor red”, I commented. She’s tiny and her face is beautiful in the soft candlelight. For her second drink, she ordered the “Santa Muerte”. As we do, she slid the glass across the table for me to try. I immediately tasted the essence of a very old, Victorian house filled with stuffed antique furniture and gilded picture frames and China vases holding wilted roses. Todd took a sip and agreed that it aroused a sense of old stuffed chairs and sofas. Noelle called for a Manhattan, as she said, “I’m passing this on” and slid the drink back over to me.

There I was with my Old Fashioned to my right and my Santa Muerte to my left. By this time I was slowly sipping, enjoying both drinks and the company, immensely. I loved the mysterious Santa Muerte and the ever familiar Old Fashioned. They seemed to fit perfectly together. I was interjecting, into the conversation, stories of the soft passing of Mom and the violent parting of Kristi and Dad. Death hung in the air, as did the joy of sharing holiday gifts and spirits together.

Dolores dropped me off at my door and I drank a glass of bicarbonate of soda and fell into bed after tearing my clothes off. It was a fantastic night.