A Life In Fragments

Fragment ManI’ve been writing living my life in disconnected fragments.   I’m whiplashed.  Thrown back and forth like Freddy Grey of Baltimore infamy.  No flow:  tried to express things so primitive, so primeval, so…   …   …Neanderthal utterances; grunts and growls, would sound right at home in my screaming painfulness.   There are no words…   … …before there were words, there was the pain.  Nine point three, in my humble estimation,  on the Comparative Pain Richter Scale.  Yes, it rocked me.

Torquemada’s Iron Maiden, if it didn’t kill you, mortally wounded your soul.   You’d make any devil’s bargain; piss yourself, beg and plead, for relief.  And I did.


 Yes, I survived.  Not only I:  many others have survived as well.  I’m proud and humbled to be among them.
Pain at that level is gone.  For now.  More of the same is bound to follow.  I am a hearty, full-bodied man.  But also a vulnerable man.  My names are legion:  colchicine, allopurinol, hydrochlorothiazide, digoxin, benazepril, metoprolol, oxycodone,clonidine, warfarin, fentanyl,  simvastatin, nortriptyline.  Slowly, ever so slowly I turn; turn towards my struggle towards health.  My physical therapist, and The Lord, are my shepherds.  Wit sustains me when muscles weaken.  Melancholy is a guilty treasure.  Prudently mined; it’s a gift that keeps on giving.
Along the trails thru the frontier, lonely outposts were manned to give succor for the weary explorer.  I’m at one of those existential waystations now, waiting for few moments to catch my breath.  A new day is before me, but it’s getting late.  Got to get on my way.
Saddle up, Taxi Dog!  It’s time to ride.

Sometimes Stops Being


—–     —–     —–

sometimes taxi dog’s blue.  sometimes stops being.
bees someone “else”.  lost somelongtime now.  fragmented, loozing hiz gripz.
Becoming…   …   …?
hard to describe.  looked for coincidences.  Serendipities.

—–     —–     —–

now, not describing, more being.
conclusion?  not yet.  not now.
but feelz goode…   …   …words flow, non-sensemaking, easzier.
all the betterer, all the meaning-er.

—–     —–     —–

Not for you?
i take’m as they are…   …   …out of analysis, out of form(alde)…   …   …hyding.
Will you see the strange reading
I’m sure, I think, for you.
For me; ecstasy!
A lopstuck piglet?
Who knows?

—–     —–     —–

What’s written is a manufractured, pro-ducttaped assemblage.  an un-naturaled axe.
Want “heard”!
Want Meant!
Allizz what I can write-right now.  Allizz is fragments.
writing fragments like the end.  ’til the end.  ’til I end.
‘Til I write in an ‘other’ way.

—– —– —–

brainworthy of worry?  scary to me.  How to know; lest you know.  tell me?
Maybe brained injured writers will be all the rage in the later parts of his decage (sic?).
Stick to the sictionary, TD.  browse the Classics. paleontology?  knew her sisters well:  Ellis and Anne?
The Brontesauruses?
Pun-machine hymning,
thanks God!

—– —– —–

I’m no eecummings.  and hezze no me.
Go nightnight  Go to my cell.

—– —– —–

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Norman Is In Ireland (apologies to R.J.Squirrel)

Falling.  Bottomless.  Tumbling.
painful joints;


to know You.
I is nothing with out U.

Writing this,
like this,
formless, meaningless….



No meaning.

All I know, can know, hope to know, hear, see, feel:
no form. 


Pin-ball wizard!
Damaged hands.
Motion. Memories of motion; e-motion.
Broken/English, back-hand, left-hand, no hand.
No spin; dead ball.

Wish it’d “Go”!
But it won’t.


How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Wish you were h…(gulp)

You know how I feel about excuses, but the last few months have been like that picture:  menacing doom!!  But its only a feeling, right?   Everything is really okay.  Right?  Still, the loss of control haunts me still.  Everything seems okay.  Until its not!!

And so fast.  Each day get gets a little bit worse than the other.  You say ‘I’ll do this’ or ‘say that’.  And you get all tied up like Brer Rabbit in the briar patch, with only your wits to help you.  You’ll live on, but you’re a bit less sure.  PTSD with a serio-dramatic twist.  Laugh or Die.  Laugh AND die!!

I thought that if I could write it out, I’d be cured.  But its not happening.  Middle of June, middle of July, and its August.  I was exhausted.

I start again.

Just a little post today.

Next week I’ll be taking a class on memoir writing.   Like a writers’ workshop where we critique each others produce.  And some classic memoirs found in The Art of the Personal Essay by Phillip Lopate.  Maybe I’ll get to be a better writer.  Maybe not.

I’ve been reading Duane Kelly’s blog, “Lapis Loquens” where he gives caveats to the frustrated artist.  But its approaching mid-night and tomorrow WILL be another day.

Who’s Afraid Of Golden Pond?

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (film)I’m back!!  From a couple of hellish weeks of non-life threatening, but very ugly, illness, tax audits, family difficulties, and friends in distress.  And even more.  Nothing that your ordinary, death defying taxi dog doesn’t soak up like a dry sponge in the Gobi Desert after a decades long drought.  But this time its gotten the best of me.

Apparently, I’m very much attatched to my self-concept as a survivor.   “He takes a lickin’; but the keeps on ticking”.  Oh, how I love that image!!  So, when I can’t keep up with my image, I stop writing.  What am I suppose to do?  Discuss all my 70 year old’s aches and pains?  Would you read that shit?

I wouldn’t.

So; slowly I turn.  Step by step.  Inch by inch.  What do you guys [and guy-ettes] do when you’re in a piss poor mood?  When I was younger, many, many years ago, I had the luxury of blaming others.  My wife and I used to do our “Virginia Woolf” act in summer stock for years.  “On Golden Pond” is better theater.  And a more satisfactory role to play.  Still, its only human nature to look for scapegoats.

I have this discussion with myself every once in awhile.  Bitch and whine?  Or take control of myself.  I’m embarrassed to say I don’t always live up to my press releases.

I can’t tell you my greatest fears.  I don’t know all of them yet.  Death isn’t one of them.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t have them.  So here I am, literally alone and in the dark, at 2:07 AM.  Sharing.  Questioning.  Wondering.

That’s all I know for now.  Tomorrow, if it comes, will be another day.


Sunday Morning Poetry

Please Hold

This is the future, my wife says.
We are already there, and it’s the same
as the present. Your future, here, she says.
And I’m talking to a robot on the phone.
The robot is giving me countless options,
none of which answer to my needs.
Wonderful, says the robot
when I give him my telephone number.
And Great, says the robot
when I give him my account number.
I have a wonderful telephone number
and a great account number,
but I can find nothing to meet my needs
on the telephone, and into my account
(which is really the robot’s account)
goes money, my money, to pay for nothing.
I’m paying a robot for doing nothing.
This call is free of charge, says the mind-reading robot.
Yes but I’m paying for it, I shout,
out of my wonderful account
into my great telephone bill.
Wonderful, says the robot.
And my wife says, This is the future.
I’m sorry, I don’t understand, says the robot.
Please say Yes or No.
Or you can say Repeat or Menu.
You can say Yes, No, Repeat or Menu,
Or you can say Agent if you’d like to talk
to someone real, who is just as robotic.
I scream Agent! and am cut off,
and my wife says, This is the future.
We are already there and it’s the same
as the present. Your future, here, she says.
And I’m talking to a robot on the phone,
and he is giving me no options
in the guise of countless alternatives.
We appreciate your patience. Please hold.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Please hold.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Please hold.
Eine fucking Kleine Nachtmusik.
And the robot transfers me to himself.
Your call is important to us, he says.
And my translator says, This means
your call is not important to them.
And my wife says, This is the future.
And my translator says, Please hold
means that, for all your accomplishments,
the only way you can now meet your needs
is by looting. Wonderful, says the robot

Please hold. Please grow old. Please grow cold.
Please do what you’re told. Grow old. Grow cold.
This is the future. Please hold.

by Ciaran O’Driscoll
from the journal Southword