Need

Sometimes we forget about Time and Reason. For a moment, we give ourselves over to Sensation and allow it to flood us. Its persistent fingers probe and discover light in previously dark corners. We see ourselves there, naked, vulnerable, real. We see our Need. It pants, it whimpers. It aches and its eyes bore holes in our souls. It is not easy to face.

Whether we look, or not, it is always there. Why let it shiver alone? It is part of us, perhaps the very essence of our being. Even if it is not the pretty face we put on for the world. It is who we are. And it's okay. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Richard Thompson Electric Trio Concert]

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

I love Elton John, but when he came out with "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" with Kiki Dee, I almost barfed. It was written by Elton John with Bernie Taupin under the pseudonyms "Ann Orson" and "Carte Blanche" (a pun on the expression "an horse and cart, Blanche"), and intended as an affectionate pastiche of the Tamla Motown style, notably the various duets recorded by Marvin Gaye and singers such as Tammi Terrell and Kim Weston. [from Wikipedia]

Hated that song. But it's a perfect segue to today's topic: Suicidal thoughts.

I've lost far too many friends to suicide. One friend even survived his initial injury and lived thirty more days. He got to see how many people loved him, deeply and dearly loved him, and he was so thankful he lived -- until complications from the original damage arose and took him from us once more. It was bittersweet; he came to understand how precious life is and how much he was loved, and for that and the extra month he was here, I am grateful.

Some thoughts about suicide:

I read an article about gun suicides, and contained within it were these words: "Research shows that suicide is an impulsive act—one study found that 25 percent of people who attempted it did so after deliberating for less than five minutes—and most had considered it for less than a day. Usually the impulse strikes not long after an interpersonal crisis of some sort."

Take a few minutes RIGHT NOW and tell yourself why you will NEVER commit suicide, no matter what. Convince yourself there is nothing you cannot get past, no low so low you can't rise above it, no shame so great that you can't endure it -- no sorrow so deep you cannot dig out of it. 

Please, have hope. Consciously practice right this very minute why you will choose to get through it if/when you have suicidal ideation. Think of the reasons for living right now so you will remember them if time comes when you think you want to end it. 

I PROMISE you someone loves you. If you don't believe it, know that at the very least *I* love you.

Don't go breakin' my heart.~~GH

A Hunger for Howlin Wolf

Here's a taste of something written after Thanksgiving. The Muse is generous now, pouring out her bounteous goodness. This is an excerpt patched together from a much longer piece; hopefully it makes sense.~~GH

A Hunger for Howlin' Wolf 

In high school, I had a ridiculously cheap record player/stereo. I'm sure it was only a step above a child's portable player, but it was what I had. The spindle did hold multiple albums, three perhaps, and it did autoplay and drop the next one so I had an hour or so to lie back and listen before I had to get up and turn the records over or change them. Sometimes I could get five 45s out of a session if I took a chance on the needle catching on the edge of the stack.

I burned incense and smoked pot and played my music, the same songs over and over until the grooves in the records were deep and full of pops and crackles. An avalanche of Elton John, a flood of Foghat, ELP (“Still, You Turn Me On”), the Carpenters, Jethro Tull, The Who. BTO, Average White Band, Marvin Gaye, I hungered for different sounds. All we had at home was AM radio. Somewhere out there, I knew/sensed there was more.

An older teen from down the road gave me her collection of 45s when she went away to college and I embraced them hungrily. Clarence Carter, Bill Withers, as soon as I discovered Jim Croce he was dead but I had heard him. And, oh-mi-god-Howlin-Wolf's “Spoonful.” The sound had been revealed, the curtain pulled aside. I knew there was more out there than they let me hear on the radio.

Seals and Crofts, Edgar Winter, Uriah Heep. Ronnie Montrose. I met Jeff Beck and listened to him play at a friend's house once. I heard and tried to like but didn't, Joe Cocker.

The Eagles, and funk. Oh good lord, funk. I couldn't get enough of it. Rufus and Chaka Khan, Parliament. Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, Barry White, Grand Funk, Bad Company, Jackson Browne. Rhyme or reason, there seemed to be none.

I think if I'd had access to blues records I may have never left my room. I would have sunk into the cheap mattress and disappeared. As it was, I listened to the same angsty songs repeatedly. I sang along, wailing with deeply felt sorrow for love I'd yet to be given, borrowing future trouble, mourning lovers yet to leave. I had such a longing to experience Life, but I was stuck in a gloomy, claustrophobic, institutional yellow-walled box of a room.

I'd throw back my head and let my unruly hair shake free. Sometimes I'd slide my glasses up on top of my head like the models in television commercials did. I couldn't see a thing but if I touched my nose against the mirror on my dresser, I could see how cool I looked. I longed to do this outside my bedroom and years later, the first thing I did once I got contact lenses was buy a pair of sunglasses just to prop on top of my head with no intention to protect my eyes whatsoever.

Other times, I danced. I sang into my hair brush as loudly as I could, the volume control set as high as I dared get away with – eight, because nine would bring a parent banging on my door and result in revocation of stereo privileges. Even then, I had to move the speakers away from the walls so the sound didn't carry downstairs as well. But eight, well, eight I could get away with.