Why The Silence? A Certain Malaise Sets In As The Hell Of The Side Effects Ends And Purgatory Is Restored But A Hero Is Reborn

I would apologize for the recent silence, but I honestly don't believe that such an apology is necessary. After going through the utter hell of six straight weeks of endless itching and intense pain, I find myself giving in to a certain malaise and ennui. Yes, purgatory is an utter pleasure when compared to the fires down below, but it is not quite a celebration and not quite an inspiration. I am tired and burned out to the bone as I struggle to retain a certain equilibrium within. It is strange because the rewards of such an experience are so much greater than the scars, but the scars and the damage of the wounds remain.

The thing about a hero, is even when it doesn't look like there's a light at the end of the tunnel, he's going to keep digging, he's going to keep trying to do right and make up for what's gone before, just because that's who he is.                                                                — Joss Whedon

I am beginning a new journey as I approach the end of treatment that I believe is successful and the Hepatitis C virus will have been eradicated from my body. But I still have another month and a half of Interferon and Ribavirin so I spend several days each week with flu-like symptoms and exhaustion. It remains difficult to eat at times and the indigestion is constant and the toilet is not my friend. But I have survived and I have learned lessons that not only cannot be taken from me, but will be maintained through practice and a loving focus. It is nice not only to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but to walk into the sunshine with the knowledge that another always awaits.

Faith Is The Realization That The Light Is The Gift Of A New Dawn

Do you recognize the hero within? Not only are you the main character of your story, but you alos have the power to define the genre of the story. It does not have to be a tragedy or a farce, it does not have to be epic or absurd. Your story is your own and you are the hero of its creation. Welcome to the freedom to define the journey of your name and your life.

Here is a new poem that I rediscovred and recently recreated... gotta love such a reenvisioning and a reawakening and a simple return because even if re is a prefix, occurring originally in  Latin, used with the meaning “again” or “again and again” to indicate repetition,or with the meaning “back” or “backward” to indicate withdrawal or backward motion, it still provides the ability to express the eternal recurrence of being a-okay. Here is that poem I mentioned above...

between

between the first step taken

and lying down on a leather couch,

between the opening of a door

and the turning of the bedroom lock,

between putting pen to paper

and checking out what’s in the fridge

fall the sunken eyes of ennui.

between the biting of a nail

and the opening of a fist,

between the twitching of a palm

and the raising of a thumb,

between the flapping of tongues

and the calmness of silence

stands the bright shadow of courage.

Day 83 Night - The Four Crack Quartets: Remembering What I Did To Myself And Why I Must Walk With Dignity Today

I understand how tough these last few entries have been and how they hurt the ones I love because they worry about me and they feel helpless. I am sorry to be the source of more suffering. You must understand that I am doing this for a reason. I am not a poor soul who lost the genetic cancer lottery and was told by a doctor that there is a malignant tumor in my liver. I did this to myself, and I must take responsibility.

There will be no pictures in this blog except the one picture of me taken a few years ago in Mexico. The casual leaning on the tongue lashing my ass kind of fits the bill. It shows the remnants of the poser and the ultimately cool Hollywood guy that will always be lurking somewhere in me.

John Lavitt Posing with Graffiti in Ensenada, Mexico in 2007

Below are four poems I wrote in 1994 when I gave in to cheap desire and became a crack addict. As you know from past entries, it was one of the ugliest times in my life. And it truly frightens me when I realize that it took close to another decade for me to hit bottom and finally get sober. All that time with brief stopping points and geographical escapes, I was an unforgivable addict. First crack, then cocaine and heroin. Always smoking except the one time that I shared a needle and was infected with the Hepatitis C virus. It sound like extraordinary bad luck, but it seems appropriate to me that such actions result in such consequences.

I have placed the four poems under a single heading in somewhat twisted homage to T. S. Eliot and his celebration of wastelands and alienated losers. After all, the names of Eliot's first two quartets are Burnt Norton and East Coker. It seemed to make sense in a strange sort of way since the themes of the first two poems of the series are described by C. K. Stead as...


1. The movement of time, in which brief moments of eternity are caught.
2. Worldly experience, leading on to dissatisfaction.
3. Purgation in the world, divesting the soul of the love of created things.

Such themes when mutilated surely reflect the horror as expressed below...

           

the four crack quartets

how accurate

long walk in darkness and silence,

a deafening cry pounding inside,

flooding the chambers, cheap desire,

so much freedom given away so soon,

mutilated on her altar, unrecognized,

rotting, and i almost gave my life

away, almost sacrificed my life

for smoke, my life for smoke.

can barely remember how it began;

when bitterness rose like vapor,

expanding into a cynical answer.

how quickly it filled my life,

how little there was to fill.

i'm not scared of these sentences.

today is not trembling with fear.

is tomorrow a burnt offering?

we expose horror in routine.

through routine the smoke

rises, habits rising night to night

until vergil and the dark descent

is no longer a poet's metaphor.

i pass him by, taking no notice,

noticing now only and forever

how cold and damp my palms,

how accurate the shaking.

more

this is amazing!

i am killing myself

with each rising breath

of bitterness, sweet

bitter smoke rising.

it has stolen me flat.

it creeps and lies readily

and more often in night

amid the slow emptiness,

slowly demanding more

the dive into a wave of death,

youth cruising on the crest

of a wave breaking, breaking

into my soul and the good life

sinks, drowning in ashes

dark magic, deluded, blinded,

the journey down and deeper

into buried lies, obscured

by the smoke and she calls

and i come and i abandon

all whys to the wanting,

i fall, solitary liar falling,

without fighting, bereft

of doubt, ignoring all fear:

this is just a passing fancy,

a consumer on the edge

of hell, american hell perfect

where the soul shrivels black,

the crack they sell extracts

wanting, wanting always more.

away

i have seen what the smoke

can destroy, almost without warning;

how readily i ignore the danger,

tossing the worst outcome aside

even when the worst is sure to arrive.

the real cost multiplied: pound of lung

and the disfigurement of pride.

ask and you shall see what lies:

all the smart reasons why i won't die,

why i'll never sink with the suicides;

because this, this is a crazy adventure,

a youthful romp down the road to hell

where hope withers, love impaled

on the wanting, cheap and ready.

the smoke; ready with the answer

to a question asked so carelessly.

my god, i gave your gifts away,

sacrificed more than good, more than evil,

more than the first taste from the tree –

hell - i murdered the first possibility.

all my potential reduced to residue,

ambition drowning in wet hollow sighs

as the fire god ignites an empty life

and i forget why i needed to escape,

forget the notion of escape, my life

so readily replaced by smoke slipping

into glassy eyes, engulfing all dignity

as the dream shrivels and friends die.

really o.k.

even rain falling

falls into the delusion

of rock, thin wet flakes

lurking under my tongue

in reflections of tin foil

i watch the very best lies

gently rise into smoke,

rising past all potential.

cold fingers rattle now,

waiting forever for one more

taste of sweet heaven-scent,

sinking swiftly into more

waiting, struggle to remain

a little more high and i

will be fine, i'm really o.k.

if there's one more hit,

but stillness never comes,

only the desperate maintenance

of purgatory, soon exhausted,

shivering into morning light.