Back in February of 2006, I had a little accident.  Recently released from a psych ward, I shouldn't have been driving.  (Cricket and I now have a policy in effect).  That said, I recall that day with a clarity that some ascribe to 9/11.

I was driving my Explorer.  The brake pedal had no rubber pad on it.  I was wearing Red Wing boots.  Stopped behind a beater car at a red light, on a slight slope, my foot slipped off the pedal and I rolled into the back of the car in front.

Of course I got out to check that everyone was okay.  The driver and passenger freaked out.  They went on about how much money they'd sunk into the car.  Clearly they'd failed to take care of their sagging interior roof material and the yellow primer used on cars of a certain era that flashed.

The police came and my truck was towed:  My license had expired the month before, on my birthday.  A year later, a handsome man was on my stoop as I walked home.  He served me the papers, which claimed that I'd ignored weather conditions (cold and clear), drove recklessly (y'know, at a stop light), that I ruined his health, back, neck and another page of charges.

We were supposed to go to arbitration last year, but the "victim" had to go into rehab.  For his Heroin addiction.  In fact, he was driving with his friend to the Methadone clinic when I tapped him.  He will likely win some money from this suit.  Arbitration is a process where lawyers in the biz of suits weigh the case.

I don't think that I should express my true feelings about this situation.  That would be indulgent.

Sometimes I have to stop listening to NPR.  The constant in-depth reporting of the endless maladies of our world lose their charm.  I have to give up for a bit, knowing that in amongst the doom there are many gems I've missed.

Tonight, I drove out to the Cannery, a medium security women's facility of the Philadelphia Prisons System.  I hold Monday night 12-Step meetings there.  After I'd signed in at ASD, I waited in the parking lot of the Cannery, listening to NPR interview my hero Temple Grandin.  Sad to miss the last half of the program, I went up to the gates at the appointed time.

It was a good meeting, ebbing and flowing between hope and despair, in a way an outside meeting does.  Only it's more so inside, in my experience.  We all suffer the mood swings of addiction, the women inside suffering lost freedoms, children, partners, yet expressing hope that this will be their last bid.  I may be glad to leave, but sometimes I succumb to hopelessness, thinking that the message of experience, strength and hope that I carry will only live behind the razor wire.

That really isn't my problem though.  If I trust the greater spirit, then my part is done.  I only wish I did trust more.  I see amazing women, who have humour and grace in an untenable position.  But when they walk out into the chaotic world, they are sorely under duress, lacking funds, life skills; the list goes on.

Anyway, as I drove home, NPR was playing the music of an African man on their PRI program that you can listen to here.  Until recently Victor Deme has been largely ignored.  Not because his music was bad.  Rather, it did not conform to the music of his country.  You may also like to see a video of Msr. Deme, which I offer you also:

Also, I would like to say that I am sorry for being away for a bit.  I've been loony-tunes with a bit of barking mad recently.  Awful, actually.  That said, I've been working on killing my computer with heavy doses of cat hair, relentless saving of useless info, a dash of liquid and bloody felines that see it as a great way to get attention.  To the point where I may open the first ever "My Cat on Keyboard" blog. (@2009)!

So for my birthday, Cricket is going to have this puppy tuned up, bless her.  Guess I'll have to pull out all that porn I've been down-, or is it up-loading when it's sexy?  Which means, boys 'n' girls, my berloody computer is going away.  As of tomorrow.  So I'll see you in the next decade.  Have fun, enjoy the Mad Tree Party we set up but have yet to invite anyone to and throw some Marlins on the grill.

Cricket will lend me her fancy-pants computer whilst mine's gone.  But you know how this is.  See you in a week or so, sweeties!

I categorically love Amy Winehouse.  Her voice spans and includes all of the most brilliant female artists, and some men too.  That said, her incredible rise has been stabbed with everything from drugs to drink to messy love affairs.  So, with a little hesitation, I give you a video of Ms. Winehouse on stage.  The clip claims that she is drunk.  I should be so lucky.....to sing like that........look like that...............

I couldn't shake it, you know?  That sick, cloying, self-ignited smell of sadness, of burn-out, of defeat and depression.  Waking from a tortured sleep, drifts of the last nightmare still smudged my mind, I realized dully that a life had been lost, again, to the power of addiction.

Despair and grief took a firm grip on me.  I was shaken and exhausted by the efforts that I'd made for the past week, in a losing battle.  The woman who had fought so hard to overcome her addiction, in part through me, had succumbed.  I only knew this because she never called me back after we split, nor her girlfriend, nor the old neighbour who'd put her up, temporarily.

I was supposed to go with Cricket to the shore today.  But the concept of even making words come out of my mouth was daunting.  I wanted nothing to do with people.  Nothing to do with the excitement of a holiday that isn't even mine.  I wanted nothing, but to be alone and lick my psychic wounds.  I wanted that ephemeral space that is not granted to those in need.  I wanted hope.

I went and had a terrible meal at the Mexican Post.  I should have stayed in my neighbourhood, where the food is authentic, cheap and great.  I next went and spent mad money at Head House Books, because this brand of escapism seems reasonable right now.  I moved onto Atlantic Books next, relentless in my persuit of other people's lives, other people's visions, other people's perfection.

I have an obscene ability to read.  I devour works on paper as a starving creature eats.  I've tried to curb my reading appetite by reading books of volume, complex concepts and even "quitting".  Of the latter, I would say that this was instrumental in creating this blog.  A frustrated reader attempting to write.

Speaking the truth is a quality that I have learned over the years.  It's a value that I have embraced, maybe to the discomfit of others.  The problem is, is that though the truth may set you free, some still are wrapped in the false promise that addiction states.

Addiction, like a mental illness, wants you to believe that you are well, regardless.  It, like mental illness, bares the odd fruit of desire, for it's effects.  It makes you believe that even though it has made you depraved, it is your best friend.  I believe that it induces that most confusing of diagnoses: Stockholm Syndrome.  How can one not help but fall for the drug or alcohol that at first made us feel everything that we had longed for?

The problem is, of course, ourselves.  Our mind and body have been usurped by a silent predator:  Desire.  The wish to be normal, fit in, feel O.K. about ourselves, to be beautiful, be happy, accepted, loved and painless.  For the addict, alcohol/drugs become a gateway to these desires, but ultimately backstabbing, lethal and relentlessly violent, the alcohol/drugs slam doors shut.  The only option left is surprisingly hard.

Death, or a sober life?

I've worked hard this week to help a recent parolee, who got out without a net.  The system messed up, for reasons I won't get into right now, and failed her.  Despite this, she managed to remain clean and sober for a week after her release.  At five-thirty this morning, we talked about her meeting with her Parole Officer for the first time, after years of going in and out of jail.  Everything went well with her P.O. at eight in the morning.  Then we split up, me to look for temp. housing for her and she to ostensibly pick up her "book money" from working whilst incarcerated.

I spent a few hours trying to get her placed until her court date on Tuesday.  The shelters here have a lot of rules and she also didn't get the paperwork she needed from the Court last Friday.  She cannot go into a Shelter without papers that she won't get until next Tuesday, at her new court date.  This morning after meeting with her P.O., she was smiling.  I'd coached her on remaining calm, stating her desire to keep clean and the Serenity Prayer.

She's gone.

It sickens and saddens me.  But there is hope for some of the furry beasties, at least.  For the cast-off animals of California, one woman is living her life with purpose.  We need more people like her.  For all of our cast-offs.