My first appointment with Dr. S will also be my last.
I don't really care to share the reasons for this decision.
I'm tired of being broken and simply speaking to a stranger about very personal issues isn't going to change that.
So sick and tired of being sick and tired...
mc
15 December 2005
14 December 2005
the trembling anticipation
Tomorrow at 330pm I will have my first (and last?) appointment with psychologist Dr. S; this date could not come soon enough. The last hour of work today was completely insane. I felt like a flag flying from its last thread in a hurricane. [Why are you doing this to yourself? You know this is a self-imposed exile, don't you?]
Before I came home I had to stop by Osco's to pick up a few things. I held up my hand in front of my face.
"Jesus, am I shaking?" I asked myself.
I wasn't, but a trembling sensation rattled my entire body, inside and out. I found myself gazing at a wall of colorful cereal boxes.
"Okay, okay...Why did I come here? Don't need cereal. What am I looking for?"
The entire experience was surreal. There are some things in life that words cannot explain adequately. Terrifying, exhilarating...I don't know what it was.
Through the freezing rain I sped home. Everything cold. The key to the front door (trembling). The rain on my face. The air. The body. The soul. Cold.
Pick up the telephone. The dial tone flashes and then flatlines. Check the voicemail.
"You have one new message," the electronic lady says.
It's some goddamned automatic political message. I'm sick of the agendas. The voices. The noise. All noise.
Check the email. No new messages.
Turn on the television. "Seinfeld" is on. I try to laugh. I try to loosen up.
No whiskey. No. Not now.
It took an hour to settle down.
A few hours later and here I am at the keyboard.
I'm really nervous about my date with Dr. S tomorrow. I talked to her briefly on the phone last week. Her voice was rather soothing. I suppose I'm looking forward to the appointment. This is hard because I don't like entering situations where I don't know what to expect.
What will her office look like?
What will she look like?
How old is she?
What questions will I have to answer?
What should I wear?
Something comfortable, yes. Loose fitting clothes because my insides will be Saran Wrap tight.
I'm afraid of feeling like some kind of laboratory animal. Poking and prodding the animal. Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you. Record the observations. Don't worry about how the creature feels.
I better stop this line of thought before I talk myself out of the appointment.
We'll see what happens.
For better of worse.
Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you...if anything.
mc
Before I came home I had to stop by Osco's to pick up a few things. I held up my hand in front of my face.
"Jesus, am I shaking?" I asked myself.
I wasn't, but a trembling sensation rattled my entire body, inside and out. I found myself gazing at a wall of colorful cereal boxes.
"Okay, okay...Why did I come here? Don't need cereal. What am I looking for?"
The entire experience was surreal. There are some things in life that words cannot explain adequately. Terrifying, exhilarating...I don't know what it was.
Through the freezing rain I sped home. Everything cold. The key to the front door (trembling). The rain on my face. The air. The body. The soul. Cold.
Pick up the telephone. The dial tone flashes and then flatlines. Check the voicemail.
"You have one new message," the electronic lady says.
It's some goddamned automatic political message. I'm sick of the agendas. The voices. The noise. All noise.
Check the email. No new messages.
Turn on the television. "Seinfeld" is on. I try to laugh. I try to loosen up.
No whiskey. No. Not now.
It took an hour to settle down.
A few hours later and here I am at the keyboard.
I'm really nervous about my date with Dr. S tomorrow. I talked to her briefly on the phone last week. Her voice was rather soothing. I suppose I'm looking forward to the appointment. This is hard because I don't like entering situations where I don't know what to expect.
What will her office look like?
What will she look like?
How old is she?
What questions will I have to answer?
What should I wear?
Something comfortable, yes. Loose fitting clothes because my insides will be Saran Wrap tight.
I'm afraid of feeling like some kind of laboratory animal. Poking and prodding the animal. Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you. Record the observations. Don't worry about how the creature feels.
I better stop this line of thought before I talk myself out of the appointment.
We'll see what happens.
For better of worse.
Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you...if anything.
mc
13 December 2005
a witness
FOX News correspondent Adam Housley was one of 39 people who witnessed the Tuesday morning execution of Stanley Williams.
Williams was convicted in 1981 for gunning down convenience store clerk Albert Owens, 26, at a 7-Eleven in Whittier, Calif., and killing Yen-I Yang, 76, Tsai-Shai Chen Yang, 63, as well as the couple's daughter Yu-Chin Yang Lin, 43, at the Los Angeles motel they owned. Williams claimed he was innocent, but witnesses at the trial said he boasted about the killings, saying, "You should have heard the way he sounded when I shot him."
This is Housley's chilling report of Stanley Williams' last minutes:
I have seen death before, but never actually witnessed a last breath. Tonight that changed.
Tonight I saw the deep breaths of nervousness, the breaths of annoyance when an IV couldn't be inserted easily ... and the last quick breaths of air as a man's chest went still. This man wasn't a friend, a member of my family, or even an acquaintance. This man was convicted of brutally murdering four innocent people and later bragging about how he watched their last breaths. Tonight I saw his.
The timeline is actually long and detailed. I have shortened it, without detracting from the important facts or feelings. The most captivating: the moment when 39 men and women walk into a light tan room and gaze through protected glass as this convicted killer, Stanley Tookie Williams, is brought in, strapped down and put to death.
The timeline goes like this, from 12:29 p.m. Monday in California until 2:57 a.m. Tuesday.
Monday, Dec. 12: Preparing to Witness Death
12:29 p.m. I have been picked as a witness to the Williams execution. We all await the governor's decision. Clemency from Arnold Schwarzenegger is really the last hope for Williams and those who say he should live. It is at this time that I get the tip — clemency is denied, and I call the word in to our crews.
12:31 p.m. The drive to San Quentin Prison begins. I arrive at the location outside the prison's east gate a short time later. News crews line the road, and some protesters have arrived. In the background, I see San Pablo Bay and the Richmond San Rafael Bridge. This location is beautiful; the men who are housed here are not.
6:30 p.m. At this point, we leave for the west gate of San Quentin. It is here the witnesses and media crews will gather. Satellite trucks are lined up; I am sitting in ours waiting for the officers to wave us into the outer range of the prison.
7:04 p.m. We get clearance and we drive through the first gate of San Quentin. Our truck is searched; we are patted down and then issued a pass depending on our clearance. Our satellite truck operators get blue media passes and I receive a gold badge, which signifies a witness to the execution. We then are escorted on a short drive to a location outside the San Quentin Prison main wall, but just in front of the main building.
9 p.m. Our first briefing inside the prison. We're told that Williams has refused most of his rights. He requested no last meal, is watching little television and spends most of his time on the phone. He had six visitors, he spoke with each individually and then all of them together at the end of his meetings. The convicted killer also received a bundle of 50 letters, all spiritual in nature.
9:14 p.m. The 17 media witnesses are separated from the rest of the media mass. We are escorted into a small room, then out a side door into a shuttle. Our trip is very short, maybe 100 yards or so. We go through yet another gate, this time we stop at the historical main building. Here we receive a quick briefing about grief or psychological effects we might feel after watching an execution. The talk is short, to the point and understood. We then return, via shuttle, back through the gate and join the rest of the media.
11 p.m. I am now removing all my personal effects. Inside the viewing room I will be allowed only the clothes I am wearing and a watch. Off comes all jewelry; no money, no wallet, not even a receipt in my pocket is allowed. A pencil and sheets of paper will be provided once we get inside the main prison fence line. I give my outer coat and effects to my producer and prepare to load into the shuttle.
11:14 p.m. I am escorted onto the shuttle along with 16 other media witnesses.
We are taken to the employee lounge, which is inside the main gate of San Quentin, but just outside of the east block, which is death row. Here we are patted down and each witness is assigned a prison guard escort.
11:52 p.m. Ten prison officers form a makeshift wall that lines our path from the lounge area, perpendicular across a small road and into the death chamber viewing area.
11:53 p.m. I watch as the other witnesses enter the death chamber viewing area; we are guided into the room right behind them.
11:54 p.m. We enter the death chamber witness room, which I am told is called the execution chamber witness gallery. The exterior door is similar to what you see on a warship, or some cruise liners. It is heavy, metal, and large rivets are visible. There is also a cell door that has been opened. The room itself is small, tan and has 20-foot ceilings. We are escorted to the east wall and are asked to stand on two risers, similar to ones used by church choirs. Everything is tan, except the chamber. It protrudes like half of a giant octagon into our narrow rectangular room. The execution chamber is all green. On the outside, on the inside and even the table and its pads -- all green. There is a tan railing about a foot from the thick glass; it curves around the chamber. The setup reminds me of being at an aquarium. The execution chamber looks like a tank and is obviously airtight. The room is dim and there are about 12 people sitting in folding chairs that line the railing. The media is on risers on the east wall, official witnesses on risers on the south wall and Tookie Williams' chosen witnesses (he is allowed 5) are on risers on the west wall.
11:58 p.m. Five prison officers escort the prisoner into the room. Williams appears older than the pictures, his hair is speckled gray and cut short. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and a light blue short-sleeve shirt. His pants are dark blue and he wears white socks. He is chained around his waist, and that chain is attached to handcuffs. He shows no fight as officers lay him down on the green padded doctor's table. He is strapped across the ankles with large black straps. His chest is large and expands and contracts deeply and rapidly; it appears he is nervous. Outside I can hear helicopters faintly; they have circled San Quentin for several hours, providing security.
Tuesday, Dec. 13: Execution Day
12:01a.m. Williams has a short gray speckled beard. He raises his head a bit as prison officers fix more large black straps across his knees. His arms are secured next and he turns his head to the left. From that vantage he can see his five allowed witnesses — two lawyers, three friends. They exchange glances and nods and he mouths words to them that we cannot see. At this point, the convict is strapped at the waist and a shoulder harness is attached. Cables from the heart monitor can be seen running from under his shirt into the chamber's back area and into a heart monitor machine.
12:03 a.m. The officers finish the securing of Williams, the handcuffs and chains are removed in favor of the straps. All prison personnel inside the chamber now wear surgical gloves. Up until now, we have seen only men in the room with Williams, but the officer who enters with the medical supplies is a woman. She quickly inserts an IV into the convict's right arm.
I still hear helicopters outside and the room is eerily quiet. We were warned that no talking, loud sobbing, or outbursts would be allowed. The only sound besides the distant helicopters comes from pencils writing feverishly onto lined paper, reporters making every effort to get every detail as the execution process and protocol continues just 8 feet or so from where I am standing.
In the room, all witnesses are fixated on the process behind the glass. The metal strips that separate the panes still remind me of being at an aquarium, or inside a submarine. As Williams continues to mouth words to his witnesses, his attorney begins to sway nervously. He looks down at the ground; he and Williams will eventually make eye contact and nod at each other.
12:08 a.m. There seems to be some problem finding a good vein and attaching the second IV to Williams' left arm. As the prison officers struggle with the IV, Williams raises his head fully for the first time. He is strapped down tightly. He appears to look over his body and assess his predicament. He sighs and puts his head back down.
12:10 a.m. After surveying the room with the head movement he is allowed, Williams turns his head to his right. He stares at the media. It is a long look and one that attempts to pierce our being in the room. There is no mistaking, even as this man awaits death, he is attempting to be in control, he wants to intimidate. He stops after about 10 seconds or so. His breathing is still deep and nervously quick. His massive chest continues to fluctuate distinctly.
12:14 a.m. As the work continues to find a vein in Williams' left arm (the process took about 12 minutes), he sighs and then leans his head up and says disgustingly, "still can't find it." The female officer rises up, she is sweating, and with the back of her wrist she wipes her brow. You can tell the stress is building and it is beginning to penetrate the glass and envelop many in the room.
12:17 a.m. The IV process is finally finished. The room is now getting heavy, the air thick and warming. Two officers now take rolls of adhesive tape and tape the convict's wrists, hands and fingers. Williams now looks like he has two casts on his hands, it is obvious we will see no movement when he is put to death. Williams continues to look left and continues to mouth words to his supporters.
12:19 a.m. Now that the body has been prepared, the table is unhooked and swung around. No longer are we looking at Williams' right side, we now see the top of his head. There is no sweat and he continues to breathe deeply. Williams once again looks over his predicament, he now has to strain to see his supporters. His attorney smiles and nods his head. Williams wiggles his toes inside his white socks.
12:21 a.m. A small metal round hole opens in the vault-like door that separates the execution chamber from the viewing room. A paper is handed through that is read by an officer inside our viewing room. Her words echo through the chamber. The announcement ends with, "Stanley Williams has been found guilty of first degree murder and special circumstances … the execution shall now proceed."
12:22 a.m. Williams looks around one last time and nods his head toward his five witnesses/supporters. One woman covers her face.
12:24 a.m. The first drug is administered into the IV, followed by two more. Williams gulps several times. He appears to pass out as his deep quick breaths become shorter. They become quicker and shorter by the second. His large chest begins to move slower and his toes no longer move, his head no longer strains or moves.
12:25 a.m. The room is still silent. Pencils work furiously. People strain to see any movement by Williams. Witnesses shift nervously and his lawyer looks away. The convict is still.
12:34 a.m. The witness room seems to be getting smaller. People shift from one leg to another. We still hear the helicopters and the pencils and we also hear talking inside the airtight execution chamber. We cannot discern what is being said, we believe it is the attending doctor confirming the inmate has now been put to death.
12:36 a.m. The small hole in the door is opened again and another note is passed through to a guard. Her words once again echo through this stale environment. She says in part, "May I have your attention please, Warden Steve Ornoski declares inmate Stanley Williams dead." Pronounced dead at 12:35 a.m. by the attending physician. The room is now still. The pencils have stopped, the helicopters cannot be heard, and a few of the victim's family members have begun to quietly cry.
12:37 a.m. The lifeless body strapped is still strapped to the table. There are no officers in the room, he is alone and the subject of stares. Two officers now undo two sets of curtains that are pale tan and similar to shower curtains. They slide them around the semicircle rods and separate the dead inmate from our room. The first to be led out are the Williams supporters. His two legal counsels leave without incident or comment. The same cannot be said for the three others. Two women and one man in chorus yell, "The State of California has murdered an innocent man." Their words catch the room by surprise and a family member of one of the victims is consoled. She is Laura Owens, the stepmother of Albert Owens, who was shot twice in the back by Williams. Owens' last breath was touted by the killer to his friends. Now Williams' last breath has been witnessed by 39 people who will tell of this experience to the world.
12:38 a.m. We file out of the room, meet again with our assigned guards and are escorted back onto the shuttle. We then are taken back to the media staging area inside the outer prison wall. There we give a press conference and recount our thoughts and experiences.
My closing thoughts are simple: I was nervous at first, unsure what to expect. I now understand this process is choreographed down to the number of surgical gloves in the execution chamber. The lethal injection execution is clinical, it is sterile and in the minds of a great majority of California voters, it is a just process. I leave with an understanding and with an experience I will never forget. My thoughts as I sit here outside the damp cold gates of San Quentin are with the victims and the incredible hurt their families have endured and will endure throughout their lifetimes. Stanley Tookie Williams has paid the ultimate price. And as the governor stated, he never seemed to show any remorse.
Williams was convicted in 1981 for gunning down convenience store clerk Albert Owens, 26, at a 7-Eleven in Whittier, Calif., and killing Yen-I Yang, 76, Tsai-Shai Chen Yang, 63, as well as the couple's daughter Yu-Chin Yang Lin, 43, at the Los Angeles motel they owned. Williams claimed he was innocent, but witnesses at the trial said he boasted about the killings, saying, "You should have heard the way he sounded when I shot him."
This is Housley's chilling report of Stanley Williams' last minutes:
I have seen death before, but never actually witnessed a last breath. Tonight that changed.
Tonight I saw the deep breaths of nervousness, the breaths of annoyance when an IV couldn't be inserted easily ... and the last quick breaths of air as a man's chest went still. This man wasn't a friend, a member of my family, or even an acquaintance. This man was convicted of brutally murdering four innocent people and later bragging about how he watched their last breaths. Tonight I saw his.
The timeline is actually long and detailed. I have shortened it, without detracting from the important facts or feelings. The most captivating: the moment when 39 men and women walk into a light tan room and gaze through protected glass as this convicted killer, Stanley Tookie Williams, is brought in, strapped down and put to death.
The timeline goes like this, from 12:29 p.m. Monday in California until 2:57 a.m. Tuesday.
Monday, Dec. 12: Preparing to Witness Death
12:29 p.m. I have been picked as a witness to the Williams execution. We all await the governor's decision. Clemency from Arnold Schwarzenegger is really the last hope for Williams and those who say he should live. It is at this time that I get the tip — clemency is denied, and I call the word in to our crews.
12:31 p.m. The drive to San Quentin Prison begins. I arrive at the location outside the prison's east gate a short time later. News crews line the road, and some protesters have arrived. In the background, I see San Pablo Bay and the Richmond San Rafael Bridge. This location is beautiful; the men who are housed here are not.
6:30 p.m. At this point, we leave for the west gate of San Quentin. It is here the witnesses and media crews will gather. Satellite trucks are lined up; I am sitting in ours waiting for the officers to wave us into the outer range of the prison.
7:04 p.m. We get clearance and we drive through the first gate of San Quentin. Our truck is searched; we are patted down and then issued a pass depending on our clearance. Our satellite truck operators get blue media passes and I receive a gold badge, which signifies a witness to the execution. We then are escorted on a short drive to a location outside the San Quentin Prison main wall, but just in front of the main building.
9 p.m. Our first briefing inside the prison. We're told that Williams has refused most of his rights. He requested no last meal, is watching little television and spends most of his time on the phone. He had six visitors, he spoke with each individually and then all of them together at the end of his meetings. The convicted killer also received a bundle of 50 letters, all spiritual in nature.
9:14 p.m. The 17 media witnesses are separated from the rest of the media mass. We are escorted into a small room, then out a side door into a shuttle. Our trip is very short, maybe 100 yards or so. We go through yet another gate, this time we stop at the historical main building. Here we receive a quick briefing about grief or psychological effects we might feel after watching an execution. The talk is short, to the point and understood. We then return, via shuttle, back through the gate and join the rest of the media.
11 p.m. I am now removing all my personal effects. Inside the viewing room I will be allowed only the clothes I am wearing and a watch. Off comes all jewelry; no money, no wallet, not even a receipt in my pocket is allowed. A pencil and sheets of paper will be provided once we get inside the main prison fence line. I give my outer coat and effects to my producer and prepare to load into the shuttle.
11:14 p.m. I am escorted onto the shuttle along with 16 other media witnesses.
We are taken to the employee lounge, which is inside the main gate of San Quentin, but just outside of the east block, which is death row. Here we are patted down and each witness is assigned a prison guard escort.
11:52 p.m. Ten prison officers form a makeshift wall that lines our path from the lounge area, perpendicular across a small road and into the death chamber viewing area.
11:53 p.m. I watch as the other witnesses enter the death chamber viewing area; we are guided into the room right behind them.
11:54 p.m. We enter the death chamber witness room, which I am told is called the execution chamber witness gallery. The exterior door is similar to what you see on a warship, or some cruise liners. It is heavy, metal, and large rivets are visible. There is also a cell door that has been opened. The room itself is small, tan and has 20-foot ceilings. We are escorted to the east wall and are asked to stand on two risers, similar to ones used by church choirs. Everything is tan, except the chamber. It protrudes like half of a giant octagon into our narrow rectangular room. The execution chamber is all green. On the outside, on the inside and even the table and its pads -- all green. There is a tan railing about a foot from the thick glass; it curves around the chamber. The setup reminds me of being at an aquarium. The execution chamber looks like a tank and is obviously airtight. The room is dim and there are about 12 people sitting in folding chairs that line the railing. The media is on risers on the east wall, official witnesses on risers on the south wall and Tookie Williams' chosen witnesses (he is allowed 5) are on risers on the west wall.
11:58 p.m. Five prison officers escort the prisoner into the room. Williams appears older than the pictures, his hair is speckled gray and cut short. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and a light blue short-sleeve shirt. His pants are dark blue and he wears white socks. He is chained around his waist, and that chain is attached to handcuffs. He shows no fight as officers lay him down on the green padded doctor's table. He is strapped across the ankles with large black straps. His chest is large and expands and contracts deeply and rapidly; it appears he is nervous. Outside I can hear helicopters faintly; they have circled San Quentin for several hours, providing security.
Tuesday, Dec. 13: Execution Day
12:01a.m. Williams has a short gray speckled beard. He raises his head a bit as prison officers fix more large black straps across his knees. His arms are secured next and he turns his head to the left. From that vantage he can see his five allowed witnesses — two lawyers, three friends. They exchange glances and nods and he mouths words to them that we cannot see. At this point, the convict is strapped at the waist and a shoulder harness is attached. Cables from the heart monitor can be seen running from under his shirt into the chamber's back area and into a heart monitor machine.
12:03 a.m. The officers finish the securing of Williams, the handcuffs and chains are removed in favor of the straps. All prison personnel inside the chamber now wear surgical gloves. Up until now, we have seen only men in the room with Williams, but the officer who enters with the medical supplies is a woman. She quickly inserts an IV into the convict's right arm.
I still hear helicopters outside and the room is eerily quiet. We were warned that no talking, loud sobbing, or outbursts would be allowed. The only sound besides the distant helicopters comes from pencils writing feverishly onto lined paper, reporters making every effort to get every detail as the execution process and protocol continues just 8 feet or so from where I am standing.
In the room, all witnesses are fixated on the process behind the glass. The metal strips that separate the panes still remind me of being at an aquarium, or inside a submarine. As Williams continues to mouth words to his witnesses, his attorney begins to sway nervously. He looks down at the ground; he and Williams will eventually make eye contact and nod at each other.
12:08 a.m. There seems to be some problem finding a good vein and attaching the second IV to Williams' left arm. As the prison officers struggle with the IV, Williams raises his head fully for the first time. He is strapped down tightly. He appears to look over his body and assess his predicament. He sighs and puts his head back down.
12:10 a.m. After surveying the room with the head movement he is allowed, Williams turns his head to his right. He stares at the media. It is a long look and one that attempts to pierce our being in the room. There is no mistaking, even as this man awaits death, he is attempting to be in control, he wants to intimidate. He stops after about 10 seconds or so. His breathing is still deep and nervously quick. His massive chest continues to fluctuate distinctly.
12:14 a.m. As the work continues to find a vein in Williams' left arm (the process took about 12 minutes), he sighs and then leans his head up and says disgustingly, "still can't find it." The female officer rises up, she is sweating, and with the back of her wrist she wipes her brow. You can tell the stress is building and it is beginning to penetrate the glass and envelop many in the room.
12:17 a.m. The IV process is finally finished. The room is now getting heavy, the air thick and warming. Two officers now take rolls of adhesive tape and tape the convict's wrists, hands and fingers. Williams now looks like he has two casts on his hands, it is obvious we will see no movement when he is put to death. Williams continues to look left and continues to mouth words to his supporters.
12:19 a.m. Now that the body has been prepared, the table is unhooked and swung around. No longer are we looking at Williams' right side, we now see the top of his head. There is no sweat and he continues to breathe deeply. Williams once again looks over his predicament, he now has to strain to see his supporters. His attorney smiles and nods his head. Williams wiggles his toes inside his white socks.
12:21 a.m. A small metal round hole opens in the vault-like door that separates the execution chamber from the viewing room. A paper is handed through that is read by an officer inside our viewing room. Her words echo through the chamber. The announcement ends with, "Stanley Williams has been found guilty of first degree murder and special circumstances … the execution shall now proceed."
12:22 a.m. Williams looks around one last time and nods his head toward his five witnesses/supporters. One woman covers her face.
12:24 a.m. The first drug is administered into the IV, followed by two more. Williams gulps several times. He appears to pass out as his deep quick breaths become shorter. They become quicker and shorter by the second. His large chest begins to move slower and his toes no longer move, his head no longer strains or moves.
12:25 a.m. The room is still silent. Pencils work furiously. People strain to see any movement by Williams. Witnesses shift nervously and his lawyer looks away. The convict is still.
12:34 a.m. The witness room seems to be getting smaller. People shift from one leg to another. We still hear the helicopters and the pencils and we also hear talking inside the airtight execution chamber. We cannot discern what is being said, we believe it is the attending doctor confirming the inmate has now been put to death.
12:36 a.m. The small hole in the door is opened again and another note is passed through to a guard. Her words once again echo through this stale environment. She says in part, "May I have your attention please, Warden Steve Ornoski declares inmate Stanley Williams dead." Pronounced dead at 12:35 a.m. by the attending physician. The room is now still. The pencils have stopped, the helicopters cannot be heard, and a few of the victim's family members have begun to quietly cry.
12:37 a.m. The lifeless body strapped is still strapped to the table. There are no officers in the room, he is alone and the subject of stares. Two officers now undo two sets of curtains that are pale tan and similar to shower curtains. They slide them around the semicircle rods and separate the dead inmate from our room. The first to be led out are the Williams supporters. His two legal counsels leave without incident or comment. The same cannot be said for the three others. Two women and one man in chorus yell, "The State of California has murdered an innocent man." Their words catch the room by surprise and a family member of one of the victims is consoled. She is Laura Owens, the stepmother of Albert Owens, who was shot twice in the back by Williams. Owens' last breath was touted by the killer to his friends. Now Williams' last breath has been witnessed by 39 people who will tell of this experience to the world.
12:38 a.m. We file out of the room, meet again with our assigned guards and are escorted back onto the shuttle. We then are taken back to the media staging area inside the outer prison wall. There we give a press conference and recount our thoughts and experiences.
My closing thoughts are simple: I was nervous at first, unsure what to expect. I now understand this process is choreographed down to the number of surgical gloves in the execution chamber. The lethal injection execution is clinical, it is sterile and in the minds of a great majority of California voters, it is a just process. I leave with an understanding and with an experience I will never forget. My thoughts as I sit here outside the damp cold gates of San Quentin are with the victims and the incredible hurt their families have endured and will endure throughout their lifetimes. Stanley Tookie Williams has paid the ultimate price. And as the governor stated, he never seemed to show any remorse.
10 December 2005
09 December 2005
a defense mechanism
psy-chol-o-gy
n, The science that deals with mental processes and behavior.
de-fense mech-a-nism
n, Any of various usually unconscious mental processes, including denial, projection, rationalization, and repression, that protect the ego from shame, anxiety, conflict, loss of self-esteem, or other unacceptable feelings or thoughts.
I've made a tentative appointment to see a psychologist next week. I don't know what I hope to gain from this meeting. I'm an old dog (old enough, anyway) and none of the tricks of the psychology field intrigue me, but I'm in desperate need of repair, or at least an improvement, so we'll see what happens.
The following is from my little black memo book. I carry this book with me wherever I go. I wrote this while in the throes of one of my tornadoes.
THE FEAR
i think part, if not all, of this fear is caused by part of my personality realizing that i've made an island of myself. i tell myself that if all else fails i won't need anyone but myself. out of this i create a facade for friends and family to see. ostensibly, i want them to get the impression that "mc has his shit together." but this "tough" exterior is bullshit. the facade is cracking. inside i'm a scared little boy who is afraid of being completely alone. this fear turns into anxiety which turns into doubt which turns into anger...hatred...self-loathing.
this hatred is used to justify my flawed philosophy.
even if i know my feelings/philosophy is false, i'm unable to retreat from it. if you're raised to see the colour blue as red you will believe it, regardless of what the evidence of reality says. blue as red has been instilled into your mind/reality. retreating from this philosophy would also be a sign of weakness which contradicts the feelings used to hold the facade together. the psychology of mc is a veritable catch-22.
this subconsciously created island is a defense mechanism. the ridicule from my youth sprung this mechanism...i have absolutely no doubt about this. why did the ridicule stick to and agitate the development of my personality? i understand childhood ridicule is a part of growing up but this treatment had a profound and damaging affect on me. small problems/difficulties that most people chalk up to "don't sweat the small stuff" material sticks to me...it festers...it's a cancer. it gets inside of my head and extends its claws deep into my mind. what starts as a snowflake quickly becomes an avalanche. words cannot describe the seething rage that wells up inside. headaches and nausea result. i used to believe that this flaw was simply a part of my personality. it's a manageable flaw so what's the big deal? i used to think. i have the bull by the horns but my grip is beginning to slip. i'm afraid this rage will erupt with undesirable consequences. this is why i'm beginning to seek help.
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic later...Right now I'm sick of thinking about it...
mc
n, The science that deals with mental processes and behavior.
de-fense mech-a-nism
n, Any of various usually unconscious mental processes, including denial, projection, rationalization, and repression, that protect the ego from shame, anxiety, conflict, loss of self-esteem, or other unacceptable feelings or thoughts.
I've made a tentative appointment to see a psychologist next week. I don't know what I hope to gain from this meeting. I'm an old dog (old enough, anyway) and none of the tricks of the psychology field intrigue me, but I'm in desperate need of repair, or at least an improvement, so we'll see what happens.
The following is from my little black memo book. I carry this book with me wherever I go. I wrote this while in the throes of one of my tornadoes.
THE FEAR
i think part, if not all, of this fear is caused by part of my personality realizing that i've made an island of myself. i tell myself that if all else fails i won't need anyone but myself. out of this i create a facade for friends and family to see. ostensibly, i want them to get the impression that "mc has his shit together." but this "tough" exterior is bullshit. the facade is cracking. inside i'm a scared little boy who is afraid of being completely alone. this fear turns into anxiety which turns into doubt which turns into anger...hatred...self-loathing.
this hatred is used to justify my flawed philosophy.
even if i know my feelings/philosophy is false, i'm unable to retreat from it. if you're raised to see the colour blue as red you will believe it, regardless of what the evidence of reality says. blue as red has been instilled into your mind/reality. retreating from this philosophy would also be a sign of weakness which contradicts the feelings used to hold the facade together. the psychology of mc is a veritable catch-22.
this subconsciously created island is a defense mechanism. the ridicule from my youth sprung this mechanism...i have absolutely no doubt about this. why did the ridicule stick to and agitate the development of my personality? i understand childhood ridicule is a part of growing up but this treatment had a profound and damaging affect on me. small problems/difficulties that most people chalk up to "don't sweat the small stuff" material sticks to me...it festers...it's a cancer. it gets inside of my head and extends its claws deep into my mind. what starts as a snowflake quickly becomes an avalanche. words cannot describe the seething rage that wells up inside. headaches and nausea result. i used to believe that this flaw was simply a part of my personality. it's a manageable flaw so what's the big deal? i used to think. i have the bull by the horns but my grip is beginning to slip. i'm afraid this rage will erupt with undesirable consequences. this is why i'm beginning to seek help.
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic later...Right now I'm sick of thinking about it...
mc
08 December 2005
Lennon and 25 years
"God" by John Lennon - From the album Plastic Ono Band
"God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I'll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
our pain
I don't believe in magic
I don't believe in I Ching
I don't believe in Bible
I don't believe in tarot
I don't believe in Hitler
I don't believe in Jesus
I don't believe in Kennedy
I don't believe in Buddha
I don't believe in mantra
I don't believe in Gita
I don't believe in yoga
I don't believe in kings
I don't believe in Elvis
I don't believe in Zimmerman
I don't believe in Beatles
I just believe in me
Yoko and me
And that's reality
The dream is over
What can I say?
The dream is over
Yesterday
I was the dreamweaver
But now I'm reborn
I was the walrus
But now I'm John
And so dear friends
You just have to carry on
The dream is over"
mc (as the snow outside illuminates a cold night's December sky)
"God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I'll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
our pain
I don't believe in magic
I don't believe in I Ching
I don't believe in Bible
I don't believe in tarot
I don't believe in Hitler
I don't believe in Jesus
I don't believe in Kennedy
I don't believe in Buddha
I don't believe in mantra
I don't believe in Gita
I don't believe in yoga
I don't believe in kings
I don't believe in Elvis
I don't believe in Zimmerman
I don't believe in Beatles
I just believe in me
Yoko and me
And that's reality
The dream is over
What can I say?
The dream is over
Yesterday
I was the dreamweaver
But now I'm reborn
I was the walrus
But now I'm John
And so dear friends
You just have to carry on
The dream is over"
mc (as the snow outside illuminates a cold night's December sky)
it's always the one that got away
It's always the one that got away that bothers you the most. She was a good girl who didn't ask for much. I always felt like I could be myself when I was with her. I could show the hidden parts that very few, if any, people have seen. If a stranger caught a glimpse of these shadows my sanity/mental stability would definitely be in question...but that's okay (I guess)...
mc
mc
07 December 2005
a very guilty pleasure
Everyone has a few guilty pleasures so I'm no different. One of my biggest guilty pleasures is reality television.
This past weekend the television network Bravo aired a marathon of Project Runway season one (season two began tonight). This program "pits sixteen fashion designers against one another on the road to the runway." The winning designer walks away with $100,000 to start their own fashion line.
Of all the reality shows that I've watched and been a fan of, this one has me scratching my head and asking, why do I find this show so damn appealing?
Is it the super-model host Heidi Klum? Yeah...a little bit.
Is it the hot fashion models showing off stylistic threads? Yes...definitely some good looking ladies.
But the real reason I watch this show is for the clothes and their designers (duh). After all, the models are fashioning wearable art. An artist has an eye/ear for what works and what doesn't, regardless of the medium. I ask myself, "How can I apply his/her fashion philosophy to my philosophy of music (i.e. textures of fabric to textures of sound)?"
If an artist is to expand, he/she needs to learn and absorb as much as possible from other artists. A library of souls is useless unless one is there to taste the temperatures.
mc
This past weekend the television network Bravo aired a marathon of Project Runway season one (season two began tonight). This program "pits sixteen fashion designers against one another on the road to the runway." The winning designer walks away with $100,000 to start their own fashion line.
Of all the reality shows that I've watched and been a fan of, this one has me scratching my head and asking, why do I find this show so damn appealing?
Is it the super-model host Heidi Klum? Yeah...a little bit.
Is it the hot fashion models showing off stylistic threads? Yes...definitely some good looking ladies.
But the real reason I watch this show is for the clothes and their designers (duh). After all, the models are fashioning wearable art. An artist has an eye/ear for what works and what doesn't, regardless of the medium. I ask myself, "How can I apply his/her fashion philosophy to my philosophy of music (i.e. textures of fabric to textures of sound)?"
If an artist is to expand, he/she needs to learn and absorb as much as possible from other artists. A library of souls is useless unless one is there to taste the temperatures.
mc
02 December 2005
a sound in a damp cave inside my head
Okay, okay. Reset. Systems are go.
I've been in the zone for the past couple of hours. Working (and reworking) on some of my sounds. If only I could live inside the sounds inside my head.
This is a release.
This is a balloon. Filled with helium. Floating into the heavens.
"Where did the balloon go, mommy?"
"It's up there. Somewhere."
It is here.
For now.
mc
I've been in the zone for the past couple of hours. Working (and reworking) on some of my sounds. If only I could live inside the sounds inside my head.
This is a release.
This is a balloon. Filled with helium. Floating into the heavens.
"Where did the balloon go, mommy?"
"It's up there. Somewhere."
It is here.
For now.
mc
30 November 2005
q u o t e . 2
"In moments of crisis, one is never fighting against an external enemy but always against one's own body...And it is the same in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the battlefield, in the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for are always forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the universe, and even when you are not paralyzed by fright or screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stomach or an aching tooth,"
George Orwell's 1984
George Orwell's 1984
29 November 2005
entry
Well, Thanksgiving wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. In fact, I can say I actually had a good time. I was afraid of some kind of emotional blow-up but nothing like that happened; the demons were silent on Thursday.
Regarding my last post, I'm not sure if there is anything to say. That night was absolutely terrifying.
The demons have been floating again. Occasionally, my head is filled with dark thoughts, darker desires and wicked compulsions. If the reader is wondering about suicidal tendencies, I wouldn't worry about that. Has the thought of suicide crossed my mind? Yes, but briefly. Has the act of suicide crossed my mind? Absolutely not. I would never abuse the precious relationships that I have with my friends. I would never put mom and dad through such a violent end after what they have been through with my sister. I would never leave sister as an only child.
I'm not sure what these demons are trying to pull from me. My intelligence tells me that these demons are not demons but simply an imbalance of chemicals in my brain. But when one is in the vortex of these "demons," it's hard to be subjective. It's hard to be rational. It's hard to remove yourself from that temporary reality. An idle mind shall be the devil's playground. Perhaps taking the last two days off from work wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I need to hit the keyboard and headphones and let my mind wonder in a self-controlled musical cosmos. It's hard to motivate yourself when you feel like shit.
I need to shower.
I need to shave.
I need to move.
Need. Needs. We all need something/someone.
Desire.
mc
Regarding my last post, I'm not sure if there is anything to say. That night was absolutely terrifying.
The demons have been floating again. Occasionally, my head is filled with dark thoughts, darker desires and wicked compulsions. If the reader is wondering about suicidal tendencies, I wouldn't worry about that. Has the thought of suicide crossed my mind? Yes, but briefly. Has the act of suicide crossed my mind? Absolutely not. I would never abuse the precious relationships that I have with my friends. I would never put mom and dad through such a violent end after what they have been through with my sister. I would never leave sister as an only child.
I'm not sure what these demons are trying to pull from me. My intelligence tells me that these demons are not demons but simply an imbalance of chemicals in my brain. But when one is in the vortex of these "demons," it's hard to be subjective. It's hard to be rational. It's hard to remove yourself from that temporary reality. An idle mind shall be the devil's playground. Perhaps taking the last two days off from work wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I need to hit the keyboard and headphones and let my mind wonder in a self-controlled musical cosmos. It's hard to motivate yourself when you feel like shit.
I need to shower.
I need to shave.
I need to move.
Need. Needs. We all need something/someone.
Desire.
mc
23 November 2005
f___e_________a____r
i feel like a little boy with shaky fingers and sweaty palms. there isn't a monster under my bed. the monster is in my head. i should call someone but there is nothing anyone can do and i know, i hope, that tomorrow this episode will seem like bullshit but right now, in the grip of this thing, i'm not sure what to do. sleep has been a rare thing lately and tonight is no different. early day tomorrow but i can't sleep. my mind is racing and something is filling my head with things, thoughts, ideas that i don't want to think about. i see the faces of mom, dad and sister but their faces are distorted...the faces of demons. i never sleep in silence. radio must be on. talk radio. but nothing can silence my mind right now. i'm trembling. the cavity of my chest shakes like an aftershock. just need some time to chill out...settle down...sleep but sleep is not easy. the voice on the radio asks his listeners, "what are you thankful for?" is this some kind of cruel, sick joke you motherfucker? not sure where to go from here but i had to come down here and type and get this out or at least make an attempt. relate. relate the experience. some are thankful that the hurricane missed them...they still have a roof over their head...others are thankful that, even though the hurricane destroyed all of their possessions, they are still alive...so what are the dead thankful for? it's all about the food chain, man. if you're at the top you have the world on a fucking string...people line up for the pleasure of sucking your cock...but when you're on the bottom, well, you're on the bottom. shit, piss drip like rain from clouds of electric hell. "so what are you thankful for?" "i'm thankful that the shit and piss isn't up to my knees yet, jim."___________________________________________________________________ _________ ___ _______________ _______________________ ___ _ __________________________ __ ______________________ _"it's dangerous to confuse children with angels," thurston howell from magnolia
feeling a little better now...maybe i will be graced by the porcelain mask of sleep
mc
feeling a little better now...maybe i will be graced by the porcelain mask of sleep
mc
18 November 2005
shots in the dark
Thanksgiving is around the corner and this means a trip back to hometown..definitely not looking forward to this.
Sister (crying) called me late one night last week.
I don't know what to say.
Sister thinks that some bad things happened to her when she was little. She says that she remembers very little about her childhood. She wonders if this is some kind of defensive mechanism to block out the bad things that happened to her.............
FUCK IT, MAN. I'M SO FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF DEALING WITH THIS SHIT. I'M SO FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF DEALING WITH PEOPLE THAT CAN'T GET THEIR SHIT TOGETHER>>>>>>>>>>
GROWING UP I WAS A "MOMMA'S BOY" SO IT'S HARD FOR ME TO ACCEPT THAT.........SHIT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M EVEN TRYING TO SAY. MOM, YOU FUCKED UP. BIG TIME. DAD, YOU DID THE BEST THAT YOU COULD DO SO I GUESS I CAN'T HOLD ANYTHING AGAINST YOU>>>>>>>>>>
WHAT THE FUCK AM I?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>WHO THE HELL AM I?
>>>>THIS IS WHAT I'VE BECOME.
<>><<<<<<<<<>>SOME 27 YEAR OLD MAN-CHILD THAT SPENDS EVERY NITE TUCKED AWAY IN A SHELL OF TELEVISION.INTERNET.VIDEO*GAME.FANTASY.
>>>>>>IT'S 25 DEGREES OUTSIDE. IT'S COLD ON THE INSIDE, TOO>>>>>>>>>>>>>
IT'S COLD AND IT'S ALONE AND IT'S ALL THAT I HAVE AND I'M HOPING. HOPING FOR SOME 31ST CENTURY SAVIOR. A SAVIOR THAT ISN'T OF THIS WORLD. A SAVIOR THAT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND. NO ONE WOULD UNDERSTAND. A VIRGIN SAVIOR. A SAVIOR WHOSE SKIN IS CLEAN. AND PURE. A SAVIOR WHOSE EYES HAVE NOT BEEN CONTAMINATED BY THE ATROCITIES AND NAKED COLOURS OF THIS WORLD. (remember the vC: the eyes don't come clean after you've seen too much) A SAVIOR THAT WON'T SPIT THE SAME GODDAMNED CLICHES THAT I AM TYPING RIGHT NOW. A GIRL. A WOMAN. A LOVER. A GODDESS. SOMETHING THAT WILL CRADLE MY HEART LIKE A MOTHER TO HER NAKED, TENDER INFANT. I WANT TO BE THAT IGNORANT BABE SLEEPING IN A CRIB IN A ROOM FILLED WITH THINGS THAT I DON'T UNDERSTAND. I DON'T WANT TO UNDERSTAND ANYTHING. I SIMPLY WANT TO FEEL. TO FEEL A WARM PRESENCE NEXT TO ME AT NIGHT. A GLOWING BODY OF NEURONS AND TENDONS AND HAIR AND FLESH. AND NEXT TO ME.
>>>>>>>>IT'S ALL OUT OF REACH. I'VE BECOME ISOLATED. "frank, frank. frank. where have you been? what have you done? frank. it's been years, you're not a kid anymore, and what can you tell us? what have you seen? what are you sure of?"*
>>>>>>I FEEL LIKE WALTER SELBY FROM The King is Dead. IT'S LIKE I'VE BEEN LOCKED UP FOR THREE DECADES AND I CAN'T SEEM TO RELATE TO ANYONE OR ANYTHING. "he was like rip van winkle. he used to tell us: call waiting, contact lenses, price clubs, cell phone towers, said Donald. words like ms. on envelopes and motherfucker on cable television, all those wires and radio waves, all these plastic bags, men and women exercising, corporate parks, organic foods, signs in spanish, video everywhere, radar guns, no one acted their age, there were so many messages from everyone to everyone, all those things flying around in space while all the streets below were empty, reminders and alarms of nothing more important than the day ahead...it seemed to him that half the nation was high on something the other half had never heard of...he really didn't know anything about how to get along."*
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>where do i go from here?
mc
* from Jim Lewis' The King is Dead
Sister (crying) called me late one night last week.
I don't know what to say.
Sister thinks that some bad things happened to her when she was little. She says that she remembers very little about her childhood. She wonders if this is some kind of defensive mechanism to block out the bad things that happened to her.............
FUCK IT, MAN. I'M SO FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF DEALING WITH THIS SHIT. I'M SO FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF DEALING WITH PEOPLE THAT CAN'T GET THEIR SHIT TOGETHER>>>>>>>>>>
GROWING UP I WAS A "MOMMA'S BOY" SO IT'S HARD FOR ME TO ACCEPT THAT.........SHIT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M EVEN TRYING TO SAY. MOM, YOU FUCKED UP. BIG TIME. DAD, YOU DID THE BEST THAT YOU COULD DO SO I GUESS I CAN'T HOLD ANYTHING AGAINST YOU>>>>>>>>>>
WHAT THE FUCK AM I?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>WHO THE HELL AM I?
>>>>THIS IS WHAT I'VE BECOME.
<>><<<<<<<<<>>SOME 27 YEAR OLD MAN-CHILD THAT SPENDS EVERY NITE TUCKED AWAY IN A SHELL OF TELEVISION.INTERNET.VIDEO*GAME.FANTASY.
>>>>>>IT'S 25 DEGREES OUTSIDE. IT'S COLD ON THE INSIDE, TOO>>>>>>>>>>>>>
IT'S COLD AND IT'S ALONE AND IT'S ALL THAT I HAVE AND I'M HOPING. HOPING FOR SOME 31ST CENTURY SAVIOR. A SAVIOR THAT ISN'T OF THIS WORLD. A SAVIOR THAT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND. NO ONE WOULD UNDERSTAND. A VIRGIN SAVIOR. A SAVIOR WHOSE SKIN IS CLEAN. AND PURE. A SAVIOR WHOSE EYES HAVE NOT BEEN CONTAMINATED BY THE ATROCITIES AND NAKED COLOURS OF THIS WORLD. (remember the vC: the eyes don't come clean after you've seen too much) A SAVIOR THAT WON'T SPIT THE SAME GODDAMNED CLICHES THAT I AM TYPING RIGHT NOW. A GIRL. A WOMAN. A LOVER. A GODDESS. SOMETHING THAT WILL CRADLE MY HEART LIKE A MOTHER TO HER NAKED, TENDER INFANT. I WANT TO BE THAT IGNORANT BABE SLEEPING IN A CRIB IN A ROOM FILLED WITH THINGS THAT I DON'T UNDERSTAND. I DON'T WANT TO UNDERSTAND ANYTHING. I SIMPLY WANT TO FEEL. TO FEEL A WARM PRESENCE NEXT TO ME AT NIGHT. A GLOWING BODY OF NEURONS AND TENDONS AND HAIR AND FLESH. AND NEXT TO ME.
>>>>>>>>IT'S ALL OUT OF REACH. I'VE BECOME ISOLATED. "frank, frank. frank. where have you been? what have you done? frank. it's been years, you're not a kid anymore, and what can you tell us? what have you seen? what are you sure of?"*
>>>>>>I FEEL LIKE WALTER SELBY FROM The King is Dead. IT'S LIKE I'VE BEEN LOCKED UP FOR THREE DECADES AND I CAN'T SEEM TO RELATE TO ANYONE OR ANYTHING. "he was like rip van winkle. he used to tell us: call waiting, contact lenses, price clubs, cell phone towers, said Donald. words like ms. on envelopes and motherfucker on cable television, all those wires and radio waves, all these plastic bags, men and women exercising, corporate parks, organic foods, signs in spanish, video everywhere, radar guns, no one acted their age, there were so many messages from everyone to everyone, all those things flying around in space while all the streets below were empty, reminders and alarms of nothing more important than the day ahead...it seemed to him that half the nation was high on something the other half had never heard of...he really didn't know anything about how to get along."*
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>where do i go from here?
mc
* from Jim Lewis' The King is Dead
11 November 2005
q u o t e
"If in everyday life, you are asked about continued existence after death by one of those people who would like to know everything but refuse to learn anything, the most appropriate and approximately correct answer is: 'After your death you will be what you were before your birth.' For this answer implies that it is preposterous to demand that a species of existence which had a beginning should not have an end; in addition, however, it contains a hint that there may be two kinds of existence and, correspondingly, two kinds of nothingness."
-Arthur Schopenhauer
answers
mc (as Mogwai's Rock Action plays on the hi-fi)
-Arthur Schopenhauer
answers
mc (as Mogwai's Rock Action plays on the hi-fi)
02 November 2005
this whiskey will help you forget
Forgot to call dad on his birthday. Fuck. God, I feel like a regretful nazi.
I've been out of it for the past few days. Extremely tired. Going through the motions.
This all started on Saturday.
Before going to AA's Halloween party that night, I stopped by hometown to see mom, dad and sister. I hadn't seen them for a few months so I decided to make the rounds. First stop was mom's place.
All in all it was a good visit. However, the stark realization of age and time hit me like a kick in the nuts.
Did mom look that old the last time I was here?
She told me her mom's cancer was testing her patience. She can't seem to understand why grandmother, at the age of 80, would want to put herself through chemotherapy. The treatments would cause grandmother to lose her hair, lose her energy and become very sick. Grandmother says she will do whatever it takes to prolong her life.
Mom wants to tell her, "Look, you're 80 years old. You've lived a full, long life. Why would you want to spend your remaining years in a chemo-induced agony?"
This frustration is shared by her brother (who is a deeply religious man, I might add).
I'm not afraid to die. However, most people are. Apparently this fear survives well into old age.
Grandmother has always been a faithful pentecostal believer. Fire and brimstone. Heaven. Hell. The rapture. All of that. So why would she fear death? If one is so sure of that kingdom in the sky then why fret? I don't know. I'm not here to criticize. These are simply observations.
After spending a few hours with mom I decided to see dad and sister. As soon as mom closed the door I pictured her retreating to her room, tears streaming down her cheeks. Why she would be crying I can't say for sure, but I got this feeling that that's what she did.
...
So I arrive at dad's place not knowing what to expect. Sister lives with dad and her boyfriend practically lives there as well so the whole situation is odd. I don't know what is running through sister's head, or her bloodstream for that matter.
Brad is her boyfriend's name and he seems like a nice guy. However, his t-shirt was a little interesting. It read "It's only illegal (if you get caught)." What? Are you fucking serious? I mean, you can't make this shit up. The dysfunctionality astounds me.
Everything changes when I see family dog. At 16 years old her end is near. Family dog represents the last connection to the innocence of my childhood. Before all the shit happened (the divorce), family dog was there. Stability, I guess you could call it. I don't want to imagine the despair that will fall upon sister when family dog passes. She loves (as do I) that little dog like nothing else.
So anyway, dad, dad's wife, sister, brad and I go out for supper. The waiter was a complete slag. I don't know if this guy was having a bad evening or what but he was a complete dunce. Rude...didn't give a shit...whatever. This simply added to the "Oh the hell with it" atmosphere of the entire evening.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed seeing my family. I always do. But the whole exercise was so draining and, to a certain extent, depressing, that I was relieved to leave. I wish it wasn't like that but it is what it is.
...
As I drove to AA's place for the Halloween gig, I wasn't sure how much fun I would have. The emotional totality of those previous hours just made me sad. I was hoping that with the combination of friends and whiskey I would be able to relax and have a good time.
I did.
Until the last hour or so.
Thanks to my neurotic mind I was able to find something from that night's festivities to be sad about. I thought about Quiz Kid Donnie Smith when, in a drunken stupor, he confesses his love and no one seems to care.
A sad, drunken bastard.
Like Bob Dylan says in "Buckets of Rain,"
"You do what you must do and you do it well..."
mc
I've been out of it for the past few days. Extremely tired. Going through the motions.
This all started on Saturday.
Before going to AA's Halloween party that night, I stopped by hometown to see mom, dad and sister. I hadn't seen them for a few months so I decided to make the rounds. First stop was mom's place.
All in all it was a good visit. However, the stark realization of age and time hit me like a kick in the nuts.
Did mom look that old the last time I was here?
She told me her mom's cancer was testing her patience. She can't seem to understand why grandmother, at the age of 80, would want to put herself through chemotherapy. The treatments would cause grandmother to lose her hair, lose her energy and become very sick. Grandmother says she will do whatever it takes to prolong her life.
Mom wants to tell her, "Look, you're 80 years old. You've lived a full, long life. Why would you want to spend your remaining years in a chemo-induced agony?"
This frustration is shared by her brother (who is a deeply religious man, I might add).
I'm not afraid to die. However, most people are. Apparently this fear survives well into old age.
Grandmother has always been a faithful pentecostal believer. Fire and brimstone. Heaven. Hell. The rapture. All of that. So why would she fear death? If one is so sure of that kingdom in the sky then why fret? I don't know. I'm not here to criticize. These are simply observations.
After spending a few hours with mom I decided to see dad and sister. As soon as mom closed the door I pictured her retreating to her room, tears streaming down her cheeks. Why she would be crying I can't say for sure, but I got this feeling that that's what she did.
...
So I arrive at dad's place not knowing what to expect. Sister lives with dad and her boyfriend practically lives there as well so the whole situation is odd. I don't know what is running through sister's head, or her bloodstream for that matter.
Brad is her boyfriend's name and he seems like a nice guy. However, his t-shirt was a little interesting. It read "It's only illegal (if you get caught)." What? Are you fucking serious? I mean, you can't make this shit up. The dysfunctionality astounds me.
Everything changes when I see family dog. At 16 years old her end is near. Family dog represents the last connection to the innocence of my childhood. Before all the shit happened (the divorce), family dog was there. Stability, I guess you could call it. I don't want to imagine the despair that will fall upon sister when family dog passes. She loves (as do I) that little dog like nothing else.
So anyway, dad, dad's wife, sister, brad and I go out for supper. The waiter was a complete slag. I don't know if this guy was having a bad evening or what but he was a complete dunce. Rude...didn't give a shit...whatever. This simply added to the "Oh the hell with it" atmosphere of the entire evening.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed seeing my family. I always do. But the whole exercise was so draining and, to a certain extent, depressing, that I was relieved to leave. I wish it wasn't like that but it is what it is.
...
As I drove to AA's place for the Halloween gig, I wasn't sure how much fun I would have. The emotional totality of those previous hours just made me sad. I was hoping that with the combination of friends and whiskey I would be able to relax and have a good time.
I did.
Until the last hour or so.
Thanks to my neurotic mind I was able to find something from that night's festivities to be sad about. I thought about Quiz Kid Donnie Smith when, in a drunken stupor, he confesses his love and no one seems to care.
A sad, drunken bastard.
Like Bob Dylan says in "Buckets of Rain,"
"You do what you must do and you do it well..."
mc
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