DA Hx Farewell – Lembrook

A hotel room! Why didn’t I think of it before?

The tale begins on a cool evening in the middle of October, 2007. A Saturday evening-into-night, 18h32, a bench in NYC’s Central Park…

A hotel room! Why didn’t I think of it before? Shelter from the elements. (Fk! It’s getting cold at night and cold is some-thing I’ve already tried. I don’t do cold very well. If I did, fk, I wouldn’t be here writing this right now. SO?) A bed! Now there’s something worth the effort: A bed! Let’s see… I haven’t laid this old carcass on a bed since… well… it’s 2007 now, October… January 2003 I believe. Nice. Very nice. Oh, and TV too. Ah, yes. Hot bath, perhaps even a martini! Something nice on the TV. Maybe I’ll splurge and go the way I came in – buck naked! How great would that be? It’ll give them something to write about in all the local papers. It’ll give the cleaning staff a little something to tell their grand-kids too. Why didn’t I think of it right away? (I’m slow sometimes. I should be ashamed. Note to self: While on holiday, a moment of shame.)

As the lamp over the Central Park bench glowed brighter, and the sky of New York City grew darker, he jotted his notes with increasing vigour. After days of morbid depression and no sense of direction, decision or future, for a while, for now, he was almost manic.

None of this was how he’d seen it all happening. No. It was supposed to be a day at the beach – litterally.

Over the past weeks, he’d lulled him-self off to sleep by planning:

Scenario one: Arrive early morning at the beach. Dig and pile sand to make a comfy place to sit with-in the high-tide line. Plastic on sand (if damp). Cover with sheet. Settle cozy. Swallow half the contents of little bottle of pills with water from water bottle. Begin reading a book. When drowziness hit, take remaining contents of pill-bottle, continue reading until… Looks like sun-worshiper relaxing. Tide comes in, water takes you out. Buh-bye.

Scenario two: Same arrival only just take a bench on the board-walk and follow the rest. Fall asleep. Be found “too late”. Who cares about the rest?

And he knew he could do it too. He knew the Atlantic beaches in Brooklyn and Queens. He preferred those in Queens though. They opened directly out to the open sea. Not much chance of washing back into New York Harbour. I mean, really! Dead is dead. But dead or not, the Harbour? Battery Park? The East River? Staten Island? At least in the open Atlantic, Europe was on the other side! Or maybe a north-bound current would float him blissfully to Quebec? OK?

There was one extra, lesser desireable bed-time scenario, in case absolute poverty kept him in Riverdale: The Hudson.

A week ago he’d cleared some of the rocks on the banks, by the train station. It was a familiar place. He’d spent entire days sitting on those rocks, sketching all sorts of peaceful scenes (and some purgingly drastic doodles as well). At those rare moments of “Hope”, when he’d mentally avoided acknowledgement of the inevitable, pondering the possibilities of finding a job, he’d sketched “calling cards”. Each one delicately sketched with some finely-detailed scene, it conveyed his name and a telephone number. It was the peace of this river-bank that gave the inspirtation and the solace and solitude of the place that made it possible to sketch some 16 cards in 2 days. The Hudson was kind here.

One morning, nestled on the rock beneath the mullberry, he glanced up-river to the Tappan Zee Bridge. For some reason though, on this particular day, a theory struck:
52 years ago, I was born on this river. For years, this river was my home… sad as it was. To think, 52 years later, I could die on this river… die IN this river. How poetic! From the river came the life and to the river, life returns. OK. What the fk?

So the alternate scenario for sleep-time diversion was to arrive at the river when the tide was out. Get comfy on the rock. Take pills. Read book. Fall asleep. Tide in. Washed away.

Big glitch: The tides don’t immediately wash all the way in or out. So some bloated remains would be sloshing up and down the river for a bit. Maybe a few days. Not nice. Not environmentally “aware”.

Big glitch II: Washing down-river went to the Harbour. Washing up-river went to the Hudson Valley. And then there’s Indian Point. To be sucked into a nuclear power plant? I should think not! Then again, dead is dead, and dead is completely unaware. OK. Hold scenario three.

Keeping with all these charming water features, he’d been carrying with him, every-where, the latest table of the tides. This was no haphazard bumbling. Every day he’d study the lists, one for the river and one for the sea. It was like a commuter checking the schedule of trains. Only these were the trains to the very “end of the line”.

Each time he read the highs and lows, he’d find inner peace and some quiet. As if planning a rail-way get-away or a flight to a loved destination, the gleaning was a diversion from the dark fact: This was a get-away of the most severe sort. And he’d been driven to it… not of his own choosing.

But damn it and damn all! If he was going, he was going on his own terms! Which brings us back to… a hotel room!

The New York nights were cold now. For the past several, they kept reminding him of that painful night of 15 March (2007). (Sht! he thought. Seven months ago. What the fk? What the hell went wrong? How did I manage to fail that one? Chills. Cramps. Pain. That’s how. My life has been pain. My death will be confortable! And so, in a freezing delerium, he phoned 911 on his cell. Three days in hospital, observed like some psychotic wretch. The horror of his own sister trying to have him committed! And when he returned to that old cow’s flat, she didn’t skip a beat and picked-up right where she’d left off: “Just in time! I will ask you to get me…” and… he did.) So the chances of failure – again – were increasing. If a coma, or death, didn’t kick-in on time, if discovery was too soon, there’d be yet another trip to the nut-house. But the absolute worst would be the discomfort of the cold! No! NO discomfort! No more discomfort! No chills. No cramps. Life had been all too many of those. Even at the age of 17, in the back of the VW on Drury Lane! NO! No more! No more cold. No more hunger. No tears. No discomfort.

(2007.22.11)
It would be lovely, going out to sea. Listless, lifeless body rolling along on the waves. Like a doting mother, rocking her baby gently to sleep – like his mother rocked him gently in her chair, caressing and embracing the infant in her womb. Ocean waters would whisper softly, like his mother whispered to him, so many, many years ago. And he’d sleep now, like he’d slept then. It would be peaceful enough. He deserved peace. And the ocean’s waters would bring him away from the shores of a land where his Hell began and where his Hell existed. Weightlessly, he’d gently float away, roll out, away, off.

But New York days and nights were turning colder now. Although this autumn was breaking heat records, there was a damp chill in the breezes of the days. And the nights? As soon as the sun set, it all went appropriately chilled. He’d shiver, or cramp, or both. it would be uncomfortable. Even if it ended successfully in death, the prelude to the finale would be undesireable. The impositions of less-than-perfect comfort would be entirely inappropriate. But to lay down on a bed, with pillows under head, a cozy blanket and temperature control? Yes! A hotel room. Why didn’t he think of it before?

As he jotted his thoughts from heart to note-book, the New York City night folded-in around him. Darkness envelopped and the temperatures dropped. The street-light beside the park bench blazed brighter. But as the glow sliced through the blackening air, it did nothing to provide comfortable warmth. Yet now, with this wonderful new adventure to plan, a new spark of fresh hope for a pleasant retreat and escape from life, it was almost a pleasure to breathe. He rose from the bench and detected a bounce in his steps as he headed for the subway – back to a den of misery.

(2007.25.11)
The train ride up-town that evening was some-how a bit brighter, quicker and yes, even more pleasant. At face value, there was no difference from any other ride he’d taken before in the year and a half since he’d returned to The City. Yet, deep inside, in his gut, in his mind, in his heart and soul, there were Mercurial wings rushing him on his way. The miserable train wasn’t pushing its way through the black tunnel this time. Instead of feeling like some portion of feaces being squeezed through the abysmal bowels of New York City, this felt more like an air-borne journey through crisp air, open sky and through tuffts of brilliant silver-grey clouds. Instead of being shoved out the anus of the city he’d come to loathe in these 18 months, he was headed for a new horizon… with a beautiful plan. At the end of this ride was Utopia, not Hell.

For a brief moment, he sat quite still on the train. He allowed his eyes to gently close. He took a deep, soft breath. In the darkness behind closed eye-lids, his mind began to wander in the bliss. Visions of his new plan developed and evolved. And through it all, he was actually more than simply happy… he was content.

It didn’t take long before he did what we all must do, sooner or later, when we run from our-selves at ferocious velocities… BANG! There he was, in front of himself, staring emptily off into an almost nothing. His gaze was empty, blank, cold. He looked deeply into his own eyes and suddenly, as though struck-down by the very train that hurled him through the night, the truth of the matter flashed all round him…

He’d split, dissociated, broken from himself. In essence… he already died.

Death had been coming, lurking in the off-shadows of living for a very long time. It lingered, waiting, watching, slowly and silently sucking breath from lungs and light from spirit. It took energy from essence, leaving pain, physical and spiritual pain where hopes, dreams, inspiration and aspirations once thrived. The long years of nomadic existence, in the homes and company of those who brought and wrought incessant hatred and torment had finally, and at long-last, ripped the end of the only thread that held him bound to any reality. Now, tonight, at this very moment, on this train, surrounded by complete strangers who wouldn’t, couldn’t and shouldn’t care, the tether snapped. It just snapped. And it completely disappeared. No loose ends flailing about. No disappearing traces. Just a snap… and gone. In it’s stead was a calm, strange, silent, peace – almost contentment. Yes, the break had happened. It was done. Tonight, it was complete. And he was so aware of it, yet, it was so welcome, there was no fight, no conflict, not even a thought of attempting to thwart it in any manner or fashion. He didn’t surrender to it. He was embraced by it, caressed by it and he warmly, kindly, peacefully reciprocated.

Caring and compassion were no longer a part of his being. He’d once thought of this potential and in spite of thinking it a desirable state, his existence had been a constant effort to avoid it. Something, some part of him believed that he had to maintain the ability to hurt for others, to care for and about others, to do good, to do right. It was, he believed, the one and only aspect that maintained his human-ness. It was, he believed, all that justified and validated his existence. It was, in his own mind, the only thing, the only attribute that paid his place in Creation. But tonight, here, now, on this Bronx-bound number 1, IRT, 7th Avenue/Broadway local, it was gone. And absolutely nothing in him tried to get any of it back.

He sighed a deep, refreshing, rejuvenating breath. It felt as if he was being created, fresh, new, for the very first time. It wasn’t re-birth… it was new creation and he basked in it wonderfulness.

It had been a long, very long time since he’d felt so unfettered. It had been almost four years. Now, for what it was, quite probably, all the wrong reasons, he breathed, his mind was clear, and his entire body simply relaxed.

Imagine: Mere existence had become so over-whelming, so over-powering, so bleak, that bringing life to an end brought joy, the prospect of death brought contentment, planning the end of existence brought “life”. This is how intense had been those four years. Nights of little or even no sleep. Days spent wandering, walking, often walking miles, as many as 20 and more, with-out particular destination, just to be “not there”, not any where, not every where, but specifically, not “there”. “There” in the stench of dog and cat, there in the smoke of weed or the remnant dust of other drugs, there in Beacon; there in the dark and cold of the basement, there breathing mold and mildew, there in Newburgh. In the recent two years, the walks were the necessity of escape from judgments. Judgments based not on any factual knowledge but opinionated judgments and statements concerning his obvious short-comings, lack of steady job, and the absolutely completely ignorant conclusion that he didn’t want to work at all. 20-mile walks to escape the tortures of misplaced, misguided assumptions of people who not only had no information about where he was all day but who made it all too abundantly clear that they didn’t care – not only about where he’d been or what he did (so long as he wasn’t “there”). Barrages of attacks from people who didn’t know him, knew nothing about him, never knew his physiological or spiritual pain, people who didn’t care to ask, to learn, to see. The isolation of apathy weighed all too heavily and this too, went unnoticed. The lances thrust deeper and deeper into heart and soul. But now? The battle was over. So too, the suffering. Now there would be peace. From this moment forward, apathy would be repaid with apathy. No more pain and no more trying to teach an uneducable world that it was committing murder… torturous murder. Tonight there was a plan – The Plan – and that plan was for “peace” – The Peace.

There would be no rush, he decided. It was time to take the time to make certain that everything went well, went comfortably, went perfectly. There would be no bunging this one up. There’d been too much of letting the world take control. Now, he would take the control, the full control. He’d lived in accordance with the comforts of others for most of his existence. Today, unless he permitted other-wise, that world would learn what his comforts were. There would be no drastic changes in him or how he went from day to day. No bombshells. No fan-fare. Just slight, mild nuances, those little bits of earth and mortality that brought him some simple pleasures and moments of happiness. In essence, there would be an increased use of the word “No”. If not “No”, there would be nothing said. As there was disregard and no acknowledgement of him, he would exercise the lessons learnt from them and begin showing the world what the world had been showing him – all along. He didn’t matter to them for 52 years. Now, for what remained of his time, they wouldn’t matter to him.

It was a delightful thought and a pleasant concept. But it would take work. It was all quite alien to him, this “not caring”. But caring brought him pain and pain was now something he needed to eliminate, eradicate in his existence. What was more, he needed to change his existence into his life. He needed to learn to “live” for a change. So, if “living” meant not caring, that is what was to be. There would be no caring about others, and oddly happily, not caring about him-self. As long as nothing and no one interfered with his self-contrived, self-controlled destiny, there would be nothing to care for or care about… other than his plans.

He was enjoying this new-found security, the comfort of the assurance in his future… HIS future, according to HIS determination. It was good. He was happy. It was great. He was at peace with it all.

There would be no discussing all of this, of course. Not even a mention of it. No one would understand the whole situation and assuredly, someone would do something to, at least, stop him. Yes, absolutely, someone would thwart yet another attempt at peace. Let’s face it: someone always did, someone always had and that’s what brought all of this to where it was tonight. So? So, it now required the perfect planning in perfect secrecy and perfect silence. But, the entire adventure would be written some-how, somewhere, so that the world would know the truth, the details… posthumously. By the time anyone knew the “everything” there would be “nothing” left… except the story. Hey! No sense in just letting them all go about their own lives believing it was all just a mere depressive psychotic break. No. Best to let them who should be accountable be aware. It surely won’t make a change, but, at the very least, the Truth won’t have gone away too.

Now there was work to be done. Planning a holiday away required research: transport to the destination, deciding on “the” destination, fares, requirements, amenities, costs… a job! A job would be very necessary so to acquire the funds needed to make this get-away THE get-away. The past four years had proven that this other-wise minor detail was not to be taken lightly. The IRS had seen to it that any enjoyed employment would be very short-lived. Since 1988 they insisted that taxes were due. Taxes, penalties, interest on taxes, interest on penalties, interest on interest! They’d assured failure from every possible angle by infecting any sort of official back-ground check with noticed of “default” and “lien”. (The claims were all unfounded, of course. But the IRS being who and what they are, they wouldn’t listen to or accept any intelligent proof of anything contrary to what their records indicated. He’d tried, many times, and failed, to rid himself of this albatross. But, even today, it was there, strangling him in life and now in death as well.) A job would last only as long as it took to acquire the results of the check, usually a month or so. So, this aspect of the plan had to be carefully thought out. No income would mean no comfort. No comfort? No way was that going to happen.

But there was the “new” man who resolved to do what must be done, no mater what. No caring about the opinions and no caring who became collateral damages. Money was needed and money would be gotten. If the IRS was quick at the snatch, he’d be planning the next career move even as the federal pens went flying. Somebody would, indeed, be getting screwed. Just this time, his own back-side would remain intact after the episode.

“Shit!” he thought, “Existence has been one tedious and long effort and now death joins the cause. But at the end of all this is the ultimate goal, the ultimate prize: never to do any of all of it again. So worth the effort.”

And so, he began to journal…

I.

The Reverie Road

Aside from the actual research into those hotels and motels he dreamt of and considered, the actual day and details were, at the time of writing, mere conjecture. The “time and place” were the dreams and aspirations that made the passing days tolerable. Just as another person, in another life, would anticipate some island holiday, a travel to a place never before visited or seen, the episode at the final destination was all conjecture… a fabrication… a “hope”. It was part of the planning. But as he wrote, his mind would wander to what, to him, were better times, happier moments, times of peace, solitude and tranquility. As thoughts filled with vision of the coming days and the night of final rest, his entire body went calm and his exhaustedly feverish mind went soothed.

Conjecture? Indeed. But the reality certainly was that even in the anticipatory planning, an escape from the tortures of surrounding people, place and time was afforded. When all became all but intolerable, the bouncing off others who behaved as though he didn’t exist as they shoved into him on the streets and subways, or yelled at or around him, or transparently and uncaringly asked into his being – well or not – in his heart and mind and soul, he’d journey to the future, to that room and bed, that get-away night, and for those moments of reverie, languish in the possible, the potential, the projected peace.
***** 07.22.12*****

The details were vivid, precise and concise. They had to be so to afford a necessary escape. The mental images included bed, pillow, linens, lighting and a menu for a “last meal”. There would be wall-to-wall, deep-pile, neutral-tone carpeting. There would be a desk on which to place some art work and perhaps a brief note to the management, apologizing for any inconvenience his carcass might present. Maybe he’d leave a little “gratuity” for any services he might receive. Or, then again, maybe not. After all, when serious thought was given to the entirety, one would have to ask why any “gratuity” should even me considered. After all, it was the world, the existence, the history, the so-called “life” that brought him here to bring it all to an end. Should he be grateful for the pain and suffering of 52 years? They’d probably toss his remains into some non-descript hole in the ground, some-where equally hideous as his life had been, some-where he wouldn’t really like anyway. Even after death, he’d be relegated to a place he’d be uncomfortable with and in. Gratuity? Doubtful. But there was some time remaining to sort that out. Meanwhile, a small lamp, soft light to fill the room. The television set to a programme HE enjoyed for a change. No old game show and no old re-runs of some nonsensical crap. A nature show or, at least, something with an attractive person to look at, some-one he could admire and, even in his final moments of the Hell that had prevailed, he could regard and wonder: Why couldn’t I have spent my life beside some-one like that – or even spent my life WITH that? Yes, even a television programme would serve to remind of all the tortures, short-comings and disappointments… the failure that was his presence, his existence. But today, tonight, this time, the volume of the television would be pleasant, no blaring. He could relax, most likely on a bed, reclined, pillows propped, with drinks – martinis – and some snack-food, just enough to keep the pangs of hunger away. It would be reminiscent of those splendid Friday nights he’d enjoyed so very much when, after a week of working at a job where he’d given at least double the efforts for which he’d been paid, he could have a hot, scented bath, a refreshing, cleansing, purging shower, lie placidly on the bed, Britcoms on the television, snacks and cocktails at hand and relax into repose. Those nights were his gift to him-self and this evening he would, once again, for the final time, enjoy that gift he’d been denied for so many years… until tonight.

So this was the “conjecture”. This was the “hypothetical”. This was the dream, the scheme, the plan. This was the escape into which he wandered and delved when the brutal reality that strangled his mind, heart, soul and gut broached intolerable. With head on make-shift pillow (not even a real pillow of any sort), as the street-lights from below the window denied him night’s soothing darkness and the screaming yawns and sighs from the next room pierced the confines of a flat that offered shelter from the elements and absolutely nothing more, he closed his eyes and in the secrecy behind closed lids he’d leave the discomfort of that old sofa, take to the night winds and revel in the dream of what was to be the joy of his last hours. He had no peace other-wise, but had the contentment of these imagined, contrived, inspirational aspirations. And with each visit and revisit, more details, more planning, more potential and possibilities lent more distraction, more escape, more pleasure, and a little less pain.

Fri 1/04/08 11:54 AM
I will be planning a visist to Ulster County in the next few weeks because of an illness in the family in the area. I prefer staying at a hotel/motel to avoid interrupting the family’s routine (and, admittedly, my own) and I’m wondering:Are there any hotels/motels that would allow me to pay for a stay of 2-3 days, in advance? I’m trying to avoid putting this expense on my credit cards and would really prefer being able to send payment for a stay of 2-3 days well in advance.The best rates would be under 100 dollars per night (or as close to 100 dollars as possible) for a single occupancy as I travel alone these days.

How it all continued. It was a “night” and a “day” escape.

II.

Notation:

As he stands out-side the building, at the exit end of the semi-circular drive, he looks up to the dimly-lighted window on the 5th floor. The building has always reminded him of some tasteless hotel, stuck in the midst of some down-town tourist-trap centre. Unremarkable aside form its unremarkableness. Ugly. Not warm. Not welcoming. Stark. And the low light glowing reflectedly off the ceiling from a lamp unseen and unseeable from the street could, should exude a comfort, a welcome. But as he stands there, drawing the last bits of his cigarette, he notes, in silence, to him-self: I was hungry today… my appetite is completely gone now and the very thought of eating anything at all is making me sick. Just coming here makes me sick.

On the beach he thought: I have to go back now… but do I REALLY have to back… now… ever? Do I “must” go back now? Ever? And as he continued to walk along the ocean’s edge, he thought of ways to stay there and looked for places amongst the dunes and under the boardwalk where he might stay, undetected. It occurred to him that, if he was to stay, make this beach his home, it wouldn’t be so different. He’d sleep only at night when all the people had gone and he’d have to be awake and on the constant move all day. It was sad… very sad…

III.

The time of planning and preparing afforded even more time to journal, to compose, reflect, recount, recall. As if by some poetic justice, as the months of Winter approached and arrived, the reasons for his decision and the basis for his actions and planning grew more vivid, more concrete. Events of 52 years began turning into tangible flashes of present tense instead of fading memories. But unlike the past recollections, now they were all congealing, grouping, becoming not an anthology of events, but one, dark, heavy, oppressive mass. It enveloped him, surrounded him, devastated him. Each memory melted and melded and became, as it were, one run-on sentence which became on run-on paragraph which became one run-on chapter indistinguishable from a book or collection of books. It wasn’t fog or cloud but an opaque black gel surrounding, suffocating, devastating him. And it grew in mass and in density.

As the time passed, not merely days but moments in each day, his personal blindness increased. Through each and every second, he could actually feel the presence, the pressure of this terrorising mass, touching not only his inner being but it became palpable against every bit of his flesh. Bright, sun-filled, crisp Winter days, always his beloved before, were now devoid of light and lightness. They seemed cold, damp, dreary, unbearable. Even the January thaw, with temperatures of 17 degrees (centigrade) and brilliant Winter sun oppressed. But it wasn’t a depression. No. He wasn’t emotionally depressed. Rather, it was the already-existing memories, combined with those that suddenly and with-out warning, appeared from no-where, brought to life by some freak incident or occurrence during waking hours. The newer memories thrust at him, drove themselves into mind and soul, joined with those already oppressing him and instantly became one with the whole. They pierced his skull and embedded themselves deep in his brain. They punctured his chest and burrowed deep into heart and lungs. And like some alien virus, there they attached to him and to his already stifling misery, there, to make heart-beats almost impossible and the drawing of the next breath excruciatingly exhausting.

Memories. Reminders. Good. Bad. Indifferent. Painful terrors. Torturing terrorists.

As his resolve to silence the voices of the past and finally darken the names and faces increased and strengthened, a joy, a peace, a happiness, a contentment began to rise. Not a brilliant, song-filled elation. Rather it was a calm resolution, and acquiescence of sorts. Instead of plotting, planning, scheming, hoping, anxiously anticipating a day when he’d gather what little he had left to his name and venture off to a cozy little flat of his own, his relief came in knowing that each movement made, every single breath taken, even the beats of his heart were numbered. What was more, he knew, with his entire being, that he moved forward with Creation, but more rapidly than anyone could know, he moved, alone, toward “his” moment, “his” end, “his” ultimate cessation. And in his very core he derived the ultimate joy and elation from knowing that it was all being accomplished on “his” terms. Life was now “his” game, played by “his” rule, on “his” terms. It became “his” epiphany. In this, he managed to rejoice.

To some, perhaps, it would seem morbid, morose. After all, it wasn’t all that long ago he was being admonished for being depressed, knowing he was depressed, for being aware of what “must” be done to fight depression and yet, doing nothing to combat it. What no one even wanted to understand then, nor now, is that this finality and the planning wasn’t depression, it had nothing to do with depression. He wasn’t at all morbid or morose. All of this was, for the very first time in his entire existence, the one and only time he, and he alone, had complete control over any aspect of that existence. Again and again he reminded himself: From conception and birth thought the moment in which I now am, something and someone else has tethered me to whim and wish, rule and regulation, neither of my own making or choosing. But now, here, this is the way I change all that, the way I take complete control, the way I stop hunger, sadness, pain, fatigue. This is mine and mine alone. What’s more, the only interference of any kind would be limited by his permissions, Still, all the while, the prevailing thought, all the while, was the peace he would have… in the end. True, he was waiting for and working toward that peace. But the finality would make every effort worth the travail.

In the end, there was to be a room, a place safe, comfortable, pleasant, peaceful. There was to be a return to the normalcy from which he’d been torn, stolen away, kidnapped, held against his will. At the end of all this tribulation, sanctity, sanity and serenity waited for him. Above all, his reward for his efforts to leave this all would be what he’d always hoped for, longed for, yearned for… contentment. In the silent darkness that existed behind closed eyes, uninterrupted by heart-beat, blood-flow, in the never-ending silence of deafened ears, in the dreamless sleep that awaited him, there, at long last, was his ultimate goal… contentment.

The interim days would pass slowly. But they would be filled, to the best of his abilities. There were words to be recorded, reasons to be journalled, names to be named, completions and connections to be dealt with. All of this, and, all that had brought him to this, had to be documented. He would be gone, away, departed, but there would remain, not so much his legacy, but the truth. Instead of a bunch of feeble-minded idiots bungling about, lost in a bewilderment of their own devices and devising, making sinfully wrong excuses (for him, but mostly for themselves), blaming him and divesting themselves of all guilt, he would fill the pages of random note-books, create a journal on the Internet and fill it with the lyrics of his life’s song. There would be no doubt, no question, no assumption. Those who brought him to this juncture, this point, this terminus on the way of his existence would all be made specifically aware of each one’s role in the atrocities they caused, the pains they inflicted, the tortures they executed. Each name would be named, each crime recorded. There was time for that, as if granted or presented as a final gift. It would not be wasted. There was time, the enemy, the friend. In the past, it had been a curse. Now, today, it could, and would become a welcome treasure. It would be used as a benefit… to him, to his cause, to his purpose. It would be a pleasure… for a change. Things were different now. Moods were brighter. Today there was control, purpose, a long-needed break. The burdens had been lifted and his mood and spirit soared… free.

And so… it began…

Where do people go
when they have no place to go to?
Where do the homeless go
when they say they’re going
“home”?
Where is it that I run to
when I have no place to run to
but many places to run
from
and
do you really care?
07.29.12 11h49

IV.

New chapter begins here…
Watch for more words to follow…

With sincerest gratitude, I thank you for taking the time you've given me here, reading the account of my life and times, experiences, tribulations, trials, and of course the joys, few and fleeting as they may appear to have been in all of this documentation. I also want, as sincerely, to invite you to feel free to conact me, if you'd like to do so, with any comments you might have, or even just to say "Hello. I've read your autobiography." For as long as I'm able, I'll respond or reply if you wish. At this publication (1 December 2017) you can find me on the social media at Twitter and Minds. But if you'd like to contact me directly and confidentially, please send me an e-mail at:
deadartist@live.com