Which Is Which?

11/14/201311/15/2013 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 9 Comments

Night after night after night after night for the past three weeks I’m awake well past 4:00 am. Last night I was awake until 3:10 am, just awake, not anxious awake or fearful awake or even we-leave-for-Prague-in-six-hours awake. Just awake even after swallowing three milligrams of Clonazepam.

I still awaken at 7:30 or 8:00 or 9:10 am. Today my day didn’t start until 3:00 pm. But I can’t untangle the ball of yarn because I can’t pinpoint the beginning of this wakefulness: Is it one of three dire maladies that come and go like my sanity was a delicatessen (and bedeviled generations since expelled from Pandora’s Box with other evils) or if the distress of my brother’s death only appears in solitude; then today this torment advanced by adding a threatening malaise. Teasing the debilitating effects of mental illness with the expeditious death of my brother, my routines have been stirred, causing an atypical night/day composition causing great distress and exhibiting itself in one of three years in great part by one three infirmities: 1) Mania (this ain’t a party; 2) Depression (which routinely involves sleep; or, 3) Grief.

But today, today the symptoms were clear: sleeping well into the morning, sitting on the side of the bed for two hours; no concept of passing time. When I first was diagnosed we accepted odd sleep patterns as a component of bipolar. griefpoem But now, when the inevitable death became evitable, my grief churned the sediment of negative memories, their decay rising to the surface like the Magic Eightball, and I precisely recall that day or incident or mounds of work to what? End in death? Four years now sours like wet rags lying on the basement floor for two weeks and turn into deep, powerful, and dangerous emotions like hate, retribution, and bitterness which poison even my brightest memories like an elixir or potion.

And today I feel like shit; disinterested, loathsome, hopeless, belongings reduced to ordinary objects; all over, two men smiling or laughing in picture frames remain unrecognizable; too many functional, but inefficient appliances, especially my computer. In order to simply write I’d have to troubleshoot half a dozen issues:the writing is slow to the surface anyhow, and when buoyant is likely to blather on about how shitty I feel, and how long am I expected to stave off this darkness?

Oh yeah, and when will someone like me rush to my side and avail his own life to repair mine? When will that be? When do you think? How long did you wait? When generosity runs as thin as this a damning selfishness takes a seat at my table: “Hear you’re tired of saving people even when you’re risking yourself. Hear you’re looking for your “generous man” to shoulder your burden and top-off your short-comings. Well, today’s your lucky day, ’cause they sent me instead. I’m what you’d call Selfishness.”

Summer’s Surrender to Fall

11/06/2013 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 4 Comments

Moments after awakening, your verve ignites the hope of one more day of Summer and you fly from bed covers sticking your landing on chilling quarter-sawn floors like Mary Lou Retton. Skating across the frozen floor you throw open the curtains (as if they were silken chenille drapery hung casually in your Latin Quarter Pied-à-terre) waiting to be awash in dawn’s low-horizon sunlight.

Disappointed, the monotonous Gray Gang rolled into town minutes after midnight like lawless gunmen in frontier westerns. Intimidated townsfolk peeked through barren curtains and set about fortifying their modest homes: Searching for gaps in windows and beneath doors they stuffed the clefts with thick, woolen remnants similar to pre-dawn dog walkers that shelter themselves behind fleece and neoprene.

The liberated leaves figure-skate about my feet then streak skyward caught in a draft like summer kites and the floating dreams of a child: All at once they’ve coagulated into knee-high tempests which zig and zag like adolescents chasing each other at noon time. Colors flash against skies of blue or gray or ashen citrine patch quilts. These October skies challenge the manufactured, yet awe inspired Independence aa-leaves Day fireworks. The path, covered in a thoughtless arrangement of patterns and color like ballroom carpeting, have been crushed and watered and dissolved into an ingress of mislead and slippery shortcuts. In the day’s dusk, from afar the drained and disheartened scraping of pasted leaves to sidewalks which coincidently echoes the desperate sound of your repeated scraping of an overcooked and decoupaged fried egg from your sister-in-laws idyllic and maniacal “Panicured,” (the cookware’s equivalence of a mani-pedi).

That handful of cooled late summer sun slips through desperate fingers like sand, and jabs through gangways, half-naked trees, and slowly hibernating perennials. Yet each slice of sunlight reminds one of that perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan, sipped, as passers-by were evaluated, or that push-up pop and root beer float enjoyed during a devastating humid evening, or slightly and lightly limed key lime pie savored beneath Mrs. Landowski’s heirloom Sycamore that breezy summer afternoon. We hope we can squeeze just one more day of memories to keep our hope inflated, like the aa-boytire boy two doors down who’s anxiously and devotedly pumping a chronically flat rear tire is wholly disinterested in the waning blossoms and bye-bye of blue birds and tumbling bumblebees all which undoubtedly signify Summer’s surrender to Fall. But if we cease pining for what is lost and watch that boy two doors down, we might learn a lesson which the earth has known for eons: Summer is but one season in four, four which may not be idolized as Summer, but which bring changes that tickle nature just like a favored uncle or aunt might’ve brought penny treasures which I adored.

And like the forever flattened tire that the boy two doors down finally acquiesced, try as hard as you might, we’re simply observers of a world that remains true to it’s own change of seasons, or, if you will, its life’s purpose. What might our world be if we expressed an unwavering commitment to who we are and what we do?

The Final At Bat – Chucking His Things

10/31/201311/12/2013 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

It took my brother 3 years after my mother passed away before he had the courage to go through her things, laugh a little, cry a lot and much like a funeral service, put articles of meaning to her in boxes and stowed them in a place surely to be forgotten in some hard-to-reach corner of the attic or dark corner of the basement.

After that one day when we finally removed the evidence of my mother, we have not, not even once, discussed those boxes or rummaged around to discover them. It was as if, like herself, her belongings were put to rest. But I know for certain that that Sunday afternoon was the most painful day of my brother’s life.

And now it’s my turn, with the exception that there’s nothing I want to keep. I don’t want to remember him by furniture or china or artwork or clothes. Nothing, not trophies or photographs or clothes or christmas ornaments could possibly compare to the degree of intimacy and occupation I put into motion as part of a strategic plan to keep my brother solvent, without jeopardizing my life in Chicago.

I invaded the privacy of every nook and cranny of his life; I strong-armed him to go to an attorney to draw up the correct documents. I took over his finances. I questioned every single charge on physician statements. I carried a valise with copies of every important event that produced documentation at the ready, attorney drawn HIPPA forms which provided, without question, unfettered access to every health insurance plan and their schedule of benefits, physician bills, EOB, ridiculously high deductibles in lieu of capping monthly premiums, and finally negotiating Medicare physician costs (if they take Medicare), (non)compliance with orders to manage his chronic maladies gain access to all of his medical records back to 1985. There wasn’t a single part of his life that I legally did not have access to or was managing or that I would be denied access. In essence I represented my brother, except those requiring an actual body. And frankly, I think he harbored significant anger and to a large extent resentment. But if I and my partner were to first pull him out of his morass, I needed to take extreme measures and I needed the legal system as my wing man. And what evidence do I have to draw this conclusion?

The Best Friend relationship which I had so cherished before I commandeered his life was, at once, extinguished. The day that Social Security deposited his first monthly benefit he furtively initiated a quitclaim of my occupation and immediately liberated his Self from my subjugation like a dog freed from its leash and running, really running, the odors and aromas of independence challenging his speed, agility, and actions of being, in the simplest of terms, a dog.

And I think that’s precisely what occurred when his income was deposited into his account and he didn’t wait for permission or evaluation or reconciliations. It takes a desperate man to abdicate the course of his life and a man aching with humiliation to admit he doesn’t possess the forbearance and seasoning required to navigate the craggy cliffs of reinventing oneself at fifty-eight.

The moment we cleared danger however, he was resurrected in action not in speech and said, “Let go of the wheel boy, I’ll take her from here.”

If the ACA Rollout Seems Rough, Wait Until the Right ‘Reforms’ Medicare (huffingtonpost.com)
Medicare change may cost patients: New ‘two midnights’ admissions rule affects hospitals, too (timesfreepress.com)

“Help Is On The Way!” – Solving the 9-1-1 Dilemma

10/20/2013 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 3 Comments

Frankly I find the uproar monopolizing the nation’s attention in recent weeks over the NSA‘s eavesdropping on “once thought to be private” conversations ironic. Another example of sub rosa by law enforcement agencies is the warrantless tracking of a citizen’s whereabouts via surveillance made available by privately owned mobile devices.

Several states have issued a Call to Arms by writing legislation requiring a warrant for law enforcement to track an individual’s location based on their cellphone, social media, and/or GPS devices so as to eliminate eavesdropping by the NSA. Several states are considering legislation that would require a warrant for law enforcement to track an individual’s location based on their cellphone, social media and/or GPS devices, but Montana has officially become the first state in the country to enact such a law.

The EFF (Electronic Frontier Foundation) a non-profit organization that, according to their website, “is leading the fight against the NSA’s illegal mass surveillance program,” highlights when, in 2005, Mark Klein (AT&T’s whistleblower) approached EFF with documents alleging AT&T’s involvement in NSA spying, That was one of the smoking guns which finally led to this years phenomenal increase in citizen interest and senior level governmental involvement in the NSA’s Mass Spying Program. (If you’d like more information about EFF and their interest in the NSA’s Spy Program, go to: eff.org/nsa-spying).

I’ve seen this rundown before: Government proposes/does/denies/admits/punished and Citizen declines/won’t/alleges/vindicated/lynch mob. Our government remains buttoned-up and stonewalled and our citizens resemble the stereo-typical Mob-After-the-Monster complete with torches, hay rakes, and wooden pitchforks!

The citizen mob’s mantra: “The government should stay out of my business . . . that is, until you’ve been in a hurricane (the Jersey shore), a crazed gunman (Newtown), or personal emergency (Atlanta SWAT rescue five firefighters). It’s during these dreadful circumstances that we, as private citizens, beseech comfort and sustenance. And to whom do we turn when catastrophe, that is, catastrophe of immense, annihilating proportion i.e., hurricanes affecting millions living in the mid-Atlantic and northeastern United States; or, tornadoes one-mile wide, “grounding” for thirty-nine minutes and 17 miles affecting 34,000 lives in the Central United States; or, obstructing dozens of terrorist plans aimed at U.S. buildings or landmarks i.e., impeding plans to bomb the Federal Reserve in New York City by installing informants recruited by terrorists. We turn to the same over-sized, immune, and budget-busting behemoth, the U.S. Federal Government.

My penning of this post was plain: The solution to the short-reach of our 9-1-1 system was to manufacture telephones with a bright red button. When the button is pressed your location is identified by Geo Tracking and your call is routed to the nearest 9-1-1 call center.

But obviously, as you can tell by the first five paragraphs, no one would use it! If the government picked up the call and rescued you, you’d turn right around and say, “Why’d you rescue me? That’s a violation of my rights as a private citizen!”

Technology News: NSA ‘Pilot Program’ Collected US Cellphone Locations In 2010 And 2011 (businessinsider.com)
DOJ Official Says Requiring a Warrant to Track Cellphones Would ‘Cripple’ Criminal Investigations (theblaze.com)
Destroying the Right to Be Left Alone: Government Agencies Exploits Technology to Make Privacy Obsolete (rinf.com)

Heaven Might Be Anywhere

10/18/2013 ~ Harlan Didrickson

One of my greatest fears in life is that this life, this practice life, will be our only life, and, of course, one doesn’t hear the punch line. This moment of truth, this day of reckoning, this day of judgement, is the religious revelation of the existence of evil and the evil dominion of bête noir: The introduction of fear as consequence of a wayward behavior in this life.

What if the moment of truth, the day of reckoning, and the day of judgement were all about the earthly presence of beauty, of grace, and of winsomeness? What if in your minds eye you were witness to all the mystical magic of earth? What if the magic of life was overlooked because our treasured gift of life was fettered away in a foolhardy gaffe to get somewhere-anywhere, because somewhere-anywhere promises joy and laughter and intimacy and beauty which is sorely missed from right where I am.

What if the hereafter punch line was: Heaven is right under your nose?