BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

What with this being Memorial Day and all, I thought I would blog on a subject over which I have been ruminating for a few weeks now.

Every year, both my publicist and I receive numerous requests for donations from events nationwide. A huge number of these events are Pagan Pride Day celebrations, some are gatherings with less global ties, some are “friends of library X” type of things, and still others are speculative fiction type conventions. Now, the donations solicited are customarily autographed copies of my books, for the express purpose of them being placed in raffles or to be used as door prizes. Usually this is done to A) Give attendees a shot at winning something nice and/or B) To raise money (in the case of raffles) to help finance the event.

Monthly, my publicist and I sort through these requests and cull out the obvious scams (yes, there are plenty of those), the places I have already sent donations more than once (sorry, but I have to be fair to everyone), and those who flat out demand a donation. Yes, believe it or not some of these people don’t politely ask for a donation, they actually send emails or letters which state things like “since we as a community support you by buying your books you owe it to us to donate to XYZ event” (that is paraphrased a bit, and actually even toned down, but you get the idea.) And, yes, I will readily admit that I take a dim view of this tactic, meaning, if you demand a donation from me I would suggest you not wait by the mailbox because you are just going to be disappointed.

Anyway, once we have the list pared down, we select events to which we will send a stack of autographed books. Unfortunately, yes, there has to be a selection process because as I have noted before, just because I wrote the books doesn’t mean I get unlimited free copies or something of that sort. I have to purchase the books I send out as donations, and contrary to popular belief I’m not made of money.

So, yearly I end up sending out several hundred dollars worth of books and spend a ton on postage/shipping to get them where they are going. I’m not complaining about that, I’m happy to do it. I am merely stating facts so that I can put this in perspective. Anyway, on with the story… Out of the 50 or so events to which I donate books each year, if five of them even bother to acknowledge receving the books, I am doing good. If one or two of them actually say “thank you,” then we are talking about a banner year.

No. I am NOT kidding about the above statistics.

Which brings me to Memorial Day. Over the past few years I have also donated boxes of books to groups who were ostensibly shipping items to deployed pagan soldiers. These groups requested books, etc, and I happily obliged. While I am wholly against the war, I am all about our troops, and will do whatever I can to support them. Anyway, the above “support groups” fell right into the same category as all the other events. Not a peep. Not even an acknowledgement of receipt.

So…After having met with a huge number of soldiers at Fort Hood earlier this year while at the Ostara Fest in Texas, I obtained the APO’s for two different Open Circle groups in Iraq. When I arrived home I boxed up books, along with a note, and shipped them DIRECTLY to these APO’s instead of through the support groups.

Guess what happened…

I received thank you’s. Not only did I receive thank you’s, but BOTH of these groups took the time to pass a card around and have EVERYONE sign it before mailing it to me. This is something that could have easily been done by email, but no, they took the time to individually sign and snail mail, from Iraq, thank you cards for the donated books.

So, I have to wonder about this…

On the one hand we have the groups here at home who sit on their asses, safe and secure, make demands of people they don’t even know, and then don’t even bother to drop a quick email thank you to that person who has sent a donation.

Then, on the other, we have the men and women who have been sent across the ocean, living in a big nasty sandbox, far away from their families, getting shot at and risking their lives on a daily basis, who make it a point to take the time to send a personal, signed, thank you card expressing their appreciation.

Can you guess which of the two made a positive impression on me?

Happy Memorial Day – especially to those of you in uniform who earned it.

More to come…

Murv

Yeah… I know. But sometimes that happens…

I have met some wonderful people throughout my touring, etc. I have made some very dear friends. Hell, I’ve even made a few enemies, probably. But, this blog is about one of the friends.

In reality, what this is about is his blog…

While I have some widely varied opinions on controlled substances – for instance, I believe Marijuana should be legalized. It’s not my thing- Scotch, Bourbon, Martini’s and Vodka Tonics are (in moderation) – but I still think it should be legalized. Just my two cents.

However, there are other drugs which are so insidious and addictive that they literally destroy lives. I have seen this happen with former friends who were unable to shake the addiction. Fortunately, in a few instances, they were…and, by their own choice, after succeeding in breaking the cycle have chosen to move away and start new lives, forsaking their pasts – even the good parts. While I miss them, I am supportive of them in doing this…If that is what it takes for them to stay clean, and have a liveable life…

But, the point behind this was my friend’s blog. He has seen far more than I have, and has written something from experience which is more powerful than anything I could ever say on this subject. I would like to suggest that EVERYONE read it. It is important… It brings the reality home… And, it promotes a deep understanding of the real victims of someone’s addiction.

With his gracious permission, I have reposted the blog below…

Thanks…

More to come…

Murv

*     *     *     *     *

A Taste-Johnny Seitz

Sinus pills. Cough syrup. Drain cleaner. Hair spray. Fertilizer. Paint thinner. Freon. Brake fluid. Battery acid. Lye. Epsom salt. An inability to sleep. Loss of tooth enamel. Increased sensitivity to noise and light. Paranoia. Confusion. Razors. Syringes. Baggies. Foilies. Smoke. Snort. Shoot. Amp. Ice. Speed. Glass. Dope. Crank. Meth. An amphetamine derivative in the form of a crystalline hydrochloride. Used as a stimulant to the nervous system. High. Spun. Hopped up. Doped. Tripped out. Tweeked. Zoomed.

It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive. Being awake. Clean the house. Make some money.

No.

Generalities. Cold fact. Words…

See all the holes in the wall? Those are where the under cover’s had put the wires to listen in. And those trash bags covered with blankets stapled to the windows, those are to keep people from watching. Why is the carpet gone by the couch? Because that mother fucker hid some dope in here somewhere…I saw him messing around over there and I know he put that shit under the carpet. All these clothes are in a pile because I’m sorting through them. All my jewelry? I have it in a sandwich bag hidden in the fireplace so people don’t try to steal it. I took the TV apart so I can rig up a camera to watch the door so I know if people are sneaking up on the house.

“Did you hear that?”
“No.”
“Shh! The dog’s barking, fucking cops must be outside! Get on the floor!”
“Why get on the floor? The window’s are all covered?”
“FUCKING DO WHAT I SAY!”
“The dog’s probably barking because you haven’t fed her in a week.”

Three a.m. You’re 14. Your bedroom door swings open and screaming and profanities stream in. Before your eyes are even open you hear the sounds of breaking glass. The light comes on and you see your mother, naked and brandishing a hammer, screaming and smashing in the middle of your room. You can’t follow what she’s saying, it’s too sporadic. It’s too loud. You sit, stunned for a moment, taking in what is going on. Trying to make sense of a senseless situation. Then the hammer takes out your TV screen, and your pictures on the wall. You try to stand up but as you move, something flies at your head and shatters next to your ear. It’s a glass bowl. The screaming is getting louder and the hammer is finding more and more targets. The floor to ceiling mirror. The stereo. Knocking holes in the wall. Throwing object after object at you, who is still struggling to free yourself from the sheets. The noise. The chaos. And then the hammer comes at you, grazes your temple, and smashes through your bedroom window. You’re mother is trying to punch you at this point. You don’t know where the hammer is. She’s screaming in your face, you still can’t understand her. You can see the whites of her eyes as you try to squirm away. Her pupils are as big as dinner plates. By the time you’re out of your bed she’s trying to throw you into the wall. You try to restrain her but she’s so slick with sweat and squirming and fighting against you so hard that it’s like trying to hold onto a live fish. Your nose gets bloodied. All you can do at this point is try to get her out of your room, so you push her toward the door. She fights back but you catch her off guard with a hard shove the second time and she falls through the opening. You slam the door and lock it. She kicks and beats and punches the door until you hear the wood splinter on the outside and her let out a wail of pain. Then it stops. You sit back and try to take in everything that went on, but you still can’t comprehend what just happened. So you focus on the destruction. Your things destroyed. Your room, your sanctuary, in shambles. Glass everywhere. Blood on your face. A short while later an armed policewoman kicks in your door. Your mother had called the police and said that you’d attacked her and were out of control. The officer handcuffs you and puts you into the back of the car. And you cry.

Arguing from the next room. I turn up the TV to try to drown it out. It doesn’t work so I decided to go outside. As I stand up I hear a loud noise and feel a burn on my cheek. I hit the floor. Mother and her boyfriend are spun and fighting. And he shot at her. When it came through the wall it was so close to my head that I ended up with a powder burn on my left cheek.

“GET OUT!”
“What are you guys doing in my room?”
“GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW!”
“I need my backpack..”
The door slams and I turn and head up the stairs to catch the school bus without any of my books. As I’m almost up the stairs I’m passed by the people who were in my room.
“FUCKING RUN!”
And I did.
Boom. The lab blew and took many of my things with it. Why was it in my room when there was a whole basement around it?

You can just sit and watch people die when they’re cranking. It really reminds you of watching one of those videos in health class on fast forward. In a months time you can see someone physically change to an extreme. You can watch them loose weight and teeth and hair. If you weren’t there every day, you’d easily not recognize them in a short period of time. Being around this mess makes you numb to everything. There is nothing stable. There is nothing you can count on, it’s just a lot of waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. And it will. The neglect is remarkable. ’I’m not eating or sleeping so why should my kids?’ People in and out at all hours. Your possessions being stolen or traded for drugs. Even your pets. The kids dog, traded for a blast.

One day you’ll get that knock on the door. The police will drag you outside in cuffs and raid your house. Eventually, you’ll convince them that you’re only 15 and they’ll un-cuff you and make you sit in the back of the car. You know what’s coming. You see your mom trying to make a run for it, and being tackled. You see her get sprayed with mace and dragged back inside at gun point. What’s horrible about it is that you don’t feel anything. Nothing. You’re completely numb. Your dad comes to get you and your sister, who’s been inside through all of this. On your way through to get your clothes your mom tries to hug you, crying, and saying how much she loves you and how sorry she was. You don’t hug back. You’re too disgusted. She goes through the system and gets out of trouble, but doesn’t change her act. You see her on and off when she wants something or is trying to steal all your dad’s change off his dresser. Three years later she doesn’t even come to see you, her first born child, when she finds out that you had stomach cancer. And soon enough, she’s in prison.

Meth. It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive…