Glorious Chaos

The dream of being an author has been there since I a teenager. I had to figure out how to write myself out of reality. A reality of chaos, confusion, horrific abuse and beatings at the hands of my third stepfather, a mother who’s fear of him kept her from rescuing me, and three younger siblings who, no doubt, experienced helplessness at witnessing their sister slip that sixties subculture that was, both magic and madness. Fast-forward, fifty years…I finished that book, forty years in the making, and lately, find that I have nothing, and everything to say, but can’t write it out. (Writer’s block or reality block, not sure which) It’s a few days from a macabre massacre where a guy killed and wounded children, women and men who simply went to see a movie. Juxtaposed with such television fare as America’s Got Talent and the Olympics, the nearing football season (yippee for football!) and everything in between, I can’t write it out, can’t write out what my reality is now, at almost sixty years old, and young (young in my fantasy reality). I was able to integrate, cherish, and transform the pain, chaos, and consequence of my younger years into lifework that gave me heartbreak and miracles; both, which healed and gifted to me, such a rare and precious reality. I daresay, no other work or life could have been better. So, I’m semi-retired, with the finest circle of friends one could ask for, a complicated, yet loving, lovable family, and the love of my life, kicking it after almost 25 years of work, and I can’t write out the world in all its glorious chaos, or, perhaps I just did. Have a glorious day!

On sunsets, monsoons, prison, "the hole"- 1978 or so

For the next two years, I become intimately familiar with doing hole time for infractions of one kind or another. One particular point of contention came up repeatedly. That was about sunsets – or rather, being deprived of them. Sunsets were something precious, a big deal to me. Having lived in Arizona most of my life, during the monsoon season of the year, I had been privileged to witness the most exquisite on the planet; they took my breath away. It was rough losing those completely natural, free displays of magnificence, and my defiance on this issue resulted in my being sent to the hole three or four times. Officers Hatton or Valenzuela would announce across the yard on a megaphone “YARD CLOSED!!!!!” On more than one occasion, I resisted and declared, “No, and I’m not going in.” At this, the officers radioed for recruits and four- pointed me; in other words, I was tackled by four officers, who secured both my arms and legs, then dragged me to the hole. I was left there for fifteen days each time, punishment for refusing a direct order.