Things Fall Apart

Cheers Tavern. Most of you jump right into a sitcom, but for locals of East York, Toronto, Cheers is their handy Moe’s Tavern on the Danforth. Unless you were there, and maybe even if you were, you wouldn’t know there was anything particularly special about it. It was a vast and yawning space, eerily vacant everywhere save the bar, where Joe served up the sauce to a small handful of faithful alcoholics.

Yes, I was for a time one of the regs, by chance of course. I do so love a dive, and this one happened to be near the little white house where I briefly lived.

Cheers and I were introduced at the exact intersection when my imbibing averages skyrocketed in the aftermath of losing Marko. As time gave some opiate and relief to some of the grief, so did I find myself having fewer nightcaps, more spaced out, getting back to normal. By natural turn of things, I moved into another home, and by chance the new dive is called The Black Swan.

There are probably 129 bars along the Danforth that I have never been in, but I was part of the human history at Cheers, and witness to the fact that no strata of society is without story. Cheers was the sprawling kingdom of a robust and fiery gentleman named Joe, who had previously owned a peeler bar, and had been at Cheers for many, many years. I am speculating to think that might be twenty years but I recall an impression that Joe and his brother had had it forever. He spoke often of the good old days when his brother was still alive. Two years before, the brother, Joe’s musical partner, died of cancer. Joe had been depressed ever since, but still sang Italian love songs on Saturday nights.

Briefly Joe opened a kitchen. A spitfire redhead, stick thin with boundless energy, served back-bacon sandwiches and Cheez Whiz. Bonnie was seventysomething with a hot younger boyfriend, a silverfox with a gentle and handsome face. Bonnie was recovering from breast cancer and had outlived three husbands.

The trailer-bacon sandwiches were a staple for my friend Zoe, and that’s what she called them, Zoe whose name means life, Zoe who died over Thanksgiving. Falling apart, and feeling alone, feeling empty and sad, I went back to our old stomping ground for some of Joe’s wisdom and the comfort of a few fast shots. The place was boarded up. Joe had moved on. I stood and cried.

This is the kind of place that feels like an old Johnny Cash song. In fact, Joe attributed the decline in clientele to a fatal shooting that happened several years ago, and not to the gino music he let fly. It happened near the pool table. Joe pointed, and I could picture the police chalk outline on the tiled floor, just like Law and Order. Except I just felt so totally safe there.

Cheers Tavern. During the construction and renovations with the new hopeful owners, it crumpled to the ground a few weeks back. Two cats were fatally injured and none of the 30 tenants upstairs were killed. The collapse occurred on Friday, January 11, 2008. Cheers, of all the places stretching along Danforth endlessly, it was my own private dank sanctuary that fell to the ground. I was there with my brother. There with my mom. With Zoe, whom I wish would return and take another chance on this thing called life. With a lover who shall remain nameless. With Donnarama, who braved bullets to do drag in the east end. With my oldest artist friend, and also with my oldest friend left living, who noticed immediately the smell of piss creeping faintly and insidiously from the basement. With A. my ally or once I so thought, who ‘went nuts’, yeah dude right, whom I loved, in error or not. With the mad and the sad and the crinkled old bat and the wildlife sketch artist and the hot local pool sharks with their arm muscles rippling as they paused thoughtfully with that cue in hand, with no one but my diary and my tears, with the fiercest team I have, that was Cheers.

So much has changed. But you can’t go back to a place that’s gone. We used to bring our own music in to avoid the saccharine shice that Joe had kicking around. Eminem. Confessions on a Dancefloor by Madonna. Zoe danced to Miss Chatelaine. All of us crooned That’s What Friends are For one night, like all good little girls do at drunken karaoke. Johnny Cash, of course, and Lucinda Williams.
Cheers Tavern isn’t there anymore, but somehow that made it all the more an unlikely and relevant place in my life. In Zoe’s favourite book, The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood said, “Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you’ve been.”

You can access Lorette C. Luzajic’s blogs, Little Miss Chatterbox and The Literary Addict, plus her artwork, other articles, bio, poetry collection, and fan mail, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

Hope for the Flowery (while listening to Elton John)

You know it’s a melancholy day if you’re listening to Elton John at five pm. It might even be the kind of night that I shut off all my phones and my Mac, the kind of night I stay inside and read Cooking Light in the granny chair. Hell, somehow I’ve acquired an afghan this winter…yeah.

Seriously, I’m really feeling the lull of Elton’s gorgeous schmaltz. Elton annoys me, overall, ever since he recycled Marilyn’s song and dedicated it, along with that England’s rose tripe, to poor Diana. Did not the Great Huntress and Hunted deserve her own exquisite lullaby? He ruined a moment, but hell, no one seemed to notice but me. I can’t doubt that the grief he was experiencing at the time made him crazy, but certainly you could have come up with something just for Diana? You’ve got to wonder why he forewent the chance to earn another zillion when my trashiest girlfriend, Anna Nicole Smith, tripped the light fantastic last year. And he mustn’t miss the Britney opportunity ahead!

I must forgive any of this cheese, for the madcap genius and originality of his better numbers. There’s something so old-school about the EJ experience. I must forgive the man for thinking he was locked in a closet- anyone who wears such outlandish, garish, exquisitely flaming clothes is definitely making a statement. Loud and clear, sister. And on top of all of that amazing gaiety, there are the odd moments of musical brilliance and those soaring, friendly, sad-tinged happy vocals. Certainly as an entertainer, El is absolutely, well, entertaining.

I’m not super versed in the man’s magic- I’m scared off fast by shit like Blessed and Can You Feel the Bile. It’s not cruel: if I’m a harsh judge, it’s only because of the moments when Elton gets it. Those moments are pure artistry. Creativity and originality at their apex, with a stellar set of pipes and a stunning engagement, intensity and depth. I’m talking about Rocket Man, Sacrifice, about Benny and the Jets, I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues, Sad Songs. Operatic, but easy going. So what’s going on when dude sells out to this kind of Lion King ballad pap? I don’t know, man, I don’t know.

The very gay bravado of his cinematic selections and collaborator Bernie Taupin’s thoughtful songwriting make sketches of kooky people we might even know. Elton’s blend of swishiness, sentiment, and madness is a very unique brand. He’s just the epitome of flaming, in the most grandiose and chummy ways possible.

And then he might make smarmy, poorly thought out barbs at Madonna, who made a world where he’s allowed out of the closet, but I guess that’s just him being the cranky old queen that he is now. He ain’t getting any younger. My bravado lies largely in my youth, also, as is the way for nearly every sentient being.

Still, for both of us I hope our best is yet to come. A fine moment like Nikita can be a nostalgic trigger for a finer moment, just as velvety, and darker. And pure, polished bubbles of tremendous joy and shininess like Don’t Go Breaking My Heart may be a glossy memory next to another frivolous morsel of sweet nothingness. Despite that my heart was broken by such predictable consumerist slickness as that Lion King debacle, in truth that was something of the comeback to respectability EJ had to have after a rattling career. Recall how many queens hid behind Glam Rock, as if no one could tell. The flamboyance we now revel in, the Gok Wans and Co Jos, all owes a debt of heritage to Elton John. All this ridiculous movie soundtrack balladry just proves that the wildest of us will mellow out in middle age. It’s true that the stress of being forced to admit he was bisexual in the mid-70s closed off the brightest chapter of his career, and from then on was a struggle. He even married a woman, an act I might call cowardly with my cavalier attitude of the Free to Be generation. But I can’t know what it’s like to be afraid your career will end because you are gay. Of course dude had cocaine and alcohol problems and an eating disorder. So did Elvis. Under the stress of fame, a girl needs a little something-something, and how easily that spins out of control as you become a spin-off in our disposable world.

It doesn’t matter if I feel ready to hurl when I hear songs like Tiny Dancer and Circle of Life. There are dozens of shining gems and hundreds of perfectly good rhinestones: I can leave the plastic on the shelf for someone else to coo over. I also have to respect the man because I know he tries to be flexible. He’s been brave enough to bridge the flaming arts with the testosterone riddled fury of gangsta in unusual creative endeavours like Ghetto Gospel. He bravely moved on from the hissy fit (so did Moby, still waiting for B y George to come around) and performed with Eminem in front of the world at the Grammies. This is what I love- to be surprised, to have the unexpected happen. Stan is one of the more unusual chunks of collaborative genius out there. This kind of spectacle is truly diversity. Rumour has it that he’ll be on Eminem’s next project, as well, and that his upcoming solo album might be hip hop. This is THEATRE , dahhhling.

It’s not just limited to the hot and tragic hip hop boys, either. There are more dazzling surprises: Kate Bush changed Rocket Man into a crisp, icy blade, it’s own ethereal world, clean and fantastical. Take three, Baby Stewie. I know the day that Stewie reads my poetry is the day I can say I did what I set out to do.

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Order my book The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos at indigo.ca or amazon.com.

There’s Something in the Meth

Ever hear a paranoid meth freak tell you that there’s something in the methamphetamine? I heard this time and time again. Dude, yes, there is. There’s meth in your meth.

Of course, there must be someone manipulating the stock for mind control purposes, for alien abductions, for attic laboratories. One roommate felt ‘violated’ by the recording devices hidden in stuffed animals. One user was sure that there was ‘something poisonous” in the meth he was using.

If you’ve watched a friend, roommate, parent, or child go mad from methamphetamine, you know there’s no hysteria in the meth hysteria today. It’s not reefer madness, it’s real. And help is hard to find once those neurons that let you hope and think and feel are destroyed. There’s a generation of human shells walking around. Dead men walking.

Sure, you can blame it all on people stupid enough to try the stuff, but cut some slack for those who made an impulsive choice. Have you tried alcohol? Good thing it’s not quite as lethal, at least not as quickly. I tried it twice, way back before Marko died, always up to try another good time. I didn’t have one, so I didn’t revisit it. I’m lucky.

Today another 25-year old girl was found dead, one of the few survivors from the old circle of friends ‘upstairs on Parliament Street.’ Five years of intensive psychiatric care, and a shrink stupid enough to prescribe Adderall for her addiction problem! Adderall, like Ritalin but worse, hardwires the mind to need speed. It’s nearly the same thing as methamphetamine, just not quite as strong or fast acting. The poor girl, once a vivacious, beautiful dreamer spent five years as a mere skeleton, checking the walls for bugs (both kinds), refusing to eat, scratching holes in her face. She died alone after one last hurrah. I’m speechless, but sadly, I’ve been in this place before. Marry, then bury. What can stop this? I’m not sure.

In all the recent press about poor little crazy girl Britney Spears, my heart has gone out for a pop icon I didn’t really care for before. With the immense pressures of fame, her impulsivity which I among many share, her disastrous marriage, and her serious postpartum depression, there’s only the money to assuage the emptiness. I always joked that I would like to ‘try’ and see if money could help my instabilities. All I am saying, is give cash a chance. Well, my dear Ms. Spears has illustrated its helplessness in restoring self-esteem or happiness. Her latest irrational incident holding her son hostage allegedly was a nightmare scenario of her losing her mind, muttering that K-Fed had planted the bugs in her home. DOES THIS SOUND FAMILIAR? Not one person, including her medical spokespeople, has ever pointed out the paranoia and madness that comes from the Adderall. COULD HAVE BEEN THE METH IN THE METH. While her alcohol and Ecstasy use have been greatly examined, has anyone thought that the treatment might be the cause?

I researched so many treatments, police and psychiatric programs, medical and naturopathic care, and drew a big blank. Even the seasoned psychiatric staff at Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, and the judges in drug court, had no bleeding idea how to talk to, care for, or protect the meth addict. The drug-induced rage you hear about in zombie flicks is science fiction for the most part, but not when it comes to the meth in your meth. It’s terrifying for the few who are able to put the drug down and go on, they may or may not be better off. Many effects of the instantaneous brain damage are permanent. Which means you may always be convinced your wife is part of a CIA plot. Or you may always be unable to feel an emotion because you have no more dopamine wiring.

I likely wouldn’t be so reactionary if I weren’t still doing the body count. And it’s not about ‘my circle.’ Truck drivers, ministers, and dieting housewives are constantly making the news for their descent into meth. Apparently, it feels so good at first, and then after your first three-day bender, you’re already certifiably insane and you’re just waiting it out until the end. You might starve to death before you overdose.

In some ways it’s the Government Liars’ fault for being so hysterical about other drugs and not arming people with reasonable facts and choices. Everyone who grew up in the Just Say No generation can’t trust the information they were given. Obviously, marijuana didn’t cause murderous rampages, so the info about meth must also be outlandish. It makes you feel terrific and thin and able to complete two double shifts, a bonus if you need the money, as most blue collar North Americans do. In fact, job efficiency and productivity is the main reason the drug is becoming an epidemic in Thailand and other Asian countries. Life’s a bitch, then you work, then you die.

Please pray for E. and her family and friends. If you have any strategies or information or an inspirational story that might help, please share it. I feel incredibly hopeless today. The madness is not just far away in the hills of Hollywood, safe for a greedy gossip gorge. It’s close to home, mine and yours, too. Let’s pray for each other and share any answers or hope that we can.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adderall

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17808933/#storyContinued

http://todaystoronto.com/content/view/100/88/
My review of Toronto author’s book about meth.

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Astronauts-Wife-Poems-Eros-Thanatos-Lorette-C-Luzajic/9781847287335-item.html
The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made: Let’s Talk About Ovaries

If I were to mention that my dreams just before my period comes are always intense, strange, terrifying, and renewing, a great chunk of you would tune me into white noise automatically.

Some would be mildly curious, and many of you would be like, yeah, you too? If I’d ever had any doubt about its consistency in timing, the years of cycles as I veer into middle age confirm it. I woke up from a blazingly weird dream that I couldn’t tell why it was so freaky and disturbing. It felt like a drug trip, but not a drug I can identify!

It’s still kind of taboo to talk about our menstrual experiences. I waver between being in awe at its power and other times want to rip the damn thing out of me, that uterus hell of pain and cyclical hormone rivers. Sometimes we talk freely about having our periods: among the girls in teen class “Having Your Period” and then again ten years later at our first Fem Cup demonstration. That’s about it, right? We try not to dwell. If our circle and family is hip and liberal, the good mate rubs your tummy when it hurts and doesn’t badger you for sex. He makes tea and brings your pills. We can tell our friends “my cramps are killing me.” But do you really know about anyone else’s cycle? Hmm, not that in-depth. Do you know how long, how heavy, how clotted, how painful, how suicidal, how calm? It’s weird because comparing notes points to all kinds of healthy things we should know intimately- our only norm is our own. There’s NOTHING TABOO ABOUT OUR HEALTH, ladies. Talking it up full on as adults is informative and gives a clear picture of your body and mind. Go get yourself a copy of Bust Magazine and get comfortable with this and other girl topics.

You probably know far more about your BFF’s sexcapades than you know about her period. This taboo is still strong. I mean, the animals didn’t have to sit around yapping about it. But still, it’s something that affects more than half the population directly, and it is a fact of life in reality for every single living person. It is in fact one of the few facts we know of our origin and existence. Once I was given a Dirty Look for mentioning menstruation in a circle of gay men. Grow up, gals- you were all born once, right? Some of you have daughters, too, and all of you have or had a mother.

In fact, you should do your best to talk confidently and freely with the people who care for your health, including but not limited to your parents, your children, your spouses, your doctor, your naturopath, your friends, your therapist, your guru, your yoga teacher. Don’t you dare leave out with your doctor or therapist your drug use, your period, your stressors and losses. Be pragmatic- your health is what you take seriously, regardless of your lifestyle. Alcoholics, manic-depressives, diabetics, people in recovery all deserve the maximum health they can personally have. How can your doctor help you if she doesn’t know your insomnia is cocaine, or diagnose diabetes if you don’t share your symptoms? You can disagree or discuss anything you aren’t certain of, or don’t believe in, as adults who are looking together for the best plan of action. Ultimately, you decide, and you research your stuff and stay informed by reading and talking with people about their experiences.

This was a prelude to the whole trip I was on all morning. It’s Gospel Cleaning Day. I’ve got the Mahalia and various choirs cranked as I mop and vacuum and sing aloud. And of course, Every Day is Like Sunday gets overplayed on cleaning Sundays, and I confess as well to that guilty pleasure, the Lionel Richie classic, Easy Like Sunday Morning. It’s one of my favourite days, the kind I might also use to rearrange the spice cupboard or clean out the fridge. I make soup, and it simmers through the apartment while I scrub and throw out clothes that make me look even fatter than I already am. But today instead of routine contentment, I felt rather anxious all morning, after being weirded out by those dreams. I was thinking about very sad things, but it got mixed wildly with intense creative flashes. Focus was nonexistent, yet while anxious, I felt strangely relieved. My stomach felt raw and my muscles were stiff. I kept getting feverish flashes, rare for someone always freezing. For a moment I wondered if I was having that averse reaction to my thyroid meds that I’m supposed to keep ‘my eye on.’ And than that familiar revelation again- oh, yeeeeeeeahhh, I’m getting my period.

It was one of those days that I was worrying about money. I mean, one day out of all of the days, just like most of us. Then I remembered- the last time I had worried so very much about that had been last month. And after that, I had taken action and booked a consultation, which just so happens to be tomorrow after work, so I can get the information I need. Oh, I felt so very take charge with that small action, then I tried to get my shit in order to take with me, papers and other stuff I hate. The relief that this was upcoming, already in place, put a smile on my face. Things were in order! At least they were in motion! We’re cyclical, I think, kind of like wearing a string on your finger, so that you don’t forget certain things, like having a baby or check up next week: don’t forget.

For all of my love of words, we are perfectly programmed to live human even if we could never speak at all. But seeing as we can speak, at least now and again we should talk about our ovaries.

January 13, 2008
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
www.literaryaddict.wordpress.com
Lorette C. Luzajic

The Gift of Addiction

Those who have spent time “in the rooms” may be excruciatingly familiar with the torment of addiction. For individuals who have finally stepped into circle, the party is long over. They know about jails, institutions, and death. They know about the mind games drugs can play, the struggles, the health problems, the insurmountable debt, and the toll in their personal relationships. They know persecution from work, family, and society. They know how hard it is to change a losing game- keep coming back, the circle members chirp. And we do. We keep coming back, and often, we keep going back out.

How we all love to make jokes about Lindsay Lohan’s cracked out paparazzi photos and failed attempts at rehab, Britney’s breakdowns, and unfortunate friends who have never managed strength enough to overcome their addictions. Inside, we toss around a range of theories to see where we fit in. When does social drinking or prescribed medicating or the natural inclination to experiment and escape become circle-worthy? The lines where our life begins to tear apart at the seams are blurry. When did a good time turn bad? Is it weakness? Is it disease? Is it spiritual hunger? Is it selfishness?

Self-righteous buffoons look down at addicts as if they are another class of people, for the most visible sufferers are easy to dismiss. Though I have spent my fare share of time in church basements, shivering nervously with that Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, I have also been guilty of sneering at the twitching crack addicts on Parliament Street. But after my husband died right there among the people who were so damaged and dirty, after I watched them zip up the body bag and carry another overdose victim to the morgue, down the filthy stairwell of our cheap-rent building, I wondered if those beggars and pipe-huddlers had stories, too. My husband was a far cry from human garbage-he was hands-down the most enlightened, gentle, intelligent, beautiful, insightful, charming person I have ever known. Now it was clear that once these people too had a life worth living, and that they still might. The two-dollar crack whore may share the same Narcotics Anonymous circle as your professor or doctor. Some have better support systems and a better platform from which to recover, or more money, and that might be the only difference. Addicts and alcoholics are just like you- or perhaps we are you. Among us are artists, scientists, computer programmers, panhandlers, bus drivers, mothers, ministers, prisoners, writers and more.

The social circles I’ve been surrounded by since I was a teenager are filled with club kids, queeny artists, designers, fashionistas, eccentrics, call centre reps, academics, spiritual workers, world travelers and all manner of offbeat thinkers. Many, many of these wonderful, creative people are also addicts and they aren’t crawling in the alleys. They look beautiful, have skyrocket IQs, are talented artists or professionals, and are kind and sweet and funny. In my circle, what other groups may call ‘mental illness’ is actually ‘mental normal.’ It’s the norm. And it’s not new- Mozart, Van Gogh, Hemingway, Freud, Stephen King, Johnny Cash, Hunter S. Thompson, Courtney Love, Eminem, Samuel L. Jackson, and oh- Bo Bice!-to name just a few are all part of this lineage.

It isn’t about weakness, though addicts like all other people have weaknesses. Society often sneers at Alcoholics Anonymous doctrine that addiction is a disease, but scientific studies hinted at this possibility for decades and more and more concrete evidence is coming in to show that our brains are indeed hardwired for psychotropic reward. In times of feast and famine, spiritual or actual, we long for drugs. In other words, both poverty and excess lead to the chemical war we call addiction. Our bodies crave stimulation and delight, and then become sick with it. All animals desire and consume drugs- that includes food- but most do not have consistent access or availability. Some brains need more stimulation than others, and some get locked faster into a cycle of craving, or into a place where the stimulus is needed to feel normal. Getting out of the cycle is difficult or impossible. This pattern is visible in the obesity epidemic and the struggle most fat people have with losing weight. While some might laugh outright at my comparison of eating with drug and alcohol consumption, science does not: the mechanisms of excessive consumption are the same whether food or drug. Just pick up any current copy of Scientific American and see for yourself.

We all celebrate and go to parties. But how do you get home when the party is over? Addiction is genetic and social, and I prefer my own compulsions to the pain of watching loved ones struggle. I can do something about my pain, but not theirs. I am tormented watching friends suffering. Some have already died. Some just live in hell. I spent years of my life in the hospital, prison, and centres with my husband and close friends. Years after accepting my own inclinations to excessive stimulations, something incredible happened. I saw suddenly that addiction has its gifts.

How could I say such a thing after enduring family dysfunction, persecution, loved ones teetering in and out of sanity, early widowhood? How can I say that when my erratic, rollercoaster flings with alcohol and alternative realities and food have contributed to my thyroid disorder and harmed my health?

First, it’s humbling. We all need reminders that we can’t control everything and that we can’t understand everything. It’s incredibly humbling to have to stand before your mother and father and before our Heavenly Father and ‘fess up to being in trouble. The day I told my Dad that my husband was in serious danger was the day my real relationship with him began. Dad began learning about addiction, rather than just screaming and condemning us. It was painful for him but in the long run helped him better understand his whole family. My own parents have not always approved of me, but they have been loving and understanding through the darkest hours of my life and the sunniest. This sense of family is part of the gift. How can you really know how deep your family goes until tragedy tests it? We have this idea that life should be easy, but it is not. It is necessary for our souls to fathom the depth of darkness and see what strength lies there.

That strength is astonishing to me: another part of the gift is the knowledge that I can survive anything. Bring it on. Throw it at me. This revelation resulted in the theme for an entire art show I called Life Addiction. Addiction showed me that my strength is enormous, and if I can live through losing what I’ve lost and the mistakes I have personally made, then I can stop being so cynical and hopeless- one of the causes of addiction- and know how much possibility there is. All of the paintings I did for Life Addiction ran with a positive reinforcement statement culled from pop culture or old sayings. They included messages like “If this heart is gonna break, it’s gonna take a lot to break it” from Cher’s Just Like Jesse James.

Another gift is the friends I have and the people I was open-minded enough to involve in my life. While much of the literature blames addiction on the ‘friends’, and speaks about the need to leave ‘triggers’ behind, as for me and my tribe, we’re in this together. The idea that an alcoholic or drug-addicted person is somehow evil or a bad influence pervades public thinking, which is ridiculous because half the people in your circle are already there and you don’t even know it. The people in my tribe are an assorted lot of fascinating, exciting, interesting people of all sorts. They are influential thinkers, writers and artists, funny, crazy, beautiful, unusual. They are from all walks of life and I thank God that my propensity for experimentation led me to their midst. I had a lot of fun with the most festive, fabulous queens and still do. I met fashion designers, lawyers, travelers, writers, makeup artists, actors, web developers, and more. I’m glad I was never closed to the company of anyone, for the most interesting people may be the ones who take risks.

While addiction’s nature can contribute to selfish behaviours, I wouldn’t call my friends selfish, not more or less than anyone else, and besides, I’m not sure there is anybody else. From my experience, just about everyone’s an addict and the others might by lying. Some are addicted to “healthy” activities like exercise, and it’s also for the rush and perhaps for vanity. Nearly everyone in North America is addicted to sugary, salty foods, and way too many, including myself in the past, are hopelessly addicted to cigarettes. Cigarettes, food, and alcohol are everybody’s gig- and they kill way more people and do way more health damage than any drugs I’ve ever met! In any event, it’s a gift that I didn’t lock myself out of the intimacies and unusual, inspiring friendships I’ve been a part of. I could go on forever about the amazing people I have met, and I’m sorry some are suffering so deeply.

This is where I’m sure to shock- but suffering itself is part of the gift. It may not look like suffering to you when someone is whooping it up at a party- indeed, there’s a lot of fun to be had (and that’s a gift, but all sacred things are dangerous and can turn into a nightmare). The experience of mind alteration may be a social or spiritual quest, it yields profound insights, it gives life colour and well, pizzazz. We use sacred substances to celebrate or to mourn. At some point, though, we have taken enough to make us ill, and then things get compulsive and leave our control. That point is different for everyone. Some people have one drink and go haywire, but most people worldwide use alcohol semi-regularly without ever having a problem. Even so, booze is the most widely addictive substance. Once a person crosses over to compulsion, it isn’t fun anymore. It may seem fun, and that is part of the trickery- the user recalls all the fun, but it didn’t turn out that way today, or tomorrow, or the next. Instead, there is suffering. And as much as suffering sucks, it’s a gift.

It adds complexity to our character. It gives a greater depth to our spirituality. Indeed, Christ suffered to demonstrate his communion- his oneness- with all of us. Chemicals are sacred- they nourish our bodies, give us pleasure, heal our sicknesses. But all sacred things are dangerous, and dangerous substances are windows into both heaven and hell. Those who have opened this tricky and complicated window have glimpsed paradise- and those who have suffered from addiction have also known the torment of hell. This window has given us a wider view of the spiritual world and of others around us. Additionally, the revelations and clarity that come after are like coming from a trip around the cosmos- the adventures and misadventures have made us more complex and experienced and knowledgeable.

The art and literature and creative worlds are also deeply connected to addiction, and addiction has linked us to that realm. Many addicts are brilliant creators. Stephen King’s best work of all was Misery- little did we know that the famously evil captor Annie, who held the writer character prisoner, was symbolic of cocaine, from which King is freed now, partly through the catharsis of writing his misery. We may have a world without music, film, art and literature if we had a world without addicts. Science is beginning to uncover some fascinating links between the creative impulse and the addictive brain. How those miraculous neurotransmissions process information and pleasure and ideas is all linked. Perhaps I would have accomplished a great deal more in art and writing had I never exceeded my limits. But perhaps I would have nothing to say. Would Mozart have had the necessary depth of darkness to write his requiems? Would his genius have been able to flourish without his madness? Mental illness is often linked with substance abuse, either one before the other, as science dissects the meaning of dopamine, a brain chemical that is a major player in the theatres of addiction and madness. Van Gogh is famous for being crazy, sending his ear to a whore and so on. What’s not as commonly known is the role his absinthe addiction played in his psychosis and suicide. But he wasn’t alone- the whole art world had gone absinthe-mad: Picasso, Degas, Hemingway were all lured by its spell.

Not all addicts end up mad or dead, not by a long shot. Controlling or conquering addiction requires incomparable strength, which can lead to esteem or simply connection and understanding that in turn lends more depth to the art or everyday life of a person. Addiction can give soul. For example, though Kurt Cobain tragically went down, Courtney Love kicked heroin while she was pregnant with their daughter. Though she has struggled with various substance ordeals ever since, her career has flourished with the strength and anger from the tragedy of loss. Another example: Samuel L. Jackson kicked his crack habit before starting acting, but by chance his first role was a drug addict and the depth he gave that role led to the recognition he commands now. Angelina Jolie loved heroin- and now she travels around the world visiting refugees and the hungry, adopting children, and acting as an ambassador in Haiti, Cambodia, and most recently, Iraq. She felt trapped by a selfish existence of decadence and decided to turn Hollywood upside down for the better.

And hello, there’s Johnny Cash.

You just can’t get any cooler than J.C. One of rock’s first bad boy heartthrobs got deeper and deeper as he found his mission to minister to the masses with his raw, real spiritual insights. A master storyteller, Cash went crazy from amphetamines and barbiturates. He went to rehab with Ozzy and Liz Taylor. I believe part of Johnny Cash’s gift and fate was to be a ministry and support to addicts everywhere, and there are lots of them- who doesn’t get caught up in escape from this dark world? Johnny Cash was an intense, spiritual figure who told stories of ordinary people and their struggles. His nonjudgmental understanding has healed millions of people. His simple interpretation of God’s love has brought that love to the masses. And after recording hundreds of songs, writing a novel about St. Paul (Man in White), world tours, and more, Cash saved his best for last. While he was sick and dying from diabetes and a broken heart (he died six months after his beloved wife June died), he recorded cover songs for the American Recordings series. His voice skyrocketed into alternative circles after circling country and gospel for years, now guiding generations of lost souls from beyond the grave. These raw, gorgeous masterpieces spanned work from Tom Petty, Soundgarden, and Gordon Lightfoot, but it’s the Nine Inch Nails song, Hurt, that catapulted Johnny into a legendary status that is nearly Shamanic. He didn’t write Trent Reznor’s song, but brought it into the light with his crackling vocal and breaking heart, and Hurt is now an ode for what we must all put behind us.

I hurt myself today to see if I still feel, I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real … and you could have it all, my empire of dirt- I will let you down I will make you hurt.

J.C said he didn’t like to talk about his addiction, but couldn’t turn his back on the truth of it. He said that the beast was caged now, but still howled to get out. He said that he looked at what he was doing, labeled it sin, and was done with those things.

When June was dying, she told him to keep working. In a sense, he stayed alive just long enough to record a little something for the drug addicts.

There are a couple of things that kept me alive during the incredible depression and grief that followed my husband’s overdose and death the summer of 2005. How do you deal with the shame and loss of not having been able to save something? How do you deal with your own contribution, your own being lost, in the world that led to this? How do you harness your own addictions and live when you have lost everything you ever cared for?

Perhaps Marko knew inside that there was no turning back. The photographs he left behind were all titled things like Descent to Madness, Dragon’s Lair, The Gods They Lied, I Didn’t Fall: He Pushed Me, Looking at Hell and so on. In that time, he told me that nothing stood between us. He told me to work, live my dreams, write and stay alive. And so that is what I must do. It is one of the things that have let me flourish under the worst and look forward to more healing and more amazing creation.

Johnny Cash’s story and somber admonishment to live for God was also healing. When he was dying, June told him to keep working. He was an old man and he finished up his hymns for addicts everywhere, and then went on through the gates to see June and the other J.C. I’m glad he is there to comfort Marko when he misses us on earth, to heal his soul after it was destroyed by compulsions and madness he could not conquer.

I wish J.C. didn’t have to suffer, but I bet that he would not have been the same intense, heroic poet if he had not suffered. He may not have found God in the cave (he tried to commit suicide and had a vision of God, saying go forth and do your mission) and may not have had the blessings if he had not had the hurt. Maybe he would have been a better artist, but I doubt it. If Elvis, another broken believer, had not introduced Cash to speed, his life story may never have unfolded in the miraculous way that it did. Hurt was released and became a hit just months before J.C. died. The cover of the single features Johnny’s withered old hand, wearing a ring featuring Christ on the cross. Jesus Christ was one of many gifts of Johnny’s addiction.

And if Kurt Cobain took Neil Young’s ironic poetry too seriously – he quoted Young’s ‘it’s better to burn out than to fade away’ in his suicide note- Johnny Cash proved that what’s best of all is to neither burn out or fade away but to save the best for last.

So if you feel the persecution of others, the low self-esteem and embarrassment, the pain and suffering and loss, and you fear that addiction has hopelessly ruined everything for you, think again. See things in a different way, and take healing for change. You may have had a one-dimensional life, a boring one, with no depth or humility or deep understanding of the heart. Though it’s easy to focus only on what addiction has taken from you, next time you are in a meeting, try to share its gifts, for they are many.

If I had not been so lost, I would not have been able to love or relate to my soul mate Marko. Though it hurts each day to live without his charm and intelligence and love, it would hurt more to have never known those things, and I wouldn’t even know I was without them. Other gifts are some very special friends I will not name for respect of their privacy but know who they are. Then there is the bonding of my family, and an absolute storm of creativity that has been blowing for three decades and keeps getting bigger. There is my soul-satisfying encounter with the Living Water. There is a lineage of incredible artists and thinkers from Van Gogh to Angelina Jolie. And there’s Johnny Cash.

It’s an incredible honour to view the world from the cool circle. It’s even better that because I have known what it feels like to grieve and to lose everything, I now know how to live.

Matthew 25: 34-45 (NIV)

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

“He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

“Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

www.thegirlcanwrite.net
Lorette C. Luzajic

Bayona’s Orphanage

My penchant for bizarre tension and images of the unknown dark frequently leads me into the cinematic horrors of the horror genre. Given the budgets and the messy imaginations of cinema thrill-makers, my expectations are low and I’m seldom hoping for high art when I watch these guilty pleasure flicks. Still, I wonder how hard it can be to make something with appropriately arty and eerie visuals? Could we possibly consider giving some attention to crafting the film? With an imagery pool like ghosts, stigmata, the ocean, creepy old houses, and deformed children and scarecrows, I wonder why there are so few truly arresting horror films.

I’m no expert on the genre: I’m not even a diehard fan like my good friend Donnarama, who still has a trillion old video boxes lining her walls. I’m just an occasional thrill seeker who likes psychological torture and mind games, and I also enjoy a bit of voodoo and a ghost here and there. I don’t usually go in for the hardcore gore. While I appreciated rare treats like the excellent cinematography and crafting of Hostel, I do not like blood-and-gut violence. I like things like stony old mansions, hidden family secrets, a spectre in a well or china cabinet, and psychopathic eccentrics. The desolate winter tree scenes and the intricate lore of the past in The Ring was near perfect, and though I like to peer into the mind of a serial killer, something like Saw is too bloody for me.

The Orphanage seemed like a promising terror experience. It’s a gothic feature debut for Spanish director Juan Antonio Bayona, produced by his mentor, Guillermo del Toro. The film is spare and elegant like classic ghost fables- think Henry James, Shirley Jackson, The Changeling- not Nightmare on Elm Street! The gloomy lighting, formidable sea, and dusty antiques create a suitably creepy setting, but the real surprise here is in the acting. The leading lady, Belen Rueda, shines with passion, guilt and terror, and thankfully, her son, who hears voices in the walls of the old orphanage, is not only cute but gives a half decent performance. Too many movies, spanning all genres, are ruined by poor planning- only give a child enough screen time as he or she can shine in. While these two are stellar, Fernando Cayo as the husband is a bit wooden, but I suspect it’s not his talent that’s lacking. It’s almost mandatory to weave in one non-believer who thinks all the ghostly evidences are just the emotions and insanities of the gullible women and children. Geraldine Chaplin’s small role as medium elevated the ghost-busting scenario to masterpiece theatre, and Montserrat Carulla as the homely social worker is a standout.

You’ll read plenty of reviews lambasting The Orphanage: whatever. It’s far from perfect, admittedly. Weaknesses are the usual suspects: what woman hears horrible intruder noises and ventures into the garage/shed/attic/cave alone? All of them, apparently- it’s standard in this genre. Then, perhaps for some the explanation of the haunting here is too convoluted, but I’m seldom expecting a film about a haunted orphanage to make scientific sense. The ending did ruin it for me a bit. I won’t ruin it for you: suffice it to say we had got the point, and we’d felt the emotional impact, and then it still went on, seriously testing our patience. But a great many films are not certain how to end, so they overcompensate. Simplicity would have been best, but so what? I’m not expecting Oscar-worthy production from a thriller.

“It seems that only someone with the flimsiest knowledge of horror’s rich cinematic history could praise the director’s shallow, plagiaristic pastiche,” moaned Ed Gonzalez earlier this summer in Slant Magazine. While I appreciate his vast knowledge and his way with words, I have to say that people who use words like ‘pastiche’ in their reviews are people who seldom appreciate the simple pleasures in life. You may not recall The Orphanage as a film that changes your life irrevocably, but I bet you jump awake tonight when you hear trees creaking at your window. And that, to me, is what it’s all about.