Playing Fair and Being Kind

I’m reading “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare”. Miller can string some words together, can’t he? Wonderful images and intelligent commentary. Here is what came of this morning’s reading.

HENRY MILLER

Reading Henry Miller in the morning, in the sun, outdoors. The page is full of wonderfully arranged words and images aligned into ribbons of delight and disgust. My eye follows along in reverence to Miller. He was a masterful interpreter of the human condition. He could see the faults through every veil of fear and deceit. No façade could deny him his clear look into the universal race track of getting from birth to death. I read along in the sun, in the morning, out of doors.

The need to rest from reading and to reflect, contemplate, digest the way Miller presented the words took me away and into the dark interior of the lovely shack I call home. The brightness of the outside made me move slowly for safety’s sake. I could barely make out objects; the boxes waiting to be broken down for recycling, the step down into the kitchen, the table and chairs were all shadows with soft edges. I found a place to sit and with my eyes shut I settled into a position with my hands held over my face and watched the brain enjoying the most beautiful green shade floating before me. The color took me miles away to the south to the Sea of Cortez to the western shore where La Paz is, lying against the sea and basking in the multitude of white light from the sun. I returned to the shallows of the bay with my snorkel and mask and fins and underwater fingers and wrists cupping the water to move carefully around the submerged rocks where brilliant tropical fish swim freely with no glass walls. Such a delightful experience, alone, floating just under the surface in broad daylight watching green, red, orange, yellow, blue tiny fish doing what they do. A moment that is with me forever, for me to enjoy any time I want to.

The green shade that is in my brain is not behaving as I expect. When I move my eyeballs to the left the image goes to the right and vice versa. The image is getting smaller until it is just a rounded blog of green in a sea of dark floating ahead. It reminds me of the light I saw while snorkeling in the waters near Agat village on the Island of Guam. I was alone. It was a confusing part of my life. I was a few years past thirty. Existential angst was a place of normal. Which may be why I was alone and why I was thinking I could swim without a companion in the lava rock filled beach. I was finding holes through the rocks and wondering if I could fit through them. The rocks were submerged and the holes were large enough to wriggle through, maybe. Of course, the holes were in the coral and lava and sharp edges and all. No reason to believe this may not be a good idea. With no thought process involved I attempted a few times with great success to come out the other side with all of my parts and with air in my lungs enough to live. This is where I went with the blob of pale, beautiful green in my mind. The green was the goal. Now the green was faded to nothing and it was time to see where I was sitting and go about my day.

The thoughts about La Paz, Mexico reminded me of the angel who saved me from a gruesome afternoon.  I was in the process of salvaging my miserable existence during an early recovery phase in Alcoholics Anonymous. I believe it was during my fourth month of sobriety. I needed to find a meeting for reasons only recovering people will know. I found a meeting listed in a local directory and headed off. The address was close and the city of La Paz is laid out on a grid. I was on foot but the weather was perfect. I walked. Along the street that the meeting place is on I passed a small courtyard. Inside was an older woman dressed in black, sitting in a wheel chair. She was all in black; a long dress covered her except for her head and hands. Her hair was grey and covered with a dark colored scarf. She was sitting silently alone in the courtyard surrounded by small gardens and potted plants. There were trees giving her shade from the sun. A soft-edged, maybe poignant picture. My impression is that she was left alone in the courtyard to fend for herself. I walked by, giving her a glance and a small amount of empathy. I was in my own perilous world and it was going to get worse soon.

The street I traveled was narrow, lined with houses and buildings of various designs and uses. It seemed to be a mix of residences and small industries. I was searching for the address given for the AA meeting. I approached an alleyway and I had alerted a dog who’s barking caused me no small amount of alarm. The dog apparently was not closed in nor on a leash. The barking was approaching me from the alley. Much to my shock the barking materialized in the form of a Chihuahua and a Great Dane. The larger dog was proceeding quietly in tow with his smaller, vocal companion. I slowed my pace and spoke gently, almost pleadingly with my new traveling hosts. Hi, puppies, I said. Visions of massacre floated above my head. The larger dog sniffed me up and down from behind and just a few steps into our parade the smaller dog nipped my right heel. Yow! I complained. Both dogs scampered back to the alley. I was grateful.

I arrived at the address given me for the AA meeting. The door was locked and no one came to open it when I knocked. The place was deserted and so was I. My morale was nearly deflated. Such a disappointment and now I had to retrace my steps, leading me to a certain doggy massacre. I was feeling rather low. Back I went toward the bookend big and little tormentors, guardians of Lonely Street. My fears were unrealized. No dogs confronted me. The alley was deserted happily. I continued along and I wondered if I’d see the older woman again. I was hoping so and in so doing I remembered a suggestion from more experienced recovering alcoholics. They told me that when I was feeling down that I ought to find another person who is worse off than I and engage them in conversation. This thought picked up my spirits and I began the search for the older woman in the courtyard. She wasn’t far away. I found the iron fence and the courtyard and she was still there in her chair. I called to her and she approached the gate to talk with me. In my broken Spanish we were able to communicate. I told her about the ship in the harbor that I had arrived on and the submersible and the crew and me and then I told her I was an alcoholic. This last part was important to me. It is good to say out loud to another, “I am an alcoholic”. The old woman had been listening intently and when she heard my confession she cooed, “Pobrecito…”. When she said that I was flummoxed. I didn’t know what to say. She stumped me totally. But it was true. Poor thing, indeed! I almost laughed. The suggestion worked perfectly. I was no longer feeling pitiful. Pobrecito became my tongue in cheek motto forever after. To this day when I sense I am filling with self-pity I simply mutter, Pobrecito to myself and move along. Thank you, angel, in the form of an older woman. I will always have you in my memories as a good friend and life long companion.

I’ve done enough for today in this writing process. I need to go to the backyard and move some morning glories to a permanent location next to a tree stump upon which they may climb, if I’m lucky. Have a beautiful day wherever you are.

Peace out,
G. M. Goodwin
9 June 2019