Archive for the ‘Non-Fiction’ Category

Election Day my heart was broken. Everything I believed was crumpled and stamped upon. My values and morals were laughed at. Fingers were pointing at me. All the studying I had done. All the weighing of right and wrong or good and evil.
Everything crashed and burned.

I decided the morning after that I had to step back and look at the world a little differently. It could very well be that I am wrong. At this moment as I wrote this I seriously doubt that I am wrong. Maybe that is my problem. Maybe what we grew up believing was right all along.

Ah what are the rights and what are the wrongs? I guess it’s all in what you read or watch. Personally I felt it necessary to read and watch many different points of view. From
Radio talk shows to web sites to news outlets. I partook in all of it. I felt the truth was masqueraded on all levels. I felt that I had a decent grasp at revealing the truth. The truth always finds a way.
Maybe, just maybe I have been looking at the world the wrong way.

Starting today and along with all the other things I need to accomplish, I will begin anew. I hereby shall cut myself off from politics. I will listen to music on the radio or podcasts. Just not political ones. Actually I don’t listen to political podcasts. Just some to learn new things.
I will
Only watch a few select tv shows. Ah, which ones you might ask. Superheroes and zombies and gunslingers. That should be food.
The Internet will be the hard one. I follow all the news sources. Hmmm maybe just general sites. BBC and the like. I will delete all political sites and followers.
I fight with myself because one never feels that it is them that is doing the wrong. To prove to no one but
myself, I shall make it so.

From this day forward I shall only talk about the weather!
In one years time, I shall revisit this page and reflect. Although I will be doing a lot more writing, so stay tuned.

Will I be a different man? I have transformed myself so much in the past few years. I thought I had found the truth.


Letter to School

Posted: October 16, 2012 in Autism, couch, doctor, Homework, mr john, Non-Fiction

I sent a letter to Jacks school. Sometimes new people need to be reminded that autism does not come with an instruction manual. You can hand out one sheet of people with a guideline.

Will change the way that you perceive normal.

Sometimes we all test our limits. Sometimes we will push a little further to get different results. Sometimes we will be amazed by our own frustrations that none of it worked.
Thus this is so with jack.
He is in a new phase of learning, but he is not going into the abyss alone.

He doesn’t like school. He doesn’t like homework. He likes power rangers. He doesn’t like food. He likes pizza. Well, pizza is a food.
Actually food is a whole subject in my family. It is sometime hard when the guide won’t follow his own course. Whatever that means.

I am not really getting this point across. I don’t free form well when it comes to autism. I need to practice the discussion. It has to be a part of the discussion.
It is what brought me to where I am. I sometimes wonder if I would ever have gotten to this place if it weren’t for my son. What if he were a sports loving kid? Would I still be hiding a flask on the ball field? Telling the kids to take five. Daddy needs a smoke break.
Would I have more children? I’d say it is nothing to ponder because I am not there. The road took me here. I am a better man. A poor man but a better man.
I can run fourteen miles without stopping. The only reason I stop is to face the rest of the day with my family.
I can walk up one hundred and fifty flights of steps on the machine at the gym. I am a machine.
And no.
None of it is easy.

October Nine

Posted: October 9, 2012 in Autism, couch, doctor, mr john, Non-Fiction, Young

I really need to work on my tags. I really just need to focus on one task at a time. Just to be able to work on one writing project for hours a day. Oh the joy! Then to scatter around the neighborhood and diddle with blogs.

What the hell is she watching? Apparently music was too good for her. Now she has brought a television into her office space.
I can hear the cheesy gun shots. There are entry of them so I know it is an older show. A western? I hear no voices. A little crescendo hear and there. Dramatic music is a wonderful thing.
I wonder if this is on a DVD or VCR tape? She is giggling and grunting to whAt I am sure is exhilirating action. I highly doubt that there is cable running through these building. I could be wrong. It has happened once or twice in my life.

Maybe she’s watching the Apple Dumpling Gang. Maybe she is just a further test in my life to see how much I can take. I am at my limit with a bunch of things.

I just had my own dramatic pause right there. I hold back writing certain feelings. I do tell the truth in my tales. Is leaving out parts of my life lying? I know that it is to myself. I don’t know about a reader. So far I have had two. It s more than one.
My son found a shiny nickel at school last week. He found it in the gym. I bet my boy was so happy. It was his lucky day! His EC teacher told him that he must turn that into the gym teacher. If he didn’t, it would be like stealing. Like stealing? Like lying? Like doing wrong? It didn’t go we’ll for either of them. She witnessed a meltdown of an autistic boy. I do believe she should have known better. At least to be aware that negative reactions to a seemingly positive situation is going to have repercussions.

Ok this receptionist lady, whom shall from this point be called Ann. One, because that is her name and two, receptionist is a lot to type out with my thumbs. Ok, at first I was thinking that she was enjoying this spaghetti western a little too much. There were inappropriate grunts and groans coming through the Venetian blind wall that separates us. Then I heard it. The snots. The blowing of the nose. Dear Ann has a cold. I for one do not have one, nor do I believe I shall get one. Ann is making talk to herself now.

My eyes are closing. I had a full day. Work. The gym. Pick up my son from school. Take home to a doctor appointment Bring him to the pharmacy to get some meds for my other son and his infected big toe. Go home and shove down a salad. Spinach I must say is quite delicious. Popeye was right! Then finally, retake my son to another doctor appointment and my appointment with the couch. Of which I barely had a session with
And I was just told I left my lights on in my truck.


Posted: September 4, 2012 in couch, doctor, mr john, Non-Fiction

All comfy on the couch of many skins and what do I hear? Do you hear what I hear? The loonie the loonie.

Mows she has brought a tv of some sort into the office. It sounds like a five inch black and white sporting a radio tuner along the side. May e it’s just a radio playing soap operas.

SHUT UP! Now she’s on the phone.

The worst part about me having sessions on this couch is that I can hear everything. I mean if I were an actual loon like the lady on the phone next to the radiator, I would not want to spill my beans here. Although I am actually spilling my beans, it is not aloud for all to hear.

I imagine this outset office complex was built somewhere in the nineties with leftover materials from the eighties. Three unit buildings littering a somewhat secluded area off of Glenburnie Road. The building that I spin my tales in is directly blocked of view from the main raid by a big old restaurant that shared many a different hay day. Used to be a (insert name here). Remember the food at the (insert favorite name here). Now, as is the case of every failed attempt at culinary wizardy, it is a Mega China. Buffett.
Buffets and I don’t really get along. That could be another session on the couch.

The unit in the building I am in is fairly hollow. Hollow core doors. Why? There are two office doors directly facing my couch. When there are loonies in these offices, I can here every word. I know all of there problems. I am thankful that this is a rare occasion as of late that a patient is in one of these offices. The office that my son and Mr John are in is down the short hallway. The only time I hear them is when my son is screaming. Doesn’t he realize that I am trying to get some work accomplished here! Crazy kid.
Not explaining here makes me all giggly inside.

The office for the receptionist slash wife slash loonie hovers right above the couch. It was once just a space and someone threw up some half walls and a door. The walls do not go all the way to the ceiling and only real direct sound barrier between her and I is a venetian blind. It’s a beige blind.
All during every word typed here she is yapping about anything the crazy on the other side of the phone wants to talk about.

This one guy, I haven’t seen him for awhile, was having relationship problems. I could never quite make out if it was with his girlfriend or his sister. It sounded equally strange in either case. How is a wonderful question.
The lady psychiatrist never really gave the misguided bastard any advice. He always had to work it out for himself. I never fully understand people who really don’t have a clue. Sadly there are many of them.

Some people would say that I am one of them. Well I M getting therapy on my sofa, bub!

June twenty-six

Posted: June 26, 2012 in Autism, Non-Fiction

Every Tuesday I sit in Mr Johns waiting room doing the one thing I don’t do well- wait. After many years of coming here and working on my kids head, I figured out that I could use this time wisely. I would write my little tales and get a nice booklet about him adventures in the waiting room.
Now before I get to what I will forget to write about later until I’ve signed off and posted this blog. (So now I’m a blogger. You’re mother would be proud), I must say that this now therapy has helped me immensely. I may start a physchiatric clinic with just a waiting room. In here I’ve unwittingly dealt with a two pack a day smoking habit, battled and dealt a sharp blow to my dependence of alcohol and now doing very well with the battle of my bulges.
Not that I am really a big biggie, I just transferred all my addictions towards food. I never really had any one to talk to since, here I am on the couch whilst my son gets all the help. The kid doesn’t even want to come here. Geezh.
I tell him, “listen. We’re going. Not another word and we need to get there before the other lady gets to the couch first.”
He doesn’t care. Not one bit.
Now one more note before I start with the waiting room. I have actually been writing a lot whilst I tend here. I just have been putting everything down in my handy blue 4×6 spiral notebook or thumb tapping into Evernote or OneNote, depending on the time period. Lots of little tales have sifted off the shelves in my mind and onto actual forms of media. The. What happens is what I guess happens to every writer still dreaming about writing something worth while, the dAng things never get edited and put in its proper place. Be it the blogosphere or some sort of credible form, it’s the piece that I will always get back to.
So, I have decided to tackle another form of self therapy. I will now write directly to my page. Now, what happens from there is a whole other step in the program. I don’t know how many steps I need to take but I’m pretty sure I’ll always need just more.
What I am writing on is my iPhone WordPress app. This makes editing very difficult because aside from autocorrect spelling, I am lost. A lot of back spacing going on here. I know it will get more familiar as the years go by, but for now or until I get something with a bigger screen this is what I get. Or you get if you are reading this.
Next week I will get into this waiting area because my son my be through soon. If I don’t post now, I may second guess myself and that’s when the troubles begins.
Don’t worry, because I know you are, there are plenty of drunken smoking tales of bigness to be told.
To page!

In the days of my youth, dinner time was never set by a wall clock or the watch on one’s wrist. It was set by Pavlov’s ghost and he haunted every backyard in my neighborhood. His unseen presence played the Pied Piper in the last piece of a psychological game of mouse trap.
He lured the hungry young boys of Wildwood Terrace to their respective places at the supper table. Ah, that banal ringing in my head to this day.

I lived amidst the tops of the Ramapo Mountains of Northern Jersey during times when boys practically lived outside. Sounds, smells and the way the wind felt were unknowingly training us to be one with the environment. My finely tuned ears could hear Dad’s Volkswagen Beetle a mile away. My dog could hear it for two miles. This was the case with each dog and their relevant owners’ vehicles. The dogs would then do their thing. The neighborhood would fill with barking and yelping. Mom would get the signal and give the nights’ feast another stir. Then, instinctively as if a Stepford wife from Passaic County, would lean out the kitchen door, reach a reach that could be done blinded folded to the bell outside the back door. Maybe they came with the house, maybe our dads installed it, but we all had one. Mine was shaped like the liberty bell maybe six inches high attached to a cast iron horseshoe apparatus and screwed firmly against our ranch style house.

Every day from forts made of sticks and mud and leaves, heads would poke out upon hearing their own ‘dong dong’ or ‘ding ding’ or ‘ding dong’ or Fred’s ‘clunk clunk’. His bell would always send us sprawling with laughter. When we heard our bells in the woods, young crimes stopped and time stood still for that moment. Mouths would begin to water and you could hear the grumble deep within growing young men.

Pete’s mom would be slicing squares of piping hot lasagna. Oozing with ricotta and mozzarella cheeses and steam rising from her homemade meat sauce was enough imagery for all want to eat over his house. Garrett’s plate would be waiting with Arroz con Gandules. It was his favorite, but we couldn’t figure out his love for rice with pigeon peas. Fred’s mom didn’t speak a lick of understandable English and sometime his translations were sketchy. So I wasn’t sure if Sp√§tzle mit Sauerkraut und Semmelbr√∂sel sounded good or not.

My dinner table beheld something less creative in the naming, but it was one I always looked forward to. My mom called it ‘Glop’. She said it was her families’ Irish version of cottage pie, a rib-sticking combination of meat, potatoes and vegetables.

Our swords and sheilds made of oak limbs and garbage can lids dropped to the ground as the bells rang out a second time. In nearly perfect unison we shouted.


Haiku hike

Posted: March 29, 2012 in Fiction, Haiku, Homework, Non-Fiction


To find the right path

Is getting lost in the woods

And finding new ways


The bird watches me

I pause and return silence

We both fly away

White Legs

Long green grass with bugs

Short white legs in shorts with spray

Combat all dang day


Hurricane blowing

Homes ripping toys in the trees

Irene was not nice


Early morning sun

Slices its way through the trees

Casts my first shadow