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What is going on

Do you ever have a desire to write? To express, to say “hey I fucking exist and have thoughts and ideas!” and then experience some sort of cyber-validation for said thoughts and ideas?  Do you also wonder why, why do we need this?  What is it about an anonymous post that makes us feel validated?  It it that someone cares, or at least pretends to?  Or is it that we can evoke emotions, thoughts, reactions from someone else?

Long ago, in a place far far away, a place where buhdy first introduced the concept of ponies, I rediscovered the joy of writing.  Never made the wreck list, but didn’t care. In fact one of my first diaries was motivated by a diarist who complained because on one particular day he did not make the wreck list, and don’t you know he always made the “list.” My thought was, phht, get over yourself.  But,to be honest, I, on occasion, go back and read what I wrote and still think about 75% of my musings were not all that bad, egocentric I know, but inside I wish that more folks would have read ’em. But more importantly, I cherished the comments, few that they were, the stories, the memories that were recounted because of the words I typed in the “main text” box. I loved the fact that once, one of the comments got like three times the recs my tip jar did, just because the story I told evoked a much better story.  I like that kind of connection.

I originally came here because I wanted something different, I came here when it first arose via the gos. I wanted a place where “There are no rigid restrictions here, it is a salon and a laboratory and a place to create a new reality.” I wanted, I needed an new reality.  And I continue to come to this place to read the thoughts and ruminations of others. I rarely comment, and have one diary to my name – nom de plume that it is – a diary written in a night of pain after a loss.

And in the days that has flowed in the river of time, under the bridge of life since that first day here, I have some questions, questions that I am sure no one can answer to my satisfaction, but that dog me day and night. So many questions…

I have gone through many changes this year.  Maybe that is my problem. But something has changed, and I am struggling to discover what it is.  Is it just me?

The Music You Will Never Hear

Tonight, there is a music that you will never hear, there is a joy that you will never experience, there is a young man, that will never grow, there is a void in the hearts of those who knew him.

The circumstances of his life, to me, are truly unknown. I have heard stories but who knows what is fact and what is fiction.  I do know that his father lived on one coast and his mother on another and his decision to align with one over the other rendered him homeless and that is how he came into our lives.

When we first met Zane, he was a boy trying to be a man. He thought drinking and brawling would make him tough, macho, manly. He was just 15. Why I ever allowed him in my house I will never know.  But like a stray kitten, my daughter brought him to us, and we could not resist. And then, we got to know him and saw beyond the arrogance and over confidence of youth.

Zane was our daughter’s friend.  She met him at the square, he was playing “Folsom Prison Blues” and she was intrigued and enamored by his personality and talent. And for all his faults, and there were many, he was a good kid. His first visit to our house Zane asked my husband if he could play his Martin.  The response to this request from any of our children’s other friends had always been a resounding “No, end of story, do not ever ask again.” This HD-28 was “the mistress,” no one else could touch her.  But this night, the answer was yes. I will never know why, but I am forever grateful it was.

His talent was immense. Zane had only been playing for six months, but it was there, it was palpable, you could feel his gift.  The kid had “it.”  And then he left. Moving to the other coast, we did not see him for months.  In the time he was gone, we had many demons in our own life to deal with. Demons no parent, no person wants to face. Our daughter was a heroin addict. But with the grace of the gods and all things good, she was strong and with help, she overcame it, and to this day, is clean.

Soon after her recovery, Zane came back to us. His mother did not want him, nor did his father. He lived with us.  During the day, Zane was our son, pick up this, do that, come on dude, get it together. At night, when we were asleep, he spent hours on the internet searching for tablature and practicing songs, practicing the craft that would make him famous someday. This led to conversations where we would sit and joke how someday Zane would come back after he had his first recording contract, what a celebration we would have!  He had the talent, it could have been, it wasn’t just a pipe dream.

Finally the day came that he had to leave. My husband, fellow musician, took money from our savings and bought Zane a guitar, a tool of survival, something to help him make his way. The look of pride on Zane’s face when he realized it was his, with no preconditions, with no stings attached, will forever be with me. We loaded up his things and I when I dropped him off he was proud and ready to face whatever came his way.

And then he was gone again. We didn’t hear from him. There were sporadic messages to our daughter.  “I’m back in town.”  “I’m in rehab.” “I’m clean,  please talk to me.” But our daughter, savvy beyond her 18 years, knew he was not. To her ultimate regret, yet to her ultimate survival, she told him if you are not clean, if you are still using, do not talk to me. And he didn’t.  And last week Zane left this world, a needle in his arm. I pray it was for a better place, because this kid truly deserves it.

By chance, the day after we learned of Zane’s death I found this story on Crooks and Liars.  Serendipity or Kismet. A cause I will support.  I think I will adopt a tree, or two, or three, for Zane.  For a young man who fought his demons and lost.  And I would encourage anyone who has experienced the hell of addiction or lost someone to addiction, to support this cause. If nothing else, do it for Zane. Even with his flaws, he was a wonderful soul and I will miss him.

The pomegranate. It is a beautiful, healing plant, a plant that symbolizes life, especially for Zane and anyone else in his dire circumstances.


And so forever there is a music that you will never hear and there is a joy that you will never experience.  There is a young man, that will never grow, because he has died and left a hole in the hearts of the few too many people who knew him.

Tonight he lies on a cold slab in a room I never want to see. And his fingers are stiff, never able to caress the music from a guitar. And his voice is silent, you will never hear the beauty in his songs or experience his heartfelt emotions. And the world is a little less special.  And I truly miss him.

With love, to Zane.