Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Comic Transformation




http://www.thefix.com/content/introd...r-comedian2095

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 10

REGENERATION



When I am grabbed by the extremity of my thinking I drop my mind like a reptilian tail. My feet believe they are in no need of my brain in order to run; independent flight is the action of the day. Far from the time and place of my dissection I find regrowth the problem to be solved. Unlike a salamander’s toe, can I generate my wits to their former ability or must I live out my existence with a docked psyche? My desire curls like a python but dreams of becoming the phoenix.


Smile at your orange wedges.

*

Let God Do What?

I hesitate to let go to God because
I fear that God doesn’t like me, or likes me now,
but doesn’t like me all the time.

I think I got this belief from being the only child
of parents who don’t like children.
It never mattered how good I was,
how smart or thoughtful, well informed, helpful,
I always ended up being treated like I was a burden,
someone to be endured.

If only I was likeable, I would think to myself
and try recreating me to become….what?
Finally I settled on indispensable,
if I could make myself necessary,
then my life would be okay.
People would need me therefore they would want me.

What I discovered is that people who can’t live without me
end up resenting me, by the time I was so important to others
I was no longer important to me, so I didn’t need God’s help
because I didn’t need anything, I didn’t exist.

Over time what I have settled on are a few truths:
People who don’t like kids shouldn’t have them.
And I need God’s help to learn how to want to be here on this planet
since I was not brought to earth by people who wanted me.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

July 11



SPONTANEOUS GENERATION


Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth. I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat. The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease. Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin. Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings. I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles. Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm. Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.



Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.


*
A Year for Me


The world is my mollusk
and I am its pennyweight paragon,
witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time
surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,
all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.
I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink
and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant
I feel strong enough to stand my ground.
Time has come for life, open and raw,
but I shall leave the clams to the casino.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault