Fatty and Ducky had scheduled a date.

Ducky got angry because Fatty was late.

 Fatty was eating and lost track of time.

 Ducky was upset and drank way too much wine.

 When Fatty arrived Ducky was wasted.

 Which made Fatty wonder just how Ducky tasted.

The place I remember the best isn't so much of a place as it is a feeling, a moment in time. If I had to locate it, to direct some poor lost tourist or stranger on the street, I'd point stiff fingered to the very center of my own being. Maybe in my amygdala brain matter mush.

Each particulate bursting at the seams with unspeakable secrets. Haunted murky memories of the past and glistening genetic predispositions foretelling the future, far better than any crystal ball.

I discovered this place while I was still young, eager, and naive enough to keep searching so relentlessly in my juvenile quest for meaning or purpose. I stumbled down into a well hidden snare of hopelessness, a deep dark pit of angst and despair. Shouting all around ashamed and scratching at the cavern walls.

I can still recall that nauseating sinking anchored weight. Feeling as if the floor might give out at any moment and I'd plummet through the elevator shaft. And it would give out and it did. Again. More times than I cared to count.

It isn't the drop that's so unsettling, it's the anticipation. The blinding screeching deafening suspense. On guard at all times of the day or night with no off switch or program override to tell this body, my own body, to stand down. Deactivate. Massive amounts of cortisol coursing through my veins stimulating hyper vigilance and surreal, almost hallucinatory, sensory perceptions.

Some mornings I can still taste the faint bitter residual fear from my nightly drives down my subconscious dreams and the bad part of town in my head.

Yes, that place

That place is still there. In here. In me. Inside of mind. It is who I am.The difference being now I no longer fear it. After surrender and acceptance I could begin to really look around my internal surroundings. I know the way in and the way out.

The place I remembered best is behind a waterfall up in the hills of Hawaii. It is the place my father and mother first held hands. They were both in the Army and it was ten years before I was born. Something strange happened there in the cool-blue mist back in 1942. While the water thundered down all around them their tiny hearts began to settle into a common beat. Settled for good they had hoped, as they walked to the side of the falls, still holding hands as many soldiers had done before and jumped into the deep pool below. They later married and babies boomed, first one, and then two, then that’s enough, they both agreed but wait, wait, what’s this, a number three. That was close, because that little mistake was me.

Our station wagon was clever; it had a way back seat that folded up or down as needed. That was my seat. It felt far away from the undercurrents of control that carried my family forward. While they bickered in the front I quietly became one with the tops of trees and clouds in the back.

Chesterfields and Salems, Millers and Gin were my parent’s friends. Later we got a TV, and then TV dinners served in modern tinfoil trays, and my parents drank and drank while the children ate. They would eat later without us I was told. When I grew older my father explained to me that the trick to successful drinking is to drink, drink, drink, and eat, and then go to bed. However, without a family to hold me together I would forget about going to bed and would run full bore out, out, out of the house, and into the world, as though my heart were on fire. Only adventure could sooth the flames.  

Oddly, I can still remember the first sip from a can of my father’s Miller. The soury fizz was unlike anything I had ever had before. I was curious. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it seemed to give me pause, a pause that felt new and dare I say, mature, the menthol taste of my mother Salems had a similar effect. Who knew that eventually they would become my favorite friends?

My parents died of tobacco and alcohol related diseases as so many people do. It happens so often that it was once considered normal, in some circles it still is.

Behind a waterfall where love, hope, mystery and delusion, mist together into a compelling pull of adventure is the place I remember best. 

Bess and I had the great pleasure of being guests on WDEV Radio's Open Mike show with Hester Fuller. Hester is a  great interviewer, and we got the chance to talk about why WFR is important. WFR writer Caitlin Ferland even called in! Give it a listen.

Drinking booze.

Whiskey, tequila, whatever.

Wall-less dreams of the chase for more.

Drink it.

Inhale it.

Wolfing drinks.

Not the bottle but what was in it.

Not the taste but what was in it.

Pulling at me.

Sucking me in like quicksand but faster.

Like I dove into quicksand.

A whirlpool of whiskey, wine, tequila, vodka, gin.

Have a Guinness it’s good for you.

Pregnant women drink it.

I will be down 3 years

But I’ll be back

I you love to infinity and beyond. You should know that.

I hope you believe that 2 years down, 1 more to go

I’m missing watching you grow 4 years old. I want you to know you are more than my baby girl, girl you are my entire world.

You ever look up at the night sky, fix your eyes on the moon and ask yourself, “Daddy where are you?”

Daddy will be home real soon

I’m shooting for the stars

Open your arms, this time I’m never letting go.

I’ll be down three years and I’m never gonna stop

I’m climbing climbing to the top

It’s hard to believe I’m hated

On so much, doing time gets

So tough, I want to give up.

Enough is enough.

This time I refuse to give in

Because this isn’t the end.

Sometimes I ask myself “why bother?”

I’ll tell you why I bother.

I want you to be as proud to call

Me your father as I am to call you

My daughter. I’ll be down 3 years, but

We’ll never be apart. We’ll be together forever.

You’ll always be right here in my heart.

If I could have just one wish, I’d

Wish to get back the years I’ve missed.

I’d wish for a hug, for a way to express

My love. I’d wish for a million wishes

So I could give you a million kisses.

Above all, I want you to know

I’ll be down 3 years and my love

For you still grows like a beautiful

Blue rose. And as the blue rose

Grows, I’ll rise, too, and one day I will

Show the world how much I love you.

Until then I’ll keep searching for

Peace although I’m torn to pieces

The only peace I find,

I find in Jesus.

What scares me the most is that I might be letting my days and nights flow by too fast, that maybe there really is something I’m supposed to be paying attention to?

Maybe there’s a plan or purpose that I knew as a child but over the years I lost contact with it. Maybe I discarded it along with my other toys and now I can’t even picture what it might have looked like or where to find it.  

As I wonder about this notion of purpose from my observation bench on Church Street I gaze out toward the people walking past and I can’t help but think that if there is something we’re supposed to be doing, something other than strolling around looking nervous and dopy, it doesn’t seem like the message was delivered very well. By the look of the costumes people are wearing it appears we must be fixated on a sort of stance toward Halloween.

Doesn’t it seem odd to you, too, that we are alive without anything particular to do? I mean what the heck is this all about? It doesn’t seem right that we should have to worry so much on how to keep ourselves occupied. Distractions shouldn’t be the whole theme to being alive. 

There were two billion people on this planet when I was born are now we’re up to seven billion. Pretty soon it will be twenty billion and the stories we tell ourselves of why we happen to be alive will be far different than today. I wonder how the after-life story will hold up. Will the notion of eternity, and judgment, still be talked about? 

What if we live this nervous life to the bitter end only to discover that there is no end. Now, isn’t all this nervousness a bit silly, I mean what were we worried about, we have all the time we can stand.

I suppose what scares me the most is that I don’t understand a fucking thing about how this all came about and where it’s going. If it’s an accident its one hell of a glorious accident and if it’s not an accident then we’re all a bunch of inept nincompoops for not figuring it out.

It started with a small voice, sounding like my own, saying to me, “You need that and nothing will be right until you have it.”

What this looked like as a child was me crying in the grocery store, thinking fast of ways to convince my mother to buy it for me. “Mom, if you buy me the multi-pack, you won’t have to buy me another.”

As an adolescent, it was nice to “smoke the fucking cigarette or Cindy is gonna beat the shit out of you, and you’ll look like a big baby and they won’t let you hang out with them anymore.”

As a teenager, “Drink more she’ll/he’ll give you what you want -- for a price. It’s not so bad and sometimes feels pretty damned good.”

As an adult, “More, more, I’m starting to remember. I don’t want to feel that shit! More, please whatever it takes, I need more.”

I can offer you an ear to listen to what’s happening

I can offer you any knowledge on what’s going on in which I may know

I can help with a shoulder to cry upon

I can only help if you open up about needing the help

I can help by talking to you about my life. That might help in a way

I can help to lead you away from turning your life into the way I’ve made my own

There will be times were we can help each other

The disease of addiction affects millions of men, women, and children across America, destroying lives, devastating communities, and tearing families apart. In One Imagined Word at a Time, forty writers from across Vermont share powerful truths about addiction, recovery, and the healing power of love and forgiveness. Once you’ve read it, you’ll never think the same way about addiction again.

      I would get up before she’s awake

strong black coffee in the shower

   cold and to the point to save time

shaving too, avoiding eye contact

    as much as possible

leave the shower

   skin soft

       and veins popping.

Reach for my heroin hobby kit

    in the brown leather shaving bag

  I stole form my father

Used needles,

    clean needles,

      cheap aluminum tins,

Q-tips, and tiny wax envelopes

With words like

    “Black Magic,” “Reagan,” and “Ambition”

stamped on them.

      I begin the ritual—

         mix the shot, find the vein,

draw back—

       push down, push off, push away.
Heroin gives me a chance, I think.

    The strength to look myself in the eyes.

I stare in the mirror and see a mask

and I adjust it

      but no matter what I do each morning

         my mask gets harder and harder

           and harder

   to breathe through.

I’m still in the process of losing.

Nothing has yet been recovered.

One day I woke up and it was all gone.

Everything I knew and loved was mine no more.

The woman of my dreams called the police.

I was told I no longer had a place to call home.

I couldn’t even say goodbye to my children.

My furniture, TVs, silverware, dishes,

even my washer & dyer were gone forever.

I thought I still had my freedom,

but that was taken, too.

I was ready to give up,

but I refuse to give in.

Every day I wake up and tell myself

“Today is the day my life begins.” 

Insecure,


Think I'm smart, but not for sure,


Really scared of kissing her.



Fearful, fearful little boy,


Angry cuz you stole my toy.



Racing thoughts, such a mess,


Non-stop anxiety,


Read the Torah to impress,


But no real sense of piety,


I'll never fit in this society.



Smallest kid on the playground,


Angry parents, often frowned.



The coolest kid,

I want to be,


Won't let you know the real me


Happy, fun—don't give a fuck—


That's what I want you to see.



Friends say I own


my sexuality.


Delusion sewn


by a fallacy.



Put up a front; I love that self,


But guilty about my parents wealth,


Forced to make a joke of my mental health,


Take a look at my trophy shelf,


But alone at home, I want to kill myself.



So ashamed/of my past,


Façade of perfection will never last,


Give me the bong, one more blast,


To leave the club, I'm always last.



I pretend I'm an intellectual,


4 yrs.—16 credits—I'm just ineffectual,


I'm only good at being sexual.



Debate, debate, debate, debate...


Fearful and lonely. Is this my fate?







Combating shame,


A war in my head,


Battling pain,


Wish I were dead.



Can't pull the trigger.


Instead, go figure:


In-no-cent casualties


Ian! Ian! Call us please...



You say I'm so hot


I say not


“So pensititve”


Just sensitive



“So mature and put together”


Could rock my ego with a feather


Bipolar thoughts like a ball on a tether


Can't stop this lightning, dark, stormy weather



Call it cognitive dissonance


Emotionally sober, haven't been since...


Caron. Now, I'm back again


Caring? How? Instead of sin?



I have a choice


I hear God's voice


Main Caron to bane Caron


I've come full circle


Pain-bearing to sane sharing


I wanna be a whole circle



Seige the wall of defense


Return to my sense


I wanna be...


The real me.

                                           (click images to advance through gallery)

Saturday night, Writers for Recovery had the honor of opening for a performance by Dwight and Nicole at the Flying Stage in Barre. If you haven't heard about the Flying Stage, you will. The brainchild of Diana Levine, it lowers from the ceiling of Barre's ReSource recycled goods store to transform the joint into a dynamite venue for music and other creative arts.

Writers representing three Vermont communities gave readings on the Flying Stage. Patty Garvey and Caitlin Ferland came down from Burlington, along with Stan Worthley and Sarah Ferland, who came to cheer them on. Angala Devoid and Nancy Bassett came down from St. J. with WFR Executive Director Bess O'Brien. And Pat Murray and Kurtis Thompson represented the home town of Barre.

“The deep and personal readings by our fellow Vermonters in recovery is a sign of sunlight invading the dark recesses of addiction in our communities.”

                                                                      —Dian Kahn, on Front Porch Forum

After we did our part, we settled in for an incredible show by Dwight and Nicole. From down-home Muddy Waters blues to soul, jazz, and pop, they simply thrilled us all. And on their tune "On Top of the World," they had some awesome backup vocals, courtesy the Trojans Singers from Twinfield School. 

The Flying Stage might be new, but it's already becoming the kind of venue that can transform a community. Thanks, Diana Levine, Fred Wilber, and everyone at the Flying Stage for creating such an amazing night of entertainment—and for bringing Writers for Recovery along for the ride!

Writers for Recovery is pleased to announce that we have just been awarded a $7000.00 grant from the Rona Jaffe Foundation. The grant funds will be used to support our free writing workshops for people in recovery as well as our public presentations, website, and teacher training efforts.

Rona Jaffe (1931-2005) was the author of sixteen books, including the bestselling novels The Road Taken, The Cousins, Family Secrets, Mr. Right is Dead, Mazes and Monsters, The Last Chance, and Five Women. Her foundation also provides critical support for women writers through its annual Writers' Awards, which this year gave $30,000 awards to six writers.

Writers for Recovery greatly appreciates this generous gift, and we will be working hard to use it for the benefit of people in recovery across Vermont. 

I am from small towns.

I am from 4-wheeling in the Sand Pits.

I am from long walks on logging roads

while hunting game birds with my dog Abby.

I am from drinking coffee at my parents’ store

while listening to our customers and friends gossip about their day.

I am from drinking and partying at camp

while standing next to the bonfire telling

stories about the past week.

I am now from North State Correctional Facility,

paying for my mistakes.

Now I am going to help others not make my mistakes.

I’m still in the process of losing.

Nothing has yet been recovered.

One day I woke up and it was all gone.

Everything I knew and loved was mine no more.

The woman of my dreams called the police.

I was told I no longer had a place to call home.

I couldn’t even day goodbye to my children.

My furniture, TVs, silverware, dishes,

even my washer & dyer were gone forever.

I thought I still had my freedom,

but that was taken, too.

I was ready to give up,

but I refuse to give in.

Every day I wake up and tell myself

“Today is the day my life begins.” 

I am from combined attributes

of an egg and sperm.

The holders of each spawned

a poor decision.

I am from the child taken @ 2

to live a life with someone new.

I am from the child accepted @ 4

by an unwanting father

and an alcoholic whore.

I am from the teen whose poor

decisions led to a life of hell.

I am from the person trapped inside

Lost in confusion with nowhere to hide.

I am from the life born anew

When all pain and misery will subdue.

I am from where I’m not yet

but I know in the end

everything I’m from doesn’t make

me who I am.

I am from kindness.

I am from love.

I am from freedom I hope to obtain.

I only recovered a part of my life that I lost so long ago.
I’ve found family that were lost.
I only recovered a part of me that is for life.
I’m always going to have that thought of ending my life,
but I’ve put that on hold and realized my fears, my past, my now.
I have only truly just started my recovery because of all I tried to hide away.
Trying to pull myself into the light instead of living in the dark.

I am from my mother and

Father once great and upstanding

Now troubled and lost.

I am from a childhood of

Misunderstanding, hardships, and abuse.

I am from the 80’s big

Hair bands, snap bracelets,

And the “get out and go

Play in traffic” era.

I am from the 90s

Kurt Cobain, Biggie, Puffie

Stolen Cars with 5 stars.

I am from an addiction

To everything, love, drugs, women

Cars, food, and trouble.

I am from where I hope

My children to be not.

I want to be from

Happiness

Not active addiction