“There!”  I said it.  

I made the place by speaking it

I made it there.

I said of all of its coppices and dales and other landmarks like ‘berms’ and ‘riparian barriers’

whose meaning  I never bothered to look up, but could speak into being.  

I said its cornices, its ballasts, its transoms, its cupolas 

I said its spires, turrets, and onion domes, 

although I’m sure I used the proper word* for those when I said it

I said its paint colours, and traced its wallpaper patterns with my in-breaths

I said its furniture: 

its davenports, duvet covers, hutches, armoires, Louis XVI, ‘Louie Says’

I took out the bar, the house-warmed, conspicuous-consumption bottles atop the fridge, 

the vodka vases at the verdant triptych-scene bay window 

I said the cushions, the ottomans, ottomen? 

The parlour talk-therapy chaise lounge, ‘chase long’ 

I said this meticulous there and I made it the place 

where I could be my grown-ass, sober, self.

I spoke it into being like a reverse  memory palace where the object fixes before the word,

proliferating like a crystal growing kit I somehow got from a comic book

near the picture of the grinning seamonkey family with the trident 

though the ads were decades old 

by the time I could read and long to send away for my x-ray specs 

I said “There!”, so I made it,

I identified it, so it could be mine.

So that someday soon I could host and entertain.

Let me assure you it was squalor, derelict, and nearly abandoned  before the remodeling.  

The silent 98-pound weakling thought, if quiet enough, 

pearls would form in her tear ducts from all the sand kicked  in her face.

I think it’s almost ready to open soon.

Would you like to meet me?

Would you meet me here?

*луковичная глава, lúkovichnaya glavá

It was colder than usual. Much colder actually. I was sitting in my favorite spot, right by the heater and far from the window. “Always cold” my wife would say, “cold and paranoid”, God she could push my buttons. Anyway, it was 70 degrees out, and 72 indoors according to the thermostat. I felt the goose pimples and I swear I even saw my breath briefly.
My thoughts went right to Max. Maybe he was in the room with me? You know how all those nutty psychics say the room gets cold when a ghost enters the room or some shit like that. I was in so much pain for so long that I would believe just about anything. Anything that would mean he was ok.
I stood up from my chair and grabbed the throw from the couch, wrapped it around myself. I looked around the room, behind the couch and behind the TV.
Nothing. Just like how i felt about my life, Nothing. Ive got a 2 bedroom apartment at 78 yrs old, a wife who cant stand me and the only one who loved me just died.
Max was an Amazing cat. He would look up with hopeful eyes anytime I made a noise. Making sure I wasn’t getting up and if I did, so did he. Only if he was really tired would he stay in place and talk to me as I told him it was time to move. “Let’s go stinky pants”, “meooow”. “Come on now lazy bones”. Max would squint his eyes and yawn, Loosing interest, or feigning loosing interest, as I knew he would soon give in and follow. I would go downstairs to the bedroom and hear my wife say “He’s staring at the stairs, making sure you’re not coming back up. I swear that cat is just like a dog.”
Rarely would I come and get him, knowing I would never sleep without him. Tears spilled out as I remembered how much comfort Max would bring me, and I remembered that he wasn’t coming back. I made a quiet tisking sound as I walked around the room, aware that if my wife heard me I would never hear the end of it. “Now I’m calling the white coats Charlie, you know hallucination is a sign of the crazies”. God I hate that bitch!
Max never judged me. Never said a word and that’s just the way I liked it. He just sat there and listened. He’d squint his eyes and begin to purr, like he knew it was time help me process. I read once that the vibrations from purring would help an injured cat heal if it was hurt. Well I think Max healed me all the time. When I would meditate he would sit at my feet like he needed whatever energy I was drawing in. I remember the first time I meditated and when I opened my eyes Max was sitting right up close to my face. I thought he was just confused about what I was doing but the more I thought about it I figure he was probably thinking something like ”its about time, Dummy”.
Cats are the most spiritual beings I ever met, and if anything is making it to the other side its them. I believe that to my core.
I went back to my chair and wiped away the tears, wondering how many tears a human could actually make before dehydration killed them. Oh Max, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to go on?
I hadn’t meditated since his death , hadn’t even thought of it really. But now I did, like it was planted in my head, kinda weird like. Like when you smell something and it brings up a childhood memory, or you have deja vu. Anyway i closed my eyes and began my mantra, letting the thoughts of Max come and go, wrapping the blanket closer but feeling no warmer.
All of a sudden I felt a vibration go through my arms, not like the tingling I’ve felt many times before in meditation but a vibration kinda like a purr. It got stronger with my inhales and weaker as i breathed out. I knew it was him, had to be. I let the tears fall, tears of joy that pooled over my lips and fell in my lap. My lap that Max used to love. The vibrations began to warm my body and i felt like he was here with me. Really Here With Me.
I slowly loosened the blanket, becoming too warm but not opening my eyes as I was afraid the vibrations would cease. My mantra became a resounding Thank you, thank you ,thank you , thank you.
All I remember after that was my wife coming in the room and saying “boy, I guess you were tired”, “you slept 2 hrs Charlie”.
I woke feeling like a new man. Like i could even take a walk or listen to the wife without wanting to leave the room as soon as humanly possible.
I don’t know what that was that day nor do I want to try to figure it out. But what I do know is that I am never alone, especially when I feel I will die from loneliness. Max is with me, and I will continue to meditate, I’m sure he’d want me to. That meditation saved my life.

Dishes are shattering, Mom and Dad are screaming and you tremble in a dark bedroom.

Eyes that once to smile are betrayed, ties frayed and only a mortally wounded heart remains.

Addiction and heartbreak have a high rate of comorbidity .

Steps that became lighter with proximity now about face with curt avoidance.

No one pushed you here, in the cold, looking in.

Blaming at no fault of my own is always easier than admitting, that it's no one's fault,

But my own.

Every planet in the solar system has been bombarded with self righteous and indignant asteroids.

The stars made them do it.

Many of these violent eruptions are seared into me. But I wasn't turned to ash while I incinerated your world. Well, maybe just a corner of your globe. . . or maybe not.

I can't fix the dishes. I can't relight the pilot light of your eyes, I've already used my last match. I won't call after you, apologies don't carry in a vacuum.

And all the planets and all the stars and all the asteroids know that once you disfigure a celestial body,

There is no going back.

When Spring finally comes, I am feeling acclimated to the winter air. I find myself leaving behind the heavy sweaters in favor of layers. I'm becoming a Vermonter. Utilitarian is my primary focus now. Fashion has taken a backseat. I'm walking to the river in my boots, hoodie, and down jacket enjoying the brisk air, the rushing water and the smell of winter dust in my nostrils. After climbing the hills and sitting on my favorite rock, I wonder. What's next? Spring used to mean running outside with all of Bristol happy and smiling. There are very few walking now. And they are not smiling. They are crossing the street in fear. Do you have it? Do I have it? And if I do, am I at peace? Have I cleaned up everything that needs cleaning up? Have I noticed that things that used to be urgent are not even relevant now? Have I been preparing for this my entire life? Yes, I think I have.

Here's where I am right now: Scrolling through Facebook AGAIN. Obsessively. It's gotten worse over the past week or so. Social distancing.

It feels like I want to know something that I just can't know. I pore over people's posts and the news, and click on photos--even my own sometimes--but remain ungratified.

Last night I realized I wasn't writing anything anymore, or playing music, Or making anything. I sat with my hands in my lap listening to "All Things Considered" and stared ahead vacantly. Then, just to change *something*, began to survey the room. Judged myself for having a coloring book, then got it out. Got out colored pencils. Filled the spaces tight to the lines. Tried not to put the same hues together. Kept an even pressure on the pencils. Got excited by the idea of adding black. Forgot the news. Forgot the vacant feeling. Remembered what it was to make something. Wrote this today, and shared it.

A thousand different pamphlets on the wall. 

I found the material inside them boring. 

They all have the information inside them, but none of them scream, "Read me!"

I guess that's where I come in. 

"Have you tried ______?"

"Would you consider ______?"

Why is it so hard to convince someone to save their own life?

Make sure you’re letting yourself feel. If you need anything just say the word. I can check on you if you need me to. I’m sorry for your loss. Do you need a hug? Can I give you a hug?

I’m going to hug you now.

My friend could do some reiki for you. I’ll keep you both in my prayers. You are in our thoughts. Try not to dwell. Work can be the best salve. Just focus on whatever is in front of you! Focus on the good times. Focus on the fact that you did everything you could. You did everything you could... focus… I’m so sorry for your loss. You know when I went through it…

Sometimes it gets a little crowded with grief in the room.

We are pleased to announce that Writers for Recovery Co-Founder and Creative Director Gary Miller has accepted a seat on the board of directors for the Vermont Association for Mental Health and Addiction Recovery (VAMHAR). A statewide information and advocacy organization, VAMHAR supports all paths to recovery from addiction and mental health conditions. Since 1939, the organization has worked to promote mental wellness in Vermont, and to be the state’s voice in education, training, and community support.

Current VAMHAR programs include the Recovery Coach Academy; Camp Daybreak for kids 8-11 with a range of social, emotional, and behavioral needs; and VTARR, the Vermont Association of Recovery Residences. In addition, VAMHAR operates the Vermont Alcohol and Drug Information Clearinghouse (VADIC), which provides reliable information about substance use disorder and recovery.

“I’m honored by the invitation to join the VAMHAR team,” says Gary. “In 2018, I participated in the Recovery Coach Academy, and it was an incredible professional experience. The VAMHAR staff is amazing, and they’re making a real difference for people all over Vermont." Stay tuned for more news about VAMHAR.

Just take your time. It's yours. Because you are yours, and no one can claim otherwise. Countries, whole masses of purportedly connected humans, may elect presidents, may be usurped by dictators. Because you are yours, no other may preside over you, may dictate your self, may take you. You are yours. When you are yours, you have all you need. Time need not be taken, because it's just there, infinitely and irreversibly so. When you are yours, may the strife of the battle between mine and yours relent and dissipate. May we no longer recognize a need to take what's infinitely there.

I haven't been on this road before" is a sentiment I would often refract in some way at the relative peak of some chemically-induced trip: a drunkenness, a highness. "I didn't used to be like this," I once told a lover (with no memory of having done so) as I slipped into unconsciousness.

I hadn't been down this road before, I'd say. Excitedly, sometimes. Wistfully, sometimes. But always with a sense of long-overdue entitlement. Like I'd been robbed (by whom I couldn't say) of a cultural rite of youthful passage to freedom. From the inhibitions and fears of a muted self. From isolation.

Where to now?

Sometimes it gets a little crowded, and I clamor for space. Sometimes it gets noisy, busy, and I feel the defensive spring in me coil, and I fear its sudden release, whatever that may look like: the snap judgment in desperate search for release, relief, is perhaps without exception a dangerous one.

It gets a little crowded, I notice. The room fills gradually with personalities that are foreign to me; the supposedly voluminous thought-space can swell and ache so quickly with guests, some of them jostling for acknowledgement, some doing violent demonstrations, demanding to be acted upon.

I do not know if I
would have been able
to tell you all things
considered — the present
though is what we have
I have the gift of
presence
Get that?
present and presence
I didn’t make it up but I couldn’t
have anyway
This is it
The whole ball of wax
one big present
event waking + sleeping

coming and going

breathing in
and blessing out

Compassion
Redemption
Cohesion
Absolution

Always finds a voice in
This now this
Clearer spirited yes
This wise wild
calamity of
being

This, That, + the other
so if you indeed
ask me
I probably couldn’t
quite begin to
Tell you but
I would
Try

How could they think that

The goose was fine after the wine?

All night long she dropped eggs all over town,

While chasing the gander.

Feathers blanketing the ground.

Now no pillow have I!

I close my eyes and pretend 
I prop you up and make excuses for your behavior 
I lie to my friends and say I’m fine 
I tell my sister that it’s really a great life 
I post pretty photographs on Facebook 
Inside I die a little bit every single day
While you look through me 
When I can take it no more
I look at me and see
There’s so much more to me 
Than pretty photographs by the sea
I leave you 
And I find me

Be careful where you go.
I know, I know. 
I want to scream. 
Can’t I, just for today, not be careful. 
Just for today, can I be careless? Like a child. Carefree, I mean. 
Unsure. Imperfect. Me.
Can I run without looking.
Jump without a net.
Sing out loud missing every key.
And revel in being me.
Silly, naive, mean spirited, too.
A daredevil riding without a helmet, speeding ahead into the unknown and grinning, wildly, maniacally, cackling and hitting the wall in peace.

My hiding place has been discovered. Shit! When you’re 5’9” playing hide and go seek with a 3 year old in a 3 bedroom apartment, there are not a lot of good hiding places to squeeze into. And suddenly you realize this is just a game and you are meant to be having fun. All of it. You are meant to be having fun with all of it. The good. The bad. The ugly. Stick your hands in the mud and let your fingers play, draw and paint with mud. Get dirty. Relax. Breathe. Laugh. Giggle. Be. Isn’t that better. Be like a 3 year old. Look at the world with joy, awe and a sense of wonder as you discover a new way of being with the human race. 

I feel uncharted roads are obsolete or a relic of the past, but in all honesty that's just my ego. When I search for peace, wisdom, and knowledge I realize they are futuristic roads that have yet to be discovered by man. And I find myself intrigued again. Like finding buried treasure and what that may hold excites me. I vision Pandora's  box disguised as a clunky old rusted and rotting pirates chest. But inside carries the seven wonders of the world at their peak of existence. Much like a pirate who looks rough, tough, and treacherous, but only his crew, ship, and loved ones know the love, loyalty and compassion he carries within. Though I haven't been on this road rough and scary. Paradise may be on the other side.

My options were running out. Death was knocking at my door. It was either get help or die. I didn’t have much time. My friends were no longer friends, my family didn’t understand and couldn’t help me. I didn’t have much time. The sleeping pills are kicking in now, the whiskey is drowning me. I either fight to stay alive or just disappear into the unknown, all I know is I didn’t have much time. To feel alive is one thing, to just exist is another. Either way, I didn’t have much time. I wake up in a fog, no real recollection of anything. I decide to seek help because I didn’t have much time. Days turn to weeks, that turn to months, that turned to years. I wanted to get better but I didn’t have much time. Now it seems I have all the time in the world.

I am from my Mother and Father,

Born in flesh.

I am from a time not like this one,

Can’t choose what’s next.

Time aren’t the same, people have grown, but

Where I am from is a place not yours

But my own.

I am from the 80s, yes

Let it be known,

Me, a listener, a thinker, and artist,

Not like those who bore me,

But I am from a place and time all my own.

A little town, that’s home,

Now a city,

Now a hotel

That doesn’t make me.

I am from the place where I was

Meant to come from,

A time of living is now upon me,

a time of learning,

a time of joy!

I am from my God,

My creator

He made me.

I am from where I was meant to come from,

I would choose no other place…

Nobody Really Knows by Oscar Delgado, Jr.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

The friend,

The lover,

The fighter for your rights.

Nobody really knows how he fell,

Where he went to,

He would just disappear.

Nobody really knows how it happened that

Someone so supportive, strong, kind, and gentle,

Could be lost for 20 years.

He came back once, twice, three times,

Many really,

But always disappeared.

Nobody really knows how it happened.

He was so broken,

But thought he was fine.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

Now they see him, he smiles.

Is it real this time?

Nobody really knows the pain it caused,

The lessons he’s still learning,

The tears he cries to God, if only…

Never comes out, it’s gratitude now.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

How he woke from the nightmare,

All they had to do was ask,

God did,

God knows,

And there’s a secret to his new self.