Accidents, Injuries, and Diseases

Besides doctors and nurses, does anyone really like to be in hospitals--or any other medical facility for that matter? All my senses become 'on-guard', because of the plethora of triggers: the smell of Ethyl alcohol, the moaning of the sick and dying, the sight of blood and vomit, the cold waiting-room seat, the taste of hospital food, the encompassing shroud of foreboding, etc...
I think, however, that the main difference between most people and how they deal with such things is how one was raised to deal with the adversities, tragedies, and taboo-subjects enmeshed within our lives. For someone born reasonably healthy, I'd never enjoyed much time being in that same place. Being of Celtic background, 'dirt-laundry' was never shared or exposed--including mental and physical maladies. My family was loaded with them, from which I would not be exempt. My siblings and I rarely saw anyone in the medical field unless it was an emergency--and that was loosely defined. (On the other hand: Today, people use the emergency room like a baby uses a pacifier.) The way I see it today, it's not only what we experienced in health issues , but even more poignant, it was what we were exposed to in relation to the collateral damage related to these types of matters. Many times I was left to process things by myself, and consideration to the mental and emotional issues that often accompanied such experiences were left unattended--sometimes even ignored. What I witnessed had as much, if not more, impact on me than what actually happened to me physically. Before I was 6, I saw: a pot of hot coffee spill over my sister, my brother's split-open head from a fall to the couch, and a husband and wife fighting and the wife was hit over the head with an old-fashioned frying pan--just to name few examples. The smell of burning-flesh, the sight of a loved-ones brain-matter and blood gushing from a woman's eye socket; all indelibly marked in my memory and left unexplained and twisted in denial and false-truths. At an early age I was admitted to a hospital for a 'stiff-neck'. I still don't know what the hell it was except that I experience 3 days of lonely-fear. Even before I was a young adult I saw: a axe slice into my brother's knee and watched , not blood, but fat oozing out of him; one of my sister's ride-by in an ambulance with a ripped-up face after falling off a speeding-bike down a stony road,a small car flip over several times and the driver crawling out as a bloody mess, my father cut off his thumb off in a powerful window fan, friends 'beat-to-a-pulp' by drunken fathers,and this is the short list. As for some of my maladies, I had: the worst cases of eczema and acne, all over my body--for years. The emotional pain far outweighed the physical uncomfortableness's--and those moments by themselves were many. Between the two, I produced a constant flow of puss that continually soaked my clothes and provided fodder for the constant mocking from peers and teachers alike. (The fact that my parents smoked non-stop everywhere(including an enclosed car) didn't help much either towards our overall good health.) My nervous system was stretched to the limit constantly, and the only real relief and solution came when I became a daily drinker at the age of eighteen. It didn't work for my parents, but I was determined to make it work for me. Actually, it worked most of the time; however, it was a short-lived solution. I began to mimic my parents and most adults of the time, and began dealing with life on my terms. The insanity increased, and I eventually began to perpetuate the same behaviors and results. Everyone else was the problem, and there was plenty of blame to go around for others--and eventually self-pity and disdain for myself. I knew it all, but had so much to learn. What I was exposed to as a child, I was now experiencing the same two-fold--through my own participation. In some ways the alcohol and drugs saved my life, but it was the absence of them that gave me an opportunity to be reborn. The problem now lied in the fact I was thirty going-on fourteen-and I had to make a daily decision to willingly move towards doing the work in order to 'begin' to grow-up. It wasn't until years later in therapy that I uncovered some others reasons I choose alcohol and drugs to deal with the strangeness that accompanied and inundated my life experiences--as well as psyche.

Images

The night grows as I do,
old and still.
Darkness as a dam,
blocks my windowsill.
Small breezes trickle through,
to rustle and enhance the 'dance-of-light,
that reflects an image,
off a silvery-knife.
That ragged-edged knife,
in the shape of a spoon,
a disguise well made for one that's not used.
The turning and twisting of a branch through the mist,
is like an unbroken-heart pierced...with one kiss.
Emotions would do better,
to follow nature's way.
To die before the evening,
relive in time for day.

C 1977 James Harmon McQuilkin II

I wrote this piece just before the summer of '77, after my soul-mate broke my heart and strained my aching-soul to a place I never imagined could exist. At the end of that sleepless night, I decided not to take my own life. From then on writing, and the rest of the creative arts, became my outlet for expressionistic-healing.

Fear, Faith, Fact, and Friction

Is faith truly the opposite of fear? If we know all the facts about what we are indeed afraid of, should that knowledge resolve the friction between fantasy and reality and quell the fear? I accept that 'part' of my humanness is existing and surviving in a universe of many more unknowns than knowns. Fear reminds me that I don't like it; however, acceptance does not rely on my approval or understanding--in part or in whole.Being a child has its advantages, and one of the disadvantages (more so seen through the eyes of an adult)is the naivety that accompanies youth. Being a parent has taught me more about myself and the world around me, than any other life experience.I have always been aware of the burden and powerless-feeling part of fear. Fear is not only what it is, but more so what I make it out to be or turn it into--facts or not withstanding. As a child, I was not as concerned with the rational behind a fear--much less behind anything else for that matter. I have always been petrified of bees. The first time I was stung was as an older adult, so that was not part of the factual basis for the origin of the fear. Bees had an immediate and deeper connection to me that I couldn't explain to any one else. It was the: big eyes, dangling and skinny legs,insidiously-quick movement, and my instinctive-belief that these creatures displayed an attitude of brilliant-entitlement. They were 'the boss of me'. I remember during the age of 3, watching over the summer a wasp's nest form outside my top bedroom window. It got so huge that it began to spread open into the top crack of the inside part of the frame. Eventually, the wasps made the inside of the window almost as much a part of home as the outside. As often as I pointed this out to my parents, they'd just as often reply
with the same response: " If you don't bother them, they won't bother you." During the day I would curiously and cautiously watch them from the doorway of my tiny room, which both my younger brother and I shared. (Very little ever seemed to phase him)I was glad that the bees slept too, yet I learned to sleep with one eye open My father eventually sprayed the 'little demons' to death, and the room was off limits for the day. After years of the same insanity, I began to take matters into my own hands. My actions mostly consisted of running away, but soon I got the hang of using the can of Raid, as well the longest, stiffest weapon I could find and wrap my little hands around. In the ensuing years, I : jumped off roofs, swerved my car into on-coming traffic, halted outdoor performances, knocked over good friends to the ground, and frightened anyone in my presence to death when they were unfortunately in my company, when a bee flew onto the scene. Other than getting stung a few times since, nothing has changed. As for fear being the opposite of faith, all I can say is that I know that: "There is a God and I'm not Him, and hope that bees are not-as well.

Worth and/or Value

Every once in a while, I assign a creative-writing, warm-up task to my students: How can a quarter have more worth and/or value than a dollar? From K-12, the faces all look the same--puzzled. I realized a while ago that not all young people have the analytical and inquisitively-existential mind I did and still do--well....with what's left! Isn't that what a more affective teacher tries to do? Stimulate, motivate, inspire, model..etc...; however, the truth is that I do these types of things to keep from going insane and complacent in my own learning--maintaining a zest for life.

Even the most 'financially-challenged' of us have been able to (one way or another) relate to money, and the 'what's' and 'how's' of its usage and power. Before I discuss the students answers, I lead-in with a few examples from my youth about what one could purchase with just one penny. ( Not to mention all the coins over the years smart-ass students threw at me while I was only a substitute, of which I would always pick up around them--in my usual didactic manner)So, when I found a penny, or any change for that matter, it was a special moment. Growing -up poor in a well-to-do area was difficult and often embarrassing. However, I lived and learned how to value what was available, and assigned my own sense of worth to things. Not much came to us, we had to go out in search by ourselves--more often in a group of the neighborhood friends. Money mistakenly left in vending machines and telephone booths was one of our first sources of 'income'--not an allowance. I remember the first time my siblings and I pooled our money together to get a 'Hamburger Platter' at the local Milk Shed. We always walked by this downtown place(which we had no business being there at such young ages). We had years of experience just admiring and savoring just the smells of foods that we had little or no access. One of our bus stops was at the Pizza Mia, and the smell of the food was worth the bumpy bus ride home. Back then, bread was left in front of the store before opening, and my friends would help themselves--not to eat , but to toss the round pita around like a Frisbee. If they weren't looking I would eat a piece, and it still tasted wonderful. Finding and returning soda bottles was another 'found-treasure' in those days. Around a mile away, I would love to visit 'The Dump'. Man, the things we would find; however, bringing the stuff home would make my proud parents upset. Their excuse was that the stuff was dirty and diseased, but their cigarettes and scotch were fine. At least our stuff was free! We could buy so much for so little back then. This was a post-war time when money was backed with gold and silver, and people still had a conscience about producing products of quality. The stories change somewhat over the generations (prior and since), but in proportion they mean much the same. A quarter in the 50's was worth more than a dollar in the 90's-even considering things like: the GNP, inflation, minimum-wage, and cost-of-living. A quarter at the dollar store has a distinct possibility of being worth more than what a dollar gets at a mall shop. Our discussions always reveal a new angel of thought--and that is worth a great deal to me, and I value the experiences much the same as my childhood memories relating to much the same resourcefulness, adventures, and relationships. I still treasure a hamburger platter the most, because it is usually the best value, more so because its taste always reminds me that 'worth and value' don't necessarily equate to just matters of money; however, I still count my change.

Heroes Do Die
Heroes do die; however, the substance that maintains the legacy of their meaning and purpose ‘lives-on’ through: the prosperity and freedoms we enjoy, as well the sacrifices and efforts put forth—to respectfully ensure and protect such liberties.


James Harmon McQuilkin II C 2009

Link to Photos

http://www.jpgmag.com/people/JamesHarmonHarmon/

Home

Home

Though you may not feel ‘safe-at-home’,

there ‘will be’ a time designed to ‘leave-the-nest’.

The curved-path before you ‘will be’ long and narrow,

and there ‘will be’ obstacles along the way.

Do not let the ‘snakes’, ‘monsters’, and ‘demons’

lure you off the path of your ‘body’s’ destination.

When you come to a point that feels like ‘the end’,

there’ll be an ‘ocean-of-opportunities’ for your ‘New Beginning’.

Point your direction, set your sights, and use your instincts.

It matters not what ship you sail; however,

respect the power within the ‘Sea-of-Life’.

Be cautious of where you ‘land’ and ‘sow your seeds’.

Find your ‘piers’: ‘Dock’, rest, and then stay awhile.

Learn to work and play in balance,

and soon you’ll realize (that where ever you are),

that you are home.

You ‘are’ your home.

Inherit this responsibility and command respect,

so that when your children ‘leave the nest’,

they realize that:

The ‘body’ is freedom—yet, this ‘home’ is not free.

This ‘brief independence’ trickles down to the sea.

When enough time has passed,

and they are what they’ll be,

they’ll return home with spirit--

and know in their heart,

that we’re ‘all’ family.


By: James Harmon McQuilkin II C 2009 ‘Bussy Boo Productions and Distributions’ All Rights Reserved

Sick..Sicker...Sickest

After about a week's worth of bedrest and assorted medicines, I'm winding down from my forced and unplanned vacation in 'Swineville'. Tranistioning back to reality after surviving this type of malady, for me, can be best described as 'Jet-lag' to the tenth power. I don't do 'sick' well. If the 'act of sleeping' could be compared to a succcessful manufacturing-company needlessly holding-back production each day of its best line of chocolate products, then for me 'being sick' could best be described as having that same company maintain production at all times; yet, stockpile their delicious product in the 90-degree sun--for an indefinate period of time. (Remember, I'm still a bit delirious..and a little hungry.)
All-in-all: I don't appreciate anything that gets in the way of my 'productivity'. Multi-tasking has been a way-of-life for me since I was a young boy, and it has always been accompanied by an overwhelming sense of responcibility and dedication to a slew of underlining and un-defined 'spiritual' duties. Like the Blues Brothers would say, "We're on a mission from God'. However, moments of rest can be be quite revealing--in an uninvited-guest sort-of-way. When the busyness is forced to slow down, or even stop, I become reaquainted with the anger and fears that are masqued by it all.

More Memories

As far back as I can remember, I had the sensation that I was living life on the outside looking in. It were as if I was watching my own life's experiences above from which where they were happening--at the same time. Dare I say it: It was like I having had a seat next to my 'Higher Power', realizing the: privilege, awesomeness, and peace at the same time. I could say 'the sensation' has changed over the years; however, I more want to convey that it has matured. Maybe it all comes down to finding a safe place away from the sorrows and pain--then and now.
Even then, I felt guided and more protected than others; however, that awareness didn't seem to quell all the fears. The best times were in exploration. Venturing out into the woods, the neighbors yards, and the closest paved and/or unpaved street--stretching the boundries on each adventure. (Sometimes with my brother, most times on my own) One time my brother and I ventured down to the main road, some three-hundred yards around the circle driveway, and desided to play chicken with the oncoming cars. We raced back and forth as many times as we could, before the car would hit us. I lost! Going the extra lap (I thought) would make me the hero not just the winner, and besides, I felt as though I was protected beyond everyones else's mortal boundries and limitations. A car came to a screeching halt, stopping in time to just hit and cut my knee. Of course, I ran to the house screaming bloody murder--blaming the driver. In speaking with my mother, the poor guy was a bundle of humbled-nerves. I too was knocked down a peg, and realized at a very young age that such recklessness and arrogant behavior was not going to tolerated--even from the 'Watchers".
I never felt much like a child--except at Christmas. Life was serious and scary, but at the same time it was a mystery I longed to solve. At 4 years old and the oldest of 4 (15 years later to be 5), I felt such an overwhelming responsibility to watch over my siblings--even beyond that of making-up for our lacking parents. What made it more difficult was that they did not always want my help. My 2 sisters were in diapers, and one morning I remember my mother screaming at my father. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs (one with a long banister that we loved to slide down at the speed of sound), and I listened to them argue while they were in my sisters' room. My mother screamed at my father, " The babies' diapers are frozen!" Immediately I became freightened and concerned for my neglected siblings. Not long afterwards feeling anger and distain for both my parents--mostly my dad. He admitted closing their door in the middle of the night, because they were crying too much. It was the middle of winter,in 1959, and heat was purposly scarce. All I could imagine was that the 2 girls were nothing more than frozen dolls. I was never so glad to hear them cry; however, the joy and relief were short-lived.

Links to a Variety of My Creative Expressions

Poetry-
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/search.asp?First=James&Last=McQuilkin
Short Stories-
http://www.mysticaluniverse.com/unexplained/un2/un3/un3.html#Star12
http://www.mysticaluniverse.com/unexplained/un2/un3/un4/un4.html#nde2
Photography and Graphics
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2019452&id=1469361988&saved#/album.php?aid=2019452&id=1469361988
http://www.jpgmag.com/people/JamesHarmon
Music-

Dreams

I don't know how others can differenciate and justify to themselves what seperates their dreams from other memories or experiences. For me at least, the line between all these types of concepts becomes more blurred because of how I perceive (or'd think I'd perceive)how others might see or react to what I would have/have had to convey as such. When I was 5 our family moved to a town in NJ called Denville. By then, there were 6 of us (15 years later 7). (Two boys and two girls--I being the oldest.) No sooner that we moved-in, I had had my first official nightmare. I dreamt I was being chased by a skeleton through this new dwelling (actually an apartment above a car-parts store called J-Rods). I remember running through all the rooms to only end up finally finding a hiding-spot under a radiator in the bathroom. The skeleton was reaching under to snatch me, and I remember seeing that scary, cartoon-like face--bearing an evil, sharp-toothed grin. Of course, I woke-up screaming, and my Mom came in to comfort me. I scared the "you-know-what' out of my little brother, too. My father came in soon afterwards. He had a more 'hard-ass' approach to matters, and when I got done sobbingly-explaining my nightmare my father had had the great idea that I should 'face my fear' and go the bathroom--to get a dose of reality. In a way I had little choice, being I had had to take a 'wicked pee' and possibly puke. We all went to the bathroom (my brother, the curious-troublemaker, followed) and all bend down at once to give a look. (Nothing but balls of dust) I reluctantly used the john, which (just my luck) was next to the bowl. I tried not to dangle my feet in front of the radiator, for fear of being pulled-into the opening of hell. It made sense to me, because it: had had no cover, rocked and jumped when the steam screamed out, and was burning-hot to the touch. (We already knew this because, during the winter, we would stick our rear ends close to it to get warmed-up only to inevitably get too close (or would be pushed against it while we all were scrambling for the closest position) and bet burned. The combination of the memory of the nightmare and the events afterwards with my family solidified in my mind then (and now) that I indeed had had a dream. It's as vivid in my 55-year-old head as it was 50 years ago. However, there were other dreams before that that I wasn't then (and even now) sure about as far as the same certainty of my first nightmare. Repressed, those memories didn't surface until later, and the synchronicity of my life started to reveal itself.

Poetry Month's Every Day

Held in captivity,

and rightfully so.

The demon I gave power-

was alcohol.

I surrendered the key,

remained in my cell.

Haven nor Heaven,

just a place under hell.

More Memories

MacNaughtens was a huge 2-family house that was somewhat similar to a plantation-like dwelling--complete with a full-sized, screened-in porch in the front. The property in front of the house (going all the way down to the street) was a huge circle of grass--with a driveway all around it. We had 2 neighbors--one on the left side and one in the back. That was it. Everything else was woods, and unless one walked back a ways one would never had have discovered the golf course on the left and a factory on the right. My brother and I were free to roam, and for a 2 and 3 year old, we covered a lot of ground. (We 'were' a hand-full, and my mother had a baby in the house and another on the way). My brother was the adventurous one, and the first time he went into the back woods he went on his own. I was frightened for the both of us--him for going and me for not going along to protect my little brother. Three hours later he emerged from the woods, and I was glad for 3 things: He came back, I wouldn't get a beating, and that there was an outhouse next to our house--where that would be where I passed the time in private. When I asked him why he was gone for so long, he said he saw a golf course, a factory, and a big owl. (I saw that owl close-by days before, and it's eye's seemed to look right through me) At a later time I mustered the courage to go by myself, and the trip took about 30 minutes to complete; however, I didn't explore too much either. It was all too scary, and the last thing I wanted to see was that owl.

Memories

All of our 'dwellings' had nicknames--besides being identifiable by street and town. The first one was called 'Lumbordinos', and it was an aptartment within someone elses house--verified through photos and relatives' confirmations. The second house was called 'MacNaughtens' (located in Florham Park, NJ), and this is where I begin to have memories--starting somewhere between the ages of 2 and 3. I've always had a photographic memory, and have proved so on many occasions with parents, siblings, and other relatives. The standard reply is (and has almost always been),"You remember that?" I learned over time that not everyone wants to remember all things. (Your truth, my truth, and the truth--sort of thing) However, couple this with: technecolor-dreams, vivid imagination, early television, and lack of support from denying relatives...the air-of-uncertancy and doubt soon clouded and blurred the lines between my certaincy of that which distingquished reality from fantacy.

Questioning: Memories, Dreams, and Reality

I didn't think much about existential matters as a young child. My belief is that few children do. My first experiences, that I have had remembered, involve being between 2-3 years-old. The old saying is: There's your truth, there's my truth, and then there's 'the' truth. Is truth reality, or visa versa? It wasn't till I stated watching Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits that I began to peek out of my little world--Jimmy's World. (I'm still there, but my universe has 'slightly' expanded since; a world which I wasn't even really fully aware that I had created.) It has seemed, over the last 25 years (or more), that the more questions I've asked the less I had seemed to know. Life became even more confusing and even scarier.

Signs

Driving has become a full-time job--stress and all. Yes, the joy is in the journey; however, somehow at one point, I desided that the act of driving alone was not enough. I loved to blast Black Sabbath and drink-and-drive. Of course that led to eat and drive. When girls came into the picture...well, I juggled it all--and then some (Even on the motorcycle). More recently, the cell phone hasn't helped matters either. I remember years ago, driving to college, making a left turn at a light--on a busy 2-lane highway. I didn't see the cop ahead on the other side, but of course he saw me. When he stopped me, only yards from the turn, he went through the 'normal 'routine. Next, he asked me why I didn't see all the signs at the light that stated emphatically NOT to make a left. I said I didn't see them. His exact reply I don't recall, because of the paralizing fear, but the implication was that that was obvious to him, and that I couldn't be that stupid enough to purposely disregard the law in front of an officer. Then he made me walk back to the intersection, and count how many signs there were related to NOT making a left-turn. (I can still hear the laughter and car horns from the world around me.) When finished counting, I discovered that there were a total of 15 varities of the same message-of which none I saw. I went back to the cop, and told him how many I counted. He said if he could write me a ticket for being stupid he would. I received a warning with my 'crap-sandwhich'(of which I had an extra helping in my pants), and crawled to school in every right-lane I could find. How could I not see all those signs? It turns out, over the last 25 years I have had to come to realize that those weren't the only signs I had missed. Upon review, in more sober times, I've been able to recall many more that I missed, and more importantly have become more open and aware of signs that before I would have missed as well. Like it or not, it was time to connect-the-dots. JamesHarmon

Jimmy's World: A New Beginning

Jimmy's Worhttp://www.mysticaluniverse.com/unexplained/un2/un3/un4/un4.html#nde2ld: A New Beginning

A New Beginning

Change is never easy. I spent much of my life avoiding and/or hiding from IT! Sometimes I don't see it coming. Other times, I-get-the-ball-rolling myself. Most of the time I have reacted in the extremes--like fight or flight. Highs and lows are familiar stops off the 'Crazy Train' that I call my life's journey. I've always been afraid of the gray-matter--all the stops along the way between the extremes. (FEAR! F _ _ _ Everything and Run.) If I bother to stay it's anger that becomes my protector and 'drug-of-choice', from which I often O.D'd. The beginning of addressing such core defects within my character began 25 years ago. Although it was an abrupt start, the process since has been slow, tedious, and painful. This was not really the beginning, but one of 'those stops' along the way. I got off the train; however, it was still moving. As for the 'real beginning'...I'm not sure where it is exactly. More importantly, the healing process had begun and a new beginning was underway.