My World Is Blue


What if I can’t find a girl to wed
Maybe there’s no girl for me to wed
I’d hate to greet the sunrise
Beside myself in an empty bed

Like an anxious child I pledge
Allegiance to the devil’s hymn
A life of worry, a mind on edge
Momma calls the deadliest of sins

What if the boss forgets my name
Maybe he won’t know my name
I’d hate to fall down on the job
Leading fools in corporate games

Like an anxious child I pledge
Allegiance to the devil’s hymn
A life of worry, a mind on edge
Momma calls the deadliest of sins

What if I’m gone before I know
Maybe I’ll be gone before I know
I’d hate to find this dress rehearsal
Before a more intolerable show

Like an anxious child I pledge
Allegiance to the devil’s hymn
A life of worry, a mind on edge
Momma calls the deadliest of sins

What if the skies fold up and fall
Maybe the skies will fold up and fall
I’d hate to see the world no longer
Ruled by rag dolls standing tall

Like an anxious child I pledge
Allegiance to the devil’s hymn
A life of worry, a mind on edge
Momma calls the deadliest of sins

c b snoad

A Real Page Turner

I remember from my childhood reading the Choose Your Own Adventure series. Instead of going in order from the first chapter to the last you could pick up a CYOA book and head in numerous directions.

On page 5, for example, you’d be presented with options: If you wanted to scale the mountain to avoid the bear, go to page 27; if you wanted to run into the forest away from the bear, turn to page 39, etc. Each choice led to another series of choices. Multiple outcomes existed; there was no straight line.

My life is its own Choose Your Own Adventure. I enter every day a world created by an Author other than myself. Options abound but no clear path presents itself. There’s always a bear to contend with.

I choose blindly. Sure, I can weigh options and consider where each might lead, but I’m deceiving myself if I presume to know what the future holds.

Sometimes I flirt with the idea of closing the book entirely. What’s the point in picking one path over another when all contain obstacles I might not overcome?

But then I gather myself. I believe in the promise of the story. I want to see how it ends, this book I’ve devoted my life to. My fingerprints smudge the corners, each page retains my trace. Choosing has no easy answers, but not choosing is out of the question.

Me And My Shadow

Chris Truman found himself on the fifth floor of Catholic General Hospital. He had fallen ill at work, overwhelmed by the frenetic pace of his position as a shipping and receiving clerk. Doctors admitted him without a second thought.

The patients on his wing had no names. They went (for insurance purposes) by their DSM-IV codes alone. Many had a number of issues. The staff dispatched their fears with pills. Most were government approved.

One patient played the piano and sang in the recreation room every night. He was full of energy and carried a lively tune. Truman wrote a poem in awe of his stage presence. He preferred Robert over 296.40 and told the artist so.

Truman didn’t care for diagnoses. He had enough problems. What was he after all? He wasn’t clever enough to play the role of doctor. He felt unlike a normal patient. Truman, in a flash of insight, convinced himself that he was Catholic General. Concrete and studs, glass and bricks. The structure itself, housing many levels of pain. Just out the window, what a shadow he cast.

He was everywhere he went. The world he fit inside his head. Thoughts defying logic, refusing to be held. He was full of material, a mix of chemicals. So many words with nothing to say.

As he lay in bed Truman contemplated his current project. How to begin the next chapter on his fictional friend Chuck Snoad? He’d be discharged eventually. What did all this mean? How did Truman’s struggles with the Sadness and the Nerves speak to his character?

Battle Fatigue

In rehab it’s possible that Robin Williams’ doctors treated him as a dual diagnosis patient. A dual diagnosis indicates that a patient suffers from some form of mental illness along with substance abuse. Depression, for example, might lead to alcohol abuse, or abusing alcohol might make depression worse.

I look at it more like a DUEL diagnosis. Every day you wake up staring down your opponent, preparing to fight. It’s like those old-time Westerns, with all the drama and the palpable threat of death.

But in this duel, as you approach your adversary, a wall appears and smacks you in the face. It’s a mirror you’ve been staring down—it’s you you’re after, fighting for your life against your life itself.

Robin Williams knew the feeling. He fought hard to stay on his feet. As I continue my battle with depression, I’m distraught today over the realization that a talented man and caring soul couldn’t stop beating himself up.

Pen Pals

I feel like I’ve known Chris Truman my whole life. We’ve never met in person, but I’m sure he’d recognize me in a crowd.

We write each other often. The old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. He fancies himself a poet. Graduated near the top of his class (which gets a man nowhere in this world) from Pinehurst College, better known as PC. The Department of English thought he’d go far.

He knows all too well about the Sadness and suffers from a terrible case of the Nerves. By all accounts, though, he’s a nice guy.

I’m sketching an outline of the circumstances surrounding his life. Perhaps I’ll post an update soon. If it’s to his liking, Truman might share it on his blog. He appreciates the attention.