Chapter and Verse

April 28

CHAPTER AND VERSE

I remember being trained and rehearsed for finding the words which would release my soul from bondage.  The scrupulous concern for detail pointed me to heaven.  And yet I drank.  Inside these rooms the path is wide, judgment is suspended and I have the right to be wrong.  The penalties for error can be great but the privilege and risk are mine.  As in all things, the extremists come.  They have come to this place, too.  Thumpers hound and belittle, threaten and cajole. They tell page numbers like punch lines and narrow the field at every opportunity.  I can’t stay sober sitting on my old stool and I can’t maintain this desire by their chapter and their verse.

Notes are numbers, so count out your time and sing your song.

*

Jane Street

The space between wanting to live

and not wanting to hurt

is the alley in which I live.

This lane is not as narrow as you might think,

In some places there is room for parking on one side.

Since I reside here more often than not

I have filled it with many of the appliances,

which allow me to pretend at life.

It doesn’t afford a truly clean or cheerful locale,

but there are laughs, sometimes flowers in the spring.

Finding my way out of this is tricky.

When unlocked I find these are backdoors to commerce

and though better than being sold wholesale,

retail is not what I was hoping to find

as I wrest myself from a confined existence.

I have heard of those who

drive through plate glass ignoring the structure.

I think this is less workable from the back.

What is left when I can’t bully or climb?

I guess I will have to throw my hands up and pray.

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

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Mercy

September 21

Mercy

The rearview holds the vision, the sad figure on the corner as I drive away, all that is left to me are memories of G-d, the rest I ejected and sped from as fast as I could.  I cannot face what is left when I make G-d homeless and unloved.  Though living together was tough sometimes, living alone is unbearable.  Nothing cooks right, cleans right, tastes right or smells right, even the moon won’t rise right when I am strictly on my own.  And G-d wasn’t built for the streets, that corner is not someplace my Higher Power fits in.  We are meant to be together and apart the world spins off its measure.  Pitiful is what I am, so I swing around the block, fling open the door and take pity on G-d and go home.

Make time for lullabies

*

BELLS

The bells are ringing but no one sings

There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine

For pleasure is not the only response to sound.

Shock and distain are other options, too.

I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear

Equal opportunity attitude, pro and con.

Some songs bring joy when they end.

I have to lower my expectation of pleasure

And value my distaste for tinkling sounds

Or any other preordained sweetness.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Seen on the Street

August 12

Seen on the Street

Sometimes graffiti improves a place, other times it degrades it.  I now wonder; is this defined by the breaking or breaching of public norms?  Or is it built from the intent of the artist/perpetrator?  Possibly the pedestrian traffic or the light of day determine the difference between art and recalcitrance.  What if all these factors flashing like a neon kaleidoscope facilitated what this all really means?  What if it all signifies nothing other than yet another way for me to entertain my brain while avoiding work?  I guess I better get back to the spray cans I have a wall to cover.

(this was sent to me this morning and I think it goes nicely with this reading) .com/embed/23bA_5yadxs

Open your mind to unusual collaboration

*

THE TEAM

The dream sobriety I envision,

The fantasy recovery I mentally construct,

Blows out to sea as so much mist

In the face of actual life.

Setting out sports teams, which don’t exist

Is playful and entertaining.

Trying to rebuild the principals of the program

Is a delusion I can drink over.

Finessing my network and pretending I can put together a team

On a basis of specialized talents instead of ground level willingness

Is like designing a plane without regard to physics

Playing only to esthetics.

Anytime I am redesigning

I must realize I am no longer participating

If I keep my head in the game

I can stay away from statistics and stop planning outcomes.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Exercising Futility

July 1

Exercising Futility

Asking the confused for explanation is like asking a blind man the color of the sea.  It isn’t that he couldn’t tell you, but how could you be sure?  To exercise futility is more than just a game or the words to a song your mother sings when lost or far away.  To take the fish out of water and train it on a bike is meaner than I need to be, but isn’t it my right?  Just to do things because they can be done or try them because they can’t is more the worse for everyday a tragedy in pants.  Puzzle out the little things and practice when you can, for putting on the frazzled mind is cruel to the poor sweet-hearted sot.

Don’t get hooked by excuses

*

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

Fairytale 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 transformations needn’t plague me if I take right action

The difference between blessings and curses

Is the direction in which you are going.