B.B. Russell shot himself in the heart. His wife found him in the back yard before he'd fully died. Joe received a call and went straight over. He arrived to a circus of emergency vehicles, police officers and Laurie standing in the middle of it, in shock.
Another of Joe's friends slit his wrists this week. He was found lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. He survived his attempt to end his suffering. If you can call that survival.
Joe's Dad is in the hospital. Whatever he's got, it's serious. Joe's family is waiting. Waiting for test results. Waiting for a diagnosis. Waiting for a prognosis. Waiting for some certainty.
Certainty never comes.
In the midst all this, Joe was abandoned by the woman he loves.
Joe is my friend. I love him beyond measure. He writes songs that pierce your heart and sings like it's his last day on earth.
Joe and I have a lot in common. We constantly fuck up. And then we spend a lot of time and money trying to recover from our bad choices and depression-induced avoidance of material world obligations. We are both too sensitive for our own good. We perpetually try to make sense of senseless matter and drive ourselves mad doing so.
The first night Joe and I hung out together was the sort of all-night excursion that takes on epic proportions. I worked at The Garage back then and usually wrapped up my evening around 4 a.m. Joe tended bar across the street at a joint that happened to have a pretty nice coffee machine. I would often stop in to grab a cup of coffee to help see me home. One night, Joe needed a ride home and so I offered my services.
That night I learned that something as simple as a trip from point A to point B turns into a labyrinthine adventure with Joe. We wound our way through the countryside surrounding Walkertown, dropping by this place, checking on that, talking til dawn.
A silvery mist rose in the predawn light as I navigated curvy country roads. The asphalt's mundane aspect took on a mystical sheen. And suddenly, we came upon a magnificent hawk standing motionless in the middle of the road. I slowed my car nearly to a halt and inched ever closer to this creature. It stayed fixed atop its fresh kill - a large rodent. I finally stopped my car completely. Joe and I stared in silence at this tremendous bird, standing so close we could see its eyes, its talons, the texture of its feathers.
Joe finally broke the silence.
"It's a hawk!"
I corrected him. "It's a magical hawk!"
Joe agreed. "It is a magical hawk! I wonder if it'll let me pet it!"
"I don't know, Joe. He might think you're after his food."
"I want to touch him!"
Joe reached for the door handle. And as soon as he did, the hawk flew away, carrying his kill in his talons. Joe and I sat in stupid silence for several minutes. There. In the middle of the road. At the break of day. We had just seen a magical hawk.
I reminded Joe of this story tonight as I tried to comfort him. I told him that in the Native American tradition, Hawk carries our messages to Great Spirit and Great Spirit's messages to us.
Joe feels abandoned by God. I told Joe that he doesn't have to believe in God. But the magical Hawk is real. He can hear Joe. And he can carry his messages on his wings as he soars through the sky.
I don't know how to help my friends when they've reached their limit. I know how it feels to reach that point. And still, I don't know how to help others once they've reached it. All I know to do is hold them, either in my arms or in my heart. Just hold them.
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sam's Death Day
Cinco de Mayo is Sam Moss' death day. Fans of Sam renamed this day: Cinco de Mosso. Three years ago today he was found in his house with a bullet through his brain - self-inflicted. I think of him often. But especially on this day, the anniversary of his death.
Sam Moss owned a guitar store in Winston-Salem for many years. It was a bit of an institution. Guitar players and guitar player wannabes congregated there to try out different guitars, trade stories, discuss techniques and boast about the famous musicians they personally knew. Rarely did these cats ever buy anything. On Saturdays, the elite inner circle participated in the ritual Pulliam's run.
Every Saturday at noon, Sam closed up shop. He hung in the window of the front door a sign whose clock indicated the time he would return. And several folks would pile into his car and head over to Pulliam's for "dogs and 'q'." Pulliam's is a funky little joint that's been selling eats for over a hundred years. The only food they prepare is hot dogs and barbeque. But you can also buy a bag of chips, B & G fried pies, school cafeteria-style fudge, Super Bubble bubble gum and sodas from old-fashioned drink coolers.
Sam hounded me for months about joining the crew at Pulliam's. When I finally decided to meet there, I couldn't find the place.
So the following week, I met Sam at his guitar shop and rode to Pulliam's with the guys. We rolled into a gravel parking lot by an old house that sat slightly away from the road and tucked under generous old shade trees. Its green and white striped paint job created a camouflaged effect. It's sign was narrow and faded.
I walked inside and strode up to the counter. Sam instructed me to season my dog with Big Ed's Hot Sauce - made on the premises. "Big Ed's makes the dog," he said. "But start with the mild and work your way up to the heavy duty stuff. Trust me on this one." I did. He was right.
Now here's the deal about Pulliam's hot dogs: they are those red ones that probably have every atrocious body part and carcinogenic chemical a hot dog can possibly have and be still be sold legally. But my theory is this: Big Ed's Hot Sauce renders all potentially damaging factors null and void. It is, if you will, an antidote for the very food it flavors.
Pulliam's has no indoor seating. Instead, folks crowd around a tall stainless steel counter top, eat their dogs and tell stories. If you want to sit down, there are stumps out back.
I started going semi-weekly to Pulliam's. Sam would always greet me enthusiastically, always want to know what trouble I was causing, always be pleased when I'd tell him. We'd sit out front after eating a couple of dogs and smoke and joke. The grimeyness and the yumminess of those Saturdays is hard to convey. But I loved them.
One Saturday when Sam wasn't around, I was at Pulliam's eating a dog and I noticed an article that had been cut out from some tabloid, the name of which I've forgotten. It was an article about Sam's deceased wife, Dido, who had won a trip to Russia courtesy of this tabloid. Dido apparently was an avid tabloid reader. She entered all their contests. And in this instance, won.
The article included a photo of Sam and Dido embracing in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Sam looked exuberant. I'd never seen him so happy. And I realized that when Dido died, a part of Sam must have died as well. I imagine he was consumed with a grief that never quite finished consuming him. Maybe that's what got him in the end.
Sam Moss sold me my guitar. I had been given a Yamaha some 16 years prior by ex-husband guy who was generously trying to help me realize my dream of playing guitar. But it was a clumsy guitar for me to handle and I grew frustrated every time I tried to play it. Eventually I figured it out: this wasn't the right guitar for me.
So I took the Yamaha to Sam Moss at his guitar shop and asked if I could trade it in for an old Silvertone I'd been eying. It was a beautiful guitar, late 1940's, made of dark wood and some sort of turquoise-colored trim. This guitar really seemed like it was the right one. But Sam knew better.
"Old guitars will vibe you," he said. "They've been in smoke-filled honky-tonks and juke joints and they've built a lot of character as a result. But that doesn't mean this is the right guitar for you."
Sam had me sit down and close my eyes. He put a guitar in my lap and said, "Now play." I awkwardly struck a chord. He then told me to keep my eyes closed as he took that guitar away and shoved another in my lap. This went on for a bit til I got the point. So I wandered around his shop and pulled damn near every guitar off the walls, playing them all til I found exactly the right one.
It's an Alvarez, DY-54. Shallow body, fiberglass back, low action. Acoustic, but pick-ups were added. I fell in love. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was my guitar. Turns out it belonged to Chris Stamey at one point in time. Sam would say, "I've got the papers of authenticity to prove it. If I can ever find them." Having seen Sam Moss' back office, I figured I'd never see those papers of authenticity. But it didn't matter. I loved my guitar.
Sam told me that I needed to hire an exorcist to get rid of any residual Stamey.
Sam encouraged me to write my own songs. "All you need is three chords to be a rock 'n' roll star," he said. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star. I just wanted to use music as another vehicle for story-telling.
Sam gave me the confidence to start writing silly songs. Regretfully, I never played any of them for him. If I had, I think he would have laughed.
~~~
Sam Moss owned a guitar store in Winston-Salem for many years. It was a bit of an institution. Guitar players and guitar player wannabes congregated there to try out different guitars, trade stories, discuss techniques and boast about the famous musicians they personally knew. Rarely did these cats ever buy anything. On Saturdays, the elite inner circle participated in the ritual Pulliam's run.
Every Saturday at noon, Sam closed up shop. He hung in the window of the front door a sign whose clock indicated the time he would return. And several folks would pile into his car and head over to Pulliam's for "dogs and 'q'." Pulliam's is a funky little joint that's been selling eats for over a hundred years. The only food they prepare is hot dogs and barbeque. But you can also buy a bag of chips, B & G fried pies, school cafeteria-style fudge, Super Bubble bubble gum and sodas from old-fashioned drink coolers.
Sam hounded me for months about joining the crew at Pulliam's. When I finally decided to meet there, I couldn't find the place.
So the following week, I met Sam at his guitar shop and rode to Pulliam's with the guys. We rolled into a gravel parking lot by an old house that sat slightly away from the road and tucked under generous old shade trees. Its green and white striped paint job created a camouflaged effect. It's sign was narrow and faded.
I walked inside and strode up to the counter. Sam instructed me to season my dog with Big Ed's Hot Sauce - made on the premises. "Big Ed's makes the dog," he said. "But start with the mild and work your way up to the heavy duty stuff. Trust me on this one." I did. He was right.
Now here's the deal about Pulliam's hot dogs: they are those red ones that probably have every atrocious body part and carcinogenic chemical a hot dog can possibly have and be still be sold legally. But my theory is this: Big Ed's Hot Sauce renders all potentially damaging factors null and void. It is, if you will, an antidote for the very food it flavors.
Pulliam's has no indoor seating. Instead, folks crowd around a tall stainless steel counter top, eat their dogs and tell stories. If you want to sit down, there are stumps out back.
I started going semi-weekly to Pulliam's. Sam would always greet me enthusiastically, always want to know what trouble I was causing, always be pleased when I'd tell him. We'd sit out front after eating a couple of dogs and smoke and joke. The grimeyness and the yumminess of those Saturdays is hard to convey. But I loved them.
One Saturday when Sam wasn't around, I was at Pulliam's eating a dog and I noticed an article that had been cut out from some tabloid, the name of which I've forgotten. It was an article about Sam's deceased wife, Dido, who had won a trip to Russia courtesy of this tabloid. Dido apparently was an avid tabloid reader. She entered all their contests. And in this instance, won.
The article included a photo of Sam and Dido embracing in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Sam looked exuberant. I'd never seen him so happy. And I realized that when Dido died, a part of Sam must have died as well. I imagine he was consumed with a grief that never quite finished consuming him. Maybe that's what got him in the end.
~~~
Sam and Dido had been crazy in love with each other. It was, everyone says, an epic romance.
~~~
Sam Moss sold me my guitar. I had been given a Yamaha some 16 years prior by ex-husband guy who was generously trying to help me realize my dream of playing guitar. But it was a clumsy guitar for me to handle and I grew frustrated every time I tried to play it. Eventually I figured it out: this wasn't the right guitar for me.
So I took the Yamaha to Sam Moss at his guitar shop and asked if I could trade it in for an old Silvertone I'd been eying. It was a beautiful guitar, late 1940's, made of dark wood and some sort of turquoise-colored trim. This guitar really seemed like it was the right one. But Sam knew better.
"Old guitars will vibe you," he said. "They've been in smoke-filled honky-tonks and juke joints and they've built a lot of character as a result. But that doesn't mean this is the right guitar for you."
Sam had me sit down and close my eyes. He put a guitar in my lap and said, "Now play." I awkwardly struck a chord. He then told me to keep my eyes closed as he took that guitar away and shoved another in my lap. This went on for a bit til I got the point. So I wandered around his shop and pulled damn near every guitar off the walls, playing them all til I found exactly the right one.
It's an Alvarez, DY-54. Shallow body, fiberglass back, low action. Acoustic, but pick-ups were added. I fell in love. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was my guitar. Turns out it belonged to Chris Stamey at one point in time. Sam would say, "I've got the papers of authenticity to prove it. If I can ever find them." Having seen Sam Moss' back office, I figured I'd never see those papers of authenticity. But it didn't matter. I loved my guitar.
Sam told me that I needed to hire an exorcist to get rid of any residual Stamey.
Sam encouraged me to write my own songs. "All you need is three chords to be a rock 'n' roll star," he said. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star. I just wanted to use music as another vehicle for story-telling.
Sam gave me the confidence to start writing silly songs. Regretfully, I never played any of them for him. If I had, I think he would have laughed.
~~~
Sam Moss nicknamed me "The Vomitor" (emphasizing the "tor") after a rough tequila night. He kidded me about losing my shit. But in the end he'd hug me and tell me that he'd seen his share of rock 'n' rollers lose their shit and the degree to which I'd lost mine was impressive, right up there with the best of them. And so I feel that by hurling massively in Sam Moss' bathroom, or "The Vomitorium" as it came to be known post-kathyclark, I have somehow endeared myself to the Gods of Rock 'n' Roll.
~~~
Sam Moss had an uncanny capacity to make me feel wholly treasured, as if I was a precious being, somebody special. Maybe he did that to everyone. Maybe that's a testament to his unconditionally loving nature. Or maybe he himself wanted to feel like a precious being, like somebody special. So he did his best to make others feel that way. In the end, I think Sam didn't grasp how fully amazing and well-loved he was. This thought makes me incredibly sad.~~~
Several weeks after Sam's death, I continued to experience a very deep grief. I went to see a Native American healer whom I felt could help me somehow come to terms with his passing. She journeyed out of her body to check on him, to make sure he had fully crossed over. When she returned, she smiled broadly and told me that he's doing very well, that he is in a better position to do the work he was meant to do.
Sam gave her a message to related to me. He said, "Quit crying. Those tears are not for me. Quit crying for yourself and start doing the things that make you happy."
These words rang true. In my imagination, I could hear Sam Moss saying them.
Sam gave her a message to related to me. He said, "Quit crying. Those tears are not for me. Quit crying for yourself and start doing the things that make you happy."
These words rang true. In my imagination, I could hear Sam Moss saying them.
~~~
Ultimately, I believe Sam was too unhappy for this planet. The love of his life had ripped a giant hole in his heart when she departed. I think he walked with one foot in the grave ever since. He put on a great front though. He was always upbeat. Always partying. His partying got out of hand towards the end. He threw so much enthusiasm into getting wasted, it was hard to deny him. He rocked out on guitar up til the end, performing publicly with Peter May and the Rough Band and his own project The Sam's. His playing was superlative. He was a truly class act.
Sam had stories he wanted to tell me. I had planned to do a cover story on him for "Go Triad" when I worked there. But due to an unfortunate series of events, that cover story never manifested.
~~~
Sam had stories he wanted to tell me. I had planned to do a cover story on him for "Go Triad" when I worked there. But due to an unfortunate series of events, that cover story never manifested.
~~~
My grief subsided somewhat after my session with the Native American healer. But I never stopped missing Sam Moss. And I guess I never will. Hopefully he's reserved a spot in Rock 'n' Roll Heaven for me. And I can meet Dido and see the ethereal happiness she inspires in him. I'll sit on some ragged couch while Sam taunts me with a bottle of tequila and then pulls out his guitar and kicks out the jams. Strummer will stop by. We'll light a big campfire, swap stories and tunes. And I'll finally have the opportunity to play some of my silly songs for the man who most inspired me to write them.
~~~
Sam Moss: Rock In Perpetuity.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Abortion
Yesterday at work, I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been designed to stun people such as myself. In larger-than-life gold letters against an olive green background, the words "Cure Abortion" were emblazoned across his chest. The back of the shirt said, "Abortion: leading cause of death in America. 1,200,000 a year."
This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.
The Universe wasn't listening.
The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.
I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"
A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"
The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.
The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.
About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.
As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.
This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.
I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.
For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.
None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.
This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.
The Universe wasn't listening.
The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.
I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"
A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"
The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.
The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.
About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.
As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.
This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.
I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.
For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.
None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.
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