I’m still finding stickers on my body 
From when the nurse pulled the EKG cables off 
at the local emergency room 

I drove there on empty 
Chest pain making it hard to breathe 
And I thought about the songwriter’s songwriter 
Who lost his heart battle 
Here in Mount Juliet… 
Or maybe Smyrna 
(there are conflicting reports) 

I’ve been thinking of your death all week 
Bursts of fresh tears burn my skin  
They didn’t ask about you at the doctor 
X-rays and cardio-rhythms tell stories 
But never give the full report 

I said I might know
Why my chest has been hurting 
But they didn’t want to listen
Or they surely would have asked 
At least one follow-up question 
Streamlined science 
Without courageous empathy 
Is disappointing 
Dismissive
And maybe deadly 

They’re being kind
Asking if I like Tennessee
Excelling at small talk
As southern folk do
Another nurse and I have the same birthday
(which isn’t statistically significant, apparently)
And they talk about the cold spell we’re having
Careful not to ask questions
About the grief I had aforementioned

They pumped stuff through my one good vein
Said it would take away the pain
But it’s not going away
I know my own heart
And at this point I know
They’re afraid of my blue-gold eyes
Swelling red, welling up
So I lied to them and said
That the pain has gone away 

Then they leave me waiting
In an ice-cold room
For nearly three hours
Popping in periodically
To offer thin sterile blankets
While I wait for test results 

They didn’t ask
They didn’t want to know
Maybe they didn’t want to see me cry
Discomfort drives the diagnosis
(or lack thereof) 

The tests say I’m healthy
The doctor says I’m fine
The nurse said I could go
That I wasn’t going to die today
I told him a bit sternly
“you don’t know that”
I almost died yesterday
Just crossing the street
He much-too-quickly agreed
ER nurse pragmatism 

They treated me kindly
They didn’t refer me to a therapist
But suggested a cardiologist
If I had any further concerns 

They brought me two warm sterile blankets
But didn’t ask me two heart-felt questions
They took my blood and urine
But not my opinion
About the heartache behind the heart pains 

They gave me a prescription I won’t fill
It won’t heal the hurt I still feel
It’s been five years to the day
It never completely goes away 

I opened the wooden box
Untied the bag of ashes
Filled a brass pendant
To wear you close

I know my own heart

I have a new rule: 

I can indulge in social media when I’m sick  

So sick I relish the association between sick and social. Social and sick  

Two things that sometimes make my stomach churn hard 

Linked.  

In.  

My.  

Brain. 

 

That association will be useful when I’m feeling stronger 

It will remind me to stay away 

Sick is social and social is sick 

It will help me 

When I need less integration 

More imagination 

More objectivity 

Less objectification 

More nature-gazing 

And meditating 

Less influence 

Less persuasion 

Less selfies 

Less ego 

Less 

 

But I’m sick 

Virus or food poisoning; it’s unclear 

For a short time I need homogenization 

And holograms 

I need an interference pattern 

To confuse my brain 

To transition me back to the land of the living 

So I’ll browse a few posts 

And half-heartedly check notifications 

Try to feel connection 

When I’m isolated by ill 

Banished by fever 

Feeling lonely 

(which only happens rarely) 

I could use a nurse 

A mother-figure 

Some nurturing love 

The kind I haven’t had for at least a decade 

 

It’s a sweltering early October 

Full sun and 98 degrees outside 

Hot and cold strikes hard inside 

I can’t do anything 

Except lay on the couch 

Stomach churning with distaste 

That rice might not stay down 

And I have to take the dog out 

He hasn’t been on a real walk for three long days 

Today is his fake birthday 

(his real one is uncertain) 

The day he was adopted three years ago 

It was supposed to be happy 

We were going to go to the three dog bakery 

For fancy overpriced treats 

For wags 

And smiles 

And praise 

For what a sweet, handsome fellow he is 

(he really is) 

Instead I’m on the coach apologizing to him 

Crying 

And thinking about my first dog 

The one I lost 5 Octobers ago 

The one I still miss 

And still apologize to 

For not being perfect 

 

Social media is a so-so substitute; 

What I really need is 

Saltines and ice 

And someone to  

Run to the pharmacy 

Make me iced jasmine tea

(unsweet, of course) 

Toss me a fashion magazine for distraction 

Take out my dog 

So I can avoid the torturous Tennessee sun 

Somebody to tell me  

in a few days I’ll be alright 

And the weather will be cooler 

More like fall 

Less like hell

A True Story of Weed & Backwards Masking by Jezebel Jones

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Note: This is a repost of a piece I did to celebrate 4/20 a couple of years ago. I took it down temporarily because I was concerned about "random" testing at my day job in Texas.  Have I mentioned I'm happy to be living in Washington state with lots of other "devil worshippers"? ;)

********************************************************************

I like to think I smoke marijuana because Freddy Mercury told me to.

Back when I was a child, I’d spend weeks of my summer at some Pentecostal camp or another, usually with my family. When I was about 12 or 13, I was finally old enough to go to Teen Camp on my own, which meant less crafts, less supervision, more sophisticated pranks (quick-set cherry jello in the toilets) and longer church services with age-appropriate topics like the evils of drinking, pre-marital sex and masturbation. Hello, Jesus Camp!

That week was a several hour presentation by not-quite-famous Peters Brothers, a pair of slick sibling “saints” who traveled around the country peddling a titillating, anti-rock music multimedia presentation called ‘The Truth About Rock’. Three glorious hours of demonic imagery & ungodly music mashed up with bouts of fiery preaching, followed by an offering and an altar call to repent of your music sins. It was profitable (tax-free!). Sexy and gory and riveting, OH MY!

Now, one of the topics covered in this anti-rock music extravaganza (you can watch an older 80’s version on YouTube and laugh your ass off) was backmasking or backwards masking, which is a technique used to hide subliminal sounds/phrases in music. These messages are only understandable if you were to play that bit backwards, and the Peters Brothers provided convincing evidence of evail, Satanic messages within popular rock songs.

One of the audio clips they played was “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen, which happened to be a favorite song as a child. By favorite song that I mean we roller skated to it in grade school. They and many other preachers were saying Queen communed with the Devil because the song has the message, “It’s Fun to Smoke Marijuana” or “Decide to Smoke Marijuana” backmasked into the song. Hail Satan!

Fast forward many years later I’m living with my folks in Florida and waiting tables. If that doesn’t drive you to all kinds of drugs, I don’t know what will. Weed was readily available. I had given it the old “college try” in college but didn’t get high that first time.

This time I was a bit older—maybe even wiser—and wanted to know what I was getting into. So I start doing research on marijuana on the internet—the effects, the different types, the history of use, the laws. And that’s how I found out about medical marijuana and how it’s helping so many people cope with various conditions (especially pain) with minimal if any side effects.

It was an eye-opening experience—marijuana was not the evil drug that we’d been warned about. In fact, it was much safer than many common over-the-counter & prescription drugs…and it seemed like it might be fun. So I decided to give it another try. The first time I got high was really amazing. With my mind relaxed, I chatted happily with my co-workers, forgetting my troubles for a few hours, with absolutely no hangover in the morning. And no regrets.

Several years later when I started writing and playing, marijuana was the ultimate Muse, the valve that opened the flow of creativity for me. Yes, I have stupid stoner moments, and plenty of them. But I’ve also solved complex problems, eased physical pain, had deep spiritual insights and awakenings, and stopped taking anti-depressants with dangerous side effects. And experienced much growth, creativity and satisfaction in my musical development. Personally, I’m thankful for this good plant.

While we were recording my first record “Queen of the Devil’s Rodeo” I was telling my co-producer—David J Russ—about the Peters Brothers, when suddenly I remembered that reference to the Queen Song. We had a good laugh about it. Then I had an idea…

For laughs, I recorded me saying “decide to smoke marijuana” and we reversed it, adding it to one of my songs; a homage to Queen, a bit of a “fuck you” to the crazy Peters Brothers and a pro-pot statement all wrapped up in a private joke, buried in a song. You can listen to The Prisoner here; the marijuana bit happens around 1:42, and we threw in an extra backmasked bit at the end (reversed a piece of the whole song) to give it an authentic “Satanic” sound.

Happy 4/20 & Happy Record Store Day 2013!!! Please support legal weed AND your local record stores.

-Jezebel

P.S. As I’m writing this post, I’m playing Queen’s Greatest Hits on vinyl. And smiling. Hail Satan!

P.S.S. And if you missed this awesome Backwards Masking DJ mix of 'Another One Bites the Dust', check it out.
 

It was opening night at Hamlin Christian Academy’s* First Annual Spring Musical. 

Trepidation hung in the air, like the b.o. of 30 sweaty adolescents and teens too embarrassed to ask their parents for a stick of deodorant. It was just a week before Easter Sunday and the auditorium was buzzing with excitement, gossip and hellos as hundreds of parents, community members and church goers greeted one another and started to take their seats. The performance was about to begin.

Although the name of the musical is long lost in the pock-filled labyrinth of my adult mind, I do remember bits of the story and songs. The musical was an interpretation of Jesus’ life as seen through the eyes of a young orphan boy, Nathaniel.

The story went a bit like this…

Nathaniel lived in an orphanage and he, along with all the other orphans had this crazy pipe dream of being adopted one day. Specifically, he really wanted a Dad. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, right? Yeah, I know.

The role of Nathaniel was the lead and during tryouts a few months before, competition was fierce. It almost went to my crush, Bobby Nyberg*, who at 13 was an “older” boy. All the girls had a crush on Bobby. He was the most popular boy in the 7th grade. Athletic and smart, he had recently started sporting a whisper of a blond moustache.
The auditions were fierce.

And it was close. The role of Nathaniel almost went to Bobby, but in the end they choose someone else. In an unprecedented and gender-bending decision, they chose ME. And I became Nathaniel, the singing Jewish orphan boy (Bobby got a supporting role as a fellow orphan).

I don’t remember what the in’s and out’s of the plot—I think my character meets Jesus, is shocked at his death, overjoyed at the resurrection, gets adopted by a nice family and finally has the father he’s always wanted. It had a warm fuzzy ending and was followed up by an altar call or offering. Probably both.

But hell, the crowd didn’t know any of this yet. It was the first show, and from behind the curtain we could hear them whispering and stirring in their seats with anticipation. The auditorium lights dimmed and one of the drama teachers walked on stage to introduce the play.

Someone gave the two-minute warning from backstage. The curtain was about to go up and I was terrified with excitement. Something magical was gonna happen; we all felt it, waiting in silence.

And then…

Suddenly in the dark, a warm hand squeezed mine and as I turned to look. Bobby Nyberg. I turned and he pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back. Softly. Behind the curtain. Magic.

I faintly remember the praises we got afterwards; the crowd really loved it and we added more performances. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details. The mementos of my childhood are all gone now.

But I’ll never forget the wonder of that well-timed first kiss. Tender lips, the jolt of adrenaline to my heart. And a hand—squeezing mine—in the dark.

*You didn’t think I’d use real names now, did you?