Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Reflections: A Random Note



The following was found on my computer table at home, scribbled in pencil on a note card, undated other than by my given age:

I am 72 years old and have reached a place where I know I am going to die. This expectation of death is no longer just an intellectual concession -- it is a gut certainty. It is also a visible and sensual physical perception; somatic, emotional, and on a persistent, conscious, mental loop.

Nice place to be, huh?


Saturday, February 16, 2019

Reflections: An Excerpt


I find this to be exactly right:

"I do not think of suicide as the act, the death, the fall from a height or the trigger pulled. I see it as a long illness, an illness with origins in trauma and isolation, in deprivation of touch, in violence and neglect, in the loss of home and belonging. It is a disease of the body and the brain, if you make that distinction, a disease that kills over time."

        ~ Donald Antrim, "Everywhere and Nowhere, A journey through suicide"; The New Yorker; Feb. 18 & 25, 2019




Monday, February 4, 2019

Reflections: I'm Still Alive



Just a quick note here to remind myself -- and the void into which these few words are hurled --
that I've survived another year, another birthday, and another long period of yearning for an end to it all.








Sunday, December 30, 2018

Rodak's Writings: A Flash Fiction



Flash Fiction

As Miss Kitty squatted to pee in the dust by the side of Main Street, her modesty protected by her long black hooped skirts, gimpy Chester struggled hurriedly past her shouting, “Mister Dylan! Mister Dylan! A cowpoke’s been shot over to Fern Hill!”

Hitching up his gun belt with a pout, the Sheriff peered over the double doors of the saloon to see what all the commotion was about.

Miss Kitty having moved on, a stray mongrel hurried over to sniff at the intriguing new muddy spot, still damp despite the heat of the sun at high noon.

The sheriff now shrugged and turned back to the bar, awarding priority to his still-foaming beer.

Resigned to being ignored, Chester stood asymmetrically without, thumbing through the pages of a dog-eared paperback.


On a hilltop half a mile out of town, a nameless cowboy quietly bled out unmourned, never having drawn his trusty Colt.


Sunday, December 2, 2018

Reflections: This



When I realize it was love that turned into this, I'm quite certain that "this" is hell.


Rodak's Writings: Another Poem I Don't Want to Post on Facebook



Prevention Lines

If I say
I have lost everything,
I will soon begin receiving
lists of things
I still have.

If I say
these remains
are insufficient,
I will soon be told
to get help.

If I get help,
I will soon be asked
how long I have felt
this way.

Since I lost
almost everything,
I will answer.


Friday, August 10, 2018

Rodak's Writings: a Painful Poem





If, Not When


If only I can
get you wondering
what it would be like,
despite all the speed bumps
and Do Not Enter signs
on this one-way toll road,
I will have won
some kind of dubious
and Pyrrhic victory.