"When I was young It was more Important
Pain more Painful Laughter much Louder
When I was Young" Eric Burdon/The Animals
It nearly snatched my soul.
My book, the Bogus Buzz.
A recollection of a life growing up in Redlands, California during the
trailblazing days of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Peering thru the keyhole of the past
can be perilous to the state of one’s mind; especially if that observer indulged
in some of the products of ill repute offered up throughout the era. Some of my
buddies never had a chance at hindsight, casualties of breaking such bread.
I bled on the keyboards for the twenty some years I have carried this effort on my back. It was during one three month period, deeply delved in the book, that it nearly swallowed my soul. I lost 30 lbs. and spiraled into a bottomless depression. If not for pharmaceuticals recommended by my ex. wife, (the psych. I married for free counseling) and the unwavering love of my daughter who helped lower the ladder, I might not have climbed out.
But it was perhaps the most celebrated author that ever picked up a pen
whom helped answer my distress call.
I was reading what many consider the autobiography of the youth of Charles
Dickens in his opus, David Copperfield.
It was when the Dickens character was lamenting the loss of his dear Dora
that I realized I had been “walking with the shadows” in my book.
Long since dead, I was reunited with many of my friends and family in the pages I poured out. But when I attempted to shut the laptop, they clutched at my coattails as I tried to return to the present.
When one recollects the springtime of his life, winter is not far behind.
This story like Dickens Christmas ghosts, would never completely go away.
A song lyric here, a bit of overhead conversation there, would remind that I had
to tell the tales of those that will never speak again.
Lastly, you didn’t have to listen to Zep. or do bongs of bamboo in the orange grove to relate to this book. No matter what the vice or generation you the reader perhaps too saw the visions I portray thru the eyes of a young child or an insecure teenager.
Hoping to hear the cry of “Here comes Jesus!” from my Pabst swilling redneck neighbor announcing the arrival of my absent hippie father in his flower powered van. Being lapped in the driveway by your baby sister on her flower basket bike.
Sliding the piece of liver underneath the stove because Grandma railed of
the starving children in China and you wouldn’t be excused unless you ate the
grisly meat. Perceiving the look of beckon as rejection from the girl you secretly lusted for but were sure you were unworthy of.