How Ernie Banks Made Me a Diehard Cubs Fan

Ernie Banks, 1969 Chicago Cubs

It was almost a customary practice when I was a child for my younger brother and I to spend a lot of time during the summers in Chicago staying with either my mother’s family in Logan Square or my father’s family up in Roger’s Park. We did this because every year between 1963 and 1971, we moved from town to town as my father climbed the corporate ladder in the food services industry. It was sort of like being an army brat I might imagine, but very different too because we weren’t limited to living to on any particular base. However, each year during the summer we’d go to stay with one or both of the grandparents while mom and dad were off in some city somewhere picking out a house and setting up our next residence.

Grandpa Duke's neighborhood, 1969

In the summer of 1969 we stayed with my mother’s dad a lot, Grandpa Duke because he was alone as well as all four of our cousins often came around. It was a typical Chicago summer, a hot and long steamy affair and Grandpa Duke’s old house on Western Avenue had no air conditioning. In the front room was a brand new big counsel style color television...state of the art! Behind that new TV was a bay window with big fans which constantly blew in the fresh Chicago air of bus fumes, sticky humidity and traffic screeching or siren sounds. I liked staying by Grandpa Duke because when we would go out and about in the neighborhood, there were a lot of cool places a short distance away. One of my favorite neighborhood places was this old fashioned hardware store around the corner on Fullerton because it had wood slat floors, very tall walls, high ceilings where supplies were stocked and served by tall ladders that rolled and the store had a very unique aroma of fresh lumber, machine oil and of being very old. It was very old. A few blocks down Fullerton was a bowling alley where Grandpa Duke was a neighborhood champ and I loved that place too, it was an old style bowling alley with these guys who stood the pins up and rolled your ball back to you. There was a sprinkler in a park, a jungle gym and cork screw slide too but the best thing about that neighborhood was right behind Grandpa Duke’s house there were a bunch of kids always playing! In California, for much of my life, we always moved so I didn't have the chance to play with a lot of kids, except at school, I never socialized with other kids but in the summer of 1969, I was about 8 years old and being in Chicago was a pretty good place to be a kid that year.

Baseball, the watching of baseball, on both sides of my family has long been a tradition. It's the social sport steeped in our collective American experience and tattooed upon our turpitude, it’s a family experience that I hold dear and sweet in my heart and I've share with all my soul to my children. I learned this during the summer of 1969, while staying at Grandpa Duke’s house and making friends with some of the neighborhood kids. These kids, there were maybe about ten of them but I can only remember a few of their names, they were “city kids”, some of them had darker skin than me, some of them had lighter skin than me and all of them seemed to think I was pretty cool because I said I was from California and I had long hair, “Like one of them hippies!” snapped Ritchie, this kid who was very dark but had a bright and cheerful smile and kind eyes, “You be looking like a surfer, you a surfer?”

               “Nope…” I smiled, I noticed their baseball bats, mitts and caps, I smiled, “I like baseball.”

               “What team?” asked a bigger kid, he was very blond and light skinned. He had some kind of accent I had never heard before, “Who’s you’re team?”

               “I’m from San Francisco, but…”

               “The Giants?” the big blond kid interrupted me, “Really?”

               “The Cubs are my favorite team…” I finished, “It’s what both my grandpa’s watch…The Cubs.”

               “Ever been to a game?” asked a girl with long red hair and a cute smile. She was maybe 10 years old, most certainly a girl but not a prissy girl, she was cool, “I mean, like a real game?”

               “Not yet.” I added, “I want to go, maybe this summer.”

               “You should…” nodded the girl and she introduced herself, “I’m Angie…this is my kid brother Artie.”

               “Hello…” I was about to introduce myself when a couple of others interrupted, “My name is…”

               “I’m Max.” said the big blond kid, “I move from Germany.”

               “I’m Fern and you know Ritchie…” the oldest kid stepped forward, the alpha male, the guy in charge with slick black hair, tight jeans and a leather Cubs jacket. Fern was silent, he didn’t say anything until now, “We’re planning a trip to Wrigley, all us kids, want to go?”

               “Wrigley?” I knew that was the ballpark, I was born around the corner from the iconic stadium, I asked, “When are you going?”

               “The 24^th, a Thursday…” Angie answered and smiled, “not this week, but the next week.”

               “How old are you kid?” Fern stood next to me, my head barely reached his shoulders. I lied, “I’m 10…well, almost 10…” I was only 7 going on 8 years old, “How much is it to go?”

               “You 10 years old?” Ritchie laughed, “Really? Damn, you so little!”

               “My little brother is even littler!” I smiled, then bravely added, “Yeah, I’m in, I’ll go for sure!”

The week went by quickly and every day I played baseball with those kids in the nearby park. I was often the catcher, I liked that position because I could see the entire game and felt like I was a part of every play. The kids all gathered sometime just before lunch and we’d stay there playing multiple games until dinner. I was happy, it was the first time in a very long while I had other kids to play with and I felt so much a part of being a team member when we played. In California we lived in the heart of San Francisco, during the late 1960’s, in the neighborhood we lived, it was over flowing with hippies and a lot of people my mother never trusted. At the school in California I was placed in a class for gifted children along with two other children. One of them, an Asian boy named Li, barely spoke English and the girl in the class didn’t like me because I wore strange clothes and had long hair. I felt alone, with only my little brother but he is three years younger than me, so it was limiting. Yet in the summer of ’69, I felt like I made some friends for the first time. During the days leading up to that Thursday, I asked my Grandpa Duke if I could go along with these other kids, these new friends of mine. I didn’t tell him it was just a bunch of kids, but he didn’t ask if there were parents either, he just laughed and said yes before handing me a $20 bill (a lot of money to a kid in 1969)!

CTA Buses in 1969 Chicago

Thursday came, we all gathered earlier than we typically did, we agreed to meet at the diner on the corner of Fullerton and Western about 10:00 that morning. This was so exciting for me, it was my first big adventure, going with a bunch of new friends from Logan Square to Wrigley Field without any parents, just us kids! Once everyone arrived, there were nine of us, the same as the number of players on the field, we got on the Western Avenue bus and rode it north about 8 blocks where we transferred buses onto the Addison Street bus which we rode east all the way to the ballpark. The game wasn’t until 3 in the afternoon and we had arrived before noon so we walked around the neighborhood. I didn’t have a clue of where we were but it didn’t matter because all the other kids seemed so confident. Fern, Ritchie and Max found an old cemetery up the street so we went exploring inside the creepy gates. It was a perfect summer day, bright sunshine, a balmy breeze from the lake and that old diesel bus smell, ah, Chicago’s freshest air! It was sometime around 1pm when Angie suggested we get back to the ballpark because we didn’t have tickets and the box office should be open by now. We scattered from the creepy old cemetery and practically ran down Sheffield Avenue towards the bleachers of Wrigley Field.

Wrigley Field, miles away for a kid!

As we strolled the tree lined residential street and I could catch a glimpse of that back of the bleachers giant Cubs sign, my heart was racing. We got to the gate but when I pulled out my $20 bill, Angie and her brother Artie screamed, “This kid is loaded!” and “Holy Cow!”, it was like they never imagined a kid would have such a huge bill. They all had coins and a few crumpled dollar bills and I had this crisp twenty dollar bill and because bleacher seats were only .75 cents each, I offered to buy everyone’s ticket! I was an instant hero, they loved me and I was part of the group. We sat in the left field, as close to the wall as we could get, next to a group of older, slightly drunk middle aged businessmen, next to some old guy named Larry. All the other kids all knew Larry, they've seen him at every game, “Larry is a baseball genius!” Angie explained to me as we scooted down the long bench seats almost next to the wall, “He’s a good guy, he looks out for us.”

               “Cool…” I smiled and looked across the beautiful field. It was still an hour until ball time, but everything was so perfect, nobody seemed to mind. Angie’s thigh pressed against mine and it made me feel safe, remember I was not even 8 years old yet, so this was a really big adventure for me. The time passed quickly and before long the Cub ball players took the field to stretch and toss the ball around. It was awesome, Angie described every player to me, she knew them all. She asked me about the other team, it was the L.A. Dodgers but I shrugged, “I only know Don Drysdale, number 53, he’s a pitcher.”

“Duh! Drysdale is awesome!” Then she pointed to one skinny ball player, a black guy with a big smile and the number 14, he was standing near the seats along third base and signing autographs, shaking hands and laughing, “That’s Ernie Banks!”

               “Duh, I know Ernie Banks!” I laughed and then pointed to the player wearing number 10, “That’s Santo…on the mound, it’s Holtzman…a leftie by the way!”

               “The little boy knows his team!” the old guy named Larry chuckled, “Fern tells me you’re from California? You from L.A.?”

               “Not really…” I smiled and suddenly felt shy, “We lived there for a few months in 1968, but mostly from San Francisco…but I was born in Chicago, I like The Cubs.”

               “The Cubs are good this year…” Larry nodded, “So are them Dodgers, this’ll be a good game!”

 

We sat in the Bleachers, right along the very back walls

It was too, it was a great game. The Cubs won, 5 to 3 and after the game, as we all rode the buses home, I thought about what a grand adventure this was and how very much I wanted to do it again. I was still sitting next to Angie but Fern was sitting in front of me so I asked him, “How often do you guys go to the game? I mean, are you going to go again soon?”

               “We go when we can.” Fern smiled and chuckled, “You want to buy us another game?”

               “Well, in a couple weeks, I was thinking…” I was going to mention the game between San Francisco and Chicago, that would be a fun game but Angie interrupted, “I’d like to go…”

               “Leave him alone Fern!” Angie slapped Fern’s arm, “He’s spent half his money, right kid?”

               “I guess…”

               “I was only jiving him!” Fern laughed and turned back around. Angie patted my arm and I was going to speak up when the bus came to our stop. Fern stood first, “Let’s go play ball!”

               “I have to go home.” I said, but added, “Maybe I can come back out?”

               “I’ll walk you home.” Angie took my hand as we stepped off the bus, “Which one is your grandpa’s house?”

               “His address is 2422 North Western Avenue…” I said as we walked north from the corner of Fullerton, Angie held my hand like a babysitter, “Third one after the alley.”

               “You’re a smart little kid, aren’t you?” she laughed as we walked up the steps and I opened the front door and walked in. Angie followed me, “Can I use the bathroom?”

               “Yes, in here…” I walked into the kitchen and along the way opened the bathroom door for Angie, “Grandpa Duke? Uncle Bob?” there was nobody in the kitchen so I kept walking out the back door and into the stairwell. I heard laughter in the backyard and called out the window, “I’m home!”

               “There you are!” it was my gypsy aunt Rose and her kid friendly husband Uncle Casey. They evidently stopped over unexpectedly for dinner and they were playing with my little brother while Grandpa was grilling food. Aunt Rose called me out, “Come down here, where have you been all day?”

               “I went to see the Cubs win!” I smiled as I walked out back, “It was fun!”

               “Did you go by yourself?!?” my aunt sounded shocked, “Duke, how could you?”

               “Hello everyone!” Angie came out the back door with perfect timing, “I’m Angie Warshakowsky, I live around the corner, on Campbell…I just wanted to say thanks for letting d’Philip tag along with us today, it was a lot of fun and he was really well behaved.”

               “Can I go play ball with them at the park now?” I asked Grandpa Duke because I knew my aunt wanted me to stay home, “Please? I’m only going to be here a few more weeks…please?”

               “No, I think it’s late…too late.” Aunt Rose shook her head and lifted my brother off his feet as she started walking towards the back door, “Besides, we’re here, the answer is no!”

               “Please, Grandpa?” I looked up at my Grandpa Duke, he was a big man. He used to be a boxer, when he first came to America, he made cash by boxing then he became a security cop for Sears & Roebuck. Now he was retired, chomping on a smoldering stubby cigar while flipping fat burgers in the setting sunlight, he looked down at me with a grin, “Angie will look out for me, please?”

               “Screw the gypsy…” Grandpa Duke grunted, his Armenian accent thick, “Go out the back gate.”

               “Thanks Grandpa!” I turned to Angie with excitement, “Let’s go!”

The rest of the remaining weeks that summer went by quickly but my team of friends and I did make it back to Wrigley Field several more times…we didn’t always go into the ballpark, sometimes we just hung out on Sheffield or Waveland and waited for balls to fly over the ivy clad brick walls. We roared and cheered when we heard the game, we jumped and screamed when we would see the games. It was life, it was fun, it was love, it wasn’t about if The Cubs won or not, it was only about the game and the adventures we made. The last time we went to a game, we got there really early and it was slightly drizzling outside so we were huddled together against a wall near the back doors of the stadium.

In his prime, 1969...

Angie, Fern, Max and me were there, just shivering and trying to stay dry when a man walked past us…he was moving quickly and we hardly noticed him until he stopped, turned to us and said, “Hey you kids, don’t catch a cold out there!” and it was Ernie Banks! Indeed, he was going in for the game and we just happened to be there, us four kids sopping wet while waiting for our favorite ball team to play. It was Ernie Banks himself, he smiled and glanced at the sky, “I think I see sunshine coming!” then he winked, opened the door and as he stepped inside, “Enjoy the game kids, it’s important to have fun!”

               “OMIGAWD!” Angie shrieked and I think I heard Fern scream too, “ERNIE BANKS!”

               “Wow, that was…wow!” and it was at that exact moment, before the game even started, I knew I would be a diehard Cubs fan for the rest of my life. It was sealed, no matter what, Ernie Banks had spoke to me and my friends and told us it was important to have fun! If you’re a Cubs fan, you’ll agree, that’s typically you can ever hope for in given Cubs season. That game, that last game I ever went to with my friends, The Cubs beat The Giants and after that day, within a week, I was saying goodbye to my baseball team of new friends. We spoke of seeing one another the next summer, our family was moving to Cincinnati, Ohio but we always came back during the summer. Except we didn’t, we never went back because the next year our parents divorced and mom relocated us to a Chicago suburb. I did see Angie again, a number of years later when I was 14 and visiting my Grandpa Duke. She was pushing a stroller past the park where we used to play ball. She told me that Fern went to Veitnam but he didn’t come back. Ritchie moved to Florida but big Max was still around, he lived with his parents and was in college. Angie’s little brother Artie was doing okay, their parents also divorced and Artie moved to California with the mom. Angie was married, she had a baby, she still lived in the neighborhood with her husband’s family. We laughed about that summer of ’69, that summer when even The Cubs came close to getting there and how we did somehow seem to get there too. I’ll never forget that summer, even when The Cubs continue to come close (most recently, in ’08)…I became a diehard fan because of that rainy misty morning we ran into Mr. Cubs himself, Rest In Peace, Ernie Banks.

Although this week’s blog article has absolutely NOTHING to do with my book, “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…”, I wanted to write about Ernie Banks and express something that is very much a part of me; being a diehard Chicago Cubs fan. I love this team, the losers of baseball with the most optimistic fans in the world. I am part of that den, that clan, those people and perhaps that might tell you a little about the kind of person I am; devotion is something I understand. Disappointment and heartbreak too, but I love the art and science of baseball and despite their dismal history, The Chicago Cubs will always be my team!

This week I have the rare opportunity to be working from the abode most of the week, no public appearances or silly business meetings to attend. I am going to spend a lot of time on-line, I sort of feel the need this week and I have the feeling that somebody might be looking for me too, I’m not sure…so I’m here, just in case, dig? I am going to post an excerpt from the book next week, one that is a true story about the very last concerts The Grateful Dead ever played in 1995…then I might day dream out loud a little and think about hosting a similar event next July in Chicago. But that’s next week…again, I am so very Grateful for the support and sales of the book; I never would have imagined selling this many copies before the end of January! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

dphilipchalmers.net

Presently it’s nearing dinner time and I think we’re going to make it an early evening tonight, I want to make the most of all my home time this week, I have a shit-ton of stuff to write! I did post a new video, incidentally, if you’re curious, please visit my youtube channel…otherwise, as always, please do take good care and be well!

Peace,

d’Philip
26 January 2015

“The Strangest of Places…”

               “So what’s your story, apeman?” the girl had wild, unkept hair, she was in her early 30’s and we were in a group therapy session in a psych ward in Chicago. It was late July of 1997 and the girl was talking to me, she asked again, “The story, apeman?”

               “Why do you call me apeman?” I laughed and shook my head, “Is it because of my beard and hair? Do I swing my arms wide when I walk or what?”

               “You eat a lot of bananas…” she glanced at the floor, almost as if to say sorry but she remembered her question and quickly looked me in the eye, “Your story, what it is?”

               “I had a psychotic breakdown while in traffic on The Edens Expressway…” I shook my head, sighed heavily, “I don’t know, I was driving to an appointment and then I was here. That was several days ago, I think.”

               “I shouldn’t be here, I’m not insane.” The girl responded and crossed her thin arms, “Nobody will listen to me, they think I’m crazy…that’s why I’m here.”

               “Yeah?” I didn’t know what to say and all the others in the group circle simply looked at the two of us like it was live theater before their eyes, “I don’t think I’m insane either…just not feeling well in the head, I guess…I don’t know.” I looked at the therapist but she was looking at her clipboard, seemingly not paying attention, I continued, “Why do they think you’re crazy?”

               “I’m from the future.” She stated flatly, as a fact and added, “The body I’m in, the girl who occupied it, she committed suicide so I’m using her body.”

               “Really?” I knew it sounded crazy but there was a conviction in her voice which compelled me to perhaps listen more, maybe she was telling the truth. I asked, “What year are you from?”

               “Well, that’s a trick question because in the future, time was reset…” the girl leaned closer as all the other still sat in silence and the therapist continued looking at her clipboard, “Once everyone decided the whole Jesus myth was all bullshit, it didn’t seem to make sense to base our time on a fable…so I am from the future, about 135 years from now.”

               “So, like, in our timeline, it’s 2132?” I asked, “What year number is it in your future?”

               “We don’t use numbers and the moon cycle to judge time anymore…” the girl was about to continue explaining when the therapist suddenly spoke up and interrupted her, “It’s a matter of…”

               “Okay, sorry gang, but time’s up!” the therapist had the tone of a cheerleader as she stood up and continued yapping, “You guys did great, I think we got something out this today, don’t you? Now remember, take your meds and check your feelings, okay?”

               A few days later I saw the girl in my art therapy group. I had learned her name was Andrea Watson but everyone called her “Ginger” because of her red hair. Andrea had been admitted to the psych ward the same evening as I did, she attempted suicide by slitting her wrists. Her mother found her and called for help in time to save her life, but that’s not how Andrea told it, she had a different story.

               “I hate they keep calling me Ginger!” Andrea confessed to me as we sat next to another and each colored our silly emotional drawings. Mine was a water well with daffodils and a puppy. Andrea’s drawing was of two children flying a kite on a hill. These images were supposed to help us feel better by recalling our childhood or something. Both Andrea and I were coloring the drawing with strange, contrary colors. I colored the stones of the well in a multicolored tie-dyed looking structure and the kids in Andrea’s drawing were multicolored too. One had a red arm and a green arm, a purple leg and yellow leg and the other kid looked as strange, but we both simply colored slowly and spoke softly while the cool art therapist played some mellow, jazzy sounding music. Andrea’s blue eyes looked very alive, sparking full of life when she smiled, “Just don’t fucking call me Ginger and you and me will be alright.”

               “Okay, Andrea…” I grinned, “Just call me The Doctor.”

               “Are you a doctor?”

               “No, but don’t tell my nurse!” I smiled but the lame joke flopped between us as I tried to continue to engage her with her talk of the future, “So, how does that work? You time travel back 135 years into the body of a freshly dead girl?”

               “Time travel is not about matter but energy.” Andrea spoke very confident, not looking up and simply coloring the sky in her picture different shades of pink and orange, “We, you and me and everyone on the planet, we are bodies of energy, not an intricacy of bio-systems contained inside carbon based plasma units…well, we’re that too, but our real being, it’s all energy and no matter.”

               “I get that, I agree.” I was trying to follow along and it was easy because this is a similar belief of mine, I think we’re spiritual beings having a human experience. We are energy, we just have bodies to move around in the third dimension. I was about to explain my own theory but Andrea stopped me in mid thought, “I have always thought that the experience of life…”

               “So, I cannot travel in time with a body, matter is matter no matter what you do about the matter, it’s still just matter and will always be just that…” Andrea’s sky was bright and pink, reminding me of a wet salmon fillet jumping upstream in the afternoon sun, “Energy can be displaced, removed, transferred and converted…when I jumped into this sad girl’s body, it was at the very moment her energy moved out of the vessel and I slide into it…the mother didn’t save Ginger, I did!”

               “I get that too!” my grassy hill, done in a Monet style of lavender, moss green and pale blues, was very detailed as I leaned close into it and listened closely, “Why? How come you came back?”

               “I need to warn somebody, they’re going to do something which will seal the course of history for catastrophe and billions of people of people will die for no reason.” Andrea stopped coloring and slowly looked around the room, as if she was making sure nobody could hear our discussion, “They sent someone after me too, somebody is going to try to stop me.”

               “Who?” it was a question that needed two answers for me; who is the somebody Andrea is going to warn and who is the person that is going to try to stop her? I was about to clarify my question when the guy across the table from us, a big burly fat dude with long strands of strangling hair and a stubbly gray beard started to growl. I tried to ignore him and asked, “Who is after you?”

               “I can’t tell you…” Andrea slowly put her crayon down and glanced up at the big burly growly fat dude and then, like she knew what was going to happen next, she pushed me away and we fell to the floor right as the big burly growling fat guy started yelling loudly and leaped across the art table at us! The cool art therapist hit the panic button and everyone else stood up and started screaming with commotion and confusion. The big burly growly fat dude was scream and clawing across the table. I slide on my ass towards the far corner and Andrea scuttled under the table just as the fat dude flopped off the other side of the table. He rolled over, started crawling under the table towards Andrea so I kick him as hard as I could on the ass; my foot slipped and I landed square in his nut sack! The big burly growly fat dude screamed, howled and stood up from under the table! Like a crazy Godzilla busting through the floor, the table and everything on it went flying across the room just as two, and then three big bouncer sized orderlies came to rescue the group. The big burly growly fat dude was wrestled to the floor and a couple of nurses rushed in, one of them had a syringe of sedative and she stabled the wild beastly man in the neck hard. It didn’t stop him, not immediately, he threw two of the bouncer orderlies off and one of the nurses fell back and cracked her head on a chair. Just when the monster madman stood up, however, as he turned toward Andrea and loomed over her, he started to sway a little before falling flat on his back, landing on one of the bouncer orderlies and pinning him to the ground. Other staff members came in and corralled everyone out of the room quickly. We were all sent to our rooms and stayed there until dinner.

Dinner came, Andrea was not there. After dinner, in the community room, while we watched some Disney film, I kept looking around for her but she never showed up. The next day, during group therapy, a group Andrea was a part of, she wasn’t there and I asked the therapist, “Where’s Andrea?”

               “Who?” the therapist looked at me as if I asked an alien question. I had a moment of sci-fi flashback, maybe she was removed from history? The therapist waited then prompted me, “Who are you thinking about, d’Philip?”

               “Andrea…the red head girl?” then I remembered, “Ginger?”

               “Oh! Ginger has the flu…” the therapist nodded, smiled and started the group, “Today we’re going to talk about identifying potential emotional triggers…”

               “One of my triggers is being lied to…” said a very round girl with deep dark skin and bright red lips, “I think this whole place is set up to keep us from being free, not to heal us…this is a prison!”

               “Okay Francis…” said the therapist calmly, “Being lied to is an excellent trigger!”

Later that night, long after everyone else was asleep and the night staff was safely tucked into watching late night television in the break room, I got out of bed and roamed the halls. I wandered past the break room and no one noticed me, I slipped into the community room with the intention of going to my favorite corner, out of sight of the doorway, where I could look out from the 9^th floor windows of the psych ward. I didn’t see Andrea sitting there at first, she was squatting on the floor half under the table. I squatted down next to her, she was shaking and took her trembling hand softly, “Andrea, what’s wrong?” I asked in a whisper, “Are you alright? I heard you have the flu?”

               “The flu?” Andrea scowled, “I’m not ill, not at all!”

               “So, I think I believe you…” I glanced at her and caught her eye, “…about being from the future.”

               “You think you believe me?”

               “Well, it’s a leap of faith…” I flashed a grin and admitted, “I’ve always somehow known that the universe is a multiple-verse…time is a man made construct, just because we’ve not discovered exactly how it works, doesn’t mean that it does not exist, right? Einstein was onto something much larger than E=MC2, but more important than that, inside myself, in my mind and experiences I’m pretty sure I’ve been to this planet before, like in another life…so why not time travel, right?”

               “No wonder you’re in this place…” Andrea glanced and grinned at me, “You are fucking crazy!” she laughed and then shook her head, put her hand on my knee and whispered, “But you’re right too, sort of, you know that you are a soul and you simply have a body.”

               “Yeah, I think so…” I asked, “So, what’s your real name? Not Ginger or Andrea or whatever…but who are you really? How old are you? Are you really a female? Where in the world did you live? Is the world still here in 135 years?”

               “Yes, the world is here…I live in a small mountain colony in The Republic of California” she took a deep breath and answered all my questions in detail. She was a female, she was about 30 years old but since time is different in the future, she was considered a “Level 3” individual, she did not have an actual number for her age. She told me about the world a little, how The United States of America was no longer a country, not since 2037. There is a United States Empire in this future she spoke about, but it was a small territory that included most of the original British colonies, as well as Florida, Alabama and Mississippi. 

I asked about my home cities of San Francisco and Chicago, they are both still standing in the future too. Chicago, in this future, is the largest city in new nation of Ozark which extends between the Appalachia Mountains on the east to the Rocky Mountains on the west. The capital of the new Ozark nation is Omaha City, it’s the biggest nation on The North American continent and it’s very much like the best version of what The United States tried to become originally. Ozark is huge too, on the north it boarders The Arctic Ocean along the Queen Elizabeth Islands and includes most of what used to be Canada. Ozark extends south, incorporating all of Texas and Mexico as well as Central America and the Panama Canal is the only entrance into Ozark. She smiled with a fond gleam in her eye, “I loved a boy from Ozark once, he was an engineer in the Mexican solar fields and very sweet.”

               “This sounds crazy, I mean I believe you but, man…” I shook my head, “It’s hard to imagine, you know? So, what about where you’re from, The Republic of California?”

“Well, it’s the former states of Washington, Oregon, California and Baja California and our capital city is San Francisco. We were the first to declare our independence from the old United States, from this United States now…we declared independence in 2028 and declared ourselves The Republic of California.”

“What happened, was there a civil war?” my eyes were wide, this is my home state, this is the place I always imagined I would finally rest my bones, I was gripped, “How did it happen?”

“Greed.” She smiled simply, “The USA was in deep financial trouble and we had all the innovation and resources, so we bought ourselves free from The United States for a few billion dollars. No blood, no war…a little cyber hacking and treats, but in the end, they took the cash!”

“The fucking American Way!” I laughed and asked, “What about the rest of the country, the rest of the world?”

“Well, the remaining states in between the Rocky Mountains and The Sierra Nevada mountains, as far south as The Grand Canyon and as north as the Snake River in the Utah territory is known as The Basin Wastelands.” She seemed to like teaching me about future history, “The Wasteland is ruled by tribal communities of religious zealots, outlaws and the only law is there is no law.”

“Dangerous place?”

“Very dangerous and deadly too. The Wastelands suffer from extreme sulfur poising from a super caldron which is leaking from under The Salt Lake, the lake consumed the city and filled the salt desert too…” she sounded sad, “Nothing can live there for very long, it’s sad. A lot of people, lost people who are hooked on drugs or violent or whatever, they go there because anything goes…There is only one city in The Basin wasteland, New Vegas, in what used to be Utah.”

               “Wow, this is incredible and it starts in the 2020’s?” I asked, fascinated by her seemingly sci-fi rendition of the future, “What about the rest of the world? Is it still at war?”

               “There is violence, it’s part of the human nature but after the global collapse in 2022, when China’s secret chief media minister, Rupert Murdoch made his deathbed confession and the good people of Russia finally took back their land from the criminal who were running it, most of the world has been at peace.” She sighed and looked a little tired, “They still fight in the Middle East, but nobody pays attention anymore and most of Europe is, well, it’s Europe, you know? Hey, do you mind if this history of the future continues another time, I’m feeling sleepy.”

               No, it’s cool, I understand…” I started to stand up and held my hand out to help her to her feet, “But one thing, what is YOUR real name?”

               “I’m called Yehi’Or…” she smiled as stood up, “What about you apeman, what’s your real name?”

               “I’m d’Philip…” we held hands as we walked from the community room, past the oblivious night staff in the break room and to our respective rooms. I bid her good night, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

               “Perhaps…” Yehi’Or looked worried, “I hope so.”

               “Good night.” I smiled.

               “Sleep in Peace.” She nodded back and stepped into her room.

               

Over the next three days Yehi’Or and I found many moments to slip away and converse in private about the future. I asked her some silly questions like when do the Chicago Cubs win the World Series but was severely disappointed to find out the Cubs moved to Omaha in 2021 and then 2 years later won back to back World Series! I asked her who the next President of The United States was going to be and she said he was the son of former President Bush, his name was George W and though it was years away, I doubted her because I thought it was a shoe-in for Vice President Al Gore. I asked her when did this apocalyptic version of the future start to take shape and she said it had already started almost 50 years earlier, in the late 1950’s but that the fulcrum, the turning point when the scales tip and there is a paradigm shift was still yet to happen. I asked her when that was going to happen but she said she wasn’t sure, that’s one of the reasons why she came back to the past, “It’s when the towers fall.”

               “Like a Y2K thing?” I worried about that potential disaster but it was still years away so I felt safe in knowing nothing would come of Y2K, I nodded, “They say planes will fall from the sky.”

               “That too.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t remembers something, “I can see it, but I can’t make it out…I think it’s this awful medicine, it’s barbaric!”

               “How do they treat mental illness in the future?”

               “They don’t, there is no such thing as mental illness…” she smiled, “It’s a matter of balance between mind and body and spirit.”

               “Yeah, but what about, you know, psychopaths and such?”

               “There is also good and evil too.” Yehi’Or radiated in the lightly filter sunshine, “We will meet again, you and me.”

               “In 135 years?” I laughed, “I’ll be 177 years old!”

               “No, before then…” she smiled, “Just look for the light, look at it right, I’m there.”

               “What the hell?” I laughed, “I think the meds are making you loopy!”

We had been talking for hours, it was a Sunday, not a busy day in the psych ward and we were just staring out the window, talking, minding our own business when again, from nowhere, that big fat burly guy came roaring up behind us and picked up Yehi’Or in her chair, slamming her against the glass with a violent thrust. Her head cracked, it was loud and instant blood splatter on the window. The commotion erupted like a madhouse gone mad because that’s exactly what it was, the patients started screaming and crying, running around in circles, falling down while the over sized bouncer orderlies and nurses tried to gain control of a highly chaotic moment. I could see in the big fat burly guy’s dark eyes, nothing but death, he was going to kill my friend from the future! I tackled him and he dropped Yehi’Or to the floor while falling back and tripping over other patients on the floor. I stayed on top of him, pounding him left and right, as hard as I could, letting all my uncontrolled manic rage out but it was like sneezing on a grizzly bear; he lifted one fat am I flew back across a table and banged my head. I was out cold.

It was late Monday afternoon when I realized I was in a padded room, strapped to a bed. I was alone and I remember laying there for hours, I knew it was hours because the little window in the corner slowly got darker with shades of the setting sun. Finally a doctor accompanied by a nurse, an orderly and an administrator looking lady with a very bitter face and jet black hair pulled into a very tight bun. The stood on either side of me, the doctor speaking first, explaining I am having a psychotic episode and they have me sedated for my own benefit. Then the administrator lady told me I would not be held responsible in the death of Andrea Watson, however, I cannot press charges against the hospital nor any other patients in this unfortunate incident. They told me to sign a paper and I think I did but the nurse gave me another shot and when the orderly shut out the light, I was again gone. Blackness, darkness, nothing. No dreams, no memories, no feelings, no nothing but black and emptiness. I can’t truthfully say I remember anything, not a single thought or image or notion or anything.

I just woke up one day, in my regular bed in the psych ward, with my regular room mate Doug and it was eight days later. I sat up, it was morning, just after breakfast and Doug was making loud sounds from the washroom like he was shitting watermelon sized turds. I pushed the nurse call button and started to get out of bed, but as I stood up, I felt dizzy and flopped back on the bed. The nurse came in as I made my flop and called for help, but twenty minutes and a doctor’s check later, everyone but me seemed to think I was basically alright. I was hungry, weak from being in bed they had me eat and walk around for exercise until noon. Later, in the evening, while the patients watched another Disney movie in the community room, I sat in the hall outside and looked at the window, the place I saw Yehi’Or murdered. I felt both sadness and rage, I was confused and very concerned about the future because I didn’t know what was going to happen now; did she accomplish her mission or are we doomed? These thoughts, this crazy ranting in my head would not stop but I kept it to myself. I knew if I started to talk about it they would just keep me locked up longer. I wanted out, I needed to get out and find the truth. But what truth? I didn’t know and that in itself seemed to drive me mad! I did what I was told to do when I was told to do it, I participated and engaged myself with others, I played the psych ward game as best as I could but I wasn’t making progress fast enough so one day, in the middle of a group session about dealing with paranoid symptoms, I burst out, “Does anyone here remember Andrea Watson? Ginger? The girl who was here because she tried to commit suicide but she was really a time traveler?!?” the six other patients, the therapist with a clipboard and the bouncer sized orderly were all silent. They just looked at me and I yelled, “Anyone?!? Anyone at all?!?”

“James…” the clipboard wielding therapist addressed the bouncer sized orderly, “Please take Mr. Chalmers to his room and call the doctor on duty.”

               “No, wait!” I stood up and stumbled back from the advancing gorilla sized orderly, “Listen to me, please…aren’t we supposed to talk about feeling paranoid in here? What the fuck?!?”

               “C’mon, no trouble…” the bouncer orderly grabbed my arm tightly and lifted me like a sack of small potatoes, “Let’s go see the doctor…”

               “No wait, please…” my protests were futile and after I was in my room, when the doctor came in to see me, I was calmer, “Look doc, I’m not losing it, I’m not crazy but I was just trying to ask a question, that’s all…I might have not asked it right, I lost control of my emotions, but still…”

               “Mr. Chalmers, you had a serious psychotic break, your brain’s chemicals are creating delusional feelings, they have been creating extended episodes of hallucinatory behavior…for the past ten days you have been conversing with an imaginary patient, somebody you created inside your mind.” The doctor spoke very calmly, gently and with a delicate note of empathy, “Please trust me, sir, we can help you but you need to work on realizing the difference between reality and fantasy.”

               “How can I tell what’s the difference?” I mumbled as I felt a medication start swimming through my veins, rushing towards my head, “What’s really real and what’s not?”

               “Just ask the staff, they know what’s real.” He patted my knee as I laid back and slipped into another endless, black slumber. I remember the doctor saying something to somebody else as the lights went out, he said, “He still remembers.”

               The next morning I was up early, with all the other patients. I went to breakfast and sat by myself on the far side of the cafeteria. After breakfast I went to the exercise class and took a place next to the very round dark skin girl with bright red lips. We worked out in silence for the 40 minute class but when it was over, as we toweled our sweating brows and sipped water, she smiled at me and said, “Don’t you hate it when they lie to you here.”

               “Yeah, I do.” I took a hard swallow of the tepid water, “Fuck them.”

               “Yeah, fuck them.” as she started to walk away, she turned to me and smiled, “I remember that chick too, you’re not crazy.”

It would be another five weeks before I was finally discharged from the psych ward but then I had eight months of a “Partial Hospitalization Program” (PHP) wherein I’d go to the hospital five days a week for about five or six hours a day and continue working on managing my mental illness. Eventually I sort of graduated myself from the never ending PHP cycle by relocating with my wife and family to another state. Three months after moving to Hot Springs Village, Arkansas I had been “re-diagnosed as not being BiPolar, but rather, simply have a general anxiety disorder. I was stepped off the Valproic Acid and other nasty mood stabilizer and antidepressants, I stopped engaging with a therapist and instead found a both a local synogue and a Zen meditation group. I continued to see a psychiatrist, I liked him because he said I wasn’t really crazy, just a little freaked out. That doctor gave me a prescription for Valium to use as needed and I openly told him that I enjoyed the effects of marijuana but hated the effects of alcohol. Although he didn’t encourage me use marijuana, he did tell me to stay away from alcohol but that everyone needs to unwind and relax, he said he trusted my judgment. Life in The Natural State was good for many years, I accomplished a lot both in my marketing career and my artistic endeavors.

  I was reunited with my first born daughter, we had been kept apart for almost 13 years, since she was only 2 years old. My wife and I became closer than ever and in September of 2000 we were blessed with a second child, a beautiful daughter. In 2001 I started an Internet website design company and developed a very unique marketing plan for small “mom & pop” kinds of business. Life was really good, we owned a beautiful home on ½ acre lot in a gated community, I was establishing a solid, positive presence for myself and honestly, Life Looked Like Easy Street!

You know what happens just when life starts to look like easy street? Yep, there’s danger at your door and so it was in my life’s experiences. That one year, 2001, an iconic sounding year ever since I was a kid, it was that year which symbolized “the future” to me…2001! But it was a year doomed to eventual ruin me and all I thought I believed in…but that’s a whole different story (one found in my book “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…”); it was when I saw the tragic events of 9/11 play out on the television over and over again.

  I remembered, for the first time since I can’t remember, I remembered Yehi’Or and what she said about the day the towers fell; this was that day! I watched the explosion of the planes as they crashed into the World Trade Center and there was something in the light, something in the billowing balls of fire that seemed to touch me inside. It was like getting shown a light, a light beyond any light I’ve seen before, it was both an epiphany and a terrifying reality that I wanted to look away from but couldn’t stop watching. As crazy as it sounds, I know this is an insane statement, but when I saw that powerful, deathly light in the twin towers, I knew without a doubt that Yehi’Or was real and she did come from the future somehow.

In the decade and a half since 9/11, since realizing I had met a time traveler, I still kind of “look for her” but I doubt I’ll see her, or any other time traveler, in this lifetime again. It’s like an UFO experience, I imagine, it happens once and that’s it…some people will believe you, some won’t but as long as you (that being me, in this instance) can live with the truth you think you know, then just let it be and don’t drive yourself crazy trying to fully understand the experience. In reality, any experience in life is like that too, sometimes not fully understanding something is the right thing to do because then you’ll have something new to learn for the rest of your life. It honestly does not matter if Yehi’Or was real or not, she was real to me during some psychotic moment in my life. I don’t fully understand the why or how, that’s alright because in the end (the end so far being the now), she is, if nothing else, a clever little character I made up in an extended blog I posted one day in January of 2015 and that’s enough for me because I’m reminded of that Grateful Dead line that said “Sometimes You Can Get Shown The Light In The Strangest of Places if You Look at It Right!”

Indeed I hope you’ve enjoy this tale of mystery and imagination, it’s another foggy day in The San Joaquin but I’m set to spend my time doing the cyber thing, work on my new novel a little (it’s about Mental Illness, Music and Spirituality, sort of) and, naturally, there are chores around the homestead and this evening the family will share dinner, view an episode of Doctor Who, play a game or two before retiring and resting until we get to do it all over again. I do have several promotional dates this week, Wednesday through Friday I’ll be buzzing around talking up the book and working out a new distribution network. There’s a certain part of me that does enjoy doing that kind of business, but it’s still difficult to manage with my anxiety levels. The carrot on the stick this week is a family day trip out to Tuolumne County to view some potential sites for our next relocation; the Farmhouse Estate has lost its historical status and the present owner is only extending our lease until the end of June. This is fine by us too, we don’t really like the area around Modesto too much, we’re more inclined to find ourselves in the mountains in a place a bit more rural and remote. I’ll write more about that another time, suffice it to say that I’m happy to share to this story today, I do hope you enjoy it and if so, please if you will, reshare it at will, wherever you want. Lastly, a BIG SHOUT OUT to +russel paps, a new Google+ friend who recently bought my book and seems to really like it…

Presently, if you buy the book from my website (www.dphilipchalmers.net), you’ll get both an autographed copy PLUS a FREE copy of my original screenplay “Kill David Spade!” (limited copies available) so, if you like my stories, my style and want to read more, please pick up a copy of “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…” today!

Share Love...

Have Peace...

Find Bliss!

Take Care & Be Well!

Gratefully, with All that Love Is...

d'Philip

19 January 2015

“The Final Days of The Split/Apple”

The Split/Apple was known for "Open Canvass Walls" where you can paint your imagination!

An original poster on the outside wall, 1997

In July we organized and hosted “The Festival of Life” event, a multi-day counter-cultural event that coincided with the 1996 Democratic National Convention which featured a lot of political activities including Rennie Davies (from the historic 1968 DNC, he is of the original “Chicago 8”), some good, groovy music and a lot of booze and drugs. That event kicked off a series of events at The Split/Apple almost every other weekend between July and November, we always sold out and a splendid time was indeed had by all! It was the same deal as before, there was a cover charge (the band got that), we charged for bottomless cups (we got that part) and we always a cut from the others who sold their goods in our house. Once a month it was “Ralph’s Kind” show, the band developed a strong following but with the new regular scene of other artists also playing at The Split/Apple, they enjoyed a larger crowd each month. 

A Poster circa '95

During the summer and fall of '96 The Split/Apple featured a number of renown guests like blues legend Eddie King, emerging jazz great Michael Zerang, even a random visit from Bill Murray one night. We featured the young hippie jam band now known as “moe.” who once played there as did John Kadlecik of “Hairball Willie” & “Dark Star Orchestra” (who would later join the surviving members of The Grateful Dead to form “Furthur”). It was during these “Festival of

John Kadlecik @ The Split/Apple '96

Life” events I had several curious conversations with various groups of people who gathered after every evening’s performance. I pontificated while getting stoned with everyone, saying odd statements about how we were “the next generation” of what was started by Kesey and The Grateful Dead. I was telling people that they had the power to make it real, they were there, at The Split/Apple, at that moment, so that I could share the knowledge, share the sin with them all…some pretty crazy conversations! I know I was involved a group discussion with a couple of the guys in “Ralph’s Kind” and “Hairball Willie” one night while discussing the importance of the music in keeping the community alive; I sounded like I was tripping and many people probably thought I was but the frightening part was, in truth, I was barely stoned when I was spouting this crazy talk!

The Split/Apple on New Year's Eve 1995/96...

The Split/Apple Stage on New Year's Eve 1995/96...

The Festival of Life Day #2 From The Split/Apple stage...

Everybody shakin their bones in the sweltering jams!

We eventually gained notice from High Times magazine, I wrote a piece about my efforts as an activist for the reform of the marijuana laws and mentioned the non-stop party scene of The Split/Apple. They didn't use my op-ed piece (too long) but they did send a reporter and photographer to feature The Split/Apple as a cool underground place to visit in Chicago. All summer long, well into the autumn too, I was on a manic binge that fueled several episodes of staying awake for 36 hours, not eating for almost a week and just pouring all this creative energy into making The Split/Apple and Ralph’s Kind the next best thing since Haight/Ashbury and The Good Old Grateful Dead! In fact, it was this curious period that I got a response from Ken Kesey: I sent a note of sorrow when Jerry Garcia died the previous year. I long forgot about it but one day in late September, I got this strange little package in the mail at The Split/Apple. It was from Ken Kesey and inside was a little hand painted post card sized piece of art with a short little note thanking me for the kind words. He encouraged me to stay in contact, wished me well, signed it “Love, Keez” and for me, at that moment in my manic perceptions, this was a big sign of agreement from the universe!

The Split/Apple Dance Floor from the "crows nest" POV

Getting that message from Kesey, exactly when I did, inside my head validated everything, crazy as it was, it confirmed for me that I was on the right path. I had the system of operation down so well that we drew close to 1,000 people over the course of any weekend. No matter who performed, whatever the cover charge was, we had people coming to The Split/Apple in droves and many of them were underage, almost everybody

Everybody got high at The Split/Apple...

was drinking, buying food, buying weed, LSD, N2O, whatever...just about anything you wanted, we had it available. As the kingpin of this operation, I was known by all as The Hippie Godfather. I got a cut of all of the action and everybody wanted to be my friend. It was feeding both my ego and my mania to new heights as I continued to ignore Kelly and our baby in uterus, for months on end. Kelly never gave up on me, however, she was always at The Split/Apple, or one of the many gigs I booked for “Ralph’s Kind”. She kept tabs on me, she make sure I would eat and despite my asshole attitudes and cruel words, Kelly kept coming back, time after time, always there, always waiting, always knowing, there would come a time…she will be there.

 

The Poster Image for "Ralph's Kind Phish Heads or Tales Tour"

In November of 1996, while the famous hippie jam band “Phish” was touring around college campuses in the Midwest, I set up a tour we called “Phish Heads or Tales” where “Ralph's Kind” performed in the same towns as Phish either before or after the famous band was there. The little tour, our first real outing, was a mixed bag of results but the bottom line was we lost money. It was the first event I planned which didn't meet expectations, I was held most accountable for the debacle and it created a deep divide between certain people associated with the band and myself. There was, unknown to me at the time, a coup at play with the goal of removing me from my position and sending me on my way. This conspiracy was hatched by the band's roadie with a couple of close friends of the band who wanted to be more involved, more in control of the band's affairs. They planted seeds of doubt, pointed out all my erratic actions, my crazy ways and insane temper were called into question and all of this being communicated without my knowledge. After the Thanksgiving weekend, on a frigid, snowy Sunday evening, the 1st of December, 1996, we had a big meeting. The band, along with the roadie and his friends, with me all gathered in circle at the back of the loft. I was literally up against a brick wall, feeling the trail pass before, waiting for the execution that I knew came next. They grilled me, fired questions about why I did what, how I spent whatever, but all of it for me was just fucking bullshit. I was done, I didn't care so I stood there and let them shoot me down. I was simply just dead. After the meeting, without a word, I gathered my bags and walked out the door. Against the wind up Michigan Avenue, I found a pay phone and called Kelly. Before I explained a thing, I cried. Kelly was there in an hour, scooped me up and whisked me off to a suburban hotel room. We cuddled, cried and crashed for the night. From that very night forward, including every night in between then and now, we are together. Always have, and forevermore…that’s the story of our Love, that’s how we Handle with Care.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

dphilipchalmers.net

This is an excerpt from “MY BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…”, taken from the end of chapter 3, during the last year of my infamous underground hippie club, The Split/Apple” and it was inspired by a random connection I made on Google+ recently…it started in a thread about the issues surrounding legalization in D.C but from it, I got this awesome e-mail the next day:

“Hello d'Philip Chalmers. My name is Raissa and I wanted to thank you for liking my comment on the DC/marijuana post on Google+. I saw from your info you were associated with the Split Apple in Chicago. I am from the Chicago suburbs, West Chicago, Geneva area. Back in 1996 the band my now husband was in played at the Split Apple right before the Chicago Weedfest. I obtained an excellent hash brownie from someone that night which left my face sore from all of the smiles and laughter (who could say that is a harmful thing?). Just wanted to say "hi" cuz I think you're groovy and appreciate what you're about. Keep on keepin on brother. Thanks for your "like", your time, and everything you're about.

                    Peace and Love,

                        Raissa"

I was simply blown away, what a blast from the past, stepping up to me in my path and stopping me in my tracks to remind me, “Hey yeah, I did do that, didn’t I?”

               “Yes you did…” my wifey reminded me when I recounted the experience to her, “I know, I was there too!”

               “I know, but it’s just I forget it really happened, you know?” I smiled and sighed, “I’m old.”

               “That’s right, you’re my old man!” she chuckled and hugged me before whispering, “That was a long time ago, almost 20 years…be happy people still remember that place and you. She had good memories of The Split/Apple, nearly anyone who was there did, d’Philip…it was an amazing place and yes, you did that too…I Love You!”

“I Love You too…” we gave each a little smooch before being busted by our kids and I sat back thinking about those day, almost 20 years ago…more than 20 years ago now, The Split/Apple Creative Co-Op was an organization I started in the summer of 1994 along with +Matt Glasson, and a few others. The original vision was to create a place where “emerging artists” can get viable support in the expression of their artistic talents. We hosted several art gallery and performance arts exhibitions, there were a couple of plays, a student film had been shot there and dozens upon dozens of concert performance by a variety of different groups. In addition to the performance space, we had a photographic darkroom, a small A/V recording studio and several bedroom spaces that we shared with those in need. It was an altruistic venture, one founded with the purest of good intentions and a place I hoped to grow a new breed of artist while continuing to forge the principals of my own deep hippie roots in The Grateful Dead community. The Split/Apple officially opened the doors on Halloween, 1994 but it was another 6 months before we really started to see any progress. It was frustrating to me back then because I had yet to learn the lesson of being a gardener. The Split/Apple was a garden and it requires time, the right combination of essential elements and patience. I was not a patient person when I was in my 30’s, so the struggle seemed very hard. However, as you can tell by both the story and e-mail I mentioned earlier, it did eventually come to fruition, we did accomplish something unique, original and maybe not ever-lasting, but certainly a good time memory for many! “The idea for the new colony is based on The Split/Apple principal…” I was explaining to my 18 year old son, “Freedom of Association, Creative Expression…”

“That’s cool, Pop…” my son strummed a few chords on his new guitar, “I wish I could have been at The Split/Apple, it sounds very cool.”

“It was…” I smiled and patted my talented son, “But you haven’t seen anything yet!”

This is the second article I’ve posted in 2015 and although I do want to include passages from the book, I really think if you like my blog, you’ll love the book. I’m conflicted, however, because I don’t want to simply pimp my book and offer little else in terms of thoughts and ideas. I know there will be other excerpts from the book posted over the following few months, especially as we get ready to hit the road and promote the book and awareness campaign, my publishing contract dictates that and I like writing this “after the excerpt” bit too…but I do intend on putting more issues out there, I like to start discussions and participate in dialogues, but I’ll also take time to write about the simplicity of family life or how I practice The Secret Art of Daydreaming. There was a time in my life when I protected EVERYTHING I wrote, I didn't share much of it with anyone and when I did, I asked them to keep their opinions to themselves. It’s a complicated story to explain why I was like this (but it’s in “My BiPolar Reality”) however, almost 30 years later and I’ve grown into a more mature, self-confident individual. I thrive on sharing my stories, essays, articles and thoughts of creative expression and I encourage ANYONE who is struck by my work, be it good or not, it doesn't matter…please, if you will, simply repost and share something of mine freely at will, just be sure you copy-it-right!

Take Care and be well!

Peace, 

d'Philip

12 January 2015