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From Dawn – through Kelly W

KELLY W WHO RUNS MY FACEBOOK PAGE – SENT ME THIS – AN AMAZING GIFT
THANK U DAWN – SO HAPPY U MADE IT !! XXX ROSIE

Friday February 7th was a life changing day for me. I saw that Rosie was going to be back on the view and I made it a point to watch. I missed part of it so I went on the website and watched each segment. I was particularly interested in the segment where she spoke on her heart attack…I lost my father in 1985 to what is termed “the widow maker” and the fact she beat it made me very happy.

Later on that night, after dinner, I was watching tv with my boyfriend when I noticed I wasn’t feeling very well. Tightness, kind of resembling gas, in my chest. Didn’t think much about it until it felt like it was radiating to my back. That’s when I realized I had been having left arm pain for a couple weeks and it felt worse too. Again I had dismissed the arm pain to the fact I carry an extremely heavy computer bag and purse, to and from work.

When I started thinking about what was happening I went on webMd and researched heart attack symptoms in women. While I was on the site I noticed that I had half the signs. I was still not admitting what was happening. My daughter had even said, “mom, you really ought to think about going on to the hospital!” So, being the stubborn person I am, I got in the shower thinking it would make me feel better. As soon as I got out, the nausea hit and I remembered what Rosie had said… I told my boyfriend to take me to the ER NOW.

They hooked me up and did all the tests but nothing was definitive showing I’d had a heart attack but they said they still couldn’t rule it out and asked me to stay for a stress test the following morning. I almost blew it off and started to tell them I would just go on home, but her words had stuck with me. Something was wrong! I needed to know what it was. The answer came after my blood test…the enzyme your body produces after a heart attack showed significant and they promptly cancelled my stress test and scheduled a heart cath.

On Monday February 10th the cath showed 90 percent blockage on one and 68 percent on another. The one with 90 percent had already started making its own bypass. They put in a stent while they were already in there and I went to recovery. 6 hours after the procedure they were taking the sheath out of my leg and it started to bleed. I was losing a lot of blood. I also developed a HUGE hematoma around the site. That is when the 2nd attack happened. I was short of breath…like someone was sitting on my chest. I got so hot they turned the air down to 50 something and my mother stood over me fanning me. I remember telling them “OMG I’m gonna vomit!!” The next thing I knew there were 5 nurses working on me trying to stop the blood and get the hematoma to stop growing. The blood finally stopped and the hematoma broke up…12 hours after the procedure I was finally improving.

My doctor came in the next morning, Tuesday the 11th, and told me that the enzyme had spiked in my blood again (that’s when I had verification on the 2nd attack). He said it was minor and it was where he had opened the blocked artery and the branch that had been developing was now deprived. I went home later that night and have been recovering there since.

I totally believe it was divine intervention that I knew I needed to watch her that day. Someone somewhere knew I needed that information. I know Rosie gets a ton of flack form a lot of people, but like her or hate her, she knows what she’s talking about and SHE helped save my life that day and for that I will always be grateful.

Thankful for Rosie…

Dawn

russell brand on addiction

The last time I thought about taking heroin was yesterday. I had received “an inconvenient truth” from a beautiful woman. It wasn’t about climate change – I’m not that ecologically switched on – she told me she was pregnant and it wasn’t mine.

I had to take immediate action. I put Morrissey on in my car as an external conduit for the surging melancholy, and as I wound my way through the neurotic Hollywood hills, the narrow lanes and tight bends were a material echo of the synaptic tangle where my thoughts stalled and jammed.

Morrissey, as ever, conducted a symphony, within and without and the tidal misery burgeoned. I am becoming possessed. The part of me that experienced the negative data, the self, is becoming overwhelmed, I can no longer see where I end and the pain begins. So now I have a choice.

I cannot accurately convey to you the efficiency of heroin in neutralising pain. It transforms a tight, white fist into a gentle, brown wave. From my first inhalation 15 years ago, it fumigated my private hell and lay me down in its hazy pastures and a bathroom floor in Hackney embraced me like a womb.

This shadow is darkly cast on the retina of my soul and whenever I am dislodged from comfort my focus falls there.

It is 10 years since I used drugs or drank alcohol and my life has improved immeasurably. I have a job, a house, a cat, good friendships and generally a bright outlook.

The price of this is constant vigilance because the disease of addiction is not rational. Recently for the purposes of a documentary on this subject I reviewed some footage of myself smoking heroin that my friend had shot as part of a typically exhibitionist attempt of mine to get clean.

I sit wasted and slumped with an unacceptable haircut against a wall in another Hackney flat (Hackney is starting to seem like part of the problem) inhaling fizzy, black snakes of smack off a scrap of crumpled foil. When I saw the tape a month or so ago, what is surprising is that my reaction is not one of gratitude for the positive changes I’ve experienced but envy at witnessing an earlier version of myself unencumbered by the burden of abstinence. I sat in a suite at the Savoy hotel, in privilege, resenting the woeful ratbag I once was, who, for all his problems, had drugs. That is obviously irrational.

The mentality and behaviour of drug addicts and alcoholics is wholly irrational until you understand that they are completely powerless over their addiction and unless they have structured help they have no hope.

This is the reason I have started a fund within Comic Relief, Give It Up. I want to raise awareness of, and money for, abstinence-based recovery. It was Kevin Cahill’s idea, he is the bloke who runs Comic Relief. He called me when he read an article I wrote after Amy Winehouse died. Her death had a powerful impact on me I suppose because it was such an obvious shock, like watching someone for hours through a telescope, seeing them advance towards you, fist extended with the intention of punching you in the face. Even though I saw it coming, it still hurt when it eventually hit me.

What was so painful about Amy’s death is that I know that there is something I could have done. I could have passed on to her the solution that was freely given to me. Don’t pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. It sounds so simple. It actually is simple but it isn’t easy: it requires incredible support and fastidious structuring. Not to mention that the whole infrastructure of abstinence based recovery is shrouded in necessary secrecy. There are support fellowships that are easy to find and open to anyone who needs them but they eschew promotion of any kind in order to preserve the purity of their purpose, which is for people with alcoholism and addiction to help one another stay clean and sober.

Without these fellowships I would take drugs. Because, even now, the condition persists. Drugs and alcohol are not my problem, reality is my problem, drugs and alcohol are my solution.

If this seems odd to you it is because you are not an alcoholic or a drug addict. You are likely one of the 90% of people who can drink and use drugs safely. I have friends who can smoke weed, swill gin, even do crack and then merrily get on with their lives. For me, this is not an option. I will relinquish all else to ride that buzz to oblivion. Even if it began as a timid glass of chardonnay on a ponce’s yacht, it would end with me necking the bottle, swimming to shore and sprinting to Bethnal Green in search of a crack house. I look to drugs and booze to fill up a hole in me; unchecked, the call of the wild is too strong. I still survey streets for signs of the subterranean escapes that used to provide my sanctuary. I still eye the shuffling subclass of junkies and dealers, invisibly gliding between doorways through the gutters. I see that dereliction can survive in opulence; the abundantly wealthy with destitution in their stare.

Spurred by Amy’s death, I’ve tried to salvage unwilling victims from the mayhem of the internal storm and I am always, always, just pulled inside myself. I have a friend so beautiful, so haunted by talent that you can barely look away from her, whose smile is such a treasure that I have often squandered my sanity for a moment in its glow. Her story is so galling that no one would condemn her for her dependency on illegal anesthesia, but now, even though her life is trying to turn around despite her, even though she has genuine opportunities for a new start, the gutter will not release its prey. The gutter is within. It is frustrating to watch. It is frustrating to love someone with this disease.

A friend of mine’s brother cannot stop drinking. He gets a few months of sobriety and his inner beauty, with the obstacles of his horrible drunken behaviour pushed aside by the presence of a programme, begins to radiate. His family bask relieved, in the joy of their returned loved one, his life gathers momentum but then he somehow forgets the price of this freedom, returns to his old way of thinking, picks up a drink and Mr Hyde is back in the saddle. Once more his brother’s face is gaunt and hopeless. His family blame themselves and wonder what they could have done differently, racking their minds for a perfect sentiment; wrapped up in the perfect sentence, a magic bullet to sear right through the toxic fortress that has incarcerated the person they love and restore them to sanity. The fact is, though, that they can’t, the sufferer must, of course, be a willing participant in their own recovery. They must not pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. Just don’t pick up, that’s all.

It is difficult to feel sympathy for these people. It is difficult to regard some bawdy drunk and see them as sick and powerless. It is difficult to suffer the selfishness of a drug addict who will lie to you and steal from you and forgive them and offer them help. Can there be any other disease that renders its victims so unappealing? Would Great Ormond Street be so attractive a cause if its beds were riddled with obnoxious little criminals that had “brought it on themselves”?

Peter Hitchens is a vocal adversary of mine on this matter. He sees this condition as a matter of choice and the culprits as criminals who should go to prison. I know how he feels. I bet I have to deal with a lot more drug addicts than he does, let’s face it. I share my brain with one, and I can tell you firsthand, they are total fucking wankers. Where I differ from Peter is in my belief that if you regard alcoholics and drug addicts not as bad people but as sick people then we can help them to get better. By we, I mean other people who have the same problem but have found a way to live drug-and-alcohol-free lives. Guided by principles and traditions a programme has been founded that has worked miracles in millions of lives. Not just the alcoholics and addicts themselves but their families, their friends and of course society as a whole.

What we want to do with Give It Up is popularise a compassionate perception of drunks and addicts, and provide funding for places at treatment centres where they can get clean using these principles. Then, once they are drug-and-alcohol-free, to make sure they retain contact with the support that is available to keep them clean. I know that as you read this you either identify with it yourself or are reminded of someone who you love who cannot exercise control over substances. I want you to know that the help that was available to me, the help upon which my recovery still depends is available.

I wound down the hill in an alien land, Morrissey chanted lonely mantras, the pain quickly accumulated incalculably, and I began to weave the familiar tapestry that tells an old, old story. I think of places I could score. Off Santa Monica there’s a homeless man who I know uses gear. I could find him, buy him a bag if he takes me to score.

I leave him on the corner, a couple of rocks, a couple of $20 bags pressed into my sweaty palm. I get home, I pull out the foil, neatly torn. I break the bottom off a Martell miniature. I have cigarettes, using makes me need fags. I make a pipe for the rocks with the bottle. I lay a strip of foil on the counter to chase the brown. I pause to reflect and regret that I don’t know how to fix, only smoke, feeling inferior even in the manner of my using. I see the foil scorch. I hear the crackle from which crack gets it’s name. I feel the plastic fog hit the back of my yawning throat. Eyes up. Back relaxing, the bottle drops and the greedy bliss eats my pain. There is no girl, there is no tomorrow, there is nothing but the bilious kiss of the greedy bliss.

Even as I spin this beautifully dreaded web, I am reaching for my phone. I call someone: not a doctor or a sage, not a mystic or a physician, just a bloke like me, another alcoholic, who I know knows how I feel. The phone rings and I half hope he’ll just let it ring out. It’s 4am in London. He’s asleep, he can’t hear the phone, he won’t pick up. I indicate left, heading to Santa Monica. The ringing stops, then the dry mouthed nocturnal mumble: “Hello. You all right mate?”

He picks up.

And for another day, thank God, I don’t have to.

GOLDFINCH by Donna Tartt

what if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted? what if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self immolation, disaster. if your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? stop your ears with wax? ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? set yourself on the coarse that will lead you dutifully toward the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on sunday , all with the promise of being somehow a better person? or is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name.

its not about outward appearance but inward significance. a grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world does not understand. that first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out. a self one does not want, a heart one cannot help.

STUCK

i got carton stickers
that fit on i phone chargers
so everyone can tell
its mine

no matter how many i buy
at 30 bucks a pop
they disappear into thin air
always

so now
no one can claim
they picked it up by accident
thinking it was theirs

but now
i have too many
its like an episode of hoarders
at best buy or the apple store

i have stickered charger cubes in every room
brightly colored wires
dangle like baby snakes
from each outlet in my new home

problem solved
problem gained

http://www.uncommongoods.com/product/iphone-charger-sticker-faces-set?utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=google&gclid=COak5rDz7rsCFXPNOgodux8Ahw

MAKE FRIENDS WITH UR MONSTER

EMINEM

I wanted the fame, but not the cover of Newsweek

Oh well, guess beggers can’t be choosey

Wanted to receive attention for my music

Wanted to be left alone in public excuse me

Been wanting my cake, And eat it too

And wanting it both ways

Fame made me a balloon cause my ego inflated

When I blew seep and it was confusing

Cause all I wanted to do is be the Bruce Lee of loose leaf

Abused ink, used it as a tool when I blew steam

Hit the lottery (oh wee)

With what I gave up to get was bittersweet

It was like winning a huge meet

Ironic ’cause I think I’m getting so huge I need a shrink

I’m beginning to lose sleep: one sheep, two sheep

Going cuckoo and cookey as Kool Keith

But I’m actually weirder than you think

Cause I’m…


friends with the monster

That’s under my bed

Get along with the voices inside of my head

You’re trying to save me

Stop holding your breath

And you think I’m crazy

Yeah, you think I’m crazy

if

by Joni Mitchell

If you can keep your head
While all about you
People are losing theirs and blaming you
If you can trust yourself
When everybody doubts you
And make allowance for their doubting too.

If you can wait
And not get tired of waiting
And when lied about
Stand tall
Don’t deal in lies
And when hated
Don’t give in to hating back
Don’t need to look so good
Don’t need to talk too wise.

If you can dream
And not make dreams your master
If you can think
And not make intellect your game
If you can meet
With triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same

If you can force your heart
And nerve and sinew
To serve you
After all of them are gone
And so hold on
When there is nothing in you
Nothing but the will
That’s telling you to hold on!
Hold on!

If you can bear to hear
The truth you’ve spoken
Twisted and misconstrued
By some smug fool
Or watch your life”s work
Torn apart and broken down
And still stoop to build again
With worn out tools.

If you can draw a crowd
And keep your virtue
Or walk with Kings
And keep the common touch
If neither enemies nor loving friends
Can hurt you
If everybody counts with you
But none too much.

If you can fill the journey
Of a minute
With sixty seconds worth of wonder and delight
Then
The Earth is yours
And Everything that’s in it
But more than that
I know
You’ll be alright
You’ll be alright.

Cause you’ve got the fight
You’ve got the insight
You’ve got the fight
You’ve got the insight

always joni

“Borderline”

Everybody looks so ill at ease
So distrustful so displeased
Running down the table
I see a borderline
Like a barbed wire fence
Strung tight, strung tense
Prickling with pretense
A borderline

Why are you smirking at your friend?
Is this to be the night when
All well-wishing ends?
All credibility revoked?
Thin skin, thick jokes!
Can we blame it on the smoke
This borderline?

Every bristling shaft of pride
Church or nation
Team or tribe
Every notion we subscribe to
Is just a borderline
Good or bad, we think we know
As if thinking makes things so!
All convictions grow along a borderline

Smug in your jaded expertise
You scathe the wonder world
And you praise barbarity
In this illusionary place–
This scared hard-edged rat race
All liberty is laced with
Borderlines

Every income, every age
Every fashion-plated rage
Every measure, every gauge
Creates a borderline
Every stone thrown through glass
Every mean-streets-kick ass
Every swan caught on the grass
Will draw a borderline

You snipe so steady
You snub so snide–
So ripe and ready
To diminish and deride!
You’re so quick to condescend
My opinionated friend
All you deface, all you defend
Is just a borderline
Just a borderline …
Another borderline …
Just a borderline

love

E. E. Cummings (1894 – 1962)

It Is At Moments After I Have Dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

—turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

joni mitchell – down 2 u

Everything comes and goes
Marked by lovers and styles of clothes
Things that you held high
And told yourself were true
Lost or changing as the days come down to you
Down to you
Constant stranger
You’re a kind person
You’re a cold person too
It’s down to you
It all comes down to you.
You go down to the pick up station
Craving warmth and beauty
You settle for less than fascination
A few drinks later you’re not so choosy
When the closing lights strip off the shadows
On this strange new flesh you’ve found
Clutching the night to you like a fig leaf
You hurry
To the blackness
And the blankets
To lay down an impression
And your loneliness

In the morning there are lovers in the street
They look so high
You brush against a stranger
And you both apologize
Old friends seem indifferent
You must have brought that on
Old bonds have broken down
Love is gone
Ooh, love is gone
Written on your spirit this sad song
Love is gone

Everything comes and goes
Pleasure moves on too early
And trouble leaves too slow
Just when you’re thinking
You’ve finally got it made
Bad news comes knocking
At your garden gate
Knocking for you
Constant stranger
You’re a brute-you’re an angel
You can crawl-you can fly too
It’s down to you
It all comes down to you

NO WAR WITH SYRIA

Five reasons military intervention in Syria is wrong
By Matthew Fitzpatrick
Posted Wed 28 Aug 2013, 3:54pm AEST

There is something superficially appealing about the notion of forces of freedom overthrowing Syria’s oppressive government. But events are rarely that simple, writes Matthew Fitzpatrick.

The gassing of civilians by a military force is a crime and those who order it and carry it out are criminals who should be brought to trial.

The international community has such a court – the International Criminal Court – an institution which now has the world’s more brutal political and military leaders looking over their shoulder for fear they might be extradited to the Hague to answer for their crimes.

If Bashar al-Assad is found to have used poisonous gas on his own population, as almost certainly seems to have been the case, then he must be put on trial for crimes against humanity.

This, however, is a world away from the notion that the international community should militarily intervene in the uncontrolled violence of the Syrian civil war.

The situation is complex, but at its simplest, here are five reasons why military intervention in Syria would be the wrong response to the most recent gas attacks.

1. As the recent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have demonstrated, the civilian death toll from external military intervention quickly comes to exceed that which prompts the intervention in the first place. Killing more Syrians than the Assad regime itself is no way to pay tribute to those killed by their own government.

2. Within Syria there is no military power that would welcome or support external military intervention, particularly from Europe or the United States. While the beginnings of the ‘Arab Spring’ phase of the civil war saw some Syrians engaged in a struggle for a democratic Syria, these voices have been drowned out by the sound of the weapons fired from rival militias. Alongside Assad’s troops, Hezbollah and Iranian military troops are fighting Lebanese Salafists, Al Qaeda and the ultra-Islamist al-Nusra Front. The only thing that all of these groups have in common is that they would welcome the opportunity to attack Western armies, no matter how altruistic their underlying motivations might be.

3. Internationally, there is no consensus that would offer a risk-free intervention. With Russia’s Vladimir Putin still deeply supportive of Assad (although Saudi Arabia is attempting to lure him away with the promise of oil) and China strongly opposed to external intervention, there is virtually no chance of a UN mandate sanctioning military action. Unilateral action by Britain, France or the United States against Syria would risk broadening the conflict into another Cold War, while also inviting regional players such as Iran, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Turkey or even Russia to become even more heavily involved than they currently are. Such a broadening of the conflict is in nobody’s interests.

4. Intervention would only make sense in the context of an attempt to achieve concrete political or military objectives. None beyond ‘something must be done’ or ‘there is a need to respond to a provocation’ has been offered. There is no plan for stopping the multidirectional violence, much less rebuilding the nation. Simply bombing Damascus or Aleppo to assuage the conscience of the West that they ‘did something’ seems like the worst form of symbolic politics.

5. Perhaps more abstractly, a civil war is the most fundamental and brutal attempt to answer the question of who exercises the monopoly on the control of violence that underwrites the power of the state. Artificially inflating the power of one favoured but weaker faction to seize control of the state invites later challenges to this power in the not too distant future. Unless an indefinite guarantee of military support for the weaker faction is offered, that weaker faction (no matter how enlightened) cannot realistically be expected to maintain control over the state. The utter lawlessness in many regions of Libya today is the most recent example of what happens when outside powers back weak forces they deem to be on the right side of history in a civil war.

There is something superficially appealing about the notion of the legions of freedom on the march, overthrowing the forces of oppression. Events are rarely that simple.

In the case of Syria, it is certainly not the case that military action will offer a straightforward righting of wrongs. Rather, military action invites a series of unintended knock-on effects which could escalate the Syrian conflict in such a way as to endanger the lives of far more Syrian civilians.