Battered Cattle and Hot Grease

"What do you want? The double-double?"

"I don't know what that is... I'll just look at the menu when we get there."

"I have to call it in. We don't have time order it when we get there."

****

Photo stolen shamelessly from the internet

That's how my first trip to Mom's Place started. I was a sophomore at Stillwater High School in North-Central Oklahoma. I was 15. I had to hitch a ride - and that ride came with strings attached. It hinged on my buddy breaking out of class and placing a call to the restaurant just short of the exhaustion of third period, maximizing our lunch break. Timing was crucial, as I was told that fifteen to twenty of our allotted forty-minute lunch period was going to be spent in transit. I didn't even know where Mom's Place was. I wasn't sure how I got invited. I was just glad not to be walking to Big Ed's, a strip mall burger joint caddy corner of our high school, which necessitated a harrowing sprint in the crosshairs of our parking lot's inventory, in which traveled the popular and those who had the advantage of celebrating their sweet sixteen early in the school year - the pretty and the licensed. The fact that I was traveling with upper classmen, a perk not secured by my status but rather by my friendship to a classmate with an older brother, was a bonus.

****

"What are you getting?"

"Double-double."

"I guess I'll have the same."

****

Present day Stillwater High School is voluminous - its athletic facilities, auditorium and performance hall rivaling those of a small private university. Although the footprint is the same as when I attended, it's become nearly unrecognizable with its massive brick structures wedged into what used to be an acre of parking lot. It's intimidating to a degree. This is considered great progress.

****

"What is the double-double? A burger?"

"No, chicken-fried steak. It's double steak, double mash."

"What's double mash? Mashed potatoes?"

****

In the late eighties SHS was a low slung affair, mid-century in feel; a split-level brick structure built to withstand the consistent whipping of prairie winds. Its public face was unremarkable, mostly a sea of asphalt. Stingy with decor, there was little to suggest to an outsider that this structure was anything other than a correctional facility. The singular clue was a small raised bed with a three quarter-scale covered wagon, a nod to our moniker, the Pioneers. 

We had an "open campus" back then, which meant that we were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. This was probably a bad idea. The freedom associated with an open campus would later encourage many of us to use that time to experiment with cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana and sex. But on this day, in my sophomore year, I just wanted a ride to lunch.

****

I have been told that my grandmother made the best chicken-fried steak in Noble County, where I spent my primary school days before moving to Stillwater. I am certain I never tasted it. As a child I had a peculiar affection for language and I could not reconcile what my grandmother frying a batter slathered steak had to do with a chicken, and quite honestly no matter how many times it was explained to me, the whole concept was unnerving. However, I do have pleasant memories of her prepping it as I did homework at the table in her kitchen. She pan fried the perforated cut of meat in a red-orange electric skillet, mashed her potatoes by hand, and somehow conjured a skillet full of gravy, some bizarre culinary alchemy, from the cast off bits of the main course by adding flour and milk and whisking like hell. By the time dinner was ready the house smelled like a diner. Once plated, the main course was often joined by green beans warmed from a can, slices of white bread with a coat of margarine and iced tea with or without saccharine. 

Iced tea, it should be noted, is the perfect beverage accompaniment to chicken-fried steak. Its tannic qualities cut through the grease and gravy, effectively prepping your mouth for another attempt at finishing a dish that more often than not, is scarcely contained on an oval plate roughly the size of a state-issued license plate. I should note that I am a huge proponent of drinking alcohol with any and every meal, but I am afraid that pairing wine with a quart of cream-gravy-covered ranch-hand grub would vex even the most forward thinking of sommelier.

****

"This is going to be awesome."

My friend and I bolted across the courtyard towards a breezeway maybe 20 feet in length that led to the soccer pitch of blacktop where his brother would pick us up to make our way to Mom's Place - which as it turns out was across, and nearly out of, town.

"I don't think I like chicken-fried steak."

I could see his brother's convertible Bronco jockeying for departure in the crowded lot - in fact, because of its impressive stereo system, I heard it before I saw it.

"What? Who doesn't like chicken-fried steak?"

We climbed up the side of the beast and into the backseat.

"Maybe me."

****

Mom's Place was an unimpressive establishment in a chaw-spit of a strip center at the edge of town. If you didn't know it was there, you would pass it without a thought. It was hidden in plain sight. There was a marquis in the parking lot to recommend it, but I rarely remember any effort made to do such a thing. It was hole-in-the-wall before hole-in-the-wall was co-opted and brought squeaky-clean into mainstream, chain restaurant dining; it was a dive before the Food Network came to base a good deal of their programming promoting such things.

Once inside, what first struck you was the energy. It was loud with talk. Man talk, mostly. Farmers, ranchers, oilmen and utility workers were its base clientele. Men who chose their lunch spot by word of mouth. Men who didn't give a thought to the warnings on the sides of cigarette packs, much less cholesterol or saturated fat. Men who needed to secure a 2400-calorie lunch in order to make it through the rest of the physically demanding workday. Men, I thought, who had grown up eating this sort of stuff. Men, whose mothers, grandmothers and wives could make this dish blindfolded.

I was a little preppy kid who had never even tried chicken-fried steak, never smoked a cigarette, never done manual labor, never slept with a woman. I was out of my element.

****

Lamesa, Texas claims the right to the invention chicken-fried steak; they even started a festival in 2011 celebrating the 100th anniversary of the creation of the dish. In specific, their story claims that the recipe's inception was brought about by a short-order cook, Jimmy Don Perkins, who mistook separate orders of fried chicken and pan-fried steak as one bizarre epicurean marriage of beef, batter and fat. 

Although Lamesa's claim is colorful, it's likely not true. There are instances of the dish in regional cookbooks pre-dating Jimmy Don's timeline. In fact, most food historians believe the dish to be an iteration of the German dish wiener schnitzel, a breaded veal cutlet smothered in cream gravy laced with salt and white pepper. As endearing as Jimmy Don's story may be, the migration of German immigrants to Texas hill country in the late 19th century coupled with the need to make tough cuts of beef palatable makes more sense. 

Chicken-fried steak is a big deal in Texas. In fact, the Texas State Legislature enacted a "Texas Chicken-Fried Steak Day" in 2011. It is worth noting however, that Oklahoma added chicken-fried steak to its list of foods comprising "The State Meal of Oklahoma" in what I now refer to as "The Year of the Chicken Fry," my sophomore year in high school, 1988.

****

We sat at the counter, four of us, shoulder to shoulder. An older lady, our waitress, came to take our order and we explained that we had made prior arrangements by phone. While our server checked on the status of our meal, my friend's brother shot a look at us down the counter and said, "If you little fuckers didn't get this order in, we are leaving you here and you can walk back." It was a fair enough punishment, hypothetically speaking.

The service we received that day was consistent with the service I would receive every other time I ate at Mom's. Which is to say, it was shit. There was no small talk, no query as to our level of satisfaction; no offer to split up the tab. Maybe it was because we were kids. Maybe it was because we didn't belong. Maybe it was because the food was that good.

Our server returned (I was told after the fact that it was "Mom," herself). She slapped down our plates and retrieved some glasses of iced tea for our group. I surveyed the landscape of my plate:  two irregular discs of battered-fried beef about the size of a hamburger patty perched atop toasted white bread, two ice cream scoops of mashed potatoes and so much cream gravy that the plate's rim was employed merely as a spillway for the counter. 

Before I dove in to my first chicken-fried steak, I needed to warm up to the idea. I decided to start with the potatoes. Reaching for the pepper shaker, I caught a glance of disapproval from Mom. "How do you know it needs pepper if you haven't tasted it yet?" she asked. She had a point, but the fact is that unlike salt, you can see pepper, and I knew I needed more. "I like a lot of pepper," I answered.

Photo courtesy of Mitch Harrison

The potatoes were largely forgettable. The flavor was good, but the texture was too homogenous and smacked of boxed flakes. The gravy was the saving grace. It was smoky and smooth, creamy and briny, and I had been right to pepper it. The main feature more than made up for what the potatoes lacked in texture. The steak, protected from the soggy intentions of the gravy by a mantle of crust, was rich and earthy. I don't know if the meat was locally sourced as is now the hallmark of haute cuisine, but I'd say that given the flavor and the restaurant's geographical proximity to a number of cattle farms, it wouldn't have been out of the realm of possibility. The white bread toast beneath the steak was an unusual foundation for the dish, but provided a soggy starch that cleaved to the underside of each bite in a way that cushioned the crunch of the fried batter. The contents of our plates stretched the color spectrum from off-white to beige. The meal was life altering. It pressed me to seek out chicken-fried steak on future menus. For the first time in my life, I experienced comfort food. For the first time in my life I felt lousy for missing out on my grandmother's version before she had passed away.

****

A lot of things have changed in Stillwater, Oklahoma since 1988 - mostly for the better. Most obviously, the high school and college have been fed a steady diet of brick and mortar. Perkins road chain restaurants and their fraternal box-store sidekicks have arched their way North toward the boundaries of town. Hotels stretch out on the west side begging game-day patrons to make a weekend of it. Stan Clark's Three Amigos still remain packed despite minor geographical realignment. Downtown has been brought back to life with coffee, food, wine, shopping and even housing opportunities. 

But Mom's Place is gone, apparently the victim of a self-inflicted and extremely flawed accounting strategy. If one is to believe the message boards, the owners neglected to pay taxes for a five-year stint, leading to a shut down by the tax commission until the debts and penalties are repaid.  I'm sure that the place looks exactly the same from the outside whether it is open for business or closed on account of tax fraud. My guess is, at least twenty people a day ignorant of the seizure, test the door or are super- excited to find themselves the first vehicle to pull into the parking lot out front.

Regardless of where you fit into the political spectrum of the tax issue, one thing is certain; Stillwater has lost another unique dining experience. Put it in the books with Latigo's, The Ancestor, Bobo's, Bill's Italian, and to a lesser extent, Del Rancho. In the case of Mom's, you can't blame IHOP or the other Any Town, USA chain eateries for watering down the local flavor - they did this to themselves, and more indirectly, to us.

There's a faction of the Stillwater population campaigning to bring Mom's Place back - there's a Facebook Page, of which I am a follower. I don't know whether they plan to put their money where their appetites are and ante up to pay the back taxes and penalties, or if they are even aware of the owners' desires at this point, which is to say, do the owners even wish to re-open? But, it seems a worthwhile effort to take the temperature of those in the area and maybe attempt to reclaim one of the more unique dining experiences in Stillwater. I hope it goes well. I hope we can all meet up there again and have a meal and a laugh together. Because when you think about it, we have lost a lot more than chicken-fried steak, we've lost a bit of our youth - the really sweet and innocent part that just wanted a ride in a car, to the outskirts of town, to eat something in a diner, that maybe reminded you of something you’d get at home.

How to Ruin Your Life in Just Eight Complicated Steps

My step-father used to have a chart hanging on his office wall in which were printed the necessary steps to achieve any goal, a mantra treated in calligraphy that read something to the effect:

Step 1: Figure out what you want.

Step 2: Figure out what is necessary to get what you want.

Step 3: Start doing those things today.

The simplicity of those words haunt me now as they did then, and though I now realize that they were not necessarily the prescription for finding one's life work, that's how I perceived them. Perhaps it was the calligraphy that gave the document a certain weight. Anyway, it seemed like these steps were to be followed for something more consequential than picking up a half-gallon of milk ("We need milk. Braum's has milk for just a little over a dollar. I have three dollars in my bank account, I'll go by there on my way home and pick some up. Success.").

When I used to wonder what I was going to do for a living (for like thirty years), these words mocked me. This little list, while simple, is deceptively charming. For example, the first step alone took me 38 years.

I've got a new list. Mine is not nearly as efficient, but it is way more fun.

Step 1: Figure out what you want. But more than that, figure out what you were born to do and don't deny it because you are afraid that people will think you are crazy (because they will, and quite possibly, you are).

This was the most difficult step for me. Not because it is difficult, but because I made it so. I have known that I was supposed to be a writer for most of my life (perhaps for all of it, if you believe in such cosmic intelligence, which, by the way, I most certainly do). It has almost always been the only thing that I am good at, the only thing I do with my brain that brings me joy. It should have been easy to choose to be a writer from very early on and then progress to the next step. Just one problem: I couldn't see how that was going to be possible. I didn't know anyone who made a living as a writer - I still know very few. I got majorly hung up on Step 2: How are you going to go about this whole affair?

I suggest throwing this step out.

Figuring out "how" to do something assumes that there is no universal intelligence, it presumes that only the power of the human brain is great enough to logically map out a solution, which if you know anything about the human brain, is just silly.

Here's what I now know: You don't have to know how it's going to work, that is not your position or your responsibility.

Think back on your life. Haven't there been about a million things that have happened to you that you could have never guessed were going to happen? You didn't set out a plan to make them happen, they just did. Remember?

I'll give you a few examples from my life: I never thought that I would move to Savannah, Georgia and yet in 1997, I did - sight unseen. I lived there for over seven years. I never thought that I would study horticulture and build golf courses, but I enjoyed that career for almost a decade. I never thought I would meet and marry (and subsequently get divorced from) a woman from Indiana. I never thought that I would live in Roanoke, Virginia or have a career in Sales. I never, ever, ever thought that I would live in Oklahoma again, the idea just did not appeal to me, but here I am since 2007, one of its biggest champions and critics. I never thought I would eventually be married to a woman who I knew only briefly when I was a young man many years previous. But, I did and now we have a beautiful baby boy (something I must admit I always thought would happen, although for a while I was beginning to wonder how). I never thought that I would do any of these things, but I am all the better for each of them.

Each of these things have happened with seemingly little concrete planning or goal setting. They happened because of intention. They happened because I decided there was something I wanted to change in my life, some new experience I wanted to have, and then the universe moved to create that for me. It may have never happened the way that I thought it would, or even the way I wanted it to at the time, but it happened when I quit worrying about how it was going to happen.

Step 2: Assemble an Army of Angels. You are going to need support.

I am fortunate. When I decided to quit my former career and begin the process of becoming a writer, I already had an entire support team in place.

First and foremost was my wife, who when I told her that I was no longer happy and I couldn't see a way that I could be unless I made a radical shift in my career arc, told me to do what I needed to do to change it. Mind you, this meant giving up an ample salary, great benefits and retirement package and ultimately, (perceived) security. She is one-in-a-million, which is exactly why she is my wife. I had to have a one-in-a-million type wife to be able to understand and support me. I now understand that finding her was one of the most integral initial steps in my "plan".

Secondly, I had friends and family members who supported and encouraged me throughout the process, even if they secretly wondered how I was going to pull it off. These people may have thought that I was bat-shit crazy, but at least they had the decency not to say it to my face. They gave me love and encouragement, bought lunches and dinners for my family, helped with babysitting duties and diapers, let me do odd jobs for them to make some extra money, gave us gift certificates to the grocery store, etc... Whether they did this because they believed in me or just because they didn't want to see my family suffer is inconsequential - they supported, that's what mattered.

I have a friend who is an extremely successful vintage guitar dealer. He helped me immensely by hiring me to assist him with his various guitar shows. About once a month, he and I would travel to some part of the United States and set up his wares in a large expo center. I helped him transport the guitars, set up his booth, drive the van, secure the money we made, etc... In turn, he would pay me well enough so that our family could get by. He has been dealing in vintage guitars for years, he has never had any help - he has never needed any. But, at this particular time he reached out to help me and I in turn, like to think that I helped him. One thing is for sure, I would have never made it without him.

You are going to need help, help that you cannot easily forecast - it will be necessary for a group of angels to emerge to assist you. Especially because of what is required in Step 3.

Step 3: Jump way off into the deep end. 

Sometimes you have to let go of what is in your hands in order to grab something new.

I was always taught that you don't leave one job without having another. This is not a bad thing to teach someone, but it simply doesn't always work out this way. Some of the greatest success stories in the world have come from leaving (or being removed from) a job with no backup plan in place. Necessity being the mother of invention and whatnot.

Working without a net dramatically increases focus and intensity. Yeah, it is brutal, but effective. It makes it impossible to be stagnant. You have to move in the direction you have chosen because there is no "safe ground" of an existing job. I would have loved to ease into a writing career while still earning large amounts of money in a sales position, but that was not my path. I would have never done it. I would have remained scared to put myself and my work out into the world if I already had the "security" of a full-time position. I had to take an action that was so bold that there was no turning back. Some people don't need this level of discomfort to serve as motivation, but I did, and when I got very quiet and really listened to my inner self, it kept telling me to "jump" and eventually, once the pain of not pursuing my dream outweighed the pleasure provided by the security afforded by my job, I jumped.

Step 4: Understand the power of intention. 

At the beginning of my unemployment, I was truly lost. I knew what I wanted to do, but could not bring myself to admit it to anyone. One day, a friend called me and asked if I would come and help him at the cabinet shop where he was working - his boss, the owner of the shop, was willing to pay $10/hour cash for some unskilled labor. I was happy to do it.

During one of our breaks, my friend told his boss how I had a left a great paying job at the height of the deepest recession our generation has ever known, and that I didn't even know what I was going to do next. To my surprise, this didn't strike his boss as irresponsible, or even moronic - he was interested. He asked me, "What do you want to do?"

Now this is key. I hadn't been able to publicly confess to anyone what it was that I intended to do at this point - I was still too afraid. But given the nature of the person asking, I figured there was no harm in giving it a shot. "I want to be a writer," I said.

The boss said, "Hmmm?  A writer, huh? Well, I don't know how to help you there. What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said - and I really didn't.

"Well," the boss said, "I'll tell you this. The best piece of advice I can give you is to tell everyone you meet that you quit your job and you want to be a writer."

"You think?"

"Yep," he said, "and here's why: Because nobody can help you if they don't know what you want - and you are going to need a lot of help."

He was exactly right. In order to create change you must have intention and you must make that intention known. I made it known to him that day, I went public in a very private cabinet shop. He couldn't help me, though. He didn't know any writers or editors. However, within hours, I noticed a Facebook post from a local publication searching for writers in Oklahoma. I replied with no credentials and no former published work (the only writing samples I offered were in this blog). Yet with some luck and determination, I became a published writer over the next few months and now, I am listed as a Contributing Editor to that publication (an organization full of angels). I made my intentions known, and the universe moved to meet me.

This is worth stating again: No one can help you achieve your goals if they don't know what you want.

Step 5: Pay attention: There are signs along the way.

A few months ago, my family and I were very nearly making it, financially speaking. Not quite, but close. With the money I was making from working guitar shows, writing for This Land Press and the money Cari was making from working several days a week, we were pretty close to being able to pay our bills. We had no insurance (although our child qualified for insurance through Sooner Care) and no other benefits. It was a lot of work and it was terribly inefficient, but we were better off than we had been. I kept thinking that if I could just get one more steady writing job, we would have enough money to really start to feel secure again.

One day, a friend of mine, a guy I had known when I was in grade school but had not spent any time with in over 25 years sent me an instant message (Facebook, again). It said: "I have a technical writer position that I am filling for a 90 day period. Likely to turn into a full-time gig. You interested in getting back into corporate America?"

My response: "I think I'm good where I am. But, I am so thankful that you thought of me."

Now why did I do that? I had said that I wanted another writing job so that I could feel secure and someone just offered me one and I turned it down.

In my mind, this job wasn't the right one. At first blush, it didn't look like the other writing job I was supposed to get. The other writing job I was supposed to get was going to look kind of like the one I already had, just in a different city or something. I wasn't paying attention.

Luckily, I realized my error (trying to control the "hows" of the situation) and reached out to my friend for further details on the position.

Now I work for a company that has afforded my family consistent pay, benefits, vacation, an office space downtown where I do my work and job satisfaction. I call this my anchor job. I work for this company remotely (there are no offices in Oklahoma), I have a great boss and I have the freedom to work unobstructed. I am thankful to have the opportunity and most of the people that I work with on projects are happy to have me there to help them. It doesn't hurt that the company I work for takes great care of their employees and seems to have not only a social, but also environmental conscience.

None of this would have been possible if I hadn't learned to pay attention to the true essence of what was being offered and thrown away my notions of what something was supposed to look like or feel like. I can guarantee you, now that I am performing this job on a daily basis, it looks and feels just right.

Step 6: Surrender. You will fail miserably. At that point, give up.

You know how they say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again?" Well, I guess so. But in between all the failing and trying, I think it is important to completely give up.

I gave up writing so many times in the last two years- I will probably give it up some more in the future. Failure is brutal and it seems more personal in some disciplines than others.

You are going to try really hard at some point to make your dreams come true and you are going to fail, miserably. It's okay. You will regain the courage to try again - although, it may take some time. In that stretch of time between your miserable failure and your next effort (which will likely result in miserable failure), give up completely.

Now I'm not saying that if you want to be a painter and you fail to accomplish one of your goals that you should then give up painting until you feel like your ego has repaired itself. No, go ahead and paint if you wish. Just give up trying to be a success.

Trying to be successful is dangerous and ultimately pointless. First of all, there is no universal definition for the term. No two people view it in the same way. So forget it. Forget your own view of success and just surrender.

Early on in my attempt to become a writer I was struggling greatly. My God-brother, Gabriel (He's one of my angels, don't you know?), told me to stop trying to figure everything out and just put my ass, "in the river and go with the flow." A former boss of mine once told me, "It's like you're in a row boat and you're paddling and paddling. Sometimes, you just need to put down the oars and take a long look at the shore." I now understand this to mean: surrender.

Surrender should not be thought of as a negative. It is not giving up your power, rather it is turning over your perceived problems to a power that can actually do something about it. Look, if you have the intention and the belief and the effort, the only thing that can block the arrival of what you seek is you. This is what people mean when they say, "If only he could get out of his own damn way."

 So fail. Fail, and then flow. Turn over your issues, let go of your preconceived notions, surrender the "hows" of the situation to God or Allah or Buddha or the Universe or Yoda or whoever the hell it is that you believe is bigger than you. Trust me, it feels great to let these things go.

Step 7: Give Thanks.

There are about five billion great quotes on this subject. I won't use any of them here. Just be sure that everyday you are thankful. Be overwhelmingly thankful to even get a shot at having a life. Be thankful for the successes small and large and be thankful for the great and seemingly cataclysmic failures and misjudgments and stupid mistakes.

If you are really down and out and feeling as low as you have ever felt and you can't think of anything to be thankful for, then just say:

"Thanks for this shitty day; and subsequently, the shitty way it turned out. I really enjoyed making a complete and total ass of myself in front of the people I respect and admire. This is going along just swimmingly. I can't wait for tomorrow to see what kind of fucked-up plan is in store for me. Jesus Lord!"

At least you will start to laugh, and laughter is always helpful.

Step 8: Return the Favor.

When you make progress, take time to help others. It can be large or small. Just remember how much help you needed (and still will need) and take the time to send an e-mail, make a phone call or buy a beer for someone who needs encouragement. Do this to the absolute best of your ability. You are not too important or too stressed for time to return a call or e-mail to someone who just wants a little help.

All of this being said, I can't say I have made it yet. I'm not a success, I have had some success. I aspire to more.

Since I believe in taking my own medicine, I will say this: I intend to write a book, a novel. I intend on it being well-received by the types of people who think about such things. I should like to work on collaborative projects with other writers - I would like to see what that is like. I would like to have tremendous of amounts of fun while working on these projects, laughing, often uncontrollably. I would like to feel impulsive and sustained bursts of creativity during this venture - that type of thing makes me happy. I would also like to make large piles of money from these efforts - which would allow me to take vacations with, and provide for, my family.

And along the way I promise to pay attention, surrender, be thankful and help others as I am able.

Fuck that lame-ass three step chart.

Better Living Through Chemistry; Or, how I stopped fearing the very much known and started to embrace my imbalance.

Before I started my career as a writer, my professional life was a disaster.  Writing has ruined that.  Now my life is a seemingly surreal series of events woven together by adorable, crafty little elves that work at once both deftly and without cigarette breaks.  My life is full of stories, potentially.  Given the right angle, everyone has a story.  And some have a story without an angle, more circular in narrative, I suppose.  There aren't any stories about ship captains, though.  That is where everyone gets it wrong.

Writing has helped me to value human life and even corporations if for nothing more than their potential for satirical send-up.

Another thing that helps me value human life is a prescription for, and the recommended daily ingestion of, a certain blue and green capsule that fights like the devil against the forces of anxiety and major depressive disorder that threaten to jab a million hate-spears into my brain.  Specifically, the parts of the brain that regulate mood and the sort of anxiety that accompanies being a shivering mass of human being.  Yes, this little botanical (maybe?) serves to block out the naturally dark chemicals and wave a red flag in front of the blessed ones, urging them toward their appropriate receptors like a neurological matador.  Either that, or it simply increases the amounts of the optimistic chemicals, I am honestly a little fuzzy on the science.  Nevertheless, I imagine from time to time that the blue portion of the pill sends a torrent of soothing water at the gloomy little soldiers of depression, washing them upon an island positively shamrocked with verdant low-lying vegetation (obviously, the green part of the pill) lightly swept now and again by careful breezes, lending it the eerily calming sensation of being alive, which it obviously is.  Everything is alive.  Even granite countertops.  Just not ship captains, they are positively dead.

The pill ingested, the veil lifts.  Not quickly.  Not even noticeably at first.  So in that respect, "the veil lifts" is an absolutely shitty metaphor.  Another equally shitty way I have heard it described is the "fog clears".  No.  I don't really know what the hell any of this would have to do with fog clearing.  Most people have no literal reference for that anyway.  Be honest, when was the last time you got to sit somewhere and witness clearing fog?  Maybe if you're from the Bay Area or something, or perhaps near the Puget Sound, but in Oklahoma we get fog like twice a year and usually I sleep through it.  Besides it sounds like some kind of shit a ship captain would say anyway.  Fuck him.

Anyway, so psycho-chemical-retreading is neither "lifty" fog nor its cousin, the equally, albeit more lacy, clearing veil.  It is more of a gradual, quiet loss of hatred.

Here's how it happens.  At first, you might notice something that would normally inspire all amounts of rage and/or hostility, like a poorly executed traffic circle or the prattling on of a self-aggrandizing pet food lobbyist.  Things that in the past would have never escaped an audible swipe.  But this time, nothing seems worth putting forth the effort to upsettedness.  Then, a really strange thing occurs.  Your brain realizes that it almost got worked up over the ingredients in a loaf of artisan bread, or how you never lettered in lacrosse because your high school only recognized it as a "club sport" or whatever (meanwhile the football team just couldn't have enough fucking different versions of their "road uniforms"), and it looks at itself, your brain, and kind of softly laughs.  That's exactly how it happens.  That's right, your present brain looks at the memory of your past brain and chuckles a bit, somewhat patronizingly, too.  Just a little.  It doesn't overdo it like some kind of pretentious ship captain or anything like that.  Just enough to let you know how smart you were to quit being on of the biggest pricks in the world and start to get help for your chemical imbalance.  It is a kind of knowing laugh.  The kind of laugh that you laugh now when you hear people who are younger than you complain about stuff like entrance exams, or how their crippling huffing addiction came about as a result of not being able to find enough activities in which to engage their free time.

So what the hell does any of this have to do writing?

I can hear you now.  You're saying, "Kudos to you, friend.  It sounds like your propensity for being a gigantic ass has been at least partially masked by employing the use of psycho-pharmacological mood-altering super-mind-fucking pills which at best will work for the time being, but must bring along to the impromptu daily chemistry experiment that is now taking place in your skull-hole a host of concerning side effects that if not at any time physically debilitating, than almost certainly sexually embarrassing. Great.  Good for you.  But this enlightenment of ennui is manufactured, it is not the byproduct of an artistic mind.  What's wrong with you, besides the established?"

To which I say, "That's just like you to shit all over this, ship captain!"

The overarching truth is that without writing, I may never have acquiesced to the science fair that is now being conducted daily in my wrinkly-pinkly brain.  And without writing, I wouldn't be able to accurately explain this brave new world to others with the obvious efficiency and precision of a laser-guided laser.   Writing has demanded that I expose the parts of myself that are vulnerable, squishy and otherwise ludicrous.  It is truly the only way I know to convey information of interest.  Nobody wants to read about how great you feel all the time and that you just don't know why, but things just kinda-sorta naturally work out for you.  People want guts strewn about and feelings ricocheting off of every possible surface (I am speaking somewhat figuratively, but it has not escaped my attention that a lot of people, "Gamers", I think they call themselves, actually like the literal spreading of guts, at least from what I can gather from the television commercials that ran during the most recent Super Bowl).

"Yes," you say, "people do seem to respond to emotion and the exposure of certain basic human qualities.  They long for a witness.  A translator who might illustrate that in one manner or another, we are all flawed, all scared to our wits and yet, all capable of a sort of redemption, a modicum of peace if not outright transcendence.  So, seeing how you have achieved this by simply taking a time-released capsule, why should we listen to anything you have to say?"

"Oh, you nautical hobgoblin - I swear." (fist shaking).

Why should anyone listen to me?  They shouldn't.  I shudder to imagine what state the world should find itself in if I have become required reading.  But here is what I have a need to confess.  If others find it useful, I am glad.  If they find it impotent and laughable, I would suggest that they keep their damn mouths shut on the matter.

What I must confess is that once I found my passion (which, incidentally, I had known for my entire life but was simply too fearful to name it), I had barely the strength left to pursue it.  Once I had been given the chance to pursue my dream, I nearly sabotaged it for lack of mental health.  But for some reason, I chose to ask for help.  And for some other reasons, I continue to choose to ask for help.  The pills help.  For now (which is really all there ever is), they help.  And I only need them to help for now.  I am not looking for a lifetime guarantee.  I don't need to conquer Everest, I just needed to quit carrying it around for a bit.  Writing about it helps.  The pills help.

Perhaps the toughest thing I have done is to try and learn to surrender.  I am still miserable at it, but I am trying.  I had to surrender to the fact that I couldn't manage my mental health on my own at this time in order to manage my mental health on my own at this time.  That's the trick.  It was either that, or purchase a boat, hire a crew and become the captain of a ship.