To All Friends of Bill W. (Especially Those in CA)

I just got back home from a meeting, one that is generally small. In fact, the only people that show up to this particular meeting are me and two other people. Some sundays, we show, and stay thirty minutes just to make sure we'll be there for a newcomer and we'll talk recovery and all. Here's the deal, today, we had two people show up that never have been to this meeting before, so we actually had it. After the meeting was done, me and one of my friends talked about why this meeting never doesn't have people come to it, and he said that at first, it did have a lot of people come to it. And, he was right. It did, at first, have a lot of people come to it. But, people got turned off to the meeting because it was disorganized primarily due to the person who ran it, who ironically enough doesn't go to it anymore.

I will tell you this now, I primarily go to CA meetings- it's just me. While I am an alcoholic, I did more drugs than alcohol in my life time (even though the end of my using career could debate that issue). The sad thing is, in CA, most people do not amass much time, so me, with my 13+ months has reached an echelon that puts me as one of those people in the room that have a responsibility to make sure that that 11th tradition applies to all meetings.

So, when my friend said that that meeting does not attract people, I said the same thing to him, that me and him had that obligation to make it attract to the newcomer. Even more importantly, us as people that have completely the 12 steps, having a spiritual awakening, it is almost our duty to carry God's will out, and be ready to make sure we can reach the most important person in a meeting- the newcomer. It is imperative that we do so, or recovery dies.

The ninth tradition supports this. In our group conscious meetings, we have to prepare ourselves to organize, but not control, the meetings so that when necessary, God's will, and his message, and the solution carried in the Big Book will be openly available to the those ready to receive it.

This was poignantly pointed out to me today at this meeting as one of the two people that showed up for the meeting was a newcomer, as in this was her very first CA meeting. Imagine the implications of no one being there at all. What would she think of CA? What could of possibly happened to her that night? Even if you don't like a meeting, I must remind any addict or alcoholic, after a while, it's not what you get out of a meeting, it's what you bring to it.

In the hearts and minds of every person recovery should be the pain and suffering of the time before their first meeting, or before their first step (their first honest one at least). Upon remembering that, ask yourself, how much are you doing for your AA/CA/CMA/NA etc. community? How many people do you sponsor, how many H&I's do you do, how many meetings do you chair? Yes- I understand that their are families and jobs and so on, and it's important now, more than ever that we are sober, not to neglect them, but I urge you to read page 143, where it reminds us that we must place recovery before all else, for without that, we have no homes and families, no nothing. By placing recovery above all else, we place God above everything. Remember you third and seventh step prayers. Page 77- fit yourself to maximum service to him and your fellows. God. Recovery. Life. If there's no God, there's no recovery. If there's no recovery, there's no life. Don't plan your recovery around your life.

I get frustrated with people who say that they don't have that much time for recovery after they get sober for a while. I hate to remind them that when they were shoving rigs in their arm, sucking on that glass cock, putting lines up their nose, I'm sure they didn't really have much time for anything else. I know for me, in my addiction, my life revolved on how can I plan work, friends, school, all that around my drugs. Now, I find ways so to fit school, friends, family, so I can do a meeting every day, a couple H&I's a week, and sponsor 4 people right now- and for two reasons. One, because I want to. This program saved my life and I genuinely want to pass it along. I had that spiritual awakening and it's an amazing thing. The Sketch of the past is very different than who I am now. Two- I know I have to do this for the rest of my life or this disease will catch up with me. I will die with this disease, I don't have to die from it. I'm sure, all these people with "no time" came find some time that they used to give to drugs, to find at least one hour for a meeting, or an H&I or to talk to a newcomer. Just something to give back, to honor that oath they gave to God in the third and seventh step.

I know, I probably sound like pretentious 23 year old that amounted some sobriety, and you might be right. I might need to pray and drop some of my ego. I just got really frustrated today. I saw that woman, who by the way, to make it even more tragic, brought her kids to the meeting because she had nowhere else to leave them, come to the meeting, and I got scared. I got scared thinking about the meetings out there that are scheduled and no one goes to. And the newcomer shows up, and he's fucked. Fucked. I remember how hard it was for me. I didn't get this program the first time around. I didn't get it the second time around. It took years and pain and suffering and hurt and trauma just like it did for many others in this program. So, maybe my ego is getting into this, but if I can just maybe make one person in this program just a little bit more aware of the newcomer, than I feel... better.

But, it's not about words. It's about action. This is a program of action. It's about doing something. Like Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." So suit up and show up, and act. Sometimes just being there is all it takes. That's all it took for this woman for her to at least not use for one hour.

And one more quote by MLK I like, I'm going to put here because I find it somewhat apropos: "Faith is about taking the first step, even if you don't see the whole staircase."

Why I Feel Like Sometimes I'm Getting Old

Between arguments I have with my friends after meetings as to where we should go to eat (either the Village Inn or Jim's, which is arguably the same, just we can smoke at Jim's), or which cereal is better (Frosted Mini- Wheats vs. Cinnamon Toast Crunch) I sit in these classes at school that I have to take because it's been five years since I entered college and I'm transferring to UTSA from out of state. So, I'm surrounded by freshman in three freshman classes I take (I do have a coup d'gra (sp?), in a junior level, which is where I'm classified, poli sci class) right now, and it's a bit disconcerting. They're all so young and healthy looking. I need to shave.

So I'm sitting in my bio class, and this cute little girl sits down next to me, and we start about the class, which, being bio, I have no idea about. Biology is like speaking a different language to me. You could speak in German to me, and I would respond, "Is that a bio thing? Should I right that down? Spell that for me, please." And so, this girl and I start talking, and I mention how I haven't taken a bio class since my freshman year of high school, which just to clarify why this story scared me, was in 1998. While I'm still young at 23, what happened next made me want to cry. So, I tell this girl I haven't been in a bio class since my freshman year of high school, she says, yeah, I took it in high school too, thank God it wasn't that long ago, though, right? That
"right?" at the end just wasn't "right." That's when I realized she thought I was her age. That's when I looked at her- "Well, not really. I took this course in '98." "Christ!" she says. (Seriously, I'm not joking.) This girl just graduated high school. So I did the math. That means she entered high school in 2003. I graduated in 2002. So, when I graduated high school, she still had one more year to go before she even entered high school. Which means, furthermore, that when I was a freshman in high school, she was in fourth grade. And then my mind started regressing some more. The freshman in high school now, they were born in 1993! 1993! Nineteen-motherfucking-three (pardon my biology)! In 1993, I was in fourth grade. It's all so sad.

Then, I looked around the room, and I didn't know how to react. Sitting upon at least 85% percent of the students' desks were laptops. I remember when I was in college that if you pulled laptop, which was not necessarily a rarity, but at least was combating with desktops (and wireless was unheard of) out in class, your prof would tell you to put it away. Now, I see everyone with a laptop out. Of course, only half of the are actually taking notes. The rest are on myspace or some other waste of time like that... why do I feel an irony saying that? Anyway, as I sit here and take notes by hand, I think about my laptop back home, the one I'm typing on now which I've owned for about 2 weeks. This thing scares me. I remember the computer I had growing up. I shared it with my father, and it about the time to make a sandwich and eat half of it to load up, and man, I thought it was fast. 33 mhz, baby! And a modem, 55 kilohertz. Now, those speeds are jokes. I bet just reading those numbers, you laughed a little to yourself.

Now, here's the thing that really kills me. Right now, as we speak, my friend Leah is in labor. I've know Leah since I was ten years old, and I've know her husband since I was nine. I knew them and was friends with them before they were friends with each other. I lived with Leah (she let me sleep on her couch for a few months while I was homeless, right when she started hanging out and dating Shaun, interestingly enough) even, and I was a groom's man in their wedding. They mean a lot to me, and I've known them for most of my life- they are like family, and I can remember us being young. I still remember Shaun and me playing basketball my driveway on my house on Celinda Cr., or playing Doom on his computer. I still remember making Leah laugh in our fifth grade reading class with my stupid little jokes. Now, they're about to be parents with college degrees and full time, real life jobs.

That, people, is something amazing. I am at that stage. I am at that stage where I am beyond the teenage "what does it all mean, who am I?" searching of the soul, questioning all the intrinsic things. Now, I wonder "who am I becoming? Who do I want to become, and who with?" and somewhat importantly, "did I live the days of my youth well?" I start looking at the past with less of a glory eyed nostalgia, and more like a father within myself, smiling gracefully when I pinpoint certain moments and now I can say, "there, right there, that's something that made me who I am." And with a tacit certainty, I quit looking back at the days of my youth, but I take them with me now and I scan for pieces of answers to the questions that come as I grow older.

I don't know. I just feel happy for Shaun and Leah. My prayers go to them. For now, I'm out. I'm going to play my guitar and lament that I was one question away from making an "a" on my biology exam.

Ghost

This storm is so far beyond anything call the norm- enough to say I've never encountered such beautiful pain dressed in mother nature's embrace of her son's tears. And if I've been here before it's been to cover my eyes to compromise that the sun comes after the night and I can't take that much light and I'm drowning in rain water but I still lover her daughter that I kiss her neck, but I sleep with the rest. And I'm a ghost in this storm, as the shower goes through me, it washes me clean so I can commit to my next deed.

I'm a kid in a toy store without all the toys, and I scream and I shout to be louder than all the noise, but I whisper like a lion, like a giant, who wishes he could be triumphant but knows that every time he holds all that he loves, he breaks their necks and they curse his name from heaven up above. But from Michigan to Texas I got the same message, I'm a ghost in the storm, what you say goes through me, I can't conform, even if I know I'm wrong.

I used to say I was a victim, now I say I have a sickness, but if you test me, I'll show you how much patience I have left in me. I'm tired of hurting all the people around me, but as long as I remain a ghost, my tears mean the most to those that know I mean to show love but instead I wash away with the rain and down into the drain of forgotten memories.

Who Shot John?

Imagine a whisper that's not so loud-
what would it mean to you?
Imagine something you can't hold-
is it between me and you?
I'm living through photographs; and no matter how it ends-
it's never
picture perfect. There's a piece of all my lovers in
every!-
song in my life. Yet,
even if I wrote the perfect one,
I still wouldn't get it right.
Imagine a whisper that's not so loud.
What would it mean to you?
Imagine something you can't hold.
Is it between me and you?
I'm so obsessed with metaphors- the city, songs, photographs;
the pen bleeds
(intentionally)
so I can escape.
So I can hear that whisper and fill that space between
you and me
with all the things that were already there to begin.
Imagine a whisper that's not so loud,
what would it mean to you?
Imagine something you can't hold,
is it between me and you?

The Silver Bullet

where is the miracle? the slander of advice that sank with the ship that
once swam, with the currents; and now
I'm nervous
waiting
in line for service- waiting,
for answers. And if it takes me all year,
I need something to take away the
fear that nailed me to the wall, blood
dripping

from my hands

for all to see catch and fall
and I see where the gun is pointed and I lean back and I'm disappointed.
I see where the gun is pointed and I lean back
and
I'm
Disappointed.
I'm the host of categories full of ghosts, and
no one wonders why I miss the coast, how I saw
the sunset in my lover's eyes and when she looked at me I couldn't hide my
surprise
at the blue sky Holiday and the hotel. She whispers she sighs.
Cigarettes on her breath and I'm still up for the test,
slowly unraveling the mess, the process slow; with my regret only
because in your
silhouette
I see how easy it is to forget with one step out the
door where guys like me are
dime-a-dozen but I'm lucky #13- one more, I swear
I'll scream.
I see where the gun is pointed and I lean back and I'm disappointed.
I see where
the gun is
pointed and I lean
back and I'm disappointed.
Struggling for each breath of
a
i
r
,
I wonder if it's fair to include myself
in conversations in life
and love because if I've never been in love then I've just been
singing songs to the moon of misery waiting; to be someone new; with someone new;
in a place where I'm less cruel.
I'm the master of making excuses.
Useless-
I searched for vanity to fill my other half, instead I got wrath,
and maybe with a little time, I can say goodbye to the night and say
hello to the light-
if the disease
in
me
permits
me.
I see where the gun is pointed and I lean back and I'm disappointed.
I see where the
gun
is pointed and I lean back and I'm disappointed.
I bought roses at the mall just to watch
the petals
f
a
l
l
so i can see behind the beauty; see the pain within us all.
You say I need help;
I say I need to get out of self.
You say I need to stop being selfish;
I say only God can grant that wish.
I see where the gun is pointed and I lean back and I'm disappointed.
I
see where the
gun
is pointed and
I'm
Disappointed.

My First Random Thought

I can't seem to study for my bio exam on Tuesday. Instead, my mind drifts off into other worlds where I imagine myself living other lives with other people.

I keep thinking about this story I'm writing in the other blog I do, my fiction blog. I keep thinking about the chapters ahead, even though I know I should be worrying about school. Then, even further in the back of my mind, I keep thinking about another story that I want to write, which I will keep quiet about for now until I can fully account about it.

I did something interesting today, something I would've never seen myself ever doing if it wasn't for me ever getting sober. Last night, after the meeting, a couple of friends and I went and got something to eat. In the midst of our conversation, I told some bullshit, made up story and got away with it. All day today, it bugged me to the point that I felt like I was in the Tell Tale Heart, and I was going to give myself away at any moment. Finally, I called him up, and I told the truth, and I expected this big thing, where I had to explain myself, make some apologies- instead, it was no big deal. It took a matter of minutes.

It's strange developing a sense of morals, or at least becoming tuned into a sense of morals. I don't think ever in my life I ever really believed in an acute sense of honesty, integrity, and all those things that make people dependable. Of course, in the past, I considered myself a decent person, and maybe I was, it's just I was too selfish to really see passed myself. All I ever wanted was to benefit from whatever I could.

I'm finally starting to get used to San Antonio. I'm a small town kid- well, at least towns of the range of 60,000 to 100,000 depending if it's summer of the school year. Growing up in college towns, following my father, that's what I became used to, that summer school year shift. I'm used to towns like Stony Brook, New York, Princeton, New Jersey, Palo Alto, California, College Station, Texas (where I spent half my life), Ann Arbor, Michigan (where I went to college). Kerrville, Texas was too small (about 20,000 or less), and the three years I spent in Chicago, I was in '91-'93, so cognitively, it didn't really matter to me, and the time I spent in Detroit was quite short.

It's taking time for me to get used to the hustle of San Antonio. This city is now the officially fastest growing city in America and just passed Houston to become the eighth biggest city in America. I get lost sometimes just trying to get something to eat. People give me directions, use things like, "Go under the loop," and I have no idea what the hell they are talking about. In College Station, you just need to know I-6 and you're okay. Sometimes I feel claustrophobic just walking outside. Do I sound like a country boy? I probably do, but people here call me a Yankee, probably because my accent (a mix of northern, with probably a resonance of my parents Brazilian accents, my own probably being gone).

Either way, I feel like I'm starting to get used to the pace of the city. How the traffic flows, and how everyone just feels devoid of emotion and it just seems impossible for another to notice one another to notice each other. I'm reminded of the introduction to the movie "Crash," where Don Cheadle talks about how we just miss the human touch. That's what this city reminds me of. Everyone here moves so robotically- where no one can look each other in the eyes. And in this big city, it is so easy to be alone.

Is this why so many girls dress down, making themselves eye candy and trash for guys to manipulate them and think of them as objects? Is this why so many guys act like pricks and assholes getting fucked up and fighting at bars (which I'm ashamed to say I used to participate in)? Is this why we try so hard to become someone we're not so that someone we don't know will never know who we are? That way someone will never know who we are. We live in cities full of people that don't know each other, except by name. We live in cities full of people that don't know themselves. We live in empty cities full of dreamers and silent observers wishing they had just one chance to whisper one ounce of truth to just one ear that is willing to listen.

Maybe I'm over generalizing, but I can't remember being able to look someone in the eyes and say, "Hey I'm Sketch, and this is what I'm scared to say, but hell, I'm going to say it anyway."

Maybe I'm just a weaker person.

The Introduction

well, I will say, I wish I could make a more elaborate page, but I'm one: too lazy to learn how to make a page better looking, and two: even if I did know, I wouldn't do it anyway.

So, that's out of the way. There- that's what I look like so the vanity part of everything can be taken away. It's been a while since I've tried to do something online other than fiction. The idea of publicly journaling my life is interesting to me- to share the thoughts of my day with the rest of the world, to play the opposite of the voyeur, wondering if that grants me the right to play the voyeur, somehow gives me strength to write down the things in my head that I usually lead to myself.

I'll tell you right now that, that I'm stuck in the south. I live in San Antonio, Texas, and it's not bad. I spent half my life in College Station, Texas, and if there's any town in Texas I miss, it's College Station. Really, though, I miss the Midwest. I miss, Ann Arbor, which used to be home, where I initially went to college. I miss Chicago where I lived before Texas. I also miss New England and New York. I miss the snow and the clouds and the biting wind and the autumn and changes that reminds me that no matter how fast or slow that life moves on, I'll always have the dependable colors to rely upon.

It's been four years since I've seen that view. And while I don't regret leaving, or at least now, I don't regret leaving, I do feel a nostalgia for it. I was thinking, the other day, about what got me here, to where I am today, and I think about what a catalyst Michigan was in my life.

What I mean is that Michigan is where my drug addiction blew up. My friends will tell you that where I am now is a completely different place then where I was in 2003 and 2004. When I moved back to College Station, I was homeless and covering up bruises on my arm, and afraid of being touched. I'm not saying this to receive pity, but because I believe at some point, I'll find some other addict or alcohol out there, that's my age that can relate.

It's a strange thing, at 22 years of age, and having to admit to being powerless under a thing like heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. Having to realize, as I did 13 months ago, crying on my father's lap, that there's something inherently wrong with me. And the funny thing is, I'd already gone to two rehabs and a psych ward. Of course, wait was in front of me then was another stint in rehab and another time in an institution (hopefully, my last for both). I cried on my father's lap because I knew he wasn't going to let me get a drink from his cabinet and I knew he wasn't going to let me leave the house to get high and I realized poignancy of that idea. How strange it was that I was confined to a prison of my own making and that's when I really realized that I was an addict, but an addict beyond saying, hey, I'm sketch and I'm an addict like i've done so many times before in my life.

But it's a strange thing, I've thought about recently, as I've begun college life again here in San Antonio again for the first time in many years, living in an apartment complex surrounded by college students, it's a strange thing to not drink, party, get fucked up, and even stranger to not have the desire any more to want to. It's not a matter of will power, and I didn't get smarter or more mature, that's for sure, I just became free. I took some work, the 12 steps, and a miracle of a higher power gracing my life. It sounds so strange sometimes to think about it, but sometimes, I'll look at my arm, and I can see tiny scars, and I'll want to cry, and I don't even know why. Is it because I'm still alive, not in prison, because I'm no longer homeless, or is it because of my police record, and I've been homeless, or because I've seen life through the eyes of an addict, which no matter how shitty a movie or book can make it seem, just like I'll never understand what it will be like to be a veteran of a war, addiction takes a collateral of your life that sometimes seems excessive and undeserving.

But I'm here now. I've lived in San Antonio for only a few months, and spend most of my time to myself. When I'm not in meetings or in class, I'm in my efficiency studying, reading, writing, or playing guitar. My closest friends are scattered, my closest being in College Station, one in Korea, and some in Kerrville, where I got sober. I like the solitude, though. I wouldn't call myself a loner, as some people here have called me, it's just I don't like the pissing contests that tend to go on when a group of people meet.

But... that's the introduction. Basically, what I hope will come out of this will be a place for me to just ramble about whatever is on my mind, I just wanted to give anyone who reads this an idea of what my mind is.

deuces.