THE LOTUS EATEROf all the fiends Ulysses faced, most hideous and insidiously placed was a compulsion, first undetected, later injected. Knowing his strengths, his hopes, his weaknesses (one), it tugged not at him, but at his son. The suitors' lust extinguished, Telemachus teetered, bored by sub-urban tedium and ennui, he sought solace and found it, with the Lotus Eaters, trading his armor for the pleasures of pharma. Oxy 20s, 30s, 40s, the escalation quick and easy, blissful devastation. The blight, invited, invaded. Young and old, they braved the cold, sold all they owned, for a soujourn to a summit few survey and fewer survive. It's a long way down. They don't fall, they plummet. Odysseus, seeking salvation for his son, casts about gamely, but vainly. Which foe can he vanquish, which sorceress plead with? He does not bow to acceptance, but remorse? Of course. Maybe if he'd stayed, the boy wouldn't have strayed? No, addiction arose only after his arrival. All that matters is survival, to bring this to a halt. But was he as a father, then, at fault? "No," Penelope soothes, "this is hateful fate." The implication plain, Ithaca's favored son debates which God or Goddess he must kill. And he will do it, Telemachus thinks, pausing on the edge of the needle prick. Then, the syringe like a dagger in. I am sick, he perceives, a liability to family and those who love me. I must flee, escape this labyrinth—but wait, only Theseus achieved that trick. The Telemachy/A PenelopiadOnce she was my heroine—oh, I needed her! Father long gone heroin', inseparable we were-- not like Oedipus, but call the Greek chorus for us, this is a tragedy. Every time I see her look at me, her face encased in sorrow, I think "tomorrow." Will be the last day, the end of play, no more delay. But not today. Tomorrow. Till then, I stay away. Penelope sobs, knowing she will survive both husband and son: one undone by a needle’s silver tongue, one tortured by remorse for his coarse use of force. (It’s a tall order, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.) "Is this how the gods reward my faithful wait?" she complains. "Those days were chains, and I, though tempted and afraid, kept from love's embrace, never took the bait, never brought disgrace-- in part because my son, despite disdain for my suitors' displays, remained in his native domain and (at that time, well awake) explained the case for estate delayed due to cage or blade. For a decade, he displayed honor; with his strength, I never strayed. Together, we foiled their campaign. Would he now, by his mother, be betrayed? Nay, though led astray—to my dismay-- his pain will be remade, with our aid. He will be saved." Tied Down: A Comedy (featuring Telemachus)I avoided the swords of suitors scorned, but force the fierce syringe to pierce this skin. With fine string, I bind my wing, pull tight and softly sink into Plutonian night. That's roamin' poetry, an Akron-ism; flying high, I have been thrown by the horse I rode in on. But no need to be priggish, to put it piggish-Latinly, we may say iyay amyay ayay junkie. Weigh that word, it's heavy. It levies a fee, and already many condemn me, fresh sheep for the scrap heap, in deep shit, but Mom and Dad won't release their grip. I'm fading, further away, at a blistering clip. Near coma, in bliss, I let it slip: "What's an Odyssey, after all, but a really great trip?" The RescueI. Cleverness A man of action, not restraint, Ulysses ain't about to kiss that dopey boy goodbye. Irate and armored, he sets to acquaint himself with that pharmer, the barber who, money owed, would cut his heir. Not about to farm that carnage out, Ulysses spoke, then choked the man, bled him at the knees till he repented his misdeeds and fled the scene, pleading and disowning his vocation. After much fuss, interrogation uncovered the location of Telemachus, he who hid identity, via alias. Barbary sleaze easily defeated, Odysseus sought to release his offspring from the disease which, by degrees, wreaks ruin. Odysseus believed it could be achieved; he decreed his intent, foreseeing relief: "Multiple names, good grief! Be serious. Ulysses v. Odysseus is properly mysterious, but a pseudonym for him? Is he ashamed of his famous father, enslaved by his family name, or just afraid to abandon his anonymous charade? With haste, I have traced my quarry to this place, and like a red deer hunt, I must follow my hart, playing my part in this sorrow, ready to confront. The boy, fruit of my loins, that fool, has thieved jewels, money... once he stole a scroll, sold to a collector, along with his family jewels, or more specifically his scepter. And woe, the dough went to sow a short-lived glow. He disappoints, purloins coins, stiffs thugs for drugs. His choices could destroy we three of royalty. No salve or ointment employed can coerce him to rejoin society... but I will boink him on the head, if need be." Odysseus passed scores of those who’d scored, now scored by arm-scars and marked by open sores. Some were dead. Finding Telemachus, he pointed at them and said, “They have been decimated (if that is a term yet). It’s only dumb luck that it was not your turn yet.” Within the spell of sleep, and deep in dreams, Telly was insensible. His begetter cried to the sky. “This son of mine, next in line, made strong by estate and design but weak in will, lies supine. I missed those times he shined brightest—his childhood, which I left behind to fight against the deadly tides of Priam.” Then he turned, confiding, “I should have stood beside you.” Odysseus hugged him, called him a schmuck, and discussed fumbled trust, and wanderlust. Mustering courage, numb, he clutched his son's drug-dulled skull, and uttered the hushed instruction, "Come." II. Ye Gods! An Accounting from Odysseus I begged my boy to get help, but he foiled my ploy: "Help from whom?" he rejoined. "The Gods, who destroyed Troy? They care not for me, nor you, can't you see? In reality, to them, mere ants are we." As he, Telemachus (always prone to hyperbole) continued his Olympian tongue-lashes, I mused that truly, opiate is the religion of the masses. I sacrificed blood, a bull, with no result. The Gods were deaf or dead, so I sought help from man instead-- Bacchus Begone, a recovery clinic (though I was a cynic). It cost almost all the treasure I owned, but my boy was enrolled. Telemachus left us on the bus. Luggage laid, fees paid He'll traverse blue seas with these, this, his skinny self. Tele-machusHe was permitted no visits so via text and weekly phone, he told them of doses of Naloxone. Once, he was indisposed at the commode. Though the clinic seemed idyllic, he'd been sick-- a physic he called a gimmick. One day he ran away, his nurse searched and found him, hurt. He moaned to come home and atone for his offenses. "Why incur such expenses?" he droned, along with other pretenses. His parents heard his defenses, then intoned, "Don't you know an intervention when it's shown? We won't disown you, but we can't condone. This journey you must make alone." With a groan, he concurred, and seemed to turn. For thirty days, he worked the earth, probed his phobias in group therapy. They thought they heard sincerity. Toward the end, he was optimistic-- on one call, he got specific about Vivitrol; it was all very scientific. They were enthralled, and talked till dawn. His withdrawal symptoms were gone, he told them. Was it false? They bawled as Telemachus, with an element of guile (in addict's style), expressed regrets. He recounted a regimen of exercise and therapy, efforts with stress management, an attempt at autobiography. Their hopes mounted steadily. He knew their fears, what they wanted to hear. And ever the beautiful, dutiful son, he delivered it to their ears. The Lotus EatersAll traces of the flower had been scoured from the surrounds as the near-devoured now returned from Thrace, straight-laced, to that house in a state of grace. How loudly they shouted, how powerfully they embraced! Disgrace erased, Telemachus found Penelope's face and braced, lest emotion overtake. He wonders, is their faith misplaced, their devotion a mistake? Ulysses stands prouder than any, despite the doubters (there are many). The next few days, pateras showered the scion with praise. showing disdain for the nay-sayers. At Penelope's request, Ulysses agreed to rest: "Yes I said yes I will. Yes." He then confessed his own unrest: Had Telemachus completely convalesced? She answered obliquely: "This is his test." She laid her head upon his chest, whispering tenderly, "We did our best." Amid the tensions of abstention, Telemachus commenced to redress the mess he'd left, showing progress with no instance of distress. Men were impressed with his success, yet he soon regressed, refusing mother's caress or communal kindness. Surreptitiousness infused his movements, though he professed acceptance of his penance. His reformation soon found frustration He went underground, confounding his probation-- too close to the start, he departed. Still, all was well a while, till he fell victim to the itch. He stole a ship and sailed, availed of the prevailing winds. The trailing Ithacans soon quit. Informed by his father's stories, Telemachus adjusted his course, braving gusts, confronting gales. The tales purported to exist an atoll, missed easily, with pleasures that would fix him speedily. The crew he'd paid with family funds obeyed, navigating choppy waters and rocky coast. Almost. As they approached the remote island, the sky became violent, and the ship was dashed. Unabashed, he recast his fate as something great, swam to shore, sat and laughed. Trapped? With a few scraps, he would adapt. He set out to extract the high he lacked. Without a map, he tracked the inhabitants, seeking his sacrament through labyrinths of trees. At last, he sees a vast mass of refugees. After much travail, he'd found his grail. Greeted and hailed, a female voice offered a choice-- invited to imbibe, ingest, inhale, he might avail on a grand scale. His hostess came into focus, holding something in her hand, he noticed-- this must be the lotus. Would this fruit of ill repute be Soma, induce a coma, or was it just some bogus hocus-pocus? Sloe-eyed, slow-witted, nude, she cooed: "We who drink the Mountain Dew, who, in lieu of food chew only fruit, withdrew from that universe of you and your crew. We bid adieu, to be free for a lengthy nepenthe. You can too, with no one to condemn thee." On cue, a crowd queued, pristine-lunged and pink-tongued, massed to their repast, mouths slack, eyes glassed, bare-assed, and she dispatched their cached stash. Embarrassed but no prude, Telemachus asked if he, too, might enjoy the fruit. Addicted, he enlisted. With bated breath, he eyed her baited breasts. He knew bliss was precursor to the fall, “But better live like this a short time than to never live at all.” Odd is He (starring Penelope)When Telemachus disappeared, Odysseus feared his son's demise. His wife decreed that fate unclear: "I am no seer, but would he not seek the Lotus Eaters? If so, we must go, I volunteer—we'll bring him here." "A good idea," her loving husband muttered, "but speak not of 'we'." I alone will go, solo, me. She resisted. Odysseus insisted, kissed her, gave a list of grave dangers they'd face, "Nay, this is your place." Nevertheless, she persisted. "Drugs are no substitute for a mother's touch. You may be a veteran, but I will be his heroine. You're reluctant, but trust me. I'm your bride, you are my groom—we are allies and should not divide. He is our child. I confide my mood of gloom, but cannot hide that inside, I aspire to preclude suicide, exhume him from his self-made tomb, free him of this cocoon before he is consumed, and help him emerge anew, as from the womb." Penelope's good sense, and Odysseus's weariness, helped him to adjust his thesis: "I am satisfied, I was misguided. We will fight side by side, united, until our son is purified. To save Telemachus, nothing must deter us. Let us make for the place, at haste.” Do, TellTelemachus wakes in a daze, to a lingering, shimmering halo haze, and thinks again of failed efforts to abstain. He could refrain if remade: no longer spineless, a vertebrate encased in a carapace too thick for a needle to penetrate. In his skull and his blood, a hunger, dulled as the result of his latest slug, still pulses. Imminently, craving will come. One day he will succumb to drugs cut with who-knows-what poisonous substance. Overdosed, or slowly undertaken. "Awaken!" he commands himself, demanding freedom from damned dependency. It's not so easy. He feels the need to gnaw the null, kneel to the nil, nip at the enfeebling narcotic. Its hold is hypnotic, whispering sweet nothing in his ear. Nothing, nothing—no, not nothing. Deep and dreamless sleep. Perchance to wake? It's a risk he's fain to take. Hunting SonLong suffering, suffering longing, brave Ulysses and Penelope made their way, and safely came through breaking waves, reaching the beach where the Lotus Eaters go. Lo, Ulysses, of keen vision, scanned fifteen shapes lying on the sand, or bathing. He summoned his consort. “Penny, fore! Your thoughts?” She clutched his hand and uttered a plan. “They seem not strange beasts, but people, and our son is not among them. Bluntly, we should pump the bunch." So Odysseus went to question the collection. He spake his name, and though some were dismayed at his invasion, one was gracious, agreeable. She was beautiful, no decayed refugee, but track marks betrayed her smack heart. The others were oxy-morons, imprisoned but content, once intelligent, now sharply dull. She greeted him thus: "I see no enemy in thee." He replied, restrained, careful not to berate or blame: "You see, plain, we are in need. We seek to allay this son of pain’s son’s pain.” He imagined his boy’s impending, writhing ruin; then, with guilt and contrition, recalled Priam’s sons who died. “Please, help us find Telemachus." She gave the information, half-convinced he was a hallucination. FoundlingSated, but with fading high, Telemachus revived, surprised by the scene that met his eye. His sire, arrived with hope to get him clean, screaming, "Why? Why connive and contrive? Why do you need these evil needles? Why do you not fear fentanyl, or a lethal load of pills?" "I don't know," Telemachus murmured. Odysseus, having observed that nurturing carries one further than anger or raw fervor, answered his own query, teary. Meaning to be kind, he could not block his tongue, blurting, "Dopamine, oh dope of mine," holding and consoling his boy, even as he scolded. Roiled and stung, the younger one demurred, shunned him, and began to run. Penelope came late, but did see her son flee. Wearily she watched, faith wavering. Her whole heart hurled, this was hope gulped whole. Mentally, she prepared an elegy. Telemachus flagged, half-mastered. Groggy, optics fogged, he fell spread-eagled, revealed-- exposed like an open opium poem. His parents could only read him, and weep. The Lotus Woman appeared, and as she neared, Odysseus and she cried simultaneously: "Come to Poppy!" Penelope added, "Or Mommy!" but even she could see that her enemy embodied every obscenity chemistry and industry had wreaked upon her progeny—he was a devotee of their devilry, and it held him more tightly than family fidelity. She seethed:"The addict's gravity perpetually pulls him away from me. Will he ever break free?" Maybe. And the subject of her misery? "Freeze, please," said he. "It's time for a soliloquy." A SoliloquyHere on this island, I play the lyre, an artist formerly known as prince, singing of redemption and reconciliation, regret and restoration—but with hesitation, knowing them to be just that, songs, fictions. The world lies all about us, about us all, from day to dusk, and this is the path that I construct? Invisible limbs which offer little tranquility, comforting until they smother, similar to Harlow’s twisted, synthetic mother. No other can make me see. My parents plead, their hearts bleed—my adoring supporters who tore me from the void and gave me form. I didn’t ask to be born, or for more than this terminal torpor. Yet they seek to restore. I need relief but deny emergency, keep company with sisters who traffic in vicious whispers, and brothers whose bonds are all internal tumult and struggle. Their eyes betray—they are not allies, but slaves. Their throats are open graves, their sunken veins roads to broken souls. Palamedes placed me, an infant, before the plow, and my father’s reaction was instant—but in saving me, he only delayed my fate. Death would be so easy, a boon to me, yet something's present that prevents felo-de-se. It may risk cliche, but: Is it love that keeps the beast at bay? To be loved, yes, partially. But also to love, to love life, to love one day, a wife. To hope—but not to say "if only"—and thus cope with troubles and woes, not let them own me. I will try, and if I fail in my attempt, repeat, until the process is complete—to die is, at least, no longer a lie, but to live is most desired. At IthacaAt Ithaca, Odysseus wished to isolate the boy—plug his ears, hide his eyes, bind him to a mast. (Hey, it worked in the past.) Wisely, Penelope advised contrarily. They lay, afraid, watching Telly after dinner, tracing his movements by day. But the path to this plague was contained inside him. It ran both ways, and they had to be realistic. Could their son avoid opioids, and becoming a statistic? They're optimistic. Peter Dabbene has published much poetry, the graphic novels Ark and Robin Hood, the story collections Prime Movements and Glossolalia, and a novel, Mister Dreyfus' Demons. His latest books are the Spamming the Spammers trilogy and Complex Simplicity, a collection of essays.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
|