Life for Me as It was Destined to Be

 

Back in the late ‘60s early ‘70s, I was old enough to join the

Hippie Generation, but was already set on a more traditional

path—emotionally abandoned as a teenager by parental divorce,

a high school dropout, 3-years active duty in the army, married

with two children, car, home job, seemingly secure lifestyle in

suburbia USA.

Oh, I had the untested talent of an artist, the eccentric temper-

ament of a societal malcontent, but had been processed and

preordained by parents and conservative middle-class upbring-

ing to pursue the so-called touted idyllic “American Dream.”

I was raised to believe art was an admirable hobby, but as an

adult, I would certainly face financial responsibilities. I would

likely have a family to support, and my art alone won’t cut it.

No Bob Dylan for me, no Aerosmith, no Hendrix, no Kerouac,

Woodstock or Haight-Ashbury, no pot or LSD either. The mount-

ing years of dutiful adherence to the acceptable societal grind

eventually got the best of me psychologically. I was angry and

deeply depressed. I resorted to alcohol in order to self-medicate.

Job after job, divorce, relationship after relationship, place after

place, city after city, therapy again and again, rehab after rehab,

writing, photography and my artwork in between.

For the bad and good times, for all it was worth, living the

creative rebellious lifestyle which all along I was meant to

achieve became a reality for me. The so-called Hippie Era

was missed and long gone for me. What was meant to be

for the indelible artist in me?

As I see it, not unlike the Hippies, the creative spirit is the

endemic essence of the true artist which runs timelessly on

and on in perpetuity. And is was all worth giving up the

booze and living my own life with The Gift in sobriety.

                                      -30-

Chris Hanch 2-27-2022

Geographically Me

 

Geographically, I am located in Kansas City, MO, USA.

with the GPS coordinates of 39° 5' 59.0064'' N and 94° 34'

41.9916'' W. As the crow flies, distance wise, KC is some

237 miles West of St. Louis along I-70 in the State of Missouri,

bordering the State of Kansas.

Had you known or seen me personally in the past 20, 30

years or so, you may be shocked to see how I have aged

over time. I am certain, should you have survived, the same

deteriorating conditioning has likely befallen you.

I shall not include my specific address and phone number.

(Due to my disabilities and unsociable situation, I prefer to

remain anonymously unlisted.) Why then, you may be asking,

have I bothered to give you the above listed information?

Hell if I know. More than likely it gave me something to do

in my solitudinous place in time.

It would appear ridiculous to assume that I went through all

this rigmarole just to use the word, soltudinous, but I did.

And in addition, I got to throw in the word, rigmarole, to boot.

It is a good thing that I can rely upon Google for coordinance,

spelling and definition in my old age. My off-the-wall, ofttimes

sardonic wit comes naturally.

                                               -30-

Chris Hanch 2-24-2022

Something About Waiting

Some days it comes to me quickly,

spontaneously; some days I have

to wait; then there are those days

nothing arrives. That’s the way it

happens when you write.

Today, I told myself I would wait

for as long as it takes. I am sometimes

an impatient man. I hate to wait.

Some things I want now. Even having

to wait for the not so pleasant things

is a burden for me and my ADD

personality.

While waiting for a doctor’s or

dentist appointment I try whiling

the time away by perusing old

outdated magazines or studying

the faces of other patients waiting

like me to be seen. The anticipation

is just too great.

Even anticipating the arrival of

a friend or family is a nerve-bending,

hand-wringing event. Seems as if we

spend much of our lives waiting.

Sometimes the waiting pays off;

sometimes waiting turns out to be

a sheer waste of time.

Waiting for the Muse to strike you

with an idea worth writing is akin to

watching and waiting for as they say,

paint to dry or water to boil. There

are times when one gives in and has

to move on. As for me personally,

when committed, I’ve always tried

to be on time, having empathy for

others who may also hate waiting

as much as I.

It is also said, good things come to

those who wait. I decided to get

started on this piece about waiting

while I was tired of waiting. Turns

out some days the Muse works in

mysterious ways.

This may not be the wonderment

of artistry that I had hoped for, but

it beats the hell out of waiting while

staring aimlessly and endlessly at the

cursed blank page in front of me.

                         -30-

Chris Hanch 2-22-2022 

Sunday Again?

 

Sunday. Thirty, forty years ago, I may have

awoken hungover from a Saturday night before.

For me there were so many hazy awakenings

no matter which day of the week. That problem

had been resolved some ten years ago for

which I am grateful to say.

Sunday. A day of rest? Well, given my age,

my retirement and disabilities, I find rest a

non-discriminate daily necessity, any time,

any day and place.

Sunday. Not burdened or committed as a

believer, worship of any kind is no longer

required. For me in the end, neither heaven

nor hell awaits. I’ve been there, done that

right here on Earth.

Sunday. A day which begins a new week of six

more days to follow just the same, over and again.

Sunday. There will come a day when it and all

the other days of the week will come to an end.

Sunday. No markers or notations left behind.

All the calendars from previous years have

long since been tossed away.

Sunday. To me it appears cloudy and gray.

Who’s keeping track anyway?

                              -30-

Chris Hanch 2-20-2022

That Which Makes Me Believe

 

What can I say—So far I am here again today.

For all it’s worth so are the sun, the moon and

stars. That in which I believe I have seen with

my own eyes.

The Grand Canyon, The Empire State, Chicago

and the Great Lakes, sunrise and sunset (although

misnomers, I have learned, because those are

caused by the Earth’s rotation not the other way

around).

I do believe in good and evil, mankind has taught

me that collectively and individually they make

their case in the practice and delivery every day.

As the old adage goes, the proof is in the pudding.

As a native born Missourian, I ask, Show Me,

with fervent consistency. I believe that all men

(and women) are created equal with inalienable

rights, and yet individually and societally, we

still can’t get it right.

I believe that gods were created in the imperfect

image of man rather than the other way around.

There is just far too much going on out there in

this vast universe to blame or praise any man

made deity.

We are so small and inconsequential in the

grand and mostly undiscovered universal

picture of existence and life. We have been

lied to and misled so many times. And while

I have a good concept of wrong and right, I am

imperfect as the next man.

I was born biologically and biologically I

shall die. I believe in dogs and cats, and I

love apple pie if it’s made right. Being an

ordained skeptic with a measure of wit and

humor is a human trait I have come to appreciate.

If some all-powerful, all-knowing being had the

foresight and satirical intent to put me here in

the first place, well that just goes further to prove

my point. It’s all a joke, folks. Not to worry, it’s

all just a joke, an ofttimes vicious and impractical

one at that.

                                         -30-

Chris Hanch 2-16-2022

Come Again?

 

Had I been a painting by Picasso,

instead of me portrayed realistically,

my eye would be offset and my

nose elongated and out of place.

I would be cubistacally and angularly

displaced. Not identifiably as me by

any proportioning of my personal

being.

I would be worth millions at

auction, framed presently and

displayed predominantly at the

Louvre.

Folks would view me awkwardly

as abstract and intrinsically obscene.

There would be no more appropriate

words to describe me.

Should Helen Keller or Ray Charles

be alive today, why should Stevie

Wonder be standing three feet away,

they may be moved to say, for what

it’s worth, how many millions did

you say?--- Call it art if you will,

I don’t see it at all.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 3-15-2022

The Unwinding of My Mind

 

Sometimes the spring-tight mind

of mine unwinds. The other night

in sleep I dreamed it was time to

feed the dog. Getting ready to do

so, my mind realized that it was

late, somewhere in the middle

of my early morning sleep, and

that I had already fed the dog

on time the day before, and

likewise it was way too early to

feed the dog for the upcoming

day. So, I drifted back to my

REM condition to dream of

something else. That’s when

things got really weird for me.

Dog fed on time, my mind was

satisfied and decided to play

tricks on me with deep-seeded

thoughts I could never in a

lifetime of reality either prove

or understand. One issue solved,

my mind partnered me with a

a character I knew to be you, but

he looked nothing like you. I then

awoke abruptly at 5 AM totally

confused. Somewhere between

the before and after of the now

and then, my dog was still sleeping.

                        -30-

Chris Hanch 2-13-2022

Do Doing What Has Been Done

 

In my life, I must say,

I have done this to myself.

But you see, there were

other factors out of my control

which have contributed to that

which has been done.

And so this is the way it was

meant to be—for better

or worse, me doing what

I have done, and then do doing

what it has done to me.

Biologically, grown old and gray,

without my consent, do’s doing

has been done naturally.

It is a wonder by any means

of doing being done, I’m nearly

75 and still alive.

                   -30-

Chris Hanch 2-10-2022

As the Old Saying Goes

 

Can anyone tell me why the Cat’s Meow

is something outstanding or why being

full of Piss and Vinegar defines one as

having vitality and energy?

Why is it, approaching my 75^th year as

a human being would I entertain thoughts

of such things?

Colder than a well diggers ass, and that

dog doesn’t hunt I can see figuratively

speaking. The life and times of human-

kind often make no sense to me.

I guess children are meant to be seen

and not heard. That is apparently why

we old folks revert back to our childhood

having very little left to say.

Yet some will still ask, cat got your tongue?

I suppose, it take one to know one. Turn a

blind eye and bury the hatchet, I always say.

                                  -30-

Chris Hanch 2-9-2022

The Poetic Way

 

Old age for me has arrived.

For the fortunate few or the

unsuspecting many, as the

case may apply, that happens

over time.

(I have seen my good days and

bad, relished the happy, endured

the bitter and sad.)

Having survived my labored and

oft times abusive past, the formidable

waning of physical abilities settle in.

My rousing days of adventure and

spontaneous meandering are over.

With the best of what’s left in me,

I sit now awash in my favorite tunes

with my computer alight, waiting at

the ready for choice poetic words to

arrive and dance across the page.

Dog nestled between my tired and

arthritic legs, I find no more glorious

way to spend the end of days.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 2-6-2022

Daredevil

 

There’s a title I

have heard a few times

in my life when it

came to the likes

of Evil Knievel

or Harry Houdini.

No one ever considered

or called me a daredevil.

More than likely,

on many an occasion,

I was referred to as

a scaredy cat.

Afraid of heights,

terrified of high speeds,

never fooled around with

spiders or snakes.

I was claustrophobic

and although I was

trained in the army

to shoot an M-14 rifle,

I definitely showed

signs of hoplophobia.

Yes folks, I could be

considered among the

ranks of first-rate

“chicken shits.”

As a kid, when I was

challenged by another

with the words, “I dare you,”

I did my best to wrangle

out of the situation:

“Nope, sorry, can’t do that.

My mother forbids me.”

And if I have to answer

to her, well that would be

far worse. I recently Googled

the word for “fear of mother.”

It’s tokophobia. Of course,

none of the kids I knew,

including me, were smart

enough to know such a

word as that. And we didn’t

have Google back in the day,

so “chicken shit” had to suffice.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 2-4-2022