A Good Ol' Charlie Brown Day

Today, something freaky weird happened to me,

something seemingly insignificant, and probably

not worth mentioning, but somehow I feel com-

pelled to say something about my experience

anyway.

Reading and writing are the only meaningful
exercises upon which I rely to kick start my day
and figuratively speaking, these keep me thought-
fully alive.

Yesterday in the mail I received some used books

I ordered from Amazon (a really nifty service for

a home-bound old nerd such as I). Peanuts pocket-

books. You all remember Peanuts, Good Ol’ Charlie

Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus and the gang.

I had this nostalgic wave come over me, the need

to revisit some of my more favorable bygone ado-

lescent days. After reading several pages of Charlie

Brown’s escapades, I put the comic strips down and

picked up a book of poetry from where I usually get

my literary feeding started in the morning.

I should preface this by saying that the particular

poet and his work which I am currently reading

are very emotionally dark and deep, a full 180-

degrees opposite to the lighthearted Charlie Brown

and Company.

Now comes that freaky weird happening I alluded

to at the beginning of this piece: The first two or

three poems I read although quite serious seemed

a farcical continuance of the Peanuts strips I had

read previously.

I had indeed retained my whimsical state of mind…

GOOD GRIEF!!! VERY FUNNY, CHARLIE BROWN!

Needless to say, I suppose I’ll just have to get more

serious about life some other day.

Chris Hanch 8-7-18

Thinking Today

Thinking about places far away, thinking

about places I may have been, thinking

mostly about places I have never seen.

Thinking, there stands a man (could also

be a woman or a child) who sees the world

the same as I.

Or quite possibly, through their own window

have a completely different view than I.

Thinking, sometimes a fog settles into the

lowlands and upon the vastness of seas

between us.

Thinking, there is a world of diversity out there

in which we, however, share the laughter and

tears, the commonality of joy and suffering.

Thinking about the neighbor next door and the

one above me. Although I hear the pounding of
their feet in the morning as they prepare to leave,
they too are likely see the world differently.

I cannot see them, and blocked by the walls
and ceilings between us, likewise, they cannot

see me.

Thinking, there might as well be oceans and

continents of difference between us instead

of scantily a few feet.

I stay at home most days in my old age and

disabled ways. And where in hell they may

be headed, who knows?

Thinking, were we able to share photographs

taken, even should perspectives be varied

between us, at least we’d have a clearer picture

from where each of us are so inclined to see.

Chris Hanch 8-6-18

Luck of the Draw

Stupid things, just plain dumb comes to the sober mind.

I did some idiotic things when I was drinking. Long ago,

I gave up believing in the fantasy that a guardian angel

was assigned by a Higher Power to protect me.

I would not place myself in the top 6-billion people in

the world considered worth saving. Screw it and you too,

was the vodka mantra which I used to chant each day. It

was all a game of Russian Roulette I was playing, per se,

A random spin of the bottle, you know. And to this day, I

remain somewhat amazed that I somehow made it out of

my choking intoxication alive. One night in a drunken rage,

I grabbed my dinner plate and slammed it against the kitchen

counter. A razor sharp chard sliced my arm open just below

the hand, a mere millimeter away from a vital artery. That’s

what the doctor at the emergency room told me. You’re one

lucky fellow, she said while stitching up my wound. And, she

added, you’re so calm about it too. Although I wasn’t going

to get into the details of my mishap, I was feeling no pain by

and large due to the excessive measure of alcohol I had pre-

viously consumed. That happened some thirty-five years ago.

A lot of alcohol has poured between my lips since then. A few

years ago I gave up the booze, decided to face my reality in

sobriety. Could be that is why I am able to relay my experience

to you this day. I bear that indelible scar on my wrist to remind

me of those darker days. Still no sign of a guardian angel to
see me through, though. To this day, just dumb luck of the
draw, I suppose.

Chris Hanch 8-5-18

In My Time

So, this is where life has landed me—I did not turn

out to be another Picasso, nowhere near the likes

of Frost or Hemingway either.

I never was a threat to replace Anthony Bourdain

(although in my day I did travel to several exotic

places).

My only claim to fame would seem to be that I have

managed to fly under the radar of notoriety, achieving

nothing beyond the ho-humness of mundanity.

History and Time Magazine, the Metropolitan Museum

and Smithsonian shall never make even the vaguest

reference to me as a contributor of anything significant.

This morning, settled into my recliner with two napping

dogs by my side and a cup of steaming coffee on the end

table, I am situated with pen in hand and a sketch pad

on my lap.

I draw a whimsical sketch of myself as a quixotic itinerant

saddled atop a bent-eared donkey with silly smile on its face.

I humbly surrender to you, Mediocrity. It’s second nature

for me to claim that fame and fortune are not all they are

cracked up to be. There have been, however, plenty of

windmills in my time, more than enough to keep me busy.

Chris Hanch 8-4-18

A Reminiscence

The other day while on the phone

with my grown daughter, she told

me about a recent conversation she

had with one of my old girl friends

with whom I lived some 27-years

ago. Pat still has two boxes of yours

with artwork and writings you did

back in the early 1980s before you

two got together. And I thought to

myself, that collection from long

ago would be interesting to see. I

am no longer in touch with Pat,

and we now live in different cities.

My daughter offered to pick up

those boxes whenever she meets

with Pat again, and provided I am

still alive and in a cognitive state of

mind, I allowed how that would be

fine. I am no longer able to create

visual arts anymore so it would be

interesting to see that which I had

accomplished when I still had the

ability. My writing, especially the

poetry, was thriving back then, but

relatively in its infancy. Today, I

write some nearly every day,

mostly introspective stuff, for my

outside activities are limited by

geriatric disabilities. I would like to

revisit (in written words) the younger

me I used to be. I may even see an

evolution, knowing now what it’s

like to become old and crusty,

developing into a me I figured

at the time I would never in a

million years grow old enough

to be. Then, I thought about

Pat who was neither an artist nor

a writer, but a good five years older

than I.

Chris Hanch 8-3-18

Accountability

It’s near The End and the collector stands

beside my bed demanding accountability

for all in my life I have said and done. He’s

reading to me from a lengthy ledger of my

erstwhile activities. And I have to say that

I have few words left to explain.

Oh yes, that particular escapade I do recall,

I’d admit to it without any shame to claim. I

did that when I was young enough to do such

a thing. And by the way, I paid for that one

over and over again.

And right or wrong, as I recall, without

question, it was definitely worth my effort

at the time. My wallet is over there on the

bureau. I believe there’s a twenty and some

ones left in it; take what you figure it’s worth.

Now get out my sight, that’s all I have left

in me today.

It was then my son asked me, Dad, what was

that you said? Oh, nothing really. I must have

been hallucinating again. Do me a favor and

check my wallet on top of the bureau. See if

has a twenty and some ones left in it.

I woke up abruptly and no one was in the room

with me. Checking my wallet, I see there is only

a ten dollar bill. So, it has come to this, has it?

No worries, that’s okay. I suppose that’ll be all

I need to get me through one more day.

Chris Hanch 8-2-18

Remember Me?

Had I not taken that photograph 30, 40-years ago,

a picture of someone somewhere I did or did not

know, had I not written words to describe what I

was seeing or feeling at a given time, surely those

experiences would have been a waste of time. Had

I skipped eating for a week, had I not breathed with

a measured frequency, my friends, I could never

have sustained my existence, and simply put, I

would not be. Now to those of who may not know

me, more than likely you would have arrived at your

destination today pretty much the same anyway. You

are welcome to thumb through the hundreds of shots

I have taken, pour over tens of thousand words

I have penned over the years. I may have not

mentioned you specifically by name, but perhaps

we have crossed paths with a shared experience or

emotion. Have you ever felt alone and forgotten,

wept uncontrollably over the loss of a family member

or friend? Have you had those days of happiness

and sheer delight, seen a stunning sunset from a

mountain, the desert or a beach? I’ll bet we have

met somewhere along the way. Have you ever

smiled and said a warm hello to a stranger in

passing on the street? That was me, remember?

Chris Hanch 8-1-18