©2012 Danise Codekas
I found a box of old journals and writings today while cleaning out my office. Buried in a large, plastic tub which holds another couple thousand of pages to be read, discarded or reviewed for another manuscript.
Writers tend to save words they write. We do not discard many things, and even the short missives we write alone, sometimes in anger or sorrow, or too personal for release, get saved and remind us of our past life, which brings about a day or an hour of incredible angst, joy or names of people long forgotten, years later.
I have about 300 journals, tablets and binders which sit awaiting their disclosure, or destruction. The new tub discovered today adds another 30 or so, to the growing library of my writer’s self. Looks like about 2000 pages or more of words, ideas, revelations, and memories.
Sometimes you just have to go back to the island, like Jimmy Buffet says. I just had to go back today in time, and I do hope you understand. Some of the journals and writings go back 15 years or more. The people and events written about reminded me of a time when I was a different person, in a different life, and yet, not so much so.
Finding them came at a point in time when I realized a new book was in the works. Different from the ones in process. The whole point to the discovery had nothing to do with writings found, but a search through boxes to find an install CD for my printer.
Eyes glazed over in boredom, reading about Whitney Houston’s dip into Hades’ mystique, the energy many people are fixated on becomes similar to the 1920’s ennui over Chicago mobsters and chain gang deaths unreported, unnoticed.
Houston was not the only person to create their own death while not quite dipping into suicide with intent, and unquestioned self-destructive action. She gets in a tub, drunk, drugged, sad, depressed, lonely and dies.
Many can relate. Drink and drugs, destructive life in process, compass gone wild in heart, and those willing to assist for money, affiliation and media exposure. If someone ends their life, everyone close to them, become responsible for their own actions which inhibited or influenced the rush to destruction.
Wishing to die and creating a lifestyle which rolls a Whitney Houston close to the edge of Hades, are two different things, entirely. She had moments of clarity. With her daughter; with her family. There were times when a light of understanding, a request for help were evident.
However, choosing to help someone, violently intruding into someone’s self-destructive lifestyle choices, especially when that person controls your income or entrée in entertainment kingdoms, or can withhold the monies for monthly stipends takes a brave, karmic bond.
Sometimes those dependents keep their mouths closed and agree, in silence, their choice was right, the results were shocking, and weep dramatically coffin-side hoping a Houston, opens the lock-jawed mouth, and offers penance and absolution, now that Houston sees everything everyone supported in helping her to her watery, Hilton Hotel grave.
The bottom-feeders will come out to profit from her death as will the performers and family whose first call after hearing of her death, called a publisher to sell their tell-all experience since the golden calf has melted into her alcohol soaked Hilton death.
Those people enjoying the wild pre-Grammy party at the Hilton, while in 3 minutes or less, Houston suffocates, heart-stops and floats around the bathtub until discovery, now claim, how sorry they are they partied on.
What contempt they demonstrate for a woman’s death, and how typical of media-crazed opportunists to claim horror over their partying, while a woman, who had given up on herself, walked into her karmic death. Not like she did not know she had fallen apart and was destroying her career, life, and body.
These friends, co-musicians, media moguls are sucking her famed coated bones dry, and like Presley’s personal staff at Graceland, whose claim to fame was how close they were to the bathroom when Elvis crapped and blew out his heart, Houston’s friends at the party central Hilton, are already building up their stories, and those whose rooms were on the same floor of her suite, can create the best sugar-coated lies in order to garner the important invitations from talk show hosts.
So let the milking of the diva’s dark and mysterious death begin, singing stars of America. The rest of us, out here, know what the game is, just like in ancient Rome, as it imploded upon itself and degenerated into greed, insouciance, and fear, know exactly how much you are drooling at the mouth to find a way to turn this into a golden, marketing opportunity for you and your trademarked, baby’s name.
Tired of lying to myself about my life. Houston’s death, as little as it effects me, as I, like you, knew she had become a drugged up, alcoholic, and her life blipped off my radar, think, based on my screwed up life, right now, those words so often left for the last pronouncement, when realizing possibilities of our lives: There now, but for the grace of a higher power, go I.
