Syndromes & Delusions: 
From Real Pain to False Memory

Compiled & Narrated 

by Anthony Servante
& Priest Bobue Horaguchi

Being replaced by duplicates

Introduction:

What I have is called "Disassociative Amnesia". There is no brain damage caused by physical trauma, but because of a psychological trauma, my short-term and long-term memory play tricks on me. Between my vivid dreams, my childhood and young adult memories, and the experiences that are being formed in my head as they happen, I'm pretty damned confused about what came first, what happened before, and what just happened. Case in point: That lengthy article about my clinical death and floating in the operating room. It seems to have happened yesterday, but it happened when I was 13 years old. I turning 56 this year.

The meds my Shrink gives me keep me in the present moment, which is quite honestly, fucking boring. She tried to get me on antidepressant pills, but I took her advice personally and told her that I wasn't depressed. She tried to explain that that's what the pills are called, but that's not what they work on; they control the wandering mind, the fluttering memories that crash into one another. I tried to explain that a good strong cup of coffee keeps me grounded in the present, so all I really need is something to keep the frazzled nerves of being wired all day in check. Thus, she prescribed Xanax, an anti-anxiety med; it prevents my frail nerve ending from triggering an anxiety attack, you know, like when the air-conditioning on the public bus goes on and you think your core body temperature is dropping, so you must me dying. Yeah, that. Without anxiety, such thoughts as "Am I dying?", "Is this a heart-attack?", "Is that trio of thugs going to kill me?", and other paranoid triggers, don't have any response. With Alprazolam, the answer is always "No" to any paranoid question. I guess with anti-depressants, the answer is always, "Who cares?!"

But enough about me.

Update 11B was all about me and the long-winded analysis about why there's always two sides to the same memory. Which I've been giving a lot of thought to given the fact that my iphone has become my back-up brain, my memory retrieval. What was the name of that movie? Google it. What was the name of that barista at the Starbucks. Check your iphone notepad. What song are these the lyrics to? Search them on YouTube. That's how I remember things now. But the Shrink promises me that once the anxiety and paranoia stop triggering my reliance on my back-up brain the iphone, my memories should return normally. I need to access a normal memory to string together a series of memories, the way one remembers the annual seasons of your favorite basketball team: When you can remember one season, the following season falls into place, creating a string of memories. This string is what is strengthened by recalling the seasons rather than any one player and his individual statistics; the stats will become part of the string as one remembers more and more. That is, remembering without the iphone Google search, which atrophies the brain function of remembering. Anyway, that's the plan. That's MY therapy. Taking happy pills, noting the events in my community (the weather, the homeless, the butterflies, the deaths of our hill animals and birds), and talking with people about the old days of our little town. Connecting the past, present, and predicting the future strengthens the string of the history of my city. It's the base of my memory for the time before I moved in here and what has happened since.

Just as I have my trauma and therapy, so do all the volunteers who share theirs with us here on the blog.


Syndromes & Delutions:

Before I turn the column over to the volunteers who have shared THEIR therapy with this blog, I thought I'd go over the main conditions that trauma creates in the troubled mind. For me it's "disassociative amnesia". I can't distinguish things that just happened from things that happened a long time ago (plus, I confuse dreams and books and movies with the plot of my own life as well). Here's a look at other disorders.

1. Thought Insertion--The feeling that one's own thoughts have been inserted by outside forces and that these memories are not of one's own making.

2. Erotomania--The delusion that a stranger is in love with you. The most publicized cases involve people believing famous celebrities are in love with them, but anyone can suffer from this delusion.

3. Capgras Syndrome--The belief that one's friends, coworkers, and family have been replaced by duplicates or actors.

4. Fregoli Delusion--Like Capgras, Fregoli syndrome holds that one's friends, coworkers, and family are in fact one person, changing disguises to pass themselves off as many people.

5. Intermetamorphisis--Often called "reverrse Capgras", this syndrome holds the belief to trauma sufferers that friends, coworkers, and family are in the process of changing facial features and personality traits, often right in front of the sufferer; many times these morphing people have no faces as they are in the process of changing to another face. One cannot distinguish facial features; instead, they see blank faces.

6. Syndrome of Subjective Doubles--The belief that a doppelganger, an exact duplicate of the sufferer, exists somewhere living a parallel  life; they may or may not have similar character traits to the sufferer. Often they feel that they may be living the doppelganger's life by mistake or that the doppelganger has moved into the sufferer's life while they're at work.

7. Reduplicate Paramnesia--The belief that an entire town, city, or neighborhood has been duplicated and replaced with one's own place of residence. If one travels to New York, say, one believes that they are still at home in Los Angeles, that their neighborhood has been changed just enough to seem different.

8. Truman Show Delusion--The belief that all public surveillance cameras are following only the sufferer, that they exist only for them.

9. Cotard's Syndrome (lycanthrophy or birds)--The delusion one believes that one is dead, and that their organs have been harvested and they are in fact empty vessels. Ironically, given the fact that they are dead, they also believe that they are changing into another form, a bird, a small rodent, or even a werewolf.

10. Ekbom's Syndrome (contagious)--The belief that one is covered with bugs that one cannot see; symptoms include scratching one's skin sore, washing clothes and bedsheets constantly, and trying to keep bugs out of the home. This is the only syndrome that is contagious to nondelusional people close to the sufferer.

11. Disassociative Amnesia--Taken as discussed. 


Trauma Patients

Foreword & Summaries by Priest Bobue Horaguchi:

Thank you, Professor Anthony Servante, for providing me with the list of syndromes and delusions that would precede the patient updates. I am quite confident that these descriptions will help readers to better understand the symptoms that trauma sufferers display during their daily lives, symptoms that are certainly taken for granted by the general community who are unaware of the mental conditions that our patients endure and the effect that they have on family and neighborhood. Too often have I been told by parishioners that these "sick" people should not be allowed in my temple, or that they should have a separate service; they worry about how their behavior will influence the children. Well, I can most certainly assure any concerned parishioner that the effects of trauma are not contagious or dangerous, and that Temple, Church, Synagogue, or Mosque, is the best place for our patients to be in their time of mental turmoil or doubts. 

It is never my intent to segregate the sick from the healthy, be it mental or physical, and I would no more turn away anyone with cancer just because a parishioner felt uncomfortable or believed their children would be frightened by the patient's appearance. I cannot say with absolute certainty that we are all equal in the eyes of the Almighty, be it Buddha or Christ, and I do recommend that anyone with the flu or extreme depression spend the day with a loved one at home lest he cause undue stress to the parish, but only in matters where it is best for all that any disease be kept at bay. 

With that in mind, allow me to update your readers on the latest developments with the patients who have volunteered to share their trauma and therapy with your readers. As always, bless you, Professor for giving the traumatized sufferer a voice and a platform to use it. 


Summaries: 

Ms. M lost her job with the bus company after the small city busline where she worked was taken over by San Gabriel Valley busline; she refused the cut in pay to drive for the SG Foothill line. Although she has lost her faith, she finds comfort with the parish on Fridays and Sundays. She attends Paint Therapy after services on Sunday. She draws ocean vistas and often depicts dolphins along the choppy water of the shoreline talking to her. She refused Dream Therapy as she claimed that the creatures in her nightmares did not like being talked about. Her accounts were noted in her file, but her dream log was returned to her. 

Ms. E started Sunday services as community service for shoplifting. She attends Paint Therapy also, in addition to Dream Therapy. She was suspended from her job when the store manager noted that she worked with the Sheriff's office as a Community Safety Representative. Since she pocketed only packets of cough drops and aspirin, the manager didn't pursue charges and turned the matter over to her superior. She is serving three months community service at the temple and can return to her job only after completing her therapy. She insists that someone placed the cough drops in her jacket pocket and often finds items in all her pockets when she gets home, but does not remember putting them there. Her paintings depict her Siamese Twin with handfuls of cigarettes and lighters--other items that she has found later in her pockets.

Mr. S was in an car accident and fears driving. His partner does the driving now, but the patient feels that his partner will one day deliberately drive the car into oncoming traffic to teach him a lesson. Since his job requires driving, Mr. S now attends community service at the temple on Fridays. He comes to Paint Therapy on Sundays. He refuses any other forms of therapy. He insists that his driving is in control. But his partner reported that he always turns on the windshield wipers for no reason, though he insists that bird poop is all over the glass. He suffers manic depression and has been referred to a Psychiatrist, but he says he's only there for the community service classes. He paints his partner over and over in different suits. He says the ones in the black suits do the driving. The blue suits are the passengers. All the drawings have blue suits.

Mr. W completed his Dream and Paint Therapy but refused to return to work, though his community service was completed. He demanded the return of all his drawings, but I had to take photos to keep for his records to show his finished his therapy and three months of CS. The drawings depicting Mr. W being followed by clouds. Then he said they were jets. He dreamed often of flying in jets above the clouds, but then denied it. He was almost relieved to be done with his CS and did not return even for temple services. It was rumored that Mr. W committed suicide, though this has not been confirmed. He spoke often of returning to his home country to be with his sick father. As of today, we have no further word on Mr. W.

Mr. D communicates by email. I forward the email to Prof. Servante. He last wrote about writing a book about the causes of his trauma but was having trouble finding a publisher or volunteers to interview. That's when I put him in contact with the professor.

Mr.M attended two months worth of Dream Therapy but began showing up drunk. He was referred to the local AA. He has since been rehired by his former employer. He asked that we minimize sharing his story with the blog until he is settled into his job. We will respect his wishes.

Ms. E suffered a schizophrenic break during her Paint Therapy sessions. She is now under the care of a County Psychiatrist. Last we heard, she was taking her medications and doing well.

Ms. B avoids crowds. She was referred to a County facility. Only her close friends and family visit with her, though we heard that she limits her communication to nods and smiles. She sleeps up to fourteen hours a day and drinks vitamin juices rather than eat solid food. A nurse attends on her once a week.

Ms. S assists me with the therapy five days a week as a means of her own therapy. The other two days, she does Paint Therapy and attends multiple services. Once shy, she is now very talkative. Originally, I thought she was proselytizing, but found out later she just likes talking about Buddha very much. She always asks me questions about reincarnation and is fixated that death may be permanent. Her drawings are of Buddhist gods and demons.

Ms. N does not hide her anger, frustration, and anxiety very well, but she tries. She tries every therapy, attends services here at the temple, and sees a County psychiatrist. She has begun writing to Prof. Servante of late about possible breakthroughs in her memory, information she will not share with me.

An Email from Ms. N to me here at the blog:
To Anthony Servante
You haven't responded to my last email, but I saw my email on your blog. I guess that's a start. Therapy is so limited in what it can do. It gives you a name for what you have, as if that is a cure. What if the disease doesn't have a name, even if you give it one? How will that help? We come up with names for unexplainable or unnameable things. The word "thing" itself raises the question of why it doesn't have a name, other than "thing", and what is to be explained by replacing a nonexistent object or concept with the name "thing" as if that is an answer to a unasked question. Other names like ghost, god, supernatural, demon, also perform this function. Such names beg the question that if the word exists, the object of the word must exist as well. But just because the paranoid man may believe he is being followed doesn't mean he isn't being followed. The therapist must leave room for doubt when giving a name to the syndrome or delusion suffered by the trauma patient. As creepy as some of these delusions may seem, just because one believes that there exists an alternate reality doesn't mean our reality is not someone else's false belief.

I will continue to send you emails. Please respond. 
Thank you.

P.S. There is a cure. 

Update: I have contacted Ms. N by email and we exchanged phone numbers. It turns out we know each other from Facebook (small world). 
Anthony Servante


Thank you, readers, for following the Trauma & Therapy series. Next time out, I hope to turn to Music Therapy and Crafts Therapy. We will continue to post updates from Priest Horaguchi and emails from others who contact me directly. 

 

Hide and Seek

Summer had finally arrived and we were glad to be through with the fourth grade and headed for the fifth. With school out for three months, playtime was in again, and there was nothing we enjoyed more than a good old game of hide and seek.

Our small group of players included the Mojave twins, Beanie and Stevie, me and Catch-up, who was being kept back in the third grade again. He said that someday he would catch up to us in grade and ever since he said it we have called him “Catch-up.” He grew so fond of the name that whenever we couldn’t find him and had to yell, ALL YE ALL YE EXTRA ALL GO FREE, he would yell back, ‘Catch-up free,’ instead of using his real name, which was Ernesto.

Catch-up was a pro a hide and seek. We must have called him free in every game he ever played with us since he first moved into the neighborhood two years ago. Whenever he was called home free, he would always pop up out of nowhere. Now you don’t see him, now you do. It was spooky. He was either the best player in the neighborhood or he was cheating us. That day when school let out, I came to the conclusion that he had to be cheating. There was no other explanation. I refused to waste my whole summer playing hide and seek with someone who was cheating. There was no other explanation. We never found him or his hiding places so he had to be using other ways to win every time. The time came to kick Catch-up out of our group of players. We could still play with only three of us. We didn’t need four players, especially when one was a cheater.

The next day I met with the Mojave twins to discuss the matter of kicking Catch-up out of the group. We held the meeting at my house since my Dad was at work and my Mom didn’t speak English and wouldn’t know what we were talking about. I really didn’t want her to know that we were about to kick Catch-up out of our group. She liked little Ernesto, as she referred to him in Spanish, and I doubt she would have approved of our move against him.

“He has to be cheating. How come we never find him?” I asked the twins.

“Maybe he’s just a good player,” Beanie suggested, trying to defend him. “Just ‘cause we can’t find him doesn’t mean he’s cheating. We almost found him once. Remember?”

“I remember that night,” Stevie beamed as if it were a day of legend or something short of a miracle. “His mother called him in ‘cause it started to rain and he didn’t have his jacket on. We were getting ready to yell ALL YE ALL YE EXTRA when he came out of nowhere. He just appeared right behind us. All we had to do was turn around and we would’ve caught him. We almost did catch him that night.”

“Yeah, almost,” Beanie sighed, and the memory brought a smile to his face.

“Well ‘almost’ don’t count,” I whined. “You either find him or you don’t. And we didn’t. We didn’t see where he was hiding. For all we know he might have been following us around. Maybe he didn’t even have a hiding place. That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“I never heard of that rule,” Stevie protested modestly.

“Maybe he was hiding inside that apartment that was behind us. The rules say that no one can use the insides of houses to hide or go across the street to hide—only the outsides on this block can be used as hiding places. You guys remember those rules, don’t you? We’re the ones who made them up way before Catch-up even moved to our block. I say he’s cheating. And how long should we stand for it when we know we’re never going to find him? Why bother even looking?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t give up either,” Beanie said. “I don’t want to be a quitter.”

“It’s not quitting to stop looking for a cheater. It’s quitting to keep looking for him when we know we’re never going to find him. Understand?” I stared Beanie down until he nodded his head that he understood.

“Kind of, but what about Catch-up? He never did anything to us. Don’t you think we’re going to hurt his feelings?” Beanie tried to but couldn’t suppress another sigh.

“He should’ve thought of that before he cheated us,” I said.

Stevie avoided meeting eyes with me but managed to agree somewhat reluctantly. “Well, I guess I don’t want to end up looking for him forever either. But I don’t want to be the one to tell him, that’s all.”

“Me either,” Beanie added. “I like him too much.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants. “Tonight he’s out.”

#

Catch-up’s jaw fell open when I told him that we didn’t want him to play with us anymore. He looked to the twins for some sign that it was all some kind of joke, but they avoided his gaze. “You guys don’t want me to play with you anymore, really? he asked the twins.

“You shouldn’t be asking us,” Stevie said, pointing to me. “Ask him.”

“You don’t want me?” His wide-eyed look fell clumsily on me.

“It’s just that we can’t find you,” I said. “You’re too good to be playing with us. The guys across the street play better than us. Maybe you should play with them.”

“My mother doesn’t want me going across the street. She wants me only to play with you guys.” He wiped his runny nose with his dirty sleeve as he fought to keep the tears from flowing. “I could let you find me, if you want. I just want to play with you guys, not anyone else. I’ll let you find me, I swear.”

“It’s not the same thing,” I insisted, ignoring the pleas in his voice. I had hoped that after I had told him that he was out that he would simply leave without a word, that he would merely accept it and walk away unfazed. I didn’t think he’d get tears in his eyes. I had to counter his tears somehow. The twins looked like they were ready to change their minds and back Catch-up. I had to act quick. “You go play with someone else. You’re too good for us. We can never find you.”

“How ‘bout I don’t play but just go along with you? My mother likes me to play with you. Come on,” he begged, and the tears broke free.

“No,” I said, interrupting Stevie who was about to say something. He was quiet now. And Beanie stared down at he ground, pretending he wasn’t there, never once looking up at us.

Catch-up wiped the tears on his cheeks, and composing himself as best he could, he said, “That’s okay if you don’t want to play with me anymore, but I still want to be friends with you, okay? Okay? I don’t have to play. Really. I just want to hang around with you until my mother calls me in at night. Okay? Please?”

I said ‘no’ again and in anger pushed him back. “Go away. You’re a cheater.”

“I’m not,” he sobbed. “I won’t get in your way. I swear I won’t.”

“I don’t care, you cheater. Come on, guys, let’s go and leave this cheater alone.” I walked off and the twins followed.

“I’ll see you guys maybe tomorrow,” Catch-up shouted after us. “Okay? Okay?”

“Yeah, m-m-maybe,” Stevie stuttered.

“No,” I countered. “No way. You go play with someone else, Ernesto.”

“Okay then, if that’s what you want. My mother says that you know what’s right and wrong and that I should always listen to you. ‘Cause then maybe I’ll catch up to you in school.” His sobs calmed to gentle sniffles and a few whimpers. “You were the best friends ever. Bye.”

He waved at us, turned and walked away.

And for the first time in over two years, we played hide and seek without having any fun.

#

The next morning the twins demanded that I let Catch-up back into the group. I agreed. They were surprised but glad. I told them about my dream where Catch-up was all alone in a forest at night. The trees were petrified, and there were no insects or birds or anything living anywhere around. Catch-up was hiding somewhere in the forest, waiting for us to come and find him, but he didn’t realize that we weren’t going to search for him anymore and waited so long for us that he turned into one of the trees. I woke up shaking and crying, and felt alone and afraid. I suggested that we go find Catch-up so we could apologize to him. No, not ‘we’. Me. The twins hadn’t caught my mistake: It was me who owed him an apology.

When we got about halfway to Catch-up’s apartment complex, we saw his mother walking toward us. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She walked right up to us and stopped. Her eyes were red and glazed; they seemed to stare right through us.

“My son is dead,” she said emotionlessly. “Why wasn’t he with you? I told him to only play with you because you know better. You get skipped ahead in school, and my poor boy gets held back. He liked you so much. No brothers, no father—you were the men in his life. You were supposed to take care of him. Where were you? Why does everyone abandon him? I work, you know. I couldn’t watch him all the time. That’s why I told him to play with you till I got home. Where was he going? I told him never to cross the street. The truck driver said he didn’t even see him. My poor boy, where were you going? Where was he going? Tell me. Where?”

She reached over and grabbed a handful of my hair, but she immediately relaxed her grip and stroked the top of my head.

“You were supposed to take care of him He liked you so much. Said that he wanted to read all the books you read, see all the movies you see, and have all the friends you have. Where was he going? Why? My poor boy.”

There was crying in her voice but none in her eyes. She seemed drunk, but I knew she wasn’t. But she was drunk of a different kind that I didn’t understand. She walked away, glancing around as if she expected Catch-up to appear out of nowhere. After she turned the corner, we remained quiet for a few minutes, waiting for someone to break the silence but not wanting to be the one to do it.

It was Beanie who finally spoke up. “What do you think happened?” The question was directed at me.

“I don’t know. Something about a truck, I think.” I tried to sound like I didn’t hear it right. I didn’t want to be the one to sum things up.

“I know where he was going,” Stevie said. “He was going to play with the kids across the street like you told him to.”

“Yeah,” Beanie agreed.

There, it was out in the open.

The twins glared at me with expressions of dishonor on their face. I could feel the resentment surging through them. But the hatred was short-lived. ”It’s our fault, too,” Stevie said to Beanie. “We should blame ourselves too for his being dead.”

“Wait a minute,” I cut in. “How do we know he’s dead?”

“His mother said,” Beanie answered.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I argued. “His mother always acts weird like that. Maybe she just thinks he’s dead, but he’s really alive.”

“Maybe he ran away,” Beanie suggested.

“Maybe he’s lost,” Stevie added.

“Maybe he’s hiding,” I said with a wide grin on my face.

And after I said it, we all grew quiet for a moment and let it sink in.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” I asked sarcastically. “Let’s go find him. Only this time we don’t quit. This time we find him.”

“Yeah,” the twins chorused. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

#

It was early afternoon, and the brightness of the sun made hide and seeking too obvious and easy. Hide and seek was a game for the night. Under the daylight there didn’t seem to be too many places to hide, and soon we went over all the possible hiding places. But Catch-up was a pro and must have found the impossible places to hide in. We had to search where we wouldn’t even think of searching. It would be there where we would find him hiding. And everything would be back to normal.

We searched the garbage cans, the trash bins, under cars, between the long bedspreads hanging out to dry, behind bushes, up in the trees, under porches, on roofs, almost every square inch of the block. And the same thought kept occurring to me: Maybe Catch-up was cheating. But no. He was hiding somewhere. He was somewhere. We continued searching even as the sun went down, and the long shadows stretched like black carpets laid out for the night.

We were exhausted, but we kept going. We split up and renewed the search. I must’ve looked in the same places a dozen times each. I checked the locks on several garage doors to make sure Catch-up wasn’t hiding there inside. They were all securely locked. I saw Stevie standing by the clothes-lines and went to join him. “Where’s Beanie?” I asked.

“Right here,” he said, stepping out of a shadow made by the telephone pole.

“You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t even see you there. With those dark clothes on, you looked like part of the shadow. Don’t ever….” Then it struck me. “Beanie, step back into the shadow.”

He did, and vanished into thin air. I could make out his face a bit in the dark, but that’s because I was squinting and trying to see him. If I wasn’t looking for him, I wouldn’t even know he was there.

“That’s it. Don’t you see? Catch-up was using the shadows to hide in. He wasn’t cheating. He was there right in front of us the whole time. Don’t you see?” I pulled Beanie out of the shadow and stood in it myself. “Can you see me?”

“Yeah, with that white t-shirt on I can,” Stevie answered.

I yanked off the t-shirt and stood still for a moment so my brown skin could blend in with the darkness.

“Hey, that’s pretty good. I can see you but not completely,” Beanie said. “Let’s hide. Stevie, you try to find us.”

And the game began. We found literally hundreds of shadowy hiding places all over the block. Anything that could cast a shadow was a potential hiding place: a parked bus, a tree, bushes, buildings, garages, almost anything. We ran around, screaming for joy when we found a new shadow to hide in, finding each other with ease as we became accustomed to the new game at hand. Catch-up was playing a different game of hide and seek than the twins and I were used to. How could I think he was cheating. We were cheating ourselves out of a better version of the game. Yet he looked up to us.

Completely exhausted, we fell on the moist lawn of Mrs. Garcia’s front yard. We sat there, trying to catch our breath. Suddenly, four teenagers walked menacingly up to us. We stood up, readying ourselves to run off if one of them pulled out a knife on us. When they moved under the street light and I saw their faces, I recognized them as the high school drop-outs who lived across the street. I had seen them many times spray-painting their nick-names on the walls in our neighborhood.

“Did you know the retard kid that got killed last night?” the one nick-named Puppet asked.

“”We don’t know any retarded kids,” I answered.

“Yeah, sure you do. You know, the one that got run over by the truck last night. He lived around here somewhere,” Puppet said, glancing around.

“Why do you want to know?” Beanie asked.

“’Cause we’re going to rob the place when his mother’s at the funeral,” the one called Jughead answered.

“Shut up, pendejo,” Puppet scolded him. “Don’t tell them everything.”

“I didn’t tell them nothing they can do anything about,” Jughead apologized half-heartedly.

The other two drop-outs stood like sentries in the background.

“Well, where’s the retard’s house?” Puppet demanded to know.

“His mother doesn’t have any money,” Stevie tried to explain. “She lives real poor.”

“Not from what we heard,” Jughead said. “We heard that she earns her money on the streets and on the sheets.”

“I told you to shut up, vato,” Puppet growled. “So keep it shut. Now, you kids, I’m going to ask you one more time: Where does she live?”

“Nowhere. And you leave her alone,” I warned them. “We know who you are and where you live, and we’ll tell the cops what you told us. So you better get out of our neighborhood and forget about robbing anyone.”

“We have a hero here, vatos,” Puppet mocked. “What shall we do with the big hero?”

“Kill him,” Jughead threatened.

“He’s all yours, Jughead, my man,” Puppet said, taking a step back.

Before I could run, Jughead swung a fist that caught me square on the shoulder. I punched him back, and he laughed at the feeble little hits. He grabbed me by the neck with his hairy gorilla hand and lifted me off the ground. Then Puppet snapped his fingers and the two sentries attacked the twins. I could hear their grunts as the bullies pummeled them. I felt dizzy as Jughead tightened his grip on my neck. Suddenly the porch-light went on, and Old Mrs. Garcia, the widow with all the cats, ordered the seven of us to go play somewhere else.

I took advantage of the startled Jughead and kicked him below the belt. He dropped to his knees in agony, releasing me. I landed on my feet and charged the sentries, knocking them off balance. I yelled at the twins to run. We darted into the alleyway with the drop-outs right behind us. Jughead seemed to have recovered quickly and led the pack. But we were younger and faster than them, and soon we outdistanced them enough to elude them in our new hiding places.

They searched all our old hiding spots. Puppet sent the sentries to look for us on the opposite side of the alley, while he and Jughead checked the trash bins, closing up the exits from the alleyway. They kept walking right by us. We remained calm and quiet, still in the shadows, watching them as Catch-up must have watched us while we searched for him. I fought back the giddy excitement that was welling up in my belly. But now was not the time to laugh.

Jughead took a knife from his back pocket and unfolded it.

“Good idea,” said Puppet and readied his own knife. “I’m going to cut them slow, the way heroes should die.”

Jughead cackled as if killing were not new to him. “They’re in here in this alley somewhere. They can’t get out. They’re trapped como ratones, vato.”

Puppet dragged the blade of his knife along the cement wall by the telephone pole shadow where Stevie stood hidden. The sparks from the knife lit up Stevie’s frightened face for a split second. “What have we here? Looks like dead meat.”

Stevie didn’t move as the drop-out leader raised the weapon above his head. As the shiny blade whooshed downward, the shadow swirled around Puppet’s arm and crushed it. I heard a big crack and then a bunch of little ones. He opened his mouth but didn’t scream. The blade dropped with a clang to the ground. But the shadow was not finished; it slithered like a snake into Puppet’s mouth and broke off all his teeth and carried them down his throat into his guts. I could hear him choking on the little pieces of his own teeth. He moaned as Jughead tried to figure out what was happening.

“Get over here,” Jughead yelled to the sentries, who came just in time to see the darkness burst out of Puppet’s stomach. Teeth and blood and vomit struck the sentries’ faces. Then the other shadows in the alley joined in the attack. Some had claws, some had fangs, others had black blades. The sentries swatted the darkness with trash can lids, but the shadows cut through the metal and twirled like black chainsaws into the scared faces of the two bullies. Their cheeks and noses and lips and eyebrows flew all over place. Blood and snot ran out of the places their noses used to be. Jughead swung the knife in front of him, but a shadow covered his hand and the sound of breaking sticks echoed in the alley. The black snake returned and tore into one of Jughead’s ears and came out of the other. Lumpy stuff poured out of his ear and his jaw kept moving up and down like one of those wind-up skulls. Suddenly his jaw stopped and he dropped to the ground. Then the shadows came together and made the shape of a little boy. He waved to us. And then the shadows went back where they belonged—on the walls, on the ground, under the trees. I didn’t even notice that the shadows had put all the pieces of the four drop-outs into a pile in the middle of the alley.

It all happened so fast. I stepped out of my hiding place and looked at the pile of flesh steaming in the alleyway. The twins each grabbed one of my arms and told me to move, that we had to get out of there. As we ran by Mrs. Garcia’s front yard, we heard her screams coming from her back yard by the alley. She must have found the bodies. We stayed quiet in Mrs. Garcia’s front yard and wondered what had just happened to us.

“The shadows saved me,” Stevie said.

“They saved us,” I corrected him.

There was an awkward pause as it all sunk in. Then Beanie said, “We should get back to looking for Catch-up.”

The words caught me off guard. I sat on the grass and sobbed till my body was sore. Stevie dropped to his knees and wept. Beanie knelt on one knee and cried as well. In the background police lights spun and police car radios buzzed with static voices. It seemed that we would never run out of tears, but we did. The search was over. We were beat by the best in the game of hide and seek, and our friend protected us. He appeared out of nowhere again and helped us.

Throughout the neighborhood we could hear parents calling their children home from this night of violence and death. I heard my Dad calling. The twins heard their Mom shouting out their names. We stood up, wiped the tears and cleared the sniffles from our runny noses. Then together we shouted, ALL YE ALL YE EXTRA ALL GO FREE, and ran home without waiting for the reply that we knew we would never hear again: ‘Catch-up free!’

 

Time is a Spider Web

The eyes of the spider never wander

It sits alone inside a cave of silk

Neither does it form a plan or ponder

A group of one as many of its ilk.

The eyes of the housefly see all around

It flies alone above its source of food

It forms its plans in flight and on the ground

At once the source and captive of the brood.

The eyes of the human are blind and vast

It lives alone in thought among the crowds 

It plans its place for first but comes in last

A cog in a machine up in the clouds. 

All three believe that they master the web

But they are prey to both the tide and ebb. 

 

Memory Corner

2. On the Porch One Hot Night

I had a friend who live in a duplex in City Terrace. Ted and his brother Tommy lived in one unit with their mom. His dad was in jail. Again. In the unit next door, his aunt, Connie, lived with her two daughters. His mom and her sister always lived next door to each other, always in Boyle Heights, to be close to the General Hospital Mental Hospital, which they admitted themselves at least twice a year. Usually not at the same time, because one sister always took care of all the kids, who were all pre-teen. 

I enjoyed going to the duplex to play with the brothers. We played on the porch on Fridays, the end of the school week. Sometimes my folks would let me spend the night with my friends. Sometimes the whole weekend. My parents were under the impression that one of the moms were always there to babysit us. They were wrong. Ted's mom and Connie, his aunt, went clubbing Friday nights, leaving us kids all alone. That was half the fun of spending the night at their house. 

To get ready to go out, the two moms caked on the make up and soaked themselves in perfume. We could smell the perfume from the porch where the three of us were playing Crazy Eights. The sun was just starting to set, and the shadows of the trees and bushes around the second story duplex fell across our game. Just as the shade arrived, so did Dr. D, as  we called him, to pick up Ted's mom, his date. "Is your mom ready, Teddy?" he joked, forcing the rhyme. "Not yet. Almost. I can smell her perfume." He leaned down with a bow and said, "Might if I watch the game?" "No," Ted said. 

I was glad he didn't ask him to join in the game because he was the sort of person who would sit down and deal himself a hand. Old time gang banger. Two tattooed tear drops under his left eye, an armful of gang signs on left forearm. He grunted a lot whenever Ted won a hand. He favored Ted over Tommy. I used to think Dr. D might be his dad, but his wasn't. He often waited for his date on the porch with us kids. He'd tell us old gang stories or just try his best to entertain us with bad jokes. He once told us that a prison doctor was named Dr. Killemall, ("kill them all"), and that's when we started calling him Dr. D. 

I lost the last game of Crazy Eights, and as Tommy shuffled the cards, I heard the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs. As odd as it may sound, the man arrived with the night. The shadows were gone. Ted turned on the porch light so we could see who the visitor was. It was Connie's date. He looked angry, and smelled drunk. He eyed us suspiciously, but when he saw Dr. D, he spoke with menace, "What are you doing here?"

Dr. D tried to laugh it off. "Waiting for a street-car." 

This only made the stranger madder. "Waiting for who? For Connie? Puto." He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a folding knife. Before Dr. D could react, the jealous man swiped the blade across the surprised Dr. D's face. Ted and Tommy tackled the man while I stepped on his hand holding the knife. The moms came out, and Dr. D turned to face them. They screamed. Connie ran back inside and called the police. Ted's mom backed away from Dr. D. That's when I saw his face. His eyelid was gone. His naked eyeball was darting back and forth. Half his face was covered in blood. 

The police arrested the jealous date. An ambulance took Dr. D to the hospital. We had to find his eyelid so the medics could take it with them in the ambulance. When the excitement settled down, the two moms went out to the club in a cab, as if nothing had happened. Ted and Tommy went inside to watch TV. I caught the bus home. 

I never went back there. Never saw Dr. D again. I often dream of that naked eyeball, darting to and fro, looking for its eyelid. 

The Seven Orbs

Chapter One

The Guardsmen Grumble

6

"War is at hand. Real war, not the mock games the so-called King has the Captain, his son, run us through with sticks and stones," Sergeant on Patrol Balesman complained to the soldiers manning the guard post above the drawbridge. "When was the last time any of us tasted real battle, sparked the swords, or splintered a shield? Most of you are too young to remember the War of the Three Kingdoms, when Governor Terria rode the dragon and conquered the governors of the forest and the river realms, when the Wizard summoned the 100 orbs and 100 archers rode them into battle. Magic they were. The arrows flew out, but the enemy arrows could not penetrate the bubbles. What chance did they have, against a fire-breathing dragon in flight and floating orbs of pure magic?"

"Were you there, Sarge?" asked the young guardsman, Elsmith.

"Damn right I was, lad," Balesman said without pride in his voice. "I was there for the massacre. Governor Bosque and Governor Aquell surrendered to Terria. He united the kingdoms and lay claim to all three kingdoms under one name, King Terria. For over a year the governors protested the union until Terria allowed Bosque and Aquell lordship to govern their territories, as long as they did so under Terria's law and rule, with the promise that after 20 years, if peace were maintained, they could rule as they pleased. Well, it was 20 years to the day last month, and King Terria has been strangely silent as his son, Theo, prepares his Guardsmen for battle and thunder and lightning are seen and heard coming from the Wizard's keep. War is afoot, I tell you."

Suddenly, Elsmith reports that Captain Theo approaches. 

Balesman swallows a laugh and hides it behind a harsh smile. "Word has it that our Theo courts Bosque's daughter, Abora, Captain of the Forest Guard. What shall we make of that, lads/"

The men snicker and nod to each other. 

In walks Captain Theo. "And what, may I ask, elicits such laughter on such a foreboding night?" The snickering stopped. 

"When do we fight?" asked the sergeant boldly.

"So, the rumors have reached your lazy ears that have nothing better to do than seek out gossip. Perhaps some duty outside the walls might sharpen your wits."

"I'm sorry, my Captain, but if we're to fight, would it best serve the King that we prepare for battle rather than be punished for seeking some truth? These are but lads, never struck flesh or drawn blood. This is your army." The Sergeant looked Theo straight in the eye. Theo flinched and looked away. "Then let it ease your worry that my father, the King, plans to awaken the dragon, and the Wizard has begun work on the magic orbs. The army will follow an army of two into battle. Who needs men when you have magic and fire?!"

The Sergeant did not seem impressed. "Nevertheless, I will begin training the men with proper swords and shields. No one can predict what 20 years and one month have done to our battle skills. Best we all three of our army be ready."

Theo bowed to the old Sergeant and said, "I trust you to be ready for war, and that you will ready your men to support the forces that go before you. The dragon and the wizard may need your help before the day is done, right, Sergeant?" 

As Theo left, Baleman muttered under his breath, "No darker words have been spoken, except at funerals." 

The King and The Prince

7

"Father," Theo complained, "the Guardsmen are apprehensive. Only old Balesman who was there at the original battle senses the truth. Twenty years have gone by. We are not the same warriors of old. He knows the difference. He saw the dragon fly, saw the orbs descend on the enemy. But his doubts are true. It's been 20 years since that day. He fills the young Guardsmen with doubt as well. Father, are we truly prepared?"

"Calm yourself, boy," the King scolded his son. "I will wake the dragon shortly. I will meet with the Wizard's apprentice thereafter. I make preparations on my part. You must make preparations on yours. They are your men to command, not Balesman. You must shake any notions from their heads that you would favor your mistress's needs over your own kingdom's needs. She will not yield to you. She is a worthy captain for her father. Can't you find it in yourself to be a worthy one for me?"

"Yesterday we talked of children, your grandchildren, father. Today we talk of ending a lineage. Promise me, father, that you and your dragon will end things quickly. Do not make me meet her on the battlefield. Make ready the orbs. If talks of peace have ended, then we must end the war quickly. I do not know if I have it in me to face her in battle." Theo stood from his seat and looked sadly on his father. 

King Terria stood and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I promise you, this war will be over before sunset." 

Captain Theo heard his father's promise and believed not one word. 

Wisdom, Winsome, and Agyle.

8

Coming soon...

 

SPACE ROCK COLLECTIVE SPIRITS BURNING,

LED BY DON FALCONE, TEAMS UP AGAIN WITH FORMER HAWKWIND VOCALIST BRIDGET WISHART.

California – “Fragments” adds a new chapter to the Spirits Burning story, the fourth full-album collaboration between Bridget Wishart and Don Falcone. They return with a unique and intriguing collection of linked songs, tales, fragments, and readings!

Having shared the stage together in England (captured on the Spirits Burning “Live at Kozfest” album) and documented their history in Don’s 2025 memoir (“One Of The Spirits Burning”), the duo embarked on a 12-song album of vocal and instrumental songs. The album includes “Fragments,” a longer unreleased treasure from 2014 featuring Jerry Jeter and Bridget accompanying Don’s piano and a suite of unfinished songs started by Bridget, Lee Potts and John Pierpoint — based on Bridget’s novel, the “Caoimhe Tales.” Don created the kernels for the opening suite, three nature-themed songs, a subject close to both of their hearts. The album concludes with a trio of “Caoimhe Tales” readings by Bridget, backed by spacey landscapes.

Bridget Wishart is a singer/songwriter/artist and former member of Hawkwind, who has been working in partnership with Spirits Burning since 2003. In her spare time, she has recorded with other bands (including Astral Magic, Astralfish, Band of Doctors, Chumley Warner Brothers and Astral Hawk Machine).

Spirits Burning is a musical collective that features musicians associated with space rock and progressive rock, including input from members of Blue Öyster Cult, Clearlight, Gong, Hawkwind, Van der Graaf Generator, and many other groups, as well as Porcupine Tree’s Steven Wilson and British science fiction and fantasy writer Michael Moorcock. Spirits Burning is overseen by American composer/producer Don Falcone. Since 1998, they have released 20 albums, featuring almost 300 musicians.

“Spirits Burning has become a respected melting pot of the space-rock fraternity.” Ian Abrahams, author of ‘Hawkwind - Sonic Assassins’ and ‘Festivalized' (co-authored by Bridget Wishart)”
“Fragments” is available worldwide on CD, or as a digital album from Deko Entertainment or from resellers that carry releases distributed by Alternative Distribution Alliance / Warner Music Group, Cargo Records, or The Target Group.

Song Titles
⁃ Natural Order
⁃ The Door
⁃ Sombre
⁃ Piper (Part 1)
⁃ Tides
⁃ Dark Eyes
⁃ Spin
⁃ Piper (Part 2)
⁃ Fragments
⁃ Death (Dust At Dawn)
⁃ Birth (Aiofe’s Get)
⁃ Transition (Caiomhe’s Lament)

Official release date: March 27, 2026
To purchase CD/digital Album or digital album: https://spiritsburning.bandcamp.com/album/fragments

For more label information:
https://www.dekoentertainment.com

For more Spirits Burning information:
http://www.spiritsburning.com
https://www.facebook.com/spiritsburning

Press inquiries:
Don Falcone, Spirits Burning
email: spiritsburning@yahoo.com

 

Memory Corner

1. The Incinerator 

I barely remember the Projects incinerators being used. By the 1960s, they were replaced by the Sanitation Department, you know, the Garbage Men. But these useless buildings had their purpose for those in need. If you pried the door open, it served as a hiding place to do your drugs or to make out with your lover on a makeshift bed. For kids, it was a castle to defend. We climbed on top and challenged the other kids to dethrone us. We usually played in the late evening, after dinner and TV. We'd watch our shows like Star Trek and Outer Limits, then our parents would take over the set to watch their shows. That's when we gathered by the castle. 

The projects were four-unit apartments that were placed around the Incinerator like four dominoes surrounding the cabin-like structure, which served as the trash disposal for the 16 families in the apartments. When the garbage Men started collecting the trash from the dumpsters that were placed next to each project, serving four units, four families. The incinerators were abandoned, ignored. Burning trash was no longer safe, the project managers said. Thus the concrete structures became our playground. 

Many parents scolded their kids for playing on the "unsafe" incinerators. We told them, They're unsafe only when the maintenance men lit them up. They don't do that anymore. They're old, cold chimney stacks. If the managers don't tear them down, then it's okay to play on them. If they weren't safe, they'd tear them down. This logic worked on our folks. They bought it, and we played castle in peace. 

One day, Reys, the high school football captain sat on the porch by the unit where he lived and watched us play. When we saw him, we all ran over to the football hero and asked what University he was going to. He said he had a few choices, and a few years to decide. One of the older boys, the Middle School kid, asked Reys to join us. He could be King of the Castle, and we'd try to dethrone him. He knew how the game was played, so he accepted. He leaped and grabbed the ledge of the incinerator roof. He pulled himself up in one try. It usually took us kids, even the older ones, at least three tries to climb on the roof. 

And the game began. Reys stood atop the roof, while several of us kids tried to climb the walls to reach up to pull the football star off the roof. It was his job to keep us from getting on the roof. He simply had to pry our fingers off the ledge of the roof or push the older boys off before they could hoist themselves up. Reys was winning quite easily for several minutes. We were dropping off the incinerators, landing on the grass, leaping back to our feet to try again. There was laughter and moans, until there was silence.

No one could remember what happened. The game just stopped. The police came. An ambulance. No one asked us kids any questions. Reys' mom told the police he fell off the incinerator. The medic told his mom that her son had injured his neck. The ambulance carried the football hero off. The police put their notepads away and drove off. Reys' mom was crying when she went back inside her unit. We didn't talk about it. We just went home. 

About three weeks later, his mom brought Reys home. He stayed inside for about a week. When he finally emerged from the unit, none of the kids wanted to engage with him. After some hemming and hawing, he approached me. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't remember anything about that night. But he didn't ask anything. He smiled and sat next to me. "The sky is blue today," he said. "I like the sky when it's blue." 

It took me a second to realize that his voice sounded more like a first grader's than a high schooler's. "How's the football team doing?" I asked. "I dunno," he tried to explain. "It's too far away now. I might get lost." We sat and talked about nothing really for over an hour. It wasn't until his mom called him in for supper that he got up to leave. "Thank you for talking to me. You're the first."

That summer, I liked to help Reys with his homework from his new school. His mom often invited me in to lunch with him and watch cartoons. And the sad thing was, No one ever talked about any of it. And as if to erase the memory of the tragedy, the Projects Manager in charge had the incinerator torn down. No flowers were planted there. No plaque was placed there. The concrete base remained, and no kids ever played there again.