Writers, 

     We set up the Seattle Refined challenge, to write about the passing of Chris Cornell, to be won based upon the most shares. Reading through the entries, and being here in Seattle, two things ran through our minds: So many good stories here, poems, tibute pieces, and pure expression of loss through art. The second was who would share what to put just one up top. The most shares went to James M. Byers, with his poem, aptly titled, "Black Sun, Black Days." 

     We could go into detail here, why we think this one received the most shares, or we could almost say we didn't really expect a rhyming poem to get the most shares in a challenge like this, but with a subject like the one presented, there was no gauge or reason for one. A great man died, and expression against death has always been the writer's medicine, or the most effective kind. 

     Fitting, actually, that a rhyming poem is featured as the most shared, because the lyricism of Cornell is what inpired the piece. Byers, in flawless recall, threw down the notes of tears in beautiful verse:

     Pretty noose foreshadowed doom;

     A burden in the palm.

     Blowing up the outside gloom,

     The rhinosaur brought balm.

     Black rain fell in drops of thought

     As phantoms telephoned. 

     Great write, James. A ton of heart. 

     You can read the entire poem here:

     https://theprose.com/post/164786/black-sun-black-days

     As a boy, my big brother and I seldom found ourselves on the same side of anything really. We fought over video games, the front seat, and who sat where at dinner. He tortured me for having a night light and sucking my thumb. I told on him for just about everything in return. 

     Back and forth we fought, as brothers do, until one fateful day I heard a subtle, wasteland-heart, crooning notes over a rock guitar. The voice sounded both lost and fearsome at the same time, and the melody droned on, melancholic and penetrating. I crept down the hall to hear more and found myself in my brother’s room while my big brother V and his best friend Mike nodded in unison to Sound Garden’s “The Day I Tried to Live.”

     I knew I’d catch a beating for even thinking about being in V’s room without a good reason, but the voice called me from the hallway and pulled me in. I was powerless. The voice soared over the dissonant guitar riffs, wrenching away from the melody with crystal clear rebellion. I was changed. I closed my eyes and imagined what the singer looked like. He must be tall. Defiant. A hero, fighting against something bigger than himself, but fighting bravely anyway. Saturday cartoons had taken hold and I was very into super heroes back then and imagined him like that. “V, what the hell?” I opened my eyes to see my brother and his six-foot behemoth friend gawking at my bravado.

     V sat up and stood but instead of throwing me out, he said one of the first non- threatening things to me in our short history at the time. “Hey, come over here. What do you think of this, huh? You don’t like it do you?” Mike laughed his dopey laugh and shook his head.

     I piped up, “It’s...amazing.” I’ll never forget how my brother grinned. Like I’d passed some test. Mike laughed and said, “Start it over bro! See what his favorite is!” We spent the next hour listening to Superunkown, ironically enough, it's how my brother and I got to know each other.

     To this day the album takes me back to a place of discovery and understanding like nothing else, and though I’ve grown up some, now I don't think, but know, the singer who cranked out those noble notes was a hero. He was fighting against something larger than himself, and he held fast decades passed when a kid heard those cries in the hall and heard sounds of a battle. 

     Not all wars can be won and, "The lives we make never seem to ever get us anywhere but dead," but Chris gave us the soundtrack to the fight and showed us the meaning of perseverance. For that and so much more, we will miss you Mr. Cornell. Your voice will never die.

Rest in Power,

Hanif

Chapters 9 - 10

Red

       He told me to get in. Get in this car that’s gonna try to leave the flashing lights and cocked guns in the dust…no chance. The seconds ticking by on the expensive watch Mr. Fox bought me were currency more precious than gold, sex, or power. Then there was a twitch from the near-dead ‘officer’ in my arms and Dom’s eyes fluttered, probably winking at the devil wherever his consciousness was…we’re gonna lose him…I can’t lose him, we need him. I got in the car.

       The majestic pine trees lining the English countryside would have been a haunting sight, kneeless in the early morning fog, but trees begin to blur, really blur when you reach about 110 mph, something I never knew before my life as a fugitive from justice. I guess I never had a reason to look out the window of a car while more than doubling the regional speed limit.

       An air of malcontent spread over our tense crew like a wet blanket, the very road rising up to meet the speeding wheels of our getaway like the prickling spine of a waking dragon. Off to our left, thick rushes spread over dales and mounds of earth that rose and fell into the fog swept distance like deep sea waves, barely aware of our race for survival, save for the sparkling dew that occasionally broke through their local atmosphere reminding me to blink my dry, dazed eyes. The morning was light enough, but I could not see the sun.

       I sat motionless, staring out the tinted window. My clothes were a mess, Dom’s blood coating my vest and shirt, but I felt warm and calm like the blood. I couldn't bear the thought of him dying so I sat and stared while Val spurred our car’s horsepower toward its limits. The engine of our ‘borrowed’ Cadillac CTS-V whirred and whined like a dozen ponies instead of the 649 horses its namesake boasted. Occasionally Co would lean out the driver’s side backseat window to spit a few harmless bullets into the air as a reminder to the pursuing beat cops to keep beating. POP! POP! POP! The immediate pressure following each squeeze of the trigger momentarily silenced the rest of the horns, engines, and wind in my ears.

       Mr. Fox had trained us well for much of what we’d encountered but not for this, not for losing one of our own. The car rocked like a clumsy phone booth during an earthquake. I ignored my nausea. Val wrenched the emergency brake, threading our car like a needle through oncoming traffic and onto a moor beside a bright stretch of rush-hour highway…the thick grass was more than aware of us now.

       The English are far more blasé than Americans give them credit for. If we were in Texas, soccer moms and screaming teenagers would be screeching this way and that, but we zipped to and fro on the English lanes without so much as a second look, almost as if the police sirens were echoing ‘mind your bloody business!’

       Val took a risk at the first break in the median and wrenched a U-turn going in the opposite direction of our pursuers. He stomped on the gas pedal, taking full advantage of our momentary separation. We exited the expressway as soon as the flashing lights disappeared from the rearview, under cover of a recently descended hill. Once off the freeway, we were back on track to our pre-mapped escape route. Our driver was a marvel, with a pulse closer to reading a book on a Sunday than in a race for his life.

       My friend, fellow captive, and the chief contributor to the mission we just accomplished lay eerily still, long since passed out in my lap. I'd been talking to him, reminding him of how pathetic he'd have to be to quit now after all the hellacious struggles he'd already endured, struggles that made being stabbed in the left lung with a fountain pen seem more like a break from work than a serious injury. I spoke to him until his closed eyes and pale face were the only response to my encouragements and then I gazed out the window knowing I would probably lose my strongest ally unless something was done soon. Up ahead I could see the safe house. Maybe there’s still time.

       The morning sun filtered through the half-closed blinds as we burst into the pre-rented apartment off Oldham Street and Cobb. Dom was more like a corpse now then my friend. I felt sick laying him on any other table than an operating one or God’s altar. Instead, we strew him across the kitchen table and within ten seconds, his blood covered it like a crimson tablecloth. I had no idea we had that much red inside us, but he made it seem endless.

       "…You send that medic! Do it and bloody yesterday, wanka’. You’re on my time now! I’d rather not have to pay a visit to St. Catherine’s Primary School on Drury Lane…” The dead line on the other end had an effect on the atmosphere in our very room. Mr. Fox must have been calling in a favor from one of his network of undesirables, but even I felt a chill at the mention of an elementary school in the same sentence as a criminal request. He had a way of communicating that was both clever and razor sharp. His tone of voice was always filled with excitement, but rarely framed in a space where it was merited. It was almost funny if he spoke that way on purpose. He sounded like a bad friend, ‘Surprise! Your wife is cheating on you!’ or the way a disbarred doctor might explain, ‘Got some news! You’ve got a week to live!’ Despite his interest level, however, it was contrasted further by his discomforting whisper. His volume was eerie enough to cool the blood in your veins to a slurry, like hearing your name whispered at night in your bedroom, alone, within seconds of drifting towards dreamland. It was the kind of voice that made you pray the speaker didn't know where you lived or where your kids were.

       Mr. Fox growled the instructions that originated from the phone white-knuckled to his ear. He had the look of a man who deeply resented going through the motions of a rescue that we all knew would fail, taking time that was beyond value to those fleeing the scene of a crime – time that compromised the entire purpose of our small mission and may render Dom's unexpected sacrifice utterly pointless. We reacted like sleepy college kids to an unplanned exam, trying to piece the how and why when we should only be focused on the ticking clock. Co shoved an Epi-pen into my hand, which I plunged into Dom’s heart. Co was trying to paste a special three-sided petroleum jelly patch on the wound itself to keep it from sucking air into the lung the wrong way, but Dom came back to life for a few seconds in a big way causing the patch to be secured to his abdomen, missing the wound altogether. This process was made all-the-more juvenile by Dom’s unconscious arms randomly swinging in large arcs like he was having a night terror about Apollo Creed, clocking me in the eye here and Val in the nose there. Note to self: read a damn book on military field surgery and pray you never have to practice what you've learned again.

       Ironically, the ideal man to conduct a debunked MacGyver surgery, reusing syringes and employing I.V.'s made of salinized Aqua Pura bottles, was the pre-cadaver unraveled on the table. I would happily trade places with the man simply because I knew he'd save me if our roles were reversed. My forehead pulsed, pounding all thoughts and memory out of my mind except one, ‘do a good job!’

       Levine Sikes, or "Co" as he'd come to be known, short for "Company," short for the man you'd want to be the face of your company because nothing can stick to a man like that, was the weakest in the presence of blood yet was diligently swabbing as much as he could from Dominic's gushing wound. Shirtless due to our lack of towels, his fit and scarred body would lead anyone who couldn't see his face to a very different conclusion as to what sort of man he was.

       Mr. Fox swept through the three of us surrounding Dom’s limp frame and scooped him up like a football player recovering a fumble, "We're out of hea' chaps.” Just then, as if Bad-timing herself wanted to prove her worth by example, the large door downstairs snapped open and MI-6 came pouring through the opening before the splinters hit the floorboards. Blindly, we followed the pallbearer as Co lay down cover fire into the hallway to give our party the precious few seconds we needed to climb the fire escape to the roof.

       Laurence Mayfair was watering her geraniums for the second time that day trying to get them to bloom. Still without success, she frowned and decided it was time to take them back to the store when she heard fireworks from somewhere below her. "Outrageous!" she whispered to herself, knowing exactly who it was breaking the apartment bylaws; her son Daniel and his friends should be setting an example, not breaking her own rules! She angrily reached for her coat and the doorknob when the unmistakable metallic clang of the fire escape rattled behind her. "Daniel! I've half a mind to..."

       Laurence never finished that sentence. Instead, she crashed to her knees in shock at what she saw. As she looked on, a furious constable carrying a dummy, an unbuttoned beat cop, a shirtless runner with a gun, and a construction worker scaled the escape onto her flat and they were all covered in blood. It seemed like she could hear a little joke forming in the back of her head about an old American rock group, The Village People. She always fell to her dark sense of humor when she was nervous, but before she had time to finish her thought the crack of the constable's threatening voice fell on her like the priest's fire and brimstone sermons that terrified her as a child. Men like this made her believe in God because she was looking at the Devil.

       "Look at me calfer! I need your car keys and its location or you'll look like this bloke hea', ga' it?” Laurence got it and moved mechanically and quickly, no questions asked. She walked fast to him, handed over her keys, and then pointed downstairs on the opposite side of the street at a small, yellow hybrid. Then, without waiting for a response, she lay face down on the floor and spread her arms and legs as if she knew it was unsatisfactory. A good thing for her, too, because as soon as Mr. Fox fixed his eyes on the worst luck in the history of luck, he instinctively backhanded the air where she had been standing and excruciated “Dof Doos! I bet you went an’ bought a fuel-efficient vehicle like that ’cause it makes you feel better about being a wasteful oinka', eh?” Then, to drive his frustration home, he flipped over her gardening table, knocking her plants to the ground. Now eye-to-eye with the geraniums, Laurence caught a glimpse of a tiny bloom and smiled at the spilt dirt. I felt sick being near a man like this but sicker still at the idea of sharing showers at the local penitentiary for the rest of my life, so I said nothing.

       We dropped Dom as carefully as possible into a garbage heap below the near balcony and then leapt together into the black stench that we were hoping would be soft, but wasn't. With course shouting at my back, I gripped Dom’s collar and dragged him free as we all ran for the Hot Wheels version of a car across the road.

       Val, our handyman behind the wheel looked cramped as he shoved the E-brake into the release position. Mr. Fox seemed to respect him most of all. The two of them looked at each other as if making some heavy-handed decision and without a word depressed the gas pedal and their trigger fingers out the window as ten or twelve service men were falling, scrambling, and firing down the street at us.

The Chase

       My stomach fell and the lump in my throat tasted like the first day of school wrapped around the seconds before hearing the answer to a wedding proposal. Swerving through the narrow lane amidst oncoming traffic and pissed beat cops, the tension in our tiny car was so tangible I felt sure that if Val braked too hard my head would smack against it like a taxi partition. It was like a nightmare, watching death attacking us from every angle to find purchase and only Val's steady hands keeping the Reaper's sickle dry. Still, while Co chewed his nails to a pulp and I gripped my knees, Val looked calm, almost sleepy. Working the wheel and wrenching the emergency brake more often than the brake pedal, the man needed no advice on how to best handle our predicament. The drifting of the tires and the bumps of jumped curbs gave me the impression of a cheap carnival ride and then it happened…quietly. I realized I was having fun, looking around at the tense faces and Dom's comatose one, I was instantly ashamed that I was smiling. Smiling my ass, I’m grinning like an idiot. It had been such a long time since I had been in the company of a few good men my age that the camaraderie filled some need I'd been denying myself back in my small academic life.

       I thought back to my studio and the ants there diligently working away in their farms. These little complex companions had become my focus due to their incredible capacity for weak and stupid action when singled out. In fact, get a few together and they still have no sense, but observed in the grace and fluidity of their hill or farm and their every movement has a purpose; their every choice, a carefully rationed calculation. Once they reach a critical mass of antennae sets, each ant goes from zombie to mindful engineer. The real question is not whether this happens…but how? All throughout nature, it has been documented. A bee separated from the hive falls listless and dies without the closeness of its brethren. The theory of a collective unconscious isn't new but it's been difficult to prove until…"Ow! Damn! I'm shot!" The side of my head burned like it was scraped with red-hot sandpaper.

       Mr. Fox reached back without looking and gently stroked the wound, then eyed the faint amount of blood on his hand and made it clear "No you haven't! You've barely got a kiss, a bit far from the big fuck, ain't ya?” Relieved but oddly insulted, I ducked my head hoping to avoid the kind of intercourse that would lead to my final outercourse.

       Looking like he was losing a game of strip poker, Co took his sweatband and put it low on my forehead to stop my small but painful injury from bleeding into my eyes. Then the car went dark and Co disappeared.

Title: Confidence Men

Genre: Thriller

Age Range: 22-40

Word Count: 90,000

Author Name: Hanif S. Ali

Why it's a good fit

Many would agree that the times we live in are deeply troubled and those without firm belief systems find themselves not knowing where to look for answers on a day-to-day basis. Whether it's a school shooting in the States, to bombings in Aleppo, to drive-by's in London, Confidence Men is a tale of one place we all can find strength: in the stranger next to us. Confidence Men is not just relevant, but necessary because it takes a magnifying glass to the integrity in men's hearts. Philosophically, it skirts and explores the line between what makes a person good or evil, while simultaneously raising awareness of human trafficking, refugees and other social issues.

Hook

When four young professionals at the top of their game are blackmailed into joining the criminal underworld, only the depth of their combined intelligence and the power of the brotherhood they form stands between them and the dawn of the next World War.

Synopsis

If you’re orchestrating three significant heists across three countries, you’d want the very best criminals on the job – but, there’s a glaring issue: criminals, by their very nature, cut corners. The South African mercenary in charge of these heists, code name: Mr. Fox, can’t risk that behavior. So, what’s a soldier of fortune to do? Simple – abduct four high-profile figures with unparalleled skill sets and blackmail them into doing the jobs for you. The problem now? When four brilliant minds unite, even a veteran merc like Mr. Fox could turn from a predator into prey.

Target Audience

I have played some form of team sports for the majority of my life. Though my experiences on the field helped shape who I am, it has been my teammates throughout the years I relied on to cope with the difficulties life has thrown my way. Now, as an adult and teacher, I do not have much time for teammates and scoring goals; yet, as buildings fall, bombers and hackers attack our way of life, and the daily news feed is cluttered with chaos, climate change, terrorists and Brexit, I long for, now more than ever, that feeling of shared adversity and brotherhood to make sense of it all. Confidence Men is a book written for millennial men and women who feel like the world is out of control and wish they could physically fight back with a crack team in their corner.

Author Bio

Raised by a Muslim father and a Christian mother, I grew up in a house full of culture, ideas and fierce opinions in a city that consistently shelters people from every corner of the globe seeking the Happiest Place on Earth. My name is Hanif S. Ali and though I was born and raised in Orlando, FL, I feel more like a citizen of the world. I received my education at the University of Florida, graduating magna cum laude with degrees in English and Philosophy. Though my interests are eclectic – from painting to mentoring, attending concerts and physical fitness – it’s my lifelong love of reading that led me to become a media assistant in a library until I was approached to head the Composition program at a prestigious preparatory school in downtown Orlando. After several years teaching and designing curriculum, I founded a writing academy and worked to inspire other writers daily, while polishing my own craft.

My outlook on life is that of a realist and a problem solver, but my background as a philosopher adds an extra layer beneath all of my writings – a lens for those who see the bigger picture and read between the lines. From the names of my characters to the shades of gray in the hearts of my villains, there’s always something more to be found for those who are willing to look.

Platform

I have been a closet writer for nearly all of my literary life – until recently. For this reason, the social media-minded might find my platform somewhat paltry. That said, between Instagram, Facebook and Prose, I have approximately 1,200 followers, all of whom are real contacts that support me. My website is under development and can be found at www.hanifsali.com.

broken pony

beautiful winged creature

beautiful

why did you

swallow those pills

why did you

delegate your bills

you tried to live (most days)

but a cage

surrounded you

and no one knew

i wish i had known you

gorgeous and alone

just like me

and Jesus Christ

wise in your own way

same as any day

i wish i had known

why did you

swallow those pills

why did you

grab that rope

i could have helped you

wash away

that rain from your

beautiful

broken body

for Chris Cornell

I am 21 years old. I have missed the 90s, but I have been listening to Chris Cornell’s music everyday ever since I was 15. I spent the most important years of my “formation” as a human being with his voice, his lyrics in my ears. And I too suffer with depression and mental illnesses. I grew up not knowing what was “wrong” with me, and Chris sort of held my hand as I was struggling and fighting and trying to understand what was going on inside my head. It was dark and ugly and often it still is, but never for a single minute I felt like no one was getting it, because he made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I wasn’t “wrong” or “too sick to pull through”. He made me feel human, he made me feel like I too deserved things, good things. He holds my hand every time I am angry, every time my chest hurts, every time I feel the urge to make myself vomit in the bathroom, every time I feel flawed, every time I feel impure and infected, every time the world doesn’t feel real and every time the world feels way too real.


I don’t think anyone’s music can make me as happy as Chris' does. It’s not like he ever wrote such happy songs. But I guess that is just the way he is, you know, a warm beam of light that makes everything on its way shine too. Whenever I hear his voice or see his pictures, I remember how happy I felt every time I got to see him live, and it’s such a hopeful feeling. He’s like a reminder that life can be dark but there’s a bright side to it too. There’s always been so much positivity coming from him and it’s so beautiful. It's so big. 
The first time I saw him, in Verona, he reached out to me and my friends to get the Soundgarden flag we had made for him and proceeded to sing an entire song with that flag on his face, and then gave us one of his shirts to thank us. I got a Soundgarden tattoo after that show, to carry a little bit of his light with me everyday.

And then that one night in Detroit something went so horribly wrong. It might not even seem legit, but it hurts so much and I want to talk about it. I want to talk about it because I grew up listening to his voice. I have been finding comfort in that voice ever since I was 15. He was a friend. And I loved him in a way I never loved any other artist. It seems silly and stupid, but I associated him with everything that’s beautiful in the world. With dogs and butterflies and rainbows and flowers and the sun shining and the wind blowing. I have listened to his music on good days, on bad days, on the worst days of my life. I’ve punched walls and cried my eyes out to Soundgarden and I’ve sung Audioslave songs in the car so loud it made my throat sore. I’ve listened to Temple Of The Dog on my way to funerals of loved ones, I’ve listened to Songbook and Higher Truth when insomnia wouldn’t leave me alone. I’ve let him scream in my ears to tone down the voices inside my head telling me to do awful things to myself. He was that to me, and so much more. He wasn’t just an artist, he was a human being I looked up to, and that kind of person that you’re just so glad they exist somewhere out there. And now it’s hard to find the same comfort in his voice. I feel like I lost a friend, and for the first time in my life it hurts to think about him. When I learned about his death I was sitting in my university's library. I was wearing my Higher Truth shirt that morning and it felt so heavy on me. I couldn’t sleep for 2 days, I got mad at the sky because the dawn was so beautiful and how fucking dared it be beautiful when something so horrible had happened? How dared the birds keep singing? How dared the world keep spinning and all the lives keep going?

I was in Florence a few days ago, attending Eddie Vedder's solo show, and the day after attending Prophets Of Rage and System Of A Down. At both shows, tributes to Chris were played. 50.000 people cried as Eddie cried singing Black to his friend, and a shooting star crossed the sky minutes later. And again people cried as Serj Tankian walked on stage and performed Like A Stone with Tom Morello, and everyone around me was singing along. I know my loss is nothing compared to the people that knew him, to his kids, his wife and his friends, but I can’t help feeling this way. And it was beautiful to share those moments for him with the people who love him so much. It's something we owe to him, to come together and remember him for the beautiful soul he was. He didn't need to know us to reach our hearts and make them feel warm and that's not something we can allow to fade away. I’ll never really be able to really put into words the place he holds in my heart, but I still want to try and share it because goddammit Cornell I will always love the sh*t out of you and your flower nipples and your combat boots and your visionary bathroom tiles tweets. Who I am today, I owe it to you too. You gave me so much life, and something is missing now. But you gave us it all, and we will carry it all.

"Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!"

     There are a string of these stations lock-stepped on the edge of the void. We teeter totter between yesterday and tomorrow, holding each other from sliding into entropy. From a distance we look like a string of pearls( note to self,- check that, what are pearls?). Being posted here is considered a perk or privilege, but sometimes I think its a subtle punishment for those of us who don't quite fit. For here you don't age, but it fucks up your memory, you can't remember what you remember, and what happens in a Tomorrow is forgotten in a Yesterday. The place is littered in checklists, notes and memory aids, fortunately the gut is not confused it remembers when to eat. We mine time or is it anti-time? I forget, anyway its beamed into waiting vessels for shipment.

    The void itself is quite beautiful, glowing yellow, purple or turquoise, some times sulking matt black then bursting into pyrotechnical displays.

I haven't seen Susan for a time -no, not good word, while, is that better? for she is only here Yesterday and the void has been stuck in a display of livid yellow Tomorrows,

 Every time we meet my gut is surprised, I have no idea why, but may be she has no Tomorrows or maybe she got out. The void has a purple edge to it, may be it will be yesterday soon. Susan I miss you.

You don't know me, but I watched you grow.

You don't know me, but wherever you went I would go.

You don't know me, but I admire your work.

I admired your 'not a rockstar' mentality and appreciated you not being a jerk.

You don't know me, but I always wished you well.

Hoping your days would get better if Kurt Loder said it was hell.

You don't know me,but I cried when you did.

In your saddest lyrics I always hid.

You don't know me, but you said everything I would feel.

You described things I would imagine and made them seem real.

You don't know me, but I grew up with a strong Chicano background.

So I'd secretly sneek away to the Garden of Sound.

You don't know me,but I respected you as a whole.

Your thought provoking words helped me grow. 

You don't know me,but I believe in fate.

The hunger for more struck when I was eight.

You don't know me, but I also don't mind stealing bread.

It was lyrics like that,that kept my mind fed.

You don't know me but Superunknown sends me to a place of rest.

Let's get cheesy for a sec,seriously, your voice is the best!

You don't know me, and that's ok.

Angels go to Heaven so I'll see you someday.

I'll wait around,like a stone, but your music never dies.

And when I need inspiration I'll throw on my headphones and look to the skies.

You don't know me, but I grew up with your music and am no longer a kid.

You don't know me, but I just realized thru it all, you were the only one who really did.

Okay, here’s the thing: About a year and a half ago, I slit my wrists from my thumb to halfway to my elbow. It wasn’t easy, first I drank myself to the point where I got the sack to buy a box cutter and a bottle of Tylenol PM from the Wal-Mart. Some of you may know that. For the rest of you, I guess maybe you were busy looking at pictures of cats on Facebook or something. Or maybe you had your own problems to deal with. Either way, I was kind of angry with you about it.

You know why? You know what I didn’t see? I didn’t see anyone posting suicide prevention hotline info. I didn’t see anyone ‘reaching out’, I didn’t see anyone ‘caring about other people.’ What I saw were unanswered phone calls. What I got was defriended on social media.

You know why I saw that? Because that’s the reality I engineered for myself. My suicide attempt was premeditated. It was a mix of feelings from self-loathing to delusions of grandeur. I didn’t like the world the way it was and I didn’t feel like I had to play by its rules. I hated my situation, I was angry at the hand that I had been dealt. I wanted to see what death was like. I wanted to know the point. So, away I went. This was not something that was anybody’s fault. It couldn’t have happened any other way, because I would not have allowed it.

I finished the books I was reading, drank away all of my money, quit my job, pissed off all of my friends and loved ones to the point where they wouldn’t speak to me anymore. I did this to prove to myself that the world wasn’t worth my time. “The ex doesn’t see my value, better take a box cutter to the old jugular.” (oh yeah, I also have scars on my neck and in the bends of my elbows.) In the end, I guess that it came down to simple laziness. I didn’t want to put an effort into anything. I wanted all the good shit with none of the work. So I looked for an easy action with a big payoff.

I'm not a cutter. I never wanted to do anything like this before. This was a one time deal. I got one shot at checking out early. I just figured that I was at a good stopping point, and I didn’t really want to deal with shit anymore. And I tried hard. I did not leave a note. This was not about them. It was about me. I wanted out. It was not a ‘cry for help’. The only thing that stopped my success was my own ineptitude (just another of my many failures!).

When I was finished, I was laying in a puddle of my own blood and vomit. My apartment was wrecked, there were blood stains all over the floor because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks and I couldn’t stand up without having a seizure due to blood loss/alcohol withdrawal/malnutrition. I had been crawling around. No one came to help me. I had driven them all away. So, sometimes I want to respond to ‘help prevention’ posts. Sometimes I want to say that there is nothing you can do to prevent suicide. There are only things you can do to exacerbate its possibility. If someone chooses to look at the world a certain way, you can only be part of the problem. Only a full attack of kindness and compassion will do, and nobody in this ‘me first’ society has the capacity to do that. I know that this seems negative, and believe me, I'm aware of the futility of trying to make commentary on the hypocrisy of social media by... posting on social media. But what is the alternative, do nothing? I can't do that either. I just know that anyone who tried to help me just got a bigger dose of crap, I just acted shittier until they went away. If someone is going to take their own life, it’s going to happen whether you try to call them or not. They just won’t pick up the phone. It's a hard road for all involved, and I know that there is no easy answer.

I just know that, for me, there was nothing that anyone could have done. I just had to figure it out for myself, and I'm lucky to still be here. Ultimately, I suppose, the only real solution is a devaluation of all the things that cause us misery and an elevation in the idea that happiness does not come from any external means. The placing of value on money or property or personal relationships is futile because all of these things are temporary and fallible. No amount of approval or money or success or praise can make a person feel worthy, we have to find it for ourselves and, unfortunately, sometimes people don't make it to that conclusion. I know I was desperately close to being one of the casualties of this problem, and I still don't know exactly how to communicate a solution to anyone else beyond 'If you keep trying, you'll figure it out. The only way you really lose is to give up.'

The bug guy at my apartment building saved my life. The bug guy, a guy I never met and who I will never see again, came into my apartment, saw me there, called the cops. That’s my story. That’s how I was saved. I didn’t save myself, and no one intervened on my behalf. None of the people that I wanted to hurt with my own death gave a shit. None of those relationships were reconciled by my bullshit. The people that I wanted approval from were the first to bail. Funny how life works, kind of seems like a big joke. I have not heard one word from some of these people, and the rest have faded into the past as well. When I reached that stopping place, I killed off my entire life, my entire way of thinking, everything that was dissatisfying, which was just about everything.

How did I survive? It was nothing short of something bigger. The bug guy, and everything afterward, was a fucking miracle. When they got me to the hospital, the boys who stitched me up marveled that I was going to retain the use of all of my fingers. One pointed to my open wound and exclaimed, “If you had cut that tendon, you’d have lost the use of your hand.”

It was another loss for the way that I looked at the world. I said, ‘here’s what I think of your ‘plan’’, and the universe proved to me that its plan was bigger than the flaws in the way that I was looking at it. It was bigger than my hate of the people around me, it was bigger than my disapproval of the nature of existence and my lack of faith in humanity. Of course, when I was ready to look, I saw kindness and compassion and beauty all around me. From the people who watched over me in the hospital, to my sponsor in the 12 step groups that would follow, to a random few who actually did show kindness without expectation, you know who you are and I can never thank you enough.

I know the pain of people who end themselves. If you are successful, I still kind of envy you. I miss Robin Williams, Sylvia Plath, Chris Cornell. I kind of wish that I was with them. I still struggle with the idea that it would be a lot better if I just wasn’t here anymore. I see that their own misery and the manner in which they succumb to it now makes a contribution to the discussion that is worthwhile. Their deaths bring attention to the value of human life, and how fragile the ego (even the celebrity ego) can be when recognizing that value.

I still think about people that would be better off not to have to deal with me, and I still don’t want to deal with them either. The thing that I’ve realized since I was forced to continue living: I don’t have to think like that. I’ve learned how clouded and delusional I was, and how this is a natural state for me. It is a challenge that I am presented with on a daily basis, maybe it’s just a little more extreme than others. I’ve seen a lot of people talk about their struggles with depression, and I think that everyone does struggle, to varying degrees. Who hasn't wondered what it would be like to die? Those of us who can’t get over these thoughts actually give dying a try. We test the fates to see if we are worth continuing. Most of us just question ourselves and never get to the point where we try to take control and check out. If we do, it is the ultimate form of selfishness and cowardice. I still think that I could just end it all, maybe this time I’d get lucky and not wake up. It’s always an option. The only cure for this thinking is a daily bargain that I have with the universe. I realize that, with the nature of my behavior and wounds, I should not be here. I don’t deserve this life (yes I do). I have to give it up to the universe for that. So, I owe something big time. I guess I’m obliged to pay up. I just figure, ‘hey, just tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. But if you fuck me, you know I ain’t afraid to take matters into my own hands.’ Every day that I give up my plan to the plan of the universe, the universe shows me that it’s got my back. It’s that simple.

Again, these are things that everyone deals with, to a certain degree. Think about the things in your life that you try to control. Your friends, your coworkers, your house, your bank account, the dishes, the afterlife, whatever. It comes from a desire to have a handle on things. We all do it. That’s why the first step in the 12 steps is admitting powerlessness. That’s why the Gods of religion all want your trust and loyalty. Part of being connected to this world is realizing that we aren’t in control. For me, it’s a relief. Because I’m pretty shitty at being in charge. I am afraid and I just want to quit. It’s the same fear that makes us try to clutch to some form of order in our lives. Just apply that same fear to the idea of your life, and you have the kind of fear that it takes to try and kill yourself. I just wanted to be in control. So much so that I felt that I should be able to decide when and how I died.

I used to think that I would never understand what would push someone to that point, then I got there. It can happen to you too. You’re not that far away from it.

So the next time that some celebrity ends themselves, just be thankful that you’ve never been there. Reach out to a friend that seems low, because you never know how low they might be. And if you’re there, just know that life has a way of giving us what we want, but there are always conditions. Mine is the knowledge that if today doesn’t suit me, I could always try again, but I’d just have to deal with all of this crap in some way anyway. So, I’m grateful for the life that I am given now. I try my best and, because the universe has my back, just like it has yours, I’m doing fine. I see even my challenges and troubles as gifts to help me get by. Because of my specific experiences, I'm not afraid of death. In fact, I have a lot less fear about a lot of things, and that makes life a little easier. I know that all life is worth the effort, all existence has a purpose. If you don’t see that, I feel you. I’ve been there too. If you want to chat about it, give me a shout and I can tell you what I know. I can tell you the specifics of how I got from there to here. I’ll tell you, you’re not going to like it. It’s hard, but it’s better. And my story is not exceptional. It’s the same as a lot of people. It’s not as bad as some I’ve heard. I’ve tried my best to leave it behind and to put it out there, just in case you need it. But, like I said, if you want (or need) to hear more of it, give me a shout. If not, take care. Again, I don’t blame anyone for the way that I felt, the things that I did, and I don't blame you for how you feel either. I also don’t credit anyone with my recovery. I know that if someone is not ready to move forward, no one can make them.

We’re all headed to the same place and, as someone who’s had a glimpse of it, I’ll tell you that it’s great. All we have to do is trudge the road of life to get there. And we have to do it whether we like it or not. So we might as well have a good time, okay? The more clearly we see reality, the happier we are. Let me say that again: The less we fool ourselves, the more we understand that everything is okay. If you don’t feel that way, you’re fooling yourself. If I don’t feel that way, I’m fooling myself. There are things in our way, stuff obstructing our view. If we can’t see the joke of life, we are the punchline. Don’t be the punchline. Get the joke, my friend, it’s much better. And let me tell you, the joke of life is hilarious. Now, even when I look back at how miserable I was, it seems kind of hilarious. You might find that kind of morbid… but that’s funny too.

I know that it’s kind of cliche to say that you never know what might happen. I know that’s a terrible argument for someone who is thinking about killing themselves. I guess that I just have to say that I’m the proof that it is true. Some of my scars will never fully heal, but everything I lost has been returned to me. Everything that was dissatisfying now works just fine. If I had died a year and a half ago, I never would have known this year, the best year of my life. And I’m not saying that to downplay the happiness that I’ve experienced before, but this is just different. Through experience, I’ve overcome what got me to the horrible bottom in the first place. It didn’t happen overnight. You’ll note that I’ve only been sober a year, and I started from a pretty awful place. But in that time, I’ve traveled the country, shed my dependence on the external for my sense of happiness and wonder, found love again, found an outlet for my art. I’ve found my self-confidence and my self-respect again, which came largely from my renewed confidence and respect for others, for the universe. It's a hard line to walk, and I know that I could fall off at any moment. So, now I just try to keep my own head clear, and that daily task turns into a daily adventure. Every day of my life is the best day of my life, without exception.

Once upon a time, Chris Cornell, you said those very words to me from the stage of War Memorial Auditorium. You wanted to make sure that I knew that you thought I was "ahead of the curve, the top of the class, [you're] #1!" You were giving me props for knowing your songs so well. You knew this from me squealing out "OH! MY! GOD! You are doing [insert a brilliant CC song here]!" as soon as I could tell which song you were introducing from your stories.

I really tried to not be obnoxious & screaming fangirl, but during the entire show, you kept a conversation going with me that I started after your first song when I yelled out "Please please please PLEASE play 'Sweet Euphoria' for me PLEASE CHRIIIIISSSSS COOOORNEEELLLLLL!" You looked up at me in the first row of the balcony directly to your left and told me it wasn't next but was coming up soon. When it did, you adjusted your stool to directly face me, called me out to dedicate it to me, and then you truly played that favorite just for me. I cannot ever express in words how much that meant to me. 

Unfortunately I couldn't record that moment, thanks to the venue's very strictly enforced no-camera policy, but I did figure out that I could covertly record audio. I had to get you singing another favorite, "When I'm Down," and I forgot to stop recording at its end, so I did get the amazing peptalk ("yes, you're right, ma'am, this is called 'Seasons.' You win! Wanna know what you win? [me: gah gah gah...] You win the knowledge that you're smart, you're on top of it. You're focused and you're paying attention. You're ahead of the curve, you're the top of the class, you're #1. AND YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS!") documented for safe keeping. That was such a special moment because you really knew what a dedicated and devoted fan I was. 

Your words of appreciation and respect that night reminded me of another night 12 years earlier when I got the chance to meet you after one of the Euphoria Morning shows I saw. I had no idea I would be meeting you - it happened so fast. One of the friends I was with knew someone important at the venue who got us into the meet and greet. While standing in line wishing I had my complete Soundgarden CD collection & your 1st solo masterpiece CD with me, I went over and over what to say to my rock superman hero. However, I was so nervous when I got in front of you that I completely froze (I think I may have even drooled!). I could barely tell you my name when you asked for the autograph, but I did get out (in high speed muttering): "I have loved you since 1989. I am a big fan, sir, Mr Chris, ummmmm." I was afraid you were going to laugh at me and call for security to swoop me away, but you didn't. You looked right into my twitching eyes, smiled, and said "Thank you so much for your support. It means so much to me to have long-time fans like you here for my first solo tour." And then I fainted...ha, no, but I don't remember much after that. I do have a hysterical picture of me in the parking lot holding your poster with a slightly crazed look of disbelief and joy. And I still have that autographed poster hanging in my living room.

I first saw you live in 1992, and in the 25 years since then, I have seen you perform a grand total of 16 times!! 5 Soundgarden concerts, twice with Audioslave, and 9 solo shows & you never ever disappointed me one bit. Those Songbook shows, especially the "you're #1" one were so spectacularly mind-blowing. I am so grateful for these memories you gave me, CC. Not only were you the very best metal singer of all time, but you were also a genuine troubadour. Your lyrics and music helped me (along with countless others) get through my own tough battles with depression. I so wish that I had been able to do for you what you did for me and have been able to tell you exactly what you meant to me and so many others, and then finish with "AND YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS!!"

Thank you CC for being a way cool human being with a genuinely beautiful soul. Thank you CC for sharing your priceless gift of music with the whole world. Thank you CC for making a big chunk of my life better with your songs. You wrote such a classic line about no one singing like you anymore. No one ever did. No one does now. No one ever will. I hope your spirit is soaring over us all so you can see how much you meant to so many people all over this planet. LOUD LOVE TO ALL!