Author: frankisemptiness

February 20th, 2024

“Dad. Hey Dad.”

Those words slipped into a dream I was having. I couldn’t match the words with the voice of anyone in the dream. Then I heard them again, a bit more insistent.

“Dad. Hey Dad!”

I suddenly became aware that the words were coming from outside of the dream. I woke up with a start and looked toward the open bedroom door.

There was a faint light in the hallway from the solatube in the ceiling. The silhouette of my youngest son was in the doorway. This caused some initial confusion in my mind.

Stefan immediately began to speak as I started to get up. He said,

“I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need the key to the Corolla. I got a job starting at 6:00, and I forgot to take my work stuff out of the back seat. If you give me the key, I’ll grab my shit and go.”

I had trouble understanding what was happening. I was trying to mesh the jagged remnants of a dream with pieces of a new reality, and it wasn’t going well. I vaguely remembered that Stefan had borrowed the Toyota for a few days while his truck was in the shop. I also remembered that he had brought it back to our house during the previous afternoon. I then remembered that Stefan had a house key, which explained why he was in my bedroom.

I stumbled to my feet and asked him,

“What time is it?”

“10:30.”

I had been sleeping for maybe two hours when he came to the house. Everyone else was still asleep. I preferred to keep it that way, as did Stefan.

I found my pants and pulled the car keys out of right pocket. I handed them to Stefan. I became aware that I needed to piss.

Stefan was very apologetic. He quickly told me,

“Thanks. I’ll get my tools and be on my way. I’ll leave the keys on the kitchen counter. Sorry about the night terrors.”

He walked away. I heard the front door open and close. I then realized that I was standing there holding my pants, and that I still needed to piss.

Eventually, I laid down again. I was no longer sleepy. I thought about what Stefan had said about night terrors. It’s true that I had been abruptly awakened, but that did not qualify as night terrors. Oh no, night terrors are a whole different animal. That much I know.

A few nights after that, my wife got me up. She was not nearly as gentle as Stefan.

“WAKE UP! You’re screaming in your sleep again! You’ll wake up Asher!”

I woke up. Karin was standing at the edge of the bed. She sounded annoyed.

She asked me, “Are you okay?”

I mumbled, “Yeah.”

She didn’t hear me. She asked again, “Are you okay?”

I said a bit more loudly, “Yeah.”

She stated, “You were dreaming again. You almost woke up Asher.”

Asher is our three-year-old grandson.

I replied faintly, “Okay”.

Karin left the bedroom.

I laid back on the pillow. I had just participated in night terrors again. It’s really hard to describe them, because I don’t remember much of the experience. Night terrors are like virtual reality gone bad. The dreams are absolutely terrifying and real while I am inside of them. Usually, all I can recall is that I was in a life-or-death struggle with some amorphous, dark force, something blacker than black and utterly evil.

As I laid in the bed after Karin left me, I felt totally drained. The bed cover was thrown all around me. My throat hurt from screaming. My heart was pounding way too fast. All my muscles were still tense. There was adrenaline pulsing through my body. I was wide awake.

My wife is wary when she tries to wake me up from night terrors. While in the dream, I flail about with my arms and legs, so she keeps a safe distance away. I am in the fight-or-flight mode, and in the past, she has been hurt trying to rouse me. I’ve seen the bruises. Her current technique is to yell at me until I come back from the Matrix. It works.

I am loud during night terrors. My daughter told me,

“When you dream, you scream things like: ‘I’ll fucking kill you, you cocksucker!’ It’s pretty intense.”

Indeed.

Night terrors leave a bitter aftertaste. Sometimes, my throat aches and my muscles hurt the next day. I feel like I have been in a street fight, and actually I have. My mind has been in a psychic battle royale, and my body went along for the ride.

I am scared after night terrors. It takes a long time to fall asleep again. I don’t want to go back to sleep, because the I don’t know if the demon is still lurking in my unconscious. I never have repeat performances during the same night, but I am still on edge.

I don’t know what causes my night terrors. I don’t think anyone knows. There are no warning signs. The episodes appear to be completely random, which increases the fear factor. They just happen, and they have been happening for years.

Stefan startled me during the night, but that wasn’t too scary. Night terrors are scary. Really scary.

February 24th

This is a letter to the editor from me to The Dallas Morning News. It was published this morning. It concerns Texas AG Paxton’s suit to shut down Annunciation House in El Paso. Annunciation House has been helping migrants for almost fifty years.

“I had the opportunity to spend several days at Annunciation House in El Paso back in 2019. I help with migrants in my home state of Wisconsin, and I wanted to learn about the situation on the border. I was deeply impressed with the work performed by the volunteers at Annunciation House. They were selfless and compassionate toward the people who came to them for assistance. I learned a great deal during my visit to the shelter. The volunteers live the Gospel.

I am shocked and appalled that Attorney General Ken Paxton wants to shut Annunciation House down. That is both cruel and unnecessary. His actions will cause enormous suffering among people who just want to be part of our great country.”

February 20th, 2024

We arrived in the lobby outside of the courtroom half an hour early. We were there for the woman’s third court appearance. The young woman expected to meet up with her newly appointed lawyer from the public defender’s office before the hearing started. She had not yet met the lawyer, and they had business to discuss. We waited and waited. Finally, the woman looked at the time on her phone and asked me,

“Should we just go in?”

I nodded.

We walked into the courtroom and the young woman checked in with the bailiff. We waited for the public defender to come. She didn’t. No reason was given for the lawyer’s absence. The court commissioner called the woman’s name. She came forward. The commissioner set up a preliminary hearing for March 4th. The woman never had the chance to enter a plea. Nothing changed. Nothing was resolved. Basically, she was told to come back in three weeks and try again.

The whole process took less than half an hour. As we exited the courtroom, I said,

“We didn’t get anything done in there.”

She replied by saying, “Well, at least I wasn’t sitting in jail waiting for it.”

True.

The young woman is not in custody. She is out on a signature bond, at least for another three weeks. She was in custody for a week back in December. That was unpleasant. Some people sit in jail until they get to see a judge, and that can take weeks or even months. The young woman had been with other women while in jail. She told me that they were there mostly because “they hit somebody”. I found that to be interesting, considering that this woman is also accused of a violent crime. Why is she free and other women are not?

I don’t know the answer to that. There seems to be a certain amount of randomness in our judicial system. It might be that other women were repeat offenders or flight risks. It might also have to do with the fact that some people cannot come up with the bail money. That means that these folks are incarcerated prior to their hearing just because they are poor.

Even though the young woman is on the outside of a jail cell, it does not mean that things are all good. At some point in the future, the hammer will fall. We just don’t know when or how. It’s not like when we walk into a courtroom for the fourth time, the attorney for the State of Wisconsin will just shrug and say,

“You know, we thought about it, and we are just going to drop the battery charge. Go on home. Have a nice day. ”

No, that’s not going to happen. In some as yet unknown way, the woman’s life will be turned upside down. This slow and arduous process is subtle form of torture. She cannot make any plans for the future. Neither can the other people in her life. Everything is tentative, and that causes enormous anxiety. She has this doom hanging over her head, even though she not incarcerated. She is free, but not really. This is American justice at work.

The young woman has a little boy in her life. Her son adores her. If she goes to prison, she will be temporarily absent and that will hurt the lad. Even when she was only in jail for a week, her boy asked me,

“Where is mama? When is she coming home? Why isn’t she here?”

I had no answer that would have made sense to him. I had no answer that even makes sense to me.

I have often heard the statement, “Play stupid games. Get stupid prizes.” That’s true. If someone commits a crime, they should be punished. The problem is that there is always collateral damage. Innocent people suffer along with the offender. If this young woman does time, her son will be traumatized. That is guaranteed. He did nothing wrong, but he will be hurt.

I don’t know what the final verdict will be. I don’t know what is in the future of this young woman. All I know is whatever happens will affect both me and a three-year-old boy.

February 17th, 2024

“A story is told of him (Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Bereditchev) that once, right before the Kol Nidre service, the opening service of the Day of Atonement, he stood before the ark as the sun was about to set. For a long time, he stood silent, still, as the evening approached. Noticing that the time to begin prayer was upon them, his students and disciples became uncomfortable worrying that the Rabbi might begin too late. At the last possible moment, he spoke.

‘Dear God’, he said, ‘we come before You this year, as we do every year, to ask Your forgiveness. But in this past year, I have caused no death. I have brought no plagues upon the world, no earthquakes, no floods. I have made no women widows, no children orphans. God, You have done these things, not me! Perhaps you should be asking forgiveness from me.’

The great Rabbi paused, and continue in a softer voice. ‘But since You are God, and I am only Levi Yitzhak, Yisgadal v’yiskadah sh’mei rabah’, and he began the service.”

from The Healer of Shattered Hearts by David J. Wolpe

Ash Wednesday is the Catholic version of the Day of Atonement. It is a day for fasting and prayer. It is a time for repentance, a turning back to God (t’shuva in Hebrew). The constant refrain on Ash Wednesday is “From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.” – Genesis 3:19. The day is set aside for self-reflection and for understanding of a person’s place in the scheme of things.

My wife, Karin, wanted to go to the Ash Wednesday service in the evening. Just a couple hours prior to the Mass, a person who we love had a drug relapse in our house. Every relapse comes as a shock to me, but somehow it is also a trip down memory lane. The episode activates the PTSD inside of me and unleashes a torrent of raw emotion. It’s a mix of panic, frustration, and sorrow. All plans are abandoned, and the priority is figuring out how to deal with an individual who is not thinking straight.

Karin and I decided to take our little grandson, Asher, and go to the Mass together, leaving the impaired person at home to sleep it off. I had the gnawing fear that we would return to find a squad car and/or an ambulance in front of the house. That is a legitimate concern. The cops have been to our home enough times that they have our address listed in favorites.

Asher was wound up tight when we got to church. Apparently, he was absorbing all of the Sith energy I was radiating. He would not sit still, not even for a moment. I spent most of the service following him around as he toured the church. It generally does not bother me that he is mobile during Mass. Years ago, I would have felt embarrassed. Not anymore. Karin and I have gone to number of Latino and Native American liturgies, and it normal for kids to run wild during those services. The people in our congregation have never complained about Asher’s activities. They are just happy to see a child in their midst.

It was hard for me to pray during the service. I wasn’t feeling very remorseful. I was more upset with God than anything else. If I did pray, it was like,

“Hey, you know, I’m trying to do the right thing, and You keep fucking me…”

I’m pretty sure saying that is not appropriate on Ash Wednesday, but it did come from the heart.

At one point, Asher and I were in the back of the church next to the holy water font. Asher was dipping his arm into the water up to his elbow. Other people were in line to get ashes placed on their foreheads. After everyone else had been smudged, the lady who was applying the ashes walked all the way from the altar to where we were and gave me a small black cross on my head. She said,

“From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.”

The approved answer is “Amen.”

All I could think of was, “Yeah, I know.”

I thought a lot about Rabbi Levi Yitzak. I understand how he felt.

May God have mercy on us all.

February 15th, 2024

This letter from me was published today in the Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin.

“Several years ago, I traveled to six Native American reservations in the Puget Sound area. I had the opportunity to meet with some of the tribal elders. I asked them what it is that makes an older person an “elder.”

They explained to me that age is a factor in qualifying to be an elder, but wisdom is also necessary. Age and wisdom are not synonymous. Part of this required wisdom is the ability to place the needs of the community before personal gain.

I think about what the tribal leaders told me when I read about the presidential competition between Joe Biden and Donald Trump. As far as I can see, both men are driven by raw ambition. They attempt to cling to power despite the fact that younger and more capable individuals can take leadership.

Biden and Trump are not primarily concerned about the needs of our country. They are not elders. They are old, but not wise.”

February 12th, 2024

Our little grandson, Asher, is asleep. He is lying in the bed, breathing loudly because he has a head cold. I just gave him a warm bottle of oat milk a little while ago. He woke up thirsty, and after drinking the bottle, he got tired and dozed off again.

Asher has more than a cold. He probably has pink eye. Yesterday his eyes were slightly swollen and reddish. The right eye had a small amount of yellowish discharge. He seemed to have no pain or discomfort. My wife and I decided to wait until this morning to get him in to see his pediatrician, rather than drag him to urgent care or an emergency room.

Yet, I feel anxious. We are his fulltime caregivers, and we worry about the boy like he was our own son. I feel sure that we won’t have a problem getting to see his doctor, and the pediatrician will probably prescribe some kind of antibiotic to clear up the eye trouble. It’s just that we care about the little guy, and we don’t like to see him sick. I will feel much better when we know what is wrong with him, and how we can fix it.

I also feel exceedingly fortunate. I can take Asher to his doctor’s office, which is fifteen minutes way from our house, and quickly get him treatment. Other people in other parts of the world can’t do that. Parents in Gaza have no chance of getting medical care for their kids. They can only comfort their children on their own and hope for the best. The fact that I have help readily available for Asher and families in Gaza do not seems fundamentally unjust. Why are we the lucky ones?

I need to check on Asher.

February 1st, 2024

“In 2023, over five million people are under supervision by the (U.S.) criminal justice system, with nearly two million people incarcerated in state or federal prisons and local jails. The United States has the largest known prison population in the world.” – Wikipedia

Last week, I took my grandson, Asher, to a local library to hang out. Libraries are good places to do that. The children’s section often has games and toys in addition to hundreds of books for kids to read. Asher is only three years old, so he can’t read yet, but he enjoys looking at picture books.

While we were there, he started playing with a little blonde girl who was only a month or so younger than him. The girl was grumpy. Her mother, a young woman sporting an oversized knit cap, tried to convince her daughter that she should share her toys with Asher. The child was having none of it. Asher didn’t care. He played with her anyway.

As the toddlers interacted, I struck up a conversation with the young mom. Generally, I don’t have much to discuss with new parents. They belong to a different generation, and it is hard for me to find common ground with them. Except for the fact that we were both raising little ones, I didn’t know what else to talk about. Somehow, I mentioned to the woman that I knew somebody who had done prison time. Surprisingly, she volunteered the fact that she had been in prison too. After that, we had plenty to talk about.

The young woman looked just like all the other mothers herding their children in the library. There was absolutely nothing unusual in her appearance. There was nothing strange in how she related with her little girl. If she had not told me about her past, I would have never guessed that she had been incarcerated. Maybe, years ago, I would have been astonished by her confession, but I am used to this sort of thing now.

I had a similar experience a few weeks ago. I was at lunch with three former coworkers. We are all retired, and we are just typical old white guys, living in the suburbs and trying to make sense of our lives. While we ate burgers and drank beer, the subject of jails and prisons came up. All but one of us knew somebody, a close friend or a relative, who was doing time or had done time in the past. We had a very interesting, albeit depressing conversation.

Based on statistics, it really is not that odd that so many people in our country know someone who has been incarcerated. Actually, it is just as likely that a person knows an ex-prisoner as it is that they would know somebody who has been in the military. Millions of Americans have spent time behind bars. Some segments of the U.S. population, based on race and socio-economic status, are more heavily represented in this enormous group, but nobody is excluded. Hell, I was in jail, and I am generally rather law-abiding.

Being a felon does not quite carry the stigma that it used to have. That is because we have created so many of them. Especially in today’s tight job market, employers don’t give arrests or jail time that much weight anymore. I know somebody with four drunk driving convictions. They applied for a job and had an interview. The only question the interviewer had for this person was, “So, do you have a way to get to work every day?” Likewise, drug possession convictions are pretty standard in our day and age. Those black marks hardly raise an eyebrow in some industries.

Why does the United States have so many of its citizens in jails or prisons? I think that there are several factors involved. First, the prison industry is exactly that; it is an industry, a profitmaking operation. Prison cells are like hotel rooms; they only make money for somebody when they are full. Even when prisons are run by the government, there are numerous private vendors making vast sums by providing goods and services to inmates at premium prices. Prisons are often located in isolated rural locations where jobs are scarce. Prisons bring money to struggling local economies.

Second, there is a political fetish in our country about getting “tough on crime”. I have heard that from politicians since I was a teenager. Yet, after all these years, I don’t feel any safer. We lock up more people, but there is still violence. I will grant you that there are individuals who are dangerous and need to be kept away from the public at large. However, many people in prison are there for nonviolent crimes, and many of them are there because they are mentally ill. I know from experience that incarceration has nothing to do with rehabilitation. Prisons are just warehouses for humans who have run afoul of our nation’s laws. It is rare that a prisoner reenters the outside world as a better person.

So, what should we do? Well, locking people up doesn’t seem to help. We have to look at how we can reintegrate ex-prisoners back into society. Restorative justice may be useful. The idea of the felon making some kind of amends to the people they hurt could be healing for everyone involved. The point is that unless we want these ex-prisoners to commit more crimes and once again occupy a cell, we need to make them into useful members of their communities. It can be done. I have seen it happen. We just have to want it.

February 5th, 2024

The following letter from me (or an edited version thereof) was published in yesterday’s edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

“Over the years, I have participated in numerous public protests. In fact, I was arrested at an anti-war demonstration back in 2017 for civil disobedience. I don’t go to these events anymore partly because I don’t see them as being particularly useful. Yes, a massive demonstration can be impressive and inspiring, but its effects are usually ephemeral. I suspect this will be the case with the current pro-Palestinian rallies.  

We live in the United States of ADHD. A raucous protest might be reported by the media and catch the eye of the public, but Americans are easily distracted by the next shiny object that comes along. A demonstration is a wakeup call, a chance to alert people that a problem exists. That is all it can do. 

In order to change minds and hearts about an issue, it is necessary for dialogue. Those who are promoting a cause need to talk with other people, not just at them. That requires time, hard work, and patience. It is so much easier to just scream slogans on the street. “

February 2nd, 2024

When I was a cadet at West Point, ages ago, I was required to take a semester-long class on ThermoFluid Dynamics. I don’t why I needed to take this course, and it doesn’t much matter anymore. In any case, I studied hard, passed my exams, and promptly forgot nearly everything I had been taught. In my fuzzy memories of the course, I seem to recall that there were mathematical ways to predict the motion of a fluid, whether it be a liquid or a gas. I distinctly remember is that, if the fluid became turbulent, then all bets were off. Turbulence precludes the possibility of knowing what a fluid would do. At that point, the answer to the equation becomes a big question mark.

A few years later, when I was at flight school and learning the basic physics involved with aviation, the subject of turbulence came up again. This time I paid a bit more attention because turbulence has a direct impact on how well a helicopter can fly. For an airfoil, be it the wing of an airplane or the rotor blade on a helicopter, to produce lift, it requires a smooth flow of air underneath it. Turbulent air does not produce lift, which means the aircraft cannot stay aloft. This is a big deal to an aviator.

Years later, I read “Chaos”, a book by James Gleick. I should say that I attempted to read it, because a lot of the mathematics in the book was over my head. The book was about chaotic systems, of which turbulence is one. Chaotic systems like the weather or road traffic have hidden patterns, feedback loops, and are incredibly complex. These systems are sometimes stable, and then suddenly they’re not.

The weather is an example of a system that can change at a moment’s notice. On the other hand, the Great Red Spot on the planet Jupiter is an example of a chaotic system that has lasted at least since 1831. The atmosphere of Jupiter is in constant turmoil, yet this massive high-pressure system has persisted for almost two centuries. The point is that, even in the most chaotic environments, an island of stability can exist.

I tend to think that the human brain is a chaotic system. There is probably nothing in the universe that is more complex. Even when the organ functions properly, there are moments of unpredictability. Now, what happens if you take the brain and put it on drugs? It won’t look like an egg frying in a pan, but it will be definitely chaotic.

I have a friend who worked as a bouncer in his youth. We talked about drunks. His comment was, “You can’t reason with these people!”

Indeed.

Having dealt with drunks, and having been one, I can attest to the fact that somebody who is drunk or high is highly unpredictable. I know from experience that you cannot tell what will happen next with that person. The individual is chaos incarnate.

So, what do you do with somebody who is using? How do you keep the person from injuring themselves or someone else?

You can’t fight chaos with chaos. Somebody needs to stay calm and rational. That is difficult to do, especially if the person using is acting out of control. Sometimes, and I’ve done it, you have to call the cops. Sometimes, you get lucky, and you guess the hidden pattern underneath the chaos.

I got lucky a couple days ago. Somebody who I know well was drunk. The person really needed to go someplace and sleep it off, and that place was not at the individual’s current location. I had a few times in the past taken this person to a motel to stay overnight.

After quietly explaining that they really needed to settle down, I asked them, “So, what do you want to do?”

The person pondered for a moment and sighed. They replied,

“Go to a motel, I guess.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

“Yeah.”

I found the Great Red Spot.

January 27th, 2024

Room 146 is the Preliminary Courtroom for Milwaukee County. Compared to the pre-preliminary courtroom I saw a couple weeks ago; it didn’t look that bad. I mentioned my observation to the young woman whom I was accompanying to her court appearance today. She looked around, and then told me,

“Yeah, but this courtroom is inside the county jail building.”

That’s disconcerting idea, especially when the county jail might very well be the next stop for a person after their court appearance. I keep forgetting that this young woman is on a signature bond and is currently “out of custody”. It would not take much for her to transition to “in custody”, and she knows it. A few weeks ago, she fell into that latter category, and it was not a pleasant experience.

There was a couple dozen people waiting to enter the courtroom. Almost all of them were Black. There were only three white defendants. Most of the other white persons in attendance were lawyers, mostly public defenders. The court commissioner and most of the folks working in the courtroom were Black. Half of the police there were Black. The young woman and I were part of a small white minority.

Today was the woman’s second court date. She is charged with “battery on a police officer”, which is a felony, and it tends to get people’s attention. She is staring at possible prison time, and that makes each appearance a time of anxiety and stress. Nobody tells her what will happen during her court appearance, and perhaps nobody actually knows. The original plan was for her to make a plea today, but that didn’t happen. The public defender’s office had not assigned her a lawyer, so her hearing was adjourned for cause. Until she gets counsel, she won’t enter a plea. Until she enters a plea, her case cannot move forward.

The uncertainty is overwhelming, both for the young woman and for anyone else who cares about her future. She can’t make any long-term plans, and neither can I. She has a very young son, and he needs her. My wife and I care for this boy fulltime, so we also have skin in the game.

We kind of figured that nothing would get resolved at this preliminary hearing, but we didn’t know that. From our experience with the criminal justice system, damn near anything can happen, and it often does. There was a question in my mind about whether the young woman would be coming back with me or if I would be alone in the car on the ride home.

In a sense, the young woman dodged a bullet this afternoon. She is still free to spend time with her son. She can still go to her treatment sessions. Within certain limits, she can do whatever she wants. I bought Chinese takeout food after we got home. We sat around the table and ate. We laughed and joked. The young woman and her son had fun together. It was like we had collectively exhaled a sigh of relief. We can live relatively normal lives for a while.

She won’t see the inside of that courtroom for another three weeks, and then the legal process resumes. In the days before her next court appearance, the anxiety and tension will build in the house. It will reach a fever pitch on her court date. I will take her to that room again, and once again she will roll the dice. She got away this time, but the next visit may end very differently. In the end, whenever that is, some version of justice will prevail, and she will face the consequences of her actions.

She won’t dodge the bullet forever.