Rainy Day Ramblings and "Treasure Island" by Keith Althaus

So I don't usually run very dark themes on my blog regarding Bobby's life.  I suppose that's because, the darkness is something we all know about -- it seems to have defined his memory these fifty years since his death.  I prefer to focus on the light I catch peeping through the cracks every so often, the light that was Bobby's true spirit underneath the layers of pain and addiction.

However, we cannot ignore that the darkness did exist.  It was part of what molded him, what sculpted his mind and heart, and if we say we love and appreciate who Bobby was as a person, that does include an understanding of his world -- darkness included.

Therefore, when I ran across this poem, I decided I wanted to paste a portion of it here due to give us a glimpse into what life was like for Bobby during his addiction.  I have no way of knowing, actually, if the guy who wrote this actually did sit across from Bobby at a table at a drug dealer's pad or whether he just imagined all of this from hearsay.  I tried to contact him, but can find virtually no trace of him on the internet.

But, whether this particular poet did run into Bobby or not, the scene he depicts in his words is a scene we can know we would have seen, had we followed Bobby into his places of bondage.

This poem, published in a book of poetry by Keith Althaus called Ladder of Hours: Poems 1969-2005.

Treasure Island: For My Son

Beside me

on the couch,

finally quiet

after running all day; 

his knees stick out

like a pair of bruised peaches.

The room is bright,

a box of light

floating in darkness.

Windows on three sides open

so it's almost out-of-doors.

The noise of the swamp

drifts in: peepers,

and unknown wings

flapping, shaking loose,

bugs bouncing off screens,

the corners murmuring.

Although he can read now,

he'd rather listen,

like getting a ride

and watching the trudging 

miles go by.  

What does he see

as I read the description

of the bluff above the cove

where the pirate ship

lay anchored?  

A hill nearby 

where Truro

curves around the bay?

And he's Jack Hawkins, I'm sure,

but who's the Squire, the Doctor,

and Long John Silver?

Citronella circulates 

its smell from childhood,

now mimicking hashish,

and the lighthouse

from a mile off

casts its weak strobe

over land, together conjuring

another treasure hunt 

begun before you've got

an idea what you're 

looking for, only

what it is not.

Behind the laced sugar water

taste of the metal of the spoon,

like blood, and hear again

the heroic music turning tinny,

as everything slows

like a film caught until

it burns in front of

the projector's naked bulb,

a light behind the eyes

that won't go out.

That time is kept alive

like a match cupped

against the wind, a candle

in a skull, flickering tonight

in uneven breaths,

as sleep,

the dark sub-text,

the undertow

in the story-teller's voice

pulls him under, and carries

him off to an island 

overgrown with the vegetation 

of dreams and peopled 

by composites 

from the day's dismemberment

by clock hands.

Then, subtly altered, its mass

magnetized, his head

is charged with dreams,

and leaning next to mine

generates their waking 

counterpart: wishes,

but all in the negative:

may he avoid this, 

be spared that,

not have to go through 

something else... the list 

cuts out a silhouette, faceless,

blind with bliss,

while I revisit another night,

an afternoon stretched into evening

in a dealer's pad on Eleventh Street,

across the table from Bobby Driscoll,

who, someone told me later, 

"played the kid in Treasure Island."

Even the small town paper I was reading a few years later

carried the wire service obituary,

an overdose:

a clear proof of something

still unclear.

That night

when his connection came

he broke off talking 

and tied his ascot 

around his arm

and hunted for a vein,

then leaned back, eyes filled

with appreciation, overwhelmed

as soundless applause

spanned the living pain

separating the same person

years apart.

The dark is lined with fur,

fins, and feathers

rustling and fluttering,

their sudden silence

a trip wire across the lawn

leading to the swamp

where the tireless lighthouse

flashes its ambiguous message:

equal parts safety and danger, 

and its strobe shows

the night at work:

its jumping eyes, and vines 

of climbable shadows,

and interlocking circles

like magician's rings

spreading across the water

as rain brings music,

changing tempos, slowing, adding

a thousand strings

in all directions: so many

leaves struck, grasses bent,

and branches glazed.

He stirs at its cold scent; 

a shiver runs through him,

then me.  It's late.

I mark our place.

*****************

From what I can gather, this is more or less about a dad who shared the Treasure Island book-reading experience with a beloved son, and as his son fades into sleep, he finds himself thinking of all the things that could be for the little "Jim Hawkins" lying next to him.  In his semi dream-state, he then visits another time when he saw another Jim Hawkins making far different decisions than he would ever have his son make.

How sad would it have made Bobby -- bright-eyed Bobby with the adventurous and kind spirit, who was said to have loved children -- to see that he had turned into the kind of person parents were afraid of their kids following the example of?

For Althaus, the magic of childhood truly could turn to dust, and had before his very eyes.  Of course, as mentioned before, this could have been a scene he wrote out of assumption, not based on an actual experience he'd had with Bobby.

Addiction.  It's a terrible beast of a thing, and my heart hurts to think of the shame Bobby must have carried around, particularly in a world when so few people understood or had much patience with it whatsoever.  It is my feeling that -- as it so often is even today -- the biggest hook addiction had in Bobby was held by the company he kept.  It sounds as though he began a relationship with narcotics out of a desperation to fit in in high school with a brand of people who would accept him... and from there, the madness spiraled outward.  It's difficult to understand exactly what the Beatnik influence was on Bobby's drug use, as most Beatniks were known to be drug users, yet in Semina Culture it was stated that Wallace Berman wouldn't let Bobby come around him when he'd been using drugs.  This feels like a mixed message... but I know far too little about Beat Culture to know how much responsibility to place there.

We know Suzanne Carrier/Stansbury was a drug user, which served as a major bonding agent in Bobby's relationship with her.  Sharon Morrill was likewise a major addict and a criminal to boot.  The fact that Bobby filled his need for love with these women he also used drugs and committed felonies with didn't supply him much motivation to get clean, either.

Regardless of the reasons, Bobby made his choice.  But I can't help but feel he would be relieved to see how far addiction science has come since his own years of struggle.  I've thought about that alot lately as this month, September, is National Recovery Month.

I'm sad he wasn't around to see the progress.