Night Falls Fast | Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison

Night Falls Fast is tragically timely: suicide has become one of the most common killers of Americans between the ages of fifteen and forty-five.

An internationally acknowledged authority on depressive illnesses, Dr. Jamison has also known suicide firsthand: after years of struggling with manic-depression, she tried at age twenty-eight to kill herself. Weaving together a historical and scientific exploration of the subject with personal essays on individual suicides, she brings not only her remarkable compassion and literary skill but also all of her knowledge and research to bear on this devastating problem. This is a book that helps us to understand the suicidal mind, to recognize and come to the aid of those at risk, and to comprehend the profound effects on those left behind. It is critical reading for parents, educators, and anyone wanting to understand this tragic epidemic.”

[, 3.11.19]

Suicidology. Death. Dying. The journey. Stephen Jenkinson in “Die…” (2018) infers that to make peace with one’s death, you must be friends with the journey. To die a good death, at least

Tryptich, acrylic on heavy canvas 3 panels of 16x21x2 (2019)

I’m also reading a rather Catholic funeral miselette that I must have kept since either my mother’s death or my sister’s death from the Partners – Sorensen Mortuary & Crematory, California.



tryptich 2019 | the language of dying

I work 1 of the red eye shifts where incoming crisis calls steeped in a Suicide and Homicide demographic fills my professional and peer talk late at night into the daylight hours of morning. Afterwards I train home and look at the larger 8 x 5′ frame that needs to be canvassed for the actual tryptich 2019 of 3 images i’m obsessing on that are largely green, purples, blues, black, white, gray, ochre (yellows) and there isn’t much green in any of them.

The three started easily. Death, dying, hopelessness, for danger of the soul’s entering the dark of night, or maybe for the hopefulness of light and no matter how poorly or bright it glows, throws off the eye focus and blindingly, still. I don’t let myself put filters across my eyes (ray bans) because I need to see the base colors in truthful brilliance.

The Tryptich 2019 3 are:

1.) The Language of Pain 16 x 21 x 2″ Acrylic on heavy canvas (2019)

language of pain

2.) The Language of Love 16 x 21 x 2″ acrylic on heavy canvas (2019)

language of love

3.) The Language of Blue 16 x 21 x 2″ acrylic on heavy canvas (2019)

language of blue

What I like about them is that they are tower influenced and I am fascinated with scratching or texturizing out multiple windows that offer color behind each frame interestingly enough and inherently adds shape to the CU of the tower structure. Language of Pain is the 1st of the 3 in the tryptich, followed by Language of Love and lastly the Language of Blue (ala Miles Davis Blue In Green) although there is not much green in it.

My work as a Peer in Suicide (SI) and Homicide (HI) is deeply effected with being a sounding board for the bodies of voice who call in to the center in crisis driven by losses and the lack of hope can be heard resoundingly in dull, quiet. It is growth for me to listen to it. As a “fixer” I can’t fix this.

Still listening to a lot of mixes around standards, listening to WBGO New York, KCSM San Mateo, the new Clark Atlanta Jazz station on 91.9 FM Atlanta, bossa, samba, brazilian, NIN, Bach’s quieter cello studies, Puccini, Leonard Bernstein and the Spike Lee film soundtracks actually. I’m not averse to listening to or mixing new compilation of favorite melodic renditions.

Filmically, I’ve had on classic film from the 30s-after WW2 and they are lullabies to me.

Looking at a lot of architecture, furniture, fashion and foods. I have the latest ARTFORUM and W on my work desk in my studio.

It rains most days now and I sleep haphazardly 3, 4, 5 maybe a 30 minutes here and there. Sleep in long amounts rests the body and takes the back aching away and I’m surprised at my physical resilience, still.

Coffee. Tobacco.

I’m irritated by duplicity of any kind today and it drives who and what I spend my time around.

I will accept nothing less than full on-court offense and defense.


Lacking Empathy |Parading as my shoes fill with water

jen padron cropped-jen-kitchen1.jpg cropped-jen-kitchen1.jpg

Black ice. Possible, not probable.

I am on a Christmas laden 2 week sabbatical going into the New Year, not of my own will nor desire nor wanting but I’ll do this.

I will, in fact, be a fool to not take advantage of this 2 week Sabbatical to pursue altruistic “hobbies” or even to take a long excursion to the glaciers in Norway and ice climb with ice pick and ax to climb out of this hole I am in. See the skies glisten and in blues, greens, whites and watch the lazy and hazy star shower.

“I think your national reputation is Smoke and Mirrors,” I was told coldly and matter of factly.

I wonder how can you be such a idiot?

For me at least, while in Kansas City, I wept outside of the University’s building and conference room that was emptied, realizing it was a harbinger to inept social and community response.

Many words were spoken. There was strange disregard of social custom and cruelty pervades with an utter lack of remorse.

These two weeks will be spent carefully and in discernment.

Spirit led examination of the facts and to foretell my own prayer done intentionally to hold peace.

I see my father this Christmas and so it opens up the idea of Family and what happened to mine?


I choose kindness, altruism, mutual respect of the Other and it is the Right thing to do.

My 2019 Remedy:  Live madly.





On finding a live bullet where I walk and live and breathe in East Point, this is my Accidental Death Eulogy (Atlanta)

jen padron

Entrepreneurs from The Yale Collaborative on Social Entrepreneurship encourage me to craft my Obituary.

Know yourself.

Bely the everyday.

How far have you come?

Memorialize where you come from hence.


I will leave you then, a discernable gift.

Death hearkens only the dying in glory and quietness shocks only the person whose breath is taken in deep.


Your morphine and your needles hanging from my forearm kills me not.

Your guns kill me not.

I have known the thrill of Her at least. My arm and my body shake from the electricity coursing through me touching live wire.

She is incomparable and I die for her. Walking the desert step by step, heat dizzying, relentless.

Till the last breath. On bended knee.

Oh yea, mine eyes have seen the glory.

Yes, yes, she said.

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I wonder at the bravery of people in North Carolina who are standing down and not leaving in their voluntary evacuation. 1.5 million people? How the hell? What the hell?

Are we planning on building ocean deep brakers to cut incoming water surges? Imagine the number of lives saved. Property saved.

They’re saying power will be lost for “weeks” and the Mayor of the small town being hit the hardest has an attitude of “get out now and don’t blame me if you…”  I’ve friends on both poles who say, “yeah, right, go dude!” and then Quakerlike peeps who cringe at the assumption of bad will.

Hurricane Florence.

I had originally set out to write a brilliantly woven story or blog about the storm, set in particular people’s lives and how it manifests into multivarious outcomes and climaxes and sad points, if any at all, but here I sit with a fever from the Flu.

And yet, even so, I wonder now about my mortality. Am I dying? At this age. My age.

I have had a good life but a short one. A mere half century and some change. I have yet to walk Machu Picchu and the Great Wall (my mother’s unmet goal), and I’d like to see either the South or North Pole. Leningrad, Moscow, Poland. Train in during winter. See it like Jack Reed and Louise Bryant did before Lenin in ’17.

I want to revisit Bourdeaux where my parents and Florence (my sister) was born in 1960. Visit Alcocer with the thick white walls and cold interior lit by only the wood burning firepits they cook on there. See Toledo and have picnics in the foothills with the cactus and the pine trees and it smells like cedar. Wake up only with light beside Beloved and walk fifty feet for hot crispy oily sweet churro’s to dip and eat with cafe con leche.

I have yet to scale up the webbed care network and health home that is replicable.

I’m too young to die yet. My woman to love. My woman to love me.

Were my sister Florence actually sitting here with me she would be languid and assured, smiling as she cradles a cup of coffee and I would be touched.