I have not written here in a week. Oh, I've written. I am almost always writing, even when I have writer's speedhump, I am writing something or other. Indeed, last week I wrote a ‘started out 2500 ended up being 4200 word' story, a few partial poems, some short essays and sundry others. In fact tonight, home from class, I did a first draft of an assignment due in three weeks.
After doing some other research, studying and contemplating my future as if it were a navel orange, I intent to watch the moon. My future as seen in an orange. The oracle of Delphi was much more polite and not as lint filled, but an orange is handier. An orange, the lovely, soon to be eclipsed moon, both ridgy spheres. There are tiny depressions, craters in the surface. These craters give you a better grip when you want to hold onto this sphere.
It is the same when you love someone. The imperfections, those tiny ridges, are what you hold close. The imperfections make us each unique. The way we each want to be respected, desired, given credence, loved is what makes us special. And our flaws, so many flaws? To be loved as much despite yourself as because of yourself is what each person wants. We each know our faults, and they are so much larger in our own mind than anywhere else.
Nobody can flagellate us as well as we do, no one. But the beloved will take the whip from my hands, set it aside. Accept the flaws and treasure them as much as the perfections, pressing fingers into those tiny depressions to keep me from drifting away on breath of wind. Fingers are not chains holding me down. They hold me close, tight, but not down. I can feel the wind but not be blown off course by it. The imperfections catch the wind, too, but are not conquered by it. Wind is just wind.
Full moon tonight. I look up and its beauty takes my breath away. If it were perfect, a smooth glass orb, it would not be as lovely. I can stare for hours at this moon, the shadows, ridges, its cycle of new to full and back again. Never the same, but still the same. Loved for being itself. What else can it be except itself? What else can I be except me?
Monday, August 27, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Does this End Justify the Mean, Median or Mode?
I pass it at least four times a day. An ordinary intersection. Before. It's been a week now. The memorial on the median is no longer shocking in its newness, no longer attracts stares from every passing vehicle. It has become just another place marker on the roads.
One week tonight.
One week.
I passed there a few hours ago. It was still daylight, much safer for driving than twilight or full dark. Does not matter. There, it is full dark. A gathering to mark the anniversary night. Vehicles formed a protective wagon train around it. Adults and teens, holding their obols, flowers, stuffies, stood there or knelt on the damp ground. How appropriate that the ground be damp. If it was not so before, they would make so now. They freshen the markers and add new ones. It is a public mourning, a warning. The grave sites are private and warn only Ophelia, who wanders the cemetery wearing a flower wreath. She will have no wedding, nor will they.
I am selfish, relieved, grateful. It is not my child there. I am spared this grief. For tonight. My daughter drives past here, too. She knew them. They all seem to know each other here. It is a small, small world. The three teenagers killed in a high-speed spinout went to school with her or her friends. I count my blessings tonight and cross my fingers. She's not home yet and her cellphone goes to voicemail. I try not to stare at the clock.
What a waste. Young promise. Still in diapers, I mean high school. I think of my own recent brush. If I'd turned over, as they did, I'd be dead. But I have lived, done things, will leave a memory or two beyond myself and my immediate world. Their memorial is a warning and will be gone in a few months. The next group of children will speed past it, too happy to notice the slickness of the road, the shredded pink silk cross, the grass grown over the skidmarks. Who will remember them except for their own? Is that enough?
They had no chisel, no sandpaper to hone their granite. The inscriber is a stranger for hire. He is given a short story to work from, not a novel, not an epic.
And that is wrong.
One week tonight.
One week.
I passed there a few hours ago. It was still daylight, much safer for driving than twilight or full dark. Does not matter. There, it is full dark. A gathering to mark the anniversary night. Vehicles formed a protective wagon train around it. Adults and teens, holding their obols, flowers, stuffies, stood there or knelt on the damp ground. How appropriate that the ground be damp. If it was not so before, they would make so now. They freshen the markers and add new ones. It is a public mourning, a warning. The grave sites are private and warn only Ophelia, who wanders the cemetery wearing a flower wreath. She will have no wedding, nor will they.
I am selfish, relieved, grateful. It is not my child there. I am spared this grief. For tonight. My daughter drives past here, too. She knew them. They all seem to know each other here. It is a small, small world. The three teenagers killed in a high-speed spinout went to school with her or her friends. I count my blessings tonight and cross my fingers. She's not home yet and her cellphone goes to voicemail. I try not to stare at the clock.
What a waste. Young promise. Still in diapers, I mean high school. I think of my own recent brush. If I'd turned over, as they did, I'd be dead. But I have lived, done things, will leave a memory or two beyond myself and my immediate world. Their memorial is a warning and will be gone in a few months. The next group of children will speed past it, too happy to notice the slickness of the road, the shredded pink silk cross, the grass grown over the skidmarks. Who will remember them except for their own? Is that enough?
They had no chisel, no sandpaper to hone their granite. The inscriber is a stranger for hire. He is given a short story to work from, not a novel, not an epic.
And that is wrong.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
What Is In The Cards?
She wondered if this was an omen, that disembodied voice calling out, "No new messages." Before, the little man had been a harbinger of good tidings of great joy. Now he was still as the tomb.
Did familiarity breed contempt? Was there a casualness resulting from increased availability? She rejected the question before it was even fully formed as irrelevant to her life. How increased? A few more hours here and there? More telephone time? The increase in time they allotted each other directly correlated to increased stress and strife in their real world lives. Ergo, all good negated.
She closed the laptop. If she couldn't see the blank screen, it didn't exist. Keep your head in the sand at all times possible and even at times impossible. Ignore what you will. The world will go on with or without your consent and say so.
Say so. The things he said to her. She drummed her fingers on the laptop. Open it? Check mail again? No. Leave it be. For now. Remember their last conversation. Caring without tipping over into solicitous platitudes or falsehood. Patient. Balanced. It was foreign to each of them. They'd never... Or never in a million years anyway. This newborn life to walk through, so tentative after eons of familiar. Uncharted, after sleepwalking with eyes open only when the tension and anger boiled over. Which it did. Often. Too often.
To live and know your life was wrong, but not see a way to fix it was painful. Wake to hopelessness, sorry to be awake. Filled with such despair that the nightly prayer had morphed into "If I should die before I wake... Let me die before I wake. Please let me die." And now this. This quiet. The very thought of which made her smile. Even feeling ignored, she smiled. Pulled the ugly green paisley blanket higher on her shoulders.
Her cell chirped. And his name flashed on the screen.
Did familiarity breed contempt? Was there a casualness resulting from increased availability? She rejected the question before it was even fully formed as irrelevant to her life. How increased? A few more hours here and there? More telephone time? The increase in time they allotted each other directly correlated to increased stress and strife in their real world lives. Ergo, all good negated.
She closed the laptop. If she couldn't see the blank screen, it didn't exist. Keep your head in the sand at all times possible and even at times impossible. Ignore what you will. The world will go on with or without your consent and say so.
Say so. The things he said to her. She drummed her fingers on the laptop. Open it? Check mail again? No. Leave it be. For now. Remember their last conversation. Caring without tipping over into solicitous platitudes or falsehood. Patient. Balanced. It was foreign to each of them. They'd never... Or never in a million years anyway. This newborn life to walk through, so tentative after eons of familiar. Uncharted, after sleepwalking with eyes open only when the tension and anger boiled over. Which it did. Often. Too often.
To live and know your life was wrong, but not see a way to fix it was painful. Wake to hopelessness, sorry to be awake. Filled with such despair that the nightly prayer had morphed into "If I should die before I wake... Let me die before I wake. Please let me die." And now this. This quiet. The very thought of which made her smile. Even feeling ignored, she smiled. Pulled the ugly green paisley blanket higher on her shoulders.
Her cell chirped. And his name flashed on the screen.
My Bonsai
My bonsai is talking
To me
I do not listen
It sits there
in its box.
Waiting to grow.
Ignored
Poor bonsai.
So patient
It is crying
and I do not listen
I carry it around
Torment it
Torment myself
Hearing it cry
but not listening
It is white noise
a song I hear for so long
I can pretend I don't
But I can't.
I still hear it
know it
feel it
Try so hard
to continue
to ignore it
and so afraid
of succeeding.
To me
I do not listen
It sits there
in its box.
Waiting to grow.
Ignored
Poor bonsai.
So patient
It is crying
and I do not listen
I carry it around
Torment it
Torment myself
Hearing it cry
but not listening
It is white noise
a song I hear for so long
I can pretend I don't
But I can't.
I still hear it
know it
feel it
Try so hard
to continue
to ignore it
and so afraid
of succeeding.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Stickley Stupidity
People are amazing. They get stuck in a mindset and will not change or leave it no matter the cost. The ability to call it quits, to backtrack is hard won and too often viewed as defeat. Pride, ego is paramount. If I stop, then I lose. Does that mean someone else won? Maybe. This is a problem because why? Life is a zero/sum game? Sez who? Calling it quits, knowing when to stop is not the same as being defeated. Why do people view it that way? It can mean cutting your losses. Learning when to stop is one of the great challenges of human existance and relationships. Stop, pause, think, consider. Know when to hold them, know when to fold them. Let's all take a deep breath before we continue, whether it means continuing the discussion, argument, world as we know it. Or not. Why are people afraid of the unknown possibility? Better the devil you know than the enigma you don't. The definition of madness is repeating the same behavior in the same or similar circumstance and expecting a different outcome.
My point is actually much simpler than the high philosophic discussions of man's psyche I seem to be espousing. I want to talk about Stickley, Stickley nesting tables to be precise.
I inherited a set of Stickley nesting tables. Useful, fairly attractive to some, moderate value. [for more info, go to:
www.webteek.com/search.php?sid=1&keywords=Furniture&keySub=Stickley]
Their beauty was in their utility, in their very simplicity and cleanness of line. I had no use for them, so I put them with all the other furniture and goods to be sold.
A couple was very interested in the set of three tables, oohing and ahhing. "The tall one could go here and the medium there and the little one is juuusssstttt right for over in the corner" I quoted them what I thought was a reasonable price for the set and paused, expecting them to make a counter-offer. They were silent.
"Ummm,, Are you interested in the tables? I quoted you a fair price, based on maker, condition and completeness of the set."
"Oh. Well. That's too much. We can't go higher than [$75 less than my proposal]."
I made a counter offer, a bit higher than midway between my request and their offer.
"Nope, still too high."
"If you can't then you can't. No problem." They settled on a few other small items, paid and left. I sent the tables to auction a few weeks later.
Can you imagine my surprise when the auction house sent me the name of the purchasers and the winning bid? It was the couple from the garage. Not only had they paid my original requested amount, they went another $50 over that. Go figure.
They spent more instead of just calling me and admitting they really wanted those tables. I suppose the cost in pride was greater than the cost in dollars.
That sort of behavior extends to the business world. I was hired as a subcontractor for a business management office. I wasn't surprised to discover that I had worked with or offered my services to a few of their clients in the past. Orlando is a small town, complete with a mainstreet and a cinema and cotton candy and a dog and pony show!
In any case, I had offered my services to one particular family in the past. And was turned down. So now I will be doing the tasks originally offered and getting paid more than originally requested. And its taken longer and cost more than if they hired me in the first place.
Such is life.
My point is actually much simpler than the high philosophic discussions of man's psyche I seem to be espousing. I want to talk about Stickley, Stickley nesting tables to be precise.
I inherited a set of Stickley nesting tables. Useful, fairly attractive to some, moderate value. [for more info, go to:
www.webteek.com/search.php?sid=1&keywords=Furniture&keySub=Stickley]
Their beauty was in their utility, in their very simplicity and cleanness of line. I had no use for them, so I put them with all the other furniture and goods to be sold.
A couple was very interested in the set of three tables, oohing and ahhing. "The tall one could go here and the medium there and the little one is juuusssstttt right for over in the corner" I quoted them what I thought was a reasonable price for the set and paused, expecting them to make a counter-offer. They were silent.
"Ummm,, Are you interested in the tables? I quoted you a fair price, based on maker, condition and completeness of the set."
"Oh. Well. That's too much. We can't go higher than [$75 less than my proposal]."
I made a counter offer, a bit higher than midway between my request and their offer.
"Nope, still too high."
"If you can't then you can't. No problem." They settled on a few other small items, paid and left. I sent the tables to auction a few weeks later.
Can you imagine my surprise when the auction house sent me the name of the purchasers and the winning bid? It was the couple from the garage. Not only had they paid my original requested amount, they went another $50 over that. Go figure.
They spent more instead of just calling me and admitting they really wanted those tables. I suppose the cost in pride was greater than the cost in dollars.
That sort of behavior extends to the business world. I was hired as a subcontractor for a business management office. I wasn't surprised to discover that I had worked with or offered my services to a few of their clients in the past. Orlando is a small town, complete with a mainstreet and a cinema and cotton candy and a dog and pony show!
In any case, I had offered my services to one particular family in the past. And was turned down. So now I will be doing the tasks originally offered and getting paid more than originally requested. And its taken longer and cost more than if they hired me in the first place.
Such is life.
August is Extremely Slow
Arriving at the outpatient clinic at the ungodly hour of 6:25 am, I enter into utter chaos. I wish. Seriously reader, this is Floriduh, not NYC. In NYC, any outpatient clinic adjacent to an emergency room entrance would be an obstacle course of gunshot wounds, stabbings, heart attacks, strokes and those who, lacking medical insurance or a primary care physician, use the ER as their GP. No. Wait. That was NYC in the bad old days. Now, post Guiliani, post 9-11, ER's are as eerily calm as the forested mountains of Idaho. You can't hear the buzz but you know it lies just under the surface, coiled and ready to strike.
In any case, I enter a ghost town. There is no one at the entrance, the admitting desk, in the corridors. I wander the halls, wondering how I'll get into the clinic. Maybe it's an omen that I should just turn about and leave. It is a medically indicated procedure, but not a medically necessary one. Preventative, ergo optional at this time. I can leave and continue the family tradition of acting against medical advice. I remember the results of my parents and brother opting to ignore their physicians' preventative treatments. Suicide by inches.
I stand there, in that deserted hallway. Turn. Turn again. Consider my options. Which, truthfully are more limited than you might think, as I have no escape vehicle to jump into and take off for parts unknown, exceeding the speed limit just enough to not be accidental. Suicide by inches? Oh no, that is not for me. When I go, if I opt out earlier than my five year allotment, it will be in a blaze of glory. Full tank of gas, skidding head first into a pylon and exploding with sufficient heat to melt whatever I crash into. Or just having the good luck to be on a structurally deficient bridge at the exact moment it chooses to collapse. When I was a child, I envied those who died on the bridge at San Luis Rey. Only a friar questioned their innocence, their reason for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, since there is no such thing as coincidence. I wanted to be one of them, feel the rush of free fall, of knowing that sooner than I could count it would be over.
I turn, in that deserted hallway, pondering my most recent brush with sudden death. How I knew I would be alright, that it was not time. There is a security in knowing it is not yet time. I can live life as the Shakers did: Do your work as though you had a thousand years to live and as if you were to die tomorrow. Put your hands to work, and your heart to God.
Except I know I will not die tomorrow or the next day or the next day after that. I have a reprieve. I still have some time to squander in idleness, although not as much as most. I cannot afford to waste time in illness. Ignoring medical advice will result in more intervention in the long run, more tests, more examinations, more poking prodding sticking drawing. More fear. Ever so much more fear. Chilling, paralyzing fear. Despite my outward calm, my blithe assertion that it is really just cosmetic, preventative, the memory loop playing is of my doctor twenty years ago asserting that, if certain changes were to take place, this procedure would have to be done.
Change happens. The exact changes I was warned about. And I am here. Turning around and around, ever so slowly in the deserted corridor of a hospital triage area. Making myself dizzy, giddy with dizziness, to cover the gut wrenching fear I try so hard to deny.
"Ma'am, can I help you? Were you looking for the main entrance to the hospital? The cafeteria? Outpatient surgery?"
I blink, startled. Look at the nurse as if I've never seen one before.
"Ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Thank you. Outpatient surgery, please. I'm supposed to be here at 6:30."
"Well, you're right on time. Let me get these doors and you just go right on through. Someone on the other side will guide you."
"Is Virgil waiting for me, then?"
"Virgil? No, he's not on duty this morning. I believe Kathy and Julia are doing intake."
She presses a code for the doors. They swing open. I smile my thanks at her and step through to the other side.
In any case, I enter a ghost town. There is no one at the entrance, the admitting desk, in the corridors. I wander the halls, wondering how I'll get into the clinic. Maybe it's an omen that I should just turn about and leave. It is a medically indicated procedure, but not a medically necessary one. Preventative, ergo optional at this time. I can leave and continue the family tradition of acting against medical advice. I remember the results of my parents and brother opting to ignore their physicians' preventative treatments. Suicide by inches.
I stand there, in that deserted hallway. Turn. Turn again. Consider my options. Which, truthfully are more limited than you might think, as I have no escape vehicle to jump into and take off for parts unknown, exceeding the speed limit just enough to not be accidental. Suicide by inches? Oh no, that is not for me. When I go, if I opt out earlier than my five year allotment, it will be in a blaze of glory. Full tank of gas, skidding head first into a pylon and exploding with sufficient heat to melt whatever I crash into. Or just having the good luck to be on a structurally deficient bridge at the exact moment it chooses to collapse. When I was a child, I envied those who died on the bridge at San Luis Rey. Only a friar questioned their innocence, their reason for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, since there is no such thing as coincidence. I wanted to be one of them, feel the rush of free fall, of knowing that sooner than I could count it would be over.
I turn, in that deserted hallway, pondering my most recent brush with sudden death. How I knew I would be alright, that it was not time. There is a security in knowing it is not yet time. I can live life as the Shakers did: Do your work as though you had a thousand years to live and as if you were to die tomorrow. Put your hands to work, and your heart to God.
Except I know I will not die tomorrow or the next day or the next day after that. I have a reprieve. I still have some time to squander in idleness, although not as much as most. I cannot afford to waste time in illness. Ignoring medical advice will result in more intervention in the long run, more tests, more examinations, more poking prodding sticking drawing. More fear. Ever so much more fear. Chilling, paralyzing fear. Despite my outward calm, my blithe assertion that it is really just cosmetic, preventative, the memory loop playing is of my doctor twenty years ago asserting that, if certain changes were to take place, this procedure would have to be done.
Change happens. The exact changes I was warned about. And I am here. Turning around and around, ever so slowly in the deserted corridor of a hospital triage area. Making myself dizzy, giddy with dizziness, to cover the gut wrenching fear I try so hard to deny.
"Ma'am, can I help you? Were you looking for the main entrance to the hospital? The cafeteria? Outpatient surgery?"
I blink, startled. Look at the nurse as if I've never seen one before.
"Ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Thank you. Outpatient surgery, please. I'm supposed to be here at 6:30."
"Well, you're right on time. Let me get these doors and you just go right on through. Someone on the other side will guide you."
"Is Virgil waiting for me, then?"
"Virgil? No, he's not on duty this morning. I believe Kathy and Julia are doing intake."
She presses a code for the doors. They swing open. I smile my thanks at her and step through to the other side.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Reefer Madness
Everybody wants to relive their mispent youth. Especially the parts they didn't actually get to live, the parts that exist in the memory of "shoulda/coulda/woulda". Even a bunch of staid attorneys can indulge in a moment of might have been.
Early 1970's
My dad and his cohorts were sitting in a diner one day, talking politics, law, dames, kids and all the other things men discuss that make life either worth living or worthless. That's what a bunch of 40-ish guys did back then, in New York. Nowadays, they'd play racket ball, golf, texas hold 'em or take a gourmet cooking class as a prelude to talk. Back then, the diner sufficed.
The discussion turned to the growing influence of NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. If any women had been present, a connection might have been made to NARAL, National Abortion Rights Action League, just a few letters and a million miles away. In the 1970's, though, no women were present at this political gathering. Just as well, a woman would have boxed their ears and sent them home with no dinner. And no story for me, lo! these many years later.
Most of the men present at this pale Algonquin shadow had served in World War II. They'd gone to college on the GI bill. They wanted better for their kids, that their kids shouldn't have to struggle like they did. So they sent their kinder off to the best colleges to be influenced by persons they wouldn't cross the street to kick.
The kids would come home, reeking of pot, and displaying various problems in their pants. The dads decided to fight fire with fire, to infiltrate the masses,discover the enemy by experiencing it. They were going to smoke some of that deadly weed and flush the rest! Yeah, right. Wanna buy a bridge? Cheap? Talk about after the fact justification!
How are they going to get the stuff? None of them have connections. It would be too embarrassing to ask their kids. So who? A lightbulb went off. One of the rounders suggested they ask the nice young man (NYM) from legal services, he must have access. He's got long hair. And a beard. And [OMG!!!!] pierced ears!
They make the approach by phone. Phone booth, not cell phone. There were no such things as cells, PC's, Starbucks, iPods back then or any of the other techno things we can't imagine living without. He agrees to catch up with them later in the week.
The pale Algonquins watch as NYM rolls a few joints, taps them, and passes them around. They dutifully smoke the joints, coughing and hacking. Some of these men haven't smoked a cigarette in years, let alone anything more...intriguing. They get giddy, hungry, giggly. After an hour or two, they agree to go home, that they will discuss it in the morning.
My dad comes home and sits at the kitchen table, relating the nights' misadventures to my mom. She makes him toast, coffee, more toast to settle the munchies. Carbo loading, but this is a sugar he'll have to digest slowly with the rest of the night. They talk about the risks of having approached an outsider, even if he is an attorney.
My oldest brother comes home, says hello to the pair of them. Our dad tells BB what happened and how it felt. Big Brother nods and continues to listen.
After a while, when our Dad has told the whole sordid tale, BB speaks He looked at my dad, lost in his oreos and toast.
"You know, dad, you didn't have to ask NYM for help. I could have helped you. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted, what you were thinking. Less risky than bringing in an outsider with little to lose and much to gain by reporting you. In any case, did you have a good time?"
My dad replied, "You could have gotten us some weed? How? Where? Why?"
Big Brother, "Of course I can. I'm in college."
Dad: "You smoke weed?"
Big Brother: "Gets me through the night in this crazy family."
Dad: "Umm, yeah. You smoke this stuff? You think its good?"
Mom: "You smoke marijuana? Doesn't that stuff make you crazy and psycho?"
Dad and Big Brother together: "Hey, this is guy talk. Leave it alone."
Dad: "So you smoke? You're not pulling my leg."
Big Brother: "Yep. Nope. Maybe soap. In any event, Dad, keep it in the family. You ever want more, just ask me. That's all. "
Dad: "Oh wow."
Poor Daddy. Attempting to recreate his youth brought him into sharp contact with the youthful life of his own kids. And he did not like it one bit. As for me, I prefer to have my senses altered by other endorphins. But what do I know about anything anyway?
Early 1970's
My dad and his cohorts were sitting in a diner one day, talking politics, law, dames, kids and all the other things men discuss that make life either worth living or worthless. That's what a bunch of 40-ish guys did back then, in New York. Nowadays, they'd play racket ball, golf, texas hold 'em or take a gourmet cooking class as a prelude to talk. Back then, the diner sufficed.
The discussion turned to the growing influence of NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. If any women had been present, a connection might have been made to NARAL, National Abortion Rights Action League, just a few letters and a million miles away. In the 1970's, though, no women were present at this political gathering. Just as well, a woman would have boxed their ears and sent them home with no dinner. And no story for me, lo! these many years later.
Most of the men present at this pale Algonquin shadow had served in World War II. They'd gone to college on the GI bill. They wanted better for their kids, that their kids shouldn't have to struggle like they did. So they sent their kinder off to the best colleges to be influenced by persons they wouldn't cross the street to kick.
The kids would come home, reeking of pot, and displaying various problems in their pants. The dads decided to fight fire with fire, to infiltrate the masses,discover the enemy by experiencing it. They were going to smoke some of that deadly weed and flush the rest! Yeah, right. Wanna buy a bridge? Cheap? Talk about after the fact justification!
How are they going to get the stuff? None of them have connections. It would be too embarrassing to ask their kids. So who? A lightbulb went off. One of the rounders suggested they ask the nice young man (NYM) from legal services, he must have access. He's got long hair. And a beard. And [OMG!!!!] pierced ears!
They make the approach by phone. Phone booth, not cell phone. There were no such things as cells, PC's, Starbucks, iPods back then or any of the other techno things we can't imagine living without. He agrees to catch up with them later in the week.
The pale Algonquins watch as NYM rolls a few joints, taps them, and passes them around. They dutifully smoke the joints, coughing and hacking. Some of these men haven't smoked a cigarette in years, let alone anything more...intriguing. They get giddy, hungry, giggly. After an hour or two, they agree to go home, that they will discuss it in the morning.
My dad comes home and sits at the kitchen table, relating the nights' misadventures to my mom. She makes him toast, coffee, more toast to settle the munchies. Carbo loading, but this is a sugar he'll have to digest slowly with the rest of the night. They talk about the risks of having approached an outsider, even if he is an attorney.
My oldest brother comes home, says hello to the pair of them. Our dad tells BB what happened and how it felt. Big Brother nods and continues to listen.
After a while, when our Dad has told the whole sordid tale, BB speaks He looked at my dad, lost in his oreos and toast.
"You know, dad, you didn't have to ask NYM for help. I could have helped you. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted, what you were thinking. Less risky than bringing in an outsider with little to lose and much to gain by reporting you. In any case, did you have a good time?"
My dad replied, "You could have gotten us some weed? How? Where? Why?"
Big Brother, "Of course I can. I'm in college."
Dad: "You smoke weed?"
Big Brother: "Gets me through the night in this crazy family."
Dad: "Umm, yeah. You smoke this stuff? You think its good?"
Mom: "You smoke marijuana? Doesn't that stuff make you crazy and psycho?"
Dad and Big Brother together: "Hey, this is guy talk. Leave it alone."
Dad: "So you smoke? You're not pulling my leg."
Big Brother: "Yep. Nope. Maybe soap. In any event, Dad, keep it in the family. You ever want more, just ask me. That's all. "
Dad: "Oh wow."
Poor Daddy. Attempting to recreate his youth brought him into sharp contact with the youthful life of his own kids. And he did not like it one bit. As for me, I prefer to have my senses altered by other endorphins. But what do I know about anything anyway?
Monday, August 6, 2007
Just How Slow is August, Anyway?
For a very minor outpatient procedure, not only have I been poked, prodded, pinched, x-rayed, MRI'd, ultra-sounded, squeezed but anything and everything else you can imagine. Much of this manhandling under other circumstances, the world being context and meaning only determined by what frames the context, I would have considered pleasurable to some degree or other. In another frame. Not in this one.
Does my life start to remind you of "The Perils of Pauline"? Shall I change the name of my blog to "The Reversals, Ravages and Raw Deals of Recidivist Robyn"? Please feel free to comment and I will feel free to ignore, as usual.
In preparation for the latest, I spend part of the day in "pre-op". Pre-op starts with a jaunt down the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit by 5-8 mph. Exiting the traffic-free turnpike, I am most appreciative of the heavy volume of vehicular (rhymes with one of Dubya's favorite words) transportation adding to global warming. As if we'd notice here in Floriduh anyway.
Locating the hospital where I will be sliced, diced and julienned on Wednesday, I gave reception/intake my medical cards, credit cards, ID cards and the passwords to mine and my children's fiduciary accounts. Mi dinero es su dinero. Cuanto? Todo. Todo el mundo es su dinero. Next!
They took blood. LOTS of blood. They took urine. They took blood pressure. FYI 100/45, am I dead or alive? They took resting pulse, 56 bpm. They did an EKG. I'm not sure why they bothered. Anybody that actually knows me would tell the doctors that I am a heartless, soulless cruel little bitch. If they want to know my state of being, they should do an EEG and watch the synaptic connections in my head, which have been compared to Epcot fireworks and various laser light shows.
Finally, a chest x-ray. Still looking for a heart? The tin woodsman is standing in the forest. He has a purple heart. How apropos. A purple heart for the walking wounded. If I had a heart, it would be purple. And broken. Snapped, crushed, shattered. A story for another day perhaps. Only modern fairy tales have happy endings. And Friendly's. I am a traditionalist. The only happy ending is to live another day. Step into the shards. Bleed. Step over them. Heal a bit. Have the chance to wipe your tears. Grow. Learn. Perhaps tell your tale so someone else can benefit from your mistakes. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Does my life start to remind you of "The Perils of Pauline"? Shall I change the name of my blog to "The Reversals, Ravages and Raw Deals of Recidivist Robyn"? Please feel free to comment and I will feel free to ignore, as usual.
In preparation for the latest, I spend part of the day in "pre-op". Pre-op starts with a jaunt down the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit by 5-8 mph. Exiting the traffic-free turnpike, I am most appreciative of the heavy volume of vehicular (rhymes with one of Dubya's favorite words) transportation adding to global warming. As if we'd notice here in Floriduh anyway.
Locating the hospital where I will be sliced, diced and julienned on Wednesday, I gave reception/intake my medical cards, credit cards, ID cards and the passwords to mine and my children's fiduciary accounts. Mi dinero es su dinero. Cuanto? Todo. Todo el mundo es su dinero. Next!
They took blood. LOTS of blood. They took urine. They took blood pressure. FYI 100/45, am I dead or alive? They took resting pulse, 56 bpm. They did an EKG. I'm not sure why they bothered. Anybody that actually knows me would tell the doctors that I am a heartless, soulless cruel little bitch. If they want to know my state of being, they should do an EEG and watch the synaptic connections in my head, which have been compared to Epcot fireworks and various laser light shows.
Finally, a chest x-ray. Still looking for a heart? The tin woodsman is standing in the forest. He has a purple heart. How apropos. A purple heart for the walking wounded. If I had a heart, it would be purple. And broken. Snapped, crushed, shattered. A story for another day perhaps. Only modern fairy tales have happy endings. And Friendly's. I am a traditionalist. The only happy ending is to live another day. Step into the shards. Bleed. Step over them. Heal a bit. Have the chance to wipe your tears. Grow. Learn. Perhaps tell your tale so someone else can benefit from your mistakes. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
August is a Slow Month
Having gone through every hoop you can imagine to obtain my precious MRI's, it is with great joy I receive the copies into my sweaty little hands. It only took twelve phone calls from me and four from my doctor's office over the course of five business days before the center could manage to print out a set for me. I suppose it being the depths of summer, there are much better things to do than print films and reports for women wondering if they are in imminent danger of losing superfluous body parts. No, I am not referring to my appendix. And this being Orlando, the depths of summer cover from May until December, dissimilar to Camelot, that's for certain! I am thankful that the young man at the reception desk was mortified at the records room's the lack of follow-through and made it his personal responsibility to get me the copies.
I open the file to gaze upon my insides. Grey blotches. It looks like my mammographies. Grey blotches. I read the report. Incomprehensible except for one line: No significant masses detected. Does this mean there is such a thing as an insignificant mass? Or that I may have masses, but they are not detected? Or do I have insignificant masses which are detected? It makes no sense to me, four pages of gobbledegook. I slide the films back into the oversize envelope and wander out into the rain.
The next day, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, I meet with the specialist. Hand over the various photos of my insides and await his decision. Dr C shakes his head sadly. Turns on the sonogram and gels the wand. Slides it over the surface of my breast, around the edges, eyes inches from the screen. Back and forth, slowly.
"Fascinating. This confirms it."
"Confirms what?" What the hell is he looking at? All I see are more grey blotches.
"Your breasts. Your breasts are dense."
"Dense? My head is dense. What do you mean, my breasts are dense?"
"It means that despite eight years of breastfeeding, the hormone breakdowns resulting from the approaching menopause and just plain age, your breasts are young."
"That still means nothing to me. My breasts are dense?"
"Breast density is related to age and child bearing. Your breasts do not indicate either."
"Bet you say that to all the patients."
"Only the cute ones. In any case, your breasts are 25 years old. The rest of you is forty-eight. So while they're having a fine time, you need your rest. And geritol."
"Oh. Cool. So I can leave, everything is alright then?"
"Oh no, I'm not done with the examination. There is still the unexplained growth on the anomaly."
Oh fuck. What's he talking about now?
"Anomaly?"
"Yes, this growth. It should have been removed years ago, but better late than never."
"Why? Why remove it?"
"It's politically incorrect to leave it. Remove it before it becomes a problem. It has gotten larger. It'll get rubbed and irritated where it is. Off now while it's a piece of cake."
"Any idea what's involved with this?" Thinking to myself, how much is he going to make from this procedure? What's the BC/BS pay scale?
"Honest, you could do it yourself with a paring knife or a scissor, but you'd pass out before you did the dirty deed..."
"Fine. Let me consider it a physical enhancement."
"This week. We can do it this week."
"I need time to waffle."
"No waffles, no pancakes, no grits. This week."
Why is he in such a rush? What is he not telling me?
To be continued....
I open the file to gaze upon my insides. Grey blotches. It looks like my mammographies. Grey blotches. I read the report. Incomprehensible except for one line: No significant masses detected. Does this mean there is such a thing as an insignificant mass? Or that I may have masses, but they are not detected? Or do I have insignificant masses which are detected? It makes no sense to me, four pages of gobbledegook. I slide the films back into the oversize envelope and wander out into the rain.
The next day, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, I meet with the specialist. Hand over the various photos of my insides and await his decision. Dr C shakes his head sadly. Turns on the sonogram and gels the wand. Slides it over the surface of my breast, around the edges, eyes inches from the screen. Back and forth, slowly.
"Fascinating. This confirms it."
"Confirms what?" What the hell is he looking at? All I see are more grey blotches.
"Your breasts. Your breasts are dense."
"Dense? My head is dense. What do you mean, my breasts are dense?"
"It means that despite eight years of breastfeeding, the hormone breakdowns resulting from the approaching menopause and just plain age, your breasts are young."
"That still means nothing to me. My breasts are dense?"
"Breast density is related to age and child bearing. Your breasts do not indicate either."
"Bet you say that to all the patients."
"Only the cute ones. In any case, your breasts are 25 years old. The rest of you is forty-eight. So while they're having a fine time, you need your rest. And geritol."
"Oh. Cool. So I can leave, everything is alright then?"
"Oh no, I'm not done with the examination. There is still the unexplained growth on the anomaly."
Oh fuck. What's he talking about now?
"Anomaly?"
"Yes, this growth. It should have been removed years ago, but better late than never."
"Why? Why remove it?"
"It's politically incorrect to leave it. Remove it before it becomes a problem. It has gotten larger. It'll get rubbed and irritated where it is. Off now while it's a piece of cake."
"Any idea what's involved with this?" Thinking to myself, how much is he going to make from this procedure? What's the BC/BS pay scale?
"Honest, you could do it yourself with a paring knife or a scissor, but you'd pass out before you did the dirty deed..."
"Fine. Let me consider it a physical enhancement."
"This week. We can do it this week."
"I need time to waffle."
"No waffles, no pancakes, no grits. This week."
Why is he in such a rush? What is he not telling me?
To be continued....
Sunday, August 5, 2007
House is Not A Home Pt II
"You should go."
"Go? Go where? Why? I love it here. I love you."
"It's time. I cannot protect you any more."
"You've always protected me."
"From the outside. But now you need protection from within."
"Within?"
"It grows here. In you, in me, in all of us. I cannot protect you from
yourself. Or from those you allow to abuse you."
"But House, what do you mean?" I start to cry. I cannot leave House.
House has been everything to me. I am closer to House, love House more
than...well, more than.
"How can you tell me to leave? You are my joy."
"I was your joy. Now I am just a place. And you will always be my joy.
But now, to you, I am a place of sadness and death. I do not see joy in you, do
not feel it. Not for a long while. You do not dance."
"You are my only joy."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. There is no joy. You have too much mourning. I cannot make you joyful
anymore."
"All my joys."
"Do not lie to me, beloved. I have become a sarcophagus to you. You used
to look at me... Now you look at me and see sorrow. Pain. Tears. And I cannot
keep you safe from yourself any longer."
"Oh House, what will I do?" I can't leave House. "Where will I go? Who
will love me as you do? Who will love you?"
"You will love. In time."
"No. No one. No thing. No more. No."
"Yes, beloved, you will. I know this. In time. But now you must go. The
dark grows in you. Perhaps a land of sunshine will burn it out of you, bring
the light back in. Perhaps."
"Perhaps not."
"Perhaps not. Still, you must try."
"I want to try here. I will heal here."
"There is too much here. You cannot mend here. You just can't."
"All can be mended."
"Yes..."
"Let me stay."
"No. You need more than I can give. All, but not in this case. Not now,
here."
I was silent. House was right. House was always right. The hurts in me
festered. The scabs, bandages, salves House placed on my wounds helped but did
not heal. And I needed to heal. Needed it desperately.
"What shall I do?"
House shrugged. "Do? Whatever you think will help, that's what you do.
Many things are possible."
"But how will I decide? What if I'm wrong..."
"Try again. Try them all. All the pathways are open so do not get yourself
set on one."
"Oh, House...."
"I will always be here for you. In you. You are my beloved and I see
myself through your eyes."
"House..."
"Shh. You will heal. Someday. But not here."
"Who will care for you? Love you?"
"You'll always love me. As for caring for me, you have made me strong. I
will care for me. I will care for whoever is here. But I cannot help you. You
are too broken. And my trying to fix you, breaks you more."
I look at House sadly. "House, please...."
House did not answer.
"House? Please, House.... Do not leave me. I am afraid and alone. Please,
House..."
Still no answer.
"House..."
All I heard was silence and the blood pounding in my head. I was alone.
Lonely. So lonely. The lonely after love is the loneliest of all.
"Go? Go where? Why? I love it here. I love you."
"It's time. I cannot protect you any more."
"You've always protected me."
"From the outside. But now you need protection from within."
"Within?"
"It grows here. In you, in me, in all of us. I cannot protect you from
yourself. Or from those you allow to abuse you."
"But House, what do you mean?" I start to cry. I cannot leave House.
House has been everything to me. I am closer to House, love House more
than...well, more than.
"How can you tell me to leave? You are my joy."
"I was your joy. Now I am just a place. And you will always be my joy.
But now, to you, I am a place of sadness and death. I do not see joy in you, do
not feel it. Not for a long while. You do not dance."
"You are my only joy."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. There is no joy. You have too much mourning. I cannot make you joyful
anymore."
"All my joys."
"Do not lie to me, beloved. I have become a sarcophagus to you. You used
to look at me... Now you look at me and see sorrow. Pain. Tears. And I cannot
keep you safe from yourself any longer."
"Oh House, what will I do?" I can't leave House. "Where will I go? Who
will love me as you do? Who will love you?"
"You will love. In time."
"No. No one. No thing. No more. No."
"Yes, beloved, you will. I know this. In time. But now you must go. The
dark grows in you. Perhaps a land of sunshine will burn it out of you, bring
the light back in. Perhaps."
"Perhaps not."
"Perhaps not. Still, you must try."
"I want to try here. I will heal here."
"There is too much here. You cannot mend here. You just can't."
"All can be mended."
"Yes..."
"Let me stay."
"No. You need more than I can give. All, but not in this case. Not now,
here."
I was silent. House was right. House was always right. The hurts in me
festered. The scabs, bandages, salves House placed on my wounds helped but did
not heal. And I needed to heal. Needed it desperately.
"What shall I do?"
House shrugged. "Do? Whatever you think will help, that's what you do.
Many things are possible."
"But how will I decide? What if I'm wrong..."
"Try again. Try them all. All the pathways are open so do not get yourself
set on one."
"Oh, House...."
"I will always be here for you. In you. You are my beloved and I see
myself through your eyes."
"House..."
"Shh. You will heal. Someday. But not here."
"Who will care for you? Love you?"
"You'll always love me. As for caring for me, you have made me strong. I
will care for me. I will care for whoever is here. But I cannot help you. You
are too broken. And my trying to fix you, breaks you more."
I look at House sadly. "House, please...."
House did not answer.
"House? Please, House.... Do not leave me. I am afraid and alone. Please,
House..."
Still no answer.
"House..."
All I heard was silence and the blood pounding in my head. I was alone.
Lonely. So lonely. The lonely after love is the loneliest of all.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
House of Lies or The Truth is Too Strange
It was a lie from our first date. In fact, he didn't believe our first conversation. Does not bode well for a relationship does it? To have a potential boyfriend disbelieving you even before you've gone out. But that is what it was and that is what it remains. A lie from start to finish, in his head.
A Saturday in mid-February, 1974 about 11 am (a week or two after my 15th birthday)
"Hi. Would you like to go to the movies tonight?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I have the worst headache and I think I'd be really lousy company. If you want to take a chance, call me back later, maybe 3 or so. By then either I'll feel better or the headache will be killing me. But yeah, if I feel better, I'd like to go to the movies with you."
"Okkkkaaayyy. Then I guess I'll call you later." click
I hang up the phone, thinking to myself, that has got to be the worst line ever. He is never going to believe I have a headache. He is going to think I'm waiting for a better offer. I guess i just fucked this up before it started, didn't I?
Same day, about 3 pm
"So, you said to call you back about 3. Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, thanks. I took some aspirin and laid down. So if you still want to go to the movies, I'd really like that."
"Great. I'll pick you up around 7. What's your address?"
That Night
"So what gave you the headache?"
"I bet you won't believe it. I don't believe it."
"Oh come on, what?"
"Well, I went shopping with my mom early this morning. We were out on Church Avenue when this brick, a piece of the facade on the storefront, falls out and hits this guy on the head. Killed him. I got some of his blood spattered on me."
"WHAT?????"
"Hey, I said it was a strange morning. Now you know why I had a headache. Still want to go to the movies?"
"Um, yeah, I guess..."
10 years later... in a neighborhood clothing store many miles away
Carl: "So you're from Church Avenue?"
R: "Yeah, that's where I grew up."
Carl: "You ever shop at Dave's?"
R: "Oh all the time. I got my first bra there."
Carl: "You know about that guy that was killed?"
R: "Know about it? I got spattered with his blood. Scary. You know, he was the neighborhood homeless guy. He used to sweep in front of all the stores."
Carl: "It ruined Dave's business. Not the lawsuit, but he just felt so guilty about it."
R: "It was a real tragedy, but it wasn't his fault."
G: "You mean that story you told me about the brick was for real?"
R: "Yeah it was real. You mean you never believed me? You thought I could make something like that up? We've been going together for 10 years and you never believed me?" (voice rising to almost shriek level)
G: "Well....no. It was too weird."
R: "You thought I made that up? Oh my god."
Carl: " Let me get some popcorn. Round One!"
R: "You never believed me. Ever. Oh my god. Oh my god."
G: "I'm sorry?"
What does it mean when a guy thinks a girl is lying before the first date?
Will he ever believe her? Ever? And what does it say about him that he
would pursue someone he thinks is a lying cheating whore anyway?
A Saturday in mid-February, 1974 about 11 am (a week or two after my 15th birthday)
"Hi. Would you like to go to the movies tonight?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I have the worst headache and I think I'd be really lousy company. If you want to take a chance, call me back later, maybe 3 or so. By then either I'll feel better or the headache will be killing me. But yeah, if I feel better, I'd like to go to the movies with you."
"Okkkkaaayyy. Then I guess I'll call you later." click
I hang up the phone, thinking to myself, that has got to be the worst line ever. He is never going to believe I have a headache. He is going to think I'm waiting for a better offer. I guess i just fucked this up before it started, didn't I?
Same day, about 3 pm
"So, you said to call you back about 3. Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, thanks. I took some aspirin and laid down. So if you still want to go to the movies, I'd really like that."
"Great. I'll pick you up around 7. What's your address?"
That Night
"So what gave you the headache?"
"I bet you won't believe it. I don't believe it."
"Oh come on, what?"
"Well, I went shopping with my mom early this morning. We were out on Church Avenue when this brick, a piece of the facade on the storefront, falls out and hits this guy on the head. Killed him. I got some of his blood spattered on me."
"WHAT?????"
"Hey, I said it was a strange morning. Now you know why I had a headache. Still want to go to the movies?"
"Um, yeah, I guess..."
10 years later... in a neighborhood clothing store many miles away
Carl: "So you're from Church Avenue?"
R: "Yeah, that's where I grew up."
Carl: "You ever shop at Dave's?"
R: "Oh all the time. I got my first bra there."
Carl: "You know about that guy that was killed?"
R: "Know about it? I got spattered with his blood. Scary. You know, he was the neighborhood homeless guy. He used to sweep in front of all the stores."
Carl: "It ruined Dave's business. Not the lawsuit, but he just felt so guilty about it."
R: "It was a real tragedy, but it wasn't his fault."
G: "You mean that story you told me about the brick was for real?"
R: "Yeah it was real. You mean you never believed me? You thought I could make something like that up? We've been going together for 10 years and you never believed me?" (voice rising to almost shriek level)
G: "Well....no. It was too weird."
R: "You thought I made that up? Oh my god."
Carl: " Let me get some popcorn. Round One!"
R: "You never believed me. Ever. Oh my god. Oh my god."
G: "I'm sorry?"
What does it mean when a guy thinks a girl is lying before the first date?
Will he ever believe her? Ever? And what does it say about him that he
would pursue someone he thinks is a lying cheating whore anyway?
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