It amazes me how much the spiral is used in nature, as though it’s just a logical engineering choice. From galaxies to snails. Round and round we go. These are bubbles seen through an inch of water in a soaking, dirty skillet, with a smattering of editing thrown in.
None of the bubbles was harmed during this post.
Really.
Gibberish. A rant at a few windmills.
At least once every few years, we’re treated to headlines like todays. Great to see our leaders have scraped up enough cash to keep the government running through Sunday. That’s reassuring. I can see them all, hunched over pizza boxes working overtime, tossing their spare change into a bucket labeled “u.s. fund.”
She was saying something about something being “straight out of the dryer”, to noone in general. She was in the front door alcove of the hardware store, the one with the neon “Open” sign in the front window, right above the note that perpetually hangs there, reading “Had to leave, customer needed door fixed.” The neon sign is always on, even when they’re closed. Nothing she had just came out of a dryer. She was wrestling a large sleeping bag into a shopping cart, full of her belongings. Her hair, not quite shoulder length, stood straight out on the left side of her head. She was wearing pajama bottoms, and sandals without socks. She was…thirty something? I was pissed off and walking. Like yesterday, and the day and week and month before. Wake up, curse the day, curse the invisible force that holds planets in their orbits and causes hearts to beat, journal, being careful to express gratitude for the “little things”, so as to avoid the appearance of being a dick as some imagined being observes me and chides me for my lack of gratitude, fight back today’s panic attack, and walk. I can set my clock by it. We made eye contact as she was completing her sentence, and I quickly looked away. Best not to intrude here. Ignore her, keep walking. Easy enough. I ignore everyone, regardless. And yet, I stopped and looked back…because some voice told me to, and I did, and she looked right at me, so I pretended to be checking traffic on Fairgrounds Rd, then stepped off the curb to cross it, even though this was never my intention…but she caught me looking, so now, in my lopsided mind, my only choice was to pretend to be Doing Something Else.
As I stepped off the curb to cross the street I had no intention of crossing five seconds earlier, she said “Excuse me -”
“Do you have a cigarette?” I said “No, I dont, sorry.” She pushed her shopping cart slowly, and appeared to be limping slightly.
The rain arrived on time, around 11. It was mostly dry this morning, but as things are right now, she’s most likely taken shelter in one of her familiar alcoves or alleys to stay dry. It wasn’t raining as she and I crossed paths. I continued on my new path, embarrassed to have been caught looking back at her. She knew, she saw me see her. I thought I outsmarted her, but I didnt. I used to care. I used to give dollars here and there, I’ve brought meals to men sleeping in doorways, smiled and said “Hi!” as they trudged by…because I’m supposed to be grateful, and in being grateful, my needs become less noticeable. Right? Right. I gave a black man twenty dollars a few months ago, and as I was walking up to him, he was bracing for a confrontation. I’m white. I live in White Oregon, in these White United States, and when you’re black, standing on a corner panhandling, White World “tsk-tsk’s” you a lot. White World frowns on you. Not wanting him to be any more uncomfortable than he already was, I offered my hands up, in a calming gesture, said who knows what, and gave him his cash, and walked off. He offered a hushed “thanks.”
I offered my act to the universe. I would’ve bought weed with that money, or cereal. I cared, like I’ve cared in the past. Without reason, just to do it, hoping that in some karmic logbook being tended by some mysterious scorekeeper, I would receive a check mark. Not an “X”, those are like “tsk-tsk’s”. I wanted my check mark. Those are good.
As I circled back towards home, I saw her again, pushing her shopping cart, limping. Her life is a struggle I probably will never know. Mine is comfortable. Her clothes are filthy, mine are not. Her living room is a doorway, a loading dock, an alcove, mine is a rectangle with furniture, movies and books. My life is neat, ordered. Her life is chaos, and bottles. Recyclables. Shopping carts. Uncertainty.
She smiled, and said “Ahh, yeah, I didn’t think so” when I told her I didn’t have the cigarette she craved. I appear healthy. In some ways I am. In others, not so much.
There are events in life that can sap human strength. Maybe not all by themselves, more of a combined effect, a cumulative effect and one day, something breaks…the weakest link, I suppose. I cared, once upon a time, in my own limited way. It was as genuine as I could make it, which is really to say that I believe in karma and was probably just making a deposit and hoping for dividends. I’ve cared, in the past, and it felt genuine, in an uncertain way.
I’d love to see the world’s pain manifest as a celestial light show, an aurora borealis comprised of your pain and mine flickering and dancing across a cold and desolate starry sky. It would be horrifyingly beautiful, like watching a mushroom cloud majestically rise above the death and destruction of its infernal human source. So much pain and sadness held by so many souls. So many universes, with indistinguishable boundaries, wracked with pain.
I used to care…I suppose. What an odd thing to do. I’ll never be the hero I think I am.
It can be quite a shock to see yourself. Not a casual glance in a mirror, more extensive. I just took a video of myself, rambling imcoherently. It’s very early and I should be sleeping, but I’m not because my cat smells funny and it’s making me anxious. So I figured I’d make a video of some random thoughts that noone will ever see, although my intention was that this video, as well as others I will make, might serve as a diary of a bad time, of sorts. I watched the video, and it’s so depressing. What have I become? Where did I go? Who is that angry sad old man? What the fuck? I hurt, and I read these posts and see we all do. I suppose we’re supposed to hurt. I suppose I can beat my head against the wall trying to figure it all out and at best come up with a halfwit idea that satisfies me for a few minutes or years, but the reality of it is simple. Noone escapes pain. Noone. Pain is manageable, at best. We hurt because we’re supposed to.
I’m not a “fan” of jazz. I like the stereotypes of late nights and early mornings in the big city, a lonely night owl drinking coffee in an all night diner on the corner with the hookers…soft jazz playing, a long drawn out note on a sax…all that.
I’m lying in bed, a low wattage lamp on the nightstand is on, soft jazz playing on the radio, a christmas tune…have yourself a merry little christmas, it encourages me. Jesus fuck. Just jesus fuck, man, screw christmas. The world outside is slowly waking to clouds and wet streets. I’m warm, comfortable in bed. I’m entertaining very dark thoughts lately, while struggling to find positivity. What fools we are. What dreams we chase. What shadows of ghosts of dreams we fight for.
What if I die today? All those dreams, all those plans, all the activity of my life…all the activity…all the wasted time. What will any of it matter?
Why does tomorrow matter to a person with no real plans? I don’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I think this world needs me. It doesnt. I want it to need me. My silly little ego, listen to it in there, screaming for attention with this drivel.
No. I’m a bag of fluid and flesh, dreaming of importance and attention. That’s about how I see it.
“You Matter” signs are common recently, in people’s yards, on their fences. I’d like to start a sign campaign too.
“Get over yourself. You only WANT to matter.”
It’s so incredibly relaxing to sit in the comfort of oblivion. So peaceful to adopt a who cares attitude. I am absolved of all responsibility.
I was searching the webernet for tips on trimming cat claws a few years back, and came across a video by an animal behavioralist named Dr. Sophia Yin. The video was good, her personality engaging and attractive. Intrigued by what she had to say, I searched for more of her work, and found an article detailing her suicide. In it, a co-worker and friend of hers spoke of her insecurity concerning her career. Even as her business grew by leaps and bounds, apparently she felt she was failing her clientele. Her friend felt differently, as did reviews from her clients. She knew her stuff.
She jogged for exercise, and mentioned to her friend that she “couldn’t outrun the sadness.” They discussed suicide in general terms, but he said he never got the impression that she was struggling to the extent that she was, and on September 28, 2014, Dr. Yin took her own life.
I’m comforted by her story. I suppose I feel less like the chicken sh*t coward that I perceive myself to be, and that society needs me to be so as to maintain its view that suicide is the cowards way out. This woman was a success. Her story is one of exhausting effort and brilliance. Yet, she “couldn’t outrun the sadness.” That simple.
I use her story to justify my feelings. I commiserate to feel connected, less alone, understood. I make her an ally, and comfortably rest in the warmth of realization that sometimes things just aren’t meant to be what they could be. I rest in her choice, I bask in it and savor it. It is so inviting, a sirens call amidst the noise of society’s clamor.
I have a list of names. Those who couldn’t find their way, and chose to take matters into their own hands. It runs the gamut of personalities and career choices.
It is a human list, fraught with pain and confusion as manifested by their actions. It’s a dysfunctional means of coping for me, but as the scales fall from my eyes, I see that all I do is dysfunctional…the things I excel at are just roles I’ve learned to play.
Am I functional? Am I non-dysfunctional? Barely. I’m an actor, and at the end of the day, I open my door and slide into comfy jammies and fuzzy slippers. I hang up my mask and I relax in the comfort of others pain. I dont…judge them, I don’t idolize them…Oh no, wait…I do.
I am comforted that there are those who have achieved much more than I could ever imagine who also were battered, bruised and bewildered by the storms of life. I hold them up, my banner to those who AREN’T CAPABLE of understanding this pain, and I flaunt it in their faces, screaming “Who’s a coward now? Explain their flaws to me…use your twisted textbook knowledge to rationalize the insane acts of the chronically hurting…marginalize them as weak and inept to boost your own ego’s…tell me there’s always a solution.”
Obviously, there isnt.
It’s good to be home.
It’s as though my feelings of despair and hopelessness exist in a secret vault that isn’t accessible at all. All around that vault are littler, less secure vaults that I’ve learned to open so I can wrangle with their contents, bending and twisting them into submission, if only for a while. But THIS vault, where despair resides with its dark friend hopelessness, is locked. I have no key.
Yesterday, I read a story of an ICU nurse who was shot to death as she was driving to work on a freeway. 26 years old, a career based on giving, and her life ended at what may turn out to be random violence.
And yet my stupid ass still exists. Waking up to one’s own reality is tiring. Waking up to the same process of reciting the same mantras: “Let’s get through today. Just today.” Gee, that’s empowering. How full of hope for a brighter future that useless mantra fills me. “I’m blessed beyond my ability to understand why.” Really? Why? WHY? A blessing would be in the form of my accidental death, since I don’t have the balls necessary to do it my fucking self. “Who would take care of my cats?” LOVE that line of stupidity. Might as well follow it up with “Who would wear my underwear?” It makes as much sense. Do your cats a favor. Do the world a favor. Just fucking die, you stupid idiot. It is so unbelievably beyond time to leave. Every stupid ass plan I’ve embarked upon to defeat depression has failed. It isn’t a curable disease, and anyone who says it is full of it. This condition is manageable, which isn’t to imply it’s “sometimes ok.” Its never “sometimes ok.” Its either attacking at full strength or biding it’s time…depression is manageable like sitting in a burning house is manageable – at some point you’re going to run out of breathable air, and flames or asphyxia will kill you. Or the ceiling will crush you. It’s not a question of “if.” Depression is an incurable, “manageable” question of MOTHER FUCKING “WHEN.” It will kill you, if not by bullet, bag, or noose, then by slicing up your soul with crushed dream after obliterated aspiration. It will beat you like a ***** and stand over you, laughing as you cry. It is not a fixable condition, it comes with an expiration date and chips away at you, day after futile, useless day, watching as your strength ebbs. It takes notes. It knows what works.
This is “living?” This waking to panic and self loathing? Waking to a mindset of trudging through an hour, or maybe only half of one, breathing deeply and focusing on the positives. This is living? This curtain of lies I am obligated to pull before my eyes so I can tolerate the next hour followed by more lies to get me through the next one? And the hours after that one, all my bases covered as I continue feeding myself all the bullshit the experts say I need to say to overcome this nasty yet oddly inviting desire to pick up my g*n and aim for the brainstem…insert, angle slightly up, pull…face an asshole of a god, middle finger raised.
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. My whole body is shaking with rage, desire…desire to just freaking die.
The rewards of this useless life no longer outweigh the disadvantages. The fairytale of a caring god is the ultimate act of cruelty. “Pray, child, and he will come to you…in a still, small voice….pray, child, that you will discern this voice, and god will help you…”
WRONG. I say “Simply exist, and the fairytale of a loving god will accompany you into your own personal pit where it will sit with you as you suffer.” All our pathetic stories of a caring deity…what children we are, always needing the universe to spin around us.
Depression will take me. One day. And I’ll happily wipe the shit damn stink of this sewer off my sandals and march into the dark unknown. It has to be better than this crap pile, and to the god that may greet me I raise a middle finger and say “FUCK YOURSELF.”
This morning is a close the drapes morning. Keep out the sunshine, shun any hint of a shitless world. Today I’m reveling in my eternal indefatigable sense of self hate. The world can go on…I can’t stop it, so since I’m at least tall enough to reach the bottom of the sign, I’m gonna ride the ride of self pity today. Strap me in, ring the bell, flip the switch. “Remember to keep your arms and legs inside the ride so as to avoid having them torn off by shit…”
My prayer for today is that a random bullet ends my uselessness. An ICU nurse…the ones who assist us as we toe the line between “he certainly dodged a bullet” and “doctors say its only a matter of time”, randomly executed in her car, on her way to work…f*ck humanity. We’re a piss stain on a beautiful planet. We are a stain.
It will be my prayer from now on, but looks like it’s time to toss back the covers and be “sad”, in all of its connotations. Tomorrow will be another useless day of meaningless distractions, futile attempts to add meaning to the passing of time as my biological clock ticks, one, and now two seconds closer to expiration. Tomorrow I’ll summon the energy of the mindlessly distracted and fumble through a day of nothing, conning myself into believing that my efforts mean something, that they “effect change.” For today, my friend Jack Herer is coming to my rescue, and today can just jump off a cliff.
I’m going to eat hot dogs today. I ordered one years ago in Boston, at a Red Sox game. It cost one dollar, and it came in a piece of bread…not a bun. On a flat piece of bread, gently wrapped around the dog…I was shocked. It was fan-flippin’-tastic, and today, I will eat at least six, similarly served, with mustard and sliced jalapenos. Perhaps one will slide down my gullet and get stuck on my shmullet, closing my frullet and making me snuff it. Wouldn’t that just be grand? Dessert, because who in their right mind skips dessert after eating tubes of abattoir floor scrapings, (everyone knows hot dogs are made of lips ‘n assholes) will be as many lemon creme sandwich cookies as I want. My cat is asleep in my lap. Outside, a maniac won’t concede, a virus rages, a species rails against global warming while subconsciously reveling in its perceived power to destroy a planet that will live for millenia once we destroy ourselves, and the sun is crawling towards sunset this day…but I’m inside. I close my drapes and pet my cat, and “nothing else matters”, as Mr. Hetfield screams.
Don’t bogart that joint, my friend…
“They” say to write things down.
My limits are being tested. I don’t appreciate change, in fact, even though I know it’s beneficial and unavoidable, it just completely sucks. This year…this last year, since May 2019, this is officially one of the worst. I suppose that right about now many of us are saying that.
And yet where is the logic in waiting? In staying? What does tomorrow hold that will be meaningful and relevant, and that is worth staying around for? This …. life. This series of twenty four hour cycles during which I breathe and accomplish. Accomplish what? Enough so that my little chunk of cheese provides for me for one more week? Then, we do it all over again. Why?
I want so much to pour out all the minute details of the past month on this page….some of these details are identical for most of us – lockdown and isolation and too much damn time on our hands. But “they” also say “When it rains, it pours.” I’m soaking wet right now, and can’t find my way out of the rain. Sure, I suppose it’ll stop at some point. The sun will come out, the ground will dry, and life will be roses again. Times like this make me hate roses.
Everything is you, little buddy. Everything is a flash of your face, your life. Except, you’re not here, mixed in with me and all the “everything”, buddy, you’re where I want to be…you’re “over there…”
I read in the news of the death of Dr. Lorna Breen, an emergency room physician in New York. No history of mental illness, according to family, and yet this Sunday, she ended her life. Her father, also a doctor, said that she spoke of situations in the hospital during this pandemic that were extremely stressful. He said that “she was doing her job, and it killed her.” I am basking in this story, and while that may sound rude or inappropriate, you see….I see this woman in a light that many wont. She is “over there.” She has done what I spend most of my waking hours dreaming, fantasizing about doing. She had the courage to make a decision and follow through on a plan that would result in her death, and she did it. She did it. She, in whatever form she now takes, if any, “knows.” She knows what happens at and after the moment of physical death. She is either existing in another realm, plane, dimension, whatever you want to call it, or she is not. As are that man in Ecuador who, just forty eight seconds ago, passed away from corona virus complications, that woman in Cookeville, Tennessee who just succumbed to cancer two hours and seventeen minutes ago, Kobe Bryant and Mother Teresa. I do not rejoice in the death of Dr. Breen. I envy her. I want what she has. Right now, I want the courage and the determination to do what she did. I am tired of the pointless today’s and tomorrows. I am tired of the systems and the processes and the stupidity that turn on my lights and provide me all I can consume. “Civilization” has taken our civility and smashed it on the ground like a billion glass balls.
Someone, somewhere, in all this media coverage of this pandemic, said “Why would we all possibly want a return to normal?” It made me stop and think….what we have come to accept as normal. We will twist and contort and mangle ourselves to achieve some ethereal, misty ideal, even though the damage we are doing to our spirits and souls is irreparable. But achieving that ideal…living that lie, propagating that stereotype, bullying your way to dominion all others be damned…that is our “normal?” That is the ideal, the goal, I am supposed to strive for for the rest of my days? To continue lining the pockets of …
Best to not finish that sentence. Pointless ramblings of a pointless person.
My little buddy, I’ll be writing again soon. “They” say I need to write to you, and ask you for help grieving. “They” say our reunion will be whatever I want it to be, “they” say that it is a proven scientific fact that energy cannot be eliminated, it can only change form. “They” are implying we might see, experience, one another again. “They” are well intentioned, and “they” are either right, or wrong. You were my all. You were my world. You were my soul. I swear….haven’t I dried up and died in the past six months? Who am I anymore? I don’t recognize myself. I’m a total asshole. People and their problems….who cares? I died with you, buddy. The only real difference is my body doesn’t have the sense to stop. I miss you.
“See you in a few hours, Curtis.”
(pause, deep deep struggling breath) “Ok.” (Faint as a whisper.)
Yeah. What real problems do I have? Not that many. Seriously, dude, not that many. Wanna go for a walk? Wanna go to the store? Wanna. . . wanna. . . want to. . . Do you want to. . . What do you want? Most of it is readily and easily accessible, and here, where we are, that’s all that really matters.
You lucky s.o.b.
Count ’em up. You’re buried in blessings, my man.
Zzyzx. What the hell? I mean, who names a street this?
This is Raisin. She’s somewhere around three or four months old, and was abandoned at a park.
She’s helping me heal. She’s a goofball.
The frustration and anger was building inside him. I could see it by his facial expressions and actions, yet he was holding back and not retaliating. Not yet, anyways. He was biding his time, determined to exact his revenge, and he was not the only one, there were more. Still, I continued to antagonize them with childish insults and ridiculous behavior, knowing deep down that I was digging my own grave. Still, deep down, the anger and sadness drove me on, looking for a victim, looking for an outlet.
I didn’t know him, but didn’t like the way he looked. So I treated him like garbage, and instead of walking away, I continued my idiotic behavior, making them angrier and angrier with my insults and laughter.
And inside me the fear continued to build, the knowledge that I was getting myself into a situation that I wouldn’t be able to handle. But what the hell does it matter? I deserve to push back, docile passive aggressive ***** that I am, door-mat to the world that I am. I wanted to be the a**hole, the one pushing their buttons. I deserve my turn at the top, giving orders and making demands, having things go MY way, everyone else be damned.
Still, I’d have to answer to these very angry people, and soon.
That’s when I woke from the dream, an hour before my alarm would sound.
I’m a coward. I fear the world, I fear it’s inhabitants, their thoughts and their actions, their criticisms and opinions, their questions and their remarks. I fear much. I live a passive existence of taking what is given to me and pretending it’s all just fine.
Whatever.
Just a bad dream I had, one that startled me awake.
I will never stop missing you, buddy. Your loss has changed me. It has changed me, and in these three months, I have grown . . . angry. I rage at things that I once laughed off. I am becoming despondent, some would say. I am searching for another “you”, and maybe I shouldn’t be. You have become another voice in my repertoire of imaginary characters, now existing alongside Creature, Entity, Schrindleman, Miss Gwendolyn, Neck, Darnell and Chang, Viktor and Raja. Now there’s you, and we converse throughout the day, in an effort to quell this god forsaken loneliness. Imaginary friends. These are what I have to share my time with, and now you are one.
The dream that was you is over, and what’s left is all around – a bland, ugly world in which all I am doing is breathing, existing, and wondering what to do now.
I love you baby boy. I always will, that will NEVER change. I miss you with everything that I am. You were, and always will be, my heart and my soul, my life and my love, my world. I hope to see you again, Hooks.
Why do we assume that the limitations of our human brain will follow us into an afterlife? Why do we assume we will continue suffering as we are now, when we are dead?
Today is two weeks.
What is this thing, life? Just breathing, nothing more. It’s just weather, without you my little love, nothing more. I miss you.
March 2, 2012 – May 1, 2019
My little boy. Seven years was all we got together. I hoped and dreamed for more, but no, that can’t happen.
I will miss you eternally, Taco. Handsome-Perfect. Boogie. Bug. Hooks.
You changed my life, little boy. You taught me how to love, when noone else could. You showed me what love feels like, when others failed. You are love. You are my eternal friend, my little kitty.
I’ll miss you from today until a time when whatever I am can no longer exist in any form, and then far, far beyond that. I love you so much.
You’re my heart and my soul, my love and my life. You’re my world.
I have to give you back now.
Rest, little boy. I miss you. I love you. I love you.
Why?
My love. My heart. My soul. You’ve taken them all, and there is no answer why.
Why?
Rosemary requested release, and the memories returned to the people. . .
Hmmm.
So I wonder what exactly is going through Jonas’s mind, knowing that.
No spoilers. Still reading. Good story.
– NOT SUICIDE RELATED.Just reminiscing. –
My dad could build. He wasn’t a contractor, per se, he was in the telecommunications business. But somewhere along the way, someone taught him how to build. Stuff, things.
My town recently passed an ordinance banning plastic grocery bags, because apparently they are evil and destructive and naughty, and the universe must be saved from them. So, today, I bought three cookies and a small bag of potato chips and left the store holding one of those extra gonzo size heavy duty paper grocery sacks designated as “1/6 BBL (70#) with “Renewable, recyclable, sustainable, and contains minimum 40% post-consumer material” printed on the bottom. Whew. The future of Earth is now safe, for eons to come.
Now, I must decide what to do with my extra gonzo bag.
As a kid, my dad built this “thing” – it was a storage compartment and trash can combo. The bottom part of it featured an area into which this sort of bag could be installed and held in place utilizing a simple binder clip assembly, filled with garbage and removed and replaced as needed. It worked wonderfully. Above that, was a storage area just slightly larger than these extra gonzo bags, into which as many as a hundred or so could be stored, provided they were folded neatly.
This contraption was just one of many such contraptions that dad designed and built. He did the lions share of the work on an addition to our family home when I was young. It took years of work on weekends and evenings, after his full time job, and mom hated that he insisted on doing as much of the work as possible in order to save money, but one day many years later, it was. . . complete. Dad’s greatest accomplishment, a memorial and testament to his skill and ability.
Dad found a basketball goal post for me once. It was buried in someone’s back yard, and he talked them into selling it so I could have it. It took the better part of a Saturday to remove it, he and I working together under a sweltering southwest Texas desert sun. At one point, the use of a heavy metal bar and a sledge hammer was necessary to break up some concrete. I had never swung a sledge hammer at the miniscule end of a steel bar before, and at the age of 14, lacked a refined sense of hand – eye coordination, but dad held the bar in his hands, told me to “focus only on the end of the bar, and try not to miss and hit my arms.”
I did, and I didnt. And roughly two weeks later, I had a nice new goal post in my front yard.
Dad trusted me that day. Without resevation, without visible doubt. He just told me what to do, and waited for me to do it. And I did it.
So, today, I’m staring at this extra gonzo paper bag, and trying to figure out where I’ll store it when I get home, but I don’t build. I do other things, but unlike dad, I don’t build.
I’ll probably use it to dispose of my cats used litter, since my city now says I can no longer purchase groceries and place them in plastic bags, which I then filled with the same litter.
I’ve hated my dad, disliked my dad, liked my dad, loved my dad, ignored him, scoffed at and disrespected him, secretly imagined killing him, and cleaned him after he soiled himself a few years before alzheimers claimed him. I shaved his face in a hospital once, and listened to him ramble about nothing and everything as we sat eating fried chicken in a fast food joint, during the early days of alzheimers. And I’ve buried my dad. I pinned two of his military service medals on the lapels of his suit jacket as he lay in his casket, the day of his funeral, and fought back tears as he received a twenty one gun salute at the cemetery, under not a sweltering sun, but a mild October sun in the desert of southwest Texas.
Dad broke me down, along with mom, over a lot of years. It’s what parents do. It’s what humans do. They succesfully crushed my spirit, and stifled me through years of just being human. It’s everyone’s story, the only difference is the names, the places, the dates, yeah, the details. Parents crush child, child hates parents, child buries parents, child reconciles as best they can, or maybe not.
I suppose I can start a collection of 1/6 BBL (70#) bags now, thanks to a new municipal ordinance.
Chuckle. Sigh.
I miss you, Dad.
Occasionally I need to restore perspective to my kooky mind.
Carl Sagans speech helps.
It reminds me how darn big everything really is, and how insignificant I am.
A photo of Earth, taken from somewhere around four trillion miles away, I believe, by a Voyager spacecraft, many years ago. Just a pale blue dot, inhabited by weenies.
Pass the mustard.
I am a medical transport driver, driving people to and from doctors appointments.
I am learning to value simplicity these days. To see blessings where previously I saw nothing.
Don had a ride scheduled for 7:00 this morning. He lives in an assisted living facility, or as another passenger referred to them recently, “a warehouse for the dying.”
I arrived at 7, and the staff was running a bit behind, so they didn’t have him quite ready. Rush, rush, rush, ok, he’s ready to go. Out the door and into the van and off we go. Don is in a wheelchair. He is probably in his seventies, and his hands are large, and you can see that at one time he did physical work with them. His voice is deep and gruff.
“You’re going to have about a half hour before your appointment, and then afterwards, I’ll be bringing you back, Don.” I told him. “Let’s just get it done.” was his quiet reply.
At the doctors office at 7:45, the front desk informed Don someone had made a scheduling error, and his appointment had been moved out two weeks, “You should’ve received a call, we’re so sorry Don.”
So we get back in the van, Don and his wheelchair all secured down nice and tight, and we head back to his warehouse, uhh, sorry, assisted living facility. I’m craving pancakes, and I wonder if Don had breakfast. I did, but I’m craving pancakes, bacon, coffee, the works. Mmmm.
“Don, did your staff give you breakfast?” I inquire.
“No.” In his deep, stern voice. It belies disappointment and desire, but it confirms his reality – no breakfast, it’ll just have to wait, when in days past, it didn’t have to wait, because Don didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t need to.
“No.”
It’s now after 8:00. Don’s appointment wasn’t until 8:20, and his return ride was scheduled for 9:45. By the time he would’ve been back at the ware- uhh, sorry, facility, it would’ve been after 10:00, and maybe he would’ve received breakfast, brunch, lunch, who the hell knows.
Don struck me as a withered version of his younger days, when HE ran the show. When schedules revolved around him, and things were made and maintained through his sweat and effort. He reminded me of a broken down mans-man. He has the attitude of a man who knows he is in decline, who knows he’s been placed in a warehouse for the dying, where he will wait. For everything. For food. For cleaning. For laundry, for visits, for rides, for sunrise, for sunset, for tedious routine that finally leads to a day when he just won’t have to wait any damn longer, because. . . well, because. Don knows this. Resignation and memory are his companions.
I wheeled Don back inside, and joked with him that “at least we got to see some scenery and freeze our balls off.”(Its COLD here today.)
He chuckled.
“It was a good ride” was his reply, as he went inside to wait for his overdue breakfast.
I drove to a fast food place, and parked. As I walked across the parking lot, thinking of hot coffee and a baked apple pie, I realized that today, right now, RIGHT NOW, life is ok. It’s ok. It’s simple, it’s got everything I need, and that’s a good thing.
Simplicity. I have my independence, I come and go as I please, and I have two cats that I love. And I have coffee and an apple pie waiting for me.
I want the world and all its shallow, empty lying promises – but right now, I’ve got everything I need. I want much more than I need. We all do. We don’t know, CAN’T know, contentment. It’s not our nature. Sigh. The world has been kicking my ass, all of our asses, and it will continue to, but for now, it can wait for me and my coffee.
What did I do with the darn cream? It was right here. . .
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