The Inner Track

Saxophone is playing in a trilling descent. Chimes jingle so softly, as if the slightest of breezes has arisen moving the thin metal against metal without a human hand involved. Somewhere in the background a very muted electric bass plays a soft bottom end. A trifling riff off an electric piano floats in and out of the soundscape. 

A large green candle burns. Me, I always opted for the bulky candles, the two- or three-inch round cylinders kind.  Big candles will not tip over easily on top of my poverty bookcase. Four cinder blocks and two of the cheapest pine boards hold an avocado plant, the candle, an acrylic cube called the rainbow box because of the tinted triangles of color inside. 

Aside the bookshelves sits a small squat table with a Marantz 30-watt tube amplifier and a Phillips turntable, wires stretch out to a decent pair of speakers. On the poverty bookshelves are also about 200 long playing records; classic jazz and jam bands-the music of heads and hipsters. A cheap green carpet covers most of the linoleum flower. As my candle burns, as the amplifier gives off its blue light and as the turntable spins round the jazz music moves the room from the mundane into a haven. How simple and yet so complicated a moment. 

Outside the leaded paned windows are the cold wind and slight snow that falls in late February here. The old windows are useless shields against the north wind. The old steam radiator also does not do much to deflect the brunt of the chill away from the space. It is either off or on, there is no middle ground. Still the life I live contained within these six planes, roof, floor and four walls, is special. So simple yes but so very complicated. 

[Today, I am sitting at a white Formica table using a white plastic chair. I have Bluetooth headphones on playing this music that is now forty years old. The music separates me from the reality of this cold coffee shop on this cold February day. It seems that the world has changed, and that room is clearly and permanently locked away from reality but will always exist in my mind.  

The room of candlelight and jazz might have disappeared yesterday when I talked to the man who oversees the building where the corporeal room once was.  He manages the place right now. He gently told me the room was ripped out during a renovation and is now part of a larger room, a laundry. Or maybe it is events conspiring to show me that I lost the battle to keep that part of my spirit alive. One false step and away it went.] 

Richard Brautigan wrote a book called “In Watermelon Sugar”. The only thing I remember about it is a line that goes, “...my deeds are done, and done again, as all my deeds are done, in watermelon sugar.” The line, the lyric without a song, takes me to a space of youth when the greatest of treats was a sweet ripe watermelon. There was a time when the mere scent of watermelon could set my sense a tingle. If only I have lived my life with the joy and delight of anticipating and then tasting a dark green watermelon, and it only the joy of that scent had been able to keep my joy of living alive, I would be a human being in full. 

I am sorry for the person I am. I am sorry for not being the person I should have been. 

Soft jazz plays on taking me back to the space where I would sit at my student desk and watch the candle burn. I would have to flip the record at some point, but I would watch the candle flicker in the cool breeze seeping in through the window. The shadows of the avocado plant would dance upon the wall. Lost in that shadow world I would pull my jacket a little tighter and just be. Time to close that space perhaps forever and be the person I wanted to be but never became. And the candle burns out. The track ends with the skrit, skrrit sound of the needle on the inner track. I take my headphones off and walk into today’s light.

Loss

One foot in front of another, this is how we address life al the good and the bad. We must move to live. We must knowingly and gently accept that what comes will come.  Oh we can fight and struggle to achieve but in the end to what purpose.? Walking forward we must take on the moments of each day with neither love nor hatred, just awareness and acceptance.

Today my mind is in an odd space.  I am completely tired and fed up with the political world in which I live.  As to my day to day life, it has become rote to the point of being numbing.  The weather, well what can I do about it?  As a result why talk about it unless it is to offer a historical fact such as stating the sunshine is a relief (it is) or noting it snowed a ton the other day.

Four decades ago I began a series of friendships that have lasted my life. It is hard to explain why these bonds forged at university were/are so strong.  Still, they remain .  Sometimes they bubble up on Facebook with a stray comment. Sometimes an e-mail comes and reminds me of the value of the sender to my life.

Sometimes the friendship ends.  Recently the days have taken some people I love from my orbit.  The sense of loss is real.  The hurt is only moderated by the fact that I can immerse myself in the mundane things of my day to day life.  Knowing that every person who walks this earth, one foot after another, will feel such loss does not ameliorate the pain.  So it goes. 

Loss to an existentialist is both reality and tough.  There is only this moment once.  When we move past it that universe is gone. Staring into the empty spaces of my life created by the passing of friend I feel hurt, I feel confusion, I feel an ache.  So it goes, one foot after another.

Now

One day you look around and you realize this is it. This is where you are. You are not going to get any younger.  You aren’t going to lose all that weight. You are not going to write that book.  You are not going to pick the hot stock. This is as good as it gets.  In fact, the ride only gets bumpier from here. 

So what is there to do? I guess you suck it up and you assess where you stand.  Are you a winner or a loser.  Have you created as much as you have destroyed.  What have you killed and what have you saved. Then, and only then, after the accounting is done you have to accept that this is all transient and has no meaning. The only meaning is in the now. 

Whatever we have amassed will be disbursed.  Whatever we have built will decay.  Whatever we have said, be it trivial or on par with the thoughts of Aristotle, well it will fade eventually into nothing.  What we have loved will die. But don’t panic, it is okay.

Acceptance. Equanimity. Compassion. Understanding.  These concepts are the key. All of us exist in a condition of pain. Still, we are charged with living in loving kindness. By letting our pain not play the center role in our life we are freed to make this moment, this breath, better for you and better for me.

We are like the monkey trapped with our hand in the gourd because we won’t let go of the banana inside.  If we let it go, if we let it be, we are freed to act with love and mercy.  The past belongs to the past.  The future is nonexistent. Make this now, this what is reality, better for all.

Let the Music Carry You Away

The past few days I have been listening to Willie Nelson’s “God’s Problem Child”.  I have really enjoyed this package of songs.  For the most part the songs are wistful and longing. This is Willie singing about running out of time and losing friends.  His guitar playing is superb and his voice is so perfect for these longing, almost mournful, ballads.

Over the years I have run hot and cold over Willie.  I have seen him perform live several times.  I think the best time was with the Highwaymen.  I have always appreciated his guitar playing, however his song choice has oft times left me scratching my head.  Willie is an iconoclast and thus I won’t criticize him.  However there are albums that really work, like Stardust, and others that don’t like his covers of Frank Sinatra tunes.

My musical taste was ignited by playground talk when I was in 6th or 7th grade.  I remember people talking about Blood, Sweat and Tears song “Spinning Wheels”, the hit of the day.  (I am talking abaout you Valerie Nixon Caulfield). That night I started to listen to a Philco white and gold plastic radio that someone had put in my bedroom.  Initially, I immersed my self in the pop and soul hits of the day.  God some of the stuff was positively weird and other bits were classic.  The O’Jays, the Hughes Corporation, Tommy James, Peter, Paul and Mary all rang through my head.

One day I discovered my there was a knob that said AM/FM and I flipped it.  The change flipped me.  Suddenly I was listening to the Chambers Brothers singing “Time Has Come Today.”  This was followed up by Fairport Convention and then Muddy Waters and then David Ackles and then the good old Grateful Dead.  One dose of Casey Jones and I was a Deadhead, once and forever.  FM radio in 1968 was transformational.

The music was new, it was fresh and it was constantly evolving.  The bands moved from traditional formats of 2-3 minutes with a repeating chorus to something that was far, far beyond.  I think the first time I listened to “The Other One”, I was totally captivated by the adventurous nature of the musicians exploration of sound.

Once I discovered marijuana and headphones (I was probably 12 years of age), music became my guide through life. Almost any life situation was captured in a lyric.  San Francisco bands were just sooooo out there.  Smoking a joint and listening to something like the Dead’s “Ripple”, well damn did it get any better?

Why have have I gone down this discussion.  Did I want to reemphasize I started using the now legal (sort of) weed 51 years ago?  Nyah.  Did I want to offer a commentary about how moribund over the air radio and Sirius are?  Nyah, just listen and you can figure that out for yourself.

The reason I decided to talk about this is that last night when I was doing the pots and pans post dinner I needed something to listen to.  At that point I came upon Jerry Garcia singing the dated classic “Friend of the Devil” on a solo acoustic guitar.  In about seven minutes I was transported back to a time when music was life for me.  In listening to Mr. Garcia sing that song and noodle around on an his six string with all the talent he could muster, the hope of the late 1960s filled me again.  It lasted for just a moment, but damn it was amazing.  You should try and go there sometime.

Hey don’t take my word that the music is magic.  Give it a listen.

https://youtu.be/fhG_PnM0Vq0

For Saint Valentine

02/14/19

Everything but the Girl is singing Elvis Costello’s Allison. Nicely done by the duo I would say. For today the only issue I have with the song is that a soft mellow acoustic mix doesn’t drown out the machine grinding out frozen drinks the baristas make. Who the fuck needs a glorified caffeinated milkshake on a 17F day? And the band sings, “I think somebody should put out the big light, because I can’t stand to see you this way…”.

This past weekend I was useless.  I tended a fire, I drank decaf espressos, and I read a novel. The main character of the novel I read supposedly had a first edition hardcover of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. This bit of the novel comes up in my mind now because the coffee shop’s playlist has moved on.  The possession of this old tome comes up in my mind now because the good old Grateful Dead are singing Uncle John’s Band.

Why you wonder, does hearing Uncle John’s Band remind of a mention of Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece in a novel about a purportedly alien child? Well, the Grateful Dead’s music publishing company was Ice Nine. Ice Nine was fictional ice that froze at a temperature higher than 32F.  Ice Nine was a concept in another Vonnegut novel, Cat’s Cradle. Vonnegut was the prophet of the day back then. His tales of Kilgore Trout and Billy Pilgrim and all the other folks he created were part of our sacred texts.

So far distant is that moment from now. Back then we were a country in full; we were making Thunderbirds.  We were powerful and confident. Now, we as a nation, are curling up in a fetal ball afraid of all that is around us and afraid to move forward. We stand still, we stagnate, we just can’t figure out what we want or how to get there. America is close to a clinical diagnosis of being a bipolar nation. I miss the old days and I sure as hell hope we get up off the floor and at least move forward.

(The Playlist Moves Into Songs of the Heart).

“Oh, if I’d only known what your heart cost…”, the mix is onto this new song, a Jackson Browne tune This music leaves me melancholy every time I hear it. To all the women I have been involved with, I don’t think I ever truly knew what yourheart cost. Nights spent listening to Stevie Nicks singing Landslide as we drank wine and knarfed on Triscuits and cheddar cheese, well, all I thought about was me and what I wanted from you. Back then I don’t think I ever broke through the barrier of my own self-interest. All I cared about was my satisfaction.

Now the time is short, and I realize how much I lost out on in those moments when the phrase I, me, mine was my mantra. When your heart is open you grow. There is a dynamic that occurs when you share a meaningful space with another heart. This moment, this zone is fertile and nurturing. This life may all be illusion but being open to loving kindness opens us up to growth. On every platform where I stood waiting for the next train with you, if my heart had been open, I might have captured part of your bright spinning spirit.

Can you hear me tonight as this train rumbles on to its downtown destinations? If I had listened, I would have known your heart’s secrets. If I had been open, I would have felt the full reality of your love. I am left with the question of what will I gain in these moments as the game clock runs out as I approach the human heart with a new sense of openness?

May my heart be as open and direct as it can be from here until the end. May the actions I take be filled with compassion and mercy and love. May the words I speak be carefully weighted to tell the truth without causing pain. Let me be the one imbued with a sense of greater understanding. Let me be a being so aware and intertwined with the threads of life that my passing will be marked with warm memories.

Understand my actions to date have always been my own. I take the blame for these things I have done. For so long I have lived with so many moments of regret things I never internalized and responded to. It is so hard to grown. It is so hard to be a gentle soul.

The song I am listening to is bringing tears to my eyes. These lyrics always remind of one person to who I did so much damage. I just didn’t get what she needed or how delicate a situation she was in.

Oh well I must stop now. My heart has passed through a intense space in these last few minutes. I have gone from rambling in my keyboarding to placing my emotions inside a Waring blender. 20 minutes that is all it took. I never knew what love was, not then. I knew what desire was. I knew what lust was. I didn’t know what I needed to offer to make love grow. I didn’t know what I had to commit to achieve real love.

The things I could have retrieved from so many hearts had I just been open.The growth I could have had if I had committed to a real passion. I wonder how the “loves” I have had would sketch out the shape of my heart? Would they create a pencil drawing of a piece of trash shaped like the St. Valentine’s Day heart, the image on cards and candy boxes? Or maybe the image would be of a tiny piece of granite. God, I hope the memories they hold are better that the ones I perceive I deserve.

All the rest of my days I will try to walk with awareness. All the rest of my path, I will try to step lightly. My search has been reoriented. No matter how many roads I walk I will try to be open. The light is falling, and I must go now.

In a white world I walk out renewed by placing words on paper.

In a white world of ice and snow I have found a path to warmth.

In a white world I see the path to purification.

When I look around me

I can see

What it is that I must do, as these days are turning into night.

A soft acoustic guitar plays a gentle rhyme 

It is a moment of this elusive thing called time 

But I will find openness for the hearts that approach me going forward.

Take a breath

Even cold air feels alright.

Lincoln’s Birthday

02/12/19

Today used to be one of two national holidays in the month of February.  Lincoln and Washington, we celebrated them with two separate days off from school.  I kind of miss that.  I know a trade off was made and we got another Monday off in another month but still it was tradition.

53 years ago, this date I broke my arm on Patsy’s Hill in Pedricktown, NJ. A fractured pair of bones in my left forearm changed my life. 

The injury left me with scars deeper the half inch larger left wrist which is now part of my body. Sledding into that tree led to obesity. Obesity led to a tortured spate of years which created an all-consuming sense of self-doubt inside of me. Tsk tsk, and oh well, the snowball of negativity that event caused for me was so long ago and who gives a flaming fuck.

Thing is from that day on I have been insecure about my looks, my value, my ability to be loved.  Thing is from that day no matter how much I grow and evolve, I am still ten years old inside and broken.  Events unanticipated, yeah they change us.

Grilled Cheese and Soup on a Cold Day

Sunday morning arrives with grey sky and dirty white snow out the bay window. Breakfast starts with a lukewarm cup of yesterday’s decaf reheated in the microwave.  Some store brand wheat squares combined with walnuts, skim milk and blackberries are my breakfast.  I threw a couple of almonds in my mouth to munch on. Old tactic of mine just to clear away the morning mouth before I set upon this “feast” with ravenous hunger.

Sitting alone  I am drinking my orange juice from a small jam jar. The label won’t peel off the damn thing despite repeated trips through the dishwasher.  My youngest son told me I was looking like a hobo drinking from this same jar yesterday. (Don’t worry it has been washed in the meantime).  My reply was that I had been drinking from Mason jars for years, so it my Crofter’s Premium Spread organic seedless raspberry jam glass was just an evolution in practice.

Wreath the cat is running around being bat shit crazy.  Up one chair arm over to the coffee table and then dashing up and down the stairs three or four times all in about thirty seconds.  Living with a Siamese cat is peaceful and calming-said nobody ever.  I actually love the galloping thump, thump, thump of cat paws across the wood floors. In a kitten’s energy we see the life force we wish we all had.  Twelve different directions at full speed in 90 seconds while sliding and caroming off our furniture claws out going straight up the furniture at times, oh to live like that.

My plan for today is simple, sort and clean.  After I have had breakfast I plan to go up to my rooms and sort through old linens and towels.  What is still functional but not needed will be sent off to Goodwill latter in the week.  (I will wash my breakfast dishes before I get around to doing the sorting.  My bed was made before I got down here.  Maybe, I will read a bit before I take on the tasks in the bedroom.  I have been meaning to for days now but I never seem to get around to it.  Might be time to create a little space to do some reading.  A chapter each in a novel and also one in the philosophy book I purchased.

(Time passes)

It is about 11:15 am now and I am starting the fifth chapter of the novel.  The story is entitled, Where the Stars Meet the Forest by Glenn Vander.  The tale is a first novel.  Before I sat down to read it I got a fire going in the wood stove. One thing led to another and I am in the midst of a tale of a ornithologist befriending a child who claims to be an alien.  So far no surprises in the narrative but still a fun read.  Maybe it is okay to take some time and just read today.  When the boys wake up I will send them out to get bagels for breakfast. At 20F and cloudy I just don’t want to go out.  I am going to throw another piece of wood on the fire and get back to the novel now.  I will check in again later.

(Time passes)

About an hour has passed.  I have spent the majority of that time reading a tale of an “alien” child set in southern Illinois down along the river.  In order to keep my reading space cozy I have thrown another couple of logs on the fire and used the bellows to get the fire to where I want it.  Nobody else in this house seems to be moving.  The youngest is lounging in my room with his phone and the cat.  The oldest is sleeping like a bump on a log.  I think I may take my shower now before people’s bellies tell them food requires them to make some affirmative sign to the bringer of sustenance. Yeah, a shower sounds good right about now.

The book asks a question in a round about way, at least in this first third of the narrative. What is a miracle. The alien child repeatedly states she needs to see miracles. A textbook style definition of a miracle is an event not explicable by natural or scientific laws often attributed to a deity or some holy being. Canonization for those of us who grew up in heavily Catholic areas requires a presumptive saint to be credited with a minimum of two miracles.

The book is taking a slightly different tact.  Life in all its many forms is providing the miracles.  The alien child Ursa, sees baby birds in a next in the wild.  She announces this as her first miracle observed.  Next, she sees a little of kittens who promptly get named after Shakespeare’s primary characters, Hamlet, Juliet, MacBeth, etc.  The mewing little felines are dubbed the second miracle.  Tagging new life as a miracle makes sense to me but the reader’s expectation given the narrative is for something more.  We will see.  Probably going to be a whole day of simply tending the fire and reading.

(Time Passes)

Darkness has fallen over this the most western part of the eastern time zone.  The fire in the wood stove has been going all day.  I have fed the kids a couple of pastys for dinner. Somehow I managed to finish that 300 page novel in the course of about ten hours lounging about in my sweat pants.  Why I have sweat pants, or rather why I bought them, eludes me.  However, today they made perfect sense. A day wasted.  A day is gone, but it passed well for I feel mentally have recharged.  The book is a fun read. The ending was okay but the rest of the book had enough twists and turns to keep me glued to it all day.  Guess I will throw another log on the fire.  Did I mention it started snowing again?

What are miracles.  Well, love and life are two biggies. I think grilled cheese and tomato soup also qualify on a cold evening.

To Hell with Memes

A meme I saw this morning, “Having "safe heroin injection sites" makes about as much sense as having "a drunk driving lane" on the highway.”

Here is the problem with memes, while they are fun, and while they give us a reason to pump our fists in the air and say “F*ckin’ A man,” they don’t deal very well with the nuances of reality.

Government statistics showed that about a million people in the United States used heroin last year.  That 1 in 325 Americans using heroin and a higher proportion of the population in total are using syringes illicitly; there are other illicit drugs by administered by injection.

About 10% of the new HIV diagnoses in the last year studied came from IV drug use, i.e., these came from people who were using needles previously contaminated by an HIV positive person.  Additionally, various strains of Hepatitis and other blood born disorders are transmitted this way. Violence against IV users injecting in seedy environments is significant.

HIV, Hepatitis and trauma from violence amongst the uninsured carry direct economic costs.  ER expenses, if you have been following the news carry a direct and highly expensive cost to the public health system. Almost all of these folks are uninsured. As a result the hospital gets stuck with the bill. The cost ends up getting shared with all of us through higher insurance premiums.

My guess is that having safe injection sites reduces these medical costs by a phenomenal factor.  The monthly rent for an empty store front and the cost of 10,000 clean syringes probably will cost the American health system a whole lot less than one ER visit by a HIV positive junkie who has had the holy crap beat out of ‘em at a shooting gallery (or whatever the term used is today).

Clearly there are negative costs from safe injection sites.  Junkies are unreliable and they often steal to support their habits.  An increase in property based crimes near the clinic is possible if not probable. Additionally, the real estate value of adjourning properties drops. I am sure there are twenty more other issues that could be bantered about.

But there is a real social issue that has to be hashed out when you contemplate safe injection sites. It needs careful and considered thought. The problem with memes is they divert us from significant conversations about real issues.  How real? I usually deal with a couple of heroin addicts in the course of a two to three day span, I would venture of the people I see trying to get their licenses back after drunk driving offenses the number categorized as opioid dependent is about 15%.

I am not trying to bust my friend’s balls.  I hope he knows that.  Facebook based on our short attention spans and its immediacy just cries out for memes.  I usually laugh at the ones my conservative friends post because while they are completely opposite of my political beliefs they can be funny. But this one, well it kind of hit a nerve with me.

Memes are easy to post.  Honest political discourse these days is virtually impossible.

Again, let me emphasize this is not a tack on my friend or his values. This is a challenge to the way we use Facebook. Maybe it would be better said that it is a challenge to what Facebook is doing to us.

God Only Knows

The wind is blowing hard and fast.

Snow plows scrape and pound across the macadam,

And the world is brightly white.

In four minutes I must flee.

I stare at the Buddha in blue jeans  frothing milk,

Off to my side sits the fur lined hat I borrowed from my son.

When I gaze out the floor to ceiling glass all I see is white.

When I just sit I hear John Prine singing...

“Surround me with your boundless love...”

A day like today screams for compassion

For boundless love.

A day like today focuses the heart.

At day’s end there will be a fire in the fireplace,

Hot cocoa sans marshmallows in my hand,
and a comfy armchair.

A moment to recharge accepted boundless love. 

Vampires Pt 2

So after I posted the piece about supernatural television trying to help us with our innermost longing for existential meaning this story popped up in my Apple Newsfeed.  Interesting take on what in my flailing arms style I was trying to convert.  I am just glad someone else noticed what I notices.

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/amphtml/bimadewunmi/good-place-russian-doll-natasha-lyonne-capitalism

Vampire, Aliens and Time Travellers, Oh My.

So What If There Were Vampires?

Took a survey of what I watch on the television last night.  My choices divide between crimes shows and supernatural or fantasy programs.  The latter provides the bulk of my viewing please.  This category break down into about four sub genres; people who don’t die (this includes vampires and people repreating the last day of their lives), people returning from the future trying to save us form what lays ahead, aliens among us and space travel.  The one quirky outlier of this genre is The Good Place which focuses pretty much entirely on moral philosophy as opposed the characters being dead and awaiting judgments.

Note the first category, the cop shows are colder and filmed in grim grey tones.  These tend to focus on logic, intuition and procedure.  I have been watching mostly police shows from Europe, i.e., Spain, Britain, France and Finland.  A murder is usually involved and the sorting out of the horrors takes an arc of six episodes. I think I am draw to these based on the training my mind has received, you know law school and stuff like that.

I really want to focus on the second genre.  Here are a few of shows I have been watching, Humans, Roswell NM (the new one) and Travellers.  I did binge watch most of True Blood. The popularity of these shows implies to me that we the television viewing audience, (well, maybe it is the television writing class), have trouble with the issues of potentially finite mortality.  Also, we (they) are also struggling with what is moral and what is not. Most of the plot lines involve powers both wonderful and frightening and extended if not eternal life confronting what motivates and animates us of ordinary flesh and a short span of existence.  Why do we do good is implied in almost every story line, sometimes it is express, but impliedly it is there every single episode. 

True Blood had characters that were purportedly 2000 and 3000 years old.  The. writers implied that living over that period stripped these beings of any sense of the burdens, fears and joys that most of us mortals live with day to day.  Travellers had characters who were filled with purpose, they were hellbent trying to avoid a dystopian future.  These beings once they came from the austere dark world of synthetic food and cowering in glorified huge yurts to be protected from the befouled environment. However, they become enchanted with the choices we humans currently have as to lifestyle, diet and philosophy. 

Religion in our modern world is fading.  Those in standard Protestant denominations refer to the current generation as the great unchurched mass.  Pews are empty and coffers are drying up.  I wonder if the prevalence of such programming is sort of bubbling up and out of our desires for more than a span of 70 odd years. In the past we had clerics to dazzle us we heaven or threaten to damn us all to hell; in either case we existed after our mortal bodies failed.  I wonder if the tales of aliens and the undead are our creation of a new cannon of hope to stand against existential angst.

Me, I am not looking at these programs for that bulwark against the meaninglessness of life.  I am watching the programs because they have attractive women with slim figures, taunt bellies and perky breasts all wearing beautiful clothing.  But I think an argument can be made that people have always told stories of the supernatural to express fundamental concerns about the limitations of human life.  From Grimm’s Tales to H.G. Wells to H.P. Lovecraft to indigenous peoples origin stories of fantastic eagles and other beasts from the sky, humans have looked for more than the existence that what is found between the forceps and the headstone. 

Maybe I am wrong but I really do think the popularity of these programs is tied to so innate will toward life plus more hard wired into our psychological makeup.  Time to go back to work.

Another Day

Ice storm came through last night.  The roads are a mess.  Apparently, this is the first part of a one/two punch.  As the day goes on it will get above freezing and some melting will occur.  As the night comes on the temperatures will drop and there will be more freezing rain.  Welcome to the Midwest in February.  

It is lunch time and I am hanging out at the coffee shop.  The place is a refuge from my workplace.  Me, I am a firm believer in having that clear split between morning at the office and afternoon at the office.  There is just something important about being away from your desk that keeps the mind from growing truly numb.

Today I am listening to an old Willie Nelson recording called God’s Problem Child.  The current song has nice lyrics,

I followed you to hell and back
I'll follow you again
No matter where you take me
It's someplace that I ain't been
And I'll go to hell believin'
True love, you're still my friend
From the start to the finish
And until the bitter end
I lived my life believin'
True love, you're still my friend
When the whole damn thing is over
And we reach our journey's end
I'll leave this world believin'
True love, you're still my friend.

Great sentiments from the old dope smoking, cantankerous, grizzled old singer of songs for the average person.  Willie’s thought are thoughts that cross all our minds.  Willie’s voice is like a well-worn leather coat, soft comfortable and maybe just a little bit ragged but made with enough style and craftsman ship that you will never abandon it.

My wife is out of town and so I am acting as housekeeper to my two sons. This requires making sure they are off to appointments and that they are fed.  Someone, well my wife, left us about a week’s worth of prepackaged meals that I just must warm up for the most part.  The issues are not that I have to do this, but it comes at a price.  At days end after a full day of work’s draining activity, after the 30-40 minutes of prep and the 20 minutes of clean up after dinner I am dead.  This usually leaves me lying on the couch watching Netflix on my iPad (and occasionally playing with the cat).

I watched the series Russian Doll over the weekend.  I loved it.  The basic conceit is the same as that of Groundhog Day.  The lead actress dies 30 minutes into the first episode, and she keeps reliving and reliving the 30 minutes to a day between the starting point and her death.  It is funny, it is dirty, it is rude, and it is imbued with tons of moral philosophy issues.  About every two minutes there is an issue of what or wrong that surfaces.  Russian Doll is not governed by the normal rules of what these kinds of stories and that is a good thing.  Some reviewer called it magical realism.  I am willing to say yeah to that.  The story has a feel that it could have come from someone like Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s mind.

Having finished Russian Doll, I have moved onto the Finnish cop drama Bordertown’s second season.  I watch this with subtitles.  I find the tone and the inflection of the voicing some important in a drama.  Watching a dubbed version cuts so much away from what the actors are trying to do.  An actor acts with voice and tone and gesture and the interaction of all three is needed to be seen to capture the art of the performance.  I am only a couple of episodes away from the end of this season.  It is good, but the first season was better.

Willie is singing, “I woke up still not dead today, the gardener did not find me that way…”.  Cute song.  I can empathize.  Not a bad disc.

Oh well, it is back to the old bump and grind.  Four people.  Four stories. Four decisions. My emotions are not really steeled for this, but I will be ready once I sit down in that chair.

Old Riders of the West

As I am doing the dishes tonight I am listening to the New Riders of the Purple Sage.  For some reason the combination of the ritual of dishes and music made me think of an old high school friend with whom I occasionally correspond.

I think the reason she came to mind was because back in high school the only person I could get to listen to this New Rider’s album (when I brought it into my junior year third period English class) was Bobby Romano.  Bobby died a bit back, at least according to my class’s webpage. Yeah, the fact that he is gone started me thinking about how my corresponding friend and I keep firing notes back and forth when another classmate dies.  To my mind the class of 1974 is losing a large number of people just way too early.

Oh well, the country strains of this music soothes me as I deal with the issues of my life. Funny about that though, it is more the general feel of the music than the music itself.  Listening to the music now it is quite simplistic structurally.  Listening to the lyrics the songs are either sexist or naïve.  But as long as the music is simply in the background acting as aural wallpaper it is like an old worn coat, comfortable and comforting, but a bit ugly and way out of style.

My hope is for a period of quiet in the notes on deaths of those we have known.  It would be nice to find a period of gentle breezes, warm sunlight with nothing to mourn.

For a taste of my worn out of style coat click the link.

https://youtu.be/Mdtp34c_RMs

Me and Gordon

The Gordian Knot is a legend associated with Alexander the Great. It is often used as a metaphor for an intractable problem (disentangling an "impossible" knot) solved easily by finding a loophole or thinking creatively ( I.e., Alexander using his sword to cut the Gordian knot as opposed to untiring it).

My psyche is a Gordian knot. The tangled ball  is equal parts guilt, lust, insecurity, self aggrandizing, religion and drive for achievement.  That last bit and the second bit have both been tamped down some over the decades.  When they rip your prostate from you, lust may mentally remain but the physical issues the absence of the organ raises temper the raw sexual urge.  Nearing retirement the desire to receive attaboys also fades.  I still want to be good, I still want to be relied on, but I really don’t care for the hassle that would come with a promotion.

Guilt and religion, those two take the primacy. The fear of nothingness if religion is wrong looms large at the edge of the precipice.  And there are the things that I did that were wrong, really wrong.  Do these hang out in some fabric of human experience for all eternity out in space?  Religion says once forgiven always forgiven.  Alcoholics Anonymous says make amends.  Existentialism says it does not matter.  Buddhism urges being in the now, not really forgetting the past but applying loving kindness to one’s self and to all those in the world including those so horribly harmed in the years gone by.  Ah, for some clarifying event or sign as to what is the right path.

Perhaps if I keep reading poetry from the 15th century and essays by Nobel laureates I will catch a flash of the light of truth.  Maybe I will do this clumsy dance of life just a tad better.

I can’t go back and relive the moments of my past, not in any real meaningful sense.  I can however act with compassion as atonement for the wrongs done. The concepts set forth above are so bound up it seems like I need a sword to slice through the tangled mess that they are.

Going, going, gone....

On my phone there is a timer doing a countdown. The current position stands at the number above. As you can see the time to go is less than a year. Come Wednesday the time. we begin with the countdown with the number 10 in the month’s position.

The time will fly by. No doubt about it. The time since my boys were babes to the men they are now went by in a flash of light, much light one you experience from a camera. Poof and 23 years are gone. What I know is that in a similar “poof” my life will be gone. Not trying to be morbid, just saying it is what it is.

My decision to go to Portugal for part of my remaining time is tied to the fact that before I die, I want to immerse myself in another culture, another world. If you would, I want to shed this skin of 62 years

It was only last September that I really bought in to the idea of a major move this late in life. The 10 days I spent in Portugal in September  were a delight. The place is a great deal like the best of my youth.

Seafood, sunbathing and the surf are just a short stone’s throw away. Some of the shore towns have the same half carney/half townie feel that Ocean City had when I was a lad.

One of the biggest regrets about the upcoming that I have is the distance that will be between me and the people I love. I guess I am an existentialist. What is, what has been, what may be just need to be accepted.

My life has been driven by serendipity and there is no reason I should give up on that being my guiding force now.