Tommy Tucker

Dew coats the grass in drops big enough to curve the blades over into green hoops. Tommy Tucker watches motionless as the morning sun lights the drops, transforming his front yard into a field of diamonds.

“Hmm,” says Tommy Tucker. “Hmm.”

He rocks back and rests his chair on the front of his clapboard house. He takes off the felt hat he has worn since he was a young man to reveal a bright line along the back of his neck and across his forehead. Above the line his skin looks like a plucked chicken, below the line it is reddish brown. Yesterday’s hours spent weeding the purple hulls burned him a little even though his skin has been baked by decades in the fields. He picked his first weed when Grover Cleveland was president. Now, someone named Kennedy is in office – at least that is what Tommy has heard. He never watches the news or reads papers. His only “media” entertainment is Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights. Presidents have never held much sway in the piney woods of Salinas county.

Tommy fans his face with hat. July already is hot enough to make a preacher cuss. No matter. Today it is the tomatoes’ turn. Time to get at the suckers and pinch them off before they sap all the strength from the blossoms. He puts his hat back on, stands and reaches high into the air. He bends over once or twice and carefully steps down off the porch. He winces as the bones of his ankles and knees grind against each other. In the house, he can hear Amy rustling around to get his breakfast; then he remembers Amy is buried in the graveyard near the big oak. He smiles. He has outlasted her. He will not have to listen to her complain this morning after all. Amy had always threatened to bury him, but his was the spade that put the first shovel full of dirt on her coffin last year. Tommy always dreamed of being able to fish all day once Amy was gone, but now that she is dead he cannot break the habit of taking care of the farm before allowing himself the pleasure of taking his pole down to the pond.

“Hmm,” says Tommy. “Hmm.”

Car tires crunch the gravel. Tommy walks to the road and waits as Pastor Jenkins pulls up in his new car. Tommy sees a leather and walnut interior as the pastor leaps from the car. He grabs Tommy’s hand with both of his. He flashes teeth whiter than stars in the night.

“How ya doin’ Tommy? It’s so good to see you. You been doin’ all right?”

Tommy pulls his hand from the pastor’s clasp. “I been fine I ‘spect.”

“Well, me and the missus been a little worried. We haven’t seen you up to the church for quite a spell.”

Tommy smiles, looks toward the graveyard oak, and then meets the preacher’s gaze head on. “Guess I been busy workin’.”

“I ‘spect that’s true. Things must be a lot harder with Amy gone. Workin’ all this land with just one pair of hands.” The smile hardens a bit and the preacher’s eyes take on a predatory tinge.

“Yessir. You might could say that.”

“Well you know old man Wheeler, who lives over by Hathaway?”

“Yessir.”

“Wellsir, he worked out a deal with Deacon Jeffries over at the bank. He don’t have to work a lick anymore. Lives in the lap of luxury over at the home.”

The pastor pauses, but Tommy says nothing. Playing with the coins in his pocket the pastor continues.

“You know Mr. Wheeler, just sits around all day now – a gabbin’ with the ladies, playing cards and what not. His meals is cooked for him and everything.”

Tommy scuffs the dirt with his boot. “Is that a fact?”

“Yessir that’s a fact. And when he dies, as we all must do – praise Jesus…when he dies well, his land will help us continue our mission up to the church. He will be helpin’ bring thousands to the lord, ain’t that somethin’?”

Tommy bends his head and shakes it slowly.

A thin lipped gash replaces the preacher’s smile. “Well that’s just fine ain’t it? That’s the way it always is with you Tommy. No wonder Amy died before you. She wore herself out on that selfish stone heart of your’n. Wore herself plumb out.”

Tommy’s head jerks up. His eyes could cut steel.

“That’s what some folks say I guess.”

The pastor laughs. “Is that all you got to say? What’s the matter Tommy? Why don’t you ever talk? In all the years I known you, I don’t think I ever heard you say more than five or six words at a time.”

Tommy closes his eyes. He opens them to reveal a look calm as a cow chewing her cud. “Some people say enough for everybody else I guess.”

The pastor’s gash turns downward. “Is that so? You think you are so smart don’t you Mr. Tucker? Well you just better think about the here ever after my friend. You want to meet up with Amy in heaven don’t you? You don’t want to burn in a lake of hell fire do you?”

Tommy spits into the dust near the pastors feet.

The pastor’s face turns red. “Well, I never!” He shook a finger at Tommy. “You should thank your lucky stars that I am a Christian man, else I would come over there and knock a knot on you! You bet I would! What you got to say about that?”

Tommy puts his hands in his pocket and rocks back and forth on his heels.

Pastor Jenkins gets redder. “Well, just about what I would expect from you Tommy. You have never really repented your sins have you? It’s only my Christian charity that tells me to ask you one more time to come to church on Sunday. You truly are in danger of hells fire. You mark my word. Hells fire my friend. Hells fire and eternal damnation.”

Tommy smiles.

The pastor snorts and gets back into his car. Tommy sees another flash of leather and walnut before the pastor’s car races back up toward the highway.

“Hmm,” says Tommy. “Hmm.”

Tommy Tucker walks to the shed and gets the hoe. It is Amy’s hoe. The blade has been worn down to just a sliver of metal from years of weeding tomatoes and iris. It is perfect for weeding – tiny, thin, razor sharp it digs and cuts out the weeds with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Tommy alternates pulling suckers with weeding – going down one side of a row pulling suckers, then back up the other side hoeing the weeds – a pattern he and Amy perfected years ago when they planted their first truck garden of tomatoes. These are not those days. Back then Tommy could pull suckers and hoe weeds from nine or ten fifty-yard rows without stopping. Now, he stops to rest at the end of each row. Holding himself up by the hoe, Tommy Tucker looks at the rows ahead of him and wonders if perhaps the pastor is right. Maybe it is time for him to get rid of this place and go to the home. Tommy knew the pastor was right about at least one thing; Tommy would never go to heaven. He had given up on that a long time ago.

And there was no point in saving the land for future generations. Tommy was the last Tucker. He and Amy never had children. Well, there had been the little girl; a tiny blue thing that died before they could get her to the hospital. They named her Ruth. Amy is buried next to her. Tommy’s resting place is on the other side. Ruth will always be between them in death just like she had been between them in life, the memory of her death a cancer that had killed the love that once bloomed between Amy and Tommy Tucker. Amy had never forgiven him for not taking her to a specialist. Doc Walker said there would be complications. There were complications. Ruth died and Amy was never able to have any more children. He had never forgiven himself. He drank for a while, especially when Amy’s anger turned into shouts and screams. But eventually, he gave up the drink and Amy gave up most of the screaming. They settled into a routine of purple hulls, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, greenbeens, collards, watermelons – anything the rich folk wanted to buy from their little roadside stand. Both of them worked like demons. Amy kept track of every penny – letting Tommy know in no uncertain terms when she felt he was wasting money on some foolishness like fishing or hunting. Tommy hated her scolding about money even more than he hated her blaming him for Ruth’s death. Together, they turned the little 40 acre plot of Amy’s dowry into over 800 acres of rich bottom land. The same bottom land that Pastor Jenkin’s has his eye on.

Most of the land has gone to pine and brush now. Tommy only farmed the five or so acres next to the house. At the moment he wishes that it was only an acre, or maybe only half an acre. His shirt is soaked before he finishes the few rows and the sweat drips from his chin. He stops and takes a swig from the Mason jar he has propped up against the tree. Water from his well always tastes sweeter to him. He takes his sandwich from the lard bucket he has used as a lunch pail since before he was a child. He takes a bite and smiles at the taste of mustard and fried deer meat. He will hunt again soon.

He flexes his arm to get a kink out. Best get back to work before his legs knot up. They kept him awake all night. He stands. He places his hand against the tree to steady himself as blood rushes to his head. He rests for a moment until his head clears. Machine-like he returns to the weeds and tomatoes.

He is only halfway down the first row when he sees a figure approaching. It is a woman. Her hair is done up in a bun. She wears a yellow dress with frills and ribbons. She has a parasol over one shoulder and is carrying a package in her left arm. He glimpses hooked boots beneath the flourish of petticoats. Is someone making a movie? Maybe an actress has wandered off the set. He shakes his head. The figure continues toward him. He sees that she carries an infant.

“Hey,” says Tommy Tucker. “Hey.”

“Hey, Tommy,” says Amy.

Tommy sits down in the dirt.

“Yes it’s me Tommy.” She pulls back the covering on the infant. It is Ruth. Her skin glows pink.

Feeling on fire, Tommy pulls off his hat and fans himself.

“But how? Why?”

Amy laughs. “Don’t worry about how or why sweetie. Just look at what is.”

She extends her hand and lifts Tommy as if he were just a sack of clothes.

“But you aren’t real!”

“Says who? You? And who died and made you king, silly man?”

Amy motions Tommy to follow her back along the row from where she came. He sees that she is heading for the old oak graveyard.

“You mean?”

“Yes darling. Here take my hand.” Amy smiles as Tommy watches the wrinkles and liver spots disappear from his arm. Ruth smiles up at him.

Tommy Tucker cries. Head hanging he follows Amy toward his grave. Just before they arrive he feels himself swept up into the air. He looks back to see the body of an old man lying in a field of tomatoes.

Tommy is relieved to see that he is following Amy and Ruth into a bright white light rather than being cast down below. He weeps. He will spend eternity with his beloved family.

Amy turns to him. “Now about that heifer of mine you sold to Mr. Wheeler when I was away visiting Momma…”

“Hmm,” says Tommy Tucker. “Hmm.”

Cafe Du Monde

Too many people. Perhaps I can stand it for a while. Cameras flashing. Clinking cups. Waiters whisk by in paper hats. The brick tile floor sweats with dew from the cool morning air. How do the waiters move so quickly without falling down? Four women enter to sit at the table in front of me. The blonde in bright red notices me – clearly one of the bird people, whom I know are imaginary but who occasionally still find me when I least expect it. Across from the blonde sits a dark haired woman with short hair swept back in wings above each ear. She wears a long sleeve black t-shirt. Next to the dark haired woman, sits one with short brown hair in a camouflage top with a military hat. I cannot quite see the last of the foursome, but it looks as if she has dark brown hair and is wearing a sweater with horizontal blue and white stripes. I scan the foursome carefully and furtively (as furtively and carefully as they scan me?). Red and blue top wear slacks. Black top and camouflage wear jeans. They entered the restaurant in pairs – jeans and slacks, jeans and slacks, what is the secret code here? Lights flash continuously – please let it be cameras. I eat the beignets and drink the coffee. Finishing, I rise and stand as tall as possible. I breathe deeply. I march slowly from the cafe and out to the street. Perhaps I look strange. Perhaps I AM strange. I no longer care. I am free to travel and drink coffee anywhere; even in the Cafe du Monde - the Cafe of the World. Perhaps this freedom will be taken from me some day, but that day is not this one.

Uncle Pete

NOTE - The following is completely fictional. Any resemblance to the truth is purely hallucinatory.

Uncle Pete turns off his oxygen and removes his mask. He lights a cigarette and stares at me, his coal black eyes dare me to call for the nurse. I hate him for that stare. He knows that even in death he can call me out, challenge me to stand up to him, knowing full well that I will cave in to his stare, just like I always do, just like I did when I was sixteen and turned away from the awful sight of my first deer as it struggled to rise, wide-eyed in the grip of death. Uncle Pete had handed me his buck knife. “If you don’t go kill that deer you’ll be a quitter all your life – a good for nothing quitter.” I just stood there like a bump on a log. He laughed, took back the knife, and slit the deer’s throat. I cried a bit as some of the blood spurted on my boots. Ever since then he knew he could stare me down, make me drop my gaze, and give in to him – give in to him while feeling hatred, envy, respect and yes, even love.

I hate him for smoking, but I understand his thinking. Death isn’t just knocking on the door – the door is down, the cancer has rushed in, and soon he will be counting worms. But he really has nothing to worry about. He may have raised enough hell to earn a permanent address there but he has walked the aisle, confessed his sins, accepted Christ, and even been to church once or twice. If Pastor Stevens is right, Pete McAlister is going to heaven. And if the pastor is wrong? Well best not think about that. Without forgiveness, Uncle Pete is going to darkness blacker than the night outside his window – a place whose air might very well burn his lungs with sulfur for all eternity. So, why not smoke? If he is saved Jesus surely won’t begrudge the old fellow a few last puffs, and if not he might as well practice breathing the air of his future home.

He sits in a chair by the single window of his room. I had helped him from the bed to the chair – a wiry little birdman; all that is left of a giant who once lifted his weight in cotton as if tossing a pillow. The window overlooks the hospital parking lot, beyond that sits the decay of tenements built during President Johnson’s War On Poverty – a war that never really got started in Silsbee, Texas. Smoke from Uncle Pete’s Pall Mall hugs the window’s darkness in wisps of white. I watch the smoky patterns, trying to forget the death in the room. The moment ends as great hacking coughs threaten to throw Uncle Pete from his chair. I walk over and rub his back.

“You okay Pete?”

Thin lips turn up in a smile. “Better than I have a right to…I reckon…better than I have a right to. Reminds me of the time…”

There it is. Even the shadow of death cannot dim the spark that draws people to Uncle Pete like sugar draws piss ants. Uncle Pete is famous in Silsbee; famous for the time he stole the Sheriff’s car, famous for the time he met Woody Guthrie while hoboing to Canada, famous for the time when he stood naked as a jaybird on top of the courthouse steps and gave what he called his rebel pig call…

“S-0-0-0-0-0 pig! Saw! Saw! S-o-o-o-o pig! Saw! Saw!”

Then there were the women. Uncle Pete excited women. He was the bad boy they all wanted to tame and turn into a respectable citizen. But Uncle Pete would not be tamed. With a glass of moonshine and a story or two he would turn their charity into a night of raw sex – leaving them alone the next morning to wonder if they had encountered a man or some dream creature from a romance novel. No one but Doc Walker knew how many families in the county had children and grandchildren by Uncle Pete. But if rumors were true, half the population had twigs from Uncle Pete somewhere in their family tree. Church folk hated him. Many of them would have been more than willing to betray their Christian principles and be the one to “cast the first stone”. Cuckolded lovers and angry parents would have liked nothing more than to tar and feather, or better yet, geld Uncle Pete. Unfortunately for them, Uncle Pete’s lovers refused to betray their dark prince. Whether through shame or lingering fondness none of them would “kiss and tell” about their rendezvous with Pete; leaving the community’s proper citizens unable to do more than glare at him when they met him on the street.

Among his friends though, Uncle Pete was a legend. He did the things they only dreamed of doing; like the time he avoided a jail sentence by outrunning Judge Jenkin’s horse from Silsbee to Vidor. Brought before the Judge one more time for being drunk and rowdy in public, Uncle Pete offered to leave town for good if the Judge would beat him in a race from Silsbee to Vidor. The Judge would ride his horse and Uncle Pete would run on foot. If the Judge lost, Uncle Pete would go free. Certain of a victory the Judge agreed and even gave Uncle Pete an hour head start. The Judge chuckled as he trotted his horse along the dirt roads. It would be wonderful to see the end of Uncle Pete’s shenanigans. The Judge was puzzled that he never caught up to Uncle Pete, but assumed the poor boy had fallen over into the underbrush from exhaustion. Uncle Pete had not fallen over in exhaustion, far from it. Unafraid of cutting cross-country through thickets still filled with cougar and black bears, he only traveled about a third as far as the Judge. He was sitting in front of the general store drinking a Coca-Cola when the Judge arrived. Such acts were a source of awe and wonder even to those who hated him.

It is hard to imagine that the shrunken form before me could ever have inspired anything like awe. But I know it was true; know some of it first hand and know the rest from the endless stories he told me whenever I brought him a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Many of them made my skin crawl with their unabashed bigotry and hatred, but Uncle Pete never was one to mince words.

“You know…” he would begin after taking a big swig and then continue in a manic rush that you did not dare interrupt.

“You know there was this one time when a blue gummed nigger came up to the house with his guitar. He played slide, but he didn’ have no steel bar like most folks. No sir, he used the neck of an old Coca Cola bottle…that was all he had you know. You know times back then was hard. Well, this feller he could play that guitar like nobody’s business. We got to be best friends me and him. It didn’ matter to me none that he was black and I was white. When he played his music I’d sing along and we had the best of times. I always give him a nickel or somethin’ and I was sure to bring his family something at Christmas. That was the way it was you know. It ain’t like you been told…”

He would take another swig and point at me with the bottle for emphasis. I would look at the floor ashamed to be related to someone with such hatred and ignorance in their heart. I desperately wanted to stand and leave, but familial duty and guilt cemented my feet to the floor, holding me in mute witness to the rage and insanity.

“No it ain’t like you been told. No sir. Blacks and whites always got along in the South. Most blacks liked it the way it was. Everybody worked hard back then…black and white we hoed and picked cotton together. Most of us shared what we had and never worried none about color.”

Another swig. Strangely, I can’t ever remember Uncle Pete slurring his words. The drink seemed to sharpen his mind, not dull it.

“And that’s what I hate about the North. They make it out like the War between the States…they make it out like it was a Civil War, fought to free the slaves, or to save the Union, or for some other bullshit like that. That ain’t what it was about a’tall. It was about greed and state’s rights. North wanted to fix cotton prices and rule over the South, that’s all it was - pure and simple.”

I always was amazed at how much he could drink and how fast he could drink it. Whenever a pint got down to the final inch or so he would tilt back his head and let it drain down his throat. Then, red eyed, he would deliver a final burst of anger.

“And it ain’t over yet I tell you. No sirree Bob. It ain’t over yet. Plenty of people these days are sick and tired of Washington a’tellin’ them what to do. Yes they are. And they ain’t gonna stand for it much longer. Just you wait and see if I ain’t right.”

Uncle Pete used to draw strength from his hatred. But there is precious little sign of that Pete now. All that is left is a skeleton covered in frog skin. Sitting with a nephew he has never respected – a nephew who will always be a quitter to Uncle Pete. His eyes turn watery as he strains to take another breath. The wall clock ticks away another minute of his life, another minute of my life, another minute of the sadness of the South and the North, another minute closer to the time when all of us will cease to mean anything except to some far distant history student who will perhaps puzzle over the meaning of slavery, but who will never know the wildness and the magic called Uncle Pete.

Uncle Pete’s stare softens as he crushes the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. I hide the evidence in my coat pocket. I grab a towel and wipe away the bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. He grips my hand.

“Thank you for being here son. I know it ain’t easy watchin’ an old man die.”

“That’s alright Uncle Pete. There isn’t any place I would rather be.”

Tissue skin closes over his eyes. His head begins to weave. He takes a deep breath leading to another bout of coughing. When he’s finished coughing he rasps out a bit of Hank Williams…

“Hear that lonesome whippoorwill…he sounds too blue to fly…the midnight train is whining low…

The lipless smile returned as I join him, “…I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

I help him back to his bed, replace his oxygen mask and prop him up in bed. I place the remote in a withered claw. He smiles at me again. I could do without those smiles – they ask for a forgiveness and love that I lack the power to give. Duty is all I have left in me. No hate. No love. Only duty.

Outside I enter the kind of night that only comes near the Gulf - air so thick you can have it for supper. The moon is full and lightning bugs float in the dark. June bugs beat themselves to death against the streetlights leaving a crunchy mess on the ground.

I look back. Uncle Pete has found the strength to make it back to the window. He waves. I wave. I wish him well. I truly do.

As I drive home I hum Hank’s tune again. It’s not really sad. Not once you get used to it.

The Kindness Remains

An orange furry form lies on the road. My throat clenches as I get out of the car. It is Doofus, my favorite cat. Someone has run over him during the night. Damn it. I go pick him up. The body is stiffening but still a little warm. It must have happened only a few hours ago. One of his eyes was popped out of its socket by the tire that must have run over his head. The tightness in my throat extends to my chest. Before it can reach my arms and legs I take the body to the garage, wrap it in an old raincoat and put it in the trunk of my car. I will take the body to the trash bin behind Uptown Bill’s. Doofus doesn’t need it anymore, looking at it depresses me and I am pretty sure that Rejeanne will only cry if she sees it.

On my way to town I get a call from Adam.

“Hey, how ya doin?”

“Okay. How about you?”

“Okay I guess. You coming into town?”

I flick my brights on to remind the oncoming car to dim his lights. “Yeah. Want to get some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I’m about 10-15 minutes away. See you soon.”

“Cool.”

Adam lives above Gretchen’s Vintage Shoppe. His room is an eclectic collection of strange items from the Vintage Shoppe, art (his and a few others), guitars, espresso pots and bags of yerba mate. He is wearing his fringed cowboy coat and Redwing boots as he comes downstairs and gets into the car. We chat a bit and head downtown to the Plaza, a brick paved pedestrian mall occupying a few blocks of downtown Iowa City. We get our coffee at the Cottage Bakery and take it to the benches outside the Tobacco Bowl. November feels more like October than October did this year. We had a touch of snow one day in October, November has been in the 50s and 60s.

Adam lights a smoke.

“So, it’s a real bummer about Del.”

Del is one of the mainstays of Uptown Bill’s. He closes up shop on the weekends. He went to the hospital a few days ago – he has diabetes and his blood sugar levels were off the chart. I assume his condition has worsened.

“So is he in intensive care?”

“No man. He died yesterday morning.”

“No shit.” I was in the Mall yesterday morning, or at least I think I was in the Mall – I continue to have trouble telling what is real or not these days. Tom didn’t mention anything.

“Yeah he died at 4:40 a.m.”

“Wow. How is Tom dealing with it?”

“He seems okay.”

We chat for a while longer before Adam goes into the Tobacco Bowl and I go to the parking garage. I drive over to see Tom. When I arrive. I sit in the parking lot for a few moments. I had begun writing something about Del a few days ago. I wonder if it still applies. I open my computer and read.

A giant moves across the room. The giant gasps for breath before he reaches the table. Although he has not had a scale large enough to measure him for years, he must be nearing 500 lbs by now. It is hard not to be overwhelmed by the giant’s immense size, it’s easy to join those who see the giant as nothing but a freak – someone who belongs in a circus. When they do so they miss the largest part of the giant – the heart that beats beneath the folds of flesh, the sense of duty to the Mall, the one tiny piece of the earth that has shown him continued kindness. Delbert Atkins (Del to his friends) may be a giant in his frame but he is a mountain in his heart. Del shares his love for food with everyone at the Mall, every Thanksgiving and Christmas there are turkeys with all the fixings, on July 4 and Easter there are hams and on Halloween, Del’s favorite holiday, we can count on pounds and pounds of chocolate – not just the cheap stuff either, but handmade delicacies as tasty as any you can find at an expensive chocolatier. More than food, Del shares himself - always available to talk when you are feeling down. When you’re blue Del can raise your spirits with amazing stories of his adventures in the South Pacific or other exotic places he visited in his role as a CIA agent, Navy Seal or some sort of other ultra-secret special forces unit. Many times I’m not sure if Del’s stories were entirely true, but I am always sure that he thinks they are. Besides, even if they aren’t true they always are entertaining and take your mind off your sorrows. Del is a major part of what makes the Mall the Mall. His spirit and frame provide a large portion of the magic that is Uptown Bill’s.

Yes the words ring true. But now the passage is in the past tense. Delbert is dead.

These past few months have seemed more filled with death than most. Steven, Doofus and now Del. It makes me wonder about my own ending. Steven and Del were cremated – turned into ashes. Doofus was buried at the foot of a large Spruce tree – turned into fertilizer. Does anything remain other than memories, ashes and fertilizer? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Evidence suggests the universe may take little note of creatures like Steve, Del, Doofus and me. Maybe we are just tiny parts of a vast whole that spins and turns in ways beyond our comprehension. Maybe that is all there is – if so, it is enough for me. Regardless, it has not been given me to know the answer. But I do know one thing, at least based on personal experience -when I remain open to kindness it remains behind, no matter what happens to me or those with whom I share it. The kindness of Steve sharing time with Adam and me remains. Del’s kindness to his fellows at the Mall remains. And, Doofus’ kindness in letting me pet and hold him close remains. The kindness remains by being passed on to others. I can pass on the kindness shown me by Steve, Del and Doofus – well, at least some of the time. It is the kindness that lets me hope to face the vastness of the universe with joy rather than fear. May it always be so.

A Large Head

The head rises above all others in the restaurant except for mine. I am 6’2” and the one carrying the head is at least that. Like mine, it is a huge head – made more for modeling monstrously large hats or crushing boulders than sitting atop a human neck. My friend Barry Morrow says that such heads are preferred in the movie industry because they “photograph” better. Tom Walz, the keeper of the crazy crew at Uptown Bill’s Small Mall never comments on the head, but he is often amused at the antics and words of the body carrying it.

The head belongs to John Coolidge, scion of a long and noble lineage that includes literati and former President Calvin Coolidge. (Yes, the one who said, “After all, the chief business of the American people is business.”) In the eyes of a world that uses money and fame as the measures of success, John’s achievements have not been as illustrious as some of his forebears. Fate has not granted him the intellectual and social skills to make him one of the “beautiful people”. However, if kindness and devotion to duty were the rubric for our lives John would be among the giants of this world. Every morning (well at least most mornings) promptly (well very nearly promptly) at 8 a.m. John arrives for work at the Mall. Impresario Walz has labeled John the Manager of Mall Operations. Less grandiose souls might say John is janitor but they would be wrong. John definitely is the Manager. To be convinced of this fact, all one need do is to hear him shout “Manager!” before entering the toilets to clean them each day. Later, John will vacuum the rugs, take out the trash and if cajoled properly, may even wash some of the dishes. Throughout his tasks John’s stomach rumbles with Vesuvial intensity – brought on by his daily quota of two or more quarts of diet soda.

But today the head is at a Chinese restaurant, not at the Mall. John, like me, is engaged in one of his favorite pastimes – eating. Eating is a weak term for what John and I engage in when we are challenged by an “all you can eat” buffet. I generally can manage at least three heaping plates on such occasions. But even I stand in awe at John’s mastery of this environment. Plates and bowls of food are emptied as if by magic – one second they are several inches high with food and the next they stand empty except for a tiny residue of sauce. Adam Weinstein and I try to keep pace but we are no match for John’s years of training and his massive frame.

During the meal John shares his gratitude for the company several times.

“It is good to do things with friends.”

Adam replies, “Yes, John. I’m having a good time.”

Encouraged John continues. “I used to have a good friend in school but he went away. He had blond hair.”

I join in, “Where did he go John?”

“Somewhere west.”

“West?” says Adam, perhaps thinking of our recent journey to California.

John looks out the window, “Yes west of Mormon Trek somewhere. I used to know his address.”

Adam and I gradually tease out bits of John’s history. Peacefully joining in the flow of thoughts that reside in the big head. We turn with them when they take unexpected turns, neither judging, nor measuring them by any criteria other than John’s willingness to share; confident in the knowledge that we are on a journey without roads or destination – a journey of our choice, not undertaken to meet Society's standards but begun simply for the joy of journeying. Like the characters in Jerome’s Three Men In A Boat we pause for frequent side trips of unknown purpose and length, but on the whole the journey suits us well. Normal people never can take such a journey – normal sensibilities require roads and nuisances like beginnings, middles and ends to their journeys. But we three have established long ago that we are far from normal. Our journey may wander as needed and we follow John in fascination as he takes the lead.

When the check comes, my grandiosity takes over and I pay for all three of us. I would chalk my behavior up to simple goodwill but I have learned from years of therapy and AA that I am mistaken. My insistence on paying the check is a character defect of my wanting to control the situation and make other people like me, or worse in some people’s eyes, the flaw of allowing others to take advantage of me. John apparently is immune to such psychological ruminations. At first he is confused by my offer and thinks that I am asking him to pay for my meal.

He looks at me and speaks slowly as if to someone who is retarded, “We should go Dutch. We should each pay for our own.”

After a moment or two of discussion he finally allows me to pay for us all. I pay the waitress and she smiles broadly at the size of the tip. I generally over tip by most people’s standards. I cannot tell if this is another example of grandiosity or simply a nod to my past as a waiter while I was in college. Regardless, my paying the bill moves John to clarify that he does not accept charity.

“Okay then. I will give you a ride somewhere. The meal will pay for the gas. Where do you want to go?”

“I have my own car John.”

“Okay then. I will give Adam a ride.”

“That would be great John. Thanks.”

But John’s generosity apparently knows no bounds this day. He makes an even greater sacrifice than giving Adam a ride. He takes his coin purse from his pocket. It looks exactly like the little plastic one my grandfather used to carry. I drift off into ancient memories and almost miss John’s announcement of his next bit of charity.

“I will pay the tip.”

I explain that I have already included the tip in my payment. John is unmoved. He opens his purse, takes out a quarter and holds it up proudly.

“Okay. Then this will be an extra tip.”

Fearful of being embarrassed (for myself and John) I encourage him to leave his tip on the table. John will have none of it.

“I want to give it to her in person, because it is an honorable and noble gesture.”

Horrified, I watch as John calls the waitress over and makes a grand display of handing her the quarter (which I notice is covered in grease and grime).

“Here is an extra tip.”

The waitress smiles thinly and looks at me, and then back at John.

“Do you want change?”

John shakes his head and then announces. “No. It is a noble and honorable gesture.” I am grateful when the waitress leaves without laughing out loud. Once she is gone, John stands and makes an announcement in a voice that would be suitable for an award ceremony.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Adam and I go outside to wait. Adam lights a cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke. “You know that quarter John gave the waitress?”

“Yes.”

“He found it on the ground at a gas station. I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a quarter.”

I laugh. “Yeah. He has a cup for tips at the Mall. He checks it every day for pennies and records the amount in his little notebook.”

We both laugh. Any embarrassment I felt earlier is gone. In John’s economics a quarter is a fortune. And, in this instance who else’s standards matter? Adam and I continue talking; finally realizing that John undoubtedly has decided to take in one last plate of food – perhaps as payment for his generous tip. He finally joins us.

The large head bows slightly in my direction. “Thank you Dale. Thank you for buying my meal.”

“You’re welcome John.”

“Yes, and my extra tip was a noble gesture.”

I say nothing but in my heart I know. Yes it was, John. Yes it was.

On Adam's Pond

David lays on the grass next to me. He lifts his hands behind his head to make a pillow and stares up at the sky. Wisps of horsehair cloud float across the blue. An airplane made gnat-size by distance rushes silently toward the sun. I hear David sigh.

“Well, when you get older you learn to enjoy the simpler things in life.”

“Mmm…” Is all that I can manage.

Lately, selfishness and worry have robbed me of joy. I have been going through the motions of life while feeling little connection to it. In desperation I have asked Adam to take David and me fishing at his Grandfather’s pond. David tried his hand at fishing, but age and a stroke made his casts look like someone whipping a horse. As for me, no force – human or supernatural, could have made me wet a hook this day. Instead I lay on the bank. Finally tiring of inept casts and tangled lines David came to join me. Across the inlet both of us watched Adam as he gracefully tossed his line among the reed beds. Every now and then we hear a shout as he hooks another crappie or bluegill.

As usual, David is undeterred by my silence. He knows that it is nothing personal. He charges ahead determined to cheer me up.

“Yep. I wish I was eighteen again. I could have walked around this entire pond by now. Probably could even have walked halfway across the water.”

Another mmm from me.

David sighs. He sighs often.

“Well it sure is good to remember the simple things. Like friends, and this pond. Oh and yes - fishing without catching any fish.”

“Fishing without catching any fish” breaks through the darkness in my brain. I laugh.

David laughs.

“Golden Pond.” He says. “Somehow that phrase just comes to me right now.”

Content with making me laugh, David struggles to his feet and hobbles over to where Adam continues catching fish after fish. David smokes. Adam smokes. Adam catches another fish and puts it on his stringer. David smokes. Adam smokes. Adam catches another fish. Throughout the afternoon the pattern repeats. Smoke. Catch fish. Put fish on stringer. David continuously chatters on, about what I cannot hear, but I do hear Adam laugh – happy, warm notes across the pond.

The light fades into evening. Adam raises his stringer of fish. David takes a picture and Adam releases the fish. Forever captured – friends, fish and a warm November day; a day warmer than most, fish who’ll live to be caught another day, and friends who some would label as crazy but who only see each other as guys out fishing.

The journey back up the hill to the car is difficult for David. His legs are weak from the stroke, smoking and inactivity. (He will call me a liar for mentioning the smoking and inactivity, but we both know they weaken his legs in the same way that we both know that eating sugar has helped bring on the depressive shadows in my head). We pause frequently for him to catch his breath but he pushes on – sighing and wheezing all the way.

We finally reach the car. I open the doors. Adam gets in back – David always rides shotgun. David is catching his breath but is still wheezing when he looks over his glasses at me.

“Thanks Dale. That was a little bit of heaven.”

I turn the car around. As the front windshield faces west I am blinded by light bright enough to burn the shadows from my brain. I hear David’s camera click next to me.

“Wow.” He wheezes and puts down the camera. “Wow.”

Apology and Question

Hey

If you get this post it means that I have included you in the list of people who get my blog posts. I selected you without asking if you wanted to receive my ramblings or not. I am trying to correct that error now. This will be the last post you automatically receive unless you send me an email asking to receive the updates.

daleshankins@yahoo.com

Thanks

Have A Nice Day

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And fuck, yet again. I have censored my blog and my thoughts by sharing them. It becomes harder and harder to write exactly what I feel and think. I feel constrained to write something happy or else risk re-hospitalization, divorce, or some other pleasant fate. But if I censor my writing I become a thing trying to sell an image of myself to other things. I have traveled that path. It was not pleasant.

My writing is, was and I believe always will be a selfish act. How could it be otherwise? My writing is selfish because the words I share all arise from within my brain and my SELF. Thus, they are SELFish. Perhaps there are other sources for the words. Perhaps there is some magical force or being that exists outside the laws of nature. I certainly hope not. Otherwise, I should have to reconsider the reality of the visit I received from Gaia in Japan, and such a maneuver likely would land me back in the hospital – not a happy fate. At least not from my perspective, although there are perhaps some who would prefer that I live out my days in some safe place. If I am honest, at times there is a part of me that yearns for this safety – a simple cell where I would not have to face the demands of others. Yet, I am fairly certain that soon I would chafe at the boundaries set for me. (I hear the thoughts of others as they judge and classify my words as being typical of the hysterics of a manic-depressive. So be it. I just don’t care anymore. Who is there that is not to some extent insane? I have yet to meet them.)

It will soon be time to howl at the moon and drive off into the distance for a time. Isn’t that what crazy people do? And, as I said in my book (with a line stolen from a friend): “I am crazy, and I have the papers to prove it.” My most recent evaluation and hospitalization have shown me that I do not have control over my mental state. Despite the years of the best efforts of medicine and at least some work on my part I am still classified as “very unstable”. Very well. Let it fly then. I have been very crazy before and it is virtually a statistical certainty that I will be so yet again. But, importantly to any sane person reading this, know that you need not fear me. Since becoming sober (and insane at 10 years sobriety) I can recall no instance when I was a physical threat to another person. I do not recall stealing from anyone. I do not recall lying (well, at least not to the point of being pathological or malicious about it). I know many sane people who have engaged in all of the above and yet I am the one hospitalized for being crazy. Is it any wonder that I find this situation confusing? Yes, a lengthy road trip is probably a good idea. I do love humanity (most of it anyway) but I find it easier to deal with people in small doses. A road trip is a good way to have solitude without being totally alone.

Many times I trust no one. I feel as if people expect things of me that I cannot give them or that I come to expect things of others that they cannot provide. Yes, I know that AA says an expectation is a resentment waiting to happen. This observation does not change the feelings – it only makes me ashamed of having them. During the periods when I distrust others I am difficult to be around. I try to be kind, but I am distant and cold without meaning to be so. Perhaps this is why I identify so closely with David. Institutions truncated his social skills, just as alcohol and drugs truncated mine. It takes great effort for him to fit in and be normal. Despite his best efforts others often critique his behavior. I sense that David is aware of this and that it causes him pain. He works hard to improve his skills and he is changing – but I imagine sometimes he feels as if the length of the road is just too great and the grade is too steep for him to manage. His frustration and shame at the situation can erupt into rage or despair. I feel that way often – even though I do not have David’s history of trauma to explain my actions.

Yet David and I did his laundry yesterday. I brought Rejeanne some roses yesterday. I drove Adam on some errands. Today I will have lunch with Oliver. I will walk. I have written at least this drivel. In a limbo of habit I move forward. Perhaps my emotions will catch up with the motions. Yes, once again, I know AA says “Fake it til you make it.” Today there is little comfort in that phrase – in fact it pisses me of for its triteness – like telling someone, “Have a nice day.” But enough whining. The sun shines out the window.

There. That’s good. Good to have a happy ending. Have a nice day!

Note Bene

Rejeanne in case you are reading this and are wondering if still love you – remember that I always have and never will not love you – it’s just that I AM CRAZY and I don't do a particularly good job of being the kind of husband you deserve. I accept full responsibility for my craziness. It is NO ONE’S FAULT. But a lot of times I feel like I have only one leg and I am being expected to run the marathon – I hobble as best I can but will never keep up with my two legged fellows. Rest easy my love and have a great trip to Florida.

200 mg Depakote

Not sure what else to say today.

You Look In The Mirror

You look in the mirror. You see beauty there – the joy that the face before you is a thing of wonder no greater nor less than the universe entire. You are the only one that can see it. Others may see you as beautiful, but they are looking in their own mirrors. The beauty you see is yours alone. Experience has shown you that it will not last, but it fills this moment completely.

The beauty you see today is different than yesterday. Is that another fold there? Has another hair turned gray? Are the eyes rimmed with a bit more red? Others may judge the changes harshly and label them ugly. You judge them beautiful and this is enough.

When you see beauty in the mirror your power is great. Many in the world are jealous and try to cloud your vision. You will not let them. Not now, not in this moment. You look more deeply into the eyes and see the truth that remains. The mirror reflects beauty. Transitory. Illusory. Wonderful. Beauty.

You know the religious and philosophical teachers who claim to have discovered the certain path to this beauty – calling it by limiting names like salvation, redemption, or enlightenment. You know of the neural pathways that create the sensation of beauty. You know of the salesmen who claim to sell beauty in little jars. Yet none of these can dim the vision before you or make it less complete. Perhaps a God who made man in his image will come from heaven to reveal the one true source of all beauty. Or perhaps a day will come when someone captures this beauty perfectly, pinning it to acid-free paper in a nitrogen-filled case for you to study. Most certainly, people will try to sell you their version of beauty – each claiming to have the most wonderful product or best understanding of what makes one beautiful.

Thankfully, as you look in the mirror, you know that none of this matters. Beauty regards beauty. Carbon, oxygen and trace elements regard silver behind a piece of glass. There may be more, but just now this alone is enough. Neither divine or profane, neither requiring nor accepting any adornment, free of human judgment or need for certainty. Free. Simple. Beauty.

This Breath

There is cause for joy in this breath or there is no joy. Letting go of the need for more than this breath is my greatest source of peace. Grasping and holding have never brought me happiness. Fighting for more and seeing the pain it causes others has only brought me pain. Even the meaning of these words I now write is something that I must let go – else I will find myself defending it against others who feel I am in error, or who believe they offer a clearer path. I laugh at myself for writing such silly thoughts. Why would I ever want to defend them?

Fighting to prove that my words are correct only blinds me to the beauty of this breath. I accept that every word I write or speak, that every action I take likely is “wrong” or “bad” from someone’s perspective. I accept that if I do not fight for myself some will take things from me. Yet, when I fight for myself, or to acquire and protect the things I think I need there is no joy – only a false happiness followed by despair. I must focus on my breath – only within it is there joy for me. May I find the courage to leave behind the need to seek more than the simple joy in this breath, this very one, right here, right now.

Should There Be A "Where's Steve?" Tour?

I step into the dark of early morning. I pause on the steps. Guilt has me in its grip. I should have made coffee for Rejeanne before going out to waste another day. I know that thoughts filled with should are nothing but illusions of how I think the world ought to operate – but they are persistent. I go back inside and check the coffee – there is almost a full pot from yesterday. I start to make a new pot because I should make fresh coffee for Rejeanne. Then I remember that Rejeanne actually prefers to be frugal and drink day old coffee. I leave my shoulds behind, make it to the car and head into town.

As I drive, I think of Adam Weinstein. Adam is on a roll just now. His art show went well and he is hearing encouraging buzz about his music from the west coast. There are rumors of a show and even a tour. Perhaps Adam will be able to live out his dream. That would be fantastic – at least part of me thinks so, the part that I want to reinforce and nurture, the part of me that knows that the only true joy in life comes from giving. But I would be less than honest if I were to say that there is not at least a small part of me that is jealous of Adam’s success. This part has been trying to help Adam “organize” things and give him “advice” as though he needs my help. He needs my friendship as all of us need friendship from each other, but as for “help” that is something for which only he can determine the need. Unasked for help is interference.

Yesterday I sent an email to help Adam organize things with a mutual friend. In the email I told the friend I would give him the copies of the tapes I made at Adam’s show. I did not ask for permission from Adam. I just assumed that it would be a good idea. I think part of me wanted to help but I think I may have wanted to insert myself between Adam and the mutual friend – to somehow take partial credit for Adam’s talent. Was I hoping that some of Adam’s luster would rub off on me? Did I have such a low opinion of myself that I thought I needed it? Perhaps. But I am better at catching this thinking than I used to be – better at minimizing the damage it can cause me and my relationships – at least some of the time.

I pull over and send Adam a text.

Have I upset you? Call me when you wake.

The phone rings minutes later. His voice is full of sleep.

“Hey. Want to go for breakfast?”

I laugh. “Sure. When?”

“I can be ready in a few minutes.”

We order breakfast at Perkins’. Way too much food filled with way too much fat and sugar. But it is what it is. We eat much of it in silence, both minds whirling, wondering what the future will bring if Adam does become famous. For a moment I envisage myself as a sober Hunter Thompson – following Adam’s band across the country, writing stories, blogs and reviews – finally rolling everything into a wonderful book that everyone will want to read. Another Rolling Stone in a country so obsessed with self-aggrandizement that it often loses all perspective. We are just naked apes after all. Why must we insist that our actions be seen as the most important, or the grandest creatures in the universe?

I smile at Adam. I don’t know what to say to be helpful. I don’t trust myself to be unselfish. Excitement is not my friend. But I must try. What other choice is there? Shall I give over entirely to my desire to play king of the hill, to become as Adam puts it, “The monkey with the most bananas?” I practice my breathing for a moment. The bill comes. Adam asks for permission as he reaches for it.

“Can I get this one?”

I smile. “Sure thing, buddy, sure thing.”

As I wait, I recall Steven – Steven Bock of Truth and Janey and Nowhere Fast. Steven was the only other famous and/or nearly famous musician I knew. He died this summer. He and Adam played together once, and Steven told me he was impressed. After the cancer took Steve, Adam and I went out west to leave a portion of his ashes in the Pacific. We met a friend of mine who knew a few people in the world of music. He and Adam hit it off very well…and as the movies put it, the rest was history.

Before his death, Steve and I had been working on a project that Steve called, The Where’s Steve Tour?- a dark bit of humor in the face of his impending death. Steve is gone now – any tour by Adam could certainly ask the question “Where’s Steve?” But perhaps, in some strange way, Steve’s dream is coming true posthumously. If Adam does ride a wave of success to fame and a national tour, I will imagine Steve watching and smiling, happy that the Where’s Steve Tour? came off at last. Steve will bear witness that the kindness Adam and I tried to do for him, yielded joy in world that is more about love and dreams than about guilt and should.

Grey Skies and Wandering Rocks

Grey skies of autumn cast pearl light on the slate window sill. Slow jazz wafts over the tables of people chatting over their morning coffee. The music is something French. Heavy orchestra with a harmonica and a sultry female. This morning’s coffee is dark roast. Less caffeine but a stronger flavor. Another day is beginning.

I wrote one piece – I did not like it. This is the second. It will be today’s. Writing for a blog is a little bit stifling. There are not many readers but just the fact of knowing that there are a few constrains what I write. I tend to over edit. I want to sound more polished than I feel. Therapy transitions into work very quickly unless I make sure I slow down and see and listen to each word as it appears on my screen. It is difficult to listen to the voice of the writer. The critic in my head works very hard to shout him down. Writer and critic wrestle in a Sisyphean struggle so ancient that sometimes I am drained. Yet I must write to live. Time has shown me this time and time again. And, may I be forgiven my pride and self-indulgence, I do love it when people tell me they like what I write. Thus, like Odysseus and his Wandering Rocks, I am trapped between two huge cliffs that may close on me at any moment. Odysseus’ stones threatened to smash his ship. My rocks threaten to crush my spirit. One rock says “write regardless of what people think, for in that way you achieve the most honest healing” and the other says “write and try to be loved for what you write”. The gap between the two rocks is made up of my desire not only to live but to be loved. It is a struggle at times but in the end I am grateful for it. Much of my life I was asleep, unable to see the beauty in life and the joy in writing about it. Better to live and face Wandering Rocks than sleep and be buried by them.

Home On The Street

I walk the streets of Vancouver. I am headed to a local Tim Horton’s coffee shop. A breeze blows a piece of paper to rest against my leg. Some poor soul has written an essay about families and holidays. He (or she?) clearly comes from an unhappy home. As I read, I am so grateful that my family is unlike the author’s family; so grateful that my holidays were spent in warmth and love. I reprint the letter here, as a reminder for those of us with healthy families to be grateful for them.

Heading into another season of “holidays” leads me to wondering about home again. Judgments from my past take me far from the image of home that is shown on television. But then did that home ever really exist? Was there ever a land of homes of Swiss Butterball turkeys, tables groaning under too many dishes to mention and families who spent weeks together smiling and telling amusing anecdotes about their childhood? Did anyone ever inhabit a home with no embarrassing secrets, free of dark jealousy about inheritances, and without grudges so poisonous that they often stifled conversation? Is it just me, or has home always included at least a few scenes not fit for prime time? Am I the only one who suffers from the cognitive dissonance of pretending reality is like television or a Hollywood script? Am I the only person on the planet who is tired of “faking” it till I make it? Am I simply being immature and self-centered? Perhaps so. Perhaps I am the only one who sees the white elephants in families and wants to point them out. After all, I have been hospitalized for “seeing things” and for being unable to “fit in” with normal society. Perhaps it is best that I simply accept my fate of being out of synch and to not discuss things that make others uncomfortable. I do love my family. I do not want to cause them harm. Yet, how can I say that I know them when we cannot trust each other with our secrets, when it is not polite to discuss hurtful things, not nice to want to clear the white elephants from the room – when it is insane to want brutal honesty rather than feigned love and caring?

So be it. I will go through the holidays yet again without bringing up anything uncomfortable. We will discuss the weather, football and how tasty Aunties chocolate pie was. That will be pretty much it. We don’t agree on politics or religion so those topics are off limits. None of us remember the past in the same way, so discussions of that end up in arguments. In the end, we will watch television until it is time to say goodbye. Duty has brought us together. Once that is fulfilled, we are grateful to part. We are not people who would spend time together in any other setting.

Yet I am too harsh. There are moments when the smell of the oak trees and the rustle of the wind in the leaves will bring back a memory of laughter, a recollection of a hug, or a time when as children we were unaware of the things that seemed to be upsetting the grown-ups; like the time when we snuck off to the pond to go skinny-dipping. True, we got a damn good spanking for doing it but it was worth it. Yes there were good times and I would love to celebrate those. It’s just that I don’t know how to celebrate the good times without honestly facing the bad ones. It seems false somehow. It cheapens the memories of the good times, makes them seem less real if we cannot also have the strength as a family to face the things that have brought all of us pain. It makes me feel like I should be ashamed of my family, like we have some things to hide that are so terrible that they are worse than the things faced by other families, like my family is the worst one ever, or that we lack the moral strength and courage to be real and honest with each other. How can I celebrate good times in a family of shame? How can I lie?

But this is ridiculous. My family is my family. I cannot change them. I will be polite. I will say the right things. I have learned the lesson of the perpetual silence. No sense making a fuss. The holidays will soon pass and we can return to the path of ignoring one another.

Thankfully, I have also learned that home is not a place or a particular group of people. I am at home wherever my feet happen to be. I can find friends at every turn. I can make friends by learning to be a friend; someone who is honest, someone who pretends as little as possible, someone who tries to share a little love and kindness with everyone.

I weep for the author of the note. How sad that he will spend the holidays in such a sad state of affairs. If I knew who he was I would invite him home to my family. We will have the turkey. We will have a table that groans from the weight of all the tasty dishes set before us. We will laugh at tales from our childhood. We will watch a football game and shout for the home team. Our family could pose for the ads you see on television. We might even do that someday, if they pay us enough. :-)

A Far Country

In a far country - far, far from here - a young man sat with his coffee thinking of ways to be a better human being. He thought, “Fix this. Fix that. When will I be done fixing myself?”

He had honed the art of self-examination and improvement to the point of insanity. Placing himself squarely at the center of the universe he assumed full responsibility for his fate in life, responsibility not only for his fate, but the fate of all those around them. His sense of duty came from beliefs so deeply ingrained that they flowed through him in his blood with every beating of his heart; the belief that there are no such things as accidents, that God is in control; that God has set up a rule of laws and that man has freewill to choose; and, thus the man’s fate is in his own hands – make the right choices and live a life of happiness, make the wrong ones and suffer eternal damnation. The man saw his life as a test in how to make the right choices. He was certain all of his pains were of his own making, that he is a case of “selfish, self-centeredness”, and that all his actions were “self-will run riot.” Buried in these thoughts, the black of his coffee looked darker and darker.

Meanwhile, deep in the limbic system of his brain his amygdala twitched sending a bit of hormone to the right temporal lobe. The hormone caused a tiny seizure, a seizure so small it could scarcely be detected by even the most sensitive instruments. But its impact was enormous. The young man saw a bright light. He heard a voice, “All is well with you. All of the universe is one with me and you are one with me for now and always.”

Trembling, the young man asked, “Who are you?”

“I am known by many names in many lands but you may call me God.”

The voice and the young man conversed for what seemed hours, yet when the light faded the young man saw that only a two minutes had passed.

The young man rushed home to write down all that he had heard. Next day, he made copies of his writings and shared them with all of his friends. After a few days of sharing and talking with others the young man was exhausted, hiding in his house and refusing to talk with anyone. During this dark times the young man worried that he was not being a true messenger of God, that he still was doing things for selfish reasons, that he did not deserve love from anyone. His friends brought him food but he would not eat. They sang him songs but he could not sleep. Eventually, the exhaustion passed and the young man returned to his life.

Periodically, the young man had further seizures and saw the white light. He continued to write and publish his conversations with the one he “chose to call God”. These periods of writing and sharing were followed by periods of exhaustion. People told him that his writing inspired them and they flocked to hear him read from his work. Their praise comforted the young man during his dark periods. But the young man still was obsessed with the idea of fixing himself to become a better messenger for God. He dreamed that somehow, someday he would find a way to be beautiful enough and good enough to deserve and experience love.

One day a psychiatrist traveled to the young man’s country. He went to several of the young man’s lectures. He nodded to himself and smiled secretly. Then one day he cornered the young man after a lecture, “Young man you are seriously ill. You are having temporal lobe seizures, the bright light is nothing more than a patch of neurons misfiring, and the revelations are nothing more than a severe case of hypergraphia. You must take these pills. They will make you stop worrying about fixing yourself. They will make you understand that you are worthy of being loved.”

Much relieved to find out that he simply was ill, not evil, the young man took the medications offered by the psychiatrist. Amazingly, the seizures stopped. The young man no longer saw the white light and no longer felt the need to write and share his writings. He took some classes at the local community college, became a phlebotomist, settled down, and started a family with his high school sweetheart who had stood by him faithfully for years. He thought he felt like most other people thought they felt most of the time. He even was pretty sure that he was worthy of being loved.

His former followers became very angry with him. They challenged him to debates about God. But with his mind clear for the first time in his life the young man could easily refute their arguments for the existence of magical white lights and a divine being. He carefully explained how the brain worked and the phenomenon of temporal lobe seizures to all who would listen. His explanation only upset them. They shouted at him.

“Hypocrite. Back slider. You think too much. You know you will go to hell.”

Over time, doubts began to re-enter the young man’s mind. His doubts were not about bright lights, magical beings or even temporal lobe seizures. Deep inside he still doubted that he was worthy of being loved. His friends and family tried to comfort him. They tried to tell him that they loved him. He tried to believe them. He tried very hard to believe, but trying was not enough. The dark times began to reappear. It was helpful to know that the dark times were not a sign of a character deficiency but the pain of them still was very real and powerful. It was if he knew that he had a broken leg. He was no longer ashamed of having a broken leg but the lack of shame did not heal the leg or relieve its pain.

On the darkest night in many years, the young man went to the highest bridge over the deepest river. He could not see the water. He only heard it rushing by far below. The young man climbed the railing and was just letting go when he heard a voice.

“That probably won’t help matters.”

“Who, who is that?”

The young man almost fell as a dark hooded figure spoke again, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“But how can you be me? I am over here.”

“Come and I will show you.”

Intrigued the young man got down off the railing and followed the hooded one to a bench under a streetlight. The man pulled back his hood to reveal a beard and full head of the shiniest silver hair the young man had ever seen.

“So, do you recognize me now?”

“Santa Claus?”

The hooded man laughed. It was the most comforting sound the young man had ever heard.

“No. Not Santa Claus. Try again.”

The young man looked very closely at the one with the hood. Then it struck him. Something about the eyes and nose. Something so familiar…

“You are me! Me when I am a lot older.”

“Got it on the second try. Pretty good.”

“But how, how can you be here and in the future?”

The man in the hood held up his hand. “That would take more time than we have. Let’s get to it. You know how you saw a bright light once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you have figured out by now, you weren’t talking to God.”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

The grey haired man laughed again. “Take my word for it. You weren’t. If you go around thinking you are talking to God you will end up talking to doctors in psych wards for a very long time. Trust me. I know.”

“Well, who was I talking to?”

“The only other person there dummy.”

“You mean myself? I was talking to myself?”

“Bingo. Got it in one this time.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the ground. “Guess I should have finished things off on the bridge.”

“And what exactly do you think that would have gotten you?”

“An end to this mess anyhow.”

“Quit being such an idiot.”

Anger flashed in the young man’s eyes as he looked back up. “Look who’s calling me an idiot. Some old fart, off his medication.”

The old man smiled. “What I mean is that you have no way of knowing that you are not exchanging one mess for an even bigger one.”

“You mean like, hell?”

Shaking his head the old man answered. “Not if you mean lakes of fire and things like that. I just mean that you do not know what happens after death. No one does. So why waste life? Why not enjoy each breath?”

The old man continued as the young man leaned back to listen.

“See, it’s like this as I see it. All we have or ever will have is right here right now. Anything else is a guess. What happened in the past is a matter of debate – ask any two people and you get two completely different recollections of what happened just yesterday. Try to project the future and you can get probabilities, but never certainties. The only true certain thing is what is right in front of us. We can try to see beauty or pain in this moment, that may be the only real choice we have.”

“But that’s just your opinion.”

“Yes. It is the only one I am entitled too. You must have your own opinion. You cannot have mine.” Again the laugh. Again the deep sense of comfort.

The old man began to fade. It started at the edges. The feet. The legs. The torso. The arms. Soon there was only the face and then it too began fading.

Panicked the young man shouted, “Wait! Wait! I have so much more to ask you.”

Another laugh was followed by a smile. “It’s okay. It really is okay. Just know this. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. And remember, the Walrus was Paul.” More laughter as night replaced the face entirely. “Seriously though…know that I am you and believe that I love you even when it seems like no one else does.”

Stunned, the young man sat down on the bench. He remained there as daylight replaced the streetlight. He rose and went home to his family. They were eating breakfast. The you man wished that he could be certain that his vision was true. He wished that he could be certain of anything. Then he looked at his wife and daughter. Right here. Right now. Nowhere else. No when else. He hugged them both and ate his eggs. From somewhere he heard laughter.

Even More Vancouver Photos

Sweetie

You have not slept since 3 pm yesterday. Your hair is blond (maybe) and you are ordering donuts at 5 am. Your blouse hangs off one shoulder, letting your partner know you are interested, definitely interested. Your partner’s hair is red and he keeps it cut short to hide the fact that there is less of it today than yesterday. You overlook the loss of hair for the sake of his biceps and buttocks. You talk loud and slur your words. The clerk is confused and you have to repeat your order several times. Donut holes. 8 of those, 6 of these, 4 glazed, 4 powdered. Oh and yes, one Strawberry and one Maple.

Your partner puts the back of his hand on his forehead and says in Scarlett O’Hara’s voice. “Maple? Maple? Why chil’ you must be mad!”

You laugh too loud.

Minutes from now you will be snuggled in the loft across the street, firing up the hookah or bong or whatever and eating donut holes faster than you ate pizza the night before. You and your boyfriend, yes please let him be your boyfriend, it has been so long since you had one of those, will wrestle and manage some form of love. You will loose consciousness in a rapture of sensation. Another day will pass as a taxi down below carries a businessman off to his cubicle.

You will wake sometime around noon. You will see your partner is nearly bald. The sunlight will have aged him at least a decade as you slept. He will lie on his back hiding the gorgeous butt and instead show you a belly that has not seen abs since high school. His prick will be a wilted cucumber above two small prunes. Your underwear will hang from the lampshade. The garbage can will overflow with beer cans. The pizza and donut boxes will be nearby – left there in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before you passed out.

You’ll fire up the bong or hookah or whatever to get the strength to call your father. The phone will ring in his cubicle.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey darling, what’s up?” You’ll know he is pretending not to notice the stoned tone of your voice. You’ll know he knows you are simply calling for money. Money is the only reason you ever call him. You feel it is his duty to provide it. After all he was the one who brought you into this world. You did not have a say. You never got a vote. It is his fault that you are here, now he should accept the responsibility.

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

You hate when he calls you sweetie. It is the same term he uses for your Mother. You are not your Mother. God no. No. No. No. Not your Mother. The one who hates you and who slices you up so bad with her dry insults that you can hardly stand to talk to her. But your Dad is unconscious most of the time. Sweetie is the only term of endearment that he can think of. So you accept it from him. Only from him though. Anyone else who calls you sweetie will be slapped silly.

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

Silence. You really hate this part. The little waiting game. You have stated the problem. His job is to solve it. He so desperately wants you to ask him. You so desperately don’t want to.

He caves, as he always does. “How much?”

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

“Western Union okay? Or should I wire it to your bank account?”

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

The click of the phone in your ear will sound like the lid of a casket closing. You’ll know you have thrown away just a little bit more of the closeness you and he shared. The images of him bandaging the “boo boo” when you were six, buying you the car when you were sixteen and hugging you when your first true love left you will fade a bit more.

You will take another hit from the hookah or waterpipe or whatever and nestle against your new boyfriend (even if he doesn’t know it yet). You will fluff up the prunes and try to rouse the cucumber. Nothing. Just deeper snores.

Sighing, you will roll on your back and rub yourself. You may have to take another hit or two, and you may have to rub for quite a while, but eventually you will find sweet release - a moment when there are only donut holes, firm buttocks and laughter; a moment when you don’t have to feel so far from all you once loved; a moment so joyful that you don’t mind when your new boyfriend wakes and calls you sweetie. You will snuggle close to him. He will hold you close. Maybe not forever. But close enough for now.

Pictures from Vancouver

Some photos taken out of our hotel window.

The Beauty of Lizards

Night makes mirrors of the windows. I drink coffee sitting in Sandburg’s city of the “broad shoulders”. Random thoughts. Nothing in my head but mush. Struggling to write, I reach for my old familiar muses of sadness and despair. Nothing. Perhaps the rare burst of love and happiness are waiting. Again nothing. But I will write. Keeping the words in my skull leads to abscesses of the brain. Maybe the lines will come from a little gratitude…a little chance for wonder…maybe…

Beauty buys coffee and flashes a smile. Beauty sleeps in the bed where I slept. Beauty flows by in the traffic that is somehow choreographed to the beat of Marvin Gaye as What’s Goin’ On floats from the speakers. I stare at a sparkle of light in my cup until it dissolves into a prism of color. The prism expands, filling my vision. It is enough.

I find myself running in the backyard of our Nederland house. The grass is brown from the late summer drought that bakes everything. Soon the rains will come drenching the black gumbo clay, flooding streets, and bringing the occasional hurricane.

The yard is full of hazards – stones, cockleburs, and sometimes even a piece of glass. These are nothing to me. The soles of my feet are black, tanned leather from months and years of going barefoot across lawns, cement and gravel.

I am running to Jeff’s house. Jeff of the red hair and so many freckles it is hard to tell if his skin is white with red spots or red with white spots. His house is across the field from mine. We spend days together running in the sun, building forts in the empty lots, crying when we are forced to come in at night.

Today as I run, something catches my eye. There, on a firethorn bush, the kind with the orange-red waxy berries, is a tiny lizard. It writhes in agony. It was put there by a jaybird or a maybe a mockingbird. I have watched them do it. They will catch a lizard and then stick it on a thorn until it stops wriggling, making it easier to eat I guess.

As a child I found this horrible. But today’s journey through the scene is with eyes a half-century older. I see only harmony here. Nothing terrible. The birds chicks are waiting for the lizard to stop writhing. They will quickly eat it, growing strong to make more chicks. The lizard’s young will be fine, they are able to fend for themselves as soon as they hatch. Life has deep wisdom and beauty.

The same is true for we naked apes, or, if you insist, we pinnacles of creation. We will find ourselves writhing on our own thorn someday. The thorn may be cancer, simple old age, or something as spectacular as a hurricane or other natural disaster. Regardless, we will pass from this life. Our passage may be peaceful or in agony, but pass we will. Today I see my future passing as a thing of beauty. I am fortunate beyond measure to simply have glimpsed life, much less experience it for more than half a century. I may see the future end of my life as beauty or tragedy. I will seek to find it beautiful. Not a goal to be sought but a flower to be appreciated once it is offered. Until that time I pray to smell every flower, know that the world is filled with love not evil if I only choose to see it, and see the beauty…share the beauty…live in the beauty that is all around me.

The Beauty