tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-217366892024-03-13T03:10:24.271-04:00Loose EndsObsessing about acting, theatre, queer politics, spirituality, Celts, community, nature, masks, and occasionally, wolves. That's about as specific as I can get.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.comBlogger338125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-8817518281871443542020-12-21T18:05:00.004-05:002021-01-08T17:13:53.621-05:00The Return of the Light<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Mom liked to call herself a Grinch, or occasionally a Scrooge. She found Christmas difficult, for various reasons common and not so. That was the narrative she shared each year, and we all accepted it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This year though, the first one without her, Mary and I are surprised to find ourselves questioning that story. I, in particular, surrounded as I am at present by the things she accrued over a lifetime, in a home she built for more than fifty years, am finding evidence that she felt more joy in the season than she usually acknowledged. I've been trying to articulate those thoughts for a few weeks now, with only modest success. Over the next few days I hope to break them down into smaller, more manageable bits, to make better sense of them. If they seem like something worth sharing, I'll post them here. I'm putting this little note up in the hopes it will keep me rigorous and honest. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Even when she was bemoaning the degradation of this season, one thing she always celebrated was the winter solstice. She suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) all her life. But even just the thought that today would mark the return of the sun, the lengthening of days, the increase of light gave her a sense of hope. So in memory of Margaret Smith Lacey, I wish you all a Happy Solstice, and return of the light</span>. </p>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-82567016582011182562020-11-18T16:16:00.003-05:002020-12-18T15:56:18.600-05:00Forging Her Own Path<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In 1982, in honor of her parents’ 50<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary, Mom wrote an essay titled <b>Emro Farm</b>, named for the
property that had been in her mother’s family for over 100 years, and which her
parents had spent their working lives taking care of. She typed up the text on
her electric typewriter, aligned horizontally and double-sided so it could be
run off easily on a copier. Light blue cardstock adorned with a neighbor’s line
drawing of the farm comprised the cover. A couple of other line drawings, one
of the house, one of the local Quaker Meetinghouse, augmented the text. I have
it in my head that she did all the copying herself, standing at the college
library Xerox machine with a bagful of quarters; this isn’t entirely out of the
realm of the possible; the only thing making it unlikely would be Mom’s
unwillingness to monopolize the machine that long. When I look at the pamphlets
now, I realize they’re too uniform to have been made by hand. I’m pretty sure
the library was involved though; they probably had a machine for making small
pamphlets like this. It probably cost a pittance to run off a few dozen copies;
it’s even possible Dad would have had a faculty discount. The document was
meant to be shared only with family members, maybe some of her parents’ close
friends. Mom’s insistence on a shoestring budget just made sense when one
considered the deep-seated frugality of both the creator and the intended
audience. In 1991, following the deaths of both her parents, Mom revisited the
document, adding essays and poems that examined their respective legacies, and
their influence on her.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Mom had been writing for years at this point. Once all
three of her children were in school full time, she set up an office in a
corner of the master bedroom and five days a week, from 8 am until noon, she
would sit and compose on her typewriter. In 1985, with one child in grad
school, another in college, Mom turned the smallest bedroom in the house into
her office. At age 49, for the first time in her life, she had a room entirely
to herself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">She had some success with essays, short stories and
poems seeing publication. All her rejection letters ended up on a
lethal-looking spike that sat on her desk. From her I learned that even
rejection letters had a hierarchy. At the bottom was the form letter; next up
came the form letter with a handwritten signature. Up from that was the form
letter with a handwritten note at the bottom, and best of all, almost as good
as an acceptance letter, was the completely handwritten note, usually saying
something like ‘we can’t take this at this time, but please keep submitting.” This
perspective served me well as an actor. One is probably going to hear ‘no’ more
often than ‘yes,’ so one has to make one’s peace with that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Her family members were enthusiastic in their support
of her writing, none more so than Dad. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
pushed Mom to treat her work as a legitimate business, insisting, for example,
that she file business taxes each year, even as the business consistently ran
at a loss. Mom hated receiving gifts, but in an attempt to throw her pleading
children some kind of bone, she would request postage stamps for her
submissions. She claimed to love getting stamps; “they make me feel rich,” This
drove Dad crazy; “that isn’t a gift,” he’d squawk, “that’s a business expense!”
We kids would try to strike a middle ground, getting Mom rolls of first-class
mail postage, but refusing to treat them as anything more than a stocking
stuffer at Christmas, and an afterthought on birthdays. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Mom loved mysteries, and ended up writing two of them;
these manuscripts landed her a fancy New York agent, Jean Naggar, but ultimately
Ms. Naggar’s clout and influence proved unable to land a publisher. Eventually
she and Mom parted ways, and Mom abandoned the manuscripts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Over the years she had written several short stories
loosely based on the lives of ancestors, relatives, and her own childhood. A
handful of them were published in various magazines and journals. With the
death of both her parents, Mom told me she felt a sudden opening up in her
writing. A freedom she hadn’t even realized she was lacking now allowed her to
tell new stories. Partly as a result of this, all the fictionalized memoir and
family history was cobbled together into a single narrative which she titled <b>Silent
Friends: a Quaker Quilt</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The title was, to some extent, Mom’s self-effacing
claim that the book wasn’t a <i>novel</i>, per se, but a loosely connected
series of short stories, the word ‘quilt’ suggesting the process of sewing
disparate pieces together. Having previously read all the short stories, I
probably approached the book with this expectation as well. Certainly, I was
sure there would be no surprises in it for me. But Mom sold herself short.
Somehow the whole ends up being greater than the sum of its parts. I’ve never
quite pinned down how she achieved this. Maybe it’s partly by making the farm
itself a character. Her disclaimer at the beginning reads, “The land is itself;
the characters are products of my imagination.” Maybe the effect comes from
making all the characters members of a single family. Whatever it is, the
effect was striking, and subsequent re-readings have been rewarding. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In 1992 the book was published by a small operation
based in Illinois called Stormline Press. Their masthead stated that they were
especially interested in stories of rural and small-town life. Mom was ‘paid’
in copies, and gave most of them away to friends, family members, and loved
ones, all with personal inscriptions. My copy says “To Patrick, who sees me
clearly, and loves me anyway.” In the copy she gave to my boyfriend at the
time, she wrote, “For Kevin, to help you understand your noisy friend Patrick.”
A quick Google search reminds me that <i>The Midwest Book Review</i> gave it a
short, but positive review. Mom received enthusiastic responses from many of
her readers, and word-of-mouth was largely positive. Her family members were
all ecstatic, none more so than Dad. There came a point where he began
campaigning for a second printing to be run. He mentioned several times that
Stormline should be contacted, and encouraged her to do so. Each time he brought it
up, however, Mom would shoot him down, often with some heat, and typically end
by firmly extracting a promise from him that he wouldn’t take any action
without her express permission. I was never clear on what was going on here,
nor where the heat was coming from exactly. I know Stormline wasn’t a vanity
press; Mom would have no more paid to have her book published than she would
have grown feathers. If her pride hadn’t stopped her, her self-described cheapskate
ways would have. Maybe she knew the Press hadn’t yet recouped its expenses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s also just possible that Mom’s
lifelong struggle with depression, was at play here. She couldn’t put herself
forward like that; it had been hard enough to submit the book in the first
place; making demands of any kind was simply too agonizing to contemplate. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In 1998, Mom created a document similar to the <b>Emro
Farm</b> pamphlet—same layout, same dimensions, even the same blue cardstock
for the cover—though this time the text was a collection of her poems. She
titled it <b>The Lamb’s War</b>, words carefully stenciled onto the master; multiple
images of a lamb, created, if memory serves, by drawing around a cookie cutter,
gambol across the cover. The lamb directly under the title has been filled in
with dark ink. Mom often referred to herself as the black sheep of her family. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Dad had appreciated the handmade quality of <b>Emro
Farm</b>, understanding its goals were modest, but <b>The Lamb’s War</b> irked
him. He felt Mom was showing a lack of respect for her work. “Hell, the lamb
looks like it was done with a potato stamp!” In 2000 she would make yet another
pamphlet, this one a collection of her essays honoring a simple life, the
title—<b>A Perfect Day</b>—once again carefully stenciled by hand on the master,
the text once again created with her electric typewriter. The audience for
these pamphlets was a bit wider; Mom had several hundred printed up, and she
would give them away to anyone she thought might appreciate them. No money was
ever accepted for them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I regularly reread favorite books. Sometimes it’s the
emotional equivalent of comfort food; the world is too much for me, and I need
soothing. But even when that is the goal, the story will often still surprise
me. New insights into the book, or my own thinking, will spring up. Sometimes
it feels like the insight is just a flowering of a seed planted by the book
previously, but just as often, the discovery feels like some bedrock aspect of
my personality, independent of the book, is now being revealed clearly by the
text for the first time. I have this experience regularly with books written by
people I’ve never met. Imagine how much more potent it is when it happens with
your mother’s writing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I understand Dad’s objection, that these collections,
almost ostentatiously cheap in their appearance, suggested Mom was undervaluing
her own work. But I also think a case could be made that Mom was taking control
of her work, and its dissemination, in a way that gave her a greater sense of
autonomy. No longer content to wait for some journal or publishing house to
impart ‘legitimacy’ to her work, while still avoiding the stigma and subterfuge
of a vanity press, she simply made her own books. Fiercely Luddite when it came
to computers, she may have been finding her own way to do what the internet is
now allowing many writers to do: self-publish. There was no pretense, no
inflated claims. All the things Dad did, with the best of intentions, to
encourage Mom to treat her work as a legitimate business—file taxes, even if
they show a loss, ask the Press to run a second printing, treat stamps like an business
expense, not a gift—maybe all that activated Mom’s deep-seated imposter
syndrome. Even giving herself a room of her own had come with emotional
landmines. She felt guilty for depriving her eldest child of a home base during
breaks from grad school, and wondered (in an essay) if she’d been as willing to take the step
if the child had been a son rather than a daughter. All that insistence that
she treat herself like a <i>real</i> writer, maybe instead of conferring
legitimacy, it had paralyzed her. Perhaps after achieving what is so often
treated as the pinnacle of success for a writer, <i>publication of a novel</i>,
she found that nothing had really changed. She felt no magic transformation
into a <i>real writer</i>. If my analysis is right, then I wonder if these slim
pamphlets gave her a way of sidestepping the whole struggle. Here’s my work.
Read it if you want. It will cost you nothing but a little of your time. In
this light, these pamphlets were akin to her home repairs, done with bits and
pieces of things she found in the garage or basement. The results were often
clunky and inelegant, but they usually got the job done, at no cost.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In her later years, Mom stopped writing for the most part,
stopped putting in her office hours. I, and I suspect others, routinely urged
her to get back into the habit. When I fell in love with <b>The Artist’s Way</b>,
by Julia Cameron, I gave Mom a copy of the book. I hoped she’d appreciate the
practicality of the exercises, without being too put off by the New Age spirituality
(something I had more stomach for at the time, myself), but I don’t think it
worked. On one occasion when I took Mom to task for a comment she made
dismissing herself as a writer, she responded, “it took me 25 years to write
one, 108-page novel!” Even if this were true (as I mentioned, other pieces saw
publication through traditional channels), it was a heartbreaking way to view
the book. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Ultimately, I fear she felt dejected by the fact that
her professional life never turned a profit. She frequently referred to things
she would do ‘once my ship comes in.’ Replacing all the windows, reinsulating
the house, any number of tasks were mentioned as things that would happen once
her ‘ship came in.’ Sad how many of them seemed to be purely practical,
unromantic homeowning issues, things Dad would have seen no reason to put off, if it were only up to him. Sadder still was the way that she, a life-long
anti-materialist, nonetheless seemed to think money, or the lack of it, was a measure of her success. Whatever she thought that ‘ship’ would be, she never believed it arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">When used books became available online, Mom asked
Mary, Dad, and her friend Becky to buy up any copies they came across, as long
as they didn’t spend too much money (Mom still steadfastly refused to go online
herself). She had run through her author’s copies, and wanted to be able to
give books to interested parties again. Buying up used copies came with some
emotional risks; more than one of them showed up with one of Mom’s handwritten
inscriptions, clearly revealing which friend had chosen to sell or give away
the book, but this didn’t bother her as much as I would have expected (or as
much as it would have bothered me, perhaps). Maybe she was confident enough in
the books merits not to take it personally if someone, even a friend, had
decided to pass the book along. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The title essay of <b>A Perfect Day</b> describes a
day spent building bookshelves and making jam in and around her normal daily
activities of dog walking, cooking, reading and listening to NPR; writing isn’t
mentioned, though of course one has to recognize it’s implicit in the essay’s
existence. I derive a great deal of comfort from that. I fear her lifelong struggle with depression (mostly untreated because, she insisted, people of her generation 'just didn't do that') may have led her to dismiss her accomplishments. But her pamphlets give me some hope that maybe, at least some of the time, she was happy to forge her own path. Maybe she decided to stop pursuing traditional publication, or mainstream success, finding instead her own ways to tell her stories. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-55765710940339309822020-11-02T18:44:00.000-05:002020-11-02T18:44:59.286-05:00Celebrating Mom<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYy5_fBaUj0c_Z5zxMDZAAwkK8n1E216uDpvVYCJoXHqCUgZrnXp0aRSQEtQFd_dMkYCQIdoZX89TlWdXzVuek12VGD4wS6wr0PL4wBLvPxbl1-B7P08S6EGJVtYCZtnVbcgs/s502/Smiling+Mama+Bust+Shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="437" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYy5_fBaUj0c_Z5zxMDZAAwkK8n1E216uDpvVYCJoXHqCUgZrnXp0aRSQEtQFd_dMkYCQIdoZX89TlWdXzVuek12VGD4wS6wr0PL4wBLvPxbl1-B7P08S6EGJVtYCZtnVbcgs/s320/Smiling+Mama+Bust+Shot.jpg" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">(A version of this text ran in the Palladium Item, the local newspaper, on October 25th) </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Margaret Ann Smith Lacey died on October 14<sup>th</sup>,
2020 at Friends Fellowship Community, from complications associated with
dementia. She was born on July 9<sup>th</sup>, 1936, on a farm outside What
Cheer, Iowa. Her family was active in Iowa Yearly Meeting (Conservative)
Society of Friends. She graduated from Scattergood Friends School in 1954, and
Earlham College in 1958, where she received a Bachelor’s Degree in English. In
August of that same year, she married Paul Lacey, beginning a loving, dynamic—
and frequently noisy—partnership that would last more than fifty-eight years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Their first two years of married life were spent in
Cambridge, MA, where Paul completed his doctorate in English literature at
Harvard, and Margaret worked as a librarian. In 1960, Paul accepted a teaching
position at Earlham and they moved to Richmond, Indiana. Excepting stays in London,
Cape Cod, Maine and Ireland, Richmond would be their home for the rest of their
lives. They raised three children: Mary, Patrick, and James. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once all the kids were in school, Margaret began writing, eventually
publishing short stories, essays, and poems in <i>The Christian Science
Monitor, Ellery Queen’s Mystery, The Boston Globe, Iowa Woman, The Mississippi
Valley Review</i> and others. In 1992 Stormline Press published her novel <b>Silent
Friends: A Quaker Quilt, </b>a collection of stories following three generations
of a Quaker family living on an Iowa farm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Throughout her life, Margie made things: stories, bookcases,
quilts, delicious and nourishing meals. She reveled in using her DIY skills,
especially if the task required devising a solution with bits and pieces she
could find lying around, or using one of her beloved hand tools, salvaged from the family farm. In 1963 she
and Paul bought the old house that would be their home for the next fifty-two
years, and Margie’s skill set quickly established her as the primary caretaker.
Of her many creations, the home she made, with and for her loved ones, was one
of her finest. She and Paul filled the house with an eclectic mix of art, music
and literature, encouraging their children to explore their own interests and
ignore the snobbery of others. Three daily newspapers and the nightly news helped
the kids to emulate their parents’ curiosity and political engagement. Margie
and Paul also introduced their kids to a variety of cuisines, encouraging them
to become adventurous cooks and eaters. Shared meals, around the world and at
the home table, were one the central joys of family life. This vibrant home
became a haven to their children, extended family, friends, and generations of
college students. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Margie and Paul remained active in civil rights, peace and other social justice causes throughout
their lives. Though her Quaker roots remained a rich source of inspiration to
her, in her later years Margie became a self-described
agnostic/Nature-worshipper. Her daily walks with the dog included visits to
favorite trees, which she would greet with hugs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">She was, above all else, excellent company: a witty,
well-read, thoughtful conversationalist, and an empathetic listener. We will
miss her terribly.</span></p>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-18634070474657088742017-06-06T22:06:00.001-04:002017-06-06T22:06:06.498-04:00Walking Home with Mom<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">When home was gone from our mother’s head, except as
fragments of childhood memory, she set out walking to find it. She went at 3
am, in her nightie, past our sleeping father, through three doors, across the
grass, and onto a North Carolina highway. Two kind young men managed not to hit
her with their car and brought her home to a place she didn’t recognize, the
retirement home where she had lived for five years.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Strapped in a chair, she angled her eighty pounds, slithered
free and started home, was caught at the outside door and re-confined. She flew
over the bars of her bed in the nursing center and headed for the outdoors.
They imprisoned her broken wrist in a cast and tied her down.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">These are the first two paragraphs of an essay my mother
wrote in 1995 called “Walking Home.” She wrote it during an annual writing retreat
she had with her two sisters. She says it came out in one sitting, essentially
in a single draft. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mom was still in her private apartment in assisted living
when she decided late one night that she had to walk a few miles to a local
park, a place she hadn’t visited in years, to retrieve a book she was sure she
had left there that day. She was discovered on the highway near the facility
and brought back. About a year later she once again left the facility in the
middle of the night. When the staff found her, at the top of a hill behind the
building—with her walker for once—she had no idea where she was, nor why she
had left. At that point, it was clear Mom needed to go to the dementia wing of
her retirement facility, known as the Courtyards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Whether because of better information, or simply better
funding, the Courtyards handle dementia patients better than was the case in my
grandmother’s facility. Mom has never needed to be strapped into a chair, or
tied to a bed, to keep her safe. The rooms are reached through a pair of double
doors, accessed by a keypad code; it’s understood people lacking short-term
memory will not be able to memorize a code, assuming they ever learn it at all.
The semi-private rooms all branch off a
large space drenched with light from windows and a skylight. An aviary of
brightly colored, chipper birds sits at one end of the room. A resident cat and
dachshund wander the space, accepting affection and surreptitious treats,
visiting and napping with the residents. An outdoor space with raised beds is
accessible to the clients at any time; all the doors lead back into the main
room. Soft music from the 40s and 50s plays any time a classic movie musical
isn’t on the TV. Every effort has been made to create an environment that is
soothing, welcoming and bright. My mother loves the staff and many of the
clients she lives with. Nonetheless, Mom still regularly announces her
intention to go home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Before her condition confined her to a wheel chair, she
would circle the communal space, looking for a way out. This behavior is so
common among people with dementia they have a term for it: ‘exiting.’ But Mom always
walked, long before the dementia began robbing her of herself. Her essay about
her mother continues:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Why did she walk? I believe it was because there is comfort
in movement, whether or not you have a destination in mind. The Catholic
faithful walk the Stations of the Cross, climb the holy mountain and end where
they began. The Australian Aborigines sing and walk their circular journey all
their lives, for hundreds and hundreds of miles, singing their souls into being.
Their paintings reveal ancestral maps, family maps, of the earth and of the
soul: each tuft of grass, each animal, a totem or way-station. There are no shortcuts;
you must walk and sing all of the lines, to find your way home. Pilgrimage
sends you away and brings you back. I like to think that my mother, far gone in
Alzheimer’s, was on pilgrimage as well, though she didn’t know her ending
place. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My mother also found comfort in movement. She walked twice a
day with the dog, traversing a large circle around the college campus near her
home. It was exercise, therapy for chronic depression and anxiety, and a way of
anchoring herself to place. Ever since reading Bruce Chatwin’s <b>The Songlines</b>, she had loved the concept
of singing and walking existence into health. It suggested a way to shape her own
spiritual practice around the tasks of daily life, deepening them into ritual. She
writes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I know it nourishes me to walk and work and touch the house
totems: dishwater, broom, bread dough, black dirt, seedlings, weeds. Sometimes
I only pace in tight circles, but it is better to be on my way, along the
songlines, totem by totem. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mom was the person who first showed me that home is as much
a set of routines and habits as it is a location. She, often in the face of
derision, firmly claimed her status as both feminist and homemaker. Even when
her writing began to get some of the attention it deserved, she always insisted
<i>writer</i> take second billing to <i>homemaker</i> on her resume. She built a haven for her family through daily
actions. She prepared tasty, nutritious meals, washed laundry, built book
cases, performed basic carpentry and plumbing. She shared favorite books, music,
television and radio shows, and in various ways kept us and the house in good
health. Though we all loved that house, and did our part to make it a home,
there’s no question Mom was the central animating spirit of the place, and that
walking was vital to her work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Walking is prayer. Walking, life flows up the leash from the
dog to me. Here are my morning totems: the molefield, where eruptions of black
dirt and mushroom circles make a mockery of lawnkeepers’ cosmetic hopes; a
great catalpa with tree-sized branches and leaves as big as dinner plates; a
many-mooded face in profile, carved by nature out of a cedar tree’s long-ago wound;
beside the Quaker Meeting House: bronze Mary Dyer, hanged on Boston Common for
walking her faith, now sitting eternally at worship; a field shared by killdeer
and those benign monsters, the horses; the houses of friends and
fellow-walkers; a continuity of school children waiting for the bus. At last I
see the outside of home and then feel its embrace</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Until college brought a new routine, the morning dog walk
was my responsibility and pleasure. The path I evolved overlapped with this one
at many points, and gave my day an anchor I valued even as a teenager. It has
been my good fortune to be able to return regularly to the home where I
grew up, still inhabited by parents who loved the place, the rituals, and one
another. Tagging along on the afternoon walk, as I did most afternoons when
visiting, let me touch base with our shared totems and reconnected me to that
anchor. I no longer thought of that house or walk as home, really, but
returning to them always rejuvenated me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Or at least it did,
until my parents began to deteriorate. For both Mom and Dad, failing health
began to erode their ability to do the work they had loved. Dad’s arthritis and
failing eyesight eventually made reading, writing and traveling impossible.
Mom’s failing memory and physical frailties attacked every aspect of her day;
reading, writing, walking the dog, cooking, carpentry, gardening, all of it
became impossible or dangerous. An unexpected consequence of this was the
beloved home became a death trap. Stairs transformed into rickety ladders,
sharp corners, pill bottles and dirty dishes sprouted like weeds, even the gas
stove turned treacherous, waiting for a forgotten pot or Styrofoam container to
wreak havoc. In the past, I had wondered
how I would feel when Mom and Dad no longer needed that house. I assumed its
loss would be wrenching, no matter how necessary. But without my mother’s
animating spirit and tireless efforts, the house turned malevolent. Even now,
when it no longer threatens my parents’ well-being, the house has ceased being
the beloved haven; it mostly sits as a warehouse for possessions that have lost
their purpose, and whose demand for attention will, I know, become increasingly
shrill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Again to my surprise, a similar process seems to have
occurred with the daily walk. Over the
last four years, Mom’s difficulties with moving slowed and shortened the walks
until she was forced to abandon them all together. Fang, the last dog, designated
herself Mom’s guardian at the first sign of trouble, and would leave her side
only under duress. She was the first to decide that without Margie, the walk
was simply not quite right, maybe not even worth doing. She’d drag along for
the first half of the increasingly truncated trip, looking over her shoulder at
the house. The return would be an Iditarod, one’s arm wrenched from
the shoulder from her need to get back to her charge. Fang survived Mom’s move
into assisted living only by nine months. She was thirteen, a good age for a big
dog, and deeply devoted to the kind man who move into the house to care for her,
but I wonder if she also felt that her life’s purpose was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On my visits back to see family, I still make time walk the
beloved old route, though not every day. I visit the giant catalpa Mom
considered a friend, and continue her tradition of hugging it. I greet Mary
Dyer in her old spot, and the horses in their new one. I pass familiar houses,
filled with unfamiliar residents. It’s pleasant enough, but not the same. Maybe
a dog would help, but I think what’s really missing is Mom. If I returned to
live there, and took this walk every day again, I’m sure I would enjoy it. But
I’d be building a new tradition, if I were lucky. The old song is gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve come to realize that part of my trouble is, while the
old places and paths are no longer home, I haven’t created new ones yet to
replace them. My apartment of almost twenty years is a residence, and a
pleasant one, but not home. Likewise, the many walks I take throughout the city
are merely utilitarian or exercise. None of them have developed deeper
resonance, and after more than twenty years, I don’t expect they will. Maybe the
cause is my move away from any spiritual belief; maybe adulthood can never
compete with childhood, especially one as nurturing and myth-making as mine; maybe
it’s the simple fact that I don’t enjoy living in cities. (I’d say that what
rituals I’ve developed here have more to do with the abundance of take-out food.
Nice enough, to be sure, but not the same.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My craving for home is strong, but vague. I don’t know how
to build it, or where to seek it yet. Maybe it will form in some way independent of place. But I suspect walking will play
a leading role. My mother’s example, in this and other ways, will continue to
shape my approach to home. Her essay concludes: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>But it isn’t enough to be home; one should always be going
there. My mother is seven years dead, but sometimes I dream of attaching myself
to her by an invisible line, unconfining but unbreakable, so I can keep her
safe and follow her on pilgrimage. We’ll greet our totems, sing the journey,
and rest at need, till we get home. </i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-86915620077440201502017-03-09T15:41:00.000-05:002017-03-09T17:46:36.479-05:00You Can Feel It All Over<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When my
brother died, my grief was volcanic. Returning from his memorial in Indiana, I
found myself enraged at the world going about its business as if
nothing had happened. People seemed unaware that the very rules of existence
had changed. My brother was dead, dammit! For at least a year I regularly
experienced what I called emotional landmines; I’d be chugging along reasonably
well, functioning with something resembling equanimity when BOOM! Something would
remind me of James, and his death. I was, it’s fair
to say, a bit of a mess. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So far, my
grief at the death of my father has been much quieter. I suppose this makes sense. He died at age eighty-two, after a rich and fulfilling life. He’d had satisfying work, a loving
family, great friendships, many adventures and achievements. He’d also had at least
four years of declining health that weighed heavily on him, and wasn't any fun to watch. He lost the ability to walk, to read, to write, even, I fear, to enjoy food. So much of what made him, him was slowly stripped
away. He’d been ready to die for a while. Maybe my worst grief occurred in his final years, as he faded away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But while I
haven’t (yet) experienced any emotional landmines, this is not to say Dad hasn’t
popped up now and then. Most of the visits have been triggered by music. I hear "The Hucklebuck," and suddenly Dad’s voice is singing the lyrics (I remember them effortlessly), while he shows me how to Charleston and do that move where you appear to
switch your kneecaps. I hear a nineties pop anthem to girl power, and I
remember a story Mary told me. Dad was visiting a married couple with a young
daughter. As was his habit with kids, Dad wanted to include her in the
conversation, so, he asked her what kind of music she liked. Immediately she launched
into a passionate speech praising the Spice Girls. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Paul doesn’t want to
hear about the Spice Girls!” her (perhaps projecting) parents said. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Without
missing a beat, Dad said, “I’ll tell you want I want, what I really, really
want!” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I bet he made sure the young lady said her piece. I bet he had follow-up questions. He might
even have sung with her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The strongest
memory, though, was a few weeks ago, when I stumbled across Stevie Wonder
singing "Sir Duke." This song has made me think of my dad since the first hearing.
It was in regular rotation on the radio when I was ten, and we were living in
London for Dad’s sabbatical. On our spring break, we rented a car and drove through
the Scottish Highlands, usually with the radio playing top forty. "Sir Duke" quickly became a family favorite. Every time it came on, we cheered, no one louder than Dad. We’d sing along vigorously, Dad always kicking things off with the
joyous ‘OW’ at the beginning. To this day that song puts me in the back seat
of a rental car, blue-grey mountains, silver lochs, and </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">God’s own plenty of
sheep streaming by the windows, Dad wearing white driving gloves due to a case of sun poisoning on his hands, bouncing in his seat, yelping ‘OW' along with
Stevie. That song is one bright thread in a wonderful week. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">While I hadn’t
predicted it, it’s not that surprising that songs are triggering visits from
Dad. He and Mom naturally formed the first and deepest roots of my musical
tastes, introducing me to the Beatles, Bach, Count Basie, Louis Armstrong, Mozart,
Duke Ellington, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Joan Baez, Johnny Cash, Judy
Collins, the Chieftains, Handel, and Bartok, just to name a few. Dad taught us
Sibelius’ "Karelia Suite" is best played loud, he sang about a girl in Kalamazoo
('K.A.L.A.M.A.Z.O.ooh what a gal/a real pipparoo'), he and Mom taught us rounds
and folk songs that shortened many a car trip. We learned to love a wide range
of musical genres, never allowing snobbery to dampen our joy in a song, whether
silly or grand. And it wasn't just music; they did the same thing for us with books, film, food and art. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It's reasonable to say that Dad was a great man in the way the world measures these things. It’s good
and right that people are celebrating those aspects of him right now. I’m proud
of the things he accomplished, and the causes he supported. But there's a comforting intimacy in the fact that so far, his surprise visits have all reminded me of his goofiness, his
exuberance, his unabashed joy. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There’s another song
tied to that Scotland trip, and Dad: Bernard Cribbins’ "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5XX9LX2es4" target="_blank">Right Said Fred</a>." I don’t
know if the song ever made it to this side of the pond. It’s
more of a novelty song like "The Hucklebuck," or "Kalamazoo," not a work of genius
like "Sir Duke." It's from the nineteen sixties too, so its connection to that week in Scotland is a complete fluke, triggered perhaps by some DJ's nostalgia. I hear it play, mountains, lochs and sheep streaming by, and I delight in Dad’s roar of laughter at the surprising turn taken in
the closing line. If you’ve never heard it, it’s worth a listen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-70593843398085953602016-06-27T15:26:00.002-04:002016-07-16T12:08:20.868-04:00The Medium & the Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/rwjly8Z4Q_w/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rwjly8Z4Q_w?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe>T</div>
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I'm frontloading this video with an eye to editing it, and possibly compiling a video reel. My valiant little samsung camera sure tried hard, didn't it. This was recorded February 10th, 2010, as part of the Spectacular Scrantonian Spectacular, at the Electric City Theater. Billy Rogan provided the music, Jeff Wills produced the event, and stepped in the play with me here. </div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-49897908146865198132014-08-07T19:02:00.001-04:002014-08-07T19:02:56.335-04:00Studying Sunflowers<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span id="goog_575002877"></span><span id="goog_575002878"></span>While most of last year's crop of sunflower seeds were fed to the birds, I saved some for planting this year. On two or three different occasions I put some in places I thought would make a sunflower happy, but to be honest, didn't keep good track of where they were. I left the weather in charge of watering them, and was pretty lucky on that front; it was a wet spring, but not overly so, from what I could tell.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Suspicious-looking holes suggested that squirrels, or possibly birds, found many of the seeds soon after they were buried, but a few survived to sprout. Many of those then fell victim to some nibbler or other, probably the rabbit who spends a lot of time in the yard, leaping about with all his rabbit friends and relatives. But a few sprouts even made it past this critical stage, whether it was because of the red pepper I scattered at their roots, or because of their proximity to sage and rosemary plants.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Even after the sprouts survived the rabbits though, they weren't out of the woods. Some bug or other has been turning many of the leaves into doilies, even munching away at the edges of the flower petals. The surviving plants all look a bit bedraggled, but they remain undefeated.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_jZ0T-yI-nfd0B3_MaH17ssUu5ejQAiu4taxqDSbH5oUVxC21IHc9tmkt7fMlh3NRXN5Fm0oMlXopxVtg60r4hyphenhyphenFlDsMa2cdGRbQ0rVHWezZmAJzw4mCs3sYI_OAyrYBO2bRgQ/s1600/IMG_20140717_165948696_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_jZ0T-yI-nfd0B3_MaH17ssUu5ejQAiu4taxqDSbH5oUVxC21IHc9tmkt7fMlh3NRXN5Fm0oMlXopxVtg60r4hyphenhyphenFlDsMa2cdGRbQ0rVHWezZmAJzw4mCs3sYI_OAyrYBO2bRgQ/s1600/IMG_20140717_165948696_HDR.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are five plants that are clearly sunflowers, and two more that I think are, but are still too small for me to be sure. There are two varieties: a red hybrid called <i>evening sun</i> and another which I can no longer identify correctly but think of as your classic <i>giant yellow</i> sunflower. One of the evening suns bloomed a few weeks ago; it puts out multiple blooms, and is already starting a second round. The three big yellows seemed intent on gaining a lot of height first. I assumed the one in front, nearly seven feet and bathed in direct morning light, would be the first to bloom, but one of the two shorter ones in back beat it to the punch just this morning. There are probably useful lessons to be gleaning about micro-climates from these plants, actually. I understand why the one on the west side is significantly behind the others in terms of development; what sun it gets is late afternoon, probably for at most four hours. Of the three in the front yard, I understand why the one farthest from the shade of house and arbor vitae bloomed first. I'm not entirely clear why the one slightly closer to the evergreen is so much smaller than its vigorous kin nearby though. I would have thought it got at least as much sun as the blooming one, but it is lagging behind. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">(I also have to remember there may have been a few weeks between plantings.)</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CpfCiIhjlXQ/U-PCICBo7bI/AAAAAAAACso/YlPPk26H_V8/s1600/IMG_20140807_115923203_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CpfCiIhjlXQ/U-PCICBo7bI/AAAAAAAACso/YlPPk26H_V8/s1600/IMG_20140807_115923203_HDR.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-apKjkHvUleg/U-PCDsTRb5I/AAAAAAAACsg/iZExetshXxE/s1600/IMG_20140807_115945655_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then the one in back, that bloomed just today, is the six foot gap between it and its twin really enough to give it that lead? They're almost the same height. But other evidence supports this finding; that corner of the house lies to the southeast, and everything that grows there--monarda, cosmos, morning glories, sweet peas--grows faster, taller and more lushly than do the same plants just a few feet away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Much as I've been enjoying mucking about in Bill's backyard, I have to laugh at what it's reminding me about my work habits. The sunflowers in particular have been a fine example of my 'scatter a bunch of stuff and see what happens' approach. It has a lot to recommend it; it keeps the stakes low (you don't put too much stock in any one seed); any result at all will be a gift, a surprise even; you end up feeling like the universe (in the form of sun, rain and distracted nibblers) has smiled on your modest efforts. I might claim that I'm still contentedly in a state of beginner's mind with this whole gardening thing. I know how little I know, I don't mind being a novice, it's all gravy. For now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I wouldn't say my life directly mirrors this. While it was a tried and true strategy in the past, I don't think I've been scattering that many seeds of late, to be frank. All the happiness experts encourage us to be in the moment and to commit to something greater than ourselves. Those aren't contradictory impulses really, but there's a tricky balance to letting go and committing simultaneously. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In recent years I've been reminded just how arbitrary and unpredictable life can be, and in response I think I moved away from long-term planning. I took to heart all that advice from hospice workers on how not to regret things on your deathbed, and as a consequence have had some wonderful adventures, trips, and delicious time with loved ones. I have most definitely collected some memories that will warm me on my deathbed. But in other ways I think I've been on auto-pilot, plodding along in the day-to-day without looking at a bigger picture. This silly little patch of flowers is as close as I've come to long-term planning, to <i>making</i> something, in a few years. And it's nice, believe me I've been having a ball, but come on, let's not wax too poetic about a bunch of hardy perennials (and yes, okay, a handful of hard-won sunflowers) on a quarter acre in Jersey. With no offense meant to Jersey, whoopty-fuckin'-do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe at the root of all this is the idea that if I'm having fun, feeling good about something, then it's a clue. Maybe it's my secret calling, my long-sought but seldom seen Right Livelihood finally revealing itself! Maybe all the time and brain real estate I've devoted to this little garden is <i>significant</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Excuse me while I breathe into this paper bag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No. No no no. Why can't I just have hobbies? Why can't I just let something be FUN? Do I really think I have to put the rest of my life on hold until I've ACHIEVED SOMETHING IMPRESSIVE?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Apparently, yes. I'm beginning to think this 'letting go' business hasn't been letting go so much as hiding. But I'm enjoying the hell out of these sunflowers. Sometimes a garden is just a garden. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've mentioned before that my interior design style is best described as "ya done with that?" Even now when it's not the financial necessity it once was, I'm still likely to accept free things friends are getting rid of, just in case. That's what happened a few weeks ago when someone offered me two blue curtain panels. . </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once they were an option, I realized they would be a good replacement for the ones hanging in my bedroom. Sixteen years hanging in south-facing windows had caused them not merely to fade, but actually tear from sun damage. So I was surprised, as I took them down, to find myself a bit melancholy. They were more woven into my history than I had realized. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">These two curtains actually started life as a table cloth. When I lived in Seattle, my friend Julia worked briefly at an Indian Textiles import store. At some point she was offered a bunch of factory seconds for free, so she invited a bunch of us over to partake in the colorful cotton bounty. Whatever had rendered these unfit for sale was invisible to my eye at least and I took a pile of things; there were a set of napkins and place mats in a red and blue paisley pattern, but my favorite was the design that used various shades of blue and green in a thick-striped plaid. I got place mats, towels and napkins in it, but the prize by far was the table cloth. The colors weren't the only draw; at four feet by ten feet, it was going to be big enough to cover my dining room table. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The table too had been a gift from a friend. E had moved to Seattle to pursue a new relationship, but when it petered out after a few months, he decided to move back east. E was exceptionally tall (at least six foot five, maybe as much as six foot eight, my memory is hazy), so he had built himself a table that he could sit under without banging his knees. At three feet by seven feet (or was it nine feet?), it was also longer than anything I would have been able to afford at the time. E was a set designer and carpenter, so he had made something that was inexpensive but attractive, lightweight enough for one person to be able to move it, and sturdy enough that one could probably stage choreography on it. It just wasn't precious enough to justify moving (he could make another one more cheaply wherever he landed), so he offered it to me and my four roommates. It looked perfect in our funky farmhouse kitchen, filling without overpowering the breakfast nook. Two years later when I and one of those roommates found an apartment together, this table came with us, where it once again anchored and defined the new dining area with a sturdy grace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, thanks to Julia's largess, we could also dress it up for special occasions. It became the center for many dinner parties over the next five years, usually some carb-heavy affair designed to feed as many people as cheaply as possible: homemade red sauce, piles of spaghetti, a big salad, homemade bread, maybe some red wine if we were feeling flush and extravagant. The table could easily seat eight, but I don't remember it ever doing so, mostly because we didn't have that many chairs. We had enough place mats and napkins though, even if they didn't all match, again thanks to Julia, and I was always thrilled to have an excuse to bring them all out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I moved to New York, I left the table behind of course, but I packed all the linens. They sat in a box in my parents' basement for at least three years, while I moved a total of twelve times, until finally landing in the place where I live now. I needed curtains in the bedroom, and couldn't afford to buy them. Even I have trouble crediting that story now; I really didn't have thirty or forty dollars to buy some cheap things at the local home supply store? But I can also remember walking to classes, auditions and jobs from time to time because I was unable to scrounge up the $1.50 required for mass transit, so yes, it wasn't just a case of not <i>wanting</i> to spend the money, it was a case of not <i>having</i> it, at least not right then, when I wanted to block out early morning sun and neighbors' eyes. But there was this table cloth. Its dimensions meant it would fill the two windows adequately if not completely. Cutting it in half, and turning the raw edges into pocket hems fell easily inside my limited sewing abilities. So that's what I did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once in place, the choice undertaken mostly for practicality had some nice aesthetic results. The colors had a soothing effect I hadn't predicted. Two bold splashes of color in the white box of my bedroom felt like a big design statement, especially given how little interior decorating I was prone to do, after three years of sublets. There had been a bit of a concession in the cut, of course; doing so meant I was acknowledging I was unlikely to need such a large table cloth any time soon, if ever again. Life in New York simply happens on a smaller, tighter scale. All in all though I was happy with the result, especially once I realized the heavy cloth made an excellent light block. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, now they've been retired, and I'm finding myself oddly nostalgic about them. The fabric was a table cloth for about six years, a pair of curtains for sixteen. I occasionally threw one of those big spaghetti meals in New York, but it's been a few years. Few people I know are willing to eat that many carbs in one go now. Even I have cut back, mostly to avoid the empty calories. I don't have the metabolism of a twenty-something starving artist any more. More to the point though, it's harder to get people gathered in one place, whether because of age, responsibilities or geography. My apartment isn't conveniently located for most of my friends. It remains to be seen how many more years I can handle the four flights of stairs, frankly. Like most New Yorkers, my socializing now tends to happen in centrally located restaurants, in groups of three to six. And that's fine. Nice even. It's wonderful to have the option now. But sometimes I do miss throwing a big, cheap dinner party. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I originally assumed I'd just throw the old curtains out, but now I'm not so sure. Even with the rips and faded colors from the sun damage, there is still probably a few good feet of usable cloth. I haven't a clue what I might do with it, but it would be nice to give it another incarnation. I appreciate the reminders it provides of the generosity I have been showered with over the years. The table, the meals, the linens, even the use of my parents' basement, all speak of a bounty that might be rooted in frugality, but is free of austerity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'll resist the temptation to make a big deal out of the cloth, for now. It would be easy to get precious about it. Clearly the answer lies in letting the new task present itself when the time is right, like it did in the past. And hell, maybe I'll still just throw the damn things out. Sometimes things get worn out, and need to go. The Quaker in me appreciates that, just as he worries about putting too much power into material possessions. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But for now, it can't hurt to wash them. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-20137137203984857962014-07-30T20:38:00.001-04:002014-08-01T10:50:06.161-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I startled this praying mantis when I cut some of the basil this past weekend. Since then I've checked for it whenever I'm in the vicinity, and it has always been there. I wouldn't have thought basil was especially appealing to insects of any kind, with the essential oils being so strong, but apparently praying mantises and lady bugs are actually drawn to herbal plants. Since both insects are known for eating garden-destroying bugs, I'm always glad to see them around. I also just think they're cool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't think the mantis is as pleased to see me as I am to see it. After I had taken a few photos, it began to climb ponderously away towards the inner reaches of the plant. Perhaps it felt like I was blowing its cover. Camouflage is a key tool in its strategy for hunting, so I suppose a persistent paparazzo would be a problem. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Inviting insect life was one of the goals with this garden, though mainly I was picturing honeybees and butterflies. Other ones like this surprise and delight me when they show up though. I feel the same sense of guardianship for them that I do for the plants themselves; this is MY praying mantis, even if it seems to think I'm a bit of a pest. The fireflies still rising from the copse each night delight me, but don't inspire the same sense of stewardship. I rejoice in their beauty, but can't take credit for the environment in which they thrive. They feel more like wildlife, creatures that share my space, and thrill me when sighted, but don't feel like MINE. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are other bug rankings in my world. Any earthworms turned up from digging are greeted as members of the family, while Japanese beetle larvae discovered in the same manner are treated as intruders and summarily squished to death. My gorge often rises as I do so, disgusted by the little ball of fat and mucus.Yes, earthworms are beneficial, while the beetle larvae are most definitely not, but it amuses me nonetheless that my visceral reaction to two essentially slimy creatures can be so different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To a lesser degree, I also rank pollinators. I'm glad when anybody is interested in the flowers I've planted, but when I'm honest with myself, I really hope honeybees will be the ones who show up. Bumblebees are nice enough too, I suppose, a perfectly acceptable second-best if for some reason honeybees aren't available. After that comes a whole slew of bugs whose names I've never bothered to learn. Most of them seem like impostors, to be honest: bee wannabes. They may have stripes, stingers perhaps, possibly even the suggestion of fuzz, but I'm not fooled. I don't squish them, or chase them away of course; they still serve a useful purpose.They just don't excite me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I learned last month that the big box store that provided almost half of my plants probably treated them all with a neonicotinoid. This class of pesticide has been implicated in bee colony collapse by several studies. Much of Europe has banned their use on crops and garden plants accordingly. Neonicotinoids apparently stay around for the life of the plant, permeating its nectar and pollen, so even if I've stopped buying plants from the box stores (and believe me, I have), there is still reason to wonder what this garden is doing to the insects I hoped to cultivate. Swell. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Since learning this, I've been looking even more closely for insect life, and frankly it has seemed distressingly sparse. Beautiful hot sunny days will bring just a handful of insects, mostly bumblebees, to the blossoms. So far I've only seen four honeybees, and one of them was dead. Over half the garden came from organic seeds, which I hope will help balance out any harm from the box store plants. Many of the plants are also herbal, and will never be allowed to flower. I hope that helps. The common milkweed that I transplanted throughout all came from the back patch where it grew wild. I trust the monarchs will be all right, if any show up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I've taken perverse comfort in the fact that some bug has been munching away on the all the sunflower leaves. I figure the presence of pests means a lack of pesticide.</span><span style="font-size: large;">The praying mantis inspires a similarly tortured logic; it wouldn't show up if there weren't good things to eat, right? There must be something to make it worthwhile to be hanging out in my basil bush. It's not much comfort, to be honest, but it's the best I have for now. </span> </div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-7308482591301293552014-07-22T19:23:00.000-04:002014-07-22T19:24:45.852-04:00Competing for His Affections<span style="font-size: large;">When we first met five-year-old J, I thought perhaps I was imagining the spark when she saw Bill. But her father (a college friend of mine) chuckled and whispered to me, " I think somebody has a crush." It was instantaneous and adorable. Bill loves kids, but often feels out of his element, doubting his ability to connect with them. It was obvious though that J was ready to take him in hand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For starters she decided she would ride in our rental car. I thought this would involve complications with a car seat, but J is tall for her age, so her seat consists of a cushion she is able to install herself. Got that problem out of the way. I'm more of a talker than Bill, I've been around more kids, and though she wouldn't remember it, I had spent a month with her when she was a baby, so I felt comfortable taking the lead with the conversation. That was okay, but she made her interests clear right away. "Why does Bill always drive the car?" she asked after our second or third trip. Explanations of rental fees for second drivers fell on deaf ears, or maybe ears that understood them for the lame excuses they were. After a few moments of silent reflection she observed, "my mommy and daddy BOTH drive." Clearly she had figured out that while he was driving, Bill wasn't fully available, so couldn't I just shut up and take a shift once in a while? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At our third stop, as I scurried to her door to let her out, she said "Bill never lets me out." Well, yeah, I guess three times does establish a pattern. I eventually realized she no more needed help getting out of the car than she had needed installing her car seat. If Bill wasn't going to lift her out, she might as well do it herself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That first evening we posed for pictures midway through our hike, me holding J, Bill holding her younger brother. After the snapshots she announced, "now I want a photo with Bill holding me!" For various reasons we couldn't do that right then, but we assured her we would make it happen. During the ride back to her house, J informed Bill "you need to talk more!" Later she decided he also needed to "talk louder." Both became themes she revisited regularly during our time together. Clearly she's not a fan of the strong silent type. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't long before J concluded she needed to get rid of me. She didn't have a problem with me, really, it's just that she wanted Bill's undivided attention and I was in the way</span><span style="font-size: large;">. That evening when it was time for bedtime stories she announced that I would read to her younger brother and Bill would read to her, in different rooms, ideally in different parts of town. Her father gently vetoed this plan, saying we would take turns reading to both of them. J took this in stride, to be fair, (it did mean two stories after all) but it clearly wasn't her preference. At least we did make sure the next day that she got the desired photo with Bill holding her. She is radiant. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At some point, both her parents and Bill worried that my feelings were getting hurt, but I thought it was hilarious. I also admired the clarity of her mission and her problem-solving abilities. She's got leadership skills coming out of her ears. And </span><span style="font-size: large;">who understands Bill's appeal better than me? Girlfriend's got good taste.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That said, I <i>was</i> careful never to let myself get between J and any cliff-edges during our mountain hikes. Why tempt fate? </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-78047987424576531762014-02-05T17:32:00.000-05:002014-02-06T16:55:45.126-05:00Favorite Books: The Charioteer by Mary Renault<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Renault, Mary.<b> The Charioteer.</b> New York: Pantheon Books, 1974</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">At one point
in </span><b style="font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">The Charioteer</b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">, by Mary Renault,
Laurence Odell (Laurie, or Spud to his friends) is rereading Plato’s </span><b style="font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">The Phaedrus</b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">, a book he has found
deeply inspiring since adolescence. When a friend asks him to describe it, he
is momentarily stymied for many reasons, but one of the biggest is “it had been
a part of his mind’s furniture for years…” (p.108). This is as good as any
description of my relationship with </span><b style="font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">The
Charioteer</b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">. It has been a touchstone for me since I first picked it up
thirty-five years ago. Trying to describe that relationship, however, has proven
elusive; I doubt I’ll ever be able to do it effectively. I suppose it’s
like trying to describe any important long-term relationship. </span><span style="line-height: 27.600000381469727px;">I've</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> probably
read it dozens, even scores of times, and almost every reading has revealed
something new. I think the book is wiser than I am, with insights that wait
patiently for me to see only when I’m ready for them. It has anticipated and marked key changes in my life and </span></span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">gave me hope at key points. </span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">I would even go so far to say it had a hand in
shaping my ethics.</span></span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">I have a
fairly clear memory of the first time I saw the book. It was lying out on a
counter or table at home, allowing me to glance at the blurb on the front
cover.</span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“Against a background of war and
pain, a young man confronts his own homosexuality—an intimate novel of love and
courage!” I had felt different all my life, in a way that I intuited was
shameful and required hiding, but it </span><span style="line-height: 27.600000381469727px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> until I was twelve that I knew to
label it as homosexuality. </span></span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">That word on
the cover seemed to scream at me in neon letters; I picked it up, hoping for answers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">When I think
about that action now, I marvel at how little terror I felt. I had
sought out information on the subject before that day, looking up the word in
the dictionary—a step that came with little risk, and just as much
satisfaction—and I think I had even come across some books in local bookstores
before this, but buying them was out of the question. What if someone found them
in my possession, and connected the dots? Hell, how could I possibly face the
cashier in the store? Only recently have I wondered if the book was lying out because someone else was reading it. Yet
somehow I felt uncharacteristically safe absconding with it and adding it to my
collection, where it remains, dog-eared, yellowed and scotch-taped. I think I was
just lucky to grow up with parents who were exhaustive and eclectic readers. My
childhood home was stuffed with books; no one was likely to miss this one. </span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">How to
describe that first reading? It stands to reason that it would be the hardest
one to describe. It’s the furthest back chronologically, buried by all other
experiences, and rooted in my least developed self.</span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I just remember that first reading felt like
a lightning bolt. Here, in a WWII-era British army hospital, was a man with my
thoughts and feelings, including many I </span><span style="line-height: 27.600000381469727px;">hadn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> been able to put my finger on
yet. If I remind you how terrifying and shameful those thoughts had been, maybe
it will make more sense why I felt such relief to find them being explored,
free of hysteria or disgust. Feelings that had been horrifying and overwhelming
suddenly seemed valid. My intellect was touched and challenged, sure, but the
sense of being </span></span><i style="font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">understood</i><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"> was the
real impact.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">The novel
shows Laurie having a similar epiphany. He has just met Andrew, and is quietly
reveling in his new understanding. He imagines the letter he
wishes he could write to his mother:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">“Darling Mother,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I have
fallen in love. I now know something about myself which I have been suspecting
for years, if I had the honesty to admit it. I ought to be frightened and
ashamed, but I’m not. Since I can see no earthly hope for this attachment, I
should be wretched, but I am not. I know now why I was born, why everything has
happened to me ever… Oddly enough, what I feel most is relief, because I now
know that what kept me fighting it for so long was the fear that what I was
looking for </span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> exist.” (p.57)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Though it was the
portrayal of love between men that most resonated with me, there were other
aspects of the book I also appreciated. As a Quaker kid in a conservative small
town, I loved the honest, nuanced portrait of Andrew and his pacifism. He is
given the chance to make his case eloquently, and his challengers respect him,
even as they make some good arguments too. This theme contributed to the feeling the book
had been written expressly for me in some unimaginable, intuitive way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As passionately as I loved
the book though, even then I didn't consider it flawless. For one thing I
resented the way the picture faded to black any time physical intimacy loomed
between the characters. Yes, basic teenage randiness was part of the equation,
but I was also just desperate for some instruction. Furtive perusal of my
parents’ books in the living room had provided me some informative straight
erotica, in the form of <b>Lady Chatterly’s
Lover</b> and <b>The Delta of Venus</b>,
but gay stuff was elusive (the story in <b>Delta</b> detailing the gang rape of a schoolboy, was not comforting). Mary
Renault conveys the emotional impact of the sex beautifully and I can
appreciate that <i>now</i>, but at the time
I found her discretion irritating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I also resented Renault’s casual acceptance of
Freud’s explanation for the causes of homosexuality. The first pages of the book seem to exist
only so we can learn that Laurie lost his weak-willed, alcoholic father at
five, being then raised exclusively by his mother. “Laurie was used to the idea
that his father had been a bad lot. It did not consciously disturb him, since
he had been brought up, for almost as long as he could remember, to think of
himself as wholly his mother’s child.” (p. 10) A significant subplot of the
book deals with Laurie’s closeness to his mother, including his resentment, or let’s be frank, <i>jealousy of</i> her new husband, and while it
introduces some illuminating conflicts in the form of Laurie’s stepfather, even
back then, with my disapproval of homosexuality essentially unchallenged and my
knowledge of Freud slight, I still found it ridiculous to imply Laurie’s homosexuality
had been caused by a <i>smothering mother</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The character of Andrew
gets painted with the same brush; we learn quickly that he lost his father
early in life, and was ‘brought up a Quaker by his mother, to whom, obviously,
he had been passionately devoted. If half he said about her were true, she had
been an exceptionally gifted saint. When he spoke of her Laurie saw, as he had
never seen in him at other times, a strain of fanaticism.” (p.86). Because
Renault’s insights were so rich and detailed most of the time, I found this
unquestioned reliance on Freud disappointing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The first reading had
another, more unfortunate impact as well. Though it probably can’t be blamed
for planting this idea, it nonetheless helped flesh out, or at least failed to
challenge the notion that there were good gays—noble, brave, stoic,
hard-working and above all masculine—and bad gays—conniving, weak-willed, soft,
but let’s be honest, their greatest crime was effeminacy. The book also states
outright at least once that the good gays will be much harder to find,
overwhelmed by the hordes of sissies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At a gay party Laurie has
reluctantly attended because he hopes his boyhood hero, Ralph Lanyon, might
attend, he has this thought: “after years of muddled thought on the subject, he
suddenly saw quite clearly what he’d been running away from all those years…it
was the…trouble with nine-tenths of the people here tonight. They were
specialists. They had not merely accepted their limitations, as Laurie was
ready to accept his, loyal to his humanity if not to his sex, and bringing an
extra humility to the hard study of human experience. They had identified
themselves with their limitations; they were making a career of them. They had
turned from all other reality, and curled up in them snugly, as if in a womb.”
(p.141)* <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Earlier in the same scene,
we’re given a few more reasons for Laurie’s discomfort. Here is his reaction
upon first meeting the group: “he became aware that the conversation had a
poised, tentative feel. The unspoken query in the air became as unmistakable as
a shout. Deciding it was no business of his to resolve it, he threw the onus on
Sandy by the simple means of asking to go and wash…He recognized Sandy’s
changed voice which he had heard from the landing: it was the voice of Charles’
friends. Suddenly he imagined Lanyon frisking in and speaking like that.” (Pp.122-3)
Without having met a single gay man (at least as far as I knew), I recognized
this scenario; perhaps special credit should be given to Monty Python for
acquainting me with the specific British interpretations early in life. I knew
what ‘frisking’ looked like. I knew what ‘that voice’ sounded like. And you
better believe I shared Laurie’s squirming distaste for it all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Laurie is reunited with
Ralph, who much to his relief does not frisk in, or speak ‘like that.’ Indeed his
effortless masculinity and gruff sailor manners are repeatedly set in contrast
with fellow after fellow in the room; in each encounter his status not just as alpha
male but as higher being is established with economy. He doesn't best them; few
of them are deemed worthy even of notice. And when one of his actions implies a
proprietary claim on Laurie, the latter takes note of its presumption, but mostly
just appreciates the relief it affords him from unwanted attention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">During the course of that
first evening, Laurie tells Ralph about his first brush with this alien world.
“There was a man at Oxford. It was all rather silly. He looked a bit like one
of the less forceful portraits of Byron. It wasn't so much he himself who
attracted me, though up to a point he did. There are always certain people at
Oxford who seem to hold a key. I didn't know what I expected he’d let me into,
Newstead Abbey by moonlight or something. He kept telling me I was queer and
I’d never heard it called that before and I didn't like it. The word, I mean.
Shutting you away, somehow; roping you off with a lot of other people you don’t
feel much in common with, half of whom hate the other half anyway, and just
keep together so they can lean up against other for support…I started to meet
his friends. I’d imagined a lot of exquisite people it would be hard work
getting to know, but they were all horribly eager, and it wasn't because they
liked me really, I could tell that.” (Pp.163-4)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At age twelve, sad to say,
these ideas resonated with me as much as anything did in the book. It seemed to
confirm my suspicions that the odds were against me finding fellow travelers. I
took it as proof that the best I could hope for was the kind of solitary
existence Laurie has led, reflected in the character of Alec; “…he recognized a
speaker of his own language; another solitary making his own maps, his few
certainties gripped with a rather desperate strength.” (p.124) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, as much as I loved
this book, as much as it seemed to resonate down to my deepest foundations, I
still didn't <i>believe</i> it. I thought it
was a nice fairy tale, maybe the first one that actually spoke to me, but a
fairy tale nonetheless. I assumed Ralph states fact when he gives Laurie his
copy of <b>The Phaedrus</b>; “read it when you've got a minute…it doesn't exist anywhere in real life, so don’t let it
give you illusions. It’s just a nice idea.” (p.29) I appreciated the empathy I found in the novel, but my view of the
world remained hopeless at its core. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Even so, the book was
already working on me, calling me to higher standards. One incident springs to
mind; at a party when I was thirteen, I was thrilled to find myself in a dark
room making out with a nice girl. I began to hope this might prove I was
curable. The girl took my hand and slid it inside her jeans. The invitation I
believed I was receiving suddenly seemed not just appealing, but positively
life-changing. Then a scene in the book, with Laurie in a similar situation, flashed
into my mind. “Then suddenly he felt delighted with himself. After this nothing
would ever be exactly the same, one’s limitations would never seem quite so
irrevocably fixed. At this moment she linked her arms around his neck and for
the first time kissed him of her own accord. He saw her face; it brought him
down to earth with a jolt. He remembered now who was paying for all
this.”(p.273) I politely declined the
invitation, eventually finding a way to end the make-out session too. The girl was
undoubtedly mystified and I’m sure felt rejected; I don’t claim that my actions
were brave or noble, but at the time I felt I was making the harder, more
ethical choice, for her sake as well as mine. I was still years away from even
considering coming out, but at that point the book made pretending to pursue
girls no longer justifiable. “Remember who is paying for this” became a phrase
I would say to myself, whenever I felt tempted to hide in some nice girl’s
feelings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I probably dipped back
into the book a few times over the next few years, but the next pivotal reading
was in the winter of 1986. I had come out in the last few weeks to my immediate
family and closest friends, and felt content that the rest of the world could
find out if and when it needed to. Over all the experience had been free of
drama or conflict. I was lucky; everyone I told responded with love and
support, even when they copped to worries later. As ready as I was to be out though, I still
largely felt ‘unclubbable.’ Some of that was probably valid; friendships based
on full honesty were still fairly new in my life, so nurturing the ones I
already had seemed like a good idea. But I can see now I also held onto the
good gay/bad gay paradigm learned from Laurie and Ralph. There weren't many
openly gay men on my college campus; the few that I was aware of I felt I had
nothing in common with. I was also vaguely aware that indeed, half of them seemed to
hate the other half, and I wanted no part of it. For the time being, it felt
safest to keep making my own maps. And yes, I was still afraid I’d be
surrounded by fellows ‘frisking’ and ‘speaking like that’. My homophobia had
been years in the making, with the full weight of society behind it; it would
take a few more years for it to erode to any useful degree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This notwithstanding, when
I reread <b>The Charioteer </b>this time, I
felt a new solace. Now the complexity and verisimilitude of the characters made
me hope that they might <i>actually</i>
exist. I still hadn't met anyone like Andrew, nor even like Ralph, but I no
longer thought it was impossible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">By funny coincidence the
previous year I had read <b>The Phaedrus</b>
for a Humanities class, so I now also had a better sense of how Plato’s work influenced
the novel structurally and thematically. The characters’ search for and
commitment to ideal forms of ethical systems was one clear influence. I appreciated how the place Laurie and Andrew have their first
serious discussion mirrors the location where Socrates and Phaedrus have
theirs: a sunny slope, shade trees, even a babbling brook, all perfect for an assignation. I may even have
begun to see how my reaction to <b>The
Charioteer</b> and Laurie’s reaction to <b>The
Phaedrus</b> all resembled the shock of recognition Socrates describes as the
true lover’s response to glimpsing his patron god in the character of the
beloved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was this reading that
also garnered the book a bit of a soundtrack. My roommate Peter had gotten a
cassette with both Yaz albums as a Christmas present and he and I fell in love
with it. All that winter it stayed in the stereo—with auto-reverse—and we
listened to nothing else. Allison Moyet’s soulful, androgynous voice and Vince
Clark’s surprisingly emotional synthesizers are now woven the book for me.
Ralph and Laurie taking a nighttime drive through the blacked-out British countryside,
makes me hear <i>Ode to Boy</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">When he drives I love to
watch his hands,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Smooth, almost feminine,
almost American.**<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The song <i>Midnight</i> also conjurs the atmosphere of the book, though not any specific scene. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Midnight, it’s raining
outside, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He must be soaking wet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Everyone is sleeping
tight,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">God knows, I've tried my
best,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But Darling you know it
looks bad,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Just lost the best thing
that I ever had,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Still I don’t know why I
did him wrong<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It’s too late now, he’s
gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was nineteen. The book
still had deep emotional impact, but it was starting to take on greater
intellectual richness now too. I think my passionate embrace of Yaz (seriously,
Peter and I listened to <i>nothing else </i>for
nine weeks) echoed the lightning bolt of feeling the book had triggered in my
twelve year old self. Probably no one else in the world equates that music with
that novel the way I do. It’s a little quirk of my personal history that I
suspect gave me another booster shot of passion right when I needed it. I was
still pretty cynical, but the book was helping to erode that too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Skip forward a few more
years, I'd graduated college, and moved with friends to Seattle. <b>The Charioteer</b> was one of maybe six
books I brought along with me on the trip, chosen consciously as security
blankets. Reading it now, after three or so years of getting more comfortable
in my skin, I saw with some amusement that maybe I had now become the kind of gay
man Ralph and Laurie would have found off-putting. I frequently wore bracelets
for one example, something that is singled out for opprobrium at least twice in
the book. I had tried to make peace with whatever innate androgyny I might have,
and no longer believed effeminacy was the greatest crime a gay man could commit.
Though I don’t remember having it explicitly confirmed at any point, I strongly
suspected that at least a few closeted men had watched me with horror from the
shadows, much as I had watched some of my gay brothers in years past. This suspicion, true or not, humbled me. Though I still loved the
novel, still honored it for what it had given me, I began to make allowances
for parts of it, the way one does for hidebound relatives. “It was a different
time,” I told myself. “Don’t judge the past by the standards of the present.
Had I been alive in WWII era England, I’d have thought the same way. Hell, I
was thinking that way less than five years ago.” Essentially I believed I had <i>grown past</i> the book; it had helped shape me and given me much to be grateful for, but now I was going where the characters, and possibly Renault
herself, would not follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">From this place of greater
relaxation, I began to appreciate the humor and exquisite language more. Laurie, receiving the dreaded invitation
to his mother’s wedding, tells his friend Reg, “Don’t you wish your name was
Gareth? ...That’s what my stepfather-elect’s called. I suppose he was conceived
with Tennyson in limp suede sitting in the po-cupboard.” Reg, in an airplane
splint for his broken shoulder is described “as awkward in crowds as an
antlered stag.”(p.95) Renault’s perception and economy with words are never
more evident than when she’s portraying drunk people. Ralph, after he’s had a
few, says, “You see Spud, if you will interrupt yourself without
previous notice in this arbitrary and irrational manner, you must put up with a
bit of disorganization.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“What was that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Don’t be unreasonable. I can’t keep saying arbitrary and
irrational just to please you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Maybe best of all, the
party scene that had once so horrified me now became touching and hilarious. Even
while many of the secondary characters remained ridiculous (nor did they lose
their Monty Python qualities), they no longer struck me as pathetic as they
once had. I had greater sympathy for the camping queens, especially as I
noticed how many of them were in fact soldiers, squeezed past endurance by
a struggling war effort and a repressive culture. The humor was still there,
usually still at someone’s expense, but the characters became more human for
me. I no longer despised them the way Ralph and Laurie did. Strangely, I still wasn't separating Renault from her characters in a clear way, and assumed
that in this matter they probably spoke her mind. This became the biggest rift
between me and the book, the place where I felt I needed to make the greatest
allowance for that beloved but hidebound relative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I couldn't tell you how
many more times I've read it since then, though I've probably visited at least
once a decade. I’m now old enough to have fathered any of those young men. Previously
they had always been older, wiser and more experienced, leading the way for me. I think I was in my thirties when I began to notice the
characters’ youth instead of their maturity. While I still admired their
ethical strivings, now I recognized the polarities, rigidities, and self-righteousness
people their age are prone to. The demands they make on themselves are exacting,
often admirably so, but they're likely to judge failure, their own and others', harshly. They're hard on each other, and themselves, in the ways only high-minded young people (okay, especially young men) can be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This shift in view
probably first allowed me to see Renault’s quiet presence as something separate
from them. Her observations are always so discreet, her intrusions so delicate,
that I had rarely taken note of them before; this, even as they probably
quietly formed some of the most solid blocks in my ethical foundation. Laurie
is unquestionably a insightful and compassionate observer, but
Renault gently steps in whenever his limitations need to be addressed or bypassed. Any time
Laurie’s age is mentioned, it’s a good bet Renault is sharing an insight Laurie hasn't yet learned. “At twenty-three, one is not frightened off a conversation
merely by the fear of its becoming intense. But intensity can be a powerful
solvent of thin and brittle protective surfaces, and at twenty-three one is
well aware of this.” (p.75) “Laurie’s mind withdrew, after a time, to a middle
distance behind his eyes, where he thought about Andrew. He solved no problems,
nor attempted it; he made no plans. He was twenty three: he received infinite
consolation and joy merely from the contemplation of Andrew’s being.” (p.97-8) "They were both young enough to be capable of solemn abstract discussion about love..." (p.275) Occasionally
we take a brief detour inside someone else’s head, where Renault’s presence is
a bit easier to notice. “Matron had just arrived, and done a round. She came
poking into the ward, her petticoat showing slightly, defensively frigid; she
had been promoted beyond her dreams and it had been a Nessus’ shirt to her.
Homesick for her little country nursing home, she peered down the lines of
beds, noting with dismay how many men were up and at large, rough men with
rude, cruel laughter, who wrote things on walls, who talked about women, who
got V.D. (but then one was able to transfer them elsewhere). She was wretched,
but her career was booming.” (p.61)*** <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Separating Renault out from
her righteous, rigid, <i>young</i> characters showed me she probably wasn't judging the camping queens (or anyone) as harshly as they did. The queens are still funny, and she probably doesn't expect us to admire them when they’re squealing and gossiping, but her
view is ultimately compassionate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In the last year I've had a surprising—and amusing—new insight into Laurie. Because we spend
most of the book inside Laurie’s head, we grow used to how perceptive and
sensitive he is. Other characters laud him for it, as Reg does here. “What I
mean, they say put yourself in the other chap’s place. But what I reckon, it’s
more of a knack, see, and not many people got it. Now you got it, Spud. You got
it more than anyone I know. So stands to reason, you expect it back, that’s
human nature. Well, you’re out of luck, Spud, that’s all. (p.96) I had accepted,maybe identified with the image of Laurie as the sensitive, gentle type <i>for decades</i>. Then,
for whatever reason, this comment from Ralph caught my eye like new. “‘Your
spontaneous reactions are going to land you in a lot of trouble, if you don’t
watch out.’” (p. 28). I laughed out loud; he was right! Laurie acts impulsively
all <i>over</i> the damn place! Entire plot
points hang on some of his ill-advised ‘spontaneous reactions’. Social gaffes,
irritated outbursts and impulsive actions <i>abound</i>.
“Carter…was not the only one to find Laurie’s conversation disconcertingly
uninhibited. The innuendo, more generally approved, was apt when it reached him
to be smacked into the open with the directness of a fives ball.” (p.14)
“Reg…usually covered up Laurie’s social gaffes, but this one was serious.” (p.47)
A central pivot in the action occurs
when Laurie, awaiting his surgeon—and likely bad news—during rounds, notices
one of the med students in the group. “His glance lingered on Laurie; slid away
with a flick of his light eyelashes; slid back and lingered again, cautiously,
as a fly settles. Laurie, whose nerves were strained, began to be irritated. In
heaven’s name, he thought, why so shy? ...the young man looked at him again.
Rapidly, Laurie caught his eye before he could disengage it, and gave him a
deliberately dazzling smile. As he had confidently expected, the young man went
crimson, and merged himself deeply in the throng. I do hope, thought Laurie, he
won’t decide later to write me a little note. But no, I don’t think he puts
much in writing. To a nunnery go, why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?”
(pp.40-1) While no little notes occur, sometime later Laurie does run into him
again, and finds himself essentially in the man’s debt. “[Laurie] had told
himself, at the time, that one day one of these little jokes would come home to
roost.”(p.117) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Once viewed, this
character trait was so glaringly obvious that I couldn't believe I’d never seen
it before. Laurie is as much loose cannon as he is compassionate thinker, but it
took me over thirty years to see it. This discovery gives me hope that the book
will continue to surprise and move me, even now when I'm probably the same age as the author was when she wrote it, give or take a few years. I've never really looked for all the ways <b>The
Phaedrus</b> shapes it, for example. How often do wagons with pairs of horses
show up, even just ambling past, and how much should I make of that? How often does she use the words ‘convention’
or ‘orthodox’ and is there anything to learn there? I feel confident that <b>The Charioteer</b> and I will continue to
grow old together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Gushing about
anything makes me feel exposed and vulnerable; doing it over a book seems especially
risky. The subjectivity of experience, especially regarding works of art, means
that something I find moving may hit others as boring, sentimental, or even (yipe!)
offensive.^ I’m sure I’m especially sensitive with this one though, because the epic emotions of the scared twelve year old still underpin the relationship. Age (and additional readings) may have deepened my
appreciation and given me better language to describe it, but at the core there
remains that lightning bolt of recognition, and the sudden hope that maybe I
was not sick or alone after all. </span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">******************************************************</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">*</span><span style="font-size: large;">And did I accept without question the word ‘limitation’ back then? Probably.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">** No, I don't know why she equates feminine with American. Just go with it. I do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">*** </span><span style="font-size: large;">Renault had been an army nurse during WWII; her descriptions of army hospitals, and her forays into the minds of nurses, are always insightful and fun. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">^For starters, a case could be made for some pretty shabby portrayals of women in the book, on the rare occasion they happen at all. I'd argue this is more a function of the inherent sexism of the characters than a failing of Renault's, but David Sweetman, in his biography of her, might disagree. </span></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-80466812389383247262013-11-01T22:17:00.001-04:002013-11-01T22:17:23.163-04:00Pan Is Not a Gentleman<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pan is not a gentleman. Do not invite him in, thinking he
will wipe his hooves. If you ask, count yourself lucky if all he does is smile,
or chuckle a bit. The stink of him, a goat in rut, will settle like a fog and
linger long after he’s gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He’ll bring friends too, will Pan. They will decimate your
flowers, rummage through your compost piles and garbage cans, trample the
inedibles under hooves and paws and claws. Their shit and piss will befoul your
tidy walkways, burn your ground covers, erode your limestone accent rocks, and
somehow always, <i>always</i> end up on your shoes. They’ll bare their fangs when you
try to shoo them out of your prize-winning azaleas, chasing you back into your
climate-controlled house, shivering, to seek out poisons or weapons. They’ll
bite and sting, raising itchy welts that seep and scab, making you want to claw
your skin off or lose a limb. They’ll chew away your foundations, infiltrate
your kitchens, wander across your legs in the night, buzz against windows or
your ear, and reduce your wooden porches to sawdust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pan is not a gentleman. He won’t care a bit for your
Greek-inspired gazebos, your filtered water features, your decorative figurines
of ducks and frogs. He’ll appreciate the gnomes a bit, recognizing them as
tribute, but he’ll laugh at the bucolic dress, the pathetic attempt to hide his
horns and hooves, his nakedness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He won’t break your rules; he will never
bother to learn them. He won’t even know such things exist. Your boundaries and
preferences, your focal points and accents, your easy access and parking lots,
he won’t see them all. He’ll use them if he likes, and erase them if that’s
better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Do not ask for a little wildness, just around the edges of
your life. There is no such thing. Vigorous roots will sink deep, vines will
strangle your carefully manicured shrubs, lush, enormous leaves will sprout
from branches or spring from the ground, soaking up the light and rain,
draining all the nourishment from the soil, leaving your tender exotics to
wither and desiccate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pan is not a gentleman. He’s just life. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-15437953146795378692013-09-12T22:02:00.002-04:002014-07-28T13:29:35.079-04:00Remembering Heather Hughes: A Personal Snapshot<span style="font-size: large;">A year ago today, my friend Heather Hughes died. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Chances are you all have gotten a glimpse of Heather once or twice, whether you knew it or not. If you ever saw the movie </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">Singles</b><span style="font-size: large;">, she's the redhead working with Tim Burton in the scene in the </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikLJDaVStww&list=FL0V8tFj3yx_O8pIAlgIZlPA&index=2" style="font-size: x-large;" target="_blank">video store</a><span style="font-size: large;">. Her work in that little scene made such an impression on Cameron Crowe, he asked her to be in the video for the movie's </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcMIWKu0ZYE&list=FL0V8tFj3yx_O8pIAlgIZlPA&index=1" style="font-size: x-large;" target="_blank">song</a><span style="font-size: large;"> (the </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">Singles</b><span style="font-size: large;"> single, if you will: she's the bartender). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Those two tiny snippets don't really tell you much about her of course, other than perhaps to show that she was, as our friend <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0263748/bio" target="_blank">Kim</a> said, equally at home being sexy or dorky (though the video clerk is probably more snarky than dorky). She's the first friend I've lost who could be memorialized in part by videos on Youtube, so maybe that's why I share them. The internet is a weird new facet in remembering friends these days. I'm not going to get into that right now. Take a look at the videos, and refresh your memories of the early nineties, if you like. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In September of 1993, Heather and I were in Vancouver, B.C, performing in the fringe festival in a show called <b>Semantics</b> with a group called Kings' Elephant Theater (yes, the apostrophe is in the correct position: many kings, one elephant). Heather was a company member, I had been jobbed in just for this show as performer and mask-maker. Eight of us had rented two rooms (two queen-sized beds each) in a hotel close to the festival, discovering much to our delight upon arrival that the reason the festival hadn't included it on the list of potential crash pads, despite its close proximity and low rates, was because it was a popular hangout for hookers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The two rooms naturally divided themselves into "the naked room" and "the smoking room." These designations are self-explanatory, I trust. The morning of September 13th, those of us in the naked room got food so we could surprise Heather (asleep in the smoking room) on her birthday with breakfast in bed. Being served breakfast by a bunch of naked people probably wasn't much of a thrill in Heather's life by that point--nudity was commonplace with this bunch, and in fact Heather was nude in one scene of the show--but she accepted it all with good humor and grace. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Our show must have been dark that day, since after breakfast we decided to explore the city. At one point we were standing in a group outside the motel; most people went one way, but I, feeling the need for some green space, turned another direction. Heather, noticing this, asked me what my plans were. When I told her, she said "oh, that sounds nice, do you mind if I come along?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I had known Heather for about six years at this point. We had been working on and performing <b>Semantics</b> for most of the last year, first a five week run at Aha! Theater (where KET had a permanent residency), then at the Seattle Fringe Festival, then at the big arts festival Bumbershoot. Heather and I were both involved with Annex Theatre as well, a place that was at the time as much clubhouse as it was producing body, so we had interacted artistically and socially on many occasions. Heather and I knew each other, appreciated one another, were, in fact, friends. Given all this, you may be surprised at the absolute THRILL I felt when she asked (ASKED!) if she could join me (ME!) for the day. It felt like having the most popular girl in high school ask you to the prom. I was positively giddy with delight and excitement. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That reaction probably would have perplexed and amused Heather. By that point in her life I think she knew she had this effect on people, gay, straight, male, female, all points in between, but she didn't really get it. Better writers than me, and closer friends of Heather's have tried to explain her particular charisma, but I'm going to take a stab anyway. Like Kim said, part of her charm was the ease she felt being both dorky and sexy, clown and bombshell. It breaks my heart that I didn't get to see her play the central figure in Mae West's <b>Sex</b> (I had moved to NYC by that point). That was perfect casting. She was <i>born</i> to play Mae West. Maybe that tells you something. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XORIxNdgMR0/U9aF2QVSNQI/AAAAAAAACn8/dIswfX0oOVk/s1600/Reclining+Red+Mae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XORIxNdgMR0/U9aF2QVSNQI/AAAAAAAACn8/dIswfX0oOVk/s1600/Reclining+Red+Mae.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Martin Lopez</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">While most of us in the Seattle scene were transplants, Heather was a rarity, a Seattle native. This probably contributed to her ability to tap into many of the local subcultures, while the rest of us had a hard enough time managing just one. She did theatre; she did improv, first with Annex Improv, then with KET; she had connections to <a href="http://www.subpop.com/" target="_blank"> Sub-Pop Records</a> and the burgeoning grunge music scene; she was involved with <a href="http://www.fantagraphics.com/" target="_blank">Fantagraphics</a>, a publishing company for comics and graphic novels; she even worked regularly as a vendor at Seattle's Pike Place Market. If you bought a tie-dyed T-shirt there in the nineties, you probably got it from her. Hell, it's not that surprising she was in <b>Singles</b>; they probably couldn't have made the movie without her. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And this is just the stuff that occurred in the time when I lived in Seattle (1988-1995). The little glimpses I got of her subsequent life showed me that she had gotten involved with the Neo-Burlesque scene there, gotten her college degree in interior design and started her own business, had a son, and continued to perform as a singer, actor, comedian and improv artist. It was clear she remained well woven into the Seattle arts scene. For the most part she was a live performer, and it's obvious she gained city-wide notice for it. There's something comforting to me, in this day, that live performers can still have that kind of effect on a city. It doesn't surprise me at all that Heather did. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, there was all this cool chic stuff there--combat boots with dresses, multiple necklaces and earrings, glamorous make-up and rocker girl hair--that might explain why I was so excited at the thought of spending a whole day (her birthday!) with her. Given this feeling, it's funny that I can't remember more about what we did, or what we talked about. I'm sure we discussed the play, the Seattle scene, acting in general, and of course boys. She had a new boyfriend, another in a string of beautiful long-haired musician types. At one point we were seated on the grass in some park so Heather could smoke (it has to be said; Heather looked damned sexy when she smoked), and a homeless guy came up to bum a cigarette. Upon receipt (I suspect Heather never turned down a request for a cigarette), he sat down to join us for a lengthy chat. Again, no memory of what he said but when he left, Heather thanked me for not trying to drive him away. "My guy friends often get aggressive with people like that." I suspect those guys felt a wee bit possessive, or maybe they thought she needed protecting. I felt entitled to no such possessiveness of course, and had seen Heather interact with homeless guys in Seattle more than once; it was clear that she was on familiar terms with many of them. She didn't need my protection. I suspected this guy was just as smitten with her as I was. Who was I to chase him away? By funny coincidence, later that week Heather and I saw him in a local gay bar. He may have been gay, but if he was, I can assure you I wasn't the one who had caught his attention. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The rest of that day is fairly hazy now. We had our pictures taken in a photo booth. I gave her the photos, a decision I now regret, but hey, it was her birthday. I took her out to an Italian restaurant, where we split a bottle of wine. I probably tried too hard to make her birthday special, by which I mean it was more about me than about her. But she accepted that with good grace and humor too. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">About two years later I left Seattle, assuming I'd lose touch with most people there. That happened less than I expected, but Facebook also helped reconnect me in recent years, however casually or artificially, with many people, including Heather. Over the last four years we saw each other's photos and updates. We had an occasional email correspondence. The last note she wrote me was a condolence when my brother was killed. Facebook was how I learned of her cancer diagnosis. It informed me of the fundraising party hosted and attended by so many of our friends, to help with her medical bills. It let me make a contribution from the other coast. And it allowed people sitting vigil in her last days at the hospice to keep the rest of us apprised of the situation. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">It also bears mention that Facebook also gave expression to an interesting tension, at least to my eye. Perhaps because she <i>was</i> such a celebrity, because she was <i>such</i> a charismatic performer adored by thousands, many seemed to feel it necessary to prove their friendship bona fides. The challenge seemed to be, were you truly Heather's <i>friend</i>, or were you just a <i>fan</i>? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't mean to overstate it. No one got bitchy that I saw, or tried to shut anyone else out. Maybe whenever we lose someone we love, we resent those who don't seem to us to have as strong a claim as we do on the deceased. Or maybe we just seek comfort from the people we shared with the deceased, not everyone who felt connected to her. If that is a common reaction, perhaps it was magnified slightly in Heather's case, further testimony to her special magic. As someone who hadn't been central to her life for eighteen years, if ever, I have no qualms putting myself into the fan camp. Thinking about her, looking at those videos, thinking about all our mutual friends, colleagues and acquaintances in Seattle rallying around her, I know I am in part returning to a very heady, often painful time in my life. In the midst all that, I'm trying to articulate all the ways she mattered to me, especially the ones that probably she never knew about. </span><span style="font-size: large;">This torrent of words is most definitely more about me than it is about her.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> S</span><span style="font-size: large;">he, I have no doubt, would have accepted it all with good humor and grace. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gtZcAUrPCrI/U9aF2vtjDOI/AAAAAAAACoM/CkjGUNO0jY0/s1600/Summer+2012+201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gtZcAUrPCrI/U9aF2vtjDOI/AAAAAAAACoM/CkjGUNO0jY0/s1600/Summer+2012+201.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fort Tryon Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On what would prove to be Heather's last day, I felt a need to go to a local park. I assumed this was triggered in part by that lovely birthday in Vancouver, though I tend to need green space regularly, especially for this kind of mulling and meditating. Following an impulse that felt so driving it was almost premonitory, I decided it <b>had</b> to be Fort Tryon Park, in upper Manhattan. It wasn't until I got there, and was wandering about in my favorite spot, that I realized I had sought out the <i>heather</i> garden. So much for psychic impulses. Even so, as I headed to the station to go home, I saw this artwork, left out free for the taking. No, I didn't take it with me. I'd gotten what I needed from it. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a6rT7PogCQk/U9aF3sx1hEI/AAAAAAAACoQ/TeoiFEoZCz8/s1600/Summer+2012+237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a6rT7PogCQk/U9aF3sx1hEI/AAAAAAAACoQ/TeoiFEoZCz8/s1600/Summer+2012+237.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Today is the anniversary of Heather's death. Tomorrow she would have turned 46. Many wonderful things have been written about her. I send you in particular to this <a href="http://www.seattlestar.net/2012/09/in-loving-memory-of-heather-artena-hughes-rip/" target="_blank">article</a>, written by my friend Jose Amador, to give you another glimpse of her, along with some wonderful photos. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-88336464081363121702013-09-12T11:59:00.002-04:002013-09-12T11:59:53.230-04:00Use Your Neuroses<span style="font-size: large;">I think it's Edith Piaf who is credited with the advice "use your faults." I've always loved that idea, but have rarely known how to implement it. This morning though, I woke up mulling over my own version of this thought. I've spent most of my life battling, or at least trying to hide my neuroses. I wonder what would happen if I found a way to use them instead? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This idea hasn't triggered a specific game plan any more than Ms. Piaf's advice has. But I'm feeling hopeful. Have you ever found yourself using some previously hated part of yourself, and finding it effective? What got you there? And did success on one occasion make it easy to keep hold of the lesson, or is this one of those lessons one has to relearn regularly? God I hate those, but they seem to be what life, at least middle-aged life, is all about. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-64557304370144842112013-09-11T10:40:00.000-04:002013-09-11T10:40:17.693-04:00Pipe Dream<span style="font-size: large;">I dreamed I went to a book signing given by Neil Gaiman. We got off to a bit of a rocky start when it was my turn to meet him; his hands were huge, but his handshake was distressingly limp. Once we got past that though, he was warm, gracious and seemed genuinely interested in connecting with me. I was going to be giving a five minute reading of my book at a panel later in the same conference, and though I knew it was a long shot, I invited him to attend. In the way of dreams it was instantly the next morning, I was doing my reading and there he was, sitting and smiling in the back row. Afterwards he came up and said some very sweet, complimentary things. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Almost makes me want to write a book. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-9961623632144397562013-09-08T12:04:00.001-04:002013-09-08T12:04:25.171-04:00Meditation on Simple Pleasures<span style="font-size: large;">The Jersey house seems to be at the epicenter of a flock of goldfinches at the moment. Both feeders (visible from indoors) are hosting several of them, the autumn amnesty allowing them to eat together in big chirpy bunches. Earlier in the year mated pairs could share feeders, but would chase away any others of their tribe (house finches were also chased away). Now they crowd onto the feeders with relatively little objection. They occasionally form little dinner groups divided by gender. Yesterday I noticed there were five or six males gathered on the thistle sock in back, while the women folk shared the fruit and nut feeder in front. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When I went out this morning with my coffee to inspect the grounds, I found several goldies feasting on something (I assume seed pods) in the cosmos/nasturtium/zinnia patch. I wouldn't have guessed the cosmos would support them, let alone provide sustenance, though I now may have an explanation for why some of the dried ones have snapped off at about the two foot mark. When I returned to the front door, I startled a flock of birds on the gone-to-seed sunflowers. Three walls out of four now have something to feed birds. I just wish this place had more windows, so I could watch without disturbing them. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Looking out the kitchen window this morning, I was treated to the sight of a male goldfinch eating next to a male cardinal. I found myself wondering if there would come a time when those bright colors, separately and in combination, would cease to thrill me. This first year of regular visits to the house hasn't dimmed the pleasure yet, but surely after a while I'll get bored by it right? That thought made me a little sad; it seems ungrateful somehow, but the human ability to take common pleasures for granted eventually is well documented. Fortunately I had the good sense for once not to dwell on it. I love the sight now, why not enjoy it until I don't anymore, right? Why go to the trouble to imagine a day when the glass will be half empty, on a day when it is decidedly half full? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Almost as if I were being rewarded for this 'be in the moment' thought, a chickadee showed up. And I got excited. I love chickadees, and unlike goldfinches, I've been watching and delighting in them since I was a kid. (My first memory of seeing a goldfinch was when I was in my thirties, so they still have a certain degree of novelty.) Chickadees are pretty common year 'round birds, so they lack the seasonal surprise that might explain why I have yet to lose my joy in fireflies, violets, autumn leaves, snowfall and thunderstorms (to name a few). Chickadees look like they were painted with Sumi ink, so it's not like there are bright, startling colors to delight my eye. But I love their plumage, and the jaunty air they seem to have. Even their chirping ("chicka dee dee dee") amuses me. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm experienced enough with depression to know that one can lose appreciation for <i>anything</i>. But today, right now, it's comforting to be reminded that joy, even in simple things, doesn't always fade. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-42875472664065236732013-07-02T17:49:00.000-04:002013-07-07T13:30:51.167-04:00Spontaneous Phone Eruptions<span style="font-size: large;">A couple of days ago I noticed something odd on my phone. In the catalog of applications, right there on the first screen, there was one I had never seen before. You have to understand, I don't download new applications. This device already does more than I have ever asked of a phone, and occupies more of my conscious hours than I'm comfortable with as it is. It came with three pages' worth of software, most of which I've never had any reason to use. I downloaded an application once, when I realized I had forgotten the digital timer I need for work. So I felt confident stating that I had never downloaded this particular feature, and given its prominent display at the bottom of my phone's screen, I would not have failed to notice it before. It had found its way onto my phone some other way. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This isn't the first time I've sensed my phone seeming to take initiative. As it, or more likely its battery, has gotten older, it has behaved as if some of my instructions were more like suggestions, or at least open to discussion. Silencing the ringer became a big bone of contention lately, for example. It's always been one of my favorite features. I spend a fair amount of time in theatres, cinemas, auditions and especially classrooms where I and my clothes are usually in separate locations, so being able to tell the phone to pipe down comes in handy on a daily basis. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Lately though when I turn off the sound, the phone has taken to buzzing back and forth rapidly between mute and unmute, sounding like a bee knocking against a window. Sometimes it will keep this up for 30 seconds, suggesting that it is resisting being silenced. So far it has always acquiesced eventually, but just to be sure, I now turn on the airplane mode as well. The little bastard can't defy my instructions if it's not getting any calls in the first place, right? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This mystery application though, I know I didn't download it. It's not the sort of thing I would <i>forget about</i>. I'm not saying it's something I would never download, though. That's part of what makes it unnerving. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not going to name the product, preferring not to show up on any Google searches for it, but let me describe the logo. What I initially thought was an image of a guy sitting in a rocket-powered wheelchair turned out, on closer inspection, not to involve wheel chairs nor rockets, but an explosion, shall we say, of a more gastrointestinal nature. Against my better judgement, I opened the application and found it to be a collection of fart noises. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Like I said, there was no way I could have downloaded such a specific program and forgot having done so. But I had, at one point, actually considered <i>seeking just such a feature</i> for my phone. I was in a public men's room at the time, and some moron was holding a loud, involved conversation (possibly a business meeting) on his machine and the thought went through my head "I wish I had a way to blast fart noises right now." I pictured myself wandering back and forth, hitting the button randomly, punctuating the conversation, editorializing a bit, supporting or challenging this guy's assertions. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So here, without any apparent effort on my part, was the very program I had imagined. It didn't surprise me that such a thing existed; I'd assume this was merely one of many. It just surprised me a bit that of all the random viruses or Trojan horses floating around out there, this was the one that had found its way to me. It was almost as if the phone had read my mind, and taken it upon itself to find the feature I was looking for. </span><span style="font-size: large;">There was a list of twelve different fart sounds. It would never have occurred to me there were that many distinct ones to choose from, especially since it must have had to cut out the entire 'silent but deadly' category. So, even knowing that this was almost certainly an uninvited guest from the interwebs, I had to listen to a couple of the selections. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">They were as advertised. The two I listened to were distinct enough to warrant separate listings. But hearing them helped me do the right thing, and remove the application from my phone, the ten remaining recordings unheard. I had no quarrel with the sound quality, but for the purpose I had in mind, the volume levels were simply inadequate. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-63191669906657392812013-06-18T20:25:00.000-04:002013-06-18T21:56:14.276-04:00Thoughts on Digging Earthworms: Part I<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As I dig up planting beds around Bill’s place, I am always
excited to find earthworms. They’re a sign of healthy soil, a good mix of
organic material. So each time I find one, I carefully move it to a spot where
I won’t disturb it again. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It doesn't take me long to realize this activity has led to a song going
through my head on continuous loop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i> <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>RED wigglers, the
Cadillac of worms, HEE hee<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Cadillac of
worms, HO Ho<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Cadillac of
worms, HA Ha<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">For those of you who don’t recognize this, it was the jingle
for the main (often sole) advertiser for the titular radio station of the TV
show <b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077097/" target="_blank">WKRP in Cincinnati</a></b>. In one of the shows a DJ fails to cut off the jingle and
we learn that, if left alone, it will run indefinitely, with slight variations (<i>the Cadillac of worms, HEY hey/ the
Cadillac of worms HAR har/the Cadillac of worms HOO Hoo</i>) possibly until the
end of time. Even if this wasn't a real product, it was an effective jingle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">If for no other reason than having gone around the sun enough
times, I've begun noticing my habits, patterns and triggers. Ear worms are one
of the more innocuous ones I've discovered. The experience of them is
universal, I assume, but the particular songs of my soundtrack are probably as
personal as a fingerprint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">That’s not to say I don’t suspect I share some songs with others. Ear worms undoubtedly have some relationship with age and cultural demographics.
I would maintain, for example, that anyone who listened regularly to
American FM radio in the early seventies probably has the same reaction I do
whenever they hear mention of the heirloom tomato, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVwEwdIIZD0" target="_blank">Cherokee Purple</a>. But plenty
of my ear</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">worms are a result of my own idiosyncratic history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> If, for example, I
hear a word or phrase of two equally stressed syllables (a spondee, for you poetry buffs) I’m likely to start singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCOyKVQWYhg" target="_blank">Rag Mop</a> in my head. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Ragg Mopp doodeloo
DAAA de ah dah<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Ragg Mopp doodeloo
DAAA de ah dah<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Ragg Mopp doodeloo
DAAA de ah dah<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">R.A.G.G.
M.O.P.P. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Ragg Mopp. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">For those of you who don’t recognize this one, it was
written in 1949, was popular throughout the fifties, and has been covered or
parodied several times. I know it because my dad was (probably still is)
fond of singing it. Now that I think about it, I have to wonder if he has the
same spondee-induced ear </span><span style="font-size: large;">worm response I do. It’s a catchy little tune. What’s
more, once the song is triggered I usually find myself unconsciously
misspelling the trigger words involved, hoping they’ll scan right for the
fourth line. Occasionally they will scan correctly without any creative
misspelling, but I always find that a bit disappointing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">But this isn't the only response I have to a spondee
trigger. For reasons I've never quite put my finger on, instead of Ragg Mopp, sometimes I'll be inspired to sing:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Swap Shop DAAA da <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">da da da da da da <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">da da da da da da <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">da da da da da da<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">da DA<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">(repeat until the end of time)<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">This one is probably even less
familiar to most of my readers; it’s the theme song for a Saturday morning kid’s
program in the UK called (stick with me here) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzvI4p6ncqk" target="_blank">Multi Coloured Swap Shop</a>. My family lived in London in 1976-1977, and
Swap Shop (1976-1982) quickly became a regular part of our morning routine. I
don’t remember much about it now, though I do recall each week the show would
host a big gathering in some part of the UK for the purposes of (stick with me
here) swapping stuff. So I would assume British folks around my age might have
this theme song triggered for them, there are probably a few folks other than
me who find themselves misspelling words in their heads to get them to scan
right for Ragg Mopp, but how many people are there in the world who have both
responses?*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">Another rhythm-inspired trigger:
three syllable words, stress on the middle syllable or an amphibrach, if you
will. This is a fancy term for words that lead me to sing:<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Shapoopi, shapoopi, shapoopi<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The girl that’s hard to get<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Shapoopi, shapoopi, shapoopi<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>But you will win her yet. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">I suspect I am not alone in finding this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Jj622vbrrU" target="_blank">song</a> simultaneously irresistible, delightful and
annoying (<b>Family Guy</b> used it to great effect in one episode). That makes it prime ear worm material. I’d be willing to bet however that
few people are quite as easily prone to triggering it as I am. Amphibrachs seem
to abound in my life; it helps if they end in a vowel sound, especially a long ‘e’,
but that is by no means a requirement. They seem especially prevalent among
foodstuffs for some reason. If I make it through a menu of Italian food (‘linguine,
linguine, linguine…” “scungilli scungilli…” “lasagna, lasagna…” “Prosciutto,
Proscuitto…” ) or Middle Eastern cuisine (“ tzatziki…” “ falafel…” “tabouleh…”) without
singing <i>Shapoopi</i>, it’s something of a miracle. If I've had a few, I will
almost certainly share it with my dinner companions.** <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sound isn’t the only thing to
trigger my ear worms. The experience of a good hot shower will often lead
to singing. I know that’s a common response, since tiled bathrooms make such
satisfying spaces acoustically, but even so, I noticed certain songs were on
frequent rotation. Since I was introduced to Leonard Bernstein’s <b>Mass</b> as a
child, several of those songs pop out when the hot water hits my body. <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Jj622vbrrU" target="_blank">Simple Song</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dC3kiya2GaM" target="_blank">Gloria</a>, </i>and<i> God Said***</i> all have soaring notes that feel good to sing, but
I think the fact that they’re also songs of praise and joy (well,
maybe not <i>God Said</i>) isn't a coincidence. I'm not really a believer these days, but I believe in celebrating a good shower. Pink gets heavy play in the rotation too, special emphasis on her songs of gratitude (<i>God is a DJ</i>), but
the bravado tunes (<i>U and UR Hand</i>) are regulars too. Kate Bush also shows up in my shower frequently, more for her atmospherics (tiled bathrooms, remember) than for her jubilant lyrics, with songs like <i>Cloudbusting, Sensual World</i>, and especially
<i>Never Be Mine</i>. That one seemed odd to be such a shower-time favorite (it probably is number one), given its melancholy tone and story of unrequited love, but then I realized I usually just sing the chorus: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is where I want to be<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is what I need<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is where I want to be<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is what I need<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is where I want to be<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>But I know that this will never
be mine</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">All but the last line sum up my
response to a good shower most days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Jumping into a lake or ocean—one
of my great joys—also comes with a theme song. The initial gasp for air once I surface usually gets vocalized as a bellow
("OOOOWWW!"), which naturally leads to James Brown’s<i> I Feel Good</i>. The thing with this one, you have to sing the
guitar licks as well as the lyrics, or it doesn't work<i>. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I feel good (DA da DA da DA da
DA)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I knew that I would now (DA da
DA da DA da DA)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(repeat until yada yada. You get the idea.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then there's the song that most often comes to mind when I'm feeling goofy, exuberant, and especially delighted with something.<b>^ </b></span><span style="font-size: large;">The lyric "ooh baby, that's a what I like" issues forth, and the next thing I know I'm dancing to </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b-by5e4saI" style="font-size: x-large;" target="_blank">Chantilly Lace</a><span style="font-size: large;">. For reasons that are lost in the midst of time, the dance I do to this number is the Funky Chicken. For most of my childhood I believed that was what one did to </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Chantilly Lace</i><span style="font-size: large;">. But watching the link above, I realized the Big Bopper does not perform the Funky Chicken. He's got a little butt swivel that makes the crowd go wild at one point, but that's it. He's not responsible for the Funky Chicken. I'm pretty sure my dad is responsible for that conflation, as he is for </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Rag Mop</i><span style="font-size: large;">. Actually, he always used to the do the knee-switcheroo move to </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Rag Mop</i><span style="font-size: large;"> as well, which I'm pretty sure predates it by a few decades. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So from red wigglers to funky chickens, that’s a survey of my ear worm top forty. And all of that just from digging in the dirt. Nor were these the only thoughts brought on by earthworms. Stay
tuned for Part II. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">******************************************************</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*Actually, I know of at least one; my sister and I discovered we had these responses in common a few years back. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><span style="font-size: large;">My sister has these tendencies too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">***I couldn't find a decent video for this one, and besides, I've probably used up my links quota for this post already. You all know how to Google, right? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>^ </b>Yeah, that's not such an odd experience, har de har har. Just hush. </span></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-40926300417307697082013-06-07T18:10:00.002-04:002013-11-17T11:24:18.081-05:00Year Four<span style="font-size: large;">Dear James,</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This week, including as it did the anniversary of thy birth and thy death, was hard. Almost as hard as four years ago, when we'd just lost thee. I suppose I can come up with some explanations. The four of us are each dealing with the passage of time and the slow betrayals of our bodies somehow, and that has us leaning into one another even more. We feel the lack of thy strong shoulder and cheerful support. We were leaning on thee already, more than we realized, when we first lost thee. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then again, maybe this is just the way grief works. Things circle around again; I assumed it would never get better, just more familiar, but even that prediction is proving false. Any time I start to think I'm making sense of it all, something knocks me sideways again. I keep trying to figure it out though. That's just how my brain works. I speculate, thee would have turned 45 on Tuesday. Do I think that age has some special resonance? Not that I can see. 41, 45, what's the difference? Sure, in ten years I can see myself trying to figure out what thee'd be like at 51, what thee'd be doing with thy days, but 45? Big deal. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I do wonder what thee'd think of the house in Jersey. I still haven't found the right place for that huge globe crystal of thine; few of the windows are both big enough, and well exposed enough to light to make it worthwhile. But I've still got some locations to try. Thy wooden dolphin seems happy there, leaping vigorously in front of Vince's giant flatscreen. A communing of dead brothers: his love of high end electronics and television meets thy love of figurines, nice wood, dolphins, exuberant creatures. Thee would have tried like the dickens to draw Vince out, I have no doubt. Maybe thee would have even succeeded. Thee could be relentless, but it often caused some unlikely friendships to flourish. I like to picture thee managing to talk him into attending a game party. From what his siblings and neighbors tell me, it would have been quite a feat. But if anyone could have accomplished it, it would be thee. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Thee'd love the fact that Bill's sister Laura gave us a frame designed to be filled with wine corks, and turned into a bulletin board. She knew nothing of thy cork fixation, or rather of the fixation thee tormented Mary into forming. I told her the<a href="http://palacey.blogspot.com/2011/01/christmas-visit.html" target="_blank"> story</a> of course, and she loved it. Bill and I have been adding to the collection regularly; we're almost halfway to filling it. Once it's completed, I'll hang it and put some of thy homemade totems on it, maybe thy picture. That will probably fill the thing up completely; it's not that big, really. Thy various trinkets, gew-gaws and teasing jokes continue to fill into the corners of my life. They don't even have to have belonged to thee originally at this point; stained glass, prisms, wind chimes, jaunty hats, and figurines will always make me think of thee from now on. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Once again I missed the big gathering in Richmond; maybe my present volatility is due to that, and to not having made the time yet this week to observe my own little ritual, eating salad, blueberry pie, and junk food while watching an episode or three of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Bill is always a loving and enthusiastic participant in that. Thee would have liked him a lot; thee probably could even have talked him into playing board games. He likes them too. He's sorry he never got to meet thee. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We love and miss thee, James. </span><br />
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-79352259051618715152013-04-23T23:48:00.004-04:002013-04-23T23:55:56.316-04:00Link: A Review: The Nance<span style="font-size: large;">I have a review up at my other blog home, Queer New York. Go <a href="http://www.queernewyorkblog.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-nance-douglas-carter-beanes-new.html" target="_blank">here</a> to read my thoughts of Douglas Carter Beane's New Play, <b>The Nance.</b></span><br />
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<br />Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-70859018685154781802013-03-18T13:47:00.000-04:002013-03-18T16:19:04.900-04:00Tribal Feasts<span style="font-size: large;">A story has floated around for centuries suggesting that the Irish are one of the lost tribes of Israel. I love this idea, but that doesn't mean I'm buying it. So many of the supposed commonalities seem to be evidence of shared Indo-European roots, nothing more. Lunar calendar? Counting nights instead of days? The harp as a national/cultural symbol? Red hair? Similar-looking wedding dances? A nomadic past? Eh, not terribly convincing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
Even so, I had reason to remember this theory on Saturday. Bill and I were shopping for a small dinner party we were hosting to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day and I couldn't help but notice how many items we were getting from the Kosher section: corned beef, smoked salmon, saurkraut*. And while Kosher was not an issue, there were also plenty of potatoes. No, I'm still not buying this story; what we have here are two cuisines shaped by harsh northern climates, peasant cooking, and salt as a preservative in the days before refrigeration. And if we really study this, we have to realize we're looking at links between Irish and <i>Ashkenazi</i> cooking. I don't know this for a fact, but I'd assume the lost tribes were Sephardim, at least by default. Show me an Irish flatbread, a fondness for figs and olives, or <i>one</i> dish made with chickpeas, and I'll agree we have culinary reasons to explore this idea. </span><br />
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No, this story doesn't hold water, but it's still fun. And one more thing both cultures share is the belief that one should never let the facts get in the way of a good story. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>*Yes, I know saurkraut is not part of the Irish tradition. Bill made mini-Reubens as appetizers. Which sets off a whole other set of fun issues; the Irish loved cabbage but didn't eat saurkraut, Jews keeping Kosher would never have meat and dairy in the same <i>meal</i> let alone the same dish, many Reuben purists would say the meats should be Virginia ham and turkey, not corned beef, and the sandwich includes Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. It's like lunchtime at the U.N. Yet none of our guests questioned including these in a Saint Patrick's Day dinner. </b></span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-41097194288501639892013-03-12T16:52:00.000-04:002013-06-08T11:58:58.431-04:00Digging<span style="font-size: large;">On Sunday I began cutting sod in the backyard, as a first step to putting in a garden. My friend <a href="http://midnightgarden12.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">The Midnight Gardener</a> had warned me not to try cutting turf that was too wet. How right he was. We'd had four inches of snow on Friday. By noon on Saturday the warmer temperatures had melted it all, but it turns out that less than thirty hours was not enough time to dry the ground out, not even this sandy soil. My impatience got the best of me by Sunday afternoon however, so I began the epic wrestling match with the sturdy, hardy grass and the heavy, sopping soil. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The only other time I'd pulled up sod was back in June, 2009, during the month I spent in Indiana grieving for my brother. Mary and Tony were expanding the garden bed in their front lawn and I offered to help.We pulled up squares of grass, shook and scraped as much soil off the roots as possible, killed any Japanese beetle larvae we found, then threw the grass into a wheel barrow for eventual transportation to the compost box. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everything about this chore proved surprisingly therapeutic. It was hard work and a hot June afternoon. Getting sweaty and physically exhausted provided a brief respite from grief somehow. I wonder too if digging, ripping, tearing and shaking gave vent to a certain amount of rage in my case. Killing the larvae almost certainly did; it was a weird combination of nauseating (they felt like little balls of fat and mucous) and satisfying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So Sunday, as I cut turf and wrestled great chunks of wet roots and soil out of the ground, I thought of James, and that led me to thinking about Vince, the previous owner of the grass I was tearing out. Bill and I have slowly been changing the space in small ways to suit our likes and needs better. Moving into a fully furnished home comes with a special set of issues surrounding possessions. The influence of the previous owner probably always pops up, but it's unavoidable when you're surrounded by his things. There's little in the way of basic needs that this places lacks, but there's no escaping how little of it is stuff that Bill and I would have chosen for ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I've mentioned the austerity of the place before: almost no art on the walls (and none of it appealing to us), everything white or pale beige, nothing but a love seat and one chair in the living room. Though Vince didn't design the small and poorly laid-out windows, he probably is responsible for the double (and in some case triple) coverings on each of them. Maybe the small windows were even part of the house's appeal for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As I cut turf, I began thinking of the garden my sister had planted to remember James. I briefly considered planting a garden for Vince, before realizing doing so would be silly. If Vince liked gardens, he would have planted one. Looking at his front and back yards, it's clear Vince's interest in gardening extended no further than a couple of bushes and lawn grass, some of which I was busily destroying. It hit me then how often my changes to the house consisted not just of adding things I liked, but of trying to<i> erase</i> what I considered Vince's melancholy influence. The prism with solar-powered rotating engine (a gift from my brother) was an attempt to bring sunlight and color into the somber recesses of the house. The small stained glass piece (a gift from my sister) served a similar purpose. Even the bird feeders, while not a direct criticism of Vince's life, were unquestionably intended to provide reasons to pull the curtains and blinds, to give us a reason to look OUT the windows. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, I'm not feeling guilty about wanting to change this place to better suit Bill, me or potential buyers. As my sister and I cleared out my brother's apartment, she said "it's amazing how many things just become junk when the person who loved them has died." In James' case though, there are a million different ways his memory will live on for me and others: funny stories, friendships, connections with people, animals, music, art, films, books, TV shows and places. Things are not irrelevant to my memory of James (see above re: prisms) but they're just triggers reminding me of the man I knew and loved. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never met Vince while he was alive so of course I have no memories to be conjured. His siblings loved him, but don't really have stories about him. Or maybe they have plenty of stories, but don't share my need to tell them. Just because I love and crave stories doesn't mean Vince or anyone else owes them to me. But I keep searching for information about him. Because his possessions are all I have to go on, it makes sense I keep coming back to them--as the last few posts here show--trying to read them like tea leaves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately Vince's possessions are almost uniformly utilitarian. We even wonder how much use some of them got. A recovering alcoholic who never entertained probably didn't touch any of the dozen wine glasses (we have no evidence he ever fell off the wagon). The cookware is all shiny and unscratched. Of the stockpile of screwdrivers, probably only one or two were ever used. When we pulled out the snow-blower last month, the next-door neighbor said he'd never seen it before. He's lived there for at least twenty years, offering repeatedly to use his own blower when he saw Vince shoveling his driveway. Vince always politely refused. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some sort of decision-making may have gone into choosing the dishes, glasses and mugs (why this pattern rather than another), but I can't read what it was. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The enormous television may be the only thing that suggests strong feeling on Vince's part, but even that may be a bit of a stretch; when it came to electronics, Vince only bought the best. That tells me something, I suppose, but not much. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> All in all Vince's legacy remains one of mystery and perplexity, at least for me. But the fact remains I am benefiting from the life and world he built, as well as the generosity of his siblings. I would like to find some way to honor that, and express my gratitude. Bill and I will continue changing the place, ultimately making it more sellable. I doubt Vince would begrudge us that. We'll continue adding light, color, air and music whenever possible. (Did I mention the wind chimes I put up Sunday?) We'll keep using the cookware. I'll keep tearing up the lawn, and eventually start planting stuff, probably mostly ornamental annuals at first. If the morning glories, moon flowers and sweet peas take to the soil, I'll let the windows get covered again, marrying my need for color and plants with Vince's need for privacy. I'll keep loving Bill, his sisters and his extended, big-hearted family. Perhaps in all that, Vince's legacy will sneak in quietly and unobtrusively, like the man himself. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It turns out establishing memorials is like gift-giving; one has to be careful not to project one's own wishes on the recipient, and this risk gets higher the less one knows a person. No doubt the Vince I will honor will end up being a man of my own construction. Or maybe the lack of stories, the mystery of him, will itself become the memorial. If I keep sight of my gratitude, maybe that's enough. </span><br />
<br />Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-30335290141093250672013-03-04T13:03:00.002-05:002013-03-04T13:06:16.226-05:00Expanding the Franchise<span style="font-size: large;">The bird feeder in the backyard continues to attract a growing population. It's just far enough away from the windows that we can't always see much detail however. This means we mostly see, as Bill puts it, 'cardinals and little guys.' I have been able to identify several kinds of sparrows, a variety of finches, lots of chickadees and juncos, and a handful of nuthatches, but it's not easy. Bill and I watched as one squirrel managed to climb up the pole and reach the feeder, but his attempt to get onto the (too small) platform sent him plummeting to the ground. This of course meant some seed fell, so it wasn't a completely wasted effort, but he probably doesn't see it that way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had reported some bird-watching details on Facebook which caused one friend to share the story of her own feeders. She had enjoyed having them until she realized how much <i>more</i> her cats were enjoying the abundant bird buffet. Not wanting to lure birds to their deaths, she decided to get rid of the feeders. I commiserated, but said confidently that I didn't think I'd have the same problem. The feeder is mounted five feet up a pole that sits several feet away from any trees, bushes or roofs. I was mostly intent on not making things TOO easy for squirrels, but impeding land predators seemed like a side benefit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The next morning, less than twelve hours after this interchange, I looked out the back window, and there, as if conjured by my hubris, was a large, healthy tiger cat. He was sitting comfortably right at the base of the pole. I saw no evidence of carnage, fortunately, no feathers floating about or birdy body parts scattered on the ground, but naturally I also saw no birds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I trust that five feet up will be enough distance to protect the birds, and the ground feeders should have enough time to notice and flee a galloping kitty; there really is no place he can hide and sneak up on them. The cat clearly didn't have a very high opinion of bird intelligence. I'd assume sitting at the base of the pole wasn't going to prove an effective strategy. Bill says he hasn't seen the cat again in the last week and the birds quickly returned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With this feeder, I have seen behavior I've never noticed before at other feeders; from time to time a solitary bird has sat on the ringed perch for up to thirty minutes. It might eat sporadically, but most of the time it just stays in place, perhaps meditating, or getting a new perspective on things. Other birds come and go without any objection from the sitter. This doesn't seem to be a territory issue. I've seen this behavior at different times from a male cardinal, a house sparrow, and a chickadee. It's as if the feeder has become the local Starbucks; some people come just for the atmosphere, or to get out of the house. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There has occasionally been some territorial conflict as well, however. I saw a tufted titmouse, no doubt over-compensating for his name, chase all other birds away from the feeder. It didn't seem like a good use of his time, I thought. He spent all his time chasing other birds, he rarely got to eat, from what I could tell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bill, for whom this is all new, says he's been enjoying the feeder more than he expected. My hope that this would shake up and enliven the energy of the house seems to be working. Flush with the quick success of that feeder, I ended buying two more for the front yard. Another seed feeder and a suet feeder hung from the maple tree in the front yard for this past week. This location hasn't proven as popular with the avian set as the backyard just yet, though there has been some activity; I wonder if the proximity to the street makes them nervous. After seeing the cat, I also wondered if a tree would prove a dangerous location for a feeder, but so far that doesn't seem to be a problem. Bill reported that a squirrel did her damnedest to reach the suet feeder, dangling by her hind legs and stretching to get the cage. He said it was like watching a scene from <b>Mission Impossible</b>. He's coming to find he shares my sister's feelings about squirrels; one ends up kind of rooting for them. You watch them working so hard: studying the physics, doing the math, </span><span style="font-size: large;">drawing up blueprints,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> then engaging in daredevil acrobatics that astonish and amaze. It seems petty to deny them any success they achieve. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My tinkering continues; after realizing that we had the same problem with the front feeder as we do with the backyard's--we can't really see the little guys--I decided to hang the seed feeder from the eaves. It now hangs about a foot away from one window. So far the birds are not in favor, but I assume this is just their innate caution about change. I respect that. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Periodically I'll notice how much time and attention I've devoted to these feeders in the past three weeks, and I get a little embarrassed. When I see friends, this is often the first (if not only) think I talk about if they ask me what's new. I try to pay attention for moments when their eyes glaze over, because if left to my own devices I DO go on. The fact is though, the feeders and birds have made me happy. I feel like I've been engaging with the local environment in a satisfying way. I'll take it. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-69794881043830996082013-02-05T12:28:00.000-05:002013-02-05T22:57:49.658-05:00Installing Bird TV<span style="font-size: large;">In December, while visiting my family, a pileated woodpecker showed up in my sister's backyard. Mary, Tony and I were all thrilled and sat watching it the entire time it spent there, drilling away at the magnolia tree for insects. (Bill watched too, and seemed interested, if not quite as excited as the rest of us.) At some point during this experience I thought, hm, I never get this excited about celebrity sightings in New York. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, I realize there is an apples-and-oranges aspect to this. I adore Julianne Moore, for example, and have seen her out and about on three different occasions, but even when she sat across from me on the subway eating an ice cream cone, I didn't feel like staring fixedly at her. Nor was I holding off for fear of seeming creepy or rude; I love her, but observing her in her natural habitat doesn't do anything for me. I mean, no matter how much I love a person, watching her eat ice cream isn't a big thrill, and not just because I don't really care for ice cream. I admire her beauty, sure, but mostly I admire her work; staring at her until she alerted the authorities might give me some insight into how she handles a crisis, but probably wasn't going to teach me much about acting. Watching that giant bird (the literature says they're 'crow-sized' but I swear this one was the size of a buzzard, and its crest made it look like a pterodactyl) go about its day, even just for a few minutes, was thrilling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whether or not this comparison is valid, it confirmed some things about how I like to spend my time. So this past weekend, while visiting Bill in New Jersey, I bought a birdfeeder. Choosing a position for it confirmed a different theory; the windows in this house are more like urban apartment windows. By this I mean they're mostly intended to let air and light in, not to look out. All the houses in this development are clearly based on three or four designs, with some variation provided through modular additions. Consequently most of the houses have no windows at all on the sides, and none of the designs take their surroundings into account. In Bill's place the biggest window (actually a sliding door) looks at the driveway and the neighbor's house (and actually is an exception to the 'no windows on the side' rule). Three windows face the street (two small ones in the living room, one large one in the office). Two of the three are completely covered by evergreen bushes, and a stump indicates the third one was at one point as well. Every house was given one tree to start with, anything additional the owners had to do themselves, so these bushes were clearly Vince's idea. This is in addition to the Venetian blinds and heavy curtains that hang on every single window. The man liked his privacy. Mostly because of that missing bush there are limited sight lines to the front yard, but it's a far from ideal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That left the back yard, which is visible from the house through three windows. None of them are ideal either, though. One is in a tiny bathroom, one is by the kitchen sink, and the only large one is in the bedroom. No place where one can or should sit for long stretches of time, in other words. Oh sure, the bedroom isn't bad, but as a person with chronic depression and insomnia, I find it's better not to provide myself with an excessive number of reasons to lie down during the day. I try to maintain the expert recommendation of saving the bed for sleep and sex, though I regularly backslide when it comes to reading. In my ideal home, a feeder is visible from the office, the dining room or both, thus providing opportunities for restful work breaks and group viewing. In this house though, this seemed like the best option.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I knew not to expect immediate avian action. Experts say it can take weeks for birds to discover a new feeder, even if there are others nearby. Since I'm also not at the house every day, I tried to prepare myself for not seeing any birds for awhile. But not even twenty-four hours later, it had become the hot new place to dine out. Maybe the wooded area just beyond the yard made the difference. Maybe the other feeders I saw a few blocks away meant the local birds were already primed to notice and appreciate feeders. Whatever the case, by Sunday afternoon chickadees, nuthatches, tufted titmice, a few sparrows and one cardinal had all stopped by. Bill and I lay on the bed, watching Bird TV for about an hour. Okay yes, a nap did intervene there at one point, but I would have taken one anyway, so I count it as legitimate and non-bird induced. What's more, I realized later that the time I spent watching birds was time I usually spent browsing Facebook. I don't know if one is any 'better' for me than another, but after watching birds, I felt none of the guilt I often feel from excessive Facebook time. Guilt is neither useful nor rational, so any time I can avoid it, I'm all for it. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I think we all know where this is going. Bird feeders are like potato chips or tattoos, you never stop at just one. That lone cardinal who visited the present feeder seemed to find it small and awkward, so undoubtedly a bigger one will be installed before too long. A walk in the neighborhood revealed even more feeders in front yards than I had originally noticed, so I'm already plotting how to squirrel-proof a couple for our front yard, and rearranging furniture in the living room to optimize viewing. I also think there may be a perfect place to put a hummingbird feeder over the driveway; can't believe I didn't see it sooner. By this summer our Bird TV may have six different channels. </span>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10556860299477514075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21736689.post-3706380015587378172012-11-19T15:43:00.002-05:002013-01-31T15:11:22.608-05:00Archeology<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I couldn’t believe I’d never
noticed the duck tile before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I had been in Vince’s house
several times in the past few months, had stood at the kitchen sink every time
I’d visited, but I’d never taken it in. Bill had spent weeks in the house since
the spring, but he didn’t notice it until I pointed it out to him. His older
brother Vince had exactly three pieces of art hanging on the walls in this
house: a painting of a schooner at sea, a frieze-like metal sculpture of a
bridge, and this duck tile. We’d noticed the painting and sculpture
immediately, but had missed the tile completely. That was odd enough, but it
was odd for another reason; this cute little thing was completely out of
character with the rest of the house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bill had been looking after
his brother since March, until Vince’s health had required more professional
care and equipment. With Vince’s death
in early October, it was now necessary to sort and organize everything in the
place he had lived since 1985. I was
here for practical and moral support, but I had another motive as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Since meeting Bill three
years ago, I had met and come to love his enormous, tight-knit family. I had
never met Vince, however, despite the fact that he only lived an hour away.
This wasn’t due to any hostility or bad blood between the brothers, no
disapproval of Bill’s ‘alternative lifestyle’ or some such. Vince was simply
not a social person. Actually, that’s putting it mildly. It wouldn’t be
outrageous to call him a hermit, even—as one neighbor said—a recluse. Bill and
his six sisters are close, despite geographical distance in some cases, but
they had all learned not to expect to see or hear much from Vince. He would
occasionally join nearby siblings for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, but
that might be only time he saw them all year. Nor, as far as anyone could tell,
did he have a social circle outside his family. The neighbors on either side of
his home knew something must be wrong when they began to see multiple cars in
his driveway. Vince never had visitors, they reported. They found him cordial but
reserved; unless he was checking the mail, mowing his lawn, or returning from
grocery shopping they never saw him. When Bill began looking after him, I tried
to get stories out of him and his sisters about Vince, but there were almost
none to be had. With a seventeen year age difference between them, it wasn’t so
surprising that Bill and Vince were virtually strangers, but even the sisters
closer to Vince in age said he had been a private, quiet person from the beginning. They loved him as much as he allowed, and had
all long since accepted that this meant leaving him alone. He had worked one place
all his adult life; one hoped there were friendly connections there, but if so,
none of them lasted past his retirement. As far as Bill could tell, Vince never
received a single phone call or visitor outside of family, during his decline. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So while I was mostly here to
help Bill take stock of the household he inherited, I was also hoping to gain
some insight into this mysterious man. I hoped I might learn something from the
things he had surrounded himself with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It would be fair to say this
entire ranch house was one big man-cave. An entertainment center with huge flat
screen, Bose speakers and players for videos, DVDs and blue rays had pride of
place in the living room. A smaller but no less sophisticated system sat in the
bedroom. The office reflected Vince’s tech career with its multiple computers,
printers and elaborate networking system.
The whole house was protected by a high end alarm system. As I
mentioned, there were only three pieces of art in the entire place. Bill was
pretty sure the carpet was the same one that had been there when Vince moved
into the newly constructed house. Venetian blinds and tan curtains covered
every window. The walls were all painted white. The kitchen was stocked with
pots and pans that were so shiny they were either brand-new, or had rarely been
used. Frozen and microwaveable dinners shared the cupboards with jars of
vitamins and medications. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Given the entertainment
center, it’s not surprising that the possession that dominated the house was
his DVD and video collection. It filled two closets, a credenza, a mini-bar and
flowed onto the floor. I had thought I would gain some insight into his
interests by seeing what sorts of things he collected, but this didn’t prove as
illuminating as I’d hoped. Other than the sheer mass of it (‘I guess Vince really
liked watching stuff on his big screen’), I don’t feel I learned much. The fact that the collection was dominated by
TV shows (as opposed to movies) seemed noteworthy, as did the fact that police
procedurals and detective shows had narrow majority, but it was so eclectic I
was left feeling more perplexed than ever. <b>Murder
She Wrote, Perry Mason, Saved by the Bell </b>and<b> My Favorite Martian </b>mingled indiscriminately with<b> The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Mannix, </b>and<b> White Collar</b>, just to name a few. I
was oddly touched by finding two A&E shows about American light houses,
mostly because I also love light houses. I wondered if that truly was a shared
interest, and something we might have discussed, had we ever met. Two videos
out of an enormous collection is probably slender evidence to hang a passionate
interest on, but I jumped on it. Doing so showed me I wasn’t just trying to
understand Vince, but connect with him. (On
a side note, a heart-breaking discovery was the calendar hanging in the coat
closet. It was filled with upcoming appointments, all of them for doctor visits
or medical tests. The poor guy had nothing else to look forward to.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">After we had sorted the
videos, our next big hurdle was the garage. This looked like the garage of a guy
who had lived in a man-cave for over thirty years. There were the usual
suspects: lawn mower, snow blower, saws, rakes, shovels, spades, ladders. There
were also a certain amount of redundancies; there was not just one lawn mower,
but three, one of them possibly older than me that had not been usable for at
least ten years. Scattered willy-nilly throughout the space were bags of
painting supplies, most of them unused, and more screwdrivers than any single
person could possibly need. My theory is he periodically decided he was going
to paint the house, went out and bought supplies, never got around to it, then
the next time he got the urge to paint again, he forgot he already had what he
needed. As for the screwdrivers, maybe they became like pens; he could never
find one when he needed it, so he’d just buy a new one. (After I took in their
ubiquity, I started finding them in almost every drawer in the house as well.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But back to the duck tile:
remember that? Does this residence sound to you like it would have a decorative
tile of <i>any</i> kind hanging in the
kitchen, let alone one with a duck? And how is it that weeks, even months had
passed before either Bill or I had noticed it? Bill said it was almost as if
the duck had been camouflaged, actively avoiding our notice before. What had
changed? And seriously, what the hell was it doing there?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Second question first: I
think it’s no coincidence that I first noticed the little duck after we had
completed, or at least broken the backs of the two biggest projects in the
house. I first noticed it on day four of house-cleaning. Up until then I don’t
think Bill or I could see anything besides the videos and the mountain in the garage.
With those finally contained, my eye was now able to notice new things. As for <i>why</i> the duck tile was there, we’ll
probably never really know for sure. This is hardly the biggest secret Vince
took with him to the grave. But here’s my theory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Though Bill never met any of
Vince’s girlfriends, he knows there were some, at least in the beginning. I
wonder if maybe one woman got closer than any of the others, so close that she
even stood a chance of sharing this house with him. The only other things in this
house that come close to the same level of whimsy, or possibly femininity, are
the small curtains hanging in the window overlooking the kitchen sink. They
hang less than three feet from this tile. Could these items be the only--or
only remaining--signs of a woman who once lived here, who, just maybe, broke
Vince’s heart? Did he leave them up because they triggered fond memories? Or
had they hung there so long by the time she left his life that he no longer
saw them? Had the camouflage that fooled Bill and me kicked in by that point?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Speculating like this really
amounts to fiction writing, I realize. The fact that I did it showed me
something else about my reaction to Vince. I’m an introverted person myself. I
love, even crave solitude in big, gluttonous chunks. I am happy being left to
my own devices for days at a time. But the kind of total solitude
Vince chose would, if it were me, indicate a serious problem. It would mean,
most likely, that my life-long struggle with depression had taken a substantial
turn for the worse. And to get to the point of not having a single visitor or
phone call while I faced a terminal illness, I would have had to do some
serious bridge-burning. At the very least I’d have to have spent years quietly
fading away, allowing connections to dry up.
This level of solitude for me would probably mean alienation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But that’s me. I shouldn’t
assume my choices or tendencies say anything about Vince’s. Just because his
need for privacy was all-pervasive doesn’t mean it indicated deep suffering.
Just because no one, not even his lively, loving siblings, seemed to know him
doesn’t mean he was lonely. He fought to the very end to regain his health, and
that suggests to me he enjoyed his life and was not yet done with it. But that
silly little duck tile will probably always make me a little sad. It makes it
hard for me not to wonder if he was haunted by regret, if maybe there was one
heart-break that led him to build a life that was less than he hoped for.
That’s a lot to hang on a duck tile, I know. I really hope I’m wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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