Oh, How I wish I could eat those last three peas

I cannot get that wish for a simple game of catch to take a break for a couple of days. I wrote on Monday, I think:  <>

Gods and Parents an Monsters? They all give you only what you can handle. They close one door and open a window.

"Don't get up from the table until everyone of those peas has been eaten!"

How comforting it would be to have a God or a Parent or a Guardian Monster who knew the measure of our gullets and had placed the precise number of those little green devils upon our plates that we could, indeed, metabolize.

"I didn't say all but three! I said: 'em all.' You eat those peas. Remember I told you about those Lepers in India. Their mouths hurt so much that they CAN'T eat three peas. And I don't want no mouth (no pun intended) from you."

Nah! My sense is that the sequential moments of chaos ... the moments that it would seem that not another pea can be metabolized ... are unpredictable but are as present in the Last Quarter as others. I don't know them to be more difficult ... but just as difficult, I imagine.

M falling on a wet floor and a few weeks later being trucked to the hospital with what medical folks diagnosed as a coronary. My friend R getting her foot caught on a stair and breaking her shoulder putting her at the mercy of my friend who has now managed to slice his 4th onion in 50 years of marriage and to discover "all the fuss" about onions, noses and eyes. A young woman, near and dear to us, who one night felt she just couldn't go on ... and came within moments of succeeding who now lies in a hospital. A octogenarian colleague who fell, got an ambulance ride to the Hospital, only to discover that fractures were to be the least of his concerns.  And two people angry at me for not being 100% available.

"Mom ... Can I finish these last three peas, later."

How do all the kid-jokes end? Something like: "Shut up and keep eating."

Yes, Maam.


It's strange when the high point of a day is tearing-up listening to a 50 year old speech about liberation and freedom. (from Newley and Richard ... 1965?) ... "Birds Flying High? You know how I feel" ... or will, someday. 

The Complex Trajectory

I've long enjoyed the elegance and simplicity of the game of catch. Two or more people position themselves at a distance from each other. That distance may be measured in feet in the early years. Later, the distance increases to a point where it is difficult to imagine that any one participant can successfully "deliver" the ball to the other or one of the other players -- if more than two players are on the field of play -- in such a manner that it can be caught by that other. Remember playing in the days of Summer in the 1950's with my neighbor. We would stand 70 or 80 feet apart and time after time manage to naturally choose a trajectory that would bring that ball just close enough to be caught. Grounders, Bloopers, Fastballs, Slowballs, Curveballs ... but almost always able to choose that trajectory that makes the ball catchable. Indeed, the game of catch is by design one in which the goal is to allow the other to "make the catch" ... maybe to make it a challenge ... but to catch it.

If only! If only life were as simple as finding that path through the sky or one that skips off the ground like a piece of shale on a quiet lake .... finding the trajectory that works to continue the natural flow of this game that can go on for hours ...

Life is very different than that. Oh, I know that a number of the traditions with which I'm familiar have an expression about how their God or gods don't put anything on their plate that they can't metabolize ... God never gives you more than you can handle, some say. But somewhere along the line, the play becomes far more complex than that elegant game of catch.

By the Last Quarter, we and our friends -- all! -- are struggling with their own messes. I sometimes imagine a "near and dear" or myself poised under a barrage of "incoming" balls arriving at all kinds of different angles and a variety of speeds. I never liked the word overwhelmed. After all, if I'm still poised to receive these "incoming" rockets with their red glare, I'm, arguably, not overwhelmed. Still, at times like this, I and others are looking for the pause button ... the "gimme a break" remote that slows the speed or diminishes the frequency.

Oh, and those messes by that Fourth Quarter are not solely our own. If we spawned earlier in life, our perfect little children are involved in their own complexities. They have relationships that have ended or have history.  They have children who are still in their First or Second Quarter, Parents who are in overtime or remain as haunting figures of met and unmet wishes. When our kids are young, we imagine them to be these perfect little reincarnations of ourselves. Ach du lieber ... Life is an unremitting teacher of the messiness of life, itself. Those perfect ones do, indeed, become real ... those idealized images suffer and, betimes, make others suffer. Viscera ... Guts ... Blood ... and a whole lotta feeling.

How I yen for a game of catch. Two gloves, two people, one ball and a parabolic trajectory of Divine design.

"Ronnie! Go deep .... I'll get it to you just past the foot of the Elm Tree ... but high ... may need to jump and reach for it at same time ... You'll get it, Ronnie ... Don't worry ... I'll make sure of that!"

How the Great Have Fallen, Indeed!

It was a last long weekend away for this Summer ... with late August and September promising to be busy. Still drinking lots of Green Juice ... hasn't made me young, yet. A dock to repair and a bulkhead that will wait till October. Friends joined us down in Virginia ... also, Last Quarter Players. Milt had been my graduate school professor in the 60's. The Lady R and he have been married for 50 years ... M & I newly wed at 48. Our last trip down to the Sea had ended when my M was misdiagnosed at the nearest healthcenters 20 and 50 miles away with a myocardial infarction which turned out to be a virus or too much heat. Milt and Lady R showed up a bit after us, toting a tiny fraction of Milt's film collection. We were just about to watch Laurel and Hardy in the West or somesuch title when from the living room came the crash. In the Fourth Quarter, y'see, everybody has to pee before and after a movie and popcorn doesn't work with old teeth, whether they be yours or the store-bought variety.  R was last to pee.

Bam! Crash. Three Old Folk walking fast only to find Lady R next to the stairs, conscious but looking more than a bit addled on the floor ... stretched out like last year's starfish limp on the beach. We were to learn within a few short minutes (she was addled but quite conscious) that she had caught her sandal on the edge of the bottom step as she toddled toward the bathroom entrance just a foot or two away. Feet don't work the way they once did in the Fourth Quarter ... and balance is hard earned on many walks.

How the Great had Fallen, INDEED!

Within minutes, Lady R was, truth be told, back erect on the surface of this planet ... but in pain? lots.

Lady R peed, indeed! .... and joined the other three and GuntherDog to laugh at Films of the Thirties.

The next night was to be and was the Leslie Howard version of Pygmalion ... maybe 1938. All five of us kvetching ... Lady R and GuntherDog moaning the loudest.

What to say? It was a great weekend ... the rain and pain (in Spain), notwithstanding ... friends are important and Lady R (Milt shouldn't drive, anymore) is a trooper, who drove home ... well, one armed Lady R drove home and went to the ER to find out how easy it is in your Seventies to fracture a shoulder.

How the Great Do Fall!

Another Autumn is in the air and the bulkhead will wait till October. Promises to be a job and a half ... A man, a pile of 2x8's and his chop-saw!

How the great have fallen

Last year, my big birthday gift was changing up my classic air cooled 1996 993 Porsche Cabrio for a 2013 Boxster, purportedly so that I wouldn't get stuck on the road in an old car. This year, now that I'm older, my kids got together and gave me a GPS so that, I guess, I can find my way home from the Last Quarter fog that visits me (or upon me, if you prefer) ... I think GPS stands for Grand Pa Search ....

"Has anyone seen an old guy turning 180's in a hot little thing and looking totally lost? 'Has anyone seen my Grandpa ... Has anyone seen my Grandpa [what are the rest of the lyrics, anyway]'"

A GPS? Bullocks!

Next year? A case of Metamucil, I anticipate.

They say it's my Birthday

They Say It's my Birthday

I do remember seeing a birth certificate claiming that I was born in Brooklyn, New York on a certain day in August that is near at hand. That or something else said that I came into this World at 12+ pounds ... didn't bother to mention the potential impact birthing a melon that size might have had on my 5'3" Mother. But that's a very old story, the direct witnesses to which have all gone through their own Last Quarters and -- most of them -- their Overtimes. But that begs the question of this birthday ... this day in 2013.

The thought was that those who claim direct descendency or ascendency from me (and their spouses)wish to gather to celebrate the event.

"You gonna have a Good-Time"

Well, they say I'm gonna have a good time. And truth be told it's likely true and it's nice to be toasted and for folk to gather for no other reason, purportedly, than to celebrate the fact that I was born. It's a very nice sentiment ... it really is ... I mean ... I like the idea ... it's a "Good" ....

Me'thinks I protesteth too much

Well. There are, indeed, some ambivalent feelings that might not be there if I were Thomas Jefferson with a slew of involuntaries doing my every bidding to prepare Monticello for the fete. But the thought of arising tomorrow with my usual late-middle-aged aches and cleaning up Self and yard and pool so that others can feel good about not forgetting my birthday ... right at this very moment leaves me cold. Maybe I should just climb into my roadster or onto my trusty bike and ...

Ride, Captain Ride

This pater familias thing ... having to be available and indentured to my own birthday party isn't doing it for me.

I can't always get what I want

Well, not so long ago, I wrote for my 65th birthday the following dittie in a series of doggerel pieces about an aging guy, Abe Isaacs .... struggling with the passing years ... I guess it's worth repeating:

“A mere piss in the ocean, sixty five years,”

Said Abe, as he trailed down birthday stairs,

To serve birthday kibble to waiting dog and cats,

To fetch birthday coffee, alas! No more birthday cigarettes.

“A day for all to revel with middle-aged me,

How much more pleased could any man be?”

 

“A cosmic fleck on the Milky Way”

Aside, said he, quotidian fears to stay.

Then appeared in his throat the telltale knot

When noticing the cat’s favorite spot

To shit upon when puss is feeling bitter

That no one had bothered to change her litter.

And while feeding the dog, the wish to run

Realizing that decisions are never made as one

But rather by the rule: my will be done

 

“Didn’t we agree on a uniform ban

on inuring the cats to eat meat from a can!?”

Abe found a solution, a tad-bit rash

Abe pulled out his sprinkler and make his own splash.

“I piss on the world! Why the hell not?

Who gives the pussy dominion on that spot?

A day for all to revel with middle-aged me

Please ... save your sighs and no sympathy.”

 

“For I’m no zit on the Lord’s six day creation

Having arrived after all other failed experimentation.

Now, three score plus five, know what I ought’a do”

Abe barks at the rising Sun, “Hey Sun, Hey you! 

Three fourths down, a quarter remains

Of vigor and charm and hearty refrains

Let all who’ve tasted their own felicity

Come and revel ... Mine lives, too!

Inside this protesting but vigorous,

Middle-aged me!”

 

The moral of Abe’s story is brief ...

Many will scoff when you’re pissed off

And laugh at you if you run off

But if you seek pets or missus to be cooperatively compliant

rather than covertly and silently defiant

then the rule is:

He who pisses never misses.

 

 

Happy Birthday soon to me ...

Happy Birthday soon to me ....

Happy Birthday to Howard ....

Happy Birthday to me!

 

And many more ....

 

Memories

I suppose it may have been a hypnopompic memory ... one of those haunting images that come after sleep but in the cleft that sits there in my minds before we can describe ourselves as awake. I was walking home from kindergarten with an older sister. No content beyond that ... but as I reached for consciousness in my bed, other memories flashed ... and passed from my grasp. Maybe 60+ years of memories ... a wisp of the scene at M and I's wedding, I think was there ... with only our parents and some witnesses there to sign. My maternal grandfather speaking from the pulpit to his congregation. Quick flip to another religious leader involved in some apologeia with his congregants and explaining that they had "misconscrewed" (sic) him. Playing catch with Ronnie who lived next door. Wrestling with Sanford at a religious meeting. Knocking out a wall with my Dad.

There are those times when a return to sleep in one of those Last Quarter mornings isn't going to occur ... and one knows it. I'm taking off Fridays in the Summer and I had time. I toddled downstairs and sent GuntherDog out for his morning toilette and decided to prepare a kugel ... an Eastern European casserole for the grandkids who are coming over this evening. Their Mom is avoiding Gluten so it was clear in my mind that I'd cut out the wheat flour that typically is used as a binder to keep the Kugel more solid than runny. We're all trying to cut down on heavy starches, so I decided I'd use 1 motherload clove of garlic, 2 onions, 3 carrots, 4 sticks of celery and a fistful of broccoli with 6 grated potatoes. The sleepiness and the playful use of sequential numbers amused me.

I went about the business of pre-stir frying the vegetables in a couple of tablespoons of oil ... pealed the potatoes while they were cooking and threw in a palm full of salt and 60 turns of my pepper mill. What shall I ever do if my pepper mill breaks and I need a new count on how many turns go into a single meal's dish? Ah! The grinder is likely to outlive me, anyway.

Potatoes, vegetables, a bit more oil, three eggs and some potato starch were being mixed as I turned over the grater and began scraping every bit into the bowl. It was now a torrent of memories of my Mother and my maternal Grandmother before her in their kitchens. Here I am carefully removing the last maybe 1/100th of a percent of the mix into the red enamel pan that Adelaide, another very old woman, gave to my wife. Addie was the first or one of the first tenured professors of Biochemistry ... a rabid liberal to the end of her near 90 years. She would've liked to have lived to see a non-white President and would sign her e-mails ... "Fuck Bush." M is not so loud but they were dear friends. Maybe M needed a Mother and Addie had been too busy to marry and spawn. Her dad was a barber in a small Pennsylvania town, O! Little Town of Bethlehem, and maybe the idea of having everything
was too much for her transitional status. Who's to say?

But this much I think I know. I miss my Mother, Grandmother and Addie and much of what I learned in life was gathered up looking up at Old Women respecting the foods they were cooking.

As Mississippi John Hurt was prone to sing/say: Good to the Lassst Drop!

Afterthought

Yesterday, I was thinking about two types ... the one who becomes a victimizer in the style of those who may have tormented him or her in years gone by ... and the one who uses his or her own victimization as an indirect way of battering another.

Need I say, these are shorthand and generalization of a great many varieties. As I rose this AM, I was remembering a particular style, among the many. This person takes preemptive strikes against their others ... and when the other responds -- even quietly -- they initiate bullying tactics.


                                      "Look what you've done to me!"

          "How can anyone be so heartless as to strike out at a poor Soul like me?"


And, indeed, these people do seem to suffer greatly.

As the clock ticks on in the Fourth Quarter, I struggle to have patience for such folk.

Old prayer: O may it be Your will, my God and God of my fathers, to redeem me this day and every day from the arrogant and from arrogance ... from mean spirited men and mean-spirited friends and neighbors ... from destructive occurrences and from those who seek to destroy.

Amen.

The Dignity of Everyday Life

In 1905 or so, someone wrote a book on the so-called Psychopathology of Everyday Life. He wrote of slips of the tongue, equally curious slips of the pen. The author was less than 50, then, but he wrote of lapses in the memory system ... the forgetting of names, of events and of the misremembering of childhood events. False Memory Syndrome was the rage in the 1990's but had already been the focus of this doctor from Vienna, as was the common witnessing of superstition-based behaviors. We still think nothing of the professional athlete or the adoring fan that "needs to wear" special socks or a charmed hat in order for success to be imaginable for "their side.".

Nothing about these curious or pathological behaviors has changed and, still, it occurs to me that by the time we reach Medicare eligibility we have seen and experienced and survived everyday occurrences which have required a degree of dignity and fortitude that is -- if nothing else -- heartening and indicative of a certain -- again the same word comes up -- dignity to the manner in which we live our lives.

Among those with whom I have had the opportunity to learn of their earlier lives are such folk who manage to wake up each morning in spite of histories of the types of interferences that would make any tree grow bent so as to appear near falling at any moment. The metaphor, I suppose, relates to a Willow Tree that leans, apparently whose 60 foot splendor is poised to fall on my office in any storm ... though it has remained standing in that position for many years.

Whether the abuse was from experiencing war as a combatant, civilian casualty, refugee or camp-detainee ... whether the abuse occurred in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood .... whether it was physical, psychological or sexual (as in "both") .... the distortions of growth may appear in a variety of types and subtypes, but I'm moved to address but one of these solutions to having been whacked by the World ... and, by the way, it is my sense that no one makes it to the age of three without taking their share of such blows. Those reading this, as youngsters were likely exposed to the poetic character sketches of Edwin Arlington Robinson ... folk like Richard Cory and Miniver Cheevey who suffered in life and grew-twisted into suicides or alcoholics. If you haven't read Robinson's poesy , I recommend it.

In any case, I'm thinking this morning of  those individuals -- of that "type" -- who live by the principle: "Do unto others as has been done unto you." Victims who become acting-out perpetrators. The molested who grow into molesters. The bullied who finds their way into a life of bullying. But what I want to point out is the existence of two subtypes ... let me call them the Active and the Passive.

It was but a few days ago that a kidnapper and molester, after accepting a plea agreement which included a life sentence in jail, argued that he was no monster but a kind musician and good Soul who became addicted to masturbation and pornography after being abused, himself, as a child. And while it's hard to feel sorry for him and, arguably, a blessing that he will be separated from civil society or that civil society will be safely separated from him, I could not help myself from feeling sad for this man who destroyed the lives of many, including his own. Subsequent to abuse, there develops a sort of cleavage in the personality ... with one part separated off from the abuse that appears strong and dominates another part that remains the destroyed or absent victim.

This cleavage ... this splitting ... is well-portrayed in a film about two brothers growing up with an alcoholic step-father (Red Flyer is the name of the film, I think) ... one who is beaten and one spared. In the story, the beaten one escapes by flying away in his Red Flyer wagon rigged for flight in the sky ... never to be seen, again ...  to be heard from years later by postcard. The other son appears to grow normally to adulthood, fatherhood, and success. Interestingly, it is not until the end that the Writer-Director drops a hint that there was, in reality, only one child. Indeed, in the rambling apology offered by Ariel Castro, we hear both parts of this split ... the boastful man who talks of his accomplishments, including his making of a harmonious family from the three youngsters whom he held hostage for a decade ... And then there was the tearful victim who was molested, himself, in childhood.

The Passive type is quite different. Instead of becoming an Active "in-kind" abuser of others, this one is forever accusing others of abusing them. These are the victims who malign those near and dear to them and are not infrequently envious of both the near and the far. They are forever comparing theit own victim-hood and pain with that of others.

                                       "No one has suffered like me."

                            "How could you know what it's like for me?"

Each time someone points out some instance of their unkind behavior, the Other is seen as attacking and being gratuitously nasty or mean-spirited.

              "How could you say that to me knowing the ways I've suffered."

Given a choice? I would cavort with neither the Active type who becomes the "perp" or the Passive type who can only see themselves in that role.

And I cannot say whether or not by the Last Quarter my fellow journey-folk have typically found that spot where they recognize that, indeed, no one has attained maturity without their share of scrapes and bruises.

(Oy! rereading this was not cotton candy and a walk in the park! ... Sorry!)