Freedom

In the nursing home (I don't think this is the right word for this anymore) my mom and dad share the same room while my dad recovers from surgery. It turns out his news is not as good as I thought the last time I wrote, and his cancer (his cancer) has spread. At 81, this is...what? Bad doesn't seem to cover it. Complicated is a better word, still, not exactly right. At some point, it seems like our lives become one long session of packing up our stuff and getting ready to go.

I am sure I am just naive at the moment, but how come we all don't get to go quickly? I do not see the point of having to be sick for long periods of time. I think we should get a notification in the mail that our time is up, get a week to put our affairs in order and then pop out with the teeniest display of sparks and bacony-smelling smoke. Forget leaving the stinking body behind.

Then again, maybe I do get it. We get forced to slow down with sickness so we can reflect upon our lives or the earth or whatever. The pain and indignity are gifts of some sort and we should be thankful.

And thank you doctors and technology. We can prolong life, but can we guarantee any sort of quality? Does it matter? I'm not sure. I do not know how scary death is, or upcoming death. When we get to a certain point do we want to be alive no matter what? My parents (maybe everybody's) are not, I suspect, too worried about dying, it is, however, this odd time in between that seems like such a hassle.

My parents are locked into each other's existence like no two other people I've ever known. When I was growing up they seemed to have a few good friends. My mom seemed to have one good friend and my dad had three that I can think of. Two of them died before they were forty, even earlier. As friends died off or moved away, they did not seem to take on any new ones, nor did they seem interested. My guess is that they were fine with each other's company. They seemed to be, off and on, now and again, once in awhile....

Here is the thing. I don't know if they are both ready to go, or what. But I know that the thing with them is that neither of them wants to leave the other behind. I think this must be the way it is for many older couples, but my mom's immobility makes it much more urgent.

All of these complications. I have been able to feel for my dad in that I've tried to imagine what it is like to get this kind of news. It's really happening. I know that where he is he is not able to make the most of his time like he would at home. Someone else is taking care of my mom, and he doesn't have a good enough internet connection to do the type of study of his own condition and his possibilities. So, I know he's had time to think about all of this. But I think that, so far, the answers must be pretty unsatisfactory. I have not been able to think about what the loss of my dad might mean beyond the usual loss of dad stuff. I don't even know what that means, or what I'm talking about.

I feel like I'm nailing the coffin lid on him, sorry dad. I mean, he may take the stuff and maybe he'll be all right. But that is not the stuff we have to prepare for.

Will Maple Candy Kill My Father?

I am terribly distracted today. I took on too many things this week (not really. I, honestly, do not have a very hectic schedule. I am just awful at time management). This weekend I am going camping from, like, Friday to Sunday, and that's (sadly) when I usually get most of my work done. Which means I have to do all that work stuff during the week, like a normal human being.

In another goofball move, I signed up for these meeting things at my work. They're online and they come with little assignments and reading and there is no way to tell how much time they are going to take.

So, naturally, this morning, I am spending time writing this. It is because I care for you, dear readers.

Also, ironically, I am teaching a class this semester that is basically, a time management class. I feel completely unprepared. It is a four-hour class, once a week. So, I think you can understand how even thinking about it can be exhausting.

Another thing that is on my mind is my dad and my mom. My mom has been moved to a nursing home temporarily because my dad went into the hospital for some newly discovered cancer. Good news. It has not spread. And, the operation was pretty successful, but the recovery seems like it may be difficult. My dad does not react well to medications and he can get a little out of control. This puts his recovery at risk because he might rip stuff out of his body or go on some hulk-like rampage. (Not really, but it's cute to think about). More good news. My dad's recovery time is going to take place at the same place my mom is staying, so they can be together.

Who's to say who is winning, here, World. You or me. Why use my mom and dad as pawns in our game? Or, wait, is it possible this is not all about me?

Still, I am here (beautiful San Fran) while my sister and brother in law are out there doing the heavy lifting. That weighs on me. But they really have all the weight. I just feel bad about stuff, hoping it evens me out karmacally. That, my friends, seems like a stupid waste of time. Still, it is one of the few things I do really, really well.

The surgery was Thursday and I have not called my dad since then (using the excuse that he's too loopy to talk to) and I have not sent a card or anything either (I'm too caught up with all this work stuff).

Oy, if you know what I mean.

My dad likes maple candy. But I bet he hasn't had some in a very, very long time. Not since, probably, he got diagnosed with diabetes. I'd like to send him some. I do not think it will kill him. I do not think it will. And I think he might really enjoy it, and think of me as being very thoughtful.

Me. Me.

Technologies Leave Kitties Behind

Seriously.

In this world of the cellphone, the internet, tweets and facebook, how come there's no way to let my kitty know I'm thinking about him when I'm not there?

Cats don't read cards you send them, they don't answer the phone, and it turns out their paws are too lunky to work a computer keyboard. They don't care about facebook, and if you ask them about tweeting they just get all "where's the bird" on you.

I wish I could live in the past, where you could call your home phone and the cat could hear it. And you could say stuff like, I'm tied up at work, start dinner without me. And, hope you're feeling better, please do not throw up in my underwear drawer again. Or, utty wutty puddums!

That's all I got to say.

You Are Awake

You are so awake that your eyes feel open, even though they are closed.
Your eyes feel wide-open, like you are bug-eyed. This is also the feeling of the rest of your face. Your eyebrows are way up there. You feel like you have a very surprised look on your face, even though you know your eyes are closed.

You are in a very dark and very tiny bedroom, made from a barely walk-in closet. And yet, being in such a state of super consciousness, your eyes feel like they are magnets for any available light. You feel as if you can see bright lights through your eyelids. All the light in the apartment and the building (including the lobby!) and the neighborhood and the city outside is all being streamed into your pupils on invisible wires. It is all streaming in, filling your head with photons.

You feel as if your mouth is wide open, teeth showing, crazy smile. You feel as if your tongue is sticking way out of your mouth for no reason at all except that you are so awake.

In reality there is no light coming into your room. It is nearly hermetically sealed, with no windows. Even if you dared open your eyes, you would most likely not be able to see anything. And, although the room is not completely quiet (there are muffled street noises coming from a room away) it is nowhere near over the sleep-interrupting threshold.

In reality, you are lying in your bed. On your back. You are in comfortable sheets on a comfortable mattress with a nice blanket over you. The temperature is the optimum temperature for sleeping. The air quality is really pleasant. A very nice evening for a full, eight-hour snooze. The rest of the world is sleeping. They are taking advantage of the atmosphere. They will be fresh in the morning.

You have spent nights like this for over ten years. 4 a.m. is your time. You wake up and spend your energy trying to go back to sleep. Really trying. Mostly, you are used to it. It does not bother you anymore. You know you will get back to sleep on most nights after an hour, sometimes a little more. There will be more sleep. You’ve found ways around it. You sometimes, but very rarely turn on the light, and do some reading. You used to live in the living room, and would sometimes turn on the television. That set a weird precedent. You got a little ipod. Now you can listen to music or podcasts or books on tape (whatever ipod tape is called) until you fall asleep. Basically, any type of human voice puts you to sleep. You feel that maybe this has affected your awake human relationships.

You have to be careful. The idea is to not let consciousness take over. Unconsciousness is the goal. Relaxation is key. But it’s difficult. You are fighting a battle where you cannot use any aggression or effort. Any kind of movement of your limbs seems to energize you. Opening your eyes seems to rev your face and head. Any kind of thought seems to feed other thoughts, which, in turn, wakes you the fuck up.

Gene taught you how to meditate. So, often, you will do controlled breathing exercises and recite the mantra. Ah, the mantra.

Some thoughts are more destructive than others. They trigger panic, guilt, or frustration. The worst is the thought that you are wasting time, lying there. You should get up and do something. The night is yours. Think of the things you could do.

That is unfair. You deserve to sleep at night. It must be a right, somehow. But you remember sleepovers when you were little, how everybody seemed to go right to sleep. You remember your younger days, when there would sometimes be a guest staying in your bed. How they would fall asleep and begin heavily respirating, while you listened uncomfortably. Someone you had just felt a pretty strong connection with, has now left the building, gone to some wonderful fairy dream-state. Left their junk behind.

And tonight, you have blown it. You have thought too much tonight. And now you are not relaxed. Sleep is out of reach. But you are too angry to get up and make use of the time. You will lie there until the world ends if you have to. You open your eyes and realize that your room, just barely bigger than your lonely twin bed, is dark and square and high-ceilinged. You realize it is just a little bit bigger than a grave.

And that, of course, is your terrible dream of the afterlife. Forever awake, with nothing to do.

The World Ties My Hands or Something

Ha Ha, World!

I do not like it when the World comes in and forces me to do something for my own good. I am, by nature, self destructive.

Today, however, I'm stuck. I came to the coffeeshop as I always do, laptop in hand, ready to make a teeny morning of work before heading back to my home when my battery runs out for an afternoon of wishing I was doing work.

But, the World has intervened. It is raining here in San Francisco just like it does in normal parts of the country. It is pouring down a lot of the time, with little bits of clearing and dying down now and then. I have no hat and no umbrella and no cover for my laptop.

But, ha ha, World, today, by chance, on a whim, I happen to bring my laptop power cord with me.

I am trapped. Trapped in the coffeeshop with nothing to do but work. I cannot tell, World, if you thought you were going to trap me without my powercord, like you did that time on the flight back from Boston, when I had all the emergency work to do, and you granted me surprise internet on the flight, but no way to plug the laptop in. I thwarted you there, World, by having a wonderful time on the flight by getting drunk with some terrific old ladies.

Here, somehow, things have worked out between us.

Unless you want to count the time I used, writing this.

Please enjoy the rest of your day.

Me and the World: Head to Toe This Morning

I have these deadlines, and they drive me crazy. They are very real and very serious as we know all deadlines are. Deadlines, as I have found out, can certainly make your life miserable because they are real.

I know today I have a lot of stuff to do. It is Sunday. I did a good amount of work yesterday, which was Saturday, but I left myself with a tough amount of stuff to do today, which is Sunday.

I got up before 7 because I knew the deadline is today at midnight. I packed up my computer, my mouse, my calculator and went out to the coffeeshop like I do, seven days a week. I find that I must get a good start on the day, or it falls apart. Today, it is raining, just like it was yesterday. Today, just like yesterday, the coffeeshop has no one in it, and it is locked up, dark, unwelcoming. So, like yesterday, I go back home, unpack my stuff, and start to do my work at my horrible, unkempt desk.

My neighbor downstairs is a young lady who seems capable in all her faculties, but try as I will, I cannot get her to keep her radio, tv, or videogames down to the point where they do not vibrate my desk. Seven thirty this morning she's got her whatever going, not crazy loud, but the idea that I can't have a Sunday morning that is just quite tends to get on my nerves.

To add to matters (nice going, World) the internet (which I "borrow" from wonderful neighbors) crashes (or something, ceases to work). They are always wonderful about rebooting it for me. They are so terrific. But I understand they like an occasional Sunday morning without a knock at the door from me. So, I repack all of my stuff and head back to the coffeeshop in the rain, hoping for an openness. It's eight o'clock.

Now, I'm frothed by this, and also my downstairs neighbor. I am sensitive to sounds and also, she's got me at a disadvantage because I have, every month or so, people over who play music. And when I see her the next day, she always says she enjoys it.

Anyway, a little shaky from frustration (it's really not such a big deal, Raymo). I get to the coffeeshop where they play nice music, but on top of that, the owner also plays stuff on his iphone like newscasts or, I don't know what.

Very frustrating morning. Still: Ha ha, World. I got almost all of my work done. More than half, and it's not even noon, yet. I've got a good amount of work left to do, but the stuff I was nervous about is done. I come back to my apartment, and I pray, please let my downstairs neighbor be quiet today. And, Ha ha, World, she is! Oh, miracle of miracles!

But, just so you know, the world is not one to be trifled with. My goal was to have all my stuff done by the afternoon, so that I could have time to not have to do anything before the weekend is over. But, ha ha, Ray, the school's site is now down, so I am unable to do the work I need to do, at the moment.

Which is how, dear readers, I have time to address you about some of my petty frustrations today.

Thank you for listening. Please enjoy the rest of your day.

Part Two

I have a favorite Beatles song and that seems weird to me. But I know it now, I always have. It's And Your Bird Can Sing: period. The best Beatles songs ever. They sing like four Siamese twin princes from soul space on that song and it's got that impossible guitar part. Plus, it's about rejection, which I'm sure the Beatles, at that time, must've been going through a ton of.

But, I think they're biggest accomplishment is this song Long, Long, Long, which is a George Harrison song so some people think it doesn't count. But Long, Long, Long, just like And Your Bird Can Sing sounds like it is beyond even what the Beatles could do. It's weird, weird, weird and really beautiful. And if people want to get technical with me I hear that it's only three Beatles on that song, no John Lennon who I think may have been out doing drugs.

Anyway, I can't sleep. Ten, fifteen years I've been up at four every morning wondering what to do. I figured it out when I got an ipod, and I think when I started this web-logging thing, it was the first thing I talked about...how the ipod saved my life, it got me out and running and it let me listen and be into music again AND I now spend that awake time simply listening...really listening to music...not doing anything else, just listening, like you used to have time to do when you were a kid. It's great and I've been listening to And Your Bird Can Sing and Long, Long, Long and I don't care if I sleep or not.

Sometimes, however, the ipod messes with my dreams because I do fall asleep eventually and often in my dreams I will be, say, a salesman at a stereo shop, and some customers come in, and I realize I've got the music playing way too loud in the shop, but when I go to turn it down I cannot find the knob. And the people are telling me what kind of stereo they want, but I can't hear them because of the music, and I am going to blow the sale.

That night, I had a dream that I was in the old copy-shop in Harvard Square where I used to work with Kurt. Same building, only now it was a record store. Everyone in there was singing Long, Long, Long. It was beautiful and sad and we were all a magical wonderful chorus. But then something else was going on, and we were all looking toward the door or outside the window because there was something, like a shooting, or the cops were coming, something. And I said to all the people in the record store, "What is it, violence?"

Turns out it was my mom calling out for help. I had tested the earbud thing all night. Put them on so my thoughts wouldn't drive me insane, and pulled them off at least six times when she started snoring or coughing across the hall. So, I thought it was a safe bet that I wouldn't sleep through or miss anything important and to my credit I think I heard the first call in the dream and was up as the she called a second time. My dad, too.

This time she wanted to go to the hospital. But getting her into the ambulance was no picnic. She's immobile due to a terribly messed up back, and like I said, she has some trouble expressing herself. But she was afraid the ambulance guys were going to drop her. They had her in a sitting up kind of chair to move her out instead of a stretcher, and just sitting for her is difficult. And this chair thing had no sides. I thought they were going to drop her, too.

My mom does not complain. My dad does. My sister does, and I do. But my mom doesn't. So it's hard to tell how far things have gotten before she calls out. As they were wheeling her through the garage (possibly the coldest garage on record) she simply said: "I can't take it." She was wrapped in these thin white blankets. They had kind of swaddled her in them, covered her head with them and she reminded me of Thumbelina when Danny Kaye does it in Hans Christian Andersen. Her little face sticking out, and her button eyes. Thumbelina, if she was getting ready to go into the ambulance on the coldest, darkest morning in history. Me and my dad, putting our pants on. Nobody escapes going through this part of our lives, but I have been absent for a lot of it. As grim as it seems, I am happy I was there, to be with them.

It turns out she wasn't getting enough oxygen, and we believe that caused her to panic (of course) but I can't figure out if she knew it or not. She may not have been able to figure it out, and she may have been hiding it from us, either because she doesn't want to complain or she wants to stay out of the hospital at all costs.

Anyway, I don't know how to end this particular entry. I promise that the ones that follow will have reports about fruit and more scores with me and the world going at it. I just had to process this stuff quickly, in this disjointed way.

We are hoping she just needs some of her meds adjusted. She feels better at home, with my dad taking care of her. My dad: Mr. Super-Step-Up-To-The-Plate. Hoorah for the both of them.

I am back in California. This was a working vacation, that had some complications.

I had delicious pineapple with Guy, Pam, Steve and Scotty, if that helps.

Anyway.


Dear Time,

What the fuck.