Monday, February 2, 2015

bob marley staves off the nursing home

a new appreciation for bob marley.

and for the power of the third resetting of the mp3 player, 90-minute mode.

Get up, stand up! (Jah, Jah!)
Stand up for your rights! (Oh-hoo!)
Get up, stand up! (Get up, stand up!)
Don't give up the fight! (Life is your right!)
Get up, stand up! (So we can't give up the fight!)
Stand up for your rights! (Lord, Lord!)
Get up, stand up! (Keep on struggling on!)
Don't give up the fight! (Yeah!)

first, i thought, snuggling into my favorite off the shoulderless-shoulder, pea-green, perfectly worn, perfectly over-sized sweat shirt, "ah, an encouraging ode to all who are suffering, how nice. thank you, bob marley and friends. please leave the weed and accoutrements within easy reach as i flop over and rediscover this thang called sleep."

the mere thought of movement brought it home.  the upper reaches of my bladder were banging against the flabby flab of the empty trough of my stomach pouch.  we shall not mention the crunch:crunch:scream:scream from ankles:knees:hips:shoulders and overall joy of awakening.

so we took on the song as mantle, girded the loins, wherever they might be, interpolated a few verses of our own, scattering cats like no body's bidness, used the cane while still wearing our fuzzy blue hand splints (complete with nubs-between-the-knuckles-resembling-nuttin'-better-than-blue-fuzzy-TITS).

ever grip a slick cane handle with a hand predominantly filled with fuzzy blue hand splints and titty knuckles?

singing "get up, stand up, leave the mary-ju-wanna on the bedside table, woodja, bobby marley?" à très haute voix, losing the battle to keep your pants up along the way? ah, it was a woodcut in the making.

oh, listen!  the rascal is back!  "buffalo soldier"!

Dreadie, woy yoy yoy, woy yoy-yoy yoy,
Woy yoy yoy yoy, yoy yoy-yoy yoy!
Woy yoy yoy, woy yoy-yoy yoy,
Woy yoy yoy yoy, yoy yoy-yoy yoy!
Buffalo Soldier troddin' through the land, wo-ho-ooh!
Said he wanna ran, then you wanna hand,
Troddin' through the land, yea-hea, yea-ea.

anyway, i did not fall down, not on the way, not on the way back.  technically, i am not back yet, having stopped to see what bob marley et al left me on the bedside table. not one blessèd leaf, not one blessèd seed.  i haven't had any blessèd pot since 1992.

i landed with the left hanche perched daintily mid-mattress, the right (of the magically disappearing femur) propped by -- get this, GET THIS! -- a large blob of a right foot covered by a SOCK, by a SOCKsockSOCKsock planted on what appears to be a natural seagrass rug next to an inordinately large, loving, very worried, inordinately large, very sweet maine coone cat. remind me to do something sweet for that animal.

but bless the marley for waking me, stirringly, with a universal song. otherwise, i might have decided today was the day to cave, to say, "YES, put me in the nursing home, but not before i piss in the bed, not before i color mine hair blue, and hit the local spy store for ingenious kitsch into which nanny-cams may be inserted, the first objets d'art to be stolen by my new 'caretakers,' juicy fruit poppers all.  their goodness, the new 'caretakers'?  i bet they know where to score a joint, in exchange for my blessèd great aunt booboo's brooch from liberated northeastern indonesia." 

time to leave an email for fred, wherever he may find me. the text, always determined:

another night, gone, hallelujah!
i know you've a Haddock Corporation luncheon today of great height proportions.  
however, before you leave, and no matter how you assess my consciousness, please prepare one cafe-presse café, generous with the café, steeped to the 7-minute mark (or 9, your call), served with a hearty-textured -- but not soured -- milk. 
make sure i am awake, tell me you love me, make sure i tell you the same, have a wonderfully productive lunch.  if the captain shows up, drag his ass home and i'll do something with that organic pumpkin goodness. 
i do love you so.  you saved my life last night, telling me and dobby stories in the dark, talking tanzania, barney rubble, the galiban, and why, despite your (and my) absolute capacity to do it, some poems simply defied the form of the villanelle.  you also did laundry, and stretches.   
remember:  no matter whether i appear to be asleep or not, i am not, and need you, and that coffee, and need you, and need you, and need you.  and the captain, or dr. jean, or even kitty, achoo, eschew, bring her home. i can do a post-working lunch. 
i can.  i can do anything.  just ask bob marley.
drive carefully, for i do love you so.
just for you, my friends, as i enjoyed a brief pass out, and another hearty wake-up by my colleague-in-music, the mp3 player, with twinkle-eyed marmy and dobby, each aside me, buddy now asleep on the wheelchair, ears swiveling suspiciously.

loudon wainwright the third, this time. "got a ukulele." and that ain't nuthin' if not fred incarnate!

Got a ukulele now I'm not a fraidy
Cat in case I get a bout of blues
In the event I get 'em
There's no way that I'll let 'em
Bring me down no way I'll just refuse (believe me)

'Cause a ukulele's like a little baby
You cradle it in your arms and you sing
A lullaby or ditty
When you're feeling sh*tty
It will cheer you up
It's just the thing

Life should be bright and breezy
Winds could be light and easy
There's nothing hard or heavy 'bout a uke
I don't play bull fiddle
No mystery no riddle
Schleppin' that thing you look like a kook

4 strings made of nylon
Always put a smile on
Anybody's face who's feelin' blue
When your mind starts slummin'
Start a little strummin' on your uke
And you're gonna feel brand new (you gotta believe me)

Even though it's rainin'
Quit all your complainin'
Your roof's not leakin' nothin's gettin' in
This axe is a hatchet there's magic you can catch it
On your uke you can't lose you just win

Life should be bright and breezy
Winds could be light and easy
There's nothin' hard or heavy 'bout a uke
I don't play the tuba tuba's do it to ya
Just the thought of tubas makes me puke

Kind sirs and gentle ladies grab your ukuleles
I suspect by now you know my song
And the next time that I do it
Get down and get into it
I trust you all will sing and strum along (you gotta believe me)

© 2015 L. Ryan

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