the thing with feathers

I had a heck of a time using Blogger last night and hope the issues have been resolved.

Other hopes for today?  That GOOG will shoot up to 700 or so.  That URBN will at least reach that point where I can comfortably bail.  That Marmy Fluffy Butt's left eye ceases to seep, so she can have some relief from her allergies.  That I successfully capture on video the behavior that inspired Dobby the Runt's nickname of "Butt Boy." [And that the video be appropriate for a G-audience.]  That Fred stop racing toward the drawbridge  in his sleep [He keeps hearing knocks and "yoohoo"s in his dreams.  Twice already this morning, he's gone flying by, knees pumping, chest out, yelling, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" My reassurances that there's been nary a knock and not even one "yoohoo," were met with drowsy disbelief.]

Let's see, what else?  I hope that My Hero, Ms. Hannah, gets to go home from the hospital today, after her successful rotationplasty last Friday. Her Mom summed things up yesterday this way, on her CaringBridge site:

I could not hold back my tears of joy as I watched Hannah--my "miracle baby"--do her physical therapy session. She did almost everything on her own. She only had help from physical therapist for balance. Hannah did not flinch or pout or complain or cry. She said it didn't hurt at all and was no big deal. She stood up on her own for a 5-count then sat back down and did that 5 times in a row. Every day I am more amazed by this kid. I'm so proud of her!

I know there are more hopes percolating inside my head and heart.  Dare I give them voice?

I hope that the two-inch nugget glimpsed under the bed (from whence I was retrieving my grabber -- using my cane!) is not what I think it is.  This is the Poo-Free Zone of The Manor.

I hope that federal officials can charge George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin, as well as investigate any malfeasance on the part of the Sanford police.  There are several reports that seem credible of officers attempting to "mold" witness statements into a form friendly to Zimmerman's twisted version of the crime.

I hope that yesterday's despair doesn't taint today's progress.  The return of fever, sweats, and that particular pain of the bone infection really got to me, for some reason.  As if another couple of far-from-routine surgeries, $250,000+ in hospital and LTAC bills, intravenous vanco and Cubicin, oral Bactrim, and the wound vac experience were not enough to make me realize that I'm in the midst of another failed attempt at a cure, it took my inability to pop the top off of a can of Progresso soup to have it all sink in.  [The soup?  Tortilla y pollo, doctored for more heat.]

Other fantasies?  That I could spend this Persian New Year with  my former best friend, the Wild Iranian Lesbian, admiring the beautiful table, the flowering hyacinth, the optimistic gold fish.  My hope, of course, is for her year to be a wonderful trip around the sun.


I dare to hope that the Ellerbecks have a measure of comfort, somehow, today.  


I wish Captain Haddock would just go ahead and surface in the moat, in his jaunty little pink submarine -- the threat of a Domestic Inspection is so much worse than the actual wielding of The White Glove.  [Fred found The Castafiore waxing the steps of Buonarroti's Spiral Staircase again, and spritzing the Old Masters with household cleaner laced with ammonia.]


Given what I can glimpse outside this casement window, newly installed in the upgraded Computer Turret, I hope to "play in the dirt again" sometime very soon, if not this day.  The sky is blue and so is the sea... Drat. Why is I Am a Child playing in my head? I fear it is the impact of thinking about the Trayvon Martin travesty down in Florida.

At least my brain picked the Buffalo Springfield version.



Uploaded by SixtiesOnly on Jan 21, 2011

I hope, as does everyone in vicinity to moi, that I can overcome my fear of falling and take a shower today, the first since the morning of January 23, 2012.  Somewhere in this blog, in another of my awesomely introspective and well-organized posts, I detail how to maintain a pristine state without benefit of getting in the bathtub.  It's not so easy these days, and more than anything, I actually long for the feel of water on my skin.  [In my case, due to CRPS, running water feels an attack of tiny needle sticks -- tolerable, but sometimes just barely tolerable.]  My legs, especially, need a soak.

I hope, too, that I can pull off a shower without that being my pinnacle achievement for the day!

Because I also crave and want and expect and yearn for... a day put to good use.  You know, when you don't just fill the pets' bowls with food, but take careful time to sanitize the bowls first.  Did you know that eating from plastic bowls can cause pimples to sprout around a cat's mouth?  I didn't think so!  Only one of our bowls is plastic, and we use it because Marmy Fluffy Butt (aka I-choose-to-leave-my-poo-beside-the-litter-box-for-your-maximum-pleasure) will not eat out of anything else.  That reminds me.  I absolutely pine, fancy, and crave the services of an animal psychologist.

This day, cast useful, should include other bits of spot-cleaning.  The disgusting coffee apparatus that Fred uses -- and that Bianca's frequent overnighter, Sven Feingold, adores -- hasn't been washed since... well, since I last had a shower!  In between hospitalizations, while I was insane with fever and dehydration, I made several inspired online purchases, the best of which proved to be a new Bodum French press, so I am brewing my coffee separate from Fred, Bianca (and Sven).  I tell you, it was like Christmas (finally!) for a few days, in spite of the definite Lenten attitude exhibited by our UPS driver.  I had no recollection of my purchases but fortunately, some innate good sense prevailed and I only ordered household items according to an apparent "upgrade" theme.  Frilly stuff like a new dish drainer, and magnetized tools (miniature grabbers, really).  Even the more wasteful orders are not so wasteful, after all.  Not if you squint and stare into the direct sun.  For instance, even though we now have enough bonito flakes to make dashi for all of Japan, I have faith that my Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten will eat his way through them by the end of the year.

How did the shelter staff not know that he was a Maine Coon?!

Other expectations, faith, and fancies for today?  That we can figure out the idiosyncrasies of this new wheelchair before hosting the "Wheelchair Tech" tomorrow.  It seems like such a small matter, hardly worth someone making the long journey from Tête de Herge's only Full Service Gimp Supply Store.  Still, it is not a good thing to suddenly lose power in the midst of crossing the street.  There's also the whiplash factor!  Fred, stubbornly sticking to scientific method, has debunked each of my theses about the cause of this behavior, citing "coincidence" as the underpinning for my observations.  I much desire equanimity should we tackle the problem again this afternoon.

I'd positively love to do some cooking and baking, but cannot wield a knife.  That's not true.  I just cannot safely wield a knife or expect that my knife skills won't result in personal tragedy.  Hence, the adventures with soup cans and many microwave meals.  Fred is a great cook but he's kind of in recovery right now, himself, you know.  Bianca?  Puh-leeze!  Sven can concoct some amazing comfort food dishes but I can feel my blood vessels begin to clog after the first few bites.  And it turns out that asking for help from the genetically indentured Domestic Staff can result in charges of Abuse of Power.  Who knew?  Damn those corporate flow charts.

Well, if I don't end this, and then finish revising the post that Blogger was blocking last night, I'll never get to my extensive Wish List.  Hmm, how to close, how to close?

As if you weren't expecting it!

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

-- Emily Dickinson

on loaded guns and father's day

Father's Day, for me, is a shameful day. Understand, please, that the shame is mine, not his.

Honor thy father and thy mother is the fifth commandment in the Christian Top Ten, and the first commandment to add a Carrot to the Stick.

Honor your father and your mother,

that your days may be long

in the land which the Lord your God gives you

--Exodus 20:12 (RSV)

One of my favorite off-the-cuff and exceedingly clever remarks to make? "Ewww, that is sooooo Old Testament!"

It's so wonderfully scathing a thing to say in response to some wannabe's harsh judgment or other. Sniff.

After dropping promptly out of college during my second semester, I toyed with this course and that course, using up precious elective credits while working as a nurse's aide in what was euphemistically called a "neurological post-intensive care unit." (Think carrots, peas, corn, eggplant.)

I lived with Baber, a drop-dead gorgeous woman who suffered various addictions -- to cocaine, marijuana, tequila, moonshine, cigarettes, and sex. She was lots of fun, for a while, until her Probation Officer began dropping by too often, and for the wrong reasons. If you get my blaring drift.

Somewhere toward the end of our year together, The Baber lost her job as a Respiratory Therapist, became a short-skirted waitress, began to deal coke out of our apartment (she had, believe it or not, a hollow-ended pool cue that sometimes came into play), and received her second Driving Under the Influence citation. Actually, I think these things are listed in the wrong order. Whatever. It all seemed to happen at the same time, belying cause-and-effect neatness.

Part of Baber's DUI sentence included the temporary suspension of her driver's license. She insisted I go to court with her that long ago early morning, getting us there right on time in her jaunty Toyota stick shift, expertly maneuvering into a choice parking spot three-quarters up a tree-lined, steep, and narrow street.

I learned to drive in a vintage pristine 1965 baby blue Cadillac, which resembled nothing so much as a boat, after which I was gifted with a white 1963 Ford Falcon, my first automotive love. That was the extent of my experience as a driver. (Please note that as I got older, so did my cars.)

So it was no surprise, to me, at least, that I almost got us killed on the way home. We lived in a mountain town, a *hilly* mountain town, to boot, which helped not at all as I struggled to hold my place in line at stop signs and to respond to Baber's barked, angst-driven instructions.

After that, my roomie called on her many other friends to get her from points A to B to wherever.

I remember a strong feeling of disconnect during those final weeks of living with Baber. I was working Night Shift at the hospital so as to free up my days and evenings for two classes: The Bible as Literature and The History of Western Civilization, Part One.

People like to play the game of "where were you when...?" -- I guess because it creates a reassuring collective -- something we had more of when we were less evolved. Where were you when John Kennedy was shot, and Robert? Where were you when you heard that Reverend King had been assassinated, that four were dead in Ohio? Where were you when they tore down the Berlin Wall, when Nixon resigned? When Lennon fell, and George died, and Pinochet got off scot-free? Where were you when the Challenger blew up, when the Twin Towers came down? When Michael Jackson overdosed, when Obama won the election, when the market crashed?

Where was I when I first encountered Plato's man in a cave, chained both fore and aft to his fellows, facing a blank wall, that blank tablet on which was cast the shadows of things?

Sigh. Everyone fancies themselves a semiotician.

Reference the shadow.
Reference the thing, itself.
Reference the thing that cast the shadow.

Where was I in that famously pivotal moment when I was washed in the Allegory of the Cave? Turns out, it was one experience that took place at two different times. Once at its first reading, in that mountain city, in the campus library, where I sat peering out a huge plateglass window at the golden light, setting. The bookend of the experience came 6 or 7 years later. I was walking down Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley, and came upon a beautiful blue shoe, a woman's pump, silk. One left shoe and I was awash in the arbitrary nature of the sign, and in what Plato makes Socrates call "truth"!

What a rush.

Okay, let's get it out of our collective system. This was years ago, before hegemony and eurocentric became part of my stilted academic vocabulary, definitely prior to the time when I began to question the validity of The Canon, and a few universities away from reading Gramsci (as a requirement).

I was as if lost at Baber's place, never feeling it even half mine, despite paying half the rent. Work was rarely fulfilling, and if the Allegory of the Cave could rock my world, imagine my stupefaction when faced with the poet Isaiah, with Socrates drinking hemlock because his principal and the Superintendent of the School District deemed his teaching impious and too snarky for impressionable students. [In case you are wondering, I've topped out today at 101.3.]

Time with her was not a waste. I made some good and lasting friends, earned some easy college credits, and saved my money. I met a man and fell in love. I met lots of men, in fact, mostly musicians from Baber's work. I generally found them in the kitchen, searching desperately for coffee, happy to let me brew a strong pot while they played guitar in the living room. Baber was never an early riser.

But as someone famously said, about something else entirely: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold..."

Baber had a gun that somehow made its way under my pillow, and the man I loved was called home. I felt a failure at 19, and spent 50-60 hours a week talking to people who literally oozed, telling their parents, their pregnant wives and lost-without-her husbands that "you never know..." I was sleeping with the husband of a bisexual friend -- actually both Baber and I were -- in exchange for unlimited organic carrot juices at his downtown health food store -- also for pot and blueberry shine.

One day, the precariousness of everything became too much. It had been well over a year since I had called... home. As if it were a habit, I picked up the phone and dialed numbers like an automaton.

The rift between me and my father is bottomless and so wide I cannot see the other side.

"Please come get me," I whispered.

"I'll be there tomorrow afternoon," Dad said. "Be ready to go..."

I may have 3 semester hours that were awarded for the apt completion of The Bible as Literature, but I had forgotten, let's say, that though Deuteronomy and Exodus are credited with the Ten Commandments, they cannot hold a candle to the grave legislation of Leviticus, written around the time of the Babylonian exile, and not, as some hold, by Moses -- but by that amorphous group designated P, for Priestly Sources.

"You shall rise before the gray headed and honor the presence of an old man, and fear your God: I am the LORD" (Leviticus 19:32).

Reverence, fear, curse, honor, obey, mock, scorn, contempt -- Biblical parent language is loaded language.

As I write this, it has been 20 years since I have spoken with or seen my father. I think of him everyday, which does neither him nor me any good, but it is, in all honesty, the very best I can do. I know you think otherwise. Sometimes, usually early in the morning, in the kitchens not making coffee for musicians, the man I loved long dead, and Baber's rabid enthusiasm finally understood as the manic portion of bipolar disease... I also think that I could do better.

There are no guns in The Manor, nor under my pillow -- and there never will be. That's the last full measure of my devotion.




My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--

--Emily Dickinson