The Bike with Flowers on the Seat

It was a banana seat bike that belonged to my sister in the 70's, and I loved it.  It was blue with big U-shaped handlebars that curved up to meet you sitting high on the flower-patterned seat.  That seat was wide, padded, and curved down at the edges to provide comfort and a feeling of stability.  I had my own bike that was more easily identified as a boy's bike but in almost all ways I preferred the bike with flowers on its seat.  It was lighter and fit my skinny frame like something custom designed.  I could pop wheelies effortlessly and fly over ramps with good air, landing expertly on the back wheel and then smoothly dropping the front tire to the ground like a fighter pilot, usually.  On the back of the seat was a looped bar that passengers could grasp behind their back when getting a ride.  This was the bike I kept close to home, not venturing out more than a block or two.

My sister had gotten a new green bike with a beige sparkly banana seat and three speed shifter with large knob on the end that protruded upward from the main bar connecting the seat to the handlebars.  It was flashy but clunky, not like the beat up flower bike that handled like a sleek Arabian stallion.  The reason I did not ride this bike far and wide as I did my other bike had to do with an incident that happened the summer between first and second grade.  I was riding that bike several blocks from home and I saw a boy who was in my class, Chris Mumaw.  He was short, a little on the chubby side, and had an infectious laugh.  When we started second grade the teacher had us all share what we did for the summer.  When it was Chris's turn he broke out into a huge grin as he reported seeing me riding on a bike with flowers on the seat.

The risks of being seen riding such a bike eventually became too great and riding it stopped altogether when I got a dirt bike for Christmas that was beyond my wildest dreams.  This bike was all black, had large shiny chrome shocks in the back and smaller shocks on the front fork with a thin rubber covering to keep dirt and mud out of them.  The seat had a motorcycle styling to it and hand grips to match.  I was well aware that no one else in our town of 2000 souls owned such a thing.  For years it was my prized possession, but in the back of my mind I knew it was too heavy, that it was almost impossible to pop a wheelie on it, that you had to slouch forward to grasp the handlebars and pump too hard to really get it going.  I imagine my younger sister who came along six years after me eventually acquired the bike with flowers on the seat.  Only now, in my forties, do I truly appreciate it for what it was and can pay due homage.



***

Aaroneous Monk - opening scene

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
                                                                    -Genesis 1:2





He had seen it hundreds of times before, yet it fascinated him anew each and every time.

It was a burbling sea of pure white and from above it looked like a bowl of milk tremoring on a cherry table top.  Wisps of the soupy fog flicked skyward and dissolved in the warmer air above, the rising sun reflecting brilliantly off of the milky surface forcing it down layer by layer in the climbing heat.

A spire poked through the surface and grew steeple-like as the fog fell.  Next to appear, the stubble of treetops dotting the whiteness and outlining a large circular area within which the spire continued to grow and take the shape of a simple rocket with a port window, widening out in the middle then thinning at the bottom where wide fins flared outward and held the ship aloft.

The forest continued to fill out and spread in all directions as other structures began to appear within the treeless circle: a cluster of evenly spaced boulders, a bulbous headed alien with large eyes and small mouth, a silver saucer with spindly legs, and, at the dead center, a red dome that appeared to be a sphere half planted in the ground.  The last bit of fog flowed around these structures licking at their bases before dissipating to reveal the artificially greened fairways of a putt putt golf course.

***

Nothing stirred within the circle.  Thin red-bricked paths formed concentric circles around the painted dome to give the appearance of Saturn-like rings.  The circular paths interconnected the putting greens to funnel the flow from the outer entrance to the final green near the center.

A creaking sound disturbed the silence as the smooth surface of the dome was interrupted by the opening of a hidden door.  Out stepped a peculiar fellow who had to stoop slightly to get through the doorway.  He was tall and lanky with a red beard speckled gray, his hair in a pony tail poking out from under a faded black brimless cap.  A matching cassock flapped around his legs as he limped briskly to the head of the inner most green, using a putter as a cane.

A small painted sign marked this green as "The Shooting Star" and in smaller print reminded putters that this was the last hole.  He reached into his cassock and pulled out a golden ball which he placed on the designated spot.  It sparkled in the sun and absorbed his attention.  White lines on the green ran from the ball to a starburst pattern that surrounded the hole.  He used these to line up his shot, glancing repeatedly at the hole and then back to the ball.  He took a few practices swings, then scratched at his beard and adjusted his cassock.

He had made this shot innumerable times as a morning ritual, the swing more of a reflex than a thought-through thing.  As the putter moved downward to the ball a high hooting call escaped from the forest and disconnected the reflex.  He hit the ball in a slightly different spot than he'd intended and watched it roll down the long green.  The flow of his routine had been interrupted and his thoughts seemed to become more disorganized as the ball approached the hole slightly off-center.

He felt tears begin to burn in his eyes along with a rising sense of panic in his chest.  The golden ball blurred as it continued towards the hole, unaware of its role in the ritual.  It rolled right up to the rim of the bottomless cup and stopped, balanced between the sun and the black hole.  His mind touched the abyss inside himself and tottered.  A violent shudder seized him as a cold wind swept in out of the forest and up through his cassock.  It was enough to give the ball a gentle push, sending it down into the darkness.

***

Visibly shaken, he rubbed his eyes and smoothed out his beard, then made the sign of the cross over himself three times.  He rotated his putter and firmly grasped its head, making  his way over to the innermost bricked path.  A black knotted prayer rope appeared in his free hand as he followed the circular path and whispered softly to the still morning air, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."  It was repeated carefully with each slip to the next knot, finding a rhythm with his steps, the tap of the putter-cane, and his breathing.  These words calmed him as he circled his domed home.  His eyes remained focussed on the path as he resisted the urge to look up, wrapping himself in the protection of his prayer.

The Paddle Boards

My son and I are
finding our legs
on paddle boards
in the choppy waters
of Lake Michigan.

We start on our knees,
too wobbly to stand,
and oar our way
farther and farther
from the sandy shore.

Initial attempts to stand
meet with comical
falls into the cold water,
coming up with a gasp
and barking laughter.

After half an hour or so
we are standing more
confidently in defiance
of the rise and fall of waves,
a test of our newfound balance.

Several minutes go by
without incident or accident,
feeling like we are kings
from shore to horizon, until
an unexpected shift

humbles us once more.


***

Limitations

Limitations, always limitations.  They can break your back.  With limited time and resources to pursue all the possible things I enjoy or feel are worthwhile to pursue, so many things in my life just end up being shut down.  And along with this there is the fear that I will reach my limits too quickly and may need to mete out certain aspects of myself in miserly ways.

Part of it has been my lack of focussed discipline and a tendency to daydream.  Medical School was a major challenge to these personal attributes and, as a byproduct, I believe it also shut down some of the most vital parts of who I am; parts that have taken me years to recover.  I was not that person who had massive cognitive reserves and the intensity to handle the avalanche of material to learn and have time left over to pursue other interests.  My one trick to continue reading non-medical books was to use my time in the bathroom as a kind of time bubble.  I read The Brothers Karamazov in its entirety from a porcelain chair in this way.  It was my soul crying out for sustenance.

My interest in sports also took a major hit.  I was not playing basketball.  I was not running as I had in High School Cross Country.  Medical School was all consuming and it consumed me body and soul.  The long slog left me a bit lost and bewildered when my time as a student and student-doctor came to an end.  Unaccounted for time suddenly became available but then went away again with a second child.  It wasn't until Elias got old enough to become seriously interested in sports that I rediscovered my love for basketball.  I even had the opportunity to coach his third grade basketball team which is something I'll always treasure.

And above all of this has been my desire to write since sixth grade Composition when I first had the opportunity to create an actual story or two.  These were stories that I also illustrated and received a good deal of praise for from the teacher.  I was eleven, which is my son's age now, and it wasn't until about three years ago at the age of 43 that I started writing with any kind of regularity.  This was sparked by an idea for a novel and the realization that it was now or never.  I still hardly read books, but I can thank the internet for that.

This idea in my head of limitations, both outwardly and inwardly imposed, also extended to love, or the ability to give of one's self.  I still limit myself in a multitude of ways due to obligations at home and at work, but something about love has been creeping into my awareness.  It has manifested in a joy of interacting with others and appreciating their uniqueness and essential place in the grand scheme of things.   It seems that the more I pour it out, the deeper the bottom of the cup grows.  And for the first time in my life I am learning not to fear limitations because in what is most essential, limitations do not exist.

***

The Therapist's Timepiece

He saw her outline through an open fogged-over glass door in the frozen foods section of the grocery store.  Like a restless ghost she rummaged through pizzas and hot pockets mumbling to herself while her two small children stood guard at the cart.  Hidden within layers of winter clothes they waited for their mother to finish adding to the pile of processed foods as quiet counterpoints to her frenetic energy.

The little girl grasped the lip of the cart to steady it while the smaller boy stuck his finger through the metal lattice to touch the cold boxes and scrape off some frost with his fingernail.  The door to the freezer slammed shut causing the boy to jump and pull his finger back quickly.

Locks of bleached blonde hair dangled from under a hand-knit cap framing a face that had once been quite beautiful before time and the cares of the world had taken their toll.  He could read in her careworn features that she was alone and that the father of her children had decided he wasn't ready to grow up and assume the responsibilities he'd created. 

He looked down at an ornate pocket watch that he had produced from his vest pocket and watched the second hand tick along its circular path.  The hour hand stood at three and the minute hand was just a sliver shy of twelve.  When the thread-thin piece of metal aligned with the minute hand he pulled the crown.  A popping sensation jarred the scene like an earthquake lasting only a millisecond and the little girl froze mid-sneeze.  

The outline of his form untethered from his corporal self which remained perfectly still in the aisle. 

He stepped forward, his ethereal self now separated from his motionless and more cumbersome twin, and made his way over to the three.  The little girl's eyes were tightly shut and tiny droplets suspended in space formed a funnel from her pursed lips.  The boy was flinching as if expecting a blow.  The mother's eyes were focussed far away from where they stood.

It was the mother he'd come to see.  The point of interest for him was the contours of her forehead.  A V-shape was seemingly chiseled there in her brow.  It had deepened over time and become an intrinsic feature of her face.  He took it in from different angles, judging its depth and intensity.  Its point was sharp and pricked him hard when he touched it with his finger.  It would not come out easily.

He brought the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together placing the point on her forehead, then belly, right shoulder, then left shoulder to loosen it.  Pincher-like his fingers snatched hold of the V-thing and pulled out and away from her head.  It pierced his fingers with a terrible ferocity but he continued to pull slow and steady.  This measured application of force allowed the tendrils deeply anchored within her to unwind without breaking off to regrow anew.  A lifetime of disappointments and poor choices came flowing out of her in damp and dripping threads.  The slowness of the process protracted his pain, filling him with a cold and desolate fire.

Time passed without time passing, an eternal nowness that had him feeling a little disoriented.  When he felt he could take no more, it pulled free and her features visibly relaxed.  It was astounding how much younger she looked and he quickly forgot the pain that had just been threatening to overwhelm him.  The troublesome creature pricked at him and fought to free itself, but he held firm.

A few aisles over he found a large jug of bleach that he opened and forced the prickly thing into it, sealing it up with a turn of the cap.  He shook the jug until there was no further movement coming from it, placed it back on the shelf, and returned to where his body stood.  The split selves reunited and he found himself once more looking down at his pocket watch frozen at three.  With a push of the crown, time resumed once again without a hitch.

The mother's focus retracted and fell to her daughter who was just finishing her sneeze.  She knelt down and cleared a strand of hair from the small face.  "Are you OK, sweetie?"  The girl, unaccustomed to such attention, simply nodded her head "yes."  The mother then turned her face to her son, "How are you, little man?"  His lower lip began to quiver as his emotions found release in her sudden kindness.  She pulled him into a hug as the therapist shut the cover of his watch, tucked it back into his pocket, and left the store.  

***

shadows & sighs

Shooting hoops with my son as
the sun sets on our cul-de-sac

suddenly realizing that even
before I can pivot and shoot

not even his shadow will remain
and I will be left alone in the street

with the basketball on my hip
wondering where the time has

gone.


***

The Last Goodbye

It truly was a miracle, because love is a miracle.  I have no other way of explaining or understanding it.  Kevin had been struggling with bone cancer for eight years, a growing mass that had infiltrated his nasal cavities and persisted despite the repeated removal of bones in his head.  It was a process that eventually claimed his one eye that had been salvaged from the retinoblastoma he'd been born with, leaving him in total darkness for the first time in his forty some odd years.

***

I was there at the beginning when he was visiting Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.  The medical school where I was a student was just a few blocks away.  We rendezvoused at an appointment he had with his surgeon, Dr. Haymaker, and Kevin was his typical animated self, talking a mile a minute as if he understood the number of words he could share with the world were limited and he wanted to get them all out.  The smell coming from his mouth was like a dead animal and overpowering.  I had to force myself to not step away from him.  The tumor was growing so fast that parts of it had died and Kevin had no sense of smell due to its location and infiltration. 

When Dr. Haymaker came out Kevin introduced me and told him I was a medical student.  The good doctor took me back into the work area, leaving Kevin in the waiting room.  He put up a transverse plane view of Kevin's head on the light board and showed me the gray mass filling his nasal cavities.  It was like a chubby rat had taken up residence in his attic space with its tail dangling down in the rear, just above his throat.  I knew from my textbooks that this was a relatively common occurrence in those born with retinoblastoma, ie, the development of a sarcoma (bone cancer) at the site of radiation received as a child.

***

And so began the long slog for Kevin with the slow attrition of losing bones in his head and culminating in the loss of his one eye over an eight year period.  He likened it to John the Baptist losing his head, but one piece at a time instead of all at once.  

After medical school I left for Washington DC to do a four year psychiatry residency and only made occasional contact with Kevin to include seeing him when we returned to Indy to baptize my son.  My training consumed my time and attention as did this first child.  We then moved to Tennessee where I was to serve out my three year commitment to the Army.  When we arrived my unit was already in Iraq and I joined them soon thereafter.

As often happens in life, time and the cares of the world separate us from those we've known and loved, the heyday of our adventures receding steadily into the past.  I heard from a mutual friend that he had moved out to Colorado to attend a training school for the blind after the loss of his eye.  At some point, after moving to Tennessee, I'd received a call from him and he'd left a message, though it was hard to understand his words.  He was missing so many bones in his head that he had to wear a plate in his mouth to form a space from which to speak.  I called him back a few times and left messages, but I did not hear back from him.

***

More time passed and in 2008, two years into my three year commitment to the Army, I began to wonder again what he was up to and how he was doing.  It was the second week of April and I was on Facebook, which was still relatively new to me, and I saw one of those "friends of a friend" postings.  The young man pictured was listed as a student at Indiana Wesleyan University which is my alma mater.  Not only that, he was listed as being "Eastern Orthodox" which seriously piqued my curiosity.  I was brought into the Orthodox Church in 1996 and my experience was that people who had attended IWU and were Orthodox were as rare as turtle teeth.  I immediately messaged this mysterious fellow traveler named "Brian" and asked him to friend me on FB.  Due to the miracle of technology I was able to track down that initial contact on my phone:

________

Brian: 

Hi Aaron.

Kevin wanted me to get in touch with you.

He didn't know if you were aware of everything that has been going on.

Please feel free to give me a call at 574-***-****, or write me back on facebook.

Hope Lent is going well for you.

Aaron:

Thanks Brian.  I e-mailed Fr. Phillip from St. Thomas a few months ago to try and get an update on Kevin, but he didn't have much info other than Kevin was in Colorado.  I've called Kevin's cell phone off and on w/o a reply and left a few messages.  I'd appreciate any info you might have.  Take care.

Brian:

Well, Aaron, there is a lot I need to fill you in, since a lot has happened in the time since you were last in touch with him.  I think it would be better for you to give me a call (anytime really), or give me your number and I'll call you.

Talk to you soon.

[a phone call occurs at this point and Brian updates me]

Aaron:

Hey Brian, it was good to talk with ya.  I talked with Kevin's Dad and found out Kevin is still at Methodist.  I plan on driving to Indy early Saturday morning, attending Liturgy at Ss. Constantine and Elena, visiting with Kevin a bit (Bob recommended not more than 30 minutes with him due to him having so little energy), and then returning Saturday evening.  Take care.

________

It turns out that Brian was Kevin's godson in the Orthodox Faith.  What he had to fill me in on was that Kevin was doing very poorly.  This happened a week prior to Lazarus Saturday which leads into Holy Week and I quickly made plans to drive up to Indianapolis that next Saturday by myself to spend some time with him at Methodist Hospital.  I contacted another mutual friend who lives in Indianapolis who did not think the situation was particularly dire. 

 I spent that last week of Lent with Kevin heavy on my heart, trying to unite myself with him in prayer, not knowing exactly what was going on in that hospital room in Indianapolis.  A key element of our relationship is that he is my godson and I stood with him in the ceremony to bring him into the Orthodox Church as he had stood with Brian in the more recent past.  I was (and am) bound by love and tradition to support him in whatever ways I can in the Faith. 

***

In the wee hours of Lazarus Saturday I set off on the long drive up to Indianapolis, my mind kind of replaying our "greatest hits" going back to 1990 when I'd first met him at IWU.  As mentioned in my text to Brian, I attended the Saturday morning liturgy at Saints Constantine & Elena and then headed over to Methodist Hospital.  As soon as I saw Kevin I knew he was not long for this world.  He was emaciated and sitting up cross-legged in a hospital bed with a gown on.  Despite him being immunocompromised there were no restrictions of any kind in place and I quickly realized from my experience in hospitals that this was a hospice-like situation where comfort care was paramount.  We hugged and I told him that I'd gotten his message and called back to leave messages but did not hear back.  He was visibly frustrated and said that "next time" I needed to say what my number is in the message.  He repeated that plea at least two or three more times in the few hours we had together as a kind of refrain.  It was like he felt that communication between us had broken down when he'd needed it most.

Within minutes of my arrival, Brian walked into the room.  He'd decided to drive down from Northern Indiana to spend some time with Kevin and it was our first and only meeting.  He came bearing an icon of St. Kevin of Glendalough that he'd painted so Kevin could have the tangible presence of his patron saint with him.  It was a surreal few hours and I frequently fell into trying to make humorous comments that did not wholly feel like they fit the situation.  I really didn't know exactly what to do or say with my friend and godson hanging so precariously close to the edge of life and death.  When I finally said I had to leave and drive back to Tennessee, he requested we say the Lord's Prayer together.  I felt like I should stay longer, but it was not possible and those precious few hours seemed so inadequate to sum up our life together.

I walked down the hospital hallway talking with his mom a bit and then gave her a hug and got into the elevator.  As it descended, my heart and my body dropped with it.  He died three days later on the morning of Great and Holy Tuesday after jumping up out of bed and excitedly trying to tell his mom something before collapsing to the floor.  His funeral was a week later on Bright Tuesday to shouts of "Christ is Risen!"

***

So, it was a miracle, right?  The fact that Kevin was reaching out to find me in whatever way he could as his body was shutting down.  That he'd put his godson in charge of the search, a person I'd never met or even knew existed.  That I, in fact, found his godson instead, on a fluke, with no time to spare, allowing me the briefest of opportunities to see Kevin just a few days before he passes from this life.  Love made it possible and love is a miracle, right?  Of that I have absolutely no doubt.

Fairies that Rock

I did not have to work this year on the 4th of July which provided for some nice unstructured time with Anya and we took advantage of it.  The morning included some vigorous dancing in the sunken living room and in the afternoon she headed out into the backyard.  I resorted to reading a book after lunch, but would peek out the windows from time to time to see what she was up to or sit out under the gazebo on an adirondack chair.

She gathered lettuce leaves from our garden for her giraffe "Gigi" and swung from the old mulberry tree swing by pushing off with her feet.  When I got to the end of a chapter, I joined her under the tree where she was gathering flowers she'd plucked from the trumpet vine and other flowering plants in the backyard.

She pointed up to a part of the mulberry tree where a large section had broken free in the past and been removed, leaving a scarred and empty space.  "Hey Daddy, that looks like where the fairies rock out."  This is the fairy tree with a small door in its base to prove it.  I looked up to the familiar scar and saw her point.  the indentation left was like the curved roof of an outdoor amphitheater and the base of it was flat where someone had used a chain saw to free the large broken branch.

I got the idea that we should further develop the stage for the fairies to "rock out" on and sent Anya to gather small sticks.  After a few collapses of the miniature structure we succeeded in creating a stage partition and decorated it with flowers.  When we were finished she excitedly pointed out that the leaves growing from its base were the seats that the fairies sat on to watch the performances.  

These are the types of projects that I used to enjoy doing with Elias when he was younger.  Now that he has turned into a surly pre-teen, Anya has stepped up as my new creative partner.

***

Run!

Elias had a strange energy at bedtime last night, uncharacteristically so.  He did not lie down as he usually does, but stood at the foot of the bed looking at me with a peculiar smile.  "Hey Dad, if you were in a store and someone pulled a gun on someone, what would you do?"

The look in his eyes threw me off a bit.  It was intense but playful at the same time.  He seemed to be really interested in how I would answer this question.  "Well, I would just let him have the money out of the cash register so he would leave."

"But what if he put the gun to that person's head?"

"I would ask what he wants and see if I could get that for him."

"So, what if he shot that person?"  I could tell he was waiting for my answer with baited breath.  I told him I would probably rush the shooter to try and keep him from hurting anyone else.  Apparently this was what he was waiting for.  He threw his hands up in the air and then clamped them down on his head, "No!  No!  You would run away, OK?  You would run away!"  Then he jumped onto the bed and hugged me.

The big reveal was that he'd had a dream where I ran at the person with the gun and ended up getting shot and killed.  "So if that ever happens, Dad, run away, OK?"


***

DOD

The Department of Dance:  a satirical look at war

Enemies dug in on opposing sides of a valley.  They are at an isolated location that is far from the front, a geographical anomaly in a global war.  Rumors on one side have it that the other side has some brilliant new weapon that will soon be deployed and could be a game changer.  Noises were heard the night before off in the distance that sounded like muffled explosions.  The morning comes and strange equipment has appeared amongst the trees that has them spooked.  In a moment of extreme psychological tension, the strangest thing happens.

It turns out that the equipment are speakers and they start pumping music into the valley.  The opposing side is bewildered and put on edge, but slowly they find themselves starting to thump their feet to the beat and fingers begin tapping out rhythms on the butts of their weapons despite screamed orders from their NCO's to stop immediately.

Eventually unarmed soldiers appear moving forward in straight lines from the opposing treeline, then move side to side as they come onto the field.  They spin, clap, shuffle and slide in a kind of line dance pattern that repeats and is reinforced by the music.  No one knows what to do b/c the soldiers in the field are unarmed.

Some tone deaf gung-ho soldier fires off a shot, but does not hit anything b/c of the movements and his inability to discern the pattern.  The soldier next to him whacks him on the back of his helmet with a canteen and shouts "cut it out!"  Meanwhile the NCO's are running up and down the lines screaming to open fire, but are drowned out by the music.

BOOM shucka ping shucka BOOM BOOM ping
pa-pa-pa-pa
BOOM shucka ping shucka BOOM BOOM ping

Private Shmucatelli is the first to break lines and heads out into the field with a silly grin on his face, tripping and falling, but then pulling himself aright and moving forward out of the protection of the woods.  He has picked up on the pattern and is mirroring it on his side of the field.  Soldiers up and down the line look at each other with bemused WTF? expressions, shrug their shoulders, and begin to scamper out of their fox holes to join in the dance.

At some point the commanding officer, who has lost control of the situation, grabs a rifle and fires it into the field inadvertently striking Private Shmucatelli and knocking him to the ground.  The spell is broken and everyone breaks for their own lines.  Private Shmucatelli lies face up in the grass and wonders at the clouds framed by blue skies overhead.  He hears his heart beating in his ears as he bleeds out, BOOM BOOM ping... and descends into the deeper music.

The next day the hills are abandoned and the only sound is the song of a bewildered bird, “Poo-tee-weet?”

***

A Hole in Our Neighborhood

There is a hole in
our neighborhood
where a tree used to be.

It anchored the corner
and was the first tree
my son ever climbed.

A new family with two kids
replaced a family with three
who were much loved.

We didn't hold that against
them, but the unthinkable
toppling of that tree can

never be forgiven, ever.


***

On the Shore of the Sea

Standing on the shore of the sea
while seagulls feed from my fingers,
watching the waves lapping, lazy-like.

The smells on the breeze are heady
like the thoughts in my young mind,
so much time left to enjoy this life.

The water rolls back pulling at my ankles,
the sand being sucked off of the beach
uncovering colorful shells, toes...bones.

The sands of time recede like my hair,
like my gums, my skin looking more
blotched and mottled by the day.

Searching for shells, patterned, pretty,
something to fill the pockets of my soul
to leave an echo of love to my children.


***

Conceal & Carry

Conceal & carry a humble spirit over your heart
keeping the safety off and a round chambered
so that jostling causes it to go off unexpectedly.
May it wound the foot of your self-centeredness.
May it rip through the ego and leave it to bleed out.
Carry it everywhere and let no disturbance or
perceived insult pry it from your passionless hand.

***

A Little 80's Magic

Last night I met up with an old friend I hadn't seen since my High School days.  She brought along two of her three sons and we grabbed some dinner at Baja Fresh in midtown Atlanta.  Afterwards we wandered around reminiscing about our teenage days in the 80's.  Then, as a kind of soundtrack to our conversation, I heard "Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News wafting from somewhere nearby.  This brought up the movie "Back to the Future" which was the defining movie of that time period and the origin of this song.  

I loved the music of Huey Lewis in my early High School years and I had their "Sports" album on cassette as well as the Back to the Future soundtrack on vinyl.  I did a report on his song "Bad is Bad" in my freshman English class and made some quip about Huey Lewis being over 40, but still able to rock out.  The teacher was an uptight mid-lifer and she took offense at my attempt at humor.  She also could not seem to grasp the concept of using the slang term "Bad" as a positive descriptor and then turning it on its head again as was done in the song.  In retrospect, she may very well have been feigning ignorance and being intentionally obtuse.  Truth be told, I don't think she liked me very much or my style.

After saying goodbye to my friend and her sons I went back to my hotel room and subsequently learned that the music festival going on near where we were walking had actually featured Huey Lewis and the News that very night.  It had sounded much too tight to be live and so I had not put two and two together.  What are the odds that the quintessential song of our High School days would be playing live nearby as we walked and talked?  A cool coincidence to be sure.

Vonnegut's House

Not too long ago a story popped up on my Facebook newsfeed which noted that Kurt Vonnegut's boyhood home in Indianapolis was up for sale.  It struck me as odd that the city had not purchased it and made it into a national monument of some sort or a tourable pilgrimage site for us Hoosier ex-pats.

I then began fantasizing about buying it and sharing the space previously occupied by this man I hold in such high regard.  Maybe I would brush past his ghostly form on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, tendrils of smoke lifting from his transparent cigarette.  Possession would not be an altogether unpleasant experience if my writing improved, though the nicotine cravings would likely be insufferable.

So the logistics of such a thing... I don't make enough money to purchase such a house.  This is something that could probably be remedied by a boost in ambition and time spent working.  It would also likely include my wife working as well.  But then I read this today from his collection of essays "Wampeters, Foma, & Grandfalloons (OPINIONS)" while sitting in the Columbus airport:

There is an almost intolerable sentimentality beneath everything I write.  British critics complain about it.  And Robert Scholes, the American critic, once said I put bitter coatings on sugar pills.
It's too late to change now.  At least I am aware of my origins---in a big, brick dreamhouse designed by my architect father, where nobody was home for long periods of time, except for me and Ida Young.

Just prior to that he writes about this black woman, Ida Young, who was the cook for his family and whom he spent most of his growing up years with.  He describes her thus:

Her name was Ida Young, and I probably spent more time with her than I spent with anybody---until I got married, of course.  She knew the Bible by heart, and she found plenty of comfort and wisdom in there.  She knew a lot of American history too---things she and other black people had seen and marveled at, and remembered and still talked about, in Indiana and Illinois and Ohio---and Kentucky and Tennessee.  She would read to me, too, from an anthology of sentimental poetry about love which would not die, about faithful dogs and humble cottages where happiness was, about people growing old, about visits to cemeteries, about babies who died.  I remember the name of the book, and I wish I had a copy, since it has so much to do with what I am.

My fantasy was dismantled by this telling excerpt describing his life in a practically parentless house.  I am incredibly lucky, dare I say 'blessed', that I can be home every day by dinner time and find my family there---my wife, son, daughter, dog, and fish.  Not to mention the squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and a nesting robin that live in our backyard.  As far as fantasies go, this is pretty darn fantastic.  And as a kind of consolation prize, we live in the house where central-Ohio-celebrity Flippo the Clown lived for forty years and built our lovely gazebo which he called his "gazooby."  God bless you, Flippo the Clown.  And God bless you, Kurt Vonnegut.

To Heed or Ignore

I have to steal time to write, to think, to feel.
If I am not careful I begin to feel like a
disembodied eye floating in the head of an automaton,
a hermetically sealed lumbering tower of selfishness.

Writing is a way to ground myself in the reality
of my connectedness to the world around me,
to sense the overlapping rings of water from
raindrops hitting a river that winds through my days.

It is harder to bullshit my way through the day
when I have to organize my thoughts, sharpen my vision,
and lay a line of words like bricks and mortar.
What am I building? A bridge? A dam? (a wall?)

The scarcity of time forces me to focus on what is most
essential for me to live and for others to be able to live with me.
The pen is a sword cleaving inner demons and freeing the heart
from constricting scars and cobwebs, but it is up to me

to heed or ignore.


***

Baseball Fragments

If nothing else,

the beautiful backdrops

and big skies 

of baseball diamonds

have filled my

heart with good things.

This is Elias's third year of playing baseball and it is a sport that he has grown to love. Unlike basketball, he did not initially derive a lot of pleasure from playing this game but it has grown on him and, to be honest, it has grown on me as well. I went from a kind of begrudging involvement to really enjoying the lazy passage of innings, the smack of a ball in a mitt, the pinging noise of a successful bat swing. The thing that hit me today is that every baseball diamond we play at has its own unique personality, but they all share the same big sky with a wide variety of weather patterns that unfold overhead as clouds pass and the sun arcs to the horizon. They are memories that I will treasure even when our mitts are gathering dust in some future attic.

***

thirst for love

A wall of wit
holds back a
sea of sadness

(directing, misdirecting)

wallowing in mud
from the seep
of derelictions

(giving, withholding)

just one man
with a terrible
thirst for love


***

The Paschal Matins

As midnight approaches the entire church goes dark.  All sources of light are extinguished and the people stand in complete blackness.  It is a moment of pregnant silence surrounded by those you can feel but not see.  Then, somewhere in the altar, a single light appears and moves ghost-like to the royal doors.  They open and the priest appears with his lit candle chanting "Come receive the Light from the Unwaining Light and glorify Christ who is risen from the dead."  He is soon surrounded by eager hands holding unlit candles that catch his fire and the flame quickly spreads from the front of the church to the back, person to person.  It is a beautiful part of the Paschal service and a powerful metaphor for the mystery of the Resurrection.


***

Christos Anesti!

Tonight I will be attending the Orthodox service of Pascha which is known as "Easter" in the Western church.  It is a service that starts at 11:30pm and finishes around 2:30am after which there is a huge feast full of joy in celebration of the miracle of the Resurrection (or maybe the miracle is that God died in the first place!).  It's all very hard to get the head and heart around.

Sometimes the feasting stretches into the wee hours of Sunday morning because no one wants to go home, and when you do, the air is still and you can hear the occasional bird chirp as the sky begins to glow in the East.  It is the culmination of an entire year of fasts and feasts that sanctifies time and leads to this moment of experiencing time outside of time.

There is nothing else in my life that is quite like it and the thought that comes to mind today while waiting patiently for the evening to come is that it is something like those cathartic moments in a really good movie, book, play, or musical.  In those moments there are things that swell and things that contract, but mostly there is a deep down sense that what is most real is infinitely deeper than what we can know or fully perceive.


***