Disconnect

One travels more usefully when alone, because he reflects more.

Thomas Jefferson

It may very well

be that

my secret

is mine alone

as if

there were places

I keep

other than my heart

where if all else

failed

I might hide

just long enough

to see forms take shape

in mists

cloaking the trail

I have found.

Learning

Rarely do members of the same family grow up under the same roof.

Richard Bach

I'd just put a hook in the vise when my phone rang. I looked at the number, didn't recognize it, but answered anyway. Turned out it was one of my mother's friends. Almost every Tuesday for the past many years has been Mah Jong day. Well, almost every Tuesday. Sometimes stuff gets in the way. Lately, doctors, sickness, and untimely, but inevitable death have been among the biggest reasons for the cancellations, but, for the most part, the nucleus of this group, although smaller now, has remained intact and on schedule. So it has, for the survivors, become so much more than a simple weekly Mah Jong get-together.The voice over the phone was strained, and the words came haltingly;

"Steve, something's wrong with your mother and we think you should come over here immediately and take her home..."

I know I sat there stunned, for a moment, I don't know how long, before my senses returned to the point where I could ask some quick questions, the first of which was, of course, "Is she okay?" which had to be true otherwise surely they would've first called 911 and then me?

"Well, she's all disoriented and can't speak. And when she does we can't understand her. She seems all confused and is upset."

My mind formed the word (STROKE).

" Oooh man. Okay. I'm on my way", and grabbed my car keys, took the 3 flights down 4 stairs at a time, jumped in my car and took off. Then and only then did it occur to me that I had no idea where I was going, so I flipped open my phone and called back, hoping that the scene there was calm enough that some one could give me directions, or at least an address...

I know Spokane like the back of my hand, especially the South Hill. Problem was, I was coming from the extreme northern edge of the city limits. No matter how light the traffic was, I was 20 - 25 minutes away. So I called back again to tell them I was coming as fast as I could make my way, and asked how she was doing. Turned out she was improving; could speak, and was responding to questions and faces again. By the time I arrived, she was seemingly totally normal again, save for a pair of very shaky hands.

She could stand, had good balance, so we gingerly helped her out to her car. After figuring out who'd drive and follow, we got her home, and her condition continued to improve.

The next couple of days were a blur of waiting rooms, tests, questions, more tests, and faces. After finally seeing her primary care giver, a Dr. Kerkering, I cornered him as my mother waited at the receptionist's desk.

And found out what I'd suspected for quite awhile. Turns out that strokes are a multi-faceted animal. Seems logical, in that although we feel the need to establish parameters (for our own sense of well-being) as far as our loved ones are concerned, meaning, partially, that a 'stroke' will undeniably always be severe, therefore easy to detect... well, the reality of it is that a stroke can be so minor that the person affected never knows that he/she has suffered one. And this can happen more than once, and over an unbelievably short period of time. Or, it can happen just once, and slip back into the shadows for years. But, for all of its seeming harmlessness, these are a harbinger of things to come. And the sooner they are detected, the more effectively they can be responded to if/when it happens again.

Nearly every day for the past several months, from the time of my dad's death, as a matter of fact, I've been journeying across town to be there for my mother should she need things done. I stay for a couple of hours. We have begun, probably for the first time, probably since I was very young, to enjoy a somewhat viable, equitable relationship. We actually carry on conversations. I was fomerly very impatient with her, and have been quietly working on my ability to sit and listen, which still taxes me as she is prone to exaggeration and pure fantasy, even in her interactions with me. I used to call her out on that, but have settled it within myself to strive for understanding and patience. It may be that I will never know why she is driven to be this way, and yet, I see in her things I can relate to if I really look. It is not for me to judge why she is the way she is. The flip side is that I think that it's allowed me to see myself more clearly.

My adolescence was a troubled period in my life, because of the tension in our household. My father, bless his heart, was not an easy man to live with, or to please, and I acted this out on the stage that was my life, seeking attention and approval from any and or all I could. And I sought it in many ways. One way, among others, was to tell the biggest and best story, give it so much detail that the listener had to believe it was true. I was dying for acceptance, not knowing that it was from my father I wished it would come.

I believe now, after all that has passed, that my mother, partly due to her upbringing, and underlined because of her relationship with my father, was looking for the same things I sought. It makes so much sense now. It's so clear. She was looking for a man just like her dad so that she might have a second chance at that acceptance. And she married a man who'd been brought up looking for perfection. I feel bad for my mother. It's not her fault she is the way she is. I think I was hard on her for so long because what I saw reminded me of the way I was. Now, well it's a bit late for her to understand and facilitate a change, I think. Not at her age. But, I finally get it. So be it.

In talking with my brother shortly before this incident and subsequent events, we agreed that we didn't see her, or hear from her that she was getting enough to eat. And, as time passed, it became clear to me that she was basically skipping over the mealtime thing more often than she ate.

So, I am now the breakfast chef. First thing every visit, I whip up a big (for her) breakfast. Omelets, French Toast, Pancakes, you name it. It really amazed me the first time I set breakfast in front of her how much and how fast she ate. I learned something from my father's last few months; stop worrying about how healthy it is! Just get them to enjoy the idea of eating again. I think back to the 'chat' I had with the diminutive Iranian doctor outside dad's hospital room... " eating healthy is all well and good", he said in his perfect Iranian lilt, "but it is for him to be happy with what he eats now...".

So be that, too. I understand. Perfectly. Sometimes we are blinded by our need to make ourselves feel good. There comes a time, sometimes sooner, most times later, when we finally realize who the patient really is.

On going forward... ongoing forward?

I couldn't wait for success, so I went ahead without it.

Jonathan Winters

What do you do when 1) you can't get more than 5 words out before hitting delete 2) realize that the idea you had for this post really sucks way too late to hit the delete button 3) read your post upon 'completion' and wonder again how long ago it was that you ceased to appreciate your own point of view(s) and then hit the delete button, or 4) bring up the page, stare at past posts and go back to You Tube...

Don't believe in miracles - depend on them.

Laurence J. Peter

Yeah... and I think I've reached a barrier of sorts. Not of sorts, even. It's one of those head-high concrete jobs completely surrounding a huge empty space. Like a vacant lot. And there're a couple of old guys standing on top of the barrier trying to see what's inside; like it's something they've just got to check out, 3, 4, 5 times a day. Standing there, rain or shine, smoking those filthy old roll-your -owns with one hand while they balance with the other, no place to go, nothing else to do, and lots of time to do it. If I keep my head down, maybe they won't see me. I don't know anymore than they do, at this point, or at least that's my story. Where is that goddamned bus?

We want a story that starts out with an earthquake and works its way up to a climax.

Samuel Goldwyn

I have this picture in my head. It's a bulletin board. Placed haphazardly over nearly every square inch of this board are little yellow post-ems that have a word very precisely printed on each one. But a breeze is coming up and now the breeze steps aside as a brief but intense gust ripples down the length of the board, overpowering the adhesive, and I watch the yellow notes dislodge, dancing away into oblivion. But, some are resistant and remain, slowly returning to lie flat again as the gust dies. And as I look more closely, I am amazed. There are no words on the post-ems that are left...

banal -adjective -so lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring

I've lost a bunch of weight in the past few months. I wasn't trying to, it just sort of happened. Like I'd taken up smoking again. This kid I knew a million years ago and I used to get way too high and then drive out to the airport. We'd sit at the end of the main runway under the approach lights smoking and watching the planes land. Seemed like they were going to land right on top of us and it was so loud that all you could do was look at each other and laugh hysterically. Then we'd jump back in the car and drive until we found our way back. I know we must've taken a different way every time, even though there's only a couple of ways you can go. And every time we'd listen to Led Zeppelin or Cactus as loud as it could go because our ears were ringing so bad and once we got calmed down, I'd look over at him and we'd start up laughing hysterically all over again. I'm not so sure we ever did find our way back...

Faith is an island in the setting sun, But proof is the bottom line for everyone.

Paul Simon

There are those moments that reveal so much, and there are more, that, sadly do not, even when we think they should. A chance taken is not a wisdom gained unless, of course, you convince yourself you have indeed gained some. Off in the distances of miles, or years, or experiences are markers. Some are important. Some, are not. They may even be trivial at the time, saving their true power for when you are ready. Some will jump right out at us, while others will appear only in the rear view mirror for a millisecond, and be gone, untranslated, or undiscovered, forever.

The waves are small and rhythmic, lapping at the edges. They take a toll. Slowly, but surely, they take their toll.

Pair o' dimes

It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.

Ernest Hemingway

Alternating between keyboard and keyboard, because I'm trapped up to my eyeballs again by the muck that lies in wait in the oft-traveled wasteland of periodic blank, staring again at the formless mystery that is the 'wall'. I should, I would think, by now be quite familiar with the territory, which must be a rather large, albeit unmapped area, because so many of the routes I travel lead right to this place. But on the other hand, many a journey has taken me far away from here. That happens just often enough to dull my memory of the dank putridity of this godless place, where the mind is severed from all its connective tissue. Where DELETE reigns supreme, lording its will as it destroys the possibility of congruence. Where sentences trail off into the distances...

Purge

Life... is not simply a series of exciting new ventures. The future is not always a whole new ball game. There tends to be unfinished business. One trails all sorts of things around with one, things that simply won't be got rid of.

Anita Brookner

Forgot what it was

I'd formulated

again

sitting for hours

staring

into the darkness

of passage

(except that)

a voice I hear

now and again

chooses words that

sound strangely

like mine

and they

tumble endlessly

away

becoming water

shaping the same

rocks

which may

soon

guide me

(should I not wait)

all the way

across into that

same forever.

The epitome of...

He who has not the spirit of this age, has all the misery of it.

Voltaire

See? Just look at all that Christmas spirit! Why, I'm fairly suffocating in it!

Happy Hollandaise

PSM-(RH)

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

J.D. Salinger

'Tis the season. Truly it is upon us. And that means they are upon us...

I'm looking for an opening here; something that will gently ease my readers into the material for today's offering but I'm finding it difficult to 'ease' into this. Why? Well, to illustrate the problem I'm having, try going to a grocery store, a department store, box store, any store, anywhere for that matter. Or just try going out, getting in your car and driving. If, god help you, you are like me and have already reached your own particular saturation point (again), stay home. Try turning on your TV set, answering your phone, or getting online. You will then realize (if you haven't already) why I'm in a quandry as to how to gracefully, or tactfully, approach this.

But then again, why should I? Hey, I'm pretty sure I'm preaching to the choir here anyway, so why do I need to sugarcoat what's on my mind? There's no way, no need, to tastefully, or 'eloquently' throw down the gauntlet for this. Why should I? The people I aim this at are too mindless to understand that it's about them I'm writing, if indeed they can read but oh, of course they can otherwise NASCAR magazine wouldn't be so popular but I'm thinking it's all scratch-and-sniff pictures (for that realistic you are there experience).

3 words. Repeat after me, class. And salute the rebel flag (or the stars and stripes, doesn't matter) while you speak. Ready? Putrid Stinking Masses (enunciate please). Also affectionately referred to by some of my more radical friends as The RH, or, Repugnant Horde. Not to be mistaken for the Mongol Hordes; they were the epitome of etiquette, the dilettantes of discretion, compared to this mob. The PSM, or RH, are everywhere. There is no escape. They have, and continue, to insinuate, infiltrate, and integrate. Without pause. Without concern for color, race, religion, celebrity, or sanity. They have no other mission other than to live their mucked-up little lives, and spawn future hordes, right in our faces! But you know what the real beauty of all this is? They have absolutely, without a doubt, no clue that there are people out here who are not like them!! Whoops. I guess I should retract that. I forgot about the nazi-zealots who have decided that anyone not sharing their mindsets be imprisoned, gassed, and/or barred from shopping at Wal-Mart (where they can leave their carts out in the middle of any aisle indefinitely) for life.

I'm rolling now. Turn on your TV. Watch the local news. Know why it's filled with stories about the PSMs and their pathetic little existences? Because they run the damn station now, that's why. Hell, they run the whole network! And none of 'em can spell!! Look at the headers! Jeezus! Tired of that? Take a break. Go hop in your car and drive down the street, any street, where you see those fancy little electronic billboards out in front of businesses to highlight their wares. I don't know about you, but it would be embarrassing to advertise the fact that I couldn't spell. But, in the grand order of 'how it is really', when I think about it, it doesn't matter because no one reading those billboards can spell either. Even if they could, they're already well into the stage of PSMism whereby they could give a rat's butt, or, as I like to call it, ass.

But here's the deal. And this is hilarious (I mean serious, it's just that the visual concept of it all makes me delirious). The RSMs are wired at birth to go out, find a mate (or whoever they can bump into) and re-populate the earth. At your expense! This is their directive. They have no other purpose here. They are not here to actively make our lives miserable; that's simply a by-product of their daily routine as they are way too involved in trying to find ways to keep their youngster's mouths full of garbage so they can grow up and continue the process.

Warning. Be careful out there. You may at some point seek refuge, driven half-crazy from all this madness. Know this; the RHs can look okay. They can dress and walk, and drive nice cars (just like the one that's been tailgating you for the past hour). Sometimes they even speak in complete sentences.

So... there is nowhere to go. No space. No sanctuary. THEY have either laid claim to, or are in the process of usurping, almost every last liberty we currently have. Almost... but there is one thing they can never take, never have. They can only dream, except that's silly because when they do dream it's about snowmobiles and ATVs and pick-up trucks and corn dogs and guns and wrestling and...