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...

Quotes

The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.

Aldous Huxley

Before I wade more deeply into my subject matter, I wish to thank my son, Aaron, for his blog. In addition to his insightful offerings, he quite often, with literary precision I might add, begins with a quote. His quotes provoke thought before the material is read, as it is read, and especially, upon completion of reading. They punctuate his posts so effectively! So, with his method as my guide, I have adopted this idea. My hat is off to you, Aaron. I am humbly appreciative. Whether or not I am as successful is, and will be, fodder for discussion among those who discuss things of this nature, but I definitely like the approach.

Finding a quote that can effectively contribute to the depth of an offering is either a science, or a gamble, or both. I'm a terrible gambler. I'm one of those guys who can't keep a poker face. I give myself away, and it's usually because I've got stinky cards.

But a good quote is one that when first read, gets one to thinking, and then further spurs cognitive process, from hopefully a different perspective, after the piece is completed. In my searches for appropriate quotes, the search itself has often altered my subject matter, because I'll like a certain quote so much that I feel I need to start with it, which forces me to change everything about that which I was going to write.

There are many really great quotes I've unearthed that will probably never make it to my blog. At least not until I'm really ready to face up to the stuff that I need to face up to, in that they make me a bit uncomfortable. Smack dab in the middle of a search I'll get blindsided by a quote that surgically removes my life and sets it out on the table in front of me. Interesting, too, in that when I find these, that usually throws a major wet blanket on whatever it was that I'd originally set out to write about. So be forewarned; the offering you are reading may or may not be what was planned. Maybe the one that was supposed to be here was ixnayed because I ran headfirst into another eye-opener. But how would you know that unless you were told. And, as it now turns out, you just were!

Anyway, thanks, Aaron. And keep 'em coming. You are the master... and look! I never even got close to broaching the subject I'd planned to concern myself, and maybe you, with. How did that happen! Oh well, stay tuned, if you so choose. I promise I'll stay on task... hyuk.

Attic

The past is an old armchair in the attic, the present an ominous ticking sound, and the future is anybody's guess.

James Thurber

Clutter. That's what comes to mind, right along with the dust and disarray. Stuff no longer thought useful in the daily scheme; not yet ready to be disowned or discarded, but dangerously close to being forgotten unless somehow rediscovered. And as more stuff is piled on top, it is quite plausible that the odds of that happening would seem greatly reduced, unless there has been sown a viable, lasting connection to this object with an event, incident, or, more often, personality, that will spring to mind if and when the right buttons are pushed.

Good stuff. And bad stuff. It all gets saved. And forgotten, too. There is no discrimination. There is just time, and it passes. Sometimes it passes into obscurity. Then, good or bad, it's gone forever.

Portage

When we go to play, you flip around and flash around and everything, and then they're not gonna see nothin' but what their eyes see. Forget about their ears.

Jimi Hendrix

"...standin' here, freezin', inside your golden garden..."

Jimi Hendrix

Maybe it's not so bad, so terribly wrong, to take the long way. It's not always the shortest, or easiest, which flies in the aged, supposedly wise face of the more common sensical approach, but it does have, for me, a certain time-acquired attraction.

Something some one wrote recently set me to thinking. Taken in context it had nothing to do with anything specific save for the subject matter with which it dealt. But this statement separated itself from the rest of the piece, and it found purchase. As can sometimes be the case, especially if the timing is right, well-chosen words connected into phrases will stick with me. They come back, often incessantly, at interesting moments, now so much more than a simple point of reference. I find them applicable to more than for what they were originally intended.

But this is not about that particular series of words assembled into that phrase, nor is it about where it came from or who wrote it. It's as much about where they found me as it is where I intend to go with them. I am amazed again, by how such seemingly pedestrian moments can be so illuminating. Maybe even life-changing.

How really different we all are. How our sets of experience are totally unique. How we see and what we see are all pre-determined by

our unique perspectives long before we think we know ourselves and can somehow begin to alter our 'way' of thinking. And, while this sets us apart from each and everyone else from the time of birth until we die, it's at the same time the only thing we will all ever have in common. Yes, I know, maybe that's all been said over and over again ad nauseum, but it finally rings loud and clear to me.

And the best part of having this common ground, now that I understand,is that it's comfortably small. We live, and then die, each on our own, to our own. In between, we do what it is that we do, sometimes not as well as others would have us do, but, it's really not for 'them' to say.

Let 'them' say what 'they' will. From now on, I will strive to live my life as I perceive it to be lived. I spent too much time seeing through eyes other than my own, and now time is short...

Slide

You say I miss the signs

or do you,

by design?

Go pierce the air

with (well-rehearsed)

indignant scream

gaining steam

on your way

to contrition.

It's a condition

you seek

a position unique

to gain a peek

dependent, of course

on which

way you turn.

Aaron

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Douglas MacArthur

... and I sat for a moment, before beginning my usual non-fishing day routine of coffee and the joke of a morning paper 'they' call the Spokesman-Review...

I thought of Aaron again. It'd been awhile since I'd heard from him. Always so damned busy. Always. Busy to the point that, because of my respect for his space and time, I'd been hesitant to get in touch. If ever there has been anyone I have known in my life who's more crunched for time all the time... well, I have never known anyone quite like that. I don't know how he does all the things he does, and does so well. I really don't. He's amazing; I say that, now, as I have ever since he was just a kid. He's always been amazing. He's my son and I have the right to say that anyway, but, damnit, he really is.

Anyway, right then, I heard my phone buzz. It buzzed with the tone I had assigned to Aaron's text messages, but for a second, I wondered what that sound was, and my reaction reminded me of my dad... looking around in every direction as if totally befuddled by what I was hearing until it came back to me (like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist) that indeed it was my phone, and by god it was Aaron.

"Mother nature's been good to me..." he wrote. My eyes teared up.

I've always thought it's a blessing that my son enjoys the same type of music I have listened to for eons, and I texted back the following line from the song he'd chosen to send. We sent texts back and forth (he's so much faster at it than I'll ever be) and he told me that he'd been in Irvine and 'they' really wanted him to come work for/with them, and as per usual, he soon had to go...

"I love you", were his last words. "I love you too, Aaron", I returned, fighting back a fresh round of tears. Leaning back in my chair, I one more time counted my blessings.

Aaron, you are always there, always. I cannot possibly put into words how important that is to me. I know your life is upside down most of the time. I know how badly you wish to be done with school and all the crap you have endured for these past few years. Hell, I know how much crap you have had to wade through to even get to where you are. I mean I don't know it all, but I know enough. I know enough to be extremely proud. I know this too, and have known for years, how much I treasure your existence on this earth.

You are one hell of a fine man. And, most importantly, a fine son.

I love you Aaron.

Holidays rhymes with malaise, kind of.

I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.

David O. Selznick

And so here we go again. Falling helplessly, almost as if in a never-ending nightmare head first, into THE HOLIDAYS.

Even the Christmas Cactus blooms early, thinking, I am sure, that to do so will hasten the passing of the days until this is all blessedly over.

Jester

People like eccentrics. Therefore they will leave me alone, saying that I am a mad clown.

Vaslav Nijinsky

And they will love me through the times,

or forget me in kind...

could the visit be more or less

blind

one of convenience

timed

to coincide

with reference points

in all those lives

I intersect

but never really touch

Yes, I am loved

and pass as such

into moments

left in trust

archived simply

in the dust

a now-faint trail

into a place

where I sought

refuge from

their space.

Subsequent consequence

as in

product of event

percolates in the silence

of maybe, maybe not

biding its time

a colorless gas,

killing

so slowly

it seems like a lifetime...

Redemption

Imagine the most insignificant

characteristic

magnified a thousand times

a beacon summons

and no one sees

but I cease to be amazed

instead

a blur then a flash

and I'm tight to

the next

last chance for redemption

every time

I lose myself

wanting to be found

anywhere

at any time

tightly connected

again.

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy... or they become legend.
Jim Harrison

It does occur to me, as I lazily curl around discussions with myself concerning any worldly value I may have accrued over the years, that my inner voice does not go more than one or two words into a given thought before seeking the refuge of a connection to fishing, or flies. And, much to my satisfaction, I do not think this is anything but healthy. I may very well physically starve to death for the lack of my desire to any longer pursue monetary compensation; I truly dread the thought of being forced to work, or to even come to grips with the attitude change necessary in order to obtain work. 'Work' is simply what the word says, and I've long associated that word with everything in life that ends up killing me sooner than I am ready. It has, through my life, even payed me, sometimes handsomely, to do that to myself.

I much prefer my avocation. Not only is that a much more poetic word, it also signifies a love for what I do; never mind the stark reality of any compensation, at least in a monetary sense.

All this leads me right back to my wonderful companion. I am so pleased that I have listened. I have learned more from it than any other source.

Perhaps there will one day come some life-changing epiphany; the dream sequence must seem oddly macabre to those around me. Bus after bus departs, without me on board. I wave goodbye to each one, as my inner voice speaks softly, and intently I listen...

Boat

If I could

I'd grace whatever good fortune

with pieces of a smile

I borrowed at an early age

(never owing a return)

burning themselves

deeply into lines

on my face

which finally become

clear

in the calm water.

A map

unfolds to me,

staring back,

detailed

way before

I had the slightest inkling

that I

may one day

need to know

my route.

And as I

return

fragments

settle briefly

on the surface

around me

before sinking

into the immenseness

of eternity.

Feast

"It requires wisdom to understand wisdom; the music is nothing if the audience can't hear it."

Walter Lippman

... rendering moments of steady progress

moot while they

interfere with my trepidations...

How far has this unwanted ally

traveled,

so unknowingly,

with me?

It seems I am a host

for a multitude of

cynicisms,

not the least a wariness

specifically

inclined

per the moment,

this way and that.

And what is that

which is

carried along the banks of

my tumult?

A promise

of peace?

Hah! As I kick it back,

cursing,

into the mad

currents from which it was

spat.

The forgotten

visage

of promises made

floats, toes up,

sideways in the eddy.

But, blessedly, there are always

the hands,

stealthily

adjusting their grip...

I can feel them...