A friend told me during a phone conversation last Friday, and follow up email, that the day was the last in our life time that would be comprised completely of odd numbered digits (1-1-1-9-1-9-9-9). With that anomaly came a shared whispered promise that it would be the last odd day we would ever have to endure. (I suspect this means there will be no more occurrences of such things like Bob Dylan appearances on Dharma and Greg.) Talk about odd. Recently after spending an afternoon racing around our northwestern suburbs desperately trying to find a church I didn't have the address of or name to, I arrived barely in time for an important service just as we were walking candles down the aisle. Afterward my brother-in-law asked me how my new job was going. I told him it felt so strange to finally have a job where I'm doing what I always wanted to be doing, that actually incorporates what I got my college degree for. It feels completely foreign to have to go into work and do something I actually enjoy doing. What a concept. He smiled and acknowledged that he understood. That an unexpected source showed such appreciation was a small moment that made the difficult but bearable day memorable.
Indeed last week as I stood in the middle of an abandoned Minneapolis flour mill looking at empty beer bottles and walls painted with gang graffiti, staring at the girl with soccer field eyes, I certainly hoped our odd days are finally behind us. Amongst the rubble and ruin I found a shiny nickel. I felt like a blessed man. I have often wished that we could measure how rich we are in life by the amount of nickels we have. I like nickels.
I used my new nickel to go toward some art supplies necessary to begin my second major painting project this year. The first was slapping a fresh coat of taupe on to my reluctantly scraped and primed garage. Besides that home improvement project historically this next stab at painting is my second attempt at actual artwork. My first try came back in 1993 as I attempted an oil paint portrait of Max. This new project is an effort to usurp angelic beauty defined and reconnect a part of me that I hope is still there. One of the subjects of the painting asked if it meant having to come over and model. I told her, no this is an attempt to get what's inside across, not outside down. No small task especially considering my limited artistic ability and my decision to work in a completely new medium- water colors. Heck I may as well try and do this thing left-handed. I'm more Claude Rains than Claude Monet after all. I can't imagine I can possibly get the shapes and images right but at the very least I hope I can capture some of the color that my mind constantly sees and appreciates.
I'm looking forward to this project. It is an attempt to force myself to see, think, and feel in a manner that doesn't come naturally. Each inch of the canvass has to be planned. Each stroke of the brush carefully controlled. The end result isn't as important as the process itself. The project will occupy a lot of my time and hopefully will make the holiday season pass on by quickly. We all need our stress relievers- and I think my usual outlets are in need of some reinforcement. Much as writing, banging away at my piano, and going out to shoot hoops blows away the troubles of the moment, it will be nice to come home and do something different. I don't like to repeat myself but I'm quite proud of my portrait of Max. I was so afraid it would turn out looking cartoonish but I don't think it did. And you can actually tell it's a cat I painted. Pomposity admitted, the lesson I learned from my first painting was the difference between a painting and a photograph. It may seemingly be an obvious difference but to me it was a refreshing lesson that had been somehow overlooked and taken for granted. Facts may be facts (and faxed) but creativity adds needed perspective.
Oddly enough, the last time I found a painted nickel was a somehow connected moment when I was in a similar state of mind. It was when we first opened up our Cheapo in Uptown. It was a big step for our company, coming right after our first name change to "Applause." It was right before the Uptown Art Fair and I had just gotten my head shaved. I looked good, damn good, though I think a tad frightening or out of the ordinary. ("Strike another match go start anew...") My task for the day was to stand outside our store and hand out fliers with a big bold "Applause" title on top notifying the area patrons of our store. Several people took our leaflet, glanced at it and threw it away just feet away from where I stood. Others walked by me refusing to take what I thrust at them. One kindly old lady, forever etched in my mind, smiled at me as she took the piece of paper from me. She quickly glanced at it and said to her companion, "Apple sauce, I like apple sauce." I can't possibly express how much that made me smile on a hot and weary day.
Yes indeed this painting will at the very least show that I see a contrast between windows and mirrors. One you see through and one reflects. Both are made from the same material and are necessary in our lives. Both show you things you sometimes need to know, sometimes don't need to know, sometimes want to see, sometimes don't want to see. Inside out outside looking in. That's what this painting is about.
Monday, November 22, 1999
Monday, November 15, 1999
Rainy Day Fatalist 12 & 35 (Fr... ...ers for M-)
It was either Johann Sebastian Bach, composer, or Fred Kueffer, geometry teacher, that taught me all of life is about mathematics. Thus I probably shouldn't have felt as bad as I did last week when I had the temerity of reducing Lou Gehrig to another mere number, killing him in this publication from a disease he did not have (MS vs. ALS) years after he died. There probably is a reason the man has his own disease named after him after all.
I read recently if we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following: there would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere both north and south, and 8 Africans. 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, and 30 would be white. 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, and 11 would be homosexual. Six people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States. 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, and 1 would be near birth. One would have a college education, 1 would own a computer and 1 would be a short little neurotic Japanese-American who forgot to read his map and stumbled into the scene apart from the rest, more than a little perplexed, the perpetual outsider looking in.
We've become good at measuring our lives by the numbers: through time- whether chronologically or by a more pastoral method (the arc between dreams and memories for example); by money earned or not earned; by the distance traveled geographically as well as professionally and personally; and by the people known and left behind. There are a fortunate few who can step outside statistical constraints and see life in a more cosmic sense, but to do that is a difficult challenge indeed.
Last Wednesday, a day after I turned 35, I was in Rochester on a work assignment revisiting the Mayo Clinic eleven years after I went there on a more personal assignment. Back in 1988 I went on what I now refer to as my "secret government mission" two years before I actually started working for the government. The purpose for that visit had something to do with poetry and the meaning of life. The irony of this most recent visit was bringing with me a business card uncomfortably labeling me the very thing that was at the root of my last visit- a place I couldn't possibly imagine or believe I'd ever get to or return back. By any numeric standard it was a large step nearly impossible to measure.
As I was walking through the halls of St. Mary's Hospital, I passed an ATM machine. I remembered withdrawing cash from that machine during my first visit on my second to the last day there. I needed the cash to get a haircut from the hospital barber. The haircut was more symbolic than cosmetic- as if cutting my hair would give me a fresh start.
After surviving a tenacious downpour complete with being pelted by small chunks of hail, I found myself at the Mayo Clinic this second time around early in the morning, a witness to open heart surgery. Again there was something ethereal about the moment, about my last visit also being about an open heart that needed mending. The sight of the purple blood leaving the body and returning in its more recognizable red form didn't bother me as I expected it might, but rather was a reminder of how we shouldn't take for granted our next heart beat. To see the essence of life in the palm of somebody's hand was rather humbling.
On the morning of my birthday I opened my refrigerator and in the upper right hand corner, as it has for the past couple of years, sat a circular thermometer that my Mom loaned to me. She had read an article about how health officials were concerned that many refrigerators weren't storing food at safe temperatures. After I determined mine was fine I meant to give the thermometer back to Mom. I never got around to it, one of the simple life tasks that just never got done. The little metallic device made me feel sad inside. It was one of the many numerous things my Mom had given to me over the years- with love and concern. Now somehow it was a monument of all the scars my 35th year left behind. It was a difficult birthday. Even my friend with a song and dance got the number wrong and gave me a stroke instead of a stork. My father cooked my favorite meal, shrimp (I remain what I eat), and I went out to the cemetery to spend a moment with Mom. I made it through the day by reading some sacred books a friend loaned to me that were originally meant for her own children.
The days (daze?) surrounding the birthday were a little brighter. Sister number three, who was born nine years to the very day before we took our first steps on the moon, took my Dad and I out the night before for a sushi dinner. Three days later my favorite mother of two and I went out to lunch and shopping. I actually ended up getting my first Christmas gift of the season, with a mere 44 days before that particular holiday.
More numbers: About three months ago when I got the oil changed in my car I noticed on the reminder sticker that my car would turn over 100,000 miles before my next visit. Despite better made cars, turning from five to six digits on the odometer remains a milestone for any automobile. Now I've never been one to be too impressed by the cars people drive. I think the only one that ever really impressed me, impressed me for as an accomplishment, not as a status symbol. Back before she became the urban planning superstar, my friend Alex once was a tried and true Minnesotan. Though she passed on through much too quickly I forever and greatly will admire her for many a thing. One is working and paying her entire way diligently to a Masters Degree. Another is being perhaps the most determined person I've ever had the luck to know. When she was here it was always clear to me bigger and brighter moments were awaiting her. Perhaps an early clue that she wasn't long for this state was her first car, one of those fancy little Toyota MR-5 sports cars. I remember Mr. Max and I looking out the window of my tiny efficiency off Grand Avenue impatiently awaiting for her to pull up. Alex and I spent a few nights under the downtown stars, on our library nights that inevitably ended up at a coffee shop. That MR-5, one of her first tangible possessions of success, was stolen and later found wrapped around a tree. And still she took that all in stride.
My current Honda is the first car I bought all by myself. Last winter the front fender received a rather nasty looking dent due to its owner suffering a careless lapse. I thought about getting it fixed immediately because it was rather disheartening to look at but this all happened in the midst of my Mom's illness. Somehow I didn't have the heart, or it didn't seem that important to worry about the outward appearance of my car. Then as the old saving's account took a hit, there wasn't enough money to justify fixing something that didn't need immediate repair rather than for more pressing needs.
Still dented with the milestone closing in, I kept one eye peeled on the road and the other on the odometer in anticipation of letting out a holler, and short toot on the horn when the big moment arrived. On the evening I was to make a rare visit to my new wardrobe manager, the one who taught me how to blouse a shirt, turning a pumpkin into a jack o lantern- proceeded by a dozen roses because she knows the value of a nickel back, I patiently made my way through the madness of 35E during rush hour. As I arrived at the restaurant I glanced down and my mileage read 100,019. There was a palatable disappointment in the air- both from the car itself ("you ruin my fender, now you miss MY moment you lunkhead!") and from myself. We've traveled many roads together, always gotten safely to our destinations when that seriously seemed to be in doubt. I took a little comfort knowing the milestone was reached while going to see the person who is so effective in reminding me about the necessity of taking small steps to reach a more distant goal, and not writing a future that is not mine to write.
Recently a man shared with me a saying he used to help him through the difficult time of the death of his wife. "I keep what I have by giving it away," he said. As he relayed the saying I nodded although I had no idea what it meant. But it stuck inside and I now think I get the gist. At the end of the road when it's time to count up all the beans you've accumulated, the ones that carry the most weight aren't the ones in your possession but the ones you have shared with others. And if you've done your math right that number hopefully ends up to be too large to count.
I read recently if we could shrink the earth's population to a village of 100 people, with all the human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following: there would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere both north and south, and 8 Africans. 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, and 30 would be white. 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, and 11 would be homosexual. Six people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States. 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, and 1 would be near birth. One would have a college education, 1 would own a computer and 1 would be a short little neurotic Japanese-American who forgot to read his map and stumbled into the scene apart from the rest, more than a little perplexed, the perpetual outsider looking in.
We've become good at measuring our lives by the numbers: through time- whether chronologically or by a more pastoral method (the arc between dreams and memories for example); by money earned or not earned; by the distance traveled geographically as well as professionally and personally; and by the people known and left behind. There are a fortunate few who can step outside statistical constraints and see life in a more cosmic sense, but to do that is a difficult challenge indeed.
Last Wednesday, a day after I turned 35, I was in Rochester on a work assignment revisiting the Mayo Clinic eleven years after I went there on a more personal assignment. Back in 1988 I went on what I now refer to as my "secret government mission" two years before I actually started working for the government. The purpose for that visit had something to do with poetry and the meaning of life. The irony of this most recent visit was bringing with me a business card uncomfortably labeling me the very thing that was at the root of my last visit- a place I couldn't possibly imagine or believe I'd ever get to or return back. By any numeric standard it was a large step nearly impossible to measure.
As I was walking through the halls of St. Mary's Hospital, I passed an ATM machine. I remembered withdrawing cash from that machine during my first visit on my second to the last day there. I needed the cash to get a haircut from the hospital barber. The haircut was more symbolic than cosmetic- as if cutting my hair would give me a fresh start.
After surviving a tenacious downpour complete with being pelted by small chunks of hail, I found myself at the Mayo Clinic this second time around early in the morning, a witness to open heart surgery. Again there was something ethereal about the moment, about my last visit also being about an open heart that needed mending. The sight of the purple blood leaving the body and returning in its more recognizable red form didn't bother me as I expected it might, but rather was a reminder of how we shouldn't take for granted our next heart beat. To see the essence of life in the palm of somebody's hand was rather humbling.
On the morning of my birthday I opened my refrigerator and in the upper right hand corner, as it has for the past couple of years, sat a circular thermometer that my Mom loaned to me. She had read an article about how health officials were concerned that many refrigerators weren't storing food at safe temperatures. After I determined mine was fine I meant to give the thermometer back to Mom. I never got around to it, one of the simple life tasks that just never got done. The little metallic device made me feel sad inside. It was one of the many numerous things my Mom had given to me over the years- with love and concern. Now somehow it was a monument of all the scars my 35th year left behind. It was a difficult birthday. Even my friend with a song and dance got the number wrong and gave me a stroke instead of a stork. My father cooked my favorite meal, shrimp (I remain what I eat), and I went out to the cemetery to spend a moment with Mom. I made it through the day by reading some sacred books a friend loaned to me that were originally meant for her own children.
The days (daze?) surrounding the birthday were a little brighter. Sister number three, who was born nine years to the very day before we took our first steps on the moon, took my Dad and I out the night before for a sushi dinner. Three days later my favorite mother of two and I went out to lunch and shopping. I actually ended up getting my first Christmas gift of the season, with a mere 44 days before that particular holiday.
More numbers: About three months ago when I got the oil changed in my car I noticed on the reminder sticker that my car would turn over 100,000 miles before my next visit. Despite better made cars, turning from five to six digits on the odometer remains a milestone for any automobile. Now I've never been one to be too impressed by the cars people drive. I think the only one that ever really impressed me, impressed me for as an accomplishment, not as a status symbol. Back before she became the urban planning superstar, my friend Alex once was a tried and true Minnesotan. Though she passed on through much too quickly I forever and greatly will admire her for many a thing. One is working and paying her entire way diligently to a Masters Degree. Another is being perhaps the most determined person I've ever had the luck to know. When she was here it was always clear to me bigger and brighter moments were awaiting her. Perhaps an early clue that she wasn't long for this state was her first car, one of those fancy little Toyota MR-5 sports cars. I remember Mr. Max and I looking out the window of my tiny efficiency off Grand Avenue impatiently awaiting for her to pull up. Alex and I spent a few nights under the downtown stars, on our library nights that inevitably ended up at a coffee shop. That MR-5, one of her first tangible possessions of success, was stolen and later found wrapped around a tree. And still she took that all in stride.
My current Honda is the first car I bought all by myself. Last winter the front fender received a rather nasty looking dent due to its owner suffering a careless lapse. I thought about getting it fixed immediately because it was rather disheartening to look at but this all happened in the midst of my Mom's illness. Somehow I didn't have the heart, or it didn't seem that important to worry about the outward appearance of my car. Then as the old saving's account took a hit, there wasn't enough money to justify fixing something that didn't need immediate repair rather than for more pressing needs.
Still dented with the milestone closing in, I kept one eye peeled on the road and the other on the odometer in anticipation of letting out a holler, and short toot on the horn when the big moment arrived. On the evening I was to make a rare visit to my new wardrobe manager, the one who taught me how to blouse a shirt, turning a pumpkin into a jack o lantern- proceeded by a dozen roses because she knows the value of a nickel back, I patiently made my way through the madness of 35E during rush hour. As I arrived at the restaurant I glanced down and my mileage read 100,019. There was a palatable disappointment in the air- both from the car itself ("you ruin my fender, now you miss MY moment you lunkhead!") and from myself. We've traveled many roads together, always gotten safely to our destinations when that seriously seemed to be in doubt. I took a little comfort knowing the milestone was reached while going to see the person who is so effective in reminding me about the necessity of taking small steps to reach a more distant goal, and not writing a future that is not mine to write.
Recently a man shared with me a saying he used to help him through the difficult time of the death of his wife. "I keep what I have by giving it away," he said. As he relayed the saying I nodded although I had no idea what it meant. But it stuck inside and I now think I get the gist. At the end of the road when it's time to count up all the beans you've accumulated, the ones that carry the most weight aren't the ones in your possession but the ones you have shared with others. And if you've done your math right that number hopefully ends up to be too large to count.
Monday, November 8, 1999
Parting is Sweet Sorrow
Last month when I heard Catfish Hunter had died from Multiple Sclerosis I was surprised how unmoved I felt. Hunter had long been one of my favorite baseball players and he literally was one of the first people to break my heart. He was a member of those wonderful Oakland Athletic teams from the 70's that were the dominant champion during my first years of being a baseball fan. The team was as good as it was colorful with such marvelous players/characters as Bert Campanaris, Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Rollie Fingers along with their ever irascible owner, Charlie Finley. For a while it looked as if the A's might challenge the Yankee teams from the '20's as baseball's all time dynasty and I felt so fortunate for having found a love during such a special time.
Then the game changed. Free agency took hold and Hunter was one of the first to take advantage of the situation and depart for greener pastures (and pinstripes). Although I understood his leaving (how could anyone turn down a five year contract for that then obscene but now ordinary amount of $3.5 million?) I was angry that he wasn't more loyal to the rest of the team. This wasn't supposed to be a game about dollars it was supposed to be about the competition and being the best. Hunter's defection caused the world of baseball to seem a bit less idyllic in the eyes of a twelve-year-old.
It is always shocking when an athlete dies at an early age. One of the most intoxicating qualities about sports is their ability to produce individuals who carry an air of invincibility, of being able to overcome anything. Thus it is a painful reminder whenever a sports hero dies that no matter how much we want to deny it, at some point each of us must accept that this is a world we are merely passing through. Hunter's death was a shock but it is an indication I've grown a tad weary and jaded that I didn't even take the time to read the memorial stories about a once upon a time hero.
Calvin Griffith's death struck a bit deeper chord inside. For all the frustrations his stubbornness and lack of money caused a young Twins fan- and all the bad baseball I endured growing up that I directly related to Calvin, I still grew to greatly admire the man. He said what was on his mind and there has been no more astute mind about baseball than his. With the slow and sad withering of the Twins, and the defeat of their last hope of survival in this state- the stadium- Calvin's passing seemed like another closed chapter in an increasingly difficult to read book.
More than any other recent "celebrity" deaths- Walter Payton's had a deep impact on me. That his death got the tears flowing uncontrollably truly surprised me. I hardly consider myself a football fan anymore- and though I greatly admired Payton's skills and determination and I loved to watch him play- the man frustratingly destroyed the Vikings in many games. "We" simply couldn't stop him no matter how bad a team he played on. I read the many obituaries from around the country, and for one of the many times in recent months felt the sadness that has become such a familiar part of me.
Not that there is any value in making such a comparison but I've heard there supposedly is a small blessing in the manner Payton died: he had the opportunity to set his life in order and say any necessary good-byes since he knew for some time that unless he received a liver transplant he was going to die. This it has been said has to be (as if we would truly know) less difficult than the "sudden" deaths of Wilt Chamberlain or Payne Stewart. Yet one man's blessing is another man's heart break. To watch this ever proud man break down in tears at his news conference announcing his condition was as sad as the saddest moment in sports history- watching Lou Gerhig say his immortal farewell by declaring he was "the luckiest man on the face of the earth" right before he, like Hunter, succumbed to Multiple Sclerosis.
I watched Payton's February news conference while seated on the couch across from my Mom. The drugs that she was taking to ease her own pain from the cancer eating away her insides had made her mind less focused than it used to be. She lie there silent, though seemingly absorbing what the news was about. I wondered if she was thinking about being at a place further down the line from the frightening place Mr. Payton found himself in. Had she been her normal healthy self she no doubt would have said something to me about how sad it was to see this once triumphant athlete now scrambling for his life.
Last week's news that Payton died caused a lot of feelings to tumble inside. There isn't anything particularly heroic or meaningful in his death. It is sad and it is tragic. From all accounts he was a most intriguing man who earned as much admiration from those who knew him off the field as from those who knew him on. There are those with the rare ability to touch our lives so deeply that their passing truly makes this world a lesser place. Absence doesn't necessarily make the heart grow fonder nor does time heal all wounds. With another loss of a certain sweetness comes a few more bitter tears.
Then the game changed. Free agency took hold and Hunter was one of the first to take advantage of the situation and depart for greener pastures (and pinstripes). Although I understood his leaving (how could anyone turn down a five year contract for that then obscene but now ordinary amount of $3.5 million?) I was angry that he wasn't more loyal to the rest of the team. This wasn't supposed to be a game about dollars it was supposed to be about the competition and being the best. Hunter's defection caused the world of baseball to seem a bit less idyllic in the eyes of a twelve-year-old.
It is always shocking when an athlete dies at an early age. One of the most intoxicating qualities about sports is their ability to produce individuals who carry an air of invincibility, of being able to overcome anything. Thus it is a painful reminder whenever a sports hero dies that no matter how much we want to deny it, at some point each of us must accept that this is a world we are merely passing through. Hunter's death was a shock but it is an indication I've grown a tad weary and jaded that I didn't even take the time to read the memorial stories about a once upon a time hero.
Calvin Griffith's death struck a bit deeper chord inside. For all the frustrations his stubbornness and lack of money caused a young Twins fan- and all the bad baseball I endured growing up that I directly related to Calvin, I still grew to greatly admire the man. He said what was on his mind and there has been no more astute mind about baseball than his. With the slow and sad withering of the Twins, and the defeat of their last hope of survival in this state- the stadium- Calvin's passing seemed like another closed chapter in an increasingly difficult to read book.
More than any other recent "celebrity" deaths- Walter Payton's had a deep impact on me. That his death got the tears flowing uncontrollably truly surprised me. I hardly consider myself a football fan anymore- and though I greatly admired Payton's skills and determination and I loved to watch him play- the man frustratingly destroyed the Vikings in many games. "We" simply couldn't stop him no matter how bad a team he played on. I read the many obituaries from around the country, and for one of the many times in recent months felt the sadness that has become such a familiar part of me.
Not that there is any value in making such a comparison but I've heard there supposedly is a small blessing in the manner Payton died: he had the opportunity to set his life in order and say any necessary good-byes since he knew for some time that unless he received a liver transplant he was going to die. This it has been said has to be (as if we would truly know) less difficult than the "sudden" deaths of Wilt Chamberlain or Payne Stewart. Yet one man's blessing is another man's heart break. To watch this ever proud man break down in tears at his news conference announcing his condition was as sad as the saddest moment in sports history- watching Lou Gerhig say his immortal farewell by declaring he was "the luckiest man on the face of the earth" right before he, like Hunter, succumbed to Multiple Sclerosis.
I watched Payton's February news conference while seated on the couch across from my Mom. The drugs that she was taking to ease her own pain from the cancer eating away her insides had made her mind less focused than it used to be. She lie there silent, though seemingly absorbing what the news was about. I wondered if she was thinking about being at a place further down the line from the frightening place Mr. Payton found himself in. Had she been her normal healthy self she no doubt would have said something to me about how sad it was to see this once triumphant athlete now scrambling for his life.
Last week's news that Payton died caused a lot of feelings to tumble inside. There isn't anything particularly heroic or meaningful in his death. It is sad and it is tragic. From all accounts he was a most intriguing man who earned as much admiration from those who knew him off the field as from those who knew him on. There are those with the rare ability to touch our lives so deeply that their passing truly makes this world a lesser place. Absence doesn't necessarily make the heart grow fonder nor does time heal all wounds. With another loss of a certain sweetness comes a few more bitter tears.
Monday, November 1, 1999
Piggie in the Middle (Do a Pooh Pooh)
Back in the days I used to work for that big faceless corporation, Kmart, I worked with a affable young chap named Ernie Gonzalez. Ernie was wise beyond his years, especially when it came to his knowledge of fishing lures, and though not college educated his media savvy taught him enough to use sayings that many years later have stuck with me. One of the things Ernie was fond of uttering was, "Son, it's a hog." I often found for a man of so few words, Ernie sure had a lot to say.
Last Tuesday I woke up at five o'clock in the blessed morning, forced myself out the door and drove for two hours down to Albert Lea only to learn that there are too many pigs in this state. Now I'm just as big a fan of humanity as the next person, indeed some of my best friends are people, but to hear such a blunt stating of the obvious was more than a tad disconcerting. The lesson learned actually had nothing to do with a study released the same day showing one out five Americans is obese. Oink! Oink! (And don't get me started about the supposed coincidence that the number just happens to match the number of dentists who prefer sugarless gum for their patients that chew gum. Obviously to me at least, there is an uncomfortable correlation.)
Contrasting the crankiness that inevitably results from dragging yourself from beneath the warmth of your covers, driving in the dark to some God forsaken spot, fighting the traffic at such an unnatural hour, was a sign just outside Albert Lea that read, "Hope- One Mile." How many weary travelers do you figure have driven by that sign, and at the spur of a moment took the exit to find out if the sign lived up to its unassuming promise? I was tempted to turn off but there was somewhere that I was supposed to be, pork related news waiting for me.
At a hearing of the House Agriculture and Rural Development Finance Committee, representatives from Hormel said the supply of pigs in the state outweighs the demand. Unfortunately so long as that situation exists (and it appears to be a rather problematic and complex issue to address- with no easy apparent answers) the difficulties pork producers are facing will inevitably continue.
Pork consumption in the state has been on a steady increase in the 1990's due in part to the industry's successful "The Other White Meat" advertising campaign. The increase followed a decade long decline related to a general lessening in the amount of meat people ate- a movement based on cholesterol conscious Americans trying to eat more healthy meals, and also due in part to the rapid increase in the amount of chicken consumed. And as the results of last week's obesity study show our ever changing collective diet most certainly seems to be working (looked at one way I guess we should all be happy that as a nation four out of five of us are not obese). Yet the amount of pork consumed appears to be leveling off, the increase at this point appears to be from our population growth- not so much that people are eating more and more of the meat.
So where does this leave Porky? The answer isn't very pretty. It leaves him a much maligned uncloved hoofed over populated piece of meat who we're merely interested in for his chops. We certainly aren't interested in his well being. Hogwash you say? Well, as an example just look at last year's pseudorabies scare- the basis for action was based almost entirely on the economic impact, not overriding concern over the health of the foaming of the mouth pigs. Years of negative imagery in our literature, in our media portrayals tend to bias our view toward the animal. Go ahead, call up someone tonight and call them a "swine," see if they ever go to dinner with you again. Is there any more damning symbolism than that innocent little piggie bank we all had as children? We are taught at the earliest of ages that what is inside the pig is where the money is at.
To learn this lesson doesn't come without extracting a price. Believe me I am not what is known in the utmost inner circles as a "sow lover" because I'm certainly known as a guy who enjoys his bacon. Fix me a pork chop Susie and I'm almost in hog heaven. And what about the now fairly old study that shows that 67% of pigs, particularly those that build their homes out of straw and sticks are now homeless? Only those that have homes made out of bricks remain properly sheltered.
Similarly there's that ever-puzzling analogy of the pig that went to the market, and another that stayed home. The third pig, the story goes, had roast beef, while the fourth had none. The last piggy, this party piggy, went "wee wee wee wee" all the way home. I'm never been quite sure what to make of that tale. But as I arrived back from my day in Albert Lea somehow the meaning of it all seemed just a little bit closer.
Last Tuesday I woke up at five o'clock in the blessed morning, forced myself out the door and drove for two hours down to Albert Lea only to learn that there are too many pigs in this state. Now I'm just as big a fan of humanity as the next person, indeed some of my best friends are people, but to hear such a blunt stating of the obvious was more than a tad disconcerting. The lesson learned actually had nothing to do with a study released the same day showing one out five Americans is obese. Oink! Oink! (And don't get me started about the supposed coincidence that the number just happens to match the number of dentists who prefer sugarless gum for their patients that chew gum. Obviously to me at least, there is an uncomfortable correlation.)
Contrasting the crankiness that inevitably results from dragging yourself from beneath the warmth of your covers, driving in the dark to some God forsaken spot, fighting the traffic at such an unnatural hour, was a sign just outside Albert Lea that read, "Hope- One Mile." How many weary travelers do you figure have driven by that sign, and at the spur of a moment took the exit to find out if the sign lived up to its unassuming promise? I was tempted to turn off but there was somewhere that I was supposed to be, pork related news waiting for me.
At a hearing of the House Agriculture and Rural Development Finance Committee, representatives from Hormel said the supply of pigs in the state outweighs the demand. Unfortunately so long as that situation exists (and it appears to be a rather problematic and complex issue to address- with no easy apparent answers) the difficulties pork producers are facing will inevitably continue.
Pork consumption in the state has been on a steady increase in the 1990's due in part to the industry's successful "The Other White Meat" advertising campaign. The increase followed a decade long decline related to a general lessening in the amount of meat people ate- a movement based on cholesterol conscious Americans trying to eat more healthy meals, and also due in part to the rapid increase in the amount of chicken consumed. And as the results of last week's obesity study show our ever changing collective diet most certainly seems to be working (looked at one way I guess we should all be happy that as a nation four out of five of us are not obese). Yet the amount of pork consumed appears to be leveling off, the increase at this point appears to be from our population growth- not so much that people are eating more and more of the meat.
So where does this leave Porky? The answer isn't very pretty. It leaves him a much maligned uncloved hoofed over populated piece of meat who we're merely interested in for his chops. We certainly aren't interested in his well being. Hogwash you say? Well, as an example just look at last year's pseudorabies scare- the basis for action was based almost entirely on the economic impact, not overriding concern over the health of the foaming of the mouth pigs. Years of negative imagery in our literature, in our media portrayals tend to bias our view toward the animal. Go ahead, call up someone tonight and call them a "swine," see if they ever go to dinner with you again. Is there any more damning symbolism than that innocent little piggie bank we all had as children? We are taught at the earliest of ages that what is inside the pig is where the money is at.
To learn this lesson doesn't come without extracting a price. Believe me I am not what is known in the utmost inner circles as a "sow lover" because I'm certainly known as a guy who enjoys his bacon. Fix me a pork chop Susie and I'm almost in hog heaven. And what about the now fairly old study that shows that 67% of pigs, particularly those that build their homes out of straw and sticks are now homeless? Only those that have homes made out of bricks remain properly sheltered.
Similarly there's that ever-puzzling analogy of the pig that went to the market, and another that stayed home. The third pig, the story goes, had roast beef, while the fourth had none. The last piggy, this party piggy, went "wee wee wee wee" all the way home. I'm never been quite sure what to make of that tale. But as I arrived back from my day in Albert Lea somehow the meaning of it all seemed just a little bit closer.
Monday, October 25, 1999
Hollow Missing
To be booed takes on a whole other meaning during Halloween. Self inflicted jeering turns to deeper reflection with thoughts and feeling that are intense enough to scare even yourself. It is the time of year of being haunted, of remembering a ghost that escorted the boy with a pith helmet down Summit Avenue through the gigantic neatly manicured lawns up to the big wooden doors at the end of impressive porches, attached to substantial houses. The ghost who was never to leave the boy couldn't quite make it back home with all her candy in tact. There was a desperation in her actions. "What tastes sweet now turns so sour," she said. Although she had eaten too much already and was suffering from an all too frequent sugar overload she had to sample each and every treat they were handed by weary homeowners who thought they looked a little too old for the annual custom.
Many years later, now a homeowner, the boy had his own annual tradition come October 31. He would pick up his usually affable but semi-neurotic if not usually comatose cat, Mr. Max, under the cat's ample belly and take him to the kitchen where a vat of black shoe polish awaited. Gently dipping Mr. Max into the vat the gray striped short haired kitty with a butterscotch underside took on a brand new look- the fearful feline whose path one wasn't supposed to cross, especially on this particular day. The tradition had begun the first year the two moved into the brick house on a busy St. Paul street where every trick or treater's ring of the door bell had Mr. Max at his wit's end. The boy found the change of appearance, the shiny costume was enough to distract Mr. Max's mind and scare the kiddies at the door all at the same time. A costume, a slight change of appearance was enough to get Max's mind thinking not of soul's lost but of a potential brand new beginning.
But this year was different. It had been a year where events dictated a certain draining of the spirit, where as much as possible one wanted to hold on to things relied upon in the past as much as the need to change the routine so as to start anew and somehow, some way move forward again. It was exactly a year ago to this time when the boy left Mr. Max alone for a night and through the gentle encouragement of one who always seemed to know when that gentle encouragement was most needed found himself driving north past the fallen leaves (having just missed their wondrous colors) to see a performer perform in his Iron Range hometown city. The night was special as the boy roamed the barren downtown streets on a brisk afternoon eventually ending up at the edge of Lake Superior where a couple of ghosts accompanied him with an endless marathon stinging.
On his drive home the boy felt an undying temptation to just keep on driving- somewhere- anywhere and leave his trivial troubles behind. But there was a responsibility if not a job, and there was a cat that needed his presence. This year thus marked an anniversary of sorts and the boy and Mr. Max had to do something a little different from the norm. So fighting the ever creeping agoraphobia the two decided rather than stay at home and hand out bags of Reeses Peanut Butter cups to the never ending stream of elf like mitts, they too would join the crowd and venture through the streets.
It had been awhile since the two had taken a walk together. Back in days when taking small steps was a constant meaningful reminder of how far the two had come from nearby days, they would venture outside the small efficiency that housed all that was left, and stroll through the neighborhood with the boy puffing on his long forgotten pipe. While patiently allowing the strapping on of the thin black harness attached to the leash, Mr. Max's anticipation was visible. After the securing procedure was complete Mr. Max headed immediately to the door and stood with his nose pressed against the wood until the boy finally was ready to open it. Once outside he occasionally would forget he was attached to the leash and as he caught whiff of an odor carried by the wind, he would take off full speed only to be yanked back unmercifully by the leash. The boy would try to keep up with the speedy Mr. Max but inevitably the cat would tumble backwards.
So as the evening lights settled the two headed out one last time. The last door they came across was opened by a girl that seemed to have been waiting for their arrival. The boy took off his mask. The girl, who knew how to fix up broken homes, offered her hand, unafraid, unobtrusively, and with a sincerity that was equally as comforting as it was unexpected. "I've forgotten more than you ever knew," she said with a snort. "And that wasn't all that much to begin with." Though he knew it wasn't always going to be there and that he didn't dare hold on too long, the boy was grateful for the assistance. He was glad that he was still able to smile. As they left her door there was a palatable renewal of spirit. Still more than a tad unsteady the boy nonetheless felt glad for having met her. To survive the fall that was could only make him stronger.
Many years later, now a homeowner, the boy had his own annual tradition come October 31. He would pick up his usually affable but semi-neurotic if not usually comatose cat, Mr. Max, under the cat's ample belly and take him to the kitchen where a vat of black shoe polish awaited. Gently dipping Mr. Max into the vat the gray striped short haired kitty with a butterscotch underside took on a brand new look- the fearful feline whose path one wasn't supposed to cross, especially on this particular day. The tradition had begun the first year the two moved into the brick house on a busy St. Paul street where every trick or treater's ring of the door bell had Mr. Max at his wit's end. The boy found the change of appearance, the shiny costume was enough to distract Mr. Max's mind and scare the kiddies at the door all at the same time. A costume, a slight change of appearance was enough to get Max's mind thinking not of soul's lost but of a potential brand new beginning.
But this year was different. It had been a year where events dictated a certain draining of the spirit, where as much as possible one wanted to hold on to things relied upon in the past as much as the need to change the routine so as to start anew and somehow, some way move forward again. It was exactly a year ago to this time when the boy left Mr. Max alone for a night and through the gentle encouragement of one who always seemed to know when that gentle encouragement was most needed found himself driving north past the fallen leaves (having just missed their wondrous colors) to see a performer perform in his Iron Range hometown city. The night was special as the boy roamed the barren downtown streets on a brisk afternoon eventually ending up at the edge of Lake Superior where a couple of ghosts accompanied him with an endless marathon stinging.
On his drive home the boy felt an undying temptation to just keep on driving- somewhere- anywhere and leave his trivial troubles behind. But there was a responsibility if not a job, and there was a cat that needed his presence. This year thus marked an anniversary of sorts and the boy and Mr. Max had to do something a little different from the norm. So fighting the ever creeping agoraphobia the two decided rather than stay at home and hand out bags of Reeses Peanut Butter cups to the never ending stream of elf like mitts, they too would join the crowd and venture through the streets.
It had been awhile since the two had taken a walk together. Back in days when taking small steps was a constant meaningful reminder of how far the two had come from nearby days, they would venture outside the small efficiency that housed all that was left, and stroll through the neighborhood with the boy puffing on his long forgotten pipe. While patiently allowing the strapping on of the thin black harness attached to the leash, Mr. Max's anticipation was visible. After the securing procedure was complete Mr. Max headed immediately to the door and stood with his nose pressed against the wood until the boy finally was ready to open it. Once outside he occasionally would forget he was attached to the leash and as he caught whiff of an odor carried by the wind, he would take off full speed only to be yanked back unmercifully by the leash. The boy would try to keep up with the speedy Mr. Max but inevitably the cat would tumble backwards.
So as the evening lights settled the two headed out one last time. The last door they came across was opened by a girl that seemed to have been waiting for their arrival. The boy took off his mask. The girl, who knew how to fix up broken homes, offered her hand, unafraid, unobtrusively, and with a sincerity that was equally as comforting as it was unexpected. "I've forgotten more than you ever knew," she said with a snort. "And that wasn't all that much to begin with." Though he knew it wasn't always going to be there and that he didn't dare hold on too long, the boy was grateful for the assistance. He was glad that he was still able to smile. As they left her door there was a palatable renewal of spirit. Still more than a tad unsteady the boy nonetheless felt glad for having met her. To survive the fall that was could only make him stronger.
Monday, October 11, 1999
Holey Man
Just how do you go about writing about the most significant loss of your life? There aren't any words that can possibly even begin to express the sadness, the hole left inside. For someone used to using writing not only as an outlet of expression but also as a method of sorting out the stuff inside- it must be more than a tad frustrating to not really be able to write about the pain of the loss which is only equaled by the pointlessness of the words that are left inside. There aren't adequate words to even begin to do justice to what you feel but at the same time you almost feel overly obligated to try.
Paul McCartney is perhaps the most talented writer ever that rarely reveals his emotions. His songs are as skillful at concealing his heart as they are at revealing it on rare occasions. Paul is more often effective at using his music as craftsmanlike entertainment rather than for any lofty artistic ambition. That skill fits his personality perfectly as the utmost populist. Yet the forever sunny soul has shown cracks during his most difficult public moments. The days following John Lennon's murder Paul did the only thing he could do- he went to the recording studio to work. When a reporter shoved a microphone in his face to get a comment on John's death Paul muttered the immortal words, "It's a drag." As sentimental as the man appears to be, he has never been one to lay himself out emotionally as well as say, Mr. Lennon did.
The time following the death of his wife Linda, Paul once again headed back to the studio to finish up the album of her songs that the couple was working on. Since Linda never had the comparable talent of say, Yoko Ono, the Wild Prairie project was seemingly more therapeutic for Paul than being of any creative value.
So for McCartney fans there has been interest to see what his own next album would be. How would he touch on the death of his wife from the same cancer that took his mother from his life at a young age? Would he write heartfelt spiritual tomes pondering the question of life? In "Here Today" his moving tribute to Lennon, he took the approach of writing about personal memories singing them directly to John. Would he take a similar approach with the loss of Linda and finally lay open feelings about what made that marriage work so well? Last week with the release of the retrospective rather than introspective Run Devil Run, we sorta got an answer. As he has done in the past, Paul gets back to yesterday to move himself forward. The CD, recorded a year after Linda's death during a three month period, is Paul's second album to feature covers of '50's rock and roll songs that influenced him as a writer/musician. The goal seems to be to capture the magic of Elvis' unmatched Sun Session recordings. The song selection itself is inspired from Gene Vincent's "Blue Jean Bop" to Ricky Nelson's "Lonesome Town" to Carl Perkins' wonderfully jaunty "Movie Magg."
So what does Run Devil Run reveal? It shows a masterful musician singing and playing his heart out. Unlike most McCartney solo efforts the songs go for feeling rather than the ever futile attempt to remain an "artist" of significance. This is a man who is doing what he does best- to deal with his loss- he's singing the songs that touched him as a youth in hope that they can take him back to another time if only for a moment. It isn't a man singing openly about his grief but rather trying to deal with a heavy heart by singing the songs that brought him joy early on in life. And as a result the meaning of the songs to him comes clearly flowing through. Paul lovingly uses others' songs to express what he himself can't quite put into words.
The faithfulness of the arrangements and styles pay homage to '50's rock and roll while putting the ever polished McCartney signature on each track. He once again forcefully refutes his reputation as a sappy balladeer by rocking out through the CD's 15 tracks as soulfully as John ever did. Yet it is in the quieter moments when the effort of it all is McCartney at his breathtaking best. During Nelson's forever classic "Lonesome Town" the way Paul cries out at the upper range of his vocal register, "In the town of broken dreams, the streets are filled with regrets/Maybe down in lonesome town I can learn to forget..." shows emotion so nakedly rare for him. This is the voice of a man that will go on as he always has yet with the acknowledgment that he will never quite be the same again. Nostalgia gives way to timelessness. The spirit whose memory will always be there gives way to the voice you can't ever forget.
Paul McCartney is perhaps the most talented writer ever that rarely reveals his emotions. His songs are as skillful at concealing his heart as they are at revealing it on rare occasions. Paul is more often effective at using his music as craftsmanlike entertainment rather than for any lofty artistic ambition. That skill fits his personality perfectly as the utmost populist. Yet the forever sunny soul has shown cracks during his most difficult public moments. The days following John Lennon's murder Paul did the only thing he could do- he went to the recording studio to work. When a reporter shoved a microphone in his face to get a comment on John's death Paul muttered the immortal words, "It's a drag." As sentimental as the man appears to be, he has never been one to lay himself out emotionally as well as say, Mr. Lennon did.
The time following the death of his wife Linda, Paul once again headed back to the studio to finish up the album of her songs that the couple was working on. Since Linda never had the comparable talent of say, Yoko Ono, the Wild Prairie project was seemingly more therapeutic for Paul than being of any creative value.
So for McCartney fans there has been interest to see what his own next album would be. How would he touch on the death of his wife from the same cancer that took his mother from his life at a young age? Would he write heartfelt spiritual tomes pondering the question of life? In "Here Today" his moving tribute to Lennon, he took the approach of writing about personal memories singing them directly to John. Would he take a similar approach with the loss of Linda and finally lay open feelings about what made that marriage work so well? Last week with the release of the retrospective rather than introspective Run Devil Run, we sorta got an answer. As he has done in the past, Paul gets back to yesterday to move himself forward. The CD, recorded a year after Linda's death during a three month period, is Paul's second album to feature covers of '50's rock and roll songs that influenced him as a writer/musician. The goal seems to be to capture the magic of Elvis' unmatched Sun Session recordings. The song selection itself is inspired from Gene Vincent's "Blue Jean Bop" to Ricky Nelson's "Lonesome Town" to Carl Perkins' wonderfully jaunty "Movie Magg."
So what does Run Devil Run reveal? It shows a masterful musician singing and playing his heart out. Unlike most McCartney solo efforts the songs go for feeling rather than the ever futile attempt to remain an "artist" of significance. This is a man who is doing what he does best- to deal with his loss- he's singing the songs that touched him as a youth in hope that they can take him back to another time if only for a moment. It isn't a man singing openly about his grief but rather trying to deal with a heavy heart by singing the songs that brought him joy early on in life. And as a result the meaning of the songs to him comes clearly flowing through. Paul lovingly uses others' songs to express what he himself can't quite put into words.
The faithfulness of the arrangements and styles pay homage to '50's rock and roll while putting the ever polished McCartney signature on each track. He once again forcefully refutes his reputation as a sappy balladeer by rocking out through the CD's 15 tracks as soulfully as John ever did. Yet it is in the quieter moments when the effort of it all is McCartney at his breathtaking best. During Nelson's forever classic "Lonesome Town" the way Paul cries out at the upper range of his vocal register, "In the town of broken dreams, the streets are filled with regrets/Maybe down in lonesome town I can learn to forget..." shows emotion so nakedly rare for him. This is the voice of a man that will go on as he always has yet with the acknowledgment that he will never quite be the same again. Nostalgia gives way to timelessness. The spirit whose memory will always be there gives way to the voice you can't ever forget.
Monday, October 4, 1999
The Great Potato Famine of 1999
Cross my heart and hope to die I swear they must have lived happily ever after. Ruly just would never know. While a globe of people were working on avoiding the millennium bug, Ruly was the one when asked what he thought of the Y2K problem would inevitably and invariably say with only a slight hint of snicker in his most deadpan voice, "The question isn't Y2K, it's Y2B?"
One day he found himself sitting at the desk of the person who was driving him to a not so instant ulcer. Maybe it wasn't a mere coincidence her name rhymed with Hades. The sympathetic power of beauty whirled by and revealed that she had discovered the meaning of life the previous night. "It's to always remain curious. As soon as you lose your curiosity, your desire to learn, you die," she said as she scurried away. It was one of the repeated times Ruly mistook intimacy for love. He never forgot her unmatchable skill for making each and every one of the people who worked for her feel special somehow.
Sure enough he was eventually sent away, mostly voluntarily for being a hopeless romantic. He was on the fringe of a desperate edge where breaking down was no different than breaking up; where as good as he felt for two years (and in a way he'd never felt better) he now knew those warm inspired feelings were all wrong. His self imposed exodus behind the colorless but graying metal bars was spent trying to write his way out. Ruly didn't write to the warden, and he didn't write to the governor. He wrote to the dishwasher who washed her marbles in the kitchen sink not minding much if she lost one or two.
He called the mother to find out she wasn't home. He said he didn't want to leave a message because, "Your daughter is sorta mad at me right now." "My daughter doesn't get mad," the slightly polite but stern British voice said through the crackle of the airport pay phone. Ruly remembered it was at another airport pay phone not that long before where he talked to her daughter who was stark naked just out of the shower the day her uncle fell off the top of a bus meaning they couldn't get together while he was in town. He wanted to tell the mother he wasn't angry, he was mad. Or at the very least on the verge of madness. Even with his Latin roots he often wondered why certain words like stress and depressed rhymed so effortlessly. Some of us are on-line while others of us in-line, Ruly concluded many years later.
He finally got out when he revealed to those who mattered that if he were to be reincarnated as a fabric, he would come back as Velcro so he could hold things together. He then went on to write a fictional biography of a former President who didn't so much go mad as he did senile. A rather sad tale in the end where the writer's life was far more endemic to the story than the biographic subject.
At the checkout desk a cohort in his crafts class told Ruly she had been in after each and every one of her children's births. It was a common malady she was told, kind of like clockwork if not too entirely routine. She wished him well with a kindness to offset the harsh experience he would never be able to forget. It was like during an eclipse with darkness descending how the experts always warned people not to look directly at the intensely lessening light but the self destructive part always was so tempted to just take a peek- just to see why you shouldn't look. Ruly did manage to amuse another mother who demonstrated a keen awareness, by relating he cracked a tooth eating a donut filled with raspberry filling. She smiled knowing only he could manage such a feat. It was another total eclipse of the heart.
They sat on a park bench holding two dogs at the end of their leashes. He told her the last remaining piece not so much out of desperate understanding but more so out of need. She didn't move, didn't look phased. It was significant but his attention was more on the frolicking mocha colored young Labrador short haired German Shepherd puppy who teased the usually unmatchable in the frisky category, Rat Terrier. It was a day he would try to forget but would never live down. She said the most upsetting thing that he could almost bare but would forever keep to himself, even though she had shown she understood the spiritual sadness that consumed him. It wasn't the same game anymore. She simply didn't have further time for his shenanigans.
Ruly had endured a stressful grocery trip where he saw a foursome embrace. One of the couples' children screamed in ecstasy. The child continued screaming during Ruly's entire visit, rolling spastically on the grocery store tile. Under the maddening din he bought two bags of groceries for her. As she picked them up he forgot to give her her bag of potatoes (pronounced POH TAHH TOES). She promised an undelivered taste of her chocolate tort. The next day as he opened his mostly empty vegetable drawer he saw the sack of spuds. It was the last straw. He started weeping. It wasn't exactly spilt milk but it was the next closest thing. Once upon a time.
One day he found himself sitting at the desk of the person who was driving him to a not so instant ulcer. Maybe it wasn't a mere coincidence her name rhymed with Hades. The sympathetic power of beauty whirled by and revealed that she had discovered the meaning of life the previous night. "It's to always remain curious. As soon as you lose your curiosity, your desire to learn, you die," she said as she scurried away. It was one of the repeated times Ruly mistook intimacy for love. He never forgot her unmatchable skill for making each and every one of the people who worked for her feel special somehow.
Sure enough he was eventually sent away, mostly voluntarily for being a hopeless romantic. He was on the fringe of a desperate edge where breaking down was no different than breaking up; where as good as he felt for two years (and in a way he'd never felt better) he now knew those warm inspired feelings were all wrong. His self imposed exodus behind the colorless but graying metal bars was spent trying to write his way out. Ruly didn't write to the warden, and he didn't write to the governor. He wrote to the dishwasher who washed her marbles in the kitchen sink not minding much if she lost one or two.
He called the mother to find out she wasn't home. He said he didn't want to leave a message because, "Your daughter is sorta mad at me right now." "My daughter doesn't get mad," the slightly polite but stern British voice said through the crackle of the airport pay phone. Ruly remembered it was at another airport pay phone not that long before where he talked to her daughter who was stark naked just out of the shower the day her uncle fell off the top of a bus meaning they couldn't get together while he was in town. He wanted to tell the mother he wasn't angry, he was mad. Or at the very least on the verge of madness. Even with his Latin roots he often wondered why certain words like stress and depressed rhymed so effortlessly. Some of us are on-line while others of us in-line, Ruly concluded many years later.
He finally got out when he revealed to those who mattered that if he were to be reincarnated as a fabric, he would come back as Velcro so he could hold things together. He then went on to write a fictional biography of a former President who didn't so much go mad as he did senile. A rather sad tale in the end where the writer's life was far more endemic to the story than the biographic subject.
At the checkout desk a cohort in his crafts class told Ruly she had been in after each and every one of her children's births. It was a common malady she was told, kind of like clockwork if not too entirely routine. She wished him well with a kindness to offset the harsh experience he would never be able to forget. It was like during an eclipse with darkness descending how the experts always warned people not to look directly at the intensely lessening light but the self destructive part always was so tempted to just take a peek- just to see why you shouldn't look. Ruly did manage to amuse another mother who demonstrated a keen awareness, by relating he cracked a tooth eating a donut filled with raspberry filling. She smiled knowing only he could manage such a feat. It was another total eclipse of the heart.
They sat on a park bench holding two dogs at the end of their leashes. He told her the last remaining piece not so much out of desperate understanding but more so out of need. She didn't move, didn't look phased. It was significant but his attention was more on the frolicking mocha colored young Labrador short haired German Shepherd puppy who teased the usually unmatchable in the frisky category, Rat Terrier. It was a day he would try to forget but would never live down. She said the most upsetting thing that he could almost bare but would forever keep to himself, even though she had shown she understood the spiritual sadness that consumed him. It wasn't the same game anymore. She simply didn't have further time for his shenanigans.
Ruly had endured a stressful grocery trip where he saw a foursome embrace. One of the couples' children screamed in ecstasy. The child continued screaming during Ruly's entire visit, rolling spastically on the grocery store tile. Under the maddening din he bought two bags of groceries for her. As she picked them up he forgot to give her her bag of potatoes (pronounced POH TAHH TOES). She promised an undelivered taste of her chocolate tort. The next day as he opened his mostly empty vegetable drawer he saw the sack of spuds. It was the last straw. He started weeping. It wasn't exactly spilt milk but it was the next closest thing. Once upon a time.
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