My mind tonight is quite gordian. I think I may be trying to force something that just isn't there. Like drawing, sometimes you don't have it.

So, I'm just going to write. To 'bleed' in the parlance of Mister Hemingway.

There are a few stressers currently that are likely creating disruption in my usual thinking. Most notably is the Missus.

Grief by Mail

She's been slowly recovering from a rough illness. Today, she was particularly affected by a book someone mailed to her mother. It was the story of her father's life with photos. Quite a nice production. I have only seen photos, but I am guessing it is primarily the text of the obituary I wrote for him and laid out with the generous collection of photography we accumulated.

It is a kind thing to have. But it caught her off guard to be reminded of him in that way. My assessment is that part of her illness was the weight of the deaths and the book likely focused all of that emotional energy at a single point in time.

She broke down a little tonight. But not in a bad way. It is really a human requirement to acknowledge we have those feelings. They cannot be buried indefinitely. And I can hear her laughing at something from the next room. So that is a good sign.

I do not think she'll be solid enough to drive to Tennessee this weekend for our camping trip. Which is a shame. I think more than anything else, I have a need to travel. But, I'll do the thing that mule's do and keep going forward. It's been a big aid spending time with my friends in the volunteer work.

It helps cut through my knotted mind.

Tilting at Windmills

There's a fair amount of frustration dealing with my colleagues at the moment. You know the old saying that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action but expecting different results? I keep explaining that to solve some problems, we need to try different approaches, but all I get are nods and then the team does what they've always done. It's ridiculous.

It is true that you have to pick your battles. But I find a recurring, almost Sisyphian in the most mundane of things. We will decide to solve a problem by certain action, only later to just go back to doing the thing that made the problem.

My best friend recommends not fighting those battles, to let them go. But then in short order someone (sometimes that same friend) asks me why the problem is back.

I like to imagine I am a misunderstood genius. Only, there's not much evidence for the genius part. That's the power of imagination, ladies and gentlemen.

Cluck That

Once, when we were in west Africa, I commented on what seemed like a lot of domestic livestock wandering around un-penned and unleashed. The chickens in particular seem to be run amok.

So, I asked a local man, “Who owns these chickens? they seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh,” he answered dismissively, “they know who they belong to.”

“The chickens know?” I was incredulous. “That doesn't seem likely.”

“Trust me,” the man said, now with a sheepish grin. “Pick one up, the bird will cry its owners name and you and the chicken will immediately know who the owner is!”

The moral of the story, if there is one, is that you don't always see the whole picture. Stay objective.

Quackonauts

My bodacious bride just popped by to remind me that I need to earn an income. “You should write a children's book!” she prompts.

I have. I just can't be bothered to finish anything. I am a perpetual starter. Finishing... that's for pros, not floundering wannabees.

She suggests: “A coloring book of ducks in space, or something.”

Me, the auteur, simply cannot descend to the depths of producing such schlock!!

Or... maybe writing about the Feathernauts waddling into orbit is something I could do. They meet the strange sponge-pigs of venus and have to solve the puzzle of how to keep water on the moons of jupiter so they can flock there in the solar winter.

Or, in search of the great cosmic pond to ask the water fowl of the light the ultimate question, they inadvertently extinguish the sun's giggle-core and have to team up with the Fireflivians to reignite it.

It's so tough to be a tortured artist.

Economy

I do not care for the concept of 'economy class'. How can you separate the experience for how much pay for it? Even though the flight crew is top notch and I feel like I am getting superior service, I see the word economy and I feel like a cheapskate.

But, that is probably because I AM a cheapskate. Which is a misnomer... poor is more likely the accurate description. A cheapskate can afford first class, but only pays for economy because he wishes to cling to that hard earned fiat. A poor person on the other hand will spend money he doesn't have to achieve a level of comfort that probably isn't necessary.

Paying to Soon

I was hassled at Kotoka International by a local man named Collins. He was a typical hustler looking to make a dollar by helping travelers. In developing countries, the roles are not as officious as we are used to in the west. While initially VERY helpful, the longer he was with us the more insistent the became about the weight of our bags, I generously tipped him $20, but I did it too early. After disappearing for twenty minutes, he reappeared upstairs and insisted that I needed to bring another guy. There was no way he could carry our 4 bags to the second floor. Unfortunately, my mate was no help. She just encouraged me to shovel him more cash. This is the definition of a swindle.

A Real Swindle

I spoke too soon. In 1993 we had been married a year. My new wife surprised me by booking a week long trip to Montego Bay Jamaica. I wasn't thrilled initially, but her effervescent persuasion brought me around.

And it was a terrific trip. We stayed right on the beach in this garishly pink hotel with a bamboo door and balcony overlooking the ocean. To this day a few of my favorite photos are of the two of us on that balcony. We couldn't get enough of each other in those days lazying on the beach, snorkeling, reading, dancing... what a great time.

In my father's garage, way up on a shelf is a giant mahogany fish we brought him from a wood carver we met. By huge, I mean, if it had been any bigger, we couldn't have carried it back. I don't know what I was thinking. It is the size of a large suitcase and I managed to get it into the plane as a carry-on. Such were the differences in air travel pre-nine-eleven. It was worth it. For sixty dollars I picked up a piece that would retail in a gallery for at least $2,500.

It was on that same shopping trip that I met my swindler.

We'd adventured off the tourist path, emboldened by some local friends who gave us the confidence to find ourselves the only Americans places that today you simply can't visit. A few bars (in the middle of the day mind you), a shopping mall and what I can only describe as a flea market. The Jamaican's called a 'market' but it was really metal huts swarming with locals.

This is the sort of place where residents shop so you can get much better deals on whatever you need than the shops designed to cater to tourists. But, as a tourist, you become a quick mark.

As we left the market, we were trying to hail a cab. But they were far and few between way out here in the sticks. An enterprising young man approached me.

“Hey sir!” Big smile. The young guys called everyone sir back then. “You need a ride? I have a great car, I'd be happy to drop you at your hotel.”

I was 20 years old and while not completely devoid of sense, I was far too trusting. Looking back, this feels like the setup to a kidnapping. But I just said, 'SURE!'

We haggled some on price. “I CAN'T do it for less than ten.”

“Come on, man!” I defended. “The cabs are only eight dollars to get here. I can do five.”

“AH! Sir, you drive a hard bargain.” Feigning injury, “you're right, but we are so far and I have to drive there and back, while the cabs can get a fare going both directions. Please, let's say $8 and you'll be helping a young struggling Jamaican.”

My lady fully endorsed this. She's always been pretty eager to spread cash around. She says it goes back to her waitressing days.

My stinginess goes back to my roofing days. Money was just too damned hard to get. I've softened a lot over the years. I'm a tad too easy-come-easy-go at this point.

On the drive back, I asked, “If you see a liquor place, do you mind stopping? I'd like to pick up a few things.”

In my mind now, the two in the front seat cartoonishly side glanced at each other before the passenger said, “Oh, Sir! You need liquor? What kind are you looking for?”

“I'm in the market for some good Jamaican rum, a few bottles of it.” I shared eagerly, thinking i was helping our navigator decide the best local spot would be. Which was probably back at the tin hut alley.

“Well! I know a GREAT place, very cheap. VERY cheap. How much you want? I can get 4 liters for $20 usd.” He shared excitedly.

His excitement was infectious. “Four! That would be terrific. We need four. Is it far away.”

“A little far sir, it will take us maybe thirty minutes to get there. It's past the hotel.” The friendly man was flashing big toothy smiles my way as we talked. But I wasn't really in the mood for another ninety minutes to be tacked to our day.

“Eh, that's a little far. We have a dinner appointment.” I tried to get out of the arrangement even as it was starting to gel.

But my would-be guide wouldn't let the fish get away.

He exclaimed, “Oh, I can go get it and bring it back. You give me your hotel room number and in two hours I will deliver the bottles to you.”

Now, I wasn't so confident and clueless as not to think they would just keep my money and run. I knew it was a risk. but they had charmed me and I really wanted to believe them.

So, my twenty went from my pocket to his hand never to be seen again.

Two hours later, I commented to my wife that maybe we'd been cheated.

“Duh.” she said, “I knew those guys weren't bringing us bottles of liquor.”

“Why didn't you say something or try to stop me?” I was injured that she had been so astute while I, so naive.

“Well, it seemed to me that you liked them and were having a good time. I figured worst case, we had a good story to tell. And best case, we'd have four bottles of rum to go with it.”

I couldn't argue with her logic. She was right.

I've told this story many times over the years. Sometimes to illustrate the power of persuasion and sometimes just because I like telling it. I enjoy the self deprecation.

In any case, I did get a good story out of it. Though, some rum would have been pretty great too.

Thank you for letting me go on, reader. My gordian delima is assuaged and having spun my yarn here, I now find myself quite ready to sleep.

So, until next we meet, may your sleep be sweet and the moon light your path in the dark.

WIWL

#memoir #journal #travel #memory

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

yay, more loss

Living 59 days longer than his 2nd daughter, Chris made it almost to 90. Almost. At 4:45 am CST he legally ended his time here. Finally beating the game of life. Winning his fight against city hall. In truth, his life ended months ago. He’s been a crumbling husk for… well long enough that I’m having a hard time remembering him any other way.

What an inglorious death. To waste waste waste away into the ether with a whimper. Where is the rage against the dying light? Maybe that’s something you are supposed to do now while you still can. Before sickness hobbles us. Like traveling to Spain or France or driving around the country instead of warming this spot in on one’s study and marinating in sadness.

And rage.

Between the loss, the relief and the guilt, it is it difficult to know which is worse. For my life-partner, it is the loss. She has accepted this long ago but the shadow of her sister’s death is far more powerful. It’s a shame really that Deb’s loss will darken the coming weeks and what would be a celebration of a long life well lived will instead be sidelined by our thoughts of her. We'll be confused about this. What are we sad about? His loss, her loss, our loss? Missed friends? Spurned lovers? It will all boil and froth to the top and we'll have to confront it. Or numb it.

But, numbing only delays the inevitable.

At least my father-in-law doesn’t have to worry about losing his little girl any longer and she’ll never know the loss of her daddy. Silver linings.

This phase of life, the taking-more-than-giving part, comes to us all. And it f#@%ing sucks. For some of us, life starts taking a little sooner. Some fewer still—a lot sooner. But it comes to us all. It’s part of the journey we all take on the way to the long house of our fathers.

In spite of it being universally experiential, we just aren’t designed to confront this kind of ongoing load and loss. And so we flail and flop, grasping for meaning and wanting to feel whole. To be loved completely and not piecemeal. But it seems that’s just not something we can have now, the feeling of wholeness. Being complete. I glimpsed it once, and it was beautiful. But, as I said, it seems that it just isn't something we can have now. Instead, you and I are getting a PHD in patience.

It becomes a fight against bitterness and disdain.

It’s getting hard to see the clarity and beauty of life through all the tears. It’s hard to heal from ongoing assaults. I’m praying for the peace of God that excels all thought… but at night, when I am quiet in bed… a burrito on the edge of oblivion, I only have the specters of loss with me. I only have my amputated soul.

And so I want to escape the windbags and the a-holes and just walk in the woods for a while. To sit by a fire side and a waterfall and not think. That place of solitude that through my own life has been the restorative respite I need so desperately right now. Deb was my first experience with that respite. She introduced me to my first waterfall and my first peaceful night beside a fire. And Chris introduced her. How serendipitous.

But, i have a feeling that 'not thinking' is just not something I can do. Maybe the demons I keep locked in the bottles on the high shelf can help.

They at least offer the brilliance of numb. Then again… I think it’s the dance that lets us forget.

But what do I do with all of this… electricity? Surging and coursing through me is the fuel of a 1000 generations of drunken Scott’s, Irishmen, Danes and Indians fighting and f#@%ing through their funerary rites. But here’s little ole me, civilized and proper—speaking words of quiet and comfort in whispers when I really want to shout and flail and dance.

What is the right way to grieve? Quiet contemplation? Shouting? Rage? Death is quiet, but getting there sure isn't. It is loud and noisy. Muddy and fun. Maybe this is the time to burn and shout and rage in the face of the dark night. Making love and writing books. Painting and sculpting. Running and dancing. Talking—in whispers, and in song. When I go, please make your grieving a place of healing in whatever form that needs to be.

A walk in the woods will be good. I can howl at the moon that lights us all.

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

BY DYLAN THOMAS

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Worse Than I Imagined Then She Died Obituary The Parting Ceremony Oh, I Miss You

#memoir #memory #essay #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper