the turning: vigil / aftermath

"Your mother has taken a turn . . . "

Eyes closed shallow breathing. Words into her right ear. A hum a chorus not a groan an affirmation on each exhalation some sort of yes. The right arm rising not quite flailing. Calls and farewells held to her ear. Softly hold her hand down her right hand the nails done pink the other day by Adrianna. Holding hands. Warm yet warm blood coursing. Who the child. I had clasped her hand such that her skin so papery reddened near her ring. The right arm fitful the left arm still the rest of her stilled. Her chest slowly heaving. The pulse in her neck. 

"Turn! Turn! Turn!"

That song. The Book of Ecclesiastes.

"It is written . . . "

Circle of prayer. Our right hands raised in benediction. The aura of presence. A surrounding. An upper room on the ground floor. Us. An us.

Unable to get the words out at first my throat my heart.

Whispers into her ear.

The paperwhites, the poinsettias.

Kiss on the forehead. Kiss on the cheek.

The lamp. The vigil the night. Now turned toward us. Slower breath. Her tongue caught between her dry lips never saw that before not her custom. The morphine.

Nearing midnight my hand nearly numb let go her hand our hands let go. The blanket from Evelyn to cover her the cozy covering she so loved. Warm still warm. Her chest slowly heaving. The pulse in her neck. Slower.

"I love you. Good night." Not good bye who knows why.

Morning becomes mourning.

So cruelly rigid unmoving hollow dry so angled. 

So infinitely other than mere hours before.

Kiss on the forehead not her forehead anymore. Cold. She is gone. To somewhere there here anywhere everywhere. Other.

Can't stay in that room.

Exit.

Into the hall into the world this new old world turned.

One less leaf. 

The First Last Christmas

The nurse practitioner had recently assured me: this would be Mom's last Christmas, not merely because she is 102. Her heart is failing, she's not eating or drinking much, the end is near. It is the fullness of time, her time. People say, "I'm so sorry," but I choose to look on the unsorrowfulness of her having lived a full life (her past participle hovering now between present and past), her current comfort, the relief, the letting go. But I understand they don't know what else to say. So, I knew it would be the last Christmas. This did not make me dour or gloomy. Instead, it magnified my visit and vision, and slowed me down. I looked at the sidewalk and the building entrance more acutely, marking it for gratitude now and for memory later. To my surprise, I learned she had already eaten lunch at Oasis, the dining hall. I was a tad disappointed not to lunch with her, as we did on Thanksgiving, but oh well. As I walked the several hallways to her area, I saw a woman slumped over, sitting in a wheelchair in front of the nurses' station. Could that be her? Kind of unusual for her to be sitting there, not lying down in her room. It looked like her. It was. She was nodding off. I tapped her right arm. "Mom, it's me." As suggested by her aide Nicole the day before, I brought her a comfortable pillow, one with a soft and plush texture, like the blanket one daughter had given her and the other daughter had given her as a sweater. "Who's this for?" "It's for you, Mom. How do you like it? It feels nice, right?" She felt it and enthused about its softness. "Who made it?" "I got it at the store. It's for you. I got it at Marshall's." "Thank you." "You're welcome. Merry Christmas." I drew up a chair next to her and sat in it. Then I popped up and got a tissue and tried to clean some eye gunk in her left eye, though it's the right one that gets closed from gunk because she sleeps on that side. The dry tissue didn't work. I talked to two nurses or aides in the hall; they said I should talk to the nurse in the office behind the desk. She used baby lotion or something with a moist cloth or paper towel; each eye; it worked. I felt she could've been more gentle, but then maybe it wouldn't have worked if she had been. I sat a little while and then popped up again to get her cold apple juice with a straw. She loved that. I gave her the straw three or four times for sips. "What are you doing after this?" "I'm going to go for dinner at Ethan's. We're going to have turkey. There'll be six of us." "When are you going there?" "At 5:30. Maybe I'll take a nap first." (Maybe?) "How are the roads?" "They're fine." "You're going to Ethan's. That's nice. What time?" "5:30." "You're having turkey?" "Yeah. Remember, I made it many years when Beth had to work. It's not so hard. People make a big deal over it. The gravy's the thing, the hard part. You had the best gravy of anyone, Mom. The best." Her eyes brightened. "Yes, oh yeah." "One time, was it in Stamford, we didn't have any Gravy Master and you were looking all over for it. All you need is a few drops." "That Gravy Master is the secret ingredient." 

A family down the hall had a golden retriever with them. I importuned upon them to stop by. I knew she'd love petting that dog. she did.

"Well, I'm going to go, Mom. Do you want me to take you to your room to lie down or do you want to stay out here?" "I'll stay here." I kissed her on the cheek and then again on the forehead. "I love you, Mom. Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming, for always coming." "You're welcome. Why wouldn't I? Glad to do it." Our eyes locked. I walked down the hall, but not before waving to her and she to me, as if we were in the departure lounge at a bus station or airport. 

After the nap, I headed, solo, to Ethan's house, at 5:20. I felt but tried to ignore a low-grade hum of loneliness, sadness, and dreaded what-if-ness, not about Mom but about me and my journey thus far and today in particular. I feared a low-grade hum turning into a full-blast bass note. Approaching my son's house, I felt the evening darkness descend, the cold air blanket downward. This could be the last Christmas for any of us. Who are we to say? Who could be so cavalier or breezy to say otherwise? Sure, I'll be the oldest there, but we know what can happen in the blink of an eye, rudely disrespectful of age or station. And if a year later, we were absent, any one of us, or more, we would give the world to have this back again, pay any price, sell our souls and honor, anything, just this one time.

The shimmering snow crystals in the frozen, star-specked moonlight on the lawns to the left of the sidewalk. The town's bright holiday lights twinkling up ahead to the right. The patter of my footsteps. The strands of ice on the steps leading to the door. My hand on the railing. The barking dogs. The glass panes in the front door clouded over, frosty, from the condensation and warmth inside. 

sign language; or, zen koans

IF THE DOORS ARE OPEN PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM CLOSED

IF THE DOORS ARE CLOSED PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM CLOSED

IF THE DOORS ARE OPEN PLEASE DO LEAVE THEM OPEN

IF THE DOORS ARE DOORS PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM CLOSED

IF THE DOORS ARE WINDOWS PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM AS DOORS

IF THE DOORS ARE WALLS PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE THEM CLOSED

IF THE DOORS ARE WALLS PLEASE OPEN THEM

IF THE WINDOWS ARE DOORS PLEASE UNLOCK AND OPEN THEM

IF THE DOORS ARE DOORS PLEASE DO LEAVE THEM OPEN

IF WALLS COULD TALK WOULD DOORS HAVE EARS

IF EARS COULD TALK WHAT LANGUAGE WOULD THEY HEAR

AND IF A TIMES B EQUALS C SQUARED WHAT IS THE COSINE OF CUPIDITY 

flash point

He sat in his car across the street. Not exactly his car. The bank's. Which is true for most people. He was in the parking lot at the corner, the Sunoco station with the convenience store. It's rare if not impossible to find a gas station that sells only fuel. This one had diverse offerings: candy, dip, cigs, flavored coffees, flavored creamers, beers, sodas, bottled waters (including those with artisanal ingredients of purity, longevity, superiority), chips, cookies, beef jerky, hot dogs, hamburgers, sandwiches, lotto and scratchies. He hadn't bought gasoline. He was about to text a reply to someone, anyone, when he looked to his left, across the street where the strip mall offered cigars, coffee, discount groceries, and ultra-cheap everyday stuff. DOLLAR TREE. Its green display light kept flashing the AR. It made him wonder if it was a personal coded message directed at him, just him, that he was the only one seeing this. He kept staring at the flashing sign. He did not stare at it before he recognized it was flashing on and off, like you see in film noir movies but it's typically a movie marquis, a hotel, or an all-night restaurant for the lonely and lost in Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks" 1942 painting. And now he was hypnotized if that's the word. The blinking AR was just a distraction. Visual background noise. The flashing AR was the metronome for his trance. And his trance incessantly said DOLL TREE. That's what he saw. That's where his personal coded message was, where it had to be, in the words DOLL TREE. If it was said that money doesn't grow on trees, surely dolls didn't either. Not Barbie dolls or living, breathing beauty queens sometimes called dolls but not so much these days. What about TREE? Something to aspire to, to climb? Someone inordinately tall? Someone with great stature, fixity, and bearing? He shook his head, as if it were swatting flies. He shook his head, rousing himself from a reverie. He changed the mental channel. He went back to texting. But he forgot what he was texting, forgot to whom, and forgot why.

wait let me think

I look at the face. I can't remember the name that goes with it. This is frustrating. Annoying. I study the face. Try harder. No luck. It happens more and more. Old age. Or worse. Or it happens to everybody now and then. But I know that I know the name. To rewind, I know that I know the face, from somewhere. Not just the name. At one time the name was married to the face in my consciousness. So this is not a case of prosopagnosia, which I blogged about years ago. That's when you can't recognize a familiar face, often because of brain damage. This isn't that. I'll call this nomenprosopagnosia. That's a half-witted attempt to coin a useful word for this, based solely on my knowledge of nomen, the Latin word for name. See, four years of Latin is paying off. One of the reasons this annoys me is social. I do not want the embarrassment of asking someone their name if I clearly should know it. Save me from the possibility it's someone I know extremely well, say, a relative. I understand this can happen in high-stress situations, especially at introduction time. That's normal. The fear of that very forgetfulness happening heightens the pressure and the stress -- and the likelihood of a socially fatal error. Spread the net wider and you have a name-pool of friends and colleagues or former friends and former colleagues (some intimate) stretching all the way to mere acquaintances. I am willing to bet that this last category, mere acquaintance, is the most common breeding ground for this nomenloss, this nomenfright. Call it nomenamnesia. A memory trick often works for me. It's alphabetical. A. No, it's not Andrew or Amanda. B. Nope. Not Beth or Bob or Brenda or Billy. etc. Do the same with C, D, et cetera. You might get lucky early in the game. You might say to yourself, "E. Emily! Yes, that's it!" Why does that work? Or how? Do neuroscientists know? Sometimes, though, that little trick doesn't work, not even after you've gone through the alphabet, perhaps twice. And then you're back to Square One. No-Nomenland.

. . . and counting

. . . years, that is. you're as young as you feel. hate that expression. or: 70 years 'young.' puhleez. but yes better than the below-ground or for that matter above-ground funereal pyre-combustion-result alternatives. okay, so officially old. i'll take it. tho' not sure what changes occur regarding my juvenile habits, wants, desires, impatience, attitudes, pretensions, fantasies, poses, memories, laments, hopes, or dreams . . .

hey, sir!

Walking to the Boulangerie bistro by the coffee shop, I was in a hungry hurry. (The name of the place begs for a spooky underwear promo every October.) "Hey, sir!" I heard but kept walking for a step and a halt. "Hey, sir!" is the perfect intro for a panhandler or evangelist. Someone asking me to sign a petition, or to sell me something. Ask for exactly $1.73 to get a bus ticket to Auburn. As if. Keep walking. I was annoyed, mildly irritated. But I stopped. I stopped and turned. Did he say it twice? Was it an undertone of sincerity blended with urgency that stopped me in my tracks? "Did you drop this?" Or was it: "Is this yours?" A young professional. White shirt and tie. Who wears a white shirt anymore? Even in my corporate life I hadn't worn one since the 1990s. When our company president wore white short-sleeved shirts with a tie, I'd mock him. "Lee, what do you think this is, NASA in the Sixties?" He never wore one again. My interlocutor was Asian American. In his twenties. Is this what they call a millennial? A white envelope sat on the just-rained-on sidewalk. I picked it up. Or he picked it up and handed it to me. I saw right away that it was a bill from St. Camillus, the long-term care facility (nursing home). For Mom. A bill that had come in that day's mail. It must have slid out of my grip holding my laptop portfolio with my other mail, nothing of consequence. If so, I'd've handled it all more carefully. "Thanks." Now I can't piece it together. Did he say this from his Mercedes (Audi? Ford? Saturn? black? white?) with the window rolled down? Or was he walking in my wake? But my thanks was real. I detected an honest civility in his act, an uncommon courtesy. What if it was something terribly important, not just a bill that would be re-sent? An atmosphere of gratitude washed over me. No, seeped out of me, from within somewhere. I could have kept walking, I could have ignored his entreaty. Likewise, he too could have ignored what he saw, something dropping from a stranger's personal effects. He didn't ignore the seemingly minor mishap. Neither did I ignore him, ultimately. My irritation, disturbance, "rude" interruption took on a different complexion and turned things in a different direction. And I hadn't even bought my hungered-for lunch yet. 

Quotidian encounter. 

Small miracle.

thesaurus rex regina

Now you search the books in vain for a better word for lonely . . . 

 "Doesn't Lenny Live Here Anymore," Phil Ochs

adrift unmoored broken islanded hungry stranded abridged severed cut fractured vacant zeroed parched drowned halved kenneled asunder rent null quods torn unned x'ed entrailed gutted lost jonesed moitiéd wasted only yearning  

 

Small Acts

being there

absent

being here

AWOL

cold sheets crumpled

small ax chipping

away the last word

unsaid curses

speaking volumes

splaying fingertips

smack

one needle's

kissless breath

a death

a broken branch

brakes the cliff

as two strangers

across a room

clutch hands

almost

stepping off a Manhattan curb

taxi's concussive whooosh

you twelve feet behind

14th Street Union Square

a drop of blood

an aneurysm of ecstasy

the hot spinemelt of lava pleasure

purchased in vein

no dial tone

to text

my year of living dangerously

around the corner

around the bend

of a prisoned purse

pursued and purloined

before locking the door

after praying to

the dried rose

I once gave

her

you

robo-crush

'I would take care of it and it would take care of me.' -- Old, frail-looking man in green parka on subway, "Roomba Nation," Patricia Marx, The New Yorker, November 26, 2018

Take care.

Caregiver.

Command.

Performance.

Artificial.

Intelligence.

Limbs.

Artificial.

Heart.

Emotional.

Intelligence.

Feeling.

Virtual.

Reality.

Me.

You.

It.

Take.

Care.

Give or take.

palimpsest people

I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be.  

Joan Didion

82. He crashes his head onto my chest. The baby blanket draped over my shoulder. Will it hurt him? The rhythmic pacing and patting. The ardently sought burp. His eyes on mine. And when he cries it's full and all and now and forever. To him. I know, he doesn't know, it'll pass. Travail will not last. Baby, be my metaphor. The sobs of relief and joy into the bathroom towel before they came home. Triggered by John Lennon's Beautiful Boy.

54. The first-grader whom Mrs. Nutter called "Sunshine," memorialized in a photo lost, for now. The one who forever onward remembered "left" as the windows side in the classroom and "right" as the wall side with the entrance door; he who idolized Willie Mays but more so decades later cherished fatherly arms wrapped around him, secure, swinging at a lobbed baseball, this being the hugs and outward love signally recalled; he who played priest with a blanket over his shoulders, awed by the breathless fear of eternal hellfires and brimstoned purgatory mirrored. bookended, by pristine absolutioned after-bath crisp sheets purity. 

73. Soho. A few pounds sterling. Drunk. Another drink. A few more pounds. In for a dime in for a dollar. Another drink. More pounds. How much is that in dollars? Her name was Tanya.

77. At the altar, at a cathedral no less the velvet kneelspace of the prie-dieu not cushiony enough. Her back hurting, she in Renaissance array. Vows. Not a word of the sermon called to mind. Mom and Dad supposed to bring up the "gifts" but a foul-up, a confusion. Have and hold. For richer or for poorer. Sick or well. Unto death do they part. No incense. No asunder. No consummation, not here. The exchange of rings. Looking into the eyes. The hand places the ring on the finger. The public kiss. Not the consummation. The communion, even for Protestants. The beard, gone. The suit, not a tux. 

86. The splash of liquids, fluids, on the other side of the draped cloth. Here. It's a scissors. Here. What? Take the scissors and snip. Tough meat, that umbilical cord. Want to keep it? No, thanks. The fierce and roaring wind the night before. The nub on the bottom of her foot, subtracting from a perfect Apgar score but not hindering the strength or stamina or stretch of a soaring ballet career. Looking across the glass, at the latest crop of newborns: there, there, no, yes, there there that's her his beaming.

79b. Noon. Up the dark wooden stairs, slowly, hopefully, warily. Raise your hand. Stories. It was just stories. J. was there. Drunk in the middle of the night at a party months before on your side of town. He was not drunk now. Serene and sober. Just stories. Only an hour. The hot bath at home. New water. Lighter. Buoyant. Walking up those steps. And back down again.

97. Kentucky Derby. Waiting. Timing contractions. Chinese takeout from Seymour Street. Her walking, her nausea, her vomiting. What? She had taught childbirth. What was this? Walk halls with her, the IV tubes trailing. Sleeping in the room. Sunday morning. Here we go. Is this possible. This is physically possible. The slow miracle. The shrill cries. Hold her. New. She's okay. Newer. They're okay. Newest. We're okay. More. Even more. She. Her.

95. Let's try this again. A chapel we never returned to. Warm and windy for November 11. Veterans, we joked, of previous wars. Was the priest drunk? What did he forget? There was talk. The kids said we came back, driving in a November blizzard, peppy. Was that their word? Peppy. 

79a. Out there, the life of the party. They were all laughing. The Rolling Stones' song about the Puerto Rican girls. Miss You. Carrying on as if it were a dance floor. What a time we were having. We were all laughing. Shitfaced. Almost falling down. In the bathroom, in there, staring into the mirror and proclaiming and praying: You can't do this anymore. You can't. It's gonna kill you. You can't keep doing this. You... What am I gonna do? Back out there, the life of the party, the ringleader, manic. What a carnival. A circus. Closing time.

The Clementine Chronicles

The morning rite: one seedless succulent clementine on the tabletop, on the wood portion, near the slate. Sit in high-backed chair. Steaming black tea, half and half, no sugar. Heidelberg Cracked Wheat, toasted, three slices. All three with butter. One with Bonne Maman Red Raspberry Preserves, French. Clementine, Algerian. The Clementine Challenge: peel it uninterrupted, unimpeded in one fell swoop, one unbroken peel. Has yet to happen. Its taste less acidic than the typical, larger orange; its size, small; its nine morsels edible. (Nine edible portions? Sometimes, for example, ten. And if nine, here's a mathematical conundrum: when I break the sphere in half, 50 percent, how do I get two equal halves [4.5?] without splitting one morsel in half, squirtiness and all?  The peeling: paper towel underneath in case of juice release. Aren't polishes for wood citrus-y? The first challenge is the start. To puncture, to break through its skin without squirt or puddle. Skinny dipping. Take a fingernail to break the barrier. Pierce it. Then curl, roll, peel, delicately. Okay, so the disrobing is interrupted. Breakage. It won't be one exciting unpeeling with a presto! ending. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, what, six segments of peeled skin which, if fitted together, comprise a fruitful Rorschach gestalt structure. Four or five on an exceptionally good skin-spin cycle. Is one perfect Pauline peel possible? Who can say? Then, a reversal: the inability to puncture, to get things started. Is it because of closely clipped fingernails? A difference in the batch of clementines? Temperature or humidity? Try a small cut with a knife. Bleeding of clementine juice (not blood orange's). Droplets on the tabletop's wood, the paper towel yellowed, urine-colored yet still brightly and refreshingly citric. The worse wound: the whole peeling venture has run amok! Portions cleaved with skin intact. Take the fruitflesh to mouth and peel that way. So unaesthetic. So sloppy, drippy, and skill-less. Such anarchy. What happened? Who knows. But the next morning, after the words up to this point, a refreshed peeling venture. Softly, with pressure, pick at the outer layer of the outer layer. As if performing a patient surficial scraping. Indentation. Breach. And then, ah, the most exquisite peel-curl yet: inches long, liberated from the sphere, fragrancing the morning air. Five peeled-skin segments but really four if the crumb-sized bit is not counted; three if the large-crumb-sized bit is discounted. Mostly one, an elongated scroll, a clementined unfurling in all its clement mercy. Maybe it was the switch to Smuckers. Most likely the recast attention afforded from the previous draft, the one that had ended with "What happened?" And did anyone perchance mention the pruriently pleasing uncleaving of the crescent sections of edible fruit, a secret, quiet, and delicate undertaking requiring the dexterity of a surgeon, a lover's tender patience? 

white space

white  space 

whitespace

clearly

blank

  empty

  negative

  space

off  white

off  color

outer  space

square  one

ground  zero

white  noise

static  free 

 room  to  breathe

elbow  room

no  time

to  spare

personal  space

cling  free

opposites  attract

 

 white  smoke

recalling the future

 ... and as I watched, with the stark lucidity of a future recollection (you know -- trying to see things as you will remember having seen them). 
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

In the bleachers during the World Series, October 2012, San Francisco. I will remember this. I will remember it like this, as starkly and irretrievably happy, as I am in this film being filmed right now. The smell of beer on the metal floor. Moody clouds as the sun set. The fans in front, back, and sides of me. The frenzy. The crack of the bat. Roars of the crowd. My coffee. The manic shouting (by me). My weeping as the Tony Bennett recording played. Texting back home. All of it. Framed. Sealed. Under glass.

Are such recollections a forced inevitability? Can you will this tape into memory edited in the way you prescribe? Or does that make it a foregone conclusion a self-fulfilling prophecy?

And was it really like that? There is no way to prove or disprove it, the subjective parts. Maybe by hypnosis. 

I would suggest we do this with Big Events: birth, death, marriage, hiring, firing, divorce, travel.

But now I'm confused.

It's never as you imagine you will remember it, not exactly. Yet sometimes it is, or seems to be. Is it like the Werner Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, whereby the observer, the very act of observing, influences the outcome, the results, of the measurement? (I just butchered the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. Never mind.)

I said we do this with Big Events.

I take it all back.

It's not so much a super-hyper-future recollection as a super-hyper-experience.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I don't even know what point I was trying to make.

Maybe you can help me out.

ghost in the machine

It is 2018. Election Day. The Feast of Choices. I voted, made my choices. I had uncharacteristically backed into the parking space outside the Hazard branch library. I won't hazard here a guess as to the 5Ws and an H of the hazard. Turn the ignition. No push button. The engine starts. Wait. Hold it. I'm not ready but I'm rolling forward, sliding as if on black ice. I'm pushing down, down, down, pumping on the brake. To no avail. Huh? Hold it. Can't stop the forward motion, the inertia. Panic. Sweat. Brake. Brake. Wait. The car is in park. What? Oh. What? Hunh? The car to my right, parallel to me, doing the sliding, the gliding, the creeping forward. Rapid heartbeat slows. Reorients. Back to normal. Things in their proper place and time. Back to normal, whatever that is.

It is 1956. I know it is 1956 because later in the journey, after Mom, Dad, Jack, and I, and the Kandas visited Washington Crossing State Park in New Jersey, a mysterious conversation ensued in the car. "Are you okay, Josephine?" The dialogue among the adults was confusing. I was 7 years old. The words "morning sickness" were uttered that summer day in the car, in New Jersey, where at the Kandas' for vacation I would enjoy buttered and salted corn on the cob that has yet to equaled in sweet and salty succulence, a trip so satisfying I saved sand in a Dixie cup from Ocean County Park in Lakewood after wading in its tea-colored lake water. After Bobby was born, in January 1957, did I hearken back to Mom's car-sickness obliquely discussed? Doubtful. It was more of a mosaic, a gestalt portrait painted in stages over the years since.

It is 1956. We are on a train in Stamford, Connecticut, bound for Trenton, New Jersey, for a family vacation. One could only hazard a wild guess as to the costly burden this put on our family. We lived in a city housing project, well kept, reasonably safe. We moved there in 1955, part of a seismic postwar transformation unknown to the scared and curious kid in the front passenger seat with cousin Joe Kanda driving. How did six of us fit in the car? No bucket seats, no seat belts. We are on the train ready to embark on our adventure. Some kid in school (for all I know, it was a teacher not a classmate) once told a story of someone being sucked under a train and dying. So, when steam burst forth from the arriving New York, New Haven and Hartford line (the New Haven line; oh, how I would long for a gorgeous serial comma inserted there, seifs or not) engine, what else could I ponder but swift death and extinction by locomotive vacuuming? A terrifying prospect.

Not sucked under but alive, oh, the excitement of sitting in a train chugging toward Manhattan, solid and rhythmic, stoic and hypermuscled, iron in its will and movement. Passengers on a train, human cargo -- living and breathing after not being mercilessly sucked into its abdomen!

We arrived at the terminus of Grand Central Terminal (not Grand Central Station, which is a post office). Presumably to change trains for the Pennsylvania Railroad, a coveted ownership property in Monopoly.

I am sitting near the window, the window is on the right. We start moving slowly, pulling out of the station. We are underground. Here we go. A gentle rolling sends us toward Trenton. Wait. Something is wrong here. What's the train on the other side of my window doing? Going backward? I don't get it. I stamp my feet on the floor, as if I could step on my own personal braking system to set things right.

"Mommy? Daddy? What's the train do -- ... ?"

Did they see it too?

Some kind of secular miracle. Movement not movement. We weren't moving, the other train was. What's going on here? Did you catch that? Was that for me to see or does everyone see it? As if my beloved Willie Mays wasn't tracking the ball over his shoulder in center field but instead the outfield and the stands and naturally the batted ball were conspiring to move while he was stationary.

And a seven-year-old boy doesn't know where to begin so he swallows his words and buckles up, so to speak, for the ride.

Who or what authored this vection vision of illusory movement? 

Tell me.

Don't tell me. 

Not yet.

What's It To You?

You can't put a price on it. You can't put a price on him, on her, on them. The Price Is Wrong. The cost of medications, of healthcare, of surgery. A matter of life or death. A pauper's grave. A penny for your thoughts. How about a dollar? Or a million dollars for your thought? That single unspoken thought, the dangerous one you can't speak even to yourself, the perverse and criminal thought that will shame and ruin you -- and you didn't even know it was a floating subterranean tidal whisper. A living wage. The cost of living. The wages of sin. Thank you for your time. Paying for the privilege of your time. Our shared time, and space. How much is it worth to you? The meter is running. Stop the meter. Rare silks and spices from exotic lands. Explorers, navigators, plunderers. A lunar rock. A Roman emperor on a broken coin. Fragment of fossilized bone. Anonymity. Secrecy. Mystery. Coin of the realm. The crown jewels. Cupidity. Need. Want. Bartering this for that. Transaction. Gold. Dust. Silver. Rust. What's it worth? What's it worth to you? And to me. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, crystal. Paper or plastic? Ultimately, what's it worth to them? Currency. Flow. In circulation. Streaming. Exchange. This for that. You for me, me for you, us for them, them for us. David Hockney's "Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)," $18,000 in 1972; $90.3 million in 2018. Off the grid. Unavailable. Digitally absent. Gone. Missing in inaction. Flood of images. Verbal inundation. She of few words. He of sphinxlike silence. Rare blood type. Bloodlust. Donor fatigue. Daylight Saving Time. Daylight Saving Space. Saving for what and how? Freedom isn't free. Currencies of blood, time, space, platitude, demagoguery, faith, courage, history, and myth. Terms and conditions. Are you available Thursday? They're never available. I can never reach her. He never answers. Rarely. Rara avis. Rare bird. Rare book. What am my bid? Going once, going twice. Sold. How much was that again? 

'No' Is a Complete Sentence. Or Is It?

You can debate it. You can logically and persuasively argue yes or no as to whether "no" constitutes a complete sentence. Your answer depends on context, communication theory, and linguistics. (Go ahead and Google away at "the Gricean Theory of Conversational Implicature" as you're waiting for your Americano at the coffee shop.) Also entering the equation (oops, that's math; wrong subject) is whether you are a strict or loose constructionist in how you define a sentence.

Yes or no, either one works for me. I don't care, as long as I can continue to say "'No' is a complete sentence" and apply it to the matter at hand.

And what exactly is the matter at hand?

Two matters come to mind:

1. People who have a hard time saying no to demands imposed by others
2. People who feel the need to explain, defend, or justify their refusal of a request they want to reject but can't 

Enter a play within the play, as in Hamlet:

Can you lend me $500?

No, I can't because my counterfeit money-making machine in the basement stopped printing when the black-ink cartridge ran out, plus I need to reorder the special paper from my 'friends' at Treasury.

No, the triplets need formula, diapers, binkies, onesies, and meds. And I owe our upscale, artisanal photographer a down payment for the quasi-royal official portraits of the triplets.

No, not today; can I get back to you after I check with my accountant, my lawyer, my therapist, my Zen roshi, and my local arms dealer?

How about $300. Can you lend me that?

No, I'll never get it back.

No, I just spent my last $275 on Mega Millions, and I have no gas in my car, and I forgot to buy my pain meds.

No, I won't. I would but I can't. No, I might but might not. Not sure. I sometimes can and sometimes do but I usually can't and don't. 

Dude. Just give me fifty effing bucks until Monday when my effing ship comes in, okay? Can you do that?

No, my ship is coming in too, at the same dock.

No, because when your ship comes in I'll be at the airport.

No, because Monday I'll be tied up all day in bankruptcy court.

Dad/Mom, can I have the car?

No. Dad has a date.

No. Mom has a date.

With each other?!

Now, answer each of these questions with the monosyllabic no.

Start with an interior whisper to yourself.

No. 

Practice it.

Out loud now.

Mantra it.

No. No. No.

How do you feel now? Feel better?

Yes. 

"Because if you can't say no, your yes doesn't mean anything." Regan Walsh

trench warfare

They've been out there day and night. Bright lights run by portable generators keep the operation going in the dark hours. The backhoe burrows its way up the street, or down or around, carving a narrow path parallel to the sidewalk. The trench is no wider than the backhoe's digging bucket. A trench box sits idly by; no one is ever in the trench when I stroll nearby. From the look of it, they dig, fool around down in the dirt, add or take out pipes or cables or who-knows-what, and then cover it up with dirt and zip it up with some asphalt. It looks shitty afterward, bumpy and lumpy; unfinished.

You can hear them when you try to sleep.

They say you get used to it, in the way that people who live near train tracks do. 

What are they digging? Why? What is taking so long? What are they putting in? Or taking out? When will it stop?

UTILITY WORK AHEAD announce signs on every corner from every direction in the neighborhood of a dozen or so streets.

At first, the backhoe (always just one, on its solitary mission and journey) was accompanied by two or three vans from the local power utility with its crew of hard-hatted men smoking cigarettes, lolling, laughing, and pretending to play their roles as Official Construction Voyeurs (OCVs).

Then, on the same streets, rectangular tree-lined city blocks, east and west, north and south, hill and dale, flat and sloped, a new squad of support trucks arrived. The same trenches were dug again, in exactly the same manner, sequence, and pattern. Only now, the vans and hard hats were ostensibly with the phone company, if that's what they still call purveyors and providers of phone service, be it cellular, land line, or any other kind of phone service, such as it is.

In a span of fourteen days (I started counting by making daily notes on my wall calendar, opposite the window looking down onto the street they always start and end with), day and night, night and day, the trenches are dug, inserted or lifted or subtracted or added, bright lights illuminating, generators gurgling, chewing up and chugging the recently excavated miniature dirt-filled canals.

Fiber optics?

Then the water company came in. How did I know it was the water company? The blue vans displayed the logo of the water company, as did the hard hats, the jackets, and the vehicular warning signs.

I wanted to talk to the OCVs or a foreman (no women ever join the crew, not yet).

'What's going on?" I shouted.

They looked at me blankly amidst the din, as if my vernacular is foreign and unintelligible, as if they couldn't read my lips.

During the next fourteen-day cycle, the yellow backhoe was accompanied by white panel trucks with no identifying name or signage or license plates. The six-man crew wore white work pants, white vests, white hard hats, white boots, and white gloves. Three of the six wore white balaclavas.

During the most recent fourteen-day cycle, the yellow backhoe was accompanied by black panel trucks with no license plates and no identifying name or signage. The six-man crew wore black work pants, black vests, black hard hats, black boots, black gloves, and black balaclavas.

Then the streets went dark, no power on any street light or in any house. 

No car driving by shone its lights.

The only light shone from the pole-mounted surveillance cameras on the two corners, their iridescent blue eyes blinking silently.

And the UTILITY WORK AHEAD signs are gone.

book list

I used to list the books I had read at the end of every year. I still do, handwritten, but I haven't posted such lists here in a while.

So, here goes. My 2018 reading list, sotto voce, in ejaculatio praecox form, if you will:

1.  Debriefing: Collected Stories by Susan Sontag, edited by Benjamin Taylor
2. Andrew's Brain by E.L. Doctorow 
3. Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman
4.  Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine
5. A Live Coal in the Sea by Madeleine L'Engle
6. A Legacy of Spies by John le Carre
7. Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet's Journey by Stephen Kuusisto
8. The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden
9. Does It Fart? The Definitive Guide to Animal Flatulence by Nick Caruso and Dani Rabaiotti; illustrated by Ethan Kocak
10. The Informer by Craig Nova
11. While I Was Gone by Sue Miller
12. The Professor of Desire by Philip Roth
13. The Fig Eater by Jody Shields
14. My Ex-Life by Stephen McCauley
15. Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose
16. This Is It by Alan Watts
17. Haiku: This Other World by Richard Wright
18. The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser
19. The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life by John le Carre

... and counting.

Blind Person Area

Take a deep cleansing breath.  

Before you get riled up, I'm not "against" blind people, deaf persons, disabled children or adults, or anyone who faces physical or mental challenges. Who would be? As you likely know, the vocabulary we use to describe people and their limitations is open to question and controversy. That's why I hesitated typing "disabled" above. I am not acquainted with all the verbal alternatives, such as "typical" versus "atypical." (And because my Attention Surplus Disorder [ASD]-addled mind will otherwise forget, let me observe in passing: Have you ever seen a traffic sign cautioning drivers with respect to someone with mental health issues? Why not? Isn't that a statement in itself, relegating mental health to a level less important than physical health? Chew on that one before proceeding.)

But these semantic distinctions are not my main topic here, though I frequently noodle notions about words and their use, misuse, and connotations, inadvertent or otherwise.

So what is my main topic?

Slice of life. Slices of life.

Signs of life.

Just slicing away for you and me to examine.

Such as:

I was driving around and saw a BLIND PERSON AREA traffic sign. It occurred to me that I have never encountered a blind person in one of those traffic-sign-designated areas. Not yet. I might tomorrow. Same with a DEAF PERSON AREA. I have yet to encounter a hearing-impaired person in the vicinity of a sign advising me of same. But how would I know? Perhaps I have. (And why should I know?)

Have you?

If so, what are we required to do? Presumably, the sign is advising drivers to slow down, but it doesn't say that. And presumably it is asking drivers to be more alert.

Fair enough.

Believe it or not, the signs themselves have stirred controversy. For example, in 2007 the issue of whether to put up a DEAF CHILD AREA sign in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin, stirred up the local citizenry. Some argue that such signs are not necessary, that they reinforce stereotypes regarding limitations. Traffic sign engineers assert that the signs diminish in effectiveness over time. (Couldn't you say that as well for the ubiquitous STOP sign? I've written about this before.)

Again, as stated in my introductory disclaimer, I mean no disrespect to anyone with special needs. However, I would wager that the definition of special needs could withstand some stretching, twisting, and pulling. With that in mind, consider some signs we do not have but might consider, for better or worse:

WARNING: ACTIVE ADDICTION ZONE (Don't stereotype as to where you might plant this sign. It could be anywhere.)

CAUTION: ALCOHOLICS AT PLAY (Imagine the ruckus bar owners would raise if these were sprinkled in their environs.)

DOMESTIC TURMOIL AHEAD (Placement would be based on the number of disturbance calls to authorities, or determined by the number of pink flamingos or ceramic trolls on the lawn.)

ABJECT POVERTY (Insert your own dang comments.)

SICKENING WEALTH

JUNK FOOD FLOOD

CAVIAR SURPLUS

BOUGIE

DO NOT ENTER: ENTITLEMENT ZONE 

EGOCENTRIC ZONE

DON'T YIELD

DIVIDED HIGHWAY — AND MORE!

COMPROMISE

TATTOOS

LITTER ZONE

YOUR TURN

Hello, Anybody Here?

The GPS-oriented map app said, "Your destination is on the left." It repeated it for good measure. (It wasn't repeating it neurotically; the app developers know people need and want assurance.) It was just past sundown. He consequently was breaking Rule 1a: Don't deliver food in the dark. "You don't drive well at night; it's too hard to find the locations. It's just not worth it," he neurotically had told himself over and over.

"Your destination is on the left."

He emerged from his car (actually, the bank's car), insulated food bag in hand.

The order was for $3.92. Our driver wanted to decline the offer. He typically rejects such a low amount, but he had already declined a few offers day. He didn't want to risk getting "a bad grade" owing to poor performance data.

He couldn't read the numbers on the houses on the winding suburban road. He was careful not to walk on the road, endangering his life for $3.92.

First, he went north searching in the just-fallen darkness for 3409 Sycamore Run. Oops. The numbers were declining.

Reverse direction.

Where could it be?

There's only one more house and it's on the corner, he mused. If it weren't the house on the corner, he'd have to cross a major roadway, and the map app is rarely that wrong.

He walked toward the corner house, stepping on grass already wet from dew. Regretting he did not grab the flashlight in his car, he had to stand a foot away to search what looked like numbers to the left of the front-door steps. As if he were employing a hybrid of braille and sight, he felt the texture of the peeling paint on the wood and drew closer: 3409. Shrouded by a pine tree and bushes, the tired house featured flaked and chipped white paint, creaking wood, missing siding, and worn steps on the porch.

He walked up a few steps and knocked on the door, which gave way, loose on its hinges.

A dog barked, in the manner of a sentinel not an attacker.

He heard a voice say, "You can open the door. Come on the porch. It's all right."

To his right, was a window, the bottom of which was six inches from the porch floor. On the other side of the open window, even with the porch floor, sat an emaciated but alert woman in her early twenties on a mattress with a comforter and a hungry kitten. Heavy-metal music emanated from her phone.

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order." A half gallon of pink lemonade, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a chocolate chip cookie.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He hesitated. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if she needed more food, if it was safe there. He stood for an awkward 10 seconds, above her position on the mattress. "Good night. Take care."

The next day, around the same time, he accepted a delivery of the exact same items to the same "destination." This time, he did not need to fumble in the darkness to find the locale, this time on his right, because he approached from another direction.

He walked onto the porch, just like the evening before. The window was open a foot. The dog barked, a mixed of German shepherd, beagle, and retriever, he'd guess if quizzed. The cat was meowing and pacing.

"Hello, anybody here?"

No answer.

He repeated it, more loudly, and accompanied it with a forceful rapping on the window sash.

He waited a few minutes and then called the intended recipient via a feature of the food-delivery app. He was rewarded with no answer, not even a greeting on the food orderer's phone. He left a message: "Hello, I'm here with your food. I'm trying to deliver it."

Twenty minutes went by.

He thought of leaving the food there, placing it on the mattress through the open window.

He considered walking in through the window.

He considered calling 911.

What if she had overdosed just now? After all, someone had ordered food for this location, presumably hoping to eat and drink it. Would he remember his NARCAN training? (It wouldn't matter; he didn't have it in the car.) What if a crime were in progress? What if she had passed out from hunger?

"Hello, anybody here? Hello!?" he shouted loud enough to arouse neighborly suspicion.

Flummoxed and rattled, he began to walk off the porch, phone in hand, about to hit 911.

The dog stopped barking. He heard a door open. He halted and back-walked to the window.

Walking to the window was a stout woman, old enough and similar in appearance to Yesterday's Child as to be her mother: same oval face, brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair (streaked with gray). 

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care."

"You too, sir."
 

The Tuna Hunger Games

I'll have a tuna sandwich.

Half or whole?

Half, please. What does that come with?

Lettuce, tomato, onion.

Hold the onion. So, lettuce, tomato, and mayo with the tuna fish, right? What kind of bread does it come in? 

Whatever you like. We have . . . 

White. Yeah, white is okay. Can you toast it?

Yes, we can do that.

Thank you.

For here or to go?

Here. 

Take this device to your table, and we'll find you.

Okay.

I then receive a tuna panini. Tuna, mayo, lettuce, and tomato grilled or however it is heated.

To my two friends: I didn't ask for a panini. I just wanted a tuna fish sandwich with the bread toasted. Should I go up and tell them? I mean, I don't necessarily want to go all Steve Jobs on them, but this isn't what I wanted.

I would. It's not what you asked for. Go ahead.

At the counter in front of the food-prep area: This is a panini. I just wanted a tuna fish sandwich with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and no onion -- with the bread toasted.

I don't understand. That's what you hav --

I don't want the tuna fish heated, I...

Quizzical expressions. My server walks to the trash receptacle and ceremoniously lets the food contents slide off the plastic plate into the garbage hole destined for a landfill.

One of my friends at the table concurred in particular regarding a distaste for and aversion to heated mayonnaise, for reasons of health and taste. I considered dropping the whole notion of toasted bread, but no...

Moments later: A plate with four pieces of toasted white bread and nothing on the bread.

My turn for quizzical facial expression.

Pause.

Halt.

Is that what you wanted, sir? It's been a tough night on the line.

Where's the tuna fish? Where'd it go? And the lettuce, tomato, mayo?

A wide chasm existed between what I was thinking of saying and what sounds emerged from my mouth, though my two friends said my face and body language revealed the interior volcano that I was trying to disguise and squelch.

The chasm was getting smaller, more narrow, and smoldering.

Um, where's the tuna fish?

I kind of thought maybe you wanted the tuna fish. Hold on . . .  

Seconds later: A plate holding tuna fish with mayo in a cardboard cup for me to make the aforementioned and requested sandwich onto the four pieces of toasted bread and lettuce and tomato.

Is it me? Was it that hard? Was I that unclear?

My two friends tended to agree with me, or maybe they were exercising diplomacy and politesse.

Sometimes life ain't as simple as you'd think.

Gawd.

recalculating one's bearings

My old Garmin GPS navigation device -- the one I stubbornly rarely used -- intoned "recalculating" if you made a wrong turn or if you were making a correct turn because your eyes were telling you the device was wrong and you were right. (Some apps still do that.) As if I would know. I was the last person in North America to employ the tool. Why? Stubbornness? Male stereotype about directions? A Luddite gesture? Too stingy to spend the money? All are possible, or all of the above. I don't recall, but no doubt I would have spared myself lots of anxiety if I had used one. I remember a particular incident in 2012. I drove from Syracuse to Charlotte on a maiden voyage with my just-purchased 2007 VW Rabbit. I had nearly reached my destination, the residence of my friend Denis (yes, one N; he prides himself on that). I couldn't make it to the goal line. I traversed a highway back and forth, near the airport, east and then west; or, who knows, north and then south. A boatload of vice versas. It was blistering hot. I was exhausted, spent. I gave up. Totally surrendered. I was in a strip mall parking lot. "Come and get me, Denis. I'm lost. I need your help. Help me." He did. And it was, what, 10-12 miles. Presumably a GPS would have rescued me before reaching that point. But not necessarily. I recently experienced an incident whereby the GoogleMaps app on my phone (smartphones, the death of stand-alone GPS devices) had me repeating a loop of the same streets, trapping me in a nightmarish web of suburban culs-de-sac and winding drives, lanes, and places (scarier by far, to me, than urban equivalents). 

Back to "recalculating." *

What a relief.

It's so judgment-free, so neutral. So matter of fact. You might say scientific, objective, disinterested.

Certainly not conveying coldness or scolding.

Recalculating.

Get some new data or more data and adjust from there.

Whooooboy!

This is not how my personal history transpired, either on the receiving end or the bestowing end. How about your personal history in this regard?

I'm not merely talking of family upbringing. What about education? Being wrong or in error evoked wrath or displeasure at the least. No, this is not an argument for education rooted in touchy-feely, everybody is right, let's not hurt feelings. No, not at all. It's an altogether different perspective, and practical at that. I was always struck watching my older daughter's professional ballet classes. Dancers wanted to be corrected, to recalculate, if you will, to get it right, to improve. If the teacher ignored you, that was not good. Every class was an opportunity to recalculate, which is my way of saying correct and improve. It's not a punitive process.

Exactly 139 years ago, I was a high school English teacher. If I were to do it again, I'd apply the notion of recalculating to writing assignments, such as essays. (As an aside, they're still teaching English as they did when I was young. Foolish. The world does not need more essays on Dickens or Bronte or Shakespeare or Dante. It is of no value in the workplace. I'm for the humanities; they have their place. But writing at work varies from reports to memos to letters to white papers.) In other words, I would allow as many writing drafts as needed or wanted. Maybe the whole semester would be one, and only one, piece of "recalculated" writing. I believe this used to be called mastery learning.

Parents don't tend to be recalculators, nor spouses or lovers. Friends, more so. On second thought, some people do take that approach without uttering the word recalculating. Kudos to them.

What about ourselves?

Do we tell ourselves to recalculate, or do we indulge in an orgy of remonstrance and self-recrimination?

Most likely, when it comes to myself, I'll forget these thoughts the next time I say the wrong thing or perform the wrong action.

Recalculating.

It's not Sanskrit, but it's not a bad mantra.

* Disclaimer and Credit: This notion of applying recalculation to human events and affairs is not my original concept. I heard it from someone else; I can't remember exactly who. So, I borrowed it. Or appropriated it. Imitation is flattery. So thanks, whoever you were/are.