dial me up and down (DMUAD)

On the fire truck it said, "Dial 911."

Makes sense. Remind people how to contact the fire department. Police vehicles have it, too. But let's face it: by now, who doesn't know that you dial 911 for an emergency. I know, I know: you don't dial anymore. you press buttons or touch a screen.

Got me wondering: what are the others? (They are called N11, or N-one-one codes of abbreviated dialing.) You've seen or heard of most or all of them:

211: Community information and services

311: Non-emergency information on local municipal government services

411: Directory assistance; in the old rotary-phone days, you'd call "Information"

511: Traffic information or non-emergency police information

611: Telephone company customer service and repair

711: TDD and other services for the hearing -impaired

811: Information on underground public utilities

You knew I'd go there. It's inevitable. But just the same: what are some others that are missing? Try these tri-numeral concoctions on for size:

123: Advice on decluttering and ordering.

456: More of above. (Advanced)

333: Advice from angels. In some area codes, advice on triplets.

666: Demonic advice and suggestions; how to ruin your or someone else's day. Often busy. Call again. Or the hell with it.

777: Lucky numbers for lotteries, engagements, weddings, divorces, conception, meetings, stocks, etc.

789: See above. (More Advanced)

38D: oops!

007: Espionage services. Fees may apply. In some area codes, connects to bondage services.

321: Launch services for emerging business ventures.

247: Exact time in your location or any requested location.

031: Tells which months have 31 days.

030: Tells which months have 30 days.

028: C'mon. Really?

420: Instant lassitude. For free. No side effects. Legal in all area codes.

041: Suggestions for April Fool's pranks.

214: Valentine's resources, support, crisis center.

050: Provides names of U.S. states and their capitals in alphabetical order. Available in 37 languages.

222: Facts, myths, legends, more facts, tragedies, more tragedies regarding The 2nd Amendment. Not NRA-approved.

660: All things Willie Mays.

069: Yin and yang meditations, education, guidance. In some area codes, the same, for Reciprocal Carnal Pleasure (RCP). 

012: Instant resources associated with Twelve Step programs.

013: Instant resources associated with Thirteenth Step dilemmas, issues, successes, failures, guidance, etc. Not a dating resource.

108: Guided meditations, chants, mantras, or prayers with mala or rosary beads.

the human brand

What are you wearing

It's waterproof, windproof, too

No, what are you wearing

Yeah, no, the jacket, my gloves, the scarf

No, really, tell me

Do you like it

Yes, sort of, yes

Ombre Spicebox Rouge Rogue

Really

Really

Is it showing

What do mean

Can you tell

I can tell

Can I try it

Sure, did you shower

Your deodorant

HideNSeek

Makes scents to me

What about body odor

Mine

What about it

Yours, your body double

My doubled body

Yes, that

Dusk grapefruit coffee ginger seasalt lemon rose vanilla smoke maple clementine

No, not quite

Oak bergamot verbena tobacco dawn nutmeg black pepper sandalwood cardamom ocean

Hardly

Rosewood agarwood orange blossom sage pimento musk orris cacao mancera twilight almond

Not at all

Pekoe cactus pine sugar fern noon mint fog anise river pistachio gardenia cherry

More like it

Maybe

Top notes

Subtle

Yet bold

A statement

More like a hymn

Pour homme

Or femme

Finis

Fine

The Tell-Tale Clock

In the sunlit hallway, walking to what was hours earlier her room, I felt a coat of grief draped over my shoulders. This is going to be hard. Keep walking. Through the doorway, into the familiar room, where her stray molecules lingered and danced. Be quick. Jesus to his disciples, 'Let the dead bury the dead.' Scant days after the vigil, our shared presence and prayers, the mottled hands, her painted nails, the dry gulch, the vacant room.

A worker on the clock, I placed into a cardboard box artifacts curated from the nightstand's three drawers: greeting cards, hotel-sample-size packets of shampoo, sugar packets, a broken rosary, empty purses, photo postcards, 'rake' combs, hairbrushes, single mints in cellophane, toothpaste, skin creams, shoes, slippers, a keychain, crucifixes, an outdated page of monthly activities, an empty wooden box with ribbon and broken-seal sealing wax.

Do not tarry. The walls closing in. Trudge onward. Keep or toss. Toss or keep. Atop the nightstand, take and keep the plaster Jesus that silently kept watch with us, a family relic hearkening back to Dad and his holy rituals. Toss the shoes and slippers. Leave for donation the ones gifted at Christmas days earlier. Not as hard as I thought. Keep the exquisitely framed July portrait with her and the kids and me. 

From the closet, take a black and white sweater, a green patterned blouse, two vases, five plastic hangers. Leave the nightgowns, sweaters, pants, blouses to be cleaned and donated. Leave the incontinence underwear. Back to the nightstand: toss the dessicated red cyclamen and Christmas bouquet of cut bright flowers.

After a rapid-fire mental Ping-Pong, I grabbed the bedside alarm clock, hesitated in mid-air, and placed it in the carton. Take it. Keep it. The white still-ticking clock I bought so she could see the time, the hour and the minute, to face her as she lay in bed, sleeping, so much sleeping, or awake and awaiting a call, a visit. The alarm never used unless by accident. Why set it. And was it day or night. She barely knew. Black readable numbers. The relentless red second-hand stuttering its staccato circuit. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

From the bed, let's not forget the Creamsicle-colored luxuriantly soft blanket, a gift she cherished to no end, at the end; and the similarly velvet-soft gray pillow I got her for Christmas, which she may not have ever lain her head on. 

That clock. Why keep it. To what end. Take it out of the box and toss it. Toss it in the trash and walk out, carry the box to the car, put it in the trunk, and drive away. 

Which I did. 

Mostly. 

The box in the trunk. Drive around for 20 days. Open the trunk. Lift out the box, ride the elevator to the top, open the door. Open the box, retrieve old greeting cards to get addresses.

And the clock.

Tender time bomb tolling, o sole mio, stoic sentinel.

Tell-tale heart.

Hello, Mr. or Ms. Clock, you new resident on the Formica faux-marble countertop, the peninsula between my kitchen and living room. No man-woman-person is an island but is a peninsula, it has been said and sung. 

Which way to face it, where to place it. Do I muffle the roar of its ticking, wrapping it in a towel in a closet or in a bureau. Or under the floorboards. Or remove the battery. 

Smother it. Smash it to smithereens with a sledgehammer. 

What then.

What then. 

A silence, hollow or fulsome. A stillness saturating the sacred hours. Unsaid, unspoken. 

Inhaled, exhaled.

Hallowed.

Then sifted and settled. 

Into gentle spring rain.

Or, for now, perched on the peninsula, a presence a few yards from the ashes, across from the red-blossomed amaryllis, pattering.
 

My Last Hurrah

Give it one more try. Let's go out with a bang, shall we? One more shot. A last fling. My last hurrah. Throw caution to the winds. Three sheets to the wind, one more time. Some equation. Unmoored, head-first toward the shoals. Huzza. He who laughs last. Cries: "Hooray, hurry, oh hell." Gonna wait till the midnight hour. It'll be different this time. I promise. A look in the mirror: "No more." My swan song sung. My dregs done drained. My last hoorah. Hand over flame. How long, lord? The firing squad at dawn. Last requests? Sink or swim. Sunken treasure. Abandoned ship. Grace unnamed. Surrendered me. And salvaged self. We white flag waved. All aboard. We sure set sail. Wind at our backs. Into the sun. Under the wing. My first hurrah. Our shelter from the storm. Your brooding love. Our anchors aweigh.

Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing

I once heard someone say: “So what. Do nothing.”

The “so what” was said to mean: whether you are addled, rattled, depressed, ecstatic, thrilled, terrified, despairing, or discontented, you are not the leading actor in your idiosyncratic, spotlighted melodrama. It’ll pass. You’re a speck of dust on an orbiting pebble in the cosmos. This reminded me of an off-the-cuff bit of wisdom a mentor breezily passed on to me decades ago: “Nothing matters very much; most things not at all.”

The “do nothing” part was said to mean: face it, feel it, suffer it, humor it, ride it out, don’t escape it. Otherwise, it will sneak up on you anyway when you least expect it. What is “it”? Any tide of emotion. Anything.

With all that in mind, here are my Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing:

1. You shall pause, reflect, and shrug your shoulders.
2. You shall look at where your feet are.
3. You shall look up into the sky at midnight on a cloudless night in a deep forest.
4. You shall follow your breath, in and out, in a quiet space.
5. You shall accept and honor your self, with all your diamonds and all your rust.
6. Remember this day as holy, fleeting, and precious.
7. Restrain your tongue, pen, and Send button. 
8. Don't do the next right thing — not yet.
9. You shall let it come.
10. You shall let it be.
11. You shall let it go.
12. You shall smile.

the play's the thing . . .

Play it as it lies. Lays, if you will. Play Layla, the long version, of longing, if you please. The play's the thing wherein we'll catch the conscience of the king. Play the cards you're dealt. A pair of queens. Royal straight. Royal gay. Royal blue. Play it as is. Plebeian. No overplay, excess, much, more, most. Play your hand, not heavy-handed, ham-fisted, handcuffed. No superlatives, nor absolutes. Try the comparative, for wiggle room, for loopholes, for breathing space. Infinitives. Imperatives. Let it go. Let it be. The be-all and end-all. Is what it is. No more, no less. Just this. Just now.

The Weight of Absence

Morning rite, almost liturgical: three slices of Heidelberg Cracked Wheat, toasted, real butter on all three, not too dark, tan; one slice with Bonne Maman Raspberry Preserves. 

On this morning, in the fortnight tidal wake of Good Mother's passing, a succession of holes. Slices hollowed by air, by loss. Heart-shaped, one-half-inch diameter. Upper left, not perfectly duplicated as in an assembly line but discernible sameness just the same. 

With a hole silently skewering the loaf, is it still 24 ounces? 

How much does nothing weigh? 

What is the weight of absence? And at what cost?

Take this bread. Eat. Digest. Begin the day. Lighter than yesterday. And heavier, too. 

the kindness of stranger

Mall food court. Dinnertime, not loud or crowded. A weekday. The 1909 Carousel bearing silent and stilled witness. I ate a quarter chicken breast, mashed potatoes and gravy, and string beans from Boston Market. Root beer. I picked up the tray on my way to dump the unsustainable plate, utensils, and cup into the trash, saving the tray. "Thank you!" she exalted. I thought I misheard. I turned around. "Pardon me?" She worked for the mall. Would you call her a food court janitor? Her gratitude seemed disproportionate. Misplaced. Too excited for the banal and quotidian occasion. "Thank you," she repeated. "You're welcome. Thank you." But a voice inside, not far from the audible surface, murmured: "What's the thank you for? I'm just cleaning my place and dumping the trash. What's the big deal? Am I that much of an outlier? Is it so rare?" I faced her. Her smile was wide, her delight was deep. From all appearances, she was happy to be there, doing what she was doing. Grateful for whatever life was dishing out. It wasn't me. It was everything and everyone. It was her. "You have a blest day." "Thank you. I will. You too." 

Some people.

inattentional blindness

I failed to see the gorilla. Even after I was warned. Did you see your gorilla? I looked again. No gorilla. Gone. Was that a fox? I think I saw a fox, furtive and sly and quick. I was too busy concentrating on the other thing so I missed the gorilla. It's not a bad thing. It happens. Don't judge me for it. Or yourself. I wasn't afraid of the gorilla. Don't go there. I just didn't see it, or him, or her. How was I to know? I was told to concentrate on the other thing, the task assigned, the job at hand. Wouldn't you? The gorilla was harmless, in view for nine seconds. I missed it. Right before my very own two eyes. My glasses are fine, thank you. You say you saw it; you saw the gorilla. Good for you. You think it's some kind of accomplishment? So you saw it. Did you give it a banana? How about the gorilla: did anyone bother to ask whether the gorilla saw me? Or whether the gorilla saw you? Us? Those are fair questions. Don't snigger. Go ask the gorilla. The fox, you say? Where did the fox come from? They said the fox was a surprise to everyone. Nobody expected the fox to saunter by, not even the Gorilla Masters. What's that, I'm making up the bit about the fox? How can you say that, how dare you say that? I saw the fox. For a full second or two. Strolling by like a foxy boulevardier. That fox.

Acute Abysmal Chronic Human Wasting Disease (AACHWD)

Acute Abysmal Chronic Human Wasting Disease (AACHWD) is a progressive yet rarely fatal condition classified as a transmissible modern malady (TMM). Symptoms include obsessive-compulsive repetitive behaviors, such as rapid thumb movements, frequent finger-tapping and swiping, bursts of excitement, aphasia, and neuropathy of fingertips. Other observable phenomena linked to AACHWD include voluble cursing at video or digital-device screens, memory loss, insomnia, and rapid heartbeat. Withdrawal attributes include adrenalin letdown, irritability, sullenness, anxiety, moroseness, lethargy, poor appetite, restlessness, and social withdrawal.

Geographic Distribution and Origins

The geographic extent of AACHWD has changed dramatically since June 29, 2007, the date of the inception of the iPhone. Since 2007, the disease has been found globally in free-ranging humans in loci with either concentrated or sparse concentrations of adult homo sapiens. The disease has been increasingly identified outside of the original endemic areas of the United States and industrialized nations. Earlier manifestations of the disease were seen in 1980, first in Japan, coinciding with introduction and popular use of the video game Pac-Man. Designated “eradication zones” around the areas where it was detected have proved ineffective and fruitless. Scientists doubt whether such aggressive management will succeed in eliminating free-ranging foci of AACHWD.

Transmission to Other Animals 

Concerns have been raised about the possible transmission of the AACHWD agent to domestic animals, such as dogs, cats, parakeets, canaries, fish, salamanders, cattle, and sheep, which may come in contact with infected humans. To date, no such transmissions have been observed or reported.

Diagnosis and Treatment
 

To date, no histopathologic, immunohistochemical, and Western blot testing of brain biopsy and autopsy samples have confirmed a AACHWD diagnosis. Clinicians have relied on anecdotal observations of the aforementioned symptoms, but no accurate measurement protocol, regime, or scale exists, leading some scientists to doubt the existence of a verifiable disease.

 

Recent studies have shown limited treatment success correlated to separation from environmental sources of infection, including exposure to smartphones, tablets, laptops, and gaming devices. Even in clinical trials of treatment, however, some patients continued to exhibit progressive aphasia, memory loss, social withdrawal, vision disturbances, and seizure activity leading to status epilepticus or induced coma.

harboring strange thoughts

What-the-heck. What is that. Who is that. The red Ford van on the embankment on the far side of Harbor Street. A piece of undeveloped urban land, a meadow if unmowed. Mowed, it's a grass field for dogs to run, Frisbees to fly, footballs to be thrown. Green space. Hardly anyone ever there, though. On the street, a few feet down from the embankment, the field higher on the horizon, large enough to play football or soccer on, the building's smokers gather, off the no-smoking-permitted rental property. The same two or three, rain or shine, hot or cold. But a vehicle up there? Never. Just the busily buzzing lawnmower, frantic-fast, sound-blocking earmuffs on the driven driver. Keep walking toward my Nissan Sentra on the far side of Harbor Street. What's up. Some guy on the field past the fence of the utility company's construction-laydown site. Quilted black vest. Blue watchcap. Pacing? Glasses hanging down on stringy holders laced around the neck, the kind schoolmarmish librarians used to wear before they became hip. In his sixties. White guy. Impassive, neither angry nor not. Stoic. Is this it, how it plays out. Halt my progress to the car. What next. An assault rifle? A semi-automatic? Not enough people around to be targets, hardly enough to make headlines these days. My jaw clenches. Where'd he go. Back to his van. My pounding pulse. Emerges with small, circular black object in his hand. A few on the ground. Fuckin land mines? Takes a few paces then like an uncoiled spring he spins and whirls and slings. A dervish who launches a discus in the direction of the train tracks toward the mall on the horizon. What, thirty yards tops. A discus thrower! He bends down, picks up another discus, and does it again. Neither a shrug nor a slump nor a bounce to indicate his level of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. Then he reloads, recoils, and fires off another discus. It sails for a few seconds against the rare, cerulean sky, and lands. Fetches the ones he has tossed. I resume my progress to my car. I slow my pace, hoping for more. Casually he walks to his van, gets some more discuses. No. Takes a drink of water or dries his hands or records distances or completes his application for the Summer Olympics. I turn the key and flick on my left-turn signal. I scrunch the car into drive, feel it buck forward, and lean my foot on the accelerator. Just as I begin to drive away, a tiny black flying saucer floats by in the rearview mirror. 

beyond the beyond

Ultima Thule. Far out. Far-er out. Nameless. Ultimate unknown. Beyond the known known. Planetary Snowman. Past the silence. Beyond the pale. Pale moon. The dark side of the moon. Dark to whom. Lunar loss. Tidal wave. Glad tidings. Inner. Borderless. Outer. Vergeless. Limit less. Beyond the beyond.