Dog Days

After the deed was done or maybe before: she mused "you're like my dog" an elegy a loving postcard mailed to me sprawled there summery spent beside her as she sketched her affection toward Rusty or was it Sandy maybe Rex his loyalty love obedience and companionship so I edged into sleep an afternoon nap against her arm her leg her side as she read, her Rolex off, her diamond stud earrings on the nightstand, cues for unshackling as a prelude to unbridled intimacy. So I gathered I knew what she meant by the canine compliment. I was fine with it not a slight not a condescension but a treasured tableau in her memory's slide show and now mine as well fast forward a decade plus and Doug is dying, everybody knew it would be the last day, a Friday, after Debby had told me the previous Sunday "get up there, he's not coming home, he wants to ask you something," now his last, and my last "goodbye, I love you." Doug in his hospital bed looked at me as I brimmed into tears and he said "it's all right it'll be all right" then he tousled my hair he ruffled the hair on my head as he would have to Divitt the same dog who nearly bit my arm off on the night of Bush v. Gore in 2000 because I grabbed his bone, Divitt, a perfect name echoing the divots of every weekend's rounds of golf, a so-called sport I never played, with Doug or anyone else. I stared into your eyes and I knew it was okay and would be after and forevermore. You asked me to "read something" at a memorial and who knew that request would be such a gift, such a gem, because we never so much as once even swung a golf club together, unlike all those other partners on the fairways and greens who I figured knew you more and deeper didn't they, so why me? Why ask me of all people sort of like what they say about Christ and the disciples he picked why me they all presumably said. Such a revelation, the first of that year, 2005, the discovery of death's secret surprise, death's wink and a nod, the magician's rabbit out of the black upside down top hat. Richard, speaking of golf, six months later, November, in Florida, "let's go hit some, go to the driving range," straw hats, blazing sun, gently kindly "hold your hands this way, yes no that's it, careful, slower, no that's fine" almost hit golfers in the nearby rough but that CLICK! oh God! the sound of it the jolt in the hands resonating echoing into the arms the soul. Richard my brother, we never said half brother, too weak too tired to swing, sitting on the bench, the blistering blaze of light, its merciless scorch. And this was the slide in the carousel, the slide show, freeze-framed, after his death, the ferry to the yonder shore, this the wallet-sized image, the frame of future sentiment and loss, your plantation straw hat the artifact of a Monday afternoon, the farewell in the dark Tuesday morning, you in your bed, did I say good bye or I love you, probably not, though we both knew, to find out later your childhood prayerbook and rosary beads were there under your pillow. Dogstar pointed tooth hair of the dog long in the tooth my life as a dog doggerel mongrel sobs and all that. Then, last year, Maggie put down, across the boulevard from where I sit, tapping keys in the battleship dun afternoon, her eye left open, where did she go, so quickly, invisibly, effortlessly, the hideous simplicity the reckless rudeness of death, to every man woman child dog or leaf, you me and everyone and everything else. I went into my car in the parking lot of the animal hospital. Hospital. Inhospitable Last Exit. A rainy Friday. I wept against the steering wheel. How can I ever leave this parking lot. What can I do. Where can I go. What do I do now. Where's that sought surprise. Under the Tuscan sun, the Syracuse rain.
 

sacred mysteries

how could it happen how does one drift from one person into another morph from one personality to another barely recognizable brand-new habits different features not physical no wait yes some physical shaped by stress care diversion distraction obsession compulsion call it addiction go ahead how does this occur overnight or incrementally invisibly moment by moment immeasurably imperceptibly unhinged from all consequence untethered from responsibility and remorse reckless to the point of indulgent death-defying what causes this brings it to the fore was it always there under layers of sedimentary deposition dolorous dolomite dangerous cementation percolating for years decades of decadent brew how does this volcano finally erupt when does it hurl lava rocks steam scalding all within eyeshot and after all is said and done said and done ad nauseam when is enough enough when does the person go back to so-called normal will there ever be a normal again was there ever a normal even a paranormal the road to recovery new neural pathways stroke victims new neural patterns relearning speech gait thought glance narrative halting steps a limp holding an unseen cane can one do it learn the healing find the healed self aromatherapy healing touch balm salutary salve soothing song how does one begin where does one start how does one take the first shaky step a sacred mystery  
 

scream

After she fell on the field, after the collision, the body-check or whatever they call it, she was down on the artificial turf. It wasn't right. She wasn't right. Something was off. Then, as if from another dimension, from the back recesses of some other region, not on this planet, a sound emerged. Or was it there immediately? Perhaps a few beats afterward, the way characters who are shot, in the movies (I've never witnessed a shooting in 3-D life), do not react until they see the blood pouring out of the wound. A keening was heard. Everyone in the stadium heard this siren, this scream of pure pain, hoarse and insistent and demanding and unkenneled. From my daughter. Her mother and I ran to her, the coach and medics already calming her, containing this eruption of hurt. Torn ACL. Broken tibia. Who knows what else. (Thank God, not a head or spinal injury.) She is recovering. Yes, others have been similarly injured in sports or dance or life. No monopoly here. But I'll tell you what: my ears and heart have never heard anguish quite like that. Nor do I ever want to hear it again. But I'm grateful that we were there for her. All of us. Everyone was there for her.

The Topography of Pain

About six weeks ago, I slipped on black ice. I didn't fall to the ground, but my left leg went flying out from me, asunder from the mainframe, making feel as if a bullet had entered my hamstring. It was evening. I almost thought I might pass out from this breathtaking shock, or that I'd need to call from my cellphone to get help into the house. I managed to walk, got some traction, and limped through the home portal.

Several days later, in the shower, I noticed a shocking but luridly beautiful bruise running from the back of my upper thigh, near my groin, to well below my knee, down to the calf almost to my ankle. A bruise without even falling. I asked BalletDaughter, who witnesses or experiences many leg injuries, is that possible? Have you seen it? Yes. Ice it. R.I.C.E., which, I think, stands for rest, ice, compression, elevation. I iced it in Germany. The bruise more or less bled downward and dissipated. But I can still feel the tug of the pulled hamstring from certain movements.

Bruises.

They take a long time to heal. A very long time.

Especially the unseen ones, outside the domain of the physical.

What acronym, as in R.I.C.E. above, would be recommended for the healing of spiritual bruises?

The Root of the Matter

Can pain be pictured? I would invoke the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, as well as legions of others, not just Russians.

I would add: Just think of a would-be-serious journalist being forced to cover, say, the adventures of Britney Spears. Pain. Or ballet dancers performing en pointe avec une cracked toe. Douleur. Or having to endure my withering repartee because you share the same roof. Schmerz. The list goes on.

But indulge me.

Picture a molten spike lodged in your lower-left jaw.

Or a kilowatt of humming voltage resonating through your maxillary apparatus.

Try brittle bamboo shoots forced under your gums.

They tell me it's a root canal I need. (How prescient your most recent comment is, Wanderlust Scarlett!)

Look. I don't care if it's a root canal or an extraction or trepanation, but please just do it, willya!

Thank you.

Tomorrow. 0900 hours.

Be there. Or give me the gas pipe.

At certain moments, even the codeine is feckless. Is this a preparation for the Big Pain? The Ultimate One? If so, we (especially me) are failing wretchedly in this household, except for Brown-Eyed Girl.

BULLETIN: I hereby proclaim The Laughorist blog to be the only blog in the blogospheric universe to cite both Fyodor Dostoevsky and Britney Spears in the same, um, mouthful, so to speak.