The other day I wrote the Ripe Women and A Dancing Scrooge post because, as I had mentioned, so many wonderful "Ripe Women" are in my life. Well, the reason I had been thinking about it was that my mothers Aunt Peg, a woman I call Aunt Peg as well, and my Grandma's sister, suffered from a serious stroke a few weeks ago, and is half paralyzed. She's been on my mind. And you are going to see why, shortly.
Peg lives near Whitefish, Montana. Not exactly near it, by Indiana standards, but within a very long drive. So pretty darn close if you live out West, where driving all day is a short drive.
Whereas Whitefish itself is on a train track that runs the entire breadth of America (I've ridden from Portland Oregon all the way through Whitefish, to Chicago. And I've ridden from Syracuse, New York, to Chicago. So I've ridden the entire track. It's a hell of a run.) Aunt Peg lives on the way to absolutely nothing but glacier's and Fir Trees. Her property is beautiful, with a alpine lake and pier. And it abounds with all kinds of animals, which I know about, since Peg has a special relationship with these creatures.
Peg's, came down with some sort of medical problem a year ago, and went to the doctor. The doctor, a kindly fellow, didn't know her personally, so he apologized at the long list of questions he had to ask her, like, "Have you ever had a relationship with someone from Burkina Faso?" Peg told him, "No."
Well the doctor went on, and his last question was a little more farfetched than he was entirely comfortable with, so he apologized as he asked it and said, "Sorry, but have you ever shot a rifle?" Peg told him, "Of course!"
And she has. I've never personally been to her property, for I am a perpetual fool who thinks my fabulous family members present some sort of endless welcome for me, never really needing to be satisfied by an answer, like, "I'm coming." But Peg has told me numerous times, and the rest of the family even more, that she, "killed an Elk from [the] kitchen window." I couldn't hit a semi truck at a truck stop. But Peg, yeah, she's shot a gun.
I don't have a lot of stories about her. I hope to ask around for a bunch more. But one story that isn't even really a story so much as a great memory, was my sister Angela's, wedding in Portland, Oregon. Most of the family was there, and most of the family was doing what people do at a wedding. So as the evening warmed up, and the formalities were over, we all started to loosen up and dance. Now, I am no great dancer... I sort of do it to check it off my list of inhibitions, even as folks around me wonder why I am hopping about the rooom, kicking people. But if my lovely family wishes to dance with me, I'm going to dance at any comer. I might even dance with them! They're more or less safe for such activities. Well... Peg started dancing with us. And you gotta understand, this was a little over eleven years ago, but she was still, even then, in her late seventies. She danced with my brother, and she danced with me. She danced with my Dad, and did sort of a Conga line. She danced with some grandchildren, and we all did the Twist. Some folks swore she danced to the restroom. Everytime a man would sit down, there was Peg jumping up to dance again. By the end of the night everyone was laughing and filled with that awareness that togetherness gives you at a celebration. You had forgotten, but these people are spirirts and ghosts of your best nature. Almost not realizing it, you come to: I've (Mr. Brooding) been laughing for three hours. Aunt Peg's arthritis is like anyone's: it hurts. But all of us were ignoring our aches and our pains, and right at the center of it was a small woman: laughing.
I hope you can see why when my family gets together I try to look right in their eyes. I haven't always done this, and to tell the truth, at Angie's wedding, I'm pretty sure I didn't really do it either. But in the last five years I have tried (and sometimes failed) to look. To really look at these people. We are not kings and queens in my family. We don't drive limo's and our ancestors can't be counted as the movers and shakers of the world (though they carried my life to it's beginning. And for a man, that should count, as somewhat more important than empire.) But if you ever go to a celebration, or a wedding, or even just a dance hall for an evenings pleasure, look around, and find the folks who are laughing. They'll dance with you till your Vioxx gives you a heart attack, and make you play hookie the next day to boot. They aren't important people: but they'll give you a hug and a kiss, and laugh at your stupid jokes.
These people are like the hollywood family you see in a movie, when the truck goes deep into the wilderness and finds the self sustaining folk with the heart of gold. It doesn't seem real in the movies, but in real life it's reality is measured by how much not feeling it breaks your heart. And I've been places in my life when I didn't feel it. Where people seemed motivated by self promotion, ideology, and their own problems and perspectives above all other things. Maybe I am wrong, but there is a mountain north of Whitefish, Montana, that defies the odds of cynics and the selfish alike. And has a real bad reputation among the proudest Elk.
Peg is what reminded me of the glorious females of the world: not of, but beyond a certain age.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A Beautiful Place For A Neighborhood
I put this image on here for my friend Rick. Rick has recently began to look at my blog. The fact that he is trolling it for data by which to get me arrested, is just the way things go when you run with the hunted.You might recognize this little town, Ricardo, as I recognized it, when I flew to in on Google Earth. How many times did you and Emily walk on the paths of that park? How many times did you drive your truck over that bridge. The image on Google Earth is much larger, and amusing in the depth of it's data. You can tell its a college town, since little coffee cups are floating over every coffee shop, and there are about ten in this image alone. But alas, Rick, one day you and I shall visit Missoula, Montana together, and I can come to know the difference between the real world, and the lovely place that I've visited in your imagination.
In A Holler With A Couple Fireflies
Had the mouth to call around
Hate to bother you and make
You think I'm down
But it's time.
The rhythm and the park of faith
Makes the drive to come
And see you late
Till the walls unwind
Will the water wind you down
Till the summer time comes winding down
Just a sunset reminding of the night.
Till you take me down to a holler
And show me all the bright things in the sky
Are fireflies.
I heard of those when I was young
Somehow in a dream
Now you hold my hand and look in my eye.
And somehow I think that will be better
By and by with all those fireflies.
I ain't now to call on back
My brick a brack they'd make me
As thirty five.
And maybe Cancer gets me
And maybe it's the drinking
I don't know
I don't suppose I'll lie.
Hey, tonight Miss Thinker
Will you take my hand in yours
I know I'm weak and you can know it too.
Abide in nature to take it back
In doubts... I'll be better soon
If I'm with you.
Be strong, be courageous
Just go lay down with another
I'm giving lots and lots of bad advice.
Don't tell her that you need her, no
She'll run off in directions that don't soon include
The likes of you and I.
I guess it's my fault
I'm talking to another in the bar.
Another man who doesn't fake it
Man at best he don't break the plans to make it
And that's where I know you are,
In a holler with a couple fireflies,
In a holler with a couple fireflies,
In a holler with a couple fireflies,
In a holler with a couple fireflies.
Wrote the song, three years ago when I was heartbroken, and feeling like an idiot. It's always struck me as a sort of maudlin sappy tune, without the sparkle of some of my other work, but for some reason it sits with my other songs, on the deskstop of my computer, a thin sliver that won't go away. It's in some notebooks and journals as well. And not frequently, but sometimes I sing it.
It's basically about a guy who isn't loved by someone he knows inside out. He drinks and smokes and gives advice he knows is worthless, for beginners, 'cus it's coming from him.
Sad folks make folks happy, or something like that.
Who believes it?
The fireflies in Indiana never blink in unison. But some places in the world, like the droning of the Katydid, and the sudden reversals of a flock of birds in flight, fireflies blink in mass, saying to mankind, "I can do anything you can do, better." Show offs.
Wrote the song, three years ago when I was heartbroken, and feeling like an idiot. It's always struck me as a sort of maudlin sappy tune, without the sparkle of some of my other work, but for some reason it sits with my other songs, on the deskstop of my computer, a thin sliver that won't go away. It's in some notebooks and journals as well. And not frequently, but sometimes I sing it.
It's basically about a guy who isn't loved by someone he knows inside out. He drinks and smokes and gives advice he knows is worthless, for beginners, 'cus it's coming from him.
Sad folks make folks happy, or something like that.
Who believes it?
The fireflies in Indiana never blink in unison. But some places in the world, like the droning of the Katydid, and the sudden reversals of a flock of birds in flight, fireflies blink in mass, saying to mankind, "I can do anything you can do, better." Show offs.
More on Sweden
More on Sweden.
One of the main reasons I mentioned Esaias Tegner, was the fact that Wikipedia had him attributing Sweden's population increase in the 18th and 19th centuries as due to, "the peace, the (smallpox) vaccine, and the potatoes." In one hundred years the population doubled. Apparently, this taxed Sweden's capacity to feed and service such growth, so over a million people moved to America, in the last hundred years. Ten percent in the 1880's. God, that just doesn't seem possible. I used to hear that more Polish people used to live in Chicago, than in Warsaw, Poland. I learned this from a taxi driver in Chicago, visiting there with my parents. Wikipedia says that more Swedish people lived in Chicago in the early 20th century, than in Gothenburg, Sweden's second largest city. Of course, most of the Swedes populated Minnesota (which nobody is confused about, since Minnesota enjoys surely the most sensible populace in in Middle West, USA. Go there some time.
How lovely that the farmers of Sweden were never part of Feudalism. How is that possible? Something in the Swedish character. So, farmers have always had more power there, then in many other places. The Centre Party, in Sweden. began as the Agrarian party. As to whether they fight for causes I believe in, I couldn't say. But they have a strange history, when you consider peasant folk elsewhere.
It was surprising to me that Swede's did not learn of their countries true ties to America, and the American nuclear arsenal, until 1994. But every country has secrets. I can't believe to this day, the attitude that many people have toward Administration's in America's recent past (Reagan, the Bush's and Clinton), who blatantly violated the Spirit of my countries people. You can accuse. You can defend. But at the end of the day: what is it you believe in? Taking over governments? Protecting the rich? Giving no choice to a people? That's not America, always. But it sure as hell is America, sometimes. The people lead. And the truth, might be powerful. But we won't look. But for the rockets red glare.
During the Cold War, Sweden was so surrounded by states under Russian influence that it astounds me to imagine what it must have been like. Germany, Poland, Russia, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. None of those countries. really remind me of Sweden. But all have been occluded by the Iron Curtain. Very curious.
I'm fascinated by the names of Sweden's version of "states" like Indiana, where I live, and which I mention constantly. Sweden's provinces serve no political purpose. I sometimes wish the same could be said about the US. But that's not likely to happen. Just read the beautiful place names of Sweden's "landscapes", it's landskap: Bohuslan, Dalarna, Blekinge, Gotland, Dalsland, Halland, Gastrikland, Harjedalen, Halsingland, Lapland, Jamtland, Norrbotten, Medelpad, Skane, Narke, Sodermanland, Smaland, Uppland (the name, more or less, of one of our local breweries, in Bloomington), Varmland, Vastmanland, Vastergotland, Vasterbotten, Oland, Angermanland, Ostergotland. Jeez, there are a few AngerManLand's in the USA. Lot's of anger men.
Beautiful names, and great meaning to millions of people. It throws light into my imagination, to just think about the warmth that identity brings human beings. I love my Indiana, as some love their Oland.
I was surprised at how warm Sweden is for its latitude. And Stockholm's daylight lasts more than 18 hours in late June! Jesus. I guess curtains are pretty good business in Stockhom. Six hours of daylight in December. "I'm sleeping in," must surely mean, you welcome the dark. In Indiana, we complain about 10 hours of daylight. Six hours of light....
Apparently nighttime in Stockholm is always between half and .33% as cold as the day. Here in Indiana, the night is frequently, only a tiny bit colder than the day. Certainly only rarely is the difference fifty percent.
Sweden is a very interesting place. I plan to actually read a book in the near future about it. So I hope my overview of what I gleaned on the web, celebrates it enough for now.
One of the main reasons I mentioned Esaias Tegner, was the fact that Wikipedia had him attributing Sweden's population increase in the 18th and 19th centuries as due to, "the peace, the (smallpox) vaccine, and the potatoes." In one hundred years the population doubled. Apparently, this taxed Sweden's capacity to feed and service such growth, so over a million people moved to America, in the last hundred years. Ten percent in the 1880's. God, that just doesn't seem possible. I used to hear that more Polish people used to live in Chicago, than in Warsaw, Poland. I learned this from a taxi driver in Chicago, visiting there with my parents. Wikipedia says that more Swedish people lived in Chicago in the early 20th century, than in Gothenburg, Sweden's second largest city. Of course, most of the Swedes populated Minnesota (which nobody is confused about, since Minnesota enjoys surely the most sensible populace in in Middle West, USA. Go there some time.
How lovely that the farmers of Sweden were never part of Feudalism. How is that possible? Something in the Swedish character. So, farmers have always had more power there, then in many other places. The Centre Party, in Sweden. began as the Agrarian party. As to whether they fight for causes I believe in, I couldn't say. But they have a strange history, when you consider peasant folk elsewhere.
It was surprising to me that Swede's did not learn of their countries true ties to America, and the American nuclear arsenal, until 1994. But every country has secrets. I can't believe to this day, the attitude that many people have toward Administration's in America's recent past (Reagan, the Bush's and Clinton), who blatantly violated the Spirit of my countries people. You can accuse. You can defend. But at the end of the day: what is it you believe in? Taking over governments? Protecting the rich? Giving no choice to a people? That's not America, always. But it sure as hell is America, sometimes. The people lead. And the truth, might be powerful. But we won't look. But for the rockets red glare.
During the Cold War, Sweden was so surrounded by states under Russian influence that it astounds me to imagine what it must have been like. Germany, Poland, Russia, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. None of those countries. really remind me of Sweden. But all have been occluded by the Iron Curtain. Very curious.
I'm fascinated by the names of Sweden's version of "states" like Indiana, where I live, and which I mention constantly. Sweden's provinces serve no political purpose. I sometimes wish the same could be said about the US. But that's not likely to happen. Just read the beautiful place names of Sweden's "landscapes", it's landskap: Bohuslan, Dalarna, Blekinge, Gotland, Dalsland, Halland, Gastrikland, Harjedalen, Halsingland, Lapland, Jamtland, Norrbotten, Medelpad, Skane, Narke, Sodermanland, Smaland, Uppland (the name, more or less, of one of our local breweries, in Bloomington), Varmland, Vastmanland, Vastergotland, Vasterbotten, Oland, Angermanland, Ostergotland. Jeez, there are a few AngerManLand's in the USA. Lot's of anger men.
Beautiful names, and great meaning to millions of people. It throws light into my imagination, to just think about the warmth that identity brings human beings. I love my Indiana, as some love their Oland.
I was surprised at how warm Sweden is for its latitude. And Stockholm's daylight lasts more than 18 hours in late June! Jesus. I guess curtains are pretty good business in Stockhom. Six hours of daylight in December. "I'm sleeping in," must surely mean, you welcome the dark. In Indiana, we complain about 10 hours of daylight. Six hours of light....
Apparently nighttime in Stockholm is always between half and .33% as cold as the day. Here in Indiana, the night is frequently, only a tiny bit colder than the day. Certainly only rarely is the difference fifty percent.
Sweden is a very interesting place. I plan to actually read a book in the near future about it. So I hope my overview of what I gleaned on the web, celebrates it enough for now.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Bald, Bald, Rupunzel
I have enjoyed communicating, since I started this Blog, with my friend Neil Graf. He'd write lovely comments occasionally. Sometimes they were humorous, and sometimes they were approving, but mostly they spoke to the fact that he loves and cares about me.
And he does.
Well, I sometimes read Neil's Blog, Nauthis, though not as much as I should. Neil has been a better commentator on my blog, then the other way around. You should read his Blog. Don't be fooled by the utter romance of his Tron like color scheme. It's not lipstick on a pig: it's pig on a lipstick. Neil is kinda a genius.
I wouldn't say that about everyone, since clearly everyone I know is following with rapt attention America's economic recovery. Could anything more clearly reflect the fact that I am surrounded by a category of human beings who are not geniuses? I don't know, and don't need to know Neil's opinion as to the American bailout, and grand scheme to never really acknowledge "our problem." He gets it, without being asked. Which takes the pressure off, when I start to sound like a nut case. Which in flag waving Pleasantville, happens once a week.
Got any kids? Tell them to forget about Biochemistry (yuck!) and go into real estate. Where else can real estate go, but up?
Luckily I have established my patriotism as a pseudo religious sort of metaphysical thing. I love broad categories like "Indiana" and "The USA," without having to be bothered with the way those "states" behave. It's easy.... like taking candy from a baby.
Indiana is one of the most consistently conservative states in a country which recently decided that business as usual in credit default swaps was gold... that the damn regulators threaten to turn to dross. Sort of like Rupunzel going bald.
I better stop. So this is the last thing I'll say. I'm basically bald. I have little hair.
Guess what Rupunzel? Your fucking bald! (as well. And don't worry, shaving your head is trendy.)
So....
Anyhow, Neil is well read.
Recently he attracted a wonderful couple of folks to my blog, because, unlike mine, on his Blog he actually thought to share a link to mine. So these folks, from Sweden, have shared some of their thoughts. And that's been great for me.
I've never much cared who claims to "follow my blog." But it is undeniably nice to hear feedback. Though, in case anyone's interested, reading is plenty nice. You don't have to comment.
Since Ande and Jenny have commented, and at times have shown, as seems to frequently be the case, that they know a great deal more about my country than I know about theirs... I thought I'd read a little about Sweden.
Steve Wolfram (who wrote A New Kind of Science, and I saw speak at the somewhat Orwellian sounding Center for Pervasive Computing) is famous for creating the suite of programs called Mathematica. It was the first software I have ever heard of, years ago, that could solve and display in typical mathematical terms, Algebra, Calculus and a few other difficult things on the computer. He justifiably has become famous and wealthy for this.
A few months back he launched with much fanfare Wolfram/Alpha: something of a search engine for scientific analysis. Due to the fact that it is almost impossible not to compare it to Google, Wolfram Alpha can seem a bit underwhelming.
That didn't stop me, however, from asking Wolfram/Alpha, today, what time it was in Sweden. For I had no idea. It dutifully answered my query with the time in Sweden, to the minute. And gave all kinds of other fun stuff. Try your birthdate some time. It's fun.
Anyhow, it's approaching four in the morning in Sweden. And yesterday, I looked Sweden up on Wikipedia, just to give myself a lesson in how little I know, compared to the people Neil has shared with me, about their lovely country.
Most folks know that Sweden's history goes way, way back. The Vikings must be some of the most important folks in prehistory. And, Jesus, talk about a place that is mentioned in Beowulf, for crying out loud, and you could be talking about Sweden.
Apparently the Swedes were an attractive enough bunch of (men, I'm guessing) that the Byzantine Emperor Theophilos rather coveted their abilities and asked if they might not serve as his Secret Service: the Varangian Guard.
It's always a sign that a culture has been around for awhile when it retains colorful names for folks in its history: Ingvar The Far-Travelled for example. Apparently Beowulf storied the Swedish-Geatish wars from the sixth century. The funny thing is that history this old is more mythic than historic, and yet there are artifacts (many, many Runestones) to give this myth a bit more heft then George Washington's teeth, at Mt. Vernon, 1100 years later.
It never ceases to amuse me that the colorful Romans, and apparently Swedes, were out and about in their complex and dastardly deeds a full millennium before Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best. In short, black and white isn't what makes "classic" TV and movies old. They were constructed to not deal with the lusty human race. So how long were the dark ages anyway? Talk to Mr. Ed.
It floored me that St. Ansgar (Saint indeed!) introduced Christianity in 829, such that by 1100(!) paganism was giving way to monotheism. Doesn't that amaze you? Sweden has been an ostensibly Christian country for nearly 1000 years. Over four times the age of my country. Talk about In God We Trust.
In 1520 King Christian II of Denmark, established control of "Sweden" by the infamous "Stockholm Blood Bath." This is to say he killed a hell of a lot of nobles (who had been elected by a parliament!) This resulted in some frustration on the part of the Swedes, who on June 6, 1523, turned tables and made Gustav Vasa a King. King Vasa rewarded his appointment by making Sweden Lutheran (and some say, finally, a somewhat modern State.)
I could be wrong, but part of me thinks that some of the power the early Nobles had in Sweden had to do with the role they played in maintaining order during the Dark Ages. I have spoken in previous posts about the amazing capacities that guilds and merchants brought to bear throughout Europe after the dissolution of The Roman Empire. Trade and law was more or less maintained by independent merchant armies, and organizations. Something tells me that Sweden's character as a people, to this day, carried it back then through those "dark" times. As modern European States developed upon the encroaching Reformation and Enlightenment, such power was extremely threatening to the new order. Hence, Swedish cities being "strongly influenced" by the Hanseatic League at Visby. Completely fascinating vacillation of power from The Roman Empire through the Hanseatic League, then to the various arising European States and finally to a singularity known since 1523 as Sweden.
From 1658 through 1721 while other countries were making shadow dances in a bid for Celestial Longevity, Sweden consolidated a startling Empire. Whether it lasted forever or not is not nearly as interesting as what it was: the conquering of nearly half the Holy Roman states. Gustavus Adolphus more or less is credited with this creation as King. In fact, in a strange state of Apostolic Succession indeed, he planned on being the Holy Roman Emperor. The southern German states soured on his ambitions, however, and eventually left him with only the northern German states of Swedish Pomerania (and what does that mean? land of apples?) Bremen-Verden and Wismar.
Charles X was responsible for the largest expansion and subsequent contraction (due to war and famine) that Sweden was to know, as a country. His Son recovered things to a large extent, and gave to his child, Charles XII a much more powerful and militarily agile country.
Shortly after a ego boosting success in Poland (sort of) Charles II made the mistake that Generals have forgotten to their demise ever since: he invaded Russia only to be beaten in the Battle of Poltava in 1709. Such was the beginning of the end for Swedish Empire.
Apparently Charles XII was killed by musket (it is recorded that he was shot, but I am relatively sure that the rifle had not been invented yet, so... it is fascinating to me that he was killed in such a manner at all.) at Fredriksten fortress in 1718. The loss of his leadership was not helpful for Swedish Empire, so Russia expanded it's power from there on.
Interestingly, the loss of Eastern Sweden due to the unfolding of these events, was somewhat responsible for the creation of the State of Finland. This is due to Russia's taking of Finland as the Duchy of Finland (Finland being in a sense on it's own recognizance.) as part of Imperial Russia. Later (according to my friend, and historian, Rick, the Finn's kicked Russia's ass. How did they do that? Guerilla warfare. They gave the cities away, and shot anything that walked the roads. This was the 18th century after all. Hmm... did military historians learn anything from that? )
Once Sweden gained through alliance with Napoleonic France the ceding of Norway to it's lands, the stage was set for war eventually with Norway. Charles XIII forced Norway into a union with Sweden in the Convention of Moss, which did not end in Norway's sovereignty until 1905. That forced union was the final war which Sweden subjected itself to.
Most of what I am writing comes from Wikipedia. Any recognition of that fact just goes to show you are smart. I have reworded, but looked elsewhere damn little. My desire, here, on my blog, is to celebrate what I have learned, with you. I don't know much, but I know I love Sweden.
A little interlude is necessary here for literature. I don't have the time to paraphrase, but I certainly wish to analyze, so here is the synopsis of one of Sweden's greatest pieces of literature (on Wikipedia):
Frithiofs Saga: (made famous by Esaias Tegner)
King Beli of Sogn had two songs, Helgi and Halfdan, and a daughter named Ingeborg. On the other side of the fjord, lived the king's friend Porsteinn Vikingsson whose son Frithjof (forgive me this rotten translation) was called "the bold" and he was the bravest among men. Frithjof had been raised together with Ingeborg by their foster father Hilding.
Both Beli and Porsteinn died in war whereupon Helgi and Halfdan took over the kingdom. The two kings were jealous with Frithjof's excellent qualities and so they denied him Ingeborg's hand. They took her to Baldshagi (Baldr's sacred enclosure. A place where right wing Americans can only dream of.) where no one dared hurt another and where no woman and man had intercourse. Still, Frithjof visited Ingeborg and they continued to love each other.
This caused Helgi and Halfdan to send Frithjof away to Orkney to take tribute and while he was away they burnt down his homestead and married Ingeborg to the aged king Ring of Ringerike.
When Frithjof returned with the tribute, he burnt down Baldr's temple in Baldrshagi and went away to live as a viking. After three years, he came to King Ring and spent the winter with him. Just before the old king died, Frithjof's identity was apparent to everybody and so the dying king appointed Frithjof earl and made him the care taker of Ring's and Ingeborg's child. When Ring had died, Frithjof and Ingeborg married and he became the King of Ringerike. Then he declared war on Ingeborg's brothers, killed one of them and made the second one his vassal.
I don't know about you, but this wouldn't fly in the American parlance of typical behavior. By and large we Americans like our virgins "like a virgin." "Touched for the very first time."
To be continued....
The Small Chance You've Got Before He's Gone
Tonight I came home from work, and the ninety year old man I live with, Robert Boyer, was standing in the kitchen, slowly scraping the frosting off his much diminished birthday cake. My friend David asked me for a ride, since it's been raining for most of the week and I was happy to oblige (he doesn't drive a car.)
When I returned, since I knew that Robert had watched Tiger Woods play golf in Round Two of something or other (I date and label the VCR tapes he records of these things, and usually I just ask, "What round?") I asked Robert, "How was the game?"
Robert sighed, and said, "It was awful."
"But it was at least worth watching, I mean...." I said, trailing into something like a moralistic suggestion that he keep things in perspective, but then thinking better of it.
"No!" Robert nearly yelled, "it was awful."
"So," I asked, clearly lacking any awareness of Roberts pain, "even if it was a fair game, it was awful?"
Robert doesn't generally lie, or criticize. If I make a seriously dirty joke in extremely bad taste, he simply remains silent, realizing his reaction sounds like the inside of a Cathedral. Not in a religious sense. In an aural sense. The air hangs when you joke about sex with Robert. These days.
Years ago I would kid Robert about his sex life (or rather, his dream of a sex life with Jean.) He'd tell me that he hoped this would turn into something. And who knows, even Bingo is a gamble, right?
After Robert's wife died, I think he accidentally leaned a little more heavily on one of her friends, in a weak moment of no doubt, both lust and grief. His wife's friends have certainly managed to hold that against him. And he, no doubt, is a bit strange. That's why I love him.
What I have noticed lately, now that he is clearly, without a doubt, limiting himself to the role of the dying, and completely aware of his beginning and endings. As I've said before, like the Cyclops, he knows a bit too much. Your not really supposed to know your going to die. I doubt he will see much more than possibly a soft green glow of spring. I doubt he will be upright. And since he coughs fairly frequently, due to a swallowing problem, I'm guessing Pneumonia is in the offing if he doesn't stay upright. Obviously he could be kept alive. But not at home. And not commiserating with me about Tiger Woods. I'm guessing Robert will have little reason to continue living beyond eight or ten months from now. I'm guessing he will die. In case you are wondering: if you don't leave your home, but two or three times in a month. And your old. Your mortality can be graphed with startling precision.
Well, I love that old man. And after I asked him if it was a "fair" game, even though he hated the game, I realized that he was simply confessing the disappointment he had in Tiger. And now I had the bright idea of pushing in his face the notion that the best "man" won.
Some people are good at reading feelings and erring on the side of the feelings of their friends. I'd like to investigate such behavior more.... in the future. Currently I am having trouble even approximating such thoughtfulness. Empathy.
So I accused Robert of being fickle in his preferences: he wanted a man to win, not the BEST man. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. That's not right!
Robert looked at me, his full ninety years pulling the lids of his eyes just a bit further from their milky orbs than you'd think was their job, and said, "I'll have to think about that." He was disappointed. Sports are a tribal activity, and don't bear well up to scrutiny by twerps like me.
He looked as if I'd told him to go outside and play.
Later, I was trying to put a new tape in the VCR, so he'd have it for round three, tomorrow. Robert got excited trying to explain something, and found himself at a loss for words. Not completely, but to a certain degree, he was stumbling badly, searching... I looked back at him from my crouch at that godless machine, and given my earlier stupidity felt a love nearly as pure as what my poor Mom and Dad must have sustained so as to make it to the promised land (Andy giving a shit. What amounts to the promised land for a parent. Man.) I stood up and just walked over and put my arms around him. "I'm gonna miss you one day, old man."
It's awkward hugging someone in their chair, with three remote controls on a small TV table in front of them, a cane jauntily flexing your ribs, and a stack of opened mail about ready to fall over at your elbow. There's also the problem that your body is blocking the women's golf tournament from Robert's view. Which when your ninety, is pretty annoying.
But he likes being hugged. And there's no one else (since he's persona non grata for hitting on his wife's friends) to do it.
Far as I'm concerned, I needed the hug as much as he needed the goddamn TV. So, sort of, we're even.
When I returned, since I knew that Robert had watched Tiger Woods play golf in Round Two of something or other (I date and label the VCR tapes he records of these things, and usually I just ask, "What round?") I asked Robert, "How was the game?"
Robert sighed, and said, "It was awful."
"But it was at least worth watching, I mean...." I said, trailing into something like a moralistic suggestion that he keep things in perspective, but then thinking better of it.
"No!" Robert nearly yelled, "it was awful."
"So," I asked, clearly lacking any awareness of Roberts pain, "even if it was a fair game, it was awful?"
Robert doesn't generally lie, or criticize. If I make a seriously dirty joke in extremely bad taste, he simply remains silent, realizing his reaction sounds like the inside of a Cathedral. Not in a religious sense. In an aural sense. The air hangs when you joke about sex with Robert. These days.
Years ago I would kid Robert about his sex life (or rather, his dream of a sex life with Jean.) He'd tell me that he hoped this would turn into something. And who knows, even Bingo is a gamble, right?
After Robert's wife died, I think he accidentally leaned a little more heavily on one of her friends, in a weak moment of no doubt, both lust and grief. His wife's friends have certainly managed to hold that against him. And he, no doubt, is a bit strange. That's why I love him.
What I have noticed lately, now that he is clearly, without a doubt, limiting himself to the role of the dying, and completely aware of his beginning and endings. As I've said before, like the Cyclops, he knows a bit too much. Your not really supposed to know your going to die. I doubt he will see much more than possibly a soft green glow of spring. I doubt he will be upright. And since he coughs fairly frequently, due to a swallowing problem, I'm guessing Pneumonia is in the offing if he doesn't stay upright. Obviously he could be kept alive. But not at home. And not commiserating with me about Tiger Woods. I'm guessing Robert will have little reason to continue living beyond eight or ten months from now. I'm guessing he will die. In case you are wondering: if you don't leave your home, but two or three times in a month. And your old. Your mortality can be graphed with startling precision.
Well, I love that old man. And after I asked him if it was a "fair" game, even though he hated the game, I realized that he was simply confessing the disappointment he had in Tiger. And now I had the bright idea of pushing in his face the notion that the best "man" won.
Some people are good at reading feelings and erring on the side of the feelings of their friends. I'd like to investigate such behavior more.... in the future. Currently I am having trouble even approximating such thoughtfulness. Empathy.
So I accused Robert of being fickle in his preferences: he wanted a man to win, not the BEST man. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. That's not right!
Robert looked at me, his full ninety years pulling the lids of his eyes just a bit further from their milky orbs than you'd think was their job, and said, "I'll have to think about that." He was disappointed. Sports are a tribal activity, and don't bear well up to scrutiny by twerps like me.
He looked as if I'd told him to go outside and play.
Later, I was trying to put a new tape in the VCR, so he'd have it for round three, tomorrow. Robert got excited trying to explain something, and found himself at a loss for words. Not completely, but to a certain degree, he was stumbling badly, searching... I looked back at him from my crouch at that godless machine, and given my earlier stupidity felt a love nearly as pure as what my poor Mom and Dad must have sustained so as to make it to the promised land (Andy giving a shit. What amounts to the promised land for a parent. Man.) I stood up and just walked over and put my arms around him. "I'm gonna miss you one day, old man."
It's awkward hugging someone in their chair, with three remote controls on a small TV table in front of them, a cane jauntily flexing your ribs, and a stack of opened mail about ready to fall over at your elbow. There's also the problem that your body is blocking the women's golf tournament from Robert's view. Which when your ninety, is pretty annoying.
But he likes being hugged. And there's no one else (since he's persona non grata for hitting on his wife's friends) to do it.
Far as I'm concerned, I needed the hug as much as he needed the goddamn TV. So, sort of, we're even.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Ripe Women and a Dancing Scrooge
I mentioned in a post last winter a time when a woman nearly fell into my arms in lust once, while I walked with her, due to my having confessed to her my impassioned admiration for elderly women. "As something more than wizened crones, but mysteriously hidden beauty, and pleasure obscured to those who are in equal measure young and stupid." Typically for me, I didn't take advantage of my friend, and she sort of faded away in time. She was sitting and watching me work a few weeks later and seemed completely taken with my genius at arranging sugar packets. Infatuation is easy to despise, and yet, it sure doesn't cause too much pain, in this world.
As should be the case, I know a large number of older women, everyone from members of my family, to a homeless woman Barbara, who seems to be on a decades long quest to be the slowest person ever to touch their toes. I remember ten years ago when she passed for completely normal, as long as she didn't open her mouth. Her hair is, even today, a perfect study in what Wallace Stegner was getting at in Angle of Repose about his preference for smoothly folded, and simple curved shapes in women's hair. A bun, and the casual parabola of dark strands across a woman's temple. Barbara, despite the ravaging elements of mental illness and homelessness, still has such beauty in her hair. It gives me great pleasure to hear that some of my friends are occasionally rebuffed by her. At times she doesn't recognize me, but if I open my mouth, as sometimes happens with a friends pet, or for that matter, a human being in the dark, something about my voice say's, "safe," to her. And mercy, she's right about that.
To worry about Barabara is natural. It's almost impossible to not settle into the easy chair of pity, about the pitiful condition that so many people find themselves in. It's a useful exercise, none the less, to consider the alternative: controlling for her illness. What is it exactly that people want, where Barbara is involved. Her safety? Her happiness? She might actually be living an independent and somewhat fear free life on the streets of Bloomington, I don't really know. But when I talk to her, I rarely hear as much fear as just about all my friends seem to feel nestled sweetly into the their roles on the bell curve of normalcy. Barbara might be more of an eyesore and reminder to most of us of the shadows that lay everywhere beneath things. Like a candy wrapper on a sprawling expanse of lawn, she says, "the symbol of this undifferentiated reality, it's seeming wholeness and unchangeability is an illusion." And trust me, most folks (sweet liberal ones, of course) basically can't stand her. And she is annoying. Sure.
Barbara is a beautiful woman. It may not seem that way, due to her life, but, my god, the first time I saw her I couldn't believe what a piercing iconic look she had. Perhaps its flirtation she hears in my voice. I couldn't say, due to my seeming idiocy at reading the female (and male) mind.
My friend Rick has a picture in his house of two Germanic ladies (his aunts) sitting in chairs in what looks to be a park, their shoes casually cast aside, and cocktails in their hands. Laughing. I'd sacrifice a hell of a lot to sit with those women. They look like my Grandmother Coffey, she being I suppose a full blooded German, and having the artifacts of her youth when she spoke German at home, in old age within her voice. A subtlety overlain her english, different, but not dissimilar to the effect of all those Norwegians on the language of the northern middle-western United States. Little hints, that come most alive in the moments you most cherished with her: in her excitement, and scorn. When she was righteous, and when she was happy. What a beautiful woman. And I never knew her young at all.
Next to such collections of human mystery, beauty and nuanced influence, it is patently laughable to encounter what is ostensibly provided to the gobsmacked male as the epitome of feminine fashionability. While there is no way in denying the unlined mystery of a twenty year olds fullest expression of her inheritance: the constellation of choices on offer to her, to clothe her, and to assist her entrance into the dark (as something of a costumed neon signifier) have from what I gather, not a thing to do with men. Which explains to me the difference between Playboy and Vogue.
Young women and men are likely to be complimented on their appearance, their intelligence, and any number of other qualities that they were more or less programmed from birth to display. It's easy to imagine most of that as something of an accomplishment. And I don't knock such tendencies completely. What a crusty old jerk you would have to be to wish for all appearances to be the work of their owner. I like to look at people, and wonder. And I am intimately connected, as a man, to all the desires, and hungers that afflict me as well as spice my days when I am so lucky as to be delighted by one of those neon costumed ladies. The way I talk about this would seem to travel down a logical path that would have one assume I value my time with the retarded more than those who are born intelligent. Or value my time with the ugly more than the beautiful. My eyes and heart do not follow such a path. I am more or less normal.
It is none the less not an academic or Sunday school exercise to dwell for a few moments to realize that beauty and intelligence are in no way accomplishments. And since intelligence can swing in its meaning from something like cultivation to raw cognitive ability, I must remind myself that this subject is well traveled and rather confusing to me.
I mention all of this because of my frustration at being a participant in such lies, and prejudice. The young are no more beautiful than the old. The opposite common assumption is built on an impressive monument of rather democratic decision making: all of us are more attracted to the behavior and look of youth, than we are to the same in the old. But come on: what is exciting to humankind is breaking the natural rules of the universe. When you tell a small child, "Stop running," it would be a strange child indeed who replied, "of course. It's far far easier to walk, I suppose." Well it certainly is for me! Youth exists at the perilous, and wild apex of our escape from the cold oblivion of not being. Not so much death, as total inactivity. When you experience someone dying quickly of a disease, all of us recognize that moment when the critical mass of life's quiet riot, tumbles over the equal sign toward the less distressing acceptance that you will finally rest. So life is not on some sort of mere analog between life and death, but in a more complex tangle of claims that existing makes toward love, connection, dreams, fears, and questions. We are not a grey between black and white, but the patinated dancer who catches light and shadow, and watches her body on the wall (or two lovers who look upon their shadow. Same difference really.) Half the fear of death, is the lifelong desire for play. Had Scrooge been a dancer, A Christmas Carol would simply be a book. Nobody believes in the dancing Scrooge, until the end of the story. And Scrooge's end became his claim, and all of ours the whole earth round. Such is the power of the proper claim: on life and death.
Which is why I am all over the map here. Seemingly making fun (playing on the claims) of lovely young women of a summers evening. Seemingly tolling the impossibly tedious notion that there's nothing so great about beautiful intelligent people. Seemingly playing ye old country cabin where saccharine delights rub your troubled chest with Vicks Vapor Creme, and coo into your jaded ears: my sweet, sweet little [identify!]
A life is a limited thing, but we humans are endowed with a limitless potential to hold hands with The Dancing Scrooge, and perhaps live a little, where one day our living will be denied. When I confessed this to my highly intelligent fetchingly clothed date, at the swanky place where we met, she understood me completely. From what I gather, her claims, and passions, don't inspire her to regard my Dancing Scrooge claim as proper in any sense. She didn't wrinkle her brow. She laughed, saying, "Get real. In a world of global warming, and mortal battle on abortion, you're Dancing Scrooge might as well await discovery on the former planet of Pluto." I liked that analysis so much, I kindly forgot what I wanted to say about Scrooge, and listened rapt with all my chromosomes getting wound up more and more...
She, for her part, could hear in her voice, and see in my eyes, the twirling flocks of claims that her arguments let fly. Is it not a pleasure to be listened to, especially when, like Mr. Ed, you've got something to say? You'll be surprised, I was not thinking about horses as my longing gaze swept her face, and my brain sauteed within her perspectives.
And be appraised, we could just as easily have been talking, or rather, she could have been talking about
Wheel Of Fortune. The content of such interactions is not of great importance. I've heard ripe old women smile at their pleasure in watching Don Johnson in Nash Bridges. It's tempting to laugh, and almost impossible not to smile. But their confession contains a question: can you take me seriously? And in order to do that, you need not come to conclusions about Mr. Don Johnson. You only need to profoundly briefly feel. That's life.
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