Real Easter Eggs

Diane and I were in Savannah, GA during Holy Week in 2011  What a beautiful place, established in 1733; imbued with art and architecture, designed by artisans and craftsmen and used as a canvas for just about every period of formative American history that one could imagine.   It started out as a slave-free colony, mutual liberty for all was the law laid down by James Oglethorpe.  However when he stepped down from power, the landowners and business men sought to reverse that, and ultimately won out.  Having slaves was good for business,  more profitable they said.

Oglethorpe also banned Catholicism, because he was afraid that Catholics would side with the Spaniards in a conflict since they were at war at the time.  Well freedom of religion eventually took a foothold as there was now a rather sizable Catholic church there, St John the Baptist Cathedral.

We stayed at the Park Ave Manor Bed & Breakfast (www.parkavenuemanor.com), kiddie corner from Forsythe Park.  As we walked through the park earlier in the week we noticed a bunch of U-Hauls unloading a equipment and workers fencing in an area.  Lots of activity.

 Great place, highly recommended.

More recently Savannah has been used as a backdrop for many a film.  Just take a tour, they'll point out all of the spots that were used; Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was filmed there, and The Conspiracy was filmed there, Glory in that house over there and Forest Gump was filmed over there.  In fact they batted you over the head with Forest Gump; where the feather came down, where the bench was...  The Savannah scenes all happened in Chippewa Square.  

In the fall of 1993, there was a park bench here that Tom Hanks sat on, with his box of chocolates.

And you know you couldn't help but think about Bubba and Lt Dan...

On Wednesday we went to Bonaventure Cemetery.  Pretty amazing place.  The Bird Girl from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was originally there.  She has since been relocated to the Telfair Museum in  Savannah where she can be watched over.   Just like the old strong oak trees that are watching over all of those who are buried at Bonaventure, souls that once walked the earth and felt the warmth of the sun in their face.

View from the top of the lighthouse

Then we went to Tybee Island.

We did the tour of the Tybee Island Lighthouse, then Fort Screven across the street from the lighthouse and stopped for lunch at the North Beach Bar and Grill, a little place next to Fort Screven, right by the beach.

Our waiters name was George.   I had remarked to Diane how you hardly ever see waitstaff over the age of 30 anymore at a previous meal and here comes good ol’ 50 something George.

 About 10 minutes after we sit down a young couple sat down next to us with their little boy, who looked to be maybe 3 years old.  Well behaved but excited to be at the beach.  The mother was pensive.  The father had a heavily tattooed left arm and a huge ovoid 5-6 inch scar on the back of his right arm, over the triceps muscle.  His hair was cropped short, not long enough to hide the small scars on his scalp.  He was very muscular and he looked around a lot.  He sat with his back to me so I could get away with a prolonged observation.  The woman seemed to spend as much time keeping on eye on him as she did keeping an eye on the boy.

The boy's father was missing his left leg.   In its place was a rather high-tech looking artificial limb.  Polished aluminum as finely sculpted as the rest of this young man’s body. Just above the heel was a small mono-shock looking cylinder that reminded me of the off road bikes I used to work on at Suzuki Ann Arbor, when I was going to college.

On the way out of the Restaurant I walked up to their waitress and gave her $40.  “The Family over there that you’ve been waiting on, the one with the little boy.  Here… I am paying for their meal.” 

She looked startled, baffled even, like I had recited a calculus problem unsolicited.  Then it chimed in with her what I was doing and she smiled, “That is very kind of you.”

“Tell him ‘Thank You’” and I turned and walked out.

We eventually drove back to Park Ave Manor and decided to go to Corleone’s for dinner.  That was a movie too, right?

My thoughts kept returning to the young boy and his father.  Did I do the right thing?  What was his reaction?  I played out different scenarios in my head, that maybe I facilitated some positive change, maybe I answered a prayer.  Or that maybe the dad, angered over yet another reminder that he is no longer the person he once was, and that somebody noticed.  Maybe he told the waitress to keep it and he can pay for his own damn dinner.  Plus as Diane pointed out, how do you know he was a vet?  It could have been a motorcycle accident.  My gut and my heart told me otherwise.  There was something very edgy about this man... a sort of detached edgyness.  His son, with his adolescent hyperactivity seemed to snap him out of it.  

I have seen this before in my own father.  He was 1 of 7 from his battalion that got through the Battle of the Bulge without a scratch, but the conflict haunted him for years.  It took it's toll on our family.  Eventually Dad left.  It was the only escape route he could envision.

   Sometime during the course of the meal I realized that it wasn’t the father I was buying lunch for, it was the son.  Because although he was a cute little 3 year old now, eventually he would grow up and he would have conflicts with his father.  Any reminder Dad had that he is not the wonderful human being that he wants to be, would lead to the rejection of all of those around him who remind him of the conflict still churning inside.

I have heard it said that the only sin that God doesn’t forgive, is the sin that we refuse to forgive ourselves for.  That God’s love is greater than any sin we could commit.  I think that war is a stain upon our humanity.  We go to war under the banner of liberty and freedom, but I suspect that many of those who fight for our country feel neither when they return.  The stain lingers and finding peace with it is difficult when it becomes more real then the reality of the moment, when it steals the present from us, when the subconscious re-visits it in the middle of the night,  or when a young adult child rebels.  When the stain comes back it pushes forgiveness away.   So buying a meal for a stranger isn’t about feeding as much as it is about planting the seeds of forgiveness, so that it can grow as strong and live as long as the oaks in Savannah.  

As a country, I don't believe that we can have liberty and freedom until we can give back to our veterans what they have given to us.  Oglethorpe was right, Liberty has to be mutual.

After dinner we drove back, parked the car and we could hear music coming from Forsythe Park.  Someone was playing in the venue setup that we had been seeing set up on Monday and Tuesday.

“Comeon let’s go” and I grabbed Diane’s hand.

She pulled back a little, “Sounds RAP-ish”

“We can only hear the bass from here. Come on!  It could be any kind of music.”  I played bass in a band for a while and I know good bass when I hear it.

So we walked the third of a mile or so to the Venue and as we got closer we could make out what sounded like Motown and a pretty substantial stage with a horn section on it and two drummers and 4 singers, 2 guitars and a bass player and two large  screens on either side of the stage.  And on the screens was a very familiar face.

I walked up to a security guard and asked, “Is that…”

“… Lt Dan,” he cut me off and from the tone of his voice I was the hundredth idiot to have asked him that question.  

“How do we…”

“You don’t”,  he said.   Geez… no door prize for being the hundredth idiot.

Well first of all I didn’t know that Gary Sinise was a musician.  On the baffle-me-meter, I venture to say that right next to unsolicited calculus, is unsolicited demonstration of advanced musical skill from someone whom you perceive to be something other then a musician.

And second of all, he played the guy who had both of his legs blown off in Forest Gump, angry at God and the world, mired in his own internal hell.  And in the end he transcended his anger and found peace.

And third of all…

Diane was totally invested in this gig.  Gary Sinise is an incredible bass player and the Lieutenant Dan Band (www.ltdanband.com) does 100 gigs a year and as it turns out they’re for hire.  Also in a wonderfully  bizarre kind of way on this night they were playing for the Liberty Mutual insurance company’s annual golf outing.  And did I mention that they were for hire?

 After the last song, he gave a little speech... they do over 100 gigs a year... they play a lot of USO concerts.  I realized that I had totally forgotten about the family at the beach with the little boy by this time.

He said, “You know when you see a vet, it’s OK to go up and thank them.  If they are in an airport or wherever they are.  It’s OK to let them know that you care.  It really means a lot to them.”

I guess in my own stream of consciousness, impulsive, intuitive, feeling way in which I naviagate though life, it was God telling me that I did the right thing.  

Sometimes Easter Eggs aren’t eggs at all.  Sometimes they’re people.  Sometimes they’re like a Faberge Egg with the child inside of the Mom inside of the Dad and it’s eggs all the way down.  And sometimes it’s coincidences on top of coincidences.

 And sometimes the best Easter Egg of all is the one given to you when you least expect it, from someone you don’t know.

I Dreamt of a Whale Last Night

Indian head 

I dreamt of a whale last night.  It was an Arctic setting.  There was a large frozen-over body of water.  Off to the side was Diane, my wife, imploring me to be careful.  As I walked on the ice I could see a whale underneath it.  I can see it's eye looking up at me .

The ice is cracking underneath my feet.  As I'm about to break through, I wake up.

When I went to bed last night, I was struggling with an email request that was sent out from an old classmate.

The body of the email...

***

To my dear family and friends...
For Christmas 2012 I will not be sending out Christmas cards, as much as I like the yearly sharing of the happenings and expressions of affection. I am going to be giving the money I would have spent (and a bit more, that I can spare) to a wonderful, admirable young Lakota family (emphasis is mine) in serious need. 

They are Lance Martin, Sr., his lovely wife, Frankki, and their four children, Lance Jr., Peta, Smoke and Debra Lynn. They are personal friends of mine and I was honored eleven and a half years ago to be their wedding photographer. Frankki is a homemaker and wonderful mother and cook whose even found the time to coach her daughter's middle school volleyball team. 

Lance does tattoos, beadwork, chops wood and does any other work he can find. Their only vehicle, Lance's beloved truck, Lucy, is unworkable and they can't afford parts, so he walks to jobs, sometimes 10 miles and more, each way.  They live on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and their first home burned down about six years ago. Since then they have lived in a quite small mobile home and have been on a tribal waiting list for a newer, larger one, and on another list to get a water line run to their home. The water line came through this summer, and Lance put in many backbreaking hours of work helping the crew quicken the work. Six weeks ago they finally got their new mobile home, but the utility bills to keep it lighted and warm are higher, further pressing on their limited funds.  I've never done something like this before, but I am moved to do it this year for a number of reasons. 
First of all, this is a beautiful love story and marriage, one of the most inspiring I've personally known. 
Second, they are both loving and devoted parents. A couple of nights recently they have gone to bed hungry to make sure their kids had enough to eat.  They have NOTHING with which to buy their kids any kind of Christmas, and I know that breaks their hearts - not to mention their pride and spirit.

Third, though they have spoken openly on occasion about their struggles, they have never complained, whined, or blamed anyone else for their challenges. 
Fourth, I would help them myself a great deal more than I am if I had the funds, but I truly can't; and the only way I could think of to do something for them was to reach out to my most valuable resource - all of you.I am asking you, as a personal favor to me, to consider sending them just $5 ... anything, but I ask you NOT to tell them where you got their address or from whom you heard about their situation. Let the anonymity of it be a true Christmas miracle and raise their spirits. They are on Facebook, if you should be interested in contacting Lance about doing some custom-designed beadwork. He's quite a good artist and can make beaded medallions for pretty much every NFL team logo, among other items of potential interest.If you can and will help them, I thank you greatly. If you can't or won't, that's ok, too. 
I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a truly Happy and prosperous New Year!
Their address is: P.O. Box 292, Manderson, SD 57756

***

What do I do?  It's Christmastime.  I think of Native Americans often.  I created the Indian Head bust at the top of this blog a bit like Richard Dreyfuss and mashed potatoes in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.   It dawned on me, much later in life that the land we live on was once their land.  Land that was taken from them in brutal ways.  Earlier in the day I had read a story in UTNE Reader about the history of American Massacres.  My thoughts would return throughout the day about how bloody our culture is.
CAN we handle the truth about ourselves?
Is it perhaps like a whale under the ice?  Watching us, waiting for us to break through?

I want to help this family.  I have to tell my wifie in the morning.  Ah, but it will be a discussion about money.  It seems like we always have discussions about money.  I don't want to give them $5,  I want to give them $500.  But why?  Why so generous?

Ah... how to break the ice.  There is a room in my house where I go to read, think, meditate, play guitar or sit in silence.  There are no electronics in this room.  Just guitars and books.  OK... once in a while I'll bring the iPad in...  but  not tonight.
I wanted to play some guitar, work on a Michael Hedges tune.  So I start to shuffle through my stacks of sheet music looking for Hedges and and old yellowed copy of Desiderata II drops on the floor in two pieces.

***

IN WHATEVER RELIGION YOU HAVE BEEN TAUGHT, HOWEVER YOU HAVE BEEN BROUGHT UP, AND HOWEVER YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD YOUR TEACHERS …
On these levels you will understand and grasp this message. It is not enough that this message is believed. It is a message to be lived. 

The essence of Universal Religion is Peace and Truth, with Love for and Kindness to all the creatures of the earth. Now is the time to explore this essence in your own life. A beginning must be made, and the place to begin is with and in you. 

You would reform the world? Begin with yourself, brother! The message of the unreformed reformer seldom inspires reformation. 

The heart of all Religion is love. And righteousness, which is love in action, is the fulfillment of Religion. Love not only family and friends - for love limited is love denied. 

Seek peace within yourself and seek too, within yourself the Divine Breath of Life. 

Persist in these things! Do not let up for a single moment! 

Through your faith and your deeds you shape your life and help shape the lives of others, as well. 

What a responsibility! The Spirit finds in you its agent and also its partner, and is, to the degree that you are aware of this and act on it, higher than your most exalted dreams. 

The New Age is coming, and in it the various Religions will disappear. The good, which is in each of them, will have fused and will become the common goal of all mankind. 

Know that you have the power to choose! Choose love, not hate; choose gentleness, not violence; choose holiness, not evil! Dare to believe that the Reign of Love and Peace is coming soon! Ready yourself for it! Ready yourself for it with deeds of righteousness! Righteousness is the door opener, and beyond the door is love. May power divine enter every aspect of your life endowing it with the rewards of material accomplishment, the treasures of purposeful existence, and the eternal light of spiritual achievement!

***

I found it while I was a student at Wayne State University in the early 70's.  It's words are refreshing.  I contemplate this for a bit and then decide to look for Hedges again.  I grab a stack of magazines with a bound textbook from an Existentialism class that I took.

Then this stack of papers falls on the floor and opens up to this page... a page I had not recalled ever reading.




The word Lakota jumped out at me.  It was the whale looking at me through the ice.  I take these to be God moments.  When I'm unsure of myself I seem to find these, or perhaps they find me or maybe we find each other.  Herman Melville certainly saw God in the Great White Whale.

Last weekend the priest at my church ended our conversation with "Remember, with faith we can move mountains."
"I know", I responded.  Because I do know.  I know because of moments like these.
I know because I see God as being very close to us.

Sometimes in order to find God we have to break through a little ice. (See Comments)

The End

The Ballerina and the Mime

Answers to questions sometimes come before the question is even asked.  

Valentine's Day.  Is the question, "What holiday is February the 14th?"

Katina didn't want to think about it when she got up.  Usually the question is, "What is the day after  February the 13th ?"  and the answer is February the 14th.

Get up.   Make some coffee. She knew the routine as mindless as it was. Read the paper over breakfast.
Let the dog out.
She goes to the door and waiting for her on the front porch, next to the morning paper was something quite out of the ordinary.  Staring her squarely in the face.  

A figurine of a  little man on a unicycle wearing a stovepipe hat, looking upward with an expression of delicate anticipation and surprise.  Judging by the lines painted across his eyes, he appeared to be a mime.   The unicycle is tilted slightly.  In his right hand is a ball,  supported by a wire above his left hand is another ball and high above his head, supported from yet a third wire, is a heart.  He is juggling these objects.  The focus of this exquisitely made porcelain man, wearing a black hobo-like tuxedo,  riding an equally impressive wire-frame unicycle, was on this heart.  The figure stood about two feet tall.   At its base lay a card.  Katina opened it.

A Mime

Precariously balanced between

Heaven and Earth

Throws out his Heart

Hoping to catch an Angel.

There is no signature, not a clue as to who is the creator of the figurine or the author of the card.

Her heart leapt as she stood on her porch in the cold morning air when she suddenly became conscious that perhaps the anonymous giver of this gift was viewing her in her robe and pajamas from a hidden vantage point.  She was mystified and intrigued and just a little scared that there was a secret admirer, a silent man in her life.  She picked up her new houseguest and bought him inside, carefully surveying  the  neighborhood and waving back in kind.

"Thank you!" she shouted across the cold morning air as she closed her door.

America is full of surprises.  In Russia she had enjoyed a sheltered life in the Moscow Ballet, everything was arranged and contrived.   There was no serendipity.  The artistic spirit had been carefully trained, molded and made to conform to the expectations of the cultural elite.

 She put the mime on the center of her table.  

"What should I call you?"

The heart and the ball responded only by continuing to sway on their strings from the move to the table.  

"Misha?  I will call you Misha the Mime.  How did you get up the steps to my door? I am pleased to meet you, I am Katina.  I am glad that you can have breakfast with me. "

As she quietly runs her finger along his creamy unfinished porcelain skin, her heart becomes full of longing for a man that she does not know.  "Who are you?," she said as she peered over the top of the barely swaying heart at some point in the distance.

The dog, now barking to come back in, brought the ballerina back to the moment.  When he entered the dining room he gave a few suspicious barks to the little man on the table and would routinely re-visit the kitchen throughout the morning, while Katina was away, to remind the intruder who the boss was.  While the dog was busy making the mime's acquaintance, Katina was busy readying herself for her walk to morning rehearsal.

In Katina's eyes, the day seems livelier, the people brighter, the hustle and bustle almost  musical.  The walk to work becomes a dance to these rhythms.  All through morning rehearsal she thought of nothing else.  

When lunchtime finally arrived, she allowed herself to ponder this mystery even deeper in a park not far from the studio where she usually had her lunch.  If she knew who the silent man was, what would she tell him?  What figurine would she give her love on Valentine's Day?  Who was her love?  She could only think of the man that she left long ago in Moscow.  Misha was a musician.  They would go out after performances and then to his apartment were he played the piano for her and she would dance for him.  She could still hear in the silence of her apartment, echoes of the warmth of his voice, his infectious laughter... When they made love, the nights were always too short and the time they spent together, mere minutes.  These memories were never far from her.  He often told her that she was an angel.

She wrote...

A Ballerina

Leaps into the Air

And is called back to the Earth

By the Voice

Of a Silent Man.

Again she was brought back to the moment.  A dog is barking in the distance and an object lands near her feet.  It is big plastic red frisbee-sized heart!  As she picks it up and looks to her left, she notices a man dressed in a black tuxedo, wearing  a stovepipe hat, peddling her way on a unicycle, juggling several balls.  As he zig-zags his way over to her, he suddenly falls off of  the unicycle and in a single motion, gracefully rolls back to his feet, pulls off his hat, reaches inside and holds  before her a single red rose with a note attached.

She carefully took the rose and noticed his kind, bright eyes.

"Hello.  My name is Misha.  Will you be my Valentine?" it said.   The mime looked at her with exaggerated anticipation, taking a long sweeping bow.

She smiles at him, clasping the heart over her own and asks, "May I keep this?" 

The Very End

Lunch

I ran into Gary Dessinger today. We had lunch at Bon Secours Hospital, were I work. Gary is a Chemistry teacher at Finney High School. He was my chemistry teacher when I went there. He was one of my mentors and recipient of the DO-IT! Board.

The DO-IT! Board was a piece of cardboard that Mike Sivak, my locker partner, and I had mounted to the inside door of our locker. On this board we had written anything that came to mind. It was a recording of the thoughts and feelings of two seventeen year old kids. For instance it had insightful prose like:
'Cindy S Chews Gum Like A Cow!'

It was the graffiti of our minds. It was the angst of being seventeen and not knowing what life had to offer. It was the statement of our commitment to live life to its fullest. We kept it under lock and key behind the safety of our locker door. Like most good secrets, however, there were security leaks. There were break-in attempts to find out what secrets were recorded on the DO-IT! Board.

One morning while exchanging books between classes, a pair of hands grabbed the locker door from the outside. With my lightning fast reflexes I dropped my books and grabbed my side of the door. It was Dessinger. He wanted the DO-IT! Board. We battled back and forth. When he tried to reach around to grab the prize, I could pull the door my way, in the process threatening his fingers with extreme pain and perhaps limiting his ability to hold chalk. We were at an impasse until Sivak came to the rescue.

He gave one final push my way, closing the locker door, thereby keeping the DO-IT! Board a secret. We had one-upped our mentor. The Christmas after graduation, Sivak and I paid him a visit and presented the DO-IT! Board to him as a Christmas present. This little gray-haired man who sat before me at lunch, who was at the hospital to visit another teacher, Victoria Johnides.

Victoria Johnides was a science teacher. She was a big, strong Greek woman who held after-school classes for students like me who seemed to ask too many questions. We were always questioning why things were the way they were and she seemed to enjoy providing explanations from the scientific point of view.
Here she was… dying of cancer.
We did not cover that subject in class. At the time it did not seen pertinent to ask those kinds of questions.
'Mrs. Johnides, in 1994, when you are dying of cancer will any of these
experiments seem as spectacular or wondrous as they do now? When our paths cross
again in 28 years, what words should I say to you that will have meaning?'

These are the things that we do not ask of people. Oh we say things inspired by a certain bravado like, 'If I ever get like that, shoot me, just shoot me.' However when push comes to shove, do we really mean it? Do we really want to die?

It comes back to a very basic question, 'If I do not wish to die, then why am I here?'
Why am I HERE? I don't understand why I am where I am. I say this because I have been blessed with having had many good teachers, friends and mentors they were. I have met many good people who have touched my life so deeply only to see them pass away.
They come here to Bon Secours Hospital and too often I am witness to their final days. And never, ever is there the least echo of the wisdom that came from their lips or the guidance that they provided except the memories that are replayed so quickly through my mind as they pass.
I suppose that this is the real crux of my frustration. Has my life been manipulated so that I am here, now, for them? Am I the documenter of their deeds?
I don't understand why I am here.
In July of 1992, Ernie Stengel was admitted here. I remember this distinctly because I was sitting at my desk working on a 'very important problem' when the phone rang.

It was Ernie.

'George, I'm in room 302. I'm afraid I'm not doing too well. My kidney's aren't working.'

He sounded weak and tired. I ran up the stairs from the basement. As I walked into room 302, I noticed how Ernie had gained weight. He looked puffy. I also noticed how he had 'that' color. It was the pale gray of cancer. I no longer had a very important problem to deal with.
'They've got me in here for tests, George. In February I started to have a lot of lower Back pain. So he sent me to Physical Therapy and that didn't do a God damn thing. Then he sent me to a Chiropractor. It's not good. He wouldn't listen to me. I kept telling him how shitty I was feeling. Then I couldn't piss. So I went back to him again. God damn it!
It's not good.'

He grins now.

'And you know the worst thing about it is, I haven't wanted to get laid lately. You know there's a problem when Stengel loses his interest in broads.'

We laughed. It was one of the few times over the next six weeks that we laughed. There was a week of tests. There was the surgery to remove the tumor that was blocking his ureters. Then there was the chemo. Throughout it all, the man who had taught my Great Books class in the 12th grade; who helped me to grab life, to appreciate the serendipity of it all, weakened slowly and died.

We had the chance to reminisce. He used to call me on Saturday mornings to say that he would stop by with some other students and we were going to go off on some adventure. The other students were always girls. The adventure was always some stream of consciousness type of thing. Maybe we would venture off to Toledo to the art museum, or to the DIA, or go go-cart racing. Once he got a hold of me at Wayne State when I was a student there, we went putt-putt golfing. It was all very innocent.

He was in love with one of the girls. Now 24 years later he asked me if I ever ran into her. As we talked about her he began to cry and I realized that now, so close to death, he still loved her. For him, at that moment, it was a pain worse then cancer.

During his last few weeks he became more listless, and weaker. For a day or two before he started to seizure, he would only answer me in monosyllabic phrases. We were like two misplaced characters out of a Tolstoy novel, he was Ivan Ilyich and I was his Gerasim; covering him up, encouraging him to eat, and making sure that he did his breathing exercises.

I was stunned upon entering his room one day. His side rails on his bed were padded, he was restrained with a vest Posey... and seizuring. Ernie was struggling with the life force itself as it slowly left his body. He wouldn't let go. I began to sob. Here was the man who read my autobiography to the entire Great Books class because it somehow, naively, touched him.

At the time we were reading 'Look Homeward, Angel' by Thomas Wolfe.
'You're Eugene (the main character), George. Damn it, you're one honest son of a bitch.'

He was impressed, I was mortified. Because up to this point I saw him as a menacing, unapproachable Red Devil.

As all of this was going through my mind, I began to sob uncontrollably. His death was imminent.

The sun was setting over the roof of the building and was sending a solid shaft of light into Ernie's room. I struggled to push his bed over to the window so he could see the sun set one last time.

'Look at the sun Ernie. Look at the sun,' I said.
The tears were streaming down my face. Finally the bed was up against the window. Sunlight bathed his body and reduced his pupils to tiny black dots.

Ernie's oncologist came in, all tanned and healthy looking. He could see I was upset and began to make references to how he was making Ernie as comfortable as possible. He said he had to be careful because of the Kevorkian publicity. I was immediately unimpressed with this guy, in fact I disliked him the more he spoke. Then as an act of consolation he said that this type of death didn't have to happen.
'How old are you?' 'You know in a couple of years you should start getting rectal exams.'

I felt like I had just received one. This was the guy who sent Ernie to physical therapy. I was so angry.

I started to laugh.

The absurdity of this man and his effect on Ernie's life hit me like a baseball bat. If I didn't laugh I think I would have hit the man with his absurdity.

Ernie died two days later.

Witnessing death has never really bothered me. It really hasn't. By the time we are at that point, all we are left with is our humanity. All the rest is window dressing. In a hospital, you usually don’t get to know the person that lay before you very well, and the window dressing has all been stripped away.

I am disturbed when I am touched so deeply by someone only to have them go. I am disturbed and overwhelmed by a reverent sort of wonder at how life can be so vital and fragile and powerful and absurd and persistent and brief… all at once.

So now the cycle repeats itself. Victoria Johnides is lying in her bed. She has been in and out of isolation. Her condition gradually worsens but has periods of relative comfort and occasionally even gets a little rest.

When I had the opportunity, I told her nurses at lunch about the person, that the patient in 221B was a science teacher who once taught with passion and dignity, who took the school on ski trips, and who once broke up a fight between Henry Lopez and me in the 9th grade.
--The End --

A Bright Light in a Dark Tunnel

I have been told that there are sixteen different ways to bow. I could only think of a simple, natural lowering of the head and a slight bending at the waist when I finally made my way up to her in the lobby.

What struck me most about her was the fact that she actually talked to me, wondered where I was from, how did I like France, all the while holding my hand in the warmth of hers and looking me directly in the eye. I was taken aback by the lucid blue color in hers. Her pupils constricted with the frequent flashing of the cameras behind me. They instantly betrayed a fear that could only be seen while standing at arms length. I thought I could even feel her hands grip mine just a little more tightly with each snapshot.

I know that works of art, primitive cave paintings, fragile things are often protected from the barrage of light that cameras emit. Someone has determined that for each snapshot taken of objects d’art, they are diminished ever so slightly, the images fade in imperceptible increments.

But how about people?

I remember seeing a movie in which a Polaroid camera produced a picture of a group of African Natives. Perhaps it was an old Tarzan movie. The Medicine Man declared the picture was bad ju-ju magic. It steals the souls of men, he would say.

Next to her was her boyfriend, shorter and darker in appearance. He seemed to be perturbed with all of the attention given to her. They were genuinely affectionate towards each other without providing an open display, hence an opportunity for the paparazzi to make another killing on the newsstands. What couldn’t possibly be recorded was the fire between them, a kind of grace that they seemed to pass back and forth to each other. They are indeed two people in love. This is a greater light which can never be recorded on film lest their souls fade from the overexposure.

Love can fade or grow stronger as two people learn more about each other. Truth can be the blinding light and love the fading image. I think of how long I have had a relationship, it started out with such fanfare and gradually over time became stale and lifeless. The two of us merely actors in a play about love. Merely rehearsing our lines over and over. Our moves are well blocked, the scenery predictable, the lighting dark, the interaction forced and unnatural, the music… We sang separately, there were no duets, no choruses, no stunning solos that would bring the crowd to its feet or the paparazzi to the wings. I have felt that, like real actors, our real loves were off-stage somewhere waiting for us to take the final bow.

However these two looked so fresh, so in love, so immersed in the Summer of their Love. They were spontaneous, joyful, yes… even brilliant beyond the echo of halogen bulbs and shadowed walls.

As they walked to the awaiting vehicle, I noticed that he picked up a flower, I think is was a rose, and placed it in her hair, kissed her, and gave a long slow sweeping bow. It was a flowing gesture stopped momentarily, and became staccato -like by the luminous applause of the vultures waiting for the right moment to capture.

“Perhaps they have captured too many of their moments,” I thought. They closed the car door and drove away into the intermittent darkness of the night.

The End

Garbage Day

These magazines are dog-eared, used up! Plastered with the finger prints of all those who have sat here before me, waiting. They are an unofficial registry signed by the ink of sweaty smudges on wilted pages. Some are protected by clear plastic shrouds, but inside they usually carry the same stains.

How gray it is in here. There are two other women in here. One is crying.

Does the receptionist have an attitude? I can see her reflection in the dome mirror on the ceiling. I want to tell her, "Honey, if you're gonna to put on eye liner, put the same amount on BOTH SIDES!"

Hmmm... "People" September 23, 1996. If I were Jewish I suppose it would mean something. How come Kevin Costner got divorced? I've got to see Tin Cup. But Golf? They say it's a love story.

Birthdays... Heather Locklear, Frankie Andreu... Who's he? Somebody. I'm sure he's somebody. People magazine doesn't waste ink on a Nobody's birthday. Linda McCartney! Linda "What's a dog with wings?" McCartney.

Did I just laugh? Oh God, did I just forget myself and laugh? The receptionist is looking at me through the funky mirror with her one dark eye.

I'm grinning. OH God I want to laugh. My face is twitching. I can't help it. I'm gonna do a face fart. OK OK OK... I'll just sit here. CALM DOWN. Where's the Kleenex? Don't they have Kleenex in these places? I'll make like I'm blowing my nose. Son of a Bitch.

Why did my brother have to tell me that joke? We were eating breakfast... He always eats Shredded Wheat but he pours hot water over it and then drains the water... It's so... It's his birthday next week, I almost forgot... October first. Images of him. Camp, soccer games, his car, Gwen and their first date, his poem at Dad's funeral.

...Rage, Rage against the dying of the light,

do not go gentle into that dark night....

or something... I don't think that is his poem though.

What a hole in my life THAT was. One week he's off on business and the next his gone. WHY? I used to get so irritated with him. I can hear his voice as if he were here.

"Do your homework!"

Oh Daddy.

"Clean your room!"

Daddy!

I have to think about positive things. Damn it! Crying. I'm crying like a little girl. Miss Blackeye is glareing at me in the mirror. Oh God! Oh God! Where's the Kleenex! Damn it!

"That Stanley character is a creep!"

Daddy Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT! God Damn Stanley!

Where is he NOW?

I don't have the strength to even sit HERE.

I'm going to fall!

I'm going to faint!

BREATHE...Breathe...BREEEAAATTTHHHEEE... Breeeeaaaathe....

breaaaaatttttheeee.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The crying lady is walking this way with the Kleenex. The lady in the mirror is holding my hand. I cannot speak. I can't answer them right now.

I don't know if I'm OK. I really don't know.

My stomach is growling. I would kill for a cup of coffee right now... and a cigarette. Now I have thoughts of the Seven-Eleven that I drove by on the way here and how you can always smell the coffee at least two blocks away, and how it attracts my fellow coffee-holics like an invisible fish hook and that I needed to stay out of the left lane because someone who was too lazy to make their own God Damn coffee was making a left hand turn and traffic was always backed up and it was raining today and how a nice warm cup of coffee would taste so good because the heater in my car doesn’t work very well, on such a chilly, wet, gray, dreary, lonely, day.

The door opens into the clinic breaking the symmetry of the waiting room wall.

It is my name that the nurse was calling.

She is calling my name.