the dreaming days

Is the proper term 'unconsolable' or 'inconsolable'?

Whatever. Whichever. I am that. It doesn't make sense that I'd have anything to feel in particular need of consolation, but that fact hasn't seem to dawn on those chemicals and situations that cause mood upheaval lately. Whatever. I am that.

I should have found something to do when I woke early again this morning, this time at 4a.m.

I've been having bad dreams again, or maybe I've had a constant marathon of bad dreams that I haven't remembered a blessed thing about. If so, I am grateful not to have to feel like someone has peeled my skin off with a rusty potato peeler while I've slept, and I wish those I'm having now would go away.

This morning's dream began innocently enough. I was living in what apparently was my regular city but it had become one of those 'wave of the future in the industrialized world' kind of metropolis. Getting anywhere was a time- and labor-intensive venture. New corporate development everywhere. What used to be fields had been bulldozed to beyond a centimeter of its life into magnificently steep hills and valleys.

My dream mother had called me, not sure why an alimony check from my father had not arrived from the state agency responsible for issuance. She had waited months for the funds though it hadn't occurred to her to place a phone call before this moment in time: she believed she had to physically show up, in person, to get a meaningful response. But she was afraid to drive the admittedly complex maze of roads, as if they themselves had become a governmentally constructed way of keeping regular people from getting where they really needed to go.

As I would do in a non-dream state, I agreed to take her where she needed to go so she could get the answers she needed. She was babysitting my niece and I'd already agreed to run my son on a car part errand (the story of his early driving years: always another part) so, to make the best use of our collective time I drove my son and myself to my mother's house. In my dream I was driving a micro-mini car that hadn't the space for three passengers, so we switched over into my mother's car - a huge monster of a Suburban or a Tahoe or something equally reprehensibly too much.

I acted as though I was a capable behemoth driver, winnowing through tiny passes, narrowly avoiding side-view mirror clip-offs in tight construction zones, guiding us op and down and around steep grades and implausibly tight curves. Mom held on, screeching 'watch out!' when I was navigating particularly tight places. I held my tongue, chose not to further complicate the situation by asking if she'd ever considered a less bulky and imposing and fuel-inefficient vehicle. I'd guess that the answer would not come as a surprise, nor would it be anything I was remotely interested in hearing.

The building we arrived at was the government's solution for one-stop shopping. Gleaming and too tall to see the top floor when standing outside at the bottom floor. From the main entrance one was required to travel through a maze of elevators, escalators and too-bright corridors, all of which provided travelers a way to get to airline terminals that also were located within the building but on the far side.

My dream niece had an understood penchant, as many children do, for public restrooms. Whether she had an actual physical need to relieve her bladder pressure or whether she just wanted some automatic paper towel dispenser play time was unclear, but she had to go, she insisted. Harrowing traffic had also left my mother feeling inclined to make a "quick stop, just to be sure". I figured, "oh well, why not?" then spoke briefly with my son and we agreed to meet up at a specific location further along. He'd have a few minutes to hang out to do whatever he wanted to do while he waited for us.

Bathrooming done, my mother, my niece and I continued along to our agreed-upon meeting place. It was an industrially noisy and chaotic intersection, so we took a long relaxed pause to locate my son. We didn't see him. Longer wait. More looking: still no kid.

My mother was becoming agitated, worrying that we wouldn't get to the office before it closed for the day and my wiggly niece was, despite her deep admiration for her older cousin, growing impatient. I pulled out my cell phone, pushed '9' for my son's preprogrammed cell phone number, and listened to it ring until, unanswered, it switched over to his voice mail message. I spoke apologetically to the machine, saying how I'd appreciated his patience when he had only wanted to pick up a car part. I said we've been waiting here at our agreed-upon meeting place for quite some time and that Gramma was starting to become vocal and nervous and about how she worried that we wouldn't get to the offices on time.

I hesitated, then said I was going to continue along to that office with Grandma and his cousin. I asked him either to call me back or to send me a text message so I could figure out where he was in relation to where were were headed so we could reconnoiter. I told his voice mail that I loved it, then pressed 'end' to complete my call.

We stayed close together, my mother, my niece and myself. Periodically my niece would ask why her cousin wasn't with us, where was he anyway? Each time she asked I'd glance down to my cell phone in my right hand; each time I'd swallow a little more concern while trying to calmly respond, 'I dunno. He hasn't called back yet, honey'.

My mother, my niece and I stepped into yet another elevator compartment after we'd waited for the passengers to flow out like a small carful of clowns. The panel of buttons was unclear, unmarked, seemingly planned purposefully to discourage passengers from going where they meant to go. My niece was eager to be the official elevator button-pusher, so after weighing out the probability of pushing the button that seemed most likely to get us to the office my mother required, I directed the official button pusher to press the circle labeled '21'. The elevator made whirring and cooshing noises, and eventually the doors opened. One look around and I knew I had guessed incorrectly: the walls and floors were decorated in an aerospace travel motif of reds and silvers.

We had not yet located the alimony office; we had arrived at the TWA terminal. Busy -seeming people sped past us on all sides. Try as we did, nobody would stop to help us figure out how to get where we wanted to go. My niece asked again, 'Where is cousin?' 'He'd know what to do', she assured me. I checked my cell phone again. No messages, so I sent off another brief text message: 'call me please?'. My mother's agitation grew. That office, she insisted, will be closing soon. I cannot - WILL not - come back here again.

What to do? What to do?

I moved my niece and mother to a small recessed area against a wall, telling them in jerky words DO NOT MOVE FROM THIS PLACE. I'll try to find someone who can help us, but you must stay together and you must not leave this spot until I come back for you. My mother was spiritedly displeased at the situation but my niece seemed to understand the stress of the situation so she asked my mother to tell her a Bible story. My mother's ire was short-lived and vaporized instantly as my niece redirected her into sharing one of her greatest passions with her progeny, and I felt a spark of renewed hope that I might have a few moments to get information that would help us to proceed.

I chose one potentially useful looking woman from the next batch of clowns to exit the elevator. She was wearing a red polyester knee-length skirt with a matching vest over a shiny block-patterned long-sleeved polyester dress shirt buttoned with small white buttons up to her neck. Her shiny orangeish-blond hair was cut into a sensible grown lady style, straightened with an iron then curled under at the ends, just below her jawline. I noted with some surprise that the crisp TWA woman was coming directly toward me, as though she knew we needed some help.

Ah! Finally!

The woman's smile and calm demeanor came as a welcomed change after the scores of people whose apathetic indifference to our questions had made me wonder about the inner workings of their animatronic robot parts and pieces behind their garments. The woman stopped immediately in front of me, then she leaned in to utter some inaudible thing.

I said, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't hear you. Could you please repeat what you just said?" She whispered something again but, again, I could make neither heads nor tails of what I couldn't hear. I repeated, "It's so loud in this corridor! I'm terribly sorry, but I just can't hear you. Can we go to a quieter place?" She didn't seem to hear me, either. We continued in this way for several minutes longer and it was apparent that we both were becoming frustrated.

Finally, reaching for my arm, she leaned into my and in a fake cheerful voice she hissed, "We need to have a word with you, ma'am".

"We who?", I asked, "who is we? See, my mother, my niece and I seem to have gotten ourselves lost and we - the three of us, I mean - would appreciate your help to get to our destination". Still holding one of my arms, she reached for the other. "It's about your son".

My dream self felt a wave of relief tingle down my arms into my fingers.

"Oh good! I've been waiting for him to call me back since we got separated near the public restrooms on ground floor. I was beginning to worry because he hadn't returned my call and several text messages", I replied.

She looked at me as she held my arms in her hands, really looked into my eyes, trying to say something unspeakable with the blue surrounding her shrunken pupils.

"It's about your son", she emphatically repeated. Dread replaced the short-lived tingly relief.

"What about my son? Where is he?"

As if on cue, several brawny men appeared in the corridor, clustered in a semicircle around something, blocking my view of whatever it was. The two men leading the pack stepped to either side. Behind them was a person who very much resembled my child in stature and appearance. The man's hands were bound with plastic handcuffs.

"What are you people doing here? Where is my son?". My dream self had already begun to disengage from my shrilly shrieking voice.

"There was a problem", red polyester lady reiterated. A problem with your son. A problem with your son. A problem with your son.

I quickly glanced over to the recessed area of corridor where my mother animatedly reenacted the story of baby Moses in the rushes to my niece.

What problem? What happened? Where the hell is my son?

I looked again at the young man standing with assistance between the pack of men I'd determined were guards. He was tipping back and forth, staggering, lurching, balanced into an upright position due singularly to the band of guards surrounding him, holding him in place. His eyes were rolling around vacantly in their sockets, in different directions one from the other. Dried blood crusted the inside corners of the man's mouth, and crusted over spit mixed with who knows what else, maybe vomit, it looked like, splattered across the lower half of his face, as though he'd gotten sick on a Tilt-A-Whirl with no way of stopping either the ride or the barf fest.

The man was my son. That lurching staggering plastic-cuffed apparition of a person was my child.

I tried to loosen red polyester woman's grip from my arms, howling obscenities, demanding to know right goddamned now what the FUCK they did to my child. I wailed my kid's name repeatedly, right at him even, but nothing was registering; he looked soulless and confused and gone.

Just as three of the guards moved from their positions as bracing agents for my son, the woman emotionlessly whispered, "There was a problem. According to our information he took too long."

Motherfucking cocksucking sons of bitches have done something to suck the life out of my kid and she's still stuck in her goddamned "There's a problem" loop?? She's fucking right about a problem existing, I screamed in spit-laden chunks of grieving horror.


Still in that calm telephone attendant voice, she spoke in barely-audible tones, describing something about how during a routine surveillance process it had been noted that he was taking too long to use the restroom.

"Are you fucking KIDDING ME?", I laughed hysterically, "You electrocuted or tasered or drugged or whatever it is that these fucking lunatics did to a perfectly pleasant reasonable kind and gentle person because he couldn't fucking PISS fast enough for you? Is that what you're actually trying to tell me?"

My vacantly gazing son lost his balance and, with two less guards to help him balance, began to list forward. I escaped the grabbing hands of red polyester lady and her two thugs, shaking them scratching them kicking them with all my might to be able to catch my falling child.

I've no idea what might have happened after that because I woke in a sobbing panic, unable to catch my breath. I raced to my son's bedroom, stifling my sobs into my forearm, watching to see if he was there and then, reassured as to his whereabouts, I stared at him to determine that he was still alive. He was laying on his right side, arm wrapped tenderly around his girlfriend's waist. He was still and obviously sleeping, but I had to stand there to watch watch watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders.

He is fine.
He is fine.
I am fine.
He is fine.
He is fine.
I am fine.
He is fine.
He is fine.
I will be fine.

The only thing I could think to do after having reassured myself that my kid was alive and only sleeping was to make my bed. I made my bed well, tightly, smoothly, evenly. The pillows were just so. I needed order; I needed badly for something to be immediately right, to be okay, to not be messed up, to be fixed.

Neat and pretty bed.
Fixed bed.
Tidy bed.
Better bed.

Breathe.
Breathe.

Too much rain

sugar river flood, originally uploaded by McBeth.

What is the appropriate behavior for a man or a woman in the midst of this world, where each person is clinging to his piece of debris? What's the proper salutation between people as they pass each other in this flood?

-- Buddha

awakening

awakening, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It seemed the world was divided into good and bad people. The good ones slept better... while the bad ones seemed to enjoy the waking hours much more.

-- Woody Allen

excuse me, sir.

So what's new, we needed to fill the gas tank.

KD pulled into what once was a service station, now a convenience store. If you want service you'll need to step out prepared to supply your own because the lone clerk is busy inside tearing off lottery tickets and restocking the Camel Ultralights.

Though I do tend to make myself useful when I am driving solo, I have assigned myself a gas station slash convenience store job when she is driving us in her vehicle. I can't stand just sitting there in the passenger seat waiting waiting waiting. It's like one of my childhood nightmares of old ladies wearing a virulent dose of Roses!Roses! come to life when, from my third eye, I see myself sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle, my seatbelt clicked firmly into its slot even after the engine has been turned off. That, my third eye tells me, is the luxury of someone else will do it-ism. Someone else will pump the gasoline. Someone else will check the oil. Someone else will educate my child. Someone else will pay. Someone else will work the sour painful issues out.

So I gave myself a job, a task, a way of contributing to the health and wellbeing and general maintenance of her vehicle and of our non-legal marital happiness. The job I picked -window washing - is easy and fairly quick and frankly, thrilling because aside from building and sustaining relationships, and despite my efforts to thwart worries re: the potential eternal ramifications of my earthly sloth, I really really love clean windows. That helps.

When I set to a task I must have the proper essentials. Must have. Must. I believe that Efficiency begs from all thinking beings simply that we try our best to come prepared or get prepared or at the very least have some inkling of the dots between A and K and what tools will get us from one point to the next to the last with least amount of resistance. When I wash car windows at gas stations slash convenience stores I have to feel assured that I am using an adequate squeegee. I have to have a good feel about the squeegee, that we'll work well together.
I examine the netted sponge side to estimate how long that thing has been sitting in the hanging bin of watered down mosquito souped windshield cleaner, and exactly how nasty brown the sponge surface has been permitted to get by the Two Bics for a Buck clerk who sits inside, unable to feel obligation or to suggest that anyone should have a nice day. I do an eyeball (and occasionally a sniff) check on the sponge side but the rubber strip has to be manually tested for its firmness and squee-ibility. A fully scrubbed and dribbly windshield will simply have to cross its legs if the squeegee blade leaves even one sloppy track, while I walk from island to island swapping out one bent wand for another one that looks very much like mice snacked on the rubber blade between lap swims up in the fluid bucket. I'll trade them like B-Leaguers until I'm convinced that I have the best one for the job.

It was in the midst of my island hopping that I accidentally eavesdropped. I was exactly between islands #2 with the young angry punk who had already serviced his fuel needs and who was headed for the liquor locker inside, and #3, where a Chevy Surburban bearing Oklahoma plates was parked. In the back seat of the monster 'burban I could see the silhouettes of two stubby child car seats, with small bobbing heads flinging themselves back and forth within the spaces between the padded head braces. In the front passenger seat sat a young petite woman with smooth long brown hair. A swarthy 30-something GI Joe-looking military guy wearing the trademark and nearly fashionable brown/tan blend fatigues had just paid for his purchases inside and was returned to the Suburban to rearrange the kids and repack a cooler he accessed from the back door.

I also noticed a man approaching island #3 from - well, I don't know from where. He just appeared. One moment he didn't exist; the next he was walking toward me with his eyes squinting to a place just beyond me. I wondered for a moment if we were about to engage in a race to the squeegee bin hanging there on island #3 and, if so, which method might I use to take him down. Maybe I could temporarily incapacitate him, just long enough for me to get a head start to the squeegee bucket. Dangerous, I can be. But quick? Not so much; any small edge I could find would be a good thing if it came down to a running contest that I was unlikely to win.

Mystery Man came neither at me nor for the squeegee bucket, but instead toward GI Joe and the cooler into which he was distributing a fresh bag of cube ice. I had a disturbing microsecond flash vision of two complete strangers beating one another senseless after Mystery Man makes disparaging comments about GI Joe's ice cubes or something equally stupid. I'm aware it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to have such a thought (about complete strangers, no less) but that's the danger of microsecond flashes because they lead a person to leap to a conclusion which may or may not be accurate and there's no real way of prechecking one's assumptions as the action is unfolding itself in real time.

Mystery Man thrust his hand outward. It wasn't a fist he had formed, though. His hand was extended palm open and up. Friend. Peace. Calm. He cleared his throat then called out, "Excuse me, sir?". I was now standing next to a nearby gas pump able to hear them like anyone who might be standing around outside next to fuel pumps, but I suppose with slightly more interest than the young punk, for instance, who appeared to ignore them in favor of attending to the six pack of glass bottles clinking against one another on the seat next to him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Suddenly aware of the fact that he was the sir being addressed, GI Joe turned around. His hand tentatively raised to meet Mystery Man's hand. As they shook right hands they each automatically reached with their left hands to embrace forearms . I love that gesture. It reminds me of the smell of Aqua Velva; of my paternal grandfather gussying up in that uncomfortable sweat-inducing dark blue polyester suit for Sunday church services. It reminds me of gentlemanly integrity, a quality of being I fear might be slipping away in younger generations when the method of greeting consists far more regularly of elbow toasts and shoulder bumps and mumbled 'aight's. The forearm grip and the firm handshake combination might be one of the reasons I'm unashamedly drawn to men's forearms, to the muscles and shape and density of them, to the difference between theirs and mine. When men shake hands like this I feel confident and safe, like no bad will happen after the handshake; like they've both sealed some invisible contract, an agreement that they're both watching, that both will take care to do what is right, to have one another's backs. Like maybe they'll look out for me, too.

Their hands remained clenched while Mystery Man continued,
"Thank you. I just wanted to tell you thank you. I don't know where you've been or what you've had to do but I want to tell you that I'm grateful for your service and well, just thanks man."

I don't think GI Joe from Oklahoma had been expecting this sudden and somewhat surprising outpouring from a stranger at a gas station slash convenience store in Wisconsin. He nodded his head and replied in an equally Aqua Velva-y way, "No problem. Glad to help".

It's no surprise to any who know me that I do not support war. I do not value bullying. I don't believe in killing or oppressing others to be the best, whatever that means, and I don't support my government's seeming inability to get a grip on the facts and figures of the messes we've inextricably involved ourselves in, and in places we have no business policing. I do, however, support the individuals making the effort toward peace. Our soldiers. Their soldiers. I don't want harm to come to any of them, not one, not on either side. I want their mothers to step in with arm jerks and hissed insistent cautions that they each apologize to the other right this minute for not sharing the swingset like the good friends she knows they can be.

There were myriads of moments to learn from after the Viet Nam war ended, but one of the biggies for me was about accepting the person despite the action. I was a small child during that conflict and have only vague memories of evening news reports on my parents clunky television in Davenport, Iowa, but I remember seeing jostled bumpy footage of hippie protesters and the old Brillcremed men with their stern matter-of-fact tones and their wide ugly ties, who refused to listen. In social terms, we erroneously placed our faith in the Brill boys while keeping one nervous collective eye on the hippie protesters because well, you just never know what those free-thinking dope smokers might do. When our GIs returned from Viet Nam we didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat for them. We treated them poorly, we ignored them, we abandoned them when they most needed our support -every one of us, whether we agreed with the war or felt duped or hated every bloody moment of it. They needed us and we responded by abandoning them.

Reaching a destination sometimes consists of a hundred tiny steps in the right direction. The perfect solution for peaceful coexistence might not be self-evident in every situation, but the ethical and moral sensibilities that can lead us toward that place are. In teasing out the one or two Very Important Lessons to learn from wars gone by, I would suggest that respect will never be too high a price to pay someone else for their service on behalf of me and my country. Do I like to think about how he may have ended someone's life? No, not so much. But if he did actually take someone else's life I don't imagine it was a thrilling event for him either.

Like garbage collectors, our soldiers get the smelly hot difficult shit work that nobody else wants to do. Sure, the army television ads make military service look like a scene out of an adventure movie but even Indiana Jones got to sleep in a real bed away from the sandstorms and snakes; our military personnel don't have that made-for-TV luxury. I needed that reminder. I needed that check. McBeth, you don't need to agree with the action but you do need to respect the person.

My heart squeezed achingly while I watched the exchange between these two men at gas station slash convenience store island #3, as each revealed the real and powerful good in himself and in one another.

I heard a chuckle. It was the universe laughing at me, along with me, as I breathed a quiet sigh of relief for not having to cap that nice Mystery Man's knees in a race to the squeegee bucket, after all.

character

pride07 ttt, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Character is what you have left when you've lost everything you can lose.

-- Evan Esar

joy

jo, swinger, originally uploaded by McBeth.

To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.

-- Jim Valvano, NCU basketball coach

the thrill of night driving

puh-leeze ... put that thing away

Now I'm not one to point and giggle at any particular subgroup of society but ... oh, wait - what am I saying? Sorry, lost my head there for a moment; I do too snicker at all sorts of subgroups, including those to whom I belong.

But c'mon, is THIS what senior adult male bonding is supposed to be about?





Fellas, take a note: If you want your penile health to be taken seriously, do not under any circumstances - ever never ever ever never - show your beloved what you and your buddies do in the privacy of your guy's weekend away if THAT is what it looks like.

Thank you.

is this motivating?

i on u, originally uploaded by McBeth.

holiday

3 kayak trailer, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I would like you to relate with people, to love, to move in millions of relationships -- because they enrich -- and yet remain capable of closing your doors and sometimes having a holiday from all relationship... so that you can relate with your own being also.

-- Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

refresh

after the rain, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Affliction comes to all not to make us sad, but sober; not to make us sorry, but wise; not to make us despondent, but its darkness to refresh us, as the night refreshes the day; not to impoverish, but to enrich us, as the plow enriches the field...”

-- Henry Ward Beecher

pocket lint check

Hey there.

Please pardon this non-commercial commercial break, but I'd like you to do something.
Call it a favor, if you want.

There this smart sexy (obstreperous, even) chick who, by way of modern day internet genealogy, would be related to me as a friend of a friend -- let's call her Bunni.

She had to deal with a lot of ugly and complicated health issues as a result of having a disease called neuroblastoma, which she was diagnosed with while still a wee one. Frankly, I think she has totally kicked that stupid disease's ass; she has not permitted either herself or others to treat her like a crip. She keeps that brisk sharp mind busy putting words to her life and goodness, but she does it well. And (stronger woman than myself) she's going to drag herself through this year's upcoming 24 hour Blogathon 2007 to raise money for the folks at the Neuroblastoma Children's Cancer Society.

She's getting sooo close to reaching her goal of $1000 but she's not there yet.

~~here's the where you come in favor part~~

Think about one thing you indulge in each week. Bottled water? A good 70% dark chocolate bar (or five)? Coffee at the drive-thru place so you don't have to get out to get java on the way to work? A mani/pedi? A gossip rag (oh, I do so enjoy a good snipefest)? Leaving too many lights on? Daily newspapers? Whatever that thing is, how much will you spend for your 'It' thing each week?

Now I'm not one to stand in your way here; if you want to buy 13 different daily newspapers then go for it. Simply follow that by sponsoring Bunni.

Or, if you've finally hopped on the good ship Sensibility and want to go an extra bold step I'd respectfully suggest sponsoring Bunni and also giving up your It thing for 24 hours. See? See that?? Don't you feel all impressed by your own great self just considering the possibilities? My my my, that does look good on you!

Sign up to sponsor Bunni HERE

I mean it.
Go do that.
Now.
I'll wait here for you while you do.

obstreperous

women together, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Recently a young mother asked for advice. What, she wanted to know, was she to do with a 7-year-old who was obstreperous, outspoken, and inconveniently willful? "Keep her," I replied.... The suffragettes refused to be polite in demanding what they wanted or grateful for getting what they deserved. Works for me.

-- Anna Quindlen

the details

eye to the sun, originally uploaded by McBeth.

To create something exceptional, your mindset must be relentlessly focused on the smallest detail.

-- Giorgio Armani

lorazepam

I wrote this many years ago, to be sung to the tune of The Little Drummer Boy.

Come, they told me
Lorazepam-pam
A newfound drug we bring
Lorazepam-pam
To keep your mood from swings
Lorazepam-pam
Avoid those bumps and dings-
Lorazepam-pam
-razepam-pam
-razepam-pam

Baby, take this pill
Lorazepam-pam
Shapes valleys into hills-
Lorazepam-pam
Come off the window sill
Lorazepam-pam
Then I'll send you my bill
Lorazepam-pam
-razepam-pam
-razepam-pam


Cataclysm -
Lorazepam-pam
You're having visions -
Lorazepam-pam
This cures derision
Lorazepam-pam
It's better'n nuclear fission
Lorazepam-pam
-razepam-pam
-razepam-pam

Before you lose your grip,
Lorazepam-pam
Go and refill your script
Lorazepam-pam
Make sure no dose is skipped,
Lorazepam-pam
We dont' want you to flip.
Lorazepam-pam
-razepam-pam
-razepam-pam

i'm not terribly sure

Periodically, I collect the stray notebooks from around my home into one centrally-located pile. I flip through the pages of each notebook. I get into a comfortable position and read through each page of each book, ripping out the 'to do' lists that have long since been done. Sometimes those lists of ideas were tasks I had no intention of ever doing at the time I wrote them down but in the writing of the list I had the opportunity to set it onto paper, to feel accomplished, to feel on top of.

I've also found during these paper housekeeping times that I will discover important things that were worth noting, things I have neglected to properly complete. I find passwords, telephone numbers, changes of addresses, quotes I hear and want to remember, bank balances, dreamy getaway ideas, the instructions and requirements given me by the lady at the Medicaid office.

I also find the occasional piece of writing I've started and have abandoned unfinished. They're usually skeleton-like in form, a few words connected together by swoops and swings of a ballpoint pen, with miscellaneous jottings and doodles obliterating the margins.

Below is one such old entry. I wish now that I would have noted the date, or what in the world I was trying to sort out, or at least some kind of indication that I hadn't temporarily lost my mind (or simply, that I felt I had). I'm making a concentrated effort when I write now to jot those kinds of notes that might serve later as a road map to where I was when I lost myself.

I don't expect anyone who isn't me to have fun picking through the vault, so please know I'll completely understand if these snippets seem dumb or disconnected or weird (frankly, I think they are too, just a little bit). I'll understand if you want to get out while you can. I really do get it. On the other hand, I am also finding myself existentially stuck at the moment and I think I might help myself get un-stuck by hanging out with myself in this way. Maybe I'll find the missing pieces. Maybe I'll reconnect what has come undone. Maybe I'll confirm what I already know.

~~~~~~~~~~

I wish to speak. Music exists to say things that words cannot say, which is why it is not entirely human. You've found out that music is not for kings?

I've found out it is for God.

You're wrong. God can speak.

For the ear?

Things I cannot speak of are not for the ear.

For gold? For glory? For silence?

Silence is just the opposite of language.

For the rival musicians? For love?

No.

For love's sorrows?

No.

For abandonment?

No, no.

For a wafer offered to the invisible?

Not even. What is a wafer? You can see it, you can taste it, you can eat it. It's nothing.

I don't know any more, sir. I don't know any more. I think one has to leave a glass for the dead.

You're getting closer.

A refreshment for those who've run out of words. For lost childhood, to muffle the hammering of shoemakers, for the time before we were born, before we breathed, or saw light.

make me an angel

black and white, originally uploaded by McBeth.

There's flies in the kitchen I can hear 'em there buzzing
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say?

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

'Angel from Montgomery' (John Prine)

eureka!

Yesterday afternoon I put up two tents I own in my friends' yard. Not only had I looked forward to airing the tents out after several years' disuse, but my friend who uses an electric wheelchair and who wants to go camping expressed interest in trying one or both of them out, testing for their accessibility factor.

The smaller tent has room for 2-3 people to stretch out comfortably. The larger one, oh, I guess more like 5-6 people. My friends had been teasing me, suggesting that I was so eager to get them erected that I'd probably forget to do something important - like put the tarp down or pound stakes in or the like. So I purposefully took plenty of time to make sure I assembled everything properly. I staked both tents firmly into the ground and went so far as to arrange the tents so the larger one would take the brunt of any strong cross-plains winds that might blow through.

While KD and I were at our friends' home playing cards last night the weather reared up. It stoooormed. It rained and rained and poured, then stopped and started up again, several times. Just as it was approaching too-dark-to-see dark I took a peek out the back window to see how the tents were holding up.

There was only one tent standing in the yard.

No, I thought, I must be seeing things. Or maybe I'm at a bad angle so I can only see the larger one? I popped up and clenched a teeny borrowed pocket-sized umbrella and set out to investigate. KD made the frowny face that signified her disapproval of me going outside during a thundery rainstorm. She seemed sure that the single bolt of stray lightning would find me, that I'd be fried to a 10,000 volt crisp. I kissed her on her head on my way out the door to reassure her. I said she didn't have to approve of my choice, but her disapproval wouldn't sway my need to understand why I couldn't see both tents.

Outside, I squee-squawed through the soggy grass of the large side yard. Once I got out to where I'd staked the tents I determined that no, in fact, I was not seeing things. One tent had vanished. I squinted through raindrops, scanning the fence line on the far side of their roughly 2 acre property for some sign of the missing tent - nothing. I looked beyond, to the soybean field past their fence - nothing. It had EVAPORATED!

I borrowed our friends' mightiest MagLite and when we departed we did a slow drive-by crawl down their country road on the off chance the tent blew away. Nothing turned up during our late night Maglite inspection, so I decided I'd try again today after daylight returned. Having the rough plans for a continued search was good but I couldn't seem to let go of my confusion about what had happened. C'mon, where does a whole freaking tent GO?!

I couldn't figure it out. I'd hammered the stakes in at the proper angles to keep the tents tethered, I'd shaken them, I'd tried to move the tents around once they were assembled and I'd felt confident that both were secure. I didn't get it, I couldn't for the life of me figure out where my tent went. As I was back in my own bed last night, relaxing into sleep, my brain busily wandered through a vast field of possibilities, sifting for plausible explanations.

Scenario One: The wind carried the tent away.
I had securely staked the tent and I'd positioned it in such a way that strong winds should have hit the larger of the two tents before they reached the smaller one, but it is possible that a stormy gust could have worked around the larger tent, pulling the stakes of the smaller out of the earth in a mighty display of strength.

Scenario Two: Someone is playing a practical joke.
Given my friends' slight aversion to storms this would be unlikely but most certainly possible. If it was a practical joke I'll commend my friends for their implementation. It was a good one that I'll surely laugh later with them over. Furthermore, I reflected, I am lucky to have friends who enjoy playing, who value good-hearted fun, who know me well enough to trust my response to a harmless entertaining prank. In the drowsiness of pre-sleep I imagined myself playing the make-believe practical joke. I made a mental note that if I do ever pull a prank on a friend who owns two tents I could try tucking the smaller tent inside the larger one. I made a note to give that a try someday.

Scenario Three: A stranger took it.
Seems unlikely that someone drove through the rural Wisconsin countryside during severe weather, unlikely that the person saw two tents standing in a family's yard and unlikelier yet that he'd have thought to himself, boy oh boy, I'd sure like me one'a them. It's nearly unimaginable to me that the person would then have taken the time and energy to sneak up into the yard, disassemble the smaller of the two structures and sneak away into the stormy night with it.

Scenario Three: A stranger took it, part II.
There could have been some poor, wet, lost and confused shelterless moggy traveling through on his journey toward personal enlightenment who was caught completely by surprise by the storm.

It wasn't until I really began considering the karmic implications of Scenaro Three, part II when I uncovered my attachment to that tent. It wasn't the tent itself - at any given time I could walk into a small handful of local businesses and walk out with 273 new, and likely more watertight, tents. No, what I realized was my deep emotional attachment to that laughably plain little thing.

I thought about how, years ago, I'd had to save a little money for a long time from my insufficient single mother head of household paychecks to afford its purchase. When I had purchased that tent I felt successful -- triumphant, even. The handful of times I'd schlepped my child out to nowhere to experience nature we took shelter in that tent: our parent-child relationship deepened, in part because of that tent.

A shift occurred when I recognized my own strong emotional bond. Not only did I feel an instant release of some anger I wasn't even aware of carrying over a possible theft; not only did I feel compassion for a person who might honestly have needed that shelter more than I but more importantly to me, it opened my understanding of why I keep so much - too much - of the unnecessary: things that cause me a variety of headaches (i.e. the schlep factor: arrangement, display, moving, storage).

This connecting of the dots in the past 24 hours feels radical. I'm now excitedly anticipating the ways in which I will have the opportunity to transfer this updated understanding of my emotionally ponderous connections to other parts of my life.

As for the prodigal tent, I plan to offer it to my son. If he's uninterested in keeping it I'll give it away. That I don't require two tents is clear. One will be fine. One is sufficient. One is good. One tent is all my current need requires. As for the enlightenment, I think I'll begin testing it out in our too-packed basement.

Love Note

My shoulders and laughter
are sexy to you
Your eyes and your sprawled abandon
turn me on

Though imprecise with recipe card directions,
I measure my words
Skim superfluous off the top
Using the flat side of my blade.

I choose, arrange,
smith honesty with mouth feel

You don't even know
you are as natural to me as breath.

I ask how was your day dear,
you say okay.

I know from the way you lean into
Oh
and I know from the way you resist
Kay

That this expression wasn't what you had hoped for yourself
as the alarm chewed through the dense violet blue dawn.
I know this, and you, without the burden of awareness.

I am neither this nor that.
I am and.
You are however.
And yet you are as natural to me as breath.

You cannot see the profound lunacy
in the contrast of white upon black,
of linear straining against
this fluid dance we perform
with its precise footsteps falling
exactly, imprecisely, as they do.

My tongue threads remaining liquid through bitter grounds
as I languidly examine the particles
of the unspoken
of us
of breath.

I wish to ask,
Why do we clench?
Why the catch,
the grip,
the pause?


You aren't aware
you count on me.
Less for timeliness
less for keeping track of the important bill -
wholly for recognizing the subtle shift
within your choked happy throat
when you reply
Okay.

chaos

I have no idea. Pretty though, isn't it?, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish.

-- Chuck Palahniuk

Teaching

scarlett: 1.5 years, 24 lbs., originally uploaded by McBeth.

While we try to teach our children all about life,
Our children teach us what life is all about.

-- Angela Schwindt

fear and action

thank you, thank you., originally uploaded by McBeth.

Thinking will not overcome fear but action will.

-- W. Clement Stone

earlybird

teacups

teacups, originally uploaded by McBeth.

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?

-from Alice in Wonderland

flamingo feathers

flamingo feathers, originally uploaded by McBeth.

You cannot fly like an eagle with wings of a wren.

-- William James

'bye, sweet boy

'bye, sweet boy, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I just got home from the vet.

I am covered in stress-induced shedded hair from Artie.
He is not here with me.

He didn't come home.

He passed away being cuddled and whispered lovingly to which, I suppose, is something I gave (and will continue giving) absolutely and without reservation, perhaps with some small hope that the gesture will come back to me one day.

I know I did a responsible hard thing but I guess I'm surprised again at the ferocity of grief.

exploring mulch with hands

exploring mulch with hands, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I prefer to explore the most intimate moments, the smaller, crystallized details we all hinge our lives on.

-- Rita Dove

integrity

potatoes and apples, originally uploaded by McBeth.

He who closes his ears to the views of others shows little confidence in the integrity of his own views.

-- William Congreve

camping with diane

For those of you troubled about the lack of personal time for news anchors, I may be able to begin putting your concerns to rest.

This just in:

Diane Sawyer will, in fact, accompany me on an upcoming camping trip. She said she always regretted not having been outside her own back yard when she was much younger and the only place her parents would pop a tent was over a culvert and c'mon, what kind of adventure is that?

The fiesta weekend location has not yet been determined, but I have reassured her that I won't ask her to cook, nor will I demonstrate fire-starting techniques - unless she wants to learn. She's excited and she's planing to pack yellow shirts.
It's true! We talked while I slept last night.

freud is dead

mmmmeaty, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It's not been a swell week at the McMansion.

Allergies maintain weighty status as, officially, The Plague. With recent cold wet spring weather I have have several days' worth of the throb of what I can only guess is every single vein between my scalp and my skull. ka-BLAM. ka-BLAM.

I noticed a listing on a local real estate site early this week - beautiful old property that had been partially rehabbed in a commercially-zoned location in an idyllic little berb 40 or so minutes outside of Big City Proper. The obsessive thinking began as soon as I saw it: 3500 sq. ft., two story, 150 year old building, not built to be a house. Right up my alley.

I decided that I had to eyeball for myself, so I drove out on a whim, poked around, peeked into windows and felt excited about telling KD about this treasure I'd found. We returned mid-week to see it together. The owner met us there and took us on a walk-through and we talked about the long sordid history of the building and its previous occupants. Small towns are great places to go if you're serious about getting the real dirt on a subject.

After we thanked the owner for his time and for opening up the building for us, we drove to a neighboring village for dinner and a beer at The Grumpy Troll. In the end we've agreed that while the building is beautiful, we wouldn't possibly be able to afford both the mortgage payment (which, honestly, is really quite reasonable) AND the rehab costs (which would be prohibitively expensive because there is nothing noth-ing NOTH-ing but beams, 100 year old insulation and mouse turds in there and we'd have to put stuff like walls, floors and a toilet in it. We'd need appliances too. A stove would be nice.

I'm as disappointed saying no to this place as I've been with the others we've looked at together. They're like children to me, these vacant houses ... they need me. I can take one or two quick glances over a place and I can identify each one's needs and wants as instantaneously as I once was able to do with my son.

The despair I experience over each of these 'give the baby back to it's rightful parents' open house tours is big, consuming, and real. The reality of the situation, however, is that I've been here before. I know the territory. If you were to turn off the light I could still feel my way through, it's that familiar. And I'll surely get past it, just like I have each of those other times. If history is any indicator I'll be feeling less hopeless in about, oh, 48 more hours.

It would have been amazing to have potential studio space, or a darkroom, or a chiropractic office for the missus, yes. But I subscribe to the belief that it'll be alright in the end, so if it isn't alright it isn't the end and I have to believe that I will find that particular house with the trees in the front yard growing tall and strong as they wait for me.

As roller coaster-ey as my emotions have been over disappointing house hunting, I may have overexerted something in one or both hemispheres due to that + the sinus/headache/allergy thing. I feel like I'm melting. I'm starting to feel the sensation of slipping below the radar again. nudge nudge wink wink. When she says that it means 'she's symptomatic'.

KD is (wisely) giving me wide berth; I think I scare her a little when I'm experiencing 'Not Quite Right' days; I'm pretty sure I scare her -nearly to death, is my best guess- when there are several in a row. So tonight I stayed home, alone, to watch a video rental while I'm having my snivelfest. I popped 'Running With Scissors' in and felt an instant wave of peacefulness rush through me once the Seriously Crazy shit began. Yessssss. These are my people.

It didn't occur to me at the time to mark the time stamp of the DVD player when my telephone rang; now I kinda wish I had. Well, whatever time it was, it was the scene when the Natalie and Augusten knock out the kitchen ceiling for a skylight because they hated the kitchen and needed high ceilings.
Which all sorta makes sense.

A woman's voice: Hello, Beth?

Yes?

Is this Beth M?

Yes, this is Beth. Who's calling?

Do you recognize me?

Excuse me?

Can you tell who it is? Guess who it is!

Uhmm, no. No, I can't. Where do I know you from?

I'm a blast from the past, hunh? she laughs.

I am silent. Hampsters leap onto wheels in my head trying to scramble through 20 years' worth of incidentals, trying to put a face to the voice.

...

It's JAAAAANNNNEEE!

Jane?

Yeah! Remember me?

Well Jane, now that you mention it ... no. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've no idea who you are.

It's JANE. JANE! From St. Louis!

I absolutely believe you, Jane, but I don't know who you are. I've never lived in St. Louis.

Remember when you lived on (unintelligible) Street? And I lived down the street with Louis?

She's having what sounds like a lovely walk down memory lane but I for real and for true wasn't there. I don't know what to say.

This is Beth M, right? I've reached Beth M?

Yes, I am Beth M but I thi---
And you're married to Bill?

I had to laugh. No, I am not married to Bill.

You and Bill aren't married?

No, I mean -- I never have been married and I really haven't been married to anyone named Bill.

she pauses.
You're Beth M and you live in Madison? Is that right?

Yes. Yes both parts of that are true but I think you'r--
Well I wonder if there could be two Beth M's?

If only the woman would've stopped shrieking into the telephone for three seconds I would have told her about how yes, there are two of us and why do I know this? I know this because 10 years ago or so I picked up my meds at Walgreens and as I was leaving the store I happened to glance into the bag only to find something that looked nothing at all like the meds I was taking at the time. I returned them to the pharmacist, who apologized to the moon and back for the mix-up. Apparently none of us figured there'd be more than one person with my name. With her name. Er, with our name.

In fact, periodically for years after I would chuckle to myself, imagining the zany fun we all could have had if she'd received my meds.

Oh, well. Say, we're on State Street right now.

Ah, you are? Well. Well, good. I hope you enjoy your visit.

We're hungry and we're looking for a good restaurant for dinner. What can you recommend?

what?! This stranger still has not found her person but she's willing to get dining recommendations from the total stranger that I am to her?

Uh. Hmmm. Well, do you like vegetarian? There are a couple of pretty great Himalayan restaurants on State Street.

Ohhhh, well, no. We really want steak. Are there any good steak places?

Steak places.

Yes, steak places! I really was trying to reach the Beth M. who is married to Bill because she's the only person we know in this area. But we'd like to have steak for dinner.

Uhhh. Okay, well it'll be a bit of a walk up to the capital square but Johnny DelMonico's is up there and is supposed to serve a great steak.

Donny?

No, J-o-h-n-n-y. Delmonico.

Oh, okay. Well that will be fine because we're just over at the Doubletree. It's not too far.

I am momentarily struck both dumb and blind.
I cannot picture where a hotel called Doubletree is, not anywhere within the entire city limits. I'm not really sure why she's telling me any of this. To be honest, I'm still stuck on how she'd trust a stranger she'd essentially crank-called to give her dining recommendations. And I'm puzzled why she doesn't seem the least bit concerned that she hasn't reached her 'good old times' friend from St. Louis?

Any other suggestions?

No, I guess that's it for now. I mean, it's not every day that someone calls me to reach someone else who shares my name, then asks me for recommendations for restaurants that I'm not accustomed to dining at for their steak recommendations which I don't generally order. Yeah, try DelMonico's.

Okay, we'll give that one a try. Thanks!



One of my favorite quotes of the movie came shortly after I pushed the 'play' button to continue it from where I'd paused the show when the phone first rang. This would have been just after Jane and I said goodbye to one anther.

"According to Hope, Freud died of kitty leukemia. According to me, Freud died of being trapped in a laundry basket for four days without food or water."

This is my life.
True story.

hard to choose one

hard to choose one, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Did you ever have to make up your mind
Pick up on one and leave the other behind
It's not often easy and not often kind
Did you ever have to make up your mind

-- Lovin' Spoonful

unamerican

why that's just plain unamerican, son, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Let's just get comfortable while we're here, shall we?
Here, I'll start.

I'll prudently lay this one card on the metaphorical table while we're stopped at this particular red light.

You?

renaissance man

renaissance man, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It takes a certain tenor of toddler to wear whatever the hell he'd like to wear, even if it means it's a skirt and all the grownups around him either swoon or freak OUT because oh gosh, could he be gay? Is he demonstrating effeminate tendencies what with those fag-toy barbies and the swishing swirling skirts?

Here's the deal right from the auntie's mouth, folks: For the record, I BOUGHT him that skirt and he likes it and I like that he likes it. SHUT. THE FARK. UP.

Seriously, right now, just stop.

What does it matter? He's a beautiful imaginative sweet well-mannered kid who calls me 'auntie' in a way that melts me on even my meanest days. People of certain religious convictions and people who have nothing better to worry about can go climb a tree. This boy is the fellow who isn't afraid to have emotions, play with "girl" toys, and play with me as though I was the neatest coolest most magnificent person ever in the history of the universe.

That matters. So leave it alone and let's just love him and all the other little boy children who prefer to dress and redress their barbie dolls to bang up smash ups.

before i call the vet

dwindling supply, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Before I call the vet... I will brush his coat. He's either disinterested or having difficulty cleaning himself and he could use a de-matting.

Before I call the vet... I will sort out where he'll be buried.

Before I call the vet... I will continue giving him IV fluids so he's not too weak to make what I can only imagine will be a long journey.

Before I call the vet... rather than listening to him yowling on the other side of my closed bedroom door I will bring him inside to sleep with me.

Before I call the vet... I will whisper a few more secrets to him, because I know he will keep them safe, as he has with hundreds of others over all these years.

scarlett's hands

I have two weeks' worth of nephew and niece visits to catch up on but it's been a little chaotic at the McMansion and I can only do what I can do. That means I have a backlog. That means I feel some guilt for having let more than is balanced and comfortable for me go. That means it might slightly resemble a constipated digestion tract around these here parts for a bit, but I can promise that it will be neither horribly painful nor will it last long.

So please enjoy my youngest niece's hands while she learns the secrets of untying the knots on her momma's drum. She and I hung out together for a little while when her momma had an appointment (and a not-exactly-small need to get the heck outta dodge for some grownup time). Daddy had to work today too, so Scarlett and I flopped on pillows, played with stuffed animals, made noises like real animals, read books, and played music until The Momma(tm) returned.

Scarlett's parents encourage her to try nearly everything that won't outrightly hurt her. In that 'don't break the baby' category there are only a few no-nos and the few are mostly diet-related. She is life-threateningly and intensely allergic to tree and ground nuts, eggs and dairy so she eats nearly entirely from a whole food diet to avoid the hidden bombs that might be waiting for her in prepared foods.

She's got a somewhat frightening amount of language for an 18 month old. I don't remember my son speaking in sentences at that same age but Scarlett can string together 4-5 words that make grownup sense. She appropriately uses pronouns. She can ask questions. She can save and recall complicated multisyllabic words. Wow. As the parent of a boychild I never bothered getting my knickers in a knot over where he was on that imaginary bell curve; you know, the one that indicates the precise, the accurate and the earlybirds along with the dingbats, the slowpokes, and the late bloomers ... frankly, I had enough to contend with raising him on my own, so I was glad to have him however he developed. And he's done perfectly.

As for my sister, I tease her by telling her she's gotten exactly the child she was meant to have. And that her baby is a freak.

goodness me, what terrible google manners

dam yellow dot, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Confidental to Rhode Island:

You may well be trying to find disparaging compatriots in your googlesearch but I think you'll have to move along 'cuz there's nothing to see here.

Fine, you think Tret Fure sucks. Got it. But consider for a moment that you, yourself, might not be Tret's cuppa tea either.

At least Tret has the decency to keep that information to herself.

noise

Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as if she has laid an asteroid.

-- Mark Twain

the de- and reconstruction of dorothy

She has watched the love of her life introduce himself all those years ago at a dance, all dapper and with that sneaky trouble-making grin on his face. She didn't see it at the time, but that handsome gent nudged his buddy, saying 'I bet you I'll marry that girl'. And he did.

Her eyes have watched over four children, all grown up now, with grandchildren of their own.

I remember her eyes, ever supervisory, ever critical, taking in every detail to ensure that any job she undertook - or those we children were asked to do - was done properly, because that is precisely how a job should be done, period.

Laughing wells of tears pooled in her eyes when her husband recounted funny you-had-to-be-there jokes, like those whose punchlines ended with 'a three-legged dog!'.

Sorrowful, heartbroken tears spilled when the love of her life suddenly died. Spend a lifetime with a person and you'll understand just how long it takes to soften into and with your partner. That kind of time is measured in such a way that it now makes sense to me how two people can regularly dislike one another but how they always always returned to LOVE. I used to have a daydream that Archie Bunker was a not-so-distant relative since both men could be such lovable asses. The times were changing, man.

Dorothy and Les had raised their babies and were now occupied with welcoming their great-grandchildren into the world via the tender cradles of their liver-spotted arms, marveling at how interwoven the generations are.

Then just like that, he was gone. Just like that.

Her gaze began to soften after he was buried. What she saw she couldn't remember, and it became clear soon after her husband's death that her perceptions had already begun their slow process of vacating the premises. That man she pledged her love to had pledged it back: he'd been covering for her. For how long was uncertain, but once he was gone it became all too clear that she would be unable to live on her own.

As long as I could remember from my earliest childhood years she had the most immaculately kept spotless glasses of anyone I'd ever met. I envied her spectacle care; 'How does she do that?', the preteen me used to wonder. I had a feeling something wasn't right several years ago when I started noticing that her glasses began collecting spots and smears. The marked change not being the spots and smears so much as the fact that she didn't care so much about them.

That's when her mind began to fail her.



Her hands were so pretty. So strong! She was constantly vexed throughout the years by her tough dry skin that she continually counteracted by rubbing lotions into, to prevent cracking and chafing. One of my younger sisters has been imbued with the DNA of those lovely graceful hands. I envy her for that.

Her hands led a passel of children through all the years to the toy closet, a magical bedroom closet full of old-fashioned lincoln logs, dress-up dolls, wooden train sets, books.

These hands taught me how to use my very favorite toy in that closet. She demonstrated what 'take care of the ViewMaster' meant and yes, indeedy, it WOULD be taken away if I wasn't doing just that.

These hands played thousands of games of Yahtzee.

These hands have fixed tens of thousands of meals for a variety of family and friends. Yes, by scratch ... she didn't believe there WAS any other way to prepare foods. She folded love into her amazing (and, so far, irreproducible) potato salads. She added a pinch of magic to her canned fruits and veggies. Two generations of babies managed through their drooly teething years gnawing on her dill pickles.

These hands baked pies, prepared the rich percolator coffee every Sunday after church; they helped countless batches of church ladies to make countless batches of lefse before the official day and then served astounding amounts of lutefisk at the annual Norwegian dinner.

These hands sewed her children's clothes from what appeared to be nothing. They created quilts from blanket scraps. They made artistic costumes. These fingers were handy with straight pins and smoothly threaded the sewing machine needle. These hands organized each and every surface of each and every room into just so. These hands held whiffy permanent markers, jotting detailed notes on the boxes as she organized closets into streamlined storage facilities.

Affected as they have been by vascular dementia, these hands now practice few movements: smoothing clothing, scratching an itch, holding onto the handrail as she walks or wheels loops around the care facility she no longer knows to call home.

I watched as her hands led her along the guardrail on the wall towards the patio door. I was there to take her to an audiologist appointment. I didn't expect that she would recognize me, but a throbbing keened in my heart as she repeatedly smoothed my green shirt, asking in a phlegmy rasp, 'take me where I'm supposed to be?'.




Her mind ... I cherish the parts that are gone; I cherish what little is left. The CNAs tell me funny stories of my grandmother's finally-developed sense of humor. She had too much responsibility and too much work to do to afford much time for fun so in a strange way this dementia has freed her, has given her a lightness of being. This staunch German woman slaps people on the ass now, just a pat to offer a kind of naïve howdoyado.

It's hard to tell where that reasoning part of us goes when it leaves. Harder yet to pinpoint the particulars of how memories evaporate into a stare.

I have regrets. I wish she could know how much that silly ViewMaster meant to me. I wish I could show her how I still take care of it now, that it was the one item I wanted to have when her home was sold. I regret that I don't spend more time with her.

I've been wondering if her occasional outbursts and willful upsets are more about what she no longer has access to or, instead, about what little she has left? Maybe both? Maybe neither. I miss the old grandmother I used to know, but it surprises me, this overflowing love I feel for my right-now grandmother, who asks little of me but to take her where she is supposed to be.

edited to add: my older sister and I were talking during my recent road trip to her home and family 2.5 hrs away from me. I told her about the experience I'd had taking Gramma to the ear doc and about finding ways to keep her a meaningful part of our family, which I would guess is a thematic issue for those who have loved ones living with dementia. I can't imagine it has been easy for my father and his siblings to lay down their own personal agendas in favor of doing whatever is best for their mother. They each have lives, we grandchildren are now fully grown and we have families of our own. The guard has changed but nobody seems to have been invited to the ceremony so we all seem to ...muddle through, trying to do a token good thing to allay our feelings of guilt.

My sister looked deeply into my eyes when she asked, "I wonder what Grandpa - if he is still here, watching over us all - thinks. I bet he's so disappointed with all of us." I looked back into her eyes and agreed. It breaks my heart to think I've disappointed him. I don't want to disappoint my grandfather.

nearing the (b)end

oxidized gears, originally uploaded by McBeth.

A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.

-- Stewart Alsop

simon says stop

when the law says 'Stop', it's best to stop, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The laws that keep us safe, these same laws condemn us to boredom.

-- Chuck Palahniuk

home

 

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.

-- Maya Angelou

very nearly answering the call of the flippists

building up to the eyelid flip, originally uploaded by McBeth.

You. Yes, YOU.

Let's clear the air right this very moment, shall we?

If you're one of the persons who has been looking for more (more? how about any) eyelid flipping pictures, you're going to have to be patient with me. You see, lid-flipping is not something one should just launch INTO, no! Instead one must build UP to it!

Ahh! A-ha! Yes.

I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't get into the boogedyboogedy-feeling groove that is necessary for an A+ form eyelid flip.

The outtake shots, which shall never be viewed by anyone -ever- but me, are a little bit freaky ('oh dear, does it really look like that? In real life?!') and a laugh riot.

I am not daunted, never fear.
I shall one day prevail ... I SHALL flip my lids!

my $ .02

Confidential to you, the dear sweet soul in Raleigh, North Carolina:

Yes. The definitive answer to the question you posed in the search bar of your browser is YES, cherry-tying is indeed a rare talent, though it's probably worth mentioning that I believe the fact that one can tie the cherry using only one's tongue is less of a compelling factor than the potential future non-cherry applications.

I spent one of my birthdays figuring out how to do it using the guaranteed Tappy Tibbins system and just look at me now!

I Want To Marry A Clockwork Orange Lighthouse Keeper

these ain't yer gramma's tv commercials, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Lyrics by Eigen Erika


I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And keep him company.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And live by the side of the sea.

I'll polish his lamp by the light of day
So ships at night can find their way.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
Won't that be okay!

We'll take walks along the moonlight bay
Maybe find a treasure too.
I'd love living in a light house,
HOW 'BOUT YOU?

The dream of living in a lighthouse baby, every single day.
The dream of living in a lighthouse,
the white one by the bay.

So if you want to make my dreams come true,
You'll be a lighthouse keeper too.
We could live in a lighthouse
The white one by the bay, hey hey.
Won't that be okay.

Yada tada ta ta ta.

the beverage

hot buttered rum lattes, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.

--Woody Allen