In the dawn of the "blogging" era, I found myself drawn to it... not so much because I was salivating for online validation, but because I was searching for fonts, one day. Not long after having my love for writing re-stimulated, I began relating my experience in biking cross-country in 1979, as part of Bikecentennial (following the Lewis & Clark trail, backwards, typically).
Technology being what it was in those early days of online journalling, my photos looked like crap. I knew, at some point, I was going to have to go back and do them all over again--a major stumbling block for the Great Procrastinator.
But, I've been thinking a lot about it, lately... as my first week of tackling the coast range in cold, rainy weather (with sixty extra pounds of gear) probably has a lot to do with my recent knee explosion. Well, that's part of it, and also standing over a light table for twenty-six years (for twelve hours at a time), and not knowing when to quit when my body protests.
Though I don't particularly think of myself as a Big Pussy, that first week of forcing miles of precipitous ups-and-downs on a severely strained joint awoke me to levels of pain that I didn't think existed...salved by two days off in Pacific City, Oregon. Of course, helping to consume twenty-eight pounds of Pacific clams, copious amounts of beer, and learning the joint-lubricating properties of aspirin turned out to be pretty medicinal, too. After that, I was sufficiently "healed" to pedal the other four thousand miles to get back to Virginia... and see how beautiful and diverse is this country and its people.
No Regrets.
Unfortunately, I remember the definition of "excruciating", now... though with every day, the pain subsides, the internet taught me how to rehabilitate, I'm finally learning to eat at normal intervals and take vitamins, and can get back to taking care of normal, everyday things that won't take care themselves. I'm not ready to be an invalid, living alone in squalor and defeat.
But, with unemployment, my health benefits fell by the wayside... and, not having the "convenience" of medical attention, I'm probably going to pay for the inattention. That awakes my distaste and outrage about the state of Medicine in America for those that have no access because they Just Aren't Lucky Enough.
Born to a single mother who also was born to a single mother, health insurance was unattainable. And, by whatever motivations drove her, she could neither stomach the suffocation of marriage or be satisfied with working for someone else, as my brother and I grew to adolescence. Boys being "boys", and the uncanny truth that those with less seem to get sick more, the pittance of child support wasn't enough. Consequently, we had to rely upon free school lunches and Medicaid.
Broken bones were reset, and not so much of a burden. Infections and viruses came-and-went, without a disruption to "lifestyle", such as it was. But, in the summer of my brother's eleventh year, he lost his boundless energy: the quality of which would tire Ulysses. He couldn't assuage his thirst. And, soon, all he wanted to do was sleep. It was clear that something was very wrong. An emergency trip to the hospital, miraculously before he could slip into coma, confirmed the worst: diabetes.
A few years later, in another summer, I took a trip to the bathroom... and there was blood. It was my turn to make the mad dash to the emergency room, which turned into two weeks of proctoscopes and a liquid diet: intestinal perforation. One doctor took me aside to discuss what the options were, telling me that "first, we split open your belly". By whatever Powers That Be, the wound healed on its own in the course of those two weeks. Not long after, though, I was called back for tests, because I was in a ward with a tuberculosis patient, recently discovered. They were concerned with my blood sugar levels.
It was as if the horror was about to begin, anew.
Luckily, for me, I was uninfected and sound. My bother wasn't so "lucky". As we grew to be men, I got stronger and found my own way in the world... while he, through DNA, attitude, denial of his condition or for whatever "reason", spiraled into blindness, kidney failure, neuropathy, and despair. It became too much for him to bear, and he chose to end his suffering.
This is not so much an accusation of Medicine. For those days, when hospitals weren't so suffused with greed and intolerance and still functioned as non-profit institutions, the level of care was acceptable. Those without financial means learned to deal with the long waits in the "clinic"... the dismissal of clerks and doctors that noticed our lack of coverage... and the shortcuts in care. The only real accusation I can make is of one particular doctor, who told my brother in his last days that his need for painkillers was "addictive" and that he was a "parasite". For him, I hope justice reigns.
This is a different world, now. The Bottom Line is the substitute for "First, Do No Harm". Incredibly, doctors oversee torture. Insurance companies dictate the level of care. What was imperfect, but functional, seems more like the Belly Of The Whale.
Something has to change. This "triage" of who deserves adequate care, and who does not, is neither acceptable or sustainable. This cannot be what America is about.
Still, I have no regrets for whatever responsibility I have for my own infirmities. Life is risk, no matter what choices are made.
But, when faced with a return to the emergency room, and having to rely upon the graces of the State, it wasn't the pain that medical attention would bring that made me choose to attend to myself. It was the thought of returning to the abyss of unending bills, unspoken assumptions of taking a "free ride", and being shuffled into substandard care that kept me from dialing 911.
I may walk with a limp, invite a recurrence if i choose to kneel, or worse, until I find employment, again. That's the choice I had to make. That's a choice no one should have to make.
Since Mister Sunshine has been such a downer, lately, I though it best to lay back off of the writing, for a while. But, as I'm temporarily confined to the house, with an ice pack strapped to my right knee... What The Hell?
It's still a steps-forward-and-back situation on the dole, not really worth re-hashing (or employment, for that matter)... but one good thing did pop up, yesterday, in a follow-up at the Workforce Center: there's a good possibility that the State of Virginia will pay for either a certificate in graphic design, or for my final two years of college. I thought I was going to faint while filling out the paperwork... until I remembered that Rodney Dangerfield got his shot at it on film, too. So, there's precedent. But, still. Yay.
But (and there always seems to be a "but"), things took a turn for the worse, late last night. Stephen Colbert, resplendent in Iraqi-camo suit was my nightcap, so I decided to end my early day but rolling off of the couch, then to bed. This simple wish was rewarded with the exquisite agony of spraining my knee, just in the attempt to rise. As this isn't the first time this has happened, recently, straightening my leg usually put things to right, with a little soreness. Not to be. I yelled so loudly that the neighbor's dogs, two doors down, answered with ferocious barking. Guess I woke 'em up out of doggie dreamland.
No insurance means self-doctoring, hence the ice pack, and Exec-U-Gliding around the house on the rolling desk chair until I can put enough weight on my knee to get in the car. Good thing I brewed five gallons of IPA and still have food in the freezer, and just bought a ton of cat food. I'd hate for make the news because she had to devour me in hunger.
It's almost time for the daily monster thunderstorms, so I'd better put a finish to this, and roll my way around to batten the hatches.
But, there seems to be a silver lining to the cumulonimbus.
...from CVille Weekly.
Before setting the first foot upon the floor, this morning... or getting nipped on bare legs by a hungry cat... or swearing, audibly, "Not Rain... AGAIN!" when I opened the front door... there was music in my head.
This isn't a rare occurrence. Something in the folds of my gray matter drops the needle on long-buried songs, sometimes before waking. But, recently, preoccupied with fretting over how long I can keep my head above water, if the plants will ever get in the ground, creating online portfolios, and wondering what will become of all this breathing... this house is silent, more often than not.
Perhaps this is compensation. It's not altogether unpleasant.
To score the familiar, unchanging muted daylight, background wall of green, foreground curtain of mist, it was Dinah Washington that began today's refrain:
A decidedly retro soundtrack, for someone born into a rock & roll world.
Crystal-clear enunciation. Shimmering vibrato. Sweeping strings. A touch of melancholy. Lyrically appropriate:
"The leaves of brown came tumbling down, remember?
In September in the rain.
The sun went out just like a dying ember,
That September in the rain.
To ev'ry word of love I heard you whisper,
The raindrops seemed to play a sweet refrain.
Though spring is here, to me it's still September,
That September in the rain."
Harry Warren's music, Al Dubin's lyrics, Miss Washington's evocative voice, and that sensuous backbeat lose everything in having the words printed here. The only way to experience it is to listen. That's one of the reasons why I went to iTunes, first thing... and wasted no time in converting limited funds to song.
There are more lyrics that didn't get used. They weren't necessary. She said in 2:07 minutes what needed to be said... perhaps, something she learned from Ella Fitzgerald, and passed along to Etta James.
The irony is that somewhere, buried in big plastic bins on the back porch, I know that crusty single is laying in wait, with many others. Another of the limitless things this pause in my life revolves around is sifting through the personal effects of my family. And, being the last man standing, that's my responsibility: organizing the scrapbooks of other people's lives... husbanding what objects they chose to keep... recalling what melodies composed their personal soundtracks.
Another irony is that I hadn't heard that particular tune in a very long time... but, before I had to search for the exact words, they were impressed upon a child's brain, ages ago... and there, they remain.
The two who made this possible are, hopefully, somewhere else, together now.
Two unhappy people, with more potential than opportunity. Bound inseparably since childhood. Born of the Depression, but suffused with angst not unlike kids today. Unsettled. From broken homes. Coming of age in a "Pop" culture. Comfort found in a bottle and a party.
I know about all of this, not because of the boxes of personal effects, but because I was there. My brother, as well. They may have thought we weren't paying attention, but, "Little pitchers have big ears" (so said John Haywood in 1542).
A forever-single mother, raising two boys with no job, with child support the only means of survival in a world that stigmatized the "divorced"... and her cousin, an unashamed gay male in a time when even being closeted wasn't an option--it's from them that so much of this soundtrack became embedded. And now, putting all of the pieces together from these scattered fragments, their life paths make more sense.
Though "imperfect" in an imperfect world, their personal dramas taught the meaning of right-and-wrong... that if you're "straight", you don't have to be "narrow"...what can happen if you lose self-belief... and that music is much more than a needle in a dusty groove.
It'll be a relief to be done with all of the retrospect, when the last item is passed along, recycled, or boxed, yet again. Rejuvenating, when my wheels get back on track, and the sun returns.
But, whether hidden away in a forgotten bin, or inside my head... music will always find a way to return, unbidden. That's not such a bad thing.
"RotatingHairIron"
"TomatoGiantTree"
"StainlessSteelKnifeSet"
"WindshieldTool"
"NoMoreCellulite"
"TimeSharesCorp"
"GourmetKaffe"
"WhisperQuietJuicer"
"ThePediPistol"
"HairRemovingCrystalPads"
Congratulations, Marketing Gurus.
You have succeeded in arousing not the slightest bit of consumer curiosity (except for how they beat the spam blocker, and their alarming frequency). Though, "ThePediPistol" and "RotatingHairIron"... I was almost curious enough to see just how stupid they looked.
Springtime in the mid-Atlantic: brown turns to green; ice transforms into rain; the sun goes on holiday. For days. And extra days.
Except for brief flashes through the Pacific-northwest-style overcast, the sun has disappeared for the past six days. With each passing cycle of light-to-dark, the flowers erupt in their prescribed sequence, the grass grows almost audibly, the night comes later, the calendar progresses. That's how I can tell that time moves... so I believe.
Since unceremoniously being shown the door from my job, it's getting harder to tell.
I wake up, get the coffee on, feed the cat, sit for hours online, sifting for anything mentally stimulating or indicative of some kind of Progress. Eventually showering and putting on sensible clothes, I go through the motions of passing out applications and keeping upbeat when i know the outcome, beforehand.
(I began to write this entry a week ago. At the time, the ironic title was going to be Olivia Newton-John's sappy "Please Mr. Please [Don't Play B-17]"... subtitled, "As long as B-17 is Eddie Cochran's "Nervous Breakdown". it's not so amusing, anymore.)
The situation isn't really so dire. Despite all of the rejections, I've not exhausted all possibilities to satisfy my unemployment check... the first of which I haven't seen, just yet. Early tomorrow morning, there's an interview scheduled to get assistance in going back to school. Each week at the radio station re-energizes me. People on the street seem friendlier than usual. I can sleep in my own bed, every night, instead of couches... though I still seem to wind up there.
Those are "plus" signs.
But (and there are always "Buts")... nothing has changed at this "home". Opportunity is nonexistent. Conservatism rules. Those who were once "friends" disappear when it's time to cash in favors.
Old workmates suddenly become unreachable through phone calls and messages. Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind, unsurprisingly. Time Marches On.
Positive-negative. Up and down. Optimism-pessimism...
...much like this journal.
This pendulum will swing back, eventually... unless this Future has been writ.
"But", I don't believe that... not as long as I have breath, can move, can think, can act.
So, on Monday, i "acted". I got my hair cut.
In the past, I've been teased about how my backpack is my "pocketbook" (and You know who you are)... how my cooking skills would "make me a good wife"... and, how in piques of rage, how I get my head shorn. "Like a girl" (said, by a "girl"). This jokingly impugns my masculinity.
Well, I did it. Marine-short. Steve McQueen short. brutally short...
...though, undoubtedly, someone will say "G.I. Jane-short".
But, I needed to change the look of the person staring back in the mirror. That fucker needed work.
In more ways than one.
He could use a sunny day, too.
this must be a pit stop on the Big Road Race. even though it seems like i'm just sitting still, i'm getting gassed up... re-adjusted... re-shod. once those wings get adjusted, i'm off.
i'm particularly un-prose-y, at this point, so...
...let's try lists:
the Lighter Side:
- joined a photography club. investing in equipment with the remains of my 401k. preparing to see if what i "see" can sell.
- preparing to do a Roy Orbison show on the radio, at 8AM. Prince Buster on Friday at 2PM.
- picked a pound of morrels in four days. smoking a sirloin roast in jerk sauce, beer, garlic with cherry wood.
- taking care of the last responsibilities with my mom's estate.
- applied for unemployment.
- spent an afternoon on the lake on an "alternative" party barge.
- cleaned out the basement refrigerator, and turned it off. found a ten-year-old bottle of homemade black raspberry wine.
the Dark Side (inquiries into the unknown past):
- great-great grandfather's estate, entrusted to his friend and colleague, is contested by his colleague's son (trying to squeeze some more $ for himself). case goes to Virginia Supreme Court.
- i am a third-generation of female-run households.
- great grandfather passes at age 34, with no records of his passing.
- his daughter, Maria Frances, passes at age 10 from typhoid.
- the family's "obelisk" (monument with the family name) is positioned at a forty-five degree angle, different from any other.
- one great uncle was sheriff, burned a bootlegger to death in a barn in a gun battle.
- somewhere in there, the KKK figures in. i hope those involved spin in their graves because of my 16-year-old reggae show.
- at some point, they all left... except for this dried twig of the family tree.
meanwhile, i'm waiting for the green flag.
sunny. 70s. clear.
installed a gig of ram in the computer.
got the tiller fixed, starts on the first pull.
discovered a quarter pound of morrels... and, they didn't kill me.
for days, this corner of the eastern seaboard has been socked in with clouds and smatterings of rain. O! Virginia! How spastic are thy meteorological whims!
enough, already. this cycle of four days of gray and damp, with a day of sun lodged in between, is the stuff of crappy eating habits and prodigious beer intake. these are not traits that will transfer well to the mantra of job chasing: "Project Confidence! Self-Promote! Convince Prospective Employers Of Your Can-Do Attitude!"
"I am convinced that I would be a dynamic force in your fast-food franchise! I would bring cutting-edge pride and ambition to the brightly-hued uniform!"
sure.
ironically, that "career opportunity (the one that never knocks)", is one of the choices in the provincial mid-Atlantic. and physical therapist. and IT professional.
and that, basically, is "it". oh, sorry... "Food Lion cashier". not much room for "re-invention", there.
so, i've busied myself with repairing all of the lawn equipment at two addresses... shaken the dust out of every corner of the house... carried bags of old clothes to Goodwill... and wrote my district delegate, a Republican that voted in lockstep with his party cronies to reject the Federal Stimulus Package.
to say that his replies were "perfunctory" or "snide" wouldn't be too far off the mark.
so, to the local newspaper they go.
Don't Hate The Player, Del. Scott. Hate The Game.
still, i keep attempting to make something positive out of all of this discord. my Finnish grandad's genes make me contort around any flash of color with the camera. i brandish a chainsaw to tame the wilderness of the home place. and, i find myself drawn to a door that needs to be opened.
i ready myself to do something which i have dreaded for months: re-inter the cremated remains of my grandmother and brother, and finally commit my mother's ashes to the family plot in the local cemetery. it looks monstrous to see this in print, or to even consider. but, years ago, my mother sold the land that surrounded the little unconsecrated plot in the woods... and the present owner will jump at the chance to sell, as soon as the economic climate thaws. i know this. i have called this person "friend". but, for some, "friendship" only goes as far as a big pay-off.
consequently, i can't bear the thought of them in the middle of a parking lot, or plowed over by construction equipment, though i be damned for all time. it's my move, my choice... my responsibility.
yet, with every effort i make, i uncover mysteries. i wonder what my "Finnish granddad" thought when he married into this very English, very American dynasty... from whence these "mysteries" abound.
as i pieced together this entry, i stopped for a shower... i may be disconnected at this point in my life, but wearing pajama-bottoms past noon is a non-starter. but, away from the keyboard, rinsing off the grime and dust, i questioned why i need to pry open this long-closed door. instantly, i recalled my first trip to Los Angeles: in the gloom of a winter's early night, faced with piloting a rental car through unknown LA freeways... knowing that to not take up the journey, there would be no Good at the end of it.
maybe that's the point: though this subject might be a bit morbid, and challenging, the attempt to unravel it may conclude with some kind of resolution. and Mystery, resolved, may be considered "good", in the long run.
so, this train i ride... to wherever it takes me.
because, in the end, "when one door is closed, another is opened".
to be continued.
it's been almost two weeks since the axe came down, and i was "invited" to join the 633,000 others that lost their jobs last month. in that time, it's taken a while to assess where my feet come in contact to the earth. since i had to prematurely leave college in a past recession ('75), "work" has always been a part of what i am. until now.
imperceptibly, incrementally comes the readjustment from being a Child Of The Night. i awake earlier, i absorb more sunshine (when it grants itself in this murky April). i sense the fraying of that invisible umbilical cord, the one that tied me to a second life, and lifestyle... with its disconnection.
good riddance to all that.
the day after my career breathed its last, i stayed in northern Virginia, as there was going to be a get-together of similarly suspended souls (in an uncomfortably stuffy bar in the middle of Stepford). ever the eternal smartass, my last quote on the company intercom before leaving was "Elvis... has left... The Building". i doubt if anyone "got" it.
they probably didn't "get" why i was dressed to kill at that bar, either: retro jacket-tuxedo shirt-pleated wool trousers.
when asked why i was so "dressed up", i had to reply, "Hey, it's my funeral!"
best to leave 'em laughing, eh?
so, now, i retreat to the source. in "forced semi-retirement", until i get the path figured out. already, i feel more connected to this place than i have in years, though i know that this, too, is probably a temporary interlude. digging in the dirt to make a garden. getting my hands greasy in every Briggs & Stratton engine known to man. clearing away years of tangle and neglect at the home place, in case i have to make my last stand there. throwing out the unnecessary if i have to bolt for the exit, quickly.
interestingly, though i see many more faces in the course of the day, those i see the most are of the street people (though they all live in a renovated hotel, to someone's benevolence). The Guy Who Looks Just Like Saddam (and, who always waves when recognized). The Man In Black (though, that means the dude who wears black t-shirts and shorts, no matter what the weather is). and, The Material "Girl" (though facially appearing to have native American and mountain man heritage, prances with a long blonde wig and leather jacket on the way to 7-11, like he's in the chorus line in Chicago). they're harmless. they do what they do, because they must. they're comfortable in the skin that they were granted. people have been made "famous" for much, much less in more favorable locations and circumstances.
there's a lesson in that concept.
early this morning, i read a succint observation by Bob Dylan, in an interview in today's London Times:
"It must be the Southern air. It’s filled with rambling ghosts and disturbed spirits. They’re all screaming and forlorning. It’s like they are caught in some weird web - some purgatory between heaven and hell and they can’t rest. They can’t live, and they can’t die. It’s like they were cut off in their prime, wanting to tell somebody something. It’s all over the place. There are war fields everywhere … a lot of times even in people’s backyards."
that describes this little Virginia town and its inhabitants to a "T".
i hope that in the time it takes to make the next step away from here, i can lay some to rest.
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retrospective Photographic Debris.
