What was the question?

WHAT WAS THE QUESTION AGAIN?

I was feeling unsettled over something or other, and decided to drive over to Peet’s for a coffee; I don’t know what made me think of doing this, I have the same coffee at home, and the traffic on North Avenue is always to be avoided, especially on my day-off. There was nobody I knew at Peet’s, but there was a dozen people burbling on cell phones; I took my coffee and walked up past the Whole Foods store, questioning as I always did what it was that there business is about, it isn’t just good and pure food, we have always had sources for that, it is that they promise something else, something philosophical or spiritual and pseudo-scientific, I can’t put my finger on their message; but it certainly is successful, their message resonates, especially among a certain group. Could it be that people believe that if one ate just the right combination of foods there would be a special reward? That their food should be thought of as some sort of prescription that will ward off evil spirits and give eternal life; is this what Ponce De Leon had sought and never found?

I stopped in front of Transitions Bookstore , a “new age”café and store with a display of books and lecture announcements all of which seemed to be offering the one true answer, the one right path, the secret of the ages. If there was but one true answer, one great secret–why is it in any number of different books? Why isn’t it taught to every school child in the world? Why would the one important truth in life be limited to these “New York Times bestselling authors”?

I walked on through the stream of pedestrian robots with earpieces supplying the necessarily constant and deadening music, reminding me of Aldous Huxley. Next is this large store with a name that is made-up, selling makeup, that is successful, and not only with women. A lot of people paying a lot of money to pretend to not look or smell as they really do; factor that notion in if you can.

None of these observations are new, none are unique to me; but there is something more going on here, there is something behind all of this avoidance and denial.

In my work I occasionally drive people whose names are familiar, who employ people to make sure that their names and faces are familiar; I drive these people to a place, wait for them to do their thing, then drive them back to the other place. If it is a nice day I often stand outside the limousine and read a book while wait, or just stand and enjoy the passing parade; part of the parade is the awe that comes over people when they think they may be in the presence of someone famous; people who are famous for being famous.

I am far from the first person to witness and note this effect; but what is it that is going on here? How does this relate to what I was noticing at the mall.

The day after my walk through the mall on North Avenue I paid a visit to Bert in the home: He is looking even more drawn than before, I imagine the cancers in there doing their nasty work; the colors on his face and hands becoming more a patchwork of grays and whites, the food stains on his shirt more noticeable because he has just finished lunch, and more lunch is dropping from his slack mouth.

I say hello, he looks up into my eyes, after a few seconds there is a recognition, I say my name, he smiles and moves his hand in an attempt to raise it, I take hold of that cool hand, not too energetically or forcefully I give him a handshake. He is sitting in the hallway, there are about eight of them lined up in the hallway, all in wheelchairs; I pull up an empty chair in order to sit beside Bert. I ask that question that always makes me feel really stupid, I ask him how is it going? What kind of question is that to ask a dying man? What else is there to say? my options are limited here. He gives me a smile and says “oh, you know, it goes”. I ask if he is in pain, that is a required question, one that must be answered on the report form; no he is not in any pain—-good, very good.

There is one question that always brings a wry smile “well, what’s new at this place?” Boredom is the universal among the elderly and the dying, so I try and make some sort of joke about the obvious.

We sit for a while, I make my usual comment about watching the parade go by, I say it because it always makes us both smile. I ask what he had for lunch, less than an hour previous, he can’t remember; did his daughter visit on Sunday, he can’t remember. I sit, he sits, we sit, the lineup of wheelchairs sit in the hallway, near the nurses’ station where they can all be seen in a glance by the always busy nurses and aides.

I stay for about another fifteen minutes, it seems forever; there is nothing here other than hello, a few smiles, a waiting; I can’t stay there longer than that, it becomes pointless, it borders on being depressive, I feel out of place.

I fill out the necessary form, leave a copy on the nurses’ desk, say goodbye to Bert, then I say goodbye to a few others who have come to recognize me over time. One woman takes my hand and compliments me on my new hat, tells me it makes me look good, that she is glad that she got to see this great hat. There is a guy in one of those padded chair/beds that are used for people who have little or no control; I think that he is looking at me, I say hello, he makes a noise, I smile and then move on to the elevator.

On the ground floor, near the elevator, there is a drinking fountain where I always stop and take a long drink; there is something about spending time up there that makes me want to have a long drink of cool water. Then I leave, or do I escape?

My mind wants to make a connection between the questions raised at the mall and the experience of sitting with this dying man who is my good friend, who doesn’t know my name; there is something that is in the back of my mind, it is yelling something in my ear. I refuse to understand what it is that I am being told.

At the mall are offered answers to unasked questions, to made up questions, to stupid questions—–at the home there is no answer, no question, no worthy comment. There is just sitting in the hallway waiting.

I was about to make some comment on what other people are looking for, what is missing in their lives, what keeps them from being right here in the present and not in denial; then I realized that that would be going down the conservative way of blame and criticism, change direction. All that I observed and wrote down here is part of my trying to figure out what I am about, the only person of whom I have any knowledge or control. So what do I think that I am missing, what is absent from this life of mine, what answers will make it all right?

There is nothing missing.

This is it, complete and understandable.

If I sometimes forget this, remind me.

Out of beans

I went out for coffee this morning; it was my habit to go to Peet’s every morning, did this for several years until I realized that firing up a cold car on a winter morning for a drive of less than three miles wasn’t quite right just for a cup of coffee. Today I was out of beans so I had this morning’s coffee there and bought a pound of Sumatra; I had a chance to say hello to most everyone who goes there in the morning.

Eric came in on his way to take his dog to the beach, he is about finished his police training, something he had wanted for years, now he has it. I asked if he is learning not to talk to civilians, he agreed that he is learning to stay clear of people who are not cops, people who want to talk to him, ask him, about everything in the world, or out of it. I also asked him if he was carrying, he allowed as he was; there are some crazy guys who hang around the beach where he exercises his dog, you can’t be too careful. Eric has become the attitude of the weapon: have a gun because you might meet up with a crazy guy while at the beach with your dog—–that sums it up.

I was reading that great article by Elizabeth Drew in this week’s New York Review of Books, the one analyzing the state of the political race. Steve came in, Paul came in: all three of us agreed on who should step down, why it should be soon, that the heavyweights of the party need to step in and settle things. There came out again that thing about the need for an idea that will lift us from where we are right now.

I went for a walk afterwards, stopped at Transitions Bookstore to see what books were in their window display, Transitions is a new-age store, a store that sells books at list price, that is success. All of the titles and blurbs offer an answer, the answer; you can tell the really important answers because they are endorsed by Deepak or Oprah, who are the Housekeeping Seals of Approval for answers to your life.

Yesterday I was reading Tillich’s Courage to Be, the part where he writes that faith is being grasped by that that carries you where you ought to be (the book is in the car, so the quote may not be exact).

The thread here is that every single one of us is looking for an answer, a guide, a direction: so you can spend some money to have a certified author tell you what you are missing; next month you can spend money for that month’s certified author to tell you what you are missing. Or you can wait for a political leader to become a national leader, to become an international moral leader to tell you what you need to be, to become. There seems no end of options of answers to what you need.

On the other hand Tillich leaves his answer as “that that grasps you”, you can’t be less specific than that; but he is right, just as Jesus was right when he suggested that whatever I require I already have. If I would only accept that I have it all I could stop searching, why do I hesitate?

It takes a whole bunch of courage to look deeply, to examine clearly each brick of my foundation, to know what it is that I am about, to peek at pillars that are usually left in the dark; a truly scary experience.

It’d be so much better to open a beer, watch some television, read a new book, work a little bit longer; that would be so much easier.

I visited Bert in the home yesterday, he was hospitalized earlier, now his agitation is so strong that he can’t talk about anything other than a single idea, he cycles it again and again, there was nothing to do but leave—nothing that I could do but to leave him. That is hard idea to accept.

There are more than a few hard ideas to accept, but I bet that I can.

Why do I do it?

Several friends recently have suggested that visiting the old and the dying is something I do because I have a big heart, implying that I have more of something or other than anyone else:—that is going down the wrong road, it says something about where they are coming from, doesn’t say much about me. I began visiting the dying out of fear, a fear of mine that I would end up on a gurney, in a hallway at Cook County Hospital; that image scared the hell out of me for a long time.

I really don’t like living with fear, I have found that it isn’t a great diet, is a poor exercise companion, is an all around unpleasant thing to keep in my belly: so I decided to get rid of this big one. The best recipe for eliminating any kind of fear is, of course, to go right up to it, look it right in the eye, smell its breath, listen to it gasp; and then realize that it ain’t so scary after all, that fear evaporates, my stomach becomes unclenched, I can get on with other business. So, in order to get rid of that dying fear I took a close look at it, got as close to the experience as possible, and did it again, until that fear became a memory.

The reason I continue is the friendship I experience, friendship is a rare and valuable thing; especially one that has no agenda, no history, nothing to be gained or owed, there is just being there with someone, watching the parade go by.

I visit these people for selfish reasons, the best of selfish reasons, and I hope that I will continue to listen to my belly when it signals that fear has taken up residence, listen and go on from there.

Frying

Everyone is familiar with the notion that life can be pictured as a leaf floating down a stream, moving from place to place, occasionally caught for in an eddy or against a pebble, stays for a while before moving onwards and downstream. It is a pretty good metaphor, but what about this one:It is as if I am a piece floating in hot oil, where it touches my outside there is sizzle, after being in it for a short period I develop a crust that protects my inner part from drying out, from being denatured. I float on the surface, I bounce from interaction to incident, being heated by the very hot grease, but not burned.

Yesterday, because of weather delays at O’Hare and the nature of the fare & pay system I earned less than minimum wage for the day; on the other hand I was paid while I was reading volume 3 of Tillich’s Systematic Theology , a book that will take me the rest of my life to read, a book by someone who still surprises me with the depth of his understanding; not paid very much while I reading him, but it wouldn’t be right to be earn big bucks while doing that.

I drove a couple of young corporate types out to O’Hare, their studied shallowness and superficiality pained me to experience. “I was like”, “he was like”; every fourth word was “like”, every fourth word was like experiencing a sleet storm hitting my face; but then it was over, they went on their shallow and controlled corporateness.

Yesterday I was informed that I had a ‘charge-back’ on my pay, a passenger from weeks ago disputed that I should be paid my full gratuity because he was unsatisfied; I remember the order, it was fucked-up from the time it was phoned in until the moment he left the car, nothing about it went right, just the way things go sometimes. It cost me almost a day’s pay; on the other hand there has recently been additional $100 bills handed over at the end of a few orders, just the way things go sometimes.

A couple of days ago I had the painful experience of not being able to see my dying friend Bert, he had just been returned from the hospital and was not to be disturbed; that I am not allowed to know his medical condition, that I am just the anonymous and occasional visitor is a role that I know, it is a well reasoned and predictable role; but it hurts to be turned away, turned and kept ignorant of his condition. On the other hand I have had the warmest smiles from that man that I can remember in my whole life, smiles that were so pure I could barely stand them; it is because we have no history between us, have no agenda between us, that those pure smiles and a thank-yous can happen.

Relations between my landlord and myself are strained, they were never close even though he lives nearby, but they have now been strained; the beauty of the tenant lease defines what I do, what he does, there is no mention of friendship or cordiality, that ain’t part of any lease or contract, that is the beauty of it.

I am back up to 375 mg. of Lyrica; it makes me a little drunk in the morning, but the fibromyalgia pain seems to be gone, I am going to stay at this level as long as I can.

It is now before dawn, I am alone; in order to understand and move through all of this, being alone is necessary; sometimes I am lonely, the loss of family and friends is painful, should be painful, but it doesn’t destroy me.

A few people will read what I write, almost no one who I know face to face; anonymity allows me to write about this journey just before dawn on a Friday in early springtime. I do think that this can be viewed as a journey in boiling oil, oil full of energy and the ability to change who I am on the outside, if I don’t have some sort of crust on I would be destroyed. After a while my time in the oil will be done, I will be removed, as will each and every one of us; the trip is eventful, it is painful, it is hot, it is disturbing, it impinges, it is wonderful.

The sky is becoming lighter in the east, the coffee in the pot is luke-warm, Aged Sumatra is the label on the bag, great tasting stuff that I can still taste a few hours afterwards, great stuff that stays in my blood and gives me that coffee jolt.

It is important to have a book, or books, that I will never completely understand; for the last while I have been giving books away, books that I never go near anymore, that don’t have anything more for me, I have drank all that is in there; certainly I have the Internet for data, for searching; but I have a few actual books that move me each time I open one of them. I once read that the Bible is not holy unless it moves the reader in a spiritual way, only then it becomes holy, and for just that time, otherwise it is just a collection of works decided on by some guys on an island a couple of centuries after Christ died, guys who needed to stitch together an empire of land and thought.

I am going to have a morning nap after reading a few pages of Larry McMurtry’s Telegraph Days, loaf around until it is time to go back to work.

Visiting Bert

I didn’t visit Bert in the home last week; my fibromyalgia was acting up and I wasn’t moving around very much, it is now under some control, the pain level is low. I went out to see him this morning during the daily ‘activities period’ that I describe recently; he wasn’t sitting in the circle nor out in the hall watching. I found the floor nurse who told me that he was resting and shouldn’t be disturbed, she also told me that he had just returned from the hospital. She then told me that she was busy and had to cut our conversation short.

One of the toughest parts of hospice work is that I am not in the circle of knowledge, by law I am not entitled to read a chart, ask about the state of health of a patient, nor am I in ordinary contact with relatives. This anonymity leaves me in the dark here; my friend Bert has had something happen that required a hospital stay, and I am left to speculate without any other information. What if he is close to the end? When should I return? Aren’t I entitled to know something about my new friend?

The answer to the latter is I am not entitled. As for the other two questions I have no guidance. This has been a difficult morning.

I was talking to a priest last week, we were discussing doing hospital and hospice visiting: he said that he found that going home alone made the visitation work impossible for him, so he found other things to do. I am not about to give this work up, but I sit here alone knowing just what he meant.

There is a local rumor: spring may come. Rumors should always be taken with a touch of skepticism, this year the skepticism has more than a touch of cynicism to it; spring ordinarily lasts about 72 hours here in Chicago, then we have full blown humid summer; this could be an even shorter spring season.

My landlord had me remove the bird feeder, he doesn’t want to attract birds onto his little part of the world; the feeder was fun while it lasted, I was able to write about it occasionally, I will find something else to write about.

I have started to write stories; I have put down a number of ideas for them, have started one that is about being a chauffeur; writing stories is slow and difficult work, especially when I want it to flow naturally and seem easy.

Cook a piece of trout

I met a guy I know in the supermarket the other day, he asked me what I was cooking, I showed him the fillet of trout; he told me that he was going to make some kind of soup with a standard soup recipe; then he told me that he liked fish but was afraid of cooking it. His fear keeps him from what he really likes; fish is just a little bit of flesh, to be cooked as any other kind of flesh, and if he screws it up the worst that could happen is that it is thrown away and he has to make a peanut butter sandwich. I suggested that if he is afraid to cook fish that that is what he ought to be making.

There is this really bright and effective guy who has done something that caused him to lose his big job and strain his family.

There was a time when I often used sex as an antidote to anxiety. I don’t know if I have ever written that before, admitted it before:– it really doesn’t matter in the scheme of things what I did, what anyone did, and so we might as well admit to them.

There are people who feel the need to put down their children’s aspirations, who can offer only conditional love and acceptance; there are people who are so afraid of human interactions that they must have everything on a competitive or unemotional level; there are people who do all sorts of things because of anxiety and the other demons. These demons are in the nature of all people, always have been, always will be. Perhaps we could admit that, and go on from there?

Now that nature has relieved me of the sex option, or toned it down somewhat, I need to live with and face my anxiety without the sex option, which I have been doing for about a decade now.

I write this with the understanding that it is not guy talk, not something to be discussed, and that is the problem. All of us have something or other, the more we sit on that something or other the more it hurts both ourself and others.

I am fortunate that I am in a position now that I don’t give a shit who knows what is going on, I have more important matters of concern; I now spend my energy examining what has been called the ultimate concern.So maybe I can do a bit of service by just putting down here what I feel, I experienced, I did, without the worry of concealment.

I don’t know if the guy who lost his big job yesterday has anxiety problems, don’t really care because it is none of my business; but he does have something that he tried to conceal, concealing causes a lot of damage. A decade ago there was this guy who nearly lost a very big job, because of concealment of something that affected him unduly. His wife may not get that same very big job because it is perceived that she conceals herself.

I have written previously of the instances of family members not admitting that dad is dying, keep believing that a new medicine will keep him from dying, that the medicine he now gets is making him act the way he is; family members who are looking away from what is the most natural thing in life, who are missing the opportunity to share and befriend dad as he goes about his business of dying.

I have no illusions that admitting to anxiety, writing about avoidance will change anyone’s mind; but I feel that it needs be said, that yesterday’s example will be taken by at least one person.

Buy a piece of trout, cook it just like a hamburger; the worst that can happen is that you will have to eat a peanut butter sandwich.

Wearing my new hat

Last Saturday I was wearing my new hat when I went to visit Bert in the home; I had worn it on earlier occasions, for about a month, but they were ‘test runs’, Saturday I was a guy wearing his own hat.

I have worn hats off and on for almost seventy years, but this is different, this is the first good hat I have ever worn or owned: Printed on the sweatband is “RESISTOL ’self conforming’ Made in Texas, USA, 4xxxx BEAVER”; that pretty much explains everything. I do like wearing it, it is sitting on my head as I write; I have had floppy hiking hats, berets, and those ubiquitous one size fits allbaseball hats. I have a big head, the baseball caps look like undergraduate beanies, missing the propeller at the crown; this hat is “7-5/8″, there were only two in the store that fit me, a black and a brown, I left the black. It isn’t accurate to say that there were only two hats in the store that fit, there were straw hats of the cowboy variety in my size;but this has not been a straw hat kind of winter in Chicago, this is very much felt hat weather.

I am self-conscious about wearing a hat indoors, was raised when a hat was removed in an elevator, restaurant, addressing a lady, in the house; it was with that background that I went to the second floor to see Bert.

I found him in the day-room, his wheelchair was part of a circle, with Molly in the middle, a woman in her mid-twenties, of unending energy and enthusiasm, she was dancing around while waving a stick with a piece of ribbon attached. Everyone had a stick with ribbon attached, I was offered my choice, I took a green stick with green ribbon, Bert’s was a blue stick and ribbon. Molly would go from one to another of her dozen attendees, dancing, waving encouraging; she would hold someone’s hand and dance, she would make her ribbon shiver and shimmy; looking to elicit a reaction from each and every one.

All the wheelchairs had alarms attached, the alarm would sound if the sitter attempted to rise, Bert is always in a chair and alarm, it will also go off if he comes too close to the elevator.

A couple of the women were in regular chairs, their walkers standing next to them; one woman, I think her name is Carol, is always in a special chair that looks as if it is a hinged mattress folded to be a long chair, with high, padded, arm rests. I have seen Carol strapped into this chair on some occasions, today she was not; Carol’s limbs are in constant motion, irregular waving and bouncing, jerking, twitching she seems never to be still; her head swings from one shoulder to the other, the chin near her chest or pointed to the sky, the chords on her neck visible much of the time. Carol never talks, she moans, she howls, she screams; the last time she saw me she began shrieking, a nurse had to come and assure her that I was not there to harm.

Molly pushed a chair into place for me, between Bert and Carol, sat down clasping my stick with the ribbon attached.

Bert saw me, there was that pause before that warm smile, he raised his hand a few inches so that I could grasp and shake it; “hello old friend” is how I have been greeting him, that elicits an even warmer smile. He has no idea of my name, when he last saw me, just that he recognizes his friend of several months.

Molly finished dancing, a one sitting one standing sort of dance with each of the dozen women and Bert; thankfully she did not dance for or with me. A beach ball was produced next, and a game of catch began; catch turned out to be more appreciated than the dancing, most everyone opened their arms in an attempt to catch the beach ball, many attempted to return it. There were a couple of women who were not awake long enough to complete that give and take, their wakefulness is measured in seconds.

As Molly went around the circle giving everyone a chance to play she came to Carol; Molly threw the ball, Carol caught it, and then Carol threw the ball right back at Molly; there was a pause while I understood what had just happened, while Molly understood what had just happened, while Carol herself understood what had just happened. I had never seen Carol do anything purposely before, I don’t think Molly had either; all three of us laughed, others in the circle smiled, we had all witnessed something really good.

Within the last week I have corresponded with a theologian, had my attention brought to the religious statement of Oliver Sacks, talked with a woman interested in hospice work, drove someone who has a hangar at Midway Airport: That few seconds with Carol were the most interesting, the most memorable, the most spiritual.

I have read a few books of philosophy, theology, some great novels; all of them worthwhile, but that few seconds when a person concentrated her all, invested whatever she has, to catch and return that ball, that was something really good. The intensity of that situation lasted just a short time, it cannot be sustained, but it will always be remembered.

I was glad that I was wearing my new hat, that I was now grown up enough to wear a good hat, to appreciate it, take it to important events.

Procrastination

I procrastinated writing today because I was trying to figure out what to say about something that was obvious and common: there is nothing to add to the description of what greed does to a person. Last night I drove someone whose being has been twisted because of greed, someone that we have been driving for a while, someone who I observe although he has no recollection of me. No one of any note, nor difference from many others. Three days ago I was sitting with Bert, sitting in the hallway of the convalescent home, sitting there without agenda. It was the contrast of these two situations that I thought I would write about, and now understand that there is nothing about greed that hasn’t been writ for millenia; and that greed is a boring subject.

What can be describe is this business of sitting with someone who is dying, who knows that I am with a hospice group, has agreed to have hospice assistance, who is doing what dying people do naturally.

Maybe absence of agenda is the core, no chore or topic that requires attention, maybe it is that absence that is special about this experience. I am not there with promise or requirement, there is no possibility of returning health, there are no battles to be fought, no love to win or lose, no need for obfuscation. It is being in its pure form: I think that the reason I do this is so that I can have this experience, know this rare feeling, share it with my good friend who doesn’t remember my name.

I realize that I could make a list of the greedy guy’s stuff, his airplane, ground vehicles, horses, hobbies, ownerships, estates, the pain he has caused to those close, to those who barely touch his sphere. I couldn’t make a list for Bert, I know of nothing, care not about any of it, there is no list nor agenda: there is just being in its pure form.

I don’t know if any of this is relevant to anyone else’s life, it isn’t the kind of experience I encounter with others, as I am out and about; I write it so that I understand better, and will use that understanding as I go on my way towards that end. That is the way I see it this morning.

There is nothing to write about the bird feeder, other than it is gone, an objection by the landlord, so it is now gone. The birds were fun while they were around, sadness that they are gone, and there will always be other things to fill their absence.

Watching the parade

My intention this morning was to describe how I cook a whole bird; I started doing that, but realized that it is something that will take time and care to get right; I will be describing something, that is simple when observed, but in my inadequate words.

I decided to write this short post because I have come to make doing this a good part of my day, a way of starting forward, the stretching exercises after a night’s sleep.

This has been a particularly hard week of winter, not that there has been heavy snow or very low temperatures, it is just that this hard season persists. This has been a week where I have been the subject of criticism, not more than I can handle, just hard criticism from many corners; it continued through to about midnight as I finished driving a limousine, full of one family, who seemed to question every turn that I was making, passed judgment on every turn that I had made, wondered if I knew where I was going, and in the end told me that the car was dirty on the inside. And do you know what? I did make a wrong turn, I made two of them in that five hours they were with me; and there was something spilled in an ice box, some juice that a child had dropped in there previously, that I wasn’t aware of. That was the end of that day, this is the sunny morning of this day.

There were others: landlord, potential girlfriend, and someone who had once been a friend; there was a lot of criticism of me this week.

I can’t say what today will be about, I know that right now there is bright, hazy sun, that there is a big wedding to be driven this afternoon, that the freeze will continue, other than that who can tell?

I don’t find it easy to separate the good that I might get from criticism, from the hard effect it has on my mood; the former is good, the latter not so good. It is what I can practice doing today, it is why I am writing this post, I want to put it out there that I have this problem to solve, that it is just a problem, is not anything to be kept secret, just something to work on like any other situation that I come across. Having written that I feel a bit easier about the situation, it’ll take more work, but I do see with more objectivity the difference between what was said, and the effect that I make of it.

When I am sitting with Bert, out at the home, he often becomes agitated: something he can’t remember, something he can’t do, the prospect of what is to come; at those times I suggest that we just sit and watch the parade go by: nurses, always busy and focused; aides doing the hundred, not always pleasant, tasks they do over and over again; patients, in wheel chairs, with their various disabilities, the ones who needs to be belted on to a gurney, but who are always included in any activity for as long as they can stand it. It is all a passing parade, some of it interesting, some of it humorous, some of it sad, some of it fucking pathetic—-it passes down that hallway, as we sit and watch; my old friend of four months, and I, sit and enjoy the view; we both know that sometimes we are part of the parade, and sometimes we are bystanders.

Bert can no longer drink liquids, every time he wants a drink of water it has to be prepared by adding a thickener to the liquid, something that keeps it from sliding down his throat and gagging him; that is the way that Bert drinks nowadays, perhaps that is the way I will drink someday; but not this day. The worst that I know is I will have, is my own remembering of the criticisms of this week, their residual pain; Bert has a more difficult day ahead of him.

What’s new

The desire to write, to put words down for others to see, this act of arrogance; is that someone might want to spend time and effort in reading some more ordinary words of mine. There is no new story, there hasn’t been a new story, a different observation, a new thing for a long, long time; there are only the old themes and passions re bottled and new labels applied.

And yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee, I am putting down words, never a new word, never a new emotion, there hasn’t been a new story for thousands of years; and yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee and the need to write.

Leo Tolstoy never came up with anything that hadn’t been said previously; he wrote of family matters, love affairs, politics and war. And we love it that he did.

I am hung up on this idea of the new, a blind belief that newness is the same as life; but it isn’t, life is just life, it is being now, and making sure that there will be life after me.

The brown sparrows are at the feeder, they may be the same as were there yesterday, will be there again tomorrow, and the occasional cardinal. I don’t fill the feeder in hopes that an eagle or an ostrich will come to feed, I put seed there so that there will continue to be life outside my window.

I have written a few posts about how to cook, no detailed recipes, just how something is to be made into food the best way that I know. A good meal isn’t about new recipes, different ingredients, it is about enjoying what you are eating, what is in your mouth, the satisfaction of food well prepared, and food is the fuel for this body. Tomorrow we will all be hungry again, somebody will have to cook again. I might write a few more items all about how to make food again.

The sparrows eat, they warm themselves when there is a break in the clouds, they take advantage of eating a bit of snow for the water.

I ought to visit Bert in the home today, it has been over a week since I was there; it is not that I have signed a contract, am not receiving money, haven’t made a promise to his relatives, nor that he remembers me; visiting Bert is like putting out seed, cooking dinner, doing the laundry, taking a shower; none of it means anything in the long run, but it is necessary for today’s run.

My earlier mistake was to be buying into this notion that new is important, that there really might be something new, that the tiny novelties displayed for amusement are important; bullshit—there is being, and there is nothing, being is the important one.

That’s it for today, and tomorrow, just as it was yesterday.