Book up to now

BOOK, A FEW DAYS IN

Now that I have been an honest-to-goodness book author for three days I want to bring the wannabes up to date; wannabe being my category until now.

I have about fourteen chapters, an introduction and a table of contents put down. Some chapters are still empty but there is plenty of time yet. What I have found is that by thinking of a chapter heading certain memories of or around that period come to mind; I note them on a scrap of paper, then add the beginning of that memory into the chapter; building upon building.

Today I learned something, again; how to keep track of various drafts and to know which ones I wanted to keep. There were a couple of chapter headings that I had tried and then discarded; but which ones and were the right ones in the contents section. Two hours of sorting, finding missing files, rebuilding the contents list and then putting a desktop shortcut on the repaired master document has taught me to be more careful about drafts and preferred documents. But each time I go through one of these exercises I become better informed about how to use the master-document format and more wonders of the computer than I had imagined.

I wish that I could give anyone, just one, advice on how to find the thing you want to write about; I have looked for years until I realized, again, that there is only one subject in which I know more than anyone else in the world. I’ll try to remember that tip the next time I feel the need to begin a new project; but I have a feeling that I’ll have to discover or invent that suggestion again.

A few degrees above freezing

The weather forecast says that we will have temperatures 6° above freezing today; tomorrow and the following handful of days will be below freezing again, but today looks like a good day for a walk. I splurged a small part of my tax return on a good hat, my first good hat, today would be a good day to take it for a walk, let the brim shield my eyes from the hazy sun.

It isn’t that previously the temperature was too cold to be outside, the problem was, and is, the ice on the walks, there is ice everywhere, there is new ice where the sun has warmed a section of concrete, melt-water freezes again when in shadow returns; there is also the ice that forms over old ice, water flowing over old and polished ice freezes. People walk around with their arms held out for balance, my ankles are sore from continuously handling the skids and bumps. I have a bad knee, a partial knee, it doesn’t like the twisting and skidding any better than the ankles; the knee was wrapped in the Ace bandage that was on my wrist, from that sprain last week. All of this is standard stuff of a long winter, one that has some ways to go yet; but today might be a good day for a walk.

I’ll let the sun warm the walks on the west and north sides of the streets, let the concrete absorb some heat and melt the thinnest ice, provide a dry path to navigate.

My neighbor just went down the walk to the garage, tottering, arms and hands held at a bit of an angle, she is wearing boots with a low flat heel, those high-heeled boots have become rare this last few weeks.

Partial sun comes through the haze, there is a Bach Double Concerto being played for me by a small orchestra in the front room, the coffee was made right this morning, and there you are. I have to keep remembering to stir the mixture in the French Press Pot, and stir it again; it is when I don’t stir it enough that I end up with a thin brew, find a reason to complain, although it was my oversight.

About 3 this morning I awoke with a case of the heebie-jeebies from a few things that I had been going on these last few days, nothing earth shattering, just a case of 3 a. m. heebie-jeebies that we have all experience whether we admit to them or not. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable, thought of getting up and watching some infomercials, or playing solitaire on the computer, something other than feel what I was feeling; then I remembered the mindfulness breathing exercises that I have been doing for about a year now–and damned if they didn’t work, it took about 15 minutes or so, my mind would wander for a while, the usual stuff.

I remembered all this when I awoke again, about half an hour ago, like stirring the coffee mixture, something that I have learned but don’t always remember right away.

I was reconsidering whether I should admit to what went on in the middle of the night; would Hemingway have admitted to something like that in print? Probably not, but then again, Hemingway ended up at the nasty end of a shotgun.

Sparrows sit in the bushes waiting, like silent accusers in some French movie, in dark suits and berets they sit, their silence and stillness displays their accusation–you have not put seed in the feeder. I do plead guilty, feel their condemnation, open my soul in abject guilt; another reason to dress soon and get out there.

That is the way of it all: Go for a walk on days when the walks are in better shape; remember to stir the coffee thoroughly if I want the best flavor and strength; face the heebie-jeebies by living in the moment; accept that the birds will be fed, not right now but in a little while, they don’t need immediate breakfast; if there is a favorite piece by Bach, then put it on.

On another note: I have to write a dirty letter to the MagicJack people, they are the ones with the $20 per year phone service over the Internet; the phone doesn’t working right, they have refused or are unable to make it work; they lied to me twice, and their technical service person hung up on me last night–yes, I was still being polite. I was polite and patient, hoping to work with them to solve the problem; they are a new company, with a new gadget, one that looked good. Lying and hanging-up just make everything worse. I am going to tell all my friends and co-workers who are waiting to see if this thing works for me–tell them how they handled a tough problem.

That is the right thing to do, don’t let it fester, don’t make more of it than what it is, and then move on; it’ll become one of those ideas that looked good, wasn’t, keep walking on the sunnier side of the street, enjoying the sun and today’s temperature, navigate the dry path.

It is 0° and breezy

I recently remembered that I know how to make ° £ € ¿ on this keyboard, the upside down question mark is one that I’d like to find occasion to use, but this may be the only occasion.

Our focus was on the possibility that it would get to 50°, which it did, and to ignore the next paragraph of the prediction; it decreased 50° from late afternoon to about midnight yesterday, and dropped about an inch of fresh snow. So what’s the big deal, it is the last week in January in Chicago? (I was looking for an appropriate character to end that sentence, maybe I should have used ð) I hadn’t put away my heavy Irish sweater, the big leather coat sits where it did, there is nothing of concern other than I liked the warmer weather, didn’t want winter to return. But it is here.

Yesterday I wrote a first explanation of something that has been bugging me for longer than I knew, has been at the back of my mind from the start; that first attempt is awful, I want to erase it, never bring up the subject again. And I didn’t want winter to return.

I won’t erase the question I wrote, I would not write it that way again, have felt my error for the day since I did, it was as if I had constipation, when getting anything at all out is a start. I have an idea now how to go on with my exploration, and where to do it: WordPress has a Pages area that I have used before for things that are not daily, I have some things over there, no one ever reads that stuff, I’ll be safe experimenting over there.

When I wrote that Google had only 3 hits from my query I knew I was in empty territory; all along I have been saying that inner exploration gives access to a complete library, it is true. Is there a better thing for a person to do than explore a really difficult problem, not give in to the trite that is offered? This continues to be a difficult notion to get across, people drift to magic, where pre-destination, outside spirits, the ability to see the future dwell, but that wishful thinking never brings up anything nutritious, it is cud chewing at best.

So that is what I will do about that, the special thing that makes us us is going to be examined over there.

There is sun in a clear blue sky, chimney steam is pushed to the east in the breeze that is predicted to gust to 30 mph; the sparrows are not as numerous as before, they come and go in waves, but they always come back for food. I haven’t seen my big bird in about a week, someone suggested that it might be a buzzard, they are common in the suburbs; I do remember that I saw the wingtip feathers spread in finger formation when it flew away, I think that buzzards are one of the birds who show spread finger wingtips at low speed. I’ll have to focus on the neck if it returns; but it has always been backlit, seen in contrast, never a clear, lighted sight.

I went to see Bert in the home yesterday, was surprised to see that it had been 2 weeks since my last visit, sometimes this is a tough thing to do. When I started visiting him in the autumn he was noisy, had idée fixe that was frustrating to be around; recently he is calm, has snippets of conversation that require little or no memory, his speech is clear and vocabulary seems alright. I gently probe the floor nurse about his condition, am given ‘oh, he’s doing fine, doing fine’ in the same studied way; perhaps there has been a problem with the confidentiality thing, I don’t push it beyond the gentle inquiry.

I really don’t care what his medical condition is: I am just there for that time, Bert is only in this time, what he accomplished or didn’t is irrelevant now, what is coming next week or month is irrelevant now, what is relevant is the big smile I get when I say ‘how are you doing old friend?’ That is all that any one human can do for another human being ‘how are you doing old friend?’

Bert can’t remember my first name, has never been told my last name, can’t remember if I had ever visited him, he does recall my face from somewhere; I have printed out the Auden poem The More Loving One and keep it pinned to the wall above my desk; there is a sentence that alway resonates:

If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.

I can’t say that my friendship with Bert is stronger than his for me, it really doesn’t matter which is which now.

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The feeder has about 2 inches of seed in it, about enough for today; I want that bottom seed to be eaten, don’t want it to get wet and moldy.

Nothing big today

I ordinarily write this thing early in the morning, but there was nothing special today.

I bought a new bird feeder, am waiting for the birds to recognize it.

I knew what was in the newspaper, learned everything the  night before.

Had said everything I know to say so far about the spiritual experience.

Have the date for my annual colonoscopy, next Tuesday.

The combination of these things has stopped me in my tracks, there can’t be anything new to an existentialist until everything catches up. Let me try to phrase this another way.

There are all sorts of things going on in one’s life, from the most mundane first piss in the morning to that of letting the mind approach what is divine; in between are the housekeeping chores that need doing regularly, earning money to pay for ‘putting beans on the table’, having fun in order to ease the tensions; and then there is the upcoming periscope exploration of my gut, something that was just an annual event, until it became something different. Two years ago they found that the expectedly benign polyps were not, that the one in a thousand chance became one in one; and the next year they found the same, the polyps were cancerous, an aggressive cancer. Each time the area was cleared and declared safe for the processing of shit, but it has changed my expectations.

Now is a time to test how well my mindfulness exercises work, how secure I am in whatever spiritual knowledge I have gained, to add another thread of connection to Bert who is dying of colon cancer that has metastasized. It was at 4 a. m. this morning that all came together to scare me.

A couple of days ago I wrote that I was sad, today I am scared.  It isn’t easy to put the word ’scared’ down here and then prepare to push the ‘Publish’ button, it just isn’t done.  The major part of being an existentialist-guy is to fully experience every aspect of what is, to exhaust the sap of each moment, leave it dry so that the next can be tasted.  Just as the sadness came and went so will this fear go, not for about a week or more, but it will pass through, it will pass through completely because I won’t cause any of it to stick behind due to denial.  This whole business has a wonderful analogy when I watch the video screen of the colonoscopy procedure, do it completely and then go on to whatever is next.

My gastroenterologist  likes to tell me that there are more nerve endings in the gut than in the spinal column, that there is a great system that keeps everything moving through, and doing it completely and continually; I think that he must be writing a paper on the subject.

On another note I know the date of the next meeting for bereaving children and widowed; this will be the third time I attend, what my role will be, can be, for these people these situations isn’t yet defined, there will be something that I can bring to the party, something about having been through the process, something about not having support or guidance and so knowing the value of it for others–for the time being I am just present and waiting.

Being present and waiting is a good way to be.

Drippy, gray weather

I have the desk light turned on even though it is past sunrise,I can hear the sound of meltwater dropping from those heavy pads of snow that sit on garage roofs, see tree trunks, charcoal brown, against the grayness all around.

The weather person on last night’s news said that today’s weather would be “miserable”, an adjective that caught my attention; the sky is gray, the temperatures above freezing, but nothing is miserable, except perhaps what was in that guy’s mind. The weather is whatever the weather is.

Someone asked me last week what it was like to do hospice volunteering, my answer was that a person had to be comfortable in one’s own skin-accept that I am acceptable. As I remembered this conversation I understood that what we offer the dying person is the reminder that he is acceptable as is. It is an ultimate truth.

Brought up to be judgmental meant that I was discouraged from the concept that I am acceptable as is, that others are also not acceptable as is, that love was conditional. As a result I grew up to have a hardened case of major depression, one that began as a child and lasted until just a few years ago. I felt the need to fall in love with women who brought judgment to their relationships; believed that it was my right and duty to judge others.

To get rid of the depression it was necessary that I learn that I am acceptable as is, and a hard damned lesson it was; I fought that concept– gagged, spat, swore, did everything but hold my breath in my refusal to accept that I am acceptable as I am, but in the end I couldn’t refute it. It was as turning an ocean liner around at speed.

There has been a group, groups, that promote the idea that one is defective, that one has inherent guilt, that one cannot approach the divine—this is wrong. How could it be that I am not acceptable? What separates me, or any of us, from being simply animal is that I know that I am, I know existence and the end of my existence. It would be an oxymoron to state that know I exist means that I should accept guilt, believe that I am defective, that I cannot know what others have known of the divine.

Being mindful of my being is the fundamental and most powerful notion there can be, and with it comes acceptability.

I can’t say it stronger than that; it is when I denied that idea, that I was miserable. It is when my friend Joe couldn’t buy into that idea that he had to hang himself on a rope in a stairwell. I was going to come up with other examples but I realized that anyone who reads this knows dozens of examples.

Old Bert comes out of his dementia for a minute or so, the first thing that he does is to ask my forgiveness for not being able to hold a good conversation with me. As if I was sitting with a dying man in order to have polite conversation. I suggest that we just sit and watch the passing parade: ladies with their walkers, nurses going after one patient then another with medications, cleaners doing the incessant cleaning that keeps the place from tipping into nauseousness, just enjoy the parade, just be.

There are a number of definitions of God, the one I like most often is “the ground of being”: it encompasses acceptance, infinite love, mindfulness, and just being about the day’s business.

Before I turned on the gadget to write this I lay in bed, framing a few phrases, remembering some things I wanted to tie together here, and feeling that this is an idea that I would like to roar from the rooftop. Luckily I can sit inside, drink strong coffee, use a keyboard instead. Now that I have vented I can finished getting dressed, go for a long walk, get on with the day.

Overcast skies

Before I went to bed last night I looked up the N. W. S. forecast, it predicted overcast skies, temperatures a few degrees below then a few degrees above freezing, nothing much else. My reaction was that I was in for a dull, gray day; nothing much going on in my life, Edita is scheduled to come in for a few hours to make me and this place civilized, I’ll clear out ahead of time, no sense interfering with her cleaning; it is time to visit Bert, who might be agitated or not, might recognize me or not; I would check my email to see if hoped for messages came in or they didn’t; I had a new bag of juice oranges- a treat for first thing in the day.

I awoke this morning with that bundle of expectations, my day to be defined and judged by those things, and a dozen more that hadn’t yet come to mind. As I lay awake I realized that that would not be the start or the definition of today; I want a different day. For the last year I have been doing mindfulness exercises that I have found handy, and yet here I was about to define my day with these things that may or may not be pleasant or interesting; it was time to remember the core of what this day will be, what I am.

For many years, throughout my decades of depression I found that being alone, focusing on just being, without sound and movement would make me anxious. It can be anxiety provoking to see and accept that existence is all that there is, everything else as an auxiliary, an accessory. And that out of that notion, that feeling, that place, can could come everything else; I pursued that idea with profit.

I was walking back from the Dominick’s store yesterday, coming up Damen Ave., where I was stopped by a couple of young men from the Church of Latter Day Saints, they were identified by badges pinned to their coats. One fellow asked if they could speak to me for a couple of minutes, I agreed. To his first question, which was whether I knew anything about their church, I suppressed a comment about having spent much of the previous week watching the latest disc release of Big Love, I answered that I knew little. He began to tell me that they believed this, they believed that, they believed the other thing; I won’t try to retell it all, but their beliefs covered just about everything one could list in life, then they asked if I would like to learn more of their church. It was now my turn.

I told them that my relationship with God was in pretty good shape. I said that I really didn’t need to read the narrative of others who had experienced the divine, that no one had ever come to transcendence by reading and memorizing what others had experienced, not one person, ever. That whatever I might need, I already have, its just a matter of looking inside again.

After this pompousness on my part I walked home, self-righteousness striding up Damen Avenue.

But how else could I respond to proselytizing, what to say to someone who intrudes like that?

I have read that there was a time when belief was a word used about notions that were tried and found to be true: Believe in the Pythagorean theorem; believe that the longer the lever I have the greater the force I can apply; believe that when I push against something, I will feel pressure back at me; believe that if I forgot my wife’s birthday I would sleep on the couch; and on and on. The use has changed to be that realm of notions where belief becomes the unbelievable, where one’s innate intelligence is to be switched off, where wishful thinking becomes reality. That Joseph Smith found gold plates from God, inscribed with rules and regulations that were new and exciting? Please, please, please let us bring back critical thinking. I will refrain from going further into the problems that believing has caused us recently. The phrase I respect your beliefs has caused more harm and misdirection that almost any other I know.

And no I am not currently married, no more sleeping on the couch.

The sun has come up brightly from behind the garage across the alley, part of the weather forecast wasn’t correct, not that it matters. I will be in the day, or I will try. I will meet more interesting people on Damen Avenue, or I won’t. I’ll have a semblance of a conversation with Bert in the convalescent home, or I won’t. I will rent a video that is interesting, or one like Once that I am returning today, a study in beige, color, music, story, whining, resembling nothing as much as sipping beige, lukewarm, water.

There are days when I am satisfied with what I put down here, and then there are days when I am not sure.

Winter storm in Chicago

This morning the temperature is a few degrees above freezing, the rain comes down instead of snow or sleet, the sidewalks have slush but not too much ice on them; not such a bad day for a long walk.  The bird feeder must be frozen or clogged again this morning, I can hear birds nearby, but none at the feeder.

The freezing rain and the anticipation of that iciness slows activities, makes one appreciate being inside and warm, more staring out the window than is usual.

I did make a trip out to the nursing home yesterday, it had been a week since I last saw Bert, at that time he was caught in a cycle of incoherency, it was impossible to reach him; yesterday was different, he was talking with another patient when I arrived, he recognized my face, no memory of my name, said that he remembered me from the past, and that this was the first time I had visited him in the home.  He was in a friendly mood. My visit was cut short when someone came to take him down to the dentist, his dentures need to be relined to fit his shrunken mouth.

I have no academic knowledge of dementia, what I know is from visits and the occasional comments of health care workers; with Bert there are cycles of clarity with no short term memory and then periods where he is fixed on an idea, locked in a circular effort of attention, when reaching him is impossible.  Instead of being alternatively frustrated or thankful when visiting I think that it is better to accept how he is, be friendly, listen to make sure that he isn’t trying to communicate, and know that I can return another time.

There are dozens of birds sitting in the yard, sitting and waiting like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

The lesson I get from experiencing Bert’s cycles is the reminder that everything is changing:

Women I loved fervently are now strangers to me.

My sailboat Seablade is now a series of wonderful memories.

A daughter who was always given unrestricted love now rejects me.

Flag-waving atheism was precursor to an epiphany.

Fine tools kept sharp now sit for years in boxes.

I haven’t fucked a woman in over a decade, haven’t met one that I wanted.

And this day is as good a day as I have ever experienced, and I had thought that of other days.

I have another fellow to visit, Ben, he is not a hospice patient, just a guy with a bad leg and dementia, getting old in a human warehouse.  That fact is something I have to learn to accept every time that I visit him, warehousing is a tough one to accept, a sad fact.

I continue to work on my piece about creation, was going to try and put it on here today, but a new quirk came to me, a question: Were we human before we had language?  The fundamentalists will freak out at that one, that is if they were ever to read something other than what was commanded of them.

It is time to go outside to clear the bird feeder.