More thanks

Thanks to:

Nurse: Andrea, Brooke; Meds: Bobby; Tech: Mindy; Respiratory: Tiff, June, Gwen;

Dr. Cirrelli, Natasha;

Vicki Hughes;

Food Services: Tammy, Trina;

Environmental Services: Chandra;

Paperwork: Mary;

Flutter valve by Acapella;

Posterboard, cellophane tape, and Sharpie from Walmart;

Visitors: Tommy, Georgia, Melinda, Patricia;

Phone: Peggy, Pat, Jonathan, Jana, Anne, Janeil, Bobbie, Lil

Today is a day of rest for my mother in-law while her body recovers from the bump, clearing hematoma and pneumonia.

Note to self: ask doctor if the red/white cell count is okay (in other words, continue to play the role of the ignorant family member to hear explanation of flow of colour across face (e.g., “So, Doc, does this mean her face is still bleeding or what?”)).

Time for me to go quiet for a while. My humour side is itching and scratching it will release a flood of jokes when I should be serious right now. Best to bite my lip and serve humble pie to the kind folks around me.

Are you familiar with this pattern?

Do we exhibit patterns of heightened/weakened activity that has been classified for medical professionals examining/treating newly-admitted patients?

Having sat with my mother in-law through several hospital visits, I’ve watched her go through a few phases:

1. Initial excitement about all the attention she’s receiving, being gracious and kind, polite;

2. Big drop in energy due to too much excitement/stimuli, being courteous and just slightly impatient/grumpy;

3. Slow rise in energy level as she recovers from illness/injury, trying to keep new information straight as her thoughts clear up and she returns to her cheerful self.

Through it all, we assure her the world is not coming to an end.

And I have to ensure myself I have not aligned my thoughts too closely to hers, for I am neither 93.5 nor a woman so, although our socioeconomic backgrounds are nearly identical, we have small but noticeable differences.

Sensitising one’s states of energy to some sort of quantum synchronisation-like shared condition with another is a curious trait to believe one has.

There are days when I read my words and feel like they were spoken by my mother in-law, not me.

Spooky? The chameleon in me thinks not.

Hail knows no boundaries

What emergency prompts you to act?

Sitting here this morning, in a hospital chair/foldout bed, after an evening of dragging the suction hose of a shopvac across rainsoaked carpet in the den of my mother in-law’s house, this writer queries the sky.

Next to him, two brochures:

1. What Happens When Someone Dies?, A Child’s Guide to Death and Funerals, written by Michaelene Mundy / Illustrated by R.W. Alley, and
2. Being Angry With God at a Time of Suffering or Loss, written by Carol Luebering;

both published by Abbey Press, St. Meinrad, IN, 47577.

We can often explain underlying contributions to the end of a life – medically-related terminology, geophysical phenomena, war, weather.

But how often are we satisfied with the answers we receive?

A ten-year old boy sees his dead girlfriend in a coffin, understanding the pomp and circumstance of death-based rituals, yet it does not replace the newfound emptiness inside.

How does he learn to control the deepseated anger he cannot express simply by praying?

The football field offers no more than a way to attack others of his kind.

Academic achievements, no matter how perfect, do not substitute for the loss of his young, mature love.

Humour, of both the homespun and macabre variety, provides a path to mask the pain.

Looking at the sky, source of beautiful, blue, sunny weather and destructive balls of icy fury, the question remains the same 40 years later:

Why, God, why?!

The answer is everywhere. Most days, it’s wonderful. Some days, it’s not enough.

C’est la vie, n’est pas?

Here I am

I try not to find connections in my life.

Connections find me.

Today, I find myself in familiar territory:

The friendly, sterile hallways and patient rooms of Rogersville’s Hawkins County Memorial Hospital.

Starring my 93+ year young mother in-law in a recurring role.

With a cast of both regular repertory members (e.g., Dr. Shaw, Barb) and new actors (Carla, Kathy, Savannah, Faye, Robin), this production promises.

We wait for the conflict resolution to the episode of The Bumped Noggin.

To be continued…

Do they still make typewriter paper?

Do you ever find yourself in the attic talking to the squirrels, raccoons, wasps, spiders or skinks that want to set up residence in your humble abode?

How many houses around the world have folding ladders you pull down so you climb into the unheated/uncooled space between roof and living quarters?

I don’t think of myself as a regional writer, although I primarily write from the first person viewpoint as if the writer’s output you read is from/about me.

The millions I’ve laundered through Mexico, the poppy fields I pay to have harvested in Afghanistan, the stock trades I make that never happen to get reported to any regulators or tax collectors – these may or may not be real or related to the person some call Rick.

My programmers, the best that stolen raw diamonds can buy, ensure the storyline here wanders from one end to the other of the universe, trying to stay within the confines of NAmE language rules.

Some days, they want to tell a story I do not approve and occasionally they get their stories told.

Only because I let them.

The donkey must get a bite of carrot every now and then to keep believing the whole vegetable is within reach.

The fortuneteller gives me advice that is mostly useful.

The Book of the Future flies open to pages I’ve never seen before.

The crystal ball gathers dust no matter how clean I keep the room or how often I change the whole house air filter.

People talk and I put their words to use here, both as a roman à clef (as opposed to Ramen noodle) trick and as an homage to the fascinating people I meet.

Standing in the attic, changing out an incandescent light bulb probably for the last time, I watched the reflective eyes of a baby raccoon stare at me uncertainly.

Certainly.

At my feet, old aquarium parts, a broken aquarium stand, many chewed-up cardboard boxes with Easter decorations spilled out into the loose-fill fiberglass insulation, and the Smith-Corona electric typewriter from my college days.

“Well, buddy, looks like it’s just you and me today,” I say in a condescending voice, like a father disappointed once again that his child has wandered past the imaginary fenceline between two backyards.

The raccoon moves further back into the uninsulated part of the attic where the roof meets the eave.

I put the burned-out light bulb in my pants pocket and walk closer to the raccoon.

“Any chance I can scare you out of here?”

The raccoon doesn’t move.

I roar as loud as I can.

The raccoon shrinks smaller.

I step closer.

The raccoon doesn’t move.

I am unable to crawl close enough to grab the raccoon.

But I am able to scare out a skink and stare straight at a spindly attic spider.

If only the raccoon would help out at this moment and create a funny, slapstick scene worth writing about.

You know, running and jumping onto my shoulders.

Or biting my outstretched hand.

Or a wasp sting me on my behind.

Instead, the raccoon looks at me like it doesn’t know if I’m the big daddy of raccoons that will eventually feed this hungry baby or I’m something which the baby should assume nothing kind will emanate from.

After all, this baby has limited experience interfacing with living beings.  It probably chased a skink or two, played with its siblings (any that hadn’t wandered out of the attic and been eaten by the neighbourhood hawk or owls), and fed from its mother.

“What shall we do, little one?”

I get up off my hands and knees, standing in the peak of the attic.

I wonder if I could reink the typewriter ribbon.

Nope.  It uses an ink cartridge.

“Well, you’re on your own until your parents get back.  I’m not in the mood to stomp around.  Don’t make any noise tonight so my wife won’t hear you and I’ll let you grow up with this warm, dry shelter for your resting place.”

I step around the crushed and broken Christmas ornaments, climb down and push the folding stairs back up into place.

The Smith-Corona can wait another day for a nostalgic attempt at typing college-age poetry.  I suppose inkjet or laser printer paper will work just as well as the thin typewriter paper I used to buy at the offcampus bookstore in the early 1980s.

T-A-N-G-O, and tango was its name-oh!  Thanks to Dana for giving my wife and me a new way to spin around the dance floor.

Thanks to Robert at Krystal for the latenight snack.  Dr. April Ralph, I guess I need your professional opinion about my middle-aged back.  Berkshire Hathaway made a wise decision, it appears – I congratulate any decision that clears the deck of questionable swabbies.

Eyes reflected in a wall of mirrors.  What can I say?

 

L’alarm memorable

How am I lucky?

Gnats and crane flies draw imaginary 3D scribbled Spirograph patterns in the space I call my front yard outside the windowed, sunny view this morning.

How far “up” does my yard extend?

60 deg F on this 2nd day of April in the year I’m told is 2011.

I am floating on air today for the simple, joyous fact I danced with a beautiful lithe butterfly last night (I also danced with an angel (my wife, of course)).

The graceful movements of a ballet dancer who flew across the dance floor with the slightest touch of my hands.

And I don’t know her name.

Her name, I’m sure, means “brings him luck” in some language.

A nod to Erin at P.F. Chang’s; the chiropractor who works in Madison, Alabama (Dr. Alice?); Joe and his dance partner, Wendy; Curly and his swing partner; Kareem at the Apple store; and the kind folks at Ulta who helped my wife.

Currently, I’m working up a storyline that incorporates the following facts: a woman working 10 years in the restaurant business, who’s paying off college debt, moved from New Mexico to north Alabama, going from zero to 100 percent humidity, married 1 year and 1 month, first danced to “I want to grow old with you” from “The Wedding Singer” at her wedding reception, and can pour a glass of beer behind her back with her eyes closed while balancing a server tray, all without spilling a drop and with very little foam at the top of the glass.

And then there is the woman who wants her seat next to the dance floor reserved at all costs, getting me to smack around anyone who takes her seat while she’s dancing.

Finding joy in the simple things, like watching ants walk across the kitchen floor or crane flies bouncing against window screens, is a reminder how lucky I am.

I may be repeating my parents’ weekly ritual of going to the local dance hall on a Saturday night (mainly square dancing in their time), and I know how I find repetition boring, but in this case I am thoroughly enjoying myself because of the easy-going people who are sharing the social situation with me, wanting nothing but to have a good, clean, fun time together.

In awe, I watch couples skate around the room.

The room becomes a kaleidoscope made of twirling bodies – I see acrobats on the trapeze, throwing partner to partner to partner and back, or acrobatic flyers turning barrel rolls and figure 8s in the sky, colourful smoke trailing behind them to the soulful music…

Ceiling tiles lit up by Arduino-controlled LED spotlights…

Walls pulsing with fiber optic quilts like living tie-dyed shirts spinning around to the rhythmic beat…

Swing, cha cha, tango, merengue, simple hustle, rumba, salsa, waltz, foxtrot and 1950s-era costumes – I had forgotten how much fun these formal dance styles can be when mixed with freestyle dancing while meeting new friends who glide across the floor like they’re made of air.

It’s like having a reunion with myself from 25 to 30 years ago, thrashing on the dance floor or diving into the mosh pit, except now I’m older and my knees can’t take a jump off a 10-ft stage into the hypnotised masses.

Lucky to be here and happily participating in reconnecting thought patterns with physical dance patterns.

Yes, I’m easily distracted.  Today, I don’t mind – the politics of dancing can wait another day.

Time to get the wallflowers out on the dance floor to have a good time, Flying Monkey theatre at Lowe Mill, Kinesthetic Cue at Underground Madison, or wherever.

Trackback

Erin,

I don’t know if you read this blog but this entry is for you.

I didn’t see your credentials in the office before or after you took care of our cat but I see the results of your surgical capabilities every day.

You have restored the youthfulness of a feline near its elderly years.

Other than the obligatory barter exchange, the financial transaction, how can I thank you for your professionalism and loving kindness?

Merlin is back to his usual shenanigans.

He begs more than we think he should.  He wants to play when we want to sit.

He bumps heads.  He purrs at the slightest touch.

You probably perform medical procedures like this all the time but, for us, Merlin is more than the healing patient upon which you operated.

Thus, you are more than a veterinarian.

You are friend.

Our debt to you can never be repaid.

May your deity find a special place for you when this life is over.

 

All the best,

Rick

Why Does My Back Hurt All The Time?

Let me count the ways.  I guess it’s in my imagination?

To one reader, I can find no information to confirm or deny your rumour that Lorne Michaels and Seth Meyers are lovers, which would, to you, explain why Seth was kept so long as an SNL regular and unable to find longterm comedy work with any other outlet.

To the reader who sent me a diagram of “city maps ” of the world’s soap operas, which show a secret passageway that links them all together and thus proves that aliens are soap opera stars, let me get back to you at a later date.  My sides are hurting from laughing at a joke you probably wouldn’t get.

Trees and other chlorophyll-processing beings are picketing the lab where stem cell research has resulted in an artificial leaf.  They have hired a legal team to pursue declaring this new device an affront to natural life and thus offensive.  In other words, they cleared a place in a forest, cutting themselves down into a formation that reads, “THIS IDEA STINKS!”

Crop circle theorists released a statement saying aliens are behind the latest protests by trees.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Reality keeps getting in the way!

Choosing Not To Force Myself To Write

Watching others find ways to live, and watching myself reach out to the world through the cold, unloving connections of bits and bytes, I wonder…

While keeping the research of the particles of life moving forward, just so we can reach a milestone 14,284 days from now…

I wonder.

The old ways are still valid comparison points, I tell myself.

Political boundaries were meaningful at some point in time.

Every supercivilisation concedes old economies of scale to the previous generation.

I wonder why parents force so many structured activities on their children when children will become better adults if given time to explore subjects their parents don’t care to know about or simply don’t know exist.

How much of a general education is good for one person?

In sixth grade, I’ve said here at least once, I learned about the Soviet Union making students choose the direction their education would take at around age 10 or 11 (my same age at the time), and about Germany giving students the Gymnasium route, if they chose, after their primary school years were completed.

In secondary school, I could choose a vocational/technical program, a college preparatory program or a general education program for my high school diploma.

Specialisation divided me from my primary school classmates at age 15.

My observations about life in general began to take a new direction at that age, despite my desire to learn about all ways of life.

I lost track of the thought patterns of students outside the college preparatory track.

Yet, I still kept trying to apply my theories about general personality types to a smaller population.

Thus, at university, my theories were destroyed.

Was it inevitable?  For me, obviously, yes.

Snobbishness did not equate to applied intelligence as it had amongst my friends in secondary school.

People with a so-called redneck personality were just as likely to pursue a career in engineering or science as a person who had never seen a can of PBR beer.

And in the streets of downtown Atlanta, those who never completed a formal education were just as likely to drink high-shelf liquor and drive expensive cars as those who had PhDs and invented the Next Big Thing.

The Internet, a general means of access to self-education, did not exist in my youth.  Television, films, books, magazines, newspapers and contact with other people were the limited means to teach oneself.

I couldn’t instantly tweet with a person on the other side of the globe but I could exchange letters with an international penpal.

Ham radio gave some semblance of tweeting/texting.  Both provide no clear understanding of body language (but voice-based ham radio communication did provide intonation (Morse code was the tweeting/texting of its day, of course)).

But one body is still one body, subject to circadian, natural wake/sleep cycles.  Despite external devices and integrated prosthetic body part advancement, we chiefly depend on the speed of our central nervous system to process stimuli.

We may have speeded up the ability to herd our species but we are still flesh-and-blood states of energy.

Enlightened youth want more and they want it now, while older people want to keep their well-established lifestyles.

In general.

I enjoy watching the misdisuninformation cycles that those with something to sell/tell start by dropping a pebble, the concentric circles distorting and being distorted by all the competing messages vying to become stimuli to individuals and groups.

I have nothing to sell or tell.

I want to live a life that is amenable, even if “amenable” is a word I have to look up its meaning to determine if I’ve used its definition in the right context here.

So far, I’ve enjoyed the luxury of sharing my observations freely, keeping myself from succumbing to the temptation of luxury.

As we become more fully aware that consciousness is a deception that can fool us into a self-destructive supercivilisation, we will give more and more thought to the fact our bodies are made of competing subsystems working for the greater good of the body.

Nurture creative criticism in our children so they will understand friendly competition is the route to a world of competing subcultures working for the greater good of the body.

Cutting off negative pathways is painful but so is removing a gangrenous body part for the sake of the body.

There is no ultimate solution.  Life goes on.

We adjust to the changing times or we don’t – either response is acceptable.

Give room for the voices to be heard – the best solution in the moment often comes from a place we won’t know existed because a parent gave a child time for self-education outside the prescripted norm.

The size of the pathway or nervous system pipeline is key to understanding how to read the health of a subculture.  Overcrowd the pathway or overclock the pipeline speed and you create side effects that quickly turn into pathological terminators.

Are any of these theories universally valid or have I created a thought set that applies to a limited population?