Monday, May 23, 2011

The Tunnels of Boston

Another day socked in here in Boston. It's been cloudy and rainy for about a month now, and spirits are low. One can hear mold growing in the basement, and every time we go outside, we return with slightly damp clothes even when there is no rain. Nancy's hair is frizzy, according to her, although it looks fine to me. Well, not fine...good. Yesterday, the kitchen floor, carefully cleaned, took an hour to dry. Weather reports tell us that tomorrow will hit 82 degrees, which means there will be a full mug on. If it's going to be this cloudy and wet, better it be cool, like London. Or at least how I imagine London.

Last week, Nancy and I had an appointment to keep in Revere, which is along the coast a few feet from Boston. We (or I) got lost, and we ended up driving among the massive produce warehouses in East Boston and the police state of Chelsea (every fifth car is a cruiser). Two facts conspired to make this possible; my terrible sense of direction, and fog. I counted four "titty bars" in East Boston, and a large container ship barely visible in the aforementioned mist.

We kept looking for where we were going.

Somehow, we made it back to Revere and made our appointment. This pleased us and we happily left after a very short visit to the cold, windy beach. "There," I thought, "we saw the ocean, let's go home." Naturally, we got lost again coming home. I say, "we" because Nancy got lost with me, although it was entirely my fault. I kept thinking, "It's ok, as long as we don't end up at Logan Airport, because that would suck."

Five minutes later, we arrived at Logan Airport, and I panicked and bolted for the tunnel out. Nancy hates the tunnels of Boston, but it was either that or pull over and set up a new life near an Air Italia departure gate ("This is it, Nancy, we're airport terminal folk, now.") Through some miracle, I had 5 dollars in my pocket, which allowed us to take the Callahan Tunnel back to civilization. Eastbound toward the airport is free, but it costs $3.50 to use it going west. This made me wonder how the hell I got to Logan without getting a free eastbound tunnel ride. Now I know, but it perplexed me something vicious at the time.

As we pissed through the tunnel at an uncomfortably rapid speed, I could feel Nancy growing anxious and a little hateful (of me) for getting us lost and in a tunnel deeply set under Boston and parts of the harbor. And then I took the wrong exit, and was going the wrong way down Rt. 93.

This is easily remedied, with a trip through the newly created Ted Williams Tunnel. Another, longer tunnel. Images of Nancy packing up to go back to Duluth danced in my head.

After we emerged and passed over the Zakim Bridge, it was just a few minutes and we were home (at least at that time of day). As we cruised along, and the tension abated, all seemed fair and lovely in the world.

Unfortunately, the timing chain snapped just as we reached our exit and we had to walk along highway and then the Mystic River to get home. But we do better on foot. I'm happy to report that she hasn't left.

Fin!

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Triangle-Shaped Room

In most of us, there is a longing to be with someone who may or may not be there. Alone, we look for that person, and that drives us into places where people congregate. Today, we have the Internet, which makes it easier to do so for those of us who are socially awkward, or simply disinclined to risk humiliation and tense unease under the eyes of another human being. For some of us, the potential result of social contact or a relationship isn't worth the effort of reaching out, for fear of rejection.

Rejection reinforces the idea that one is not worthy of the attention and commitment of another. A recluse can endure his loneliness by not trying to find another, by seeing himself as a misanthrope, ascetic, eccentric, or what have you. A positive spin, as opposed to the possibility of an awful truth; that he is genuinely disagreeable and unpleasant to be around. In Eugene O'Neill's play, The Iceman Cometh, a travelling salesman kills the hopes and dreams of a bar-full of failed men by encouraging them to follow their dreams. The pleasant pipe-dreams of success are ruined with experience. One tries to become a writer, and fails. Another tries to run for public office, and fails. In this way, a barroom of romantic dreamers becomes a room full of drunks.

Mental illness provides an awkward space for one to hide, or be hidden, while possibly maintaining a modicum of self-respect. The space is shaped like a triangle, and each point represents something different. One is society, people in general who may be friends, acquaintances, neighbors, family, co-workers, etc. These days, it could also be people who talk to us through the media. They tell you that you're this or that, ensuring that you will be that thing to one degree or another, with your consent (at least unconsciously). In this case, mentally-ill, sick and "disabled." The second point is the medical community, which theoretically provides a guilt-free reason for your failures and renders you blameless ("It's a disease, it's not your fault."). The third point of this uncomfortable, triangular room is a conclusion reached through careful self-examination. For whatever reason, this person cannot function in society, and the cause is defined and provided for by a collaboration of the other two points, filtered through the complicated mind of the person contained within.

Regardless of the reasons, an inability to function (to be employed, particularly) definitely exists and governs the life of the person in the triangle. And one corner of the triangle could be opened, as it governs to presence of the other two. Improved self-perception and functionality would render the opinions of doctors and society irrelevant. Repeated attempts are made, with a cost at failure.

So, for a person like myself, little comfort is found in a diagnosis or comforting television mantra. Whatever fuels the inability to function is within, the rest is perception or an attempt at aid via medical intervention.

Simply put, there is a problem (lack of function) that needs to be addressed, and only the non-functioning person can do so. As I mentioned earlier, the lack of employment and resulting poverty is the signature of social impotence that is most clearly discernible to others. It is also the primary cause of the stigmatizing of those with mental illness; as lazy, stupid and/or con-artists gaming the social welfare system.

My days are filled with guilt over not being in gainful employment, of being useless, and it leads to an overwhelming sense of loneliness and separation from others. The problem I'm attempting to overcome is within me until it isn't. Whether those in my life see me as lazy, crazy, good for nothing, or a con-man, it doesn't having any impact on a very real and very crippling situation, "medicalized" or not.

How many failed attempts to leave the room does it take to kill the fighting spirit within? To make romantic dreams annoying and even dangerous, instead of inspiring? Five? Ten? One?

Am I making any sense?


Saturday, May 14, 2011

Goodnight

The bistros, cafes, restaurants, bars and clubs are busy this Saturday night, as are the streets and boulevards which connect them. It's colder than it should be this time of year, but everything is in bloom. The air is filled with the aroma of lilacs, mulch and car exhaust. Busy nature. Busy people.

I close my eyes to it and say, "goodnight," with a little music on the radio and some medication to help me sleep. The living in the courtyard below, and beyond into the city, have about as much to do with me and my life as the ammonia seas and crater-scarred continents of planets light-years away.

You are all far away from me right now, despite your proximity. I am behind stone, no longer a part of anything that moves. There is nostalgia.

As I take comfort in a missive from the Front, I say, "Goodnight" again.

Because hate is legislated . . . written into
the primer and testament,
shot into our blood and brain like vaccine or vitamins

Because our day of time, of hours --- and the clock-hand turns,
closes the circle upon us; and black timeless night
sucks us in like quicksand, receives us totally ---
without a raincheck or a parachute, a key to heaven or the last long look

I need love more than ever now . . . I need your love,
I need love more than hope or money, wisdom or a drink

Because slow negative death withers the world and only yes
can turn the tide
Because love has your face and body . . . and your hands are tender
and your mouth is sweet ---- and God has made no other eyes like yours.

Walter Benton

Sunday, May 08, 2011

Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day, and I'm going to reminisce about my mother (my brother and I called her, "ma," not "mom"), but I'll keep it short. This is a difficult holiday for many, many people. I think it's a cruel holiday, presumptuous and pushy. What has more emotional currency than ones' relationship with mom? Sometimes, it's not good, not at all.

For me it was very good. She was supporting, loving, thoughtful and kind. Sadly, when I think of her now, I most often think of her final months and years, as she battled cancer.

A remembrance approaches.

Pauline was a beautiful woman who loved animals and trips away from the city. She didn't want much, just a trip to, "pet a horse's nose" every so often. During the 1990's she and I went on perhaps 2 dozen whale watches, mostly out of Boston, a few out of Gloucester. It was usually just the two of us.

My mother loved the sea.

We would surreptitiously bring a couple of snacks aboard the ship to save money, and then get sun and wind burned as we leaned off the bow. Our favorite ship was a giant catamaran that just flew out of the inner harbor towards Stellwagen Bank, the whales' feeding ground. It was exhilarating.

One time, when we were on a smaller, single hull vessel out of Rowe's Wharf, a storm crossed our path and the ship just pitched back and forth. Absolutely everyone got seasick, puking in buckets and off the side, or on the deck. I recall looking out the window and seeing a cloudy sky, then seconds later just the surface of the sea. The horizon was a blur in between there somewhere. Most of us weren't frightened, just violently ill. Many of us on board may have preferred death over this heinous nausea.

Only one person on the whole ship was not sea sick, and that was my mother. A young Korean couple we had chatted with earlier in the day held out for a long time, but they eventually succumbed to the pitch-and-roll. The crew, initially angry at all the vomit they had to clean up, turned green.

My mother was fine. She offered me a Pepto.

She died of cancer 8 years ago, and it was difficult and painful. She didn't deserve that. Nobody does. That time is a blur to me now, as I was undergoing electro-convulsive therapy. I don't remember much of 2002 or 2003. That's probably for the best. I do remember the whale watches, though, and those are some fine memories.

Happy Mother's Day, Ma.