Gardens and Guns

The shriveled, dry maple leaf is caught in a gust of wind and twists upward past my window. A single leaf. The season of brown and occasional white is finally coming to an end, and every shade of green (just a hint of it) is starting to peek out of the ground, on the forsythia, and in all sorts of trees and bushes. While raking out my tiny Victory Garden (victory over mental illness), I discovered that a patch of chives somehow survived this very cold winter. Insulated by several inches of leaves and/or snow, the chives have persevered. As I moved the wet leaves away, a shock of green popped out. It reminded me of Kryptonite, it seemed to glow! I smiled in genuine appreciation.

Tomatoes will be planted along the metal railing, marigolds will decorate the four foot wide entrance to the patch, and there will be many herbs; basil, rosemary and garlic. Green onions will grow along the flat wall, along with red and green peppers. Spinach will line up next to the back stoop. This year we're going to throw some beats in, as well. Perhaps cucumbers can be crammed in.

This is probably of little interest to you, dear reader. The joy of planting and maintaining a garden is the closest I come to spirituality.

. - .

It's difficult to get through the day without thinking of the unspeakable tragedy now playing out in Japan. The scale of the disaster in environmental and human terms is impossible to comprehend. One of my neighbor's just lost her mother to cancer (like my own) and her pain is beyond any words. One world ending, one life lost. How can one absorb and understand the death of thousands when one death is an agonizing riddle, an emotional storm, deep pain.

A friend of mine was recently help up at gun point for the second time in his life. He is a thoughtful person, considerate and kind. An artist (musician) and intellectual who can't simply ignore the emotional and psychological impact of having his life in the hands of a total stranger. My thoughts are of him tonight. I wish I could hug the man. He deserves better.

His trials brought to mind a poem by Joy Bohland

human frailty

You never knew 

what it was like to be bruised. 

So obviously broken

exposed to the open.  

Sutures from past scars you hide 

like nakedness in your eyes. 

Something to be ashamed of. 

Something to rise above.  

Such a beautiful thing is human frailty. 

What a relief to learn I'm only me.  

The world's success doesn't start with me. 

Other's stress has nothing to do with me. 

The weight of the earth doesn't rest on me. 

After all I'm only...me.  

Delicate and fragile qualities molded, 

taught and made me who I am who I am.

Yet the pain is exquisite.

Please world,  make me weak for love. 

Make me sad for loss. 

Make me lose it all. 

Make me feel so small. 

Make me cry too long.  

Indifferent universe, don't make me strong.

Looking For Dr. Gibbons

There was a time, back in the mid to late '90's, when I tried to manufacture a life of consequence. Nothing great, but something more than whatever I'm doing now. After I had decided to major in biological anthropology at the University of Massachusetts at Boston, a brilliant, charming and extremely affable man, Dr. Michael Gibbons, became a part of my life. He was my degree advisor, and encouraged me to go to graduate school. He laughed at all my jokes, and sometimes we went to lunch together, and got along famously. He occasionally took me to Harvard University, where he worked on Thursdays, cataloging bones. It was wonderful. He made me feel smart, when I clearly am not. On one of our Harvard visits, we ran into E.O. White, the famous Entomologist and "ant guy." I swooned.

Dr. Gibbons also gave me endless advice about women and dating. I'll never forget when he took me to lunch (he always paid) with a young lady I was dating at the time. By the time he was done singing my praises, I honestly think this woman would have married me on the spot. He was a pilot, and tested fighter jets for the US Navy every so often. Women love pilots, don't you know.

At a time when I weighed 480 lbs and was in need of support and friendship, he was always there. Our emails, phone calls, and conversations in class and elsewhere really gave me a confidence that was desperately needed.

I'm looking for you, Dr. Gibbons. When I find you, dinner is on my this time.

Toothache

Cemeteries are full of people with very peaceful, and probably unflattering, facial expressions. One can't be sure of something like that, of course, but it feels right. Alabaster skin, a bit of make-up, some nice duds, and a box. Like an action figure, without the "kung-fu grip." Friends and accessories sold separately.

Awoke with a raging tooth this morning, with something beautiful playing on the radio, full of melancholy, Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on a Theme from Thomas Tallis. Three cats and one dog barely noticed (although the dog, Annie, was lazily watching) as I sat on the edge of the bed and chewed on two aspirin, from a bottle kept on the windowsill in anticipation of need. Like a bottle kept near a baby's crib, ready to go if it starts crying. My tongue gathered up the aspirin pulp and pushed it into cavity of that insistent tooth. Williams was gone now, and a woman was talking on the radio as the pain seemed to subside. All relief in my head, most likely.

Maybe the music was in my head, as well, and that woman's voice. In these waking moments, it's hard to know what is real and what isn't. Except for that toothache, of course. No illusions there. The pain of a toothache is hard to ignore.

I'm thinking of an old friend of my father, a semi-professional wrestler named Billy Graham. Many years ago they worked together, doing handyman work for people around Boston. Graham is one of those cemetery people now, gently placed under soil, a peaceful expression, a bit of make-up.

My father told me a story about Billy that is relevant today. Years ago, while working together, Graham complained of a terrible toothache. But not for long. He was a man who knew how to gauge exquisite pain in such a way as to make it small and manageable. His solution to his aching problem was eloquent. In a matter-of-fact way, with shocking speed and determination, he produced pliers, gripped the offensive tooth, and ripped it out.

I'm not made of stuff tough enough to endure such a dramatic solution. Must make an appointment for a professional tooth-yanker.

A Fine Month

April 20th is an auspicious day. Sure, it's the day that BP started spilling a quattuordecillion little drops of crude oil (206,000,000 gallons) into the Gulf of Mexico, way back in 2010. It was the largest oil spill in the history of...oil. For three withering, depressing months we all watched as oil ejaculated into the gulf, and the little birdies and fishies had their summer ruined, not to mention the people. If you don't know what a quattuordecillion is, it's a 1 followed by 45 zeros. A lot. In Britain, the same number is a 1 followed by 84 zeros. More proof that Americans suck at math.

One side benefit of the spill, however, is that people can fry shrimp without putting any oil in the pan first.

April 20th is also Adolph Hitler's birthday. In case you don't know, he killed a lot of people and ruined the toothbrush moustache for everyone.

It was also the day of the Columbine High School massacre, the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, and the day the Chicago Cubs first played in 1916. Not to mention the day that Oliver Cromwell dissolved the Rump Parliament. You'll never forget where you were when that happened, I wager.

So what makes April 20th auspicious? It's the day that Nancy and I are getting married in 2012. The day we enter a state of marital bliss. The day, I hear, that most couples stop having sex. Regardless of that aspect of it, we're going to set April 20th on happy footing. It will be remembered as our anniversary, the day that Darren stopped annoying women (besides Nancy) with his unwanted sexual advances. And they lived happily ever after until there came to them The One Who Destroys All Happiness.

I'm sure that a lot of good things happened on April 20th. As we all know, "420" has nebulous connections to smoking marijuana. It's the birthday of Crispin Glover, Jessica Lange, Veronica Cartwright and Ryan O'neil, and the day that the Wisconsin Territory was created. Not such a great day for the Native Americans, though.

By April 20th the forsythia will be in bloom, the grass will be green, and we'll be married. It's a fine month.

Mark Slaughter wrote this. I dig.

Still an irritating wind;
Vestiges of stubborn grey –
Jibing us of recent winter blight.

It’s coming though – like perky breasts
Pushing through a blouse –
Teasing, pleasing in it’s tantalising play:

Warmth of youth in April sun –
Simmering off depression,
Brains retuned; remapped for fun.

April is a portal –
Smoothly transitions
Delicate dispositions – suchlike mine,

Easing hunched bodies into
Summery smiles.

Zuckerberg Poops His Chinos

The little fucker Zuckerberg is frequently under attack on Facebook. In fact, the "little fucker Zuckerberg" is a term of disaffection that I keep coming across, I didn't make it up. What motivates this anger seems to be about how Facebook keeps changing the layout and way in which one may tweak privacy settings. It doesn't really bother me. At least that's not what annoys me about Zuckerberg.

What does annoy me is that, according to the film, "The Social Network," Zuckerberg is a total prick. He is also an amazingly successful young man. That level of success makes me want to hit him in the face with a lemon pie. A frozen lemon pie. He's just too damn adept, talented and accomplished. At the age of 26, he's a billionaire responsible for changing the way hundreds of millions of people socialize with each other. Facebook has changed the way products are marketed, people communicate, and short videos of "Hitler cats" go viral.

He needs to be stopped. He is making us all look bad. The age of 26 found me a thousand-aire, in a nut-house, and ensconced in self-pity after a failed relationship. At that age, I was shooing homeless drug-addicts away from my cot in the men's dorm at The Arbour. I'll bet that Mr. Zuckerberg never had to feign a loud cough to discourage a frantically masturbating ne'er-do-well two cots over.

As I said, 26 found me madly in love with a young lady who returned my love for about 4 months before dumping me with extreme prejudice. Most of 1998 had me stomping about town, screaming like Frankenstein's creature, clutching my chest and holding my head. Not unlike John Cusack in High Fidelity.

Later that year, I nearly broke up a marriage when a woman cheated on her husband and used me as one might use a blow-up doll. Keep reaching for the stars!

The man simply has it together and knows what he is doing, with a vengeance. He should be proud of himself. Yup. But it annoys me. Those Germans have a word for taking pleasure in the suffering of others, and that word is "shadenfreude." It's low and trite of me, but I confess no small amount of pleasure in knowing that life eventually squashes all of us. With any luck, it will be a woman who does the deed. Not that I wish unrequited love on anyone (except, apparently, Mark Zuckerberg), but it's a reliable humbler. A de-egofier. Look what women-folk did to Tiger Woods. The man was the greatest golfer in the history of mankind before his affair went public. Now, he wears a look of vague confusion on his face and can't win a tournament to save his life. He's rated 5th in the world and falling. Yup, the ladies will always flick you off of the top of the world like a dried-up booger.

I could look at Zuckerberg and feel inspired, and perhaps to feel motivated enough to turn my life around. To admire the little fuck-face. Yeah, I could do that. It's easier, however, to wish for a piano to fall on his head, or that he'll get lost in his house and not emerge for several years (it's a big house). The image of him with a beard, stinking with body odor and suffering from scurvy, pleases me.

As I said, though, he'll probably get knocked down a peg or five in the wake of a failed relationship. An infatuated Zuckerberg using gasoline to spell out, "Take me back, you bitch!" on some poor woman's lawn may happen one day. Hell, an ingrown toenail may be enough, or a fart that leads to him shitting himself, or an "Internetting" accident that leads to his pinky finger getting sheered off. Anything to show that he is a fragile human being.

Not nice of me.