Of Pet Lips and Royalty

Currently in the presence of two cats and a dog, all three and staring at me. It's a little nerve-wracking, as they all seem to be waiting for me to do something. Part of me is concentrating on tooling around the Internet, another part is trying to think of something to do that will satisfy the expectations of my pets. The little fuckers are judging me.

Of course, that's all in my head. I'm pretty sure that they don't care what I do, so long as I feed them and pat their little heads and keep fresh water in a bowl for them to dip their lips in. Cat lips. Dog lips. Two species of lips.

Last night I curled up between Nancy, various pets, and the wall. In the middle of the night I heard a door slam below my bedroom window, in the courtyard someplace, and awoke with a start. My head lurched forward, slamming my nose into the wall. These things happen. They say everything happens for a reason. Although the reason is rarely clear to anyone.

I'm starting to get excited about the royal wedding, although I couldn't tell you why. The media just keeps stokin' the fire, insisting that this marriage is just so damn fucking awesome. One can't help but wonder what this couple must be like when at home, in private. They're probably a couple of insufferable assholes, but it's impossible to know for sure. If I had that kind of 24/7 attention, I'd be royalty all right...I'd be the King of the Pricks (instead of just a common prick).

In an attempt to be social, I'm starting to talk to my neighbors more often. These compulsions lead to misery. Now, pulling into my parking space causes a severe anxiety attack as I attempt to steal into my flat unnoticed. A sad state of affairs.

Annie is getting antsy. Time for a walk. Wish me luck as I attempt to avoid throngs of neighborhood children, all of whom know Annie very well. They run over like paparazzi to Jackie Onassis or Angelina Jolie. Few know my name. I'm the guy who walks Annie. Suits me fine!

Of Speedos and Canned Peas

Tomorrow an errand will find me very close to Revere Beach in Revere, Massachusetts. I'm keen on spending time at the shore when I have the chance. A sojourn along the coast is like walking the streets of a frontier town. Safe where you are, but just a short distance away from a vast, lonely and unfamiliar expanse of wilderness. It's possible to walk into the frigid brine and furious currents of Broad Sound and disappear for good. Expeditionary fleets of ice-breaking ships have struck out to discover the Northwest Passage and never been heard from again, leaving countless people behind to woefully contemplate their undiscovered fate. The ocean got them, along with those tricky tempestuous vapors. What chance would I have? I'm an outstanding floater (fat people float well), but that isn't going to help me against raw riptides, hypothermia, rabid seagulls, and Jaws-sharks. For me, the ocean is for lookin' at, not for playin' with, like a beautiful mafia wife to a jealous, paranoid, and psychotic hit man.

Any human going toe to undertow with the sea will find themselves humbled, and most likely with sand in his or her crack. I've no plans to delve into that foamy frontier. The most adventurous endeavor for Nancy and I may be to get a roast beef sandwich at Kelly's, which is unlikely. For someone with an irritable bowel, that can also be a humbling experience.

If one is of a mind to visit the sea, the best time is anytime but the summer. The crowds are too much for yours truly. And the beach crowd is particularly unsavory in Revere. Too many hirsute old Italian men in Speedo's, flippin' and floppin' all over the place.

In other news, Nancy made a magnificent dinner tonight. A delectable pasta dish. The woman is a magician in the kitchen. I didn't know that she had such skill when I proposed to her! I knew about her sexiness, beauty, magnificent hair, intelligence, sense of humor, strength and ability to drink me under the table. But over the past few months she has revealed herself as a cookie who can really cook.

What other talents does this woman possess? Is she a cribbage champion? A needlepoint prodigy? Can she make clothes out of paper towels? Can she leap tall buildings in a single, or perhaps double, bound? Only time will tell. But she is really starting to show off here. She is even compelling me to eat healthier, fresher food. There was a time when I was perfectly fine with canned peas. Now I have to have frozen. The woman won't even let me keep a canned pea in the house. Now that I've had several meals with crisp and tasty frozen peas instead of mushy, salty canned peas, I'm hooked. And how she gloats about it, too.

What a woman. What a cook. And what peas, so bursting with country fresh flavor!

Tweets

It's a little after 8am on a windy, gray, and warm day here in Boston. Close to 80 degrees today, with no sun to ruin it. Spring has arrived and it pleases me. Just as the sun was coming up, behind that blanket of clouds and mist, birds were cheeping and tweeting outside my bedroom window, which was open wide yet did not freeze Nancy and I. There seemed to be a lot to talk about in the boughs of that tree. Like listening to a song in a foreign language, the content is mysterious but the music and meaning (as I interpret it) satisfies, perhaps more than if I knew the words. The cats took notice, seeming to take turns on the sill. A watch in shifts, to keep the little birdies nervous and in their maple tree.

Annie wasn't interested, at least when I awoke every so often and found her asleep next to Nancy, feet sticking up in the air like a dead bug. My tooth pain ensured that my slumber would take place in 20 minute intervals, give or take 5 minutes or so. No complaints, though, as I was lucky enough to secure an appointment with an oral surgeon for 9:45 this morning, not much more than an hour from now.

Time to shave and brush and all that. Au revoir.

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.