Dear United States and Beyond, to whomever has reason to call me: I am phone illiterate with no concern for achieving proficiency. The phone is usually the last place I put it down; not in a purse, not in a pocket, not on a leash, or attached to a socket. It calls for me to reinstate my landline, with each most visited room provided a base, but then that service gets clogged with people wanting to sell me window replacements or asphalt and they don't get that I live nine floors up in an apartment but fill up the messages nonetheless.
There is a symbol with something that to me looks like a tape recorder on the phone keypad; aha, this must be the messages? After unlocking the phone, scribing the secret code pattern, opening the phone app, bringing up the keypad, there is the symbol under the number one. I press it. Nothing. I press it and hit the "Call" symbol. A flat voice tells me this ain't happening, but takes 8 seconds of my phone time. I look at the phone for some mysterious hieroglyphic releasing the ethereal voices of friends and pharmacy, doctor's offices, and Come To Our Churches.
I go to the laptop and type in "Retrieve Android Messages". Wrong-o again, O ancient fossil. What pops up are directions on getting text messages, because lord knows but apparently I don't, people text more than call. Yes? Adding the word "phone" to the formula gives results which say to hold a finger on the number one key until Voice Mail ka-poofs into reality. 'Kay. I do and it does.
But NOW, you have to listen for the flat voice to tell you of your misinformed life because your mailbox is FULL you eedjit, and things better get straightened out or you won't get more messages. Yes, yes, yes. C'mon, this is taking longer than necessary and the pauses between electronic sentences you could kill and slaughter an ox between pronouncements. But first, type in your secret number password because nothing that has happened prior indicates that you are the one to receive notice that your Prozac is ready. Do I remember my code? Let's try, nope, let's try this one--it's why my personal limit is two passcodes for everything and let the hackers take my identity because then they would have this puddingeffer student loan to deal with.
It's been twelve minutes since the phone call from my doctor's office prompted me to check messages. Twelve minutes of futzing around and if you think I will remember the process next month when the light bulb goes on, har-de-har-har, Alice.
Finally, the mechanical voice coughs out four new messages; one pharmacy, three friends. two of whom are from awhile ago I believe, but cannot confirm as this mobile martinet does not record time or date. More floaty deductions as I place the events they mention into a time frame. "Hope you're feeling better..." When was I sick? A month ago. "Come over for tea, I want to hear about your trip..." That was in mid-May. "I just wanted to thank you..." Um, maybe two weeks? I am bad at mobile phone business. Electronics in general, really.
I thought I heard the phone ringing out dulcet tones or was the apartment below playing music? At the time, I was up to my elbows in giving the cat box a master cleaning and couldn't have answered immediately anyway. The alert tone had just been changed to something not alarming but noticeable, but was this it? Checking the phone screen showed No New Calls until I swiped my finger, did the mystical anagram, then yes, there was a call. More scrolling, taps, and scrolling, and there it was. Jaysus. My doctor.
The receptionist said I was overdue for a bone scan, thyroid scan, mammogram, and blood testing. Well, yeah, but for me to get to the doctor these days, I have to take off from work, and the consequences tend towards crisis intervention level. I haven't been able to find the scripts for the testing if I ever had them, for the receptionist said that I can get them from the web portal and print them off. But I don't have a printer at home. I should go to the library, renew my card and use one of theirs for which there is a minimal charge, not to count the metered parking?
"You don't have a printer??" The incredulousity was tidal. Technically, I do have a printer, a new one since the old, just as good one could no longer communicate with the laptop once the purveyors upgraded their programs which the old laptop could not keep up with so I bought a new printer which ticked me to no end. But, this new printer came with an installment disk which is simple enough but since the new laptop does not have a cd/dvd port, the process has elevated to online communication. So far, nothing I've done has worked to get the new printer talking to the new laptop. Hours, days; I finally said the Friday word and have gone without a printer for months.
"Well, Just This One Time, we will print it out and mail it to you". Can't you just put it into the system for the providers? "We don't do that." Huh. I felt it important not to mention that I don't have a television. Gongs. I have cats and gongs. Plus, phone conversation goes funny and I find myself explaining things that aren't in regular people's lives; it occasionally scares them. Changing the strata in the millepedes. The lightning rod tipped over. I was talking to my unborn granddaughter. Gluing trilobites back together. See?
So, the point is, if you don't hear back from me, try email or the ubiquitous Facebook, email is best. It's not that I don't like you, it's that you can hear the sound of frustrated finger-tapping/swiping/resetting/brain freeze in the far distance. Say the date, time, and WHO YOU ARE, if you think important. I can't tell voices on the phone, it sounds like you are in the trunk of a car driving in a circle. Louder, softer, louder, softer, garbled, static, martians from space.
Listening closely to context reveals who you might be, and I have found myself talking to a different person other than perceived more than once. Diane? "No, it's Hollie; we've been talking for twenty minutes, and you thought I was Diane?" Verbal mannerisms are great clues and it was unusual that Canadian Diane had not said "Eh?" during the whole conversation.
It's said that living downtown mixes and fuzzes signals amid the tall buildings, spires, antennae, and emergency scanners. A new phone came with hopes of clearer reception. But really, provide the date and time, don't just say 3 o'clock because there are generally 56 three o'clocks in a month. And I'm phone phobic. Don't wanna know who's on the other end, although I am able to pay my bills these days. I am just exasperated at having to buy the latest electronics so that they work with the the downpour of changeling programs designed by people who drink too much coffee.
On the way to lunch today, the brakes started grabbing, it was the weirdest sensation at 50 mph on the expressway. I stepped on the gas to see what would happen; some lights came on the dashboard and the herky-jerky business stopped. Paul followed me to the mechanic's, they declared not to worry, coulda been dust, bring it in Monday, no the car will not freeze up in traffic, it's probably the computer, and we then went to the Thai restaurant in a diverse, lovely neighborhood.
We have passed the solstice, the brilliant greens of plants are punctuated by roses, cherries, dogs, and people who will find things to do up till the last ray of light. Ah, but then. Evening comes; the air fills with nightbirds calling, fluttering moths clustering around street lamps, with social rituals untangling themselves from daylight. Sleep is one such ritual, lending us protection from the strangeness of the dark.
Shake out the blankets, hang them outside if you can for saturation with the fresh air. Put away the bowls and dishes, latch the door, love the cats, love the dogs, all of it disappears at night when we are under the science of Morpheus. Good night.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Spring Doings
Yesterday came the first spider, renewing the yearly battle between Homo sapiensis Susan versus the Leggedy Spiders of the Lake. These people are huge, prickly, bitey-looking things so busy making webs inside the bathroom where it is not likely they will catch much more than cat hair. I will fix the screen, which is the reason the hapless find their way in.
A reason it has not been fixed is that I live on the ninth floor, and popping out a screen means a tightrope act of not dropping it onto someone's head. The screens are jumpy, snappy, and slippery and god knows that a cat could somehow maneuver it's way into the equation makes it equally inspiring to take up something safe, like knitting. The cats love when I knit, but then, they like catching spiders and delivering them to me on my pillow at night which has happened. Live from Buffalo.
I have vowed to equip the apartment with a bug catch and release, helped by Lulu, who has uncanny sensibilities when it comes to insects. She is sad when I take over the operation, for I feel the way to end in this world is not as a source of protein that will be yacked up an hour later, and thus will take them down in the elevator to be freed. She is praised for diligence and given a cat treat that isn't trying to wiggle away.
The spider method of retrieval is to threaten the animal with a shower brush so that it drops for escape, while holding a large butcher's tray underneath for catching. The confused immigrant is then slid into a container with a lid, and saved till morning for scooting into a nearby bush. The same with house centipedes, which eat young cockroaches; stink bugs, June bugs, and ants. Out, all of youse.
But that is only a part of the warmer weather; the area has been through snowdrops and squill, crocuses and daffodils, and is now mid-tulip. Lilac buds are swelling, flowering trees are yelling their heads off, and the grass is that first, rare green of return. Here in Buffalo, the denizens wear shorts and tank tops when it's in the low fifties, we are that tough. The final pile of dirty snow-ice has been melted, what a world, what a world, and snow shovels are gladly exchanged for brooms to sweep clear sidewalks and streets.
The thrushes and finches have returned, a phoebe sings in the mornings, the robins chirrup way past dark and lay blue eggs. A friend recounted an incident where her husband dismantled a nest on his outside speakers, but the mama bird insisted and rebuilt, giving the man a direct look that would shame a barrister. The second nest is staying, so I have heard.
Dandelions are exploding through scrap lots and yards, giving the bumble and other bees sweet yellow pollen to gather. The hemisphere has awakened, humming along as it has done so for centuries; one wonders if millions. When did the seasons develop? Was there a dinosaur spring after a cooler period of months? There certainly wasn't snow in the lower elevations; oxygen levels were higher, plants and animals grew to riotous proportion. Did they have to migrate, as do our birds? That's another speculative story on my part.
I lost cat Rodger back in mid-April; what was supposed to be stuffed up plumbing from spring shed turned out to be a grapefruit-sized tumor about half his body weight. He wasn't a big fella, but certainly had the personality of a judicious samurai. Gosh, I miss him; putting him down was unexpected and wrenching, but he had stopped eating, drinking, everything but washing my hand. At the same time, an unknown had left a box of newborn kittens at the vet's doorstep, in the snow at Easter.
One of the vet techs had come in to care for the animals over the weekend, left, then returned when he wondered if he had latched a door securely. There was a box at the door, filled with five black little bits; one wonders what circumstances led someone to abandon them on a freezing day when the veterinary was not open. Nonetheless, a shelter may not have been equipped to provide the care which newborns require; kittens that young are usually put down, yet the guardian angel of Central Park Animal was certainly with them that day. Dr. Persico, no doubt.
Turn the page a few weeks, and the last of the kittens needed a home, a boy who had an infection that prevented him from urinating comfortably. Apparently, motherless kittens are designed to nurse, and will latch onto anything resembling a nipple, including boy bits. They were all separated and the one given antibiotics, but when I saw him, there was pus and raw tissue; he's still swollen a little, but healing. Everything works once again, and he came to his new home yesterday.
In fact, he went from a reticent, timid being to Godzilla-mode within the hour in spite of being told off by two of the others, Kai and Snowbelle. The kitten pen is a blessing, as I can zip him in for overnight with plenty of room for food, litter pan, and IKEA sheepskin. You do want to be reincarnated as a Coburn cat, lemme tell you.
Roscoe has eaten like a champ, worried me some when no bathroom emissions emitted, smartly has made up for it today with both in plenty, and happy days for baby wipes. He prowls around the living area, chased Snowbelle with pride for she ran from him (Roger would be thrilled to learn), and has hit the litter box target more often than not; he has skills in spite of being the tiniest cat I have ever acquired. At six weeks old, his plumbing is growing into adjustment as well as his muscles, vision, hearing, and all the things which babies do. He may outlive my lifespan, but already my son has been given notice.
Have I mentioned a human grandbaby is on the way and will arrive this summer? Today I am baking cookies for the shower at the shul with Dorian, Dana's mother; they will be transported to D.C. this Friday as we fly over the Southern Tier, Pennsylvania, and Maryland into Washington. Watching the fields change seasons while above in the clouds is fascinating, and seeing the soil in farmlands blend from dark brown into an iron red gives you an idea how varied the planet is.
Tonight is to be spring chilly, the momma birds will huddle closer over fledglings, leaves will fold, blankets will cover little and big. In the heavens, Jupiter and Saturn will be visible for most of the night, with Venus rising after sunset, Mars appearing in the early morning just past midnight. Sleep while the planets wheel through the dark sky, charming our lives with the measure of time. Perhaps I do understand. Good night, dear hearts.
A reason it has not been fixed is that I live on the ninth floor, and popping out a screen means a tightrope act of not dropping it onto someone's head. The screens are jumpy, snappy, and slippery and god knows that a cat could somehow maneuver it's way into the equation makes it equally inspiring to take up something safe, like knitting. The cats love when I knit, but then, they like catching spiders and delivering them to me on my pillow at night which has happened. Live from Buffalo.
I have vowed to equip the apartment with a bug catch and release, helped by Lulu, who has uncanny sensibilities when it comes to insects. She is sad when I take over the operation, for I feel the way to end in this world is not as a source of protein that will be yacked up an hour later, and thus will take them down in the elevator to be freed. She is praised for diligence and given a cat treat that isn't trying to wiggle away.
The spider method of retrieval is to threaten the animal with a shower brush so that it drops for escape, while holding a large butcher's tray underneath for catching. The confused immigrant is then slid into a container with a lid, and saved till morning for scooting into a nearby bush. The same with house centipedes, which eat young cockroaches; stink bugs, June bugs, and ants. Out, all of youse.
But that is only a part of the warmer weather; the area has been through snowdrops and squill, crocuses and daffodils, and is now mid-tulip. Lilac buds are swelling, flowering trees are yelling their heads off, and the grass is that first, rare green of return. Here in Buffalo, the denizens wear shorts and tank tops when it's in the low fifties, we are that tough. The final pile of dirty snow-ice has been melted, what a world, what a world, and snow shovels are gladly exchanged for brooms to sweep clear sidewalks and streets.
The thrushes and finches have returned, a phoebe sings in the mornings, the robins chirrup way past dark and lay blue eggs. A friend recounted an incident where her husband dismantled a nest on his outside speakers, but the mama bird insisted and rebuilt, giving the man a direct look that would shame a barrister. The second nest is staying, so I have heard.
Dandelions are exploding through scrap lots and yards, giving the bumble and other bees sweet yellow pollen to gather. The hemisphere has awakened, humming along as it has done so for centuries; one wonders if millions. When did the seasons develop? Was there a dinosaur spring after a cooler period of months? There certainly wasn't snow in the lower elevations; oxygen levels were higher, plants and animals grew to riotous proportion. Did they have to migrate, as do our birds? That's another speculative story on my part.
I lost cat Rodger back in mid-April; what was supposed to be stuffed up plumbing from spring shed turned out to be a grapefruit-sized tumor about half his body weight. He wasn't a big fella, but certainly had the personality of a judicious samurai. Gosh, I miss him; putting him down was unexpected and wrenching, but he had stopped eating, drinking, everything but washing my hand. At the same time, an unknown had left a box of newborn kittens at the vet's doorstep, in the snow at Easter.
One of the vet techs had come in to care for the animals over the weekend, left, then returned when he wondered if he had latched a door securely. There was a box at the door, filled with five black little bits; one wonders what circumstances led someone to abandon them on a freezing day when the veterinary was not open. Nonetheless, a shelter may not have been equipped to provide the care which newborns require; kittens that young are usually put down, yet the guardian angel of Central Park Animal was certainly with them that day. Dr. Persico, no doubt.
Turn the page a few weeks, and the last of the kittens needed a home, a boy who had an infection that prevented him from urinating comfortably. Apparently, motherless kittens are designed to nurse, and will latch onto anything resembling a nipple, including boy bits. They were all separated and the one given antibiotics, but when I saw him, there was pus and raw tissue; he's still swollen a little, but healing. Everything works once again, and he came to his new home yesterday.
In fact, he went from a reticent, timid being to Godzilla-mode within the hour in spite of being told off by two of the others, Kai and Snowbelle. The kitten pen is a blessing, as I can zip him in for overnight with plenty of room for food, litter pan, and IKEA sheepskin. You do want to be reincarnated as a Coburn cat, lemme tell you.
Roscoe has eaten like a champ, worried me some when no bathroom emissions emitted, smartly has made up for it today with both in plenty, and happy days for baby wipes. He prowls around the living area, chased Snowbelle with pride for she ran from him (Roger would be thrilled to learn), and has hit the litter box target more often than not; he has skills in spite of being the tiniest cat I have ever acquired. At six weeks old, his plumbing is growing into adjustment as well as his muscles, vision, hearing, and all the things which babies do. He may outlive my lifespan, but already my son has been given notice.
Have I mentioned a human grandbaby is on the way and will arrive this summer? Today I am baking cookies for the shower at the shul with Dorian, Dana's mother; they will be transported to D.C. this Friday as we fly over the Southern Tier, Pennsylvania, and Maryland into Washington. Watching the fields change seasons while above in the clouds is fascinating, and seeing the soil in farmlands blend from dark brown into an iron red gives you an idea how varied the planet is.
Tonight is to be spring chilly, the momma birds will huddle closer over fledglings, leaves will fold, blankets will cover little and big. In the heavens, Jupiter and Saturn will be visible for most of the night, with Venus rising after sunset, Mars appearing in the early morning just past midnight. Sleep while the planets wheel through the dark sky, charming our lives with the measure of time. Perhaps I do understand. Good night, dear hearts.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Nature and Buttons
Sitting in the chair, I turned to talk to the cat and thus shifted the car keys in my front jeans pocket, nine stories up from the parking lot. This upset the car, which began honking alarms that no one pays attention to unless it continues for ten minutes past irritation. How? I had to stretch to see if it was indeed the car, parked several spaces past the window, and yes; the box was blinking and yelling about suspect intrusions, about the owner not keeping the keys on a hook by the door.
Fortunately, I did not have to rally into shoes or jacket, but aimed the control tab in the general direction, and it stopped. Learning not to push it frantically by jabjabjabbing the button taught me that it only takes one click or I am only setting it off and on, reigniting the troops. The thing has been turned on from the school cafeteria, which does not have windows to the back lot, but scads of kitchen machines, cement, and brick walls. I don't know how these fobs work, and can only imagine invisible rays arrowing through humans, cafeteria posters on nutrition, and pictures of food only seen in professional shoots. Magic.
Actions needing attention now get by with the push of a button, similar to the revolutionary-but-not-true idea back in the 1940s and 50s, that household conveniences would provide the housewife with the Life of Riley. TV dinners allowed more tv time, TV trays allowed your education to continue; washers, mangles, dryers, electrical steam irons powered by the turn of a dial would hum along with little backbreaking output from said Frau. Laundry became not an all day back-breaker, just sort and haul the pile into the maw of the spinning tub, sudsing onwards with Oxydol, Dreft, Ivory Snow if it were baby clothing. I still have my Polish grandmother's washing board, her name at the top of the new-improved, hygienic, soap-saving corrugated glass. Thirteen kids before permanent press, no wonder she went around the bend.
But did we find ourselves with free time? No more than today's computerized households, just hold your breath that the electricity stays on. I thought that by this time in my life, that I would be having lunch with the girls, hiking the trails, penning thoughtful missives. Nope. I have a difficult time keeping up, and am slowly simplifying sort of no faster than the Grand Canyon was eroded into beauty by rivers. It is a tumble of repair, reply, making appointments, with reading how to declutter, create hygge, and breaking sentiment with your mother's cherished teacups that must find a good home. I think my cousin will take them, they are precious to me.
The majority of our lives exists without the ability to control, as it is based on instinct, emotions, environment, psychological hoo-ha, and fantasy. Bet you can think of other reasons, such as Mother Nature, nature, predators, disease, heartbreak, devotion, natural disasters, or anything that enters from the outside. Maybe an asteroid.
Now that you're substantially on edge with the rare but possible asteroid smash, and that the electrical plant would be all gone, think of your phobias. What are you frightened of that most other people don't even think about? Spiders alternately scare and fascinate me, I have no fear of zebra spiders, and let them live in the sun of my screened windows; the larger brown house spiders that I only see in the morning after the cats have dispatched them give me the willies. If a spider drops from the ceiling (yes it has happened) to land on me, strangled screams and flapping ensue.
I hate heights, and have frozen to the point that a brave, patient soul has had to drag me back to my safe zone. How those models who pose atop canyon pillars via helicopter do it is beyond me, they earn every penny they get. I would be flattened, trying to melt into the ground.
Balloons. Do not bring a balloon near me unless your swear vocabulary needs new words which I will supply, not gladly. Balloons are unjolly time bombs and if the supermarket is giving them away to the children, I will leave the store. I don't see this happening anymore, someone developed sense or a lawsuit was filed. Kids bite on them, wap them about, let them fly up to the ceiling where there are pointy things and hot lightbulbs. Balloon animal formation during assemblies, with the rubber squeaking with every twist causes me to grit my teeth into a frozen smile whilst the classroom students clap with glee. I have to be a good example of maturity, and being scared of balloons is not.
But you, how about you? Are you a part of the population that is frightened of an area of your home, say, the basement or the attic? Why is that so commonplace, is it created by the unfamiliarity? The poor lighting? Steven King? Or is something really there? Why is the basement/attic combo preferred by your very own haunt? Well, it isn't, but for me even as an adult when going down to the basement in my old house, I would take a cat in my arms. C'mon kitty kitty, the laundry needs to go into the dryer.
Most of the time, the cat, bored with dank atmosphere, (or maybe she knew there WAS something there and wanted to get the hell away), would run back up the wooden stairs, the kind of stairs that were open in the back so that your ankles could be grabbed. Thanks, cat. But why a cat served as protection from the unseen makes no sense; my beloved dog said fare-thee-well also, her toenails scrabbling up the wood planks. I would be stuck alone, slam the dry clothing into the basket and run like a rabbit.
Same thing with the attic in that house, come on , dog, cat. My son thought there was a dead man hanging up there; also, alligators under his bed would keep him awake regardless if I checked with a broom to see if any lurking antediluvians were in residence. No. Alligators. Didn't matter, just as when I was younger, there were monsters under my bed, like from The House on Haunted Hill.
or The First Man into Space, both 1959. I still don't like my foot hanging over the bed.
No technology will supersede human instinct, or give control over the bugaboos hiding in the cabinet; who knows where it all comes from? I myself have had a few paranormal experiences, and let me tell you, the more you talk to people, the more will say that they had never told anyone, but there are unexplainable occurrences that happened in their lives. My master's was on the paranormal as a part of creativity, complete with a survey that got many surprising responses. Three had no events, yet many more had seen, heard, or interacted with someone that wasn't their Aunt Mildred. Sane, down to earth people who were quite glad if not relieved to have someone inquire. It's okay, you can talk about it.
I for one am going to stretch this Sunday evening out like a rubber band, since tomorrow is the first day back to school, spring break has ended. All will be sleepy, maybe a bit out of sync with the routine, I am not expecting too much, just get the spelling words down and lets review time and maybe begin the math DBA. Get used to being in a classroom again, and no you cannot go to the bathroom four times in an hour.
Sleep then, and let the drowsy planets spin away the tired, grey days of lingering winter; I hear that the trees are budding in Ohio, I am a bit north and it has been cold and snowy still. A spring thunderstorm would be nice, a cleaning of remaining ebbs of blackened snow, a coaxing of new shoots and wakening insects for the birds to get fat on, happy enough to make their nests. Sail among clouds heavy with rain, sweep through warming nights under lighter covers; the animals know it, mine have been shedding clods; the birds know it, they are coming back trilling songs; the earth knows it, the tilting sphere brings back sunlight to the north, as winter in Australia abides from June to August. You know it, too. I can tell.
Fortunately, I did not have to rally into shoes or jacket, but aimed the control tab in the general direction, and it stopped. Learning not to push it frantically by jabjabjabbing the button taught me that it only takes one click or I am only setting it off and on, reigniting the troops. The thing has been turned on from the school cafeteria, which does not have windows to the back lot, but scads of kitchen machines, cement, and brick walls. I don't know how these fobs work, and can only imagine invisible rays arrowing through humans, cafeteria posters on nutrition, and pictures of food only seen in professional shoots. Magic.
Actions needing attention now get by with the push of a button, similar to the revolutionary-but-not-true idea back in the 1940s and 50s, that household conveniences would provide the housewife with the Life of Riley. TV dinners allowed more tv time, TV trays allowed your education to continue; washers, mangles, dryers, electrical steam irons powered by the turn of a dial would hum along with little backbreaking output from said Frau. Laundry became not an all day back-breaker, just sort and haul the pile into the maw of the spinning tub, sudsing onwards with Oxydol, Dreft, Ivory Snow if it were baby clothing. I still have my Polish grandmother's washing board, her name at the top of the new-improved, hygienic, soap-saving corrugated glass. Thirteen kids before permanent press, no wonder she went around the bend.
But did we find ourselves with free time? No more than today's computerized households, just hold your breath that the electricity stays on. I thought that by this time in my life, that I would be having lunch with the girls, hiking the trails, penning thoughtful missives. Nope. I have a difficult time keeping up, and am slowly simplifying sort of no faster than the Grand Canyon was eroded into beauty by rivers. It is a tumble of repair, reply, making appointments, with reading how to declutter, create hygge, and breaking sentiment with your mother's cherished teacups that must find a good home. I think my cousin will take them, they are precious to me.
The majority of our lives exists without the ability to control, as it is based on instinct, emotions, environment, psychological hoo-ha, and fantasy. Bet you can think of other reasons, such as Mother Nature, nature, predators, disease, heartbreak, devotion, natural disasters, or anything that enters from the outside. Maybe an asteroid.
Now that you're substantially on edge with the rare but possible asteroid smash, and that the electrical plant would be all gone, think of your phobias. What are you frightened of that most other people don't even think about? Spiders alternately scare and fascinate me, I have no fear of zebra spiders, and let them live in the sun of my screened windows; the larger brown house spiders that I only see in the morning after the cats have dispatched them give me the willies. If a spider drops from the ceiling (yes it has happened) to land on me, strangled screams and flapping ensue.
I hate heights, and have frozen to the point that a brave, patient soul has had to drag me back to my safe zone. How those models who pose atop canyon pillars via helicopter do it is beyond me, they earn every penny they get. I would be flattened, trying to melt into the ground.
Balloons. Do not bring a balloon near me unless your swear vocabulary needs new words which I will supply, not gladly. Balloons are unjolly time bombs and if the supermarket is giving them away to the children, I will leave the store. I don't see this happening anymore, someone developed sense or a lawsuit was filed. Kids bite on them, wap them about, let them fly up to the ceiling where there are pointy things and hot lightbulbs. Balloon animal formation during assemblies, with the rubber squeaking with every twist causes me to grit my teeth into a frozen smile whilst the classroom students clap with glee. I have to be a good example of maturity, and being scared of balloons is not.
But you, how about you? Are you a part of the population that is frightened of an area of your home, say, the basement or the attic? Why is that so commonplace, is it created by the unfamiliarity? The poor lighting? Steven King? Or is something really there? Why is the basement/attic combo preferred by your very own haunt? Well, it isn't, but for me even as an adult when going down to the basement in my old house, I would take a cat in my arms. C'mon kitty kitty, the laundry needs to go into the dryer.
Most of the time, the cat, bored with dank atmosphere, (or maybe she knew there WAS something there and wanted to get the hell away), would run back up the wooden stairs, the kind of stairs that were open in the back so that your ankles could be grabbed. Thanks, cat. But why a cat served as protection from the unseen makes no sense; my beloved dog said fare-thee-well also, her toenails scrabbling up the wood planks. I would be stuck alone, slam the dry clothing into the basket and run like a rabbit.
Same thing with the attic in that house, come on , dog, cat. My son thought there was a dead man hanging up there; also, alligators under his bed would keep him awake regardless if I checked with a broom to see if any lurking antediluvians were in residence. No. Alligators. Didn't matter, just as when I was younger, there were monsters under my bed, like from The House on Haunted Hill.
or The First Man into Space, both 1959. I still don't like my foot hanging over the bed.
No technology will supersede human instinct, or give control over the bugaboos hiding in the cabinet; who knows where it all comes from? I myself have had a few paranormal experiences, and let me tell you, the more you talk to people, the more will say that they had never told anyone, but there are unexplainable occurrences that happened in their lives. My master's was on the paranormal as a part of creativity, complete with a survey that got many surprising responses. Three had no events, yet many more had seen, heard, or interacted with someone that wasn't their Aunt Mildred. Sane, down to earth people who were quite glad if not relieved to have someone inquire. It's okay, you can talk about it.
I for one am going to stretch this Sunday evening out like a rubber band, since tomorrow is the first day back to school, spring break has ended. All will be sleepy, maybe a bit out of sync with the routine, I am not expecting too much, just get the spelling words down and lets review time and maybe begin the math DBA. Get used to being in a classroom again, and no you cannot go to the bathroom four times in an hour.
Sleep then, and let the drowsy planets spin away the tired, grey days of lingering winter; I hear that the trees are budding in Ohio, I am a bit north and it has been cold and snowy still. A spring thunderstorm would be nice, a cleaning of remaining ebbs of blackened snow, a coaxing of new shoots and wakening insects for the birds to get fat on, happy enough to make their nests. Sail among clouds heavy with rain, sweep through warming nights under lighter covers; the animals know it, mine have been shedding clods; the birds know it, they are coming back trilling songs; the earth knows it, the tilting sphere brings back sunlight to the north, as winter in Australia abides from June to August. You know it, too. I can tell.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
The Broadway Market
To get up to the second level parking lot, where the majority of shoppers park, you turn off a city street and drive up a steep ramp buttressed by cement blocks. Compare it to going up the climb of a roller coaster; you drive slowly and feel gravity pulling you back against the car seat, with optimistic hope that the clutch holds out. Arriving at the flat of the second story is an achievement, and you breathe again but not too much for the landscape is dismal, dank, and dark. It is hardly what one would expect for a parking garage, these folks are obviously saving electricity.
Mounds of tire dust clotted with engine oil rim medians, pigeons roost on the edges of the level, even in daytime it seems that the sun has other things to do. But don't worry, blazing colors draw you to the entryway where the escalators will take you to the ground floor. Bright red and yellow paint, thick from years of application border huge windows, a Tupperware kiosk, a temporary New Age table, a lady selling Tia's Puerto Rican bread. Checking to see which escalator is up or down, the first floor reveals even more color floating above people's heads, hung from the ceiling, strung on wires over the vendor's booths.
It is very much like Dorothy first entering from her sepia farmhouse into the brilliant gardens of Oz; it's Easter, swingtime for the market, its busiest season. Oh. And Polish. Super Polski. Witaj w domu. I toodled about, first taking a stroll around the circuit, seeing what there was to see; I was in search of pussy willow branches and pysanky eggs, this was the place to get them at prices you can't beat with a kielbasa.
Butchers yelled out numbers as crowds shoved towards the cases loaded with meat and sausages, ropes and ropes of sausages. Kielbasa is pretty much ground pork and garlic, salt and pepper stuffed into casings, nothing fancy but a prerequisite feature of the Easter table. Pierogi stands hawked their offerings, produce bins held cabbages, potatoes, carrots; there were caramel corn, sugared nuts, and bakeries, the most famous that remain steadfast against the swelling force of supermarket management. White Eagle, Mazurek's, and Chrusciki's have eclairs that your babcia would load into your hands because you were looking wan. No moderate portions here, you are in Giant Pastry Land, soldiered by huge loaves of rye bread. Cream puffs, pastry hearts, pączki, things stuffed with sweet cheese, and cakes piped with inch thick frostings filled the windows with predictable diabetic fate.
Polish gift shops held shelves of dishes, salt lamps, aprons, t-shirts, figurines, and Jesus. Jesus was everywhere. As a kid, I was taught that Jesus was always near me; here, there was no argument. Yes, He was. None of that Middle Eastern Jesus portrayal, this was a nice Polish boy Jesus with blue eyes, near blond hair, and that faint violet cast under His eyes that indicated He might benefit from an eclair. Delicate white skin was held in regard by the Poles, and so their Jesus reflected this. The Infant of Prague was layered like a wedding cake with rows of lace decorating His cape, with a small gold crown sitting on His young head, a globus cruciger in one hand. I grew up with this, and frankly it removed Jesus from anything real that I could imagine. You could purchase Jesus in several stages of His life, all sizes, all envisioned appearances.
Next to the gift shop was one of many egg booths, this one offered true pysanky; the others sold wooden eggs which do last longer if you have cats. There were Ukrainian, Lemko pin drop, decals, etched, and hand painted. Trypillian symbols and traditional animals, waves that meant a journey, wheat for fertility, horses for strength, three rings around the circumference of the egg representing the Trinity. Legend states that evil is kept chained to the side of a mountain; the years when an abundance of pysanky are made strengthens those chains; when not so many are produced, the monster can pull loose. People make eggs for health, to have children, to find an answer, for thanks; sort of like a prayer that you can hold in your hand.
But wait, here is the part that I held strong against, that of the chocolate candy shop. Oh my heavens. Sugar waffles, chocolate covered Oreos, Twinkies, and pretzel sticks punctuated with rainbow sprinkles were on display. Pecan turtles, sponge candy in an elongated rectangular shape, and my Mom's favorite, Charlie Chaplin, which according to the story, originated in Buffalo. Apparently Chaplin was to visit the city for the opening of his film, "The Adventurer"; the local candymakers asked him what his favorite sweets were, and he replied marshmallow, coconut, and chocolate, with cashews as his favorite nut. The confection was put together and given to the audience at the opening, creating immediate demand that can still be satisfied by visiting the Market or a local shop such as Condrell's.
I almost caved and purchased chocolate, the rows of bars and patties were satiny smooth, unctuous, and whispered how melty-creamy and substantial biting into a dollop of enchantment could be.
The smell was overwhelming, and permeated my pores, my senses, and if it weren't for the four bottles of wine from Buffalo's finest wine merchant at Chateau Buffalo banging against my leg, I would be rolling in coconut and marshmallow, coated with milk chocolate. My brain made my feet leave, but the smell of the warm sugar, cacao, vanilla, and caramel lingered maddeningly in the car till William Street. Pussy willow branches had sold out, but there will be more.
The bustle was fun, people were glad to be out, everyone was hypnotized by the entire presentation, the colors, the eggs, the fresh horseradish being bottled, the pierogi frying, the sugar waffles, the crumb cakes. A carnival of food and red Polish flags to alleviate the grey walls of late winter, it was just what was needed to raise up our chins. Go and see, but go now when the booths are filled with
Easter merchants; later on it can be a ghost town during an off-season week.
Good night this cold night, the sky is clear with no clouds to hold the residual heat of the day, but that's no nevermind. It is time to sleep and let go of the hours, to float between nothingness and dreams, to sweep cobwebs from the stars, as you ride the tides of Nod in the coracle of your deepest wishes. Sleep well, dog; sleep well cat, sleep child, man, woman.
Mounds of tire dust clotted with engine oil rim medians, pigeons roost on the edges of the level, even in daytime it seems that the sun has other things to do. But don't worry, blazing colors draw you to the entryway where the escalators will take you to the ground floor. Bright red and yellow paint, thick from years of application border huge windows, a Tupperware kiosk, a temporary New Age table, a lady selling Tia's Puerto Rican bread. Checking to see which escalator is up or down, the first floor reveals even more color floating above people's heads, hung from the ceiling, strung on wires over the vendor's booths.
It is very much like Dorothy first entering from her sepia farmhouse into the brilliant gardens of Oz; it's Easter, swingtime for the market, its busiest season. Oh. And Polish. Super Polski. Witaj w domu. I toodled about, first taking a stroll around the circuit, seeing what there was to see; I was in search of pussy willow branches and pysanky eggs, this was the place to get them at prices you can't beat with a kielbasa.
Butchers yelled out numbers as crowds shoved towards the cases loaded with meat and sausages, ropes and ropes of sausages. Kielbasa is pretty much ground pork and garlic, salt and pepper stuffed into casings, nothing fancy but a prerequisite feature of the Easter table. Pierogi stands hawked their offerings, produce bins held cabbages, potatoes, carrots; there were caramel corn, sugared nuts, and bakeries, the most famous that remain steadfast against the swelling force of supermarket management. White Eagle, Mazurek's, and Chrusciki's have eclairs that your babcia would load into your hands because you were looking wan. No moderate portions here, you are in Giant Pastry Land, soldiered by huge loaves of rye bread. Cream puffs, pastry hearts, pączki, things stuffed with sweet cheese, and cakes piped with inch thick frostings filled the windows with predictable diabetic fate.
Polish gift shops held shelves of dishes, salt lamps, aprons, t-shirts, figurines, and Jesus. Jesus was everywhere. As a kid, I was taught that Jesus was always near me; here, there was no argument. Yes, He was. None of that Middle Eastern Jesus portrayal, this was a nice Polish boy Jesus with blue eyes, near blond hair, and that faint violet cast under His eyes that indicated He might benefit from an eclair. Delicate white skin was held in regard by the Poles, and so their Jesus reflected this. The Infant of Prague was layered like a wedding cake with rows of lace decorating His cape, with a small gold crown sitting on His young head, a globus cruciger in one hand. I grew up with this, and frankly it removed Jesus from anything real that I could imagine. You could purchase Jesus in several stages of His life, all sizes, all envisioned appearances.
Next to the gift shop was one of many egg booths, this one offered true pysanky; the others sold wooden eggs which do last longer if you have cats. There were Ukrainian, Lemko pin drop, decals, etched, and hand painted. Trypillian symbols and traditional animals, waves that meant a journey, wheat for fertility, horses for strength, three rings around the circumference of the egg representing the Trinity. Legend states that evil is kept chained to the side of a mountain; the years when an abundance of pysanky are made strengthens those chains; when not so many are produced, the monster can pull loose. People make eggs for health, to have children, to find an answer, for thanks; sort of like a prayer that you can hold in your hand.
But wait, here is the part that I held strong against, that of the chocolate candy shop. Oh my heavens. Sugar waffles, chocolate covered Oreos, Twinkies, and pretzel sticks punctuated with rainbow sprinkles were on display. Pecan turtles, sponge candy in an elongated rectangular shape, and my Mom's favorite, Charlie Chaplin, which according to the story, originated in Buffalo. Apparently Chaplin was to visit the city for the opening of his film, "The Adventurer"; the local candymakers asked him what his favorite sweets were, and he replied marshmallow, coconut, and chocolate, with cashews as his favorite nut. The confection was put together and given to the audience at the opening, creating immediate demand that can still be satisfied by visiting the Market or a local shop such as Condrell's.
I almost caved and purchased chocolate, the rows of bars and patties were satiny smooth, unctuous, and whispered how melty-creamy and substantial biting into a dollop of enchantment could be.
The smell was overwhelming, and permeated my pores, my senses, and if it weren't for the four bottles of wine from Buffalo's finest wine merchant at Chateau Buffalo banging against my leg, I would be rolling in coconut and marshmallow, coated with milk chocolate. My brain made my feet leave, but the smell of the warm sugar, cacao, vanilla, and caramel lingered maddeningly in the car till William Street. Pussy willow branches had sold out, but there will be more.
The bustle was fun, people were glad to be out, everyone was hypnotized by the entire presentation, the colors, the eggs, the fresh horseradish being bottled, the pierogi frying, the sugar waffles, the crumb cakes. A carnival of food and red Polish flags to alleviate the grey walls of late winter, it was just what was needed to raise up our chins. Go and see, but go now when the booths are filled with
Easter merchants; later on it can be a ghost town during an off-season week.
Good night this cold night, the sky is clear with no clouds to hold the residual heat of the day, but that's no nevermind. It is time to sleep and let go of the hours, to float between nothingness and dreams, to sweep cobwebs from the stars, as you ride the tides of Nod in the coracle of your deepest wishes. Sleep well, dog; sleep well cat, sleep child, man, woman.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
It's Been a While
Still dark at the winter hour of 6:30 a.m. in January, yet early schoolbuses were busy shuttling children to school. The metro bus shelter was good to see, as the bitter wind stung my face, numbing my cheeks in spite of being bundled. Surgery was at 9:30, to get to the hospital I had to grab the 6:50 run. Why take a $35 cab ride, when public transportation could get me there for $2?
Got to the plexiglass bus shelter at 6:40; shadowy few adults roamed through the ice, all gloved, hooded, and wrapped into unrecognizable, upright phantoms, ghosts of the Michelin man. The street lights held their illumination back, as if the leaden cold slowed down the electromagnetic waves, and dulled the energy of the sodium vapor ignited by the electrical arc, reluctantly creating the familiar orange glow.
Too cold for light of day or street lamp; the shuffling humans had to revert to earlier senses, to an intuition of direction since lifting one's face to see where you were going invited the icy particles to blast skin and steal what heat had formed in huddled chests. They were ambling monoliths, unsure of footing, reluctant, waddling penguins of dawn. Seeing them still gave me a sense of humanity, that I was not alone in a desolate landscape, for I was as bundled as they, breathing into my scarf and collar to make a small, warm room for my nose.
And then from the oblivion, the lights of a bus appeared as if at the end of a far tunnel, a spaceship emerging impossibly from a black hole. Where they were hiding, I don't know, but suddenly four more monoliths appeared, with backpacks. College or high school students, perhaps. The bus bounced to a raucous stop, brakes shuddering, chassis still in forward motion as a bus in excess of 24,000 pounds will. We boarded into a dimly lit cavern, all that much more mystical by the contents of folks who had put on whatever layers they could find, sitting like Buddhas or people from biblical times, wound in yards of cotton jersey, nylon, lumpy jackets. Knit hats were pulled down, illumined by two pinpricks of light below the rims; glistening corneas not yet frozen white and useless, grateful for the rambunctious, noisome heater.
No one looked at each other, nor acknowledged the stumbling arrivals lurching to available seats. This was my first run on this route, No. 8, and I only hoped that it did indeed eventually land at the stop by the hospital. I fussed if I had to cross Humboldt at Main, for it is a mess of a small god's teeth, arse, and damnation regarding traffic, and with people on their way to work, who knows if I would decorate someone's bonnet as a shapeless down jacketed ornament? All this excessive worrying came from apprehension regarding the forthcoming operation, could it be done laparoscopically or would it require an extensive excavation? The bus darkly bounced on, crushing ice and overnight drifts.
We pulled up close to another bus at an intersection, except that it wasn't moving; their driver got out and told ours that it had broken down and that he would have to back up and dodge around the beast. Our driver howled no no no no no, not today, it's past 6:50, I'm late already as he carefully nudged the bus back and through the opposite lane, cutting off oncoming traffic. We flew to the next stop, a shelter with many people, two of which had no money but needed rides. Okay, you come on, said our hero. The two men were grateful, polite, and hustled to the back to begin a loud conversation as to how and why the last job didn't work out.
Hero driver nearly ran over a tall man with a cane in the middle of the street, who was waving him down. Not today, not today, begged he, but the bus was pulled over, doors open, and the fellow wanted to know if the route stopped at which and which. Come on, come on, but you gotta hurry, I'm late; the cane holder said that was okay, he would catch the next one.
Through city streets we slid, a small earthquake on tires; there were no curbs, there were few stop signs given a full halt; I wondered what on earth is the penalty for being late on a bus route? But hooray! Here is my stop and it is better than wished for, right at the edge of the hospital parking lot! Still dark, my feet negotiated the rippled ice to the hospital door as the bus wheezed and catapulted onwards to the University station.
Hello, hello, and the forms and questions began; what's your name, when is your birthday? I was labeled and taken to an intake room to put on the ubiquitous gown and swab myself with pink solution. Nurses came and went, and at one point a young man introduced himself as the Chaplin and did I have any religious requests? There is daily communion at the chapel, someone available if I needed consoling, and did I wish to say a prayer? No thank you. I expected to hear further invitation, but he smiled, chatted a bit more about innocuous stuff, and we wished each other well as he disappeared through the surrounding curtain.
It went smoothly, I was told not to bother counting backwards as this brand of anesthesia knocks you out That Fast. I awoke before being wheeled to my room, was asked my name and birthday, did I know where I was, and lunch would be available, soup would be good. Jello. Tubes and a drain that ended in a grenade-shaped balloon were sticking out of various ports, and there I was, minus a gallbladder. I was thrilled that it was done through smaller openings, and that it was fairly easy to maneuver my new attachment, the I.V. pole, into the bathroom.
A glossy of the offending gallbladder plus some interior landscape shots were handed to me and boy howdy. THAT was in me? I was told a big, syllabic word that began with an 'a' indicating that it was on it's way to becoming cancerous. The interior stitches will dissolve in two months, they may work their way out through the ports. Whee.
The next day, going home was scheduled as soon as the doctor took out the shunt. Now this was something else. He took the one drain out, a bit of a sting but no problem. Then he got pliers, braced his hand against me, and pulled. I yelp-screamed involuntarily, as it felt like being stabbed in reverse, (not that I know what it feels like to be stabbed), and immediately hoped the noise didn't wake up the 97-year-old lady who was in the next bed. She was so sweet. Sorry, sorry, sorry, said the doctor. I'm good, I gasped. It subsided quickly and I was given permission to go home. My friend picked me up and home is where I stayed for a month, mostly sleeping.
This time, about three weeks ago, it would have been closer to dusk; today white clouds slip along upper currents with the earliest of pink tinge, indicating sunset. A slight storm, more wind than anything, dispensed snow along edges of curbs following a freezing rain, but the force of the sky carried everything away as quick as it came. The winds are still at work, pushing cloud behemoths to the southeast, away from the city; as the sky darkens, for pink has become rose has become grey, the cloud shapes of cathedrals, animals, of ponderous atmosphere will change, dissipate, and dissolve over the farther mountains.
The wind remains in a mostly now cloudless sky, meaning for a cold night; it runs along the edges of the brick and mortared grooves, pulling at the windows while telling in murmurs and roars about the power of the sun, the rotation of the earth, the movement of tides, of thermal heat rising. Makes one wish to wrap tighter in a blanket with a book, a cat, a cup. But not yet, for I am moving a sofa to another wall so that I can see the sky and lighted city out the window, rearrange easels (two), drafting board (done) and other nonsense. I can hear the five o'clock church bells, cutting through the sound of the tearing wind. Tonight we spring forward; I wonder, who still pushes clock hands, and who resets by pushing buttons?
Sleep well, sleep quickly, tomorrow will come tiptoeing sooner, a minor deviation of nature as percolated by busy people many years ago. The season is slowly changing anyways, in spite of what the clocks declare, and many birds have returned north; perhaps you have heard their song on your walk-abouts. There is a phoebe near where I work who sings in the mornings; there have been robins, blackbirds, and a variety of odd-headed ducks down by the water. It is cold, we still have snow, but the willow branches have become yellow, and the slender osiers have become burgundy red. What have you seen? Spring approaches like the footsteps of a glad love, it will rush against your face, not with the sting of ice, but with green and budding apple trees, with rushes of flowers and feathered things, with emergent salamanders and spring peepers, a warm wind that seeks buttons and open collars.
Sleep then, and dream; let the night pour in and know that you are safe. Good night.
Got to the plexiglass bus shelter at 6:40; shadowy few adults roamed through the ice, all gloved, hooded, and wrapped into unrecognizable, upright phantoms, ghosts of the Michelin man. The street lights held their illumination back, as if the leaden cold slowed down the electromagnetic waves, and dulled the energy of the sodium vapor ignited by the electrical arc, reluctantly creating the familiar orange glow.
Too cold for light of day or street lamp; the shuffling humans had to revert to earlier senses, to an intuition of direction since lifting one's face to see where you were going invited the icy particles to blast skin and steal what heat had formed in huddled chests. They were ambling monoliths, unsure of footing, reluctant, waddling penguins of dawn. Seeing them still gave me a sense of humanity, that I was not alone in a desolate landscape, for I was as bundled as they, breathing into my scarf and collar to make a small, warm room for my nose.
And then from the oblivion, the lights of a bus appeared as if at the end of a far tunnel, a spaceship emerging impossibly from a black hole. Where they were hiding, I don't know, but suddenly four more monoliths appeared, with backpacks. College or high school students, perhaps. The bus bounced to a raucous stop, brakes shuddering, chassis still in forward motion as a bus in excess of 24,000 pounds will. We boarded into a dimly lit cavern, all that much more mystical by the contents of folks who had put on whatever layers they could find, sitting like Buddhas or people from biblical times, wound in yards of cotton jersey, nylon, lumpy jackets. Knit hats were pulled down, illumined by two pinpricks of light below the rims; glistening corneas not yet frozen white and useless, grateful for the rambunctious, noisome heater.
No one looked at each other, nor acknowledged the stumbling arrivals lurching to available seats. This was my first run on this route, No. 8, and I only hoped that it did indeed eventually land at the stop by the hospital. I fussed if I had to cross Humboldt at Main, for it is a mess of a small god's teeth, arse, and damnation regarding traffic, and with people on their way to work, who knows if I would decorate someone's bonnet as a shapeless down jacketed ornament? All this excessive worrying came from apprehension regarding the forthcoming operation, could it be done laparoscopically or would it require an extensive excavation? The bus darkly bounced on, crushing ice and overnight drifts.
We pulled up close to another bus at an intersection, except that it wasn't moving; their driver got out and told ours that it had broken down and that he would have to back up and dodge around the beast. Our driver howled no no no no no, not today, it's past 6:50, I'm late already as he carefully nudged the bus back and through the opposite lane, cutting off oncoming traffic. We flew to the next stop, a shelter with many people, two of which had no money but needed rides. Okay, you come on, said our hero. The two men were grateful, polite, and hustled to the back to begin a loud conversation as to how and why the last job didn't work out.
Hero driver nearly ran over a tall man with a cane in the middle of the street, who was waving him down. Not today, not today, begged he, but the bus was pulled over, doors open, and the fellow wanted to know if the route stopped at which and which. Come on, come on, but you gotta hurry, I'm late; the cane holder said that was okay, he would catch the next one.
Through city streets we slid, a small earthquake on tires; there were no curbs, there were few stop signs given a full halt; I wondered what on earth is the penalty for being late on a bus route? But hooray! Here is my stop and it is better than wished for, right at the edge of the hospital parking lot! Still dark, my feet negotiated the rippled ice to the hospital door as the bus wheezed and catapulted onwards to the University station.
Hello, hello, and the forms and questions began; what's your name, when is your birthday? I was labeled and taken to an intake room to put on the ubiquitous gown and swab myself with pink solution. Nurses came and went, and at one point a young man introduced himself as the Chaplin and did I have any religious requests? There is daily communion at the chapel, someone available if I needed consoling, and did I wish to say a prayer? No thank you. I expected to hear further invitation, but he smiled, chatted a bit more about innocuous stuff, and we wished each other well as he disappeared through the surrounding curtain.
It went smoothly, I was told not to bother counting backwards as this brand of anesthesia knocks you out That Fast. I awoke before being wheeled to my room, was asked my name and birthday, did I know where I was, and lunch would be available, soup would be good. Jello. Tubes and a drain that ended in a grenade-shaped balloon were sticking out of various ports, and there I was, minus a gallbladder. I was thrilled that it was done through smaller openings, and that it was fairly easy to maneuver my new attachment, the I.V. pole, into the bathroom.
A glossy of the offending gallbladder plus some interior landscape shots were handed to me and boy howdy. THAT was in me? I was told a big, syllabic word that began with an 'a' indicating that it was on it's way to becoming cancerous. The interior stitches will dissolve in two months, they may work their way out through the ports. Whee.
The next day, going home was scheduled as soon as the doctor took out the shunt. Now this was something else. He took the one drain out, a bit of a sting but no problem. Then he got pliers, braced his hand against me, and pulled. I yelp-screamed involuntarily, as it felt like being stabbed in reverse, (not that I know what it feels like to be stabbed), and immediately hoped the noise didn't wake up the 97-year-old lady who was in the next bed. She was so sweet. Sorry, sorry, sorry, said the doctor. I'm good, I gasped. It subsided quickly and I was given permission to go home. My friend picked me up and home is where I stayed for a month, mostly sleeping.
This time, about three weeks ago, it would have been closer to dusk; today white clouds slip along upper currents with the earliest of pink tinge, indicating sunset. A slight storm, more wind than anything, dispensed snow along edges of curbs following a freezing rain, but the force of the sky carried everything away as quick as it came. The winds are still at work, pushing cloud behemoths to the southeast, away from the city; as the sky darkens, for pink has become rose has become grey, the cloud shapes of cathedrals, animals, of ponderous atmosphere will change, dissipate, and dissolve over the farther mountains.
The wind remains in a mostly now cloudless sky, meaning for a cold night; it runs along the edges of the brick and mortared grooves, pulling at the windows while telling in murmurs and roars about the power of the sun, the rotation of the earth, the movement of tides, of thermal heat rising. Makes one wish to wrap tighter in a blanket with a book, a cat, a cup. But not yet, for I am moving a sofa to another wall so that I can see the sky and lighted city out the window, rearrange easels (two), drafting board (done) and other nonsense. I can hear the five o'clock church bells, cutting through the sound of the tearing wind. Tonight we spring forward; I wonder, who still pushes clock hands, and who resets by pushing buttons?
Sleep well, sleep quickly, tomorrow will come tiptoeing sooner, a minor deviation of nature as percolated by busy people many years ago. The season is slowly changing anyways, in spite of what the clocks declare, and many birds have returned north; perhaps you have heard their song on your walk-abouts. There is a phoebe near where I work who sings in the mornings; there have been robins, blackbirds, and a variety of odd-headed ducks down by the water. It is cold, we still have snow, but the willow branches have become yellow, and the slender osiers have become burgundy red. What have you seen? Spring approaches like the footsteps of a glad love, it will rush against your face, not with the sting of ice, but with green and budding apple trees, with rushes of flowers and feathered things, with emergent salamanders and spring peepers, a warm wind that seeks buttons and open collars.
Sleep then, and dream; let the night pour in and know that you are safe. Good night.
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