Finished up the work week without much ado. Now I must hastily pack and get to bed so that I’ll be refreshed for the ten hour drive to Little Rock. The iPod is charged and ready for road-trippin’. Copious amounts of coffee are set for brewing and consumption. Socks and underwear — check. Suits, shirts, ties, shoes, belt — check. Toiletries — check. Affable demeanor, idle conversation talking points — check. Lap-top charged up and in carrying case — Doh!
Archive for September, 2006
Holy crap, am I ever tired. One more day of work and Mary Alice and I hit the road for Little Rock, Arkansas to celebrate her brother’s wedding. I sorely need the break from the hospital and the ever-present drama therein. Last night and today I went round and round with several kids, trying (in vain) to help them accept responsibility for their actions. One of the Gummy Snatchers could not for the life of him understand why his confession (“I stole some snacks and then lied to staff about it.”) was met with some consequences from me (several written assignments; loss of snack privileges). “This is bullshit! I’m getting in trouble for doing the right thing!”
Ah, the wonders of young minds. I passed out cold on the sofa in the middle of the previous sentence. I’m sure I was going somewhere with the “hard-headedness of teenagers” thing. Oh well, I can do some more research tomorrow.
Monday mornings I wake to sound of the dumpster being emptied. When it crashes to the ground the whole apartment shakes. In my sleepy haze I thought another thunderstorm was raging. I was dreaming about the kids (the patients at work). Most nights, it seems, I dream about the kids. Today I’ll be with them for twelve hours, so tonight — guess what — I’ll probably dream about the kids. I need to learn to manage my attention better while I’m at work. I am so hyper-vigilant, as if national security is on the line if I miss a note being passed, or a pack of gummy-bears being lifted from the galley. Yesterday we caught someone stealing gummies. He shoved a few packs into the front pocket of his hoody after getting his allotted “one snack and a drink.” Turns out he had a whole stock-pile in his room. Weapons of mass tooth-decay. After some intense interrogation (no water-boarding, I swear), we uncovered a whole ring of gummy-snatchers. Harsh consequences were laid down. The eighteen young mouths on the Adolescent Chemical Dependency Unit are safer today than they were yesterday. I sleep well at night. Except for those damned dreams.
This “blogging everyday” experiment promises to be interesting–to me anyway. I don’t know what the other two or three readers will think. The thing is, once my work schedule kicks in, there’s not much to report between blog entries other than “I went to work.” Okay, so this is bullshit, I know. Who ever said blogging is about “reporting” anyway? There are always an infinite number of waves swelling, rising and crashing against the wall of my skull. I can jump on my board and ride until the cows come home, and believe me, those fuckers are never coming home. Stupid cows.
So, I came in from work last night and my wife asked, “How was work?” and I said, “Uneventful.” It’s all relative, of course. One of my patients found out yesterday that his father was critically injured in a car accident. The boy had just recently been told this man was, in fact, his biological father, and now he faces losing his Dad to death. So the evening was “uneventful” only from the narrow perspective of me. Of course I felt for the kid and spent time talking with him, doing my best to help him deal with the situation. But I suppose I’ve gotten so used to the horror stories that I only register something as an “event” if it’s outside the usual routine. For those of us who work in psychiatric hospitals, it can be surprising what one considers “routine.” Which reminds me of another horror story…
What’s that? Do I hear mooing?
Man, did it ever rain last night. We were under a “tornado watch” until 3am, which terrified my wife. I didn’t worry about it too much. I figured, “If it’s our time, it’s our time.” Of course, we all interpret life through the filter of our beliefs and fears. I’m sure there are people who saw the tornadoes on the news and said to themselves, “It’s End Times.” There’s a maintenance worker at the hospital who talks about End Times all the time. When she points that pistol my way I just nod my head, say “Uh huh,” then get to where I’m going. But I’m thinking to myself, “You crazy bitch!”
The other day one of my patients approached me excitedly with a Bible in her hand. At an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting the night before, a man quoted some scripture to her, so she borrowed the unit’s copy of the Good Book to check it out. She was positively beaming from ear to ear as she pointed out to me the library stamp inside the front cover. It was from her very own home town, hundreds of miles away. She felt like God had placed that book in her hands for a reason. Now, I can relate to this feeling. When I picked up a copy of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn in the laundry room of an apartment complex back in 1996, it seemed like I was meant to read that particular book at that particular time. Indeed, that event altered the course of my life. But back to the Bible. The girl came back to me a few hours later to ask me some questions. She said: “There are a few things I’m confused about, Bob. How could God have created the world in just seven days? And some of the people lived to be so old, like 700 years old. How could that be? And what about dinosaurs? Doesn’t science tell us about dinosaurs? How can God have made all the animals at the same time if dinosaurs were around long before?”
“Oh shit!” I thought to myself. I’ve never been comfortable revealing too much about my philosophy or spirituality to the kids. It’s unethical to push one’s religious beliefs on others in a therapeutic setting, although it’s quite impossible, believe me, to teach kids about addiction and recovery without one’s values creeping in along the way. Anyway, I started to tell the girl that indeed, she was asking some very good questions, and that while I did not really know the answers, I encouraged her to dialogue with people. Before I could finish my response, however, a coworker of mine, who had apparently been eavesdropping on the conversation, piped in with a string of direct answers to the girl’s questions, including some book recommendations. He said, “There’s a theory — and it has some scientific backing — that there was a water canopy surrounding the earth during Biblical times, and it filtered out a lot of the harmful UV rays that cause aging. That’s why people lived so long back then. And that’s where all the water came from during the Great Flood. And don’t forget, Noah’s Ark was really, really big, so I’m sure there was room for dinosaurs…”
My jaw ’bout hit the floor. I just snuck out of the room, wondering to myself how we’re ever going to deal with the problems we face on this planet when even among friends and coworkers we have such utterly divergent views of life and the world. Then I go home and see the trailer to the new documentary Jesus Camp. God help us all, indeed!
These illustrations show just how a water canopy covering the Earth would not only create a globally warm climate but also would shield our planet from harmful radiation. Thus, allowing mankind to reach ages up to 900 plus years and also allowing reptiles to grow to the size of our dinosaur fossils. A global flood that occured roughly 1,500 years after Adam was created would create the coal layers (compressed global vegetation) and the fossilization of the huge behemoths known to us today as the dinosaurs. Remember, in Genesis 1:6-8, God divided the waters from the waters and placed this upper water canopy ABOVE the firmament called “Heaven.”
It’s been raining cats and dogs all day and I haven’t accomplished much other than taking Mary Alice to school and playing a few tunes on the guitar. I miss the days when I used to play all the time, recording every little thing that came to my mind. Every impulse felt important, like I was duty-bound to preserve every riff, every harmony idea, so that one day — when I had a year-and-a-half of uninterrupted free time — I could carry it all to fruition. I have carried a few ideas forward, most of which are featured on this site. But seriously, I would actually need at least a year-and-a-half to honor every song idea in those stacks of cassette tapes.
The truth of the matter, however, is that I like most of the recordings as they stand, just the way they are in their nascent form. Sometimes it feels like sacrilege to tamper with something that came to me so freely, like it can when someone snaps a picture of a pure and private moment. Some songs are too special to record, some experiences too precious to be captured.
I’m not sure why I like this one so much, but not too long ago I recorded the following extemporaneous bit as I was testing my microphone’s sound level: Old Strings.mp3. I played it again today to warm up my voice. It made me feel at home in my bones.
It never ceases to amaze me how good it feels to step out of the three-ring circus of Me, Myself and I for awhile and make someone else’s well-being Priority Number One. I busted my ass at work this week, covering for a coworker on vacation, and while it’s true that I’m very much focused on my patients and their needs during the work-week, once I get a day off it’s “all about me.” This might explain why I’ve not yet had the slightest impulse to be a father. Anyway, today was supposed to Me Day but it turned out to be M.A. Day. M.A. being Mary Alice, my wife. Okay, so I wasn’t a freakin’ saint or anything, but I could see she was stressed out about grad school stuff, so I did a few thoughtful things for her, like dropped her off and picked her up from the university, cleaned up her mess in the kitchen, cooked her dinner. I feel better than expected today, which makes me wonder… Perhaps my whole weekly routine — with the grueling work days of being totally absorbed in the needs of others and the off days of total self-absorbtion — needs some tweaking.
Lately, it seems the basic unit of my life has been “the week.” That’s just how I look at things. Five days on, two days off, then round and round we go. Many of the activities I consider important to me — like exercising, playing guitar, blogging, dates with my wife — I do so many times per week. I remember once thinking, “Wouldn’t it be better to make the day the basic unit of living?”, but I dimissed that as too pie-in-the-sky, too unrealistic. I mean what if on a given day I happen to be at work for eightteen hours or I have a dentist appointment or I’m sick and puking? No one can expect to taste happiness and fulfillment every day. Right?
Well shit, maybe I’ve had it all wrong. I can at least aspire to seize the day. Of course, I know all this, and that it would better yet to be fully present all the time, down to the nanosecond. One step at a time, Bobby. One step at a time.
So I just spent a half-hour trying to find the Latin word for “week,” thinking I’d use it for the title of this blog entry. You know, “Carpe [insert Latin word for week].” Pretty lame, I know, but here’s the thing: There is no Latin word for “week.” Holy shit! The road ahead couldn’t be more clear. I must blog every day.
[Thanks to Georg for planting the seed]
The Dana Carvey Show was cancelled seven episodes into its first season in 1996. I guess depicting the President of the United States breast-feeding babies and pigs in the opening sketch of the first episode isn’t exactly “playing it safe” for a primetime, major network show. But damn, it was freakin’ hilarious! I watched everything I could find of the show on YouTube, which has become one of my favorite sites. I don’t have cable TV, so there are things I’d never get to see if not for the blatant copyright infringement rampant on the internet. God bless America!
Really though, I don’t understand why people bitch so much about this kind of piracy. It’s free publicity, as far as I’m concerned. My exposure to Dana Carvey via these YouTube broadcasts just makes me hunger for more. If he came to Lexington on a stand-up comedy tour, I’d be first in line. And now I’d love to have the episodes of the show on DVD. It’s on my Christmas list, by golly.
Same goes for music. I’m a firm believer in the “give it away for free” marketing strategy. The folks that aren’t internet savvy will continue to buy CD’s, which is fine. But if some kid gets my songs off the net for nothing, I say “Hot shit!” Whatever it takes to get into their iPods. If they like it, they’ll want more. If I were still in a band, I’d put up a killer website and let folks download select songs for free. Then I’d offer tiers of paid subscription, each offering graded levels of access to bonus stuff, like podcasts or practice-session videos. Hec, the die-hard fans might even go in for Platinum Membership, featuring video conference calls and dibs on my old clothes.
[Another chapter in The radical i experiment, a writing project in gestation.]
Lost in thought at the Open Eye Café. Last night Brenda died in my dream. I’m remembering this as I stare at a vase of flowers getting showered in sunlight. Heavy breaths weigh on my bones and my muscles ache as if I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs. Turning toward the window I see the sleepy sky and feel the scratch of wool on my skin. The word “love” has been so overused, I think, that it’s become just another word, like “lice” or “lollipop.” Just a taste of the real thing and we remember with thunder rumbling in our guts: Freedom is real, and life is not just a dream in which we die, unfulfilled, fettered and unawake.
The sky is now dark and dreaming, and the flowers sag like the jowels of a woebegone old woman. Only death can stop the madness now. The fence around my heart grows higher, more impenetrable. The only way out now is down and under. “Down and under, down and under…” My thoughts get stuck in this groove as I stare at the rocking chair across the room. There’s something about the sight of an empty rocking chair that evokes in me a sense of nostalgia mixed with undertones of terror. There’s something ghostly about it, a haunting by the spirits of deceased relatives. I guess that’s it. For me the rocker is a symbol of death, or more precisely, of waiting to die. “Can Aunt Hazel move in with us?” “Sure, but we’ll have to get a rocker for the living room, so she’ll have something to do while we all wait patiently for her heart stop beating.” Living room indeed.
A breeze blowing through the open window gently rocks the empty chair, and I imagine it’s the ghost of Aunt Hazel waiting for someone to sit on her lap. It’s interesting to hear from my parents that Hazel adored me, and that I, unlike the others in the family, seemed to have no fear of her witheredness. Apparently she had a wart removed from her face because I had innocently pointed out how unappealing it was. She had stubbornly refused to part with this eyesore for decades in the face of relentless ridicule, and then a mere grimace from a child suddenly compels her to have it lopped off.
My parents now live in the old house on Taylor Street, and when I’m home for a visit I stay in Hazel’s old room. My Uncle Jack, who lived in that house well into his thirties, won’t set foot into that room to this day. Funny how the old bird suddenly means something to me. I’ve got warts of my own now to be ashamed of, as well as a paralyzing fear that I’m just rocking my life away.
My defenses are down today. I feel fragile, susceptible to the vagaries of life. Last night’s hard partying has killed off enough brain cells to upset the smooth running of the mind machine. A pleasant side effect to buffer the pain. If to be haunted is to be visited by a spirit, then why be afraid? Welcoming Hazel today I was enriched. Brenda I run from, though she seems to be everywhere, even in the nooks and crannies of my van. What would become of me, I wonder, if I could welcome that spirit?
James Brown howls from the stereo, calling me back to San Rafael, CA, the group home on Third Street and the haunted soul of one Sam Jenkins. A black man in his thirties, this crazy motherfucker was haunted–possessed maybe–by James Brown. He would get up each morning (who knows if he ever slept), take his meds, then go back upstairs to his room and blast James Brown from his boom box. He had only one tape, which he played over and over again, all day, every day I worked there. He would take a few breaks during the day to wander about town, then he’d return home for more of the Godfather of Soul. He didn’t merely listen to the music though; he howled and grunted along in a dead-on perfect impression, his foot thumping, shaking the dishes in the cabinets downstairs. Evenings I’d have to open his door and shout at him– “Want any dinner Sam?” “Wha we haain?” “Lasagne!” “Poke chops?” “No, Lasagne!” “I ain’t eatin that?” Then he’d turn back to the stereo, thumping his left foot, slapping his right thigh, and howling at the blank wall in front of him.
At one point, James Brown actually came to town for a show, and we got tickets for Sam, thinking he’d be ecstatic. Although he grunted his assent at the idea, when it came time for the show he wouldn’t budge. He just grunted at us, turned back to the stereo, and continued thumping, tapping and howling like his life depended on it. Who’s to say it didn’t?
Last night I wanted to crawl under a rock, and tonight, tonight when the rest of the guys are nursing their hangovers, I crave the company of others. I started to write “the company of angels”–for whatever it’s worth. Nothing, I know. I almost got laid last night, almost went nuts at the café today. I want to carve my name into the night, this night, tonight, friends or no friends, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it. Guess all a man needs is a good sharp knife–that and the courage to thrust it in to the hilt at the first opportunity.
I just finished the final season of Six Feet Under, and it broke my heart. I know it’s “just a TV show,” but I guess I was pretty attached to it, and I especially identified with Nate. The whole experience was strange for me, as for some reason I believed there was six seasons of the show instead of five. The whole time I was watching the final season, I assumed I was watching the second-to-last season, so when I went to the library yesterday to rent the Season Five finale, I assumed that my wife and I had another twelve episodes to enjoy down the road. I looked at the back of the DVD case when I got home, and was bewildered to see a “series retrospective” listed as a bonus feature. Well, a few seconds on-line confirmed my suspicion, that indeed we were about to watch the final episode, the end, no more show, my favorite show, done, gone. I was hesitant. I told my wife that I wasn’t sure I was ready to watch it. I felt so blind-sided by the whole thing, just as many are by death itself, I suppose.
Needless to say, I wept like a grieving widow throughout the last episode, as I did through much of the series. I started watching the show just after my younger brother passed away, in early 2005. As the cast and crew were filming the final season, I was renting the first season DVD’s at the library a few times per month. The show cracked me wide open during the very first episode, and it became the primary means by which I processed both my feelings of grief and my fears around death in general.
The show really meant a lot to me. My heavy heart can attest to that. Like Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn and Black Spring, Six Feet Under came into my life at exactly the right time, and it stands as one of the truly important works of art I have been fortunate enough to encounter. Someday, I will watch the entire series again, just as I return to Miller every so often for sustenance and reassurance. But it will never be the same. It never is. And that, right now, makes me sad. Goodbye Nate, David, Ruth, and Claire. And thanks to Alan Ball, the cast, crew and everyone involved in bringing the show to life. It was more than a show about death. It left me more alive and openhearted.