Category: Personal

[A snippet from a writing project in gestation, which will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read these other snippets: Square one, No importa, New tables, Belly of the beast, No turning back, Memories, dreams, reflections, El campo de pueblo, Wait and see, Bug in the Jug, & Only now.]

Here on the Pueblo, when it rains, it comes down hard. I’m talking a fucking deluge. The sky just opens up and dumps it all on you – clouds, birds, airplanes, stars – the whole enchilada. It could go on like this for an hour, then suddenly stop, as if a giant, unseen hand just turned off the celestial faucet. A minute later it might come down again in a torrent, for another hour or more. It went on like this all day yesterday, and all through the night.

Of course, I needed to get to San Pedro to see the doctor about my knee. Turns out, my travel insurance will cover the cost of an MRI, as long as El Doctor makes the referral. Jesús didn’t seem concerned about the rain, the condition of the roads, etc., so we headed out about 4:15pm. We managed to get there unharmed, although Jesús did mention as we crossed “the bridge” that there was a good chance it would be under water by the time we returned. “Then what?” I asked, naively. Well, then we’d just have to sit there and wait for the river to go down. Might take several hours, assuming the rain stops. No importa!

Anyway, it was a long wait to see the doc, but once we got in, he quickly went to work on the knee, taking it through all the drills. Of course, the whole exchange had to be translated, the doctor asking me “Does it hurt when I do this?” and me wincing and resisting, but for the most part relating that I didn’t feel any sharp pain, just some discomfort and weird sensations (and fear that at any moment I’d be in agony as a result of his manipulations). The lack of pain seemed to perplex the doc, leading him to believe that the complete ligament tear he was sensing must have been the result of an old injury. “If it was recent, he’d be in more pain” he explained to Molly. He theorized that this old injury caused instability in the knee, causing the meniscus to tear during the soccer game. I told Molly to tell him that, with all due respect, his theory didn’t make sense to me. I’ve only injured my left knee once, seven years ago, and the MRI at that time showed no ligament damage, just a fracture. It healed fine and I’ve had no injuries since. Knee solid as a rock. Played sports a zillion times with total stability. Surely, I haven’t since shredded my knee ligament, without a hint of pain or swelling to indicate an injury took place? Besides, I said, I felt my knee get torn to shreds two weeks ago on the soccer field, with the pain being primarily where the torn ligament used to be. The doctor stuck to his guns, however, insisting the torn ligament must be from an old injury. At that moment, what little confidence I had in him vanished. Worse than being dead wrong, he was setting me up for an insurance nightmare. Old injury = pre-existing condition = no coverage for repair. And surgical repair will be necessary, he said, if I hope to ever play sports again. And I do hope.

“At least we got the MRI referral,” I thought, as we headed back home in the downpour. “We’ll have to travel several hours to get to the nearest MRI facility, deal with continual confusion, etc., but the sooner I can get it done, the sooner I can get back on my feet. The thing now is to get back to the house in one piece.” How Jesús managed to navigate around the puddles and potholes, I don’t know. It was dark and the windows were all fogged up, and Jesus had to continually wipe away a spot through which to see the road ahead. We approached the bridge, but it was no passe. The pavement had to be at least a few feet below the surface of the rushing water, and a downed tree was blocking the way as well. Jesús told us that last year a car tried to cross during a flood like this and four people drowned. We voted unanimously to remain alive, so there was nothing to do but wait. My thoughts were caught up in worries about the surgery, which would have to happen in the United States. “Shit, with all the associated expenses, I might not be able to return to Mexico at all. Even if I could swing the chunk of dough the insurance won’t cover and the travel expenses, still we will lose my part of the grant money if I need to be away for more than a month.” Every now and again a phrase from the mindfulness book would come to mind. Acceptance, Bobby. Don’t get caught up in your thoughts, Bobby. Return to your breath, Bobby. “Fuck all that!” I thought to myself, but before I could elaborate further, we were heading across the bridge, water rushing up over the tires. When we arrived at the house, we noticed that the floor of our room was pretty wet. Rainwater had gotten in through the closed window and the ceiling was leaking in a few places. There was nothing to do but throw down some towels, move the bed to a dry place, and ride out the storm. When I turned the bathroom faucet on, the water that flowed out looked like diarrhea. Chunks of mud were being spit out into the sink. Our hosts informed us that this is just what happens when the river swells beyond its banks. Again, nothing to do about it but wait. It’s now 3pm the following day, and still the water is pure mud. No showering, no washing dishes, no washing clothes until the river deems it so. It’s the beginning of the rainy season, we are told. Might rain like this for days.

So, the MRI trip will have to wait. Patience – Isn’t that one of those fucking pillars of mindfulness? I’ve been laid up for two weeks now, and it’s hard to keep my spirits up. I’m a guy who likes to stay on the move. Shit, my whole philosophy of life has to do with allowing the body to move unfettered. I can see the atrophy setting in already, and I have at least several more weeks of immobility ahead of me. This was not part of the plan but, yes, it’s true, this is how it is. I can make the most of it or continue whining.

One thing I have been doing is sorting through the old journal files. Funny thing, the past. The sense of it I’ve been carrying around with me doesn’t seem to match up with the documentation. Stories I’ve been telling for the past few years, upon close inspection, appear to be significantly edited versions of what “really” happened, assuming the journal entries are closer to the truth of things. I’m not sure what to make of this. After all, we register an experience on a few levels at most, filtering everything through a mesh of conditioning, tangled thoughts and twisted expectations. Considering the teeny tiny attention spans most of us make use of, it’s no wonder it can take years to fully make sense of a single experience, to deeply understand even the briefest of openings to the majesty, the wonder of a given moment.

A few minutes ago, I concluded my trip down memory lane, arriving back at September, 2007. I am struck with how non-linear my past seems, as I sense it from the vantage point of today, right now, as it swirls and bubbles up through the portals of memory and dreams. The dramas and concerns that preoccupied me even a month or two ago, seem no closer to hand nor further away than the smell of Grandma’s kitchen, or the countless nightmares and longings of my youth. And so it will soon be with all this rain, and the worries about my knee, and the bumpy roads and muddy water. Soon the floodwaters will recede, and all will flow back into the mix, into the bubbling swirl of moments forgotten, where the past is churned together with the sound of pigs being slaughtered and the smell of burning plastic and the hollow pangs of hope and despair. A gurgling, sputtering ocean that spits its spindrift toward the sky, where the stars broadcast their secrets through the ether, and where revelation awaits, full of grace, for an open ear…

This is more or less a test run, to see whether or not I can blog from this little internet place in town. It´s a slow dial-up connection, and many of the characters on the keyboard don´t seem to function correctly, but we´re doing our best here.

We arrived on the “red-eye” bus from Mexico City this morning, and we´re getting settled into life in the “Pueblo.” Don´t let the internet connection fool you. It´s no frills baby. No frills.

The family we´re staying with are very nice, although it´s tough for me to make small talk in a language I can´t understand.

Yo tengo sueno.

Hasta luego.

Here are a couple of snap-shots to get things rolling. The first is Mary Alice and me at the National Art Museum in the Centro Historico. Amazing place. I could spend an entire day looking at the ceilings.

The next photo is Mary Alice at the Templo Mayor, the ruins of an Aztec pyramid set right in the middle of Mexico City. Very cool…

We’ll try to check in again soon after we get settled in Veracruz. Apparently, Hurricane Dean did not cause too much trouble where we will be staying.

Hasta Luego!

A boy, about seven or eight, just appeared before me, stuck his hand out directly under my nose, and demanded some pesos. I probably shouldn’t have given him anything, because he was probably scamming me. He was pretty well dressed and couldn’t help laughing a few times. I speak very little Spanish at this point, but I did manage to understand that he said he was hungry, wanted some money for food, and claimed not to have a mother or father. I gave him ten pesos, then he walked out, knocked on the window, and laughed at me again.

I’m sitting in a Starbucks. Outside I can see a Dominos Pizza. There’s also a McDonald’s, a Subway, a Dunkin Donuts, a KFC and a Wal-Mart. Did I mention I was in Mexico City?

I’m freakin’ exhausted at the moment, but this is first time I’ve had access to the World Wide Web in a while, so I’m gonna post through the pain. Actually, I’ve had a great time so far in Mexico City. The Fulbright people have given Mary Alice and I the red-carpet treatment, and the people we’ve met have been wonderful. We visited the historical district this afternoon and took our first snap-shots with the new camera. Once I figure out how work the thing, I’ll post the highlights.

I feel like I have a bull’s eye on my forehead right now, so I’m going to pack up the lap-top, run back to the hotel, and lose myself in Mexican TV. The Simspons was on earlier, but I didn’t get a chance to see how they translate “D’oh” into Spanish.

The past is tricky thing. I’m not sure if it exists at all, but at the very least my mind is triggered by certain people, places and things to release a sputtering stream of selective memories and slumbering emotions.

I’m sitting in a chair at the Open Eye Café, a coffee shop in Carrboro, NC where I spent countless hours brooding and dreaming. This was all years ago, when the café was in the building next door, in a cramped but charming little space that became known as “Carrboro’s living room.” It really was a second living room for me, just a stone’s throw from my old house on West Carr St. The chair next to me is an original from the old space. It’s green and stiff-backed and tattered. I used to hate being stuck with that chair, if the place was too crowded to score a spot on the sofa. The new space is huge, and there are enough chairs and tables to hold a town meeting.

I used to know the whole staff, but today all the faces are new. Tattoo-clad Carrboro scene-sters, dressed in funky thrift store vintage, too cool for school and a little too aloof, too detached. Maybe it’s just me.

Last week I was home with the family, the ghosts of yesterday floating through every nook and cranny, coloring my perception, making things smoky and sentimental. Last night Eric and I went out to see a rock show at the “Resevoir,” which used to be “Go! Studios” back in the day. The stage where I played my final show with the band is now where the bar is. The new stage is where the bar used to be. Everything is mixed up, muddled, mangled a bit. Things are not quite where they should be. Like in a dream, only I’m not dreaming. I think.

I hear there’s a respectable family now living in the old house. I cruised down Carr St. to take a look, but it was hard to make anything out through the trees, hard to tell if there’s even a house there anymore. I thought about going up the long, winding driveway to get a closer look, but I didn’t want to freak anybody out. I didn’t want to freak myself out.

Perhaps, in that house, I’m the ghost floating about.

Just a quick update to let everyone know I’m still alive.

Mary Alice and I successfully moved all of our crap into a storage unit and then immediately hit the road for New York to visit with my family. My back is still aching. I think it was the piano that finally did me in. Anyway, we’ve been hanging out here in Troy, and we also had a chance to check out Northampton, MA, which is a potential long-term destination. Pretty funky town. The slogan is: “Where the coffee is strong, and so are the women.” So, my wife and I are both covered. My three favorite places — San Francisco, Carrboro, and Northampton — all have thriving lesbian populations. Go figure.

Tomorrow morning we roll on to North Carolina, to visit with my wife’s Mom and my best friends. Then it’s onward to Mexico City. Life is rushing by in a blur. I’m feeling around, hoping for something to hold on to, struggling for some clarity of perspective. Guess I’ll wash ashore soon enough.

Today was the day. For three and a half years I walked the halls of a psychiatric hospital, with a badge that said “Bob D.” and key that could get me out of there whenever I wanted. Most nights I left around 11:08pm, but I always returned, eventually. Today I had to ask someone to let me through the doors, because today I turned in my badge and key. Today I said goodbye to my co-workers, my friends, who are — without a doubt — the finest group of people I’ve ever worked with.

I’ve been ready for a while now. Ready for a change. Ready to leave that place behind. But it’s more than a place, really. I lost sight of that too often. Each one of us brought our lives, our whole selves to what we did, day in and day out, together. Babies were born. Loved ones died. There were crises, one after another it seemed, that had to be worked out. And we always seemed to work them out. We somehow managed to keep it all together. We laughed a lot, too.

When I got home this afternoon, I couldn’t keep myself together for long. I went into the bathroom, sat on the floor, and sobbed hard. Real hard.

Today I left at about 4:25pm, without a badge and without a key. But I have some gratitude, for Larry and Linda, Marc and Mike, Leslie and Geoff, for Teresa and Delania, Debbie and Gary, Michael and Ryan and Jennifer and Old Chief and Paul and Greg. And, of course, for the kids, the hundreds of them who sat with me on those ugly pink chairs, all of us staring at that big chunk of wood in the center of the room known as “the pick,” sharing our pain, our confusion, our bullshit and bad dreams, our experience, strength and hope.

I’m leaving a lot behind. A big chunk of my soul.

Keep it well, my friends.

Thank you.

My wife and I are in Vermont visiting her father and step-mom. They’ve recently bought some property up here. Just an hour ago we were all hiking on the grounds, imagining what the future might hold for this land of moose and maple syrup. Speaking of the future — I’ve been living squarely in it, imagining any and all possible scenarios for my time in Mexico. Banditos. Scorpions. That sort of thing.

I have to take a little road trip to Boston while I’m up here, to pick up a travel visa. New England is beautiful this time of year. It’s cool in the evenings. The houses are old, the floors uneven, the people pleasant. The too-long, too-cold winter is nowhere near at hand.

I’m hoping to recharge the old batteries on this little vacation. There are days I can barely contain my excitement about Mexico, nights I can hardly sleep. I feel like I’m at a critical juncture in my life. Patterns have been hardening these past few years. Limiting patterns of thinking, feeling, and being. I suppose potentials and possibilities necessarily get whittled down a bit as we get older and make choices in life. I’ll probably never dunk a basketball. I can accept that. But connection to spirit, soul, hope — this I can’t let go of, this I won’t surrender. Not for safety. Not for security. Certainly not for comfort.

If it takes TEN years in Mexico, then so be it.

I finally got strong-armed into updating WordPress to the latest version. As expected, it took me half the day to figure out how to get the site looking like it did before. As far as I can tell, the only remaining issue is that the posts I’ve cut and pasted from MS Word are all messed up, with apostrophes and other punctuation turning into different symbols. Oh well — the price of progress, I suppose.

My wife and I have not yet come to a decision about where we will be moving this fall. There are so many things to factor in, and much depends on my job situation. My dreams have been more intense and memorable these past few nights. Wednesday night I dreamed I was driving down a country road in the middle of the night. To my utter surprise, I saw my old VW Van — Good Ol’ Bessy — parked on the side of the road. I pulled over to make sure she was the real deal. Sure enough, Bessy was just as I last saw her on that dreary afternoon, a little over a year ago, when I sold her to a heavy-set hippie from Virginia. Impulsively, I hopped inside and started her up, using a spare key I held on to for just such an occasion. There seemed to be no one around, so I decided to take a little joy ride, for old times sake. I went a few miles down the road, absolutely elated to be cruising around in Old Bess again. I turned around with the intention of returning the van and heading back home in the Corolla I arrived in. It was very dark though, and as I searched along the side of the road, I couldn’t find the car. A panic set in, as I realized I was committing a fairly serious crime. Not knowing what else to do, however, I drove home in the van, feeling somewhat excited to be living on the edge.

I don’t remember much else from the dream, only that my parents (especially my mother) strongly disapproved of my crime and whatever related decisions I was making about my life. I felt rebellious and misunderstood, frustrated about having to justify myself to my parents or anyone.

These days I seem to let every anxious thought and image take my mind for a ride. I know life transitions can be stressful, but I’m a little disappointed in myself that I’m so utterly unable to maintain a sense of groundedness and equanimity in the face of doubts and fears. Of course, I’m not doing the things I know I need to do — i.e. meditate, write, body-work — in order stay rooted when the whirl-wind blows through.

So, here we go again…

Last night I watched a documentary on Henry Miller (Henry Miller Asleep and Awake, by Tom Schiller) in which an eighty-one year old Miller is interviewed in his bathroom, dressed in his pajamas and robe. The walls are covered with various pictures and photos, and Miller reminisces and tells stories about several of them in his raspy Brooklyn-ese. At one point he talks about a recurring dream in which he doesn’t recognize his own face in the mirror. He ends up in an insane asylum, eventually escaping over a great wall. When he tries to talk to some people he meets in town, he realizes they can’t understand him at all, as if he’s speaking a foreign language, and the feeling sinks in that he must still be mad. At this point, Miller says, he usually wakes up with a gasp.

I went to bed shortly after watching the film, feeling particularly clear-headed and alive. I dreamed that my brother and his wife had another child, a third son, and they entrusted me to keep an eye on him for a while. He was very small and, in fact, kept getting smaller as the dream unfolded. I wasn’t particularly alarmed by this until he got so small I could barely see him. He was playing on the floor beside me, but soon he was the size of a tiny spider or flea. Eventually I lost sight of him, and a sense of panic set in. I had lost him, and I’d have to face my family with this unforgivable failure.

I’ve been preoccupied lately with fears, self-doubt, and confusion as I enter into another major life transition. I’m wrapping up a three and a half year stay in Kentucky, during which I have often felt like I was doing little more than waiting for my wife to finish her PhD program. As I search for a new job and place to live, I have had to face the fact that, at the age of thirty-six, I still don’t have a clue what I want to do with my life, in terms of a career. In my clearest moments, this doesn’t concern me much, as I sense that such matters carry little weight in the grand scheme of things. Whenever my mind takes me for a ride about this or that career path, I eventually get the sense of being on a wild goose chase, of pursuing a meaningless question, of being lost in a distraction from matters of spiritual substance. But then again, a man has to eat and pay the rent you know, and what a man does for a living shapes his body and soul in ways that are hard to fathom sometimes.

I have been working in the human services field for fifteen years now, and it has taken its toll. I’m no saint, as my career path has been more about the limitations of my experience, skills and education, than about a compassionate desire to help others. Don’t get me wrong — I have had many deep moments of connection and compassion, and indeed I have expended a great deal of energy helping people in dire need. It’s just that I would have dropped all that in a heartbeat had my band been signed, or had some college given me the opportunity to teach.

I am, once again it seems, at sea without a rudder, about to head off in another direction with little to guide me other than the compulsion to survive and the hope that this time I will live up to my potential. Perhaps that’s what the tiny child represented in my dream — my potential. Hope. It’s no wonder I felt so sick when I lost sight of him.