Constant Craving

We lost our parakeet Nemo last night.  It was odd occurrence.  We had just returned from a vacation in Spain; Montse was cleaning and unpacking clothes as I was putting stuff away in my study.  I received a phone call from Rene, the woman who had been watching our cats and the bird.  She was distraught to inform me that our bird was dead.  She went on to tell me that Ramon (her husband) had just checked on the bird earlier that very night and it was fine; they had been telling it that mommy and daddy would be picking it up the next day.  Then, as they were preparing for bed, (it was near midnight) she made a last check and saw Nemo at the bottom of his cage; just hours away from homecoming.

He was nearing 13 years old....pretty good for a breed whose average life span is commonly just five.

  Alas, he was just a bird, but part of the tapestry I've grown fond to wrap up this affection I call my world in.  After conveying the news to my wife and reconciling that death was part of the overarching canopy we live under, I recalled an artist friend once telling me of the loss of her bird, Sophie.  I remember I was touched and wrote a piece on it:  I thought in tribute to all of us who invite pets to be our heart's neighbor, I’d share this much of me today.

Sophie's Gift (to life's circle)

The day is.

As the senses receive

The sun, the breeze, iridescent green leaves on bushes and trees familiar but names escaping retrieval remain unnamed.

Yes, the vestiges of spring, the heart’s delights of life reborn

The circle is visceral.

Yet still, the circumspect side has no season,

One to prepare, to harbor our grief and wait until we are dressed for the occasion.

Likened to a feather on the keyboard, reminder of lost flight

The empty place in our hearts, in our nest.

Ah, be forgetful my misery, of love's visit gone.

Special in a creature I knew not as well as I wished.

The traits, the colors, the very sound...only whispers in my recollection now.

Ah, how cruel this comes, so unexpected.

But is it my awareness that let it come as a surprise?

The circle is, and I knew it from youth.

I know glee of new found love, of joys and happiness in a thousand senses and experiences.

Can I be honest with myself and exclude the contrasting flavors awaiting my taste with nature’s ways?

Am I the master of this creation?

This world I carefully construct.

Adding an illusion here, dabbing one there.

I hold, no ~ I grasp upon such fantasy.

That only sunny days are in my spring.

A life of shimmering summer days riding motorcycles.

Ocean spray of speeding Sea-do's

Bar-B-Ques accented by smiling faces.

I am reminded in departures, of my quest to love more meaningful.

To practice kindness more often.

Be honest

To others

To me

The passing is testament that time is an illusion.

We only have now.

My love is here today.

Tomorrow will be the eulogy to the dedicated heart.

The devotion, the joy rendered in the association.

Alas, in passing we are given the great gift of awareness.

Of the dearness of loving hearts.

For us

Of our precious love in which we invest

To know

To behold

To live

Precious.....Cherished....tourist.

 

 It is a characteristic of condition; this ever-wandering mind.  It thrives on process; it demands fodder.  What we do in place of living, is cultivate drama.  So every second we acquiesce to that unquenchable thirst and ravenous appetite of the mind’s needs to chew on something; to figure out something beyond its control; are precious seconds that not used in savoring the present moment.

The Magical Train of Enthusiasm

  Oh how I use to ride that train of enthusiasm.  I’d pull the window down and lean out as far as I could in order to feel that wind blowing in my face; to the point where my hair would hurt at the roots; and tears from clenched eyes would fill my ears.  I couldn’t get enough of it.  Of course that’s imagery, but as the thrill of life opened its windows of opportunity to me I’d dash to get through it before being slammed shut.  I had my share of shattered dreams and disappointments enough to carpet any banquet hall, so the older I got the more cunning I figured I needed to become to avoid the same results.  I had more than an appetite for good fortune, I was famished for it.  In my youth I had no vision for the circumspect of life events.  I was in the moment; like a favorite pet is for any adventure.  Be it to the beach or the vet, the thrill of being included was adequate enough to wind me up with excitement.  As the years collected I began to connect the chain of disappointments as something beyond personal selection; yet intuitively I felt they also were. That notion demanded I question any flippant dismissal as to negative outcome being nobody’s fault.  I distilled truth enough, I was no victim to a sadistic-cynical universe prowling for innocent hearts to crush. Just as much as I figured out most of my foolishness could be attributed to failed access to reasoning recesses of an undeveloped frontal cortex.  I was, for all intents and purposes, a late bloomer.  I can laugh at that behavior now, because I’ve adequate experience to compare impulsive choices to well thought-out plans.  For instance, just recently, the idea of Humanistic psychology reminded me of some of its features I learned earlier which appealed to my ethos for life in general; unconditional positive regard; empathy in accordance with genuineness, these were attractive to the way I would like to be dealt with; with how I’d like to connect with others.  Yes, that was the path to connection with a purpose; investigation into the topic led me to reconsider.  True as the tenants are to what I consider respectful intercourse with other human beings, too much of a good thing is just…well…goofy.

  I can apply this to past conversations and the example of astrology.  Oh yes, I am familiar enough with it to toy with certain signs possessing like kind dispositions;  as a Capricorn, I’ve discovered most other Capricorns I know of, tend to also not let go of something easily.  Is that unique to the sign? Maybe not, there’s adequate scientific research to suggest we find what we seek, so yeah I can convince myself all Capricorn’s are prone to specific traits just as any other zodiac sign; what of it?  The point of it being, there are some who refuse to enter into contracts when Mars is in retrograde.  And not just garden variety-next-door-hippy-types, but captains of industry forestalling contract negotiations until after that period of passage; call it superstition, it shows up in all quarters of society.  Sure, some people get a kick out of reading their horoscope in the daily paper; most find it amusing and think little of it until the prophetic ‘bad day’ manifest itself; then there is a hind-sightedness in admitting, “gosh, my horoscope said I was going to have a bad day.”  I shrug at the notion, but I use it as a vehicle to bring this up.  It’s fun and all but that doesn’t mean I plan my life around it.  Nor would I wish to be cornered at a party with someone who was a true believer.  Who abandoned all reason to the soothe-saying power of the stars; it just creeps me out.  And my research into the humanistic-existential-transpersonal psychology did the same thing…a feeling as if I would be signing up for a steady diet of overly-sweet-sentiments.  Sure, therapist should be compassionate, genuine, caring and nonjudgmental.  But do we expect them to sob with us? Anguish over our disappointments and hurts? No, that’s what our friends are for, or our bartenders.  Anyway, once it dawned on me that I really didn’t want to be emerged in the ideals from the tip of my head to the ends of my toes I had a very odd subjective flip-flop of feelings.  One was a self congratulations for not running full bore into a notion without further research; the second was a degree of disappointment, kind of like the image didn’t live up to a fairytale assignment I gave it right out of the gate of notion.  It took a couple of days to reconcile those feelings, then admit incorporation was the key to quality I would embrace.  Other scientifically proven methods could serve me just as well.  Yes, I can appreciate both worlds without having to give allegiance to either/or.  I somehow found my way though the brambles of habitual self inflicted wounding…I didn’t expect it…but I’m glad it happened the way it did; I believe that’s called serendipity…how delicious. 

Isaac is Dead

  We were at our gym working out as I noticed the front clerk, Natalie, had come in haste to fetch several of the trainers who were clustered near us talking. I couldn’t hear what she said, but they reacted with a determination that is hard to miss once you’ve been exposed to emergency situations.  At first I thought they were enlisted to help manage a disagreeable customer at the counter.  Another trainer sensed an issue brewing and began walking briskly to intercept the growing group; Natalie waved him off, so he returned to his student in the far back of the facility.  The sudden activity drew our attention.  Montse took up a ruse to go towards the women’s bathroom in order to over head any conversations, but for naught.  There was no impending commotion; no loud voices during struggling for dominance; soon we lost interest and returned to our routine. 

  Sarah, a woman we have a nodding acquaintance with, walked up to us saying, “Isn’t it terrible about Isaac?”

We both looked at her blankly, as if to say, who is Isaac?  She used clues to orient us; older black fellow, short mustache; drove a red Cadillac; it was the Cadillac that captured my recognition; ah, yes we knew who she was talking about.  We noticed he always seemed to be chewing on something, so we somehow dubbed him Donald Duck. We never heard him called by name, nor did we have reason to talk with him, so our nick name suited the two of us.  Sarah went on to mention he had gone into the hospital for a routine follow up from recent heart surgery he had months before; but he didn’t make it.  She also mentioned he was in his seventies, then, abruptly left us ~ most likely to spread the news.

  I didn’t know the man, as I mentioned, I had to translate physical clues into identifying who it was this Isaac was.  As we continued to do our assigned routines, the small voice in my head kept saying,

   “Isaac is dead, Isaac is dead.” I couldn’t tell you why.

  Montse mentioned after a few minutes that she couldn’t get her mind off of Isaac’s death, that she suddenly connected hearing one of the men called to the front desk exclaiming “No.” She added, it must have been Willie because he and Isaac were always seen deep in conversation throughout our visits. We continued our work out, but the topic wouldn’t leave me alone.  I was reminded of the time while in the Army when I was appointed the task of being a Survey Officer.  It was a task of packing up all of the personal belongings of a soldier who had been killed in an auto accident.  My single purpose was to sanitize what was being sent back to his family, purging out anything that would cast a poor light on the victim; things like pornographic magazines or photos that may very well been treasured by the deceased but would invariable tarnish an affectionate memory of their lost intimate; I thought that wise of the military to have such a policy.  What I had not counted on was how, in that process, I would grow to get a glimpse of the person who owned all that stuff; it was inevitable.  Yes, I felt a bit like a voyeur as I skimmed the personal letters and rifled through his junk drawer of little keepsakes.  Tokens from arcades; plastic characters from fairs or amusement parks; spent movie tickets, the like.  I must admit I never actually met the young man who had perished, yet even after more than twenty years I can recall his name; Andrew Jones.  That, and  when I close my eyes I can see the photo of him smiling at the camera with his arm around his girlfriend ~ she in a formal gown, him in his dress Army uniform with the sky blue background accent to his shiny brass branch insignia of crossed rifles.  He looked proud of his accomplishment; she looked even prouder. I was saddened at the loss of potential back then, as I am even now.  But as for Isaac, he had lived seventy odd years; I did the mental math, and that would have meant he was born near the end of World War II.  A lot of history had happened since then; particularly for the black culture.  I remember he had a weathered quality to him; he had lived hard, to project an almost threatening countenance to look at.  I soon learned nothing could be further from the truth. Many at our gym had spoken to him; held him in high regard; even spoke of him affectionately.  I wouldn’t know, I never spoke to him. In the echo of “Isaac is dead.”

  Montse told me she continued to have the odd feeling of a low level sense of loss; she figured it was because she knew of him, and now he was gone.  I agreed.  It was like seeing a familiar sconce in the hallway of your family home.  Feeling with certainty it had been there your entire growing years; even remember special events like hanging silver tinsel on it during the holidays.  Then, one day, it was gone; and so was the anchor to comfort in knowing the surroundings making up the predictable world of the past; projecting a poorly construed assurance to defeat any change that might somehow challenge the ease of predicting the future. It happened suddenly and without warning; like the loss of Isaac.  What else was about to pounce out of the unknown with fangs to rip apart a well constructed delusion prevailing control over ones personal future?  Maybe that’s the collective ill at ease visitation a death commands; a wakeup call to a perchance towards delusional indulgences.  Does anyone honestly think they know what tomorrow will hold?  Heck how arrogant to not even pay attention in the here-and-now.  I coast, and I’d bet with certainty everyone around me does the same.  We’re posed to react to change that is rude enough to startle us into confrontation.  Most times we’re adept at sidestepping upset; sometimes not so much.  Yet the point of the evidence is that we’re more successful at avoidance, so why modify behavior or strategy of surviving moment to moment; until it’s our turn to get off the tour bus, then it’s far too late.  That’s when each of us gets to face an entirely unmapped adventure.  I pondered on all the housekeeping tasks for Isaac’s remaining kin; selling or giving away his stuff. What to do with the Cadillac now that he doesn’t need it?  I wasn’t all that certain I was going to write about this.  Somehow his change and mine are linked.  The story I tell, is consistently from my point of view; this time it includes Isaac, if only as a footnote to a point I wish to make.  I sometimes anguish to consider the notion that my story will go unsung.  Then too, I often anguish deeper to realize the countless millions of stories that have gone mostly ignored.