Varicose roots 2

I was back in NYC Sunday morning, after getting stuck in the post-tunnel traffic jam caused a bunch of leg proficient half-milers. 

Inched my way from the tunnel to Central Park South to 5^th Ave to the 66^th St. causeway to get home.  

Slept a little. 

Then studied and wrote for my court session. 

The evidence was in my favor, as it was naturally, and I knew I had a case to present.

I woke at 6:AM to get ready for court. 

Ate cereal and fruit. Went over my notes. 

Made sure my briefcase was stocked. 

Hit the subway with a suit, sunglasses 

and Coldplay’s “Midnight” pumping through my earphones. 

Totally chill.  

Arrived and took a seat. Met a pro bono lawyer who had previously helped me. 

He convinced me to abandon the constructed script. I did.

Case dismissed with prejudice.

Got home via the 1 train and immediately began packing for a stay at the hospital,

 if not longer, at Mom and Dad’s house. 

Good thing I did that. 

I stayed over at the hospital after the successful Monday surgery 

into Tuesday, when Dad was released. 

Sleepless after almost three nights seeped in early in the PM that night. 

Tommy Xxxx. Jack Xxxx. 911. The neighbor calling. Flagging down the ambulance. The EMT team. 

Following the ambulance to the ER. Fearing a flat tire. Talking to the nurse. 

Bringing Dad home in the Eclipse. 

Total mental and physical exhaustion.

Varicose roots 1

Last week tonight I was in a precarious situation. 

I used to think deadlines were stress. They are nothing but transparent, movable, artificial bait. Nothing like the deadlines imposed by the heart and soul of your true family. 

I had just left my father in the hospital. He was suffering from a vein blockage and about to undergo a risky angioplasty in his leg. I was also facing a company suing me for $7.000 in court, and I was my own lawyer. 

Fuck. All in all, a lifetime worth of potential disaster concentrated into a 3-hour space on the morning of March 16, 2015. 

Talk about sweat...

I came out of the lawsuit unscathed, but for a few nicks on my Metro Card and a dry-cleaning of my suit. Dismissed with prejudice. I told my Mom and my sister Katie (the DOJ lawyer) later in the day that I felt like Matlock. 

But then there was the true, unbreachable realization of Dad going under the knife.

In the state he was in while I spent two nights in the hospital over the preceding weekend, I was not convinced this would be a simple, physical procedure. Indeed it was not, as Dr. Buch, the vascular surgeon explained. 

The balloon might work. If not, a bypass. If not that, an amputation. (Remind me to call my friend Dan).

His mental health was over the cliff and crashed on a rocky seashore with the tide pulling out. That’s all I was focused on at the moment. My Dad was a wasted friend who had taken bad acid. Laying in a hospital bed. Not as immortal as I was conditioned to believe.

Fleetwood Nicks

Some people were totally cool with the fact that they got to live in the same lifetime as Copernicus or Napoleon or Eisenhower or Einstein or daVinci or...I don't know, Jesus, but we are lucky because we get to live in the era of Fleetwood Mac and, God rest their souls, The Dead Milkmen. And also Katy Perry. And the Pixies. And who could forget Fuel? But mostly Fleetwood Mac, and especially Stevie Nicks. That whirling dervish of scarves, skirts, and long blonde curls. This is the 4th time in my life I've had a crush on her. I just guess it is as doomed today as it was when my aunt gave me the Rumors LP in 1977. I was 11 then. A little too young to bang her. 

Bad day today

Felt like a sloth from noon, when I finally woke up, till 9:00, when I mercifully went to bed. And still, to now. Couldn't even get off the couch to buy some food at the Garage. Did absolutely nothing on my to-do list. Ordered a pizza I can't afford. Ate five slices, which my body can't afford. 

After I got into bed, I watched a few early #MASH episodes on #Netflix. Those were good for laughs. Made me recall all those after-cafeteria evenings watching the reruns in Dave's room freshman year. 

Now I'm watching a documentary called #Bidder70. It's about an environmentalist willing to go to jail to draw attention to climate change. You know what I think we should do about climate change? Erect a monument with the names of the prominent politicians and corporations on it who deny climate change. Make that monument representative of their beliefs. Make it a legacy their descendants will have to live with. Shame them in perpetuity. 

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

ashes to ashes...

For a higher awareness may be aware of our world,

in the same way way we have yet to understand how an explosion

cares about all of its ashes.

From a gun shot,

To a military action.

To a handgranade

To a tank fire,

To an incendiary,

To something atomic.

Or how life might be brought to life,

live,

be inhaled,

puffed,

exhaled,

repeat, etc.,

in cigarette.

The metaphor of fire to ash is ever apparent. 

All I did

I turned the channel to the Super Bowl.

I sat down and began to inhale football.

The most beautiful woman in the world, bald and weak and in pain and slow from breast cancer surgery was wrapped adorably in a Red Sox blanket in the kitchen heating puffy pastries and preparing plates of tortilla chips and dip and crackers and cheese. Her pain medication was wearing off, but she expressed nothing but laughter, smiles, and a level of alertness I struggle to maintain in my own non-medicated world.

We began to watch the game in a daze draped over us by an accumulation of shared recent experience. Her suffering from the surgery was evident, as violent as a nightmare realized. I cannot even imagine her ordeal.

Together, ours was a doubly felt trial of many months, concentrated in the collected physical and mental pain of impending, occurring, and finally, past trauma. She had survived brilliantly. I was in wonder of her endurance, patience, and her ever-present ability to smile.

The months before her surgery were difficult.

The days after her surgery were difficult.

The days and weeks to come might still be difficult.

For the next few hours, while men beat the hell out of one another on television and commercials vied for our vulnerabilities, we shared love ideally.

We had been building to this comfort for days. I found myself volunteering to do favors for her out of compassion, not guilt. And it felt right. Addictive, in a wonderful way. It warmed me to discover I had a limitless well of love to give. The more time I spent with her, the greater was my peace. She affected me, and continues to affect me, on a level no other has ever neared.

She is beautiful, where others are plain.

She is funny, where others are brash.

She is insightful, where others are dismissive.

She is brilliant, where others are dull.

 The game continued and we shared knowing looks, silence, commentary, and puffy pastries. I acquiesced when she insisted on performing the small burdens of kitchen work. The more active she is, after all, the sooner her recovery. Within reason, of course.

I wanted to intervene, but soon realized she was gaining pleasure by offering comfort. She was warm, soft, charming, and beautiful. She was the perfect hostess. She masterfully turned me into a guest in my own apartment.

We had a subtle, ongoing debate about the merits of Tim Tebow. I tried to explain to her that he could not throw a football with the strength and skill of the Super Bowl quarterbacks. She maintained some kind of nonsense that his lack of skill was not much of a flaw. I admired her unwavering stance. We agreed that he was a nice guy and that my beloved Jets wasted a year of his life.

And life is precious. Every day, let alone every season, counts. And all I did to come to this obvious conclusion was to stay close to her through this ordeal. By staying close, we have become closer.

All it seems I did was turn on the Super Bowl.

All I really did was open my eyes.