Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Imagine John Lennon Alive (a short story)
Tomorrow Sometimes Knows
Copyright © January, 2005 Leda Joandaughter.
Is it possible that time is not linear?
What if reincarnation does exist, but what if we are sometimes reborn in the past, instead of in the future?
What if we really are all just water?
I had the strangest dream two nights ago.
I dreamed about the future, about the next day, the next night. I was watching Monday night football, the Patriots vs. the Dolphins, and Howard Cosell announced that John Lennon had been shot dead outside his apartment in New York City. The very idea was unthinkable. Who would do such a thing? My wife had to wake me from it, I guess I was crying out in my sleep – cries of anguish, not words. My wife was worried because even after I woke up I kept repeating, “They killed John! They killed John!” She kept whispering that it was just a bad dream, just go back to sleep.
Then I was fully awake and I told her all about it.
My wife, Angela, is a very pragmatic woman, physically beautiful and emotionally skeptical. So her response shocked me.
“You’ve got to go down to the Dakota tomorrow and make sure it doesn’t happen,” she told me.
“What?” I was incredulous. “You mean take a day off from work and hang out there to try to stop some imaginary murder?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she said. Then she went back to sleep.
In the morning she didn’t mention it. Maybe she didn’t remember any of it. But when I told her I was taking the day off to go hang out in Manhattan, she didn’t ask questions.
It was a cold day. My nightmare was vague now and I felt like a fool, standing around waiting.
But then I saw him standing there. Waiting. We eyed each other. It seemed that I’d seen him before – the news footage of the murder –
“Hello,” I finally said, “You waiting to see John?”
He paused, then responded sheepishly, “Why else?”
He seemed to be carrying a great emptiness, as if the golden part of him had been extinguished long before he’d ever had a chance to recognize it. It wasn’t sorrow, exactly. I kept wanting to say, “Where’d you get the hole?” Or maybe, “Who raped you?”
And it scared me to be so full of verbal impulses. So I worked hard at not saying anything.
Finally, after a long awkward silence where he kept looking at me, I said, “You a Beatles fan?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, not really.”
“There’ll never be another Beatles,” I said, deciding that perhaps I ought to try making small talk. “I bought Lennon’s new album a few weeks ago. He’s our only hope against disco.” I had almost said Reagan – “our only hope against Reagan” – but I fought that impulse.
“Maybe,” said the man, absentmindedly.
“So why’re you waiting for John?” I finally asked. “You want his autograph?”
“Yes,” he said, “It will be worth a lot someday.”
I grimaced despite myself, thinking, Yeah, especially if you go ahead and kill him.
I lit a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke but I carry a pack anyway, just for times like this. It helps hide my stress. I offered one to the man. He declined.
“So -- you a professional autograph seeker?” I asked.
“No, are you?” His response seemed somewhat irritated, which made me draw a long drag. I did not want to irritate this person.
“No,” I said, slowly exhaling a circle of smoke, “I work with my dad.”
This seemed to snap him awake.
“You work with your dad?” he asked, as if he’d encountered some mystical apparition.
“Yeah, my dad’s a roofer. I’m his apprentice. It pays well. And I kind of like hanging out with him.”
The man was entranced. “Can you do roofing in the winter?” he asked.
“Na. In the winter we do small carpentry jobs. Right now we’re painting the interior of this mansion on Long Island. But it’s the roofing that really pays well.”
The man stared at me. The dark holes in the center of his eyes had grown larger and I felt compelled to keep talking.
“You know,” I explained, “being a roofer wasn’t my life’s ambition. I’ve got a degree in electrical engineering. But after I graduated I realized that with that kind of degree I’d have to sign my life away to some megacorporation and I wasn’t ready for that. So I signed up to work with my dad.”
The man started to speak, “My d—” then he paused.
I waited, eyebrows raised. “You were saying?”
He blinked.
And it seemed that the guy really wasn’t there. You know, he just kept blinking.
Finally I felt my right eye begin to twitch and that only happens when I’m really freaking out. So despite my better judgment, I nudged his arm and said, “You okay?”
He jerked away and stared wide at me, eyes stiff as two vacant holes – loose manholes –
“Hey listen,” I spurted, my heart in my throat, “It’s freaking cold out here! You want to go get a coffee?”
He didn’t respond. So I said it louder – much louder – as if trying to wake him from a dream—
“Coffee! Coffee would be great right now!”
He closed his eyes, then opened them, wavering a bit on his feet.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah, there’s a coffee shop around the corner,” I said, pointing the way. “C’mon.”
I started walking, confidently, and to my surprise, he followed me.
The guy bought a sandwich along with coffee, but I only drank coffee. I was still nervous, but hiding it well.
He sat with me and I tried not to appear too awkward about it; tried to act as if I hung out with strangers like this every day.
“He may not even show up today,” I said, sipping too quickly from the mug, singeing my tongue on the hot black liquid.
“Who?” said the man.
“John Lennon – he might not be around.”
“No, I think he’s around,” the man assured me.
In the warmth of the coffee shop, I felt a bit more relaxed, surrounded by more people. And then the oddity about this man struck me hard: shame, shame, shame. He wore shame like a crown. As if some golden crown had been confiscated and replaced by pure, shining shame. I could not look at him without thinking, What a shame.
He frowned at me and said nothing.
“Yup,” I said, making more small talk, “There’ll never be another Beatles.”
“They weren’t so great,” said the man.
I raised my eyebrows. “Jesus Christ!” I said, “Not so great! Who’s better?”
“I like Todd Rundgren,” said the man.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You know, though,” I said, trying to slice into some of that glaring shame, “of all the Beatles, I always liked Lennon the best. Because after the Beatles breakup, he really showed his balls. Not the literal part of that – that’s not what I mean. I mean that he really opened up – he got all kinds of people together to talk about peace – bagism and power to all the people and all those marches for peace. Kids who never cared before started caring, just because he was talking about social justice.”
“Uh huh,” said the man, becoming distracted again.
“You know,” I continued, “He’s necessary. For all of us. He’s like a loud conscience, reminding everyone to behave themselves.”
“Well, he didn’t behave himself a few years ago,” said the man.
“Right,” I responded, “the lost weekend stuff. But he’s redeemed himself, hasn’t he? He’s put his heart and soul into raising his little boy. It’s a wonderful model for men – to care for children. More fathers should be like him, you know? If more fathers were like him, Jesus, this whole friggin’ world would start coming together. People would start caring about one another – because fathers need to be nurturing as well as mothers, you know? He’s teaching that, that’s so important --”
That brought his attention back. He glared at me, yet there seemed to be a glint of recognition in his eyes, like a tiny glint of gold.
And I couldn’t help the next words that poured off my tongue, “And if anyone were to kill him it would be like killing a mother – killing a mother and a father, because he’s kind of like both, isn’t he? Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
At that the man began blinking again. He stood up, brushed himself off, and without a word left the shop. I was shaking in my boots, questioning my own sanity, spending my day in some kind of dream of my own.
I returned to the Dakota and stood there for the rest of the afternoon. The man with the shamed eyes did not return. Just before dinner I decided to go home. If Lennon had come by, I had missed him.
At night I watched the football game I’d dreamed about – Howard Cosell never announced anything about Lennon. Too bad I hadn’t remembered the final score from my dream – I would have had a winning bet. At least I slept well.
And now, this morning, even before drinking my coffee, even before Angela wakes up, I’m sitting here reading the New York Times, not something I often do. But I need reassurance that Lennon is still alive.
Yup, he appears to be. The Times would have reported if anything had happened to him.
I know all this sounds crazy. And the guy outside the Dakota was probably up to no harm and I probably wasted a day off from work. But the dream had seemed so real.
And what if Lennon had been killed – what then? Without him around, who would have enough balls to stand up to Reagan? Someone needs to be brave enough to insist that we really do need social programs, and that all people – not just rich white Americans – deserve a chance at life, deserve a chance at survival.
I don’t know. I may be simple minded, but I can’t help comparing John Lennon to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. Without him to talk the talk and walk the walk, I can’t imagine how screwed up this world would be 20 or 30 years from now. I can’t even imagine.
Copyright © January, 2005 Leda Joandaughter.
Is it possible that time is not linear?
What if reincarnation does exist, but what if we are sometimes reborn in the past, instead of in the future?
What if we really are all just water?
I had the strangest dream two nights ago.
I dreamed about the future, about the next day, the next night. I was watching Monday night football, the Patriots vs. the Dolphins, and Howard Cosell announced that John Lennon had been shot dead outside his apartment in New York City. The very idea was unthinkable. Who would do such a thing? My wife had to wake me from it, I guess I was crying out in my sleep – cries of anguish, not words. My wife was worried because even after I woke up I kept repeating, “They killed John! They killed John!” She kept whispering that it was just a bad dream, just go back to sleep.
Then I was fully awake and I told her all about it.
My wife, Angela, is a very pragmatic woman, physically beautiful and emotionally skeptical. So her response shocked me.
“You’ve got to go down to the Dakota tomorrow and make sure it doesn’t happen,” she told me.
“What?” I was incredulous. “You mean take a day off from work and hang out there to try to stop some imaginary murder?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she said. Then she went back to sleep.
In the morning she didn’t mention it. Maybe she didn’t remember any of it. But when I told her I was taking the day off to go hang out in Manhattan, she didn’t ask questions.
It was a cold day. My nightmare was vague now and I felt like a fool, standing around waiting.
But then I saw him standing there. Waiting. We eyed each other. It seemed that I’d seen him before – the news footage of the murder –
“Hello,” I finally said, “You waiting to see John?”
He paused, then responded sheepishly, “Why else?”
He seemed to be carrying a great emptiness, as if the golden part of him had been extinguished long before he’d ever had a chance to recognize it. It wasn’t sorrow, exactly. I kept wanting to say, “Where’d you get the hole?” Or maybe, “Who raped you?”
And it scared me to be so full of verbal impulses. So I worked hard at not saying anything.
Finally, after a long awkward silence where he kept looking at me, I said, “You a Beatles fan?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, not really.”
“There’ll never be another Beatles,” I said, deciding that perhaps I ought to try making small talk. “I bought Lennon’s new album a few weeks ago. He’s our only hope against disco.” I had almost said Reagan – “our only hope against Reagan” – but I fought that impulse.
“Maybe,” said the man, absentmindedly.
“So why’re you waiting for John?” I finally asked. “You want his autograph?”
“Yes,” he said, “It will be worth a lot someday.”
I grimaced despite myself, thinking, Yeah, especially if you go ahead and kill him.
I lit a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke but I carry a pack anyway, just for times like this. It helps hide my stress. I offered one to the man. He declined.
“So -- you a professional autograph seeker?” I asked.
“No, are you?” His response seemed somewhat irritated, which made me draw a long drag. I did not want to irritate this person.
“No,” I said, slowly exhaling a circle of smoke, “I work with my dad.”
This seemed to snap him awake.
“You work with your dad?” he asked, as if he’d encountered some mystical apparition.
“Yeah, my dad’s a roofer. I’m his apprentice. It pays well. And I kind of like hanging out with him.”
The man was entranced. “Can you do roofing in the winter?” he asked.
“Na. In the winter we do small carpentry jobs. Right now we’re painting the interior of this mansion on Long Island. But it’s the roofing that really pays well.”
The man stared at me. The dark holes in the center of his eyes had grown larger and I felt compelled to keep talking.
“You know,” I explained, “being a roofer wasn’t my life’s ambition. I’ve got a degree in electrical engineering. But after I graduated I realized that with that kind of degree I’d have to sign my life away to some megacorporation and I wasn’t ready for that. So I signed up to work with my dad.”
The man started to speak, “My d—” then he paused.
I waited, eyebrows raised. “You were saying?”
He blinked.
And it seemed that the guy really wasn’t there. You know, he just kept blinking.
Finally I felt my right eye begin to twitch and that only happens when I’m really freaking out. So despite my better judgment, I nudged his arm and said, “You okay?”
He jerked away and stared wide at me, eyes stiff as two vacant holes – loose manholes –
“Hey listen,” I spurted, my heart in my throat, “It’s freaking cold out here! You want to go get a coffee?”
He didn’t respond. So I said it louder – much louder – as if trying to wake him from a dream—
“Coffee! Coffee would be great right now!”
He closed his eyes, then opened them, wavering a bit on his feet.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah, there’s a coffee shop around the corner,” I said, pointing the way. “C’mon.”
I started walking, confidently, and to my surprise, he followed me.
The guy bought a sandwich along with coffee, but I only drank coffee. I was still nervous, but hiding it well.
He sat with me and I tried not to appear too awkward about it; tried to act as if I hung out with strangers like this every day.
“He may not even show up today,” I said, sipping too quickly from the mug, singeing my tongue on the hot black liquid.
“Who?” said the man.
“John Lennon – he might not be around.”
“No, I think he’s around,” the man assured me.
In the warmth of the coffee shop, I felt a bit more relaxed, surrounded by more people. And then the oddity about this man struck me hard: shame, shame, shame. He wore shame like a crown. As if some golden crown had been confiscated and replaced by pure, shining shame. I could not look at him without thinking, What a shame.
He frowned at me and said nothing.
“Yup,” I said, making more small talk, “There’ll never be another Beatles.”
“They weren’t so great,” said the man.
I raised my eyebrows. “Jesus Christ!” I said, “Not so great! Who’s better?”
“I like Todd Rundgren,” said the man.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You know, though,” I said, trying to slice into some of that glaring shame, “of all the Beatles, I always liked Lennon the best. Because after the Beatles breakup, he really showed his balls. Not the literal part of that – that’s not what I mean. I mean that he really opened up – he got all kinds of people together to talk about peace – bagism and power to all the people and all those marches for peace. Kids who never cared before started caring, just because he was talking about social justice.”
“Uh huh,” said the man, becoming distracted again.
“You know,” I continued, “He’s necessary. For all of us. He’s like a loud conscience, reminding everyone to behave themselves.”
“Well, he didn’t behave himself a few years ago,” said the man.
“Right,” I responded, “the lost weekend stuff. But he’s redeemed himself, hasn’t he? He’s put his heart and soul into raising his little boy. It’s a wonderful model for men – to care for children. More fathers should be like him, you know? If more fathers were like him, Jesus, this whole friggin’ world would start coming together. People would start caring about one another – because fathers need to be nurturing as well as mothers, you know? He’s teaching that, that’s so important --”
That brought his attention back. He glared at me, yet there seemed to be a glint of recognition in his eyes, like a tiny glint of gold.
And I couldn’t help the next words that poured off my tongue, “And if anyone were to kill him it would be like killing a mother – killing a mother and a father, because he’s kind of like both, isn’t he? Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
At that the man began blinking again. He stood up, brushed himself off, and without a word left the shop. I was shaking in my boots, questioning my own sanity, spending my day in some kind of dream of my own.
I returned to the Dakota and stood there for the rest of the afternoon. The man with the shamed eyes did not return. Just before dinner I decided to go home. If Lennon had come by, I had missed him.
At night I watched the football game I’d dreamed about – Howard Cosell never announced anything about Lennon. Too bad I hadn’t remembered the final score from my dream – I would have had a winning bet. At least I slept well.
And now, this morning, even before drinking my coffee, even before Angela wakes up, I’m sitting here reading the New York Times, not something I often do. But I need reassurance that Lennon is still alive.
Yup, he appears to be. The Times would have reported if anything had happened to him.
I know all this sounds crazy. And the guy outside the Dakota was probably up to no harm and I probably wasted a day off from work. But the dream had seemed so real.
And what if Lennon had been killed – what then? Without him around, who would have enough balls to stand up to Reagan? Someone needs to be brave enough to insist that we really do need social programs, and that all people – not just rich white Americans – deserve a chance at life, deserve a chance at survival.
I don’t know. I may be simple minded, but I can’t help comparing John Lennon to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. Without him to talk the talk and walk the walk, I can’t imagine how screwed up this world would be 20 or 30 years from now. I can’t even imagine.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Turning Toxic Assets into Avenues of Recovery
Realizing that I’m already lost in a sea of millions of blogs; realizing that once again I’m proposing something that is obviously naïve, this idea actually would work to help save the world economy, if properly implemented.
We know that banks and financial institutions have been “bailed out” in ways that seem unfair to many. We know that much of this happened under the Bush administration, and now President Obama is left holding the bag.
One of the causes of the U.S. (and by extension, world) economic collapse has been the housing bubble; the idea that housing prices could go up indefinitely and everything would be okay with this.
The result of the bubble burst has been banks and financial institutions bloated with what they call “toxic assets.”
Many of these “toxic assets” are foreclosed properties.
These foreclosed properties used to be homes, to families.
What is the result of a glut of foreclosed properties on a geographic environment? There are now large communities filled with foreclosed properties, which drive down the prices of all neighboring houses. So everyone suffers.
The solution is not to float the banks and allow them to continue business as usual.
The solution is to legislate compassion and empathy for families, while allowing banks to turn toxic assets into avenues of recovery – literal avenues.
This could be accomplished by providing tax credits to those banks and financial institutions that donate “toxic asset” foreclosed properties to organizations such as Habitat for Humanity, which would regenerate these properties for people who need homes. This solution would create necessary housing, stimulate new jobs, revitalize housing market values, and relieve economic burdens of banks and financial institutions.
What are we waiting for?
We know that banks and financial institutions have been “bailed out” in ways that seem unfair to many. We know that much of this happened under the Bush administration, and now President Obama is left holding the bag.
One of the causes of the U.S. (and by extension, world) economic collapse has been the housing bubble; the idea that housing prices could go up indefinitely and everything would be okay with this.
The result of the bubble burst has been banks and financial institutions bloated with what they call “toxic assets.”
Many of these “toxic assets” are foreclosed properties.
These foreclosed properties used to be homes, to families.
What is the result of a glut of foreclosed properties on a geographic environment? There are now large communities filled with foreclosed properties, which drive down the prices of all neighboring houses. So everyone suffers.
The solution is not to float the banks and allow them to continue business as usual.
The solution is to legislate compassion and empathy for families, while allowing banks to turn toxic assets into avenues of recovery – literal avenues.
This could be accomplished by providing tax credits to those banks and financial institutions that donate “toxic asset” foreclosed properties to organizations such as Habitat for Humanity, which would regenerate these properties for people who need homes. This solution would create necessary housing, stimulate new jobs, revitalize housing market values, and relieve economic burdens of banks and financial institutions.
What are we waiting for?
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Ice Storm Reverie and Writing Like There’s No Tomorrow
I’m sitting here by the fire, handwriting this. Handwriting is what I used to do years ago. Now it’s a struggle to grip the pen; I’ve become so accustomed to the keyboard.
Today is Sunday, December 14th. Two days ago, at 4:30 on Friday morning, I awoke to what sounded like gunshots and rain outside. And there was a weird silence outside that, a silence that comes from the loss of electricity in a New England ice storm. The gunshots were actually ice-coated tree limbs breaking and landing on a lawn thickly coated with more ice. When dawn came around I could see the shiny front lawn and our huge birch trees all bowed down; their 40-foot-high tops touching the ground, stuck there by ice, ice everywhere.
“It looks like the Apocalypse,” said my 16-year-old daughter when she went outside later that morning. She’s not given to religious analogies, yet her comment still seemed eerily accurate. (We are a theologically diverse family, inspired by the works of Marija Gimbutas and Starhawk, with deep sympathies for Tibetan Buddhists, as we are always inspired by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and his cheerfulness.)Yes, if we were to believe in the concept of “the Apocalypse” then yes, perhaps it might look like this.
The moon is just past full and we’ve been waiting in the dark, watching the ice-kissed tree limbs dancing in the lunar light. This is terrible beauty, as Yeats would have said.
Ironically, the folks just two miles down the road from us (literally DOWN the road, as we live in one of the “Hilltowns” of Western Massachusetts) still have power and have no ice and they have Christmas lights and refrigeration for their food. Now three days into this (as our power apparently disappeared Thursday night, while we slept), our refrigerator food has gone bad. (We had kept the refrigerator door closed, thinking that if the power came back on we’d save our food by keeping it insulated in the short term, thinking the power would surely return within a few hours, as it always had before. But it didn’t, so now I need to discard all this food; such a sad waste.)
I am angry at myself – I should have been less optimistic – I should have been better prepared – should have taken those expensive veggie burgers out of the freezer and put them in a cooler in the car – that might have preserved them through this storm. Fortunately, I had the foresight to fill the bathtub with water so we could flush toilets (as our plumbing and running water also disappeared, along with our heat and refrigeration during the power loss).
It’s hard not having running water. I love clean, warm water. And I feel so selfish to complain about missing it. We Americans are among the earth’s few to enjoy so much – everyday – running water, refrigeration, heating fuel…
A friend recently commented on the “bravery” of my writing. I told her my bravery is more likely naïveté (and a sense that no one is reading what I write anyway)…
But if you are reading this, let me tell you, the Apocalypse is at hand. The weather is a symptom of our Holy Mother, who has been polluted.
I got interrupted a few hours ago.
And I’m re-reading what I wrote earlier. So let me begin again.
The earth is alive. She is our Mother. She is God. We are part of Her.
Her Being is the summation of all that is spiritually sentient.
But she is sick with a disease we have decided to call “Global Warming” (I tend to call it “Global Extremes” as we are being swept into weather extremes at an increasing rate – yesterday the temperature was 25 degrees Fahrenheit; tomorrow it’s expected to reach 57 degrees).
The sky is beautiful right now and the sun is beginning to set. The ice on the treetops is glistening – the perfect Christmas card scene. Throughout the afternoon my husband has been periodically opening a window to take pictures of the ice-coated landscape.
I am sitting in the living room by the fireplace with my two younger daughters. My 16-year-old is taking a nap (and fighting a cold); my youngest is drawing a picture of the eternal “Om” (for a 7th grade school assignment). My oldest daughter lives in New York City (where she is working to provide legal aid for people with AIDS); she hasn’t contacted us and I don’t know if she knows what we’re going through. Better to keep her in the dark than to call and concern her.
About five years ago I wrote a novel that predicted some of this (it was published on an Icelandic zine, which I’ve described earlier on this blog). I can’t seem to promote it though – because it describes too much pain, I think. And I’m tired of giving the book to friendly acquaintances who later tell me they “love” it but then start avoiding me – as if I’ve exposed them to something nefandous. There is an unwritten rule that governs our society, which says, “Don’t disturb our peace by showing us your wounds.” People don’t want to know about another’s pain (unless that person is a celebrity, perhaps). Some people try to block out reality with “reality” television. Some people block another’s pain by blaming it on the person in pain. All this doesn’t really lead to compassion. You can lead someone to compassion but you can’t make them think (or feel).
And so, as the sun sets, and my vision fades, I am reminded of E. A. Poe’s story, “Shadow – A Parable.”
It is a parable for now as much as then – and if we can all just be merry to the end, then maybe we can at least perish peacefully, which may be our last best hope.
Today is Sunday, December 14th. Two days ago, at 4:30 on Friday morning, I awoke to what sounded like gunshots and rain outside. And there was a weird silence outside that, a silence that comes from the loss of electricity in a New England ice storm. The gunshots were actually ice-coated tree limbs breaking and landing on a lawn thickly coated with more ice. When dawn came around I could see the shiny front lawn and our huge birch trees all bowed down; their 40-foot-high tops touching the ground, stuck there by ice, ice everywhere.
“It looks like the Apocalypse,” said my 16-year-old daughter when she went outside later that morning. She’s not given to religious analogies, yet her comment still seemed eerily accurate. (We are a theologically diverse family, inspired by the works of Marija Gimbutas and Starhawk, with deep sympathies for Tibetan Buddhists, as we are always inspired by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and his cheerfulness.)Yes, if we were to believe in the concept of “the Apocalypse” then yes, perhaps it might look like this.
The moon is just past full and we’ve been waiting in the dark, watching the ice-kissed tree limbs dancing in the lunar light. This is terrible beauty, as Yeats would have said.
Ironically, the folks just two miles down the road from us (literally DOWN the road, as we live in one of the “Hilltowns” of Western Massachusetts) still have power and have no ice and they have Christmas lights and refrigeration for their food. Now three days into this (as our power apparently disappeared Thursday night, while we slept), our refrigerator food has gone bad. (We had kept the refrigerator door closed, thinking that if the power came back on we’d save our food by keeping it insulated in the short term, thinking the power would surely return within a few hours, as it always had before. But it didn’t, so now I need to discard all this food; such a sad waste.)
I am angry at myself – I should have been less optimistic – I should have been better prepared – should have taken those expensive veggie burgers out of the freezer and put them in a cooler in the car – that might have preserved them through this storm. Fortunately, I had the foresight to fill the bathtub with water so we could flush toilets (as our plumbing and running water also disappeared, along with our heat and refrigeration during the power loss).
It’s hard not having running water. I love clean, warm water. And I feel so selfish to complain about missing it. We Americans are among the earth’s few to enjoy so much – everyday – running water, refrigeration, heating fuel…
A friend recently commented on the “bravery” of my writing. I told her my bravery is more likely naïveté (and a sense that no one is reading what I write anyway)…
But if you are reading this, let me tell you, the Apocalypse is at hand. The weather is a symptom of our Holy Mother, who has been polluted.
I got interrupted a few hours ago.
And I’m re-reading what I wrote earlier. So let me begin again.
The earth is alive. She is our Mother. She is God. We are part of Her.
Her Being is the summation of all that is spiritually sentient.
But she is sick with a disease we have decided to call “Global Warming” (I tend to call it “Global Extremes” as we are being swept into weather extremes at an increasing rate – yesterday the temperature was 25 degrees Fahrenheit; tomorrow it’s expected to reach 57 degrees).
The sky is beautiful right now and the sun is beginning to set. The ice on the treetops is glistening – the perfect Christmas card scene. Throughout the afternoon my husband has been periodically opening a window to take pictures of the ice-coated landscape.
I am sitting in the living room by the fireplace with my two younger daughters. My 16-year-old is taking a nap (and fighting a cold); my youngest is drawing a picture of the eternal “Om” (for a 7th grade school assignment). My oldest daughter lives in New York City (where she is working to provide legal aid for people with AIDS); she hasn’t contacted us and I don’t know if she knows what we’re going through. Better to keep her in the dark than to call and concern her.
About five years ago I wrote a novel that predicted some of this (it was published on an Icelandic zine, which I’ve described earlier on this blog). I can’t seem to promote it though – because it describes too much pain, I think. And I’m tired of giving the book to friendly acquaintances who later tell me they “love” it but then start avoiding me – as if I’ve exposed them to something nefandous. There is an unwritten rule that governs our society, which says, “Don’t disturb our peace by showing us your wounds.” People don’t want to know about another’s pain (unless that person is a celebrity, perhaps). Some people try to block out reality with “reality” television. Some people block another’s pain by blaming it on the person in pain. All this doesn’t really lead to compassion. You can lead someone to compassion but you can’t make them think (or feel).
And so, as the sun sets, and my vision fades, I am reminded of E. A. Poe’s story, “Shadow – A Parable.”
It is a parable for now as much as then – and if we can all just be merry to the end, then maybe we can at least perish peacefully, which may be our last best hope.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
What is the matter?
What is the matter? The matter? The nature of matter?
The other day my 87-year-old father-in-law, Bill, told me his query.
He wants to find out what’s at the end of the universe. He wants me to help him find out. He’s been asking this question of everyone he knows; everyone who will listen.
Bill’s wife, my late-mother-in-law, died a few months ago. They had been married for more than 65 years. After her death, he spoke only of her. Now he speaks of her in relation to the universe.
Bill wants the definitive answer to this question. He wants this answer to come from science. He said scientists have told him that the universe folds in on itself – and he shook his head, as if this is not the answer he seeks.
Bill has always been a scientist. Educated at MIT and Tufts, with advanced degrees from both places, Bill has never doubted the scientific theory.
My husband tells me that Bill always used to avoid eye contact, believing that making eye contact can be misinterpreted as an aggressive act. But when we spoke the other day, I leaned forward and stared into his liquid, oceanic eyes, both of us searching together for the answer to the question of matter.
At first I told him that the answer is love and kindness – and we each must find this answer in our heart – and caring for one another is all that really matters. He nodded, agreeing, but also insisting that there is a scientific explanation – some answer we can seemingly ascertain if only we can think it through.
Then I reminded him that all things and concepts are associated with symbols – and perhaps in seeking his answer, he could meditate on the connection of each thing to another, and perhaps that could help him arrive at the answer. He considered this explanation.
Finally I asked him what would happen if he found the answer. “If you could find the answer, if you actually knew, maybe you would be sad, because then there would be no more questions, and wouldn’t that be sad, not to have any more questions?” He smiled, then laughed, then said, “You have me.”
It is part of the puzzle, isn’t it? To seek – an answer or an object – even if we cannot understand it or possess it – and yet – there is such sadness when the seeking has ended.
When I try to define the universe, I meditate on the symbology behind the etymology of the word matter: mother – mother of creation, mother of what is holy, giving birth to all that is material, to all that we know of, to all that we know we are, all heart and spirit and soul; all that matters.
The other day my 87-year-old father-in-law, Bill, told me his query.
He wants to find out what’s at the end of the universe. He wants me to help him find out. He’s been asking this question of everyone he knows; everyone who will listen.
Bill’s wife, my late-mother-in-law, died a few months ago. They had been married for more than 65 years. After her death, he spoke only of her. Now he speaks of her in relation to the universe.
Bill wants the definitive answer to this question. He wants this answer to come from science. He said scientists have told him that the universe folds in on itself – and he shook his head, as if this is not the answer he seeks.
Bill has always been a scientist. Educated at MIT and Tufts, with advanced degrees from both places, Bill has never doubted the scientific theory.
My husband tells me that Bill always used to avoid eye contact, believing that making eye contact can be misinterpreted as an aggressive act. But when we spoke the other day, I leaned forward and stared into his liquid, oceanic eyes, both of us searching together for the answer to the question of matter.
At first I told him that the answer is love and kindness – and we each must find this answer in our heart – and caring for one another is all that really matters. He nodded, agreeing, but also insisting that there is a scientific explanation – some answer we can seemingly ascertain if only we can think it through.
Then I reminded him that all things and concepts are associated with symbols – and perhaps in seeking his answer, he could meditate on the connection of each thing to another, and perhaps that could help him arrive at the answer. He considered this explanation.
Finally I asked him what would happen if he found the answer. “If you could find the answer, if you actually knew, maybe you would be sad, because then there would be no more questions, and wouldn’t that be sad, not to have any more questions?” He smiled, then laughed, then said, “You have me.”
It is part of the puzzle, isn’t it? To seek – an answer or an object – even if we cannot understand it or possess it – and yet – there is such sadness when the seeking has ended.
When I try to define the universe, I meditate on the symbology behind the etymology of the word matter: mother – mother of creation, mother of what is holy, giving birth to all that is material, to all that we know of, to all that we know we are, all heart and spirit and soul; all that matters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
