15,923. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,349

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,349

(Mt. Pisgah, and the January thaw)

Well, that snow eventually cleared off;

in what the neighbor up the hill guy, 

Jenkins, called the 'January' thaw. 

Except it was more like Feb 5th by 

then. It snowed some, when you get

right down to it, most every day; in

the air, snowflakes. No indications

ever of whether it was to be an inch, 

or five. That thaw time, when it came,

lasted about 8 days, and meant mud 

and melting.  But that was OK. I had 

a burn-barrel out on the front grass,

so during the thaw times I spent some

of it open-burning whatever was near

and needed burning. Cereal boxes,

oatmeal tubes and egg crates too. More

than anything, it was fun and relaxing, 

and everyone seemed to do it. Plus it

kept me warm out there  -  I'd stand

and look up; far, far on high the silver

arcs of jets and airstreams way off. I'd 

always been used to seeing the Newark

Airport jets on take-off and on their

approached back in  -  loud, low, and

steady. This was different, for they were

silent, and way on-high. I wasn't even sure

if they were JFK or Newark jets, headed

cross-country, or some other pattern of

air travel from other airports I'd not even

known of. It hardly mattered.

-

At that juncture, barely a month in, my

wife and I were still determining the

positions and the placement of things,

finding alternatives to the cold, setting 

up the normal and dumb household stuff.

Heck we weren't even sure of the best 

spots for chairs and tables, where to sit,

etc. Money kept going out the window,

but fortunately it wasn't ours. A new

washer and dryer arrived, and got 

installed. By later in that Spring, as 

well, we had the new kitchen floor,

which made a big difference. Both

sets of parents were splitting the 

bankroll on all this. The first thing

I myself did when I had a little

money stashed, maybe 175 bucks,

was to mail order from some tool

company (reputable, not junk), the

basic set of rachets, wrenches, screw-

drivers, hammers, chisels, etc., that

a normal person would need. It all

arrived in good order, and I made

myself a little tool-room in a dry but

cold area of the Storm-entry area at

the rear of the house. Always came

in handy.

-

Going upstairs for any reason was

crazy. Whatever the temperature

outside was, it was maybe 5 degrees

warmer, ONLY, inside upstairs, and

even less at the next, huge, open-attic

lever. We had so much unused room

it was crazy. I could have sold cars

on the attic floor, if I'd known how

to get them up and down.

-

I figured, somewhere, this house had a

key to its existence; a latch that held all

its past secrets  -  the who's and the what's

and why's of the last 75 years, or whatever

it was. Everyone here I ever mention, all

those men and ladies I met, and the ones

I never meant but just heard their names

in the many weird stories of intrigue, they

were now all buried up on that hill; where

once had been a quiet and undisturbed

little Civil-War/locals graveyard, gated

and revered. Somehow, between 1975 

and 2016, all those folks had died and 

their mortal remains now had taken

over the once-quiet graveyard. Now it

was cleared and mowed, and filled with

informative stones and memorials.

-

I guess that's how the thread of life 

keeps running. It weaves its way along 

the past and the present alike, and finds

way to fit into whatever the weave is. Same

with the houses  - a lot of the houses of all

these folk, back then, fresh-kept paint and

always right with repairs, had now turned

seedy. Way more so than ever before.

-

I stood on the high hill that had once

been my own, at the edge of the property,

facing out towards Mt. Pisgah. Where

previously Mt. Pisgah had been a mere

afterthought, a sort of lookout after a drive

of some 300 feet up, it was now no longer

abandoned in that manner. Parks Service

stuff had taken over; gates and markers,

and even some monumental statue of some

imagined, I guess, 'Chief Pisgah' gazing

out over what once had been the happy

tribal, hunting, fishing and tribal lands.

Oh well. Happy for that.

15,922. IN THE NAME OF SENSATION

IN THE NAME OF SENSATION 

In the name of sensation, the sling-bar

slices. And I have little to do. I remain

confused. Hitting so many wrong keys,

I can hardly type a meaningful sentence

without doing it twice.

-

If I go away, they'll say I fled. If I stay

right here, they'll say I'm dead. What's

the difference between them? It's already

been said.

-

The ice here remains ice, even at forty 

degrees in the afternoon; which only

lasts for a while and then drops to cold

again. That flat expanse of water may 

groan in March and April, and snap

and crack too, but now in January it

simply stays put. No movement, no

shrink. That's OK, it's quiet as a mouse.

-

In the name of sensation, we get noise, 

and clamor, petty disagreements and 

rumbles. Men who should know better

wear their psychological clothing inside

out. We get to see the results, and laugh.

-

I guess I can make it, somehow, through

all this slog. I'm sleeping too much, and

that I don't like; this healing, for me, is

like an arrow through my foot.

15,921. TAKE THE TIME OUT NOW

TAKE THE TIME OUT NOW

I'm so mixed up now. Am I in overtime,

or is this all just a tie? I've got reams of

medicines to think about, but my ample 

mind, on the fly, has gone crazy. I can't

stop and I cannot start?

-

I demand to stop all this nervousness, 

but my own senses have ground to a halt. 

I listen to what I can hear, but that isn't much.

In the distant, there's a car roaring by?

-

Whenever I sleep, it's like ten hours of time

lost: movie time of weird dreams and those

Jerseyana scenes. Airplanes dropping from 

the sky. Waterways clogged with leeches,

and lichens too!

15,920. SO MUCH CHROME

SO MUCH CHROME

There was so much chrome on that

Spanish guy's car it was like ice cream.

Pictures of dashboard Jesus and statues 

of lambs and Mary. Everything a'flutter 

and everywhere gone. Santo Domingo

Cab Co., the door read. With the usual

rates and tables. The guy was a big hit

up in Washington Heights.

15,919. MYOPIC MELANOMA

MYOPIC MELANOMA

If it wasn't a disease, they just made one

up and called it that anyway. Billing the

insurance company was insurance enough

they'd get paid. In 1958, I remember the

doctor, house to house, with his little black

doctor-bag, making house calls for sick little

kids : measles, chicken pox, croup, and strept

throat. Penicillin in a needle and some small

talk with Mom. 12 bucks, maybe 15, cash and

that was it. It was funny too, because his name

was Dr. Homer, and he made house calls for

Myopic Melanoma!

15,918. EASY TO GO ALONG

EASY TO GO ALONG

I roam the jungle though I'm really

seeking an oasis. That's all mixed up.

Cabana club people like their drinks

in the shade. They sit and stare out at

big buildings, thinking 'If I lived here,

I'd have it made.' Wrong, Tycho Brahe,

you'd still be the same.

-

1701 West 24th street. We hid a guy there

once. It was 1968 and he was in trouble 

deep. The January cold was a shivering

heap, and dead men can tell no tales.

-

Underneath old Morton Street, down in

the dear, old Village, there's a subway entry

little known, where workman and dollies do

their prattle. I met a guy there, once, named

Jim, and he gave me a hundred dollars. That

was probably the most money I've ever seen.

After that, it was easy to go along.

15,917. POST-OPS TWELVE

POST-OPS TWELVE

Today was another trip to Scranton, on that blood-thinner issue. I finally hit the blood-balance scale correctly, and they say they found my proper dosage, which is good. Now I have another trip, on Tuesday, as follow-up and to again check the levels. As much as it's all annoying, there's not much I can do about it since my part of this whole bargain (Bargain? What's a life worth?) is now to follow their directives. So, I do. One current disappointment is that, from the beginning it was said that 28 or 30 days was all that was needed for me to be on this Coumadin stuff. Now today they said three months. Valves get clots, and that's a danger. I realized today that, if I screw this up, I could be writing 'Post Op Flops'  -  which wouldn't be so cool.

     Going in to Scranton today, it was to a new location  -  the phlebotomist blood-lady keeps her own office at the complete other end of the Mulberry Street area, about oh 4 miles off. It's a section called Mount Pleasant Ave., at the Scranton High School turn and area. A modern building, glass and metal. It was OK, once I got to it, but I really dislike anything new  -  chrome posts and interior columns, little glass windows behind each of which sit the registrar people. It's always disconcerting and crummy to have to start at yet another window  -  same questions and all, even though they already have all your info up on screen from the Geisinger portal. I remembered today that I used to know a guy who'd say  -  about situations like this  -  'Screw 'em. Just walk in there like you own the place. Nobody will give you any crap.' It's not that easy, especially in that most all of these girls are like 20 at best, and speak in the sing-song goofy little voices, running all their words together and swallowing the rest. Makes me want to say, 'Listen, Missy, say all that again at half speed, and, goddamn it, enunciate your words like a Human so I can figure out what it your you're singing about. OK?' Between that, and the proximity to the nearby high school  -  yet another modern, swooped out designer palace for adolescents in revolt  -  surrounded as it is by Arby's, Sheetz' ( PA gas-station/convenience store palace) it's no wonder there's enough sugarized energy everywhere to go around : the usual hamburger joints and milkshake shakedowns also mean it's no wonder kids aren't shaking like speed freaks, let along talking run-on and fast.

     This end of town, too  -  unlike the nicer 'downtown' back by the hospital area that I was used to  -  is all car-oriented. You can't get anywhere by just walking. Each hill and parking lot are separate, and the high school to is isolated, prison-like, on its own knoll. Not sure what anyone was thinking, but maybe the kids all drive, or buses do the rest. I guess it's like that in many places, everywhere, but if you think abut it it eventually must leave a mark in the brain  -  isolating a body from the brick and mortar infrastructure around them. Which is mostly how kids live now anyway, so, whatever. I won't say 'I give up,' but I do. Just can no longer be bothered by whippersnappers in big sneakers. 

     Sometimes I think the whole world's now one big mess, but how do you successfully say that to a doctor whose preferred task is saving people and keeping them in that world? That's a real quandary.

      The phlebotomy doctor-lady turned out to be nice. Very relaxed feel to the situation, and the entire thing, the pin-prick and the blood-letting, and the quick reading for results of the blood only took like two minutes. The rest was chatter and small talk about the good results and finally having gotten to where they were wanted to be. I felt satisfied, even though I hated having, again, to come back Tuesday.

        One last thing, on the way out we drove past this really cool place which is also right there; we'd been there before, and I'd taken numerous photos  -  and hope to do it again on Tuesday. It's a NYC salvage operation shop called 'Olde Good Things.' They have maybe three locations in NYC, and here, in Scranton, is there gigantic east-coast collecting warehouse, where they store, catalogue, refurbish as needed, and post online, their new items. The idea of the place is that they salvage all those NYC places that get torn down  -  old brownstones, mansions, fancy townhomes, etc.  They purchase from the estate, and then re-sell. The guy told me a lot of wealthy people, rick stars, and film and TV people are always lurking around the NYC stores, for their fancy new Manhattan digs. They buy everything from lamps to bars to mirrors and safes.  Then he started dropping names likes I'd be impressed, but I just got bored and cut it short. Madonna, Sting. Michael Buble. Rod Stewart. Blad blah. Anyway, this here, in Scranton, is there big warehouse.

   

15,916. CHORUSMASTER

 CHORUSMASTER

They dimmed the lights so the lights

could be seen  -  the special lights,

those ornamental Christmas ones.

I'm not one for much of that, but 

this wasn't for me  -  my wife, 

maybe, more. I still get stunned 

sometimes just thinking how this 

double combination of weird events

has brought us to this point. And

after all these years. This June just 

passed, for all intents and purposes 

she was a goner. Life was about

done and the future looked grim.

-

Her hospital stay was meant for 

whatever it could be, and then they 

sent her home. A few trips back to

Scranton, a bunch of meds, and

then  -  like a magical swan  -  she

blossomed once more on this new

maintenance regimen provided by

Pfizer, of all likely names. Skimming

her own new lake, and floating with

aplomb again.

-

That was great, until November, when 

all this crap then started for me. I was 

granted six more months with her that

I'd thought I'd never see...and then this

cardiologist came to me and said now

it was six for me! We huddled a bit with

the fearsome news, but what was there

else I could do? I said, 'Let's go, let's

go, and not waste time. Do all you can

do; you've got my last dime!'

-

Now, somehow, even I've pulled through,

and though my new limitations are cranky

(I'd sure like to drive), I think I can manage

a few more weeks and still survive. I really

want the page to turn; to get a new start, and

learn to earn!

15,915. I TRY

I TRY 

(the Agway store)

The man was talking barrel-staves

in the Agway Store. Sensible place

for that sort of talk  -  those guys know

all about that stuff. Like the last name

of 'Cooper'  -  barrel making was once

the important art of cooperage and of

storage  -  liquids, grains and mash. 

All that crap was once important.

-

Now, we hear nothing of it  -  it's

all some corporate magic now done

15 states away  -  corn mash and 

barrels of oats, or a Kentucky morning

mist at the distillery, where they seek

to sell you alcohol dreams.

-

Everything's prosaic now; they make

up stories and set the scenes they want 

you to think about: those little vignettes

of great-grandpa and the sleds, sliding the

mash along the snowy paths in 1881 instead

of now : corporate vats brought to you

by International Consolidated Breweries.

-

This guy was on his money. "I need the

metal staves that line up at the bottom

and then fan out; with a belly at the center

where the barrel runs. I used to make

my own, but my shoulder's torn now and

I can't, and my kid's too busy gooning

with his girlfriend to even give a care."

-

I understood immediately what he meant;

being lame now myself and wishing for

more. I bought me a 14 dollar hammer,

just for the fun of it, and left out the

same door I'd entered in.

15,914. AS IF LISTENING

 AS IF LISTENING

This world is a grumble-palace, and in

place of shadows and feints I often only

sees offences and hates. People mending

tear-lines in the ancient worlds they've

built. Calling out the Gods with differing

names; never understanding they're all

the same.

-

Now it's dull dawn again, and the pale

Wintry morning light is trying. Ice is on

the water, white, and the pale fusillade

of trees upon the other shore seems like

nothing so much as a phalanx of shadows

ready to roar.

-

This world is very quiet, with nary an

animal out to roam. Something leaves 

all these snow-tracks in the old Winter

snow, but nothing that I ever see.

-

For me, it's a wonder to still be here. By

parts, I should be dead : Heaven and or 

Hell have their call out for me. Have I

now eluded a form of capture, for which

my payment later will be more painful

still? I don't know Lord, but here I am,

and  -  one way or the other  -   I know 

you'll do what you will? As if listening,

my ears now perk up at every new sound.

(Yes, that's me, down here on the ground).

15,913. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,348

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,348

(pitfalls and vicissitudes)

A few days into my first stay

at Columbia Crossroads, while

I was still feeling my way -  and

my little family was there too, wife

and 6-month old  -  we were blasted

(Jan. '71) with what amounted to a

major snowstorm. even by their local

Crossroads standards. Everyone else 

probably knew about it, but I had no

knowledge it was due  -  we were

isolated, no radio or TV, etc. So that

night and next two days we were 

blasted and solitary, in a 36 hour

whiteout of really rough proportions.

We had just enough milk and food 

and baby stuff to get by, but since 

everything was new to us (including 

the bizarre lack of heat with any 

substance), we struggled and froze 

our butts off. It was one to remember,

and became a defining learning

experience. We were still finding 

out where the light switches were, 

and then this. I guess we could 

have been in serious trouble, but 

we got by. 

-

The most surprising thing was when

I went outside. I couldn't locate the car.

My little red VW, which I had parked

against the lower brick wall under the 

house, had been inundated with a drifting

cake-icing like set of snow-swirls that

flipped and looped over that entire lower

portion of the house. (Little did I, stupidly

again, know or foresee). I knew where I

had left it, and did eventually locate it, but

the most hopeless task awaited me. Cleaning

off and digging out the car would be fine,

though onerous, but after that there was

nowhere to go. No car tracks anywhere;

nothing but 12-14 inches of wild, blowing

snow. The nearby garage doors too, adding

to the problem, did NOT open upward, but

- in the old farm manner - bot doors swung

OUT, on their hinges; which meant the

entire sweep of each door also needed to 

be shoveled and cleared to allow any

access to the basement and/or garage

parking area. A real problem! I went back

into the house, grumbling to myself about

the mess I was in. And an unforeseen mess,

to be sure.

-

I was brand-new to the area, hadn't really 

'met' anyone  -  except for the two neighboring

farmers with whom I'd had a casual lunch

and some conversation, and  -  of course  -

Willard Brown, the farmer from over the

hilltop, whose family I'd dined with and

from whom I'd bought the property and

arranged a second mortgage (see Rudiments,

#1342, 'Black Walnut Hollow'), I was 

perplexed over what to do, and then I 

heard it! In the distance, and slowly

approaching, was a giant red tractor. At

the wheel, I saw upon approach, was

Warren Gustin  -  exposed to the elements

and bundled up like a fur-trapper. He had

taken some dumb-boy pity on me, and,

knowing I'd need help, came by with his

John Deere (same tractor I'd end up using

on a daily basis, almost as 'my own' when

I worked the farm for him and with him).

He had tow chains and a small plow too.

As we met each other on the lower lane,

there was little small talk. We both knew

what was up, and the seriousness of the

situation. (It could have been days until

we had any exit possibilities, let alone

re-entering the yard). A few words of

instruction, a few grunts and 'yeps', and

we set to work. We secured a tow chain

to the underside of the VW and I did 

some cursory clearing off of the car 

while Warren lightly plowed some area 

for parking the car. Then he positioned 

the tractor and slowly eased the car

through the blown and powdery  

snow. It moved OK, and he dragged 

it over to the area he'd cleared.

-

Our next task was to get the snow

cleared from the garage swing-out

doors area, so as to gain access to

the shelter and parking beneath the 

house. That went well enough, and

then  -  using the tractor and plow - 

Warren clear, essentially, the entire

lower driveway area. Then, when he

was done, he walked over to me and

said, 'That ought to hold you now, until 

the plows get here in two or three hours.

I've called Eddie Menger and told him

the situation, and he says they'll be out

her, top priority, to get you open to the

hardtop. I was besides myself with

gratitude, yes, and from that day on,

including all the time I worked for him

after the big Elmira flood had wiped out

my Elmira job, we were fast friends and,

pretty much, sidekicks. He added that, if 

the plows again snowed me in, I should just

call him back. I declined, saying, 'I'll just

dig the drive out. It's a small car and I

think we can make it. Thanks!. And with

that, he was off. It was a real Godsend,

and one of the better things that ever 

happened to me. Like magic!

-

The rest of the day was just spent waiting.

Whoever Eddie Menger was, he too came 

through, and the big plow truck came by,

two long sweeps up the hill and down, and

the dirt road was cleared enough to get the

car out. (Turned out he was the equipment

manager for the local road-crew guys). I

don't know what would have happened if

either Warren, or this Eddie guy, hadn't

showed up and pulled through for me, but

I was a wee lad, new to the land, and they

were both really cool about the situation.

-

The next thing we did was venture out, for

the ten or twelve miles to Troy, PA, for

some groceries and supplies. We couldn't

take any more chances, and would no

longer have naivete as an excuse to use.

Winter was weird and wild in these parts,

and this became our first lesson in its

pitfalls and vicissitudes. The paved roads 

weren't bad at all and  -  once I learned to

ropes of our long dirt road - that never

seemed quite as bad again, except maybe

for the mud-sinks I've mentioned.

That first storm was over. There'd be

many more, but none with the

staying power or shock value of

this first one. A real eye-opener.

15,912. OBSERVING

OBSERVING

Paper the wooded lane with fly-paper,

see what sticks around. Why would that

be any different than yesterday? My arms

can't work and my mind gets confused.

I think I was unplugged too long? Every

other word I write is a strange word and

unknown to me. My hair gets blown by

the messiest wind, but I no longer care.

Anyway, my hair's no longer there.

-

I like that feeling  -  like a burro in a

barnyard watching goats devour paper 

bark. You can learn a lot by observation:

How'd they learn to do that? Do they do

that in the dark?

15,911. SOMETIMES I FREEZE

SOMETIMES I FREEZE

Often when it's late, and in the middle

of the night, I sit up, looking out, instead

of sleeping. The night throws funny lashes 

over tired eyes, and sometimes I freeze too.

Maybe the fire is gone down, or out. Or I

just don't feel like getting up again to tend

it. The cinders, glowing red, will hold for

6am, when I can start the whole routine

again. I stare out and count all my mistakes,

or watch the lowly wind start rustling all

the branches once again. Then, eventually,

the east-light begins breaking in, and can 

sort new light from the old : pink sky, a

cluster of reddish clouds, something gray 

and scuttling across the sky. Wind and

weather, they always bring something;

but let's keep the snow away. OK?

15,910. POST-OPS ELEVEN

 POST-OPS ELEVEN

     Like the four-quarters of an orange, life itself can be broken up into segments. Whether or not it's four, you yourself may decide, since you are the segmenter for your own journey. I have my categories and little sections, all kept on order and ripe for review. Everyone's interests tend toward the most very personal: The forester will say, 'Heed the leaves!'  -  while the butterfly catcher will have in inordinate interest in the ways of nets and their weaving. Past a certain point, it all runs together.

     Here's an interesting story from yesterday: I got done with my cardiac-floor work and appts., so I descended to the first floor cancer section, where my wife had 2 appts. I entered, and waited  -   she had been called in and not yet reappeared. It was a free and timeless little moment. The lady next to me said her name was Margery. She had been sitting  -  both waiting  -  with my wife Kathy, as they waited. Margery was about 60, maybe 65, and a talkative type, but engaging. Not at all off-putting. Sh was reading a book  -  some travel think about Lombardy or Provence. The sort of places that Americans should never go, since they only despoil while 'pretending' to be travelers. It's a money-disease, all this lame pawing at someone else's ground. Margery said my wife had described me perfectly and she'd had no trouble realizing who I was. I sat down next to her, and started reciprocating  -  the usual entry-talk about weather, the holidays, climate and, generally, how things were. Margery, rather then being empty-headed, proved a surprising competitor.

     She said: 'We're lucky we got seats, when your wife and I first got here, we had to stand.' I said, 'Wow; it sure doesn't seem crowded here now.' We agreed; then she said: You know, one of the first things I do when I enter places and rooms like this is re-design the space for optimum use, in my head.' That was a surprising statement, so I ran with it. 'Hmmm, that's pretty interesting; doesn't seem like there's much you could do here without reconfiguring the whole approach. The room itself is running narrow left to right and with little depth  -  three registration windows, which are bottlenecks, and behind that all are exam rooms and doctor's spaces. Not much to be done.' Sh agreed with that and said she meant more the two rope lines, wherein people clashed and banged together. She figured there had to be a way of breaking that pitfall up. I said it would be difficult to do without losing half the chairs people sat on. Then like a brat, I added: 'Besides, they make people pretty large today, and that's half the problem in itself.'

      When Margery had introduced herself to me, as Margery, I said, 'Don't tell me. You're not Margery Daw! How is Jackie's new master working out?' It was a naked dare at perception; at whether or not she'd 'get' the joke, or tell me she's heard that stuff all her life. Actually, she laughed, and her book fell. There was one loose folded piece of paper, a color-photograph of something, in the book, and it had fallen out, between the retrieving of the book, and the page, which had blown off about 5- feet away, she gamely made her retrievals. I was thinking of mentioning travel, foreign lands, etc., to see where she'd been, but I thought better of it, and anyway, she herself kept talking and carried the ball. She said her husband, a truck driver, had recently lost his equilibrium and was having falling problems. I asked if that interfered with his truck-driving. She didn't answer directly. This was a cancer section, as I said, a waiting area, and she said she was waiting being called in. So this specific visit had nothing to do with her husband. I forget how we transitioned to other subjects, but it turned out her and her husband, New Jerseyans, and moved to Lake Ariel some yours ago. Lake Ariel had had two large restaurant fires, on, in fact, on the day after Christmas. She moaned about the losses, especially that latest one, which was evidently a popular, local Italian restaurant and pizza place. Then it got funny - she started asking me about the influx of 'outsiders' in the area we lived. So I told her about Narrowsburg and the river/border crossing between NY and PA. She knew the area. I said a lot of influx on the NY side was New Yorkers themselves, resettling from Queens or Brooklyn, or even Manhattan. I said none of it bothered me; I pretty much kept alone. between NY and PA. She knew the area. I said a lot of influx on the NY side was New Yorkers themselves, resettling from Queens or Brooklyn, or even Manhattan. I said none of it bothered me; I pretty much kept alone, but that thy were somewhat annoying in any case, with their urban habits and fixations; tattoos and colors, Soho fashions and attitudes, trophy dogs, demands and rushes for restaurants and eateries and cafes. The whole town of Narrowsburg is, maybe, 25 buildings, but these folks come elbowing in already wanting art galleries, concert spaces, coffee shops and the rest. She understood, smiled, and nodded.

Then she started telling me the Jersey side of her story, which was weird and a sort of parody of the usual way it worked. Here and her husband, the truck-driver guy, when they were first married, lived in Wayne, NJ, because he wanted to stay close by his brother. Then, over the years, they had moved about - Chatham, Millburn, and Summit. Then, knowing those area well, we started exchanging highway stories : Morris Ave, Benihana (my friend and I used to park cars there as young teens, with his father) - It was called The Arch, or something like that, back then, because of a stone-arch bridge that ran by it on old Rt. 24. She remembered it well, and we exchanged tales of the Springfield Church and Battlefield and cemetery; same with Westfield. She got a thrill out of good roadways, the Short Hills Mall, and all that super-stuff of suburbia (which never meant crap to me). In reverse order, then, as I said, they kept a townhouse in Chatham for their Jersey use, which, regardless of the expenses and taxes, they liked better than their PA. property at Lake Ariel, where lived 'lived' and claimed primary residence. That was pretty weird, but I let it go. Also funny, back to Lake Ariel, her biggest new excitements was the new 'Dollar General' that just opened, quite near their house on Rt.191. All in all, a very odd story and curious exchange. Then we started with the Jersey Shore crap - which I hate - and she said her daughters each liked in beachfront homes down there and loved it. I said I'd always hated the ocean and shoreline towns, and was glad to be out of there.

So, this entire episode bore all the similarities - in reverse - of the usual 'Summer home in the mountains' kind of stuff that people usually do. Margery's ace-in-the-hole was her townhouse in Chatham! That meant money. Chatham's no walk in the park - it's an expensive town, bordering other expensive towns. It demands finances. It sort of also demands a fealty to sort of high-urban consciousness that overtakes clearly the bound simplicities of country life. I don't know how she and her husband balance it, but I guess they did. The talk dwindled a bit, and then changed to her Golden Retriever, the beloved dog of her husband and his fine companion. The dog was getting on, 12 years old, and was beginning to get the bumps and swellings of old age. I told her I knew all about that, and that I'd lost my own fast-companion, Sam, some three years back, and simply have withdrawn my interests for dogs now - not seeking a replacement, etc. We agreed how it was sort of a shame, being in the country and having land and all, not to share it with a dog. We talked of vets and expenses, dog care and

maintenance, and simply decided the best course was to be sensible and use one's best judgement. (As roundabout and bland a comment as one could give). And then just like that, Margery got called in, and we parted with a nice goodbye).

15,909. I WENT TO THE CARAVELLE SHOP

I WENT TO THE CARAVELLE SHOP

Not knowing what they even sold any longer.

At home, my ledger was open to nothing, and

the frogs had left the aquarium. Out front of the

shop, the metal dragon sculpture was on the

lawn. It has been there at least five years.

-

Never knowing, never caring what that place 

was about. Fins and Feathers was a pet shop,

right next door. Snake food and rabbit pellets.

Yuck. A few people straggled out the doorway,

and their ratty pickup idled noisily nearby.

-

The only thing, really, I could think of was

that  -  if I had a girlfriend in France  -  I could

take a Caravelle to Paris and probably be there

in another eight hours?

15,908. SOME OF THIS IS JUST DAMNED SAD

SOME OF THIS IS JUST DAMNED SAD

How it goes is like a tickle down the

throat with a big rusted pipe. It all

just makes me cry, and I cry easy

now. A transgender execution gets 

played up like a circus in some foul

Missouri place, and they expect me to

give a fuck about Kevin McCarthy's case.

-

A football guy collapses, while some TV

geek gets smashed up in a snowmobile?

What are they trying to do? Why do they

smack up my head with this trivial gossip

and undying goo? I'll never understand this

awful world as it's presented to me.

-

Tomboys with their tattooed faces.

Swollen ears, and lipstick traces.

15,907. POST-OPS TEN

POST-OPS TEN  

     I didn't think I'd be back to this, but  -  I'm beginning to feel like a yo-yo, and after yet another trip today back to Scranton  -  I'll file a report from the front. Today was a rainy day - with thick fog - along all those intertwining roads that branch out from Rt. 6, once you get to the Scranton environs. It was pretty cool, visually. I'm still 'not allowed' to drive for another, say, three weeks, so as a passenger now I glimpse many things from other angles I'd usually not see. The light is always weak (I haven't taken a photo in 5 weeks), and the pale glimpse that passes for sunshine never does much. By 3:30 pm, the day is fairly much over. The hills drip fog and not much else until the snow or ice rages. I've made this trip now, under all sorts of situations, way too many times to any longer make it have any sequential meaning. It's all become an abstract journey. How I ever got mixed up with Medicine  -  a subject-matter I've always hated and avoided  -  is beyond me. I get to taking or seeking pleasure now in Wintry car-drive scapes.

     I got to the hospital today, without any elation. I was tired already, and dreary with January thoughts. I've always hated January  -  a too-long, cold, and offensive month for me other than its fact of having to let the angled sling-shot of Earth get its boost past the innards of space so as to start the whole stupid process again. Lights. Action. Camera. In deepest, profound space? I felt dragging, even as I walked the dampness from parking garage to 3rd floor elevator pedestrian walkway, 3 floors up. I put on, yet again, that same damn mask I always use, which is the equivalent for me of someone clasping their hand over my mouth to cease my easy breathing. Within a minute, yes, it comes down, first to uncover my nose, and then to all intents and purposes down past my mouth and no one balks. The heart-patient coronary guys get all the breaks. Except for this endless check-up after check-up after follow-up after medicine dosage adjustment, all these 'taking blood' trips have made me feel lethargic and pokey. All that work and toil, for something that takes about 30 seconds. The talking about it all afterwards takes twenty times as long, and I get all sorts of weird nurse/specialists  -  the 'phlebotomist'; the Coumadin Maiden (as I call her), and the jovially-wired blood-taker herself, who always likes my big veins, and calls them great pipes. I want to say 'They wouldn't be so swollen if you'd just leave them alone awhile.'

     Getting into the lobby, I noticed right off that  -  since I last left there on the 23rd or whatever it was, the 'Holiday' schema of the place had changed  -  more decorations, Menora stuff, fake trees, candelabras and angels blowing on horns. It was thrilling, but to a negative degree. Crippled and bloated, wheelchaired and lame, all these folks silently did their trespass past Christmas and Holiday cheer. Nothing made much sense. The two cafes were closed already for the day, and the nearby pharmacy seemed, as well, vacant and forlorn. T'weren't much happening in Happyland.

I couldn't help but feeling deflated. I'd thought I'd be done with this place, but it just kept creeping back on me, with more and more upcoming dates of re-visitation. Friday, for instance, 3-days off! That was a new one, added today. The reason for all this crap (my wife had to meet her cancer-doctor as well, so at least we've managed to conjoin a few visits : The luck of the time-saver, I bet), is because of this medicine they keep pouring into me and changing dosages of. Coumadin - a blood-thinner that can go good, or become really bad on one too. I hate the stuff and really did NOT want to get involved with it, but they said I'd need 25-30 days of it, so as not to 'clot' around the new valve at one extreme, and, at the other extreme, not 'bleed out, God forbid' as she phrased it. They can't get the dosage right, so they keep calling me back for adjustments - three pills a day, now (for the next 4 days), instead of one and a half. I said I was really annoyed, and feared side effects and repercussions - bruising, rectal bleeding, etc., (these are each of some of the 'side effects' possible proposed on the funhouse guide to freaks and ghouls they supplied me with). She said she was sorry, and understood, but the drug takes a delayed reaction, and as I've regained appetite, movement, and vitality, my energy levels and such have also altered absorption of the drug. I nodded like I understood, but this was all Greek-Medical Bullshit to me, even though I didn't want to tell Mrs. Dracula here. I told her I'd follow her instructions but wasn't happy about it and I felt she was running interference for the 'other' side, not mine. The best she was able to come up with was that they had 'others' who were taking 7 times my dosage. Well, GOOD for them then!!

Then, a real clincher! I told the doctor that, after 30+ years of taking Coumadin, rigorously, and 2 heart operations later, my mother had died of Coumadin. Her brain aneurism, when it occurred, had allowed so much thinned-out blood to rush into her brain, fueled by all that Coumadin, that the onrush of blood had been enough to dislodge her brain from her brain-stem (or something like that, I forget the exact process and that was 20 years ago). We were given like 12 hours, as survivors, to decide whether to unplug her from the respirator/life support, or have a vegetable Ma for however long it would be. The doctor flatly denied that was true; 'It could not have happened that way; there had to be other underlying factors; what you're presenting is preposterous.'

I'm not about to be arguing with a Class A heart surgeon, especially one who'd just been a team member of the gang that had done mine! So I rolled over, figuring, well, yeah, OK, I guess I got the story wrong. But that's surely the way I remember it. 'Accentuate the positive. Eliminate the negative. Don't mess with Mr. In-Between!!' So, wish me well, I guess, in my blood-fueled battle to the finish. How I ever got her, I'll never know. Fate? Destiny? The crummy crawlings of genetic bad luck? A huge joke played on me by God - years of funky frolic, allowed to run their course while I played stickball in the courtyard thinking all was great? Jeepers, looked at one way this life can surely seem to suck.

15,906. DRINKING FROZEN WATER

DRINKING FROZEN WATER

I don't think either birds or frogs ever do it.

Why then do we? Gin and tonic? Is that a

drink for all the animal kingdom? Do they

have parties out by the sea? Frozen cubes

of a watery delight, things unseen by you

and me? I'd bet it happens  -  in those small

spaces between time where times overlap.

15,905. TYPPANY AND FALAFOOZA

TYPPANY AND FALAFOOZA

If you take the Santa Train up above the

Hawley hills  -  as it wends past farmland 

and meadows, you do finally get somewhere

untainted by Christmas and all its racket.

-

People sit in an open car, dusting things

off their coats and jackets, and some mother,

of course, always begins yapping to her kids

about "Watch out for live cinders! They'll

burn a hole in your coat, and that's your good

coat, remember; you have to wear that to Aunt 

Jane's next week!' Why are mothers always like 

that? Mine was too, as I remember well.

-

The kids themselves can't do anything about it,

if there even are cinders (I think she's mixing up

steam trains with this Diesel). They're supposed

to dodge the red mite they see flying through the

sky? Then, that some mother would probably start

yapping about them 'keeping to their seats and

quite fidgeting around!. You'll fall of the train

and get hurt!'

15,904. I HEAR THE KNIGHTS

I HEAR THE KNIGHTS OF MALTA 

ARE SINGING ONCE AGAIN

That may be, but you only have my word.

At Princeton, twice a year, direct from Malta,

the same woman would show up. She was the

proprietor of the only bookshop on the Isle of

Malta (look it up then!), and she'd come with

her line of credit and some listing of books.

She stick around a few days and make her

selections. Piles of oddities and intellectual

books  -  the crawly-with-knowledge sorts of

reads only the rigid class gets.

-

I liked her; she was tough and in-your-face, if

it got that way. Never turning backwards, she

seemed always intent on a forward motion. Her

stories of Malta were cool; as she perused, she

also mused, so we covered lots of subjects to

boot. It was hard for me, of course, to either

understand fully, or grasp the proportions of

the things she'd said. I had no grasp of Malta,

and my slim history-reads were a gruesome

guide. Eventually, we'd pack up her 40 or 60

books and - until next time - I'd start dreaming

once more about the cool life she must lead.

15,903. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I KEEP TRYING TO SAY?

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I 

KEEP TRYING TO SAY?

Everything seemed out of order : another bunch of

line-dancing Texans sitting down for a 'day-after-Christmas'

luncheon and not knowing what to eat. I figured the name

alone, Sacco's Pizza, would have given them a line-jumping

clue. The same girl I often see there was waiting on them. As

most often, she had her kid in tow, underfoot, gentle, just

having day-fun on Christmas day-one.

-

Ever since my hospital stay  -  just up the block  -  my friends

had been here three or four times. This was probably my second.

It's the same place I kept my pre-op death watch that evil night

before surgery. I never eat much, a slice or two, at most; but the

others always rave about something or other: specials or extra

dishes. Every hear of a pear salad? No neither have I, but the

goodly wife loves it.

-

Today, I was sort of released from all that angst and guilt.

The accursed operation was over, but I was still afraid of

anything that could occur, occurring. Watch what food I eat,

kill the alcohol, no processed crap over-heavy with sodium 

and its whammo of crud. What do I eat, rice, one kernal at 

a time?

-

Ha, ha, I laughed to myself. When I got to my appointment,

I said, 'Doc, if all this was genetic and just caught me in

its trap, what difference does it matter about my diet,

which wasn't the problem at all?' He smiled, sagely, and

said, 'Yes, well, you're right as right can be on that count,

and I applaud your thinking, but with all the meds now

and the balances we're trying to keep, for the next month,

at least, eat wisely, and keep it safe.'

15,902. THE JUICE WAS IN THE COOLER

THE JUICE WAS IN THE COOLER

It was horse country in old New Jersey;

1968. There used to be a gas station

pool hall convenience store at the turn

for Peapack and Gladstone on Rt. 206.

My two friends always wanted to stop

there, each time we passed it, to play a

round of boring pool. Not much of a

game to me, but I'm no judge of that.

My girlfriend and I stayed outside,

with coffees in a cup - two cups, as

it had to be. You can't hold coffee

loosely. Peapack and Gladstone, back

then was horse country-  farms and

lanes and even Jackie O. She was the

President's widow and real big on

horses and all that tack and boodle 

stuff. A girl came out of the store,

and said to me, 'XYZ.'

-

I wondered what she meant, and my

girlfriend said, 'It means your fly is

open, you fool. Examine your zipper.'

I said, 'Wasn't she supposed to do that

for me?' Ha! 

15,901. HASTEN MY HAND TO SOMETHING NEW

HASTEN MY HAND TO 

SOMETHING NEW

Now that I've pledged my allegiance to this

goldmine of the living world, I - like Atlas - 

can claim I will hold up the world? I doubt 

that again, and again. Don't let my flags

unfurl : I am not a kingly warrior and

will stand, really, for nothing at all.

-

I look out across the Main Street alley  

Honesdale, PA-  there's a '49 Dodge 

parked there; an old stinker from 

Brooklyn with old New York plates;

the guy said he drove here last  Summer 

and just parked it  -  an  eye-catcher for 

his little store. He and his wife have a little 

jumble-shop of used goods and clothing. 

Seems now like it's closed up, with a lot 

of funny stuff for free on a rack out front. 

New Year's Resolution? House-cleaning

for them.

-

Ahem, and oh well. That's the way it goes.

To tell the truth, it's not really how it goes

at all. It goes however it   and we've got

no control. So, give me that flag again.

I wish to plant it on my hill

15,900. VALAZQUEZ FRANCIS BACON BURGER, FRIES ON SIDE

VALAZQUEZ FRANCIS BACON BURGER, FRIES ON SIDE

Whatever subsides when the fires die down are most

often not worthy of talk; it's a mundane topic and men

quickly tire of that. On the other hand, we can talk about

Francis Bacon all day!

-

He liked to paint red meat and things; broken jawbones

and sundered teeth. The twisted folk at the base of the

cross, the contorted figure up top, dying; all agony and 

blistered blood : Ready facts of memory, but things you

can't just go look up. Please, please, don't ask for ketchup.

There's blood enough already.

15,899. ALL I HAD THOUGHT

ALL I HAD THOUGHT

So many things go down the funnel-hole

of time. Leaving tracks and echoes, but

only if you can find them...All these years,

I thought he was a Naval Ensign, or some

floating ship-captain's sidekick with a nose for

the wild wind. Now I see he's a computer tech

guy on some ship that glides between oceans 

and ports. And I realize I can't make the two

connect. In one pocket is the romance of the

sea and all its travel, while in other is the

drudgery of making all that connect.

-

I guess it always had it be that way; all those

years : ship-to-shore radios, and sextants and

scanners of the oceans' floors. Now there's less.

Not there's more. I'm an old-style fuddy-dud, I

guess, with way to jump the gap. (I'll have to

just leave it at that).

15,898. TALISMAN

TALISMAN

I'd like to invite all my friends to a churning:

We can rip up the ground of ideas all together,

and once and for all determine the validity or

not of all those ancient truths. The Riddle Of

the Sphinx doesn't say much today; nor does

what it say make any sense.

-

There's a higher music, like the kind I want

to hear when clouds are disappeared and the

sky is opened up. I see swirling eddies of light

and matter quickly escaping into some other

time and place. Is that a boyhood wish yet

unfulfilled? To want to find a place within

that swirl?