Hula for the Cure

That's what the sidewalk told me to do, as I chugged through a late-afternoon run. Written in pink chalk by Scouts doing a fundraising event, the message was soon washed away by the early-summer rain. But it stayed with me all the way down Mass Ave and back. I'll shake my hips for that, for sure.

When I was a kid, my room in my dad's house was right next to his. At night, we would holler our thoughts about heavy things across the house. Well, things that were heavy when I was 10. Things that are heavy now: death, memory, scary things under the bed. During one of these discussions Dad told me that to him there's no god, which at the time was really mind-blowing, but even at 10 I respected his conviction. When I saw him and mom last weekend I brought this up, which spawned a discussion about the existence of God and the mysteries of the universe. Dad's preferred superpower, it turns out, would be to be present at the Big Bang, to learn what really happened when everything began. (Mine was to talk to and understand animals.)

We contemplated then, as we had years ago, the spectre of death; the possibility of empty nothingness following the suffering of this life. Mom and I refuse to accept that that's it. Maybe because we have endured terrible things. Maybe Dad's also done that, but figured out how to make the most of it anyway. Either way, we disagree, but it's ok with me. We've each got to make our own way with this stuff, anyway.

Mom's reports came back just fine, normal. Thanks. God.

Flowers in the Dustbin

Mom came through her surgery just fine; now it's the agonizing six-day wait for the biopsy results. We've been through this before. We really hope it ends better this time.

I planted the garden in the late afternoon when I got home. It was a fitting end to an exhausting weekend fraught with the expected mix of humor and pathos. It felt good to focus on the digging and raking, my hands in the cool clumpy dirt. Tiny lettuces, basil, sage, English lavender, oregano, peppers, tomatoes, little fingery onion-tops, all growing happily as we speak.

A garden's a hopeful thing: specks of reassuring green and yellow, lined with grey slate stones.

Utopia Parkway

The king of Araby is coming home today
It’s bumper touching bumper on the roadway
The sun is in the sky just now but the road is gray

They drive in Winnebagos from the Everglades
Pulled over by the troopers in the mirror shades
The caravan is sorry, the driver has a twenty and change

And we’re leaving all the road for dead
We’re getting tired of the twists and turns
You’ve gotta go when human nature calls
We’re driving
We’re driving through the valley of malls

God forgive the passengers if we should fail
To find a penny fountain or a half-off sale
I need a merchant I’ve just started searching for a holy grail

Fighting for their freedom from a common bond
To be a barracuda in a guppy pond
So little time for so many things to try on

And we’re leaving all the road for dead
We’re getting tired of her twists and turns
You’ve gotta go when human nature calls
We’re driving
We’re driving through the valley of malls

Comfort in Sadness

A lot of time in between. A lot going on. Several friends of mine going through a rough time at the moment, some health scares, some things just not going well. My mom's having surgery in a week or so and I'm pretty worried about it.

I conjured up a reason to go to Target, which somehow makes me feel better. In times of trouble, for some reason Target is a comfort; it's the same every day, it's orderly, never really old or stale, but not totally sterile either. This is a ridiculous set of sentences, I realize.

For some reason, post-Target, today I found myself wandering through the mall that Target's in. Not the Arsenal, but the one across the street - the one with the DMV in it, the depressing Old Country Buffet restaurant, and a preponderance of old people and various misfits. Today there were several people walking in circles with canes, just hobbling along. What in that mall was of interest to them? The early bird specials at the Buffet? Or just the opportunity to walk on a rainy evening without being mowed down by Abercrombied and Fitched Young People?

A young guy with a barn coat and a red headband sat on a bench in the mall's center court, swinging his work boots, scratching his greasy hair, and pondering something vaguely perplexing and amusing. I tried not to stare at him, but it was clear that he had something figured out that I didn't. I wanted to know what it was.

Last time I was at this mall, it was Christmastime and an Asian men's choir was singing a lovely, arching cantata. It was so beautiful and otherworldly -- partly because the context was so ugly and fluorescently lit.

Today this sadness was oddly comforting; I was in the midst of a lot of people who had also Been Through Some Things. They don't have this fucking life figured out either but they swing their boots and smirk about it. I think I can do that too.