The Mirror.

I took another barre class today. It is a form of exercise that combines Pilates and ballet moves. I used to take ballet and tap lessons as a kid. I was also a cheerleader. Not to toot my own horn, but I was voted Most Coordinated and Graceful by a panel of inner voices back in 1981. Every year since then, I renominate myself and am never surprised when, again, I am presented with the title. Anyway, I digress. The class was led by a very fit, 50+ instructor who resembled Annette Bening.  It was all women, except for one man who came with his wife. He had a bit of a male porn star look to him ... a good head of hair trapped in a David Hasselhoff 80s style, a cheesy calf tat, muscle shirt on thick, undefined shoulders, an unseasonal tan and large teeth.

Nix the Shar Peis, add 23 years, a wide, terry cloth sweat band across his forehead 
and head to toe nylon/polyester. Yep, that's the guy. 

He was next to me and made a lot of noises. (It is not an easy class.) Forceful exhales, grunts, squeaks, moans ... loud enough to be heard over the special dance mix version of Call Me Maybe blasting from the mp3 player. I tried not to close my eyes, in fear that images of Most Watched XHamster would pop into my head ... Carly Rae Jepson and the Squeaky Grunter going at it in the janitor's closet of a Starbucks ... and break my concentration.

So I kept my eyes open. And I watched myself in the wall of mirrors. I liked what I saw. Chop off my head, and I am looking at the body of a 26 year old. A coordinated, graceful, decapitated young woman who, for the moment, is free from her inner voices.  Then, a myriad of mirror images washed over me, of blissful abandon in shades of blue, blinding me with their energy. I felt alive and happy. Then the music stopped.

I came home, took an Aleve, and took a nap. I had a wicked headache.

Maybe some Jerry would help.

I deleted a recent post. After re-reading, I realized it oozed self-pity. I'm living with someone who knows they are dying. Who doesn't feel well enough to do much more than walk a few feet every couple of hours. Yea, it's tough seeing that. It's depressing and difficult. It sucks and this is only going to get worse. I must try not to dwell on that. Moments present themselves all too briefly now. The best I can do for him is to try to make those moments … less shitty.

This always lifts my spirits. Who knows, maybe I can get him dancing. Imagine that.
For all you non-Heads, try to get past the vocals. (hehe)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK2dcofd-ew

"I don't want to fade away ..."

Whenever I hear Clapton, circa Derek and the Dominos or Cream, I think of Kathy S. She and I were besties in high school. We were inseparable, joined at the hip by teenage angst. She was the youngest of four, I the oldest of three. It was cool to stay at her house to experience a different family dynamic. Her two older brothers wore their hair long and both were intellects and naturalists and hippies. Rick and Joe shared a bedroom next to hers and from there we would borrow their albums and play them over and over and over. We would write down lyrics on the brown paper bag covers of our text books and in the margins of our spiral notebooks. We both worshipped Jackson Browne and wrote really awful poetry inspired by our unpopularity and unrequited love. Rick was studying to become a veterinarian and once Kathy stole pills from his room thinking they were Quaaludes. They were horse tranquilizers. She convulsed, was rushed to the ER, and got her stomach pumped. Her near-death experience yielded a three-month grounding, and only enhanced her poetry a tad. I still have notes we exchanged and poems we penned, stored in a box that I made in middle school Wood Shop. I lost touch with Kathy years ago, but am reminded of her in songs and whenever I see a reference to Yeats. He was one of our favorites. We were trying to be intellects, too. You try to be a lot of things in high school. I wonder if we ever stop trying.

I will share these with my 15 year old daughter. I know we will both pick them apart with abandon while enjoying belly laughs. I could stand a good belly laugh. Read at your own risk. Hope your urge to chuckle trumps your urge to vomit.

Cards

 I just gave my father-in-law two more percocets, two stool softeners, one dilaudid and a substantial serving of New England clam chowder, being careful not to inhale the steam billowing from the bowl. He insists on walking from bed to bathroom even though his mind is clouded and his legs are stiffened. The results of his bone scans were dismal. There are lesions in his skull, hips, arms and legs. He sees an oncologist on Wednesday. Until then, or until some sort of treatment is started, we just keep track of when he needs more narcotics. The pain comes on quickly and is intense but if meds are administered systematically, can be kept at bay. This sounds so clinical. I feel clinical. Can that be a feeling? I just made it one. Emotions rise like a tsunami and level those around me and I remain stoic. It is seen as lacking compassion perhaps, but that is not true. I am not numb. Far from it. My mind's voice screams, my body buzzes with nervous electricity causing me to pace and think and pace well beyond the eyes of others. This is how I cope. I find solace speaking with my mom. I don't burden her with everything although I know she'd not judge because I understand a mother's love. She knows struggle. Underneath the good-natured sweetness lies a strong woman. She has been through this, and more. She says, "you just gotta deal with what life throws at you. You just handle it." These are not very specific instructions, but I can figure it out. For now, I deal.

Can it be?

My little one turned 15 a few days ago. 15. Like most moms, it makes me cry. But not because I am sad about her growing older. I cry because she makes me so proud. She is smart. Funny. Opinionated. Talented. Compassionate. Quirky. Dances to the beat of her own drum. Makes me laugh and makes me think and makes me question. She has this habit of looking at me and raising her eyebrows with a smirk on her face ... that look ... I know that look and it knows me. That look. I wish I could explain what it means to me. How it feels. Familiar. There are no words.

She's a big Bowie fan. She got a kick out of this when she first saw it. "Ha! He looks so proper!"

Peace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiXjbI3kRus&list=RDDiXjbI3kRus#t=0

I'm here.

I noticed the sun today for the first time in a long, long while. It broke through the clouds as I was drinking a margarita in a place called Sweet Taco. They sell Mexican food and donuts. I went there because it was Friday, and because I craved the taste of tequila and salt. Most others around me were checking their phones or listening to NFL commentators use incorrect grammar from big screens over the bar. I overheard a woman telling her caller, I can't talk, and it reminded me of a promise. The server smiled as he offered me a free dessert, a chocolate glazed with peanut butter filling, caramel drizzle and a thin pretzel jutting out from the top. He proudly proclaimed it was his best seller. Later, he asked if everything was ok, and I lied and said yes. He looked skeptical. I hadn't touched my plate. I wanted so badly to tell him that his gift means everything, but what would it matter? My life is a shit storm that not even a donut with antlers could help. I miss everything.

I came home to an empty house and this ...

Nonno. I can't help but laugh. In the grand scheme of things, it is fucking hilarious! I would gladly take a constant bombardment of his chaos in exchange for an end to his physical suffering, though.
It is not just his eye anymore. He has cancer.

I blog because it makes me feel good. It is where I feel closer to fine, as the song says. "Here" makes me happy. Until next time ...

"And it looks like the old man's getting on …"

The kitchen is cold and smells of coffee, a result of Nonno's jet lag that had him awake hours ago. In the sink, there is a plastic Visine cap, a strand of dental floss and a thick, corpse-gray nail clipping. An oily, black banana peel sits confused atop a pile of plastic in the recycling bin. This absurdity makes me laugh. It's become a good friend. He's become a good friend. Last night, we sat at the kitchen table and he talked in the dark because brightness hurts his eyes and rattles my nerves. I lit a candle for the shadows it casts and for the feeling of earth. Sipping red wine from a juice glass, I listened intensely as he told tales of deception and loss, regret and jubilation. He shared them like a warm, soft blanket meant for only two. I wrapped it around me and promised myself not to let go.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PekdeINQco