You can take your teardrops and drop 'em in a teacup, take 'em down to the riverside, and throw 'em over the side, to be swept up by a current

Janelle called as the ramifications of Matt's pending departure sank in. She did her best to offer perspective and encouragement but under the glamour of low spirits, none of it rang true. I had just been born into a dark, unforgiving place. The Universe was piling on, adding insult to injury, and it wasn't fair.

After I got off the phone with Janelle, I knew I had to make a decision: give up or rise above. I chose the latter. I put on a Wayne Dyer talk I found on YouTube and listened in bed. It helped. The following morning I awoke to another day of rain and wind. My body let me know right away its opinion that I stay in bed and not venture out. I had work to do at the courthouse in Cambridge, so venture out I did, and as I walked block after block through the horizontal rain, I began to revert to my pre-Wayne Dyer state.

I finished my work in Cambridge and headed into work. The parking lot was full and there wasn't a spot to be found on the streets nearby. I ended up parking several streets away. More walking through the tempest. When I entered the office, I was chilled to the bone. Raw, bedraggled, broken. I should have been in bed.

I felt as if I was becoming more sick.I still had all of my Christmas shopping to do; I needed to be hale enough to do that. Again it seemed like the Universe was piling on. I couldn't catch a break. Alongside the chills and fever were thoughts of my father, ever-present, mocking. He was so close; his face and voice were vivid, ghostly portraits (Oh, to see him again....) A deep melancholy overtook me; I resided in a  fevered nightmare; a pure, unfiltered nightmare.

And then.....

I desperately grasped for something positive. In my mind appeared the words "nam myoho renge kyo", the Buddhist chant I had previously used in meditation. It gathered momentum like a train leaving a station and I clung to it. I seasoned the chant with the simple affirmation, "I want to feel good". I felt better almost immediately.

And then....

About a half hour later, grace descended upon my weakened, battered frame. My mother called and I went out to the lobby to talk with her. We shored up Christmas plans and spoke about a couple of things. I wasn't going through this alone, the call reminded me; I needed to be there for my mother and my sister. I felt nourished with a renewed sense of purpose.

And then.....

I got off the phone with my mother and went back to the office, nam myoho renge kyo on autopilot in my skull. A few minutes later, Tim walked in and said, "I can't believe it - look outside!" I did and saw that the sun was out. The sun was out! How could this be. Only minutes before, we were being battered with wind and rain. A glorious sight.

And then....

As I took in this new development, Marcy asked if I'd like to use some vacation days to cover the time I had missed. I didn't think I'd have enough, but she seemed to think I did, so I told her to please go ahead and cover as much time as was possible. She said, "Well, you've got 13 days available to you, so you can easily cover all the time you missed. And plus, Jeff wants to offer you bereavement pay". I had always thought I only had five vacation days; this was good news.

"Oh, and Jeff meant to explain to you why you have two checks this week. One is a year end bonus", she added. More good news. I felt a lightness I hadn't felt in....well, too long. I got up and went outside. I stood under the blue sky and tears of relief streamed down my face. It didn't escape me that I had come out the other side of a literal and metaphoric tempest. I had emerged an altered thing; mended, stronger, bewildered, and still thick with grief.

I'm still sick and I am still coping with my father's death, but I'm putting my spiritual training to use. I had employed it early on, but eschewed it when things became too grim too quickly. My dark night of the soul continues, I suppose, but when the sun came out that day accompanied by other positive news, I was able to regroup and see things clearly. I sought refuge in the Bhagavad Gita and gained comfort and strength from it.

The Beloved Lord said:

You have grieved for that which is not worthy of grief, 
and yet you speak words of profound knowledge.
The learned grieve
neither for those
who have passed on,
nor for those who have not departed

Never, truly,
have I not existed - 
nor you, nor these kings
who protect the people,
And never
shall any of us
ever cease to be,
now or forever more


I love you, dad.

Intermission

In the night of tiredness let me fall asleep without fighting
Trusting you and trusting me too
Let me be prepared by not fighting what I can't fight
Trusting you and trusting me too

That I want you and only you
Let my heart say this over and over
All other desires that distract me
Day and night are false and empty to the core

You'll help me close my eyes at night
And things will all be good and finer in the morning

From dawn to dusk I sit here before my door and I know that all of a sudden
The time will come when I'll see you
And all my dark desires I denied or I gave into
Will become part of the thing I give to you

- Rabindranath Tagore

Bad wind came, blew down my home, and now the green grass grows

It's fair to say I'm going through the most challenging time in my life. It has also been the worst, but I've learned through cathartic experience how totally our thoughts, what we place emphasis on, determines the way we perceive the world. If I focus on my situation as being the worst, I omit, or marginalize, the terrible beauty, love, caring, and growth that have been part of it.

I say this tonight. Yesterday, and earlier today, I would have told you it was unequivocally the worst time of my life and whatever positives that could be taken from the situation were minnows in a leviathan sea. I was at my lowest point. I had never felt as weak, beset, angry, and afraid. Things changed this afternoon. Before I get to that, though, we must begin in the dark.

Wednesday was my first full day back at work. I was still in the maw of the virus that has been having its way with me and probably should have been home in bed, but we were having our Christmas party and also I recognized that my absence had disrupted the work flow and I wanted to contribute however I could. I made it through the day and I pined for my bed and its blankets almost every minute of it.

Yesterday was more difficult to get through. My energy, pleasingly high earlier in the day, waned dramatically in the early afternoon. I was trying to maintain, but it was a losing battle. I was still feeling ill (my ribs felt on the precipice of breaking from all the heavy coughing), the weather was lousy, there was a ton of activity at the office (two closings happening at the same time), and, oh,yeah, I was still grieving over my dad's death. It was all overwhelming. More than once I had to leave the office and weep in the restroom.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought some fresh chicken soup. I had looked forward to this meal all day. My body craved it, begged for it. When I got home, I had the soup heating on the stove before I took my jacket off. All I wanted to do was eat and then go to bed. Matt came in the kitchen and told me he had just got off the phone with his boss. He had been fired.

It had something to do with a coworker who was a cancer in the workplace. She had conspired against him, he thought. I was in no condition to delve into coffee shop politics, but I did feel bad that he had been fired, especially so close to Christmas, so I did my best to be sympathetic. As he spoke, I wondered if it was just his shit luck that has seen him breeze through about five jobs since he moved in last spring, or if it had more to do with him as an employee.

Not long after telling me the news of his firing, Matt told me he was going to be moving out at the end of the month. He assured me he wouldn't leave us in the lurch like Rae did, that he'd pay through January and pay whatever bill money was due. Thoughts of going through another round of interviews and everything else that comes with finding a new roommate assailed me. With everything else that was going on, it was too much. I felt beaten, angry, spent. Defeated.

 As low as I've ever been.


--

This post has grown much larger than I anticipated. I'm going to have to divide it into two posts. I'll be back.

Turn and face the strange

So I did get walloped with a virus and it could have arrived later or not at all as far I'm concerned. As the day progressed yesterday, it set up shop and went to work on me. First came the tightness in the chest (it had really begun on Sunday, but only as an advance scout) which was followed by severe chills and aches. I lay in bed last night shaking uncontrollably, painfully aware that exactly a week ago at that same time, my father was going through a similar struggle.

Did I expect I'd repeat the same fate as my father. Not really, but it did cross my mind. The whole experience was very strange. I listened to Ram Dass lecture about death and felt better about things. He spoke about our unfortunate relationship with death as a society and shared a funny story about going to his mother's funeral tripping on acid. Prior to that, while she had been withering away in the hospital, he had been frank with her about the situation, that she was soon going to pass. Rather than shield her from the truth, he prepared her for the transition. All of this buoyed my spirits, helped remind me what I was dealing with, but it was all very strange, as I mentioned above. I stayed up all night, pretty much, thick in the delirium of fever and the pain and wonder of my new, fatherless reality (O' Dad, why did you go?).

My plan was to move on to The Tibetan Book of The Dead, an audiobook read by Richard Gere, but I was in no condition to make much sense of it. I slept between shivers and wondered if indeed I was going to make it through the night. The probability that I would was high, I suppose, but I would have said the same thing about my father's situation. Oh, the mind does like to frighten. I was so out of it, however, that I wasn't afraid of anything.

Today was spent mostly in bed. I watched Life Is Beautiful and continued to battle the shivers and other symptoms. To say it was a fun-filled day would not be an accurate assessment. It sucked, it still does; I'm a little pissed at the Universe for leveling me with this bullshit in the middle of my grieving. What's next? I'm afraid to think upon it.

But then Janelle called and made things better. She announced that she had dropped off some soup on my front porch. It took me about twenty minutes to gather the will to make the trip downstairs (at that time, I was shivering like a motherfucker). The soup helped immensely. So did the card, so did the cookies, and so did the pictures of my Baby Boy Z. I don't overstate the matter when I say what Janelle did for me was an act of heroism. And just in time.

I ache. One day at a time, I tell myself. If I allow myself to cater to thoughts about being sick and melancholy on Christmas, I become depressed. It's a slippery slope, one I've slid down more than a few times lately.

One day at a time.

Driving down the highway through the perfect sunny dream, a perfect day for perfect pain

I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with a nasty bug. I hope I am wrong; it would be a mercy to have one less dark cloud bearing down on me. Same time last week my father was feeling the same way; a nasty bug he had, but manageable. He went to bed around 11:30 and never woke up. My mother found him the next morning laying on his side wrapped tightly in his blankets. He was still warm, but he had left his body hours before. He was 69. Too soon.

It's almost a week since he passed, but it feels like it just happened. It's still so fresh, so raw. I'm an exposed nerve, have been so for days. Ah, but the warm cloak of support has kept me afloat. Spira was the first person I told. Let me tell it to you true, I was not as steady breaking the news as my mother was when she called me. It took me close to a minute to calm down enough to get the words out. She has been a constant angel on my shoulder. So has Craig, so has Janelle. They've been my mother hens. And my other friends, well they've been amazing. Everyone has (well, almost everyone, but we'll not speak of him) - my coworkers, friends, acquaintances, and, of course, family. In this, I feel blessed. And, if I step outside my grief for a minute, I see the interconnectedness, the harsh beauty and grace of life. And, if I'm able to slow my breathing and calm my thoughts, I feel God's comforting embrace. I am a child in her arms.

For the last couple of days, I've been aching for the embrace of a woman. At first, it felt weird to be thinking about sex given the circumstances, but once I thought about it, it made perfect sense. I just want to feel good, to feel comforted in the midst of this nightmare. Ah, but that type of comfort isn't likely, so I trudge on.

At Spira's after the funeral on Saturday, we were sitting on her couch. It was fairly early in the evening and we were both spent. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what appeared to be a shooting star pass by outside. The window in Spira's living room is more like a sliding glass door and overlooks the park behind her condo and beyond that, interstate 93. It is a broad, clear view, and if it weren't for city lights, the view would be even better.

After watching this green orb wink out of existence after three or four seconds, Spira called out, "Did you see that? What the fuck was that?". I had expected her to say something more like "Did you see that meteor?" or something else that would neatly explain what we just saw. She's not one to hastily label any aerial phenomena as a UFO without exploring other more reasonable possibilities first, which was why I was surprised at how perplexed, and even spooked, she appeared.

Once I thought it over, I was equally as surprised and perplexed. What we witnessed was not normal. Here's why: 1. The orb was green (I guess that could be normal, but I've never seen anything like it) 2. It was below cloud cover, which I'm pretty sure would rule out a shooting star or comet or meteor, though I could be wrong on one of these counts 3. Not only was it below cloud cover, it flew lower than the planes and helicopters we subsequently saw and used as frames of reference 4. It disappeared. Spira immediately went online and looked for an explanation. She found this, among other things. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_fireballs.

I don't know what it was, but I would be remiss if I didn't admit that I formed a connection between it and my father's death. Was it a sign from him? A farewell? I don't know. I do know that the mind excels at making connections and deriving meaning and that is what it did here. I'm not saying it's impossible that it was my father's doing (Whitley Strieber has written extensively on the connection between the deceased and the UFO phenomenon), but I doubt I'll ever know for sure what it was. All I know is that two events occurred on the same day that never happened before: my father's funeral and this green, low-flying fireball. My normal life, already disturbed profoundly by my father's death, had been shaken more by this event.  Our lives are built around distraction. We shield ourselves from the mysteries of life, from our mortality, but, really, for all intents and purposes,we are as clueless about the Universe as we were when were mere apes. It's almost like the more we learn, the more mysterious things are. And that is not a bad thing, if we look at it openly. When Krishna shows Arjuna his true self in the Gita, Arjuna is shown something vast and terrible and wonderful and incomprehensible. Awe, on the grandest of scales. Reality, as we've constructed it, does not reflect the true scope of existence; I'm not sure it comes close at all. But there are glimpses, and perhaps more, that can be revealed to the keenest of eyes.

I sit here bewildered and grief-stricken. The veil between the world we've made for ourselves and the nature of Krishna has parted, briefly and barely, and I've been reminded of the magnificent scope and mystery of life. Below is an excerpt from an older blog entry that recounted a family vacation in Maine. Everyone had gone to bed and it was just my father and me.


We've become closer over the years, and I enjoy the time we spend together. He's opened up to me more of late, and I get the sense that part of it has to do with the ticking clock. We reminisced about the days when I was a child and he was younger than I am now. He spoke with some regret about the friends he's lost touch with, the brothers of his past made wraiths in the night. As he spoke, he shook his head at how unnecessary it was -- they didn't grow apart because of a falling out, some event that left no other outcome. No, they just became less important to each other and it didn't need to be addressed. It happens all the time--I've been through it.

I followed him onto the deck and we looked upon the stars that stood vigil over the bay like ancient sailors. "When I was a kid, maybe about twelve or thirteen, one of my friends asked me, "What lies behind the stars?", he said. "That really bothered me. I thought about it for days."

"Did you come up with an answer?"

My dad gazed at the sky's mystery, his answer already in his eyes, and said "No, I never figured it out. But I did come to terms with not knowing."


Oh, dad, I miss you so much. You were as much a friend as you were a father.

'Cause people let me tell you, it sent a chill up and down my spine, when I picked up the telephone, and heard that he died

Last Tuesday, December 11, my father died. I was at work when I found out. I had been there for a little over an hour when I felt my phone vibrate. I saw that it was my parent's number. I let it go to voice mail and stepped out of the office to check it. As usual, I braced myself for potential bad news before listening to the message, but I expected that it was my father returning my call from Sunday when I had called to check in on him (he had caught a cold and hadn't been up to going to my grandmother's 95th birthday party), but I still found myself tensing up a bit.

It was my mother's voice I heard. "Hi Kevin, it's important you call me back as soon as you can". Fuck. I called her back, knowing something was wrong. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this over the phone, but dad passed away last night".  She could barely get the sentence out. I told her I was leaving work to see her. I went back to the office and told Marcy I had to go. She was on the phone. "Is everything alright?", she asked, cupping the phone. "My father died", I said, in disbelief that I had just said those three words.. She asked if I was okay to drive. I told her I'd be able to, but the truth was I had no idea about anything at that moment. I was in shock.

The ride to my mother's house is a jumbled, nightmarish memory of sobbing, pleas to God, and pleas to my father to imbue me with the strength to be strong for my mother. I remember the thick anguished wailing - "Oh, Dad, why?...why?.....don't leave me....." - but everything was scattered and stirred up; an awful tempest. There was no order, no structure to my thoughts and feelings. I somehow made the twenty minute drive to my mother's house.

Oh, this is so hard and I need to stop. I'll return, but my grief is still profound and I can barely organize a thought right now. Maybe tomorrow.

And he looks to the clouds all pink and disheveled

O' Monday, your rain and fog made staying in bed a serious consideration, but I rose and met you as valiantly as I could and you weren't so severe. Still, I'd like to see your back; thoughts of the weekend already begin to form as the fresh memories of the past one retreat with the tide.

Saturday was Tracy and Ray's second annual pub quiz. Like last year's, it was a success. They put a lot of effort into it and it showed. I was at their house a couple of months ago and Ray was already hatching ideas for the event. Evidently, one of his ideas wasn't figuring out a way to make my team win. My teammates Mike, Kristen, Scott, Eszter, Kat, and I acquitted ourselves with grace and dignity and refused to resort to the cheating and skulduggery the other teams engaged in and hence didn't seed very high. We are victors, though, in our heart of hearts, in our very souls.

I ended up staying over and when Ray and I were discussing the quiz this morning, I discovered that there were segments of it I have no recollection of. Paper airplanes? There was a point in the game we made paper airplanes? Where was I? Why can't I recall? I must have been distracted. Damn it, I just figured it out: I was drugged! I knew heading into the game that because I was on the winning team last year that I'd be a target for the unsavory wretches on the other teams that would do anything, including have sex with Satan himself, to achieve victory. But seriously: drugging me? Ah, children, you've yet to learn that a pure heart can never be vanquished. And that is why I forgive your transgression and will not pursue the matter.

I'll tell you what: I played with a bunch of different kids this weekend and, consequently, my body feels like it just went through a couple of paintball tournaments. At breakfast yesterday, James was having a great time spanking my bottom whenever the opportunity arose. Ray told him not to, that it wasn't polite, but the kid couldn't help himself. At one point, he said to Ray "Can I spank Kevin just one more time?" figuring that if he asked nicely, his request might be granted. Fortunately, Ray said no. And while James was in spank mode, Faith was all about tickling. I might take my case to Dr. Phil; I'm sure he'll be doing a show on bullying some time soon.

After leaving Tracy and Ray's, I headed back to MA to attend my grandmother's 95th birthday party, where there was a plethora of children. I won't go into details, but I got my ass kicked. I came home and took a nap. When I awoke,  I wondered where the weekend had gone. While the party was fantastic, I wasn't able to spend much time with people. Hard to do in that setting. Ah, but I do cherish what time I had with them. That is all you can do.

You know what? I could probably go on, but why waste every one's time? See ya' on the flippity-flip, ye rat bastards.

Must be like the genesis of rhythm

I just discovered it's Yoko who sings "Birthdayyyyyyy" after Paul's "I would like you to dance" and "take a ch-ch-ch-chance" throughout the song "Birthday". I love The White Album, especially its warm production. Every instrument sounds amazing. I was just listening to some Daniel Rossen and nodded in approval. "Well, played, Danny Boy", I said aloud. "You love The White Album as much as I do."

Sexy Sadie, she's the latest and the greatest of them all....Ah, what a song. I sing along as I type. The Beatles still occupy the throne. But you know that.

I wasn't terribly put out, but not much came easy today. One step procedures became frustrating medusas; but they were handled and, if you'll forgive the slightest pat on the back, they were handled like a champ. By me. A foreign entity, unsolicited but not unwanted, entered my being as a feeling faintly recalled. What was it? Yes, I have it now: it was resourcefulness. Unbidden, it arrived early in the day and every hurdle I faced was handled, as I say above, like a champ. I fear it has left me, though. If so, will it ever return?

Oh, I don't know. Bye.

You help me close my eyes at night and things will all be good in the morning

Fred pretty much only eats a raman noodle dish of his own creation. I'm not sure of all the ingredients and measurements, but there are kidney beans (his cupboard shelf is stacked with cans of them); a variety of fiery Asian sauces not meant for the weak-willed (I'm thinking of you, Billy) ; and, of course, the coup de grace: raman noodles. There's more to the operation ( possibly even less) - mushrooms? meat? -  but one thing is sure: he eats this dish for breakfast and dinner just about every day. I don't know what he does for lunch. Anyway, the point is he loves this meal, derives great satisfaction from it, and while it concerns me how much sodium he's taking in (read the back of a raman noodle package - holy effin shit!), I'm happy he's maximizing the simple pleasures of life. We take whatever joy we can find in this vale of tears.

John Zorn's Film Works plays in the background. It recalls the days of merrymaking and kinship at our Dinsmore house in the distant hills of Nashua, NH. Those were some times. I was there at the end, when the house was sold from under us. Villains! Ah, but nothing lasts, child, nothing lasts.

Today was the last of the string of warm days; I appreciated the respite from the pervasive chill; now it's back to the frosty, bleak realities of winter. Time to put the heat on. I grew up in a house with two fireplaces.  It wasn't often we had a fire - my dad seemed to think it was too much work, though he'd never admit as much -  but I fondly recall how much I enjoyed having them. Sitting by a fire is a powerful meditation, an activity that runs thick in our veins the same as it did when we were more ape than man. Tell anyone who's never been camping how sublime it is to sit around a fire and they probably won't relate. Tell them about the enchanted language of fire, of it's hypnotic beckoning, and while they're listing a hundred and ten things they'd rather do, they're concurrently judging you as a bit touched in the head. So be it. In the meantime, I'm thinking it might be a smashing idea to appeal to my parents that we have a fire going on Christmas. Maybe even some chestnuts. How seasonal!


I still haven't watched the latest episode of The Walking Dead. I'll do so tonight if time permits. I'm a little sleepy; maybe I'll just do some reading and  call it a night. Ah, but that's probably not going to be the way of it; I'll likely stay up longer than is necessary as I often do.


See you on the flippity-flip, you lonesome nightingales.

That cat's something I can't explain

Monday, and considering it's unfortunate position in the order of work days, it wasn't a bad one. The weather was accommodating - it was nice not feeling chilled to the bone for a change - and work moved at a steady, productive clip. The only downside was my mental state earlier in the day. My thoughts were erratic and I was having trouble being direct in conversations, or to put it another way, I was not making much sense. Not a new development, this disorientation - I've been through it before - and despite its alarming qualities, it wore off eventually. And as clarity blossomed, I gave serious thought to changing certain aspects of my lifestyle that may have contributed to the delirium.

I saw Life of Pi yesterday. Some movies need to be seen on the big screen; this was one of them. The 3d wasn't intrusive, it was artfully rendered; many of the images were breathtaking. It was also a deeply spiritual film, but not in a preachy, creepy way. Oh, Ang Lee, you've done it again. Go see Life of Pi, my dear ones, or something really truly awful is going to happen to the Golden Retriever population. I'm serious.

I've mentioned it here before that I've modified and expanded my yoga practice, but what has gone unmentioned is how fucking strong and horny it's making me. Ok, maybe I'm overstating matters a bit, especially as concerns feeling horny, which is not to suggest that my libido is a wilted thing, only that I can't with any certainty say yoga has increased it. Anyway, physically, at least, I've been feeling pretty damn awesome as a result of my yoga practice. And the idea of becoming an instructor has risen to the surface more than once. Who knows.

I've been reading The Shining and Moby Dick. It's a safe bet I'll finish The Shining first, despite starting it well after Moby Dick. I'm not going to lie to you: Moby Dick could have used some trimming. The writing is fantastic and there are sections that are sublime, but there is too much cetology and not enough story. I guess I'm just an uncultured bumpkin. At least according to my mother, that is. 

At some point, I may watch an episode of Saxondale, but first I'll watch The Walking Dead. Who will die tonight? I don't know and I don't care. I'm chiefly concerned with absorbing some violence and excessive gore and hopefully some explosions and people in states of perpetual terror. Does that make me a bad guy? It does, but I haven't sunk so low as Billy. Not yet, my friends. Not yet. There is hope.