Clueless
Some days, it just doesn't happen. It starts, it seems to be happening, and then it stops. Or pauses, or freezes, but definitely ceases. I am referring to life activity. And if I hadn't had a succession of grief specialists explaining this phenomenon to me, urging me to abandon hope of getting things done, just let go and be nonproductive...well, I might be signing up for clinical trials of Prozac 24-hour intravenous.
I am not there. But I'm in my armchair at 1:30 in the afternoon in the midst of major slumber. I had a routine meeting this morning concerning the Menlo Park Chorus, chatted about Marlou's ideas for community singing. And that, it seems, was enough work for the day. She loved singing, my wife, and anything that involves love, that is hers, brings back Marlou's living connection to certain things. And why do people have to die? Why so young? And considering that people die all the time, and at 59 years of age, for virtually all of human history, Marlou would have been considered old and fortunate to have lived a long life. And so the only question, the only real one, involves grief. And that question is too daunting to ask. Particularly when one's feet are cranked up in the air, armchair reclining.
By late afternoon, there was action. The handyman from the apartments across from mine had arrived with his pickup, a bona fide working vehicle, with a pipe frame around the bed. My landlord stood outside and conversed with him. He's in his late 70s now, Tom, and his days seem monotonously regular. He drives a few blocks north or south for coffee at 9 AM. Some days he takes his late-model Mustang. On others, he drives his 1967 Dodge Charger. The latter, he tells me now and then, will soon be donated. I respond, now and then, with the news that his car is a classic, sought by collectors, will fetch a pretty penny. And I hope he finds a worthy charitable cause.
But the handyman cometh, with clanking, but mostly talking. Tom always engages workmen in conversation. Plumbing, roofing, electrical activity being among his favorites. I don't know what they chat about. But chat, they do. Tom can be seen standing about the driveway apron that our four-plexes share, while some truck stands double-parked, unloads its pipe or coaxial cable or floor sander, Tom talking up a storm with the equipment owners. Which is odd. Tom is a virtual recluse. With evident pain, he told me he could not attend Marlou's funeral. He was kind of withdrawn, he explained. Not to worry, I told him. Tom's life's work involved the Air Force. He was a maintenance guy. So now he talks to other maintenance guys. And since he hardly talks at all, this is good.
Which reminds me of how hard it is to understand other people's worlds. The layers are too complex. A friend recently sent me a video of a hardy paraplegic-athlete having a go at bungee jumping. I responded that even in watching the video I could feel the cervical impact. Sorry, he e-mailed back, but he meant no harm, noting that e-mails lack nuance. To which, I responded, not to worry, that I was feeling A-OK about the whole thing, and sorry that he'd missed my irony. But by then, the whole exchange it gone on to tiresome lengths. And since we both have excellent senses of humor, there was nothing to do but drop it.
Actually, I am making pure suppositions about my landlord. I don't know if he is really talking to the plumbers, carpenters and floor polishers, maintenance-guy-to-maintenance-guy. As though such guys share a language, culture or experience.
Our local PBS television station has devoted itself to the regular presentation of programs on 'disability culture.' Let us filter out the politically correct San Franciscan tendency to believe in such things as disability culture and see what's on offer. This week I have missed a documentary about eight disabled people taking a river rafting trip down the Grand Canyon. According to the program notes, they face challenges, these rafters. Physical and/or mental. And we see them overcome. The challenges, that is.
This is why I'm not making any particular effort to see this documentary. I suppose the basic premise rather bores me. My own week of river rafting down Utah's Yampa River was eminently pleasant. Disabled people cannot easily get into wilderness, and taking advantage of flotation and gravity makes total sense. Challenges? In all honesty, I don't recall the experience in terms of challenges. There was never any particular pride in the quadriplegic-going-down-the-rapids shtick. I treasured being in the wilderness. Danger? I don't know. Appropriately, the only close call came in utterly tranquil water. The raft in which I was sitting lazily drifted under an overhanging piece of sandstone. The pilot shoved my head down. Life's riskier moments are the ones that seem safest.
If you want to do a documentary about disabled life, try 'The Quadriplegic Takes a Shower.' Watch as he throws himself under the spray. Watch as he does it again -- this time, without a rubber mat. Now, see him swivel on a rickety shower chair, drop his spastic feet to the ceramic tile and, defying neuromuscular law, stand. There he is, folks, standing and dripping. Is this guy cool or what?
As for the river and the rapids and the cripples, all this holds great fascination for able-bodied cinematographers and their audiences, perhaps.... So, go ahead, do a film about the helpers. Really, the able-bodied volunteers who did all the work on my weeklong rafting trip got something out of it. What was it like for them? What did they observe about the disabled rafters that seemed interesting or admirable? What process unfolded for them? Honestly, that's where the story is.
My river rafting story would not interest anyone making a film. It amounted to lovely nights under the stars. Doing things without a nightlight. Such as emptying my urinal into the sand, or trying to, darkness being what it is...and pouring the contents into my shoe. Otherwise, the main experience: being waited on and being unable to do very much for myself. The rapids? Well, they're kind of fun. But all I did was sit there. Sit there, wear a life jacket and watch massive canyon walls going by.
In short, no one knows the stories. Whether it's maintenance guys, or river rafting cripples, or grieving husbands. As for the latter, they are the most clueless when it comes to their own plot. The action turns on nothing. Despair arrives with the morning paper. It departs with the barking of the neighbor's dog. It returns when the red light changes by the fish shop. It goes away when the weather report comes in from Scotland. It's back when UPS drops off your package. It has nothing to do with you, it seems. Much to do with mortality. The audience doesn't understand, the cast is baffled and the director may, or may not, be having his private little joke. At your expense. Give up. But keep selling tickets. An empty house is a bad idea.
I am not there. But I'm in my armchair at 1:30 in the afternoon in the midst of major slumber. I had a routine meeting this morning concerning the Menlo Park Chorus, chatted about Marlou's ideas for community singing. And that, it seems, was enough work for the day. She loved singing, my wife, and anything that involves love, that is hers, brings back Marlou's living connection to certain things. And why do people have to die? Why so young? And considering that people die all the time, and at 59 years of age, for virtually all of human history, Marlou would have been considered old and fortunate to have lived a long life. And so the only question, the only real one, involves grief. And that question is too daunting to ask. Particularly when one's feet are cranked up in the air, armchair reclining.
By late afternoon, there was action. The handyman from the apartments across from mine had arrived with his pickup, a bona fide working vehicle, with a pipe frame around the bed. My landlord stood outside and conversed with him. He's in his late 70s now, Tom, and his days seem monotonously regular. He drives a few blocks north or south for coffee at 9 AM. Some days he takes his late-model Mustang. On others, he drives his 1967 Dodge Charger. The latter, he tells me now and then, will soon be donated. I respond, now and then, with the news that his car is a classic, sought by collectors, will fetch a pretty penny. And I hope he finds a worthy charitable cause.
But the handyman cometh, with clanking, but mostly talking. Tom always engages workmen in conversation. Plumbing, roofing, electrical activity being among his favorites. I don't know what they chat about. But chat, they do. Tom can be seen standing about the driveway apron that our four-plexes share, while some truck stands double-parked, unloads its pipe or coaxial cable or floor sander, Tom talking up a storm with the equipment owners. Which is odd. Tom is a virtual recluse. With evident pain, he told me he could not attend Marlou's funeral. He was kind of withdrawn, he explained. Not to worry, I told him. Tom's life's work involved the Air Force. He was a maintenance guy. So now he talks to other maintenance guys. And since he hardly talks at all, this is good.
Which reminds me of how hard it is to understand other people's worlds. The layers are too complex. A friend recently sent me a video of a hardy paraplegic-athlete having a go at bungee jumping. I responded that even in watching the video I could feel the cervical impact. Sorry, he e-mailed back, but he meant no harm, noting that e-mails lack nuance. To which, I responded, not to worry, that I was feeling A-OK about the whole thing, and sorry that he'd missed my irony. But by then, the whole exchange it gone on to tiresome lengths. And since we both have excellent senses of humor, there was nothing to do but drop it.
Actually, I am making pure suppositions about my landlord. I don't know if he is really talking to the plumbers, carpenters and floor polishers, maintenance-guy-to-maintenance-guy. As though such guys share a language, culture or experience.
Our local PBS television station has devoted itself to the regular presentation of programs on 'disability culture.' Let us filter out the politically correct San Franciscan tendency to believe in such things as disability culture and see what's on offer. This week I have missed a documentary about eight disabled people taking a river rafting trip down the Grand Canyon. According to the program notes, they face challenges, these rafters. Physical and/or mental. And we see them overcome. The challenges, that is.
This is why I'm not making any particular effort to see this documentary. I suppose the basic premise rather bores me. My own week of river rafting down Utah's Yampa River was eminently pleasant. Disabled people cannot easily get into wilderness, and taking advantage of flotation and gravity makes total sense. Challenges? In all honesty, I don't recall the experience in terms of challenges. There was never any particular pride in the quadriplegic-going-down-the-rapids shtick. I treasured being in the wilderness. Danger? I don't know. Appropriately, the only close call came in utterly tranquil water. The raft in which I was sitting lazily drifted under an overhanging piece of sandstone. The pilot shoved my head down. Life's riskier moments are the ones that seem safest.
If you want to do a documentary about disabled life, try 'The Quadriplegic Takes a Shower.' Watch as he throws himself under the spray. Watch as he does it again -- this time, without a rubber mat. Now, see him swivel on a rickety shower chair, drop his spastic feet to the ceramic tile and, defying neuromuscular law, stand. There he is, folks, standing and dripping. Is this guy cool or what?
As for the river and the rapids and the cripples, all this holds great fascination for able-bodied cinematographers and their audiences, perhaps.... So, go ahead, do a film about the helpers. Really, the able-bodied volunteers who did all the work on my weeklong rafting trip got something out of it. What was it like for them? What did they observe about the disabled rafters that seemed interesting or admirable? What process unfolded for them? Honestly, that's where the story is.
My river rafting story would not interest anyone making a film. It amounted to lovely nights under the stars. Doing things without a nightlight. Such as emptying my urinal into the sand, or trying to, darkness being what it is...and pouring the contents into my shoe. Otherwise, the main experience: being waited on and being unable to do very much for myself. The rapids? Well, they're kind of fun. But all I did was sit there. Sit there, wear a life jacket and watch massive canyon walls going by.
In short, no one knows the stories. Whether it's maintenance guys, or river rafting cripples, or grieving husbands. As for the latter, they are the most clueless when it comes to their own plot. The action turns on nothing. Despair arrives with the morning paper. It departs with the barking of the neighbor's dog. It returns when the red light changes by the fish shop. It goes away when the weather report comes in from Scotland. It's back when UPS drops off your package. It has nothing to do with you, it seems. Much to do with mortality. The audience doesn't understand, the cast is baffled and the director may, or may not, be having his private little joke. At your expense. Give up. But keep selling tickets. An empty house is a bad idea.
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