Thoughts as 2008 Wanes

Using my governmentally bestowed half-day float, I am entirely off today, the last day of 2008. I have used it rather profligately so far, sleeping until 10:30, although that by itself is not unusual, I suppose. I always go to bed late, have trouble sleeping, and even on a work day, thanks to the perk of being a manager, I don't come in early. But 10:30 on a day off is also not unusual. I only got up because my three cats were using my bed, and thus me, as a trampoline, alerting to their rampant hunger.

A few days ago I ground beans of an especially dark and aromatic roast from Whole Foods, and was looking forward to my first cup. While it dripped, a good friend called Ms. Nes 55, and we talked of the year's challenges, during which she has managed an amazing calm, in part, using Scarlett O'Hara's philosophy of "Tomorrow is Another Day!"

The coffee was good, but not a revelation, which may be more the result of the pot in which it was made, than the beans. I allowed my big white cat, Bleu to roam around in the hallways of my apartment building (really, with only four units, like a private home) and watched HGTV, for the first real extended period, about "virgin" buyers.

Tonight, my friends and I will go out to a nearby restaurant and welcome the New Year, but a quiet day has generated thoughts of the past year.

In fact, there are only two things that stand out about the year, the rest whirring away in a blur. The first, of course, is my father's last illness and death in April. Though he was 90, his end wasn't expected. And, from my perspective, it wasn't either his heart nor his bladder, the two areas of his life's health problems that did him in. It was the lack of empathy of his two doctors. It was also the failure to keep him in the hospital after a "procedure" of removing infected kidney stents. As to those stents I frankly, to this day, wonder whether they were truly necessary. From the moment they were placed, my father declined. Although I have decided that a malpractice suit is not the direction I want to go, despite my legal background, I cannot think of these doctors without anger, every time an errant bill or explanation of benefits, still, arrives in Dad's mailbox. I have planned to write each of them a letter about how I perceived their miserable ministrations. I keep hoping that the angry emotion behind what I might write will minimize. It hasn't so far.

As long as it was 2008, the possibility of Dad's coming back or that the whole affair did not happen persisted. With 2009's arrival, the finality, I think, will hit me. Nonetheless, with his last published story in "Senior Moments" in May 2008, with a Christmas card arrived from an army buddy of his who did not know of his death, with another "hello" from a friend of ours who also did not know of Dad's demise, with fresh memories of his last well celebrated birthday,(in which lovely Sophia joined us after some nearly 30 years after their last in person contact), it has seemed Dad remained alive for nine months. The gestation period for letting go, I guess.

Before my father died as he lay so small and agitated in the hospital bed in the throes of a sepsis, requiring sedation, and breathing tube, people rallied around: my pastor, Monsignor Murphy, Sr. Pilar, the hospital chaplain, the Eucharistic Ministers who visit the sick, my uncle Steve, Dad's brother, and my friend, our friend, Susan, who was there when the end came. While I may have little affection for the doctors who were my father's caregivers in the last 7 months of his life, I have great affection for the young doctors and nurses who surrounded him in ICU. One doctor, in particular, offered reasonable hope on that first night of Dad's days there so that I could sleep. I was given wisdom and calm from my former pastor, Monsignor Parnassus, who advised me when I did not know what was good and proper for Dad's physical and spiritual welfare. And from a fellow parishioner, Veronica, who said, "Pray that God does the most loving thing", which He did. As well, in the final inevitable farewell after Dad died, I found out how many friends I had. My cousin, Carol, flew immediately across country simply to "be there" as I did what I had to do. My uncle Steve went with me to see my father, now dressed in his debonair best in the casket, for the last time, my having decided that a wake would not have been Dad's preference, I think. Len of "Len Speaks" and Mr. Anonymous of the Barbara Judith Apartments, each took time from their jobs to visit mortuary and cemetery with me as I made arrangements. Len did one of the readings. Veronica did the intentions I had written for the occasion. Dad's cousin Helen, drove all the way from Riverside to be in the family pew. My long time friend Carol, who also knew dad well, flew in from Chicago. Susan was there in the family row as well with all of these. My friends and colleagues from work attended the funeral. As did two of Dad's writing class members, Ric and Edith, and his next door neighbor Jack. I was touched at how many parishioners were there to say good bye, Peter, who also served as one of the pall bearers, (with Len and Andrew, who knew dad from our undergraduate days and darling Chris, a "new" friend at some 15 plus years), Ted, Jim, Trudy and Walter, Sal, Erin and others I should remember, but in my haze do not. Una hosted at her home, and provided the food for, the reception after the funeral. Delores sang my father to heaven. And again, were the two Monsignors, who concelebrated Dad's funeral Mass at the parish in which he had been received into the Catholic Church five years before, and in which he had been a dedicated usher. The homily, given by Monsignor Parnassus, was not only that of a religious shephard, but were the words of a man who had particular insight into my father, the "reluctant Catholic" and who clearly felt the loss.

The other event was a sudden trip to Hawaii, with my cousin Carol, in August, to try to sort out the condition of an elderly aunt. Unmarried, childless, without family there, financially and medically compromised, we tried to get her help, but she is living a bit in a fantasy that everything is fine, when it is not, and remains, not terribly cooperative with our efforts. On the good side, this was the second visit of my cousin Westward within months and the two of us did manage to have fun in Hawaii, even with a small family crisis. Benefit of benefits beyond that is that both events closed the nine year gap between us (I am the elder) from our childhood and made us friends. She sent me an ornate plate which I have on my wall, "Cousins by chance, friends by choice".

And so it was losses paradoxically brought gains. And reminder of how short is life, and how much it is to be savored.

This year, I particularly understand the "We'll drink a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." For times gone by.

Errant Thoughts While Sitting Before the Blessed Sacrament

I am a practicing Catholic, emphasis on the word, "practicing".

Sometimes I am more active in my practice than at other times, more than just once a week Mass, and the odd visit for the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Much depends on my mood; alas, not the most appropriate impetus for acts of devotion to the Lord.

My parish has a fair number of hours for Eucharistic Adoration, that is, a large Consecrated Host, which we believe is really, truly and substantially the Son of God, is placed in a special holder called a Monstrance. He is always there in the tabernacle, but this way of making Him visible in front of us, is a special form of Adoration. It is rather like having a friend sitting next to you, in silence, understanding all you are to each other. You sit. You meditate. You pray. You read passages from the Bible or non-biblical prose. You quiet yourself, separate yourself from the world, to be alone with Him, the One who came into time, to restore us to Himself, to His Father. You remember the trail you are on, with He who Leads.

Well, ideally.

For the nine days before Christmas, there has been an hour long such Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, that includes about 20 minutes of plain chant, the O Antiphons. It's the kind of thing you might have seen if you watched the movie "Into Great Silence". Night vespers. I have managed to go to three of the novena events. I have learned how hard it is to sit quietly for only an hour. I have used one or another mantra, one, "My Lord and My God" or the other, longer, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." As you do so, as in any form of meditation, thoughts intrude. The idea is to notice them, but let them go. The letting go of them is hard. And while I have sat, my thoughts have turned to the mundane, the sad, things that have annoyed me, things that anger me. They have passed, frequently unfair and unkind, but they were there, incongruities during apparent prayer. I wonder if the others, who look so holy, are having the same experience. That's one of the thoughts. A woman to my left is kneeling on the hard floor, rather than using the cushioned kneeler. Does she want to be noticed? Or is it true humility before God? I tend to think the former. Let that thought go. The pastor seems to be nodding off in the front. Sometimes I wonder, watching his body language, whether he believes, at all. Let that thought go. The woman behind me keeps turning the thin pages of her missal or whatever she is reading. Why does she keep doing that? Why can't she settle on a page and stop the noise? Let that thought go. One of the chanters, his red cheeks betraying his youth, is conducting the two sopranos. The conducting seems to take away from the prayerfulness of the gathering, to me. And it isn't working. They are missing notes. The gathered are supposed to join in but the voices are too high, and we can't match them. Let that thought go. For a passing moment, there is nothing but my mantra passing through my mind. As soon as I notice that, I lose the quietude. I lose the clear path to God.

But I know that it can be found again. Maybe tomorrow.

Fourth Estate and Other Media Lies

The New York Times' famous motto is "All the News That's Fit to Print". In the day, the news was merely reported, and not every five seconds in every venue known to man and woman, elevators, gas pumps, I-Phones. I would bet that in some big law office, there is a flat panel monitor on a lavatory wall, just as there used to be telephones in the stalls.

But today, the news first is made, and then reported, and what is reported from what was made, is interpreted. A game of "Telephone" even before you pick up the paper or flip on your computer.

This reality began to bother me, last weekend, when I went to "The Grove" in Los Angeles. It is merely coincidence that Dennis Prager spent a couple of his programs this week on the same sore subject of our not being able to believe what our media tell us because it is so royally skewed.

Everything that we have been told by pretty much all the media outlets is that people are strapped for cash and won't be spending money at the holidays. Initially, it looked like Black Friday (the Friday after Thanksgiving) showed a real spurt of purchasing, but, a day or so later, there were clarifications that this was not really the case or that it was tempered by some other factor. It is almost as if "they" whoever "they" are, want people to hear that no one is going out an buying, so that they sort of jump on the not buying band wagon out of, maybe, guilt that if others can't buy, they shouldn't either?

So, I was figuring my soujourn on Saturday at "The Grove" would be an easy one, few people, few cars. After all that's what we are being told--no one's out there because of the economy. But, wait a minute. I couldn't easily get a spot in the lot that is usually the more empty one, near the contract Post Office, by the Children's Place. And the stores were, well, stuffed. And people had shopping bags, and the kids were going to see the Santa Claus.

And yet, we will continue to hear the opposite of what we are actually seeing with our own eyes.

I have long been troubled by the stock market reports. Years ago, you had to read the paper to find out what was happening during a day on Wall Street. Now, every report, everywhere tells you about every up and down. Every movement. "The stock market is down thirty points". "The stock market is up three points." Anyone hearing about this roller coaster is going to run for the hills, and so the story about the market generates further fears, and further losses. Why do they have to do that?

Dennis Prager last week was mentioning how he was in some town where it had snowed, and to hear the reports, it was blizzard conditions everywhere, except when he looked out his hotel window, it was nothing of the sort.

Today, he noted, (and I just cut yesterday's national map out confirming it)that given the cold that has hit us East to West, Global Warming is something of an obvious lie. Except that now, the words are being changed. "Warming" is no longer the operative second part of the phrase. It has been replaced, to adjust for the cognitive dissonance, to "global climate change".

There is nothing that is not being orchestrated for our minds to believe---in small things and bigger things and urgent things. We are being brainwashed and may have nothing whatever we can do about it. Especially if the euphemistically denominated "Fairness Doctrine" is forced upon us by our so-called representatives in Washington.

. "All the News that's Fit To Fake" would appear to be the sub rosa motto.

George would be proud. Not Washington. Orwell.

A Most Unusual Visit

There has been a hiatus, hasn't there. It is the Christmas season, cards, work parties, friend parties, ordinary life obligations. And then once again, my large white cat chewed through the wire attached to my modem thus eliminating my access to the net.

And my mood hasn't been one for writing. No reason, in particular.

But new modem attached and somewhat out of eye level of beast named Bleu, I am ready for an entry about another visit to the cemetery, a bit over a week ago.

I ordered a flower holder for my dad's niche. And I decided, about a week later, to go back, and see if it had been placed. I should have checked before I bought a small bunch, to assure it was attached so I could place the flowers. I didn't, trusting that, though I said there was no rush, a week was sufficiently without rush. I got there with my flowers only to see that nothing had been done.

I got one of the little vases, with the intent of placing it on the ground near the niche, since my dad's neighborhood is sparse of other occupants. Unfortunately, the vase had a rounded bottom that, even leaning against the wall, was blown over, throwing flowers and water all about. I was making a mess of the wall and the floor and only hoped that some denizen who watches what mourners do and bring (they are very strict) would not see all the water splashed on the wall and mixing with old dust on the floor.

I hoped that the splash marks would dry before anyone came by. But I tried again to fill a rounded vase to place the flowers, even if it were only for the rest of the afternoon. This time, I used a rubber band from the flowers to wrap around the vase and attach to the half inch or less protrusion that should have had the vase holder. It worked. I congratulated myself for my ingenuity, and began talking to my father, and writing in my journal. It fell off. Splash. Since my father hated me to spend money on things that had no value, and he was not that interested himself in flowers, I considered that he was throwing them at me. Then I thought, "He wouldn't do that." But then worried again. The last time we had words, his were angry ones, yes, in the midst of delirium, but I suddenly had the vision of an angry ghost, a la Ghost Whisperer expresing dissatisfaction in similar ways. On the other hand, I don't believe in ghosts, well, an angry one named Constantine, anyway.

The flowers were starting to wilt, so I decided that the time had come to place them in various other holders, that had water, of several other columbarium occupants. But during the course of all this personal sturm und drang over flower placement, I had noticed a burly young man go to a niche diagonally across from my father's, "on the crowded wall", meaning where a whole lot of other folks were interred. He came with a small bottle of some pre-made Starbuck frappacino and I was slightly irritated at his making a visit with a coffee shop drink. I suspected him of not being a serious visitor. I was wrong.

During one of my visits to the sink where they allow visitors to fill up vases, I had heard a repeated noise. Like something slapping, with the sound of a kind of clear wrapping paper. Like someone slapping a pack of cigarettes against his hand afgter dislodging the covering to free one cigarette for a smoke. The sound echoed through the marble and granite hallways. The number of times the pack slapped against the hand smacked of a sort of ritual.

When he saw me return to my side of the hallway, he stopped. I knew it had been him. I wanted to look, and did so askance, in between trying to concentrate on my own visit. Then I smelled smoke. He had lit a cigarette. Actually, it turned out he had lit two. One was wedged into the crevice of the niche the young man was visiting. In a fashion, he, and his loved one, were smoking together. What might have been a desecration was suddenly very moving, because I could hear the young man choking back tears. He was recreating something, in this imperfect reality, that had been something they shared. I could not see whether it was a father or a mother or a brother, or a sister. I wanted to ask, but I dared not intrude into this moment of mourning between heaven and earth.