It's Complicated isn't Just a Cliche

I have watched nearly episode of "The Rifleman" in its run on MeTV. In one episode, the old and tough town sheriff of Northfork has to be away for a short while. Our hero--Lucas McCain--usually the one Micah, the sheriff, calls upon to substitute is not available. So, he appoints a townperson with a great idea. No one will be allowed into Northfork unless he (it was always he in those days) gives up his gun. The bad guys, naturally, are delighted as they don't plan on giving up their guns, and well, the law, well, howdy, they don't follow that in the first place, and they mosey into town and manage to take over the sheriff's office. There 'taint anybody around, well until Lucas and his trusty rifle come back, to stop 'em.  And then our temporary sheriff realizes---the good guys really can't be without their guns when bad guys are around. Which is, as it happens, always.

I will in some other entry discuss at length "The Rifleman" a show which is in my mind among the best of old TV, back in the days with television brought you morality tales. But for now, I offer the above story from the late 1950s as an entree into what I discovered this week.

I had the perhaps odd need (for a girl who's never been in one and has no idea how to shoot except at video games and that only maybe three or four times her whole life), to visit a gun store. I had an inquiry to make; I made it, and probably will never see the inside of one again. I like the idea of target shooting, but, for me personally, only with something that wouldn't actually hurt another human being, even accidentally.

The store was, shall we say, packed. And not just with big bruisers with tattoos, though there were a few I was sure had tats under their shirts. No, there were couples; there were white people, there were black people and hispanic people and even a few women, a couple of an upper range (in my area) of age that I'd think wouldn't be in the demographic.

If this is how it was in California, I can't imagine what it must have been like in the middle of the country. It is pretty clear that while the media and political America are insisting on the townspeople being without what they view as protection in a world of bad guys, the discussion is far from being concluded as far as the townspeople are concerned.

How do I feel on the subject?  Well, as an extension of my previous entry, we wouldn't need guns if human beings were still walking in Paradise. There wouldn't be evil at all because we wouldn't have eaten from that tree which provided the knowledge of it. That ship has sure sailed.

In the world post the fall, there are still good people who protect other good people and each other, and some of those have guns, and in this imperfect world, well, it makes arguable sense. You've heard, as I have, it said that if someone who tried to help when the evil marauders wreaked their havoc had a gun, lesser havoc would have resulted. Oh, I know there are those who disagree. Disagreement used to be allowed.

I know I don't want to go back to the "Old West" when everybody carried a gun. On the other hand, I just wonder in my bones whether too much fumbling with the Second Amendment will only leave the bad guys in charge.

Like everything in discussion the marketplace of ideas, the whole subject is more complicated than the glossy pundits posit. 

I wish that we hadn't fallen in the first place. I wish religion weren't a taboo subject. I wish a lot of things that just aren't. Well, until the real end times. The Mayans missed. I'm kind of glad. I really need the extra hours to prepare. In my faith, as in many others, we aer told that we will not know the day or the hour, but we are to be watchful, of ourselves, of our souls. It'll happen, but until then we'll debate as if we can change anything without God's help.

Meanwhile, back on "The Rifleman", Mark drinks tainted water after his father tells him not to and ends up with typhoid fever. A fancy doctor comes and saves him; Lucas is happy and Mark is (I assume) sorry he didn't listen to his father.

A Law to Change Our Hearts?

I just heard what happened today in a "safe place" in Connecticut--twenty elementary children murdered by a gunman who killed his own mother (a teacher at the school) and other adults as well, twenty six people all tolled. And then he shot himself. 

The media is now recounting endlessly the murders of days gone by, at movie theatres, a campaign rallies, at Littleton, and Columbine. What they need to do is report it and shut up so that other madmen aren't encouraged to a post mortem celebrity like this malevolent soul. You say the press is serving us? What is the point of repeating it over and over?

One person's view, besides that of that well known sage, Justin Bieber. It is horrific. It is evil itself, but it isn't incomprehensible, if you just look at history and just glance at what happens when God becomes irrelevant to human hubris.

There's got to be a law!  That's the ticket. 

And all human upon human misery will be eradicated.

If you believe that I have bridge to sell you . . .

The Cacophony in (and out of) my head Whilst Waiting my Turn at the Bank

 

After I retired, my time mostly was my own. And then, people I knew, some of them anyway, came to a conclusion, "Djinn isn't doing anything!"  Well, to be fair to them, that's not what they said, and they'd probably deny that's even what they thought. But after about a year, I found myself with new"expectations". Not the typical work kind, but the kind that I suppose would fall under the rubric "charity." A couple of things I agreed to readily; a couple of things I said an absolute "no" to; a couple of things, and I'd like to kick myself over those, I said "no" many times but allowed myself to be manipulated (or so I interpreted anyway).

I am an obsessive compulsive. The real McCoy. Meaning I debate things endlessly, come to a conclusion for about a second and then begin the debate again. Until I drive myself crazy. I used to drive dad crazy with my fears and doubts. But then he died and now I mercifully (for them whoever they might have been) have found no replacement. So, these days, I talk to myself, and God, about the things that I doubt and fear endlessly about. The things I should have said "no" to and didn't--too late to back out and I have to face them, even though I am perpetually terrified and would rather be anywhere other than here or there.

Today was a particularly hard day. In between my obligations for discharge to others, I had to go to the bank to take care of something for me. I agree. I am a shit. I should love to help others. I'm a Christian. I am a Catholic Christian. I am supposed to want to sacrifice. Truth be told I don't. To the extent I do, it is despite myself.  And I am a coward besides. I pray to God for patience, for courage, for love. He's probably answering, but I'm not hearing Him; I'm too busy obsessing and being afraid.

So, I'm in a veritably empty bank. They all look like that these days. One guy in account services looking like he'd rather be anyplace else, like me.

There is a woman with the guy, the solo bank account manager guy. She is going on and on, as she has every right to be. And I want to scream "Shut up!".  The young associate is in and out of the back office trying to accommodate her various wishes. In the waiting area with me, is a man with a brief case. I see that inside the brief case are lots of papers with lots of notes. He is clearly going to take a long time when his turn, before me, comes. He's probably crazy. But that's his right. He has rights. Me, I'm just trying to be good, whatever "good" looks like.  I decide. "No, I'm here, that's it, I'm not leaving without accomplishing my business." He gives me a press clipping. He is John Scott, the oldest living "tagger".  Yep. He was oldest living tagger at 74. Now he's 77. He's very proud of his press. Nice to be so secure in one's place in the world, even home made.

He seems a very nice man, at least as we sit in this cubular sectional area. I like him. I don't like that he is a tagger, oldest living or not. But I ain't going to tell him that and ruin our very nice short relationship that won't become a longer one. In between I hear some woman come in and talk about the nearby pharmacy where they sell everything besides drugs, and I think she is talking about getting nice candle. She says, "I'm not looking for something 'fancy schmancy'".  I wonder why she is in this bank talking about candles. My head is about to explode.

As I write this, it has begun to rain. My screen door which I made the mistake of opening to "see" the stupid rain, has broken and I can't get it on track. I kicked it into a form of submission; I wanted to rip it up and throw it to the ground below; I didn't, and I will have to spend money I'd rather not to to fix it sometime in the future.

I made the additional mistake of turning on the news to hear about some shooting at Cal State Fullerton; what? this a day after some shooting at a mall in Oregon. My head is about to explode again.

You cannot imagine the panoply of words I'd like to say and write--the kind you have to make confession about, or do you? The world is so changed. I am not sure what is true or false, dogma or discretion. 

Everybody's got troubles. What was it that Spock said to Leila, which by the way, is a page in my memoir that I may never publish, one of those pre-dedication pages.  "If there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than anyone else's."

It's hard to believe as I write this, that I really think I have had a great life. A blessed life, as my friend Veronica tells me repeatedly I have had. I know it is so. I just had my uncle, and aunt and cousin here for wine and cheese in between my whining. It was nice. And yet right now, having turned down the sound on my TV reporting yet another horrific shooting by some so called normal person, I am having a hard time seeing it.

 I need to pray. It is the last thing I want to do. I need to do it despite the feeling against it.

"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee" which I think I did in my heart and soul today. "Help me do better tomorrow."

My head still feels like it is going to explode.

A Moment in the Real Rabbit Hole

I had business in glitzy Century City today, the Avenue of the Stars. Really.

The building I visited used to house the Schubert Theatre West, fountains fronting the two Century City Towers that were the exterior shot for the offices of "Remington Steele". (Remember that?). I sat in the old complex oh, many a year ago with Mr. Anonymous of the Deluxe Furnished Barbara Judith Apartments, feeling like I'd never find a job in California in the six weeks I had allotted myself. In the morning I'd look for a job. In the afternoon, for the two weeks he spent here, long prior to his move to LA, we'd see the sights in my rented car. It was in that old demolished complex that I saw Joan Rivers, one of many times.

Long ago, and far away. The new building looks toward the still extant twin towers, unchanged, should Remington wish to make a re-appearance, all glass and steel and glitter. I had a moment when I almost did not see where the doors were amid all the shiny-ness. Valets only and in I went into the vast expanse and deep and long stairwell downward. Business people buzzed about-I used to buzz like that, but in a far less glitzy building downtown. It being the holiday upcoming formerly known as "Christmas" there was a large, and I think real, "Christmas" tree in the courtyard decorated with tasteful elegance. The fashionability of the place was sealed with a Mickey Fine, a pharmacy/everything else known to celebrity-dom and wanna-bes, and former-be's.

I was early for my appointment and the only thing to look at was "Forbes", which I have never read before, and I perused with apparent interest so that I might not appear an orphan Annie among Daddy Warbucks'es. I did note that two of the articles I scanned had the absolute opposite predictions about the outcome of our national financial affairs. Expensive shoes clicked around me. I noted that one of mine had been chewed by one of my cats, and crossed my feet discretely.

I don't know that my appointment was a success--it was kind of a touch base sort of thing. I realized that black was the color of the day in all the offices around me, and never mind my shoes, but the bright red Chico's jacket-blouse marked me like one of the characters in red in "Sixth Sense". My parking was validated, a sure sign, like the mints Len Speaks seeks in restaurants, of the best establishments.

And then I was outside. I waited for my Toyota. A new Toyota, recently leased, to be sure, but still a Toyota. And noted the two Range Rovers one behind the other, the Porsche directly in front of me, the various Mercedes, and Audi's, and the several men seriously communing with their cell phones.
And I felt. . . good. Great in fact to be here,and have a reason to be here, the shiny fantasy land that is the business world.  

And my Toyota really isn't bad, I mean with the Bluetooth, and the USB ports, and the two glove compartments.

Elwood 'Gochis' RIP

Several times, tonight, I thought I saw him, walking bowl legged toward me, his big round eyes appealing to me for food or love. And one time, remembering he favored awkward locales to lay, like the entrance to the kitchen, I found myself picking up my legs so I wouldn't, as sometimes happened, step on him evoking a "yowl".




My lionhearted "Elwood' the cat is no more.  I'll be keeping one of the prescription bottles that identify him as in the title of this piece, Elwood 'Gochis'--silly, but somehow, right now, I like it.

It's only a few hours ago, that I could no longer hope for a  rally. He had done it before, particularly in the last six months, be on the edge of his natural death, and then with a little vet visit and medication, coming back from the precipice.

He began to lose weight, precipitously, early in the year. His fur got ridiculously matted. So I began thyroid meds, which at first seemed to turn him around; he even gained weight. And then it stopped working around September-ish. And other things started to become problems, back legs getting weak some days so much, he was dragging them both; there was always the increased appetite that signal kidney issues, although that seemed to be a not too pressing problem; ear infections; urinary tract infections; a constipation that turned out to be more about his system breaking down. But he still was showing interest in his little world and no matter how bad he looked, he wasn't, I said to myself, in consultation with my vet, "ready".  I have seen it before, three times of which I had to help it along, and a couple I did not. When they are ready, just like with us, humans, they lose the spark in their eyes and are just, there, listless, looking at a wall.




Last night I sat up with him all night, with occasional falls asleep, he next to me in a towel on my bed, showing little interest in moving--which is particularly un-cat-like. I could see that as bad as he looked a month or two ago, he looked even worse. Something about his gaze was telling me. And still this morning, I was trying to figure, no, he'll do something, this little Elwood moo--a nickname I had for him.

But there were also the howls of intense complaint, usually sprayed to the bathroom walls, like he was out of his mind. Dementia?  Pain?  Both? He'd be quiet in a chair and then one of those sounds would emit and it scared me to him. I'd pick him up and he'd be quiescent for a bit, and then a version of the wail, which seemed to say, "What are you waiting for?"

It is no doubt silly to pray to God that he take this one cat peacefully, given the many animals killed violently daily, and let's not talk about all the humans. He does not always intervene and I understand that, but I still had to try, to avoid the task I did not want to do, again, even after a good long life.

And so, I called the vet and took the appointment about an hour and a half away, 5:20 p.m.  I wrapped him in a towel again and we sat together on my favorite chair. He looked at me; for a moment sometimes, he seemed dead already, but then I saw the slow rising of his skeletal chest. I rubbed his nose. I apologized for what I was about to do.

And then it was time. A couple of those wails, less urgent as he lay awaiting his fate. He lifted his head when the vet came in, and for a moment, I thought, "Maybe I should just take him home."  But this time I knew I needed to stay strong, amid the tears and the effort to tell the vet everything about the years in which this orange tabby cat was in my life.

I'm pretty sure I've written about Elwood before--he lived next door for several years. I "met" him around the time of the Northridge quake in January 1994, when my new neighbor Doug, and I and his roommate and the upstairs neighbors gathered in the hall at 4 in the morning.  He was young, but he wasn't a kitten, so you do the math on how long he's been around--I wasn't kidding about that. Above average our Elwood in the life span department. 

He was about as neurotic as a human, if it came to that. He did not tend to like men, and a man was his owner. He would approach and then run away, tail always twitching--to the day, today, he died. And one day, he ran away from home, to our backyard, to be with the other cats of other neighbors. He was always careful to remain low man on the cat pole, in order to protect himself from harm. And he did well. He was out there some years and then losing his teeth, and his hearing, one rainy evening I took him in, and he never left. My own three cats were not in love, but they accepted a new roommate, particularly as the new snack became baby food for Elwood, which I shared with them.

He tolerated my move from the only building he ever lived better than my other cats, despite his failing health. His favorite spot remained the food dishes, whether he ate or not. He was beyond being able to clean himself, and pretty much everything was encrusted, all the time. He protested my use of wet wipes. But after I put him down, he'd stick around me anyway, so the protest was not all that serious.

There are more people than you'd imagine who are sad about his loss, his former owner, Doug, our friend Akiko, whom Elwood loved; she got to see him just after I moved here, and both of us cried over the tenacity of this little cat; my cousin Carol, who met him just after my father died. She liked him best of all my cats, because he was a personality unto none other. He trusted, while distrusting, and that was a fascinating combination.

I bawled in my car on the way home, after bawling as I touched his quickly cold furry head after he breathed his last; the vet said that he was on the way to dying indeed, and so, although he did not say this, it was a good thing I did not make him wait. He would have fought on this boy.

I will lean on my other three cats tonight, and I think for a long time, I'll see Elwood coming toward me for a pet or a little baby food. 



 Look at that well lived in face with a dollop of baby food on his nose. I'll be crying some more tonight.

Being Gone

I do not intend to seem maudlin. But something about moving out of the apartment I lived in for 30 plus years has caused me to think about death. I guess it is because after taking all my stuff out, I have had the chance to see it empty because someone I know, my cousin, is moving in (subject of another story as to how that happened), and then slowly filling up with things she moved in piecemeal, and with which I assisted her.

So, let me step back.

 This is the entry to my old place in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles. This vestibule was where my neighbors and I lurked back on January 17, 1994 after that monster earthquake we all thought might be the "big one."  It's kind of where I met Elwood, the Lionhearted Cat, who is still favoring his life despite advanced age.

Here's another angle, of the fake potted plant.

Oh, and the front entryway.

You see these front french windows?



I remember that I had a little desk in front of those windows, where I studied for the California Bar, while my then new little cat Hollywood, the size of the palm of my hand, sat on my Bar Bri books to prevent it.  That was 1981. Hollywood lasted till 1999, dying at the age of 18, after a long full life.

The living room had many changes of furniture. I always liked the large room and the bright cheerfulness providing by side French windows, although my wall space was then severely limited.The kitchen was only recently, like in April, remodeled from the original 1920's crumbling tile, but I only rarely hated what it was before that change--since I have never been much of a cook. I needed neither much space nor particular beauty in that room.

My favorite space was what had been once in time, likely, a dressing closet/room. When Oscar Rovinsky, the landlord at the time, gave me the keys for the grand sum of $375.00 a month, the little built in table with a built in mirror was falling apart, not really usable. My uncle took it out for me. At first, I used it basically as an ordinary junk closet, and then one day realized I could make it a library. Now, my cousin will use it to store the tools of her avocation, sewing.

So, what's this talk of a "death"? Well, here is the thing. Because I have been able to go back and see the apartment develop with the taste of my cousin, there is this sense that in a small way I am experiencing, with myself, what it might be like to go into an apartment of a loved one, clear it out and see what it becomes, without the former occupant. In a way, the thirty years of my inhabitantcy is wiped away with the removal of my "stuff". It is, as if, I was never there for well over a quarter of a century.

It gives some sort of perspective; I am considering what that is.  There is a book by Stephen Levine, called, "One Year to Live".  It tries to teach the reader to engage in exercises derived from the idea of what would it be like if you knew you had only a year to live. Now obviously this actually happens to people, but not to most of us. We don't get a timetable in advance. Or even close. One of the exercises is to go through a day as if you are not here, on this earth. It has an interesting effect--you become less attached to the self, because the exercise presumes no "self" literally. Since no one sees you, there is no opportunity or reason to be slighted.  It causes you to think about what is truly to be done by you in THIS life, if you were not trying to please or obtain the kudos of others. There was something of that exercise in emptying the first apartment I ever lived in as an adult (I was old when I ran away from home), and watching it fill up with someone else's possessions.

It's interesting being gone while being here. I have been in this apartment for just shy of two months. You'd never know I'd been anywhere else.  Until, of course, I'm gone, again. By the way, I'm in no rush. From my lips to God's Ears.

Eternal Boys and Girls, Oh My

When I was a wee Bronx Djinn, I was like all the other kids. I liked Halloween, the secular manifestation of the religiously based All Hallow's Eve. I'd get dressed as a Princess or something like that and with my cousins Barbara and Carol, accompanied by Aunt Rita, we'd go from building to building on our block, yelling "Trick or Treat" and getting some favorites in the seasonal shopping bag, Nestle     Crunch, Bazooka Bubble Gum and pennies and nickels. Sometimes, I seem to remember stopping to bob an apple or two at one of the buildings across the street.

We did not worry too much about dangerous candy--this being the era before razors in your gummy bears--although even then we weren't allowed to eat the unwrapped donations.

I grew up and not having children of my own, gave nary a thought to Halloween. But when I came to California and moved into my first neighborhood (and only one until about a month ago) in the Fairfax District, that first year, I had plenty of candy for the kids. But none came. In those days, it was attributable to the fact that most of the children were from religious Jewish families.  The neighborhood became more mixed ethnically, religiously and secular-ly, but by then we did have to worry about the people who hurt children and so trick or treating was like taking a dive off a cliff. So, still no children came to the door.

What had happened, though, was that adults made Halloween--the former province of children--their own, dressing up, like in this picture, say as Captain America, or the Faeirie Godmother in one or another of those tales, like Cinderella and partying hardy with modern candy or magical dust of one sort or another (wink wink).

Here in Los Angeles, they close entire blocks, at taxpayer expense, so that these 20, 30, 40 and who knows whether it goes into the 50s-somethings can cavort as skeletons on the boulevards. My vet had to deal with its own "skeleton" staff, because people could not get in and out of the area. Don't have a sick cat or dog on the night of the pumpkins and werewolves!

I hear that around Hollywood Boulevard there was a shooting, and they had to close that part of town down.
Some pour soul is now officially a ghoul.

Maybe we should return this holiday to the children.