I can't sleep…
When you’ve been raised inside a religion, it’s not a small thing to step outside it. Even if you no longer believe in it, you can feel its absence.
There’s a spirit-wound to a Sunday.
You can patch it, but it’s there, whether natural or invented not for me to say.
~ Niall Williams, “This Is Happiness” (Bloomsbury Publishing; December 3, 2019)
Photo: Kuehn Malvezzi of “House of One” (Berlin)
7:05 am. Stamford station.
I’m waiting for the 2151 Acela to Baltimore. Overhead board flashes On Time, Track 2.
There are two empty seats adjacent to a scruffy, long bearded old man. He’s wearing a heavy jacket, way too heavy for August. A rollerboard stands to his right. His head bowed, sleeping. You’re asking for trouble. Find another seat. I look around, and can’t find another seat. I catch others watching me, judging, ‘The Suit won’t come near That.’
And Mind, ever so efficient, calls up a Marie Howe poem, The Star Market:
“The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday. An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps. Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them: shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay..Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself…stumbling among the people who would have been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands and knees begging for mercy. If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought, could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?”
He lifts his head, turns towards me and stares. I freeze. The Others are now watching. I pause, and make my move.
I take the seat next to Him.
Others watch for a moment, eyebrows raised, and then go back to their smartphones. Did you do it because you wanted a seat? Or because others would think less of You, or that you didn’t want this Suit to meet their expectations? Or because you didn’t want Him to think you thought any less of Him?
There’s one empty seat between us. But there’s tension in the gap. He turns to look at me, I can feel his eyes on me. Here it comes, Can you help me out with a few bucks, Sir?”
He sits silently. Continue reading “Waiting. At The Star Market. Trying to Bend the Image.”
Off to a late start today. Could not fire the engines. Or the head. Temperature: Brisk 35F. Not a trace of wind. And gloriously sunny. Sunny but dark.
I skip the hat. Skip the gloves. Skip the extra sweatshirt. I needed cold. Needed to feel alive. Needed a new path. A fresh 5-mile route. Away from the familiar.
9:45 am: I’m heading North. (It’s quiet out. Eerily quiet. I don’t hear birds. Traffic seems to be moving slower. Everyone mourning? Newtown is North. Sandy Hook Elementary School is 39 miles due North. TV images flicker by: Mother holding phone, screaming. Children being marched out of the building. “Close your eyes. Hold your hands.“)
It all started at around 8pm last night. Susan asked: “Do you really need that?“…this in response to my complaining earlier in the day about hitting new record highs for weight gain. And after my 4th trip to the fridge since dinner time. The “that” was a peanut butter (Jiffy Creamy) and blueberry jelly sandwich. Yes, I needed it. Badly. And I didn’t need someone, anyone, scolding me. (Am I a child?) I continued lapping the peanut butter on the bread – jabbing the knife into the jar – spreading on a few extra layers. I don’t lift my head. She continues on from the other side of the room. “You know, you should read this book on life style changes in what you eat. You can lose weight by just eating healthier. You are not getting enough proteins. This is causing you to crave potato chips, sugars and salty foods.” Blueberry jam dribbles out of the corner of my mouth. I look up. Fat man’s blood pressure building…readying himself for counterpunching. I glance up and glare. She continues: “You know that I’m just trying to help.” I take the last remaining bite and jam dribbles down my shirt…well doesn’t that about capture it. Enough! My turn…trade a boulder for a pebble. “I don’t need to read a bloody book to tell me that I eat junk and too much of it. And I certainly don’t need you haranguing me about it.” Now, if I had just stopped there. Trade the ocean for a drop of water. “So tell me. If this book is so good. How’s it working out for you?” Nearing 30 years of marriage you know exactly where the nerve endings are and where to jab. Yep, direct hit. Then regret washes over me. But not enough to apologize. She knows I didn’t really mean it. Right. Continue reading “Running. And Chafing.”
The stone walkway may be 2.5 feet at its narrowest point. The shore line is 7-8 feet down from the walkway. It’s narrow, it is a ways down and I’m always wary. I must have been daydreaming. Or better stated, distracted by day-work-worrying.
I’m on my morning run.
My right forearm slams into the end of the steel I-beam guard rail. Here it comes. A car crash in slow motion. A Bruce Lee flick. With much less grace. The I-beam doesn’t move. But it moves me. It spins me around. Full Stop. Drop. Roll. Air explodes out of my chest. I’m gasping for air. More stunned than hurt. I’m down flat on my back for a few seconds, grateful that I didn’t plunge into the mud and frigid waters in the bay. I look around to see if anyone caught the show. No one is yelling “Man Down. Man Down.” We’re clear. Pride intact. Continue reading “Still Standing.”