Running late. I am working like a dog. Like a dog I tell 'ya. Sheesh.

A silly dog.

Antonio Carlos Jobim, baby. That's it. What else do you need to know? Just flow with it.

So I was thinking I might just continue driving when I saw the mountains yesterday over the crest of the hill.

Or maybe wait until the trees are greener, if I live until the trees are greener. Not that it matters.

What road is this? It seems to lead into the big valley, and I'll bet it crosses over the river and under the new toll road, and then continues.

I could find a little town. We could find a little town. (She's always with me.)

And wonders, When will I see you again?

I say, I see you now. You're always with me, and wherever I go, you go with me.

We're divided only by space and time. On the road such things dissolve anyway.

These outcroppings of random strata are very interesting. She stops to photograph them.

Eventually we reach the mountains. Eventually the trees turn green. Where does the time go?

And what road is this?

You in your big yellow house by the parking lot, me in my car. My boys still remember that bloody big television, and it's all they think about. I think about driving with you without ever coming home, because that is home - my mind. I have no other.

Freedom!

But I'm not free, am I?

I would love to stop by the side of this river and fill my lungs, and live the rest of my life on that one breath, not having to breathe again.

And I once thought the same when I buried my face in your hair. And here I am on the road still breathing. It's the wrong road. It's the wrong air.

 

This morning I awoke in dream logic, as usual. In order to get to what had been my father's house it was necessary to open the rear doors of a vehicle - a van, it appeared -to pass through to the world which contained the familiar front yard with its ancient rhododendron bushes, and so on. I was accompanied on this journey by a realtor, property manager perhaps, who could not know the affect visiting this house might have on my emotions. I knew this, taking it into account. Within the house, which it seemed I had left only a day ago rather than many years ago, there were contained many things reminding me of my mother.

A death in a family is, to my way of thinking, a deeply personal and quite private event. Imagine my unease with the large number of people who attended my mother's funeral whom I did not know. A few years ago an uncle of mine died, and the traffic report on a small city's radio station made mention that certain streets in a certain nearby suburb would be closed for his procession. Policemen wearing their Hibernian green gloves directed traffic. Stores were closed for the occasion, signs in windows, a band playing, ribbons - you get the picture. So I have to concede, owing to such circumstances, that funerals are public events. To an extent, the honored dead now belongs to those people whom he or she has touched in whatever way. My mother touched many people with her kindness during her life.

Less noble but just as understandable is the reaction in a community to the death of one who is young. His youth alone, and the unexpected tragedy of his demise, is sensational enough to fill the church with people who did not know him terribly well - often classmates who may not even have liked him very much. What a source of stress this must be to the family coping with the loss of a son/brother/sister whilst having to respect such a sympathetic mass of casual acquaintance. My family has also experienced this ordeal.

Ah well. To me, grief is a process I would not invite anyone to participate in. Perhaps going through these obligatory motions of entertaining public mourners provides solace for some. That's fine. It's just not my way - as if I had a choice. I would require - I do require - solitude, rather than sympathy.

I suppose this may be related to the fact that I enjoy solitude over companionship. But, in my dream logic I was as a little boy again, at loose in a too-big house full of mysterious momentoes - each object connected by streams of dust-filled golden light to mother, to father, to the security of what never changes, of what no mere death of the body can take away. Being connected in such a way, beyond reach of Time, those we loved never really leave us.

When I am balled-up over some temporary illusion causing stress, time was that by calling my mother hearing her voice would restore me. I would suddenly know the solution to whatever the problem had been. My ability to communicate with her hasn't been removed by her death. The only thing that has been altered is the means by which it's done. The telephone is no longer necessary, and there is no chance of getting an answering machine or a busy signal. Freed from the limitations of the body, my mother may now speak to me without having to go through that complicated process involving plastics, electricity, moving parts, and all that.

I needed to stop thinking there is something wrong with me. Thinking I should react to death badly for the sake of what? - fellowship? And my mother, (and probably also yours), would say something at that point about jumping off a bridge. And she (they) would be right - all that angelic host of mothers singing the wisdom that makes us roll our eyes. Brush your teeth, Brush your teeth, Brush your teeth...

My dreams are every bit as real as my waking life. I don't know that. I don't require proof of it. I don't even have to believe it's true. All I have to do is entertain the thought that it is. I notice the logic of dreams works a little differently, and I am very glad I am not attempting to run around the world making money, raising sons, and so forth, in the context of dream logic because it's more difficult to master than the waking variety.

You know something? I don't have a point this morning.

So what?

 

I walked across my newly waxed and polished floor in the ambient light from a tiny artificial Christmas tree that sits atop the organ eccentric to the south window. Adjacent to that, in a corner, there stands an artist's easel upon which resides a framed Waterhouse print, and surrounding the window on top and down its left side are lilacs ornamenting the wall. (They're wallpaper "stickies" - you know the type of thing.) The formal entrance is to the right of the window. There a small round Empire table holds a lamp and antique telephone, next to which a chair provides comfort for those longer conversations.

Now, the fireplace is in the west wall. Above it a rather hideous mirror is fixed, so I have covered that mirror with a drape-style curtain over the mantel which frames a very large ink drawing of a medieval monk at his illuminating which my children call 'the spooky man.' That picture has a very large wooden frame which seems to have been made from crown moulding. An incense censure and a candle are on the mantel piece itself. The fire surround is one the the house's more distinctive architectural features. A single carved rose graces the center top with sides resembling straight pillars - simple, graceful, and painted a lustrous white.

On either side of the fireplace my Acoustic Research floor speakers act as pieces of balancing accent furniture. Directional tweeters sit atop these. A leather recliner, also Empire style, sits kitty corner astride the rug on the right side of the fireplace, with a table lamp indescribably hideous to the point of beauty beside it on a pedestal which reflects the simple lines of the fire surround. A roll-away reading/laptop desk which contains whatever book I happen to be reading, (Letters From Baron Friedrich von Hugel to a Niece), is next to the chair.

An overstuffed modern sofa faces the fireplace, covered in a tan slipcover and a Gothic rug depicting muted fleur de lys in complimentary hues. Since the room is quite a bit too large, with a plain 12 foot ceiling accented only by large crown moulding, the rug serves to create a separate room within-a-room. Finishing the picture is a Morris chair in the English style to the left of the fireplace, next to which stands an interesting junk floor lamp with an art glass bowl below a cylindrical golden metallic shade which casts an interesting light through pin holes that have been punched into it in a diamond pattern.

Under the north window, which opposes its southern twin, sits the Second Empire sofa which wasn't comfortable when it was made. I have collected one handmade rug so far to ornament the walls of this room, and am looking for more - to provide warmth to the otherwise imposing blandness of cream-colored walls. (Why is it some people have a fear of color?) Well, the house isn't mine to permanently alter, and I will not be living here for very long. But rugs I can do.

Why am I telling you all this?

Well, last night as I was walking through the fireplace room I stopped to take in the reflecting glow of my newly waxed and polished floor, appreciating where my bare footprints have decorated it oh-so slightly, and then stood there transfixed by the scene without moving for the next 30 minutes or so.

Now, last night I was very pleased to be able to write up a little biography for Heavenly Days, less pleased with the technical glitch that seemed to plague my Imeem song controller, but afterwards found it dismaying to sit before my computer in the darkness of my library, realizing that I had done all I had set out to do.

Into the TV room will I go, to pedal for half an hour or so on the recumbent exercise bike whilst watching whatever EWTN is offering at that hour. But on the way there the scene I have described above arrested me. Suddenly I found it most appealing to do, to think, absolutely nothing.

This morning I call to mind a recent conversation I had - 'catching up' with an acquaintance of long standing. She asked me what I was about doing these days. The first thing that sprang to mind was The White Lodge. I said, "I'm writing a blog. Well, two really."

She said, "Yeah, I don't have a life either."

So, I asked her if she would like to step out with me on Friday night, take in the warmth of a local place which features regularly a jazz trio. I did this rather impulsively. She looked depressed, and I happen to know a date with me has been rated preferable to suicide by a number of women over the years. Of course, she is delighted - in that compulsory way we observe the etiquette of 'stepping out.'

But that's not really what I wanted to write about either.

I suppose writing The White Lodge has allowed me to return internally to my recent past - I hope with the humor it deserves - but I generally despise self-absorption, even of the creative variety, preferring always to write fiction and poetry. Owing to the restraints of time, the latter has been conspicuous by its absence - something which it has just occurred to me is infinitely amendable.

Still, I would rather be a guest of this house than its host. And Sherry will be pleased to know that there are goldfinches now attracted to the feeder she inspired me to purchase. And shoutoutgirl will be pleased to know a large raven quoting "Nevermore" has taken up residence in my magic birdcage. TR will understand that when women laugh within the walls it's only the language of contentment with life's mystery. Wayf would no doubt appreciate the quality of my silence, if such a thing could be heard and not forever longed-for.

I wonder suddenly if I am not becoming the monk on my mantel, the 'spooky man.' I can't imagine wanting to do more than read Baron von Hugel, or listen to Coltrane, or build houses in my mind. This as Spring arrives. It's been a few years since I've felt any emotion other than contented happiness. I never catch colds or get sick, or get headaches, or feel physically unwell. Well heck, I don't really seem to live in my body very much these past five or six years. These ordinary blessings which remind us of humanity, mortality, haven't been bestowed on me for long enough now that I may remark upon it. Oh - I did get a toothache for about three days - Prank may recall it - back in January. That was refreshing. I thought perhaps I was turning a corner.

Oh yes, and POH will remember I fell off a roof, hurting my back. The hurt lasted no more than minutes, although I could tell it was sprained. The Lady insisted I go to the ER. I did. The fellow who examined me said that I should be in pain, though I wasn't. The next day it was fully healed, as though it never happened. Typical...

Haven't cried, haven't missed, haven't mourned my mother, whose death somehow inspired me to post a message on a rather simplistic-looking blog site. It is like being a picture that doesn't change. You examine every line of it, but still, it hasn't changed.

It's very attractive to me - very appealing - the idea of becoming absorbed into something beautiful, of becoming something beautiful. The body dies; the mind continues. I have to give this some thought.  

Tonight on Heavenly Days Fibber's Car is Stolen in another installment in the lives of the residents of 79 Wistful Vista. Check it out at 8 PM.

Tomorrow night tune in for an encore broadcast of The Mercury Theater's "War of the Worlds," an adaptation of the classic H.G. Wells story that almost got more listeners than Bergen and McCarthy in the same time slot - and that's saying something.

In the meantime, here's a view of Jim Jordan (Fibber McGee) plugging the AARP in later life.