Sentimental Journey

Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories

Alfred, resplendent in his fifty-year-old Sears catalogue suit, whirled around the large, rather elegant room. He was twenty-one again, with his entire life ahead of him. Smoother than Fred Astaire, handsomer than Gene Kelly he still had the moves. With Doris Day serenading he felt as if he could dance the night away.

Got my bags, got my reservations,
Spent each dime I could afford.
Like a child in wild anticipation,
I Long to hear that, "All aboard!"

“Remember Liza, New Years Eve 1944 when we first heard Sentimental Journey. I was fresh off the boat from the European front, still in uniform, alone in the big city. And you were a volunteer with the New York City USO. Our eyes met, my heart skipped a beat and I knew the remainder of my life would be spent wooing the girl of my dreams. How we danced that night Liza, oblivious to the crowd, the noise, two souls dancing as one to the sounds of their own big band. Creating a world which had not existed before the moment our fingers touched first touched.”

Seven...that's the time we leave at seven.
I'll be waitin' up at heaven,
Countin' every mile of railroad track,
that takes me back

“Remember our wedding. Saint Domanic’s filled to overflowing with army buddies and apparently to be the entire eastern membership of the USO. You were so beautiful. White dress, hair freshly coifed and laced with jasmine. There was not a princess, nor a Hollywood starlet who could have held a candle to you. I was more afraid at that moment than I had been in any foxhole in Europe. One look from you though and my fear was vanquished. Then as now I have always stood tall with you by my side. Sipping champagne at the reception I remember the bandleader called us out onto the floor for our first dance as a married couple and the song, of course the song was Sentimental Journey.”

Never thought my heart could be so yearny.
Why did I decide to roam?
Gotta take that Sentimental Journey,
Sentimental Journey home.
Sentimental Journey

“Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins. I am sorry for interrupting Mr. Jenkins but I have to lock up. Please Mr. Jenkins it is time to go.”
Suddenly aware of his surroundings Alfred stopped dancing and looked around him. The room was empty except for the nervous attendant, a large amount of flowers and a copper colored casket where his sweet Liza lay.

There was no reminiscing. No Sentimental Journey. His Liza was dead and a long empty stretch of cold and lonely days stretched out before him.

Mumbling an apology and suddenly feeling all of his 85 years, Alfred gave Liza a kiss on the forehead and with tears streaming down his face headed for the snow filled night.

Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories

Five Degrees of Weirdness

Manda flung down the tag gauntlet leaving me with little choice but to expose my more reclusive side to the world. So without fanfare here are my five degrees of weirdness.

1st Degree: I am not a people person. I know that is surprising coming from someone who has social anxiety but it is true. Trust me. For most of my life I have found that more often than not time spent alone or lost in a good book is preferable to time spent with the majority of humanity. Present company excluded of course.

2nd Degree: I cannot read a newspaper that someone else has read first. Not sure when I picked up this habit or why but a paper must be in pristine condition when I get to it or the reading of said paper loses the enjoyment factor. Even weirder is that this only applies to newspapers. I am a regular at the local used book store and I have no problem reading old magazines while waiting at a doctors office.

3rd Degree: I write my best poetry or stories when I am sad, stressed, angry or depressed. Give me dark clouds, floods, earthquakes, tornados and my pen never stops. Fill my world with sunshine, rainbows, birds singing, children laughing and I might as well use my pen as a toothpick for all the writing I will be doing.

4th Degree: I have never had many male friends in my life. One or two scattered about the years. While platonic girl friends have been around since I was a little guy. Not sure why this is. Maybe the whole jock mentality a lot of guys have. Maybe the whole locker room humor thing. Maybe because my mother has always been one of my best friends besides being the worlds top mom. Of course this also has posed a great deal of problems for romance in my life. Most women I have known do not handle male/female friendship well, not well at all.

5th Degree: I have always felt a bit left out of the whole religion lifestyle. Friends and relations talk about mass or services as if they have had a personal meeting with God. I on the other hand have always fought to stay awake and gagged on all of the hypocrisy. One on one I experiance God on many levels. Within organized religion though he is a mystery to me. I crave that social inneraction with fellow believers yet the spiritual path I have traveled to date has been one of solitary meditation where fellow travelers have been few and far between.

In the Eye of the Rising Sun

Another unplanned, unexpected and completely unwanted absence from the throne.

It seems that the little demons that infected my nose and sinuses were not content with territory already conquered, they were greedy and wanted more.

Christmas morning I woke up with my eye resembling a tequila sunrise that had been left half finished resulting in a rather odd and bizarre mix of colors. Oranges and reds blended together to form colors that were never meant to be displayed in the human eye. No crunchy stuff thank god but itchy beyond belief at one point I actually considered if the resulting damage would be worth sticking an ice pick in my eye to relieve the itch. And the pressure. I felt as if my eyeball would explode out of my head shoot across the room and remove the angel from her perch on the Christmas tree.

Of course with my eye contemplating various forms of implosion reading and writing were both not only out of the question but far removed from my thoughts.

Which brings us to the present. While my left eye still looks as if I have been on a week long alcoholic binge the pain, pressure and itchiness have left hopefully for good. I am still not myself but close enough to the real thing to begin living again.

Wheezing Murmur's

After surving an up close and rather personal Kodak moment shared between me, my doctor and a room full of nurses I thought my week could only go up from there. Of course as in most instances of wishful thinking life had an all together different plan.

In no particular order:

The base of the garbage disposal came loose from the drain trap spewing water and half ground food through out the cabinet beneath the sink. Reattaching the disposal was easy. Cleaning the floor and the cabinet was a pain in the ass.

While cleaning the refridgerator the large glass piece that covers both vegetable drawers exploded in my hands. Shards of shattered glass covered the floor for three feet in every direction. Virtually every surface was swimming in the stuff except for one notable exception: me. Despite my presence at ground zero not a single piece of glass impacted my flesh. Not a scratch. Not a cut. Nothing. Should have played the lotto that day.

Than of course what Murmur rant would be complete without medical complications.

I seem to have developed a trifecta of illnesses. A sinus and ear infection plus another round of bronchitis. To complicate the issue even further my body does not seem to agree with Avelox which was the reccomended treatment. I have been having liver pain plus pain in my left shoulder joint and right knee. Could be exhaustion from all of the pre Christmas activities or could be a reaction to the meds. Waiting to hear from my doctor on that one.

Which in a nutshell is why the Throne has been vacant for close to a week.

in the grays skies of mourning

beneath the darkness
madness comes in many forms
seeping through fractures
dropping from rafters
growing within rotting floorboards
bacteria of the soul
fractal patterns of insanity
searching for molecular access
insidious desperation
propagation required
future generations
of faux lunacy
eggs of lucidity
buried within the seepage
of hearts shredded
rendered bits of flesh
providing sustenance
feeding melancholia
immune to the onslaught
of good living through chemistry
devouring useless chains
of ssri’s
discarding wisps
of vaporized sanity
leaving chem. trails
of madness
in the gray skies of mourning

Colonoscopy and the City

Today was a day of excitement.

Today was a day of thrills.

Today was memorable.

Why, because I was blessed by the god's and provided the opportunity to experience my first ever colonoscopy.

The excitement began yesterday at 12:00 PST. As all solid food was removed from my diet and 27 hours of clear liquids began. Of course it might have been a bit more pleasurable if the definition of clear liquids included vodka, gin or rum but from what I understand the doctors are a tad particular about alcohol intake before any surgery. Including this one. Which is rather odd because usually someone has to be drunk before they allow their nether regions to be explored by a stranger.

As if clear liquids were not exciting enough a Fleet Saline Chaser was added to the mix. Supposedly there is a medical purpose for this torture, something about cleaning the pipes before the test. However, with the vast collective knowledge of the human race you would think one person somewhere would have taken the time to make a pre surgical laxative that did not leave you gagging for hours afterward.

Needless to say most of Tuesday was spent visiting the porcelain throne not posting to Murmur's.

Which in a twisted sort of way was a good thing. By the time I arrived at the clinic where the procedure was scheduled to be performed I was half asleep. So time flew by.

Skipping over unnecessary and I am sure unwanted details the bottom line is that I passed with flying colors. One small polyp that was removed and will be biopsied for safeties sake. Other than that my colon was cleaner than whistler's mother.

searching for truth between third base and home

we stood in the front yard
having a catch
I was seven still learning
to throw
skinned knees missing teeth
barefoot and tan
summer bliss
having a catch
with my dad

soon

darkness found us
and you
were no longer here
gone for years
I stood alone
a world gone silent
an empty tomb
emotions buried
beneath a marker
that read
“why dad, why”

once

staring up at twenty
learned about life
from the words of others
pigeon tracks
upon the printed page
no dad primed
with real world answers
no father explaining
the differences
between fucking
and making love
left to divine the truth
amidst the lies
in letters sent
to penthouse magazine

Hysteria

Today the pending execution of Stanley "Tookie" Williams was apparently the only news worth covering in the eyes of the media.

This is not a rant on the pros or cons of the death penalty.

It is a rant on how the media tends to go off the deep end with a story.

Yes controversy surrounds the death penalty and its implimentation. If that was the focus of the media coverage I would have nothing to say.

Through out the day some stations especially one local radio station stepped over the line seemingly intent on contributing to the creation of a story rather than neutrally reporting the facts.

On several occaisons various reporters and on air hosts speculated that the execution of Mr. Williams may lead to unrest in the streets especially in the Los Angeles area.

The air was filled with "what if's" without a single fact to back the question up.

Was the Los Angeles police department on tactical alert: no.

Were the mayor or other elected officials coming on the radio, requesting that the populace remain calm: no.

Were community leaders calling on their neighborhoods to respect the peace in hopes of quelling expected riots: no.

Apparently the radio station in question felt it was their civic responsability to inform its listening audiance of pending unrest that existed only in the mind of the program or news director. Ignoring the facts that they themselves were airing in their news segments and running instead with wanton speculation.

Just one more example of reality being sacrificed to the rating gods.

Christmas Was.....

Christmas was once upon a December the one time of year when differences were put aside.

People took a moment to see the world through the eyes of compassion rather than through the glare of competition.

Communities and churches strived for inclusiveness rather than wave the flag of exclusion.

Meals of celebration were open to all rather than limited to those who shared genetic markers.

Some may laugh, claiming that world never existed, that Christmas is just another corporate holiday where cash is sacrificed at the altar of commerce.

A holiday adopted by the early church for simpler conversion of the pagans to the new faith.

A holiday adopted by Charles Dickens in order to cast a light on those less fortunate.

A holiday adopted by Coca Cola turning Santa Claus into just another corporate icon.

The cynical amongst us are correct in stating that the Christmas we romanticize never truly existed. In doing so they are missing the point.

It is not so much the celebration that is being romanticized but the ideals that were celebrated.

Let the cynical amongst us joust with the windmills of angst.

While the rest of us strive to manifest the ideals of yore.

Saved

Thanksgiving Eve, I was on disability from my then employer recovering from recent knee surgery. Nothing major or so I thought, a scope to clean out some old debris was all. In reality it was my third surgery on the same knee and rehab was taking longer than planned. My range of movement and flexibility mimicked the movements of a mime performing the old trapped in the box routine. My doctor had me in physical therapy four days a week, which included a daily bike ride.

I was living in North Hollywood at the time and the area was home to several excellent bike routes. I spent most of my time riding in and around Griffith Park. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Griffith Park is a huge tract of land left to the city on the condition that the land be preserved as is for future generations. Which for the most part it has.

On this particular ride I changed my normal routine and rode to my favorite used bookstore: The Iliad. A great place to browse with several overstuffed couches and books to suit every readers taste.

A quick aside: The Iliad happens to be located adjacent to The Odyssey Video Store.

Upon finishing my browsing I hobbled out to my bike and began the ride home. Now in hindsight the following incident would most probably have been avoided if it wasn't rush hour and if I had chosen to ride with the traffic instead of against it.

I had ridden maybe two blocks stopping at each side street before crossing without incident. I approached the third block stopped and observed a car waiting to turn onto Lankersheim. Traffic was heavy and I made the mistake of assuming that the driver would be awhile. Without a second or even a third thought I left the curb.

Unfortunately the driver of the car decided that the very small gap she saw was just big enough for her car, she accelerated and apparently she never even saw me.

Her car hit me broad side. My bike and I slid under the car and my beautiful face seemed destined for a rather painful introduction to her right front tire. I closed my eyes and did my best to prepare for what I assumed to be imminent impact.

Suddenly, instead of sliding under the wheel my body was being jerked to a stop. I opened my eyes and her tire was coming to a stop well short of my head. For a moment or two I just kind of hung there in a daze. As I began to pull myself together I came to the realization that I had never hit the ground. My gold chain and crucifix had caught on the bumper and prevented my upper torso from becoming a pancake.

When it was all said and done I walked away without a single serious injury. A sprained shoulder, a burn on my neck from the chain along with various bumps and bruises.

The next day upon my arrival at mom's for Thanksgiving dinner I headed straight for the kitchen, gave her a hug and a kiss and thanked her for the gift that saved my life.

The Gift

My mother has gift buying down to a science. She asks me what I want and than buys it. Even though the gift is a known entity she insists on waiting for Christmas, wrapping it up and presenting it with all the pomp and circumstance the holiday requires.

Only once in twenty-five years has she broken with tradition, the gift I received that Christmas still means more to me than all of the others combined.

To understand the gifts value a little background is necessary.

My mother you see is not a religious woman. For the first twenty odd years of her life she was a card carrying Catholic. She was baptized, made her first communion, was confirmed and she even went so far as to be married in the church.

She was if anything comfortable in her faith, at least she was until she divorced my father and eventually remarried. Which led to her being informed by the pastor that she was no longer allowed to accept communion. Her attempts to explain that my father was an alcoholic and an unfit parent fell on deaf ears. The church "graciously" allowed her to attend mass but participation was not an option.

My mother chose to no longer attend mass.

With that in mind she baptized the three of us and sent us to Catholic school. She dropped us off at mass each Sunday and picked us up when the service was over. She however would only enter a church on special occasions: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals.

As I grew older I began to question my own beliefs and my spiritual journey took me down a variety of paths. I continued to attend mass with my grandmother more out of respect for her than faith. I never disowned the church as my mother had likewise I never developed the blind faith of my grandmother. For me religion was something to be explored, to be questioned but to never be accepted at face value.

With all that in mind about fourteen years ago I began wearing a silver chain with an old crucifix on it. I no longer remember the reason. It may have been a gift from a girlfriend or just something I picked up. Over time the chain became tarnished and the crucifix began to look as it had survived the two millennia since Christ's birth.

The Christmas season arrived and I presented my mother with my usual list.

Christmas day: and with it the usual family festivities. I gave my mom and stepfather their gifts and when the whirlwind of wrapping paper died down my mom presented me with a very small box.

I was stumped, confused, bamboozled and speechless. My mother had broken with tradition. I knew that none of the gifts on my list would fit in such a small box consequently I had no idea what was in the box. I must have sat there for five minutes in a vain attempt to unravel the mystery of the present.

My wits eventually returned and I opened the gift. The wrapping paper had been covering a box that resembled the type that rings come in. I knew it wasn't a ring so confusion still reigned. When finally I managed to clumsily open the box I was stunned.

Resting inside was a fourteen caret gold crucifix and chain.
My mother the affirmed agnostic had purchased a crucifix for me. My mother is not one to show emotions but when she saw the joy on my face I swear I saw a tear or two in her eye. As I thanked her she vainly attempted to hide her feelings by explaining she had only bought it because she was tired of seeing the old one around my neck.

I removed my old crucifix and chain replacing them with the new one.

In the fourteen years since I have only removed the cross and chain for x-rays and surgeries.

And I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

originally posted 4/2004

discord in the key of pain

a pearl handled hairbrush
curly brown hair clinging to its bristles
collects dust on the bathroom floor
an old black shoe with a broken strap
faded and missing the heel
lies forgotten at the foot of the stairs
envelopes and documents are strewn about
like leaves on a cold winter lawn
covering the desk three inches thick
bone white hangers
empty of human flesh
hang in the closet of her memory

she left without a note or reason why
no sordid explanation of love for another man
no empty, discarded bottles
reflections of loss in an alcoholic haze
no reason, no lies
nothing but an empty heart
shredded by her departure
while tears of blood
pool together
filling the emptiness
she left behind

Momdate 12.5

Good news on the mom vs. cancer front.

The faslodex appears to be working in the way its creators intended.

Faslodex is not designed to eradicate the cancer. Its job is to prevent the cancer from spreading by decreasing the amount of estrogen receptors in the patients system.

When she began treatment moms receptor count was over 1300 it has been reduced by the faslodex to 130 which according to the doctors is excellant.

Her primary battle at this time is maintaining a certain quality of life. Because of the cancers location she has quite a bit of pain in her hips, lower back and ribs. The extreme nature of the pain more than anything else has made life difficult for her. The amount of medication needed to eliminate the pain would leave her basically asleep for most of each day which is no way to live. Currently she balances her medication dealing with some pain in order to enjoy life as much as possible.

Her pain management doctor is going to be conducting some tests to determine if she qualifies for an implant that will block the pain to a certain degree, reducing her need for meds and improving her enjoyment of life. She will be undergoing tests this week and if she qualifies will find out the details hopefully before Christmas.

a question of meaning

red

yellow

orange

gold

dancing upon on the winds of change
one of many flying untethered
discovering horizons once closed to them
autumn’s leaves disperse in chaotic migration

far below
anchored to the earth
by chains of wood and pulp
an army of trees cries out in anguish
where will your journeys take you
why must we be left behind
one of many in a forest of sorrow
come back to us children
bring back stories of the world
tell us of the great beyond
the mysteries of our creation
share with us the meaning
of all that is and yet to be

silly trees
our path is one of contemplation
our return is impossible
meanings of creation can only be found
in our returning to the earth
from which we came