I’m not going to apologize for this having no real point or direction. I have to practice getting words out again, and spewing on about whatever I feel like seems to be as good a practice as any. No apology necessary. But today I thought I would actually do it, instead of thinking about it as I have been for weeks. Why today? Half a sense of accomplishment and maybe some shame … I never know what to feel every year on this day. Today is April 8th. If you say it out loud, repeat it, you notice the long ‘a’ sound immediately in both words. Aaypril the Aaayth. As a small child grasping the concept of birthdays other than my own it was one of the first I could easily memorize mnemonically. Aaay-Aaay … the sounds in my head snap immediately a picture of my dad’s face and a ram’s head necklace that he used to wear back in the 70’s when he was in a good mood, or going out. It was a gift from a friend of his, and I think it came from Africa. I remember it was made of different polished stones and silver. All the beads that made up the chain part were little polished stone beads. My brother is the rock hound in the family, so he’d remember their specific names, but there was turquoise and tiger’s eye agate, similar semi-precious stones that were chosen for color and beauty more than value. But it’s what flashes along with his face … Aaaypril Aaaath.
Lying in my memory so tongue-in-groove dove-tailed in tight and it’s never coming out, I guess. The trouble is that my dad has been dead for more than 20 years now and that first flash of petrified mnemonic insight and recollection is quickly followed by a serious bought of sadness. I am now 39 years young, and will be turning 40 in August. My father (unable to halt autonomic response mechanisms, in my mind that phrase is always followed by “God Rest His Soul” for reasons I cannot even comprehend, however I don’t complain. The sentiments are always sincere.) was 44 when he died suddenly of a heart attack. I have always been of the opinion that had he been stricken with it today at his age that he would have had a much better chance of surviving. Since that can probably be said to be true for legions of other deaths I don’t dwell on it. I’m well aware that the advances not only in emergency response procedures and in cardiothurasic care have been incredible in the last 20 years. I know that new information about diet and prevention should enable me to thwart the effects of self-abuse that eventually took my father’s life. However it doesn’t stop me from being worried about myself or the health of my family. And my own edification of what to and what not to put into my body seems to be completely inadequate when at odds against the supermarket’s offerings, or my own ability to plan and prepare healthy meals. I seem fairly incapable of eating salad unless someone else makes it. So much chopping … And the refrigerator seems to HATE vegetables. It’s constantly freezing them solid, or converting them to a greenish brown ooze that slowly solidifies on the bottoms of those bins marked “Crisper” (I think that must have been the name of the guy that invented them, because it sure as hell doesn’t describe their function. Things I put in there never, ever would be described later as ‘crisp.’ Not as a rule.) I’m supposed to lower my sodium intake. Just try that in today’s world. I’m ready to buy a juicer. Oh Boy do I digress.
I do worry a lot. I’m not entirely employed, and so I worry bout that. Sometimes I worry about other people specifically to divert attention from worrying about myself and I KNOW I’m doing it … but that’s another neurosis. I worry about my brother, and I worry about myself and our mom. I worry about my step-father who has diabetes and diverticulitis and bad circulation in his legs. I worry about my cousin, having a baby in a month in Tokyo – where I know she’ll get the best of care, you just can’t help but worry sometimes – and I worry about her sister in NY, too, even though I only just found out about her stomach problems and apparently they’re all better now. She’s a phenomenal girl, my cousin in NY. She has been able to pull out of herself the thing I always wanted to find but never could. Hubris, maybe that’s what most closely describes it. I’ve never had it, I think I’ve only had the illusion of it. But for a good long time I believed the illusion. It died or went into a vegetative state sometime around 1991. That’s a long time to be living outside yourself. I should do something about that. Fear is a powerful drug, and the mechanisms you manufacture and discover to alleviate that fear, regardless of where they come from or what sacrifices you have to make to keep their lies alive. You do it and you do it so you don’t have to face everything you’re scared of. I don’t remember when I got scared. I remember that I used to be self-sufficient, and in control. I think it all started in England and later in Italy, where I learned the black, bitterly sad Truth of Betrayal. That eventually Betrayal will always come from the closet places where you expect it the least. Returning to the US was a mistake, but one that I can’t correct now. Who said you can’t go home again? Thomas Nast? Thomas Wolfe? I’ll look that up later. While that sounds nice and gentle and philosophical his intention was a lot stronger, and I’m sure he assumed people would understand how much more he meant. And while he was right, he should have dumbed it down. He should have said “You can’t go anywhere and then leave and then expect to go back to the way it was.”
Hmmm … I’ve lost my steam. I’ll be back.
