spontaneous acquiescence

I think this Buddhist wisdom perfectly describes the actor in rehearsal.


The right attitude for studying the way is just complete spontaneous acquiescence. Who cares whether it takes twenty or thirty years; you'll be naturally at peace, without the slightest bit of doubt or confusion. How can there be any obstruction again after spontaneous acquiescence? How can anyone arrive by way of externals?

feet

feet
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Falmouth Cape Cod

Falmouth Cape Cod
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

The excellent bike path in Falmouth Cape Cod.

HE'S JUST THAT NOT INTO YOU

There is a new bike path in Falmouth.
This bike path is gorgeous.

It bgins in East Falmouth and ends in Woods Hole. It winds through cranberry bogs (postcard worthy) - water inlets, and fragrant wooded areas that fill one with the hope and enthusiasm for (the end of the day ritual) of (wine on the deck) and seafood dinners.

I love it.

And having been suspicious of Falmouth (too close to Boston, too suburban, too many standard issue Cape Cod houses) I now (through this excellent bike path) have fallen for this part of the Cape.

This bike path cost 3.5 million dollars, courtesy of Ted Kennedy. Kennedy slipped it into some bill or package? What do you call those things? Those bridges (built for no good reason-that go no where) in the state of Alaska, paid for with Federal money?

Pork barrel!
(is what I think they call it)
This waste of federal money is a huge success! (to me)

"I wonder if Texas or New Mexico realize their tax dollars, their wages, have gone into sprucing up my summer community?" my mother digs.

I let her Federalist leanings hit me like a feather. I dig this bike path.

Thank you Ted Kennedy. (and all other 49 states)

I can bike directly to my father's hospital.
It is right on the path, as is the picturesque Chapaqoit Beach. It backs up to amateur tomato and flower stands. It backs up to a campground with Tee-pees and the smell of cedar-brush wood fires. It has bracing views of the harbor and easy access to main street Falmouth.

At noon I begin my ride.
I bike to Block Buster to return "He's Just Not that Into You" -(terrible)
My mother and I have been watching chick flicks all week. These films are enjoyably formulaic. "The Holiday" (preposterous) has been the best so far.

Next, I bike to Chappaqoit Beach.

It is 74 degrees and scarily sunny. I load my body with sunblock, "glue" as my mother calls it, and lie on a big rock. The ocean is sparkling and warm (I'd wager) but I don't go in. I don't go in because my legs aren't strong enough to walk my body out of the water. This is okay. I've had a policy

(for much of my life) that if I was near the water in swimmable conditions, I must go in.

(this is true)

So today I have no regrets.

I continue to the hospital.
As I pull up to the entrance, I spot my mother in her SUV.

"Mother!"

My mother makes a surprise face.
My mother rolls down all of the car windows at once, finding the driver's side window, last.

"What - are - you - doing?"
"I'm going to get USA TODAY for dad (a guilty pleasure for him) and go for a visit."
but cars have pulled up behind my mother forcing her to drive away without comment.

My dad has been at this hospital for two months. He has lost 20 pounds. He can't walk anymore.
We've never seen his doctors (really).

In order to get attention there, my mother is a shrew.
She is notorious (there). But in her defense, this place is lax and weird.

(Don't get sick in Cape Cod. Fly to New York, train to Boston, shuttle to Florida, but do NOT stay in Cape Cod. This is the lesson we have learned, have been taught)

My father's room is in the center of the hospital, down two long corridors with hand railings on each side. I don't use them. I decide to practice my walking. I remember (from Feldenchrist) the spine naturally twists as you walk. I practice this motion down the two long hallways.

My father's room is empty. I sit on the end of his bed and answer my I-phone.

It's Jackie, Jackie my (sitcom neighbor) from New York.
She is 72. She's lived in New York her whole life.
We see each other every day.

The sun pours in through the closed windows, the air conditioning hums, Chapaqoit Beach seems in a different state.

"Hi Jackie"

"Chawlie did you call me?"

"Yes I did. How are you?

"Chawlie I'm not doin' so good. Aroo (the cat) is good, he's fine, he slept on my lap for forty-five minutes today. But Chawlie, my fellow, that GUY called me again. He called me to tawk about his ex-wife, his ex-wife who wrote the lyrics to "Lollipop Lollipop" She's bein' given some award or somethin. She's getting a (three thousand dollar a month apartment) on 26th and Park! Chawlie! Why does he call me? and tawk about her? He never asks about me! I told him I have an audition for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and he didn't even ask me about it. He just kept tawkin about HER!

"Jackie! Why do you take his calls? You've got caller ID, don't you? Simply don't answer his calls.

"Chawlie, I don't seek these calls out. He calls ME. What am I supposed to do? What does it all mean?"

"Jackie, have you ever heard of the movie "He's Just Not That Into you"?

"I read the book Chawlie... I read the book, oh... last year, I think.

"Well I rented the movie last night, and it wasn't very good but..."

"Do you think it'd help Charlie?"

"yeah, I mean, its kind of stupid, but in a way, that stupid movie advice is really kind of true."

"okay Chawlie, I'll rent it. I'll rent the ..."

"Gotta go Jackie, my dad is being wheeled in. I'll call you later."

"okay, bye Chawlie."

My father is wheeled into the room by two strapping young men who talk to my father like he is sweet and ancient and simple. My father allows this.

"Hi Dad"

"Hey Charlie"

"Where were you, PT?"

"Getting new x-rays which was an ordeal. They put me on a stretcher in an ambulance. But when they lie me down for the x-rays, there is some bone, some small bone in my back that protrudes. And when it hits the table, ... JEEZ does it hurt. It hurts like hell. I asked the doctor about it, it really hurt."

"Maybe it's because you lost all that weight, did you think about that? Maybe it's because you lost too much weight and so now your bones are sticking out."

"Well, that's right, that's probably right... I'll have to ask the doctor about it."

(pause)

"I brought you USA TODAY."

I have often (through the years) brought my father the New York Post. That paper smells of New York of the commuter world, of his old working life. (I often read it for Page Six and the theatre columns and Liz Smith) There weren't any Posts in Falmouth today so I brought him USA Today (instead).

"Well, look at that. Thank you... it's really shrunk."

"Yeah, everythings shrunk these days. Look at the New York Times Magazine. It's puny now!"

My dad opens USA Today and I read the Falmouth Enterprise.
We sit in matching vinyl recliners by the bay window.

I read an op-ed piece by a psychiatrist living in the area who urges his fellow Cape Cod citizens to wear helmets when they ride their bikes. This call for safety was prompted by the excellent new bike path. The psychiatrist tells a cautionary tale of (almost) being killed (had it not been for his helmet) "Most people, most ADULTS don't wear helmets, what is to be done about it?" he asks.

I don't use a helmet because as soon as I buy one I loose it, I leave it somewhere. And even when I have one, it never fits right, so that If i was in an accident, it really wouldn't help much.

Still, he convinces me.
It would be bad to have a fatal neurological disease AND brain damage.

My train of thought is interrupted.
My father laughs at something in USA Today. He doesn't share and I don't ask.

A nurse stops in and grins, "Well, I can see the resemblance, you two are identical!" and since my father looks like shit, I stare vacantly back at the nurse in the manner of Pugsley Adams.

Amother nurse, Dave, a male nurse, handsome and pudgy with a clean bald spot on the back of his head, offers ginger ale to both of us. Dave is my age, Irish and agile on his feet (I observe). His motor neurons render him sexy and heroic (to me).

As we sip our ginger ale, I tell my father that "I've been to the beach but I didn't go swimming because my legs are too weak to pull my body out of the water. My legs are not unlike your legs dad, in many ways, you and I are in the same boat."

and I add, I ask, I am compelled to ask because this is MY question, MY life preoccupation, this is my lot,

"but, I still look okay, right?
I still look fine?
I mean I don't look unhealthy?

(pause)

Do I?"

And my dad says,

"Why, I should say not." Like he's Robert F. Buckley or something.

I like that... "I should say not."

I check the wall clock, it's five o'clock.

"I need to go."

"Where you going?" he asks, he reacts. He clearly doesn't want me to go.

Just sitting and reading with your dad, a friend, anyone, is about the nicest thing you can do. (I realize)

"I have to go, I have to get back to Blockbuster.
And I need to buy red wine. So expensive at your local liquor store. Nothing under ten bucks. Really overpriced."

"Well... that's right it is."

It occurs to me later that I might be torturing my father with my talk of wine. He hasn't had a drink in months. He still (cheekily) asks the nurses if they've brought him his cocktail when they deliver his lunch of dinner.

"Well Dad, I'll say good bye."

"But I'll see you tomorrow."

"You'll see me tomorrow."

I zoom down the bike path homeward bound.

At Block Buster, I rent "The Duchess" (overwrought),

and at the over-priced liquor store, I buy some Malbec from Argentina for $13.99.

I go to the gym and work out (using only the ten pound weights).
I shower and blow dry my hair. I flatten it into submission.

It's a cool, sunny September night.

I decide to bike for a bit after my work-out. Not on the excellent bike path but around the Golf country club. I zoom past my parents condo and into mcmansion land. The houses are slightly unreal, like they've been created on a hollywood back-lot. They look like gaudy illustrations from a children's book, too many window-boxes, too many gables, too many roof lines. They look too tarted up (for my taste).

And I get lost.

The roads and houses seem identical.

I get VERY lost.

In the dusky light, I pull my bike off to the side of the road and call my mother.

"Where are you?"

"I'm lost."

"What street are you on?"

"Equestrian Lane?"

I hold my i-Phone to my ear as my mother guides me home, passing house after house, motoring through the eerie development. I pull into the garqage just as the Septenber sun slips away. .

DRAG

Saturday and Sunday, it rains in Cape Cod.

It's a thick consistent, cold watering, a chilly reminder that Labor day is here.

So I remain inside my parents' condominium, the condominium attached to the country club golf course.

I sit in a tub (a spa-type whirlpool) off the master bedroom. My parent's have never used it.

(it's noisy and feeble)

Sitting in the tub, I try out various vocal and diction exercises to strengthen my withering "old man" voice.

1. The first paragraph of Nabokov's LOLITA
2. "What a to do, to die today
3. "Sally sells seashells..."

In recent years, I'd get up and work on a MOZART aria, every day, sometimes twice a day, trying to deepen my range, polish my neglected talent.

(Now) the plan is, that whenever I take my supplements (3 times a day) I will stop and do five minutes of diction and vocal work.

This is hard.

Because, when I confront my losses, I'm overwhelmed. When I am presented with my immobile right foot (for instance), my mind spins into "wounded animal" mode.

I want to gnaw my way out (out of the disease).

Indeed, this is how some people deal with the end of their life.

They chew their way out.

In my tub, after three minutes of simple diction exercises, my tongue and throat rebel. My vocal chords gag.
I sound like the girl from THE EXORCIST.

(My agent called me a couple of days ago with some cold bookings for PIZZA HUT.
I emailed back,

Bobby-
Charlie here.
So very happy to hear from you.
I am (alas) not in top form.
This means, my voice is crap.
They would find me somewhat limited at the booking.
I am working on it, but I am out of commission for now.
I will call you with more details.

;-) CHARLIE

But I never did call him, instead,

after my tub, I decide to confront the madness of my massive paperwork.
The rain invites me to take it on.

I stumble down to the lower level of the condo. I arrange my insurance statements and bills, my various tests results, my application for my SAG pension, my statements from social security, in piles on a card table by the computer.

It rains. The sliding glass door is open to a brick terrace with an umbrella table and four matching chairs, a view of the golf course beyond. The trees are mint green, the sky is silver.
The air is cool and wet.

The paper work overwhelms me.
The rain drugs me.

I move to the sofa.

I lie there. I am sapped.
I only have "get up and go" during my morning coffee or after my third sip of Shiraz.

I hear my mother padding down the stairs. I turn on my stomach and spoon a pillow.

My mother joins me in the cool, dim room. The room is defined by the rain.
She sits in a nearby overstuffed chair (green with butterflies) and puts a throw pillow over her midsection.

We are at sea.

We could go to the movies,
but all of Cape Cod will be at the cineplex today.

I ask my mother to look though my father's video collection. She calls out a list from a nearby bookcase.
(my father enjoys war-movies and westerns)

My dad's cable system has 5000 channels. I find it difficult to navigate. I can't find any of the real channels.

There are lots of infomercials about clearing up your skin, flattening your hair, or makeup made from minerals grease free and a part of your body's own natural chemistry.

I watch these progams. I watch them like a six year old watching morning cartoons.

I imagine what the lives are like for the people who are IN the infomercials.
(They live in oppressive over decorated homes in the Valley)

I wonder how the people on the shows manage to be so simple and committed, so awestruck by the product... this hair flattening device.
(I suppose these are shot in LA and living in LA renders one shameless)

And I am taken in!
Does being able to flatten your hair (so easily and readily) truly make for the kind of life changing experience they suggest? The women's reactions to the product are so committed, so positive! It's seductive.

I want flat hair too! Forget my ALS medications, R-(+)-pramipexole and rilutek!
If I flatten my hair, it will shine and behave! This is important! THIS is life.

I move on.

I see what's been saved to TIVO.

There's "The Third Man" and "Some Like it Hot"

I push the button for "Some Like it Hot" without consulting my mother.
As the credits begin, my mother says "oh. I love this movie" like it came on by itself.

(My mother who makes puts and calls in the stock market daily, is clueless about the workings of the TV, clapping her hands in amazement when you surf from channel to channel.

I (actually) am ambivalent about watching this movie, mostly because it's on the "top ten list" of the funniest movies of all time.
And while I admire its skill, I've never laughed out loud watching it.

Also, there is something dark and weird about Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon, something frightening about their drag. These are horsey, scary ladies. And the men in the movie are constantly hitting on them. The women seem blithely unaware.

All of this troubles me.

As the movie proceeds, my mother again, tells me that she loves this movie! She's seen it at least twice. (A lot for her)
She saw it in the theatre in 1959 and at least one other time she can't remember.

"Jack Lemon is so good, he's kind of like Jack Nicholson, he plays around in different roles.
Look how pretty Marilyn Monroe is! Poor thing, you know that John and Bobby Kennedy really destroyed her."

Ted Kennedy has died this weekend. I think my mother is the only person in Massachusetts with no regrets.
(There are flashing neon signs along the highway that say " Thank you Ted Kennedy" or something like that)

"A lot of people respect and adore him" I tell her.

"Who?! Just the Catholics in Massachusetts."

"NO! He's respected on a national level! Every living president is sitting at his funeral right now."

(My mother can't forgive him for Mary Jo Kopecky)

I tell my mother "I'm going to find an "I REALLY DISLIKE THE KENNEDY'S - FAN CLUB" on Facebook (for you)."
This suggestion is lost on her.

As Tony Curtis eggs on Marilyn Monroe to kiss him, I look over at my mom. She's laugh-crying, tears running down her cheeks. She holds her index finger to each eye to wipe away her tears.

And through my mother, I see how funny this movie really is. The actors are so committed to the ludicrous setup.
They play it like live theatre.

The writing comes fast and sharp.
The chemistry is magic.
Marilynn Monroe makes the conceit of the drag work because her ethos is so childlike and gullible.

By the end, I'm aware of the character's flaws and worry about the choices they've made.
This is not what the movie intends, this is where my head is (these days).

I think Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis will fight when the sex gets boring. Marilyn will become an alcoholic.
As soon Jack Lemon gets away from the resort and on steady ground, he will punch that old guy in the face.

My terrible disease forces me to think more practically about life's decisions.


___________________________________________



The next morning, Sunday, it's still raining.

My mother and I go to the Episcopal Church off the main square in historic lovely downtown Falmouth.
We get there at eleven, an hour late, we get there just as they're beginning communion.

My mother immediately joins the line for communion and (over-shares) with the lady running the line that only SHE will be receiving communion today "as my son (pointing to me) has difficulty walking". I rap on my mother's hand to stop her, "she doesn't need to know that!" I wine, like a gruesome teenager.

After the service, we let everyone file out in front of us.
It's a crowded church. The usual suspects. Mostly white senior citizens, men in madras, navy blue blazers and natty ties. The women in various summer pastels and flower print dresses.

As we wait for the church to clear, I notice an odd looking woman in the pew directly in front of us.
Her hair is thick and lush and out of control, like she put it in curlers a few nights ago and hasn't touched it since.
She wears a white button down cotton sweater over a pastel summer dress. Her lumpy shoulders are rounded over.
Poor thing, she's been trying to hide her size her entire life and now she's all collapsed.

My mother and I stare at the woman. The woman is a man. This man is dressed like a woman. The man-woman talks politely to an older preppy man in a rep tie next to her. We know it is a man but she doesn't care. She is blissful. The older man, the passers-by, the congregation, joins in her fiction, accepts her dominion.

I stare with icky fascination (I am troubled) but after awhile, there is nothing left to do but accept.

Connecticut 1974

New Canaan 1974
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

my right foot

my right foot
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

SILLY hopes SILLY love songs

I am stuck.

I am stuck in my hotelish one bedroom apartment. I am caged in my newish air tight high-rise that shadows the aged Hudson River.

I am glued to a bar-stool poking away on my laptop.
I have made the switch from the couch to the kitchen counter.
(Once I fall into the couch, there is very little that will get me up)

I surf the world wide web searching for diversion, but instead, I am made aware (through banner ads like “ Best Summer Vacation Deals for the End of Summer" or the anxiety inducing (back to school ads) I am made to understand that this is the end of summer. This is the week before Labor day.

Ah, yes!

I scan my memory for justification of my last three months.

June, July and August have been about giving into the couch, giving into the rain, and giving into the drama of my terrible disease.

This summer has been about the complications of returning a vacuum cleaner, buying a battery operated bike, signing up for disability.

All the big ideas for my life, all of my nervous and angry ambitions have been reduced to making the kind of small practical decisions a very old person makes.

(I must remember to pick up milk for my morning coffee...Where shall I get it? How shall I get it?)

Poking at my mac, it is clear to me that I must leave the city for the last week of August, if only to be like everyone else.

How to do it?

I often have focus/attention problems, bumping into my own thoughts, my relentless interior dialogue reducing me to the ball of a pinball machine. I'm flipped and propelled in different directions but I never really maintain a clear course.

So I always make a list. I make a list of 20 things to do in the apartment RIGHT NOW.
(I don't rate the tasks in order of importance, thinking, would allow me to spin, to bounce, to ding! ding! ding!

I scrawl a "to do" list and tape it to the kitchen counter. I set the oven timer for one hour.

Go!

Counters are scrubbed, newspapers stacked, dishes tossed in the dish washer, the sink and faucet in the bathroom wiped clean, my bed neatly made, the cat's water replaced.

When the kitchen timer beeps I’m still lost, but enough clutter has been cleared that I'm able to consider my paralysis more objectively.

I need to experience summer.
I need to go to TRURO to visit my YOUTH HOSTEL that I've gone to (by myself) for the past ten years.

It’s in an old farm house on the National Sea Shore! It’s so rundown and shabby chic that (to me) it is sublime elegance.
And the surrounding dunes, the views of that great sea shore, are stunning!

One year George Bush had a campaign party in a house near this hostel.

All of the European types, the budget minded Americans, reading old National Geographics on terrible, wonderful, dated, donated couches in ]this roomy old farmhouse planted by the enormous sea, while an upscale party for the president glows in the dunes nearby... this to me, is perfection.

However,
To get to my hostel, I will need to drive.
I haven't driven a car in a year.
I will need to rent a car that is large enough to stow my over-sized battery operated bike.

Fear rears its ugly head.

I am afraid that when I get in the car, my lame right leg, my STUPID drop foot, will not give me the proper reflexes in bumper to bumper traffic.

I am afraid that I will walk into Avis and the man behind the counter will see me limp to the check-in desk and whisper " we can not allow you to rent this vehicle Mr. Roberts, given your disability".

I will nod and walk away with solemnity, as if the Avis man himself had reaffirmed, made sure that I understood the ramifications of my diagnosis. YOU HAVE ALS, PEOPLE WITH ALS DON'T' DRIVE!

But I KNOW that fear is error. I KNOW this from life experience, and I KNOW this from the teachings of the Christian Science
Chruch.

I know that,

"Where there is a will there is a way".

and I know

" G-d hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."

I will seize the day. The day will be about discovering my driving capabilities.
Lets deal with this, shall we?

I make a reservation at Avis in Stamford.

I take a cab to Grand Central. I train to Stamford. I walk to the Avis across from the Stamford train station.
At Avis, there is a Toyota SUV waiting for me, big enough to transport two or three battery operated bikes.
I (in fact) have an "Avis wizard number" so the rental requires zero paper work.

The car is big, high, roomy, and silver. it looks just like what all the other folks are driving these days!

(I will fit in)

It doesn't have a key, more like a key chain you insert in a hole. There is an on off button!

I take my leg brace off, and maneuver my way around the cavernous, dark AVIS garage.

It’s okay.
My feet respond on cue. I am on point. I am still in the game.
I can do this!

My shaky, old man, adrenaline kicks in (this shakiness that I've always had, which I had as a twelve year old) but I am driving fine.

And I am on I-95 with the rest of humanity. F*ck it. I will drive this SUV across the country!

(But instead) I drive into Manhattan. It’s a breeze.

I nap.

I get up from my nap and I set the oven timer for an hour and tape a list to the kitchen. This list is a list of twenty things to do in no particular order.

When I have completed my twenty things, I am back on the Henry Hudson, this time driving North.

My drive includes periods of (bumper to bumper) traffic, of multiple car accidents, and of a down-pour so thick and frightening that I'm forced to pull off the road.

And for much of the trip, I sit in silence. I let my mind go. I think about people. I argue with people.

I decide, I imagine, that this diagnosis, these projections for my illness, rudely forced on me by the web, lectured (with condolence) to me by somber health professionals -

(I told the head nurse at Hopkins that I know it may sound silly, but I still had hope that I would recover from "this" or at least maintain my health, and she said... "if that's what gets you through the day, good for you!")

- these people, these expectations are wrong. They are wrong.

I construct hopeful scenarios, tiny dreams of success and accomplishments. Less than what I (dreamt of) for myself before, but still, larger than what much of the healthy population hopes for.

Near the end of my car ride (after Providence before Fall River) I flip on the radio. I find, I listen to George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue". This is a man with dreams. This music is divine.

And then I come across Paul McCartney's "Silly Love Songs".

This song transports me to station wagons with wind-down windows, to a New York suburbia of unlocked doors, little traffic, and plenty of undeveloped land for dogs to roam freely, to a time (for me) where disease and disappointment happened to OTHER people, people who just had the wrong idea, to a time when the future was unknowable, without ending, and mine for the taking.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AK9QVN0bpa4

west 95th

photo.jpg
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

(and I am up)

Today.
I call two alternative doctors.
I stretch in the shower.
I "bike" to Chelsea.
I get my hair cut at Chelsea Barbers.
I have the door held open for me as I leave by the woman who runs the place, who owns it.
I have two hotdogs at F&B Gudtfood on West 23rd. meh.
I totter across the street to the Chelsea Cinema and the movie is sold out.
I totter back across the street.
I fall.
I lie on the pavement.
I lie there as people pass.
I look around for something to grab onto... nothing.
I think, I think how am I going to stand back up?


"You need help?'
"Yeah, I do."
"Did you hurt yourself? Did you break something?"
"No, I'm fine, can you, can you help me up?
"Sure I can help you up."
"okay, thanks, watch out because I'm kind of heavy."

(and I am up)

"Thank you so much."
"Are you sure you're okay."
"Yeah, I'm fine, you see I have weak legs. I have a neurological disease, so when I fall, I can't get up by myself. I'm actually fine, I'm going to get on that bike over there, believe it or not."
"Well, you take care of yourself, okay, you take good care of yourself."
"I will, thank you, thank you so much."

I bike to CVS and buy ear plugs for swimming and super glue for broken sunglasses.
I walk in, an employee spots me and insists that she look for my merchandise while I stay where I am.

I bike home.
I swim in the pool with my new excellent ear plugs.
I glue my fingers together trying to mend my trendy sunglasses.
I talk to Mattie on the phone about getting an alternative doctor in the city, about the power of nutrition, about falling down on west 23rd Street and being helped up by a kind stranger.

GETTING CRUSHED

After working out and swimming, I'm wiped.
I can't sleep and I'm too tired to read.

So I go for a bike ride.

I'll motor to Riverside Park.

I want to lie in grass and stare up at trees. This is difficult for me because once I lie down, I can't get up without grabbing onto something, or getting help from a stranger.

Mike, my doorman, opens up the bike room for me as Rick and Karen sweep into the lobby.

I've worked with Rick and Karen at a summer stock theatre. I've been in a dozen shows with Rick. I quit working there years ago (for dubious reasons) but Rick continued. Now he is back from that theater, glad-handing all the doormen, happy to be back, triumphant in his return.

I'm in the back of the lobby where Rick can't see me. I recede, I slide anonymously into the bike room. I feel crushed, physically crushed.

And as I mount my bike,

(I lift my leg with with m right hand over the low-bar of the the bike)

I consider if I SHOULD leave New York. This might be too much. Continually comparing myself to others,
continually explaining myself to friends. The awful spectacle.

But in minutes, I'm on my bike, passing other slow poke cyclists. Using the hand throttle, I can quietly pass other bikers going full speed at 20 miles an hour. My legs are moving but I'm not breaking a sweat.

Riverside Park is gorgeous.
There are plenty of lush and peaceful spots. I (however) need to be near something sturdy so I can right myself.

I choose a spot behind a park bench.

I lie by the side of the large paved pathway (french-like in style, I think - more of a pedestrian boulevard than a sidewalk).
I'm two feet from gravel, peering through the slats of the park bench.

Lots of dog walkers in Riverside Park.

I stare at the dogs and their owners. Peeking through the slats of the park bench, I glumly stare at their world. The owner and pet are silent and solemn in their daily ritual. They are of like mind, but somehow the dog has more power.
The human is responsible to the dog.
The dog needs this walk.
The dog knows this is their time. The human (while enjoying the walk to a degree, worries if this is the best way to spend their time. The dog is confident, the dog is resolute that this is the best way to spend their time. This confidence gives the dog power.

This is why I was reluctant to get the cat. The cat knows what it needs. I don't know what I need, but I must comply to the cat's needs.

(damn cat)

After (some amount of time) staring through the slats of the park bench,

(if I hadn't had a bike next to me, I'd be mistaken for a careless drunk ... too lazy to venture further from the path)

I glide down to Battery Park.

I cross through SOHO to the east side.

(SOHO at dusk is the best, one of the nicest places to be in the city at that hour, I'd wager).

I get dinner at Fat Dumplings on east 11th. This is a great place. The food is cheap and tasty.
The owners set you up right. I had six dumplings and a ginger ale.

Diet coke is my usual, but there are WARNINGS about fake sugar.
There are articles, blog entries, theories devoted to suspect fake sugar.
Some conjecture that it may induce ALS.

At home, I turn on the air conditioner and fall asleep in the cold.

I have a dream. I dream that there was a biological disaster. Human beings have deformed into three categories.
Giants, normal sized people, and humans the size of mice. The tiny humans keep getting crushed in their tiny cars.

THE MIND, THE SOUL, THE SPIRIT,

PAINTING ROCKS

Sunday morning, I biked down to church for the eleven o'clock service.
At first, I couldn't get my bike to work. I struggled with the throttle.
I imagined my day, making annoyed calls to the bike store on the upper east side, the cab ride up there with the bike tied down to the back of the taxi.
But before giving into hopelessness, I paused, and let last week's testimony to sink in.

One thing that they teach at the Christian Science Church is G-d's infinite harmony.
Clue into G-d and leg go, harmony is always there.

So, I let go of frustration and by bike eventually worked.
Biking down the west side highway, I was bugged that I would be too late.
But I only was five minutes late and my lateness allowed me to sit on the side sitting sideways facing the pews.
It was so cool and peaceful. I felt utterly relaxed.
I really listened to the readings and as I listened, I meditated and prayed.
I felt more connected and heard more than I usually do.
You see? Harmony prevailed.

I spent the rest of the day buying vitamins at GNC and Whole foods.
Later I tried a Chi Gong DVD and tried to do 10 minutes of vocal work.

I think I feel better.

I biked to the AVIS near me to see if they had a car that would fit my bike. I was sitting on it as I spoke to the guy in the Avis lot so he could clearly see what I needed.
He was so nice! ( so nice that I wonder if I reek of sadness) He took the time to show me what might work, pulling down front seats, opening up the hatch backs. I zoomed away happy.

I love New York City but I crave nature. I need an escape. I want to be sitting under an enormous maple tree, reading biographies, sipping wine, painting rocks.

The whole "Patients like Me" website is kind of a shock to my system, but as I hunt and gather on my electric bike, as I practice pysical and vocal exercises, as I pray and come in touch with an infinite universe created by a loving G-d (this creator, this source has to be loving because love (I would argue) is the basis of our existence, as I review all this, and access this hope I've always held for life, my creative life, my career, my connections to others, I feel like I'll be okay. I am trained in creative hope.

Sometimes I'm filled with rage, sometimes confusion, but not despair. I am made of faith and hope.

SPRAYER

Susan had me over for dinner in her backyard garden on West 95th and Central Park West.

When I got there, she was wrestling with a fountain pump that she bought on Amazon for $50.
She said she bough it because it was German-made.

There was a hole by her backdoor lined with plastic bags and a bunch of nozzles, each nozzle creating a different look, a different spray. After testing different ones, she chose the kind they use for a champagne or punch bowl (a pretty and steady flow, but low. This nozzle was called "Water Bell".

It reminded me of a bidet.

I brought tinned oysters and crackers (so good they must be deadly).
We drank bad red wine (like cooking wine!) and had delicious corn on the cob (cooked on the grill) with chicken.

Like an elderly person, I had to leave by nine.

A few years ago, Susan and I drank so MUCH wine that when she woke up, there was wine on the walls.
We now refer to drinking wine as spraying.

As in, "come on over, got the wine sprayer ready."
_______________________________________________

Josh (charlie)

It was so fun to see you and ride your bike!
Hope you were in bed at a reasonable hour...
Talk to you soon,

Sue


________________________________


Marabec!

Thanks for the vinegary wine.

Reading this in the times today...

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/16/fashion/16drunk.html?_r=1&ref=style

Thank you for my outside time.
I love coming to your place.

I wish I could have gotten sauced and splashed more.
But of course, I am unsure of my driving abilities.
Every day, there might be something missing.
(Where did that go?)

I, however, glided home like G-d's favorite.

Straight down West End, and then 11th, all green lights along the way.
i think I was home in ten minutes, sober and ready for my old man tub.

Love your outdoor bidet.
It needs to be on the hill in the back (for more privacy- behind a bush)

I'll be over for a wash.

-CROBERTS