RL at JEAN CLAUDE on Sullivan
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts
Saturday, December 12, 2009
TINY TIM
Winslow and I sit (knee tight) by a Christmas tree. It's after eight and Jean Claude is crowded.
To get to Jean Claude,
http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/jean-claude/#ixzz0ZJy4PWf8
I took a cab to Houston and then caned my way down Sullivan Street.
As I got closer to the cafe I could see Winslow through the window.
(He got here, first like last year). We waved to each other as I hoisted myself with my cane through the weather flaps at the front entrance.
We embrace and order.
We agree to a french bordeaux. I get the chicken, Winslow gets the duck.
We put our menus down and face each other.
Winslow starts.
"How are you?"
"I'm great!"
How I am of course is anybody's guess. I'm illusive. That's how I am.
I take my cousin in - my cousin with his Clark Kent hair, his beaming corporate wholesomeness - and fainlty wonder if I can get away with avoiding the subject of my illness.
“You look great by the way” he says, “I didn’t know what to expect and you really look great.”
I look at Winslow.
Winslow looks like Tom Cruise (that grin, the warm eye contact).
Winslow is handsome. We don't share the same genes, just the same lineage. Winslow was adopted.
There is glaring irony here. My adopted cousin was brought up in no-where Wisconsin. He was adopted but is clearly more in touch with our background than I am. I was raised around New York City. I rarely saw my grandparents.
Winslow went to a state college. I went to a top University. Winslow is a self-made millionaire. I am on public assistance.
"I'm great! But I'm a little irritable, irate, even. I took a cab here, I would have biked but I knew we'd be having wine, my legs get weaker when I have wine. Anyway I asked the driver take the west side highway... makes sense right? I live on the highway. But he turns to drive toward midtown - and again, I have to tell him to "please take the highway". So he gets on the highway, but when we get to west 30th he puts his signal on to turn left, back into midtown!
So... I had to make a decision. Am I going to get angry? Or should I just be all flaccid and forget about it? And... I went for it. I mean, I lost it. I think he thought I was some docile handicapped rube. I said to him, I said, what do you think you're doing?! Why would you get off the highway to drive into the mess of midtown? He says the traffic is worse on the highway. That's preposterous! I used the word preposterous. I told him, I said... I've lived in the city for 25 years and this just stupid, this is just silly."
Winslow lets me go on. Maybe he's adjusting to my garbled voice. Maybe he's thinking about the cane I just set under the Christmas tree.
"Too much traffic on the highway!!!! That's absurd. There was NO traffic! The traffic is controlled by the lights. There aren't any cross streets to make traffic. The cabbie says "you're upset, it's the holidays, the season is making you tense."
Can you believe that?
"Besides", he says, "there are no exits off the highway for SOHO. Where would he get off?"
I could have kicked in the back seat. I made a show of writing down his taxi ID number, belligerent the whole way, huffing and sighing. I mean I don't know how cabs work, I don't know how they tabulate their fares, I never take cabs. But he took us off of a nearly empty highway into midtown traffic! Sorry. I get carried away."
Winslow smiles. He counters my moody disorder with sober tidiness.
"They don't really make money in slow traffic. They make their money when the cab is moving freely. Actually, they make MOST of their money when you initially get in the cab, so if you got in the cab and drove around the block, and got out of the cab and then got right back in again, they'd make a lot of money. They’d make a fortune!"
"Oh. I wouldn’t know. I never take cabs."
(How a cab makes money doesn’t interest me. At some point I made an unconscious decision to discard all details (about almost everything). My mind is (now) a card catalog of names and topics. I have all the subject headings -"Beware the Taxi Cheat" -but any supporting facts will have to be retrieved from a location independent of my brain. This irecent self-realization is a great disappointment to me. My lack of (a point of view), of understanding of the world around me, becomes clearer to me when I'm confronted by people who value their own research, who've developed their own positions.
Like my cousin Winslow.
"I've got something for you."
Winslow pulls out a manilla folder and hands it to me over the wine glasses.
The Christmas tree twinkles.
It's the Christmas season and my good cousin, my caring cousin, Winslow, comes baring gifts.
The envelope contains old photographs of me and my grandparents (our grandparents). Pictures of my grandmother and me by the fireplace in their summer house on Lake Michigan. There is a hollywood style portrait of my Aunt. There are snapshots of my brother and sister as toddlers.
"Charlie, there are boxes and boxes and boxes of this stuff. Do you want any of it? The family were pack rats. There are boxes that haven't been opened fifty years. Just passed down from one house to another, unopened. Oil paintings, sets of china, photographs, letters. I have literally hundreds of bundled letters written by Bumpa to Mimi of from Antie Babe to Edna."
"Wait, Bumpa was Mimi's (our grandmother’s) father, right?"
"Yeah Bumpa was Frank her father and Etta was her mother. Mimi was the oldest. Did you know that? For some reason I thought Mimi was the youngest. Not so. I'm just figuring all this out. I open a box at a time and it's really overwhelming but it's pretty cool too. Like I just pieced together that our great Uncle Clem never married or went to college but he was sent to this extremely elite prep school .”
(My grandmother Mimi (Clem's sister) went to boarding school in Boston. It was connected to Radcliffe. Mimi played the piano beautifully and spoke fluent french. This was pretty unusual I would guess. She grew up in the middle of Wisconsin.)
"Charlie, I'm finding out so much going through these boxes. The Jackmans in particular were connected to some notable types. We're directly related to Oliver Ellsworth. Do you know who he was?"
I nod yes but say no.
He was one of the first United States Supreme Court justices.
"Wow."
"And there’s so much more. It would take a lifetime to go through all this stuff. I mean, each letter is pages and pages long and there are hundreds of them. I'm too busy collecting my own stuff.
"Me too. I have a couple of trunks of letters and postcards sitting in a friend's house in Connecticut."
I bring it back to the past.
“I just read a book about Admiral Perry's trip to Japan in 1853. Our ancestor William Bemis was on that trip. There's an etching of William demonstrating the telegraph to the Japanese." (I want to add that his mother (my Aunt) gave me William's silver snuff box before she died last year but I don't want to bring up anything that might sour the evening.
"Charlie, you won't believe what I have. I have a photograph of William on that very trip wearing a kimono holding a big sword.
"Really?"
"And I opened up a box and actually found the actual kimono and the sword he’s wearing in the photograph.”
(There could be a museum devoted to the Jackmans and the Drapers. We have documents from James Madison and Ernest Hemingway. Last Thanksgiving I found a xerox of a personal telegram from Samuel Morse to yet another dead relative. Turns out Winslow has the original telegram at home).
"Do you want me to send you the photograph? I framed it. It's sitting in our living room."
"No. Why don't you just send me a copy. Or take a digital picture of it."
"I have something else for you."
This whole scene is feeling very Dickension to me. Two cousins (the same age) who meet for dinner every year, one rich and handsome, the other creative and poor ... and now ill. Winslow might be "Fred" the happy prosperous nephew. I’d be both (resentful, isolated "Scrooge") and (sweet, sickly, "Tiny Tim") - me with my weak voice - me with my meek laugh.
Me with my apple tree branch cane.
"I found this in a box of grandfather's things.
It has his name on the back."
Winslow puts an elegant vintage watch on the table. My grandfather had excellent taste. Carry Grant might have worn this watch with his oversized black framed eye-glasses.
“It's a Movado made in the fifties I'd guess.”
The gift worries me. My grandfather was a stickler for the best money could buy. I have lost every watch I have ever owned. And I realize my grandfathers attention to natty materialism has paid off. Here we are, his descendants, ritualistically passing his remains in a chic restaurant on an elegant block in SOHO thirty years after he passed. He is with us.
"Thank you Winslow."
“You can give it to your brother if you don't want it."
"No this is great. Thank you" and I grip his hand in gratitude.
I leave the watch next to the knife and spoon.
And as we talk I make a mental note to never wear it. I will husband it away in a dresser drawer.
If I lost THIS watch, I’d need years of therapy.
We eat our chicken and duck and talk about the kind of things you talk about to someone you see only once a year; love, G-d, meditaion, Christian Science, what it feels like to lose your parents, what I've learned about life from this past year, how to take care of the needy, and, the health care debate.
Here again - I have no substance. Winslow on the other hand has a carefully wrought argument why the government should only get involved with healthcare for the most needy. He says that both Republicans and Democrats sicken him. The health debate could be resolved quite easily if we dropped the political fighting. I say timidly that I thinks it's wrong to make money from people's illness. I believe in a free market but when it comes to health, I have socialist leanings.
"Without a free market there would be no development. The government has no interest in competitive growth. Health research would dry up."
"But there is no money to be made my from what I have. So how does a free market help me?"
"Anyway, turns out I’m a victim in this healthcare mess. I had to switch to medicare from my SAG insurance.
There is only one medication that is FDA approved for my illness, that insurance will cover.
I paid around sixty dollars a month through SAG.
Medicare can only offer it to me at around five hundred dollars a month. So I stopped taking it."
“Charlie if you want to take that medication let me pay for it. Five hundred dollars a month is nothing to me.”
We finish up. No desert or coffee.
Winslow asks if I need a ride home.
"Sure let's share a cab."
"Don't worry about it. I have a driver."
We walk outside of the small cafe onto the cold cobblestone street and there is a driver hovering patiently.
It was waiting the whole time.
To get to Jean Claude,
http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/jean-claude/#ixzz0ZJy4PWf8
I took a cab to Houston and then caned my way down Sullivan Street.
As I got closer to the cafe I could see Winslow through the window.
(He got here, first like last year). We waved to each other as I hoisted myself with my cane through the weather flaps at the front entrance.
We embrace and order.
We agree to a french bordeaux. I get the chicken, Winslow gets the duck.
We put our menus down and face each other.
Winslow starts.
"How are you?"
"I'm great!"
How I am of course is anybody's guess. I'm illusive. That's how I am.
I smile at my cousin. “What can I say?”
I take my cousin in - my cousin with his Clark Kent hair, his beaming corporate wholesomeness - and fainlty wonder if I can get away with avoiding the subject of my illness.
“You look great by the way” he says, “I didn’t know what to expect and you really look great.”
I look at Winslow.
Winslow looks like Tom Cruise (that grin, the warm eye contact).
Winslow is handsome. We don't share the same genes, just the same lineage. Winslow was adopted.
There is glaring irony here. My adopted cousin was brought up in no-where Wisconsin. He was adopted but is clearly more in touch with our background than I am. I was raised around New York City. I rarely saw my grandparents.
Winslow went to a state college. I went to a top University. Winslow is a self-made millionaire. I am on public assistance.
"I'm great! But I'm a little irritable, irate, even. I took a cab here, I would have biked but I knew we'd be having wine, my legs get weaker when I have wine. Anyway I asked the driver take the west side highway... makes sense right? I live on the highway. But he turns to drive toward midtown - and again, I have to tell him to "please take the highway". So he gets on the highway, but when we get to west 30th he puts his signal on to turn left, back into midtown!
So... I had to make a decision. Am I going to get angry? Or should I just be all flaccid and forget about it? And... I went for it. I mean, I lost it. I think he thought I was some docile handicapped rube. I said to him, I said, what do you think you're doing?! Why would you get off the highway to drive into the mess of midtown? He says the traffic is worse on the highway. That's preposterous! I used the word preposterous. I told him, I said... I've lived in the city for 25 years and this just stupid, this is just silly."
Winslow lets me go on. Maybe he's adjusting to my garbled voice. Maybe he's thinking about the cane I just set under the Christmas tree.
"Too much traffic on the highway!!!! That's absurd. There was NO traffic! The traffic is controlled by the lights. There aren't any cross streets to make traffic. The cabbie says "you're upset, it's the holidays, the season is making you tense."
Can you believe that?
"Besides", he says, "there are no exits off the highway for SOHO. Where would he get off?"
I could have kicked in the back seat. I made a show of writing down his taxi ID number, belligerent the whole way, huffing and sighing. I mean I don't know how cabs work, I don't know how they tabulate their fares, I never take cabs. But he took us off of a nearly empty highway into midtown traffic! Sorry. I get carried away."
Winslow smiles. He counters my moody disorder with sober tidiness.
"They don't really make money in slow traffic. They make their money when the cab is moving freely. Actually, they make MOST of their money when you initially get in the cab, so if you got in the cab and drove around the block, and got out of the cab and then got right back in again, they'd make a lot of money. They’d make a fortune!"
"Oh. I wouldn’t know. I never take cabs."
(How a cab makes money doesn’t interest me. At some point I made an unconscious decision to discard all details (about almost everything). My mind is (now) a card catalog of names and topics. I have all the subject headings -"Beware the Taxi Cheat" -but any supporting facts will have to be retrieved from a location independent of my brain. This irecent self-realization is a great disappointment to me. My lack of (a point of view), of understanding of the world around me, becomes clearer to me when I'm confronted by people who value their own research, who've developed their own positions.
Like my cousin Winslow.
"I've got something for you."
Winslow pulls out a manilla folder and hands it to me over the wine glasses.
The Christmas tree twinkles.
It's the Christmas season and my good cousin, my caring cousin, Winslow, comes baring gifts.
The envelope contains old photographs of me and my grandparents (our grandparents). Pictures of my grandmother and me by the fireplace in their summer house on Lake Michigan. There is a hollywood style portrait of my Aunt. There are snapshots of my brother and sister as toddlers.
"Charlie, there are boxes and boxes and boxes of this stuff. Do you want any of it? The family were pack rats. There are boxes that haven't been opened fifty years. Just passed down from one house to another, unopened. Oil paintings, sets of china, photographs, letters. I have literally hundreds of bundled letters written by Bumpa to Mimi of from Antie Babe to Edna."
"Wait, Bumpa was Mimi's (our grandmother’s) father, right?"
"Yeah Bumpa was Frank her father and Etta was her mother. Mimi was the oldest. Did you know that? For some reason I thought Mimi was the youngest. Not so. I'm just figuring all this out. I open a box at a time and it's really overwhelming but it's pretty cool too. Like I just pieced together that our great Uncle Clem never married or went to college but he was sent to this extremely elite prep school .”
(My grandmother Mimi (Clem's sister) went to boarding school in Boston. It was connected to Radcliffe. Mimi played the piano beautifully and spoke fluent french. This was pretty unusual I would guess. She grew up in the middle of Wisconsin.)
"Charlie, I'm finding out so much going through these boxes. The Jackmans in particular were connected to some notable types. We're directly related to Oliver Ellsworth. Do you know who he was?"
I nod yes but say no.
He was one of the first United States Supreme Court justices.
"Wow."
"And there’s so much more. It would take a lifetime to go through all this stuff. I mean, each letter is pages and pages long and there are hundreds of them. I'm too busy collecting my own stuff.
"Me too. I have a couple of trunks of letters and postcards sitting in a friend's house in Connecticut."
I bring it back to the past.
“I just read a book about Admiral Perry's trip to Japan in 1853. Our ancestor William Bemis was on that trip. There's an etching of William demonstrating the telegraph to the Japanese." (I want to add that his mother (my Aunt) gave me William's silver snuff box before she died last year but I don't want to bring up anything that might sour the evening.
"Charlie, you won't believe what I have. I have a photograph of William on that very trip wearing a kimono holding a big sword.
"Really?"
"And I opened up a box and actually found the actual kimono and the sword he’s wearing in the photograph.”
(There could be a museum devoted to the Jackmans and the Drapers. We have documents from James Madison and Ernest Hemingway. Last Thanksgiving I found a xerox of a personal telegram from Samuel Morse to yet another dead relative. Turns out Winslow has the original telegram at home).
"Do you want me to send you the photograph? I framed it. It's sitting in our living room."
"No. Why don't you just send me a copy. Or take a digital picture of it."
"I have something else for you."
This whole scene is feeling very Dickension to me. Two cousins (the same age) who meet for dinner every year, one rich and handsome, the other creative and poor ... and now ill. Winslow might be "Fred" the happy prosperous nephew. I’d be both (resentful, isolated "Scrooge") and (sweet, sickly, "Tiny Tim") - me with my weak voice - me with my meek laugh.
Me with my apple tree branch cane.
"I found this in a box of grandfather's things.
It has his name on the back."
Winslow puts an elegant vintage watch on the table. My grandfather had excellent taste. Carry Grant might have worn this watch with his oversized black framed eye-glasses.
“It's a Movado made in the fifties I'd guess.”
The gift worries me. My grandfather was a stickler for the best money could buy. I have lost every watch I have ever owned. And I realize my grandfathers attention to natty materialism has paid off. Here we are, his descendants, ritualistically passing his remains in a chic restaurant on an elegant block in SOHO thirty years after he passed. He is with us.
"Thank you Winslow."
“You can give it to your brother if you don't want it."
"No this is great. Thank you" and I grip his hand in gratitude.
I leave the watch next to the knife and spoon.
And as we talk I make a mental note to never wear it. I will husband it away in a dresser drawer.
If I lost THIS watch, I’d need years of therapy.
We eat our chicken and duck and talk about the kind of things you talk about to someone you see only once a year; love, G-d, meditaion, Christian Science, what it feels like to lose your parents, what I've learned about life from this past year, how to take care of the needy, and, the health care debate.
Here again - I have no substance. Winslow on the other hand has a carefully wrought argument why the government should only get involved with healthcare for the most needy. He says that both Republicans and Democrats sicken him. The health debate could be resolved quite easily if we dropped the political fighting. I say timidly that I thinks it's wrong to make money from people's illness. I believe in a free market but when it comes to health, I have socialist leanings.
"Without a free market there would be no development. The government has no interest in competitive growth. Health research would dry up."
"But there is no money to be made my from what I have. So how does a free market help me?"
"Anyway, turns out I’m a victim in this healthcare mess. I had to switch to medicare from my SAG insurance.
There is only one medication that is FDA approved for my illness, that insurance will cover.
I paid around sixty dollars a month through SAG.
Medicare can only offer it to me at around five hundred dollars a month. So I stopped taking it."
“Charlie if you want to take that medication let me pay for it. Five hundred dollars a month is nothing to me.”
We finish up. No desert or coffee.
Winslow asks if I need a ride home.
"Sure let's share a cab."
"Don't worry about it. I have a driver."
We walk outside of the small cafe onto the cold cobblestone street and there is a driver hovering patiently.
It was waiting the whole time.
"I thank God for my handicaps for, through them, I have found myself, my work, and my God."
--Helen Keller
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
--Albert Einstein
"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful."
-–Buddha
--Helen Keller
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
--Albert Einstein
"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful."
-–Buddha
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
PERFECT
perfect, whole, entire, intact mean not lacking or faulty in any particular. perfect implies the soundness and the excellence of every part, element, or quality of a thing frequently as an unattainable or theoretical state -a perfect set of teeth-. whole suggests a completeness or perfection that can be sought, gained, or regained -felt like a whole person again after vacation-. entire implies perfection deriving from integrity, soundness, or completeness of a thing . intact implies retention of perfection of a thing in its natural or original state -the boat survived the storm intact
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
GOD BLESS US EVERYONE (please)
Before I leave for the dentist, I read a thread on the "PATIENTS LIKE ME" website about "aspirating during the removal of fillings -lungs getting infected" and then "a rapid demise/progression".
I'm having four amalgams replaced at eleven thirty.
I cab to West 68th and Broadway, and Jackie (my 72 year old neighbor) comes along.
My dentist looks nervous.
She smiles but it's inert.
(Later, she admits she's never worked on anyone with ALS).
Once again, I panic and submit.
It goes fast.
Hands in mouth. The stick with the little mirror prodding my tongue to the side. A wedge forced into my bite to keep my jaw open. The oxygen mask. The lame piece of gauze placed on the back of my throat. Suction. I gag on the gauze, I reach in and take it out. They (one of them) puts it back in. The assistant insisting "open, open, OPEN " resolute, confident, dominating.
The dentist drills.
I picture Mary Baker Eddy beside her.
When it's done, I go back to the waiting room and sit with Jackie. I try to release forty-five minutes of fear.
Half of my head is stiff from the novacain. I have an irrational fear that I will choke on my own saliva.
So I decide to wait in the the little reception area until it dissipates.
Jackie (sleepy and loose) is reading "The Purpose of Christmas".
She offers it to me (and in my floppy state) I accept without resistance.
The book is about the G-d's love for us, and why Christ died for us.
Because I'm thinking hard about everything these days, I give it some thought and realize I've never really considered it.
Why does G-d love us unconditionally?
I put down the book and ask Jackie what she thinks.
Jackie is gently tearing out a page from US or PEOPLE and says, "the thing that kills me, that really bugs me" (and here she puts her pointer finger in the air to let me know she is quite serious) Why did Jesus have to suffer so MUCH on the cross. I mean, I know he had to die, but did he have to go through all that pain? This!? I don't understand. I'm going to have ask my priest about it ... that's what I'm going to do... I gotta remember to do that".
My face is still stiff, so to pass the time, I google the ten commandments on my i-phone and test Jackie.
The thing I like about Jackie is when I test her on the commandments she doesn't hesitate or question what I'm up to.
She jumps right in, like it's perfectly reasonable to test her recall of the ten commandments as she's thumbing through GOOD HOUSEKEEPING.
"The first one is, I can think of is ... though shall not kill... and then there's .... don't covet your neighbors wife?"
Jackie's gets all of the commandments except one, the second one.
“You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My Commandments.
"It seems weird that G-d admits to being jealous" I tell Jackie. "That doesn't seem right."
"Well, I don' think it's literal. You have to think around it, Charlie. Maybe he's being a little tongue-in-cheek."
We're joined by a handsome young man with silver hair. He's wearing a dingy white t-shirt (like James Dean).
He's coyly grinning, open and flirty.
My dark side assumes he's coming onto us. (This is sad).
"How old do you think I am?" he grins. He show us his teeth but his eyes look to the floor.
The guy looks a lot like Anderson Cooper. (Later Jackie asks him if anyone has ever told him he looks like Montgomery Clift). He is clearly cute and his cuteness changes the energy in the room. Feeling threatened by his dominating handsomeness, I make an exit for the bathroom but Jackie jumps right in (like a flirty yenta), like she and Anderson Cooper had been talking for hours. "Well, you could be twenty or you could be thirty. Why? What's the problem? Are you having girl troubles?"
____________________________
I buy lunch for Jackie at Nanoosh (organic Mediterranean) http://www.nanoosh.com on 68th and Broadway.
Jackie tells me she likes this part of town.
"It's upscale, not as fancy as Park, but nicer than Times Square."
We sit at a communal table and drink organic coffee and lunch on organic chicken salad.
Waiting for the bill, we fill out a customer satisfaction survey. If we complete the survey, we could win a free lunch.
I read Jackie the (15 or 20) questions. We have to answer each question by circling, Excellent, Very Good, Good, Adequate, or Poor. We take our time with each question like we're the judges on some reality show. Sometimes we debate our joint answer and end up having to scratch out "Good" and replace it with "Very Good".
When it comes to the survey question about the fairness of prices Jackie makes me circle "poor."
"Charlie, the coffee was $2.50!! That's bananas. And don't get me started about Starbucks. Starbucks is bananas too.
Circle "poor". I mean it".
___________________________
We go to the GAP next door.
I hold onto Jackie's shoulder as we navigate Broadway.
I tell Jackie that people are staring at us, me with my cane, my feeble walk - Jackie, short, with her bright blond hair.
"You're paranoid, it's all in your head."
In the Gap, I look for a stylish coat.
Jackie helps me try on a few from the sale rack.
I've lost mass from my upper body so the coats hang oddly.
______________________________
We're standing in front of the Lincoln Plaza Theatre. It's next door to the GAP.
We consider seeing Disney's A Christmas Carol 3D IMAX.
I'm pretty certain I'll hate it, but we're here and it IS the Christmas season so we take a chance.
The movie is great. It's amazing!
The animation is gorgeous. The 3D effect is like live theatre.
Ebenezer Scroodge's transformation puts a big fat lump in my throat.
Ten minutes into it I turn to Jackie and say,
"This... is fantastic."
and Jackie says,
"Charlie this is unbelievable. I can't believe this! This is the closest thing to actually flying. I fly, all the time, (in my dreams).
But THIS? This is much better."
Sunday, December 6, 2009
John 5
Veronika, Australia -
The healing at the pool of Bethesda (see John 5) has helped and inspired me to no end. Step by step it led me to inner freedom from dependency on sitting and waiting until something outside of me changed (the moving of the water). Then, I was told by the presence of Christ, to get up and take up my bed and walk. This meant to me, to stop thinking I was an invalid on a couch, who was yet again waiting to be healed at some future time, when I was whole and healed now. Since then I have never felt again that I needed to return to the “five porches” (five senses) to get information from them about my state of being. I have let go of sitting around at the pool and am getting on with my life (which is God), and as a result I have experienced healing from a very persistent illness of twelve months. Veronika, Australia
The healing at the pool of Bethesda (see John 5) has helped and inspired me to no end. Step by step it led me to inner freedom from dependency on sitting and waiting until something outside of me changed (the moving of the water). Then, I was told by the presence of Christ, to get up and take up my bed and walk. This meant to me, to stop thinking I was an invalid on a couch, who was yet again waiting to be healed at some future time, when I was whole and healed now. Since then I have never felt again that I needed to return to the “five porches” (five senses) to get information from them about my state of being. I have let go of sitting around at the pool and am getting on with my life (which is God), and as a result I have experienced healing from a very persistent illness of twelve months. Veronika, Australia
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
LOVE ACTIVATOR
My dentist and I set a day to replace my mercury fillings and today is that day.
I spend most of the day with Jackie (my 72 year old neighbor).
We'll meet in the lobby at two. But before we meet, I bike to the vitamin store on west 25th and 7th to buy charcoal. Charcoal (might) bind mercury that (might) fall in my stomach. I would pass it (in theory). This is a suggestion from a random website. (My days are filled with hunches and guesses).
Jackie is waiting for me in the lobby of our gigantic apartment building at the very end of west 42nd Street.
I'm happy to see Jackie and Jackie is clearly excited to go to my dentist appointment.
It feels like a holiday (or) we're off for a weekend.
Jackie and I talk about movies in the cab.
Jackie is quite knowledgeable about the movies. She knows intimate details about the lives of even the most remote movie stars. She loves Fellini. She loves "The Bad and the Beautiful". She loves Lana Turner and John Garfield ("The Postman Always Rings Twice"). She wants me to see "The Letter" with Bette Davis.
"Charlie, you've never seen it? It will break your heart. It's one of those films..." and here she becomes speechless. When Jackie talks about the movies, she projects confidence, intelligence, a sense of her own self.
I tell Jackie that Val Kilmer is making a movie about Mary Baker Eddy. Val Kilmer is a devout Christian Scientist.
"Just like Tom Cruise!" says Jackie. "And you know what Charlie, I don't see why you go down all the way to SOHO. You should go to the branch on 46th and Broadway. They're always inviting everyone in!"
"That's Scientology, Jackie, that's the Church of Scientology. I'm talking about Christian Science. I don't know anything about Scientology but I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with Christianity".
This bugs Jackie.
"They're both churches! Right? They both have Science in the name! I mean... really! Could there be that big a difference?"
When we get to my dentist office on 68th and Broadway, I give Jackie my biography of Mary Baker Eddy to read in the waiting room. There are plenty of glossy magazines to read, but Jackie insists on reading my book. She wants to support me. It's dry reading but she ignores People and USA TODAY.
My name is called.
When I sit in the chair, I tell the dental assistant I'm worried about exposure to mercury.
"Do you know why I'm so concerned?"
She smiles.
"I know you have some reservations... but nothing beyond that."
I tell her I have a neurological disease but that is all I manage to get out because my dentist enters.
She's upbeat and prim.
She looks like she's been mentally preparing for me, that distant smile, that lovely professional grace.
"Hello Mr. Roberts."
I can tell my dentist doesn't buy into this whole mercury removal thing. Her office isn't set up for it (the way I've read it described on the web). I should have researched "green" dentists. But my mind, my spirit, has no edge, no ability to brace itself, to seize the day, to find the best possible solution. I deal with what's in front of me.
So here I am.
I go into my fragile state. I timidly check to see if my needs will be met.
They have the oxygen.
We test my breathing.
She puts a piece of gauze in the back of my throat to keep it closed.
I tell her I think I should be sitting up. I checked on PLM, and that's what they recommended.
She says they have this wrong. Sitting back is better.
I feel like she's just tying to win points.
Once the drilling starts there is no going back.
They drill away.
I can smell the mercury.
It stinks.
I keep saying the word "nose" (in my head) to remind me to breath through my nose,never with my mouth. With all the noise and confusion, I can't really tell how I'm breathing. I concentrate and let go. I am both focused and defenseless.
My sight is obstructed because of the oxygen mask. I am both intimate and far, far away - lost in a cavern of thoughts, stuck behind these teeth, this mouth, this dome.
They take care of it quickly.
After they're done, I stay in the chair and decompress.
I go back to the waiting area. Jackie is reading the Mary Baker Eddy biography.
She struggles with it. She changes position, she squints, she sighs.
I tell her I want to stay here in the waiting room until the Novocain wears off.
Jackie is fine with this. She's delighted to be out on the town away from the apartment (I guess).
There is a man (late sixties) sitting next to Jackie. He has a deep receding hairline. His remaining hair is puffy and clearly shaped.
I tell him, I offer, that I've just had my amalgams out.
He says "Good! and stay away from fluoride too!"
He has a thick New York accent like Jackie's.
The man pulls a tooth out of his mouth.
"It's made of wax. I made it myself. Pretty good, huh?"
(Jackie is impressed).
"I would never have been able to tell. You don't even notice it! You'd really have to open your mouth wide to even see it!
(It is a delight for me to hear two New Yorkers converse in their old fashioned Manhattan accents. We become instant waiting-room friends).
He then hands us a card with a geometric figure on the front and tells us to put it under our pillows at night and sleep on it.
These words are written on the back of the card.
____________________________
Sacred G TranceNdance
www.wishforlove.com
David Shore
LOVE ACTIVATOR
___________________________
"It will change your life," he says.
Jackie takes Mr. Shore at his word and tells him she doesn't want the card.
"My life is fine just the way it is. How do I know this thing won't mess everything up? I sleep very well, thank you. Is this thing going to mess with my sleep? I don't want anything messing with my sleep!"
This frustrates Mr. Shore. He tries to tell jackie that it will only make her life better. She may experience some difficulties at first, but this will pain will help her evolve. This pain may lead to happiness.
But Jackie isn't buying it.
"I'll take card but you're not going to convince me to put it under my pillow."
Finally Mr. Shore tells us that through sacred geometry he is focusing on forgiveness these days.
He is trying to let go of anger and resentment.
"But it's so hard. It's nearly impossible. I'm really having a very difficult time with it."
"Tell me about it" say I.
________________________
I take Jackie to dinner at Ollie's (next door). This is my tradition.
I tell the counter person that I want the (MSG free) menu. She tells me that everything they make has MSG in it.
The only thing that doesn't have MSG is steamed vegetables. So I get steamed vegetables and Jackie gets shrimp fried rice.
As we eat, we look at pictures of Michael York on my iphone. Jackie thinks Michael York has "salt and pepper."
This time, Jackie loses me.
Jackie is excited to open our fortune cookies.
Mine says,
A smile is the most
effective medicine.
Next we go to Pottery Barn. It's decorated for Christmas!
I hold onto Jackie's shoulder. We make one big circle around the store.
We study a sectional that would be nice for my apartment. We sift through ornaments. We look at glass jars with numbers painted on them (1 to 24). The numbers represent the days leading up to Christmas. Jackie and I decide (numbers on jars) aren't very Christmassy.
We cab home.
Jackie does my laundry and helps put my groceries away and then we go to Jackie's apartment to watch Obama on her TV.
Jackie's apartment is bare. She discarded all evidence of her twenty year marriage. She owns a futon, a couple of chairs and a TV console. This is the way she wants it. She told me she threw away a brand new vacuum because it had too many parts.
Above the futon, there is a collection of thrift shop paintings of flowers. The biggest one is a field of daisies painted in a sixties marimekko style. I really like it.
We watch the president's speech.
O'bama; aritcuate, resolute, compelling, is my age. How is he capable of understanding these complexities?
Jackie is irate Obama is sending more troops to Afghanistan.
"Didn't he say he would bring troops home? Isn't that what he promised? Am I crazy or what?!"
At nine o'clock, I go back to my apartment, four doors down the hall.
Jackie texts me as I walk in the door.
"Thank you Charlie, I had a nice day."
"Thank YOU, Jackie" I text back.
I spend most of the day with Jackie (my 72 year old neighbor).
We'll meet in the lobby at two. But before we meet, I bike to the vitamin store on west 25th and 7th to buy charcoal. Charcoal (might) bind mercury that (might) fall in my stomach. I would pass it (in theory). This is a suggestion from a random website. (My days are filled with hunches and guesses).
Jackie is waiting for me in the lobby of our gigantic apartment building at the very end of west 42nd Street.
I'm happy to see Jackie and Jackie is clearly excited to go to my dentist appointment.
It feels like a holiday (or) we're off for a weekend.
Jackie and I talk about movies in the cab.
Jackie is quite knowledgeable about the movies. She knows intimate details about the lives of even the most remote movie stars. She loves Fellini. She loves "The Bad and the Beautiful". She loves Lana Turner and John Garfield ("The Postman Always Rings Twice"). She wants me to see "The Letter" with Bette Davis.
"Charlie, you've never seen it? It will break your heart. It's one of those films..." and here she becomes speechless. When Jackie talks about the movies, she projects confidence, intelligence, a sense of her own self.
I tell Jackie that Val Kilmer is making a movie about Mary Baker Eddy. Val Kilmer is a devout Christian Scientist.
"Just like Tom Cruise!" says Jackie. "And you know what Charlie, I don't see why you go down all the way to SOHO. You should go to the branch on 46th and Broadway. They're always inviting everyone in!"
"That's Scientology, Jackie, that's the Church of Scientology. I'm talking about Christian Science. I don't know anything about Scientology but I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with Christianity".
This bugs Jackie.
"They're both churches! Right? They both have Science in the name! I mean... really! Could there be that big a difference?"
When we get to my dentist office on 68th and Broadway, I give Jackie my biography of Mary Baker Eddy to read in the waiting room. There are plenty of glossy magazines to read, but Jackie insists on reading my book. She wants to support me. It's dry reading but she ignores People and USA TODAY.
My name is called.
When I sit in the chair, I tell the dental assistant I'm worried about exposure to mercury.
"Do you know why I'm so concerned?"
She smiles.
"I know you have some reservations... but nothing beyond that."
I tell her I have a neurological disease but that is all I manage to get out because my dentist enters.
She's upbeat and prim.
She looks like she's been mentally preparing for me, that distant smile, that lovely professional grace.
"Hello Mr. Roberts."
I can tell my dentist doesn't buy into this whole mercury removal thing. Her office isn't set up for it (the way I've read it described on the web). I should have researched "green" dentists. But my mind, my spirit, has no edge, no ability to brace itself, to seize the day, to find the best possible solution. I deal with what's in front of me.
So here I am.
I go into my fragile state. I timidly check to see if my needs will be met.
They have the oxygen.
We test my breathing.
She puts a piece of gauze in the back of my throat to keep it closed.
I tell her I think I should be sitting up. I checked on PLM, and that's what they recommended.
She says they have this wrong. Sitting back is better.
I feel like she's just tying to win points.
Once the drilling starts there is no going back.
They drill away.
I can smell the mercury.
It stinks.
I keep saying the word "nose" (in my head) to remind me to breath through my nose,never with my mouth. With all the noise and confusion, I can't really tell how I'm breathing. I concentrate and let go. I am both focused and defenseless.
My sight is obstructed because of the oxygen mask. I am both intimate and far, far away - lost in a cavern of thoughts, stuck behind these teeth, this mouth, this dome.
They take care of it quickly.
After they're done, I stay in the chair and decompress.
I go back to the waiting area. Jackie is reading the Mary Baker Eddy biography.
She struggles with it. She changes position, she squints, she sighs.
I tell her I want to stay here in the waiting room until the Novocain wears off.
Jackie is fine with this. She's delighted to be out on the town away from the apartment (I guess).
There is a man (late sixties) sitting next to Jackie. He has a deep receding hairline. His remaining hair is puffy and clearly shaped.
I tell him, I offer, that I've just had my amalgams out.
He says "Good! and stay away from fluoride too!"
He has a thick New York accent like Jackie's.
The man pulls a tooth out of his mouth.
"It's made of wax. I made it myself. Pretty good, huh?"
(Jackie is impressed).
"I would never have been able to tell. You don't even notice it! You'd really have to open your mouth wide to even see it!
(It is a delight for me to hear two New Yorkers converse in their old fashioned Manhattan accents. We become instant waiting-room friends).
He then hands us a card with a geometric figure on the front and tells us to put it under our pillows at night and sleep on it.
These words are written on the back of the card.
____________________________
Sacred G TranceNdance
www.wishforlove.com
David Shore
LOVE ACTIVATOR
___________________________
"It will change your life," he says.
Jackie takes Mr. Shore at his word and tells him she doesn't want the card.
"My life is fine just the way it is. How do I know this thing won't mess everything up? I sleep very well, thank you. Is this thing going to mess with my sleep? I don't want anything messing with my sleep!"
This frustrates Mr. Shore. He tries to tell jackie that it will only make her life better. She may experience some difficulties at first, but this will pain will help her evolve. This pain may lead to happiness.
But Jackie isn't buying it.
"I'll take card but you're not going to convince me to put it under my pillow."
Finally Mr. Shore tells us that through sacred geometry he is focusing on forgiveness these days.
He is trying to let go of anger and resentment.
"But it's so hard. It's nearly impossible. I'm really having a very difficult time with it."
"Tell me about it" say I.
________________________
I take Jackie to dinner at Ollie's (next door). This is my tradition.
I tell the counter person that I want the (MSG free) menu. She tells me that everything they make has MSG in it.
The only thing that doesn't have MSG is steamed vegetables. So I get steamed vegetables and Jackie gets shrimp fried rice.
As we eat, we look at pictures of Michael York on my iphone. Jackie thinks Michael York has "salt and pepper."
This time, Jackie loses me.
Jackie is excited to open our fortune cookies.
Mine says,
A smile is the most
effective medicine.
Next we go to Pottery Barn. It's decorated for Christmas!
I hold onto Jackie's shoulder. We make one big circle around the store.
We study a sectional that would be nice for my apartment. We sift through ornaments. We look at glass jars with numbers painted on them (1 to 24). The numbers represent the days leading up to Christmas. Jackie and I decide (numbers on jars) aren't very Christmassy.
We cab home.
Jackie does my laundry and helps put my groceries away and then we go to Jackie's apartment to watch Obama on her TV.
Jackie's apartment is bare. She discarded all evidence of her twenty year marriage. She owns a futon, a couple of chairs and a TV console. This is the way she wants it. She told me she threw away a brand new vacuum because it had too many parts.
Above the futon, there is a collection of thrift shop paintings of flowers. The biggest one is a field of daisies painted in a sixties marimekko style. I really like it.
We watch the president's speech.
O'bama; aritcuate, resolute, compelling, is my age. How is he capable of understanding these complexities?
Jackie is irate Obama is sending more troops to Afghanistan.
"Didn't he say he would bring troops home? Isn't that what he promised? Am I crazy or what?!"
At nine o'clock, I go back to my apartment, four doors down the hall.
Jackie texts me as I walk in the door.
"Thank you Charlie, I had a nice day."
"Thank YOU, Jackie" I text back.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Bay of Soul
Bayofsoul died today. He lived in New Zealand.
He emailed me last week.
______________
hi Charlie, thanks very much for mentioning your battery operated bike - what a great idea. I really want to give my bike a go, but I know I'm going to get stuck sometime. The battery version is such a great option. I can work when I can and cruise when I can't.
thanks
Bayofsoul
joy troubles me
It's cold and dark. We're tired. It's late.
My sister and Elliott put me on the train home. I cane my way over the gap between the train and the platform and lean into the glass and metal partition in the little train-car entry way. The inside of the train is warm and crowded.
I steady myself with my cane and my sister puts a spinach salad in my hands but remains on the train platform, like she's pulling something off.
"Thanks, I got it, I'm good." I slur. (I must sound drunk).
Elliott pops just his head in the car, "Hey, you!! (addressing the passengers) Can you move over? Is that an empty seat?"
"Hey Elliott, please, stop ... I can still speak."
My sister blows kisses.
The doors close.
I lean deeper.
I am fine.
I know this. I've ridden these trains all my life.
The train glides away and I am relieved. I am alone again.
"Can I help you find a seat?"
The conductor (meaty with mustache) punches my ticket.
"Sure! I'd love it! (I am guileless) but it looks pretty packed." (A year ago I would have just sat on the floor).
The conductor finds a couple on a three seater (napping as one) and wakes them. Their unknotting is slow but when they've upright, the conductor signals for me.
I stare down the crowded car. The vacant seat is about 25 feet away past jutting legs and elbows.
I don't dare risk it.
The conductor walks back down the crowded aisle to ask if he can take my bags.
"Sure!"
What have I done to deserve this? We should all carry canes to experience such kindness.
After I sit, I don't unzip my coat. I don't eat my spinach salad. I sit and I don't move.
I sit frozen in my seat like the new kid in class who arrived late and doesn't want to draw attention.
_____________________
We are at Grand Central.
As we exit the train, a young woman asks if she can help me but I smile and shake my head before she finishes her offer.
I need to focus. "Man on Wire".
I use the side of the train to steady myself but sometimes there are gaps. These gaps require extra attention.
I stop and calculate the distance between the train and a recycling bin. The distance seems impossible.
I laugh at my situation. How can this be that six feet away seems to risky to walk? When did this happen to me?
This is a genuine joyful laugh and this joy troubles me.
I wonder if something biologically is happening to me, a genetic button pushed to rescue me from depression.
Everything seems funny to me.
My conductor spots me frozen in my calculating. The other passengers have long gone.
I stand by the train eyeing the recycle bin. Grand Central' s main terminal shines in the distance (like Oz).
My conductor faces me. I look him in the eye. He reminds me of a gifted character actor. There is quiet charisma here,
a thinking man in a working man's outfit.
"You know you can order a skycap. If you let them know ahead of time. They'll meet you with a wheel chair and get you to a cab."
"Oh, I didn't know that." I feel shy and caught.
The conductor stays with me. He watches me move. He feels compassion for me. I feel distant from this compassion.
He might assume that this difficulty is something I've dealt with my whole life. I want to say to him that this new to me, that it would never occur to me to have a wheel chair greet me at Grand Central.
But I don't say anything.
I move but the conductor stays where he is. "Are you sure I can't help you in some way?"
"No, I'll be fine." How can he help me? How can anyone help me? This is something I must endure.
He nods okay.
He turns and resumes his speedy conductor's pace.
My sister and Elliott put me on the train home. I cane my way over the gap between the train and the platform and lean into the glass and metal partition in the little train-car entry way. The inside of the train is warm and crowded.
I steady myself with my cane and my sister puts a spinach salad in my hands but remains on the train platform, like she's pulling something off.
"Thanks, I got it, I'm good." I slur. (I must sound drunk).
Elliott pops just his head in the car, "Hey, you!! (addressing the passengers) Can you move over? Is that an empty seat?"
"Hey Elliott, please, stop ... I can still speak."
My sister blows kisses.
The doors close.
I lean deeper.
I am fine.
I know this. I've ridden these trains all my life.
The train glides away and I am relieved. I am alone again.
"Can I help you find a seat?"
The conductor (meaty with mustache) punches my ticket.
"Sure! I'd love it! (I am guileless) but it looks pretty packed." (A year ago I would have just sat on the floor).
The conductor finds a couple on a three seater (napping as one) and wakes them. Their unknotting is slow but when they've upright, the conductor signals for me.
I stare down the crowded car. The vacant seat is about 25 feet away past jutting legs and elbows.
I don't dare risk it.
The conductor walks back down the crowded aisle to ask if he can take my bags.
"Sure!"
What have I done to deserve this? We should all carry canes to experience such kindness.
After I sit, I don't unzip my coat. I don't eat my spinach salad. I sit and I don't move.
I sit frozen in my seat like the new kid in class who arrived late and doesn't want to draw attention.
_____________________
We are at Grand Central.
As we exit the train, a young woman asks if she can help me but I smile and shake my head before she finishes her offer.
I need to focus. "Man on Wire".
I use the side of the train to steady myself but sometimes there are gaps. These gaps require extra attention.
I stop and calculate the distance between the train and a recycling bin. The distance seems impossible.
I laugh at my situation. How can this be that six feet away seems to risky to walk? When did this happen to me?
This is a genuine joyful laugh and this joy troubles me.
I wonder if something biologically is happening to me, a genetic button pushed to rescue me from depression.
Everything seems funny to me.
My conductor spots me frozen in my calculating. The other passengers have long gone.
I stand by the train eyeing the recycle bin. Grand Central' s main terminal shines in the distance (like Oz).
My conductor faces me. I look him in the eye. He reminds me of a gifted character actor. There is quiet charisma here,
a thinking man in a working man's outfit.
"You know you can order a skycap. If you let them know ahead of time. They'll meet you with a wheel chair and get you to a cab."
"Oh, I didn't know that." I feel shy and caught.
The conductor stays with me. He watches me move. He feels compassion for me. I feel distant from this compassion.
He might assume that this difficulty is something I've dealt with my whole life. I want to say to him that this new to me, that it would never occur to me to have a wheel chair greet me at Grand Central.
But I don't say anything.
I move but the conductor stays where he is. "Are you sure I can't help you in some way?"
"No, I'll be fine." How can he help me? How can anyone help me? This is something I must endure.
He nods okay.
He turns and resumes his speedy conductor's pace.
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