babinscreams

I've begun inviting people to view this site. The possibility that I may be judged pretentious and egotistical haunt me. There I got it out.

Right after the last post, I put on music, blessed music, righteous music, silence busting music...Pink Floyd "Division Bell". I opened the windows and turned it up loud. Real loud. Loud enough to get the neighbor's attention, which in this borough is a no-no. And the glorious sensation of doing this reminded me of August 1974. Richard Nixon resigned from the presidency in a televised speech. In preparation of this, I set two speakers at my bedroom window. As the momentous broadcast came to an end, I turned the volume to max and pushed play on Jimi Hendrix's rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner". Music gives expression where words fail.

Silence

After a period of absence I again am at my parent's house. This trip is especially difficult; the distractions are many. My goal is to clear the place in preparation for sale or rent. A huge decision I look forward to having made. Last night I found my mother's collection of celebrity autographs. Marion Davies and Gary Cooper from the 1930's. A signed letter from Bing Crosby responding to one she sent as a 17 year old fan. A discovery like this invariably sends me to the computer and eBay..."Just what the hell are people paying for something like this?". And I find that the relative monetary value of a Marion Davies autographed photo is around $85. I look up and two hours have passed. As in March, sensations of the insurmountable return. This morning I stood in the kitchen and experienced something I last remember having in 1987 in a remote section of Colorado desert - complete silence. Only the hum and crackle of my synaptic world.

In mass last Sunday, I found myself taking the communion wafer from the man who sponsored me when I became a Catholic in 2000. He is a gentle soul, a life-long Catholic who attends mass every week and serves communion, "The expressions on people's faces is extraordinary." The ritual of Mass often opens my emotional sluices, but last Sunday I was primed. As I took that dry wafer, muttered "Amen", heard my friend say my name, the profound sense of father-loss washed over me.

One of the most surprising things about this time of grief is how greatly I feel compelled to talk with men who have some mileage on them. To listen to as well as offer my earned wisdom with men who've been here. It's like I've gained entry to a club. I'm ready to sip refreshments by the pool with other members and tell no-shit stories about the drive there. I guess on the surface its obvious why now I'm drawn to the company of mature men - longing for that source of heroic power my father once symbolized. The sad fact is that Dad, advisor and teacher, passed from my life years ago as the cycle of becoming a caretaker to him overtook both of us. His passing now allows me to catch up on missing Him. It's easy to imagine how the breakdown of the flesh can destroy the hero-philosopher in any mortal. Unless, I'm convinced, he has some kind of spiritual core. We've just witnessed the passing of a pope whose spiritual vortex was so profound, that in spite of h

Torrance Memorial Hospital, where Dad spent his last nine days is staffed by health care workers who are caring, committed human beings. The nurses and paliative care staff live this transitional world day after day. Their non-intrusive guidance, sometimes subtle as a look, allowed me to work through decisions they witness daily. Then, if Dad had not worked so diligently to make clear his wishes regarding life support, how long he would tolerate it, and under what conditions he'd tolerate it, those nine days and the weeks that have followed might have been tortuous. When Mom died in 1999, Dad began drafting his advance directives. He put countless hours into it. He insisted I read each draft and file it away, destroying the previous so that it not superceed the latest version. I became angry, resistant, judgemental about how he was spending his time. I wish I could apologize to him.

the throne