July 2004 Archives
Now if only IE would cooperate I could smooth it out a bit more.
"Well, I just don't get it." The papers crinkled against his forehead before being fisted and thrown towards the corner of the room. I could see him peeking between his fingernails and grimacing as the wad bounced off the two walls, well off from the trajectory required to have landed in the rusty dusty trash bin.
"Don't look at me." I replied. He wasn't. He still had his head in his hands. He probably thought I was referring to the lack of an explanation. I just didn't want him to look at me. It made it that much easier.
I'd forgotten the smell. The wisp of smoke wound its way over my hand and I was brought back to those first few shots squeezed off at Summer Bible Camp. Damn. What a weird place to learn to fire a gun. I pulled the remaining pages from under his chin, most of which shredded like cotton candy, having been saturated with the thick red ink of the "editor." I grabbed a dry handful of his locks, scraped the remaining pieces from underneath the overgrown paperweight, replacing them with the opinion page of the morning paper, turned on my heels and headed towards the door.
It wasn't until I settled in to Dad's old chair to watch the game that I remembered the errant set shot.
Uh - somebody over at CNN is either clueless or a real smartass or they've been hacked...they've probably corrected it by now -- but they've got Ronald Reagan's death notice as the masthead and a headline that reads "Democrats Ready to Party" [screen capture]
corrected at 1:27...
Yesterday I managed to pull myself out of bed at a rather early hour, fix myself up and cook a lite breakfast before heading down the road a bit to the West Bloomfield Nursing and Convalescent Center. I'd decided to do some volunteer work while swimming around in limbo, and the West Bloomfield center being the place of my mother's former employment, she quickly volunteered the suggestion. She normally volunteered there on certain Tuesdays of the month, and on this particular Tuesday she had run into a scheduling conflict. It seemed she had scheduled what she refers to as her "Ya-Ya" night, after this work, with her friends. They'd be, among other girlish acts, attending this musical, and weren't sure of the exact schedule for other events. So in her stead, I quickly presented myself.
I haven't done much volunteer work since leaving High School, and haven't been to a nursing home since a previous volunteering day turned into an odd and disturbing 
memory that I'd rather not get into here. Fortunately - this time around everything was much more enjoyable. I could tell things were going to be different from the moment I pulled up and saw God's Love Bus parked in front of the center. I walked into the Center abit nervous, being out of practice and all, but strode up to the receptionist and asked to speak with K, whom I was supposed to get my instructions from. She was bounding around the corner at the same time, shuffling a bunch of paperwork and asked if I was Kevin.
I responded in the affirmative.
They were loading up the residents onto the bus, using the wheelchair lift, so I found myself standing around for a bit. I tried asking one of the resident's if they were excited, but didn't get a response. Some of the other resident ladies behind her giggled at me - as I'm sure they knew that this particular resident wasn't exactly the talkative type. I fell back into ranks a little redder for the wear and waited for further instruction before I attempted anything else.
Soon after I was told to load up onto the Love Bus, and we were on our way to the Edsel Ford House. We hit a bit of traffic on the way up, all told probably extending our trip by about forty minutes. When we arrived I helped wheel in a few of the residents, and K told me that I should probably be in charge of E, as he was the only male resident to make the sojourn.
"It can be a male bonding experience," she said. "We had to bribe him to get him to go."
Well, E turned out to be a rather large fellow, well over 200lbs. He was sportin' a Detroit Piston's championship t-shirt and crackin' jokes with anybody who would listen as he was being lowered on the lift. K introduced him when he touched down, we shook hands, watched as one of the other residents joked that she was gonna Evel Knievel it outta the bus without the lift, and then he and I began to wheel in towards the house.
Oof. It was a bit harder than I had expected - but once the momentum got started things got a little easier. Until I had to start steering.
Now E. had been able to make his way out to the bus with his walker. He'd fallen and broken his hip a while back and was at the home for rehabilatation purposes - so he was quite cognizant of everything going on around him, and more than capable of wheeling himself around, but perhaps to humor me - decided that I could be his chauffer for the day. As we made our way to the entrance of the house I had to make my first maneuver, a simple 180 so that I could pull E. up the ramp. Amazingly enough, when we were in the house, backing down the hallway, I could feel a bead of sweat on the tippy top of my forehead. We'd only travelled about 100 yards from the Love Bus, the tour hadn't even started, and here I was slightly winded, nervous, and slightly timid as to what other acrobatic twists and turns the tour would provide.
The house itself was amazing. Over 60 rooms, 13 fireplaces and luxuries that made your head spin when you realized how much wealth was squeezed into one location. The online tour is here, from which you can see everything we were able to see and more. Unfortunately the house isn't up to par when it comes to wheelchair accesibility, so we only managed to take in the first floor's sights. Still, that was quite the show. A personal favorite of mine was the modern room, which had a Brady Bunch feel and a kick ass bar surrounded by 18 rose-colored mirror panels. The golden statue on the above page made its home the bar cleverly referred to here as the "niche."
As I said, the house wasn't exactly accomodating for wheelchairs -- and E. and I ran into a little trouble as we were making our way from the Dining Room into the kitchen...The doorway was just wide enough to squeeze the chair through - but I had begun our grand entrance into the next room slightly askew and managed to bump one of the larger wheels against the wall as we were passing through.
We were in what is properly referred to as "a fix".
I tried backing out, to which E. objected:
"No-no-no! If you back up the front wheels turn to adjust." He was right, you know. He knew more about the contraption than I did. Looking down I could see that the front wheels were now perpendicular, moving back any further was simply swingin' us into the wall. So there we were, E. and I, rockin' back and forth between two rooms, with a tour behind and a tour in front of us. Blood was quickly rushing to that orb upon my neck and I could feel the pores in my armpits begin to open in an effort to cool the quickly overheating person. The tour guide came over and fiddled with the front wheels as E. continued, with a chorus of backers, to explain how to get out of this mess. Somehow, eventually - I managed to get us into the next room, all in all a delay of no more than a minute and a half -- but in my own mind taking on what seemed an exorbitant amount of time. We would make it out of the house, (obviously) having caused only minimal damage to the legs of certain 15th century chairs, E. having filled in our particular tour guide concerning obscure tidbits of info on Edsel Ford and his father Henry not included on the tour, and after a quick lunch in the tea room, (which featured running over the foot of another tour guide with whom E. had struck up a quick friendship) back onto the Love Bus for a much quicker ride back to the Center.
Heading back I was engaged in conversation by a 102 year old woman. It was odd listening to her talk about her son. He's 74. How often do you talk to someone with a 74 year old son? That said - her son worked for a car company, she couldn't remember the name just now, (I later learned it was General Motors) and he had 500 engineers working under him before he retired and he had gone to college too and also lived in South America --- and it was about here that the conversation began to loop over onto itself. Keep in mind that at 102, her vocal chords weren't what they used to be, and with the bus engine below roaring, I could barely manage to pick up a syllable. Eventually, after the third go round with South American living I simply began nodding and smiling whenever I saw the corners of her mouth move in a similar fashion.
All in all a very good time was had by all, and next month we can look forward to the possibility of a riverboat tour!!! It was interesting how quickly I began to pick up on the traits of those who went on this excursion. E. was sharp-witted, S. was angry, but courteous, e. was hilarious with a biting sense of humor - just to pay tribute to a few. It was a day well spent -- and an experience I'm looking forward to repeating. Back in front of the center I shook E's hand and promised him that next time I saw him I will have picked up some driving skills. I said a quick goodbye to the lady residents, many of whom had by now stopped giggling at me, their coquettish ways now working themselves into courteous smiles as they wheeled by me on their way to the Bingo match. Lord. Don't get between a resident and the Bingo match.
It's been gusty and storming up here in Michigan. Last night as we sat down to dinner we heard what sounded like a long string of fireworks going off in the backyard, followed immediately by a great rustling in the leaves, as if a boisterous burst of breeze had been blown. We soon realized the true source of the disturbance.
A large Willow had become the victim of thousands of voracious appetites. Having gourged themselves for days, months and years on the innards of this tower, the mites finally brought it down upon themselves. There is a stretch of open sky now where there once was a majestic canopy. An open space has been created in the wake of the destruction. Things are as they should be. Nature is still natural.
Got bored with it...
Liked what I'd done so far over here...
Thought I'd bring it over here.
There's a few more thingies on this end though - so it may not be fluid until tomorrowish.
See-store has made her first official post...The design is being implemented around it...
The last thing my Aunt said to me as I drove out of her driveway on my way to two years of both self-exile and improvement was to stay positive.
So easily said -- it just rolls off the tongue.
Today I tussled with my first interloper in the guarded realm of my positivity. I'm not quite sure if it's just my allergies or if there is something deeper at work here - but I feel exhausted. I opted out of going to an unknown relative's graduation ceremony this afternoon due to this lack. I feel ugly to the world. I want to crawl beneath blankets and hide my nasty face from the light of day. I can feel this sadness welling up inside of me for no reason whatsoever and I can't explain it. I'm not feeling sorry for myself here, okay, yes I am, which disgusts me further -- but this is also something different.
This is something I don't understand. The simplest of things is ample to set me off on some sort of swooning. Whoa. Watch out...Here I go again!
Swoon. Swoon. Swooooooooon.
I simply want to stay outta sight. Not even nofriendo is pacifying. I suppose the only reason I'm talking about it is to try to sort through it -- in cyberspace. I'd rather not bring it to the surface in the real world. Bury it! Bury it deep until it bubbles all around you -- like a Murphy septic tank following a raucous 4th of July celebration!
(if anything, this is the beginning of motivation)
I plopped myself down in front of the computer to send off an email to the ex-roommate concerning my new whereabouts, as he had called to let me know he had some of my mail. So here I am. Just blathering now, thinking about ways to pacify this pestering swell of nothingness that won't leave of its own accord. Perhaps there is something wrong with my secreter, (thinking Sartre) and I have become subhuman in my inability to distinguish myself from the world, my negation bottling up inside of me and I'm slowly losing sight for all that I am in this world.
I know that a few nights ago I swam out into the absurdity of Camus. You must, because you cannot, because if you do - then you don't. Absurd.
Just getting these words out I can sense it passing. I'm sure that if it remains by nightfall, those remains will be forced to dissipate into the surroundings as I hedge them, spackling Ben and Jerry's into every possible empty part of my soul. Half a pint oughta do it. For now I think I'll return to that dusty volume of Proust, Cities of the Plain.
As my eyes slide over paragraphs and the fragile leaves are turned over, I sense in the recesses of my thought what needs to be done in the next few days. A list is working its way out, a table of questions to present in a telephone conversation to the admissions office, names of those I need to get in contact with -- that volunteer opportunity at the local library...Once I turn these over into action, it is almost a certainty that these degenerative thoughts will lose the emptiness on which they feed - as time's relativity will shift into higher gear - and traction will rip me from the molasses I've fallen into.
Know that if you don't hear from me -- other than in the echoes of this vast pink wonderland - it's because I'm gathering myself. I'm pushing out all this negative energy that's seeped in over the course of the past few months and I'm trying to become whole again - so that I can be my own being.
As I wind this down, I'm actually starting to marvel at the oddity that is the now. During the course of typing this out, I've seen three different ice cream trucks drive by, each using the same jingle to reel in the fish. Yes, even now I can sigh and in hushed tones, let forth the positive rally, breaking through the brown with a building mantra: "Super-Fantastic."
...not even moving. For example -- earlier today -- I had a quesadilla that my mother made for me.
In a few minutes -- I'm going to eat another quesadilla, this time with chicken and sour cream -- that my mother bought for herself, but couldn't finish!
I know! Who knew the fun would start so soon?!
Comment spammer IP Address -- 64.191.91.37
You know the line --- from Ghostbusters --- ? "Cats and dogs, getting along..." Somebody should send me a link of the transcript...Cause I'm too busy/lazy to do it myself...
Happy Birthday U.S.A.! Meesh Meesh Meesh...
Yah! Arrrgh! Throw the drawers to the sharks matey!
Needs me some sleep for the serious whatchamacallit tomorrow...
I'm outta my house. I'm into limbo. Bouncing around up here is kinda crazy. There's all sorts of little people running around - a mystical lagoon in the backyard - a furry four-legged creature that loves to lick the wounds I have garnered on the topsies of my footsies. There are high pitched noises emitted from every corner of this world -- followed occasionally by low bellowing - all ended suddenly by the familiar slamming of a door against its frame.
There are instances of familiarity, garnished with oddities peculiar to this realm. Whereas on my former fridge there was the full page "Misleader" ad from Moveon taken from the New York Times, here the appliance serves as the frame to a kinder, gentler misleader - one who with his wife, dressed in lounging threads, has taken the time out of his busy day to faux-autograph a color photo and send it out to his base.
This is just temporary. It's all an illusion. Simply rebuilding the ship at sea plank by plank. I'm still white knuckling the compass - as there is surely a veil falling around me, a schism of chosen circumstance.
