Too Many Words

"Too many words, Mr. Dubov, too many words". This was often my Mother's single criticism of my written work, for it is true, as readers of this journal well know, that I use too many words. I run on at length when I would be better to be silent or at the very least not be so damn verbose. The use of too many words is a failing of mine in the spoken realm as well, for I often say too much and certainly somehow manage to say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.

Hopefully, I use this journal as a release for the excess verbiage that I seem to spontaneously generate, but this is no excuse for my tendency to speak without thinking or worse, speaking to others as if what I have to say is of any real import to them. For more often than not, my words, if I am lucky, are merely redundant. However, when I am unfortunate enough to be unable to restrain myself once again, my words are, in their bluntness and lack of restraint in their use, hurtful and damaging to the people who hear them. I understand now what Yeats meant when he said he "would be now, could I but have my wish, colder and dumber and deafer than a fish".

It seems that the time for me to stop talking and start writing has come. That way, at least those who choose to read my words know that they can also choose not to, thus freeing them from the foolish and selfishly self-aggrandizing opinions I would otherwise force upon them in the aural world.

For those whom I have harmed with my words over the years, I cannot expect forgiveness, but I can hope for the understanding that they were uttered without precaution and concern for your feelings. For these words, I apologize here and resolve not to continue subjecting you to the torture that I know a conversation with me can seem to be.

Remind me, if you will, when talking with me and you hear the words begin to run wild, that I have made this resolution. Tell me without hesitation that you will no longer tolerate the kind of verbal abuse I've subjected you to in the past and that your expectations for what I say should be tempered first by what I do.

Pierre Jordan Dubov

Pierre Jordan Dubov passed away on Wednesday, February 20, 2008 at the age of 20. Born and raised in Austin, Pierre is survived by his parents, Valery and Phillip and his sister Madelaine, all of Austin. He is also survived by his uncle Stephen of Austin, uncle Christopher and aunt Collen of Austin, aunt Alexandra and uncle Steve of Los Angeles, aunt Anne and uncle Eric of New York, uncles David and David of Virginia, as well as grandparents Billie & John Clark of Holland, Michigan. He was preceded in death by his beloved grandmother, Lynda, who passed away at the age of 90 in November of last year. Her loss was especially difficult for Pierre, as she had nurtured his artistic ambitions by meeting and speaking with him often to explore their mutual love of art and the intellect.

With a life cut so short, it is difficult to imagine what might have been, but we knew Pierre as a talented artist with a gifted mind. We believe that he would have, through his art and complex force of personality, affected the lives of many more people than he did his brief time here with us. His parents nurtured their son's boundless exploration and provided him with a solid and loving home where he was buoyed by their support and encouragement. His sister, Madeleine, loved him with all her heart and follows his lead in her open and courageous nature.

His artistic bloodlines came from both sides. His paternal grandmother, Lynda, brought him into her studio and took him to symphonies, operas, art exhibitions and museums from Austin to Paris. His maternal grandmother, Billie, who is a sculptor of considerable note both here in Austin and in Holland, did the same, taking him the theater and into her studio to teach him how, among many things, to create molds and cast metal, which likely would have been his medium of choice had he lived to pursue it. His uncle Stephen is also a well-known and active sculptor here in Austin and across the country. He teaches sculpture and drawing from his studio, Atlier 3D, as well as at Austin Community College. He also took Pierre into his studio as an apprentice, teaching him about ceramics, drawing and aesthetics. Pierre spoke often with his uncle David, who is an actor, about life and literature and art. His uncle Christopher showed Pierre about the art of photography, which he had recently taken to heart with his typical passionate fashion.

As an artist, Pierre was subject to the powerful and often contradictory forces of creativity, which sometimes caused such raging conflicts of the heart and head as to make his life difficult to understand, if not unbearable to continue. It would false to speak of Pierre as if he was possessed of an insuperable optimism, driven with boundless energy and a had a plan to build a career, for the truth is that, like so many creative souls, he was tortured by self-doubt, paralyzed by the fear of human interaction and not yet capable of sustaining the single-minded determination necessary to support himself independently.

Difficult though these obstacles appeared to be, we--he and his family together--knew that they were not insurmountable. We were all working to help him overcome these challenges each and every day. Given the time, we believe that he could have discovered the way to cope in this world, but our time was simply cut short. Diligent though parents may be, it does not take but a single foolish mistake to undo the care and attention given to providing a safe and secure environment for their children to grow in. We are all deeply saddened in his absence, but we will all also be forever stronger, smarter and more loving as a result of having been given the privilege of knowing him.

His extended family, those good and close friends who surrounded him daily with love and attention, Sean, Brendan, Drew, Travis, Sujan, Jeevan and Ciara, also miss him dearly, yet know that he is finally at peace.

Contributions are best made to someone's life, but if the need to give is deemed necessary, money and/or time may be given on his behalf to either Garza High School or Hospice Austin.

Beginnings

Well, today is a new beginning. Certainly it is a new chapter in this journal, as it will be the first time I have to talk about Pierre's death. It seems funny to say this now, but I haven't yet really written it out.

Pierre Jordan Dubov, my son of just 20 years of age, died on Wednesday, February 20, 1080, at 3:07 pm at South Austin Hospital.

I guess I must begin this journey of words with the first word I heard that let me know that this was real, no nightmare but just plain old reality, like waiting for a stoplight or having your oil changed.

"I'm sorry for your loss"

Uttered over and over, these words begin to take on that absurd quality of comic relief, like saying the words 'bubble gum' over and over till it sounds like the very gibberish that it is. Perhaps lot more than numbing, it's a reminder that words are just words. Repeated over and over, they cannot be any different. It is like asking the air to be different this day because he is dead. Or perhaps I could suggest to the sun that she not be so bright today. Maybe, the ocean just cut back on the salt a bit.

No, it not like we get to alter the universe, just be a part of it. Interestingly, the line between the comic and the tragic that divides and blurs those parts of life and the universe in which it lives line is death. Defining tragedy is something I'll not only have to revisit for myself as philosopher/poet, but also to arm myself, as it were, against the misuse of the term, for it is the false feeling that so many people have; that they can somehow share your pain because they too once lost a favorite cat or had an uncle who died in a car crash when they were eight. I saw a dog dragged to its death when I was eight and I was never the same. Grief took me that day and has never released me, but it's not the same as losing my son.

In spite of my effort to wash it off and compartmentalize it, there can be no doubt that the pain I felt that day was the re-opening of the wound that has never healed and never will, not with the death of my father, or my mother, nor my son or any one else. It is the fateful and fatal march that consumes us all. Now has come the time to reflect and find an expression of a feeling older than the mind itself, or at least the crucible in which the mind itself was formed.

Death is not just an equalizer it is an ideal. The way tells us that attachment is pain and the penalty, or, in other words, the price one pays for the pleasure of attachment is pain. Death is the release from that, and most of us are simply too damn afraid to kill ourselves.

Tolerance

Today I find myself thinking about tolerance. Part of the process of getting older, it seems to me, is developing a sense of tolerance for the never ending series of slings and arrows that each day managed to nick and cut me enough to draw the blood but which are, at the same time, insufficient in their severity to actually drain me of the entirety of my life force. The drain is palpable, noticeable and in the most ironic sense, intolerable to me, my being, my way of life. Yet there seems to be no escape.

At what point does do I no long suffer the insults and prevarications of the unwise, the unready and the unwilling? Can I spend my whole life trying to amend the misunderstanding and avoid the deliberate misrepresentations that are given to me daily as if they were consensual agreements and plainly spoken truths, or am I obliged to tell the emperor that he has no clothes and that I will not be one of the fools who says nothing, or worse, nod in tacit agreement with his self-delusional falsehoods? When the mirror is held up and the rationalization there observed is 'duly noted' but disregarded, shall I support the illusion that it is the mirror cracked and the eye not blind?

The greatest gift my parents gave me was the education that today gives me at least the perspective to know that the rhetorical questions I pose are just that. I don't have the answers, obviously, not can I reasonably expect one, especially at this age. There is so much for me to learn as an individual organism, knowledge that comes in itself from knowledge. Knowing, as I have since I really began thinking, that all I really know is that I know nothing only drives me harder to understand, but it does nothing to prevent the pain of attachment. I know why old men should be mad indeed.

Still, thus poorly prepared, into the void I press. Though perhaps it ought not be surprising, I find often find, in what I perceive to be uncharted territory, a small cairn, another waypoint left by another lost traveler who no doubt perished from a similar sense of self-doubt only a few hundred yards further into the abyss. Of course, the sight of that deliberate warning is no real deterrent to me because I am that same fool. I know I will press on no matter what discoveries I make; no matter how trivial or rare the sights, I accept the fact that moments of enlightenment, if they come to me at all for, are to be found only on the well worn paths. Though certainly safe, they offer no choices of direction and little comfort for the fatigue that sets after so many footfalls.

Tolerance, it seems, is often more resignation than acceptance; recognition that the world does not change, only our ability to endure it.

Cupid's Revenge

Valentine's Day is coming, and I, for one, just cannot wait.

Not because I have a particular affection for the day, nor because I have a true love for whom this day is always the most romantic of the year thanks to my carefully planned, consummately considerate and unnecessarily extravagantly expensive shower of gifts large and small delivered at various times of the day including dinner at the most romantic restaurant in town.

No, for precisely all the reasons listed after the word 'nor' in the above overburdened sentence, in fact I have a particularly loathing for Valentines Days that is not only earned, but richly deserved.

I'll not speak--much--of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in 1999 that was the worst service experience not only of my life but of at least half a dozen other veteran waiters, those of whom are still in the business recall it with a shudder and no doubt we all still have nightmares about that night. I had ten two-tops; seven of them were seated within ten minutes of each other, and there were ten waiters that night in the same situation.

No, that's not it , but it could be. Oh, it could be. If you were there, you know.

And, though I love my beautiful and decidedly romantic and opulent gift loving bride very much, she shares my loathing for this false holiday. At least, she pretends to actually 'loathe' it when simply 'hate' would probably be enough. And, though it doesn't hurt to give her a pink and white card on the day (or a thirty character text message), as long as we've been together, which is the same length of time that I've been employed in some manner in some restaurant or club somewhere as a waiter, she's never had even the reasonable expectation of eating out at a restaurant. Why? Well, because we have, quite frankly, seen way too much of how you idiots do it to ever want to act that way ourselves. I mean really.

By today, which the day before the day before the actual freakshow, I've already had way too much of you. Oh but dammit, you won't even start filing into the restaurant, Noah's Ark style (two-by-two), for another two days.

Hence this rant, and here's the reason. It starts when too many people ask the same question of me, over and over again. This makes me start to go a little crazy, especially because I am expected to sound all bright and cheery about it.

Now, hard though it might be to believe for the fools trying to secure the reservations, especially at the last minute, of course those exact emotions--cheery and bright--are about the last two feelings I have under consideration. No, I'm actually trying to give another clueless idiot 'the spiel' about what it is 'we are doing' that evening. For chissakes man, we serve dinner here. That's what we are doing! I've got a better question, what the hell are you doing?

Ok, I've answered the phone, so now, depending on at what point it is in the reservation cycle, I have to either listen to complaints about how expensive it is or excuses about why they are calling so late. This goes on, oh, for say, a few months, then, in the last few weeks, we get to the guys, and yes, it is about 200-to-1 guys, who call up and play mindless games like 'Ummm, have you got anything available for next Thursday?'

So that's where we are now. Hmm, they don't even know what day it is? Do they imagine that by pretending not to know what day it is, that they think maybe they can get in by way of their simply being stupidignorfuckingramosness?

Ok, I know that's not even a word of course but it has to be made up, just to be used in this context. I am referring to the braindead guys who cannot fathom the idea of being romantic on any other day than Valentines day and the mediahyped girls who insist that the treatment they receive (or don't) on this day is the accurate measure of all the affection they deserve and/or have been (or not) getting. Further, there is an understanding between both parties that there is an inverse relationship between that feeling and the amount of sex that they will provide. Nuts. A lot of blue nuts at that.

They all--boy diners and girl diners alike--want a quiet romantic table and not be rushed and want the food to be extravagant, and want the wine to be bubbly, and want the waiter to make this the most romantic night ever for the two of them. But to us it isn't even remotely romantic and it is really difficult for us to pretend that it is. In fact, we may be lucky to be working on this 'most important' day, just because it is really sad work; like shooting fish in a barrel.

Honestly, if you love to serve people, you hate to work on Valentine's Day. But if you like sloppin' the hogs, well V Day's the day for you! Good waiters do it because they have to, and most can pull off the act, or they wouldn't be good. But like most actors, you have to really 'connect' with your audience to perform night after night, and on herd nights like VD, it's one tough crowd.

So, by all means, Mr. Desperate Guy, if paying a lot of money to be treated like a herd animal is your idea of a romantic dinner, well, go out on Valentine's Day. But think, man, with your big head for just a minute. For a quarter the cost, you can get all the same shit you're laying out big bucks for on the very next day (it's the 15th, by the way, or the day before,which would be the 13th) and still get laid. Yep.

And think of what she might do if you surprised her with a Valentine's day in say, March? Oh, no, of course not, that's not 'the' day, is it? Cupid is sure enough laughing at your sorry ass!

Dining with the Dubovs

So, I heard on the radio the other morning a story that attempted to explain the relationship between the act of a family eating dinner together and the relative strength or functionality of that family.

The essential premise of the story was that some researchers somewhere had concluded that there was a relationship between communal dining and the relative success of the children in that family. In other words, the idea is that the more often a family eats together, the less likely it is that the children will use or abuse alcohol or drugs and the more likely it is that they will go to school and get good grades. Now, the uselessness of comparing good grades to functionality is not worth mentioning here with more than this dismissal, but I since I am interested to know if our having eaten together as a family since our children were tiny is bound to produce any beneficial effects for our offspring, I want to give the idea some more consideration.

We've eaten together as a family for all of our children's lives. At 18 and 20, they are both about to leave home, and as they do, it's worth wondering, for me anyway, whether or not all those meals together had the intended good. After all, we are not without difficulties here in this family, with grades and drugs both. Yet, in spite of our tribulations, I have never felt our problems, or those of our children to be impossible to overcome, nor so inevitable as to be pointless to struggle against. In fact, dinner time has been our most interesting time as a family; it is when we've manged to reach our most solid agreements, and come to some spectacularly showy disagreements!

A communal meal is a crucible for human behavior I believe. On this Valery and I agreed long before we had children, and we've made every effort to make dinner in our house a welcoming and warm social event. Of course it doesn't hurt that Valery is fabulous cook, but I can say with some pride that it was most often to our table that our children's friends flocked over the years, and many still do. Few have failed to jump at the invitation to return our table once they've been there just once. More than one of Pierre's and Maddie's friends have told us how much they've enjoyed our table and the pleasure of being a part of our 'banquets', even though they were really simple but freshly prepared meals

We've done this over the years as a matter of principle; a 'food is free' sort of philosophy, and not as an inocculation for our children's health or to boost their grades so they can get better jobs. No, we ate dinner together it because it seemed, and of course, still does, like the right thing to do. We actually enjoy each other's company. Everyone gets to have their say. The small details that get swallowed up so fast in life these days are made meaningful in the time we have together. We talk of the most minute daily happenings and thoughts, plan, dream and tease each other. We reminisce and speak often of our cats, those children to our children who also fill our lives with love and affection.

The conversation at our table is not always deep but most often we find a way to have a laugh or two and perhaps share some wonderment at the world. This is what I try specifically to bring to the table. Lynda used to say that there are three things you can talk about: people, things or ideas. For my part, I love talking about the latter. I love to talk about the art thoughts and ideas that have changed or are changing the world; dreams are not to be discounted and generosity of thought and spirit is to be reinforced.

The question is, has it made any difference?

Interestingly, this is the exact opposite direction from the one that the radio story took, choosing instead to test the premise that eating together more frequently would and could somehow help the dis-functional family. In other words, the premise was that dinner's magical 'family-regenerating' power has already been proven. It is like a medication; take two of these a week and your family's mental will improve. Oh, and your kids will get better grades. Right.

I guess I am torn here because I so obviously believe that that eating together is among the most important and oldest of human traditions, yet I also remain unconvinced that it in fact holds the power that I once thought it did. Despite the double negativity, that seems to sum it up pretty well. While I am obliged to admit that the alternative couldn't have been better, and therefore conclude that it is clear that my misgivings are mostly self-directed doubt, questions like these are the essence of my thoughts.

Banks: Tiny Cuts

I've just had a most intense and unpleasant conversation with an employee in the collection department of US Bank. I want to write down some of what just happened and try to capture the relevant facts in order to be able to write a letter to the bank, explaining my position.

What happened was this. I received a bill from US bank last September or October for $44.19 as the final payment for our 2002 Miata, which we traded in for the 08 in August.

Ok, fine, I did see that there was one last little payment to be made to clear up the paperwork, but I didn't get around to paying it till January because, quite honestly, car payments aren't in my usual 'roll' of monthly electronic payments. I had to write a check and mail it in. This I did in January. The man with whom I had the dispute this morning, 'Dan', even confirmed this. He told me that the bank had received it on the 8th of January. Well, of course, he had to tell me this because his point was that the bank had received the check but had 'Returned' it to 'Maker'. Hmmm. I am getting ahead of myself here a bit.

Today I got a call from my man Dan in the collections department at US Bank. Though I missed the call, I called him right back. He knew who I was, amazingly, and quickly explained to me that the reason he'd called was to inform me I now owed the bank at total $64.19 because my check for $44.19 had been marked 'Return to Maker' on or after the 8th. As a result, he told me, I had been assessed a $20 fine or 'processing charge'.

Now, interestingly, I received a statement from US Bank in January, which showed a total due of 64.19 and itemizing the $20 as processing fee, I think. There was, however, no explanation as to what that was for and why it was being assessed, as in, why my check was being 'Returned To Maker'. So, looking at the statement, I guessed that they hadn't received my check (or processed it) in time for the statement to be printed, thus the still-due $44.19 plus $20. I figured that I would get another statement with the $44.19 deducted and that if the $20 continued to show up as due, I'd either call the bank and dispute the $20 because it was in fact paid on time, or just call it quits and send them $20. Nonetheless, there was no clear explanation on the statement ha there had been a problem with my check.

Enter Dan. I told him this, but no, he thinks he's got a deadbeat here. As far as he's concerned, the 'Return To Maker' on my record is the same as 'NSF' or "Not Sufficient Funds' and that equals 'Deadbeat' in his (presumably rather small) book. Never mind that the marker 'RTM' was in fact issued by his institution, US Bank, for reasons not made clear, either to me or Dan, and that I was not aware, until the phone call, that there had even been a problem with my check!

Now, often it takes several weeks to process paper these days, so it didn't surprise me to *not* see it on my statement online (which I check regularly, as in, daily). However, to this guy, Dan, there was simply no possibility that the amount could be in dispute. I explained that I didn't actually dispute owing the $44.19. In fact, I pointed out, I had tried to pay it. But, I said, I did (and still do) actually dispute whether or not I in fact owe US bank $20 for what seems very likely to me to be their mistake, not mine.

This I posited to Dan. I asked if he thought that it was possible that US Bank had erred in marking my check 'RTM'. This, he admitted, was possible. If this was so, I concluded, it was then also possible that I wouldn't actually owe the $20. He said yes, it was possible that I might not owe the $20. But, he reasoned, I still had to pay the full 64.19 immediately because, technically, this disagreement we were having didn't amount to a 'dispute'. I thought this was interesting, especially because we were just about to have our real dispute. No, he contended obstinately, I needed to pay it all now and, if the bank had indeed made a mistake, they would reimburse me, possibly with a small ($5) remuneration by way of apology. Oh the irony! His or mine though, I don't know for sure.

At this point, he offered to basically split the difference with me. He said that if I'd pay with a credit/debit card over the phone right then, he could and would use his 'power' to waive the $20 late fee, or processing fee or whatever we were calling it by this time. However, he said he'd still have to charge me $10 for making the payment on the phone. Now, to be fair, to his way of thinking, this was half what I 'owed', but to me it was still $10 more than I owe.

Ok, I said, I'll pay on the phone, but I won't pay the phone processing charge. Why, I asked, should I pay for the $10 of paying my bill on the phone, when I really hadn't intended to pay on the phone (expressly to avoid paying the fee associated with that form of payment) in the first place. Further, I wouldn't even need to be doing it now, except for the fact that I'd actually called him back (on my dime) and was for still unknown reasons, patiently trying to resolve the issue by promising to pay. I was firm, though, that I'd only pay for what I knew I owed. I stood firm on disputing the portion that I did not believe I owed the bank.

This, I think, caused his head to explode. It really set him off. He asked if I thought that this was a 'dictatorship'. In a somewhat parental tone, he proceeded to tell me that he was the one who was telling me what to do, not the other way around. He further told me, in an equally stern voice, that he was not prepared to offer me anything other than 1) the chance to pay now or 2) have him make a 'note that the customer will not pay'. I had to tell him he should actually not 'note' that because it wasn't true; I repeated that I was willing to pay the original amount due but not the fine.

His tone became increasing ruder as he attempted and failed to bully me into making payment. Immediately. Next, essentially, he tried to blackmail me by telling me that unless I paid right then, at that moment, on the phone, nothing less than the $54.19 that he was demanding, he would report to the bank that I was actually refusing to pay.

At this point, feeling that threats of this nature aren't sanctioned behavior and that I should report it, I asked to speak to his supervisor. Conveniently, Dan told me that said supervisor 'was not available'. Since it now seemed to me that that speaking to someone else wasn't going to be an option, I asked him if the conversation was being recorded. This was a bit of a bluff, of course, but at least since they threaten you with this at the beginning of every call (I suspect to deter people from cursing at the collection reps) and I'd been unfailingly polite throughout the conversation, I thought it might be to my advantage. To this query, he sounded surprised and asked why I asked. I said that I at least hoped someone would listen to it and see that he was being rude, uncooperative, and unnecessarily so, especially because I was actually explicitly offering to pay the original amount due.

Our dispute, of course, is not about that amount, but the other charges that I feel are being unfairly assessed, however they are labeled. Curiously, since I waste a lot more than $20 every week on frivolities, I find myself engaged in this disagreement for no reason other than the mere principle. This to me is a sort of quixotic quest I often find myself embroiled in. It happens to me whenever some large company demands a very small amount of money from me for reasons that have nothing do do with the service or goods the company actually provided and everything to do with the institution trying to assert its power over an individual. But why?

Indeed, what gain is in it for the big company? Punishment? Deterrence? No, I think it is simple greed, at a corporate policy level. It's not an individual's greed--certainly not Dan's, who shouldn't even care whether or not I actually send in $44.19 or $54.19. I mean, what's it to him?

The answer is, naturally, 'nothing' really. But, I maintain that, it is a matter of corporate policy/culture, which is what Dan is blindly following and was trying so desperately to adhere to in his conversation with me, I think for no other reason than his desire to keep his job.

On the larger scale, here's what I think is happening. The institution has it set up as a matter of corporate policy so that hundreds of thousands, if not millions of 'customers' are subjected to a million or even a billion 'tiny cuts' or fees, processing charges, late fees, and fines. These tiny cuts are really a hemmorage, adding up to untold billions of dollars in 'slush money'. And this practice is very hard to detect because is not as discrete or even as obvious as the outrageous ATM fees we are being charged every day just to see or use or own money, and nobody seems to be complaining about $3.50 ATM fees that meet the legal definition of usery.

Yes, the fight is indeed quixotic, but I can't help it. Some foolish clerk like Dan gets it in his head that he can be righteously indignant with me on the part of his company because he 'knows' that I am 'deadbeat' because of the 'evidence' he has in front of him and off I go! Again, never mind that it's all manufactured by the company (including his very 'collections agent' job) as a revenue stream that goes directly to the bottom line. And that's a best-case scenario. I am being generous, though for no good reason I can see.

In any case, I told him I was going to pay, by check, tomorrow. I told him further that I would include with it a letter explaining my position and outlining my complaints not just against US Bank for mishandling this whole process, but specifically to the individual who was so unnecessarily uncooperative and rude in his attempt to collect the money. Dan wasn't having this. Finally, after reiterating his intent to 'note' that I was 'refusing to pay', he told me I could leave a message on his supervisor's voice mail. This I did, in a clear and calm voice, and left my number for him/her to call me back. I do not expect a call.

Contemplation

Interestingly, after months of constant thought about Lynda, it was thoughts about my father which dominated yesterday after an email exchange with my brother prompted me to think of him. Suddenly I find myself missing him, wondering what kind of counsel he might offer me these days. It's been so long since I even considered how much I used to talk with him that I am surprised. Of course, it is natural that the last year focused my attention on my mother, to the detriment of not just my father's memory. Unfortunately, I haven't forgotten his kindness and willingness to listen, but I do not seem to have inherited these traits.

Lost, then, in the drive to work and fundamentally need to support myself and my family, is the tenderness and understanding that comes with contemplation. Bill certainly had time for thought, and at the end of his life, reached a kind of spiritual understanding that I secretly mocked but in hindsight it appears to have been out of envy more than spite, since I understand endemically that I will not ever reach a similar understanding, my tendency to think constantly notwithstanding. No, thought for me leads to action, not paralysis, mostly because I think my thoughts are in keeping with the majority of human contemplation, mundane and boring, elevated only past the functions of eating and excretion by a single degree. It is that very degree of separation which leads me inevitably to work.

Unlike more powerful and imaginative thinkers such as my father, I am not really capable of generating much creative thought in an abstract sense, so I am instead driven to act, to do something with my time that at least allows me the illusion of being productive, even if it is nothing more than a sysiphyian task. Also unlike those individuals such as Bill who are able to think clearly enough to see the result and therefore determine that the effort to get there is not worth it, I have no such clear vision and must, in a the most clouded of states, plod forward like a draught horse in the furrows, glad for the direction if a little melancholy that the path is forever straight. Free from these constraints, creative individuals are capable of much greater imaginative constructions (if only, in some cases, merely mental) can indeed soar to great heights, though I confess from where I stood, it seemed like my father could get no further than the kitchen table on most days.

Oh well, while I do realize that my limitations need not be imposed on others in my care, I cannot help but wonder what it would be like if I could in fact keep from allowing my personal shortcomings (as in, the absence of creative vision and compassion for the purely contemplative life) from hindering those around me. Here's a thought: If in fact, I could remove, or even diminish the destructive tendencies I have imposed on others, would the lives of those oppressed by those tendencies be bettered, or would they simply seek out another source of opposition?

Sleep

As I opened the door to check on Pierre as I do every morning, I heard the sound of a gentle snore coming from his bed. Kitties bounded for the open door. I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief knowing that he is finally getting some sleep. I think it's been at least a week since he's gotten any serious sleep. Many months of erratic rest patterns have left him frayed and too tired to function effectively.

I've had more time to think about what to do for him, and the more I think about it, the more it seems reasonable to ask him to try and go back to school. Of course, I have ideas about what he should take and why, but these ideas, like many before that I have needlessly imposed on him, are best left unsaid, and, for that matter, even unanticipated, since it is far more likely that he'll find his way without my self-interested guidance. I have hope that he'll actually get some measure of an education in the actual classroom, since so much of what he's learned so far has been on the streets, so to speak. It's been good for him, I guess, in the way that all experience, if it doesn't kill you, is good because it makes you stronger and wiser or both.

Of course, the danger remains that he'll want to party like most students do, but this danger will always be present for him, and by living in our house, he would be inclined to moderate that behavior in the interest of getting along with us, I hope. And, if some serious partying is called for, he can always go hang out at one of his friends' place till he sobers up enough to return home.

At this point, I think I can do the most good for him, Valery and Maddie by providing a safe, non-threatening environment that is free from the kind of expectations and resulting guilt I have imposed on him in the past. Sadly, it seems as if I'm doing no different or better than I was when he was an infant; essentially making it up as I go along.

I do have the benefit of hindsight, now, however, and if I'm paying attention, I think I can do better, or, at least, differently. In this case, I think that reduced expectations for employment will result in reduced anxiety and therefore give him the room he needs to grow. It's a gamble of sort; allowing him the freedom to plan his life without the artificial demands on his time that work will impose might just also give him the ability to see how he can contribute, not just to our household, but to society itself. And that would be the first real step towards his independence.

Coming Home

After spending a couple of days on his own in the outdoors with his friend Brenden, Pierre came home last night exhausted and very down. He said it is the lowest he's ever been, and I do believe him, based on nothing more than his appearance, which was beaten down to say the least. He said he was exhausted because he had been up for two days fighting off mountain lions in the woods behind Brenden's parents' lake house.

Although it sounds incredible, it seems likely that he had very much the experience that he related. The lack of sleep and anxiety he was feeling when he went out to Brenden's may well have contributed to the surreality of this tale, but I don't doubt that he encountered something threating. Though incredulous, seeing his saucer-like eyes and imminent physical breakdown, I accepted his story at face value. I told him to take a warm shower and crawl into bed, but this wasn't what he expected to do. It has been so long since he's slept well, I'm afraid--and so is he--that he doesn't expect to ever sleep well again. It is true, he is suffering from exhaustion due to the lack of sleep, but there are some physical forces from which he is not immune. Of course, the problem is deeper than than the absence of sleep.

This deeper problem is really not about drug use or abuse either, though this has been a frequent lightning rod for our common difficulties, principally because the anxiety he experiences predates his drug use by many years. The 'alone-ness' that he fears so much just closes in on him when the lights are out and he's alone in bed. This happens--and has happened since he was an infant--no matter how close I am because I'm still not 'there' in his head, and, of course, can't really be much closer than the next room. But simply knowing this is not enough to render the fear inert, so it remains his fate to struggle with it after I leave, and mine to wish I could, for even a moment, alleviate his fears and doubts.

Doubts are something else I am not able to address adequately for him, nor should I really, since all I can do is reassure him as to my own feelings of confidence, and these, alas, he does not share. He is, after all, so very much like my father in this regard; he said yesterday he'd never heard the term 'inferiority complex' before, and it occurs to me that he likely has not heard it from me, as I have never wanted to reinforce that stereotype as a description for his condition. Yet this is, after all, an adequate descriptor, and if it helps him come to terms with the anxiety and depression that are the principal symptoms of it then it is good. What isn't good, of course, is the fact that he suffers so, and I am still struggling with ways to help him cope.

This is especially hard for the two of us as I am the source of so much of his anxiety and perhaps the self doubt as well. Certainly I realize now that it is too much to ask him to go find work right now, at his age and in his condition. Most people his age and of his background are in college right now, and it seems to me that this would be the best place for him after all.

He was unsuccessful in his first two semesters, but there are plenty of students, including me, who have struggled in this very way before finding their feet, so to speak, and it is time to give Pierre another chance to pursue this path. After all, it is more than a day care; going to college will expose him to the ideas and history he needs to fashion his own philosophy and help him establish the underpinnings of knowledge that will lead, hopefully, to a sense of self-worth. At the very least, he'll be more qualified to get meaningful work as he progresses, and when he finishes he may well have decided what to do next.

His confusion is certainly understandable at this point, and I clearly haven't given him enough moral support to overcome it by demanding that he go to work. It's time for me to rescind that demand, and in it's place I will put a request that he try again to go to school. Certainly, if he will promise not to hurt himself and do his best to get along with us at home while going to school, he can and should live at home. Effectively, classes don't begin again till the fall, so he can use the intervening months to rest, heal and try to regain sufficient composure to make the best of it when it comes around.

For my part, I will withdraw from the constant oversight, and allow him the privacy of his physical and mental spaces. I also resolve to be more understanding, or, barring that since I cannot 'really' understand the tribulations of his mind and see only the outward manifestations of those often menacing thoughts, I will allow him to talk about those demons without predisposition, interruption or self-relation, since these terms are either unnecessary or irrelevant. Like Maddie's dreamtime, the feelings that he experiences are not only real, but personally significant, and deserve to be treated with respect. His pain is real, and ironically, my inability to help him resolve it is only exacerbated by my love for him and desire to help. a, then, that those efforts have only made things worse of late, but it isn't irreversible.

Better, really, that he seek help from Valery, whose demeanor has remained calm of late when my has boiled; whose love has remained constant and whose support has been unwavering through these many years. It seems cliche, but I think that the kind of healing he requires now is that of a mother. He needs to be fed and clothed and taken care of now, more than ever, when he is so very vulnerable and Valery is just the person to do that. She understands how to be caring without being overbearing; how to be kind with being soft; how to be sensible without being demanding. It is a delicate balance, one that I can only admire and hope to keep from upsetting by simply staying out of the way!

Change is Coming

This past week I put in motion my plan to move to part-time at Hudson's, doing just the wine on the weekends so I can work full time at the the University and maximize my benefits here in the years before I retire. I told Sara first, since the reality of the change will affect her first and foremost. Her reaction was calm, but I do think the news was upsetting.

I'm sure that it can't help but have been upsetting to her, especially because after I've just gotten settled in as the manager at Hudson's with two years under my belt, here I am leaving. For a minute or two there, and admittedly in many moments since, it sure didn't seem right to do this to her, but honestly I've thought it through so many times that I know I'm doing the right thing. Sara, after all, now has Jeff, and the two of them are so well suited to each other and running the restaurant that I am not needed, certainly not in the sense I was when I took the job. 6needed; it means that the definition of the job has changed and so have I, and now it's time for a re-alignment of my work and my life. I want to stay at Hudson's and this is what I told Sara, then Jeff, that I have to think about my life in long terms, and part of that means preparing my retirement benefits after so long at UT. It seems selfish but it's really self-serving, which in this case is more than a semantic difference.

Over time, I have served many people in many capacities, not the least of which is in the preparation and delivery of food, which seems to be my special place in this world. But I have also served people in a much different way at the University, and I also have a passion for information technology. It's been an interesting balancing act, but I have always managed to keep them both in my life, or at least for the past fifteen years or so. But now I may be coming to a parting of the two. I've made my case to Jeff; I think I've served him and his business well; I feel that I really do add value to his restaurant as the wine steward, and I don't think he needs another assistant manger to do the kinds of tasks I've been doing for the past two years. The only question is, whether or not he'll find my services valuable enough to retain despite my part-time status. He said that he may need to offer the incentive of the wine income to attract an assistant manager to do the job, and if this the case, he'll have to let me go.

"Let's put a hook in the water," he said, which I took to mean that he'll see if he can find someone who'll fill in the gaps I'd leave if I was allowed to do the wine only on Friday and Saturdays nights. The unsaid but understood subtext to this comment is that if someone of sufficient quality nibbles at the hook, but requires the wine as bait to bite, then the income will be offered, and I'll be out of a job if it looks good enough to reel someone in (just to make this sophomoric fishing metaphor complete).

We agreed that he would think about it during his two-week vacation to Aspen, though I hope he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking or talking about me. Not that I wouldn't like to be thought of, especially kindly, my situation isn't something he need dwell on, nor is he likely to, I imagine, since it is a relatively simply matter to find a replacement for me. After all, as he pointed out, this being the number one restaurant means that he is able to choose from among the best in the business. Doubtless there are actual sommeliers out there who would love the prestige that Hudson's would bring to their resume, though it remains to be seen if they could be enticed not only to work out at the lake, but in the often peculiar Hudson's environment.

In other words, they'd have to get past Sara, and that's not easy. Now, if she could be convinced that a particular individual could/would be right for the job, then she would do just what I expect and serve the best interests of the restaurant by letting me go. I don't think this is likely, but it is possible. In any case, I expect that the best outcome will be what happens. No sense trying to predict, just let it come to me.

Back to Work

Well, I am clean-shaven and my clothes are laid out like it was the first day I ever went to work. Just a week off and really only 'half off' like some post-xmas sale, and yet I am eager to get back to work full time. It is difficult to explain to people like Pierre, who cannot fathom why I'd waste my time on the endless cycle of getting up and going to work, but this makes me feel better than any drug I've ever known. I've craved the experience of working since, well, before I ever knew what it was/is. It's sort of like sex that way. I knew I wanted it, just not why or how at first. I'm still not too sure on the why part, but I got the how figured out a long time ago.

In the interaction between the philosophical the practical, it seems to me that the latter is obviously preventing Pierre from getting a job right now, but I suspect there is more difficulties with the former, since motivation seems to be distinctly lacking. I am partially to blame for this, for not putting more pressure on him to get up and seek work every day. Today, for example, he has just gotten up at 10:50 and is in the shower. I leave for work at 11:20, so it is likely that he'll not be particularly diligent in his search because he knows I won't be back till late.

Parental pressure notwithstanding, it is difficult for me to impart the sense of need that accompanies my desire to work. I have hope that it will, in time, emerge as he seeks independence and decides to do what it takes to achieve that goal, no matter how antithetical it may be to the underlying principle he holds. Further, it is relevant that he would have a different position than mine, for this is growth itself, and I am here to support the development however I can. We will have to have moments of compromise and consideration, but I think eventually he'll find a path that is self-sustaining and, hopefully, fulfilling in some way as well.

Vacation

As I reach the end of my first 'vacation' in more than two years, it occurs to me that I really haven't taken enough time 'for me' in the that span, and the term 'long overdue' is simply an understatement. In fact, I am starting to think that I've spent way too much time at work my whole life, and that my sense of obligation to my family is now being challenged by my desire to take care of myself, mentally as well as physically.

Though it still seems like an outrageous idea, I am beginning to think more and more about 'retirement' or at least quitting one of my jobs so that I can have some free time in addition to earning that all important living. Now that Valery is working, it is less urgent for me to maintain my income level, and this may allow me to make some changes. Interestingly, I haven't really done anything significant during this time off from the restaurant, mostly because it hasn't been a 'complete' vacation, that is, I haven't had off from UT during this time so there really hasn't been time to work on anything significant.

Nonetheless, it has been good not to have to work doubles three days a week, and this alone has made it worthwhile. I have managed to get a few things done, small chores though they were, it is significant that I was able to anything at all. Quite a change from the past year!

Coming Back

It is hard to read yesterday's entry without wondering how I get away with feeling sorry for myself like that. It was indeed a dark day but I am disturbed by the ease with which it seems I gave in to those oppressive forces.

Today certainly a different day, and though perhaps no better, it is really an indication that the claims of yesterday were into the realm of hyperbole. I will try to reserve those passages for my private journal and save the reader from the burden of material made heavy for it's own sake.

Not that this will become an absolute beacon of light and happiness, for I am only in a slightly better mood today, which means that the words will only creep up to that point and retreat before it gets out of hand. I began this move toward the light just after writing yesterday, when Valery and I went to see a matinee showing of No Country for Old Men.

This is not the place for a film review, but I must say that it affected me deeply. For one thing, it is a movie about Texas, which came as a pleasant surprise because although it was a violent story it was not the usual lampoon of the Texas culture, but rather an introspective visit to the landscape and language that I recall as a child. The way people talk in the film has such variance and similitude all at the same time, it is easy to see why the Texas culture has formed the kernel of a national fascination while at the same time leaving itself open to ridicule. We do look and sound pretty folksy while being brutish and cruel, but this is no accident. The need to wrap the unceasingly violent nature of frontier culture in clever aphorisms delivered in a rhythmic clipped cadence is necessary to make sense of it. Intellectual posturing has no place in that country, and should you grow nostalgic as you grow older, it will kill you.

The film made me aware in my moment of darkness, however, and in this small movement I found myself on the other side of the looking glass. Looking for reason and hope in death is a futile task, and I will not pursue it any longer. There is too much to be gained by looking forward and too much to be lost by looking back. In those moments when it seems that I cannot escape the heavy blanket of despair, I will recall what a waste of time to linger under it's weight and resolve to cast it off as the vain self-pity that it is.

I had a chance to talk with Valery last night for the first time in a long time and this too is what helped me find my center. With her clear common sense and unwavering support for me even when I'm in the throes of self-flagellation, she is the inspiration I need to find my new purpose in the coming days and months. She invariably holds up the mirror for me in such facility that I am amazed I didn't see it before, but then, such is the nature of her skill that I should expect it.

Curator

Well, re-reading Lynda's statement after I posted it below, it occurred to me that I am now the owner of all that she discarded, the result of the life-long process of creation that she cultivated. It is essentially a waste product, what is left after the creative energy of a living person has been charged with the act of rearranging the world on some miniscule level, and I am now the curator of the same.

The word 'curator' sounds so much better than 'collector', but after acknowledging that there is some responsibility for preservation associated with curating art as opposed to simply storing objects, I conclude that the two roles are in essence the same. Would that I had inherited some of that energy, but it seems clear that I not a creator but a 'keeper of things', or a curator. It is becoming clear to me that in this world, my role is not to add to the inventiveness of the human condition, but to preserve it, in the hopes that some other creative soul will see and resonate with it. The two roles of curator and creator are inextricably linked, in much the same way dung beetles are linked to excrement.

But so far all I've managed to do is get the things together and store them crudely. This is hardly the effort required to preserve them and much more deserving of the term collector. It remains to be seen whether or not I will have even the energy required to store these object properly, let alone catalogue and record them, but for now I will stay with my long-stated intent to preserve Lynda's works so that her life-long efforts will not have been in vain. Seeing her struggle for so many years with identity and recognition issues, I had hoped to be a part of the solution, but now that she is dead, I am not so sure that I can live up to the promise made. How and where I will find the time and energy to complete the task is beyond me.

It is a dark day today, but it is not the only day.

Lynda's Statement

While as a painter I feel I have in my possession the means of moving others in the direction in which I myself am driven, I doubt whether I can give the same sure lead by the use of words alone.

Paul Klee
From On Modern Art

This quote from Paul Klee illustrates quite clearly my feelings about my ability to communicate my feelings on the subject of art using only the written word. To put it more plainly, I think painters ought to paint and not talk. This does not mean that I have not given much time and thought as well as many hours of reading to the subject of art. This craving for a small piece of insight that will fit into the human mosaic has been with me the whole of my intellectual life. And yet, I ask myself while reading about chaos, heresy or the history of myth: What has this to do with painting and drawing? Well it has everything to do with the chase for the nuances in my art.

Klee says it more eloquently when he observes that, "The deeper [the painter] looks [into the world], the more readily he can extend his views from the present to the past, and the more deeply he is impressed by the one essential image of creation itself, as genesis, rather than by the image of nature, the finished product."

How does an artist trace the roots of creativity? From whence comes the impulse to take up the brush, pen or chisel? I speak for myself alone. I feel as if I have never spoken of this or even allowed myself to reflect on it. But I have. This need and the longing to take up brush and pen was such a strong impulse, almost beyond my control, that I must acknowledge that I have been talking about these feelings for more than twenty years on canvas and paper.

Often I am asked, as I am sure most artists are: What does it mean? Do you just splash a bit of color about at random? What were you thinking about at the time of creation? Well, I answer this differently at different times, but essentially I answer the question with a question (or two or three): What does it say to you? What do you see? Can you enter into a dialog with the painting? With the person who can answer these question, I can discuss the feelings we might share. To the person who feels that the work violates the natural order of things and is offended by it, I say: Examine your reaction. If my work suggests to you more than you need or if it touches a delicate nerve, then look closer. You may see yourself all too clearly in the drawing from which you seek to escape.

I believe that my task as an artist is not to hold up a mirror that will be a slavish imitation of nature's forms and gestures. I believe that my art will reveal new forms born of the ancient tension between order and chaos. Listen if you can. Read my language in my art.Though all the years, deep inside, I have known that this is who I am and that this is what I want to do with my life. It is my first thought in the morning and my last at night. I dream ideas to fill the paper. As I look at the world with all its color, the nuances of a shadow on a tree, the clouds, the faces of children, all these images are stored in my memory bank to be recalled when needed.

I cannot here express the sheer pleasure of color that flows on paper or the shapes that fill the space. What happens to the piece after I am finished is of less significance to me than was the act of making it. This piece may be sold, stored, painted over or even destroyed. Nothing slows the pace. I go on to a new canvas and the process begins again.

Lynda Dubov
February 1999

Ups and Downs

Of course I never expected that my thoughts and feelings about Lynda's death would go away, but I had some anticipation of a steadily diminishing sense of both the relief and grief that I have been feeling, but I find this is not the case. Instead, it comes and goes, sometimes in the most overwhelming way.

Yesterday I found myself almost paralyzed by the thoughts of Mom and the last few months of her life. Of course it doesn't help that I continue to follow the same paths to work that take me by her old house, but following an old (convenient) routine can't be the cause of the sickeningly rapid descents into depression I have felt in the last couple of days. These emotional spikes are no more than that--fleeting feelings--and while they do not (and cannot) deserve to be ignored, it certainly does me no advantage to experience them. I am not used to feelings of futility or despair. These are not only unfamiliar, they are antithetical to me. I have no use for despair! There is too much to be done!

Indeed. 'Get up, make your bed and go to work' That way Lynda's mantra, if you will, and it has long also been mine. My goal for the next two months will be to compile the materials for the book about Lynda that I want to publish. This will be part of the preparations for the memorial we plan to hold for her friends and family in April or May so that will mean writing more and more often, and certainly about less morose and depressing subject than my feelings. The point of this journal is to purge the feelings and thoughts, of course, but more importantly it helps me to keep focused on the life ahead, not that left behind.

Time Passes

Well, it has been more than a month since Lynda's death, and it is no coincidence that this is the first entry I've made since. It isn't that is has been difficult to write, though that may have something to do with it as far as the mechanics are concerned, but as important as it was to express myself in words during the last few weeks of Mom's life, it was equally important to get on with my life after being released from the ever-present obligation that was her care in my life of late, and writing naturally has fallen to the bottom of the list of things to do.

And there are many of those things on that list, chief among them being R&R for myself and time to spend with my family. Pierre is back at home, struggling to find himself but working at it with sufficient diligence to warrant my approval and support. Maddie will only be at home for another few months, then she'll fly the coop, likely forever, so it is important to spend some time with her and with Pierre now, to try and balance out the time spent on Lynda this past year.

And time for myself is also important, so I've already managed to get out for a brief round of golf with my friend Blake. Though I've not made good on it this week or last, I do intend to dedicate some time every week to spoiling a good walk, as it were. Hancock golf course is just nine holes and only a few block from UT, so hopefully I'll manage to get out on a Monday afternoon or two per month.

There are house repairs to take care of, as well, and though it doesn't sound like a satisfying personal experience to have the bathroom repaired, it is in fact a great relief to have it done for us instead of by me! This means I am free to put up bookshelves etc and generally bring the house into line with our needs and desires. Next will be the kitchen, which we will also pay someone to do with the hope of enjoying it before we have to move out!

So all in all, it has been a great great relief to be living my life again these past few weeks. There have been a few moments of tears and pangs of regret that certain things will remain forever unsaid or unknown, but these moments are fewer and further between.

I am now starting to think about all the people who helped me get through this and thinking I need to acknowledge them in some way. It is hard to express the depth of my gratitude or even to remember who is on the list of deserving and helpful individuals such has been the tumult of the past dozen or so months. Likely I'll not manage to remember all who deserve thanks, but as I regain my strength and energy I will find a way to work toward repaying these folks with my actions as well as my words.

Yesterday Was the Day

Well, at long last we reach the end of this part of Lynda's story. She died yesterday about 5pm, peacefully and in no pain or discomfort. Though I wasn't with her, it was nice to know that Cheryl was, and that the smells of good food and the sound family talk and laughter were filling the house. What better way to pass on than with the smells of food and the chatter of family in the background?

Of course, now there are any number of things that have to be done before the last page is written, and it is my intent to follow up on these words by continuing to write about our lives together. This is her legacy to me now; I am released as the writer I've always wanted to be, and, beginning with the fertile ground of our memories, I will be able to raise more than just maudlin recollections, reaching instead for those resonances that I know to be to essence of being and being together.

Today is not a day when I have much to say. The tears long held back do not seem to be near the surface, yet I am sure there'll be a moment when it'll feel good to cry. Right now, the feeling is one of relief, both for her and, quite frankly for myself, since I have not had much opportunity for recreation in the past year. Selfish though it may be, I am now free to spend my time in pursuit of the things I enjoy, like playing golf! This is a pleasure I've not had enough of lately and now I will be able to pursue it without feeling conflicted.

There are many other such conflicts now resolved by Lynda's death, and though I will be absent the great friend and loving person that was my Mother, I am finally grown up. No longer the son, I am now the father, and a new chapter begins.

Thanksgiving

Well, today is Thanksgiving, and Lynda is still with us. I seriously thought yesterday was going to be 'the' day, as when I arrived after work about 3, she was very drawn and of course as unresponsive as has become the norm in just this past week.

I think she knew that Steve and I were there, but we sat and talked about life and family as if she was part of the circle even as she would stop breathing for so long that we were compelled to get up and see if this was the last. But it wasn't and after a couple of hours, we both went home to take care of the ordinary chores of life. Honestly, I lay down and took a nap. Funny how easy it is to feel guilty for what should be an easy gift to oneself, but the nap felt good as did dinner, which Valery had prepared while I was sleeping.

I went back to Lynda's after dinner to read and just listen to the rhythm of her breathing, which, oddly enough, was much more regular and therefore much less alarming. After a few hours it seemed as though she was going to make it through the night, and, apparently, she did. I haven't called yet this morning but I will as soon as I get ready to go visit.

Thanksgiving is a big day at the restaurant. It's one of the three days of the year that we serve brunch, so the joint will be jumping from 11 am to about 11 pm. Sara is opening today but I have to go in before it gets too busy so I'm 'in the flow' so to speak as we really get busy in mid-afternoon. Today is cold and windy, so it promised to be a tough sell for the patio tables and nothing in the yard, which may prove to be our undoing. Nonetheless, Sara is very gifted at this sort of thing, so while I'm nervous about how it will all work out, I'm also convinced by experience that it will indeed. I do look forward to coming home to our own Thanksgiving day table, which will hopefully still be littered with the remains of many delicious foods and surrounded by a sated and happy family.

The table has always been the focus of our home life. We always at dinner together as a family when I worked only at UT, while the children were growing up. We made a tradition of every day being thanksgiving, since Valery and I agreed that it wasn't just on the November holiday that one should be thankful. So we began every meal, and still do, by joining hands and being thankful to the Lord for bringing us all together and in good health for 'one more day'. Each day that I said this prayer I though of Lynda first, knowing that 'the' day would eventually come and being as grateful as I knew how that 'that' day was not 'the' day.

Well, 'the' day may finally have come and guess what? It's actually Thanksgiving! Lynda and Bill were married on Thanksgiving in 1955, so the day has been a melancholy one for her since his death in 1981. I doubt she actually knows what day it is, though, and for many reasons I actually hope that she doesn't die today. Not least because it would then be associated with the day for us, but also because it's likely to spoil Cheryl's Thanksgiving day feast, which she is holding for her family at the house. She's been such a kind and wonderful caregiver, I would hate to burden her so on this day. There is nothing I can do about it, though, except get dressed and go see her. So I shall.

A penny's worth of beans...

I am a middle child, first son of Lynda's second husband, properly named Wilbur Earl but called Bill all his life. The connotations of this birth position are many but it is mentioned here with one purpose: to illustrate the fact that I was, all my life, also the son of an older-than-average mother, one who could actually claim to have lived through the Depression. And, oh did she!

Lynda's first husband, Jack, was killed in the War, and left her with a three year old son, my brother Stephen, and a daughter, my sister Anne, not due for three months. Technically, they are in fact my half-siblings, but I have never thought of them as anything other than my brother and sister. When you are young, such distinctions are meaningless, and when you are older, if you have a good relationship with your siblings, as I hope I do, the distinction is of even less significance because of all we have shared over the years. This relationship that we have in common is much more than a mother, it is a lifetime of memories with still more to come. What was significant, though, especially when I was young because it was so unavoidable, was the difference in our ages. Stephen in thirteen years older than I; Anne is ten.

The other unavoidable consequence of having a mother born in 1917 was, as I've said, the fact that she had lived through the Depression. That the one with the capital 'D'. Now, for the generation ahead of me, or, even half a generation, in the case of my older siblings, this situation may have been considered normal, as they were indeed only one memory away from that terrible time.

But for me, having a mother would could not just recall being poor (as we certainly were still), but desperately so, was a condition that made my situation unique, or at lest it felt that way to me, sitting at the dinner table, staring down that last horrible pile of cold and nasty rutabagas with the admonition that I would not be relieved of my self-imposed nightmare until they were all consumed because once, a long time ago...

"When I was a girl," the story began. It always began the same way, of course, because it was the kind of story that you really only needed to hear once to remember, but it was trotted out at so many opportunities that I actually had it memorized long before I memorized the first three lines of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address (fifth grade).

"Four score and seven..." No wait, wrong memorization...

"We were so poor that my Mother used to give me a nickel to go down to the store. 'Gladys', she would say' 'Go down to the general store and get us a penny's worth of beans, a penny's worth of rice, a penny's worth of fatback, six eggs and and quart of milk.' And that would have to last us, sometimes, for a couple of days."

"I used to dream of the day," Lynda would also often recall, "When I would have two dresses in my closet."

And, dream she did. She also realized her dream and much more. She did indeed get the two dresses when she went to work, and managed to clothe her mother and sister Anita as well. Work was the means to the end, and the end for Lynda was an escape from poverty.

Certainly, though I may make light of it, and often did through the years--a luxury made possible by that work--the grinding poverty that Lynda was born into is not easily escaped, even by those with iron wills such as Lynda. She gave up a lot, beginning with her formal education, to not only break out of poverty, but to ensure that her family, including her mother, whom she supported for twenty years or more, would not be poor and would not face the possibility of sliding back into poverty while she had anything to do about it.

Lynda's philosophy of life is one I have inherited: "Get up, make your bed and go to work". This ethic was born in the crucible that was terrible want, and not just for the many useless perceived needs invented by consumerism, but for the basic necessities that would make the difference between going to bed hungry or full.

I never went to bed hungry.

Often, I ate more rutabagas and perhaps chicken a la king that I wanted to (like a bite) but I was never hungry. Not really hungry. And I even know what that feels like, but I didn't get the opportunity until I went away to college--that is definitely another story. Suffice it to say that I do know now what Lynda was protecting me from then by forcing me to clean my plate. I am glad to have had a childhood free from the kind of existential fears that she had to face. Hunger was just one of those fears, and doubtless, not even the worst.

I didn't force my children to eat everything prepared for them, but I certainly saw to it that they never went hungry. The preparation of and sharing of food is a key component of the legacy that Lynda has given me, for I will never forget that food was at one time a scarce commodity for many, even a luxury for some. That nickel has gone a long way, after all.

Not the last day

I took today off from work at Hudson's, thinking that this might be the day, but in truth my motivations were more self-centered, for even though I expected to spend more time with Lynda with the whole day free, I actually could bear no more than my usual hour or so, and then I retreated to the comfort of chores and buried my thoughts with choices about tires and traffic. The mundanities of life are strangely appealing when faced with the alternative. In my case, my best efforts to stay focused on Lynda and ease her burdens here at the last have, it would seem, already come and gone.

Today, when I entered the room, there was no recognition, no awareness of my presence In the face of this reality, I can stand only so long before I have to step back and seek ground in the details lest I be dashed to it with unrelenting force. I am safer here in the low altitudes for now; soaring is just tempting the release of the flood of emotion that needs still to be contained.

So, curiously, even after writing about how the feelings are pent up, the writing of this diary has allowed so much to be released that I do not now fear the end for my own sake. There was a time when I was nervous about my reaction to Lynda's final breath, yet now I know that the reaction will not only be natural, but it will also be no more or less than I make it.

Now that is a hackenyed phrase, yet I use it with utmost innocence. I cannot expect to be surprised by Lynda's death, so the moment will not rush upon me like a wave, nor will it simply leak out over time by virtue of the spilling of a few words because as much as I prepare by writing, they are, after all, mere words. No, my emotions and feelings will come as combination of the two. It will doubtless be a slow release of an absolutely ripping torrent and it will be mu choice what to make of it. Part of me wants to wail; the other says, hey man, it's just a phase.

That's it then. Death is a contradiction of terms. Although it is the very essence of human emotion and thus fraught with hypocrisy, it is yet, by virtue of its innate inexorability, bound to the unvarnished truth. To put it another way, watching Lynda die has been a tug-of-war between my heart and my head, and simply knowing that it has to be this way doesn't make it any easier.

Death Mask

As we are now in the last days of her life, I can't help looking at the calendar, wondering which of the coming dates will be forever changed in my life by the termination of Lynda's. It's more than a morbid thought; it is also a bright indicator of how my perception of time has been disorted by the slow process of my mother's death. There is little to recommed to others in this decline as I have unable to move it, faster or slower it doesn't matter. The inexorabiltiy of the process is not unlike the way an accident unfolds in milliseconds as opposed to days and weeks and months; it all seems so damn slow there is just nothing to do but wait and watch.

So today we came to observe again, Pierre and I, and we found Lynda in a state more removed that ever before. Today it was apparent to us both as we came in that she has gone down even since Saturday. Her face was more drawn and the mouth more gaping. She didn't respond to my voice or my hand when I held hers, and unlike even yesterday, there was no acknowledgment of my presence at all.

It seems like this could be the night tonite, or tomorrow the day. I have taken off from Hudson's in anticipation of the event, and even though I realize it is unlikely that I'll actually be there when she passes, it is something that I've hoped might happen. Now there is a morbid thought, I guess, since what difference it could make is just about zero. This isn't to be taken as a sign that I make no difference, just that I realize we've gotten to the point I've long imagined and dreaded in the one and the same moment.

The gas lever

These days, with gas hovering around three dollars a gallon, it may seem hard to believe that in 1968, when Lynda and I used to drive around together in her 1963 VW bug calling on potential purchasers of the life insurance she was then selling to support the family, gasoline cost only thirty cents a gallon. Yet, for Lynda, that wasn't necessarily a good deal.

No, for Mom, a good deal was to be had by taking advantage one of the many gas wars that were then underway, so I can recall driving across town to fill up the tank for a mere fifteen cents a gallon! Now, these were also the days when 'gas attendants' actually were available to pump the gas into one's tank, but the odd arrangement of the VW's gas tank under the hood meant that it was my job, at the very least, to jump out and find the latch under the hood that the attendant could never seem to find, and, on occasion, to actually pump the gas while the attendant-gasp-washed the windshield!

Although it wasn't the only reason I was invited to ride along with Lynda on her sales calls, one of my jobs also related to gasoline in the VW was to switch over to the reserve tank when the primary tank ran out.

Imagine this: In the VW bug that we owned, there was no gas gauge but there was a reserve tank. There was a lever to turn on the floorboard just to the right of the gas pedal, so when the driver (Lynda) suspected that we were about to run out of gas (sputtering, coughing and general power loss) she would instruct the co-pilot (me) to get down there and turn it. Often this was done 'on the fly' so to speak, and since we were not encumbered with the burden of seatbelts, it was an easy matter for me to crawl down behind the stickshift and turn the little brass handle to the right 90 degrees.

I recall this bit of trivia because of late I've been thinking of all the things that Lynda and I used to do together, and for some reason the memory of turning the gas lever is a particularly strong one for me. I can recall quite clearly the smell of the sissel floor mats and the oily gasoline smell that wafted up from the back seat. the seats were scratchy and the metal was hot and of course it was very noisy and hot all the time, even in winter.

We drove from Abilene to San Antonio in that car when we moved there in 1968, with me in the front seat and my brother in the back with all the clothes and bedsheets we had crammed in every bit of space. When she went to work for Bankers Life and Casualty Insurance Company, on Saturday mornings, she would gather up the lead cards sent in that week and we would set off to cold call some of the poorest people in the country, trying to sell them life insurance.

I am reminded of the movie 'Paper Moon' where a backcountry grifter travels around with his daughter, selling bibles to widows, because, even though I wasn't used as a prop to sell life insurance, I was certainly there to provide support to Lynda when she would return to the car after another rejection, shoulders sagging and eyes downcast.

I was also there when she'd get a sale, too, and those were very special moments indeed. While I understood the practical benefits of making the sale, it was, of course, a self interest that motivated me as well, since I could expect to get some kind of treat when we went to the grocery store later in the day.

Now, not only did Lynda sell the insurance, after making a sale, it would fall to her to go and collect the weekly premium. Often, that would be the only money we'd have for the week. Sometimes, the people either couldn't or wouldn't pay, and that meant nothing. And, at times, people couldn't pay in cash but wanted to honor their obligation so they would give her something like a dozen fresh eggs or a loaf of homemade bread. That, at least, was enough to keep us from going hungry, but it wasn't enough to keep her from crying, and I have to say I saw and heard a lot of tears in the darkened car on the way home.

If it seems like an odd way for a kid to spend his Saturdays, well, I was an odd kid. The conversations that we had while driving were always part of the motivation for riding with her. After all, I had her all to myself! One thing I have always enjoyed in my conversations with Lynda is the sense that whatever I had to say, she was always genuinely interested in hearing it. So, even though I cannot recall what we actually talked about, I do recall talking for hours with with someone who actually cared. Even if her advice was always the same("get up, make your bed and go to work"), the words were always directed to me, and always in my best interest.

That aspect of our relationship has not changed until now, here at the very end, and even now, I find myself ready to dive down to the floorboard and turn that lever just once more. If only she would tell me it is time.

Resonances

Visiting Lynda now is a much more calming experience than it has been in the recent past, in part because of the quiet setting that she enjoys, but mostly it is because Lynda is herself is so serene.

Often, when I would sing and/or talk my children off to sleep, I would find myself with eyes closed, ready for the release I was offering them even before they'd had a chance to get there, so that last verse or paragraph became quite a challenge, often lost till prodded to wake up so they could get to sleep. It is no different with Lynda, for when I come in and after I've had a chance to say hi and give her a kiss, she is so quickly returned to sleep that I immediately feel the urge to drift off myself, which, in fact, I do.

I pull up the lounger to the bedside and stick my hand in between the bedrail to hold hers and in the very next minute I am sleeping, not soundly, but softly, in response to and in resonance with her own restless repose. There is, of course, nothing really to say that I haven't already said, save the affirmation of love spoken when I first hold her hand and feel her taught and tender skin against my lips, so the communication we have flows between our connected hands and our brains, long used to interacting with spoken words, now silently and softly speak within the language of resonances, physical as well as spiritual.

There is not much discussion of the spirit and/or god in these essay not just because I do not wish to impart my own feelings about the nature of our being into thoughts and comments about Lynda's last days of life; readers may refer to the clearly marked yet deftly obscured subtext for that. In fact, I make no mention of spirit or god because it is simply not relevant. In our many discussions about race and religion and politics, we often talked about god, but never in the context or her death, and that long before it was an imminent condition. What matters is not what will happen after she is gone, but what we've done up to that point. I may be fortunate enough to discover what happens to her after she's gone, but that's no incentive seek spirituality in these final moments.

I feel the flesh fading and know there will be soon only that feeling of resonance left in my empty hand. So, someday soon, I will hold my hand or mouth a certain way; cross my legs or cough, laugh or lift my leg for a fart and I will not just think of Lynda, but in fact, I will be Lynda, or what is left, anyway, resonating still in my body. For that small gift, and the many more to follow, I will be grateful.

Not the time for tears

I have, for the most part, managed to keep my emotions under control through this wild ride, reminding myself that now is not the time to loose the flood of feeling that has been building up behind the eye, lest the blood cloud my vision and prevent me from caring for the rest of my world. Too much of me is needed for the care and comfort of others to dedicate my time completely to Lynda's care. Though I feel guilty for leaving, I know that I must separate myself from the fading flesh and maintain enough personal integrity to actually be of use to others. Allowing myself to wallow in, or at this moment, dally even momentarily in the warm bath that is self-pity is an indulgence that neither I nor my family can afford at the moment.

Not that I don't secretly yearn to fall on the floor and sob uncontrollably at the unfeeling inevitability of the universe, because indeed, that would really feel good for a while, but I am also sanguine enough to realize that such relief would only be temporary and worse, failure to resolve the conflict would only exacerbate the pain.

Such is the case with life itself, for as soon as we succumb to the temptation to be weak and afraid, fear and weakness are already constraining our ability to thrive and we need only continue to wail and rend our hair to realize the ironic fate we so hoped to avoid with our vocal and spiritual laments.

Today, however, I came uncomfortably close to the release of that suppressed emotive force, not because I wanted to finally enjoy a bit of the bittersweet fruit long dangling before my sore eyes, teasing my hurting throat with the promise of liquid relief, but because I was not vigilant to the insidious attack of a metaphor; a word whose meaning I had not expected to come from so deep and to mean so much without warning. But such is the nature of words in my brain; they hold more information than one can see from any single side, yet when turned around in my synapses, the meanings pile in on one another, multiplying and potentiating the power of sense until it has the blinding force of nuclear fission.

Suddenly without more than a second to contemplate the word, when told that Lynda was convinced that she was on a train and worried about when to get off, the entire force of a million-pound steel behemouth was routed directly to the center of my brain and hence to my half-frozen heart. I did not need the hospice nurse to explain the metaphor of the train, though she did so with great kindness; no, in fact, the many layered implications had already wound their way round and round my spinal column and had me wide-eyed, electric and defenseless against the flood of tears now held back so long I had surmised it might have leaked out the other side to pose no threat, but suddenly realized that it was no imaginary force bearing down on my defenses. The very real feelings of grief and loss that arrived in that moment were possesed of such incredible intertia as to sweep away any matchstick and paper card protection I may have managed to construct in the last year. I began to cry.

All gone, in less than a second as I walked to my car on this most gorgeous and cloudless early November day, so I called Stephen to tell him what a beautiful day it was and how much I enjoyed hearing his voice. He wasn't sure what to say, but it didn't matter, since all I need for the moment was to hear just the sound of human breathing, as if all I needed was to find the right sychnronous rythym and fall into resonance with it.

The tears were suppressed, the breathing brought under control, the vision directed upward to receive the gifts of light and the fragrance of fall that now surrounds us actually made me grateful for this development as the year winds to a close.

It has been more than a year now since we began, and for the first time I sense that the journey is almost at an end. We are not there yet, though it won't be long, there is still something left to be done, and the two of us will do it together, as we planned for so many years now. As I hold her hand, watching her fade in the rich late afternoon sun, it feels right, not just inevitable, and for this feeling I am most grateful.

Art

Although I am the same child who sat in front of the Dallas museum for three hours rather than be dragged though it for the same length of time, I now believe that it is no coincidence that when I learned that I had a choice in matters of study in college, I elected to abandon the international business angle that had gotten me in and turned without hesitation to the study of art. Of course this choice had something to do with the budding relationship I was enjoying with my mentor, but that is another story and a different angle on the same thing.

If I can now claim that I have a love for art, it was not born from but was nutured by Lynda, recognized by the two of us as a common interest that developed into a lifelong dialogue, with a vocabulary shared through countless discussions and reviews.

Lynda, began her career as an artist as many artists do; collecting and admiring the works of the masters, but in a most unusual way. Over her dresser, still, to the right of the heavy cut glass mirror, hangs a tiny colored photograph of a large old white frame house, surrounded by trees and vegetation. It is printed on textured paper that resembles canvas, and the intent is clearly create a painting from a black and white photograph.



What makes it remarkable is not the subject, though there is doubtless irony to be made from more thought on the subject, but the object itself, for it was in fact the reward for winning a contest when Lynda was in grade school. My recollection is that she was in sixth grade, but I have always asked her and promptly forgotten the answer...how many of those questions have I left to discover?

The teacher announced the contest early in the year, and it so caught my mother's attention that it led to one of the most crucial moments of her life; alearning experience about herself, her mother and her love of art. The contest was simple enough; students were to cut out and collect pictures of art that they liked from magazines and turn them in as a portfolio at the end of the year. The prize was to be a painting. Lynda was already interested in art, and had been admiring the pictures re-printed in the Saturday Evening Post. When the weekly magazine was discarded by the adults, Lynda picked it up and read it cover to cover, of course, but also clipped out the weekly painting, mounted it with glue on construction paper and put it in a book. At the end of the year, hse had collected dozens of pictures, all neatly packaged in a portfolio. She turned it in and was most excited. Eventually, it was revealed that Lynda was the only student to turn in a project, but the teacher told her that because she was the only entrant, she couldn't really 'win'!

This upset her, of course, but not nearly so much as it did her mother, who went to the school and raised such a fuss that the school capitulated. Instead of the promised presentation during a school assembly, it was simply given to her in the principal's office, and the feeling of being passed over was one she learned to internalize for the first of many, many times in her life. Nonetheless, she was proud of her award, proud of her mother, and so proud of her collection that she saved it, and gave it to me. I will also inherit the prize 'painting' and something much greater; her love of art.

Anne's Visit

Well, Anne has at last made her way to Austin again to see Mom. I say at last because I know she'd have come sooner but she's been quite ill , and it is only now that she's got the strength to travel.

I spoke to her on the phone in the morning and arrived at home in mid-afternoon to find her sitting on the couch, talking with Valery. She looks good, though still a bit frail from her now two-month ordeal. She said she lost nearly 25 pounds, which, for someone who only began with 125, represents a considerable portion of her body mass.

Nonetheless, she remains upbeat and was most delightful on seeing Lynda in her new space. Even though she didn't open her eyes for long, I saw Mom look at her lovingly. She smiled at Anne's presence, reminding me of how things used to be not so very long ago.

With such small, visible playful gestures and a dozen more unseen, at the least, I feel, Mom is aware of our love and care. She definitely appreciates seeing Anne. After all, she only asked about her every day for the last two weeks! They have a special bond, formed, not just in this illness, but as all mothers and daughters, over time and through many changes.

Sadly for Anne, though, during this visit, unlike times past, there isn't a whole lot she can actually do for Mom. Gone are the days of shopping and cleaning and arranging doctor visits and hairdresser appointments, now replaced with long minutes of listening to quiet, measured breathing. We read to her, we talk to her as much as we can and mostly we are simply there for her. It is amazing to me how simple things have become.

So, Anne's here till Wednesday and will likely come again later in the fall. She mentioned bringing Jennifer, which I think would be good for the both of them. Certainly it would be good if Jen were given the opportunity to say goodbye to her Gram. Dan, is, of course, in London, so he will not be likely to see her again, but doubtless he's been thinking of her, especially in light of his own Mom's illness.

For my part, I have reached a level of comfort with the arrangement (especially given Cheryl's tender care)and hope to maintain this sense of calm throughout the days and weeks ahead.

A Good Day

Today was a good day. Lynda has moved to An Angel's place. It was a long day, or so it seemed because so much came together in what was, in hindsight, a very short amount of time. I began the day by picking up the last of the very personal items from her apartment at The Continental.

We've condensed her possessions before, and this time it was much easier, though more difficult because we are now down to the final pieces. Some of these are absolute treasures; some of them not even sentimental value will hold them after she's gone. Much of what remains is either something that Chris wants or that we will give to Goodwill.

Looking around at the final set, it occurs to me how little of this I desire to possess. I do think we need to make an inventory at this point, before Mom passes, to make certain that there are no misunderstanding later on. It is likely that she's given away the same thing to all four of us over time, and now we have to decide who has claim to what, or, more important, who really wants what. I've certainly taken on the art, perhaps because there is no interest in it for the others, but I do not have many an interest in many things, but there are only a very few things, now that we approach the final distillation and disbursal, that I do find I want.

Immediately, though, it was nice to dispense with these thoughts by placing as many of the most precious and interesting things that she's collected in her room, most notably, her art. It all was of her choosing, really, since these are the things that she selected when moving to the Continental. The reduced space has had the effect of concentrating these things, but as Lynda, they come together in colorful harmony.
Mom was delighted to see her room and even said so! She called me by name and thanked me and was polite to Cheryl and even smiled! She is still heavily medicated, but I think that Cheryl will find a balance that will keep her pain free but not so sleepy.



The new place will allow us to establish a schedule again, which is good. Steve will be visiting her almost every day now, which is good because he'll see her tomorrow and Friday when I simply can't (I've used all my leave time at UT), but I'll see her again on Saturday. Chris will go out with Valery on Friday to find her way. Finally, if Lynda feels like it, I can tell her friends where and when to come calling. All that is just a bit down the road tho.

In the near future, however, Anne comes in on Sunday around noon, and we'll go out there together I am sure. I know Mom has been looking forward to her visit, and I think this place will give them a chance to be together in a way that is comparable to the Continental. Cheryl will reassure Anne as to the quality of her care, and I hope this will be acceptable to her.