No Oscar, maybe.

Blanchett, Pitt, and company were perfectly good in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but the central character which I find myself the most interested in, in retrospect, is the retirement home which serves as a sanctuary and nursery for the young Benjamin, and as a haven at the end. Everyone needs such a place.

What else was right? Benjamin was right, that even the best and fullest of relationships cannot sustain the friction and ill-fit caused by insurmountable chronic physical conditions. A partnership may have occupied an utterly cherishable and eternally valued position in a person’s life story, but this esteemed place will not protect it from erosion when the tectonic plates of two lives shift unharmoniously. The white clapboard house with the piano in the parlor and a welcoming front porch might then be the refuge which fiction can supply, and real people might just have to dream about.

Wisdom from an older movie (based on the Anne Tyler novel): The Accidental Tourist. Sometimes who you should be with is not so much a function of who the other person is, but rather of who you are when you’re with that person. As wonderful and deserving as the other person may be, if you’re icky and mean around him/her then you’re probably not doing anybody any favors.

Still, you may not be able to rewrite the story line to fit the attractive parameters afforded by fiction, because you just may be one of those people who live outside the gestalt of storytelling (this may explain why--if in fact this is true of you--you can’t write fiction either.) If so, then you need to find another book to reference. Such as the only marginally fictionalized A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson. From this book you can glean the following: Sometimes it’s just a trudge through the neverending trees, step after step, where the best pleasures available are your morning coffee and the occasional glimpse of wildlife. If this seems more descriptive of your story (using the word story loosely,) then it may be at least slightly comforting that even a trudge may, at the end, show enough signs of narrative that it’s worth telling about.

badness

Hazel lives to perform.

Just now, I can only see the black side of her nose, because she is peering around the corner at me, with just one eye, contemplating which of the tricks in her repertoire she should resort to next. At the moment, the kitchen table is ripe with possibilities. Even if there were not a wad of embroidery floss, a pen cap, and a roll of wrapping paper to knock on the floor with a dramatic flourish, she would tear more shreds in Olivia’s plastic bag full of dvds or dive headlong into a pile of newspapers with the velocity needed to scatter them across the kitchen.

She is 8. She should have outgrown this nonsense, but--at 7 pounds--she really hasn’t outgrown anything.

Plus, especially for the Christmas season, there is a tree to tackle. I know better--well, let’s say I’ve learned better--than to hang anything breakable near the bottom, but you can still make a lovely racket with what is there. If you tire of the basement door game.

The basement door game. That’s the one in which you (and by you, I mean Hazel,) sit at the top of the basement steps, behind the door which is left open just enough so that you can access your food and litter box. You push the door open all the way. I close it, because I don’t like the basement door wide open. You push it open again. I close it. Repeat until you decide you’d now prefer to jump from chair to chair staring at Chessie. Or stare at Rachel. She’s reading Jane Austen, but you can make her notice you’re staring at her. You know you can.

AM 111--where we broadcast mixed metaphors all day, every day

Sometimes going to Quizno’s with a person is the only way to help him feel like you are there for him and you are still “together.” So, though lunch out at Quizno’s (or Noodles, or Lebanese Taverna, or Chipotle,) may not seem like the worthiest of ways to spend one’s time or money, if it accomplishes the above-mentioned aim, it is valuable.

There’s not a lot I can do about Alzheimer’s, but I have, gradually, fine-tuned my personal description of what it does to a brain. And I am full of analogies. There is the one where I think of the brain as being a big bank of lights which, grouped into systems, operates the complexities of cognition like a theatrical kleig set. This image seems especially appropriate once you see a PET scan because that’s exactly what you see--lit and unlit spots.

But I’m failing to conjure just the right analogy to describe how the AD brain inexorably isolates itself as the channels which allow for communication with the outside world break down. A fish out of water, starved for oxygen in an atmosphere that’s full of it? Not quite, because a fish never had lungs to begin with. Maybe (as an especially seasonal metaphor) it’s a cut evergreen in a deep-bucket Christmas tree stand, browning prematurely despite your valiant efforts to keep the bucket full of water...because...its pores have all clogged with sap, and the water cannot be absorbed.

The problem is--if we extend the metaphor to the next ridiculous step in the story--the tree thinks you’re not watering it. So it’s kind of ticked off at you sometimes. And there you are, standing there with a hose.

I know that the problem is a communication one. The interface which allows for new information to enter the equation, outside that which already exists in the head, is broken. Because often the AD person will describe a thought or share a thinking process which has the marks of some fairly complex processing. But, should you try to add a relevant tidbit, or provide some tangential insight, you will find--when he responds as if your contribution has entered the mix--that it has not. He is simply restating the point of view that exists in his head, unreachable by external variables.

That which is new--that which deviates from the pre-existing template--does not compute. To interact with another person in a meaningful way, requires an exchange of information. When the AD person does not receive your signals, it is because his receiver is disconnected, but he thinks it’s because you aren’t broadcasting. Consequently, in addition to feeling unable to follow the ambient conversation in the room, he also feels that you are not attempting to include him, and that is a very difficult situation to correct without resorting to a tone and manner that will be perceived as patronizing (which adds a whole other layer of negative emotional content to the smorgasbord.)

To further complicate the issue, all but the emotionally super-human will find it difficult to sustain the incentive level needed to give and give and give into a relationship where communication and common understanding have failed. Because good relationships are positive feedback loops wherein the energy available to feed the relationship is directly proportional to the nutritional content you derive from it.

Another truth, therefore, is this: Sometimes it’s that your broadcasts are not being received, and sometimes it’s that your station’s power grid has run out of juice and there’s nothing to broadcast.

So, you go to Quizno’s instead, because at least everyone gets to eat.

Why Y?

I don’t know. You might wonder why I have participated in the National Geographic Genographic project, not once, but 3 times at last count. Once for my Y lineage (via my dad’s cheek cells,) once for my maternal line mitochondrial DNA (my own buccal mucosa,) and once more--to provide a more complete picture for my kids-- for Jeff’s Y line.

I figured Jeff’s would be similar to mine--your basic Gravettian or Aurignacian type drifters who landed mid-Europe and dispersed from there...but maybe without the ultra-norse Viking twist specific to the Gillespie line. And that’s why I delayed. But one day a month or so ago I simply decided what-the-hey, and Jeff got his mouth swabbed.

Turns out that his haplogroup, the E3b-folk, have almost no common history with mine, the I-folk. Yep...looks like our people split up roughly 50,000 years ago, in East Africa, about the time of what’s known as the “Great Leap Forward.” What happened round about then, see, is that humans got smarter. A lot smarter, evidently and they began to do new things like speak in sentences. So, what I imagine caused the I haplogroup/E3b haplogroup rift is something like this: The E3bs kept pronouncing ketchup and chocolate like cat-sup and chalk-let, and that really got on our I-group’s collective nerves, causing us to veer east across the Red Sea at Ethiopia while the proto-Clements continued up the east coast of Africa.

From there they pretty much peopled the coasts of the Mediterranean, both north and south while the proto-Gillespies blazed a more northerly trail through the Middle-East, then west into Europe where they busied themselves with painting beefalos or whatever those things were, on cave walls.

It is only by dint of the fact that some later member of each group independently fell for all that hyperbole about the “New World” that our children even came into being.

But why am I curious? I think it’s because I have a general concept of myself as the most mundane of human creatures, from an ethnic standpoint, and I was curious to see if any decorative accents could be appended to my Heinz 57 Euro self-image.

And I have, in fact, found these colorful details to be fun. Unimportant to be sure, in the scheme of things, but fun.

Ultimately there is no take-home point. Except perhaps this. As we strive to imagine Gabe’s future, we can offer him these two default options, should he not eventually come up with something on his own. “Gabe,” I will say, “take your pick. You may either be a muralist, or you may sell handwoven baskets in the Casbah. You have a long history of being suited to either of these occupations.”

waffling

The waffle iron died--after a long life of devotion to golden-brownness--at roughly age 70. ish.

You could hardly ask more of a household appliance. To gamely cook deliciousness for 3 generations of children is a feat not to be equaled by any Sunbeam or Proctor-Silex you might find at Target today.

The thing is though, now that I think about it, that it probably only cooked for two generations, one of which was not mine. It was there during my mom’s childhood, and I conscripted it back into service for my children, but I suspect that during my grandmother’s hermit years--roughly from the 60s to her death, in the early 80s, it barely saw the light of morning.

The waffles have been sticking to the top plate for some time. It was only last week that it became clear that the upper element was a goner. I loosened the 4 screws holding the top burner to the waffly-imprint surface, and had a look inside. The wires which used to carry the current from the bottom to the top had corroded into nothingness--there was an inch or so swinging loosely just to show me how it used to work...but there was no hope of repair, and it was sufficiently amazing that the rusty old, baked-on-greasy old bake temp indicator had outlasted the wiring.

Its like will not be seen again. A waffle iron sitting in permanent attachment to a stainless steel ornamental tray with almost rococo handle brackets. ‘Tis true--the paint has chipped off the handles, but the dangly ivorine knob you grasp to reveal the toastiness of your cooked-to-perfection waffle is as jaunty as ever.

I acquired it at my grandmother’s passing--missing a cord. This was in 1982. Fortunately, a nice young man at the local hardware store, by the name of Jeff Clement, was able to fix me up with a lovely, fabric-wrapped match. Actually, he fixed my mother up with it, because I was a little too awkward to talk to him.

I wonder if Williams-Sonoma sells anything nearly worthy of serving as a replacement waffle iron. I wonder if I will want to spend that much money. I will have to ponder. Pancakes aren’t bad.

blabbedy bla

I’ve forgotten how to talk.

Well, not entirely. If you ask me a specific question, or steer me into a particular topic, there is an excellent chance that I will be able to say something relevant and reasonably coherent.

Where I seem to be flagging is in the area of pulling something out of the air, for the mere joy of it, or commenting meaningfully on something I observe, or a spontaneous thought.

When girls call me, I like to listen to what they have to say, but--as Olivia pointed out this afternoon--I don’t have much to say beyond commentary on the subject broached by the other party.

I hope it’s not a use it or lose it thing. The trouble is that in the course of the past 5 years I’ve had the habit of spontaneous conversation conditioned out of me.

I say things like: “Look--I made coffee! Do you want some?” and “We need to leave in 10 minutes. Do you know where your coat is?” And generally, this generates a meaningful response.

On the other hand, a comment such as “Victor Hugo was really smart,” or “Getting sciatica on the first day of my period stinks on ice” is likely to be met with a blank and uncomprehending stare, or at best a bewildered smile...and one can pursue it, but if the receiver is broken it’s broken, and you will get nowhere except Frustration Land. So, you do (or at least I) tend to default to keeping it internal.

Which means, after 5 years, that I am quite boring. And I apologize for this, in advance, if you happen to get stuck in a phone conversation with me, or worse, maybe a car ride.

Maybe if I practice on the dog, I will retain conversational skills at at least the rate that an astronaut retains bone mass by exercising.

So, if I suddenly say with a burst of alertness “spontaneous conversation topic!” and launch into a monologue on Sigg bottles and the overly-enthusiastic nature of EMS employees, please indulge me, and share your take.

Allegretto

Jeff wants to know, again, where his wallet and keys are.

The trick is, I know where they were, this morning--on the table in the kitchen between the monkey chairs--but that was this morning. If I’d seen them since I would have made another indelible mental note, knowing the question would come up. But he managed to reposition them, and I have not yet happened upon their new, random, situation.

He likes the feel of the keys in his pocket--heavy, poky, inclined to make worn spots in jeans pockets--though they serve no purpose there. Except for the mini versa-tool which pops out every so often to assist in the opening of a box, but must stay home when he visits Colorado, lest the BWI security guy be gifted with another sharp and disallowed implement.

There are people, evidently, who come into the world grasping immediately that it is a place where beauty and tragedy entwine in an ironic pas de deux. They are the brilliant writers of farce and satire who can hit the ground running with efficiency enough to carve a career. Then, there are those--present company included--who assumed they must be inhabiting a nice, linear narrative in a book with neat binding...until--many, many years later--they notice there is no binding. There is no book. There may not, in fact, be an alphabet involved at all. Maybe this isn’t even a graphic novel, by gum. Once I thought I understood the words to a particular phrase of Jellicle Cats, and I’d sing along...Can you ride on a broomstick to places far distant?...Familiar with candle, with book, and with bell?...Were you Whittington's friend? The Pied Piper's assistant?...Have you been in the love-nest of heaven and hell?

And guess what? That’s not how the last part goes. It’s: Have you been an alumnus of heaven or hell? And this probably makes good sense in the context of what T.S. Eliot meant for the poem to convey. But still, my mangled, misheard version holds special significance for me. Because there is one of those love-nests, and I have been in it, and so have a lot of other people. There are no linear narratives spawned in this love-nest. But there is plenty of irony, beauty and tragedy...and not just a pas de deux, but a continual, nonsensical, sensical, discordant, syncopated, messed-up, harmonious, sometimes-boring, sometimes nifty, unfinished opus.

But I doubt if anyone would publish it.

conflatable inflatables

I’m not sure which was my dominant emotion--despair or mischievous irony--when I glimpsed the deflated heap of nylon in the yard across the street. White, with red and blue accents? It is, unquestionably, an inflatable snowman waiting for air stuffing.

I’m pretty sure that in the 22 years we’ve lived on this street, this will be our street’s first incursion into the area of holiday inflatables. And this is not because we’re one of those pristine neighborhoods where everyone’s very-similar house is surrounded by neatly trimmed topiaries and a flawless lawn. Nope. Some yards are scratchy, patchy and otherwise in perfect syncopated kilter with the eclectic dwellings they surround. We ourselves decorated with a sizable dumpster for 6 or so months last decade, and I know our neighbors were deeply appreciative, at least insofar as they never got out the torches and pitchforks.

As for me, well...you can see that I am making a stab at festive, and got both lights and a wreath installed today. The tree is soaking in a bucket out back, and the lights--as far as I can discern--work.

And now...for the next 2 or so hours...I will endeavor to stay alert enough to pick Gabe up from his after-school, service-hours-earning stint at the Baltimore Ronald McDonald House, where he ostensibly assisted in preparing the evening meal for families of sick children. I am not aware that he brought a deck of cards with him today, though sleight of hand is a good gig for Gabe on these missions. Perhaps he will like seeing the lights on the house when he gets home. And perhaps the neighbors will have their snowman inflated. And I will thank them. Because if our neighborhood becomes too tasteful, we may just have to bring back the dumpster.

doing things

A day is the vacuum that piddly tasks, by nature, abhor. The real myth, I guess, is the one that suggests we should actually accomplish something of note each day. A silly idea I want to and should dump.

It’s worth noticing that life can be just about, for example, eating. There’s a goodly bit of preparing, pureeing, and equipment washing involved in my dad’s 3 squares + snacks, and who can argue with that? Clearly it’s a right and valuable use of time, when a person’s physical condition requires specially prepared food, to spend as much time as is needed to specially prepare it.

As for me, I can piddle away the waking part of a day with remarkable adroitness, and still get to the end worn out but with nothing to show for it.

I have tried this as a mom of babies, as a fully-employed (with academics) person, and as the occupant of my current weird and nondescript role. Regardless of the hat I wear at the time, the essentials get done, I goof off some, and I become useless as the sun sets. There ought to be a take-home point, but I don’t quite seem to be getting it. And why should I? If I learned anything at all from life experience I would not have this nasty headache, because I would not have eaten a whole square of chocolate peppermint bark.

Smart people astound me. How can your brain perform those feats? I wonder. Talented people also astound me. How can your brain and fingers possibly communicate with the coordination required to play any instrument--and a fiddle in particular--that fast and flawlessly?

I remain astounded. And perplexed. And headachy.