Defy: To refuse to obey; to renounce or dissolve all bonds of faith or obligation with; to reject, refuse, or renounce.
Rely: To trust; to have confidence in; to depend.
"Belief meant reliance, not defiance." Some book I've read . . . .
Pivot: (Noun) Someone or something having a paramount significance in a certain situation.
(Verb) To turn on an exact spot.
I like the concept of pivoting. I'm moving quickly in one direction and then I'm quickly moving in another direction. The key is not blowing out your knee when you make this abrupt change. A lot of change is gradual, incremental, something that happens slowly and steadily over a period of time and some change is Boom! you're going another way and in a hurry. You know the feeling: sitting in the passenger seat of a car looking at porn on your cell phone and the driver makes a hard turn left and you bang your head against the window kind-of-change.
I prefer controlling the change in my life. I like being in control. The book I'm skimming about overcoming the perceived challenges of aging in a nice, pretty non-bitchy, not-too-terribly-whiney manner is dealing in a peripheral way with how to best handle the trauma of the hard left turn bang your head on the window kind of change: serious illness, death of a loved one, loss of an important job, the big things that happen suddenly. You have a small sore on your thumb so you go to the doctor and Malignant Cancer of the Thumbnail! which you definitely did not see coming.
The slow change is more manageable. It unspools in a way that allows you to make adjustments so there isn't such a strong line between Now versus Before. You adapt. You see it happening. The jarring change requires, I think, some work so that we can understand that things are never going to be the way they were. One of the categories in the Five Stages of Grief concerns this belief that we can somehow, if we only manage well, get things back to the way they were. Getting through these emotions can be hard. Hard as hell.
I hate change and I love change.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Monday, May 7, 2018
Wisdom V Knowledge, A Medieval Morality Play
Wisdom: The quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgment; the knowledge that is gained by having many experiences in life.
Wisdom: The ability to apply relevant knowledge in an insightful way, especially to different situations in which the knowledge was gained; the ability to make a decision based on the combination of knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding.
"Knowledge is really about facts and ideas that we acquire through study, research, investigation, observation, or experience. Wisdom is the ability to discern and judge which aspects of that knowledge are true, right, lasting, and applicable to your life."
For instance, understanding the meaning of the phrase "Restraint of tongue and pen" is an example of knowledge acquired. Conversely, when a discussion I'm having with my wife begins to veer into the contentious and it becomes apparent that there will be no winner but only losers, and I've got one more, one last comment queued up, a comment that won't go over well and will cause me pain, and I don't let it out, THAT'S wisdom.
"Aging is not about getting weaker, but is a journey of finding greater value and enlightenment or wisdom. Buddhist philosophy teaches us to respect, appreciate, and care equally for young and old lives."
I'm always comforted when I see that the basic building blocks of a spiritual existence can be found everywhere. The idea that adversity has value comes up over and over and over again. The idea that we take the set-backs - what we think are the set-backs - and turn them into a positive . . . well, that's a hell of an idea. A lot easier in theory than put in practice in the real world, but ubiquitous in our theology and philosophy.
Wisdom: The ability to apply relevant knowledge in an insightful way, especially to different situations in which the knowledge was gained; the ability to make a decision based on the combination of knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding.
"Knowledge is really about facts and ideas that we acquire through study, research, investigation, observation, or experience. Wisdom is the ability to discern and judge which aspects of that knowledge are true, right, lasting, and applicable to your life."
For instance, understanding the meaning of the phrase "Restraint of tongue and pen" is an example of knowledge acquired. Conversely, when a discussion I'm having with my wife begins to veer into the contentious and it becomes apparent that there will be no winner but only losers, and I've got one more, one last comment queued up, a comment that won't go over well and will cause me pain, and I don't let it out, THAT'S wisdom.
"Aging is not about getting weaker, but is a journey of finding greater value and enlightenment or wisdom. Buddhist philosophy teaches us to respect, appreciate, and care equally for young and old lives."
I'm always comforted when I see that the basic building blocks of a spiritual existence can be found everywhere. The idea that adversity has value comes up over and over and over again. The idea that we take the set-backs - what we think are the set-backs - and turn them into a positive . . . well, that's a hell of an idea. A lot easier in theory than put in practice in the real world, but ubiquitous in our theology and philosophy.
"Time brings us an accumulation of knowledge, experience, and skills. We learn lessons from trial and error that enhance our judgment and force us to persevere in the face of adversity. Failure leads to humility, gratitude, empathy, and healthy dependence on others. Ambition and a desire for legacy motivates us to build and compose."
Any idiot can be happy when they're getting what they want. The trick is to grow through adversity. The ultimate act of dignity is success in the face of adversity.
"We will all experience eventually an event or situation that prompts a significant disruption in our initial ability to understand and cope with it. It exposes a gap between the challenges or demands of a life event and our existing strengths, values, skills, and connections. An age point might begin with a moment of crisis, trauma, or even terror, and causes us to feel temporarily stunned or paralyzed, and uncertain about what to do next. We may want and need to respond, but we don’t know what will be effective to resolve the situation and regain our balance.
Even though an age point exposes a weakness, it is also loaded with the potential for tremendous growth if we can navigate the two sides of the gulf and create a bridge to link them together. Resolving an age point makes us into more developed and capable aging adults. The greatest challenge of an age point is having to give up previous notions, identities, and ways of doing things in the service of a solution."
There's a lot of experience, strength, and hope to be found in our world that show us what happens and how to behave when we have a loss. I'm obsessed with aging right now - my loss du jour - but a death of a loved one, retirement, a move to a new city, a child leaving home for good, illness, divorce - these are all great examples of big, painful, life-altering events for which we almost certainly don't have tools on hand. If we struggle for a bit until we find out way it's OK.
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Special Seaweed
I always wanted a cool Fellowship nickname, one bestowed in awe and gratitude by my adoring admirers. You know - Big Book Seaweed or Serenity Seaweed. An honorific. A degree from an institution of higher learning bestowed despite the fact I hadn't attained any of the knowledge or done any of the work.
Instead I get Half-Measures Seaweed - as in: a dude looking for all available loopholes - or, my favorite, Special Seaweed - as in: I don't have to obey the rules because I'm special or this painful thing shouldn't happen to me because I'm special.
Sometimes I expect the universe to treat me like the mama's boy that I am.
Some Step Two stuff . . .
This one wonders if we mayhaps aren't looking too closely at ourselves when we're criticizing other the faith of other people . . .
"Self-righteousness, the very thing we had contemptuously condemned in others, became our own besetting evil. This phony form of respectability . . . "
For those of us who think we have some kind of powerfully effective faith but can't manage to quit drinking . . .
Defy: To refuse to obey. (Ed. Note: Short and sweet and unambiguous.)
"No man, we saw, could believe in god and defy him, too. Belief meant reliance, not defiance."
And The Rooms are full of the tragically brilliant . . .
"Knowledge was all-powerful. Intellect could conquer nature. Since we were brighter than most folks (so we thought) we could float above other people on our intellect alone."
Who wants to look closely at their own defects when time is much better spent investigating the defects of someone else?
"In belaboring the sins of some religious people, we could feel superior to all of them. Moreover, we could avoid looking at some of our own shortcomings."
Summing it all up . . .
"The minute I stopped fighting or arguing, I could begin to see and feel. Right there, Step Two gently and gradually began to infiltrate my life. I had only to stop fighting and practice the rest of The Steps as enthusiastically as I could."
Fight: To try to overpower; to fiercely counteract.
Them's fightin' words.
Instead I get Half-Measures Seaweed - as in: a dude looking for all available loopholes - or, my favorite, Special Seaweed - as in: I don't have to obey the rules because I'm special or this painful thing shouldn't happen to me because I'm special.
Sometimes I expect the universe to treat me like the mama's boy that I am.
Some Step Two stuff . . .
This one wonders if we mayhaps aren't looking too closely at ourselves when we're criticizing other the faith of other people . . .
"Self-righteousness, the very thing we had contemptuously condemned in others, became our own besetting evil. This phony form of respectability . . . "
For those of us who think we have some kind of powerfully effective faith but can't manage to quit drinking . . .
Defy: To refuse to obey. (Ed. Note: Short and sweet and unambiguous.)
"No man, we saw, could believe in god and defy him, too. Belief meant reliance, not defiance."
And The Rooms are full of the tragically brilliant . . .
"Knowledge was all-powerful. Intellect could conquer nature. Since we were brighter than most folks (so we thought) we could float above other people on our intellect alone."
Who wants to look closely at their own defects when time is much better spent investigating the defects of someone else?
"In belaboring the sins of some religious people, we could feel superior to all of them. Moreover, we could avoid looking at some of our own shortcomings."
Summing it all up . . .
"The minute I stopped fighting or arguing, I could begin to see and feel. Right there, Step Two gently and gradually began to infiltrate my life. I had only to stop fighting and practice the rest of The Steps as enthusiastically as I could."
Fight: To try to overpower; to fiercely counteract.
Them's fightin' words.
Friday, May 4, 2018
Deranged Seaweed
Sane: Being in a healthy condition; not deranged; thinking rationally.
(Ed Note: Deranged would be an excellent name for a hard rock band.)
A breaking news story update coming out of The All Seaweed, Every Day, Every Minute Network . . . .
I did see the lady I clocked at the pool today while I was talking to the bobbing/thrashing/splashing class instructor who was playing some Lynyrd Skynyrd, an act that cried out for a conversation. We comported ourselves with grace. I apologized again, and for the last time - I'm not an over-apologizing, groveling, begging-for-mercy kind of guy so two I'm Sorrys are enough - which she graciously accepted. In fact, she took the blame for the clocking and the instructor pointedly agreed: "It was her fault," she said flatly, pointing at the clocked attendee. The teacher is mindful of the fact that her class should let the lap swimmers do their thing until the class starts, but sometimes it's hard to get the herd going in the same direction.
"At least you hit her in the head," she added as I was walking away. "It's not like you grabbed her boob."
I am not making that up.
In another, less urgent vein I've been doing some Step Two analysis on my health and well-being obsession. As a reminder: "Came to believe that a Higher Power could restore us to sanity." Even though I've read all of The Steps many times I'm continually amazed at how I hear voices that for some reason didn't speak to me in the past. Maybe they spoke once, then fell silent for years, before piping up again. I'm also amused at the fact that the founders tend to repeat the same basic instructions over and over again, sometimes in the same Step, using language that is only slightly different. They're not even trying to disguise the fact that they're plagiarizing their own shit. They figured, rightly so, that a bunch of antsy alcoholics who can't pay attention for two minutes and resist the most fundamental suggestions need to have them repeated over and over and over. And over.
"At no time had we asked what god's will was for us; instead we had been telling him what it ought to be." Then, two paragraphs later: "We had not even prayed rightly. We had always said 'Grant me my wishes' instead of 'Your will be done.' "
This made sense to me today: "The minute I stopped fighting or arguing, I could begin to see and feel. Right there, Step 2 gently and very gradually began to infiltrate my life. I had only to stop fighting and practice the rest of The Program as enthusiastically as I could."
I'm not even going to get into the part today where they slip in, right at the very end, the implication that I'm insane.
(Ed Note: Deranged would be an excellent name for a hard rock band.)
A breaking news story update coming out of The All Seaweed, Every Day, Every Minute Network . . . .
I did see the lady I clocked at the pool today while I was talking to the bobbing/thrashing/splashing class instructor who was playing some Lynyrd Skynyrd, an act that cried out for a conversation. We comported ourselves with grace. I apologized again, and for the last time - I'm not an over-apologizing, groveling, begging-for-mercy kind of guy so two I'm Sorrys are enough - which she graciously accepted. In fact, she took the blame for the clocking and the instructor pointedly agreed: "It was her fault," she said flatly, pointing at the clocked attendee. The teacher is mindful of the fact that her class should let the lap swimmers do their thing until the class starts, but sometimes it's hard to get the herd going in the same direction.
"At least you hit her in the head," she added as I was walking away. "It's not like you grabbed her boob."
I am not making that up.
In another, less urgent vein I've been doing some Step Two analysis on my health and well-being obsession. As a reminder: "Came to believe that a Higher Power could restore us to sanity." Even though I've read all of The Steps many times I'm continually amazed at how I hear voices that for some reason didn't speak to me in the past. Maybe they spoke once, then fell silent for years, before piping up again. I'm also amused at the fact that the founders tend to repeat the same basic instructions over and over again, sometimes in the same Step, using language that is only slightly different. They're not even trying to disguise the fact that they're plagiarizing their own shit. They figured, rightly so, that a bunch of antsy alcoholics who can't pay attention for two minutes and resist the most fundamental suggestions need to have them repeated over and over and over. And over.
"At no time had we asked what god's will was for us; instead we had been telling him what it ought to be." Then, two paragraphs later: "We had not even prayed rightly. We had always said 'Grant me my wishes' instead of 'Your will be done.' "
This made sense to me today: "The minute I stopped fighting or arguing, I could begin to see and feel. Right there, Step 2 gently and very gradually began to infiltrate my life. I had only to stop fighting and practice the rest of The Program as enthusiastically as I could."
I'm not even going to get into the part today where they slip in, right at the very end, the implication that I'm insane.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Lie, Lady, Lie
I believe that for most of us whenever you think that you're making some progress on your character defects go and visit your family. You'll see how much further you have to go. For me it's the pool. Weird, I know, but there it is. I behave pretty well until I get in the pool where I'm transformed into Mad Max.
I was swimming laps today before the 9AM Aqua Fit class. I've expressed my ire at Aqua Fit before. This is the water-based exercise-like program where a lot of lovely, overweight, older ladies clog up the pool for an entire hour in a simulation of exercise. I'm glad they're showing up and pretending to do something physical but 9AM? C'mon, they're all retired. Can't we do 10AM? The 9AM means I have to get there earlier than I want or I have to wait until the class is over at 10, a time that's later than I want. As you can see 9AM is an irritant in my chlorine-red eyes. I understand that the irony in that if you would like to swim say at 10, then moving the class would not be to your liking and you would like to maintain the status quo, to which I say: Tough Shit.
I've learned to adapt. So there I am swimming today - not at all irritated that I'm swimming earlier than I want - in the lane closest to the wall, the lane that has the stairs that all of the nice ladies use to get into the pool. At about fifteen minutes until nine some of them start to make their way into the water. A few cross through my lane and head for the middle of the pool while some of them begin to clog up the half of the lane closest to the wall to which I say: Fine, just stay out of my fucking lane, even though I am wondering why they can't wait another 10 minutes and clog the pool up for an entire hour, an hour where I'm prohibited from entering the pool, at a time that I would like to be swimming. And my resentment gently simmers . . .
So I'm dodging these large, bobbing, non-exercising, pool-clogging human beings, weaving in and out, making the turn for my last length - my LAST LENGTH - when I see one of them has moved into the middle of my lane, and she's standing there, talking to someone in the next lane over. I start to swim, assuming she'll . . . you know . . . get the fuck out of my way as I approach, which she does not do. I pull up a couple of feet from her, give her a withering glare, and then continue my lap, deciding to brush as close to her as possible to let her know she's in my fucking lane. I get too close, apparently, and fucking clock her. It felt like a shoulder but I wasn't sure - it might have been a head strike - but I got her good. And I didn't stop.
So I finish the lap, pop off my goggles, and look back down the lane to see her there rubbing her forehead. Sigh. I dog paddle down to where she's standing with another woman.
"You OK?" I ask.
"Yes, it sort of stings, though," she said.
"Didn't you see me there?" she asked.
"No," I lied.
"I was trying to get over to the other lane," she lied back.
So I saw her and lied about it and she said she was moving away, clearly a lie as she was standing there talking to someone. Lie, lie, lie. I should go back and read my post of a few days ago where I was giving the business to my neighbor who lied about smoking weed in the clubhouse. It is a lot easier criticizing someone else than taking a look at myself.
I popped her good though. I wish I felt worse about it than I do. I bet she stays out of my fucking way next time.
I was swimming laps today before the 9AM Aqua Fit class. I've expressed my ire at Aqua Fit before. This is the water-based exercise-like program where a lot of lovely, overweight, older ladies clog up the pool for an entire hour in a simulation of exercise. I'm glad they're showing up and pretending to do something physical but 9AM? C'mon, they're all retired. Can't we do 10AM? The 9AM means I have to get there earlier than I want or I have to wait until the class is over at 10, a time that's later than I want. As you can see 9AM is an irritant in my chlorine-red eyes. I understand that the irony in that if you would like to swim say at 10, then moving the class would not be to your liking and you would like to maintain the status quo, to which I say: Tough Shit.
I've learned to adapt. So there I am swimming today - not at all irritated that I'm swimming earlier than I want - in the lane closest to the wall, the lane that has the stairs that all of the nice ladies use to get into the pool. At about fifteen minutes until nine some of them start to make their way into the water. A few cross through my lane and head for the middle of the pool while some of them begin to clog up the half of the lane closest to the wall to which I say: Fine, just stay out of my fucking lane, even though I am wondering why they can't wait another 10 minutes and clog the pool up for an entire hour, an hour where I'm prohibited from entering the pool, at a time that I would like to be swimming. And my resentment gently simmers . . .
So I'm dodging these large, bobbing, non-exercising, pool-clogging human beings, weaving in and out, making the turn for my last length - my LAST LENGTH - when I see one of them has moved into the middle of my lane, and she's standing there, talking to someone in the next lane over. I start to swim, assuming she'll . . . you know . . . get the fuck out of my way as I approach, which she does not do. I pull up a couple of feet from her, give her a withering glare, and then continue my lap, deciding to brush as close to her as possible to let her know she's in my fucking lane. I get too close, apparently, and fucking clock her. It felt like a shoulder but I wasn't sure - it might have been a head strike - but I got her good. And I didn't stop.
So I finish the lap, pop off my goggles, and look back down the lane to see her there rubbing her forehead. Sigh. I dog paddle down to where she's standing with another woman.
"You OK?" I ask.
"Yes, it sort of stings, though," she said.
"Didn't you see me there?" she asked.
"No," I lied.
"I was trying to get over to the other lane," she lied back.
So I saw her and lied about it and she said she was moving away, clearly a lie as she was standing there talking to someone. Lie, lie, lie. I should go back and read my post of a few days ago where I was giving the business to my neighbor who lied about smoking weed in the clubhouse. It is a lot easier criticizing someone else than taking a look at myself.
I popped her good though. I wish I felt worse about it than I do. I bet she stays out of my fucking way next time.
Bitch 'N' Play
Bitch: To criticize spitefully, often for the sake of complaining rather than in order to have the problem corrected.
Complain: To express feelings of pain, dissatisfaction, or resentment.
Yeah, I bitch. There's no complaining going on in Seaweed's world - I'm not in it to find a solution. I'm in it for the sheer, unadulterated joy of bitching.
Kenner - literally on his death bed - did neither. He would not do it. There were a few times when the pain was severe enough that he politely ended the conversation and signed off; other than that his demeanor was cheerful and upbeat. I marveled each time I got done with the call - I was sure I was seeing the results of a true spirituality. Taking what was given in a spirit of gratitude. It was a remarkable performance. Or maybe he really, really, really liked the morphine. Naw, it was the spirituality. No doubt about it.
This is the last joke I ever told him. It's not classic Little Jonny but it sufficed.
This dude is in bed when he's awakened by his alarm clock. He reaches over to turn the thing off and the knob comes off in his hand. After he manages to get the alarm silenced he walks over to the closet to get a pair of pants, and the door handle comes off in his hand. He's shaking his head by now but figures that maybe a cup of coffee would get things headed in the right direction but when he picks up the pot the handle breaks off.
"Wow," his wife laughs, bemused. "Now what are you going to do?"
(Ken is roaring already: "I can see where this is going," he shouts.)
"I don't know," the dude says. "But I don't think I'm going to go to the bathroom."
I always wondered what people were thinking as they walked by the room of a patient dying of prostate cancer and heard the sounds of a grown man giggling.
Complain: To express feelings of pain, dissatisfaction, or resentment.
Yeah, I bitch. There's no complaining going on in Seaweed's world - I'm not in it to find a solution. I'm in it for the sheer, unadulterated joy of bitching.
Kenner - literally on his death bed - did neither. He would not do it. There were a few times when the pain was severe enough that he politely ended the conversation and signed off; other than that his demeanor was cheerful and upbeat. I marveled each time I got done with the call - I was sure I was seeing the results of a true spirituality. Taking what was given in a spirit of gratitude. It was a remarkable performance. Or maybe he really, really, really liked the morphine. Naw, it was the spirituality. No doubt about it.
This is the last joke I ever told him. It's not classic Little Jonny but it sufficed.
This dude is in bed when he's awakened by his alarm clock. He reaches over to turn the thing off and the knob comes off in his hand. After he manages to get the alarm silenced he walks over to the closet to get a pair of pants, and the door handle comes off in his hand. He's shaking his head by now but figures that maybe a cup of coffee would get things headed in the right direction but when he picks up the pot the handle breaks off.
"Wow," his wife laughs, bemused. "Now what are you going to do?"
(Ken is roaring already: "I can see where this is going," he shouts.)
"I don't know," the dude says. "But I don't think I'm going to go to the bathroom."
I always wondered what people were thinking as they walked by the room of a patient dying of prostate cancer and heard the sounds of a grown man giggling.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
One Foot in This World and One Foot in the Next
Kenner was diagnosed with prostate cancer several years ago. He underwent treatment, sending the cancer went into remission, and all was well for a while, but at a subsequent appointment he learned that the cancer was back and that it had spread aggressively. Kenner pursued some treatment options to try to arrest the growth; alas, to no avail. Through the black and white lens through which he saw the world he decided Basoof! which I thought was a German word meaning "enough" but at a subsequent appointment I found out it's only made-up gibberish. Ken believed that he had lived a good, blessed life and that was enough for him; he was satisfied with his journey and at peace in his mind. He wasn't one to question his god when he was convinced the message was coming in loud and clear.
"It's time to come home." This is what god told Ken and that's an explanation that's good enough for me.
While Ken was still well enough he was able to close up his household, giving his stuff to his kids or to charity, putting his financial affairs in order, taking his leave with his many friends. SuperK and I were in India when this was going down so I was only able to talk to him sporadically. Then . . . radio silence. No Kenner. Many messages and no return calls. I finally reached out to Little Westside Jonny who lived nearby - he could find out only that Ken was still alive but the facility wouldn't release any more information than that to non-family.
Eventually, through some diligent detective work on the part of Jonny, we found out that Ken had moved into the skilled nursing facility on the grounds of his retirement community where hospice had begun to deliver end-of-life care: pain management and that sort of thing. While he was bedridden - or nearly so - most of the last three or four months of his life I was able to talk to him almost every day. I was at peace with my relationship with him so I made the decision not to travel back to see him in person, aware that my chances were rapidly vanishing and that I might not make it back in time on one of my trips to see him alive. We talked about this and he agreed, worrying that seeing my face one more time would only hasten his death, and make it painful to boot.
So when we spoke he would invariably ask me how I was doing. I'd like to remind you that he was bedridden and dying of cancer, in a lot of pain, but this did not hamstring my boundless capacity to talk about myself, mostly complaining about unimportant things, usually mild pain or discomfort in my remarkably healthy body. I understood that the distraction was probably good for him. Still, it was a fine demonstration of my self-absorption.
As he got sicker and sicker it seemed that he was beginning to move back and forth between this world and the next; either that or the morphine was making him a little weird and he was sharing his hallucinations with me. Never a man to talk about his personal life he nevertheless began to share some deeply private thoughts and memories about his marriages and children. Then, he started to hypothesize on the nature of love - and that's Love with a capital L - on what was coming next, on the reality of god. It got a little eerie from time to time - I began to feel like I was talking to someone who could see things that my human eyes were unable to see, that he had one foot in this world and the other foot somewhere else.
The calls would end on his terms. He was usually laughing. His voice would get less and less distinct, quieter, fuzzier, and he would tell me that it was time to address his pain and that he was releasing me for the day. I could tell he was getting frustrated - he was ready to die and a little perplexed as to why his god wasn't calling him home. One day he didn't pick up the phone. That afternoon I got an email from a mutual friend in The Program who told me that Ken informed the staff that he was no longer going to eat or drink anything. He lapsed into a coma and died shortly afterwards, his family in the room, held in the arms of his god.
So we talk about how our pains and troubles and travails fit us to be of service to our fellows. Mom died quickly, so quickly that I never got to speak to her; dad dissolved in an alcoholic mist; and Kenner showed me some really wild, really important things. His pain was one of the greatest gifts that I ever received.
Three years later and I still miss talking to him.
"It's time to come home." This is what god told Ken and that's an explanation that's good enough for me.
While Ken was still well enough he was able to close up his household, giving his stuff to his kids or to charity, putting his financial affairs in order, taking his leave with his many friends. SuperK and I were in India when this was going down so I was only able to talk to him sporadically. Then . . . radio silence. No Kenner. Many messages and no return calls. I finally reached out to Little Westside Jonny who lived nearby - he could find out only that Ken was still alive but the facility wouldn't release any more information than that to non-family.
Eventually, through some diligent detective work on the part of Jonny, we found out that Ken had moved into the skilled nursing facility on the grounds of his retirement community where hospice had begun to deliver end-of-life care: pain management and that sort of thing. While he was bedridden - or nearly so - most of the last three or four months of his life I was able to talk to him almost every day. I was at peace with my relationship with him so I made the decision not to travel back to see him in person, aware that my chances were rapidly vanishing and that I might not make it back in time on one of my trips to see him alive. We talked about this and he agreed, worrying that seeing my face one more time would only hasten his death, and make it painful to boot.
So when we spoke he would invariably ask me how I was doing. I'd like to remind you that he was bedridden and dying of cancer, in a lot of pain, but this did not hamstring my boundless capacity to talk about myself, mostly complaining about unimportant things, usually mild pain or discomfort in my remarkably healthy body. I understood that the distraction was probably good for him. Still, it was a fine demonstration of my self-absorption.
As he got sicker and sicker it seemed that he was beginning to move back and forth between this world and the next; either that or the morphine was making him a little weird and he was sharing his hallucinations with me. Never a man to talk about his personal life he nevertheless began to share some deeply private thoughts and memories about his marriages and children. Then, he started to hypothesize on the nature of love - and that's Love with a capital L - on what was coming next, on the reality of god. It got a little eerie from time to time - I began to feel like I was talking to someone who could see things that my human eyes were unable to see, that he had one foot in this world and the other foot somewhere else.
The calls would end on his terms. He was usually laughing. His voice would get less and less distinct, quieter, fuzzier, and he would tell me that it was time to address his pain and that he was releasing me for the day. I could tell he was getting frustrated - he was ready to die and a little perplexed as to why his god wasn't calling him home. One day he didn't pick up the phone. That afternoon I got an email from a mutual friend in The Program who told me that Ken informed the staff that he was no longer going to eat or drink anything. He lapsed into a coma and died shortly afterwards, his family in the room, held in the arms of his god.
So we talk about how our pains and troubles and travails fit us to be of service to our fellows. Mom died quickly, so quickly that I never got to speak to her; dad dissolved in an alcoholic mist; and Kenner showed me some really wild, really important things. His pain was one of the greatest gifts that I ever received.
Three years later and I still miss talking to him.
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