Alecto's Ophelia

Possibly obstinate

ob·sti·nate

/ˈäbstənət/

 

adjective

adjective: obstinate

stubbornly refusing to change one's opinion or chosen course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so.

 

To be fair, it was the second move in 14 months at best. Given the circumstances, I hadn’t expect it to show its face again where it started.

 

I don't recall when it first went in the ground but it went in healthy, came back each year with fresh intent, and established dominance within the first three years. The summer before the murder, it reached a height of four feet and nearly equal width. Somewhere I have photographs but that's not really the point.

 

In June of 2018, I returned from Basking Ridge and had a good hard look at the back meadow (this is not my meadow but close enough). 

 

 

Just past knee high, the grass was gone and the feisty rhizome that is thistle had taken up residence. I called the landscaping/garden center/murderer of Christmas trees people and ordered up a back yard sheering.

 

It doesn't really matter how often you cut it, a rhizome system doesn't give a damn; its the plant version of the honey badger. To remove a field of this shit, you have to dig it up in the spring. I didn't have the heart or the bandwidth. Just take it ALL down, gentlemen.

 

And they did. I should have emphasized the down, not the ALL.

 

They took the Monkshood. I surrendered. I didn't have the energy to cry about plants. 

 

Late October of the same year, I made the brutal decision to walk away from the house. I made a plan, made the two November mortgage payments, and signed the Chappaqua lease while there was still a reasonable cash buffer and a job. I did not make another payment and on January 1, 2019, Elizabeth and I crossed the state line.

 

In March, before the lockout I pushed the fall mulch away from the gravesite and discovered the first spring shoots. The damn thing was shrieking: I'm alive! I'm alive! Thank dogalmighty, I AM alive! 

 

Cool. Sorry to leave you like this. They're probably going to take you up by the roots this time. But good luck anyway; you'll be missed. Monkshood real name is Wolfsbane. Nobody wants to nurture a thing like that so you have to pretend you don't know and you mustn't ever consume that plant. But I know the truth and I love it more for its history and honesty and that is probably why I decided to break it out. 

 

Please don't leave me.

 

In April we made our final walk-about, just before signing the final papers. On a whim, I thought it was a whim,  I dug him up with, dropped him into a large pot and unceremoniously, shoved him into the car. I took the peony too. The peony whined every summer for good reason; I dug it up every year and moved it to a safer location. I was never right but the damn thing lived on. To spite me, I think.  

 

I brought them home, dug two holes and asked the gods for favors. The peony didn't have enough light. Wolfie might have been in too much shadow. I was astonished this spring. The peony got ready to bloom. Wolfie declared complete recovery (delusional).

 

And then we had to go. They were pulled up and put back in pots a week before the move. The woman was doing odd things with her gardener and I suspected that death and dismemberment were imminent. 

 

I moved seven separate pots off the property and hid them alongside the forsythia. They screamed and shrieked morning and night when I showed up with the water.

 

They sat another week, at least, while Elizabeth and I beat down most of the chaos. 

 

I had a look at them one afternoon, in their pots at the side of the house and said:

 

Guys, it's now or never, isn't it? 

 

The peony has been tormented against the stone wall with nearly full western exposure. She produced one single glorious flower, dropped its petals, and sank into the wall as if to say, I've got a serious case of the vapors and if I faint and fall over, I'm not coming back.

 

 

I really don't think you'll survive another move right now, sweetheart.

 

You're full of shit. Get me the hell out of here. 

 

I'll think about it.

 

Think FASTER. Do you SEE what's happened to my skirt?

 

Yes. I see. 

 

But Wolfie got the short end of the stick. The location was right in terms of exposure but I'd never really planted anything that didn't have some sort of natural wind barrier. Elizabeth came back to the front of the house with a full watering can.

 

What? He must need water by now.

 

He's dead.

 

He is not dead! How can he be dead?!!

 

He was mortally wounded. I put the two halves with leaves in her hands and said:

 

Do NOT move. Not one inch.

 

Ninety seconds later with a wooden spoon and some yarn, I tied him up and whispered:

 

Good luck, dude. Really, good luck. 

 

We gave him a drink and made a wind block out of patio chairs. 

 

He is not dead yet. But.

 

If he makes it through the summer, he's going to relocate one more time.

 

 

One or both of us define the word obstinate. 

 

The dying of the light

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

One single primal sentence shrouds the world, my world, your world, blanketed by night. 

A three year old holds her hands over her face and says:

You can't see me. 

A three year old with his covered face has not bought into the fallacy of separateness; they don't know. Therefore, their eyes are your eyes, and your eyes are his. Of course you cannot see her when she covers his eyes. 

My eyes are covered because your eyes are covered. Why doesn't that work the other way around? I know the answer and I hate it. It doesn't work because the connection between us has been severed for so long, the canyon carved by galactic rapids of acid rain, and we are awash in a sea of blood.

Most of us painfully unaware; the rat of fear having long since gnawed through our collective guts. 

That's a lot, isn't it? 

My brother announces his intent to board a Florida bound plane. I can't tell if he's oblivious or if he's told himself a story. What will he bring back to Colorado and why will his client even let him in the door? I don't know him well enough to try a guess and I don't understand Florida at all. Or Texas, for that matter, or any of the other top ten states. 

Three, I guess, breakers blew out yesterday. It was a good day and I pulled up the The Times for a look at the world in general. The first one blew at the four day US spike and the second and third at the number of states in the increase bucket. It brought to mind the gambler's table. The chips go here and there and back to the dealer and periodically one gambler has 95% of the take. And that's a good thing, right? 

I shut the lid and walked six 90F, 80% humidity miles which failed to reset a single switch. My head still crackled, gut still churned, and at 4:30 I broke. There are times you think you'll never stop crying if you start, and there are times when this is true. The last time I cried non-stop for two hours was in the first six months after David left and I fell off a cliff. 

Today I am prepared when I look at the numbers and they are worse than the day before and I know what is going to happen. 

I know what is going to happen.  

 

I don't know why Texas and Florida over California or Arizona or even North Carolina, which is most assuredly on the NYS no fly list. Maybe Texas because I found them more belligerent than most. Maybe Florida because they covered their collective eyes in April or May, opened their beaches and swarmed the shorelines with complete impunity. 

 

I know what is going to happen. 

 

Statistically speaking, it takes three weeks from onset to death. Not everyone dies, just enough to feel the body counts in ways most of us have never thought about, much less considered.

 

In the beginning, the hospitals are under siege. Doctors make hard choices about what they will treat and what they will not because beds have to be open. It feels like military field triage, but it isn't. Or it is, but it's upside down. They don't walk past the mostly dead or almost dead or pretty much gonna get to dead, they walk past the, looks like they'll pull out of it. Maybe 50/50? Hand over a bottle of Cipro and hope for the best. 

 

Doctors started doing that in Texas five days ago, before the rest of the state had any idea. 

 

I don't know if we have enough data for any clear indication of overall mortality rate but we sure as shit have a rough order of magnitude. Watching the trends from March 1 forward, a densely populated area will suffer anywhere from 9 to 11%. 

 

New York City, which I must remind myself is Manhattan and four other boroughs is almost exactly at 10%, but if you drill down, all the way down to the zip code level the numbers are breathtaking. Chalk this up to the significantly marginalized in a way that poverty doesn't begin to cover. 

 

Black Lives don't Matter because we cannot see these people. 

 

And also, as a general rule, we suck at being human.

 

Statistics. Hospitals will become one of the most infectious places anyone would ever want to be. People die at home of other things. They die of things that mostly would have or could have been fixed. They die avoiding the plague. 

 

What's next are the overflowing morgues and the refrigerated trucks and the unrefrigerated trucks, parked and forgotten with the rotting dead. You think that's hyperbole, don't you? I understand, it is not a thing we are prepared to cope with and not a thing we can easily imagine.

 

It's good to be an American in the land of the free. Right up until the roof caves in and there is no one to fix the roof, much less patch a leak.

 

When the morgues have overflowed and makeshift hospitals at capacity, we open the communal graves the way they have been opened so many times, century after century - sometimes back to back decades. 

 

And this is when the population goes inside and stays inside. 

 

On June 22, Texas had a case count of 119, 646. The death toll at an acceptable 2,213. the spike had already spiked but the dead were yet to walk the city streets. 

 

Five days later, Texas reports an increase of 28,993 new cases but only 185 newly dead bringing the total body count to 2,398. 

 

That is 2% mortality, the other 8% is staring straight down the barrel at us. To date, the state of Texas owes COVID-19 an additional 12,466 dead. It will happen fast.

 

Florida's numbers aren't much better and Florida is a giant sand pile. Bodies decompose differently in sand. Or don't, actually, if the circumstances are right. I don't want to think about it. 

 

There are humans in Florida and I don't want this to happen. 

 

The upper half of the Mid-Atlantic Region and all of Southern New England turn their heads and weep. 

 

 

 

 

Math, mostly.

This didn't turn out well; it also isn't what I envisioned and it took me a while to figure out what they were doing.

It's a train station parking lot; a really big one, subjectively speaking. Unless I'm mistaken, that lit up building in the back is the restaurant in front of the Chappaqua train station.

This drive by business started late March, maybe early April as a consolation parade meant to remind eight year olds with canceled birthdays that they were not, in fact entirely forgotten. It was cute. Sort of.

The first one I ran into brought traffic to a dead stop starting about half a mile from Wheeler St in Pleasantville. I backed out and went looking for another way in. I was followed by two or three vehicles and later probably more. The next approach produced the same results. Dead stop. The third brought me to the T where the blockage began. Cars driving by with balloons and banners, honking and yelling hello to an unseen child somewhere in the vicinity. There was a giant dinosaur jumping about on two legs at the intersection. 

Without assistance, traffic made a zipper and I escaped.

That was my first up close and personal run in. It didn't match my expectations anymore than the drive-in at the train station. The Facebook photographs showed a line of vehicles, carefully spaced, driving past the front door of newly minted eight year old twins. The twenty foot gap front and back reduced the droplet explosion coming out of the open windows and made the whole thing a little more personal. Quality over quantity, although there's a lot to be said for stopping traffic from all directions at the center of town. 

I wasn't even remotely amused. If you feel the need to have a full blown parade, get a permit and pay for traffic control. I was far more forgiving in March and April than I am today, at the end of June. Today I am nearly apoplectic. 

At 8 PM on June 20, 2020, Horace Greeley High School seniors graduated at a drive in. I'm sorry it's the New York Post, and it might as well have been the Daily News, but this is the story I don't feel like retelling. 

The only part that interests me is the part that is not in the article, or any other. It's the part about the witch hunt. She, or he, went to Florida, came home, and attended the HGHS graduation and most likely the Field Event of which we know nothing other than it was unsanctioned by the school and ran late. Maybe five days later, she, or he, showed symptoms, tested positive and so did four (at least) others. 

That makes sense, right? It makes sense to me. 

It didn't make sense to the town. If it's true about the death threats, then it's true; someone went that one extra step when it comes to public shaming and picked up a rock. It didn't make sense to the town because the town still hasn't found itself even remotely accountable. 

Sit with that. 

This is not good either, but somehow the attempt at compromise and personal accountability seems more believable. 

It's those droplets in the air, man, they'll take you down; asymptomatically oblivious, you take down your asthmatic neighbor and hope she didn't get you sick when you hear about the intubation. I think this is just us but the math part is problematic.

The crude death rate is calculated by the numbers of deaths divided by the number of people in the population, and then multiplied by a factor. In calculating regional crude death rates for COVID-19, we are using a factor of 100,000. 

Example: Westchester County has a population of 969,279 with 1,552 COVID-19 related deaths. The crude death rate for Westchester is 160 deaths in every 100,000 people. If the factor of 1,000,000 is used, the number is 1,601. Wait, relevance is coming. 

The formula for the crude death rate can be used for anything. We just associate it with death at the moment. Have you noticed it's a little difficult to get an accurate count of active cases? You have to do the math yourself; nobody wants to discuss the active cases.

This is just math, don't panic. Total Number of Cases, less Total Recovered, less Dead = Total Active Cases. 

Westchester:

Total Recorded Cases: 34,779 - Recoveries: 21,427 - The Dead: 1554 (yeah, the stats just jumped, look up) = 11,798 Active Cases. Using a factor of 1,000,000, because the State of Vermont says so, the crude rate for Active Cases in Westchester County, NY is.... drum roll... 

No, this first. The Vermont Dept of Tourism and Marketing informs New England Tourist Nation that in order to travel without restriction, you must come from a county with <400 per million active cases. Doesn't sound that bad, does it? Yes it does!

Westchester county: 12,172 active cases per million. 

Dare County, NC, which has claimed a whopping 43 cases with 1 death and 17 recoveries, is at 676 active per million.

Wait! That's absurd, right? How do you get 676 out of 25 active cases? You start with an estimated population of 37,009. Density. That's the ',mostly.' part. 

Interesting fact (if I'm reading this correctly): If I complete a 14 or 7 day quarantine and produce a doctor's note stating I'm clean, I can drive from my home directly to my destination. 

If I have to stop, no deal. I can't figure out if that means for gas or food or to pee or what have you but it's still pretty clear. Stay home, you probably infected peeps! Stay home! Vermont does not want your sorry ass in its green mountains or anywhere else. 

JEEZE, Dad! I am trying but my neighbors keep having parties and apparently I am not permitted to shoot at them. 

On the other hand, if I brought so much as a spore across the state line, I don't know what the hell I'd do with myself.

I said, to the agent on the phone when I canceled my reservation in May. Honey, you do not want me in your state, much less on your sandbar! BE SAFE, ok?

Crickets.

Really, sweetie, no joke. Get a mask, get a bunch of masks, Belinda has them, go home, lock the door and don't come out until October when they're all finally gone.

Crickets.

Which is how we got where we are today. Crickets. 

Math, mostly:

From National Vital Statistics Reports: Deaths: Final Data for 2017*

*yes, it takes this long to get all that shit collated so you're just going to have to work with me on these numbers.

This is the original, unsullied screenshot from the report noted above. The crude death rate factor used is 100,000.

Crude anything rates cannot be calculated with six months of data; it's completely meaningless because the next six months could send those numbers every which way but I'm going to use them anyway. To make a point. Or hear myself talk. Or something. 

Well that's kinda sucky, no?

Apparently there's been some sniveling about the Sucky European Union and its Sucky Travel Restrictions. 

Cough. Hey. YOU. Yep, YOU. You embody this problem. Go shame yourself. I haven't got the energy. 

The Curtain (no cemetery accoutrements, just The Curtain)

I think I'll start with Ilsa and Rick. Was not expecting this. She didn't care WHAT I did, so long as I didn't rush her. Eventually she got bored, jumped (yup, jumped) in the creek and meandered. 

Rick did jack shit. I would think for sure they'd not been introduced except for the fact that they're married. This is duck love, people. Take it or leave it.

I had to get pretty close for Rick to acknowledge that he might just not be alone in the world. If he'd gone looking for a place to hide, he missed.

Observations. Make something up; it's what we do when we assign attributes from box A to things which are not in box A - willy nilly like.

Rick.

Can you tell I'm tired? 

So let's talk about The Curtain. The curtain brainstorm was to stop the noise coming from the 27 inch monitor. I'd already turned off the sound but that didn't change the screen activity.

By accident I started at 6 AM this morning. All I wanted to do was log on and make sure I could hold back until 8 AM when my meetings start. I wanted to log on, check for impending doom, swivel to the 23 inch monitor which supports my Mac during the week, and sign my tax return. Also, I thought maybe a nice 45 minute trek followed by a shower might also have been nice. 

Bit of a segue. I am supposed to be collecting evidence this week that I can win. I've had two major losses (otherwise known as failures based on end results) which can really fuck a person up. The losses came on the heal of two of the biggest wins in my life, not counting The Castle as that wins hands down always. The fact of the two solid wins made it a lot easier to sound like I do, in fact, walk on two legs. Competency questionable, upright, yes. 

When I started at The Castle I was in so far over my head I was afraid to tell anyone which resulted in me reinforcing the belief that I can't ask for help and if I do not figure it (what the hell even IS that?) out, it's on me and I suck. 

That's a horrible lens through which to view anything. 

At The Castle, I sat in my cube, in the dark, late into the night identifying and then duplicating what someone else had done for another project. I don't think I've ever been so damn focused in my life. It took a year before I realized I'd ingested an entire vernacular dedicated to teaching people to operate the heavy machinery called Financial Software. Hint: you use the declarative voice and you write in the present tense. I had fits about Oxford commas and the spacing between punctuation.

I was doing this other thing in parallel which is probably how I got from point A to point Z without a map. I wanted point Z possibly more than I've wanted anything in my life. Except sex. That's normal, right?

I kept an evidence journal. I made it up. If it's an actual thing, I don't know anything about it. My evidence journal documented everything, anything, that supported the premise called:

I can do this.

In the beginning it was called 'I don't suck', but a negative focus returns exactly that, what you're focused on. Focusing on I don't suck is like driving head-on into oncoming traffic because that's the only thing you can look at.

I kept the journal for two years and I don't think I told a damn soul about it. It was secret, a bit shameful, and most definitely COMPLETELY MORTIFYING.

So I told Adam and he looked at me the way some people can look into a webcam and get right into your brain. That's it. He just looked. At the end of the session he said:

So we'll discuss your journal next Saturday, yes?

(wot! wot!?)

Sure. That's what we'll do.

End segue.  

I don't think my experience of the vortex that is my client would be nearly the same if we weren't all at home. But we are and therefore have developed some rather nasty habits which don't bear inspection at the moment. All you need to understand is why I did this:

See what I did? It works, too. Also, it is a PowerPoint slide, a simple esc takes it down. I launch it from my desktop but I think I'm going to put an executable on my task bar. 

So this is my home office. I have never actually had a home office. I have had a corner of the dining room or the back end of a living room and at one point, my bedroom. On the bed. No desk. You make it work.

But this is my office which I only have because the apartment we selected happened to have three bedrooms even though I clearly stated that I wanted TWO bedrooms but I get it. You have a room that will fit a bed, a window, a closet, and a door that closes and if it meets basic building specs, you got a bedroom. This is a 7' x 8' bedroom. Approximately. This is why I have an office which tried to be a dumping ground for every unpacked box that didn't make sense until I sent IT all back to the living room. And closed the door behind me. 

The fan is in the window because this is the only place in the house without A/C. There's a main unit in the living room wall that pushes cool air right to my door and absolutely no further. I tried having the fan in the doorway behind me but I'm not going to discuss the results. I spend most of my day on video. 

There is another bookcase. You knew that, right?

This is the reason there are flowcharts taped to my wall. You should see what's over the other bookcase. I've created wallpaper, which is why that fabulous captain is still pointed nose down on the floor. I swore to him that when I acquired an actual office size whiteboard, he would hang right on top of that mess of flowcharts. 

This board is full of my silent screams and virtually nothing else. 

Treasury Systems. Just say no. Too many breakable parts. 

Elizabeth is home. It is 5:35 on a Friday evening and my phone has finally shut the hell up. 

Situation: I am the PMO. There are multiple yet to be identified project managers running around doing shit which is causing a mountain of shit and a new one arrived on my doorstep a few days ago. I think she's going to be one hell of an asset. Except she won't shut up. 

I understand. I won't either which is exhibit A for the evidence book. That will either make sense or it will not.

**************************

The light from my living room window, which is the entire width of the house not counting the door, is breathtaking, heartbreaking, stop you dead in your tracks outrageously astonishing. 

This is an almost every night event. I did go to the porch for the shot, but you know I see just about exactly that from the couch if I happen to be on it. 

I got this the other night. I don't know that it's all that unusual other than I can actually see it. 

That's my friend April's house across the street. I need to go over there and knock on the door and see if she'll take a walk with me. A properly distanced walk, but a walk with me all the same. 

Last bit.

This isn't a political statement. Probably it's going to land that way anyway, but at least I said it up front. 

This is about the things that rub us the wrong way and we don't know why.

When I lived in Chappaqua I photographed exactly seven lawn jockeys within a mile of my home. Said lawn jockeys were as demographically spread apart as any one resident of that town can get from another. No way I could broad stroke the behavior. 

That upset me in a way I don't know I'll ever shake off. The biggest upset was 1. huh? and 2. you know, it's really no big deal anymore. I used to only want to punch people south of the mason dixon line but those assumptions just broadened themselves. 

See, that's a sensibility thing but it's also egregiously blatant racism of the sort that goes hand in hand with, 'I'm not racist!' (yes, you are, as am I) and I have black friends... (make it stop!!!)

There was a man with a sign in his front yard that looked like a political endorsement; all the right colors and everything. But it wasn't suggesting we vote for anyone. It read:

PUT HER IN JAIL!!!

OK. Got it. You're not a Hill and Bill fan. I wasn't bothered, no reason to be bothered. He statement wasn't 'phrased' any differently than Vote for Ivy! The signage was identical. I was amused.

The other morning I was not so amused. I was appalled, astonished, slightly queasy, and at the same time, not exactly sure why because it wasn't any different than the put her in jail sign. It was not negative. It simply stated: I stand for this guy. Logically, I understood. At a visceral level I wanted to vomit.

In my head: fuck. there goes one of my favorite porch garden combos. Now I can't even walk this block unless I'm near a run. And also: But they seemed so nice! What the fuck?

It took me until I looked at the photograph again last night. 

It's not about the content (well sometimes it sure as shit is), it's about the communication.

I am a white woman of anglo descent with solid protestant sensibilities which has nothing to do with church or dog. I don't like the acronym; it's lost all meaning. 

Being a white woman of anglo descent with solid protestant sensibilities means I'm going to see through that lens unless I make a concerted effort to see differently. Sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's just not happening and sometimes my patience wears thin and I start slamming and locking doors.

So here it is. I have an expectation that we will keep our political views and affiliations to ourselves in the same manner that we keep our finances to ourselves. In the event that we're going to make a statement, that statement will not look like this statement.

That's what got me. It was the size of the flag. 

Damn. 

So I'm going to walk by that house every day with the same smile I always have and I'm going to admire that garden and that porch and should anyone happen to come out that front door I will do one of three things. I'm going to go with option C, which is run like hell. Options A and B shouldn't be discussed in any company.

That's it. If I get back out here in less than two weeks it will be a bloody miracle. Plus it's hot as fuck in here (yah, three times I've used that word).

 

It's called the god light

When you can't really see what you're shooting, because the light is in its summer whites, you focus on an edge and wonder what you'll see later in the evening. 

I took a photograph at Golgotha; the roof so far above it was hard to gauge the distance between the source of light and the darkness of the floor. That far into the day I don't think I would have looked up if not for the bar of light shot down at a hard angle with impunity; only partially diffused by impact. The birthplace of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, otherwise known as one of the final resting places of Christ. Dude got around.

I wish I hadn't lost it, lost every photograph ever taken in that country. I wish I had Golgotha's Light and also Arachova, which is the belly button of the world. In this place Zeus caught his eagle and the Oracle at Delphi holds office hours from 10 to 3. The Greek are rarely punctual but the Oracle has other business to attend to which has very little to do with anything made of flesh and bone. We aren't gods and the Oracle was out, but the smell of chocolate chip cookies remained. I captured the heart of what is also called the birthplace of the world. Golgotha and Arachova, enlarged to an astonishing 16x20, matted and framed said good morning and good night for close to five years. I took them down two years after David left and somewhere in that house they waited for eviction. I was already gone.

I wish I had them now. Golgotha had nothing to do with him and the memory of Arachova was mine alone. Forensic accountants often fail to recognize when they've stepped off the page. Not his fault, just a difference in wiring. I count three instances of the phrase, 'I wish' and there's no point wishing for the past unless that's all there is and that's not true today.

I don't think we meant to visit another cemetery, it's just that there was a mile, an actual mile of cars parked on the side of NY 117 outside the entrance to Rockefeller State Park which is where Elizabeth wanted to be but she let it go when she multiplied the vehicles by the probable number of passengers and quickly threw in the towel. Sleepy Hollow is just around the corner and I've been there once. In her mind there was a street with shops and bakeries and while she couldn't shop she could buy a cookie or a cake and walk to the river under the bright, squint-worthy sun.

The left turn into the parking lot of the Old Dutch Church is deadly and we came an inch, or maybe three feet from being creamed by a BMW tearing up the hill. I never saw him. She screamed. I smashed the brake into the floor and that car never slowed, just swerved a bit and so she lived. I'm not sure I'd have survived much longer. 

We parked and she asked how bad would that have been and, you know how you struggle sometimes between telling straight forward truth and softening the blow or sometimes outright lying? I struggled and asked myself who, exactly, I thought I was protecting. Me. Me, I thought. I am protecting the truth that I nearly killed my child. The worst possible reason to lie. 

Elizabeth, he would have hit the passenger door at a very high speed. Best I can tell, he never took his foot off the gas (and why am I assuming a gender?). When a direct collision at that speed occurs, no matter how many airbags you've got, the side of the car that takes the impact is vaporized. We sat with that for a while and then I apologized. It was the sort of apology you make when you're stone cold sober and you feel it down to the bottom of your gut. She was white and she heard it the way you hear an apology when you're stone cold sober and you feel it down to the bottom of your gut. She processed for a while and then cried for a bit but by that time we were already at the north side of the church in the place that is called the old burial grounds.  

Old burial grounds, something sacred and far closer to death than we've been in at least a century. Something sacred, close to the ground, more like the ghosts of the Weckquaesgecks. I don't know about those death rites, I know about the sixty or so that are currently beneath the pavement somewhere near Park and 98th Street. This information scared me more than the acres of mausoleums in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, all 90-something acres of it.

I have seen more than a handful of cemeteries in my life. I have seen the family plots in the family front yard (this appeals to me), the hidden caches of between two and ten grave markers weathered almost to nothing, stumbled upon in the high grass or at the edge of a forest. I found the twenty or so Revolutionary soldiers buried on the hill above the reservoir that used to be a town, and I have been to see row after row of shiny granite that stretches over the horizon. I have seen the cemetery in Old San Juan, which is not a good place for interment because it is just slightly below sea level and the dead rise with the water level. The passage tombs in Ireland and the old flat stones in the courtyards of the seven churches on Inis More. The flat stones cover centuries of bodies. Many, many centuries. The protestant church of St Michan's keep their dead in the basement in family crypts that reminded me of the cells at Newgate Prison. I have seen the ancient and new and many things in between but I have never seen anything quite like what's happened behind the Old Dutch Church.

Many, many straight forward headstones, some of which have crumbled, revealing the brick interior. Who knew?!!! A good number of family plots and one I can't make sense of; I don't know exactly what they've done with their dead. Two angels and something I haven't identified yet, stand at the backside of a monument that holds the man who owned this all. Yes, I'm talking about people. In front stands Jesus flanked by another angel and an empty podium. 

There are three grave markers on each side of The Master, twelve in all. Outside the immediate gates there are six or seven more, laid out at least in pairs across the grass. There are several, side by side that look like they sustained very little damage. The granite is shiny but the dates are old. 

Here is is, captured from directly below. The monument reads: Colonel Charles H. Delavan but available data indicates that Colonel Charles H. Delavan erected the memorial for his father, Daniel Delavan, 1st Regiment New York Militia. One of them is the great grandson of William Floyd who got to put his name on the Declaration of Independence.

That's some rare air up there, and another shaft of light.

I want to understand what these slabs are all about. They each have at least two names which is not unusual; my family plot has a single headstone and both sides have been used up naming our dead. I'm afraid we just kept putting them in, one after another until we were too close to the top. At least that's how I envision getting that many family members into one bit of ground. 

These bothered me though. I thought they were headstones that fell over together, or headstones waiting to go up. Nope. Mini crypts is what I think but what would I see if I lifted the stone?

Now, this business with the mausoleums. The first photograph at the top, with the beautiful light, anchored by that stark green leaf, that is the only building we came upon without a name. This lovely art deco thing, locked up and nameless wasn't what put me on edge. What left me wary was the sheer number of them. 

And they don't just jump out at you either. 

I photographed the canon because I wasn't sure about the reference. The immediate assumption is the Revolutionary War but the question is why that particular location and direction? Seems pretty intentional to me but there is no marker. Look forward, follow the canon's line of sight. It's going to fire directly over the final resting places of a significant number of bodies and at a slight incline as if the final protector of the dead.

Once I noticed what really makes me think of Hobbit Holes because they are built so completely into the hill, I kept finding more of them. I am sorry not to have found Mrs Helmsley's home. I've been told she has stained glass windows and I do want to know if she took that twelve million dollar dog in with her. I'm ok with that miss; there were so many more.

When we were done because there wasn't much left in either of us, I realized there was no perpetual care associated with these structures, other than what the cemetery itself can do to keep them from falling down entirely. They are built on top and into each other with entire families in plots which seem above ground in comparison, riding on their backs. 

It is a village of the dead and not like the one in Jerusalem. This one is forgotten or hidden and I suppose the family lines have ended. 

It's not so noticeable with your garden variety lines of headstones. 

The Washington Irving family plot does have perpetual care and DAR and SAR and one other organization I didn't recognize are doing their best to replace and repair. There is room for more. You could be there too. 

I will not be there. I will not be in any cemetery. I will not be in any cemetery because my children are a bit concerned about a significant haunting. 

The reason for the light:

It's called the god light by photographers and preachers. It's called something else entirely by the tribes that refer to 'he, who thought us all into being'. I'm not sure about the 'he' part. A pronoun is for a person and I don't think they meant it that way. In any event, yesterday was the first time I thought of that sort of light as having any meaning at all. Scientifically we understand exactly why it happens, but as it comes through the trees, or the clouds, or passes through a window or under a door, it feels like a gift but from whom? I can understand 'he, who thought us into being'. That statement represents nothing other than some sort of consciousness, end of story. Is there a consciousness as we understand it in the cosmos? Highly unlikely. But broaden the definition of consciousness and you'll probably find it. Do try not to call it god; you'll ruin it for everyone.

That is the reason for the light. 'he, who thought us into being' is part of the whole damn thing. The light is a reminder that we are not even remotely separate and apart.

Yes. That's a leap. 

And then there is this:

I'll leave you with this and a little bit of information. The rest you get on your own.

It reads:

Hulda of Bohemia

Died c. 1777

Herbalist, Healer, Patriot

Felled by the British

while protecting the Militia

Buried here in gratitude for her sacrifice

This is brand spanking new. Clearly, she is not buried right there. In all seriousness, make it a memorial and a fucking apology, don't lie about it. This is an epic lie. It is true, I think, that she did take part in a skirmish. It is true, I think, that she was shot by the British. It is true, I'm pretty sure, that she was an herbalist and a healer, and it is also true, I think, that her remains are somewhere in the vicinity of the marker. Somewhere. She may have been put in a hole out of some sort of gratitude, but she was not marked. I guess you have to compromise when it comes to burying a known witch and enemy of the state in consecrated ground. A witch, by definition, is an enemy of the state.

But that's not the epic lie and I wanted to kick it down and burn that damn flag to ash in addition to finding the DAR chapter that decided to commit what I consider an egregious betrayal of women and slap the snot out of them. 

I did none of that. I put my daughter in the car, drove back to Pleasantville and had our first outdoor dining experience at what is probably our favorite spot on the street. 

Probably we won't die of it. They did a good job.
 

The Whitewashing of The Flats

This is the evening light above my front porch, across the street from April and Alyssa, and just to the right of Dominic the Gardner, at the Southwest corner of a very short block. All of the streets that are actually shaped like blocks are made up of tight compact communities in solid foursquare homes constructed in the first quarter of the twentieth century. In The City, all avenues run north to south, uptown, downtown, and the streets run east to west and west to east with the even numbered streets running east and odd to the west. Therefore, I have an expectation that an avenue will be bisected by a street. I've had a hard time finding my bearings in this very small neighborhood because avenues cross avenues and streets cross streets with a smattering of lanes, drives, and places, many of which eventually dead end. The ubiquitous four way stop intersections cause a safe haven for pedestrians and cyclists despite the lack of sidewalks. There is one avenue and one street that could reasonably be used to pass from one village to the next. The stop signs seem to have effectively halted thru traffic.  

It's hard to find images of foursquare homes built of stone cut from the local quarries of the Italian masons that came from Sicily and Sardinia at the start of the twentieth century. They came to build the Kensico dam, St. Patricks Cathedral, and a good number of the larger estates in Westchester. The photograph above was all Google was willing to cough up this morning and while that, also is a truth, so is this.

I have no idea when these two were connected but I can almost guarantee they are occupied by at least two generations and there is a very good chance they are direct descendants of the original masons. 

The parish church states quite plainly that it is Roman Catholic, as opposed to what? Vanilla Catholic? There isn't any difference between Roman Catholic and Vanilla Catholic except maybe the local sensibilities. I equate Roman Catholicism with a particular brand of rigidity that would still prefer its masses in Latin. I don't mean that badly. Rigid is not the same as Fundamental, it just doesn't leave much wiggle room to expand and accept its changing population. 

I could also be full of shit because most of what the interwebs spits back at me insist there is no difference, but have you ever heard a Catholic express their community as Roman Catholic versus another that is simply Catholic? I hear a distinct difference and sometimes a challenge but I'm not sure of what. I don't ask. 

But Roman Catholic they are, and even if Holy Innocents did gobble up the parish church, thereby demoting it to chapel, it is still the parish church. Sunday masses at 10 AM, Before the Covid-19 Era. For now the doors are closed. 

You have seen this before, but only a blurry low res photo from a google search. Google maps has come a long way in terms of what it will show you; the issue is knowing how long ago the photo was taken.

The problem with screenshots from Google Maps is you can never seem to get a straight shot. She's not really leaning. I promise. 

This house is an enigma. It is stone, it is very old, and it cannot have more than two rooms. The bump out to the left would be the bathroom, added well after the build, when plumbing, lighting, and paved roads came to the village; and village it is, acknowledged or not. 

It is the second house down from the church and the house in the middle appears to have taken a chunk out of what would most assuredly have been parish property at one time. This may have been the rectory. There is a petition to stop the tear down to make way for a big house on a small plot. No one seems to be concerned about big houses on small plots; they are concerned about losing their history. I don't blame them. 

If I was the third generation of families living in this neighborhood in homes adjacent to my parents and grandparents, I don't think I'd like it much either. If I could convince Dominick to walk around the block with me, just this one block, I expect I'd have some answers. Answers I can't get from anyone other than the parish church. Westchester has otherwise whitewashed it out of existence.

At one point, April tells me, this was a village. She tells me which building was an ice cream shop, which means it was a village that still existed halfway through the 20th century. She points out a few other buildings as well but doesn't know much about the very small house which is most assuredly not a foursquare. She knows that a man lived in it until a few years ago but then he was gone and it sits unoccupied with the floating petition intent on holding that corner. She tells me that mass is at 10 on Sundays but isn't entirely clear about the ownership by Holy Innocents. April still belongs to the original parish despite having come from the Bronx.

All Souls Cemetery nestles into the edge of the neighborhood where it has been for a very long time. That it belongs to Holy Innocents isn't relevant. I tell April that the cemetery doesn't appear to have been limited to catholics and she agrees that this is so. I don't mention the combined family plots, so old a tree has grown around one of the headstones in an eternal embrace. Someone is still here caring for these graves. The oldest headstone is being replaced but there's nothing to be done about the instance of roots growing across a patch of land under the tree, occupied by two families, merged by marriage and interred together, one death, and one generation at a time. 

There is no segregation that I can see between faith and economic differences. There is a mausoleum in the back, shaded by another few trees and occupied by half a family. The names of the still living already engraved in the marble. I have no idea how you get that thing open and am somewhat concerned by the air vents at the top. What are we trying to preserve? Or are we helping the process with the influx of oxygen? I'd have to see the inside.

There is one part that is significantly different enough to clearly indicate a separation either by choice or not. In the Southwest corner the plots are lined up on terraced ground, one clean row after another. A fair number of headstones have the likeness of the dead engraved into shiny marble. I've only ever seen this in Ireland although there's no reason it wouldn't exist here as well. I mean to go back and gather the names and dates. Some are very old, some are quite recent. 

There is one monument that caught my attention, not because of its size or the ornate detail of a sculpture. It caught my attention because this is a significant piece of art. The sculptor is named.

Even the stone on which Our Lady is seated, is sculpture; it is an integral part of the whole.

I was fascinated by the work and I wanted to see all of it. 

Who were you that someone went to this extent to remember you, to keep your memory living, to say I love you?

The compassion on her face, the vulnerability of a man stripped of all that he is, and two fingers raised in blessing. The comfort and the grace. 

They are carved into the stone, or the stone is carved around them. I don't know what tore at me more, the gentleness with which she holds him, or how tightly he clings to her with one arm, all energy spent to come home, the left arm giving way to death. 

And with that one final gesture, the grasping of her robe, he has come home. He has not been left on a field or in strange waters. He has made it just in time because I believe, she is always there.

And in the end it is clear that every detail, right down to the river of green, is exactly the story a living person or persons needed to tell. I am shattered. 

This neighborhood does not exist. It is in a cloud, unseen and unheard on the border the desirable and not so desirable interlocking zip codes.

I haven't seen unhappy here; I haven't heard it either. We are still coming up, Elizabeth and I, from the deep, where intermittent bouts of silence left us on edge waiting for the next assault. 

I have a Gerber Daisy and the very fact of its survival is a miracle to me. The porch is not pink. This photograph was taken on the evening of the pink, pink sky.

Watch with care. This video was posted Easter Sunday, 2020 and the Vatican doors are closed. It's going to be a long time before this changes and neighborhoods like mine might very well be wiped from history entirely.

Keep your masks on. Please. If not for yourself, for April and Alyssa. 

 

Walking in Memphis

"But do I really feel the way I feel?"

I did not put them there, but it's something I would have done. I looked up at the trees and and the leaves looked about right, but there weren't any flowers.

I've only ever seen one Tulip Tree but I saw it over and over again every time I came around the third bend on Blue Spruce Circle and for thirteen years never got closer than the fifty yard line. It was up the drive of an unknown neighbor who was rumored to be a retired soap opera star and therefore, a recluse.

Are you a recluse because you're a retired soap opera star or are you retired because you're a recluse? Before you ask, I haven't any idea who they are and no idea if the rumor is true. It was passed on by Barbara who has bugged every house in the neighborhood. 

Tulip Tree offering. Was it just that, or did it really fall from the trees? A single branch, two flowers, a bud, and nothing like it in the in the trees above. 

"...Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain"

I haven't anything to say other than, I went for a walk with Elizabeth and this is what we saw. Elizabeth remained on the bridge, but she was patient which is a rarity. That she walked 2.5 miles with me is a rarity, but once again, I neglected to tell her where we were going. Exactly. 

Later I wanted to leave the house again and promised her, round trip, no more than 1.2 but she didn't want a destination, she just wanted to wander the way we wandered through our neighborhood on Monday, which is flat, as advertised. She allowed me to trick her into this walk by reading the same sequence of left, right, lefts we walked on the way to town. It wouldn't be nearly so far and we'd be taking a slight detour; a left turn which wasn't there before. Elizabeth can agree to terms like these and tell herself she's surprised when we end up at All Souls Cemetery which is exactly where she did NOT want to go. 

We stepped out onto the porch and it was raining just enough to shrug and walk around back to see if my Monkshood felt like surviving its second move in 14 months. It's still standing. I need to mark it clearly so whoever cuts the grass (someone cuts the grass) doesn't take it out with a weed whacker which is how it came to be the sad, bedraggled thing it is today. Once it was four feet tall, more so with the giant purple flowers and a five foot spread. It was hacked down to nothing but stalks and dirt which would have been perfectly fine had it gotten to the first hard frost, when it would have taken itself back to the ground, just like a peony. 

I found Lamb's Ear growing in the grass, just outside the freshly dug garden border but I haven't moved it yet. It has survived the lawn mower but it won't get much bigger at this rate. Seems kind of miraculous to me; like a housewarming gift from a Dryad in somebody else's oak tree. I don't have an oak tree. 

The peony is older than the Monkshood, I think. I remember putting it in summer of 2008, into the hollow left by 12 cubic yards of organic (what even is that?) soil. Turned out that hollow had no tolerance for non competitive plant life and so I picked it up the next year or year after and moved it over six feet where it continued to hang on year after year but barely. I shoveled it up, no mercy, dumped it into a good size container, and put it in the Chappaqua ground. It got maybe 2 hours of dappled sunlight a day and somehow it rallied. I didn't get a flower last year, not so much as a bud, but this year it was ready to go. A single bud in the almost sunlight and not enough body to support it. 

So I dug it up again. I don't think putting it up against a pale stone wall on the side of the house with full western exposure was the kindest thing to do but it had already been living in a bucket for a week and had developed an irregular heartbeat. And somehow I'm going to landscape around that, making it perfectly Ok. But it is going to bloom. I can see its clear intention.

A man named Dominic who's son lives the next house over, called to me over the fence one day and we talked gardening and plants in general. Out of nowhere he announced the trash, recycling but not corrugated cardboard, and corrugated cardboard pickup days. I'll just put something out every day and see what happens. He gave me a bit of mint, for tea, he said. Later I heard him calling across the fence, Miss! Miss! He was holding three sprigs with enough soil and root to take up residence just about anywhere. I thought he said to put it in the refrigerator and it would keep for days and that made sense. Things last longer when they've got a bit of nourishment attached.

In my heart he said, put this in the ground and it will be there forever. Which, but the way, is the ever loving truth. Having pulled up forty yards of root just to get it OUT of my garden, there's no way I'm putting that sort of invasive on a piece of property I don't own. I put it in the big blue pot on the porch instead. The big blue pot clearly needs a bath and I'll get to that. I pulled off ten good sized leaves to make a Mojito (it was god awful, don't ever let me make you a Mojito). The next day those sprigs stood up damn straight; in defiance they stood taller than the day before. 

I live in a working class neighborhood. Working class does not mean poor, although just like the 2%, it could be. Anybody could be which is the point. A working class neighborhood has an entirely other set of sensibilities; different from any place I have ever lived as an adult. Some of the neighborhoods from my early-ish childhood are a tough call.

It is true that I've been here exactly one week and also true that I have cultural biases that are buried so deeply, I can't quite access them directly. I am suddenly aware of one of them given my gut level surprise at a sign in someone's yard.

I count six languages on this sign. From top to bottom, right to left I see:

1. English
2. Arabic
3. Hebrew
4. I have no idea!
5. Spanish
6. Urdu

I'm 90% positive about the Arabic, I know Hebrew when I see and hear it but there are too many words on the sign for the sentiment. I can accept that because a lot of Hebrew is contextual. 

And 'I have no idea!'? What of this? Maybe that's the point. I don't have to recognize it and in many cases, without a label, I don't recognize it. And believe me, I searched hard. 

Spanish? I didn't have to look it up. I could read it which shocked the shit out of me. More on that later.

Urdu. I'm pretty sure. There are a few other languages it could be, but does it really matter? 

What did I expect? I expected a Trump sign, or it would not have surprised me. This is what I have made up and now I have to unsee it, unless it's truly there.

"...Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through..."

I am not nearly unpacked. Don't let the made bed and clear-ish floor fool you. But we're getting there. 

That is Kilmouski's blanket on my grandmother's rocking chair and a steamer trunk we found somewhere in the Valley when I was no more than twenty-four. It was in the farmer's barn where we bought our bailed hay by the ton and there were three. He wanted $50 for each or $100 for all three. We did not have $100. We did not technically have $50 and I did a thing I don't do easily and asked if he'd take $40. Nope.

My husband lined all but the top in cedar and last year and this year are the first I've ever used it as intended. Storage is not what it once was. What I became accustomed to is long gone and I'm really not sure I mind all that much. Elizabeth and I squabble over kitchen space. What will go where, what should just go away entirely and I remind her that the majority of our kitchen things, including bulk food like rice and elbow noodles and cat food which I don't care to eat, are still in the container and will be coming out soon.

The three closets are 'small'. Right. There are three closets, two reasonably sized bedrooms (all our stuff fits with floor space left over) and there is an office which is meant to be a third bedroom and could be in a pinch. And so I have an office which is a luxury I can't quite wrap my head around. Elizabeth claimed it first as her extended closet and I laughed my ass off. 

Yesterday from 6:30 to 8 AM, I learned enough Spanish to say:

• Good morning (had that)
• How are you? (also, had that)
• I am well (check)
• Please and thank you (check)
• One moment (check)
• Wait - that was a new one
• I'm sorry - new
• The linoleum floor is lifting a bit in the living room - ha! practiced for 20 minutes
• The handle is going to fall off the shower door - 20 minutes
• I can't open the window in the kitchen and 1 in my bedroom - Cocina! I remember Cocina!

I did this because Josh, the man who owns the house, is very particular about esthetics, safety, and functionality. Josh said, Eugenio will be over around 8 in the morning, is that OK. YES! Josh said, Eugenio's English is not very good but he's a super sweet guy.

 

From that statement I took: Eugenio knows zero English and so I will learn some words. One of my more ridiculous assumptions. The most important thing I did was learn not to butcher his name. I think these things are very important; or I think it's at least really important to try.

 

The day before, a man named Niall was on my kitchen floor trying to resolve a water issue. We had cold water in the sink, no hot water at all, and no water in the dishwasher. I got a dishpan and a large pot and filled them both with hot water from the shower and proceeded to teach my daughter how to wash dishes properly.

 

But you're rinsing the dishes in soapy water, Mom!!!! 

 

True enough, and if it gets too soapy I'll give them another quick rinse with the cold water. Yes. You do have to put the dishes you dry back in their homes or I'll be putting wet dishes on top of them. 

 

Niall is under the sink validating everything I've told him and at no point did people rush my door over this. I tell Niall I think I hear Ireland and he smiles. County? Clare. How long? Twenty years. Did you come alone? Mostly, yes. While he is diagnosing the water issues, I am unpacking boxes in the living room and discover the liquor box. Ha! I knew she wouldn't leave it all behind! Lucia packed even the stuff I'd pour down the sink. Niall laughs and asks if the vodka is safe and I tell him, yes, but the bourbon and rye are much more important.

 

Agreed. 

 

"...Now Muriel plays piano
Every Friday at the Hollywood
And they brought me down to see her
And they asked me if I would
Do a little number
And I sang with all my might
She said
"Tell me are you a Christian child?"
And I said "Ma'am, I am tonight"..."

 

And you sing that last line from your gut with everything you've got. 

 

Don't skip the preamble. You'll be glad of it. And if you want to hear Marc Cohn the way he sounded in 1991, this video is not for you, which is the point. Take it as it is. I don't think I'm ever going to stop hearing this. This one. 

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Also, "If you are angry, count to four; if you are very angry, swear."

Not attributed to Mr. Clemens, but worth an honorable mention:

Sound advice from a minion. 

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics; all numbers are exactly what you need them to be. I haven't had time to keep up with my daily COVID-19 stats journal, but I had a good hard look at them today. I remembered I should look because I thought, I need some light reading and statistics almost always cheer me up. Surely something about COVID-19 will cheer me up.

I cannot watch one more clip of this video. You better. You better watch it enough times to wake your ass up at night. Screaming blue murder. Watch it enough times to see Minneapolis burning in your retinas. You better not turn away.

Looting and mayhem. That's not the part that's killing me. What's killing me is the percentage of American's who just can. not. get off it. Get over it.

Try this, all genders included. You are raped. Violently raped along with your mother, your brother, your sister, and your grandfather. Your husband dies begging for his life.

Imagine a world where 25% of the population stood up and looked around at each other. Today we are kept in isolation. Even amongst ourselves we hang our heads in shame and speak in whispers and more men than women commit suicide within one year of the event. Event.

Imagine a world where 25% of the population was NOT isolated, was supported, understood its long history of violent oppression. Imagine that one old lady goes down in the street in front of everybody because the world ALLOWS it.

Imagine a world where 25% of the population stands up in its collective fear and rage.

Does that sound like the making for a peaceful protest? That sounds like I'm gonna burn this freaking place to the ground, Sister. Malcolm and Martin went at it side by side, shackled like two outraged halves that couldn't get away from each other. Needed to be coming at it from both directions. El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, I know you're out there. 

Looting and Mayhem. If this is what bothers you most, go get your white hood. You've missed the point and your possibly well guarded racism just fell out yo pants. Brother. 

Hate crimes.

noun

a crime, usually violent, motivated by prejudice or intolerance toward an individual’s national origin, ethnicity, color, religion, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, or disability.

 

you. You know who you are. Shame on you. You're never going to let it go either. 

 

Black Lives Matter - how can that be, when All Lives Matter? you. You know who you are. Shame on you. You're never going to let it go either. 

 

you. You are neither marginalized, oppressed or beaten in the street until dead. you. You have never in your life worried that your baby boy would do anything other than get another DUI, and regardless of what he might manage to do to himself, it will have been just that, done to himself. You're never going to let that go either but I'm going to shove it in your face regardless because I am angry, disgusted, thoroughly revolted by who we are or who we've become.

 

Here ya go: Looting is a symptom. Go ahead, cut your hand off because it is most assuredly offending your god. Your hand's not the problem, your heart is the problem but let's just go ahead and cut off that hand. Justice will have been done and your heart will still be black and crawling with maggots. you. You know who you are.

 

So it's been that sort of day. The sort when statistics make you smile your dark little smile and you whisper, good. 

 

I did something different with the stats today. Normally I do this:

 

 

All US states ranked by case count high to low

 

Check out that math. Those first seven sets of numbers, World thru Westchester, the ranking never changes. Not ever. The percentages shift a bit, but not much. What does change is the percent of increase or decrease of case and death counts over time.

 

I took a twelve day period, May 21 - June 2, calculated the deltas, and sorted high to low. The left side columns are sorted by % Increase in cases over the 12 day period, high to low. The right side columns are sorted by % Increases in deaths, high to low.

 

This is what I got:

 

My labeling isn't very good. The numbers do represent data collected between March 1 and June 2 but the deltas were calculated today using data from May 21 and June 2. 12 days. 

 

Sometimes it's good to be at the bottom. I smiled when I looked at the results. That shit tends to build on itself.

 

I did not wish you well. 

 

Back to the Forest

I did not tell her it would be a mile in and a mile out. I didn't tell her a lot of things but I wasn't kidding when I said it was going to take three hours bare minimum, door to door.

On Mondays the trailheads are mostly deserted which means on Mondays I might not have to explain a canvas Whole Foods bag over my shoulder and a shovel. 

This was from the days of the Whole Foods heavy duty canvas bags, some with a third strap to go over your shoulder and in my case, all the way over my head to the other shoulder because there is a great deal of truth in the heaviness of dead weight. Also, there is the weight of loss to carry which went with him into the bag. 

I thought I might break before we reached the clearing. I did not.

**********************

Yesterday was a good day. Everyone showed up on time, everyone was entirely productive and I don't have a freaking clue how to estimate the cubic feet I might require of a moving truck. We made three runs and mostly I stayed back and cleaned the shit out of that place.

Mouse was in his carrier, nose first because that's how it is with him sometimes except he didn't turn around. Mostly he was quiet except for when it was too noisy or too quiet. When it was too quiet, I think he thought I'd left him. Elizabeth called and said, Mom, he needs you. And so I sat with him in the bathroom for a bit and he settled down.

Not that there was any sort of thrashing, just that horrible, painful, lost boy meow. I really wish I taken him out earlier if only for the comfort. I don't think it would have bought him any time.

The night before, the last night, I found him in my bed for a while and wondered how the hell he'd gotten up the stairs, much less onto my bed. Later I heard him dragging himself up the stairs again but he stayed out on the landing, flat on his belly, chin forward, legs and tail splayed. To open the heart and lungs to allow maximum capacity. Animals know exactly what to do. Why don't we?

In the morning I left to get the truck with Elizabeth and he was back under the couch, all the way under the couch and there was no more interest in food or water and nothing in the litter box. When we got back, I put him in the carrier, pain and sadness traveled through my hands and arms all the way to my heart. 

The last little bit was going on the final truck. I sat beside the carrier waiting on the window seat and thought, what the hell? He can't possibly get up and bolt if I open the door.

True enough, all he did was come out half way and look around. I realized he hadn't had access to water for about six hours and while that's not going to kill most of us, it was the wrong thing to do to him. He wasn't in heat or direct light, or anything else that might make it worse and he wasn't getting around my anyway. But. But he was contained for six hours without recourse. 

I got his bowl of water and set it down on the seat. He came at it a bit fast so I pulled it back to keep his head right out of the middle. It's really hard to drink if your head isn't resting ON the bowl. In the bowl is a drowning sort of thing.

He was very thirsty and once again, in retrospect, I blame myself for not metering his intake and once again I am aware that this is not my job. It is his. I was photographing the inside of the dishwasher when he let out that howl, the sort of howl that tells you there's about to be a giant pile of cat yack. I turned around and saw nothing wrong except his chin. It was soaked. His paws. They were soaked. I lifted his chest. Soaked. He was lying in a pool of all the water he'd managed to lap up.

End game. 

I held him and cried. I'm not putting my cat back down. I'm done. 

I carried him outside and said, I'm going home. I'm taking my cat home.

Pat asked, like that? Without the carrier? Yes, just like this.

There was a bit of shuffling as we worked out who actually had the house keys and Pat said he would drive me to my car and Elizabeth put the little litter box in the back seat. I held him in my arms, he pressed his head into my neck. And I cried.

Pat backed his car out of the driveway which is almost always an exercise in frustration if you're not used to it, and eventually got us pointed forward and the damn cat seized. Twice. Twice in about ten seconds and oh crap oh no oh shit oh Marty come on please hang on.

As if hanging on or going is a choice in the end.

I thought he was dead but he wasn't, he just felt horribly floppy on one side and not terribly happy about it. I scooped up the floppy and he gave me a purr gargle. That's what we'd started calling them. Purr gargles.

My car was only 2/10ths of a mile away and as we pulled into the empty lot I felt the weight in my arms change. I looked down, he looked up. Good. If you can move your chin and look at me, you are NOT a dead cat and if you're not a dead cat, then you don't have to be a freezer cat.

Pat undid my seat belt and got me into the driver's seat and asked

Are you going to hold him all the way home?

Yes.

And then I looked down and sometime between that little chin coming up, the blink of two green eyes, and looking down again in the driver's seat, my guy was gone.

I wanted to howl. I did not. I told Pat I was taking my cat home and when I had him sorted out I'd come right back to the house. Pat suggested I put him on the passenger seat and eventually I did because he was completely floppy and I didn't want him under my feet. 

I'll spare you the details of trying to get an unfamiliar key into an unfamiliar lock in a neighborhood with actual neighbors and finally dropping the cat on the front porch. I emptied a small box and got ready to go back but the crew called and said they were out and I asked:

Are we Out Out? Are we so Out Out that I never, ever, ever have to go back there again?

Yes. We are out.

Later, when everyone was gone I shared my plans. I know she'd heard me but it's not real until it's real. 

We're really going to drive him back to Weston tomorrow morning?

Yes. We are. Not only that, I'm going to have to carry him in a canvas bag because my backpacks are all in the very back of the storage unit. I am going to carry the bag and you are going to carry the shovel and we're going to hope like hell we don't run into anyone.

She was mildly amused until we found ourselves on Pillar's Trail, which is actually an old fire road. We met no one but I doubt very much it would have been an issue. I would have asked if they'd be so kind as to carry my cat, just a little ways up and around that bend.

I said that to Elizabeth about every 50 yards and she believed me every time. Bless that child. In the end I was confused about where the trail split but I was done. This clearing will have to work. It looks just like the other anyway. I didn't have it in me to trot around the NEXT bend to make sure the trail really had split. 

Don't go digging holes in an old growth forest in New England and think you're going anywhere fast. This is an exercise in persistence and clarity. It was an exercise in love and closure.

In America, we are no longer capable of handling our dead at all; not even our pets. 

I was wearing a pair of Tom's. Why was I wearing a pair of Tom's to walk a mile up a rocky rutted trail and then bushwhack further into the woods? Because it was Tom's or flops. I needed heavy boots. I almost made Elizabeth give me her running shoes because they had soles worth something while I had the equivalent of bedroom slippers. My bedroom slippers have better soles. 

I went at it sideways. I broke the roots and pulled the forest floor back the way, I think, a surgeon pulls back the scalp to reveal the bone. And then I went at it some more. Elizabeth remained passive. I couldn't get her to bring me a rock bigger than a roll of toilet paper and said, if you don't get me something bigger, you're going to have to wait for me to do it once I've got him in. Her back hurt. Me too, Love, but I get it.

Thirty minutes. That's how long it took for me to get it into my head. I am not going to dig a three or two or even one foot hole in this forest floor. Not even with this fine shovel. I could spend all day on my hands and knees and at the end of the day, the forest might have heard my request. I listened to the forest instead. The forrest provides.

When I put him in the box, I curled him just so, just the way you might if you knew that however you left him was exactly what you'd be stuck with for the next 24-48 hours. 

I dumped him out of the bag. Yes. Yes, I did. Head first, out the bag, but then I picked him up and he fit just right in my arms and somehow between that death stare and that last time in my arms, his eyes had closed. I've never had a cat out of the ground long enough to see this process occur. I know exactly what a dead cat's eyes look like and now these were closed. Freezer cats don't count. You do your best to not look so much at all. Just dig. Fast.

I would have photographed the open casket but I don't think most people can handle that sort of thing. He was beautiful; cradled in a shallow hollow just long enough for a few inches on either end and deep enough for an inch or two of something before the stones. 

I don't think she believed I was going to do it. I hauled rocks off those stone walls so fast her chin hit the deck.

Come on, kid, we are in the land of rocks. Fetch. OK, here, I will throw you the football sized ones and you can collect them.

OK. Do we have enough yet?

No.

How many more?

In number or mass?

Mass? I guess?

Good guess, mostly. In mass I need that times 10.

WHAT?!

Do you want our baby dug up and eaten by a coyote? Seriously. Do you?

Nooooo....

Mooooorrrrre Rocks, Sugar!

I found two long, flat pieces and I am grateful because I could not have moved what I needed by myself. I should not have moved these but I did. They were about 24-26 inches long, 10-12 inches wide and 3-4 inches think. 

I know there's some math for this but the answer at the back of the book is: Motherfucking Heavy as Shit.

I dragged them both. 

She didn't understand what a cairn was until she helped build one. She didn't understand what it was to build a cairn for someone or something you love, until I tied up the ferns like a pair of whiskers and got the first early not quite popped Mountain Laurel blossom. 

I said, he is like a Buddha in the Forest. Do you see? Maybe.

I did not want to make it any bigger although it is certainly bigger than it looks in the photograph. I did not want to make it bigger because we have become a culture that kicks down castles because it can and worse, a culture of bullies who have actually justified it. Yeah, well, you know, if you're relying on a manmade structure to guide you out of the desert, you might want to come up with an alternate source of navigation. 

Yep. You hear me. I'm not much wanting to talk to entitled trekkers. Something about the appropriation of ancient rites (as if I haven't just...) and checking to see if BLM is still Black Lives Matter or do they need it for something? 

I buried my own today. I carried him on my back in a canvas bag. I bartered with the forest floor and I built the cairn because there is nothing even remotely spiritual about a sky death if you're a corpse in 2200 acres of over crowded and literally starving to death wildlife (SAVE 'em! Save every one of god's creatures! And then we'll STARVE 'EM!) 

I shit you not. I don't much want to consider the coyote population density in Weston. 

We buried him in the place that wasn't quite it but close enough and then we turned to go. Do you see him? There really isn't a path to speak of so he may just slip into the green and stay there.

I know how to get out of this forest. I know exactly which way to turn and from this angle, you make a 90 degree turn to the left and march straight out until you're back on the trail. Don't think about it or you'll find yourself needing a compass which won't help you anyway.

I was always in the right place and Mouse is exactly where he's meant to be.

It's the place that's hard to find, difficult to get in, and nearly impossible to get out unless you turn 90 degrees and walk. Not think. Walk. 

It isn't meant to be found.

I will bring another stone to your cairn, Mouse, the very next time I can. 

Woke up this morning

Woke up this morning
I got a blue moon in my eyes
I woke up this morning
The world turned upside down

Alabama 3, released as a single June, 1997 and on the debut album, Exile on Coldharbour Lane in November, 1997 - Jake Black & Rob Spragg

Florkow - Sounds like the 1997 theme song from The Castle. Call me crazy.

I'm leaving in 3 minutes to meet the FIOS guy and hook up some wifi and make sure my sort of land line is still a thing but I only have a headset. Wonder what happened to the other part.

We are 24 hours from go, or at least 24 hours before I pick up the truck. Got to find a way to make the printer print again or somebody's going to have to read my handwriting and not even I can read my handwriting. Not even as it's happening.

I'm tethered to my phone which doesn't seem to remember its own name. Regardless, I'm out and the cat's still in.

Ate a bit more yesterday, peed twice. Not real happy that I moved his entire life out of the Harry Potter room (leaving his privacy curtain behind). Everything he needs, that I have, is just to the left of the couch.

I found him with his head mostly in his water bowl yesterday. Didn't have the strength to multi-task. Lap, lap, lap, ear back in the water and savasana, rinse and repeat.

Found him on my bed. ON my bed when I got home yesterday afternoon and damned pleased with himself too. Back under the couch, but he'll look at me when I ask and purrs when I pet.

I TOLD the damn cat that if he expires in the next two days he's going to be a freezer cat until I can get back to Weston.

Maybe not, maybe not, maybe a few more days. 

He's going to be LIVID about the new house.