Who Dad?!

Another Day

I should have been suspicious when my dream had this soundtrack: "Third Rate Romance". Oh, it started fine enough with a potentially tasty encounter, but took an early wrong turn as I realized everyone, other than me, in this dream was dead. "Necro-romance, (really) low rent rendezvous!"

Next thing I knew, I was in a support circle where a childhood friend was using a video of my past experiences and resultant therapy as a training aid.

Afterwards, he handed me the videotape and offered more counseling. I said he looked terrible. He responded, "Let's see how YOU look once you've been dead a couple of years!"

I woke up with a lingering feeling of disappointment, of desire — my own and others' — frustrated. Funny how often we imagine what we need might be in someone else, huh?

Some future already lost still beckons.

We look at brochures, make reservations, stand in lines

as if something must be completed

and we, finally satisfied with our journey here

in bodies so fragile

appetites insatiable.

Our hunger for anything

fed by our fear of everything.

Have you tamed or even named your demon?

Or, only recognize it roaming restlessly in others?

I should be glad of the life I had.

(Lord knows I visit my past enough.)

Still, I'd like to leave something better than I found it —

maybe even myself.

No, not this body, this nearly spent shell

of heaven and hell,

but perhaps a key, a spark,

the right combination of words

and gestures to inspire, ignite

an inner St. Elmo's fire.

I imagine then

when this body will no longer carry me

closing my eyes and being amazed.

My portal to eternity open,

me surrendering, basking

in the wonder of endless creation.

In my own courtship with death, I thought I had cleared all of my old dance cards and much of what kept me from being fully present, but now I'm wondering how to energize my life again. Perhaps my approach should be to act as if it were Halloween more often. Maybe I could start dressing as what I think I couldn't possibly be, but madly want. Perhaps a ballerina wood-carver who just happens to be a scratch golfer. Or, a nimble, operatic gorilla trainer who home brews beer. Or, maybe, just maybe, as myself, content with who I am, loving the woman and the life I already have.

Speaking of Susan, she was in the yard watering this morning when I popped my head out the door to say goodbye. As I was putting my shoes on, the lucky thought occurred to me, "Did I just lock the door?"

Sure enough, I had!

Imagine her surprise if she had attempted to get back in with me gone and her phone inside. Okay, not a big deal because I caught it in time, but I couldn't get it out of my mind: the nearness of such disruption.

Driving away, I found myself wondering if somehow the door had since re-locked itself, as if something unstable and unpredictable had been set loose in this reality. I couldn't shake a bad feeling.

I was headed downtown to meet a friend for breakfast but was surprised by several street closures and detours. I suppose if I went out more often, I would have known about them. My normal habitual earliness kept me from being late, but it was a bit of a strain.

Upon arrival, there was a nice shady spot to park. That felt better, but after the third quarter in the meter, I realized it wasn't working: no time showed; no return of quarters. Okay, take a chance and just leave it there?

Nah, not today. I moved my truck to the parking garage across the street. Sure enough, walking back, there was already a meter reader on the street. Ticket avoided. I told him about the bum meter. He didn't care.

After breakfast, I checked in on another friend who had been doing some home and yard renovations. All in all, a pleasant morning. In the good company of others, I had forgotten about the earlier sense of something unraveling. Had a few other errands to do, but decided to just get gas and go home.

At the pump, my credit card was rejected with a message about not accepting chip technology. I went inside to pay with cash. The attendant couldn't understand why the pump gave me that message. I shrugged and said, "It's one of those days."

Back outside, my senses were assaulted by a young man with his boom car audio system blasting away. I was regretting this last stop, but just had to put some gas in and get out of there. However, my truck wouldn't start. Dead battery, thank you very much.

After yelling at the AAA automated service that could not understand a word I said, I got in the back of my truck, pulled out paper and pen and started writing this all down as a way to pass the time.

An hour later, and as the sun was inching its way into my truck bed, a AAA battery vehicle arrived. Juan immediately apologized saying the entire AAA system was down. He had to be contacted and get information through phone texts.

Whatever. I get it. Sometimes, nothing really works the way it should. The battery was still under warranty though. I tipped him $20 and received a smile that swallowed much frustration. I drove home with the wrong time on the clock and before reprogramming the radio presets. It didn't matter. I just wanted to be home and done with this day.

As I pulled into our garage, my phone rang: it was the AAA automated service back on-line telling me that someone should be assisting me soon. I really do hope so.

Maybe tomorrow I can get back to working on my autobiography.