while i was laughing with friends at a bar in portland, or sunday night, my great grandfather, william ward, died in ithaca, ny. he would have been ninety-five in january i was told yesterday. he could barely see or hear, so i was told yesterday. what does one understand at ninety-five and does one's existence feel the same?
since i'm currently not drinking, this glass of water is for you, great-grandpa.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
bearded coffee loving bicyclists in the roman empire
i am spartacus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all; i shall tell you all.
i do not believe we are doomed to repeat history again and again. similar events may happen repeatedly, but are similar only generally. history is too complex to follow even one trajectory: it is inevitably multiple, heteroglossic. yet it seems that for americans, the histories of rome and our nation spell our the same syllables of hubris and failure. we are the new roman empire.
my new friend rob invited me to watch stanley kubrick's spartacus with him and his friend ean the other night. a very long film, at three and a half hours it wasn't as painful to sit through as i feared it would be. the most striking scene to me had been originally edited out, though restored in the version we viewed. a roman general looks out at the countryside, down at a contingent of the army marching paswt, and proclaims to the slave he's just had bathe him that the scene below is rome herself. when the general turns around, his slave has vanished, having run off with the slave rebellion. the scene depicts roman opulence with homosexual undertones; it features a certain remove from the situation. the general speaks coolly: as ean pointed out, he describes rome animalistically, as if it is a collective, a society or culture, yet always separate from the individual, uncontrollable, with a will of its own.
if america is like rome, then the story of spatacus represents the last throes of nationalism in america during the 20th century. the slaves of the movie, foreigners to rome, rise up in an attempt to escape the empire. not just to be free and claim equal rights; they want to flee the gravity and corrupt hegemony of roman culture and society. yet in the end, the only slave that gains freedom, spatacus's wife, is granted roman citizenship and must assimilate to survive.
america has seen the cruelty of slavery, the hegemony of american culture, the dominance of corporate marketing. control becomes more subtle, more unconcious, and in some ways, perhaps more complete. but there are sites of resistance of course, places and groups of people which deny the dominant culture. in many ways, i thinkthe city of portland is one of these sites. portland has a very particular elan, a particular way of operating, a particular culture not completely separate from and against american society but distinct and divergent. this is apparent in the city's draw to local small business, its dislike of wal-mart, its embrace of cooperatives and trade. its also evidenced by its love of bicycling (6% of the city commutes daily by bike, more than any other city in the united states), its music scene, its love of film, its high regard for food, beer, and wine, as well as its fashion. its that strange mixture of fashion and attitude and interest that only this city can claim. one friend once commented to me that portland lacks any sense of fashion, to which i responded that i though portland just had its own, unique sense of fashion. another friend told me that portland is always two years ahead of san francisco. but really i just want portland to have its own agenda, its own aesthetic.
i want to live in a city unlike any other in the united states. a city that shares my goals and interests. i believe micro-communities become increasingly important at the beginning of the twenty-first century. more that fringe movements, communities that share very particular values and interests will become a structural element in american society. this will be aided by the growth of the middle class and thus greater wealth and spending on an individual level. inherent in this will be a greater amount of free time, allowing for the garnering of specific interests. on top of this, the capability for movement and relocation granted by free time, technology, and wealth. greater, more widespread education will also be a feature of this movement. all these developments were actually witnessed during the late 19th and 20th centuries as a result of mercantilism, manufacturing, and the rise of a bourgeois middle class. these development will continue throughout the 21st, becoming pronounced as technology, education, and wealth/free-time allows for individuals to become involved and interested in various and divergent hobbies, lifestyles, movements, cities, et cetera. i believe slowly, slowly, slowly cities, perhaps neighborhoods in a city, will align more closely with certain cultures or micro-communities. i believe corporate america understands this, and through use of recent technology, now scrambles to tailor marketing and sales at the urban and individual level (read: google).
as with spartacus, the stuggles american society faces are similar to, but as i argue, intrinsically different from those of the roman empire. i want to read more hope into our futures, show that history has changed, that history changes our cultural trajectory, the possibilities for freedom and agency.
i do not believe we are doomed to repeat history again and again. similar events may happen repeatedly, but are similar only generally. history is too complex to follow even one trajectory: it is inevitably multiple, heteroglossic. yet it seems that for americans, the histories of rome and our nation spell our the same syllables of hubris and failure. we are the new roman empire.
my new friend rob invited me to watch stanley kubrick's spartacus with him and his friend ean the other night. a very long film, at three and a half hours it wasn't as painful to sit through as i feared it would be. the most striking scene to me had been originally edited out, though restored in the version we viewed. a roman general looks out at the countryside, down at a contingent of the army marching paswt, and proclaims to the slave he's just had bathe him that the scene below is rome herself. when the general turns around, his slave has vanished, having run off with the slave rebellion. the scene depicts roman opulence with homosexual undertones; it features a certain remove from the situation. the general speaks coolly: as ean pointed out, he describes rome animalistically, as if it is a collective, a society or culture, yet always separate from the individual, uncontrollable, with a will of its own.
if america is like rome, then the story of spatacus represents the last throes of nationalism in america during the 20th century. the slaves of the movie, foreigners to rome, rise up in an attempt to escape the empire. not just to be free and claim equal rights; they want to flee the gravity and corrupt hegemony of roman culture and society. yet in the end, the only slave that gains freedom, spatacus's wife, is granted roman citizenship and must assimilate to survive.
america has seen the cruelty of slavery, the hegemony of american culture, the dominance of corporate marketing. control becomes more subtle, more unconcious, and in some ways, perhaps more complete. but there are sites of resistance of course, places and groups of people which deny the dominant culture. in many ways, i thinkthe city of portland is one of these sites. portland has a very particular elan, a particular way of operating, a particular culture not completely separate from and against american society but distinct and divergent. this is apparent in the city's draw to local small business, its dislike of wal-mart, its embrace of cooperatives and trade. its also evidenced by its love of bicycling (6% of the city commutes daily by bike, more than any other city in the united states), its music scene, its love of film, its high regard for food, beer, and wine, as well as its fashion. its that strange mixture of fashion and attitude and interest that only this city can claim. one friend once commented to me that portland lacks any sense of fashion, to which i responded that i though portland just had its own, unique sense of fashion. another friend told me that portland is always two years ahead of san francisco. but really i just want portland to have its own agenda, its own aesthetic.
i want to live in a city unlike any other in the united states. a city that shares my goals and interests. i believe micro-communities become increasingly important at the beginning of the twenty-first century. more that fringe movements, communities that share very particular values and interests will become a structural element in american society. this will be aided by the growth of the middle class and thus greater wealth and spending on an individual level. inherent in this will be a greater amount of free time, allowing for the garnering of specific interests. on top of this, the capability for movement and relocation granted by free time, technology, and wealth. greater, more widespread education will also be a feature of this movement. all these developments were actually witnessed during the late 19th and 20th centuries as a result of mercantilism, manufacturing, and the rise of a bourgeois middle class. these development will continue throughout the 21st, becoming pronounced as technology, education, and wealth/free-time allows for individuals to become involved and interested in various and divergent hobbies, lifestyles, movements, cities, et cetera. i believe slowly, slowly, slowly cities, perhaps neighborhoods in a city, will align more closely with certain cultures or micro-communities. i believe corporate america understands this, and through use of recent technology, now scrambles to tailor marketing and sales at the urban and individual level (read: google).
as with spartacus, the stuggles american society faces are similar to, but as i argue, intrinsically different from those of the roman empire. i want to read more hope into our futures, show that history has changed, that history changes our cultural trajectory, the possibilities for freedom and agency.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
boise-eliot in the rain
my new roommate amanda says they call chicago "a city of neighborhoods." portland, too, loves it different neighborhoods and proudly preserves their separate names and identities. the apartment i now share with daniel and amanda on michigan avenue stands in a neighborhood in inner north portland formally called boise-eliot and is informally known by its main artery, north mississippi.
i love north mississippi. a little secluded and quiet, but very hip, north mississippi is very busy at least. i walked out this morning despite the rather heavy rain to forage for coffee at our neighborhood coffee house, the fresh pot. the rain poured down the streets and sidewalks, gravity pulling down toward the city center, to the willamette, which would carry it all away and dump our winter water in the pacific. the rain pooled in gutters and in intersections; deep puddles into which i would splash up past my ankles. i love my galoshes.
the fresh pot operates in an old drugstore, the Rx sign still visible in the concrete outside the door. the diffuse light of portland's fall filters through bright yellow awnings and mingles with the 20 watt light of old art nouveau lamps. the woman there kindly hands me a cup and fifty cents in change. i love my coffee. is there a secret god of coffee to whom i should be praying?
i braved the puddle outside fresh pot and cross mississippi to the new vintage clothing boutique that opened today. the shop owner offered me plaid western shirts and 501s. i found a beautiful pendleton plaid shirt (made in portland, oregon) in teal and purple and yellow, sized small, for twenty-two dollars. perfection! i love it. daniel will hate it. perfection!
back out in the street, in the miserable downpour, i passed the record store and thought it beautiful to see a man wearing black with raven hair and thick buddy holly glasses wearing huge earphones and listening to rock and roll on a turntable in the window there. i thought this is portland perfect. this is exactly how i want to remember my youth.
the rain streamed down off my raincoat and soaked the tops of my pants.
amanda and i made pumpkin pancakes, cut up a sample of bartlett, bosch, and d'anjou pears, drank coffee, and i stared out into the rain as we ate, dreaming of pendleton plaid.
i love north mississippi. a little secluded and quiet, but very hip, north mississippi is very busy at least. i walked out this morning despite the rather heavy rain to forage for coffee at our neighborhood coffee house, the fresh pot. the rain poured down the streets and sidewalks, gravity pulling down toward the city center, to the willamette, which would carry it all away and dump our winter water in the pacific. the rain pooled in gutters and in intersections; deep puddles into which i would splash up past my ankles. i love my galoshes.
the fresh pot operates in an old drugstore, the Rx sign still visible in the concrete outside the door. the diffuse light of portland's fall filters through bright yellow awnings and mingles with the 20 watt light of old art nouveau lamps. the woman there kindly hands me a cup and fifty cents in change. i love my coffee. is there a secret god of coffee to whom i should be praying?
i braved the puddle outside fresh pot and cross mississippi to the new vintage clothing boutique that opened today. the shop owner offered me plaid western shirts and 501s. i found a beautiful pendleton plaid shirt (made in portland, oregon) in teal and purple and yellow, sized small, for twenty-two dollars. perfection! i love it. daniel will hate it. perfection!
back out in the street, in the miserable downpour, i passed the record store and thought it beautiful to see a man wearing black with raven hair and thick buddy holly glasses wearing huge earphones and listening to rock and roll on a turntable in the window there. i thought this is portland perfect. this is exactly how i want to remember my youth.
the rain streamed down off my raincoat and soaked the tops of my pants.
amanda and i made pumpkin pancakes, cut up a sample of bartlett, bosch, and d'anjou pears, drank coffee, and i stared out into the rain as we ate, dreaming of pendleton plaid.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
l'autobus
friday, i was leaving trader joe's in the hollywood district, waiting for the 75 to come by and take me back to mary anne's place on belmont. while standing there next to trader joe's, another bus heading the opposite direction pulled up. the driver stopped the bus right in front of me in the middle of the block. he opened his window, and grinning, waved vigorously to me. he had dark hair under a hat and a goatee. he looked slightly older than me, but from a distance he looked not unattractive. he seemed to recognize me, though i had (and still have) no clue as to his identity, though because he seemed to be so happy to see me, whoever he thought i must be, i waved in return and smiled. then he pulled to the end of the block and to the curb to let his passengers out. i stared after the bus trying to figure out who the strange driver could be. before pulling away, he opened his window again, stuck his hand out and waved. when i waved in return, he gave me a thumbs-up and drove away.
today, i didn't have a particularly pleasant experience on the bus. i missed the 35 up from john's landing into downtown so i had to hop on the streetcar at ohsu. then it took forever for the 15 to arrive which i had planned to take up belmont to mary anne's place to collect a few more of my belongings. while on the 15, a woman started crying loudly at the back of the bus. the sobs became screams, blood curdling screams. screams that i haven't heard outside of a slasher film. my fellow riders were petrified with terror. what was happening to this lady? then she cried out to the bus about our fake, smiling faces who didn't love god. this shouting led to more shouting about satan and no one loving satan. at this point the tension on the bus eased slightly as people realized this woman was obviously insane. the man across the aisle from me tried to talk sociably to his companion about their thanksgiving plans, interrupted only by this woman's shrieking about satan.
i like bikes.
today, i didn't have a particularly pleasant experience on the bus. i missed the 35 up from john's landing into downtown so i had to hop on the streetcar at ohsu. then it took forever for the 15 to arrive which i had planned to take up belmont to mary anne's place to collect a few more of my belongings. while on the 15, a woman started crying loudly at the back of the bus. the sobs became screams, blood curdling screams. screams that i haven't heard outside of a slasher film. my fellow riders were petrified with terror. what was happening to this lady? then she cried out to the bus about our fake, smiling faces who didn't love god. this shouting led to more shouting about satan and no one loving satan. at this point the tension on the bus eased slightly as people realized this woman was obviously insane. the man across the aisle from me tried to talk sociably to his companion about their thanksgiving plans, interrupted only by this woman's shrieking about satan.
i like bikes.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
evian, i am with you in rockland (i mean portland)
"where you're madder than i am."
reasons i miss my sister, evian, my best twin in alabama:
1. the fall
2. october
3. halloween
4. watching hocus pocus over and over again all year round 'til we vomit
5. our psychic connection
6. having someone to sit and knit with
7. having someone to sit and do absolutely nothing with
8. having someone who will drive around with me all night, unspeaking, while we listen to air's "talkie walkie"
9. kittens!
10. knowing someone who knows my family
11. knowing someone who understands how fucked up my family can be sometimes
12. knowing someone who knows asfa
13. when i'm out of control, she will say to me: "you're beyond thunderdome" or "you're twelve years old and running with gangs."
14. having a friend around who likes the same movies i do and will spend endless hours with me watching them
15. she can honestly recommend movies to me that i would like
16. she named her kitten snakey and her dog popples
17. having a friend in front of whom i never have to be nervous or pretentious or bored or vomity
18. having someone with whom i don't have to worry about what i'm wearing around
19. knowing someone who knows my constant anxiety
20. she an amazing artist and i don't have to lie and pretend that i like her work
21. i can make fun of everyone else with her
ah, evian, "while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time."
reasons i miss my sister, evian, my best twin in alabama:
1. the fall
2. october
3. halloween
4. watching hocus pocus over and over again all year round 'til we vomit
5. our psychic connection
6. having someone to sit and knit with
7. having someone to sit and do absolutely nothing with
8. having someone who will drive around with me all night, unspeaking, while we listen to air's "talkie walkie"
9. kittens!
10. knowing someone who knows my family
11. knowing someone who understands how fucked up my family can be sometimes
12. knowing someone who knows asfa
13. when i'm out of control, she will say to me: "you're beyond thunderdome" or "you're twelve years old and running with gangs."
14. having a friend around who likes the same movies i do and will spend endless hours with me watching them
15. she can honestly recommend movies to me that i would like
16. she named her kitten snakey and her dog popples
17. having a friend in front of whom i never have to be nervous or pretentious or bored or vomity
18. having someone with whom i don't have to worry about what i'm wearing around
19. knowing someone who knows my constant anxiety
20. she an amazing artist and i don't have to lie and pretend that i like her work
21. i can make fun of everyone else with her
ah, evian, "while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time."
Monday, October 5, 2009
health science
mount hood rose white and misty against the white morning sky in the distance, taller than usual as the ohsu tram glided down toward the waterfront. i stood looking out toward the willamette and east portland, holding a bag full of nick's clothes, his shoes, a folder of forms, two backpacks slung across my back, his eyeglasses stowed in my right pocket, his phone in my left. i was shaking slightly.
there is actually no reason to fret. nick is having surgery on his hip today. the procedure began at noon and should take between three and five hours. he'll rest in the hospital overnight and then tomorrow his mom will drive him home. it seems like an invasive procedure, nick will not be able to work for three weeks, and still have to suffer through months of physical therapy, but it's not a dangerous procedure. no vital organs will be touched. they will not have to open his chest cavity, operate near his heart or lungs.
i arrived at the center for health and healing on the south waterfront around 7.58 this morning to meet nick. i planned to sit with him for a while before they took him back to get him prepared for surgery. i did not expect it to be a big deal. the people walking briskly around the lobby seemed calm and determined and cheerful. nick seemed chipper when he arrived, exasperated at having missed two buses and then having to wait for the perpetually snail-like streetcar, but not nervous particularly.
in admissions, nick began filling out a bit of paperwork. i scanned over what he was signing and noticed that all the questions were asking him if he'd like to be resuscitated and what they should do if he's locked in a permanent vegetative state. that's when i started to get nervous. then i had to sign this as a witness. then when i thought they were going to take him back to pre-surgery and i would go home, the nice admissions woman started to tell me about where WE should go, and what WE would find there, and explained where i could wait for him during the surgery, telling me i could come to her for updates and that she could tell me where his room is after surgery.
down in anesthesia, the aid gave nick a robe and left us alone together so that that nick could undress. we sat together, nick naked beside me except the flimsy hospital gown, and waited for the anesthesiologist. i held him and laid my head on his chest and kissed him. we laughed and joked about what was playing on the television, what we'd do while he was recovering.
when the doctor arrived with a nurse, i started to get a little more nervous. the doctor looked young - looked like jonah from yacht, and i kept scanning his face looking for signs of insanity. andres, the doctor, was nice, told jokes, was pleasant to be around. the nurse asked nick for more information, asked me for emergency contact information. i was suddenly an emergency contact? i think i may have started pacing. the doctor turned to me and said, "do you want to sit? sit down here. thanks." i must have looked a little nervous at that point. then right there in front of me, blocking me into the chair, the doctor come over the bed to insert a needle in nick to take blood and connect an i.v. the doctor pierced nick, but couldn't get the tube onto the needle fast enough. blood pumped out of nick's vein all over his hand, dripping onto the bed and floor. luckily blood doesn't freak me out.
after this, the doctor told me i should say my goodbyes because i wouldn't have time to see him before surgery. i lamely looked at nick and told him goodbye, that i'd see him later, and walked out of the room holding all of nick's clothes and belongings. i had wanted to tell him that he'd be fine, that i'd be waiting for him. i wanted him to be okay, to feel safe. i had wanted to kiss him, but felt strange doing so in front of these strange men watching us.
i don't understand how someone can lie there alone in that bed and talk to these doctors who are about to pump something into your veins so that you'll quickly pass out and wake up hours later in a strange room. how can one be calm? i mean, nick's surgery shouldn't be a problem for these doctors, but how can other people lay in bed, alone, thinking there is a possibility i could not wake up from this? how can family members leave their loved ones? how can doctors come out to families and tell them there was nothing they could do?
walking away from nick, that's when i lost it. the thought of being alone, sick in a hospital just started to make me anxious. i just didn't want nick to be alone or afraid suddenly. no one should have to feel like that.
i just needed to get out of the hospital.
i have to go back to the hospital in a bit to drop of nick's clothes in his room so that he can dress tomorrow when he leaves the hospital. i'll be fine now. i'm fine now. and nick will be fine. he'll be asleep when i see him probably, doped up. but it would be good to see him after surgery, just to know he's alright, that the surgery went smoothly.
how can we have friends and family and lovers with lives so frail that we could loose them at any time?
there is actually no reason to fret. nick is having surgery on his hip today. the procedure began at noon and should take between three and five hours. he'll rest in the hospital overnight and then tomorrow his mom will drive him home. it seems like an invasive procedure, nick will not be able to work for three weeks, and still have to suffer through months of physical therapy, but it's not a dangerous procedure. no vital organs will be touched. they will not have to open his chest cavity, operate near his heart or lungs.
i arrived at the center for health and healing on the south waterfront around 7.58 this morning to meet nick. i planned to sit with him for a while before they took him back to get him prepared for surgery. i did not expect it to be a big deal. the people walking briskly around the lobby seemed calm and determined and cheerful. nick seemed chipper when he arrived, exasperated at having missed two buses and then having to wait for the perpetually snail-like streetcar, but not nervous particularly.
in admissions, nick began filling out a bit of paperwork. i scanned over what he was signing and noticed that all the questions were asking him if he'd like to be resuscitated and what they should do if he's locked in a permanent vegetative state. that's when i started to get nervous. then i had to sign this as a witness. then when i thought they were going to take him back to pre-surgery and i would go home, the nice admissions woman started to tell me about where WE should go, and what WE would find there, and explained where i could wait for him during the surgery, telling me i could come to her for updates and that she could tell me where his room is after surgery.
down in anesthesia, the aid gave nick a robe and left us alone together so that that nick could undress. we sat together, nick naked beside me except the flimsy hospital gown, and waited for the anesthesiologist. i held him and laid my head on his chest and kissed him. we laughed and joked about what was playing on the television, what we'd do while he was recovering.
when the doctor arrived with a nurse, i started to get a little more nervous. the doctor looked young - looked like jonah from yacht, and i kept scanning his face looking for signs of insanity. andres, the doctor, was nice, told jokes, was pleasant to be around. the nurse asked nick for more information, asked me for emergency contact information. i was suddenly an emergency contact? i think i may have started pacing. the doctor turned to me and said, "do you want to sit? sit down here. thanks." i must have looked a little nervous at that point. then right there in front of me, blocking me into the chair, the doctor come over the bed to insert a needle in nick to take blood and connect an i.v. the doctor pierced nick, but couldn't get the tube onto the needle fast enough. blood pumped out of nick's vein all over his hand, dripping onto the bed and floor. luckily blood doesn't freak me out.
after this, the doctor told me i should say my goodbyes because i wouldn't have time to see him before surgery. i lamely looked at nick and told him goodbye, that i'd see him later, and walked out of the room holding all of nick's clothes and belongings. i had wanted to tell him that he'd be fine, that i'd be waiting for him. i wanted him to be okay, to feel safe. i had wanted to kiss him, but felt strange doing so in front of these strange men watching us.
i don't understand how someone can lie there alone in that bed and talk to these doctors who are about to pump something into your veins so that you'll quickly pass out and wake up hours later in a strange room. how can one be calm? i mean, nick's surgery shouldn't be a problem for these doctors, but how can other people lay in bed, alone, thinking there is a possibility i could not wake up from this? how can family members leave their loved ones? how can doctors come out to families and tell them there was nothing they could do?
walking away from nick, that's when i lost it. the thought of being alone, sick in a hospital just started to make me anxious. i just didn't want nick to be alone or afraid suddenly. no one should have to feel like that.
i just needed to get out of the hospital.
i have to go back to the hospital in a bit to drop of nick's clothes in his room so that he can dress tomorrow when he leaves the hospital. i'll be fine now. i'm fine now. and nick will be fine. he'll be asleep when i see him probably, doped up. but it would be good to see him after surgery, just to know he's alright, that the surgery went smoothly.
how can we have friends and family and lovers with lives so frail that we could loose them at any time?
Friday, October 2, 2009
mother's mother's father
his mother died the day before her one hundred and tenth birthday. they were both born in ireland and immigrated to the united states when he was young. he is now ninety-six years old, his eye having almost completely failed him, spending his days nearly blind in a rest home in upstate new york.
my grandmother recently returned home to alabama from visiting her father, my great-grandfather, of ninety-six years. slow, slow, slow. she says his hair is long, uncut and his body is almost as frail and brittle as his hair. it seems insane to me that this relative spends his days in a retirement home on the other side of the country with what seems like very little contact from his family, though his other daughter and son live in new jersey and new york respectively. i cannot fathom what this man understands after the accumulation of that time. what exactly can he remember and how exactly has the pile of time in which he is buried affects those memories.
he couldn't serve in the second world world due to a malformation in his thumb. he was a truck driver for much of his life. he lived with his wife, consetta, born in italy, in a same town on the eerie canal in upstate new york until she lost her memory and died a few years ago. the small town looked like the set of a disney movie: everyone knew one another, all of them irish-italians who painted their houses coral and seafoam colors. there were two graveyards across the street from each other, one catholic, the other protestant. there was one main street along the canal.
his health remained stable for a year, then rapidly deteriorated.
when his wife began loosing her memory, i remember visiting her. at some point during the trip, she turned to me and asked, "who are you again?" though i had known her all my life. i responded that i was her granddaughter melody's son. she didn't seem to recall, but accepted my answer.
so what is there to know now? i want to be there with him. i want to talk to him. it's strange how these american families spiral outward, detach, regroup, disassociate. will i find myself at ninety wondering the same questions about myself that i wonder about him? only if i'm lucky.
my grandmother recently returned home to alabama from visiting her father, my great-grandfather, of ninety-six years. slow, slow, slow. she says his hair is long, uncut and his body is almost as frail and brittle as his hair. it seems insane to me that this relative spends his days in a retirement home on the other side of the country with what seems like very little contact from his family, though his other daughter and son live in new jersey and new york respectively. i cannot fathom what this man understands after the accumulation of that time. what exactly can he remember and how exactly has the pile of time in which he is buried affects those memories.
he couldn't serve in the second world world due to a malformation in his thumb. he was a truck driver for much of his life. he lived with his wife, consetta, born in italy, in a same town on the eerie canal in upstate new york until she lost her memory and died a few years ago. the small town looked like the set of a disney movie: everyone knew one another, all of them irish-italians who painted their houses coral and seafoam colors. there were two graveyards across the street from each other, one catholic, the other protestant. there was one main street along the canal.
his health remained stable for a year, then rapidly deteriorated.
when his wife began loosing her memory, i remember visiting her. at some point during the trip, she turned to me and asked, "who are you again?" though i had known her all my life. i responded that i was her granddaughter melody's son. she didn't seem to recall, but accepted my answer.
so what is there to know now? i want to be there with him. i want to talk to him. it's strange how these american families spiral outward, detach, regroup, disassociate. will i find myself at ninety wondering the same questions about myself that i wonder about him? only if i'm lucky.
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