by David H. Haight, copywrite 2009
Another sunrise questioned our fresh salt-laden ocean breeze sweeping up the Noyo River into my room across this narrow veranda.
I stand here — a quaking memory sprung naked upon a new day remembering last night’s harbor seals fishing the river just below our cantilevered deck — their playful lovemaking — the occasional gull flashing a white streak across light beams focused upon Noyo river water.
Now, here — quite alone — having released you at last after all your courageously endured pain has passed — seeing your gaunt face, the eyes turned up, then gently calling you back from your slippery passage halfway between here and there — the eyedropper-ed lemon water flowing across your lips — an event- weathered body relinquishing its hold, returning to earth a well-used husk — then that slight suggestion of a smile flickering at the wee corners of your mouth bringing from me a nodding smile allowing you to proceed upon your journey — letting you go …… quite O.K. to “split.”
Who were you, really — this acquaintance become friend that I mourn? Our first meeting was at a local FM radio station where you had just finished your weekly jazz program. I was immediately struck by your directness — a man without a mask, no “persona” evident — all “out front” with your feelings. You were entirely present, your causes raging forth against blind institutional injustices perpetrated upon those living at the very edge — the dispossessed, the wounded — society’s unwelcome detritus. Not too long after that your illness came upon you and I well remember the day when you asked me to write a little something to be read at your wake which you wished to attend in the “altogether” while still able to chatter and move about. How very odd, almost macabre that seemed at first. Yet, upon reflection, how very perfect this was for you.
Eventually there arrived a certain celebratory hot July mid-afternoon when some 25 of your friends and medical team gathered for a candlelit potluck — the shades drawn to protect your failing sight — the lovely crisp linen tablecloth adding a correct touch of formality — everyone immersed in that unique personality flying under the name of Jody.
Just before dessert and coffee-time time the great-eyed you looked up at me from the end of the table — wine having taken effect — and imperiously bellowed, “Read it, David!” My God, I thought, my neo-Victorian self cringing at any reading of an honorarium out loud at a wake attended by the “deceased-to-be”… but we got through it, didn’t we!
The flavor of you is encapsulated in your funny, wistful summer letter from Oregon — a thoughtful profile:
“Hi-ya! Guys! Since arriving here on Saturday I’ve been spending my nights in a phenomenal little pocket of energy called: “Rest Area, Oregon.” I’ve stayed here so that I could shave, brush and appear groomed to go into Eugene town and check things out.
Today I found a two bedroom cabin for rent in a most lovely flower-laden spot. I turned it down for a variety of reasons, but the landlady, Mrs. Fitch, and I really had the greatest afternoon. She told me right off the bat that I could help her save $1,500 for hearing aid implants if I would TALK A LITTLE LOUDER! Mrs. Fitch is 90 and I felt very honored when she extended her most gracious invitation to come visit real soon.
It was good for my soul as I’m pretty lost out here in America. I expected to be, though — and why I do it, I don’t know! The weather is a constant pleasure. I use two blankets at night.
Tomorrow I’m starting a job picking pole beans at seven cents a pound. Hopefully, too, I’ll find a nice spot to park my car.
Well, here it is tomorrow — and I didn’t go bean picking. I drove, instead, to Cougar Hot Springs and am at this moment sitting in a ’60s Hippie campground with psychedelic buses and all …”all” including the always happy, Hippie dogs. I was going to stay here for the rest of the month and still might, but I must return the 70 miles to Eugene tonight. I met a couple there who was staying at the same Rest Area and we swapped stories and shared coffee in the morning. I forgot to say good-by to them, or set up a time to meet. Their stories are boring– but I need them. They’ve accepted me and I love them for that.
The old Ford is being real good and what a great car to live in! . . .Hope you both are well . . . think of you often . . . Love, Jody
“The universe handed me a big one yesterday — in the form of positive HIV results. OH, GOD! Do I ever feel alone — and yet I don’t, really. Trusty Lin gave me a wonderful call.
My brother and sister don’t want me to tell our Mom but — I don’t know if they understand the power of a mother’s love.”
“And his Mama she rocked him, her little darlin’ to sleep.”
Driving into Washington on my way home I began to feel really lousy and decided to check in to a local clinic. What a scene. The mama cat here is my friend. Each morning she lies on my stomach and hugs me with her purrs. I like the hugs and wait for morning. I’m last to be nourished. First she hugs and bathes and feeds her babies. Her mother’s love has swelled and filled my life. A mother’s love always does.
This morning I cried while I waited for her to finish with her babies. I try not to cry where she can see me. I don’t want her to know that the gas chamber may be waiting for her. I don’t want her to know that I may betray her love. She has loved so well.
The staff says they’re here to help people, not cats. I’m here to nourish all living things. If I leave and the old mama cat is killed, there’s just one thing that’ll bother my mind – yes, mama went to heaven and left me behind.
“…yesterday morning while I was still here by myself I got up at 3 a.m. to let mama cat out and there was a young woman named Jennifer shivering from the cold and frightened of what she calls the “nomad women” – a group of imaginary people she thinks are out to kill her. I invited her in, wrapped her in blankets, put a hat on her head and went about trying to create a natural and soothing feeling within the room. It turned out to have a rather funny twist, as after finding a classical station on the radio, I began a letter. It was only appropriate to say, “You’ll have to excuse the interruptions as there’s a young woman sitting here quietly hallucinating and making comments like, ‘Do you think the nomad women will kill me?’ … ‘I used to be rich, but I still have the dress I wore to the Mayor’s ball, I think that’s enough, don’t you?’ …’I think I have a big rat in my stomach!’ …all classic comments which allowed a glimpse into the environment of the mentally ill without my having to be pretentious or assuming.
So strange what moves into one’s view.
“I’ve looked down deep inside and am sure now that this is Good-by — so, what the Hell, let ‘er rip! It’s my life, my story. I’ve lived it, caressed it, lain with its pain — lived every minute of every day with it, so — I ought to know!”
“Sitting here drifting in and out of old memories I really feel angry that you said — you insisted that I not drive my Ford anymore. Really! Giving her up, my house on wheels, is very hard. Freedom seems to ride in the front seat — freedom, adventure, always another new experience down the line. Well, yes, I know that I shouldn’t drive anymore as I might crash and hurt someone. The idea of killing or injuring a child is horrendous to me and yet… So, O.K., take the d—d keys! Let’s not talk about it. Sure, I have wandered off in my mind, lost consciousness even and crashed into the hillside bank on my way into town, but . . . you see . . .
I LOVE TO DRIVE!”
“AIDS is a part of me now. I’m growing an invisible arm that no one can see, but it’s always flopping around and becoming the center of attention. For me, I’ll live and die as the universe and the Fates see fit… whatever… so, you ask?
For a time I shall be a loaf of bread…uh-huh!
All warty and wrinkly . . .
Lumpy on the outside . . . uh-huh!
Not a conventional beauty indeed — but –
Break me open and what do you find?
An even textured, thoughtful me
Accepting, well . . . almost everything.
Two full-length mirrors beckon once more.
There am I, a thinning Lancelot –
Or — is it a bemused Don Quixote?
No matter –
My mirrors giggle at me –
Pretentious self-preoccupation won’t do for them.
Looking carefully at this naked body
Covered on all sides with raging, itching rash –
I wonder if this is the trial put upon Job — the Test? What do you think?
And, so, I join my mirrors in echoing, silent laughter.
Reflections in my mirror picture a polka-dot body
This new “Me” given by the gods rejoices!
How whimsical to sport a polka-dot body…
I kiss the mirror in thanks,
It smiles back at me.
Am I current, you ask, up-to-date?
Ready to — “Let go into the Light?” you ask.
No, I shall never be entirely ready
Does it REALLY matter?
But, good friends — you Guys and Gals –
Those sterling few….
Thank you for your caring — your hugs,
And warm eyes.
For all the hot meals with long visits…
Thank you — all of you — for those…
BIG “little things” for which I shall never find
Just the — right — words.
Love, LOVE — bottomless LOVE
from ……Jody.
p.s. SEE ya! ……REAL soon!”
“Funny — Grandpa was born, Agrarian, in 1894. I was born, Industrial, in 1945. I’ve always had a label, if not on the outside then on the inside, which plagued me. Grandpa’s world had no labels that entailed right and wrong. His world had states of being, to wit, the “old milk cow is in labor tonight.” and “The hay is ready to be shucked.” Out here in the country judgmental labels were saved for foreign nations, religions and political systems.”
“I’ve always liked almost any jazz tune and my discovery of black culture was manna from heaven. W-h-e-e-e! Jazz time is my time! I didn’t feel inferior and my deep love and youthful exuberance in exploring black musical history was a compliment to everyone — or so it seemed. One tune I’ve never cared for — and even wondered why — was “Daddy You Been a Good Ol’ Wagon, but You Know You Done Broke Down.” Unlike “It Ain’t Nobody’s Business” it sounds a little cruel. If my eyes go — and they are weakening — I might tell a few people “It ain’t nobody’s business what I do” but I’ll never tell these eyes they’ve been good ol’ wagons and it’s time for the dump heap. They’ve given me enough memories and saved my life so that I could just sit forever soaking in memories — and let these eyes rest in the darkness — where the cool waters flow.”
“You know I feel that “sad people” are the only real ones? They can tell you the truth about things. They have always known there is no one you can depend upon forever and no real change in your life, however great, that can keep you in the end from what you were in the beginning — that is, lost and lonely sitting on an old oilcloth watching the rest of the world do the “Butterfly Stroke” — in all that cold water.
There is no getting away from it, I am compelled to go on admitting my pain — my so very personal involvement with this pain — and not turn it into an abstract “process!”… though to continue treading water I feel sometimes like the man in Stevie Smith’s poem, “Not Waving, but Drowning!”
“Is it too “Christian” to honor suffering — to admit to the blatant injustices and unkindnesses we perform on one another daily? I feel it is not, and will continue to follow that feeling.”
“I know every emotion will wrap itself around the “dying me” but Death, when it comes, will be a surprise — a surprise I’m looking forward to! Does that shock you? Why? For me …… well, yes, I want to live this death of mine, not wallow into it like a drunken sailor drugged out of my mind without any feeling, any sensation or ability to react. No, I want to live this happening called Death — this great Transformation.
Hum-m-m-m, maybe I shall be a gigantic night moth in a great steaming jungle under a new moon…off in some distant dust cloud of a planet.
For me the great loop has spiraled over…
A thousand times…
Cycling through dawn to dusk…
And back to dawn from beneath the deep blue sea
Fifteen hundred times, to be near exact…
Here am I … now, stepping carefully
From day to day, forever surprised…
At the generosity of strangers.
Some think I ought to be filled with anger,
That I must rage, fight, protest…
Mentally “bomb” the virus — go to war!
Scream out against this loss of my time…
Cram with murderous chemicals a Self opening up,
Not go … silently … thoughtfully…
Peacefully … into that blue-black, star-filled Cosmos.
Sorrow, rage and anger have left me spinning…
Slowly spinning in a quiet backwater.
All I wish to do is live fully this moment…
Perhaps to see beyond the Bottom Line…
To glimpse some other place…
Some other possibility.
My home sits top of the Ridge –
Pine woods all about
Distant, misty ranges in view…
A blessing to be far-sighted — quietly sitting
[And scratching -- and scratching and SCRATCHING!]
I would really rather sing a hymn to Nature,
In — some other guise, pu-lease.
[Scritch-scratch ..... this terrible rash!]”
Soft wind — sweetly aromatic…
Cools this room of mine.
Greenness thrives in our protected place….
A lush potted plant jungle collage….
Giving me…love for love.”
Looking into a distant mirror I see… Oh, my!
Tall, gaunt, deep-set eyes…pale….
A hollowing, fading…Me… Oh, my!
Suki looks up…her sheepdog eyes
Deep brown, attentive,
The ears laid gently back,
Her tail greeting a slow, thump, thump…
Pure, unqualified total love.
Why did they — out there — poison my three dogs, one after the other — before I died … why? . . . tell me . . . I loved them so.
–o0o—
Thinking of Jody . . . standing here rooted to this narrow deck teetering over Noyo river waters I would weep if I could, ergo, so says convention. Swaying in contemplation I feel no tears within, only Joy at the flowering taking place somewhere inside this still pumping heart — a measured bursting forth — a sweet singing within me — utterly impossible to fully relate in all its shaded subtlety — those unconscious twinges emerging at the surface — that thin line between knowing and remaining forever asleep.
[You died at 5:05 a.m. yesterday just at sunrise, slipping away while the others slept -- you so wanted to live fully this last great human adventure that you made me feel your words -- singing, fluttering now in my mind demanding to be put down here -- your farewell wave:]
I imagine you thinking:
“My last night has slipped away before this early dawn when all Nature holds its hushed balance between night’s dreaming renewal and the sun chariot’s mighty roar. I look about to feel a gentle light quality to the air, a softness, and sense everyone about me to be deep in another land, their extended hooks to catch my drifting self withdrawn … quite put away. You did say it’s O.K. to go — and so — I shall drift further on my way, letting this vestigial cord snap, releasing me to sleep a new dream nearer the magical center…wherever she shall be.
Looking in my mirror and remembering — round and round it goes –Oh, God … my mouth hurts — this Thrush thing. Please bring me cold, cold water and ice with lemon juice — let it run between my lips — they’re so dry and — I’m so tired.
No! You, lady, over there tossing on the couch — don’t hang on to me anymore with your fears, your pointy thoughts — let me go in Peace! It is harder each time to come back, you see, so I thrash and flail my limbs about. Please…just let me go! Maybe in the first dawn flush I can float away… when you’all are not looking…when you’all are still asleep…please?”
So it is I “remember” his last thoughts.
Later came the urgent phone calls — four long hours — the weeping mother on Widby Island, Washington Sound — the doctor’s certificates — your clumsily covered shell carted out the door like so much rubbish into a last sun-splashed afternoon, bumping into a door jamb. How oddly the unfelt shock vibrates within my numbness. No…no dream this ending.
As always, my safe place is to be by the sea immersed in its ceaseless chatter, its glints, the changing forms — floating above the wonder of it — walking with it hand-in-hand. Yes, I admit my ….is it weakness? After those four hours I ran away from your passing event, from all the creepy-crawly human ants come to parse your few material leftovers… couldn’t bear any more of it.
Now, I stand here — seeing — listening to harbor life at full flood while the song continues to rise, its wings carrying the soul beyond and above seaweed wrapped legs threatening to drag down a suffocating land creature bound in its grieving mesh. No! — not that for me — or for you.
Looking down into harbor water for a moment, I fall through a frozen space — a crack in time — a mere hiccup. The water turns jet black before my eyes and from deep below rising to just under the surface a great God’s classic glittering gold mask sings his song to me. Eyes, obsidian black, absorbing all light — betoken your truth — no smile-blessed laughter bursting forth from this flickering surface. Rather, a simple, silent song sent…you to me through him — a true God-father whom I accept at last — seen within this watery mirror.
Over His face a constant silver flickering stirs my soul — the endless, timeless dancing opposites — and I am comforted, feeling your promise come upon me.
A time so very long ago floats to the surface for me. The image reflects a foolish young man, the me of that time, taking a post-pneumonia swim into the setting sun off Malibu beach — into a sinking red-gold Apollonian mask, riding an up-welling current I swam outward unbound, silent singing the melody the gods sent — a far distant place calling there in the west, my life hanging by a very thin thread.
It is fitting that you come to me now through Him — a comfort — a challenge — and a reassurance.
Once again another full chapter closes with a click as the motel door swings smartly shut and we return to our pine/cedar-covered Sierra Foothills — our familiar burrow — our waiting place.
–o0o–
