Today I walked my dog. My neighbors walked their dogs too. They barely spoke a word to me as they stood and watched, seemingly in awe, as their dogs smelled my dog’s ass, and my dog followed suit.

There was a time when I would attempt some casual conversation, the human equivalent of sniffing my neighbor’s behind. But, I’ve learned that anything more than casual observations of the weather will not be well received.

My role in this social dynamic is to respond enthusiastically to the mandatory questions, and feign interest in my neighbor’s responses to those same questions. It’s a simple formula: “You sniff my ass, and I’ll sniff yours.”

“Cocker Spaniel! My grandmother Dr had a cocker spaniel!”

My grandmother never had a spaniel, cocker or otherwise, by the way.

My dog sniffed at trees and lampposts with great interest. “It’s like he’s reading the newspaper“ my mother used to say with wonder in her voice.

I saw a man walking a cat on a leash one day. I was intrigued (as I had never seen a cat on a leash). But, I also thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be different. Cats and dogs are much different animals. So, it’s a reasonable assumption that the cat servant and dog slave might be equally different from one another.

He was different.

He was worse.

I had no idea that walking a cat was such a delicate and critical operation. Lesson learned!

As my dog licked some unknown substance off of a random leaf, I tried to glaze my eyes over and empty my brain of all thought, so I could be like them.

My neighbors all looked so content. But, I was not content. I am not content.

Outwardly I was calm. Inwardly I was screaming: “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ——-“ me? —— or them?

My dog wrote an editorial on the lamppost with his urine. “BREAKING NEWS!”

I smiled vacantly, mimicking my neighbors to the best of my ability, as my dog gently pulled the leash and led me down the path.

My dog squatted and strained. Finally, I was about to receive my reward!

Feces emerged from beneath his tail and fell to the pavement with a gentle bounce. I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed this glorious event.

No. I was alone.

I smiled like a child on Christmas. I tried to pretend that the honor of retrieving my dog’s waste products with a thin plastic bag wrapped over my hand was the highlight of my day.

But - I just couldn’t do it.

As I walked to the trash can with the bag of warm, wet shit cradled in my hand like it was a precious relic I thought: “There’s got to be something more than this.”

As if in reply to my question, more of my neighbors emerged with their dogs leading them down the path.

Desperately, I chose a dog at random, looked in its general direction, and said in my best baby talk voice: “Who is this little fella’?”. His human slave responded on his behalf.

I didn’t hear the name. Or, I heard it, but didn‘t comprehend it.

The name didn’t matter. The name never matters. What matters is that I chuckle in response as if the namer of that beast was the cleverest person in the world. I did so, much to the joy of my clever, content, dog-enslaved neighbor.

Still, I wasn’t feeling it.

I excused myself explaining, in my manliest of manly voices: “I’ve gotta get home and get this guy fed!” We honored each other by exchanging the “man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do“ nod, as if pouring a cup of dog food in a dish was some heroic deed.

My dog sensed my inner struggle and rewarded me with a second bowel movement.

Still, I felt nothing.

More, and more neighbors emerged from their homes, their hands bound by leashes. Dogs of all shapes and sizes came to meet my dog as he wrapped his leash around my legs and I stood motionless in the center of the path. The roll of plastic bags slipped from my hands and unfurled on the sidewalk like a small, green, plastic manuscript.

“What is the meaning of all of this?” I pondered.

I was surrounded by a great carnival of canine ass-sniffery!

Yet, I felt no joy.

I was alone.

Finally, my eyes did glaze over; not with the euphoria of canine companionship, as I had hoped; but with tears.

Giant “puppy dog“ tears streamed down my cheeks, but no one noticed.

I answered the mandatory questions through sobs, but no one noticed: “He’s eleven” “Labradoodle“ “Archie”.

Finally, as sunset approached, my neighbors returned to their homes. Some played ball or frisbee with their dogs in the front yard.

“GOOD BOY! GOOD BOY!” they shouted elatedly.

“Oh, miracle of miracles!” I thought. “The dog fetched the fucking ball!”

But, mock them as I may, I know that I’m the failure, I’m the outcast here.

The soles of my shoes scuffed on the pavement as we turned toward home and I was nearly overcome by despair.

”Maybe tomorrow“ I said aloud, as cheerfully as possible. The dog stopped walking. He looked up at me with hope in his eyes.

“Maybe tomorrow“ I repeated. He wagged his tail gently, then led me back home.

Peel a banana. My friend Brian once asked me: “Have you ever seen a monkey peel a banana“? I had not. Then I did. I’ve never peeled a banana the same way again.

“Live and learn”, my mother used to like to say. She summarized all of life’s lessons with those few words. Live long enough, open our eyes and our minds, and we can truly be wise. Even monkeys have a thing or two to teach us.

I haven’t seen my mom for over 10 years now. She set off from Kennebunk Maine on an around-the-world journey in the spring of 2012. She always had a yearning to travel the world, and she always loved solitude. Now she has both. That said, she finds comfort in the company of strangers, and has a fondness for telling stories over a glass of white Zinfandel. Don’t be surprised to find this good natured pirate one day seated across from you in some sea coast town, as you venture about on your own journeys.

With that I’ll say “Happy Mother’s Day” to my mom. I promise that I’m still ”living and learning”. And, Happy Mother’s Day to all of the other mothers out there.

The first disoriented, distorted, and deformed moments following my reluctant emergence from the ignorant refuge of mindlessness brought the disjointed consciousness of ears steadily filling with warm, viscous fluid; while the stench of death and decay burning at my nostrils competed with the nauseatingly gritty, metallic sensation of earth mixed with blood upon my palette, and the bite of winter on my exposed, naked body. Gone was my soft, warm bed, and any desperate hope of returning to the refuge of dreams, as I forced a rasping breath into the remains of my twisted body and emerged fully into the taste and fragrance of my own decay, and the eternal discomfort of a shallow grave.

Parkinson is a freeloader, a liar, and a cheater. He is the worst roommate that you could ever imagine. Well, maybe he’s not the worst. But, he’s pretty bad.

Parkinson is a bully, and he is a horrible practical joker. Like an evil puppeteer he causes my hand and arm to shake, jerk, and make gestures that others may perceive as strange, or even lewd.

He plays his practical jokes at the worst of times. I avoid public restrooms whenever possible. I’d rather piss my pants than be seen standing at a urinal with arms jerking and twitching like a pervert.

He shakes me awake in the middle of the night. He waits until I drift nearly back to sleep, then he shakes me again.

When I do sleep, he whispers in my ear, transforming my dreams into nightmares. In my dreams I’ve died many times.

It’s 2022.

Parkinson and I are now beginning our second decade together.

I am fifty-three.

There will be no party!

Or, maybe there should be?

Despite all of his faults, Parkinson has taught me some valuable lessons in the moments between his pranks.

He has stolen my sleep, leaving me drained, exhausted, and questioning the value of my own existence.

But, that emptiness is soon filled by empathy for those who have lost more.

He has spoken some true words of wisdom amidst the cruelty of his laughter.

I‘ve learned to welcome his nightmares, and the valuable insight they provide into the workings of my own mind.

Through the humiliation of his jokes, I am learning to be humble. His cruelty will teach me (or remind me) to be kind.

Despite how it sounds, I am not brave or courageous. Many times my reactions to this unwanted roommate have been less than healthy.

My family deserves all of the medals, if there are any to be given.

I’ve often made Parkinson the scapegoat for bad behavior of my own.

Perhaps I’ve judged him too harshly.

I‘ve accused him of stealing my life from me. But, maybe he is just showing me the way to a better one?

Am I a better person than I would have been without him?

What will he show me next?

#parkinsons #earlyonsetparkinsons #empathy #humility #parkinsonsdisease

I have to be honest with you. May I be completely honest with you?

Thank you. But……wait…..where are my manners? You must be absolutely exhausted. Why don’t you just put your feet up here and I’ll get you a drink. What’s your pleasure?

Nice choice! Very nice choice! We’ll get along just fine!

I know that you‘re here to interview me, but I’m just too curious for my own good.

Here we are! A nice fresh bottle. On the rocks? Oh, sorry. You’ve probably seen enough rocks for one day, haven’t you? It’s a nice view from up here, but it’s a long way up, and even farther down! I’m including the depth of the ocean of course. Yes. Of course.

Do make yourself comfortable.

So sorry. Standing here holding this bottle like……Wow! I’m at a loss for words. With a wedge of lime? Really? Straight out of the bottle? Okay, if that’s how you like it. No glass? Cheers! Or, more like a dusty cowboy in the spaghetti westerns. Ha, ha straight out of the bottle! Hair of the dog that bit ya! So, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Let’s enjoy our drinks and the view. I do wish you’d let me put some iodine on those wounds. Teddy is the gentlest pup once you get to know him.

Ahhh….No, no that’s okay. I told you to make yourself comfortable.

We all have our own definition of “comfortable“ don’t we?

And “uncomfortable“ too, I suppose.

Would you like some sunscreen?

SPF 50 of course.

Ummm, of course. Of course. You can’t be expected to reach back there.

But, I have to ask.

Join you? No, but thank you. Whiskey bothers my stomach these days. Oh you mean…..I’m not sure….That’s a bit unusual.

My question? Oh right! However did you get up here? No offense but, you don’t seem to be a rock climber. I didn’t say I was. Well, you’re the one who asked me to “join you”. No, it’s fine. I’ll soon be baring my soul to you, so…..

Parachute? Brilliant!

But, however are we going to get you back up into the airplane?

I have to be honest with you. May I be completely honest with you?

Thank you. But……wait…..where are my manners? You must be absolutely exhausted. Why don’t you just put your feet up here and I’ll get you a drink. What’s your pleasure?

Nice choice! Very nice choice! We’ll get along just fine!

I know that you‘re here to interview me, but I’m just too curious for my own good.

Here we are! A nice fresh bottle. On the rocks? Oh, sorry. You’ve probably seen enough rocks for one day, haven’t you? It’s a nice view from up here, but it’s a long way up, and even farther down! I’m including the depth of the ocean of course. Yes. Of course.

Do make yourself comfortable.

So sorry. Standing here holding this bottle like……Wow! I’m at a loss for words. With a wedge of lime? Really? Straight out of the bottle? Okay, if that’s how you like it. No glass? Cheers! Or, more like a dusty cowboy in the spaghetti westerns. Ha, ha straight out of the bottle! Hair of the dog that bit ya! So, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Let’s enjoy our drinks and the view. I do wish you’d let me put some iodine on those wounds. Teddy is the gentlest pup once you get to know him.

Ahhh….No, no that’s okay. I told you to make yourself comfortable.

We all have our own definition of “comfortable“ don’t we?

And “uncomfortable“ too, I suppose.

Would you like some sunscreen?

SPF 50 of course.

Ummm, of course. Of course. You can’t be expected to reach back there.

But, I have to ask.

Join you? No, but thank you. Whiskey bothers my stomach these days. Oh you mean…..I’m not sure….That’s a bit unusual.

My question? Oh right! However did you get up here? No offense but, you don’t seem to be a rock climber. I didn’t say I was. Well, you’re the one who asked me to “join you”. No, it’s fine. I’ll soon be baring my soul to you, so…..

Parachute? Brilliant!

But, however are we going to get you back up into the airplane?

Slowly and gracefully the flower untangled its wind-blown leaves and petals.

She dropped her hands from her ears confidently……..

Foolishly………

At the next stop I calmly stepped from the train. Such a beautiful day.

“Bob White!” “Bob White!”

Do you play cribbage by any chance?

Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six….

Yes. That’s the one.

A sudden case of the nerves or flu or maybe she was just too damn hot in that heavy sweater. It was stifling in that train.

It’s suddenly like a storm has passed. The pavement is wet as if a rain had fallen while i rode the train.

Once one proves his worth by wearing a crisp suit and a power tie the frantic knitters quickly transform from his harshest critics, to fiercest allies, to helpless puppets.

“April showers bring May flowers“. True, and totally irrelevant.

The train, must forget the train. I gag at the thought.

In school the janitor always rushed quickly to the scene when some poor kid puked.

Chain reaction.

wasn‘t that a game show?

Remember how Richard Dawson used to kiss every woman on family feud?

How the hell did he get away with that?

Thinking about adopting that practice.

Blindsided! The old hag wakes from her nap, likes up a fresh cig and suggests: “You should start with your new friend from the train“ she cackles with cruel delight as I recall the smell and nearly vomit.

Did they so misjudge me? Her?

There was another possibility……but why?

Why would she hate me so much?I am used to it: the sounds of organisms. The flutter of bird wings often wakes me at dawn.

Now, I walk with purpose. But, I don’t know where. I had almost forgotten that I carried her shoes in one hand, her purse in the other.

A thief? No. I consider throwing the shoes in the trash, but sadness overcomes me. I pity the foolish girl.

“kiss her then!” The hag rejoices, sending herself in a coughing fit And me to the closest trash can.

I will return her shoes. I will. The bottoms, the soles are scuffed where she hesitated at the gate. She hesitated…..

I feel your judgement upon me.

Did you not see her eyes? Long and lean, like a cat. Beautifully dangerous.

But the eyes!

I did not touch her. No.

Her shoes fell freely from her feet.

I simply retrieved them from the floor. To slow her pursuit. Of course.

The purse? We all have our flaws don’t we?

Look at the time! Must hurry along.

DONT MAKE ME YOUR SCAPEGOAT!

But time has healed.

She is wired back in her place. Her electronic companions humm and blow warm air at her throat. So unlike hungry hateful dogs.

He puffs contentedly on his pipe.

Cinnamon is the scent of the day.

The blue line goes lots of places, of course. But, unless you live out there somewhere along the beaches north of the city, you might live in Boston for many years, and never have reason to ride the blue line.

I have no reason.

But, we may all do whatever we wish to do, whenever we wish to do it. We don’t have to provide an explanation, or an excuse.

Travel, just to travel. Travel randomly. It’s very liberating to travel without a destination.

I’m enjoying the clickety clack of the blue wheels beneath me.

“Clickety clack”

”Imperfect track”

”Broken back”

The words come to me in the Distinctly feminine, yet handsomely dark voice of Hollister Blue

Is this a musical? I hear her exquisite piano in the distance…..

Transported by my sister’s fingers kindly, softly caressing the keys.

“Off track…..on track……..it’s your choice”

”…….found your voice.”

I wonder: could we write our musical in the key of Km ?

”K minor?”

“There’s no such thing as the key of freakin’ K minor.” She corrects me in her nonjudgmental, sisterly way.

Keyboard cover slamming shut. BAM!

I am sweating profusely now. Do I have a fever?”

Something is suddenly very different. The winds have shifted. A hint of a flowery perfume perhaps?

The scent is familiar. I’m here for the opposite.” Life is unfair.

I fear that I am not alone. When I admired the shine on my shoes, There were others. Smaller.

Familiarity is a threat. I feel threatened.

A light scuff of the soft soles were her only betrayal as she too paused before crossing

“Do not cross this line!”

I had / we all had assumed that we all knew the answer to his unspoken riddle.

Soft, leather-soled shoes moved nearly silently across the pavement. The fairer / kinder gender? Nonsense! Soft leather soles tap softly on the floor of the train car, nervously tapping to some unheard song. Her feet betray her, again.

“Do not cross this line!" He said. We assumed, incorrectly perhaps, that the consequence would be immediate, and irreversibly final. “Fatal?”

Did I say that aloud?”

I could hear the viscous sound of many eyeballs slowly turning in sockets in unison.

I am considering the other passengers. The firing squad of conformity.

All sat knitting. All were knitting the same sweater. Knitting furiously. That was the old hag’s story, her cover.

“Sweater” I considered: A garment so named because it makes the wearer sweat?

To the innocent bystanders she appeared as the kind old granny.

Her voice jabs at me like a knitting needle in my ear.

Knitting, knitting furiously the sweater of the American dream.

The collar was too tight for me.

The click and clack of busy, busy needles is deafening!”

The sound is both a blessing and a curse. It does drown (for the most part) her 40 year veteran smoker‘s cough and her continuous stream of insults.

When deeds become too heavy for the hands of simple men……….

The knitting needles are suddenly knitting in unison.

Louder! Louder!…….………When the pain is too great for the fiercest bear of a father to bear……

All knitting in unison now.

I am suddenly in charge!

I am the conductor!

Of this musical, of this train.

“Mess with me will you?!” I shout out suddenly!

We are strong of muscle, weak of mind…….Foolish beasts!….those are the tasks placed firmly, ingloriously, and rightfully, on the shoulders of a woman.

But they have misjudged me!

The eyes that so recently looked upon me in cruel judgmental scrutiny have since made note of my crisply ironed shirt and new tie. Certainly I am one of THEM!

Again, for the second time today…

the piano is angry now!

my sister’s fingers pounce and pound on the poor defenseless keys.

Rach……Rachma…….

Rachmaciej !

Rachmaciej

Rachmaciej !!!!!

The singer’s name, and voice wash over me simultaneously! So pleased that my memory has not fully failed me….yet

”Calgon, Take me away!“ I scream out as I recline into a giant bath of bubbles and beautiful music.

The riders smile. I’m “preaching to the choir”.

"If you can’t stand the heat…….”

The old saying comes to mind: do not feel too much pity for the piano. It’s a piano. That’s its job.

Holly closes the cover firmly but kindly over the keys. The job is done.

a closing door. The music is gone, but its essence remains perpetually in the air. Comforting.

I feel the same piano respect for any tool, even she of the tapping toe.

I turn to her now. I turn to her now with respect, not pity. She, like the piano, is but a tool.

They are both beautiful tools, to say the least.

I am momentarily disarmed, and disappointed. She is younger, much younger than I expected; and far more beautiful!

Have they so misjudged me?

Have they sent a girl to do a woman’s job? Flowers instead of thorns?

She sits across from me with her feet on the seat. Her legs are pulled tight to her chest, in a near fetal position. Her hands cover her ears in defense from the thunderous knitting needles. In her haste to protect herself from the assault of conformity, judgement, and shame, one of her shoes remains on the floor of the train. Her toes are naked and vulnerable for all to see.

“This little piggy went to market ….”

A most unlikely assassin.

A single, quick, movement and the needles fall silent. The train continues onward. I am the conductor, not the engineer.

A most unlikely assassin?

Do recall the most important lessons of nature: The soft flesh of the mushroom is most delicate. The brilliantly colored tree frog is like a jewel, just begging to be taken. The most beautiful fish in the sea, are the most deadly.

She meets my stare with eyes of fire. The truth of nature is soon revealed.

#Rachmaciej #hollanderblue #psychology #psychological #fiction #abstract

“Of course the gate was unlocked!”

“The gate was always unlocked!”

“The gate will always be unlocked!”

“Anything else would be unacceptable, inappropriate (to say the very least), and unsafe!”

”What?!”

”WHAT?!!”

“WHAT?!!!!!!!”

”I must say that I h…. Very strongly dislike your tendency to sit there in silent judgment!”

”Your eyes grow wider with each word that I speak!”

”You look like a cartoon character!”

”Delightful!” “Which one?”

”I don’t have time for your sloth-like, chess match, new age conversations!”

”Perhaps I should close my eyes, like this. Is this better?”

Many moments pass. I am the only speaker. I speak a simple universal language. All who choose to hear me understand what I have to say. Don’t be silly. I’m not god. I am ever-present though.

“The gate is always unlocked.”

”Yes. Agreed.”

”There is a BIG difference between unlocked and OPEN though.”

”Agreed.”

It is not my place to judge. But, truly it is plain to see the difference.

Do you hear me?

My message grows more pressing the longer you linger here.

Do you hear me?

”But, the other….”

”HA!” “Now your true motive is revealed!” ”Did your pet run away sweetie?” “Oh boo hoo hoo!”

”Surely you encouraged this!” “It is cruel and unusual……to say the least.”

”The gate was open.” “I have no control….”

She sits shaking her head in silent judgment, her eyes closed tight in mockery and defiance. He continues wrapping the scented candles in bubble wrap. Today’s scent: pig shit! it’s a silly little game they’ve invented to pass the time.

TICK,TOCK, TICK, TOCK

Finally you hear! A nervous glance confirms my assumption. I don’t mean to cause you worry;

It’s your fault, not mine, you have to hurry. Do you blame your preacher when you sin? It’s the doctor’s fault when you burn your skin?

Nag, nag, nag!

He finds himself more than a little annoyed by her display of closed eyelids. He lights his pipe in a futile attempt to drown out the scent of coconut, or pig shit. Whatever. It all smells the same here, or now. Of course, all can be , all will be blamed on the passage of time.

She slurps noisily at her third cup of tea. He tapes another cardboard carton closed. She’s nothing more than a filthy animal herself, he decides. One with a tantalizing proportion of eye to face width. Just the right distance from her slender nose. He thinks of himself as an artist and considers the proportions of people’s faces, and those of animal, at great length. He considers the tender closed eyelids, her foolish trust, and unspeakable cruelty with the aggressively sticky packing tape.

Slurp, slurp, slurp.

She has an impressively large bladder. She slurps tea all day long, rarely using the restroom (not that he tracks her restroom usage). It is quite a process to disconnect all of the wires that connect her, that connect him. So……..That’s her super power, he decides. I know different, as does he.

Where does the blue line go, he wonders silently.

“ Obviously, the aquarium,” she responds aloud from behind closed eyelids, sending a chill the length of his spine.

“Pissmeister” he mutters almost beneath his breath, with a smirk as he fetches a new case of candles. What will the new scent be?

“Turtle Vomit” she answers.

Almond. She is correct. He mutters her superhero name again, this time slightly louder, testing her hearing. No response.

He giggles. He is twelve.

A long ago trip to the “Wonderland” dog Track, and learning, With Luke under the guidance of John about trifectas, placing, and showing up. He had only known of winning and losing prior to that trip. The dog track……..such a desolate place. A cruel sport, to be sure. “Here comes lefty!” The announcer called out to the small, familiar crowd of old men, one time gangsters and wannabe gangsters rubbing shoulders. It’s a cute name for a torture device.

“Here comes lefty!” he repeats excitedly. I Look around to see the children. There are no children here. At least in Vegas they Hide the desperation with showgirls and bright lights!

A large square of bubble wrap drifts slowly to the floor as he wrestles the next batch of candles to the table.

her slow breaths indicate that she has fallen asleep.

He raises his foot high, then slams it down hard on for the bubble wrap. With the desired effect: She shrieks, demonstrating his idiocy and her vulnerability simultaneously. He decides that she may not be such a superhero after all, as she leaps from the chair, dragging a small fleet of priceless electronic equipment with her toward the restroom.

His moronic victory (and exaggeration to be sure) is short-lived. His brief chuckles are quickly rewarded by the sound of canine paws and claws on the polished tile floor.

“Play dead!” She mercifully reminds him as she enters the restroom at the far end of the corridor.

He dives to the floor, as there is not enough time to close the door.

“ where does the blue line go after Wonderland,” he ponders aloud.

“Here comes a lefty!“ The announcer repeats.

his face rests in a pile of discarded gambler’s dreams And stolen groceries, as the heat and stench of dog’s breath hovers inches from his throat.

Have you ever noticed the clocks are mysteriously absent in Las Vegas?

Despite their apparent disagreement, he shares our concern about the other.

A bit too quick to take advantage of an unlocked gate.