“Why write?”

Most mornings I wake to the sound of birds singing outside my window.

Long ago; far beyond the limits of my memory, I marveled at the sound of birdsong for the first time. Though I appeared thoughtless as I sat drooling on myself in my crisp, white, first diaper of the day; in that moment, I appreciated the songs of the birds for what they truly are:

Beautiful!

Miraculous!

I gratefully crawled closer to the window.

Then, all too soon; I was taught that birdsong was free and available to everyone. Therefore, it had no value. I was deafened to the music. At best, I took the companionship of the birds for granted. At worst, I considered them a nuisance, as their chatter woke me earlier in the morning than I would have liked.

Now, half a century later, I’ve re-learned what I knew as a baby. I hear the birds loud and clear, and I am grateful for their music once again.

Why write?

Most mornings I wake up to the sound of birds singing outside my window.

That’s a good enough reason to write.

That’s a good enough reason to smile.

That’s a good enough reason to breathe.

That’s a good enough reason to live.

It’s as simple as that.

No one wants to hear about Kung Fu. Even doctors.

The new medication turns my urine bright orange.

No one wants to hear about mindfulness. Even doctors.

And, sure as hell, no one wants to hear about Buddha.

It's just like no one wanted to hear about Jesus.

How fortunate! Orange is my favorite color!

I used to think that Jesus had a sense of humor.

It happened just after visiting the Neurobooth.

Men of god set me straight. Jesus was not funny.

I tripped while crossing the street. A sloppy cartwheel.

But a cartwheel nonetheless! Not bad old man!

I now dream all night again. Nightmares?

They're nothing special, when that's all you get.

We can learn a lot from our nightmares.

What can you learn from kittens and puppies?

But, when you get on the bus and sit next to Satan....

I saw the grinch in CVS, and he made me cry.

I wonder what he tastes like? Chicken perhaps?

They paid me to sit in the Neurobooth.

That's a real crying shame: Untamed farts.

Video games essentially. New-age Pong.

I sometimes have uncontrollable gas.

We had a built in vac then.

It was the glowing heart.

I am not shamed by tears.

My life is an experiment.

What if I go without?

Jesus is not funny.

But, on the boat.

His glowing heart.

In his green chest.

It's my choice.

I'll go without.

That's funny.

Buddha said.

Hilarious!

The first noble truth: Everyone suffers.

Compassion is easier through that lens.

The ole "grass is greener" does not apply.

Everyone, everywhere, all suffering.

That includes me. I suffer. And, you too.

Why am I guilty? Is it all my fault?

If it's not my fault. Then, it must be yours.

Blame, shame, guilt must be rightfully assigned.

Insomnia is our nightly penance.

Forego all rest to establish our guilt.

Need we bear the pain of dead relatives?

Is it not enough just to bear our own?

Are we the cause of EVERYONE'S bad day?

Apologetic apologizers.

Can we remember and set ourselves free?

They're free of pain. Why not you? Why not me?

Can we remember and set ourselves free?

"I've no idea what you're talking about".

We're not the cause of ANYONE'S bad day!

Speak? Sure. But, be warned....you'll find me...[choose your adjective].

Write? Why write? Does anyone read? I do write. I'm torn.

Buddhists and Taoists suggest I consider silence.

I'm not sure whether they meant the lips AND the pen?

Buddhist monks recite Gathas. I write "Archispeak".

Cross-referencing building and elevator codes.

Never a monk will I be, Buddhist or otherwise.

Beyond repair? Why would one repair......perfection?

Laugh. It's fine. I always wanted to make people laugh.

Have you heard about Gathas? Oh. Ha! Yes, this week.

Cute? That's a word like "crazy" or "normal". It's subjective.

The residential code is not a bit subjective.

For a small fee, I delivered in writing, very good news.

Yes. I do still have a highly functional brain.

Better, by far, than a supermarket robot!

Poetry? Some. My best portrays myself as a fungus.

I just wanted to be a fungi.......to make folks laugh.

The Buddha said not to be a fungus. Sort of.

Non-clinging and equanimity. Tall order.

That was an "in the moment" moment. Calmer. Quieter.

I thought it was a small dog at first. It was dark.

My grandmother was attacked by a raccoon. Cute?

My father said, "It couldn't have happened to a nicer person".

I have a bad story for everything. Almost.

He was all Budweiser and cigarettes. Good man.

But, I'm not qualified to judge. Not me.

I'm so disqualified: as monk, nun, man, woman.....

Ahh, but it's all water under the bridge, as they say.

Genderlessness aside, I'm too old, too sick to serve.

But, I truly feel that I've never been more human.

I cry. But, with more empathy and love than sadness.

Replacement? Only for the love of bone density.

Slippery, but sticky. Whose bright idea was that?

Excruciating pain and humiliation;

only to smear it on my arms every morning?

Osteoporosis or empathy? Life's latest "choice".

It's a shitty picture. But I'll keep my distance.

When it climbed a tree. Dogs don't climb trees. Not a pup.

I've tried, and tried. But, never had even a nibble.

I always thought that the biggest fish would be there.

True. A proper Buddhist would leave the fish alone.

Fact check this though: I've heard that the Dalai Lama eats meat.

Fish in the Gatha? No. Under the bridge, I mean.

Maybe the water's too fast. The current's too strong.

It's kind of like my bedroom at night. A mystery.

Nonetheless, I began my own Gatha.

The Gatha reminds us to cherish every day.

You know about blue light? No. Not the blue light special.

What store was that? A blue light on wheels.

It moved around the store. Like a bargain beacon.

No. Someone pushed it. No robots in the eighties.

Now there are robots working in the supermarket.

Apparently useless robots. But I shouldn't judge.

I began a poem about the puppycoon:

Dappled by shadow, I saw a pup all alone.

Toward us, on dimly lit walkway it scurried.

Has it wandered too far in the dark from its home?

"Whose lost puppy is this", I wondered and worried.

It seemed to be serving no useful purpose.

The same might be said of me: My wife's third child.

I tried to interact with it. To speak to it.

Like my grandmother in the hospital. Speechless.

She would not speak a word. Just unblinking eyes. Silence.

It's not great for sleeping. Street lights, computer screens...

Chainsaws and choker chains. Bears hooting in springtime.

I wish I'd kept one of the chains. Two. One for each shoulder.

I interact with it all: Blue-lit raccoons, Buddhists, and robots.

I speak to it all, with more empathy than sorrow.

The Gatha reminds us to cherish each moment.

I am having difficulty with the first line:

I wake rested from a good night's sleep. Maybe tomorrow?

An hour of silence. I left. At least I tried. Sort of.

"So nice of you to visit". The door closed behind me.

Let it go. I offer meta. It's a Buddhist thing:

May all beings be at peace and find some rest. Even us.

I am a fungus.

On your empathy I thrive.

Free us both to live.

You give love freely.

Fungi’s kind unwilling host.

I "share" selfishly.

Compassion’s reward?

Troubled days and sleepless nights.

Unintended harm.

Mercy is my plea.

Fungi know no other way.

Your hand holds my fate.

Forgiveness would free us both.

May fungi be forgiven?

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