Witness Protection

 Snow falling down, endlessly, relentlessly, those cold, grim, heartless, stabbing flakes of gossamer ice, spreading their melancholy net out for miles across the heartland; and the cold winds rattling through some forgotten hamlet in a remote corner of the Dakotas (or was it Iowa? Nebraska? Wyoming? ) - a tree deprived flatland of sorts with a town plopped down upon desolate earth -  a town with one main road, one ramshackle gas station, a tiny post office (now closed for renovations) a nondescript general store - a Bunny's Burger joint (also closed because of inclement weather at lunch time, no less!) -  business in these parts having been bad or non-existent for years - except for the constant stream of big-rigs - with drivers typically continuing on to the Regal Truck Oasis in Kindred Village 20 miles further down highway 94. Our protagonist (D.S.) - for some reason always kept in basement settings or some secret loft spaces that cheap hotels were sometimes known to boast of - consuming corn flakes and watching reruns on old-timey tv sets, accompanied by his  intrepid handlers - part-time detectives outsourced from the F.B.I  - who at this point in time must have been figuring that this type of work assignment amounted to some kind of serious demotion... Waking up on this particular day was indeed troubled for the aforementioned Damien - in part because his dream of the night before corresponded quite precisely with the view outside of the loft space hotel room - and his fear - quite justified - was that a new home was to be found for him - in this locale - which to put it mildly did not represent his first choice of venues. 

Oblivion

 The game he used to play in his mind at such moments was called Oblivion - which involved taking inventory of all the cultural detritus - events, trends, fads, obsessions that had gone the way of the dinosaur...old books, tired art, stale music, those poor novels gathering dust in used bookstores or hard-bound historical volumes sitting row upon row in some library - the old hit songs of 1923 or 1872, the rococo paintings ignored in the 17th century wing of a museum, pamphlets, brochures, advertising from a decades old political campaign and most especially the follies of public opinion run amok - crowds assembling so as to rant and complain and push against some leaden reality such as the steam engine or the surveillance camera ....... He would content himself with the knowledge that the present tomfoolery would likewise be consigned in this way - and that the present frenzy would give way to an unescapable forgetfulness. Looking out at the scenes of the maniacal protest in the streets before him (across the from the coffee shop) staring out at the crazed faces of the young - Edgerton felt nauseous and looked away in disgust... This too, this too... Oh Lord...someday soon...one can hope at least... It shall be washed away - Edgerton found himself whispering...and at just such moments then that sly old psychic-minded savant named Synderman would brush up against him - the timing was really quite uncanny - and Synderman - appearing out of nowhere - would utter the familiar mantra: "This too shall be forgotten...unless" - a halfway thought to which there was no ending - none provided by Snyderman - except when Edgerton would add "as conquer we must, as conquer we shall..." Snyderman - with his damned happy grin and clumsy gait stumbling up toward the front of the line - if not for optimists such as him - where would Edgerton be exactly - because the same game of Oblivion - could easily be applied to the events of his own life - and indeed - it was not unlike him to begin reciting details of the world now departed or completely departed that he had felt so connected to his identity - but alas, parents, grandparents, uncles, cousins, neighbors in the old neighborhood - celebrities and famous names - gone - celebrations, events, traditions, festivities, preoccupations of yesteryear a relic of past decades, and stores, buildings, businesses, streets, schools - there but no longer there - but most tellingly - the events of his own life - faded, forgotten, unacknowledged except by his own powers of memory. Will there be no one left to light a candle for person x or accomplishment y? My years at the college...my marriage and family...the little house on Minotaur Avenue...the annus horribilus which precipitated his personal catastrophe - the attempt at a good deed - and the subsequent punishment - the inquest and resulting bad publicity - the exoneration and early end to a promising career...the end of a marriage and the estrangement from a beloved child - could Snyderman help with those painful things - which like the other detritus were no longer anyone's special concerns. But this should be a form of happiness thought Edgerton.

Old Heads (Prologue)

  The Setting - If someone asked me, I would call it a convalescent hospital - a large and sprawling building or series of buildings, a complex like some vast old folks home or perhaps a sanitarium on a mountain with sterile-looking white walled corridors,  fake flowers in vases, precisely measured rooms with huge windows looking out onto well-manicured lawns - something resembling a hospital in part - but also some akin to some elaborate corporate headquarters. When you start walking around in this place, with its subdivisions and quadrants and terminals - it's easy to get lost...Things look so similar - doors, hallways, signs the mist-like air that has something to do with the new and improved ventilation system.You keep track by the lettering and color-coding on the walls and the strange manner in which the various parts are labelled. And perhaps the ambient lighting is subtly different in each subordinate locale. No doubt the scenery from outside is quite striking, the perennial flowers, the fruit trees and the green lawns like on a golf course, and the sunlight that  pours in through the windows in an inviting manner enough to allow a semblance of home. The coffee is not bad - and breakfast is serve hot each morning - with fresh berries and yogurt. I can't complain about any of that. It's just this weird feeling that one gets...So many places on earth really that get one the same impression - nothing really very important happening here...Nothing to see folks, please keep moving right along...  Static time - the same old ___ routine - no major changes from day to day... There is a story playing itself out - but what's happening exactly? You hear something like that and you immediately suspect that it can't be right - but when you go looking for clues - and then nothing... just the sound of wheelchairs in the corridors and quiet conversations, like crickets chirping,  and perhaps a muffled voice on the loudspeaker paging a nurse to Room 11. An anonymous place really - like any kind of building complex you'd find in some upscale industrial park -  a place where old and infirm people are taken to, and who stay there, to recover or to complain, to languish, to linger, and eventually fade off into the sunset,  inhabiting rooms, biding their time, wiling away their golden years with weekly activities - bingo nights, story-time, animal visitations, children's choirs marching through. So yes - things are happening - I guess one could say. The residents take up space in this most mundane of mundane environments - and fritter away the days and hours under close watch...Yet still - it  is one of those frozen-time zones where everything seems so predictable and ordinary that nothing  of much significance ever "transpires" until such time as someone has a relapse or needs increased medication or died - at which time the fact that some change has actually occurred is officially recorded. Perhaps I overstate the tedious, unvaried, humdrum uneventfulness of the place in that the services offered are more than adequate and the staff is impressive. There are nurses, orderlies and doctors on call - not to mention the rotating pool of psychologists, physical therapists and dementia experts. That is something worth noting...What's not entirely clear is how the lucky patients have come upon this facility and the privileges that go with it. The real question I suppose is who runs this facility - as they like to call it and for what purpose. Every two weeks or so - a few big-wigs from the Universal Quilt Co. are sent out to make the rounds - that would be Beverley and her husband Todd Gimlet  - who are reputed billionaires - or higher ups in the corporation and who love mingling with the common folk...but who knows - though they play the part well, they too could be paid actors.  Beverly with her perfectly coiffed big hair, her peachy pink attire and shoes to match, handing out special coupons to whomever and  affable Todd with his wedding-cake white sports coat and loafers - waving to patients and staff. Could these really be the higher-ups - or replicas of, or subordinates, or low-level wannabes? Yes - that's part of it - too - the unreality of this place. It's a real place - but there's something fantastical about it - you can see it as the product of someone's active imagination... When you get sent to a place such as this - it changes your thought patterns to say the least. Because aside from one's state of dotage or fatigue or the regimen of medication that preserves one's brain fog - it is clear that you have been sent here in part because the vast portion of you life is behind you - and as the seasons go - frolicking past spring and summer, and clinging to autumn - you have entered for better or worse the winter of consciousness. As one of the more prominent patients liked to say at first - a person in such a condition was indeed "safe" insofar as there is nothing left to do but to wait upon the end. No one (other than family members) had any reason to seek them out or to care too much about them or embroil them in any foolish schemes or to exploit their vulnerability...Those lucky enough to be well past their primes - were somehow immune from most of the mischief that occurs outside these walls.

The Characters -  Along with setting - there are some characters also that I should like to introduce- the first and foremost being our protagonist - a gent by the name of Edgerton - the most perfect fossil and representative of the old school. I focus on  Edgerton in part because out of all the guests of this establishment - his mind has been concentrated most intensely on  the strange fact of aging - and on the pariah-status that still attaches to those who succumb to its ravages...Edgerton, actually a quite sensitive melancholic (if that were a disease), and relentlessly obsessive-compulsive type  - whose life had been "ruined" by a single random unfortunate incident (he will tell you that later, he will, and he will tell you why) -  is our detective for this caper - piecing together the strange details of an unfolding case - something big - something really big - despite the relentless leaden appearance of nothing at all really happening... Edgerton felt more intensely than the others a sense of "time passing" - the decades rolling by without accomplishing what he had set out to at the beginning...Life had literally yanked him in another direction entirely with a series of mishaps, fiascos, calamities - until Plan A had turned into Plan Q - a hideous nightmare. And with such setbacks and disappointments - all stemming from that one outrageous accident of fate... there came prolonged bouts of depression marked by ranting and raging - raging against the new... until he found himself in a "facility" where care was being bestowed upon him by attendants dressed in white and he could not help but wonder - how, how did I get here, how did I arrive at this hideous end-point with all my faculties intact - and a such a huge reservoir of regret. A place of "kindred spirits" perhaps? Did they have anything in common other than At this establishment where had been gathered so many interesting "specimens" ...he was aware of the "unhelpful attitudes" of the assembled "maladjusted ones" - how vehemently these patients had rejected the present zeitgeist as so much foolishness and insanity - clinging to their nostalgia and their long-term memories...(Chef Nobu - who made magical breakfast pastries and was head of food services in the kitchen - spoke often of the need for purging and cleansing by means of healthy fibrous offerings  - and the same could be said of a catharsis needful for the release of pent-up bad thoughts and emotions ...These sad patients so beset by past gripes and complaints; they spoke of being hounded and persecuted. Edgerton would often say to anyone who would listen: People like to scream about freedom and personal license...No one says enough about order - the need for order... Paradoxically in this freedom-drenched demimonde no one can remember how to  allow for human foibles anymore,  for everyday human weakness, for bad moods, misstatements, lapses in judgment,  ambivalence of feeling, anger mixed with envy, love accompanied by fear,  for sadness leading to impulsivity, for smoldering grudges and resentments. he was aware of the obsolescence of opinions and the degree to which his generation's most cherished beliefs had been eclipsed by the new and conquering sense of progress.  The new order is more like a prison than the old regimen that i grew up with...He was aware of his dinosaur status and relished it in part... he felt like screaming - don't worry, oh you young folks - we will all be dead soon enough! You'll get your wish!... He was incredulous over the disaster of the present moment for he felt - and would not hide - in his heart of hearts that - society with all of its outward advantages and innovations - was continuing morphing into something worse - a world ostensibly full of promises of happiness, freedom, equality and blah, blah, blah - but housing (or rather not housing) a cauldron underneath of agony and affliction  - a world in which (theoretically) every person - in a vacuum of their own narrowly-conceived dreams - would pursue their private fantasies oblivious to the needs of others... a world losing touch with tradition, severing itself from past times, moving rudderless, unreality enveloping reality. As the wise doctor had once told him - there will always be casualties and collateral damage... To have lived to see the world you grew up in die out so entirely - to lose touch with those cherished beliefs that nourished you in youth, to wander for decades in clouds of uncertainty and doubt - with nothing to rely upon but hunches - "This can't be right"...or "This must be so..." it was all so unacceptable... And so Edgerton - during his worst moments - would rage against present vanities - rage against gadgets, rage against condos, rage against health trends, rage against jogging and bicycling, against electives in school, against illicit drug use... No - I know for a fact, Edgerton - that marked man of misery - would never have survived had he not by met up with his special friend, the amazing Stanislaus Synderman - elusive seer and fount of wisdom,  a man cursed with a slew of health problems and random pitfalls -  who refused to succumb to bitterness or vexation of soul - someone who had one of those "out of body" experiences and "went through the yellow tunnel" that people always talk about (was it yellow or actually purple in his case?) and communed with "angelic beings" and was absolutely convinced of the "celestial bureaucracy" that Daoists speak of (actually a good thing) - - and who became for Edgerton - a genuine medium of cosmic wisdom - someone to rely upon, an absolute anchor amid the chaos. Let us admit it though - Synderman was eccentric - and could get lost in a "fog" of meditation for hours at a time only to emerge with fresh insight and resolve... It was all a matter of properly remembering the visions and revelations that had been imparted to him as he floated above the operating table on that fate day - communing with the celestial beings who share their cryptic secrets....Edgerton was most interested in "unpacking" these "parcels" - for to him they represented a newfound meaning - a way of moving forward in life... I should also mention a prominent lady of impressive intellect and imagination - Dr. Agnetha Vollems-Baas - with a vast resume of publications, books, articles, lectures - and whose one consuming passion has been the calamitous history of humankind - and how everything that could go wrong did. Along with writing books - her hobby has been to imagine that vast structure of historical time unfolding along an alternative path in such a way as to avoid the various errors and atrocities that have blighted the previous 10,000 years - and some of these thought-experiments she has made public as part of her work and others she has kept private.  She had spent her entire life trying to elevate the status of  progress only to find herself under a cloud recently for a few posts of some obscure site - seeking to affirm the integrity of women ... She found herself accused of essentialism and reification  - the worst that could be said about anyone aspiring to cutting-edge philosophy..  But despite her protests - she was overcome by an avalanche of unexpected rejection... and her newfound bitterness was hard to bear... And of course - we must also mention Dame Edna Wright - whose love of theology and cats is unrivaled...She had grown up in a strict upper-middle-class household and had always been something of a severe rule-follower - a goodly girl with that voice in her head reciting the various strictures laid down from above...And thou not kill, nor steal, nor cheat nor lie, neither shalt thou be intoxicated in public nor shalt thou gamble to excess nor shalt thou make land war in the east...Hundreds and hundred of rules and maxims stored up in her mind which she like to recite at will to give her a sense of the divine order that existed on earth - that was prescribed from authority figures...Everything seemed to be so clear to her during the halcyon days of childhood and early adolescence (back then she had the wherewithal to banish all noxious doubts from her mind) but the perceived love of vice and excess among her peers only seemed to grow as the years went on and she found herself isolated in libraries and museums and other safe places...Her theology became her shield, her staff, her calling card  until she began injecting new and unexpected rules into the mix...having to do with the proper modes of dress, the proper modes of social interaction,  uplifting vs. degrading music and most especially the one thing needful - the love of cats and animals...All humans would be judged on that standard before all else...

The Positivity Circle

- 1 -

The circle met for the first time on a placid Tuesday in November when the assortment of  bleary-eyed (heavily sedated?) septagenarians  were wheeled into the public sitting room at the facility - with the weird maritime prints on the wall and the dignified blue couches; Edgerton was strangely subdued, a little nervous perhaps, skittish like a child and  only half awake; to the left of him sat Synderman who was to become his good friend; when his eyes were open, Snyderman seemed to be having delusions - he was entranced in part by the maritime prints - but looking out of the large oval-shaped window, he could swear that he saw rabbit-like forms frolicking on the lawn and  frogs in top hats dancing  on the terrace... Were these holograms, he wondered... Agnetha was frozen upright in her chair, re-writing the entire history of humankind in her mind (as she was wont to do) - eliminating wars,  tribal skirmishes, crusades and inquisitions,  road rage, unhealthy foods, weight-lifting and all manner of overwrought activity conducted by the male of the species, building new cities, creating new modes of power-wielding... - The others were hunched forward in uniform poses of exhausted inactivity. Nurse Amanda was the M.C. - busily announcing all of the events that would be happening at the home in the coming days - ...We are SO glad you're here everyone...at this facility...where I'm sure you'll come to appreciate your lucky circumstances...contracts signed as you recall..well, time to get started... oh yes and I wanted to mention...we'll be offering so many things to do - for each of you - as your strength allows -  bingo night on Saturday,  Scrabble night on Mondays,  a children's choir, animal visitations, music night on Fridays, pool time on Wednesday afternoon,  lawn bowling on Sunday. and so on... The Quilt Family of Universal Quilt Co. fame -  has gone out of its way to offer so many perks for you all - we are mindful of your journey and the difficulties you have suffered... (What difficulties are they referring to thought Edgerton? But he was too skittish to pursue the matter...)   Nurse Beatrice (the novice cohort of Nurse Amanda) was struck by the tired, weathered-beaten, downtrodden look on the faces - wondering if they would be up to the task of staying awake. Nurse Amanda with her Karaoke microphone in hand went around to each of the guests asking for a brief introduction and "something positive" that they might wish to share...What are we thankful for? What can we share on a positive note? Hmm. Hmmm? But the guests only muttered hello one by one - with  their tired, garbled voices...  Hello and hello...welcome, welcome...Nurse Amanda kept the mood light as  the microphone stopped in front of each weary face: But no one could muster anything much beyond their name on Day 1....

-2-

    At the second meeting the old souls (as they came to be called) were more alert - but small talk ruled the day.... A tired, nondescript voice spoke first, slowly, in a whisper...... I'm thankful slowly...slowly she continued-  for my - two cats...Wonderful said Nurse Amanda...  My niece - is taking -  care of them...I understand - they will be -  allowed a visit... Oh of course, of course... Another tired voice chimed in... I love this chair it is so comfortable...Thank you / Bless you...said Nurse A.  ... And another voice - I have grandchildren you see, who live so far away...I could wish that they would visit me at some time... Oh yes - that shall be arranged... ...It's been a while since they live far away from here - but perhaps they will visit - yes? I love the food here - Yes the food here is wonderful - thank you for sharing...When it was Edgerton's turn, he felt like a fool - groggy and not sure what to say...You may call me Edgerton ...I apologize for everything in advance... you see I feel so groggy - as though I've been drugged, someone mentioned a contract before which I don't remember signing... why are we here and do we still have something to be done - ah yes - but on a positive note, the ventilation seems good in here...  Welcome Mr. Edgerton... And then the elusive Synderman - like an absent-minded math prodigy or some Daoist monk in a trance -floating in and out of normal consciousness - a man cursed with ill health and a drooping physical frame but maintaining a truly strangely hidden reserve of vitality and acuity ... Suddenly he became intensely focused: I am Synderman and I'm very thankful to be alive....you see my health is better now...And I feel fortunate to be surrounded by people who know something of suffering... I am recovering from yet another stroke and a very strange occurrence that happened recently...  I had been struggling, dont you see,  in despair after the death of my beloved daughter... I assumed that this third stroke would be the end for me - but it turns out that other plans had been made for me... I'm so happy to be here - on earth that is - surrounded by you wonderful people... Thank you Mister Synderman - we are so happy to have you fully recovered after your stroke...Agnetha was last to go and though she wanted to speak of the necessary task of the re-writing of history and the purgation of needless evil from the fate of humankind that she had pursued as part of her magnum opus during decades spent as professor emeritus of modern history - she knew that those gathered would not be able to appreciate the scope of her enterprise - and so - and so she permitted herself a bout of small talk...She spoke both slowly and authoritatively: I'm not sure what should be added to what has been said - but I have been noticing the color patterns around here - the beige and pink, the greys and greens and blues... I think of a code of some sort you know... This is a smart woman thought Edgerton...

- 3 - 

It was at the third Tuesday that the gathering became more talkative...When Edgerton sat down - and before the meeting began he had nudged Synderman  about the contract that he did not recall signing...How did I even get to this place...My memory is blank... I feel that I could still be living safely on my own...I'm only 74 for heaven sake... Oh yes said Synderman - we've all signed off on this experiment...I will tell you more of what I know later on...The Karoake microphone made the rounds once again and Nurse Amanda chimed in: What can we share on a positive note? Hmm. Hmmm? And again the litany of small talk...I am looking forward to seeing my grandchildren again...Yes - excellent...My niece is bringing photos of the cats I left behind - you said a visit was possible - Of course, yes... My knees are quite sore but the Nurse said there will be hot mineral baths available...And so on... When it was Edna's tutrn to speak she surprised everyone with the vehemence of her announcements... As i mentioned before,  I am Edna...so thankful for my cats who have done more to help people and to cure loneliness than anyone I can think of .... (What about dogs? asked a voice) - yes and more than dogs certainly - I am quite secure as I sit here and wait upon death for I know that the Lord will judge the righteous once - And who shall protect all cats and punish all evildoers who shall be thrown into the pit where there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth...Oh my said Nurse A ...That's a doozy... Edgerton could not resist adding-  Dear Lady - I find myself actually inspired by the severity of your theology - but now i am curious: will the Lord look fondly on the cat-lovers of the world? Oh yes - said  Dame Edna  - the cat lovers shall be blessed forever and the Lord will never abandon them, but the others will be thrown into the pit, the backbiters, liars, cheats, and all who show cruelty to animals, ... Do I truly like cats myself,  Edgerton wondered - sometimes yes, sometimes no, what does that mean for my eternal fate? ... At this point  Edgerton so prone to melancholy and occasional monologues - could not help himself... you know it is strange he said - how we are just sort of gathered here in this facility waiting on nothing in particular...waiting on death I suppose...and what comes after...  And really now for us is a  time when the future beckons as some sort of other dimension...whereas - barring those fearful thoughts of heaven, hell or eternal quietude - most of us find ourselves  immersed in such memories as we can still bring forth and any regrets that follow upon those...Yes - the body is giving way...our muscles have atrophied, our bones ache, our skin is sagging and blotted with age spots...our joints are full of arthritis...our nerves are a constant source of pain...Digestion is an ordeal along with respiration...Many of us are coming off of surgeries or cancer treatments... so you see it is not for the faint of heart... There is nothing left for us to accomplish really other than to maintain some minimal contact with our families as best we can ...and to keep up our health in check... And to be alone with our regrets - yes - to be thrown back upon our thoughts as i myself have been for years gone by - this constant wondering about what might have been -  you see my life was ruined somewhat a few decades ago when I lost most of what I treasure... so yes - regret has been a part of my experience... And still I wonder have I measured up? But to who you see? What is the judge? ...and shall I be fully vindicated some day? I still wait upon that - you see!... Has our cause been right? Have we lived a good life - Do you see what mean? Anyone? Yes  I do see your point - said Agnetha ...But this is what is really strange Edgerton continued - truly strange about it all continued Edgerton - It's that we are so damned expendable and forgotten - living out on the edge of reality - wherever this is ...... We are somewhat forgotten - receding from the thoughts of the world... Oh Mr. Edgerton - that is quite dramatic of you. You are not forgotten among the staff at the facility...No - not entirely forgotten but you know what i mean...

- 4 -

Edgerton was ranting again in one of his moods... He would go on and on about young fools and hedonists, hippies, weirdos, do-nothings, lay-abouts, hacks, frauds, deviants, crooks, snake-oil salesmen, degenerates of the present time...  We're going backward I tell you...And no one gives a damn...No one appreciates...Always the peace-maker Randall would say Mr. E. we gotta make room for everyone...Oh yes - I got you covered there - live and let live - sure sure - that's good up to a point but what happens when the whole system get cluttered up with -  Randall let me ask you a question... You're always so cool and collected...let me ask you... what makes people tick? What do they want when it all boils down to it? What will keep them satisfied?  Well - I don't know chief - different people want different things ...So go all in on adventure, others like to play it safe and secure... Okay - fair enough - but let me ask you this... would you agree with me if i told you that most people these days are on the surface chasing after pleasures - cars, boats, houses, clothing...luxuries...vacations...fair enough...And another portion of the population wants that special status of living here and shopping there and moving in their elite circles am i right? And then you have the hopeless romantics and the social climbers... some want to find that trophy spouse and other want the money...But you take all of the people just mention including the degenerates and do-nothings - and think about the sheer misery...  all the people who are either stoned or drunk or passed out on pain meds or wanting to be intoxicated or to self-medicate as the saying goes...A country of zombies - depressed, anxious stressed out lunatics... Am I right? And i was one of the first he said laughing - b/c my life was ruined  - I have a better excuse than most (ha, ha)...But my point is that these young fools are spending all of this precious time being miserable with no conception of what OLD AGE will bring them! ...Yes - beginning in one's fifties if you're lucky - one begins to notice annoying changes, a change of pallor perhaps, mood swings, reactions to hot and cold... you are surprised by your own skin loosening in places; wrinkles have appeared, changes around the eyes and nose, one's face and jaw seem puffy, the skin around the neck is strangely no longer tight, hair goes gray while thinning or changing in a bad way, joints begin to hurt, muscles are sore, muscle mass weakens overall, bones grow fragile, digestion fails you, one's energy level decreases, brain fog appears now and then,  the memory ebbs and flows - but one is able to at least deny the process is happening up until a certain point in time...You bump into someone from high school or college and do a double take on their haggard looks - but you pinch yourself b/c you refuse to see that same thing happening to you...But gradually - the realization hits you -  from sensing that the world is moving past at an accelerated pace without consulting you...Indeed - it is that sense of being overlooked that galls you, that grates upon you...People are passing you by - walking faster than you - looking askance at your silly little habits - your hunched posture, your grandparent-y grin, your ridiculous fashion choices, your stuck-in-the-past views on everything... You are slowed down at every juncture - and if retirement brings you rest - it is a tedious rest... the mind torments itself with too much down time...How many days in a row can you go golfing? How many trips to Florida? How many early bird specials can you eat? How can you avoid thinking of your latest illness or injury? You perhaps anticipate future scenarios of reunions and retrospectives... But time keeps pushing, pushing you forward into places such as this...You become obsessed as to your health...You take vitamin supplements, magnesium, potassium, herbs, green tea. You visit the doctor once a week and she tells you the same thing - that some things aren't reversible...And one day you end up in a bed like this - talking to strangers - nurses, chaplains...staring out the window...eating gruel...But most of all you're just stuck... exhausted...and there's nothing to look forward to, nothing but memories...You understand that - dont you kid? 

Extra

Positivity was the continuing theme on Tuesday nights at the convalescent hospital where the old people were gathered in a circle and Nurse Amanda went around with the oversized  karaoke microphone encouraging everyone to contribute a happy thought;  Edgerton was again in one of his dark maudlin moods - raging against the fools and dimwits who surrounded him - weeping about the curse of old age - complaining that his dessert had not been served on time - so no one expected much from him. Edgerton was always apt to remind anyone who would listen about the aches and pains of aging, the decay of the body, the anguish of regret, the irreversible arrow of time, how the patients could only but fritter away their days waiting upon death. Happiness was beside the point at this stage of the game...One could only hope to be medicated ...or to be exhausted and thus mentally spent or to have reached a particular stage of dotage and dementia where the past was no longer a form of torment. ... Nurse Amanda had developed a keen annoyance to his presence, but Nurse Beatrice felt bad because he was always commenting on how his life had been "ruined" and his career derailed - his wife sent to an early death and his daughter estranged from him. Ten years seemed like an eternity ago; he was on the verge of a blissful retirement when the accusations had erupted out of nowhere and the Job-like plagues had poured forth unrelentingly. Randall - the stoical lab technician - who seemed unconcerned and untouched by anything aside from late-breaking sports news - was always available as a receptacle for Edgerton's complaints and took no offense to his foul moods.

The Mystery of Flop House for One in Suburbia

 Caretaker Alice came to visit me again today,...the house is feeling empty again...She seems to think I'm making good progress and I'm hoping that she will apprise me more as to my situation...I realize I've been somewhat hazy and brain-foggy lately - I simply want to know about my family and where they have gone...I'm not to the point of panic, but I just need to know what's happened. And then there's the matter involving my dog...I seem to remember having pets at one time - a dog and maybe a cat. Alice reminds me that I've been through so much - with my head condition (injury or whatnot) and to take it one step at a time. Yes - I'm resolved to be hopeful about my status and to conquer my fears...

Winter Poem

weeks after you have resolved

to do that thing...it fades

like a bird egg at Snowqualmie Pass...

was it go again to shop for salt and gravel?

was it sign up for pickle ball  in April?

was it cancel your nightly ration of duck sauce lo mein?

learn to live inside a makeshift 4-star hotel lobby of the mind

one with large-back swivel chairs and flowing fountain fish tanks

one with long red runner carpet and coffee bar refills

art murals and mirrors - and luggage carts to match

a pool with swan boats both inside and out...

a line outside bookstores in hot July

distracted by thoughts of mud in gardens

you fall on ice

more than once, asking why

over-scheduled for hibernation

hands cold inside of gloves

you play a word game over and over

until propelled outside again

reaching for hand and coat

observe how the cars collide slower than normal

one day is actually warm and the sun

plays upon the cardboard horizon

The Dream of Johannes Chorister - Pt. 1

Emerging from the bleary mist and fog, as if from a trance,  ascending stairs in the dark,  through massive doors I enter into a warm, stately, cathedral-like edifice, and then down along the marble corridor with footsteps echoing along the hall until one reaches near where the concert is to be held. A long corridor with portraits hung of older, serious-minded folk, each projecting looks of somber hope, grim alacrity, austere joy.  The large rectangular windows are eye-catching as well, but in a different way,  with geometrically precise patterns of tinted glass, a more festive aura shedding beams of green, red and yellow light. At the end of this strange corridor, a vestibule, with alcoves and side rooms lit by flickering candles. In one of these cordial voices can be heard reminiscing... Here gather the guests and loyal devotees of the much-venerated Johannes Chorister, teacher, visionary, virtuoso, musical progenitor of life-altering approaches to melody and counterpoint....The receding set of panel doors leads into this grand lobby where a cadre of serious-minded followers have gathered, humming familiar tunes from the Chorister catalog. I make note of their faces - humble, respectable, unsophisticated - everyday, salt-of-the-earth people ...The sign near the table reads - please sign in and join our gathering before partaking of tonight's concert. Embarrassed by the unexpected protocol, I search out the least conspicuous "corner" along the wall, but to no avail. Despite my best attempts at small talk,  the stiff upper-body language betrays a stubborn aloofness. How did you hear about our concert? And have you studied the works of Chorister before? I nod affirmatively not wanting to state the obvious. Who of my age and description had not been immersed in  Chorister music, lore and general conformity?  And have you traveled far to reach us here?  Do you play an instrument yourself?   - Yes more than one, piano, organ, some trumpet here and there...  And do you sing? - Not well, but I have studied music for many years.  -And I have sung in choir... 
United they are, it seems, by a secret pride at keeping "real music" alive, music with a long history, an august tradition, a maze of ritual and pageantry surrounding it, while others fall prey to shallow trendy sound-scapes, lustfully arrange mechanized percussion binges, therapeutic noise, elevator muzak and other false idols... I am as yet  unable to inform them of my patchwork of day jobs,  as erstwhile musicologist, piano tuner, make-shift journalist, concerned friend, amateur private investigator ... made curious by their ostensible obsession with a rarified strand of music, cognizant as to the attrition rate that plagues their lot. The heartfelt testimonials blur within memory.

- Chorister's melodies have taught me the true meaning of music...
- His hymns have changed my outlook entirely..
- It has been six years now since first I heard the joyous "Prelude in E major" of blessed Chorister...
- How different my life became since ....
- I was wandering aimlessly, despairingly for many years, a wretched prisoner of my own dim routine until...

Such heartfelt testimony... How predictable such anecdotes come to sound after a while. But perhaps I am too much a cynic. The glib anecdotes of "visions" and "revelations" -  simple answers to life's great ills falling from the sky as it were...instant cures - for pain, for grief, disappointment, despair - how soon they forget that such "solutions" are nowadays a dime a dozen - one choice among many possible options...The feeling of "serenity" that descends...the "clarity of purpose" that only this music can supply... the magic, enchanted, joyous atmosphere that surrounds one, that guides one's choices step by step...  And yet on a certain level I understand this need, this unquenchable craving for something to fall back upon...a buffet from the harshness and cruelty of existence -  I can hear the staunchest defenders and their rejoinders: What would you suggest then? What do you have to offer us? If not this sublime music, what is there... to live for? ...Perhaps this is not the time to get cheeky with my replies...Don't some people collect paintings or climb mountains...? Don't others amass fortunes...or pursue ill-fated romances... invest in their children's futures or in some fleeting glimmer of fame...? ***Why do I seek to disrupt this quaint gathering - watching as the elder folk sip at their hot chocolate? Who would believe me if I announced as my mission some obscure musicologist's quest for clarification on a thorny issue involving dissonance, half-notes, chord progression, and the theory of harmonic spacings? The mere mention of music, of an interest in music per se would appear to place me in good graces with my hosts - and yet - as has been witnessed so often before - I can anticipate their reactions if I deviate from certain answers when mentioning specific works and composers...It is frustrating to say the least at hitting such walls of narrowness and provinciality on a subject seemingly so universal. It is such rigidity that transforms their "love of music" into a more burdensome passion. And here I hit upon what is perhaps really bothering me under the surface given all my past experiences- and those a few kindred spirits who have fallen away from the pack so to speak if not at all from the true spirit of music...I reflect in particular here upon the case of a promising cellist driven to despair amid such ostensibly cheerful surroundings...  And yet for all this, I see that a real bond has been built up over time among these old people - and their trust in the music is solid, their love of hymns, of song. Is it their sheer complacency that i resist, that on some level I envy? This need for truth at all costs which has been my scourge in life; do I seek to pass on this virus to these happy few -  those who do not spend time over maddening riddles or tragic irreversible mishaps? I am also made aware down the hall of a younger crowd of zealots who seem on some mission to redeem the lost glory of prior ages when Chorister's name was it seemed on every lip... No doubt they will be intent on replying in kind to mockers and skeptics - those who come to fleer and scorn at this solemnity... They will have much to complain about enemies and adversaries, those who have fallen away and those who wander through life aimlessly without the sustenance provided by a  Chorister's melody....

In the middle of these, my roaming thoughts, a young man with flashing red hair and an awkward, ecstatic energy about him sees fit to  grasp both of my hands leading my down the hallways saying: Please join us...Friend, you have a curious look about you as though, like the rest of us, you also were searching for something ... as if you too were alarmed at what is happening to music, chagrined at young people giving in to all manner of noise, perhaps you seek to help us to preserve this joyous heritage, to prevent it all from passing out of existence entirely...May I...May I simply share with you a line for that famous passage from the Chorister diaries, volume 1, chapter 7, verse 18... when Chorister, beset by worries, in the midst of composing his most spectacular B minor symphony, observes: "on your next walk, look for the simplest twig, enfold it within your safe hands, and carry it back through snow and sleet, lay it upon thy table at home and cover it in warm dry cloth. Make it into your strongest element." How oft I have pondered those amazing words! - Do you not hear the remarkable wisdom hidden in those simple lines? Only someone in touch with the deepest mysteries could utter such words as this! Brother - I know you have been led here for good reason... And is it only to hear the concert or do you wish to join our communion? 

Politely, I stand back, slowly explaining my humble agenda, paying homage to Chorister's reputation as a composer of compellingly simple, elusive melodies that have acquainted themselves with me since my earliest youth;  I recount my obsession with classical music, with the standard ensembles, trios, quartets, choirs, etc. along with my compulsive habit of frequenting the meager concerts that find a hungry, if diminishing audience.  I share my curiosity as to the spectacle that has grown up over several decades attaching itself to Chorister and his music. From humble beginnings the movement had for a time caught fire with the popular imagination embedding themselves into the yearly calendar with feasts and processions and groups of adoring pilgrims migrating from one venue to the next, only to find in recent years, a precipitous falling off of enthusiasm...people for various reasons distracted away from Chorister chorales, from music in general, for that matter, toward what some might see as shallower pursuits: fascination with more plastic arts, more tangible pleasures and gadgetry of all kinds.  Even as I stare at this rag-tag remnant of some former glory, it occurs to me that they have been drawn here as much by an aversion to more worldly pursuits as by the sheer sensuality of this music, a sensuality they would deny themselves in every other respect. A good part of me shares perhaps their desperate obsessional need to escape from the chaos of the world outside, to find a sense of order and even predictable morality amid these ritualistic gatherings - to huddle next to other, like-minded misfits, those bearing scars of cruelty and neglect, for whom other outlets of connection seem overshadowed by sinister worldly interests and self-destructive habits. (I can myself recite at least one famous passage from the Chorister journals: "Consider this, brethren, the very essence of music: deliverance from all fears, fear of pain,  fear of death...") Among his acolytes, Chorister, has remained that often-invoked name, like Rembrandt or Shakespeare - a figure so associated in their minds with the word perfection, a word so rarely attached to human endeavor, a tenaciously idealized descriptor used to separate him from other illustrious composers of note; behold his perfect tenor voice,  his perfect ear, his perfect technique, his illustrious teaching method, his unmatched humility, etc. etc. This quixotic quest of theirs, somewhat ridiculous in the earnestness of a shared secret wisdom that to outsiders must appear inane, tedious or else completely redundant... is for them a crazily plausible lost cause worth fighting for. And yet, even early on I admit to a feeling of being overwhelmed by these somewhat loopy strangers, accosted and exhausted by the onslaught of well-wishes, their incessant repetition of helpful admonitions,  oft-quoted verses, and welcoming gestures - which I fear may turn less auspicious [a provisional form of acceptance based on the expediency of growth...]. Here again I am brought back to the strange elaborate ceremonial brocade that had come to surround the simple music-making that once had characterized the original students of Chorister's music. Complaints had been heard again and again about the obsessive fervor and over-wrought sensibilities of the more recent adherents...and for so very long I had made excuses on their behalf until a series of incidents made me question this level of devotion to a music whose very significance in the grand scheme of things was slipping from my grasp...it had almost been a necessary step for me to let go of this established ancient paradigm of melody in order to expand my understanding of music in general - to re-ask a set of simple questions involving melody, harmony, rhythm, instrumentation and all the rest of it....And then - almost as an after-thought, he time comes for the actual concert...We enter the hall together, sitting in endless rows with wooden chairs, our attention drawn forward to the vast stage that seemed to float and rise before us,  and upward, noticing mural with musical notations at every turn and the massive wood beams above us and the high, majestic ceiling. The full sensual appeal of it all was brought back to me by such a setting.

But within minutes, almost oblivious to the people still entering the chamber,  the concert has already commenced, without fanfare. the music simply begins perfunctorily out of nowhere with one (?), two (?), three (?) soothingly slow, soaring, piercing orchestral pieces followed by an omnipresent choir singing all-too-familiar Chorister songs and cantatas - and with audience members invited to join in at certain places, some of whom chose to sing or hum along with the entire production. A goodly number held spellbound by the mesmerizing spectacle, others approaching it with a sort of business-like stoicism. Afterwards during another reception, people mill about chatting. The conversation is more subdued than before but more than a little predictable - with most alluding to the superiority of the Chorister melodies when compared to contemporary trends dismissed as either painfully out-of-touch "elitist-composer noise" or the "purposeful therapeutic elevator music" - cloying, sickly-sweet, prepackaged sound manipulations - the working of ads-men, hucksters, manipulators of enlightened opinion. I find occasion then to strike up conversation with a few about the actual music itself, with references to time and key signatures - Choristers seeming preference Eb and F#, Gmin and Cdim chords - but to my surprise almost everyone seemed offended by my intentions - as if to discuss these matters were a subtle way of poking fun or stumbling upon dangerous lines of inquiry.

Afterwards, a goodly number of folk stream out into the cold; many are tempted to linger, to greet and recruit the stragglers such as myself... It has dawned on them now that I have a reason for being there other than mere concert-going. Am I a potential devotee of this music that I seem already so familiar with ...Understandably they are suspicious of my motives. Am I a typical "nay-sayer" - another disenchanted soul  come to mock and fleer at their solemnity...? The small talk turns every now and then to such mistrust of outside nefarious forces  - the media and others doing their utmost to discredit, to ridicule the antiquated aspects of their approach - if not to music per se - then to the arts in general... My host - the ebullient greeter - is most intent upon discerning my connection to the composer and his work. I inform him of my musical background, my interest in theory - western harmony, counterpoint, etc. - and the controversies swirling around Chorister and his use of the "jarring discords..." - strange unexpected disruptions sewn amid otherwise simple and accessible chord progressions - especially  in the larger orchestral works. - Ah yes - you and everyone else these days seems fixated on that thorny subject, but really you should not let that be your stumbling block.  - And along with that - I persisted - the question of the original editions  of particular scores - the debates over which version of Chorister is to be performed and in what manner - Yes, my friend and this two perhaps relates to what people call the discords... And of course the famous diaries...From behind his smile, i could begin to discern no small amount of annoyance... It is clear to me, friend, forgive for sounding cynical, but your standoffishness suggests that you are either a scoffer, someone who hath come "to fleer and scorn at our solemnity" or else you are a journalist here to sniff out a scandal. It is the latter option i admit, somewhat sheepishly - you have found me out.