Real Sea Horse

 

Erykah Badu - On and On

What About My Books?

Who will take care of all my books?

What will happen to the framed photo of POTUS and me or the baseball cap Anita bought me at Tahquamenon Falls a few years before she dumped me or the skinny shot glass Dave Dempsey snagged from the airport gift shop on his way home from Ottawa?

What about my shirts and sweaters and shoes? What about the silverware and CDs and pens and power cords that have birthed babies over the years or the bed that Amy and Gary Kohlhepp said I could keep if I moved out of their basement?

What about the toolbox I picked up and stocked years ago and haven’t yet used? What about the machete purchased online from Brasil to protect me from home invaders, or the 9mm handgun that replaced it when I realized I don’t want to get close? What will happen to the thank you cards saved as proof that sometimes I’m nice or the laptop I’m writing this on (my parents’ last gift to me)? 

Seems wrong for all this to be landfilled once I’m done.

I don’t have children. Anymore. Few friends and loved ones to speak of – dead mom and dad, a sibling 3,000 miles away who I’ve disappointed by being me, and lots of exes – so the task of sorting through my shit when I’m gone is up for grabs.

I suppose I can contact Habitat for Humanity or a library or shelter or church. No promises though. (I’ve learned they’re meaningless.) I’m okay with the idea that I won’t be remembered but my stuff deserves a better fate.

I’ve got some good books.

Connected

 

Alfie - Sarah Vaughan

Goodbye, Jack

What happens to one’s wisdom and experiences when one dies?

I know we touch and teach people and leave marks of various degrees and help shape others and live on in the hearts of our families and all that, but when someone lives a long time, that person accumulates a great deal of knowledge. Unless he or she writes a book or becomes famous, is that all wasted, just lost, when the person leaves?

I ask because my 83-year-old dad died on Christmas – 72 days after my 80-year-old mom died alone in a regional hospital in Spalding County, Georgia, gasping for air – and I’m afraid. All the people he knew and music he liked and lessons he learned and experiences he had and achievements he amassed and wisdom he gained from eight decades of life – are they just lost with him? He didn’t write any books or give any TED Talks; he touched many people but memories fade and life goes on and I just feel right now like the list of reasons why this was such an indescribable loss not just to me and his other loved ones but to the universe is immeasurably long.

Yes, he left the world a better place. Yes, he loved and was loved, and he was smart and compassionate and strong and interesting and charming and patient and talented and generous. He was multi-faceted and caring and unselfish and genuine and wonderful. He taught me so much about so much. But who’s gonna know this when there’s no Wikipedia page, no statue in a park, no offspring to keep his memory alive ‘cause we’ll be gone at some point too? Who’s going to be aware of all that Jack Diehl knew and saw and learned and was? Blog posts and framed photos don’t convey this.  

Everyone dies, I know. And so many people have been lost to Covid. It’s overwhelming, though, to everyone left behind. Because not only do we suffer the immediate, up-close loss of our loved ones – their empty chairs at our dinner tables, their laughs no longer filling our rooms – but collectively we suffer the loss of all that each of them was, all they knew and offered and represented in the bigger scheme of things.

I don’t even know if what I’m writing makes any sense. But it doesn’t make sense to me how someone can live for decades – learning and loving and being and giving – and then just leave one day for good.

There are no buildings with Jack’s name on them, no charitable foundations dedicated to preserving his memory. But he deserved this and so much more. I’m sad that someday no one will know this.

And I’m devastated by how much we’ve lost.

Untitled

 

Hurt - Johnny Cash

 

Rest in Peace, Mom

Kay Diehl
1940 - 2020

My mom had a great sense of humor. She was really smart and good with words. (She was an English teacher and a paralegal.) She loved music, golf, photography, and playing cards and board games with family and friends. I inherited my love for reading and writing and my interest in politics from her. She made me feel loved and important and likable. She wasn’t a perfect mom, I suppose, but she was close enough for me. She made the tastiest sandwiches, that’s for sure.

I wasn’t a great son. I didn’t call or visit as much as I should have. I always thought I’d fix that: I just needed to get that new job or save up a little more money or get over this hump or that one. When I had a partner and kids, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was single, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was depressed, I just couldn’t get away. She understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.

I hope she knew because I can’t tell her anymore. She died last night. Alone, struggling to breathe, in a hospital in Georgia.

The last time I saw her was in early 2018, just before breaking up with Anita. We took the kids and visited Anita’s sister in Georgia before heading to my parents’ place. I didn’t give my mom the time and attention that she deserved during the visit, though, because Anita and I were fighting and the kids wanted this or that and I just assumed my mom would understand. I just assumed she knew I loved her. It didn’t occur to me that I would never see her again.

My memory’s not great but I remember my mom taking time off from work to chaperone a field trip when I was in grade school – and not saying anything when only one kid chose to ride with us. I remember her taking my little sister and me to Cedar Point and Camp Dearborn, to malls and movies and concerts and carnivals. I remember her coming home from work and making us dinner every night. She taught me to be good to others regardless of what they look like. She taught me to do my best but was there for me when I didn’t. She made me laugh when I was crying. She threw birthday parties and encouraged me to do my homework, keep my room clean, go outside and play on sunny days and all the other things that loving moms ask of their children.

She didn’t ask for much for herself, of course. I remember her asking for Chanel No. 5 perfume for Christmas one year. I can’t remember if she ever requested anything else. I do remember all the birthdays and Christmases and Mother’s Days when I didn’t give her anything, not even a card, because money was tight. She understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.

I knew she was getting older. She was overweight and just underwent hip replacement surgery so I knew I didn’t have forever to become a better son. I knew the clock was ticking but I was just so depressed and self-absorbed that I told myself occasional phone calls and Facebook exchanges would do for now. Then a week ago my sisters called with the news that both of our parents had tested positive for COVID-19. My dad is in better shape so he was released from the hospital but my mom was not. I spoke with my sister Jennifer regularly and heard about Mom’s rapid, distressing decline.

I talked with my sweet, good, loving, wonderful mother twice on the phone as she struggled to breathe in the hospital. The first call was okay. The second – and last – was awful but I was able to tell her that I love her. She couldn’t say, “I know.”

Love

Someday We'll Linger in the Sun - Gaelynn Lea

Everybody Needs a Sparkly Patrick

I received a package from my Facebook pal Patrick that I have to tell you about.

I met Patrick several years ago online. We were writing for the same website and became Facebook friends. Although I know very little about the guy – I probably knew more but my memory sucks – he’s one of my most colorful and compelling contacts in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg. His posts about politics, current events, entertainment and sex are witty, thought-provoking and fun. He’s an Occupy Wall Street/Don’t Taze Me Bro kind of guy, someone who reads Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Saul Alinsky and Malcolm X and also digs Dolly Parton, the Bee Gees and watching Leave It to Beaver while stoned. He marches for what he believes in and is pro-cannabis, anti-war and ready for the revolution.

Patrick with Dr. Cornel West

I know he’s from Jersey and lives in the Big Apple. I think he makes his living as a writer but I’m not sure. He could be a waiter or a dog walker or an Instagram influencer or an acupuncturist or all of the above. (Yes, he’s that smart.) I don’t know if he’s 25 or 35 but judging from his Facebook posts and my package, he’s youthful and energetic. He’s also unique and creative and confident, at least online. He’s very theatric and not the least bit afraid of cameras; I think of him as Sparkly Patrick, the campy dude with the boa and sunglasses at night. He’s opinionated too and I almost unfriended him once during a political disagreement but fortunately I came to my senses. What a mistake that would have been.

So anyway, a few weeks ago Patrick posted something in Facebook about how we need brightness in this grim world “so send me your address and I’ll try to brighten your day” or something along those lines – my memory sucks, remember? – so I sent him a DM and we exchanged addresses. Sure enough, a colorful yellow box, bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a microwave oven, adorned with SpongeBob and pig stickers, arrived at my doorstep from New York City a few days ago. It was a gift on so many levels.

The box included:

• Utensil packets from a fast food place
• Hot Wheels Fun Park
• A Pizzaboyzzz lapel pin
• A birthday candle in the shape of the number 6
• Assorted small plastic containers, one full of candies and Tums
• Stickers
• A LOVE refrigerator magnet
• A New York Metro card
• Fluffy ears headband
• Assorted loose playing cards
• Three condoms
• A photo of the Empire State Building
• Loose sheets of paper
• Two packets of Yogi organic tea
• Hand sanitizer
• Knitting for Dummies book
• More stickers
• “I’m With the Band: Confessions of a Groupie” book by Pamela Des Barres
• A small, battery-powered plastic candle flame
• A short personal note from Patrick

How crazy and cool is this? Look at the items individually and then collectively. How wonderful that someone would do this for me? Sparkly Patrick put playful thought into selecting and gathering each item, boxed them up, and spent time and money to mail them to me here in Michigan just to make me smile. How lucky am I to know someone as silly, sensitive and special as this guy?

It’s no secret that I’ve been depressed lately. In addition to the whole “people are refusing to wear masks during a global pandemic and increasing the likelihood that I’m gonna catch the virus” thing and my personal hell despair struggles challenges, there are racists murdering black men in the street. There’s the tragedy that is Trump and all this entails. There’s record unemployment and increased hunger, poverty and abuse. There’s devastating weather and climate calamities. And every day another scandal, crisis or accident, someone being mean to someone else, something bad happening that didn’t have to happen.

If you’re woke, it’s hard to be light-hearted, to smile and laugh and feel like everything might be okay after all. But that’s just what Sparkly Patrick’s package did for me. Hope it did it for you too.

What did the note say? None of your business. Get your own Sparkly Patrick. 😊

Untitled

Ascension (Don't Ever Wonder) - Maxwell

Who Will Call Me Patches?

“It is not length of life, but depth of life.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I met Nancy Wood from Rockford, Alabama through my good friend Josh Fielder. Nancy and I became Facebook friends in January of last year. I use “met” instead of “haven’t really met but feel like I know her thanks to Facebook” because it’s shorter.

She was born on February 23, 1974 and died last Saturday.

I realized when I sat down to write this that I don’t know as much about Nancy as I thought. I don’t know if she had health issues – her death seemed sudden and certainly unexpected – or if she was allergic to anything. I don’t know what her favorite color was or if she knew how to drive a stick shift. I don’t know if she could sing or what her laugh sounded like. I don’t even know what she did for a living other than to make other people smile.

Her Facebook profile says she earned a bachelor’s degree from City College of New York – she was originally from Harlem – and she was also an Auburn alumna. I know she loved football and boxing – she said she also watched basketball because “hell, after a while it’s all ya got” – and that she could talk about sports better than some of her husband Phil’s friends. (She boasted that she and Phil “can ESPN together.”) I know her faith was important to her and the recent death of her dear friend Paula was devastating. But there’s a lot that I don’t know and now won’t.

We shared dance videos with each other. She posted animal clips, news articles and essays, memes and status updates about sports, friends, Trump, race, politics, current events, marriage and cooking for the man she loved. She was an active Facebook user. I’m glad for this.

Two days before she died, I posted about not having a home team along with this meme:

Nancy was one of several who commented, gently scolding me (complete with “WTF?”), encouraging me to move to the South – she knew my aging parents live near Atlanta – and assuring me that she had my back.

I love the idea that a person I had never seen and knew relatively little about had my back. For some reason I felt like she meant it.

It’s funny how some deaths hit you harder than others. I would not have expected to feel such heartache at the loss of someone I knew only in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg. I feel for Phil and her family and closer friends. I’m so sad for them because if Nancy’s death hurts me this much, they must be in excruciating pain. I hope they take comfort in knowing what a mark she left and what a gift, a flower, a bright light, a treasure she was to people all over the place.

Nancy was smart and charming and confident and perceptive and funny as hell. She was the type of individual we need more of. You just knew she was special. You weren’t sure why you were lucky enough to cross paths with her but you were grateful for the happenstance and content to assume that there would be time. Time to hang out in real life and share and post and help and learn and laugh. We always think there’s more time. And then there isn’t.

Nancy gave me the nickname “Patches” – I don’t remember why – and it’s my favorite nickname ever. I remember how supportive she was when my personal life took a significant downward turn and I revealed my depression to her. At a time in my life when the going was tough, a witty woman with a big heart in Alabama reminded me that we’re all in this together. She was kind to me when I needed it. I will miss her.

One time Nancy told me she was starting to make me a grey scarf. (Again, I don’t remember why.) I think I’ll go shopping for a new grey scarf this winter so I can think of her every time I go outside.

Rest in peace and thank you, Nancy Wood.

Buskers at Eastern Market

#DETROIT

Courtesy Kerry C. Duggan

It Runs Through Me - Tom Misch (featuring De La Soul)

So Bernie Wrote an Essay

My Facebook friends include ardent Bernie Sanders supporters as well as those who think his time has come and gone and he needs to sit down and shut up. One in particular – a local politician who constantly pronounces and pontificates and will fight you if your opinion differs – recently slammed Sanders by bringing up the yucky essay that the U.S. Senator from Vermont wrote back in 1972.

I guess it doesn’t matter that Sanders, the 2016 and 2020 presidential candidate who some think was shafted by Debbie Wasserman Schultz and the Democratic National Committee if not Hillary Clinton herself the last time around, supports the Green New Deal, Medicare for All and a living wage.

Or that he wants to expand social security, legalize marijuana and end the resource-wasting “War on Drugs.” Or that he supports Roe v. Wade, wants to repeal the Patriot Act and supports same sex marriage.

Supports net neutrality? Who cares?

Believes climate change is real and we must address it? So what?

Wants to reform student debt and provide free or affordable college to all? Whatever.

What apparently matters is that the guy wrote a one-page essay almost 50 years ago – when a new house cost $28,000, a gallon of gas was 55 cents and five guys were arrested for burglarizing the offices of the Democratic National Committee in the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. – for an alternative publication that’s disconcerting. Even nauseating. This and the fact that he’s not really a Democrat (even though he’s caucused with the Democrats for years) are seemingly enough to disqualify him from the office that’s currently being defiled by an orange oaf with zero intellect who’s on tape and on record degrading women and encouraging disrespect and molestation.

Given the anti-Sanders sentiment out there on the left as well as the right, I’m not sure he’s the Trump-annihilating candidate we need right now. What we don’t need, though, are lazy swipes and tabloid-level attacks at politicians who don’t strike our fancy. We don’t need more slime, more mud, more spurious accusations and prurient implications. If you’re going to oppose Bernie Sanders, let it be because you don’t care about campaign finance reform or disagree with the idea that we should only use the American military as a last resort.

Let it be because you think he’s wrong to want to break up the big banks or because you resent that he organized and protested against segregated housing or was at the March on Washington back in 1963. Let it be because you don’t want to tax the rich and close corporate tax loopholes or you don’t support unions or you’re against affordable housing or lowering drug prices.

Don’t base your case on 14 paragraphs of crap that he wrote the same year that Richard Nixon visited China and Mark Spitz won seven gold medals in swimming, for Pete’s sake. You can do better than that.

Sources: Kaiser Family Foundation, The People History, pro-Sanders Facebook groups.

Path

Take Me to the Alley - Gregory Porter