Am I Better Now?

Remnants of a bendy Santa. Weirdly, I couldn't find the rest of him!

Every day seems to be something. That something for the last several days has been allergies. I already complained about that the last time I appeared on the 'almost but not quite daily' postings. I am almost fully recovered from injuring my foot/ankle in a bizarre deal where I was trying to walk off a foot that had fallen asleep and my ankle turned extremely. I barely feel it now except when I would push off on it or stop running and plant it in tennis. Not playing tennis for a bit because of the holidays. Walking isn't a bother, but I haven't been going outside because of the pollen. I'm a mess. I think I feel better today. I'm going to try to walk across Lady Bird Lake to the Palmer Events Center and see a band we like at the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar (Albert and Gage). And later we are going to go to Trader Joe's (it's only about 100 yards away) and get some fruit and such to have tomorrow when things are closed. Tonight we are going to an interior Mexican restaurant we've been going to for many years for Christmas Eve dinner. I'll have some tamales! Maybe some Molé Enchiladas with Cheese. A Margarita. The allergies have made my appetite a little wonky. Maybe I feel better because all that sounds good even though I'm not hungry.

Well, we will see how I do outside with the pollen.

Star of My Story

When I shot this (locals may recognize this as the door on Seventh Street into the Driskill Bar) I had the idea of doing a series of (lone) stars for my Austin, Texas Daily Photo blog. But I decided to use it today here.

I've been thinking as I struggle against (pick one or more) a cold, allergies, bronchitis, or some nameless illness that we are all our own little experimental labs with a (statistically insignificant) sample of one. I've tried  various OTC drugs to treat the obviously non-life-threatening symptoms. (Runny nose, congestion, cough, head ache, no fever.) To get a ground zero I've also tried going without any medicine for hours or days. (Except some herbal tea.)

Life is like that, isn't it? We do something then assess how we feel. Carries over to spending money. We think some object or trip or experience will make us happy. We buy something, go somewhere, do something. Then maybe we stop and say, "Whoa. I'm never doing that again!" Or: "All right. Let's do that over and over!"

There's no real substitute for this trial and error thing. You are unique and your mileage will always vary. It doesn't help for parents or friends or mentors to tell us that something will or won't work for us. Nothing works like trying it. You have to personally buy a house or get a pet or try to drink gin or quit your job and travel. The lucky among us get to try enough things by the time we are my age to be pretty safe in picking what will make us happy. Of course, it's still hard to figure what is going to cure this crud in our unique systems.

Can You Really Control Anything?

Action/reaction. Cause and effect. Can we really control anything? There are all the things we are supposed to do to stay safe and healthy. To keep things running in our modern world of cars, computers, gadgets and appliances (all which have filters if they involve water or air in any way).

The worst things to control involve other people. People you are supposed to be there for in their time of need, physical or mental.

I can't shake the feeling that my dad would have had a different outcome with a different caregiver. Don't get me wrong. Everyone owes a death. I did my best and maybe his came later than it would have in other circumstances. But you make all these tiny decisions even though you are essentially helpless in the world of doctors and treatments. You try to encourage behaviors, look up drugs, get the right professionals. You help make decisions.

With FFP's health I always feel inept as well. After all the surgeries and such he has come down with a stomach ailment. Complaining of cramping and nausea he took himself to the doctor, got drugs, tests. He feels awful. I feel helpless.

And through it all I have been trying to keep things going. Changing light bulbs, getting cars serviced, paying bills, getting Dad's stuff and affairs in order. It runs away from me.

When FFP is ailing (and this happened during stints babysitting Dad at home and hospital and doctor's offices), I sometimes give myself a vacation from all other duties and just sit and read and eat and don't exercise and just be there to fetch things while entertaining myself reading or with my iPhone or iPod.

And, of course, this brings up the question of when caregivers get sick. How do they manage to postpone the sniffles, the sneezes, their own stomach ailments, their own major complications? Last year at this time a friend was at the hospital every day as his wife fought deadly complications of H1N1. Now he fights cancer. Should we be trying to harness this delay of symptoms so that, even if we have something terrible, we can delay the onset because someone else is sick?

Plus...does anyone else think that the routers, computers, phones, Internet access, cars, TVs, appliances, etc. really have a mind of their own and will only work when you, the caregiver, hold your mouth just right and delay getting that cold or allergy attack?

Sorry about this silly ramble, but it just amazes me that we can seemingly control so many things. And yet. Not.

[Photo taken in Vegas at fancy shopping.]

There's Always Something...

Dad used to say: "There's always something to take the joy out of life." He used to also say: "I've bought a lot of cameras but I never owned one." He didn't buy the digital point and shoot that I used to shoot the Harrah's sign in Vegas (in August) or the computer and software I used to snip it so it just said 'ahs.' But Dad speaks a lot of truth.

I'm listening to my husband moan right now. It isn't anything serious, I hope. Just a digestive upset and some pesky cramps. Still. No joy.

I'm getting ready to go play tennis. I love it, but I sometimes feel it's the only active thing I'm making time for and it shouldn't be. I have to go check on our other house after that. I no longer have to check on Dad, but I still have to check on the property. I'm ready to be done with it. Of course, I still have to settle his affairs and found out that the estate's inventory has to be on file for ten days and my sister has to sign a paper before I can finish up.

I feel OK myself this morning. Although I didn't get enough sleep because I went to bed too late. After going to see "The Nutcracker" and staying after to talk to dancers and walking home, I felt the need to stay up and read papers and watch stupid crime shows. I slept well but I had dreams. There were battles with office supplies and strange court room scenes where everyone was eating sausage.

OK, but troubled in a vague way. That's me. I need to straighten out a bunch of things. I need to find time to write and love the activity. This daily journal is a chore right now. It isn't Holidailies taking the joy out of it. It's something else. Always something.

Quit Whining and Pay Attention

It's been a surreal fall. Tomorrow I go to court for my dad's will probate and I was thinking "Life will somehow be 'normal' when I've gotten all that taken care of." Yeah, sure. Life is never 'normal.' It's always FUBAR. Anything else is an illusion. You just have to take the blows, feint left or right, dodge, go on.

FFP sent out an e-mail saying his latest surgery didn't find cancer. Yeah, we are happy and thinking about being festive and such. Someone replied that their journey was taking a different turn, toward hospice. And then we saw in the paper that our friend died on Sunday. I heard that my aunt had a fall. Don't know where that's going but they took her to a big hospital in Dallas from the suburb where they are living. Fortunately she's near Dallas, near my cousin. She doesn't have children, just nieces and nephews. So I'm glad my cousin's wife is there to help her husband. And her.

I have a feeling that I have got to quit whining and pay attention to things. But, of course, I feel like celebrating FFP's good news of the day. (The permanent sections confirm: no cancer in the thyroid. Turns out the tumor on his eyelid was the only thing that was cancerous.) I told him that for Christmas I wanted to dine in nice restaurants and he made a reservation for tonight at one of the best. Now, of course, I'm worrying about other people. Those not so lucky. But you just go on. You do. Grabbing what joy you can. Whining when you have no right and not paying proper attention to your duties. Fact is, we walked to a place for breakfast this morning and while crossing Congress, solidly in the crosswalk with a walk signal, a guy ran the light, managing to stop only after getting well through the intersection. FFP alertly grabbed my arm and we halted as he passed a few feet in front. I really, really have to try to pay attention even as I keep whining.

We took cabs back and forth to Jeffrey's last night so we could both drink and had delightful food and wine. We are lucky. No whining. Awareness.

Needing a Hand...and Holidailies

I wanted to do something else for a couple of hours this morning. My dad wanted me to get yet another prescription out of a doctor. For constipation. Trust me, no matter what is wrong with an elderly person it always gets back to the bowel. Trouble is, some of the drugs he's taking cause constipation. He no longer had the pain they were to be used for. Stop those. Some drugs he's taking may cause diarrhea. Some drugs for constipation reduce the efficacy of some antibiotics he's taking. So. What is needed is for a doctor to look at the drugs and situation and recommend something. My sweet husband faxed a drug list to his GP and went over there to try to sort it out and go get a prescription filled or a recommendation. I needed a hand. Someone else to do what may be useful, may be futile but makes everyone feel like we are good caregivers and makes Dad feel like he has what he needs. Someone to wait to talk to the doctor. To take the prescription to the pharmacy and wait for it to be filled or get the OTC drug recommended. To talk to Dad about it. This is all I do, it seems to me. Doctor's offices, pharmacy, emergency room, talk to Dad, repeat. It could be worse. He can take care of some things, or try to do so, himself. But it is constantly on my mind. Other things are scooted out. Because Forrest is doing this possibly fool's errand, possibly errand of mercy, I can sit here and write about it. And go to a two hour class and write peacefully. Unless the phone rings. And my crisis management is required again.

But too many of my Holidailies posts have been about my dad's illness and my frustration with it.

There are other things to write about.

For example, I have managed to write a paragraph or two in this space for thirty-one days. I sometimes did it on a laptop while waiting for my dad's next need. (Often encountering his ire because he apparently wanted us to do something else while waiting for his next need.) I even wrote one on my iPhone. It was a nice release and while I will wince when I look back and see how bitter and ungrateful I was during this period, it will be instructive to look back. I was also pleased that this post got a 'best of Holidailies' designation. I always hope to get one of those a year.

Also, Chip did such a great job on the Holidailies site that it's been a true joy to use it. Why can't more sites cleanly present data, changing seamlessly as people add things?

And, of course, during this spate of writing here I have had the pleasure of displaying many of my shop window reflections, replete with shape and color and depth. Well, I like them and one reader, at least, does as well.

Nothing feels like an accomplishment any more. Not the things I do for my dad. Not the things I write or photograph. Not getting out Christmas cards or paying bills or (when I do get to it) cleaning the apartment. I have been walking a friend's dog since Saturday and I have to say that this chore has been a little bit of a joy, forcing me out into the cold air and forcing me to look around the neighborhood a bit. Fortunately her elimination is working and for that I'm grateful and I'm happy to pick up the poop in the pink bags. Now if Dad can just successfully eliminate, too, everyone would be happy. Well, not really, but you know...it often does just come down to the bowel and bladder. It's good to remember that.

Goodbye to Holidailies. Let's hope I can keep up a bit of blogging or writing without it. Have a great 2010, readers. I hope mine does not consist of 80% of the days taken with doctors, emergency rooms, etc. as the first five have been. Gotta get better.

My Thoughts and Prayers

When someone is ill, people pray, send good thoughts, send cards and letters, visit, call, bring food. bring plants and flowers and other presents and volunteer to help any way they can. It makes a difference, of course, that support and help. But it isn't a cure. It's not that support might not help you get well. It's just that the support that truly might help is the diligent relative or caregiver managing the real problem. In the end, no one can save anyone. Not forever not from everything.

If you think inserting yourself in pre-op patient prep room to pray helps medically you are wrong. You are in the way. If you think bringing a plant, a green jello concoction and telling relatives that they don't know what they are doing vis-a-vis the patient's care is just the ticket to restore your friend to the healthier person you enjoyed...well you are wrong, too. You might give your friend a nice visit and some hope but you aren't saving the day.

Cards and letters are appreciated and sometimes give the person the spirit to fight on, but they're not a cure. I was surprised that my sister saved funny letters I sent to her while she was fighting to recover from hemorrhagic and ischemic strokes. They were fun and she liked them which pleased me, but it was therapists, the family close to her, the docs and her will that got her somewhere, that helped her recover to a certain point. I sent the letters because I was far away and helpless to help her.

And when people say "if there is anything at all I can do?" Yeah, most don't mean anything really. Particularly not the tough hands on patient care. Certainly when I say it I don't mean it. It's hard enough when you are the primary caregiver and can't avoid it.

Dad's last ditch fix appears to have failed after three weeks or so. We went to the emergency room for the second time in the new year today. I am tired of being asked to speculate on what is happening inside him, what his doctors think. Yes, it' moderately helpful having me around to recite his facts since reading a chart seems to be a lost art. So I may actually help him get better or at least get comfortable. My thoughts and prayers, though? My opinion is that they are at best placebos. Maybe yours are more effective. But really I don't think so.

Today I will write a sympathy card to someone who is grieving. It won't really help the grief process but it is the right thing to do. Just like all those cards, letters, prayers and good thoughts coming my dad's way. They are mostly the right thing to do. Except get out of the way and don't second guess the caregivers.

Back to Our Regular Programming

"Hullo!" My dad said strongly.

"How are you this morning?" I asked.

"Better. I haven't got my paper, but it's time. I'll go get it."

"Do I need to come over there and tidy things up before the lady comes to give you your bath? I'm going to play tennis at nine."

"No. I have it all in good shape."

If you saw him bending over his fancy walker (seat, hand brakes, wheels, grabber at the ready), you'd think he needed help. But he says he doesn't. Says he doesn't even have a need for any groceries or supplies.

I'm proud. I'm a little dubious, too. Of course, we had to go over yesterday to get the garbage can put up. He can't handle that. He'll have to be driven to the doctor. He can no longer handle all the check-writing, organization, paperwork. He will need groceries soon enough, phone calls made and, sadly, even some physical help again in the future. But he is making a valiant attempt at independence, such as it is.

This must be what people feel like when the kid goes off to college and moves into an apartment and says, "No, Mom. I'm fine. My roommates and I are making dinner. I opened a checking account. I got the oil changed in my car."

My dad used to take care of many more things than he does now. He will probably never drive again. (Although I'm sure he's dreaming of being able to do so.) He probably won't be gardening outside or even repotting giant ferns on his porch or filling bird feeders.

But he is grasping at his independence. Managing his medical needs complicated by his illness. Taking his own drugs. So many of the Medicare home health people asked "do you have a pill sorter?" And I had to laugh because we had one because it helped my niece and I organize his pills. He used to dose himself and write it in a little notebook. When we were 'responsible' he kept saying "aren't you supposed to get me my pills?"

Don't get me wrong. It's been a rough couple of months. For one week he was home and I was afraid to leave him for even a second because he couldn't safely go to the toilet or empty his catheter or clean up or change his clothes. Four and a half days of that week, I was there except for an hour or so and then Forrest hung around for safety's sake, vacuuming for something to do. My aunts came to relieve me at night for a few days and then my niece and her family drove a thousand miles to be there so he didn't have to be alone.

Maybe now that he can be alone, he's reveling in it. He was always an independent guy who didn't mind some alone time and said so. We aren't out of the woods yet, as they say, because at 93 you are lost in the woods no matter what, but we have entered a new phase. I might be able to start planning a vacation. Of course, you never know the interruptions you'll have from the old folks' needs. (FFP has his parents, too, 90 and 99.) But we'll take it day-by-day. And I have to figure out what to do with my time with myself and my activities taking the front row for the moment.

[Took the photo at Let's Dish on South Lamar when FFP and I went there yesterday. We were taking in a movie at the Alamo Drafthouse. In the afternoon. Just like retired people are supposed to be able to do.]

Fragile and Fleeting

This moment...is gone now.

Life is fragile and fleeting. Even the most solid things turn out to be ephemeral or change before our eyes. We are the most fragile thing in the landscape, though. Well, except for certain other living creatures.

This is a change I embrace. Really. Except, of course, when it takes my body down an inexorable hill and takes my friends and family away forever, here and there, randomly.

I'm writing this because I like the words ephemeral and inexorable. Not really. But I do like them. I wonder when I learned them. Did I find them in an article in The New Yorker? And run to the 'old school' paper and board dictionary (my favorite American Heritage one that I had several editions of?) to see the definition. Why have these words stuck in my head and left me confident of theirs definitions when words like jeremiad always send me back to the dictionary (premier dictionary.com, twenty bucks a year)?

Seeing my dad's decline, reviewing say the last seven years since my mom died, makes me realize how you lose things, bit by bit and step by step. One day you can, the next day you really can't, you rehab but don't come all the way back.

And yet, we can build up. I haven't exercised enough the last two months, too entrapped in my dad's illness and my own sloth while sitting around with him in hospitals, at home, waiting to do what he needs. When I get back into my program, my stamina and muscle tone will improve. Indeed, the simple home PT my dad is getting is helping him make gains back. Against the grain, improvement while declining.

We improve, we slip, we slide. It's over. It's enough to make you eat good food, drink good wine, have a cocktail or two, listen to music and do frivolous things. And...when I've escaped the care-giving mode? That's just what I've done. And I've only managed to feel a little guilty about it.

Today's shop window reflection self-portrait is intended to convey the fleeting and fragile feeling (very alliterative!) and was taken Saturday at the wonderful Mercury gift shop on Second Street.

My SXSW

When last we spoke, dear reader, one day of SXSW was gone and we had seen exactly one movie after getting our badges and some advanced tickets. Of course, we had gone to the Texas Film Hall of Fame party and the pre-party before that. (See Connie Britton above left with Dana Wheeler-Nicholson helping with the live auction at the gala. They are stars in "Friday Night Lights," a TV show we love.)

Well, the weekend went well. We managed four films and a panel on Saturday and Sunday. Some peoples' schedules are much more brutal but with my persistent allergy/cold (I thought I was getting over it and then it morphed and bit again) and FFP needing to do some writing we couldn't do the death march. We met up with some Cinematic people including our friend Jette who were rushing about madly and our friend Christopher Holland of B-Side Entertainment said he had to wait until a lot of people left before he could see some films. A college sophomore from Baylor declared in the line Sunday night that it would be her sixth film. She should have the stamina for the nursing career she is going to pursue.

Saturday we got a few things handled and then went to the Convention Center theater and queued up for "45365." A man who turned out to be the three brother filmmakers' father handed us a matchbook with the times for the showings and the title stamped on it. The title (pronouneced four-five-three-six-five) is the zip code for Syndey, Ohio where the filmmakers grew up. The kids wanted to write about their home town which they had left behind for film work and college and finally decided to make a doc and make the town speak for itself through film of the place and some inhabitants. At first I thought maybe they needed to edit some stuff but gradually I realized the film was pitch perfect. They stayed out of the way and let the town and some residents speak. By the end we had figured out relationships, we wondered about backgrounds and what would happen next for people. We knew what events people looked forward to and how the seasons unfolded there. We found ourselves in a line for another movie later talking to other people who'd seen it about the various characters in it like they were from our own hometown or, at least, characters in a well-formed narrative.

We walked back to the condo for a quick snack and refresh and headed out to the movie "Objectified." It was made by Gary Hustwit, who made the movie "Helvetica" we so enjoyed last year. The movie is a documentary about the 'stuff' around us and how it is designed and the life cycle of all the things in our world. Very enjoyable. We headed to Taste after that to have a meal. Just didn't have another movie in us. The meal and wine were pleasant.

Sunday we sat around in our sweats for a while, doing some writing and taking in the Sunday paper and such. FFP made us a big breakfast of migas and toast which sustained us until we ate a meal in front of a movie at Alamo South Lamar.

We headed to the Convention Center and went to Christopher Holland's book book signing for "Film Festival Secrets." We wanted to see a panel on design with the director of "Objectified" and some designers and a New York Times magazine writer, Rob Walker, who writes a column about, well, stuff. There was a bit of time to wait so we got a cup of coffee and went into the day stage cafe where the Interactive conference interview of Nate Silver by Stephen Baker was being broadcast. Heh, we wouldn't have been admitted to an Interactive panel with a film badge. It was pretty interesting. Silver is the numbers guy behind FiveThirtyEight.com and Stephen Baker wrote "The Numerati." After this we went to the panel on design. It was packed. Like the movie "Objectified" it was a joint Interactive/Film event. There were lots of people with funny dye jobs and vintage clothes. Must be more of that in the online world than in film.

We decided when the panel ended to try the new (for this year's fest) shuttle and waited a few minutes to catch a bus at 4th and Red River. We were tremendously early for "Bomber" but it was worth the wait. It was a witty family drama about a mom, dad and son who go off on a quest to let the dad resolve the wounds of a mistake made when he was a teenaged kid in WWII. Around this hook we see a delightful bit of Europe and watch a family try to unravel the damages life brings and get down to basic caring.

When the movie (and our meal) was over we were wondering "could we actually see another?" We decided to try. We waited for the shuttle bus which came after a while and delivered us to 7th Street near Congress. We decided not to try going back to the house and had a cup of coffee and a snack at the Hidelout. Lines were long for the movie, "Women in Trouble," at the Paramount. There were many VIPs and celebrities but we got in, no problem, and got our favorite seats (left section orchestra, row T, two on the aisle). We were excited that Connie Britton was in the movie and another "Friday Night Lights" actress, Andriane Palacki. The movie was raunchy, irreverant, unlikely and laugh-out-loud funny. It was "Pulp Fiction" all is connected style without the violence. Well, there was a tiny bit of violence, nothing to speak of.

We were more than done when the movie was over, but people were queued outside for another. We got home just after midnight.

Yesterday (Monday) we were all about trying to have a reasonable pace. I was trying to get over whatever weird illness plagues me and FFP was up against some deadlines. We finally settled on seeing a shorts program at 1:30 at Alamo South and walking up there for our alleged exercise. Shorts Reel 1 seemed disorganized and theme-less. I know themes are hard to achieve in these things but this one had everything from a wordless narrative short of amazing physical comedy ("Sunday Mornings") to a documentary about cleaning up the 'chicken bones and newspaper' type hoarder's house ("Isis Avenue"). Those two were pretty worthy as was an over the top improv about therapy called "Countertransference." But all in all the reel left me hungry for coherence. But I was otherwise quiet sated with a three cheese grilled sandwich and fries and a Coke.

We walked home. (The walk home from Alamo is easier because it is mostly downhill.) We got a few things done and headed out for "The Two Bobs." It was a big deal movie for the fest, shot around town and with Tim McCanlies, writer and director. We'd gotten an advance ticket which allows first dibs in the badge line. We were surprised to see a good sixty or eighty people with 'cast and crew' tickets. All was utter chaos at the Paramount but we got in and got our usual seats. The movie was slapstick and predictable but great fun nonetheless with fabulous set decoration and many local folks involved. The game animation was great fun, a bloody sendup of the genre. I have to say I liked it. I was looking for friend Jeff Lofton who was an extra but missed his moments on the screen. (I think I was distracted by Turk Pipkin in drag in that scene.) We were going to meet the Loftons for drinks and dinner, but after all was chaos. We didn't have a mobile number so FFP went back to the place to find it. I waited around trying to spot them. There were such crowds for the next movie plus Leslie posing in front of the Paramount that I finally decided we'd missed them and started home myself. Then FFP called and he'd gotten them on the phone and they were in front of the Paramount. We converged at Taste, heard the end of Trevor LaBonte and Liz Morphis doing their set and ate dinner and drank, all six of us. Taste was deserted. If you SXSWers are looking for a place to dine, venture all the way to Cesar Chavez, it's not far, and grab some fab food and wine. They even have Yelp specials for SXSW.

And then bed. I developed a cough at the beginning of the meal which I contained with cough drops and decon and water (and OK some wine). It's heck being sick during so much activity. Today is St. Pat's day. Last night was chaos downtown already and music isn't starting until the end of the week. We are going to try to see two movies today. And perhaps get some errands done. If I feel like it, maybe house cleaning. (I don't have to be very sick to eschew that.)

Between the Inevitable and the Immutable

I was not looking forward to going to Dad's today. I was getting out of the house to play tennis and so it made sense to go a bit further north and see after a few things for him though.

The other day I had to tell him his sister died. Not easy. Today I was just taking the obituary for him to read. (It had been sent as a scan via e-mail to me by a cousin.) Today I had to tell him how much he owed the tax man and how much he'd have to make in quarterly payments because he had an unusual bump in income. "I bet you get a refund next year if you live long enough." He allowed that he wouldn't pay the tax man until April. "Maybe I won't have to do it," he said. "Yeah, I'd have to do it." We joke like this all the time. We know that none of us live forever and none of us know when the time will come.

Death and taxes. The inevitable for us mortals. And even politicians have to die.

There was an old wives' tale that I always heard that your fingernails and toenails kept growing after you died. Then I read somewhere that it wasn't true. That the tissue around them shrank back and made it appear true. Whatever. I trimmed my dad's toenails for him. He'd soaked his feet to make it easier. He talked about the horse stepping on the one toe and how he'd had to stay off of it and so he had to stay inside and cook and wash dishes and strain milk, etc.

"I didn't have a crutch. Do you know what I did?"

I did, but I didn't say so.

"I used a straight chair and put my knee in it and moved around the house that way.

I gave my dad a book I bought for him about Iceland. He said he was going to spend the afternoon reading it. I also took him a bottle of champagne in a gift bag with a Valentine's Day Card signed from us and him. It is for his good friend Maja. She is from Iceland and, in fact, took my dad on a trip there. She gives him rides and meals. My sister and I call her 'the good daughter.'

While I was playing tennis and having a fine time on the muddy clay on a day the hard courts were dangerously slick when we started, I was kind of depressed about having to talk to my dad about death and taxes and trim his toenails because his back won't allow him to do it. (When he could still drive he went somewhere and got a pedicurist to do it. I think he went to a place he'd taken Mom for mani/pedi.) But when it was all done, I felt better. Dad wrote a check for the CPA cheerfully. He was pleased with his gift for Maja. And he was excited to have a new book that interested him to occupy his afternoon. (Actually it was only new to him. I bought it in the antiquarian book store on 12th Street.)

[Photo is a reflection in a shop on West Sixth. Thought of using it for the March theme day ('glass') for City Daily Photo, but I think I'll find another.]

The Fire Next Time...

No, not a fire. But this sunrise in the chilled water steam looks more like a fire than the last post, even, huh?

I don't have anything coherent to say today. (My friend Jette said on Facebook that she was 'impressed by her own incoherence.' I thought she said 'imprisoned' which I get. Impressed am I, too, by mine.) I think I'll just dash off a bunch of random stuff. Follow along if you wish. Otherwise, see you later. (I have posted another couple of amusing, well to me, Journal of Unintended Consequences posts if you are looking for alleged coherence.)

So, random things. Not random things about me necessarily which a lot of people are doing twenty-five of lately (but not me, so far I'm resisting or maybe editing my batch in my head). But anyway random stuff.

That chilled water from that plant? Expensive to use it turns out. We thought it would be an efficient cooling option. But it costs $14 a month to have access to the chilled water to cool and it is decidedly expensive to actually divert some across your fan. Ah, well. Maybe it's better for the environment? Don't know. For the last month or more, we haven't turned on either heat or A.C. but we have to pay $14 bucks in case we do. A person can do Netflix for that. Oh, well. Still haven't had to use the heater in this place which is electric so you know that wouldn't be efficient. The bad news is that the place is being heated by computers and TVs and computer peripherals. So yeah. Wasted electricity.

My 98-year-old father-in-law just called me to remind me he gets an extra deduction for being blind. I figured out they didn't owe any income taxes, but he also figured that out. With a magnifying glass no doubt.

Reading list: I finished Bénabou's book as I think I mentioned. I started another small, light book suitable for carrying around when I go somewhere with just FFP and we take books to read while we eat, wait for a performance to start, etc. It is Milan Kundera's Slowness. What do I like about Milan? That he is not afraid to write fiction and he doesn't impose unnecessary rules on himself, it doesn't seem, and just plunges in and if characters or scenes get in the way, to hell with characters and scenes. Which makes me wonder several things. Should I buy (and maybe even read) his book on writing novels. Would it help me with my problematic novel project or would it just become another book I haven't read. Which, if I can be allowed to digress, leads me to another little side project which is how to use technology to present the novel being accidentally and haphazardly written here as a whole. This caused me to do some brief, futile searches of some techie sites. I'm always assaulted with just the information I do not want to read. And I'm reminded that, even for the little HTML I know I constantly forget actual syntax.

But back to reading. I'm falling behind on my newspapers. That's because I've spent too much time working crosswords, trying to get further into the week in The New York Times and working the unsatisfying but still tempting ones in the Austin American-Statesman. This reduces the input I have for The Journal of Unintended Consequences. And I have an outstanding (and in my mind's eye coherent) essay for this space on newspapers to complete as well. One reason I'm behind on the paper's is that I haven't been riding the recumbent bike as much and the couple of times I've done it I have been reading Ulysses. I'm determined to get through to page 933 of the edition I'm working on before I book my trip to New York for Bloomsday this year. I purchased this edition in Dublin in 2004. It was the hundredth anniversary of Bloom's Day but I was there after the fact, in September not June. Anyway, I'm on page 758. Bloom and Stephen are in the livery stand having something like coffee. This will be my first complete trip through any edition. Joyce was not afraid to write a novel either. Stream of consciousness and unconsciousness and all that.

Other books (and magazines) lie neglected, partly finished. A book of conversations with Woody Allen. Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I recently purchased two books from Amazon. Covers are stiff and uncracked. I was well into E.J. Kahn, Jr.'s Year of Change when somehow I put it aside. Really good book. E.J. Kahn in 1994 died after a car accident. (I sometimes wonder when reading a decades-old book what happened to the person who wrote it in the interim. So I looked up his NY Times obit a few weeks ago.) Reading Kahn's book made me wonder if I owned The New Yorker and Me. Which was Kahn's first book about his relationship with that venerable rag. Did I mention that I own The Complete New Yorker and that, recently, I printed out the Salinger story "Hapworth 16, 1924" from the June 19, 1965 edition and read it. FFP was going to read it, too, but I don't think he has. We read an article about Salinger in the NY Times on the occasion of his ninetieth birthday which mentioned the story. Salinger is not dead, but he's a recluse.

So, not doing as much reading as I'd like. We are quicker to recycle papers and magazines these days, but they are still building up too much. And I secreted a large pile in a storage thing by my my chair and I really need to clean those out so I can store other things in there. (These are from, I'm afraid, last summer when we were in the deep throes of moving.)

I've been watching some of the Australian Open. I am especially interested in the Federer/Nadal match that will occur tonight. I may watch it live. Or not. I'm much more interested in that than the Stupid Bowl. Who is playing again?

Did I mention that I hurt my back playing tennis? That I just keep playing anyway. I need to do a good 'core' exercise program when it heals. Assuming it will. I always assume such things. If it's broke, it will heal. With our bodies this isn't always a correct assumption but it's a helpful one.

It's a nice day for a walk. I think I'll take one. We are going to see Austin Lyric Opera's "Rigoletto" tonight. We will walk to the Long Center, too, I think. Did I mention how glorious the weather has been. It has. Although everyone, myself included, seems to have had a cycle of cedar fever.

FFP is listening to opera and making himself vegetarian barbecue for lunch. I think I'll have some. (OK, did that. Had a Chimay with it. So sue me.)

So, yeah, random stuff. Not going much of anywhere. Sort of like my life. Next time, though. The fire.

What I should be doing

No, I shouldn't be out walking catching my reflection in the mirrored windows of the deco building at 8th and Nueces. Or maybe I should be. But I'm not. I'm inside and I'm just sort of reveling in the fact that I can stay home and do whatever I want. Yesterday, I canceled my tennis game and stayed inside the condo all day except for a trip to our parking level to help FFP in with some groceries. I'd reached the point in fighting my allergies (?) (cedar fever?) where I was feeling OK (Headache: no; Drippy nose: a bit; Sore throat: no;) but I was also feeling a little bleary from the decongestants. I don't take the non-drowsy kind because I did those once and they made me, um, too excitable. I prefer bleary and sleepy, thanks. But after some Advil and decons in the morning, I didn't take any thing else the rest of the day. I slept fine last night without the overnight cold medicine that took me through the night before.

We slept until almost nine o'clock yesterday. I'm blaming the medicine in my case. I think FFP got up and then just came back to bed to join me in Z's. We might have slept longer yesterday but FFP's mother called. They had decided their smoke alarm might not be working.

"Tot [my father-in-law's nickname] poked it with a broom stick and it didn't beep."

"I think I have some 9 volt batteries."

"I think you fixed it for us before."

So, we got up. We never sleep that late. The overnight drug got me some sleep at least. (This morning I was up much earlier.)

I did a few bits of financial stuff yesterday including getting three more bits of paperwork for the business ready to go to three different IRS addresses. [LB: That Geithner guy has me seething! If you are that big a fish, you have a CPA. If your CPA doesn't do better than that, you and he both should be locked up! The message is: you only have to follow the rules if you are a little punk like me. Ed Note: Save it for the Journal of Unintended Consequences.]

So I should be doing a lot of things, but, instead I'm blogging and reading the newspaper and surfing the WEB. So sue me.

I've thought a bit about the novel in the last couple of days. I had to tweak an earlier paragraph a tiny bit, but no biggie.

So here goes:

Cliff thought about playing a little tennis and how nice that would be. He played some in London or Paris or New York, but never in the winter. He pulled himself up short from thinking about maybe hitting some with young Charlie. "This shouldn't be a vacation," he thought. Rachel was looking down at a phone now so he pulled his out. He still hadn't responded to her comment about Austin's urban status. He looked at his e-mail, incoming texts, missed call numbers. He'd listened to a lot of voice mails from strangers and he didn't see any missed call numbers that inspired him to listen to any more. Some of this stuff, he'd eventually have to take care of, he guessed. He could avoid the journalists and the geeks but he figured he'd eventually have to talk to some of these law enforcement types. "When I get settled in and get some privacy," he thought, "I'll try to figure out how to talk to as few as possible and get them what they need from me." Which was, of course, going to be nothing of value. Even though he was responsible for the guys going to Berlin, he had been as surprised as anyone that they'd gone there until he re-examined his clues. An unfortunate ambiguity. And he certainly had no idea who had decided to do a multiple suicide attack on the memorial and take tourists out. And why they were there mystified him. Although he could see it. They'd reached a deadend and hadn't found the clue and so they were just being tourists while they thought about it.

It's at this point that I throw up my hands. The two friends need names, ages, back stories, girlfriends, wifes. Children? How did the Jilly character get a kid anyway? As a matter of fact how did she come to be named Jilly Kraft and how can I make sure that I remember everyone's name and backstory? Do I need to make a separate document for bios? And should I post it in my blog? You see the dilemma. I don't know how anyone writes a novel.

But I digress.

So, yeah, I stayed in yesterday and I have to say that I mostly wasted time. I ate some leftovers from the Clay Pit (where we went Friday night after seeing an IMAX movie "Space Station" and hearing Richard Garriott talk about his experiences going to space). I ate a grapefruit. I read newspapers, worked crosswords. I watched a movie, rented from Netflix, "Man on Wire." It was about the French entertainer and wire walker who walked between the WTC towers. The name of the movie came from the complaint written on the police report. That is a good movie. It's good to have weird dreams you share with weird friends. Pogonip sees that. He sees the humor of using the world as a giant game board, not for world domination, but just to eventually meet your friends for food and drink. I watched bits of old movies, too. "Paint Your Wagon." Caught the best parts of that one, I think.

Right now I'm sitting here feeling good that I'm not too congested and my nose isn't dripping too much. It's been twenty-four hours since I took something. I could go exericise a little. I could do something useful on my budget and finances. Being retired, you have to watch such things more closely. Being retired, you have the time.

Well, maybe another cup of coffee. And a bit more blogging.

Shadow Me

I'd been noticing a scratchy throat and fighting it off with hope and Echinacea. (The latter may not boost the immune system but I believe it does so maybe it has a placebo effect.) FFP was feeling poorly for a few days, too. We chalk it up to allergies as we don't seem to have fever, but who knows? I feel like a shadow me, not quite in touch with my world when I have to take decongestants so that I don't have to have a Kleenex permananently attached to my nose. I can't take the "non-drowsy" formula because they make me crazy. Right now I'm trying to time my decon effects to see if I can go out to a movie tonight and not sniffle or cough. I haven't developed a cough yet but that may come. For some reason I was sweeping up in cyberspace and realized I had a similar attack last year at about the same time.

I hope it is really just allergies and I'm not (and wasn't yesterday before I felt as bad) infectious. Because I went over to Dad's yesterday and I'm always afraid of giving the old folks something. Of course, they all (including FFP actually) had 'flu shots and I did not. Still no aches, no fever. Probably allergies.

One always tries to rush these things, to change the shadow before the angle of the sun moves. But it always just takes a certain amount of time. Just like the healing on my strained knee and stubbed toe and the cycle of all my chronic little tics and ups and downs. The earth turns and sometimes you feel a lot better before you stop feeling at all. I am barely dripping at all right now, two hours in on another dose of decongestant. Maybe I'll get a cup of tea. I already have a round of sympathy from FFP. I take these same pills when I fly to stabliize my ears so they will pop. So it reminds me of flying to take them. Yeah, if I'd been on that plane from LaGuardia to North Carolina, I would have probably fallen asleep while it was on the tarmac and the whole thing would have been like a dream to me. I was on one flight one time where we landed in an emergency 'brace' mode. Everything was fine...the computer that showed the status of something was messed up. But some people still got hysterical and were still hysterical the next day when we were rebooked to fly again after staying an unexpected night in London. (We were flying from Zurich to Chicago.) I am amazed that those people in the Hudson managed to be as calm as they had to be to save themselves.

Ups and Downs

This is the Apple Store at the Domain where they are pushing iPods for Mother's Day, I guess. I seem to have had a lot of highs and lows lately, both physically and emotionally. I think it is a result of all the change and uncertainty going on in my life. Does it make me nervous that we have our inspection tour of our condo on Monday? Wow, yes. Does the uncertainty about selling our house make me nervous. Sure. Am I envious that some of my tennis buddies are going off on interesting trips? Yep. Am I worried about the long term care of our parental units and, short term, about a visit from my nieces and four greats (niece and nephews)? Uh-huh.

On the other hand after a nice humid but not too hot day tennis game wherein I had some interesting shots and then an hour of working out and reading, I did feel good and alive and the little physical ailments had melted away. (Was that a little hangover this morning?) That Advil didn't hurt either, did it?

I'm making peace also with the computing environment I'm trying to create for the future. I'll still need some assistance from my guru and I have yet to form a strategy for talking FFP into wanting to try the new setup. (Didn't help he heard me grumbling over the difficulties there.) I'm actually spending way too much time fooling around with the computers. It's a great way to displace from going through old moldy files of business records or trying to figure out more stuff to discard or give away from this house.

A Brighter (Pink) Mood

I owe the pink in this refection picture to the Planet Cancer Flamingo-a-GoGo Fund-Raiser. They used the pool deck at the new AMLI downtown to host this big party. This is an image of the party in the glass of the exercise facility. A careful, perhaps enlarged, view will reveal the 360, our future home.

Am I in a better mood today? Maybe. Maybe not. I left a zero out of a bank account number and was as a consequence late paying a credit card. I am not hopeful on the computer problem front although this machine seems to be behaving perfectly. One problem I had (sound wouldn't work on the Windows image) has even magically cleared up at the moment. Perhaps to make up for the very bad behavior of the other box? My computer guru comes to look today. I think he is perhaps TOO hopeful and if it's a long, drawn out process FFP may be using his ancient box until and after we move. Although my guru ought to have more time when school is out.

I shouldn't let these little things get me down. We had a nice time at the party last night and then we listened to some older folks' music at III Forks and had some food there. It was a pleasant evening. I have enough money, I don't have cancer, one day this move will be a memory. Chin up. Cheer up. We are going to a benefit this evening for an individual who does have cancer. Friday night we celebrated with another couple. They have been married ten years as of Friday. They got married in our back yard. She has cancer. Cancer appears to be a theme of the weekend. But chin up, it's part of the chaos. On we go.

Monsters

We went to a reading and signing yesterday for Rob Rummel-Hudson's book, Schuyler's Monster. I bought the book the other day and I didn't take it or buy another for him to sign. I enjoyed seeing him in person. Driving all this way to speak to a few dozen people is gritty to me. Reminds me why maybe I'll remain a blogger!

We all have monsters, I guess. In Rob's daughter's case, it is a brain malformation. Keeps her from speaking normally and has other manifestations. Rob talked about some of her classmates in a special augmentative speech device class and how their disabilities were both more obvious and overwhelming. Most of us just harbor smaller gremlins, maybe our genetic destiny, maybe something that has happened to threaten our psyche. I looked around at the reading, watched people as they asked questions and wondered: what are their monsters?

The biggest lie we tell ourselves is that we can get things organized, structured, simplified and in better shape. We think diet and exercise can make us better and, while that is true to a point, we are all falling down in this life. Headed to a sure extinction. We think if we get our finances straight (or find the right companions, or, you know, fill in the blank) we can be happy. Some think that if they get on the right side of their God or gods, all will be well.

The truth is that life is a monster who leaves you alone sometimes while it sleeps. What we do in these moments of relative peace is our life.

When I made my morning call to Dad this morning, his voice sounded strong. It could have been my dad, thirty years younger. He hadn't gotten out to see the rain, he felt pretty good, no surgery was scheduled. He is good at existing in those moments of peace. Getting a smile, even a laugh while the monster sleeps. Maybe even laughing at how old age has compromised him, laughing at the monster. He adapts, he accepts. And unlike his child he doesn't even try to make literature out of it.

Artist's Negative Space

At MOMA they had a small collection of Allan McCollum's Shapes. He conceived this idea of being able to make a small work of art for each person in the world. The shapes are computer-generated and, quoting the MOMA info, "His system has the capacity to produce thirty-one billion shapes, far more than peak–population estimates for the mid–twenty–first century, when a decline is predicted to set in." A lot of them look like forgotten countries. I photographed this display with two interesting people. Two unique individuals partly in motion.

The conversation at my lunch on Wednesday wound around to an affliction (as I called it, not my companion) that my lunch buddy began suffering after being hit by a truck. (I think it was a truck, although a passenger truck, but he was walking.) He's 'lucky' I guess that the only apparent result manifested in a loss of smell and taste for some but not all things. (It seems like a big deal to me actually.) I had offered some of my pizza. After he ate it I asked, "Can you still taste garlic?"

"No."

"Well, lots of garlic. Have to gargle today!"

"Thanks. There is nothing like garlic breath at the gym!"

I started joking about someone spotting for him and being bowled over by garlic breath and letting him drop a weight on his chest.

But we got around to talking about this loss of sensation. He said one friend of his thought maybe the changes in his brain from the injury had actually fueled his writing. He said he felt music in a new way since the accident.

So is our art, the unique things we produce, the sum of our unique afflictions and not our unique abilities? When we are blocked, is our competence overwhelming us?

Is my bloggy writing entertaining? Are my shop window and museum pictures that don't require(willing) models or a particular adeptness with a camera beautiful to some? Art even? Am I working within the negative space of my limitations? Is that the only place we have? Do I blog because the form fits my mental restrictions? (My buddy is disinterested in writing anything but plays. Why?) If it's good (big question), is it good because of the things I cannot do as opposed to the things I can?

Did Allan McCollum come up with his mass-produced but one-of-a-kind works because of a particular affliction?

If I am creating anything in my bloggy space, it is definitely somewhat a product of shyness, attention deficit, fear of judgment, etc. And what are these things but infirmities?

Of course, when we explore artists who lost vision, musicians who lost hearing (or use of one hand) and writers who were unable to actually type or write or perhaps even say words, we find some great creations. In spite of? Because of?

As a last thought, and going back to the first in this series (Writer's Negative Space), memoirs need adversity. That must be true or would-be memoir writers wouldn't make some up! Do some of us lack enough pain to write certain things? Clearly not because they can be invented and convincingly so.

I Seem to Be Missing

I am sitting at my computer looking through pictures before I go play tennis. I discover that I didn't post anything on this blog yesterday, breaking a record that has gone on for a couple of months. Not that I was trying to set a record. I was just trying to give myself a chance each morning to write (or type) and reflect (ahem) on things.

Yesterday I was out of the house by a few minutes after seven and not back until about 10:30. Then I had a meeting at twelve. (Which I still need to do the minutes from...why do they call them minutes when these things never take less than an hour? The Hours. There was a cool book and movie. But I digress.)

I took my dad for his pre-op visit to the hospital before his surgery. With picking him up and taking him home it took over three hours.

"Are you an organ donor?" asks the kid filling out paperwork.

My dad looks nonplussed. "I never, I, I think I've worn everything out and I'm not sure anything would be good to anyone."

That's a 'no' son. My mind races. Skin? Bone? Heart? Lungs? Liver? Gee. He's probably right.

Not that he's afraid of talking about dying. He doesn't call the paperwork the boy is copying a "Living Will." He calls it a DNR.

"I don't think I'll get anything done again," he says when we are waiting between visits from various people in the pre-opt exam room

"You will if you are in pain or can't see," I say. "Remember with your back? You said 'try anything!' Now that your vision is impaired you are willing to do this without a second thought to see if it will help."

We visited with no less than eight different people. One typed a computer screen full of stuff that must have been handwritten and faxed by the surgeon. One was the business manager for the anesthesiologist who was responsible for seeing if they would somehow get paid, I think. The anesthesiologist worried about putting him under a general. His walkie-talkie and his phone were calling to him simultaneously from either side of his belt. A small kid with a weird haircut mostly covered by a scrub cap drew blood and gave him an EKG. The EKG waiting room had a copy of The New Yorker from the last presidential election. Not as old as some of the ones in my bathroom, but still.

A long process. But they do have valet parking. Of course, he has to go back to have the actual surgery.

When someone is missing, we think that there is a void but then we adjust. Somebody else does this, that accommodation is made, we decide this was never necessary. Like the visible woman. The blog that is. My five readers wasted time elsewhere yesterday and not much was lost from the world. Do we really miss Fred Thompson and John Edwards in the presidential race now? It's OK Fidel, someone else will take over. You made it over fifty years.

OK, weird mood, huh? If you don't see me for a day or two, don't despair. But I know my duties will be taken up or, like this tome, were never that important anyway.

What Should I Rant About?

Yes, a liquor store. And me barely there, barely registering. Which is how I feel just now.

Some days you feel like a rant or two (which I should probably take over to The Journal of Unintended Consequences), but you just can't focus on which one. The medical bureaucracy? (If your job is to schedule appointments for preparation for surgery, why do I have to call back twenty times and when you call why are you using my dad's first name as a last name? All you have to do is make appointments. How hard can that be? If I come in and have a two-hour meeting pre-opt can you guarantee me that you won't lose all the paperwork temporarily and make me fill it out again and then complain that you have two copies? Because that's what happened last time we went to this hospital for a planned procedure.) The hubris of some people. (Just because you are a widely-acclaimed athlete who beat cancer does not mean that all cancer is curable, right now, with money from your organization. And, by the way, I don't really find 'surviving' cancer comparable to 'surviving the Holocaust.' And, by the way, surviving cancer sort of implies surviving death itself. Hubris.) But I shall not rant here. I shall go and exercise with the intention of getting myself in good shape to survive the medical bureaucracy as my dad's caregiver (imagine how hard it is on patients!) and to perhaps change the 'cause' on my death certificate when it finally, inevitably is issued.