It Is Three Years Today That Jim...............

It is three years today that Jim is gone, gone as we knew he would be, gone as only gone can be when someone is absolutely central to your life, when someone's hand is central to your open hand and their scent is central to your nostrils and their voice is central to your ears and their height is central to your eyes and their voice is central to your respondent voice and their mind is central to the workings of your own mind and then they, or in this case, he -- is gone and it's not a dream, he is gone, and it's not a dread or a terror or a phantom, he is gone and it's not your imagination, or the worst phone call of your life, he is gone and it's not a conversation with your best friend, he is gone and it's not a speculation, he is gone and it's not a what-if kind of thing, he is gone and it's not a "what will I do when he's...." because he IS.....because he IS.....because he IS.....well, he's gone.

And you never for one moment thought to yourself, "Well, I'll wake the kids and tell them and then I'll start putting lotion on him," you never once thought to yourself, "Well, I'll wake the kids and then we'll make some calls and I'll start pleading people to come in and kiss him because he looks so beautiful," because Grief tells you what to do, you don't tell Grief what to do. Because Grief tells you who you are. You don't tell Grief who you are. That isn't the way of it. If, during the next few years of your grief, you are overly conscientious, your grief will squirt out at you somewhere, somehow. Illness, perhaps, or depression, which is enormously different than grief, or in some odd manner or behavior or pattern of thought or habit or attitude. Since Jim has died I have been regularly seeing at least three Patients-of-the-Broken-Heart a week which is what I call people who have lost long term mates or children and the kinds of care they need is vastly different than, say, the illness of depression or dysthymia or sadness or the blues. Each of these individuals have been on the verge of developing manic or compulsive or hermetic behaviors.

If living is a form of not being sure, which it is, death is a form of......what? For the living, death is a form of utter speculation, a form of shattering all sorts of lightly or tightly held inner "realities", and the death of a long term mate or a child is the beginning of the oddest type of faith, for the grieving person's psyche can not help but begin the strange wait for the deceased person to reappear; to, as Thomas Wolfe so woefully and beautifully put it, "Come back, grieved ghost, come back!" One waits. One denys it, of course, and no one wants to appear delusional, God, no, but, still, one waits. Esayist Joan Didion would not give up her husband's slippers. When he returns them, he might need them. I have not replaced all of the pictures of Jim and me around the house. When he comes back, he might feel badly.

Instead of speaking about grief, though, perhaps I need to speak about what it is Jim has passed down to me. He has left me with an overall sense that most men are good and patient and kind and trustworthy. I have been, perhaps, a bit more naive than are many women in their early widowhood, but, on the other hand, since nobody ever entirely knows much of anything except for technical or academic matters, it can only be to the good to be able to take a few leaps into the dark. Anyway, once we have lived a long time, it is difficult to tell our bad luck from our good luck. Jim taught me to think like this. Once he said to me, "All our best transformations are accompanied by pain. That's the point of them."


When you are married to a man who can say something like that with a straight face - then hand you a wad of Silly Putty and serve you a platter of cheese and crackers accompanied by the music of Tom Waits or Leonard Cohen, child, you're in business.

It's three years today, Jim, since that long locomotive stopped at our station as we knew it would, and the conductor called "On Board!" for you. We could not keep you. We held you for awhile and then settled you on board and let you go. We love you still, my dearest dear.
The longest train I ever did see
Was a hundred coaches long,
The very first man I ever really loved
Is on that train and gone.
He's on that train and gone, love,
On that train and gone.
The very first man I ever really loved,
Is on that train and gone.
-Love,
Kay, Kelly, Erin, David, Rachel, Michel, Morgan, Jessica and ALeister

Aleister, Alan, the Octopus, Gertrude and Me

On the way to the Seattle Aquarium, Aleister showed Alan and me his new pink braces. "I have decided to give up my fear of the color pink," he said, with a big grin on his face. "Mama Kay. Do you remember when I would not even look at the 'pink aisles' in stores like Target and Fred Meyers'?" "Yes, I do, Aleister," I said, remembering all those times we would have to slink by the girls' toy and clothing aisles as if we were allergic to anything having to do with the feminine sex. "Well," he said, "pointing at his braces," I have decided to embrace my boyness and include girls inside my life. It is GOOD to be different. And girls LIKE boys who are different......don't they?" His voice ended up on an upward, somewhat plaintive note. "Yes, oh, YES, ALeister" I responded. Angella nodded. Alan nodded. Aleister grinned. Alan, Aleister and I put on our warm coats and hats and headed out to the car. We had a ferry to catch.

In Seattle, as Alan parked the car, Aleister came up to me and said, "Mama Kay. Do not worry about if I like Alan or not. In fact, I LOVE Alan. AND he is becoming quite the family member!" I smiled and hugged him. "He IS?" I said. "Yes," Aleister said. "Mom likes him, Charlie likes him, and Grandma likes him. That's one hundred per cent. I don't think he can do much better than that."

Inside the aquarium, Mr. 100% and Aleister jostled around like a couple of kids, then settled down while Alan led Aleister over to the octopus and gave Allie lessons on what an octopus actually feels like, with its suckers traveling all the way down its arms. How amazing, how sad, that an octopus, intelligent creature that he is, can exist in such a small space inside an aquarium.As a practiced snorkeler, Alan has been "held" by an octopus, which I know I would count as being the No. 1 worst thing that had ever happened to me (if it were ever to happen to me), but Alan gets a nostalgic look in his eye whenever he speaks about it. He is one of those people who actually thinks that an octopus is beautiful. I try to keep this in mind whenever he says that he finds ME beautiful. A little active realism never hurt anyone.

We saw sharks. We saw tropical fish so radiantly beautiful they turn up the volumne on one's belief in Something Religious. We saw furry otters. Seals. Starfish. Jellyfish. Stingrays. And, outside the aquarium, we saw tall buildings, restaurants, foreign ships, and water, water everywhere.

I am not comparing the octopus to Alan when I say that here we have two beings, Aleister and Alan, who both find two other beings - in one case human, in the other case, a carnivorous marine mollusk - - lovable. Despite the fact that Aleister loved his Grandpa Jim with his entire heart and soul, he has taken to Alan with the very same heart and soul, which means that ALeister has three characteristics completely and wholly intact: trust, acceptance and hope. And Alan, in his love for the mysteriously gray fleshy body of the octopus, so different in its irridescent gray muscularity than our own, also possesses his own rigorous (and unusual) set of trust and acceptance. He's not kidding. He DOES not the octopus, as well as a number of other creatures and critters and peoples other folks might run away from. Which is one of the reasons I love both Aleister and Alan.

And me? I need to be around this kind of ability to love. I need it the way some need water. I need it the way some need exercise. And, like my beloeved Gertrude Stein said, "It is inevitable, when one has a great need of something, one finds it. What you need, you attract like a lover."

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

So Amazon now has a policy wherein if someone sends you a present via Amazon, you can be forewarned and allowed to either accept the gift - - or allowed to change the gift, secretly, of course, along with sending the giver a thank you note that sounds as if you received the original gift and no one is the wiser.

Yuck. Ick.

Gee, I guess it really IS the thought that counts. Or the lie that counts. or......what IS it that counts? What (listen to the older generation blather on!) kind of people are we raising here? But that's not true, I know lots of younger people who would find Amazon's newest gimmick as abysmally awful as I do. Not that I'm the Poster Child of present giving. I've given my share of ....what are they called? Second-hand gifts? Gifts that had already been given away once.....by someone else....to me. But said gifts tend to be fairly fabulous gifts, given only because someone else collects them and I don't. Something like that. In my once-upon-a-time-really-really-skinny-days I was once given five or six gowns which had been owned by the actress Frances Farmer. They arrived at my home in a box wrapped in gold foil with a huge red velvet ribbon tied round and round into a huge bow on top. Each gown was slinkier and hip-bone-showier than the next. I chose one of the gowns, re-wrapped it and gave it to a similarly bodied friend. THAT kind of gift. Anybody wanna say "No" to that kind of gift? Not on your life.

Today I've heard what six individuals received for Christmas; from French silk scarves attached to airplane tickets to Paris, France - - to ten coupons for ten different kinds of kisses. I'm not much of a traveler. I'll take the kisses. Although on the other hand .....

I'm glad to know that gift giving is not the dinosaurish-activity I had feared it was. I used to hear so much of, "Oh, George and I don't bother with presents anymore, we have everything we want." Really? You have everything you want? I'll never be that person. I know it's unchic as hell of me, unchic and out of style and out of step and oh-so-ugly-American, but I don't think I'll ever get over my lust for silver jewelry or books or cd's or dvd's or blank journals or bracelets or necklaces or anything I deem as beautiful or magical or sparkly or glowy or wonderful. I loved the moment when, the day AFTER Christmas, Alan looked at me and said, "I wanted to wait till tonight but I just can't wait any longer, put out your hand," and he rummaged through his backpack until he pulled out a green package and plunked it into my proffered right hand, whereupon I hurriedly (I'm always in a hurry when it comes to unwrapping presents) tore off the wrapping paper and discovered the most fabulous pair of earrings - earrings for a gypsy queen, for an Spanish gypsy queen, for an ethnically beautiful (inside joke) Spanish gypsy queen with a sense of humor and good strong ears although the earrings are light as a dove's wing. Earrings beautiful enough to speed up one's heart rate, if for no other reason than one is racing to the nearest mirror to see how they look. Even though I am not especially adventurous, they make me LOOK adventurous, and that's good enough for me.

However, I am not altogether "thing-oriented" -- I am well aware that gifts come in all sizes and all sorts of transformations and transfigurations and that most often, the very best gifts do not come in any state of being wrapped or having ever been wrapped. No bows, no ribbons, no frills, just a state of being, often fleeting, like a grin or a giggle or a smile where, only moments earlier, a frown had existed in its stead.

Alan and I are, of course, in the magnificent process of learning each other. Really, there is nothing better, nothing more fascinating, nothing more curious or delicious or exultant or maddening or heavenly than to learn another human being....especially a human being of the opposite sex. It is a Shakespearean experience, worthy of William Himself. It is huge, like a Tsunami. It is epic, like Tolstoy. It is vastly entertaining. It is multi-layered and multi-fascited, causing the writer to misspell several words in a row. My computer is underlining all my "Multi" words with little red wavy lines and yet I proceed, because I still have three patients to go and I refuse to stop for spelling. I am not writing for my English professor, even though I know that some of you out there ARE or have been English professors. Bite me.

The other night Alan and I disagreed on what movie to rent...he didn't want to watch the movie I wanted to see and I, who am used to getting my way when it comes to such matters, was.....flustered and flabbergasted. I didn't back down. He didn't back down. I couldn't believe he wasn't backing down. One of the most difficult perceptual problems people have is to realize that others (most typically, one's own mate) do not share their own personal psychological perceptions. Jim and I agreed on movies. It was not that I "got my own way"....it was that "we" were in agreement about ALMOST all films. And, to be fair, as Alan points out, we agree upon lots and lots of movies.....but not all. And it is in this "but not all" space, this rare "new" space where I experience such a lacuna of.....shock and utter disbelief......oh, why is he making trouble, anyway? Why not just go along with me? Wouldn't it just be easier to acquiesce? Why not make nice? I mean, oh my God, how can he live with himself,.... there I am, with the CD in my hand, and there he is, going on and on about, "Movies with lots of guns, or movies about the end of the world or movies about car crashes, those are movies that are, by and large, about making money. Period. And I'm not buying into it. Sure, I loved PULP FICTION, there are some great movies out there with guns and violence and I love some of them, but I'm not going to love them just because the owner of some video store tells me they're great. You're asking me to spend two and a half hours of my life watching something that looks like it's about a bunch of morons with guns in their hands? I don't think so."

Really?
Really.

So I leave the video store and go to Safeway because we've decided to make a chicken salad for dinner. And suddenly there he is, in Safeway, in the vegetable aisle, because we've decided to make a chicken salad for dinner. And I've been a psychotherapist for twenty-seven years. And I've got a good reputation, pretty good, at least, for being a pretty good couple's therapist. And I don't know where to look.

I'll be damned if I'm going to look at him.
I'm not going to look at him.
No way.
Uh-uh.
Nope.

But I suddenly feel a giggle erupt in side of me, like a burp.
I want to burp, but it's a giggle.
I want to slap myself, because I want to giggle, only it's a laugh.
I want to laugh.

I look at him and his lips are trembling, like he's trying hard not to laugh. We are both trying hard not to laugh. We are standing, two adults, next to all kinds of lettuce, this kind and that kind, I can't even tell you all the kinds of lettuce we are standing next to, soft kinds and hard kinds, not to mention spinach, and suddenly we both let it happen, we both let our lips sway into smiles and then tighter into grins and then into laughter and then we are hugging and then it's okay, it's okay, and we walk to the video part of Safeway and we rent a movie called THE LAST STATION with Helen Mirren and Christopher Plummer about Tolstoy and his wife Sophie, which I had seen, but I didn't tell Alan that until later because I wanted him to see it and he wanted to see it and I didn't yet know how delicate or how strong we were in the "I've seen it and you haven't" department category.........and we went home and fixed a delicious chicken salad and watched this deliciously marvelous (sad, sad) movie and then we watched one of Woody Allen's early hilarious movies, LOVE AND DEATH, and that was it. The gift was huge and it was in there somewhere. Where was it?

It was the smile and then the grin and then the laughter in the lettuce aisle at Safeway. As gorgeous as those earrings are, as gorgeous as all the gifts we gave each other, and we gave each other plenty, it was the smile and the grin and the laughter in the Safeway vegetable aisle that I will always remember. I placed the memory in my psychological and physical world of fundamental forces where it will always remain and help steady me when I am in trouble with myself or with Alan and I need a posse of psychological muscles to assist me in motation. Even if, as my computer is now telling me, I can not spell "motation".

And now my computer is informing me that I don't have any more blog space. Well, great. I need to go now, anyway. I just wanted to talk for awhile about gifts. So far this year, my best gift has been.....you guessed it...other than my kids and my grandkids and my friends....it's been Alan. He's become my best friend as well as my lover as well as my fiance. We've even spoken about marriage. While in Port Townsend we've even found me an engagement ring. And here is my conclusion to this raggedy blog - when (if) you marry your best friend, the talk (and nothing else, either) never grows old. It can't. It doesn't know how. The world becomes too fertile. The small world you two inhabit, your immediate intimate world, your neighborhood or neighborhoods, your country, your world....the world of art, of poetry, of literature, of music, of sensuality, of cuisine, of children, of grandchildren, of friends, of dreams, of life stories, of hopes, of dreams, of dashed hopes, of dashed dreams, of saviors, your own personal history, your parents' histories, your peoples' histories, your wishes, your fears, your successes, your failures, your personal saints and angels, the ones in your life you have blessed and wish to continue to bless, the ones in your life you have damned and wish to continue to damn or wish to forgive or wish to bash their heads in or wish to....or wish to.....or wish to......as long as you still wish to.........amen.....amen....amen......amen.....amen........it is all having to do with the gifts that keep on/giving.

We booked three nights at Port Townsend's Manressa Castle for the 24rth, 25th and 26th. Small room, okay view, hints of haplessly wandering ghosts, overly expensive Christmas dinner (of which we didn't partake), great bar - - we left after spending one night. We didn't have to look at each other and say, "Nah,", we didn't have to say, "We can do better than this," we didn't really say much of anything at all. We woke up on Christmas Day and I said murmured something like, "Let's get out of here and go down to the Tides," and Alan said, "Yeah," and we high-tailed it out of there. We didn't have to recite the reasons why. I knew the reasons why, he knew the reasons why, and we each knew that the other knew, without having said a word about it.

Kapish?
Right.
When you know you know.

Further back. June, 2008. I said to my friend Magge, "Someday I'd really love to live on Bainbridge Island" and Magge said, "Well, why don't you?" and four days later, I bought a townhouse on Bainbridge Island. I don't like to house shop any more than I like to do any other kind of shopping. If it isn't plaid, and doesn't have diamonds, I'll consider it. If I don't have t tie a knot, even better. If I can get somebody else to take a look at the kitchen and to see if there's any decent kind of storage space, whoopee.

Get it?
I'm easy, that way.
When I know I know.

At the party Alan invited me to, the family party held for his birthday, his cousin George's birthday and one other relative whose name (sorry! sorry!) I can't remember, that's when I knew. I knew as simply and surely as a thirsty man knows that water is what is absolutely needed. It was the third time we'd met. He spent just the right amount of time next to me. He spent just the right amount of time away from me. His relationship with his daughter looked loving and respectful on both sides. He touched me just enough. Years ago, oh, many, I'd taught that kind of social touching in workshops at the Bangor Base. He was a natural. I didn't need a second opinion. I didn't need another date. I didn't need a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eight opinion. Three. One, two, three. Just enough.

Three.
Like the legs of a milk stool.
When you know you know.

On the other hand,I know I shouldn't be doing. Driving, for instance. I know shouldn't be behind the wheel. I'm not good there. When I'm behind the wheel, I DON'T know. One of the gifts I received for Christmas this year (no, not from Alan) was a key-locater so I can even FIND my car-keys. Or: trying to read a map. I shouldn't even OPEN a map. It's ludicrous to try. Everyone who knows me knows this. Because, although "When I know I know," the opposite may also be said of me - - "When I DON'T know, I DON'T know."

Ah, well.

I wanted to write a terrific blog on the WHEN YOU KNOW YOU KNOW theme. I wanted to write it tonight. But Life got in the way and handed me a broken afternoon and then a evening. A fire, a metaphorical fire, but a fire, nonetheless, has broken out regarding my son, and I am torn into pieces inside my chest. I won't be okay for a couple of days and it's no use putting off writing just because certain pieces of me are going to be busted up for awhile; those pieces will just have to heal in their own good time while the rest of me, like Time, marches on. Crap waits for no one, especially during holiday time.Especially big cruddy pieces like these.

Like cow pies.
Like cow pies with steam spewing out.
Like cow pies still wet in the middle and you slip and end up all squished up on your butt in the middle of one.
And you feel like you're ten years old again.
And you want to throw back your head and yell, "Hey, if there's a plug out there, would somebody mind pulling it?"

But nobody you know has that kind of plug and if you knew somebody with one you'd dust yourself off and run like hell because you want to see where this next year takes you. Because there could be angels sitting on the fence posts. Somebody could bring you wildflowers. Maybe you could get married. Probably you could dance some more. Way, way more. Probably you're gonna laugh some more. A lot more. And listen to more Leonard Cohen and more the Reverend Al Green, especially his song,"Belle". And Tony Bennett. And Ray Charles. And eat more bagels. And make more chicken salad. And read more Lorca and Neruda out loud.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Phenomena is Us

Uh.....unusual, significant, a marvel. Three marvels. See them. Speak to them. Poke 'em in the ribs. Take 'em to lunch, why don't you. I am in the mood to write what I call "gut-busting" metaphors. "These Three Phenoms Will Blow Your Fruitcake!" "These three Phenoms Will Shatter Your Nervous System!" "Gut-Wrenching!" "Heart-Busting!" "Searing!" "Unequivocally Darling!" (Okay, okay, that's enough) - - I just like the picture, that's all. It was taken Sunday, when we were at Aleister's house.

I was engaged in conversation with a friend this morning. We were speaking about Jesus. Poor Jesus. We both agreed we just couldn't "get with" Him. He didn't seem real enough to us, we said. For one thing, He was too good. For another, there was no reference to a sex life. He was supposed to be part man. Well....where WAS that part? All the men WE'D ever known went around horny from age thirteen to ..... gee, does it ever really end? I mean, at least, in the mind? How can you trust a guy who doesn't suffer over the lack of a woman? How do you trust a guy who doesn't at least pay for a ticket once in a while? Is crucifiction really enough? Why? There are worse deaths. There were worse deaths then, there are worse deaths now. If crucifiction were really enough, I'd know how to spell it.


About presents. I like to work the week of Christmas because my patients bring me presents. So far, I've wracked up: a jar of real honest-to-God homemade mince-meat. Three gorgeous pieces of costume jewelry: a pin and a set of matching earrings. I'll wear the pin on New Year's Eve. And this Christmas evening at the Manressa Castle. A plate of homemade cookies. A plate of homemade fudge. And that's just so far today! There'll be more! Am I crass? Do you think I'm crass? No, no, no, no, no, I'm not crass. I'm just saying! I love it. I can't help it. I've always loved presents, ever since I was a little girl and my mother taught me how to open them without anybody seeing the evidence. We both did it. Then there was the year Grandpa got on the stepladder and piled our presents way up high on the tallest piece of furniture in their formal living room and, while trying to get at them with the broom, Mama knocked them all down the back of the tallest piece. Of furniture. And she had to confess. And I was so mad at her I wanted to spit. So we had to tell Grandpa. And it took three men - Grandpa, Daddy and Uncle John to move the tallest piece and drag out the presents. We hung our heads in shame (fake shame) until those presents were placed back under the tree ("where they BELONG"). We did it anyway. We got up at three that night and did it anyway. We opened them. Only Aunt Nettie, sitting in the big grey chair, dressed in grey silk, smoking her Canadian cigarette held in a real black onyx cigarette holder, drinking real liquor (usually forbidden) from a small champagne glass and chuckling quietly,saw. When she died, she willed all her old fur coats to Mama. Mama gave them to me. I still wear one or two.

Mama was a bad girl. Nettie was a bad girl. I am a bad girl, too. And, on the other side of being bad, Mama was a good girl. Nettie was a good girl. I am a good girl, too. That's what's right. That's what's right about this and every other picture. That's what's right about Christmas. That's what's right about The Day of the Dead. That's what's right about Mardi Gras. That's what's right about Veterans' Day and Columbus Day and Thanksgiving. Those Pilgrim's were a stupefyingly uptight bunch of geeks until you got to know their dark side, then they turned into new turkeys altogether. That's what's right about nearly every person you know. And that's what SHOULD be right about Jesus, if only we had all the information. I'm just tired of using my imagination to make Him be human. There is very little that is more miraculous than birth. Except for a man with no lust in his heart. And that ain't no good miracle, I'll tell you that right now. I know, I know, that's just me talkin'. I'm just sayin'. I'm just singin'.

I'm just singin' the Good Old Phenom Blues.

WINTER

I Took Alan to a party and introduced him around as if he were a big stuffed toy, like Jimmy Stewart did with his tall white rabbit Harvey,in the movie "HARVEY", whenever he got drunk. That is, when Jimmy Stewart got drunk, not Harvey. Harvey wasn't really real. (Or was he?) I've never had a big (well, Alan's not exactly big, he's slender, but he's certainly tall) - - toy to show off before. It's fun. And it's interactive.

You get to show the tall toy off and then the person you're showing the toy off to asks (they have to ask SOMETHING) how you met so you get to tell them and that leads to more questions and pretty soon you're just babbling away, happily filling them full of all sorts of information they probably don't really want to know but boy, do they ever know it now. It's good for diets, because, as everybody knows, if you're talking a lot, you're not eating a lot. I didn't eat until I got home. That was our one and only Christmas party and I'd say it was a resounding success.

We couldn't wait for Christmas, so we opened our presents this past weekend, paper flying everywhere. I had only Bainbridge Island to choose from so Alan's presents from me were a little........"Islandy".....and he had Olympia to choose from, so his presents to me were perfect. Perfect. Some were practical, like the beautiful knitted and lined wool gloves and slippers or the furry hat or the gorgeous multi-stone earrings with the turquoise in the center or the terrific book written by Kurt Vonnegut's son titled "Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So" or the beautiful little turquoise colored lidded pot which now sits on the table next to the turquoise blown glass bowl or the couple of ___________s I won't be mentioning here but they look like they could be fun when we have time and inclination. Well, we seem to have the inclination all the time, so I guess it's Time Itself we don't have. Would anybody out there like to donate us some of their precious time? Somebody out there with too much time, anyone?

We paid a visit to Aleister and his family on Sunday. When we walked through the door, Aleister was bent over a pamphlet-thing, filling in a page or two with check marks and words. "What are you doing, there, Aleister?" I asked. "I'm giving out vaccinations," Aleister said, "it's my Christmas present," he added. "You mean your Christmas present is going to be giving vaccinations to kids in Africa?" I asked, looking at the pamphlet? "Yup," he said, "fifty vaccinations for fifty poor kids." I pulled up a chair across from him. "Aleister," I said, "I think that is a really great Christmas present." He took a moment to lift his head and look me in the eyes. His eyebrows have turned really dark and, at the young age of ten, his voice has gotten quite deep. "Mama Kay," he said, "it is a super duper really great Christmas present," he said. Before we left I asked him what he planned on doing with the money I had given him for Christmas. "Uhhhhh," he said, "maybe give more vaccinations or some goats?" he said. "Oh, ALeister," I said, "how about taking some of the money and giving yourself something?" "Okay," he said. He looked at his Mom. "How much do one of those games I like cost?" he asked his Mom. "Fifty dollars," she said. "Then I'd like to buy one of those games and then give my Mom fifty dollars for her car engine," he said.

There's no stopping him. He's just a dang good kid, that's all. People can get wrecked at any time, of course, we all know it happens, we just don't like to think about it. Something happens and ka-boom. One night a rat crosses your path and your doomed. It's the spirit of the times. One morning you get up at an unlikely early morning hour and it's raining outside and even a priest can't save you. But these events are most unusual. But even more unusual is ALeister, hunched over his pamphlet with pictures of African children,his heart swollen in a mix of love and agony of sweetness of spirit, so deep and amiable that it is as stark in unconsciousness and consciousness as that perfect spot of purity that sways in silent balance between the light and the dark that keeps children mostly safe and adults mostly in awe throughout the greyness of the winter days.