Gasp!

Flashback 11/6/03

Mom and Dad Meet Christopher

I wasn't sure how my parents would react to my cat. They are "confirmed dog people." I tried to warn them that cats climb things. How would they feel about that? But since our family dog passed away in the springtime, there's been a big hole in the house. So when I brought Christopher inside, I held him over my shoulder like a baby. Mom immediately fell in love. The blue eyes met Mom's face and well... She was enthralled.

Dad was another matter. He announced in a booming voice that "there has never been a cat in my house before" and started barking like a dog. Christopher turned and stared at him oddly while I responded with "wrong species Dad." So he started quacking like a duck. Christopher still looked mystified.

But by the time I went to bed, Dad and Christopher overcame their language barrier. To be sure, Dad thinks Christopher likes him. And I guess he does. My cat has never really gotten along with men, but now he looks at my Dad as if to say, "Well, I don't like his kind necessarily, but he's one of the good ones."

Flashback 10/23/03

Energetically Speaking

…I was thinking about this on the subway this morning when Charlie asked me about my cat. That started me on a 30 minute monologue about Christopher. His tricks, routines and whatnot. I'm surprised I don't write about him more often, considering he's my significant other at this point. We're very, very close and I think some of that is due to our communication. After I finished at the meditation and healing school, someone told me that I could communicate with animals by modifying a technique we learned at the school. I tried it on a bunch of cows in Ireland and it worked.

Since then, if I have students that have cats or dogs I sorta work them into the class. Animals are very communicative telepathically. I do a lot of healings for animals as well. I find that they're very aware of God and the world around them and I find that they carry their own set of opinions.

I've borrowed Christopher to use as an example for class. He's not too keen on it at times, depending on the lesson. But because we have that kind of communication, I've also trained him to come when he's called, to play fetch and hide & seek, etc. He reminds me to go to bed and wakes me up in the morning as well. In a way, he's trained me. I've gotten a toy because he's requested it or taken care of the house in a certain way. It's an interesting, complex relationship that I don't usually go into because most people will think I'm crazy. But I'm not.

It's funny. I guess all of us have subjects we're afraid to broach in our journals. Mine's the intuitive, energy work I do. Charlie says he doesn't believe in stuff because he doesn't see it. But if I see it and others see it, then why does Charlie think it doesn't exist because he doesn't see it?

I Love You Christopher

Christopher passed away from diffuse lymphoma. It was a particularly aggressive form, with little chance for survival. The Vet said that it covered almost every organ in his body and must've developed quickly.

He was my very best friend.

A few months ago, I listened to The Year of Magical Thinking on audiobooks. The most striking part of the book is its structure. The circular motion of grief. At some points, I'm fine. And then... Right now, as I'm writing this I'm feeling immense grief.

People who knew both of us always remarked on the intensity of our relationship. He was more than a cat to me. He transcended the feline form. He was my spiritual partner, my soulmate.

I chose to be there last night during the fatal injection. Despite his weakened state, he rested his head on my hand. And then, put his paw on my other hand. He held my hand like that when we first decided to be together. It was an unusual gesture, made in a dire state. But I knew what it meant.

For the rest of the week, I'll be posting blog entries from my time with Mr. Christopher. It'll give me time to get myself together again.

I love you Christopher. Always and Forever.

Passages

Last week it looked like my Dad had only a few days to live. Then he had surgery and was told he had cancer. They didn't know what kind of cancer it was. As it turns out, he had a benign form of cancer. With the tumor gone, there's no need for chemo. He's good to go.

My cat, unfortunately, is still sick. I don't know why pets sometimes take on the same sicknesses as those around them. He's going to get checked for Lymphoma on Friday. Still worried, but I'm hopeful he'll be cleared as well.

There's something about the death of a parent that can make one philosophical about life. Not that I wasn't stewing about things in general. In a few months I'll say goodbye to single life and hello to marriage. The realization that people change and grow older has settled with me for quite a while. I find myself taking long walks in the morning, fearful of time passing. I look back at what I've accomplished with some pride and disappointment. I'm not the person I used to be, and under these new "adult" circumstances I don't know who I am.

I'm in my 30s and still fighting the idea that I'm an adult. Being single meant that I could sleep on the floor, eat $1 chicken sandwiches at McDonalds and not be responsible to anyone. Being an adult means marriage and eventually, the loss of my parents.

I don't mean to get depressing, but those are the facts as I see them today. Time does pass. People eventually die.

I've been thinking of writers who have also been preoccupied with the passage of time. Kerouac comes to mind. His desire to capture a moment of time on the page is something that has always touched me. I, too, have attempted this in my prose work. And sometimes, when I look back at the things I've written, I can tell you the exact moment I wrote what is on the page. Poems, drafts of plays and other material serve as a scrapbook. A chapter of my story "Passing Through" was written at the San Bernadino Bus Station. By reading it, I can recapture who I was at that moment in time. It may mean nothing to anyone else, but to me, that's what writing means. It is about me talking back to myself.

Perhaps this goes against the ideas I written about earlier. But I can also tell you that I've often lost track of my own soul - especially in theater. I can't tell you how many times I've lost my soul to the mirage called "an audience". I've forgotten that the best writing is the type that has humanity behind it. Humanity - the stuff that can't be bought or sold.

Anyway, I'm on dial-up which has a tendency to cut out at inconvenient moment. Thanks for your kind words and emails. I do hope you have a Happy Thanksgiving.

Hospitals are no fun

The good thing about Typepad is that you can post your entries in advance. It was particularly handy last week when I discovered that one of my parents had come down with a sudden case of cancer. While you were reading my entries on collecting books, I was in the surgical ICU making a family house call. That, coupled with my cat's severe urinary tract infection, kept me very busy.

Getting back on track this week will be a challenge. I have to make up a few hours at work and then there's that pilgrim holiday she-bang. Nevertheless, I shall endure...

Look for more lively discussions tomorrow. And for those who emailed me last week: Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Still digging out...

On Collecting Books, Part Four

As I open my collection for discussion on Gasp, please note that you will occasionally be able to find versions of my books on the net. This is a good thing.

I learned through researching presidential documents that history has often been misrepresented. The truth is out there. Don't take someone else's word for it. If more people read old books, they'd stop being some damn gullible about the past.

When possible, I'll provide a link to the book or journal I'm discussing. Then, you could buy a version of the book for yourself. Imagine how cool that would be.

On Collecting Books, Part Three

Collecting books is a responsibility. When I first started, it was a cool and very personal hobby. But as I began my research into the causes of the riots at the ’68 Democratic Convention, I realized that a number of scholarly institutions would be more than happy for me to donate my collection. I’ve seen editions of my books under glass at The Book Depository Museum, or in the stacks of the LBJ Presidential Research Library.

As I noticed this more and more, I began to see myself as a “Keeper of the Canon.” Book collections protect books from destruction. We live in a disposable society that sees no value in history. The only other “Keepers” are libraries, and as I mentioned earlier, they’re imprisoned by “Community Standards.”

Collecting books is a form of literary activism. History is taken out of the hands of those in authority and brought down to a very personal level. Reading an old and rare book brings life to a voice that would otherwise go unheard.

When I’m old and grey, maybe I’ll donate my collection to library or museum. In the meantime, I think I’m going to use Gasp as a form of literary activism.

On Collecting Books, Part Two

My book collection goes something like this:

Books on the 60s. I used a number of books from my collection as secondary sources for War is Kind: the 1968 Democratic Convention. These books have the most sentimental value to me, since you can’t find any of them in your local library. Odd, isn’t it? Not really.

Beat Criticism. This section was due to my obsession with 1950s in the early 90s. I read through the New York Public Library’s Beat criticism and had to look elsewhere. My interest in the Beats waned over the past few years, so I don’t jump at these collectibles as much anymore.

Mass-Market Paperbacks. My collection includes both pulp fiction and regular paperbacks from the 1930s to the 1970s. These are the most fun to collect, but they are also a ton of work. The artwork on the covers are amazing, but tracking down the artists are difficult. As well, publishers were necessarily honest about date of publication and a whole host of other issues.

Literary Journals. There is nothing like finding an old literary journal filled with articles by Jack London, Jean Stafford, Charles Baudelaire, Sinclair Lewis or J.B. Priestley. The ads are awesome. This part of my collection also holds controversial journals as well. Occasionally I’ve allowed magazines to find their way into this section – as long as they meet certain criteria.

Presidential History. I’m deeply into presidential history, from Roosevelt to Carter. Actually, I should probably say Ford since I don’t have Carter in my book collection. Along with books, I also collect campaign buttons.

Those are the major parts of my collection. I have subsections of all this – Feminism is a part of the 60s section, for instance. I also keep a collection on Soviet-American relations as part of Presidential History.

My collection doesn’t include every book I own. Again, this is an actual book collection – not a library. There is a big difference.

On Collecting Books, Part One

I began collecting books in the early 90s, when I became aware that public libraries only kept certain books on the shelves. I noticed that it was a rather curious selection process. Traveling the country, I visited other libraries to see what they had on their shelves. What kinds of books were important to people in South Carolina, New York, San Francisco, or Austin?

Each city’s library specialized in something different. I noticed that the main branch of the NY Public Library had an enormous amount of conservative talk show host books. These were brand new and prominently displayed. They didn’t appear to have as much Beat Literature as I would have expected.

San Francisco didn’t have as much Beat Literature either, but I was told that Kerouac books often went missing, or were stolen. The Myrtle Beach library had more classics and less controversial 20th century books. Austin had Beat Literature, a slew of books on the 60s, but damned if I could find Peyton Place anywhere.

You get the idea. Books chosen for canonization in a library reflect community standards. An avant-garde bibliophile is out of luck in a conservative township.

Having lived a nomadic life for over a decade, I experienced this difficulty firsthand. So I guess you could say that I became a book collector out of necessity.

As I grew older, my interests solidified. My collection is now largely shaped by my obsession with 20th century Americana, specifically from 1920 to 1979. I don’t limit myself to first editions, though I have a fair amount of them. A few books have been signed by the author, such as Allen Tate. I know parts of my collection are valuable, but it doesn’t matter. I only collect books I’ll read. If I have no interest in reading it, I won’t buy it.

Confession #1

My relationship with theater has changed, and there’s no use hiding it. For almost two years, I’ve wrestled with the idea of quitting theater. In 2004, I quit only to persuaded to write “just one more play.” I had serious misgivings because my feelings towards theater were entirely negative.

But a series of coincidences kicked me into writing that “one more play.” When I started, I visualized myself receiving a temporary pass back to theater. This pass was no guarantee of anything other than a completed script. I didn’t think I wanted it produced. My goal was to fulfill whatever obligation I had to whoever or whatever was arranging all the odd coincidences.

About midway through the writing process, I realized I was emotionally invested in writing the best play I could. It was as if the play was a being. My obligation to this being was to see the process through to the very end. Whatever it took, no matter how I felt about it. If the play needed readings in order to mature, I would find actors. If I needed an agent to market it with me, I’d find that agent. Whatever it took.

I didn’t like being sucked in to that world again. I felt betrayed by the “Coincidence Conductor.” I wondered if writing the play was a waste of my life. Time becomes important as you get older.

When I started the project, I hoped that the play would heal my bad feelings about theater. It did. Throughout the writing process, I looked at all the reasons I felt victimized and all of the bitterness. I figured out where all the disappointments were, and I learned to forgive myself for allowing a number of things to happen.

My relationship with theater has reached a kind of completion. I don’t feel like I have to jump through the same hoops anymore. There’s nothing for me to prove.

I’ll always be a playwright, but maybe just not a public one.