The first couple of items that ended up on my wishlist were both books by Brian Hodge. Hodge is one of my favorite authors. I believe he’s only had one novel published in hardback (through a mainstream publisher at least). Mostly he’s published paperback originals and mostly they’ve been horror novels. Just about everything he’s ever published is out of print. Unlike many horror novelists Hodge is quite happy to end his stories bleakly and sadly. If I were to suggest what the prevailing mood in his fiction is, I’d say it was melancholy. None of his characters are heroic except by accident. They may be basically good people and they may do heroic things but none of them are larger than life.

Despite the lack of happy endings Hodge’s writing has a sense of humor (often very dry and very black) and an odd poetry. The rhythm is more blues and rock than pop, fitting since Hodge is also a musician. I’ll have to see if he has released any CDs.

Lies and Ugliness: a collection of short stories.

Dark Advent: one of Hodge’s early novels. And the only one I don’t own.

So I’ve been compiling a wishlist at Amazon.com. It’s currently got 21 pages listing 507 items. I’m not sure where I’d put it if I got everything on the list. Not that I expect to get much of it. Any of it really. It’s not there as a guide for other people so much as it’s a way for me to possess things that I don’t have the finances to buy (much less the space to store them once I bought them.) Virtual materialism. Who lusts after the most interesting stuff? Y’know?

I encouraged Nizzibet to start a list of her own after she mentioned that there were things she wished she got as presents that I had no idea she wanted. I’m a lousy mindreader. I manage to give her presents she likes because I have a good memory. But it’s only a good memory around things I’m interested in. A desire for histories of Cuba I can remember. A desire for certain types of gemstones? Nah.

(She’s not actually interested in Giant Geese of Doom. That was meant for my list. I oopsed and have been too lazy to fix it. Still too lazy. Probably could have fixed it in the time it’s taken to write this paragraph.)

Anyway, I’ll be nattering on about various items and groups of items on my wishlist for a few post and thought I should warn y’all.

Cheers!

Via Nick Brownlow, a new Oz comic – Dorothy of Oz. Haven’t read it. Looks pretty.

Why no, I haven’t died or anything serious like that. Just catching up on sleep. Posting should resume on a sporadic basis today. I’d say regular basis but shiny objects do tend to grab my attention suddenly.

A splash of Burnett’s Vanilla flavored vodka. More or less equal parts Smirnoff Ice Triple Black and Mountain Dew. Add a few shakes of cayenne pepper.

Deliciously awful.

Put Midnight Oil’s Blue Sky Mining into the CD player. Let the brain melt.

I’ve been reading the original Gangs of New York. I can see why Scorsese thought there was good movie to be hacked out it. Shame he chose the plot he did. There were many far more interesting stories available in actual New York history.

Nizzibet is sleeping on the couch. It’s sometime after midnight. I’m drinking gin. Not because I like it. It just happens to be the most tolerable of the alcohols available.

No. That’s not accurate. The white wine in the fridge would probably taste better. But given a choice of the “hard” alcohols the gin seemed like a better choice. And I’m out of tequila.

Drinking gin tells me one thing. I prefer tequila. Vodka, rum, vermouth, gin, wine – none of them sit on my brain as comfortably.

Speed would be fun. A little coke. Definitely some acid. Or shrooms. But I’ve lost those connections. I may know some sources but it’s rude to ask for a drug connection from people you only see every few months.

So I’m stuck with the legal stuff. Caffeine. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. My prescription, Zoloft, might be fun in large doses but I don’t feel like experimenting with it that way. I was taking it to manage my depression/anger while caretaking Aged Mother. Now that she’s gone I’m continuing to take it, in slightly lower dosages, because a cold turkey quit is supposed to be … unadvised.

Most of the effects don’t sound too bad, sound even a little fun, but the “intense headaches” I can do without. Headaches are the one pain I’m not good at managing. I’m a wimp with headaches. I know people who function with migraines. Hard for me to conceive of.

Anyway … A.M. came home last weekend. A simple black plastic box containing ashes. We had her cremated with her teddy bears (the one Nizz gave her for Christmas and the one Esteemed Brother gave her when he visited in June) and The Quilt. The Quilt was my baby quilt. My grandmother made it for me when I was a baby – patchwork, crazy style. A.M. put a new lining on it when the original got too ragged.

While she was here we used it as a lap blanket to keep her warm when she sat at the table.

It was too short for regular use. I loved it too much to throw it away. Now it’s gone with Mom.

There’s so much work to do. So many people still to contact. Big Sister has looked up possible places to scatter A.M.’s ashes. Big Sister can always be counted on in times of crisis. She and Mom didn’t get along in life. Yet Big Sister credits her for all her skills at saving and managing herself responsibly. Something that A.M. never seemed to be able to hear.

Big Sister tells me that Dad’s ashes still await scattering. Heh. He’s been four years gone now.

Me, I want to outlive everyone I know, wander off into a wilderness (or into the no-man’s-land around a freeway interchange if all the forests are gone) and drink myself to death. While tripping on something. SOMETHING.

Please.

By Friday morning, Aged Mother really couldn’t talk anymore. She was eating very little. Sarah and I were needing to feed her water and liquid foods by spoon.

By Friday evening, she was having a hard time taking in water and really couldn’t take food. Swallowing was a problem. Her breathing was shallow. I came home from work at about five o’clock. Nizzibet went to meet the Gamester. I fixed myself a drink. A little one. The last few weeks I’d been regularly drinking to excess. I had no intention of doing that that night. Your mother only dies once.

Once I’d determined that Mom wouldn’t be having dinner I sat and held her hand. I got halfway through my drink and started to thank her – for raising my brother and I, for teaching us how to save and make do, for teaching us to read, for teaching us fairness and compassion, for letting us run wild, for letting us read whatever we wanted, for letting us dig that hole in the yard, for taking us camping … I thanked her for everything I could think of. She was in no condition to tell me that I didn’t need to tell her those things.

I reminded her that LoveSettlement would be coming in for a visit the next morning. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. I’d made it a habit to kiss her whenever I saw her, even if I was just crossing the room.

Nizzibet and the Gamester came home. G and I chatted about movies and games and what projects we were working on next. Once he headed off I ordered pizza. Aged Mother fell asleep sometime around seven o’clock.

Nizzibet and I ate pizza and watched A Fistful of Dollars.

A.M. was still sleeping when the Man With No Name finished killing most of the town.

For the past week I’d carried A.M. from her place on the couch into her bedroom and tucked her in for the night. She really didn’t enjoy being carried. She seemed to think I’d drop her. Friday night I decided to let her keep sleeping on her couch. Nizzibet and I would sleep on the other couch and keep A.M. company.

I woke at about three o’clock in morning on Saturday, August 1st. I looked at A.M. for a long time. Trying to see if she was breathing. There have been so many times when her breathing would pause while she slept – pause for what would seem like an absurd length of time. This time, her breathing did not restart. She was gone.

Helen Irene Ingersoll 11/9/21 – 8/1/04

Rest in Peace

“You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

– Mark Epstein

Thoughts Without a Thinker

Aged Mother can no longer feed herself. Clearly spoken words are rare. A sentence is like a polar bear in Antarctica. I carry her from her bed to the couch in the morning and back again at bedtime. She eats little. Mainly liquids. Only a few spoonfuls at a time. Swallowing is difficult. Her breathing is labored.

Esteemed Brother will be here tomorrow. Leaving again Monday.

Aged Mother now finds standing to be a problem. Her legs often forget that they are supposed to keep her upright. Her body and balance have a poor relationship.

I can talk to her and she seems to understand what I say, as long as I speak slowly and loudly enough. She’s not good for any response that requires more than three words. She’ll talk but what she says makes little sense. She doesn’t use names to describe anyone she’s speaking of.

Mostly she sleeps.

I was headed for the bank. Every afternoon, if we were lucky enough to get any payments, I make a deposit at B of A. I was passing La Tienda, an indigenous people’s art/craft store. Like all the other businesses in Ballard they had wares out as part of this weekend’s upcoming Seafood Fest.I heard a baby fuss. I always check out babies fussing. Babies are like cats. I like all of them. I want to know what’s going on.

And there she was. The last time I’d seen her (in person) was when Rae and I passed through Seattle back in 1993. I doubt I left much of an impression then. Rae and I were busy breaking up at the time though we (or maybe just I) didn’t know it yet.

Alaine and I met in 1983 on an AYH tour of Europe. We were Ellen, Alaine, Perry Ann, Jane, Debbie, Charles, Roy (our leader) and me. Strangers (except for Perry Ann and Jane) on a bicycle tour of Europe.

I saw her briefly again in 1984 during my East Coast Avoidance. She offered to help me get established in Maryland. Being an idiot, I didn’t take her up on it.

I vaguely kept in contact until 1993. Gave up after that. Keeping in contact anyway.

Thing is – I’d told her that I loved her. Not – “I’m in love with you” – though perhaps I said that in a letter. I have a vague memory of that. I’d said I loved her. That’s a commitment from me. If I tell you I love you I’ll stalk you for the rest of your life.

So I’ve known where Alaine is for a while now. I was able to recognize her from her photo on the Birth and Family Clinic’s website. She’s changed a bit since ’93.

Except for driving all over Edmonds until I found her clinic (back in 2000, I think) and sending her an invitation to the Seattle Wedding I haven’t tried to cantact her. In ’93 she’d talked about how unusual it was to be friends with someone for a decade when there’d been little contact between the two friends. Given remark and that I’d thought I made a poor impression on her then, I pretty much left her alone.

But I’d signed my letters “Love David” so I couldn’t just forget about her. When I got internet access (and understood how to use search engines) I looked her up. Because “Love” is a commitment. “Love” means a lot of things. First and foremost it means “I will not forget you”. I know how to find everyone I’ve ever said “I love you” to.

Beyond that, “Love” means that I’ll watch out for you. At least, I’ll try to. I fail at this far more than I’d like. But watching out for someone means watching over them. To watch over someone you’ve got to know where they are. Or at least where to start looking.

So I’ve known where to start looking for Alaine for years.

And there she was at La Tienda with her baby daughter fussing in her baby carrier. I looked at her a few times until the Regret Factor set in. The Regret Factor says that I will regret any signifigant action untaken. I knew that if I didn’t say “hello” to this person that I thought was Alaine I would regret it.

So I asked “Alaine?” And she looked up.

I know we shook hands. I think we hugged. I can’t friggin’ remember. It’s all a blur at that point. She introduces her baby. She says she’s got a three year old. She asks where I’m living, what I’m doing. I tell her about The House, Aged Mother and CreativeTechs. Briefly. She says “Wow” a lot. I don’t know what that means. Is she amazed? Pleased?

Then I tell her that I’ve got errands to run and I say goodbye. I walk away.

I love Alaine. I will always love Alaine. And her life is her own. I’ll always try to know where she is. Just in case. But I have no illusions that she thinks of me when she’s lonely. Or thinks of me at all. I have no idea what she thinks about.

I’ve made a commitment. I’ll do a lousy job of fulfilling it. And I’ll never forget it.