Murderous nurse

I hate to admit I watched them, but I did. Two true crime shows at the same time (I switched during commercials), one about a college student who chopped up his parents with an axe; the other about a woman who shot her husband. Alas, the announcer on the second show said, “A trained nurse, she dismembered the body and packed it into three suitcases…”

“A trained nurse!” I thought. “I’m married to a trained nurse—and she owns three suitcases!”

“Peggy,” I asked when Peggy got home, “when you were in nursing school did any of your courses include body dismemberment?” She looked at me strangely, and, having just seen what a pissed-off nurse could do, I let the matter drop. I consoled myself with the thought that the nurse on TV had used a reciprocating saw, and I knew that, nurse or not, Peggy would never use a reciprocating saw. In fact, the one time she used a circular saw, she cut the cord in two.

The pitfalls of optimism, of pessism

Walt got a Masters degree in counseling psychology. While in school, he married a welfare mom with two kids, so he was unable to give his counseling practice time to grow. Within months, he got a job with a steady paycheck. When that business laid him off, he was content to draw unemployment for six months before looking for a job. Alas, he discovered that his benefits were only good for three months, so he had to scramble for work. No work was forthcoming until I introduced him to Bill who owns an auto repair shop. Walt went to work at Bill’s shop, but was soon fired when he argued with the foreman. Now, Walt is driving a school bus while he looks for something better.

As Walt sees it, his problems are caused by bad luck or other people. This is because Walt is a raving optimist, and raving optimists underestimate their own blame while overestimating the blame of everyone else. I am a pessimist. I would not have majored in counseling psychology if I wanted to stay in Eugene, because half of the counselors in Eugene are waiting tables. Nor would I have married an unskilled welfare mom who was irresponsible with her money and, perhaps, her uterus. Nor would I have reached my 53rd birthday with no savings.

Pessimists anticipate the worst, and seek to avoid it. Optimists don’t realistically analyze the odds; don’t take responsibility; and don’t learn from their mistakes. Pessimists are painfully aware of their own weaknesses and of everything that could conceivably go wrong. They consequently exaggerate the likelihood that something will go wrong, and they become frozen. They lose faith in the possibility of good outcomes, whereas optimists see nothing but good outcomes.

George Bush is an optimist. He never loses confidence, and people are dying by the thousands because of it. But then optimists are generally happy people, whereas pessimists often have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Which one does the most good in the world versus the most evil? I don’t know.

The saga of a rebel Mason

My lodge conferred the Master Mason degree tonight. It is high ritual, more impressive than a Mass. It puts me in the kind of altered state that athletes refer to as “the zone.” The props and lighting; the officers in their tuxedos, the master with his top hat; the long ritual performed from memory; the intricate movements of body and hands. So many ways of doing each thing wrong, but only one of doing it right.

Behold, the hours wore on, and the lodge grew hot; and I grew rebellious in my coat and tie. At length, I removed the latter, but the small patch of bare skin that was exposed made little difference; so off went the coat. Some looked at me in surprise, but what else could I do—sweat and feel like an idiot? I am ready to rebel when reason demands it.

Allow me my small rebellions, and I will serve you well; but deny me, and we will both come to doubt that I am in the right place. Noting that the thermostat was locked at 75, I blamed the Scottish Rite for my discomfiture—it being their building. Others suffered too, but only I rebelled. I am the only rebel in many settings, although I do not know why.

Christopher Reeves and Aunt Peggy's attempt at suicide

Last week, I unthinkingly pivoted on my foot (instead of lifting it), and now knee pain is making it hard for me to work or sleep. When things are like this, I try to play it safe, but I find inactivity agonizing. And there is so much that needs doing! Forget new projects; just the upkeep on the house and yard requires hours a day on my feet.

I saw the Christopher Reeves’ movie (Somewhere in Time) tonight, and wondered how a formerly active man was able to bear quadriplegia much less remain optimistic. I used to think about him lying there, unable even to breathe on his own, and I couldn’t imagine how he stayed occupied. Movies? A fish tank? Recorded books? Visits from the rich and powerful? It boggled me, and always put me in mind of Peggy’s aunt who became a quadriplegic after her second suicide attempt. If life isn’t worth living when you’re healthy, ending up like her has got to be as near hell as most of us will get, at least in this life. She’s dead now. Ate herself to death. I suppose the bright side to quadriplegia is that, even if you take care of yourself, you don’t probably won’t have to put up with it for too many years.

I wonder what would have happened had Peggy’s quadriplegic aunt took it into her head to kill herself with drink instead of food. In theory, she would have the right, but in actuality, it would require an accomplice, and who would keep giving booze to a quadriplegic? The same people who gave her food, I suppose. I know I would. After all, why not? I had rather give her booze than food because if there is one thing more unaesthetic than a quadriplegic, it’s a fat quadriplegic. Besides, the alcohol might comfort her more.

Ah, but she might puke! I never thought of that. A fat, puking quadriplegic. What a vision. Sounds like a painting by Picasso.

Wright and Ellison and what I didn't learn in Mississippi schools

I just finished Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison and am well into Native Son by Richard Wright. Both were well-known black writers from decades ago, but whose existence was unknown to me until recently despite nineteen years of formal education and despite Richard Wright having grown up in Mississippi sixty miles from my boyhood home. Ralph Ellison, I heard of two months ago on NPR. Richard Wright, I heard of last month on Jeopardy. Why, I wondered would a Jeopardy contestant know the name of a veritable neighbor of mine whom I had never heard of—prejudice?

I read a passage from Native Son to Peggy. It was about two teenagers masturbating in a theater. Well, duh, said Peggy, maybe you never heard of him in school because he was vulgar. “No,” I objected. “They could have done him like they did all the white writers. They could have left the objectionable passages out of textbooks, knowing full well that not one kid in a thousand would go to the library looking for more. Besides, the books of a sexually explicit black writer wouldn’t have been in a white library.”

Really pisses me off that somebody on Jeopardy knew the name of a gifted Mississippi writer when I did not. Makes me wonder what else my teachers failed to mention. Ironically, both of these authors focused upon the fact that being black in their day MEANT being invisible. I can support this assertion by pointing out that the only black person who I remember reading ANYTHING by during my nineteen years in school was George Washington Carver, and that was only an excerpt from his autobiography. Every school kid knew that he was born a slave, was tutored by benevolent white people, was emancipated by another white person, and invented peanut butter at a college that was funded by white people. Such was my education in black history.

Now comes Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison, and I am having nightmares. They are simply too damn good at showing me a world that I grew up in the middle of yet never knew existed. My only hint of that world came from the fact that I ended my friendship with every black man with whom I ever became close once I realized how he really felt about my race.

I get a letter meant for Michael

A letter came yesterday that was addressed to my former neighbor, Michael. It looked like an invitation of some kind. I took it and another letter along when I ran errands. As I drove, I was sorely tempted to toss Michael’s letter in the trash because I do not like Michael. The one store that had a mailbox out front was the last on my list, so I had a lot of time to think about that letter and what I wanted to do with it. I went over the matter thoroughly, and pleasurably, without coming to a conclusion.

When I got to the store, I saw that there was a trashcan between me and the mailbox, and, if I had only had Michael’s letter, the trashcan was where it would have gone. But since I had to walk to the mailbox anyway, I put his letter there too—and instantly regretted it. I even had an impulse to break into the mailbox to get it back.

Aside from having to mail my own letter anyway, I re-mailed his largely because throwing it away seemed piddling, tacky. If the envelope had contained something significant—say his income tax refund—it would have ended up on the sidewalk in the part of town known as Felony Flats. But an an invitation? Let it pass.

One might ask if I didn’t feel better by having done the right thing. Well, no, because I can never convince myself that doing good by my enemies is the right thing. I want my enemies to suffer, and I want to help it happen. In the absence of reconciliation, this is as true of someone who wronged me forty years ago as it is of someone who wronged me today. I don’t feel that I have to get along with people, but in the face of egregious or persistent harm, my patience runs out.

My own vengefulness inspires me to treat other people better than I might otherwise do, because I don’t want other people lying in wait for me as I lie in wait for some of them. I show respect and helpfulness for anyone who is not my enemy, mostly because it pleases me to please others, but also because I never know who might be in a position to harm or help me somewhere down the line. I am especially courteous—or at least tolerant—toward the many bicyclists and pedestrians who pass my house, including the ones who litter and steal flowers, because they know where I live.

I recognize that my vengefulness is an immoral attitude, but what is morality other than those rules inculcated by society for its own benefit, rules that: (a) sometimes harm the individual who accepts them, and which (b) society itself feels no need to obey (if I kill my neighbor because I hate him, I am a murderer; if I kill my neighbor because the government tells me to, I am a patriot). No, I prefer to determine my own morality, at least to the extent that it is possible. I doubt that any of us have the capacity to be truly self-defined, but the other way would have us not think, to accept on faith that someone else, whether it be the church, the government, the author of an old book, our parents, or the leaders of some club or gang, is in a better position to make decisions about what is good for us than we are. I would only suggest that one look at the fate of their followers.

“Why, their fates aren’t always so bad,” one might say. No, they are not. Conformity has its rewards. It is often ill advised to defy authority even if that authority is wicked or foolish. But there is an in-between place where the authorities are absent or powerless. This is where freedom lies for people who refuse to internalize the edicts of those who claim the right to control them.

Trust?

Peggy and I cashed $30,000 in government bonds this week. They looked good when we got them—secure, paid decent interest, added diversity to our portfolio—but the rate dropped so we converted them into a CD at a credit union. I would have bought stocks with the money, but Peggy insisted on a CD, and 5.5% is good right now.

The credit union lady was mischievous. When she got to the part of the application about how the account was to be listed—whether one of us could clean the other out, or we both would have to sign for the money—she looked from one to the other, as if to ask, “What’s it going to be—are you two gutsy enough to jump from the high board?”

Money represents ultimate trust. Some think ultimate trust is be represented by something like rope climbing with a partner, but it is not ordinarily in the self-interest of your climbing partner to kill you. Others might think ultimate trust would be represented by choosing a heart surgeon, but again, treachery would not serve the other party.

Peggy used to have a whole life policy on me. I never understood this since she could have carried on financially without undue burden, and because whole life is a lousy investment unless the insured party dies prematurely. I knew that her father had whole life policies on everyone in her family (he gave the policies to his daughters when they grew up), so I laid the decision off to her respect for his prudence. She has often encouraged me to take out life insurance on her, what with her being the breadwinner and me being barely employable. “What would you do without me?” she asks. “I would live frugally,” I answer.

So, no, there is no financial reason for either of us to murder the other unless we were so greedy as to want the house. Everything else could be had with a few clicks of the mouse. My trust in Peggy is such that if she cleaned me out, I would probably kill myself. But if I cleaned her out, I suspect she would kill me. I can just hear her talking to herself as she sat in front of a computerized spreadsheet with zeros at the bottom.

“I’ve put up with a lot from that son-of-a-bitch. He drank; he did drugs; he’s certifiably insane; twice he nearly went to jail; he never held a job for over four years; he not only womanized near home, he left me for months at a time so he could womanize in exotic places, all while I earned him a paycheck. But now this. Thirty-five years of hard work and savings gone. And for what—a new generation of whores? I’ve been kind, loyal, tolerant, and even loving for two generations, but, by god, this time I’m going to nail him.”

“Ah, trust, it’s a beautiful thing.” When I say these words to Peggy, she just looks at me. She’s never been much of a talker, and her silences are unsettling. “When you don’t talk, I don’t know what you’re thinking,” I say. “I’m not thinking anything,” she answers.

Yes, trust. Sometimes, in some situations, I think that one or both of two things must be true: Peggy’s lying (or doesn’t know her true feelings), or I’m crazy. I think this because I cannot make her words mesh with my reality. Since I know I’m crazy—regardless of whether or not she’s lying—I’m really only stumped about whether she’s lying in a given situation.

Paris Hilton and the monk who grabbed a bush

As I was buying gas for the lawn mower today, I had the thought that buying gas for her mower probably isn’t something that Paris Hilton does very often. If I had paparazzi six-deep lining the street out front, and three helicopter loads of paparazzi circling overhead, mowing the grass wouldn’t be the same for me either. I usually mow in paint-spattered pants with a zipper that won’t stay up, so that could be a problem right there—all those telephoto lens catching a view of old underwear and flashing it (pardon the pun) around the globe.

The thing that interests me most about Paris Hilton is how much people care about her. You might say they care for all the wrong reasons, but they still care—at least to the extent of being interested. If I died tomorrow, I would get a small write-up in the back of the local paper alongside the twenty or so other people who just died in Eugene. A longer obituary or a postage-stamp size photo would cost extra.

My entire life is of less interest to my fellow human beings (en masse) than how Paris Hilton’s hair looked in court (messy ponytail). This is true of nearly everyone. No matter how much we achieve or what obstacles we overcome, our lives are of less concern to society than the life of a twenty-something heiress who is possibly alcoholic, probably not too bright, and without any obvious talents. So has it always been. Even in the history books, few are remembered, and a large percentage of them for their silliness if not their evil.

But as with all things, there are different ways of looking at it. For all that Paris Hilton has, she can only find privacy indoors. She is not only followed, she is mobbed. No quiet walks in the moonlight; no tranquil moments in the forest; no possibility of taking a class or joining a club. The sad thing about Paris Hilton—and most of us, I suspect—is that we could have done so much more. Or at least, it looks as if we could have done so much more. What stopped us? If I were to die today—and I had the time and inclination to ponder my life first—I would feel awfully bad that I did so little and that so much of that was ill-advised. Sometimes it seems as my days are but a succession of missed opportunities.

Why is this? Two reasons. One is that I have little faith in what I perceive as my talents (or at least in society’s interest in my talents), and the other is that I have few standards by which to judge what is important. Should I write a book, start a school, or devote my life to rescuing abandoned dogs? I feel paralyzed by a surfeit of options.

I have garnered a great deal of practical wisdom about the details of living, but I know next to nothing about why I should live, about why any of us should live. I’ve read various versions of a story that goes like this:

A monk falls off a cliff. He grabs a bush on the way down, but, as he hangs there, he sees that the bush is about to come out by its roots. However, the bush contains a plum, and the monk plucks that plum, and eats it. He thinks it might be the best plum he has ever tasted.

The trick is to believe that the plum matters, but does it? I don’t think “matters” is a quality that exists. Like beauty, it is a subjective valuation that has no reality in the external world. Instead of enjoying the plum, the monk might have spent his last moments in terror. The plum was more pleasant, but was it more important? What would make it more important?

Windy Pass and the end of mountain biking

Peggy and I gave up on trail biking after I fell into a hole that formerly housed the root ball of a Douglas Fir. I estimated the depth at twenty-two feet, although Peggy insisted that it was closer to four (my estimate being more reliable because I got to examine the hole from above, below, and in-between). I was extremely pleased to escape with nothing worse than superficial cuts and bruises.

Our decision to avoid trails was not based solely upon my accident, but upon the absence of any really favorable experiences. Trails are for people who are less prone to injury, more prone to recovery, and who seek a different sort of experience. We go to the woods to enjoy the scenery and the plant-life, activities that are incompatible with having to keep our eyes on the ground.

After my wreck, we drove to an isolated road where we camped, biked, and botanized for two days. I also started a trip diary containing a critique of the roads we bike. The following is my first entry.

Saddle Blanket Mtn area (moderate)
June 7-8, 2007

Road 1802 from Windy Pass (3800’) NW to intersection with Road 1824 (3000’). Appx 10 miles. Southwestern exposure.

3-mile stretch between Windy Pass and abandoned Spur 210 goes up and down. Rest of trip downhill but not excessively steep. Low cliffs, numerous waterfalls, panoramic views, two abandoned quarries, and diverse flora mark first half of trip. Second half contains increasingly dense woods.

Secluded, scenic campsite on point at end of abandoned Spur 210, appx 3 miles from Windy Pass. Other area roads badly overgrown.

Sec17 Twn20S Rng 03E to Sec26 Twn19S Rng02E

Angry dogs, marital challenges, and the healing power of tooth paste

The dogs are mad because I haven’t taken them for a run. They ran ten mountainous miles yesterday, and I say that that should cover for today too. They disagree. Like everyone, dogs develop expectations, and my dogs expect a four-mile run everyday. “Just let me have today off, please?” I ask. “Feckless bastard,” Bonnie answers. “Pusillanimous son of a bitch,” intones Baxter. (I’ll never get used to the way modern dogs talk to their masters.)

“What do the two of you know about my mother? She was dead years before you were born, but if you had known her, you would have loved her. She would have accused me of never feeding you, and would have given you treats until you were as bloated as wood ticks. ‘Mother,’ I would have said. ‘They act hungry because they are DOGS, and dogs are GLUTTONS. They no longer have waists, for god’s sakes. Can’t you see that?’” No, she couldn’t have.

The partially remodeled den is a mess. Sheetrock dust everywhere. The house is beyond needing to be cleaned, but there’s no point in cleaning it until I’m done making dust. If I could devote full time to the den, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I had a Masonic meeting today and an IOOF one tomorrow, and then there was yesterday’s bike ride in the mountains. It’s 10:00 p.m., and I’m tired. I just want to relax and write a little before I eat a late supper and bike home with Peggy when she gets off at midnight. That’s why I don’t want to take the dogs for a run. Besides, I have a rash down below, right where groin hits bike seat. Something fungal maybe. Peggy suggested herpes. “You would know,” I retorted, as I wondered where the hell she thought I would have picked up herpes. She advised that I put toothpaste on the rash. Peggy is a big believer in toothpaste. “Will I grow teeth down there?” I asked. “Only if I grow teeth on my nose,” she said, and I wondered why she had toothpaste on her nose. Like the comment about herpes, a lot doesn’t get addressed in a marriage. Sometimes, the conversation moves too quickly; other times, the potential querier simply doesn’t want to know.

Peggy’s speculation that I might have herpes wouldn’t seem to fit either of these categories, but what might I have said: “Dear, do you think I’m fooling around on you?” Well, yes, I might have said that, and she would have probably said that the thought had crossed her mind, me having done exactly that kind of thing a couple of dozen times by now. Then I would have been obliged to assure her that she was wrong. But I did assure her that she was wrong with my “you would know” remark and my look of surprise. I wisely cut out the rest, the tedium of a discussion about a non-existent liaison.

We did discuss her coming trip to France. I am opposed to it, but what would be the good of insisting that she stay home; of insisting that she avoid plane crashes, crazy motorists, Arab terrorists, scam artists, transcontinental germs, an outrageous financial expenditure, the silliness of attending an opera and touring Mozart’s house when she has never been to Eugene’s opera or listened to Mozart on her own stereo? Maybe she would stay home, but I would have become the poop of her party, the rain on her parade, the despoiler of a “special once-in-a-lifetime trip” with her sister and Francophile niece.

Marriage is terribly limiting, terribly restrictive, so there’s no point in making it worse than need be. Therefore and wheretofore, I have to give her space to go to France. “It won’t break us,” as she’s fond of saying, and I know that, in all likelihood, she will survive—and maybe even avoid the flu, and maybe even have a good time. After all, it’s France. Not the Middle East. Not some bacteria-riddled dump in the tropics. It’s France. They’re civilized and sanitary over there. Maybe even more than we are here. I wouldn’t know. I’m unlikely to ever see France. I’m content with Oregon. I love that which is at hand simply because it is at hand.

Do I have no curiosity then about the history, culture, and natural aspects of a faraway place? Am I THAT provincial? Well, if I won a trip to France, I would probably go (that is if I couldn’t sell the trip to someone else), but otherwise, it wouldn’t occur to me. Peggy doesn’t like it that I am this way, but the secret of a happy marriage is not so much in shared preferences but in accepting—if not delighting in—your partner’s differences.

Right now, her desire to go to France is a difference that I am finding hard to accept. She will be halfway around the world, and what if she needs me, or I need her, or what if some catastrophe should make it impossible for her to come home. I won’t rest easy until next she’s back.

Bitchy, dogs, France, toothpaste for herpes

The dogs are pissy, because I haven’t taken them for a run. They ran ten mountainous miles yesterday, and I say that that should cover for today too. They disagree. Like everyone, dogs develop expectations, and my dogs expect a four-mile run everyday. “Just let me have today off, please?” I ask. “Feckless bastard,” Bonnie answers. “Pusillanimous son of a bitch,” intones Baxter. (I’ll never get used to the way modern dogs talk to their masters.)

“What do the two of you know about my mother? She was dead years before you were born, but if you had known her, you would have loved her. She would have accused me of never feeding you, and would have given you treats until you were as bloated as wood ticks. ‘Mother,’ I would have said. ‘They act hungry because they are DOGS, and dogs are GLUTTONS. They no longer have waists, for god’s sakes. Can’t you see that?’” No, she couldn’t have.

The partially remodeled den is a mess. Sheetrock dust everywhere. The house is beyond needing to be cleaned, but there’s no point in cleaning it until I’m done making dust. If I could devote full time to the den, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I had a Masonic meeting today and an IOOF one tomorrow, and then there was yesterday’s bike ride in the mountains. It’s 10:00 p.m., and I’m tired. I just want to relax and write a little before I eat a late supper and bike home with Peggy when she gets off at midnight. That’s why I don’t want to take the dogs for a run. Besides, I have a rash down below, right where groin hits bike seat. Something fungal maybe. Peggy suggested herpes. “You would know,” I retorted, as I wondered where the hell she thought I would have picked up herpes. She advised that I put toothpaste on the rash. Peggy is a big believer in toothpaste. “Will I grow teeth down there?” I asked. “Only if I grow teeth on my nose,” she said, and I wondered why she had toothpaste on her nose. Like the comment about herpes, a lot doesn’t get addressed in a marriage. Sometimes, the conversation moves too quickly; other times, the potential querier simply doesn’t want to know.

Peggy’s speculation that I might have herpes wouldn’t seem to fit either of these categories, but what might I have said: “Dear, do you think I’m fooling around on you?” Well, yes, I might have said that, and she would have probably said that the thought had crossed her mind, me having done exactly that kind of thing a couple of dozen times by now. Then I would have been obliged to assure her that she was wrong. But I did assure her that she was wrong with my “you would know” remark and my look of surprise. I wisely cut out the rest, the tedium of a discussion about a non-existent liaison.

We did discuss her coming trip to France. I am opposed to it, but what would be the good of insisting that she stay home; of insisting that she avoid plane crashes, crazy motorists, Arab terrorists, scam artists, transcontinental germs, an outrageous financial expenditure, the silliness of attending an opera and touring Mozart’s house when she has never been to Eugene’s opera or listened to Mozart on her own stereo? Maybe she would stay home, but I would have become the poop of her party, the rain on her parade, the despoiler of a “special once-in-a-lifetime trip” with her sister and Francophile niece.

Marriage is terribly limiting, terribly restrictive, so there’s no point in making it worse than need be. Therefore and wheretofore, I have to give her space to go to France. “It won’t break us,” as she’s fond of saying, and I know that, in all likelihood, she will survive—and maybe even avoid the flu, and maybe even have a good time. After all, it’s France. Not the Middle East. Not some bacteria-riddled dump in the tropics. It’s France. They’re civilized and sanitary over there. Maybe even more than we are here. I wouldn’t know. I’m unlikely to ever see France. I’m content with Oregon. I love that which is at hand simply because it is at hand.

Do I have no curiosity then about the history, culture, and natural aspects of a faraway place? Am I THAT provincial? Well, if I won a trip to France, I would probably go (that is if I couldn’t sell the trip to someone else), but otherwise, it wouldn’t occur to me. Peggy doesn’t like it that I am this way, but the secret of a happy marriage is not so much in shared preferences but in accepting—if not delighting in—your partner’s differences.

Right now, her desire to go to France is a difference that I am finding hard to accept. She will be halfway around the world, and what if she needs me, or I need her, or what if some catastrophe should make it impossible for her to come home. I won’t rest easy until next she’s back.