AUNT LYNN

So New Year’s Eve is very nearly upon us.  And for the past TWO WEEKS – I have once again been sickly and just generally not up to par.   Oh, yeah – everyone’s got the same take: “There’s something going around…”  “This weather doesn’t help matters…”  blah blah blah… BUT – with this mornings’s millionth coughing spasm, something else dawned on me:  DETOX.  And not the kinda detox you might think, either. 

The word was thrown at me by a lady named Cynthia.  Now, Cynthia is one uniquely beautiful lady.   She’s a powerful energy healer and a spiritualist who I was serendipitously led to several summers ago while up at our mountain retreat.   I have incredible love, respect and admiration for Cynthia.  Meeting her has helped to bring about some profound changes in the way I now look at the world and my responsibility within it. 

So ANYway, this week while I’m singin’ the damn blues on FACEBOOK about how sick I’m feeling, etc., CYNTHIA simply posts in reply: “Detox, baby, detox.”  Took me a second to take that in, and then – WHAM - don’t ya know, that healer-babe is right on the money AGAIN.  It’s literally SOUL  detox, a mandatory slow-down of my whole system that manifests in the purging of toxins.   This happened to me when I was on autumn vacation at the cabin just a few months back, too.  Dunno if any of you recall those BLOG tales of woe…but…SAME  THING.   

On further examination, these DETOX’s definitely AND ALWAYS match up with pivotal emotional revelations and thorny life lessons.  Not easy, pain-free stuff but totally worth-it stuff.  

As soon as I come to grips with this perspective,  I quit fighting my own healing process.  I’ve been (literally) snowed under in my own sickly gloom, and the only writing I’ve been doing (if you wanna call it that) is to complain on goddamn FACEBOOK.  Also, I checked out that show ‘HOARDERS’ on NETFLIX, which made me want to hit myself in the head with a hammer.   Note to Me:  LYNN, THIS STUFF IS NOT HELPING YOU!!  What a fucking loser! 

Wait, ouch.  I mean, I am NOT a loser.  I am trying here.  Let’s cut me a break, alright?   Because suddenly I feel a lot better and I also feel like telling a little Pre-New Year story.  And I’m gonna do that right now.  Yooz just watch me.

I told the following story to Cynthia (and few other select friends) back in 2008.  She loved it, and I do, too.  Hope you guys enjoy it.

* * * * *

It was the early days of our courtship, and I had just moved in with Chris.  One night, I have one of my lucid dreams.  In this dream I behold a hideous gargoyle-type face, which is communicating to me telepathically.  This gargoyle thingy calls itself  ‘AUNT LYNN’.  So there I was, kinda captive with this Aunt Lynn thing before me, just this shuddering, malformed head: {{{{  I’M AUNT LYNN – AUNT LYNN – AUNT LYNN }}}}.  A real freak-show.   Very David Lynch.

I wake with a start.  “JEEZ!”  But then I start laughing because it all seems so wacky.  Chris wakes up and asks me what’s so funny.  I relay the dream to him, trying my best to describe the Aunt Lynn Creature.

Me:  “It had these horns coming out of the sides of it’s face and these bizarre, rubbery arches on it’s forehead…”

Chris: “Just draw it.  Draw it right now, while it’s fresh in your mind!”

So I do.  And I take it one step further.  In an effort to draw Aunt Lynn specifically from memory, I sketch it with my eyes closed – sort of like ‘automatic writing’, but I guess you’d call this ‘automatic drawing’. 

I examine my finished sketch and I’m pretty surprised by how accurately it resembles the figure in my dream - down to nearly every detail.  Also, as a halfway-decent sketch artist, I am struck by how this drawing looks NOTHING like my own style of drawing.  It is literally a total stranger’s style of sketching and to this day it’s hard for me to believe that I drew this thing. 

Anyhow, we got a real good laugh at that drawing. It just looked so crazy.  Then Chris safely puts it away between the pages of his personal address/telephone book where it remained for about 12 years.   Every so often, maybe twice a year, when he looks up a phone number or an address, he’ll flip a page and come across the sketch of Aunt Lynn.   Invariably, he holds it up to cheerfully exclaim: “Look honey!  It’s good ole’ Aunt Lynn!”  

OKAY FAST-FORWARD  12 YEARS TO  MARCH 13, 2008. 

By now, me and Chris have been married for nearly 9 years.  It’s early evening, and as usual I get home from work first.  After walking the dogs, I’m settling in with a cup of tea when the doorbell rings.  It’s my father-in-law with a small plastic shopping bag.   Seems he has been cleaning out the family attic and came across a few things that me and Chris might want:  Some bandanas and a small ceramic sculpture that Chris made way back in 1977 for one of his art school assignments.   I thank DAD and he’s off.

I sit down, open the little bag, take out the bandanas.  They are ordinary in every way except for one of them, which is neatly folded on the top of the pile.  It’s light beige with a distinctive orange flowery design.  Looking down at it, a lump immediately forms in my throat.

The only other bandana like this that I have ever seen belonged to my dog Girlie, who had been my best friend in the world for 16 years.  I still have her old bandana like this one.  It’s so faded and thread-bare that I keep it folded in a special little cosmetic case.  I bring it along with me on all of our travels as a good-luck totem and so that I can touch it occasionally and hold Girlie close to my heart always.

Ever since Girlie passed away almost 13 years ago, I have looked for a bandana like the one she wore.  Searched army/navy stores, bodegas, even online where one would think you could find ANYTHING.  Never could find it.  And now here it was – in my hands.  I could almost sense Girlie in the fabric and I felt as if she had climbed on to my lap and put her head on my shoulder.   It was a very real sensation.  It’s not something that I can easily put into words, probably because I don’t suppose there are words for how that felt.

As I sit absorbed in remembrance of my dear old friend, Chris comes home.  He’s like, What’s up with you?  I happily relay my ‘Girlie’s bandana’ story and, as always, he is an obliging audience to another installment of  MY WIFE’S INCREDIBLE (OR NOT REALLY ALL THAT INCREDIBLE) HAPPENINGS.   

But he’s happy that I’m happy, ‘cuz that’s just the kinda dude he is.  So then I remember that there’s something for him in the bag, too - “Oh, and there’s an old art project of yours in that bag, too.  I didn’t look at it yet.”

Chris takes his time taking his coat off and getting himself a drink of water, etc.  He settles down to look inside the bag and by this time I'm sitting across from him on the sofa reading, new bandana on my lap.  I’m not paying much attention until Chris goes: “Here, look at this.”  He is holding a little chunk of glazed ceramic out in front of him.  From where I sit, it’s just a mud-colored, misshapen lump.

I hold out my hand and take it from him.  When I look down at it, I feel my hand – or maybe my entire body? -  vibrating.  I can’t articulate what I think I’m seeing at first, but then I hear myself ask Chris: “Do you know what this is?” And without missing a beat, Chris replies, half-questioning, half-deadpan: “Sure.  It’s  ‘Aunt Lynn, right?’

I will be damned if this thing is not the sculpture embodiment of my dream-sketch from those many years ago.  The thing is, Chris actually created the piece in 1977. That’s 31 years ago and long before we ever met. 

Side note:  My niece Livvy was born the same year that me and Chris met, and she is the first child in our family to start calling me ‘Aunt Lynn’.  Now, hopefully this does not mean that Livvy views me as a gargoyle, because I like to think that the kid is kinda fond of me. 

But who cares what this all means, anyhow!?!   I just know that there’s somethin’ about it I like!

* * * * * *

Okay, so here’s to all of us having a Healthy-and-Healing New Year.  Be kind to Mother Earth.  Happy and Prosperous.  Love one other and our fellow creatures.   We are all works in progress and it’s all good.  

And of course, many thanks to dear Cynthia.  This gal is the real-healer-deal.  She offers free bi-monthly distant energy healing, but she is also available for intensive one-on-one healing as well.  If anybody wants to contact her directly with regard to one-on-one energy healing, please write me privately and I will do my part in helping to hook you up. 

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR from AUNT LYNN!

KNUCKLES

SO what do I do after posting my last BLOG  installment (over a week ago), wherein I’m trumpeting about how much I looooove to write?  I stop posting.  Now see here, I do have something of an excuse for this and while it’s nothing I wish to burden everyone with, it has to do with a deadline for another writing assignment which just might lead to actual, honest-to-Goddess printed publication.   Rule of thumb for this writer:  Real-world publication (as opposed to cyber-world) always comes first. 

And I’ve also had a bad cold, but that just sounds whiny.  Anyhow, HERE I AM BACK ON THE BLOG SCENE.  Let the rejoicing commence.  

APARTMENT BUILDING DWELLING:   It can be interesting.  We last left off with my husband’s rich and multi-dimensional poem RICHMOND HALL, with its numerous depictions of the myriad curious characters who we once shared a building with.    Many of you were kind enough to send in your queries and after careful consideration, I have decided to contemplate herewith a neighbor-woman who we used to charmingly refer to as ‘Knuckles’.  (Not to her face, you understand.)

Knuckles was a lady, perhaps in her late 70’s.  So her name wasn’t really Knuckles, of course.  I’m getting to that.  Seems like she was probably a spinster, but who knows. Coulda been widowed or maybe the guy (or gal) ran for the hills.   Kept herself neat as a pin.  A tallish lass – kinda gangly, like a farmer’s wife or something - whatever a farmer’s wife is.  Sturdy yet brittle.  Short, fuzzy grey hair.  Sometimes wore glasses, not all the time.  Same with the bright pink lipstick, sometimes.  Her clothes were old-fashioned and girlish in a bizarre way.  She dressed herself up like an oversized Shirley Temple doll or some shit.  Well, anyhow…

When I moved in with Chris in the summer of 1996, he had been living in the building for nearly 16 years and already had a bit of reputation for playing his stereo really, really loud.  Not every night, but often enough.   But a lot of the folks who lived in the building at that time were somewhat elderly and on the deaf side, and it didn’t really matter so much.  Not so with Knuckles, who lived on the same floor and merely one thin wall away.

On the day I brought my piano out of storage and into Chris’ apartment,  I remember seeing Knuckles hovering in her adjacent doorway looking nervous as the instrument was being traipsed up the 3 flights of marble stairs by two tiny (and extremely skillful) Korean piano-moving dudes.  I think I tried to say hello to her but she wouldn’t make eye contact with me.  Just before she ducked into her apartment and shut the door, I could hear her muttering tensely: “A piano.  Tsk.  Tsk.  A piano.  Oh, oh, OH...A PIANO.”  Like I was bringing in a casket filled with sewage.  

I would soon get used to the fact that Knuckles would never speak to me or look at me directly.  Chris was her sole contact person in Apartment 3B.  Hey - fine with me, lady…

Knuckles starts earning her nickname right off the bat.   When we play music too loud, she raps sharply on our living room wall.  And yeah, sure, it’s kinda understandable.   We do our best to accommodate her and lower the volume.  But soon there’s a new development. 

One mid-morning, as my man and I were enjoying ourselves and each other in the boudoir (not very loud, mind you, completely reasonably.  No screaming or headboard-slamming or anything like that), we realize that Knuckles is now rapping on our bedroom wall – that same insistent, sharp rap that she uses on our living room wall for her stereo complaints.  It takes us a few seconds to realize what the hell that noise is.  We stop and listen.  Rap rap RAP… Rap-rap-rap-rap-rap-RAP.  

Okay, you wanna talk TURN-OFF?  This old broad is now a couple of slivers of dividing wall away from our BED…actually - our HEADS ?? - and she is BANGING on the wall while we’re having a little happy pre-noon nooky?  You have got ta be fucking KIDDING me! 

So this gets me riled.  Maybe it’s because the landlord from my last apartment turned out to be a complete freak and I’m still a little sensitive.  But in any case, I am now pounding the wall right back at Knuckles and yelling: “UNLESS YOU’RE FUCKING DYING IN THERE AND YOU NEED AN AMBULANCE, YOU BETTER CUT THE SHIT, LADY.  ONE KNOCK FOR AMBULANCE, NO KNOCKS FOR  SHUT  THE  FUCK  UP!  GOT IT?!” 

Chris tells me to calm down, but he’s laughing: “Don’t let her bother you, she’s all pent-up.”  Ok, whatever.  But then it gets out of control.  Yes, she still raps and knocks when we play the stereo.  But soon she starts doing it when we’re CONVERSING.  Or laughing at a movie.  Or when I play the piano.  She’s a shut-in, is ALWAYS at home and is obsessed with keeping us quiet.  She just bangs the shit outta that wall all the frigging time, but ALWAYS and ESPECIALLY when we’re having sex.  Doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is.  Knuckles The Wall Nazi is always on duty:  NO SEX FOR YOU!

One afternoon we’re getting cozy and all is pretty peaceful but then the phone rings.  Chris answers it.

Chris: “Hello?”

Knucks:  “Yes, this is the Girl Next Door.”

Chris: “The Girl Next Door?”

Knucks: “Yes, you know me.  The Girl Next Door.”

Chris: “You mean my neighbor right here in the building? The woman that always bangs on my wall?”

Knucks: “Yes.  The Girl Next Door.”

Chris: “Ummm…Ok?  And why exactly are you calling me?”

Knucks: “Please don’t start in again.  I can hear you.”

Chris: “Excuse me?”

Knucks: “I can hear you starting up again.”

Chris: “Let me get this straight.  Because I think what you’re saying is that you OBJECT to me making love to my wife?” (We weren’t married yet, but it sounded good, I guess.  Stronger bargaining point, the WIFE thing.)

Knucks: “Now please.  Don’t speak that way to me.”

Chris (voice raising):  “You listen to ME, Miss.  I pay rent for this apartment.  It is absolutely insane the way you carry on and it is none of your business when or where I make love to my wife, aside from the fact that it is completely OUTRAGEOUS that you would think you have the right to BANG on my walls at all hours of the day and night…”

Knucks (gasping): “Oh, oh, oh.  Don’t speak that way.  Don’t!” 

I can’t resist piping in at this point and I shout from across the room:

“YOU BETTER HANG ON TO YOUR  PANTIES THEN,  SISTER, BECAUSE WE AIN’T EVEN GOT STARTED YET!”

Chris cuts this short, tells Knuckles she should invest in a pair of earplugs.  He’s even helpful about it - “They got 'em down at the GENOVESE…”  before gently hanging up on her. 

She stops her shenanigans for the rest of THAT evening, but by the next morning she is up to her old tricks again.  We do our best to ignore her.  Then one day we come home from shopping.  Chris is behind me, I’m already inside putting bags down and I  hear Knuckles opening her door to speak to him privately. 

Knucks:  “Please keep it down tonight.  My hand hurts.”

Chris: “Excuse me?”

Knucks: “My hand.  From knocking because of all your noises.”

Chris: “Oh.  Hmmmm.  Well, are you just using the one hand?  Because maybe if you switch off and use the other hand now and again, you won’t wear the one hand out so bad.”

Knuckles: “I DO use both hands.  They BOTH HURT.”

Chris: “Aw.  Well, do you have a wooden spoon or even just a regular stick?  Take a nice walk up to Forest Park one of these days and pick yourself out a nice STICK.  And then use THAT.”

Can anyone in their right mind EVER question why I adore this man?

Anyhow, all told Knuckles flew the coop about a year after I got there.  It was a magical year, for sure.  Chris got the whole scoop from her (if you can call it that) a couple of days before her moving van came.  Seems she was going out to Nevada, to be in the middle of the desert.  Weird non-story:  Some relatives were shipping her out there or some damn thing. 

Chris: “So you’ll finally be happy!  You’ll be out in the middle of nowhere.”

Knucks: “Yes.  I’ll be where it’s QUIET.”

I always thought Knuckles’ departure from Richmond Hall to be mysterious and even kinda eerie.  Did she really go out to the desert to live alone among the sand dunes, armadillos and scorpions or whatever it is that crawls around out there?   I can almost picture her bumbling around in her frilly Shirley Temple outfit, painstakingly negotiating the barren wilderness, knocking on some poor unsuspecting nomad’s tent in the middle of the night to complain about the NOISE.   I wonder if they’ll be as charitable to her as we were.  (We were charitable, weren’t we?  My guilty Catholic-girl upbringing makes me wonder about that, too.)

So there you have it, BLOG pals.  A Heart-Warming Yuletide Tale, from me to you. 

A quick note to you all – firstly, to wish you a most beautiful Holiday Season and a wonderful, healthy, marvelous New Year.  And a huge THANK YOU to everyone who private-messaged me with regard to missing my BLOG posts this past week.  I feel overwhelmed and so grateful to actually be missed!  Wow! 

To paraphrase everyone’s favorite Icon of Winged Holiness:  “You like me!  You really like me!” 

  And I like yooz, too.  Merry Christmas!

Well, HI-dee-HO - what do yaz know and w’assup!   Ahhhh…I gotta say, my BLOG THING has become a source of joy and inspiration to me, and I love you guys and gals who bring it on.   As Sandra Bernhard likes to say: Without You, I’m Nothing.  Which is a blessing because I absolutely love writing.   It’s a genuine fact that writing is my first love, even before I became a bona fide musician.  Which I really love too, of course, but they’re different types of loves and when you have two great loves in your life, well…let’s face it – what’s not to LOVE?  I really LOVE that!  Hey!  A Third!

But I’m not the only writer in the house, O no, not by a long shot.  It’s a little-known fact that my husband Chris happens to write poetry.   I have to beg him to write, because he’s a really laid-back kinda guy.  But once he picks up a pencil, the prose literally spews forth so effortlessly that it’s really quite extraordinary.  In my own humble opinion, he has never produced a poem that I haven’t found to be just tremendous.  Now, I’m serious here.  Lest you think differently.

As you know, last I wrote on this blog, it was the story of my 15-year friendship with my bud, Hiram.  While it was a necessary, emotional and dare I say holy experience to have recorded and shared that friendship with you, I have been needing to lighten things up a tad for my next blog venture.  I came up with the following idea. 

One of Chris’ more epic poems was inspired by the old, 3-story apartment building we used to live in.  The cast of characters coming and going from that place were completely insane.  Or, I don’t know – were they normal and WE were insane?  I don’t think so.  No. Many were definitely insane.  Others perhaps simply eccentric.  But they all have one thing in common, and it’s that they each hold their own very special story in our hearts. 

And so, I will proudly post – with his halting, modest permission - Chris’ poem, grandly entitled Richmond Hall, which was his unofficial name for said apartment building.  But here’s the kicker:  I am also herewith posting a reader-interactive invitation to YOU, dear blog-pal…

 I don’t expect the characters or the situations in this poem to make a helluva lot of sense to you off the bat.  But indulge me.  Read the poem, and if there is a particular character or phrase that jumps out at you which you’d like me to describe with a wee anecdote of my own, kindly let me know.  Because I promise you, there are stories.  Oh, there are stories.

Without further adieu, I bring you: 

Richmond Hall

Grandma Q.  How do you do?

Alex George, why are you so poor?

Why, Shit-smeller, what’s got your goat?

That smell ain’t me –

It’s that pig-bowel stew you cook every week.

Here’s a well-dressed young couple,

New to the building.

How are you today?

Hello?  Hello?

Can’t you hear me?

Oh, well.  It’s just the coloreds.

We have to forgive them.

Who’s this pulling up in a

Money-green Jag?

Why, it’s Sweet Little Buttercup

And his snarling pit bull wife.

The Clarks!

“Pack your bags!”

“I’m calling my lawyer!”

“Which one are you?”

I’m feeling more and more at home.

“Witting, not enough air,

Not enough air!”

Raffy, what is wrong with your little boy?

Vince, why are you shooting at the alley cats?

Please stop – you might just hit

Surrogate Mom.

Hi, ugly weirdo sisters next door.

Mind your tongues

Or my wife will have to

Kick your fucking asses!

C.C. Rider, please save me a parking space.

Hi, neighbor.  I love your little puppy-bear.

Would you like to borrow a dog crate for training?

Your husband seems nice

(I hope I don’t get shot).

Hi, other neighbor.

Thanks for helping me with my van.

Hey, where did my new battery go?

No, crack-head guy down the hall –

You can’t borrow any money.

I’m broke.

Pay-day is next Thursday,

Please don’t meet me at

The subway station.

Hi, Knuckles, Hi Grace Steel –

Nice to see you both

(Cold glares, silence).

Ahh – it’s Frederico - !

The rare gentleman in this place!

Allow me to help you up to your room, Sir!

Who cares about the shit in your pants?

Who’s here now?

Why – it’s Gomez!

Hi, how are you?

Would you care for a nice glass of wine?

“I WILL CALL THE POLICE!

YOU BELONG IN THE SUBWAY!”

Oh, okay.  Adios.

Well, Jackie – we shall leave this all

In your capable hands.

You always seem to

Bounce back up

After a fall –

Like most retarded executives.

Rock on, Dennis.

Good luck, Kayla.

 * ~ C.B. – 3-5-08 ~ *

HIRAM

“Throughout our lives, we are brought in contact with spiritual advisors; the trick is not in meeting them, but in recognizing them when we do.  I only know that in our choice of friends and lovers and teachers who will change our lives, we are guided by forces which have nothing to do with the rationalizations that we give.” ~  Erica Jong  ~*

Blanche gets back in the saddle, big time.  After his brief setback he digs his heels in and gets back to working the program.   In addition to recovery, he now gives lectures to cancer survivors.   Because survivor he is:  Lymphoma loses another round.  

He moves to Florida.  His mom is there now, and he has other family and friends there, too.  The New York winters are too cold and dreary and they fill him with aches and pains that he no longer cares to tolerate.   Blanche also confides that New York harbors too many negative connotations for him.  Florida’s gentle weather, the energy of the sun and especially the healing power of the ocean are calling to him, and he knows that he will thrive in its environment.  I know he’s right and I’m happy for him. 

We phone often and email every week, sometimes several times a day.  He sends wild, hilarious, raunchy stuff.  When he gets a new digital camera, he records a nutty little film of himself dancing around to loud house music in his bathroom. He’s whipping his Cher-length black hair around, lip-synching theatrically from behind the shower curtain.  I watch it over and over, just cracking up.  It is so goofy and endearing.  Here is a dude who knows just how FABU he is and he’s not afraid to SPREAD IT AROUND. 

Blanche visits New York several times a year.  When Blanche comes back to visit New York, it’s like The Pope is in town.  His homies clamor for his attention and his calendar is always jam-packed, but we never miss at least one outing together. 

When he comes during the Christmas holidays, we make it a point to hit JOE’S restaurant with a small crowd that usually includes Chris, Teresa and Nikki.   In the warmer months, me and Blanche usually make a whole day of it.  I pick him up early at his sister’s house in Middle Village and we take a drive down to an outdoor pub in Rockaway called The Wharf.  There, we loll on picnic tables in the sun for hours and partake in a fresh feast of clams (raw and baked), crisply battered calamari, broiled scallops and fresh-brewed iced teas with lots of lemon.  We laugh, we bitch, we dish the dirt.  We enjoy languid, absorbing speculation on our infinite fascination with mysticism.  We bask in the celebration of kindred souls. 

Thurday, May 28, 2009, we take pleasure in just such a Blanchian Celebration.   When I pick him up at his sister’s, he is positively radiant.  Tanned, trim and dapper as all hell and sporting a sharp new haircut.  He proudly model-poses for me, announcing that he can now fit into and is wearing his young nephew’s jeans.   And of course, the hug.

I have seen him at what I thought was his best, but today is different and I am enthralled by the sight of him.  He has blossomed into the rare, exotic flower that he was always meant to be.  Or rather, he has cleared the path so that - finally - this flower is now in full view. 

And in a little over 24 hours, he will be gone. 

* * * * * * *

This past Saturday while we are walking our dogs, I ask Chris what he feels like doing later. 

Chris: “Anything, whatever.  Knowing YOU, you’ll end up at your computer typing away…”

Me: “No I won’t.”

Chris: “Really?  Why not and since when?”

Me: “Because right now in my story, Hiram is still alive.  But if I go back to the keyboard, soon he won’t be.”  Do I actually believe this?  The naked pain in my own voice startles, then saddens me. 

So yes, my words for the finale of this story have stuttered and stopped, stubbornly pausing mid-syllable, mid-clack.  Words have filtered into my mind and yet  downright refused to appear on the screen.  Words have forced me out of my chair, away from my desk and out to my frozen front stoop where I perch huddled, bereft and vacant.  Frozen, for a change not wanting any more words.   No more words, please, not right now.  Not just yet. 

* * * * * * *

I pick Blanche up around 3:00 in the afternoon.  It is unseasonably chilly for late May and pouring like crazy.  The plan is to meet up with our good pals Teresa and Nikki at Lenny’s Clam Bar on Crossbay Boulevard.  The drive to Lenny’s is usually less than half an hour from Middle Village, but we are delayed every step of the way by what seems like one huge traffic jam encompassing literally all of cross-town Queens.  We don’t care.  We’re glad, yammering all the while and reveling in the silly splendor of being Blanche Squared. 

Finger always on the pulse of celebrity-dom,  Blanche commences to discussing Susan Boyle, the latest (and somewhat unlikely) diva songstress from America’s Got Talent. 

Blanche: “She may be no great beauty.  But she DOES have the PIPES, Blanche!”

Me: “Yeah, but the poor thing should just change her name to ‘Frumpy Singer’, since every article written about her begins with the words: ‘Frumpy singer, Susan Boyle’…”

I remember him laughing himself sick over that one, and me laughing too, saying: “Okay, it’s not that funny, Blanche!”

We stop at a gas station when I realize my tank is almost on empty.  While we’re filling up, I remember to give Blanche some incense as well as a tube of fancy, holistic arthritis cream that I know he’ll like.  “Just a little something for my bubby’s  aches and pains.”  He gets all teary-eyed and I get another hug.

When me and Blanche arrive at Lenny’s, Teresa and Nikki are not there yet.  The traffic is murdering them, too.  We grab the front-window booth and order some iced teas and the requisite clams and calamari.  

Blanche (slurping his first clam): “Keep right on talking, Blanche, but DO pardon me as I make passionate love to my food.”

Teresa is next to arrive, and as she enters the restaurant Blanche is telling me that he finally got around to seeing the Sex And The City movie, and that the four characters kept reminding him of the four of us:  Nikki is Charlotte, Teresa is Miranda,  I’m Carrie (“Of course, honey...you’re THE WRITER…and you MUST KNOW that I’m Samantha - the hot number!”)

Finally, Nikki appears and our Fearsome Foursome (as Blanche has always called us) is in full-swing.  Lots of laughter.  We take pictures.  More food is ordered, and drinks.  I’m usually good for a few glasses of red wine when I go out to dinner, but tonight I stop after one glass and join Blanche with some sparkling water.  He gives me a little wink across the table. 

Somehow we’re on the subject of cremation.  You never know what’s gonna fly with this crew. Blanche volunteers that if you practice Santeria, cremation is a burial taboo: “Your body must go back into the ground -  in it’s full form -  to nurture Mother Earth.”

He also declares that while he is satisfied and mostly fulfilled with his life, that his one true regret is not having had a child of his own.  I’m surprised to hear him say this.

Me: “Well, you could always adopt, Blanche.  You’d be a wonderful dad to some little kiddo.”

He shakes his head: “No, no.  I want a child of my own blood.  A part of me.”

I take his hand: “Don’t forget, bubby – when all is said and done, we’re all a part of each other.”

He brightens, smiles back sweetly: “That’s true, my love. That’s true!  Who knows, maybe some day I will adopt.  I suppose we can’t rule ANYthing out with MY life!”

* * * * * * * *

It’s still miserable and rainy when we leave the restaurant hours later, and now it’s dark outside.  I had considered bringing Blanche back to my apartment so he can visit for awhile with Chris.  But I’m a lousy night driver, especially in the rain, and the traffic already looks bad so I opt to bring Blanche directly home.  He can see Chris next time he’s in town.

Incredibly, the drive back to Blanche’s sister’s place in Middle Village is EVEN LONGER than the one earlier.  Cars are insanely backed up all over town, the roads are so slick that cars are hydroplaning down Woodhaven Boulevard and it seems as tho’ the sound of ambulance sirens are everywhere.    I opt to take the side-roads the whole way.  It takes a long time because of the back-ups but I’m honestly relieved.  I’d rather be forced to drive slowly in this mess and besides, me and Blanche get to talk for the next hour. 

He will only be in town for another few days.  His mom is moving to another section of Miami this week, and he needs to be there to help her.  She’s actually been living in a condo directly across the street from him these past couple of years, but now she’s lucked into a gorgeous new penthouse across town.  I ask him if he’s going to be sad not having her right across the street from him anymore.

Blanche: “WHAT?  Nooo, Gurl.   That new penthouse of hers is on the 25^th FLOOR.  It’s like a VIEW of the ocean FROM  HEAVEN.   I’m looking forward to visiting her just for the change of scenery.  She’ll get sick of me, I’ll be over there so much.”

The Ocean.  He tells me that being near the ocean nourishes him like nothing else can.  He tells me that he sees an Ocean Child in ME. 

Me: “Me?  But I’m all about the mountains, Blanche!” 

Blanche: “No, baby.  You are a Goddess of the Ocean.  You are a typical Yemaya.”

Then he says that this is a phase of his life where it feels like anything – all good things - are possible.  I tell him that just by looking at him today, I know it’s true. 

He tells me that he hopes for a Chris of his own soon - A calm, gentle man who understands him and with whom he can find true communion and peace.  I tell him I have no doubt that his great love is out there and that when it finds him -  watch out, Blanche and watch out World. 

We pull up in front of his sisters house.  We sit parked, holding hands and talking a little more.  He really, really, REALLY wants me and Chris to come visit him in Florida.  I tell him that we really, really, REALLY want him to come to the mountains and visit our cabin, as well.   We make a solemn vow that this will be the year we do these things.  We simply MUST - no ifs, ands or buts.

And then it's time for me to make tracks.  A chaste Blanchian kiss followed by possibly the tightest hug EVER.   I sit back and smile into his beautiful face.

Me: “Isn’t it amazing how we stick together, Blanche?  We’ve really got that stayin’ power thing goin’ on!”

Blanche (big, dimpled grin): “Gurl, let the fuckers TRY and separate us.   LET  THE  BASTIDS  TRY.”

He bounds from the car, up to his sister’s stoop, and I hit the road – beeping like a nut all the way down the block   All the way to the corner, I can hear him yell-laughing:

“BLAAAANCHE!!”  

As exhilarating as my day with Blanche has been, my solo drive home is downright terrifying.  Within moments of getting back on the road, the rain becomes torrential, the wind driving it sideways making visibility next to nothing.  Ambulance sirens continue to wail all over town and they follow me until – over an hour later -  I reach home.  The short walk from my car to the front door leaves me completely drenched.   I enter the apartment exhausted and shaken.

Chris is laying on the couch reading a CD cover, and what must be Neil Young’s latest release is playing on the stereo.   He looks up.

Chris: “Is everything okay?  I was getting worried.”

Me:  “That was the worst drive of my life.  I’m completely fried.”  I peel off my soaked jacket. “Blanche sez HI and he missed you terribly.”

Chris:  “How is he doing?  I wish I could’ve been there.  I thought maybe you’d bring him back over here for a bit.”

Me: “I almost did, but the weather was too fucked.  I’ve done 4 hours of driving today in what should have taken one hour.  Anyhow, Hiram’s doing amazing.  You should see him.  He’s looking like a super-model.”

Chris (smiles): “Ya don’t say.”

I sit down in the kitchen to take off my wet boots and the dogs are jumping all over me.  I mention to Chris that Neil’s new record sounds slightly nursery-rhyme-y: “Sounds like he’s losing his edge a little bit, no?”

Chris: “You’re hard on these artists, hun.  It’s a nice record.  Give it a chance.”

* * * * * * * * *

May 29, 2009 - The following morning, Blanche Facebook-posts sentimental endearments to all of us Fearsome Foursome Gals.   He also sends me the following email:

“How appropriate this one is Today, God always gives the answer if we are willing to listen!   You are responsible for the footwork,  Not the OUTCOME!!!

Accepting those things we cannot change frees us.
It's so easy to get caught up in other people's lives. Assuming that we know what's best for them seems so natural. Many of us have excelled at being caretakers, but it's time to back off and let our loved ones fend for themselves. That means letting them make their own decisions and live with their own consequences.

We can't change other people. Certainly we have made others feel guilty enough so that they have given in and done things our way. And we have won many power struggles. But ultimately we can't claim ownership of anyone else's mind, and we aren't the stewards of anyone else's life. We may feel diminished by our lack of control initially, but in time we will love the freedom of living only our own lives. The extra time we'll have and the peace we'll know will comfort us.
I will experience many moments of relief and peace when I let others be their own stewards.”

* * * * * * *

Early in the morning of May 30, 2009 – While coming home from a superb, fun-filled  evening out with his beloved  younger  sister and some of their friends, Hiram swiftly and unexpectedly collapses and subsequently dies of heart failure.

* * * * * * * * *

We all know – or at least most of us do – that life is fragile and fleeting and that anything is possible at any given time.  It won’t do me or anyone else any good by re-living the moment when I found out that Blanche died.   I can only say this:  If I thought I knew what grief was before that moment, I was sadly mistaken.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s the day after the devastating news, and devastating news or not - dogs still gotta be walked.  Me and Chris and the 4-legged posse head up to Forest Park.   It’s an incredible day.  A more cloudless, bluer sky there never was.   I am numb and soul-sick, a walking zombie.

I can’t recall our actual walk, but when we get back to our car, there in The Dome parking lot we are greeted by an astounding sight:  A group of six or so Latino Santeria bata` drummers.  I know what these are. I have seen photos of the ceremonial celebrations.  

They are marching and drumming in harmonious unison - an infectious, intricate and joyous beat.   Directly in front of them are their women – dark, striking, smiling and march-dancing in accompaniment, their tanned arms moving like serpents.   We are transfixed.  We watch for a long time, and then smile and nod our heads at this incredible, powerful display.  They smile and nod back at us.  Every smile is Blanche’s smile.

* * * * * * * * *

  

Months later, when I give that Neil Young CD another listen, it will dawn on me what song was playing that night when I came in out of the rainstorm.

The Way, we know the way.  We’ve seen the way 

We’ll show the way to getcha back home

To the peace where you belong.

If you’re lost and think you can’t be found

We know the Way, we’ve got the way,

We’ll lead the way to getcha back home

To the peace where you belong. 

  ~ *  ~ Neil Young - Chrome Dreams II ~ * ~

May Yemaya's energy always bless u with love & health. I am blessed to have u in my life, there are no words that can express the depth of our friendship, I am so honored to call u my sister because blood might be thicker than water but spirituality is thicker than blood. I love Bubby, BFF

* ~ Hiram - May 29, 2009 ~ *