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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Yesterday, at the thrift shop, I suggested they play Nick Cave.
This didn't last so long with my partner, who listened to about 5 songs and then changed the music.
Whatever.
And then - in the evening - I heard of his second son's death.
This man, he's going through the trials of Job. And this, this, well... you wish this on no one. Certainly not someone you hold in such high regard.
And I know he has faith - of the Christian order, and I know he thinks - but this heartbreak, it's beyond reason. There's nothing I can say. No commiseration that doesn't sound trite - and - while I can well imagine his pain - and in some measure share it - I have no desire to live through it's equivalent. Imagining it is but a pale shadow of what he is living...
SO I am sorry and I hope he can survive this. And if he doesn't I understand. But - fucking hell - he's being put through it. The trials of Job. The test of all faith beyond all reasonable limits...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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A genius far ahead of his time. Pity he wasn't born today, think of all the fun he would have had with real-estate, crypto and NFT's.
And, if you'd prefer to read about it all (I would have, although the video was entertaining...) try these links:
Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Lustig
The Smithsonian: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/man-who-sold-eiffel-tower-twice-180958370/
Mental Floss: https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/12809/smooth-operator-how-victor-lustig-sold-eiffel-tower
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Out with Stormy, I've had enough. I'm making him start to walk, I've had it, this wheelchair business, being the arms to his deranged fancies.
He's been calling, wondering when I'd come take him out next, these days - they're consuming, a full days effort for very little reward. For me, that is, he seems to have fun.
Tuesday's mission - since I have the wheels, is to go and retrieve some things from the locker.
This, as the avalanche of items raining down quickly proves, is a bad idea. I get virtually nothing I needed, the locker, a mess, I need to back with some boxes and a few hours to dig through it all, in the end this just proved to be the map...
From here to lunch, the worst burger joint in the world, his favorite. From there to the bank, then to Wal-Mart. His choice, not mine. He needs a belt. Of course. And since I have him off and walking - more tottering, pants falling down, I'm having to fit him with belts, this is fucking gruesome.
Then some candy and back to the car.
Wait, he's not done, he wants to go back in the mall and finish his sandwich...
So - this time I make him push me in the wheelchair while I scream "Whee!!!" and he quickly changes his mind. But I make him do it. I goad him with the fact that he's decrepit far beyond his years, that Dag - 80 years old, 5 years his senior, is still driving, off getting lucky in the woods of Proctor, and he's - well - not doing so well. And these outings are going to depend on him getting used to walking once again.
So he pushes me into the mall, and then I allow him to sit in the chair, it's a bit cruel but enough is enough, I'm not going to fucking enable this charade of incontinence and helplessness, push him to the liquor store, get him a couple of beers, and then back to the home.
I'm beginning to slightly resent some of these unpaid commitments, and it's time to start developing reasonable boundaries.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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An older couple - my age, so perhaps I should revise my definition, thinking, start referring to them as "Middle aged" or "Young", in the restaurant, she - my age, her partner a little older.
She is proofreading his novel. Is he her husband? Lover? Is she actually an editor? I have a few questions, but I'm busy enough that I have to let it pass.
And - you know, I've been here before, asked about other writer's works and forced to suffer the discomfort of their prose or ideals. But - as always, curiosity gets the better of me...
She, more than a little enthusiastic at the job ahead of her, has been waiting for just such a moment.
"It's about his spiritual journey..."
Now here I want to guffaw, this, well, isn't everyone writing about that? I mean, 20 odd years ago in Nepal I recall running into an American tourist with her hand written journal with just such the exact same title - well, "My Spiritual Journey". But, you know, I can't guffaw, it would be appalling manners, and I've opened it up and so now I get to listen...
I'm wondering who we know in common, if I should be enquiring if they know so and so or if there's any connection to some of the other more cult-like organizations around...
As my own interests have been somewhat tangent lately - specifically my podcast and audiobook listening preferences, I enquire if it's in the line of ... or ... and he's dismissive, no, no, this is a more "Advanced" spiritual practice book, not to sound snobby, but it's the companion to a earlier, more "Intermediate" book he'd written, and he's a bit abstracted, looking off, I can just take his word that he's more spiritually evolved than the average Koot. and wants to share his wisdom, and I'm enquiring with his partner if she's professionally an editor or proofreader, but, no, she's merely helping him to fact-check all the waypoints on his journey...
So, more of the colorful locals, and I'm thinking that if I'm going to improve my income I'll have to conquer my distaste for hypocrisy and set up my own brand of Imposture...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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The Tuesday visit, I have to bring him supplies. Pop, candy bars, toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, soap, toothbrushes, razors...
Get swabbed, wait for the test results, masked up, in for the visit.
These visits, they're to be in the room only, there's no visiting in the common areas, the plague, here, is ongoing.
Stormy doesn't listen. He tries to lure me into the halls, wants to show me off to his friends. I decline.
He persists. Eventually a friend of his - a "girlfriend" - comes by in a wheelchair, she assures me it's fine, and I step out of his room...
Only to be told by a passing nurse that I have to remain in his room.
Back into his room. Small, generic, ugly furnishings, it's a hospital, hospice, bleak beyond measure.
We chat. There's really, for him, nothing to chat about. He wants out. He wants me to wheel him outside for a cigarette. "I can't" I tell him. It's against the rules.
He's not taking no for an answer.
He wants me to steal a vehicle, take him downtown for the day. Nope, nope, nope.
- I don't understand what it's like here, to be here, all the time, it's a prison, when am I coming next, when are we going in to town?
And this. These visits, an hour, but with the bus, the shopping, the countless trifles, tests, etc, etc, they consume a full day. And I explain to him that he'd best now start settling in, we'll go to town once a week or every other week, but it's time face facts, we're not moving in together, I've sat in on the discussions with the nurses, caregivers, doctors, I'm not dealing with his incontinence, soiled laundry thrown in the corners of the room, time now to make friends here...
At this he looks stubbornly out the window and he tears up.
I apologize. This is horrible, but - there are people here he can talk to, there's a kindly old woman that has a crush on him, there are others, and - change is tough, but - friendship has it's limits. It kills me to see him cry, but being his full-time wheelchair pusher is not a career I wanted, and he doesn't respect the courtesy of it, takes it for granted, doesn't get that it's no pleasure for me to be the arms to his caprices...
And so this is where we are at the moment...