tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59261736864642479322024-02-08T08:29:43.837-08:00As If UnderwaterMoments with My FatherA esteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00433024820146321747noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5926173686464247932.post-8379599070372685942012-07-09T14:33:00.005-07:002012-07-09T15:03:35.754-07:00No. 4<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I recently discovered i have a secret power, like a super hero, only comparatively useless. Really probably you could do it, probably anybody can do it, or maybe I have a special ear for it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I can hear on a movie soundtrack where the audio track was cut and an actor was asked to repeat some dialogue.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">What? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Oh you can do that too?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I tried to tell you it wasn't much of a super power. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Common.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Does it affect you the same?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">It pops me out of the movie. Today, sitting at my father's house, watching Alfred Hitchcock's "Topaz," I found it almost unwatchable due to audio splices. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">For those of you who may not have this power, let me explain how I do it. In old audio, I'm not sure exactly the cut off point, but I would guess pre- digital, there are little tells I can hear. The white noise in the background, it won't be the same on each edge of the splice. I can hear where it shifts and shifts back as obviously as if you heard me change a channel. Sometimes the pitch of the actor's voice changes. I can't quite explain how the actor's voice could change in pitch where it is noticeably not the same session. It must have something to do with other variables in the equation. The microphone, the distance from mic to performer, the size of the room, how the actor felt that day, all sorts of differences which possibly can be heard in the performer's voice.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I notice it and it pops me out of the movie. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Disturbing the resonance of the room and causing feedback</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Places respond to different frequencies</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Notching out resonance points</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Rooms have frequencies</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Live responses to a wide number of frequencies</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Sweet spot</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">How few a people does it take to change the resonance of a room?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The claustrophobic moment of knowing you're watching somebody already dead. Suddenly realizing you never saw him, an actor popular during the Sixties but who is on television at this moment, any older than that. Ever after that I looked at him as if wanting to grasp him by the face. Stare into his eyes to look for a clue. Before I can, the scene always cuts and fades.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Entering the house cautiously, with Harry Potter DVDs, a slice of homemade Christmas cake, and my iPad in hand, I eye the room warily like a person who knows they are passing through a cave which has been known to house bears. My father sits, where he always sits, the far stage right of the sofa, watching a movie. I set the Harry Potters down next to previously delivered, unwatched Harry Potters, that instigated his demand for more. I show him the ziplock bag with the cake, explain what it is, try to ignore the sarcastic comment that he utters, which is essentially his version of a very droll “oh goody.” </span></div>
</div>A esteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00433024820146321747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5926173686464247932.post-39587489534519497442012-02-21T18:28:00.002-08:002012-02-21T18:29:28.372-08:00No. 3<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Is there a dog out there?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Even as my father asks the question and I answer, "Archie, you mean is Archie out there?"</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I wonder. Does the world exist for him as bursts of time and as each moment breaks to his surface, is he a stranded time traveler left to assess his territory? If we stopped coming by, a few caregivers from now, would he no longer have a dog because he no longer remembered to let him back in at night? Could the dog wander away due to neglect and loneliness and my father would cease to remember his existence?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Or is it simply he has momentarily forgotten Archie's name and is trying to verify his dog's location? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Moments later he asks if I will let the dog out. When I rise to my feet, he turns and tells Archie , "There she'll let you out.". Is it my imagination or is his tone not like that which you use with a dog, but more like speaking to another human? I flash on a month or two earlier when Archie was drinking the pond water and my dad yelled "Hey you! Stop that!"</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It creates the illusion that we foisted a dog upon my father. Of course, that's because I know. His dog, my dad's true dog, was Mike, who had been dead less than a year when my mother pushed my father into buying Archie. Her intentions were good. Retired, not getting younger and getting set in his ways, if they waited too long, my father would never have a dog again. Did my mother foresee a time when she would be gone and his only solace would be his dog? If so, she got it wrong by one dog. Archie was a dog, but Mike was like my father's soulmate. Mike put up with my father's bait and switch teasing as if it were normal, expected behavior. That was far beyond the skill set of Archie ...... Or me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>A esteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00433024820146321747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5926173686464247932.post-75605230939133557692011-11-15T07:36:00.001-08:002011-11-15T08:22:16.284-08:00No. 2<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I sit in my parents’ living room. It’s hot and it’s stuffy. Anyone else in the room is asleep. My only company left is “Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of The Baskervilles,” a version I first saw, with my father in this same room, just two weeks ago. When it started playing, just after I showed up at the house, I told my father, “Oh look. We saw this movie a week or two ago.” For anybody else, it would have been a subtle hint. For my father, it was a bone of contention, an argument. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“No we didn’t.” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Sure we did. Remember? See look at that guy, remember him?” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“No. Who is he?” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Well I don’t remember the actor’s name. But look at him, doesn’t he look familiar?” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My father turns from looking at me to looking at the television set, already drifting to a negative head shake before he even completes the turn. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“I remember.” I say. “Richard E. Grant! If I’m right, the opening credits will list Richard E. Grant.” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We stare at the television. The opening credits begin, peppered liberally with scenes of a murder and the body being found. Finally, right at the end, the words “and Richard E. Grant” scroll down the screen.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“See?” I say, turning to look at my father. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“See what?”</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My mother once told me that when her parents died, she felt like she was doing something wrong simply by staying alive. Or that’s how I interpreted what she said. What she actually said was that, when her parents died, she felt as if she had stayed in a place, like a room or at a party, after her parents had vocally disapproved of it and left. I suppose if I had been in an argumentative mood, I could have challenged her. After all her father died more than 25 years earlier than her mother. Get your story straight. They died so far apart, you couldn’t really have been worried about “both” of their approvals. So who was it?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">An excellent argument in debate class, but hardly the answer to give when your mother is confessing something so deeply twisted, it can only be a measurement of how much therapy you may stand to need to pay for in the future. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">No matter, whichever parent, she must be in his/her good graces again. After her death but before his stroke, my father wore his loss and how much he missed her like a deodorant or a cologne. It clung to him. He was never without it. Now she never comes up. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Well once. When I asked him why he watches so much television. He gave me a look as if I had asked the dumbest question imaginable. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Because I can watch whatever<b> I </b>want now.” </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The woman he used to tell me was the love of his life reduced to the woman who hogged the remote. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">On the television screen, Dr. Watson accompanies Lord Baskerville to his family estate. I look longingly at the remote sitting on the coffee table in front of my sleeping father. I can’t bring myself to change the channel. For one thing, I know that the minute I rise from my chair, the sleeping spell that has taken the room will be broken. For another, I know I am here to visit my father, not watch television. Somehow, sitting watching something he chose, even if he is sleeping through it, fills that criteria. Changing the channel to something I might like to see, does not. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The thermostat, apparently unaware the room is already hot, triggers the heater and as it comes on, my eyes snap open. I haven’t even been aware they were shut. I lean forward, my elbows to my knees and focus on the television in an attempt to stay awake. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">After awhile, my father rouses. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“You know?” He says, catching my attention. “I think I’ve seen this before.”</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I turn and stare at the screen as if all of the possible responses I might give were written there. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“You know?” I say, turning back to face him. “Me too.”</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>A esteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00433024820146321747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5926173686464247932.post-28225309109266854552011-11-14T22:10:00.001-08:002014-01-28T08:46:30.235-08:00No. 1<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;">There are human experiences that can't be written. You are sitting next to a huge koi pond with a fountain. That noise, not quite "babbling," not rain, what do you call it? Is there a word? Could it ever really capture all of the nuances of the actual experience?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Every time I try to write about my father, I return to that koi pond, that fountain, that noise. I know that I am close to something important. I know I have something to say. I just don't know what it is yet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So I sit by the koi pond. I'm in a pink, stained and faded deck chair on the left. My dad's on the right, sitting in blue. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"What happened here?" He says, brushing his hand against my chin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Normally, even if I don't betray it outwardly, I shrink away from my father's touch. It is not a question of abuse, but more the near constant bullying of the largest kid in the room. Always the largest kid in the room. But, in this instance, his touch signals something else. It is the first time he has noticed something about me that didn't directly relate to him in weeks, if not significantly longer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"Bug bite," I say and proceed to show and document every bug bite and it's corresponding mark all over my body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For more than a year, my dad's consciousness or level of awareness has faded in and out like a target blown by some unknown wind. Words have shifted in usage as if concrete meanings have yet to be assigned. Sine-aid, an over the counter sinus medication, has become the "go to" pinch hitter when no other word volunteers. It doesn't seem to matter much. I've never claimed to understand my father. In many ways, it is as he has been shouting "Sine-aid" for years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know that for my father, family always comes first. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"Friends will come and go, but your family is forever."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Back in the days when they still had me snowed by the "if you lie, we will always find out the truth in the long run" this seemed like an unfair curse. I envisioned lifetimes spent with these people. You couldn't suicide from something like that. I'd look at other families and long to move in with them, if only in the afterlife.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, my actual family diminished to just the two of us, only child to only child, it promises a certain freedom I've never had before. The chance to build a family rather than .... What? Be enslaved by one? Trapped by one? Saddled? Locked in a hopeless struggle of co-dependence with one?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At least finally now, rather than my being the stupid one in the conversation, rather than my being the cause of all of the problems he is suffering, he has seen me. In a moment of isolated clear vision, he has seen me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Nagging voices tell me to speak of the stroke. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"You're being unfair to your listener. When are you going to tell them about his stroke?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My father had a stroke, at this point a little more than a year ago. It is the reason for his mixed words. It is the reason I have been activated, like a sleeper cell, to handle his affairs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I dare to hope I am more than a suicide bomber. I dare to hope for a life after my life's mission has been accomplished.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;">For now, I sit next to a 9 foot kidney shaped koi pond where I once taught myself to dive and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings at my parents' house as if for the first time. The light winking at me through oak and pine and fir is golden and beautiful. That sound without a name caresses my hearing. My bug bite recitation finished, I smile and my father smiles back. It is only a moment. A moment made even briefer by contrast, but it is no wonder I sense there is something to say, that I have witnessed something important.</span></div>
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A esteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00433024820146321747noreply@blogger.com1