7/2 

I was up late.  It was another day with mom, and after dinner and wine, turkey meatloaf, I'd about had it, so I went down to the basement and took a nap, and then I woke up again when the coast was clear, got out the guitar a bit, and then I ended up on Facebook pretending I was a great journalist vis a vis remembering all the destruction Donald Rumsfeld wrought in this world.  

That required some wine, and waking up by noon, yes, I'm a little fuzzy and mom wants to get the day started, and soon becomes angry at me after I sit around worthless still, waking up, trying to get my chilled tea into my system, and finding the kitchen counter with dirty knife, those sharp little cat food lids with gook on them, my own wine glass tumbler from last night still stained red, offensive to me right now, and a bunch of other crap, the Meals on Wheels drop off still in the plastic bag... And the things of the night before are now completely frivolous.  And not helping anything, particularly my career.  I wake up scared, if not scared straight.

So I take a shower.  To ward her off.  To stall for time until I'm feeling better.  The thought of an open mike terrifies me.  The thought of having to entertain mom terrifies me.

Writing--Sam Johnson was totally right about this--is like shitting.  Getting the waste out.  Relieving one's self.  Getting something out so something can take its place.

And in yet another day, in which mom wants "to have some fun," go for a ride, a walk, see something, do something, go somewhere, and where I am left adrift, not really doing anything, and feeling like whatever chances I might have at a decent professional life are completely bleeding away.

We survive open mic night at Curtis Manor here in Oswego, a wonderful big barn the venue, redone for weddings and events.  Mom and I get there a little bit after five.  I get mom settled at a table for two by the door, looking at the stage, get her a glass of wine, get the chicken dinner with beans and salt potatoes, $15, in modern styrofoam, greeted by the nice women who remembered us from our earlier visit.  By the time I figure out where the sign up sheet is there's already a fairly long list, and so finally, by the time I get up, biting the bullet, just go up there and see how it goes, it's around eleven.  Mom's tired and wants to go home.   I've had almost the whole bottle of Finger Lakes Cab Franc from Bravery Vineyards, and the hostess has expressed concern that she'd be happy to call us an Uber when the time comes.  Which concerns me, of course, but I've come to play and we're getting tantalizingly close now after being pretty patient with the mixed bag of open mic nights.  John McConnell, local guitar player and vocalist songwriter of note is the host, hair pulled back into a pony tail, professional, not overly friendly, business at the end of the night. 

After the first song as I stand there, at the mic he's adjusted for me, a Willy Nelson song I know through Lyle Lovett, having briefly explained to the crowd that I grew up around dairy cows, about "if the stars didn't shine on the water, the sun it wouldn't burn on the sand, and if I were the man you wanted, I would not be the man that I am," I look over at me, and say something like "you haven't gonged me yet?"  And he says, no, not yet, so I buckle down and go through "Flyswatter Pour Me Some Ice Water Blues," the Lyle Lovett song, afraid of being too dependent on one genre, and my voice cracks with emotion as I play, but there is  complete silence, listening, as I struggle and sing and try to remember the words,  and when I finish a good burst of approval.  

So that's what happens when you're sick to your stomach and testy with your old mom all day, just waiting with dread the whole day till finally the hour comes.  We have to leave quickly, as mom has already gotten up and through the door, so I just throw my old D 28 into its Martin Guitar case, have a little bit of time to talk with a few guys, exchange phone numbers with the guy who played the U2 song with his band, and we're out in the parking lot, and Emil from the bookstore we go to who plays bass in a band with handsome confidence is again checking on me to encourage me not to drive home, but I reassure him and off we go.  

My tolerance is too high these days, and I guess I have to be pretty drunk, intoxicated, to feel the way I like to feel, I've been doing that for too long, man, too long, but it's easy driving slowly and safely up Fifth Street and then left on Ellen, and we get home just fine, too tired to watch the Tour de France on TV upstairs, eat a fried chicken tender from Big M straight cold from the paper bag with the foil liner inside.  

But oh where is this all going, I don't know. 

7/4 - 7/6

Quick thoughts, quick words.  Waking up, coming upstairs.  Taking a pee.  Then mom is coming downstairs just as I get the tea ready to go...  

Where's the cat?  Anything I can do for you?

No, I'm fine.  Maybe just let the cat in...  maybe feed him.

She gets a can, walks toward me at the sink.  Mom, here's a dish for the cat.  Here's a spoon.

Music is a vital force.  I let it down, myself down.  I neglected it.  I didn't even bring a guitar with me when I came down to Washington, D.C.   As a busboy I ran around with that great country music with the Austin sensibility.  At Lepic I was the trusted servant of the jazz musicians, but not taking time to put myself out there, playing alone on days off.  Caterwauling, my brother used to call it when I lived with him.

The kid at Sterling Nature Center...  I loved your set, he said, as we were about to drive away, I have the window down.  I smile, but I haven't heard what he said, exactly.  What?  I didn't get that.

Oh, thank you!   I realize now he was there at the big barn.  Curtis Manor, open mic night.  I can't for the life of me place him with what he played.  Did you play with Adam?  I ask him.  No, apparently not.  I want to compliment him.  

Driving away I wish I'd gotten out and spoken with him.  But you know, with mom in the car...

I was partly such a big hit because it was emotional for me.  I could barely sing, "if the stars didn't shine on the water, the sun, it wouldn't burn on the sand," without choking up.

Is music the rebirth in me that will come out of this strange tragedy?

Mom goes upstairs after we get into it a little bit over my telling her she has a glass of Pepsi by her chair.  You are bugging me, she says, and off she goes.  Good.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  You can't win, you can't argue.  It's all your fault, not hers.   Maybe she's right.

By the time we get the newspaper and ride along the lake and finally out to Sterling Nature Center, I'm wondering, the whole way, why am I doing this... She told me at the Stewart Shop that they have job openings, clearly advertised, that I should go to work there.  Okay.  Thanks.

We drive out of the gas station convenience store parking lot, and I have a lump in my stomach.  I can't explain to her that she can't take that good care of herself, but that doesn't work.  

Mom, you can't barely feed yourself if I'm not around, I say, half to myself.  That's not true, she retorts back.

I can't tell her how I take the time and the patience to keep her involved, these long rides good for her brain, and she'll always tell me to slow down as soon as we get out on anything like a main road with a speed limit over 45.  

I could be taking this time for myself, which is what family has been suggesting to me all along.

So you see I wake up in these situations in an overall situation I can't make much sense of.  

I'm a bastard if I don't turn on the AC when we come in the door, because the windows are open and a decent breeze has come mild air in it.  "It's hot as hell out," mom says, though we were just outside for an hour, driving around.  No, it's not hot as hell out.  This is just now one of her expressions, or add ons.  "I can't remember it being so hot/cold/rainy/leafy/snowy...

That's the frame of mind I'm in as I cook dinner, asparagus, turkey American Chop Suey without the macaroni pasta, not even brown rice pasta.

What will I get her for breakfast...  Can I do some yoga first?  The cat killed a mink, about ten inches long then the fine tail.  Stiff in the lawn to discover.  My ankle is still funny anyway.  The clutch pedal isn't helping.

Doubts nag at me about my musicianship.  I've neglected it for so long anyway, as I have neglected Buddhist truth, my own writing, my own financial picture, on and on.  

And the great Narcissist lingering never more than a floor away from me, great.

She'll want to go out and have some fun today.  What are we doing for fun...  right.  Not remembering what we did yesterday, but for little pictures of it.

And I realize my own dependence, on Facebook, Instagram.  Being the Fiddler of High Lonesome up here, and everybody has family and has the weekend picnics to attend, lots of people, pick up trucks, blow up kid rides, tables set, barbecues.  

And my failure.

She comes down the stairs again.  Greets me, oh look who's here.  Happily.  Sometimes she comes down the stairs, Ted, Ted, hello, is anybody here, hello...  It's gotten to the point I have to refrain from yelling, MOM, I'M IN THE KITCHEN!  Where else would I be.  Doing cat dishes, making myself tea to stay busy.  Cooking, prepping.  Assessing grocery needs.

I put some soup on, adding bone broth to the little pot.

July 4th, feels like a stupid day anyway pretty much.  I'm tired from something, I don't know what.  A new addition of pollen into the air, from grass or ragweed now?  Around 4 I take a nap, over an hour, deep into it, coming up cold from the basement and the whir of the dehumidifier.  Mom doesn't want beef, nor does she want American Chop Suey, so, I guess it's the chicken tenders marinated in orange juice and soy sauce, a dash of hot sauce and cayenne, olive oil, though it hasn't been four hours yet for the chicken.  Spinach, yes, and I cut a sweet potato into four sections.

The Fourth of July means that tomorrow, Monday, the first day of the next week is back to work for everyone, everyone except me.  What am I doing anyway...  How will this possibly serve my future...  Well, I know Mom will want to do something, something fun, so I think of how to get her packed up to go, another layer or two.  There's live music down on 1st Street, and there will be fireworks.  Into the car, wine in plastic bottle, a hat for her.

I haven't thought it out, really.  Like with everything else it's hard to make a decision.  She'll want something, or half want it, and I don't want it, but will accept what I have to, and then she'll ask me, "well, what do YOU want to do," or "whatever you want to do..."  I have no idea what the scene will be.  Come down Fifth, cross Utica, Mohawk to Second, slipping slowly past the Police Station and the Town Hall, into the bank parking lot.

I get mom out of the car, encouraging her to get up out of it.  Well, I'm just waiting for instructions, she says.  She's walking slowly, likes to come to a stop every twenty feet or so.  I get her through the little petting zoo sort of thing, prairie dogs, an African porcupine.  I bend down to its cage, and it snuffles my fingers gently.  We walk on.  On First Street, the band is on the portable bandstand, facing north just up from Bridge Street.  People have brought folding chairs.  Mom doesn't want to get too close to the band.  Okay.  Fried dough has a line, popcorn, face painting, the restaurants are finishing up their business by 9 PM.  Good people watching.

We sit down on the curb, as mom needs to sit down and I don't see any other place we're near to.

Then later, the fireworks.  But she's tired and wants to go.  My frustrations come to a head.  Mom's crying.  Do you want to go home, or watch the fireworks, mom...  She blubbers and says, I don't know.

It's like I'm trying to sneak my way through every day here.  I don't know who the lie is for or about.  It's about me.  It's about her.  I don't exactly know what it's about.  It's about all the things we've missed.  It's about me not having my own little family unit, wife, kid.  And I know deep down I blame her for it.

I blame other people for my problems.  I do that a lot these days.  

I wouldn't know where to begin to fix myself.

It's not so great being given all the time it might take, for you to want to be a holy man, no sir.  It feels like the imposition of childhood summer, boredom, not knowing what to do the whole day.

But what have I done that I deserve anything?  I think of my high school French teachers.  They were up and running with the plan, the great plan that all the ants heed and act out with work.

But me...  no law school, no teaching certificate, only depression which feeds on itself...  and today, after the debacle of the last two days.  I have nothing, I've earned nothing, all I did as a bartender was fake, a drunken haze, labor without fruit.

(This is why I lean toward Jesus sometimes, the parables of the real work of the vineyard. )

Yesterday, July 5.  88 degrees out, humid.  Mom wants to go to the Press Box.  She is determined.  We drive down there.  I took a walk but my ankle is still sore.  Push in the clutch.  We make the left turn from Bridge Street, but as we approach, moving past the first hotel and the new building, the parking lot is empty, and as we get closer, no lights on.  Closed.  The sign says as much, staff vacation.  I feel relieved, but mom is hungry still.  Back over the bridge, and up to First.  But Port City Cafe is closed.  Everything is closed.  Except Sherry's Diner.  (Which mom ends up not liking very much at all.). Then to further the hot day torture, she wants to go to the bookstore, shouting at me as I put away the Buffalo Chicken Salad doggy bag plastic container in the shade of the back seat of the car before coming back and walking her slowly across First Street to River's End.

In the book store I get a chance to talk with Emil, the fellow who runs the place for his father-in-law Bill, and he's the guy who told me about the open mic night, and who, after the songs I played, emotionally, Irishman like, tipsy a bit, helped mom and I out to the car to make sure I was okay to drive.  But he's a father now, and not the kind of guy to be dispensing compliments as a more bohemian friendly kind of person might from having known a bit what it's like being on the margins out of good spiritual and moral callings.  He doesn't give me much about how brilliant my playing was beyond acknowledging the songs were from Lyle Lovett repertoire.  I've got mom to deal with anyway.  The guy who said hey, I loved your set, out at Sterling Nature Center, that's his buddy Doug, it turns out, and I ask what Doug played and extend my greetings to him.  So it's worth it, of course.  There was enough to distract me with mom as we were going out the door to miss Doug's set, the last one of the night.

It's all been so exhausting.  When we get back I go down to the basement for a nap, which ends up lasting three hours, needing every bit of it.  Then after avoiding her I get out The Price Chopper, over on the east side, out the main road, Bridge Street into 104 in the humid evening, coming out of the supermarket finally after a lot of dawdling, flashes of lightning in the distance.  Two bags, with cartons of bone broth, more almond butter and cat food cans, chicken sausages for easy heat-up.  Hummus without soybean oil in it.  Probiotic drink, green vegetable.  I send a long time over the closed darkened deli counter, reading ingredients, avoiding nitrates and vinegar and other things you don't want in your sliced turkey.

I wake up the next morning, 7/6, with visions of mom on me, let's go out and have lunch at The Press Box.  I go back down to the basement after pouring myself a cup of tea as the bird clock tweets 9 AM to meditate in corpse pose, but I'm too depressed and after breathing exercises and chakra thoughts I fall back into sleep.

My friend Becky texts me, inviting me to her yoga zoom class, and though I'm just waking up again and my ankle fresh with soreness I come upstairs and watch it on my little iPhone screen.  I felt like I needed a long walk around back by the power station and the beaver pond and then up the next quiet street to the east, looping back, talking to my aunt as I walked slowly in the heat, come pollen what may, just to get away from mom really...  her demands.

I'm conscious of spending what little time I have in the best way before mom comes down and makes me start our day together, but after the class just finishes, down she comes.  I'm on guard, but she's friendly, glad someone is here, knows from opening the front door that "it's hot as hell out," and I find out that she'll let me do my work.  She's happy with a mug of bone broth, when I query her about what she wants to eat. She goes back upstairs, with a paperback of The Flowering of New England--the cover has fallen off--under her arm, leaving me, "oh my legs, oh my legs, I'm getting old, I am old," as she goes up the stairs, to do some dishes in peace, so as to distract myself that I might get ahold of my deeper mind beyond the layer of thoughts and worries it has woken up with.

I've lived life according to some intuition, I suppose, but it's turned out to be a lazy life.  Nothing do I have, nothing have I built, nothing.  Nothing I deserve, and it's too late now anyway to try to go back and have a normal life.  Buddhist intuitions, Jesus intuitions, but ones that don't really lead anywhere, no place tangible.

It's a situation that makes it very hard to address your most basic obvious most impressing problems.  Get a job.  Or first do all the things that would qualify you for a job...

The great emptiness comes to the mind.  But it's more like I have no idea what I am doing.  A maintenance job for other people's lives.

The danger of non involvement…. This will stick to me for a long time.   I’ve tasted it so often.  Shit lonely solitary drives, up 81, back down 81…