Not by Bananas Alone

"Bananas," she says, as you step through the portal, the screen door with its tattered and torn and rusted screen that you should have replaced fifteen years ago. You pass into a world hostile to your peace of mind, your brooding nature. You struggle for a moment to remember. Bananas you say to yourself, letting the vowels limn the cavity of your palate. You think about the sound and where that sound comes from, how it rises from the bowels of your mystery. Vowels and bowels, you say to yourself, considering ways to tend the fire that is your passion, your leaning toward expression of what you consider sacred. This hungry body, this fleshy vehicle, that consumes and perspires and shits between its errors and its epiphanies, eats bananas; but you know that bananas by themselves will not make you really happy. Nor will the images of her wracked with orgasm caused by the movements of you, beloved, fill the hunger to know who you really are. Yes, of course, you crave the comfort of a warm body next to you in bed, the fire of lust, the heady wine of success. But you remember that those are only superficial reminders of the real fuel for your burning fire. You know you must not put conditions on your love, but rather you should feed the fire of your fullness with all you cherish and all you resist: your generosity, your passion, but also your fear, your brokenness, your lack of kindness to yourself, yes, mostly that. Only then will the fire of your soul shine through you in the actions you take for something bigger than yourself. Even though she is busy, maybe doesn't even care, needs help with the dishes and diapers, you remember that it is you, beloved, who tends the fires, the memory of why you are here in this passing form. It is the bananas that you came for, the bananas.

Cognitive Dissonance

The faintest of sounds, a guitar string being plucked, wakes me from the first round of tossing sleep. Then a voice, a silhouette framed in the doorway, a voice calling. An unwelcome visitor, hunched over, not so benign, calls me. The voice is rough, soft, but not a whisper. He is accusing me of something. I want to deny it, don't know what he is talking about. I am too surprised to be afraid, though this has the ingredients of a nightmare. I rise to confront the intruder. He turns away, muttering something. I realize he is lost, deluded. I want to kick him out, call the cops. He seems to know me, seems to expect something from me that I cannot give him. He has nowhere to go. It's my fault for leaving the door unlocked, for being so negligent, for not caring. I have a long day ahead and need to sleep. He shuffles out the door, only to come back later, this time to the back door, more insistent this time. "Let me in," he says. "Let me in. I'm not going away."

Life Force

Sometimes I wish it would just leave me alone: this crazy urge, yearning, desire, whatever it is. The siren song of sleep grows stronger when I get tired like this. The I, that "I" that is me but not really me, wants to set that burden down, retire, get my ass to nearest couch and put on my potato pants. Beer at the ready, next to the remote, dammit. But here it is, four-thirty, and my perky little friend of a happy beating heart has gotten me up again. Wide awake, in the utter darkness of the wolf hour, I and it and the cat are thrumming with life. I should be grateful. It's what I asked for so many years ago when the prospect of checking out seemed the only option. Might as well take the hand of the beloved and dance the rest of the night away. It's perfect, after all, whether I get that or not.

Did It. Found Out. Now What?

So, I did the big test. And, yep, I found out. The news isn't horrible. But neither is it great. Suffice it to say, that my genetic predisposition to dementia is pretty solid. No need to gnash teeth or run to the nearest cliff, though the prospect of a new Subaru is tempting. My local bike shop owner doesn't know about this, but she was pitching the benefits of a hot, new ride -- "on sale, for you, today only" -- without knowing my vulnerable mental state. And, yes, I'll admit that the news has colored my attitude. Yesterday was like trying to stay out the swirling vortex of a black hole. I felt locked into a descent into despair. Got some perspective today though. I'm not a vegetable yet. I still have some things to do and the mental ability to do them. That's all that matters, really. I am just a vehicle for carrying a soul, after all, one whose warranty was never spelled out. No guarantees in this life. But you get a day, here and there, to live like you stole it, which you did, not knowing that it was yours all along.

Get a Job

"Oh my God," she said. "We have to cut out literary texts. Students just point their 'human significance.' We can't have that as an outcome." I wondered why not? Isn't being a better human part of a writing class? Listening to my boss, I had to infer that, no, that was longer part of our curriculum, couldn't count as a definable "outcome." In spite of evidence that reading serious literary texts (not genre fiction or expository non-fiction) improves capacity for empathy and appreciation of complex psychology, education policies have expunged them from the curriculum, from k-12 Common Core standards to university courses. So, it looks like broadening one's sense of humanity, of seeing through another's eyes, of learning some sense of empathy, has given way to teaching technical skills that will then translate into getting a job, succeeding as a corporate citizen. The steady decline of literary study in writing courses comes at a price I don't think I can pay. Inclusion of literature has served me as a pathway to critical thinking, to engagement with social issues, to an aesthetic experience, and to a broader horizon of what is humanly possible. It expands students. Eliminating literary texts from a first year writing experience reduces all of us. It looks like I'll be one of those veteran teachers who can't take it anymore, who leave teaching to look for a job in all the wrong places. 

Fragments

What I most remember: Floor time at the end of a workday, I am still in button-down shirt, teaching pants, as we move plastic figures around in mock dialogue. Between the dramas playing out on the Brio trains, the animals in pop-up books, we work out the next moments in a delicate sword play of proximity and futures. A ball bounces and rolls as the park sinks into sunset, moonrise. Trips to the ER. Puzzling over algebra; brainstorming an essay about a trip to Mexico. Cheetah shirts, lion hoodies, and jungle pursuits full of roaring and leaping. Drawn out bedtimes. Falling finally into sleep. Washing out dirty diapers; hanging them up before class. Baby shit smell under fingernails as I post lesson agenda on dry-erase boards. The movement of you when you thought I wasn't watching. All of it, once so sharp and present I thought it would last forever, now fades. The edges have blurred, lost brilliance, are sinking, will soon enough be gone, lost to roiling sea. 

Dust

He is late. It's five o'clock, and the stars are still out. It's cold on this first day of February. I am waiting for my son. He needs a lift to the airport. He's going back to Guatemala to finish something he needs to finish before he can move on his life he says. It's a love thing. God help him. I wish I could finish such things. At the last minute, he calls. He can't find his itinerary. He's anxious, jumbled up in his head, broken-hearted, possessed. He is also out if work, has dropped his classes, and lost his apartment. I wait for him in the truck, engine idling, and listen absently to NPR voices way too perky for the early hour. He arrives in a flurry of exasperation and loads his sad, oversized suitcase into the bed of the truck. He sits next to me in the dark and we drive through the sleeping city. He says, again, how he should have done things differently. I tell him the past is done. He needs to get on with his life and that this, this crazy trip to Central America to regain the footing of his life is what he wants to do, more than anything. I tell him that he has to remember that, has to remember that soon enough our lives will be over, and that there will be nothing left behind but what we did that was true, honest, and good. I tell him I think he is doing that. I am his father. I love him, but don't quite know what else to say. When I leave him there at the curb, I look at him as I drive away, in the mirror, as he turns to step into the rest of his life.