Today's Playlist

• Feelin’ Good— Nina Simone

• Hallelujah Chorus— Handel

• Oh, What a Beautiful Morning— Rodgers and Hammerstein

• Here Comes the Sun— The Beatles

• Feelin’ Groovy— Simon and Garfunkel

 

Like that moment when I’m in my fourth day of jet lag and I feel my astral body catch up with my physical one, I felt the last drop of Covid finally exit yesterday. Yes, there are still echoes of the cough and I wouldn’t be shocked if yesterday’s bit of fever came back, but it is the first time in 12 days that I feel wholly myself. And not a minute too soon, with my flight to Salzburg leaving at 4:20 today. 

 

And so I’ll sing all of the above while I can and particularly celebrate the line in Nina’s song:

 

It’s a new dawn,

It’s a new day,

It’s a new life for me,

And I’m feelin’ good. 

The Miserable Road to Compassion

I know, I know, no one wants to hear it and I don’t want to tell how the coughing and slight fevers persist despite the upgraded meds the doctor gave me. Truth be told, this is simply the new norm and I might as well get used to it—at least for a while (hopefully not much) longer. 

 

Meanwhile, I continue to host my one-man Pity Party, feeling both perplexed and sorry for myself. Not exactly wallowing in it—what’s the point?— but simply trying to remember what it used to feel like to be normal. All my tests these past months—the bloodwork, the MRI, the recent chest X-ray, the Covid test—assure me that all is normal, but again, my body is missing that memo.

 

But here’s a useful thought. My pain and suffering is so mild in comparison to what it could be and to what it is for so many. So here’s an opportunity to ramp up my compassion, feel my tiny version of our universal pain and let it connect me to fellow humans far and wide. To go yet further and imagine people going through this (and worse) with no access to health care, with medicine prices beyond their reach, with a terminal diagnosis at the end of their dark tunnel. To think about generations of enslaved human beings who never were granted a sick day, not to mention any kind of doctor care. To imagine going out to the cotton fields in the relentless sun with the nearby overseer brandishing his whip. How did those folks bear up?

 

None of this brings healing and comfort to me nor to the people I’m speaking of. But it’s a good exercise in walking a mile in your neighbor’s shoes, even if they don’t fit, have holes in them and fail to protect your feet from the blistering heat of the pavement. 

 

Meanwhile, life goes on without my consent or blissful participation and right now it’s telling me, “Time to pack your suitcases. No difference if you’re coughing in Salzburg or San Francisco. Might as well give it a go.”

 

And so I will. 

People to People

You can imagine my delight to finally see that thin blue line next to C in the window, with nothing near T.  According to a little plastic stick, I’m done with Covid. However, my body didn’t get the memo. In fact, my coughing was so bad yesterday that it got into a weird danger zone where the impulse to cough came from a different place that had me gasping for air. I was sufficiently alarmed that I actually headed to the Kaiser Emergency Room at 11:30 at night. Checked in, sat in a room with five other people, some of them competing with me for the coughing prize and an hour later, none of us had yet been seen. I had some 20 minutes where I didn’t cough and decided to bail out and go home. 

 

Made it through the night alive and off I went the next day (today), feeling that my sickness was getting worse, 12-days later. I will skip the lurid details of trying to contact Kaiser through their oh-so-clever voice mails and nice advice nurses that promise someone will call me back who never does. Even, like today, when I called twice and said, “Can you mark this URGENT?!!!” They promised that a call back will come no later than 4 hours after the initial call and it didn’t. I felt like calling again and shouting “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!” but couldn’t bear to go through the voice mail options again.

 

So I got in the car and drove to the physical hospital, checked in at Drop-in Urgent Care with a live human being at a desk, waited in a waiting room with other live human beings, got called into a room where an actual doctor stood in front of me and we had a good discussion about what might or might not be going on. She suggested more heavy-duty cough suppressants that she called into the pharmacy, chest X-rays to check for bronchitis or pneumonia and antibiotics in case the whole thing turned to those directions when in Europe. She was warm, personable and seemed confident we could turn this around. 

Why didn’t I go in earlier and skip all this telephone/e-mail protocol?!!!

 

Not in the mood to get into the details, but that’s the deal with all our oh-so-clever- electronic systems. We think they’re efficient, but they can’t really track the needs of someone who actually needs to talk to someone or better yet, see them in person. We’ve found the same thing with our Jot-form Summer Orff Course registration. The ap can take the name and address, but is ill-equipped to answer questions about visas or payment plans and such and we found people were falling in the cracks who we assumed were registered but actually were not wholly signed-up until we answered their questions. And be honest with me. If you had a choice of going through 25 voice-mail options that try to second-guess your question or actually talk to a human being who knows about these things, which would you choose?

 

So I stand by my conviction that flawed as we are, people to people is still the best way to go in just about anything. Especially health care. I suggested to one of the Medical Advice people that they urge my general physician to actually call me and check in as to how things we going. That I needed some TLC that no machine or e-mail could give. And guess what? She just called and we had a good conversation. So there’s hope for Kaiser after all!

 

In fact, the best thing I can say is that while waiting for my chest X-ray, I noticed a piano in the corner near the waiting room. I went over to play some Bach and Gershwin and such and noticed a woman being wheeled to the elevator changing direction to come my way. And later, a man who stood and listened and told me this was the best moment of his day. A human being playing music composed by other human beings that speaks to something called emotion that no machine understands, on an acoustic instrument, at that, with the physical vibrations real and tangible.

 

That’s what I’m talking about, people! 

Such As It Is

 

                        “Existing’s tricky. To live’s a gift.” – e.e. cummings

 

For some seven decades, I have generally been blessed to meet both the requirements of existing and the gifts of gracious living. But now in my 8^th day of mere existence, simply getting through the day with coughing, napping, reading, coughing, eating, a touch of piano and TV at night. This damn virus just won’t let go and with a flight to Salzburg awaiting me on Friday, back to “all plans provisional” mentality. 

 

Hardly worth taking your time to write this, but might as well keep the discipline going until it’s so excruciatingly boring that even I can’t stand to read it. Well, at least there is that e.e. cummings quote, such as it is. 

 

Be well, my friends. 

What to Say and When, To Whom and Why

The French philosopher said, “In order to straighten a bent stick, you have to first bend it the other way.” Well, maybe. Perhaps that works in physics and the manipulation of matter, but doesn’t always seem to be the best idea when it comes to culture. 

 

At the recent Orff Conference, some presenters who had published material retracted their lesson about Lucy Locket  to be replaced by some generic composed rhyme that taught absolutely nothing interesting. Why? Because meticulous research by scholars far away from the world of children revealed that Lucy and Kitty were not the innocent playmates who simply lost a pocket and looked for their money. As described in Steemit’s “Dark, Distrubing and somewhat Horrible, the History and Origins of Nursery Rhymes # 4:”

“In 18th century London, prostitution was rife and one of the most famous courtesans at the time was Catherine Maria "Kitty" Fisher. Originally a milliner, but after seeing how much more money she could make and how much more fun she could have making it, inside and outside the boudoir, Kitty decided to take matters into her own hands and made a career change.

Aside from her more notable talents, Kitty was also known for her "clever and witty conversation", and her lighthearted antics, including reportedly eating "a thousand-pound banknote on her bread and butter".

The second harlot in the rhyme, is Lucy Locket a barmaid at (Ye Olde Cock Tavern) in Fleet Street, London. Lucy Locket had a regular customer also known as a "pocket" who obviously liked her services a little too much, as he quickly ran out of money and was dumped by Lucy.

He then turned his attention to Kitty and hence she "found the pocket" and since he was broke, there was not a penny in it. The ribbon refers to the custom among prostitutes to keep their bank notes tied to their thigh with a ribbon. So, the rhyme, is Kitty taunting Lucy for dumping her lover and her taking him on.”

Now that’s an interesting story! And I agree that it’s not an appropriate one to tell to young children enjoying the rhyme and the game of hiding “a pocket” and looking for it, as I have done for years. But why cancel it? There are plenty of verses/ lyrics/ poems/ stories and yes, nursery rhymes, that have a double-entendre secret history and that’s part of what make them fascinating. 

Instead of removing them from the curriculum, I would suggest learning that rhyme when young without the background and re-visiting it in Middle School/ High School as a jump start to perhaps needed conversation about “the world’s oldest profession.” Look at how toxic male culture sustains and profits from it, how women with few job choices have sometimes been driven to it and how some suggest (women) changing the word “prostitute” to “sex worker” might give it a different kind of dignity and choice.

Meanwhile, while well-meaning teachers are worried that such a rhyme will damage innocent young children (who will never know the backstory unless we tell them), might we consider that a former President of the United States is in the news every day because of his liason with Stormy Daniels? Do you think the kids might be overhearing some of that? How do you explain it to them?

The bottom line is that the world’s history, captured in the old stories, films, TV shows, poems, are rife with beauty and universal truths, horror and inappropriateness and rather than throw them out, they all are the starting points of the needed conversations. Lucy and Kitty, for example, would make an interesting discussion. Especially with this PS to the story:

In 1776 Kitty married an MP (Member of Parliament) and became a well-respected member of London high society and dabbled in philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, the marriage only lasted 4 months as Kitty contracted smallpox and died. Her last dying wishes were to be buried in her ballgown.

 

Host and Guests

                                    

Fish and guests stink after three days. – Benjamin Franklin

 

I have been a most unhappy host with a most unwelcome guest for three days. It’s time for my virus to go. It felt like Mr. Covid was finally packing his bags last night and not a day too soon. Still showed some signs of preparing to leave this morning, but then I read his note on the Test Strip, a line at T and C which said it plainly— “I think I’ll hang around a bit more.”

 

Still, I went on with my plan to pretend he wasn’t there. For the first time in three days, sat zazen, took a shower and shaved, actually got dressed and later in the day, went out for a walk in the park. Even had a picnic lunch outside with my daughter introducing my wife and I to a man she’s been seeing for awhile. I stayed some 8-feet away the whole time with my mask on and it was a lovely visit, though not my choice for a first impression. (And yes, I like him!)

 

I believe I’ve been a patient host, but enough is enough. But I’m not convinced my guest Mr. Covid got the hint. I can feel his presence still. On the fourth full day, even as he must know that Benjamin Franklin wouldn’t approve. I can get through one more day without being in contact with others, but there are things on my calendar next week that I’d rather not miss, having already cancelled a dinner with friends, the piano play at the Jewish Home and a Memorial Service. 

 

Mr. Covid, are you listening? You’ve inhabited my body long enough. Time to go. Thank you for the visit— a good reminder to cherish every second of good health— but don’t come again for a long time, please. Or ever.  

 

The Purpose of Poetry

Remember Richard Brautigan? I didn’t think you would For this of us coming of age in the late 60’s and early 70’s, he was quite big amongst my hippy friends— along with Herman Hesse, Alan Watts and such. He was a poet/novelist who worked out of San Francisco. Indeed, one of his book covers is a photo of the Presidio Library on Sacramento. 

 

I didn’t know much about his life, but of course, there’s no excuse now to be ignorant with Wikipedia at your fingertips. He seems to have fulfilled the portait of the eccentric, tormented artist, with a childhood steeped in trauma, a meteoric coming of age ascent that included publishing his novel Trout Fishing in America that went on to sell 4 million copies worldwide, and then a decline into alcoholism, depression and ultimately suicide at the age of 49 while living in a cabin in Bolinas, California. 

 

Since the 1980’s, I’ve thought about him exactly once, in an intriguing conversation with an Iranian music teacher who said he influenced her deeply. Once, that is, until today. 

 

I don’t remember any of his poem or plots of his novels, but there was a phrase in one of his poems that speaks eloquently to the way I feel today. And that, after all, is the purpose of poetry. To find an image much more articulate than “I feel good” or “I feel bad.” And this one fits the bill.

 

In his words, in my fourth day of Covid, “I feel like a turd sewed to a garbage can lid.”

 

Thank you, Richard Brautigan. That about covers it.