missalg

[missalg]

Last March,

I saw you for the first time in a long time.

You told me then your diagnosis,

Casually slipped into the conversation.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna be here a long time,”

you said,

Gathering me into your strong arms.

A long time…

It was four months.

Four months of sharing,

Even though you lost your voice,

Your fingers still spoke for you.

Still reassuring, optimistic,

Planning a future of you and me.

Norway, or out to dinner—

Equal impossibilities.

I dreamed of you last night.

I could not know I would miss you so.

[missalg]

Got a valentine from Peter Pan,

Hinting rapprochement.

It makes me smile,

The wide generous smile that is

My rueful response

To those I casually love and cannot trust.

I’d help you if I could, Boy-man.

I know I represent to you

A touchstone,

Old times when the world was new

And everything was possible.

You’ve charmed your way through countless jobs and women,

Faced death from your choices and came through unscathed.

I know your heart for kittens and the elders,

Your respect for learning and your letter-writing style:

Generous with the hearts and crammed with sharing,

Letters like no others I have gotten.

I’ve seen for years the good that is in you.

A sidenote: yeah, you are still hella sexy

In that skinny rock-star way that’s part genetic, part your past.

It’s a weakness some of us from the 80’s share,

But just a momentary smile now, aged 50 plus.

So now I guess I’ll write back to you;

Ignore the hints and focus on the words.

Share details of my staid and steady joyful life;

Extend, again, the hand of friendship

And wait with benign interest to see

Where your dancing soul lights next.

[missalg]

So long, old friend.

They're saying their goodbyes today

And struggling to find the what to define you.

Not easy, finding those words.

The ones that come to mind most readily

Aren't fit for this puritan company

Plus you died broke.

Not the all American success story.

If only they knew

That what doesn't tell your story; it's who.

Who you were to me is all I know

Though I can see who you might have been to others

Through your casual words from time to time:

Caretaker son, spoiled baby brother.

Casanova of the hills.

But to me, this:

My friend.

Golden joy, loving heart

Wishing always to be good; that simple.

Who you are is what I love,

What I'll miss always

When those letters don't arrive

When I can't have one more hug

When your cheerful optimism doesn't spill

Into my daily life.

Who you are is what I'll miss

But who you are is part of me

And I'll remember, and smile,

For who you are.

[missalg]

Collective is a noun of security

Belonging

Inclusivity

Until it’s not

And it becomes unconscious superiority

Supremacy

Exclusion.

I’m so taken with the study of chemistry because it takes

118 elements and gives us the universe:

Chocolate, satellite dishes, toenails,

Pheromones and melanin,

Red bicycles and splashy puddles,

Stardust,

And the insane miracle that is H2O.

But more amazing, more sublime, more astounding

Is the individuality of every human being:

Every person is a story, a wealth of stories,

Compounded of DNA and laughter and tears and language,

Vari-hued and different shaped

Every one a complex living compound

Of all those things that make the body

And those that make the spirit

That which makes us not just what,

But who

We are.

With all this amazing diversity of humanity,

How is there time for any feeling

But awe, and reverence, and love--

Love for that only collective,

Humanity,

In its myriad forms and syntaxes,

In its astounding uniqueness

In its common bond of life

And anguish of death?

Donne and DuBois and Dostoyevsky have all said it better before:

Love all creation, the whole and every part of it;

Equality is not to be confounded with sameness;

No man is an island, complete of himself.

Listen to the wisdom that’s gone before,

Listen to yourself,

Listen to all of your brothers and sisters,

All creation crying out,

We can do better.

We must do better.

We have been given the priceless gift

Of infinite variety,

The choice of appreciation and common humanity.

Lord, and who is my neighbor?

Everyone.

Every part of humanity is your neighbor.

Loving your neighbor

Is loving a part of yourself.

[missalg]

"Thirteen Years in North Philly"

I like to cook

For one or fifty, doesn’t matter.

There’s something fulfilling in creating something from something else,

And making it better and nourishing and memorable.

Sensory memories are everything.

Shopping, too, is an experience

Whether in my United Nations supermarket

Or the downtown farmers’ market stalls

Or even in the corner store

Where I can get fancy pimientos

Next to the place that sells loosies,

Or freshly baked baguettes

Along with a can of chickpeas.

(If I ever wanted chickpeas.)

Beautifully seared salmon from my grill pan,

Filet mignon at just the right temperature,

Divine blanched asparagus with a tender drizzle of sauce,

Browned butter walnut brownies,

Even deviled eggs for one on a holiday

These all have come from my kitchen.

But sometimes it’s a late night

And I’m exhausted and can’t be bothered

And I open a can of expired Spaghetti-O’s

And eat them straight from the can,

No heating. They taste of metal and despair.

Yet that, too, is a kind of freedom.

Addendum: (from when I got home today to the raisin bread)

And sometimes the world is a weird and wonderful place,

When your Puerto Rican landlord brings you raisin bread "from the Amish",

Or the Italian guy you make Christmas trees for

Goes to the Jewish deli and gets you a corned beef special with a whole loaf of sourdough rye

And some peach cider. (From somewhere that is not the deli...I'm pretty sure.)

I love the cross-cultural pollination

And that people like to feed people who are alone.

Especially when it's a sandwich.

You can bring me a really great sandwich any time.

(But this is Philadelphia, and a really great sandwich

Is a pretty high bar. We appreciate sandwiches here.)

[missalg]

Hey, Peter Pan, when first I met you

You stole my shoes and a piece of my heart.

There was camping with mountain pies

And M80s in the woods at 2am

(Who might that have been, legend?)

And the general hanging out of young folk in a small town.

Lotta years passed.

Lotta people, places, times.

We settled in to what we are

And I grew old teaching the young

While you stayed young caring for the old.

But still we met in cards and letters,

Mine swooping and swirling with flowers and travel and education,

Yours stuffed full and overflowing with kittens and caring and Cash...Johnny, that is.

(How I love those letters; I have them all.)

Years would go by before we'd meet again,

Years of living and doing and being,

Yet still we were a touchstone for each other,

A place of mingled memories and untouched happiness.

It's good having friends for life.

The shoes came back eventually,

But you still hold a piece of my heart.

(Five years already; I was at this place in north Finland when he left us. And now I’m due to fly to Norway next week, where he wanted to go. You’ll be in my 💚.)

[missalg]

The question was posed, "What would you teach if you had to teach something?" It got me to thinking in a different way, so here is my answer:

Oh, I think I would like to teach...

an appreciation of the beauty and wonder and variety of the natural and the constructed world;

a joy in cultural differences and human likenesses;

a love of language in all of its infinite richness: the language of poetry, of everyday speech, of music, of law, of nuances;

a belief in aspiration and the sometimes necessary perspiration;

material for thinking, for making connections beyond one's own sphere, for developing a context of understanding.

Sometimes I am very, very, lucky and I can touch one of these. And the rest of the time I teach history, economics, government, and geography.

(This question helped me to realize yet again how blessed I am, that this is my calling and my joy. So, okay, sometimes I count down the days until June...)

[missalg]

Brave golden souls who sometimes walk in shadows So dark and deep you cannot feel the light Nor see the hands reached out to hold you Who live your dread in moonless, star gone night:

The way you left this world does not define you. You’re more than the last action of your mind. You are the boy who loved the birds and gave them shelter, The mom who wrapped her children in protecting arms. The nature lover, Walking with the trees. You are the friend who sang in choir and painted pain But also life and joy and wonder Which showed so often in your face and made it loving (What I would give to see your face again.)

You were the young, the old, the cusp of growing Uncles, cousins, sisters, daughters, sons Co-workers, co-inhabitors of a planet And yet sometimes these bonds were not your own. You dwelt alone.

But your going leaves a torn hole In the fabric of our lives. We weave the threads of memory: How you looked, how you loved, how you laughed. Even your annoying parts Make up the wonder that was you. We remember those peppermint cookies you made, the gardens you grew, the designs that you made, the scholarship. Or just the hands you took , Your big paw engulfing someone tiny, Or your tender fragile figures giving reassuring pats. Or your long lean artist fingers Experimenting with electricity and waves.

The mend is tenuous, at best, And the wind whispers through it of who you were and who you might have been.

It also lets in light: The darkness now is gone. Immortal souls are living in the light of peace, And love illuminates the path we cannot understand.

[missalg]

It's all love, really.

When you lose someone you love, it’s as if pieces of your heart break off like glass shards. At first the pain is excruciating, intense, and you carry yourself delicately to protect yourself from pain. Over time, the shards spread throughout your body, and the pain disseminates, except when something touches one of those broken pieces. And you never know when that will be, because they have traveled to locations you weren’t even aware of. Sometimes you can apply a balm, made of music and memory and love, and the pain becomes less, but it never goes away completely. You don’t want it to; it becomes a part of the scars that create your surface. You become more tender. And you realize that pain is a cost of love, but that love never dies and so that beloved lives within you in those broken pieces.

[missalg]

April, 2018

It’s been an oddly busy April this year, and the weather has been busy, too--running the gamut from freezing to hot within the month, but mostly cold and rainy.  Fortunately, though, on a few occasions I was able to get out into the city in glorious spring weather.

The first Saturday was an odd juxtaposition:  In the morning, I went out to Manayunk via the Regional Rail Line to join the Chew Philly food tour, a carbohydrate heavy feast in what remains one of the grittier parts of the city, albeit with loads of charm and some of the best cappuccino I’ve ever had.  From there I went down to the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (that lovely Furness building on Broad Street) to attend a retrospective/memorial for one of my beloveds who left us too soon.  It was a cold, gray day, but there was a lot of light and love and color in the auditorium of PAFA that day.

Really a teriffic soft pretzel, crunchy on the outside but light on the inside.  And look at that gorgeous color!  #tastytwisters

Tomato pie is a bit outside my personal realm (hello, cheese!) but the pepperoni bread here is amazingness.

A good contender in the cheesesteak stakes (although of course I am a Max’s girl completely, but then, that’s in my hood and this isn’t.)

Broad Street was a bit gray that day.

More of Manayunk.

[missalg]

Summer really is coming...

It's an easy-to-be-joyful kind of day. June is hitting on all five senses: An orange copper car with exaggerated spoiler, A pinky-lavender house newly painted. Blue blue skies, of course. The kiss of wind brings the smells Of the chicken guy grilling out on the street (Summer's back; it's a sign) The taste of charcoal and barbecue sauce and exhaust Somehow delicious.  And only two bucks. Every block or two the music's different: A sob-voiced tenor sings laments to love Through an old-time woofer outside the music shop. Cheerfully raucous advertising band at the supermarket. Later, dancing sounds of Caribbean pop Spouting from cars. Fifth sense, touch: Texture, too, of old bricks warm in sun And chain-link fences The grocery bags I carry Weighted down with fish and fruit. Silk skirt, soft and old and worn, Caresses with the breeze. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. It's a beautiful neighborhood for this day.

[missalg]

So I spent summers in NJ...

The time of flat wild pink roses has come, And trumpet flower, red-orange and gold. Bees in the clover, Queen Anne’s lace Bursting through the old ties of the railroad tracks. It was always sunny those days, And my big cousin would take me to pick flowers; Kind hearted and big mouthed, Patient with the snotty kid two years younger. (Two years was an eternity in those times.) I’d fill my hands as we’d ramble, Til finally it was time, And he’d say, Come on, Amush, it’s time to go home.

Years passed, A lot changed, But he still remained my grown-up cousin, Taking care of people from the depths of his big heart, Doing unto others with a smart-mouth quip, Words tumbling over each other to get to the surface, Always finding a helpful hustle to feed people with food or fun, Supportive, sensitive, tender hearted Under the bluster. It’s June again, And the railroad tracks have long been gone. (I have a spike, though, from those tracks, that he rescued And brought to me on my birthday When I was way past grown— Twenty-five or so. I can touch it from where I am.) It’s June again, and somewhere the roses are blooming, And trumpet vine twines in the grass. It’s a beautiful sunny day, perfect for exploring, And God said, Come on, Kevvy, it’s time to go home. Rest that big ol’ heart, Let others get on with the work now. Come on home. And my eyes keep leaking, and I’m a snotty nose kid again, Wishing for one more walk with my cousin.

[missalg]

Flower Show, Part 2:  Present

There’s just a bare concrete floor to start with.  Walls, none too exciting, and the infrastructure for any event:  water, loos, electric.

But then the dirt comes in.  And the pavers, and the bridges, and the backdrops, and the water features (always leaking somewhere.)  Suddenly there are small rooms where there was only empty space, and gardens and visions and spring.

And then:  the flowers.  Colors, fragrances, shapes in transient living form, ready to shine in their week of joy.  Plants with loaded blooms or shining leaves.  A visual onslaught that leaves you stunned, amazed at the variety and kinds and intrigued by the limitless intricacies of just one flower.  

Everybody’s working, some with deliberation, some with feverish intensity, yet all with that somewhat single-minded devotion to creation, to making magic from a bare concrete floor.

There’s nothing else quite like it.

[missalg]

[missalg]

[missalg]

Flower Show, Part 1:  Memories

WALT Casual, comfortably rumpled Among the Queens and Empresses that are the orchid plants. Soft voice, easily sharing Years of information absorbed from his father and his own doing. Big hugs, generous laughter, Moving with soft-footed ease among the plants and flowers. An encyclopedic knowledge Tempered by simple joy in a beautiful bloom or rare species, Making the temperamental orchidaceae into friendly companions, Making the world a more beautiful place. Paphs, vandas, cats, cyms, phals, oncidiums, ladyslippers… There’s magic in names like these: For one week each year, He made an enchanted world from a concrete floor. And all the other weeks, Raising orchids, raising children (Both with lovely results) Loving God, loving his fellowman. It’s a big void. Not just for us flower peeps, But for all whose lives he touched, Even if but for a moment. But we can joy that he is resting in the garden of God, Free from pain, rejoicing in victory. And meanwhile The next generation is growing, learning, knowing. Casual, comfortably rumpled, sharing The knowledge and wisdom of three generations And the transient beauty of a rare orchid flower, Common as sunset.

WAKE FOR MY OLD BOSS

Mingled perfumes in my hair. A sharp cologne. Waves of Casablanca lilies and old-school roses, Even a bleeding heart, solid red.   There aren't many of them left any more, the old time florists.  You'd know them by the inevitable callous on the side of the middle finger, the slightly funny walk, result of too many years on cold concrete floors.  The flowers like it cold. Successions of "the girls" pass, A family all its own.  Memories are forged In the fog of holiday deadlines and ninety-hour weeks. Some answered phones, some swept the floor, some ran the shop. All of them have the bond of working in that place, Of quick tempers and shared pizza and transient art, Perfectionists grappling with the realities of supply and demand and time. He started with fruit baskets, a quaint anachronism now. His was a neighborhood shop, with funeral baskets and church flowers outweighing the extravagant parties and celebrations of the more stylish places.   These were   flowers for my mom, my wife, my boyfriend, my two girlfriends...Flowers for the wedding, the anniversary, the new baby, the birthday, the hospital.   Everyday bread and butter work. Retired, the store closed, he still worked with flowers.  Through the joint replacement surgeries,  the pain, and finally the grip of terminal illness, he divided his time between the wholesalers and the grandchildren, the work-a-day flowers and the extravagant lily bouquets when one of "the girls" suffered a loss.   He was a small man.  He had a big heart.  I'll miss him.

(I thought about this today.  I was helping to set up for the Philadelphia Flower Show, and a retired gentleman was there helping as well.  He's one of the old school florists I talked about above, whose shop was in a somewhat more rarefied atmosphere than the one in which I worked, but who was one of my teachers at the five week flower course I took at the wholesaler's back in 1983.  When he started talking about how he preferred each flower to have its own space (rather than the current clumped/pave style) it brought back such memories of his lesson.   To a large extent, the floral gentlemen are a vanishing breed; this one suffers from severe macular degeneration and retired more than a decade ago.  I am a little verklempt, but so glad I had the chance to talk to him.)

[missalg]

When October comes. (for Scott)

Everything you had, you shared:

Opinions, enthusiasms, music, pizza.

Reading aloud from the newspaper or magazine in your hand

As you slumped in your chair

Your voice permeating the house.

 The low times, too.

Your extravagant extrovert sometimes overwhelmed my pragmatic realist,

And I’m afraid my sympathy was inverse

To your volume.

Life at operatic pitch

And size.

 It still seems strange without you

Introducing your latest obsession or scheme or love.

Rocketing ricochet of diet and gluttony,

Crescendo and crash.

 Thank you for the color and the chaos

Shane MacGowan, photography, and Mel Brooks.

May your sleep be peaceful.

I hope you can still feel the songs.