It’s time for a change. Today is the day! Inauguration 2009! 

homesick (hōm′-sik): longing for home and family while absent from them

The little lady at the left, Grace, shown here at five months, just had her fifth birthday on January 9. She lives in Oregon, both near and impossibly distant at the same time. I’ve known Grace since she was six hours old, the only human being on the planet I’ve ever met so early in life.

Shortly after her birth, I was in the hospital room with Grace, her parents, and her grandmother. They asked, “do you want to hold her, Jim?”

“Uh. OK.” (I said nervously.)

And, then, in my arms, just like that, the bond I had felt with the mother and grandmother, was extended to this new little one as well.

I assume there was a birthday party for her fifth. I wasn’t there. And, there’s been this feeling, this knot in my stomach, this emptiness, lately. A feeling borne from being absent. A longing for familiar places and people.

Grace, her mother, and her grandmother, were all part of the group in Oregon that had referred to me as “family.” Although life and relationship with “C,” the grandmother, were fraught with difficulty, the closeness and inclusion I experienced was an extremely significant element of my life for a decade. And, I had “adopted” (in my heart), C’s three children and two grandchildren.

For the most part, that all disappeared right after I moved to California.

America is about to embark on a new journey. Barack Obama will be inaugurated tomorrow and an overwhelming sense of hope and optimism prevails, even in these times of deep economic despair.

And while the rest of the country celebrates, I am ailing with melancholy. I would love to be home for this occasion.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thoughts escaping
Home, where my musics playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me

(“Homeward Bound” – Simon & Garfunkel)

I’ve been thinking, in recent days, that it’s possible I might have to relinquish my well-earned, and entirely appropriate, moniker of “TechnoMonk.” As you may recall (or likely not), the name was given to me by “C” in recognition of my propensity for always acquiring the latest and greatest technology toys – and my concomitant inclination toward Spartan furnishings in the rest of my life. Probably the most notable of my minimalist tendencies has been the practice of sleeping on a futon. And not only have I slept on one for a very long time, it’s been placed on the floor in my various bedrooms – giving those spaces a perpetually-bare, “monkish” appearance.

Well, all that is about to change. I bought a new mattress/box-spring set that is scheduled to be delivered next weekend. In terms of the events of my life (and if you don’t count all the job changes and moves in recent times), this act is practically revolutionary.

I say this because this is something that I’ve put off doing for years and years. Well, truth be told: decades. I am admitting here to unhealthy, counter-productive behavior, and perhaps even a totally neurotic tendency, of delaying a purchase that I’ve long suspected would be good for me.

So, what’s the back story here?

Well, I was divorced in 1978. Yes, very long ago. A much different time. Jimmy Carter was president, for crying out loud. When we were married, “M” and I had a wonderful queen-sized bed, made of teak. We used a foam mattress, which gave us a very firm, supportive sleeping surface. And it was a beautiful piece of furniture.

I left that teak bed behind when I left the marriage. I subsequently moved into an apartment with practically no furnishings. I spent the first couple weeks sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor – before finally purchasing a foam mattress (that I also kept on the floor). Even though I had no immediate plans to be in a relationship again, I thought, even back then, that purchasing a “real bed” could wait...that I could buy another one, eventually, with another partner.

In my (much to my surprise) perpetually-single state, though, the foam mattress lasted for years. Finally, a year after I moved to Indiana, in 1991, I replaced the foam with a new futon. Again, I placed this bed on the floor. Despite occasional recommendations, over the years, from chiropractors and other health-care practitioners, that I find a more suitable sleeping surface, I persisted. I was always thinking that “the one” was right around the corner...and no sooner would I buy a bed that it would be the wrong one for “us.”

Well, here I am over 31 years later. (Holy crap, how did this happen?) I’ve been sleeping on the floor for three-plus decades. Despite, at one point, being close to having all that change. In early 1998, I suggested to “C” that I was thinking about buying a new bed (to make her visits to my place more accommodating). The huge negative reaction to that idea on her part was totally shocking...and I should have known right there that this was not a relationship with long-term prospects. Ah, all the missed clues!

Yes, and even our last night together involved a spat that involved rejection of both me as well as the futon we were on. The truly bizarre admission that I have to make here in this essay, is that after that last night together, I kept the futon on the floor in the bedroom, but I spent approximately the next five years sleeping on the sofa: so much did I hate the site, the futon, of our final staking-out-of-positions...that led to the end of us as a couple. I have never admitted this to anyone. Well, until y’all, right now.

So, here I am, almost ten years past that point...finally making steps to take care of myself: to no longer punish myself by sleeping on an inappropriate surface, or banishing myself to the sofa to avoid negative memories of “the end.”

I have made great strides in improving my chronic pain issues in the last year. There is still progress to made, though. And I suspect that sleeping on a real bed will make a difference.

Though this may all put my “TechnoMonk” reputation at stake, I’m willing. And eager. To be healthier.

But still “the monk.”

I went to the movies a couple of days ago, and chose to see “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” This is a work adapted from a 1921 short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, with the screenplay written by Eric Roth (who also wrote “Forrest Gump” - a fact that has prompted several comparisons between the two tales). The film stars Brad Pitt in the title role, with Cate Blanchett (“Daisy”) as the female lead and primary love interest of Benjamin. The film was directed by David Fincher (“Fight Club;” “The Game”).

Despite the comparisons with Forrest Gump, however, I suggest that “Benjamin” is really a meeting of “The Bridges of Madison County” and “The Time Traveler’s Wife.” As in these works, “Benjamin” is, first and foremost, a love story between two people who are doomed in their pursuit of being together long-term. The first comparison works for me because of the initial set-up: stories of relationships disclosed by a senior near death (“Benjamin”) or from beyond the grave (“Bridges”). “Bridges” is also a tale of two people who love each other deeply, yet only have four days really together. Additionally, a sense of fantasy and whimsy with regard to time are pervasive in both “Time Traveler” and “Benjamin.” And, it’s because of the twisted nature of time in both stories that the couples are not able to spend their lives with each other.

The essential premise of the film is that Benjamin is an old man when he is born (shriveled up, suffering from many of the infirmities of old age) and ages backwards until he dies as a dementia-ridden infant. It’s a cradle-to-grave story that stretches one’s imagination, I admit. But the story is told so lovingly, and with such imaginative special effects, that this suspension of reality, for me, for awhile, was entirely successful. Film critic Roger Ebert, interestingly, disagrees. He says:

[“Benjamin”] tells the story of a man who is old when he is born and an infant when he dies. All those around him, everyone he knows and loves, grow older in the usual way, and he passes them on the way down. As I watched the film, I became consumed by a conviction that this was simply wrong.

Well, Roger: I’m so sorry. You’re the one who is wrong. This entire film works, as it eloquently tells a (gut-wrenchingly moving) story of undying love between these two people.

As Benjamin lives his life, first as a young, old man, he meets the granddaughter of one of the residents of the “home” he lives in. He is immediately taken with her, but while Daisy looks her actual childhood age (of course), Benjamin appears to be in his 70s (or so). As the story unfolds, Daisy and Benjamin meet again and again, but never when it is really “age appropriate” or convenient...until, finally, in middle age, they are able to be together. And their love for each other can be mutually acknowledged and consummated.

 Their coming together seems to take an eternity (in years, and surely in movie minutes), but appears to be nothing short of pre-destined. Their time as a couple is blissful, intense, and oh-so-short. The period during which they were actually able to share their lives, for me, demonstrates a model for what true love can be. Each revels in the other, and they want nothing more out of life than the relationship (...the words, when they come, that Daisy utters to Benjamin: “my love for you is everything to me”...are supremely poignant).

In the end, though, being with each other becomes impossible. Benjamin keeps getting younger, Daisy older. After their child is born and has had her first birthday, Benjamin leaves. Both of them are in love with each other forever, and yet, in a reflection of the basic unfairness of life, are only able to be together for a short time.

So. Entirely. Sad.

And, yet, perhaps, a lot like how life really is. Whether you’re living it forwards or backwards.

This is not really a “feel-good” movie. However, unless you’re made out of hardened steel, this is a movie that will make you feel. I recommend it. Go see it. Go feel it. 

As I awakened very early this morning, for one of those ungodly pre-dawn visits to the bathroom, I was aware that I had been dreaming of writing a blog post entitled “Dreams & Confessions.” At the time, I remember being quite clear on how the essay would go. Of course, I went right back to sleep, got up a couple of hours later, and all that had stuck with me was the title. So, what I’ve done right here, right now, is to sit down at the keyboard to see if my fingers are able to fill in the blanks...

An extremely vague memory of my dream-time last night is a snapshot of an experience that is, well, really just a dream. The scene is one where I am walking down the sidewalk with a young woman I feel very close to. As we are about to cross the street at an intersection, I reach to take her hand just as she simultaneously reaches out for mine. The unusual thing about the gesture is, I realize, this is the first time we’ve touched. And we’ve both decided to do it for the first time - at the same time. We take each other’s hand, look each other in the eye, and both smile radiantly.

And that’s the sum total of my memory of the dream.

I don’t know who she is. Or, if in the dream, I am the same (younger) age as she, or if I am the age I am now. Or where we are. Or how we know each other. Or why we’re together on this particular sunny afternoon.

This small slice of time reminds me a little bit of the one described by “Sam” (Tom Hanks) in Sleepless in Seattle. Sam said, “I don’t know. When I met her, it was so clear. I just knew. You touch her for the first time, and suddenly... you’re home. It’s almost like...Magic.”

So, if that’s the dream part of this essay...what could I possibly have to confess?

Well: that I believe Magic Happens? It would seem that I’ve already confessed that. Just recently, in fact.

So, I guess I could further confess that I have wide-awake fantasies (not just dreams) of this kind a lot. For as many years now that I’ve been alone, and as much as I try to talk myself into believing that I’m OK alone...well, I would prefer not to be. And at no time of year is it more difficult to have these kinds of magical fantasies than the holidays.

At this time of year, especially, I think about having someone’s hand to hold. To have somebody to help me warm my feet at night. And someone to share life, love and presents with on Christmas Eve.

This I confess.