A Eulogy With Resolve

Last week, my friend Mary died.

She was the first someone who died after my dad, who I knew, who I cared about, who I had laughed and cried and eaten and partied with at length. We were both on the Elder board at Church and I sat by her when I wanted to exchange looks and notes with someone who I knew would be as bored as I was when going over the endless financial statements.

My reactions evolved over the week before the funeral. When I heard she passed, I was talking covertly in a dressing room and between the hip music and the conversations about florescent-induced skin tone, it was hard to understand, to fully comprehend. Then, there was dinner with the kids on Wednesday nights, where I talked to them like I normally would, about school and the Superbowl and then, listened quietly as Russell got to the real stuff -- how it happened, what happened. The tragedy of it all made me sad that night, but sad deep inside and not out my eyeballs. On Friday, I was driving somewhere and the Grateful Dead song "Box of Rain" came on and between the beauty of the words, the melody, and the snow-capped foothills to my right, I was suddenly tearing up, remembering someone who probably loved this song and loved the foothills, too. The tears were there, but as I remembered her dancing in her kitchen around Thanksgiving turkeys, they disappeared and were replaced by smiling and my loud singing.

Another song I played a lot this week was Iron and Wine's "Naked As We Came," a song I have always loved and loved to play, and I thought about making a CD for the kids with both this and the Grateful Dead song, songs that to me, make death-sense. They helped put some words to something so senseless. But on a second listen, I hesitated -- they were so perfect that it was sad and hurtful and hard to hear these songs without thinking of Mary's untimely death. I didn't want to make things worse, so I quietly tucked away these songs for myself, and proceeded to the funeral.

At the funeral, the three kids - whom I only call kids as an endearing term and has no bearing on their maturity and general coolness - performed a trio rendition of "Naked As We Came." And my sad insides were suddenly all over my outsides, running down my cheeks and out my nose. I sobbed and went through tissues, until I had mounds of them in my purse, like small, white bats hiding in the corners. That pew in the front, where she slid in late every Sunday, would never be filled in the same way. As the final chords were struck, I looked up and saw both the misery and the resolve in each of the kids' face. It was in this moment that I was aware, not only by the power of words that so perfectly fit who I was missing, but by the power of us, to move forward, even despite what seems like impossibility.

Pursing Without Shame

A while back, I was listening to This American Life, as I am wont to do when the powers that be deny me a new hour of Car Talk, and I heard David Segal explaining why he just couldn't get a couch. It was sort of funny, in a weird, I'm-totally-going-to-gossip-about-you-behind-your-back-now way, and I didn't think about it much until the other day.

See, it's all about how David Segal was on a search for the perfect couch, not for religious or allergic reasons, but just to replace the train wreck that was his first couch. The only problem? He went looking with a specific image in his mind and it really didn't fit with the Ikea reality at all. Sort of like Goldilocks syndrome, an affliction in which nothing is ever right and the Mama and Papa Bear are ultimately responsible. This all culminated in visiting an artisan furniture maker who was custom designing couches, with these supremely cool materials, and even then, David Segal just couldn't bring himself to buy it. It just wasn't what he imagined. And so, welcome back the old, ratty couch.

When I heard this, partly because of his nasally voice, I figured he was a Woody Allen type. Extremely neurotic except Segal's neurotics just focused on upholstery instead of emotionally unavailable women. Because, I thought, who would ever spend so much time reflecting on a fucking couch? And while this bad attitude could possibly be attributed to hunger pains, hangover, or itchy bra strap, I'm pretty sure that it was just eight minutes spent ranting about couches.

But the other day, I realized I'm just like this guy. In fact, I am the couch guy. And here's why: I cannot find a purse/bag/junk carrier that I like. And reason? Because I somehow envisioned this idealized purse and now, cannot find one individual with leather binding abilities who has executed what was in my own mind. I've been going a little nutburgers trying to find my vision, dashing in and out of Pasadena stores, searching across eBay, enduring the jumbled mess that is Craigslist -- all for bupkis.

I will try not to go on here - I am about hitting the eight minute mark on typing and starting to feel slightly guilty that I am doing a David Segal here. But I have to say that I'm not sure if I will ever be able to buy a purse again and if I do, it will only be the purse that I sort-of-kind-of-can-live-with, instead of the purse I live-to-dream-about. And, I have to say, I understand Segal -- it's sort of a letdown to find out that what you really want is unattainable. I can even say that it's worth spending eight minutes talking about it on National Public Radio, without shame. Because it's not just a couch or a purse anymore.

As a matter of interest, if any of you, searching around, find a battered leather purse, big enough for library books and notebooks, but not bigger than my entire rib cage, with a little hardware on the front (perhaps in the form of pockets) and both a sling shoulder strap and two shorter carrying handles, email me immediately.

How Does Your Fondness Grow?

I've been gone a long while, so hopefully, that has made you all the more interested in where I've been and what I've been doing. Unfortunately for both of us, it's dreary and uninteresting, a bit like one of Shakespeare's kingly dramas. Luckily for both of us, I feel no need to publish it at all.

And my resolution? Short entries. Nonfiction abounding. In other words, watch this space.