I am a mediocre writer and a good one, which is a point made unintentionally by
my brother who became competitive when we had a Thai massage. At the beginning
of the deal we were asked, as one is when facing curries, whether we wanted
one, two or three; gentle, medium or hard; bland, middling or hot. New to the
experience, I opted for “Medium.” A veteran, he went for three peppers, or
some such thing, in a session with the proprietor. I got the recent graduate.
The first hint that she didn’t have a clue what the early exchange had been
about was when she dug an elbow, or something equally sharp and hard, into my
calf, which had played a couple of hours of tennis.
What’s that got to do with writing? At the finish of the diaries section of
“Keeping On Keeping On,” Alan Bennett quotes Borges, “All the books I have
written fill me only with a complete feeling of repentance.” He adds, “I take
this to mean that he has never written the perfect book. As who has?” I like
the “as” and the acknowledgement that at one’s sixth or fortieth play, novel,
or whatever, the feeling is as I described in the opening line. From my point
of view writing is not a competitive event; I give away much of what I produce
and will be surprised if the world ever attends to what I do. I compete in
tennis, but not in Thai massage or writing.
I was very pleased with the latest performance of a play I wrote, my sixth; I
am less pleased with the academic article that is about to be published. I
find it easier to say entertaining things than to say exactly what I have
perceived or thought about history.
One of the problems of marital discourse is how to say, “I’ve noticed you made
a small error,” without it becoming a court case. One of the responses I
developed, borrowed from the movie, “Never Cry Wolf,” is to answer, “Good
idea.” The point is that to respond to communication that could be tricky
positively, you need a neutral phrase. When a chicken comes at you furious
about the inequality of the pecking order and suggesting that she should be
given new rights by a god, “Good idea” is a response worth trying. But in
marital exchanges, things are more delicate.
She says, “I’ve paid the tennis club bill…”
We could get into whose task it was but, “Good idea” seems wiser. It works the
other way around also. I say, “I’ve closed the garage door…” which means, “You
were so tired, you forgot to do that.”
“He thinks we stupid,” was a surprise to me.
Me, “Not at all. And even if I did, it’s not as if I’m never stupid.”
“Gods can be stupid?”
Me, “They can indeed.”
Mimo, “Well we’re not.”
Appenzeller, “Stupidity is a risk to life and limb.”
Pecorino, “And we’ve not got many of that.”
General, together, “No, no.” Much walking around and nodding.
Pecorino, “Quite the shortage of life and limb.”
Appenzeller, “Unlike our stock of brain cells.”
Mimo (with pride), “In pristine condition.”
Me, “I’m missing something.”
Mimo, “Early in life we set aside some of our brain cells for later use. We
expect to profit greatly therefrom.”
Appenzeller (also with pride), “We’ve kept them in tip top shape.”
Mimo, “Perfectly preserved.”
Pecorino, “Very shiny, our reserve of cells.”
Me, “Brain cells?”
General, together, “Yes, yes.” More nodding and walking.
Me, “And you stock them where?"
Appenzeller, “Can’t tell you that. You might be tempted to steal them.”
Me, “I provide your food and water. What evidence is there that I’m…”
I knew it was the wrong question by the stern look Mimo gave me. “I do take
eggs. That I confess.”
Mimo, “We rest our case.”
I’m returned from England, where I ate bacon and sausages because I hate most
examples of same here. George Orwell wrote an essay saying something about the
world ending when sausages taste of fish. This evening I ate an American
sausage that, when the knife went through it, leaked a white substance that may
have been cheese-related.
“Oi," is all I can manage on that subject...with a tired sigh.
Some of you will want to know about the finish of my trip to England and how my
father is doing. Not well, is the short answer, but he is still with us.
Always the defier of odds, he continues on that course. The only funny thing
about the past week is that the brain metastases have caused him to confuse
terms. When he wanted a fizzy drink, he asked for, “Brexit.”
A phrase can capture your attention like a flower, by its beauty or
idiosyncrasy, briefly. “Was he in his right mind?” has done that this week.
Obviously the reason we think of a mind as “right” is assonance. Substitute
“good” or “green” or “diverse,” or any of the current words people use to
describe what they like and approve of; I think you'll see that “right” isn’t
as straightforward as it first appears. “Right,” like “normal” or “regular”
suggests agreement about how we should think and behave, but it also embraces
the idea that minds are well-defined and stationary things; when you get up
tomorrow your mind, if right, will be much the way it was today. With people
who have brain metastases, this is not the case; from day to day the brain
changes and so, consequently, do the words and actions. Many times the changes
are disturbing; we very much want a person to change only slowly.
I unpacked my bags and choose to write about what’s broken; there’s a nice
shape to the tale. Dad always advised against carrying bottles of booze in a
suitcase; he had a bottle of wine break on a journey back from Trinidad and
never got over it. I’ve never had one break, until now. What I thought was
the best-packed bottle broke either because the case was inspected by TSA or
just because. Which was the best-packed bottle? The whisky I thought we’d
toast him with at the memorial gathering. Some of the ceramics broke,
including the large blue and white vase that knocked around the kitchen and the
garage for years. I guess its time was up. I’ve decided that instead of
scattering ashes, I’m going to bury the ceramics in our yard, a) because, as I
found when dogs died, digging a hole can be therapeutic and b) because if some
future archeologist comes across the shards, it will be a puzzle, c) because I
think the whole deal with ashes is silly. You think that they allow the oven
to cool, scrape all out and then fire the thing up again? If they do, it’s a
waste of energy.
I’ll wait for some rain though, before I get the shovel out. The ground is way
too hard right now.
It is so strange to see the collection of stuff from the suitcases laid out on
my office floor. That, by happenstance, is what remains to me of Dad. Also,
of course, memories. They’re far easier to transport.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
