It is indeed that hour before dawn that we seem to be our most intimate with the Universe. Stillness cloaks us in the knowledge that our globe has stopped at least until sunrise. The blooms on the heartiest of sunflowers yawn as if to beg for another hour’s sleep. And that blasted cell phone is yet dormant.
I find the concept of receiving flowers, especially from an admirer, embarrassing, awkward, and often horrifying. Admittedly, however, there have been three times in my life that I have been such a recipient; and each time has been noteworthy as far as romance goes. Of course, that is usually the intent of the sender. Granted, I have sent my mother, sister, and nieces grand and eclectic arrangements. But within the boundaries of my ancient and traditional sentiment, as a man it still seems odd.
The first time was romantic and quite unexpected. It was the summer of 1984 and I had just been transferred to Boston. I had been in the city no more than two weeks, opening a new Godiva store at Copley Place, and was mesmerized by the many facets that define Beantown. On one such Sunday night, it was humid with an unpleasant stillness in the air. I joined some friends at Paradise, a quirky dive at Kendall Square in Cambridge. I always enjoyed the jaded, faded, and smoky ambience … complete with beehived, middle-aged barmaids who were as savvy as they were sassy.
The pusses and I are remodeling Tartuffe’s Folly, as Jon cheers us on and supplies us with the appropriate victuals and libations. The progress seems a bit slow, however, at least in securing readership and subscribers. Please let me know if you have ideas to share. And either register or subscribe.
Currently, as we seek appropriate and artful furnishings, we’re struggling to take advantage of visual options. I am confident that Tartuffe’s Folly will be fully resurrected. Hopefully, it will soon surpass the former site’s readership of over 420,000 hits (over a 2 1/2 year period). You are certainly aware of my impatience and obsession, so please don’t take it personally if I am irritable, distant, or hyper. Yes, I am in pursuit of more effective medications.
By now, you are surely aware that I’ve had several serious cardio “events.” Both in February 2011 and August 2012, my heart suffered a several drop in its function evaluations. After the last attack, my heart was functioning below 25% and has dropped to just 16% over the past eight months since. Yes, Dr Rose told me today and I whisper: “you need to immediately file for disability and then secure Medicaid. It is time for a heart transplant.”
“Yikes. Egads. And Damn.” Jon will have to play nursemaid for me as I convalesce. For now, I just want to find the ball steadily and quickly rolling at Wake Heart and Vascular. For once, though, I shouldn’t focus on the future but, instead, remain in the present. A heart transplant. Geesh!
The recuperation period will demand that Jon be the caregiver, for a reversal of roles. As is the Marklewood tradition, the Twelve Erstwhile and Apostolic Pusses are assembling a soundtrack for that future date. But don’t expect any tune that might be construed as trite, crass, grossly over-played, or just dated:
“Heart Attack” (Olivia N-J), “Achy Breaky Heart” (B.R. Cyrus), “Heartless” (Heart), or even “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?” (BeeGees) I admit that an instrumental might be a little more apropos.
“Misery loves company but she will never foot the bill.”
(Images above by visionary San Francisco artist Andrew Batcheller.)