Two relatively young New Orleanians I knew slipped, fell and died. As they lived alone, both of their bodies were not discovered for days. One in the Marigny, the other Uptown. One last month, one this month. Death can happen to anyone at any time. Numbers all around me are being called, just ask. But, unlike my in-laws or grandmother, for instance, who saw their deaths coming for a long while, these people died without warning.

I, too, could get hit by a car tomorrow. No, wait, that happened twice and I lived. I could fall off a cliff. Nope, that’s happened too, and I made it. At any rate, something could happen that wipes me out. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. But, what if I die in my sleep at the age of 85? What will my life have meant between now and then?

Derek Miller died the other day. I didn’t know him, but his most graceful message of life and death is going around the internet. We should all feel so lucky and thankful when we pass on.

… It turns out that no one can imagine what’s really coming in our lives. We can plan, and do what we enjoy, but we can’t expect our plans to work out. Some of them might, while most probably won’t. Inventions and ideas will appear, and events will occur, that we could never foresee. That’s neither bad nor good, but it is real.

I think and hope that’s what my daughters can take from my disease and death. And that my wonderful, amazing wife Airdrie can see too. Not that they could die any day, but that they should pursue what they enjoy, and what stimulates their minds, as much as possible”so they can be ready for opportunities, as well as not disappointed when things go sideways, as they inevitably do.

I thank my life for my family, friends and D. That’s really it.

Next year. The (cold) drought here is so bad this desert rat craves rain, heat and its accompanying humidity. Shorts, tank tops, barbequed ribs and cold beer now! How else is a former Kuwaiti resident to celebrate the death of Osama bin Laden? Screw that, I’m more worried about the impact of the Mississippi River floods downstream. Data nerds, parse this: US Army Corps of Engineers Near Real-Time Gages reporting Hourly Stage Data. Let me know if there are better data to look at.

It occurred to me that a blog post can be two sentences long and provide evidence that neither VatulBlog nor I are dead.

While we’re making discoveries up in here, I

– have uncovered an inverse correlation between extreme productivity at the new job and frequency of blog posts here. It’s not even that I don’t have the time, energy and inclination to post during the day; my brain and creativity are put to such great use in that time that there is little left for the evening. Plus, Big D and I are still unpacking, unwinding, un-everything.

– am an extreme germaphobe, except when it comes to lovin’ on dogs and cats. Go figure.

– beat myself up too much over “not a writer” and/or “don’t write enough” when I clearly write when I put the old noggin’ to it. Example: The Season 2 opener post over at my other joint, Back Of Town. She’s a non-writer who doesn’t have enough time in the day for this blog, but runs an other blog. Uh huh.

– am signing off to watch Bladerunner again. Speaking of which, a number of Philip K. Dick books were posted to Project Gutenberg this morning. Check them out.

That hollowed-out feeling right after you have thrown up. For a little while, you live in a thin, gray space right between collapse and revival. You’re not happy, sad, tired or revving up. You just are, for really low values of You. In truth, it is. It just is. It goes on.

I don’t know where D’s mind is right now. Where does a man’s mind go when he is in the middle of a life upheaval, most of it an all-consuming, cross-country move, and his only living parent unexpectedly passes away? I’d curl up in a dark corner for days, but therein lies one of the big reasons I stayed with D. The man is made of  Upper Midwestern bedrock and he keeps going, doing his dharma, not once stopping to whine or bemoan. But, god damn it, he is human and he is physically and emotionally exhausted. And his father just died.

Bobby. Captain Marshall Robert Erwin. What a man you were. Not a word of the stuff I really admired could we put in your obituary. Don’t worry, I will tell your tales at the right time and place to the right people (with lots of Oban and Jameson present, of course, for we can’t disappoint your Scots and Irish blood. What did your Belgian half drink anyway?).

Thank you, Huehns Funeral Home, for making Bobby look great in his mint and gold tie, in the olive casket with the gold lining, with the green and gold flower spray on top. We know you loved the Packers, old man, even if you were a contrarian Brett Favre fan, considered Ted Thompson, Mike McCarthy and Aaron Rodgers a bunch of losers up to no good and were only slightly mollified (slack-jawed, taken-aback and crow-eating is more like it) when the Packers won the Superbowl. I saw that smirk on your sleeping face.

Did you like your 21-gun salute? I was numb when it began, but it shook me into pride. You did a lot in your three quarters of a century. Rest now. I love you.

***

Yes, we’re tired, if it isn’t obvious merely from the lack of posts around here. We try to find rest and entertainment when we can get to see each other, but what we need is sleep and time.

Time.

Time also means a past, which slips away from us slowly and in sudden spurts, when we aren’t looking, watching, waiting. Hell, even if we are looking, watching, waiting, grabbing away at the slippery jerk with all we have. In the last five years, D’s mother, my father’s mother, my uncle, my mother’s mother and now D’s dad have left us. Their presence, the time they occupied, their lives, their voices. No more. This theft of the past is so secondary until you’re puttering along, sitting in traffic somewhere and The Andrews Sisters come on the radio with a song that Sharon grew up with and danced to. And it’s all you can do to dry the sudden fountain of blazing tears, collect yourself and hold on, HOLD ON, to that momentary vision of Sharon and Bobby waltzing as when they first met, fell in love and into each other’s arms. A time. Their time. The time that made us. Now gone. Only empty space.

I’m not sentimental, just severely mindful of history and the people who gave us life, molded us and stuck around for a while to see how we turned out. I chose to love a good number of these people and this is the price. It was worth every minute.

Me: “And then there were two Erwins.”
D: “Guess we have to make more.”
Me: “Really.”

I wonder if old stories can make good new ones.

Today, I took a Taiwanese-British girl who speaks Dutch and lives in Holland shopping for cowboy boots in Houston, Texas. It was only slightly less weird than the time I was standing behind two white boys during a bluegrass concert in a dive bar and they began to speak to one another in proper Tamil.

Let me back up a little. This requires some explaining via interpretive picturization. Here is a map of most of my travels from November 2010 to date, color-coded by earliest (black) to latest (red). Spiral shows the current location of Hurricane Maitri.

NEWS FLASH: D and I have moved to Houston. Yes, as in Texa$$. It seemed time to mess with it. I cannot begin to tell you how long and hard we thought about this and how much I miss miss *sniff* MISS my parents in Ohio, but we made the move for all the right reasons. There’s only so much of this and this and other bullshit one can take deal with and heap on one’s poor, put-upon husband. Houston gave us a great offer we couldn’t refuse.

Wisconsin. New Orleans. Ohio. Houston. Ping. Pong. SO TIRED.

I have posts in my head on topics such as the meaning of home while constantly on the road, the mockery of representative government going on in Wisconsin, Carnival in New Orleans and American infrastructure in the wake of the latest global disaster. They will come.

So. Cowboy boots. Not a big fan. They look so uncomfortable. Haven’t bought any. But, when they look and feel like this pair, I may have to reconsider.