Mayday Mayday

Dearie,

Cheery beats bleary, dreary, weary,

and yet what if in fact we are

--in theory--

@ the .

where our good intentions have

eXXXceeded

our ^

to fulfill them?

--Amorphously,

Chet GPA

Three Blind Mice. See How They Run.

All of these 'yes-men' are as new to our national life as to our vocabulary.

Their appalling uniformity and timorousness of views threatens to sweep up whatever shards of our democracy yet remain.

At bottom, they value only the gravy-train they rode in on, and not the despoiled landscape upon which the tracks have long been spiked.

Aye Aye

Auden hadn't had a clerihew

He'd bitten off more than he could chew

When he tried to warn off Yeats

The barbarians were inside the Gates 

Swan Lake

There is a lovely lake surrounded by a goodly wood that I have many times walked about and around. It is home I am sure to many ducks and geese, because I have seen them paddling and diving in all kinds of weather. I saw, only once, a large turtle slowly make its way up the muddy shore only to be rudely scooped up by a State Park employee and dumped unceremoniously into the back of his pickup truck. I won't forget that, not really, although it wasn't the worst thing I witnessed on that lovely lake surrounded by a goodly wood. I saw a dead swan, an arrow--yes--an arrow protruding through its body just below its long, limp neck. What a sight! Not nearly as sorrowful, however, as its mate paddling itself in ever smaller, solitary circles--a  figure of true desolation in all its fine feathery, whiteness. Such other swans as there were upon this lovely lake surrounded by a goodly wood moved in pairs.

Now, years later, I perambulated about the lovely lake surrounded by a goodly wood and saw the several pairs of swans, the ducks, and the many geese, all happily paddling away. It was an uncommonly mild mid-winter day. I saw, too, the still lonely swan upon the lovely lake surrounded by a goodly wood. It was still circling in ever smaller, solitary circles.

The Remains of Our Day

The detritus one encounters

While walking once familiar roads.

One has to wonder--

Casually tossed there?

Thrown with intent to harm?

Dropped unwitting?

One walks on wondering--

By a walker like you?

Surely not--

Solely.

Looking Bleak, wot?

Bleak House is not merely the perfect title for a commodiously baggy 19th-century novel, but it can be seen as a dazzlingly claxon-clear metaphor to portray a failing society. A society shrouded in its foggy notions and bogged down in a seemingly endless search for any purpose for which it stands. Certainly, its potential remains not merely unrealized, but more than that, has become, it seems, unrealizable.

Now, whether this collapsing is due to the afflictions inherent in the residents of a house without a landlord, that is, in the acceptance by the majority of its tenants that they reside in a godless universe; or whether it has come to a head because of the negative accumulation of godly aspirations among the multitudes has become rather moot, don't you think? Bulldozers are unrequired to demolish that which is sinking under the weight of its own waste.

Looking about, no matter how piercing, or how casual one's gaze, one can see less and less reason not to welcome a rapid implosion of the whole godforsaken structure and a fervent desire to have it rebuilt upon a much sturdier foundation than mere "common living" quarters.

Conservatives are, surprisingly, because, counter-intuitively, it seems, those members of society who feel it  most that we are in the throes of the utter destruction of our distempered temple to civilization, the "shining beacon on a hill", so to speak. Progressives, for their part agree with them, for when does "the Other" not recognize a part of himself in his opposite number? Only when not looking in the mirror, I would chance to guess.

Ironic, is it not, that the things we make believe are true and the things we refuse to believe are true haven't come crashing down upon us much sooner. It is only optimism and its counterpoint that has put off the Apocalypse this long. Optimism, however unjustified, is immanently more sustaining, must be the answer.

Final Words for my BFF

Cory, just so you know, to honor your parents, I am wearing the same suit today that I wore to their wedding. I guess that was about half a century ago. Your father and I were both children of parents who had just lived through the Great Depression of the 1930's, and we learned a thing or two about being frugal, and making things last long--like our friendship. Did he ever tell you about the time we walked the 10 miles to Times Square from the Bronx to save the 5-cent subway fare to share a bag of popcorn? Well, I will never forget that day. We shared many adventures like that throughout the years.

Most of you already know me as Butch's oldest BFF, or Best Friend Forever. I am honored by his wife, Maxine, to have been asked to say a few words--something celebratory about the living person, Irwin Alexander Harris, my friend, Butch, who all of us have known, and loved, and now have lost, and will sorely miss.

To put our long and meaningful friendship in context, both his wife, Maxine, and my sister, Linda, were not even born yet when Butch and I became fast friends. As Butch and I, Maxine and my sister, Linda were born less than one week apart.

Butch and I began our journey through life together on our first day of school in September of 1948, at P.S. 67, in the Bronx. I was assigned a desk directly behind him by Mrs. Galuskin, our first teacher, because we were, all of us little boys and girls seated alphabetically. After Harris, Irwin sat Keeperman, Ronald. We kept those seating arrangements for the next 6 years. I sat directly behind him, appropriately, I suppose, because I would remain behind him forevermore.

Seated there in front of me, Butch was an easy target for the mischievous rascal that I was. I was forever armed with a carefully aimed spitball, or paper airplane, and as we grew older, and I more brazen--a pea-shooter. Butch was a good sport and took my incessant horseplay and hounding stoically. Of course, it made me love him all the more to see how he would do nothing, no matter how much I tested him, to abort our friendship. He forgave me everything. He always had a secret, quick smile and a light in his eyes that seemed to say, "I know that you're an incorrigible little putz, but I forgive you, pal."

He was unique in that regard. I can truthfully say that in all the years, throughout all the decades, since we had first met, he never argued with me, he never fought with me, he never spoke so much as a harsh word to me. Never. Our relationship, you might say, was more than unique--it was uncanny.

I swear to you, that as different as our nature's were, or at least, appeared to be, he never took me to task, he never felt compelled to criticize me. Perhaps, there is much we can learn from his example. He certainly knew how to keep an enduring friendship.

I have an hypothesis, and explanation, of his behavior. As crazy as it may sound, I think of Butch Harris as a kind of rabbi, a teacher that I was destined to meet. You see, I believe that the deep bond that Butch and I developed over the years was one rooted not just in our lives, but in the everlasting, as well.

I knew Butch, it seems like forever. I knew his mother, Helen, his father, Herbert, his older sister, Sandy, and when he was born, his brother, Alan. Butch like me, was a middle child. One by one, over the years, I remember each of them passing away, and yet, with each passing, Butch never changed his demeanor, at least not so you could notice.

He kept up his friendly, outgoing, caring, non-aggressive, jovial self. He appeared unchanged, despite the tragedies of the loss of his loved ones. He married Marsha, Cory's mom. She too, was taken. Heroically, Butch still kept his composure. Throughout all this time I stood by, observing him, empathizing with him, as a close friend must, in complete puzzlement and amazement.

Up to that point in my life I had lost nobody. I couldn't imagine how he was getting through all of this grief, managing all of this pain without ever showing it to the world, or at least, to me. How was he doing it? Why was he doing it? I knew him to be a compassionate guy, I certainly felt his pain. I had been feeling his pain for years and years.

And then, when I reached middle-age, I began to lose my family members to death. My wife, of 28 years, at 50 passed first, followed by my father, then my brother, my mother, and my middle son, Ben, who was just 49. And now, Butch himself has departed.

Finally, however, I realize the gift that Butch had given to me. The biggest gift that a friend can give, the gift of eternal, unconditional, unselfish love. For I know now, as I am speaking to you, that Butch did indeed suffer grievously from the loss of his family, but he suffered in silence, so that upon his passing we too, shall have learned not to suffer our loss grievously, but rather, to go on living, to continue caring for one another, appreciating what we have, and what he has given to us: the strength we'll need to face the shadow of death squarely and fearlessly, as he always had.

I have been lucky to know him and to have him in my heart longer than anyone.

Such mazel! What did I do to deserve him?

I have no idea, but I can't wait until I take a seat behind him again, to have him school me once more.