Day five hundred and forty six ... Far from fearless.

I'm scared out of my mind.

Everywhere I look planes are crashing.

Every time I turn on the news someone is dead.

Even the local news is disconcerting.

The only things that I can consider safe in my world is my house and my friends and in less than a week I have to leave them both. But that is the price I must pay to live a life outside of my safety zone, and that is the only way I can grow.

I wrote about it in the last entry. I mentioned how I actually care so very much what, in fact, happens to me as far as my safety, my health, and my mental well being. I care so much because I am finally opening up my grasp on my emotions and letting another person in, and this means that I not only am responsible for myself in my own head, I am responsible for myself in hers.

This post won't get mushy. That, I promise. In fact, this post isn't going to be that long. I just felt like letting some of you in on how I am doing.

I just celebrated 18 months of being off the bottle on the 27th. I say "celebrated", but to tell you the truth this is the first time I actually realized it since I thought about it last month. And that is just about the best way I can think of to stay sober. In my years of using I didn't think about how many months it had been since I started drinking. No, it just sort of piled up until it became more or less understood. And that's how I want my sobriety to be: understood. It's getting there. I am happy. Moving, trusting, growing.

I have put my music room together, finally. It has taken me a little over half a year but I am just about at the point where I can start to record the music that I have been working on for some time now. It's going to be here when I get back from my trip, and I'm sure I'll have some ideas to work on from a month of traveling. I can't play if I don't work. Luckily, I have figured out a way to do them at the same time. But I can't do one without the other. Work=life.

My obsession with order is still in full effect. It makes me a bit manic, but it really is for the best. "Mis en place," is French for "a place for everything." It has its origins in cooking but it can be transferred to almost every facet of life. An example: I have lots of pens and pencils everywhere. I also have several pencil holders of varying shapes and designs. If I have a hundred pens but can't find one when I'm on the phone, scrambling to document directions or a phone number, then I might as well just throw them all away. I don't want to do that so I keep them where I can find them. Order=ease.

There have been a lot of deaths lately in the news. People are always dying. Take one cursory look at the obituaries in your local newspaper and you will find people who lived right in your town who don't anymore.

A good friend was recently in the hospital for a semi-serious condition. While I was there visiting him I saw the news about Michael Jackson. I didn't feel a thing. It's not that I am hardened to loss or even intentionally callous. I just have to keep my emotions in place and focus on who and what actually matters in my life. My friend, I love; Michael Jackson, I am familiar with. I, at one point, enjoyed his music and even used to emulate him. Now I emulate my friend because he is stronger than most people I know and more talented than many understand ... though that last part, I am sure, is about to change.

I miss my mother like crazy because I just know she would love my girlfriend. She always knew I would find someone who was right for me and vice versa. I would always downplay it because it made me uncomfortable. Now I want to scream it so loud she could hear me in heaven, if there is such a place.

But I realize that this is what life is, nothing more. I can't have it all. I couldn't have gotten sober any other time in my life, and therefore I would have not been ready had we (Jodi and I) met another time when she was on this earth. The minutes roll on and on and the world travels around and around with its billions of people clinging on for dear life, as if an amusement park ride that never started and has no intention of letting up. We can only choose to let go when we have had enough, or when the ride has taken its toll on us and takes us from it. There are always new people waiting to get on and there are only so many seats. It's not fair and it is the most fair imaginable. It must retain a balance, and we must comply. Whether we feel it is unjust is a matter of opinion, and opinions are as fickle as the breath you just took. In a minute you will forget you even just concentrated on it at all.

But I am not speaking directly to anyone. Please do not be offended. I am merely getting this out as quickly as I can. It feels really, really good.

I have a motto that I use sometimes: "If you have to think about it, you're probably lying." It works in many situations. This is one of them.

I am scared to death to get on that plane on Saturday. I am scared to death that Jodi has to get on one in two weeks. These emotions have always been there, except that I used to be able to ignore them one way or another. Now there is no choice but to be aware, because I don't want to miss a fraction of a second of emotion, of time, of chance, of love, of adventure, of desire, of joy, of life.

I have to go now and take care of a million things. It's quite good for me. The more I do anything, the better I get at it. I don't have to worry about what to bring on Saturday. No, that's been made easy by the many trips I've made with the Chorus in the past. That stuff dictates itself in the closing hours of the pre-trip journey.

I have to clean my house, I have to pay some bills, I have to water the garden, I have to soak my feet, I have to have dinner with Jodi and a friend, I have to look out for tacks on the floor, I have to stretch, I have to sleep, I have to dream, I have to cry my eyes out, I have to laugh my head off, I have to take care of a million things ...

... and then I can relax.

Make that a million minus one.

Thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

Day five hundred and thirty four ... Lights out.

Prologue:

I overheard someone talking the other day, as I often do.

"You know how sometimes you see ambulances that have their lights on but their siren off?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think that means that the person inside is dead and they're in a different kind of rush to get to the hospital?"

Man. Talk about heavy. I have a pretty skewed perspective on life in general, but I would have never put this scenario together in my head.

Since hearing that I notice them much more often. They might be white and yellow; white and red; white and blue; white and gold. They appear all over the country, quietly moving past the reluctantly pulled over traffic, with the lights on but the siren off. I'm sure they didn't forget. They'd have it on if they needed it to be on. They get trained to be under great stress and handle all kinds of situations.

But why do they do it?

Could it be?

Could they be carrying the dead?

__________________________________________________________________

Catching up. Part One: Love takes all of us.

The love of a good woman, or any woman at all, I thought, was as far away from the realm of my possibilities as me ever getting clean and sober.

I had had my chances. I had women in my life that cared for me. One of them even professed to love me. But they were all temporary, and they were all messy. The women in these cases were all trying to date a man who was committed to another. You might say I was committed to many others, but all of those things provided the same thing: escape.

I used to hear it from my aunt and (less so) from my mother. They'd say, "Alex, there are plenty of women out there who would give their right arm to be with someone as handsome, as smart, and as talented as you. But they would have to be legally insane to want to spend their time with someone whose main directive is to be drugged up and drunk all the time."

When a person has become schooled in the art of addiction and abuse they develop many ways to wriggle out of the lasso of reality. They are almost uncatchable. And while they may have many scars from the yellow bristly rope on their skin from its many earnest attempts to ensnare, they remain, on the whole, unbroken.

When I would hear my family talk in this way--knowing that neither one had any experience whatsoever in the art of substance use--it was easy to brush it off. It was easy to call them on having no clue about the subject because I knew that they didn't know. I held the power in this debate. I would react to their words as if they were a foreigner trying precariously to explain something to me in my language, conscious that their timbre and parlance was rough and uneven. Meanwhile, arms crossed, I feigned being completely mystified as to what they were trying to express.

"You have no idea what you are talking about!," I'd say. "It is an affront to me, and casts unjust aspersions upon my female acquaintances both past and present to utter such nonsense!"

When I knew I was wrong I'd pull out the big words from my faux highbrow database.

It didn't fool my folks. They were actually smart; I was--and remain--a good bullshitter with a flexible vocabulary.

And so I'd go from one mess of a relationship to another. A one night stand here; a rebound casualty there. There was even one mixed in over the last twenty odd years that started off on the right foot. I had been trying to dry out for a while, and even succeeding. But once the emotions and anxieties started to kick in it was all over. I drank like a fish and then I swam quickly and nervously away leaving a very nice person confused and saddened.

And then the lasso got me.

It slipped on when I wasn't looking. I had turned my head for one night--one night I thought I could run around the corral bucking up my hooves and snorting into the air. And before I knew it I couldn't breathe. Not in anyway. I reared up on my hind legs and pulled with all my might. I felt the first few drops of blood from the old hard edge of the rope as it dug in to my neck. I tried to look behind me to see who the hell had been so stealth as to get this far. Nobody had ever gotten this close. The nerve! I pulled and I pulled and I beat my feet into the ground. I shrieked into the air and my hot spit flew from my jowls like a round of buckshot--as unpredictable as it is effective.

And then I fell down.

And when I came to and looked around me I knew things were different. I realized that there was no going back this time; I was broken. And when they finally let me out to walk on my own I saw a distinct line in the distance, like a rainstorm on the plains of the midwest that was passing before me.

I was drenched, I was cold, I was shaking, and I was scared. But I saw that the rain had other places to go. It would not be a gradual cessation. The clouds would not inadvertently turn off their faucets, only to start up again at a moment's notice. No. They were in a hurry to get on down the road; they left me alone with a huff and a chuckle.

And I felt that odd feeling of being cold and hot at the same time. As confusing as it is reassuring. It was a systems check. I could feel the effects of extremes from both ends of the thermometer.

I was most definitely alive.

It wasn't long before I could talk to the people who had tried to snare me with those lassoes for what seemed like an eternity. I'm sure it seemed longer for them, for they actually suffered more going through watching me than I did doing it. At least that's how it seemed.

For those involved firsthand, there is sometimes solace in blackouts.

When I dried off and dried out I talked with those people that were my family. I didn't pretend not to understand them. I didn't accuse them of using a language that they had no knowledge of. It was now I who was doing his best to learn the words pertaining to sobriety. It was now I who had only slight knowledge of the subject at hand, and they fluency.

Consequently, I helped them better understand what they didn't know, and encouraged them on the things they did. I made up for the years of forgetfulness; for the countless times I lied; for the things I missed out on--great things, family things that I could have very easily attended but chose--I repeat, chose to excuse myself from.

My mother never got the chance to see me do what needed to be done in this respect. She truly knew I would, though. This was made clear to me on more than several occasions. But the one last person who always tried to lasso me but never could manage a clean roping did. Although she never got to see me pass my year milestone in my new life she had always told me that due to my choices and actions I would soon be ready to share myself with someone else. She believed that I would soon be eligible for a genuine, mutual, collaboration of souls because I was beginning to believe that I could be me as me, and not me as somebody else. She could see that I had stopped trying to buck everyone and everything that tried to reason with me. She told me that I would find someone to share my time with; share my surprises with; share tears of laughter, and share tears of sadness. She told me that someday I would embrace with both arms the person who makes love make more sense than not. And when I did, to never let go. Because the whirlpool that we go through life in whips our fates around at an unbelievable pace, and we may never get that chance again.

I never used to be afraid of flying.

I always thought, well, if I die, I die.

Now I realize that if I die, a love will be lost. Of course this works both ways. And love makes us more than just ourselves. It is a supreme responsibility. It is the most demanding job known to man.

Love takes all of us, if we let it.

Looks like I'm all in.

And on we go ...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Catching up. Part two: Making plans.

Once again it has been an unusually long time between posts. Not to be too egocentric but there are people who I know enjoy reading my entries that may be concerned to see so few over the last month or so. To them I express my thanks for letting me be a part of their consciousness for so long, and hope my life slows down just a bit so as to more easily transfer a communicative bullion cube to the computer screen. It's not easy to not write a bunch of junk about nothing. Here's to picking the right time to say the right things.

I am preparing to go overseas with the Young at Heart Chorus next month. We've been putting a new show together over the last year. It's near completion and it is as groundbreaking as it is accessible. I can't give too many secrets away, but suffice to say that the music is more unusual (both in the song choices and in the arrangement) and there are many new faces in the actual chorus bringing a renewed sense of vitality and spirit to a troupe of well-travelled troubadours.

We leave on July, 4 and journey to Manchester, England, where we will stay for two weeks. We will be debuting the new show, titled, "End Of The Road," at the Manchester International Festival.

Jodi, my girlfriend, will be joining me there for the last night of performances before we set out on our own adventure traveling through Wales, London, Paris, and finally, to Portugal, where we will be spending ten days in Setubal and Porto, respectively.

I will be attempting to keep up with our journeys through pictures and words via this blog as well as my Facebook page.

That said, none of this would have been possible had it not been for that lasso that snared me almost 18 months ago. I would not have been in the position to find and purchase my home; I would not have been able to write this blog; I would most definitely never been able to form a solid bond with Jodi; and I wouldn't be going to Europe with the idea that I can guarantee--failing an unforeseen emergency--to return in one piece--perhaps with an even better understanding of myself, my girlfriend, and the symbiotic entity that is created when we are together (neither of us ever jibed with the idea that someone can "complete" someone else. For to be an incomplete person upon forming a bond leaves both at risk of damage--augmentation, however, is another story).

And in knowing all of this I realize that I ultimately was able to come to peace with at least one of the people who tried for years to turn my destructive habits around.

She saw the emergency when I could not.

She did what she could to save me the only way she knew how.

She turned on her flashing lights.

She turned on her siren.

And she laid on the gas, knowing that everyone else could tell there was a life still left to save.

Thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

Day five hundred and seventeen ... The wearing away of the world.

I've become a bit neurotic as of late.

I knew it would happen. In fact, I kind of welcomed it. What with my changing lifestyle and my self imposed cessation from the kind of things that I used to turn to to forget what worried me, it makes perfect sense.

It makes a little too much sense.

The world is wearing away.

Each time we place a cup on a saucer we scrape a miniscule portion of the porcelain off. Each swirl of a spoon creates its own pattern of scuffs on the inside. And don't think I don't count the erosion from the actual liquid whirl-pooling around and around. It all does a little.

When we put on our sneakers we stretch the leather, string, and glue a little more. As we stuff our feet in each one our sock is pulled back along with it, loosening its overall composition. We pull at the laces, and it, in turn, strains the rivets that run along each side of the tongue. We tie a bow, and stand up to walk, and each step we take wears a little more rubber off the sole. Sometimes, that which we walk on is softer than our shoe bottoms, and it is worn away, but more often than not it is our foot that takes the brunt of the abuse. 

Only dressier shoes are really capable of repair, and even at that they can only hold on for so long before they lose their dressiness and turn into work shoes, and then into trash.

And one day we try to put on our sneakers and something snaps. It may be one of the laces, which is an easy fix--maybe even just tying it together, or, better yet, replacing it for a couple of bucks. But one day our sneakers will just stop being useful. It's not so easy to fix a sneaker as it is a dress shoe or a boot, as I mentioned, so we just toss them and buy some new ones. And from the moment we take the balled up tissue paper from the toe of each one it begins to wear down.

I feel like this a lot these days. But it's not because I actually am worn down--quite the opposite. I am living a life I only dreamed of, and then, even at that, I never really ever had the kind of imagination that could invent such a reality. I feel alive and well with each keystroke, every inhale, every blink, every step I take and each time I lock eyes with another human.

But I am ultra aware of the brevity of our time here. And so, I feel that I must write or become complacent and comfortable with the unexamined life. And that just will not do.

I clench my teeth constantly to the point where one of my back teeth has become extremely sensitive. I've been seeing an acupuncturist for a few weeks now and I think it's helping a bit but I still do it. It's maddening. It's not quite like grinding. I think I just like feeling the pressure of one tooth against another. If I keep doing it, in time, I will just wear down all of them. I don't think chewing gum helps, but I do that sometimes to strengthen my gums.

What does this all mean?

It means that I have realized that one of the byproducts of my abstinence from drugs and alcohol is that everything matters now. 

Everything. 

However, I realize that I can't let this get to me or else I won't be able to enjoy the sublime facets of the conscious world like cucumber water on a sweltering day, or the brush of a hand from a loved one triggering a frantic spider dance, awkwardly locking fingers, squeezing, sighing, and smiling.

But what it does do is to make me ever so sure of what I want to do with my clarity. 

I want to create. I want to perform. I want to clean. I want to recycle. I want to laugh. I want to dance. I want to eat. I want to exercise. I want to watch the best and the worst movies ever made. I want to think up a joke that will bring tears of laughter to the right person. I want to swim in the ocean and come up with eyes red from salt and hair that is tangled and mangled from the ocean's tousling. I want to walk under the moon and wink hoping it saw me. I want to kiss until I can't feel my lips, and then kiss twice as hard. I want to be so out of breath that I may pass out, but so full of life that I feel I'll never die.

And, of course, I will indeed die some day. But I can't spend my time worrying about that. All I can do is keep doing the things that may extend the time I have randomly been assessed, and stay away from the things that will most decidedly pull the curtain early.

And here is where I realize that my neurosis regarding the inevitable and everlasting erosion of everything and anything in our world can coexist with my calm and contentment.

Because each time I put on my sneakers; each time I swirl my spoon around in a cup of fresh coffee; each shirt I manhandle with haste putting on as I run out the door, wearing a little of the wood off its edges with each slam behind me--each time I do any of these things, if I do them with a clear mind and a clean body I give myself that much better of a chance that I will be able to enjoy what is left of them just a little longer. I may live long enough to see the pair of sneakers to their end. I may see the day when I notice a chip in the enamel of my favorite coffee mug and have to dispose of it. I may escort my favorite shirt, if not to the point of the curbside, then at least to the point where it gets put in the box with my other favorite shirts I can't bear to part with. I may see the day when I need to get a new front door, from all the times its welcomed my presence and those of my world who pass in and out. 

Because all of these things were made by us. Some were made to last longer than we do; some not even close. And they will keep being made until supply exceeds demand.

Even though my neurosis of the wearing down of the world had to be the inspiration for me to write after almost three weeks, there is a pleasant byproduct of this all. 

I realized that once we stop wearing away our world, we stop worrying about it.

I know you know what I mean.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pour myself a cup of coffee and throw on some clothes and shoes. I'm going to slam the front door shut because I'm probably going to be late for work. I'm going to put a few miles on my car and a few more hours on my guitar strings.

It's what I do. 

And I'll thank you all for reading this post, like I always do, and hope to do it again tomorrow.

Here's to life, to love, to laughter, to contentment ...

... in fact ... here's to everything!

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

 

A note to my readers.

Hello.

For those who are checking in wondering what's up with the week-plus with no post, rest assured. I am merely taking a bit of a break and will return soon.

Wednesday will remain my 17 month sobriety date; I haven't screwed that up ... but believe me, if I did, it wouldn't take a week to let you know.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the weekend,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety eight ... Love, always.

Time has always amazed me.

I enjoy how definitive it is, how it can be pinpointed down to the last fraction of a second, and how we all are tethered to one pendulum--always moving, always progressing for ever and ever, regardless of if anyone is around to notice. I also enjoy trying to stretch it's limits on a daily basis, which is, in itself, contingent on the aforemetioned method of assessing the progress of our world.

In fourteen minutes it will be my dearly departed mother's sixty eighth birthday, the third she hasn't been around for. I just went back and reread the post from last May 14. I had, on that day, focused on a happy time--the pedicure that I got with her in 2005--because I had just learned of my aunt's state of health. I was a mess over it all, to say the least, but I was focused and had gotten a few months of sobriety under my belt. That made everything so much easier, and continues to do so.

There were so many questions to be answered. There were stories to dig up, rumors to put to rest, people in old photos to identify, and promises to accept. We spent four months doing all of these things, and when I look back on it now it seemed like it took a good year or more to move through the different stages of my aunt's illness to get to the point where it ends, and the rest of the story begins.

That's probably because it happened so fast it didn't give me time to attach a chronological framework to the process. It just happened and then it was over and I was left with a house full of clocks and no reason at all to be anywhere on time.

And now it is eleven minutes past midnight and I just had a good cry over a picture of my mom. 

Happy Birthday, Mom! Stolat!

And the seconds just keep piling up and in a little less than 24 hours from now it will be May 15, and her birthday will technically be over.

But before that, I have a little celebrating to do. 

Lobsters and steamers. These two things were my mother's favorite thing in the world. Perhaps it's because they both come with melted butter, perhaps it's because it is so unbelievably representative of New England, just like she was.

Editor's note: And just like that I find myself awake at 8 a.m. on the couch I fell asleep on about fifteen minutes past midnight, as if my dear mother was saying, "Alex, go to sleep ... we can celebrate in the morning ... you've been going all day ... ".  

Sometimes it's all too much.

I went home yesterday to mow the lawn; the grass was getting to the point where I had no choice. I pulled the rider-mower out of the garage and filled it up with gas. I put in the clutch and turned the key.

It started.

But when I tried to drive it it just sat there like an old lazy dog that want's to do anything except play.

I poked around until I couldn't figure out what to do and so I went down to the power equipment repair place right down the street. My aunt had all of her outdoor stuff serviced by them, so I know they would know the machine and may even be able to fix it quickly.

Sara, the boss, came by and took a look at it. It was agreed upon that it was the drive belt that needed replacing, and that it would take a good week to get the part in and get it fixed. I told her I needed to get the lawn mowed and asked if there was there any way I could rent a mower for the day.

She said no. I picked a bad week to need a quick fix.

That's when she called Rob C. He was a good guy, so she said, who had bought all his equipment from them and was starting his own company. She said that he even took care of a couple of cemeteries in the area as well. She was going to see if he could help out.

Lo and behold, when she called, he answered his phone. Not too many people in business answer their phones when you call nowadays. Nothing's live anymore, as it were. Everybody has to leave a message. And then, even at that, you get to hear it back and erase it if you don't like it. You get as many takes as you need to leave that "perfect" message. And while you're doing that, the person you are calling has all the time in the world to decide if they want to call you back. Hardly anybody does it live anymore.

Sara gave him my info and she took off. She didn't have to have come down. She didn't have to do anything until Tuesday when they do all the repair pickups, but she left with the rider-mower that would start but wouldn't go anywhere.

Rob called me and I told him where the place was. He showed up ten minutes later and already knew a bit about the property as his friend was part of the crew that did the tree work two weeks ago. We walked around and I showed him what I needed done.

I waited for the estimate that was going to make me gulp.

Instead, it made me smile.

He said he'd come by today, the 14th, and take care of the whole thing by himself--mowed, weed-whacked, and raked.

I wrote him a check and we shook on it. He seemed trustworthy and I know his dealer, as it were.

Then he told me, "I'm off to Turk's to get some steamers."

And I smiled again.

"Me too," I said. "When do they close?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Then I better get moving. Nice to meet you and thank you so much, Rob."

"My pleasure. Call me anytime you need work done."

"Will do."

Lobsters and steamers. These two things were my mother's favorite thing in the world. Perhaps it's because they both come with melted butter, perhaps it's because it is so unbelievably representative of New England, just like she was.

I was planning, even before I got to the house to find a broken mower, to go to Turk's to get some steamers to bring back to Florence. Jodi has never had a clamboil, and I thought there was no better day to introduce her to one of the finer, simpler, messier things in life.

So, when Rob said he was going there--for steamers, even--I felt it was a sign. In fact I could almost hear my mom saying, "Go home Alex. You did the best you could do and the day is almost over. You can consider hiring Rob for the day as a present for me. You go back to Florence and take care of things there. Because that is where you live. It is your home. It is where your heart is. And you know I am there as well."

So now it is 10:04 a.m.. 

At my mom's house Rob should be whizzing and burring; mowing and raking. And I'm sure the next time I go there it will look amazing. 

In my refrigerator there is life. There is a bucket of steamers spitting and hissing. There is even a couple of lobsters clawing and banging (I thought it would be a nice touch). 

Outside my house there are workmen planting trees, moving boulders in place, and laying stones to walk on. Because this is where I will be spending my life now that I finally figured out how to do it right. This is where my heart is.

And tonight I will have a guest over, adding even more life to my environment. We will cook together and, I'm sure, share a few laughs. The smells of fresh seafood will waft through the kitchen, the living room, and out to the neighborhood in my little landlocked county. I will put out the special little tools that one needs to eat lobster. I will put out extra bowls for the shells. I will put out two hearty portions of melted butter, as well as the requisite broth for dipping. I will put out the potatoes, onions, hot dogs, sausages, and linguica links (a spicy Portuguese sausage). And I will put out a big roll of paper towels.  Any meal that comes with a roll of paper towels you just know is going to be good.

I will do all of this with great love and aplomb, introducing someone new to this very New England tradition. It will be a celebration of all that I know. It will be in honor of my great teacher, my provider, my inspiration, and yes, even, my chef. 

As I do it it will fill my heart with pride and joy. It will fill my house with smiles and smells. It will fill my belly with a food that reminds me of hundreds of shared meals. And all of these combined will remind me that I am alive, and as long as I breathe this air I hold her memory close.

Home is where the heart is, and in my home and in my heart a great woman lives on forever.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Sto-lat!

Love, Always,

~Alex

Rest in Peace Judith Ann Johnson, 5/14/41-1/11/07

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety three ... One more book upon the shelf.

Tomorrow, May 9th, is my birthday; I'll be thirty nine.

It's been a long year since I turned thirty eight. Some amazing and positively life changing events have taken place and I dare say that I have never been happier to be alive.

That said, the start of it was a rocky introduction to say the least.

Last year it was with great trepidation that I drove to my aunt's house the day before my birthday in order to bring her to the emergency room. She had been complaining of abdominal pain for a couple of weeks and we had initially thought that it was just a complication from the surgery she had had back over the winter.

Well, she thought that was the reason; I had my suspicions that it was something else.

I say that now, after the fact, but it is the truth. I had been through the devastation of my mom's cancer a year and a half prior, as well as my uncle in 1998, and grandmother, in 1980 before that. I come from what specialists call a "cancer family" and I suppose part of me was still thinking in those terms when she was describing the pain to me over the phone.

I told her I was coming home and I was taking her to the hospital. She reluctantly agreed. 

And so it went that I got her in the car--my car--and drove her to Brigham and Women's hospital in Boston, parked in the tower parking garage, and walked with her to the admitting area. There we sat for four hours until they finally made room to fit her in. We sat in the intimately impersonal room and talked about all kinds of silly things to get our mind off the reason we were there. We talked together, close, while all around me there were people--some alone; others with huge families in tow--in varying states of distress. 

We talked about my car, and how I needed to get a tune up; we talked about our plans for my birthday and how we were going to go out to eat at a great Indian place; we talked about the asparagus I had gotten for her the week prior and how good it was; and we talked about the possibility that she was sicker than she thought. 

The doctors couldn't initially find anything wrong with her. All the tests came back negative. But they didn't want to let her go yet, so we stayed. And the surroundings seemed so familiar and fresh to me--spotlessly clean with hardly a primary color in sight, save for the control panes of the myriad machines in every room. The walls, though, were different. The walls, the sheets, the ceilings, the floors, the hallways, the tables, the chairs, the bathrooms, the elevators--all of these things were muted neutral colors: blues, grays, whites and browns.

When it became apparent that we would be there for a while, as they ran more tests, they wheeled in a hospital bed for me to lay on next to her; they were all nicer than nice. And my aunt--as was her way--made sure to mention to almost anyone who would come to help her--if their position was anywhere above that of the janitor--that I--her nephew--had just come back from Los Angeles where I had played on The Tonight Show, of all things! And Ellen, too! She said to anyone who would listen how good I was being, taking her to the hospital on the night before my birthday. 

She had gotten used to singing my praises a bit later than my mother, but not without good reason.

And there we drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours side by side in the semi-permanent partitioned area in the emergency room wing of the hospital in Boston. 

When the nurse came in again to check her vitals my aunt noticed that it was just about midnight. She asked for two cups of water and ice. When the clock struck twelve we toasted, and she sang me Happy Birthday, all by herself, in a voice that I will never--for better or for worse--forget. It began joyous, strong and sure, but quickly lost control like a single prop plane running out of altitude and gas, narrowly missing the ground. I hugged her tightly and thanked her and told her how much I loved her. She told me the same. We didn't cry a lot, but we did cry.

The next time I looked at the clock it was with bleary, irritated eyes; the big, round, black and white clock read 3 a.m.. The doctor came in and addressed my aunt. The whole place had simmered down, but it was still nowhere near quiet--kind of like a sleeping humming bird. 

She woke up slowly and composed herself with a grimace. My aunt--like my mother before her--did not like company to show up unannounced, regardless of whose house we were at.

When the doctor sat down on the bed beside her I believe we both knew what was coming next. Doctors don't sit on the bed if they've got good news. No, that they report from a distance, perhaps so the whole family can smile at each other and hugs can come flying forth. But bad news is meant for tight quarters, as it isn't really welcome in the first place. It is meant for complex, slow movement, with shoulders back and jaws agape. 

Bad news may travel fast, but only once it has been laboriously and methodically delivered. 

And so it went that I hugged the other parent in my life and absorbed the bad news, slowly, incomprehensibly, but undeniably rife with devastating implications. And I call her "the other parent in my life" because she absolutely was. My mom was most assuredly my mom, but my aunt was more than just her sister. In conversation, when I referred to my mom and aunt, I would always call them "my folks". Because thats who they were. 

Due to my tendency towards looking at life with an analogous mindset I see the beginnings and the ends of major periods in my existence as so many books in a personal library. I don't always know when a book is going to officially end if I'm currently reading it, but I have a good idea when it's starting to tidy things up. I can sense when the lighter stack of bound, printed pages is preparing to reunite, en masse, with its much denser familiar reserve. And eventually the pages that your right hand keeps sequestered--the pages that are new but relate, inherently, to those that came before it--eventually these pages slip away under your thumb and you are left with a few blank ones before you finally come to the thick back cover, glossy and stiff. And that is the point when it can't be denied that your book is done, that there are no more stories in it to tell, and you must put it up on the shelf with the ones that you've already read.

I have a lot of these books in my library now. Some are trilogies; some are giant tomes; some have pictures to go with them; some are full of rudimentary sketches and are barely comprehensible. But they have all been read, and they all have a beginning and an end, for that is what makes any book a book. 

I wasn't aware that I was at the end of one book last May 8th. I had a feeling, but I won't say I was sure of it. I just knew that there was more of a chance of the worst case scenario happening than something else. And if that happened--if it was a mere case of diverticulitis, or an upset stomach--then I would have been pleased to find that there were a few pages that had been stuck together waiting for me to continue--possibly enough to take up years of my time. But that's not what happened.

And from 3 a.m. on May, 9 2008, until 1:00 a.m. September, 7 2008 another book was opened, read, and closed. It wasn't an easy book to get through, but at least I knew where I stood. And it made me sit up and pay attention and understand that I held in my hands a very short book, but one that was as important as any collection of consecutive pages to come before it.

And in the end it did get put up on the shelf with the rest of them, in chronological order but certainly not in order of importance.

And here I am, somewhere in the midst of another adventure. The book I am currently involved with, I am pleased to be able to say, documents one of the happiest times of my life. I never thought I could live my life like this. I never thought I could rid myself of all the stress and worry I used to carry so close. I never thought I could open my heart up for someone else like a faucet, letting the tap run for so long that the DPW puts my address on alert--"they must be doing work on the old Johnson house ... this meter's off the charts."

And this year I have a magical birthday in store for me. I will be spending it with a woman who I love with all my heart and soul--someone who my dear mother and aunt never got to meet, but perhaps that's only because they were so busy on the other side of this mortal stage calling the lights and pulling the curtains. The wings don't usually provide the best view, but it's always where the superstars gravitate to watch the show. I have to thank them, wherever they are, for what it's worth. It would be rude of me not to. 

So tonight I will allow myself to be awake and aware at the stroke of midnight. I will allow myself to embrace the natural but orchestrated documentation of the passage of time into my thirty ninth year of life. I will remember the women--my folks--who sang to me, as they had for every single one of my birthdays prior, and reflect on all that has happened in the past three hundred and sixty five days. Then I will embrace and kiss my true love. I will protect with all my attention, awareness, and affection someone who didn't have to enter onto my stage when she did, as I admire whoever it is that is writing this play, and thank heaven above that I haven't the faintest idea how it will end ... 

And as far as this book goes ... thanks so much for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety ... Doing the little things right.

We live in short sentences, six words or fewer.

Do or die.

How sweet it is.

Eyes on the prize.

One day at a time.

Live for today.

May the force be with you.

Live fast, die young.

Don't worry about it.

It's a decidedly American concept. We like our mottoes, our slogans, our chants. It's like we can't keep quiet and mindful for longer than it takes to think of the next thing and then we're off like a firework on the fourth of July. When they go off every year I sometimes feel as if they are a code of some sort--a speech or a monologue, ending with a rousing ovation by an already converted audience.

But we like to keep it brief.

And so, as a product of this culture and one of it's proponents (despite my frequent criticisms), I have one of my own.

"Do the little things right."

Yes. I know. It goes against the idea that we mustn't dwell on the minutia of the world--that the big picture is what is of most consequence.

But if the wall hanger that the big picture is relying on for support is installed with haste and indifference, then the big picture, as it were, is only one strong slam of the front door away from ending up on the floor with a shattered pane of museum quality glass.

Do the little things right.

I have some nice guitars; I've had some of them for more than twenty years. They're pretty durable, but each and every one of them are at all times under immense tension from six thin cables running lengthwise from tip to tail. They all have protective cases, but I like to have them handy so I can pick them up and play them when I'm home (out of sight, out of mind is a six word phrase that comes into play all too frequently in this situation). A guitar stand costs $25, give or take. I had a couple stands that each had a small but significant problem with them. It's possible that I could have used them for a long time without an accident. But I went out the other day and bought two new stands. I didn't want to spend $50 on something that I technically already owned. But the way I see it, if one of my guitars should fall and the neck should snap because I was using something that, by definition, did not, and could not perform its purpose (to "stand" my guitar up when I'm not holding it), then I just ruined something more valuable to me than one could fathom.

Do the little things right.

The coasters I own, if left unused, could ruin an otherwise flawless tabletop finish.

A price tag, if not cut with scissors but, instead, ripped out forcefully as I am so accustomed to doing, could--and most often does--rip a shirt collar.

A sink with a few dirty dishes could so easily be left at the end of the night for the morning. The idea is so delicious that I swear I get a high just walking away from them. But more often than not I will do them before I go to bed. I don't live in a restaurant. I don't have a night crew. I made a small, contained mess that is still malleable and open to a quick scrubbing ("clean as you go" is a four word phrase a wise man in an apron once told me). When I get up in the morning the last thing I want to do is dishes. No, I want to use them ... clumsily. And it makes the start of my day so much nicer when I'm not picking up from the night before. 

Do the little things right.

I'm not trying to write a self-help book here, unless you take the literal meaning of that and apply it to how I'm trying to impart the ideas and practices that I have used in my recent past to help myself improve. And I don't mean this to, in any way, be misconstrued as nagging or chastising to the reader. I just can't not talk about it, because it is so unbelievably simple and consistent that I feel I would be remiss to not focus on this seemingly small but ultimately monumental facet of my newly commandeered life. It works on every level. It only takes a little bit of effort to make a huge difference. And the best part about is that it gets easier the more I do it.

That piece of paper on the floor is still going to be here the next ten times I walk by it ... 

And the thing I like most about doing the little things right is that if you take care of the seemingly insignificant details of the average existence, then the big things don't seem so big anymore. They have fewer conspirators to compare themselves to. They have fewer places to hide, and, as a result, have more sides exposed leaving unseen weaknesses in plain view. And when that happens, they lose their swagger and pomposity. They lose their bravado. They become last year's model. They begin to cooperate. 

They become a littler thing.

Time is like a small child. If left unattended it may wander off or, worse yet, be taken away right from under you.

That said, it's time, once again, to do the little things right ...

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.