TIME TICKS AWAY

I don't even feel like writing that I don't feel like writing. Writing weighs on me. It is a constant burden. Yesterday I didn't rise from bed until two in the afternoon because I didn't want to face the laptop sitting on my table. Anger emanates from the screen because I won't appease its insatiable hunger.

I'm reading more than at any time in my life. I'm hoping that Philip Roth or Pablo Neruda and the other authors whose books occupy half of my bed will inspire a creative spark. 

At this point in my life existence has become a game. That perspective doesn't include my three sons. They still need me, particularly the youngest since he's only 16. His needs are almost as insatiable as the laptop. The older two are ascending the ladder, but they still can use the old man's counsel.

The game part is divided into two categories. Firstly, there is the numbers of years I will survive after retirement. I have completed my fourth year. There are colleagues who didn't get one or two years under their belts before they departed. There are the others who dote on their grandchildren because they are good for little else.

Secondly, there is the goal of attaining 80 and still have game and my mojo. Even under the best of circumstances, particularly for a male, this is not an easy objective, but when you're 70, you have to hope for the best. 

A person who reaches 80 after a full life has few complaints when it's time to exit. There is much that one can accomplish in this last decade. Every endeavor that I am presently pursuing offers the opportunity to grow. For starters, I haven't penned my best paragraph yet.

I suppose it's the athlete in me that spurs me forward in these competitions against the clock. My biggest regret is that I waste so much time when I have no time to lose.  

A DYING FRIEND

A friend lies dying. Would my presence make any difference? As poets have implied on many occasions, death can be an inconvenience. I have a certain pattern to my life that doesn't respond well to disruption. I don't like to take time away from myself. When worse comes to worse, I can take a long afternoon nap.

My hometown is a ghostly place for me. Even the empty downtown buildings where there used to be laughter are haunted. I remember drinking with so-and-so at that empty lot on the corner and now both are gone, gone for years.

The last time I visited a dying friend he told me that he would be getting out of the hospital soon. He was dead within a few days. I might be bad luck for anyone who is holding on for dear life before he must commence his eternal sentence.

What do you tell a dying friend? Do you reminisce about the good ol' days? They were fun, but they were so many decades ago. 

I don't see many people anymore. I don't communicate with many people anymore. There are no nights drinking until the wee hours anymore. It's predominately family. Since I'm not smoking marijuana these days, I don't need to stop at a buddy's house for a hit or two anymore.

It's time to find a place by the sea. It's time to find a comfortable apartment with a balcony overlooking nature. It's time to concede that time is slowly consuming each of us, leaving only dust and bones when it is finished with us. 

Should I tell my dying friend that the moment has come to let go? We should have known better than to fool ourselves into thinking that this pleasure would last forever. Rather than saying anything, would he desire one last touch before parting ways?

I would like to be there, but I can't summon the will. My mother was residing in California when both her parents died on separate occasions in her native Massachusetts. She didn't attend either of their funerals to the horror or her siblings. They didn't speak to her again. She didn't care. She said that she would rather spend the money on a weekend in Carmel or a stay in the wine country.

I probably won't go to her funeral either. She is right. I could better spend the money on an excursion elsewhere. As to my friend, I wish him well on his journey. All of us will be joining him sooner or later.

YOU NEVER KNOW

We piled into the car--my wife, my step-daughter Sara and my son Hank--in the morning for the approximate five-hour drive to San Marcos. Hank wants to play Division I football. He'll be a senior next year and has led his team in receiving as well as kick returns for the last two seasons. He had an outstanding track season in which he won regionals in both the 100 and 200 and has been hitting the weights hard. At six-feet and 180 pounds, he believes he has the tools to be a successful slot receiver at the next level. 

The Texas State Bobcats have struggled as a Division I competitor and Hank feels he might have opportunities here that he might not have elsewhere. He wanted to check out the town and walk around the campus as well as inspect the stadium to satisfy his curiosity, which was a great idea because we were looking for an excuse to spend a couple of  leisurely days in the Hill Country.

We weren't in a hurry and endured the boring drive from the border through King Ranch, two hours of utter desolation. The freeway from Corpus to San Antonio isn't a visual delight either, but when four people are jabbering in a car, the time passes swiftly. Once at our destination, we booked into the Embassy Suites just off the interstate with easy access to downtown. After we deposited our baggage in our rooms, we drove to the university. 

Hank was anxious to view the stadium. He was impressed. It is a cozy, 30,000 capacity complex that was recently remodeled. Full of illusions of grandeur about performing at this level, Hank expressed his satisfaction with a broad smile that didn't leave his face for the remainder of the day. Sara, who is in her last year of dental school at UT/San Antonio, counseled Hank that Texas State was the perfect place for him since the university isn't held in high academic esteem and Hank doesn't like to study. He was blessed with intelligence and rides that momentum to squeeze out decent grades with minimal effort. He possesses none of Sara's dedication and discipline.

We hadn't eaten since a late breakfast and within a football's throw of the Hays County Courthouse we made the pilgrimage to Grin's Restaurant. The hamburgers are the best, the fajitas are the best and the wife says that the margaritas are the best in South Texas although when you're from Brownsville, you hardly consider San Marcos, South Texas. The beer is as cold as the frozen 'ritas and I was in a serious drinking mood. 

We had paid at the hotel for a two-night stay and there was no reason to rise early in the morning. Our only goal tomorrow was to find an authentic barbecue joint in one of those little Hill Country towns and stop at a winery or two. It's not often that it's only the four of us and we had no other desire but to savor the time together. For three hours we laughed, ate to our heart's content and drank. Sara surprised me with her ability to handle several glasses of wine. She was letting loose. Dental school hasn't been a canoe ride down the San Marcos river and we had the luxury of seventeen-year-old Hank as the designated driver.

As usual I had planned the itinerary; I have a flawless record of taking in the sights and making the right stops. We would breakfast in Wimberly, visit a winery outside Fredericksburg, head south to Boerne in search of a barbecue joint about which we had received a positive lead, cruise through New Braunfels before heading back to San Marcos for another evening of song and dance. 

The next morning we consumed a big breakfast in Wimberly. With my wife behind the wheel and the kids in the backseat, we departed for Fredericksburg. The last thing I remember before regaining consciousness was an expanse of bluebonnets blanketing the rolling terrain. 

When I awoke, I was completely confused. I couldn't focus. I couldn't move. I finally realized I was in a bed. I was next to a window and rain was falling. A beeping sound filled the room. Where was I? What had happened? I slowly moved my neck from side to side and from my surroundings I gathered that I was in a hospital room. I lay there and did my best to collect my thoughts. 

A vague memory of San Marcos began to creep into my brain, but I couldn't reach a mathematical conclusion since I couldn't fathom the equation. I kept blinking. I tried to take a deep breath, but a sharp pain shot through my chest. Thoughts began to coalesce. I had been on a trip. My wife, Sara and Hank had been with me. What had happened? Where were they? Foundering in this confusion, a man attired in a white lab coat walked into the room and stopped at the side of my bed.

"Mr. O'Doul. I'm Doctor Matthews. You were in a terrible automobile accident Saturday. Today is Thursday. You have sustained several injuries as well as head trauma. It was touch-and-go for a while, but I believe that you will make a full recovery."

"And my family?"

He looked at me with a grim expression on his face.

"My wife?"

"I'm sorry that I have to tell you this, but she died instantly."

"And my daughter?"

"She lost her life."

"And my beautiful boy?"

"He didn't make it either. You're the only one who lived."

"No, doctor. I'm the only one who died."

NORMANDY

He had big plans. 
At 19, 
he had his life before him. 
First and foremost, 
when he had finished serving, 
he was going to marry 
his high school sweetheart. 
They had been holding hands 
since seventh grade. 
But a bullet  
ended his life 
as bullets have ended 
millions of lives. 

It's something bullets do.
Before the sand sucked him 
into its maw, 
his fellow soldiers 
collected his body, 
dug a hole and buried him. 
There was an enemy to fight. 
No time for pomp and circumstance. 
None of his family members 
visited his grave. 
How could they? 
They didn't know where 
he had been
unceremoniously deposited. 
Did he ever exist 
or was he nothing more 
than a brief coincidence? 
The girlfriend cried 
disconsolately for weeks
after learning of his death. 
A year later she married.  

SEX

Sex
is a walk in a winter's sun.
Sex
is a hot dog on a bun.
Sex
is a venture down a dark alley.
Sex
is a game-winning rally.
Sex
is the inspiration for a lie.
Sex
is the broken promise "until I die."
Sex
is the reason God created a bed.
Sex
is capable of awakening the dead.
Sex 
is about the birds and the bees.
Sex
is about a dog hosting an orgy of fleas.
Sex
is about the love between a husband and  a wife.
Sex
is the pathway to creating life.
Sex 
is great if you're straight or gay.
Sex
is the best way to start your day.
Sex
is as exciting as a heavyweight fight.
Sex
is wrestling all night.

Sex
is for both the young and the old.
Sex
is the reward for the brave and the bold.
Sex
is a sin committed again and again.
Sex
is a win! win! win!
Sex
is a rhythm we can apprehend.
Sex
is a rhyme that comes to an end.

HOLE IN ONE

For those who don't know, the 600-yard, par 5 18th at the country club, it has a dogleg left at about the 300-yard mark, but if you can drive with authority, you can cut the corner. Adrian Garcia, the legendary athlete from days or yore who had no more beer to drink, wanted to get to the 19th hole as quickly as possible so he decided to hit the ball over the forest of palms on his left.

He took a deep breath and smacked a ball that disappeared in the distance. I don't think Babe Ruth hit homers that far. I was smoking a joint and driving the cart. Adrian asked if I saw where it might have landed, but I told him I was having one of those paranoid dope moments thinking about death and I couldn't help him.

We drove around the bend and down the middle of the fairway toward the green, but we couldn't find the ball anywhere. We stopped at the edge of the green. In my paranoid state--it was Austin hydro--I thought I saw a snake slithering across the green. I walked behind it and it disappeared into the cup. I couldn't imagine a cup that deep, so I followed my curiosity to the hole where, lo and behold, I discovered a golf ball.

"Were you hitting a Callaway 2020?" I shouted to Adrian.

"Yeah. How did you know?" he asked.

"Here it is, cabrón."

He shook his head and remarked, "This must be my lucky hole. I've made three hole-in-ones now on the 18th. Maybe the yardage is off. The sign reads 600, but I would estimate it isn't much more than 575."

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was the snake and it was headed toward the clubhouse. Beers were on Adrian.

CATHOLICISM

When you are raised a Catholic, you die a Catholic. You may not believe in God and you may not attend Sunday mass, but when you are questioned about your religious roots, you proudly proclaim, "I am a Catholic."

It's Sunday morning. I was baptized, went to confession, received First Holy Communion, served on the altar, kissed the bishop's ring at confirmation, exchanged matrimonial vows once and watched my father receive extreme unction before his death. But I won't be going to mass today. I don't remember the last time I attended mass although I find a minute to step into the Immaculate Conception Cathedral when I am downtown. Built in the 1850s, the gothic structure is the most magnificent building in South Texas.

I dip my fingers in the holy water, bless myself and genuflect when I find myself in front of the tabernacle. Jesus hangs bleeding from the cross, the Virgin Mary radiates like a beautiful nun attired in heavenly blue and the statues of various saints fill their niches. St. Jude Thaddeus is my sentimental favorite. He is the patron saint of hopeless causes. As a family, after reciting the rosary before bedtime, we would beseech his intercession with God in the hopes that our financial situation might improve.

I went to parochial school from first through eighth grades and we held the priests and sisters on pedestals. The priests were Irish with their thick brogues. They were strong men. They were the opposite of today's pedophiles as they left the church in droves to marry. The sisters were the embodiment of purity. God forgive you if the sisters complained to your parents about your comportment. There were immediate physical repercussions.

As I grew older, Catholicism made no sense. As a by product, religion made no sense to me. I saw the bible as a book of mythology and Catholicism as an interpretation of that mythology. Heaven, hell and purgatory failed to exist for me. I saw the entire promotion of eternal life as a rejection of death's reality.

I am not an atheist. The universe is incomprehensible and I am ignorant. Therefore, who am I to say if there is a God or an assembly of Gods governing the infinite realms. In regards to the eternal question, the minute logic I possess leads me to conclude that when I am dead, I am dead. Nevertheless, I owe many debts of gratitude to the church, the most important being that my Catholic upbringing has made me less susceptible to becoming a religious right reactionary. Religious fervor, in my opinion, is a negative. It turns a person into a lemming. Religious fervor gave us the devil Donald Trump. 

Like many secular Jews, we secular Catholics can't help but conclude that believing Christian doctrine is bullshit, but we don't hold individuals practicing Christians' beliefs against them. If the bible brings you succor in this volatile world, more power to you, but please don't try to convert me. Besides my logic, my animal instincts categorically reject the fantasy world that you have decided exists.

When you are indoctrinated with Christian/Catholic propaganda from the time you become conscious of your surroundings, you never escape the paranoia that the nuns pounded into your head from the time you were a first grader that the fiery pits of hell awaited you if you died with mortal sin on your soul. This fear fills you with a superstition that it may not be a bad idea to summon a priest for your final confession just in case there was some truth to these teachings and you don't want to spend eternity in hell because you didn't heed the warnings.

In the meantime, there will be no mass for me and I will continue to commit both venial and mortal sins since we have no other alternative when we're born with original sin on our souls. Had Adam and Eve obeyed God, we would be residing in Eden sleeping with our heads against the flanks of lions instead of next to someone with teeth that cut to the bone like razor blades.

To be a Catholic with all the traditions that allegedly stretched back to St. Peter and St. Paul, our Jewish fathers, evokes another time when faith ruled and its accompanying optimism in contrast to the dark pessimism that reigns today. 

Every Good Friday we would stop at each of the fourteen stations of cross and relive Christ's tortures, his crown of thorns and his crucifixion only to gather in an opposite setting with my siblings on Easter Sunday two days later and drool over the turkey-sized ham and all the fixings steaming next to it. 

My brothers and I, attired in suits, would take our seats with my sisters, the pictures of innocence and angelic in their white dresses, nestled close to the table while my mom and dad reveled in their quiet pride that the family that prayed together, stayed together. 

Catholicism gave us these immemorial moments. But like my faith, these hallowed occasions are gone forever, but not even the delusion of eternal life was meant to last forever.