In past years, I have celebrated April 1 with a "bizarro" post, based upon the beloved bizarro planet of DC Comics fame. This year the planet we live on seems bizarro enough, thank you very much. In so saying, I am committing a faux pas for which I would ordinarily chide myself. I do not believe, for example, that this April is as bizarro as April 1, 1942 must have been, or April 1, 1917, for that matter. I am tempted to google up amazing April 1 trivia, but really, it's a date, only a day on the calendar.
In this week's news storied deaths occupy the headlines. I do not believe that more people died this week than any other week, but the people who are dying seem to be more important to the news media than the people who die in other weeks. I'm not going to make an impassioned plea for the anonymous, or a fervent defense of the celebrated. It's just a week in which death preoccupies us, as if the coming of Spring brought forth the aromatic yellow flowers of night-blooming jasmine, with its powerful poisons.
We used to have a night-blooming jasmine on a night-standing trellis at our old home in La Crescenta, California. It bloomed at night, as advertised. Once a small snake hid out in its branches, with a Book of Genesis symbolism arguably lost on the snake.
I think about elderly people I knew twenty years ago and then think "oh, s/he must have passed on by now". People do, you know. While the television screen plays scenes of which stars' acne which least becomes being portrayed on high definition screens, people continue to age moment by moment. It's the great smell of bitter almonds of the march of time. I'm so thankful that, say, 70, no longer seems the old age it would have seemed to me when I was a child. Life expectancies have increased slightly in my time.
As this weekend approaches, I think of things I need to accomplish. I must accompany my healthy eating with healthy exercise. I owe a dear friend commentary on a resume. I must decide to either work this weekend or to work evenings next week. I want to slide some fun in as well.
I suppose that's a bizarro feature of just living in and of itself. A follow up trembler in Indonesia kills 1,000 people who were spared the tsunami. Meanwhile, I'm most intrigued by the way that gas went up magically from 1.99/gallon to 2.08. Is there a dime of jump in this life, from one week to another? Does the ticker just keep measuring out the gallons fueled, and the cost thus far?
My life often works in patterns. Year end, end of the quarter, trial date, last day to file opposition, Friday night, three minutes a side, the plane will land in 2 hours and 19 minutes, barring unforeseen turbulence.
Tonight I contemplate half-way points between a destination and another destination, the importance of finding June cabins for a family retreat, how gorgeous a baby boy's pictures looked, and the incredible coolness of the potential for life upon Europa. Woody Allen released his 40somethingnth film in 40somethingth years. He plays jazz on Tuesdays. He married his step-daughter. The stories swell and rise like the tide on the Gulf of Mexico, waves you cannot really surf or even properly get lost among their undertow, but just shimmying waves that surround your ankles and ebb and flow.
I smile at a win in a blitz chess game in the wonderfully absurd double stonewall opening, the taste of a sandwich, and the remembered sound of passenger trains, visible from my window, when I was a child. Meanwhile, the blood flows, the arteries pump, and I pause to say a quick prayer for passing moments and unexpressed love, and think about getting belated sleep.