A couple of months ago a woman I am very sweet on was telling me that I was “thoughtful”. Oy veh! At least she didn’t say I was “nice”. All I could think of was that this was the kiss of death from her. Naturally this spurred on the padrinophile in me (lover of the first two Godfather films and novel) . Thought of the passionate embrace-kiss full out by the Al Pacino character (Michael Corleone) in Godfather part 2, to his brother Fredo (John Cazale) in Havana on new year’s eve at the gala party as the Cuban revolution is at hand. Plus a scene in the movie “The Valachi Papers” when the mafia don in prison gives said kiss to the Charles Bronson character (Joe Valachi). So I go visit my dying 71 year old F cousin, first in the palliative care unit, then in the hospice and for whatever reason, when i said goodbye, kissed her on the lips. Something about death staring down your gullet, piercing your soul that makes you NOT want to hold back. Her doctor at the hospice came in recently and said she must rest more. Why? So she can die one week later? I cannot pretend to fathom what it is like to be dying (though Socrates would say I am dying right now even as I type these pithy words). One area of interest I have always had is capital punishment and I have read-studied the issue a great deal but do not have the foggiest notion what it is like to be on death row. Zilch. Sympathy, empathy, the vicarious, by proxy, walking in another person’s shoes only takes one so far.
The pizza (below) looked so delicious with garlic, oregano, basil, olive oil, tomatoes, cheese. Something life giving was needed with all this death talk. Still remember the pizza in Boston that was out of this world with fried eggplant on it as a topping. Yumissimo! Above = when is a kiss a kiss? What if I volunteered at a hospice or palliative care unit, would I be galvanized daily to seize the day at every opportunity? I thought in the summer after coming out that I would grab at a sexual opportunity but the problem is there has been nobody to grab.
The good news is I realized I had some sheet music for the Marseillaise, so I played it today at the retirement residence while visiting. It sounded alright (ok quite rusty). I am so easily satisfied in life sometimes. Naturally this made me think of the French Revolution, the storming of the Bastille and especially “The Waltz” which I am learning, because as noted, that dance was called “The Marseillaise of the heart” because it was considered a social-political dance. The more I live, the more I see the interconnectedness of all things, of the Plato-to sausage- game in six moves (that I believe Umberto Eco refers to in one of his novels). It is possible some gentle readers are disappointed that I don’t have bi this and that all over the place in every post.
I want to see my first girlfriend once more before I die and tell her that I have never stopped loving her even though we have not seen each other since 1987. When I lay dying in 47 years (or next week if I am run over by a dump truck, while running and either scenario is quite possible) I will think of her with immense fondness. Well this post started off in death, breathed life and now is dying once again. The haunting words of the poem “In Flander’s Field” by John McCrae about trench warfare of the Great war resonates here: “…we loved and were loved” even though it is a poem of death.