No one has written music more like I imagine it better than Billy Joel. For me there is Johnny Cash, then Billy Joel, then Dave Matthews, and all other musicians have a long way to go to crack the top three. This title comes from a great song of his called And So It Goes. I am proud to tell you that Billy has a new box set out next week and has announced a tour next year!
You know what those three deserve permanent link status. I'm doing it.
This is a poem I wrote last year and reworked tonight while I couldn't sleep. Don't try to read too much into it. (Especially you mom) Am I this guy? Yeah, some moments of the day. I'm the guy he wants to be sometimes too. Hope you all enjoy.
When I Realized I Had Lost My Flavor
By J.D. Rose
The cinnamon had lost its flavor,
So I spit my Big Red into the bottom of the splatter guarded urinal
then remembered how much I hate people that do that,
fished it out, and washed my hands four times.
In the mirror I saw this broken man
washing his own piss off his hand.
Where did I go?
Somewhere between our first meeting and this moment
I had been sucked dry of all my charisma,
vampire bitten and relieved of my charm by a red mouth and green piercing eyes.
Now I was a man running late washing the waste off his hands.
The old me would’ve shaken his head at the new me.
He’d have used him as his motivation to work hard
lest he become that guy in the bathroom the other day-
The guy living the splatter guarded life afraid to take chances,
so conscious of hurt that he defends the urinal’s honor.
The one in remission.
The one so afraid of infection he washes his hands four times.
As I rolled the paper towel dispenser down,
ripped off three squares, and looked away from my reflection
I felt for the first time the full weight of all I had lost.
And it wasn’t you I wanted to see again.
Dec 2, 2005
Let me go. Don't give me the answer, 'cause I don't want to know. Just let my heart go on beating a little bit longer. I'm so young.
The title today is from a Randy Newman song called Let Me Go. My generation will know him from the Toy Story movies, but he's made some great music. Check him out by clicking the title.
Hello All. I've been in a funk lately. Too little sleep, too much to do, too many excuses for my too little motivation to overcome. I'll make it out. I just need a week or so to get back to myself. Wednesday was the first anniversary of the death of a buddy of mine up here in Fort Wayne who died pretty suddenly. I came across this piece I wrote in the days that followed and decided it was as good a way as I had to honor him. I talk about all the things he didn't do, but trust me a void was left. He was a good guy and a caring guy. I am proud to have known him. I noticed I write about heroism a lot. I wonder what that means? I'll get back to posting more regularly soon.
Life In The Meantime
By J.D. Rose (July 16, 1979- )
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the last few years in hospitals with people who’ve only been given a little more time. I’ve begun to use a phrase that I’m annoyed with, but have no other alternative to. I keep telling friends that I’m impressed when people decide to “finish strong”. It’s a phrase that comes out of sports I guess. My dad always told me to run through first base, to not let up, to finish strong. And as these people round third headed for home, I guess it’s all I can think to say to them.
“Finish Strong.”
I was watching video footage of Pope John Paul II (May 18, 1920- ) today following his tracheotomy and it occurred to me there aren’t too many authentic heroes these days. The same thought in a different form had flashed through my mind the night before when a teenager, who was five years old in 1994 was talking about how great singer Kurt Cobain (February 20, 1967-April 8, 1994) was. ‘Only the good die young’ would be believable if it were ‘mostly’ the good die young. This would make room for the good to live longer and other people less than good to die young as well. Or maybe that’s it, if you die young you get some pass and we don’t hold you to the same standard as someone that lives long. After all, if you made bad choices they were simply youthful indiscretions, and you didn’t have a chance to grow into a mature human being. I fully contend that Elvis Presley (January 8, 1935-August 16, 1977), had he lived until old age, would have been the first Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958- ). The same could be said for JFK (May 29, 1917-November 22, 1963) and Bill Clinton (August 19, 1946- ). But as I watched the 84 year-old Parkinson ridden, deathly ill for his sixth consecutive year, smiling, barely interpretable, barely mobile Pope get wheeled away from his window I wondered what young rebel will blow his brains out tonight or drug overdose and be on a best-selling t-shirt tomorrow and claimed an icon.
In college we used to play a game on New Year’s Eve called the Death Pool. Every one put in a dollar, and named someone they thought would die the coming year. If that person died, and if he died before anyone else’s person, you won the pot. If no one died that was named, the pot was held for another year. I picked Pope John Paul II for four years from 1998-2001. In fact I was the odds on favorite to win each of those years, but lost once to my friend Jeff (January 20, 1973- ) who chose Yankee Joe DiMaggio (November 25, 1914-March 8, 1999) and two years later to my then girlfriend Kate (July 21, 1979- ) who picked Jack Lemmon (February 8, 1925-June 27, 2001) after my suggestion. After all Walter Matthau (October 1, 1920-July 1, 2000) had died the year prior and it only seemed fitting. The prize money was never distributed however due to our very bitter break-up and the next year I voted for her new husband instead of the Pope, and someone else picked a winner, but I never knew who.
When I first left for college, in August of 1997, my college roommates and I began the ritual of turning every death into a themed celebration. In September when actor Burgess Meredith (November 16, 1908-September 9, 1997) died we had a Rocky marathon and got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon. In October when singer/songwriter John Denver (December 31, 1943-October 12, 1997) died we got two cases of Coors Light and made each other say “Rocky Mountain High” before each drink, because none of us owned any of his music. At the end of the first semester comedian Chris Farley (February 15, 1964-December 18, 1997) died and we called each other up from our homes and then drank some liquor with our high school buddies. Of course no one really remembers that these people died, and a lot of other famous people as well, and a few people I knew personally who weren’t famous. All any one remembers about the fall of 1997 is that philanthropist (?) Princess Diana (July 1, 1961-August 31, 1997) died in a mysterious car crash in a tunnel.
I saw video footage of her car being pulled from the tunnel, her and her boyfriend leaving a party the night before, every minute of her funeral, her son’s walking down the street with their goofy looking Dad. I listened to Jane Pauley (October 31, 1950- ) and Tom Brokaw (February 6, 1940- ) I think, talk about the regal way the royal family dealt with the death, and the fitting tribute her funeral was, and I couldn’t give a damn about it all. I just didn’t have any other option. It was on every channel, and has been on some channel in some form ever since. Meanwhile as I watched the coverage a small scroll at the bottom of the screen told me that nun, activist, Medal of Freedom recipient, Nobel Peace Prize winner, future Catholic saint Mother Teresa (August 27, 1910-September 5, 1997) passed away, and I was struck by the apparent lack of interest.
As I watched CNN that night, between Larry King’s (November 19, 1933- ) overbearing panel discussion about Diana I was given some information about Mother Teresa’s death and shown some video footage of her work in Calcutta. I was only slightly surprised when my roommate Matt (born sometime in 1979- ) came in and asked who that ‘old lady’ was on the TV. Somehow I knew he would know who Diana was, although couldn’t tell me a single thing she had done, except get married.
Later that school year Sonny Bono (February 16, 1935-January 5, 1998) would die and we’d plan a ski trip for the following weekend that never happened. Harry Caray’s (March 1, 1920-February 18, 1998) death prompted a three night Budweiser brooha that took us into Cubs spring training coverage on ESPN on a somewhat somber note. We joked that we should have a Star Trek party when Dr. Benjamin Spock (May 2, 1903-March 15, 1998) died on the ides of March and we threw a true Rat Pack booze fest for Frank Sinatra (December 12, 1915-May 14, 1998) at the end of the school year. Some were celebrated more than others by the media and I suppose we were selective too.
For some people that pass, there are Time covers and magazine articles and moments of silence. For a few their legends grow larger with their deaths and for a few their deaths seem to overshadow their lives. Everyone remembers lost loved ones in their own way. Sometimes they do this with alcohol in a dorm room. Sometimes a bit more publicly. Elton John (March 25, 1947- ) sang at Diana’s funeral and that song was one of the biggest hits of the winter. Few ceremonies were held in Mother Teresa’s honor until October of 2003 when Pope John Paul II beatified her in a large-scale ceremony in the Vatican City and may now be called Blessed Teresa by Catholics in prayer.
In America in 2005 we’ve turned dying into its own reason for living. We value those flames that get snuffed out even if their snuffing was their own self-destructive behavior. Occasionally, albeit crass, we put such deserved deaths under spotlight and thank the deceased for their singular contribution to society, namely their own removal from it. The best source of such celebration is the Darwin Awards, an annual book, and a website of the same name. The goal of the Darwin Awards is to honor those folks who naturally select themselves out of the gene pool, thus improving humanities collective chances. Here’s the most famous winner, taken from www.darwinawards.com .
Jet Assisted Take-Off
1995 Darwin Awards Winner
The Arizona Highway Patrol were mystified when they came upon a pile of smoldering wreckage embedded in the side of a cliff rising above the road at the apex of a curve. The metal debris resembled the site of an airplane crash, but it turned out to be the vaporized remains of an automobile. The make of the vehicle was unidentifiable at the scene.
The folks in the lab finally figured out what it was, and pieced together the events that led up to its demise. It seems that a former Air Force sergeant had somehow got hold of a JATO (Jet Assisted Take-Off) unit. JATO units are solid fuel rockets used to give heavy military transport airplanes an extra push for take-off from short airfields.
Dried desert lakebeds are the location of choice for breaking the world ground vehicle speed record. The sergeant took the JATO unit into the Arizona desert and found a long, straight stretch of road. He attached the JATO unit to his car, jumped in, accelerated to a high speed, and fired off the rocket. The facts, as best as could be determined, are as follows:
The operator was driving a 1967 Chevy Impala. He ignited the JATO unit approximately 3.9 miles from the crash site. This was established by the location of a prominently scorched and melted strip of asphalt. The vehicle quickly reached a speed of between 250 and 300 mph and continued at that speed, under full power, for an additional 20-25 seconds. The soon-to-be pilot experienced G-forces usually reserved for dog-fighting F-14 jocks under full afterburners.
The Chevy remained on the straight highway for approximately 2.6 miles (15-20 seconds) before the driver applied the brakes, completely melting them, blowing the tires, and leaving thick rubber marks on the road surface. The vehicle then became airborne for an additional 1.3 miles, impacted the cliff face at a height of 125 feet, and left a blackened crater 3 feet deep in the rock.
Most of the driver's remains were not recovered; however, small fragments of bone, teeth, and hair were extracted from the crater, and fingernail and bone shards were removed from a piece of debris believed to be a portion of the steering wheel.
Ironically a still-legible bumper sticker was found, reading
"How do you like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT."
That’s the American Way; go out in a Wile E. Coyote (created by cartoon director Chuck Jones (September 21, 1912-February 22, 2002) in 1965) blaze of glory and the rest of humanity can eat shit if they want. After all what’s life worth if not for dying in a big way. For this Air Force guy dying of prostate cancer at seventy-five wasn’t a future goal. To think of it, it isn’t one of mine either, but I’m not looking to buy a rocket anytime soon. What is this need in us to die well? Why should any of us finish strong? We’re all going to finish.
I lost a friend in November at the age of 23. He wasn’t a rock star, or royalty, or clergy, or even all that interesting to be honest. He was an evangelical conservative Christian Republican, most of which I’m not. I’m certain he died a virgin. I’m certain he never had a girlfriend or woke up with a woman kissing his chest. He never passed out at a party or woke up at four a. m. beside the toilet. He probably never even smoked a cigar or called a 900 number and laughed after hanging up. He was just a good guy and so maybe the good do die young, but for what purpose? Should I be happy he died without having lived? Because I’m not. He didn’t finish strong, he barely started. And I’ll not cry that he died so young for the mere sake of tragedy, or that I miss my friend. I’ll cry because I want to understand if Ben Wiegman’s (January 14, 1982-November 30, 2004) life had any value at all. I’ll cry because I wonder if mine does. If all Mother Teresa gets is a scroll at the bottom of the screen I wonder what that says about her impact. Will Paris Hilton (February 17, 1981- ) who’s done absolutely nothing of value for society get a state funeral and will Tom and Jane come talk about how well the heiress’ family is taking the tragic news of her untimely ecstasy overdose.
What I have to carry with me are a few flashes of Ben at a karaoke bar, having his first rum and coke on my dime, golfing poorly, debating the 2004 election, consoling me afterward, talking about graduation, life after college, and life in the meantime. I want to say that his life made a huge impact on the world and I can’t even say it made a huge impact on me. I keep thinking about this damn Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819- March 26, 1892) poem:
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean
—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
I haven’t thought today about Princess Diana, Kurt Cobain, Elvis, or even Michael Jackson with all his recent coverage. In fact, had I not seen the Pope on TV he wouldn’t have crossed my mind either. Twice tonight I could smell perfume on a girl in my class that reminded me of Kate. I saw a picture of Joe DiMaggio on a Sports Century promo for ESPN earlier this week and I called and talked to Jeff. The program for Ben’s funeral was in my dressier winter coat and I wore it today to class and thought of him most of the time. I returned an email this morning to the hard rockin’ teenager who thinks Nirvana invented music. And as I head to bed I’ll pass pictures of my college buddies and my dad on the wall. First thing in the morning I have some hospital visits to make.
Maybe the world didn’t notice that Mother Teresa died, but I bet the people she fed did. I bet the men and women she saved and sheltered noticed, and now they have Blessed Teresa to pray to. I don’t know if it’s wholly accurate to say we each have a verse to contribute. It is certainly poetic, but I’m finding, and beginning to come to terms with the fact, that we really contribute a note at a time and the audience is almost always a small one. But if we’re all going to finish anyway someday, why not make it strong? Why not go out with a metaphorical bang, feeding and clothing your neighbor while you can. Life in the meantime; while we wait to be out of college, or to be picked from the commoners for higher things, or shot off into the stratosphere of fame and fortune and accomplishment, that is where the heroes are.
They are laying there bets down one dollar at a time.
Hello All. I've been in a funk lately. Too little sleep, too much to do, too many excuses for my too little motivation to overcome. I'll make it out. I just need a week or so to get back to myself. Wednesday was the first anniversary of the death of a buddy of mine up here in Fort Wayne who died pretty suddenly. I came across this piece I wrote in the days that followed and decided it was as good a way as I had to honor him. I talk about all the things he didn't do, but trust me a void was left. He was a good guy and a caring guy. I am proud to have known him. I noticed I write about heroism a lot. I wonder what that means? I'll get back to posting more regularly soon.
Life In The Meantime
By J.D. Rose (July 16, 1979- )
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the last few years in hospitals with people who’ve only been given a little more time. I’ve begun to use a phrase that I’m annoyed with, but have no other alternative to. I keep telling friends that I’m impressed when people decide to “finish strong”. It’s a phrase that comes out of sports I guess. My dad always told me to run through first base, to not let up, to finish strong. And as these people round third headed for home, I guess it’s all I can think to say to them.
“Finish Strong.”
I was watching video footage of Pope John Paul II (May 18, 1920- ) today following his tracheotomy and it occurred to me there aren’t too many authentic heroes these days. The same thought in a different form had flashed through my mind the night before when a teenager, who was five years old in 1994 was talking about how great singer Kurt Cobain (February 20, 1967-April 8, 1994) was. ‘Only the good die young’ would be believable if it were ‘mostly’ the good die young. This would make room for the good to live longer and other people less than good to die young as well. Or maybe that’s it, if you die young you get some pass and we don’t hold you to the same standard as someone that lives long. After all, if you made bad choices they were simply youthful indiscretions, and you didn’t have a chance to grow into a mature human being. I fully contend that Elvis Presley (January 8, 1935-August 16, 1977), had he lived until old age, would have been the first Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958- ). The same could be said for JFK (May 29, 1917-November 22, 1963) and Bill Clinton (August 19, 1946- ). But as I watched the 84 year-old Parkinson ridden, deathly ill for his sixth consecutive year, smiling, barely interpretable, barely mobile Pope get wheeled away from his window I wondered what young rebel will blow his brains out tonight or drug overdose and be on a best-selling t-shirt tomorrow and claimed an icon.
In college we used to play a game on New Year’s Eve called the Death Pool. Every one put in a dollar, and named someone they thought would die the coming year. If that person died, and if he died before anyone else’s person, you won the pot. If no one died that was named, the pot was held for another year. I picked Pope John Paul II for four years from 1998-2001. In fact I was the odds on favorite to win each of those years, but lost once to my friend Jeff (January 20, 1973- ) who chose Yankee Joe DiMaggio (November 25, 1914-March 8, 1999) and two years later to my then girlfriend Kate (July 21, 1979- ) who picked Jack Lemmon (February 8, 1925-June 27, 2001) after my suggestion. After all Walter Matthau (October 1, 1920-July 1, 2000) had died the year prior and it only seemed fitting. The prize money was never distributed however due to our very bitter break-up and the next year I voted for her new husband instead of the Pope, and someone else picked a winner, but I never knew who.
When I first left for college, in August of 1997, my college roommates and I began the ritual of turning every death into a themed celebration. In September when actor Burgess Meredith (November 16, 1908-September 9, 1997) died we had a Rocky marathon and got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon. In October when singer/songwriter John Denver (December 31, 1943-October 12, 1997) died we got two cases of Coors Light and made each other say “Rocky Mountain High” before each drink, because none of us owned any of his music. At the end of the first semester comedian Chris Farley (February 15, 1964-December 18, 1997) died and we called each other up from our homes and then drank some liquor with our high school buddies. Of course no one really remembers that these people died, and a lot of other famous people as well, and a few people I knew personally who weren’t famous. All any one remembers about the fall of 1997 is that philanthropist (?) Princess Diana (July 1, 1961-August 31, 1997) died in a mysterious car crash in a tunnel.
I saw video footage of her car being pulled from the tunnel, her and her boyfriend leaving a party the night before, every minute of her funeral, her son’s walking down the street with their goofy looking Dad. I listened to Jane Pauley (October 31, 1950- ) and Tom Brokaw (February 6, 1940- ) I think, talk about the regal way the royal family dealt with the death, and the fitting tribute her funeral was, and I couldn’t give a damn about it all. I just didn’t have any other option. It was on every channel, and has been on some channel in some form ever since. Meanwhile as I watched the coverage a small scroll at the bottom of the screen told me that nun, activist, Medal of Freedom recipient, Nobel Peace Prize winner, future Catholic saint Mother Teresa (August 27, 1910-September 5, 1997) passed away, and I was struck by the apparent lack of interest.
As I watched CNN that night, between Larry King’s (November 19, 1933- ) overbearing panel discussion about Diana I was given some information about Mother Teresa’s death and shown some video footage of her work in Calcutta. I was only slightly surprised when my roommate Matt (born sometime in 1979- ) came in and asked who that ‘old lady’ was on the TV. Somehow I knew he would know who Diana was, although couldn’t tell me a single thing she had done, except get married.
Later that school year Sonny Bono (February 16, 1935-January 5, 1998) would die and we’d plan a ski trip for the following weekend that never happened. Harry Caray’s (March 1, 1920-February 18, 1998) death prompted a three night Budweiser brooha that took us into Cubs spring training coverage on ESPN on a somewhat somber note. We joked that we should have a Star Trek party when Dr. Benjamin Spock (May 2, 1903-March 15, 1998) died on the ides of March and we threw a true Rat Pack booze fest for Frank Sinatra (December 12, 1915-May 14, 1998) at the end of the school year. Some were celebrated more than others by the media and I suppose we were selective too.
For some people that pass, there are Time covers and magazine articles and moments of silence. For a few their legends grow larger with their deaths and for a few their deaths seem to overshadow their lives. Everyone remembers lost loved ones in their own way. Sometimes they do this with alcohol in a dorm room. Sometimes a bit more publicly. Elton John (March 25, 1947- ) sang at Diana’s funeral and that song was one of the biggest hits of the winter. Few ceremonies were held in Mother Teresa’s honor until October of 2003 when Pope John Paul II beatified her in a large-scale ceremony in the Vatican City and may now be called Blessed Teresa by Catholics in prayer.
In America in 2005 we’ve turned dying into its own reason for living. We value those flames that get snuffed out even if their snuffing was their own self-destructive behavior. Occasionally, albeit crass, we put such deserved deaths under spotlight and thank the deceased for their singular contribution to society, namely their own removal from it. The best source of such celebration is the Darwin Awards, an annual book, and a website of the same name. The goal of the Darwin Awards is to honor those folks who naturally select themselves out of the gene pool, thus improving humanities collective chances. Here’s the most famous winner, taken from www.darwinawards.com .
Jet Assisted Take-Off
1995 Darwin Awards Winner
The Arizona Highway Patrol were mystified when they came upon a pile of smoldering wreckage embedded in the side of a cliff rising above the road at the apex of a curve. The metal debris resembled the site of an airplane crash, but it turned out to be the vaporized remains of an automobile. The make of the vehicle was unidentifiable at the scene.
The folks in the lab finally figured out what it was, and pieced together the events that led up to its demise. It seems that a former Air Force sergeant had somehow got hold of a JATO (Jet Assisted Take-Off) unit. JATO units are solid fuel rockets used to give heavy military transport airplanes an extra push for take-off from short airfields.
Dried desert lakebeds are the location of choice for breaking the world ground vehicle speed record. The sergeant took the JATO unit into the Arizona desert and found a long, straight stretch of road. He attached the JATO unit to his car, jumped in, accelerated to a high speed, and fired off the rocket. The facts, as best as could be determined, are as follows:
The operator was driving a 1967 Chevy Impala. He ignited the JATO unit approximately 3.9 miles from the crash site. This was established by the location of a prominently scorched and melted strip of asphalt. The vehicle quickly reached a speed of between 250 and 300 mph and continued at that speed, under full power, for an additional 20-25 seconds. The soon-to-be pilot experienced G-forces usually reserved for dog-fighting F-14 jocks under full afterburners.
The Chevy remained on the straight highway for approximately 2.6 miles (15-20 seconds) before the driver applied the brakes, completely melting them, blowing the tires, and leaving thick rubber marks on the road surface. The vehicle then became airborne for an additional 1.3 miles, impacted the cliff face at a height of 125 feet, and left a blackened crater 3 feet deep in the rock.
Most of the driver's remains were not recovered; however, small fragments of bone, teeth, and hair were extracted from the crater, and fingernail and bone shards were removed from a piece of debris believed to be a portion of the steering wheel.
Ironically a still-legible bumper sticker was found, reading
"How do you like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT."
That’s the American Way; go out in a Wile E. Coyote (created by cartoon director Chuck Jones (September 21, 1912-February 22, 2002) in 1965) blaze of glory and the rest of humanity can eat shit if they want. After all what’s life worth if not for dying in a big way. For this Air Force guy dying of prostate cancer at seventy-five wasn’t a future goal. To think of it, it isn’t one of mine either, but I’m not looking to buy a rocket anytime soon. What is this need in us to die well? Why should any of us finish strong? We’re all going to finish.
I lost a friend in November at the age of 23. He wasn’t a rock star, or royalty, or clergy, or even all that interesting to be honest. He was an evangelical conservative Christian Republican, most of which I’m not. I’m certain he died a virgin. I’m certain he never had a girlfriend or woke up with a woman kissing his chest. He never passed out at a party or woke up at four a. m. beside the toilet. He probably never even smoked a cigar or called a 900 number and laughed after hanging up. He was just a good guy and so maybe the good do die young, but for what purpose? Should I be happy he died without having lived? Because I’m not. He didn’t finish strong, he barely started. And I’ll not cry that he died so young for the mere sake of tragedy, or that I miss my friend. I’ll cry because I want to understand if Ben Wiegman’s (January 14, 1982-November 30, 2004) life had any value at all. I’ll cry because I wonder if mine does. If all Mother Teresa gets is a scroll at the bottom of the screen I wonder what that says about her impact. Will Paris Hilton (February 17, 1981- ) who’s done absolutely nothing of value for society get a state funeral and will Tom and Jane come talk about how well the heiress’ family is taking the tragic news of her untimely ecstasy overdose.
What I have to carry with me are a few flashes of Ben at a karaoke bar, having his first rum and coke on my dime, golfing poorly, debating the 2004 election, consoling me afterward, talking about graduation, life after college, and life in the meantime. I want to say that his life made a huge impact on the world and I can’t even say it made a huge impact on me. I keep thinking about this damn Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819- March 26, 1892) poem:
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean
—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
I haven’t thought today about Princess Diana, Kurt Cobain, Elvis, or even Michael Jackson with all his recent coverage. In fact, had I not seen the Pope on TV he wouldn’t have crossed my mind either. Twice tonight I could smell perfume on a girl in my class that reminded me of Kate. I saw a picture of Joe DiMaggio on a Sports Century promo for ESPN earlier this week and I called and talked to Jeff. The program for Ben’s funeral was in my dressier winter coat and I wore it today to class and thought of him most of the time. I returned an email this morning to the hard rockin’ teenager who thinks Nirvana invented music. And as I head to bed I’ll pass pictures of my college buddies and my dad on the wall. First thing in the morning I have some hospital visits to make.
Maybe the world didn’t notice that Mother Teresa died, but I bet the people she fed did. I bet the men and women she saved and sheltered noticed, and now they have Blessed Teresa to pray to. I don’t know if it’s wholly accurate to say we each have a verse to contribute. It is certainly poetic, but I’m finding, and beginning to come to terms with the fact, that we really contribute a note at a time and the audience is almost always a small one. But if we’re all going to finish anyway someday, why not make it strong? Why not go out with a metaphorical bang, feeding and clothing your neighbor while you can. Life in the meantime; while we wait to be out of college, or to be picked from the commoners for higher things, or shot off into the stratosphere of fame and fortune and accomplishment, that is where the heroes are.
They are laying there bets down one dollar at a time.
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