Planet of the Blind

Talking of course. A friend called from New York City. Seems her mother is on a ventilator. Although she’s still conscious—"aware of what’s going on" etc., apparently the woman’s son—my friend’s brother—wants to pull the plug on Mom.

My cell phone was crackling. Our conversation was like old radio traffic far at sea. Somewhere out to the east there was a gibbous moon.

We must fight for every breath in this world. Who shall say the lives of others are inconvenient?

The brother was filled with what he called "ethics"—as in: "It’s terrible to see her this way. She’s probably suffering. She might not ever get better. Etc."

Like a million other Americans, "the brother" thinks life is simply about the absence of pain.

I tell my friend that I tend to side with conservative types around the issue of terminating human life.

But then again, I’m more consistent than conservatives because I oppose the death penalty.

I believe that Terry Shiavo was murdered.

I believe that Frank Zappa was right when he said America is turning into a "fascist theocracy".

I want to kick a badly manufactured thing: a tin lunch box with a picture of Mr. McGoo on the lid.

I want to roll through the day like a wheel on fire.

I realize that I need to stop talking for a time and read some poems by Pablo Neruda.

I went out into the sub-zero afternoon with my guide dog.

Nira, a yellow Labrador, who is only two years old, met her first goose just outside the University of Iowa’s student union.

The goose was eating pellets of salt from the sidewalk.

Students walked around the goose, ignoring it, talking to their friends on their cell phones.

People in this country are no longer living in the present tense.

S.K.

The world has so many problems that some days merely getting out of bed is one of the labors of Hercules. I personally take an hour to put on my fawn skin these days.

My old black Labrador "Roscoe" who is 14 has the right idea. He moves ever so slowly out into the yard and then he eats snow.

I remember as a child in New Hampshire the glory of eating snow.

Okay. I don’t eat snow anymore. For one thing: I can’t identify the yellow patches.

For another thing: it’s unseemly for a grown man to get down on his knees and put his head in a snowdrift.

"Look Mommy! The blind man who lives next door has lost his head!"

Mommy: "It’s not polite to stare Honey."

Yes, and it’s no fun eating snow when you’re wearing a fawn skin.

But Roscoe has the right idea.

Take advantage of the small blessings.

I once had a friend who was an esteemed history professor. He actually looked like an eminent professor–gray hair, glasses, a little slumped from a life at the desk.

Anyway, one night we were both rooming together in a New York City hotel because our flight was canceled, etcetera. And while I was brushing my teeth, Frank went out into the corridor without explanation.

When he came back he had sandwiches, grapes and a bowl of fruit salad.

Frank had taken these items from the room service trays outside various rooms.

"It’s all still good," he said. "People give away all kinds of good things in America."

I told Frank that he was really a poet.

I miss Frank. He’s been gone now for about ten years. Students at the college where he taught will find his vast collection of books in the library. They will see some of his margin notes written in pencil. They will profit handsomely from being in the presence of a mind that wrestled ardently with Aristotle.

But they won’t know Frank was a poet.

And I suspect Frank would have eaten snow if it looked clean enough.

S.K.