A codicil to All the Clues I haven't Got in Normal entries

A few days ago, as the haredawg paws his way, I wrote something about women I used to date. It was an entry about trees, I had meant to get to the forest. I don’t quite understand the associations I make any longer, I think it’s because of the speed of thought; mine has slowed. Thoughts aren’t supposed to be seen waddling against the do not walk sign. It takes too long to get from curb to curb and you lose your way in broad-daylight.

Believe it or not, that stupid pg-lust entry was a prelude to love; I used to write prelude, body and epilogue all in a single thought or stream.

My daughter was born on a very wet day in January in the Willamette valley off 45th and Hawthorne. I took my three-year-old son for a walk while the midwife sat with the mother to be. We splashed in mud-puddles and talked about growing things sleeping in the winter, even in the green valley where nothing dies altogether. We came back within thirty minutes of the birth.

My daughter was born with the cord around her neck. I held her shoulder and the mid-wife unwrapped the cord. My daughter went from purple to red, raging. I lay on the bed, exhausted, cradling mother and child. I was terrified. The house was this big old converted barn of a rental, the wind rattled the windows and you could hear every drop of rain. That was love at full force. Walking with a child discovering the world and his own heart, still young enough to not see a separation, and the birth of a child struggling against chaos into a foreign world.

Maybe this is just shit colored hindsight, but I don’t remember feeling a thing for the mother. I wish it was shit colored hindsight; I don’t believe I felt a thing for the mother. She wept and as she fell asleep on my chest, one hand embracing the child, she muttered sweet nothings and such. I don’t remember what; it was a profound moment for me and, I assume, for her, but not for us. Our crippled marriage limped along for four more years.

I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me or if I have, well, had, clarity. Love is a great fear, a terror, a purple face that has to turn red or you can’t go on. That’s unconditional love, between my wife and I there were conditions. Dogs and children, man, dogs and children. There’s no question, no hesitation, whatever you need to do, whatever sacrifice needs be made, you’ll do it. I’ll do it. As a culture and as a legal construct, dogs and children are property, but it’s more like the other way around. I’d be a fool if I ever argued with the law about that, no, hold me responsible for their actions; I am responsible for their actions, and if there’s going to be a punishment, I’ll take it.

My stupid entry about hormones and pheromones and the ethics of relationships showed that, it just didn’t show it all. I have never loved a stranger the way I love my children or loved my dogs. Sure, I studied Freud and a case could be made that the difference is sex, that somehow sex tainted my feelings about sexual partners. That whole Madonna whore complex. I’d look at it more seriously if I thought my dogs or children were Madonna’s or any version of pureness immaculate. Hell, unconditional love would easy if they never pissed you off. I had to alpha dog my favorite dog three times before he was two; I had to bail my kids out and put up with the whole “I hate you Dad” phase. Doesn’t matter, one small “I’m a lesbian” and I walked on my first marriage. The second wasn’t one small anything and it was over before the big shit happened.

And yeah, I wasn’t the cause of both divorces, but I wasn’t a very good husband, and, I didn’t love them like my children and dogs. My children and dogs I am and was fierce about, the more indefensible the more I would defend. The wives not so much. It’s entirely possible I don’t understand love at all or that my expectations are misguided, ill-informed, unrealistic. To be fair, dogs never bark “I hate you dad” even when you’re alpha dogging them, I mean, you get that unconditional love back. Even the weakest snack dog in the world will put itself between danger and the alpha hindleg walker, will comfort you when you’re sick, will bring you yucky dog drooled gifts of the heart (usually dead things or garbage). Nobody quite loves you like your dog or your child.

Romantic love is a lot more fun, but there are thousands of conditions, not unspoken agreement kind of conditions like “Don’t sleep with my best friend” (that one is usually spoken) and some of them aren’t even conceived of until they arise and have passed; you fail a pop quiz that no one could possibly pass. Not only does romantic love expect you read its mind, even when act in accordance with it, it’s not enough. But, really, how the fuck would I know?

My folks were married sixty some odd years and my father died. I would say they were happy, but, I’m not sure I’d say they were happy because of one another or despite one another. I’d say they were happy because shit could have been much worse. That whole generation grew up during a depression and came of age during World War II. I think having a few bucks and not having civilization as we know it threatened every waking moment put things in perspective for them. Not suggesting it’s a good perspective or one us young whippersnappers should strive towards, just saying if in any small part we are shaped by our experience, their generation came out in interesting and definitive shapes.

My head is fuzzy. So, I’m going from love to money, though my parents make a good segue. Ten thousand dollars ain’t shit today. For more than half of the last century ten thousand dollars could buy you a home and a car outright. It’s the time of year when the Easter story gets told a bunch of different ways though it’s the same story. In a lot of them Judas sells out Christ for a “mere” thirty pieces of silver. Judas was basically unemployed, for three years he followed a prophet as a sort of dirty foot cheerleader. Christ said “you shall be fishers of men” to his apostles, pretty sure he was being poetic, not figurative, but poetic, and so a lot of Easter stories call them fishermen. It’s been a while since I read the book, but there’s not a single of story of anyone of those guys, before or after, taking a haul to market. I mean, sure, I’ve been fishing, not for a living. All I really am getting at is that thirty pieces of silver might have been a good chunk of change.

I know, the point of the story is money and betrayal, but, honestly and practically, how much the money is worth is a factor. I have a feeling “mere” is the wrong adjective for the worth of thirty pieces of silver. Silver and gold have always been solid currency in recorded history. Their value, however, is never stable. Like any transaction involving any sort of currency or commodity, it’s worth what someone is willing to pay for it. The economy of the United States, like most western countries, is only based in a small part on the governments promise that they are good for it. In theory there’s enough gold in Fort Knox to back all the markers out there. In practice it wasn’t until 1964 that we stopped producing coins that were the exact worth, at the time, of their weight in silver. I should know the same about Gold, but I really don’t. My coin collection stopped when I was like fourteen and I didn’t dream of golden eagle twenty-dollar gold pieces.

Like the ten thousand dollars, the price of a sixty-four-silver quarter is worth a lot more than a quarter. Last time I checked, and granted it’s been a while, it’s historic and sentimental value was worth about a quarter. Just saying, thirty pieces of silver sometimes is a fortune and sometimes is a handful of quarters.

The apostles all loved Jesus, some so much they wrote their own chapters in that one bestselling book. They didn’t seem to love him like a dog or a child, more like an ex-wife. Sure, Christianity is still around, but, you know, so are my exes. They cost me a lot more than thirty pieces of silver. That’s not the point though, just the tie in. My testament isn’t all that inspiring or mystical. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were much more optimistic on the subject of love. Though, for my purposes, they were the dogs.

In kindergartens across this country they play that game where you sit in a circle and whisper a story to the person on your right and at the end it’s all but unrecognizable. When a neighborhood dog barks, there are barks returned, and who knows, maybe it goes all around the town, city, world. A grade or two later the kids are pushing one another off the monkey bars or playing doctor. The dogs just wait for the circle of barks to come around again. As far as I can tell it’s always the same story.