Last week at the emergency room, I asked Obi-Wan how he was feeling.
“B, I feel like some old car. I jus’ ain’t working right no more”.
The times are a-changing with my friend Obi-Wan. I’ve watched his body slowly give way and shut down for the past four years. All of it was a normal part of aging, I guess.
But these last two weeks I sense a different era of his aging. Maybe like the final steps towards the end.
I mean, he could live another five years for all I know. But he’s very different. His body is giving away rapidly.
Obi-Wan cannot walk anymore. Not even with aid of a walker or cane. He’s isolated in his main chair in the living room. He cat-naps every five minutes or so. He was in the ER twice in one week. And he feels weaker than a kitten.
It’s a constant zoo at his house. A niece of his from Waco has arranged for some home-help workers to be with him 24/7. But sometimes they don’t work out.
Back in October or November, Obi-Wan felt an urgency to take care of some loose ends in his life.
I’m so glad Agent Wife joined the blogging network. Not as if she needs any of my endorsing.
She really does put a female (thus, vastly different) view to this weird-ass life we live.
And often times she’s off doing her own agent solo gig during the daytime hours. That’s because she’s got her own assignments that I’m not qualified for.
Like speaking French. Agent Wife is fluent in French. And for some god-unknown reason, the US government thought it was a good idea to make the fair mother city a home to a couple of hundred African war-fleeing refugees. And most of them speak French.
Abilene is an isolated redneck town. There are no French resources here.
At least in New York or maybe Dallas, there would be some small bit of culture that these fine African folks could cling to and feel at home.
I’m glad the Africans are in the fair mother city. But there’s nothing remotely French here. Except Agent Wife, who somehow befriended one family. So she helps interpret for them at various appointments.
Of course, these social services now know of Agent Wife. So they use to call and beg her to come interpret for the other 190 Africans that needed social services.
And oh yeah, these helps organizations always said, “we don’t have it in our budget to pay you”.
That’s the cheap-ass fair mother city for you.
So Agent Wife sticks with this one particular family because they’re friends now.
So she’s off interpreting at doctor’s offices and so forth.
And we juggle our schedules around so that this can happen. Which means I get to be Mr. Mom. That picture of the Michael Keeton movie is totally me right now.
And I'm finally figuring out that being a full time dad ain't a bad gig.
Since Obi-Wan’s release from the hospital last week, he been in the worse shape I’ve ever seen him in.
His legs are weak. And his feet are in terrible pain due to a mix of his diabetic status and age.
Add it all up and Obi-Wan cannot walk anymore. Not even with a walker or cane.
He cannot go into his kitchen and make his own meals anymore. Everything he needs must be brought to him in the living room (meals, porta-potty, etc).
To my surprise Nurse Gollum retired over the Christmas break. And she hasn’t been around much since. And now there’s a new nurse, Nurse Esther. She’s trying to figure me out. I’m trying to figure me out too.
Meanwhile, every person in Obi-Wan’s sphere of friends and family is trying to get him into a nursing home. And sometimes I wonder if they’re right.
He doesn’t want to go into a care home. And I wouldn’t want to be in one myself, so I’m not making any suggestions. But I am posing questions to him that will hopefully lead him to the decision that only he should make.
But Obi-Wan needs almost every little thing done for him now. And it’s physically impossible for me to be there 24/7. Thankfully, he has a new home care worker in the mornings and she helps a lot.
I can only imagine what it’s like. Having a sharp, strong mind but a body that’s failing.
He’s so desperate to go be with the CEO.
My selfish side would like to have him around some more. Like the good ole days when we’d eat fried fish and play dominoes at the dinner table.
But my communications to the CEO have been different lately.
It brings me back to my childhood where I attended a Saturday breakfast at the church of christ I grew up in. After breakfast, we were all assigned into teams of two or three and went door-knocking in the local neighborhood.
Even at the tender age of 11, it was painful and embarrassing. Door-knocking was a dismal failure. So impersonal. So sales-pitch-ish. So “us vs. them”. (shudder)
But to criticize door-knocking at age 11 would be the equivalent to pledging allegiance to beelzebubba from the pulpit.
Secret agents generally work incognito. They take Jesus’ words in Matthew chapter 6 pretty seriously. When you give to the needy, don’t try to be seen. When you pray, get out of sight. When you fast, don’t announce it and for god’s sake don’t try to LOOK like you’re fasting.
Secret agents evangelize by doing things, yet not making a scene. They rarely talk or announce anything.
If there’s some menial task that needs to be done for someone else, just do it.
Serving others speaks louder than 1000 damn street preachers or tract passer-outers.
(also see Fletch & G13's recent posts on similar subjects)
The fair mother city has two post offices. The downtown branch has the most interesting, thus enjoyable clientele, so they usually get my business as opposed to the PO in Little Dallas (aka Abilene’s south side).
The federal building which contains the downtown PO takes up the entire northeast block at Pine and N. 3rd. This facility was originally built in the 1930’s (I think) so it has some fairly ornate structure that is absent from most buildings in the fair mother city.
Such as the front steps.
The main entry to the building (by N. 3rd) that faces Pine Street has these grandiose but short series of steps. Like a mini version of those seen on the Supreme Court, NYC apartments or Sesame Street.
For as long as I’ve resided in the fair mother city (since 1989...half my life) these steps have been a notorious venue for the homeless, desperate, panhandlers, and those deemed “undesirable”.
Back in my college days of the early 90’s, there was some mentally handicapped guy who sat on these steps all day and sold newspapers. His sales approach was hilarious. He’d single someone out of a crowd, usually the least confident person, and yell, “hey...HEY” over and over until they paid attention to him. It was funny.
Even my all-time favorite curmudgeon of the streets Momo has been known to camp out on the steps to offer his bird flipping abilities and personalized insults to postal customers.
But mostly, whenever one approaches the downtown PO and sees a quasi desperate-looking person by the steps, you know that person is asking for cash.
One woman once asked me for cash to buy herself some feminine products. Which totally caught me off guard since I was ready to find her food since that’s usually why people ask for money. “What? You want...tampons?”
But the mildly disturbing thing about the downtown PO is the handicap entrance. More specifically: the non-handicapped people like me who often who use it.
It’s located about 25 feet from the main entry facing N. 3rd. So...It’s near the main entry, but around the corner.
I’ve witnessed numerous perfectly healthy, non-handicapped people use the handicap ramp entry to blatantly avoid the panhandlers.
It’s kind of pathetic, but such is life. I’ve done this myself on occasion. Enter the building the easy way without having to face the reality of poverty and desperate-ness.
Obi-Wan is home from the hospital, in what could be his shortest hospital stay ever: 7 days.
He's doing well, but his legs are weaker than ever before. It's getting dang near impossible for him to walk around, even with his walker.
He has an electric wheelchair for going out around the neighborhood and maybe someday for use in his house (if he ever lets me rearrange his furniture).
But we really need a regular push wheelchair that can fold up and fit in the Millenium Falcon's trunk for when we visit his doctors, etc.
Any of you locals got any leads on where I might aquire such a wheelchair for next to nothing?...please contact me on the agent hot-line.
There are situations in life that we flee or escape from...all to find ourselves jump right back into a similar situation without our knowing.
I got burned out from Christian music and praise and worship stuff a long time ago. Part of it had to do with going undercover and blending in with the locals. But mostly there was something lacking in the Christian stuff by way of injustice or even relevance. And Christian music by and large really sucks.
So I found topics that appeal to my faith delivered via prophecy on classic rock radio.
One of my favorite prophetic bands, The Who, sings a song about keeping your eyes open to the same-ole same-ole. Or rather...the Empire that wants to rob us of our imagination and soul. It’s summed up in the last line:
Meet the new boss...same as the old boss.
Grab your guitar and play just like yesterday, then get on your knees and pray: don’t get fooled again.
“Then he will say to those religious jackasses on the left, ‘Hope you enjoy hell! I mean, hey:
I was damn near starving...and you sent me to some half-assed church food pantry for some canned goods.
I was thirsty and you said ‘There’s a water fountain at the library’.
I was lonely and cold and you sent me down to the Salvation Army, where I almost got stabbed.
I needed clothes...so you sent me to another bureaucratic church-run non-prof machine that made me fill out personal information on a stack of forms...just so I could receive some garage-sale reject clothing.
I was sick AND in prison...and you sent me a freakin’ chaplain??!? Why? That guy doesn’t even know me!’
And the guys on the left answered, ‘Lord, when did we send YOU away to these great helps organizations? I’ve never seen you...and I’d never forget that face of yours.’
He will say, ‘I AM the POOR. If you do it to them, you do it to me. Case closed.”
Recently I did something I never thought I’d ever do. And that’s show up at a local joint with my 10 caliber and play at an open mic night.
I’ve tried making a go at my former musician identity in recent years, but the opportunities for my act were few and my past demons were strong.
I figure this open mic night would work for my slow and steady re-entry into that hot tub known as the gigging circuit.
This place was filled with like 99% young college students. Which means none of them knew of me since I haven’t played much since 2002. That was more than fine with me. Fresh start, I suppose.
All went well. The young crowd was far more attentive and responsive than I expected.
There were several others there playing too that night, mostly singer/song-writer types. One kid played a unique performance of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”.
That got me thinking of Jack’s recent post on a line from that song that goes “did you exchange the walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?”
I am convinced that there was a necessary period of my life to lay low and get out of the public spotlight in everything I do, including music.
But getting back “out there” in the gig universe has been difficult.
My music is a warring of sorts, and I let the enemy talk me into being a caged hero of nothing in recent years.
As an undercover operative for the CEO of the universe, I am strategically embedded within the poverty culture of Abilene, TX (the fair mother city). This blog contains my reports, discoveries, observations, and confessions. My identity must remain concealed due to passages in The Book under Matt. 6:1-4. The names on this blog have been changed to protect the guilty.
