Watching a small friend make travel plans

 Rufus is a short haired ginger cat, approximately 18 years old.  He is an old man, waiting for the end. Three days ago he began his end stage vigil, refusing food, barely moving and his once hearty old cat yowls of existential ennui have become small peeps of futile rage against the tyranny of time. I know death is near. I know he is just a cat. I know that he has been a strange pet; nervous and sometimes indifferent to me, but he has been a amiable presence and friendly spirit to my family. His life has been harder since his litter mate brother and constant companion, the also ginger "Yugi" died suddenly five years ago. Much of Rufus' existence, since his brother's death, seemed to be  him looking for Yugi in the house where they both lived and never left. It was heartbreaking at times, and almost funny sometimes. Rufus in his present state, nearing the ledge, occasionally gets up and walks , stiffly and with difficulty to the base of the stairs and looks into the distance with deeply sunken, watery eyes, absorbing the details of the physical world, maybe the last time, or is he still looking for the orange kitten he used to wrestle with? I spent yesterday with Rufus, watching and trying to give him water and food, sometimes crying like a special needs four year old. I continually flashback to sitting with our parents while they too made plans to leave. All Laurie and my parents left in such a way that we could sit with them;  never long enough, and interestingly, all four made their trips when no one was in the room with them. Rufus is like a bitter hors dourve to the sad banquet of death that awaits us all. He maintains his dignity and looks to not be in pain (though I have pain meds at the ready should that change), and he has all the humans who love him near. it's easy to extrapolate what my time laying on the kitchen floor, on a fleece blanket, staring at the refrigerator will be like.. I am 61, (62 in May) and have long felt the loss of the unlimited  horizon; the destination is starting to be in sight, if hopefully still a long walk, its much closer to the end than the beginning. I envision sadness and attentiveness followed by irritation and the desire to get it over with. I for see, crawling under a desk, away from my tired loved ones to end my days. Whether by the blunt force trauma of world war 3 or the creeping cancer of climate change we as a species face death on the horizon. Rufus is scouting ahead. I love you Rufus and hope we will see each other again.

Update: Days later, Rufus is hanging in there. I suspect he has discovered how great kitty hospice can be: They bring me food and water, and carry me to the cat box- this is great!

Update #2 - We took Rufus to the vet to say goodbye on March 23rd 2023 at 5:00PM . We brought him home and buried him in the backyard and planted a rose over him.

Milk of Amnesia RePremiere: Just Noting A Moment

 We did have a screening. On a cold and icy night in December 2022. This is what I wrote about it afterwards. My heart was full and for a couple days I was happy.

About the other night:

The Re-Premiere of "Milk of Amnesia" to most attendees was probably just a quaint and mostly insignificant 1990s nostalgia ride. To myself and my co-producer and partner Laurie (La Sander) it was much more: it was a reintroduction to an old friend, and the overdue forgiveness of their flaws. That old friend was of course, the film itself, "Milk of Amnesia", the recipient of our unrequited love and most of our disposable income from 1991 to 1995 - sort of like an inanimate and troubled child or a really beloved pet with a chronic skin disease. I don't think I had watched the film in its entirety in 15 years- Laurie, probably longer. Even in the restoration and retransfer I successfully only watched it in small parts. My flesh would crawl at certain lines and all I could see is how I could have done better. There were memories of arguments and disagreements about creative choices and about money. There was the overwhelming feeling that we owed the army of friends, acquaintances, family and the unknown number of extras and assistants some kind of success, that never materialized. "Milk of Amnesia's" exile to its resting place under our stairs was as much the punishment of a disappointed parent as it was storage. Seeing it again, with an audience, after so many years, in the presence of many of the original cast and crew, (most of whom laughed in the right spots and seemed to like it for what it was), felt like it lifted a curse. In 1991, this film was going to be the launching point of our career in independent film. Instead the debt it left became the reason to keep the day job. The life that followed has been truly wonderful, and to whatever degree "MoA" propelled us in that direction through its failure, we should thank it for that. And yet, always in the back of my mind, I bore a grudge...until the other night.

It is not a perfect film or probably really a very good one, but like a strange, misshapen, mutant cartoon character, you can love it in spite of its obvious flaws. Watching from the back of the house, holding hands with my fellow producer, that is what happened to me: "Milk of Amnesia" and I forgave one another. I am proud of the hubris that a guy with a Film and TV degree from a Montana Agricultural college and my co-producer, a Drama major / IATSE Projectionist could team up and at least give it a shot. I encourage everyone to forgive, and give whatever brings you joy a shot.

Old Joke, Told Badly....Burning Elf 2022

 On December 30th, 2022 Burning Elf came out of COVID-19 retirement. 

Maybe it shouldn't have. 

The past two years the "event" was online only and was easy to manage and was private and retained the promise of silliness if not the actually realization of it.  Humans returned in 2022. It was a small crowd, of particularly nice people. My stage craft was less than perfect. The audio was substandard,  unsynced or curated and the disco light badly over taxed. The Elf didn't burn to my specs and the fireworks were ho-hum. People didn't complain. It delivered the bare minimum. This party grew out of a Xmas chili feed Laurie and I threw for many years but has grown like bacteria into a performance piece, mostly absorbing the skills and pretentious tendencies of yours truly. Too much weight and stature of my personal sense of self worth is intertwined in this paper mache stupidity, and the outcome is usually shy of what I expect. That said, the catharsis of watching the damn thing burn is ALWAYS better than I expected.

 It occurred to me that Burning Elf is like a joke that was once very funny that a boorish oaf like myself would tell every time he got drunk until it wasn't funny anymore. Maybe thats true but people still laugh and want to see whats next.  That's something at least, in these strange times.

Undiscovered country

 Post covid, I have had vivid dreams. Very colorful and involving dreams.Three nights ago I had one that really stuck with me. I dreamt I was allowed to go back in time, to the early days of Laurie and my romance, with all my knowledge of what was to come in our lives. It was Christmas and after knocking on the door and coming into her apartment and seeing her ethereal and stirringly sensual beauty as a young woman,  I was absolutely head over heels in love. It became quickly apparent however she was dumping me. Maybe she too had the knowledge of the last 39 years. I had taken her for granted, I was a terrible lover and partner. Some generic white guy with a pick-up and  Carthart jacket had taken my place. No discussion took place, this was a fact.  It felt like my heart had been kicked out of my chest and stepped on. As I left and walked to my car (which was now a grey, inexplicably, a 1954 Dodge) and started to drive away, I could feel my past disappearing, Ned and Tom never born, all the wonderful moments of my existence drying up and blowing away. It physically hurt. By the time I was a block away, nearing the Montlake bridge it was gone. It was awful. I may have cried in my sleep. I know what is precious, and what is important in my life, and she is the biggest part of it. I know the past can only be erased in "Dr. Who " episodes.

Turning 60

 

Turning sixty is the panic at the end of a long, timed test: you have ten minutes remaining and pages of questions left to answer. Do you answer as many as you can, haphazardly, hoping to score on guesses, or take the time to answer thoughtfully and with conscious certainty? You spend the next few minutes anxiously deliberating this and you realize that you may not get a chance to do either if you do not decide. The clock ticks away whether you choose or not. 

The loss of a limitless future, while always illusionary, has done more to my already grim outlook on life than anything I can remember. At sixty, if you are lucky, you are three quarters used up. There is so much more behind you than ahead that it seems remarkably futile. Inasmuch as the last few years have been a surreal carnival of societal disintegration, my own life and perspective has become clouded with age and the growing vacancy of my mind and soul. Age has brought an unwelcome lack of focus, and my inherent laziness has doubled so much so, that I can spend days shuffling from the couch to the chair by the window, doing nothing, like old, unfulfilled  men everywhere. Looking backwards leads to regrets. Unfortunately all my imagined futures lead to regrets as well.

I spent my morning taking flowers to my mother’s grave, as taking her flowers on my birthday was our tradition. She was sweet person who I love very much. Laurie and and I took flowers to her parents too. I clearly saw all of our parents in their decline after the age of sixty. The calcifying of their opinions, and their struggle to remain relevant, even to themselves , all witnessed like melting glaciers. My view of the strong people who I loved, aging and failing is both a blessing and a curse. You can see whats coming from their experience, but the weight of gravity can not be stopped. Maybe, since whats ahead is known, one can learn to glide rather than drop like a brick to the pavement. Sentimentality aside, spending time in cemeteries on your sixtieth birthday is probably not recommended . 

I am lucky enough to have a beautiful partner and best friend, in whom I can see my reflection in love. She makes my life good, when she isn’t vigorously instructing me on ways to take better care of myself-  which I seem incapable of actually doing. My sons are fine young men, of whom I am quite proud. My cats, while occasionally annoying are for the most part affectionate and well behaved. There is much in my life to be happy with.

If I can drive my original metaphor into the ground: I would like to stop, tear up the test, and leave without a grade or credit. What time there is left will come and go as it should.

My Bud at 100

Today would have been my step dad, Bud Anderson's 100th birthday. God bless you Bud, and thanks for being in my, and all our family's lives. You made this a better place.

National Sepsis

 The hillbilly shock troops of the Tangerine Twitter Tyrant broke into our national house and took a shit on the constitution, and the aforementioned sociopath told them they were very special and that he loved them. They fucking killed a Capitol police officer by bludgeoning him with a fire extinguisher. Their slack jawed chanting of half understood lies and threats have fully destroyed my hope that they can ever be brought back into the conversation. There will be no hand holding and unity parade. They are extremists that I hope will be defeated and brought to justice. Watching that idiot drag the traitor flag of the confederacy around the imperfect but aspirational halls of the capitol made me sick. We are a long way from fixed.