I'll Think of a Catchy Title Later

A lesson in applied catharsis

Over this weekend, Kelsey and I are moving from our home in Jackson Heights to a new loft apartment in Astoria. We had been in our old place for five years, and while the rent and location were nice, there were a growing number of things we disliked about our apartment. The mail theft, for one, and frequent, persistent bug infestations. I have a thing about bugs in my living space, and our inability to fully, finally exterminate them made the apartment increasingly uncomfortable for me.

Then, with the COVID-19 pandemic, rents fell dramatically. Our own landlord wasn’t even requesting a rent increase for renewal, a sure sign that the market was good for renters. We started looking, and within a few days, found our new home. It is in Astoria, where the plurality of my chosen New York family live, right on the park, with high ceilings and a modern feel. I think we will be very happy here.

We also got lucky with our movers, Moishe’s, the same company I used five years before to move into Jackson Heights. They were friendly, careful, and thorough. They made it easy.

Today is our second day of unpacking, and I have spent it opening bins and sorting the contents into their assigned positions. It is a tedious task, made tolerably pleasant by audiobooks and enthusiasm for this next chapter of life.

At the bottom of one of the last bins, I saw that something was wrong: there were shards in the bottom, which could mean only one thing: an item had broken. It happens all the time, when moving, but this was the first I had seen. I investigated, and became distraught.

Several items had been destroyed, all in the same bin. Some combination of poor packing or rough handling doomed this particular bin’s contents to oblivion. Two of the broken items were of great sentimental value.

The first, largest, and most important was a statue replica, standing about eighteen inches high, of Rodin’s piece “The Eternal Idol.” I have written in these pages about this sculpture before: it belonged to my Grandma Jeanne, and was one of the three items I received after her passing. It depicts a man kneeling before a seated woman, kissing her midsection. It is erotic without being vulgar.

Before she passed, my grandma told me it was called “The Kiss,” but that is a different sculpture, though similar in some respects. This one, far less well-known, was made during Rodin’s work on the Gates of Hell, his sculpted opus, though it was not incorporated into the final piece. I adore it, and associate it with the dignified elegance of my late grandmother. It was so heavy I assumed it was made of solid metal, but beneath the chrome finish is ceramic, and it broke right in half, the woman cleaved at the torso.

When I was young, we would visit my grandmother in California, and she would hide that sculpture, having decided it was too racy for young eyes. When she moved to Lexington, she brought it, along with the rest of her impressive art collection. As I have begun to accumulate my own art, I am always silently comparing my taste to hers, and some part of me hopes she would approve of the ways I decorate my living spaces.

The Rodin sat on my bar, and was set for a place of honor in the new loft. Perhaps it can be restored somewhat, but it will surely show the marks of having been broken. I asked Kelsey to take a stab at fixing it. I don’t think it will ever look like it did before, but I feel that the statue’s story has not yet ended.

The second broken piece is a menorah, made of welded metal on a stone base. It was a gift from my former father-in-law, Scott.

When I became engaged to my first wife, her family split in their reactions. Her folks were long-divorced. Her mom was supportive, and we got along famously. Her dad, however, strongly objected on the basis of my Judaism. He hosted Ashley for a visit shortly after our engagement, and tried to talk her out of it, saying that as a Jew, I was certainly bound for hell, and she should choose a spouse who was at least eligible for admission to heaven. It was hurtful, and I never became close with that side of the family.

Her mothers’ spouse, Scott, was a friendly, skilled, good-hearted man, but nobody would mistake him for woke. He hailed from the Carolinas, and had a large confederate battle flag tattooed on his arm. Nonetheless, he made an extraordinary effort to make me feel not just accepted, but welcomed into the family. At our first Christmas after the wedding, he gave me the menorah, a giant and sturdy candelabra that he had welded from spare parts in his workshop. Every detail was perfect, and it meant so much to me that he would find a way to connect with me as a Jewish person, and give me a gift put together with so much love and consideration.

Even after Ashley and I divorced almost eight years later, I kept the menorah. It was the centerpiece of my Hannukah celebration as recently as three months ago. I am not sure precisely how it broke, but it broke spectacularly, and definitely beyond any opportunity of repair.

When I discovered these items, I felt devastated and my productivity came to a complete halt. After talking through my reactions with Kelsey and my sister, I realized that the reason these items were so special to me is because they remind me of entire stories. They are not objects: they are vehicles for memory. If someone were to remark on the statue, I had a whole story to tell them, about my elegant grandmother. For the menorah, it is one of the few items I kept from my first marriage, and reminds me of a great kindness that resonates even now.

I also realized that telling these stories, putting them in tangible form, would lessen the impact of losing the items themselves. The pieces of ceramic and metal and stone have no special value: it is what they represent. They remind me of special people and bygone times.

It is my hope with this post, I can let my writing, and not the things that broke, serve as a vehicle for these memories.

-AG

An unvarnished account of the death of my beloved cat.

I was sitting at my computer desk, tabbing between news articles and social media, when Kelsey came back into the room.  

“I don’t think Fin’s doing very well,” they said.  

I got up to investigate.  Sure enough, there was Fin, standing in the hall near the bedroom, his body tense and contorted as though he were about to hairball, shit on the floor, or both.  He didn’t look up at me, opening his mouth and exhaling hard, as though trying to vomit, but only a small drop or two of liquid came out. 

With a coo of reassurance I bent down to give him a pet.  He smelled bad, a combination of the aforementioned bodily functions.  He had always been a sweet-smelling cat. 

He took a step forward, crouched as though to shit again, and tensed hard.  I thought about moving him to the litter box, but he seemed to have enough problems without an emergency airlift.  I let him be.  After a moment, a single drop of liquid defecation fell out, and he walked further down the hall. 

Fin was 19.  I had been with him since he was five weeks old, and he was a fixture in my life, my loyal companion.   I knew he was getting near the end of his life, just chronologically.  Over the past year, though, I had seen him visibly decline.  He stopped jumping, even to get up on the bed.  His vision had plainly clouded, and he often bumped into walls while navigating across the hall.  

Kelsey and I did our best for him.  We bought a small cat bed to place next to ours, and next to the radiator, so he would have a warm place near us to sleep.  We put additional cat beds in every room of the house, and put bags of treats in places we spent the most time.  I intended to spoil him rotten for whatever time I had left with him. 

I went to clean up the mess, and saw that his tail had dipped into it, spreading it to other parts of the floor, and to his fur.  A bath was in order; I gave it to him.  He stood in the tub, miserable and helpless, as I poured cupfulls of warm water over his fur, cleaning him as best I could.  Kelsey brought a big towel, and I wrapped him up in it, sitting down on the toilet lid and cradling him like an infant. 

He looked so small and helpless, worlds away from the sharp-pawed rascal of his youth.  

He hadn’t eaten, so I tried to give him some of his favorite food- tuna water- through a small syringe we used when he needed medicine.  He resisted it, having no appetite.  I managed to get several squirts of it into him despite his lack of cooperation, but a few minutes later, he retched it back up.  His breathing was labored.  I was worried he might die in my arms. 

Fully nine years earlier, I almost lost him.  He had a major illness, vomiting up bile and refusing food.  I took him to the vet, and they couldn’t find the cause.  When medicine didn’t help, I didn’t know what to do; he wasn’t eating, and there was no obvious cause.  He was weak, and could hardly stand on his own.  

A follow-up visit to the vet determined that he had an intestinal blockage, which was removed by minor surgery; it was a whole almond.  After weeks of nursing him back to health, he recovered.  I felt like I had been given a gift, more time with him.  

I checked the clock; it was nearing one in the morning, technically it was now New Year’s Eve.  I had no work during the day, so stayed up with Fin for several more hours.  He didn’t improve, nor did he decline.  His breathing was unlabored, but he wouldn’t eat, and would barely open his eyes.  I just kept petting him gently and keeping him warm, and company.  

Finally, at 4am, I decided to go to sleep.  I placed Fin in his bed, next to the radiator, still wrapped in his towel.  He purred a little bit; he always did like laying in a warm bed.  I crawled into my own and fell asleep.  I could hear him gently snoring as I drifted off. 

I slept reasonably well, a side effect of going to bed exhausted, but not for very long.  At 7am, I woke up, absolutely certain that Fin had died.  I can’t tell you how, but I knew.  I was sleeping on the far side of a king-sized bed from his, and Kelsey was fast asleep between us, so I slowly got out of bed, circled around, and went to his side. 

There could be no mistaking it.  He was still, cold, and utterly lifeless.  He was still wrapped in the towel.  I scrunched up my face with emotion as hard as I could, but silently, not wanting to wake up Kelsey just yet.  I picked up Fin’s body and took him into the bathroom, washing off the few parts of his fur that had been soiled since his bath the night before.  Then, I took him into the library and sat with him.  

I was whispering to him the whole time, though I can’t remember what I said.  I probably thanked him for being such a good cat to me, and for all the wonderful times we had together. 

I laid him out on the coffee table and wrapped him up completely in the towel.  Then, I went to the bedroom, woke up Kelsey, and told her that Fin was gone. 

Over the next hour, I made a half-dozen phone calls to the closest people in my life, activating my support network.  Kelsey took care of the arrangements for Fin, whose corporeal form left us a few hours later, in the care of a sympathetic vet.  New Years Eve was a hard day, full of many tears and fond memories of Fin.   

It seemed fitting that Fin would choose that day to leave us.  His name, after all, means “end” in French.  He left along with 2020, a challenging year, but his memory will be with me for the rest of my life. 

-AG

January 6, 2021 confirmed my worst fears, and showed us all the true nature of Trumpism.

In October 2016, I had a specific, troubling fear. We were weeks away from the presidential election, and all indications were that Hillary Clinton would become our next president. Her opponent, Donald Trump, seemed like a comic book villain, all bluster and macho chauvinism. Breathless coverage followed his every tweet, his every campaign event. It was a train wreck in slow motion; what would he say next?

The news de jour was feverish speculation among the chattering class, centered on whether Trump would gracefully accept his anticipated defeat. Actually, that wasn’t quite it: nobody thought he would be graceful. Rather, the speculation was whether he would accept the election’s result, full stop. Would he admit reality, or would he continue to insist that the election had been rigged, and that he was, in fact, the victor?

After all, he had demonstrated a loose and flexible relationship with the truth, and had no compunctions about telling outright lies, time and again, repeating them until his followers accepted them as mantra. At the risk of provoking Godwin’s law, there is an old saw about the power of big lies.

My fear, at that time, was not whether or not Trump would accept the results of 2016. It was whether, in the then-unlikely event he were to win, he would accept the results of an election that took place during his presidency.

In the months since election day 2020, we have seen the answer. Not only has the president refused to accept the outcome, he has fired his supporters up into a fantastical frenzy, bellowing conspiracy theories, demonizing all who refuse to bow to his fictional accounts. Much of this he accomplished on his own, but he had enablers, from the withered husk of a former NYC mayor to a bloviating, bearded Ted Cruz. There were many more, and media- both social and conventional- are now repeating their names, lest we forget their role in this sad episode.

Yesterday, at the president’s urging, armed insurgents breached the US Capitol, sending legislators, staff, and law enforcement scrambling to remain safe. The United States flag was thrown to the ground, a flag adorned with TRUMP taking its place. This is what fascism looks like: employing violence to gain what cannot be achieved by legal means.

In his remarks on the floor of a joint session of Congress, Senator Ted Cruz could not cite any evidence to support his “belief” that the election was conducted fraudulently. Instead, he urged colleagues to join him because of the substantial minority of Americans who believe that it was. Why, one might wonder, would so many people believe something that isn’t so, especially after unsuccessful efforts to demonstrate it in countless courts and legislatures?

The answer, of course, is because the doubts about the conduct and accuracy of the 2020 election were the Big Lie, the one repeated ad nauseum by Donald Trump and his mealy-mouthed myrmidons. People like Ted Cruz created a widespread belief in lies, and then cited that belief as reason enough to oppose and delay the transition of power.

After witnessing the Proud Boys staging an armed invasion of the US Capitol, there can be no remaining doubt about what Donald Trump meant when he told them to “stand back and stand by” at a presidential debate.

Mike Pence, for years chief among Donald Trump’s minions, was asked to subvert the constitution and assert the power to unilaterally choose the next president. Had that power existed, which it does not, it would have allowed the last vice-president to throw out the results of Trump’s own election in 2016: that role was then held by Joe Biden, our president-elect.

Donald Trump serves no master but his own narcissistic quest for power, fame, and wealth. He has shown that he will never give them up, no matter what. They must be taken from him.

I doubt that the 25th Amendment will be employed, though I hope that it will. I doubt that the congress will impeach and remove Donald Trump in the waning days of his administration. I have no doubt that he will pardon himself, and his supporters who engaged in criminal and terroristic conduct yesterday. We have a word for what this is:

Donald Trump is a traitor. The insurgents who stormed the US Capitol are traitors. The senators and representatives who enabled and encouraged his pathetic attempt to overturn the election are traitors.

And no patriotic American can continue to support any of them, full stop. This is no longer a matter of differing political views, or even worldviews. It is now Americans against the fascists, and too many fascists are among us.

Yesterday was a dark day in American history, and we must never forget those who caused it. Remember their names, and hold them accountable.

-AG

A reluctant addendum to my previous post

In light of the Justin Carter debacle, it has been suggested to me that I clarify that my previous post was intended as dry humor, sarcasm, irony, an homage to Jonathan Swift, and other such please-tell-me-we-still-have-first-amendment-protection-in-this-day-and-age purposes.  It was not a serious suggestion for violence; I don’t like guns and do not support their use, even on bad dog owners.

(grumble, grumble)

~Andrew