I have no idea of the whys or hows behind it, but I have my suspicions that they’re building a new subway station in the sixth floor of the SoHo building. In particular, right behind my desk. Now I could be wrong about this, especially since I haven’t seen any MTA workers on the building’s elevators in the morning, but if I am then I need someone to tell me what in the world they’re doing back there? I mean, interior construction work shouldn’t shake the walls THAT violently, should it?

Maybe I’m just overreacting to some truly faint sound that my newly heightened sense of hearing has picked up. Since having my desk moved into the casino (or the cave, whatever you want to call it) along with the rest of the creative department (and then some), things have gone from fair to less than fair, and the scale keeps on dipping. The ecosystem boils and freezes, blinds with awful lighting and the only link to the outdoors is one window inside of of the wall offices that I can’t even see because of a friggin’ partition built in the way. All this lack of scenery has dulled my sense of vision and heightened my other perceptive inputs, which means what I’m complaining about is probably no worse than someone running a hand sander on the other side of an adjoining wall.

Either that, or they’re testing Nascar engines.

Your intrepid hero was recently seen contemplating quietly from the inside of a train somewhere near the Raritn River, spending much time staring out at the mass of bridges crossing the waterway; old and decaying cowering next to the new spans under construction to replace them. Fascination with the building of things has always been a weakness of mine and probably are a bit of the reason why I’m where I am today career wise, but I digress. I was about to make some revelation about the building of bridges in my life at large.

Yep, a metaphor so thick you could cut it with a chain saw. Just bare with me. So much to say, so much to say, so much to stay for.

In all my copious time to think, provided to me by the massive amounts of work and the incredibly short deadlines I’ve been sent to task on, I’ve had a chance to try and link the events of the last few days in ways that I wouldn’t normally realize. Connections were an underlying theme, as they always are in life, but for some reason they seem to be coming to the fore with much greater frenquency.

I guess the pondering really began at my cousin John’s 30th birthday party, a total surprise taco fiesta. Strolling in later than my usual for a family gathering but the blame in that lies half in my New York commute and half in the early start time. The rumor mill was in fine form as pieces of gossip were spun into delicate tapestries of humor and exaggerated truth. Woe to those not there to defend themselves! This is now the main reason why I will not be missing family functions: fear, with family bonding a healthy second. See, I can humorously exaggerate with the best of them too. Genetics folks. Totally genetics.

Now somewhere in the course of events there were two conversations that changed the face of the next two days and then some. I think it was somewhere between grabbing that first drink, the fascination over a pocket breathalyzer and a sing-a-long featuring
Jack Johnson and Outkast. First my cell rings with 212 in the caller ID — the office no doubt. I bale to a quiet room and get myself back into work mode. It’s my boss pleading to me to work on Sunday. Big deadline and many screenshots to make for some big presentation. Photoshop nuts and bolts work, part of my bread and butter skill set. I begrudgingly accept, kissing off my pre-arranged plans of laying down tracks on Sunday.

Of course jumping ahead ten years and looking back at the view of this all from there, this day-off “sacrifice” is all gonna be pretty penny-ante — just another day when I was working. That call is really just a footnote to the plans I made for the next day with my cousin Erin. By luck, fate or whatever you want to call it, both she, John and Megan, his wife, were all going to visit my grandmother at her nursing home.

The last time I could remember seeing my grandmother Virginia was about two Thanksgivings ago. Certainly far too long even under the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best. Her health has not been good for a while and to be honest I’ll be shocked if she makes it through this year. To be even more honest, I’m not really sure if I should wish she does, since I think she’s be better off without the pain. But gram is a fighter, always has been.

She was still sharp and forceful the last time I had a chance to sit and talk with her at that Thanksgiving. It was shorter than I wanted but that was because I froze and couldn’t think of what to say when faced with the inevitable silence. With the written word I’m decent, but with conversations I’m hit-or-miss and I was so terribly off that day; dear in the headlights. I had always figured on visiting her sooner instead of later, but never seemed to pull it off. She moved from the care of family to the care of the home and I still hadn’t seen her. The months passed and news started turning southward, I still hadn’t seen her. Then the party and the whispers that her health fails her more and more. The offer presented, accepted and delivered in kind to my sister at home. We visit her in numbers as much for us as for her, for there is strength in numbers and strength we would need.

As we walked up the driveway and opened those front doors, the finch box and friendly receptionist were false calms. My apprehension was high, knowing that what I would see would taint my memories; sapping the color from the life portrait in my head. I knew so because it happened when I stood by and watch my mother wither before me, and it’s a steady diet of snapshot memories that keep the colors vibrant in my mind. The inner coward wanted to leave the place kicking and screaming, but a single memory stood guard and helped me to keep perspective on the whole situation.

Flip sides of my family on this one from mother’s to father’s for a moment and step back in time. It was over a year ago that Pop-pop passed away, and there is not a day that goes by without me regretting the way I so deftly said goodbye to him and reintroduced myself to the family at large. But those memories are of the aftermath of his passing. Back up a few months before that and you can see fate pull one of those life directing deals she’s so good at.

I had just finished visiting with my dad and figured I would drop in on my Aunt Mary-Ann and Pop-pop to see how they were doing since they were all in the same town, but my Aunt was not at home. When my grandfather opened the door, I was kind of left without an idea of how to proceed. See, things between my father and I have had their ups and downs through the years and by relation so have things with my Fischler family communications. Unintentional to be certain, but it still happened. So I was more or less left with a clean slate and a blank stare — no idea on how to proceed other than to enter and have a seat in the living room across from Pop-pop.

We didn’t talk for too long, but those minutes did help make me feel a bit more connected to my family. He quizzed me on what I was doing with myself (after he quizzed me on who’s son I was — I’m only half joking here cause I’m not sure if he remembered which grandkid I was). I can’t remember what I said or asked of him, but there were probably some finely worded craft to make sure I talked for as long as I could while hiding the fact that I didn’t know how to approach this; that this conversation thing is NOT my forte and I was drawing blanks on what questions to ask when to opportunity presented itself.

I know, I know…you’re supposed to listen in conversation and not think of what your gonna say next. So sue me.

Just like most things in life, you never realize what something was until you had a chance to reflect upon it for a while. Those few minutes will carry on in me much longer than the gripes I make for a whole month of work, or a whole year of car payment woes.

Now circle back to the lobby of the nursing home. I look at my sister and my cousins, not sure what to expect. The front lobby was an eye of calm inside the tempest. Finches of the youngest age and of the most glorious colors fluttered in a case, my gaze transfixed on all the wonders of the cycle of life. Deep down a notion to not move from that spot was voiced, but vetoed by a more driving force. The desire not to let another chance to bridge gaps pass by the boards was quite strong and convincing in debate. A steel chair to the head of cowardice might have been involved in the ordeal, but I never bothered to check the replay.

The first steps inside were staggering and sucked the very breath from me, hitting me with all the fury of a lopsided huricane. The halls were filled with stereotypical nursing home things. Seniors gathered in the TV room. Seniors roaming the halls in wheelchairs and walkers. And the stare. About as close to a 1000-yard stare as I ever ever hope to get in my life. Youth and old age on the battlefield; a no mans land of years between us. Digging a fox hole seemed like a good course of action at that moment.

We finally reached my grandmothers room after passing through a series of senior-stopping airlocks to keep the inmates in. I recognized who it was and the faint glimmer showed she still remembered me, but her body was a rough sketch of what I remembered. I was afraid to touch her for fear of breaking her; the china shop bull syndrome. We were there to visit about half as long as grandma was, what with the way she kept nodding into and out of consciousness. In those waking moments we mostly concentrated on hydrating and feeding her, seeing her food tray untouched upon entering.

Still, in those few moments between naps, juice and pudding she found time to totally amaze me. One local was nice enough and brought by the two most lovable Rottweilers to visit with the residents, and for some reason Crazy in Love had been made the unofficial theme song of the day and someone joked that gram should sing it. Grandchild goes “oh uh oh” and gram follows along, singing “oh uh oh”. Now that is a memory that will always bring a smile to my face.

Soon we realized that gram needed rest and to stay any longer would do no good for either party, so we took her back to her room and said our goodbyes, choking back tears. I actually made a mental note to not actually say the word “goodbye” just because if I did I might have broken down right on the spot, knowing that it was probably going to be the final time I would say it to her while she could still hear it. The feeling the glare from the patients roaming the halls on the way out was even stronger than on the way in, like they were weighing your soul against the continence you presented to them with vacant intensity.

This was probably the most powerful of the connections made, but certainly not the only one in this stretch of cosmic eventualities. In fact, my cup has been quite overflowing in that department. Catching up with good friend Nick on two separate occasions (one of which to help him set up his new toy), jamming and doing some home recording with good friend Jesse, visiting with my Dad (and reaffirming that I would never want to do PC tech support for a living) and reaching out to make some new connection with one miss Jenny (site address withheld for the time being because I want to keep her to myself for a bit ^_^ ).

And this was all bookended by my venture to the theater to see Big Fish, which left me a blubbering mess with a nose that would not stop running to save my life. The story revolves around the relationship of a son with his father and spoke to me quite personally at times, which really just drove home what all this time was about.

All of this has lifted a great deal of emotional weight that I seemed to have been carrying around invisibly. And that shit’s like dark matter — just a little weighs a ton. Blame the puritan society or catholic dogma for it all if you wish, but I choose not to. Clearer souls lead to clearer heads, and those lead to clear thoughts. Contemplation abounds and ideas pop with a newfound vividness that I haven’t experienced in ages. But much of this I have had to bottle up and note somewhere so I could follow through, because my schedule isn’t meshing with creativity outside of office hours. I’m thankful for the steady stream of work, but it’s quickly turning into an ocean of responsibilities and it’s taking all I have to stick with it.

I’m just thankful I was able to steal enough time to get this down, and I’m sure that feeling will just grow as the years go by.

A touch under five days since my last writing, though certainly not for lack of want. The open of the week has suffered from some sort of cosmic temporality disruption caused by Janet Jackson’s breast bearing episode at the Super Bowl this past Sunday, with the able and willing assistance of Justin Timberlake. Damn shame that such a great game may be overshadowed in the minds of many as the Janet incident.

By the way, “costume malfunction” is lame ass. Fire whoever told you to say that.

Funny how I actually stayed tuned to that MTV produced suck fest. Mainly because there were no other decent alternatives being shown on other channels, I suppose. Seeing it first hand it took a second or so to grasp what had actually happened and then to morn the fact that there would be no instant replay. Shameless guy thinking.

Now like I said, the whole thing must have effected the world around us all more than anyone realizes, because Monday when I got to work I was completely disoriented by my surrounding. Well, maybe that’s because the whole of the creative department (and then some) were moved into a cream colored cave further into the recesses of the building. Or was that eggshell? Damn if I can tell one wall paint from the next. Give me pixels and I’m the shit, but….

This confusion was probably more due to the slight confusion over my primary project and what I was supposed to be doing; getting bounced back and forth between orders from the seniority and not knowing who’s voice to listen to. Fetal position preparations were underway until a little something known as a direct plea for some order was thankfully answered. Now on the whole my experiences with this company have been much more orderly and not as fly-by-night, but for a brief moment I had wondered what kind of madness I had walked into. Just a brief one mind you, but still….

Somewhere in all this mess I finally received an e-mailed confirmation of what I had already figured out between myself and some charming young woman: sorry but no. Credit given for finally facing up to it in a fairly decent manner, not to mention living up to the amount of credit I gave you. For the record ladies, just leaving a guy hanging when you’ve made up your mind is crude and wrong. If you’re waffling about the guy, it probably means no so just cut him loose anyway.

Damn, where did THAT come from?