| the ax files |

April 22, 2008

Love is a hurtin’ thing

Especially when it comes
as a dagger through your neck.

ONE DAY HAPPINESS

The next day, loneliness
When love brings so much joy
why must it bring such pain
Guess it’s a mystery
that nobody can explain

MAYBE I’M A FOOL

to keep on loving you
‘Cause there may come a time
you’ll break my heart in two
But I want you so
I want you though I know that

Love is a hurtin’ thing

WO-OH, LO-OVE IS A HURTIN’ THING

I just came from the San Francisco Opera’s filmed production of “Madama Butterfly” at the Castro Theater. If you’re one of those who prides yourself on never crying, I challenge you sit through this one without a wad of Kleenex. It’s worse than “Back Street,” surely one of the world’s most maudlin tear-jerkers—but at least Susan Hayward ends up with Paul’s kids; Cio-Cio-San is deserted by her husband Lt. Pinkerton, who three years later has not only remarried an American woman, but brings her to Japan so they can take custody of the child that was all Butterfly had left of him. Time to get that sword of honor out.

Butterfly had had an offer of marriage from rich suitor Prince Yamadori who could have taken care of her for life, but she will not consider marrying a man she does not love. She considers her only options to return to singing as a geisha, and death. And she would rather die than be a geisha. God bless you for your devotion, strength and integrity, Butterfly.

So one of my friends thought the Lou of recent columns was Lou “Love is a hurtin’ thing” Rawls. Another reader, knowing that Lou was actually standing in for San Francisco, thought I meant Lou Seal, the Giants’ mascot (I had never heard of him).

HOW WILL THE SOAP OPERA

of my love for SF turn out, another reader wondered. That one may take the rest of my life before it goes off the air. I have a burial plot waiting for me in West Laurel Hill Cemetery, Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, where my grandparents lie and other plots lie vacant but ready to open their maws and take us all in, my uncles and mother and sister. Don’t know how I feel about that. It’s reassuring, in a way, to have a resting place reserved for me, surrounded by those who have always loved and always will love me—but eternity with my family? Twenty-six years nearly killed me. Eternity in that cold, cold ground, my frozen corpse outlasting my family with no heirs? Yikes…

I’M A TAURUS—AN EARTH SIGN,

and I’ve been told I have a few other earth signs in my chart. Poppycock, perhaps, but I like the romantic notion that the position of stars has some overarching influence on our lives. Anyway, I like my feet firmly on the ground; perhaps that’s why I’ve stayed a pedestrian all my life. And I prefer overland travel to any other. So on one hand I can relate to the idea of being buried in the earth. Except that I mostly sleep on my stomach, and I can’t stand the idea of spending eternity lying on my back. I don’t know if anyone’s ever been buried face down, but I want to rest on my right cheek, hands on my satin pillow at 8:00 and 2:00. Maybe I could pay extra to be buried skewered on a remote-control rotisserie to ensure even tossing and turning. Bury me in my cow-print flannel pajama pants and Salvador Dali baseball jersey. I aim to be comfortable.

BUT I’M ALSO DRAWN

to the fire that purifies all, to the burning of earthly form in a plume of smoke. Perhaps the best of both worlds would be to be cremated and have the ashes mixed with mulch and earth to plant a tree, a white flowering dogwood, please, five babies from the Arbor Day Foundation I planted along my driveway in Portland one Memorial Day, in memory of my grandmother Elena, all of them now fully grown.

Now that I think of it, in fact, I have a special request to make of my sister and sister-in-law, of Pete Emerson, as my buddy, my pal of 26 years and counting, of Tom Steigerwald, Pete’s and my third musketeer, and my first true love and friend-for-the ages Larry. In the event that I soon have to lay myself across the N Judah tracks and get run over by the MUNI train as it passes through Duboce Tunnel, assuming the damn thing’s running on time, before I will be forced out of San Francisco because Citizen Artists have to bankrupt themselves to stay here, in the event, that is, that I predecease all of you, and my beloved cats Zazu and Zzyzzy whom I have raised from rescued kittens since Thanksgiving 2005 are rendered homeless,

I WOULD ASK

that all of you and your families discuss whether you would be willing to provide a home for my beloved Zazu and Zzyzzy. I would be happy to leave them with any of you. At the same time the adopter would take custody of the ashen remains of my beloved cat Jackson. I ask this big favor made in consideration of our long, respectful and trusting relationships and in advance of its actual and purely hypothetical need, so you may adequately reflect upon and consider the various implications, in the event that after such consideration any of you are unable to accommodate the favor.

I WILL ARRANGE

that my remains be cremated and in the protection of my mother at her address in Philadelphia, PA, should I predecease her, or, should she predecease me, that my ashes be delivered to you, Cruella, my sister, for safekeeping until both Zazu and Zzyzzy pass, and I ask that upon that event, that my ashes, Zazu’s and Zzyzzy’s, and Jackson’s be merged in a container fashioned by Xena. I have no plot of land to call all my own within this village of 49 square miles, but I have to leave my heart in San Francisco.

THIS IS TAKING SHAPE AS I WRITE.

I would like Pete, Tom, Cruella, Xena and Larry to make a pilgrimage to plant one-third of our combined ashes with a sapling dogwood at a location to be determined, to distribute another third of them at Ocean Beach, with whatever friends want to be part of the ceremony in lieu of a funeral, so I could always be taking San Francisco in my arms via the Pacific waves, and become one with the sand. But wait till wind conditions are right, or you’ll be spitting me out as I fly in your face. The remaining third of the ashes Cruella and Xena are to sprinkle over the family plot in Bala Cynwyd.

SHOULD YOU FIND ROOM

in your hearts and your homes for my orphans I will create a Living Will and Power of Attorney specifying said above-delineated particulars. Should I die before I wake, may this Ax File published Earth Day, April 22, 2008, be considered my final wishes. Should I survive to write another day, and a man come along who impacts my burial arrangements, the documents will be amended and copied to you all. Thank you for your consideration, my sisters, my buddies, my pals.

Now Pete, Tom just called and said despite your killer schedule you both make time to read my stories and discuss them on Friday afternoons, so chew on this one. From you, Larry, I will expect a call. Cruella and Xena, if Chachi can adjust to two cats, you have, as family, my preference to adopt them. So take your time, guys, but please get back to me before I die, which, as with anyone, could be any time.

I feel relieved.

I BELIEVE I CAN LIVE WITH THAT—

until I die, and after I die.

Till then–the soap opera continues to suds over.

Rest in peace, Butterfly

------------------------------------------------------------
Short Attention Span Poetry Corner

1997-1998 season advertisement
for the San Francisco Opera:
"People die. Husbands cheat. Women Cry.
And yet, they all find a way to sing."

People die/angels fly
Husbands cheat/wives get beat
Whores get laid/fortunes get made
Babes get born/Widows forlorn
The world turns 'round
Sun up till down
‘Til one of these days
You’re under the ground
------------------------------------------------------------

Rotisserie chicken for dinner sounds good
4/22/08

axfiles@sbcglobal.net