metamorphoses

I'm tired of talking about death on my blog. But important people just. keep. dying.

Douglass Parker is gone. My dearest darling Dougie. You already know the story of how I loved him. He died yesterday at the tender age of 256 of injuries sustained from a heated agon with an organ grinder's monkey.


But you oughta see the monkey.

When he saw the effusive blog post I wrote about him last year (here's the link once more for the cheap seats in the back), he emailed me with one of his signature lyrical missives:

You've done me proud, and I'm almost afraid to go out for the mail, lest the crowds of the classical curious crush me in their rush. That "familiarity of friends or lovers from another lifetime," while quite true, could get frantic with the huge readership you must have...

He signed it Best love, doug. I blushed from my head to my toes. I wrote him back with eager tales of my exciting young life, but I guess he really started to decline around then. I wrote and wrote but I never heard from him again.

Readers, I loved him.



I loved to write for him. Translations were my votive offerings to him. So I've unearthed my circa 2006 attempt at a Parkerian rendition of a scene from Apuleius' Metamorphis. If that sounds boring, you have never read any Douglass Parker. Or Apueleius. I wrote this for Doug's Apuleius class and performed it with classmates Steve and Steve for Doug and the whole class.

NB: I do my best to keep this blog appropriate for all audiences. This is ancient literature so it's okay that this entire piece is about sex. Consider yourself warned.


Elbow Grease
an adaptation from Apuleius' Metamorphosis

CHARACTERS:

Trixie, an adulterous wife
Phil, her cunning lover
Marc, her clueless husband

SCENE: It is late morning on a weekday in Marc and Trixie's modest home. Light is streaming in between cracks in closed shutters. A large pot rests in the corner, and a bottle of perfume sits on the dresser. Trixie and Phil are in bed, entirely obscured by covers, candoodling. All is quiet but for giggles and smacking noises. Suddenly, the doorknob rattles; someone is trying to get in.

PHIL (popping his head out from under the covers):
Did you hear that, my darling?
I thought I heard knocking!

TRIXIE (popping her head out from the other end of the covers):
It's nothing, my baby,
just neighbor kids playing.
Now stop all this nonsense
and get back to--

The doorknob rattles again, this time louder.

MARC (from the other side of the door):
Trixie?!?

TRIXIE (leaping up clumsily, kicking Phil in the process, pulling a robe on over her nightie, trying to smoothe her frizzy hair):
Shit-SHIT-shit, shit-SHIT-shit,
my husband is home!
(Louder, towards the door):
COMING!
(mumbled, to herself, with raised eyebrows):
I wish.

PHIL (petrified with fear, pacing the room in a robe and shaking his hands):
Oh no oh no oh no.
He's home he's home he's home.

TRIXIE (exasperated, whispering, hissing):
Stop it and shut up and get in my pot!

Phil looks up expectantly and lustily.

(now really exasperated, pointing at the pot):
NO! No no no! In the pot!!

Trixie grabs Phil by the arm and hurls him towards the pot, throwing his clothes in the pot on top of him. She pats her hair one last time, grabs a bottle of perfume and spritzes it on herself, spreads the sheets on the bed hurriedly. She takes a deep breath and opens the door.

TRIXIE (icily):
So sorry it took me so much time to answer.
I'm working on weaving and covered in blisters.
So why are you home at this quite early hour?
Forgotten we've run out of money for flour?
(with increasing hostility, up in Marc's face)
Forgotten your wifey a-weaving all day?
Forgotten the thick stack of bills left to pay?
I wish I was Daphne, the slut-queen next door
With lovers and manfriends and callers galore.

MARC (looking wounded):
Oh darling, my darling, it's not what you think
My boss is in court, I've got it in ink (waves around piece of paper)
He gave us the day off, believe or not,
And I found some poor sucker to buy that old pot!
It's a big useless thing and it just takes up space
And for six smackeroos, it can fill up his place!
(Looking pleased, he starts to walk into the bedroom.)
Would you give me a hand with this big heavy thing?

TRIXIE (jumping in front of him and talking sarcastically):
Oh, my big man, he got him a swell deal.
And for six big old smackers! A regular steal.
Well, let me just tell you, you're dumb as a louse
I sold it for seven without leaving the house!

MARC (excitedly):
Sweet sassy molassy, oh could it be true?
That pot sold for seven by a woman like you?
But the pot is still here, Trixie. Where is the guy?

TRIXIE (nervously)
Old boy jumped in the pot just to give it a try!

Phil pops out of the pot right on cue, wearing only his robe and a tie. He adjusts his tie and pushes his glasses up on his nose, affecting a very serious air.

PHIL (regretfully):
I tell ya, Miss Trixie, I'm not gonna lie
I was willing to give your old warhorse a try
But it might be just a bit too ancient for me
There's cracks and there's chips on the side, you can see
And one thousand years worth of oil residue
And the pot is just covered with sticky black goo!
(turning to the husband, speaking to him as though he were a slave)
You there, dear boy, go do something for me
Give me a flashlight so that I can see
The extent of the damage this pot has incurred
It's too dark in here and my vision is blurred.

Marc, taken aback, pauses for a moment and then scurries off, returning with a flashlight.

MARC (hesitating):
On second thought, friend, leave the looking to me
I'll scrape out the goo for a nominal fee.
I'm just kidding, good man, I will clean it up right
and we'll have it to yours by the end of the night.
(Marc moves towards Phil, pulls him out of the pot and shuffles towards the door.)
Now, thank you for coming, and if you would please--

PHIL (assertively, leading Marc towards the pot):
No, tonight is no good, sir, I need it today
My-–uh--mother, who needs it, is in a bad way
I'll just stick around while you give it a wipe
And take these few moments to talk with your wife.

Marc shrugs and climbs into the pot with the flashlight.

Marc (from inside the pot):
This jug is so filthy--this black goo, it reeks!

TRIXIE (leaning over the edge of the pot, facing the audience):
Mind if I take just a few little peeks?
(Phil creeps up behind Trixie on his knees and lifts up her robe. His head disappears under the fabric. She is visibly surprised.)
OOOH! O-oh my god, that's dirty as hell.
(She realizes she's spoken out loud and tries to recover.)
I mean, uh, the pot, um--clean it up well!
(With increasing intensity)
It's been months since it's gotten a good proper cleaning
So keep at it boy! (whispered, to Phil) If you get my meaning.

She gasps loudly. Marc pops out of the pot and turns to look at her. She straightens up quickly and you can hear Phil's muffled yelp as she suffocates him.

MARC:
Are you okay, Trixie? You're getting worked up.
(Starting to climb out):
You want some tea? I'll make you a cup.

PHIL (muffled): I CAN'T BREATHE!

TRIXIE (horrified, trying to recover):
I CAN'T BREATHE! I CAN'T BREATHE! You're stirring up dust!
I need to lay down. (aside): 'Cause I'm shaking with lust!
(Marc looks up; he's heard her aside)
I mean must! I mean rust! My god, is it hot?
I think right down here on the floor is the spot.

Trixie sinks down out of view suspiciously behind the pot. While Marc bangs away inside the pot, Trixie's legs slowly rise back into view from behind the pot and they move around suggestively.

MARC (calling up from inside the pot):
So, Phil, my good man, just what do you do?

PHIL (poking his head up so it is visible above the pot):
I'm a personal trainer at 12th and Magoo.

Phil's head disappears as Marc's rises out of the pot. Marc looks perplexed, looking around.

MARC (cautiously, confused):
Say there, dear sir, why are you on the floor?

PHIL:
I'm, uh, showing her stretches!

TRIXIE:
Never done these before!

Marc sinks back down into the pot with his brows furrowed. Trixie's legs rise back into view. Her legs move in time with the banging in the pot. Suddenly a clamor arises from inside the pot.

MARC (explosively):
Oh, dammit, goddamn it, I've done it again!

Trixie leaps up and looks over the edge of the pot. Phil leaps up behind her and starts going at it vigorously.

TRIXIE (exasperated, even pained):
Oh Jesus, you dumbass, you're scraping too hard!
Ouch! Stop it, you'll hurt it! You're scraping too hard!!
(Phil stops his wild gyrations. Trixie looks relieved.)
That's better, much better, oh thank you, my dear.
But I'm thinking you missed a spot right over here.
Just a little bit left, and a little bit south
Just do it the way you would do with your mouth!

MARC (confused, still down in the pot):
Just do it the way I would with my mouth?
What on earth in the world are you talking about?

Trixie takes a moment, still bent over, grasping at what to say. Phil's eyes roll back in his head and he makes the face of la petite mort. He stops and smiles and wipes his brow and dusts his hands off, rewrapping his robe and stepping away. Marc rises slowly out of the pot as soon as Phil is safely away.

Um, Trixie, you're acting a little bit whack.

Marc sets down his tool.

TRIXIE (explosively, speaking neither to Marc nor Phil):
So you're stopping and thinking I'll cut you some slack?
You're worthless, just quitting whenever you're through,
Didn't think of the pot, what she needs, did you?

Trixie pauses, thinks, and turns on Phil, assuming a cool demeanor.

Well, I reckon she's got just as clean as she'll get
Just seven denarii and we'll be set.

She pauses again as Phil fumbles for his wallet in the robe. She picks it up off the floor.

Here's your wallet right here, sir, I'll get it right now.

She counts out a few denarii, starts to hand it back, pauses, opens the wallet again and takes out all the money, pauses, and then takes out a credit card. An ancient Roman credit card. She hands it back to him with a hearty clap on the shoulder.

That should do it! I tell ya, that's a deal sir, and how!

She smiles and walks over to the pot, pulling out Phil's clothes.

And, honey, ya see, I got you new pants!
They'll look fabulous Saturday night at the dance.

She hands the pants to Marc and kisses him on the cheek, looking over at Phil pointedly.

Well, pack it up boys, and take her away,
I've got lots of weaving to finish today.
It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr.--What was your name?
Well, it's been lovely to meet you, dear sir, all the same.

She stops and checks her watch.

Okay then! See ya later! I hope you can manage!
Watch out now! You don't want to add to the damage!

Marc and Phil dutifully scoot the pot towards the door in silence. Phil is glaring at Trixie. They walk out and shut the door. Trixie checks her watch. After a few beats, there is a knock at the door.

MAN'S VOICE WITH HEAVY ACCENT:
Trixie? You here baby?

Trixie smiles and pats her hair and spritzes on some perfume and walks over to the door.

THE END


If you'd like to read a proper obituary for Douglass Parker, there's a lovely one here.

goodbye, Boudreaux dog

I have been avoiding this. I don't want to put this into words. It makes it more real.

Our Boudreaux dog was hit by a car on December 30th out at Nick's family farm in Tennessee. He was still alive when the DePalmas scooped him up and took him to the vet, but he didn't survive the ride over. He died peacefully in his NeNe's arms, wrapped in his favorite blankie. We built him a wooden casket and buried him on the DePalma's farm, his favorite place on earth. We sowed the freshly turned dirt with a thousand tears. Two days later, we returned to Boston with the heaviest of hearts, a family of four now a family of three.

We miss him every day. The hardest moment is sliding our keys in the lock. The deafening silence in place of a jingling collar.

Boozie's death only took a moment. What really matters is his life.


taken December 25 2010

Boudreaux Jenkins DePalma began his life with us on January 3 2009. Nick and I had been looking for a dog for ages with no luck. Boo was the first dog in the first cage at the Atlanta Humane Society, trembling uncontrollably with a cocked ear. We took him outside to get to know him and he ran in blinding circles, barely interacting with us. I was kind of skeptical but Nick just knew. This was our dog. He had been in the shelter before--brought in as a stray and adopted by a family the fall before. He had been returned on Christmas Eve. The family said he was too much of a handful. A handful he was. Barely an hour later, we were driving home with him.

Everyone thinks their dog is the best dog in the world. Ours actually was. He ran as fast as the wind, but he snuggled like a baby, limp as a ragdoll in your arms. He wanted to talk to us so much that he'd sing out in frustrated syllables, mimicking our conversations. He caught birds out of the air while leashed on a walk, not once, but twice. He was the king of the dog park, always setting in motion a massive all-dogs-included chase. Some of his toes were black, and the others were pink. He looked handsome in his red collar--always a red collar. He liked running, chasing squirrels, walkies, frisbees, potato chips, chewies, and most of all, his mom and dad.

When Julia was taking Goosey into the shop for an estimate after her run-in with a lawncare truck, she brought Boozie with her. The folks in the auto shop circled around Boozie, patting him and admiring his handsome face. One old man remarked Well, isn't he just better than a person? He was. Our baby. Our little mung bean.

Boudreaux leaves behind his devastated mother and father, his indifferent catbrother Moppy, both sets of adoring grandparents, and a loving extended family. Our little nephew Fuzzy in particular had a very special connection with our little black and white pup. Boozie also leaves his best friends Gilbert, Phineas, Felix, and Felix.

We miss you so much, little one. We can't believe you're gone.



Boudreaux Jenkins DePalma
Loving Pupdog
Born July 4 2007
Died January 30 2010
Forever Our Little One

Discussion Quesion: Talk with me about all the pets you've loved and lost.

a total loss

This will be important later.

The Spruce Goose came into our lives during the long winter of 1998. My mother made the questionable decision to spend her birthday weekend chaperoning our yearly Forensics team trip to Gatlinburg, TN, and when we returned home, Mama’s beloved green 1995 Mazda 626 “Cindy” (so named for our favorite supermodel) had been replaced with a big silver-blue-grey luxury sedan. Our new 1998 Toyota Avalon was big, wide, smooth, and fast—so abrupt in accelerating that we came to call the car “Goosey.” Over the years, I formalized her name to “The Spruce Goose,” after Howard Hughes’ massive flying boat. My massive flying boat.


just look at that badonkadonk

Mama drove Goosey for seven easy years. She cruised to the grocery store or Cool Springs a few times a week, but never much more than that. By 2005, Goosey still looked brand new. That summer, I bought Goosey from my parents for a few grand and brought her out to Texas to start my new life in Austin.

Goosey no longer lived the life of luxury to which she was accustomed. I drove Goosey hard over the pockmarked Austin roads. I scraped against brick walls and scuffed the bumper on other cars. Goosey was the victim of her first hit-and-run in a coffee shop parking lot. She had her front windshield smashed by an errant rock thrown up by a lawn mower at my apartment complex. She took flight as I tried to turn off a Texas highway into a parking lot on my way to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, flattening a stop sign en route and coming to rest perfectly within the lines of an empty parking spot. As her front driver’s side hubcap rolled away in silence, half the town flooded out of stores and homes to see if I was okay. I was. And so was Goosey. I took her straight on to New Orleans and back again.

Goosey’s been totaled at least twice before. In 2006, I got distracted while careening down a one-lane road near the house I grew up in and drove off the road and straight into a historical landmark. I shouldn’t go into too much detail, since it’s probably very much against the law to destroy historical landmarks, even accidentally, but suffice it to say that I did my part in breaking down 10 to 12 feet of the Walls of Oppression. The entire passenger side of my car was unspeakably mangled. The insurance elected to fix my beloved car, for reasons I still don’t understand.



In 2007, Nick and I were driving a packed-full Goosey to our storage unit in Austin when a teenage girl crossed three lanes of traffic to turn right and slammed into us, dragging us with her through the turn. We were deep into our first listen of the new T. I. album, and we did not miss a single beat of our enthusiastic car-dancing as we were dragged 20 or so yards down the street. I hollered at the girl when we got out of the car. Nick went across the street and bought her a Gatorade. My insurance fixed my car again and we rejoiced. However, I can never hear "You Know What It Is" without remembering the fateful first time we heard it.

Goosey’s had all kinds of adventures my insurance company doesn’t even know about. Goosey was our tour guide for our massive Southern road trip this summer, carrying us 4000+ miles in a little over a month.

She rode on two boats in North Carolina. She climbed the Smokey Mountains, got sand between her treads at the Outer Banks, and endured the soggy days and nights in Jefferson National Forest.







At Transformus, she was parked in a meadow on a hill for the long weekend. It rained and rained and rained and the cars on the hill slid down the muddy slope like toys. It took half a dozen attempts to get her unstuck—two of the tow trucks brave enough to try ended up getting towed themselves. Finally a man who can only be described as an angry mountain ginger in a kilt got behind the wheel and sledded Goosey General Lee–style down the muddy hillside. Nick and I screamed out in victory until our throats were raw. Goosey emerged unscathed and fondued in mud.

I’ve always attributed my car’s unlikely ability to emerge victorious over collisions to my baby doll head. Nick bought a number of dismembered vintage baby dolls at an estate sale in Austin just before we moved to Atlanta, for reasons that are still somewhat unclear to me. On the drive home, I impulsively stuck one of the baby doll heads between the dashboard and the windshield.


apotropaic baby head

I immediately felt safer, like the baby doll head was helping me watch the road. She’s been there ever since, guiding the way on our road trips like a mermaid figurehead on a ship. Sometimes I think Nick and I are the only ones who like it. I’ve been pulled over by cops for no other reason than they wanted to tell me my doll was creepy. But my doll head keeps me safe, so I don’t care.


from our summer roadtrip

At least…until a few weeks ago. My dear friend Julia borrowed my car to do me a favor and ran over a tool that fell off a lawn care truck. The damage is entirely cosmetic—the car still runs fine—but my insurance just informed me this morning that the car has been deemed a total loss. After all the daring escapes and brushes with death, a small superficial wound has spelled the end of my Goosey Girl. I guess 1998 Toyota Avalons don’t go for much these days. I haven’t spoken to the adjustor yet, so I am still holding onto the hope that somehow Goosey will get fixed in the next ten days and will be able to carry us home for Christmas. But realistically, I might have to say goodbye to my girl soon. So let’s all raise a glass to my Goosey girl and the good times we’ve had.



Discussion Question:
Have you ever loved a car?

When through the woods and forest glades I wander

Yesterday, while I was waiting for the T to take me back to Cambridge after my excursion to Arnold Arboretum with Molly, a busker horrified me by playing "O Holy Night." There may be a nip in the air up here, but that's ridiculous.

And then he played "How Great Thou Art."


Elvis' rendition feels appropriate, somehow.

The last time I heard that song was at Grandmother Shirley's funeral two weeks ago today. The hometown vocalist warbled it sweetly over my grandmother's closed casket.

Hearing it felt like tripping and falling.

I guess you could say that I haven't really dealt with my grandmother's death yet. She passed on peacefully with my father by her side on August 29th. I was somewhere in Virginia or Pennsylvania or somewhere when I got the news. I felt so far away from everything.

The entire three-day trip up to Massachusetts was a blur, spent mostly in silence in a blank, determined state. The animals seemed to understand the intensity of the situation and behaved amazingly--Boudreaux in Nick's lap in the UHaul and Moppy catatonic in his carrier in the Spruce Goose.

We weren't scheduled to move in until the 1st, but the stars lined up and we ended up completing the final six-hour leg of our trip AND getting the keys and moving our stuff in on the afternoon 31st. We managed to clear enough space to lay the mattress on the bedroom floor and collapse when we were done, both of us trembling with exhaustion and Nick nursing a busted big toenail.

The next morning, I went to Logan Airport and flew to St. Louis, and then made the three-hour drive to Bevier in record time in my zippy rental car. When my mom asked me later how the brakes were on the car, I told her that I was pretty sure I didn't get a chance to use them at all on the trip up. I flew towards my family as fast as I could travel.

I pulled up to my grandmother's house just like I had done a hundred times. But when I walked in, she wasn't in her chair in her nightgown. Then I remembered. She's gone. I didn't cry until I saw a copy of the program for her funeral propped up in the kitchen, her birth and death dates in script below a photo we took of her at Thanksgiving a few years back. It just did not compute--standing in her kitchen, breathing in her smell, looking at this unmistakable evidence that she really was gone. That night, my mother and I slept in her bed.

I picked out my outfit for the funeral before I left for Boston at my mother's suggestion. While picking through the racks at TJ Maxx, I could just see the disgust registering on my grandmother's face as she surveyed our options. Zipper detail? Tacky. Ruffles? Uggy. I settled on a conservative black knit cardigan, a black pencil skirt, and grandmother's pearls. I could not disrespect my grandmother's memory by showing up to her funeral in an outfit with a lace cutout or other such nonsense.

And the next morning, we performed the most sacred of human rituals: burying our dead. My extended family sat across the front row, each of us holding on to the person next to them. I hardly let go of my father the whole morning. Grandmother didn't want an open casket, because she didn't like people staring at her, but they let me see her before the funeral started. Her lipstick was perfect. Her hands felt cool, like wax.

We buried her beside her husband and my sister. According to an old family tradition, a spray of 50 fat red roses adorned her casket. A few of us grabbed single blooms before they lowered her into the ground.

An autumn drizzle began to fall. I pulled my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. The pastor read the poem Grandmother Shirley had transcribed in her own shaking handwriting to be read at her burial.



When he got to I am the gentle autumn rain, we looked into the falling droplets and I think we all looked for her there. I think I'll always look for her there.



We miss you.

Discussion Question:
What do you think happens to us after we die? Be honest.

forever young

do you really want to live forever?

My grandmother--Grandmother Shirley, the coal miner's wife, the stubborn Midwestern spitfire, the fixer of mashed potatoes and conquerer of crossword puzzles, a woman who loves Wild Turkey and Lifetime movies and her family, the woman who raised her only child to be my incredible father--is coming to the end of her life.



That tough old bird was diagnosed with lung cancer and given six months to live. That was five years ago. The cancer hasn't put too much of a crimp on her style, but she does hate the oxygen she's had to wear for the last few months. She just stopped mowing her own acre+ yard recently.

After her first round of chemo in years yesterday, she passed out in the passenger seat on the way home. Her blood CO2 levels are far beyond what would be fatal for most people. They revived her quickly and now she's awake and alert, joking with us over the phone. But her CO2 levels aren't budging. She says she's ready to go and the time is near. The doctors don't disagree. She says she isn't afraid to die, just afraid to suffer.

Daddy's on his way up right now. Mama and I are taking things minute-to-minute, trying to decide what on earth to do, given that I am supposed to leave for Boston in less than 48 hours. When it rains, it 500-year floods.


at my cousin Matthew's wedding in 2008. from left, my cousin Jeannie, Grandmother Shirley, my mother. my father is above.

I'm not a pray-er but I am a believer in positive vibes. Send your warm thoughts up to Northern Missouri right now to my Daddy and my Grandmother Shirley and our whole family as we celebrate the hell out of a life lived well.

Discussion Question:
If death is a part of life, why is it so hard to let the people we love go?