My first response to hearing about the bombing at the Boston Marathon was physical pain. I have a chronic back condition, disks aren’t doing what you would want disks to do, and stress causes flare-ups. I flared like the sun. I went to school in Boston. My brother and his wife live there. I lived a short distance from the site of the attack. I knew my brother wouldn’t be near the site, but I needed to hear his voice. I called his cell. No answer. As it rang toward voice-mail and the voice I heard was his recording inviting me to leave a message I thought about what to say–clear, concise, supportive–but when it came out I could hear the shake in it, the fear. I don’t know what I said, but I’m sure it bordered on babbling. I do remember saying “I need to hear your voice.” I think I remember that. God, I hope I said it, because it was my truth at that moment.

He got back to me. He was fine. His wife was fine. All his friends, even the one who went to the marathon but stepped away for a bite to eat. Thank God for hunger.

By the time dinner was finished and my son was getting ready for bed I’d sneaked enough looks at my phone to get the first hints that an 8-year-old had been killed in the blasts. My 7-year-old was in his bedroom looking for pajamas and urging me to let him watch an extra show before bed. He didn’t have to urge very hard. Afterward we headed to his room, and we read, and he talked about not needing a nightlight because he has a huge glowing moon light on his wall. “It’s so bright I’m never afraid.”

My back was in knots.

This morning my phone downloaded The Flaming Lips’ new album. It’s called “The Terror.” Maybe the title should have given me pause, but it didn’t. When I saw the album was fully downloaded I started to listen. It’s like a hymn for peace. It’s begging for it. I think we all are. I fully recommend the album, prescient in the need for it, soothing, introspective, universal. I’m using it to anchor myself back to normalcy. I need that, particularly today. This afternoon I’ll be attending a magic show at my son’s school that his after-school magic club will be putting on. They’ll use hollow wands to make flowers appear and magnets to make dice change size, and I need to be there, not just in the room, but rooted, present. I need to sit in the room and  smile and be happy. The hymns of this album are helping me get there.

And if this album ain’t your thing, it doesn’t have to be, find your hymn. Hold onto it. Anchor yourself. Be loving and love. It’s our only hope.

My prayers for the hurting families in Boston.

The good life.

Just now I killed a thumb-sized cockroach in my bathroom. I stabbed him with an umbrella and crushed him with a garbage can. We were both naked. He died, but in the grand scheme I think it was me that truly lost.

This just in.

My son: “Who’s that guy?”
“A reporter for the news.”
“What’s the ‘news?'”
“Radio or TV or newspapers telling people what’s happening.”
“Well, he better not ask me. I don’t know anything.”
“Me either.”

Brooklyn pick-up artists.

The young woman climbs the stairs from the subway and lights a cigarette.
The young man walks up to the young woman.
“Hey, if you don’t mind, do you have a cigarette to spare?”
“Thanks.” He gives her a confident grin.
“Your barn door is open?”
The grin disappears. “Excuse me?”
She holds out the cigarette like a magic wand. “Your fly is down.”
He takes the smoke. “Oh. Excellent.”
Meanwhile, I am standing less than three feet away, watching them like a television screen, holding the leash of a dog who is urinating on an empty plastic bag.

A bit rambling, but heartfelt.

School pageants are strange affairs even if held in an auditorium. Held in a gym, with folding chairs, questionable fire exits, and crowds of adults flocking with iPhones in hand to record every moment they will only remember as a video becomes a test. Can you hear? Can you find your child in the throng? What song are they singing? Attending them at my son’s school is always a mix of fun and shoulder-shrug inducing “I know I won’t really see or hear my kid, but I’m here to be supportive.” This year, however, the shadow of Newtown hovered over the auditorium.
My ex and I met at a nearby coffee shop and made our way to the gym slash auditorium to find the seating pretty much gone. As we stood along the wall she received a message from her coworkers about support efforts for Newtown. She replied to the message and I turned to discover that part of the paper mural taped to the wall included figures with guns shooting at a bunker of some sort. I’m sure it wasn’t connected to Sandy Hook in any way. But it was, through me. Through my standing in a school just like Sandy Hook and looking at drawings by kids just like Sandy Hook students.
My son’s mom and I talked briefly between songs. The pre-K and kindergarten kids did marvelous jobs singing songs that were indistinguishable from bird flocks’ chattering in trees. Tiny voices whispering out something important. It was lovely. Then came a dance number, and then the first graders rocked a slightly modified version of The Jackson Five’s “ABC.” There were adults actually dancing. Another brief break and then the second graders filed onto the stage, my son among them. Earlier this week I asked him what song they’d been rehearsing.
“I want it to be a surprise,” he said.
When they began to sing Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” I audibly gasped.
“Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.
Singin’: “Don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”
They weren’t even through that first verse and I was crying.
How do we carry on in the face of tragedy? What do the parents of those children do to keep themselves breathing? The air was sucked out of the room last week, and does anyone really want it to come back?
As I listened to the kids singing, as some of them did the choreographed hand movements (most were a full beat behind or simply mouthing the words and staring into the audience), I was hit by the lyrics and the questions they raised. How can we function as if things will be all right? Ever?
Last night on my ride home I had my music player on shuffle and up came the audio of a recenty released “Tig Notaro: Live,” a standup performance that confronts her recent diagnosis with cancer and the unexpected and tragic death of her mother. I listened to it on the ride home, in awe of her ability to decide that cancer and death might not be punchlines but they could be reduced to the level of a banana peel with the right tone, honesty, and a brutal love of being here. Her love carries her, it makes the performance incredible, and it fills the room with air.
So there I am in the gym slash auditorium, and Bob Marley’s long dead but his love of being here is filling the room with air, and so too is the love of every parent in the room, and the teachers, and the kids aren’t even aware in the way the parents are but they’re exhibiting the love of being here more than anyone, even as my son grabbed his face in exasperation at forgetting the words, even as another kid ran forward to grab the mike and scream the lyrics in, even as a parent wrestled the microphone away. And then it occurred to me that the music and the comedy and the art isn’t a response or an alleviation to tragedy, it’s the goal for living. Tragedy behind or ahead, you can choose to make that hope and love your compass, or you can wallow in the shallows and drown.
It’s up to us to choose how much air to let in.


Deli worker 1: Next!
Me: Could I get a Philly cheesesteak, no peppers?
Deli worker 1: You’ll have to order it from him.
(Points to Deli Worker 2.)
Me (to DW2): Can I get a Philly cheesesteak, no peppers?
DW2 (to DW1): Philly cheesesteak! No peppers!
DW1 begins to make my sandwich.
DW1: No peppers or onions?
DW2: No peppers, but yes to onions.
DW1: Really?
DW2: Pretty sure.
I was standing three feet away.