The sun was setting as I walked home from work tonight, in a sky so pale blue it was almost white. Faint traces of pink kissed the clouds which hung in the sky, sultry, and a bank of rich dark grey clouds loomed in the east. Laurel Street was being whipped by the wind and a coffee cup scudded across the street in full sail.

The window-cleaner had the radio on, a baseball game, and my thoughts turned to my father. He’s probably sitting at home, listening to that very game and eating something hot and home made, and I am going home to eat mahi mahi cold out of a box, to pick through vegetables listlessly and eventually give up. My father loves baseball, and the sound of the baseball game is intimately familiar to me, though I neither comprehend nor like the sport. But the announcer’s voice is soothing, and makes me think I am in my childhood home with feet tucked up onto the couch drinking cocoa, not walking solitary in the gathering dusk.

The game is the Red Sox.

My grandfather was an ardent Red Sox fan, even though they never took the pennant during his lifetime. My paternal grandparents were always rather abstract images to me–they lived in Florida, they smelled a little funny, and my grandmother told me to wash my hands before dinner one time when we lived on Chestnut Street. I think that might have been the only time they visited. It’s certainly the only time I remember. I was in middle school when my grandfather was dying, and I remember my father speaking, hushed, on the phone, and finally waking me up and saying “your grandfather has something to say to you,” and I took the phone, heavy with sleep, and a wispy old voice, a faint echo of my own, said “don’t let the man get you down.”

My grandmother died several years later, while I was in Ireland, and I remember reading my father’s email in the second story of an internet cafe in Kenmare and thinking “well that’s that then,” and when I got back to the cottage I sat by the waterfall for a while sipping tea and wondering what I would say to her if I saw her.

My grandparents were both in the military. My paternal grandfather was a spy. He worked for the CIA when it was called the OSS and later he worked for the NSA too, as well as the DIA. He was a big acronym man. Another family member, in the Coast Guard, threw their ashes out of his helicopter and into the Atlantic Ocean. I think he’s a cousin once removed.

When I got back from Ireland, my father showed me some photographs of his parents, and it was with shock that I saw pictures of my grandfather when he was younger, in Korea, and other places. We are mirror images, Melvin and I, and a friend in college once remarked, seeing his picture on my desk “when were you in Korea?” I have his watch, which he bought with his first Navy paycheque, although for some reason after over sixty years it stopped running on 5 April. I need to have it repaired, I suppose, but for now it sits next to my bed, waiting. I wore that watch every day for almost six years.

I remember when the Red Sox finally took the pennant, and my father said “I always felt like I should support them because they were my father’s team, and they’ve finally done it.” His eyes grew dark and he said “his whole life, my damn father rooted for the Red Sox, and they never won.”

[memories]

Anonymous AIDS testing and treatment will soon be a thing of the past in California now, thanks to the way in which federal grant money is allocated. While I understand the desire to ensure that AIDS statistics are accurate, I view mandatory reporting as a breach of civil rights, especially in the case of AIDS because of the social stigma that it carries. According to this article anonymous testing will still be available (though probably on a much smaller basis because federal funds are not available for anonymous testing), but if you test positive and seek treatment you will be reported. The health police are after you, friends.

I still recommend AIDS testing for all sexually active individuals on a yearly basis, along with a full STD panel. Better safe than sorry, kiddos.

[AIDS]

Last night I received a deep tissue massage from Trane Emmons. Alas, she is moving to Portland in a few days. This is an immense pity on several levels–the first is that she hasn’t been certified in Oregon yet so all you Oregonians are going to have to wait until she gets enough hours to go to her. The second is that if she’s living in Portland she’s not here, and as a result I can’t get more massage from her unless I visit (or move to) Portland. Sigh.

It was, needless to say, an excellent massage. It may have been, actually, the best massage I’ve ever had. She loosened up some tissue that was rather bound up. She got into and released a lot of tense areas, especially in my neck. Trane’s deep tissue began with a brief familiarization with my body through the sheet–she used long, flowing strokes and pressure points everywhere to get an idea of what was going on under my skin before diving in. Her massage is firm, naturally, being deep tissue, and very slow–she eases in gently with deeper and deeper moves until the tension lets go. There were a few moments of extreme intensity and one moment where I felt a little bit of discomfort, but in general I felt only a growing sense of opening up. Not relaxation–this is a fundamental difference between deep tissue and therapeutic massage. I felt eased at the end of our session, and I slept very well, but it was a deep relaxation in my core and a general overall feeling of well being.

It’s easy to see, getting massage from Trane, how one can benefit from getting massage every two weeks. I felt a great improvement at the end of our session but I was also reaching for more–I intend to try Lara next as I’ve heard excellent things about her. For me, I think deep tissue is a better modality than therapeutic. I love therapeutic massage and I enjoy the sense of relaxation that fills me afterwards, but I want long term effects and deep tissue offers those. My whole body feels more flexible, more released, and stronger this morning. Now if only I could get a massage every day…

[massage]