You're listening to I Have No Process. I am your host, Nicholas England.
You've made it to the end of our first season. We certainly thank you for your
time and your attention. The podcast will be going on hiatus until our next season
of poetry is ready to be released. In the meantime, if hearing Janet's story has
somehow urged you toward philanthropy, Max and I recommend donating to the
Lustgarten Foundation, which focuses on funding the detection and treatment of
pancreatic cancer. Cases are on the rise, so take care.
The moment mom died, I wasn't sad. I was angry. I stumbled to the backyard to release my vigilance, to
let it all out, drop to my knees and scream, "FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK." I didn't do it. Something held me back.
Notions of decency. The children who live next door. That night, we opened the five
best bottles of wine in the house.
Once they wheeled her body away, we were elated. We didn't have to worry about her
anymore.
The following day brought even more relief. So much calm amongst us. So much
solidarity. We could breathe again. We started getting organized.
The day after that was when everything turned to shit. The dread returned.
All the people to call. Paperwork to fill out. Banks.
"We're so sorry for your loss and we totally understand what you're going
"through, but if you don't keep the payments on time we will come after you
"for everything you have."
We threw on a Padres game for the first time since the stroke.
It didn't mean anything to us.
We watched another one the next day. Purely out of habit.
Strained obligation.
I was growing angstier and angrier. My poetry was becoming distinctly
unpoetic.
I had to ease up. I knew the answer was not to cavil.
That's not what this ritual was ever meant for.
I calmed myself down. Stepped away from caring about baseball entirely.
Yet I kept to the practice of writing. Kept tending to business in Vermont.
Twelve days after mom passed, I came home. I decided to watch the Padres take on
the Giants.
If the CIA had designed a means by which to torture me, they couldn't have
improved upon the Padres methodology. Losing the same way, and I mean
the same unconscionable way, over and over and over and over again.
It was the 72nd game of the season. I refused to write about it.
I was done.
I had initially aimed for all 162, but 71 would have to do.
When I went back to see what the final poem proved to be, I had the pleasure of
bearing witness to an immense irony.
It hadn't been written as a conclusion, and yet it couldn't have accomplished a
more perfect end.
I was satisfied to leave things just where they stood.
Mom was gone. I wasn't watching baseball anymore.
The ritual was over.
Game 63. Padres 9. Rockies 6. June 9, 2023.
I am nauseated by my obligation to comfort you
as I go about this joyless work, erasing the remnants of Mom's daily life
without pausing to yearn for her.
But please, remind me in repeated terms how close we were,
how I was the light of her world, how young you thought she was, and how
fast she went. Not even three months from the time you heard.
Tell me again about how she didn't live to see me publish anything,
but you'd still like a signed copy of my book,
before it becomes a best seller, of course. Tell me how we can use her death
as an excuse to start new charities. A scholarship, perhaps. She always put
children first. I have the regalia to prove it.
Coffee mugs from the school district. PTA pins.
Hey, tell me how you'd like to buy some roller skates.
No, that was meant for another thread. That was your mistake.
You didn't mean it. You're sorry. You're sorry.
I understand it is my privilege to forgive you.
Game 64. Padres 3. Rockies 2. June 10th, 2023.
The broadcasters display an infographic regarding the young starting pitcher, Ryan Weathers.
When Weathers is ahead in the count 0-1,
opponents are hitting .200. But when Weathers falls behind 1-0,
opponents hit comfortably over .300.
And that's it. That's the graphic.
"Stay ahead in the count, young blood!" I suppose that's all they were trying to say.
But is this 100-plus point disparity unusual?
O, wardens of the great sport of baseball,
with your famed proclivity for stats. What is the average variance for
pitchers 0-1 vs. 1-0?
Tell me, so I can tell if Weathers' is remarkable or not.
Or what about for just starting pitchers? What about for starting pitchers with an
ERA below 3? Is there a strong correlation between
excellence and low variability in the count?
Do the best pitchers keep things level when they fall behind?
What about the least successful pitchers? What stories do their relevant numbers betray?
Because if you don't illustrate that much,
then what you just told me doesn't mean anything.
And your empirical bent reveals itself as careless self-indulgence and
pomposity.
Now, what else can I find to bitch about?
Game 65. Padres 4. Rockies 5. June 11, 2023.
Sink our teeth into some other pet peeves, shall we?
1. Microwaves that keep beeping after you've already opened them.
2. Parents or partners demanding from other rooms that certain chores be done
when you're already in the middle of doing them.
3. Sympathy cards 4. Medical professionals telling you that
you'll get the end-of-life medication in 7-10 days
when the law clearly states there is a 14-day window between visits with the prescriber.
5. The fact that we learn lessons
after everything has gone to hell, if we bother learning anything at all.
6. How often bread comes pre-buttered at restaurants.
7. How often calorie counters will sip on their third glass of chardonnay.
8. NIMBYs. Don't get me started on the NIMBYs, nor on
9. Mom's suppleness to authority. Her persistent wish to do whatever she was told,
going with the flow as a form of docility.
How I begged mom to call palliative care
from the beginning, but she wouldn't have it because
the doctors said she wouldn't need that till the end.
And yet, for all that, what really ticks me off today is
10. Bob Melvin cutting bait with a 12-strike-out master class from Snell
by throwing Garcia into a two-run game. Garcia. God love him.
Who naturally records one out before an exquisitely secured lead
becomes a routine stalemate.
I don't care about the result. It's the energy behind the choice.
The stubbornness, the meanness, the sloth, the apathy.
Throwing shit against the wall and calling it philosophy.
Every season is a mandala, sure. Every game is a mandala. All creation
is a mandala. Streaming in spirals around the zenith of an ever-shifting
nothingness. But so long as people are going to get up
in the morning and pursue some purpose, so long as anything can mean anything to
anybody, for one asshole to come along and upend
the table on which the incomplete mandala rests.
If that's all you've got, Bob, why don't you just shave your head and go find a
gate to dance behind?
Game 66. Guardians 3. Padres 6. June 13th, 2023.
What is a memory that no one remembers? We cannot go on carrying her relations
as though they were our own.
Our mother is dead.
We burn her baby blanket, then run from the fumes.
Game 67. Guardians 0. Padres 5. June 14th, 2023.
At Unitarian Universalist Church, the Sunday service of worship will feature a
pulpit address by the minister, the Reverend Jane Rzepka, entitled
"What's the Point of Life?" The dedication of Nicholas England will also be celebrated.
Old newspaper clippings and art working.
Game 68. Guardians 8. Padres 6. June 15th, 2023.
The most sacred rule in existence. Never speak unless you must.
You must find a way to still your tongue without all this chewing on honeybees.
Game 69.
Rays 6. Padres 2. June 16th, 2023.
Do not drive me into the interior of myself,
then ask where I have gone.
When sadness becomes bottomless, there is no use squaring the accounts.
There is but to observe the green mountain through your bedroom window,
with your back turned on anyone who's ever loved you.
Game 70. Rays 0. Padres 2. June 17th, 2023.
Does it bother you to sit in a room alone with nothing but your thoughts?
Then why should it bother you to share that quiet room with me?
Game 71. Rays 4. Padres 5. June 18th, 2023.
If I really had something worth teaching you,
I should never be able to open my mouth again.