Ep 27: Holding on to half the man I used to be - I'm keeping the suits

This morning's breeze has the flag flying high at Peekskill Station.

Thursday, April 25

I have this lingering fantasy that I'm still half the man I used to be.

No matter how much I suck my stomach in I still can't comfortably fit into my size 33 pants.

I've been a 34 for years, but still desperately cling to my youth, believing I might someday find the time to work at trimming the impeding fat.

Pathetically, half my closet is filled with pants and suits I have not worn since 2005. That spring and summer I was able to trim down to 32 through a disciplined and very strict regimen of regular exercise, little to no carbs and salads every night for dinner. Half of those six months or so I also just had salad for lunch, and as you might imagine, I was often pretty darn hungry.

It was a good feeling though. Actually, it was a great feeling to be so fit and slim again. The last time I had been in such good shape was 1990. I was 21 and had ended my four year college relationship. So, suddenly single and free, instead of dating again, every day after work I decided to go to the gym for three hours and then to the local university law library to study for four hours, every day, six days a week. After 11 months I was a well-oiled machine.

This last time around, almost eight years ago now, I was slowly extricating myself of another relationship—my first marriage.  By the end of summer, everything was taut, my clothes fit me like a European, and I often had to tighten my belt an extra notch because my pants were loose. Occasionally, there were golden moments when I'd wake up and feel a flat abdomen. Those were glorious times indeed, but ones that are long gone as well.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I remain hopeful and delusional. 

For despite at least two and half more years of diaper changes to come; despite this long daily commute; despite all the upkeep it will take to make our 125 year old house our beloved home; despite all that it takes to be a good husband, father to five, son, brother and friend to many; despite the increasingly demanding corporate job; and despite my compulsion to write this, my daily blog, if only to appease the lost years of pent-up artistic and literary aspirations...

I'm keeping those suits.


The Peekskill Commuter

p.s. Please don't tell my wife, she'll just make me donate the suits, so she can take up my already very limited closet space...

Grand Central Station, 8 a.m. this morning.

Ep 26: I am that ghost

I found the ghost I was looking for.

Tuesday, April 23

Last Christmas I scavenged half.com for cheap books about Victorian houses, Hudson Valley and ghosts that haunt either.

I was able to gather about two dozen books, which I gave to Chelsea in celebration of our offer on what was to become our new home, Dominguez Manor.

In my initial research, I did discover an obituary that states that Margaret Torpy, an aunt of one of the former residents, died in the house in 1915:


The Highland Democrat, Saturday November 20, 1915

Margaret Torpy died at the home of her niece, Mrs. Matthew Clune, 367 Smith Street, on Monday, aged eighty four years. She had been confined to her bed for the past two years. Born in Ireland, the daughter of James and Jane Torpy, she came to this country while a young woman. For many years she was housekeeper at [illegible]…City, and was well known to Peekskillers who stopped at that famous hostelry. About four years ago she came to Peekskill and made her home with her niece. She was the last of her family, leaving no one but nieces and nephews to mourn her loss. The funeral services were held from her late residence at 9 a.m. Thursday and at 10 . m. from the Church of the Assumption. The interment was at Assumption Cemetery [in Cortlandt Manor].


With the upheaval of the carpet I was hoping that we might disturb the peace and rankle a few somnolent spirits, such as Old Aunt Margaret. Alas, none of the souls that had settled into the floorboards or between the plaster walls seemed bothered enough to shake a chandelier or creak a door open in reply.

Indeed, it has been almost two months since we moved in and there has not been a single sign that we have encroached upon any resident ghosts.

That said, since my nerves are frayed and I am interminably exhausted these days, by the end of the day I'm ready to see one.

My belief is that most sightings are due to what's happening on the inside of us, rather than what lingers on the outside. Our anticipation; the influence of alcohol, drugs or medication; a worn and weary state of mind - all these lead to multi-sensory hallucinations, especially late at night when we should be in bed, especially in the dark when we're home alone watching a scary movie and every creak of sighing wood or crunch of stray cats striding across dead leaves is a sure sign of our pending doom.

Sometimes the spirits we see outside ourselves, are simply reflections of the ghost within.

Well, last night I finally found the lost soul I was looking for.

Unable to sleep because of the news that my ex is very likely moving away to accept a job offer and taking the boys with her, I paced our unfinished hallway like a meandering spirit looking for solace, looking for closure.

To divert my anxiety, part of the night I went into the nursery and made all my pending WWF moves. I steadily rocked my worries away and then floated downstairs for a glass of water.

When and if they move, my greatest fear is that I will barely ever see my sons again. Princeton is a two hour drive away from Peekskill.

Over the last eight years, it has been difficult enough to make school talent shows, band performances, academic competitions and sports matches, games and tournaments, so doubling the distance will only make it twice as hard for me to remain a participant part in their lives.

Plus, they will hardly get to see their baby brother and sister, step brother and mother as well. God forbid there's an emergency, it will take me twice as long to reach them. And undoubtedly there will be a painful slew of new issues to contend with, including the widening emotional divide between my teen and I.

The only good news is that this news sheds some light on a few of the mysteries of the last couple of months.

First and foremost, it readily explains my ex's strange and contentious behavior, her consultations with lawyers, as well as the attempts to change our divorce agreement, while fully knowing of this pending titanic parenting shift.

As professional job interviews and offers often take months to finalize these days, the correlation explains the premeditated odd manipulations, as well as as a lot of the ludicrous legalistic correspondence..."So, what you mean is this..." One should never expect an amicable response if they are always talking to you like a lawyer. Ugh.

Hence, my hallow and haggard tribulations. Hence, my insomnia. Hence, mien verwandlung - my sudden transformation into the lost and troubled soul I've been looking for.