From The Bottom Of Mark's Heart...
Oct 10 '01 (Updated Dec 15 '01)
The Bottom Line Hard_To_Please? "No." Hard to defeat his indomitable spirit? "Yeah."
***--****===*****-- TABLE OF CONTENTS --*****===****--***
PART I --Original Review/Message To Community
PART II --Additional HTP-Related Reflections, Anecdotes, Events
PART III --Personal Facts & Stats About HTP (Requested By Readers)
PART IV --HTP Addresses & Letter/Gift/Contribution Forwarding Info
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PART I:
A. THE UNMODIFIED, ORIGINAL REVIEW AS WRITTEN ON 10/9/01; AND SUBMITTED ON 10/10/01
Dear Friends, Acquaintances, and Fans of Mark (Hard_To_Please,)
Not too long ago, a very close friend of mine, and of so many here in the epinions community, asked me to convey a message to all of you. Based on the nature and importance of this message, and the gravity of the circumstances which would trigger my having to undertake its communication, I realized my accepting responsibility for making sure you received it, would be a formidable one. Yet only now, as I attempt to make good on that promise, am I able to begin to grasp just how formidable the burden of that obligation truly is. Or that I would find myself literally immobilized by the grimness of this bleak and unfamiliar new version of reality that obligation forces me to face. Or of the inconsolable grief it forces me to endure. So I ask that you please pardon me for the unsatisfactory and inept manner in which I now communicate to you. I am not in my right mind, and my disproportionately tiny feet are dwarfed by the enormous shoes my reluctantly-accepted obligation now requires me to fill.
I will first provide you with the facts; the previously-noted "circumstances which (now) trigger my having to undertake (this) communication" on Mark's behalf. Afterwards, I will convey Mark's message to the epinions community. If I've calculated properly, the first part will provide you with a context by which the second part can be given a meaningful perspective, and by which my obligation, if not my burden, might be discharged.
This afternoon, (Tuesday, October 9th) at around 4:30 PM PST, Mark Arnold, known mostly to his friends here at epinions as "Hard_To_Please," yielded his soul to God and that which lies beyond. The unexpected suddenness of Mark's death was, for Mark's family, me, and I anticipate, will be for you, the most traumatic aspect of a tragic sequence of events which began at the end of July, and ended late this afternoon. Despite his spending the final two months of his life being shuffled back and forth between medical providers, waiting rooms, consultations, endless batteries of tests and exams, doctors' appointments, and hospital operating tables like a cold tray of last night's leftovers, despite not once receiving anything that could even remotely be considered good news to interrupt the continuous and steadily increasing flow of bad news he received on an almost daily basis from doctors who made no secret of the fact they already considered him a cancer statistic merely waiting to be recorded, despite his once seemingly-endless energy reserves dwindling to levels that made standing up or lifting kitchen appliances exhausting tasks, this, despite not having a significant other with whom to share the burden of his daily increasing burden of chores, bills and general house maintenance, despite learning and having to deal with the knowledge that he had only a few months to live, then weeks to live, then just days to live during a span of roughly three week period where his prognosis was continuously downgraded, despite his fearfully expressed (to me) discovery that his once-razor sharp mental faculties were rapidly deteriorating, causing him to lose his recognition of his surroundings for extended periods of time and causing him to hallucinate garish phantoms of relatives and other entities who refused to disappear when he rubbed his eyes and which indicated to him he could no longer trust those mental faculties to provide him with consistent and reliable information from one moment to the next, despite his unusually apparent love of life and personally-confided fear of death and a host of other unimaginably daunting, beleaguering and disheartening burdens, any one of which by itself, would be enough to defeat the spirit of the most stout-hearted among us, Mark *NEVER ONCE* groaned or complained about his situation, or acted like a "victim," or lost his sense of humor or even brooded for any extended period of time over his unenviable fate.
He carried himself with an unself-conscious grace and non-egotistical dignity that inspires superlatives which exceed the scope of my limited intellect to supply. The only times he expressed any sort of worry to me, was when he expressed his fear over the grief and pain his kindly parents were going to experience over the loss of their son, when he brooded over the future welfare, uncertain fate and lack of ongoing care and affection with which he lavished his cats and dogs, and that he might not be able to adequately express his boundless appreciation for the uncommon kindness shown him by his cherished friends in the epinions community, whose unexpected show of love, affection and support rendered on his behalf, had so overwhelmed him, that he was moved to open weeping during the last conversation we had, in which it was discussed.
On this past friday evening, when Mark arrived back home from one of his daily hospital visits; one in which he received the third and final downgrade of his already, dismal prognosis, he intuitively sensed the end was near. He called me up about 7:30 PM, but unfortunately, I had already gone out for the evening. As fate would have it, my evening extended straight through to Sunday afternoon. As soon as I got home, I made a dash to my phone to check my messages. The one Mark left will haunt me for a long time to come. It haunts me as I write these words. There was in Mark's voice, both, an uncharacteristic sense of urgency and a tone which conveyed a realization of the inevitability of death. An icy lightening bolt traveled through my central nervous system as the message's time-stamp revealed it to be almost two days old. Almost panic-stricken, I sucked down an uneasy gulp of air to help me marshall my composure and then dialed Mark's telephone number.
I felt a second barrage of electric icicles prickle its way down my neck and burrow into my stomach as, for the first time ever, Mark's mom answered his telephone. She advised that Mark seemed almost beside himself with the need to speak to me when he called me up Friday night. She told me that she heard Mark speaking, so she assumed he had gotten through to me. I told her that that had been Mark leaving me a message; that he had, in fact, not gotten through to me. This concerned her greatly, because Mark had called me up to say "goodbye," to "thank me for my friendship," and to reaffirm that I would convey to you, his beloved friends, the inexpressible and overwhelming feelings of gratitude, appreciation, endebtedness and love that he felt for all of you; that you and your worthy, heartfelt and meaningful efforts to reach out to him and warmly embrace him in your hearts and thoughts, made these final weeks of his life the best ones he had ever experienced. Without your limitless expression of kindness and selfless generosity, he would not have been able to make it as far as he did, or in the worthwhile manner in which he did it. In describing his feelings, he recalled a poem I cited in one of my reviews, written by P.B. Shelley, entitled, "To Wordsworth." The lines he referred to are as follows:
"...Though wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Though hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude..."
I am at this moment, somewhat overcome. Mark did not want his message to be a sad one, yet I find that I am unable not to be sad. I think I'm going to have to compromise on this one issue, Mark. I would be lying if I pretended I wasn't sad because I'm really going to miss you... I already do. The aspect of your personality that inspired me more than any other, was your flawless integrity, so that's the one I choose to honor here.
I will be adding substantially more information to this review. I apologize for my inability to complete it in one sitting, or even go through it to correct mistakes... I'm surprised I was even able to write anything at all. I hope you'll come back to read it after I've augmented it, and after I've regained a bit of composure. You could help me to help you, by leaving, in the comments section, any questions or thoughts you might have with respect to Mark, or the events surrounding his death, or even more personal information, if you are so inclined. I'll do my best to respond to them. God Bless.
Jim Scileppi (The 29th)
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PART II:
ADDENDUMS, AFTER-THOUGHTS & INFORMATION IN RESPONSE TO READER-REQUESTS
A. MY CONVERSATION WITH MARK THE DAY BEFORE HE DIED.
(Added On 10/13/01)
[Foreword:
I haven't accepted that my friend is gone. Right now, I don't think I can accept it, though I know eventually, I'll have to. By my adding to this review and interacting with others who cared about Mark, the tragic and piercing reality of Mark's sudden departure is held at bay, if only for another moment or two. Yet perhaps just a couple of minutes is all we need to brace ourselves for the brunt of reality's inevitable blow.]
[In my distraught frame of mind on tuesday, I had to discontinue writing before I was able to mention the following: ]
When I tried to reach Mark Sunday night, as previously set forth, Ms. Arnold had advised me that Mark's condition had rapidly deteriorated and that he had become incoherent over the course of the weekend. I asked if I might speak to him, but Ms. Arnold advised she had just gotten him to go to sleep. She was afraid if she woke him up, he might not be able to go back to sleep again. I could sense that she was, nonetheless, debating waking him up anyway, for all of our sakes. For a dangling, five-minute long second, I waited for her to change her mind. I feared, based on her testimony regarding Mark's incredibly rapid deterioration over just a forty-eight hour period, that if I didn't push for her to awaken him, the eight or nine hours that transpired before I was next able to speak to him, could mean the difference between my speaking to Mark just one last time, to set his and my mind at ease by my letting him know I received and acknowledged his "goodbye," and my having to stifle that thought; set it aside for involuntary further review on my bedroom ceiling as I lie awake in bed every night for the next 50 or 60 years until I met Mark again in the afterlife.
Reluctantly, I declined to push the issue further. I knew Ms. Arnold had Mark's best interest at heart, and I would just have to take my chances, no matter how great the stakes. Looking at my watch, I asked her what time she would be getting up. "Seven-thirty." Would she mind if I called the moment at seven-thirty? "Not at all." Seven-thirty in Missouri is five-thirty in Los Angeles. I knew there would be no way I was going to go to sleep, so I brewed up some coffee and started my night, clock-watching vigil. Five-thirty A.M. was several days away.
At the Five-thirty A.M., I decided to give Ms. Arnold fifteen minutes to drink her coffee, before I called. She picked up on the first ring, graciously greeted me and went in to awaken Mark. When Mark had the phone, I called into it: "Mark! It's Jim!" Mark mumbled something in response. I decided to test him by asking: "Do you want me to call you back?" He responded: "Yeah, call me back in an hour... ." This worried me, because any time I called Mark in the past, he made everything else a lesser priority. I reiterated: "Okay, Mark, but I'm only going to call you back in an hour if you promise you'll be responsive to me." Mark acknowledged with sleep in his voice: "Okay-- I promise."
While passing the hour, the poignant message Mark had left for me on my answering machine friday began to haunt me. As I dialed Mark's number again, it continued to echo "HTP's" characteristic lucidity and clarity of thought in my mind. I grimly decided that, for at least the extent of this phone call, I was not about to allow it be any other way.
When Ms. Arnold put Mark back on the phone, he was incoherent at first. I thought of three promises I had made Mark. The first was that, no matter what, if he became incoherent or incapacitated at some stage of his cancer, I do whatever it took, legal or otherwise, to prevent his dying behind hospital walls. The manifestation of the second one, you are currently reading. The third one I volunteered. I did so, to set his mind at ease when he first confided in me about his bouts of memory loss, etc.,. I told him (half-jokingly) he would really piss me off if he didn't recognize me. I would have no choice but to take such an inhospitable act personally. He considered this for a moment, and began to get angry. He indignantly demanded to know why. I harrassingly responded: "I would piss you off because that's the only time I ever know with any certainty that you're alive." As much as this amused me, it didn't amuse Mark in the least bit. Still, he realized I was teasing him. He also understood what I was really saying to him: "I would not acknowledge his incoherence, or allow HIM to acknowledge it. Now that moment was on hand. I never seriously thought it would be.
I spoke into the phone: "Hello Mark." Mark mumbled something non-responsive. I thought to myself, "Mark's mom probably never pissed him off the way I could, and have." I taunted him a little bit:
ME: "Don't you properly greet people when they make the effort to call you?"
MARK: "Hunh? Whaddya mean?"
(Now I had his attention... Did I know this guy, or what?)
ME: (With mock indignation) "What do *YOU* mean, 'whaddya mean?' What!? --I don't have a first name anymore!? Do you know who this is?"
MARK: "Yes... I do."
ME: "Well... Spill it. What's my name?"
MARK: "Jim."
ME: "Yeah right. That one was too damned easy. Give me another name that people call me."
MARK: (Sounding mildly annoyed) "29th_Candidate of course."
ME: (Unsuccessfully attempting to suppress my jubilation) Jeez, you had me going, Mark...
MARK: (Smugly) "Well, it's about time I turned it around on you. You have to admit you had it coming."
ME: (Laughing) "And *then* some... . Hey, you know, that message you left me friday gave me the impression you thought you were getting ready to go somewhere. Is this true?"
MARK: "No, I'm going to stick around here... ."
At some point Mark's mom, who had only heard Mark being incoherent at the beginning of the conversation,joined the conversation on a third phone line. She thought Mark had fallen asleep on the phone, I presume, as a result of the angle she looked in on him. She told me she thought it best if I let Mark rest and call back later. I reluctantly said I would do this. As she walked around to where Mark was, with the other phone, Mark began saying: "Jim, don't go... Don't hang up the phone... Stay on the line, okay?!" I responded: "Yeah, of course, Mark-- No problem." I was surprised at the level of both, his awareness, and his persistence. As I was responding, I heard his mom come in and take the phone from him. I heard Mark saying in the background: "Mom, wait-- Don't hang up! Jim's still on the line! :::*CLICK*:::
That was the last time I would hear his voice. My call back to Mark that evening rang the Arnolds' phone as Mark was being given his last rites by a priest. I didn't know this until Ms. Arnold called me back 15 minutes later to fill me in. She apologized to me for hanging up the phone while I was still on it. I told her it was unnecessary to apologize, she had no idea I was still on the phone. "How did you find out I was still on the phone, Ms. Arnold?" She replied, "Mark told me." She confirmed that he had risen to the occasion, yet one last time.
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B. "WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS?:" (Added On 10/15/01)
I've read each one of these touching comments and about as many emails, multiple of times. Many people have expressed a desire to hear more "HTP-anecdotes." While I feel like I could probably fill up another 10 reviews with insightful, amusing or touching stories about Mark, I have a hard time determining the point where "what's appropriate and tasteful" ends and, what amounts to a "circus side-show" begins...
Off the top of my head, I can think of at least three occasions I had asked Mark questions similar to these; questions that, at the time seemed crucial, and required responsibility-assigning, judgment calls. Mark would respond with the ever-so-helpful and instructive: "You know what I'd say," or "Whatever you think, Jim." He knew damned good and well how frustrating and evasive I considered answers like these, and he seemed to revel in it. Because he knew this, and because he knew *I* knew this, I would respond by ominously telling him, in effect, "Fine with me; I can live with the results, I just hope you'll be able to live with them too." I assure you, I didn't then and don't now, have even a small part of the confidence Mark seemed to think I had. Perhaps you, his readers, might be more instructive than he was.
My other incredibly helpful friend, that pillar of consumer-helpfulness shriveled up into a human being, Sordid-1, who NEVER (to use his words) "...hides behind a veneer of pretense and bullshit," at least not until he puts pen to paper, (I kid you, I'm a kidder) inadvertently raises an issue which has troubled me from the beginning: "How does one remain 'the messenger' and not become 'the message?'"
The only answer that makes sense to me, is: "He delivers the message and then leaves." This is my strongest inclination. However, this is not about me or my inclinations. In my heart, I believe that Mark would be moved by the call of you, the readers who gave him so much, and for whom he entrusted me with the obligation, and I don't hesitate to add, the opportunity, to express his undying affection and gratitude. So I put it in your capable, commentary hands, my friends and fellow Mark fans. I'll be checking for your comments or responses (or lack thereof.)
Thank You Again For Your Overwhelming Kindness & Cherished Good Faith,
"The Messenger"
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C. REFLECTIONS ON EVENTS RELATED TO HTP'S DECISION "TO GO PUBLIC"
(Added On 10/17/01)
[The Following Was Written In Response To A Touching And Well-Worth-Reading Tribute Review Entitled ***"We Are All The Losers," By Mattjoe.]
Though Mark Requested I deliver the tragic news of his death, and of his enormous gratitude for the epins community's kindness, (I suspect he did so) only because I knew him personally, and by virtue of this, he felt reassured that I fully grasped the entire measure of, both "the agony & the ecstasy" (apologies to Michelangelo) he experienced before and after his horrible affliction changed his and all of our lives. I'm pleased to see that people, like you mattjoe, who he (and I, for that matter) consider(ed) a good & trusted friend, have picked up the ball since that horrible Wednesday, last week, when I dropped the bombshell of his departure on the tragedy-unprepared epinions members.
"...The site tried to rally around Mark a few short weeks ago, I do hope that these actions brought some happiness to Mark in those months. There is no way what we all did could have brought to Mark the amount of happiness he brought us from the day before Christmas in 1999 when he joined, until the day he could no longer share with us his humor or his caring heart."
Mark seemed to disagree with your statement, Matt. On the contrary, the happiness and appreciation Mark felt for the community's rallying on his behalf, at times, even caused him to feel guilty, undeserving and unworthy of being blessed with such caring and loyal friends, he appreciated and enjoyed your (i.e., the community and your) camaraderie and support so much. This I tell you based on (many) conversations in which he expressed these sentiments to me.
That he (irrationally in my humble opinion) felt unworthy and undeserving of the love with which he was embraced, is indisputable, and in fact, worked to both Mark's and my detriment when he first learned of and first revealed to me (the same day) the nature and extent of his illness. I asked him a day or two later, after we both had time to assimilate the horror of his condition, if he planned to say anything about it on epinions, and he bristled at the very notion of it. There were only two other people to whom he planned to mention it, for personal reasons, and whose names I omit for the same reasons. For about a week and a half, I argued, cajoled, coaxed and persuaded Hard_To_Convince, to share his misfortune with his epinions friends, but he would have none of it. I eventually sought the persuasive support of one of those two previously-noted people to whom he had revealed his affliction, and he seemed to begin to cave in.
His main concern, was that he did not want to be or become a "wet-blanket poster boy" or to rain on the epinions community parade. He was also afraid he'd be given preferential and/or "handicapped person" special treatment, and he dreaded the thought of it. It would ruin the whole epinions experience for him as he had previously appreciated it, and he would have prefered quitting his membership before that happened.
I argued that by revealing his affliction humorously; in the "HTP humorous opinion to end all HTP humorous opinions,"*HE* could, exercise personal control, to a large degree, on how that illness would be perceived by friends and epins members-- that he didn't *HAVE* to be perceived as an invalid. On the contrary, if he decided to just "up & disappear" without leaving a clue, not only would he lose the opportunity to manage the perception others had, but he would cause many; people for whom he cared greatly, much pain, sorrow and loss.
I also believed that, based on the sort of "people person" Mark was, and despite his fierce desire to protect his personal privacy and his generally shy and unassuming nature, the resulting show of love and support I believed Mark could count on from the community, would immeasurably bolster his spirits, distract him from the interminable presence and daunting awareness of his frightening illness, as well as rally him by giving him something to which he could daily look forward.
I knew how much he got off on interacting by way of reading reviews and responding with comments, because, a year ago last summer, we got into a minor scuffle when he jokingly blamed MY comment sections and me, specifically, "my (annoying) insistence on personally responding to each individual comment" (i.e., left in response to my reviews,) and my, as I recall his phrasing it, "treating my comment sections like a TV talk show," (i.e., rather than as a straight-up feedback area,) which, since he had first observed my doing so, (in my "Mission Implausible 2" movie review's comment section, which had 1,278 comments before it could no longer be accessed) made him feel guilty if he DIDN'T respond to all of his review-induced comments. This decision, he claimed with mock annoyance, "tripl(ed) his (review-related) workload."
He knew this was a sensitive-spot with me, because I expressed my displeasure over his (I felt) inordinate degree of amusement in response to my reluctantly confessing that I "had been reading and commenting on peoples' reviews over two full months before I decided to write one of my own." He later acknowledged that he had come to understand my quirky enjoyment of elaborate-commenting, because it had quickly grown to become one of his favorite activities here at epinions, so much so, that when I did not immediately respond to a comment he'd leave in one of my comment sections, or I did not immediately leave him a comment on his reviews after I'd graded them, he would take it quite personally, becoming snippy and uncommunicative until I had figured out my "transgression," without any assistance from him. Upon my rectifying my non-comment errors, life would proceed as though nothing had happened (or failed to have happened.)
I'm out of breath and ink, Matt buddy.
Cheers--
Jim (29th)
***Mattjoe's Review; "We Are All The Losers," Can Be Read At The Following Link:
http://www.epinions.com/content_2240389252
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D. A POSTHUMOUSLY HTP-GENERATED DISCUSSION OF DEATH BASED ON PREVIOUS HTP COMMENTS AND RELATED RECOLLECTIONS (ADDED ON 12/2/01)
Hi Tammy--
I can relate. Not a day goes by that something doesn't remind me of him (Mark.) I stumbled over a very touching and concerned (unsolicited) response he left to a rather embarrassing and maudlin comment I left in a "Coping With Death" review, ironically, when I was in the midst of a dark period triggered by revisited memories of that review's deceased subject.
I would much prefer to post it without my bathetic, initiating comment, but I think it would take too much away from the appreciation of Mark's response to it. Here's the dialogue:
"Sep 18 '00
6:43 pm PST Re: Bravo (Delete your comment) by 29th_Candidate
Hello Amy, Ikkalj, mptang and Ifakh--
I thank all of you for your appreciated thoughts and kindness. It means a lot to me, motivates me, and has helped me to re-address this in a healthy manner. I must tell you all I've been having a lot of trouble dealing with this lately; and in odd ways:
Kim, my ex, but who is still my closest friend, was taking me for a ride to see this feral cat that she wanted to save from the street. The cat had dodged her a few times, but she had become attached to it, nonetheless.
She particulary liked this stray because it reminded her of one of my 4 cats; Empathy, ("Yempy") who she saved from the left lane of the 10 Freeway when someone dumped a bunch of baby kittens from her/his car one fine rush hour morning. Yempy is not a "people" cat. She was so badly traumatized by the "traffic dump," (her brothers & sisters were all killed,) that when guests come over to visit me, they think she is "a rumor" because she flees and hides, then watches (the guests) from afar. I have become very attached to her because of her devotion to me. (She was only about 6-8 weeks old when Kim saved her from the rush hour traffic and never "meow"ed again after the incident; she was so badly traumatized. Instead, she "peeps" her affection, and only sleeps when I am in bed and she has her nose in the crook of my armpit.
Back to the cat that was so similar to "Empathy." Kim and I began to regularly make special "drive-by" trips to see the cat; perhaps catch it. (I am pretty agile and have caught some very elusive animals, but this one was a sorceress.) Kim would spot it, come pick me up to catch it, but by the time we'd get there, the cat would be somewhere else.
Kim called me last night. I immediately knew something was wrong by the tremble in her voice. I already knew what had happened before she said anything. She told me: "Little Yempy" is dead." She said she was taking the usual detour to my house so she could visit "our cat." When she arrived there, she spotted the little thing, sprawled in the middle of the street. She drove to my house and picked me up, so that I could move the body out of the street... When I arrived at the spot, I saw her lying there; flattened, stiff-- just her lifeless eyes staring upwards...
I can't even finish this communication, I am so overcome with grief... Somehow, it is all the same; the people, the animals one has loved and lost... The lifeless eyes staring upwards...
I'll Continue This Some Other Time-- I'm Sorry...
Jim
MARK'S RESPONSE:
"Jim (Reply to this comment) by Hard_To_Please
Jim, Buddy-
I'm leaving this comment because you know of my hit-and-miss success with my long distance company and I never know whether I'm going to get through to you, but I am certainly going to log off and try. To compound the problem, my email is acting up tonight, so I'm leaving this comment to let you know I'm going to try to get ahold of you after I write this. You know that I have cats, and you know that I admire your courage in admitting to being a sensitive soul. If I don't successfully contact you tonight, I hope you give Yempy an extra hug this evening and that we can talk soon....Mark"
Cheers--
--29th
Hi Steph--
That's not even my most embarrassing "bawling like a fool over lost animals" story. Mark wanted me to write about a scuba diving experience that he demanded I retell him on more than one occasion. I got angry at him for even suggesting it; told him I regretted even having mentioned it to him in the first place, because I felt like such an idiot about it afterwards. Now I regret having gotten impatient with him, not only because he was as faultless for his encouraging me to do so, as I was for my badgering him to reveal his fatal malady by way of a humorous review, (a suggestion he initially greeted with a disenchantment and ambivalence which either met or exceeded the one, with which I responded to his suggestion, as previously noted above,) but also because the person responsible for my feeling like an idiot about it, was at all times, of course, me.
Though, technically, I would have been Mark's "kid brother," I'm reminded of the melancholy scene in J.D. Salinger's "A Catcher In The Rye," where Holden Caufield notes that whenever he gets depressed, he'd attempt to make himself feel better by talking out loud to his deceased kid brother, Allie, whose request to join Holden and his pal, "Bobby Fallon," on a bike trip to "Lake Sedebego" Holden brusquely rejected. Since I'm too lazy to get the book out of my library, I will attempt to quote the passage from memory, so don't get on my gluteus if it contains one or two glaring errors. I believe, for the most part, it is verbatim:
"Boy I felt miserable. I felt so depressed you can't imagine. So I started talking, sort of out loud to Allie. I do that sometimes when I get very depressed. I keep telling him to go home and get his bike and meet me in front of Bobby Fallon's house. Bobby Fallon used to live near us in Maine; but this was a few years ago. Anyways, Bobby and I were going to Lake Sedebego on our bikes. We were going to take our lunches and BB-guns and all, we were kids and all, and we thought we could shoot something with our BB-guns. Anyway, Allie overheard us talking about it, and he wanted to go, but I wouldn't let him. I told him he was a child. So once in a while, when I get very depressed, I keep saying to him, "Okay, Allie, go home and get your bike. Meet me in front of Bobby's house. Hurry up." It wasn't that I didn't take him around with me when I went somewhere. I did. But this one day, I didn't. He didn't get sore about it; he never got sore about anything, but I keep thinking about it anyway, when I get very depressed."
The story Mark was so fond of, and to which I called your attention above, involves a scuba-diving trip I took to Virgin Gorda, (one of the British Virgin Islands) a few years ago. During one of my dives, I happened upon a colony of beautiful & exotic looking "Conch" shells, one of which I wanted to take home with me. When I picked it up, I thought its previous owner had abandoned it for larger quarters. Upon taking my boat back to the dock, while rinsing my gear, I noticed movement in the shell. The little conch inhabitant must have suddenly become aware of his strange new surroundings, & had come to the front door of his shell to advise me of his displeasure over this recent development.
(To appreciate my anecdote, you must attempt to visualize this little guy: Conchs are soft-bodied shell-dwellers that look like bigger [not quite golf-ball sized] versions of hermit crabs. They view the world through 2 disproportionately; perhaps comically so, huge, round, expressive & animated externally-mounted eyes, lending them a "Cookie-Monster" or "Ernie & Bert," muppet-like demeanor & accompanying "personality.")
Sympathetic to his plight, I worked out a compromise w/ him. I would transfer him to a comparable or better shell & return him to his colony, if he'd abide my desire to take home the shell he currently inhabited. He seemed okay w/ this proposal (conchs seek other shells on occasion.) What makes me believe so? A certain expression he conveyed to me, at least in my mind, indicated he tentatively agreed to the compromise, so long as I held up my end of the bargain. I assured him I would.
I proceeded in earnest to fulfill my end. I picked out a comparable shell w/ a roomier "master bedroom" than the one he'd be leaving. I then knelt down & began to gently "pour" him into his new home, but abruptly stopped when I suddenly realized if I slipped or there was some error in the transfer, his defenseless little bod would end up pancaked on the splintery frying-pan surface of the dock. Relieved by my having this tidbit of foresight, before, rather than during or after the occurrence of this potential disaster, I moved to the edge of the dock, so that if anything should happen, he would have the transparent-turquoise Carribean ocean-water as his ersatz safety-net.
He seemed to watch me during this entire process, w/, what at least in my mind, was an expression of cautious-optimism mixed w/ hesitant trust. I couldn't help but be a little distracted by this little guy's intensity as I attempted to comply w/ the (unilaterally-made) terms of our (i.e., my) bargain. As I again began to transfer my reluctant "business-partner" to his new abode, my attention was suddenly compromised when a girl I met prior to my dive, approached me from behind to follow up on some plans we had made (but I had forgotten about, yikes,) for after the dive. The suddenness of her approach coupled w/ the rather "intimate" manner in which she had "grabbed" my attention, caused me to jostle my transferee during mid-transfer. Despite my never once losing eye-contact, he pitched forward just shy of the vessel into which I was attempting to transfer him, and plopped helplessly into the water below.
As he began his inexorable, slow-motion & lazily spiraling descent bottom-wards, the "swimming pool" clarity of the turquoise water allowed me to maintain unbroken eye contact w/ him. His 2 sad, bewildered & imploring muppet-eyes seemed to wordlessly beseech me w/ one soul-searing question: "Why?" At about 1/3 of his hours-long-seeming descent, a tropical fish who, unbeknownst to me had been watching the failed execution of my transfer attempt, capitalized on the sudden advantage accorded her by my oafish (subconscious pun) error. W/ one almost invisibly-quick lightening-strike of a dart, she broke my eye contact w/ this sad little guy by swallowing him whole. Then she casually swam off in search of dessert.
I remained perched on the edge of the dock, temporarily immobilized, watching with blurred visual acuity as my teardrops broke the surface of the water; marking with their stillness-interrupting shimmer, the now-vacant spot that had, of late, been a scene animated by such flurried, aquatic activity. I became gradually aware of the soft mind-echo of a female voice's innocent inquiries attempting to breach the melancholy bubble of my consciousness, reverberating from some vague transmission point in the accoustic ambience of the foreign universe that began behind me. Alien radio waves from another dimension, perhaps: "What's the matter?" "Are you okay?"
Handicapped by my embarrassed unwillingness to reveal the presence of the unbroken and stubbornly persistent saline streams that continued to streak my countenance with the glistening, sunlit aftertrail left by their unchecked, ocean-bound escape-route down the arches of my cheeks, or the heaviness responsible for their conspicuous presence, to the pretty face behind me, I could not immediately respond. By sheer effort of will, I broke my awkward and unresponsive silence. Addressing the "no one in particular" represented by the vacuous, turquoise tranquility of the indifferent ocean that continued to assault my sightless stare, I asked if she would mind meeting me at the beach in one half hour, as I needed to be by myself.
An adamant, yet soothingly responsive: "Not a chance; I wouldn't think of it, and there isn't anything you could say that would persuade me to leave," coupled with the sudden appearance of a delicately-constructed pair of sun-tanned female arms and knees enclasping me from behind, and a shock of sun-bleached blonde hair, cascading its sunlit brilliance in a waterfall of soft-tickling over and down my right shoulder and arm, indicated that I was, from that point onwards, this nurturing sea-nymph of a girl's involuntary Siamese twin and hostage, at least until I was shriven of my negligently-incurred burden; confessed clean by my soul's oblational submission to the compassionate renewal offered in the tender affection with which she persisted in showering me.
Nonetheless, I explained to her that if she allowed me to maintain the dignity I believed I could retain by declining to accommodate her compassionate & well-intended request that I confide to her the source of my sadness & regret, I might perhaps, provide a full accounting of it as we got to know each other better. In fact, we did get to know each other better, yet regrettably, I did not provide her w/ that accounting, & she, graciously, did not persist in bugging me about it. My friend Mark Arnold, was the 1st person, whose similar compassion for animals encouraged my trust enough to relate this story. When I told it to him, he unabashedly wept as I, with no small effort, re-summoned and haltingly recounted the details of it to him. Now he's gone. The only other person w/ whom I'd have felt comfortable communicating the experience, died before it happened.
I relate this tale, b/c I don't respect cowardice; least of all when I recognize it in myself. I'm even less comfortable with my allowing myself to be silenced by my fear of communicating an embarrassing experience or feeling, than I am with any perceived embarrassment or discomfort that might result by its admission. To that end, the cat story to which you (Steph) responded, and which resulted in my telling this conch story, has a conspicuously apparent common thread which I only now, for the first time, have recognized: "the final, haunting, upward-cast stare" registered in the eyes of the dying entity in each of the respective stories. This is also the stare I envision in the dying eyes of the girl I intended to marry, whose violent and innocent death inspired my "Coping With Death" review entitled: "Rumors of My Survival Have Been Greatly Exaggerated."
Some people seem to distinguish between living creatures; "wild" animals & those of the "human" variety, w/ respect to the trauma of death. I cannot. My experience w/ both persuades me that each has the requisite wherewithal & sentience to appreciate & understand when the life which they; whether it be the conch, the cat, Mark or Sue, cherished every bit as much as you cherish yours, and I mine, is being taken away from them. I consider our inability to appreciate the desire animals have to live, a failing on our part; not an inability to communicate that desire on theirs. So why do I feel as embarrassed as I do admitting that I'm emotionally distraught by any one of their deaths? No response required; the question's strictly a rhetorical one.
Without Reservations,
Jim (29th)
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PART III:
PERSONAL FACTS & STATS ABOUT HTP: (As Requested By Readers)
NAME: ..................................... Mark David Arnold
OCCUPATION: ................... Manager For A Collection Firm
AGE: ................................................ 41 yrs
D.O.B.: .................................... January 15, 1960
HEIGHT: ............................................... 6' 1"
BUILD: ................................................. Slim
MARITAL STATUS: ...................................... Single
FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING: .... LA Raiders Cap (Backwards)
PETS ........................... 2 Cats; 1 Dog ("Lightening")
PET PEEVES .......Animal Abuse, Dishonesty, Broken Agreements
FAVORITE SEASON ........................................ Fall
SURVIVING RELATIVES:
FATHER -- David
MOTHER -- Barbara
BROTHER -- Mike (Epinions Member -- "clubber63366")
SISTER IN LAW -- Karen (Epinions Member -- "marks-sis-law")
NEPHEWS & NIECES -- (4) Brett, Molly, Emily & David
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PART IV:
ADDRESS INFORMATION:
(Where To Forward Cards Or Contributions)
Mass Cards May Be Sent To:
The Immaculate Conception Chapel
7701 Highway N
Dardenne, Missouri
63366
Based on comments following this review, I have become aware that Mark's brother, Mike, has a user-account here at epinions under the handle: "clubber63366." Though I would not normally take information like this for granted or without verification, Mark referred to Mike on many occasions during our frequent conversations, and I recognize the digital part of Mike's alpha-numeric handle to be Mark's zip code, an item of information (i.e., Mark's Address) that Mark, for privacy purposes did not reveal to anyone of whom I'm aware, (aside from me, and I had to extract it from him at gun-point) outside his family. I trust that any of you reading this, will treat Mike's email address and user account with the utmost discretion and privacy-respect, especially at this time, that you've so graciously accorded his brother, Mark.
Here is Mark's address for purposes of forwarding cards, letters, gifts, donations, etc., please do not abuse it:
(The Estate of) Mark Arnold
1495 Cochise Drive
OFallon, Missouri
63366
Your Generous Contributions Will Be Handled On Mark's Behalf, By His Kind And Very Warm Parents; Barbara & David Arnold
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PLEASE BE SURE TO CHECK BACK FOR UPDATES & ADDITIONAL HTP-RELATED STORIES & INFO...
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Epinions.com ID:
29th_Candidate
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Member: Jim Scileppi
Location: The 29th Congressional District, CA
Reviews written: 67
Trusted by: 516 members
About Me:
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