A Day in the Life of Chaos

Conchiteen Rondain Alcala “Chatty” When we are young we watch life begin. Our friends and even ourselves have children and commence the process of building a life and a family. If we make it through the frustrations and difficulties of marriage we reach a short period of stasis and then life commences its most cruel of tricks.  Life becomes death. It starts among our parents and those we have looked up to. Tragically it becomes interspersed with surprises as those we always thought healthy succumb to the boney fingers. Sometimes I feel like life has moments in the dark when we all stand naked and a dart is hurled impaling an unsuspecting victim. It can seem so random.  My mother died at 59. So young it has always seemed, especially as I will soon pass 58. It’s funny how as you grow older, old seems to become younger. When I remember her sickly and dying form I can’t believe we almost shared the same age. Early death is the most tragically unexplainable. The kind where there

In a previous blog I mentioned some people that have passed that helped to make me who I am as a person.  I hope this is mostly for the better and less than for the worse.  I thought I would take a moment to write a few recollections about some of the people I have known and continue to know and what they meant to me.  It is interesting I suppose that the majority of the people noted are father figures.  I think in the life of a young developing man male figures that pay them attention and give them a sense of worth are very important.  My father had a similar impact on the life of one of my friends.  With my father’s encouragement and guidance my friend made it through the university and found direction in his life.  I truly believe my father was critical in his progression.  Regretfully I am not sure I have ever held the same significance to a person in life aside from my son.  That said, often we never fully understand the role our actions play on the lives of others and few circl

The first time I remember confronting death was as a child.  My mother took me to visit my paternal grandmother and grandfather in a Los Angeles suburb.  It was the kind of place that the original boom California generation moved to as a relief for what central Los Angeles had become. I was twelve years old and my memories of my grandfather were limited as we had moved north to Alaska when I was two years old.  I had only seen him a couple of times since then and those memories were clouded in the fog of early youth.  Memories colored by photographs that likely don’t recall but simply recreate a memory that had left the mind or been buried within its deep recesses.    My grandfather was debilitated.  He sat in his naugahyde recliner with a blanket wrapped around him watching reruns of Bonanza and Big Valley.  He was suffering from brain cancer and his time was limited but when you are young, and have no concept of death, time seems to have little finality.  For a young mind, Gra