Friday, October 20, 2006

10.20.06 More on a Day in the Life

[the internet window opens for a few minutes, so I do a quick copy and paste job here below. it's slightly dated material, a few days, but it remains accurate for then and various times still now...]

Blog on 17 OCT, written from 10/17 to 10/19.

Progressive cancer. Real timeline. Real-time reminder. No more leeway. No more options but the Miracle. The Miracle and Its Followers. Anger, frustration, pain: these brought to me by the god damned shouts of “Here it comes, here comes the Big One!” referring to the thing. Not hope per se I hate. The idea of pushing it into my face, the idea of shoving forward something that is statistically so improbable. Beware to the salesmen and women of hope. Not to say we’ve quit, or will, just to point out the precarious balance between hope for the self and understanding of the other. All of us stumble, we all get tripped up.

Cut out all forms of *social* enjoyment. All forms that any other would understand. And oneliness results. Nothing but, to find your enjoyment w/o any others in the world, pure seeking/finding (simultaneous same moment birth-fruition enjoyment-purchase) [jump to below then return to finish a thought]. Loved ones, friends, family are all excluded thereby, all left out cold, all left in their community, the one I’m slowly being ostracized from. No person has ordered my expulsion, no gods are angry, rather the mindless dice of the universe, thrown by an agent with no hands, brought by a messenger with no legs, conveyed and explained by a deaf mute diplomat.

It isn’t final, it’s musing. Take it as such. All thoughts must be allowed despite discomfort. Discomfort and pain will exist either way, so why not face the various possibilities? Why not live in acknowledgment? To those filled with the most hope (I know you) think of even the most fundamental foundational myths. The second myth, that of the Garden in one tradition. Facing the worst possibles was necessary and, if you will and for lack of a better word, predestined: there was fruit and an Act to be committed, that would bring ruin to paradise. What was the choice? Was there a choice? Everybody has to take a bite. You don’t have to like apples but you do have to taste them. There is no other way.

Cancer is the capitalism of the body. It grows unchecked, until at some point it will eliminate itself by eliminating its host, its own means of production — me / I will die at the hands of Capital as metaphor. The materialist’s metaphor, the world where words are things and things are words. Of course I will. Spending the better part of the past two decades deep in study of this Thing, the production and replacement of people with the Thing (C), and now the Object of my study is going to get me. I’m being chased down by a nemesis I thought existed Out There somewhere, in the world and constitutive of our world. It’s taken on material form inside me. And revolution. That impossible option (could we call it “hope”?) that remains impossible until it occurs and we all see how inevitable it was. Someone said that.

Another metaphor, that of cleaning: as therapy, as distraction, as practicum, as obsession. What does it mean to ignore human interaction, interaction that is daily becoming more precious by its increasing rarity, for the cleaning domestic space/s? How to negotiate the travel between healing ourselves and hope for healing and just continuing on with as little resistance as possible, which is what we all really want?

Franky Scale: 5 to 6. This would be on the 17th, another connectionless day.

What is new that becomes appealing, a list: Warmth. Absence of pain, dumbly of course and too plain. Fantasy, a novel by Tolstoy or Balzac or Zola with the long drawn-out pans of whole swaths of society as means of escape, fantasy like the Lord of the Rings where the films might be just as good as the books because they now take just as much real-life time to get through as the old-fashioned way of reading, any long stories of something slightly to radically askew or even full allegorical replacement of what’s real. Why? To kill time — ironically and pointlessly, that. (Yes, even I see it, the i. and p., but I must admit them both still, and admit in at least two senses of the word.) To distract the mind from the Real. To instill momentary and delimited hope, even within the scope of screen walls, the bounds of reading time. To be another escape from all the necessities, the so many little must-dos from pills to calories to soap and water to last-“minute” legal paperwork like wills & DNRs to maintaining salary to “finishing” a number of professional tasks that alternate on given days from more to less important — no, it’s binary, just the variation from worth doing to not worth the time. Who knows what will help on any given day.

What else new: small moments, looking elsewhere, rain through a window, a comfortable silence, bits of sleep without dreams. A recent one though, where I am to be tending an old friend’s young child, who is helpless without me, and I am intensely aware of how much depends on me, but it’s all I can do to keep myself awake and responsible and watchful and caring and protective. My own inability to stay awake — in the middle of sleep — keeps me from being a good babysitter. Stuck in this unwaking state with my friend and his wife’s expectations resting heavy upon me, heavy like the sleep upon my eyelids. The child alone with me. A nightmare but still a dream, so I owe you a quarter.

Can you translate all this into numbers? Can this wandering narrative transform itself into a scale? There’s a number above and lots of words in between. More numbers will come. More words, too. Is it all clear about the restaging? The cancer is progressive and the tumors have been growing, which means the last round of chemo was not effective. There is one more round of chemo with other drugs to go; also there is a targeted drug therapy to add to this, with a drug called tarceva (maybe I can do this in a later post). I can’t really explain the hoped-for mechanics of this part of the treatment, all I can do is trust it might do something good. There’s that and the glyconutrients, to see what they add to the mix, what they take from it. With all this there’s waiting and enduring. Living until then.

3 comments:

creamsicle said...

I read your words every day... feel... remember... and hurt...
I still don't have words. I have great, detailed memories - they come into my dreams.
xo

spacely said...

Hey spot I'm hoping when you are up to it you can give me a call. You are the bomb!! I love hearing your voice mostest. Don't you love that word?! I think it should be in the dictionary. I keep taking those pictures out of my bag to look at YOU! And everyone wants to know who YOU are. I tell them you are my very brave brother. That can't even believe you are sick when they see your cute smiling face. Love your cute butt...me
P.S. Hi Kim!

Myage said...

Dudeman, I'm responding to the dream in yesterday's and today's posts. I have no good interpretation, but a couple of thoughts. The entrusting is huge. I think there are so few people that we ever really connect with. You have always been one of those people for me; someone I trust.

D and I talk a lot lately about taking the kids, moving to a compound, eliminating a lot of the external BS. I know that is delusional thinking, but your posts have emphasized to me how much of what we do is superfluous, disconnected. We need to avoid the lives of quiet desperation.

I really look forward to talking to you. I cycle through a lot of memories lately, shamans, minor threat, others. I promise I won't bring a kid to entrust to you. Remember I'm there to help, not to be hosted or entertained.