6.03.06, "In delecto flagratis almost..." A Poem

Weekends are quiet time on the blog. It seems like the readership cuts to about half. People are more engaged with their lives than they are with their jobs perhaps, less activity they want to avoid, or perhaps everyone needs a break from the seriousness that underlies even the best attempts at making a joke of all this. In reality, I'm sure no on thinks about it. Speaking of readers, our anonymous Film Studies person out there wrote me an email, btw, a few days ago that made me almost wet myself, so I'm wondering maybe I can twist his arm and get a pertinent film review for us here — what would the film be though? Or if I can get permission to post the email... I'll make an offer.

Too, reminder, where are the suggestions for the contest of naming this "time in life" or "time at the end of life" or whatever it is? I received about three suggestions from two people. The deal was that the winner gets a prize of her/his choice and I try to write some poem from the title. I'm rather disappointed . . . :-(

Franky Scale: 7, "7" seems to be a kind of "fine" number, with nothing too out of sorts, no supercalafrajelistic good events, just kind of doing all right and getting by. The only new physical news is that I saw a nurse practitioner last Tuesday when I was doing the IV chemo and he sat with me to plan a few programs of pill-taking, nausea management, and the like. One program involves prune juice — you can figure out which program — and I thought I like prunes OK but pure prune juice is truly heinous. I wish upon no one. Pure prune juice and original flavor Milk of Magnesia. Why are these tastes related?

Change of course: just for the hell of it, I thought I'd include a short occasional poem. There was much talk of poetry in the last week, and this piece has a bit to do with blog-related themes, in the sanse that it touches on love and love touches everything. So love, its death, departure, and I'd rather not say too much. (Font is odd, sorry.)

"“In delecto flagratis  —almost"”

Facts and evidence only distort
the truth, my love, keep us
focused enmeshedly on the trees
so we don't know from forest.
I chose long ago to ignore
the facts so that I, in love
I thought, could keep you pure
despite so many incriminating 
pieces of news, such factual appearance.
(I chose to let love live, despite.)
Now I learn you loved, too, so
well, you averred no bounds
save my indiscretion — admitted, sorrowful
nearly flagrant — revealed itself and
then your love chose sides.
Or, was it the other way around?

So,
 in a world that never
happened, I defeated some imaginary
foe and you, well, I love you still.

But,
 in the real world ignorance lays 
slain at your shaking feet and love, well,
love you have seen out the door
                                        — sword in hand.

6.02.06, The Art of Working Wood

[First, huge thanks to all who stepped up for blog solidarity during the last couple of days. It means a lot to me, I wish I could better express it.]

Working on the wood, or the juncture of psychiatry and carpentry. Where is that juncture located precisely? (One could confuse this reference to carpentry in the sense of the Jewish carpenter, christianity, etc., but here I mean more something like "the art of working wood.") Why would I bring this up here? Why today? Well, it all has to do with my meeting with Dr. A yesterday — Dr. A, you'll recall is my Dr. Melfi.

Since we took care of most of the basic questions and the demographics during our first "session," our second meeting yesterday afternoon was more productive it seemed. It's not an infinite number of questions, rather it's a small number of really thorny questions that we're trying to tackle. The blog is a fairly open and candid forum I think, and yet, I don't know that everything from my meetings with my shrink need to be brought out, not all those questions. With some issues I'm OK. And one or two that we broached yesterday completely made me laugh. About 15 minutes into our meeting she pulls out the laminated sheet of paper — 8.5 by 11 — blues, yellows, white, a color copy with frowny faces, neutral faces, happy faces, and numerous other symbols. I didn't think it was anything Freemasonic, still it wasn't clear at first exactly what was going on here graphically. Then she begins to explain. The physical and the emotional continuums, the numbers from 1 to 10, etc. So I say, "Oh, you must be speaking of the Franky Scale."

"Bingo."

Although she didn't know the reference to the FS initially, she is of nimble enough mind to catch up and follow. We talked Franky Scale briefly, nothing new there. Apparently the professionals use the FS too. Today, btw, I'll go back to a 7 for the Franky Scale due to slightly better drug management on my part — though my irritability level might be higher/lower (i.e., more severe) than usual. We got the FS out of the way and I notice there are a number of other scales on this sheet. We move on. New adjectives are introduced, different numeric scales, in fact, a qualitativly different type of assessment too. What is she getting at? I thought. I began hearing words like "desire," "frequency," and "hard." This is not just for set up of the story — I really thought when she was talking about degree of "hardness" she was speaking of difficulty; and for a few moments I'm thinking in my chemo brain about what would be the value of a scale that, in part, determines difficulty. Is it difficulty of daily tasks? Difficulty of pain management? Nausea? The little irritations that tend to grow under the chemo rain? What? Am I getting stupid? What's happening?

No, IT'S WOOD. She's talking about the wood scale and I'm practically falling off my chair. It's not about being prudish, as I think many who know me will attest, it's just cracking my shit up that she's got a scale which essentially IS the Wood Scale. Remember many blog posts ago? A few of you were suggesting, you lecherous types, that I actually post a Wood Scale too, to accompany the Franky Scale. I wasn't going there though — not that much disclosure folks. Sorry. Besides, my mother reads this! But Dr. A goes there, very matter of fact, tying it nicely in to the various other issues, or Issues, I'm trying to figure out. So I'd like you to all know that while I may only post the Franky Scale results in here, it looks like I will be "posting" my Wood Scale too.

That, however, just once a week & it's between me and Dr. Melfi. :-) (you perverts!)

6.01.06, Open Letter to the Anonymous Mormon

“An Open Letter on Missing the Forest for a Few Trees”

[Dear Friends and Readers, the following letter is my reply to a person who posted a comment last night, a comment you can link to through the previous blog post on "Heavy Soul?"--it's the second comment. The person posted as "anonymous" but also using the pseudonym "Neptune." For my non-mormon friends, forgive the occasional obstruse reference (a quick Google should find what you need, or email me), but you will get the tone and gist of his post and my reply without difficulty. For my mormon or christian friends, who are supportive and with whom I have relationships of mutual respect, you'll already know that the points I make in this letter refer to one person, this anonymous "Neptune," and they are a specific reply to the comment made, or rather the intent behind it. -Mr. J.]


Dear Uninvited Mormon Person:

So what do we know about you from your comment? Clearly you are a Mormon — congratulations. Surely you made your choice to become LDS once you had past the callow age of 38; or instead was it that you had full cognizance of the consequences of the entire belief system and of your actions at the spiritually mature age of eight when you were likely baptized? What else do we know? You’re male, you’re older than 38, you lack decency. Clearly the LDS church has instilled in you that too common Christian virtue of accusatory self-righteousness — oh, wait, that’s not a virtue from the Holy Scriptures, is it? In fact, not even the Mormon additions to the good book advocate it. Hm, oh well. As I was saying, clearly you have been blessed with self-righteousness and the capacity to judge another’s heart, but sadly you were not given any balls — though I’m sure you are a priesthood holder. On the subject of balls, Neptune — or should I call you Kolob? — why do you not stand up for what you believe and what you choose to preach so disrespectfully in a forum where anyone blessed with Christian empathy, or plain old human empathy, would know their comments are unwelcome (not just by me, but by hundreds of my friends in this time of need, a time you also have disrespected), why don’t you grow some balls and identify yourself? (And you will note, I decided to reply to your post, rather than simply raise myself above it, because you deeply disturbed someone I love, someone who is grieving now, something apparently you cannot understand as you polish your stone.)

I have reasons, perhaps certain professional and personal ones, for not fully making my name, etc. available to any stranger on the web — but most all my readers and my supporters know who I am. Perhaps you will choose to respect this, or not, that is your choice. So we all know who I am, while you hide. What is it you have to lose? What do you fear? Now is your moment to make friends and influence people, the field is white all ready to harvest. Your moment to show all these good readers what a good, nee even model, Mormon citizen looks like. What is it to you what I have done with my agency, my knowledge, and my experiences in my short 38 years? What is to you, Elder Anonymous? Your behavior vaguely reminds me of a presumptuous Mormon Bishop who chose to disrespect an untimely deceased 23-year old nephew of mine, his family, and his loved ones by offering strangely defensive and uninvited opinions of his from a funeral pulpit just over a year ago. Tis sad to see an individual’s personal ideology totally cloud his capacity for careful reading / listening, yet such is the case with most all sawdust ceasars and would-be demagogues. But that’s another story.

So here we find ourselves in a moment I think, objectively, we can call tragic. Go read your scriptures more carefully, go seek counsel from someone who is genuinely religious; perhaps go and ask the question: What would Jesus do? Would he hide his identity and, pardon my French but, would he be such an insensitive prick as to intrude in a forum — my blog — where people are seeking what solace they can? Where people are in pain, where they grieve, where they can share what is important to them? Would a “real” Christian, who should care to ease the pain of others, interfere like this with his petty desires to be proven “right”? Clearly you’ve lived longer than my short 38 years and yet all your existence does is prove the point that it is neither age nor authority that brings wisdom, compassion, empathy, or respect for another’s pain. Let me spell it out for you — whatever I believe, I am walking straight into death and trying to hold my head up as I do so, show some respect for me, my family, and my loved ones at this time.

Although I dislike the counterfactual, remember that even if you were right — sorry but this doctrinal irony is irresistable — remember that there is no Hell in the Mormon belief system. Have you never learned this? First off, I could never be a candidate for Outer Darkness, so no luck there. Go study it again. No brimstone, no fire, no eternal damnation. Secondly, your buddy Joseph Smith had a vision, remember, in which he was shown the Telestial Kingdom (the least glorious of the three kingdoms where humans can go after this life), and what did he report? If I may paraphrase, he said “It is so incredibly beautiful there that you would take you own life to go there immediately if you could see it!”

And do not fear, Elder, this is not “the philosophies of men, mingled with scripture” — this is merely the philosophy of one man, mortal, human, fallible, and faced with a challenge which you should pray to your god you never have to face. If I didn’t know people like you better, I would be stunned at your insensitivity. I recall one of the low points of American history, the tail end of a witch hunt with Welch’s inquiry to McCarthy; I recall this line and ask it of you but change the word Senator for Elder: “Have you no sense of decency, Elder? Have you no sense of decency?” Or should I say in language closer to your heart, in the carpenter’s idiom: “It must be nice to be worthy enough to cast the first stone”?

In sum, and with all the respect that is your due, kiss my ass, and sign your name next time, dearest Kolob.

Sincerely Yours,
Mr. Jones

Franky Scale: 6-7

5.31.06, Heavy soul? Or, the Last Piece of Laundry

“Heavy Soul? Or, the Last Piece of Laundry”

The weight of it. Question: Is there such a thing as soul? Not musically, not sartorially, but in terms of humans and animals? Yes, I’m asking what seems to be the blasphemous question, do humans have a soul? Do humans and animals? Just humans? Why does everyone assume so? What is so frightening about thinking otherwise? . . . This all makes me wonder, does the anecdote of Sir Walter Raleigh proposing a method for measuring the weight of smoke shed any light on the question? Does it have any metaphysical implications?

The set up. First I guess we have to recount the story of Mr. Tobacco in England. This I can borrow since Paul Auster (model for the character “Paul” below) already set it up cleanly as one of the scenes between William Hurt, as the author, and Harvey Keitel, as the Brooklyn corner store owner, in the movie Smoke (1995). It goes something like this:

PAUL . . . (Pause) Did you ever hear of Sir Walter Raleigh?

TOMMY Sure. He's the guy who threw his cloak down over the puddle.

JERRY I used to smoke Raleigh cigarettes. They came with a free gift coupon in every pack.

PAUL That's the man. Well, Raleigh was the person who introduced tobacco in England, and since he was a favorite of the Queen's -- Queen Bess, he used to call her -- smoking caught on as a fashion at court. I'm sure Old Bess must have shared a stogie or two with Sir Walter. Once, he made a bet with her that he could measure the weight of smoke.

DENNIS You mean, weigh smoke?

PAUL Exactly. Weigh smoke.

TOMMY You can't do that. It's like weighing air.

PAUL I admit it's strange. Almost like weighing someone's soul. But Sir Walter was a clever guy. First, he took an unsmoked cigar and put it on a balance and weighed it. Then he lit up and smoked the cigar, carefully tapping the ashes into the balance pan. When he was finished, he put the butt into the pan along with the ashes and weighed what was there. Then he subtracted that number from the original weight of the unsmoked cigar. The difference was the weight of the smoke.
— from Smoke (director, Wayne Wang)

The difference was the weight of smoke; or if you think it metaphysically, the difference is the weight of the soul. There was once, one time, when I sat back slowly and watched the life cigar smoke down, I noticed the addition and subtraction at work to determine that difference — the weight of the soul — when I was excommunicated from the Mormon church (age 24). Elsewhere, I’ve read that over the ages enlightened scientists have tried to measure a human body just as it Expires, see what goes out of it (which must be soul, right?), work inductively, etc., and it’s been done in literature too, but the present metaphor, the cigar, will suffice.

After smoke. I was given at least one immediate blessing with excommunication, “blessing,” to borrow a religious term. I realized within moments after walking out of the Disciplinary Court held to determine my worthiness or lack thereof — a university classroom converted each Sunday to religious use, filled with 15 men in suits, and me. I was the defendant in the court just mentioned; five of the High Councilmen were assigned to me as “defenders” and five were assigned to be “prosecutors.” In retrospect, I can’t help but think the terms of “defender” was being used loosely, their role filled in a very pro forma way. The term “prosecutor” was quite accurate. The other three men were the Stake President and his two Counselors, “neutral” parties, simply acting as conduits to ensure that God’s will be done — and if it’s all up to God, you might ask, then why hold a court proceeding in the first place? Why not simply ask God what the judgment is and be done with it? (NB: A knowledgeable Mormon will accurately protest that this proceeding is no longer called a “court”--I know this, but it changes little; now it is more euphemistically called a Disciplinary Council. That's like "resection" for "cut me open and remove body parts" — it's gonna feel the same whatever you like to call it.)

For an hour or so my past sins are dragged out and recounted, I am accused, questioned, and vigorously cross-examined when I answer or attempt to explain. All very medieval and out of joint if you ask me. In any event, God apparently decided that He loved me so much He should kick me out of His kingdom, i.e., that I should be excommunicated, kicked out of His community, kicked out of His university, etc. All well and good, as I know now, but a big shock to an earnest 24 year old. Expansive light blue sky in autumn, crisp and clear, and filled with nothing at all except my gaze and my future. When I walked outside and into that memorable autumn morning once it was finished, I had a series of epiphanies. One occurred right then, and I realized that only at that moment, or only from that moment, could I really make choices on my own. You might call it the first taste of real freedom — a twist on the doctrine found in John: “…ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” Only then could I begin to make choices based on morals, ethics, rules, whatever you will call them, ethics that I established, agreed with, and chose to uphold of my own free will, or free agency, to borrow another church word. Then, one of the epiphanies concerned soul.

Why this presumption that humans have a soul? Do they? How would one know this? If we do have one then what’s the purpose? Is there one, from where, to where…? And so go the questions. There were similar questions I began to ask and answer, again finally able to do this on my own, without my thoughts and epistemology being circumscribed by what has already been determined (by those in authority, most always white men, coincidence?) acceptable to a given institution and its rules. God? Good and evil? Etc. A number of years would help me answer most of these questions to my satisfaction, would help me establish a reasonable system of ethics for life, but the question of soul still hangs out there like a last piece of laundry on the line. And do I have an answer now? Hm. This isn’t meant as romantic irony but, honestly here, I don’t know that I do have an answer. I’m inclined not to believe, however, for reasons that will make sense to those who feel the same and that will baffle those who could see where I was headed in paragraph one and didn’t want to come along. The slippery slope!

From a materialist perspective, for example, the answer is no. No soul — except in some music, some clothing. We have bodies, nerves, thoughts / consciousness, neuro-electric impulses and the like, but it’s all shut off at death. The old Seattle motto: “Last one out, turn off the lights!” Consciousness, or rather the conscious and the unconscious, these are real but do they constitute soul? I’ll grant you “personality,” but why does it have to be soul? What’s up with the transcendental yearning? Even some of my most critical friends cling to the notion of the soul. I guess it keeps us human, quite literally. Whether it exists or not, just like the idea of god, most of us seem to need it. So be it. Or like the snot-nosed kid, Kolya, kissing up to Alyosha K. in The Brothers Karamazov, if such a thing as soul didn’t exist we’d have to invent it. (He says “god” I say “soul.”) Imagine the sacrilege: “I have no soul!”? — lines that just might turn you into one of Dostoyevsky’s devils. Devils or angels, let’s just that my soul is not too high on my worry list these days.

It can be explained a number of ways, and I kind of like this one. It’s Jung, who I think’s a very hit-or-miss thinker but on certain simple, pragmatic psychological questions he can be clear-sighted. Like “soul.” In Psychological Types, he writes “by soul I understand a definitely demarcated function complex that is best characterized as a ‘personality’”(cf. Part II, definition 48). It’s a subdivision of what he calls the psyche (sum total of all psychic processes) and it’s one that is inevitably and determinately object- or other-oriented (cf. Lacan) — meaning what? That we change our “soul” or personality to adapt to social conditions, needs, or obligations, and we do it according to our own needs, desires, expectations in relation to these conditions. Not a very sexy way to understand “soul,” sorry, but that’s where I am. You could also say “…the persona [or soul] is a function complex which has come into existence for reasons of adaptation or necessary convenience, but by no means is it identical with the individuality.” (There are some decent ideas on this his Basic Writings, 1993, 338-344, 544-545; & S. Timpanaro may not say “soul” but his On Materialism is great.). So we run into this related concept of individuality which, through definitions from Aristotle to Marx, comes out about the same: the individual subject and individuality are both notions defined only through social relations, primarily bourgeois ones in our lovely modern period. But I digress.

A lot’s been said — in one-sided blog fashion, true, but you either read this far or skimmed here — but there is a method to all this crazy talk. Among my friends and family I have a lot of people on both sides; to reduce it to just two, very loosely we could say there is the “Thank you Jesus” crowd and the “Thank you Cheebus” crowd. I’m just trying to share some of my thoughts on the big D coming up, not convince anybody, not coerce, definitely not preach — I already spent my two years crusading. There is just something about the Raleigh story I like, and I think there is more at stake in that little tale than the weight of smoke. And you know, now that I think about it, I realize I don’t even own a scale. Does that mean I’m secretly afraid I might have a soul, or am I actually a materialist?

Franky Scale: 6 but fading a bit.

5.30.06, [Rant] Squeal Like a Pig!

[p.s. I did finish a more meditative piece on the weight of the human soul, and other characteristics of it--mildly entertaining--but it must wait]

I am fucking pissed off. I'm still working through this in another document and then I'll post, but I just wanted to give a heads up that it's on its way. Goddam financial ghouls in our world.

Franky Scale: 7, the FS is for physical feeling, so 7, and the IV chemo happens later today, in about two hours and that kind of gives me the illusion, or reality, of having most of a good day before the toxins are poured in through the port-o-cath. (Every time I see that word I think of an Irish bar. Maybe today I'll sit back in the bed or blue chemo chair and say "Nurse, I'd like your sampler of benzodiazepines and a double shot of Jameson 12-year. Just stick it right into my port-o-cath, thanks so much. And keep 'em coming.")

okay, hold on.... (going to write it all down...)

So I know at least one film-studies professor who reads this--or at least I think he reads it now and then--and I would expect him to know the allusion of today's title; even if you're not a film or cinema person, a lot of you should still get this (Think backwoods, think poet James Dickey's novel turned film...). So you'll guess from the start how happy I am about how today has gone. I've been on the phone all morning with various individuals trying to square away certain financial matters, and I have been jerked off the whole goddam morning. It's a good thing I do have a benzodiazepine or two around in order to take edge of this.

Another small comfort is that the newly discovered (well, last year, 6 months ago?) Coltrane CD One Down, On Up was just delivered to my door and I have that playing, cold comfort it feels, though, against the totalitarian / authoritarian (I think it's both the more I consider it) capitalist bullshit we live with. You can't even die without the bastards screwing you. Isn't there a legal-esque phrase? --Non carperendum illegitimus!. Something like that, my Latin's rusty but goddam right, I say.

It begins with Chase, a credit card account that very fortunately now has a zero balance--though it took me just about, what, 15 years to get it there--and new charges that are marring my "Zero." Some bullshit promotion that I took for one month then called to discontinue--my stupidity I suppose and I should have known they would keep charging me; however, what surprised me was that Chase refused to do anything about the charges, even when I tell them I didn't ask for it, it's not my service, they're charging me against my will, and pathetically so on. All I can do is call this third party (who, btw, works under Chase!) But, that's small potatoes compared to my employer.

All academics who read this post nota bene: especially those of you who work at a certain large research university in the greater Seattle area should be interested in this. I call one of my 403b accounts / companies ("403b" is the nonprofit equivalent of "401k" for people who work in the private sector), it's retirement, "I'm gonna die" I tell them, and "I'd like to check on how I can withdraw my money and possibly avoid penalties. My situation, you know, is kind of special," I say. I expect to hear, "Well, I'm sorry you're gonna die but you still gotta pay the penalties"--kind of inhumane but look at the System. (And go watch the 1975 film Rollerball, seriously.) Yeah, my dialog is stupid and awkward but have you ever done this before? I don't know what to say. So Sam from Fidelity is nice enough but he informs me "Your employer has set it up so that you cannot withdraw a penny unless you x-fer it when you switch employers or you retire." So we go through this Abbot and Costello routine where I keep explaining, "No, no, no. You see it's a hardship thing, terminal illness, blah blah blah." You know, who's on first? but with money rules. In short, "nada, nada, nada, not a damn thing," if I can quote Q-Tip.

Later. Speaking with a "Specialist" at X University where I am "employed," they fucking confirm this! Your retirement money, "your" money all of my friends out there, you can have it only (1) at retirement, (2) at quitting, sort of, (3) at your fucking death--not right before, but they'll release it in their kindness once/when/after you die. This is a tremendous help to me, with no dependents--Gee thanks, folks. You know what else, my colleagues? You cannot ever stop your contributions once you enroll--should you decide there are more pressing issues in your life, you find yourself cash poor for a few months, you truly do experience hardship and need to stop putting aside 7.5 percent (or whatever your rate is), well, I believe the official university line is: "Squeal like a pig!" Apparently there is no "hardship" at University of X. It makes me feel rather warm and fuzzy inside--I've got a job where there is no hardship, had I known I would have enjoyed it so much more blissfully till now. Ahh.

Let's continue. Not only does this mean that I've been wrong and naive when I've bragged about my retirement plan "It's great, they match 100% of my contribution up to 7.5 percent of salary, AND it's immediately vested, it's mine!" Slight correction, so I've learned, which is that not only is the "immediate vestment" a complete crock of shit--i.e. a prevarication, a flat out lie--but even the money you yourself, I myself, invest does not belong to you for 30 years or whatever until you retire. Sure it's a "retirement" plan, but they take the money and you have ZERO access, not even *with* penalties; their matching contributions *and* your own share. AND YOU CAN'T WITHDRAW from contributing. It's a total racket. This racket defines non-liquidity. In my very pissed off opinion it also defines unfair, unreasonable, authoritarian, and just goddam hurtful. I do not need to be catered to in this Life Situation, but yeah, I could be thrown a bone on this one. I could spit I'm so incensed.

I am also not a financial genius and would love to learn that I've missed something crucial here, that there is a way around it, that there is in fact a humanizing solution to this. Granted there are one or two options related to viaticals and life insurance but I've asked and asked and talked to the people "who know." I feel like I should go read Kafka again for some insight, but I just reread all of Kafka a few weeks ago. No use. OK. I don't know if I feel any better after my little rant but it is what it is, or as they say after most tragic situations on The Sopranos: "What 're you gonna do?"

5.28.06, [Guest Blog, by Deeker] How to Act Normal

[My two bits b/f the guest: We have a good line up over the next few days: guest blog today (couple days late, my fault), musings on the weight of the human soul tomorrow, chemo Tuesday all the drinks are half off ;-), another poem or two, and depending on my energy level mid-week we might even see some extra-jesus.

Franky Scale: for Sunday = 6, not great; for Monday/today, so far a 7--I might sneak back later and add on a bit. Don't forget to hydrate. xox -Mr. J]


This is Deeker, I’m doing the guest blog because I’m visiting my buddy Mr. Jones for a few days. I consider him one of my closest friends, and yet the last time I’d seen him before this was literally two years ago, when he came to visit me out east. We’d kept saying we’d get together and hang out, but always were too busy…it’s one of those things you think about at a time like this: “Were the day to day details really so important that I couldn’t find time to visit my friend even ONCE in 25 months?” But I’m here now, and hope to visit him more often in the future.

So what do I write, without seeming too ponderous, and also not too flippant? Well, a few things come to mind. First, Mr. Jones is an awesome, awesome, friend. He’s always been that way. He listens, talks, is sincere, friendly, and yet totally able to be as adventurous and wild as anybody I’ve ever known. It’s just great to spend time with him. We only met later in life, while doing research overseas, past the point you tend to make genuine, close friends. But Mr. Jones is the type of person who is so genuine that we became very close. It doesn’t tend to happen at my advanced age, but in this case it did, and I’m profoundly grateful to have met him and known him.

Also, I’ve been prodding him about some stuff. I think he should lease a Benz and live a little – he still lives like a graduate student! Empty the 403b and use it now, worry about dealing with retirement when he gets there. Consider a viatical, too…

When I got off the plane, I told Mr. Jones that I wasn’t quite sure how to interact with him. That is, do I tiptoe around “the issue”? Do I treat him with more sensitivity than normal? Or do I just act as normal as possible even if that can seem somehow a little callous, but at least it’s normal? I told him I'd follow his lead but the default was just acting normal. As a result, I've been pestering him to get the Benz.

But it also brings out that question – how do you live your life concentrating on what’s important, and not getting sidetracked by mundane details that seem important but in retrospect aren’t? How could I let two years go by? What other aspects of life are passing by without being fully experienced – wallowed in – while my thoughts and emotions are focused on something far less important? What makes the situation with Mr. Jones so sad is that in the back of my mind I just assumed we’d be having adventures and sharing stories for another five decades. I just took for granted that life would flow along, and we’d have all the time in the world to hang out…and yet, of course, it has not simply flowed along…yet one also cannot live life as if the end is imminent – careers take place, one may live for five decades and thus need steady employment and retirement funds and to plan for that. So one tries to live in the present and appreciate it and yet also plan for the possibility of a long future – in practice, a balancing act that is fairly difficult to maintain.

So where am I now, as I sit here with Mr. Jones drinking coffee and chatting and looking forward to watching the US soccer game with him this afternoon. Trying to wallow in this time, right now, and experience my time with him and enjoy it and focus on it…

Not such profound insights, I know. But this isn’t a competition among posts, but rather it’s a chance to express how I feel about Mr. Jones, “the Experience,” and himself. Most significantly, my respect for Mr. Jones is increased beyond its normal high level – the grace and dignity with which he has dealt with this entire situation is inspiring, and I’m truly, deeply, grateful for every minute I have with him.

5.27.06, Gladly Pay You Tuesday

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.

Franky Scale: 6/7.

Not bad overall by any means, and the "shock" of yesterday's news still settles. I felt a rush when I heard it, the news; I felt an unsettling wave come over me at the same time. Nerves, like nerves. What is it about good news that makes me slightly suspicious these days? In any event, today is dedicated to chilling, slow time, reading (back into The Brothers Karamazov), making some headway (he hopes) thinking through what It is I'd like to be sure to do, and the basics. And Mr. Deeker left the building this morning. Some of our conversations dealt with the headway thinking just mentioned, but no conclusions yet.

If nothing else, this little post is just a Franky check-in, check-up, a note to say everything seems to be on an even keel, and a minor message that something more worth reading should be up tomorrow.

And last for today, alas poor Desmond. (Thanks for the news Lefty, it's a sad day in Skaville.)

5.26.06b, What the Hell--Very Good News, Again

[setting] Friday, 7 PM or so, I went out with Mr. Deeker to watch the warm-up game for the World Cup (US vs. Venezuela = US 2, Ven 0; Mr. Deeker becomes very nationalistic when it comes to soccer) and I looked down at my cell phone on the table.

[suspense] Cell phone, "1 Voicemail," press through to number--it's from the Cancer Center. Shit, this is not what I need, the hospital calls me on Friday at almost 6 pm--what, more bad news?

[climax] It's my doctor. Why would my doctor call? Why Friday? I'll tell you that in the midst of this experience, even with trying to be positive, I'm hesitant to hope much. Not too much. So against that feeling--Dr. Whiting called to tell me my CA 19-9 numbers, remember those?, they have dropped again! Down to 6300 (from over 9000 last time), which is about another 30 percent reduction. Excuse my French, but, fuckin Cheebus! I'm shocked. That's good voicemail.

5.26.06, This is Bauhaus A.M.

No preparation, no forethought, just thought maybe I'd post something from this morning's cafe, Bauhaus, where I've stopped with my friend Deeker (the Deeker?, Mr. Deeker, Professor Deeker....?) from out of town until Saturday. Twelve ounce drip, laptop, still limping through some Pascal and working more effectively from Althusser (than with Mr. P.) for the ongoing essay the wager of soul is a worth. None of that is really the point. And what the point is....? Hm. In yesterday's comments/posts, the confluence between the Princess post, two days ago, mine of yesterday, and the last four comments came together so smoothly, and David's ever-willing pen hit on something I feel. Now it all reads vaguely fugue-like, circular, coming back into some part of itself but never quite where it started. Into this fugue of sorts I learn my mother is finally making the leap and starting to read the blog--I'd assumed she already was, in fact, she has already been functioning as my Superego in this process: What can I write and still allow my mother to read? I don't have to worry much about sexual innuendo since she won't get any of it; "crass" language I worry about slightly, then I let my Id have its way; emotionally demanding or potentially depressive material is far more sensitive. (Even the simple jokes about chemo and hair loss don't go over well with her, which I understand.) She enters the fray; results we'll follow.

It's still in the a.m. here in Seattle, not much has transpired today, just a mess of pills (the norm), the slow rise from Ambieana, conversations with Deeker about financial affairs--he being one of my friends gifted with that brain part that has the capacity to process money matters, the one I was born without, packing up, heading here to Bauhaus. I'd put the Franky Scale at 8. Why not? It's early in the day still, and I figure I'll keep it mellow the rest of the day. The daily physiology is fairly simple right now, this being Day Four after the IV chemo; this day is often a low point but it's good to note that I have been learning much better with each cycle how to maintain some control over the Various Lovelies: nausea, fevers, fatigue, bowel impaction, clearcutting (joke, this, a joke), and so on. More and more since This Experience started I realize the impact of little things, little pleasures, a series of little pains and what they add up too, little gestures or kindnesses even..... OK, I'll stop boring you here -- & I'll hold my pen until I feel genuine inspiration today, if it comes today.

Peace & love.

5.25.06, Another Toothpick

“Another Toothpick.” --Janice Soprano

* The medical trivia: At times I forget that a primary reason for the blog is to pass on medical information, share the news, let people know what’s up. Today’s Franky Scale is around a 7, which is good for a Thursday during the chemo cycle -- by Thursday the steroids and other feel-good balancing drugs they give me during the Tuesday oil-change usually wear off and the fatigue, the blah of food, nausea, and overall physical malaise sets in. I’m better at managing all with each week, but that’s the cyclical nature of this beast. Two days ago, I finished an antibiotic regimen, I believe what they call a Z-Pack (azythromicine), related to a few spots seen in my lungs during the restaging process. Dr. Whiting, my oncologist & the primary doctor I see these days, says they don’t look cancerous but possibly inflammatory (cause, don’t know), or an early-stage infection. Since my immune system is getting its ass kicked every day for two weeks in a row, or getting attacked at least and then trying not to get its ass kicked, there is of course increased likelihood of infections. Thus the Z-Pack--another medical unit that sounds vaguely superheroish, like Protonix Man! (Btw, you should see my cape, it kicks ass.)


*The formal narrative: There is some excellent dream analysis from the first disk of Season Three of The Sopranos -- though Dr. Melfi’s self analysis in the episode might in fact be too perfect, it’s too fast, she’s too practiced, especially in the spontaneous setting of a session with her own “Dr. Melfi,” Eliot -- this is all about the rape episode, btw. Not an easy one to watch. She dreams: her office after hours, alone, the ACME vending machine, the Rottweiler, then the rapist, then the catharsis. In waking life she gets right up after a few days, goes back to work, takes the same route she walked from her parking lot, up the same stair case, up through the architectural “blind-spot” with no cameras, nothing. She knows her fear, finds it, and walks straight into it. The solution of direct address. So many approaches to anxiety and fear. This just struck me particularly, I might be cathecting too much onto certain characters, the impression was serious though.

[written last night] And in the realm of serious impressions, I had some more after reading the post the Princess submitted a few days ago to have me put on the blog; she’d sent it in for the possible editorial work. You read it, the previous post, but there she mentioned how it’s now two months later and that there are only a certain number of months left and as I started to read my head started spinning with questions -- real and rhetorical. Months. Till what? Till somebody addresses the 800-pound elephant. It’s until I die. Soon I die, I think. And the last few days, after reading the princess missive, I’ve felt some anxiety about this, more than usual. Looking out over the city of Seattle tonight, the skyline lit and spread outside my windows, and having thoughts about how the view expires. It expires soon. What do I do about this? How much is possible? Realizing and knowing, knowing is the word, that I will die and leave this big round soft cookie that never tastes quite as good as you want it to. Still, it’s a cookie, and who doesn’t like a good fucking cookie and now and then? Worse still, who doesn’t want cookie when they’ve had it and it gets taken away? Where’s my goddam cookie?

Looking at it otherwise, no one wants the vision that comes with the blinding of their eyes, nobody wants the gift called prophecy when they realize what the cost of knowing the future is. Nobody really wants to hear it and nobody really wants to know. Anyway, here is where I find myself. Never the option to say “no,” to not come here, to not have these experiences. There is no life before your “made” (on HBO), and, there is no war in heaven that follows the first exercise of free agency in the world of Christological mythology (a drama followed by many of my people). The state where no one, not any more, wakes up and goes to work, again, another day, no more anxiety of being and no more anxiety of freedom. How is that for a solution to the old existential double-bind?

You rethink it daily. Everyday, though you step up and go to work. Nobody wants to walk out of their office, a bit early let’s say, say about 2 p.m., then walk over to the steps of Kane Hall to sit and enjoy a cigarette. And you do enjoy it, for a moment. Then the phone rings. Here you learn that no one wants to hear from the doctor that -- once you strip away the tempered and euphemistic language of medicine, once you learn more about the words being used -- that you might have a few more years but either way you’re gone. Irony of the plot at this point. That was the good news. Definitely nobody wants to learn two weeks later that it’s worse than that -- the euphemism of the day: “metastasize.” New jargon. Meaning? Metastasize: the possibility of several years traded in for several months in the course of one doctor visit. Or you can spin the Big Casino metaphor differently, you can locate the fear and walk straight into it, and/or you can gamble, gamble and fight, and see what it gets you. Nobody wants to hear this. Me neither.

And likely nobody wants to comment on it, back to one more Sopranos figure, Uncle Jun -- one with stomach cancer like the Princess points out! --, nobody wants to comment on “all this goddam morbidity.”

5.24.06b, [Guest blog, by Princess] Fear is the Heart of Love

“Fear is the Heart of Love”
21 May 2006

If the price of a plane ticket comes with a guest blog slot, then here I am to claim my prize. Oboy oboy. I got to come for the restaging, which in and of itself was worthwhile for the great news that was disseminated. When presented with the opportunity to write something, I have to admit my initial reaction was that of the student to her professor, "Ugh, what do I have to write about?? I have nothing to say . . ."

Then, too many allergy pills and one Ambien-fuzzed red eye flight later, here are my reflections on the trip, if they might give anyone insight into the experience of being a 'cancer groupie.'

It is a strange moment in life, looking at someone you think you know well and realizing that something is wrong. It gets more complicated, because it's not readily obvious (beyond the flamingly obvious) what the problem is. Small, barely perceptible things . . . new facial expressions that I haven't seen before, new grunts, moans, and sighs through the course of the day, restless motions and twitching throughout the night. The strain of day to day that becomes so pronounced, you'd do anything to help shoulder the burden if it'd lighten his load.

It's the cancer talking and its got a whole new vocabulary. A three dimensional volumetric mass, egotistical and needy, spouting words like 'metastasis,' 'locally advanced,' and 'unresectable' . . . constantly making its presence known. Questions like "Does it hurt?" become superficial, as the answer is usually yes. Better to ask "How does it hurt?" or "How much does it hurt?" and try to deal accordingly even as there is no way for me to understand the pain.

And then comes the balancing job, many balancing jobs for everyone involved. How to be encouraging without pushing too hard? How to be optimistic and not cross the line into unrealistic? How to make plans around a three week chemo cycle, live life from one restaging to the next, possibly even enjoy life when the cancer looms omnipresent.

That's looking forward, to a future that's about as promising as hitting the Mega Millions jackpot. But then looking back: It's the end of May. That puts us at two months down, two long/short months post diagnosis. The rhetorical question of "if you only had __ number of months to live . . . " isn't so rhetorical anymore, and even at this point the process of reflection is rife with thoughts of coulda this, shoulda that, and other such regrets.

Even more complicated than the physical pain that I can't begin to understand, there's the emotional tumult that I am too inexperienced with to even broach. I want to scream at him, like Sam to Frodo in LOTR, "Don't go where I can't follow," but he's already gone it seems. I just have to learn that nothing between us is personal anymore . . . I can't try to read the intent behind his words and actions because there is none– his mind is elsewhere, consumed with more 'big picture' thoughts and battling the daily drudgery.

Somehow, from a vantage point of 3000 miles away the questions only get louder and more insistent. I wonder and doubt, how I can be strong for him when I feel so scared, and really need him to be strong for me? These are moments when the best I can muster is to turn away, or leave the room so at least he doesn't have to see me cry. The voices in my head pontificate on whether it'd be safer and wiser, emotionally, to plan my life with him around, or with him gone. For how long? 6-8 months? Ten months??

There's this unintentional habit that I've adopted of late – I see cancer everywhere and I can't seem to escape it. I try to read a book and one of the characters falls ill. I try to watch TV and all the characters are suffering from bowel distress. There's been a lot of reference to the HBO series "The Sopranos," and I will conclude with yet another. Ever notice how there only seems to be two routes of exit from that series? You can either 1. get 'whacked,' or 2. die of cancer. It's a prevalent theme and coincidentally, all the cancers are GI (gastrointestinal) related. One character in the third season actually dies while sitting on the toilet doing his 'business.' As a threat to a doctor who won't operate on Uncle Junior's cancer, Furio makes the comment "You know, there are worse things than can happen to a person other than cancer." Let's hope this bit of infinite TV wisdom rings true.

5.24.06, Blog to come--poetry snippits

This is not a blog.

I have something I want to post but I'm at someone's mercy.... --public guilt complex, the possibilities of the internet are amazing aren't they?-- ...so until I have the goods in hand and the go ahead I will wait.

For now, something for the bored to nibble on. I went back and looked at "Gerontion" after I saw that older poem of mine about the Kissing Grandmother, and some lines stood out. (And there are only about 3-4 entries in the contest to name this whole whacky season of my life or my writing/non-writing, whatever it turns out to be, and I'm hoping I'll get more from people.)

If "The Wasteland" is the poem of April, then "Gerontion" might be called the poem of May. Perhaps it doesn't have to be about old age, it might well be middle age, but either way it's filled with musings on youth and decay, age and what one can expect, what one can expect from history at the end of life, and the mind as it "dries" out and thinks dry thoughts in this season. So with that some lines about how to reminisce.

from "Gerontion"

..............................................Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. (1920)

(T.S. EliotComplete Poems and Plays, 1909-1950 22)

Franky Scale, so far: 5/6 (partially explained by not enough coffee yet)

5.23.06, A Day in the Cancer Life, Pt. 2, Daytime, or Shits and Giggles

[...zero, a P.P.S. Special greetings to friends in Maracaibo and Instanbul; based on guesses only but two songs to dedicate, to the former Skatalites' "Guns of Navarone" and to the former Tom Waits' "Telephone Call from Instanbul." Say hello to Uncle Hugo & fight the power, -Mr. J]

[...first, a P.S.: It's "Melfi," with an "e," I checked. Didn't we cover this already? And I suppose it's too confusing to have more than one Melfi, even though she's more metonym than reality. So I'll use "Dr. A" instead; sounds kind of Ian-Flemingish, the sinister villain! Of course, no one wants an evil villain to reduce their head size. -Mr. J]

Last time I covered what goes on every morning, today I’ll try to bore you with the trivial activities of the “average” day in the life. In a more creative mood this could be material for a list poem, but I’ve been an other-people’s-poetry groove (see below).

--Reading something: poetry here and there, but mainly fiction, e.g., Kafka, Faulkner, Burroughs, Hemingway even, then non-fiction Pascal, getting after him, Althusser, now I’ve decided he stands out as the most significant philosopher of the twentieth century, noteworthy because I’m not usually one to pick favorites, but his work appears in a more particular light to me now. Why is that, I wonder?

--Questioning my motivation to do everything, the consequences, why do it at all, what is worth doing, etc.

--Some doctor shit every day: shrink, labs (poop, blood, anemia, pneumonia, ulcers, fevers, ), or a nurse phone call, or the scheduler, or a mail-order pharmacy (forced by insurance, good enough though), going to the pharmacy

--A run. I still imagine running six days a week with my new day off being Tuesday since that’s the infusion chemo day during the weeks when I’m on cycle; the reality is more like five times a week because, so far, at least one extra day has been sucked away by maladjustment to the chemo afterdays, fevers, nausea, some hectic craziness that often involves physically having to head in to work, and so on.

--Related to Causes of Missed Runs, there is usually some rather pragmatic task that needs doing -- legal paperwork, you know; financial paperwork, not that I have a lot; some school-related tasks which I’ve already pissed and moaned about, & btw, who uses the profile name “Piss and Moan” to post comments? I wonder…

--No poetry being written during this period. It could be my Blue Period…? Some other color? Struggle Period? I should think of a name for it. I’ll take suggestions for a really good title to this phase of my life, you can all post them in the comments section; the winner will get something special -- I’ll let the winner decide what! -- then I will break my dry spell by writing a piece that uses that as its title. (It’s like a daytime activity for overgrown toddlers with rhyming dictionaries.)

--At least three or four times a week I try to get to one of my cafes to do some work or just read.

--Libido check ☺.

--Musing about nearly-complete projects: primarily, one chapbook, one full-length book of poetry translated and just waiting to be “sold,” one academic book nearly done, thoughts of a narrative version of “A Foreshortened Life” or some such thing…

--Phone call to my mom, I’ve become an official Mama’s Boy. My mom would be so proud.

--I usually always get in some Music Appreciation time, as long as I’m home or in my office: most recent sessions, Tom Waits, Brad Mehldau, Erik Satie (earlier misspelled first name), Monk, The Clash, The Mekons, Elvis Costello, Counting Crows (mostly only when Frank was here).

--Some blog writing & writing a more extended piece about Pascal’s Wager and the period when I came across it at 18, though I didn’t know who Pascal was then nor did I know the formal aspects of or reasons for the Wager; and so, now I’ve been writing about the uncanny making of the Wager on my part, then, and the consequences of my act -- it all leans toward a critique of Pascal an the notion of a rational choice approach to belief /or faith/ in God.

--Trying to keep medical bills and records in some semblance of order.

--I try to talk to one friend or family member for a bit every day, more than a few minutes.

--Hydrating, attempting to stay hydrated; eating, same scenario; and pill taking, which can get complicated with anywhere from 10 to 20+ different pills or times for taking them, depending on where I am in the chemo cycle and what the day’s symptoms / side effects are. This can get complicated when affected by “chemo brain” and though keeping a chart or list would make very good sense, I still just record it all after the fact and rely on memory to get it done.

--A few times a week, also, I watch DVDs on the new TV left by the Easter Bunny.

--There’s almost surely one bout of “sudden” fatigue every day, so when it arrives I try to nap or chill somehow deal with it.

Overall, it’s just shits and giggles. Kisses from Seattle. Time to head out this morning for my infusion. Pick a good book so you can hold it and not really read but kind of sleep and loll about instead. AND, don't forget the period/poetry naming contest!

Franky Scale: 6

5.22.06b, Meeting Doctor Melfi & Double Injustice

Meeting Doctor Melfi & Double Injustice

Granted, I do not think of this situation, my situation, my stepping into the Big Casino as they might say in Soprano-land, as one having anything to do with justice. That means both from the positive and negative sides, it’s not just, it’s not unjust — to imply it as either is to impute a higher power to the workings of the universe and I stepped past that a long time ago. (But remind me to tell you the chaplain story at some point. G -- I haven’t told you this yet but when I went to see my own Dr. Melfi [the shrink, if anyone’s slow on the draw today] today, she said, while looking at some report-like records, “Oh, so I see you’ve spoken with our chaplain.”!! Can you believe this? Suddenly I have visions of Bush, Cheney, and the other national insecurity monkey boys giving SCCA chaplains instructions in privacy invasion, deception, and spiritual coercion. Apparently “my nurse” requested the chaplain stop by. Hm. Something fishy in Seattle.) Point is, I’m dealing not with justice in or out, it’s just not an issue thereof. Still, I was stuck for a title. What you gonna do?

Her actual name is Sylvie (sp? Sylvy? any ideas?), Dr. A, and fortunately she has no hair stuck in any orifice, as it were, about titles. Today’s meeting was essentially uneventful, just preliminary questions about demography, background, some medical clarifications, the basics of my “diagnosis experience” — i.e., the moment I “found out” (another blog topic, another day?) — and similar groundwork items. One point she made, thus the title above, that rang true and has been rattling around my brain a bit today is that my specific case involves a double diagnosis, or rather double shock. She may have used the word “injustice,” or it could be a screen memory. Does it matter which? Being told you have cancer is part one; being told you have an especially unfriendly type is part two. Hearing this helped, for whatever reason, and it partially explains why I get internally pissed off when some people work at being empathetic with me by discussing the Cancer of a person they know, usually in an inspirational way, but in almost every case it’s a cancer that has, let’s say, an 80 percent survival rate. I want to respond, “Well, yeah, technically we both have cancer, but that’s like cancer with training wheels.” Yes, it’s upsetting. Yes, my thoughts might be rude — at least I keep them to myself. The finality involved with this metastatic pancreatic cancer however is unavoidably hard. Just sharing.

On an entirely different note, here’s a poem for today, one from me, . . . makes me feel like Garison Keeler when I write that, yeck. . . . and I managed to find something at least tangentially related. If I post any more, poem related to the Big Casino will soon exhaust themselves. Poetic fatigue. Rhythmic anemia.


“The Kissing Grandmother”

His mother, my grandmother, locked in place
now only by memory and funerary conversation,
discomfiting exchanges between father and son,
“Do not ever let me end up like that,” he says,

a reminder from my father, whose mother,
now finished slowly clawing her way out
of life from — or into — painfully smooth oblivion,
is visiting coals of fire upon my head,

twenty-one years and yet no preparation, to
watch forgetfulness tread with heavy boots
across her mind, footprints left behind,
once-known names, gadgets, recent associations

long linoleum halls, septic-urine smells,
three-day-old shit caked under her fingernails,
false teeth forgotten in a glass, lipless kisses, reading
poetry to her, she will say my name just once again.

We all knew her as the Kissing Grandma —
and with her last kiss she says my name too then
“Get the hell out of here!” she says. So much for “Gerontion.”
I walk the seamless hall seeing only her empty eyes,

to holiday barbecues, too much food, family, and house,
handing my father “that thingamajig, wou’d’ya” then sitting
alone I see, already, that he’s lost the word for “plug”
and it’s just about time to pull.

5.22.06, Life in the Big Casino

All righty then. . . back after a short noncommercial break. I've actually got a headshrinking scheduled in about 30 minutes, so I'm only here to tease you. But coming up we've got some super money additions, editions ;-) There's a guest blog in the offing after a royal princess visit; there's another kind of guest blog from a friend with a pen so witty you might urinate; and there's going to have to be some of my poetry finally because another friend called me out "Hey, Mr. Other-People's-Poetry, when will I see your stuff?" and so it goes.

Franky Scale (clearly too early a.m. to accurately do this, and yet): I'm going to post a defiant 8. I'm actually looking forward to talking with my own personal Melfi. More in the p.m. hours.

5.19.06, Away from Blog for Two Days

Howdy faithful readers: In honor of the recent good news I'm off to the San Juan Islands for the next two days. And by choice I'm going to cut myself off from all electronic communication. So here is my blessing of silence. Thanks again to everyone for the kind thoughts and messages (also due to some crazy spamming problem I've had to adjust the comments section so that you have to type in a key word to post, just to make sure no computer-generated msgs get posted, but otherwise it should still work smoothly.)

Love from the islands.

Mr. Jones, who feels about a 7 on the Franky Scale, but I'll push towards 10 while I'm gone.

5.18.06, What ho, Horatio? [on the Restage]

I saw the doctor this morning--oh, wait you know this already--, to get a read on the radiography and labs, the Restaging we've mentioned before. Punch line first, good news. There are three points to share, most salient points anyway, and these describe the changes that have taken place over the past six weeks since I started chemotherapy. First, second, and third...

1. There has been a 20+ % reduction in the "cancer markers," this is the CA 19-9 number we discussed earlier, which corresponds with the amount of cancer in the body. The reduction, thus, indicates less cancer in my body.

2. Based on yesterday's CT scan, [drumroll please...] ... the main tumor in the pancreas has shrunk in size, in fact, and measurably. Length down to 5.9 cm from 6.7 cm; width basically the same as before. (NB: since the tumor is actually three-dimensional, the total size decrease might be seen as somewhat greater.) Additionally, one of the largest affected lymph nodes that was previously a concern has also shrunk, from 2.6 to 2.0 cm. Taken together, these numbers reinforce point #1 above, that there is overall 'less' cancer in the body. If we were doctors, we'd say "good news, but we're cautiously optimistic."

3. As for the liver metastases (the number of smallish tumors there), they are stable, and no new lesions have developed. This isn't as good as shrinkage but it's far better than enlargement.

So an overall interpretation, this is cautiously very good news, especially at this early stage (after only two chemo cycles--i.e., they restaged me "early" at only 6 weeks into chemo instead of 9 weeks in, which is usual). To see an actual size decrease on CT is doubly reassuring as often times the chemo will be working, but the size will remain the same. We got good news this time. Thanks to everyone who's been sending good vibes and various other forms of support.

There is infinitely more to say about further treatment, but for now, I'll continue with the GTX regimen I'm currently on; at least four more (3-week cycles) planned; and, they'll keep monitoring the vitals every week for four more cycles. Then, another restaging (CT, sitdown, etc.) to discuss the next steps at that point. For prognosis, let's just say it leans me toward the longer end of things--for now, though, the key is good news, moving in a solid direction, making headway. Enough of this blogging crap, I need to go relax and celebrate!

5.17.06, You'll Have to Loan Me Pain...

Here is the following poem, the poem following the Creeley one (from last post)--in my convoluted mind. From e.e. cummings' book No Thanks. Wonderfully titled, cummings being too much before his time had the manuscript rejected by Farrar & Rinehart, Simon & Schuster, ... Knopf, Dutton, Harper's, Scribner's, and many, many others. So the title is "No Thanks" and you open the books to see "To: Farrar & Rinehart,..." and all the other myopic editors and their employers. The poem here, "66" it might be called, or first lined "death(having lost)put on his universe" staggers me; and I suppose some who choose to do so can read it as a wager, with death and love, and opening with the punch line. (This was the primary poem that inspired me in eulogizing my nephew Daniel Ray Luna who, talk about dumb fucking luck, died before he started at 23--just about one year ago. An aside.) If it's a wager, here metaphorically death loses. In our waking wish fulfillment.


66

death(having lost)put on his universe
and yawned:it looks like rain
(they've played for timelessness
with chips of when)
that's yours;i guess
you'll have to loan me pain
to take the hearse,
see you again.

Love(having found)would up such pretty toys
as themselves could not know:
the earth tinily whirls;
while daisies grow
(and boys and girls
have whispered thus and so)
and boys with girls
to bed will go,

(Complete Poems, 1904-1962)


That, my friends, is a poem! Love and death in the lost and found; or, the wager between the two; what boys and girls will do, though "boys" and "girls" must be taken openly, inclusively here. (We'd lose half my family if not...;-) )

Enough from me. I'm off to lie on the table, and slide up and down--"Breath in" [PAUSE]....."Hold your breath"...[PAUSE] ... "You may now let out your breath"....[PAUSE, NOISE] "Breath in"..[PAUSE] ... "Hold your breath"...., belly filled with two quarts of the barium juice. And for those who haven't done it, don't believe the comments, the barium drink is pretty much as good/bad tasting as pepto or maylanta or any other chalky drink. It's a cake walk.

Too early to evaluate the day, but I'll say Franky Scale, 8, you get at least 8 points just for the cummings' poem.

5.16.06, [New] Poem & Warranty Update

[short addition tonight]
I cannot find what book of his, what journal, rag, or paper it's from but here's a Robert Creeley poem that might provoke--this the one found written upside down in the back cover of Althusser's The Future Lasts Forever--a brilliant book, more later... Now Creeley:

"THE SENTENCE"

There is that in love
which, by the syntax of,
men find women and join
their bodies to their minds

--which wants so to acquire
a continuity, a place,
a demonstration that it must
be one's own sentence.

When the "mean find women and join / their bodies to their minds" I'm reminded of the cummings' poem, and "boys off with girls will go..." or something rather like it--the rest of the poem is about death, with the clincher being this continuing continuing.

Till tomorrow.

[what was already found here]
A mundane post, informational, short. Later today there are some poetic things I'd like to post: poems submitted here (ever and always Other Peoples Poetry), a poem I found scribbled into the back cover of an Althusser book, etc. For now though this.

(Does everyone listen to Erik Satie? I highly recommend it. I have him playing the background, a perfect blend of simplicity, experimentation, and some whimsy to keep it balanced out.)

Tomorrow is the Restaging I wrote about, but there are a couple of modifications. Tomorrow is going to be the CT scans, drinking my two quarts of barium smoothly--yum--waiting, then lying on the table that slides up and down through the very expensive tube. All of which is pretty simple. No pain, no worries. Just a short fast and a hospital visit where they will 'access' my port-o-cath (which I recently learned is the proper spelling--another spelling correction from an early post: Dr. Melfi of Sopranos fame is spelled like that, with an "e," but I was spelling it wrong for a while. Apologies to the good doctor.)

So the 17th is restaging, the technical side of it, but I just learned that on the 18th I meet with my dr. in the morning to discuss the radiography and whatever other data they have. That means the 18th will really be the telling day, if there is anything new to tell. This means an extra day, a reprieve, or if you like, another 24 hours of anxiety. If there's news to come, then, it will be after the 18th. I'll report back then.

Franky Scale: 8. Another day without chemo drugs, thank you Cheebus. Another day of simple pain management. A day to start reading this book I finally picked up called Everyone's Guide to Cancer Therapy. Basic, not full of cutting edge developments--which I am pursuing through other channels--but seems to have some good information. I did see at the bookstore the solution to all my problems yesterday, too; it's called something like The CURE to All Forms of Advanced Cancer. Isn't that great? The cure to everything, and to my surprise this little gem is just sitting there relatively unknown--and for sale in a legitimate bookstore--the cure to all of it, and yet so many people in the world still suffer. You should see some of the insane shit they put in these books. One key step in curing ALL cancers, as I learned from a quick skim, is to go immediately to your dentist and have every single tooth with any metal, porcelain, or other non-tooth material in it extracted. Rip 'em out. Who knew? If you're not willing to do this, you're not willing to be cured. Apparently. Makes me want to spit seeing shit like this.

5.15.06, Check the Warranty, We're Going to Restage

[new & improved daily post]
They say it’ll be hot today, but my apartment feels cold inside. I have a meeting with my chair after lunch, things to do in that neighborhood, post office, haircut, check on a cancer book, from this perspective, early morning still, bed seems good. Bed, good. I need extra rest right…….. OK, whatever. Temp up above the 70, 84 they said? That would be the hottest day of the year, and then me, I’m still fumbling for where a blanket is, part in sleep fog, part in Ambien haze. For about five more days, longer perhaps, I can keep on without taking any chemo drugs. Thank you jesus! (I think y’all know me well enough, but in case you don’t, this carpenter reference is a highly figurative allusion [one reader out there knows its origin], and a mildly disrespectful joke. I just want to make sure nobody’s Higher Powers get brought into this.) Still, food is tedious. Hunt, kill, skin, cook, eat--that's about how it feels. Motivation for many tasks distant. Don’t you ever think that, what is there to be motivated about at this point? The “short-term” in short-term projects having been completely redefined. And sillier irony still, cosmic irony I think it is: my job is now locked for the next four years. I can’t be fired, I’m “moving along nicely,” all is secure in M244. Hurray [Monty Python style, e.g., "And they were forced to eat his minstrels"]. Now what? Or, so what? Once again a single good shake of perspective and what I lost sleep over three months ago barely registers on my radar now.

Something noticed last week: No, Warranties are not “boring,” Princess. When I went to buy my new coffee grinder recently, I was comparing two grinders, different brands, similar prices, and I wanted to see the warrantee information, right? This is the logical next step, it’s smart shopping, it’s informed consumption. Style is somewhat important, function-wise they are all about the same, color's rather limited, but the consumer-report-ish side of things, that’s what guides this smart shopper. Until I realize--and have to chuckle--I no longer have to bother myself about warranties because any product warrantee I find is going to last longer than I do. Shit. If a salesperson starts to explain service protection plans, Apple Care, x-years and just-so-many miles to go, I no longer pay any attention. Back in the grocery store, I shake my head at this, and then grab the grinder in the color I like best and get the hell out.

Restaging: in two days a red letter day is coming. It gives me stress--in fact, a lot of stress--I’ll be honest with you. On Wednesday I could learn that the primary tumor has grown (I say “primary” because once the cancer was found to have spread I was blessed with about five more than what I started with, these in my liver); or, it’s possible that it has shrunk or is shrinking; or, it could be the same as it was last time, say, 6 weeks ago. This latter possibility, though better than the first, unnerves me too—what if there is nothing conclusive to learn on the 17th? It could mean hurry up and wait--the negatively capable come back to haunt me. The CA 19-9 numbers from last were good, that’s clear, the doctor even said as much; but there are further measurements to take, including another CA 19-9 check, I believe, two days from now. If anyone wonders, what exactly is the restaging? The medical types will do a series of radiographic tests, CT scans (a four-pass CT scan of lungs, abdomen, pelvis, very expensive), with the intent to re-measure the big tumor, the smaller tumors, etc. and determine how everything looks compared to six weeks ago when the radiography was done last. Why do this? It’s a progress report; to see whether the chemotherapy is working or not. I’ve been doing my best Protonix Man, now with cape and all, attacking my body with toxins and killing all rapidly multiplying cells in it for about two months, so there better be a damn good reason. The question underlying the whole restaging is precisely what freaks me out--there is a good chance I’ll “be given” an adjusted prognosis. What’ll it be? A few more months, the happy news. “Happy” news. Or, it’s not working, start smoking again, enjoy yourself, whatever you want.

There were a few paragraphs more here but I’m editing (for today at least), in part for length, in part because I’m ambivalent about how candid to be. Take the Saturday post, for example, not dark to my mind, just looking at the whole scene from a different vantage point: some tell me on the sly how they appreciate it, some send me emails of concern, one or two phone up, some just plain worry more. Each reaction and mood, the pensive, the defiant, the distracted. It’s all real, regardless of how we respond. And there’s nothing wrong with stopping now and then to look it in the face. Not in my book. So. Till next time.


[first distracted a.m. scribbles]
Supposed to be "hot" in Seattle today, craziness. My pro-forma Annual Review takes place at work. Two days left until "the cancer" is restaged--until we find out where the hell I am and how long I'm likely to stay around. (Can you believe the insane nature of this game? In some cases people have a test done and wait to hear whether it's lactose intolerance or wheat germ allergy, day after tomorrow is supposed to give some indication of whether I should clean out my office now or wait a while longer. --Not to be morbid intentionally, there's just no avoiding the bizarre extremity of it all......)

So moving forward on the lightness of the day, I feel pretty good, another day with no chemo drugs is so welcome. I'll say 7/8 on the FScale, though the day is young. Yesterday I learned, re-learned, a worthwhile lesson by not making myself eat until around 5 or so p.m.--very silly thing to do. After eating, hydrating, etc. by about 8ish I was back to some degree, but my body cannot act so tough as to just ignore the caloric intake altogether these days. Shit. Frankly, food is basically tedious, thinking it, finding, preparing it / buying it, then sticking it in my mouth--sometimes it's easier to "forget." Like I said, though, I realized again it's not smart. That would put yesterday at an "8" ideally, then a "6" practically after the body energy debacle.

Later today I'll post something more substantial, about good and evil, the concept of product warranty, and some details on the next big medical move in my future--restaging the cancer on the 17th, two days. It's gonna be great, don't miss it.