[Forget the "yet" in the first line below. That's all for today. No doubt nobody needs more Tyranny of the Word, as my secret agent blog consultant pointed out this evening. -Mr. J]
Not so much a "real" post yet, but I wanted to respond to some comments. Especially on the last post on posting and dreaming. Franky Scale for now, 7ish. Hoping the physiological day will settle, back on chemo too/though.
Comments: Frarella. There have been a few comments or posts here and there that, in Dennis Hopper's words, "really put the whammy" on my head. F's above is one. That's why you're my brother. And what you said and what you question, shit, brings it all to the surface--the rest, for now, is silence.
Tossing Salads. I still can't believe that's your profile name, but what the hell am I going to do in a family full of lesbians? I've been thinking of calling and then wondered at how seriously you do take "giving me space"--so, you should call, too, of course, but on the other hand, the sign of respect you've given is immensely appreciated at a time when the need to be heard/listened to is really heightened for me. Thanks & love. And yes, Dan's smile.
Slarry. When did you get Suzanne Vega's permission? And, I love to see how myths are made. Those readers who know much of my family, and perhaps it's all families, see this grand process of narritivization at work. You notice how I rise above the pain and push through, just like Armstrong, running through the crashing thunderbolts and lightning. Sorry, not true. There was no rain. On the nice day I did run; on the pouring rain day I felt like crap and slept. Reality is not always as attractive as myth but I do think when we brave it enough to pass it on untarnished it can be better. Another one, not from the comments. Did you know that I was nearly 13 lbs when I was born?! Well, OK, I was only 11 something, my family would say, "don't be silly." And yet. Truly miraculous, mythical proportions. I actually believed that little family story until I saw my birth records and realized that, no, I was not a latter-day Hercules. It was something like 9 lbs — I don't know what the average is but I think the point should be clear. Myth making alive and well. Maybe later today I'll do a triathalon, work in a shelter for six or seven hours, and then donate my life insurance policy the less fortunate, oh, and write a novel. Some people dream. . . ;-)
And all the comments on boxes, I am tempted to read some kind of innuendo in those. Again, a family full of lesbians. . .
Machine. From a day before this. Thanks again for the word loan. The honor is mine and I'm always up for the narrative of an idiot man child and full of sound and fury. It signified everything.
David #1. Words, words, words. I'm always curious to see what comes next.
David #2. Mr. R. Good to see your comment. It's been a long time & I hope you're well. Mr. Kenyon's got my number you should call him, it'd be good to talk.
Spacely. Spelling is overrated. But then so are the concepts of "fun" and "happiness." I'm just trying to come to mutual understanding and I hope none of what I said/say comes across as harsh. I've been planning a blog on those two modern concepts above: not just that people have different tastes and notions of what they mean, but that they actually are all too often, in my view, dangerous tools used to keep us down. Too much Serious Thought might result in our uprising, our questioning authority, our desire actually to do something about the truly harsh ways the world is unfair. What's more, fun and happy require privelege. Not everyone can afford them.
Sure it sounds overly dry and academic, still, here Frued is right on the primary nature in our mental life of the pleasure principle. "[F]rom the point of view of the self-preservation of the organism [us] among the difficulties of the external world [let's say, cancer]," the pleasure principle is not about maximizing the amount of pleasure in our lives, always chasing fun and happy, but rather its tempered somewhat with the reality principle and what it's really about is decreasing the amount of unpleasure in our lives. But the pleasure principle untempered is "inneficient and even highly dangerous" (Freud Reader 596). I'd go even farther with this and say right out that Happiness and Fun make up an ideology that is wonderfully effective at keeping us down, and/or redirecting our energies from the truly meaningful to the transient and distracting. I'm always feeling guilty because I'm not happy enough! So, sure, I like movies, distractions, and I'm guilty of engaging in commodity "therapy," but one thing I am not worried about now that I look off at the foreshortened horizon is how much fun I'm having. I don't know, it's not a novel insight in my life. I've been scroogie for a while, but I think that also bafflement, thoughfulness, perplexity, amazement, sadness, grief, being serious, or occcasional lack of unpleasure, etc. are probably all more substantial than fun. And happiness I've never, honestly, understood very well: the question "Are you happy?" has always confused me.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Friday, June 09, 2006
6.09.06, Some People Post, Some People Dream
Franky Scale: 6ish.
No chemo drugs for nearly a week now. Today from the lovely FedEx man, however, I'm blessed with another bottle of the pill version. Start tomorrow. Then another set of IV infusions, too big for a bottle; they come in a bag, it just hangs there and costs money. A hell of a lot of money. It's unbelievable and harsh the cost, say near 8K a bag — then I turn out to be lucky with my insurance, to be able to do it in the first place. Wait, lucky to have pancreatic cancer, lucky for metastasis. Something like that: lucky since I suppose somehow it could be worse. Before today the symptoms and side-effects seemed to abate, a little "healthier" each day, which is the truism of life, right? A little better and better, until it changes. In Salt Lake I come for what, some escape, some "getting away" . . . and I just woke from a nap filled with dreams that would scare Freud.
Is it place? Is it time? Is it the moment, metaphorically? Some people post comments, they read, they follow. Some do the posting while others lurk, some comment and lurk while others sleep and dream, but of what I can't really say. Some details linger and hang with me, some strewn across high desert sky, some scattered next to the bed, some hiding inside the well-used bottle of oxycodone. That bottle, too and or by the way, is secondary. It's back up. It's breakthrough. There is something about my dreams lately that has changed qualitatively — I don't know if it's all the drugs that course through my system, I don't know if it's the chemo brain, as they say. They. "They." They are me. Who's kidding whom. No one: that is the goal. So if anyone ever asks sometimes why take it so seriously. . . That was one of the first lessons I learned sitting in a waiting room at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, I looked around and at times could see the lake, at times the nearly-clear Seattle sky, but all around me I saw, and this is literal — not to be cheesy, to be glib, to be sarcastic, what you will — I saw community. I am them, they are me. This is what went through my head sitting there, waiting for blood. To give, that is, to have it taken. Funny when you're sick you don't give anymore, you have it taken. I saw all the people as most of you have seen them, no hair common, patchwork hair, all the stages in between, skin and bones some, some pain visible some not, some hope shattered some not, not all, and me today still now if you'd believe it, which you would if you'd see me, I still have mine and I think, based on those who have seen my hair and the rest of me that I look normal. Another word. It's the time the distance that makes me look small or withered or hairless or too thin in the eye of your mind, and how surprising amazing mind-fogging and not because I lack the vocabulary just sheer fucked up that none of that is true, yet perhaps. That I can so not look sick. So, then it was, which is the real point that I looked around and saw a community and realized I was, I am, a part. These are my people, I thought, we're all the same. A pause for thought, mine.
Normal looking, still wearing sometimes a "kind of" sarcastic grin — just trying to carry on for my nephew, so cut me some slack while and if you write, a longhand of reverse genetics, reverse impossible genetics, why not? — but the point that I am now part of this group, that we're the same inside no matter what the outsides are. No matter the age. No matter the caregiver. Yep, I go to SCCA and I can walk and pick up scripts and show my green card and get my little wristband — no not yellow please or sorry — and I am generally strong and able and I am "The Otherwise Healthy 38 Year-old Male" (it's in my chart), but still when I go with someone I go with my caregiver, at least for that day. There have been a few but Gillian knows about this process pretty well, she's spent a number of hours in the chemo ward or the infusion palace or whatever it's called. Something to do with infusion. So where is it all going, that I'm not sure, I just have this state of mind after a nap, after fatigue that came on like a ton of bricks, after lunch with my mother which was not so much like a ton of bricks, after going to the hospital with her — and for her I might add, not for me, a check up, corotid arteries, both sides, black white and red blue, clarity and occlusion — and after some writing but not too much and after food after a handful of meds. With the FedEx man in between. Everybody's fantasy.
This is what Utah will do to you: now what? Do I warn you? Do I invite you? Do I recommend you just read on, make your comments, call now and again, and provide support that does not go unnoticed? Yes, you have to remember the latter, even if I'm napping, even if fatigued, even when it's pouring here like Seattle which it tends to do each time I come like it follows me to remind of something that's supposed to be remembered through rain and about another city and perhaps even another time. I do not know. Every day passes and it gets farther from normalcy I'd say, while at the same time there is this need to work to conform to the normal, to get back to the everyday, to try and push past the barriers that didn't exist before. At least in part that's what I feel. And too there is this seeing. Hundreds of people most so strong and "there," which I need, and still everyone in their own place, from their own place, all trying to deal with individual lives that don't touch this. This doesn't stay put though. So you read a post a comment a phonecall a card and you see a lot of individuals with a lot of individual "situations," at times coming together, at times standing in the same spot looking in the same direction. At times, between the lines, you see the varieties of awareness, love, pain, support, suffering. All the sources varied too.
I feel like I'm sitting at the center of the little steel merry-go-round thing you have to push into action by running in circles in the sand — you get it going from the outside then jump on, the try to move centerward. I don't think I ever pushed this time, don't know, I just know I feel like I'm in the center and watching. The first phone call, then the second diagnosis, were like taps on the shoulder that said "Hey, you're sitting in the center of the little steel merry-go-round thing on the playground, see how long you can either keep moving, or stay sitting there," they said. I just watch the rest of the world and all of you spin around the edges. Remember how the sand gets worn down so there's a little trough, too, a concentric circle around the little merry-go-round? I watch everyone get closer or farther from it, sit or run, push or take notes. It just spins, I just sit.
A line from somewhere if I remember, it's like rain from another city, "I take naps in the afternoon lately, sometimes I dream." Something like that.
No chemo drugs for nearly a week now. Today from the lovely FedEx man, however, I'm blessed with another bottle of the pill version. Start tomorrow. Then another set of IV infusions, too big for a bottle; they come in a bag, it just hangs there and costs money. A hell of a lot of money. It's unbelievable and harsh the cost, say near 8K a bag — then I turn out to be lucky with my insurance, to be able to do it in the first place. Wait, lucky to have pancreatic cancer, lucky for metastasis. Something like that: lucky since I suppose somehow it could be worse. Before today the symptoms and side-effects seemed to abate, a little "healthier" each day, which is the truism of life, right? A little better and better, until it changes. In Salt Lake I come for what, some escape, some "getting away" . . . and I just woke from a nap filled with dreams that would scare Freud.
Is it place? Is it time? Is it the moment, metaphorically? Some people post comments, they read, they follow. Some do the posting while others lurk, some comment and lurk while others sleep and dream, but of what I can't really say. Some details linger and hang with me, some strewn across high desert sky, some scattered next to the bed, some hiding inside the well-used bottle of oxycodone. That bottle, too and or by the way, is secondary. It's back up. It's breakthrough. There is something about my dreams lately that has changed qualitatively — I don't know if it's all the drugs that course through my system, I don't know if it's the chemo brain, as they say. They. "They." They are me. Who's kidding whom. No one: that is the goal. So if anyone ever asks sometimes why take it so seriously. . . That was one of the first lessons I learned sitting in a waiting room at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, I looked around and at times could see the lake, at times the nearly-clear Seattle sky, but all around me I saw, and this is literal — not to be cheesy, to be glib, to be sarcastic, what you will — I saw community. I am them, they are me. This is what went through my head sitting there, waiting for blood. To give, that is, to have it taken. Funny when you're sick you don't give anymore, you have it taken. I saw all the people as most of you have seen them, no hair common, patchwork hair, all the stages in between, skin and bones some, some pain visible some not, some hope shattered some not, not all, and me today still now if you'd believe it, which you would if you'd see me, I still have mine and I think, based on those who have seen my hair and the rest of me that I look normal. Another word. It's the time the distance that makes me look small or withered or hairless or too thin in the eye of your mind, and how surprising amazing mind-fogging and not because I lack the vocabulary just sheer fucked up that none of that is true, yet perhaps. That I can so not look sick. So, then it was, which is the real point that I looked around and saw a community and realized I was, I am, a part. These are my people, I thought, we're all the same. A pause for thought, mine.
Normal looking, still wearing sometimes a "kind of" sarcastic grin — just trying to carry on for my nephew, so cut me some slack while and if you write, a longhand of reverse genetics, reverse impossible genetics, why not? — but the point that I am now part of this group, that we're the same inside no matter what the outsides are. No matter the age. No matter the caregiver. Yep, I go to SCCA and I can walk and pick up scripts and show my green card and get my little wristband — no not yellow please or sorry — and I am generally strong and able and I am "The Otherwise Healthy 38 Year-old Male" (it's in my chart), but still when I go with someone I go with my caregiver, at least for that day. There have been a few but Gillian knows about this process pretty well, she's spent a number of hours in the chemo ward or the infusion palace or whatever it's called. Something to do with infusion. So where is it all going, that I'm not sure, I just have this state of mind after a nap, after fatigue that came on like a ton of bricks, after lunch with my mother which was not so much like a ton of bricks, after going to the hospital with her — and for her I might add, not for me, a check up, corotid arteries, both sides, black white and red blue, clarity and occlusion — and after some writing but not too much and after food after a handful of meds. With the FedEx man in between. Everybody's fantasy.
This is what Utah will do to you: now what? Do I warn you? Do I invite you? Do I recommend you just read on, make your comments, call now and again, and provide support that does not go unnoticed? Yes, you have to remember the latter, even if I'm napping, even if fatigued, even when it's pouring here like Seattle which it tends to do each time I come like it follows me to remind of something that's supposed to be remembered through rain and about another city and perhaps even another time. I do not know. Every day passes and it gets farther from normalcy I'd say, while at the same time there is this need to work to conform to the normal, to get back to the everyday, to try and push past the barriers that didn't exist before. At least in part that's what I feel. And too there is this seeing. Hundreds of people most so strong and "there," which I need, and still everyone in their own place, from their own place, all trying to deal with individual lives that don't touch this. This doesn't stay put though. So you read a post a comment a phonecall a card and you see a lot of individuals with a lot of individual "situations," at times coming together, at times standing in the same spot looking in the same direction. At times, between the lines, you see the varieties of awareness, love, pain, support, suffering. All the sources varied too.
I feel like I'm sitting at the center of the little steel merry-go-round thing you have to push into action by running in circles in the sand — you get it going from the outside then jump on, the try to move centerward. I don't think I ever pushed this time, don't know, I just know I feel like I'm in the center and watching. The first phone call, then the second diagnosis, were like taps on the shoulder that said "Hey, you're sitting in the center of the little steel merry-go-round thing on the playground, see how long you can either keep moving, or stay sitting there," they said. I just watch the rest of the world and all of you spin around the edges. Remember how the sand gets worn down so there's a little trough, too, a concentric circle around the little merry-go-round? I watch everyone get closer or farther from it, sit or run, push or take notes. It just spins, I just sit.
A line from somewhere if I remember, it's like rain from another city, "I take naps in the afternoon lately, sometimes I dream." Something like that.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
6.08.06, [Short Story, by Machine] One Night in Seoul as The Ideal Life
[Dear Readers: OK, the blog title above mine, I admit. As blog editor-on-occasion I have also added a few brief but necessary explanations in the following piece, usually about Korean terms, which clarifications appear in brackets “[“ and “]”; one or two names have been altered to keep the innocent in your ignorance; and note that everything in this story really happened. It’s crazed, but I shit you not. Also, I still need to discuss the author's identity, not in philosophical terms — but maybe that too — but as he would like it to known on the blog. Since he has posted Comments here and there, though not will nilly, under the nom de guerre "Machine," I will follow suit. Please enjoy, the lenght is worth it (and not wood scale jokes on that last remark). Too, I think it's safe to assume the narrator of the story is in fact Machine, since I too am in there, playing myself, and all the characters for better or for worse are real.
Franky Scale: 7-8, in spite of Zion!
-Mr. J]
“Korea Fighting” by Machine
Its 2:10 pm and I just got home. I can barely see my computer keyboard due to a impenetrable fog that has settled in front of my eyes, and my hands are trembling uncontrollably, most likely due to the “roofie” that Rico slipped into my tequila last night at The Loft. I’d like to thank Walter and especially Mr. Jones, who hung with me to the bitter end when others wouldn’t. Id also like to extend my gratitude to Walter’s West African friend, David, who waited until I was outside the Flexx Club before vomiting all over some extremely pissed off Nigerians and getting the holy ghost beat out of him. I’d also like to accept thanks from the City of Seoul, for single handedly revitalizing the economy of Itaewon last night over a period of 13 hours, and from Mr. Jones, for supporting his graduate education.
I don’t remember much about last night, and I hope that I never will. I woke up about an two hours ago in what appeared to be a jail cell, the only sounds reverberating from a vibrantly throbbing fan that sliced through the thick morning air like helicopter blades over the deep jungles of Malaysia. I had no idea how I got there or where I even was. I was somewhat relieved, when I realized that it was Jones sitting on the corner of the bed, smoking a cigarette and chatting to no one in particular with a crazed and satisfied look on his face.
“What a fucking night, man . . .” “Let’s go,” he mumbled, staring off in space. “They are going to kick us out of here soon, and the girls are getting anxious.” I must have nodded my approval, because Mr. Jones helped me out of bed and put my backpack on my shoulders. “You see that cat?” he asked. Again, I simply shook my head no and hoped that I would soon recognize where we were, as we were now walking through a well-cared for courtyard garden.
“What cat?” I barely croaked out. “The cat that shit in my mouth,” Mr. Jones guffawed loudly and slapped me hard on the back, loosening my bowels. I know what he meant, however, because my mouth felt like an baby turd wrapped in feathers and cotton had flown into it, and was starting to spread itself down my larynx and inevitably into my lower intestines, where it would begin a furious effort at massive reproduction and eventually my death.
Somehow, Mr. Jones led us out of a maze of alleys that would rival any Moroccan medina into daylight, where we were joined by two lovely young local women who seemed to know who we were. Well, actually, they weren't that young. Or lovely. But I’m pretty sure they were women. I instinctively checked to make sure my wallet was there. It was, but all that remained of the 200,000 won that I had hit the streets with last night was several credit card receipts, three crumpled 1,000 won bills and some sort of hieroglyphics written in blood on a canceled check from Montana John. One of the receipts was for the Itaewon “Knight Rider” yôgwan [very cheap, motel like, four cement rice-papered walls, one fan if you’re lucky, & one jimmy cap if you’re really lucky, “if”…] that I had apparently just woken up in. I stared at the girls.
“You sleep good?” the big one asked. She had the eyes of Dr. Gold and the girth of Rruke when he’s retaining water. She gently stroked the head of a stuffed teddy bear that was peeking out of the top of her purse. The bear still had the sale tag on it. She saw me surreptitiously eye and smiled. “Thanks so much,” she bowed. I was starting to realize that once again I had sunk into the deepest depths of what the Italians prefer to call “Il Inferno.” Thankfully, I had company.
I can only recall two scenes from last night with any clarity, one being a member of the proud but fallen Azzuri sitting dejected on a soccer field with his head wrapped in what appeared to be a huge nylon sock, blood leaking down the side of his face as the scoreboard behind him flashed “2-1 Korea Win!” over and over again. The other scene is our very own Toly Kim mounting a moving police van and dancing without his shirt with two very underage junior high school girls, while spitting slug after slug of beer up into the air and all over his body in an effort to imitate Seoul’s very own Han Kang [Han River] Geyser. The judges gave him a 8.3.
I was their biggest non-believer, having the audacity to call a 3-1 Italian victory moments before kickoff from my darkened perch at the Loft. The Koreans in the crowd threatened me with violence and incessant drum bashing, but the Italians nodded their headed solemnly, as if they already knew something I didn’t. When the Italian Blue went up 1-0 early in the first half, a few of the blasphemous headed for the exits to beat the traffic. I wasn’t one of them, and neither was Mr. Jones, or Stash and his lovely bride, or Walter, who just happened to show up for the second half, believing that the game was supposed to start at 9:30 p.m. Toly certainly wasn’t, and after restraining him with some old leather straps to keep him from going after that meat head who always plays pool at the Loft, I started to listen to him. I thought he was describing a drug deal gone sour, with his repeated slurring regarding “high” and “speed.” He was right, of course, the Korean’s had superior action in the air, and their speed was to be reckoned with.
The Azzuri could boast of having arguably the best league in the world, but last night, that mighty giant finished a close second. The Italians left soon after, adhering to their strict code of “Omerta.” Harry S. Truman once said that “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it” while Lyndon B. Johnson, who is known for a trip to the bathroom during his visit to Vietnam in the 60s, when he noted to a Vietnamese legislator at the adjacent urinal that “They don’t grow ‘em this big out here, do they, son?” Well, the Koreans proved them both right last night, in a display of ferocity and anger that would have sent Satan himself scampering into an 8th Circle.
The noise was deafening at the Loft, so I could barely hear Jones when he begin frantically whispering in my ear about “free beer,” “food,” “topless dancing.” Nonetheless, he still managed to get my attention and I followed him outside where several ajôssis [middle-aged or older random Korean male] had gathered around a small black and white TV to watch the game. “It’s cool,” Jones whispered to me. “Ask them for some beer and food, they’ll give it to you, I swear to Jacob on it.” Well, I didn’t have to ask, because with almost no time left on the clock, the Koreans scored a tying goal that raised a roar from the Yalu River to the uncharted islands off of the East Sea.
“Hesus Christo,” Mr. Jones whispered, dumbfounded. “The Koreans seem to think they’re in a soccer game.” A redfaced, older Korean man slapped a beer in my hand and took me by the scruff of the neck closer to the screen.
“Korea!” he blurted out, pointing to the TV. His grip on my neck and upper spine tightened. “FUCKING KOREA!!” I craned my head around to find Jones for help, but he was off drinking soju [foul chemically “fermented” moonshine] out of an ice cream pint sized container he had commandeered from two Base Brats who had tried to steal a beer from the overflowing vat before us. The game had moved into overtime, and I could barely see the screen that my face was being held mere centimeters from. I looked again for Mr. Jones, as my nerve endings screamed for release and my eyes began to bulge uncontrollably. The world was going red and white, and Jones was happily munching on grilled octopus head as the ajôssi kept screaming into my face “Korea Fight! Korea Fight! Korea Goal holy shit Korea score Korea FUCKING GOAL KOREA!!!” And then the night exploded . . .
Of course, events get jumbled after that. My brain can’t seem to recollect anything, and the only messages its sending to me now are the involuntary desires to breathe, pump my blood and drink water, but I’m too lazy to get up from the computer for the last one. I remember sprinting through the streets touching anything that moved. I had been reborn in the downpour of raining beer and dry champagne, baptism by booze, trial by fire. I hugged anything that moved, dwarfs, police, MPs — I kissed working ajûmmas [female equivalent of the ajôssi], babies, the egg burger guy, I danced in the streets, I shouted capitalist, nationalistic slogans, I sang songs I knew and I sang songs I didn’t know. I laughed . . . I cried . . . I grabbed on for dear life to Korean women with huge, pendulous breasts . . . I curled up in the fetal position by the side of the subway station, sick on Tower Burgers and beer (but getting some great upskirt shots), again and again, Walter’s evil, flashing camera lit up the night like a tracer bazooka, snapping digital photos of me in extremely compromising positions that I now must find and delete those photos before English Spectrum’s afternoon edition goes to press.
“Its coooooollll, maaaaaaaaannnnn,” Walter gave me his million-dollar smile. “Let’s get outta here . . . maaaaaannn, this is my boy David,” he introduced a quiet young African man who seemed to be quaking in trepidation like a scared rodent, cowering in fear under its master’s bed on the fourth of July. “We going to go get some at King Club, baby!” Walter announced to the streets, both fists raised in the unmistakable sign of a conqueror. He suddenly leaned over and began breathing heavily into my face, “But first, me you and Jones going to go over to that Flexx Club.” Walter lowered his voice noticeably . . . “I gotta bottle there for us.”
I really can’t remember much after that . . . strange visions of Flexx Club and a Peruvian waitress named Marta . . . a stone cold Russian girl who refused to smile, dumped a cola on Mr. Jones’s head and threatened my life, even after Walter busted out several jokes in amazing Russian with just a hint of a Ukrainian accent . . . I remember doing a Cha Cha line dance in an empty King Club with nos. 1-3 while Toly cheered me on and drank my pellucid soju slushi . . . I can barely smell the scent of samgyôpsal [thick grilled strips of baconlike swinemeat, dipped in salt, wrapped in lettuce, good for the heart] and eggs during the daylight hours when Mr. Jones insisted on eating breakfast behind some strange church that wasn’t there the following morning . . . I can see someone shooting a roman candle at my head, and Stash taking him down from behind with a leg sweep . . . I can hear the patter of barefeet and gun fire at 8:30 in the morning in a permanently darkened Russian club where the clocks were always set on 2:50 a.m. and powerful Russian girls in jean skirts on dangerous Crystal Meth and steroid cocktails argued over Jones and had to be separated by Koreans smaller than them, while I sat at a table with two deaf mutes, one who offered to exchange his ajûmma into my slavery for just once dance with my “date” . . . I definitely can see my date, tricking me like the trick I am into, buying a frigging teddy bear for 30,000 won like the GI Sucker I always swore I wouldn’t be . . . and . . . and . . . .
And I can still see Mr. Jones. He is sitting on the corner of my bed, fully clothed, puffing on a cigarette made from newspaper and dried tobacco seeds, pensively staring out the door that had probably been open all morning displaying my handphone and wallet whilst I slept undisturbed by the whirring robotic fan and the explosion of breaking bottles throughout the morning, slowly turning his head to look at me and say, with all honesty and truth:
“Man, did you see that fucking game last night?”
KOREA FIGHTING
Franky Scale: 7-8, in spite of Zion!
-Mr. J]
“Korea Fighting” by Machine
Its 2:10 pm and I just got home. I can barely see my computer keyboard due to a impenetrable fog that has settled in front of my eyes, and my hands are trembling uncontrollably, most likely due to the “roofie” that Rico slipped into my tequila last night at The Loft. I’d like to thank Walter and especially Mr. Jones, who hung with me to the bitter end when others wouldn’t. Id also like to extend my gratitude to Walter’s West African friend, David, who waited until I was outside the Flexx Club before vomiting all over some extremely pissed off Nigerians and getting the holy ghost beat out of him. I’d also like to accept thanks from the City of Seoul, for single handedly revitalizing the economy of Itaewon last night over a period of 13 hours, and from Mr. Jones, for supporting his graduate education.
I don’t remember much about last night, and I hope that I never will. I woke up about an two hours ago in what appeared to be a jail cell, the only sounds reverberating from a vibrantly throbbing fan that sliced through the thick morning air like helicopter blades over the deep jungles of Malaysia. I had no idea how I got there or where I even was. I was somewhat relieved, when I realized that it was Jones sitting on the corner of the bed, smoking a cigarette and chatting to no one in particular with a crazed and satisfied look on his face.
“What a fucking night, man . . .” “Let’s go,” he mumbled, staring off in space. “They are going to kick us out of here soon, and the girls are getting anxious.” I must have nodded my approval, because Mr. Jones helped me out of bed and put my backpack on my shoulders. “You see that cat?” he asked. Again, I simply shook my head no and hoped that I would soon recognize where we were, as we were now walking through a well-cared for courtyard garden.
“What cat?” I barely croaked out. “The cat that shit in my mouth,” Mr. Jones guffawed loudly and slapped me hard on the back, loosening my bowels. I know what he meant, however, because my mouth felt like an baby turd wrapped in feathers and cotton had flown into it, and was starting to spread itself down my larynx and inevitably into my lower intestines, where it would begin a furious effort at massive reproduction and eventually my death.
Somehow, Mr. Jones led us out of a maze of alleys that would rival any Moroccan medina into daylight, where we were joined by two lovely young local women who seemed to know who we were. Well, actually, they weren't that young. Or lovely. But I’m pretty sure they were women. I instinctively checked to make sure my wallet was there. It was, but all that remained of the 200,000 won that I had hit the streets with last night was several credit card receipts, three crumpled 1,000 won bills and some sort of hieroglyphics written in blood on a canceled check from Montana John. One of the receipts was for the Itaewon “Knight Rider” yôgwan [very cheap, motel like, four cement rice-papered walls, one fan if you’re lucky, & one jimmy cap if you’re really lucky, “if”…] that I had apparently just woken up in. I stared at the girls.
“You sleep good?” the big one asked. She had the eyes of Dr. Gold and the girth of Rruke when he’s retaining water. She gently stroked the head of a stuffed teddy bear that was peeking out of the top of her purse. The bear still had the sale tag on it. She saw me surreptitiously eye and smiled. “Thanks so much,” she bowed. I was starting to realize that once again I had sunk into the deepest depths of what the Italians prefer to call “Il Inferno.” Thankfully, I had company.
I can only recall two scenes from last night with any clarity, one being a member of the proud but fallen Azzuri sitting dejected on a soccer field with his head wrapped in what appeared to be a huge nylon sock, blood leaking down the side of his face as the scoreboard behind him flashed “2-1 Korea Win!” over and over again. The other scene is our very own Toly Kim mounting a moving police van and dancing without his shirt with two very underage junior high school girls, while spitting slug after slug of beer up into the air and all over his body in an effort to imitate Seoul’s very own Han Kang [Han River] Geyser. The judges gave him a 8.3.
I was their biggest non-believer, having the audacity to call a 3-1 Italian victory moments before kickoff from my darkened perch at the Loft. The Koreans in the crowd threatened me with violence and incessant drum bashing, but the Italians nodded their headed solemnly, as if they already knew something I didn’t. When the Italian Blue went up 1-0 early in the first half, a few of the blasphemous headed for the exits to beat the traffic. I wasn’t one of them, and neither was Mr. Jones, or Stash and his lovely bride, or Walter, who just happened to show up for the second half, believing that the game was supposed to start at 9:30 p.m. Toly certainly wasn’t, and after restraining him with some old leather straps to keep him from going after that meat head who always plays pool at the Loft, I started to listen to him. I thought he was describing a drug deal gone sour, with his repeated slurring regarding “high” and “speed.” He was right, of course, the Korean’s had superior action in the air, and their speed was to be reckoned with.
The Azzuri could boast of having arguably the best league in the world, but last night, that mighty giant finished a close second. The Italians left soon after, adhering to their strict code of “Omerta.” Harry S. Truman once said that “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it” while Lyndon B. Johnson, who is known for a trip to the bathroom during his visit to Vietnam in the 60s, when he noted to a Vietnamese legislator at the adjacent urinal that “They don’t grow ‘em this big out here, do they, son?” Well, the Koreans proved them both right last night, in a display of ferocity and anger that would have sent Satan himself scampering into an 8th Circle.
The noise was deafening at the Loft, so I could barely hear Jones when he begin frantically whispering in my ear about “free beer,” “food,” “topless dancing.” Nonetheless, he still managed to get my attention and I followed him outside where several ajôssis [middle-aged or older random Korean male] had gathered around a small black and white TV to watch the game. “It’s cool,” Jones whispered to me. “Ask them for some beer and food, they’ll give it to you, I swear to Jacob on it.” Well, I didn’t have to ask, because with almost no time left on the clock, the Koreans scored a tying goal that raised a roar from the Yalu River to the uncharted islands off of the East Sea.
“Hesus Christo,” Mr. Jones whispered, dumbfounded. “The Koreans seem to think they’re in a soccer game.” A redfaced, older Korean man slapped a beer in my hand and took me by the scruff of the neck closer to the screen.
“Korea!” he blurted out, pointing to the TV. His grip on my neck and upper spine tightened. “FUCKING KOREA!!” I craned my head around to find Jones for help, but he was off drinking soju [foul chemically “fermented” moonshine] out of an ice cream pint sized container he had commandeered from two Base Brats who had tried to steal a beer from the overflowing vat before us. The game had moved into overtime, and I could barely see the screen that my face was being held mere centimeters from. I looked again for Mr. Jones, as my nerve endings screamed for release and my eyes began to bulge uncontrollably. The world was going red and white, and Jones was happily munching on grilled octopus head as the ajôssi kept screaming into my face “Korea Fight! Korea Fight! Korea Goal holy shit Korea score Korea FUCKING GOAL KOREA!!!” And then the night exploded . . .
Of course, events get jumbled after that. My brain can’t seem to recollect anything, and the only messages its sending to me now are the involuntary desires to breathe, pump my blood and drink water, but I’m too lazy to get up from the computer for the last one. I remember sprinting through the streets touching anything that moved. I had been reborn in the downpour of raining beer and dry champagne, baptism by booze, trial by fire. I hugged anything that moved, dwarfs, police, MPs — I kissed working ajûmmas [female equivalent of the ajôssi], babies, the egg burger guy, I danced in the streets, I shouted capitalist, nationalistic slogans, I sang songs I knew and I sang songs I didn’t know. I laughed . . . I cried . . . I grabbed on for dear life to Korean women with huge, pendulous breasts . . . I curled up in the fetal position by the side of the subway station, sick on Tower Burgers and beer (but getting some great upskirt shots), again and again, Walter’s evil, flashing camera lit up the night like a tracer bazooka, snapping digital photos of me in extremely compromising positions that I now must find and delete those photos before English Spectrum’s afternoon edition goes to press.
“Its coooooollll, maaaaaaaaannnnn,” Walter gave me his million-dollar smile. “Let’s get outta here . . . maaaaaannn, this is my boy David,” he introduced a quiet young African man who seemed to be quaking in trepidation like a scared rodent, cowering in fear under its master’s bed on the fourth of July. “We going to go get some at King Club, baby!” Walter announced to the streets, both fists raised in the unmistakable sign of a conqueror. He suddenly leaned over and began breathing heavily into my face, “But first, me you and Jones going to go over to that Flexx Club.” Walter lowered his voice noticeably . . . “I gotta bottle there for us.”
I really can’t remember much after that . . . strange visions of Flexx Club and a Peruvian waitress named Marta . . . a stone cold Russian girl who refused to smile, dumped a cola on Mr. Jones’s head and threatened my life, even after Walter busted out several jokes in amazing Russian with just a hint of a Ukrainian accent . . . I remember doing a Cha Cha line dance in an empty King Club with nos. 1-3 while Toly cheered me on and drank my pellucid soju slushi . . . I can barely smell the scent of samgyôpsal [thick grilled strips of baconlike swinemeat, dipped in salt, wrapped in lettuce, good for the heart] and eggs during the daylight hours when Mr. Jones insisted on eating breakfast behind some strange church that wasn’t there the following morning . . . I can see someone shooting a roman candle at my head, and Stash taking him down from behind with a leg sweep . . . I can hear the patter of barefeet and gun fire at 8:30 in the morning in a permanently darkened Russian club where the clocks were always set on 2:50 a.m. and powerful Russian girls in jean skirts on dangerous Crystal Meth and steroid cocktails argued over Jones and had to be separated by Koreans smaller than them, while I sat at a table with two deaf mutes, one who offered to exchange his ajûmma into my slavery for just once dance with my “date” . . . I definitely can see my date, tricking me like the trick I am into, buying a frigging teddy bear for 30,000 won like the GI Sucker I always swore I wouldn’t be . . . and . . . and . . . .
And I can still see Mr. Jones. He is sitting on the corner of my bed, fully clothed, puffing on a cigarette made from newspaper and dried tobacco seeds, pensively staring out the door that had probably been open all morning displaying my handphone and wallet whilst I slept undisturbed by the whirring robotic fan and the explosion of breaking bottles throughout the morning, slowly turning his head to look at me and say, with all honesty and truth:
“Man, did you see that fucking game last night?”
KOREA FIGHTING
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
6.07.06, The Ideal Life & Nonfiction
This phrase came up in a recent post. Though provoking, if you take it seriously; but that even begs a question, "Does such a life exist?" So,
"What is the ideal life?"
We'll have to come back to this.
This morning I'm flying to Zion — just like in the Matrix, and I can go lament taking the Red Pill. Hm.
Also, the World Cup is almost here and we have a special short story treat, guaranteed to entertain, probably more than anything else on the blog. I've enlisted a friend and writer who caught A Day and Night in the Ideal Life during the last World Cup in Seoul. Need to check some formatting, etc., the identities of the innocent — only the innocent mind you — and then it's yours. Just wondering whether to post it a day early to help get you ready for the big event, or on Friday to help you celebrate the opening day....?
The wait will be worth it.
Franky Scale: really too early to tell, but I'll say 8 for this early am. With SLC approaching, should I say "5"? No, no, no. "12" right?
"What is the ideal life?"
We'll have to come back to this.
This morning I'm flying to Zion — just like in the Matrix, and I can go lament taking the Red Pill. Hm.
Also, the World Cup is almost here and we have a special short story treat, guaranteed to entertain, probably more than anything else on the blog. I've enlisted a friend and writer who caught A Day and Night in the Ideal Life during the last World Cup in Seoul. Need to check some formatting, etc., the identities of the innocent — only the innocent mind you — and then it's yours. Just wondering whether to post it a day early to help get you ready for the big event, or on Friday to help you celebrate the opening day....?
The wait will be worth it.
Franky Scale: really too early to tell, but I'll say 8 for this early am. With SLC approaching, should I say "5"? No, no, no. "12" right?
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
6-6-6, Numerology & Satan
(P.S. I've noticed there's someone (or one portal / ISP) from Portugal who comes to the blog every now and again; not sure who it is, but just to make the world slightly smaller I thought you might like to know I've been going back into my Spinoza lately, and trying to find some additional material on his life, in relation to another little project I have going on the side. Part of which concerns excommunication, and by some weird coincidence, if I remember correctly, I was excommunicated at the same age as Mr. Spinoza--though apparently my "evil acts" were not quite so noble. -Mr. J)
OK sorry, there's really nothing about Satan in here. But with the date and all, you'd expect it, right? And just like the prurience so many demonstrate by your interest in working wood or wood scales, I know there's also a slightly evil side, a kind of play-with-fire aspect hidden or not so hidden in you. That's why I love you.
For numerology, I'll post a Franky Scale number of 8. Good overall, yes; but I have to be honest it's slightly unsettling to me. I can't help but think of the calm before the storm idea, and of course there is Saturday next with more chemo drugs to stuffed into my cakehole. On this auspicious date, at least, it's going well.
I have to enjoy my life today especially for another reason — tomorrow I'm going to Utah! God help me ;-)
(Does anyone know how to make a little keyboard smiley face with the sign of the beast on it?)
OK sorry, there's really nothing about Satan in here. But with the date and all, you'd expect it, right? And just like the prurience so many demonstrate by your interest in working wood or wood scales, I know there's also a slightly evil side, a kind of play-with-fire aspect hidden or not so hidden in you. That's why I love you.
For numerology, I'll post a Franky Scale number of 8. Good overall, yes; but I have to be honest it's slightly unsettling to me. I can't help but think of the calm before the storm idea, and of course there is Saturday next with more chemo drugs to stuffed into my cakehole. On this auspicious date, at least, it's going well.
I have to enjoy my life today especially for another reason — tomorrow I'm going to Utah! God help me ;-)
(Does anyone know how to make a little keyboard smiley face with the sign of the beast on it?)
Monday, June 05, 2006
6.05.06, Books not Words (well, not too many words)
Franky Scale: 8 then 7ish. Good first half of the day then some nausea of unknown origin. Not a big deal but when it comes without warning it can be harder to get in check after the onset. Fine overall though.
This a late in the day post, obviously, after 6 pm here in Seattle, and even though I've thought about what to post not much has come to mind, so I'll keep it relatively short, spare everyone too much trivia, and will have to wait until I get the fourth seasons of the The Sorpranos and rewatch that for more inspiration... Till then.
One item on books: I picked up two books on death this week. (A comment that sound unnecessarily morbid out of context, so bit it.) One of them is apparently a "classic" that until now I've never had occasion to or motivation to read. It's On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Once I picked it up I realized this is the locus classicus for the five stages of dealing with grief/dying, stages it seems like we all "know" and try to recall but forget after listing one or two of them (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance). The second book is by Stephen Levine and is called A Year to Live. Kubler-Ross's book is not bad about 60 pp. into it, although I could do without the belief in a life, or generally "life" after death, also much of the slight religious overtones. Not a 2 x 4 over the head approach, still, I much prefer the tone of a Camus, a Nietzsche, even a Bataille. Also the book seems geared in many ways toward everyone but the dying, The Dying, so ominous that title; and she's written what seems to be a dozen or more other books among which there are definitely a few totally directed at helping others come to terms with what the terminally ill person's experience seems to be like. It's all second hand, right. Of course. Either way, it seems worth a single read from me, and there are a number of transcribed interviews with patients at the end that are worth looking at.
Book two, subtitled — and I cringe at admitting this, that I'm actually going to read it, oh well — the subtitle is "How to Live this Year as if it Were Your Last." Seems to be a self-helpish kind of thing designed to help "you" live a fuller life "in the now" and then later, probably after an editor's suggestions, was reshaped slightly to say "Oh yeah, if you're really dying this can help you too!" To be fair, the author appears to have experience with interviews or counseling with the terminally ill and some of the insights of the book are based on that. So, excizing all the new-age and spiritualist cheese from it — or should I say "resecting" it? — there may also be some worthwhile points in there. At least that's what I aim to find out. (On the other end of the spectrum I've come across a couple of more philosophically oriented titles that appear to have at least as much insight, however the academic book's shortcomings become blindingly obvious when they are on the topic of death and are read in the situation I find myself. Still, age-old questions, anxieties, and fears. One is called Facing Death: Epicurus and His Critics, by James Warren; not bad so far if you can see past the silly scholarly apparatus and tone. The other is The Vitality of Death: Essays in Existential Pscychology and Philosophy, by Peter Koestenbaum; a rather meaty thing, about 600 pp., and looks very good from the initial skim I gave it.
The long and short of it, of these or any books, will already be a question in some of your minds: what the hell good is a book at this point? My answer: I agree. It's just that when you're in the mood it might be poetry, could be fiction, a guilty glance at a new-agey leaflet, or even something trying too hard to be erudite and get someone tenure. Other times are for music. Some for conversation. Some, silence and watching the sky disappear into night. Whatever hits in the moment.
This a late in the day post, obviously, after 6 pm here in Seattle, and even though I've thought about what to post not much has come to mind, so I'll keep it relatively short, spare everyone too much trivia, and will have to wait until I get the fourth seasons of the The Sorpranos and rewatch that for more inspiration... Till then.
One item on books: I picked up two books on death this week. (A comment that sound unnecessarily morbid out of context, so bit it.) One of them is apparently a "classic" that until now I've never had occasion to or motivation to read. It's On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Once I picked it up I realized this is the locus classicus for the five stages of dealing with grief/dying, stages it seems like we all "know" and try to recall but forget after listing one or two of them (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance). The second book is by Stephen Levine and is called A Year to Live. Kubler-Ross's book is not bad about 60 pp. into it, although I could do without the belief in a life, or generally "life" after death, also much of the slight religious overtones. Not a 2 x 4 over the head approach, still, I much prefer the tone of a Camus, a Nietzsche, even a Bataille. Also the book seems geared in many ways toward everyone but the dying, The Dying, so ominous that title; and she's written what seems to be a dozen or more other books among which there are definitely a few totally directed at helping others come to terms with what the terminally ill person's experience seems to be like. It's all second hand, right. Of course. Either way, it seems worth a single read from me, and there are a number of transcribed interviews with patients at the end that are worth looking at.
Book two, subtitled — and I cringe at admitting this, that I'm actually going to read it, oh well — the subtitle is "How to Live this Year as if it Were Your Last." Seems to be a self-helpish kind of thing designed to help "you" live a fuller life "in the now" and then later, probably after an editor's suggestions, was reshaped slightly to say "Oh yeah, if you're really dying this can help you too!" To be fair, the author appears to have experience with interviews or counseling with the terminally ill and some of the insights of the book are based on that. So, excizing all the new-age and spiritualist cheese from it — or should I say "resecting" it? — there may also be some worthwhile points in there. At least that's what I aim to find out. (On the other end of the spectrum I've come across a couple of more philosophically oriented titles that appear to have at least as much insight, however the academic book's shortcomings become blindingly obvious when they are on the topic of death and are read in the situation I find myself. Still, age-old questions, anxieties, and fears. One is called Facing Death: Epicurus and His Critics, by James Warren; not bad so far if you can see past the silly scholarly apparatus and tone. The other is The Vitality of Death: Essays in Existential Pscychology and Philosophy, by Peter Koestenbaum; a rather meaty thing, about 600 pp., and looks very good from the initial skim I gave it.
The long and short of it, of these or any books, will already be a question in some of your minds: what the hell good is a book at this point? My answer: I agree. It's just that when you're in the mood it might be poetry, could be fiction, a guilty glance at a new-agey leaflet, or even something trying too hard to be erudite and get someone tenure. Other times are for music. Some for conversation. Some, silence and watching the sky disappear into night. Whatever hits in the moment.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
6.04.06, [Guest Blog, by David] "One Dirty & One Straight," Poem
[Good Sunday: David's sent in a post to be guest blogged and today is the day, could be seen as poem or travelogue or both and more, all there and unedited except one point five stanzas at the end where the narrative slightly trails. It holds together well nonetheless. It's great to see into this experience from the eyes of some perceptive others. And too, thanks to David for not having any drop lines or indents in what follows! (I apparently need to work on my HTML skills to be able to effectively indent. Who knew?) -Mr. J., and the title was picked out by the editor, second choice was "What Silence Suffices"--very nice, too, more serious tone though...]
"One Dirty & One Straight"
What silence suffices to enclose
or all that other messy self expression
Here at the intersection of Broadway and John
d waits for mr. j
All that traffic passes
(all that traffic passes includes me this time)
From somewhere somewhere bound
earnestly nudging the green go-ahead
When down the block
or up it
comes mr. j, the distinctive stride,
carriage, making his way
closer, he is as he ever was
thinner than I remember
who could ever watcha gonna
very focused, this young man
with his bit of beard, burns, earring
we walk away a block to foregather
over cups of coffee one palmiér
talked about many
imaginable and unimaginable things
occasional bouts of “chemo-brain” he laughed wry
as for a moment a book title or passage stayed away
right there, nothing changed, everything changes
changing change stays the same
so utterly random
“and unfair?” I ask
“No, because what does that make ‘fair’?”
Administrative bureaucratic practices are not
Cite that knowing attitude!
he’s say Why
not, why not why not why not
why not why not why not why
not why not why not why not
why not. Not why. Why not.
O the dim closeness
of the bar, the cheery
ineptitude of its tender
who with a muttered oath
spills with apologies the glass, it was
a glass of water which broke
as we leaped up (not us!) from
seats, seats at the bar, we
were seated at the bar with
a cheery pair of martinis,
one dirty & one straight
What do we talk about discuss what
the usual things the rain the car
caught in traffic the likelihood
of parking now at this hour how
the cats Yes Crantz and Icarus
one slightly distant there
one here on the floor urging
a pat touch word Tell us
Crantz, tell us how it was
at your doctor’s office this day
We had arrived from the rain
to a joyous greeting from someone’s pug named
Lucy and the phone rings it’s
a “call lost” there in the shelter
of the shelter.
Look, I might have said What what
and mr. j he say
Well, the
whole things be
what I what,
not what I meant but listen soon I will reveal
the recommendation,
what the counselor said
But here in the street now
runs an alley behind brick buildings
the rain not “heavy” in any sense
but falling steadily.
. . . [TBC?]
Franky Scale: I dare say 8, now that I'm two days into the glorious week of no chemo drugs at all; knock on wood — not that kind (boy this could get confusing; and too of course I've already received numerous emails about the hypothetical wood scale since that post, it's clear where the real interests lie...) — but do that or something else superstitious since my motility, as we like to say, is not ideal. The rest of my system seems to functioning fairly well. So 8 in the a.m., who knows where I'll find myself in the late p.m.?
"One Dirty & One Straight"
What silence suffices to enclose
or all that other messy self expression
Here at the intersection of Broadway and John
d waits for mr. j
All that traffic passes
(all that traffic passes includes me this time)
From somewhere somewhere bound
earnestly nudging the green go-ahead
When down the block
or up it
comes mr. j, the distinctive stride,
carriage, making his way
closer, he is as he ever was
thinner than I remember
who could ever watcha gonna
very focused, this young man
with his bit of beard, burns, earring
we walk away a block to foregather
over cups of coffee one palmiér
talked about many
imaginable and unimaginable things
occasional bouts of “chemo-brain” he laughed wry
as for a moment a book title or passage stayed away
right there, nothing changed, everything changes
changing change stays the same
so utterly random
“and unfair?” I ask
“No, because what does that make ‘fair’?”
Administrative bureaucratic practices are not
Cite that knowing attitude!
he’s say Why
not, why not why not why not
why not why not why not why
not why not why not why not
why not. Not why. Why not.
O the dim closeness
of the bar, the cheery
ineptitude of its tender
who with a muttered oath
spills with apologies the glass, it was
a glass of water which broke
as we leaped up (not us!) from
seats, seats at the bar, we
were seated at the bar with
a cheery pair of martinis,
one dirty & one straight
What do we talk about discuss what
the usual things the rain the car
caught in traffic the likelihood
of parking now at this hour how
the cats Yes Crantz and Icarus
one slightly distant there
one here on the floor urging
a pat touch word Tell us
Crantz, tell us how it was
at your doctor’s office this day
We had arrived from the rain
to a joyous greeting from someone’s pug named
Lucy and the phone rings it’s
a “call lost” there in the shelter
of the shelter.
Look, I might have said What what
and mr. j he say
Well, the
whole things be
what I what,
not what I meant but listen soon I will reveal
the recommendation,
what the counselor said
But here in the street now
runs an alley behind brick buildings
the rain not “heavy” in any sense
but falling steadily.
. . . [TBC?]
Franky Scale: I dare say 8, now that I'm two days into the glorious week of no chemo drugs at all; knock on wood — not that kind (boy this could get confusing; and too of course I've already received numerous emails about the hypothetical wood scale since that post, it's clear where the real interests lie...) — but do that or something else superstitious since my motility, as we like to say, is not ideal. The rest of my system seems to functioning fairly well. So 8 in the a.m., who knows where I'll find myself in the late p.m.?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.)
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.
Friday, June 02, 2006
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!)
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!)
Thursday, June 01, 2006
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
[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
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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?"
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?"
Monday, May 29, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
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.)
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.)
Friday, May 26, 2006
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.
[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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.”
* 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.”
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
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.
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)
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)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
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
[...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
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