All Write, All Write, All Write...

"Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?" —Uncle Walt

"I sing the body electric." —Same dude

"And your very flesh shall be a great poem." —Again, same dude

"I sing the body pathetic." —This chick right here



Mike: "You know, a perfect female body, it's not a bad place to start."
Tony: "But with the head of Abraham Lincoln. With the hat and the beard and everything. Well, best not to think too deep on it."
Mike: "Best not." —Dazed and Confused


Dazed and Confused is precisely my current state, and I ain't talkin' post-midterm elections Florida. (Okay, a little, I am.) A flu-sinus-infection-y thing has laid me out for the past week, and I'm still not one-hundred-percent. For me, this is not a good thing, for reasons beyond the obvious.

You cannot start an immunosuppressive drug or biologic such as Enbrel (entanercept) to battle rheumatoid, or any of a multitude of other illnesses, when fighting any kind of sickness, be it a sinus infection-y thing or a nasty blackhead. Here's why:

"On May 2, 2008, the FDA placed a black box warning on etanercept due to a number of serious infections associated with the drug.^[9]

It included required changes to the labeling one of which is "In post-marketing reports, serious infections and sepsis, including fatalities, have been reported with the use of Etanercept. Many of these serious events have occurred in patients with underlying diseases that could predispose them to infections. Rare cases of Tuberculosis (TB) have been observed in patients treated with TNF antagonists, including Etanercept. Patients who develop a new infection while undergoing treatment with Etanercept should be monitored closely. Administration of Etanercept should be discontinued if a patient develops a serious infection or sepsis. Treatment with Etanercept should not be initiated in patients with active infections including chronic or localized infections. Physicians should exercise caution when considering the use of Etanercept in patients with a history of recurring infections or with underlying conditions which may predispose patients to infections..." --Wikipedia, our modern-day abhidhamma pitaka.

Well that's not piss-your-pants terrifying at all!

I've literally (and yes, I'm using "literally" in the most literal sense—figuratively speaking) been counting the days up to my next appointment with the rheumatologist, when she'll show me how to inject myself with the drug. (I asked for heroin, but she wants to wait and see if the Enbrel works before going that route. Either way, I'll know what I'm doing.) Today is November 9th; my appointment is on November 11th. I'm still running a fever.

Wooderson: "Hey man, you got a joint?"

Mitch: "No, not on me, man."

Wooderson: "It'd be a lot cooler if you did..."

I've got more joints than I know what to do with—and all of them hurt.

I'm petrified (both literally and figuratively; rheumatoid arthritis should be renamed Medusa's Disease) that if I don't get the initial shot on Tuesday, the doctor will change her mind and ix-nay the Enbrel, because I've had to fight tooth, nail, and swollen knuckles for half my life to finally get approved for the drug. Every doctor had a different reason to not prescribe it: I was too young; I was of childbearing age and the medication could potentially harm a hypothetical fetus (the hysterectomy surgically removed that reason right quick); I hadn't (yet) been "firmly diagnosed" with rheumatoid—only all of its sisterly sidekick illnesses—and they wanted a positive RA factor in my blood work; I had a headache and a hangnail; the doctor didn't like my haircut and diagnosed me sarcastic, obnoxious, and vulgar. This was after I called him Shemp and told him to go fuck himself, so I'm not sure exactly how he came up with that.

Fact is, I'm scared. Scared and angry and frustrated and sick and tired of being goddamn sick and tired. I'm also sick and tired of saying I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Shavonne: "What in the hell are you talking about, lady?"

*****

Cynthia: "God, don't you ever feel like everything we do and everything we've been taught is just to service the future?"
Tony: "Yeah I know, like it's all preparation."
Cynthia: "Right. But what are we preparing ourselves for?"
Mike: "Death."
Tony: "Life of the party."
Mike: "It's true."
Cynthia: "You know, but that's valid because if we are all gonna die anyway shouldn't we be enjoying ourselves now? You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present, like right now, as some minor insignificant preamble to something else."

I should be enjoying myself, dammit! We all should! Right the hell now! At 18, I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, and chronic fatigue syndrome—all that and a bag of chips called a near-lifetime of agonizing poly-cystic ovarian disease and endometriosis. That's a shit-ton of physical and psychological burden for a kid to handle—and I didn't handle it well for a long, long, long time. Twenty years of not (fully) enjoying myself is too damn long. Coming home from work only to flop into bed, crying and hurting everydamnwhere, only to have to do it all again the next day, is not enjoyable. Entertaining an imaginary (read: web-based) social life is not enjoyable. Not that I don't adore you all, but c'mon, man. I miss going out, interacting with people, coming home in the wee hours slightly buzzed, smiling at the memories just made, but that doesn't happen anymore, ever, because flares randomly occur and negate any potential plans, or if I dare leave the house, I come home in much the same condition I did after an eight (or six or three) hour day on the job: exhausted, hurting, and furious that I can't exist as a normal adult in this world.

Okay, semi-normal. Kinda normal. Shut up, is what I say to you.

Mike: "I'm just trying to be honest about being a misanthrope."

Right on, man. Like, right on.

Slater: "Are you cool, man?"
Mitch: "Like how, man?
Slater: "Oh-kay..."

Some of you who know me best might be freaking out a little at this sudden misanthropic perspective, but really, I am cool.

Slater: "She was a hip, hip lady, man..."

Okay, "cool" in the sense that I am fine emotionally and psychologically. Everyone knows I've never been "cool." You want that definition of cool, look to one Matthew McConaughey.

Mitch's mother: "Are you drunk?"
Mitch: "Pssshht..."

My mom: "Give me back my computer, god dammit! You've had it all frigging day!"

That's all right, all right, all right, pretty Mama, 'cause I've run out of things to say, anyway. All that remains is this, the half-a-dozen things in life I know for sure:

1) I dunno for sure. Never have. Or, as my mom, the self-designated Old Sweaty Woman, just put it, "The more I know, the more I don't know." However...

2) Everything's gonna be all right, all right, all right. Because...

3) "The future is no more uncertain than the present." —A Sweaty-toothed Madman.

4) Mike: "I wanna DANCE!!!"

5) Got damn, I love this life of mine. Sincerely, honestly: I really, really do. 

6)

"L - I - V - I - N!"

Now I gotta score Aerosmith tickets and some drugs. Top priority of November.

To all of my "loser friends": I love the hell outta you. Now go chill with some good buds and, of course, take it easy...

If you live in Denver or Seattle. Obviously.

Death is a Mile Marker

I just want what everyone standing on the perimeter of Death's cold shadow wants: for the pain to cease, but the loved one to remain.

*****

As we silently stroll Hemingway's rain-slicked, Parisian streets, alternately stomping its shadows and kicking at its puddles, we relentlessly gnaw on the darkest pieces of our personal Moveable Feasts, chewing them flavorless and sucking the juices bone dry before swallowing them whole. Despite the acidity, we force the shards down until we choke. It's a little death—somewhat smaller than that of the loved one lost, but a failure of the heart, just the same.

Yet, we trudge and stumble and kick on.

We mark the miles of every achievement: each conquest and celebration; one year passed and another begun; one more life welcomed into this fragile yet indestructible world, home, small womb we call a heart. We establish life by making strides towards its end. Stages of grief, though, make the deepest cuts in time, delineating all that pushes us forward in celebration from that which grievously stops the clocks.

Then come the off-ramps, the crossroads and, Christ, if any of us know which way to turn. Anyone who says they do is a liar. Because the heading’s been lost; the North Star, snuffed out. Though you will eventually find a way, it will never be the path originally chosen. It will never end with the soft flesh of a proud embrace from those you most hoped would welcome you home. Because, goddammit, you can’t go home again. It ceases to exist the moment you close the door behind you.

And so, you make your farewell to arms...and travel on.

*****

When emotional pain overwhelms, there occurs in my left arm a pain that shoots from shoulder to wrist, which then makes a home my index finger, like I swallowed the smallest sun comprised of blood, threaded with aching sorrow. This violet throb has always been my reminder: It doesn’t get worse than this. It cannot ever hurt worse than this.

Of course, though, it always can. I always knew this on a logical level, I thought. But logic always fails when most needed. It could never get worse than that thudding purple—until March 11^th of 2012. On that day, I thought oxygen dissipated; that my heart beat only as a timer, ticking off the seconds before its detonation. My shoulder, arm, bloodless fingertip, went numb. All was insensate.

Yet, I’m still breathing; my heart, still beating.

It all comes down to this, always this:

I miss my daddy. I want him back. God, every day, I want to once more feel the proud wrap of his fragile, paper-thin flesh around my waist, his crippled hands stroking my shoulders. But not at the cost of one throbbing ache in his finger. Not even that ounce of pain for all the weight comprised in 7 grams.

No child, no matter how old, should ever lose their beloved daddy. No man, no matter how young, should abide agony for his darling daughter.

There's no doubt in my mind: I handpicked him to be my father, despite his many flaws and weaknesses, just as he chose me, in spite of my many imperfections and faults. These, the most important decisions, are the ones we never remember making.

*****

I know we've all heard it thousands of times but, please, do me this one favor and listen to the lyrics. Just once more. I implore you, since I can't beg Silly Daddy to once more sing it smiling for his Lily Glirl.

This and all of the joy and heartache in-between, comprises the substantial weight of 7 wispy grams.

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.

)

I love you, Silly Daddy.

Just Tryin' To Get It Right

Nobody lies like I do, and every day, I prove it. Truly! Beyond the white lies told to others, I deceive myself daily—and it's a goddamn chore. A lot of those fictionalizations are too private to discuss, even in blog-confessional format. Many of the rest of my dishonesties refer to inquiries by friends, coworkers, and family, on my health: how I'm feeling, how much pain I'm in, do I need a break, etc.

Nah—all good!

Now hear the internal monologue:

"Holy flurking schmidt, it hurts and I need to just take a seat right here, on the floor, amidst the customers. I mean, if that'd be okay. I'll pick up dropped lettuce leaves while down here and nope, no I will not because ow."

But what has bitching and whining ever gotten anyone? Other than smacked across the teeth? Repeatedly? That's all I need—to add to the list. "Hey, Doc. Here to treat the lupus. And the kidney stones. Oh yeah—and these five bleeding, gaping holes in my smile."

"And the knives up in the kitchen are all too dull to smile."

That Ryan Adams kid knows a thing or two about misery. Which makes me think of the medical terminology of old: "I got a miz'ry in mah back achin' sumthin' awful!"

Apparently, the miserable were also Appalachian. This makes sense.

Okay, perhaps they were French. Pussies.

What?

Company hates misery, and the individual hates having to hold back the truth about misery to company. Or something. It's a fact, whatever it is, and I’ve more than proven it such over my lifetime. It only makes sense: you lie about pain to prevent pain.

Yet, in doing so, create that much more.

Then again, necessity is the mother of...

What's that word again?

Never mind. I'll just make one up.

*****

Like me, you are also a liar—and that is just fine. In fact, better than; it's a gorgeous necessity and a gleaming reflection on you; of you. I wish more people understood the weight of integrity, in addition to the value of a lie. Yes, dishonesty and morality, holding onto each other for dear life—because they are dear for life. Holding on as colleagues, as friends, as symbiotic parasites.

One day, just before the end, smiling kitchen knives will slice open our mouths and we'll collectively drop our mendacious jaws, spewing bloody truth, all that previously withheld sanguineous intelligence, all at once.

And the world will crack, splinter, and explode into billions of the finest, purest shards of pain, hurtling amongst supernovas that, I know quite well, do not care if I stay in hell, every blade cutting everyone with the magnificent agony of realization; of recognizing yourself in your enemy…in one small sliver of glass.

Then, you will meld.

Then, and only then, combustion.

Then, and only then, will our suffocating fires inhale and backdraft our untruths, expel like hell their sicknesses, their treasons, their swallowed sorrows, that they may return to their homes: embedded in our pores.

Then, and only then...the settling of stardust.

All it takes is a flowering of violence and will.

All it takes are some guns, roses, and just a little...

Perseverance.

And a helluva lotta lies.