Writer's Block and Its Detritus

NOTE TO THE READERSHIP:  After finding the dusty draft, just published, on conquering writer's block, I searched to see if I'd ever written myself out of that box before. Lo and Behold! Back on 10 January 2010, a more somber moi tried to scribble her way free of that writing snare. Just as self-centered and focused on pity as most of my posts, I don't get the feeling of resounding success that came from the "Cats Trump Writer's Block" posting.  There's a lesson there.  You should be getting a vibrating-cum-annoying-ring text message on your smarty-panted phone about now... and with every Pity Party Post published herein.  Yes, there was an app for that!  If you adjust your "Settings," you might be able to avoid future text alerts for depressing REPOSTS!

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Oh, my dahlink readers, I am so sick.

At least, this is a common, plebeian, ordinary sort of sick, as opposed to my usual krapola of unheard of neurological disorders and infectious disease firsts, auto-immune oddities and literally rotting bones.

You know that steroids weaken the immune system, right? That cheers me whenever I get some infectious process -- because when acutely ill, the first thing I am supposed to do is DOUBLE MY STEROIDS. Gee, let's take MORE immune-suppressing drug, especially now that the germs are attacking!

Okay, so here is the deal.

I have writer's block, I think. Plenty to say, that's not the issue. Hyper-awareness of my own worth is more the cause. When you know just exactly how little you matter, there's no point to yapping on and on.

Still, writing is invigorating and good for me. And, to be brought low by gunked-up stinky yellow mucus AND silence would be just too much to bear. Especially that "silence" part.

So I am going to continue this here post, this ode to bodaceous blogging, as a Live Blogging Event. Anything goes. The ridiculous shall be honored. No spell checks allowed.

No erasures, no deletions. Above all? NO CAVEATS. No breathy declarations of what-i-really-meant-to-say.

Here we go. Keep your fingers crossed in hope that, by the end of this process, I will have regained some sense of writerly purpose.

More and more, I am keeping the Boob Tube on, even when I am not watching it. This is typical, I believe, of people who feel lonely. Still, when I turn it off, I relish the silence and fuss at myself about the ridiculous waste of energy, and the pollution of noise and idiocy.

One of my Brother-Units was overly generous at Christmas time, and I used his excessive generosity to purchase a Wii system, with the Fit program and balance board, plus extra remotes and whatcha-ma-callits. I used it with great fun until New Year's Eve when the virus first made its concerted attack.

Shortly before Xmas, we turned the dining room into a library. Don't argue or fret, just accept it. Dining room? Now a library. Okay?

So we have a tiny old t.v. stashed in the new reading room, that no one likes to watch. In the bedroom, we have the main viewing machine, but Fred, especially, wants to replace it with a fancy-schmancy new one. The one in the bedroom is to be moved into the library (the tiny one already in there? I dunno its fate.).

The thinking behind these genius moves is that "We can Wii" better in there, since the center of the room is free. "Wii"ing in the bedroom, in addition to sounding like an odd excretory process, is a cramped endeavor.

I believe that fixing this situation will be my goal for today. This will entail sending The Fred to make the television purchase, slightly reworking the library layout, dealing with wires and connections and Semi-Technical Schtuff.

By the end of the day, The Library will have been humbled to the status of Room-With-A-Few-Books.

And maybe I can play a little Wii Tennis tonight. I confess that just playing tennis as a video game brings back most excellent memories.

My legs are on fire. The right foot is completely messed up, burning and twisting, bringing me down, pissing me off. In a nostalgic move, the shooting electrical charge that I associate with my first year or so with CRPS, is back, and the end point of the surge? You guessed it: all the way down the leg into the foot, culminating in fireworks within the spacious confines of my BIG TOE.

That first year (or so!), Fred was often treated to my loud hacking yells -- in the middle of watching a movie, eating dinner, deep sleep. Even though I knew that the sudden electrocutions of my feet were coming, anticipation did nothing to keep me from screaming with pain. I tried and tried to maintain silence, to not give a hint of distress, fear, or frustration. Most of the time, I failed. The instances of success were marked by an inability to breathe and palms gouged-- from digging nails, a failed fist. And here I am, nine years later, back at it -- a regular screech owl, talons sharp and at the ready.

I wake myself up, screaming.

Of course, I also occasionally wake up laughing my ass off.

In addition, I am often shaken back to consciousness by the weight of Dobby, Our Little Idiot, perched on my chest, a worried look on his face. It happens whenever I am so audacious as to put my arms under the quilt -- something I have been prone to do during this incredible cold snap. This triggers some large anxiety in him -- does he think I am being eaten by the quilt? Death by textile? [Dobby has a "thing" for threads, materials, weavings, tapestry and affects his evaluations so seriously that I can imagine him as a bent tailor, absentmindedly rubbing some fine cloth in between his index finger and thumb.]

It is unfortunate, though, this need to rescue me from my quilt.

I have just the one quilt that I am able to tolerate over my body. I sleep on top of another [lesser] quilt, and cover everything but my legs with this worn, beloved, rubbed-soft cotton handmade wonder... It is full of holes, stained [despite being washed twice a week] by coffee and, thanks to the seven major shoulder surgeries between August 2008
and April 2009, considerable blotches of betadine and -- sorry -- blood. It's as sanitary as can be... but is looking fairly sad.

I have tried other things and it is either a problem with weight or softness -- too much weight on this CRPS-afflicted body, and the pain levels and burning get out of control -- too little softness and the irritation to the skin also increases the burning sensations that are the hallmark of CRPS-type pain.

I miss getting between the sheets, though! Just like I miss shoes -- oh, God how i miss shoes!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, it looks like the television scenario will extend into the weekend, as Fred is getting a slow start, and I don't feel like irking him with request upon request.

Over on Twitter (another universe, Twitter!), I am shocked by the frequency with which I see folks writing these exact words in response to the current humanitarian crisis in Haiti: "What about the people who need help in our own country?" It's my least favorite form of argumentation, if it even qualifies as such. The only thing I know to say -- though I would never take up the argument on Twitter -- is "well, we are not talking about those people right now..." There's not a reasoned response to be made to people who are looking for a fight or who wish to use others purely as something to stand on. And I mean that almost literally and with near good intentions.

Into my head just popped: chowder. Specifically, fish chowder. I watched a recent episode of Chef Bobby Flay's Throwdown show -- about Manhattan Fish Chowder, meaning simply that is has a tomato base. What can I say? I feel catholic on Friday. It sounds like dinner to me.

Cooking has become something I very much enjoy, even as the mechanics of getting it done have become complicated. We foresee a day when I won't be able to do it any longer -- mostly because of my hands and their unpredictability, as well as the situation with my shoulders. Ah... but until then? I am becoming quite the cook. I've always loved it, but as I have needed to concentrate and think my way through the process more and more -- imagine! I got better at it! Go figure.

I've decided to perform penance (get this catholic shit out of my head! out! out!) for my sinful thoughts about Fred's persistent participation in Wednesday night suppers over at the Existentialist Congregation -- yes, the place being run by Militant Lesbians. This penance has taken the form of making the dish he takes to these weekly potlucks. This week, they got to feast on my carrots. It's my own "recipe," though I don't write anything down -- I think this is actually a common presentation for carrots, though The Fredster ooohs-and-ahhhs like it is something special. Cooking for 10 people, I used 15 whole carrots, cut into 1/4 inch rounds. A bias cut would be fine, too. Just cut the suckers up however you want. The more surface area, the more of the sauce you will taste... Then steam them until just soft. I make my own curry "powders," as I am very picky about spices... Sometimes, they are the only thing over which I have quality control. Why? Oh... I would have to go into the intricacies of getting out of the house, going shopping, etcetera. hmmm. You know what? I *started* a post a few weeks back, like the very day I was getting sick. It remains a draft. I will tack it onto the end of this post -- this post that is rapidly spiralling out of control.

Back to the hot topic of carrots. Where was I? Ah, curry. Cumin, cardamom, mustard, cayenne, coriander, and turmeric -- best if all are in "whole" form, then toasted and ground, in proportions of your choice, as needed. I add other spices according to my mood, mostly. Chipotle. Cinnamon. Fennel.

I suspect that I use spices as a form of sexual sublimation. Exotic, passionate, rich, intense. And so forth. Ahem. Cough. Titter.

Peppers. Nutmeg. Various peppers. Fenugreek. Cloves. Saffron.

Find what you like. For these easy carrots, you want to complement their sweetness and the citrus that you will also be adding. In other words, it won't be the star of the show, so keep it out of the "smoky" range and more in the Arena of Simple.

So... to the carrots directly, or in a separate pot if you are kinda timid, start adding your curry, then some butter. Then salt (sea salt, kosher). Finally, add the zest of one large navel orange, as well as about a quarter cup of its juice. Serve immediately or in the time it takes to fly across town to your pseudo-religious Wednesday night Christian-bashing session. Cough. Ahem. Titter... Cloves. Garlic. Chiles...

The stock market, in its infinite wisdom, has taken back all the goodness it gave just last week. Pow! Boff! Bam!

Incredibly, I need to rest now. And I am soaked again from the fever breaking -- for which I am grateful. I am just tired of washing up and changing my clothes several times a day! Before I lay down under my previously mentioned quilt, I will start a load of laundry. Added incentive is the fact that Marmy Fluffy Butt decided to mark my softest hoodie, the little beyatch.

So has slapping all these words down managed to break through the walls of my writing block? I don't know. It doesn't feel particularly liberating, but then that could be due to a mounting sense of frenzy and fatigue -- a simultaneous combination that is soul-wearying.

As promised, and without prejudging whether it really "goes" or not with what I wanted to say about "control" of cooking ingredients.... here is the kernel of a post that never made it. I haven't altered a word of it, which may come back to haunt moi, eh? I also have no idea why that particular YouTube vid was tacked onto the end, although I remember thinking that I loved this child, and wanted her energy and happiness:

okie-dokie, so we are sick as dogs... although, where the meaning of that comes from, i dunno. dogs are not, by nature, "sick."

right?

this virus is cruel. i woke feeling pretty doggone (who let the dogs out?) good. no coughing. temp 98.4 (no shit!) just an aching head, with pesky swollen glands. for me? a big nada. no problem. gonna coast through the day, get some work done, mebbe write a little, do my wii, face cleaning the bathroom (procastination issue).

i was looking forward to showing off for fred. "how do you feeeeeellll, ffffred, dahlink?"

"moi? moi? i feel fuh-fuh-fine, ffffred!"

while waiting for fred to wake up, i did morning chores, and began to lag. yes, the energy did flag, and i, i began to fade. i was, in short, diminished.

sorry. i was briefly channeling t. s. eliot.

or yeats.

it's so hard to tell, anymore. i grow old.

eating the peach is not gonna be my issue. no, i think that monster slinking toward jerusalem is gonna get moi.

hey, i bought a new toothbrush the other day! wait, i didn't tell you i went out, did i? well, i did. grocery shopping. and i had an emotional meltdown right in the middle of the damned store. see... i hadn't left the house in 29 days. that's right. TWENTY-NINE FREAKING DAYS. that's how high my pain level has been, how miserable my legs, how very, very bad it has been. oh, poor moi {peeking to see if you pity moi, yet...}!

anyway, i had been begging to go to the store for days, but fred didn't put together my eagerness with the notion of going-to-the-store as a FUN activity. so when we entered said establishment and he announced, "let's split up, we'll get done faster"?
i started to boohoo. can you believe it? how retarded am i, and increasingly so, with increasing frequency?

poor man. in his mind, i go out whenever he does (pretty much daily, and at least twice a week for social engagements. he had not counted the passing of TWENTY-NINE FREAKING DAYS, nor did he really register the number of DIY amputations of my legs that i had undergone in fits of desperation at the increasingly increasing pain. he *cannot*, of course, and i don't want him to follow the bouncing ball of my suffering, anyway, poor soul. i've ruined his life enough, don't you think?

oh, hell, where was i? did i tell you i am spiking a way high, a mile high fever?

the toothbrush. oh, yeah. so we were in the market, en train de faire le marché, when i remembered i needed a new one. i pop a few wheelies and race down the toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant, and sundries aisle. fred is tearing after me, the shopping cart careening this way and that... he sees me stop in front of the pitiable selection of plaque-scrapers, and calls out: "wait! we have a supply of new toothbrushes at home!"

now... i don't know exactly why that sent me over the edge, but it did. i had not been out of the house for... well, you know. do you get how hard it is to run a household by sending a guy with adhd to do the necessary errands? have you tried making a detailed grocery list when you are only able to go to the store yourself but a couple o'times a year? i am a very visual person. back in the day (i.e., before crps, before avn, before ai, and so on)? i just took a mental stroll down the aisles, pictured what was there, made my lists in almost perfect synchronicity with the actual order of the products. i made a killer list, detailed but simple, a list on which even the most shopping-challenged could rely.

no more. oh no. now i am liable to hand my sweet man something along the order of:

apples, if they are under $1.39 a pound. and fresh. also, please don't buy them if the skin is even slightly loosened from the inner fruit. you know what i mean. like they'd been stored in a cold bin for too long. we're looking for très fresh.

keep an eye out for endive. gots to have my endive.

toilet paper
pasta

lowfat plain yogurt (7)
drain cleaner

get yourself something for snacking
bananas
ham bone

celery seed for me, ground celery seed for you
italian roast whole coffee beans for me; columbian blend for you; when will we go to farmer's market to get ethiopian beans, hmmm?

white onions, yellow onions, please don't buy pre-bagged





READERSHIP!  How fitting that this video "does not exist"!  It's Karma for all the narcissism displayed above.  I shall reincarnate as a worm.

© 2015 L. Ryan

as i crawl beneath the rug, and retune my piano...

I've been avoiding you, Dear Reader.  That's something of a compliment, as the avoidance is based on my assessment of your acumen.

It is no secret, my modus operandi in writing most blog posts.  There are a few topics whose past treatment requires continued treatment:

• CRPS breakthroughs
• CRPS in daily life (including humorous leitmotifs about do-it-yourself amputation and the joy of suicide) 
• Any findings in the case of lost child Lindsey Baum 
• The reliable turdification of José Ochoa (lately, I've investigated the immense amount of money wasted on him by government grants, but gastrointestinal responses have precluded publication of this research) 
• The scam CRPS / neuropathy treatment CALMARE / ScramblerTherapy (again, I've a half-written post on the hilarious background of its inventor and his woo-science, dedicated to the creation of a machine that spews electricity like a Fountain of Youth -- never mind the obvious idiocy of mixing water and electricity) 
• Oh, and should my nausea subside, I am overdue in checking in on where the good Dr. Scott Reuben is malpracticing, and in what way

For a bit, I would regularly rag on Phil McGraw and some of his weirder acolytes, and while that was a gratifying release for simmering undercurrents of sadism, I'm trying to stop feeding that easy-peasy awful part of myself.  Now I just follow their shenanigans when late night efforts at mindfulness and distraction via YouTube cat videos fail.  Besides, one day my vision cleared, and I discovered my gratitude for the Unweird friends made while cavorting with McGraw's Chronic Pain Support Group.

By the way, Dear Reader, you've no need to feign shock at my admission of sadism.  On a good day, it makes me something of a Juvenalian satirist.  On a bad day, okay, I get a slight titillation from asshats getting their due... but not to the extent of paraphilia, or a personality disorder. Ignorance drives me batty and I am daily thankful for my innate, unfailing superiority.

It's also no secret that my navel-gazing can get in the way of what might be decently mediocre pseudo-journalism.  I write more about suffering due to CRPS, osteomyelitis, lupus, and osteonecrosis -- all hilariously related -- than I do my ardent political leanings, or other areas of ardor.  Do I wish my knees were worn from kneeling at some other altar than that of the personal?  Oh, yes!

Referring to your acumen, again, Dear Reader, it's clear that this blog is an attempt at therapy, written in as lively a way as I can pull off so that no one will wander the side halls of detritus.  I am writing my way through the remains of a life, deeply sorry for having wasted it so, and therefore frequently embarrassed by my strung together words, the over-estimation of serendipitous thought caressing circumstance.

There are circumstantial caresses that became blessings -- some fleeting benedictions, some amazingly enduring beatific guffaws. People I've met online, mostly.  Writings I'd never thought to have read had not some virtual friend made of them succulent, enticing fare.

One of those blessings is my friend "Peaches," an actual author, a man of the world, familiar enough with life to inflict suggestions as if it were his prerogative (by virtue of being so old, I tell him.. or dream of telling him, one day... one sadistic, wonderrful day!).

Yes, that's right.  I want to meet Peaches.  As much as I want to meet TW, Carol, Diana, Joyce, Benita, Tom, Betty, Fresca, T, and even some who have wished me ill, but in an inspirational way.

Peaches calls me Irene.  I call him "Peaches" because of a phrase that someone stuck into mine head years ago, in a late afternoon patio conversation at a Telegraph Avenue trattoria.  My memory is muddled, but I believe we trampled over Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot before someone declared someone else, glass raised, "a prince, a peach, a pear."

Since that chilly afternoon, spent over perfect antipasto and ignored obligations, I've found no higher praise to offer other beings than that they were "a prince, a peach, a pear." Roasted peppers and marinated artichoke hearts, spiced meats and bursting tomatoes, there was neither peach nor pear in the offing on our rickety cast iron table, rocking the red wine.  So the phrase is of even more value, its provenance being so wondrously lost.  Sadly, it casts its own restrictions -- I never use it to praise, or shower with abundant love, women deserving such approbation.  It has become a sort of obscure pillow talk, the pillow partners more in tune with its vast smooch galore than with its elusive ancestry or culinary provenance.  The role of the house red, delivered in a series of carafes, probably merits further investigation.

I remember the walk home, to a brand new private apartment on one of Oakland's first streets to cross Telegraph, leaving behind Sather Gate, crossing Bancroft and the cafés, book stores, tables of dangling earrings, poseurs, beggars, travelling to home, paper trash swirling, our awareness of danger waking, coffee our first plan before grading.  Funny, but the guy walking with me never was candidate for prince, or peach, or pear.  A good writer and sometimes great poet, he was a fraud, and the essence of the laudatory phrase lies in the genuine.

So.
Right.
Ahem.

Peaches lives in New York City, the old fart.  He is a faithful friend, but that means, of course, frustration at my "here today, gone tomorrow" nature, a nature unaltered even by friendship or blood relation.  I've been under the radar, or, believe it or not, quite concise, these past few weeks.  Still, Peaches fires off an email every few days.

Like today:

Irene...........
Hi.............

In the dark here.... How're you doing?

P.

Bless his heart, Peaches reached out at a moment when I was navel-gazing, seriously lost, seeing no way out from neurological jokes and jerks, pain bad enough to create tears in a body seriously dehydrated from constant fever.  He just wanted an answer.  I wanted a rescue buoy, garrish orange against the cresting teal.

beware, peaches, i've been avoiding writing anyone.  why?  the proof is in my outdated packets of yeast, my bread that will not rise.  i am in a baguette phase.  i'm also heavily medicated at the moment, which means you should stop reading NOW, content to know that i remain irene. i've been promoted from 100 mcg of fentanyl to 150 mcg patches. the joke is that the pain is stronger but there's just no point in making that known.

but, to answer your concision explicitly:

hey, i am DOIN'.  i am DOIN' (that's southern) the best i can.  

very briefly, last week, fred and i concluded that it was up to each of us whether our respective day would be good or bad.  we crowed and strutted, convinced that no circumstance has the power to inflict a "bad" day.  harrumph -- we don't even know what a bad day IS. complain?  whimper?  moan or groan?  ha!  not us!

that lasted three days and then we took a break.

i'm fine, peaches.  frustrated, sad, guilty, tired -- all of which i shall put aside once the fredster rises from his eight layers of covers to take on the day.  yes, fred is a layer fanatic, something he said he learned about in both brooklyn winters and in the huge temperature variations of the ethiopian desert.

well, there is one thing that sucks.  my eyes are going bad again!  and not in any polite subtle way, either.  i had a brief period of being able to read again and was enjoying the literary send off into sleep, no matter how tedious the novel. we are both working our way through minette walters, a very hit and miss affair. i find her interesting when she lets her inner sociologist sing. when she aims at popular success, she's tedious.

                  

being able to read also meant a complementary tub of plain lowfat yogurt with frozen strawberries. it's become impossible for me to read well without the creamy tang of yogurt and the icy comfort of frozen fruit.

when reading goes, it's a musical bedtime, the lullaby a string of rolling stones' songs -- or, these days, the decemberists and early, easy-breezy, very cheesy brett dennen.  

last night was kind of wonderful, drifting off to phil ochs' "the party," which actually made me think of you... and a few other upper crust sorts, and the cocktail parties you must have both enjoyed and endured.

there's a funny aspect to last night's nocturne, the evocation of monastic hours --  in a completely messed up, annoying way -- beyond the cheapo-cheapo piano, designed to set the teeth on edge.  and then there's phil's voice.  hmm, best i move on, eh? 

some time ago, in asking around about phil ochs' "the party," one of my american lit professors recommended i read... tom wolfe's radical chic & mau-mauing the flak catchers.  

unlike my literati betters -- and that means everyone around me -- i suffered mental origami, a conflation of tom and thomas.  flashes of "golden moments," and so, i have to ask, have you read much tom wolfe?  i realize that the scales tip in favor of look-homeward-ish-ness than anything by the journalist author, who saw himself as a brutally honest zola.  and how many occasions have you had to smile politely at some idjit such as myself, mixing wolfe & wolfe, a heathen playing at americana?

so much happens so quickly in the brain, even a brain seeking sleep.

see? i'm DOIN'.  and while i admire concision, i live for word play... 

"And my shoulders had to shrug

As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano..."

all my best to you and yours, and apologies for ruminating all over your email. it should blot up easily with a paper towel. my last sentence ought to be the first:  how are YOU (and yours), sweet peaches?  

irene

(One hint to how the piano was made even more schmaltzy?  it was a series of plastic toy pianos...)

The Party

The fire-breathing rebels arrive at the party early
Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur
Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the Lords
Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour
And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume
She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings.
And she asks, "How are you" and she offers them a drink
The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink
And she promises to talk to you if you promise not to think

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present
She surrounds herself with those who would surrender
Floating in her flattery, she's a trophy-prize, caressed
Protected by a pretty face, sometimes cursed, sometimes blessed
And she's staring down their desires
While they're staring down her dress

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The egos shine like light bulbs, so bright you cannot see them
Blind each other blinder than a sandbox
All the fury of an argument, holding back their yawns
A challenge shakes the chandeliers, the selfish swords are drawn
To the loser go the hangups, to the victor go the hangers on

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

They travel to the table, the host is served for supper
And they pass each other down for salt and pepper
And the conversation sparkles as their wits are dipped in wine
Dinosaurs on a diet, on each other they will dine
Then they pick their teeth and they squelch a belch saying
"Darling, you tasted divine"

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

The wallflower is waiting, she hides behind composure, composure
She'd love to dance and prays that no one asks her
Then she steals a glance at lovers while her fingers tease her hair
And she marvels at the confidence of those who hide their fears
Then her eyes are closed as she rides away with a foreign legionnaire

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Romeo is reeling, counting notches on his thighbone
Searching for one hundred and eleven
And he's charming as a child as he leads you to his web
Seducing queens and gypsy girls in the boudoir of his head
Then he wraps himself with a tablecloth and pretends he is a bed

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

Oh, the party must be over, even the losers are leaving
But just one doubt is nagging at my caustic mind
So I snuck up close behind me and I gave myself a kiss
And I led myself to the mirror to expose what I had missed
There I saw a laughing maniac who was writing songs like this

And my shoulders had to shrug
As I crawled beneath the rug and retuned my piano

-- Phil Ochs




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Just That Elemental

I've increased some of my medications in an effort to stop the spasms.  These demonic twitches have been starting up three times a day, lasting anywhere from just thirty minutes to an interminable three hours.  Their three instances vary, but the last few days have seen a pretty early first onset, around 11 am, with the second visit in the late afternoon, and the unforgiving third beginning almost promptly at 8:30 pm.  What has prompted me to resort to grabbing more pills, though, instead of white-knuckling my way through, are the changes in frequency and in the sly adjustments my enemy has made in how it conducts its wily, ugly, piece-of-crap self.

I'd never given much thought to how much time was elapsing between spasms, but when my screams seemed to be piling up, one shriek right on top of the echo of the last yell?  I decided to be oh-so-crafty, too, and count off the intervals.  My first attempt at counting, I made sure to follow the tenets of "one one-thousand, two one-thousand," calm, steady, and every time, I got to "eighteen one-thousand" before I had to scream.  Even when I felt stubborn and resolved not to make a sound when I hit "eighteen one-thousand," I had no ability -- none -- to stop that disturbing vocalization.  The second go-round with counting off the time?  I couldn't even maintain the pattern, that comforting rhythm, because the short-circuiting area of my brain decided on irregular firing, on pulses of 18, then twenty-two, then 12.  My point?  That is a very short amount of time between onslaughts;  There is no time for recovery.  This is new.

This is horrible.  I understand the meaning now of "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." Okay, well, that is something of a sad confession.  Until this, until now, I had little problem wishing stuff upon my enemies, and I admit it.

A doctor told me recently that he would kill himself if he had CRPS.  I assume he meant CRPS as I have it  -- bad and unbeatable.  What else could I assume, since I was the only "CRPS referent" in the vicinity of the conversation, a conversation being held aloft by just three human tongues?  What is sad is not his comment (it's more in the category of neutral, a rhetorical ecru) but my complete lack of shock, the absence of any surprise.  "What? My God!  Why ever would you say such a thing?" has faded away and left me with "What?  What?  Oh, that?"


I can't kill myself right now because Fred would be lost, financially.  I promised, at some point, to take care of him -- and what I cannot explain here, though I assure you it is true, is how Fred has given up more than you can imagine, and that he did it for me, and that I owe him, as is said, big time.  He has not been able to travel certain paths, plan for life as he would have.

I have to keep my promises.

Yeah, so.  I don't know how I got to talking about *that*.  Good grief.

The other change in the current Shift Toward Intolerable?  The center for these bits of seizure has shifted so that I would swear (and bet all of Fred's inheritance, no matter the odds) my hips were grinding themselves to bony bits.  Actually, I have a prosthesis for a right hip, and the left hip is pinned. The right one is okay, most of the time.  I can tell there is activity on the right by the degree of generalized soreness.  It's my best major joint, that right hip!  Yay, right hip!

But the left hip, despite still having its original parts, is the Devil's Spawn.

Oh, I give up.  There's no explaining it, and why should there be?

The amount of Baclofen required to just get through the day is not enough to stop the pain.  Somehow, my mind is supposed to keep that knowledge front and center, available to reason.  As in:  Don't take more just because the pain continues, the screaming continues, the smashing and grinding continue.  It won't help and it could kill.  It's the same with the other meds -- with any medication, any drug.  It's imperative that I remember that in the middle of all the awfulness.

I think, every day, several times every day, how understandable it would be were I to forget.

On the way to the orthopedic surgeon's office on Thursday, I had just escaped the first of the three spasm periods for the day and hadn't had an opportunity to really process the night -- I woke myself with my own screams.  He was driving.  I was riding.  I thought we were okay.  I began telling him about the night, about the pain. He stopped me, said I overwhelm him.

All I could do then was cry.

Because -- of course, I overwhelm him.  Who would not be overwhelmed?  Who would not feel trapped?  Who would not be sick of pain, talk of pain, the sound of pain, its look?

But what makes me angry, besides being told, basically, to shut up, is that he thinks he knows what I am dealing with -- and he does not.  He thinks that if I feel it, I blurt it out -- I blurt it out all over him, and rush to do so -- and feel better afterward.  As if it were a beneficial purge.  Except that I don't.  I don't tell him most things, and I surely don't share with him most pains.

And it has been many years since I have felt better for having shared with him.

He is controlling me, in many ways, and I resent each of them.  I resent him.

He passes himself off as a "caretaker."

He does not.  He does not take care.  I tell you -- he could not discern another person's needs if you paid him to -- and, ha!  I do!  And he doesn't.  And I don't deserve this.  I have to keep living because of him and his inability to care for himself, never mind anyone else.

All of this is true, but all of this is nothing but me, unabashed, unfiltered ego, the moi at the center of the universe -- it lacks the grace of the angels, it lacks the child that shines from Fred, it doesn't pray for what the congregants are pleading.

It just freaking overwhelms.

I'm going to be twitching for a while yet tonight, and then later again. I need to wash and change my clothes, do the dishes, write my mother a letter, my brother Grader Boob an email.  Wave at the moon that is the same moon shining over the Grand Canyon, and over my brilliant brother Tumbleweed (and friends).  We got a postcard from him today. I swear, the boy is having a good time!

I wish I could be among those pilgrims.

Fred is asleep right now, curled up on the sofa.  He looked cold so I covered him with a blanket.
We need things just that elemental.

"Thank you" will do nicely

I don't think anyone will hear my last words. I will probably be in the bathroom, water running, bubbles in the air -- that odious cheap perfume of the cheap shampoo I begged for, everywhere, in every steamed-open, gaping pore.

Or my audience will consist of cats. A faithful audience and not one to regret, however, I estimate that one of the three currently in residence suffers from a hunger so gnawing that he'd eat me within ten minutes of my surcease. Sure, he'd hold the chipped and sharp-edged round make-up mirror to my mouth, hoping against vapor. Lacking any sign of life, the felines know the ultimate test and Dobby will surely wave a mug of steamy dry-processed Haile Selassie from the Dara area of Ethiopia's Sidamo province under my deceased nose.

Yes, I have been dreaming of a trip to the Farmer's Market Coffee Pavilion.

If Fred finds me, I predict he will promptly take a nap -- after tossing a sheet over me, shooing away the cats, and shutting the door. If I am in the bedroom, he'll crash on the sofa in the library. Or maybe on the futon up in the Computer Turret, though that's a bit far to ask someone in the early stages of mild euphoria to travel.

Anyway, presuming myself, and my self, alone, to be my ultimate audience, what will I say, I wonder? I decided to practice this morning, though I stress to you, Dear Reader (You seem so far away, so dim... come closer!), that this is not theater. No "magic if," no method.

First, though, I laugh, because what I just said to you, I said to myself, as well, and realized how foreign, how divorced from who-i-am is the idea of no theater, no "magic if," no method. Because the first thing I did was the first thing I always do when beginning any inquiry: I begged the question.

Begging the question (Latin petitio principii, "assuming the initial point") is a type of logical fallacy in which a proposition is made that uses its own premise as proof of the proposition. In other words, it is a statement that refers to its own assertion to prove the assertion.

No, no need to get all Aristotelian on me, now.  All I mean by that,  is this:  Why do we say anything?  At any time, to anyone, including to our lone selves as sole interlocutors?  I am not begging the question; I am raising others.  Try and stick me, and in my dying moments, too, with a logical fallacy, will you?  If you applied yourself, I am sure you'd realize that what I'm actually guilty of is... Applied Circuitry.

Oh, I am cracking myself up, and I haven't even started yet.  You don't like "circuitry"?  Okay, use "circuitousness," instead, but it's an ugly word, and I mean that in the nicest way possible.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I will utter some strange neologism, or, as I just demonstrated, I'll misuse some established idiom -- not trying to be clever, just doing what I've always done, cavorting in the margin.  Most likely, whether neologism or perversion, it will come out garbled.  Gobbledygook. 

For some reason, I also think it likely that I will say "Who knew?" --  then give half a laugh, and croak.  Dying mid-laugh has a certain appeal.

What is certain?  Well, it won't be drawn out, or consist of the terribly polysyllabic.  One of the first things to go, you know, is the vital blood supply to the tongue.  So even if your brain isn't completely anemic, your mouth most likely won't cooperate much with complicated goings-on at the tail end of life.  In the bathroom, whiffing lavender suds, wondering who will clean The Manor now, and just generally at wit's end, I won't be inclined to recite the Krebs cycle.

Everything changes, of course, if I am not alone.  Then, be my company animal or human, I think there is only one thing to say:  Thank you.  And maybe, though it seems a little persnickety, "Good luck!"

I would not, though, say it to all life forms.  I would not, for example, say it to an ant, and never, ever to a roach.  O God! Save me from a roach, there at the last!

There are many of you who think I am missing the point.  Do you accuse me of circumlocution, and of having dropped the point off mid-escapade?  Or do you think I never knew the point, and my circuitousness is a failed attempt to mask how utterly lost I am, and will be?  Shouldn't I speak to God, at the moment I come undone?  Well, smarty-pants, that may work for you but I've always felt immensely silly, forcing words on God.

I just don't know.  I do think that last words, thoughts, and expressions don't carry the import that the living give them -- unless, of course, you're identifying your murderer, making a heartfelt confession, or telling Fred the password to the Fidelity account.

We must try to have everything said -- an option that allows for different last words and differing final conversations, attentive and thoughtful, each. Failing that, I think "Thank you" will do nicely.

Today, right now, I am not convinced of the inappropriateness of laughter, or of the stony nature of silence.

In all likelihood, my ending will encompass, but not reflect, the surprise of oncoming traffic, the shock of a gun barrel, or the crushing pain of an infarct.  The blessing of fading into sleep, quiescent, seems a childish hope now, but I do still hope for it. Slipping away during a nap could save me a lot of embarrassment.

It's gonna be a Rockin' Birthday Eve

After a response time delay that successfully separated my stomach lining from its mother-organ, the assistant to Dr. ShoulderMan called last Tuesday evening with a date for surgery.  It's gonna be a Rockin' Birthday Eve Event on 23 January.

I was able to refrain from asking her to specify the year.

I was, as they say, fit to be tied from the rush to wait.  [I pity the fool who tries to get me into that straitjacket.]

My snark is misdirected, also irrelevant.  Turns out ShoulderMan's assistant, a nurse who is In Charge Of Everything in that particular workshop, had been out of the office the preceding five days.  It was my MDVIP Dr. Go-To-Guy's right hand woman who set me up with expectations... 

I'll let it go, this nonsense, let it float up to heaven tied to the end of a wildlife-smothering mylar balloon with bird-garroting ribbons streaming down, landfill fodder.

[Yeah, that's right, I'm crazed by all the balloon releases that people announce -- as tributes to children dead from evil cancer, usually.  I guess the balloon signifies childhood and the act of watching attached wishes and sentiments rise to the assumptive vault of heaven is cathartic. My vote goes to... I dunno... quilt panels and living memorials of plants and trees.  I'll shut up now.]

I have been brought pretty low of late by things physical, something that is only truly possible by the acquiescence of the mind to things petty.  I've caved in, near implosion, from debilitating sweats, for example, that seem to be accompanied by vicious head and neck aches.  But mostly, it's been the Return of the Spasm that has had me wailing, alone, behind carefully closed doors.

Okay, that's a lie.  I have stopped closing the doors, mostly because every ear in Marlinspike Hall is now entirely immune to the impact of my screams, and never did much react to my cries, anyway, preferring that I announce myself with tasty offerings, via the dinner bell, or with folded clean clothes, after the alarming bark of the dryer timer.

It's not that Fred and La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore don't care;  It's more that no one can sustain the level of pity that I require, especially over an extended period of time.

Thank God for blogging, eh?

Even the Feline Remnant has developed a disturbing catty commentary on my painful inertia.  Dobby has begun leaping onto my blimpy red oozing legs without the least bit of apology, no hint of embarrassment at my yelp of pain.  That glint in his eye had better be a trick of the light.

Personally, I think that with just a tad more dedication and practice, the Indentured Staff, Haddock Middle Management, and Comedic Cling-Ons, all, could whip up sufficient sympathetic fervor -- but that's just me, the hopeless optimist.

The spasms seem to only last about two hours -- that'd be for the one, at most, two, extended sessions of yowling jerkiness per day.  The rest of the time, it's a blitzkrieg sort of experience that clearly derives from techniques of guerrilla and modern urban warfare.  Rapid, apparently disorganized small strikes meant to demoralize as much as disable.  Enmity buried in the ordinary, wide-eyed innocence masking murderous intent.

What?  No, I do not think that the characterization of schtuff (above) is excessively self-important and self-pitying.  What's wrong with you?  Whose blog is it, anyway?

I thought we'd found the formula to defeat CRPS' spasticity, or, at least, the appropriate drug.  It's no surprise -- It's Baclofen.  Also good for hiccups and alcoholism, not necessarily in that order.

Unfortunately, Baclofen can leave me drooling, which begs the important question:  Is life more worth living as a Somnolent Slobberer than as a Total Jerk?  We are trying to ignore the clamor of outside voices, those ninnies who feel no shame in telling me what I ought to do ("Just distract yourself, don't over-medicate!"; "Eat a banana!").  There is always one Ninny who wants to blame a low potassium, who hasn't heard that cantaloupes, prunes, and papaya beat out the banana, or that tomato juice with a baked potato will fill the void, as well.  Be all that as it may, my potassium is fine.

Où est donc le fil de ma pensée? 


Anyway, the Baclofen stopped working, and I cut it back from 80 mg per day to 50-60 mg total, with the result that I no longer spew spittle about The Manor as I twist and twirl and scream.

How is the CRPS, overall?

The Edema Wars continue on, skirmish by skirmish, no real victor in evidence.  I had to spend three days straight in bed to bring down the puffy, liquid nature.of my legs and hands.  It's no longer an extraneous detail, this edema, for when it is uncontrolled, my legs are in the red zone, but with patches both very cold and very hot.  If diuretics, elevation, and rest work their magic and my fingers and ankles reappear?  Then the CRPS slips into deep purples, and every appendage is ice cold.

In terms of pain, CRPS rarely lets up.  The few moments when I am not in pain really are attributable to either unconsciousness or Blessed Distraction.  Unfortunately, pain and sleep are not friendly with one another, so I continue to sleep very little, with the result that pain seems worse, and life, hopeless.  It's wonderful, those occasions when I do get good rest, and simply amazing how much less pain I perceive.  (The lessons of Reality-as-Perception are popular review topics around here.)

Highest on the list of Blessed Distractions?  Books with pace.  The Republican presidential nominees (though we fear their entertainment factor may begin a steep decline as that peculiar segment of the electorate begins to weed, in earnest). Suppression of cat hair in my environment. Cooking and baking.  Crossword puzzles. Counseling the inpatient addicted carnies during their stay in Haddock Rehab (headquartered in the barn).  Short parkour and ballet vids on YouTube.  Bed-bopping and wheelchair-whirling to familiar golden oldies, archaeological rock.  Checking for updates to Pete's Pustulant Pimple over at PopThatZit.  Dobby the Runt, Marmy Fluffy Butt, and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten.   Fred.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore.  The Crack Whore across the country lane (We sometimes sit and listen to her soliloquize in the middle of the night;  Lately, she has addressed one astonishing speech after another to her Ugg boots.).

There's a new category of CRPS misery -- skin.  Skin that rips and tears, bleeds and blisters, openly weeps and lightly leaks.  Skin that burns, skin that, once broken, refuses to heal.  I suppose my new friend, The Fistula, falls in this category.  The Fistula had stopped leaking and I was full of hope that it would go away, but then I mopped all 27 of The Manor's medieval and early renaissance kitchens last week... and wouldn't you know, the hole in my upper arm turned bright red and produced stringy yellow pus.  The idea that this thing has tunneled all the way from my shoulder prosthesis is so... gross.  *Bleck*!  *Ack*-*Ack*


My right leg is particularly prone to skin weirdness, as well as injury, upon which skin weirdness thrives.  Between cat talon punctures, dropped laptops, and doorway collisions, the leg is pocked with holes and eruptions, and regularly bathed in the terrible brine of lymphatic fluid.  It can be depressing.

Prior to my last visit with MDVIP Dr. Go-To-Guy, I decided to do some heavy maintenance of that leg, and took a brush to it, thinking that maybe the crud and crap could just be scrubbed away.  (Very sleepwalking Lady Macbeth.)  In the shower, perched on the plastic chair [that has a screw poking through its seat right into mine own seat, ouch!], I administered a brief flurry of boar bristles.  Never again.  I still burst into spontaneous fits of bleeding if I leave that leg haphazardly upright, or should I remove the Hello Kitty Band-Aids.  In addition to what can only be described as holes, new pores on steroids, there are shiny, raised, red whorls.

My hands primarily burn, though there are now stabbing pains on the outside of the palm and up the side of the pinky finger, with the foremost complaint-worthy problem being edema and slowness to react, clumsiness.  This puts a real crimp in my legendary culinary knife skills.

We've been keeping Ruby the Honda CRV defrosted, de-iced, juiced up, and just generally ready because the infection in my left shoulder is raging, and there have been a few afternoons when it seemed like I was becoming septic, or, at least, loopy.  I sometimes get hit with chills and sweats simultaneously, cannot get warm, and wrap myself up like a papoose destined for frozen tundra.

So that's the state of things.  My goal is simply to get to January 23 in as great a condition as possible, with a mind prepared for another long haul of seek-and-destroy.  ShoulderMan will team up with another local folk hero, Infectious Disease Dood, and together they'll organize the antibiotic or antifungal (ewww) attack during the post-op period with the spacer in place.  If they are successful, ShoulderMan will be able to regift me with a shoulder (most likely a "reverse" prosthesis) in about three to four months time.

I am so lucky to be in their good hands.

Now... to get there. and with sanity intact!

Wednesday's Catcam -- Full of Woe

Sammy and Dobby

UKBB a.k.a. Little Boy

Okay, so... in my continuing efforts to avoid serious thought, I present an update of The Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall.

It's a traumatized Remnant.  We lost the Heart, the Center, of the Group last July when we euthanized Sam-I-Am, whose kidneys failed and who was suddenly stricken with an apparently voracious cancer.  He was such a sweet, intelligent, loving, and hilarious cat.  I miss him everyday.  He was the only Manor resident to be able to read me like a book.

Sniff.

The next unexpected feline death took Uncle Kitty Big Balls from us, just about a month ago. 

A word about how the atmosphere has shifted requires a word about genetics.  UKBB and his sister Marmy Fluffy Butt were two gorgeous homeless cats that Fred began to feed about 3 years ago.  The best guess of our vet is that they were 6-8 months old and abandoned.
When we met them, Marmy was awfully, fearfully, hugely pregnant.  She is really a very tiny girl, a fact well-hidden by her voluminous coat.  Anyway, at the time, we only had Sammy, and I was okay taking one cat in... We decided on Marmy, despite her nearly feral nature and her clear preference for being left the hell alone, because she looked absolutely miserable and other lives depended upon hers being saved.  I tried hard to come to the decision of adopting them both -- but the thought of TWO wild cats and a litter of kittens -- plus Sammy -- overwhelmed me.  Plus, I always tend to believe that others out there are going to do the right thing.  "Surely someone will take him in."  Later, I bolstered my arguments with the notion that he could hardly be disease-free after that much time on the street, and did not want to expose the other animals.  Yeah, I played the public health angle.

She terrorized Sam-I-Am and strategically took over any area that he would have to cross in order to get to his food and his litter box.  Marmy is a real piece of work, quite unaware of how difficult she is to love. 

It turned out that she also lacks any maternal instinct whatsoever.

Fred basically served as her midwife, and had he not been around, Dobby, possibly the most compassionate smarty-panted cat in the universe, would not have survived his own birth.  Dobby was the runt of Marmy's litter of five kittens, and she decided she was done with the delivery process about half way through -- the bubble over her head clearly communicated "Wake me when they are all here -- I need a nap."

It was quite the sight,  Marmy nursing those kittens.  They irritated her to no end... They would, for example, just latch on for a nursing session when she would snarl, get up, and stalk off... dropping valiant kittens every few steps.  The tried to hang on;  She was intent on shaking them off.  I lived in terror of running over a blind, mewling, tiny rug rat with my wheelchair as she scattered them willynilly.  We took over, pretty much, hand-feeding them, keeping them clean, trying not to badmouth Marmy in front of her innocent babies.  Little pitchers have big ears and all that, you know.

Marmy's Litter

You'd think that producing such a great, healthy litter might transform her into a less beastly beast, but no, if anything, she got worse.  And now, poor Sammy was terrorized by the five kittens in addition to Her Fluffy ButtNess.  Sammy was a timid, gentle soul.

Dobby was clearly different, and not just in a runt kind of way.  He was clueless, fearless.  He loved Sammy from the get-go, and seemed to have decided Sammy was more his mother than that Long-Haired Menace we kept returning him to...

Fred promised me before we took Marmy in that he would place all the kittens by 9 weeks.  As the fourth month of their lives passed, I began to take a jaundiced view of Fred and his promises.  Finally, I suffered a nervous breakdown after the bazillionth discovery of kitten piss in my closet and the covers of whatever books I was reading serving as their chewy pacifiers.  "They must go," I cried, as Fred slipped the straightjacket over my head...

He can get me to do most anything, Fred can.  Part of that has to do with loving him and wanting to make him as happy as can be and part of that has to do with me being the most gullible person alive.
Without cracking a smile, he asked, "So which one are we going to keep?"

Although worried about his health and possible developmental problems, we chose Dobby.  Actually, that was also why we chose him, as during our interviews of folks who wanted a kitten, we never found a situation where we felt he'd get the extra nurturing he seemed to need.  (He was just... different.  For instance, instead of searching out Marmy's teats, he preferred to climb her.  It was his favorite activity -- crawling and climbing in the opposite direction of whatever food was being served.  He was *tiny*.  And, we though, although gregarious as heck, maybe a little stupid.  I mean, Sammy, trapped inside his fear of little, clambering things, would knock him into the next week, and Dobby'd come bouncing right back to him, obviously thrilled at having been noticed...)

So we ended up with antisocial, always pissed-off Marmy Fluffy Butt, the intimidated Sam-I-Am, and the always up for a thrill Dobby. 

Fred actually had to carry Sammy to his litter box because Marmy would attack him viciously if he dared to cross the imaginary plane of her territory.  We had to feed him in our bedroom, too.  This went on for at least several months.  It ended the day he pooped and peed in the bedroom and I suffered my second straight feline-induced psychotic break.  Restrained in the Happy Chair, I howled that Marmy's Reign of Terror had to end... and that no one was going to toilet inappropriately from that day forth.

During all this time, Fred kept an eye out for Marmy's brother, still homeless.  He continued to feed him and would sometimes sit out by the moat late at night, talking with him.  They clearly loved each other and I began to feel like the Big Bad Meanie.

The following year, the next April, I was doing my usual spring fling, hanging out in ICU on a respirator, following one of the seven surgeries on my shoulders -- I was beginning to not do so well post op, pulling stunts like coding and refusing to breathe.  I was getting better but still couldn't manage off of the vent, and was very tired.  Fred arrived to visit one evening and was clearly agitated.  I was able to communicate by writing, so I set out to find out what was wrong.  "There is something I have to tell you," he began, grimly.   Honest to God, it crossed my mind that maybe he wanted to turn off the respirator and cut off my nutrition... He must finally have had enough of me...
But the actual "conversation" that ensued boiled down to this:  Uncle Kitty Big Balls had turned up at the Manor in horrible shape, all skin and bones, covered in abscesses and unable to walk on one of his hind legs... and Fred wanted my permission to take him in, permanently.  His timing was impeccable and his performance, flawless.  I was so relieved that he didn't want to "humanely euthanize" ME, that I nodded vigorously and wrote a great big "Okay!" on my writing pad.

(He claimed later that he couldn't read the scrawled "please don't unplug the breathing machine...")

UKBB and I sort of went through a few rounds of rehab together.  He had his surgeries -- I had mine.  He ended up having part of a foot amputated and required complicated dressing changes for his multiple fight wounds.  And yes, he had HUGE kitty balls... but not for long.  Just long enough to earn the Uncle Kitty Big Balls sobriquet.  Mostly, we called him "Little Boy."

Just as his sister Marmy was obstinately feral, Little Boy hungered for affection and almost could not get enough of Fred.  He became Fred's shadow and remained his raspy-voiced confidante to the end.  Me, he liked enough, but seemed to know that I was the one that had cursed him with an extra year as a suffering stray.  He showed me affection when I doled out salmon, chicken, kibble, or catnip. Ours was a utilitarian relationship.  He liked to watch me with Sammy, and learned the ins-and-outs of life in Marlinspike Hall by copying Dobby, his precocious nephew.

I discovered the Magic Spray we add to their food to take the stink out of their litter box leavings thanks to UKBB, as he produced stinky poops that defied description.  Having been undernourished for so long, he dedicated his life -- beyond The Fredster -- to food.  His coat grew back in, thick and luxurious, and he developed a muscular but quite round belly.  He looked not unlike some burly underworld figure who might keep a stogy clamped between his teeth.

So now we had Marmy and her brother, as well as her kitten, Dobby -- and Sam-I-Am, who sometimes looked at us reprovingly, clearly not one of The Family:

Marmy, Dobby, UKBB:  Related?!

It was easy to love the three boys, each with an engaging personality, each craving affection.  Marmy remained an enigma.  Every few days, I had to trap her so as to be able to comb out her matted hair.  You would think I was trying to murder her.  The thought crossed my mind as she hissed and scratched her way through that bonding exercise.  As hard as I tried to introduce her to Grooming 101, she still produced several python-like hairballs a week -- more fun for me, as apparently I am the only human within a 10-mile radius who ever noticed them.

Sammy and Dobby were so tight, it was amazing!  Dobby brought out the kitten in my old guy, and he was often sighted flying through ballrooms and libraries, grinning and skidding around corners, Dobby hot on his heels.  It was a happy time for the two of them and who knew that Feline Hide-'N-Seek had so many rules?  Still, Sammy saved his best for me, and got me through many a long afternoon or night.  He was a large-boned cat but stepped so delicately around my feet and legs that he never hurt me... except when he absolutely had to -- you know, like when it is 5:05 AM and breakfast has not been served.

Dobby turned out to be an angel and we take complete credit for every one of his amazing attributes.  A frequent refrain around here is any variation of Dobby is so wonderful because he's never known anyone but us, never known anything but love...  (I know, I know -- Saccharine Gag!)  He is a mediator and protector, and has a huge heart full of concern for the welfare of others, species be damned.  He can figure his way through, out, or into any physical obstacle.  He opens doors, he turns light switches on and off. He fetches and "sits" on command.  He comes when he's called and if you don't understand what he wants, he will tap the item and then you, in turn.

When Sammy lost his appetite at the end and I was ridiculously frenetic about getting nourishment into his dying body, there were a few occasions when Dobby carefully walked him to the kitchen in the middle of the night, and reminded him how to eat and drink.  It broke my heart.  Sammy would do his best for Dobby.  Yes, I am weeping.  I miss him and loved him that much.  Most days, I would gladly swap human companionship for a chance to be with Sam again.  Let's put it this way, Friends -- I probably kissed that cat more times than I've planted one on my Darling Fred.

After Sammy's death, Dobby went into a depression that he hasn't quite gotten out of yet.  He still strolls the grounds late at night, calling his friend.  He still sometimes has a thought of him and runs to me with questions in his eyes.

UKBB, Little Boy, suddenly went into ketoacidosis.  We had noticed that he was drinking a lot, and decided that we were going to make an appointment with the vet.  He became deathly ill the very weekend we made that decision.  It struck him quickly and we did the best we could for him, got him the best of care, but too late.  We have that guilt and can't get rid of it.  Fred is heartbroken.

A phrase that is antithetical to my nature keeps occurring to me, though, regarding UKBB, and Fred does seem to understand it.  Because of Fred, Uncle Kitty Big Balls had his thirty minutes of wonderful.  Because of him, he knew warmth and care, healing and fun, love and friendship.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphism all the live-long day, I don't care.  To quote Paul Simon, and why wouldn't I?  -- I know what I know.

The day after UKBB died at the emergency vet ICU, I had my first ketamine treatment.  I know now that I wasn't anywhere near as "high" as it seemed then, but I was definitely disinhibited by the experience.  We found ourselves admitting that the hole left by Little Boy's death was too much, and that we each had already entertained the notion of adopting a kitten.  This flies in the face of what's "right" to do, of course.  So we did it -- that being how we came to have Buddy the Kitten.

It's not fair to give an animal (or a child) a "job" to do in exchange for their admission to the fellowship of family... but we have done that, I confess.

Buddy is responsible for comedic relief, for offering his soft kitten fur to absorb our tears, and for cheering the desolate Dobby and the sad Marmy Fluffy Butt.

A word about Marmy.

You'd not know she is the same cat that was so wild and totally insane for... what?  Almost 3 years. She was changed by Sammy's death.  That very same evening, she came straight to me, climbed into my lap, and... stayed.  She chirps instead of meowing, and her inflected bird calls were a strange comfort.  She clearly had years worth of things to say.

For the longest time, she literally attached herself to me, to the point where I almost longed to be catless.  Whatever happened in her self-centered little soul that day has lasted... Well, until we brought Buddy the Kitten home.

We figure he brought back her nightmare of giving birth and being constantly accosted by needy sucking mouths that demanded she put herself last. "I ain't doing this again," read the cartoon bubble over her head.

Below are four (4) cat videos.  Surprise!  You being as smart as you are, they are self-explanatory -- except for the long one, the third one. 

Yes, it makes me laugh out loud!  I went into my tiny "office" in search of a book, and was followed by none other than the aforementioned kitten.  As I turned to leave, I noted several things:

-- Buddy the Kitten was cowering in the corner under a stool, between two bookcases;  and
-- Marmy was sprawled on the rug in the small hallway outside my office, clearly pleased with herself for having trapped the hapless baby while appearing to be all innocence and light to the Dumb Human.

This little scene is repeated over and over all day.  She (innocently) blocks his path, and gets extremely pleased with herself for doing so.  He slinks into a corner, shaking with fear (for she has introduced him to her claws). 

And then, TA DA!  Dobby will arrive and help defuse the tension, often either running Marmy off in a game of chase, or simply escorting the frightened kitten out of the area (and back to me).  It is a HOOT.  He's like a United Nations' Peacekeeper, but more effective.

The other vids are just... stuff.  The day the kitten dedicated to learning how to leap.  Dobby's continual patronage.  Marmy strolling by, exuding oppression.  The usual stuff.

I know cat vids are boring and cat stories more so... but that's about all I can do today.  I have a doctor's appointment to talk about more pain-killing measures and frankly, I keep breaking down and don't really want to go.  The Pity Party will end, I promise.  I'm thinking... tomorrow?

email to fred, explaining my pouty glare without a single reference to pain. oops.

hello fred.  

not to worry: i am just depressed.

i am not angry, resentful, irritated, hypoglycemic, bedraggled, contemplative, behind (or ahead) of the game.

i am just depressed. my plan is to go to sleep as soon as possible and to continue to do that until such time as being awake is tolerable. past experience tells me that i will peak tomorrow between 5 am and noon.

in other news, you will be happy to learn that there is a NEW law and order show. law and order: LA. this is a good thing as we were in danger of not having enough versions.

i *did* do things today so you can just stop with the unceasing snarky, rude implications that i am lazy. i read your mind. i am not lazy. i did some laundry. i fed and watered the cats, washed a frying pan, wiped down counters, played with and groomed three cats, only one of whom was properly grateful. i wrote a blog post about the either/or logical fallacy and the republican governors who are attempting to destroy environmental protections and legislation at the state level.

i napped.

i thought about baking.

i wrote five long emails that were very overdue.

i sent my brother tw an electronic gift card to REI. (what do you think? would he use their gear? i was desperate and out of ideas.  rumor has it that i am also depressed.)

so, to reiterate: i am simply suffering from an affective derangement AND there is a new law and order show that takes place on the western coast of the united states.

yours very truly,
the prof
(if trump can be the donald, why can’t i be the prof? you wanna be the fred?)


"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud."
(1 Cor. 13:4)

The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall

I suffered Kitten Meltdown this afternoon. It's difficult to say what event or behavior, or combination thereof, pushed me over the line. Everyone else in The Manor seemed to be in excellent spirits.

Trust me to be The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall.

Before my eruption, I was documenting various Feline Antics: the chewing of the purse, stupidly left within Kitten Reach -- and a couple of the very frequent skirmishes between Dobby and Buddy.  Dobby is coming out of his funk and enjoying the Wee One, until he doesn't, at which point he flees in a serious way or sneaks into my closet (he can both open and close the door).

Oh -- not to worry, we have plans to paint all the doors and trim that were ruined in the early days by some fool lacking the dexterity to steer her wheelchair.  Nightmare days, those were.  With Captain Haddock's permission, we may even paint an accent wall or two.  Fred wants to grace our Private Quarters with a triptych of mural work -- but a critical ear and some funky past experiences with sheetrock, plaster, and gesso suggest that he may go all Diego Rivera in the bedroom.  I mean, I can be as nationalistic as the next Tête de Hergéen, and probably more revolutionary than most, but social realism all in my befuddled, sleepy face would might render insomnia a permanent condition.  Burly workers arm-in-arm with thunder-thighed cultural icons?  Can you say "gastroesophageal reflux"?

Umm, yeah, so back to CatCam for Sunday!

I don't know if Fred is going to drop in to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle anytime soon, but if he does:  Sweet cheeks, I love you!  I appreciate you, am grateful for your constant gifts, and am so sorry not to convey that love and gratitude anywhere near frequently enough.  You bless me. 

Thank you for saving me from the insane kitten.  Oh, and from self-pity, from self-indulgence -- that, too!

There is no way that we could keep up this pace of moving from one stressful thing to the next without some correction -- of ourselves, and with a helpful sharp nudge to the diaphragm of the other!  (With our connections, we can always schedule a celiac plexus ablation...)

Is there any wonder that small, funny moments with cats are moments of grace?

And what do you think of maybe a trompe l'oeil ceiling, Dear One -- à la Jacob de Wit or, ummm, Andrea Mantegna?  Not that your work, my Darling Muffin, could ever be considered derivative.

Living All the Ages of Man (btwn 3:48 AM and 5:26 PM)

It's 3:48 in the wee morning.

I am tired of getting up every 40 minutes, so let's pretend rested vigor and proceed with the day. Imagine an exclamation mark, if it helps.

Has anyone ever suggested that you fake it until you make it? Should that helpful advice figure among the chesnuts your friends serve up, I share your pain. It's not like someone telling you that a pinch of sugar will make your marinara sauce *pop* or even that those oversized scrub pants make your butt look... not huge, exactly... more like -- misshapen. No, it is clearly a critique of your very essence, and understand this, if nothing else: you have been found ANNOYING.

It has been a long while since I've been permitted to voice complaints around The Manor. A year and a half or so ago, Fred begged for me to suffer in silence. We were spending most of our time in hospitals and doctors' offices, infusion centers and labs. I was out of my mind with pain and infection.

Nothing has changed, except that, now uninsured, my doctors are struggling to keep me going until the advent of the Great Interim High Risk Pool, which will then enable them to toss me back into the operating room to relieve me of my shoulders and any other infected bones/hardware.

I cannot recall whether I was brave enough to set that down in this blog. Did I? I cannot remember. Anyway, that is apparently the final judgment -- since we cannot even identify, much less eradicate, this bleeping infection, the orthopedic surgeon and my internist, both, are lobbying for making me even more of a Depressed Freak.

My internist also won't let up on his contention that my right leg needs to be chopped off.

Ouch.

Ouch, I say!

These thoughts make me cry and sear my brain cells. I smell burning brain. Okay, maybe it is just the fever.

I honor Fred, and understand his need not to have to face what I must face. He will deal with things as if they are surprises sprung upon him by a maverick world. The man has more capacity for denial than anyone I've ever met. It still puzzles him to find me hunched over this laptop, sweat dripping from my matted hair (*ew*!), eyes glazed, so rosy-rosy cheeked. At his incredulous glance, I whisper: "I'm okay. It's just the fever." At my whisper, he reflexively asks: "Why do you have a fever?"

And I imagine tossing him to the Imaginary Monsters in the Real Moat.

[Apologies to Marianne Moore.*** If you love her poem (one version of which is at this post's end), her imaginary gardens with real toads, you should familiarize yourself with the publication history of it -- it's fascinating. And wonderfully instructive.]

So I confess that it is not others who shame me into faking it until I make it, but rather that it is a form of self-flagellation. Why else would I have spent an hour and a half rubbing lemon oil onto a variety of wooden tables while the rest of my country homesteaders snored in peaceful oblivion?

Four end tables, a console table, a coffee table, and a... plain old table. Our Little Idiot, Dobby the Runt, kept me company. He is the SmellMeister and insists on sniffing whatever I am involved in. I fill my HillaryClintonForPresident water bottle and he must sniff the liquid, then taste it from my finger. I do believe that one day he will save me from poison, this furry and personable little tastetesting pink nose of a cat. He smells the clothes both going into the washer and emerging from the dryer. Always well-behaved, he sniffs most everything we cook or bake, and to see him caught in a spasm of rapid eye-blinking is a fair warning that someone ought to have left out that last tablespoon of cayenne pepper.

Even whole suites of rooms away from her, Dobby goes into nose and eye spasm whenever La Bonne et Belle Bianca pops the top of a Diet Coke. There must be microscopic bubbles that travel directly to His Pinkness, as his reaction to the carbonization process borders on the pathological. Whenever flu strikes, we have to shield him from the nefarious effects of Alka-Seltzer Plus.

Anyway, if you've not been advised to stiffen your upper lip and make like tragedy is not your constant companion: Lucky you!

My penance-based life, au contraire, is founded on the mortification of this pesky flesh. I'm paid up through Early Eternity just by the simple virtues of CRPS! Actually, misguided ascetic notions of self-worth are commonly exemplified by flagellantism. I'm not kidding -- keep the thought in mind and go out among The Brethren and The Sistren. You'll see. (The World has become not much more than a Gathering of Frustrated Self-Anointed Life Coaches who, upon realizing that others are not lined up, breath bated, to hear their wisdom, opt to march in the streets, whipping themselves. Remember Perugia -- not for Amanda Knox and murder, but for its cutting-edge medieval flagellants!)

To the right is a bronze, circa 1480,
from the Galleria Nazionale dell'Umbria, Perugia.

Another way of foisting pop behaviorism on folks is to sing out, with a smile in your voice: BEHAVE your way to success! It's a favorite among the dOCTOr Phil crowd, but probably not his most quoted, as it sometimes has only a fist-in-the-eye as a reply. My Self-Annointed and Appointed Life Coaches, all of whom have excessive time on their hands, and none of whom are sitting next to me at 4:14* in the wee of the morning, live to employ this dictum (from a distance, though).

[*There has been a brief blogging interruption as I kissed His Fredness off to bed, murmurmurmurmurmuring him into the gentle arms of his fatigue.]

Fred, my friends, is pooped. He spent much of the day pretending to be a farmer, picking vegetables and busting up clods of unrepentant clay with the steel-reinforced kevlar toe-guard and toe-cap of his cemented-construction Doctor Martens 7A43TEAK Industrial TrailBlaz safety boots.

Except for those darned boots, he passed the Look-At-Me-I'm-A-Farmer test. Hogwashers and all.

You'd probably be shocked to learn that, in addition to hanging out with the Local Fringe Element -- in our case, a bevy of Existential Feminist Lesbians (I don't care what the ladies screech, you cannot infer one term from the mere presence of another) -- Fred is a Founding Member of the Red and Anarchist Skinheads [RASH]. Another proud New York Native "fighting to win back the subculture from neo-Nazi groups."

It's the quiet druid you have to watch out for. Smile.

Fred said he did some well-timed spitting out at The Farm, and would have gladly climbed a rope suspended from the gymnasium rafters if there had been one. The urge for exertion of masculinity was nearly overwhelming but he stopped short of a chew and a spit.

Thank God. {rolling of the eyes}

So my Macho Darling and the Existential Feminist Lesbians hauled home to The Manor three kinds of beans and some lovely English cucumbers. Turn by unsuspecting turn, three EFLs and Fred sheepishly whispered in my ear that, despite an entire day exposed to manure and burlap, they were unable to identify the bean varieties. He alone, though, thinks the English cucumbers are zucchini.

What?

Oh. Nothing exotic. Yellow wax, French green, and snap pea.

I knew, somehow, when I typed "chew and spit," that it would end up biting me on the ass. A person shouldn't have to look up every dang thing just to avoid some sick unpleasantry.

Chew and spit, in my agrarian world, refers to the gross practice of chewing tobacco and the ensuing spitting out of its nasty juices in a well-controlled stream. Sometimes called chaw rosin, I became familiar with the stuff during a stint at the Gothic Wonderland, a place that owes its existence almost entirely to Mother Tobacco. Don't listen to the revisionist histories which have the Duke Endowment funded by the family's textile and energy ventures... It's all about tobacco.

[My favorite phrase in the Duke.edu bio of James Buchanan Duke describes the Dukes as "[a]rdent Republicans and sympathetic to the downtrodden"!]

I loved the colors and smells of the nasty leaf -- I even visited the fierce and weird auctions that used to be common in local curing barns, trying to decipher the alien poetry spewing from deep within the auctioneer's throat, interspersed with dashes of Christian scripture, and, some say, visitations by the Holy Ghost, as speaking in tongues was not all that uncommon.



Needless to say, I actually do have some understanding and compassion for those raised in the tobacco culture, those who did the actual culturing of the stuff. The reference to chaw rosin, to chew and spit, was a fond and innocent one. [For the record, I stopped smoking around 1994, in fits and starts. Fred? He decided to show me up by quitting... overnight. Smoking is now prohibited in The Manor, though some inviting peppered floral scents waft around on the odd summer evening.]

So would someone please tell me when, exactly, spit and chew became the buzz words for an eating disorder? Like bulimia and anorexia, it is a singular disorder, usually an obsessive compulsion. And lest you be so innocent as to think that C & S might still be a reference to some wholesale grocers or a green engineering design firm, think again. It's much more likely to refer to buccal violence against chocolate-dipped macadamia nuts with a side of whipped cream.

I am further informed that this technique is attributed to Elton John, that its unexpected down side [s:h:o:c:k] includes tooth decay, lots of time demands, and the tendency to shoplift, as it is an expensive eating disorder to maintain.

I dunno. This fake it 'til you make it, behave your way to success movement may be the key to our mutual survival. I will deny the existence of pain, sleeplessness, and disability, and others can deny the existence of calories or God.

What totally sucks? The denial game usually works.

Give it a try -- C'mon! Unless your Gender Rules prohibit, plaster a rigor-inspired grin on your face, smear some raspberry-flavored gloss on those dry lips! Carefully layer concealer under the eye and apply a bit of eyeliner to the lash line. Don't forget mascara, wear something bright to match the vibrant scleral petichiae, and punctuate all utterances with a delighted giggle. (Or, if you are writing, with LOL.)

This is all getting really old -- this emotional gumbo, this lack of sleep, the failure of my environment to pity me. Complaints about my inefficacy are pouring in, despite the make-up, the perky colors, oiled tables, and promises of three bean salads, galore.

Body dysmorphics have taken over my language, and feminist lesbians have stolen away Fred's libido.

Dobby is sniffing my fear with suspicious beady eyes.

I putz away the day, come back to this very blog post, begun after 40 minutes of sleep, 13 hours and 38 minutes ago, in hopes of returning, finally, to bed. A storm rages outside, and three of the four felines are in my clothes closet. Fred slept a proper night's sleep and is now considering a nap. (Farming is hard work.)

The Manor's various Denizens (and Mavens... Never forget the Mavens) are resolute in their message of disdain for my psychic pain. Uncle Kitty Big Balls, the sole cat to brave the storm outside the comfort of my organic cottons and angora leg warmers, announces, in no uncertain terms: *Ack*:*Ack*. I think this means, in MarmySpeak, "Take your pain medication, with a side of muscle relaxant, grab a bowl of lowfat plain yogurt, carefully doctored with aspartame and vanilla extract, put your ass on the mattress, your feet on some pillows, and reread The Once and Future King."

The three frightened cats' tails are all twitching in unison, as they mewl at moi in between syncopated ronronnement.

Yes, something makes me look up mewl. I can't be happy with what I already know, cannot even behave my way to success in the World of Words.

You probably were already familiar with MEWL and PUKE.

My online dictionary cheerfully chatters about it being a well-known "phrase," modified from mewling and puking -- which did finally start the ringing of all sorts of bells inside my poor head.

I know, you are way ahead of me, but cut me some slack, would you? I just got up, sort of, haven't had coffee yet, and eveyone here is mad at me. Mewl! Puke!

Yes, Shakespeare rang those bells, and when Shakespeare sets a bell to clanging, there's no unringing it.

It's the cheery Jaques from As You Like It who intones the well known monologue on the Ages of Man:

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

— Jaques (Act II, Scene VII, lines 139-166)

Shakespeare, I see, has brought me to my untimely [melancolic] end...

Unless I choose to check out what promises to be a new toe-tapping favorite, "Sal, let me chaw your rosin some." It's the child of Gid Tanner's Skillet Lickers, and dates from roughly 1930. Tanner's country songs were called "rural drama stories," and I can't think of a more fitting genre to investigate as I go about putting my internal house in order. There's one in particular I want to find -- something about a "corn licker still."

[Spoken: Ah Riley, Lets go down to see old Sal.
See if she wants to give us a cud of
that rosin to chew on this morning.
(Riley:) All right, let's go down to that sweet gum tree and find out.
All right. We'll go down and play her a little tune called
Sal Let Me Chaw Your Rosin Some. Let's go boys.]

(Fiddle)

Jump up Jinny, jump up Joe,
You never get to heaven till you jump Jim Crow.

(Fiddle)

Cabbage in the garden, Peas in the gum,
Sal let me chaw your rosin some.

(Fiddle)

Hogs in the garden sifting sand,
Sal is in love with the hog-eyed man.

(Fiddle)

Along comes Jinny and along comes Joe,
Along comes Jinny with her apron on.

(Fiddle)

Cabbage in the garden, peas in the gum,
Sal let me chaw your rosin some.
(Fiddle)

Hogs in the garden sifting sand,
Sal is in love with the hog-eyed man.

(Fiddle)

Jump up Jinny and jump up Joe,
You never get to heaven (un)less you jump Jim Crow.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Well, it's been fun, but I've reached my end and will at least go assume the recommended positions for sleep. I've heard good things about them! Enjoy Marianne Moore's poem, and -- if you don't already know -- try to figure what parts she ended up resigning to footnote status, and which she kept as the primary poem. She was a card, was Marianne.

***Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

--Marianne Moore