Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
Some Manor-keeping notes:
Navigation is on the right, with an explanation of the blog's fictional basis. HINT: Please read the column labelled "ABOUT THIS BLOG." Enjoy the most recent posts or browse posts by posting date in the Archives. Search the blog for scintillating, obscure topics.
Enjoy your stay! There are some fuzzy slippers over there somewhere, too.
I'm feeling so low that nothing, really, is beneath me today. Hence, Rick Perry's transcripts instead of my usual concision.
Still, as a prof, even if a retired one, even if a socialist one, a word on motivation might be in order.
Rick Perry is an oily opportunist, one of the "lying liars," to be "franken" about it. A more focused Lieberman-Flip-Flopper sort, he fails to understand that some of us take our politics extremely seriously and that such flops designate insincerity, one of the more huge and awful crimes in our world. My Readers are likely trying to get their eyebrows lowered to their original scowling position at the news that, yes, I firmly believe political discourse is, can, and ought to be a sincere form of communication.
That belief, of course, is based on my flawed understanding that sincerity is also necessary to the correct functioning of repentance, an integral part of politics.
But back to the transcripts. What bothers me is not the tremendous personal support of mediocrity but the complete lack of any discipline to ignite anything close to the passionate curiosity that drives good grades. As an educator, I am fond of those students who travel from wide-ranging disinterest and complacency in their first two years of standard university fare to fascination with their coursework once a major is declared.
That focus of the gaze, that quickening of the pulse, is what's really lacking in these transcripts.
Sure, a good many students struggle with growing beyond their parents' influences when determining a major, and a considerable minority may aim so much to please that the college experience is wasted. And then there is the ridiculous notion that these courses of study are best undertaken between the ages of 18 and 22...
I had four majors before landing on the right one, and also took a couple of noteworthy leaves of absence before deciding that college was really what I needed. I learned the most while in the course for which I got my lowest grade, and am most proud of a B+ I got first semester of grad school, in an undergraduate course -- so I understand that transcripts can be misleading.
Still, it's not like a birth certificate, which tells you nothing, really, of the so-certified person.
This is a prepared text of the Commencement address delivered by Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, on June 12, 2005.
I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.
The first story is about connecting the dots.
I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?
It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.
And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.
It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:
Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.
None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it's likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.
My second story is about love and loss.
I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.
I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.
I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.
During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.
I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.
My third story is about death.
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.
I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.
This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope it's the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:
No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.
Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.
Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.
I am certain that my fellow Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our people impel. This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.
In such a spirit on my part and on yours we face our common difficulties. They concern, thank God, only material things. Values have shrunken to fantastic levels; taxes have risen; our ability to pay has fallen; government of all kinds is faced by serious curtailment of income; the means of exchange are frozen in the currents of trade; the withered leaves of industrial enterprise lie on every side; farmers find no markets for their produce; the savings of many years in thousands of families are gone.
More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.
Yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply. Primarily this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind’s goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men.
True they have tried, but their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit they have proposed only the lending of more money. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They know only the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish.
The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.
Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.
Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, on unselfish performance; without them it cannot live.
Restoration calls, however, not for changes in ethics alone. This Nation asks for action, and action now.
Our greatest primary task is to put people to work. This is no unsolvable problem if we face it wisely and courageously. It can be accomplished in part by direct recruiting by the Government itself, treating the task as we would treat the emergency of a war, but at the same time, through this employment, accomplishing greatly needed projects to stimulate and reorganize the use of our natural resources.
Hand in hand with this we must frankly recognize the overbalance of population in our industrial centers and, by engaging on a national scale in a redistribution, endeavor to provide a better use of the land for those best fitted for the land. The task can be helped by definite efforts to raise the values of agricultural products and with this the power to purchase the output of our cities. It can be helped by preventing realistically the tragedy of the growing loss through foreclosure of our small homes and our farms. It can be helped by insistence that the Federal, State, and local governments act forthwith on the demand that their cost be drastically reduced. It can be helped by the unifying of relief activities which today are often scattered, uneconomical, and unequal. It can be helped by national planning for and supervision of all forms of transportation and of communications and other utilities which have a definitely public character. There are many ways in which it can be helped, but it can never be helped merely by talking about it. We must act and act quickly.
Finally, in our progress toward a resumption of work we require two safeguards against a return of the evils of the old order; there must be a strict supervision of all banking and credits and investments; there must be an end to speculation with other people’s money, and there must be provision for an adequate but sound currency.
There are the lines of attack. I shall presently urge upon a new Congress in special session detailed measures for their fulfillment, and I shall seek the immediate assistance of the several States.
Through this program of action we address ourselves to putting our own national house in order and making income balance outgo. Our international trade relations, though vastly important, are in point of time and necessity secondary to the establishment of a sound national economy. I favor as a practical policy the putting of first things first. I shall spare no effort to restore world trade by international economic readjustment, but the emergency at home cannot wait on that accomplishment.
The basic thought that guides these specific means of national recovery is not narrowly nationalistic. It is the insistence, as a first consideration, upon the interdependence of the various elements in all parts of the United States—a recognition of the old and permanently important manifestation of the American spirit of the pioneer. It is the way to recovery. It is the immediate way. It is the strongest assurance that the recovery will endure.
In the field of world policy I would dedicate this Nation to the policy of the good neighbor—the neighbor who resolutely respects himself and, because he does so, respects the rights of others—the neighbor who respects his obligations and respects the sanctity of his agreements in and with a world of neighbors.
If I read the temper of our people correctly, we now realize as we have never realized before our interdependence on each other; that we can not merely take but we must give as well; that if we are to go forward, we must move as a trained and loyal army willing to sacrifice for the good of a common discipline, because without such discipline no progress is made, no leadership becomes effective. We are, I know, ready and willing to submit our lives and property to such discipline, because it makes possible a leadership which aims at a larger good. This I propose to offer, pledging that the larger purposes will bind upon us all as a sacred obligation with a unity of duty hitherto evoked only in time of armed strife.
With this pledge taken, I assume unhesitatingly the leadership of this great army of our people dedicated to a disciplined attack upon our common problems.
Action in this image and to this end is feasible under the form of government which we have inherited from our ancestors. Our Constitution is so simple and practical that it is possible always to meet extraordinary needs by changes in emphasis and arrangement without loss of essential form. That is why our constitutional system has proved itself the most superbly enduring political mechanism the modern world has produced. It has met every stress of vast expansion of territory, of foreign wars, of bitter internal strife, of world relations.
It is to be hoped that the normal balance of executive and legislative authority may be wholly adequate to meet the unprecedented task before us. But it may be that an unprecedented demand and need for undelayed action may call for temporary departure from that normal balance of public procedure.
I am prepared under my constitutional duty to recommend the measures that a stricken nation in the midst of a stricken world may require. These measures, or such other measures as the Congress may build out of its experience and wisdom, I shall seek, within my constitutional authority, to bring to speedy adoption.
But in the event that the Congress shall fail to take one of these two courses, and in the event that the national emergency is still critical, I shall not evade the clear course of duty that will then confront me. I shall ask the Congress for the one remaining instrument to meet the crisis—broad Executive power to wage a war against the emergency, as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe.
For the trust reposed in me I will return the courage and the devotion that befit the time. I can do no less.
We face the arduous days that lie before us in the warm courage of the national unity; with the clear consciousness of seeking old and precious moral values; with the clean satisfaction that comes from the stern performance of duty by old and young alike. We aim at the assurance of a rounded and permanent national life.
We do not distrust the future of essential democracy. The people of the United States have not failed. In their need they have registered a mandate that they want direct, vigorous action. They have asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In the spirit of the gift I take it.
In this dedication of a Nation we humbly ask the blessing of God. May He protect each and every one of us. May He guide me in the days to come.
The article below this garbled prologue was written by the good folks at PCIP. I can attest to its accuracy, having purchased this coverage beginning with its very first month of availability in July 2010.
If I could add anything, it would be to plead with people who feel a responsibility to accuracy to understand that the PCIP program is in no way a charity or an entitlement, and that it is run in an admirable "tight-ship" sort of way under the auspices of GEHA. My premium has been lowered TWICE since July 2010. It started out at well over $400/month and is now $338/month.
I have even drooled with appreciation at my exposure to actual customer-oriented customer service representatives, each of whom quickly and efficiently answered my questions and cut through the inevitable red tape of a brand new insurance program. It helps, I'd assert, that the precepts under which these customer service types work make efficiency easy, as a common sense of fairness seems to be the guiding principle.
Why *yes*, the ACA was created by mostly the same idiots we watched screw the pooch a few weeks ago in their criminal attack on The World Economy.
Screw the pooch is a particularly vile militaristic expression, popularized by Tom Wolfe in the novel, and subsequent film, The Right Stuff:
But now - surely! - it was so obvious! Grissom had just screwed the
pooch! In flight tests, if you did something that stupid, if you
destroyed a major prototype through some lame-brain mistake such as
hitting the wrong button - you were through! You'd be lucky to end up
in Flight Engineering. Oh, it was obvious to everybody at Edwards [Air
Force Base] that Grissom had just f*cked it, screwed the pooch, that
was all.
For those of you fascinated by my constant dabbling in dirt, I did some research and it turns out that the original form of screw the pooch was fuck the dog.
Umm, also integral to your understanding of the Affordable Care Act, Obamacare, is the distinction between screw the pooch and fucking the duck, though one might be considered the governmental correlative of the other. You'll see this explained in the commentary to the pertinent Jennifer's History and Stuff blog post:
Custer screwed the pooch. Wasting time is another quite profane term. It's 'fucking the duck'. There is, or was, a difference. Nobody buys the farm from fuckin' the duck.
Well, not so. Had President Obama fucked the duck and given up on any meaningful health care reform legislation, thereby effectively screwing the pooch, I would likely have bought the farm, as a result.
I'm just sayin'.
And, of course, on to what *really* matters, which would be my actual reference underlying that trite and overwrought "The World Economy" nonsense: the completely undeserved assault-and-battery on Haddock family equities! The Haddocks, they ARE the world! I mean, if no one takes care of the Haddocks, how will The Captain take care of me and Fred, as well as tend to the upkeep of the miniature Wimbledon All English Lawn Tennis Clubbery? Not to mention seeing to the hygiene of the garderobes of Marlinspike Hall, so necessary to the success of ManorFest? Infrastructure, people, infrastructure! Oh, God, just the thought of next year's percolating strains of moat algae...
{hum, hum, hum}
What? Oh. Right!
To prove my assertion that Obamacare is not Welfare, here's a screen capture of the details of what *I* have paid out in deductible, co-pay, and out-of-pocket expenses (NOT including pharmacy costs). So the next time someone yammers about "socialism" and "entitlement" in reference to the watered-down health care bill that the President spearheaded, refer them to my actual costs.
What is it, then, if it isn't some welfare "ripoff" perpetrated by a bunch of whiners? It's FAIR. My costs are exorbitant -- not so much this year as in the past three when we were actively attempting to stop the infection in my joints and long bones, but still, they are higher than most people's average medical expenditures. The difference is not some sense that I am deserving or "entitled," no! The difference is that I am actively *sick* and also deal with severe disabilities and pain brought on by a progressive neurological disorder -- to such an extent that when I was priced out of my private BCBS coverage, no one would offer me a policy. That's the foundational requirement for eligibility in PCIP -- to have been so rejected!
BCBS of Tête de Hergé ended up raising my premium three times in 2009, and finally demanded $1513/month, with a $5000 deductible. They had also begun to refuse to pay for services that were clearly covered, dragging their feet and making my tending hospitals and physicians request payment many times before moving on to some other delay tactic.
One of my favorites, as well as least-mentioned around here, because it renders me unusually apoplectic, was their assertion that I received not one, but two (and a year apart) policy booklets that had an unfortunate misprint. That misprint concerned the lifetime cap to my coverage. My two, year-apart copies both said $5,000,000. BCBS said, "Au contraire, ma chère! That was supposed to be $2,000,000." They also scoffed -- in writing, if you can believe their hubris -- at my concern about it, saying that most people wouldn't even have an issue about it, as most people don't max out of 2 million in coverage (negotiated coverage, at that!). Well, of course, I did. Max out, that is. They really do count on us being total hebephrenics. They do not anticipate things like me turning it all over to the Tête de Hergé Insurance Commissioner... who promptly collected a whole bunch o' "misprinted" policy manuals, including many in their own holdings.
Towanda!
But though they'd lose an occasional battle ("Corporations are people!"), BCBS won the war. It was highly stressful for all concerned. It did not exactly improve my health to go a year without coverage, during which time I lost a lot of ground trying to stomp out osteomyelitis. Self pay the $2000+ monthly pharmacy costs for daily meds? Not likely! Self pay for six weeks of intravenous vanco? Ya think? Self pay for removal of a prosthesis and implantation of an antibiotic-laced spacer? Really?
So... FAIR, to me, is right. FAIR, to me, is good. If you must beg to differ, let me know. We'll talk about it. Personally, I was profoundly disappointed in the ACA, as the only truly just legislation would have included a "public option." [Now you may throw words at me!] To thoroughly confuse you, so long as this country follows the confusion of corporate models with a belief in personal liberty? I am pissed at the people who refuse to pay for coverage but want me to make their health a priority. Who whine and whine about it but don't consider turning off their internet, television, or phone -- who don't move to a more affordable living space -- who consider abusing emergency room services their righteously righteous right, who will pay through the nose for vet services but not "people" assistance. Who eat out on a regular basis, who pay for cigarettes, who put drugs up their nose and in their veins, alcohol in their stomachs and livers, but don't think twice about channeling all that money into health care. I don't understand people who will not live within their means and are willing to drag others down with them -- children, grandchildren, spouses, live-in lovers -- and us, their neighbors, who end up footing their bills and seeing our own go up as a result.
What truly devastates me? Watching the mindset passed on to successive generations, watching the belief in the possibility of a better life get actively squashed as a result of a hundred daily decisions to do what is easiest but not best.
Anyway.
Before you have a cow thinking I've betrayed my socialist beliefs -- I've not. See my original assumption which begins "[t]o thoroughly confuse you, so long as..." I want that assumption/assertion to change. But so long as I am stuffed into this ridiculous box of USAmerican denial, yeah, I'm going to go all right wing on your uninsured asses. Snort!
What's that? You would if you had a job? You would if there actually were affordable housing?
My point, exactly.
So "gentle butterfly hugs" all around! Shazam! [Which is, according to the democratic Wikipedia, "onomatopoeia for thunder rumble."]
Thunder Rumble!
Please pass this info on to anyone you know who might benefit from it. Thanks!
[If you don't think such people exist in your sphere, well, Towanda, snort, shazam, and thunder rumble.]
PCIP offers health coverage, even if you have a pre-existing condition
Many people who have been unable to get health insurance can now get coverage through
the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan (PCIP), created under the Affordable Care Act.
PCIP is provided through the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and
administered by the Office of Personnel Management through GEHA in more than 20
states.
Choose the plan that fits your needs
PCIP has been improved for 2011, with better premiums, better benefits and a greater
choice of plan options. PCIP enrollees can now choose from three plan options, with
different levels of premiums, calendar year deductibles and prescription copayments. The
HSA Option provides an opportunity to open a Health Savings Account, a tax-exempt
account where you can deposit funds for eligible medical expenses.
Each of the three PCIP plan options provides preventive care (paid at 100%, with no
deductible) when you see an in-network doctor and the doctor indicates a preventive
diagnosis. Included are annual physicals, flu shots, routine mammograms and cancer
screenings. For other care, you will pay a deductible before PCIP pays for your health care
and prescriptions. After you pay the deductible, you will pay 20% of medical costs innetwork.
The maximum you will pay out-of-pocket for covered services in a calendar year is
$5,950 in-network/$7,000 out-of-network. There is no lifetime maximum or cap on the
amount the plan pays for your care.
Each of the three PCIP plan options:
Includes all covered benefits, even to treat a pre-existing condition, immediately from
the date coverage begins.
Covers a broad range of health benefits, including primary and specialty care,
hospital care and prescription drugs.
Does not charge a higher premium to individuals with medical conditions.
Does not base eligibility on income.
Are you eligible?
To be eligible for the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan, you must be a citizen or
national of the United States or residing in the U.S. legally, have been uninsured for at least
the last six months, and have a pre-existing condition or have been denied coverage
because of your health condition.
Want more information?
Health care options in all states: www.healthcare.gov
PCIP administered by GEHA: www.pciplan.com, (800) 220-7898
To apply for the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan: (866) 717-5826
This post purports to be about why I have not been posting and how I swear (I swear!) that this lax state of affairs will soon be changing. But first, this unnecessary remark! --->
It's scary when Karl Rove sounds like the voice of reason. Apparently, nothing makes right wing assholes drop their feigned rube twang like a bunch of cartoonish evangelical Tea-Partiers making inroads into what had been considered proprietary holdings in bigotry and Social Darwinism.
HALT! I can't just go around calling people assholes, no matter how much it relieves the crick in my neck, no matter how high, how unerring the degree of my accuracy. Ever since pronouncing my first ever "fucktard" over the weekend, awareness of my penchant for words best detailed by online Urban Dictionaries in lieu of staid Oxford English ones, has grown.
It's grown uncomfortable. My speech, my pronouncements, my general demeanor -- all unseemly. In fact, I unleashed what apparently can only be called a Can of Whoop Ass on a tweeting con artist yesterday. @GR8Vibrations may never be the same. He'll certainly never claim that Vibration Exercise is a match made in heaven for CRPS-sufferers again. I mean, really, what a stupid claim, given the degree of allodynia and hyperalgesia with which we deal. Nonstop. All the time. Every God-damned minute of every freaking day. I know that on a good day there is nothing I'd rather do than purposely inflict vibration on the ice cold, edematous, 9-out-of-10-on-the-pain-scale pieces of raw meat that extend from the nubs of my former fine, fine legs.
@GR*Vibrations: We see this condition a lot have been successful treating it with Physical Therapy and Vibration Exercise.
What a goober. "We see this condition a lot," my sweet ass. It's a phrase he tweets throughout the day to a selected group of sufferers. Before turning it on the wife of a man with CRPS who was "out of treatment options," this Pimple on the Butt of Humanity was working the Parkinson's Disease Twitter lunch crowd.
Well, this heightened, tightened insensitivity just isn't going to work, is it? Not on Strategists, Ad Men and Women, ConPersons, Theoreticians, Kingmakers, Queenmakers, Lying Liars, Birthers, Gomers, Policy Wonks, Assholes... whatever the taxonomic home in which you wish to lodge them, these folks are spinning their realities as fast as they can, and who am I to interfere?
I mean, what pleasure do I get from seeing a Bush-era POS like Karl Rove squirm midst the threat of tea-partier spoilers? Am I so sadistic as to enjoy the reflexive twitches of a fat and dying political breed animal, peering out at the world from behind Waldo geek chic eyeglasses?
I guess I am even more of sicko than anyone knew. Except Fred. And Bianca. Plus a certain wise-acre faction within the Domestic Staff.
Anyway (my favorite segue!) -- I am sorry not to have posted much of late. I'm in horrible pain and spend lots of time dealing with spasms -- by screaming, mostly. And attacking indiscriminately, via handy social media, the type of people who usually target me. It looks like the infection in my left shoulder prosthesis is back with vengeance, and that, coupled with the failure of my recent flirtation with subanesthetic ketamine infusions to cure or even lower my pain levels from CRPS, has me in something of a personal crisis.
You know, I ask myself questions like: "Why do you keep trying, when everything is screaming at you to give up, to lay down and die? Hmmm? Why?"
I have started asking myself, as well, "Whycome? Whycome?" I think that "whycome" sounds cute. It's kind of tsunami code for "cute disaster," or 美しい災害-
My legs are so swollen that lymphatic fluid is being squeezed out of my famous third spaces. My vision is changing so rapidly from uncontrolled glaucoma that I frequently scream when my eyes pop open in the dark and the ceiling fan appears to be 6 inches from my face... and Karl Rove. That's right, my ceiling fan, fat and round and spinning, appears to me at night as a menacing Karl Rove.'
I suspect that I'm also flirting with kidney failure -- No, that's way too dramatic! It is technically renal insufficiency. My doctor worries about it, I know, especially since I have become addicted to ibuprofen. It's the only thing that will break my daily fevers. I alternate between low-dose methadone (only 10 mg a day now, ever since the great Jump Off experiment in May/June), Percocet (with acetaminophen), and ibuprofen. At least now I stay under 1600 mg a day.
I have the beginnings of 12 good posts in my Draft file. Some are actually within shouting distance of a refined finish. In each and every instance, a fierce attack of spasticity murdered the writing impulse and the resultant high doses of Baclofen and tizanidine left me without any discernible muscle tone.
That's what I said -- no discernible muscle town. Wanna make something of it? Wanna poke fun at my essential amoeba-ness?
I did not think so.
I also have in mind, Dear Reader, essays about things that speak to our common human condition.
Like the silliness of crossword puzzles. I mean, is "a college in North Carolina" ever anything but Elon? Is a literary monogram, or literary initials, ever anything but either TSE or EAP? It's silly. I do about three short puzzles a day and these two examples are but the tip of my iceberg.
Like more observations on what it is like to be the spouse of someone with a severe case of ADHD, with a side serving of PTSD. Even just a list of the things that he claims he will do "tomorrow" would relieve some of the pressure and hammering in mine brain.
Like detailing the contents of the last Gift Box I received from Brother-Unit Tumbleweed. Full of music and some guides to the Canyon. (He finally wrote me a few days back, which was a relief. If you are following that saga...)
And more cats. Always more cats. Buddy the Kitten has learned how to turn door knobs, Marmy is pooping outside the litter boxes, and Dobby now delivers well-timed bites to Buddy's ears, in a valiant effort to appear stronger, smarter, faster.
"Go, Dobby, Go," we cry!
There are also some vaguely political posts in the works, and I am really sorry about that.
Well, there goes my right foot, and since the scream is about to climb backwards out of my mouth, leading with a wide open vowel, I'll leave you now, hungry and aching for more. You, I mean. You're hungry and aching for more.
The odd pot is putrid again -- for my more attentive readers, you know that I am referencing a series of blog posts with no structure beyond whatever the heck is on my mind: Potpourri!
The word pourri puts me in mind of whatshisface -- I usually think first of Verlaine, and indeed, that is so: I *am* thinking of Verlaine. But that is so wrong. Hmmmm. Fred tells me to relax the brain, think of other things, expend no effort to uncover the correct name/person, and what is sought will be made manifest. Harrumph. That's cranky talk for: Not bloody likely. This man, whatshisface, was a criminal (having committed, among other things, murder), wrote his last testament, a moving piece -- and PRESTO! Francois Villon! Get it -- Verlaine/Villon? O! My brain, O!
Unfortunately, my EEG is likely spiking ominously, because Verlaine brings the idea of Rimbaud, and Rimbaud gifts me with Le dormeur du val -- which, of course, makes me think of war, Iraq, Bush, bin Laden, Afghanistan, al Qaeda, the Taliban and downed copters, all superimposed over iconic images of 9/11 -- as things continue to careen, careen, out of control, while walls come tumbling down.
I see Neda Agha-Soltan die on YouTube and read Tweets organized by the hashmarked term #arabspring. Nothing takes more than a few minutes to watch, a few seconds to read.
Oppressors wager that murderous impulses are longer and more persistent than 2'23" clips and 140-character near-instant messages. Oppressors align themselves with the history of sacred texts, and therefore, they believe, with some equally unassailable Wisdom of Oppression. The Book of Oppression is kept alive by bloodlines and blood-lettings and memories crushed into blood-soaked scorched earth by the conveyer belts of caterpillar tracks.
sunni::shia::sunni::shia -- Not likely the same tanks today as rolled over the people of Hama in 1982, but what a neatly bookended poetic thought! The Assad regime - Father (and Uncle) and Son -- has glossed its murderous impulses as some sort of governance by birthright. And yet, this morning I read that reality, or some other impulse, prompted King Abdullah to finally speak against Syria, and to recall Saudi ambassadors from Damascus. It is reported that Kuwait and Bahrain will follow suit.
And so, like everyone, I dare to hope that videoclips and videoconferencing and text messaging -- by a multitude of means -- have become democratizing impulses and not just cacophonous noise, the combined sound of now.
Real time!
It is, as the kids say, awesome, this media spectacle that allows wired revolutionaries access to... well, to whatever they can dream of, really. The rest of us idiots get to ride along, blogging and retweeting, blithely wishing everyone had a chicken in their pot, a car in their garage, and gas for that car, too. We cannot be bothered with too much in the way of conflict's history, or vegetarians, or the tribal/feudal infrastructure of oil-producing nations. The wish is father to the thought as never before.
The King said, among a few other things, that "Syria should think wisely before it's too late and issue and enact reforms that are not merely promises but actual reforms... Either it chooses wisdom on its own or it will be pulled down into the depths of turmoil and loss." Fred frequently tells me -- because I have frequent anti-Saudi outbursts -- that there will never be an uprising in Saudi Arabia, because "the people love their standard of living too much to risk it." Sometimes I want to smack Fred upside the head. Degree of disgustingness aside, King Abdullah speaks to Assad in an ancient shared language, one despot to another.
I am pretty sure most of my readers have given up on this post, maybe even on this entire blog. Those of you who remain, studies show, are probably neuropsychologists, using me as fodder for scholarly articles on narcissistic personality disorder and anomia. Does my brain confuse me? Am I driven batty by my constant circumlocutions, not just of meanings, but of relevance, and truth? How do I dare consider (almost) every juxtaposition felicitous or wildly instructive? Yes, and yes, again -- and I dare because periphrasis is my fertility, my one and only chance for a happy ending. Overburdened with useless detail, my dialog with the world exchanges one word for another until the ragged corner of one observance can be tucked and tied into the holy end of some cherished, but threadbare, belief.
As the lad whispers in that movie I did not see: "I see dead people." And, by God, my brain is gonna explain them, one by one. A better quote comes from the apocrypha of My People, as told by my Mother-Unit. She went into labor with my Brother-Unit Grader Boob while alone at home with my eldest Brother-Unit, known now as Tumbleweed the Bookie, TW, for short. They were in London at the time, and she did what anyone would do -- she called a cab. When it arrived, she put a sleeping TW up front with the driver. Well, labor proceeded more quickly than she anticipated, and Grader Boob proceeded to be born in the back seat of the cab. According to Scripture, the cabbie gamely kept driving in the general direction of her chosen hospital during these birthing proceedings. Me, I think I'd have pulled over. Anyway. I imagine the cab skidding into the receiving entrance of some posh private maternity hospital, as wheelchairs and people in starchy white rushed their way. All movement comes to a sudden halt, however, when young TW returns from the Land of Nod to discover he is no longer the only Prince In Town. TW prohibits any exit from the cab. I am not sure how a four year old does this, but the Mother-Unit insists it was through the imposing power of his voice and will.
"I see a baby. Where did that baby come from? No one is going anywhere, no one is leaving this vehicle, until someone explains to me, and to my complete satisfaction, why I see a baby. Where in hell did that baby come from? I see a baby! Make it go away..."
Or something like that. Anyway, it has, of course, passed into the popular discourse of My People, this expression, "I see a baby." Corrupted by association with the aforementioned film, TW's humorous utterance has morphed into a more compact and slightly disturbing version ("I see babies...") among the younger members of The Clan.
What does it mean to us? Something along the lines of: I don't care how innocent you look, or how much we love each other -- you've got some s'plaining to do.
Also: I see a baby... Where in hell did that baby come from?
Before I give myself completely over to self-immolation and a mental slideshow of African drought babies and Somali warlords, I need a shot of something. Either morphine or whiskey.
So we stop, me, my thoughts, and some Tomintoul Speyside Glenlivet Reserve Single Malt -- with a splash --and focus on the original impulse for this post. Do you remember the original impulse, mother to the babies, progenitor of all these damn dead people, victims of autocrats, famine, poetry, and glorious freedom, alike?
I think it all started with a need to find Le dormeur du val.
No, the exercise was to find Villonà travers [through, across, by means of] Paul Verlaine, to whom Rimbaud sent L.d.d.v.
I can make it make sense, I think, if I just keep going, going in a Beckett kind of way, the Becket of Molloy, Malone meurt, and L'Innomable, because I am the language I speak, it's last sentence: "You must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on... ::: il faut continuer, je ne peux pas continuer, je vais continuer..."
Believe it or not, while rereading the poem -- and yes, I have found the poem -- what interrupts are thoughts of how to curb the sexual appetite of our young (neutered) kitten, who has been suffering some confusion of late. Poor Buddy the Kitten. (And, certainly, poor Diminutive Dobby, the unwitting object of his nascent ardor.)
It only happens when Buddy is between sleeping and waking, caught in what looks to be a feline fugue. I am often wakened by Dobby's cries for help. In my pastel world of bubblegum children's classics, Dobby is an asexual Manor Elf, and my helpmate here at Marlinspike Hall; His cat companions, however, clearly see him as their bitch.
Hmmm? Oh, *right*! Yes, let's leave my pathological tendency toward anthropomorphism, and return to something else that confuses me.
I am assuming that you know Verlaine and Rimbaud were lovers. That Verlaine shot Rimbaud in the wrist (and really, who could blame him?). That Rimbaud had him arrested. That there was some public humiliation ensuite, après, puis, donc et enfin -- and that Verlaine served a couple of years. Rimbaud? He wrote Saison en enfer -- a sweet little domestic cautionary tale that I hope my felines will take to heart.
Hmm?
The poem. Right! Rimbaud wrote it when he was only 16 years old. The Franco-Prussian War was on, and some people assert that the scene he describes is one he witnessed during one of his frequent flights from home. I dunno. He enclosed it with several other poems in the letters he sent to Verlaine, who promptly and famously replied: "Come, dear great soul. We await you; We desire you." Oh, he also enclosed a prosaic train ticket.
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière, Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière, Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue, Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu, Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue, Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme : Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ; Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine, Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
It’s a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.
A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.
Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he’s dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.
Surely it has been done, some sort of dynamic brain scan (PET? MRI? Or, if your fingers miss the correct keys: MEO?) Nurse, nurse, we need an MEO scan, presto! No... not presto... pronto! No, not pronto. Ah, yes, STAT! Sounds like accurate, reality-based, cutting edge medical dialogue to me. Anyway, surely it has been done, some sort of dynamic brain scan designed to follow the bouncing brain balls as the subject searches for a lost word.
In addition to circumlocuting like a maniac, I am horrible with names. This is not a great thing for a prof. I handled it well, I think, when teaching at university level. There was no dearth of personalities to make my students memorable. The merde hit the fan when I descended into that Outer Ring of Hell known as "urban" public high school. Used to dealing with not more than 60 or so names, personalities, and talents spread out over a week, suddenly I had 190+ students that I saw daily, excluding homeroom.
And all these kids were determined to establish themselves as rabid individualists by means of dressing and acting alike. Most of them fell into the categories of average students and fine human beings. And were one to cross the moat and rap on our bronze doors? Yes, I'd remember them, but I'd probably get their name wrong or not recall it at all, and my recollections would be of a general nature. Most of my classes functioned best as a sort of amoeba, oozing around the room, engulfing whole globs of French, so I tend to remember students that way -- as a part of a whole.
Ah, but as for problem students? I always remember them -- by name, by issues, by their uniqueness -- their actual individuality. I have even continued to follow the escapades and achievements of a few, one of whom actually ended up on live television leading a police chase that rivaled O.J. Simpson's laconic trip on the L.A. freeways. God, I wish I could share his name, but obviously cannot. In fact, if Brother-Unit Grader Boob discovers that I put his email exchanges with students smack dab in the middle of my blog -- Oy! Big trouble!
My former student's name was a combination of a garden feature and a past participle, together forming an unforgettable label. His family circumstances were never clear -- I met, serially, with his mother, uncle, and two siblings, all of whom had different last names, and none of whom were ever home when I called.
He was tall, lanky, good-looking, with dreadlocks that one could not help but admire, that must have begun at birth, they were so long. He was quite brilliant, one of the few language students interested in the history and culture of l'outre-mer -- francophone countries, mostly former territories of France. He and his mother traveled to Senegal one Spring Break, and he derived enormous benefit from that trip -- not just in the old "broadening of horizons" category but in calmness and focus. He began what I hope will be a lifelong passion for African history and politics, particularly in the context of post-colonialism.
So he robbed a convenience store! So he flashed a gun in the process! So he drove that rusty old two-toned brown-on-brown Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme at a top speed of under 45 down one of the busiest highways in the country, cops trailing him like breadcrumbs. So what? He never passed a test, written or oral, but he was a great student.
Ha! I can read *your* mind, Gentle Reader. And hear your snores!
What does this young felon have to do with anything, much less death and war, the Middle East, famine, or the social media?
He's the only student I ever had who borrowed book after book of french poetry, who asked -- after school, of course -- to hear poems read. I am quite sure he wasn't kissing up, as he could be quite the A-hole, and besides, I'm impervious.
Of course he fell in love with Rimbaud, with Baudelaire. With Baudelaire's challenge to perception, correspondences: "Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants..." (there are perfumes as fresh as children's flesh...); With Rimbaud's "dérèglement de tous les sens" (the derangement of all the senses), his synaesthesia.
Even though I am impervious to ingratiation, I did offer extra credit opportunities whenever I taught -- figuring that people are drawn to their passions, even in a foreign tongue, and I always found ways to reward passion. Of course, I also have been known to pass the odd passionless Honor Student if she wrote a promissory note to the effect that she will never again enroll in a French language class while under the age of 22.
My dreadlocked man-boy student who so wanted to run before he could walk? He took on two oral presentations, one of Baudelaire's Enivrez-vous, the other, the prologue of Rimbaud's Saison en enfer.
ENIVREZ-VOUS
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.
(Baudelaire, Les petits poèmes en prose)
One must always be drunk.
Everything lies in that; it is the only question worth considering. In order not to feel the horrible burden of time which breaks your shoulders and bows you down to earth, you must intoxicate yourself without truce – but with what?
With wine, poetry, art? As you will; but intoxicate yourself.
And if sometimes upon the steps of a palace, or upon the green grass of a moat, or in the sad solitude of your own room, you awake – intoxication already diminished or disappeared – ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that flies, of all that groans, of al that rolls, of all that sings, of all that speaks – ask, what time is it? And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will answer you, “It is time to intoxicate yourself.” In order to escape from the slavish martyrdom of time, intoxicate yourself; unceasingly intoxicate yourself; with wine, or poetry, or art – as you will. (--translation by the incomparable Aleister Crowley)
« Jadis, si je me souviens bien, ma vie était un festin où s'ouvraient tous les coeurs, où tous les vins coulaient. Un soir, j'ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux. - Et je l'ai trouvée amère. - Et je l'ai injuriée.Je me suis armé contre la justice. Je me suis enfui. Ô sorcières, ô misère, ô haine, c'est à vous que mon trésor a été confié ! Je parvins à faire s'évanouir dans mon esprit toute l'espérance humaine. Sur toute joie pour l'étrangler j'ai fait le bond sourd de la bête féroce. J'ai appelé les bourreaux pour, en périssant, mordre la crosse de leurs fusils. J'ai appelé les fléaux, pour m'étouffer avec le sable, avec le sang. Le malheur a été mon dieu. Je me suis allongé dans la boue. Je me suis séché à l'air du crime. Et j'ai joué de bons tours à la folie. Et le printemps m'a apporté l'affreux rire de l'idiot. Or, tout dernièrement, m'étant trouvé sur le point de faire le dernier couac ! j'ai songé à rechercher le clef du festin ancien, où je reprendrais peut-être appétit. La charité est cette clef. - Cette inspiration prouve que j'ai rêvé ! « Tu resteras hyène, etc.... , » se récrie le démon qui me couronna de si aimables pavots. « Gagne la mort avec tous tes appétits, et ton égoïsme et tous les péchés capitaux. » Ah ! j'en ai trop pris : - Mais, cher Satan, je vous en conjure, une prunelle moins irritée ! et en attendant les quelques petites lâchetés en retard, vous qui aimez dans l'écrivain l'absence des facultés descriptives ou instructives, je vous détache ces quelques hideux feuillets de mon carnet de damné.
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
I armed myself against Justice.
I fled. O sorceresses, O misery, O hatred, it was to you my treasure was entrusted!
I managed to erase all human hope from my mind. I made the wild beast’s silent leap to strangle every joy.
I summoned executioners to bite their gun-butts as I died. I summoned plagues, to stifle myself with sand and blood. Misfortune was my god. I stretched out in the mud. I dried myself in the breezes of crime. And I played some fine tricks on madness.
And spring brought me the dreadful laugh of the idiot.
Now, just lately, finding myself on the point of uttering the last croak, I thought of seeking the key to the old feast, where I might perhaps find my appetite again!
Charity is the key – This inspiration proves I have been dreaming!
‘You’re a hyena still…’ the demon cries who crowned me with such delightful poppies. ‘Win death with all your appetites; your egoism, all the deadly sins.’
Ah, I’ve practised too many! – But, dear Satan, I beg you, an eye a little less inflamed! And while awaiting my few cowardly little deeds, for you who prize in a writer the lack of descriptive or instructive skill, for you, I tear off these few hideous pages from my notebook of a damned soul.
He earned the maximum points possible and did a very good job, even if he lapsed quickly into English. His French was not sufficient, he did not want to do violence. I was disappointed that he hadn't hammered out the language but did not interrupt him nor the other students who took his lead and chattered happily in English in the few minutes remaining before the bell.
Trellis wasn't done, however. Yes, his name was Trellis (Isn't that a lovely name?). He gave something close to a giggle and said he'd forgotten his unifying point, and "you all know how Ms. Madame loves her unifying points..."
He unrolled some of that ubiquitous white poster board. He had traced his poster's title in Elmer's glue. upon which he had rained down an alarming amount of pink sparkles. And I laughed a rare and liberating belly laugh that spread like arson.
Poètes maudits, read his headline.
A poète maudit(French: accursed poet) is a poet living a life outside or against society. Abuse of drugs and alcohol, insanity, crime, violence, and in general any societal sin, often resulting in an early death are typical elements of the biography of a poète maudit.
He had made a family tree of French "poètes maudits," an odd looking bit of revolutionary genetics. As the source of all, I guess as the taproot of all, he chose François Villon. There were branches for Verlaine, and Rimbaud, and then Trellis was talking about Rimbaud in Ethiopia, and somehow Jim Morrison.
If I had a copy handy the day I watched the cops chase him down the freeway*, I'd have stood before the television, a glass of wine in one hand, and Une Saison en enfer in the other, and I'd have intoned that Prologue loudly and clearly enough that it would've resounded inside that child's rather cavernous skull.
What?
Hmm.
Yes, this would be a good place to stop.
*Trellis, I am informed, is now married, and a father. His crime and attempt to flee were compassionately adjudicated. Beyond that... I don't know and prefer it that way.
