T. Coraghessan Boyle

Hooray! There is a new T. C. Boyle out and it is featured on the cover of this weekend's N.Y. Times Sunday Book Review. The Women, writes reviewer Joanna Scott, "is a mesmerizing story of women who invest everything, at great risk, in that mysterious 'bank of feeling' named Frank Lloyd Wright."

I don't recall any of Boyle's previous works as being of any great length -- in fact, I like his *short* fictions: this is 451 pages, A Real Book.

Scott charges Boyle with "writing his own fascinating, unpredictable, alternately hilarious and terrifying fictional history of utopian longing in America." She says utopian longing, I say fanaticism -- but most definitely is it all American. If one were to correctly and politely follow T.C. Boyle's road signs, one would say that it is all about addiction, or as his Dr. John Harvey Kellogg might put it, "auto-intoxication."

A dreary, tedious melodrama -- that's what the first NYT book reviewer said of The Women. Michiko Kakutani almost makes it sound like Boyle has been creatively hijacked by the likes of Kellogg and sexologist Kinsey. She does not seem to "get" that The Road to Wellville and The Inner Circle are not in the least qualified to be reductive, plodding historical fictions. I don't quite understand her theory that the Wagnerian quality of Wright's life overshadowed and outspoke, in a sense, T.C. Boyle's verbal abilities. [I believe T.C. would have had an inkling were that the case.]

I started to count the number of times Kakutani used the unlikely adjective "cheesy," but thought better of it after the first repetition. Two cheesies and the woman is automatically not my good gal pal. Am I a tad defensive of Boyle? Yes, and I know why, and I ain't gonna say, because it is kind of embarrassing.

And so I can't wait to read The Women -- whether it be a cheesy story of no appreciable depth or a sprightly and unique tale of utopian longing. It's bound to be, at least, *quirky* (and American) as all get out.


N.B. Hmmm! As I cleaned up this very messy entry that was initially made in the middle of excitement, and the night, I cruised through some old book reviews. Guess who did one of the NYT reviews for The Inner Circle? I will give you a big old honking hint. It begins:
Though author and subject are well matched, T. C. Boyle's novel about the sexologist Alfred C. Kinsey is a flat and flabby production. Michiko Kakutani, come on down!

I was hoping to avoid further flatus and, thank goodness, Wikipedia has come to my rescue, writing this about Ms. Kakutani:

Salman Rushdie has called her "a weird woman who seems to feel the need
to alternately praise and spank." In a June 2005 interview with Rolling Stone
magazine, author Norman Mailer criticized Kakutani as a "one-woman kamikaze"
(Kakutani is of Japanese descent) who "disdains white male authors" and
deliberately "bring(s) out your review two weeks in advance of publication. She
trashes it just to hurt sales and embarrass the author." Mailer also said that
New York Times editors were "terrified" of Kakutani, and "can't fire her"
because she's "a token," "an Asiatic, a feminist." Moreover, in recent years,
Kakutani's particularly harsh reviews of books by famous authors (e.g., Updike,
The Widows of Eastwick) are followed by (usually milder or openly positive)
reviews of the same titles by other NYT reviewers.

On July 19, 2007, The New York Times published a pre-release story
written by Kakutani about Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. An account of
the ensuing controversy, including the critical comments of some Harry Potter
fans, can be found on the Times Public Editor's blog.

Kakutani was criticized for her alleged overuse of the word limn in
her reviews. She was also parodied in the essay "I Am Michiko Kakutani" by one
of her former classmates, Colin McEnroe.

I haven't had such a *pure* laugh in a while -- it was the "limn" comment that did it, as I was sure that The Great American Writer With Whom I Once Lived would have taken that honor...

CRPS Clinical Trials

ClinicalTrials.gov is a great resource that I try to periodically peruse for hip and happening research activity around CRPS/RSD. The following trials are recruiting or are on the verge of recruitment.

There has been a flurry of visitation to this blog as people google and otherwise search for information about Laura Beckett, who underwent the ketamine coma protocol in Germany and has unfortunately encountered problems due to infection with MRSA -- something far too common these days in ICUs (and hospitals, in general) the world over. Please note Clinical Trial #6 below that is investigating outpatient delivery of intravenous ketamine -- there is considerable misinformation being passed around about treatment with ketamine. It has NOT been banned in the United States -- on the contrary, studies and treatments are ongoing, just not that which employs the 5-7 day coma. And *that* is NOT banned, either -- it is simply subject to the FDA ruling which does not allow coma treatments that last longer than 2 days.

1 Recruiting Autonomic Dysfunction and Spinal Cord Stimulation in Complex Regional Pain Syndrome
Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome
Interventions: Device: Spinal Cord Stimulator;
Other: CRPS patients under treatment other than spinal cord stimulator

2 Recruiting Effect of Delta-9-Tetrahydrocannabinol on the Prevention of Chronic Pain in Patients With Acute CRPS (ETIC-Study)
Conditions: Complex Regional Pain Syndromes; CRPS
Intervention: Drug: Delta9-Tetrahydrocannabinol

3 Not yet recruiting Graded Exposure (GEXP) in Vivo Versus Physiotherapy in Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type I (CRPS-I)
Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type I
Interventions: Behavioral: Graded exposure in vivo; Behavioral: Physiotherapy

4 Recruiting Safety and Efficacy Study of Ethosuximide for the Treatment of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) Type I Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, Type I
Interventions: Drug: Placebo; Drug: Ethosuximide

5 Not yet recruiting Pain Exposure Physical Therapy (PEPT) Versus CBO in Patients With Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type I (CRPS-1)
Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, Type I
Interventions: Procedure: PEPT;
Procedure: CBO standard

6 Recruiting Double Blind Placebo Controlled Study of Outpatient Intravenous Ketamine for the Treatment of CRPS
Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome
Interventions: Drug: Ketamine; Other: IV NSS; Other: Normal Saline

7 Recruiting Association Between Focal Dystonia and Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Conditions: Focal Dystonia; Peripheral Nervous System Disease
Intervention:

8 Not yet recruiting The Effect of Transcranial Direct Current Stimulation (t-DCS) On the P300 Component of Event-Related Potentials in Patients With Chronic Neuropathic Pain Due To CRPS or Diabetic Neuropathy
Conditions: Diabetic Neuropathies; Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type II
Intervention: Device: TDCS/sham procedure on five consecutive days

9 Recruiting A Study of the Effect of Lenalidamide on Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type 1 Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, Type 1
Intervention: Drug: Lenalidamide

10 Recruiting Evoked Fields After Median and Ulnar Stimulation
Condition: Complex Regional Pain Syndromes
Intervention: Procedure: Evoked fields before and after a local block (Xylocaine)

11 Recruiting The Efficacy of Motor Cortex Stimulation for Pain Control
Conditions: Neuropathic Pain; Phantom Limb Pain; Stump Pain; Brachial Plexus Avulsion; Deafferentation Pain; Facial Pain; Complex Regional Pain Syndrome
Intervention: Device: motor cortex stimulation

12 Recruiting Neurotropin to Treat Chronic Neuropathic Pain
Conditions: Causalgia; Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy
Intervention: Drug: Neurotropin

13 Recruiting Evaluation and Diagnosis of People With Pain and Fatigue Syndromes
Conditions: Fatigue; Fibromyalgia; Pain; Complex Regional Pain Syndrome; Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy
Intervention:

14 Recruiting Regional Anesthesia Military Battlefield Pain Outcomes Study
Conditions: Anxiety Disorders; Complex Regional Pain Syndrome Type II; Depressive Disorders; Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; Substance Abuse
Intervention: Procedure: Regional Anesthesia

15 Recruiting Susceptibility to Chronic Post-Traumatic Extremity Pain
Condition: Chronic Pain
Intervention:

NOT APPLICABLE 16 Recruiting Effect of an Educational Intervention on Cardiac Patients' Participation Rate in Cardiac Rehabilitation Programs
Condition: Coronary Artery Disease
Intervention: Behavioral: Increasing awareness to importance and availability of CRP

NOT APPLICABLE 17 Recruiting Growth Hormone Secretagogue MK-677 Therapy Effect on IGF-1 Levels in CKD and ESRD Patients Conditions: Chronic Kidney Disease; End Stage Renal Disease
Intervention: Drug: MK-677

18 Recruiting Cerebrospinal Fluid Repository
Conditions: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis; Cerebrospinal Fluid; Neurodegenerative Disease; Motor Neuron Disease
Intervention:

Bayeux Tapestry

The Museum of Reading provides panel by panel, scene by scene, "narration" of a Victorian replica of the embroidery.

The Wikipedia entry notes several Mysteries of the Tapestry, which are interesting. Any insights or ideas?:

There is a panel with what appears to be a clergyman touching or possibly
striking a woman's face. No one knows the meaning of the inscription above this
scene (ubi unus clericus et Ælfgyva, "where [we see] a certain cleric and
Ælfgifu," a woman's name, although some authorities have claimed otherwise).
There are two naked male figures in the border below this figure; the one
directly below the figure is squatting and displaying prominent genitalia, a
scene that was frequently censored in former reproductions. Historians speculate
that it may represent a well known scandal of the day that needed no explanation
(Setton 125).

At least two panels of the tapestry are missing, perhaps
even another 6.4 m (7 yards) worth. This missing area would probably include
William’s coronation.

The identity of Harold II of England in the
vignette depicting his death is disputed. Some recent historians disagree with
the traditional view that Harold II is the figure struck in the eye with an
arrow. The view that it is Harold is supported by the fact that the words Harold
Rex (King Harold) appear right above the figure's head. However, the arrow may
have been a later addition following a period of repair. Evidence of this can be
found in a comparison with engravings of the tapestry in 1729 by Bernard de
Montfaucon, in which the arrow is absent. A figure is slain with a sword in the
subsequent plate and the phrase above the figure refers to Harold's death
(Interfectus est, "he is slain"). This would appear to be more consistent with
the labeling used elsewhere in the work. However, needle holes in the linen
suggest that, at one time, this second figure was also shown to have had an
arrow in his eye. It was common medieval iconography that a perjurer was to die
with a weapon through the eye. So, the tapestry might be said to emphasize
William's rightful claim to the throne by depicting Harold as an oath breaker.
Whether he actually died in this way remains a mystery and is much
debated[citation needed].

Flush my line, SweetCheeks...

I am thrilled to report, mes amis, that my PICC line was pulled yesterday! It was quite the treat not to have to get up in the middle of the night to have Fred flush my line.

I mean, really, don't you think a girl ought to be able to mean something totally non-medical by the phrase "flush my line"? Ought that not be a throaty and suggestive invitation -- "C'mon, baby, come here, SweetCheeks... and flush my line..." ?

And I ain't referencing saline or heparin, either, darling.

Aretha's Hat

I heard about this on the radio this morning and then ran into it on another blog -- there is a movement afoot to posit Aretha Franklin's inauguration bonnet on other, more unadorned, heads.

It is an incredible, wonderful, magical hat. And it is turning up everywhere!

*doctored by Johnny M.

Laura Beckett

[family photo of Laura Beckett and daughter]
Roughly two years ago, I was ready to fight.

I was looking into going to Germany for the ketamine coma treatment that has had such great -- but poorly understood -- results in people with refractory CRPS. I have CRPS/RSD in all of my limbs and now, in my face. Blah blah and yadda yadda!

At the same time, recognizing some tough financial realities and the not-so-minor detail that I have a lot of what is charmingly designated by the medicos as "co-morbidities," my neurologist was urging me to look into getting a pain pump. I had wanted a spinal cord stimulator earlier on but the spread of the disease made that a not so effective option and he was having a hard time handling my pain.

Isn't that a riot?

My doctors have a hard time handling my pain. There are days, though this is not one of them, that I resent that. With my neurologist, I try to walk a fine line. There is significant dissonance in his urgings that I get one implant or the other -- because he would always preface this desire with this slightly jarring statement: "Of course, with you? If you got an infection, you would be dead before you could get to the Emergency Room." [Given what ER-based blogs reveal, I think the ER/ED might be a waste of time, anyway.]

When I first investigated the ketamine coma protocol, it cost around $20,000. The cost has at least tripled -- probably due to inflation and the increased complexity of the care as the program has evolved. But, in my opinion (and I very much respect those on the other side of the argument), the ketamine coma is the best thing, indeed, the only thing, out there that comes close to a cure. It is not permitted in the states, not because of the drug but because of the length of time patients spend in coma. Indeed, "awake" ketamine infusion therapy is gaining in popularity as a treatment.

So why are my hopes in the past tense? I began to feel ill in ways that did not make sense -- although I did, for the longest time, attribute every symptom to CRPS and just thought that this freakishly weird disease was just getting weirder. Anyway -- eventually, we discovered that I have infected joint prostheses, as well as osteomyelitis. I have had three major surgeries since August 2008, and am facing another in the coming weeks. I have had my artificial shoulders removed and am not promised new ones. My left hip and my lower spine are suspicious for infection, too. The pathogen(s) involved have not grown in the lab -- although there is no doubt that there is massive infection (According to my surgeon, when he bored into the left humerus, it suddenly "exploded," spewing pus all over the place, even sending some up into my neck. Yummy details!).

All of my plans and hopes for either the ketamine coma (I thought my investment portfolio was sitting pretty!) or the pain pump are over. No one is going to put me under for any period of time (Did I not mention ending up on a ventilator for 5 days after one of the recent surgeries?) or put another foreign body into this body.

Oh, and I have MRSA.

Today I have a major appointment with the doctor I respect the most, whose opinion I highly value. In essence, when I am unsure but he is not? I will substitute his assurance for my waffling will. He has somehow pretty much predicted the outcome of each leg of the journey thus far. "I don't think we are looking at a positive outcome."

When I face a week like this one -- The Boutiqueur today, Infectious Disease tomorrow and Wednesday, Dr. PainDude Thursday -- I get fairly antsy. I know it will be physically hard and very painful but more than that, I have to prepare for getting emotionally jerked around.

So I clean my house like a rabid woman, I cook at 4 am, I attend to a myriad of details because, all of a sudden, details alone matter.

This morning -- after finally getting my Baked Cayenne Cheese Grits to set -- I log on to find that the most recent visitor to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle arrived via a search for "karl beckett crps." It is not surprising that this happened -- I mean, I may mention Karl Marx from time to time, Samuel Beckett is one of my literary heroes, and CRPS? Well, I might speak of it occasionally!

My heart sank when I followed this person's lead and read the story about the very real Karl Beckett, the ketamine coma, and CRPS.

His wife went to Germany for the treatment, but on the second day of the coma, developed a terrible staph infection -- MRSA -- and is now on a vent and has lost the use of her legs and arms. Their money has run out and he has lost his job.

Just to get her home via air ambulance, he needs at least $71,000.

Please read their story and, if you are so led, a trust fund has been set up:
c/o TD Bank NS, 129 S.Blackhorse Pike Runnemede, NJ 08078

Here's another article about the situation: N.J. woman trapped in German hospital.

*Edit: Reading the sometimes ridiculous comments that follow the articles can be upsetting to those of us with CRPS. Dr. Schwartzman is wrongly being smeared -- everything I know of the man tells me that he is a selfless, tireless worker on behalf of those with this stupid disease. Laura Beckett's family is, of course, upset and highly emotional but it is unfortunate that Dr. S has become the sacrificial lamb to their tragedy.

As for the ketamine coma therapy itself? The main reason it is not approved for use in the United States is the *length* of the coma, not the use of ketamine. I believe that the FDA will not approve coma treatments that last more than two days. Ketamine is being used as an accepted treatment in the U.S. for CRPS, but only as a short "infusion" while the patient is awake.

About the fur flying over the issue of ketamine being a "street drug," well, get a grip, people! Ketamine is used as anesthesia for humans in ERs and ORs every day just as, yes, it is used illicitly as Special K [on scuzzy street corners and in dank, dark, evil bars] every day, too. It often happens that there is a lag time in the general understanding of how a drug that is abused on the street can have an extant legitimate medical use -- I encountered this when I began using methadone as my long-acting pain reliever. Folks who weren't aware of its profile as a cheap and effective pain reliever preferred to conclude that I was a heroin addict. Luckily, I have long experience in, as put by my darling brother, the Grader Boob, "making like a duck, and letting it roll off my back."

In their present circumstances, the Becketts can hardly be as forgiving. The overarching issue of whether the German doctors screened Laura for MRSA is something of a non-issue. She may have acquired it there; She may have been a carrier -- whatever, MRSA, like "stuff," HAPPENS. There is no relief to be had by playing the blame game.

This poor family is surely at wits' end. If you can, consider donating or bringing heat to their legislators, or publicizing Laura's plight. Word is spreading and I am optimistic that help is on the way -- but from Laura's vantage point, it must feel like forever.

Oh, the statement by the German doctors that this is the first complication in the ketamine coma treatments? Ridiculous. It is well known that pneumonia is not at all uncommon in the course of the week spent on a ventilator -- in fact, it happens fairly frequently, but my understanding is that the ICU nurses are good at respiratory hygiene, keep the patients turned and well-suctioned, etc. The most frequent consistent negative that I've read about is the one anticipated -- the difficult transition from ketamine coma to a normal awakened state (generalized weakness, hallucinations, trouble eating, etc.). All in all, considering the extreme nature of the treatment, I think things have gone remarkably well. Do I think it is risky? Of course, it is risky. Who has ever said otherwise?

Considering how few treatments there are for CRPS, I hope that the community of "sufferers" can refrain from being inflammatory while working to help the Becketts. Let's keep them the focus and not make this specific set of circumstances (which we really do not know, anyway) a referendum on the coma protocol.

Split Infinitives

Yesterday was my mother's birthday, and mine. Once upon a time, I was her 29th birthday present, even if I was induced and hastened with pitocin. She has great stories about my birth and my brother Grader Boob's arrival -- but I've never heard a peep about my eldest brother's début, the child she so adored. He no longer uses his given names. He asks to be known as TW, for Tumbleweed.

I will have to find the cover to Dylan's Nashville Skyline, because there is a moment, truly frozen in time, when he adopted that same stance, guitar slung over his shoulder, hat tipped back, gunny sack at his feet. He stood next to a basketball goal we had at the end of our driveway and was looking out toward me and Grader Boob -- we were playing softball in the back yard.

I just happened to turn and look. I was too young and stupid to understand what I saw. But I did *see* him. He was old, so young, and sad, so sad. He had traveled cross country in one of his attempts to find our mother, to draw her to him in his need. He would go to her parents' home, hoping she would come back to the States for him. But she was busy with Litter Number Two and her new husband -- a lovely man that I wish TW had met. Necip would have been very kind to him, would have given him the world. Necip died a few years ago. He was a wonderful person. He would have wrapped TW in love and safety, as he tried to do for me. As he *did* for me!

The forever mystery is: What happened to all of her adoration? There are missing passages to the story that it seems I will never know. When I reunited with her, she was shocked to learn that TW was not with us, that he had been gone for many years. She broke at the news. It seemed to deepen her love for him -- he was all she could think about, all she would speak of. Yet, when I found out he was alive through a moment of indiscretion on the part of my half-sister, it was made clear to me that she wanted nothing to do with him. What happened?

You are probably rolling your eyes and thinking "Why not just ask?" I don't know the answer to that; I don't know why I cannot just ask.

As Nancy, the aunt, noted a few weeks back, what in the world does TW, the Elder, have to apologize for? His mother left him, his father never searched for him when he ran away from home -- in fact, his father took the family and left the country! He told me and Grader Boob that TW would be joining us in three months. Three months came, three months went.

I will never forget the confrontation -- Grader Boob, in the midst of the growth spurt that would eventually make him 6'4", in front of the Father, who sneeringly attested that he had no idea where TW was -- and the fist, rising, rising. It's imprinted in my brain, burned into the grey matter, dancing along neural pathways.

I cannot escape my own guilt. I searched for him -- for years -- but did not find him. Yet, when I was told where he was, he wasn't hiding. I don't understand why my efforts failed. I *did* make contact with someone who knew him -- my first semester of grad school at UC-B -- but it never went further than this person who responded to one of my ads. If TW was hiding, he hid out in the open.

[That was a long and nervous week, that week of fielding this woman's phone calls in response to one of my newspaper ads. She definitely knew him, said he was in Oregon "overseeing some property," and that she would have him call me in the next few days. I canceled all my classes, skipped my own seminars, took the phone off the hook whenever I had to run to the bathroom. I prayed and prayed, I was so sure that this was it -- that I had found him.]

TW had me tell Grader Boob that he was so sorry, that he wished things had turned out differently, that if ever he wanted to talk, he would be there, ready. Hear the echo of Nancy's rage -- what does he have to apologize for? We all owe him a debt that is impossible to quantify, a debt that should be recognized and paid down, crime by crime. I owe him. And if Grader Boob would get his head out of his ass, he would see that TW did what he had to do, and extend him the graciousness and understanding he deserves. Again, I just don't understand. Grader Boob is the sweetest person in the world -- but hard as a rock in these instances. Why? [I *have* asked! The answer is a terse "he could have found us anytime." Maybe, maybe not -- and might he not also have been somewhat deterred by past experiences with the family unit?]

TW was homeless and eating out of garbage cans when he was 15 years old. He sent a love letter to his mother, far away then, in Ankara, saying "come to me and I will make you beautiful with mine eyes." (Okay, so he was well read.) He lived in the drug culture, was shot, fathered a child with a porn actress, a child that he really doesn't know (but I heard his pride through the telephone line), living with her mother now in Bangkok. Somewhere in there, he found himself, fell in love with the Grand Canyon, knew it intimately, and became an expedition guide. "In order to feed the cats," he works as a bookie. When we found each other, late in 2007, he had broken his shoulder after falling on an icy sidewalk, and lost (or quit, I am not sure which) his job in Vegas. He painted houses in Lake Tahoe over the summer, and recently was part of a start up betting operation... but has been "replaced." He hints that he is ill but will not tell me anything specific. He is extraordinarily kind, dedicated to what he believes is right, and funny as hell. We were talking about the health history of the people to whom we are related, because his daughter had some questions about the prevalence of breast cancer and diabetes, and I asked him, "How are your eyes?" -- because our grandfather went blind from glaucoma, which I also have. Without missing a beat, TW answered: "My eyes? Small, dark, and suspiciously beady."

My brother Grader Boob was born in a London cab. TW, age 4, was in the back seat with her and when they arrived at the hospital, he attempted to commandeer the taxi, refusing to let anyone out until the new addition was adequately explained. "He was not here when we got in the car..." is how his spotless logic worked.

But nary a word about TW's birth. "I know he was born, because -- after all these years of studied neglect -- he is still here" is how my spotless logic goes.

Somehow the accretions of the past year or so made celebrating my birthday impossible. No, that is not true. Not impossible. More like obscene. I was in a great deal of pain, to the point where making it to the bathroom and washing up was almost too much. It hurt so bad that I couldn't find sleep until 4 am this morning, and then was up again at 6 am -- but happier, because my birth day had passed. My shoulder feels close to exploding, but I forced myself to clean the house -- a clean start to this new age of mine. I needed to do something nice for The Fredster, who was so understanding of my depression yesterday.

The mother had her daughter email me, belatedly, with the familiar message that she would get "something in the mail to me tomorrow." I so wanted to respond "don't bother."

But I want her to bother. I want her to very much bother.

I want to split her infinitives.

photo credit

Andrew Wyeth

Wyeth, Wind from the sea

joyeux anniversaire

Pensieve

For you to truly have a pleasurable reading experience, I need to encourage a certain frame of mind. The fastest and least painless way to achieve this proper receptivity is to repeat the following, adding an extra five repetitions until you feel it:

They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.

Despite the fact that everything I write here, in these rarefied environs, is little but a hodge-podge of emotion, factoid, and self-reportage, now and again I will actually TRY to extract the loose ends of my brain.

Ever since reading about Dumbledore's pensieve*, I have wanted one!

If you are unfamiliar with the Harry Potter series, you may be cursing me under your breath (for you are ever circumspect). This stone basin apparatus, covered in runes, is filled with a silvery fluid or gas, wisps of which are always swirling and threatening to escape its bounds.

Here is an elaboration that may help:

The Pensieve has multiple functions.

At times, when one's head is so
full of thoughts that one cannot hear oneself think, it is useful to be able to take some of those thoughts and literally set them aside. The practiced Wizard can extract a thought from his head and store it in a phial or in the Pensieve for another time. If it is in the Pensieve, it is possible to stir the thoughts stored there together and look for patterns. It appears that the wizard has the choice of extracting an entire memory, leaving no trace of it in his head, as
Professor Snape does in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, or extracting
a copy of a memory, retaining the original, as Professor Slughorn does in Harry
Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It is also apparently possible to edit these
extracted memories, though it is a difficult task and one which is often not
done well.

If one places one's head within the Pensieve, one becomes immersed in a memory that is stored in the Pensieve, and is able to relive it as if one was living that time over again. Harry experienced Professor Dumbledore's memories of the Wizengamot trials of several death eaters this way in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and Professor Snape's memories of Harry's father in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

A thought or memory stored in the Pensieve can, with proper stimulus, appear to nearby viewers as if standing on the surface of the basin. Professor Dumbledore used this technique to show Harry the prophecy that had been made about him, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and it is used in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince when full immersion in memory was not needed.

It is also possible to take another person's memories, place them in the Pensieve, and then enter them to relive them as if one were the person whose memories you have just added to the Pensieve. Harry and Professor Dumbledore do this a number of times in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in order to determine the salient points of the early history of Tom Riddle, or as he later styled himself, Lord Voldemort.

Most interestingly, the memories viewed by the person watching in the
Pensieve are more complete than the person's own observations. For instance, in
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Bob Ogden visits the Gaunt family.
Morfin speaks to him only in Parseltongue, which Ogden does not know; yet Harry, reliving Ogden's memories, not only understands what the Gaunts are saying in Parseltongue, he is able to perceive things happening outside Ogden's range of vision.

Spacing out in front of the television this morning, I found myself weeping at the images and sounds of yesterday's inauguration, thinking of my friends who can finally look to the seat of this country's power and see someone who looks like themselves, someone who can reference black history with both the dignity of higher office and the intimacy of personal truth -- which surely extracts much of the paralyzing venom from our past that keeps us from addressing the persistent conflicts and politics of race.

The most astounding thing I've heard thus far? There were no arrests made at the event in Washington, D.C. yesterday. That is an incredible commendation of the security force that was so very apparent and of that huge celebratory crowd.

If it is true. I have a hard time believing that no one got drunk or high, then predictably stupid, in all the revelry -- that there were no instances of "terroristic threat" -- that John mumble-tongued Roberts, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, was able to leave the area unscathed!

Between them, Obama and Roberts managed to absolutely mangle the Oath of Office. Fred and I were at the Infectious Disease Infusion Center -- he was asleep in the Magic Chair while I was having blood drawn and the PICC line dressing changed. It is a miracle that Christina, the nurse, didn't stick the slumbering Fredster by mistake, as her head was swiveling back and forth in an effort to watch the inaugural festivities on the T.V. mounted in the corner of the room. As noon approached, the room filled with doctors, nursing assistants, pharmacists, secretaries, and one ancient gentleman there for chemotherapy -- two, three people piled in each of those magic recliners (everyone glaring at the now loudly snoring Fred), twirling around on those round swivel stools, holding up the walls. We were all circumspect for the initial five minutes or so, and then the commentary started to fly, beginning with the aforementioned ancient gentleman patient, who said, "I have voted in every election since Truman and Dewey in 1948... and never have I wanted someone to be out of office as bad as I want Bush gone, today." I had the impression that we all relaxed after that pronouncement. I was surprised to hear the clearly partisan chatter become uninhibited, wild -- even woolly.** Christina made several lame attempts to be fair to Bush, but the crowd just wasn't feeling it, and she came clean, eventually.

The best comment about the screwed-up oath? From one of the I.D. doctors -- a severe woman whom I saw a few times in the hospital, with an equally severe jaw and angular Eastern European haircut:

"That's okay. He'll get it right next time."

Anyway (Choo choo! train of thought?) -- so there were no arrests reported. I wonder if there were any detentions or similar euphemisms for being tossed in the slammer.

big house, calaboose, can, clink, cooler, hoosegow, house of correction, jail, jug, pen, penitentiary, pokey, prison

So it turns out that the PA I so admired is perhaps as smart as a stick. And I pay for it. Shoot, you pay for it! My insurance company pays for it. Literally! For a reason we cannot fathom, she has decided to be resistant to the idea that the pus flying out of my joints and from the interior of my bones is the result of infection. She badly wants it to be an inflammatory process.

Last week, I let her do the "gout" dance, and order diagnostic tests -- despite a long, intervening conversation that included reading the operative reports where infection was clearly what was going on. She even said something like, "Okay, so it isn't just an inflammatory process... but when I attended that lecture [on gout] last week, I thought of you!" A friend wrote me Monday night, saying that she can't wait to find out what classes or lectures the PA attended last week, because she surely would test me for it!

Ah, but this scream rises from the depths of my soul, or the chambers of my large intestine: Who pays for the tests that she orders without knowing what she is doing? SHE OUGHT TO PAY FOR THEM! She even was told to refocus by her "boss," the head I.D. guy -- she spoke to him last week and again yesterday.

My problem, and it is my problem, is that I lack mental clarity to such an extent that I can no longer advocate for myself. Truly. I am not kidding. The PA could depart from the Path of Logic and Reason and I am so incapacitated by pain and lack of sleep that I don't catch half of it. Bring someone with me? I do! That guy over there asleep in the chair!

Hell, this post is not what I wanted it to be.

"My" CRPS is worse -- particularly on the right side of my body. I was ready to jump out of my skin while Christina was searching for a vein (my PICC wouldn't give any blood, darn it all). Like so many of her compatriots, and in spite of me telling her otherwise, she thinks that gentle stroking of my skin feels good. I will ask her to please not touch me unless it is part of the procedure. She will always ask "why." I will explain CRPS again to her. She will say something that she thinks is compassionate and empathetic and will simultaneously, while wearing gloves, pat and stroke my right arm. The gloves catch and pull on my skin... and it all sends me through the ceiling because of the ensuing pain. When Fred is awake to witness it (this weekly event), I swear that he is ready to kill. She also insists on rotating that right arm out and away from the body, despite my protestations and explanations about there being no shoulder, about the distinct sensation of tissue being torn and ripped, to which she always replies: "They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right." When I rotate the arm back to a less painful position, she insists I turn it out again, else she won't be able to properly dress the PICC line. She has a point, but barely.

"They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right." My sentiments, exactly, and perhaps my motto for years to come.

This morning I learned that I am developing quite the vocal dream life, judging not only by the yells reverberating in the chill air when I jolt awake, but also by Fred's faithful transcriptions. So this is what he does while I sleep!

The most recent pronouncements?

"Ears! There are two of them!"

"I can do it. I can do anything." [Said conversationally, after sitting upright and looking around the room]

"313 Fitzgerald. 8260 Southwest 145th Street." [Old addresses]

and my personal favorite:

"Excuse me, but Derrida is down the hall." [Well, he once was! His son, too.]

Conclusion? I am awfully boring, decidedly literal.



Of course, I cannot give proper shrift to the screams. The screeching scares the whole Marlinspike Hall household half to death. Cats scatter --save Marmy, who, oddly, advances. The Castafiore comes flying, the swirling hues of what can only be called a housecoat -- not so much a peignoir, really, as a kimono-inspired wrapper -- contributing to the squirrelly after-impressions of a pastel dream gone wrong.

So long as no one interrogates me about why I screamed, I usually settle back down. A few times, still caught up in the Terror of Whatever, all I perceived was a blacked-out figure bending over me and pretty much squealed -- but it was Only Fred Freaking Out [OFFO]. What a sweetie.

Hmmm. What else remains in the hodge-podge pile? Would you believe that I have at least three blog drafts written while hallucinating?

No elephants, by the way. Rather, dainty rhinos, and more aubergine than pink, with swirls of paisley in deep burgundy, offset by green forest tendrils, and small stray flecks of gold.

That's a lie!

It is not at all visual.

Rather, there seems to be a talk radio show ongoing between my ears. I suspect that I pick up the background noise of the television, the ambient noise from the street, the cats' purring, the coffee maker, the microwave.

I hear the darnedest things. Some of the broadcasts are in warm, familiar voices -- the Grader Boob's, for instance. The dulcet tones of my stepmother, I think I recognize, I am not sure. Content is the determining factor, and as I hear her recount afternoon teas and toast, being tossed in the gales, and swimming alongside our little overturned Sunfish sailboat as the dark clouds loom, thunder audible, with lightening just a promised thing -- as I hear these details, I welcome her, just as water laps against the shell.

Since my visit with Aunt Nancy a week ago, my stepmother has been almost constantly on my mind. Nancy, herself, peoples my day fantasies, these visions, my noisy dreams, as a young girl in petticoats, scared, lying under the bed, waiting for cruelty. No, no -- back to 301 Walnut Creek Drive, my glory days.

Mom reminds me how to make the toast. It matters. In the rushed early morning hour, two extra pieces of whole wheat toast are buttered, placed in that tired old pie pan recycled from the Sunday morning Sara Lee coffee cake. The bread sits for about an hour at a just warm temperature of maybe 200 degrees before we turn off the heat(never ever open the oven door before being ready to eat them, usually, Mom and I would surely agree, with afternoon tea). So we conveniently "forget" about those extra toast slices, and as we go running out the door into our day, turn the heat off. Don't dare open that oven door until you go there in surprise late that afternoon.

Crispy, aromatic, buttery, cut into triangles, served with Earl Grey or whatever was on hand. It felt civilizing. Better than Melba toast but not a telltale vice like a scone or... a cream horn. Cough. There was a bakery downtown, across the street (and believe it or not, the street was Main Street) from my stepmother's grandfather's jewelry store. This bakery made the most beautiful, light, slightly sweet cream horns and my stepmother and I would buy five -- eat two on the way home, have two with tea... and offer my father the leftover one, which he invariably refused and which we then tastefully halved! Ah, but the toast was still a wonderful accent to the day. 2.5 cream horns a day would've eventually worn us down...

Ugh. Fred just reported a "huge dead rat" in the front pasture, just beyond the Moat to Marlinspike Hall, where he was out cavorting with a friend's dog. Yes, to the three cats, he wishes to add a dog. I am a dog person, never even entertaining the thought of having cats until I met him. We had a dog together but that story is not one I wish to revisit today. Suffice it to say that I will never again subject a dog to the wiles of his temperament. He thinks he has changed and that were he to pick the dog, all would be well. I hope so, because if not, he may find himself alone in all kinds of ways.

It was only a week or so ago that I ever saw the show "The Dog Whisperer." Strangely enough, like The Boutiqueur, The Dog Whisperer advises, over and over, living in the now. I like that he does this without overburdening his subject with whatever that might mean. It may sound snotty, but it is what it is. Maybe it is not that radical a notion, eh?

"You live in the past, you get what you had in the past." I love Cesar -- when he speaks about humans, you can almost sense how frustrated the species makes him. Hence the blurb for the show "I rehabilitate dogs. I train humans."

Persistent patience. "Calm assertive."

Oh Mom.

Nancy was right, and I can no longer block what Mom said, nor should I. Why have I pretended that these things had never been said? To what end?

"[Future] Retired Educator, don't make me choose between you and your father, because I will choose him every time." And so it has gone.

Soon, in a matter of days, I am thinking, I need to honor this aunt of mine who has blown in and out of my path by allowing my mind to think about my grandfather, the sainted child abuser, the orphan who grew up knowing no one knows what. He and I rescued countless animals together
-- he helped me hand raise a blue jay that was deliberately pushed out of its nest. That bird stayed for about a year before being killed by a hawk. "Squawky" and I played outside, the jay hopping from tree to tree, yelling and laughing with me, but he usually came in at night, at least in the first months he could fly.

Oh, and if you did not know, teaching a wild baby bird to fly is perhaps the most humbling of activities. You are familiar with the scenario of a kitten up a tree? Substitute a baby blue jay who was taught to fly by hand flutter techniques, managed to land -- okay, more like crash land -- on this high branch, and now is stuck here with no notion what to do except to call for his largish and clumsy mother, who doesn't have a clue except to turn to her gently smiling grandfather, who quietly went and got a ladder.

My nightmares, my fevers, these hallucinatory days? I hope they will lead me to dream of Granddaddy as he might have been as a small boy -- intelligent, lovable, loving, and orphaned. Maybe I will understand how he could beat his children, but probably not. It's not something I am seeking to excuse or deny, but I know that it is important for me to accept that it happened, and to be less shocked by the many permutations it has had, as it rippled forward in time.

They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.
They oughta do sumpthin' about that. That ain't right.



*A Pensieve is a stone receptacle used to store and review memories. Covered in mystic runes, it contains memories that take physical form as a type of matter that is described as neither liquid nor gas. A witch or wizard can extract their own or another person’s memories, store them in the Pensieve, and review them later. It also relieves the mind when it becomes cluttered with information. Anyone can examine the memories in the Pensieve, which also allows viewers to fully immerse themselves in the memories stored within, much like a magical form of real world virtual reality.


Users of these devices view the memories from a third-person-point-of-view, providing a near-omniscient perspective of the events preserved. This, of course, raises questions of how they are able to see things beyond what they have remembered. Rowling answered this question in an interview, confirming that memories in the pensieve allow one to view details of things that happened even if they did not notice or remember them, and stated that "that's the magic of the Pensieve, what brings it alive". The "memories" contained in the Pensieve have the appearance of silver threads. Memories that have been heavily manipulated or tampered with to alter perspectives, or are simply aged and gone-spoiled (such as Slughorn's), may appear thick and jelly-like and offer obscured viewing. Memories are not limited to just those of humans, since at least one house-elf (Hokey) provided Dumbledore with a memory as well.

** "Wild and woolly"
Meaning: Lawless and uncultured.

Origin: This expression is of American origin and came into being to describe the 'wild' west of the country sometime after the Californian Gold Rush era of the 1850s. The US publication The Protestant Episcopal Quarterly Review and Church Register, 1855, included a reference to the "wild and woolly-haired Negillo", which is almost there.

The first example I can find of the precise phrase in print is in the Missouri newspaper The Sedalia Daily Democrat, December 1875:

"W. A. Palmer, the South Bend, Indiana, murderer and paramour of Dolly Tripp, was for several years resident of Clinton. Bill always was one of the 'wild and woolly' kind and would associate with the demimonde."

[Hmm. From further reading, I presume that "negillo" means "negrito," a reference to "pygmy."]

Text of President Obama's Inaugural Address

Text of President Barack Obama's inaugural address on Tuesday, as delivered.

OBAMA: My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because we the people have remained faithful to the ideals of our forebears, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land — a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America — they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of shortcuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted — for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things — some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sanh.

Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions — that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act — not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. All this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them — that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works — whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. Those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account — to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day — because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control — and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart — not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our founding fathers ... our found fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort — even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus — and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment — a moment that will define a generation — it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends — hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism — these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence — the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed — why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet (it)."

America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.

Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.

Osteomyelitis: The Crabby Disease

This ought to make you laugh.

I read that osteomyelitis can cause irritability. "Yes," thought my ill-behaved, Nazi-quoting self, eager to be let off all applicable hooks, "Why, that explains *everything*!"

Unfortunately, further inquiry determined this to be the case in...

neonates.

Poor babies!

Per se

Following the death of a man with CRPS, the anesthesiologist interviewed by the local Colorado NBC news station said that CRPS takes over, or consumes, a patient's life. It's true, and while a simple and easily understood truth, it is embarrassing.

Equally odd? He refers to CRPS as an "entity," which feels, somehow, like unwarranted exhibitionism, like having a flasher for a doctor. I mean, it's like this: I can know The Entity because we are intimate; You can't because you aren't.

"Do you get out much?" ventured my tremulous aunt a few days ago.

That ought not to be so hard to answer -- a little white lie would do nicely. Instead, I found myself trying to tell the truth and heard utterly twit-like statements leave my mouth -- stuff about pain and fear of injury, fever and sweats, an intravenous schedule; But mostly I harped on overwhelming fatigue. That's not something I often formulate, so I surprised even myself with that excuse. Like I said, embarrassing.

I try to remember and heed the advice of the good Boutiqueur: "Take it a day at a time. Heal."

A landmark birthday rapidly approaching, I have been thinking quite a bit about death, and so, by extension, about life, as well. I don't believe that God saves people -- or, at least, does not kill them off -- because He has something super special in mind for said folk. I don't believe that God is out there opening some windows and doors, shutting others, and urging us not to hit our heads -- it is just much too pedestrian a role for the deity.

There are days I would like to die, days I pray for it, proving myself, in the process, to be an unenlightened hypocrite -- the worst sort of bad hypocrite! Yesterday having been such a day, I approached today with caution and stringent organization, divvying up the allotted hours and minutes as if my activities actually had import.

Shiver. Flashes of a recent Jane Eyre interpretation -- and the wonderful scene in Chapter 21 where an uptight Eliza lights into the vacuous Georgiana, as Mrs. Reed lay dying upstairs in the famous "red room" at Gateshead Hall. Eliza advises:

Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its
task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five
minutes — include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method,
with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has
begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one
vacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation,
sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being
ought to do.

Okay, so my internal Eliza Reed has been mouthing off, leaving me convinced that I'll be a better person for checking items off of a list -- and being solitary about my accomplishments, too. Don't we all want to arrive at the end of a day, or a life, able to say we "got rid" of those pesky stray vacant moments? I set off. The game was a foot.

Getting the years of what I hope was gravy off of the aunt-donated tureen took its entire allotted 20 minutes, and a more righteous person would have stretched it to half an hour. (Hey, you try doing the dishes without benefit of shoulders! That freaking tureen was filthy, too, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have plaintively wailed: "Oh my dear Lord! If only I had a huge freaking soup tureen with little acorns on the handles and lid, as well as unidentifiable muddy brown stains in every acorn-encrusted nook and cranny! Yes, God, if only I had such a tureen.")

Fred's tureen reaction was the best:

"I guess we gotta make some soup."

Unfortunately, the tureen is not Pfaltzgraff. I love saying Pfaltzgraff. Though there is nothing keeping me from saying Pfaltzgraff. In fact, there are young men and women putting their lives on the line right this instant just so that I may freely say Pfaltzgraff. (It doesn't hurt to occasionally beat the bushes of the blog {blush} just to see who is skulking around and besides, I refuse to be liable just because you were stupid enough to lolly gag around in the poison ivy.)

Next domesticity? Attacking the accumulated cat hair! If I consolidate the time spent on this eternal project *today*, it'd be close to an hour and a half -- including vacuuming. I am queen of the Lint Rollers, keeping one hidden in almost every room, along with my collection of 14 karat gold designer Grabbers.

Because I am immunocompromised, I am not allowed to clean the cats' litter boxes. Crocodile tears... That pleasure falls to the Fredster who is just so darned *good* at it, and cherishes the task to such an extent that no one would dream of depriving him. Don't even joke about it! Pfaltzgraff! Still, they react to my hair assaults much in the way that they react to the organized removal of their precious pee and poop. I look down to see them moving around the chair much like one would expect a gaggle of shark to swim. Then they find a perch from which to observe -- Sam-I-Am from the highest point possible, maybe atop the shredded leather recliner; Dobby from some midpoint, like the second story of the Cat Condo; and Marmy from an I-Can-See-You-But-You-Can't-See-Me spot, usually behind the turned leg of a chair. Her tail alone is bigger than anything she ever hides behind, but, hey! That's Marmy. *Ack* *Ack*

When I drag off coverlets, pillows, throws and what-have-yous to the washer, they all troop behind me, one by one, reminding me of how elephants sometimes troop along, tail to trunk, trunk to tail. Even though we always do full loads, always use cold water and the shortest cycle, I know I am making big old carbon footprints when I go on the warpath against cat hair. I hope future generations will forgive me.

Vacuuming with CRPS and no shoulders from a wheelchair is a riot, a veritable hootenanny. Pfaltzgraff! Watching it is also fun, from what I am told, particularly if the spectator is clueless as to why someone might yell, curse, and gyrate while tossing cords high into the air and popping wheelies...

Sure as can be, whenever there is domestic discord in Marlinspike Hall, one of two calamities will befall me when I endeavor to vacuum. Either I will manage to wrap the electric cord of the vacuum around one of my huge back wheels and therefore am unable to extricate myself without, sniff, assistance, or, similarly, I will get the cord wrapped around my feet and from the pain that causes, become incomprehensible, useless, and desperate, but very LOUD.

It sucks to have to thank someone when you are mad at them. Fred is always gracious about it. I wonder, though. As often as it happens? It has only happened twice when he was not at home. Pretty astounding odds. Hmmm.

Pfaltzgraff!

Yes, I am perfectly aware of the link sitting atop all my verbiage, the genesis for this rambling. A man who had CRPS died. People with CRPS die all the time, I would imagine, there being no special dispensation from death just because you spent your lifetime in unimaginable pain. A fair number of people, in fact, reportedly kill themselves in advance of their God-allotted term due to the constant burning, throbbing, lancinating pain.

Due to not being able to wear shoes. Not being able to wear any clothing that is not almost sinfully soft and of a good natural fiber -- oh, but it all must be "pull on" -- you know, the crapola that passes for gimp "active wear." Get CRPS in your face and enjoy fissures splitting open your skin, oozing. Try hard to swallow your longing, your desires, especially when the only place left that's tolerable to touch is one half of one hand.

No, in all seriousness -- this is why I would kill myself: I am not able to do that which I was born to do. I am extremely gifted and now that talent is nothing but a gaping and twisted empty grin. Caring for, nurturing, teaching, and learning from others has become this entirely oral affair -- just costume jewelry verbiage kissed with cheap Austrian crystals. Oh? Excuse me! Pfaltzgraff! Did I say all that out loud? Did I mention the unending pain -- not minor pain -- unending burning, throbbing, lancinating -- oh? Been there. done that? Okay.

I used to scoff at what had to be Urban Legends, until I recognized the thoughts rolling by on my personal teleprompter as being born of the same Myth: if I could, I would cut this leg arm hand foot face head off...

My condolences to his family and friends. Maybe he died from a drug reaction, a stroke. Maybe he had a heart attack. They speak of his peace, and that is a grand, grand thing.

CRPS cannot kill you. It takes over, it drives you crazy, it makes you hurt beyond what you thought possible. In combination with my necrotic and infected skeletal system, with that dilation of the aortic arch, I feel downright doomed -- tick to ck. Pfaltzgraff!

But don't overreact! Because CRPS cannot kill you --

Per se.

Nick HOCH, October 10, 1971 - January 7, 2009. Resident of Thornton, Colorado. After a courageous battle with RSD, Nick passed away peacefully while in the hospital awaiting surgery. Nick was born and raised in Aurora, CO and graduated from Rangeview High School. He honorably served his country for 3 years as a Paratrooper in the U.S. Army. He was one of four children born to Thomas and Laura Hoch and was the beloved husband of Katherine Hoch. Nick will forever be remembered by his devoted brothers, Tom Jr. and Rob, loving sister, Emily, beloved children, Nicholas Gerald Jr., Peter Thomas and Henry Douglas, along with countless other friends and family whom were blessed to know him.

I'd like to give you a hundred dollars

I have been sleeping most of the day, which is its own pleasure.

I am hiding out from pain and fever, as well as relationships and frozen -- skinless -- boneless --soulless -- chicken breasts.

The television has been on all the while, alternating between lulling and inciting -- rocking the cradle, as it were ("as it were" being one of the weakest of apologies for weak apology... so to speak!).

Yes, yes, I know -- sorry.

Some of you have also probably been watching Tim Robbins' movie Cradle Will Rock this afternoon. It's sloppy fun, nervous intelligence, semi-marxist Marx Brothers zaniness but oh-not-really. And a cast of thousands!

Robbins tells the story of the efforts by Orson Wells, as director, and John Houseman, as producer, to stage the play The Cradle Will Rock, written by Marc Blitzstein, an allegorical treatment of sociopolitical tensions common to the 30s -- mostly, organized labor versus corporate greed and corruption as found in Steeltown, USA. Robbins succeeds in ways the play could not with this meta treatment -- sadly, though, he succeeds more precisely because today's audience could well care less. [Oops. Reminder to self: edit attitude.]

photo credit

He brings in Diego Rivera* and the famed mural for the lobby of the Rockefeller Center as successful foil and contrapunto. PBS Culture Shock tells the story this way:

By 1930, Mexican muralist Diego Rivera has gained international favor for his
lush and passionate murals... His outgoing personality puts
him at the center of a circle of left-wing painters and poets, and his talent attracts wealthy patrons, including Abby Aldrich Rockefeller. In 1932, she convinces her husband, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., to commission a Rivera mural for the lobby of the soon-to-be-completed Rockefeller Center in New York City...

Rivera proposes a 63-foot-long portrait of workers facing symbolic crossroads of industry, science, socialism, and capitalism. The painter believes that his friendship
with the Rockefeller family will allow him to insert an unapproved
representation of Soviet leader Vladimir Lenin into a section portraying a May
Day parade. The real decision-making power lies with the Center's building
managers, who abhor Rivera's propagandistic approach... [T]hey order Rivera to
remove the offending image. When Rivera refuses, offering to balance the work
with a portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the opposing side, the managers pay his
full fee, bar him from the site, and hide the mural behind a massive drape.
Despite negotiations to transfer the work to the Museum of Modern Art and
demonstrations by Rivera supporters, near midnight, on February 10th, 1934,
Rockefeller Center workmen, carrying axes, demolish the mural. Later, Rivera
recreates the frescoes in the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City, adding a
portrait of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., in a nightclub. Rivera never works in the
United States again...

Theresa Burns and Robbins co-authored Cradle Will Rock: The Movie and The Moment in which the political and artistic marriage of concerns is mapped out and amplified. E. L. Doctorow notes: "Like a good writer, Tim Robbins has found a story to hang a whole decade on..."

Wikipedia notes this about the original production of the play:

Originally set to open at the Maxine Elliott Theatre with elaborate sets and a
full orchestra, the production was shut down due to "budget cuts" within the
Federal Theatre Project—though it was widely believed that this was instead
because of its very favorable communist slant. The theatre was padlocked and
surrounded by armed servicemen, ostensibly to prevent anyone from stealing props or costumes, as all of this was considered U. S. Government property. They even impounded leading man Howard Da Silva's toupee.

On the spur of the moment, Welles, Houseman, and Blitzstein rented the much larger New Century Theatre and a piano, and planned for Blitzstein to sing/play/read the entire musical to the sold out house which had grown larger by inviting people off the street to attend for free. Blitzstein encouraged cast members to say their lines from the audience, to exercise their right of free speech.

Just after beginning the first number, Blitzstein was joined by Olive Stanton, the actor playing Moll, who joined in from the audience, since she (along with the rest of the cast) was forbidden by Actor's Equity to perform the piece "onstage". During
the rest of the performance, various actors joined in with Blitzstein and
performed the entire musical from the house. Actors sang across the theatre to
one another.

Many who attended the performance, including poet Archibald
MacLeish, thought it to be one of the most moving theatrical experiences of
their lives. Performances to this day rarely use elaborate sets or an orchestra,
instead preferring a spare set and single piano in homage to this event.

All of this to say... I wanted to find the script to the original play and couldn't seem to put my paws upon it, when I happened across this: The Federal Theatre Project Materials Collection, temporarily housed, and forever digitized, at George Mason University:

The Federal Theatre Project (FTP) was a division of the Works Progress
Administration (WPA), which was established to provide work for unemployed
citizens during the Great Depression (1929-39). The FTP began in August 1935 and flourished as the first and only federally-sponsored and subsidized theater
program in the United States until its closing in 1939. In order to advertise
FTP productions, the Federal Art Project (FAP), a section of the WPA, developed
a poster division. Using then-new silk-screening techniques, the FAP Poster
Division created the posters which graced theater lobbies from New York to San
Francisco and hundreds of other towns and cities in between. The FTP also
utilized professional set and costume designers, who, along with the FTP workers
who sewed the costumes and constructed the sets, added some dramatic realism to the productions.

In 1974 George Mason University professor Lorraine Brown discovered the Federal Theatre Project Collection in a Library of Congress storage depot and arranged for the collection to come to GMU on temporary loan.
The materials were placed in the care of GMU's Research Center for the Federal
Theatre Project headed by Dr. Brown. Among the many types of archival materials in the collection were original posters and set and costume designs for nearly
six-hundred FTP productions. These materials, though fragile after decades of
storage, still retained their vibrant colors. Beginning in August of 1981, as a
preservation measure, 35mm color slides were made from each of the posters and
set and costume designs in the collection. These slides are housed the
University Libraries' Special Collections & Archives department.

The Federal Theatre Project (FTP) Materials Collection contains nearly one thousand different 35mm slides taken from original posters, set designs, and costume designs. These images are of the original designs used on posters to advertise FTP plays in many different American cities from 1935 to 1939. Also included are playscripts for twenty-two productions. The images are indexed by title, author, subject, theater, place, date, and related names.

You guessed it. One of the 22 scripts? The Cradle Will Rock! And for those who love the tactile, the mystique and drama of textiles? A treasure trove.

Why all this jabber? Why this commentary for a play heralded as a heavy-handed leftist baby blessed with a sense of humor that's just out of reach of the... rabble? Why was I searching for the script at all -- given that it is generally acknowledged as being a tepid thing?

I wanted to find the lyrics to a ditty that began:

I'd like to give you a hundred dollars
But I've only got thirty-six!

*A moment of incongruence -- In the film, Rivera defends his use of the boggle-head Lenin while verbally tearing Mussolini to shreds ("I have a feeling Mussolini will need a place to hang before this is all over" -- or words to that effect). Yet, in 1933, the same year as the destruction of his Rockefeller mural, he paints a significant work featuring a boggle-headed Mussolini -- who has promised the artist the unending support of Italy. Okay, so maybe I will have to buy Robbins' book...

Ears to hear

Real life. It comes as a shock.

My aunt Nancy is 75 years old and looks marvelous -- she is trim, pretty, blond, well-dressed, tootling around in her Cadillac. Her brother, my father, also only drives Cadillacs.

He is best off left as "her brother," or "Barry," or even just he/him.

My grandfather called me "doll baby," and Nancy told me today, in between anecdotes about how he beat her until she bled, that I was his favorite. I knew him as a benign and loving blind man, a retired pharmacist, who was a world class gardener and animal expert. He taught me how to compost, how to know when zucchini is ripe, the best kinds of tomato for certain soils, the names, habits, and calls of regional birds, and the right design of birdhouse to make available. He paid me a penny for every Japanese beetle I trapped. He almost beat her to death one day when she refused to take a dose of Castor oil and hid under her parents' bed.

My stepmother, Margaret, is probably the person, after my grandfather, whom I would have characterized as most kind, gentle, caring, and just plain fun. I was lucky enough to live at home after the others had run off into their lives as students and wives, racquetball champions and Beowulf scholars, scraping by or thriving, depending on the day. I found myself telling Aunt Nancy about the afternoons of boating on the lake, especially that day when a storm blew in so quickly and we "capsized" -- hooting all the while (until it began to thunder and lightening).

Hmmm. You know what? I began a post a few days ago, and just left it undone... because the memories hurt -- the memories were so sweet to me, so dear. "Yadda yadda..." are you thinking? Well, get the hell out of my blog, then, you turdescent piece of crap in triplicate!

[Where is the good captain Haddock when you need him?]

Nancy was talking about how she knew she'd never speak, much less renew a relationship with,
either of her brothers. My mind, not exactly a steel trap, traveled to my stepmother Margaret and those halcyon days on the lake, the glory days of my life, I suppose.

She waited until I paused, then said -- in a voice that was studied, loud, clear: "Margaret is a weak woman."

Margaret, if you are out there and have stumbled upon my blog, know that I came to your defense -- well, not really. I was shocked and demanded an explanation. What I got was reasoning that -- sorry to say -- was impeccable. Since I am imagining you reading this, I'll just cut to the chase: "Think about it. What kind of woman would your father pick?"

She said that you were profoundly deaf now, and I am very sorry that is so. I hope that you still make spaghetti sauce in second position, that you still dance as you clean, that you've been back to France, that maybe you've taught a little.

I hope, dare I say it... Of course, I dare. I hope that life has been more than an art appreciation course. (Yes, I hope the same for myself.)

Are you a weak person?

Did you know that my grandfather beat his children to the point of bleeding?

Did you not hear the echos of abuse that strummed through all the lives around you? Did you not recognize the intransigence for what it was?

Am I making you the black sheep, the focal point, because it is easy to do?

Undoubtedly.

Anyway. She talked about "Uncle Otie" and his grist mill. About Harrison and "The Farm." About Reba and how, yes, I was there when she died. About her grandfather's jewelry store (your grandfather also had a jewelry store, yes?).

She worries that no one cares about "the history" of "The Family." Part of me wants to help her write the texts she struggles to compose; Part of me wants to let it all die, decompose, rot, stink, eat itself up. She is a brave woman in many ways -- she is really the antithesis of everything I was lead to believe growing up.

She seeks to stop the cycle of abuse, telling her sons and her grandchildren that they can always come to her, that they will always have a home, that there is nothing they could do to make her stop loving them. She realizes, though, that there is a good measure of work and insight necessary on the part of those to whom she makes these grand offers. Like I said, she is a brave and (what I neglected to mention) intelligent woman.

It hits me now -- she never mentioned my grandmother, her mother. It's true -- I don't even know what to say about her. Whispering, always whispering; Secrets, always secrets. "When I die, this will be yours..."

My "folks" (I'm sorry, I don't know how to designate them anymore) -- they tried to get me worked up, after her death, about how what should have been left to me was "taken" by Nancy. I didn't care then, and don't care now. It was all part of the anti-Nancy campaign of which I was not a part, anyway.

My last memory of her is so sad. I almost hurt her. We were leaving and were congregating near the front door to do the final hugs -- and I almost knocked her over. She looked scared and small. I felt like a clumsy dolt.

Actually, that is all I feel like these days, too. A clumsy dolt.

I am in loads of pain today -- I cleaned house like a maniac this morning and feel very rotten, physically. Emotionally, I am glad that Fred has gone back to the infusion Center to get my antibiotics and lab results, because I just want to cry for awhile.

For Nancy and her brothers, for my brothers, for my granddaddy who beat his children, for my Nana who saw her only worth as coming after death. For Margaret, who had a choice.

Nancy is the only person in my world who knows the pain about my oldest brother -- and the only person who could so knowingly exclaim, "But it is not his fault! He has nothing to apologize for!" -- when I relayed that the other Brother-Unit would have nothing to do with him -- oh never mind... the story is long. And tiresome. And she's right.

She came bearing gifts! A great food basket that Fred has already plundered. A lovely tureen from Jewel and Jimmy. The best thing? A drawing someone did to honor Jimmy after his death -- for all his work on behalf of the Audubon Society -- of cardinals.

Because when all of this stuff is weirding out my mind, I can think back to the animals -- everyone seemed to truly love the animals.

And vegetables.

Bless her bones for coming, bless her bones for speaking her truth.

Do I have ears to hear?