Walking Raven

Happy Bloomsday

“Who’ll hang Judas Iscariot?” — James Joyce, Ulysses

I’m Not Sayin’ I’m Lost Exactly, But I Have Wandered Off-Course

I found this document today, tucked in a Word folder entitled “Pages.” I reproduce it here, [nearly] untouched.

2:50 p.m., Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Okay, how to proceed from here. If I write these pages in cursive pen to paper, folks will have a difficult time reading them. So, I would need to translate into typewritten pages. I don’t have time for such nonsense, but perhaps Christine would consent to do so. I could also dictate, but again transcription impediments. Christine, again. Besides, while there may not be a lot of difference between pen to paper and keyboard to screen, I think there may be more of a difference between voice to tape. I don’t know why exactly but it’s a filter thing. To write or type, the words must form written symbols. No need for such translation with speech until a later time.

I can see one major difference right now between cursive and type. I make a number of errors when typing that I would not make writing, which does interrupt the flow of thought. By how much though, I’m not sure. I am, after all, capable, though not as much as before, of “holding that thought.” For the moment, I guess I’m inclined to type, unless I see a great difference between the two. I will however continue alternating for a bit to see if there’s a real qualitative (as opposed to quantitative) difference. It is nice, though, to use my retractable fountain pen. It writes smooth and silent.

I awoke to rain this morning. The sky was almost uniformly gray with no blue sky or sunshine in sight. It’s brightening now, with some cloud definition. The rain stopped a while back. Sigh. It was dark enough the street lights came on in the middle of the afternoon. I need to put more descriptive passages in the novel. Or do I? Are they just filler, or do they serve a function? Well, they probably set the atmosphere the writer wishes to convey to the audience. But, if one writes that it rains, then what else is needed? Well, rain is different with respect, for instance, to intensity and duration. If one of the goals of writing is to create an almost cinemagraphic effect; i.e., to enable the reader to see the action of the book with the mind’s eye, then perhaps it’s important, but only if one wants to have the reader’s eye more attuned to the writer’s eye. So, one can say, “it is raining,” and the reader can pick what kind of rain. The conditions. Would it be possible to write around the rain such that the conditions are suggested by the action, though not described? Implicit vs. explicit surroundings. But that supposes that the conditions of the surrounding are somehow informed by the action. How stupid is that? It’s raining, therefore one acts in such and such a way, when, indeed, one could act in such and such a way whether it is raining or not.

I know there is a convention where the surrounding conditions are written to reflect the inner weather of a character. I don’t want to do that. I will write of murder in the sunshine. But that’s sort of unnatural, too, since murder seldom occurs in the sunshine. If most murders are “red ball” murders (passion killing) or manslaughter, are we as human beings more passionate or more careless in the dark? Or is [it] that as a general rule more drug and/or alcohol use and abuse occurs at night? So, it is not necessarily human nature to kill, but human nature somehow altered by chemicals. And what, if anything, can be inferred from that?

My blinds are closed, thereby preventing me from looking west. I think the sun has broken through. Heavy, heavy sigh. But, would living where it rains more really make a difference on who I am? Are there rain people or sun people or snow people? Well, there’s SAD, but not everyone suffers from it. Assuming one doesn’t, then what, if any, difference does it make except in terms of personal preference? I almost wrote, “what, if anything,” which would then be followed by “makes a difference.” It appears the two sentences have the same meaning. Aesthetically, I prefer, “[w]hat, if any difference . . .”. But they are the same because “it” and “thing” are synonymous. I wish I’d been sober for my logic class. I wish I’d taken linguistics. I wish I understood the language of mathematics and music. But choices must be made. Time is more finite for me than for others. First things first. Write the book. Then decide where to go from there . . .

End, 3:35 p.m.

12:47 p.m., Friday, May 22, 2009

“And so it goes.”

Synonymic 2

No eye is on the sparrow and nobody’s watching me = Cave, Cave Dominus videt — NOT!

The most unkindest cut of all

Jensen
October 20, 1992 – April 8, 2009

He was, quite simply, the love of my life.

Synonymic

Let us make humankind in our image = I am become you

“New Year”

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” T.S. Eliot

The Virtual Scroll: An Excerpt

Decades after Mother’s death her father told Tink, well, mentioned to her, almost in passing, that the first Christmas after Mother’s death he had walked out to the cemetery. It was that comment, more than anything else, which finally endeared him to her. Since the telling she has taken the journey with him more than once in her mind’s eye. She watches as the darkened figure of her father slips out the door of Grandma’s house in the earliest hours of Christmas morning, makes his way down the two blocks back to Zion Lutheran where the candlelight service had been held a few hours before. He hangs a left, walks through the small downtown, continues past the water tower, over the railroad tracks. Just out of town, he turns right, for perhaps another half mile, no more, to what Tink described in a poem she wrote shortly after the death as the “evergreen land with only eleven trees.” She sees Mother’s gravestone, with its single granite rose and the Lutheran seal, and the names, Osnes writ large, and then John, 1925 — , and Betty, 1927 — 1970. It sits at the southwestern end. (If, indeed, all graves point east toward the rising sun, ambiguity intended.) Tink listens as her Father, in a tear-filled voice, speaks aloud to his “Beck.” Tells her he misses her. Loved her. Then she watches as her father slowly turns and makes his solitary way back to life and living people and things understood. But part of Tink, perhaps the best part, dwells there still.

Two Flutes and One to Wail

Many of you know by now that at approximately 1:20 a.m. the morning of Sunday, November 23, 2008, David Moses Jassy, a black rap musician from Sweden, brutally murdered my beloved brother John. According to eye-witness accounts, as my brother crossed the street, a white SUV crossed the line delineating the crosswalk. Apparently, John slapped his hands on the hood of the car. In response, Jassy exited the rental SUV, hit him in the face, and, as John bent down to retrieve his glasses, kicked him in the head. Despite efforts on the part of witnesses, including an off-duty police officer, to restrain him, Jassy broke free, got back in the vehicle, and drove over my brother’s body as he fled the scene. EMTs arrived within four minutes of the first 911 call. John had no vitals at that time. Even so, he was intubated, given CPR, and so forth. He was pronounced dead at the hospital at 1:52. More about this senseless tragedy, along with memories, photos, and music may be found at www.johnosnes.com.

John and I were 18 months apart. My younger sister Mary Beth came along 6 years after I did. Our Mother’s death from breast cancer at the ages of 16, 15, and 9, respectively, formed a bond among the three of us that strengthened over time. One of the many things we shared was a love of music. Whenever we were together, a word or phrase would cause one of us to start singing, and the other two would chime in. We knew a song for almost any word. For instance, one of us would use “sunshine” in conversation and soon would be heard, “we sang in the sunshine, you know we laughed every day . . .” We were “on the road again,” or on “the long and winding road.” We never “let the sun catch [us] crying.” We did our “crying in the rain.”

John and I lived together (with a few other friends) in St. Paul for about a year while I attended the University of Minnesota. It was the hey-day of the Selby-Dale restoration. Our gang was well-known at the Commodore Hotel where F. Scott and Zelda lived while he wrote This Side of Paradise. One night John orchestrated a Lutheran Church basement potluck to be held in the magnificent Art Deco bar. Everyone who had escaped from the surrounding small towns and made it to the “Big City” brought their favorite childhood casserole and Jello dishes, washed down with martinis and other cocktails. Scandalous.

We also frequented the Oak Room Bar which was a couple blocks down from the Commodore on the Southwest corner of Selby and Western. This area of the city was still very much in a state of transition. The regulars would be lined up outside by 8:00 a.m. waiting for the doors to open. Many would still be there when we arrived around 8:00 p.m. Cutty Sark was the bar scotch (60 cents a shot). The jukebox played standards like “Mac the Knife” and “Three Coins in a Fountain.”

I moved to New Mexico in 1978, and for the next 30 years ours was primarily a long-distance relationship. I made it back to the Midwest at least once a year. After John moved to New York, he and I nearly always managed an annual Minneapolis rendezvous with Sister Mary. In addition, I tried to make it to Manhattan at least once a year. For many of his years there, John had a fabulous 18th floor, one-bedroom apartment on West 14th between 5th and 6th facing dead onto Midtown and the Empire State Building. We used to come in from a late dinner and sit on his sofa (my bed) and make derisive comments about the tourists who pointed their cameras into the night, flashing away in the surrounding darkness.

In 1993, for John’s 40th birthday, his then-partner Jim drove John to a cattery in Connecticut where they picked out a Cornish Rex kitten with the registered name of Beaconwood Desert Chief. As they drove back into the City down 7th Avenue, John spotted an old painted sign on the side of a building that read “Jensen Lewis Awning Company.” And the kitten had his everyday name, “Jensen!”

Jensen was fairly feral in those days. He didn’t mind being petted, but forget about holding him. Any attempt to do so would be met by a fierce struggle that ended with him leaping out of one’s arms and running for cover. He was, however, extremely fond of playing fetch with his little toy mice. John would throw one and Jensen would go careening full speed after it and pounce on his prey. He would then pick it up in his mouth, walk over to my brother, and deposit the mouse in front of him for another throw. He never tired of this activity. Given his penchant for fetch, I sometimes refer to him as “dog-kitty.”

Rexes have a need to communicate their presence often and loudly — especially in the early hours of the morning. For that reason, the kitchen served as Jensen’s bedroom, and a blanket atop the refrigerator as his bed. I still remember stumbling into the kitchen to start the coffee, and there would be Jensen — staring down at me from his perch.

John and Jensen lived contently in Manhattan for several years, but in 1997, circumstances made it difficult for John to keep him, and John asked if he could come live with me. I readily assented, and so one day, he and Jensen boarded a plane for Albuquerque. I met them at the airport. I will never forget the moment Jensen’s Kennel Kab finally emerged through the flaps of the oversized luggage conveyor belt. He was wide-awake, lying on his refrigerator blanket. Jensen has lived with me for over 10 years. Even so, if you knew my brother at all, you knew about Jensen. Jensen is/was the love of our respective lives.

John and I had a few “must dos” in New York. If he was playing somewhere, I, of course, would hang out and listen whenever I could. One night at the Omni, Judy Collins came in for dinner. John and I conferred as to which song he should play. We settled on “Michael from Mountains” by Joni Mitchell that Judy covered on her Wildflowers album. As she left, she walked over to John and thanked him, both for playing the song, and reminding her how much she liked the song. He told her his sister had suggested he play it. She replied, “Well, then, thank your sister.”

Even though he had a wonderful voice, John sang rarely and reluctantly. For 30 years I begged him to sing. Finally, during what turned out to be my last visit to Manhattan, John both played and sang at the Ada Restaurant. The night I went to hear him, he pulled the microphone close and announced that the next song was for his sister Kris. He then serenaded me with a beautifully phrased version of the Carpenters’ “I Won’t Last a Day Without You.” Needless to say, I dissolved into a puddle of tears.

No matter what time of year, on Sundays we’d walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and have either lunch or breakfast in Brooklyn. At least once during each visit, we’d have dinner at Joe Allen’s. We’d sit at the bar, and John would treat himself to a cheeseburger and fries. I liked the red beans and rice with andouille sausage. Two of my most prized possessions are the Joe Allen Christmas presents given out each year to regular patrons. John gave me the t-shirt and wine bottle coaster. (Sorry, Deborah.)

One year my visit overlapped the Thanksgiving weekend. John took me to see the Metropolitan Museum’s Christmas tree adorned with 18th-century Neapolitan angels and cherubs and other crèche figures. Exquisite. That may have also been the year he and I attended his favorite holiday event, “Lessons and Carols” at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church on Fifth Avenue. Angelic voices intermingled with the muffled rumble of the subway trains rushing below.

On the morning of 9/11, John was on the roof of an apartment complex near Columbia having his morning cigarettes and coffee. One of the planes flew directly over his head and on down the island. Shortly thereafter, John wrote a beautiful anthem,“Who Could Know.”

At the very least, John was an economic victim of 9/11. In times of economic distress, live music is one of the first cuts. To make matters worse, his “day job” was as a travel agent. The agency he worked for eventually closed its doors. He struggled valiantly, but in 2004, it became clear he simply had to leave his beloved Manhattan. In September, he started driving with a friend from the east coast about the same time I started driving north from New Mexico. We converged at Sister Mary’s house in Burnsville, Minnesota, the southernmost suburb of Minneapolis.

We both loved road trips. The initial plan was to check out possible piano venues in D.C. and do some touring along the way. We were excited about visiting, among other locations, Gettysburg and Savannah. Essentially, we planned to turn right at D.C. and end up in Miami where he hoped to find piano work. Once we met up in Minneapolis, however, we reevaluated the situation. John thought he might like to come on to Albuquerque with me instead. And so we did, by a somewhat circuitous route. I had earlier managed to travel old Route 66 from Springfield, Missouri to Albuquerque. We decided we could use the opportunity to tour the first leg, starting at Adams Street and Michigan Avenue in Chicago. So we went east before we went west. On the way to Albuquerque, we rode to the top of the St. Louis Arch and touched the nose on Abraham Lincoln’s bust for luck.

John enjoyed his months in Albuquerque. During that time, I experienced my first major COPD exacerbation and emergency room transport. After my hospitalization, he moved in with me and my partner Darcy, so that someone would be home during the day should I require assistance. He and I had many good times while he was on “Kris Watch.” At the time, in addition to Jensen, our “farm” consisted of three other cats (Sophie, Shobo, and Simon) and two rescued greyhounds, Dante and B’mer. John and Dante fell in love. The two of them were inseparable. John would take both hounds on long walks almost every day. On the way out he would let them wander and sniff, but on the way back, he would march them home, one on either side. It was a sight to behold.

In 2005, an employment opportunity took John to Los Angeles. Though he left behind Jensen, Dante, and me, his former partner, now best friend, Jim a/k/a “Chonga” lived in Silver Lake. I made three trips to LA, and John came back to Albuquerque twice on the train. His first train trip coincided with a Sister Mary visit. It was the last time the three of us were together.

For the past two years, my brother and I either talked to each other or exchanged voice mails every day. Last February, I could tell he was feeling kind of low, so I jumped in my tangerine pearl PT Cruiser and drove out to LA for a visit. I timed it so I would be there for his Sunday night “John Osnes and Friends” at The Piano Bar. He had some wonderful singers who were there most Sundays, but it was also set up so that anyone who wanted to sing was welcome. For the first, and now only, time, John played and I sang “Imagine” and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” I also cajoled him into riding the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica pier.

In the past few weeks I don’t know how many times I’ve heard or read from folks offering condolences, “I don’t know what to say.” That’s just it; there is nothing that can be said. What happened is unspeakable. In a different sense of the word, the more I read and tinker with the above, I realize it tells you some things about John and me, but it doesn’t really “say” much. Perhaps someday I will find words to tell you about my brother, and our relationship, and what he meant to me.

One thing I will say is that many of you are unaware that for most of John’s life, his was a struggle simply to survive. The reason most of you were unaware of this struggle is that he managed to survive (and, yes, often to the consternation of his family and friends) on his own terms.

Finally, when someone dies people often remark that a light has gone out in the universe. In John’s case, I’m with Don McLean. The early hours of Sunday, November 23, 2008 mark, for me, “the day the music died.” The rest is silence.

2:12ish

2:12ish my time,
Every day he worked,
He would call
From the same Starbuck’s near his office.

“Hi, my John.”
“Hi, my Kris.”

“How are you? How’s your health?”

And then a report of his night,
His day ‘til then.

“Well, I guess I better eat my protein bar
And go up the hill.”

“I love you.”
“I love you.”

Good-bye.

cko
11/24/08

Once Upon a Time…

[hat tip to Robin]

Interim Report

Well, my Mother of All Blog Entries (MOABE) remains unfinished, but a few days ago, I experienced a series of events I decided deserves (it’s all connected) a separate post.

Until last Saturday night, my MOABE had remained untouched since September 27, 2008. Instead, I pretty much mainlined World of Warcraft (WOW) through the entire month of October. Finally, I reached what I wanted to call “saity;” i.e., the point of being sated. I conducted a number of searches, but found no such word. I tried a few spelling variations. For instance, an Encarta search for “satity” takes one to the entry for “satori.” (A synchronous occurrence as I am at present intrigued by the proposition that Hamlet can be read as Our Hero’s journey to satori. The rest, after all, is silence.) I finally found the sought-for word, “satiety,” which brings us back on task.

Saturday night I played WOW to satiety, and actually turned my attention to non-WOW things. (A promising development in my addiction process). I wrote a bit in the MOABE, started a new book, and even played a different computer game.

Sunday morning I awoke to a brainstorm. Thoughts flashed like lightening and boomed like thunder. I started to pay attention and realized my brain was channeling stuff related to The First Voice a/k/a My Unfinished Novel. At present, I’m stalled in the middle of Chapter 15 with Johanna explaining the importance of memes to Elfredge. For those who find themselves asking “who’s Johanna,” or “who’s Elfredge,” I leave it to you to peruse my other blog entries for answers to these, and other, questions that may arise while reading this entry. Please note the search feature in the upper right directly below the Walking Raven. I realize I am being a lazy writer, but that’s just the way it is. By way of introduction, I will, however, supply you with Encarta’s definition for “meme” which reads “any characteristic of a culture, e.g. its language, that can be transmitted from one generation to the next in a way analogous to the transmission of genetic information.” Memes can also be images or music. I suppose a meme in its purest form is some sort of mathematical expresses ion.

And with that, here follows a distillation of the thoughts that flooded my brain last Sunday morning as I waited for the leftover coffee to heat in the microwave. Before the Big Bang which many scientists believe marks the beginning of this universe, there existed a singularity. The “spark” that set off the Big Bang caused this singularity’s three visible dimensions to fuse with the fourth, thereby creating spacetime, or what we call real time, which in turn set up the determination we now refer to as the expanding universe. What if, I asked myself on Sunday Morning, before the Big Bang, the singularity was comprised solely of dark energy strings? And what if the universe began because one of the dark energy strings morphed into a meme which turned out to be the first bit of visible energy? In other words, “Let there be light.” Or, if you prefer, “In the beginning was the Word.” I have read it is difficult, if not impossible, to explain light. I have also read no one can really explain the mind, or where or what the mind is.

Understanding “self” is a bit easier. According to Andrew Newberg in his book Why God Won’t Go Away, our brain contains a highly specialized bundle of neurons known as the posterior superior parietal lobe. Newberg renames it the Orientation Association Area (“OAA”). He goes on to explains the OAA actually consists of two areas, “the left orientation area creates the brains spatial sense of self, while the right side creates the physical space in which that self can exist.”

I have a keen sense of my OAA. Ever since I can remember, I have imagined a small Mini-Me that stands before a control panel just behind my forehead. Over my lifetime, this Mini-Me has had various names. These days I refer to her as “Tink,” as in, yes, Tinky Winky, the large purple Teletubbie. I have created an avatar of Tink as one of my WOW characters. As you can see below, she is neither large, nor purple. Rather, she is a Gnome Mage Engineer. (And yes, for you Halo fans, she’s a bit Cortana-esque.)

Also, I confess I started out my WOW career with visions of grandeur. Tink is a few avatars down the character list. The Night Elf Hunter Walkingraven (see below) is my second creation:

In case you are wondering, the cat figure next to him is his pet, Jensen. But enough. Tink is my mind, my consciousness, my self (sic). Tink looks out through my eyes. She looks in with the third, inner, eye.

My OAA is the seat of my imagination where I go to convert memes into thoughts which I can then endeavor to communicate to the rest of the world. If the same meme comes from enough people it becomes a piece of our culture. I’m writing this particular paragraph on Election Day morning, so I offer the following example of meme-travel. Last week, a friend came over, whipped out her wallet, and pointed to a red, white, and blue sticker that read, “I voted.” To me, however, she exclaimed, “Look! I Obamaed!”

I’d like to think this effort to communicate goes somewhat beyond the 100 monkeys’ scenario, but who knows. The survival value of intelligence with respect to evolution remains to be seen. But even if the human race is just a blip on the spacetime continuum, I believe we have a duty to contribute to the memes of the universe.

One way I fulfill this duty is by opening my moonroof and playing CDs of poetry, letting the words waft up into the sky. Each read, written, or spoken word frees a meme. Creative activity creates new memes. Without memes, spacetime will revert back to a dark singularity. At least I think that’s in part what Michael Ende wants to convey in the German fantasy novel The Neverending Story. Those of you who have read this incredible book will recall it begins with the inhabitants of Fantastica (Phantásien in the German version) seeking guidance from the Childlike Empress as to how to stop the Nothing from devouring their world. The Childlike Empress reveals that the only thing that will keep the Nothing at bay is to find a human child who will give her a new name. Naming creates reality in the sense that naming defines an object and calls it forth from the rest of the material soup. As explained by another character in the book, Grograman, the Many Colored Death, “beginning at the moment when you gave [something] its name it has existed forever.” Ultimately, The Neverending Story shows the importance of stories, or perhaps more accurately, imagination, in regard to existence.

Similarly, in the final pages of The Amber Spyglass, volume three of Philip Pullman’s wonderful His Dark Materials trilogy, inhabitants of the multiverse are admonished by Lord Asriel to continue to tell the stories.

As I noted above, the Big Bang marked the beginning of time. It comes as no surprise then that my brainstorm ended with a revelation as to the meaning of that first meme. The English translation reads “Once upon a time . . .”

The Real Suspension of Disbelief

Let’s be honest.

How many of us
Would simply

Let our virgin child live,
Stay hidden among the women,
Remain celibate,

Kick the bum out,
Marry the first suitable suitor,
Leave the brother’s body to the dogs,

Stay with Circe,
Stay with Dido,
Stay in the Shire?

cko
10/18/2008

Beware of Tricksters

Prednisone Rant, Sort of

Just wanted you to know I’ve been on prednisone for a few days now and ran out of my generic Paxil last week. Don’t worry, I’m just waiting on a refill of the Paxil. My ribs hurt. Either because I’ve been coughing so much, so hard, or my lungs are trying to expand out of my chest. And, I don’t mean to be a drama queen, but sometimes it gets a little scary. [Note: And I wasn’t being a drama queen; I spent the day after I wrote what you have just read at the emergency room on the urging of my wonderful Nurse Jane and the EMTs and orders of Dr. Bro relayed via Nurse David. A kick-ass steroid and a couple antibiotic IVs have hopefully gotten my infection under control, but the gang at Presbyterian gave me an open invitation to come back anytime this weekend should the need arise.] As a result, I’m a little cranky, and possibly a tiny bit manic. Something to keep in mind as you read the below.

Some of you know I’ve been spending the last couple weeks writing a post whose working title is “Mother of All Blog Entries” in between fighting my massive addiction to that massively multiplayer online game (“MMOG”) World of Warcraft (“WOW”)with The Burning Crusade extension — me and 10 to 11 million other monthly subscription players worldwide. (I used to have a postcard on my bulletin board that read “400,000 heroin addicts can’t be all wrong.” I suppose on some level that remains to be seen, but I’m more or less betting it doesn’t really matter one way or the other in the; i.e., my, “grand scheme of things.” [And for those of you who just rolled your eyes, clichés are hardwired into my DNA, so deal. Besides, when you think about it, they are an excellent “common-denominator” communication device even though I know many of you would begin that phrase with the word “lowest.” In this case, untrue. The qualifier “at the end of the day,” is the lowest common-denominator for communicating the particular sentiment expressed above. I suppose I could have said, “in the grand scheme of Indra’s Net.” Show of hands, how many of you have I lost with what some might consider an obscure reference? How many of you just think I’m being affected? How many prefer “in the long run?” Okay, enough.]

Yesterday, I had the following early morning Instant Message (“IM”) exchange with one of my most preferred human s (“ph”) who will know who s/he is when s/he reads it:

Me (6:41:58 AM): [M]aybe the Matrix [movie] is right. [W]e play video games to manufacture energy for [the inhabitants of] another universe and they decided to at least make it pleasant for us.
ph[d](6:42:51 AM): [O]r maybe you’re just using it to keep away from your own real feelings and to keep from interacting with other living human beings[.]
Me (6:43:28 AM): [N]o, [I]‘m following the natural law of physics. [A]ll things being equal, [an object will follow] the path of least resistance. . . .
Me (6:44:39 AM): [I]t’s easier to play WOW than read. [I]it’s easier to read than write.

Some of you may have had encountered me in the throes of my initial infatuation with WOW. I confess. I was rude. I kept playing while we talked, and for that I apologize. That said, the idea I am playing WOW to avoid feeling or interacting with other humans is, at least in my reality, (almost) ironic. “Almost,” because, as I stated in an earlier entry on this same subject, I am an off-the-chart introvert. See December 8, 2007 Entry. [And speaking of irony, I note I posted that entry on the third day of a prednisone burst.] Perhaps in the minds of those of you who read my earlier entry, you misunderstood me, thinking I meant I really didn’t want to talk to any of you. If so, that was a failure to communicate on my part. [And a “shout out” to another buddy who, after reading my earlier post was prompted to call me on Skype to have voice contact rather than send an email while traveling outside the country.] [See, I’m watching the Democratic Convention. A new meme, “shout out,” has gone national. Thanks, Barack.][Okay, show of hands, now how many of you have I lost? Screw it, I’m just going to write, and let the chips fall where they may.] [Oops, there I go again.]

Before our friend Myra died, she and Darcy would periodically call each other and talk for seemingly hours. When asked later what they had talked about, Darcy would invariably answer, “Green grapes,” her metaphor for the everyday stuff, places gone and people seen. She came up with the expression after seeing the following New Yorker cartoon:

The caption reads: “On my way home today on the bus, a lone grape rolled down the aisle and came to rest near my feet. It was pale green and looked to be of the seedless variety.”

Unlike Darcy and Myra, I am Green grapes-impaired. When I was practicing law I consciously had to remind myself to begin a telephone conversation with “Hi, how are you? How are the spouse, pets, kids?” Often though, I would screw up and just dive right into the business at hand. I think I got better over the years, but if I’m in a social situation with a lot of people I don’t know, I still have trouble coming up with things to talk about. So, for me, food and the weather, not so much. Movies and books, better, much better. Discussions about a subject du jour, free will, predestination, the nature of karma, the Islamic version of the second coming of Christ, the meaning of life, the fear (or not) of death. Even better.

I’ll also confess to being empathy-impaired. I was fascinated to learn, well into my 20s, that some people, when they tell me, for example, “I have a headache,” don’t want to hear “Well, have you taken aspirin? Do you need to call the doctor?” More often than not, they don’t want the perceived problem solved, they just want me to acknowledge their pain or frustration or whatever. I still tend to miss those signals, but learning, and employing, the expression, “Poor, baby,” when I think of it has been invaluable.

For the record, though, I am still, and will always be, a recovering attorney. I do like to argue, and I like to win. Perhaps the least understood aspect of the practice of law is that law is based on the precept that one side wins and one side loses. Ultimately, a decision must be made. Good attorneys, and I was a good attorney, must find the winning argument, based on the facts and the law, no matter which side one takes. That’s why so many attorneys invariably preface any answer to a question with the infuriating quip, “It depends.” That’s because law, like physics, adheres to the special principle of relativity; i.e., before one can apply the law, one must create an inert situation by establishing the facts. Juries are known as fact-finders. Judges are the law-givers.

Here’s a classic law school illustration: 99 nuns swear under oath the light was red. A witness, known by the jury to have previously been incarcerated for committing perjury and to have been paid a large sum of money by the present defendant to testify the light was green, swears under oath the light was green. If the jury believes the perjurer, well, the light was green. And it’s the attorney who is charged with the task on behalf of his client, the defendant, to convince the jury to believe the perjurer. [Show of hands, how many of you have just thought, "If the gloves don't fit, you must acquit?"]

I hope the above somewhat explains the overzealousness I sometimes exhibit over something that really doesn’t matter, oh, let’s use “in the long run,” this time. On another day, I might agree with your position or decide it’s not worth fighting over. But for today, it’s the hunt. The smell of fear and blood. (My fear, my blood, too, remember.) So cut me a deal and don’t take things so personally, okay?

There are other times though I would like to have what could be characterized as a serious discussion. To experience the intimacy of communication and understanding. And it’s those times I regret my adversarial ways because well, these ways get in the way. Perhaps my major regret in this life is to have done (and still do) whatever it is that prevents this level of communication. So, there you have it.

I don’t get out much anymore and planned events get cancelled for health reasons as often, if not more often, as they happen, but if you’re ever in the neighborhood feel free to come on by. No pressure. Be it for green grapes, debate, or to climb into Kerouac’s bathtub (metaphorically speaking, and fully clothed, of course), you’ll be welcome. I’ll even try to remember my manners, and at some point ask if you want something to drink. But if you don’t want to wait for that to happen, please feel free to wander into the kitchen and help yourself.

Why stop us the climbing?

Why do we stop climbing trees?
Or, for that matter,
Looking for trees to climb.
Or, for that matter,
Looking at trees for their climbability.
Or, for that matter,
Looking at trees.
Or , for that matter,
Looking for trees.
Or, for that matter,
Why stop us the asking?

cko
8/23/2008

Illustration No. 1

Anglo-
We interrupt this program . . .

Saxon
News Flash!

cko
08/17/08

Quiz

Which statement was written by a college graduate:

a) I’m not dead yet.
b) I’m not dead, yet.
c) I’m not dead . . . yet.
d) I’m not dead. Yet.
e) I’m not dead; yet.
f) I’m not dead yet?
g) I’m not dead yet!

cko
7/28/08

Final Jeopardy Answer

“Wish I could quit you, Enkidu.”

Joe Joe

I don’t care what the Good Book says
Our Savior said.
No amount of Faith
(mustard seeds notwithstanding)
Can move
An 86-pound greyhound
Splayed, Sphinx-like,
Munching his morning biscuit.

cko
July 5, 2005

Happy Anniversary, Jim and Nora

On this day in 1931, James Joyce married Nora Barnacle at the Kensington Registry Office in London. They had been living together for 26 years. She once complained about Joyce’s late hours, “I can’t sleep anymore. … I go to bed and then that man sits in the next room and continues laughing about his own writing. And then I knock at the door, and I say, now Jim, stop writing or stop laughing!”

Happy Bloomsday

“The hidden hand is again at its old game. ” — James Joyce, Ulysses

TGIF

You can get that
The world before you
5:00 Friday feeling
Different ways.

Yours now comes Monday night at 9:30.
Mine after successfully negotiating the shower
One more time.

But unless you’ve worked
Monday thru Friday
8 to 5
You can’t know how it feels.
You won’t know what you’re feeling.

At the very least,
You call it something else.

cko
May 16, 2008

Three Days After the Night Before

When at first I quit smoking, that is to say, when I first quit smoking. I did so with the assistance of the 21 mg NicoDermCQ® transdermal patch, one of which I wore 24/7. For weeks I had wild, vibrant nicotine dreams. Since I smoked until I had holes in my lungs where alveoli once existed (those little tiny cilia weren’t simply counterfeiting death), every few months I experience an exacerbatory episode that I treat with antibiotics and a prednisone burst. When this occurs, instead of nicotine dreams, I often awaken in the early morning hours and have wild, vibrant prednisone thoughts. Those of you who have perused this blog in the past may recall reading posts recorded even as these thoughts were occurring in my relative spacetime. This night, though, I managed to go back to sleep. (Actually I’m going on my third morning after the night thoughts before.) Thus I write this post, self-consciously, after the fact. How much of the original experience I decide to memorialize with my shame-monitor firmly in place remains to be seen.

Previous readers also know that I’m writing, in fits and starts, a novel entitled The First Voice. Yesterday marked another start. I’m presently writing Chapter 15 wherein I explain sapience, using, in part, the story of Adam and Eve. Wanting my account of the Edenic events accurately to reflect the episode as set forth in the Bible, specifically, Genesis, Chapter 3, verses 1 to 7, I reread said same. The New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) tells us Eve ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil because it was “good for food, and a delight for the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise.” Genesis 3:6. Sapient means “wise or learned.” So far, so good. When I read the second half of verse 6, however, my brain stopped. “[A]nd she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her. Id.(Emphasis added.) Huh? I said to myself. There it was, clear and unambiguous: Who was with her. Well, I admit it. Adam in attendance at the scene during the encounter with Satan was news to me. How had I missed it all this time? At first, I thought perhaps that part of the verse had been added to the NRSV in its attempt for better accuracy in the translation. But no. I checked the King James’ Version (KJV). There it was, Eve ate the fruit and then “gave also unto her husband with her.” Id. (KJV). I checked the wording in all the Biblical translations included in my 8.0.4 version of Quick Verse, my Travel-Size Edition of the Torah and Commentary, and David Rosenberg’s translation of The Book o f J, considered to be the origin of the Hebrew Bible. Only the Torah and a translation called The Message: the Bible in Contemporary Language leave room for a different interpretation of Adam’s whereabouts. These two versions provide that Eve ate and then also gave some of the fruit “to her husband, and he ate,” without specifying whether the two events occurred contemporaneously. What difference does it make? I leave that explanation to Elfredge, Johanna, and Michael in Chapter 15.

This blog entry is about my realization last night (x3) that when I first finally read the last half of Genesis, Chapter 3, Verse 6, I really, really wanted to talk to someone about my discovery and its implications. I ran it by my friends and family, most of whom agreed that yes, how interesting. They too had missed that the Bible put Adam at the scene, but nobody much shared my enthusiasm – well enthusiasm is somewhat understated, make that my shock and awe. In researching and writing Voice, I have had several similar moments of illumination over the years. Indeed, much in my life causes such moments. And when they happen, half-formed thoughts shoot around in my brain. More often than not, these thoughts remain incomplete, elusive. Some may make it as far as a cryptic note in a computer file entitled “Writing Ideas” — my current enigma being , “I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today (Faustian overtones).” No idea. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I’ve parlayed other thoughts into blog entries. But most fall back into the depths of the collective unconsciousness. It’s simply not worth the effort to articulate them to/for myself.

I may think, therefore I am, but I articulate because you am. See March 16, 2006 Post. At least I endeavor to articulate; i.e., express thoughts, ideas, or feelings coherently. I endeavor to articulate these thoughts because, like it or not, I need, I want, to communicate with you, my fellow human beings. There, I said it. I am not, after all, a rock. Queue Sounds of Silence, Track 11. Whether the preceding few sentences (and the next few anticipated sentences) make it into the blog remains to be seen, as I can feel my heart rate increase and the shame-flush spread. I am a card carrying, off-the-chart introvert, and these cravings I’ve been experiencing over the last few years for what I will call meaningful communication, in any of its many forms, are rather disconcerting, and frustrating. I recognize some of the frustrating part is a byproduct of my illness. I read somewhere that emphysema is called the “sitting disease” because exertion of almost any sort, well, just takes the wind right out of ya’. It’s damn hard for me to get to the coffee these days, much less out the door. Moreover, especially this time of year, germs are not my friends, so limiting live contact is wise. Besides, cravings aside, I really am an off-the-chart introvert. If I really think about it, I (mostly) do “want to be alone,” so I suppose I may be venturing into the area of “be careful for that which you wish.”

Notwithstanding, each of us may be here for different reasons, but I believe one of, perhaps even, the core reasons we are here in the human realm is to take time to engage in meaningful communication, verbal and nonverbal, with one another. Obviously, there are degrees of interaction ranging from the txt msg: “how ru?/Good u?” to On the Road’s Dean Moriarty a/k/a Neal Cassady sit ting in the bathtub with Sal a/k/a Jack knee to knee and eye to eye and talking until there isn’t anything left to say, in a word, grokking, to borrow a term from Stranger in a Strange Land.

So when does communication make the change from the quantitative state of cleaning out the email box while listening to the now elderly remaining parental unit advise as to the weather conditions, food consumed during the week, and which second cousin twice removed finally crossed Bifröst to the qualitative state of a meaningful exchange of ideas and emotions between two or more human beings?

My Buddhist buddies use a couple terms that speak to this question. They talk about being “mindful” and living with “intention.” To me, “mindful” means keeping my mind in the present instead of letting it think about past events or plan future ones. My concept of living with intention may be a bit simplistic, but essentially, it means paying attention to what I am doing at any given moment. My friends and family often remind me it is good if I can remember to drive with intention. Clients or witnesses being prepped for depositions are admonished to “answer the question that is asked,” rather than respond as if they were asked the question they, in their eminent wisdom and with their uncanny telepathic ability, just know opposing counsel really meant to ask them. Simple experiment: Ask folks, “do you have a watch?” and see how many respond “yes,” or “no,” as opposed to those who tell you what time it is.

By extension, to answer the question, one must hear the question. Accordingly, and as important, if not more important, one must listen mindfully and with intention. Meaningful communication is a two-way street (or in a group, a multi-lane freeway). Why should I expect my friends and family listen to my subject du jour if I fail to accord them the same honor? And here, three nights ago, to bring this full circle, my prednisone charged brain reminded me, I have been remiss. How many times has someone tried to speak to me about a subject, and I have either taken steps to peremptorily dismiss it and move onto my preferred agenda, or locked onto a buzz word and used the time the other continues to speak to formulate a response that will take the subject in my preferred direction? Well, no more. I will endeavor hence forward to remain mindful and listen to you with intention.

Patsy Quick

April 19. 1995 to July 2, 2006

We’d had Devon, our first greyhound, for a few months. He had been rather morose since we’d brought him home, so we decided he might be happier if we acquired another pack member for him. We called Judy and inquired about the availability of any potential adoptees. A few days later she called to let us know she had extradited “the most beautiful champagne” greyhound she had ever seen from an undesirable situation. For the last six months, he had been relegated to the backyard of his first off-track residence with nothing more than a human pillow for warmth and companionship. We made arrangements to come by and meet him. We arrived at Judy’s midafternoon on a Saturday with Devon in tow. At the time Judy was caring for four or five greyhounds, all of whom came bounding out the door to greet us. Sure enough, one of them was a gorgeous champagne-colored greyhound. On his papers he was named “Patsy Quick.” They called him “Buddy” at the track. We’d been there about 3 minutes when he ran over to our Honda CR-V, the back of which had been left open after letting Devon out. The next thing we knew, Buddy had jumped in and refused to leave. What were we to do?

We brought him home with and named him Dante because we had rescued him from hell. He was high strung, and had some separation issues. He hated thunder and whenever there was a storm, he would seek the safety of “his closet.” About a week into his life with us, he and his brother had an alpha-dog issue. We heard Dante let out a blood-curdling scream, and when we got him into the house, we discovered he had a nice tear in his throat. Off we went to the vet, where we learned the bite had just missed an artery. If that had been severed he would have bled out before we got him to the clinic. Not too long after that incident, he presented one day with an enormous swelling just under his jaw. Back to the vet for more surgery. A biopsy revealed cancer. Our vet told us she’d cleaned around the swelling as best as she could, but told us it was unlikely he would survive the year. Well, he did, and became known as the miracle dog, surviving his older brother Devon, and his after-acquired sister, B’mer, as well as another throat tear and an enlarged spleen.

Two years ago, my brother John came for an extended stay. Dante fell in love with him, and the two of them were inseparable. John would take him and his sister B’mer on long walks almost every day. On the way out he would let them wander and sniff, but on the way back, he would march them home, one on either side. It was a sight to behold.

Shortly after B’mer died, we got Dante a baby brother, Joe Joe. He and Joe had a wonderful year together, and then a year ago today, Dante the beautiful miracle dog finally succumbed — probably to cancer. We miss him, but every time it thunders we know he’s finally found peace.

Happy Bloomsday

“. . .and yes I said yes I will Yes.” — James Joyce, Ulysses

Jesus Camp

The other night, I watched the documentary, Jesus Camp. Doing so prompted me to rework a letter I sent to one of my relatives a while back into this blog post, as follows:

My emphysema has progressed to a point where I pretty much spend my time hanging out in an area of the house I have dubbed “Walking Raven Central.” See November 23, 2005 Post. At present, my lung function is somewhere in the neighborhood of 14%. I’ve probably been in what used to be called “end-stage” emphysema (lung function below 30%) for nearly 10 years, and I’ve come across at least one site that puts the 10 year mortality rate for folks with my numbers at 95%, so I guess I truly am lucky to be alive. My primary goal in life is to avoid germs, as it’s possible the next full blown “exacerbation” (translate, upper respiratory infection) or, for that matter, a little tiny mucus “plug” — I just flashed on Gilda Radner as Rosanna Dana Dana — in the wrong place will kill me. I have been cleared for a bilateral sequential lung transplant (one surgery, one donor, two lungs) at the University of Minnesota/Fairview, but that comes with it own fairly dismal set of statistics. Even so, I hope to be around a few more years.

These days I get up somewhere around 7:00. Since 9-11, I’ve made it a point to catch the news first thing to see if there’s anything terribly amiss with the world. When I turn on the TV, I start out at Channel 2 (FOX), when, more often than not, I’m just in time to catch the segment of the 700 Club where Pat Robertson (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) holds hands with a female prayer partner as the two of them with closed eyes and bowed heads take turns identifying various members of the viewing audience who are experiencing instantaneous, and what I’ve heard at least one of them refer to as “supernatural,” healing as a direct result of the prayers being offered by the two of them.

One particular show was especially poignant for me. At one point with eyes closed, Robertson declared that someone out there suffering from emphysema had just coughed and been miraculously healed. Sadly — although I suppose some would say understandably — I was not the recipient of God’s grace. Just to make sure, though, I took a walk to the refrigerator to refill my coffee cup and returned to my chair. Nope. It still took several minutes to recover and regulate my breathing. So now I get to await the day when I tune in to find Mr. Robertson sitting with the individual who claims s/he had been the individual suffering from emphysema and had been the target of God’s grace, compliments of Mr. Robertson and the power of prayer.

If so, s/he had been misdiagnosed in the first place. Emphysema is a progressive disease for which there is no cure. My alveoli have died. I literally have holes in my lungs where the alveoli used to be, and there is no way that they will ever regenerate. Nothing will make my condition better. I will only continue to deteriorate. The only treatment (except for a procedure called lung volume reduction surgery for which I am not a candidate) is a lung transplant. Otherwise, one day I will lapse into respiratory failure and die.

There is some promise that if scientists are permitted to conduct stem cell research with a sufficient number of diverse samples that they could learn how to grow new lungs for me using my own stem cells and so take away the risk of rejection of the donor lungs or even perhaps repair the ones I have now simply by injecting cells into my lungs and letting them take off. I think we all have a pretty good idea of where Mr. Robertson and his followers stand on this subject.

But enough about that. Today I mostly want to address this issue of Faith Healing. Let me see if I’ve got it right. God has the power, through Jesus, to heal any and all. I won’t be healed because I don’t happen to believe that it’s true. And in order to be healed an individual has to have faith at least “the size of a mustard seed,” which, as we all know from listening to any number of Sunday sermons on the subject, is not very much faith at all. Matthew 17:20. My faith, if only I had it, could “make me whole.” Matthew 9:22. I just need to believe. Mathew 9:29. Oh, but wait! Jesus heals the Centurion’s servant (Matthew 8) (another favorite Sunday sermon topic) because of the Centurion’s faith. So, even if I don’t have sufficient faith, if somebody else out there has enough faith, well, that works too.

So, what is wrong with this picture? Let me tell you. I know any number of people whose faith greatly exceeds the size of a mustard seed. And I can think of no reason any one of them would refuse to ask God to heal me. In fact, I know of several who are doing just that. (And please, if you’re reading this, don’t stop. Positive energy released into the universe is positive energy released into the universe.) Well then, what about me might trump their faith such that God says “No” to any prayers for my healing?

We all know God works in mysterious ways, so I suppose He could be punishing me for desecrating my body (His temple) by smoking all those years. But if that’s the case, why heal some ex-smokers and not others? Perhaps He’s testing me. Like Job. Well, if you want to play the Job-card to explain why bad things happen to good people (because on balance, I’m good people) – at least put it in context.

Right there in black and white the Bible tells us the suffering of Job resulted from a wager between God and Satan. Job 1, 2. In brief, God sees Satan walking around heaven and says, “Hey, where ya’ been?” And Satan answers he’s been hanging out on earth. So God asks him if he happened to see his good and faithful servant Job. And Satan says, “Sure God, I’ve seen him, and of course he’s good and faithful, he doesn’t have a care in the world. But I bet if enough misery and grief were heaped upon him, he would curse you to thy face.” And God says to Satan, “You’re on!” And then God doesn’t even have the decency to administer this test of faith himself. Instead he tells Satan he can do anything he wants to shake Job’s faith, except to kill him. That does not, however, preclude Satan from killing Job’s seven sons and three daughters all in a day’s time – well, they were mere chattel anyway and easily replaced once the testing was over and the wager won.

Come to think of it though, I guess I would prefer to tell a kid (just like the kid I was once upon a time) that it’s on account of a bet between God and Satan that her mother had to endure the agonizing ordeal of breast cancer and death at the age of 42. I sure wouldn’t want to be the one to tell her it’s because, well, unfortunately, she lacks, and all those around her also lack, faith the size of a mustard seed. But you don’t even have to tell her. She can read. She listens to the sermons on Sunday morning. She knows what she has to do. And so she prays desperately night after night asking God to recognize her complete faith in His power to heal and to make her mother whole again. But to no avail. She is not worthy. Come on, cut her a break. (By the by, I have since had occasion to come to terms with these issues and no longer believe my lack of faith killed my Momma, but it was tough going there for awhile. Oh, and for the record, I don’t blame God for Mother’s death or my emphysema, either. Things just happen.)

I’m not writing to suggest that people forsake their belief in God or Jesus or any Higher Power of their choosing — though maybe I am asking them maybe to entertain the possibility that God isn’t quite so “hands on,” and it really might be up to us to accept more responsibility for our lives and actions.

Maybe it’s time to start rethinking things and shift the focus from magical thinking to a more active approach. Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” John 15:12. Think about it. What if we really all did collectively as a human race one day start loving one another? Actively loving one another. Then it wouldn’t be a matter of tithing (especially tithing motivated by the belief that if we do it will inure to our benefit and we will be rewarded tenfold). We all might just decide to sell all that we have and head for Darfur or the barrio or the homeless shelter or wherever else of our choosing. Not to bring faith to the unbelievers so when they die they can go to heaven, but rather to provide food, clothing, and shelter, and then education, and then everything else. We’d stop using Jesus’ line “the poor will always be among us” to appease our consciences for having failed to do this already. (Even the devil can quote scripture . . .). We’d stop blowing each other up for the glory of God or Allah. Maybe we’d even stop destroying the planet and thereby avoid becoming just one more evolutionary anomaly on the spacetime continuum.

What’s sad is that here’s where I, and most everyone else it seems, lack faith even the size of a mustard seed. We refuse to believe we could really make this happen, and so we do nothing, or we do just enough so we can sleep at night. So there you have it. Maybe it’s time we all of us in this world simply agree to disagree about the stuff that ultimately doesn’t matter and get on with the business of humanity. Because if we did, why just

Imagine.

Midnight Musings

Living, as I do these days, a nearly unscheduled life has led to some rather erratic sleeping patterns. For instance, tonight I went down for a nap about 10:30 p.m. A couple hours later, the transition from nap to going to sleep; i.e., moving from the couch to the bed, got slightly bumpy. You guessed it. I started to think. First, I thought about the nature of poetry – well that might be a bit of a stretch, but I found myself reciting the Second Witch’s line from that play whose name one is never to say,

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

For those of who you don’t already know, according to the Wikipedia entry, “[t]he notion of a pricked thumb came from ancient Rome. It was said by seers that palpitations of the heart, the flickering of the eye and the pricking of a thumb were all warnings of evil. In particular, a pricking sensation in the left thumb was very worrisome.” (Palpitations of the heart can also be a sign of low oxygen saturation.) Anyway, I thought about how Shakespeare rearranged the syntax to make the rhyme and how, well, prosaic, the same line would sound if he wrote it as we would normally expect, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked comes this way.” Boring.
Then I started to think about about how one of my friends reported that a friend of hers was having trouble remembering which president was on the fifty and hundred dollar bill, respectively. Well, at the time of our conversation I’m happy to report I knew they were Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin, respectively. And then I thought about poetry again. I though of writing a poem entitled “Poetry” that would go something to the effect:

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked comes this way.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Jackson

But then I got stuck, I was unable to remember who is on the $20 bill. So I had to get up and look. Turns out it’s Jackson. So if Jackson’s on the $20 bill, who’s on the $10 bill? Well, I didn’t have a $10 bill. Now, I had shut down, search engine-wise, for the night. So I went back to bed. Would sleep come? What do you think? In between obsessing on trying to remember who is on the $10 bill, the strains of “[t]he time has come, the Walrus said to speak of many things” came drifting by. But that was all I could remember. Understandably, the prospect of sleep any time soon had pretty much gone by the wayside. So, I got up. Booted the computer. Since it was now an hour or so past the witching hour, my Writer’s Almanac for Sunday, January 21, 2007, awaited in my email inbox. Reading it solved one of my causes for insomnia in that “The Walrus and the Carpenter” just happened to be the featured poem. Twilight Zone music? Maybe. Then I googled “ten dollar bill.” Alexander Hamilton. Well, that blew my whole poem out of the water because what I was going to try to communicate was the poetic quality of the term “dead presidents,” my failure to think about the same problem with Benjamin Franklin notwithstanding.

So, anyway, I thought these musings had enough poetry and synchronicity to creep into the realm of blogworthiness, especially since I haven’t posted much in awhile. The First Voice is going well as, for the most part, is my life. And now, to bed.

Not On Our Watch

Once upon a spacetime, it all began here. Let it begin here again.

www.savedarfur.org

Imagine.

Chaos Theory: A Message from the Universe

Eight years ago, a woman who I know only as Mia’s Mother moved to a cattle ranch in Maxwell, New Mexico. She had four kids back then. Two are now in college and two are still in high school. Two years ago, she had Mia. Mia was a surprise. Mia weighed 2 pounds when she was born. Her mother told me she was going to name her “Gabriella,” but that was too big a name for such a tiny baby. Mia has hydrocephalus. This Sunday found her in the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital because the shunt that had been inserted in her brain was causing problems. She had only been discharged from Presbyterian 2 days ago after having just spent 33 days in the pediatric unit.

This Sunday also found me in the ER where I had been transported by ambulance due to an exacerbatory episode from which I had been unable to recover without some extra help. If you’ve read any of my other blog entries, especially those that will be gathered together if you click on the COPD category link, then you know I suffer from emphysema.

Presbyterian’s ER consists of a series of draped cubicles. My cubicle was next to Mia’s. Sunday is not the greatest time to go to an ER if you are suffering from a condition that will require admittance to the hospital. Few patients go home on Sunday, so usually there are not a whole lot of beds available. I had been told to look forward to a long wait. Mia had to wait awhile, too. I was just lying there resting when Mia’s Mother started singing “Little Rabbit Foo Foo” to her. Long about the third verse, I joined in by singing out softly, “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.” Mia heard me and gasped in surprise. Her mother asked her, “Did that person hear us? Shall we say, Hello?” And so the cubicle curtain parted and there was the cutest little kid with her mother.

We exchanged pleasantries and diagnoses. I explained about the emphysema and told her I’d been cleared for a lung transplant. Turns out Mia’s Mother had also had emphysema and had undergone a bilateral sequential lung transplant 6 years ago at Barnes in St. Louis. I asked her how old her mother was, and she said, I think, 58. I asked if she’d been a smoker, and she said yes. I said I had too, but they figured my particular brand of COPD must have some as-yet-undiscovered hereditary component since it presented in my 40s instead of my 70s. She said her mother had been told the same thing.

Mia’s Mother went on to tell me that by the time her mother got the transplant her lung function had dropped to 8% and she was virtually bedridden on 4 liters of oxygen. Even so, she’d been out of bed the day after the surgery. I asked how her mother had been doing since the transplant. She told me that in the past six years her mother had gone through two bouts with rejection, but with an adjustment to her meds she had recovered nicely. Otherwise she had hardly been sick.

Before we had time for much more conversation, they came to take Mia to her room. We said our “nice meeting you, good to talk to you” farewells, and off they went.

Is it just me?

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

– Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias II