A Life In Fragments

Fragment ManI’ve been writing living my life in disconnected fragments.   I’m whiplashed.  Thrown back and forth like Freddy Grey of Baltimore infamy.  No flow:  tried to express things so primitive, so primeval, so…   …   …Neanderthal utterances; grunts and growls, would sound right at home in my screaming painfulness.   There are no words…   … …before there were words, there was the pain.  Nine point three, in my humble estimation,  on the Comparative Pain Richter Scale.  Yes, it rocked me.

Torquemada’s Iron Maiden, if it didn’t kill you, mortally wounded your soul.   You’d make any devil’s bargain; piss yourself, beg and plead, for relief.  And I did.


 Yes, I survived.  Not only I:  many others have survived as well.  I’m proud and humbled to be among them.
Pain at that level is gone.  For now.  More of the same is bound to follow.  I am a hearty, full-bodied man.  But also a vulnerable man.  My names are legion:  colchicine, allopurinol, hydrochlorothiazide, digoxin, benazepril, metoprolol, oxycodone,clonidine, warfarin, fentanyl,  simvastatin, nortriptyline.  Slowly, ever so slowly I turn; turn towards my struggle towards health.  My physical therapist, and The Lord, are my shepherds.  Wit sustains me when muscles weaken.  Melancholy is a guilty treasure.  Prudently mined; it’s a gift that keeps on giving.
Along the trails thru the frontier, lonely outposts were manned to give succor for the weary explorer.  I’m at one of those existential waystations now, waiting for few moments to catch my breath.  A new day is before me, but it’s getting late.  Got to get on my way.
Saddle up, Taxi Dog!  It’s time to ride.

Norman Is In Ireland (apologies to R.J.Squirrel)

Falling.  Bottomless.  Tumbling.
painful joints;


to know You.
I is nothing with out U.

Writing this,
like this,
formless, meaningless….



No meaning.

All I know, can know, hope to know, hear, see, feel:
no form. 


Pin-ball wizard!
Damaged hands.
Motion. Memories of motion; e-motion.
Broken/English, back-hand, left-hand, no hand.
No spin; dead ball.

Wish it’d “Go”!
But it won’t.


Who’s Afraid Of Golden Pond?

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (film)I’m back!!  From a couple of hellish weeks of non-life threatening, but very ugly, illness, tax audits, family difficulties, and friends in distress.  And even more.  Nothing that your ordinary, death defying taxi dog doesn’t soak up like a dry sponge in the Gobi Desert after a decades long drought.  But this time its gotten the best of me.

Apparently, I’m very much attatched to my self-concept as a survivor.   “He takes a lickin’; but the keeps on ticking”.  Oh, how I love that image!!  So, when I can’t keep up with my image, I stop writing.  What am I suppose to do?  Discuss all my 70 year old’s aches and pains?  Would you read that shit?

I wouldn’t.

So; slowly I turn.  Step by step.  Inch by inch.  What do you guys [and guy-ettes] do when you’re in a piss poor mood?  When I was younger, many, many years ago, I had the luxury of blaming others.  My wife and I used to do our “Virginia Woolf” act in summer stock for years.  “On Golden Pond” is better theater.  And a more satisfactory role to play.  Still, its only human nature to look for scapegoats.

I have this discussion with myself every once in awhile.  Bitch and whine?  Or take control of myself.  I’m embarrassed to say I don’t always live up to my press releases.

I can’t tell you my greatest fears.  I don’t know all of them yet.  Death isn’t one of them.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t have them.  So here I am, literally alone and in the dark, at 2:07 AM.  Sharing.  Questioning.  Wondering.

That’s all I know for now.  Tomorrow, if it comes, will be another day.