Ode to Healing – Part One

John Updike

updike_062612_620px

A scab
is a beautiful thing — a coin
the body has minted, with an invisible motto:
In God We Trust.
Our body loves us,
and, even while the spirit drifts dreaming,
works at mending the damage that we do.
That heedless Ahab the conscientious mind
drives our thin-skinned hull onto the shoals;
a million brilliant microscopic engineers below
shore up the wound with platelets,
lay down the hardening threads of fibrin,
send in the lymphocytes, and supervise
those cheery swabs, the macrophages, in their clean-up.
Break a bone, and fibroblasts
knit together the blastema in days.
Catch a cold, and the fervid armies
swarm to blanket our discomfort in sleep.
For all these centuries of fairy tails poor men
butchered each other in the name of cure,
not knowing an iota of what the mute brute of body knew.

— Continued —

For further reading:
Updike The Jew

 


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.

painscale

 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.

At The Moment

At the moment
of your birth
all options may open
for you.
Or they may not.

Profound experiences may befall you,
or they may not.

Difficult choices may be placed before you
or they may not.

Lessons may be learned
or they may not.

You may find meaning
in your suffering.
You may find sorrow.
You may find joy.
You may find chaos.

You may find death;
but Death will find you.

In a moment
of clarity,
Truth may come to you.
Or you may find it
through years
of struggle.
Or it may never come to you
at all.

You may wish
to understand
it all.

At the end,
you will not.

 —   —   —

Enhanced by Zemanta

Sometimes Stops Being

quote-Oscar-Wilde-i-am-so-clever-that-sometimes-i-100925

—–     —–     —–

sometimes taxi dog’s blue.  sometimes stops being.
bees someone “else”.  lost somelongtime now.  fragmented, loozing hiz gripz.
Becoming…   …   …?
hard to describe.  looked for coincidences.  Serendipities.
Findz?
Nothing

—–     —–     —–

now, not describing, more being.
Be-ing.
conclusion?  not yet.  not now.
but feelz goode…   …   …words flow, non-sensemaking, easzier.
all the betterer, all the meaning-er.

—–     —–     —–

Not for you?
i take’m as they are…   …   …out of analysis, out of form(alde)…   …   …hyding.
Will you see the strange reading
I’m sure, I think, for you.
For me; ecstasy!
A lopstuck piglet?
Who knows?

—–     —–     —–

What’s written is a manufractured, pro-ducttaped assemblage.  an un-naturaled axe.
Want “heard”!
Heard?
Want Meant!
Allizz what I can write-right now.  Allizz is fragments.
writing fragments like the end.  ’til the end.  ’til I end.
‘Til I write in an ‘other’ way.

—– —– —–

brainworthy of worry?  scary to me.  How to know; lest you know.  tell me?
Maybe brained injured writers will be all the rage in the later parts of his decage (sic?).
Stick to the sictionary, TD.  browse the Classics. paleontology?  knew her sisters well:  Ellis and Anne?
The Brontesauruses?
Sick-(sic?)-sic.
Pun-machine hymning,
thanks God!

—– —– —–

I’m no eecummings.  and hezze no me.
Go nightnight  Go to my cell.
Bye-bye

—– —– —–

Enhanced by Zemanta

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

Falling.  Bottomless.  Tumbling.
Bloodless,
painful joints;
Grasping

nothing.

Writing
to know You.
I is nothing with out U.

Writing this,
like this,
formless, meaningless….

I;

nothing

Meaning?
No meaning.
Am!

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

Am?
Was!

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

Wish it’d “Go”!
But it won’t.

TTD

Why?

Because it captures unknowable Truths

the rational mind looses

in the subterranean pathways of Mind.

No; I don’t know if THIS is poetry!!

I don’t know what poetry IS.

Yes I know.

Its only a punctuational game.

End the sentence here.  New line there.

Change a metaphor there.

Mechanics are not creations.

Of course I know this.

Don’t play me for a fool!

And I’m sorry I can’t play

up to The Standards.

Don’t the losses keep mounting?

I know that refrain.

Its dirge  gets loud

Vesti la giubba” in ragtime.

Who gets the last laugh?

Sadly, or not, we all know

His name.

— The Taxi Dog —

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.

TD