“Oh IAGO, the pity of it, Iago!”

Examining the complete database created by my Pet Scan using Osirix, a clinical viewer downloaded from the Mac. Oh Isis undt Osiris!

I love it where the doctor writes that the pancreas and other zones are unremarkable. Boring is nice.

No bone lesions. So is this prostate? Not confirmed. If there’s no answer from mah homeboys at Queen Mary on Wednesday I may track down an oncologist in Koh Samhui. I imagine there’s a lot of oncologists there, both Thai and western. Let him have a look at the comprehensive DICOM material see what he thinks.

The tumor is always there and it feels weird, something that is neither a foreign object nor part of me, at least the “me” I know. It wants me to acknowledge it like I want my kids to acknowledge my reality. This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

Othello is heart breaking.

IAGO
She’s the worse for all this.
OTHELLO
O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of so
gentle a condition!
IAGO
Ay, too gentle.
OTHELLO
Nay, that’s certain: but yet the pity of it, Iago!
O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!

I was watching it this morning on my BBC DVD while shaving; I have a comprehensive Shakespeare DVD collection and like to distract myself whilst flossing and shaving in a way the bachelor may in Bachelor Hall, where freedom is nothing left to lose. There’s a moment when Othello (as played y Sir Anthony Hopkins opposite Bob Hoskins’ Othello) at one and the same time has to acknowledge Desdemona’s divinity and the horror of what (he thinks) she has done to him. Des-demon-a, as Ted Hughes says.

[But. I never let the woman judge me. Was this a fault? I do not know.]

Desdemona is Othello’s cancer and he loves that which he hates. In the scene with Iago where he’s convinced of her guilt, there’s an almost Islamic or Old Testament God, nothing like the Triune God, a single mass with as much darkness as light, for Desdemona is for Othello a perfect being that is willing to hurt him utterly and there’s nothing for it, Allah does not have to be compassionate nor merciful for the same reason my body feeds something which at any time can split my bones from within. That is the deal here.

“And oh the pain.” – Angels in America

I have been and probably shall continue to be entirely too smug and too full of sang-froid, unlike my father who was better than I at being depressed, and seeing the darkness into which we peer. I do not know what the hell else to do!

I create my little indexed file of documents for Queen Mary as if to propitiate George V’s consort, the Virgin Mary, Kali, Kwan Yin (Boddhisatva of Mercy) and the Queen Mother of the Western Sky, see what a good boy am I, and intercede with

“Gott der Vater! Gott der Sohn! Gott der Heilige Geist!” (Dosteoevski, The Brothers Karamazov)

Qui Mariam absolvisti
Et latronem exaudisti

As it says in the Dies Irae. But MY wrath and tears are the problem now. Why won’t my sons email me? And why can’t I just call them up and shoot the shit? Was I that bad of a father, traveling around the country like a circus to stay employed? Selling myself like a palooka for the short dollar, never standing up for my rights, never getting a PhD? I thought men are supposed to work for their kids at jobs that suck, it’s what Hegel’s slave must do in the dialectic of Lordship and Bondage.

Of course, Holy Wisdom appears to me and admonishes me here. My original AA sponsor said, I must take responsibility. RE SPONS I BIL I TY. I chose to work and not stiff my ex and the kids. Maybe I should have forced my ex to join me in Silicon Valley by refusing to pay her a dime. Men do that to women: cf for example Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil. I chose not to because I wanted to live alone. And I still do. Hey, am I getting on a flight to Chicago on Wednesday? No. I am going to kick it in Thailand.

I just want the best of both worlds, where we’d live in different countries and use the Internet to communicate. But this certainly was alien to my former wife; when she first heard, from me, about chat rooms and talking on a computer with strangers, she, a Desdemona in her own right, a real pillar of fire in fact (for I did love her and still do, dammit), she said, “that’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard.” She is and was innocent and prelapasarian in a way I was not, and I was not good for her although I had my moments.

The kids take after her, especially the father of these grand-daughters.

Well there it is. It’s going to get worse, for this constitutes old age.

Do not tell me of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly. Mah homey TS Eliot wrote that.

One Love too all. There doesn’t seem to be any alternative at this point. I won’t live in a demon haunted world. And God is merciful. Why? Because I say so and I’m the Daddy, that is why.

But oh the pity of it, Iago.

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