Back Online 15 Nov 2012

14 Nov 2012

Awoke to no pain and a strangely silent ward got cake instead of congee when I observed that I’d had nothing since yesterday. Docs all happy, Docs all doing the Eagle Rock because my sodium levels down, and celebrating something else like Bulgarian Independence day for all I know.

Edema in right leg has not increased specific pain. What pain exists is focused on area under top of ass/ass deltoid/hamteum along the lines originally traced by sciatic nerve and it is a dull pain.

Yesterday trying to assist Ultrasound Guy to find a clot it was a ball of fire moving in a grey space, like that in which I discovered my children long ago and Tessa and Esme last summer. Flaming like I thrash on the PET scan.

The Ultrasound Guy could not find the clot so I did. This breaks the lock for it is a consequence of the prostate (and the mysterious Gotterdamerang of same last Spring) or a new form of cancer.

Hey, I ain’t scared. One, two many cancers in an old man who never got the proper checkups because he was too busy seeing the world and making art adds up to a an unhappiness index U+e as opposed to the alternative of U where e approaches 0 like a blood clot burning in the grey. It was my choice. Probably because of being denied access to the children.

“I am responsible” is a beautiful thing to say. Chris Hitchens did so. For everything she (D) did x there is an x’ that I did to buy-in. The Hitch smoked and drank because he loved above all else his friends and gatherings, and in smoking and drinking (at least in my own experience) you get out of the (suffering and limited) body and become an Idea, disporting yourself in a realm of ideas. Nobody dast blame that man.

An excruciating bone marrow extraction and biopsy today but no pain now and the joy of helping the doctors find out the truth.

The thought chills. The marrow, of which you are made, a tasty soup indeed. Sucked out. Right, you swine, this will read well in the Morning Post because we need to get to the bottom of this mess and it is my duty to exist and flourish and by GOD I shall. Vorwart!

The pain is verbal as the meaning of a dream is in the words that occur to you not as the images do: they fade on the break of day but then later in the day they and their meanings come rushing back. The words of a marrow tap are violation.

“Hey that’s mine.”

“‘S’cool, just wanna sample for the lab they love this shee-it.”


“‘Kay, all thru. ”

“Gotcha on that. Morphine!”

Such pain I’ve been in that I want everybody to stop what they are doing when my pain stops and start doing the Eagle Rock, and playing, like Christian’s wife and children,the well-tuned harp for joy I’th’old book, “The Pilgrim’s Progress from this world to that which is to come”.

The bone marrow extraction finds you out rather like the spring in winter or the hand of God.

Goddish, God, gosh
S’he suppeth on soup like a Tyger
For nor is h’is tish! Her ‘s Time a’cum!
On a cannon off Tuen Mun!

A Way Out

The old story of the “bed-trick” (as seen in Shakespeare’s “All’s Well that Ends Well”) may have been, in Shakespeare’s own time, a psychological device perhaps used by goodwives and proto-psychiatrists such as probably never existed but were portrayed in Shakespeare in Love, a popular film from the Cool Britannia era now little worth the watching.

In it, you, who were madly in love can be not only given an actual potion to make you fall in love, can be told you were loved or that you love as a word placebo and this is what happens to Berowne.

And in the world of the very late comedy-dramas (Pericles after the Gower nonsense, the Tempest), each word is also a potion.

Of course this is what is meant by my rejection by L based on the 6 Day War: I oversought, like a downed Israeli fighter (or, to be more ideologically correct, some goddamn WWII piece of shit surplus fighter loaned to me and the Arab Legion by the Gyppos), the paradise of early love, that epitome of Adorno’s paradise of childhood, ah shops in which every thing is free and the waiters so nice to me, and then that lovely boat…to Shanghai.

At Night on a Dream Island

At night on a dream island, Morphine, in pain, simulated my alcoholism again
So I went to the bar where hung my pain-
Ting, of several kinds of mud, foreign and homegrown

Mud from which paper can be made, then books.

And I removed it, rolled it up and climbed the rain night dog hill
Reflecting that even trampled grass has beauty in the rain.
You know, Father once asked as Christ in a panto banned
Snuck in after the Fall of Man

“Gee Dad, how many times must I be crucified?”

“For there are billions of planets out there
Each of them filled with souls smart enough to sin
And you want me to get killed in pain to save their souls
So many times over, and over, again.”


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