Music: Jupiter's Child, by Steppenwolf
Overhead, planes take off, planes land, and today I am neither flying them nor riding on them. This week, I am earthbound, my neck craned upward, eyes squinting at the sky, heart leaping, feet twitching controlling rudders. As I drive, I remind myself that on earth I am limited to 65 mph, that I will not achieve take off if I push my Volkswagen Jetta up to 90 mph. I feeder hop, argue with my GPS, take back roads, promise myself a trip to Candler Field Museum to see the vintage exhibit.
This week, I clean and bandage, juggle gauze and tape, explaining treatment to concerned loved ones. I explain pain cycles to frustrated patients whose bodies are not reacting the way they expected. I see their eyes grow round, reaching into me for answers. If I see something surprising, I react outwardly with all the calmness and surety I can muster. I project confidence, partially because I feel it, and partially because that is what they need from me. They sigh and relax, knowing someone more knowledgeable is in charge. Then they trust you, and then they tell you more. "And hey, before you go, would you take a look at this..." Facades are dropped along with trousers, and I pull a lamp over and focus a light where the sun don't shine. "Jesus", I think. Did we cover this? I take a deep breath and silently offer my usual inelegant but honest prayer, "Good God almighty and whoever else might be listening, please let me be doing this right." They listen to me intently as I explain Dermatology 101, treat, and give after-care directions as I re-adjust the light, help them pull up their pants and snap off the latex. I wonder if everyone goes through this.
And yet there are moments when I am so in flow with what I am doing it is as if I am watching myself from a distant planet. I hear my voice coming out of me, speaking so confidently, that I swear it is almost as if the gods are speaking through me and I am simply a conduit. This is what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi speaks of in his work on achieving flow. I am lost in the work, it is no longer work, it is play, it is something beyond play. It is restful because there is no resistance. I find my rest in my work. Not all moments are like this, but some are. It is another way of slipping the bonds of earth, and I am grateful for it when it happens.
Suck it, Gravity. One way or another, I'm taking you down.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Let's Get Small
When I rolled out the yoga mat onto her living room floor, she looked skeptical. When I brought out the tennis balls and uttered the words "self massage for gluteals and paraspinals" she started shaking her head. In the past two weeks, I have introduced this lady to relaxation and diaphragmatic breathing ("That could take YEARS to learn!"), cervical retraining, core stability exercises, and one memorable session during which I explained the role of the pelvic floor in lumbar spine support (stopping just short of interpretive dance). Each step of the way, I have taken a pain rating, and rather consistently, following my direction, her pain comes down to a zero out of ten. Last week, we discussed the roll of excess abdominal weight and the biomechanics of the back, neck and shoulders. I put her on a walking program and taught her how to monitor her symptoms. Today, she met me in the driveway, carrying a bag of fast food. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Chronic Pain America.
I viewed this as an opportunity for education, not a stinging defeat. I see many chronic pain patients during my week, and many if not most of them are morbidly obese and suffering from diseases of excess. Too many cigarettes, too much food, too much stress. Too little exercise, too few fruits and vegetables, too little water. Their bodies are bloated, stuck in states of chronic inflammation, stiff and sore not from fun and natural movement but from years of no movement at all. They carry around bags and boxes of pills, make the rounds from one prescribing physician to the next, stop to get fast food on the way home and wonder why nothing gets better. I have not met a patient yet who has been put on a reasonable reducing diet by a physician, or even referred to a nutritionist, and believe me, I ask. Every. Single. Time.
America is drowning under the weight of it's own gluttony. Inflammatory and autoimmune related diseases are on the rise, and a large percentage of this country is living with some type of chronic pain. That we do not connect this to the poor quality of what we are eating and drinking dumbfounds me. In a nonjudgmental way people I hope my patients can hear, I try to help them connect a dot between what they eat, excess weight, musculoskeletal biomechanics and chronic pain. Things can be better.
I viewed this as an opportunity for education, not a stinging defeat. I see many chronic pain patients during my week, and many if not most of them are morbidly obese and suffering from diseases of excess. Too many cigarettes, too much food, too much stress. Too little exercise, too few fruits and vegetables, too little water. Their bodies are bloated, stuck in states of chronic inflammation, stiff and sore not from fun and natural movement but from years of no movement at all. They carry around bags and boxes of pills, make the rounds from one prescribing physician to the next, stop to get fast food on the way home and wonder why nothing gets better. I have not met a patient yet who has been put on a reasonable reducing diet by a physician, or even referred to a nutritionist, and believe me, I ask. Every. Single. Time.
America is drowning under the weight of it's own gluttony. Inflammatory and autoimmune related diseases are on the rise, and a large percentage of this country is living with some type of chronic pain. That we do not connect this to the poor quality of what we are eating and drinking dumbfounds me. In a nonjudgmental way people I hope my patients can hear, I try to help them connect a dot between what they eat, excess weight, musculoskeletal biomechanics and chronic pain. Things can be better.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Skin Diver
The first time I meet a patient a lot of information comes at me very fast. How they walk, their posture, how they carry each part of their body, scars, skin, facial expressions, evenness of movement, which way they lean (away from their pain}, skeletal alignment, condition of their skin, the emotions they wear on their face, how they smell, the energy they put out or pull from me, areas of weakness, strength, and pain all rush at me as I introduce myself and reach out to shake their hand for the first time.
When I examine them, I work first with my eyes, then my hands, then my ears. My mother always asked me, "Why don't you ever listen?" I don't know, Mom. I do listen. But until I absorb something with my eyes, and then examine it with my hands to know what I think, I cannot really hear what you say. It's like my occipital and parietal lobes have to tell my temporal lobe what is coming. I don't just picture them naked. I picture them without skin. I have to dive beneath the surface, layer by layer, to help them sort out their pain. They know they hurt. It's my job to tell them why, and how to stop it. Every time I am successful at that, I hear a little voice in my head that says, "This is why you are here." I always laugh when people say, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I tell them, "I am grown up. I am what I want to be." I want everyone in the world to have that great feeling.
It's a luxury to be able to have longer treatment sessions with my patients, and ultimately it's why I picked physical therapy school over medical school. I wanted to spend more time with my patients, I find it more satisfying. Hands on is what I am about, and no one else gives that. One of my beloved professors, a genius at manual therapy and reduction of musculoskeletal chronic pain always said, "If your hands aren't on the patient, why the hell are you there? Shut your mouth, open your eyes, and feel." Often I am surprised at what I find no one has bothered to explain to them before. With the typical contact time for patient visits dwindling by the day and required paperwork increasing exponentially, I have to fight to keep my hands where they should be: on the patient, and I have to fight for enough quality time in a patient encounter to really understand what is happening and why. When my father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in his mid-forties, it took the neurologists five years to make the final diagnosis. Five years of 15-minute patient encounters. Kind of makes me wish that one person had taken 45 whole minutes and gotten it right the first time.
Today, as everyday, so many satisfactory moments. When one of my patients, a beautiful, beautiful woman with a diagnosis that makes me weep for the finality of it and want to believe in Angels in America, told me today, "You always shake my hand, today I want a hug. You are the only person I know who actually listens to me." I heard what I always hear at these moments. This is why I am here. See Mom, I do so listen.
When I examine them, I work first with my eyes, then my hands, then my ears. My mother always asked me, "Why don't you ever listen?" I don't know, Mom. I do listen. But until I absorb something with my eyes, and then examine it with my hands to know what I think, I cannot really hear what you say. It's like my occipital and parietal lobes have to tell my temporal lobe what is coming. I don't just picture them naked. I picture them without skin. I have to dive beneath the surface, layer by layer, to help them sort out their pain. They know they hurt. It's my job to tell them why, and how to stop it. Every time I am successful at that, I hear a little voice in my head that says, "This is why you are here." I always laugh when people say, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I tell them, "I am grown up. I am what I want to be." I want everyone in the world to have that great feeling.
It's a luxury to be able to have longer treatment sessions with my patients, and ultimately it's why I picked physical therapy school over medical school. I wanted to spend more time with my patients, I find it more satisfying. Hands on is what I am about, and no one else gives that. One of my beloved professors, a genius at manual therapy and reduction of musculoskeletal chronic pain always said, "If your hands aren't on the patient, why the hell are you there? Shut your mouth, open your eyes, and feel." Often I am surprised at what I find no one has bothered to explain to them before. With the typical contact time for patient visits dwindling by the day and required paperwork increasing exponentially, I have to fight to keep my hands where they should be: on the patient, and I have to fight for enough quality time in a patient encounter to really understand what is happening and why. When my father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in his mid-forties, it took the neurologists five years to make the final diagnosis. Five years of 15-minute patient encounters. Kind of makes me wish that one person had taken 45 whole minutes and gotten it right the first time.
Today, as everyday, so many satisfactory moments. When one of my patients, a beautiful, beautiful woman with a diagnosis that makes me weep for the finality of it and want to believe in Angels in America, told me today, "You always shake my hand, today I want a hug. You are the only person I know who actually listens to me." I heard what I always hear at these moments. This is why I am here. See Mom, I do so listen.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Speaking Ill of the Dead (excerpt, 2003)
from, SPEAKING ILL OF THE DEAD (short fiction, excerpt, 2003)
So Tuesday night, Boozer started much earlier than usual, drinking I mean. Really it was a continuation of the night before, he hadn't really stopped, just passed out stinkin'. Jack was pretty fed up with him and so was Elena. I was too, really, He'd said some pretty mean things to me. I was just the tiniest bit tired of the whole Jennifer Drama. As a matter of fact I was just tired. I had worked late, and we were very short-handed at the restaurant.
When I got home, Jack was in the same damn mood he always seemed to be in lately, the one where he just sits and chain smokes and stares at me, and I say "What? WHAT?" Believe you me, Jack's been getting a little creepy lately. The whole house was just crackling, you know, like a pile of dead leaves waiting for a spark. I cooked up this really great Low Country Boil to cheer us all up, but I was the only one that wanted to eat it. Well that is just alright, I said, I'll eat it by myself. And I did. I had a few glasses of wine, too. By myself. Fine and dandy. Y'all go ahead and weird out, don't bother me one bit. I'll still enjoy mine, you know. I started thinking for the first time about getting my own place. I couldn't really afford that, but maybe a change of roommates. Maybe we're just all getting on each others' nerves.
Boozer started to go downhill fast after he started working at Michael O's. I mean, even I noticed it, out of the corner of my eye sometimes, or over my shoulder. Boozer, well, Marcus really, did I say? Boozer's real name is Marcus. He never liked it. I didn't either, really. It was a family name. He started coming in every night in a worse and worse mood. One night with a black eye, the next with a cut lip. He got morose. I asked him about it but he just ignored me. For days. The hard ignore.
Finally I said, "Alright, Mr. Shithead. Mr. I'm the only one on the planet with a problem. You can ignore me, but you're falling apart, and between you and me, I'm the last friend you got in this damned house, and I'm standing in line for my bus ticket to anywhere else so listen up. I don't want anything from you. Not anymore. You can waste your money, your time and your life on some bouncy fool who will never see you, I don't care. You're an idiot, but if that is what you want, fine. But for God's sake look in the mirror and do something about yourself. Clean up. Eat a green salad. You've just become gross. Your sister is through with you. Jack is ready to verbally drive your head into a wall. You're just fucked up, Boozer. I'm not as young or as dumb as you've always thought I was. This ain't love, hon. This is just fucked up, pure and simple."
He looked at me for a moment, and just for a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of the old Marcus. The one I missed. The one I'd followed around my whole damn life, dragging my blanket. Dragging my doll after, dragging my school bag after, dragging my paintings after. Dragging my raggedy-ass ol' heart after, leaving sad little furrows in the wet Tybee Island sand. The one I would've done anything in the world for, if he slowed down long enough to see me standing there, seen me for who I was instead of who he got in his mind I should be.
I guess it's always that way, isn't it? By the time you recognize the reality of someone, all you can see is their back, disappearing over the horizon, all you are left with is the memory of their fire to keep you warm, blue-orange shadow trails of what they meant to you. Just for one damn second, I was pretty sure he saw me, that we stopped spinning in our solitary pirouettes long enough to just see each other for who we were. I'd been waiting for that my whole little life, I guess. And then the door bell rang, and it was gone. But not the memory of it. No. Even after how it all turned out, I guess I'll always have the memory of that one second. That's more than some people get, I suppose.
When the doorbell rang it was a jumpy shock. I'd just fixed it that morning. It had never worked before, so it was strange. Elena came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her tee shirt. It even roused Jack from his corner, and he got up slowly as if out of a dream, and kind of sleep walked across the room. You know how when the phone wakes you from a nap, and you are up and across the room and your heart is pounding and you are answering the questions of a stranger before you even know you are awake? Jack opened the door before I could get to it, I was still clutching the threads of the moment, trying to weave something up out of them, but I looked at Boozer and I could tell he was gone again. Gone and never coming back. I felt like I aged about twenty years in that one moment. Probably that's a good thing. I don't know.
Jack opened the door, and there was this guy standing there in a brown leather jacket over a black shirt. Boots. He had this fuzzy red hair and beard. Boozer saw him and started forward, this crazy look in his eye. "You ignorant son of a Dublin whore" he said. His hands came up together. He looked crazed. I mean, I'd seen him mad before, but not like this. This was different. This was hard, stony death anger. The red giant in the doorway just stood there, with a teasing, triumphant look on his face. This little visit to our doorway was his victory lap. He wasn't here to sell anything, he wasn't here to deliver anything except the final blow. Boozer looked like a man with nothing left to lose. God knows why. I'll never understand it. I will never, ever understand it, not until the day I die and St. Peter himself explains it all to me. But I knew what he felt. He'd just realized he'd lost the only person in the world that meant anything to him. I understood that, believe you me. I understood it hard. Because less than a minute before, I had too.
It was the lightest decision I ever made. I know it should, but it doesn't really bother me much, not even now. It might, later, you know, after the lacquer coat of martyr love wears off. Elena couldn't have done it, she'd just stand there and dither. She's sweet but she'd dither you into the next century, gathering opinions. Really. Jack was a non-actor, always was, too cerebral. I'm sure they are comforting each other right now, Jack and Elena. Elena dithering, spinning her little what-if worry circles, Jack just trying to explain it all rationally and failing miserably. Boozer was too angry to think things through, plus he was ham-handed and stumbly, all he could every think to do was lunge. Poor guy, always flinging himself head-long in the wrong directions. That was way too over for me, I'd watched him fling himself off a cliff too many times. I wasn't going to watch him do it again tonight.
And then I saw the pipe...
So Tuesday night, Boozer started much earlier than usual, drinking I mean. Really it was a continuation of the night before, he hadn't really stopped, just passed out stinkin'. Jack was pretty fed up with him and so was Elena. I was too, really, He'd said some pretty mean things to me. I was just the tiniest bit tired of the whole Jennifer Drama. As a matter of fact I was just tired. I had worked late, and we were very short-handed at the restaurant.
When I got home, Jack was in the same damn mood he always seemed to be in lately, the one where he just sits and chain smokes and stares at me, and I say "What? WHAT?" Believe you me, Jack's been getting a little creepy lately. The whole house was just crackling, you know, like a pile of dead leaves waiting for a spark. I cooked up this really great Low Country Boil to cheer us all up, but I was the only one that wanted to eat it. Well that is just alright, I said, I'll eat it by myself. And I did. I had a few glasses of wine, too. By myself. Fine and dandy. Y'all go ahead and weird out, don't bother me one bit. I'll still enjoy mine, you know. I started thinking for the first time about getting my own place. I couldn't really afford that, but maybe a change of roommates. Maybe we're just all getting on each others' nerves.
Boozer started to go downhill fast after he started working at Michael O's. I mean, even I noticed it, out of the corner of my eye sometimes, or over my shoulder. Boozer, well, Marcus really, did I say? Boozer's real name is Marcus. He never liked it. I didn't either, really. It was a family name. He started coming in every night in a worse and worse mood. One night with a black eye, the next with a cut lip. He got morose. I asked him about it but he just ignored me. For days. The hard ignore.
Finally I said, "Alright, Mr. Shithead. Mr. I'm the only one on the planet with a problem. You can ignore me, but you're falling apart, and between you and me, I'm the last friend you got in this damned house, and I'm standing in line for my bus ticket to anywhere else so listen up. I don't want anything from you. Not anymore. You can waste your money, your time and your life on some bouncy fool who will never see you, I don't care. You're an idiot, but if that is what you want, fine. But for God's sake look in the mirror and do something about yourself. Clean up. Eat a green salad. You've just become gross. Your sister is through with you. Jack is ready to verbally drive your head into a wall. You're just fucked up, Boozer. I'm not as young or as dumb as you've always thought I was. This ain't love, hon. This is just fucked up, pure and simple."
He looked at me for a moment, and just for a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of the old Marcus. The one I missed. The one I'd followed around my whole damn life, dragging my blanket. Dragging my doll after, dragging my school bag after, dragging my paintings after. Dragging my raggedy-ass ol' heart after, leaving sad little furrows in the wet Tybee Island sand. The one I would've done anything in the world for, if he slowed down long enough to see me standing there, seen me for who I was instead of who he got in his mind I should be.
I guess it's always that way, isn't it? By the time you recognize the reality of someone, all you can see is their back, disappearing over the horizon, all you are left with is the memory of their fire to keep you warm, blue-orange shadow trails of what they meant to you. Just for one damn second, I was pretty sure he saw me, that we stopped spinning in our solitary pirouettes long enough to just see each other for who we were. I'd been waiting for that my whole little life, I guess. And then the door bell rang, and it was gone. But not the memory of it. No. Even after how it all turned out, I guess I'll always have the memory of that one second. That's more than some people get, I suppose.
When the doorbell rang it was a jumpy shock. I'd just fixed it that morning. It had never worked before, so it was strange. Elena came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her tee shirt. It even roused Jack from his corner, and he got up slowly as if out of a dream, and kind of sleep walked across the room. You know how when the phone wakes you from a nap, and you are up and across the room and your heart is pounding and you are answering the questions of a stranger before you even know you are awake? Jack opened the door before I could get to it, I was still clutching the threads of the moment, trying to weave something up out of them, but I looked at Boozer and I could tell he was gone again. Gone and never coming back. I felt like I aged about twenty years in that one moment. Probably that's a good thing. I don't know.
Jack opened the door, and there was this guy standing there in a brown leather jacket over a black shirt. Boots. He had this fuzzy red hair and beard. Boozer saw him and started forward, this crazy look in his eye. "You ignorant son of a Dublin whore" he said. His hands came up together. He looked crazed. I mean, I'd seen him mad before, but not like this. This was different. This was hard, stony death anger. The red giant in the doorway just stood there, with a teasing, triumphant look on his face. This little visit to our doorway was his victory lap. He wasn't here to sell anything, he wasn't here to deliver anything except the final blow. Boozer looked like a man with nothing left to lose. God knows why. I'll never understand it. I will never, ever understand it, not until the day I die and St. Peter himself explains it all to me. But I knew what he felt. He'd just realized he'd lost the only person in the world that meant anything to him. I understood that, believe you me. I understood it hard. Because less than a minute before, I had too.
It was the lightest decision I ever made. I know it should, but it doesn't really bother me much, not even now. It might, later, you know, after the lacquer coat of martyr love wears off. Elena couldn't have done it, she'd just stand there and dither. She's sweet but she'd dither you into the next century, gathering opinions. Really. Jack was a non-actor, always was, too cerebral. I'm sure they are comforting each other right now, Jack and Elena. Elena dithering, spinning her little what-if worry circles, Jack just trying to explain it all rationally and failing miserably. Boozer was too angry to think things through, plus he was ham-handed and stumbly, all he could every think to do was lunge. Poor guy, always flinging himself head-long in the wrong directions. That was way too over for me, I'd watched him fling himself off a cliff too many times. I wasn't going to watch him do it again tonight.
And then I saw the pipe...
The Kindness of Strangers
The music: La Mer Opale, by Coralie Clement
The wine: Pinot over ice. It's hot as the 9th circle of hell here.
If I had fifteen minutes off, I would flee to the sea. I would float, ears submerged, listening to the sounds of the ocean. It's been that kind of day. Instead I am listening to the subtle chord changes from major to minor and the sound of the water in a favorite piece of music. This day was a thousand years long, with a thousand lessons in it. I record them here only to remind myself, so I can be less stupid the next time. In future writings, perhaps I can shape them more appropriately, less personally.
I woke up this morning to find that two people very important to me had...well...dumped my ass. One was a family member, the other someone I had cherished for years as a friend. No explanation of course, just...well, you know how dumping goes. No one ever has the balls to tell you to your face. Ironically, both of these people have been telling me for so long..."Oh you are so wonderful" and "Oh you are so beautiful." Well, beware when these words are spoken to you because apparently what it really means is, "I can no longer stand to be around you." And so I write, and comfort myself with the illusion that someone, somewhere, is out there listening. It's okay if you don't, I confess I'm a little bitter tonight. The family member, well, let's just say I'm used to it. I'm basically an orphan, without family. I've gotten used to being disowned and excluded, it's happened too many times. The friend, well, it was always touch and go. Still, I did my best. Sometimes when you are ridiculously happy it really turns people away from you. I just never thought it would be them. I so wanted them to be happy, along with me. Be happy for me, be happy with me, be happy. I would do the same for you. When will I ever learn? All "love" is conditional. There is no other kind, even from family. Especially from "family". The only unconditional love is the love you give yourself.
Still, today, there was the incredible kindness of strangers. My patients with dementia have kind families, and for a moment each day I get to participate in that, and those who have no families appreciate the love and care I try to give them. A wonderful man who changed my tire in a parking lot. The beautiful, incredible photography in my email from a former patient. The son of one of my patients who gave me an unexpected gift. The patient I will forever think of as "Black Santa Claus." "He's so happy when you are around" his wife told me. "He said you make him feel better. I've never been able to get him to do what you can get him to do in 45 minutes." These moments bolster me through a day, get me through temporary sadness. The friend who dumped me used to send me poetry, and I will miss that. The family member, well, it was family. There are only a few people in the world I am actually related to by blood, and it hurts that apparently they cannot manage to be around me. This is the price of happiness, of success. But one goes on, wiser for the experience.
I remember one time I was very upset about something, and I approached two people I considered friends. I was quite upset, actually crying. And I asked them if they would talk with me for a while. They just stared at me. "Please?" I asked. It won't take long, and I would appreciate it." Still they just stared at me silently. Then they resumed talking to each other. This is why writers write.
The wine: Pinot over ice. It's hot as the 9th circle of hell here.
If I had fifteen minutes off, I would flee to the sea. I would float, ears submerged, listening to the sounds of the ocean. It's been that kind of day. Instead I am listening to the subtle chord changes from major to minor and the sound of the water in a favorite piece of music. This day was a thousand years long, with a thousand lessons in it. I record them here only to remind myself, so I can be less stupid the next time. In future writings, perhaps I can shape them more appropriately, less personally.
I woke up this morning to find that two people very important to me had...well...dumped my ass. One was a family member, the other someone I had cherished for years as a friend. No explanation of course, just...well, you know how dumping goes. No one ever has the balls to tell you to your face. Ironically, both of these people have been telling me for so long..."Oh you are so wonderful" and "Oh you are so beautiful." Well, beware when these words are spoken to you because apparently what it really means is, "I can no longer stand to be around you." And so I write, and comfort myself with the illusion that someone, somewhere, is out there listening. It's okay if you don't, I confess I'm a little bitter tonight. The family member, well, let's just say I'm used to it. I'm basically an orphan, without family. I've gotten used to being disowned and excluded, it's happened too many times. The friend, well, it was always touch and go. Still, I did my best. Sometimes when you are ridiculously happy it really turns people away from you. I just never thought it would be them. I so wanted them to be happy, along with me. Be happy for me, be happy with me, be happy. I would do the same for you. When will I ever learn? All "love" is conditional. There is no other kind, even from family. Especially from "family". The only unconditional love is the love you give yourself.
Still, today, there was the incredible kindness of strangers. My patients with dementia have kind families, and for a moment each day I get to participate in that, and those who have no families appreciate the love and care I try to give them. A wonderful man who changed my tire in a parking lot. The beautiful, incredible photography in my email from a former patient. The son of one of my patients who gave me an unexpected gift. The patient I will forever think of as "Black Santa Claus." "He's so happy when you are around" his wife told me. "He said you make him feel better. I've never been able to get him to do what you can get him to do in 45 minutes." These moments bolster me through a day, get me through temporary sadness. The friend who dumped me used to send me poetry, and I will miss that. The family member, well, it was family. There are only a few people in the world I am actually related to by blood, and it hurts that apparently they cannot manage to be around me. This is the price of happiness, of success. But one goes on, wiser for the experience.
I remember one time I was very upset about something, and I approached two people I considered friends. I was quite upset, actually crying. And I asked them if they would talk with me for a while. They just stared at me. "Please?" I asked. It won't take long, and I would appreciate it." Still they just stared at me silently. Then they resumed talking to each other. This is why writers write.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Nocturnal Emissions (from October 2002)
The music: Amy Winehouse, Back to Black. All the songs, because they are all good. And whatever her demons, so was she.
Sifting tonight through old writing, essay and story ideas to see if there is anything valuable that can be worked up. From October 2002, these amused me:
from "Nocturnal Emissions" 2002
"Thinking tonight about all those awful things that get said after midnight, when the truth comes out and you can't get it back in. Then what happens? Do you ignore it, or work with it and shape it? You didn't really want to keep it in in the first place, it rises and surprises you when it comes out, and you feel really good afterward. Have you ever said something so fast and hard and unexpectedly that you couldn't believe it was you who said it? Something that built up over so long a time that you thought you might just explode if you didn't say it? And then you did, and it felt so great that suddenly you smelled colors. You felt so great you could just evaporate into a cloud of joy and relief. For about three minutes. And then you realize that the BOOM BOOM BOOM sound you hear are the jaws of your friends and loved ones hitting the floor all around you. Then there it is: the great sticky wad of TRUTH in the middle of the floor, lonely and pointless. You all look at it, and don't really know what to say. You know it will have to be cleaned up eventually, and it will have to be you that does it, because you are the one that put it there. But right now, you are damn glad you said it, and you feel satisfied and justified and spent. All the dark stuff comes out after midnight in October."
from "St. Christina the Astonishing" 2002
"There was never a moment when I wanted what the angels were handing me, and never a moment when I wanted to give it up. I could never understand or accept that I had to choose, choose one path, and let the others go. It's the dusty path I've always been on, since the beginning, driving my own car, watching as the other women become permanent passengers in their own lives. They always screamed in my ear that their choice was right, that I would somehow be sorry for trying to be too much, but I would notice tightness that played around the corners of their mouths and I would wonder. I felt my own heat follow me around like a demanding shadow and I wasn't content, but I was filled with bits of passing comets and that felt right. In high school the ones who were asked out were the ones that could make their face appear completely serene, blank. Blank and bland and see through souls like cut crystal vases and I would wonder, where did they go? Where did they put themselves?"
Sifting tonight through old writing, essay and story ideas to see if there is anything valuable that can be worked up. From October 2002, these amused me:
from "Nocturnal Emissions" 2002
"Thinking tonight about all those awful things that get said after midnight, when the truth comes out and you can't get it back in. Then what happens? Do you ignore it, or work with it and shape it? You didn't really want to keep it in in the first place, it rises and surprises you when it comes out, and you feel really good afterward. Have you ever said something so fast and hard and unexpectedly that you couldn't believe it was you who said it? Something that built up over so long a time that you thought you might just explode if you didn't say it? And then you did, and it felt so great that suddenly you smelled colors. You felt so great you could just evaporate into a cloud of joy and relief. For about three minutes. And then you realize that the BOOM BOOM BOOM sound you hear are the jaws of your friends and loved ones hitting the floor all around you. Then there it is: the great sticky wad of TRUTH in the middle of the floor, lonely and pointless. You all look at it, and don't really know what to say. You know it will have to be cleaned up eventually, and it will have to be you that does it, because you are the one that put it there. But right now, you are damn glad you said it, and you feel satisfied and justified and spent. All the dark stuff comes out after midnight in October."
from "St. Christina the Astonishing" 2002
"There was never a moment when I wanted what the angels were handing me, and never a moment when I wanted to give it up. I could never understand or accept that I had to choose, choose one path, and let the others go. It's the dusty path I've always been on, since the beginning, driving my own car, watching as the other women become permanent passengers in their own lives. They always screamed in my ear that their choice was right, that I would somehow be sorry for trying to be too much, but I would notice tightness that played around the corners of their mouths and I would wonder. I felt my own heat follow me around like a demanding shadow and I wasn't content, but I was filled with bits of passing comets and that felt right. In high school the ones who were asked out were the ones that could make their face appear completely serene, blank. Blank and bland and see through souls like cut crystal vases and I would wonder, where did they go? Where did they put themselves?"
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Every Day a Beautiful Page
The wine: Chateau Ste. Michelle Merlot, 2007, because it tastes like home.
The music: Mascagni, Cavelleria Rusticana: Intermezzo; and Giordani, Caro Mio Bien
Tonight I light a stick of incense and put on Mascagni. All day I have been sorting my life and tossing it into boxes. In a trunk I found ten volumes of an old journal series I wrote, years ago, forever ago, Honest Ink Vols. 1-10. Another file holds story outlines, impromptu portraits. I searched for an essay I remembered writing on Jekyll Island, sitting at the edge of the sea, writing under an umbrella while it rained. Short sketches of family members, an entire volume written while I waited for the results of my first cancer biopsy. I was 32, and felt so angry that my life had hardly started before it was threatened. It was then I started using real ink, and fell in love with Parker Pens and black and white composition books. They seemed solid, eternal, timeless. I sat by the edge of a lake, watched the geese fly overhead and wrote as the leaves fell red on the water. It was that fall I decided to start really living, allowing myself any damned pleasure I wanted. I bought a beautiful stereo, listened to classical music in the dark, and wondered why it took living in the shadow of The Big C to break me open in all good ways. Now, years on, I light incense called Heaven, and listen to Mascagni, and am thankful for that fall, because it was then I became invincible. I found a short essay I wrote during that time. It is unedited and overly-sentimental, as am I tonight, and I make no apologies.
"Yesterday I had a revelation, an epiphany while driving. In one burst, I understood that I am not a Reformer, as are the people I am surrounded by at the place I go to earn my daily bread. I am at base a Creator, a very different creature indeed from a Reformer. Whereas Reformers look at the world through the lens of what is wrong, I tend to see the world as a starkly beautiful place, full of images so wondrous it is almost painful to my eye. All around me are compositions of a positive Universe, and my only mission in life is to sustain the creative state of grace long enough to capture them in some form others can perceive. In that, I rarely succeed but while in this pursuit, I enjoy a happiness so complete that tears flow from my eyes in joyous testimony. There is beauty in the world for those who would see it.
I become mute around my left-hemisphere dominated Reformer brethren. While a part of me understands and sympathizes with the quest of the Reformer to redistribute the wealth of nations, lower the world cholesterol count and implement a thousand well-intentioned ideas, try as I might, I simply am not moved to the same actions. Much to their dismay, I am completely and happily engaged in the creative process, absorbing my surroundings, observing, seeing, smelling, touching, tasting. Turning things over and upside down to understand them. Getting it all down, then sitting quietly, blissfully doing "nothing." When I engage in these activities which are most natural for me I am too busy absorbing and creating to pass judgment on things or people. I am far too absorbed in looking at things to form an opinion on them. Everything is simply and inherently interesting. The shape, the form, the color, the texture.
Throughout my life, some have judged me a "simpleton" because of my "right-hemispheredness." This hurts a little. My truth is one that is global, wholistic and provides a deep and through understanding of the nature of things. For example when I observe something for a long time, I learn more about it than does someone who only gives a passing glance before passing judgment. Absorbing things, people, places and events enables me to recreate the scenes later in my head for writing stories, or for using pieces of what I have absorbed in the creation of something very new.
I am thankful for having a small talent, a reason for being in the world. I know in my heart that while I cannot do every thing, nor would I wish to, that life indeed has a great purpose for me. When I listen to music, the words and the tears flow from me in equal measure. I compose entire chapters, essays in my mind. Books issue in one burst and I am filled with the great joy of knowing that at the very least, I can do this one thing.
And yet, when I sit down at the computer or at the pad and pen to write these things down, I sit mute and within minutes have started to berate myself for not having the discipline or raw naked talent that will pull these word symphonies from my head onto the paper. In short order, I become a silent lump and have convinced myself that I am indeed a waste of flesh. The only way I can get the words flowing again is to take my keyboard in my hands and close my eyes. I imagine the music in my head and play the book on my keyboard. It is all there, fully composed, and if I sit quietly and squint, I can see it and write it down.
So today and everyday for all of my life, I lift my eyes and heart as I lift my pen. I have witnessed the beauty in the universe and have vowed to be a humble correspondent. I celebrate all that I see by attempting to preserve the tiniest bit of it with words. Everyday, something new to see. Every day, a beautiful page."
(1997)
The music: Mascagni, Cavelleria Rusticana: Intermezzo; and Giordani, Caro Mio Bien
Tonight I light a stick of incense and put on Mascagni. All day I have been sorting my life and tossing it into boxes. In a trunk I found ten volumes of an old journal series I wrote, years ago, forever ago, Honest Ink Vols. 1-10. Another file holds story outlines, impromptu portraits. I searched for an essay I remembered writing on Jekyll Island, sitting at the edge of the sea, writing under an umbrella while it rained. Short sketches of family members, an entire volume written while I waited for the results of my first cancer biopsy. I was 32, and felt so angry that my life had hardly started before it was threatened. It was then I started using real ink, and fell in love with Parker Pens and black and white composition books. They seemed solid, eternal, timeless. I sat by the edge of a lake, watched the geese fly overhead and wrote as the leaves fell red on the water. It was that fall I decided to start really living, allowing myself any damned pleasure I wanted. I bought a beautiful stereo, listened to classical music in the dark, and wondered why it took living in the shadow of The Big C to break me open in all good ways. Now, years on, I light incense called Heaven, and listen to Mascagni, and am thankful for that fall, because it was then I became invincible. I found a short essay I wrote during that time. It is unedited and overly-sentimental, as am I tonight, and I make no apologies.
"Yesterday I had a revelation, an epiphany while driving. In one burst, I understood that I am not a Reformer, as are the people I am surrounded by at the place I go to earn my daily bread. I am at base a Creator, a very different creature indeed from a Reformer. Whereas Reformers look at the world through the lens of what is wrong, I tend to see the world as a starkly beautiful place, full of images so wondrous it is almost painful to my eye. All around me are compositions of a positive Universe, and my only mission in life is to sustain the creative state of grace long enough to capture them in some form others can perceive. In that, I rarely succeed but while in this pursuit, I enjoy a happiness so complete that tears flow from my eyes in joyous testimony. There is beauty in the world for those who would see it.
I become mute around my left-hemisphere dominated Reformer brethren. While a part of me understands and sympathizes with the quest of the Reformer to redistribute the wealth of nations, lower the world cholesterol count and implement a thousand well-intentioned ideas, try as I might, I simply am not moved to the same actions. Much to their dismay, I am completely and happily engaged in the creative process, absorbing my surroundings, observing, seeing, smelling, touching, tasting. Turning things over and upside down to understand them. Getting it all down, then sitting quietly, blissfully doing "nothing." When I engage in these activities which are most natural for me I am too busy absorbing and creating to pass judgment on things or people. I am far too absorbed in looking at things to form an opinion on them. Everything is simply and inherently interesting. The shape, the form, the color, the texture.
Throughout my life, some have judged me a "simpleton" because of my "right-hemispheredness." This hurts a little. My truth is one that is global, wholistic and provides a deep and through understanding of the nature of things. For example when I observe something for a long time, I learn more about it than does someone who only gives a passing glance before passing judgment. Absorbing things, people, places and events enables me to recreate the scenes later in my head for writing stories, or for using pieces of what I have absorbed in the creation of something very new.
I am thankful for having a small talent, a reason for being in the world. I know in my heart that while I cannot do every thing, nor would I wish to, that life indeed has a great purpose for me. When I listen to music, the words and the tears flow from me in equal measure. I compose entire chapters, essays in my mind. Books issue in one burst and I am filled with the great joy of knowing that at the very least, I can do this one thing.
And yet, when I sit down at the computer or at the pad and pen to write these things down, I sit mute and within minutes have started to berate myself for not having the discipline or raw naked talent that will pull these word symphonies from my head onto the paper. In short order, I become a silent lump and have convinced myself that I am indeed a waste of flesh. The only way I can get the words flowing again is to take my keyboard in my hands and close my eyes. I imagine the music in my head and play the book on my keyboard. It is all there, fully composed, and if I sit quietly and squint, I can see it and write it down.
So today and everyday for all of my life, I lift my eyes and heart as I lift my pen. I have witnessed the beauty in the universe and have vowed to be a humble correspondent. I celebrate all that I see by attempting to preserve the tiniest bit of it with words. Everyday, something new to see. Every day, a beautiful page."
(1997)
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Change Diaries, Vol. 1
The wine: Chateau Saint Michelle Merlot 2009
The music: Changes, by David Bowie
Trying something different tonight. I haven't written in a while, my work and other activities have been consuming too much of my time. Tonight, I just want to put pen to paper and see where it goes. Write it out, see what comes. May be nothing, may be something. In any case my fingers will be more limber at the end. Perhaps my mind will be more limber as well. Nothing fancy tonight, I'm afraid. Just good ol' home-cooked, pot roast writing.
My last patient of the day today was a woman who has been experiencing a lot of musculoskeletal and neuromuscular pain from as yet unidentified causes. Test results are pending, and naturally I have my theories. Today was the first treatment session post examination and I decided to do deep tissue massage and manual work first, to try to loosen her up a bit and give the poor lady some pain relief. When I did, I realized how much I miss manual work, and how much I miss having a good treatment table. I don't have this in the home setting. Her muscles were like stone, she has been in a lot of pain for a long time and her shoulders were hiked up to her ears. I let my hands lead me, and it was wonderful to enter the musculoskeletal zone again, my voice dropping, asking leading questions of the patient, listening to their breathing change, feeling the tissue relax. This work makes me feel like I have done something genuine, and although it seems sometimes very simple and intuitive to me, I realized today how little people know about their own bodies, how confused they are about their pain, and how much better they feel after what seem to me like the world's most obvious suggestions.
And then I remember, not everyone knows all the attachment points of the trapezius, and how the greater occipital nerve and artery go through it and up the back of the skull and cause headaches, and how the attachment points of the rectus capitis and obliquus capitis can develop trigger points and cause incredible pain and headaches and how a touch of my fingers and postural retraining can make it all go away, when they thought they probably had a terminal disease and were going to die. It's all a mystery to them, and I can explain it, open their closet of pain and make all the monsters go away. This is why I spent three years dissecting cadavers. This is the field I play in. I need more moments like this. Not everyone has my hands, and today, as I was thankfully able to bring some relief to a patient in pain, and saw the amazed look on her face, I remembered that. I remembered that, and held it, and valued it.
Change is coming. Change is underway. As I walked/ran around my lovely, humid, green Southern neighborhood tonight, I inhaled the hot boxwood, and made memories. I will not be here forever. I never thought I would be, but now the knowing is more immediate, more urgent. In flight, there is that moment at the end of the runway where you throttle forward and commit to take-off. Natural forces take over, and you are in the air, ready or not. It is the best feeling in the world.
The music: Changes, by David Bowie
Trying something different tonight. I haven't written in a while, my work and other activities have been consuming too much of my time. Tonight, I just want to put pen to paper and see where it goes. Write it out, see what comes. May be nothing, may be something. In any case my fingers will be more limber at the end. Perhaps my mind will be more limber as well. Nothing fancy tonight, I'm afraid. Just good ol' home-cooked, pot roast writing.
My last patient of the day today was a woman who has been experiencing a lot of musculoskeletal and neuromuscular pain from as yet unidentified causes. Test results are pending, and naturally I have my theories. Today was the first treatment session post examination and I decided to do deep tissue massage and manual work first, to try to loosen her up a bit and give the poor lady some pain relief. When I did, I realized how much I miss manual work, and how much I miss having a good treatment table. I don't have this in the home setting. Her muscles were like stone, she has been in a lot of pain for a long time and her shoulders were hiked up to her ears. I let my hands lead me, and it was wonderful to enter the musculoskeletal zone again, my voice dropping, asking leading questions of the patient, listening to their breathing change, feeling the tissue relax. This work makes me feel like I have done something genuine, and although it seems sometimes very simple and intuitive to me, I realized today how little people know about their own bodies, how confused they are about their pain, and how much better they feel after what seem to me like the world's most obvious suggestions.
And then I remember, not everyone knows all the attachment points of the trapezius, and how the greater occipital nerve and artery go through it and up the back of the skull and cause headaches, and how the attachment points of the rectus capitis and obliquus capitis can develop trigger points and cause incredible pain and headaches and how a touch of my fingers and postural retraining can make it all go away, when they thought they probably had a terminal disease and were going to die. It's all a mystery to them, and I can explain it, open their closet of pain and make all the monsters go away. This is why I spent three years dissecting cadavers. This is the field I play in. I need more moments like this. Not everyone has my hands, and today, as I was thankfully able to bring some relief to a patient in pain, and saw the amazed look on her face, I remembered that. I remembered that, and held it, and valued it.
Change is coming. Change is underway. As I walked/ran around my lovely, humid, green Southern neighborhood tonight, I inhaled the hot boxwood, and made memories. I will not be here forever. I never thought I would be, but now the knowing is more immediate, more urgent. In flight, there is that moment at the end of the runway where you throttle forward and commit to take-off. Natural forces take over, and you are in the air, ready or not. It is the best feeling in the world.
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