“Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.” ~ Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions: Vol. I

Budapest Chain Bridge by Széchenyi Lánchíd (Pixdaus)

                   

“Longing is the agony of the nearness of the distant.” ~ Martin Heidegger, Who is Nietzsche’s Zarathustra?, tr. by Bernd Magnus

Wednesday afternoon. Warm and humid.

Mist, by Alexandra X (500px.com)

It’s an unseasonable 69° F here; elsewhere, in the north, people are experiencing blizzards and traffic-stopping white-out conditions. This time we were spared the snow and were given warmth. Never fear, though. The temperatures here are supposed to plummet to the low 30’s by tonight.

And people wonder why so many people in this area suffer from sinus problems and allergies.

So I’m having a pretty bad day in spite of the fact that I have confirmation that I have health insurance. Waiting for the new cards to come in the mail so that I can make those appointments I was talking about previously. In spite of this very good news, I feel wretched.

Yesterday, I took the now dry, previously water-logged pages of my poem’s draft and tried to type them into Word. Aside from the fact that this computer only has Works on it (what a crap program) because we’re not loading anything on it until we can do a complete reload (another story), I realized while typing that what I had been so impressed with only days before was pure and total crap. Drivel. Snot. Yuck out loud.

I really hate it when that happens. I tried working and reworking and finally stopped myself because the more I did, the more that it read as being overworked and perfunctory, and the spark that generated the idea for the poem had been completely lost beneath forced wordsmithing. The deadline has been extended, which is good, I think, but now I don’t know if I have it in me to enter the contest. (Correction note: First prize is book of poems by Pablo Neruda, not Pessoa; don’t know what I was thinking.)

Of course, all of this mulling is giving me a low-grade headache, one of those tension bands around my entire skill. Love it.

“Sharp like a razor’s edge, the sages say,
Is the path, difficult to traverse.” ~ Katha Upanishad

Foggy Night #89, by Dimitri Bogachuk

Outside I hear the rumblings of a storm approaching. Meanwhile, Tillie the Lab has nested on the old futon in here and is currently telling me off for not paying much attention to her. She has this thing that she does whenever she feels neglected: She puts her head down and grumbles just once, a single quiet protest. She’ll repeat this little nudge until someone stops whatever they are doing and plays with her for a few minutes. Have I mentioned lately how much I think that dogs are wonderfully sentient beings? She seems to know that I’m struggling as she is pacing her grunts to meet the pauses in my typing.

Yesterday I was working on a post about HR3, that infuriating bill supposedly about abortion being proposed by a bunch of neanderthals, most of whom have male genitalia. I became so incensed over their new definitions of rape that most of the post was pure rant, so I stopped that too. Maybe I’ll go back to it later today, depends on what my mind does, where it goes in the next few hours.

Speaking of hours, I had very few consisting of real sleep last night/this morning. I fear that the insomnia is rearing its ugly head again. The alarm beeped at 5 a.m. for Corey to get for watch, and I was still awake, watching some movie that I had seen before. I had deliberately chosen the movie because I thought that it would put me to sleep.

No joy.

I think that I fell asleep around 6 a.m., only to awaken after 11. I poured coffee down my throat and drove Brett to his afternoon classes. Perhaps the sleep deprivation is a contributing factor to the headache.

“If I stare into it long enough, the point comes when I don’t know what it’s called, a condition in which lacerations are liable to occur, like a slip of the tongue; when a drop of blood might billow in a glass of water, blooming in velvet detonation and imparting to it the colorless, tasteless and originless fear in which I wake. ” ~ Franz Wright, Blade  

Red in the Mist by Viktor Minchenko (Pixdaus)

A few nights ago Corey had to waken me from a nightmare. I awoke screaming, “I hate you. I hate you.” and slapping at his hands as he tried to calm me. I had dreamt that Corey told me quite matter-of-factly that he had picked up and had sex with (and this part was very specific) 32 women.

Thirty-two? Where did that come from? How can I be my own worst enemy in my dreams too? I don’t remember much else about the dream, even though I recounted it for Corey when I was awake. Numbers in dreams always unnerve me a bit, and I don’t really know why; perhaps it’s because they are so arbitrary. I mean, if dreaming is the brain’s way of sifting through the detritus of the day, where do these numbers come from if not life?

Thirty two. Hmm. Things that make you go hmm . . .

I have been having very vivid dreams again, lots of people from my past popping up and intruding into my subconscious. Have you ever had a past dream intrude into a current dream? That happened to me. Don’t remember the exact circumstances, but a scene that happened in a former dream involving my ex unpacking dishes in the kitchen recurred in a more recent dream. The actual event never occurred in real life.

I wonder if this could be considered a rerun dream . . . Does this mean that my lack of originality has crept into my dreams, as well? Well crap.

“And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.” ~ Douglas Coupland

Crook in the Mist by Basil G (Pixdaus)

I find myself missing my dad a lot these days, probably because he is one of those people who keeps popping in and out of dreams lately. I wonder if he ended his life filled with regret over things he  hadn’t yet done. I wonder if he realized how close he was to his death and if he was filled with fear. I wonder how many dreams he had fulfilled and how many he still hadn’t achieved.

Last night Corey said that he hated that his life was mediocre, and I said that his life wasn’t mediocre, but perhaps his current state was mediocre because he felt stuck. But truthfully, I understand exactly what he meant. It goes back to my “I hate my life” statement of before.

Sometimes it all just seems so pointless. I mean, what are we really doing here? Are we making any forward progress? We as in individuals, we as in this country, we as in this world. Everywhere I turn I hear hateful things and see so much pain, and then if I narrow my vision just a bit, I see glimpses of beauty and grace, which reminds me that it isn’t pointless.

Yes, yes. I know. It’s February, the longest month of the year for my psyche, but as with my current contradictory state, it’s February, and it feels like spring, but it smells like winter. Is it any wonder that I’m conflicted?

Truth time: the poem is supposed to be about preferences, as in what do you prefer, coffee or tea, only not that simple. But maybe it is that simple and like everything else, I have made it too complicated. Preferences. For me, that is such a loaded word. The answer is that what I prefer depends on the day, the weather, my weight, whether or not my face has broken out in adult acne, how bad my headache is, if the dogs have decided to go dumpster diving in the kitchen trash, how overwhelmed I feel when I go through the mail and realize that the “to be paid” pile is seemingly insurmountable.

Preferences? I would prefer to be working as opposed to not working. I would prefer to be pain-free as opposed to pain-laden. I would prefer not to owe so much overdue money to so many people as opposed to owing my soul. I would prefer that the sliding glass door did not have spiderweb cracks in it from where Tillie hit it head on, and I would prefer that we could install our good water heater so that taking a shower did not have to be timed to coincide with the availability of hot water.

Preferences? Yes, I have a few. Most aren’t even noteworthy, but perhaps a few are worth a word or two: I prefer moonlight and water. I prefer the smell of fresh herbs and flowers. I prefer paper books to their bastardization. I prefer long hot baths at the end of the day with candles lit, casting orange and red glows on the tiles. I prefer songs that touch my heart rather than rattle my brain. I prefer to live a full life rather than merely exist.

How do you know if you are broken? I suppose it’s the same way that you know if you are insane. You don’t.

More later. Peace.

Music by Butterfly Boucher, “A Bitter Song”

                   

on Joy & Sorrow

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater thar sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

~ Kahlil Gibran

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.” ~ Lewis Carroll

White Wing Blue Water (Pixdaus, photographer unknown)

                     

“What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.” ~ Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse 

Zen Blue by Gordon McBryde (Pixdaus)

Monday evening. Bitterly cold

Shall I share something with you? I have been pondering whether or not I should put this out for public consumption. Oh. Nothing like that. I mean, I haven’t won the lottery or suddenly become famous. Totally not where I was going with this.

This is the secret that dwells within, the truth that perhaps gives meaning to my existence: I hate my life.

Hmmm . . .

Perhaps I should be a bit more precise: I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate the people in my life. I don’t hate life. I hate my life, the one that I’m living at this moment.

You see, yesterday was my birthday, and yes, every year I go on and on about how much I detest my birthday, and yes, every year I manage to work myself into some kind of snit over the acknowledgement of (or lack thereof) my birthday, so you would probably not be completely misguided in thinking that perhaps my declaration has something to do with my birthday because, well, it does.

“What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across
the grass and loses itself in the sunset.” ~ Crowfoot, Blackfoot Warrior

Last Blue by Bade Babayigit (Pixdaus)

I mean, how did I get to be this old without accomplishing even half of the things that I thought I would have done by now? How does that happen? How does it happen that your body betrays you much too soon and you find yourself spending days at a time in bed? How does it happen that you turn a corner and find a wall instead of a door?

You may be sitting there thinking to yourself ‘How in the hell can she claim to hate her life? What kind of statement is that?’

I won’t argue with you. I won’t even try to persuade you of the validity of my claim. I only know that a few days ago I was sitting in bed holding my head in my hands in an attempt to squeeze the pain away when I suddenly thought, “This sucks. This really, really sucks. I thought that I was getting better . . . I hate my life.”

So you see, that’s how I can make that claim. Am I being melodramatic. Of course I am. Do I mean it? Of course I do, and of course I don’t. (What, you want definitive from me?)

As I was trying to explain to Corey: The first year out on disability was a steady decline; I never knew when I was going to be stuck in bed for days, unable to do even the simplest task. The next year contained intermittent advances. Yes, I still hurt, but I had more energy. Then several months ago, I felt well enough that I toyed with the idea of returning to work. Then BAM! (sorry, don’t usually yell with caps, but felt it apropos here), I’m hit with one of the worst downtimes I’ve had in quite some time.

It’s as if I’m one of those little wind-up toys that advance a few steps each time the spring is wound and the release button is turned. The boys had those when they were toddlers, and my favorite was the penguin, the way that it toddled.

But I digress . . .

Like the toy, I can only go so far, but . . . Not. One. Step. Farther. To try to do so only messes with the spring mechanism and eventually ends up with the toy being broken and completely useless, except to look at, and who wants a wind-up toy that can only be seen and not used?

“His advanced age, his wounds, his chains . . .
‘Albanian,’ he inquired. ‘Why do you fight
when you could live differently?’
‘Because, Padishah,’ replied the prisoner,
‘Every man has a piece of sky in his breast
and in it flies a swallow.’” ~ Fatos Arapi, Sultan Murat and the Albanian

Sapphire and White (Pixdaus, photographer unknown)

Admittedly, this mood more than likely stems from that overwhelming ennui that cloaks me  from November through February. Hence the blue theme, the ice, the stillness in the pictures.

The reality is that only narcissists and psychopaths are able to go through life never questioning their existence, never doubting themselves—the former because perfection is hard to improve upon (in their minds), and the latter because self-doubt requires a conscience. This isn’t the first time that I have felt myself a failure, nor will it be the last.

Although I have to say that the idea that my life is beyond my control really torques me out of shape. The battle rages on between what my mind aspires to and what my body will accede to, and I simply will not, cannot concede, not as long as I can still find the smallest piece of blue sky to which I can cling, not as long as I can strike a match in the night to create enough light on which I can pin my hopes.

“Those who do not understand
their destiny will never understand
the friends they have made
nor the work they have chosen” ~ David Whyte, from “All the True Lies”

Blue Nature by Gerhard Grasinger (Pixdaus)

Okay. So this post is not unfolding as I had envisioned. Perhaps because my declaration in the first section is a few days old, and I was unable to write about it while it was preying on me the strongest—because of the headache that will not end (I kid you not—28 days and counting).

So I should clarify: I hate the circumstances of my life, those factors that keep me down (physically and emotionally), the elements that seem to be so much beyond my control. I mean, even this headache thing—the neurologist to whom my headache doctor referred me does not accept GW’s new insurance plan. Was I surprised? Not at all. Anything else would have been too easy.

But in the end, under the glaring light of introspection and self-analysis, I realize that I am a tortured but fortunate soul. I think that my friend Alan comes to me in my dreams occasionally to remind me of this. His death from cancer at only 39 means that he never saw his son as a teenager; he never hit those major birthday milestones. And if anyone had a legitimate reason to curse fate, it was him.

As I have said many, many times, fate is fickle, and the very fact that I have been around enough years to repeat myself, to bemoan my fate, and to find the light in the darkness is what truly defines me.

More later. Peace.

Music by Brendan James, “The Sun Will Rise” (could not insert YouTube video as content is restricted, but I really wanted this song for this post)

BRENDAN JAMES – THE SUN WILL RISE LYRICS and VIDEO.

                   

The sun will rise, the sun will save me.
The sun will change me, change the way I feel.
The day will make this heart a fortune
From the fruit of a hundred orchards,
From the water rivers bring.

The sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel.

I’ve had enough of the hard and harder.
Times are tough. I’ve drifted farther,
Farther from myself.

I won’t dwell, baby, on my failures.
It won’t help, baby. It won’t bring changes.
I won’t run, baby, when all I want is to run.
I won’t forget the morning’s sure to come.

The sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel.
The love I want, the love I need is
Sure to come, is sure to lead me,
Lead me home again.

The light is low, the night is burning.
My head is still but my mind is turning,
Turning ’round again.

If only I can make it through this
Lonely night, if I can do this,
If I can drift away,

Then the sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel.

“You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.” ~ David Foster Wallace

Fire and Ice: Art of Nature, by Henri Bonnel(Pixdaus)

                      

“I am a jumble of passions, misgivings, and wants. It seems that I am always in a state of wishing and rarely in a state of contentment.” ~ Libba Bray

Colorful Winter's Day (Pixdaus)

Thursday evening. Clear and cold. Third day of this migraine.

Is the knot in my neck causing my migraine, or is my migraine causing the knot in my neck? These are the things that I ponder as 2010 comes to a close. I’ve been working on this particular post for two days, maybe three; it’s hard to remember. You see, I choose the quotes based on my mood, which guides the theme for my quotes, my images, and the accompanying music.

I love the David Foster Wallace quote that I am using as the header for this post. It’s not a new quote for me, but its meaning is  a constant in my life: the search for that which isn’t, the need for that which has yet to appear, the yearning for that which may never exist in this lifetime.

For the past two nights, I have stayed up quite late and slept into the afternoon, a habit that I thought that I had broken during  my stay with my mother. But it’s so cold everywhere—outside in the brisk air that makes my lungs seize up, and inside my brain, which refuses to thaw long enough to create—so cold that I cannot will myself to face the day. And then there is this days’ old migraine. So very tired of the omnipresent brain constriction; I have to wonder what this is doing to my grey cells in the long-term.

And so contentment, shall we say, continues to elude me on this, the almost eve of a new year.

“How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” ~ Dr. Seuss (Theodor Geisel)

Winter Sunset on House (Pixdaus)

By the way, does anyone happen to know a good curse-breaker because there is definitely some bad mojo at work on this family: This morning the police knocked on our door looking for Alexis. Her permanent address is still here. Seems that both of her cars were involved in an accident. Okay, yes, I know. Not the best way to be awakened, but luckily, not bad news in the police-at-your-door vein of bad news.

The good news is that the cars were parked outside her apartment. The bad news is that both cars were totalled by the huge-ass Suburban that slid on the ice and slid into the Civic that my mom just gave to Alexis; said civic was pushed back into the old Civic, which was pushed about 15 feet with the parking brake on. Neither car survived the encounter well.

Oddly enough, that’s how I lost my favorite car, my Oldsmobile Calais, in an encounter with a big-ass Suburban. The right front fender was pushed into an accordion into the passenger seat. The Suburban has a small dent in its bumper. The Calais never recovered.

So I suppose a few lessons can be learned from this experience:

  • Buy an old Suburban if you want a vehicle that is built like a tank.
  • Don’t count on  the fact that you did not slide on the ice as a sign that all is well because other people are out on the ice with bigger vehicles than yours.
  • Always have car insurance (which we do), and always be glad when the other driver also has insurance.

So now Alexis and Mike have the onerous task of dealing with insurance companies, adjusters, and trying to find two new/used vehicles, and Mike is due back on site in Northern Virginia on January 3.

So about that curse-breaker?

“Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Entrance”

Winter Sunset through Trees (Pixdaus)

The snow is gradually melting. In the past few nights the temperature has dropped below freezing, which means black ice on the roads, something that Brett and I experienced on our way home on Tuesday evening.

We went out Tuesday afternoon while Corey was trying to sleep before having to go back to work for another 11 hours that night. Brett wanted to look for yet another vintage coat at is now-favorite surplus store. No-joy on the coat, but he did find a great hood that fits on his jacket, and it was $10. Excitement all around. Then we went to another store to exchange a couple of presents, which meant that we found ourselves driving home after dark.

The Rodeo has a winter drive mode the same as my old Trooper Izzie did, and it’s a great feature. Just push that button, and feel the traction increase. We did hit one spot of ice but had minimal slippage. Luckily for us as just a few feet ahead of us was a car that had not made it over the patch quite as well and was in the median, which on that particular stretch of road has a dip. State Police were already on scene, but we didn’t see any injuries.

The best practice this week has been to stay inside and off the roads as much as possible. My mother had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, which I was planning to drive her to, but she canceled it as she was certain that the roads would be horrible. I tried to explain that in the afternoon, things were fairly good, mostly slush, but she wasn’t having it, so she has rescheduled. That being said, she drove herself to bingo this evening. Does anyone else notice the illogic that rules my mother? 

“Chantez, riez; soyez heureux, soyes célèbres;
Chacun de vous sers bientôt dans les ténèbres” ~ Victor Hugo
(Sing, laugh; be happy, be famous;
Each one of you will soon be in the darkness)

Silence (Pixdaus)

It’s now 9 o’clock, and I began this post hours ago. My headache is getting worse, so I need to wrap things up for now.

I just took some more pain medicine for my migraine, which reminds me of a very troubling and infinitely sad story that Corey showed me on The Virginian-Pilot’s website, pilotonline.com. It seems that in February of this year, a marine who served in Afghanistan was admitted to Portsmouth Naval Hospital for chest pains. The marine, who was suffering from PTSD, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a very treatable form of cancer, with a 90 percent five-year survival rate.

Twenty-year-old Lance Cpl. Ezequiel Freire never left the hospital. Instead, he died of a drug overdose, caused by too many doctors prescribing too many medications without taking into consideration what treatment Freire was already receiving. His autopsy showed a high dose of Fentanyl and 10 other narcotics and sedatives. This young man died of a toxic pharmaceutical cocktail, the kind of death that is on the upswing in this country because of the rampant use of prescribed narcotics.

Freire survived over 50 firefights during his six-month deployment only to die because too many doctors who were involved did not pay attention. But no firings will result from this tragedy because it’s a military hospital, and no suits can be brought because of that little thing called the Feres Doctrine, which absolves the military and the U.S. government from liability.

The other really pathetic aspect to this story is that some people used the comments section of the story to try to say that this (Freir’s death) is the kind of thing that will happen under Obamacare because healthcare will be government-run. Seriously? This kid was 20; he served his country; he was traumatized so much that he couldn’t enjoy a meal in a restaurant because of the noise, and he was given a potent mix of drugs: “first morphine, then oxycodone and its time-release variant OxyContin, supplemented by Dilaudid. Simultaneously, he was receiving a series of sedatives for anxiety – first Ativan, then Xanax, and finally Klonopin – plus Ambien and then Lunesta for insomnia.”

And you want to turn this horrible situation into a commentary on government healthcare reform? Have you no shame? You people are barbarians.

Enough. More later. Peace.

Music by Mazzy Star, “Flowers in December”

                   

Flowers in December
Before I let you down again,
I just want to see you in your eyes.
I wouldn’t have taken everything out on you,
I only thought you could understand.

They say every man goes blind in his heart,
And they say everybody steals somebody’s heart away.
And I got nothing more to say about it
Nothing more than you would me.

Send me your flowers of your december,
Send me your dreams of your candied wine.
I’ve got just one thing I can’t give you…
Just one more thing of mine

They say every man goes blind in his heart
And they say everybody steals somebody’s heart away
And I’ve been wondering why you let me down

And I’ve been taking it all for granted