Wednesday, July 28, 2010

The American Version

Arise ye workers from your slumbers
Arise ye criminals of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
and at last ends the age of cant.
Now away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise!
We'll change forthwith the old conditions
And spurn the dust to win the prize.

CHORUS

Then come comrades rally
And the last fight let us face
The
Internationale
Unites the human race. (repeat).

We peasants, artisans and others,
Enrolled amongst the sons of toil
Let's claim the earth henceforth for brothers
Drive the indolent from the soil.
On our flesh for too long has fed the raven
We've too long been the vultures prey.
But now farewell to spirit craven
The dawn brings in a brighter day.

CHORUS

No saviour from on high delivers
No trust we have in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear.
Ere the thieves will out with their booty
And to all give a happier lot.
Each at his forge must do his duty
And strike the iron while its hot.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Release The Curly!

How cheap can a hamburger get before it starts to concern the consumer? Are you going to line up to buy two hamburgers for a penny? Like that record club?

And Lisa, if it's impossible to be objective then we humans haven't much in common. Little separate worlds. That was the logic, anyway. Not sure that it will endure scrutiny.

If I don't distribute my weight properly on my pull out sofa, it will collapse in a way not unlike a slow-motion mousetrap. It is an infernal contraption, and I am the weight upon it. My only hope is that when it snaps shut, it kills me instantly without horribly mutilating my body. While I'm hopin', maybe a crowd of people will gather around the spectacle of the sofa and I combined. A little girl could say, "Is that all there is?"

The pull-out sofa could also act like a trebuchet, flinging me out the window in my underwear.

Just watched the "Who pooped the bed?" episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Danny DeVito is a genius and this show confirms it.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Three Fates Considered

On November 17, 1961, Murray Karp was feeling a bit peckish as he left the Scollay Square "T" Station in Boston. He was in town buying a pocket watch in an age of wristwatches, and had in mind a jewelery shop near city hall plaza. It was there for as long as he could remember. Perhaps 10 years had passed since the last time he made his way into the city, but not much had changed. He found the watch shop closed. A sign on the door reported an illness in the family, and that the store would soon reopen.

Murray's thoughts turned to his empty belly. The aroma of steamed hot dogs lured him to one of many vendors outside the subway station. It was there that he got himself a hot dog that he later told his wife had "hit the spot." His mistake was in getting the second dog, which felt like overkill. He broke out into a cold sweat while waiting for the trolley car, and briefly felt that he was going to be sick.

At the exact same moment 12,000 miles away, two men paddled a dugout canoe along the coast of southwestern New Guinea. Their not-so-quaint 40 foot double pontoon boat was swamped by a large wave, and the two men were knocked into the warm tropical waters. The two men were Michael Rockefeller, son of New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller, and Dutch Anthropologist Rene Wassing. Several local guides went for help, and Msrs. Rockefeller and Wassing did what any one of us would do in a similar situation, try to float and cling to the overturned canoe. And probably not think too much about all the hungry things lurking beneath the waves.

About a day passed, and it became clear to Rockefeller and Wassing that they may not survive their misadventure. Help may or may not have been on the way, that depended on the separate fate of the guides who went for aid.

Rockefeller decided to seize control of his own fate, turned to Wassing, and said, "I think I can make it." He was referring to the three mile swim to shore. He paddled away, and was never seen again. Rene Wassing was rescued the next day.

What do Murray Karp, Rene Wassing and Michael Rockefeller have in common? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Penguin, Las Vegas and Honesty

It's Friday, and it looks like rain. An early appointment with my psychiatrist at noon, and the rest of the afternoon will be spent cleaning and running errands. By all accounts, a fine day. Linda and her grandson are on my mind. The pain of cancer is infuriating for loved ones forced to watch the struggle from afar. My mother died in agony from cancer, slowly.

But Linda's grandson will have a different experience. After the initial shock, the prognosis is very good. It still feels unreal.

Yesterday was an odd day. Two hours of Neurological tests concerning memory, reflexes, logic and pattern recognition. Within a week or two there will be an EEG and MRI. It's already clear that I have epilepsy, and have been having seizures every 3-6 weeks for years. My self-diagnosis of low blood sugar was wrong. Today there will be a shift to a new medication to control the seizures.

It's all very boring to everyone but me.

And this for Matt Orseko, who wonders how it is possible for anyone to be against US involvement in World War II. It's called "pacifism," Matt! It is not a political or strategic argument, at least not by me. My argument is simply that I would never fight in a war, so I would never ask or tell another to do so. Here's a little snippet on Jeanette Rankin, who voted against US involvement in WWI and WWII. She was also a Republican.

"In 1940, Rankin was again elected to Congress, this time on an anti-war platform. Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, she once again voted against entering a World War, the only member of Congress to do so, saying "As a woman, I can't go to war and I refuse to send anyone else. It is not necessary. I vote NO." Montana Republican leaders demanded that Rankin change her vote, but she refused."

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Of Turning Points and Thoughts of Compassion

Another hot Saturday and our caravan keeps penetrating territory not previously seen by these eyes. Much looks the same. I'm at my computer, in front of a fan and drinking coffee. Here in Boston we call it a "regular" coffee; cream and two sugar. It suits me fine. A little red CD player produced by slave labour and sold through Wal-Mart is perched next to me, playing Tchaikovsky's 6th symphony, 4th movement. It feels right. Like I'm at the end of something and soon to embark on something else. It makes me think of death, which has been on my mind more than usual.

Thích Quảng Đức was a Mahayana Buddhist monk. On June 11, 1963 he doused himself with kerosene and set himself on fire to protest the treatment of monks by the Diem government. They have a name for this...self-immolation. As he died, he sat motionless and was photographed by Malcolm Browne.

After he burned out like an oil lamp and lay smoldering at the crossing of Phan Dinh Phung Boulevard and Le Van Duyet Street, outside the Cambodian Embassy, his friends, comrades, brothers and sisters cremated his mostly already cremated body. Neither the ceremonial protest burning, nor the cremation, succeeded in totally immolating his heart. This was taken as a sign, and Thích Quảng Đức is now considered to be a Bodhisattva. If you don't know what that is, by all means look it up. It basically means that he is a perfect being of light who, instead of living in a state of Enlightenment with Lord Buddha, decided to return to Earth to help show us the way to compassionate living. Self sacrifice and pure love for all living things.

To me, this is a beautiful fable that has moved me to tears even as I write it now. But I'm a weak person, of no consequence. So I can cry and be easily moved without fear of people thinking less of my sanity. Everyone knows that Darren ain't right.

Compassion.

Another story comes to mind this morning, and I'll try to remember it accurately. It's about a 6th century Athenian named Perilaus. He will always be known as the inventor of a torture device he dubbed The Brazen Bull. The device is simply designed but hideous. It is a brass bull with a door on the side. The victim would be placed inside, and the door locked. Subsequently, a fire would be started under the bull, causing the metal to become red hot, which would result in an agonizingly slow death for the victim. The screams could be heard through the open mouth of The Brazen Bull, with the aid of pipes, and Perilaus described the agonized screams as, "tender and melodious" during his little sales pitch to his king, Phalaris, Tyrant of Agrigentum. Phalaris politely listened to all the device would do. He was told that pipes crossing at certain angles and with carefully placed foramen, combined with the screams and pleadings of the victim, would be beautiful and pleasing to his royal ears.

King Phalaris was so disgusted, however, by Perilaus' invention that he tricked the inventor into climbing into the device to scream in "mockery," and then locked the door behind him. The historian Lucian writes that the king then said, "Receive the due reward of your wondrous art: let the music-master be the first to play.” He then started a bonfire under the bull, with its inventor inside, screaming.

It went on to be a very popular torture device in ancient Macedonia and Greece.

This is the world, and it was like this before I got here. My 8 year old friend just got diagnosed with cancer. That is the world, too.

There is so much beauty in the world, I ache at it. I weep. Passion. Anger. Love. Love. Love.

But so much pain, too much. Most of the world is familiar with it. Most of the worlds children know starvation and genital mutilation and rape and cruelty. Most animals and people who need kindness will not find it. Never find it. Ever. And that is one reason that I can't take my eyes off the Void. Why I don't believe in god, and if I did I would hate him or her or it.

Show the world weakness and watch it get invaded, eaten and destroyed. Like a rotting corpse covered in maggots. Happiness is a trick we play on the mind, a state that is impossible to maintain for long.

Friday, July 09, 2010

Time Is Passing

Since the seizure earlier this week, I received terrible news. A young friend of mine, a gifted lad with a kind heart, a curious mind, and a great sense of humor has been diagnosed with an adrenal gland tumor. He's very young, and his pain is offensive to anyone who insists that the universe be good to children. It's not, but it should be. It's just not right to test a child with a painful illness. Childhood is meant for other adventures. We have our entire adult lives to spend in dispiriting poor health, battling unseen biological horrors within us from a hospital bed. But a child deserves to be pain and illness free. To wonder what lurks out in the dark night, to feel mother's unconditional love, to laugh and throw snowballs and make fart jokes.

Dandelion wine.

The world isn't fair, and we have to live in the world as is. My hope is that the tumor is benign, and that this will soon be over. He's in such terrible pain.

While my young friend suffers, my thoughts turn to him and his recovery. I'm very lonely these days, and if there were anything I could do for him, or his family, I would. They have but to ask. Sadly, I haven't much to offer. No money. No wisdom to impart. These days find me hot, reading volumes, and looking to the end of my life. Many people with borderline personality disorder eventually turn to suicide, and with every day of empty struggle I have to be honest in my assessment that I won't long survive. I'm not looking for pity or help, it's just the way it looks to me. And now that I have this seizure disorder, and my father is almost 80 years of age, the future looks bleak. My father and I back each other up. He is my best friend.

A dark day will come within the next five years. On that day, or during that night, fear and sadness and loneliness will overtake me. I'll do something stupid, and the following day will be the first in decades to get along without me being a part of it. But no complaints here. Actually, a celebration. I've known love and felt exultation and the sting and fall that follows. On a cool Autumn day when I was 13 I sat on our porch in Billerica and wrote short stories on my manual typewriter. My parents were good to me, and I got to enjoy Christmas and Halloween. When I got older, my father and I raised hell with the Socialist Party USA. I got a college degree in biological anthropology. In the early 1990's, I had dinner with Frank P. Zeidler, Socialist Mayor of Milwaukee, and we talked about politics, health care, and women. In the late 1980's, I went to Tanglewood and heard Tchaikovsky's 5th symphony and Rimsky-Korsakov's Sheherezade. In Concord, Massachusetts, I heard Tchaikovsky's violin concerto and Dvorak's slavonic dances.

I'm a very lucky man, and it will be over in a few years. But it ends for us all. The loneliness is getting hard. And self-loathing. I've some fight left, but no more than half a decade. And that's fine by me. I'm a lucky man! Great family and friends and women in my life.

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

Nancy

It's almost 8:45 on a hot July evening, and I'm sitting on my couch with Annie next to me. A white "T" shirt and briefs cover my shameful genitalia and man boobs. Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov is playing on my little compact disk player. My mind is distracted from the music by worry. A young friend of mine is very ill and in hospital, and my thoughts and prayers are with him. Yes, an atheist can pray. I want the universe and any omnipotent beings within it to know that I'll trade my health for the health of my young friend.

I'm also thinking about Nancy, a woman I want to attract to Boston because I have strong feelings for her, and we can't satisfy our lust while we exist miles apart. I'm hoping that she'll listen to me and pack her bags and move to me. There is a spare room in my flat, and with her in it I can remind her every day that she is wonderful and funny and smart and kind. Life has slapped her around, and I hate a bully. Wither her here, I can work to soften to blow. With my arms around her body I can at least feel like I'm protecting her. It's not that she is weak, or that I think women need men to protect them. People who love each other protect each other. Part of the way she would want to protect me is to let me think that I'm protecting her.

I'm in no position to lure people from far away. What have I to offer? Not much except love, loyalty and a desire to please her, to make her laugh. She deserves happiness. I'm unable to move to where she is, so the idea of her packing her bags and letting me take her here for a new life with me appeals greatly.

Were I a good man, I would stop seeking the company of women, all of whom deserve better than the likes of me. But I'm a mediocre man, and Nancy would fit into my life here in Boston nicely. My health problems wouldn't bother her too much. She thinks I'm smart, funny and compassionate, and our politics line up nicely.

Come to me, Nancy. I'll help with the cost of moving. Take the leap with me, though. If it's too much to ask, though, I understand.

On July 4th, at around 9am, I walked into Walgreen's in East Arlington and walked to the pharmacy. Half way there, I developed an "aura," which means I saw light all around the magazines and candy that they sell in the aisle in which I was walking. Soon I was mostly blinded by the bright light and knew that a seizure was in the mail. As I turned to walk out of the store, I fell unconscious.

I'm told that I had a full tonic-clonic seizure, which involves the whole brain and is idiopathic. That means of nebulous cause. My jaw froze shut and I shook violently...they tell me. As a result, my whole body hurts, especially my jaw. All the little muscles danced.

"Do you know where you are, sir?" is what I remember being asked next. And "Do you know your name?" I didn't right away, but their sense of urgency scared me. The sensations added up to the conclusion that I was in a speeding ambulance; the siren, the questions, and when I could open my eyes (rarely) I could see that I was strapped to a gurney.

I sighed.

The rest of the day was all about tests. An MRI and EEG, and oodles of blood work. Since I was strapped to a backboard and wearing a neck brace, I couldn't get up to defecate or urinate during my stay in the ER. And since they weren't sure I didn't attempt suicide, I had a security guard staring at me for an hour or two. It must say somewhere that I'm crazy.

I shit into a bedpan, and was cleaned up by a cute, young nurse. It was totally humiliating in a way that would be impossible to overstate. Total humiliation.

To my surprise, they kept me in Mt. Auburn Hospital for the night, and I watched Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture on television. It was, after all, July 4th. In the distance I could hear the fireworks.

What do I have to offer anyone? I'm 37 and alone and have screwed up more than my fair share of relationships. But I do so enjoy the company of a woman I love, or am even simply fond of. To be inside a woman like that, to hear her laugh when she knows I'm going to orgasm, to feel her orgasm around me...and to hold each other. To talk without any nicety...to be honest. Two apes honestly exploring each other physically, emotionally and intellectually. No bullshit. To feel safe.

To hold and be held, to hold and be held, to hold and be held. If only I were worth it. If only I were worth it. If only I were worth it.

Friday, July 02, 2010

Of Dying Plants and the Patina of Happiness

As I saunter around my flat looking for meaning, a sense of purpose, or a cookie, I sometimes espy something that really drags me down, mood-wise. I'm feeling fine, but slowly I sink at the sight of something that just takes the edge off my patina of happiness. Little vampires that suck out my sense of well being. They aren't the big problems, like not having any money, balls or sanity, but they have a dark energy all their own. Here are five examples, each with a title and everything. Enjoy!

1. The Dying Plant, aka "The Little Green Prisoner."

You had high hopes when you bought the thing. But there it sits, beyond wilted. You tried everything, which means you watered it and then most likely subsequently over watered it. There is a gulf of horticultural knowledge between putting water on a plant and just about anything more than that, except maybe jamming a fertilizer stick in the soil. Until you finally admit failure and throw it away, it is a constant reminder that nothing, not even a fucking plant, should hitch a wagon to your star.

2. Cold Coffee.

Not iced coffee, just hot coffee that you didn't inhale fast enough. Once the heat is gone, so is the magic. It quickly goes down hill. A brown ring emerges, the cream curdles, and the coffee is transformed into something you don't want to see, never mind drink. Quickly clean the cup or risk experiencing a deep and profound sadness. I'm not sure at what point a cup of coffee gets too cool or cold to drink. Something to look into.

3. "The Sticky Shirt."

You don't dislike this shirt enough to throw it away or give it to charity (or an equally fat friend), but you don't like it, either. So every once in a while you find yourself wearing the fucking thing, and you can kiss your self-confidence goodbye. You tell yourself that you'll only wear it when painting or doing an autopsy, something messy. But there you are, waiting for a bus or buying a muffin or talking to a neighbor...in that shirt. In my case, it's a Hawaiian shirt that makes me look like a sofa. A bad sofa. Also known as "The Fatso."

4. The "Goldilocks Funk." Not good, but not rotten, either.

Unlike the other sad little things on this list, this can't be avoided due to the myriad sources. It could be an article of clothing that you pushed too far with the Febreze, a fart that won't leave and lingers for an eerily long time, or a neighbor using way too much lighter fluid for a cookout. These affronts to your schnozzen simply have to be endured. But don't underestimate the soul-crushing power of a stink that isn't pleasant, or isn't so bad that you seek it out the source and end it.

5. "Black" Socks.

Socks are a pain in the ass. Both for the 8 year old making them, and for people who buy "black" socks, only to get them home and discover that they are not quite the same color as all the other "black" socks you've amassed. Some are dark blue, some are really black, and some are not so black or faded. The result is a drawer jam-packed with socks that don't quite match, and you won't know it until you're out in the light of day. And once you get two socks together that actually match, you keep them together. I flick them off and join them, like star-crossed lovers.

You know what really ruins my mood, though? A mirror. Ha!

Thursday, July 01, 2010

An Undisciplined Mind

There is a young woman from Minnesota who enjoys talking with me, via the marvels of communications technology, of this age and the last. If it were not for the telephone and Internet, it's unlikely that she and I would have ever met. But they do, and we have. As a result, she has been a positive force in my life simply by being a part of it. I can only hope that she feels the same way about me.

Not many people are a part of "it" anymore. I've chosen to keep some people away, but many times that number (whatever it is) keep away because I'm not an easy person to be around. Failure. Weakness. Pain. Poverty.

Have you ever taken a razor blade and cut yourself so deeply that stitches are required? Statistically, not very many people have. But enough people do that the phenomenon has a name, and the name, cutting, inspires a modicum of sympathetic attention, which the cutter finds efficacious. It also provides a distraction from emotion pain. Much is made of the former motive, and that leads to mockery and disdain of the victim. Weakness is as much a failure in our culture as it was in ancient Sparta. And not the Sparta depicted romantically in the very successful, but awful film 300.

My education was insanely expensive, and a lot of money was spent to educate me about the ancient world, as I minored in Ancient History. I'm aware that this means nothing except, perhaps, that it indicates my natural curiosity about the world. But time, an undisciplined mind, electro-shock therapy (ECT) and psychiatric medications have rendered my intellect broken and scattered. This is a reality that I regard with acceptance and freedom from regret. Self-pity is for my present state, not how I got here. We are all somewhere on a continuum between birth and death. The most we can hope for it to die in stages that are widest in the middle of life, providing enough time in between the borders of one stage to the next to allow us to feel a sense of permanence. It's why many people talk about death as if it were something possible to avoid, if careful. It's a delusion.

But I digress. This sort of writing is indicative of what I referred to earlier as an "undisciplined mind." These digressions represent the gallows fruit of a lazy mind.

A point exists, and here I make it. So many otherwise healthy young people cut themselves, become addicted to a substance, commit suicide and take psychiatric medications and/or attend therapy that a thinking person has to consider that the post-post industrial age is a harsh place to be. Oh, the things we've gotten used to! Those ancient Spartans had to have an eye on compassion in order to avoid it. We are worse, as our cruelty to those who can't "compete" in a world of endless hurdles is dressed up as kindness. If we are kind to each other it is by accident. Different roads take a mentally ill person to "functionality." To stop me from being a burden on the government and my family. To end the Age of Entitlement. Again, sometimes kindness is present. But with Seroquel being advertised on television, and private insurers shoe-horned superfluously into an otherwise efficient health care finance system (Medicaid through MassHealth), it looks a bit like I'm making money for others, as well. Thus I'm tolerated. Would I be receiving aid if nobody made money off of me by proxy?

What the hell am I talking about? Well, we have no room for failure in our society, except in prison or on the street. If you can't keep a job because of a pathological mental or physical state, you may then be labeled "lazy." In the very least, you must keep trying to succeed in work and/or school. But trying gets you accolades only if you end up succeeding. If you are caught in a seemingly endless cycle of trying and failing, then you are seen as doing something wrong. The possibility that you may simply be up against something impossible to overcome is considered only in the abstract.

I'm defined as "mentally ill," and receive health insurance paid for by the state. I'm poor, but enjoy heat in the winter and a small, shaded and cool flat in the summer. Obviously, I have cable and Internet access. There is even a dog, which I'm allowed to have because of my "total and permanent disability." She keeps me company, and is called a "companion dog."

What an act of kindness in an otherwise harsh world. It speaks to me like music. There are people in this society who don't want me to be alone, even if no one wants to be near me for long. A pillar from a temple, otherwise razed, that runs through our modern world like a vein of gold. The priests and priestesses of that temple are scattered and mostly gone now. The magic they used was called social welfare. Their compassion and wisdom, contained in hieroglyphics, are letters of the alphabet; WPA, CCC, FDR, etc. If it were not for the cornerstone they set, I'd be on the street, pure and simple.

Weakness and need is met with incredulity by most today. If you cut yourself, you're seeking drama and attention. That you're also a person in extreme pain is an afterthought. I've not cut in a very long time, but I have the scars. The thoughts and feelings that put them there are better controlled but still very much around. I try and I fail endlessly to get back to work, to find the person I used to be, years ago. For three years, I worked and went to school full-time. And I didn't do it thinking that I would end up stuck where I am. How I am. Why would I?

Yet so many harshly criticize me, and have done so to my face. Most of the people in my life are kind to me, of course, but I'm frequently reminded that I'm on the government tit. As if I'm working an angle like a confidence man. Or I'm indulging my weakness. Try and try again, but when I fail I must be doing something wrong.

Am I doing something wrong? No. I take my medication and go to therapy and carefully try to increase physical exercise and keep my mind active. Still, my mind rages against itself. Thoughts move through my mind like rain, and in the rain is a familiar voice. The voice speaks of suicide, of being a drain on society, of being useless, or worse. This endless self-loathing leads to acts of self-destruction and rage, which scare loved ones away. And to stop the voice (which is my own inner monologue, not someone else), drugs are needed.

Absolutely no amount of self-discipline can overcome the weak need (weak knee'd) for chemical help.

It's nice to think that if we focus and work hard enough that we can find our foundation, soul or spine. Whatever. Our center. And in doing so, find strength that will make mental illness go away. That myth fuels the cruelty I spoke of earlier. It's hard to accept that such a place isn't within those like me. Because if it is in me, it's in you, as well.