The following stories are true. And its time to be sharing them. Although there will be much more ‘a do’, without any more of it, I will begin.
About those stories: some of them are very true. Some are mostly true. Some are more or less true. You can decide. Philosophers have debated “Truth” from time immemorial. They’re no closer to the ‘true’ truth than when they began; when Homer was a little boy in knee pants, a little Greek, urn-ing the minimum wage of a drachma a millennium, slaving away… … …as it were.
Politicians have many of the same problems with the ‘true’ truth. Clinton said “I didn’t have sex with that woman!” Bush the Elder said, “I haven’t had sex with ANY woman”, nodding his head towards Barbara. Which gives one pause to consider what we really know about the genetic heritage of Bush the Younger!! And so it goes!!
All I know for sure (if anything can be known for sure) is that I created these stories by myself. I may have tried to make them ‘more interesting’. But that doesn’t necessarily make them any less ‘true’. Maybe I didn’t have to enough courage to tell them directly, so I implied them indirectly. After editing and re-editing, who can remember what was buried in the trash on the cutting room floor. If there WAS a cutting room. Or a floor. Some things may have been so lost that they disappeared from the entire space-time continuum. You’d have to go all the way to Britain to get answers about that, and last time I looked, Stephen Hawking isn’t speaking to me. Or anybody else. Heisenberg himself is uncertain. And Schrodinger’s cat has a hairball. As you can see, chaos abounds! You must give me great latitude. I’m only a man.
Of course there’s the slim possibility that these stories could have been written by some body else. Maybe my Guatemalan cleaning lady, Berta, who’s been cleaning house all these years, who’s unshaven leg hair is so long she uses it to knit sweaters for her grandchildren… … …maybe. Maybe she thought the stories were from her family in San Juan Sacatepéquez. I’ll never know for sure. Often, pain-killers cloud my memory. In any event, Berta doesn’t speak any English, even after 40 years in L.A., so it couldn’t be her. Could it?
It could be Lana, the thirty year old, blonde pony-tailed Ukrainian LVN with the lithe, runner’s build, from Sevastopol or Lvov, who bathes my feet… … …with bleach (no shit, Mr. Clean; you bald-headed ‘Yul Brenner’ wanna-be). And five times a week, no less. Lana, who speaks with such a heavy eastern European accent, I start wondering what she’s doing with all the ‘samples’, the vials of blood she drains from me… … …always inquiring about my ‘blooood wessels’, like the sexy vampires from those soft-porn romance novels where golden locks of ultra-fine hair encase the very willing victim to join in carnal ecstasy in the back seat of a ersatz Bat-mobile.
Lana; who looks a bit like a Slavic Olivia Newton John, all ‘Greased’ up and ready for a go. Lana, who in my erotic meanderings, slips into view: my focal length increasing, the slow, electric buzz of the lenzzzz, the viewfinder alert to nuance, narrowing, narrowing as the shutter, finally, releases, slips, and relaxes, slides, deliciously, into submission… … …Lana, which transforms palindromically into anally to Lana anally into Lanaaaah… … ….until I forgot from where I was coming, sort of, and why. So here’s to Lana: “Keep on Trucking!!”
Where was I?
All things considered, its most likely true that I am the author of this trash. And if you were a detective, looking for clues, analyzing the entrails as it were, you’d notice some vague themes in the writing:
Looking through what I’ve just written, my initial response is this: “What a pretentious hunk of junk, what meaningless whack-a-doodle!!” I’ll cop to that. Its just a start. Most likely my words will amount to a seed-spill of sea foam. Washed away in the phosphate florescence. Residue. Garbage. So be it. It will take much effort for me to focus. Pain continually plagues me. Still, I joke. Then write. Then nap. Eat. Take my Vicodin. I live in four to six hours increments, with refills every ten days. My “pain management regimen”. My pace-maker battery needs replacement. Constant gout. Gallbladder prods me: fix me, fix me, fix me. My podiatrist thinks more pain is afoot. Smack me before I joke again. My internist needs a psychiatrist!!
From the tide pool that birthed me, to the end that awaits us all, I yearn for most, is meaning. Instead I find… … …hysterical laughter: “You, TD? Meaning? HaaaHaHa, Yaaahaha!!” All I see is distractions; women, song, idol (and idle) worship. Should I listen to their song?
At least for today, say “enough”, TD. Enough!
—– —– …..
With little commentary, here goes… … …
Not to mention the general malaise that’s been plaguing me all this fall and winter. There’s a newspaper cartoon strip I’ve seen in the Los Angeles area (and in other areas I’m sure) in which a minimalistic dog’s clenched jaws are mouthing the slogan of the day. Some days the caption is a newsworthy commentary or opinion. Some days a philosophical tidbit. What ever it is, the dog’s reaction is always the same, the caption is always the same, the dog’s expression, the same: Grrrr!!
I am that dog. Always clenching. Always grimacing. Always pained. ALWAYS!! Always
And I’m tired. If I don’t stop grimacing, if I don’t stop fighting; I’ll die. I’ll die anyway. Any way the end is the same. I’m tired of fighting. I’m scared of NOT fighting. I’ve been fighting for months… … …the months I’ve not been writing for. That’s why I’ve not been writing.
My hands hurt. My HAND hurts. The ONE I have to use!! The one I HAVE. That one hurts. From OVERUSE!! Seven points on the ten point pain scale says its time to stop. For today. Because my hand hurts.
Grrr!! Grrr!! Grrr!!
Thumper’s mommie told me to remember this:
“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”
Difficult to copy. Worth the read.
People do weird things with their relatives’ remains after they’re cremated. There are businesses that specialize in that final ritualistic tribute. Some put the ashes in rifle ammo and have them fired into the air. Even more extreme are those who feel the need to devour the remains. For serious music fans and vinyl enthusiasts, And Vinyly (as in “And Finally”) is the business of choice.
The UK-based company presses the ashes of your loved one’s remains into an actual playable vinyl record. Basic packages run around $4,600 for 30 LPs. After cremation, the remains go to a standard pressing plant and are mixed in with the vinyl pellets. The difficulty lies in choosing your final song, words or sounds. It could be very easy to momentarily think that that one-hit-wonder from your high school prom is a good exit theme. And now some kitschy choices we came up with: Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train;” Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper;” The Beatles’ “The End;” Bob Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go;” and basically anything by AC/DC.
BY MICHAEL RYANFor John Skoyles
Source: Poetry (July/August 2013).
(reports) a UK media frenzy by featuring a front page report claiming that scientists are creating a device that can “tell people how long they have left to live”.
The Daily Mail has suggested that the “wristwatch-style device” could even influence how insurance and pension companies calculate premiums and pay outs.
The “death watch” is said to work by using “laser beams to analyse crucial cells lining blood vessels under the skin”.
The technique has been developed by physicists from Lancaster University, who are now reportedly developing a device that could be worn on the wrist. The press reports that they hope to obtain funding to get the device “on the market within three years”.
The device is designed to assess one aspect of the ageing process by looking at the lining of our blood vessels. Stiffness of the arteries is linked to coronary heart disease and high blood pressure. The current device assesses stiffness in smaller vessels in the limbs, and it is plausible that it could be an indicator of ageing or vascular health.
However, it is not clear whether it is a better measure of cardiovascular health than other available measures. Also, vascular health is not the only measure of physical health, nor is it the only predictor of longevity.
It seems unlikely that this device in its current form would be able to indicate accurately when a person may die, as there is a vast variety of possible causes of death, many of which are unrelated to cardiovascular health.
Philosophy, Science, and all interesting things in between
Jacques Delacroix' blog, Santa Cruz, CA, Facts Matter, Monterey Bay
Pluralism and Individuation in a World of Becoming
making up the 'world' with what we have on hand
the creative process of a chill go-getter
“Light for some time to come will have to be called darkness.” – Nietzsche
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the political edge of desire
"Ancient Thought in Modern Dress"