caveat emptor

Test Results and the Future, Where Cancer is Concerned

From the beginning (back in May) of Susan's cancer ordeal, we've heard the same thing:

Surgery to remove your esophagus and some part of your stomach is, according to available statistics, your best chance for long-term survival.

They told us this before Susan was staged at Stage IV, with tumors in her esophagus and stomach, plus in some local lymph nodes, plus in one distant lymph node. When they discovered that her cancer had metastasized (spread) and she was, therefore, not a candidate for surgery, that sounded like a death sentence to her. They also told Susan that she was not eligible for radiation treatment, statistically the second best option. She was only eligible for aggressive chemotherapy. We were starting out with what was, statistically, the treatment least successful in leading to long-term survival. But, it was our only option, so she did it.

In July, after her 8-week chemotherapy regimen, they did new scans and, quite unexpectedly, none of the tumors showed up. They were, evidence suggested, gone. At that point the options of radiation therapy and surgery came back into play. The tentative plan became: Susan would undergo six weeks of combined radiation and chemotherapy, take a five week break, and then get new scans. If the scans were still clear, we would plan the surgery. This was a relief to us because, even though the surgery was daunting and the life-changes it would bring were scary, it was, as far as we had heard, her best chance of long-term survival.

So, Susan did the (grueling) six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy. We waited five weeks, and then we went back early this week for new scans. They were clear. No sign of tumors. Then we met with her oncologist and he said, once again, "The surgery is going to be your best hope for long-term survival." Even though the cancer is gone, you see, there is only a 30% chance that it will not return, leaving a 70% chance that it will return. We knew all of this already, and we went from that meeting to a meeting with the surgeon.

The surgeon made several points in his discussion with us:

• People with metastatic cancer aren't usually candidates for major resection surgery like this since treatment of the primary location won't help in the long run when cancer is, potentially, all over the body.


• Susan's unusually good response to the therapy (no tumors) has caused them to consider her for the surgery where usually they would not.


• If the cancer does come back, it could come back anywhere, not just in her esophagus and stomach


• If they remove her esophagus and stomach and the cancer comes back elsewhere, what was all the suffering and loss of quality of life for?


• If the cancer comes back in her esophagus and stomach only, they can always do they surgery at that time.

So, in spite of everything we've heard to date, the surgeon recommended against the surgery. This was a surprise, but it was a welcome surprise. Susan was not excited about having stomach and esophagus removed, believe it or not. The surgeon's logic made perfect sense to us, expressing thoughts we'd already discussed and questions we had pondered together.

They're meeting next Tuesday with a large team to discuss Susan's case. They'll come to a consensus and let us know what they recommend at that time. For now though, here's what we know:

• The scans showed no tumors. (Hooray!)


• There's a good chance Susan will not have surgery, a wondrous new possibility for us. (Hooray!)


• We'll go back for monitoring scans in two months, and then every six months for five years. If we ever find anything, we'll start over. If not, then they'll call her cancer-free after five years.

Thanks for your positive thoughts, your hope and your prayers.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

This Week in Me and My Susan

Today Susan and I return to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston for several days of diagnostics. The results will determine what the next few months of Susan's treatment will involve. If there are no tumors, then we'll plan the surgery to remove Susan's esophagus and stomach. If there are tumors, then we'll enter another regimen of treatment. Both roads are tough, but we hope for the former (no tumors and surgery) because it is the most hopeful in the long run. Please hope with us.

Hello, friends. I hope you are well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Twick or Tweets (Get It?)

Today I'm posting a bunch of Tweets I've posted on Twitter. That sucks, I know. Some of them are pretty good though. What? They are. Some of them. Just read them. (Or don't.)

• It's true: I lack depth. I'm missing a few dimensions. I'm a tracing along familiar lines, the same old jokes all the time. A shtick figure.


• I find it offensive when I glance over at a woman and her boobs are staring at my eyes.


• dear people who decided things should be this way: i respectfully disagree.


• Our universe doesn't have to be probable because it's already here. Only things that don't exist yet care about probability. What is is.


• Let's write a song. I'll write the chorus, you write the verses and the bridge. Ready? Chorus: Singing, "Oh yeah. Oh yeah, baby. Baby yeah."


• "We're all outsiders, Ponyboy. You, me, Martin Sheen's kid, Squeaks, Matt Dillon, Fonzie, the Karate Kid, Cherry Coke, Tom Cruise, Cracker Jack and Rob Lowe. We're all outsiders and that's all we're ever going to be. Outsiders." (From "The Outsiders")


• Have you noticed that there are fewer imaginary animals flying around these days? I hope someone will lobby for their protection.


• I hope all your nightmares come false.


• Like a lot of you, I haven't really fleshed out the details of my Middle East policy. I should really do that before it's too late.


• I've always thought the attacks should have been on 7-11. It's funnier that way. (Still too soon?)


• Do you think the Beatles love us? It's hard to tell. Sometimes I think they're just pretending to like us so we'll buy their music.


• What's your favorite post-Beatles song? Most people like Lennon and McCartney, but I love "Moustache Fandango" by Ringo Starr and the Noses.


• Do remember where you're going to be when Paul McCartney dies (again)?


• I think Paul and Ringo should produce an album of the worst Beatles songs ever. "Greatest Misses".


• My new song is about a magic puffin named Drag.


• I've decided how I want my story to end. I wish I were writing it.


• I am wearing a jacket, an honest-to-goodness jacket. And I'm wearing a dishonest-to-goodness hat. And an honest-to-badness fake moustache.


• I am the Fake McCoy, the original, genuine, real Fake McCoy.


• I'm trying to get my imaginary friend to keep it real.


• I told him I felt fortunate to have avoided meeting him for so many years. I told him I'll always look back fondly on not having known him.


• Before there were mugs we all carried around handfuls of hot coffee. It was awful. Then we evolved mugs. Now we can type and drink coffee.


• I haven't tweeted in a while, so I'm completely full of shit. I hope you enjoy it.


• I want a bumper sticker that says "Guess What?"


• I want a bumper sticker that says "I'm Also Behind You".


• I want a bumper sticker that says "My Harpoon Gun Has 2 Car-Lengths of Rope".


• In truth, I don't have any stickers on my car. I would never put a sticker on my car. I don't like them.


• Also this: I don't wear slogan T-shirts. (I want a shirt that says that.)


• I consider the continuation of overcast heavens a kind of agnostic grace. The skies are full of doubt. Wherever you look, it's a grey area.


• He told me that great minds rarely agree. I agreed.


• Is the top of the morning at the beginning, the end, or in the middle? How is the morning shaped? I can't tell from here and now.


• There's a grackle walking around outside the window. I wonder if he's looking for me. Maybe Dumbledore sent him.


• You're always free to choose, but you have to choose. You have no choice. Freedom is mandatory, I'm afraid


• He told her that giving a man an erection is not really an accomplishment. "It puts you right up there with yawning," he said.


• People who become disciples of a leader have already missed the mark, I think. The leader would never have done that.


• You can never get behind yourself, nor in front of yourself. You can be figuratively beside yourself, but you may as well get over yourself.


• My high school French teacher just came into the coffee shop. She's the one who taught me how to say, "Je ne parle pas Francais."


• Movies that garner great praise but then turn out to be stupid are overrated.


• If I could share two truths with you I would only share one of them and I would keep the other one. It would be a big secret.


• I wear white, crew-neck, T-shirt undershirts. That's just who I am. Deal with it. I never wear wife-beaters, not even when I beat my wife. Also I don't beat my wife, except when we play trivial pursuit. I just get so angry when we play that game.


• The cop was chasing my car for a completely petty offense. It was a trivial pursuit.


• I now refer to the back of a right shoulder as "The North Face". I'm so open to suggestion.


• Google Wave scares me. I'm not going to be young enough to do it right. I can tell already.


• Sometimes my sense of humor cracks itself up. Sometimes it's not all it's cracked up to be.


• A lot of people don't realize that Eddie Murphy played every character in Beverly Hills Cop.


• I never meant to make you cry. I hope you will forgive me. Mostly, though, I hope that you will stop.


• Someone said, "There's something funny about a lot of sad things." I agree.


• I do try not to laugh loudly at funerals, or cry loudly at comedy clubs. I don't want to distract the mourners/victims.


• My mother raised me to be older than I was. I'm still working on that.


• She was arguing that L. Ron Hubbard invented histrionics. We were trying to explain the mistake to her, but she was throwing a fit about it.


• The difference between Dianetics & Diabetics is not subtle, though the words are very similar. This is why I never trust words to be clear.


• She said, "It doesn't matter how you smell." "Stinky people are unpleasant," I replied. "What? Oh, I meant 'spell'," she said.


• She threatened to throw a tiny statue of Moloch at me. I told her I don't respond well to idol threats.


• I recently decided my dreams weren't the right ones. I've picked new dreams. They're simpler, more attainable. They're more real, less ideal


• Is Kevin Bacon Jewish?


• Did you know Kevin Bacon's middle name is Crispy? It's true.


• Jack Black was in the movie Tenacious D with Meat Loaf who was in a sandwich with Kevin Bacon.


• I've never seen Squid Bob Sponge Pants but I've heard a lot about him from the young people. He sounds pretty cool and fresh and rad.


• "You could give minorities the right to vote, but what good would it do? Minorities never win votes." That almost makes sense, except not.


• Children are so adorable. I wish they would all leave this coffee shop and go have wonderful lives. Or just shut the hell up.


• How can you tell if a ventriloquist lawyer is lying?


• Disney has licensed the rights to the Balloon Boy story. They're going to call it "Up II: No Good".


• I still insist that people named Nicholas have the best nickname.


• I'm trying not to give foothold to evil in my life, but I can feel wickedness welling up like fire in my gut. Someone should stop me.


• You cannot count to infinity. There simply isn't time. Even if you go by tens it will still take forever. That's how infinity rolls.


• If they're going to press charges against the Balloon Boy family, they should list our dumb culture as an accomplice.


• My doomsday device isn't working. I cannot get the lights to flash. I haven't tried pushing the Doom button, but I bet it wouldn't work.


• It's so hard to believe that we're all the same species. Such variation. She looks more like a gazelle and I'm more a rhino.


• The technical term for liposuction is "hippoplasty". A lot of people don't know that.


• TV watchers seem to assume that you're judging them when you say you don't watch television. They do this because TV has made them shallow.


• A lot of Germans read my blog. I'm not sure what that says about me. Something guttural, I bet.


• I should learn to like the things normal people like. I wish it wasn't all so awful. That would make it easier. What's wrong with everyone?


• Does all this extra weight make me look fat?


• When I die, I want my last words to end with an ellipsis. People can debate the meaning of my aposiopesis for years to come.


• There is only one absolute, and this is it.


• He said, "Legalize same sex marriage? We've been having the same sex in our marriage for decades. I say OUTLAW IT!"


• I immediately regret this tweet. It's too honest, too raw. I'm foolish to be so vulnerable.


• I'm yawning. Yawns are contagious. Now you will yawn.


• Being a goy from TX, I'm no expert, but popular culture has left me with the impression that Yiddish is a language made up mostly of insults


• Druids dance and spin around the conifers, casting their swirls before pine.


• It's cold in this coffee shop. I wonder if they'll let me swim in the coffee.


• She asked me if I knew of a dating service that catered to older people. "Well,..." I replied, "...there's carbon dating."


• Whenever you play them on the jukebox you want your nickel back. That's how they got their name.


• He picked up 2 coins from her change and placed them between his lips absentmindedly. "You shouldn't lip her nickels at the table," I joked.


• The tiny clairvoyant lady from the movie Poltergeist has gone missing. That means there's a small medium at large.


• The new message on Flickr captions is funny: "This photo has people in it. Move your mouse over the photo to see them." I see them already. I'm a human, Flickr. Unlike you, I can recognize people in pictures.


• It seems to me that most people just aren't smart enough to understand the value of elitism.


• According to Gaiman it's an old saying. Have you heard it? "Every hour wounds. The last one kills." Not cheery, but I like it.


• In my next story there will be a man named Les Moore. Some people will call him Les, some Moore. He doesn't have a preference, Moore or Les.


• It makes no difference. Les is Moore.


• I always fly off the handle when people call me reactionary.


• Everyone is a different person every day. This belief has the dualistic advantage/disadvantage of preventing both resentment and intimacy.


• Why do people get so upset when you tell them their kids are ugly? It's not like you said they're ugly. (Even though they are.)


• I knew some guys in the 80s who got into Top Gun. Not the school, the movie. They REALLY got into it. Called each other IceMan and Goose.


• After hours of not talking on the fishing boat she said, "You take me for granted." Truth is, I take her for ballast.


• I finally perfected my new invention: The Skeleton Lock. You can open it with any key. I'm taking orders. How many can I put you down for?


• It's not really texting while driving that's dangerous, it's driving while texting.


• Jay Leno was all like, "Sometimes I feel like I'm being watched," and I was all like, "That's just your imagination."


• Once I had this dream that this monster was chasing me but then the monster woke up so the dream was over. I didn't know it worked that way.

Okay, so that was a crappy copout of a post. Sorry.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

The Set of All Things Belonging to The Set

My head is so full of undifferentiated thoughts that it might as well be empty. Nothing to say, but I cannot say nothing, so it's list day. I guess I should have a theme. Hmmm... a theme. Hmmm... what should the theme be? Hmmm...

The Set of All Things Belonging to The Set

• I've never seen a John Wayne movie and I never expect to. Not a fan of westerns or war movies. Not really a big action movie watcher. I think it's because I was raised by hippies. Peace.
• When the aliens come to take over the planet and use all the resources to power their space ships and harvest all the humans to serve as Hors d'œuvre for the big "Planet Takeover" party, I hope it's on a Monday and not on the weekend. That way we can all get out of school and work. Because of the alien invasion and all.
• I've never been a cannibal, but I do have a list of which people I'd eat if I were a cannibal. Is that weird? Does it make you wonder if you're on the list? Do you know if you'd go better with a red or a white wine?
• Cloudy days are the days when the gods can't stand to look at us any more. They come around eventually, but it takes a few days sometimes. They hate Seattle. Probably they're just jealous.
• Soccer, or football, was invented by the English. They wanted a game they could play without hands so they wouldn't have to put down their cutlery.
• In handball, is there a penalty called "Feet"?
• I've created my own language, but I cannot get anyone to speak it correctly. One small Asian country has adopted it as an official language, but they butcher it. They pronounce it correctly, but they totally screw up the choreography.

Such as it is, there it is. Indeed.

Hello, friends. I hope the day finds you well, and that you find the day satisfactory. How are you?

Later. Love.

On Fish With a Rhyming Aside About Where/How Things Live

A fish is not a pet, it's a decoration, a piece of furniture. Having a fish tank in your house is like having a curio cabinet or a china hutch or a shelf of shot glasses from various gift shops around the world. A fish never sleeps with you, snuggled up at your feet or in the crook of your side. Sleeping with the fish is, in fact, a euphemism for death. No one needs a fish, man. Not even a woman on a bicycle. I don't know.

Feet live in shoes. Words live in ears. Hands live in pockets. Pressure lives in peers. Stars live in heaven. Shadows live in light. Trees live in dirt. Colors live in sight. Kisses live in mouths. Waves live in seas. Dust lives in sunbeams. Squirrels live in trees. None live forever. Let's live today. We'll live completely, while live we may.

It's not that I don't like fish, mind you. I'm not anti-fish. I'm just pointing out the shortcomings of fish as companions. You'll never teach a fish to play basketball or volleyball, for example. They're too afraid of nets.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Lies and Sponsors

I have a confession to make: I don't know how to read. I've been faking literacy for all these years and I just can't to it any more.

I have another confession to make: That first confession wasn't true. And neither is this one.

If, ladies and gentlemen, you'll look through the tiny windows on the right side of the plane, you'll get a stunning view of the Verizon Grand Canyon, brought to you by Verizon Wireless. Verizon and the Grand Canyon: Two American Treasures.

My mind, this morning, is like a stone skipping across the surface of a quiet pond, thrown by a pensive boy in a hoodie, jeans and sneakers, a boy whose energetic meandering and playful exploration has brought him here to this quiet pond, a new place he has discovered, a place to which he can lay claim. The loneliness of boyhood is so deeply hidden that even boys don't see it in themselves. A boy's soul is tasked by evolutionary forces to walk as quickly as possible away from every other soul and to find in the wilderness a place to stand alone, and then to defend that place from all intruders. Only those invited can approach. Only those welcomed can return again. No one can stay forever. The top of a high hill is a good place. Or a clearing in a grove of trees. Or the bank of a quiet pond, the kind of pond you can send stones skimming over, skipping from expanding ripple to ripple to ripple, like my wandering mind.

Boyhood is brought to you by Citibank. Boyhood and Citibank: It's about growth.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Man of Fall and Gary the Groundhog

Autumn is upon us. The nights are getting longer. It's like summertime for vampires. This is the time of year when the leaves fall and they don't come back until the fall leaves. It's jacket weather, casual people bundling up in flannel and fleece and sweaters and hoodies. I'm not sure what the dressy people wear. I bet it's expensive and uncomfortable. Suckers. My love for this time of year is much storied, though only on this blog. Last time I checked there was still no Wikipedia page about me.

Today I want to tell you the story of Gary the Groundhog and his struggle to get high-speed Internet access for his colony. Gary was a great hero among whistle-pigs, one of the great marmots of our time. He didn't ultimately succeed in getting the Internet access, but just filing the paperwork is pretty remarkable for a lowly woodchuck, if you think about it. But don't think about it. Surely you have better things about which to think.

I really have nothing to say this fine autumn day. The trees are getting bare, the bears are getting sleepy, the nights are getting long, the willows getting weepy. The skies are getting grey, the evenings getting colder, the birds are getting out of town, the kids are getting older. This time of year makes me thing of endings and beginnings, of growing up and growing old and growing closer and growing roots and growing restless and growing corn. Not sure what corn has to do with anything.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

"I'll show you the life of the mind!"

We are more that what happens to us or, perhaps more correctly, we are other than what happens to us. We are, all of us, born into a context of genetic nature and genealogical nurture, a culture with language and customs and traditions and beliefs. In spite of all of that, there is a mote of consciousness inside that is, quite in spite of our situation, our mind, our identity, our self. That mind, that voice, is me. It's you. I've always been here, inside, thinking and reasoning, learning and discovering, reacting to the pitch and roll of my situation. This inner voice has been a constant from childhood through adolescence, into adulthood, through things I've done and the things done to me.

It is difficult, in the sensual interchange of physical reality, to see past the situation of a person to their self. Here I sit, a man of a certain age, with a certain look and build, married with three children, working in some occupation, dressed in some fashion, with all sorts of social and familial and cultural strictures that shape and constrain how I might relate to any one of you, how I might appeal to you, what you might think of me, how we might engage, or not engage, with one another. Then, inside, there is me. And there is you.

This is something I enjoy about the online medium, a form of interaction in which I have participated for several years now. Here, if you command sufficient skills of expression, you can relate to other minds without all the other baggage. Some people get along fine in the tangible world and feel little need for such an outlet, but I find it liberating. I don't often write about my situation in life, what's happening to me, what I'm doing. I am more than my situation. It does not define me. I am this voice projecting out into this digital theatre, trying to describe myself and my thoughts and my ideas to you. This voice you hear is that same voice that I've had all my life, the constant of my identity.

And then there is you, us. We might not work as a relationship out there in real life. If you saw me sitting at my table at the coffee shop, typing into my computer, there would be no thrill of recognition. You wouldn't know me. You would probably walk right by. That's okay. The real world is bound up in my situation and I don't really have the time or energy for complicated entanglements out there. In here it's simple, and that works for me. In here we work, we can be friends, your voice and mine.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Latitude and Climate

The light pouring in through the window says it's daytime. You cannot argue with the sun when the sun tells you it's daytime. The sun is the ultimate authority about such things, except up around the poles, where the sun gets confused. Everyone gets confused around the poles, though. The poles are confusing like that. So many misconceptions and perceptions break down at the poles. I blame the extremity of them, out there on the edge.

We're in the midst of those few short weeks in North Texas when the weather is amazing and enviable. It's so beautiful outside these days. The evenings are like paradise. It's so out of place. We're a mongrel climate with seasons cast off by all the more respectable climates to the north and the south. We aren't often enviable or pleasant. For these few weeks in the early autumn, though, we get a glimpse of what it must be like to live in a good place, in a place where people are happy and fulfilled and where life makes sense, a place that people take fond pictures of and print postcards about. Soon the fitful indecisive winter will descend upon us and we'll remember who we are, where we live. We'll set our jaws and muscle through the end of another year. Let the gods and winds do their worst! We're not leaving, dammit!

The sun shines down on the good and the wicked alike, on you and on me. Turn your squint full on into the flood of light and ask yourself which you are, wicked or good. Don't stare too long, though. It's not good for your eyes.

Hello, friends. Thanks for reading.

Later. Love.

NaN and Infinity. Too Much Information.

In floating point math there is a special value called "NaN". I stands for "not a number". It is the result of certain mathematical operations. What is it? Who knows. It's not a number, though. That much is certain. Whatever the hell it is, it's not a number. A lot of things are not a number, if you think about it, but they don't bother to be so explicit about it. NaN, however, bases its entire identity on not being a number. I guess that's how it keeps from just being another number, another statistic. I almost want a black T-shirt that says "NaN" in bold yellow letters. Almost. I think I'd get tired of explaining it to everyone.

In the middle of sex, just as things were really warming up, he was suddenly struck with a tangible awe at the implications of infinity, its vastness. He had a brief glimpse of endlessness and was able, for a split instant, to grasp the entirety of it. Goose bumps came up on his skin and he stumbled briefly in his rhythm. She looked up at him, worried for a moment that it was over already, over too soon. Infinity slipped to the back of his mind, however, and his awareness returned to her with new fervor. There was just a bit of infinity in their climax, something that had never been there before.

Mathematicians see the world in a different way. It's not better or worse, it's just different. I could never be a mathematician.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Forces of Evil in a Bozo Nightmare

Whenever the lords of the underworld and all the arcane spirits of the forest come together in his palace of stone to ask David Bowie what he would have them do each day, all the world cringes and we pray silently that he will not unleash his terrible minions against us. David Bowie is subject to mystical whims and passions and there is always the danger that we will anger his eccentric sensibilities and pay the ultimate price. An old gypsy told me once that a poster of Elvis Costello on the back of your bedroom door will ward off David Bowie and his capricious servants. I don't know if it's true, but I keep it there just in case. One does what one can to protect his home from evil, after all. May David Bowie never come for you, friends. Amen.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Early in the Oddening

I wonder sometimes when the afternoon ends and the evening begins. I wait anxiously for the beforenight, worried because things often get odd in the evening, which seems a bit ironic. A time of day called "evening" shouldn't be a time for getting odd but a time for getting even, though I've never been big on revenge. Revenge is too outwardly focused for me, requiring that I remember someone else and what they did to me. I prefer to focus on things in my head, things that never happened to anyone, things forgiven. So, in the evening, when the horizon slides up over the relatively stationary sun, I stand still and am moved by the permanence of cyclical change, bracing myself for participation in the great sidereal dance. I'd invite you to dance with me, but I'm bashful and awkward in such affairs. They are an invitation to brief joy and long pain, to odd evenings spent plotting revenge.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

The King of Poetry and Recent Complications

The King of Poetry came to my door this morning and questioned my loyalty. It was terribly awkward. I swore to him that I was still devoted to him, but that, as a citizen also of Prose, I had to balance my allegiance. He asked me to revoke Prose and swear fealty only to him. I said goodbye and closed the door softly in his face. The King of Poetry walked, forlorn, back to his old, brown Chevy Impala and drove away. What a strange and pitiful character he is, in his silly king costume with his ratty sneakers and pot belly, one temple of his thick bifocal glasses missing so that they sit crooked on his bulbous nose.

Life's been complicated lately. Have you noticed this? Whenever I try to watch the birds in the trees outside the window they call the cops on me. The clouds passing by overhead are all pay-per-view. The subdivision where I live has been zoned "No Humming". My Internet service provider has started charging extra for whimsical information, so I'm stuck downloading crime statistics and stock market tickers. I have to fill out a request in triplicate if I want to sigh about all of it. So far they've all been rejected, bold red letters stamping "SIGH UNJUSTIFIED" across the form. It's enough to make a grown man stand in line to purchase a crying permit.

The King of Poetry has a bumper sticker that says, "I Break For Emphasis". I'm not sure if that's funny or not.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Now What?

It had been raining for days and we had grown tired of treading water, so we decided to sink, fully expecting to drown. "We have lived so far a life of air and sky," I said to my faithful companions. "Now we will live the life of water. I suspect it will be a life short-lived." I glanced around at each smiling face, willingly following along to what came next, and returned each trusting smile. Then I closed my eyes, exhaled, and sank below the waves, and everyone came along.

I cannot tell you if we drowned and I am now swimming in some morbid dream, or if we were changed, all of us together, but I swim now in a small school of happy fish. They dart back and forth, following my lead. They smile at me, that same trusting smile, as if to ask me with their blinking silence, "Now what?"

Hello, friends. Now what?

Later. Love.

On Intramission

My new play is set during intermission at a play. The acting happens out in the foyer, with the audience milling around, playing the audience while also being the audience. After Act One we all go into the theatre for fifteen minutes and watch a local troupe perform a scene from Othello. Then it's back out into the foyer for Act Two. It's a concept play. We hope everyone gets it. It's called "Intramission".

I don't actually write plays. I write software, computer programs and such. A computer program is like a play in that it is written in a script and usually no one likes it except the person who wrote it. I don't actually write programs much these days. I mostly just sit around and tell other people what I think about the programs they write. I give unwelcome suggestions and criticisms. I roll my eyes and sigh and pound my fists and, every once in a while, raise my eyebrows in admiration of something clever, something I wouldn't have thought of myself. This is what I do. It's a lot like writing plays. There's drama and comedy. We have directors. We have critics. People throw flowers onto our stage. Pretty similar, I guess. Except for the makeup.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The River to the Sky

I'd rather be an engineer than a salesman. I can explain what that means to me, but I'm not willing to persuade you to agree. See?

Not far from my house there's a river that has decided to flow straight up into the sky. It rounds a little bend, passes a giant willow, runs over a shallow rapid of broken rocks, and then rises gently up from the ground in a slow curve until it flows upward into the blue heavens and out of sight. Fish and turtles go along for the ride. I wonder where they end up. Does the river flow into space? Does it come back down somewhere? Is it pooling up into a lake in the sky? I don't know, and the scientists are refusing to look into it on principle. "It's impossible," they declare from their cathedrals. "It cannot happen." They're probably right, but the river doesn't care. Schools of fish don't teach science, and turtles are all home-schooled.

I'm building a raft. It's big enough for several people. Who's in?

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I don't like to talk about reality if I can avoid it, but I'll make an exception to tell you about Susan. She has completed her second treatment regimen, a regimen that included daily chemo pills, daily radiation treatments, and weekly chemo infusions, along with many pain and anti-nausea medications to deal with the side effects. The regimen, which lasted six weeks,  was hard on her. At week four her blood tests were so troubling that they made her take a week off. But, she made it through. Now she has about five weeks to recover from the regimen and wean off the medications before we go back to M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston to get new scans and see what the cancer is doing, if it's still around. If everything looks good, they'll begin preparations for Susan's next ordeal, a surgery to remove her esophagus and all or part of her stomach. Still a long way to go, but we're glad to have one more step behind us. We would appreciate your continued positive thoughts, wishes, magic charms, prayers, whatever you have to offer for Susan. Thanks for stopping by.

Back Around. Round and Round.

There is a difference between a fabricated story and a mistake and a lie, though none of them are true in the technical sense. Anyone who argues that they are the same is a technician and not an artist. Burn them at the stake. The technicians will lead us all to doom if we don't stop them. Open your eyes, artists. Look around you. There is a difference between a portrait painter and a Xerox machine. Anyone who argues otherwise must die. The revolution starts today. Round and round we go.

Meanwhile, in the coffee shop, our hero is typing a blog post, sipping a cup of coffee, staring out the window. Let's see what he has to say.

I think I'm back from my hiatus. Only time will tell, I suppose, but I have reason to believe, from the perspective of here and now, that I am indeed back. This seems like the same coffee shop, the same table by the window, the same text editor. I think I'm the same person, within the parameters of normal human change over time. I guess all of this means I'm back. I'm glad you're all still out there, if indeed you are. I'm glad to be here again, writing the same new things I've always written, the same old originality I've invented over and over and over for years. Round and round we go.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Hiatus

Have to take a break for a while. Just too busy. I'll be back. I promise.

Later. Love.

On Having Recently Seen Frankenstein's Monster

Not long ago I saw Frankenstein's monster hitchhiking along Interstate 35. He looked like he was heading north, maybe looking for work, maybe just trying to get away. There's big empty country up north on I-35, plenty of space for a monster to get lost, to avoid the cudgels and torches of angry villagers. There are wide, flat plains for miles and miles, little towns where nobody ever goes, barn lofts to hide in and tall grass where you can lie and rest your tired boots.

He looked a little worse for the wear, haggard and ragged from too many miles, too few friendly conversations, dogged and anxious but with that same stiff forehead, resolute in giving no foothold to the sinking, final despair that brings travelers down, lays them in the ditch, feeds them to the buzzards. One wonders how he can hold on, wonders at his crazy resolve. Were I in his place, a victim of the madness of manmade reincarnation, an alien to the circle of birth and death and lineage we all share, I don't know that I'd want to keep stalking the shoulder of the highway, putting one boot clumsily in front of the other day after night after day.

But there he was, nature's special child, heading north on I-35. No one stopped to pick him up, of course. No one liked the look of him. No one ever had. But nature loves him, perversely fascinated by this new thing under the sun, this unnatural selection in an otherwise featureless sea of survival of the fittest. Rain and wind caress his stitched, scarred skin as he sleeps each night, more alone than you can imagine, the loneliest sleep of all time.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Being Particular

In particle accelerators they speed particles up to amazing speeds and then smash them into an obstacle and measure the spectacle with sensitive instruments. They see the trails of tiny particles that are startled into being, set out enthusiastically for a short journey to oblivion, and then wink out of existence altogether. That's me. I'm a particle like that. And this my trail. And you are the sensitive instruments that detect me. Here I am. See? I'm right here. Please pay attention. I promise I won't last long.

Hello, friends. I hope you are well. Are you?

Later. Love.