Christopher Hitchens died this morning. I learned about the stage four cancer diagnosis in June 2009, so it wasn’t unexpected. But it’s still tough. I so badly wanted another decade with him.
He taught me how important it is for emotion, the only thing in life (make no mistake about it), to be combined with evidence-based beliefs in order for us to move forward– as individuals and as a world of individuals that matter to each other. His commitment to truth, and his often beautiful way of describing it, whether in print or on the stage, has been absolutely inspirational. He was able to do with words what I could only express through neck veins and back sweat. Agree with all of his opinions or not, Hitch’s was a voice that mattered. He threw all he had into just about everything he ever decided to devote himself to. For his efforts, he’s changed and freed more lives than he’d ever know.
My only Hitch story is short and embarrassing. I ran into him on the #1 Train platform at Columbia. I was waiting for a train that was just pulling in, and as I walked towards the doors I saw him approaching from the stairs leading to the platform. I recognized him immediately, and equally immediately I froze in place. What do you say to a person who’s kept you awake for entire nights with life-altering arguments? As he came nearer, aiming straight at the door I was standing at, I just sort of raised my arm, speechlessly. He looked at me and sort of smirked, knowing I was stunned. He dashed into the train just as the doors closed. He spun around to face the windows and I saw him again, standing there, looking out, and I smiled. I watched him as long as I could as the train pulled away.
An era has ended with today’s very sad news. What I should have said when our paths crossed is so obvious.
I’ve spent more hours with you, Christopher, than you’ll ever know. I’ve been sleepless and enraged with you, I’ve been drunk with you, I’ve been angry with you, I’ve been embarrassed with you. I’ve thrown things at others and have had things thrown at me because of you. I’ve been free and at peace with you, I’ve been humbled and enlightened with you. Thank you, Christopher Hitchens, for all of it.
It has been 55 days since the injury, approximately 45 since PT began.
The enemy of a healing L5-S1 disc is the nose. I sneezed on Tuesday and it set me back days. It wasn’t big or exaggerated and still it had me crumpled and then fully extended on the conference room floor for over an hour. Definite setback, man. Dark cloud.
I had no idea the psychological part of this was going to be so tough. There are times when I’m just beside myself. I catch myself thinking things I never thought I’d ever think. It’s like my whole psyche is gradually losing its gusto because my body is incapable of handling what usually comes out of it. I’ve learned that my brain’s reaction to being physically unstable is to get low, to get down deep enough that there’s no reason to exert, and on this end it amounts to bouts of thinking there’s no reason for anything. It’s not quite the “free” feeling I’d expect if someone else were telling me about it.
It’s late in the afternoon, grey and cold December day on the Upper West Side and I’m face down on the conference room floor, arching up on my elbows, laptop ahead. I don’t even feel self-conscious any more. I hope someone brings a client in here just so I can make a scene.
I’d give anything to open it up and see what it looks like. I think I’d heal better if I could see the injury, see where the scarring is, see what the hell is still touching the nerve root occasionally. I want rip it out. I guess ripping would be bad. Things in the body are so interconnected and fragile. Removing things requires fine, sharp blades, sometimes lasers. I want to laser the thing that’s still scraping my nerve roots in the S1 area. I have a feeling it’s probably a tiny thing. But for some of our organs (eyes for example) even the smallest foreign presence can be agonizing.
I canceled PT on Wednesday because I didn’t want the Ice Queen to see the regression. I want her to feel like she’s a PT genius, the one person in the world who can repair the unbreakable man. Her confidence gives me confidence. I wonder if she really knows how bad it’s been, especially on the off days. I don’t want to tell her about it. At Friday’s session I’m going to tell her everything is still improving and that I just feel better and better thanks to her.
Sorry if you checked back a few times for pics– I got yanked away just as I got in this morning (explanation below the below).
____________________________________
I like food, and I appreciate food, but it’s very obvious to me that, when a person is hungry enough, even the plainest of edibles can taste perfect. I’ve learned this a couple times, like most people I guess.
A “foodie” I am not, but not because I don’t like foods. I choose to not make it into something it isn’t, and that’s what happens if you lose your frame. It seems so obvious and ordinary and uninteresting that, after some depravity (like a long hiking trip), instant noodles would taste better than anything. But this means something about virtually all things we “like”. It means that we can create the frame, always. We choose what to appreciate.
People who want other people’s frames are pitiful.
People who actually get their frames from other people are straight up pussies.
All that said, last night’s cooking visit was excellent. As promised, a visually enhanced description!
The list: Intimidating. Foreign. Intense. Lovely. What the hell is 味醂??
I found most of the things I was asked to procure at my favorite supermarket and was really excited and interested to see what it all could turn into.
My guest and cooking tutor for the evening is a pro. Seriously. For privacy reasons that’s all I’ll say. It was quite a neat thing to have had her over. My kitchen might be better now by proximity alone. She wasn’t exactly impressed with the setup, but said she’d seen worse. That’s about where I’m at generally so it was cool.
Incidentally, chopping is one of the most satisfying of the cooking moves because even if you have no idea what you’re doing (like me), it sounds like you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s the non-heated version of frying onions which invariably makes it smell like you know what you’re doing. And everyone knows that when you want to really fake someone out, add some garlic to the pan.
In the case of my friend, well she indeed knew exactly what she was doing, it was automatic. I tried to learn as much as I could, and I found her skills and knowledge so impressive. No small talk during the prep, straight business. I thought it was all pretty cool.
I couldn’t follow along as much as I was hoping. I thought by taking pictures the whole time I might be able to go back through someday on my own (and copy). But looking through them all now, I can tell that this is not going to happen. It was all too fast and complex.
“We” made more sauces than I can even remember, now. There was a sauce to cook into the fish, to add to the soup, to mix into the vegetables… and a sauce to put on top of what I swear was another sauce. Check it out:
a sauce on top of a sauce on top of tofu sitting in a saucesalmon steaks with special shrooms, carrots (yep!) and some special saucy stuff made mostly of soy
The preparation took about an hour, but a mere mortal would have required at least two I bet. My kitchen entire apartment smelled incredible.
Eventually, the final stop arrived.
The whole evening was great. I never expect these things to go well because I’m an idiot 90% of the time. I’m also not really used to having people over. It’s been a couple of weeks of slightly increased effort to be social for particular reasons. It’s been OK. For this night, it was just me asking out of blue. “Hey, want to come over and try cooking together?” It still surprises me when a person says yes to something like that. It’s an OK feeling to know people would want to. But that doesn’t make me want to do it more. I’m ready to cool out on my people time and drill back into my own stuff for a while. Probably. Especially with work christmas parties this week and next, etc. I’ll be struggling to stay… friendlycompanionable socialable.
It was fun and I learned a few things (I know, I know, obviously not about photography.) But as these things tend to go, after reaching a certain point I got a strong desire to be alone. I don’t know why that happens. I’ve met a couple people in my life where it didn’t seem to happen, so I know what it’s like for most people.
I think it happens as soon as the “talking for the sake of talking” begins. I don’t hold it against anyone, I know it’s normal, perfectly normal. I’m just not really a people person.
Fetale: “Well, here we are, both in the same room. I guess we should say things.”
OD: “Yeah I guess. Otherwise we just sit here in silence, which is weird.”
Fetale: “Yeah, that’s weird. Especially since you always seem to be on the opposite side of the room from me. So, what’s your favorite movie?”
OD: “I don’t really have one…”
Fetale: “Oh…”
<shit shit shit>
<fini>
_____________________________________________
Writing this morning didn’t happen because I ended up getting called last minute to another long meeting. This time was worse than Friday’s improv session because I was extremely underdressed, all of the sudden lassoed into a lunch with “professionals”, including the director of a german university.
authentic secret picture!
I don’t even have to tell you what his name is, you already know. You can hear his phlegm, no? Yes you can.
Eventually reaching the point of having nothing else to add to the conversation, I went with what I knew. I wish I had this part recorded, for it was excellent. Remember last weekend I had a friend over who showed me some German punk rock videos? One of the bands suddenly came to mind.
“So, this is really off topic, but do you know ‘Die Toten Hosen’ ?”
“Of cous I know zem, zey ah zee most famous of zee punk bandts in Geair-man-ee. How is it do you know zem?”
“A friend, she’s from their home town, Düsseldorf.”
“I zee. Vat is it of zer’s zat you like?”
“I liked ‘Faust in der Tasche’ [‘Fist in the Pocket’]”
Germans are pretty edgy, and that totally shut down the punk rock part of the lunch. It was just name of a song, but maybe it came across literally or something.
The conversation did go to music, but quickly over to some sort of classical thing that happened in Columbus Circle over the weekend. Nothing against the genre, but I never got into it, save for a few intros to some black metal songs. While they yapped about how marvelous all that was, I just focused on my chicken parm.
As is always the case, $23 chicken parm at dipshit pompous faculty hangouts tastes identical to $6 chicken parm from the Korean minimart, made by Santos with love: “And for you, extra avacodo, no extra charge, my friend.”
Still in PT clothes here in my hideout in a secret library on campus, two stories under a building that no student has ever been in, nor 99% of anyone affiliated with this place. I have a cold walk up Broadway back home, and a date with a Santos sandwich on my way.
The sliding glass door to the balcony is open, the sky is bright blue and clear, the sun is bright and strong, the air is dry and cold. Despite the open door, it’s warm in my living room, just an occasional cool draft sliding in, stirring coffee, toast, eggs, all up into the ceiling.
My eyes are clear and awake. I fell asleep listening to Joseph Campbell and had one of those nights of utterly deep removal from time and place. He was talking about how myths are the universal metaphors of humanity, connected directly to the human psyche, reflecting it explicitly no matter how creative or outlandish certain myths might seem. He described his theory in a completely cross-cultural, universal context. He mixed biblical stories with Athenian and Hindu stories in the same sentence, mixing heros and deeds across time and culture, presenting them not as pieces of many stories, but as a singular metaphor for the guidance we provide ourselves across time.
I’m at the standup desk I assembled so I can use a computer while healing from a broken L5-S1 disc in my lower back.
Standing is basically comfortable until regular leg fatigue begins. Then the option is to sit with aching, grinding pain in my back, or lie flat and be able to do very little. I would say it’s a strange kind of slow torture, but with so few options lately I’ve been reading and drawing more, thinking more, and I think it’s good overall. It’s fine during the day, at least. At night I spend so much time inside myself it can get overwhelming. It shouldn’t be that way, so that’s why I know I should keep at it.
A Japanese friend is coming over to cook tonight and I can’t wait. I’ve been given a list of ingredients to track down this afternoon in preparation, thankfully:
2 Fish (salmon or cod prefer...if you have some fish you like better please pick ,soy sauce. Sake ( for cooking) 1 scallion. ( do you know shimeji? Like a family of mashroom.....)
Iwill pick something from my neighboor too
Would you be able to cook rice before ?
Let me know if you have any question.
See you sunday!
I’ll post the step-by-step if it turns out well enough. I’ve moved an entire table in preparation for this… hopes are high.
A guy is blasting acoustic, Spanish ballads out of his window across the street, as if everyone would benefit by being unable to avoid having to hear it. Does he think it provides atmosphere to the street? Well, he’s right: a shitty, annoying atmosphere. Sliding glass door closed, coffee scent more intense, my own playlist cranking up. It’s a Wolves in the Throne Room morning.
Rehabilitating my injury is now a complex routine. There are times I do things, times I don’t. There are things I consume, things I don’t. Focusing on the routine, the regimentation of recovery, is keeping my mind on things that matter, and off things that don’t.
I get depressed at night. I used to wonder how common it was, but one thing I know is that people don’t like to talk about it. If people do experience it, most react by trying to hide from it. That’s pretty clear. They seek out distractions, anything that triggers dopamine release– drugs, sex, people pleasing, etc. I’ve seen it, I know about it. It makes no sense to me that people would prefer to go through their one-and-only life… in hiding.
Drug addiction and all of that are really addictions to hiding out, avoiding. Addictions and addictive behaviors are sustained and rewarded by escapism. Some people will probably live their whole lives as an escapee, on the run, thing to thing, person to person, hiding place to hiding place. I can’t say I blame them much, but I know that’s a bullshit way to live. I know that’s not for me, even though confrontation (rather than hiding) causes pain.
When depression sets in I feel hurt. I think about where it comes from and I never find an answer. I wonder if there’s some sort of stealth regret somewhere in my past that fires on me from the subconscious. If there is I sure wish I knew what it was. I mean, I’ve definitely been foolish and haven’t forgotten those times– they’ve helped me grow, never circling back, always forward. The biggest loser in life is the person who doesn’t learn, who repeats mistakes. The muscle of judgement gets a little stronger every time you use it, and doubly so when you use it correctly, like any other part of your body. Growing is everything. Idling, playing around, wasting time doing stupid, distracting shit– is nothing. It’s never been different.
I don’t know where my depression comes from. I probably just have too many wishes for certain things I know about to be different than they are. It’s hard to accept certain things, I know that much. It’s hard to not want to cause some sort of change, to be disruptive when things are fucked. Maybe a big enough something would force a reset and things would come back “right”.
My reaction to pain is still intensity. I’m thinking about that alot lately.
Two little old black ladies came to my door about an hour ago.
“Good morning, how are you today?”
“Hi.”
“We’re here on behalf of <some group>. There are some people who think that natural disasters are God’s way of punishing us for sins. Have you ever thought about that?”
“I’m completely certain that natural disasters are not caused by a god.”
I should have invited them in to talk. That would have been positively disruptive. But how far do you ever get with someone who’s stoned on belief in the absurd, or an addict, or someone so afflicted with emotional issues that they just refuse to think about certain things, to hear certain things. How far do you ever get with a person so disinterested in seeing or knowing what’s really there, the real thing about themselves, about the actual world, about what actually matters.
Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by retarded zombies and it gets lonely. Sometimes I even wish I were a zombie too, one shallow thought to another, la-la-la, then death.
Zombies don’t exist to themselves, only to people who see them, see the walking shells, predictable, controllable, lame and without meaning– except to the people use them, appreciate them for being usable, for being zombies.
Without reality, life is just a dream. How terrible would that be– never even knowing reality, how the joys of what’s real make fantasy joy seem like the worst waste of time, the boring thoughts of spoiled children hiding out until they die.
No update this morning, but for good reason. I was called at 7:30a to speak in front of a large group of people about something I have no expertise in. I had 3 hours to prepare and went straight from home to the medical school where an audience of public health faculty were waiting. Topic: educational case study construction. Why me? Someone forgot to recruit me earlier and realized it very, very late. But still, why me? Because I’ve done it (spoken about things I don’t know) many times, under worse conditions. Why me? The person who screwed up is a friend.
With me the answer is usually yes, even when it should definitely be no, except when it comes to stupid shit with stupid people. But for stuff like this, risking embarrassment and foolishness and my entire professional reputation? Count me in! Every time.
I recorded it on my phone, secretly. Will post for your amusement: improv1211
Yesterday I had my first follow-up with the sports doctor since PT began. He wasn’t sure what to expect after just four weeks given how bad the injury was. When I went in to see him for the first time, I could barely walk. The nurses kept watching me, probably ready to act in case I passed out. They’d try to ask background questions but at times it was too painful to speak. I would just stare back, clenching teeth, and they would tell me not to worry about it. I could tell that just looking at me made them uncomfortable. I wonder if that’s the case for everyone around me as I recover from this.
Eventually people will have their health insurance info implanted in their arm for moments like those. Though I guess that’d be problematic if you’re in there for having your arm pulled off.
The early timeline was:
Day of injury
Day after injury, pain nearly intolerable, difficult to get up from horizontal position.
Third day, I had a date at the MoMA that I didn’t want to break so I dragged ass into a pharmacy, sweating bullets, and tried an over-the-counter pain medicine that was recommended for backs. Brutal pain radiating down my left leg, hindering movement, thoughts, attitude. Everything. I tried to hide it as much as possible, unsuccessfully. Short date.
Forth day, after injury, into the sports doctor’s world. Vicodin and 5 day followup. Home in agony.
Agony.
Agony.
Agony.
Agony.
Followup: Oxycodone, PT.
So the followup was quick and simple. Better yet? Nope. Worse? Nope. OK, more PT. Need drugs? Nope. OK, come back in four weeks.
I joke with my PT now that it’s been a few weeks.
OD: “You’re just trying to keep me in here, aren’t you.”
PT: “Why would I want a man with a broken back around?”
OD: “Because that way you could order me around and I’d have to obey. I’m all vulnerable and shit.”
PT: “You’re onto me. Now tell me if this hurts.”
<ZOOOOOW!%#$@$>
PT: “You’re not better yet, I guess you will need to stay.”
My PT is strong, an ex-college super star athlete. She’s my same height and has forearms that would look great with tattoos. I’ve only seen her smile twice. The first time was when I demonstrated how I get up from a flat position. I was pretty sure PTs weren’t supposed to make fun of their patients, but she had no problem with it.
“Well, that was creative. How about you just do this…”
The second time was on purpose. I asked if she could put the soft-tissue-stimulation electrodes on my head to work my ear-wiggle muscles. She began to do it before laughing aloud. I said I commanded it as the patient. She said I could do it on my own at home and stop joking or she’ll make sure I never get better. Obviously, I like her. She’s really helping me.
When I go in there I see all these fat, miserable, injured people. Big fat guys with knee problems, swollen feet. Big fat women with neck braces. They complain about pain, they complain to the PTs about what they can’t do. You know what, for most of them, I bet even if they were healthy they probably wouldn’t be able to do much, and they probably didn’t do very much before they got messed up. That’s how people end up looking like marshmallows. I could never be a PT. I’d be too sickened every day. I’d get fired or suspended or de-licensed or whatever the fuck on the first day.
I wish I had PT twice a day, every day, instead of just 3X/wk. I feel great for about two hours after a session. As I cool down, the stiffness and pain returns and I get depressed. Spending lots of time that way, lately. Maybe it’s good for me. Depression used to be one of my greatest attributes.
You have to have it happen to you. Then everything becomes real. But don’t worry if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s all coming. Relax. All you have to do is live and watch.
Watch what? You know, the grand show, don’t you know it? It’s called King of the Shitheads. It’s on all day almost every day, every channel.
What’s that? Who’s in it? Why, I simply refuse to believe you don’t know. So many stars! From the shitheads in turbins to the shitheads in suits! It’s got everything! Drama, history, suspense. But most of all it has humor. It’s the funniest thing you’ll ever see, especially the part when they get wasted on weekends at the shithead hive, you know, the place with ‘dem fly ass ho’s and the template douchebag bitchfellows who are all up in here. Weee!
Look at me!
Look at me. Please. I need you to. Please, look at me. OK I'll show a little more, but will you look at me? Please. OK, I'll go, if you look at me. I need you to. Please, please look at me. OK I'll do that. I'll do that with you. You're looking at me now. You're the best. Thank you. Thank you you're the best. I love you.
What’s that you say? They need it? They lose it all up in the club, with them rad beats… off the hook yo! All the eyeballs wanting to meet them! Off the hook! Yeah! Oh!
Righty-ho.
You can smell the self-worth ripening, growing, molding over their bodies, the shitheads tuning their sensors to the girls with low self-esteem, the easy ones, the shithead chicks dosing up on the attention. It’s smeared around, helping people face…
Look at me. Please, I need...
You know, all this time I thought they were just severely retarded. Like pure-bread dogs that look so great until you see them walking into walls, pissing on themselves. The human equivalent is people who act like they think they’re supposed to, unable to do their own thing, step to the side of what’s been placed in front of them. They’re walking caricatures. They need distraction to feel like they’re really moving, that everything is really in place, that things are really fine, that they’re locking onto something and not just as fake as they feel, as fake on the inside as on the out.
Don’t worry! You can blend in! Go covert! OK, what you do is copy the speech patterns and dress codes that you see in the movin’ pictures. Chicks, show what you got! You don’t need to worry, no modesty for gods sake! There’s shit everywhere, everyone is giving! Before you know it it’ll be all over you and whammo, you’re covered! A real, live shithead too!
If you’re really good you might be able to sneak into the Shithead Parade!
It involves costumes. It leads to certain neighborhoods. It has certain hours and expectations.
Shithedz 4 evr!
Obit: Here lies Shitead Fetale. Her free spirit will be remembered... mostly by men, the way she thought she wanted it, before it was too late. RIP
It’s perfect. The shitheads go do the boozy shithead dance, pacified by PHAT BEETZ! Like toddlers and their cartoon soundtracks. The shithead hop is just as reliable, the computer does it, along with a shithead playing someone else’s records and pushing buttons. Over and over and over again, thank YOU Macintosh, shithead enabler.)
What’s that you’re into?
DJ Fuckhead!
Oh I like DJ Fuckhead!
Before the Shithead Show there was more testosterone in the world. Life was more. Clean blood was moving. People woke up pissed and ready to fuck, or fight shittiness, weakness. People could bite down and be honest. They had some life ideas, some principles for themselves and their eyes were open. They could take a punch if they had to and give it back three times harder when needed. They could tell an asshole, call it what it was and bite down. Now they can’t tell the difference. Now, people think what they want is to bethe assholes.
And when they realize how exceptionally fucked they are… it’s too late. What a motherfuck that will be.
Life might not have been much better in pre-shithead days, but the entertainment was more impressive at least… you know, waiting for the nuclear holocaust. Especially when the Ramones came and blew everything apart, saving us from what almost ruined mankind, the worst holocaust of all:
Residues from that war remain, but it’s more like a stain, now, on certain people.
I can’t really blame the shitheads themselves, though, it’d be like blaming a David Koresh follower for being hypnotised into self-immolation. Or a Christian fundamentalist for passing out when the good pastor touches them, you know… with vigor!
There he goes! The shithead fundamentalist!
Check out the threads! Check out the shoes!
Check out the cheeses, and check out the booze!
Ain’t pretty.
Your daddy used to be quite the clubber! Oh yes he surely was! He looked so cute up there in his outfits. I just couldn’t resist.
Thankfully, shitheads are pretty well contained, you know exactly where you’ll find them. If you get bored or stuck with them, you know exactly what to say, it’s like talking to a child. But be careful if you decide to tell them what a shithead they are. Shitheads don’t react well to truth, not at all. Their self-worth is too bound up in shittiness. By shedding light on that, they’ll cling to it harder, like a brainwashed cult member being told their leader isn’t really loving them, that in fact he’s just playing them for sex. “That’s just what they want you to believe because they want to keep us apart. Now come here and do what I taught you. Slower, yes…
Good metaphor, I know.
Not to worry, real people exist, too. Sometimes the shithead factions feel like a bit of an invasion and it’s important to confer with real people to check the severity. But nothing needs to be done. The roach motels are already in place and the shitheads can’t help themselves. So sit back. Relax. Try not to feel too sad about it.
The weekend was pure. I moved out of myself. I painted almost all of my furniture the same color and regimented the ghosts. Invited different people over both evenings and expressed myself perfectly. My emotions are starting to crystalize, me on the outside. I can see them locked into that object. I could put it on my shelf.
I could throw it at someone else’s head.
A fetale arrived, about 10 days into existence. For some reason she was free and said she’d love to. She’d never been to my neighborhood before. I put the crystal on top of the toilet tank.
Fuck.
As soon as she came up I knew her too well and stuck to music for the whole evening. The smell of fresh paint was replaced by whatever floral essence she had to cover herself with. Her strangely tall shoes standing at my door, clapping and knocking across my floor, empty Coronas suddenly on the table with lime slices, strange new laughter sinking into fresh paint.
We youtube play-listed each other. She knew some great punk rock from her hometown out west. It was OK. As I walked her down to the subway at 8:30p, she was confused. A bit early for a Saturday night? I get it.
I had a date with the All Night Room. And a fan to blow the flowers out the balcony door.
Someone came over Sunday night. We cooked and listened to weird and sad shoegaze rock and bitched about the sheep of City and fantasized about something we called The Big Frig. She wanted to get closer all evening but I kept moving– I kept “it” moving– circling right. Next time I socialize outside. Otherwise I’m trapped. I learned this long ago, what a bitch.
And so the awkward hour arrived.
OD:Well, I guess I better get to bed. Dang Sundays.
Fetale: Yeah, me too. <yawn>
OD: OK, I’ll walk you to the subway. This was fun.
Fetale: Oh, well it’s pretty late…
<Does the hair thing> <What a motherfucker.>
OD: Don’t worry, this neighborhood is pretty safe.
Fetale: Oh. OK.
Besides, she lives just 7-8 stops down.
Was there even an ounce of me that wanted her to stay?
Not a single one.
Dio on the playlist with song after song themed “evil woman look out tonight!”
Think about experience; how we understand the acting self; how we represent life in time and space; how we judge value in material, political, and cultural life; what we choose as our controlling purposes; and how we shape and situate our efforts in life and for what aim.
