I haven’t had a really good night’s sleep in thirty years, or thereabouts anyway, not since my last paid job as a carpenter, back in my seminal youth (accent on my little seamen, with their voyages of discovery), and defined by the sweet smells of patchouli, herbal essence, and decay, honeysuckle and slowly rotting newsprint, antique pickup trucks and low technology, the lower the better in fact, living in five-quarter-inch plank-wood cabin, rough-cut and left un-planed in makeshift sawmills, and toted by the truckload to the lower forty acres of uncut forest, lain fallow by then for at least two generations while the world went on without it, until I saw value where others saw only clear-cut profit, like my father before me, and so proceeded to put permanent erections in temporary top soils, me and quarter-sawed antique heartwood and wood-burning stoves and kerosene lamps and nature-lust and heartache, back when Coors was currency and non-conformity was criminal and planets were small and getting smaller every day.
Updates from January, 2013 Toggle Comment Threads | Keyboard Shortcuts
“You tested positive for prostate cancer.”
I tried to remember the old Seinfeld episode, but couldn’t remember the ending, so I was still positive (pun). “That means I don’t have it, right?”
The doctor smiles thinly. “Next we’ll need to do a bone scan to see the extent of spread. After that you can meet with the oncologist…”
The words gradually sank in. “Wait a minute; you mean I’ve got cancer (heavy on the reverb)?”
The doctor nodded, then continued talking, but I was no longer listening.
The say at the moment of your impending death your life will pass before your eyes, presumably in fast-motion if you’ve done very much, though anybody who’s ever used an old-fashioned crank-up 16mm film camera knows it’s just the opposite: to play back fast, you shoot slow, and vice versa. Think about it. But I didn’t see any flashbacks, either fast or slow. All I saw were dollar signs, flashing before my eyes and out the window. My life itself was like a frame of old-fashioned film stuck in an old-fashioned projector gate, starting to burn and tear, starting to smell to all Hell. I’d just been told that I’m dying, the dreaded ‘C’ word. But wait a minute. Aren’t we all dying? It’s just a question of when, and how… (More …)
hardie karges, ANNE KARGES, and kc are discussing. Toggle Comments
“Don’t fence me in,”… just give me a gun…
The current debates over gun control in the US are nothing new, of course, and, in a way, have nothing to do with guns or murders or bullets or magazines. It has to do with control. We Americans don’t trust control of any sort, especially when it emanates from above or from the center, the central government, that is. Nor is this predilection entirely an American thing, though we’ve certainly carried the argument to its logical conclusion. It should be noted straight away that this is the same debate—not similar, analogous, or metaphorically mellifluous—that operates in any and all discussions of economic, health, welfare and other forms of policy.