along the 'they' continuum

January 13, 2012

It’s like riding a bike. That’s what they say.

And “they” are the indubitable sages—devisors and promulgators of life lessons couched in simile, the Platitude Poets of Ubiquitous Renown. At best, “they” are the Franklins, the Buddhas, the Christs, and the Reverend Luther Kings; at worst, “they” are the weatherman, the Chandler Bings, the Westboro Baptist Church Signage Committees, and the Congressional sloganeers; and in between, along the They Continuum, in no particular order, “they” are the sane clergy, the banal teachers, the Mohammed Alis, and the fortune cookie Confuciuses.

It’s like riding a bike. They say it of things you’ve done before but haven’t in a while and would like to try again, toot sweet. Riding a bike, for instance. Or, say, a unicycle. Or a moped—though to be honest, once you quit riding a moped, you should probably go ahead and scratch it off your list. Of course, they mean other things (because They are skilled simile-crafters, too, the Half-Wrought Poets of Copious Cud, you’ll be thanked to the recall), like swinging a golf club, for instance. Or, say, a baseball bat.

Or a scimitar—though to be honest, once you start swinging a scimitar, you’d be a fool to ever stop in the first place. Seriously, who quits being freaking awesome?

But you wanna know what is not like riding a bike? Walking. In theory, yes, I can walk for endless miles. In my dreams*, I’m a veritable gingerbread man. But getting up on my two real legs and moving forward in an orderly fashion . . . well, here’s the image: a clumsy foal, still oozing its membranous, uterine sac, struggles to gain its feet; it searches for the right combination of clumsiness and strength which will allow it a brief nuzzle with the exhausted mare before collapsing again—wash and repeat. (Really, momma, wash that thing it’s nauseating us.)

To be fair, my right leg is fine. My right leg could ride a bike any given moment. It would rather eat a cheeseburger but if needs must be then needs must be. My left leg on the other hand, oh it’s a real dolt. Keeps slipping off the pedal, sending the vehicle in goofy circles, kicking back and applying the brakes. (I have switched to handlebar brakes now, see “visuals” page on the right—I’m the old timer with the walker.)

I didn’t think it would take so long to walk with some semblance of walking. After my normal seizures, I’m down for a couple days. I use walls and furniture to get around. A cane if I want to look dapper. (Is dapper achievable in camouflage pajamas and pit-stained t-shirts? Not sure, but a cane is pretty darn smooth. Mine is black and can fold in segments. It’s pretty awesome. Not scimitar awesome, but yeah . . . ) This time, however, after the nine-hour event two weeks ago [!] and subsequent weekend of kicking a man while he’s down (adding insult to injury, as “they” say) good golly, if I ain’t right hobbled. Like a horse. Like a grody foal.

Wash me, momma, then look’a’ me momma . . . All hands!

*A poem I wrote last Autumn apropos of this post.

Reprieve in REM

In my literal dreams, I can run. Can swan-

Dive then swim then hold

My breath and drown. Can resurface

On my own. Can be

On a team, picked first for my capabilities—

Base-stealing, going long.

Can fight for myself, for my family,

Make fists

And jab.

Can launch, circle Saturn, survive

Re-entry, parachute, plummet,

Then swim, then hold

My breath and drown. Can afford

To lose hope. Can jog for fitness.

Can run.

smeagol and meryl streep

What follows is a transcription of the handwritten journal I kept before I could get out of bed and to my computer. For the time being, we are all caught up.

January 4

Key to convalescence: Lie. The best sort of lie? Laughter.

Things are wretched—now that’s funny! Any given moment of relief may proceed an altogether excruciating moment—a real knee slapper!

Sure, genuine laughter has its palliative effects, but genuine laughter is gold in a coal mine. Best bet: accept your Chilean black-lung with chortles; do your friends and colleagues a favor—they love you, they really do, but jebus! stifle a moan now and then will you?

If you happen to stumble upon that gold of genuine laughter, guard it like Smeagol in the bowels of the Misty Mountains. At least begrime its effulgence to match the luster of the lie-laughter. Crying “Wolf!” is fine but you have to rough-up some sheep on your own to frame the lupine phantom.

[Aside: Tearful crying will be dealt with later, I’m sure; but for now, the rule is this: never, ever, in sickness or health, falsify a cry. Unless you’re Meryl Streep and it’s in the script, I can think of no real call for it. (Ladies, man-up and take your piddling traffic ticket with a little dignity. Gentleman, woman-up and quietly cuss when you stub your little pinkie toe instead of going into labor pains.) Because genuine crying is the coal more precious than gold—a rarity with no commensurate exchange rate.]

January 5

I have tried and failed to calculate the permutations of pillow arrangements in order to more dramatically convey how nearly impossible it is to get comfortable after a week in bed. I am currently rocking four pillows and each can be manipulated about ten ways. So I figure there are hundreds, if not thousands, of ways that my efforts to achieve body-ache relief have been confounded and mocked.

January 6

Today’s discussion: The difference between “delicate” topics and “indelicate” topics.

For instance, a delicate topic for me right now concerns the majority of Hominēs erectus’ [sp ?] ability to perambulate erect vis-à-vis my negligible capacity for the same. I get jealous, spiteful, and consider a clandestine defenestration—only two of which I can viably perform at the moment but each of which I will/ would survive, all the more incapacitated. Sticks and stones would break my bone and seething just hurts my jaw so . . . swallow, Socrates.

Back to the delicacies. (Maybe foie gras or machine washing cycles come to mind but no, no, no, banish those thoughts before we proceed. Seriously, you’ll want to. I’ll wait.)

Slate clean? Here we go . . .

Query: Is the proud occasion of my first non-supine bowel movement in over a week a delicate or an indelicate topic? I can see arguments for both and as such should probably just end this journal post as it stands.

That being said . . . mark today as the day of my first big-boy potty of 2012. Confetti discouraged. Just call me Champ or Slugger or Bronco or something. I’ll pat myself on the back for you, so stay seated. Unless you’re already mid-standing-O, then take your time, settle-down at your earliest moment of relaxed exaltation.

Also of note and as prelude to the above winsome event, I stood out of bed today without relapse into convulsions. You’d think this would be the happier feat of the two, but you’d be wrong. Very wrong.

January 7

To prove my existence as a member of the global colony of cosmic mites, I have been dating my journal entries with “2011”s. A classic blunder. A blunder, however, in its dying days . . . 1] in the adult-sphere what with the checkbook becoming a thing of the past (barely holding on by a blue-haired thread ahead of you in the check-out line when your car is illegally parked and running and open to video-game-trained carjackers with your woefully out-of-fashion chihuahua nipping at the crack you dutifully left for it despite your rush to get a pack of smokes and a canister of breath mints from the Super Walmart when a Chevron would have sufficed). . . 2]in the scholastic sphere where, I can only suppose, proper dating continues to be prerequisite for completion of handwritten tests to do with (if memory serves) Indians—the tomahawk kind, water—both its elemental components and the planetary fraction thereof relative to terra firma, Huck Finn’s “nigger”-less (indelicate?) adventures along the just-as-mighty-as-a-woman Mississip—Old Person River, etc, etc.

Also of note, I have finished this month’s chemo pills and will await the early effects, partying like it’s 2011.

Later that day . . .

Big-boy bath.

Of note, 24 hours seizure-free. Don’t I get some sort of token?

January 8

Enough

Swing wide the shutter . . .

Morning!

Wait, retract! start with cracked

Jalousie; gently let the sun

Appear upon your risen-ness.

The day is long and calls

For rain.

January 9

Made it downstairs. Wore myself out.

January 10

Went to the library. Put on a one-man-show entitled "Buffoon: An Amateur Walker-User's Story." Let moms and little girls pass. Wore myself out.