verti-gone.

I'm not complaining about anything today. It's 8:00 in the morning, it's sunny and beautiful outside, and I have coffee. 

Working backwards, the last three weeks have been terrible. I had vertigo for three weeks, and if you've never had it, it feels awful. Not only is it very uncomfortable, but scary. Vertigo isn't really a condition, but a symptom, and if you Google vertigo and headache it becomes even more scary. Especially if you've been to the ear, nose and throat specialist and they come up with nothing. The next thing that comes up is cancer, which is pretty much the only thing that comes up when you consult with Dr. Google for any combination of symptoms. 

The effect of all this, is that I didn't feel like myself - it's like walking around in a haze, and I was exhausted by all of the work my body and mind had to do to keep me upright. I had trouble talking as well, and I couldn't read. Literally. If I tried to read my eyes would skip some words, and replace others. It's a real strain on your eyes when the world is spinning. 

And yesterday, after three weeks of walking around on what felt like some other planet, something gave. My ears burned, my sinuses felt like someone had a vice on my head, and even my jaw ached. All at once. I felt this for about 20 minutes, had a panic attack, and then...poof. The dizziness left.

After that, I still had dull aching pains where the dizziness once lived, but I survived. Today, I can read and write, and nothing feels terrible. I'm still a little achy, but I'm guessing whatever was in there expanded everything, and now it's shrinking back to normal size.


That said, the ear, nose, and throat specialist looked at my ears and throat, but had neglected to consider my nose. By process of elimination, that leaves only my nose and sinuses. And I can't believe that they could be the source of such a terrible feeling.

So I'm writing today, courtesy the explosion in my head. Not only has it cleared the vertigo, but I think it's cleared the path to a lot more of this, and a lot less of that other thing that was making me feel like a lost, lonely alien.

Makes me wonder how much of it was all in my head.

Thanks, Hank.

Oh, my. It's a long time between posts. Where have I been? I subscribed to Netflix, including the instant play feature. Over the last few months, I thought it had done nothing for productivity, or creativity, or any activity for that matter. Until now.

Last night, I watched Bukowski: Born Into This. I heard this, cried a little, and fell asleep. And I think it's time I put my big girl pants on and start writing again.

from memory.

He tried to choke me once. Twice actually, but the second time seemed, for about 30 seconds, that it was real. It wasn't in anger, but it might have been in hate. In fact, if he were choking me any other way, I would have been much, much more afraid. But it was in the most loving way possible, in that he didn't kill me, and the look on his face reflected far more pain than I felt, even in the moment.

And there were others. They didn't choke me literally, but metaphorically I can't say that they didn't.

I had forgotten this story, but sometimes, in the night, I remember things. Important things. Like how I used to become involved with men who both loved me and wanted to kill me. Why? Because I didn't think it was true. Even now, I don't know if it's true.

That said, no matter what I say or write, everyone will decide their own reality based on what they can stomach, and that's o.k. for them, the same as it is for me. Maybe that's why I felt so much for someone who wasn't afraid to show me what was on the inside, when really it was so disgusting and inconvenient. It felt at very least like I'd discovered an undeniable truth. It made me so sad, not for me, but for all of the awful burdens the people all around us have to bear quietly.

I'm not afraid of people finding out who I really am. I'm terrified, however, of people deciding in their comfortable reality that I'm something I'm not. I know this isn't a healthy fear, and I know that I need to change this. Fear comes out in anger, and anger makes for all kinds of ugly, inconvenient displays--like choking people in the night, at least for that guy I once loved. But this is not a resolution. After all, there is no resolve for the past. It remains, regardless of what I change, and regardless still of who I've become. No, this isn't a resolution. It's acceptance.

I've found the strength and the will to pry all of those dirty fingers from around my neck. I've found a way to believe that regardless of how much love I have to offer, there are times when I should be afraid and many times that I shouldn't. And that I may not always know the difference. But being afraid of what is, and being afraid of what people think of me are two different things. I should probably work on fixing the latter, no matter what day of the year it is.

This may or may not be a true story. I'll never know, so you'll never know, but it's not pretty.

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is really worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass them on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise."--Miranda July

can't be wronger.

I suppose I could be more wrong, but what's the use? The way the word rolls off my tongue just doesn't feel right, though.  I've done things that were wrong. I've checked off the wrong answer. But me, just wrong?  As in, the whole of me...my being, my lifeline, my heart? Never.

I say this a lot nowadays: "I don't know what's wrong." And I've been correct. But finally, the answer is finding me, or I'm finding out, and I don't like it one bit.

Fact. I have free will. You do, and she does, and he does, and they do. That doesn't mean everyone's free to do as they please, because let's face it, a lot of people aren't, and for a lot of reasons. A guy in prison can't get out, but he can choose to die trying. If you're dirt poor, you can't run over to the next car lot, buy a fast car, and drive off into the sunset; but you could walk. Free will is still inside of that guy, inside my creepy next door neighbor, and therefore, must be inside of me. What I'm trying to say is that I feel trapped, but there's something building. That's not wrong, and it's not bad, and not even close to evil. I never was. I never will be. 

I remember how horrifying it was to simply get on a bus. Out of context, this seems silly. But it was the kind of bus where the kids would place their backpacks on the seat next to them so I couldn't sit down (and believe me, I couldn't sit down fast enough to keep my heart from breaking). It was the kind of bus that would take me to fourth grade. The kind of fourth grade that said I couldn't look at this or that kid because they'd always ask, "What are you looking at four-eyes," and everyone would laugh. The kind of fourth grade in which the teacher would look over my head instead of at it when the spit balls were filling up the back of my stupid, bowl-cut hair. 

But this ain't no pity party, kids. This is real life, and it keeps coming, like it or not. Grown up or not. Everybody knows this, right?


The problem with all of this is that I stopped getting on the bus. I fought my mother, I fought myself, and by then, the bus had won. I wonder if anyone remembers those mornings. I forget them most of the time. But right now I need to entertain them; to remind me that it's just a frigging bus, and regardless of where or with whom I sit, there's nothing wrong about me. Pause. And I think more recently, both because of and in spite of all of this, I may have been catching all of the wrong buses, even in my adult life. I know this because they were all bringing me back to the same place. And if I weren't wrong enough, it didn't stop there. I've finally stopped catching them at all. The bus won again.

Whenever you find yourself in a box, it's wise to ask yourself who's constructed it, and then find out where the seams are. And finally, what's holding them together. Most times, it isn't much more than a thin layer of glue. I'm holding out for the rain.

have at.

I've been absent. Not absent-minded, and still here physically. But the words don't come, or when they do I've been stuffing them down and in the end I've felt disconnected. Incomplete. Not present. 

Honestly, I've just been trying to figure out where I fit. And I've decided that it's wherever I want to be. Wherever I feel the happiest, repercussions be damned. After all, it's not what happens to you (or because of you), but what you do with what happens. A year ago, I stopped at Hooligan's to meet a friend for a beer. It was open mic night. About an hour later, the guy running the thing asked me, "You wanna play?" 

I only knew three songs by heart. I stepped up all by my lonesome and played a song, mainly because I didn't feel like being absent that night. Or invisible. Then someone said, "I know that song. You should have told me and I would have played it with you." I also didn't feel like being left alone anymore. So I looked at the guy running the thing and asked everyone in the room if we could do the same song again, the two of us. And I received a warm and resounding, "Yes!" from all of them. It was one of my favorite nights. It changed the way I felt about playing music until then, and it stopped me from shaking in my boots every time I've done it since. It's the reason I fell in love for the umpteenth time, and it's the reason I'm still hanging on, when everything I feel says to let go.

I don't want to shut up and be absent anymore. I don't want to be quiet. 

This time, it's really about me.

panic, rinse, do not repeat (long story, short)

Found: Three lumps along rib cage next to right breast. 

Call to the doctor one: nurse requests immediate visit. Panic ensues.

Visit to the doctor number one: she thinks they're cysts. Check back in one month. Panic subsides.

One month later: she's not entirely sure they're cysts. More panic. Please visit general surgeon in one and a half weeks.

One and a half weeks later: Enlarged lymph nodes identified. Panic once again. Doctor says not to worry, he can check in two months but can order precautionary blood test, results to be delivered 24 hours later. Panic says take all of the blood you need, regardless of discomfort and fear of needles, then remains.

24 hours later: Blood tests are all clear. 

Lumps remain, but can leave anytime. Please and thank you.

not by train, not by bus.

Sometimes I run out of things to say. Or do. Passing the time isn't my forte, and neither is making up for lost time. At least I still have my senses. I can hear, see, taste, smell and feel. I'm soaking it all in until the moment hits me to get talking again. Writing again, too.

I have so many reasons to be thankful, starting with the people I think that I could never do without. And then there are the people I hardly know, who turn up out of the blue to save the day, or even just the hour, because sometimes happiness or even plain old contentment is just that short lived. I hold faith in the good that all of these people are doing, for the hours, the days, and even the years. Not just for me, but for everyone and the universe besides.

But I'm not going to sit here and wax all cheesy on anyone's ass.

It's not really my style after all, nor is it my real talent. The truth is, I'd love to be able to make up for what I lack in talent in some small way. Not boring anyone until their head slides off would be a start. So, I'm thankful. Who really cares anyway? And who isn't? Moving on.

I read "How To Be Good," once. I may read it again, and soon. This is not because Nick Hornby is a genius, although High Fidelity became one of the best goddamn  movies I know. If you know me, then you know "movies I know" are about as limited as the number of known Robert Johnson recordings. Books, less so.

Nick Hornby makes good points. Points so obvious that we totally forget them. But not in a bad way (if by "bad way" I mean "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs"). A bad way would be to totally condescend your readers, thereby making them feel stupid for forgetting how basic human instincts can turn even intelligent, witty, and even nice human beings into complete morons.

(THIS REALLY HAPPENS.)

I like that about Nick Hornby. I also like that about "How To Be Good." (What I like about "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," is that it reminded me of how much I need to read Nick Hornby again.) I actually consider Nick Hornby books more or less "in between" reads. They're quick. They're to the point.

Then I can dig into Edith Wharton, or maybe even John Updike, to whom I've recently devoted about three months of my reading life (only to discover that Rabbit really is going to age and die right before and because of my very eyes). Precisely the moment to yell, "Mercy," or better yet, to call on Hornby.

So I thank him, too.