Afoot Ahead Ago (Go)

(FROM EARLY APRIL, 2011)


Another indigestible specimen of world-class conundrum?


Appealing a rejected filing for disability. Wanna know why?


In America, at least, to have a disability is to contradict the allegedly robust American spirit, to somehow disrupt the free-market feudalism that has, evidently, "gotten us to where are" while "paving the way to a better tomorrow." So, it's both afoot and ahead. And it's hogwash. Prosperity is as esoteric and subjective a term as you can get.


Stay on topic, Benb.


Okay. Disability. If you've gone to school for years and years, and you fall ill, then it's stated that you're not disabled if you can do any work. Like an erstwhile biochemist isn't disabled if he or she can be a greeter at Wal-Mart. Not that any job for which you're "overqualified" will humor you in the slightest. It has been, and doubtless will be, suggested that there is a body of laws to prevent malfeasance in this department, but I'll generalize here by saying directly that bureaucracies tend toward a lack of trust in terms of things that haven't happened to them empirically or measurably. And it's simply out of cruel, punitive self-interest.


While there is much more to say about this, I am afraid that I'll have to finish later.

Interdependence Day

Hi. I'm taking my the advice of my eldest brother, who's considerably shrewder and more savvy than I am, and posting daily. In full disclosure, I'm doing so begrudgingly.

The humidity that's hindered us―permeating everything that we do or don't touch, muddling and fuddling my erstwhile will to make meaning of and from a purportedly green pasture―is a thing to which I refer (with faux-fondness) as "the Soup of the Day."

Oh gosh now it's later and the humidity has at last abated and we ate a delicioys meal and i worked in the yard until the mosquitos emerged and I hit my left hand in the exact same place quice.

perhaps you're puzzled at the sight of "quice"; i, too, would be so. but it's a recently coined (and, until now, privately used) word meaning, basically "happened or happening four times." like once or twice or thrice.

In days of yore (1997, so ardently idealized now, but was actually the same bankrupt and exceptionalist pepsi-fizz gutter as that in which nearly all of us flouncy problem-inventors reside, doubly deluded, to this very day), my friend Jason and I devised this numbering system for the amount of times that an event has occured or will occur. When I'm not exhausted, I will gladly list them all for you.

Just now, I thought that someone in our piddly-but-pretentious village had discharged a firearm. Then I remembered that it's the Bob-Seger-Michelob-Weber-Grill holiday of holidays, and I realized that it's likely bedtime.

Cessation vs. Sensation

1/30/2011, 12:42 PM

Well, a return to Maine has occurred, along with compounded confusion. Twelve days in an unforgivably pleasant climate does things like change minds. There will, most assuredly, be more on that in future postings, but this time (i.e., now) requires a gesture of solidarity toward an old friend now suffering the throes of the
Mediocre Life of the Non-Smoker. I'll offer some pretext first:

Even though I "quit" on the 25th of May, 2004, I remain a staunch advocate of cigarette smoking, and my reasons for quitting were fairly obvious--with my MS, smoking a cigarette would cause instant paresis on the entire left side of my body. Yeah. Expletive.

While all sorts of impossible people will go on ad nauseum about conditions like cancer and emphysema, younger people tend not to give a care about such distant consequences. And I could never blame them--smoking is fantastic. However, the alarming proximity of my particular consequence did much to extract the carefree, yet intensely intentional, joy from smoking that I had always treasured. I had attempted quitting on many prior occasions, but this time really stuck, although I sometimes do indulge socially. My sons have never seen me smoke, and I prefer it that way.

This is a poem that I wrote in 2002, during one of my first bouts with quitting.

nicotine and my mind

i’m changing my relationship to boredom–

you’d think that we were sweethearts

if you weren’t always right

something something something

words like the big forever problem

to which i’ve possibly damn-fool sentenced myself

are problems

so let’s see i can get on with it or not

are those my only options?

day one

and another

day one and

another day one and another falling like dumb damn dominoes

they should give it some better or at least more-accurate names

like day in which you sweat all of the time despite temperature or

day on which you alienate all of your friends without even trying

and ouch are those things pricey

i mean, worth it

or, rather, deadly

and mysteriously beautiful sputum ingenious cancer phlegmatic wonder

i love to stink but not necessarily to smell and that’s just plain wrong or

i mean i love to smell just not with the

nose that i had when i was born but

i mean that everything that i say is

not true i love it i love it i’ll always

always love it

taking me somewhere while

killing my friends and

funding fascists and

looking at me loving it &

bemoaning its coincidences

cussing and kicking everybody

knows i’m deteriorating anyway

but i am standing standing strong

looking and acting like i actually know better

sopping with the snot of my suppression

okay

breathe and pretend and

remember that it hurts