"Anyone who has never spoken to me is now thinking I am a total pervert. Anyone who has spoken to me is not even remotely surprised. "That's just Hyperion." they say. Bastards. Why do they always have to talk about me?"
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The worst part is that I'm using a Kitty for my analogy
Monday, October 19, 2009
SomeDaysWeeksMonthsYearsDecadesLives are like that.....
[I reprint this poem about every year. I think it's my favorite poem on Earth.]
The Hollow Men
T.S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ feet over broken glass In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer—
Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man’s hand Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this In death’s other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death’s twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long
Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is Life is For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
It was her Punishment, and her Salvation For all Eternity, sentenced to stare at that Wall To stare, and to remember a world she never knew.
Behind her back she reaches Forever Hands impossibly gnarled, a story told in each wrinkle Into those hands placed a Rose.
Her Punishment - flail herself with the Rose To wound, to scourge, to cut and bleed Thorns dig at skin, thorns dig at Shadow, Thorns dig at Sin
Yet...
Petals softer than silk, more soothing than the coolest balm Whispering strokes spread comfort, ease pain, bring peace The Rose revitalizes what the thorns tear asunder.
You know who doesn't get enough credit? Richard Marx. James Taylor and Peter Frampton and that whole set...yeah, they're fine and dandy, but Richard Marx might have been the greatest Wuss Rocker (with a mullet) of all time. He needs his own top ten list. In the meantime, check out this heart-felt ballad that never gets enough attention. The lyrics are beautifully poignant.
Whenever I'm weary from the battles that rage in my head You make sense of madness when my sanity hangs by a thread I lose my way but still you seam to understand Now and forever I will be your man
Sometimes I just hold you Too caught up in me to see
I'm holding a fortune that heaven has given to me I'll try to show you each and every way I can Now and forever I will be you man
Now I can rest my worries and always be sure That I won't be alone anymore If I'd only known you were there all the time All this time
Until the day the ocean doesn't touch the sand Now and forever I will be your man Now and forever I will be your man
I'm really not that knowledgable bout Bob Dylan, but the deeper I delve the more I see the genius. I have more, but in comparison I would just sound stupid and inauthentic, so I'll shut up now.
I am supposed to have written a tribute that was to come out this morning...but I totally cannot concentrate on it. I got it half done, and then I break down.
I think I just accidentally propositioned a gay man. The Gays are a fine people, but I don't happen to swing that way. Do I attempt further communication, hoping to clear things up, or wait and see how he takes it?
(Sigh: it's sentences like that last one that get me into trouble in the first place. Luckily for me, besides a hip fashion sense and an ability to circumnavigate the ocean using only the stars as references, the Gays are known for a good sense of humor, so if fortune holds I may be okay.)
Here's what happened.
Someone I know needed a new "Internet" name since her co-worker was causing workplace hate on her. You've probably been there. As long-time readers know, I am be the bestest namer EVER, and would even consider halting my takeover of the world if I were allowed to simply name everything that happens/births/emerges from now on.
I jumped at the chance to supply the new name, but not knowing the woman very well (we only just met), I didn't have a lot of knowledge about what the name needed.
She ended up going with someone else's choice, and after initially attempting to insinuate (okay: flat-out claim) that the winning fellow sold poisoned milk to school children I gave up graciously (more or less) and congratulated him.
He responded, and I couldn't help throwing back a bitter comment that I felt like a Beauty Pageant Runner-up: fake smile, trying not to cry, and desperately hoping there were nude pictures of him out there somewhere.
I really knew nothing about the guy, despite his huge character flaw of beating me he seemed pretty cool, so I checked out his site, where I made the discovery that he was gay.
Suddenly my "desperately hoping for nudie pics" comment took on a whole new slant. I'm pretty sure (by context) he will know I was continuing the analogy of Runnerupdom, but best be prepared, yes?
(And yes, this whole thing played out on Twitter. You had to even ask?)
Warning: do not read this entry if you are easily distraught and emotionally frail.
I have this this, this thing that I love to do. Call it comfort food....TO THE MAX. I take a regular box of Kraft Macaroni and cheese and prepare it normally. (Or, if I'm really lucky, I spring for the deluxe box. Yes it costs more, but you don't have to monkey with the powder, butter or milk, and the final product is so much smoother.)
Anyway, after everything is made, I add a smidge more milk and butter (for lube), and then go to town. I usually add cheddar, and if we have it Swiss, and heck: anything I can find. Then, I throw in black olives (if I have them), green olives (ditto), both all chopped up, maybe some grape tomatoes; I kinda go to town. One time I even added some refried beans. (Didn't really work, but it was worth a shot.)
Most importantly, I add some kind of meat. whatever is left over. Maybe I cut up that last piece of chicken or pork chop. Sausage is a real treat, although I like to cut it up and render it in the oven first, because A) little black flavor bits! and B) gets much of the fat out, which can mess up the dish. And of course, if the gods are with me, bacon.
I throw everything in a Pam-sprayed pie-tin, and then I crush up....something into a Ziploc bag, add some of that Parmesan you use on pasta, a tiny bit of melted butter, and sprinkle a little more melted cheese and the crumb topping all over. (Or if I'm feeling really decadent, I'll lay slices of Swiss on top or those mozzarella pull apart sticks.)
The whole thing goes into the oven until I can't stand it any longer, and I pull it out. I like the inside creamy, and even more important, the outside all crunchy with flavor. Usually I have a helping before it's done (can't wait), and then slip the dish back in the oven (turned off) until I'm ready for the second helping, which is to die for.
Cut to tonight. I bought the Kraft deluxe box almost a month ago, but somehow managed to save it for a special occasion. (Honoring people for Memorial Day...duh.) I had two cans of black olives that somehow survived in my room. (All I can say is that it's a good thing there is no can opener in here.)
A few days ago my dad made bacon, and I HEROICALLY hoarded it, going without a bacon and cheese bagel, which is the equivalent of Gandhi sleeping between two seventeen year old virgins every night to test his purity. (It's true; look it up.)
To top that all off, my mom got me my own can of green olives the other day: the stars were aligned. We had every cheese known to man, I had hoarded a few more, and I was set to go to work.
Now, when I say "hoarded," specifically when referring to things that go in the refrigerator, I am speaking of my mom's new "basket" system. Since we often eat at different times and different things, and since certain foods, if not nailed down, have a tendency to simply disappear, my mom thought putting four baskets in the fridge, each labeled with a name, would solve the problem. When she divided some foods up they went in the basket, and if I buy something for me, that's where it goes.
Sounds perfect, right?
[Cue horrific PSYCHO violin music]
Cut (back to) tonight. I had the deluxe box all made. My olives were cut up nicely and dry. I found medium cheddar and sharp cheddar (already shredded!), my hoarded brie, mozzarella sticks and some sort of cubed Colby jack from Hickory Farms. There was even some pre-shredded fiesta blend of four cheeses; the kind you buy in the grocery store for taco night. To top it all off, our Parmesan wasn't the Kraft powder kind that's pretty low quality, but actually shredded and delicious.
BUT SOMEONE STOLE MY BACON!
IN CASE YOU MISSED THAT LAST SENTENCE, SOMEONE TOOK MY BACON!
To recap: this wasn't bacon that was for everyone, and I counted on it but came upon bad luck. That has happened to me more times than I care to remember, but life goes on. No, this was bacon specifically mine, already cooked, and not eaten--WHICH IF YOU KNOW ME, OR BACON, IS REALLY REALLY HARD--and to top things off--IT WAS IN MY "BASKET" IN THE FRIDGE!!!!!!!
I mean, what is the point of having a Hyperion Basket in the first place if people can just take bacon out of there all willy nilly? Did you know that in some cultures you can legally kill a man for taking your bacon. (Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be a just and fair law? Who but child molesters would be against it?)
So here I am, ready to assemble the greatest Macaroni and Cheese casserole one can possibly make not completely from scratch, and I am thwarted by the missing bacon. I'm not going to sit here and tell you I cried. But I cried. (In my defense, they were tears of rage.)
Now, you might be saying, "Hyperion, by your own admission you've gone without bacon in your mac'n'cheese bake before. It's not the end of the world."
True enough. There have been times without bacon. Surely the wonderful black and green olives would be enough to console me in my hour of need. But you're forgetting one important fact.
The pain of no bacon is great, but the pain of expected bacon THAT DOES NOT ARRIVE is so great as to be like gangrene of hope. All that is left is amputation. Of your dreams.
Sniff sniff.
So I don't have bacon. In a few minutes I will go into the kitchen, going through the motions like a man in a loveless marriage, and pull my baked dish from the oven. The Keebler Club Cracker-crust (with that little bit of butter and Parmesan and just a touch of pepper) will give off heat and color to impress the most heartless of food judges. My dish will smell delicious, and taste like ash in my mouth.
Oh, and to make matters worse? I just remembered there is sliced provolone I forgot all about.
Not only did one ankle go down, they both went down, simultaneously! I am not even kidding.
Actually, it gives me some clue as to how this may be happening. Long-time readers know that for years one ankle or the other would inexplicably suddenly just go down, making walking difficult or impossible, and of course very very painful.
The injuries themselves are not inexplicable; I know what I have, finally, but how the "event" that would trigger each episode has always been a mystery, as is the duration of the incapacitation. 48 hours, a week, 2 weeks, 8 weeks.
Anyway, this morning I had fallen asleep, but was still in half-sleep. My right ankle had been hurting a bit since last night, but it was more feeling sore. I was watching it carefully. So, I'm half-dreaming and suddenly I feel both ankles pop at once and then tremendous pain. I was asleep during this, so I didn't really register was actually going on, but then I wake up two hours later and it's so bad I have to pull out the plastic jug. (And if you don't know what that means, I'm not tellin'.)
For the longest time the episodes are always "discovered" by me upon waking. I speculated that perhaps I was "twisting" the ankle muscles isometrically against the mattress, perhaps caught (because of my giant feet) while my body was turning from one position to the next. (When not dreaming I turn all over the place. Even dreaming I often will awaken for 1.2 seconds, only long enough to change sides.)
I know this sounds like a crazy theory, and I'm not an expert in kinesiology or neurology or...I'm not even sure what the other related fields would be. (What more proof of my non-expert status do you need?)
But to me the force metrics seems to work. My feet are gigantic, and stuck on this tiny mattress I am shoehorned to begin with. (Sorry for the preposition. My pain medicine just wore off and if I don't get this written right now quickly I won't do it.) If one foot got caught under the other leg, or I just turned with too much torque, I could see twisting the ankle against the relatively immobile mattress until the of my body made the shift. I wouldn't know I did it until awakening, because I'm asleep.
(As I was only half asleep earlier today, perhaps that's why I felt the pops, although it doesn't explain how I could twist both at the same time, assuming the theory was correct. Maybe I was involved in some sort of nefarious plot to stop the Nazis. Who knows?)
***
As a follow-up that has nothing to do with anything, Carlos called on the way back from the Casino. He wanted me to hang out at Denny's for an hour or so and meet his woman. (I'd say girlfriend, but for all I know they got engaged or even married at the Casino.) Truth told I didn't like the idea of hobbling all the way outside, but he was going to pick me up and let me sit in the backseat of an SUV with my feet up, and I could put my ankles up at Denny's, too, so all in all it didn't seem like such a risk.
So then just a few minutes ago Carlos calls. "We're on LaGrange. What turn do we take?"
LaGrange? Can't think of any streets around here called that, especially near the exits. "Wait, are you ON LaGrange or IN LaGrange?"
"Dude, I told you, we're in LaGrange. We are on 85."
"Carlos, 85 doesn't come near Columbus. You're way north of here. You're 50 miles from here."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I told you we'd come visit. We'll still come down."
"No, dude. You're 50 miles from here, but you're halfway home. (To Atlanta.) You don't want to backtrack all that way. Just keep on to home, and I'll see you another time."
It's just as well; tomorrow is Mother's Day, and if I am not 2 levels worse than now (Meaning Mobility is reduced to almost absurd levels and pain is through the roof), than I am going to figure out a way to make it to the big Mother's Day dinner. In the meantime, it would be beneficial to rest, and ice as much as possible all night. (Of course, the only problem with that plan is that ever time I would get up to change ice packs I do more damage to the ankle. Might be better to ice just once, for as long as possible, and then otherwise just keep the ankles elevated all night. (Insert inappropriate joke here.)
I feel like I should wrap up with something; a conclusion, an closing anecdote, a denouement. This is why I suck at blogging and so rarely do it.
I guess the best I can do is to say to Carlos (who doesn't go online so will never see this): thanks for trying, dude.
And what really sucks? He was going to drive through McDonald's and bring me a bunch of Mcnuggets. I could use a bunch of Mcnuggets right now. Or some bag-fries.
