I've been a bad, bad blogger as I have not blogged in nearly two weeks. Ah, the suspense! Has he retrogressed into depression, are his joints regenerating, can he play an acoustic guitar yet? Are there new publications, new formulations? What happened to his theory of the mind?
Yes, I had a meltdown after briefly visiting the scene of the crime, my sister's house where I underwent electroshock as an outpatient and worsened with each seizure (plus Invega). I came to tears about it Friday, indeed dipped into the bone closet for a spell, but my loving wife and neurochemical manipulation promise better, though I must stay on an increased dose of Abilify for now.
My joints hurt mucho but I am curiously glad to be alive, presently in that transition phase where sleeping with my head to the side is nearly possible for half an hour before pain intervenes. It is hard for me to play the acoustic guitar, my left ring and pinkie fingers are numb and the dorsal extensors of my left forearm are weak as well. July 21 was the accident date; it will likely take a year or more for the central neuronal axons to regenerate, and physical therapy cannot increase the rate of nerve growth. Patience, in other words.
There are new publications, but for now a new poem:
A tongue of lacy foam
nudges the stranded bull kelp
upshore. Caramel bulbs float,
pulling brown snakes behind
like heavy hoses, brittle when snapped,
coiled in Medusa mounds
the color of molasses,
pods softly popping under heels
Sea-glass sparkles beside
abalone fragments, prisms of pink
and the mussel's sky blue and limpet rings.
The tide rises, kelp edges up
onto fine dry sand where strands
desiccate to bitter black.
Far west a storm died,
power done and undone,
telegraphing a swell:
stone-holds were ruptured,
some with young bulbs thin
as the human amnion.
So I was ripped from my moorings,
sea-story over, sunk down
like dough in a doctor's palms,
seal-heavy in the white glare,
tucked in a bassinet and spirited
away from mother sea, her bells
and voices, the kelp towers.
My theory of the mind foundered upon the shoals of will. Will is the simplest aspect of being and yet the most inscrutable. I cannot move my arm unless my arm consents to move; the body is more a democracy than we think. And initiating action, and what goes into the timing of that, are hard to separate out. Am I willing my fingers to type? Only in a general way; rather I am filling white space with narration and my fingers are obedient servants, like workers in a hive. Having incorporated mitochondria and other organisms into our being, it might be instructive to think of ourselves as a metaorganisms, a colony of ants, for instance, with the ego for queen. And the link between mental control and physical action is interdependent; I will a muscle to flex, it flexes--unless emotion or danger forbids--
Should I punch back if punched? And what are the consequences? Or do I reflexively punch back without a thought, like a spring mechanism? Or does the latter only occur when the challenger seems weaker? If I'm cold, do I actually will myself to bundle up or do I grab an extra blanket without thinking? Existence occurs by bodily participation, be it only the sensors on alert. Imagine living without moving. To move is to live, if it is only movement of the mind, a concerto of neurotransmitters chattering.
I've weakly answered my opening questions.
If I had anything to say to you it would be to bet your life on love, practice love in all you do, aspire to act lovingly even when you feel antipathetical toward compassion; the discipline will fill the empty times, the reward is greater than you imagine.
Fragile, near two kilorats,