My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, I’m on the plane yesterday watching Cool Hand Luke on my newly acquired iPod Touch, courtesy of my friend, Celeste, and the Ellen Show. I hadn’t seen the movie since I was sixteen for a “movie analysis” class. We’d watch movies and write essays about them. Back then I could always do critical analysis, identifying symbolism and what-not, but until yesterday at twenty-four thousand feet I’d never “felt” the movie.

I’m lying there, trying not think about anything for awhile, not the trip, not Sara, not getting back to Tampa, absolutely nothing but watching a movie. Of course, I forgot that Cool Hand Luke begs one to be introspective.

So, I’m watching, slowly identifying with Luke stronger and stronger through his struggles. Lots of us have some Luke inside, some more than others, but he embodies very common human experiences and emotions. The sky outside the plane was so beautiful, we’re flying in and out of soft white clouds, the movie’s almost over. I’m doing fine until his talk with God at the end of his last escape-attempt, at which point everything that has happened over so many years hits me and I start sobbing.

I think, “You fucker, what are you doing? What the fuck’s wrong with you?” but I couldn’t help it. I’ve had that talk with God so many times. I’ve asked why He built me not to fit, and then stacked the deck against me so that maybe I can’t win. I don’t mean that in a “I so wish I could walk” kind of way, but generally in how I think and feel inside, I never really feel like I fit anywhere, like I know I’m in the wrong place, but I don’t really know where the right place is either. Actually, the right place is much clearer, but getting their is often murky. I’ve asked God about that too. I’ve begged forgiveness, asked for help, but just like for Luke, God never answers back, never directly, if at all.

I’ve been broken like Luke too, praying to God that I’d do anything, so long as I didn’t get hit again. Still, even after being completely broken, and knowing he was broken, it didn’t stick, he kept going. No help from anyone, let alone God, Luke tried one more time to make his way on his terms. He died trying to find what he wanted, but he died smiling. 

I think that inability to quit, that little spark that God gives people, that He gave me, is often the one gift we get. It’s also a sadistic fucking joke. He knows how I feel, I’ve mentioned it before. I doubt that most prayers start with, “listen, you fucker,” but mine often do. God’s just out to watch and listen, which is why I do pray, but He sure as shit isn’t out to answer back openly. We have a very plain relationship, I don’t pretty up my prayers. God gives us free will, but I also think He gives us traits and circumstances that make us more fun to watch. At any rate, He didn’t answer Luke, and He’s not going to answer me. I’m going to do what I do until I can’t do it anymore. I just want to die smiling, with a cool hand.

God-fucking-dammit!

Provided that everything goes according to plan, I’ll be back in Tampa tomorrow evening. I’ll have lots of photos and various tales to post, I should be more enthusiastic than I am right now. It’s just been a very long and often difficult trip. I have a lot to write, but not just yet, not in this hotel. I’m a little too uneasy to write anything important. So, until tomorrow, I rest.

I’m out of the hospital, sitting in a hotel, the Embassy Suites by LAX. I’m tired, beyond tired.

So, after thirty-five hours in the Cedars-Sinai emergency room, I’m officially in a real room. See, yesterday morning the little balloon inside my trache tube decided to burst, meaning that the air usually directed toward my lungs began coming out of my mouth. A few minutes later and I’m on a stretcher heading for an ambulance parked behind the Beverly Hilton. It was clearly the perfect way to start my day, and end my vacation, the perfect way to say good-bye to Sara. 

I get to the e.r. and the trache really needs to come out, but the ENT (trache doctor) is about two hours out, so e.r. doc decides to go for it old-school style. I get a little subcutaneous morphine, he yanks out the dead trache and jams in the new one, while I simply gurgle and gasp. At this point the doctor’s really crankin’ on my neck, he looks nervous. It’s exactly what you want to see dance across your doctor’s face as he fucks with your air-way. He’s nervous because he can’t secure the new trache, I’m bleeding and not looking particularly good. He decides to pull out trache number two and toss in a third. Fortunately, blood-loss and pain aside, the third time’s a charm.

However, I’m still here in the hospital because, as it turns out, I’ve been traveling with a faulty ventilator all week and after the trache trauma I couldn’t stand the shallow breathing. Apparently, the vent has a leak, which is why I’ve felt kind of funny since I left Tampa. I’m nervous a lot lately, so the tightness in my chest seemed like my usual dumb fucking idiocy. At least I’m an accurate dumb fucking idiot.

I’m sitting in the hospital, waiting for a replacement vent, trying to get new flights back to Tampa. My neck hurts, I’m exhausted. Everything good seems far away. Ira, the red-carpet, the parties, Sara, it all seems like it’s behind L.A. SMOG. I wish I could find my way out.

So, the Emmys were spectacular, walked the red carpet with my girlfriend, TAL won two awards. We danced at the Governor’s Ball, she was the most beautiful woman there. The TAL after-party was amazing, I hung with Ira Glass and his delightful lady. I got people dancing there too. I had always wanted to get a dance-floor jumping just as the party seemed about done. The TAL crew is totally awesome. Oh, and Ira’s an astonishingly sexy dancer. Honestly, it was an outstanding experience.

Right now, I’m in the hospital with trache and vent trouble. I may or may not get out tomorrow. I’m tired, uneasy. Lately I seem to face a thousand fucked up things. I’m tired, a little broken. Nothing makes sense. I want to sleep for a thousand years. Everything’s fucked. I’m spent, all poured out.

So, we’ve made some adjustments to my new vent and I’m breathing much better. I feel much better. Not being able to breathe properly for extended periods of time will fuck a fellow up like nobody’s business. It makes everything I want seem far away, or impossible. So, yes, I get down. Sometimes I don’t think people understand that feeling, even people who really know me.

I was pretty down last night, my trache kept making me cough which colors everything in a pretty bad way. It’s almost time for me to go and I do feel better. Not breathing right makes every other fear, doubt, frustration to be +12. The thing about the blog is, I don’t censor myself at all. I write exactly what’s in my head. Sometimes it’s dark, sometimes it’s not, but it’s always honest.

Actually, as I thought about what I wrote below, I realized it’s not quite right. I have done great things, just nothing consistent, lasting. I have done things that were so beyond important to me, but I’ve fucked them up. Sometimes I feel like Jack’s wasted life. Then, of course, sometimes I don’t. طريقة لعب القمار