My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

It is absolutely impossible to smother me in my sleep with a pillow.

So, I’ve taken to going out somewhere, everyday, without much exception. I get lazy, actually, no, lazy isn’t the right word… Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the level of planning it can take to go do something as little as going to Starbucks. I look 30 steps ahead and sometimes I just think, “fuck it,” especially if my trach is acting oddly. It also depends on who I have for an assistant. ماكينات القمار It’s not always easy to find decent people who are skilled enough to travel. مواقع رهان However, I do finally have some good people, and so, I go… العاب ماكينات القمار مجانا

Today, hat shopping and Passion tea at Starbucks. Tomorrow, we shall see…

I’m not a religious person, nor am I an Atheist. I believe what I believe and let others do the same. Lately, for some reason, I’ve felt like going to church. I’m really not sure why, it’s just something I feel like doing. There’s an absolutely gorgeous Catholic church here, Sacred Heart. It’s just a beautiful place to sit and think for an hour.

So, that is what I did today…

Whenever Sara’s cat gets into something he shouldn’t she says, “no, not for kitties.” So, whenever I see a movie, particularly horror, that I know she wouldn’t like, I say, “no, that’s definitely not for Saras.” Normally, that phrase isn’t necessary for me. Movies and books don’t scare me, they don’t bother me at all. However, I wish to God somebody had said that to me before I watched The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. At this point, anyone who hasn’t seen the movie and doesn’t want to know the ending should stop reading right now.

To put it bluntly, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly fucked me up like nobody’s business. Diving Bell is the true story of Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby, a man entirely paralyzed save for his left eye after a stroke. Much of the film is shot in the first-person, looking at the world through his eyes. Waking up in the hospital, the initial sense of confusion and utter disconnect, the realization that he can’t speak, the frustration of not being able to communicate, the loneliness and isolation, it’s all there and it’s captured perfectly. Too Goddamn fucking perfectly. It was like watching a gag-reel of the spectacularly worst moments of my entire life. It’s amazing how I’ve thought the exact same things as him in certain situations. I’m better off than him in that I can use a computer and when I woke up two Januarys ago, I definitely wasn’t surprised I couldn’t walk. Still, we share so many other experiences. Of course, there’s one experience we haven’t yet shared, he’s dead and I’m not. Right when he starts to get a little bit comfortable, right when he’s perfected the use of eye movements and the alphabet to communicate, he’s hit with pneumonia and dies. One evening he wakes up coughing, mucus pouring from his trach site. It’s such a disturbing image and I can’t seem to shake it. I actually started coughing while writing this, needed a suction really badly and immediately saw that image. It was like watching how I’m almost certainly going to die. I’m going to have some kind of acute respiratory failure and no vent or medicine will be able to help me. I’ll drown, I’ll suffocate, I’ll die. That movie gave me a bunch of images to go along with things I already worry over.

Obviously, I’ll get over it, Diving Bell will fade some, but not yet. I wanted to drown it out with brandy, but I know that is the worst possible thing to do. I’m better off writing and getting things done. That is exactly what what I’m doing.

Yesterday I finished Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. Basically, it’s a story of a man, Richard Mayhew, who after saving the life of a young girl, ends up being erased from existence in his own world and forced to journey to a parallel world. The girl’s name is Door, she’s from London Below, a shadow version of Richard’s London Above. After her entire family is murdered for reasons unknown to her, Door desperately flees her would-be assassins by opening a magical portal to London Above. Enter Richard, who happens upon Door bloodied and semi-conscious lying on the sidewalk near Richard’s flat. Nobody bothers to help her because people from London Below barely register in the minds of people from London Above. Yet, Richard can see her, which is the start of all his troubles.

Neverwhere is a great concept set in lush and interesting world. Unfortunately, Richard and Door are two astonishingly flat protagonists who pale in comparison to the book’s far more rich lesser characters. The story itself, while “fun,” is definitely a little formulaic. Luckily, Neverwhere is one of Gaiman’s first novels and they do get much better.

My current book is Chuck Palahniuk’s newly released Snuff.

So, I spent most of today at the hospital testing out a new ventilator, the ultra sophisticated LTV-1200. For such tests, you get admitted into the ICU as an outpatient. I’m kind of a small fellow, so I usually end up in the pediatric ICU, their hardware is just better suited for me. You know you’re close to the peds ICU when you look up at the ceiling panels and see what I imagine is meant to be cheerful artwork. However, in reality, these hand-painted works of “art” are often astonishingly creepy. For instance, allow me to present the Crucifix of Comfort +12.

Whenever I’m nervous and afraid of my own death, looking up and seeing the brutal device of Christ’s end always makes me feel better.

A reader commented…

“I don’t know, and think (hope) I may never know, how you feel. If something does happen to me though, I’d like to handle it with the grace that you do. Everyone has dark moments, not everyone can pull themselves up out of them.”

Honestly, I don’t feel like I show any particular amount of grace. I screw up. I get nervous. I’ve been known to cope with stress by way of drugs and alcohol. I get melancholy. I sometimes still feel quite lost. None of that seems graceful to me. I am, however, a persistent fellow. I have never been able to give up on things that I really want. No matter how down or frustrated I get, no matter how I fuck things up, the Neo in me always gets up and says, “no.” I’m ridiculously flawed and ridiculously persistent.

So, I’m a little late on this, but I wanted to write about it anyway. As it turns out, and I’m quite surprised, Iron Man was pretty spectacular. I expected it to be a ridiculous CGI nightmare, but no, the film was solid. I guess I underestimated the fact that Robert Downey Jr. is a total badass. Sara and I went to see it at the drive-in, which also tends to make any movie just a little bit better.

Did I have a stroke earlier? I was watching Indiana Jones, but he was really old and a little heavy. Then there were aliens that looked recycled from Artificial Intelligence: AI and CG monkeys. I obviously went to see a good movie and stroked out, right? I made all of this up, right? God, I’m scared…

Silence takes a great deal of fortitude, and I don’t always have it. I’m not even talking about having to type or spell everything I want to say, that is difficult in an entirely different way. Right now, I’m talking about being in a room full people and hearing the perfect moment for the perfect remark over and over again, but not being able to do anything about it. After awhile, I just quit listening, I get too annoyed, too frustrated. I get lost in my own head, it’s just Mike and Mike’s thoughts, and they’re not always good. The longer the silence goes, the more a certain degree of claustrophobia sets in. I start to wonder things like, “if I actually died, how long would it take anyone to notice?” Then, “No, that’s just stupid, you’re paying someone to make sure you’re okay, and Sara loves you too much to let anything bad happen to you. Also, you fucker, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. If your BiPap spontaneously stops, that’s God’s will and you’d deserve it.” Right after which I think, “But I really don’t wanna’ die.” The inner monologue never stops, my mind is never quiet. Being a silent observer for long spans of time is extremely difficult for me sometimes. I try to think about good things, cheery things, but I inevitably drift through dark places. I think that is my nature, I’m just prone to wander down roads of reverie and melancholy. I don’t see that as bad, it’s just how I am. How I’ve always been. I wonder if that is a cop out. Could I change if I wanted? Do I want to? I have plenty of time to think about it. Silence affords much time for thinking.