"...pantaloons"

"...pantaloons"

Brooklyn's Moon @ 1:56am January 19th 2019~CE.

Taking these simple measurements gives me kinship to Galileo.

His first telescopes, and my simple camera

having the same rough resolution.

I think he'd really get a kick out of our robots 

drag racing around Mars. 

That, and the Hubble would blow his pantaloons off.

"~S~"

"~S~"

Now all is sleep. I lay rest sleep.

Slow healing.

"There, and Back Again"

"There, and Back Again"

First of all it was winter. Sharp winds early dusks quiet nights. My old bones demanded attention.

Act One Triage.

If an injury is possible it's here.
A prisoner chained to a gurney opposite me. A patrolman at his side. Grunts of the urban wars. Being soldiers they have much in common.
So they spoke not of rage, but cars sports family, and the Army.
Iraq vets both.

Act Two Observation.

A pod of ten beds with flat screens floating above them. Much pain. They limit meds. The Opioid Crisis. I watched hours of "The Walking Dead" to cheer myself up.
New Years Eve.
Our doctor played the ukulele, and sang to us. 
Angels everywhere.
Finally serious Morphine. I entered 2019 in a most pleasant state.

Act Three Treatment.

The 'real' hospital begins. Here they keep all the knives, and saws. 
I'm pried injected drained poked x-rayed MRI's, and Sonogramed. Btw I'm still not pregnant.

Assorted real-time truths presented. Stuff needs to be chopped off. It's just a question of how much. 

??!!!

After more MRI shake, and baking they settle on just one little piggy. The other nine, and the legs they're attached to are reprieved,...for now.

Act Four The Operating Theatre.

No popcorn,...or cartoons.
Walls ceilings flyby. Muted voices. Then so bright so cold so quick.
Did I mention at some point my veins stopped working, and they had to go digging into my arteries for blood. That was the only fun part.

Act Five Post-Op.

A blur. Sleep. Deep sleep.
I think I remember nurses doctors speaking to me or maybe I dreamed them. Same thing. Eventually I'm Medevac'd to my digs.

Act Six.

Home.

"There, and Back Again"
Loves that phrase from "Lord of the Rings". It's just so handy.
I eat lots of fruit soup nuts, and dream of fried foods. I hobble about in a constant waking dream state,...which is how I'm writing this.

Love.
So much from my family They, and my extended radio B'cast, and online family. I don't remotely deserve it,...but I'll happily take it anyway.
I loves you all too!

Stay tuned.

(....I'm sure there's piles of grammar errors, and typos,...sue me. I'll clean them up later.)

"~O~"

"~O~"

A Dream.

Water. Night. Many.

A Ritual. Forgiveness.

A leaf. Eyes washed.

We walk a circle.

Circles within circles.

Intertwining to Dawn.

"...sky"

"...sky"

I want to climb into a Silver Spitfire, and just fly.

No battle no guns who needs that.

Just Fly, and Fly!

"My Prince"

"My Prince"

Sez da "little Prince". "...Here's is my secret."

"It is very simple. It is only with the Heart that one can see rightly.  What is Essential is invisible to the eye."

"...eight-ball"

"...eight-ball"

For some days I've been profoundly ill,...couldn't keep down water. Firing away at both ends. Serious weakness all that swell stuff. This in reaction to the nuclear post-op meds they were shoveling into me.
Tonight finally for the first time I can actually get up. I wander about my digs in a weak deluded state. This would be fun if I weren't in so much fucking agony.

My visiting nurse sez this is just the normal reaction to all the shit they gave me, and which in pill form I still take. Fuck I nearly lost a leg so they're giving me crap that might kill me anyway.

She also mentions how tidy my digs are. ...see above.

Sez she most old fucks she tends live in hoarder's hells. This as they have a life time of crap they collected all over their homes. Me I get rid of stuff. Most others seem to gather, and keep it. Granted I have five boxes of crap, but that's all, and it's neatly put away. This is what she found so amazing.

When I kick the bucket my family will have an easy time clearing my place out. Btw I did that thing with my family. "No Extraordinary Measures" to be taken, and I don't mean maybe.
Damned if I'm going to hang on by my finger nails screaming for Jebus to save my aged ass. 

I see a lot of that in hospitals. 

Old fuckers as old or older than me in terror of death,...why? Really at their age they should be cool with it. I blame religions for this. Religion destroys dignity.

As you know I'm fine with getting out of here, and this time it looked like the getting was good. Imagine my surprise when I fucking woke up. I could have slugged that grinning young doctor,...he didn't do me no favor.

Well okay my sister would be freaked, and two or three other's. Otherwise bleep it. So I'm taking shit that's keeping me alive, and in one piece. Btw the Trump shut-down affected the co-pay on my deadly meds. $$$$$...yeah ain't that swell.

All things considered I'd rather be snorting an eight-ball of cocaine while having illegal sex with illegal persons.

More if I die.

"...wonder"

"...wonder"

Serious post-op. So very unstuck in time, and place. No pain, but very untethered. Free floating uncertain disjointed as my body mends. 

I feel my body doing great battle. 

Yet everything is in slow motion. Time distilled.

Music is more particular I hear every note. Life is dearest when threatened. No fear I just wonder at it all.

"...how I live with Depression"

"...how I live with Depression"

I sit I write I watch old Star Treks on Netflix. That, and fast forward through their made for cable movies. They annoying, and suck, and all have the same endings. I can't eat sugar because it'll kill me. Nearly lost a leg to diabetes. So no cookies cake chips or even popcorn.

So I stare, and munch on salt-less crackers or apples.

This as I see our republic commit suicide. Otherwise I'm fine with my depression. Fine with my meds fine with vomiting all the time, and being in pain.

I just wish it would snow.

A big snow lasting days. A double whammy storm like we used to get that just won't stop. I just wish this neat shit would dump on us. This so I could calmly watch from  my window. Watch, and slowly fall asleep to the snow.

All swirling whipping at the trees days of snow.

"~M~"

"~M~"

I'm starting to dream again.  At least I'm remembering them again. These are consistent these dreams. 

I'm in a cold place,...so cold.
It's sometimes grey sometimes white or silver. I'm always        wrapped. Cocooned. I see my  self in 3rd person. Grey silver wrapped.

I'm not afraid. I'm not  anything. Just there again, and again.
A holding place?
A place before something else?

"...truth"

"...truth"

Passing the long healing by reading. I picked Walt Whitman. This some of our hero's prose.

The Civil War Journals.
His recounts of tending the lost, and wounded on the battle field, and military hospitals.
He spoke kindly to these souls, and gave little offerings. Fruit biscuits writing paper pencils even hard candies.

In particular he wrote letters home for those too badly wounded. Mostly he did what was most needed. He just sat quietly keeping company with those healing or soon to pass.

Walt noted how so many soldiers North, and South were so young. So painfully young. Drummer boys still children frontline troops 15 to their early 20's. These were farming boys both sides. They in a maelstrom he said "beyond their tender imaginings."

Walt Whitman was witness to the actual battles. "The thunder, and bedlam" of it all he said. In his journals of the war he wrote, "The truth of this war will never be written in books."

True.

So true for that war, and any other.