Tuesday, May 12, 2009

I asked the guy what he was after

What kind of a photo did he want, or did it matter? Like, with me, it hardly ever really matters just as long as I can bring something home when I go out hunting like I'm supposed to bring something back for the table. Most of the stuff that I brought home to fit on the table would fit in a plastic gallon zip lock bag.

I asked the guy what he was after? I saw him on the same bus every morning with the same brown and green shoes and a smirk on his contorted face trying hard to make it look naturally contorted, but it never did.His face had a scar that ripped out from inside his mouth from the development of bruises and petechiae on the extremities, bleeding from the nostrils and the gums and formed hematomas in his mouth and other membranes. He tried to hide the scar because it made him even uglier than when he was a kid after he went fishing and swallowed a fishing hook. I guess that's what he meant when he looked at my photos and said, "Good catch!" (Untitled)

I always felt a little guilty over that remark so self-consciously I tried to force myself to crawl on my knees out of the bus, crawling backwards away from him to make him feel more manly, more dominate, more self-assured. I've been thinking of changing my name, maybe to Rhio9.9 then I could wake people up early in the morning when it's time to start extreme marching. The key to any ambitious dutiful art form and drum section coordination for patriotic marches is to produce changes that nobody can understand. (Untitled)

I asked him what he was trying to shoot with his camera.......and he said, "I don't know, Anything. I don't care. What about you?" He meant me, of course, but I didn't have a camera so he said he'd loan me one for the night; bad idea.

( Now on the plane and preparing to land, to discend, to drift down under the runaway after the flight coming into Guitar City I heard the organ pounding it's big fat bass pedals and I saw flashng lights, bright sun where history failed to stay on the old road and instead ran off the runway at killed the farm goats.)

I was walking over to take my morning meds and I asked the drummer what he was after in the photos he was taking, or did he care much at all, and he said that he cared more about the blondy girly-girl he got hooked up with last night; I didnt like that answer, because I knew that she wasnt really a girl (if you get my drift), but I didnt say anything to him. ] (Untitled)

I was still constipated from too many times, too many days in a row, and I barely fell asleep ...or maybe was like a death-noir-type-blinds-on-the-window sleep, or maybe I was ready for a sleeping noir phantom to visit me? I dont know, but I stayed away from the water and watched the birds try to fly into the engines. I was seeinng double visions and moving closer to everything going around in circles at least more than twice, like going in circles and squares. (The Long Reach)

I was hoping that tomorrow I'd get some special equipment so I can keep everything separated on the plane. Maybe I'll start with intravenous steroids or intravenous immunoglobulin or a combination of all of them; that'll be a kick! Or maybe I'll get an infusion in an emergency bleed-type situation on the operating table. After I get to a safe level they might give me prednisone. Wow! Yeah, baby! Get me high! And if I respond really well during the first week they might lower the dose gradually, but not too much; they want to keep me strung out like if it was heroin; just enough to keep coming back for more and being grateful for all their insurance-billed, expensive HMO compassion. But the bad news is that 60 to 90 percent of patients relapse after the dose is decreased below 0.25 mg/kg per day and subsequently stopped; do I fir in there?. So what's the fucking point?

Anyway, we started to taxi down the runway and I noticed the arrows were brightly painted on all the runways and I couldnt focus my eyes to read anything. My handwriting was twisted and squiggly and turned to total shit for brains. For the first time that day, I begin to understand the total courage (or cowardice) it took to rule the universe when you're flying anywhere on an airplane. In the background, in the bathroom at the end of the plane, I heard loud guitar chords bang against the side of girl getting it on in the back of the plane, a nightmarish scream that got me excited, so I dug my face in the side of the window seat against the nightmarish moon light and I screamed into the loud speaker floating down from the oxygen strap with a little microphone built in for people like me, and I said "I'm not sure the new pilot is any better than the other one, but you're speeding up too fast! Pull up! Pull down!" Just about that time, the pilot came on the air and said, "Don''t worry. Sex is the rent we pay to fly on this plane and land safely. Have you paid your rent lately?" (Untitled)

I asked him what he was after when he took a photo. He didnt answer me right away. Maybe he was in the shower naked behind the curtain in the bathroom. He was obviously pissed and he begain to growl garbled sounds from the gutter where he scraped up cigarettes with his yellow bent teeth, and since he didnt have any fingers he pushed the notes out of the piano between the legs of the blondy girl's airflight controller manual, pulling them this way and tht way, banging them, dangling them, tangling them up, hurting them like the sadist he always wanted to be. (Self-portrait)

He was a fat man sitting on a skinny piano afraid that if he played too loudly at all he'd break her vulva membrane to her external genital organs. The vagina refers to the female genitals, although, strictly speaking, the vagina is a specific internal structure, whereas the vulva is the whole exterior genitalia. The piolt of the plane was concerned with the human vulva. The procedure in the back of the bathroom behind the see-through shower curtain with the little cat claws tearing it apart was called idiopathic (as in IDIOTPATHIC) because the cause of the condition is unknown; because they're idiots. So much for "intelligent design". What a fucking joke that is!

Thrombocytopenic means blood doesn't have enough platelets; so you see, there's scarcity automatically built into the illusion of an abundance of the universe. Purpura makes a person have excessive bruising. This disease, "ITP" has a real pretty name, dont you think, called "immune thrombocytopenic purpura." It just sort of rolls off your lips like a country western song: Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura, makes my eyes for her so blurra!"

People with ITP have normal blood cells except for the platelets, tiny cells that conveniently seal minor cuts and wounds forming blood clots that seem to be kind of important. A person with too few platelets bruises easily and can bleed for a long time if they get injured or banged on the head in an airplane or get hit by a taxi door, or take a hot shower with the water pressue too hard. When the platelet count is low, below 2000, a person might have nosebleeds that won't stop, maybe bleeding in the intestines, or bleeding in the brain. But thanks to god's merciful kingdom of heavenclouds and sexual hellfire responsible for all of life's meaningless lessons torn out of the book of the talmud good only for toilet paper, there's always some good news floating around a black cloud with a silver lining: YIPPIIEE! Removal of the spleen is sometimes an option (I mean, who needs that?).

Platelets targeted for destruction often meet a spiritual fate in the spleen; so go ahead, cut the son of a bitch out; it's useless anyway, right?. Splenectomies are successful in 60 to 65 percent of cases, WHOOPS! Sorry! Too bad about the other ones who fall thru the cracks! But the bad news gets even worse because the surgery is less successive in older patients. Now, let's see, I'm 61. Am I an "older patient", or just impatient? The procedure is also risky due to the increased possibility of significant bleeding during surgery because the plateletts are LOW!. AAAHHH! DDDDDAAAHHHH> You think?

Anyway, I asked him what kind of a photo he was trying to get and he said he was after one deep color shot from inside a glamorer magazine where he would get lots of girly legs coming down the runway, walking down the wings of a plane with the wind blowing up their dresses like Marlon Manroe. I need the money so I told him I lost 10 lbs in less than a week when I got back out of the hospital. When I got back from SFO on 3-15-09 I weighed 175lbs. A week later I weighed 165. I asked him if he could take a picture of me and just pretend I was a glamore mag model. He looked at me like I was sick or something, which I was since I only had 2000 platellets. I told him it was the platellets talking and just ignore me, but I could tell he was seriously thinking about my suggestion. What did I care?

When I went into the hospital, my platelle count dropped to 2000, barely alove existing. I was admitted to the hospital ...About this time, I'm ashamed to say, I started going delirious and thining about Purpose. Worth. Value. Meaning.

When I was younger I studied all these alternative healing practices: eastern zen, eastern yoga, eastern magick, zen, acupuncture, accupressure, iredology, mediation, yoga, nutrition, exercise, visualization, affirmation, the mind-healing practices of tantric sex yoga, drugs, LSD, peyote, hiking, numerology, astrology, psychology, parapsyhology, pair-a-pants, alternative healing arts of the Rosicruscians, Scientology, St. Germain, Francis Bacon, the Mighty "I AM Presence"......I studied this for years and years devotedly lived with it night and day, camping out in Big Sur, doing mind-body transformational practices, levitation, casting spells and praying even to god (LOL!)...that was the stupidist thing I did, but I thought I'd mention it just to show you that even my humanity was defective....

I did all this work deligently just to get a leg up on overcoming the vicisous trend towards the steady psychological and physiological decline of Western medicine's crippling, invasive, surgery-obsessive, drugs-infested, body-invasive terrorism filled with horrific procedures from the blacker than dark ages, from those abnormal physical abusive, physical intrusive "treatments" even with leeches feeding on blood; 90% of them feed off decomposing bodies and open wounds of amphibians, reptiles, waterfowl, fish, and mammals including humans. A leech attaches itself when it bites, and it'll stay attached until it has had its fill of blood. Due to an anticoagulant that leeches secrete, bites may bleed more than a normal wound after the leech is removed. The effect of the anticoagulant will wear off several hours after the leech is removed and the wound is cleaned.

Leeches carry parasites in their digestive tract which can't survive in humans. However, bacteria, viruses, and parasites from previous blood sources can survive within a leech for months, and may be retransmitted to humans. These hospital techniques are deadly antibotic industry-strength one-stop-shopping killer plans for life-long committment to your ultimate death and destruction (death would be a blessing, but it wouldnt make the medicine industry any money, so it's in there sadistic interest to keep us alive..... if you can call that living..... for as long as possible, while they make opportunities available for several sizeable installments as a down payment on a permanent resperator so we go on living)

Want to read a stupid question I though of in my hospital isolation room? "Why did this happen to me!?" Like there had to be some idiot-defined unintelligent plan for torturing humanity. But there is NO WHY to why did I get sick from a totally healthy man to a sick man.

There's NO WHY to anything, and yet I'd like to have a WHY, as if that WHY would somehow make the disease go away and return to the way it was before when Niki and I played outside and worked in a garden and planted food and ate it took long walks and hiked into the Tenesse backwoods roads and streams and laughed 24 hours a day! But NO WHY to why not anymore! How stupid of me to think that if I only knew a "WHY" this or that happened, or WHY such and such a thing happened to this one or that one or the other one, or the one who'll get sick tomorrow but he's healthy today, like if there was a WHY to a reason, a plan before all this, like if there was a purpose, or a reason, or a righteous mandate ....whatever, from whomever.......but there's nothing but silence. That silence is the ABSURDITY. And the end of absurdity is the end of that silence. When that silence ends, absurdity will end and it'll take little Jesus and the little Jews and the little Muslims and all the little fakers and shut them up.

I think about THE WHY and I usually think and stink of zen in terms of god, some universal fuckhead no-brainer karmic piece of shitface mind sucking pigpuke, like there's got to be a big "WHY", bigger and greater than all humanity, where the sum of the whole is worth more than the parts...like some energy force so great and powerful like the mighty Oz behind the purgatory curtain of purification where vacant empty souls of the passing dead are made ready for heaven: they have to get dressed and showered and shave and brush their teeth and wait in line for their names to be called for dinner at a chinese cafe. When they finally get their table, they vomit over the freshly painted open-toed shoes of the pretty little short-skirted flirty closed-minded blind-dog hostess. This reward-punishment idea of purgatory has its ancient roots in early Christian mythology. The original conception of purgatory as a geographically situated place between here and there is the achievement of medieval Christian piety, superstititon, mythology, S&M, BDSM techniques and a fatally flawed imagination of guilt and murder.

Simply not knowing "WHY" as to why anything and everything is such an irrelevant WHY NOT, to something not so relevant at all. It has no significance or value, or purpose, or lesson, or solving problem formula, or hope, or justice, or fairness, or intelligence. Life has no lessons. There is no growth. No evolution. No progress. No advancement.

As hard as it is to tell, I'm past being angry. I'm past being mad. I'm past looking for THE WHY to something or other. It's not an addition or an inclusion or a solution to a problem or a question or a conversation that ever seems to comfort me or anyone else if they were honest about it; and who ever is? THE WHY is the greatest ABSURDITY there is. Somethings just ARE. Something just IS.

I got sick. Period. NOT because of any "WHY". One day, my blood platellets dropped just because they dropped for no fucking rhyme nor reason. And not because of a WHY. It just is. It just did. Now the question might be, "What do I do about it"? How do I deal with it, or do I deal with it. Is this a card came and I've got to play the hand I'm dealt or can I cash all the cards back in and pick up five more easy pieces? There isnt a WHY to why everything turned out the way it did. It just did. Why did my friend Dennis drive his car off a cliff in Dana Point California and kill himself this month?

Now that I've fully examined this issue, I can offically tell my readers that, "SINCE THE POPULATION OF THE WORLD HAS INCREASED, THERE IS NOW ONLY 15 SECONDS OF FAME SET ASIDE FOR EACH PERSON LIVING. They no longer have 15 minutes." That should give some comfort.