It is hard for me to believe that my last entry was in March. I have been fiddling with facebook, but my interest in it has waned. A few friends I had lost connections with have returned to my sphere via facebook, but contact really seems limited to the occasional quip or some virtual lol, card, drink, etc. I am going to try to direct everyone on facebook to my three journals here louderback, louderprose, and louderpoetry. Then I will concentrate my efforts here rather than on the very limiting and pretty boring facebook. Apart from that I have no ambitious plans of any sort. I have spent all my time thinking since my heart problem and no time at all doing. I hope to correct that somewhat in coming days, but I honestly haven't a plan for doing so. Suggestions are welcomed.
I've been in quite a dark place for the past few months. I am seeing my therapist weekly now instead of monthly, and attending a group therapy session on Fridays. The sessions with my therapist have devolved into philosophical discussion. Seems he wants to reason me out of suicidal depression. If depression was reasonable nobody would be depressed. The group therapy sessions are largely a waste of time, save that they give me that feeling of epicaricacy (shadenfreude or joy in the misfortune of others) that gets expressed more or less as "Thank the Gods I'm not as fucked up as those jerks." Unfair to all around to feel that way, even to myself. I can't explain my feelings even to myself. Everything is all tied up in the sense of my life diminishing steadily without any remedy on my part. I remember being an articulate soul. I guess I still am on paper. I type better than I speak. I am constantly pausing for 6 or 10 seconds to find appropriate words and often don't find them. I am constantly learning new words that I know with absolute certainty aren't new to me. One of the words above is an example of that. I knew there was an English equivalent of Shadenfreude, and I know with absolute certainty that I would have looked that word up and committed it to memory years ago. I had to look it up again just now and it took me nearly 30 minutes to find it. My mind is failing me in odd ways.
Many of my problems must be related to my medications. I have 17 bottles of pills again, and take 23 pills a day. I am nauseous even when I take my pills with food. This cannot be right, but none of my doctors will budge and back off some of the pills. I have begun searching for an internist, an endocrinologist (15-minute look-up on that one... see what I mean), and a cardiologist. It looks like I'll have to go as far as St. Louis or Kansas City to find one. The medical center in the town 30 miles North of here (Columbia, MO) is filled with doctors I've tried and hated. I know that not every doctor is Marcus Welby (sort of the Anti-House) but you'd think bedside manner hadn't completely left the sphere of medical behavior. It took a while for me to figure out that the local doctors just aren't much good. Part of it is of course the fact that they practice in this one-horse town. They all see about 6,250 patients a year, even in larger cities (my thinking is 25 patients per day with a 5-day week for 50 weeks i.e. (25*5)*50=6250)) I believe I'll get a physician with more experience in a larger city, because there will probably be fewer "repeat customers" offering a range of experience at least slightly wider than the local yokels.
Some of my readers may recall me (in April of this year) challenging myself to write a poem based on a sculpture by Rodin (or Camille Claudel if you believe the rumors) "She who was once the Helmet-Maker's Beautiful Wife" aka "La Belle Heaulmière". Alas, it is still a work in progress. I had a version completed in eight quatrains in sestina. An interesting exercise, it was nearly unreadable. I now have a shorter version of five cinquains consisting of two rhyming couplets and and unrhymed chorus repeated in each cinquian. It is still uncomfortable to read, though the iambic tetrameter pulls one through the lines. I'm thinking I'll try just twice more as a ballad (as distinct from a ballade) and as simple rhyming couplets (perhaps in leonine verse as converting from rhyming couplets to leonine verse requires no more than running them onto a single line).
I have been watching a great deal of television of late. My eyes are getting worse, and even my 42" monitor is becoming hard for me to use easily. I am, therefore, getting in as many episodes of my favorite brain-numbing tripe as I can. I am a great fan of Dexter, obviously, but have been following The Closer, Leverage, Mental, Law & Order: Criminal Intent (I have a man-crush on Vince D'Onofrio), Doctor Who, Primeval, and a few others. I hope to pick up Warehouse 13 over the summer and will not miss the 5-day mini-season of Torchwood. I've become a bit bored with CSI: NY, but it is hard not to watch Gary Sinise. I wish he'd make some more movies. For that matter I wish D'Onofrio would do so as well. <sigh>I suppose they are both busy enough with their series'</sigh>
Michael Jackson blah blah blah blah god-like talent blah blah blah blah great loss blah blah blah blah child-molesting fucktard blah blah blah blah King of Pop blah blah blah blah unique talent blah blah blah blah overdose blah blah blah blah where's the doctor blah blah blah blah the nurse did it blah blah blah blah the doctor did it blah blah blah blah someone got him the anesthetic blah blah blah blah.
SHUT THE FUCK UP! WILLYA?
People are still dying in Iraq. People who are trying desperately to free themselves from a repressive theocracy turned military dictatorship in Iran are being ignored. Farah died! The government is screwing with the economy while nobody is looking! The Washing Post, for cripes sake, tried to sell political influence to lobbyists... publicly!
WAKE UP MEDIA! WAKE UP VIEWING PUBLIC! MICHAEL JACKSON IS JUST NOT THAT FUCKING IMPORTANT! HE'S JUST DEAD!
Ok, now that I've gotten that out of my system, I've typed myself dry. I'll try to update more frequently. Every time I promise that, I don't. Oh well.