Thought Control

Don't feel like writing about this past week of health issues other than to say I had two infections going on at once, had to go to emergency Dr. appt and get mega antibiotics which, thankfully, are starting to work, but since I was home a lot, exposed to more television than I am used to, i found an old piece I wrote in 1998 for one of the best classes I ever took, Film and Society...it still rings true eleven years later, even moreso-so here goes....
As a child, product, and victim of the sixties, I struggle to hold onto a life and belief system that renders me still individual, fighting thought control with all my might. I have dedicated my lifework to a field that yields me, daily heartbreaks and miracles that strives to teach community to people who have rarely or ever had it. Outside work, I like to read (incessantly), write to friends, travel, and gamble, watch Friends, Ellen, Hope Street 412, and most of the major news shows (20/20, Prime Time, and 60 Minutes). I like the ocean, yard sales, restaurants, gardening, and working with wood. About serving Capitalism, I am appalled that we have to, just to survive, most of us anyway. If I could do anything I wanted, I would not work (to pay bills), but rather, as a contribution of myself to those less fortunate, and travel with my wife until I get to see the whole world. I would take plenty to read. I would cherish my friends and family, as I do now, and spend more time with them. The problem is, this requires much more money than I have, and it’s set up, for the most part, for people like me to work to live. Since there isn’t much to do about that, I go on, assembling a fair amount of happiness and gratitude for what I do have, and can do. I stand amidst the thought control conspiracy, wondering . . .

Today, on television, Toyota said, “I’m everyday people,” and I wonder if they are talking about, or to me. I went to Blockbuster Videos to prepare for this weekend of no school or work; Friday morning usually being the best time to get the ones I want. Early, as usual, I sat waiting eight minutes for them to open. While sitting there, in my Camry, I saw four young, and adorable little boys, ranging in age from about five to twelve. Two were Hispanic and two were Caucasian. They were standing at the doors of the store, peering in, leaning against it, talking, and laughing; eagerly waiting for it to open. The mom, presumably, was sitting in a small, parked car reading something. The boys’ collective attire advertised Nike, Faded Glory, Super Nintendo, Home Alone, and the Los Angeles Raiders. What fashion minded moms they must have. When the store opened, they raced to the Sony Play Station Section, only to find that Nintendo 64 was all checked out. Mom assured them they could reserve it, and come later to get it. I was looking for Inventing the Abbots, which has not yet been in since it’s release; so instead I got Everybody Says I Love You, and Fierce Creatures, neither of which I know much about, but hope they will entertain me this weekend.

Driving home, I thought about the personal, social and cultural consequences of “manufactured consent”, “thought control”, and “necessary illusions,” and concluded that the greatest consequence of these, culminating in the Me generation is the loss of community, which I believe, has devastating and grave implications for our world.

Sunday morning blues

OMG - I just ate salad for breakfast, why salad, you ask? a dear dear friend of mine -Lorraine delivered a gift to me yesterday of nearly every kind of fruit, veggies, shrimp, chicken, the best viginarette dressing i've ever had, vitamin water-giant portabella mushroom, cranberries, candy...she apparantly researched the internet to find out what chemo patients can tolerate depending on the side effects... she did this as a gesture of kindness that would only become more precious after the night and early morning i had; one of just being pissed off and sick and tired of this cancer, chemo thing-had one of the worst nights/mornings in awhile. Just had a bunch of work done on the house all week, painting, relandscaping, etc. and everything is in disarray...i can't stand things being out of order, and upon making some small effort to put a garbage can back where it belonged, I found i had not even the strength to do that, walking to the bedroom and back is a major effort that leaves me out of breath. But, oh, the healing power of that salad I just ate helped ease the fear, the anger, the sheer tiredness of the shape i find myself in....god, i keep saying to myself, i'm only 57...anyway, to say thank you to Lorraine doesn't begin to express the magnitude of that salad i just ate.

The Little Pink Pillow

It may seem as though these blogs are going backwards, but now that chemo is done, there is much reflection going on....a tribute to Donna and others

The Little Pink Pillow

I am a woman, like so many other women (astounding how many) who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. When I reported to the hospital for my lumpectomy, I was visited by a wonderful woman named Donna Jones (she had called me prior to the hospital appointment to introduce herself as my advocate). She gave me a gift bag with various items in it, one of them being a soft, little pink pillow. She said it was designed to support my breast upon my release from the hospital so the seat belt wouldn’t hurt my poor, mangled boobie, and it was mangled and bruised, and sore with three incisions. For the first 48 hours of my recovery from the lumpectomy, I used that pink pillow when I walked, sat, stood up, and lay down, and it was equivalent to a little pink miracle. Donna told me that the pillows are hand made by a volunteer at the Cancer Center; and that she and this person had an arrangement that if Donna keeps buying the material, the volunteer would make them. I can’t begin to express how much relief and comfort that little pillow gave me, and my boobie….such a little thing that made such a big difference. So, if you are someone who has to go through what I did, I highly recommend that you use that little pillow. Needless to say, it’s the little things that make a difference when one is going through something so terrifying as this.
Donna was kind and compassionate, and when I introduced her to my wife of 22 years, she didn’t raise an eyebrow, or display that look that some of us who are gay get; that looks that says, I have to tolerate you because it’s my job, but I really don’t like or approve of who you are. Thanks to Donna, and to that woman who makes those little pink pillows; I suppose if I end up loosing my hair, there will be a little pink headscarf or something to match it. With people like Donna, and volunteers who care so much, I have no doubt that somewhere, someone, makes little pink scarves. Thank you doesn’t begin to express the difference this made to me.

The Wig

March 17th

Got two wigs yesterday, following two days of attempting to cover my bald, patchy, fuzzy head with something…scarves, hats, etc. of course, the weather decided to turn into summer overnight, thus making these head coverings hot, uncomfortable, itchy and weird. I wish I had the balls to just go out bald, but not there yet, if at all through this no hair dilemma. At least I find that my head isn’t pointed like the cone heads of Saturday Night Live in the seventies – everyone I know today is probably too young to remember that. Nor is my head shaped weird, almost looks completely round – no indentations, or bumps, or color splashes, so I guess that’s good. Back to the wigs, my instincts told me to have Joanne go with me, didn’t do that. Big mistake –one of the two wigs I chose actually works; the other is jet black, long, flowing, and when I came home, she just cracked up – fortunately for me, the hospice that provides the wigs (free) to chemo patients, said I could come back and trade the black one for something that is more me…and Joanne will be meeting me there this time. So-that’s the situation arisen from loosing my hair. Second chemo treatment is this Friday – learned from a couple of people who have been through it that it gets worse, not better, with each treatment –this SUCKS – I thought the opposite. And as I wrote on my Face book posts, the first treatment felt like two things, one, menopause times ten, and two, kicking heroin times ten, both of which are harder than I think I have the will to do, but have no choice in the matter. Well, that’s not exactly true, I do have a choice – not to do it, and take a chance, but I suppose that’s not an option, or so everyone tells me. It’s the knowing of what is to come, and that it may be worse that makes one want to just scream, shoot some really good dope, quit, all those things we aren’t supposed to do. But, no doubt, common sense will prevail…

I'm Here...

On the advice of a couple of good friends, I do this blog. I always thought the most profound event of my life (besides brutally raped- that’s another story) was the time I spent in prison thirty years ago. It defined me, not in a negative way, but as an intense, life changing time-don’t regret it- I got a rare perspective of the worst and best of humanity. I began to write then - Poems, stories, journals from 1978 forward…. records of prison, all that happened before and since . Now, I’ve a new sentence – cancer. Such a startling reality when told- on Monday morning at work over the phone. wow, that call was heart stopping for a second. in those few hours after the call, I found myself driving aimlessly in San Diego, in a trance. It was just before Christmas; my wife was in Tucson, - I was to meet her there in three days, alone, driving, thinking, screaming inside, laughing at the irony that it was breast cancer, not lung cancer always thought if I got cancer I figured it would lungs….the irony that I had always wanted a breast reduction –that old cliché, careful what you ask for. a couple of months into it, it’s surreal some, too real, days, other days, particularly when they cut a chunk of my boob out, and it still hurts most days…and that what follows is months of chemo and radiation.