Not exactly sure how old they are but they seem pretty damn young to have already given up on the possibilities in this life. Ran into another street corner beggar down on the Old 395 this afternoon. If you can't give me any money I will just take a smile his sign read. He flipped it over and it said something like or give one.
Resisting the urge to rip the sign out of his hands and stomp on it, I gritted my teeth and stared straight ahead. You are not getting a fucking smile out of me, asshole. Or a dime. There are many people in legitimate need but when they start making a career out of it, pardon me for not wanting to buy in. No money, no smile. Too busy trying to keep my own goddamn head above water. You want to work in the grove for ten bucks an hour, we can talk, but frankly I don't think you could last a day. Your present panhandling job is just too cush.
I'm apparently currently a stroke candidate. Gave me something to keep from keeling over on the plane. A blood thinner. Wanted to know how long I had been out of sinus rhythm. Who knows? You feel bad long enough it starts to feel like normal. But I am the prototypical wheezy fat guy if I have to walk fifty feet. Pretty sure it has been the better part of a year.
They told me a while back, after the murmur and mitral valve operation that the heart was a little larger than optimal and rather inefficient. Sure that that pesky little heart attack didn't help matters any either.
Doctor told me that I wanted to take care of this. Mentioned that he had several stroke patients mention that they would rather be dead.
Maybe it has something to do with the depression? Or should I say the depression has something to do with how shitty I feel.
|auto de fe|
The condition is called Torsade de Pointes. It has a beautiful medieval sound, like auto de fe. Will go back on the propafenone tonight, there is a slight chance that it will right my cardiac ship.
Got a couple interesting paintings this week, a lovely Gustav Stickley library table. If I indeed am called by the heavenly trumpets I only ask that you not behave like a murder of crows cravenly pulling the sinews of my muscle away from the still warm bone as you plunder my effects, but exercise at least a modicum of respect for my widow and proceed in as mannerly a mode as you are capable.
You do not want to confront what just might be a very angry ghost.
You know getting older is no fucking picnic. On the heels of losing my brother, I lost Garry Cohen to pancreatic cancer this year. I now feel a hole in my heart every time I drive through Del Dios. The world is on a slight tilt without my long time pal.
Plenty of others left the stage too, Jay, Lynette, people from work. And the getting stupider by the day world just keeps grinding forward like a brutal hamburger extruding machine, with barely a nod to the fallen comrades' particular contribution or even a perfunctory pause in the beat. Isn't getting old great, you get to watch all your friends and loved ones croak and then for a final act the attendant at the nursing home empties your bank account and plies away your gold teeth.
I have been a major screw up on a thousand levels but I think that when my clarion calls I will be able to say that I left nothing on the table. And if that ain't enough, sorry.