On this coming Wednesday I will hear from the cardiologist about the state of my bodily affairs. I feel as if a steel door has forever shut closed behind me as I bend my head to get through the second bulkhead ahead, much like fleeing the Alien from that horror movie in which, like all classic movies of that ilk, keeps its identity unknown to the very end. I am prepared, I am preparing for the worst scenario, whatever that is, although in the previous consultation he did say some positive things — the heart is good, no swelling in the feet, etc. In any case a significant part of who I am, my presence, has come to an end, the inevitable product of inevitably being alive. And all this is a wonderment to me, as I am still awed, if that is the word, that I have reached this age. Here realization lags behind actuality. And no use worrying about this Wednesday, for reality will march on and I will hear the “news” with all its contingencies, provisos, suggestions and grim ambiguities. After all, I could walk out of the doctor’s office and be hit by a truck. I don’t know if being prepared is the way to go, although there is some merit to that. Preparation may assuage some anxieites while all the time raising others, much like the fraction between top and bottom blood pressure readings. If they are off, both suck.
While all this is foremost in my mind, other wonderful things are pending in my life. I associate to getting off your knees after being laid low by a punch, an event, a sorrow, a misfortune, a past illness, only to be assaulted once again by another punch, another sorrow, a recurrent pain or illness. All so weary and wearisome to the mind, and the body. Using the jargon, it is very hard to multi-task life’s spitballs all at once. So, while I am being assaulted at my core self, that self which registers the world, the heart of the matter, other concerns flow over me like stones being put into a tumbler. The acceptance by a publisher, Red Willow Digital Press, has elated me no end, and I hopefully will see a ebook and print version in about 120 days; much joy, but I wonder if I will be under a very dark cloud at that time (what I call future fuck). Will I be on my way into more disease-ridden experiences, given my conditions, or will I rally sufficient elan vital to revel in the publication of my efforts?
To be accepted by a publisher at 70 is wryly amusing to me; I’ve been a legitimate writer for decades and the koshering is amusing and sweet but really a kind of pyrhhic victory. Can I juggle the anguish of the ailing present with the charming realization that I will be published? It is a soft irony that after all these decades I have recognition by a third party, although all these years I have spent validating myself, alone, very alone. Now, both rivers meet and I am ailing. The universe is more than indifferent. So it doesn’t really matter. I often think that the best part of “life” was prior to living as a gamete, the indifference of it all, which returns ultimately to the indifference of it all. Death cannot match or equal pre-existence. A calming thought, philosophical at that, to band-aid the concerns and the fears. Oh, how we all soften the angst with word creams and thought emulsions. God and that ilk never has its place with me, for it is beyond tangential. And luck is just a spin of atoms. My existence, my present illness, is all part of the orbiting indifference of the universe. I can only go with, accept it, perhaps stoically meet it, or existentially flow with it. I must meet my fears and embrace them, for to fight them requires too much of me at this point in my advancing years. I have met the enemy and he is me.
Speaking of cosmic vacuums, I don’t exist in one –there is Jane and she has her concerns and fears, which we speak of. We are in agreement that we must have the facts before we can act or change or evolve some mental constituency in which we can “prevail.” I only hope that I will have the stamina and mental fortitude to endure and survive the prognoses, whatever they may be; that would be sufficient and give me more time to focus harder on what there is I need to do in the measure of time allotted to me. Given my persona, news which is not positive is always expected. I crave some respite, knowing that it is a perennial disease I have and most likely the ultimate cause of my death. I would like that time out, if you will. I think, I suppose, I only guess I will do that if there is some optimism to all this. I cannot flee my body nor my mind.
The sad thing is that we are stronger in words. C’est la vie!
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