The world did not end yesterday, despite the fact that I did not fulfil my self-imposed commitment to write at least one blog post per day. One of my brothers called to confirm that I had not shuffled off this mortal coil; otherwise, though, the day was not significantly altered by my failure to behave as expected. Proof the world does not revolve around me. Nor does it revolve around anyone. We make more of our impact on the universe than reality says we should. The butterfly effect—which some days seems such an obvious and overwhelming element of the validity of chaos theory—is vapor. It is an expression of magical thinking, almost as impressive as evidence a tiny tuft of goose down in the wrong place at the wrong time brought the Titanic to her ultimate end. As entertaining as it is to pretend we matter to the world at large, massive amounts of evidence suggest otherwise. Our influence extends only as far as our imagination lets it, no further. And, even then, our imagination has a severely limited range. Our influence does not reach even the near edges of our imagination.
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Today’s weather will introduce me to the unhappy state of impending summer in central Arkansas. High humidity and moderately high temperatures suited only to the care and feeding of chiggers are expected for the next week or so; maybe more. This morning, I counted 22+ chigger bits from my feet to my mid-pelvis area. Itching, irritating, unsightly. I hate chiggers with a passion unmatched in modern times. I am almost willing to agree to testing nuclear detonations as a means of controlling the beasts. So what if I perish in the process? At least the incessant itching will stop!
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My emotions this morning, for reasons unknown, are tight and tense and drenched in self-imposed pain. Mixed with jubilance, there’s a sense that I’m walking on a tightrope of razor wire above a pit filled with fire and a mixture of molten glass and broken bottles. I want nothing more at this instance than to take someone by the hand and escape to someplace without memories; a place absent the possibility that forgotten experiences will drag me into a pool and drown me. What in the hell is with me this morning? I should be ecstatic that the world didn’t end when I failed to write yesterday. Instead, I feel like I’ve been tasked by an unpleasant old man with writing a report of my own autopsy.
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The PET scan earlier this week triggered some follows-up next week. A lung biopsy, a pulmonary function test, and a visit with the surgeon who invited me to spend Thanksgiving of 2018 in the hospital will take place next week. Worry about such stuff does no good, so instead I will luxuriate in the fact that I will be accompanied to my appointments by someone who will make long hours of waiting go by quickly. The oncologist, when she reviewed my PET scan with me, was very matter-of-fact and seemed unconcerned. Unlike the time she informed me of the results of my biopsy in 2018, she did not suggest I might want to come to her office to get the results (I did not want to, so she told me over the phone). Regardless of the results of these new tests, I am convinced all will be well.
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We have to face the fact that joy intermingles with profound sadness in a murky cloud that hides evidence of a history in which we played no part, but which always will be etched in stone tablets where we go to read. There is no escape from the fact that history exists in our absence, no matter how much we might want to obliterate those elements of time of which we were not a part. We cannot remember experiences we did not have, but those memories always will cast shadows on us, whether days are dim or bright. A nagging sense of impotence accompanies memories built not from experience but, instead, from the smoke of fires stoked with damp, artificial ashes.
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I got three hours of sleep last night, before I awoke at 5 this morning. Before that, I dozed a bit in front of the television (without ever switching the device on) for an hour or two. So, maybe five hours of sleep. But I did nap yesterday afternoon, so in the aggregate I got at least enough sleep yesterday and last night to fulfil my need for nocturnal (or not) rest. I’ve been advised by someone I trust more than I trust myself to have a sleep study done. Perhaps I need some assistance in getting to sleep or staying in a dream state.
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Time to shave, shower, and prepare for the twice-monthly visit by the housekeeper. I’m twisting myself into knots over getting the house adequately clean to welcome the cleaning person. This is an ongoing deviancy of mine. Maybe next time, instead of cleaning up in advance, I will pour maple syrup and ashes on the floor and fill the sink with dirty dishes. I suspect that might result in her resignation from the assignment; not a good idea, since I hate cleaning the wood floor. Off to the wars.
