bellascribe

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Away was good, particularly good — writing, walking, reading, breathing — and the birthday. Good enough, strong enough, that my birthday made a mark with me; I thought, “I am not old, not at all!” This is big: for almost two years up til then, I had out of nowhere been struck with feelings of debility associated with the very elderly and feeling very elderly. Quite suddenly and then very profoundly, more and more so with the passing months/years. The connections are there — between doing creative work again, being able to physically, and the further increase in overall physical ability — walks of good length/miles and in the mountains/uphill and so on — I came home feeling of course well beyond refreshed, excited…

Since home, things have unraveled some; I’m struggling to keep hold. The kids were here through which I was able, strong, and enjoying/enjoyable; by the end of the three days, there came the laryngospasm, the sore throat, exhaustion, fever, chills, the aching, et al. Laryngitis and no voice for three days now. A horrible encounter with a doctor, who is supposed to become my doctor here, now, since I refuse to keep driving down to FL. This is my second visit to him, and my last, most likely, as I don’t think it’s a good match, not a bit. It would be funny, much of it in many ways, and it may be one day much farther down the road — C. and I do make much of its humor, laughter being such good medicine and all — i.e. laughing rather than crying — and all the applicable cliches. C. is set on writing about the experience; he is an excellent writer; why not. Currently, I am researching the doc’s scripts — an antidepressant I hadn’t heard of before, for one. His diagnosis? Connective tissue disease, fibromyalgia, possibly rheumatoid arthritis, lupus. Oh, but of the fibromyalgia, he’s positive — is that because, I wonder, that it is the one pronouncement I most argued against? Would Sontag had she had the chance wrote of fibromyalgia as she had about tuberculosis, cancer, and AIDS — Illness as Metaphor? Everything I know makes me deny this disease. Of one of the many idiotic and more innocuous things the doctor had to say (keeping in mind that he is sort of the star of rheumatology in this area): “I have never heard of antidepressant vasculitis.” This is supposed to inspire confidence? What does someone like this think you’ll say? Oh, okay, never mind!

It is time for some deep breathing, I believe.

A number of years ago I was granted a writing residency. I wanted to work on my novel but wound up fiddling around with old poems instead. That and rode my mountain bike a lot. I haven’t applied for any formal programs/residencies since then, but have been as of this past weekend nonetheless having my informal version of a residence, which is going well. The old story collection is the material.

In the early 90s I was supposed to have had chronic fatigue, which in effect means that I still have it; it doesn’t go away, though I can definitively say that there was a period of time during which I was really ill that did subside. That is, I eventually began (18-24 mths. later) even running again. My hair grew back. One of the meds prescribed/treatments? The anti-depressant, zoloft. It was good. From then on, for a good number of years, there followed — once zoloft gave out — all sorts of trials, trying for “the right cocktail” — is how they (mds) say it in the industry. Then came last year, which I can’t term as “out of nowhere” — there being far too many suspects in the mix (such as sleeping in the same hospital bed/crib or staying up all night with a baby who has now, two years later, been diagnosed with PID (primary immune deficiency), for example). But last year, the harder and harder it became for me to concentrate — to think! — to remember what I had just said or done, just minutes ago, the more and more I began to suspect the (increasing amounts) of medication prescribed. While this sounds like something arcane, or out of an old horror flick/thriller, the whole thing is of course much subtler and more complex than I’m going into. That I care to go into; I need the energy that could go into anger and blame for better.

My troubles today are being described in part as connective tissue disease, with anti-depressants prescribed. I’ve no doubt that such medication would help, even if for only a short while, but I’m not going that route. I am trying some other things, which I have terribly mixed feelings about (mostly negative, but, ha ha, that is perhaps “depression” talking) such as (ugh) writing about it. But writing in some specific ways (ah, so here’s the rationalization/redemption attempt). Unfortunately, or fortunately, I am too exhausted to go any further about that now. Just so it’s proclaimed, though. Yes, I have a plan. Already begun; check the pages.

Since the beginning of this year, 2005, I’ve begun to talk more about my illness. I don’t like to. I didn’t expect nearly two years later (maybe longer) to even be in this position, to be having to make this decision. Didn’t think I’d be ill still, or at least not this level of illness. If I’d imagined anything at all about what life might be like 2-3 years later, I imagined residual bits of this or that. On occasion. Morning stiffness, or stiffness in the limbs, maybe the neck. Once in a very long while lasting longer into the day, after some bout of exerting myself a bit more than I ought to have they day before, say having ridden my bike too long or too far, too much at the beach dipping one or other of the babies into the waves, folded up too long in the front passenger seat, on a roadtrip, before getting out and stretching. Making notes not to repeat that behavior again, enduring the trouble with the aid of anti-inflammatories and pain relievers, warm compresses, rest, ruefully paying the price for forgetting to pay attention and remain aware.

Talking about my illness feels like a double-edged sword. It makes it both easier to separate it from me — to put it in its place — to not allow it to define me. Yet, giving it time and space on the page, in the conversation (no matter how one-sided) seems to run that risk. Anything claiming that much consciousness would.

Already I am tired of the topic — tired of writing altogether which I am going to attribute to the topic and therefore, change it, with the acknowledgment that it is an experiment — to write about my illness — in consciousness, an attempt to positively affect what I might possibly affect.

The next addition to this page will include background info to answer the following: What is wrong? What do you have? What are your diseases? Diagnoses? Etc and so on. Perhaps a timeline of some sort. I am writing these pages only when I can actually physically write them now, which means typing via the keyboard, as opposed to via talking into my little recorder and running that recording through software turning voice to text. For reasons I am trying to both articulate and formulate — understand — that experience is not writing. It is not a satisfactory replacement. It is something different, and maybe not altogether terrible. It is only terrible for me when it is supposed to be what it is not, in lieu of. This is related, no doubt, to how I don’t write a poem at the keyboard, how a poem starts for me on paper — in a notebook/journal usually — begins with a pen in my hand physically on a page, moving through the loops and the turns and curves, making the strokes and lines of the letters, the shapes of the words, how they look on the page, arranging themselves. In my MFA program once I heard a poet say during the course of his talk (lecture, class, like that) that even before the oral tradition of poetry, in the Far East [I think] it was about how the poetry looked on the page, the aesthetics, a poem’s beauty such as it was formed by its characters and their arrangement on the material (”page”).

The bellascribe/blogs site is set up as a community weblog, separate from here as this weblog is more of a scrapbook, a holder of notes, reminders, etc that I can’t imagine is of purpose or interest to most. Whereas, bellascribe/blogs is, or seems from the outset now, dialogue of interest if for no other reason than the interesting-factor of its contributors.

This time of year in Charleston we get company, family members in particular, who want to check out Spoleto. Last weekend, we had babies and kids galore, which continues on through this weekend, week, and all through the following weekend. My brother who I haven’t seen since 97 will be showing midweek.

Us in PA, 1997, and me smoking!

News today: another $$ needed to repair the damages from the last “remodelers.” It’s so discouraging that about all the energy I have for it is represented by this — making this placeholder for this topic in the weblog with only these words it takes to do it.

Maybe, sometimes, the best one can do is to make a mark…
The weblogger’s version of showing up?

Having re-started more weblogs than I care to enumerate here, I’ll likely be talking about that in times — entries — to come, among other such matters related to weblogging and writers as haven’t been fully explored, not in my bit of the big blue to my satisfaction anyhow. For example, if I had more time right now, I would delve right into some of what’s been evoked/provoked by comments over this past year in the alum listserve (the alum all being writers). But I don’t, so I won’t, but maybe this beginning will stand and serve to beckon. To me/for me. This time.