Home but can’t sleep again. Been in the hospital all week after not being able to stay awake, ironically. A Xanax and a Temazapam or some other chemical foolishness and here I am, downstairs on the keyboard.
This night, ideally, is one made for a joint burning low, feet buried in the sand of a midnight beach somewhere as the roach burns down and you feel the drug begin to pull at your soul and start the magic, listening to invisible waves crashing and the whisper of the water pulling back into the unknown.
Funny thing is I always wrote better hopped up on this chemical pharmaceutical garbage than the organic stuff. Listening to the 60’s on 6 channel and wishing I was in another time and place, that I could trade all this for a little shackish sort of thing on a beach somewhere 50 or 60 years ago with a surfboard, a little radio you had to smack a few times to get some real music instead of this modern fucking garbage, the musical pollution we suffer today. Some good weed and all of these crosses on my back gone and just … waves, man. Waves forever. Serenity, something I can’t fathom anymore. This battle’s been too hard, the meaning’s lost.
Can you see it, even if just for a second? Smell the cloying scent of the grass, the taste lingering on your tongue as some Manfred Mann plays in the background, the smell of someone cooking down the boardwalk? Are you there with me, silently, the briny smell off the sand wafting by? No more cancer. No more anything. Just peace.
If wishes were fishes, I think the saying goes?
As of last week I’ve been fighting this battle for five years. Five fucking years, man (that sounds cooler, btw, if you do it in Jeremy Pivin’s voice from Grosse Point Blank). I’m scarred, a shadow of my former self in so many ways besides simply the physical … 185 pounds or something ridiculous this week at PSL. What did I weight a few years ago, an obese-ish 250? There goes that problem at least, sucked into 2017 along with 5 or so shattered vertebrae, 6″ of my colon and who remembers what else.
The clinical trial, my CAR-T salvation, was a failure. Did I post that here? I think I’m still in shock about that. My numbers went up. All that “fun” and money and time for nothing. I even had a woman visit while out there who had just gone through it, same flavor of Myeloma as me, 100% gone. Me? Numbers go up. I don’t know if it was my cancer, or they fucked the t-cells up, or having floaters and travel nurses watching me and screwing up, who knows. Not much point in trying to find blame. It’s over, it failed. Just like the rest of the treatments.
Oh man. Four Tops doing “I Can’t Help Myself.” Swoon. Just something about good music in the darkness.
I have to get up at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning to meet my oncologist to sign off on the next treatment. Carfilzomib, here we come. Guess this better work since I think we’ve been through about everything else except another transplant.
Blech, Beatles and I’m outta skips for an hour. Damnit.
I was talking to a psychiatrist this morning, real strong German accent. Gorgeous. Amy asked if she blew me, and it being the third time I’d fielded that question today from her about someone female I just gave up and said sure hon, if it makes you feel better. If wishes were fishes indeed. Anyways, we talked, I cried as usual. She had some cool things to say and was willing to work with Amy and I, and Ariana as well. She apparently has a background in pediatrics as well. She talked to me about finding the MEANING in this battle, in this consummation of who I was, really. I’ll have to ponder that.
Wish I could ponder it with a joint burning. Reference above.
And to Liz, thanks for the care and the spirit. It may be a day job but I enjoyed our talks and from a scary hospital bed a friend, much less one who’s seen as much as I think you have, is rare indeed. My humble thanks.
I feel like this is oversharing tonight, too much honestly. I just padded down here and the page beckoned. It does that sometimes, pulls me in, sucks me in, makes me visualize Ariana reading this stuff someday printed in some archaic PDF I’ve left instructions to be made. Wonder if she’ll be able to reach across the years and see me here tonight in the darkness while she slept obliviously above me, know how hard, how fucking hard, her daddy fought for another day with her. See herself on that beach with me, maybe, not a care in the world, just a dad and daughter burning one to the sunset Gods and the never-ending waves in the darkness.
Jesus … and we end with the Sound of Silence, one of my all-time favs. Don’t tell me that’s not motherfucking kismet, man. My writing career, my life in a way. Words that resonate, each one, haunting, beautiful.
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Within the sound of silence
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence