When I woke up at a little after six and took my second dose of prednisone for my back problem with the other meds I take at that time, I took a hydrocodone–in hopes that it would help with my leg pain, which is still bad enough to make it very painful both the get into bed and out of bed. Back in bed, I went into one of the flows I often do after taking my opiate, and had enough ideas to blither about here to make a list of them.
I’ve now been out to visit my tennis friends. Yesterday my pain began lessening, I thought, so hoped I might be able to play this morning although I thought it a long shot. No way I could. But I needed bananas, and to banter with my friends, too, so I visited them, insulted their play, then did my marketing. I had a bit of a nap after getting home, and now am here–with another hydrocodone in me, going for broke in the anti-pain department, and the morphine flow department.
First from thoughts earlier than this morning’s. It concerns a poem Cummings wrote at the age of 19 that was quoted in Spring, the Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, number 20, which just arrived yesterday although it’s the 2013 issue. Mike Webster, the editor, has been valiantly trying to catch up for the past five or more years and is slowly doing it. Anyway, the Cummings poem is clearly by him, the giveaway being, sadly, its excessive sentimentality—which he got away from in his best later poems. It is also overly derivative, of poets before Pound and Eliot. But it has his eye, and “untranslated stars,” which shows up toward the end, and is, in my mind, terrific. I will only say that “untranslatable stars” would have been interesting but, for me, annoying untrue.
Now to this morning’s thoughts—which, by the way, I considered when having them that they would be material for a blog entry. That’s no doubt why they began with the medical problems chronicled here yesterday. Hold that: it’s no doubt why they quickly turned to those problems. They actually began with a quotation from a letter of Robert Frost’s quoted in an excellent –Oops.
Strange, I was just thinking how I must be pretty free of Alzheimer’s because I seemed to have such a good recall of my thoughts from four hours ago—although, I did write notes about them when finished because of their quantity. I just remembered, though, that the first of them was a repeat of thoughts I had over a week ago! And spent a good portion of a blog entry on! Cheez.
Oh, well, I may have had a few new thoughts about my subject which was basically a condemnation of Horace for wanting poetry to be both instructive and entertaining. It should only be instructional secondarily, if at all—according to the Poetics of Grumman. As I don’t think I wrote before, I have never read anything I can remember by Horace, although I must have come across lines or full short poems by him. This I consider a flaw, a near-serious one, of mine.
It’s only a “near-serious” flaw, however. That’s because the world has too many people in it, hence every art or verosophy field has too many books anyone serious about that field should have read to be able to have read them all by the time he’s fifty and has too much in his brain to keep stuffing things into it—but will, anyway. This may not be true of someone serious about only one or two fields: an academic, in other words. They are prevented from reading all the books they should have in their fields by their innate inability to recognize any book significantly about anything significantly new since what their college years (or, in too many cases, their English professors’ college years) as a book they should read. It is horribly true of someone serious about as many fields as I, even though most of my seriousness skips most of each field’s details—and most of the other things academics learn, something I by no means consider a virtue of mine, just not a crucial defect.
A new thought, that is, a thought neither from my morning thoughts nor the Frost thought. A thought my sentence about it at once illustrates: a thought about how often I find some minutely clarifying detail or similar kind of addition (Jesus, my spell-checker just informed me that “addition” was a mistake and gave me the option to change it to “addiction” but not to “Add to Dictionary.” What is it trying to tell me? Hmmm, it let my se3cond use of “addition:” pass, then let the first pass, after all. It’s trying to make you people, who—I’m sure—include government specialists in abnormal psychology, think I’m hallucinating when I accuse them of using my spell-checker against me, not for the first time!!!!
You doubt me. You wouldn’t if the things they do to me happened to you. For instance, it is certain to me, and who would be more likely to know, that they have implanted a second brain in me—down around my lower back, which is the real reason for my recent physical ailments. They switch me into that brain and hold me there as long as they can. Fortunately, they gave any artificial brains yet capable of keeping me switched for more than a minute or two, but they’re working on it. This second brain doesn’t show up on any of the x-rays or MRIs of the area it’s in because the government intercepts the data before it is printed and fixes it. Proof that it exists is the incredible number of typing mistakes I make: I leave off 50% of my required “ed’s” and “s’s” and put in 50% of those when not required, for instance. Many many more similar problems.
The second brain is also why my political and knowlecular writings are the way they are, too. One your screens. They show up the way I wrote them on mine, but they missed an email I got the other day from a friend of mine who thought I was wrong when I described Putin as a mountain goat with two breads who has gone three days without his Cheerios and is very angry, which explains his constant tirades against Marton Koppany. I quite realize he is too stupid to know anything about Marton. The tirades I actually wrote about were about ME!
I don’t know why I bother telling you all this consider what the government will do with this entry, but it makes me feel better, and maybe one of the many government agents involved in the campaign to neutralize me will save what I really said to be able later, when I’m dead, to show how clever he and his fellow agents were, and how people like me have no chance against them. And it isn’t a chance of more than twenty-two thousand to one that someone will much later find what I said among his papers, or those of the few he privately showed them to, who will reveal them to the public—if the world ever recovers from this dark age and The Truth is a legal goal of organizations like the McArthur Foundation.
Right now, I’m listening to SIegfried, which has DOUBLEd my pleasure, in Case tHat is of intErest to anyone. Not much Chance of that, as RicK, my good friEnD, would agree. I believe THERE ARE NO others who would. But ERRORS HERE, I am sure, are possible.
Back, finally to my morning thoughts. They began, as I said with Frost and Horace. Quite soon, I felt like revealing that after my “brush with death,” I felt a need to make sure that I got all my thoughts like the one about Frost and Horace recorded somewhere, even I it meant a lot of repetition. I next felt a need to amplify my observation about my arthritis. Autobiographical data about my feelings for posterity, you know. I wanted to make sure my very human response to having been diagnosed with prostate cancer at age 57, which a sample of cells from my prostate made almost certainly valid, and which would almost surely kill be within a few years if left untreated, went into the books on me. I want people to know I iz a hommin bean regardless of how superior to all other hoomin beans I am. I wanna be liked, I wanna be liked, I wanna be liked. Oh, yeah, yes, I wanna be liked.
My response was an perhaps ridiculous increase in my sensitivity to the lethal effects of just about anything that was clearly wrong with me, or even physically different—like a twitch for 40 seconds in a place where I couldn’t remember ever having twitched before. I wouldn’t think it was a symptom of something unknown that would kill me in a year or less for more than a few minutes, but that would be my first thought. See, I can be as irrational as anyone.
So my latest self-diagnosis was cancer, probably a return of my prostate cancer. It last till yesterday when the doctor assured me it was almost certain “just” a nervous system problem due to my arthritic back—because my pain jumped around, which was almost always a symptom of a nerve problem, and the x-rays showed nothing else that it could be. Although that according to the hand-out I was given when I left, that would have to be confirmed by other doctors, and perhaps other tests.
Throughout my fear that I had something terminally wrong with me, I need to emphasize that I never thought I was being rational. My objective view was that there were many things that could be wrong with me, and that it probably had to do with my back, which an MRI had shown to have been responsible for serious problems with my legs only a few months ago, and various other tests had shown me free of anything else bad, so I was probably okay, and certainly had insufficient data—and understanding of medicine, to have any rational opinion of my condition. Still, the main awareness in charge of the situation was not my reducticeptual or scienceptual awareness, although I’m not sure which awareness–or more likely, snarl of awarenesses—was. Finding out that would be worth doing but right now I feel unable to make any start at it. Perhaps because the notes I’m turning into this entry have me over-loaded. Or the combination of them with Crowley-thoughts. . . .
Okay, I’m too the next set of notes, and am unsure what they mean. They were about a rant about, and serious discussion of, freedom of speech. What’s unsure to me is the lead-in to it. The lead-in is from my Frost/Horace. Prejudices, like mine against poems about virtues, as feelings so not examples of irrationality? Yes, but there’s more that remains vague to me.
Oh, I meant to say that one of the useful continuums for poetry is the one from pure instruction up (yes, it’s my rendering of the continuum and if I want pure instruction at the left, I have the right to put it there!) to pure entertainment (by which, remember, I don’t mean the morons’ meaning of “entertainment” as something that provides pleasure for the uncultured but not to be taken seriously, but simply, and rigorously, “the goal of all art”).
“Evil you should not be doing/ Because it is a bad thing,” is a terrible poem, but a poem, because lineated, however the halfwits who want to deny anything they don’t think wonderful to be art will wail it’s not poetry but doggerel, which is also is. (This is not a dogma of mine, but I don’t think it worth supporting with rational arguments one more time.)
My little couplet would be at the left end of my instruction/enter-tainment continuum.
TO BE CONTINUED