My Son is Alive

I had to visualize this title over and over again during the ordeal over the weekend.   I’ve mentioned before my hspitalization for ITP, and I suppose it was a blessing in disguise as last Friday the kiddo’s mom and I noticed he had tiny purple spots under his eyes and on his legs.

We took him to the doc’s and he had blood drawn (and let me just say, needles and toddlers do not mix) and sure enough, a tense few hours later we heard back that the boy did, indeed, have ITP and we’d have to beat it up to Children’s Mercy in KC so he could get an arm full of gamma globulin (though it might have been the other immune system restarter, I’m not sure.  It’s buried in the paperwork somewhere.) and then we’d have to wait and see if it worked.

There was a scream that he issued when the nurse was removing the tape around his IV that was detrimental to my soul.  Children’s Mercy is all decked out in bright colors and fun shapes and lots and lots of animals, like giraffes and zebras and lions and all that.  For several nights after we got home, he’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming.  We’d ask what was wrong and he’d say, “The zoo hurt me”.  

Gawd, he’s only three.

Tuesday, though, we took him to the local pediatrician again and he had another blood draw, which he really, really hated.  But, wonder of wonders, his platelets had jumped from a 7 on Friday, to 182, which was a full 32 points above the minimum for healthy humans.  He was even cleared to go back to daycare.  We’ll go back every so often now, to make sure he’s up to snuff.  ITP, I was told, wasn’t a genetic thing.  It’s not contagious.  It just seems that some folk are predispositioned to acquiring this diagnosis of exclusion after 1) periods of long sickness mixed with 2) fever treatments that thin the blood.

Both me and he were in a similar situation.  He was sick for most of the winter, right up to spring, and we treated his fevers with Motrin, which is a known blood thinner.  I was sick through October and treated my fevers with asprin and Advil.

No more of those for us.  We’ll just have to find alternatives.

Those were a long five days, let me tell you.  The whole time, i visualized the title of this entry.  I had to, because when i didn’t I turned into a blubbery mess.

I wrestle with the idea of a Diety so much.  I should just get off the fence about it, but there are so may unknowns surrounding it, I wind up waffling one way and then the other.  Calling myself agnostic seems like such a cop-out but it’s true.

 I guess.  Har har. 

If I were to die tomorrow, would the part of me, the Whatever That Goes Beyond part, wind up in Limbo because i didn’t have enough guts to say outloud that I talk to, even plead with an imaginary Something from time to time?  That I would no longer be cool if I did so?  Or is that just some strange guilt complex begging for air?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there’s some big white guy with flowing locks sitting on clouds and smiting folks with lightning bolts whenever someone forgets to wash their hands seven times on the second Tuesday before the next full moon, or anything like that.  I’m not in the yellow pages looking for a church to join because I know myself well enough to understand I’ll become really frustrated with Church Agenda Mechanics, really quickly.  I do, however, think there’s a dynamic kind of Something that’s carefully patient with us, perhaps made manifest because we’re here to begin with.  We both need each other, in other words, to be cognizant.  We’re slowly bringing each other into focus over time, gradually removing filters. 

I don’t know for sure.  The silly part is my imaginary friend (who’s hopped up like Morgan Freeman right now because that’s what all the fashionable Diety figureheads are wearing these days) is slowly shaking his head at me, a look of pity and frustration on his face and my heart becomes like cardboard at the sight.  I know there’s fire and brimstone and all that buring behind those eyes.  And that’s when I look at what I write and see the Borderline between the Sane and Insane, and determine that it is indeterminant, that it has a Heisenberg function to it, a Schrödinger’s cat quality to it, so I’ll just have to leave it to chance. 

What I do know is that my son is alive.  If giving thanks to something that can never (or won’t, as the case may be) stand up to scientific analysis is crazy, then here.  These are the keys to my cell.  Lose them if you wish, that part doesn’t matter anymore.  (Morgan Freeman nods.  “You were talking to me anyway, why lie about it?”  Gawd, I luv that voice.)  Perhaps there needs to be both kinds, the Yes’s There Is’s and No’s There Isn’ts to keep it all from flying apart.

Thank you.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

     — e. e. cummings

Balanced.

Candidate   Pledged   SuperD’s   Total*
Obama          1481        233        1714
Clinton          1331        258         1589

*from NPR.org

Soooooooo.  I guess…..I was right about this damn thing going the distance, as mentioned here.   Because this ZOMG WHAT A WIN FOR CLINTON!!!11!!1 thing is…relevant?  Looking at the totals, it still seems that the big O is, um, ahead in the popular vote.  Will we be looking at a repeat of the 2000 election within the Democratic party itself?  That’d be swell.

Sigh.

Blah.

Ok.

I counterbalance this with cute things me son has said or done.

1.  Woke up this morning feeling as though someone was staring at me.  Turned my head, and there he was, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.  That’s what I call a superior way to start the day.

2.  Spiderman, Spiderman, how cool is Spiderman?   Sung to the tune of “Spiderman”.   Over and over and over and over and over…

3.  Rain, rain, go away, come again soon.   Sung to the tune of, well, you figure it out.  And repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat…

4.  Modeling for his mama’s crochet projects:

5.  Wicked kung fu moves (aka ‘Spiderman Moves’):

Gizoogle

I know it’s at *least* half as old as the Internet, but I love me some Gizoogle.  For instance, a smattering of this blogz mutterances translates to:

Or the Whatever:

Or the White House (personal all time favorite):

###

I am, of course, also a fan of the Swedish Chef translation service, here,  and I wish Spaloogle would go the extra mile of doing with the Bork what Gizoogle will do for your fav pages.

If wishes were horses, then the cream cheese would stand alone, I guess.

###

In Degrees of Separation news, I now know someone who met Jeffery Tambor!  Go, Boston!

Random Thoughts of the Day

1) It is self-evident that Eddie Izzard would be the best cylon, ever.

2)Is the current state of the US’s Iraq Fixation some loon’s endeavor of wish fullfillment of Frank Herbert’s Dune?  I mean, c’mon.   The parallels are ginormous.  Iraq.  Arrakis.  Oil.  Spice.  Lots and lots and lots of God in both.  Coincidence?

3)I have a one track mind with no precision nor accuracy.   What is needed is a ‘me’-laser.

And Larryville Goes Wild

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwk Chawk!

A view of Massachusetts Street (just call it Mass St.) from the downtown hotel, the Eldridge.  You’re seeng just one-sixth of the business district’s length here, and yes, the whole thing was full of people.  More crimson and blue than anyone should ever have to see at one time.  Ever.  Goodness but this town is gonna be insufferable for the next…twenty years.

Hahaha.  Photos from here.  Despite the rain, there was fireworks and madness.

And it was all very much tasty.

 

Rolling out of Limbo…

There was so much that I wanted, or thought that I wanted, to post recently, that I think my head imploded.  Maybe somehow I can sort it out.  Or maybe not, and I’ll just have to deal.  I’ve always said I liked roller coasters.  Best not to be a hippocrite. 

The 17th was my 31st b-day.  31 is kind of a weird age.  It’s…….limbo.  I suppose the next popular culture reference is the 35th birfday, that’s the one where you can be officially try and run for the US presidency, you’re half way between 30 and 40, and you’ve supposedly figgered out what it is you want to do with your life exactly, though I doubt I’ll ever be sure.  I’m sort all over the place, all of the time.  I had fun, though, being toasted to my good health.

The 18th, Arthur C. Clarke died.  Jeebus.  Much as been written about the man, but for my two cents I was saddened, dismayed, and annoyed all at once.  Annoyed that we’re still a ways off from seeing the niftyness of 2001 in our everyday lives.  Annoyed that I didn’t just go to Sri Lanka and ask for his autograph on an audio tape of him talking with Buckminster Fuller here at Larryville that I own, all because I was feeling fiscally responsible or something.  And not the least of which being annoyed because I’ll have to start drinking even more on the 17th so that I can sleep through the 18th and bypass any feelings of gloom.

Then came easter weekend, and I got to see the boy have an extreme amount of fun with one ms. mazzy.

She’s the goil of a good friend of the boy’s mom.  Lot’s of energy, lots of independence.  The two of them strike it off like Thing 1 an Thing 2.  Maybe someday we’ll all live together.  It would have many advantages and would raise an eyebrow or two at conservative town halls everywhere.  The thought of which makes me smile. 

I’m glad things like this happen to counterbalance everything else that goes on.  I’m filled with general anxiety about the future, as of late, about things that are more than likely not within my power to control, which is a little odd for the course, considering my background.   Perhaps it’s just the time for me to experience it so I know what it means to experience it?  After all, I didn’t have my first real headache until I was 29, so…yeah.  Speaking of which, the platelets have been holding up just fine.  Knock on e-wood, that trend shall continue.

And i’m signing up for night classes, starting in April, to get the necessary certifications for Network Administration.   So, from April to December, I’m going to be one busy sunnuvagun.  And another 20 grand in the hole.  Fortunately, Sallie Mae is one of the nicer entities to owe money to.  I dare say part of my anxiety is stemming from wondering if that particular venture works out?  I don’t doubt the school’s capability of ramming into my brain what I need to pass the required certifications; what I’m worried about is the whole nation suddenly agreeing with it’s many and varied constituents that yes, indeed, we are in a recession, and we’ll gladly hire you sometime next never.

Which would be annoying. 

Also, people I love are leaving town in April.  I’m happy for them, but sad, too, because I’m selfish that way.

On the other hand, Diet of Worms is thisclose to being done and sent.  I’m hoping that the looming night school date succeeds in bringing the final pistons up to speed and gets this sucker out the door.  Which would be kewl, in and of itself. 

Does the afterlife have a bureaucracy? 
Beetlejuice might not have been too far off, which gives me the creeps…

But hey, there might be an Old Man’s War game coming along the pipeline, based upon my purely idle speculation.  How cool would that be?

Fun with Balloonsssssss.

Happy B-Day!  With a belated blog post.   More L8r.

In a previous entry, I mentioned I didn’t know why we are in Iraq.  Now, that index has gone into negative number space.

Seriously.  

                     People.  

                                           Wake.  

                                                                     Up. 

Lay off the snooze button already.

Just a reminder: The Bridge to Nowhere Costs What?!?

Link to the numbers used to start this blog entry. 

Let’s see.  223 million buckaroos would be enough for:

• 1,115 two-hundred thousand dollar homes.
• 1,842 hundred twenty-one thousand dollar homes.
• 2,973 seventy-five thousand dollar homes.
• Allowing 66,926 people to rent a FEMA trailer for one month, assuming that many are available, of course.  (Speaking of which, While FEMA doesn’t want to hand out vouchers to people because they might use it on “spurious” goods, isn’t that exactly what W & Co. want us to do with that ‘rebate’ that’s showing up sometime in the summer?  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm?)

How else could that amount of cash be used for the greater good?  Mix and match as you please. 

But hang in there, people.  It’s Pi day!

Why I like Rudy Rucker.

My first experience with the writings of Rucker was when I was trying to figure out how to time travel back in 4th grade.

See, 3rd grade had been a big disappointment for me with the tragic destruction of the Challenger.  It may sound odd, but from my earliest memories I knew, knew what it was that I wanted to be when I got all growed up, and that was an astronaut.  This was before seeing any Star Trek or other scifi elements.  This was from seeing an entry in the Granma’s Britannica on the Apollo missions, with their dramatic glossy photos of the command and lunar lander modules, and then looking at the full moon and realizing it wasn’t really all that far away.

Star Trek, scifi, and later SF would, of course, help fuel that desire.  More on that in a later post, perhaps.

But then 1986 happened and somewhere, deep inside my young mind I knew that if I wanted to go out into space, it wasn’t going to be through NASA.  It’s difficult to describe from my vantage point now of what all was gonig through my head at teh time.  In retrospect, I’m thinking I experienced my first taste of depression.  How could I go through with this grand ideal of becomming an astronaut if events like Challenger were allowed to happen?  The Challenger and it’s crew were lost because of human failure, not so much in the technology department, but in the political one.

Politics.  Bah.

The realizations of NASA being a political football were crushing.  Politics is important within my immediate family for various and sundry reasons, but it’s always angered me that it has to come to play again and again, often by folk that do not give much credence to scientific thought.

What was a nine year old to do?

Figure out time travel, of course.

OH, not in the “I’m doing this to make the world a better place” sort of sense.  More in the “I think what I really want to do is travel the universe” sort of sense (”Calling the Doctor, come in, Doctor…”), and to do that effectively meant getting the spooky fourth dimension under some form of control.  Like the witches from A Wrinkle in Time.  I needed, however, something a bit more, ah, concrete than what L’Engle’s narrative offered, though.  I wanted to know that there were people, out there >waves hands<, that were working on this problem.

That year, the fam went to visit an aunt and uncle over in Denver, and one of the highlights for me was going to this really large bookstore in down town Denver whose name escapes me at the moment.  But it was there I picked up a rather serendipitous work:

 

My goodness!  A manual on just the thing I was looking for!  Well, if not THE thing, then the next best thing.  I never did get time travel figured out, but that doesn’t matter.  This book was something that expanded my world view, that made me see the intrinsic beauty in it.  All without math, too.  That helped.  I was no prodigy; anything beyond 2 x 2 looked like some sort of weird alien language.  Rucker put hi-falootin concepts into sharp mental focus through the sheer power of wordy description.  And it gets better every time I reread it because I’ve learned a lot more in the interim.  Same goes for the rest of his works.  Putting it simply, I read Rucker and I don’t need drugs.  His blog posts, which don’t usually push past a thousand words (the economy of which drives me mad.  A thousand words is a scant nothing, people!), yet most every post has some some mind-bending declaration or salient inspiration in it, even if you don’t agree with him.  And let me say this, I have yet to find something to disagree with him about; mostly I just don’t understand all the places he travels.  I’m just glad he takes the time to report back.

Let me put it another way.  Reading his fiction, I feel that my mind is an egg at the edge of a very large skillet getting cracked open, my shell’s contents oozing and plopping out and brought to sizzle.  Sure, underneath it all is some sort of wild fire that’s desiring to consume everything, but looking up out of the skillet, there’s a whole wide world that just expands and expands forever.

Sunnyside UP, please!

Perhaps Alan finds a way to form himself into something like a slug. He crawls across the room and schlup, he assimilates Burroughs. Or rather merges with him. In any case, the process ends with only one eccentric forty-year-old in the room. Feeling very full, Alan/Bill went into the outhouse in back and took a seventy kilogram dump eliminating redundant parts. Like a corporation that’s “right-sizing” after a merger.
–From Rucker’s blog.