Friday, December 4, 2015

Crows on the roof... Procrastination

The distinct hop and skip of crows on my roof.  I live, as much as I can, in my room. Here on the sunny second floor, high above my neighbor's garden and just below the birds.

I'd like to get out more. But these long nights, lost in half-awake, half-dream, leave me little energy for extra-curricular activities. My job and life-tasks command my time. Day is divided into morning, noon, dinner, and night medication, interrupted by perpetual jaunts to expedient thrones. I fill the cracks with distractions.

I have the luxury of being alone enough, to know, too much, of my inner thinking. A quagmire of guilt riddled recollections, concocted optimisms, and a smidgen of profound truths. I like and hate myself in a dialogue of seconds, until I hitch a ride on any old deliberation... the lyric of a shuffled in crooner, an articulate audio author, or a well placed podcast.

My self-selected lunacy, lavished on a percolating procrastination, an anxiety riddled avoidance, a pending premonition of hard times to come, or just another symptom of Parkinson's. I am frozen. And then, as quickly, freed. But freed to do what? More of the same old stuff or, possibly, some move, on the chessboard, I just can't see.

I need help from me, yet I stubbornly refuse to be cooperative. On the shaky ground of brunt obstinance. A donkey stance demanding stick.  I write this to avoid my to-do list. A quest for an excuse, permission to dismiss responsibility, for all or any of this.

Any con to neglect the inevitable, the master illusion of tranquil conclusion. Somehow get out of doing all the paperwork. To avoid the nasty bits, and nibble here the forbidden fruit of self-delusion. If only not working worked. If only I enjoyed the grizzle as much as the steak. If only I'd get done today, what I need to, today.

Not avoid the inevitable. To do, you know, whatever it was I was doing, before I started doing this. OH, now I remember, I was procrastinating.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

I Figure Another Ten Years

Maybe five more years, where I can still get around, then sets in more of the Parkinson's. After ten I'll be kicking, but not much more. Which makes me wanna do something tremendous, a swan song farewell. A cool step over the line. You know... something special.

Thus the rub. Fate's snub of my aspirations for the grandiose.

Mostly my time is wasted in maintenance. Doctor visits, gimping about, medication dosed out... a string of kind indignations, as the world of well-meaning good-intentions swallow me in a complacency. Endlessly shifting position, easing discomfort... Swirling in a world of friendly smiles, from well trained caregivers.

PD propaganda propagates a perpetual state of hope. Hope of a cure and hope as the cure. It is a tedious drone of optimism for people who live on the darker side of Parkinson. For those of us, who linger in our beds, in a wounded drool of depression. We get the message, acknowledge appreciation, yet we do not digest these happy pills of optimism. We know well how we feel.

I am teaching a swan to sing, as slippery time slimes past, in a maddening rush to an ugly ending. A tune of holy righteousness must come, from a quivering beak of indecision. I must find my voice even while it fades into an inevitable silence.

Hope is a rope to skip when young. Hope for we old is to build a bridge, beyond our predictions of sad demise into a living hilarity of on-going orgasm... to say 'Goodbye' as a triumphant 'Sayonara'. A kimono-clad hero waltzing off into the sunset.

To manifest a masterful final dance with my femme fatale, the Goddess of Happy Endings, is quest worthy of death. Wish me good riddance and my own happy forever-after ending. Help me to say goodbye wisely... artfully, with a hint of mint.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Neurological Lifestyle; The subtle implications of living with Neurological disorders
Intellectually, we all agree, there is an integral intimacy between body and mind. Yet facing this interplay, between the psychological and the physiological, is an annoying prescribed sensibility I'd sooner not have. Every damn chore, from putting on my pants to using the stairs, is a demanding challenge.. A task of survival.

Generally I look normal. I do curve forward, needing to remind myself to stand tall. I do shuffle not step, so need to map out my footpath long in advance. My left hand shakes and fails to grip, needing foresight with each simple task life throws at me.

I need to remember I am no longer the same. I need to recognise what I am doing and relearning how I need to do it. A lifetime of coordination training has to be remapped and practiced, with a child's beginner-mind simplicity.

But I am not a child, shielded by a loving mother monitoring my missteps. I'm an old man, with manly responsibilities and a vulnerable self image. I have lost spontaneity, no longer can I dive in the water in a ballsy dramatic gesture of romantic silliness. Instead I consider how the heck I could get out of the water once in. I am not sure if I can even still swim.

I can no longer say to a lover in an act of fury 'Let me out here...' because I'd be stuck far from the security of my room. I'd be in a world I once wandered freely, but now dread as an exhausting pain riddled incline... Home has become my hiding place.

I am forced to remain fully conscious in a world where body meets a sharp edged normalcy, a small world of endless discomforts, a call to be brave, steadfast, and happy, even when I am not. I am surrounded by heroes of labor, a hard working nation. I ask myself if I can persevere, as my body seeks the support of a chair and my mind hungers for sedation and distraction.

The only exit from brain disease is second guessing experience, a kind of metaphysical mix of hope, faith, and charity of expectations. To switch from the youthful quest for the perfection of existence, to the avoidance of discomfort and the eventuality of a slow degrading death.

Medical science yet on the horizon becomes my image of heaven. I lean on my cane, glaring at the sunset, hoping news will come of cure, a friendly face in a white coat, saying 'Try this pill.' Then I snap out of the dream and resume my existential test... my wilful war-dance of mind and body. I swallow the reality pill of living with a neurological disease called Parkinson's.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Friday the 13th, Living with Parkinson's

I love Friday the 13th. It pops up and colors an otherwise ordinary day. I love all the many little rituals that populate my world. In totality, they make my life. Absurd yes, random superstitions, plastered like bumper stickers on a prevailing normalcy.

Yet, I love these funny foolishnesses, lined in a row to make a day.

When I stumble out of the dream that occupies my mind and body, my delicious dance deep in delusion, I occasionally spend time on the plane of self-awareness. I note my flickering foibles. The silliness that is existence.

Recently, in a stew of prescribed medications and neurological symptoms, cooked in the cantankerous rock climb of disturbing sleep and drowsy daybreaks, I rise at dawn drenched in anxiety.

Mind you, I have no real fears. I will die, after an undisclosed number of years collecting nasty physical symptoms, yet that is no news to any of us. I live in a land of high security, surrounded by loving friends and friendly lovers. I have always lived a charmed life. Charmed in the jewelled luxury of boom time opulence, contrasted with enough tragedy to keep the drama plausible.

There must be an application for these jitters. Someway this relentless shaking, stiffening muscle torment, and prevailing paranoia can be wrestled down with reflective wisdom. Some trick of the mind, persuading me to will away whatever affronts the paradise of feeling fine.

I want to answer "How are you?" with a charming grin of self-assured "Wonderful!" and not the grim crotchety cackle of an old grey-haired codger. Though good fodder for humor, the grumbling of grey-beards gets old fast. Youth expects us to have skin that glistens and reassuring eyes twinkling in wizened wrinkles of insight.

Trouble is, for me, Facebook-posted truisms do not cure daily dawning in discontent. Something more is needed in the mix. So, I persevere, in a prickly convalescence, flirting with any delicious fish that takes my bait. I am focused on celebrating affection, worshiping the generous spirit of amour and her cousin love. I love Friday the 13th in the hope that bad luck is better than no luck at all.

I clamour for a fountain of courage and the energy to see it through. To make each day a romantic Latin love song. "I am wonderful" said in all sincerity, in a voice that echoes through the canyon bouncing back in a voluminous affirmation of good. Happy Friday the 13th!