Pedestrian Prose

So if you haven’t heard, Dustin is moving to San Diego. For those who haven’t (or don’t know), we were practically married for two years from Spring of 2002 to Summer of 2004, broke up, but then became friends again (and roommates) when I bought the house in Fall 2005 to the end of 2006. He has since moved in with his boyfriend and they are moving to California together.

It’s hard for me to comprehend the seriousness of this situation (let alone describe it) because we’ve both moved on years ago. Still, when I got the phone call, I immediately thought about making him a cd.

To me, the process (and product) of creating a mix cd is perhaps the single most romantic gesture I can think of—often it’s the best I can do to communicate a myriad of complex feelings to almost anyone.

While the above summary doesn’t exactly do the relationship justice, not at all, really, I think the following playlist sums up where we were and then progresses into current feelings, reminisces, and offers good will for the future.

I share this playlist along with a few statements about why I chose each track, and what significance it may or may not have. I didn’t supply Dustin with any of the statements, just the playlist and the poem (see below). At first I wanted to save him from that awkwardness, but now I realize I just want some closure. I think I’m really gonna miss seeing him around. More than anything, when we dated we were best friends.

Playlist

1 she’s leaving home by the beatles
Christian suggested this one. It was so perfect and appropriate, I had to put it first. Plus—it establishes E major as the first dominant tonality, which not only works for the next 6 tracks (I know, I know, perfect pitch is a disease), but also works to inspire mystery and promise—if you believe that a tonality can accomplish such a thing.

2 sleepy california by her space holiday
This is the first of several songs about California that I had at my disposal. I couldn’t use at least 3 other songs that I wanted to include because of tonality reasons. But this one also serves a poetic purpose to the playlist.

3 songbird by duncan sheik
I actually consider this song to be one of the most genuine gestures of affection to send someone on a cd. And though it’s only on this list because of my association with Dustin at the time I first heard the song—I first sung it for him—it also represents the love that exists between two people even after the relationship ends.

4 song for you by alexi Murdoch
I love the lyrics right from the beginning: “So today, I wrote a song for you…” I mean, how charming! Except the rest of the song insinuates that “you” are unstable, sad, and lacking in self-confidence (suicidal). Nevertheless, I love the intent behind the song: “Listen to my hands…I will move you.”

5 high and dry by radiohead
How trite, right? Dustin probably throws the cd out the window at this point. This is probably one of the most popular songs from early Radiohead and for good reason. Even though it’s another song that gives someone a sort-of talking-to, this one exposes the vulnerability in the singer.

6 the past and pending by the shins
I think this song embodies autumn—that sense of reflection and anticipation. It’s like a hipster ethnography of a backyard mini-bonfire where two cool kids meet for the first time.

7 don’t be scared by andrew bird
8 paul’s song by m. ward
I think I originally wanted to include Andrew Bird’s “Tables and Chairs” which, if you listen to his complete discography, is the culmination of this musical motif. This song and the next by M. Ward refer to “Paul” as someone who (to me) picks up the pieces and moves on. These songs also transition us into D major, which has a hint of reflection about it.

9 a man/me/then by rilo kiley
I’ve used this song in break-ups before—I think that’s o.k. To me the lyric from this song, “the slow fade of love” says “no hard feelings—shit happens.”

10 you and me song by the wannadies
More than anything, this song explains domestic life pretty well, especially in the post-romantic stage. Some of the best memories I have with Dustin involve lying in bed all day, watching TV and enjoying each other’s company.

11 fuck this…i’m leaving by the american analog set
I had to include this for the title alone. The meaning through the lyrics is iffy, but when you also consider the title, I think it’s clear. Being fed-up with a situation is enough to make you move. Not saying that was his only decision to move, but it helps.

12 not california by hem
Another vestige from another relationship, but this one is especially fitting considering the comparison between California and the reality of the rest of the world. It’s true. The song brings out the bitter qualities of G major.

13 just for a moment by aqualung
Aqualung either makes you feel really good or really bad. While I think the song was written from an “I want you back” standpoint, I use it to recall moments where our relationship was fractured and lost momentarily. The bitter-sweet melody moves into B-flat major; I should have followed this song with “Little Did I Know” by Over the Rhine (witness a painful recreation of this song by yours truly), but it would have been too perfect and sappy.

14 california by joni mitchell
15 california by mates of state
16 california by semisonic
These three present different aspects of California as a magical place where you long to go, yet hasten to leave. I include them as first-hand experience: I was born there and secretly wish to return one day. They’re also all in F major which more often than not brings about a feeling of optimism.

17 calculation theme by metric
This track is probably the lowest moment. The promise of technology only works to quantify human ambition and emotion till we’re left working against our survival and ourselves. These last three songs are in C major, which I consider one of the darkest tonalities.

18 drop me a line by the owls
This is an obvious passive-aggressive guilt-trip on my part. We’re both really bad about keeping in touch. Aside from the literal nature of the lyrics; I think it signifies that we never really get to where [we think] we’re going.

19 your ex-lover is dead by stars
Best break-up song ever when you’re awkwardly still friends. It say’s “Hey, it didn’t work out but that’s o.k.” I use it here to establish some finality of the CD when usually I leave it open for either the next mix or a repeat. Not this time.

Finally, these songs and this track listing made for an easy contrived poem, and also explains the fixed-width font I used on the case. It’s lame, I know, but that’s what Dustin is used to from me:

Poem

       i heard she's leaving home
           for sleepy california.
   so this lil songbird
         has a song for you
        flying high and dry
          over the past and pending.
               don't be scared
       to sing paul's song
         about a man/me/then jim,
        or the you and me song. sure, i know you’ve always
wanted to say: fuck this...i'm leaving,
       and why not california?
           but just for a moment, maybe on
    the way to california, think of our last
       trip to california, especially down the
      coast of california, and remember our love.  do the
math; here’s a calculation theme to help with the numbers.
       anyways drop me a line when you get there, and don't
  believe that your ex-lover is dead.

All my life I feel as if I’ve been waiting. Whether if it was waiting for my turn or for my chance to shine, waiting for the love of my life to come sweep me off my feet, or waiting for something big to happen in my life–I know the feeling well.

I identify very profoundly with this notion of Advent as a part of a larger cycle or season in one’s life. As a Christian (albeit a thinking one, if there were such a thing these days), I am drawn more toward the first coming of Christ than the second. Maybe it is because I am in my own personal advent right now. I think a lot of us are.

There are so many terrible things happening in the world today–sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps us going. I think advent is as much about hope as it is about waiting, because we are waiting for things to get better. We are waiting for that person or moment to change everything; and we are ready for that change.

I also believe that there is a secret significance specifically in waiting for a child to be born. If you have ever interacted with an infant then I’m sure you know what I mean: that specific feeling of wonder you have when you hold it in your arms, the feeling of amazement at the miracle of creation, and the feeling of pure hope for a better tomorrow.

All religions and ideologies carry with them a certain amount of burden when a “savior” is personified, except when that savior is a child. After all, a child may be the only thing that can unite and save this troubled world.

So maybe it happens tonight. Maybe it was a few days ago at the solstice, that darkest of day–sometimes it is hard to imagine darker days, but I know they exist. Perhaps we will forever be waiting, or perhaps the task this time is to find the child, the light in the east, the savior of our world. Limited theologies would have us believe that he was found long ago, but I believe that if you look hard enough, you can find evidence that such a child existed in each of us at one time.

Therefore, whatever our creed, we should each find hope in the fact that we were all once a part of the secret mystery of creation, that we were once someone’s hope for a better tomorrow, and that we have an obligation to the next generation of children.

O come, o come, Emmanuel.

As many of you know, Amos T. Cat is in the hospital with a sort of bladder infection. He is in stable condition at Hillcrest Animal Hospital as of 10:15 a.m. Tuesday, December 5, 2006, and is expected to be released Thursday.

At approximately 4:30 p.m. Sunday evening, Amos was rushed to After Hours Animal Hospital in North Little Rock. They inserted a catheter to empty his very-full bladder. After some IV fluids overnight, they released him to his owner Monday morning (complete with his kitty-catheter and chipper attitude).

He was then transported to Hillcrest Animal Hospital where he was admitted. At the time he still had blood in his urine and needed antibiotics, IV fluids, and the catheter. He is expected to be released sometime Thursday.

His owner is wrought with grief and has been reportedly seen typing in third person. The only statement by Amos’s family has been of thanks for the continued support of friends and family: “thanks everyone.”

Rehab will begin once Amos is at home, starting with a new diet of organic cat food.

The family is accepting donations in lieu of flowers to cover the cost of treatment, which is now estimated at over $1,000. Thank you for your support.

The roommate
The moment I was brought to my semi-private recovery room—though I was still a little confused and uncomfortable from the drugs and tubes—I noticed that I would not be alone for my stay at the hospital. For both of my previous stays at UAMS I managed to have a private room, and I didn’t really know then how valuable privacy is for me, especially in terms of recovery.

The room was small—a problem considering that I had brought a big bag of stuff to do and wanted to be able to see groups of friends at a time. Here there was a necessary two-guest maximum.

They wheeled me in and transferred me to my bed in a three-count whompf. I was glad to have the window side of the room, though for the most part I kept the blinds down.

My roommate was an older black man, Mr. Charles Cane, who I later learned had a seizure, broke his neck, and was more or less paralyzed. He could raise his legs a bit, but had very limited use of his arms or hands. Most importantly, he could not push the call button.

This single fact—though I was never convinced that he couldn’t find a way to hit that button with something if his life depended on it—was a big point of contention for our relationship.

We rarely talked, mainly because he talked all the time. I never knew if he was talking to himself, to the staff, or to me. Generally he would complain about his immediate situation, condition, or position. He did so in a general mumble that could barely be heard outside the room (due to the trache).

Cane: “Help, help, help! I need some help. Could somebody help me please? I need to move this foot. I need some damn help. Will nobody help me? I’m paralyzed. Ain’t nobody gonna give me some help. Oh Lord! What am I gonna do?! What. Am. I. Gonna. Do?”

Now don’t get me wrong—the first few times he cried “Emergency!” and no one came, I pushed my button and politely said “Mr. Cane needs some assistance.” Until I noticed the frequency and trivial nature of his complaints, the total lack of respect he held toward the staff, and the terrible attitude he held toward his own recovery.

The next day, I started ignoring him altogether and noticed that he was never satisfied.

Cane: “Help, help, help! Somebody help me! I wanna sit up!”
Nurse: “O.k. sir, I’ll call the lift team.”
5 minutes later
Cane: “Help, help, help! I need some damn help! Put me in this chair!”
Nurse: “Mr. Cane, the lift team is on its way.”
5 minutes later
Cane: “Help, help, help! Oh Lord. What have I done? What have I done to deserve this? Why won’t somebody give me some help?”

It went on like this every day. One time while lifting him back into bed something shifted and made his neck uncomfortable. He proceeded to cuss out the entire staff. Certain staff members would be very apologetic, others would not take it.

This total disregard for nurses and other hospital staff really got to me. My mother has been a nurse ever since I can remember. Now she teaches nursing and is getting her PhD in nursing. Believe me, there is a reason they do every single thing that they do. They are for the most part over worked and under staffed.

The staff
The hospital staff that I interacted with daily consisted of nurses and PCTs (patient care technicians). I enjoyed nearly everyone who in some way participated in my recovery; and I thanked them at each encounter. I’ve found that when you are an active participant in your own care, you recover faster. And when you are gentle with the staff, they are gentle right back.

My first two RNs (day and night shifts) were both men. This was cool because I had never had a male nurse before, and knew all about how nursing as a profession seeks out gender diversity. I found the care to be no different—they were both excellent and professional. One of them talked like Tim Gunn [http://www.bravotv.com/Project_Runway/tims_take] from Project Runway, which cracked me up from time to time. I kept wait for him to just leave me with the medical supplies saying “Make it work!” but he never did.

My favorite nurse came during the weekend. Her name was Virginia. She was a float nurse meaning she would be assigned to a unit that was short staffed, but before moving to the float pool, this unit was where she worked. She had a very pleasant British accent and we got along great.

She was the nurse that removed the NG tube and oversaw the removal of the epidural. She also witnessed my first steps with my mom to the waiting room and back. On a later day she authorized me mom to wheel me outside for some fresh air. When it was time for me to go she stayed past her normal quitting time to give me discharge instructions and wish me well.

Emotional recovery
Saturday night I was about have my first good night’s rest. The previous night I got no sleep what so ever. The night shift was pretty good about coming at regular intervals: midnight for a shot, vitals check shortly after, and blood draw at 2 a.m. If I went to sleep at 8 or 9 p.m., I’d get a good nap in. Saturday night was going to be different because I was less two tubes. And without the epidural, I got oral narcotics (yea!) which were going to put me out like a light.

I had just finished talking to my sister on the phone. The conversation ended with me remarking on how touching it was to realize how many people cared for me and were thinking of me. That thought continued as I adjusted the bed for sleep, and I even said a sort-of prayer of thanksgiving for all the positive healing energy that I could almost feel coming my way from an innumerable amount of people. Maybe it was just a happy Percocet thought, but I felt it nonetheless.

Then I thought about my roommate, Mr Cane. I had been thinking about him and our strange relationship all day—thinking about what I could do to establish or improve communication between him and the staff, and to talk about how he could take control over his own recovery. I was feeling very pastoral—I wanted to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Mr. Cane needed a little of both in my opinion. It was my first positive feeling toward him, and the last.

That night, around 1 a.m. Mr. Cane coded and died. Our room was swarmed with people, and I heard the entire process go down—my first code experience. In the middle of it all, I decided that even though I wasn’t in the way, I wanted to leave the room. My nurse happily agreed to unhook my IV and I was led to an empty, private room down the hall.

Finally. Privacy. Wasn’t this what I wanted the whole time—to be alone? I stayed up late that night. When Mr. Cane passed, they said they would help me get my things and bring them to the other room. I crept in and saw the plain white sheet lay over his body. The nurses and techs helped me move my ever growing pile of reading material, techno gadgets, plants, flowers, and balloons to the new room. I certainly wouldn’t be alone with all this stuff.

Certain words had new meaning now: trauma, shock, alone, privacy…recovery.

Again I was thankful. I was thankful that my last thoughts of Mr. Cane were positive. I was thankful that my new room did little to remind me of the old space, and my physical recovery surged ahead (I was released the next day). I was thankful that, through my help, Mr. Cane’s son visited him that evening and they got to see each other one last time. And again I was thankful for my own life, health, and most of all, family and friends.

Crohn’s Disease
I first knew I had an Inflammatory Bowel Disease in 2000. Then-diagnosed as Ulcerative Colitis, I was treated as such and got better. My friend Ashlee used to call it “Super-Sonic Spontaneous Colon Blow-itis” because she lived under my apartment and could hear me running to the bathroom.

In 2003 many of my symptoms returned. I just got hired at UALR, so when my benefits kicked-in I started going to the UAMS Gastroenterology Clinic. My diagnosis was switched to Crohn’s Disease after my first Small-Bowel Follow-Through, a sort-of x-ray test where you swallow Barium contrast and a radiologist follows it (and takes pictures) as it makes its way through the small bowel to the colon.

My Crohn’s is kept quiet (in remission) by two medications: an anti-inflammatory, Pentasa®, and an immunosuppressant, azathioprine. When a flair-up occurs, I usually have to take a corticosteroid, Predisone, at a high dose which gets tapered-down to near nothing over the course of several weeks.

The gastroenterologists have been telling me for a while now that surgery is only a matter of time with the kind of Crohn’s that I have—the kind that creates strictures or narrowings in my small bowel. Over the last three Small-Bowel Follow-Through’s, we had identified two significant strictures: one in my jejunum (middle) and one near the ileum (end).

Prep
Prior to the main event, I had to be empty. Anyone who has ever gone through any kind of prep (and if you haven’t yet, rest assured that one day you will) knows that this process is quite possibly the most uncomfortable part of the whole ordeal.

For me, the prep was nothing new. Most every procedure I have ever done regarding Crohn’s Disease involves one form of prep or another. This particular prep was about three times as bad as the others, however, because it essentially involved three different kinds of prep: phospho-soda, laxative, and enema. Empty doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel after you’ve performed Fleet’s magic on your body over the course of 24 hours.

Surgery
I was among the lucky first surgeries of the morning on Wednesday. My parents and I arrived at UAMS at 5:30 a.m. and I would go in sometime after 7. As soon as I got the gown on I had to finish my prep with the enema. The nurse showed me the restroom and left me to it.

After that ordeal I returned to a swarm of techs, nurses, interns, and doctors. A tech shaved my stomach and we chatted about various things including the fact that David Prior was nearby, preparing for his heart surgery. Dr. Robertson, my surgeon, came by to say hello and say a few words. I asked him to visit my concerned parents in the waiting room and he gladly obliged.

No one really wanted me to have this surgery—especially my parents and Dr. Robertson. I figured they should meet. For typical Crohn’s patients, surgery is a last resort and never the cure. The disease is very likely to return exactly where it was cut out in a few years, so the medical community (whom my mother is a member) is always hesitant to operate.

After he left I met with the anesthesiologist. She explained a lot about the order of events, when I would get which drugs, when I would go under, and when I would come back. She also organized the “pain team” and the placement of my epidural for the relief (or blocking) of pain during recovery.

At the same time the pain team were placing the epidural, the surgery attending and a large mixture of interns and residents also showed up to introduce themselves. I also met the nurse team that would be working with Dr. Robertson. I told them I felt like I was on “Grey’s Anatomy,” and they assured me that none of them were sleeping with Dr. Robertson.

By now it was getting close to time, so they gave me something to make me more relaxed. Ahhh. Off to the operating room. Once inside I was carefully positioned on the table, and they began giving me the big sleep medicine. “Here I go!” I said.

Initial Recovery
Moments later they were trying to wake me up, saying my name. Confusion doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt, mainly because “confusion” doesn’t imply a tube in your nose that goes down your throat to your stomach. That had to go—I didn’t like that at all.

Julia, the recovery nurse had a sweet, polite tone-of-voice which quickly changed to a much more stern one as she saved me from myself and explained that even though I was indeed choking on the NG tube, it had to stay for a few days.

I felt drugged and hung-over. I was both soar and numb. I was connected to a myriad of tubes in many places. Besides the NG tube which was by far the worst of them all, I had a Foley Catheter, IV access in both arms, and an epidural in my back.

It took a couple of hours before I was ready to be delivered to my room for the rest of my hospital stay, and even when I was ready, it took another while before the delivery people could get me there.

My parents were waiting for me there and they stayed a while. My pain was under control, thanks to the epidural, but my comfort was nowhere near acceptable. I had tubes everywhere; I couldn’t get comfortable in the hospital bed. Again, the NG tube was the worst. It’s placement from my stomach, through my throat and nose, to the vacuum on the wall made it both necessary (due to the increased mucous) and painful for me to swallow or even talk.

The NG tube’s job is important and shouldn’t be overlooked. It keeps my intestines free from stomach acid and bile (plus anything else that has made its way down there). The vacuum port on the wall essentially sucked it out intermittently. The settings were a bit tricky, however, because too much suction too often starts to irritate the stomach, making it bloody. Too little suction doesn’t catch enough of the stomach acid goo before it reaches the intestines which at this point needed a little break.

Next Steps
As my recovery progressed, it became clear to me that the people involved were a much bigger part than the mechanics of surgery, pre-op. and post-op. My next blog will be about those that I encountered, befriended, and even lost.

So I feel that Ive been taking advantage of myspace–in the same way that one would take advantage of the government.

First, however, I should clarify that I dont believe that I have been dishonest in my pictures or description of myself. I dont mind others posting profile pictures of ridiculous people or things that obviously dont represent a true physical likeness, but perhaps represent some other aspect of their personality. I wouldnt do it, I dont think, but its fine.

I just dont think its cool to misrepresent yourself, especially with a false likeness. For example, I wouldnt feel right by posting a profile picture of some hunk from New York (pretending like thats me). Davis calls it “authenticity of identity.” Its kind of a big topic at our house.

But thats not what I mean by taking advantage of myspace.

Ive been myspace traveling. I change my zip code so that my profile will appear in whatever city I feel like visiting (it takes a while to show up). I also browse the local scene and even make a few temporary friends.

Its a guilty pleasure, I know, and I cant help but feel a little wrong about it. I guess the fun was spoiled when this cute guy from Charleston, SC asked me to dinner. I had to come clean (and move to my next city).

I guess it is an outlet for not being able to travel as much as I had planned this summer. I seem to recall big plans for going places: Dallas, Savannah, Santa Monica, Cincinnati, Maine, and others. But the budget for some never materialized.

Ive also been put in a strange position to offer advise to an organization Im affiliated with regarding myspace advertising. I know many of you dislike being served lifestyle-specific ads–after all, they do get annoying. But for the right group, I think it could generate a lot of much needed internet traffic.

Is any of this right or wrong? I find that I am no longer in a position to judge. Short of deleting my profile, I cannot escape playing both parts.

had to delete a friend today; it just wasn’t working out. Normally I would just quietly remove someone and not say anything, let alone blog about it. But this guy deserves to have the decision explained, and I think the lesson is valuable enough.

I’m not prone to adding people that I don’t actually know, but we sort of knew each other through a friend so it was an exception. As a rule I believe the friend’s list is a representation of the self, and that a list full of robots and viruses reflects poorly on one’s personal standards.

Jenna and I didn’t meet Jeremy Henry at the Of Montreal/Tilly and the Wall concert last year. We met Dax. Dax is a really cool indie kid from North Texas/South Oklahoma. Before we left that night, we exchanged myspace addresses with our new friend. Soon after we had a friend request.

A few days later I got a message from Jeremy Henry, saying he knew Dax and was supposed to go to the concert with him. He heard we were cool and wanted to be myspace friends.

I did the obligatory background check (you know, read his profile) and was noticed that he messaged me from his music page but didn’t think anything of it. After the friend request, I got frequent bulletins from Jeremy updating his “fans” about his up-in-coming career as a musician. I didn’t really feel like a fan, though, because of the crazy “we never actually met” story.

Well, today his bulletin, err, “press release” explains how he scored an album debut based on his guerrilla myspace marketing. At first I thought “well good for him,” which is what I generally feel after reading his bulletins. But now, all of a sudden, I feel like our non-friendship is actually adding to his credibility.

Don’t get me wrong, I neither love nor hate his music–it’s not about that.

And it’s not really about the viral or FOF (friend of friend) marketing. We are each served advertisements on myspace that are lifestyle-specific. It’s a new fact of life–it’s not going away. I get it.

But don’t use the fact that you have a bunch of friends on your myspace music page to somehow justify your new record, especially since many of those people just blindly added you like I did.

Wal-Mart tattoo

IPod orgy

The porch

Out of the old transgressions of the seas
We come
Encroachments of the land
No vestige of beginning
No prospect of an end

Salt of the blood is ocean bathing still
Each cell of brain and heart
Burning uphill

Out of the tide-slime
Credulous we come
Singing our latest God stabbed and perfumed
Springing the eye of the enemy from the socket
Building a ladder to a broken bird
Meadow and mine to the pocket
Dream to the word

Out of the sluggard butcheries we come
Cowering so at night in a white cold sweat
Staring at the hills and lovers
Yet strange with a fairer courage
To us of all beasts given
To meet with flaking hair and nostril numb

The ice-long dream of peace on earth
Somewhere on earth
Or peace in heaven

We may have been coming up a misty spring
a summer of long fire, some autumn
When those mountains over there were first thrown up
to make a purple windrow,
but we needn’t talk of the breaking down of a skull or blossom,
or whether the hair lives longer than the heart,
or how improbable it always was that we should ever walk the trail together
This is no night for winding clocks,
I love you.