the flurbiting-wurbit

Red Mountain: Resonance High and Low

2/ 6/ 14

Pre-MRI:

The Whitesnake/ Mulberry Bush Enigma: the clinic's parking deck. Get there in the still of the night when the wolf howls, honey, and still be going round and round all the live long day.

The Run on Ahead/ Run-On Sentence Dilemma: When snowstorms cause mass-rescheduling and there being no preferential treatment for frequent flyers in the clinic's encapsulated whirligigs, some flyers are relegated to the ruins of antiquity in the old wing, at which facility you can park in the nearby, albeit dilapidated, deck and after a jaunty wife-push/ wheel-roll, be all snug in your jostle-machine right on schedule, or you can park at the newer wing, in which facility you are scheduled to meet with your doctor immediately following your scan and after a ten minute wife-dash/ mine-cart jostle arrive in yesteryear just in time to get all unsettled in your jostle-machine, one way or the other you're in for some jaunty jostles/ jostly jaunts; enjoy.

Intra-MRI:

The Racket/ Noise Continuum: Cue the cowboy clucking for his horses to giddy-yup, the UFO's touch and go wumping into new atmospheres, and the flurbiting-wurbit of an over-kaled juicer.

When I had my first MRI, they equipped me with headphones to muffle the noise and perhaps distract me from terror. I remember being offered a choice between country music and something somehow less appealing. I wish I could remember that too. Ragtime? Mariachi? Anyway, I figured the headphones were standard operating procedure. That was the last time I had headphones with any audio offerings. I've had padded props, spongy plugs, what seemed to be bar-counter rags, and gone commando.  Eventually, nobody's fooling nobody with nothing.  Until yesterday. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice . . . no, you know what? . . . still shame on you, guys. Call-in sports radio on college football's national signing day coming to me live in the South from the station just a scosh down the road and just a smidge up the hill from the full-body Chinese finger trap in which I was presently engaged. That is--WJOXFM, your choice for voluble, vituperative, velociraptor venting. Yes, double shame on you and a plague on all your scrubs. And don't act like we couldn't have been listening to country music from the station just a sliver farther down the ridge.

Post-MRI:

The Minimum Ado About Something: Doc says conditions are stable, proceed with round two of new chemo. Sound good? Sounds reasonable. Six weeks, then? Sounds good.

Down a Stream

2/ 10 / 14

Along life's merry way, I have attached value to things like intellect, understanding, and wisdom; life, literature, and music; faith, hope, and love.

Of the last three, it has been said that love is greatest. I'm fine with that, but I'd like to throw patience into the mix and say, now of the last four, without patience which of the others would survive?

In the previous three (life, literature, and music), I've marveled, I've regaled, and I've reveled--respectively for the most part but often alternately. But at times and for whiles, each have lost luster, each have run-aground, each have slipped as far as abhorrent.

As for the first three (intellect, understanding, and wisdom), initially seeming most attainable yet now seeming least. So much energy bought at exorbitant prices traded with abandon. Too much of the other six (seven allowing my patience) frittered like so much conch and corn.

Nevertheless, life's way seems merrier most days. Minus the feverish pursuit. To slip instead grip.

Because the old gray matter's got something the matter. Old Denmark, Horatio, she's spoiling. It lapses, us my precious, it lapses us.  {tunefully} . . . and the sun shines on the bay-ay . . . has anyone seen my sharpest knife, in the drawer at last check? I get goofy. I get going before having a place to go and forget how I got there when I do. I get mad at my pajamas for still being my daytime clothes. I get to wondering where I put my nose only to find it was beneath my glasses the whole time. I get to wandering . . . I’m getting to be . . .

A garage fluorescent winking dim, a gibbous moon waning thin,
Gosling feathers aloft, adrift, pavement plenty for a mind on the lift.