It is very early autumn here in the north country, the tops of the maples just beginning to change color while the lower branches remain green. The days are warm, the nights cool. This morning after Carole left for work I took the dogs out on the deck with me and sat for a while enjoying the still-cool morning air, the warm sun, the breeze. The sky was an expanse of pure blue beyond description & the river picked up that color, the surface broken by small wavelets that sent points of brilliant silver light in every direction. It occurred to me that, despite everything, this was the most beautiful morning of my life. Or perhaps it was because of everything. The ten-thousand things in perfect harmony, so that even the sound of a truck grinding its gears as it rattled over the bridge fit perfectly into the music of the morning.
It has been a little over a month since I’ve posted anything in this space. The hiatus began as carelessness, I suppose, or distraction by my own troubles, but then continued more or less intentionally. I’ve been taking a kind of vacation from human contact, listening to audiobook potboilers, surfing YouTube & napping as often as I could manage to fall asleep. I think what happened–this in retrospect–I had gotten tired of my own situation & wanted to get away from it. Time’s quality changes inexplicably.
I now find that, without consciously attempting it, that I am again interested in communication & my life as a writer. One grows tired of vacations after a while. I’m not yet sure what will come of this, but I expect to begin posting here again, at least occasionally. Not sure what I’ll write about, probably reading. I’ve just finished rereading Louis Menand’s The Metaphysical Club & have begun Isabelle Stengers’ Thinking with Whitehead. The plan to discuss the former with my friend has fallen through, mostly because of the vacation I have been describing, partly because of his pressure of work. I hope we will still have a chance to discuss books / ideas online.
One of the main problems with being sick is that time inflates & at the same time the number of things one can do to fill the time is reduced. And as time thins out, fantasies & obsessive thoughts emerge from the void. Small things are magnified. Generally, I can slide away from such thoughts, but some days it can be difficult. When I can focus, I work on poems, but I’m looking for projects that will absorb my attention even when I’m feeling scattered. Suggestions? Note: I don’t watch movies.
The metaphor is not original with me, but moods have the quality of the weather. I’ve been experiencing changeable weather the last couple of weeks. Like the weather, moods are notoriously difficult to describe. In my case, I go from a kind of nervous distraction in which I cannot work but cannot rest, either, to a kind of generalized sense of well-being during which I can focus & even write. But it’s difficult to sense why I shift or when a shift is coming. The best I can do is be mindful of the state of mind I’m in at a particular moment & let go of it if it is not productive or at least comfortable.
The air is cool but sunlight fills the yard. I haven’t been posting much here because my days have all been pretty much the same within a narrow range of sameness. The quality of the light I see when I look out over the river changes over the course of a day: early, it is tinged with yellow, shifting as the morning progresses toward something more neutral, until by midday things present themselves in their own colors. By evening the yellow quality returns. This is all just the physics of light waves. So far so good. But despite the plain science of light, there is some residue of meaning or perhaps only a feeling that inheres in the light. Is it just one of those things that’s “in our heads,” or is there something more? What’s the extra thing that we feel when we allow ourselves to enter the light? Mere illusion? I don’t think so, and can only conclude we human beings–and animals even more so–have the ability to sense the invisible aspects of reality. That light inside the light. The overwhelming greenness of the day is now in full effect & the ordinary light pours down, its invisibles withdrawn into a noon silence. The old Romans thought of noon as a kind of witching hour, a moment of stasis when shadows stand & shiver as noon clicks over into afternoon.
The second round of my oral chemo has five more days to run. This second run went fine until a couple of days ago when enough chemical built up in my system to cause considerable nausea. There is nothing, really, to be said about nausea. Everybody knows what it’s like, though reportedly some people find vomiting less awful than others. I am among the “others.” Jenny Diski writes in In Gratitude that “there is nothing [she] dislikes more than being sick,” and goes on a little later to put it in these terms: “Do I want to live another year or so [by taking the chemo pills] or do I want to feel ill and eat when I haven’t the slightest appetite?” To do this chemo you have eat food with your medication–otherwise your body, quite rightly, rejects it in the quickest way it knows how. Diski comments on her own question: “It’s a new perspective.”
Given the choice between being consistently ill and adding , in her case, a year or so of life expectancy, Diski chooses to forego the chemotherapy, accept an earlier death, & to die, at least, without the added indignity of regular nausea & vomiting.
Diski’s chemotherapy must have been much more unpleasant that mine, since it is only the final week of each run that has even approached what she describes. But I am far from criticizing her choice. Especially for a writer, someone who works with her mind, being deprived of the ability to think clearly because of nausea would be a terrible deprivation–in her circumstances, I might well make the same decision.
The second round (of three) of my chemotherapy has five more days to run; then I will have two weeks off, then another 28 days on. (Funny that they use the moon calendar rather than the solar to set the duration.) I’m dealing with it pretty well, all things considered. Have been getting some writing done, taking care of the business of life, with only the occasional bout of misery. Considering that this is supposed to buy me some indefinite period of more or less normal life when it is over, I’ve made the bargain–I’ll stick it out. Of course, contemplating that “indefinite period” and what lies beyond it can be depressing, but I try to dwell as much as possible in the moment.