Saturday 1/20/24
Things are about to get rather intense on here--or resume in their intensity, perhaps I should say--and some bad people are not going to like what they see about themselves. But something a touch lighter first. Balance is one of the many things this record is about. I'll see if I can do one of those sports association entries, too. Then we'll get back to you, David Remnick. And an opinion editor at The New York Times. And an editor at Harvard. An agent. And we have another prose off upcoming. Among other things. And word of warning, because I'm a generous fellow: So many of you are in bed with John Freeman, as much of a propitiator, back-room manipulator and tyrannical little orchestrator, and leech of this twisted system as there is, and you will be implicated in some awful things. I would get ahead of it if I were you so as not to also be dragged down. As I said, one's only chance is to drop the discrimination, and attempt to make things right, which you are free to do at any point. I'm a reasonable person, and all I care about is the work. I'm not looking to rehash or collect souls or display heads on pikes or put the screws to you over correspondence. You are not going to want to look back on words such as these and think, "Well, it was right there, I could have avoided this for myself." You have the option to re-set and start over by treating me and my work fairly.
An anecdote regarding my mother: Phoned her yesterday to check in. A lot of what my mother does now is talk about her health--which is good--and her grandkids. I say this with great love in my heart--for I love my mother very much--but she can go on and on about both at this point. It is incumbent upon me--or else she asks if I'm still there--to interpose often enough with a "Really?" or "Wow" or a "Right" over what are very small things. But I know that these kids have given her purpose after having lost so much with the deaths of my dad and my sister, though I have to admit, this does work a nerve and it's hard.
It's really almost devilishly comical. Here I am, alone, in something worse than hell--and I choose those words, as I choose all words, carefully--and in a unique war, all on my own in a historically unique situation, and I step clear of that--though not really--to listen to someone tell me relatively unimportant things as though I don't have a care in the world, when they should know better, or do, or do and can't handle what this person they love is going through, so they block it out, which has the effect of making my burden and torture feel even greater by reinforcing my utter aloneness, adding to a pain so great that it can't even be shared or even acknowledged because it causes others too much pain--as if they think I'm blissfully lying on my back in a field besotted with flowers, piece of grass between my teeth as I ponder the possible shapes made by the clouds above. To be honest, it's not awesome for me. It's garishly dissociative, and it makes me feel even more alone. But I love my mother. And I care about her. And as with everything, I try and do the right thing. But the strength this takes is considerable. I step out of the torture chamber--but again, not really--and play a role, then I step back in. That I'm coming from the torture chamber is not a secret. I think that makes it harder still for me.
This idea of of the prescriptive and perfunctory listener makes me think of the profound validity of that story of mine, "Hope You're Listening," which will be in, and is perfect for, Become Your Own Superhero: Intrepid Exceptions to Modern Fiction, being about how people like to talk more than anything, and expect to be listened to. The story is told from the point of view of someone who realizes this, which casts him in the position--and it seems to always work out this way--as listener. That listener is almost more of a prop than a person insofar as the speaker is concerned. That speaker just wants to know that they have an audience.
People have a drive-thru approach to life now and that approach has permeated life is now the norm of life. It's like pulling up to the drive-thru, and instead of "Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order?" it's "What is it you want to hear?"
My mom had a check-up with her doctor a couple days ago. This doctor is in her forties, and when my mom had her first consultation with her--I think her previous doctor retired, or moved, and she really wanted this other person who was highly recommended, and had to wait to get her--the doctor came off as tough. Obviously, I liked this. She was like, "You need to stretch, go on the treadmill for this long, then meditate for this long, every day." Not strenuous. We're talking fifteen minutes on the treadmill. And no more than two drinks a week.
So my mom like barely does it, right? Well, she doesn't drink much. I put that in more to convey what the doctor's attitude was. My mom did the exercises here and there. Then she didn't do it. Now, if I'm your son, Mr. Stairs, Mr. Otherworldly Self-Discipline, you think you're going to be getting asked by that guy if you're doing what the doctor told you to do? So I knew. She wasn't going to lie to me. My sister was out here in August, and she's there in the next town over from my mom, with potentially some pull or influence on account of being close by, and I pointed out that our mother was not doing these exercises, to which my sister said, "Does that surprise you?" in a tone that made clear that she had nothing else to say on the matter, as if it'd be foolish to think this could have gone any other way, or could.
Again, that was August. Beginning in September, my mom had those two eye surgeries--nothing huge; it's not like she had a couple of glass eyes popped in there, it was just some cataract surgery; she got sick once, and she had COVID, but she's also had like seventeen booster shots. Sure, she was sick. One time, pretty sick. A few days. But even if we're being super lax and acting like there's your combined culprit for why exercises were not done, all of that was wrapped up last year.
She hasn't done these exercises once this year. She goes to the doctor, tells the doctor this--my mom wouldn't lie--and the doctor enthuses over what a great job she's doing, and as my mom proudly said to me, "She gave me an A, but not an A+."
The doctor said it was understandable that my mother hadn't done any exercises since September, when my sister and I had already been talking about how she wasn't doing them in the summer. She had the surgeries, she was sick, there was COVID, said the doctor. My mom was all pleased, because someone told her what she wanted to hear.
I asked my mom, "So given that everything is hunky dory, and all of those reasons are gone now, next time we talk you'll probably be like, 'Great fifteen minutes on the treadmill today?'"
And she says, yes, that's how it will be.
It's not going to be like that!
And this doctor--whom my mom has told about my stairs, and how I don't drink at all--actually told my mom to tell me about this "A" grade. To pass it on.
I'm not into this doctor anymore. A as in my royal Boston ass. (Which I did not say--it's my mom, so I'm milder.)
Then it was like my mom was hurt that I was dubious and had interjected a modicum of truth into the matter, even by just asking a gentle, basic, obvious question.
The morale of this story: People want to talk and be listened to, and they want to be told what they want to hear. It's not about true or false. They'll gravitate to what they want and then that becomes what they try to go with as reality. Except, that's not how reality works, is it? This isn't really about my mom. It's sort of an amusing anecdote, and the big thing with me, of course, regarding my mom, is that she's healthy. But I would still prefer she do those exercises so that she stays that way.
Watched The Woman in White (1948). More work on "The Ghost and the Flame," especially near the beginning. An unreal work. Back to it momentarily. Listened to Pick-up Full of Pink Carnations a few more times.

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