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What do we do after a major crisis? We are here but we are also somewhere else.
What remains is a state where simple answers do not exist anymore.
Someone asks “how are you,” and it is absolutely impossible to answer – cf. below Robert Frost on voting.

Language as a whole seems to belong to a “universe of scoundrels.” Not that anyone has any bad intentions, but non-conscious exchanges – when normalcy is assumed (which is most of the time) – turns the limping into some kind of consolation dance.

Insouciance” or “what-me-worry” was left behind.

This poem by Henri Michaux has been with me for a great many years.
Its refrain, “and he went back to sleep,” is echoing in me.

Much revolves around sleep, and avoidance.
Do we ever face anything else besides what we cannot escape?
The present is the only “stuff/embrace” we may handle…

A quiet man by Henri Michaux –  (my emphasis)
[English Translation by Marton]

Extending his hands out of bed, Plume was surprised not to meet the wall. “Well, he thought, the ants must have eaten it …” and he fell asleep again.

Shortly after, his wife grabbed him and shook him: “Look, she says, lazy you! while you were busy sleeping we were robbed of our house. “Indeed, an immaculate sky stretched on all sides. “Well, the thing is done.” he thought.

Soon after, a noise was heard. It was a train coming at them at full speed. “From its hurried look, he thought, it will surely arrive before we do” and again he fell asleep.

Then, the cold woke him up. He was soaked in blood. A few pieces of his wife were lying next to him. “With blood, he thought,  a great many conflicts always arise; if this train could have not passed, I would be very happy. But since it has already passed … “and he went back to sleep.
– Well, said the judge, how do you explain that your wife injured herself to the point that she was found divided into eight pieces, without you, who were nearby, being able to make a gesture to prevent it, without you even having noticed it. That’s the mystery. Everything lies there.
– On that path, I cannot help him, thought Plume, and he fell back asleep.
– The execution will take place tomorrow. Accused, do you have something to add?
– Excuse me, he said, I have not followed the case. And he went back to sleep.


Original
Un homme paisible par Henri Michaux(mon emphase)

Étendant les mains hors du lit, Plume fut étonné de ne pas rencontrer le mur. ” Tiens, pensa-t-il, les fourmis l’auront mangé… ” et il se rendormit.

Peu apres, sa femme l’attrapa et le secoua: “Regarde, dit-elle, fainéant! pendant que tu étais occupé à dormir on nous a volé notre maison.” En effet, un ciel intact s’étendait de tous côtés. “Bah, la chose est faite.” pensa-t-il.

Peu après, un bruit se fit entendre. C’était un train qui arrivait sur eux à toute allure. ” De l’air pressé qu’il a, pensa-t-il, il arrivera sûrement avant nous ” et il se rendormit.
Ensuite, le froid le réveilla. Il était tout trempé de sang. Quelques morceaux de sa femme gisaient près de lui. ” Avec le sang, pensa-t-il, surgissent toujours quantité de désagréments; si ce train pouvait n’être pas passé, j’en serais fort heureux. Mais puisqu’il est déjà passé… ” et il se rendormit.
– Voyons, disait le juge, comment expliquez-vous que votre femme se soit blessée au point qu’on l’ait trouvée partagée en huit morceaux, sans que vous, qui étiez à côté, ayez pu faire un geste pour l’en empêcher, sans même vous en être aperçu. Voilà le mystère. Toute l’affaire est là-dedans.
– Sur ce chemin, je ne peux pas l’aider, pensa Plume, et il se rendormit.
– L’exécution aura lieu demain. Accusé, avez-vous quelque chose à ajouter?
– Excusez-moi, dit-il, je n’ai pas suivi l’affaire. Et il se rendormit.

Référence: Henri Michaux, Un certain Plume, dans Plume précédé de Lointain intérieur, Paris, Gallimard, 1963, pp.139-140.

And then there are those who may wonder whether someone who is “still alive” after a while, has still something to say, and whether all of this “ordeal-writing” was useless.


Various sensations/symptoms are called “sequels?”
At which point do I say “enough/basta” with any of this.
FYI tinnitus is called acouphènes in French (“une belle jambe”).


I know I don’t know, do I?


The words “bleeding heart” came to my mind during the night. What does that mean?


Some don’t know when they will die, and others also don’t know, but the time-frames, the scales are different.


Having doctors who are also           friends…

“Reality” should always be in quotes.  — Buckminster Fuller

… makes the unknown much more manageable.

The doctor’s words to me:
“These are typical findings after an area of traumatic hemorrhage in the brain.
The “encephalomalacia” is essentially an area of “scar” where the hemorrhage was. No major concern. Perhaps some small, limited risk of seizure, but not enough to warrant seizure meds.
The enhancement seen after the IV contrast is a bit curious. Possibly just healing from trauma, but as mentioned, a small possibility of a dural arteriovenous fistula (dAVF). These are typically more minor irregularities of the blood vessels, not as significant as the AVM that you had years ago, but if you continue to have a pulsatile tinnitus (sounds in your ear) a catheter cerebral angiogram like you had years ago for the AVM (catheter threaded through femoral artery in groin or radial artery in wrist to inject dye) could be considered. Mike.”

The questions continue… of course they mean well, but there is a irreconcilable chasm between what is asked and the immensity of what I could answer, if I could answer anything.
To summarize, just yesterday I was asked whether everything will soon heal; I answered that with blood in one’s head – as Michaux says in one of his Plume stories – all kinds of unpleasant things may happen.

What do I know?!

Brain sensations… sometimes pressure by the eye, sometimes by the ear, hearing the blood flow with every heartbeat. How curious!
A wonderful brain surgeon will check my CTscans! He saved my life in 2008!


Some kind of “antechamber?”
At the very least, I had time to prepare myself… you will say.
It is with calm that a final “curtain” may drop. Without any drama.
People will go back to their busy lives because that’s what life is about: being busy.

Missed opportunities for concrete information.

They mean well, but it is not what was needed:
– my mother was given a Kleenex when she was interviewed by the Shoah Foundation. The interviewer was a therapist, unaware of the history and the geography of WWII genocied in Hungary.
– a well-meaning nurse offered me the same Kleenex as she was “debriefing” me on the damage done (cf. below). I needed facts, not some office-compassion.

What I feel is typically physical and fleeting (various sensations around the brain); what doctors see is different.
Finally, almost two months later, a nurse (why not a doctor?) tells me by comparing three CT scans, how the impact of the fall, through the helmet, generated some blood inside my brain.

It is visible… and yet, no one knows exactly how this will manifest itself in the future.

“Talk to your GP if you notice something new.”

The good news is that the blood has not expanded. The not-so-great news is that the blood is still there and what remains prevents some part of the brain to function – my understanding in a quick summary that typically doesn’t spell out the ramifications: “either you will know if something is not right, or you won’t.”

“And by the way, the book on brain injury you were given may not be that relevant to you” – a guessing game, or is it the advice given to a child with something some adults (somewhere) may understand in a deeper way. Or have I reached the limits of science/medicine and no one wants to acknowledge that?
Is this what they could be saying: “I am sorry, we would like to help you further, but we just don’t know.”

The arrow points to the area with blood.


The fantastic news following one more clavicle X-Ray is that I can go back to the pool – we swimmers are used to fighting against the elements! If I die, it may be in the water!

Holding opposites, and not being tempted to reduce it to one of them.
The complexity means that while the sun is shining and birds are singing, war is raging, people are dying (in December 2023 we know that too well)… and I am still feeble.
I am frail because I am still struggling – that is my state even if you would like a simple statement like “I am doing better” (so you can move onto other subjects and be truly relieved)… but my off-balance state – showering, cooking, daily victories, are exhausting tasks and challenges – implies that whatever I end up saying has to make sense to you; all of that represents some kind of front, hiding a complexity nobody has time for.
And there is still that sporadic “private sensation” – how to describe the “flutter” inside my head during the night – what to call a most unusual sensation inside my skull/cranium/head (which word to use?) – everything seems as unreliable as the flicker of a switch.

Light and darkness are in constant dialogue – when to open one’s mouth?


When you open your mouth makes a huge difference as to what you say. Five minutes later, you may say something quite different.
Are we just fleeting snapshots of ourselves?


I learned as a young man this quote by Victor Hugo (“Les Mis”!): “Vivre c’est lutter – To live is to struggle.”
Every day the words resonate in my head, but then maybe – don’t tell anyone – I am digging around to create more space in my hole – bonjour Henri Michaux!
Writing here is part of that way of dealing with what is.
But there are many layers of silence and solitude in there, and these words do not change that reality.

Words are only ABOUT it.
IT cannot be shared.
Please be here AND everywhere all of the time!

 

It does not make sense to reduce what was created following my first brain-bleed, the School of No Media to a few words, nor to any words for that matter… but a friend asked for a summary.


The shortest version:

With incantatory redundancy, the repetitive and predictable behavior of words (and images & sounds) act as formulas and cliches to make sure that the tautology (“it is true because it is true”) –  a form of personal and collective idol-worship, – will function ad infinitum.
All of this, along with the fact that we disguise our addictions as interests, became very clear after spending three weeks in an ICU, unable to communicate.
Unlearning, if possible, seems the only life-affirming goal. —-> http://SchoolOfNoMedia.com
 In the tradition of Abraham, the iconoclast… Pier Marton…”  — Sander Gilman
« Tout le malheur des hommes vient de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos, dans une chambre.» All of humanity’s trouble stems from not being able to remain at rest in a room. Blaise Pascal 1623-1662

The longer version:
Everything can be traced to a 2008 hospital ICU where I was unable to communicate: I could neither speak nor even scribble anything.
For almost three weeks, I was just a pair of eyes … Afterwards, “human activity” became as abstracted as the flow of ants appears to most of us: both somewhat erratic and having its very particular logic.
From that point on, the glance of a donkey – one specifically stepped on my foot on a narrow mountain path in Bolivia – was more eloquent than most words spoken.
An animal’s eyes, its presence seems richer than what it could say, were it to speak.
Already in the hospital, it was clear that whether a doctor, a nurse or a janitor were “present” while being with me, made a huge difference in how I perceived the interaction. Animals seem always present but humans are prone to a form of absenteeism (MIA), hiding behind words.
Speaking of which, it is not just words but images too that have a tendency to “make it look” (ha!) as if they are revealing reality, but instead, in most cases, they cover up reality.
More importantly, what we refer to as we speak, by using words, are ready-made concepts and ideas. Everything, like in a predetermined script, just falls into place and no moment is perceived on its own. All we are doing are reinforcing existing clichés. We live inside a tautology: it is true because it is true ( validating the existing system, the doxa). The ancient mould (both meanings!) just awaits our own prescribed movements.
Yes, I know: lives can be saved because of words, and writers and poets create unique sparks through their wordsmithing, and lofty or even glorious emotions can be reached through the arts, be that as it may, as the saying goes…

Bloody Thoughts

“I hold up what I know with what I do not know.” – Antonio Porchia

Rose-colored glasses await most of us who “want to feel good.” Reality though cannot be summarized by words, emoji, images, you name it.

Still:

When I fell on my bicycle, I was on my way to a pharmacy to get my Covid booster. About a month and a half later, during my “recovery,” after consulting with my GP, I went to get that particular shot, this time by walking one hour… and right by my side, this luxurious dwelling caught my eye.
I took it – stupid humans – as a kind of omen. The circle was completed this time, I did get the booster, and the “visuals” felt like a gift.

Luxurious setting, quiet street, REAL estate (as it is called!).

WORDS PLAY WITH US ALL THE TIME: (f)ALL RISK(s?)

Whether I keep updating these comments or not, depends on a few things:

1. I need to keep having something to add.

2. “Surviving” goes further… There is a blood clot in my brain. I can feel it as a particular pain in my head, sometimes more present than not.
Does it grow, is it stable? Is my blood pressure affecting it or not? It is clear: I need calm.
And sometimes, when I lie down everything spins…  Something else to get used to?

Another CATscan will reveal a variety of truths?


My GP’s Notes Around Our Meeting

An epitaph? Not very original…
Not knowing much about the future – “the curtain may drop at any time” – means not knowing much. It means that making plans & making statements is just about impossible.
Again I go back to Socrates: if I know anything, it is that I know nothing.
Good luck to everyone: please be as kind as possible with each other (and I mean animals and the planet – we are “them” too)!

Wounded

Wounds, there are many types, are like cracks.*
Some are visible, some are not. From the outside, one can misjudge the situation.
Only since the concept of “PTSD” became a reality, the remnants – what remains of trauma – can be considered “devastating” (i.e. complete “destruction” is present).
If its presence is felt, nothing normal  makes sense: conversation seems trivial and is of no use.
In certain circles, it is often discussed that you can take the Jews out of slavery, but you cannot take slavery out of the Jews.
Maybe Cervantes’ “giving time to time” does not apply here?
*Please don’t give me Leonard Cohen’s “and that’s where the light comes in” –  the crack is a break.


As I said in 1975 or so in a video piece: “what you see is not…”

My dear mother said, after learning two more languages besides her native language, that she spoke “only foreign languages.” Even her ties to the language of her childhood had faded away.
The state of being estranged is hard to convey to people who expect language to be used in the most conventional way.
Distance becomes the only way to communicate at those times. As the surrealists pleaded back in the 1920’s: Let the infinite in!