Saturday, January 31, 2009

Update

Yesterday I underwent a prostate biopsy, which involved a needle being shot into my prostate through my rectum wall 12 times, to remove a sample from 12 different sections of the gland.  Yes, "ouch," would be the correct response.  We are embodied beings. 

I will know within the week whether or not I have any cause for concern.  In all likelihood, I do not, because although my psa number was "slightly elevated," I show no other symptoms.  My prostate ain't enlarged.  Nonetheless, I've not been able to steer clear of mild depression.  Mortality is this dark slurping mush at the back of my mind into which my thoughts trail imperceptibly.  I'm not 'thinking' anything in particular, but the darkness slurps at my alert self, numbing it, slowing it down, fatiguing it.  One of my brothers has had similar health scares, and he reports similar sensations.

It's probably not a coincidence that I'm also so horny my eyes feel as if they're going to pop out of my head.  Mortality, sex.  Big Death, Little Death.  No separating them.

I'm also feeling irascible.  In a workshop today, I wanted to snap at my classmates, as I watched or listened to all their little habits.  Having spent eighteen months in ridiculously close contact with them, they're like siblings I can't get rid of.  And I'll miss them, when it's all done.  Fortunately, I kept my attitude to myself, today.  It ain't no one's business but my own.

I must also add that my classmates have been kind.   I'd hate to repay them with undeserved pique.

Ok.  I'm now going to watch Patriot Games to help solidify my Northern Irish dialect, which, funny enough, I'm picking up more quickly than other supposedly easier dialects, such as Standard American Southern.

p.s.  I saw two terrific movies in the last couple of days:  The Wrestler and Frozen River.   What a relief they were after the steady diet of Hollywood bombast I seem to have been ingesting, of late.  I like Hollywood bombast, for the most part.  But, enough is enough.

I also spent some time in the Rothko Chapel at The Menil, today, but I felt more disappointed than stirred.  The space has been so catalogued and marketed that whatever 'There' was there has slipped out between the lines of the cheesy spiritualism of the museum brochure.


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