Unscratched Itches

2021-10-16T14:34:50Z

The corn maze was different from what I expected.

Of course, I’d never been to a corn maze before.

So, what did I know?

But I was expecting something greener. Somewhere where the Children of the Corn could camp out comfortably, and wandering zombies could make tamales when they ran out of human flesh.

The corn stalks in this corn maze were really fuckin’ old. Withered and dry.

I did like how each stalk’s exposed roots looked like chicken feet:

And, of course, the withered corn stalks made a fabulous backdrop for the fabulous pix asakiyme and I took of each other:

Mostly the corn maze was an excuse to hang out with asakiyme.

asakiyme is one of my only two friends who are professional writers, and it’s a joy to talk comma placement with her! And also, we are more or less in the same place on the political spectrum—meaning we’re people whose innate sympathies should place us on the Left but who are becoming more and more alienated with the Left.

Anyway, Good Time, All Had, and as an extra added bonus I got to drive through True Autumn splashing itself all over northern Columbia County and western Massachusetts.

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Night before, I was randomly scrolling through FB, which is something one should never do because when you’re in that random scrolling mood, you are very permeable.

Amaryllis had posted a link to a piece she had written on how Bruce Springsteen had saved her from her crippling depression and subsequent adult ADHD diagnosis, thereby giving her the Will to Live. The piece is entitled: My Mental Health Issues Have a Name: Bruce.

The piece had been published in the New York Times.

I scanned the piece.

Amaryllis is an excellent writer, but the piece was that kind of gushy, gurgley confessional I loathe, very twee; plus, of course, professional envy (Question: Why aren’t I published in the New York Times? Answer: Because you haven’t cultivated the right contacts, thilly girl!).

Amaryllis has about a billion FB friends, and they’d all commented on her posting containing the announcement.

You’re so brave!

You’re so fabulous!

You’re so fearless!

Better living through chemistry!

Very nice! At. This point I’m suspicious of anyone who’s NOT medicated.

I had to stop reading at that one.

I kinda-sorta know the woman who posted that comment. She’s another old Wellie. A teacher, went through a bad divorce. She has absolutely no sense of humor, so her comment was deadly serious.

What the fuck?

What kind of Harrison Bergeron world are we living in?

I think therapy is great for the people who can benefit from it. I’m more ambivalent about SRIs and other pharmoactive antidepressants, primarily because I believe the brain is a supple organ that can reprogram itself through a variety of different methods, and that antidepressants are over-prescribed as the easy fix.

But I recognize their efficacy. I have one close friend who’s so affected by psychotic depression, she’d be dead were it not for an arsenal of pills she pops every morning.

But, man.

To define the Armies of Light as those fearless warriors who’re on antidepressants and the Forces of Darkness as those craven orcs who are not?

That is just beyond crazy.

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Kinda reminds me of an interview I did back in the 90s with a woman who was the highest ranking person with a disability in the California State administration at the time. Was she the head of the Department of Developmental Services? I can’t remember now.

This woman had had polio as a child and used a wheelchair.

Anyway, during the course of the interview, I asked a question about vaccines.

And she remarked—on the record, mind you—that she was very ambivalent about vaccines.

I was too much of a pro to let my mouth drop open.

But, of course, I asked her, Why?

And she said, Because vaccinations ensure there won’t be any more people like me.

You find variations on this conversation in the deaf community every now and then when the topic of cochlear implants is raised.

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The other thing I ran across FB-cruising in my oh-so-Permeable Mood—Friends! Don’t Do This at Home!—was a posting from the one-time lover with Stage IV melanoma who is coming to terms with his mortality.

I’ve earned the right to feel a little smug about having lived my life in such a way that I’m not dying with a lot of unscratched itches, he wrote.

Oh, Peter, Peter.

You have.

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Peter

2021-10-05T14:32:35Z

Poured all day yesterday.

I finished a Remunerative Project.

Will give myself a couple of days off before starting the next one.

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Several more pals from the Good Ole Days have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer.

(Well. I am in the cohort where such diagnoses are… shall we say… not uncommon…)

One was once a lover, and in between reading his medical updates on Facebook—metastasis to T11 vertebrae, left scapula, spleen…—I tried to remember his body.

He’d been very, very handsome.

That’s why I went after him. We didn’t have all that much in common. He’d been a fan of tattoos, and marijuana, and web design, and weird, illogical anarchism, and I was a fan of none of those things, plus he was 10 years younger than I was and so was into bands that I didn't give a shit about, Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead, and worst yet, insisted on playing them before I had time to leave because for some strange reason, we always fucked at his house, I never invited him over to mine.

The sex was good. Not phenomenal. But good. With him there was always a moment that if I were having sex with him today, I’d describe as the Bluetooth Moment—we’d be kissing, all awkward tongue thrusts, squinched breasts, elbows to ribs, and then all of a sudden, we’d be perfectly in synch, gliding into penetration, and I never had any problems coming. I didn’t even have to pretend to myself I was in love with him.

Anyway, I sent $50 to his medical fund.

I mean, what else could I do?

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Mallory's Camera

Unscratched Itches

Peter