On this day in history-something important, somewhere, happened.

March 25, 1881 Bela Bartok, born in Hungary, composer/pianist, Concerto for Orchestra

Good god man I have absolutely nothing to say. I mean it. Nothing. But I do feel a nice sense of quiet calm. I remember days when I could spill thousands of words in an hour. Well maybe hundreds. I'd start writing sentences in my head while trying to go to sleep or get something important done. Stress and pressure really can push a novels worth of subconscious thinking out in a hurry. Boredom will crush it. Usually I'd go back and read the personal crap and feel embarassed. Never made any sense after the storms or successes blew over. Never understood the value of a journal when most of it ends up sounding like a soap opera. Better to get out and find life. I don't like sitting around writing about it much.

Not anymore.

It's quiet today.

"Increscunt animi, virescit volnere virtus"

PREFACE


Maintaining cheerfulness in the midst of a gloomy task, fraught with immeasurable responsibility, is no small feat; and yet what is needed more than cheerfulness? Nothing succeeds if prankishness has no part in it. Excess strength alone is the proof of strength.

A revaluation of all values: this question mark, so black, so huge that it casts a shadow over the man who puts it down — such a destiny of a task compels one to run into the sunlight at every opportunity to shake off a heavy, all-too-heavy seriousness. Every means is proper to do this; every "case" is a case of luck. Especially, war. War has always been the great wisdom of all spirits who have become too introspective, too profound; even in a wound there is the power to heal. A maxim, the origin of which I withhold from scholarly curiosity, has long been my motto:

Increscunt animi, virescit volnere virtus.
["The spirits increase, vigor grows through a wound."]

Another mode of convalescence (in certain situations even more to my liking) is sounding out idols. There are more idols than realities in the world: that is my "evil eye" upon this world; that is also my "evil ear." Finally to pose questions with a hammer, and sometimes to hear as a reply that famous hollow sound that can only come from bloated entrails — what a delight for one who has ears even behind his ears, for me, an old psychologist and pied piper before whom just that which would remain silent must finally speak out.

This essay — the title betrays it — is above all a recreation, a spot of sunshine, a leap sideways into the idleness of a psychologist. Perhaps a new war, too? And are new idols sounded out? This little essay is a great declaration of war; and regarding the sounding out of idols, this time they are not just idols of the age, but eternal idols, which are here touched with a hammer as with a tuning fork: there are no idols that are older, more assured, more puffed-up — and none more hollow. That does not prevent them from being those in which people have the most faith; nor does one ever say "idol," especially not in the most distinguished instance.

Turin, September 30, 1888, on the day when the first book of the Revaluation of All Values was completed.

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE


This passage reads like beautiful music. It flows like water. Such a gorgeous passage of words.

Lucky St. Patrick's Day Nutcracker

I got a little anniversary coming up. Next week will come and go like any other, so I am not waiting for the exact date to sit down and write about it. It already got spilled, so here it is...

March 11, 2006 I walked out of the E.R. at 4am knowing that I had cancer. I walked to my car, sat down on the ground, lit one of my last cigarettes and wept. On St. Patricks Day, I lost a nut to testicular cancer. Far cry from green beers, ...nuts, and a happy holiday.

My thoughts at the time were selfish - "why me? I'm fucking 33 years old! I don't have any history of cancer in my family!" ...yeah whatever dude. Shut up already. I hadn't learned yet how severe my situation was going to be, so my mind was open for all the worst stories you ever heard - "well, you got maybe a couple months," or "were gonna hammer it with high dose chemo and hope you survive..." No man, nothing like that.

I can't help feeling like I had garden variety cancer. It's misleading to think this way. TC is fatal without treatment. But man, some people have had cancer ruin every aspect of their lives, and then it killed them. I have been feeling a change recently about the need to mention cancer or talk about it. It is important. But I've started to find it annoying. In fact before the year is up, I 'll probably drink a bottle of wine and delete this entry (like last years...).

Radiation sickness blows! I had 15 days of radiation to my abdomin and it makes you sick. I lost 25 pounds. I did try to keep healthy. Man, it breaks your will. Cancer. If I had known more, I could have avoided radiation by demanding an ultrasound early on, just to be sure. My GP didn't know anything about TC. I don't blame him, TC is rare. I should have read more, but one does not click the 'cancer' link lightly when you think you got a problem. Besides, it seemed rediculous that a google search would reveal something my doctor didn't know. But, it did. I am sure he must have felt some of the same fear I had at the time of diagnosis. After all, if I had been a goner, he would have been in trouble for not ordering an ultrasound. Should have been standard procedure for what was presented, and he was alittle cold about it early on. Some doctors egos are hilariously lacking in wisdom - don't care at all about the book smarts.

I was watching George Carlin last night. He has new material recorded and I found some of it brilliant, as usual with him. But did he really have to come out and open with "Fuck Lance Armstrong, fuck him and that look on his face, fuck his balls and his bikes and his yellow tee shirts..." the crowd bursts out in laughter and applause. Lance don't have balls man, he has a ball. Know what I mean? One man, not two. I get the "old fuck" routine: "I'm old, you all blow, and I just want to be left in peace, but before I go let me say this..." - but come on man. You've had the opportunity to live a full life. Too bad Carlin wasn't with me a couple years ago spending quality time (and I mean that) with people of all ages waiting for their chemo and radiation. Many were very sick. Many of them young. Much more young people than I could have imagined. Common misconception. Maybe Georgie doesn't know about the little kids with chunks of hair missing, moms trying to keep it together - both trying to live "normal" lives, without desperation and fear. The look of impending doom, "which way will this go?" - families all looking towards people such as Lance Armstrong and the "Livestrong" organization for positive vibes and hope. Including me.

This is my 2 year anniversary. I have 3 more years of blood work and CT scans every 3-4 months. After that I will be 5 years out and my odds of relapse go down. At least then I only have to go in once a year. That, however, is never going to be a good day. I will inevitably waste time and energy thinking about it. Why the fuck wouldn't I - if I relapse, I have to do chemo. Nothing about that sounds fun.