Blocked

I like to walk, but I don't like to retrace my steps. So when I was least expecting it, I ran into the physical manifestation of what's stymied me for months. A freestanding wall built over 200 years ago--without a trace of cement--to keep one thing apart from another: a cow apart from freedom, a man apart from his neighbor, this land from that land. Then there's my inner wall; it separates me from my life's force and livelihood: the ability to write freely.

My wall and this one were built the same way. Each element was hand selected--an individual decision. Each rock answers the question: Will this particular rock support this section of this wall at this time, or should it be saved for a more fitting moment? The mason knew what he was doing. I didn't. But somehow, blindly, I also fashioned my wall from carefully selected random elements. It too stands fast. My rocks were inertia, fear and self-criticism. I suppose there were more "rocks," but again, I'm not truly aware of the process. The only difference between the walls is, the one you're looking at has long since lost its purpose, while mine is fully functional. It stops me from getting to a decent sentence, achieving the semblance of a story, reaching the completion of a thought. All that. For a time, the situation seemed hopeless.

But just today, the longer I looked at the outer wall, the more hope it gave me. The miracle of this edifice could also be its undoing. There was not a speck of cement holding it together. Yet this stone wall has stood fast these 2 centuries, through icy winters, wind storms and furious rains. Despite its strength, I could walk up to this wall and take it apart piece by piece, without a single tool or use of force. So too might I de-construct my inner wall--one piece at a time: it is not set in hardened concrete.

So , blog by blog, word by word, I seek to un-fashion this wall. This is my first approach. After so many months, it feels like something is happening. I'm eager to see what's on the other side.

A Close Shave

1962. I am 14 years old fatherless and cursed with the

kind dark fuzzy proto-moustache that took its inspiration from mould that forms on top of old sour cream, The beginnings of facial hair sprinkled are randomly around a landscape of pimples. "Fatherless" is mentioned only because there was no one to teach me what to do. Fortunately, the best instructor of all appeared with great frequency on our black and white Philco TV; in truth, he was many men, but really all the same man: the hunky model, bearded with rich shaving cream. No matter what the brand of blade or cream, the money shot was the same: the Man dutched in the frame, grinning the grin at himself as he draws the blade across his jaw and chin in one smooth arc. So, now I knew how to shave.

I'm at my best friend, Armin's house. A fully fathered boy, supplied with everything I needed. In this case, one can of Barbasol, a nice creamy lather and one razor with a double edge blade inside. Back then, most razors closed around such a blade and arched it at the "perfect" cutting angle. Time to lather up. I pressed out a generous amount of aerosol cream, and spread it across my face. I, the pube was no longer the pube. I was the hunk, angled in the mirror, razor poised for the shot. I'm a lefty so the blade is resting lightly just below my right ear at the jawline, I grinned my manly grin and brought the blade across, Hollywood all the way. It took about 10 nanoseconds for the pain, a little longer for the blood and a few beats for my girl-ey scream. I lost my faith in the verity of advertising (though I spent my career in it). I switched to an electric razor for awhile, but nothing shaves like a blade; and after awhile I learned to use one and then the next, passing from double edge to injector blades, to stainless blades, double bladed disposables, tripled edged razors and even quintuple bladed razors. I mastered it. Now I'm a father, and have the opportunity my own father didn't. To teach my child the art of the shave, close and pain free.

Seppuku in Washington (after Yukio Mishima)

Toyota’s President to Take ‘Full Responsibility’

-- The New York Times 2/24/10


Already his his acolytes have distanced themselves; they will not meet his eyes. He is shunned, a disgraced Lord; his Samuria are now Ronin: warriors with no Lord to serve. A dishonor he alone has visited upon them. Akio Toyoda winces at the camera lights that fill the Senate chamber, like so many suns hining upon a desert with no sign of life. No oasis with cool water to slake his shame.

Akio Toyoda knows what he must do. His firstborn son also knows the terrible part he must play in this final act of utter responsibility. The boy, Sesue Toyoda secrets his father the short tanto blade beneath the desk with the microphone. Sesue Toyoda's own katana lies naked and hidden against his back; the cold steel chills the length his spine.

Akio Toyoda has takes the questions, answers with the dignity of an ex-warrior Lord and utters the words, "I accept full responsibility." With that, he plunges the razor-sharp knife just below his navel and pulls it upward with great force. The pain has little time to become unbearable as Sesue Toyada's katana completes its arc and severs head of his father, Akio Toyoda in the senate chamber.

Through a final act of honor within his dishonor, Tooda, the warrior expunges the blighted reputation of Toyota the corporation before the eyes of the senators and the people they represent. Ronin are once again Samurai and bow in supplication to their new Lord, Sesue Toyoda. If called upon, they will die for him.

Mallwatching, Kingston, NY

The farm league for the Super Wallmart is the Dollar Store down the hill, across the street. Customers there ardently hope to get drafted by the Big One. The Super Wallmart in the heavens above. Even now, they are reaching the requisite goals of morbid obestiy and accompanying pulmonary distress to qualify. Once they get the tubes in their noses, the tank on the side of the cart, the magic begins. The car-battery powered will navigate a Wallmart Superstar that very isle where the biggest jar of mayonnaise you have ever seen lives. Kids can play too if momma and poppa stuff them like Gooses from Brest with balogna and Pop Tarts.

Aside: the Dollar Store was out of the Good & Plenty I sought.

The bologna slice

My brother, the glassblower/glass sculptor should enjoy the complexities that go into preparing the supreme court of biopsies, "The Permanent Section Biopsy." Let's step back a bit to a few weeks ago when I felt a small bump in my neck ... just below the jawline. This happens to most men when ingrown hair turns in upon itself, causing a lump. But this lump didn't go away. To be brief: an ultrasound diagnosis came back describing this mass as "unknown" which meant a trip to the autolaryingologist who said I ought to have "the nodule" excised and biopsied. Surgery ensues. Upon removal, there's a quick biopsy takes place method where a section is frozen, sliced thin and examined under the microscope. But a day later, the doctor calls and says the results at this point are "inconclusive."

Enter a far more conclusive method, "The Permanent Section Biopsy"-- very much akin to the lost wax process used by sculptors. A nice, fresh section is immersed in a fixative for several hours. This hardens or “fixes” the proteins. Next, the section goes into a machine that spends the night removing all the water from the specimen and replacing it with paraffin. Next morning, a professional tech, called a “histotech” removes the paraffin-embedded specimen and further embeds it into a larger block of molten paraffin. The block is now chilled and taken to a special deli cutter (a microtome) for slicing into ultra-thin sections The sections are floated on a water bath. The paraffin is dissolved from the tissue on the slide, the water is replaced (weird) and it is stained with a mixture of dyes. The truth lies in the dyes.

Results go to the very busy specialist’s office and maybe he gets to it sooner rather than later. He can’t fob this job off on a nurse. The news, good or bad, has to be delivered by the doctor. My doctor tells me he'll have results in about 4 days. Four working days, that is. Suddenly I understand what the job of defusing bombs feels like, waking up every day and wondering if this day is close to your last.