There was blood everywhere. The sight of it was gruesome, the smell of it invaded my every cell. I heaved, and there was all of me splashing in front of you.

You wiped away my tears, silenced the blubbering, the endless rope of words, the rope around my neck.

It might be another life, the doctors told us. With every death, there is a rebirth. There is a rebirth even when you think there shouldn’t be one. When you think there can’t be one, it steps in and says “I’m here.”

We packed my bag, rolled out of that green room, and went home that night. I don’t remember anything but wolves. There might have been black dogs, and not that I was ever scared of dogs, but that night I was. Shadows on the wall spoke to me, and there was one that mocked my existence. There’s still one here today – it follows me everywhere, but I am certain it’s not mine.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be that way. But then again, does it ever go as planned?


Today a student reminded me that Oscar Wilde once said “Each man kills the thing he loves.” 

But then again Charles Bukowski said “Find what you love and let it kill you.” 

So either it kills you or you kill it? 

Either you’re the murderer or the murdered? 

I’m not a fan of binaries and thought that separates villain/victim, masculine/feminine, good/bad, right/wrong, white/black, etc… one way or the other. 

So maybe it’s a mix. Maybe it kills you as you kill it. Simultaneously, all at once. 


A friend sent me this article and it is truly beautiful. 

There are people who just know how to love. It’s never enough to say “I love you” because it should be “I love you and want to witness your life’s journey.” It is, after all, yet another journey to share. To limit it in any way, to fear it, to block it, to hide from it – that can never be love. And to truly love, you must first master your own self and fears.

Fully Human

What does it mean to be fully human? I have no idea. I am still struggling with that definition. The mind and the body are so intertwined, and then there’s the complicated mess of the heart. Passion, logic, and a failing body – where do we go from there?

There are infinite ways and possibilities of mending a broken body, a broken heart, and even attempts at healing a mind gone mad.

But I am still searching for that “silver lining.” Today I discovered that it seems I must break-up with my body. We are fighting, again, and again. How can I escape it? Meditation, some friends suggest. Find another reality. Leave, disconnect. Find other ways of addressing the pain. And yes, perhaps, this does help. At least there are suggestions. A dear friend drove me around the other day only to keep me company. Fatima is an artist. She told me that she would make sure that I never have to use a boring black cane again – she would make sure it was as rebellious as I was. Fatima re-assured me that there would never be an “end” and that making adjustments, amendments, won’t mean the end of the road. She spoke to me about the importance of colors, colors everywhere. And I guess the “Silver lining” is actually a multitude of colors, you just have to look close enough.

As with gender, race, sexuality,  to understand how able-bodiedness and disability works is to understand what it is to be fully human. Perhaps even partially human. These are all categories that operate to help us label ourselves and others, but mainly, to identify as human (whatever that means).

I have called MS a random disability in the past. I would suggest that the experience of being human is fully random, also. Gender. Sexuality. Love. Lust. Attachment. Commitment. Breakups. Rejections. Nonsense and logic. All of it is random. You simply cannot trust anything around you, and even the closest part of you (that is, your body) can let go. No matter how much we attempt to find order and structure, to instill sense into a mad world, there is nothing consistent but the prevalence of randomness.

And that’s all for now.

Levels of Life: Julian Barnes

Julian Barnes, one of my favorite writers. Barnes has a book called Levels of Life. 

When Barnes lost his wife and companion, the love of his life, he wrote this book to deal with his grief. They had been married for thirty years and in love for that duration. The loss of his wife, journalist Pat Kavanagh was, of course, traumatic. The book deals with love, loss, and grief. Throughout the chapters, Barnes attempts to make sense of the grieving process. Here is one of the most striking excerpts:
“This may not be mathematically possible; but it is emotionally possible.” 


Anti-climax: disappointment, let-down, bathos.

In literature bathos is defined as “an effect of anticlimax created by an unintentional lapse in mood from the sublime to the trivial or ridiculous.” 

The eventual fall from grace, the eventual letdown. There is only silence and picking up the pieces.