Monthly Archives: December 2013

Impossible versus Improbable

Impossible stops you in your tracks.  It is impossible, the end.   Cannot be done for a very good reason: it is impossible. Then someone perseveres, perseveres and does the impossible and we say: “OK, for them, it wasn’t impossible, then.”  And when other people do the same thing we are forced to agree– “it wasn’t really impossible, it was just very improbable.”   Until, of course, the first person proved that improbable is a huge improvement, in terms of facing a difficult challenge, over impossible.  

I raised the ire of several zombies not long ago by holding up two signs.  The first one read: there are a thousand reasons the thing won’t work.   The second:  All we need is the one reason it will.  From their reactions, I could just as well have held up first the severed ear of one of their children, then the other ear, still attached to the screaming head.

These images, of course, are disturbing, disgusting, gratuitous.  They do nothing to advance the point I’m trying to make except to underscore how easily disgusting, sick images pop into my mind.  Don’t worry, I’ve already had to apologize to these offended critics for the insult of telling them to try to keep their comments creative and helpful rather than reflexively critical of efforts already underway, moreover, efforts, in not even the tiniest part, their own.

Is it impossible that I will create a compelling ad for the program I need to pitch, with the smoothness of Ron Popeil selling a thousand Veg-O-Matics?  Not at all.   I can write copy with the most depraved of them, look:

In little over a year the innovative child-run animation workshop has taken root with children in five different settings. It has succeeded in turning room after room into a beehive of creativity resulting in dozens of short student-produced animations on youTube.  Kids as young as five, entering the room where seven and eight year-olds were creating animation, hopped right into the pond like excited ducklings.  The secret is a hands-on workshop where simplified technology is employed, by the children themselves, to quickly make their hand-made ideas come to life.  And the beautiful thing– when roasted on the Showtime rotisserie for a very short time at the proper heat, these ducklings are incredibly delicious.

Not only delicious, but amazingly nutritious.  And for a limited time you can take advantage of this internet special to receive a succulent portion of this health-restoring meat shipped directly to your dining room or Lazy-Boy.

And, if you marketize this program now, we will throw in the human head of your choice, severed, on the neck or including the bound and gagged person.   You won’t want to miss this special offer.   Did we say one head?  Ha, you know, since Christmas is coming, and Hanukkah is already here, we’ll throw in as many heads as you can carry (sorry, severed heads only).  

Is this a great country, or what?!!!

Cancer getting the upper hand

My friend seems to have come to that cliff at the end of cancer, when things accelerate and it becomes more and more an exercise in keeping the agony of approaching cancer death at bay.  It’s hard to know what I will say when I call him the day after tomorrow, the day after he gets back from radiation to hopefully shrink the tumors now growing in his lungs.

His wife has been heroic, loving, hiding her terror expertly as she changes the dressing on his grievous wounds sometimes twice a day.  The doctors have been cutting away at him for some time now.  The futility of their efforts reminds us of the relentlessness of what humans are up against when it comes to the killing powers of the universe.

My friend’s wife doesn’t talk about selling the house where he is dying, after he’s gone.  He knows it’s the only equity they have.  Their daughters are coming by for a last belated Thanksgiving-type meal tomorrow, the day after that it’s off to the hospital to have his lungs irradiated.  The day after that I’ll call him in the afternoon, which seems to be the best time for him to talk.   It would seem easy enough to call him and check in from time to time, but it isn’t, even as I know how little it is for me to do, that it is all I can do (he lives 200 miles north and doesn’t want visitors), and that it may make him feel marginally better for a moment or two to get the calls.

Does my friend’s situation give perspective on my own challenges?  Surprisingly little.  All of my grandparents and both of my parents died of cancer, as well as two close cousins younger than me.  The odds are high that I will die of cancer too.  Does it remind me that we are all candles in the wind and urge me to get on with the important business of living well? Not so much.

It sets me to rattling the keys in the middle of the dark night, and wondering about things really too terrible to think of.  It should make me grateful for my strength, Sekhnet, the things I love to do, the people I enjoy.  It really should.

Edit (exercise in using the fewest words)

Among the boys I grew up with, their oversized heads on necks like flower stalks, I was considered an athlete.  In their presence I never had occasion to fight, or act tough, though it was within me. 

In my early twenties I spent a couple of seasons in the Bay Area where I had a peripheral acquaintance named Joey.  Joey had a small white car, perhaps a convertible, and was ahead of his time with a vanity license plate.  The plate announced: JOE OUI.

We played touch football one day on a huge field of grass, two on two.  It was a close game, the teams evenly matched, and Joey and I ran full speed for hours going out for passes or trying to intercept passes meant for each other.  The cool afternoon turned to dusk and then into a chilly evening.  When it got too dark to see the passes, and our legs were burning with the cold and fatigue, we called it a day.   As we walked to the car, bone tired, Joey playfully launched himself into the air and tackled me from behind.  I did not take hitting the ground hard very well.

Joe Oui seemed shocked at how quickly he was on his back, an angry maniac on top of him, forearm pressed against his throat like a piece of wood.   The maniac’s eyes were merciless as Joey’s face changed color and panic began to show in his eyes.  In time, the maniac stood wearily and let him breathe again.   He clutched his throat and muttered something about a complete overreaction. 

I practice ahimsa now, but nothing about that story makes me feel sad.

I Recalled this While Walking Tonight

I grew up among boys who had oversized heads on necks like flower stalks.  I was considered an athlete among these boys, though I was no athlete compared to many of the boys in the tougher classes, kids who were not absurdly labeled “Intellectually Gifted Children” and assigned to the IGC class.   These boys in my class from grades one to six all grew up to be wealthy men, I’m certain of it.  In their presence I never had occasion to fight, or to be very tough, but that side was dormant, I suppose.

There was a guy in California named Joey, I knew him peripherally when I spent a few months out there in the mid-seventies, while all the flower stalk necked boys were working towards advanced degrees and promising careers.  I found myself making drawings in spiral bound drawing books, looking out the windows of the bus as it made its way from New York to the Bay area.  Joey had a small white car, perhaps a convertible, and was ahead of his time with a vanity license plate.  The plate announced: JOE OUI.

We played touch football one day on a huge field of grass, two on two.  It was a close game, the teams evenly matched, and we all ran for hours on a cool afternoon that turned into dusk and then a chilly evening.  When it got too dark to see the passes, and our legs were burning with the cold and fatigue, we called it a day.   As we were walking to the car, bone tired, Joey playfully launched himself into the air and tackled me from behind.  I did not take it well.

I think Joe Oui was shocked at how quickly he found himself on his back, with me on top of him, leaning on my forearm pressed against his throat like a piece of wood.  I continued to apply pressure until his face changed color and real panic began to show in his eyes.  Then I stood wearily and let him get up.   He clutched his throat and muttered something about what he considered my overreaction, I said nothing.

A stone killer.