Living. Witnessing. Experiencing. Observing. Understanding. Thinking.
Hmm. Subsequential of the age of 18. What are the huge impacts Living at home has on a person? I think living at home is a comfort, it's a man-made safe haven. Some constantly rely on it's advantages, some run from it's disadvantages. Some run from it's advantages, while others are forced to withstand it's disadvanages. Everyone Experiencing, and everyone's experience is completely different.
I think living at home, you're somewhat forced to be passively dependant. As an individual, moving out of home, aren't you both forced and in-choice of being actively dependant?
Witnessing a friend teach foreign languages to students in other countries. Observing how she is living, how they are learning.
I could enter here a little judgemental hypothesis, correlating the personality and the lives of the wealthy progressors and how many advantages they were opportune to, in comparison to the lives of the (and here comes the controversial antonym) poor, or needy, for lack of a better word, and how many disadvantages they were subject to or advantages they were deprived of. However, as you may know of me, to linger on a topic, or act, of this sort a second longer would be embellishing an insult to my single most valued tool.
Understanding. This is the life of the most valued tool. It's the slow or gushing water which fills our rivers, out thoughts. Thinking. Thoughts, the abstract or spiritual gold in my life. Understanding, a concept, a thought, someone elses thought, a life, anything which you enjoy filling your rivers up with, is the solid root (and a trunk maybe?) standing under your piece of knowledge. It's what gives it and a person, it's depth, it's height. The higher the tree, the more branches, more tangents of thought. Different breeds of trees are subject to growing more branches, more fruit, fuller greens. Others less so, and of darker shades and colours.
I wonder, how appropriate teaching someone a definition using the method above would be? It's no dictionary. Much more qualitative. I didn't start even start the blog with it in mind. You see, it's christmas day, I was exhausted, neutronpaenic, lying in bed. Thinking. Like gas to a bunsen burner, thoughts started flooding in. I wanted to burn someone!!
The smaller percentage of my thoughts were about writing. But a huge portion of my experiences with writing, was admiring the work of others: Reading. There's also film and music to consider aswell, who actually both play a larger part in the game. Writing, is evidence of that elusive gold I mentioned earlier. It could be a published story, there for anyone who wants, or more likely, to be fallen across. It could be an undisclosed, unfrequented diary, ownership of the deceased, never to be read. I love the raw, inspired feelings I can reap from writing an amateur piece of work.
The larger percentage of my thoughts were concerning the short story I wrote in the last entry. It was only because of a little bunny that I opened my eyes to this today and sadly, I shant linger on the piece for long. In it's stead, I will retire to my bed again due to my state of infirmity and wait for a later date where my thoughts on this piece will be spelled out. Certainly before I present a re-draft.
My reader knows better than I, that this is a short dream. I was concious before I even started it, that it was going to be an extremely small start. A closed mind of this sort has several effects on me. The imagery is intense. It's a small beaker or water overflowing with imagery. Too intense. It was a complete first draft attempt yet, looking back, it's quite unnatural with self-conciousness and extreme emphasis. Also, it's not directionless, purposeless, but unless my reader is a certain person, I don't think it can be understood that well. Regardless to these criticisms, and many more, I enjoy what it is and where it potentially, could be going. Maybe I'll re-write it considering a few more thoughts and meanings and taking a lot more time over it, not as to disguise it's spontaneity though.
On a health realted point, I'm doing well. I think im understanding and coming to terms with living my life with this burden, or addition. I still feel rather overwhelmed by it's impact on my world, but depending and the company and thoughts of my parents, brothers, relatives and valued buddies, has made it much more bareable. I'm shivering a little, at times; sweating, a little, at night; I can't taste much, but the turkey was devoured; my nerve endings in my fingers tingle a bit; the drugs dull the spots, but they are still a constant annoyance and my head does feel like it has a piano on it at times, it's tiring, but i'm fighting and in relatively good health otherwise.
I'd love to ramble a bit more, another time maybe. For now, goodnight, dreamsworth.
Simon
Monday, 25 December 2006
Thursday, 21 December 2006
Thursday, 21st December 2006
Novy Mir. It's the second morning after my return home from my first chemotherapy cycle. Last night I was full of thoughts.
I dreamt I was a dreamcatcher, catching the worlds in my mind and publishing them into well-written short stories. Unfortunately I woke up much more selfish (the lack of a better phrase) and less able (the lack of a good writing arm, or two). I refused, amongst the many tosses and turns, to get up and write my thoughts onto paper. For several hours. However, after a very long-drawn nose bleed and further attempts to re-kindle my night's rest, I sat up, dead on 8am, clambered over to my desk and sat down to write left-handed for half an hour and read A.A Milne's The House at Pooh Corner as I listened to music. I'm afraid, for myself, this is where my true comforts reside. May I ramble. I haven't conciouslessly chosen to wake up, planless, somewhat urgeless, before the hour of 11am, let alone 8am for what can't be less than four years. I will add John Frusciante and Elliott Smith made it a more than worthy accomplishment though.
My humble GP is popping round today, health check-up and whatnot. He's solely the most adorable general practicioner i've ever fallen into the hands of, so I have nothing to worry about. I'm experiencing weird taste sensations and nose bleeds but the projectile vomiting has stopped and the nausia must be getting bored, so I've decided to give a little glimpse of a very short draft story I wrote over the last couple of hours.
------
Anna Lakos - S. A. Lakos
------
Strewn away with Judy and the baby; the professor, the puppetmaster, marvelled at the wooden carved chin on his Punch glove-puppet as he placed it carefully in his wooden case and clambered out the small manhole in the back of the nuns confession box. A fixed smile on his face. Here, is where he mysteriously scarpered from all of his plays.
------
It's very much to take on board;
My ignorant crew of nieve men,
Can'st handle the inconceivable truth when;
They ship a captainless vessel, without their lord.
My ignorant crew of nieve men,
Can'st handle the inconceivable truth when;
They ship a captainless vessel, without their lord.
I dreamt I was a dreamcatcher, catching the worlds in my mind and publishing them into well-written short stories. Unfortunately I woke up much more selfish (the lack of a better phrase) and less able (the lack of a good writing arm, or two). I refused, amongst the many tosses and turns, to get up and write my thoughts onto paper. For several hours. However, after a very long-drawn nose bleed and further attempts to re-kindle my night's rest, I sat up, dead on 8am, clambered over to my desk and sat down to write left-handed for half an hour and read A.A Milne's The House at Pooh Corner as I listened to music. I'm afraid, for myself, this is where my true comforts reside. May I ramble. I haven't conciouslessly chosen to wake up, planless, somewhat urgeless, before the hour of 11am, let alone 8am for what can't be less than four years. I will add John Frusciante and Elliott Smith made it a more than worthy accomplishment though.
My humble GP is popping round today, health check-up and whatnot. He's solely the most adorable general practicioner i've ever fallen into the hands of, so I have nothing to worry about. I'm experiencing weird taste sensations and nose bleeds but the projectile vomiting has stopped and the nausia must be getting bored, so I've decided to give a little glimpse of a very short draft story I wrote over the last couple of hours.
------
Anna Lakos - S. A. Lakos
------
As usual, the reveille-like applause sounded down dimly-lit Colney Hatch Lane surrounding the derelict chapel at Muswell Hill. The intermittent sounds were those of a small audience in response to a frequenting display of entertainment, vaudeville.
'Huzzah huzzah, I've killed the Devil!'Strewn away with Judy and the baby; the professor, the puppetmaster, marvelled at the wooden carved chin on his Punch glove-puppet as he placed it carefully in his wooden case and clambered out the small manhole in the back of the nuns confession box. A fixed smile on his face. Here, is where he mysteriously scarpered from all of his plays.
The applause slowly ceased, but everything in the chapel still felt like a dream when Anna rose from her pew on the floor. The chapel was mostly dark except for the mild yellow light cast on the wooden floor through the stain glass windows on the west side of the remain. Anna caught a glimpse of the declining sun through one of the glass cracks purtruding from what she recognized as a mossy alter. Evening was nigh, and the only arguement she could possibly present to her father for being out so late was that she was in the safe company of Mrs Ealey and her candles.
For the better part of a week, Anna had not missed a single of the puppetmaster's shows at the chapel. Where once, the audience of this little secret had held only two or three members, seven or eight now filed out the retreat toward the back end of the remain. She waited until they had all assembled out and leant over to blow out the candles on the window sill. She had been given the candles by Mrs Ealey earlier that day, a well
thought of present for her only parent, her sick father. She drew the old haggard curtain across the now empty, small stage and turned her back on the scene to head in the direction of the earlier departures.
Candles in hand, Anna climbed the high-rise cobble stairs at the end of Hatch Lane, two at a time. One hand on the railing, she passed the number plate '6' outside Mrs Ealey's apartment as she made her way to her own numberless apartment at the top of the building. Too many war-stricken houses in Muswell Hill, 1918, were without number plates, but the Lakos apartment had other distinguishing factors to compensate it's appearance.
For the better part of a week, Anna had not missed a single of the puppetmaster's shows at the chapel. Where once, the audience of this little secret had held only two or three members, seven or eight now filed out the retreat toward the back end of the remain. She waited until they had all assembled out and leant over to blow out the candles on the window sill. She had been given the candles by Mrs Ealey earlier that day, a well
thought of present for her only parent, her sick father. She drew the old haggard curtain across the now empty, small stage and turned her back on the scene to head in the direction of the earlier departures.
Candles in hand, Anna climbed the high-rise cobble stairs at the end of Hatch Lane, two at a time. One hand on the railing, she passed the number plate '6' outside Mrs Ealey's apartment as she made her way to her own numberless apartment at the top of the building. Too many war-stricken houses in Muswell Hill, 1918, were without number plates, but the Lakos apartment had other distinguishing factors to compensate it's appearance.
------
Wednesday, 20 December 2006
Wednesday, 20th December 2006
Diary extract from Sunday 17th December 2006:
Happiness. My blindsighted opinion on this profoundly inconceivable variable to my mind-set, is that it is immeasurable. "Ahh Beatrice, you're too good to me!!" My chemo is out, FLO.1, call the night nurse, Beatrice!!!
For no shy of four hours tonight (certainly no less), I couldn't sit still. Everything, indeed, every little thing was music to my ears. Yes even the fact that i'm writing in such shameful and unstructured form, fashion and timing. My fingers tap in time with my thoughts, everything is different.
For the past five or so days, since Tuesday 12th December, I've urged myself (with the help of my dearest counterpart, I love you) to stand up and hit the terms of my Ewings straight between the eyes. I'm living in ward T12 at University College London Hospital, UCLH, Euston (Warren Street), London. The panaramic views, by-the-12th-floor-lifts, of sunrise and sunset are nice, but only in the company of Lialin; I've decided, amidst all the foggy apprehension which I so reluctantly consented to fill my personal space, that I will not worry about writing in this beautifully bound present from my mother, and that, furthermore, I will not worry about prose, poetry, it's structure, the timing or how my feelings are to be splattered (If at all?) onto page. Right now i'm as "messy" as Luke Amin and the boys having a rowdy night-out in lewes. My blessed thoughts carry the spontaneity and mystery behind the infirmity of the mad hatters. I mean it.
I love clementines. Lialin bought me two batches today, they're such a breath of fresh air to my area of living. I'm struggling, it's a four-way fight of some sort. I simply don't have the hands or tools to pick up the masses of straw all over my barn floor, to piece them together, in a respectable array of somekind, and present them to everything outside my conciousness.
I'm in no state, no pensieve state, to begin the recollection of my thoughts, memories and emotions for the past week on this ward, travelling to get here and travelling for my biopsy and diagnosis at Stanmore. Nevertheless, I will leave with you a line or two which managed to inspire me start writing in my diary. It should be noted, that this singled out piece of literature is in no way a compensation for J.D. Salinger, and his publishings, who, between them, have occupied my mind for a long and frequent period and are my truer calling.
Happiness. My blindsighted opinion on this profoundly inconceivable variable to my mind-set, is that it is immeasurable. "Ahh Beatrice, you're too good to me!!" My chemo is out, FLO.1, call the night nurse, Beatrice!!!
For no shy of four hours tonight (certainly no less), I couldn't sit still. Everything, indeed, every little thing was music to my ears. Yes even the fact that i'm writing in such shameful and unstructured form, fashion and timing. My fingers tap in time with my thoughts, everything is different.
For the past five or so days, since Tuesday 12th December, I've urged myself (with the help of my dearest counterpart, I love you) to stand up and hit the terms of my Ewings straight between the eyes. I'm living in ward T12 at University College London Hospital, UCLH, Euston (Warren Street), London. The panaramic views, by-the-12th-floor-lifts, of sunrise and sunset are nice, but only in the company of Lialin; I've decided, amidst all the foggy apprehension which I so reluctantly consented to fill my personal space, that I will not worry about writing in this beautifully bound present from my mother, and that, furthermore, I will not worry about prose, poetry, it's structure, the timing or how my feelings are to be splattered (If at all?) onto page. Right now i'm as "messy" as Luke Amin and the boys having a rowdy night-out in lewes. My blessed thoughts carry the spontaneity and mystery behind the infirmity of the mad hatters. I mean it.
I love clementines. Lialin bought me two batches today, they're such a breath of fresh air to my area of living. I'm struggling, it's a four-way fight of some sort. I simply don't have the hands or tools to pick up the masses of straw all over my barn floor, to piece them together, in a respectable array of somekind, and present them to everything outside my conciousness.
I'm in no state, no pensieve state, to begin the recollection of my thoughts, memories and emotions for the past week on this ward, travelling to get here and travelling for my biopsy and diagnosis at Stanmore. Nevertheless, I will leave with you a line or two which managed to inspire me start writing in my diary. It should be noted, that this singled out piece of literature is in no way a compensation for J.D. Salinger, and his publishings, who, between them, have occupied my mind for a long and frequent period and are my truer calling.
"You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind."
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind."
I'm going to say it once, because, it's really driving me nuts keeping everyone on the tip-top...Thank-you. All of you know who you are. Mikki, Rich and Brad, I draw a lot from your family and it's support, and hope our cycles clash so I can continue to be updated.
Schedule-wise, as far as I'm aware, my Ewings Sarcoma/pPNET is aimed to be cured over a 12 month period. This will involve a combination of chemo therapy VIDE for 6 cycles, then surgery or radiotherapy or both, then a further 8 cycle combination depending on my tumour and it's extent.
^That's a nut shell.
^That's a cliche.
Two further thoughts that crossed my mind, as I lay prostrate in the car feeling giddy; Roman roads, and referring (metaphorically) to someone's personality as a "bannana skin".
Simon x
Schedule-wise, as far as I'm aware, my Ewings Sarcoma/pPNET is aimed to be cured over a 12 month period. This will involve a combination of chemo therapy VIDE for 6 cycles, then surgery or radiotherapy or both, then a further 8 cycle combination depending on my tumour and it's extent.
^That's a nut shell.
^That's a cliche.
Two further thoughts that crossed my mind, as I lay prostrate in the car feeling giddy; Roman roads, and referring (metaphorically) to someone's personality as a "bannana skin".
Simon x
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