Hugh Laurie is coming to Sydney! =)

If I could write a dictionary

Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree

[Ezra Pound, "ABC of Reading"]

---

Poetry [n]:
from Gk poein "to make/form"

Any practical attempt to parse language and create meaning, or form, in the most economical way.

I can't get to

stillness ascends while I
descend into restlessness
darkness slips into darkness
I cannot get away
I croon I cry I rock myself
I count time
lonelier hours I have never spent
than watching the promise of you slip away
a false reckoning
I'm spent
awake as we separate
like ripples on a black shore
restless
restless
darkness
slips into darkness
drifting
you slip away
into another yesterday

you slip

you
you
you

---

On insomnia. In homage to Reckoner, by Radiohead, and to be read with it.

Trois temps de mots froissées

In the spirit of my upcoming trip to Paris, I've been attempting to learn some French. Besides learning how to ask for directions and order at a restaurant, I thought learning some French songs might improve my pronounciation and intonation.

Chanson triste
Chanson juste pour toi,
Chanson un peu triste je crois,
Trois temps de mots froissées,
Quelques notes et tous mes regrets,
Tous mes regrets de nous deux,
Sont au bout de mes doigts,
Comme do, ré, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do.
C'est une chanson d'amour fané,
Comme celle que tu fredonnais,
Trois fois rien de nos vies,
Trois fois rien comme cette mélodie,
Ce qu'il reste de nous deux,
Est au creux de ma voix,
Comme do, ré, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do.
C'est une chanson en souvenir pour ne pas s'oublier sans rien dire
S'oublier sans rien dire

Roughly, and no doubt poorly, translated, I think it goes something like this:

Sad song
A song just for you,
one that's a little sad.

Wrinkled words (three times over),
a few notes and regrets of mine.

All my regrets of the two of us
are at my fingertips
just like do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.

It's a song of how love fades
like your humming does.

The nothingness of our lives (thrice over)
is like the nothingness that is this melody.

What remains of us
is in my voice
just like do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.

It is a song to remember
to remember without having to say anything.

It's a song that kind of reminds me of:

Medical authorship, Part II

To continue my exploration of medical authors' personalities:

For the many men suffering from prostate cancer throughout the world, we must continue our efforts to improve diagnosis, treatment, and basic understanding of this fatal disease. —Walsh and Brooks

The author of this chapter most senior in age (JES, 67 at that time) had a complete physical examination by Dr. William M. McClatchey in March, 1987, which was reported as negative. Because of pain in his left knee, he had another partial examination in October, 1987.
WMcC:     I want to do a rectal.
JES:     But I had a rectal by you 6 months ago.
WMcC:     My professor told me that not one patient will leave my office without a recent rectal examination.
JES:     (Unwillingly) O.K.

Rectal exam revealed a prostatic nodule. Prostate specific antigen (PSA) from the earlier exam had been 0.3 ng/ml; the current report was 0.4 ng/ml. Both were within normal limits. But biopsy revealed adenocarcinoma. Radical prostatectomy by Dr. Sam Ambrose 2 weeks later revealed that the prostate (including its capsule) was full of cancer. Five years later an LHRH (luteinizing hormone-releasing hormone) agonist (Lupron) was started because the PSA had risen to 5.3 ng/ml. At present, Dr. Skandalakis is asymptomatic and the PSA is under 0.

PSA is a marker of prostate disease. In the clinical context, it is probably most useful for monitoring cancer recurrence.

Good with words

I love listening. I used to think that listening was more important than talking, that I talked to get people in a position so I could listen to them. With a certain kind of arrogance, I used to think that being good with words is knowing when silence, when listening, is more important than what you have to say. Being good with words, is looking through the unique turns of phrase or accents that each person has, and being able to understand what they are saying, and empathise with what they actually mean.

With time, I realised that the obvious was true: being good with language wasn't just about listening, but about talking. I wished I had a more engaging charisma, a more appealing timbre and accent - to be the kind of person who actually could engage people with my insightful words of comfort, or witty repartee, or dramatic tales, or effortless small talk. Instead, I'm the kind of awkward that can't even finish the punchline to my own joke before cracking up.

I realise now that being good with language just isn't about having the widest vocabulary or the most lyrical turn of phrase. It isn't about having an appealing vocal timbre, or enunciating all your ending consonants. Being good with words is knowing what to say in love, just as the good book says (1 Cor 13:1). Being good with words is knowing what to say to make someone else understanding you, to get on board with you. You might not have to use big words or fancy high-falutin' phrases, and in fact you most probably won't have to. What you do need to do is know the other person well enough. You need to know what words to say to so they understand, not your words, but your meaning.

With time, and as it turns out, with almost with no bearing on language at all, I realise that in the best relationships, being understood is just as valuable, and important as understanding. Yet with sadness, I realise that may never exist.

Heart

What is this strange thing that our human hearts are capable of? That we can feel it plummet to the depths of our shoes, beat faster with anticipation, flush us red with the heat of the moment, beating every beat for that which exists outside of us - another beat, another rhythm, another person. That we can feel the synchrony of our lives as it speeds up and slow down, and races after - another beating heart.

When closing your eyes brings you no rest

Sometimes I cannot help but wonder whether gay (or bisexual) poets exist precisely to echo - no, to iterate - the inexpressible sentiments of tenderhearted women. This particular one, by Walt Whitman, seems to capture the frail uncertainty of our human convictions and our understanding of the world, and contrast that to the unthinking certainty of flesh and of the senses. 

the undergraduate

a poem for two

for memories' sake inhale

sweet quince and milk chocolate 

roughly, stubbled cheek on mine

the nighttime effervesces 

an aged, brittle me-ss morphs into you-ngness

a fearful asymmetry
burning bright 

it heats the night

a fine balance

to enwrap ourselves as one

only with one eye on the door

one ear on the driveway 

adrenalin pumping 

surreptitiousness 

into pleasure - 

making
half-smiles

and muffled noises

redouble 

inward esctasy.

I was young once

you are young now 

is what my hands tell me

they go places long forgotten 

have I never loved before?

they never knew my hands before

they just needed feather dustin'

faded jeans and young hands

loosen old knots and loosed love

while time ticks on

embers die off

leaving the unbearable cold deadweight of duty

a whiff of quince and 

the scent of Cacharel

has a hot headiness of its own

to be enjoyed
only with another eye on the door

another ear on the driveway

adrenalin pumping 

blood rushing

into pleasure - 

making
half-smiles

and muffled noises

redouble

unforgotten