
(All images produced by DWB)
“It was just like a song being played on the radio in my mind.”
– Richard Brautigan

One of these pictures is the countdown: less than sixty minutes until STROKE time two years ago.
Another picture is a view from my hospital room in Chicago. Without access to the futuristically good health care services of the Second City, I would probably have ended up quite a bit worse off than I was and am.
Another pic’ is me contemplating my situation and reliving many memories, since I can see the University of Illinois Chicago from my window, the place where I taught for fifteen years and completed my PhD in English and Creative Writing. And I’m realizing again that I possess a certain fearlessness, and have always possessed a certain fearlessness.
Another pic’ is one of the verses that helps reinforce my so-called certain fearlessness, a fearlessness that is not without its failings and is not always as evident (to myself and even others) as I might want it 2 B.
But many people are afraid of me, especially on the street when they see me and the wolf I walk around with (and sometimes a second wolf and a pit bull).
Picture five is the REUNION: I had an incredibly vivid nightmare while in the hospital that he would forget me while I was gone. I was wrong.
At one point I said to/asked one of my doctors, “I had a MINOR stroke, right?”
His answer was (and I quote it directly): “There are no minor strokes.”
I was in the hospital for one week; one neck surgery; a million tests, pokings, and proddings; and tons of gratitude about being alive with zero paralysis or facial drooping or any of the other horrors that often come with a stroke.
(I also have Stage One Emphysema, which I can sometimes feel burning a little bit at the tops of my lungs. Quite an accomplishment for 59.)
The nurses and various attendants (and some of the doctors) who took care of me were like human angels.
One wonders why the ones seemingly working the hardest were also the ones being paid the least (or at least too little in comparison).
The same was true the last time I was in the hospital for a week twelve years ago (same hospital, different issue, what they sometimes euphemistically refer to as a “mental breakdown”). (I recovered quickly then too and ended up smarter than when I went in, both times.)
But this pay issue $, or lack of good pay issue, it’s like the so-called leader of the free world at the moment, who spends (obviously) the vast majority of his time golfing and re-posting total crap on the internet; or re-posting total crap on the internet while golfing; or telling endless lies about how he won the 2020 election and didn’t start an insurrection; or consuming vast quantities of Mickey D’s and diet Coke while viewing propaganda TV featuring none other than himself.
Hey people who like this guy! The free world really needs a president who’s willing to do a little real work around here once in a while.
The best you can say for him is that he both does, and does not, back down.
He makes Dick Nixon (Nixon the dick) look like Abraham Lincoln.
His actual presence in a room is overwhelming, especially to weak-minded sycophants.
He isn’t a racist in the sense that he values absolute loyalty over skin tone every time.
He hires some really good-looking women.
He’s married to one who appears to want to have zero to do with him (can’t say as I blame her).
He falls asleep in the meetings all day long because he stays up all night long posting crap on the internet and talking on the phone if he can find anyone who will answer.
He NEVER shuts up.
Him and his pals are the ravenous nihilists Dostoevsky predicted.
Sometimes he’s kinda funny and almost likable for some reason!
The uniform (or costume) he’s concocted for himself is hilarious.
I just wish all these other fools wouldn’t keep wearing the same thing.
If he invited me to the White House I would probably go and try to talk some sense into him, not that I would hold my breath about the results.
But I would never travel the country singing his praises like Kid Rock, who I used to think was a kind of genius. Same with Snoop Dog. Come to your senses y’all!
A hundred and forty-six years ago, the great Russian saint-and-sinner Dostoevsky wrote: “Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself, and others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.”
Except for the love of money.































