Blind Tiger

 

Recently, I got sucked into watching a rerun of the original Hawaii Five-O (1968-1980) television series.  Saying that I got “sucked in” is completely disingenuous, because I love that series in all of its ridiculous glory.  I did not grow up with it.  My family did not watch it, but as a twenty something kid, seeing afternoon syndicated reruns made me and some of my friends fans.  We all wanted to be as slick as Jack Lord – I still do!  The crazy convoluted plots and dodgy police procedures were common topics of conversations and debates.  I once called in sick from work three days in a row, so I wouldn’t miss all three episodes of the epic V for Vashon trilogy (long before streaming) and when I fessed up to my manager at the time, he understood and claimed he would’ve done the same thing.

 

An early episode from the series is “Blind Tiger” (1969) where Steve McGarrett (chief of the fictional police unit Five-O) has a criminally placed bomb go off while climbing into his car.  Somehow his only real injury is blindness.  He is hospitalized and helps solve the case of the vengeful bomber from the hospital.  During his stay he goes through rehabilitation to learn to live life as a blind person, and his nurse/rehab guide is none other than actress Marion Ross as Nurse Edith Lavallo.  Marion Ross would later become famous and maybe “America’s mom” as Mrs. Cunningham on the 70s TV show Happy Days (1974-1984).  Anyway, her abrupt approach and constant assistance teaches McGarrett to not only function well without his sight, but actually win a physical fight with the bomber (back to try to finish McGarrett off) in a physical therapy room.  Well, the Five-O team arrest the bomber and McGarrett’s sight miraculously returns and he is free to resume his life of being awesome.  Nurse Edith phones his room just before Steve is discharged and cannot overcome her emotions to say goodbye.  The implication being that she has developed feelings for this magnificent man.  Despite Steve’s urgings, Edith will not come say goodbye in person so he can finally actually see her.  The scene closes with her reluctantly hanging up the phone in tears.  And like all episodic dramas back then, we never hear from her as a character again, nor of McGarrett overcoming blindness.  Ross makes an appearance as a hapless and clueless accomplice with evildoers in an episode a year or two later.

When I was hospitalized for about five weeks a couple of months before my twentieth birthday, I bonded with my healthcare team.  Overall, it was a terrifying and painful experience, but dammit, even though I was in the pediatric floor with mostly babies and very young children as a grizzled and gross nineteen year old, I took great joy when a day nurse took care of me several times for a lot of those weeks.  She would come to my room with an acoustic guitar and sing me nursery rhyme type songs.  She joked that they were the only songs she could play, though I didn’t care – I was simply happy to have her there with me.  I’m sad that I cannot remember her name, because she was such a wonderful and caring person who made a massive difference during my recovery.  My mom was struggling with her health in a serious way at that time and could not be with me very much, so the nurses became surrogates that I looked to for reassurance and support.  I was sad at the time, because when I finally was discharged, I did not get to say goodbye to the singing nurse – who reminded me of my second grade teacher, the perfectly named Mrs. Love.  Several years later I saw the Five-O “Blind Tiger” episode and thought about a few of the amazing nurses who have guided me through difficult recoveries, and a piece of me hoped that they were sad to see me go like Nurse Edith was to let go of McGarrett.  I have always kind of hoped that I’d not be forgotten.  This is neither here nor there, but that may have been the first time I fully realized as a young adult that I wanted to always leave a positive impression onto any and all interaction I have with all people.  Because of our nature as humans, my failures at this goal are the ones I remember most, because I, and I think most of us, dwell on mistakes instead of successes and I hear about it, when people do not like me, but rarely hear about the positive moments (like how a lot of people are willing to complain about poor service, but stay silent when service is good).  It’s how we roll.  Somehow I’ve mostly been able to move on from these intense short-lived recovery experiences and close, albeit mostly one-sided relationships with healthcare workers, as they fade into the past and we’re all onto the next phase of life.  Still the notion of a nurse shedding a tear in silence – sad to see me go – makes me feel important, which is a rarity.

However, as I’ve written about in a few prior posts, over the past two-plus years, I have been focusing intently on the healthcare system to try to improve my physical state via therapies and rehab.  The work has been paying off.  Maybe not as much as I’d like, but I think my expectations are far grander than reality is showing.  Because of this focus, I have been seeing the same physical therapist for about two years and have been doing cardiac rehab twice a week since last November.  The staff have become a family to me and over the rest of this month I am going to lose these connections as health insurance coverage is ending. 

I’m worried.  At the beginning of May, by far the best cardiac rehab clinical exercise physiologist (CEP), Hannah (see here) left her position to become a lead at a different clinic.  Though I am excited for her opportunity, I did not and have not taken her absence well.  There has been no fading into the past and moving on.  On her final day, I broke down and cried like crazy – like I haven’t done before, in my memory.  I continue to get emotional when I notice her absence like when they brought in a new “replacement.”  What a ridiculous notion!  And now, I’m facing losing the rest of the team who have nurtured, cared for, and encouraged me.  As well as providing me with social contact – making these appointments the high points of most of my weeks.  Same with physical therapy.  Saying goodbye to Abby will be difficult.  She’s guided me through a lot of difficult times all while experiencing very difficult times herself.  I care about her and look forward to our conversations during every appointment.  In my case, Abby has been a skilled psychologist as well.  I marvel at her creativity.  I will miss seeing Stefan and Lauren at the front desk too.  They’ve always made me feel welcome and valued.  I will miss hearing Lauren call me “Christopher,” because no one calls me that. 

Writing this out makes this all seem a bit trivial, and I don’t know how I’ve become the Nurse Edith and not the McGarrett in these scenarios.  I honestly do not know what’s going on with me. The departure of Hannah has me concerned.  Makes me think of the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief that we were taught in High School Psychology class, and makes me wonder why I dwell in the first stage (Denial) and then skip to the fourth stage (Depression) and ping pong between only those two stages seemingly endlessly.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been bouncing between those stages for the past 35 years.  I’ve never Accepted (stage five) losing my mom to this genetic disorder that has ravaged my family’s lives.  Perhaps it’s because I skip stage two (Anger), because there’s no one to blame, and the “why me?” falls flat because I wouldn’t wish this disorder upon anyone.  I avoid Bargaining (stage three) for that same reason.  Instead of healing and moving on, I continue flail and feel broken, ridiculous, and embarrassed.

As the month progresses, I am steeling myself for an emotionally difficult stretch and hoping I can focus my energy on continuing my health journey by utilizing the valuable tools these amazing professionals have taught me on my own and not wallow in stage four.  I’m hoping I can muster the energy to keep going at all.  Maybe when the times arrive for these tough farewells, I will be able to keep myself from ugly crying by simply disappearing.  But will I ever be able to accept the loss?  Will I ever be able to see beyond stage four and move on like those old TV shows?  After decades of watching Hawaii Five-O reruns, why haven’t I learned any lessons to be magnificent like Steve McGarrett?

Hold My Life

 

How do you see your life’s story?  How would you distill your life into a relatively brief synopsis that can accurately encompass all of your experiences, and all of the billions of thoughts that run through your mind throughout a lifetime?  It’s impossible isn’t it?  And yet, all of us repeat stories from our lives over and over, especially as we get older.  I find myself dragging out anecdotes from my six years of volunteering for the LPGA Portland Classic golf tournament all of the time.  I will find a way to shoehorn it into any topic.  Clearly those experiences are important to me, though they are boring fodder to any audience. 

Last night, I was reading through a printed version of the After Visit Summary from my most recent doctor’s appointment.  Generally, these are 2-4 pages, but this one is 32.  There is an entire page devoted to all of my diagnosed ailments.  It is, in a way, my biography, and yet it isn’t.  Sure, my mind flashed back while reading “kidney transplant” on the list.  Wow, was that a time?  That gift of someone’s kidney saved my life.  I still have a lot of guilt and sadness mixed in with my elation about receiving a second chance at life at the age of 33.  And that’s just it.  This list is not my story and I found myself getting upset.  On that list of ailments is “Migraine.”  How did it get on my list?  I have had maybe three migraines in my life!  I have suffered from a variety of headaches for most of my life, but migraines are not what I suffer from.  The list includes “Morbid (severe) obesity due to excess calories.”  Though true, it feels disingenuous.  I gained about eighty pounds after my kidney transplant over the course of about twelve months while on high doses of steroids that were designed to keep my new kidney safe from rejection.  When I received the transplant I was about 140 lbs.  A year later I was about 220 lbs.  I essentially maintained that weight for sixteen years, until I needed steroids again in 2021 when I had severe swelling in my head from a failed attempt at radiation therapy to destroy tumors.  The steroids reduced swelling to make my life tolerable, and they helped me gain another 80 lbs. over a period of five to six weeks.  Yes, I am obese, but it feels unfair to be labeled that way.  There’s no nuance to the story.  I reached300 lbs. and over the last year, with a lot of work, I have lost some of that weight.  At that recent appointment I weighed in at 268.  Way too heavy to the medical assistant who weighed me, but to those following along: “not bad.” 

I hate to criticize my healthcare.  I am overwhelmingly grateful to anyone who wants to take of people.  I admire everyone from the mighty brain surgeon to the cleaning staff at a hospital.  I am grateful for their hard work and care and effort.  I also am aware that records like in the after visit summary need to be cold and clinical.  When passing information from caretaker to caretaker, they don’t need to know my life’s story, but I guess it’s helpful to know that I am indeed morbidly obese.  I understand and have witnessed people trying to explain nuances of their conditions to a medical professional, as that professional tries to distill that information from five minutes of detail to one or two sentences or a code.  I also realize that our lives cannot be coded or simplified in this way.  Our lives are made up of those things that make us who we are.  Those things that are not so straightforward.  We are not keywords or codes for huge insurance companies to decide how your care should be covered or not. 

I was admitted to the hospital over a weekend a couple of weeks ago.  I was experiencing an Atrial Fibrillation (AFib) event while wearing a heart monitor during a Cardiac Rehab session.  I was asymptomatic.  I felt fine, and yet found myself in a hospital for about 48 hours before getting discharged untreated.  No new medications were introduced.  No treatments were provided or planned.  The first morning I was there, the weekend doctor on call at that time came into my room, introduced himself and asked if I was ready to go home.  I giggled and said yes.  He explained that they could perform cardioversion (without explaining what it is), but that I would need to stay over for a few days, and then he told me that millions of people live with AFib and that mine was stable and that I should buy a Kardia Mobile device to monitor my heart rhythm.  Then he left.  My post hospital stay after visit summary explains this interaction shows on record that I refused treatment in favor of going home.  That’s now a part of my history.  It’s no wonder that my insurance has not approved coverage for the entire hospital stay!!

Do I blame this doctor?  Yes, I do.  It’s careless and thoughtless.  I also don’t.  The system is messed up.  He was likely supposed to be well informed enough to be in charge of a lot of patients and all of their histories and to be everything to everyone as fast as possible.  I am often astounded and saddened when I find out that, for example, Abby, my Physical Therapist, sees about twelve different patients a day, or that the Cardiac Rehab team I work with see over 200 active patients a week.  It’s alarming to conceive of this workload, and it’s the entire system!  These wonderful people are overworked and go above and beyond and need help.  So, when I see minor mistakes like the ‘migraine’ mischaracterization, I am quick to forgive. Yet, I feel powerless and frustrated when I notice that my list of medical issues does not include mention of, as an example, my damaged tongue.  During that brain surgery in 2021, I nearly bit my tongue off, because no one put a mouthpiece in place.  My tongue continues to be a health problem.  I now have a lisp and struggle to speak, but more importantly, it’ can be seriously painful when I eat.  It’s been over five years, but apparently it does not merit notice.  It’s frustrating when I go over my medications with my caretakers, because inevitably there are inaccuracies.  Sometimes medications I’ve never heard of land on my list of record and are kept there despite my confusion and protestations, I may later see a note in an after visit summary that “pt. CLAIMS that they don’t take this medication.”  An interpretation such as this paints me as hysterical. 

This leads me to a personal problem I have and it’s been more severe for me over the past three years.  Late in 2022, I made the decision to stop working to focus on improving my health.  After that fateful brain surgery in 2021, I was declining and declining fast.  I had numerous physical ailments as well as some cognitive issues.  Because I had to give up my work sponsored insurance, I had to rebuild a new healthcare team from scratch.  Unfortunately, having Von Hippel-Lindau Syndrome (VHL) merits a care team.  My goal has been to work to improve my health and treat it like a full-time job.  I have had various therapies, medical tests, and checkups nearly every weekday multiple times a day for over two years.  I have always (even as a kid) tried to personally connect with my caretakers.  I want to know them.  I want to know why they are there.  I want to know what makes them who they are.  If I am going to be divulging my ugly secrets, it seems fair that I learn that they may be an avid reader.  I need to know them as people – not as someone getting paid to take care of my broken body.  This has led me to a critical juncture.  It’s at least two fold.  I’ve had to change my insurance again due to unforeseen events and now I may lose a lot of this close and personal care and I have been freaking out.  I have been absolutely panicking, because I feel like all of the hard work I’ve put in building a great care team and toward getting healthier (and finally seeing the benefits – walking without a cane, finally losing some weight, feeling stronger) seems to be slipping away before I am ready.  There’s also the personal side.  I do not want to say goodbye to these people.  They have cared for me and helped me in ways that I cannot begin to describe.  When I was still working and had an active social life, I did not lean on my healthcare team for socialization, but now, they are the ones I chat with about music, movies, shows, books, weird shit that happens, life, and of course, the weather.  These people are now my family, friends, and confidantes.  I do not want to say goodbye.  The practical side, I know that they’ve provided me tools to continue to work on my own, but I will miss them all dearly and it absolutely breaks my heart.  Yet, as stated above, I am still “the patient (pt.).”  I read those after visit notes, where an hour’s worth of random chat is distilled to one or two sentences, like “the pt. CLAIMS his back hurts.”  Because I so want to connect with these people, I forget that they are working and that they have to document the time they spent with me.  It still hurts.  I am only one of those hundreds of patients.  Nothing more. 

This leads me to another conversation I struggle to have.  As I’ve devoted so much of my life to the medical world, I’ve found myself incredibly lonely.  It’s been a lifetime thing.  When VHL was diagnosed in my family, I was thirteen and had no symptoms.  In fact, my first major kidney surgery landed during the middle of my 8^th grade basketball season.  I was amidst puberty and mostly healthy.  After that, I steeled myself against the idea of a future of constant medical attention via periodic scans, checkups, and surgeries.  I made decisions like “I will never have children” that slowly made me believe that I was a burden unworthy of love or any kind of attention.  I felt and still feel like a physical freak and a pain in the ass.  I have taught myself to not allow anyone in to my nightmare, because, well, it’s a nightmare.  I have always wanted to present myself as Teflon.  I have always defined my story as someone who can handle anything that comes my way.  I pride myself on being independent.  I wrote a paper in High School about humility and independence.  I still believe deeply in those things, yet I am finally realizing that I’ve not allowed nurturing and love in my life.  Ever.  It’s been a slow process of self-discovery.  I’ve written previously here as I’ve slowly hit upon some of these revelations like how and why I’ve always struggled to plan for even the near future.  How I have shuttered the notion of dreaming about my future.  I’ve always felt unengaged, and a little jealous, when I hear people’s stories about how they've set a goal and work hard to manifest and achieve that goal.  I do not set goals and do not know how to manifest anything.  Without that planning and dreaming, I have learned to close myself off and it’s lonely.  It’s difficult to write about, because it’s deeply personal stuff I’d rather not admit is real, but it also can offend those who are in my life.  Those who do love me and see me for who I am.  I do not want to short shrift anyone and am often overwhelmed by the love and support I do receive.  It means so much and has kept me motivated to try to stay healthy all of this time.  When I say I feel alone, it’s in that I’m missing out on that personal intimacy.  I do not have a partner – a significant other. It’s different than having a friend check in on me via text message.  Part of shutting down after my VHL diagnosis has had the major side effect of not being able to allow love to blossom in my life.  During my physical therapy sessions over the years, I witness other patients working through their obstacles and challenges alongside their therapist and often with a loved one who is there to champion and cheerlead them on.  The first time I took a step without assistance after that 2021 brain surgery, my therapist clapped her hands and yelled “Yay!” and that was great, but that was it.  When I told a few people afterward about my big triumph, it felt as if I was telling them about those times I volunteered for the LPGA.  YAWN.  I do not have that intimate support.  I have not allowed anyone in to be my champion and it’s been making me feel incredibly sad.

It’s funny because my current bout of intense loneliness is less about being alone and wanting someone to love me, than it is wanting to love someone who also loves me.  I don’t think it’s a change.  I think it’s more of a realization.  I believe that I really do have a lot to offer at least emotionally.  I have a massive well of desire to be there for someone all of the time.  I’m tired of trying to support those friends that I love dearly from afar.  I’m very happy for them.  Most of them are well-adjusted enough that they have significant others in their lives and do not need me to care for them when they are ailing or struggling.  They don’t need me to hold them when they need to be held.  They don’t need me to be a confidante about their deepest insecurities and fears.  I am, at best, option two.  It’s the other side of the same coin.  Yes, I greatly desire to have someone close in my life who is here with me through all of my medical battles and deficiencies no matter what, but I very much want to be there for that mythical person.  I very much want to uplift and be strong for someone other than myself, because you know what?  I am over myself.  My tired story only plays out negatively, and I don’t have any more energy for it.

Of course, a big issue, aside from intense self-loathing, is that I only have eyes for an occasional particular woman.  It’s been this way since I was a kid.  I find myself drawn in by one individual, and in my mind, there is no compromise.  I only desire that person’s companionship.  Life circumstances either end it as I inevitably fail to try to win them over by actually professing my adoration, they (or I) move away, my health declines and I have to manage another personal crisis, or I do actually ‘make the move,’ and they are not interested.  So, I’ve drifted along.  I’ve dated a little, but have never felt that intense desire.  I have tried to make it work, but I cannot fake it, or allowed it to happen.  I’ve had a few chances over the years, but could never make it work.  This is where I wonder.  I wonder if I’ve cheated myself in a way that has left me now alone and inconsolable at this late stage in life.  Why can I not accept anything less than these few attractions?  Why can’t I let a relationship begin and simmer into something that can be pretty damn good?  Why do I need these ‘dream girls’ that I become so obsessed with?  Most of the time and most of my life, I’m okay being alone, and sometimes I’ve been thankful.  When I do find myself lonely though, the emptiness and depression that set in are completely overwhelming.  I cannot feel good or even just okay.  I am in constant misery and I do not know if I can recover.  It does not help my already low self-esteem either.  The fact that I am never interesting to those whom I find so damn alluring is a very detrimental blow.  In a lifetime full of also-rans and being forgotten and misjudged, or coded incorrectly like in those after visit summaries, I find myself believing that perhaps I really am worth nothing - that my life's story can fit onto a one page list of medical problems.

My emotions are raw these days because my health is once again uncertain and declining, my insurance uncertainties have put not only my already flimsy financial stability in serious doubt, as much as the quality of my healthcare, and I am facing it all feeling extremely lonely.  The past few weekends have been endless nightmares as I dwell on these things and find no positives to grab onto as a lifeline.  This weekend I’ve been wearing a heart monitor, and have been having trouble keeping the bib that holds the monitor in place tied.  My ataxic left hand makes it difficult to tie even the simplest of knots.  I can’t help but think that if I had a significant other, this would not be a problem.  How would this all be added to an After Visit Summary: “Pt. REFUSED treatment?”

Demon Slayer

 

The Blue Herons

Demon Slayer

(Shelflife)

I’ve received constructive criticism a few times over the years about my style of album write ups.  When I write them, I almost always tie them into my personal life.  I understand this critique and feel it deeply.  My efforts to change have not gone very well however, because I find it incredibly difficult to separate my love of music from my own experiences and emotions.  Nearly every memory I have is tied to what music was in my life during those times.  Besides, I find that my writing skills are not creative enough to write an interesting clinical straight forward review.  So, I simply do what I do and hope that I can convince a person to support my limited recommendations, and that I do not bore them with my asides and needless anecdotes.

Demon Slayer, the second long player by the intercontinental duo The Blue Herons is the perfect example of why I struggle to extract music from my own life, and why I become excited to share their incredible music with anyone and everyone I happen to encounter.  This album has come at a perfect time for me – like an ambulance rushing to a devastating car crash.  Over the past couple of years I have been focused intently on improving my health after the prior 25 years of very severe medical issues.  This focus has had several speed bumps along the way, as I’ve tried to take advantage of every therapy I can access, but I feel like I’m seeing the positive results from my hard work, only to feel like it’s being taken away by bureaucracy and nasty politics.  I feel like I am describing the title track from this album, “Demon Slayer” (“you gotta get up and go / you gotta slay those demons / before they deprive you of hope”). 

 For maybe the first time in my life, I’ve been trying to accept and learn how to open myself up to the world and allow others to see what’s really going on with me.  I’m done with trying to be stoic and unshakable.  I’m tired of refusing offers of help.  It’s a lonely existence and I’m feeling that.  Man, am I FEELING that, and this album helps assuage those black holes.  This amazing collection of songs are really about the ephemeral fiber that makes us all who we are as individuals and the power of honestly recognizing our own needs and wants – the very thing I’ve been neglecting for most of my life.  It’s that stuff between the purely biological physical being and the conscious mind that, for so many of us, sabotages so much of what we actually stand for.  How many times have you said something that you’ve regretted?  It’s as though there’s a layer to all of us that we all know and can recognize, but it’s an intangible.  Am I talking out my ass?  I think this is where so much of our likes and dislikes come from.  Why are some people so especially attractive to us beyond their physical attributes?  This is a realm where love and music lie.  This is where The Blue Herons thrive.

Gretchen DeVault’s words here are intensely personal.  Her vocals are wonderfully effervescent and musical and she has an incredible knack for turning a phrase into a magical earworm, but damn there’s a profoundness and intensity here that belies the breezy beauty of these addictive songs.  Andy Jossi’s musicianship is unbelievably intricate and impressive, as his knack for drama fits these songs perfectly by providing the proper depth they deserve.  

The emotional high comes early for me as the double feature of “Silent” and “Fight or Flight” appear as tracks three and four landing in the first third of the LP.  These two songs find the Blue Herons stretching out their abilities and style into a more melancholy sound.  Though it does not sound like The Sundays, “Silent” reminds me of one of their finest achievements: “Goodbye.”  It’s in the way they are both built on acoustic guitar strums, stratospheric arpeggios and a burbling bassline.  I really identify with the chorus of “Silent” as DeVault majestically pleads to “please let me off this ride / ‘cause I’ve lost myself / in these lows and highs.”  There’s a spine tingling power in her desire to stop from being overwhelmed.  I think a lot of us have been feeling those lows and highs and nothing in between for a long time now making the emotional core of “Silent” that much more effective.  Here is my one nitpick:  “Silent” should not fade out.  This is where Andy’s penchant for spectualr explosive finales is required!  I would gladly revel in an extended stretch here.  Speaking of emotion, “Fight or Flight” quietly builds from a gentle reference of blue skies to storm clouds on the horizon.  This song is about fear and dread as it swells and surges with appropriate turbulence.  Jossi has endowed the music with a cinematic drama that reminds me of the bitter apex of “Polaroids” by the all-time great Kitchens of Distinction and when the celestial peaks here DeVault emotionally begs to be able to “stay” – to keep safe from those storm clouds, whether figurative from so much divisiveness currently running through our collective veins or literally as more and more of us are being struck by “natural” disaster.  Those storm clouds could be anything that scare us, and when she sings the closing chorus refrain “is there any way to stay / to hold it all in / or to push it all away,” we can feel the fear like a rush of overwhelming emotion that suddenly bursts into our nose and eyes. 

Demon Slayer opens with the perfect pop of “Take a Break,” which is so catchy that it immediately begs to be heard over and over.  The patience preached in the song is a valuable lesson for all of us as, just as is the lesson of perseverance of “Demon Slayer.” 

“Promises” is a dreamy acoustic song that addresses our inherent individualness versus our need for companionship.  The ‘promise’ being that we hope we will find another half to our being, but realizing that we are inherently alone: “It’s a solitary sadness / a bittersweet refrain.”. “Decay” reflects back to good times and worries that those may not be felt again.  Meanwhile, the fantasy of “Willow” is a warm embrace of the power of love and how its highs can make us so desperate to make the feeling last forever, and then the defiant “My Way” finds power, freedom, and solace in ending a relationship and moving forward on one’s own.

The closing two songs “Turned to Stone” and “Empty Spaces” both rival the emotional high marks mentioned earlier.  I wrote about the Covid isolation infected “Turned to Stone” (one of 2025’s greatest songs!) last year and its well-worn deep sadness and loss still cuts deep, all while still charming with a sing along accessibility, and a hummable bass-line.  “Empty Spaces” is a closing mournful epic that is the sadness of the previously feared storm clouds and decay and sinks deep into mourning and loss, which are tangible and heavy.

I think the immaculate crystalline music and production on Demon Slayer boosts these songs and elevates them beyond mere dream pop or indie pop directly to greatness.  Yes, there’s a lot to like here while bopping around.  The melodies are indescribably fantastic, and yet they are grounded with drama and feeling.  This is not superfluous.  This is important.  The lesson I’ve learned from this collection of songs is that being vulnerable and open is a strength and though it may open one up to harsher lows, it can bring bigger highs, but it’s still good to take a break and take care.  That openness is perfectly reflected by Jossi's 4AD/Vaughan Oliver/Chris Biggs inspired cover art depicting a hairless cat evoking the nakedness of vulnerability.  It’s difficult to believe that these two have never actually met in person, because the music they create is so perfect.  Please do not miss this. 

(https://theblueherons1.bandcamp.com/album/demon-slayer)

The Blue Herons "Fight or Flight"

I Want the One I Can't Have

“What’s your deal bro?!”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s my deal?’?”

Michael exhaled and let his arms flap to his sides before pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Joe, we’ve been friends since we were little kids and you’ve barely dated at all! What’s that about?”

“Um…I don’t know Mike,” Joe followed suit with the long exhale.  He had often dreaded this question.  He had barely dated.  He did not date anyone at all until he had gone off to college, and even then, it was not until his second year.  Joe knew that this was unusual.  His awareness of his friends’ and acquaintances’ dating experiences all through high school was pretty limited, though what he knew unsettled him.  At one point, he had developed a crush on Samantha from his algebra class, but all he heard about her is that she had a wild side.  He didn’t know what to believe, or if any of it were true, but he did know that she spent a lot of time with tough guys like Tommy, who had a full goatee and a neck tattoo by the seventh grade.  It intimidated the fuck out of him.  Joe was not wild.  He was scared.

“Remember back during the summer before Junior High and we used to talk about all of the girls that we were into?” Michael’s arms raised like a stretching bird about to take flight – a bottle in each hand of vodka and rum.  “It seems like you had quite a list!  What happened?”

“I don’t know.  It just never happened for me,” Joe stuttered and dropped his head.  Blood rushed to his face and he silently asked himself the same question: ‘what happened?!”

“I mean, Joni always says that you’re kind of the shit!” Michael shouted.  Joe thought about how Michael always seems to shout.  Joe supposed that it’s not shouting, if he always talks like this and he did.   Most of Joe’s closest friends were loud.

“Joni has never told me this…” Joe mumbled and stopped and opened the front door of the Victorian home with a creaky closed in porch where Michael and Joni were renting.  Michael’s longtime girlfriend was also Joe’s friend, but she had never told him this bit of info.  Would it have made any difference?  Joe decided it may have only added to the pressure he always put on himself.  No one was more aware of his aloneness and that it was pretty weird. 

Joe held the door open for Michael who set the bottles of booze down just inside the door onto the floor next to a ten gallon rubber garbage can along with a few other bottles.  Joe handed Mike his door keys and flopped down onto the low couch that oddly faced toward the front door. 

“You gotta be confident around the ladies!  Just be yourself!”  Michael shouted, or said as he moved into the kitchen behind the couch. 

“I am ‘me.’  Always.  It’s frightening how ‘myself’ I always am.  I am confident with how ‘me’ I am, because it’s reliable.  I know that I am always ‘me,’” Joe blurted these words with a profound emphasis as if they had already been loaded.  “I’ve always admired how you can blend in with all kinds of different personalities in different situations Mike.  I’m not good at that, and I think I’m incapable of adapting.  I do not want to adapt.  I’ve only had serious feelings for three girls in my life: two of them didn’t want to have anything to do with me and the third didn’t know I existed.  “It seems clear to me that what I am is not something women want.”

“Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.  You sound like that whiny dude that your dad listened to all the time after your mom left.”  Michael was still in the kitchen.  “I want the one I can’t have / and it’s driving me mad,” a horrific caterwaul floated out to the front room from Michael’s mouth.

 

Joe’s attention was quickly diverted to a jiggle at the front door. 

Joni threw open the front door carrying two grocery bags “Of course you’re here!  Don’t get up.”  Joe had no intention of getting up from the couch.  He wasn’t sure he would be able to without rolling onto the floor first.  “You know the party isn’t for a couple of hours?” Joni projected with no expectation of any kind of response as she clomped her way into the kitchen.

Joe could hear Michael and Joni talking, but he could not hear what they were saying.  He closed his eyes and felt a chill fizzle along his forearms.

 

++++++++++++

 

Joe had drifted off to sleep and had only awoken because of a knock on the door.  It startled him.  It had grown dark outside.  The front room was also dark aside from a few candles.  He could make out the faint scent of sandalwood.  He rolled onto the hardwood floor and pushed himself up from all fours.  His face felt smashed in like he was wearing a tight helmet.  His senses were dulled.  He hated falling asleep during the day.  It always felt catastrophic to him.  He wasn’t fully aware of where he was or what was happening.  He opened the door and there were three people – two guys and a girl – whom he did not recognize.  “Come on in,” he guided as he turned his head and looked longingly at the couch.

The girl smiled at him and introduced herself: “Hi, my name is Sarah, and this is my boyfriend Josh, and this is Josh’s friend Jacob.”  To Joe, Josh and Jacob were identical.  They both had messy hair that he assumed took both of them hours to coif.  They were both wearing vintage drab green military style jackets, black jeans and Docs.  Sarah had a dark brown bob hairstyle that seemed to be balancing a little crooked on her head, and she was wearing a tight fitting pink sweater underneath a black windbreaker.  Sarah smiled and looked at Joe expectantly.

“Um, my name is Joe, nice to meet you,” Joe muttered and then curled into the kitchen from the front room hoping that either Michael or Joni would be there to take charge.

Michael was slicing up various citruses (citrisi?) to dump into the Jungle Juice barrel out by the front door.  Joe could hear Joni’s voice out in the front room.  He took in a deep breath and slowly released it, as he situated himself next to Michael at the kitchen sink.  He began putting the already cut citruses into a bowl that was already in place. 

Michael leaned over and in his quietest voice asked “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Sarah,” he said with disgust on his face and a flick of his fingers to splash some juice into Joe’s face.

“She’s very pretty.  What does it matter?  She has a boyfriend.” 

“So what?  Look at that guy.  He’s like a little boy and you’re the man.”  Michael smacked his lips and directed the rest of the cut pieces into the bowl with his knife, wiped his hands with a towel and tossed it over his shoulder.  He grabbed the bowl and wandered off with it into the front room. 

Joe followed and in an effort to explain himself kept talking to the back of Michael’s head, “I’ve got nothing better to bring to the table than those guys, or anyone for that matter!  I’m like the list of horrible side effects from one of those pharmaceutical ads,” he continued “except I don’t come with any positive effect that the medication might have to offer.”

Michael smacked his lips again and shook his head side to side.

 

There were more people out in the front room by that time and Joni was handing out cups full of the red concoction shouting “You know its quality when it comes from the trash!”  Michael upturned the bowl of fruit into the jungle juice and set it down on the floor next to the gray rubber trash can.  A song from the early 00s was playing quietly.  Joe recognized it, but he didn’t know the artist.  The only music he remembered from then were his father’s 80s and 90s punk rock and indie 45s.  He used to look at them obsessively while listening.  The often photocopied paper sleeves and rough recordings transported him to another world.  The music felt dangerous and far more informed than he ever felt.  Most of those 7” singles were stuffed with small bits of paper with organizational information, informative news stories, interesting poetry, and handwritten personal notes from the bands directed to his father.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then absentmindedly returned it without looking at it.  He already wanted to leave.

Michael handed Joe a full cup and waved over Sarah to give her one, then shouted out a cheers as he held his cup aloft.  Nearly everyone is the room shouted “cheers” in response and drank in unison.

“Joseph, this is Sarah.  Sarah works with Joni downtown when she’s not too busy taking every college course PSU offers,” Michael smiled and awkwardly winked.  His constant winking was disconcerting at best, which only encouraged him to wink more often.

“Hi Joe.  Is Joe okay?” Sarah looking directly at Joe smiled and asked, “You said your name was Joe earlier, right?”

Joe could feel blood rush to his face.  He looked into her eyes and immediately averted them.  She was too much stimuli for him.  “Yes.  Yes, everyone calls me Joe.”  Joe’s voice was quiet and soft and he could feel himself leaning his head toward Sarah.  Her black eyebrows were set at dramatic angles and they framed her stunning brown eyes, which had a friendliness that resonated with him in a way he did not understand. 

“Not Joey though.  He hates that,” Michael interjected as he turned and walked away. 

“Uh, I don’t really mind,” Joe smiled and tried to regain eye contact with Sarah.  He noticed that he had clasped his hands together with fingers intertwined.  He had become a cartoon.  He had always suspected that he was a cartoon, but the most uninteresting and least entertaining ever.

Joe felt a calm rise up through his body, and despite the loud chatter of people talking over the music, his voice became soft, “How long have you known Joni?” he leaned in and asked Sarah.  Her eyes captivated him.  Sarah held eye contact like no one he had ever encountered.  She smiled and he couldn’t help, but try to smile too.  She was contagious.  He was fully aware that his smiles look more like a pained grimace like he’s trying to keep in a fart. 

“We’ve been working together for a few months down at the coffee shop.”  She leaned in so her face was near his.  “Joni says that you’re a writer!”

“No, not really,” Joe stammered, “but I do enjoy writing, but it’s all terrible”

“I’d love to read some.  Do you have a website?”

“No.”  Joe blurted out.  “Nice answer,” he thought to himself, “What the fuck was that?” he asked himself as she backed away.

“I should probably go find Josh,” she said turning away.

Joe watched her move across the room.  He was trying to read her mind as she navigated her way through the small groups of people clustered in the room.  He sensed that she had an interesting running inner dialogue that he wanted to know.  She exuded a confident intelligence that was making his stomach toss and turn with excitement.  He didn’t know what was happening to him.  Everything about her was amazing!  He had never felt so drawn to anyone like this before and had never felt such a peace overcome him.  His prior attractions have always shot through him like electricity giving him a nervous and generally disastrous energy.  He kept her in his sights and followed her over toward Josh and Jacob.

He stopped about five feet short and watched. 

“You should’ve seen Josh shouting at the city council as the gestapo dragged him out of the room,” Jacob yelled to Sarah.

“It was awesome!  They had to shut down the meeting because we fucked their shit up!” Josh confirmed.

Sarah shook her head back and forth and crossed her arms.  “Weren’t they supposed to vote on appropriations for low income housing today?” she asked as she took in a short breath and held it.

“Yah dude, but we fucking made sure those bastards know that they need to shut down the ICE shit!  Quick look up and see if my mugshot is online yet so I can post it on IG,” Josh commanded to Jacob.

“Isn’t that up to the Feds?” Sarah followed up, “Is that something the council can do?”  Sarah didn’t wait for an answer as she turned away from the conversation and turned to grab her jacket by the door.

“Are you leaving?” Joe asked her with a crack in his voice.  He felt a sudden desperate surge push up into his chest.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling so great, sorry.”  She looked down as she cinched her jacket around her waist. 

“You don’t need to apologize,” he trailed off, “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.  Can I see you to your car or walk you home?” he blurted with renewed vigor and a major sense of panic.  He wanted to know everything about her at that moment and knew it wasn’t going to happen.

“Aw, thanks Joe, I’ll be fine, Josh and I live in that shitty building just across the street.”  Sarah zipped up her coat and looked over to Josh as he and Jacob slapped hands in celebration as they told someone about their disruption tale.  “It was very nice to meet you, Joe, I hope to see you soon.”

 

+++++++++++++

 

“Hey man,” Joe croaked into his phone.  It was Michael.  He’s always been a caller.  Joe is a texter.

“Joni says that Sarah really likes you!  I was feeling a vibe between you two the other night,” Michael stated, as if this were a question.  Joe felt a rush of energy flash through his arms.

“She liked me?  We barely spoke,” he stuttered in response.

“Hell yeah!  We gotta set you two up.  Bro, I’ve never seen you like that before!” Michael’s voice causing Joe to pull the phone away from his ear. 

“What about her boyfrie-‘

“Fuck that idiot!” Michael emphasized.  “Your dad would’ve rolled over in his grave seeing Sarah with those two wanna be punks,” Michael added knowing full well Joe’s dad was still alive.  “Shall I have Joni give her your number?”

Joe’s mind began to race.  He didn’t know what any of this meant.  Did Sarah like him like him, or was she going to be his friend, while staying with Josh?  He felt his phone buzzing in his hand and saw an incoming call with a familiar prefix.  “I gotta take this call, hold on.”  He pressed the green button.  “Hello?”

“Hi Joe?”

“Yes.”

“This is Doctor Rosen.  I’m not sure if you’ve seen the abdominal MRI results in your MyChart yet, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible.”

Joe was picturing Dr. Rosen, who had been his urologist since he had been a little kid.  His calm voice and shocking white hair.  “What’s going on?”

“Well, I have bad news.  Those lesions we’ve been monitoring in your kidneys need to be addressed.  It looks like we will likely have to remove both of kidneys before the tumors can metastasize.”

Joe sat on the arm of his loveseat and took in a deep breath.  “Um, okay?”  He did not know what to say or ask.

Dr. Rosen continued, “Can you come in tomorrow afternoon.  We will go over your scans and come up with a game plan.  This will involve dialysis, so we will get you set up with a nephrologist and a vascular surgeon for a fistula.” 

“A what?” Joe mumbled, barely able to move his lips.

“How about my office at 2 PM tomorrow?” 

Joe let out the air he had taken in and agreed to the appointment.  He began smashing his face with his left palm, and switched the call back to Michael.  “Hey.”

“What was that all about?   Are you down?  Maybe she’ll give you a call and you can go out?” Michael urged.

“I – I don’t think that’s a good idea.  I gotta go, sorry.”

 

Bringin' on the Heartbreak

 

There’s a scene near the end of Wes Anderson’s 2001 movie The Royal Tenenbaums where Ben Stiller’s character, Chas Tenenbaum, emotionally breaks and says “I’ve had a rough year, dad.”  It’s almost too much for me to watch, and one of several moments during this quirky movie that never fail to get me emotional.  It has always resonated with me in a way that I haven’t fully understood.

 

This past summer, I had two medical procedures to insert five stents in around my heart to clear some blockages.  After awakening in the post op recovery room after the first procedure, my senses were flooded with a surprisingly loud presence of the Def Leppard song “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak.”  In that moment, I could not remember the band's name, so like the nerd I am, I began calling out to the entire Recovery unit - anyone.  I’m certain everyone there was born long after the song’s release, so they weren’t privy to its ubiquitous radio presence during the early 80s. They may not have been old enough to be privy to the idea of radio ubiquity.  My guess is that they were playing some kind of streaming service’s “Heart” playlist algorithm – you know, for fun.

As I stirred back to consciousness from the procedure, my squirming brought a nurse over to tell me not to move my legs, because of the incision in my right inner thigh.  She tied some bedding around my leg as a reminder to keep them still.  She moved to the left bedside and introduced herself as Nicole.  I asked her again, if she knew who did the song that was playing, just as Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” came on.  There goes my “Heart” songs theory.    I guess someone in the room was feeling their 80s hair rock.  Like a drifter they were born to wear cologne.  I chuckled and Nicole asked me what was so funny.  I thought to myself, that it would be fitting that the final flashes of my life would be the music that I couldn’t stop mocking as a teenager.  I twitched my leg and Nicole asked me to relax.  Then she put my left hand into a tight clasp between both her hands.  I could barely make out her smiling eyes floating above a surgical mask. At that point, I knew I was okay and drifted back to sleep.

During my life, I have tried to not be noticed.  I think I’m pretty good at it (see Nowhere Man).  I rarely offer up participation in groups, but if I do, I often try to be first in order to lessen the pressure and be the first to be forgotten.  I try to be as small as I can be despite my size, and I always try to leave space between me and the general public.  I try to blend in as much as possible.  I used to wear concert tees all the time, which would occasionally elicit notice out in public, so I stopped that.  It's not difficult to be forgettable.  I’ve always been generic, because I am.  History and the size of the population tells me so.  There are billions of souls with hopes, ideas, fears, problems, tastes, skills, etc. – all more profound than what I can muster.  It’s an overwhelming realization.  Who am I to believe that anything about me is worthy of notice? 

I get that I have posted these occasional poor health missives for potential public consumption over several years, which is antithetical to my stated efforts to not call attention to myself.  I do not do it for notice, or for sympathy.  I do it to sort out my own feelings.  I write these things to settle my thoughts.  The act of writing helps to calm my anxieties.  Plus, I feel safe in my little anonymous corner of the internet and the mostly abandoned realm of blogs.  If there is a public side, I’d hope to maybe spark conversation about health experiences and health care and just life in general. 

 

Because of the stents being placed near my heart, I was prescribed 36 sessions of Cardiac Rehab, which is comprised of two hour long sessions a week at a gym within a hospital that is supervised by several on staff exercise physiologists.  They keep an eye on us via heart monitors, routine blood pressure checks, and observation.  I love it.  It makes me feel like I’m taking an active role in improving my health and life, which, like the writing helps give me purpose.  I enjoy casually learning about my fellow patients and learning about their health experiences and how they wound up at Cardiac Rehab, and I enjoy the check-ins by the staff who are all very kind and motivating. 

Recently, I was scheduled for an Endoscopic Ultrasound to get a closer look via biopsy at some “concerning” cyst growth in my pancreas.  The procedure is pretty simple, and I’ve been through it before (see Here’s Where theStory Ends).  I know that VHL cysts in the pancreas are benign, but I’m okay with them looking closer to be safe.  A few days before the procedure, while at Cardiac Rehab, Hannah, the best of the exercise physiologists approached me while I was flailing around on a recumbent bike.  She was there to ask me about my daily exercise routine, to take my BP, and to answer any questions I might have.  I reported to her that I was about to go in for this minor procedure, because I had previously been informed that I should alert the staff of any new medical news.  Hannah asked me how I was doing, and how I felt about it.  I think I grumbled something about “futility” and “being tired,” and Hannah retorted with encouraging specific evidence about my progress since beginning the classes, and dammit, I broke!  An instant flood of emotions rushed up into my nose.  It was as if she pushed a button that unlocked a lot of unresolved pain.  Sure, we both knew that this procedure was not serious, but for me, it felt like a breaking point after a lifetime of struggle.  Is this what it means when people say they “feel seen?”  Was this me allowing myself to be “seen,” or was I simply caught in a flash of light before scurrying into the shadows like a cockroach?  

Ever since that moment, I’ve been a ball of conflicting emotions with bouts of excited optimism mixed with total unflinching despair.  The optimism?  Maybe I’m beginning to realize that being seen is not so bad.  That it’s okay to ask for and accept help, and to trust, and to admit that I’ve had a rough stretch..  The despair?  I wonder if I’ve waited too long to learn this lesson.  My efforts to be alone have been pretty damn successful, so now I feel like I’m left with no shoulder to lean into and say “I’ve had a rough year.”

Willow

 

the blue herons

“Willow”

(Shelflife)

Andy Jossi is a master at creating musical drama.  His long slow-building dreamy epics from his work with the churchhill garden put him at the forefront of “shoegaze,” and more recently, his instrumentation for the blue herons with more concise pop structures we find him still creating intense swells of sound.  His guitars jangle and chime in a similar timeless fashion as 80s Church (“Almost with You”), but no one has done the explosive swells of noise in the way that he does - at least not since the massive spectacular crescendos that Kitchens of Distinction used to employ. 

With “Wllow,” the blue herons’ latest single, we find Jossi appropriately settling into a more wistful almost melancholy sound.  Gretchen DeVault’s pleasant voice floats in atop the chiming guitars and mid-range bass with words that describe a lovely dream world of connecting with another.  That charge of new romance where that high is all that matters and the rest of the world drifts away.  It’s a place that we all wish for yet seems impossible to maintain.  Perhaps that’s why the escapist lyrics (“Nobody can find us here/ We’re beyond the outer limits / Lost in vivid dreaming / And we’re gone”) feel melancholic to me.  As if there’s a longing sadness – a yearning for these feelings while trying to navigate an especially difficult time.

Whatever the case, when DeVault sings the chorus (“When you’re touching my hand / I lose all sense of space/  I’m in another world / Lost without a trace) I’m pretty sure that she is one of the best at phrasing any set of words into a compelling vocal melody.  I was a fan of both of these artist’s work before they began working together, but I never could have imagined that this work could be this consistently excellent!  This song puts me into another world where all good things exist, and to be honest, I want to be there right now in the most intense way.  The lyrics themselves may be the best descriptive of how this song can make you feel while listening (“I float outside of time / I’m in another world”).

The anticipation of the upcoming April 3^rd release of their new album Demon Slayer is immense.  Please consider pre-ordering the album as soon as possible.  It’s going to be worth it.  This kind of artistry and quality is rare.

(https://theblueherons1.bandcamp.com/album/demon-slayer)

the blue herons "willow"