The Most Contemptible Thing

 The most contemptible thing about dreams in that everyone has them. The delivery boy who dozes against the lamppost in between deliveries is thinking about something in his darkened mind. I know what he's thinking about: the very same things into which I plummet, between one and another ledger entry, in the summer tedium of that stock-still office.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, chapter 142

But why is it so contemptible? I think Pessoa's point is that there is actually, almost universally, nothing really unique or interesting about all of us, just maddeningly subtle shades of gray mediocrity. However, that's not how we view ourselves. Rather, we see ourselves as utterly unique and fascinating creatures, distinguished only by our degree of genius. And, if we don't want to go that far, we at least hope/recognize/believe that we are more unique and interesting than the dregs with which we are forced to share the planet. That said, is the problem not that we dream the same dream, but rather that we dream it in a society that values individuality above all else? Would the shared dreams be as contemptible if we lived in a more collective society? Or, is the thing that he is struggling with is actually our shared humanity, and recognizing it means that we have to give up the vision that we are unique and fascinating creatures?

The Entourage

 I remember, years and years ago, taking my son to see my mother. At that moment I had just shaved off my beard, which I had had for almost twenty years (over the years I've occasionally shaved it off, mainly to change my luck). After about two hours my mother looked at me and said, "Something looks different about you." She didn't notice this pretty substantial alteration because I had already served my purpose: bringing her grandson (who she shamelessly doted on until the end). I thought of this recently when my wonderful friends Andy and Heidi travelled back from Michigan to visit their old friends in Vermont. Mainly, of course, they acted as chauffeurs for their daughter Sylvie Maple. It was also their tenth wedding anniversary, which speaks to the excellence of the man (could be anyone, really) who officiated at their wedding. 

Andy, of course, wore his Montreal Alouettes shirt to make me happy, he being another victim of my love affair with the CFL

Sylvie Maple looking, as always, a bit too cute.

The waterfall was a big hit.

My Assistants or Theirs

 Janet was out of town recently, down in Boston running the residency of her program, which left me alone to serve as a glorified cat baby sitter and cat couch.

It's rare that they both mob me at any one time, but here they are helping me work in my loft space. Mollie is, per usual, plopped down on my prayer rug and Cici is, per usual, exploring.

More Tests - Heavy Sigh

 I'm, once again, in the middle of a series of tests with the obvious unstated goal of not actually figuring out what's wrong with me. As my physical condition continues to decline we're again ramping up tests. Last week I made my way through three different MRIs, all of which, as usual, were mainly normal. When we get back from Portugal I'll be heading in for my third EMG (no one should ever live a life wherein they have one EMG) and apparently some sort of biopsy and a couple appointments with different doctors. I'm sorry if I sound whiney (or more whiney) because I do appreciate the efforts of my various and sundry doctors to sort out my mystery condition. I told one of the doctors the other day that this is my punishment for hoping to be known for something someday; apparently I'm just going to be famous for being the first authenticated case of Scudder Syndrome.

I'm not certain why I posted this screen capture of one of my MRIs. It's probably because I just finished reading Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain and Hans Castorp, the "very ordinary young man" and protagonist of the story, carries around an x-ray of his erstwhile beloved.

If nothing else I guess this proves my father wrong because I do seem to have a brain.