Take as Directed. No Refills.

I’ve had a birthday recently and at the same time I’ve acquired whooping cough (really, what is this, 1925?) and now I have a sinus infection. Terrific. I feel like I’ve got another week, tops, and then I’ll die. Don’t have much appetite so at least I’m not killing myself with food. Maybe the drugs (Percocet, codeine cough syrup, aspirin, blood pressure meds, fish oil supplements, a vitamin, probiotics, antibiotics and nasal spray) have something to do with my ennui and loss of appetite? Impossible. I’m not the most ambitious guy, but being housebound and uncomfortable for nearly two weeks is driving me nuts. Thank Christ for decent literature and good movies and TV.

For no other reason than that I’m bored crapless and haven’t written anything except the names drugs and their possible side-effects for the past ten days, I’m listing my sickbed diversions. I’ll never write another word if I don’t do this.

Reading:

Kafka Short Stories. Be careful, this stuff will drive you nuts. Great writing, but Kafka is exactly the reason they invented codeine cough syrup.

Bukowski. I’m done with him. Yes, I know; famous, great, gritty, but also self conscious, immature, drunk and sentimental.

Henry James. I never get tired of James’s long sentences, clauses that flow rhythmically for half a page and meaning doesn’t become clear until the last word. It’s a puzzle, a meditation, an exercise in concentration. He explored his characters’ complex psychology with careful observation and affection.

James Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. Baldwin is a master stylist and can communicate rage and frustration better than any other writer I can bring to mind. Giovanni’s Room is a book about secrets and confusion, deadly codependence, poverty and pretense. Similar to Bukowski, there is an immature quality in the relationships, but Baldwin’s pursuit of excellence in writing is apparent and overcomes any criticism. Also, the story takes place in Paris in the mid-fifties; great city, great period.

The Essays of E. B. White. I know he was on the staff of the New Yorker for decades but we shouldn’t hold that against him. White was funny, smart, a magnificent spectator and he writes about America at a time when the country and culture were changing rapidly. He can be serene and furious, but the writing never gets away from him. Total control and at times deeply touching. (Once More to The Lake).

Saga is a science fiction comic series about two warring races that hate each other. A woman and a man from opposite armies fall in love, have a mixed-species child, (he’s got horns, she has wings), and are pursued by everyone. Lots of commentary about race without directly alluding to race. The dialogue is a touch millennial-snarky, but the monstrous villains, the violence and the shock, are out of sight and the sex is plentiful and wonderfully erotic. For a comic book. I still read comic books. In the bath.

I’m taking a Philosophy course at UNM and I’m working through my assigned reading even though I’m missing classes. Heidegger will break your fucking brain. Brilliant, the parts I can tease out and understand, but holy shit. Lines like: “Nothing is not nothing at all but, rather, does something.”  Fortunately, we’re also reading Sartre.

I’ve just started a book called The Power of The Dog, recommended by my friend, Armando Silva. I owe Armando bigtime for this one. The writer is Don Winslow and he really knows his shit about the DEA, the drug wars and cartels. Badassed writing; he never holds back. It’s fiction that reads like history. Like today. I’ve never come across anything so brutal and terrifying. There are also sections that made me laugh out loud. Try that, emerging writers.

TV Shows via Netflix or Amazon Prime:

Newsroom, Season 3. Well written and, if anyone cares about media and the direction it’s headed, it’s pretty depressing. A little too much snappy patter, but while Sorkin doesn’t quite hit the mark with people, he’s a master at analyzing institutions and showing the little bits of humanity that remain. He’s pissed and makes it very clear why. Episodes 2 and 3 have a subtext about the EPA and climate change that is staggering. As in, “It’s already over.”

The League and Archer. Comedies and neither require a lot of braintime. Both are completely inappropriate, harsh, and funny as hell. If you don’t like these shows you are either a snob or not as smart as you thought you were.

Seasons 4 and 5 of The Walking Dead. I was surprised that I’d missed season 4, which has been up on Netflix for a year, so when season 5 debuted I discovered, to my delight, that I had 32 episodes to watch. In a row. In three days. And I did. Decomposing corpses, dismemberment, massive violence, tubs of blood and gore but the developers have desensitized me and I thank them for that. Best writing and photography, music, acting. Breaking Bad and The Sopranos quality. It’s supposed to be about zombies and crap, but that’s not true. Take the zombies out of it and it would still work at a genius level. It’s a training film for the near future. (See Newsroom, Season 3, Episodes 2 and 3 for background).

Movies:

Back into French New Wave. Started, again, with Breathless. This is one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen and I can talk about it for days and still can’t figure out why it’s so goddamn good. Probably the same reason that Kerouac is good. Honesty, heart, no bullshit, anti-Hollywood, flawed, human. From there I watched a lot of Agnes Varda’s work; she’s one of the only women directors of New Wave films. She’s still alive (87) and has the most beautiful way of framing a shot that I’ve seen. La Pointe Courte actually pre-dates Breathless (1960) by five years and, in some ways, marks the beginning of the movement.

Claude Chabrol’s Le Beau Serge is a tragedy about two friends who meet after many years and one of them, Serge, has become a miserable alcoholic. It’s a study of cultures, life choices and how difficult it is for a person with urban sensibilities to understand and communicate with his rural counterpart. There is a voyeuristic feel to the film.

Elevator to The Gallows. Louis Malle. This movie is similar to Breathless: Young couple with few prospects goes on the run, kill, get caught. A parallel story about a business executive who has also committed murder and spends most of the film trapped in an elevator. Jean Moreau wanders the streets in the rain looking frantic, trapped and wet. The flick is notable for the score composed and performed by Miles Davis and commissioned by Malle. Worth it.

Pitfall is a typical American Film Noir starring Dick Powell and Lizbeth Scott. He’s a deadpan insurance guy, she’s a damaged woman with a boyfriend on parole and everyone gets into big trouble. A classic of the form, simple, short, straightforward, efficient. It’s easy to see how American films of this genre greatly influenced the French New Wave.

Music:

Don Cherry, Complete Communion

Bill Evans, Conversations with Myself

Grant Green, Idle Moments

Hayden String Quartets

Vivaldi, The Four Seasons

Arvo Part, Tabula Rasa

John Coltrane, The Complete Impulse! Studio Recordings

Wadada Leo Smith, The Great Lakes Suite

Henry Threadgill, Air Mail

The Clash, London Calling

The Who, Live at Leeds

Black Sabbath, The Ozzy Osbourne Years, Disc 3

There’s more. There has to be. Doesn’t there?

Just when I’m at the point in my life where I think I’m running out of time, birthday anxiety, and the end is near, and the doctors are telling me that if I don’t ABC then I’m for sure going to XYZ and I’ve decided that I’ve got to be more active, jeez, buy a bicycle, a skateboard, learn to swordfight, Kung Fu, active shit, man, moving, running in the mountains, climbing cliffs and trudging through snow, getting in touch with the external, the natural world, closer to trees and perhaps be friendlier, talk to people I don’t know, be nice to strangers, be nice to friends, call family more often, buy presents for kids, give money to the homeless, donate my time to those less fortunate, stop being so selfish and self-critical and so critical of others and get a haircut, buy some new clothes, answer the phone; just at the time I decide to change my life I get this crappy, enervating cough that turns into a raging, painful sinus infection and headaches and I coughed so much I fucked up my back, my neck, and all I can really do is to go back inside myself and read more books, hear more music, watch more films, write stories and poems and essays about my life and what I do, what I care about; reflect, remember, regret.

Take the meds, rest, amuse myself.

Who am I to argue?

But, really, take the meds.