Art and Chaos

Somewhere over the western continental United States
2018

And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 

William Blake

When I meditate and lose my breath and go to thoughts they are like tendrils in some dark soup, like fish swimming by, my hook vain. I make them clouds to float, to find my breath again. My thoughts, my brain. I flew back to Los Angeles from Spokane. I looked out the window to see what appeared to be an ordered universe -- neat squares, rectangles and the occasional parallelogram colored in rich browns and greens with wispy clouds floating above. It might have been a brain, thoughts packed tight. In service to breath, become clouds. And then right there, a branch cutting through, tendrils, neurons, synapses, whatever. Threaded through and broken. It's always about the brain, isn't it? Sophie's brain and mine. The word riven. The word wisp. 




Have you been listening to our podcast, dear Reader? This week's episode, Art and Chaos is with the brilliant artist Mimi Feldman. She is the mother of a young man who has schizophrenia. I think it is one of the most interesting conversations that I've had in my life. I feel humbled by her experiences and enriched by her story. I believe fervently that people's voices -- the telling of story -- connects us to one another.

Read about and listen to Mimi's story here.  I promise you will leave enriched beyond your imaginings.


If you have been listening to Who Lives Like This?!, what do you think? My partner Jason and I are having so much fun doing this, but our intention is to also build a real community. We need your help. We're not making money, but we'd like to continue to build the podcast and the community and improve the quality and -- well -- continue doing it. If you're so inclined, please consider supporting us through Patreon. You can pledge as little as $1 a month!

Here's the link to Patreon.

Henry and Oliver took me out to dinner for my birthday -- Henry on the last night in Spokane where I left him to begin his second year at Gonzaga, and Oliver here in Los Angeles, last night.

I know ya'll like my sons almost as much as I do, so here are a couple of pics:

It's Not Who She Is

That's a spooky picture, isn't it? Sophie's the white-capped one in the background, lying in her bed. She was wired up today with an ambulatory EEG -- no reason in particular, although I'm interested in seeing whether she's had a return of the dreaded ESES. I think I wrote about ESES on this little blog back in the day -- Sophie had it when she was ten years old and again when she was fifteen. Yet, even as I type it out, I'm doubting that she's had a recurrence. It's not in my gut.

So, ye olde EEG. I remember when the EEG was ink on paper, the electrodes were glued on with an electric gun thing that made a horrible noise, and you needed the same gun and a foul-smelling ointment to get them off. The tech would fiddle with the dials as the ink jets clicked across the paper. It's all a blur, those early days -- a blur into darkness. They still use glue and colored wires that map the brain and record its activity (or fuckery, in Sophie's case) in a little box that you can sling over your shoulder. It's called an ambulatory EEG.

EEG is short for electroencephalogram, in case you're an initiate into The Great Mystery of the Brain. The EEG records brain activity in a moment of time, and in this case will record those moments of time overnight. If one occurs, it will "capture" a seizure.  It also shows the “background,” the non-epileptiform activity or changes, the slowing and spiking of brain waves. Whether Sophie has had a bazillion or no seizures clinically (to the eye), her background has always been abnormal. That’s it. 

Despite the technology, it’s not a complete picture of Sophie’s brain. 

It’s not who she is. 

Every now and then I get a feeling of what it feels like to be accepting. The other night I got Sophie out of her bed where she'd been lying most of the day having had some seizures. I fed her some mashed pinto beans and avocado, and her mouth worked eagerly to chew and swallow it. These are small things, true, but I knew what it was to count them as something less than momentous and more like flow.

While I'm away,

Vincent Van Gogh, Starry Night, 

please listen to this -- all of it.



or Click HERE.

There's something for everyone -- the creative, the intelligent, the abled and the disabled. It's really something.

Listen to it.