Death of a story

The problem with writing a composition using an eyegaze program is that the software designer had in mind a tool to be used for minimal communication, not complex story lines and lengthy content. In other words, I am not composing within a word processing program. I can save data, but a single errant glance clears everything with extreme prejudice.
      My first attempt at serious writing has entered the abyss and as a result no longer exists in the physical universe. Fortunately, I was only 700 words in and can restart right away. Unfortunately, I must figure a way to save my work outside the program. Of course you must know that bringing this story back from the dead beckons a change of Pet Cemetery proportions. I can't help it. What was a tale of a hitman losing his motivation after a young girl survives a shot to the head now morphs into who knows what. I will certainly try to revive the remains of my original concept, though it has to be reborn (and we all know being born again carries with it the memory of the first birth experience), certain to warp my short foray into the realm of reasonable literature.

Of activity and healing

Yesterday, Amy and I spent 5 hours at the Ft. Worth Zoo, even with the long stay missing out on a few animals. I've been to a lot of zoos, and this one ranks at the top for "complete" zoo. All animals are easily visible from many angles. The zoo is very wheelchair friendly and well organized and designed. We covered 4 miles inside the confines. A great day trip.
      I still feel significantly better than for the several months prior to my resurgence, which has surpassed four weeks now. I have more energy and function.
      Of activity and healing

I still plan to post

Don't think for a moment that just because I've started writing real stuff that I would do you the courtesy of sparing you my frequent outbursts of run on sentences, occasionally laced with minute traces of relevance such as the fact that I have now exceeded four minutes standing and take no drugs at all that have anything to do with coping with ALS or any symptoms related to the disease and that my first "shorty" is coming along great and that it will push 2000 words and will be a bargain for a buck.

About my side job.....

This particular post has a particular responsibility in taking on a subject other than ALS.
      I am officially launching my ship and flying to the world of writing. As of now I am a writer like Tom Sawyer is a river boat captain. I hope for that to change.
      To begin, I plan on amassing a hefty number of shorties, stories running from 500 to 2000 words each. Periodically, I will have Amy send out an announcement introducing a few of the shorties, offering each for a dollar ($1) payable to a Paypal account. The general idea is to raise funds for my PCeye device and other needs.
      Phase two will consist of one or more novellas, 25 pages or longer, each to be made available on Amazon as an ebook for $3-5.
      As for the content of these stories, expect more plot and character sophistication with greater length. The shorties are organically grown and will provide condensed interest while the novellas will provide the whole cow rather than just the fillet. No, they won't all be gross, but don't be surprised if Gregory makes an appearance.

News after nonsense

A is for apple, angst, anxiety, animosity, amish, absynthe (which purportedly makes the heart grow fonder if you spell it right, which I didn't), abolitionist (which, contrary to popular opinion refers to those bent on getting rid of anything, not just slavery (which makes little sense since you can't really box up slavery and ship it off to Canada or Jakarta. If you boxed up slaves and carted them off they would still be slaves, albeit dead ones, of little use to Canadians or Jakartains. On the other hand, if you look at it logically, which I apparently have not, abolishing slavery makes perfect sense, quite unlike my explanation of and to the contrary), aardvark (quite an unfortunate name for any animal). I need not continue.

The more important issue is anything other than the crap above, which would include my health today as compared to yesterday and the day before. Since I last posted I have extended my freestanding time to three minutes and am now able to sit forward without assistance, something impossible for the last year. I have absolutely no problem drinking anything ; drank 72 ounces of water yesterday. Eating virtually anything is easy and delightful. I am actually reversing many ALS symptoms. Don't get me wrong, I still can't talk worth a darn or use my arms or walk. I simply plan to chop away at my deficiencies one by one as far as it takes me.

For those of you I hope to see in August, expect nothing less than a long haired hippy type wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, flip flops, Oakleys, a stupid hat, a tan and a priceless shit eating grin, driving my Permobil with my head.
      I won't be able to speak much, (I wasn't much good at talking last year) but I'm a good listener and can nod my head with reckless abandon. No, I don't use a catheter, wear Depends or require oxygen, (for those of you wondering).

Finally, I am able to say I'm getting better.

Less long winded

So, what's it like to have ALS today?
      I am now to the point where I can deal with my limitations better, often without frustration or anxiety. I have some difficulty when I find myself required to navigate in, through and around large crowds, not so much with the attention I receive, more so with the general lack of attention, causing me to frustrate the juggernaut mentality seething, yammering and pleading to escape its tethers and mow a furrow lined with multitudes of dead idiots.

To be real, two years and two months of Gehrig's behind me and an unknown future ahead has put me in a position of power over myself that I would never have thought possible. We all have the ability to choose how to live. We create misery within ourselves more easily than one may expect. We are a canvas viewed from the universe yet we can only see the art from within, a reverse perspective at best. I have lived such misery. I went through months drawing myself inward in self pity. I hated what I had become. On many occasions I fabricated schemes designed with suicide in mind. The evil truth was that the cruel ALS took away the vast majority of options when contemplating your own demise. Eventually, I determined that rolling into the pool or the lake to drown would be too unpleasant and dangerous, -the danger of being dragged out braindamaged- my family further burdoned with a now much stupider quadriplegic. Rest assured that those days and thoughts remain permanently behind me. I only talk about this because I've suspected all along that most readers wondered if I ever considered killing myself. I told you I was going to "be real".

Its like this and its like that

Again I begin a post without a clue as to what I'm going to say. Each sentence begins with a thought that generally morphs into another, jumbling the creative juices and altering the ending to a concept yet to be conceived. I always seem to fly blind, brailing my way along, my mind aflutter in chaotic frenzy, words as pieces of a puzzle never quite fleshed out, structure and continuity missing from the box. Thus I scramble the eggs of creation, add salt and pepper, a little Tabasco and a glob of ketchup, fork my embryonic feast into a red and yellow stew...... And devour it all, ever mindful of its power, though fractured and ascatter. What comes out of the concoction may have characteristics nearing palatibility, more likely patterning the product found trailing the hind end of a goose. Let me elaborate on the theory without falling into a cauldron of disgust.
     The day fell from morning even as the temperature rose with the sun, scant wisps of clouds melted away leaving blue sky, darker toward the heavens, infinite in its vast possession of the universe.
      I have an itchy nose, and since I can't move my arms it must remain an unattended to annoyance, one that is bugging the crap out of me (another potential problem since I can't walk). Its gone, and not a second too soon. Whew!
      "Verl, I ain't had a nip in a hour wit dis stinkin' rot chikn liver! Wat do it ketch, enywho?"
      In about five minutes Tom's wife of 20 years would walk through the front door and join him on the maple porch swing he had installed just an hour ago. When he asked her outside to steal a moment with him, she insisted on changing into a summer dress, a flowery cotton number she had found at the little overpriced boutique across from the Piggley Wiggley in the old Steadman building.
      When Wendy came through the front door and turned to Tom, swinging on the glider, the air seemed to take on a new, fresh characteristic, the breeze caught her dress in a delicate swirl, accentuated as she spun ever so lightly toward him. Her hair fell about her face, momentarily obscuring one eye. Tom gasped "Wendy, you look...... ". His words trailed away. She was smiling, her face beaming so brightly that Tom was emotionally blinded for a moment. She admired his work "Its beautiful, Tom! Will it hold the both of us?" Tom nodded absently, still caught up in her beauty, "It had better, I worked all morning on it!" Wendy gathered her sun dress about her knees and seated herself beside Tom. "Are you okay? You look flushed. Do you have a fever?" She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Tom didn't reply. He marvelled at her image. He saw no streaks of gray running through her auburn hair, her face was perfect; her moist lips drew him closer, closer still, her eyes, liquid as oil, gleaming blue lassoed his heart. "I love you" a whisper escaped him. Wendy closed the gap and kissed him, everything else fading away.

I know this guy who got Lou Gehrig's about two years ago. He tried to work through it, taking on at least a couple jobs too many, probably tarnishing his reputation as a builder. Oh yeah, he was a builder. He taught karate or something like that. I heard he had a lot of students over the years, mostly kids. When his kids were in grade school he coached basketball. I think he coached his younger kids, a boy and girl, for three years each. I don't know how he got the job because I know for a fact that he sucked in basketball. I heard he didn't know what a trap was until the 7th grade coach explained it to him. Kinda ballsy of him to think he could do any coaching, especially basketball. I heard that after learning about trapping he ran the shit out of it. I don't know how many times he barked "TRAP THE BALL!!!". I know he also coached one season of JFL football. That he should have pursued. He was just an average player but knew the game cold and got along great with kids. I don't know much about Gehrig's Disease except that they say its fatal in 2 to 5 years if you listen to the doctors, which I think he did at first since they are doctors and they went to school for that stuff. I don't know what he thinks now because he moved to Texas last year and I'm not one to use email much. I know he writes a blog because I found on it once last year. I don't read it because most of it doesn't make any sense. I think that thing is messing with his head. That's too bad. He was one of the good guys. I hope he's not dead. Friggin' doctors.

A taste of today, other news

I need to update yesterday's post. Today I stood unassisted for one and a half minutes, followed by a dip in the pool, all proceeded by a run through the Dallas Arboretum and a stop at Lowe's. I am rarely idle. Since September, I have logged 327 miles on my wheelchair. Once, last fall, Amy and I circumnavigated White Rock Lake, about 11 miles. We hit the theater about once a week on average. I follow the Miami Heat, pray for the Bears and ignore the Cubs. I will never become a Cowboys fan, kinda like the Mavs (hope they can pick up Dwight Howard) and know nothing about Dallas baseball. I still follow boxing and catch an occasional PPV, as long as Mayweather isn't fighting (unless its Canelo Alvarez). I follow MMA, but not as closely as boxing. I love Andrew Zimmern and his appetite, Man vs Food, am watching The Wire on Netflix, get outside most every day, have overnighted in Austin twice, San Antonio once and downtown Dallas once, spent three weeks plus in California and of course Peoria more than once and counting.

Other stuff: went to a Mavs game here, loved the Fort Worth Zoo, realize that rather than going haywire constantly, my fasculations now come and go, I've quit taking Flexoril because I no longer need it. Life is looking roses all over, that's all I got!

Back to reality and enlightenment

Let me wax, not philosophical, but as a realist when it comes to carrying around the baggage that is ALS. To begin with, aside from my musings and sometimes grandiose indulgences, I am anything but ignorant or foolhardy in my approach to life with the disease. Am I a risk taker? Certainly. Do I scoff at the mere notion of attending an ALS support group? Yes. Why? At first, my emotions were jumbled and my apprehension was high. Now I have a much better handle on both and simply don't want misery or resignation or accommodation as my friend. My support group is and always has been my family and friends, proven by the continued empathy and love that flows from a growing constituency. With the support of others, I have no option but to live on. So I will.

About my health. A couple months back, Amy and I drove to California, not only for Chinese Qigong treatments, but for the adventure of a cross country trip like so many we had taken over the last 35 years, romantic and intimate. Reckless? No. Risky? Maybe. Worth the risk? A thousand times over. Do I think the treatments helped me? Absolutely! Have I provided proper details? Not.

So...... Since returning from California, with its Venice Beach, Corona Del Ray, lousy Los Angeles Zoo, awesome art museums, Lamplight Pizza, Shakey's Pizza, etc. We have continued to practice the treatment regiment suggested by Master Zhou to the best of Amy's ability, (which is formidable). The treatments are not voodoo. The basic concept is simple: bring back muscle memory using range of movement exercise as the primary function, along with intense Chinese Massage. If Chi and transfer of such isn't your bag, then you might as well stop reading and go back to your cocoon of denial and depression that has proven to be so comforting to you. Chi is real. I am proof. I have felt it. I feel it now, always. Without knowing so at the time, I harnessed Chi when, as a Taekwondo competitor, I broke 4 boards with a jumping reverse sidekick, concrete with the palm of my hand, ceramic tiles with my fist. Its no trick. Its real.

I would gather that most who read this blog, even those intimate with the disease, hellfire! ESPECIALLY those intimate with the disease feel that I am, besides half nuts, arrogant and something of a shock jock, doomed. I can't change your minds, but I guarantee I can instill doubt. The only thing absolute is the word itself.

Since arriving home from California, my health has improved dramatically. That bears repeating: since arriving home from California, my health has improved dramatically. The brief stay in Doctor's Hospital, horrible as it was, taught me an important lesson: if you want to live, try to avoid the hospital at all costs because they collectively know nothing about ALS and will load you up with whatever narcotic you desire. Antibiotics are alphabetized for consumption. I left after 3 nights without them having a clue what was wrong with me, putting in the report sepsis, followed by a question mark. This is not intended to be a slam upon the entire medical profession. I'm just pointing out that while modern medicine has come great strides in the areas of trauma and surgery, they are often shooting craps when prescribing drugs.

So, how am I improving and what am I doing to cause such improvement? First, for some unexplainable reason, the last month or so has found me free of any anxiety. I have dumped my obsession with my ailment. It no longer consumes me. I'm done with death train talk. This new state of mine represents the key element to progress of any kind. This change is responsible for my recent post follies. Sorry.

Physical improvements: it takes in the neighborhood of 300 muscles to stand upright. These muscles are signaled by motor neuron cells located at or near the base of the brain and neck. My motor neuron cells are drowning in excess glutamate, causing havoc with the muscle cells. As a result of the confusion, I cannot stand, even for a second. I posed for a picture last year, standing in front of my wheelchair, when in all actuality, I was standing Against the chair. In the real world, Amy plants one foot between mine, reaches under my arms and levers me up from the chair, where she helps hold me up. Until recently, I had to rely on her to not only support some of my weight, but to control my balance. If she loosened her grip, I would begin to fall backwards or forward immediately. My muscles simply refused to cooperate, giving me no help whatsoever. I would fall flat without Amy's support. Lately, recently, even now, I have rediscovered my leg muscles. I have learned that great effort creates great muscular confusion, causing frustration and exhaustion. The key is to relax. The key is to focus. The key is to WILL yourself to succeed! As a result of all this, I can now stand without support. Today I stood for 30 seconds without Amy helping me, without Amy TOUCHING me. Certainly other factors weigh in when calculating improvement's in my health. Recently I've been eating aronia (choke) berries and a handful of vitamins in addition to my regular regiment of good old carnivore meals. Unlike months ago, I now can chew up most anything, drink anything, swallow easily and even drink water bath in large quantities.

I have discovered that a sure fire way to succumb to ALS is to sit around waiting for that miracle pill to appear, playing it safe, avoiding adventure with its inherent risks, staying home wallowing in self pity, waiting for God to fix everything. I venture to guess that even the most devout Christians out there don't really believe Tracy (me) will be cured, more likely praying that I accept Christ before ALS kicks my ass.

It has become increasingly evident that ALS is more of an inconvenience to those around me than to me. I blubber about not being able to take care of myself, to have any independence, when the fact is, those around me must tote and fetch and scratch the itch, lift and brush and wipe and feed, change the channel and roll me over and wash............... I live the life of Riley, yes I do.

In many ways, I am getting better. Physically, mentally and emotionally. I do not dismiss alternative remedies without investigation (more so Amy).  Libraries are teeming with accounts of success and survival. ALS is not incurable. The term itself is defeatist, implying that a cure is not possible. The fact is, many have beaten the disease. I plan to join their ranks.

The missing major element is:

I've received several guesses as to the identity of the missing major element in the story I posted a couple days ago. Some good guesses, yes. The element I failed to include? No.

To me, a major element must be identified as a nurturer of the suspension of disbelief, a key detail or suggestion that would be obviously necessary to complete the visual.

I'll keep this brief because I'm working on a lengthy post of more important and more palatable content.
The answer: flies. No carnage such as Gregory experienced would hold a candle to reality without the inclusion of flies. Blow flies, green shit flies, even a smattering of hungry horse flies. In and out of the meaty depths they roam, planting eggs within the mushy rot, nest to a million maggots left to shake the bloated caverns as they frenzy their feast amongst the livers and colons, hurried along by their hunger, made dizzy by the gasses of the putrid. Flies, of course!

Warning: reader take caution. Really gross

But for a huge chunk of meat torn from his thigh and blood gurgling from the open arteries, fading to purple as it cascaded down his leg and coagulated in a pool around his foot, Gregory felt almost giddy. He looked around at the carnage; the landscape was a canvas of gore, the metallic stench of rendered flesh hung as a pall in the air. Strewn about were the remains of a hundred poor souls, torn asunder, ravaged and entangled. Gregory stumbled, nearly fell as a brief dagger of pain threw him forward, diminishing and gone as fast as it had come. The flow of blood began to weaken as the supply ran low. Gregory felt light headed, somehow euphoric as his brain starved. He lowered himself to the soaked earth, first kneeling, the maw of his wound gaping, then lying in grizzly repose, his head pillowed by a mutilated torso, nestled upon the soft belly, his face turned tilt against a ribcage. He slept. The blood from his ghastly cleavage had stopped. Gregory started awake in agony. He peered down at the source of his pain, now mottled black and red, bisected by a stained white stripe, bone. He turned in wretched shock and in doing so buried his face within the entrails of the quartered corpse beneath his head. He succumbed to his rising gorge and vomited the bile of an empty gut, afterward wincing at the burn at the back of his gullet. All the while, his leg continued to strangle his coherence, thudding and pulsing, unrelenting. The air began to thicken with the familiar bouquet of decomposition. His nostrils filled with air, acrid and bitter, an excremental exhale passed his parched lips, his breath more pungent than that of the bloated atrocity surrounding him. Gregory wished he had never come to his senses. Here, now, cognisance was a curse. His memory was as butchered as the men scattered about. As he lay, miserable, a strange thing happened. To begin with, he couldn't move. No foul air entered or exited his lungs, the searing pain from his leg was gone, he smelled......... Nothing. His vision faltered, in seconds he went blind. He heard his last heartbeat an instant before his brain shut off.     


PS: Please feel free to identify the major element missing from the story.          

News and questions

At times my eyegaze component goes haywire, finding me chasing the red dot rather than directing it. Today is sizing up to be one of those days. Today is also the day I am to be introduced to the device that will enable me to interface with my PC using my eyes. Even if it proves to work sensationally, in order to qualify for one I must provide a business plan that shows it's necessity. Or, I can plunk down  $4,000. The two avenues of approach are as follows: 1) prove that I can again use my autocad program "Chief Architect" and potentially earn money drawing plans or 2) show potential as an author capable of deriving income from such endeavors.

In other news, Nick and Paige are coming to visit us here in Dallas for the 4th of July!  I can hardly wait!  We wanted to see them at House of Blues in Chicago but couldn't make the trip. We will be driving to Peoria the first week in August to visit with friends and family, including an appearance both days at the Tower Park Music Festival in Peoria Heights where Paige, Nick, Dina and Rob, of "Paige and the Reverent Few" headline Friday, August 2nd and Nick, Brian and Rob of "DriveTrain" headline Saturday, August 3rd. We are anticipating a four night stay in P town, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. My eyes are going crazy so I must go, but before I do, I must tell you, warn you, ask you if you have any interest in reading a fiction I wrote last week. It is grossly deplorable and unfinished. I look forward to your response. Adieu

A little update

A little update In 5 weeks or so, I will have a third grandson. I find myself apprehensive because birthing the first two wreaked havoc with my hormones. I'm hairier than ever and now sport a pair of man boobs that would make Dolly proud. My wrists are as flaccid as a sun dried banana leaf. (what did you think I was going to say? Shame on you all! )


To be Truthful: all of the above is fact except for the birthing part, which can't be substantiated, thus remaining an urban legend. If the legend were to indeed prove accurate, the boy's name will be Leo Tard Evans. If not, a lesser choice will be made. Meanwhile, I shall remain off my feet, just as a precaution, all the while practicing my breathing exercises.

To be honest: guys don't have babies, even if they have boobs. To my knowledge, expectant mothers don't generally get hairier, (at least Amy didn't), and man boobs are never confused with woman boobs. A guy sees another guy sporting a pair of double d's, he cringes and, looking quickly away, mutters "man". He catches sight of a double d on a girl and looks, looks, stares, stares and blurts "whoa man! ". That's how God named us!

To finish: goodbye

I refuse to......

......... Be spoon fed thickened liquid as directed by hospital staff after a swallow test conducted while admitted. I further refuse to eat only pureed food as directed by the same staff. Today I had coffee (through a straw, another no no), an egg, cheese and bacon sandwiched between two halves of a toasted English muffin and a serving of aronia berries blended with vanilla yogurt. last night I snacked on Ruffles and Bugles. I have sucked down gallons of water, lemonade, Tang, ice tea and V8, all through the dreaded straw, considered by the ignorant to be my ticket to aspiration. Well, I do have aspirations, though the list fails to include filling my lungs with fluid. I am afflicted, yes I am. Today I don't care. Tomorrow I won't care. Next month I won't care. I didn't care yesterday. I'm tired of dwelling on shambles and wreckage. The car that is my body is dented, rusty, the doors creak, the engine misses, the muffler has fallen off......... But its (my) resolve is intact. I may have a sickness, but I am not sick. I refuse to be defined so. I can't walk but have taken strides. I can't talk but say plenty. The only way to beat this disease is to first exile it from your head. As is evident in many of my posts, the war in my brain found me losing many battles. My fight was complicated when I found the medical profession, perversely bunkered with the opposition, cautiously bolstering the notion of the worst case scenario, eager to come to the aid of my resignation. I have put away my war tools. I am not reckless, but bold. I have discovered something that is so obvious as to appear invisible. The monster no longer inhabits the room. I am eternally grateful that ALS has had no effect on my testicular fortitude. Today is a good day.

Calling it quits

Frightening title, I know. No, I have not given up, yes I have. No, ALS has not defeated me, not even close. I hold in my hand a sword designed to hack the monkey from my back, to excise the demon disease, to take all audience from its spectacle, to bleed it dry, a primate husk, a defeated harbinger, a tatter in the wind, soulless and formless. No, I have not given up, yes, I have. I have given up self pity. I ignore my plight. In fact, I refuse to grant the level of plight to that of such minor a disturbance. Weakness thrives only in a weakened state of mind, eating at resolve as the prey of the disheartened, chewing the sinew of the defeated. I quit paying tribute to a disease requiring despair to continue its coddle. As a result, I am free, happy and faultless. There is no inconvenience within my soul, I am cured of the curse of burden. I feel better every day. I am lightened through enlightenment. Me. Now all I need to do is eradicate these pesky symptoms. 

On writing and stuff

If I'm to begin writing for real, it would be wise to settle down and determine which style would best fit the content. Cormack McCarthy, one of my favorite authors, changes his technique from book to book. For example, "The Road" is written in a bare bones, stark style that gives you what is needed and nothing more, allowing for a quick, satisfying read, whereas his "Blood Meridian" provides complex sentence structure, vocabulary contemporary with the time period and drastic in nature, all very compelling to me, off-putting to many. As the saying goes  - different strokes. To me, the most important keys to a good story include interesting character identification and compelling tale. Clever narrative alone rarely holds the reader for the long haul. Even occasional dialog helps flesh out characters. First person writing is the easiest to compose, also easiest to compose poorly. First person usually gives away the fate of the teller. Of course, what you tell is as important as how you tell it. Nothing beats a good story. I could go on, but I'm thoroughly bored with this whole line. Before I exit this string, I need remind you that I barely finished high school and walked out on the first day of my only junior college class, composition, after the teacher spent 45 minutes explaining the horrors of plagiarism. I'd had enough, reminding him that we now knew nothing about writing and everything about fear and apprehension. I told him I didn't think any student taking his class had any intention to plagiarize but that now, after his rant and warning, likely many were vexed with the fear that they might without knowing, thus being burned at the metaphorical stake for their evil transgression into the underworld of copiers, cheaters and word stealer's. He gaped and I exited. So, don't listen to me, I don't know s***. I can tell you one thing for certain, despite my ignorance : I've never copied someones writing. Why not? I've never found anybody demented enough to write like I think. If I ever do, I hope he's old and slow because I can only escape at 6.4 mph!

Here's lookin at you

For those of you who aren't sure, let me better define how I compose and share my posts. Rachel no longer takes dictation from me because I can no longer speak clearly enough to be understood. With great effort I can get out a word or two, sometimes three. I don't have control of my hands or arms so I can't pluck at a keyboard. Everything you read, posts, emails and Facebook is written with my eyes. Imagine a keyboard, similar to that of an ipad keyboard, below which is an eye tracker device that reads my eyes and traces their movement. On the screen, exactly where I focus, is red circle. When I look at, say, the letter 'w', the key lights up yellow with the half inch red dot in the center. If I dwell on the key for.600 of a second, the letter appears in a text box above the virtual keyboard. Letter by letter I create my post, email or Facebook message. For blog posts I must copy and paste from the Tobii program to Blogger. Once posted, I email Rachel, who spell checks and shares the new document. She is my conduit to the world. When I want to surf the net, I use a virtual mouse control bar located to the right of my browser (Firefox). I dwell on a mouse function and direct my gaze on the area I want to highlight, the area magnifies and the action takes place. This is just a small portion of what I can do ---without ever touching anything and without any outside help (except Rachel).

A smattering of information

For those of you who aren't sure, let me better define how I compose and share my posts. Rachel no longer takes dictation from me because I can no longer speak clearly enough to be understood. With great effort I can get out a word or two, sometimes three. I don't have control of my hands or arms so I can't pluck at a keyboard. Everything you read, posts, emails and Facebook is written with my eyes. Imagine a keyboard, similar to that of an ipad keyboard, below which is an eye tracker device that reads my eyes and traces their movement. On the screen, exactly where I focus, is red circle. When I look at, say, the letter 'w', the key lights up yellow with the half inch red dot in the center. If I dwell on the key for.600 of a second, the letter appears in a text box above the virtual keyboard. Letter by letter I create my post, email or Facebook message. For blog posts I must copy and paste from the Tobii program to Blogger. Once posted, I email Rachel, who spell checks and shares the new document. She is my conduit to the world. When I want to surf  the net, I use a virtual mouse control bar located to the right of my browser (Firefox). I dwell on a mouse function and direct my gaze on the area I want to highlight, the area magnifies and the action takes place. This is just a small portion of what I can do ---without ever touching anything and without any outside help (except Rachel).

Hello

Okay, so my last post was weak and useless. I read it this morning and felt myself slide down a slippery slope into a pond of greasy, grimy gopher guts, neck deep, all the while spying the troll following me, a bucket of pig poop swinging from one three fingered hand, arking ever higher as he descended the decline, letting it loose in a trajectory destined for my head, the process agonizingly slow, giving me much to much time to worry over whether or not I should duck. Of course I faltered at the last second, indecisive, my knees bending only slightly as the bucket took flight, my face, half submerged, receiving the maw of the pail dead center, vile excrement exiting, my hesitation costly as I collect the inundation of both fetid horrors. And to think that my punishment for a lazy, pathetic post consists of such gross description!  I tend to believe that rather than the punishment fitting the crime, the CRIME is the punishment, perpetrated upon you, the reader. Tell me, what did you do to deserve such severe literary torture?

A strange world

Just because I have ALS does not mean I am unaware of the world at large. I stay abreast (I think that's the first time I used the word, not to say I've never thought of abreast -or two) of the news, sports and occasionally the weather. I don't usually post about anything relevant so it may be considered that I don't know anything relevant (which, in some circles is considered accurate). As a for instance, I find it silly that gun control is even labeled as such. Everybody knows that guns never misbehave! You don't chain up your car to prevent it from running off! You don't lock your closet to keep your clothes in check, you don't pull the plug on your chain saw so it can't play havoc in the chicken coop! It should be called people control (with guns). Okay, that's stupider than it is accurate. The simple truth is that the cat was never in the bag in the first place when it comes to gun ownership. The 2nd amendment has no real bearing on the subject. Guns in the hands of citizens has been a way of life for a couple hundred years under the stars and stripes. Gun control can only work if we can limit the number of guns circulating throughout the populace, and we all know that donkey done left the barnyard. This is not to say that no regulation is the only good regulation. If the population can live with the high rate of violence attributed to guns here in the United States, then keep things the way they are. If the population elects politicians who want to tighten restrictions, so be it. In my opinion, we are so saturated with guns that there is no solution in sight, especially with so many seeing no problem to begin with.           

Humbled and grateful

Humbled and grateful After having read so many responses to my request, each more eloquent than the last, I have come to the realization that I most certainly must up my game, sharpen my pencil, maybe even consult a thesaurus from time to time. I know full well that my indulgence in literary flowerism (like that) is anything but literature, more an exercise in playful ridiculousness (again I stray). I find it cathartic to play snatch and grab with adjectives, verbs and the run on sentences, sectioned off with a small army of commas, to me infinitely preferable to periods, those little dots that have fallen from their perches to rot upon the ground like apples dislodged from the branches of a tree. I play with words as a child might play with matches, the end result could very well be incendiary, dangerous, more likely resulting in a soggy book of fire sticks since my inner child is two and most assuredly would find his mouth with the pack. Enough about that. My attention has been directed to the disparaging fact that the majority of my posts are less than uplifting, some coming off as downright depressing. My life could be a helluva lot worse and I know it. Don't get me wrong, I don't embellish, I truly feel what I write, its just not ALL I feel. As sad as I am, I am not consumed with sadness. Remember that.