On Abstinence and Effort:

Warriors, Old and New
Toledo, Spain
Photo Credit: 
A. Massey Productions

Caked sweat, blisters, jock-itch, opened veins with blood pooling onto the hot desert sand…

Face paint, nostrils filled with gun smoke, explosives, heat stroke, lots of yelling, hospital waiting rooms, dance parties across the street from hospital waiting rooms, more explosives…

Press interviews, photo-ops, miles upon miles of marching, pain, fatigue, tears, and even more explosives…

These are just some of the things I endured during my last week of advanced combat training in the military. It was intense to say the least. But then it was all over. After a lengthy graduation ceremony with pomp and circumstance, led by a rather boorish army Major, we were sent home for a weekend of rest, recovery and recuperation.

Immediately upon returning to my apartment I dipped my cracked and calloused feet into a hot soapy bath. Armed with a large glass of Scotch I tried to reflect on the week’s pass while allowing the instrumental Jazz music that played from the speakers in the other room to soothe my aggressive spirit. I had done it, finished what I had set out to accomplish. It was grueling but I persisted and even through my exhaustion, flames of honor burned in my chest. I was damn proud of myself.

Yet, I was also heartbroken. My latest occupation had nearly killed one of my greatest loves: writing. Because of the demands and urgency of the military I had little to no time to write. Even when I found the time to put pen to paper all my work seemed like shit. Nothing flowed like it should and the words failed to excite. It was almost as if nothing stimulated me anymore.

Suddenly, right then and there, I got it! In the midst of my brooding I was smacked in the face by Mother Inspiration herself. Scotch still in hand, I bolted barefooted out of the bathroom and stumbled into the bedroom to find my ever-ready pen and pad. After close to a half a year of writer’s block I had finally found a cure. The cure, coincidentally, was found in it’s own symptoms: Vice, pleasure, debauchery, excitement, and inspiration.

All is for pleasure or the absence of pain. Sounds hedonistic, I know, but even religious folks who fantasize about their afterlife when they die are expecting a heavy dose of the world’s favorite pastime: feeling great!

Thanks to once-booming economies and a technological revolution, many vices and devices these days are quicker, stronger and easier to acquire. The buildup of waiting for something exciting is a thing of the past. This is, in theory, a fantastic phenomenon. It has led to increased pleasure, quicker feelings, more sophisticated sensations.

Except when we become desensitized to it all — then we feel dead.

Connectivity is stimulating and in today’s new age we are overstimulated. Furthermore, things like fame, validation, success and attention — feats that once took lifetimes to achieve — can be accessed with a single upload. Up until the Gulf War a soldier had to wait up to weeks to receive a letter from loved ones. Now, thanks to instant messaging, communications are streamlined even overseas. Modern thinkers blame Globalization and the media for bringing various “EXCITING” issues traditionally scattered around the world — such as war, crime, poverty and natural disaster — into the everyday living rooms via TV and internet. Ironically, it is possible these days to feel the horror of a murder, tsunami, rape, or coup d’etat that took place halfway across the globe even before you get to work.

But as we are pumped with heavier doses of strong sensations, from things like lightning-fast connectivity and hyper-consumption of now affordable luxuries, our dependency as well as capacity for pleasure grows. This can have long term consequences. One in particular, aside from desensitization, is the lack of triumph usually felt after working hard to achieve something.

In a way this is how narcotics effect the psyche. When ingested, strong drugs pique the pleasure plateau to shockingly high levels in a fraction of the time normally needed to achieve those results naturally. For example, if, in one day, you ran a marathon, volunteered at a food bank, planted a tree, cleaned your room and saved a panda you would undoubtably reach a lofty level of self-worth. All that hard and fulfilling work would leave you feeling encouraged, happy, proud and overall pleased with yourself. Unlike the pixie dust that some indulge in, those pleasures took hard effort to attain. It will last and be available even longer through memory and tangible proofs. You won’t just pee it out after a painfully long withdrawal process.

If the military has taught me anything it’s to appreciate the small things as well as things I had previously taken for granted. With all luxuries limited as of late, I have a new appreciation for everyday gifts like hot showers, tasty food, human connection, entertainment and even freedom.

Surprisingly, the army’s limitation of all these things has transformed me not only into a reflexive warrior but, in many ways, a happier person. When I have that free time I’m more conscious of it. Every tune is magic. Every kind pair of eyes is adored. Every uninterrupted night’s sleep with my boots off is a miracle and, of course, time in general is better utilized.

Boredom is not a fun state of mind. But even with increased stimuli and options we can still feel empty. I know I can. The idea is to pace yourself. Have something to look forward to. Limit yourself and let desire develop. Savor the flavor and enjoy the chase. Fight for lasting pleasures and take your time enjoying them.

DISTANCE CAN BE GOOD.

MODERATION CAN BE BENEFICIAL.

SELF-CONTROL CAN BE WORTHWHILE.

After much time (unwillingly) abstaining from hot baths, groovy music and anything remotely close to Scotch I was finally able to properly enjoy myself. What followed resulted not only in renewed excitements but the restoration of the even greater pleasure of creativity. And with that, I got more than I bargained for.

My Grandmother's Essay:

"I am trying to improve my attitude but I know the disease is progressing ... But I don’t think I’ll ever give up. I’m old enough now where I can just sit and ponder."

- DeVera Gordon, 1931 - 2011

After going through some old files I unearthed a short essay written by my late Grandmother DeVera who died in 2011 after a 24 year battle with Parkinson's Disease. The essay, found below, was composed over a span of eight months with the aid of facilitated communication and featured in The Review of Disability Studies, a scholarly journal published by the University of Hawaii. Although a heart-wrenching documentation of disease, the essay also underlines her awareness of self and her ability to separate from circumstance and not allow the effects of her condition to suffocate her spirit. It highlights her courage to hope and search for the clarity and strength needed to maintain a positive self-image despite her disease. 

In her essay, my grandmother proves that there is a part of us all that is separate from our bodies, sensations, and ideas. Deeply rooted beneath years of personal history and distraction lies a simple and unbiased observer of all that we perceive. It's where our most brutally honest thoughts come from and the source of our deepest desires. The part of the self that remains long after pain and pleasure have exhausted their powers. It's the knowledge that we are not solely a body worn out from years of hard work and abuse. We are conscious beings with desires and dreams. 

With this awareness, we can separate from circumstance and not allow ourselves to be paralyzed by our troubles or allow pain's all-encompassing potential to breach our innermost barriers and blanket our intrinsically positive nature. 

Steaming, Compressed Air

By:

DeVera Gordon with Zosha Stuckey

Introduction:

This essay recounts the experience of my disability. In it, I demonstrate how I have lost the ability to know who I am. It shows how my body has lost its balance and how my mind has lost the ability to formulate language easily. I offer the experience of what it is like to live in my body and mind. I was able to write this because I worked collaboratively with someone who pulled language out of me. I have never before thought of myself as an author. I’m still waiting to realize why I deserve a place in a table of contents. 

Essay:

Steaming compressed air. Fresh air doesn’t surround me the way I’d like it to. My body is hot and I have lost the ability to know who I am.

Have you ever gone into the back of a dress shop and looked at yourself in the mirror? You may have looked better than you expected, you may have looked worse. Either way, you still knew who you were. Sometimes I pass a mirror and realize that the person I thought was standing there is not standing at all, they are sitting and they are in a wheelchair. I wonder how the person in the mirror will get from sitting to standing? It’s the indefiniteness of how long will this person persist in trying to stand up?

The first shock came in 1987 when I realized that I could not stand on my own anymore. When things were good I didn’t think about how things might get bad. I didn’t know I had a problem coming up.

I can’t speak right these days. It’s very difficult to formulate language. It’s hot and cold. I can’t grab hold of what I’m trying to say. I start to write a sentence in my head, then it stops and it doesn’t flow. The more I turn the light on to see it, the less it penetrates the surface. I can’t spell or hurry up and put together a sentence that makes sense.

Life doesn’t feel chronological. I never know where I am in time. When I’m there isn’t there a now here? I try to figure out how I approach things—I start with zero and then I try again. When is zero, is it yesterday? It takes time to place myself into space and time. I don’t want to rush. I try to analyze and maintain control as I go along and in the meantime now is built up. I don’t have any view of the future.

I never know where I am in space either. There’s no experience at all. The experience doesn’t even experience itself. How can you be less than nothing? It seems like everything is moving around me. I can’t describe it. The furniture is moving around, then it’s standing still. I feel dizzy like everything is moving around and I’m going in the opposite direction. I feel like I’m always walking backwards. The wheelchair—it’s like a cage—I feel as if as there is somebody behind me that I can’t see. I can’t turn around like I want to. I can’t always look where I want to. I can’t be aware of one direction and the other at the same time.

My mouth is dry and I’m crooked. I lean. I have a dry mouth and a blank expression inside my head. My legs are thick and weak and twisted. The left leg is not grabbing hold of my foot. The foot is not grabbing hold of the floor.The left leg feels weak. Outside on the edges the legs are uneven around the knee and the buttocks. Thin mushy pasta—I like it with some firmness to it like the Pennsylvania Dutch do it. It has grips and flavor. It feels even. The fact that I can’t stick both shoulders up and back. They feel as if they’re shaking and trying to grab hold of something. I get the feeling I don’t have a good grip. As if I don’t understand the process—how you move the skin around the bones and leave it alone. A building at the beginning of its construction. Where does the body begin? Where does it end?

I talk to myself a lot. I ask myself what are we doing here? I keep trying to know where I am or why I am here, but I rarely figure it out. I say to myself you should smile more. There are lots of things to smile about. I just can’t recognize them fast enough.

I am sitting across from the nurse’s desk. I am trying to read, which is very difficult. The doctor is around and he seems to want me to smile no matter what. I am told to smile all of the time. Without a good reason, without a history, without a build-up of some kind of story. Just smile, be weak. That’s when I want to be left alone. He just says smile. I say to him I’ve been told that before. He probably figures that I have a contrariness, that I don’t want to comply. They want you to produce a good result and I just don’t have the energy to do that right now.

The remarkable thing here is how the ability to stand up or sit up is so important. Even when I sit up, I’m crooked and uneasy. Then the doctors look at me and say just smile. As soon as you need an appliance to help you stand up you are already in trouble. I never thought I’d be in a place like this. Does it make me feel less of a person? Yes...that seems to be the problem. If I was at home and I had to go to the bathroom, I would just go. But now, because I have lost the ability to stand, I have to go according to a schedule. I am allowed to use the restroom every 2 hours, no more. And they get nasty about it, harass me about how I just went or snicker at me.

Things aren’t bad now, I just feel weak. I just want to be able to relax and not think about how things could get worse. Everybody dies a little bit every day. You have to get used to the idea that there will be less of you left. I am trying to improve my attitude but I know the disease is progressing. I’m trying to put together a positive image of myself. It’s like going in circles, after 18 years I still am in shock. But I don’t think I’ll ever give up. I’m old enough now where I can just sit and ponder.

Inspirational SLAM POETRY:

"Life's like a road that you travel on

When there's one day here and the next day gone
Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind"

- Tom Cochrane, LIFE IS A HIGHWAY

Photo Credit: Sparks of David Photography

We are all cars and the open road is our journey in life

Through the laughter and tears, the sweat and strife

Just know: It's your car, your rules

So don't listen to those fear-mongering fools

who misguide  

The backseat drivers who tell you to slow down 

Who suffocate your rising flame to keep you in the "right lane"

They just want to help but does anyone really know you?

Does anybody really know what you need?

A driver's manual can keep your automobile in tip-top shape

But it will not tell you where to go, which turn to take

Drive somewhere new. Take the scenic route.

Go far! 

It's your car...

  

YOU drive YOU thrive

And if it gets dark? Turn on your headlights

If it turns black? Switch on your brights.  

Change the radio station and turn it way up. 

Ride the music, feel the sensation 

But you must not sit idle, get in the groove

Find your support, get off your ass, and move

So long as there's traction under your tires they will carry you where you choose

You're responsible for your happiness, to get out of the gloom

But like burning rubber on hot asphalt, You may have to ZOOM...

Find excitement! Feel your engine roar with life

Hear it purr like a prowling leopard 

Let it loose. Throw open the cage with all your might

Drive Dammit Drive!

Feel the thrill of your movement. The rubber on the road. 

Roll down the windows and let the wind blow through your hair

Maybe you'll jolt at the honk of a horn. Should you care?

They want your attention. We all want attention.

Fate? Hate? Maybe it's just bottled up aggression...

  

More important than petrol are the people that surround you

Like fuel for your car, they will drive you 

But you can go forward or backward.

It's your trip, What would you do?

If you keep looking in the rear-view mirror you'll miss what's in front of you    

So think forward. Write your own map. Get a clue.

Create your own destiny, Make your own decision!

DRIVE! 

Or be driven...