Worthless Gonzo https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ en-US http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss 60 It Rained https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/it-rained Sun, 12 Aug 2018 01:52:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 129@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>Dreary the morning that crawls from beneath the purple autumn shadows and ruthless the sun that follows on the ragged heels of all the long sleepless nights of passion and longing.</p> <p>Could God be less a fiend or a more thorough ogre than to grant a glimpse of a life only to snatch it so quickly away? Could his mercies be so strained that he would endow love only to replace it with an abyss?</p> <p>Is there no hope for those among us, hopeless? No courage the trembling coward, no healing the lame or sight the blind? Is there left only the tolling of a bell for the leper and no sweet aloes or soothing balm for the outcast unclean with blistered and weeping flesh?</p> <p>It rained today.</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/it-rained">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> Dreary the morning that crawls from beneath the purple autumn shadows and ruthless the sun that follows on the ragged heels of all the long sleepless nights of passion and longing.

Could God be less a fiend or a more thorough ogre than to grant a glimpse of a life only to snatch it so quickly away? Could his mercies be so strained that he would endow love only to replace it with an abyss?

Is there no hope for those among us, hopeless? No courage the trembling coward, no healing the lame or sight the blind? Is there left only the tolling of a bell for the leper and no sweet aloes or soothing balm for the outcast unclean with blistered and weeping flesh?

It rained today.

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/it-rained#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=129 The Arsonist https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-arsonist Mon, 09 Jul 2018 01:43:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 111@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>we lit the fires we meant<br /> burning matchstick bridges as we go <br /> the crazed children wanderers <br /> warrior poets and writer archers <br /> sending each careful arrow inward <br /> lighting hearts up in sparks and smoke <br /> drifting lazily toward the stars<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I'm an arsonist and furious<br /> who has burned and broken countless <br /> without remorse for the bones smoldered<br /> in the tumult of moments met with passion<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> and I never meant to set aflame a hatred<br /> you already had for the life you live <br /> but accusation and worry are abstract <br /> until they finally meet you at your door <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> it's a small thing to love and to lose <br /> to wander forward and back again <br /> while you call yourself an adventurer<br /> but true courage and wayward thinking <br /> requires that nothing remains familiar <br /> and every path takes you farther from home<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> by then<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍the world is only ashes</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-arsonist">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> we lit the fires we meant
burning matchstick bridges as we go
the crazed children wanderers
warrior poets and writer archers
sending each careful arrow inward
lighting hearts up in sparks and smoke
drifting lazily toward the stars
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I'm an arsonist and furious
who has burned and broken countless
without remorse for the bones smoldered
in the tumult of moments met with passion
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
and I never meant to set aflame a hatred
you already had for the life you live
but accusation and worry are abstract
until they finally meet you at your door
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
it's a small thing to love and to lose
to wander forward and back again
while you call yourself an adventurer
but true courage and wayward thinking
requires that nothing remains familiar
and every path takes you farther from home
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
by then
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍the world is only ashes

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-arsonist#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=111 The Attic https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-attic Sun, 08 Jul 2018 01:44:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 112@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>there's a town not far from here that died twenty years hence<br />waiting on a spark of hope from a world that wouldn't care<br />where every shop on Main street boarded up one by one <br />until there were none left to carry on with its 50s charm <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />in that town is a street that ends quietly<br />near to an orchard of unfulfilled wishes and worries<br />where every darkened fear became palpable like a storm<br />gathering against the mewling wind like the tempest of childhood<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />and near to one side of that street is a house <br />slumped forward like the old men at the downtown barbershop<br />who can only wait on a stranger to naively happen by <br />and listen to the stories they'll tell until they die<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />inside the house are countless rooms scattered like buckshot<br />with doors that remained closed through evening hours <br />when families would have gathered to eat dinner or hold together <br />here the husband and wife and children hid in shadows and shame<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />and up the stairs past the cracked wallpaper and broken windows<br />stepping over the scurrying mice and wandering spiders and webs<br />past the bedrooms of arguments and fights and huddling in fear <br />there lies an attic door recessed far into one wall that nobody knew<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />behind the attic door is a darkness unwilling to escape<br />left behind by the residents that filled themselves with loss <br />vague emptiness gnawing at every edge until the home fell inward<br />casting confused children to the world like refugees <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />and inside of everyone, there's an attic they're unwilling to notice <br />for fear the temptation to wander inward would be too great <br />to turn the old brass doorknob of a place left to its own devices<br />like a feral child raised by wolves in the dying light of a fire <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />but if someday you wander near to the thumping chaos inside of you<br />behind a door you've left closed for reasons you no longer remember <br />grab yourself a good strong light, gather your courage, a deep breath<br />and walk through with your arms outstretched</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-attic">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> there's a town not far from here that died twenty years hence
waiting on a spark of hope from a world that wouldn't care
where every shop on Main street boarded up one by one
until there were none left to carry on with its 50s charm
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
in that town is a street that ends quietly
near to an orchard of unfulfilled wishes and worries
where every darkened fear became palpable like a storm
gathering against the mewling wind like the tempest of childhood
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
and near to one side of that street is a house
slumped forward like the old men at the downtown barbershop
who can only wait on a stranger to naively happen by
and listen to the stories they'll tell until they die
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
inside the house are countless rooms scattered like buckshot
with doors that remained closed through evening hours
when families would have gathered to eat dinner or hold together
here the husband and wife and children hid in shadows and shame
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
and up the stairs past the cracked wallpaper and broken windows
stepping over the scurrying mice and wandering spiders and webs
past the bedrooms of arguments and fights and huddling in fear
there lies an attic door recessed far into one wall that nobody knew
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
behind the attic door is a darkness unwilling to escape
left behind by the residents that filled themselves with loss
vague emptiness gnawing at every edge until the home fell inward
casting confused children to the world like refugees
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
and inside of everyone, there's an attic they're unwilling to notice
for fear the temptation to wander inward would be too great
to turn the old brass doorknob of a place left to its own devices
like a feral child raised by wolves in the dying light of a fire
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
but if someday you wander near to the thumping chaos inside of you
behind a door you've left closed for reasons you no longer remember
grab yourself a good strong light, gather your courage, a deep breath
and walk through with your arms outstretched

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/the-attic#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=112 Heading East https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/heading-east Sat, 07 Jul 2018 01:47:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 113@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>I'm heading East, I guess, toward battle. I've never been the kind of person that knows which direction I'm going. North or West or South or whatever; I've always been better at getting lost than getting found, but I guess that's okay on the way to a skirmish. They always say it's not so much the destination as it is the journey but, "they" is usually a person that has never had the world skew sideways on them mid-step. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> And I'm sure you can guess this battle only exists in my head, but it scarcely matters which side wins. There are no real winners in a war, no survivors, no prisoners, no refugees; all that remains are those wonderful spectators, sitting along the periphery, selling their bullets.</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/heading-east">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> I'm heading East, I guess, toward battle. I've never been the kind of person that knows which direction I'm going. North or West or South or whatever; I've always been better at getting lost than getting found, but I guess that's okay on the way to a skirmish. They always say it's not so much the destination as it is the journey but, "they" is usually a person that has never had the world skew sideways on them mid-step.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
And I'm sure you can guess this battle only exists in my head, but it scarcely matters which side wins. There are no real winners in a war, no survivors, no prisoners, no refugees; all that remains are those wonderful spectators, sitting along the periphery, selling their bullets.

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/heading-east#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=113 Blood Brothers II https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/blood-brothers-ii Mon, 02 Jul 2018 01:49:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 114@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>"I'd never been on a boat," my dad said, raising his glass toward mine. We'd had to ride the ferry across the sound from Seattle. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Well," I said, "then here's to new experiences. Yours and mine."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> Our respective glasses clinked together, and we went about enjoying the rest of our meal on Bainbridge Island. I was feeling the ache of the pre-donation drugs permeate through my bones; I'd been having injections for the previous four days, and moving or even just walking was an arduous and painful experience. The side effects were awful. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "So, assuming it all goes smoothly tomorrow, the recipient will be receiving your bone marrow on your mom's birthday?" He asked.<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Yes," I said, "her fifty-sixth birthday, to be exact."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> He nodded. My dad had lost his mother a few years ago, and he'd told me on more than a few occasions that he finally understood what I'd gone through twenty years ago; that now he understood what it meant to feel alone in the world; what it meant to lose someone so intrinsic to your wellbeing. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> He raised his glass again. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "To our mothers."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I smiled, and our glasses clinked in the soft light of the sunset. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> Mary, the director of the medical facility, led us back into a brightly lit room with several hospital beds lined around the room. There were a frightening clown mask and a separate clown painting on one wall, and I was afraid to ask what the thought process or motivation was behind putting that crazy shit up on the wall. The ceiling was a series of vertically hung tiles that must have required a ridiculous amount of effort to hang. And it almost worked, save for the small sections of haphazardly hung tiles that set my OCD into a righteous rampage. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> To retrieve my stem cells, they hooked an IV into each arm and the entirety of my blood, one cup at a time, cycled through a machine. It took eight hours in a hospital bed in which I wasn't really able to move. It was mostly boring, anti-climactic, like jumping out of an airplane and finding that it was like doing your taxes. Only slower.<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I had three nurses tending to me throughout the procedure: Grace, Donna, and Rachelle. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "I learned the names of all the nurses," I told my psychologist a few days after the procedure, "and that struck me as kind of odd."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Why?" She'd asked, "It seems like you wanted to know whoever would be taking care of you. It sounds like a defense mechanism to me. And a good one at that."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> My dad thought Grace was cute--because of course he did--and I spent most of my time joking with each of the nurses to alleviate the tension. I usually joked about dying. I suppose there are worse defense mechanisms in my arsenal, but I could have chosen a slightly better time than when life is literally hanging in the balance. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "There's a danger to putting everyone at ease," my psychologist told me afterward, "in that everyone might think you're okay when you're not."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "How are you feeling?" Grace asked me. I was looking pale, gray, ashen.<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Did you ever see 'The Matrix'? The scene where Neo is trying to disconnect himself from all those hoses and throws up the clear liquid stuff and gets flushed down the toilet?"<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> She laughed, "It's not that bad, is it?"<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "That's exactly what the robots would say, Grace."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I listened as the little machine clicked back on, and my next cup of blood began to spin in the centrifuge again, slowly trickling into the collection bag one tiny cell at a time. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "It's amazing that this can save anyone," I commented. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "I think about that a lot," Grace said, "about a lot of things." <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Me too," I said, closing my eyes, "and not just medically."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I drank afterward. Grace and Donna had both told me not to overdo it, but I've never been the best judge of that sort of thing. I like to find the line and then take a good sized step over it, and maybe a second one for good measure. I guess that's the nature of being me. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "How are you feeling?" my dad asked me. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Like I'm a quart low," I said, "and that I need to masturbate."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> He had to put his glass down for a moment because he was laughing so hard.<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "And other than that?" <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Eh, I'll live. I just hope..." I trailed off. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Yeah," he said, "I know."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> We sat in silence for a few minutes and stared at the street outside of the restaurant. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "So you donated... just to be nice to a stranger?" My co-worker, Taylor, asked me when I got back to work. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Yes," I said, "I'm just an idiot that way."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> * * *<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Why do I keep calling myself an idiot when people ask about it?" I asked. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "I don't know. You seem to downplay a lot that you do," my psychologist said, "why did you donate your bone marrow?"<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "I just wanted to help someone," I said, "or at least give a family a chance at not losing someone they love."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> She nodded, "Then why not just say that? It's good to be humble, but you don't have to be self-deprecating. You're not an idiot." <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I sighed, frustrated. <br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "You told me that you don't find it significant that the patient received your donation on your mom's birthday..."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "No, I said that I TRY not to find it significant. Not that it ISN'T significant. I don't want to be the kind of person that finds signs and meaning in everything for no good reason; I don't want to be like the people that worship outlines of Jesus they find in a piece of toast."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "What are you going to write about this, then?" She asked, "Are you going to be honest about how you feel? Or are you going to write one-liners and jokes?"<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "Probably both."<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> "And what are you going to write about the significance of saving a life? Is it significant?"<br /> ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br /> I smiled, "I don't know. I think I'll merely write that it was a sacrifice of blood; fifty-six years in the making."</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/blood-brothers-ii">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> "I'd never been on a boat," my dad said, raising his glass toward mine. We'd had to ride the ferry across the sound from Seattle.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Well," I said, "then here's to new experiences. Yours and mine."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Our respective glasses clinked together, and we went about enjoying the rest of our meal on Bainbridge Island. I was feeling the ache of the pre-donation drugs permeate through my bones; I'd been having injections for the previous four days, and moving or even just walking was an arduous and painful experience. The side effects were awful.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"So, assuming it all goes smoothly tomorrow, the recipient will be receiving your bone marrow on your mom's birthday?" He asked.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Yes," I said, "her fifty-sixth birthday, to be exact."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
He nodded. My dad had lost his mother a few years ago, and he'd told me on more than a few occasions that he finally understood what I'd gone through twenty years ago; that now he understood what it meant to feel alone in the world; what it meant to lose someone so intrinsic to your wellbeing.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
He raised his glass again.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"To our mothers."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I smiled, and our glasses clinked in the soft light of the sunset.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Mary, the director of the medical facility, led us back into a brightly lit room with several hospital beds lined around the room. There were a frightening clown mask and a separate clown painting on one wall, and I was afraid to ask what the thought process or motivation was behind putting that crazy shit up on the wall. The ceiling was a series of vertically hung tiles that must have required a ridiculous amount of effort to hang. And it almost worked, save for the small sections of haphazardly hung tiles that set my OCD into a righteous rampage.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
To retrieve my stem cells, they hooked an IV into each arm and the entirety of my blood, one cup at a time, cycled through a machine. It took eight hours in a hospital bed in which I wasn't really able to move. It was mostly boring, anti-climactic, like jumping out of an airplane and finding that it was like doing your taxes. Only slower.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I had three nurses tending to me throughout the procedure: Grace, Donna, and Rachelle.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"I learned the names of all the nurses," I told my psychologist a few days after the procedure, "and that struck me as kind of odd."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Why?" She'd asked, "It seems like you wanted to know whoever would be taking care of you. It sounds like a defense mechanism to me. And a good one at that."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
My dad thought Grace was cute--because of course he did--and I spent most of my time joking with each of the nurses to alleviate the tension. I usually joked about dying. I suppose there are worse defense mechanisms in my arsenal, but I could have chosen a slightly better time than when life is literally hanging in the balance.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"There's a danger to putting everyone at ease," my psychologist told me afterward, "in that everyone might think you're okay when you're not."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"How are you feeling?" Grace asked me. I was looking pale, gray, ashen.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Did you ever see 'The Matrix'? The scene where Neo is trying to disconnect himself from all those hoses and throws up the clear liquid stuff and gets flushed down the toilet?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
She laughed, "It's not that bad, is it?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"That's exactly what the robots would say, Grace."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I listened as the little machine clicked back on, and my next cup of blood began to spin in the centrifuge again, slowly trickling into the collection bag one tiny cell at a time.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"It's amazing that this can save anyone," I commented.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"I think about that a lot," Grace said, "about a lot of things."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Me too," I said, closing my eyes, "and not just medically."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I drank afterward. Grace and Donna had both told me not to overdo it, but I've never been the best judge of that sort of thing. I like to find the line and then take a good sized step over it, and maybe a second one for good measure. I guess that's the nature of being me.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"How are you feeling?" my dad asked me.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Like I'm a quart low," I said, "and that I need to masturbate."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
He had to put his glass down for a moment because he was laughing so hard.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"And other than that?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Eh, I'll live. I just hope..." I trailed off.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Yeah," he said, "I know."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
We sat in silence for a few minutes and stared at the street outside of the restaurant.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"So you donated... just to be nice to a stranger?" My co-worker, Taylor, asked me when I got back to work.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Yes," I said, "I'm just an idiot that way."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
* * *
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Why do I keep calling myself an idiot when people ask about it?" I asked.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"I don't know. You seem to downplay a lot that you do," my psychologist said, "why did you donate your bone marrow?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"I just wanted to help someone," I said, "or at least give a family a chance at not losing someone they love."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
She nodded, "Then why not just say that? It's good to be humble, but you don't have to be self-deprecating. You're not an idiot."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I sighed, frustrated.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"You told me that you don't find it significant that the patient received your donation on your mom's birthday..."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"No, I said that I TRY not to find it significant. Not that it ISN'T significant. I don't want to be the kind of person that finds signs and meaning in everything for no good reason; I don't want to be like the people that worship outlines of Jesus they find in a piece of toast."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"What are you going to write about this, then?" She asked, "Are you going to be honest about how you feel? Or are you going to write one-liners and jokes?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Probably both."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"And what are you going to write about the significance of saving a life? Is it significant?"
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I smiled, "I don't know. I think I'll merely write that it was a sacrifice of blood; fifty-six years in the making."

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/blood-brothers-ii#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=114 Phantom Limb https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/phantom-limb Sun, 01 Jul 2018 01:50:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 115@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>you can't fuck the sadness out of someone<br />even despite your good nature and good intentions<br />the body wasn't meant to be a heat sink for grief<span class="text_exposed_show"><br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />and I guess that's how arms and legs entwine<br />and then sever from one another over time<br />save for the one phantom limb</span></p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/phantom-limb">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> you can't fuck the sadness out of someone
even despite your good nature and good intentions
the body wasn't meant to be a heat sink for grief
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
and I guess that's how arms and legs entwine
and then sever from one another over time
save for the one phantom limb

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/phantom-limb#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=115 Nurse Rhoda https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/nurse-rhoda Sun, 24 Jun 2018 01:51:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 116@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>I saw her coming up the steps just as I happened to look out the front door of my house. She'd sounded older on the phone, but I hadn't imagined that the registered nurse that would be administering my shots was going to be quite this old. She walked uncertainly, as if the ground was about to buck her off like a wild horse. Her right hand extended out like a trapeze artist waiting for the high wire to sway. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />I went out to greet her and I offered to carry her bag for her, which she handed to me without protest. She continued shuffling toward the front porch as we exchanged pleasantries, but stopped at the front step. Quickly realizing that it was a bit too high for her to traverse on her own, I held out my hand, she took it, and we both walked inside. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Needless to say, I was a little concerned that she was going to be injecting me with twelve shots over the next three days. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />We sat down on the couch in the front living room, and she took my blood pressure, weight, temperature, and pulse. We went through the kit provided by "Be the Match"--the one that comes with each four-vial dose--looking at the syringes, the bandaids, and the instructions. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"Are you donating for someone you know, or just to be nice?" She asked me.<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"Donating to a stranger," I told her. She smiled and nodded. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Rhoda grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. That's Canada, if you're unaware. Born in 1935, she went to a very small high school with a very small number of graduates. She told me that in a week, she's going on a road trip with a friend. They're going to go have dinner with thirty-five of her classmates back in her hometown, and she's going to explore the streets of her youth. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"It'll probably be the last time," she laughed, "I'm moving to Texas with my daughter this August."<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />The injection takes about two minutes for each vial. Her hands were strong, far stronger than I gave her credit for, and she jabbed the needle in quickly and brusquely with very little pain. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />As she plunged the medication into my arm, she said that she hadn't eaten dinner yet. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"I'll probably get something on the way home," she said, "when you live alone, you can get away with that sort of thing."<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />She confided in me that her son had died last year of a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-six, and that her eldest daughter had died at sixteen of a congenital heart condition. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"That's why I'm moving in with my last living child," she told me, "she worries and, you know, I might be getting too old to live alone. And I'd like to spend the time I have left with her."<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Soon enough, the injections were finished. I helped her pack up her bag and carried it outside for her, and then gave her a hand back down the step again. As she was about to leave, she turned to me.<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"Thank you for helping a family avoid a tragedy," she said, with just the slightest hint of a tear in her eye. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />"Of course. You helped them too," I told her.<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />She smiled, "Yes, I guess I did."</p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/nurse-rhoda">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> I saw her coming up the steps just as I happened to look out the front door of my house. She'd sounded older on the phone, but I hadn't imagined that the registered nurse that would be administering my shots was going to be quite this old. She walked uncertainly, as if the ground was about to buck her off like a wild horse. Her right hand extended out like a trapeze artist waiting for the high wire to sway.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
I went out to greet her and I offered to carry her bag for her, which she handed to me without protest. She continued shuffling toward the front porch as we exchanged pleasantries, but stopped at the front step. Quickly realizing that it was a bit too high for her to traverse on her own, I held out my hand, she took it, and we both walked inside.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Needless to say, I was a little concerned that she was going to be injecting me with twelve shots over the next three days.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
We sat down on the couch in the front living room, and she took my blood pressure, weight, temperature, and pulse. We went through the kit provided by "Be the Match"--the one that comes with each four-vial dose--looking at the syringes, the bandaids, and the instructions.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Are you donating for someone you know, or just to be nice?" She asked me.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Donating to a stranger," I told her. She smiled and nodded.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Rhoda grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. That's Canada, if you're unaware. Born in 1935, she went to a very small high school with a very small number of graduates. She told me that in a week, she's going on a road trip with a friend. They're going to go have dinner with thirty-five of her classmates back in her hometown, and she's going to explore the streets of her youth.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"It'll probably be the last time," she laughed, "I'm moving to Texas with my daughter this August."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
The injection takes about two minutes for each vial. Her hands were strong, far stronger than I gave her credit for, and she jabbed the needle in quickly and brusquely with very little pain.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
As she plunged the medication into my arm, she said that she hadn't eaten dinner yet.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"I'll probably get something on the way home," she said, "when you live alone, you can get away with that sort of thing."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
She confided in me that her son had died last year of a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-six, and that her eldest daughter had died at sixteen of a congenital heart condition.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"That's why I'm moving in with my last living child," she told me, "she worries and, you know, I might be getting too old to live alone. And I'd like to spend the time I have left with her."
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Soon enough, the injections were finished. I helped her pack up her bag and carried it outside for her, and then gave her a hand back down the step again. As she was about to leave, she turned to me.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Thank you for helping a family avoid a tragedy," she said, with just the slightest hint of a tear in her eye.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
"Of course. You helped them too," I told her.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
She smiled, "Yes, I guess I did."

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/nurse-rhoda#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=116 Dear seventeen-year-old Andrew https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/dear-seventeen-year-old-andrew Tue, 05 Jun 2018 01:54:00 +0000 Andrew Attebery Uncategorized 117@https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/ <p>Dear seventeen-year-old Andrew,<br /><br />You're about to make a lot of really dumb choices. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />It's okay. Really. I understand why. Or at least, I understand now. A little something you never learned was how to be in the water without drowning yourself; how to play chicken with the train without convincing yourself you could stare it down. <span class="text_exposed_show"><br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />But all of those voids inside you won't be filled with drugs or alcohol or women or fantastic stories of death defiance. There's no prize for the person least fulfilled by life, despite even your best attempts. And nobody you love will ever be able to beat those demons out of you, so you better learn to raise your own fists. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />If only you understood how different things become when you grow older. How fuzzier the lens and less scary the monsters beneath the microscope. I wish I could give you a hug. I wish I could tell you that it's going to be okay. That you just have to hold it together for a little while longer, and that great things would be coming your way. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />At about this time of the night nineteen years ago, you were sitting on a car hood getting stoned with your friend, Rob, out at Washburn heights. I remember he turned to you and asked you if you were okay, and you said that you wanted to die. I'll never forget how livid he was; how angry and pissed off. "How dare you?" he asked me. How dare I. How dare I when she fought so hard? <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />And so for better or worse, here I am. And there you are, in this picture, staring at your mother on her deathbed. And we're two different people. And that's okay, too. I've learned to forgive you your mistakes because you didn't know. You tried, but you were a kid. Frightened and as alone as you'd ever been, and your world had turned upside down. Your life had become a nightmare.<br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Tonight I'm thinking less of mom's death and more about you. I find myself wishing you a good evening nineteen years ago, a stolid moment of silence, and a peace that has--so far--remained elusive all this time later. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Things only get harder from here. That's just the nature of life. That's just the way you've chosen to live. You've defied and refused to be consoled in favor of holding the truth in one hand and a pen in the other. It doesn't matter where it takes you, it doesn't matter the beauty you write or don't write; it doesn't matter the fires you burn or the ones you extinguish--so long as you know why you chose to go that way. <br />‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍<br />Love,<br />Future Andrew</span></p><div class="item_footer"><p><small><a href="https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/dear-seventeen-year-old-andrew">Original post</a> blogged on <a href="http://b2evolution.net/">b2evolution</a>.</small></p></div> Dear seventeen-year-old Andrew,

You're about to make a lot of really dumb choices.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
It's okay. Really. I understand why. Or at least, I understand now. A little something you never learned was how to be in the water without drowning yourself; how to play chicken with the train without convincing yourself you could stare it down.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
But all of those voids inside you won't be filled with drugs or alcohol or women or fantastic stories of death defiance. There's no prize for the person least fulfilled by life, despite even your best attempts. And nobody you love will ever be able to beat those demons out of you, so you better learn to raise your own fists.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
If only you understood how different things become when you grow older. How fuzzier the lens and less scary the monsters beneath the microscope. I wish I could give you a hug. I wish I could tell you that it's going to be okay. That you just have to hold it together for a little while longer, and that great things would be coming your way.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
At about this time of the night nineteen years ago, you were sitting on a car hood getting stoned with your friend, Rob, out at Washburn heights. I remember he turned to you and asked you if you were okay, and you said that you wanted to die. I'll never forget how livid he was; how angry and pissed off. "How dare you?" he asked me. How dare I. How dare I when she fought so hard?
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
And so for better or worse, here I am. And there you are, in this picture, staring at your mother on her deathbed. And we're two different people. And that's okay, too. I've learned to forgive you your mistakes because you didn't know. You tried, but you were a kid. Frightened and as alone as you'd ever been, and your world had turned upside down. Your life had become a nightmare.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Tonight I'm thinking less of mom's death and more about you. I find myself wishing you a good evening nineteen years ago, a stolid moment of silence, and a peace that has--so far--remained elusive all this time later.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Things only get harder from here. That's just the nature of life. That's just the way you've chosen to live. You've defied and refused to be consoled in favor of holding the truth in one hand and a pen in the other. It doesn't matter where it takes you, it doesn't matter the beauty you write or don't write; it doesn't matter the fires you burn or the ones you extinguish--so long as you know why you chose to go that way.
‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍
Love,
Future Andrew

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

]]> https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/dear-seventeen-year-old-andrew#comments https://www.worthlessgonzo.com/?tempskin=_rss2&disp=comments&p=117