Too Much & Dying Too

So much has been happening that it has been difficult to even attempt a sort-through to post. Indeed, where to begin.

First, I had another (twice now) trip to the hospital—pericardial effusion—wherein the people all thought it was a heart attack. It wasn’t. Either time. But apparently all of the medical paraphernalia thinks I am so they go with that rather than my insistence “I’m not having a heart attack!” *sigh* So. Now they have to find the cause of my attacks which are painful beyond belief.

In the operating room: The most exciting part of the whole thing is that I coded—yes, died!—and that’s where it got interesting rather than just painful. It was no big deal at all and there were no lights and out-of-body experiences or awareness or floating. Nothing. A great big huge black nothing.

Just before the Black in a millisecond I had an awareness something was happening and a wondrous peace wherein nothing mattered and then… Another second and I woke up, knew I had been “somewhere” and asked what happened. They said I coded twice (wrong count, only one, extended) and they had to resuscitate me. So while trying to “save my life”—in a non-heart attack—they almost killed me.

It is impossible to describe because the observer, and all consciousness was gone. As soon as we say nothing—we have something. It is an experience that can only be experienced. I do think that I stayed in my body because I wasn’t gone long enough. It was less than a minute. Perhaps it takes longer for the full-death experience.

It should be noted that this was Not a heart attack. It was Not heart failure. It was that my heart stopped. Those are all different things. Apparently the heart stopped due to the dye they were inserting into my veins to find the blockage (there was none) that was causing the heart attack that wasn’t.

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Meanwhile. During and after recovery I’ve been doing a rewrite of a novel I wrote a while back called “Last House.” I was always fond of it and thought it should have another look through. I also wrote a short story and entered it in a couple of contests. That’s in addition to the family history I pluck away at and photos with comments I send to the family.

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And the Snow! We’ve had a couple of snow storms that have been just glorious. The dog and I go out at all hours to play and enjoy. Especially deep into the night when no one else is around. It’s so incredibly joyous with mounds of white and blowing wind and the silence and the glory! Watching a black dog jump and run against all of this becomes a thing of the Spirit. Other worlds hover about, waver in the light that suddenly glints against the sweeping snow.

MatissePosted by Ravenous Butterflies

Happy Birthday

Alice Sebold Birthday September 6, 1965—Posted by Donna May, Story Tender

Alice Sebold first made her name with the publication of Lovely Bones. She continued writing and published Lucky and The Almost Moon.

More posts by Donna May and more about writing, of course.

Soul Writing

“Your writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are. The job of your voice is not to seduce or flatter or make well-shaped sentences. In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul.” — Meg Rosoff

(Art by Julia Inglis.)

From Salter

“In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe.”

viaCounterpointPress

via Counterpoint Press

I didn’t mean to write about him, even think about him. —He was a hero of mine until I came to realize some things: what I really liked was the prose. Some of it just breathtaking. It was not about the plot or the story. And he died too late to circumvent the last novel. I don’t know if the prose came to life further into All That Is, I turned away before I could say one way or another. And he personally failed me. (I always take my writers personally.) — But I happened across “Why I Write” in Lit Hub and so I came to be here once more. So there’s the quote and there’s the photo, of a much younger Salter than the one we buried. Indeed. It is for the moment what you understand, and believe.

Bridges & Arcs

Photo from La Crosse Tribune MacGilvray road, outside La Crosse

There is something about bridges. Alone, symbolic, creating a path to another shore. Who knows what will be found there? It’s the mystery and the answer together. Any type of bridge, crossing a river, stream, lake… Any size: huge, small, and “one car at a time” for the single road.

Arcs carry their own beauty. Someone called an arc the most perfect shape in nature. Why? Half a moon—beginning and end together? The alpha and the omega in one view. From the side— especially above water where you can see the reflection—you see the whole. The light and the dark sides. The coming together of everything. Thinking of it, there’s the arc from life to death. There’s the arc of the short story. (Try writing one without an arc.) The arc of a marriage?

And here we have the bridge and the arc together. Mmmmmmmm…what thoughts can we merge?