Tagged: neck

March 15, 2017 Scribble 0

I spent twenty minutes holding my head to the right as a doctor went in again for my fourth thyroid biopsy. “Boy this is really deep,” he said. “Yep, maybe you’ll be the guy,” I said. It is clear with have a nodule or two. We don’t clearly know if it is cancer. “At least if it is cancer, this is the best one to get,” said my endocrinologist. “It takes so long to grow.” Comforting. While other writers are busy taking people to other places, I’m in an endless loop of out-patient surgery. No, you would not be interested in the waiting, prodding, and sore neck. It doesn’t jump off as one of those stories you want to hear.

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Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” True. Sometimes you just have to write it out and hope something sticks. Then let it fall to the floor. In Hemingway & Gellhorn  he says,” Never crumple pages. Always let them float gently into the basket. Any writer who rips out his stuff and crumples it will go insane in a year, guaranteed.” I like the idea of floating paper to the trash. I would float this to the trash, but it’s a huge monitor.

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It turns out nobody reads this blog. (more…)



Joann Jett Joined The Stage Band 3

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Pixabay

Behind the library, between the quad and the band room, the Stoners smoke packs of red Marlboro’s. For all practical purposes, this might as well be no man’s land. Only sand dirt seems to grow and the green soccer field starts 80 yards farther away. I imagine the area remained hidden before the school added the soccer field and a football arena. The area is the perfect place to hide and smoke.

I have never been back there. I only see it when I sprint over to the band room. I doubt I would ever hang out there. It is the end of April and school is winding down. Spring fever grabbed us a few weeks ago. The weekly ski trips to Mammoth ended in March, so we all need something to take our minds off school. Boredom fails to describe the feeling; I guess the warm days make us want to play hooky.

I am late for stage band. As I rush past the Stoners, a girl with punk black hair, torn jeans with a hole in her knee, and a bandanna around her neck carries a bass guitar case toward me. I swear she is Joann Jett come to life. She walks my way with attitude. I switch my trumpet case to my other hand and hold the door open for her. She smells like cigarettes as she slides into the band room.

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Moments Before the Ambulance Arrives 0

A Conversation

“We found him out here just laying on the sidewalk?

“Nude?”

“Yep. He looked dead.”

“And then he jumped up?”

“Yeah. Jumped off and started yelling.”

“All that stuff about ‘do you know who I am?’ and “you should listen’?

“I think he must have been a big shot once. I don’t think he is anymore.”

“He ran for awhile and then collapsed?”

“Strangest thing; seemed to run out of energy. He ran around, bumped into a few people, and then fell down. I swore he died again. Oh my, he’s sprinting away.”

“You guys need to hold him down. There, I think they have it.”

“That guy knows how to run.”

“Too much adrenaline. We can counteract it with this dose. Right in the neck. That’s it.”

“Will he be much trouble?”

“No. We’ll take him away and keep him safe.”

“What if he sprints again?”

“Not wearing this special jacket, ankle cuffs, and diaper.”

“He looks almost normal.”

“Yes. Almost normal.”

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