A. Conversion

In my dreams last night I brought out a pile of my manuscripts and proceeded to integrate fragments of them into Stricken. My dream self explained to me the ins and outs of the procedure, providing immaculately detailed examples. It was wonderful and went on a long time in both worlds. Upon awakening, I thought it over. The more I thought about the idea, the more excited I got. Over the past couple of weeks, I’d added 8,000 words to this text, an addition that came with a high cost: terrible pain on my arthritic left shoulder joint, due to the hunt-and-peck technique I used to type on the MacBook Air with my remaining viable arm and digits. Being an author hurts, man! Part 2 of Stricken at first was consistent with Part. 1, but the all-directional story gained momentum until it was an eruption, a 4D MEGAzine, a form and/or style (Blogger on ‘roids) which I had claimed to abandon, months before the stroke, because I lost confidence in the average online reader to possess the stamina to scan, much less close read any piece longer than 450 words. Thanks Web 2.0! Anyway, I must now concede that the Stroke has degraded my editorial impulse, which never was a strength. So I’m going through with it: I finished second draft of Stricken Part 2, and plan to insert entries from my old, mostly unpublished books, dissertation thesis and poetry collections throughout the essay. And in the manner of the MEGAzine, introduce dramatic voices for commentary, elucidation or meta-lit purposes. I do invite feedback, and would welcome input. Some of the friends and family still following my soc.media streams are accomplished wordsmiths yourselves. If you have a minute, and are so-inclined DM me or add a pointer or correction in the comments section. My dream self advised to crowdsource edit Stricken, which is kinda what you have to do when you don’t already have an editor, i.e., when you are writing on spec, like I am. Happy face emoji.

[Deadlines Lifelines, pg. 1 > First draft, circa 1987, plus several revisions over the years]

fog in eyes of morning
plastic sun through blinded window

Hello Day

stretch seams of memory
time past
was it time propelled the orb in which I find myself
or the orb self-propelled

The covers stick to my legs.
I perspire.

Oh, summer.

with neither currency nor even tobacco
credit nor endurance
worth no longer equal debits
the Author approaches his journal
waving his quill at sunshine Real

what interpretation would you offer this man
whose rational faculties he long ago abandoned
as insufficient or worse
useless

for what reason in Death’s misapprehension & the neglect of Now?
a simple blessing on those of Will
whose insistent prodding produced an afterlife in one mortally attired

[1984] On the transatlantic flight from Zurich to Boston, I had an allergic reaction to the penicillin I’d been prescribed. My finger had gotten badly infected in Israel, after the Red Star of David medics patched me up. I could have lost it to amputation, had the infection gotten much worse. The swelling was hideous, as my digit filled with pus and blood. The pain was excruciating. I took buses from the north to first Tel Aviv, then Jerusalem, to procure treatment. I was delirious, and don’t know how I managed any of this on my own in a foreign country. The first doctor opened the wound to reduce the swelling/pressure. A couple days later the second cauterized the incision, in order to stanch the loss of blood. I’ll spare the reader gory details, but I assure you, it was gory. I had no idea how dangerous the antibiotic was for me. I realized something was wrong in a Swiss airport bathroom stall, during the plane change and short layover. Once we were airborne again, the rash in the crotch (rapidly spreading) was the first symptom, followed by a raging fever, then the throat closing, labored breathing, all-over weakness, lightheadedness. I rang the stewardess, who, expressing some concern, brought a blanket and orange juice. She huddled with other stewardesses, and somebody notified the captain. They paged for a doctor among the passengers. He was a dapper, ambivalent, composed chap. After looking me over, he quietly declared I was suffering from anaphylaxis, and there was nothing to be done, returning promptly to his seat. It became clear that Swiss Air wasn’t about to turn the plane around for me, so I shook and shivered for hours, struggling to breathe. I recall confusion, being afraid and feeling alone with my fate. I failed to grasp how the unexpected and surreal a visitation by Death at 30,000 feet could belong only to me in a certain way, though lots of people were nearby. And yes indeed, this was real, it was happening. Nothing romantic about it. No way to talk yourself out of it. Then, obviously, I survived, and upon my disembarking the airliner, Dad the dermatologist diagnosed my malady immediately and correctly, stopped at a pharmacy en route to our hotel, the Piaza, scored Benadryl and ephedrine I guess, and like magic, I was in couple of hours all better!

My liminal Beantown stateside homecoming was Joycean, or Faulknerian, by which I mean it was a layered, faceted funhouse mirrors affair, alternately rapturous and bleak. I felt emotionally raw, overly sensitive and inside-out, like a snake that had just shed its skin. In hindsight, l admit I was a handful for my parents and siblings, and probably for most of those with whom I had any incidental contact, e.g., hotel staff. It should have been fun and happy, a nice, memorable family vacation. Instead, because I was in the throes of extreme culture shock, and a handful of mental, emotional and spiritual crises — not terribly atypical for young man of twenty, but exacerbated by undiagnosed early onset alcoholism and PTSD from my very recent near-death experience — I selfishly ruined it for everybody. An episode of projectile vomiting after an enormous seafood dinner did not help anything. Plus, Boston is, simply put, uniquely weird. One sunny Sunday morning, a little hungover, I ventured outside and found myself immersed in the annual Shriner’s parade and convention. Picture a huge teeming throng of pale, drunk, cigar-chomping middle-aged and -class otherwise patriotic American dads whooping and hollering openly on the central boulevards of that historic port city, flamboyantly costumed as gay caricatures of Arabs, waving scimitars, teetering on stilts or driving miniature clown cars, grabbing ass, guffawing like madmen. I climbed and sat on a plop art marble perch and chain-smoked cigarettes, expressionless, peering through the darkened lenses of my Ray-Ban aviators. This absurd, madcap spectacle was a perfectly uncanny distortion of the dangerous, explosive, rapidly modernizing ancient world I had just bounced in and out of, making a getaway by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. As I pondered the passing phantasmagorical parade, something snapped inside my psyche, and my future suddenly dematerialized, slipped into a state of indeterminacy, or flux. My shit unwound fast. I would no longer be spending the remainder of summer in Appalachia. Not remotely possible! Out of the question! Oh, the histrionics. Mom and dad didn’t know what to make of it, or me, and I did not possess the necessary equipment to explain myself to them or anyone else. Which somewhat explains the Why of my turn toward art thing as Deus Ex Machina. Art does not ask for an explanation and be itself without one. An artist must confidently act before the explanatory narrative eradicates the freedom feeling one needs to create free art.

That afternoon, I commenced a frantic search of the Globe’s classifieds, answered an ad, made a phone call, and ricocheted to Cape Cod — I don’t remember how I got there from Boston, just how awkward it was to shear away from the family — securing a gig as counselor at the Hyannisport Y camp for underprivileged youth. A frenetic, but often lovely, Waldenesque month later, I flew the coop once again, embarking on a cross-country road trip with my buddy J.P. in his nondescript, sensible, boxy American-made sedan with the cool moniker, “The Gray Ghost.” We wrote, performed, rehearsed, studied, discussed and listened to songs and drank bourbon, visiting our friends and family along the way. I composed lyrics and improvised vocals, while he banged out tunes on his guitar. We passed through White Plains, Cohasset, Philly, Pittsburgh, Beckley, Savannah, New Orleans, Houston, a few other places, big and small. J.P. educated me on his proper rules for traveling the mythic American Road: there is a driver, navigator, sometimes passengers, with clearly defined roles and parameters; stopping for gas (so cheap back then) was a focused, regimented activity, and stopping to pee in between those fuel stops was frowned upon; Chicken fried steak and cherry or key lime pie as key metrics for evaluating diners; off-road fun, e.g., in homage to the Situationists, long-walking high as an ersatz X-sport; an eccentric frisbee golf, which I personally thought stupid at the time, though my views on it have softened considerably; inebriated arts/history/philosophy, a competitive discourse; and incessant and encyclopedic Rock’n’Roll exposition, at depth. Before now, I had no clue you just do this, pull a stunt like this! Forty years later, I ask myself, what if we had just kept going? Or, while we’re speculating on possible futures that never materialized, because I chose another one before I knew one could choose, what if I had phoned that captivating Amazonian beauty from the kibbutz I met on the bus from Capernaum to Tel Aviv? I would ask Siri or Claude, but what good would any answer they might concoct do me or anyone. Maybe if Sam Altman or Elon attaches a Holodeck-like contraption to the prompt form at least I could lose myself in a rich and believable hallucination, a la the Matrix. My red dress fantasy girl was a golden brown sabra in Greek sandals, Daisy Mae cutoffs, a blue tube top and sun kissed curly long hair. The Agent was Israel as it is in 2026