Avascular Necrosis Videos

http://vook.tumblr.com A query is a morphine bag of breadcrumbs spread like a trail to follow through the woods where no map has yet to point the way, and no Global Positioning System can provide the reader with a shortcut. As with any book, the latitude and the longitude still unfold a story whose orbit can only be explored with and through that intractable constant known as time. Mary Scriver: It seems to me (but not from actual experience) that whoring must be like any other line of work.

Tim, Dylan sends this with love. Eavan http://timbarrus.tumblr.com

Wasted on the Way...Tim Barrus: Wasted on the Way Night is when the bullsnakes come. Having spent so much of my life in the South, not the New South, the New South with its glitzy Atlanta Hotels, but no, my South is the Confederate South, the Old South, the South that will rise again, but never did, and never will because it can't -- no one wants to be anywhere around that old tobacco chew. Jesus Fucking Christ I hate the Old South. I do not like the gloss of the New South either. The South is a faded landscape any way you look at it. The corpse of the Old South is more twisted than a barrel of fish hooks. My South is the South with rats in the attic so big that when they walk across the floor, ceiling dust drifts slowly down on the people in the room below, and the floorboards creak and sag as the fat rat makes his way from one end of the attic to the other. I love the tourists who ride the Key West Conch train and gaze lovingly up at the old Queen Anns with their white balconies and verandahs. All of them infested with ship rats. Key West is supposedly a Hemingwayesque landscape. There's literature for you. Literature loves nothing more than a magnificent lie. Most intelligent cultures get this. But not America. In a zillion years, the American moral Taliban will never understand that literature IS a magnificent lie. Key West is the invention of William Faulkner. Faulkner would get what I am going through. Hemingway would just blow his head off. Faulkner could see the New South coming. What Faulkner got was suffering. What Hemingway got (in a magnificent way) was fear. Fear of women. Fear of loss. Not loss itself but the fear of loss. Particularly the fear that a personal world is one that shrinks upon itself. Today, suffering is the little girl dying of cancer in the movie of the week. One child dies at a time. I do know how to paint that stupid picture for a stupid readership. What Faulkner got about the South was a picture where everyone in the novel suffered. Everyone. No one is immune from anything in a Faulkner novel. Today we say the audience cannot take the strain. Poor them. Living in Key West and riding the conch train are two very different things. My neighbors on Elizabeth, across the Street from the Hippie House, all shared one thing. Rats. They come and go at night. Jumping from attics into the trees. Running down the sun-baked lizard sidewalks like they owned the place because they did. Hemingway's answer to the rat problem was to import cats to the island. Now, the island teems with rats and cats. And wild roosters (slaves owned them) and bullsnakes. I do not know where the bullsnakes came from. Probably movie people. My neighbor was a witch from Cuba. She had more bullsnakes in her attic than anyone because the other witches (the witches are always feuding) cursed her with bullsnakes which is why she put dead chicken heads on my truck. Keeps the bullsnakes away. Unless you are a witch. In order to understand the Old South, you must first understand the languages of suffering. Folks drank rum at night out on the verandah -- Tennessee Williams was still alive -- and folks watched the rats come and go. You could watch the rats or you could watch the sunset. Local folks rarely watched a sunset with jugglers, minstrels, cardsharks, and naked men on a tightrope. But no. Local folks went to the Higgs Beach Pier or it was easier to just watch the rats at home. The witch's old eyes would grow clouded. "Yesssthem baby rats be safe until the bullsnake comes, and the bullsnake always comes." This has always been my mantra. The bullsnake always comes. What do you do when you see a big bullsnake crawl up the side of your old Queen Ann and the conch train goes by. Tourists with video cameras. You nod. Wave. You drink more rum. The bullsnake will find them, too. The bullsnake finds everyone. The only other good thing about Key West are the drugs. Last night's mixture of Dilaudid, Percocet, Sustiva, and a late night cowboy movie was a recipe for nightmare. There ought to be a law. People who take these drugs, and then go watch cowboy movies, are to be rounded up late at night by the Gestapo barking incomprehensible German, tattooed, put on trains, forced-marched through the woods and bogs, and then ordered to paint my ex-wife's bathroom. In this one, the Indians had me strung up in a cottonwood and skinned alive. I should not have watched Appaloosa last night. The scene where Ed Harris is shot resonates in my head with a thousand screams. The last time I did this, Kate Blanchette and Tommy Lee Jones were holding off the Apache (how can any tribe forced to grow toothpicks in the middle of the desert be blamed for being the bad guys) Indians (last night they wanted Rene Zellweiger who was cavorting with gunslingers naked in the river) who all wanted Kate Blanchette. I can't keep track of the Apaches and the movie starlettes they want. Just kidnap these women and get it over with. I was in bed, going through opiate withdrawl, and green bullsnakes (the hell with Kate Blanchette) started coming out of the TV. My entire life has been wasted on the way. NOW I can't sleep -- so I write with one finger. The old house creaks in the heat like Confederate bones. I did not want to have this shoulder replacement in North Carolina, but my wife lives here. And her work is here. I could have done it in Europe or India (far cheaper) for that matter, but going through a major surgery without the one relationship you have in life -- the one you can depend on through thick and thin -- would be a tough bullet to bite, and I have bitten too many of them for one lifetime. Faulkner was writing novels with Joe Christmas in them like the Sound and the Fury way before his time. Had he lived another hundred years, he would have written books where all the characters had bone replacement surgery all at the same time. Mississippi General would be crammed with history, alcoholics, and sadness. It would be run down. Entire islands of cripples. Joe Christmas out on the widow walk sees a the figure of a ship on the horizon through his spy glass. A windjammer called the HMS Captain Blood filled with orthopedic surgeons. I knew it would be a nightmare. As I made the rounds to boneman after boneman, and anesthesiologists (the guys with the good drugs), they kept telling me that I was low risk. I kept my mouth shut. I am low risk at absolutely nothing. The end of the nightmare is not over. No one is using the term low risk today. The bullsnake always comes I had a seizure in the OR. I have never had one before. I do not remember it. But then, I was not exactly conscious. You see, I am not, in fact, a person. Ask any of the not too bright Zippo lighters on the Internet. I am the invention of William Faulkner. I am always living in places that are collapsed and have known better days. Past glories. Past wars. And chivalry was never dead. I knew my shoulder bones had collapsed some seven years ago. My physician at UNC, Chapel Hill, had warned me time and time again that waiting to have these surgeries (my hips at the time had collapsed as well) was risking death because small bone fragments can find their way to the heart. But I did not do the hip surgery at UNC. I have a test I put hospitals through. I go into the men's room to see how clean it is. The bathroom at UNC has shit and piss and toilet paper on the floor and clogged toilets and surgery there would be dangerous. The rejection rate (the body rejecting all that metal and ceramics) with someone who has avascular necrosis to the extent I have this disease is high. A war with infection and rejection was not one I was going to win or even entertain to fight. I'm stupid, but I am not that stupid. If they don't bother to keep their bathrooms clean... I had the surgery in Durham. But the shoulders I would do at a bone and joint replacement center here in the Blueridge mountains. Most of the people who live around here are retirees from Florida. Who got out of Florida just in time. I never kid. I had left Florida for many of the same reasons. We were living in a one room apartment there for two-thousand dollars a month. Do the math. Here's some: I have been keeping track of the costs. The hip surgeries were a million dollars (after $500,000 I just round numbers off). Each shoulder is $250,000). I do not think health care reform in America will happen. There is way too much money in it for someone (we do not know exactly who you are but we will find you). This one was a rich-people hospital. The difference between a rich-people hospital and a poor-people hospital is enormous. Each room here has a computer. Housekeeping staff bows and scrapes. Gourmet food. All the rooms are private. I was the youngest person in the hospital here. The average age has to be in the seventies. The men wear pink shirts, shorts, and white socks. You can always tell when the wife buys the clothes. The wives sit primly if nervously in the hospital waiting rooms. My wife likes the place because of the five minute drive. During my hip surgeries, the bottom had fallen out of the writing life. There would be no more money there to survive on. During the hip surgery, my wife had a two hour drive from Chatham County to the Durham Hospital, and she had only just learned how to drive. Driving through urban highway construction sites scared her. That was a very tough period in our lives. At one point, we were haunting dumpsters for food. Dumpsters are dangerous. Climbing into one just after hip replacements was just plain dumb. But we had to eat. My pain management doctor sent his secretary to our house with bags of groceries. This was a stunning kindness. You people think I make this stuff up. My cousin sent me a WalMart gift certificate. That was kind, too. My family and my wife's family were mainly absent during this time. The sight of family members in dumpsters is distasteful. My wife continues working long hours. She is exhausted. Isabella and I are little help to her. I can barely move. I saw the stitches for the first time yesterday. Now, I know why it hurts so much. Last night, I rolled over on the wrong side in my sleep. The Indians were done skinning me. I could feel the metal ball begin to pop out of the incision. It made a slushing popping sound and I woke up. I try to sleep with pillows stacked up so I can't roll over on the left side. I went withe the left shoulder so I could type, and the thought of going through this again is numbing, but there it is. The right shoulder is collapsed and the scenario of the floating bone fragments is not a good one so they want to do the right shoulder asap. I blame Michael Jackson. After his demise, no one is going to write another pain prescription. No one wants to be marched out of their clinic by the Entertainment Tonight Police and whipped. The issue is pain. How much can one character from a Faulkner novel absorb. Don't even go there with me. They got rid of me a bit too early. It was my fault. I always want out. In the language of doctors: the issues of pain management have not been resolved. I would be disconnected from my Dilaudid drip. It was not a good idea. The first twenty-four hours after coming home, all I could do was weep. I am now only on my knees weeping three or four times a day. This, too, shall pass. The pain is that intense. Pain and I are old friends -- I have been in pain with collapsed shoulders for the past eight years -- but pain is not really a friend I want to have, nor do I do well with her. She's a Dodge City Saloon Hall whore. There. Smoke and mirrors. She has syphilis. She's suffering. William Falkner has invited her over to his house for cocktails. She was there (in the room) when Hemingway blew his head off. There is no help for her. Her world just sucks. She is eternally, internally, only herself. Shit. It hurts to write this. I don't believe you are real and you don't believe I am real. There is a disconnected connection between pain and suffering. There are drugs for pain. Suffering is eternal vigilance. There are caveats for this. There are never enough drugs for pain. Suffering is the stuff of novels. Novels are the stuff of life. We do not fight death so much as what we fight is having our worlds made smaller and smaller. We become the mirror. We become the junk in the IV bag. We become the window that looks out onto a wall. You're naked in the middle of a sick room and you become your scars. We do not fight death so much as what we fight is the developmental process that would make us harder and harder and harder until we were so hard nothing could come in and that door through which the world comes in gets infinitely locked. The rats are safe until the bullsnake comes, and the bullsnake always comes. There is no such thing as low risk. One shoulder down. Another one to go. So much time to make up everywhere you turn. Time we have wasted on the way. So much water moving underneath the bridge. Let the water come and carry us away. -- Tim Barrushttp://human-trafficking.tumblr.com

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