Brain Salad Surgery

I always used to think the Emerson, Lake, and Palmer album Brain Salad Surgery had an interesting title. I saw a movie once where someone was referred to as “The high priest of psychic vivisection.” That always stuck with me, too.

Today I told a friend I felt like since my surgery, and the series of small strokes I was having before the surgery, that I was slowly disappearing. I’m trying to fight against it. Some of my problem is no doubt just due to age. We all forget. Go into a room and forget why we walked in there.

After the fear of sudden death was mostly removed from life I now deal with a slow strangulation of my brain. A slow, creeping blanket of darkness.

I hear a lot of people, mostly men, say they want to die during sex. What an awful thing to wish on someone you care about. I can’t say I have imagined any preferred way in which I would want to die. I don’t. If I had to choose something, I guess dying on the operating table after you’ve already been told the risks, and put to sleep, wouldn’t be the worst way to go. You just would go to sleep and never know you never woke up. Having been on the operating table twice recently I can imagine far worse ways to die.

I’m really proud of the latest book I’ve edited, Iced Cream, by Jesus Correa. It’s at the printer now, and I could see it as soon as next week.

I’ll tell you something, after you’ve been hit with that first taste of death, it really is a different ball game. I thought it would have made me more relaxed, appreciative, and in the moment, but it has really been the opposite. It’s a panic. Every error now seems magnified a thousand times because I feel like I’ll never get another chance to fix it.

I suppose that’s enough of that for tonight.

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