NEW YORK SNIP5 – Maie – FESCH.TV

FESCH.TV INFORMIERT:

I’m either taking your interest for granted or it feels really good to dive down and sculpt feelings into thoughts to words, especially if the feelings are core feelings, idiosyncratically self-owned feelings. I have one other incentive, perhaps too big for my shoes, that no matter what I say – it’s gotta be good! I say that from the vantage of having lived 90 years minus 5 months, worked relatively professionally, though not successfully, in five major arts professions – architect, fashion designer, modern dancer, documentary filmmaker and this, journal-maker. Oh, let me not forget that my credibility also stems from having had eight profound romances that include three common-law marriages, and finally that I have subjected myself to 20 years of therapy; plus one more – being Euro-American.
Jesus, I forgot the other reason that I’m intending, or hoping to, extract a good deal of stuff because I am starting this very late in the day, actually 7:30p. Why? I have just come out this afternoon from a one-day hospitalization following a heart procedure called the Watchman. It is basically a one hour procedure, including the first parts prepping for surgery by shaving my groin, having double IV inserted, cardiogram administered and saying my prayers. Its success depended, as I’ve said several times during last months, on my insurance Medicare-HMO, Elderplan, accepting this as indicated healthcare. My Indian cardiologist, Krishnan, prescribed that procedure because of my relatively active lifestyle, biking, stair climbing etc, not including frequent sexual activity. None.
I may be getting too old. The appropriately aged women, 75 or over, may have been burnt out after 20 or 30 years of marriage. They want freedom from the concept “we”. A lot of widows out there but they don’t appear to find me appealing. They no longer fear that my only interest in them is to get them to drop their panties as was reasonably true, but those days are long gone. Not fully erect penis and unlubricated vaginas make that mutual, formerly mandatory activity, electrochemically explosive enough to go all the way to climax. These days I’ve tried to console my lust with ‘lying hugging dressed’ and rarer ‘lying hugging naked’. My lust may also be too dynamic a description, not discerning whether it is the memory of lustful relationships or wishful expectations masquerading as lust. Desire may be more right.
One other motivation today to write now instead of tomorrow. I suffered with a good deal of anxiety when I walked with daughter2, coming down from Connecticut to help dad, being with him, answering questions and comforting his fears, as we walked this morning across Central Park @ 100 Street to Mount Sinai East Hospital at 101 Street Fifth Avenue. I had taken one puff of marijuana before leaving. Two would have been too much. I walked seemingly more care-freely with that buzz in my brain and body. And I can tell you, during the 90 minutes I had to wait to get prepped, lying naked on a fuck’n gurney with an open-back hospital gown on, and cold disinfected air, I was several times seized by the notion – “Why am I doing this? Let’s get out of here!”
And that notion was especially acute when I was wheeled into the actual surgery theater. And theater is a good word for it, several large tv monitors, another flat bed which it took them almost ten minutes to lie down in perfect alignment, my arms and head were cushioned just right, certain mysterious metal plates were placed under my back, and of course an anesthetist, elderly man with buoyant friendly hellos sitting at another computer stations. Lots of cables were attached to me by four nurses for gages that monitor data of my heart and breathing ticking off relentlessly green in this wild jungle of complex equipment, four nurses working efficiently attaching those cables for this catheter-delivered heart implant. MRI imaging monitors my interior and the passage of the very narrow probe from groin to heart. .I think that is the secret to its 97% success rate.