The last post

This 'entry' may sound a little ominous, especially hugging the tail of my previous entry. But it is nothing more than it says - the last post on this blog. I gave myself a month to put it all down and with all the gaps and excesses (and a few digressions that reveal two ideas - mountains and poetry) there is nothing more to tell - and I am not going to turn this blog into a daily record of the banal undertakings of an individual waiting in sanitary silence to recover the use of his tongue. This blog is about the instant of losing my tongue (why do I say I lost it - as if I had put it down somewhere and forgot where it was), not the eternity required to recover it. Having said that I thought the final post should be a little introspective...

I am conscious of a change. I go about my daily affairs, and in my dealings with people and moments I am surprised I no longer care so much about the fragility of others. I used to thin of  people as being fragile to a greater or lesser degree. Colleagues, shop attendants, neighbours, the postman - all had a tender side it was important to respect and not prod too roughly. Now, I almost ignore the leanness of people's good side. I do not deliberately assault it - but I do not respect it any more. I used to treat shop attendants with a pristine respect, and always had a banal but harmless word to say; now, I ignore them and limit myself to a gruff statement of what I want with no prelude and a curt dismissal.  

Yet, on the other hand, though it may seem a total contradiction, I am more amenable - towards myself and towards others. I put less importance on more things, and  I give vital importance to fewer things. My new lema is: 'It's not a problem until it's a problem and then it's a problem'. And if I fuck-up something I am doing, I just let it be, instead of taking myself to task and giving myself a raking over.

I put people off, I know. I will end up as alone as a dragonfly  in December. And I will ask myself: 'Does it really matter?' I tell myself it does not matter but come the time, and the time will come, I suspect it will matter a lot (I was told in school that 'a lot' was bad English - so I continue to use it a lot). Today is a good example. It is New Year's Eve, right? And everybody gets together on New Year's Eve to celebrate something - the demise of the old, a new beginning, whatever...Right? I will be on my own. I am a monster. I cannot eat, drink or talk. Who the fuck has any time for that... taking up space at a table? And who reads this stuff anyway?

Another poem

LIFE RULE, YOU FOOL

Away from home,

There are no rules.

All excursions,

No work conclusions.

All the time,

Waiting for crime,

To appear on the news,

While listening to blues.

Every day,

I walk the wrong way.

Every night,

I turn off the wrong light.

When the sun comes out,

I want to give a shout,

But I can’t,

I don’t want,

I’m too lazy,

I’m too crazy.

In bed,

Where’s my head!?

Am I dead!?

Just a dream,

Don’t have to scream,

Do you want ice scream?

Then pay your own,

Get your phone,

To find the ice cream’s home.

Don’t be so rude,

I want some food.

One day,

You go to the bay,

You say:

I want to go to a cliff

They say:

There’s a cliff.

You look down,

You bet a pound,

You can jump off the cliff ground.

You hear,

But you have no fear,

It’s death,

Are you deaf?

You’re dead,

You’re in the coffin bed.

Away from home,

There are no rules.

Before you die,

Say: BYE!

by Alex

The final order

I am obsessed with making sure everything is in order. I have the grotesque conviction one day I will wake up and I will not be here. And if that should happen, I would like everything to be in its place - my house, my papers, my money...and my debts. I would like everything to be just right. My clothes must all ironed and stored in their place, ready to be discarded or distributed among the needy or the envious (that is what happens to your clothes - they are re-cycled downwards or sideways). My books should be properly classified so that those of a specific author or of a particular gender can be disposed of in homogeneous lots, or re-located to waiting shelves. My papers must be classified so that they can be perused in an orderly fashion and so that the answers to as yet unformulated questions can be found easily. My money must be easily accessible in transparent accounts and deposits so that it does not languish to the point of extenuation by default in an obscure balance on the bank's books. My plants must be healthy and vigorous to be adopted by new owners. And my furniture should be clean and polished so that it is the envy of self-appointed remover, as opposed to being discarded on the municipal coup or abandoned to become the home of cats and rats.

It is obsessive - but I have no intention of going anywhere. So I trick myself into finding a place for everything and putting everything in its place. I am surrounded by an orderliness that otherwise would not exist, by a neatness that is secretly pleasing. And I get a kind of sneaky joy from it - as if my alter ego took pleasure in nudging me to an extreme of order hitherto only a fuzzy intention.

Peace

The station, without a doubt, ought to show signs of activity, of life, all the more so for being a frontier station. But, when you arrived there on that February night, it was deserted and dark. There was a light behind some blinds, in a corner of the empty platform, so you made your way towards it.

It was the café. What peace inside. What silence. A woman with a baby in her arms was seated next to a lighted stove. You could hear the muffled and soothing murmur of the flames.

You asked for cold milk and toasted bread, with the distrust of someone who thinks he has asked for the moon. And, upon seeing your order attended to without sarcasm, you were moved to ask for some cigarettes as well.

Seated in the middle of that convalescent peace and silence, to exist for you was like a miracle. Everything seemed possible once again. You shivered, as when a danger we do not recognise is gone.

It was life all over again. You are confident it has to be as peaceful and as profound forever, with the promise of repeating itself every day. In the face of such a promise you do not know how to be surprised.

Behind lay your bloody and ruined homeland. The last station, the station on the other side of the frontier, where you separated from her, was just a skeleton of twisted metal with no glass and no walls. An unearthed skeleton the final light of the day had abandoned.

What can one man do against the insanity of all men? And, without looking back or sensing the future, you went out into a foreign world leaving your already strange homeland, and in secret.

The check-up

Then it is time to go back for a check-up - to determine if the operation was a success. They might have cut out your tongue, but metastasis could wreak even greater havoc. It is something you have thought about but were too occupied with the immediate to give it much attention. You cannot think about the admissibility of metastasis and re-educate your mouth at the same time. Nevertheless, the surgeon is thinking about it - that's why he sent you for radiotherapy. Metastasis would ruin his good work.

The magnetic resonator is endless - it lasts for more than an hour and you almost despair of ever getting out of the machine. It thumps away with its chill-out beat - in doses of three and five minutes. You count the seconds so that you know when the dosis will end and you can breath freely, move a muscle, any muscle, just any variant on lying there waiting for the next dosis to begin. You cannot move - if you move they tell you the dosis will have to be repeated, like being punished for doing something wrong. You grip a rubber ball attached to a tube. You are supposed to squeeze it in case of extreme distress - but you are not going to squeeze it. Not yet. It seems that after the last dosis you cannot tolerate any more. But you can - you know you can. And you will. It is intolerable - but you tolerate and you will tolerate until it comes to an end. And then it is over.

'Phenomenal', says the surgeon. It is not your head he is looking at on the monitor - he is looking at his job of work, he is admiring his technique and applauding his own skill. Or so you think because today you want to be difficult. You do not want anyone to tell you how correct things are - your jaw hurts, your mouth is full of saliva, it is snowing and cold and you have just struggled through it for more than an hour to get here - and you forget this man is a giant. 'Phenomenal,' he repeats. 'As clean a mouth as I have ever seen.'

You ought to be assured - and you are. But it is as if you expected as much - and to come all this way is a troublesome formality which this giant could have avoided. How difficult are you going to be today?

'Fine...,' you say.

'Go away,' says the surgeon. 'And don't come back for at least three months.'

'Merry Christmas,' you rasp with your mutilated mouth by way a parting greeting.

Three months - about Springtime. That will do just nicely, you think.

A Poem

I HAVE A DREAM

I have a dream,

To rise with steam,

To find God’s heir,

And whisper in his ear,

To purify the air,

And find in the future no fear,

And the rules are fair.

I want black and white,

To feel alright,

To be able to walk,

To be together,

To be able to talk,

And be friends forever,

To be able to buy the same stock.

 

I want no possession,

To be an obsession,

For every one to share,

For no one to be jealous,

To sit on the same chair,

To feel glorious,

And friendship not to fear. 

- by Alex

Morale

Morale is what keeps you going. It is a very delicate thing – it can be high in an instant, and you fly with it, as if it gave you the power of flight, the power to soar over the fields full of the crops of sadness and despair, or knock you down and pummel you into a hole of misery and doubt. And all as if by the touch of a button – an invisible button, one of many buttons, and you are never quite sure which one to press – a lottery of buttons that regulate your spirit in a haphazard and illogical way. And sometimes if you hit on the right button that same button will not have the same effect another time – the magic ceases to work in proportion to the number of times you press it, as if obeying a celestial law of diminishing return. Your morale is beyond your control; it controls you. Or perhaps not completely. Sometimes, you can beat morale at its own game. You can will it to work for you. There are some things your morale cannot resist – the first light of day as the earth jumps to meet the sun, when the light soars like a musical note, a warm room with a good book, a caressing voice, something nice to eat, taking on a little job successfully that you long put off because you did not know how to tackle it (What satisfaction to see that door fixed! What joy to see that new shelf put up!). Then, there are times in the day when you are left without resources – the long, dark afternoons and the wet miserable streets, the sight of people sitting in a bar or café, talking the afternoon off its feet, the smell of fresh bread you cannot eat, pulling apart a fresh, warm loaf in the street and filling your mouth with crispy smooth chunks. And you are down and out, and it seems as if nothing really matters. All you can do is plod on into tomorrow, without thinking, without feeling – you want to be alone, you do not want to see anyone, you do not want to hear the banal simplicities of people who do not know what it is like to have no tongue. If they knew! And you realise it is all up to you. You are alone in the middle of a plain – tired, and thirsty and not sure what direction to take to get off the plain before the sun burns you up. You have to decide; you have to concentrate and make the effort. The alternative is to sit down and let the blazing sun of your emptiness burn you up. It will not give up. You have to move, keep moving, and be smart enough to move in the right direction. There are no guarantees – you get guarantees with dishwashers, not with the instinct to make it all right. And so your instinct tells you what direction to take and you follow it…

The flood

Another wee story...

November and February are months of torrential rain. In the streets near the river they prepared the houses against the flooding by nailing planks of wood across the doors. In another district, a tributary was also prone to overflow with the rain, and its waters spread out, flat like a mirror in love with the image it reflected, over the plain where the city stood.

One morning they came to collect him from school at an unusual hour. It had been pouring for days and days. The water, now flooding the park, would make it difficult for him to return to his home if they delayed any longer. They had to abandon the car. And the chestnut avenue he had covered so many times on foot had to be crossed in a boat.

The water covered everything. Down below, a lake had behind a thin row of trees. People crossed by bridges made from planks, confused and uncertain. But houses and people seemed now brief and intransient, as if the water, upon depriving them of their earthen base, made evident their true proportion and meaning.

At home, behind the windows of a balcony, he looked at the garden, protected by a wall from the waters. There, the lake, with its fragile little bridges, black lines without perspective under a flat grey sky streaked in white by the rain.

At night, there was no light. Posts and wires had succumbed to the downpour. In the candlelight, he listened to the wind outside, and to the torrential rain that fell hour after hour. He felt as if he was on an island, separated from the world and its boring affairs on a limitless holiday; an island rocked by the waters, cradling his last dreams as a child.

Fears and faith

The extended period of recovery during which I cannot perceive any improvement from one day to the next (and I cannot remember how I was a month ago so that I accustom myself to each new level of discomfort, unconsciously, as if the discomfort of today is just the same as yesterday and just the same as three months ago, and so it will go on until I can say it is not going to get any better than this) gives a quality of provisionality to my life. It is as if I am on hold, for the moment; constantly on call; that it is not yet the time to make plans. Nobody is a rock. So much effort ought to yield a perceptible result – something I can feel, like after a bad headache goes away and you can revel in the relief. Others assure me my progress is spectacular. And if I make act of memory then, yes, there has been an improvement. I concentrate on specific things – three months ago I could not eat with the same ease, I could not walk as far, the scars in my neck were on fire and throbbed constantly. Now it is different. So there is progress. And my act of memory does me good. Still, is this is as good as it gets? I ask myself – Could I live with this level of discomfort and disability? I answer  - yes. Then I correct myself - no…it must get better than this. There are still things I want to do and I cannot do them. I have no plans, but I have a plan. I have an illusion. I daydream, I build castles in the sky, I construct a castle in Spain (very apt). Then I return to the ‘long wait’ – the only immediate reality.

I tell myself I must have faith (not religious faith, faith in an invisible hand for the invisible hand will always put you down, it will never lift you up) but faith in time, faith in the healing capacity of the body, faith in the ability of the mind to adapt, the affirmation that each day will bring a tomorrow and that tomorrow will be better than today. The body and the mind can adapt to anything if they really must. And my body will improve and my mind will adapt. So, I have faith…

Fitzroy

Talking about dreaming. This is not all of it - it is incomplete, just like a dream...

Glasgow Herald

Sunday, May 21, 2006

 

Return to Fitzroy

Article by

Mike Coleman

The author, who participated in the first alpine style ascent of Mount Fitzroy in 1971, makes a return to that notorious triangle of ice and clouds – 35 years later. It is a fleeting return – a reunion in the mind in which Coleman visualises with nostalgia the beauty of the mountain and with delicious trepidation the          rigours of a climb that is now a dream.

There is a saying at the bottom of the world that, if you want to experience all four seasons in Patagonia, you have to spend the day. I have already spent several years by that yardstick holed up in the windsocks that pass for tents here. I've been waiting for a break in the blitzing skies for a rematch with Mt. Fitzroy, a monolith of stone and ice whose jagged profile is an emblem of vertical adventure. The tallest mountain in the Patagonian Andes, Fitzroy is known for its towering face, which is one of the pinnacles of rock climbing. Over the last 35 years this mountain has been my ecstasy — and agony. When I was 19, exultation and tragedy combined in a rite of passage that shaped my life. Now, at 54, I am back. And wondering if I'm not delusional to be here.

Rising in sheer audacity at the southernmost tip of the Andes astride the Patagonian Ice Cap, Mt. Fitzroy named after Robert Fitzroy, captain of the HMS Beagle — is so well-defended by notorious walls and storms that fewer have stood on its 11,070-foot summit through history than on the top of Mt. Everest in a single day. Most climbers are battered into submission, many are injured, and more than a few have died.

Buffeted in my tent at base camp, I can only wait and wonder about what Fitzroy and the elements have in store for us when we are clinging to the peak's exposed wall. The trouble is, I know all too well.

In 1971, Fitzroy had been climbed only a handful of times, our route but once.

We were seven fledgling mountaineers in our 20s for whom the summit of Fitzroy was a prize beyond measure — worth risking it all. We called our team the Haggis Ball, haggis being the only thing that comes close to climbing. Three would make the ultimate ascent: Bruce Barclay, Ronnie Richards and myself.

Outwardly, we couldn't have been more different. What we shared was climbing, a love of mountains and a deep friendship. On the rock there was no one I would rather have on the other end of my rope, no one sturdier or more capable than Richards.

In your 20s you don't ask why. You simply do it. Fitzroy was to be "the big one." Unconsciously we believed its summit would be the great hunt from which we would return, trophy in hand, to be hailed as warriors. But, as we would learn, to return at all would be the challenge.

Excuses exhausted. Three decades had passed, and I had never exorcised the demons of that climb.

The man at 54 still remembered the moment that Richards had turned to the boy of 19 and said, "You didn't really train for this, did you? You are not really ready, are you?" And still they climbed on. Still his friend had tied on to his rope, put his life in his hands. The man remembered the fear and regret he had felt at 19 during and after that climb. It still haunted him.

Then one day a friend asked me what was left unfinished in my life as I approached the mid-century mark. I said one word: Fitzroy of the cold air in my lungs. What if I decided at 54 to get into the best shape of my life, to truly step back into the life of adventure?

Over a year and a half of training in the mind, I regained forgotten snow-and-ice techniques and honed my rock skills, climbing on the great walls of remembered years. I was fuelled by the greatest motivator: fear. This time I knew what I was up against — and that, no matter the outcome, there would be no room on this expedition for someone to say: "You didn't really train for this, did you?"

I'm encouraged by my team. But no matter how strong the team is, it's the weather that will decide our fate. Storms surge so fast off the Pacific and across the ice cap that the most glorious day can become a gale-lashed battle zone in a blink. The round trip from advance base camp to the summit of Fitzroy will require a day and a half of non-stop climbing. Exposed on the pinnacle in a storm, we would have little chance of making it back. I heard about a young climber named Franky, who had appeared on the local scene a couple of years ago and became everyone's favourite.

"Too bad about Franky," I was told.

"Why too bad?" I asked.

"A storm hit him on the way down. He's still hanging up there. Like a Christmas

ornament."

Face to face.

Thirty years ago, Franky could have been any one of us…

…Climbing legend Eric Shipton called this range of knife-edged towers the "fatal lodestone." It is a kind of madness. To risk one's existence and face extremes of exertion and discomfort, to spend your entire life savings in the mere hope of standing for a matter of moments atop an icy rock is not logical. But then again, neither is life. There is no reason for life, no answer to the question of life other than more life!

As D.H. Lawrence wrote, "For man, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive…. We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos"…

…There may be myriad ways to find this awakened state. But those of us who truly love the mountains often know but this one. And why Patagonia? Because here, with the screaming wind, ice-draped towers and thundering avalanches, it is difficult to fall back to sleep…

…The clouds are back to their usual fury. A legend of the indigenous Tehuelche Indians says that when a mist obscures the peak of Fitzroy, evil spirits have arrived and tragedy will ensue. My last image of Barclay was of him being swallowed by clouds…

…I reach a hand across 30 years and touch the rock. Tag, Fitzroy. You're it. Spindrift whirls. Clouds engulf the summit. It is time to descend before the peak claims any more victims in the Tehuelche tradition.

We return fully spent and alive. What was not within our control had evaded our grasp, but we had done all we could. Mahatma Gandhi once said, "Full effort is full victory." I'd gone 10 rounds with the Godzilla of my past and come out standing. This time I was ready. Barclay would be proud. But you only claw to the top of this summit when Fitzroy was ready...

Sleep and dreams

I sleep very badly. Sometimes, I take a mild sleeping-pill. And sometimes it works – but then it leaves me half-wonky when I wake up. If I cannot sleep I stay up late reading. Then I fall asleep in my chair and the rest of the night is ruined. It is odd, no matter how tired I may be, just a few minutes sleep – sitting down or standing up – and the urge to sleep is banished though I do not feel refreshed.

If I succeed in falling asleep in a dignified fashion I dream. I know I dream because when I wake up I can visualise in my head a grey place that evanesces like early morning fog and then I cannot remember what it was all about.

Sometimes though I rise into half-wakefulness and I think – it is just a dream, I know I am dreaming. This state of half-wakefulness allows me to make an impression of the dream in my mind. It is a staccato impression, like an old black-and-white film.  At first, I feel a certain relief. In my dream, I am struggling uphill – but the effort is too much. I cannot make it to the top though I have no notion of where the top is, or what lies beyond it. I slip back constantly. My legs are so heavy I can hardly lift them; there seems to be a force that pins them to the ground. Then my relief gives way to a realisation of futility. Or I lose my wallet and I am dominated by panic – and in a state of half-wakefulness I tell myself it is just a dream. I know it is just a dream. Then my relief gives way to a realisation of irreparable loss. And now I can feel my primitive tongue in my mouth and I am swallowing. I take some food into my mouth and I can swallow it. And I am so proud. I smile at the people around me as if to say – see what I can do now. I can talk as well! My speech is slow and ponderous – but I am talking with no effort and people can understand me. I feel so good. I am sure it has happened. I can talk and eat! And it is so sudden. Then I am fully awake and I realise it was just a dream. I do not feel relief, just a numbing disappointment.

The magnolia

I am still day-dreaming...

...you entered the street through an archway. The street was so narrow that if you walked in the middle you could extend your arms and touch the walls on either side. Then, beyond an iron gate, it was condemned to lose itself in the labyrinth of other streets and small squares that made up the old town. At the end of the street there was just a small door that was always closed. It seemed to you the only way out was to climb over the houses, towards the burning blue sky.

In a bend of the street there was a balcony. You could climb up to it, almost without effort. To the side of the balcony, and spread over the mud walls of the garden, sprouted the huge magnolia, covering everything with its branches. In the spring, the snowy tops of its flowers posed among the brilliant and pungent leaves with the subtle mystery of the virgin.

That magnolia always represented more than a beautiful reality. In it was encoded the image of life. Albeit at times you wished it was different, freer perhaps, or more in the stream of people and things, you knew very well it was that living room of the tree, that blossoming without witnesses, that gave it such towering beauty. It was consumed by its own ardour and its so pure flowers sprouted in solitary silence like a rejected sacrifice on the alter of some god.

Dress and clothing

Ghandi had more dress sense than a tongueless wonder. Dress is simply a way of avoiding exposure – either to the public moral code, the heat or the cold. And the objective of keeping warm seems especially apt today since, when I woke up, Madrid was covered in a mantle of snow and my roof-garden was a brilliant white, filling my flat with a strange and eerie brightness in lieu of the dawn. Dress is above all about being comfortable.

None of my clothes fit me properly. I lost two sizes, though I have almost recovered one. Nevertheless, everything I put on seems like a premature hand-down. My shirts, when buttoned up to the neck, look like v-neck jumpers. My trousers, once tight round my waist, now hug my ankles if not secured. I have to use suspenders to keep them up (something I had never, or rarely, done before) since a belt merely serves to crinkle the waistband. My handkerchiefs are the only item of clothing that fits. Everything is lose – and that is not comfortable.

It makes to sense to acquire a whole new wardrobe – the post-op collection – since, somewhere out there, lies the hope of a substantial recovery and, with it, a return to pre-op dimensions. But for the sake of meantime-comfort I acquired some trousers with an elastic waist that can be adjusted to various sizes. They are more in the line of work clothes but I am not a ‘dedicated follower of fashion’, to distort a line from a song by The Kinks (from 1966, would you believe). So long as they are comfortable.

Suits pose a real problem, especially if you need to wear a suit for professional purposes. Occasionally, however, a suit is indicated for all tongueless wonders – a reception, or a book presentation (though I assisted at such an event and got away with work trousers and a lose-fitting jacket). And then  it is a community-wide problem. The solution may lie in borrowing a suit from a skinny neighbour with an equally disastrous concept of elegance. Or hiring a suit – whatever fits you best and the occasion demands. Or, do not assist at the event. This latter will obviously avoid any annoying interest in your disability, and the public exposure of your Neanderthal-like speech ability. But if you are up to it, and you can find the right trappings, maybe you owe to yourself to be there. You are not going to shy away from a few pairs of impertinent eyes, are you?

Maybe to comment dress, to write an entry on clothes, begets the lie. Am I so indifferent to what I wear? Yes, I think I am, but at the same time I want to pass unnoticed. I should be equally put out if my ill-fitting clothes called attention in the same way as the elegance of others. So my slovenliness should be contained within certain studied limits – comfortable slovenliness, you might call it. My concern is to avoid attention, not to attract it – and the latter is what style and fashion are all about, even at the expense of comfort.

The old garden

I am daydreaming…

…there in that garden you dreamed life was a never ending enchantment. The breadth of the sky urged you to action; the compulsion of the flowers, the leaves and the water to seek pleasure without remorse.

First you had to follow a long dark corridor. Then, through an archway at the end, the light from the garden appeared, a light whose golden brilliance imbued the green of the leaves and the water in the pond. And, outside, closed within the iron railings, it shone like liquid emerald, dense, serene and mysterious.

Then there was the stairway with two tall magnolias next to the steps, and hidden in their branches some old statue that served as a pedestal. The garden terraces started at the foot of the stairway.

Following a path of reddish bricks, through a wrought-iron gate and some steps, the solitary little patios appeared, with myrtle and oleander surrounding a moss-covered well. And next to the well the trunk of a cypress whose top was lost in the luminous air.

In the surrounding silence, all that beauty came alive with a latent beating, as if the heart of people long gone, who once took pleasure in the garden, throbbed in waiting behind the thick branches. The incessant rumour of the water sounded like disappearing footsteps.

The sky was a clean, limpid  blue, glorious with light and colour. And on the horizon a grey and ochre tower rose up.

Later you understood that neither action nor pleasure could be lived to the perfection of those dreams by the side of the well. And the day you understood this sad reality, far away in a strange land, you wanted to return to that garden, sit again by the side of the well and dream of past youth.

Predisposition

'They can be voracious,’ said the chief surgeon. ‘And if there is a predisposition on the part of the body, even more so.’ There it was – a certain predisposition, a willingness of the body to generate cancer. The genetic factor. Like alcohol. The body is born with a genetically conceived desire for alcohol, or a genetically conceived tendency of the cells to corrupt.

I read this in a medical magazine:

“Small proportion of cancers develop due to inherited mutations of tumour-suppressor genes, DNA repair genes, and a few recessive genes. Several genes that predispose humans to cancer have been cloned and are used for predictive genetic testing. Interventions such as total colectomy or mastectomy is used for prevention of inherited cancers. However, genetic screening and prophylactic treatments have profound psychosocial effects on patients and families. The first draft of the human genome project has not revealed new genes responsible for common cancers. There is no single technology at present to detect susceptibly due to different genomic abnormalities such as large deletions, rearrangements, base substitutions, small insertions and deletions, amplification, and epigenetic changes like DNA methylation. More laboratory, clinical and ethical research is needed to understand the true extent of genetic predisposition to cancer. We also need to study the social implications of genetic screening in our communities with diverse customs and prejudices so that we can provide socially acceptable treatment strategies.”

Am I predisposed? I could believe it. My father died of cancer – but I know so little about his side of the family. Did previous generations of his family register any cancer? There is no history of cancer on my mother’s side. Her family is known to live forever. My grandfather on my mother’s side lived so long nobody knew how old he was when he died.

It is a disquieting thought - that the body is conceived with the wherewithal to destroy itself. It only needs the right coincidence of effects in conjunction with time to put the process of destruction in gear. The idea of a gene waiting patiently for the body chemistry to compound itself in just the right proportion and then pounce is even alarming – alarming in the way only the unknown can provoke unease.

El bigoteo

I wrote somewhere I grew a moustache to divert attention from my appearance. Now I recall writing a piece about moustaches some years ago. I found it. Here it is:

Hispanic Register

copyright © 2004

      all  rights                             published by the University of Hampton Press

      reserved                                                           

June, 2004

El Bigotéo(i)

El autor reflexiona sobre el lugar del bigote en la historia y la estética del hombre

por Mike Coleman

 

A lo largo de la historia tanto la historia reciente como la de antes los pelos faciales han servidos para definir a su propietario – o creador. Desde luego los pelos hablan mas de los hombres; poco tienen que decir de las mujeres si nos limitamos a los pelos estrictamente faciales y nos olvidemos de los pelos craneales y de otras regiones de la anatomía humana que no vienen a cuenta en este momento. Estos últimos, los craneales se entienden, obedecen mas a cuestiones de estilo o aceptación social – de confeccionar y mandar un mensaje efímera e innecesaria, sin un contenido común y duradero, que a la autentica meta que propone el cabello facial. Fíjense en el pelo craneal más famoso de la historia reciente – los cascos peludazos portados por Los Beatles. Sus cascos decían muy poco de las personas de por debajo de ellos – pero identificaron un genero musical con sus protagonistas que, en su turno pregonaron una forma de pensar, que se duplico en miles o millones de casas, por lo menos durante sus primeros momentos y años. Luego llegaron los bigotes y las barbas que ofrecieron otro mensaje, otro discurso – un discurso más  confuso  y menos alegre.

¿Cuál era o cual es el bigote más siniestro en la historia reciente de esta planeta? No faltan candidatos; pero, centrémonos en tres en especial por estar mas o menos presentes en la conciencia de la mayoría de la gente – o, por lo menos, a la gente que han tenido la paciencia de leer hasta aquí.

Primero, la mancha arrían de Hitler; secundo, la barra de bicicleta de Stalin y, en tercer lugar,   pero solamente por razones de efecto literario, ha aquí un bigote de dimensiones satisfactorias y de una siniestralidad mas que notable,    el    bigote      mas cuidado y más famoso de Valladolid, Los Azores y El Mundo, el de Chema – ex– Presidente de España, del universo y del mas allá.

La protección psíquica  de un bigote funciona de una manera parecida .... protege el oyente del mal olor de un discurso rancio y extrema; sirve para filtrar las ideas más nefastas y las palabras mal concebidas y odiosas.

¿Esto es injusto? Yo no sé, en realidad. Si eres familiar de la criatura en cuestión, desde luego que sí. Si eres amigo, admirador o amante, lo mismo se podría concluir. Pero, para muchos, menos casi doscientas personas, cabe la posibilidad de que no – que no es injusto.

¿O sea, el bigote – su hecho, su dimensión y/o su configuración, define a la persona? ¿Y porque un bigote? ¿Por qué no un grano por el labio superior como medidor de la persona? El bigote es un apéndice muy agresivo, modestamente en algunos casos y muy voluble en otros casos, pero no deja de ser agresivo. Y, como el pené, es una protuberancia masculina casi en exclusiva – eso dirán, pero no es eso la cuestión, por favor. El bigote es una cuestión de estética – de vanidad, se quieres; ayuda a cambiar de aspecto para quienes que necesitan cambiar de aspecto (y los hay), de ofrecer otra imagen, quizás una imagen menos juvenil (y por tanto, menos frívolo), dar seriedad donde, con toda seguridad no la hay. Pero, la dejadez higiénica de unos días no cambia lo esencial de nuestro discurso, ni lo mejora ni lo empeora.

También es una forma de protección –   tanto   practico como psíquico. Los pescadores de alta mar, por ejemplo, utilizan el bigote para atrapar el aire frió, para que no entre en sus  pulmones con las consecuencias más imprevisibles para su salud y para la captura. La protección psíquica funciona de una manera parecida – protege el oyente del mal olor de un discurso rancio y extrema; sirve para filtrar las ideas más nefastas y las palabras mal concebidas y odiosas. Los bigotes protegen sus propietarios de los ataques vitales no deseados, como una red protege las cerezas de los pájaros – y a sus interlocutores también.

A demás de proteger, los bigotes confunden – las demás personas no pueden con absoluta certeza definir la persona partiendo de una boca camuflada. La boca es como una biblioteca sin puertas – muestra me su biblioteca y te diré que meritos tienes. Enséñame su boca y te diré que meritos tienes – bondad, ironía, mezquindad, generosidad, mente abierta, valía, simpatía, antipatía, cobardía, una buena escoba dentífrica – pero con bigote o otros adornos no puede decir nada salvo que eres lo suficientemente vago como para quitártelo cada mañana.

Desde el punto de vista de las relaciones, no estrictamente sexuales, pero si bilaterales entre hombres y mujeres, los bigotes tienen un doble papel – deberían atraer, y afirmar masculinidad o virilidad  (por ejemplo, en las culturas indias rurales existe todo un folklórico sobre el tamaño y forma de los bigotes; allí, el fenómeno del musculoso mister universo o mister indio no existe – pero sí él fenómeno del mister bigote del año. ¿Tomaran sustancias prohibidas para que los bigotes crezcan mas y mejor? ¿Las cremas o otras sustancias que usan para dar forma al bigote son deducibles para efectos fiscales? Es el equivalente humano de las rituales de atracción previas al inicio de las actas de reproducción y perpetuación de la especie – algo vital para nuestra supervivencia, para la supervivencia de cualquier especie. Salvo en el caso de aquellas tribus o ejemplares que, por razones   que solo admite la naturaleza, los indios americanos, por ejemplo, que no tienen velo facial o, por lo menos no lo tienen en abundancia o lo suficiente para dedicarse a demostraciones de celos masculinos. En estos casos, los más guapos, los mas viriles, colocaron plumas de aves en la cabeza para poder destacar y llamar la atención de las hembras – plumas de ave, la especie más proclive a demostraciones tanto elegantes como inequívocos de la virilidad masculina. O sea, el de Los Azores es un pájaro en constante estado de plumaje  exuberante y cachondeo político y social. Por no hablar de la hembra de la especie...

Otra explicación, por su puesto, es la dejadez sanitaria. Un bigote, como un muro de hiedra milenaria, atrae muchos bichos – mucha suciedad, polvo y impurezas   procedentes   del

aire. Conservarlo es un acto insanitario – y solo puede atribuirse a una tendencia a la falta de higiene, tanto labial como verbal. Extender el bigote por los cuatro lados y llamarlo una barba es un acto de extensión de la suciedad – y de las moscas – por arriba,   por    abajo y por todos lados, como es mas que evidente cuando la gente rasca cuando habla.

¿Y que dicen las hembras? De eso tendrán de hablar ellas. Pero no me consta que la suciedad, la priklitud verbal y de contacto, conduce al cariño – ni físico, ni social, ni ideológico. Entonces volvemos al principio. El bigote es una afectación de vanidad, un encubrimiento de los auténticos sentimientos, una demostración de virilidad admitida por la hembra pero que provoca asco al final y a cabo; o, es un símbolo de una forma de ser – una insignia, un emblema, la modulación de una filosofía de vida o como conducirla que quizás debería colocarse en el hombro y no en e labio superior. Ergo, Stalin, Genghis Khan, Bin Laden (un caso exagerado), Arafat, Aznar – todos contra Ghandi, Perez, Mandela, Hirohito, con notables excepciones que solo sirven para confirmar la regla – Musolini, por ejemplo. Y, mientras exista la duda, quitar el bigote y opta por la mediocridad – Zapatero, Blair, Bush – no es una opción. O, si te apetece deprimirte hasta limite casi clínicos o internables, opta por Trillo, el diputado menos dispuesto en la historia del universo reciente – y no tiene ni un pelo, ni siquiera en la lengua, que es el sitio menos indicado para un pelito (o dos) si se busca un poco de virilidad. Debería tener un bigote – el bigote se lo merece. Es su tipo...

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Mike Coleman afirma ser escritor y vive en Madrid

[1] El Bigotéo se refiere a la costumbre de llevar bigote, una costumbre muy extendida entre los hombres detodos los tiempos