Wednesday, December 12, 2007

The Count of Monte Cristo

(The Diving Bell and the Butterfly)

Noirtier de Villefort
— The father of Gérard de Villefort and grandfather of Valentine. After suffering an apoplectic stroke, Noirtier becomes mute and a quadriplegic, but can communicate with Valentine and his servant Barrois through use of his eyelids and eyes. Although utterly dependent on others, he saves Valentine from the poison of her stepmother and her undesired marriage to Baron Franz d'Epinay. Throughout his life he was a Bonapartist – an ardent French Revolutionary. Gérard de Villefort had realized that Edmond intended to fulfill his dying captain's last wish by conveying a letter from the imprisoned Napoleon to Noirtier, and therefore imprisoned Edmond in order to hide that fact, which might have hindered Gérard's advancement.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The rewritten life of Harold Robbins

"He admitted that he wrote only for money and cared nothing for style or the contempt of the critics. 'I'm the best writer around,' he told me, 'and I don't wanna be remembered after I'm dead. Once I'm dead, I'm dead. I've told Grace when it happens to put my ashes in a locket and wear it between her breasts. I'd like to hang there for the rest of time.'

Sadly, Grace divorced him and his ashes lie instead today in a book-shaped casket in Palm Springs, where he ended his days jaded and disillusioned in bloated agony, in a wheelchair, suffering from a stroke, aphasia, broken bones, heart trouble and emphysema."




There is that ambivalent silence
That lingers, floating in the air.
No words are spoken- hushed she lies in the corner
Her room once lit with swirling colors.
Befallen with darkness, a nightingale sings
Its melody alluring- a rise in her senses.
But no, the tears tell it all
Of which appear ironed to her cheeks.
Closed porcelain eyes, mouth pursed into a tight line
Left with a sealed stamp of aphasia

Saturday, November 17, 2007


And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Friday, October 26, 2007

My Aphasia By Cory Paul Harrison

You are my aphasia.
I live and die on you.
You are my depression,
My ecstasy,
You are the black in me,
You are the best in me.

I need your skin, I feel your truth,
I live to be a part of you. Next.........

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Aphasia Poetry

With all that’s been going on with Carol’s mother and the deaths over this last year, I have not thought consciously at least that much of Brother Dan’s stroke. I have managed to see him nearly every week—not as frequently lately as school and getting ready for it approaches, but the other day he sent me some aphasia poetry. Because that’s what he has—though it is getting better—aphasia. Anyway that made me remember; and realize too that I have not really forgotten about it.

I have had lately memory problems; the result I expect of no more than aging. But I spoke with a colleague the other day whose mother, only in her mid seventies, is showing signs of Alzheimer. He went to where she lives—for a while during the summer—to spell his father who was becoming worn out from tending his mother. Amazing, to think, I think: of the memory just going. Not just forgetting but not even knowing that one has forgotten.

I can’t imagine what that might be like: like drifting up in the clouds perhaps, unattached, with a bottomless pit right below. Especially when the short term goes; you might wash your face over and over, forgetting as you blink your eyes, each time that you had forgotten.

I think this just incomprehensible: to lose your mind in this way; and not even know that you have lost it because the mind is just the brain in situ. One might know, by means of the brain that one has lost one’s arm or one’s sight or that one is losing one’s strength. But when the mind itself is being lost there is nothing to know the loss.

I get cold with fear thinking about it. And wondering if that loss waits around the corner for me.

But this is what Brother Dan, in a different form, has been struggling with for eight months now. Does he have problems with memory? Maybe yes, maybe no. Certainly not of the short term kind, and if of the long term, I don’t know. When he says something is 12,000 dollars and he meant 1200 dollars, did he forget that it was just 1200 or did his mind misspeak, mistaking 12000 for 1200. I don’t know if he would know, or if I would know, for that matter, unless somebody had been there to say otherwise, because at times at least I don’t think he knows he has misspoken.

They say the intelligence of the aphasiac is frequently unimpaired. But how would one know. How could you give a cat a test to see if it is going blind, since he cannot tell you want it sees. I think Dan’s intelligence is unimpaired. But were he to take some sort of verbal comprehension test he would do poorly I think.

Here are a few lines of his aphasia poetry—that he titles “halo ended”--which he said was OK for me to put on the blog:

You can take it in your tung. Your effectiveness. Your dreams. I can hold it thus. Thus is mine. Mine. Do you want it to me yours? I will give it to you. My thoughts, my actions thus thus thusly for us. In my friend, my pozole, my poseque, my POS. We wait, we wait for a positive reaction to my heart. We wait for a plant operator selection system. We wait. Can we do it? Can my heart take it? My bubbles?

*Ҝrayle_||ж||_Ҝeary† DILEMMA

Lucky: Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a person God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment plunged in fire whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say blast hell to heaven so blue still and calm so calm with a calm which even though intermittent is better than nothing but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Anthropopopometry of Essy-in-Possy of Testew and Cunard it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labors of men that as a result of the labors unfinished of Testew and Cunnard it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Puncher and Wattmann it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Fartov and Belcher left unfinished for reasons unknown of Testew and Cunard left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in Possy of Testew and Cunard that man in Essy that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of alimentation and defecation wastes and pines wastes and pines and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter winter tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicillin and succedanea in a word I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Feckham Peckham Fulham Clapham namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume Fulham Clapham in a word the dead loss per head since the death of Bishop Berkeley being to the tune of one inch four ounce per head approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connemara in a word for reasons unknown no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord six hundred and something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fine on on abode of stones who can doubt it I resume but not so fast I resume the skull fading fading fading and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis on on the beard the flames the tears the stones so blue so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of stones in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the skull alas the stones Cunard (mêlée, final vociferations) . . . tennis . . . the stones . . . so calm . . . Cunard . . . unfinished . . .

Saturday, August 18, 2007

talking to strangers


.Let's Talk.

are you lost or incomplete?
do you feel like a puzzle
you can't find your missing piece?
tell me how do you feel?
well, I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak...
and they're talking it to me...♫♪♫♪

talk to me

There's a silence surrounding me
I can't seem to think straight
I'll sit in the corner
No one will bother me
I think I should speak now ______________________ Why won't you talk to me
I can't seem to speak now ________________________You never talk to me
My words won't come out right ___________________ What are you thinking
I feel like I'm drowning ____________________________ What are you feeling
I'm feeling weak now ____________________________Why won't you talk to me
But I can't show my weakness _____________________ You never talk to me
I sometimes wonder ___________________________ What are you thinking
Where do we go from here _________________________ What are you feeling

Pink Floyd, Keep Talking

It was only the crack (not artificial) when I took this photo and right now, after two years i took it, it gave me its message...

hand on the shoulder..

note: this is a cleared version, i removed the old one..

Sunday, July 1, 2007


brought unto a ceaseless wrath of confusion.
Lost? The word brings no justice!
The fusion of all the emotions sent forth
can bring you to your knees.
So lift up from this cold ground,
find the light, climb these dark halls,
this maze clouded by fear.
Please phase through this!

Dapper Ed

Monday, June 4, 2007

ON THE BILL: Louis Smith performance will be part of his therapy

Fans and friends of Ann Arbor trumpeter and educator Louis Smith, who had a stroke a year and a half ago, will be delighted to know that his therapy at the University of Michigan Residential Aphasia Program has progressed to such an extent he will be able to perform at an event marking the 60th anniversary of the aphasia program Saturday at the Michigan Theater.

"This is part of his speech therapy,'' said Smith's wife, Lulu. "As music is on the right side and communication is on the left side of the brain, this is a way to get him to start to communicate and talk. Louis' left brain was affected by the stroke.''

The songs he will sing are "On the Sunny Side of the Street,'' "It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Swing'' and "Georgia.'' "The remarkable thing is he can sing these words but not speak them,'' Lulu Smith added.


Anybody who’s had dealings with small children knows the importance of “the pitch” — the succinct, attractive, punchy, mentally digestible presentation of a new idea. Faced with a frowning toddler, you have about six seconds to make the sale, and it has to be as sweet and as tight as a radio jingle. You will be pitilessly scanned for irregular body language, unevenness of tone, and pupil dilation. The air is electric with feral mistrust. If you start sweating, if they smell your fear — it’s over. Such was the predicament of the 50 apprentice filmmakers gathered in the premiere episode of Steven Spielberg & Mark Burnett’s ON THE LOT (Fox, Tuesday at 9 pm), since their first challenge was to pitch a movie idea to the Hollywood triumvirate of Garry Marshall, Carrie Fisher, and Brett Ratner. The hopefuls were touchingly hopeless: they dried up into gaping silence, or ranted like prophets, in visionary isolation. Jeremy Corray, expounding upon a torture scene that formed the centerpiece of a film he planned to call Synergilistic, took off his belt and thrashed the floor. “Mickey Castellucci is a run-of-the-mill New York mobster,” began another contestant, more promisingly, “but for the last 10 years, he’s been informing for the FBI. One day he wakes up and he’s turned into a six-foot-two-inch 300-pound mouse.” Quality stuff so far, but here — eclipsed, perhaps, by the brilliance of his own conceit — the pitcher appeared to enter some sort of fugue state or light aphasia. Suddenly, no more words: some helpless movements of the hands, and a bit of rocking back and forth. The judges looked at one another. “Then . . . ?” prompted Garry Marshall, to no effect.

The Way Back Home Info & Events

Saturday, June 2, 2007

Desire Love The Visible Reality The Poem

Desire as a creative force and love as a maintaining force . . . I enjoy conceptualizing things in such ways.

I hope this is helpful, or at least interesting. It will be in two parts. This is part one. Part two, if it ever actually happens, will be later. I, perhaps rashly, put in a course title for this coming fall, which is Poetry As Mystery, now I’m trying to work up how I will actually present such an unwieldy thing. I’m brainstorming.

I’m interested, currently, less in the compositional process from blank paper, than I am the compositional process of revision. That seems to me a profitable place to think about mystery. It’s obvious that there’s mystery to a blank piece of paper, but usually in the revision process we hear words like “clarity,” etc. “Clarity” is a great word, as it reveals “clarity of design,” but I think rather than that, “clarity” usually gets reduced to “Make it Clear” in the Lowest Common Denominator of public speech sort of way. “Make it Clear?” I look around me, and, though the images of the yard are “clear,” they are not in any way “clearly meaning” one thing, they simply are, and in their beingness, they contain large amounts of mystery. Mystery of human interaction, mystery of simply being there at all. So how does one keep oneself open to such mystery, without it being a trick or a who-done-it? Or, equally problematic, how to factor in the true difficulty of being without falling into aphasia? The two sides equally threaten, as one tries to negotiate, in some honest way, the mystery inherent in living.


Saturday, May 19, 2007

Kooser charms crowd with precise verse

Tribune Staff Writer

First, a poet captures you with a moment. Then, he applies pressure.

And finally -- ah -- there is a release.

He lets you out.

This is how Ted Kooser -- a Pulitzer-Prize winner and two-time Poet Laureate -- explained the experience of poetry during his reading Friday night at the Dogwood Fine Arts Festival in Dowagiac. He then read his poem "The Urine Specimen."

In it, Kooser describes the odd feeling of holding that cup, "like holding an organ -- spleen or fatty pancreas." As the poem unravels, it offers an effortless humor even as it ruminates on mortality.

It ends with an effective punch line: You raise the cup to toast the man in the mirror. That man "wanly smiles," but does not drink to you.

The crowd, particularly awake after he read the title, erupted in laughter at the poem's end.

Capture. Pressure. Release.

Kooser's precise, clear work has been described, on occasion, as haiku-like. Indeed, his verse has this quality, and the poems translate well on stage. They are poignant, but digestible.

Also adding to the charm of the evening was Kooser's straightforward, gentlemanly nature. In fact, he started with a poem that undermined his celebrity.

It was called "Success."

Becoming Poet Laureate, he explained was an unsettling, terrifying experience. (He received no warning -- just a phone call, after which he staggered around a lot and knocked the side-view mirror off his car while backing out of the driveway.) With all his speaking engagements, friends were always inquiring how Kooser (an introvert) was doing. Hence, "Success."

In it, he speaks of "the thick, yellow fat of applause" building up in his arteries, and the onset of "poetic aphasia."

It was a humorous way to start the evening and indicative of Kooser's character.

He went on to tell the audience that he has long woken at 4:30 a.m to write, and his work, in a way, seems to reflect that. In his poems, his diligence to observing the world is clear.

Sometimes, his works were snapshots capturing small moments of wonder -- a skater executing a turn, his wife washing her hands ("The more ordinary an experience, the more I love it," he said). Other times, they were poignant portraits of family members. Occasionally, they touched on greater social issues, as with his piece on county poor farms, a striking poem that left the audience with the haunting image of bodies buried by the government, each with a mason jar, the person's name written on a slip of paper inside.

Kooser's poems always seemed to hit their mark. They often earned murmurs of recognition or spontaneous clapping at their "release" moment. The evening, packed with his short, elegant, sparse verse, seemed to go quickly. Kooser left the stage to warm and genuine applause.

how to survive suburban life


This entry was posted on Friday, March 23rd, 2007 at

Sunday, February 25, 2007


Sunday, February 18, 2007

When Grandpa come home

At Story about Stroke

Friday, February 16, 2007

Apahsia now seem be least of my worys

PostPosted: Thu Jun 01, 2006 11:12 pm
Hello, time to moan, share my feelsing.
Latest Diganosis from speech theripist is not you have apahsia
ok maybe small bit. however you read you write you comprihend.
To talk is diffrent matter, now say Dystahria, also Apraxia!
Great more words for my mind to absorb.

Know what to say is clear.
Imagination is vibrant.
Thouhts are Explosive.
Yet speech is null!!!
to say 2 words together is achivment.
to say three would be great.
TO say a sentance is my upmost desire!
Say what is clearly in my head, make my mouth repond""!!!!!
isolation of which many people do not understand.
Hey you can read, writre, listen to spoken word.
Why do you not speek.
somtimes you begin blame your self, think is I at wrong,
Do I have a PRoblem?
Problem yes, solution unknown.
Dealing with sociitiy is a problem.
TO ask for loaf of bread pint of milk, wish to say please also thank you.
A goal in itsself!!!!!!
I have return to army cadets as Instructor.
I get Admin Duties, on some times I get to teach.
I use my laptop with speech software.
Kids are great they learn to adapt eaiser than adult do!

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Samuel Beckett and Waiting for Godot (play)

Lucky, one of the four characters in Samuel Beckett’s play, Waiting For Godot, uses the word aphasia in his long speech and mimics the condition by persistent repetition of phrase.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Marymount Manhattan and aphasia

Marymount Manhattan and art aphasia

Marymount Manhattan.

Marymount Manhattan.

Marymount Manhattan.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Clark Quin

Drunked Boat

Clark Quin

Global Aphasia Collage