‘To us it seems that Hermes’ speech is to the point.
What he commands to you is to relax from your
self-will and seek the wisdom that’s in good advice.
Do as he says, since wrong is shameful in the wise.’
Laid flat-out in an ambulance, speeding toward hospital, spouting leads like the Hydra and uncertain data pinging its way to Mission Control is surreal. Like Major Tom, I’m in a tin can and there’s’ something wrong.
The kindly cardiologist, somehow redolent of Atticus Finch, leans in and mashes a Xmas platitude with diagnosis. ‘Season’s greetings you’ve had a heart attack.’ And now Billy T tells me, ‘We’re gonna anaethis…anesthize…emphas…we’re gonna make your wrist numb and put in a coupla stents. All right bro?’
I nod gratefully as I’ve found the wisdom that’s in good advice. My self-will has never been so relaxed. I wonder if the surgeon’s name is Victor and he has an assistant, Igor. And are they having a James Whale of a time?
Yes. I’ve seen that movie too. But never thought I’d be starring in it. It is surreal. It still is. Luis Buñuel directs Shortland Street perhaps. I don’t have a bolt through my neck and a forehead like Kelsey Grammer but I am made of clay – especially my feet. Prometheus saw to that.