Tag Archives: medicine

Matheus Schurr

“It all began on a dreary night of November 1816. Whilst Mary Shelley was drawing energy from freak electrical storms and sudden weather changes to build Frankenstein at the Villa Diodati on the shores of Lake Geneva, a family in a small Black Forest village on the other side of the Alps called on Doctor Johann Tritschler to give his medical opinion on the condition of a thirteen-year-old boy named Matheus Schurr. The boy, according to Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, was tormented by dreams and physical ailments: ‘His speech was rapid and loud, his face was pale and with an expression of anxiety, he complained often of violent pains in his body, of headache, sickness, and an inclination to vomit, and he not only trembled when he attempted to move, but had constant convulsions’.”


“Medicine proved ineffective, and over the next few days the boy got much worse; he spoke with a rapidity that showed he had as little control over his tongue as over the muscles of his limbs. However, while the doctor was admonishing his patient to be more quiet and composed, by mere accident he stroked the boy’s face once or twice with his hand, and immediately the wildness in his looks vanished. To his astonishment, the boy became calm and spoke gently, and he discovered that the healing process lay not in the medicine he prescribed, but the hands, especially the movement of the hands over the body without actually touching. After several visits the boy was cured – or he recovered, which of course isn’t necessarily the same thing – and the Doctor reluctantly conceded that the cure might be the ‘existence of an imperceptible agent acting by means of magnetical influence’. Thereafter, with regard to Doctor Tritschler’s casebook, it was consigned to the medical archive.”

“1816 was a dark year. Solar events created prolonged geomagnetic storms, and it is likely they contributed to the climatic mood swings. They may also have contributed to the mood swings of a section of the world’s population: the eminent Scottish scientist, David Brewster, invented the kaleidoscope in that year, and before he even reached the patent office there was mass demand for this brief but spectacular break from the gloom – a demand met through numerous copycat versions. No doubt a coincidence, it was the year the Scottish Enlightenment dimmed and, with the death of Adam Ferguson, the year it was extinguished. It was the year of swift weather shifts from calm to chaos, of blinding bursts and deafening blasts from freak electrical storms. It was the year Frankenstein was born, though he didn’t actually toddle into the bookshops until he was two. It was the year of ‘blood or bread’ riots, of the heavy midsummer hail that flattened crops, of mass migrations and the death of tens of thousands. It was the year the volcanic eruptions of Tambora, on the island of Sumbawa in Indonesia, caused cataclysmic climate changes by draping a veil around the Earth. It was the year without a summer.”

Source:

https://www.counterpunch.org/2017/12/11/the-year-without-summer/

.

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Tools of the trade

Like the fat fuck doctor handing over vicodin
to the boy in pain who doesn’t yet know
he should say ‘go kill yourself’
instead of ‘okay’

Like dufflebags full of crystal methamphetamine
that used to be made in America
until it got outsourced
just like everything else

Like vacuum-packed on diplomatic flights
to South Korea—China—the Philippines
by the psychopathic soldiers & agents
without an ounce of morale left

Like making billions pushing synthetic opiates
while thousands of misled victims are dying
turning to heroin laced with fent
chasing their own tails until the end

Like turning a blind eye to the kilograms
of legal fentanyl analogs
exported from China—
North Korea can only dream of such success—

Like Duterte’s son getting caught
red handed moving millions in shabu
Triad tats on his back
—no one does a thing

Like shooting up after eating McDonalds
driving your Chevy Geo out of the parking lot
onto the road chucking your used needle
into the gutter from an open window

Like not even knowing there’s a lethal threshold
that you are going to want to pass
to get the same degree of feeling
you had the first time—it’s already gone—

Like taking your usual maintenance dose
that you thought was from the same source
nodding off on the toilet
never waking up again

Like writing a book about the Clinton’s
cocaine Arkanicide rise to political power
getting shot in the head
—suicided on the top of a hillside

Like the opium wars all over again
forever without an end in sight
whole entire neighborhoods set up
to be harvested for prisoners

Like feeding them risperidone for profit
in solitary confinement
guilty of nothing
but a lifestyle

Like how my generation statistically
is the drunkest one ever to walk
the face of the earth
—I wonder why that is

Like how before it was legal
for the CIA to brainwash the public before 2011
there were shows like Friends
all the chicks wanted to watch

Like no matter how much effort
you put into unlearning & training
your mind—there it is again every time
you talk to almost anyone

Like not giving a fuck
if you don’t like my poem
—go shove your head back into the sand
pretend everything is perfectly fine—

.

.

.

.

.

Borderlands

It’s the first time
you realize
you’ve been born—
you were becoming—now
you’re being—

It’s the crossfade
of your memory—that one
time—you can’t discern
now—was it just
your imagination—

It’s the one dream
where it’s made to be seen
so clearly—
like an epiphany—
or an emotion—

It’s the fever
that comes over you—seeks
to mend you—takes you
somewhere else—
does it boil—
or does it burn—

You slide down
the neck—you feel for
where the waves start
wobbling—you put your
palms up—index to
the thumb—

It’s the medicine—
do you remember
your initiation—
did you take it
into your hands—what does
healing—mean
to you—

It’s the practice—
the moments of mastery
that reflect the mystery
infinitely—

Does it pluck at you
like a string—does it
drone—does it chime
like a bell—does it echo 
when I do this—

It’s the death—
like falling—
or the death
like flying—

It’s tomorrow
where intention
calluses—it shines in wait—
tomorrow—you will
surrender—



All forces coerce in pairs 

40 ppm of
                  life left
                                 to dissolve

She said she
                       knew of another
                                                      way in

We keep that
                         flicker warm to
                                                       the sole

Flip neon hourglasses
                                         so we don’t
                                                              have to count

Get a torch
                    until it’s all
                                         burned off clean

Take the river
                         through your home
                                                            on the far-side 

Keep the fountain
                                steady even gravity’s
                                                                      incendiary

We need more
                           medicine
                                           the damage has been done

The ripple in
                      the well—hemp
                                                   we pullied into mash

They didn’t know
the real meaning
of detachment

They would fossilize
boysenberry into
secretions

Was it a totem
or a blacklight
pistolwhip

When it would
unfurl
it would spit light

It would decapitate
both heads
at the same time

Since Tesla fell in love with a pigeon

                      never ceasing
                                   in dispersion
                                        you curl in quiet
                                             revelation

                                is there anything
                        more marvellous
         than the way you move
  for me

    spoonfulls reach
        their boiling points
                      combustion I
                                      become

                                       when the day is almost
                                 done and the night
                        has almost fallen

                       let’s catch
  the last sunbeams
thru the kitchen window

     it goes
         harpooning
               in sunken spirals
                        across the cymbopogon

                                       swirly white waterfall
                                                            of the sky
                                                    of my mouth

Medicine chess

Like a fog
in front of me
I know to reach
my hands in
to write this—

like the way
they trespassed
out of nowhere one day—
hands on black pistols
holstered on leather belts—

it was identical to
the khakiclothed
sunglassed dream
two days prior

with the clipboard
blue spyphone camera
and triggerhappy
taser practice
on the bored oak tree
adrenaline comedown—

it was when
I was disarmed—
hands in pockets—
pushed up
against the fence—
residue on
the black knife  He
put his hands on me

no more running—

the jig is up
verbatim
a cup of coffee
in my hands—
threat venom
poker face

no more lies—

I’d been waiting
in the shadows
of truth and stigma
seven years for this—

bedroom eyes

everyone was sweating
under the April hot sun
of the mustached flatlands—

How many you got here?

the central valley in a drought;
post-apocalyptic vampire infested
methamphetamine free for all—

little man looking up
standing inches away—
hadn’t showered in a while—

what’s in the barn,
you can’t go in there—

what’s in the barn, no—
you can’t go in there—

I told him I am you in the future

It happened
one morning
of an almost new moon

it
was hiding
behind the crushed disc
in the blood of
a man who worked
every day of his life
to not see this coming
on a protein test

who said I could
spike my hair
with tinned beeswax
if I would play guitar
an hour every day

who just wanted to see
this seed come to fruit
blown sticky deadmopped
all over this feral chest
down the shower drain
alone; an acid head—
microbial monk of nothing—
a geyser
in the folding fire
of a cracked coconut

a fountain of this
is where we administer
the medicine, maybe
we knew all along
that it would come to this—
why I live
way up here
far away stunned
but not surprised

as you leave
your son
ahead one
cell at a time