It's been over two months since I've posted anything. I had considered deleting my blog. I hate to sound like a cliche, but I started to wonder what motivates me to blog, or to tell my story. Hopefully anyone that's attempted to tell their story has had a similar introspection (cliche?).Last week I had a garage sale that was hosted by comic Gene Slacks. The Orlando Weekly blogged about the event, and referenced my blog. Anyway, it said something like if you want to know more about Pat Greene, read his blog. I thought, man I'm one of those slack asses that write something every once in awhile. So maybe I better think of something to say, force something out. I'm not sure I've ever been speechless.
In 1988 I went to London with a thousand bucks and a one-way ticket. I returned with some reluctance fifteen months later, following several menial under the table jobs, romances, journal entries, tramping most of western and some of eastern Europe, dipping into the Middle East and Northern Africa. I felt like I was on another planet when I returned. I didn't have any urge to kiss the ground upon my return. I was bored. Everyone seemed to be confused and in a hurry. I missed having real dinner's with real food and real conversations. I've sussed out some of that here over the years.
When Henry Miller returned to the states after nearly ten years of being an expatriate, he traveled the US by car, documenting his trip in his book Air Conditioned Nightmare. I read that book after returning. I felt like I had an ally. I had channeled him when I was sleeping on the bank of the Seine, smoking hash with some Algerians.
I remember telling people about my adventures after my return. I would hear things, like oh I don't want to travel like that. I want to travel in style. What does that mean? I don't know. Now I'm telling my story, like it or not.
The first four months of my journey were in London. I was a waiter at a Bistro,the Arc in Nottinghill Gate, worked construction for an Irish construction company in Wimbledon, painted an office building in Trafalgar Square.
About half way into my stay in London,broke, getting nervous, I learned to live with it later. I went with a friend to London Bridge Hospital. We volunteered for drug testing. We were supposed to get something like the equivalent of a thousand bucks to test some antihistamine.
At first I thought this was a crazy way to earn money. Then my friend eloquently stated,"You've done every other fucking drug, this is a fucking antihistamine." Maybe the idea of experimenting with something that lacks narcotic or psychoactive appeal wasn't worth the risk to me. I decided to go through with it anyway.
At orientation there were about thirty of us. The nurse told us that statistically speaking that one of us would not be accepted after all the pre-testing. We were EEGed, EKGed, scopes going everywhere. The examination was most thorough I've had before or since.
A couple of days later I get a call that something was wrong with my brainwaves (that's may be evident to everyone else). I think the call was made on a Monday. I was told to come in Friday to discuss it. They wouldn't tell me anything else on the phone.
Those days in between the phone call and the appointment, were full of self reflection and absorption. I could barely converse unless it was related to my fate. What if I have a brain tumor or Lou Gehrig's disease? I was no expert on physiology, so my references may have bordered on ridiculous. I thought a lot about religion. Should I adopt a faith? Maybe I would have to do it quickly. Could I wait until I'm in some sort of purgatorial situation? I kept thinking of all those jokes about getting to purgatory along with a priest, Dolly Parton etc..
Friday came, the doctor told me I have benign epilepsy, more commonly known as absence epilepsy. It's a non-convulsive epilepsy. I would fade out a little, as my brain sort of misfired.
The doctor asked me if I wanted to go on some medication. I opted not to. I figured that I'd gone a long time without it. I wasn't driving in Europe.
Six years later, I'm back in the states, working in an environmental lab for the county, in my third year of co-habitation with my then girlfriend Kathy. She was complaining that I was fading. I took advantage of my HMO and went to the doctor. I told them the story of the hospital in London. They thought I made it up and tried to send me to counseling. My father surmised that it's cheaper to send me to counseling. I called everyone's boss, until I got the treatment that asked for. I still don't know why they thought I made the story up. As my father says if people don't believe the stories about your life, you must be doing something interesting.
When I finally got to see a neurologist, Kathy and I had broken up. The neurologist wanted to talk to anyone that I was really close to, like a girlfriend. Kathy and I still got along, she agreed to talk to the doctor. When he asked about my behavioral traits, she said, "he seems fine for awhile, then I'll say something, he seems to be somewhere else, then he might look at me, and ask, what's next?"
