Meet your Hairy Cells


At first, it all read like cytoplasmic fiction, some sentences made sense, others did not, where paragraphs read like mathematical curses filled with inscrutable symbols, undefined values, an alchemy of whys and scientific dread: “dad, can you take a quick look at my labs?” Or did it read more like a poem, where cellular stanzas turn into sophomoric (antibody) meters: a soma of lymphomas have turned into phobias/his mortality/a reality


Stereolab: “The Long Hair of Death”, ALUMINUM TUNES (SWITCHED ON, VOL. 3)


Pasolini once mused: “I pass on, in a line of verse, by dying, I make poetry.”

Was this your final project? An aesthetic of purine analogues versus the couplets of cytopenias—obscurity through poetry and imagery.

A flood of memories, synaptic storylines—thee hairy death of cells. Flashes of creative license and distortion: how their pixel friendship ended; a polymer marriage, an ocean divorce; city of my birth: San Diego; solo puedo decirte que te extraño, California; presently/built by glaciers/ILLINOIA; progenies and pros·e·lytes; no Catholic guilt, no Latin martyrdom, no angels, atoms or atheists; no feigning distraction of applied sympathies;

art=progeny/progeny=art

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My first introduction to cancer was through a girl I dated in high school, whose older sister had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Apparently, they were defective breast implants that had ruptured, releasing silicone throughout her entire body. I think the first time we met, I might have sold her an ounce of weed, which was more medicinal than recreational, due to her chemo treatments. I don’t think we smoked, but did sense a hint of paranoia, I mean here was this kid selling her something that could have automatically meant jail time for both of us. She might have even asked me if I was an undercover law enforcement agent, “a narc?” I always wondered if her surviving family members had ever received any compensation from the multiple lawsuits that were filed against Dow Chemical/Dow Corning. Again this all sounds very dated, considering the amount of states that have passed decriminalized drug possession and legal marijuana legislation for medicinal and recreational usage—the republic of Texas will never, ever pass such legislation, but I digress.


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“My father slaps me and I see the sun.”


Wade and wait, awash myself in positive sine waves—tidal immunity.

[ed. note: The morphology of his blood cells showed microscopic cytoplasm (cilia) that resembled hair, hence, the name, Hairy Cell Leukemia (HCL). HCL accounts for 2% of all leukemias with approximately 1000 new cases being reported in the United States each year. Completely treatable, but not curable, survival rates are statistically high and remission seems plausible.]

(+) “My father slaps me and I see the sun.” — The last line of Georges Bataille’s “[Dream]”, the first of the essays in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings: 1927-1939.

(+) Antonio Margheriti :: The Long Hair of Death, 1964

(+) Sun Ra: Le Soleil. The Black Power Tarot cards: Alejandro Jodorowsky and King Khan

(+) Stereolab :: “the long hair of death”, ALUMINUM TUNES (SWITCHED ON, VOL. 3)

(+) PTS : PTS, or Progressive Treatment Solutions, is a vertically integrated cannabis company leading the way in Illinois and Michigan.

10/20/20

Author: Jesus Julian Arteaga

myopic, æsthete, (1/2) parental-unit, eunuch engineer ▲ bib·li·o·phile