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The bluebonnets have arrived! Spring is here ….
We are stardust, we are golden
We are billion-year-old carbon
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden
~ Joni Mitchell-Woodstock
A friend of mine confessed to a crisis of faith today, and that sent me back to the time that man rejected God and died. We can only guess what the nature of that death was, since we would have to be walking in the Garden of Eden with God to even understand what that life was about. We do know from Genesis that Adam died that day, yet Adam continued to live another 930 years. The paradox is only solved if Adam had a different life than the one had before his disobedience.
God uses the term “Father” to help us understand his nature, but when we read the account of the Garden in Genesis, Adam walks with God in the Garden. Man does not walk in the Garden with God today even if some of us do call him Father. The gates to the Garden are shut by two mighty Cherubim, implying that the Garden is a place that man will not enter again, despite Joni’s lyrics. At the end of the ages, God destroys the heavens and the earth, and creates a new one. All we know about that place is that there is no death, no violence, and probably no marriages. Until that time, wars, violence, and death are still with us, but with some limits during the Millennial Age.
God didn’t create the war in the Ukraine. Man did. It is not God’s world. We still live in man’s creation, albeit with the Breath of God restored in some of us. I don’t have the knowledge to explain that mystery. Those who have the Breath of God know it at a subconscious level, and those who don’t have the Breath of God cannot possibly know what it is, and should be treated respectfully for that ignorance, because man cannot give it.
We are indeed sojourners, strangers in a strange land. And it is an ugly land, bereft of the presence of God. We must walk by a different light than others.
It’s a quarter ‘til midnight, and I can’t sleep. Yet nothing is particularly troubling me tonight. Cars rumble by on their way home from town, and the soft thud of military ordinance drifts in from Fort Hood as the troops prepare for war. The thermostat is set back at night, so I have a small space heater for my feet and a large heating pad on my new $59 executive chair. The old $49 executive chair came apart like the shay in Oliver Wendell Holmes poem One-Hoss Shay, though it didn’t last a hundred years like the shay did.
I made up some bologna and cheese sandwiches earlier this week, and I am enjoying a half one along with a small glass of lemonade. I had to give up milk. It seems the high-powered antibiotics not only killed off the good gut bacteria, but also made me lactose intolerant. I have unsuccessfully searched for non-sweetened drinks, but other than some exotic teas, there just isn’t much out there.
I seldom write at night. I don’t like the tangents I go off on when I do. But tonight, the TV doesn’t interest me, and I don’t want to read. So here I sit in the gloom trying to find tidbits to talk about, and ways to make the tidbits interesting. I think I am going to fail that one.
Usually when this sort of urge to write falls on me, it is because I am wrestling with something or arguing with God. I am vexed with my weakness and unfinished chores keep piling up. I need to get propane for my weed burner and burn off a lot of deadwood collected in two burn piles. I need to clean up Bucephalus, my aging Dodge mommy van that has sat for two and a half years until my eyes got fixed. Maybe that is it … it is my winter of discontent. All I can seem to talk about is me. I don’t even have interest in the political and social trainwreck that is going on around me. GenZ’s are clamoring for more government. Churches are a mess of competing theologies. And I still can’t walk on water … so I can’t help them out of the morass.
Bits and pieces of an old short story I wrote some years back have returned to my mind, and I want to rewrite it. Don’t know why. SciFi and Fantasy shorts are dead venues. There are no Robert Heinleins, Harlan Ellisons, Arthur C. Clarkes, Frank Herberts, Isaac Asimovs or Ray Bradburys today. All that is left of their legacy is rewrites by screen writers. But like the old crank that I am, I crank on.
I am starting to take a little pride in my appearance again, though I never had a lot to begin with. And I am straightening up the studio. Each day I get a little bit stronger, and all that elevates me. It would be cool to be able to attend shul/church/assembly again, but I am not so sure Snookums is up to that now. We’ll see.
So with that, I think I’ll return to bed. But I can legitimately say Good Morning!
The winter rains have finally come to the middle of Texas. Of course, this was the day I was planning to do something about the yard. Darn, darn, darn. Or something. But drizzly days are good for hot chocolate and musing, so muse I shall.
Jenna, my white 70 lb something-or-the other, is sleeping in the studio closet by my computer. I leave the door open because that is a favorite place for her when she is feeling insecure because of the weather, fireworks, or pre-aura seizures. Today it is the seizures, so I need to be extra vigilant with her. She is what is known as a “runner” when she has seizures and appreciates someone grabbing her by the collar so that she can just thrash around rather than running into things and trying to climb corners. But, unlike the other white dog I had, she gets over them quickly, waking up to greet the family and checking out the back yard. The other white dog, Roscoe, was a dalmatian-mongrel who went into ictus right away and took a long-time reawaking.
Canine epilepsy is more of a curse for white dogs than it is for colored dogs. With Roscoe, it was a time when vets knew next to nothing about canine epilepsy, and the seizures were gawd awful to watch. You want to comfort the dog, but nothing seems to work. I can’t count the times I slept with Roscoe on the cold kitchen floor while he slowly recovered. I didn’t know it at the time, but dogs are marginally aware of their surroundings, and take comfort in knowing their owner is close by. Both Jenna and Rosco would come running to me when they were on the verge of seizing, somehow holding off until I could grab them by the collar and talk to them the whole time.
I was frantic with Roscoe, and it was an era of several competing web search engines. Yahoo! was leading the pack then, and I began a search on treating dogs for epilepsy. My vet was of little help on this, though it wasn’t because he was negligent. There just wasn’t much information out there. But I discovered a small group of people who also had dogs with epilepsy, and they put me in touch with Joanne Carson, one of Johnny Carson’s exes. She was an MD and had an epileptic dog and thought to treat it like she would for one of her own patients. She sent me reams of data to share with my vet, and my vet dutifully read everything.
The treatment for human epilepsy wasn’t much better for humans then than it was for dogs, but she developed a procedure that I am convinced led to Roscoe living a long and productive life. It involved staying with the dog and comforting it as best you can, and Valium® administered rectally with a syringe and a cat catheter. Messy business and more Valium® went on the floor than inside the dog, but it helped with Roscoe. I don’t think Jenna’s seizures have been as severe as Roscoe’s though a dog-rescue colleague who is also a CBD distributer (thank you Sanchia!) convinced me that CBD oil does in fact help with her seizures and can be administered before and after.
Joanne gave me her personal Hollywood phone number and told me to call her at any time of the day when Roscoe seized. She was as good as her word, and I called late in the evening. She walked me through the ordeal, and kept me together, and stayed with me until Roscoe finally relaxed and started breathing normally as he slept. She was my angel that evening.
In these tumultuous days of mine as I stare down Thanatos’s and his scary scythe, these moments when strangers rode to my rescue appear out of the fog of memory, greet me, and disappear back into the fog. I will be a miserable fool if I don’t remember that humans can and do rise above the mean circumstances and help their fellow man. I am grateful for this gift of like and hope to be as kind and thoughtful as these two women were for me.
And with this soggy post, a soggy good morning!
This has been a long week of sober assessments and reflections for me. I am not in any acute danger of dying at this point, but my life has been put on a shortened leash. Oddly, I am glad the uproar is over, and I can begin preparations for this stage of life. I really don’t want to sound morbid, and while this recent spate of setbacks has sobered me a great deal, it is as much a stage of life that needs to be met head on as all the other challenges I faced or ran from in life. I will come down extremely hard on the medical practitioner who tries to “protect” me from bad news. I can tell positive thinking from fact, and I resent being treated as a child. If my chances are slim to none, I want to know. I refuse to let Thanatos blindside me. I will look him in the eye as he swings his scythe.
But it isn’t with heroics that I’ll meet this challenge. I will meet it by rising out of my bed each morning, walking into the kitchen, getting those first sips of coffee in me, taking my vitals, eating something simple such as toast or cereal and then taking my meds. Snooks and I sit quietly with each other for a fleeting moment, and we talk. We have never been chatty with each other. Sometimes it is soft morning talk and sometimes it is laced with true feeling. I do not wish to leave her unprepared, but I have so many loose ends to tie up. I am thinking of issuing instructions to my medical people that it is time for palliative care and not therapeutic care. If something will enable to live at comfort, breathe easier or maintain my strength, that is fine. But if it is merely to extend my life beyond its time, it needs go away.
So, my morning coffee posts will be more of the end-of-life chronicles rather than kicking politicians and journalists to the curb though I am sure that I’ll squeeze them in somewhere. They are in the words of the military, a target rich environment. I am going to drag Mz Muse out of retirement once again to talk about this. Sometimes I need an acerbic wit as a foil to my melodrama. Mz Muse hates melodrama and poorly executed hyperbole. But I think it will also be our last goodbye. Three novels sit in obscure file folders on my PC, and now I know they will never be opened again. So I no longer need someone to build a fire under my butt to write. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll even say something nice to her, though I am sure she will wait for the punchline. It will be a bittersweet goodbye. I will in fact miss her. We had a long run.
So the winters day flits by. Piles of construction debris and material await moving to the burn pile or put on sleepers. The fence will not be repaired, one set of steps wont be getting fixed. I want to mow before the spring greenery starts to grow so that the Bermudagrass has a better chance of growing … I can still ride a mower. Yeah. I am not going to lay down and die either.
Well, the indignities of old age keep piling up. And I thought that I was making so much progress. Hopefully these bitchy little posts will run their course, and I can look at something besides my own navel. I am so tired of my griping. My bladder is a mess, much like a balloon that as lost all elasticity, so I wear a catheter for the rest of my life. I have been diagnosed with severe COPD and emphysema, so my physical therapy is not going to yield the results I hoped for. I am fighting a holding action now.
The one bright ray of sunshine is that the latest heart stents I had installed ended over five decades of discomfort. Funny how you can carry so much pain and not realize it until it stops. I still have an upcoming pulmonary consult at the end of the month, and a sleep study the month after. At some point all this must stop, but fight has noy been beat out of me yet.
Soon, I’ll be back to remarking on the ever-expanding circles of stupid that has engulfed the nation. It is strange how we laughed at these fools before. I sure am not laughing now. I am thinking there is no cure for it. Even so, come Melech Y’shua. It is time.
Tu B’Sheva, 5703
A celebration of the rebirth of trees, and it would be my Jewish birthday this Sunday. I’ll not bore you with a litany of spiritual events that surrounded my life so many times on this day, but each of them profoundly changed me. Even during those times G-d and I were at loggerheads. He was ever the gentleman, persistent with me, but never overbearing. On this day, alone in an attic of an old house in Denver around midnight on Tu B’Sheva 1582, I yielded to him. He has remained faithful since then, even during those times doubt consumed me. He stayed the perfect gentleman.
May I keep that same respect for those who haven’t found him.
Because the Hebrew New Year is synced with the ripening of grain, it “floats” every year and doesn’t occur on the same day on the Gregorian calendar. It is NOT my observed birthday this year, so no well wishes are needed! I just wanted to talk about it!
Well, I got the dreaded 8am call from my pulmonary specialist, and I inherited two genetic maladies. Emphysema and COPD. One was very serious, but I don’t remember which one. Being the google maven I am, I did my research, and the prognosis isn’t good. I had smugly thought I had aced the test. So, some very expensive meds are ordered, but with insurance, they will only be about $45 a month, and that is hardly bankrupting.
Years ago, I had speed read a book called First You Cry by Betty Rollin about her reaction to that sort of call informing her of a malignant breast tumor. I didn’t cry, but I did take a few deep calming breaths, and realized I didn’t have to do all the preparations today. There is time to exercise, to dream, to read, to solidify family connections and to prepare Snookums. I think I have at least one good summer left in me, and I am going to make it a good one.
But I do need a plan, an outline if you will. Papers must be notarized, codicils written, useless items given away/sold/junked. I will simplify my life to better tend to the important things. My eyes are good, my energy is enough to run errands, my mind is sharp enough to write. I have a hoarding instinct, though by comparisons to others, a very mild case. But I don’t think I am going to need new stuff. Stuff has suddenly lost its hold on me.
I fret most about Snookums. It is like deserting her at a time she needs me most. So much to do in that area.
I am putting fiction on the back burner and avoiding “coffee” posts if they are too mawkish. It is a time of introspection and not regret.
That part is odd. It is true that God shows old men more of his mind than he does young men. When I was young, it was my ability or lack of ability to follow his rules. Today, I just want to watch him and marvel, and I don’t care whether I follow a rule or not. At this stage in life I am not likely to get in too much trouble by just drifting along.
So that is the update. I don’t know where these little missives will go at this point. I do want to chronicle this adventure, but I want to stay positive and upbeat. I do not fear death, but I am not overly fond of dying. Keep in mind that the prognosis is about five years out, and even then, the odds are still six out of ten that I’ll make it past five. Being a gambler, those aren’t such terrible odds if you already have a pile of chips in front of you. And boy! Do I have a pile of chips!
Well, the New Year has begun warmly today with a high of 72° and a very slight chance of rain. I am glad because I have been trying to write 2022 on my checks and official documents all of last year. I must have been unconsciously wanting the year to be over. 2022 brings hope with it, though I am a pessimist by nature. Set the bar low enough and you aren’t disappointed.
Recovery is still coming along slowly, but I do think the physical therapy is helping. My therapist is slim and trim, and in her 50’s though everyone would guess early thirties. She comes twice a week to torture me back into physical health. I do feel a bit of progress that helps keep me out of depression at my sorry physical shape. My upper body strength is pretty good, but my legs won’t carry me far. Stamina is my main goal now, but the brief walking exercises take it out of me.
This is the first morning I woke without nausea. What a blessing that was! I am weary of post-prandial and morning sickness. Next up is a visit to the pulmonary clinic for assessment, then to the urologist for another look at the bladder. Hopefully the catheter comes out then, but if not, it’s the rooter-rooter curse us old
curmudgeons men deal with.
And lastly, the sleep clinic people for assessment. I haven’t forgotten how to breathe since I left the hospital, so I suspect that much of the apnea was caused by the high-powered drugs I was getting. But a breathing machine also recorded several episodes where I stopped breathing but because it would breathe for me, I didn’t awaken. It was heaven for me, so a CPAP machine is looming large into my future.
The New Year’s celebrations were kind to the mutts this year, with Tic wrapping himself around Linda’s head, and Jenna being clingy, but surprisingly calm. She sometimes works herself into seizures, but flashes of light from lightning upset her most. The fireworks weren’t accompanied by flashes, so she was more settled. ‘Becca da Beagle isn’t bothered by anything other than me sitting in her chair.
It feels good to be driving again after a two-and-a-half-year hiatus. Unfortunately, I developed other physical maladies after getting cataract surgery, so the driving time had to postponed. Poor old Bucephalus, as I call my aging Dodge mommy van, had a dead battery and I noticed one brake was dragging, so it is off to the mechanic early next week with him. My hearing aids need to be serviced after that, then my two riding mowers need transporting to the mechanic as soon as Bucephalus is back in shape enough to pull a transport trailer.
So the New Year begins with a full task list. I hope my legs hold out long enough to get all that done …
I wish everyone a happy and prosperous new year, and a pleasant good morning!
Well, here I sit, staring at a blank page on the word processor. I have been a slacker when it comes to writing. But I am OK with it because I met out the punishment for my laziness, and I rarely harm myself.
Fiction is dead to my brain. I lay in bed and let my mind wander for new themes, but all I do is rehash the old ones. I even drug Mz Muse out of retirement, and she simply agreed with me that I am a sluggard that is too lazy to even shovel food into my face. She has ever been a fan of mine.
One of my adopted mentors, Gene Amole (of blessed memory) was a columnist with the now defunct Rocky Mountain News. WWII vet who refused to glamorize war and was hyper-critical of Hollywood’s portrayal of it. His biggest gripe was that men died silently when wounded. Having taken part in the assault during the Normandy Invasion, his recollection was that the wounded were screaming in pain before dying. Hard stuff. But Gene also owned a classical music radio station in Denver and hosted a morning show. Often you would hear birds chirping from an open window in the cramped studio. How I miss that radio station, and how I miss his curmudgeonly posts on political hubris.
But to continue, his muse was an imaginary “idea fairy” that he had conversations with and would write down their conversation. The idea fairy wore a ratty tutu and sat on his typewriter. Yes, Virginia, there was a time when word processors did not have spelling and grammar checkers, and if you made a mistake, you had to cross the lines out with a pen and rewrite them. He would post his conversations unedited, and you learned that the first draft of his column was a horror of typos, grammar errors and lousy formatting. I took the idea of the idea fairy and made my own muse. MzMuse.
MzMuse is a dour, frumpy middle-aged woman with hideous tastes in clothing. She is modeled after an old boss of mine who was hardnosed and generous at the same time. She wears a pink Rayon™ blouse, a brown woolen pencil skirt that sometimes shows the tops of her hose and the garter snaps. Yeah. Pretty dated. But she is mine and I love her.
However, I decided to not resurrect her for this little missive. I want to go somewhere with it, but the destination still hasn’t presented itself. I am looking for something to kickstart my writing now that I am feeling better than I have in many years, though I am left feeble and easily winded by the ordeal. I did not know that I was so damaged.
Usually when I sit down to write and do not know where I am going, I put something down. It can be nonsensical, or a peeve, or just an observation that kicks off the essay. I am more of an essayist than a novelist. After five hundred words or so, I have said all that was necessary. But today, this is what has come to my mind. I had hoped that I would have started a new tale rather than mull over my sad fate. But it is what it is. A writer writes. If he does not write, he is not a writer. So, write I shall. Even if it is just a coffee post ..