A pleasant sounding woman called me from the VA this morning to see how I was doing after my morning in the operating room yesterday. I had literally just gotten outta bed, walked over to where my computer is parked, pushed on the off-on button to boot it up, and the phone rang. She identified herself and ask me how I was feeling this morning, and that sort of forced me to check inside to be able to answer her question, and discovered that I felt great. Really good. Happy inside. How wonderful for a change.
I think my euphoria this morning has to do with my not eating much after I got out of the hospital to come home, and getting a full, uninterrupted night of sleep. My poor, over-burdened, tormented gastro-intestinal tract finally got some relief what with being mostly empty, and not stuffed to the gills by it's owner attempting to deal with all the crap that backed up on it for a couple of decades of trying to get over being separated from it's family.
I used the expression "it's family", not "his" family. I don't think of myself as a particular gender anymore. Just old. Neither yea or nay, wright or wrong, weak nor strong, but almost as if I had no body with which to identify myself as a unit of life at all. A citizen of some make-believe country that thinks it's a phoenix and/or can fly.
I sleep in my bed with my head pointed north. I got no good reason. I heard a rumor. That's apparently good enow for me, because that's how it happens. I sit at my computer with my back to my bed and my head pointed south. Opposites attract, that's why reality stays in the same room, but backwards from when I'm participating in the dream time. Janus.
When I got this bedroom flooring down enough to move my stuff back into this room from downstairs it seemed to put things right again. Lots of stuff left to do. It'll still be there to be done when I croak. The world would be less complicated if when some friend or relative comes here and finds me dead as a doornail to flick one of the Bics I got laying around, and burn me and my wino's hootch flat to the ground, dust into dust, but with a definitive flare.
I took the methotrexate prescribed to me again this morning. That's the only reason why it's Tuesday anymore. God used to have reasons I suppose, but it was more than likely Julius Caesar who upped the ante on reasons for it being Tuesday in particular, that is, instead of say, Thor's day, when I was born under mostly good stars.
Methotrexate's well known side-effect of nausea has muffled the goodness I was feeling earlier, but just being alive does that too. Shit happens. Thangs change. Making the constant adjustment life demands of me to survive means that I don't get to act independent nearly as often as I might like.
My so-called integrity is questioned each time I put myself in the hands of some institution. In the culture I live in, people are institutionalized at a very young age, and kept there for as long as their caretakers can afford. Both of my parents got their paychecks from the State. They deliberately sought out the security of a State teaching jobs after they survived the Great Depression.
That "peace at any price" form of security was what I rebelled at as a pubescent teen in order to establish my own identity as a person in my own right. Looking back, it was a sort of stupid thing to do, but what choice did I have or does anybody have if they're born homo sapiens.
In an early Chinese novel a description was offered by an old royal court official who got pensioned, but was still allowed a cubicle at the castle. He told his friend that he whiled away the days with, that the older he got, the more meditation seemed to be his only friend. That seems to be the case with me too. How else can thoughts that cause me to doubt my own worthiness be nipped in the bud? I've spent a lotta time lately watching the bubbles rise slowly to the top.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
