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I was drinking cheap burgundy with a friend the other night and found myself using the term "going autistic" as a way of saying how it is to go into a musical flow. I mean to use the term in a very positive manner. Without the intent of being derogative, but falling into a musical flow is a bit short of using abstract constructs as a manner of making music. The way I intend to use this expression is to equate it with gnosis. The player reaches for the Akashic records to find a tune that pleases them.
There is a syndrome that acts as the passageway to get there that must be observed for me to find my way to it. there are features I have to recognize and give due credit to in order for everything to fall into place for the music to happen.
Getting drunk on burgundy is never good for me the next day. It never has been, but with these powerful prescription drugs I'm swallowing by the handful its quite a bit worse. When I'm inebriated I act like it doesn't matter if I die from it or not, but the next morning is a nightmare. I went to bed for two days to get over it.
My piano scale practice has suffered from the pain I'm experiencing. Both from the ineffectiveness of the self-injected vaccine Humira and that weekend hangover. I don't know exactly what the cause of the problem I have with my finger tips, but I have the middle finger and thumb on my right hand that has an open wound that won't heal.
The lesions are located at the front edge of the cuticle. The medicine I'm taking lowers my immune system, and little nicks and scratches take forever to heal. Weeks for a simple scratch I get from working out in the yard. If I accidentally bump either of these sore spots the pain is excruciating for longer than it seems like it normally takes me to cope.
Still, and again, I don't think I'm much worse off than other people my age. I have my ailments, and all ailments can be a hassle, but I've been around, I know other people who have it much worse than me. The fact that I'm getting around on my own two feet and taking care of my own business is actually pretty good. I've always been somewhat of a whiner anyway, so the whining I'm doing now is nothing unusual. It doesn't help me with having something interesting to write about.
The weather has become a more critical concern since my youngest brother and his wife went to India and left me to feed their dogs and take care of their greenhouse. It's not a tough assignment. The dogs think they own my house too, so we're friendly and I couldn't let them go hungry for any reason.
The only thing I have to do at the greenhouse is to water the plants and make sure the stove is turned on if the temperatures drop into the low twenties (-5 C) or so. Above that it doesn't freeze inside the greenhouse. There must be a thermostat connected with the stove, but I haven't located it. I don't have the documentation that came with it. After my other brother's hired hand showed me how to light the pilot light I haven't had any problems
I've been pretty consistent in preparing and drinking the wheatgrass juice everyday. I couldn't do it when I had the hangover. God! I was ill. It would have been just fine if I'd died Saturday morning. I still get a little nauseated while I'm preparing the wheatgrass juice. The book my sister-in-law gave me to read about this says that a soul has to adjust to imbibing it at first, but I'm don't seem to be adjusting all that well.
Magnesium seems to be the whole point of drinking wheatgrass juice. That and trace minerals. Having remembered what my father told me about why some of his cows went down from a lack of magnesium in the grass they ate really brought the possibility of me suffering a magnesium deficiency loomed in front of me for contemplation.
I still haven't eaten any meat since I went vegetarian. I think it's a couple of months now. I wrote down the date next to the date I stopped smoking tobacco on a post downstairs. I'll have to check it out to see how I'm doing. I knew I was a lousy cook even when I was eating meat, but now my amateurish efforts to feed myself are worse than ever.
I fixed some crap last night that not only tasted horrible, but it burned hell outta my tongue to boot. I sliced up a couple of fresh potatoes with my mandolin slicer (what a whiz-bang wonderful tool that is) and was gonna just fry some hash browns with lots of salt and pepper. I flavored them with some cheap curry powder. It didn't work, so I added some spicy Mexican tomato stuff that had plenty of hot peppers. Ugh...
I need to win the lottery so I can hire a cook. That's all. I've already traveled the world as much as my curiosity has demanded. I'd just like to enjoy my last refuge of pleasure with some dignity. That's the problem with cooking for myself. It's just not dignified to have to eat that crap.
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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.
