The Silence Of The Cows

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It's misty this morning. Not misty enough to call the ambient atmosphere foggy. It's not foggy. Just a bunch of low-hanging clouds. It smothers a lot of the human noise, but the cooing of the mourning doves and the lonesome sound of some new cows being put in an old pasture. They don't realize they have about 600 acres they can freely roam around in until they're gathered up and taken to the slaughter house to be sold for a profit.

Cows don't have a language per se. I've just been around them since I was born. I've spent more time on earth with certain cows growing up than I have human beings. I had to kill them and cut them up for food for our family to eat. It's what farm boys do. I know exactly where food comes from.

I booted up my digital piano and found a rhythm on it's drum machine to play in the background so that the "silence of the cows" next door won't tear my heart out. What? I got a heart?

Apparently I have a pretty good heart. Well, as opposed to having abused bones. I don't have diabetes. I'll probably get it if I live long enough. People do, you know? Neither of my parents had much trouble with diabetes. It was said that my father had some low-grade diabetes associated with getting old.

He was in his mid-eighties when this mild diabetes showed up. It was managed with pills. He got a pace-maker about this time too. I think there was a connection between the two ailments. Once the medicos start messing around trying to fix one thing it pisses off another part of you. It's not like this process is incited on purpose. But, when it begins you might as well abandon hope. My father eventually did. I was so pleased for him. It gave me hope that if I live long enough, I'll have the good sense to abandon hope also.

On the other hand, if I hadn't abandoned hope already, how would I be able to recognize that's what my father achieved? I'll tell you how. I watched him incrementally let go of the pride his main obsession in his adult life provoked in him. He was obsessed by selectively breeding beef cows. We had dairy cows when us kids were small, but after I left home he and my younger brothers started raising black angus cows. He mixed them with Holsteins to get longer bodies and bigger frames.

The result was his brood cow herd. In his dotage, I watched him as he sat in the den he added on to the existing house on the property he bought after I left home, and observe his herd through the open sliding glass doors that looked out on the barn and pastures he created outta some cut-over timber land he bought for next to nothing.

My father made sure I knew what I was missing out on when I abandoned my heritage for the life of a nomadic adventurer. My mother absolutely disapproved of the decisions I made that seemed so careless. My decisions were anything but careless, but she never believed me. No blame. She couldn't see what I saw because she loved her mother more than me. My mother wasn't a saint, she was a glorified baby-factory that didn't even carry that facet of life through to completion. She had fewer than half the babies her own mother had. Her death mask was The Scream.

My parents served as progressive examples for the same sort of people here on the rural back roads of the Carolina coastal plains that they come from back in Mississippi where they grew up. They couldn't have done that if they'd stayed in Mississippi. My mother could have never graduated from college, even at the late age of 48 years old, if they'd never left Mississippi.

31 Jesus said, "No prophet is welcome on his home turf; doctors don't cure those who know them."

http://users.misericordia.edu//davies/thomas/Trans.htm

Truer words have never been uttered. Not only can a person not be "all that they can be" unless they travel and live away from where people know them and their family, but because they aren't "all that they can be", then they can't be healers or prophets anywhere at all, and then they have to repeat the lesson again and again until they learn to shape-shift.

I wrote about my feet and ankles hurting me pretty bad yesterday morning, and I went walking because I didn't know what else to do but reach for the pill bottle. I wasn't that sure I would cause myself more pain by pushing against what already existed abundantly. This morning my feet felt pretty good. At least a lot less painful than the morning before.

I don't really believe I'm smarter than the disease that has caused me great discomfort, to say the least, but I do believe I'm smarter than to shovel really powerful drugs that all have warning labels that indicate death as a side-effect into my body as a reaction to pain.

I've done pain, man, I've walked through the gates of hell, and now that hell is striking back I'm gonna my defense over to some college boy? Possibly. I'm sure as hell not gonna burn no bridges. Now that I more completely understand the medicos options we might be able to work something out. If I don't get to play God, then I won't allow them to either.

The trick is though, that the drugs they use supposedly to help me, can also disarm my ability to use my subjective insight to protect myself against their objective experimentations that use my body as a playing field. This basically comes down to me living alone and having my own say so above and beyond their control.

They can prescribe all the drugs they want to, but if they can't control the environment in which I ignore their wishes, then I can flush them down the toilet and they can't know whether what they have prescribed has the effect they're looking for or not.

I don't know what I'm doing in regard to medication. At this point I don't care. If I know by personal experience that the sores in my mouth are a side-effect of some medicine the rheumatologists have prescribed and I want them have a chance to heal, then I gotta stop taking whats causing the problem.

My doctors ignore my complaints about these irritating sores I get on my tongue and gums, and prescribe drugs that lower my immune system to the point it can't fight off these mouth sores. If the mouth sores get infected and become cancerous, then what's the good of healing Peter if it kills Paul.

Basically, I want these professional medicine men to help me where they can help me and leave what they can't help alone. It's really up to me to decide that, and if they decide I can't have any say so and still be their patient, then I gotta find another way. They can only go the Doctor Mengele route if I encourage them. It's just crazy to expect them not to envision me as little more than another warm body.

It's like with my brother's dogs next door. They come over here and climb up the stairs and scratch on the door for me to come and pet them. I could see this as our being friends or I could recognize that they're just coming over here to find out if I'm dead yet so they can eat my rottening body. '-)
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