Workout Log 29 July 2012: a note on the Tiger
Up at six, met my friend at seven to walk to Lo Shing Shue beach on a morning damp on the ground but with freshness in the air. Now feel some pain-strain in left hip owing to the uphills but it was a great workout all the same.
May never run again. Will definitely see a doctor for a full evaluation before trying.
I don’t understand my cancer or whatever it is. The tumor shrinks and softens in direct proportion to lowered stress levels like at the beach, hardens and even, perhaps, enlarges under stress.
Some people say we all have cancerous cells in that the image (regularly shaped cells marshaling themselves calmly and dying when asked to die) isn’t the messy reality we actually see in the pathology lab; it’s the pathologist’s job to interpret what we see. For all I know we might have cells as variegated as the stars in the sky including cells shaped like clowns, dolphins, mermaids and baby elephants, following all sorts of strange rules and customs…including my deal, cells left over from a source prostate tumor that no longer exists.
I probably was a complete mess in 1981 with all sorts of weird stuff going on when word came down from the frontal lobes, ok, everybody start running, which probably caused cannibalism of rogue cells. But eventually they came back since cells reproduce by mitosis and you only need one with the right message.
Which doesn’t mean I won’t take this deal quite seriously as cancer. These are just idle speculations.
These lightning bolts from deep heaven, from sciatic pain to lumps are, perhaps, meant to modify my behavior; perhaps I am Blessed like Spinoza in being under some sort of tutelage. I mean, to relax since last May, I now sit up straight. What the hell is with that? I used to slouch to relax. And this cancer thing has got me off that goddamn Nicorette gum, the expense and mess. What rough beast?
That is, if we take it as axiomatic that nothing is destroyed without something being made, then even of a cancer we have to ask the question Blake asked of the Tiger:
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?