Workout Log 21 August 2012, or, A Slice of Life

20 minute freelance with weights to Journey to the Line and Sweelinck first thing. I think I am back at normal weight thanks to extra snacks including chocolate chunk cookies. So if I check in tomorrow at 175 I will have to stop the cookie munch. Boo hoo. That’s OK, really getting into bananas.

Long day ahead. I love my Tiger Mom client. But when will clients and employers understand that we need to be paid to prep? I know that people like me under prepare because we’re so good at winging it, and we wind up being paid for what a British mate calls “busking”, doing personal things at work. But there’s a grey area. For me to write a good poem can then serve as the basis for a lesson plan, and when I was in software, a fun software tool could be used to solve a client problem.

Google gives employees a day off for “busking”; but highly paid software guys like I was are not the only people that should be permitted to step outside a narrow role. My cleaning lady has done several things for me without asking. And if an auto assembly line is so structured that improvisation is unwanted, then this is even in management theory a problem. Employees should be able to take the initiative even on an assembly line.

Now the tumor feels a little smaller and softer almost as if my lack of a full night’s sleep is like chemo “good” for it in that along with the rest of my body it gets less overall healthy input…the chemo philosophy of blasting the entire body in hoping that cancer cells are innately weaker and will die first. Remarkably crude philosophy, that, rather like mutiliating British women in the 1930s with breast cancer. But perhaps I do not need ten hours of sleep every night.

Edward G. Nilges, Positron Emission Tomography PET Scan as of 3 July 2012.

PET SCAN

Chunks of meat appear and chunks fade away
As the animation sequence repeats,
Showing strange tumors and the old humors,
Cholera and melancholy vying for the upper hand.
The eye of God is turned upon my body.
It is indeed a slice of life, many slices in sequence.

It’s like the time my father first could not recognize me.
He said, who are you. It was I think pre-Alzheimers,
No big deal. But here I am, the inside of me turned out,
Oozing spinal disk gunk and there’s something going on in the femoral artery,
And there’s that crap on my shoulder.
But it’s good to have this information all the same
So that if I am God’s bulls-eye the surgeon will take his aim
And not fuck me up any worse I hope
So that when I am at the end of my rope
I feel I’ve done me best and not been a dope.
If this is gonna be like the doomed defense of Hong Kong back in nineteen hundred and forty one,
With my body overwhelmed at the Gin Drinker’s line
And I ain’t saying it is, it might not be THAT bad,
Dear God. Let me be a man. Let me be my father’s son.

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