9 June 2013

First-thing again 20 minutes, again 100 supine pullups, 100 steps on alternate legs.

The last ten steps on the weakened leg are very hard indeed and cornily I imagine Jane Fonda’s leg-warmered ghost urging me on. Corny!

Heavy pain, as on former mornings during and especially after workout at left hip cancer site, was relieved by breakout syrup med..

Pain. Normally bearable (what alternative is there?) And, it’s a real treat when it stops, whether through meditation, breathing, positioning, or a good old slam of Fentanyl syrup. Sometimes pain stops when it’s still there; that of course is just a shift in your mental attitude. And, there’s my discovery made in June of last year when I went out on a sort of “My Dinner With Andre” with a very smart Oxonian graduate: the company of the learned and charming, especially people more learned and charming than I, is a marvelous relief from pain: during that Dinner with Andre I forgot to feel pain.

Also, pain helps one attend to boring and nearly incomprehensible books such as guess what Der Kritik der Reinen Vernunft, for the pain of being on the edge of comprehension makes the physical pain remote, out there somewhere in the known universe but of no concern compared to damn your eyes figuring out what this verdammte Kant means.

Sometimes pain and God overcomes all these defenses and as happened once during this morning’s siege, one’s blasted with an enormous jolt at the primary site and a simultaneous jolt of nerve pain in one’s blasted ankle, and one can only say how great Thou art and start bawling anthems like Australian and British soldiers in films: David Bowie’s mates in Merry Christmas Mister Lawrence, singing the 23 Psalm, or the defeated British on the German side of the Rhine singing Abide with Me.

But all’s well as I draft this, I am indeed reading the blasted Critique and waiting for congee and an Egg.

Oddly, the last chapter Of Human Freedom in Spinoza’s Ethics, and a feature article in the Chicago Tribune, serve to remind that I fear pain almost precisely to the extent I remain un Homme moyen sensuelle, the average sensual man circa 1975 in my snazzy suit, with my Woodbines, outside the Garden in Sloane Square. Spinoza wrote that the pains of Hell will terrorize only him who self-objectifies by using, perhaps only overusing, drink, tobacco and drugs.

The Tribune article was about how use of drugs destroys the body’s capacity to produce endorphins, those marvelous natural opioids produced by your own body.

Today I am going to Lamma Island as a test run to see whether I am good to go for a discharge from Grantham later this month. They give you the recommended dose of breakout painkiller in the form of dosage tubes. It looks kind of weird to shoot these tubes; I’d rather have a Fentanyl lollipop such as are legal in the USA and are used in the US Army for gravely injured soldiers.


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