29 Aug 2013
30 minute workout at 5:50 AM: 250 supine warmup motions, 200 lowrise steps, walking, 100 dance steps (the old soft shoe). Pain encountered on rising, during workout and after the workout; as I write this the pain is deep in my butt like someone left a hammer in it. I called just now for the nurse. Altho I can be quite gravely amusing about this pain, the doctor warns me that this isn’t America. You get no points for avoiding painkillers here.
No physio. Instead I sallied forth to Causeway to test my walking. I went with my former helper and current friend in a taxi and until we parted so she could get to work I felt little or no pain. Therefore I was wrong in rather snottily saying that my pain disappears when I am with someone smarter than me, for while R. has folk wisdom as a Filipina, I am smarter on the Western metric.
But (my head hurts) this means dumb, and dumber in so many ways starting with the ability to clean a flat. I cannot clean my own space decently whereas when R was my helper the flat sparkled. When I didn’t have a helper, I’d try to clean up after myself for 20 minutes per day, and while the results were not nearly as good as R’s, they were something.
I basically think that I was abused over this issue and as a result I beat myself up over it. I wasn’t in the military and I never worked at McDonald’s (a great friend who has says that their training program module on “cleaning the restaurant” is a very good way to learn how to clean up your own space.)
Why is it that classes at universities teach philosophy but not “how to clean up after yourself” except perhaps at a junior college or open U? I woud be the last to disrespect philosophy, obviously, but cleaning things is also important.
R and I went first to Wellcome a posh grocery store. My targets were Tabasco Sauce and black instant coffee. Because of my limited mobility, spices, teas and coffees have become my new king’s ransom; just as an ounce or so of pepper could make a man’s fortune in early sixteenth century Portugal, I was lusting after a small jar of Nescafe, the Tabasco “perfume bottle”, and a Lindt choco-bar just south of unsweetened.
Well, I found what I needed, and also two “white chocolate donuts” which disappeared down my maw after lunch back at Grantham. These, and the painkillers I’d had since dawn, created a pleasant buzz. Too pleasant.
At any rate, to return to this morning’s events, as soon as R. and I parted my butt began to hurt. Exhausted I plunked myself down with the International Herald Tribune in the Great George Street Starbuck’s. It was still early so I spent a reasonably pleasant hour or more, marred only by some pain and the insanity of the news about Syria; bombing Damascus is just a bestial grab for power dressed up in utter nonsense and stuff that this will deter Assad. As was the case in Iraq, the US and Britain insist on unilateral action merely to show the world that they aren’t already in the dumpster of History and that the world hasn’t moved on, whether in some parts of the Middle East or in many parts of Latin America.
One article (dateline Evanston, Illinois, and by one Ian Hurd, an associate professor (oooooohh) at that well-known seat of learning re international monkey business, Northwestern University) is actually titled “Bomb Syria, even if it is illegal”. The savagery started in my experience in 1980 when the worm turned against the prosperity, and consequently the Enlightenment, of the “North Shore.”
By 2002, I was sitting in a digital cafe locating clients alongside a lawyer pal…who was doing a land-office business in family law but who was sick at heart at what people are like in divorce on the North Shore: they are animals rending each other. As I was in my own North Shore divorce, but perhaps not to the extent of people wealthier than I.
[The above shall have to stand altho it has excellent grammar; the para ends correctly with “I” because the rule is that “than I” is just shorthand for “than I was” so the subject form “I” is required. Screw grammar, I just wish that I did not “have to” act like a selfish prick in 1981. Of course, I didn’t, so I chose to and this was a black spot on my soul. I have confessed it but “this man hath penance done, and penance more will do”.]
“Bomb Syria, even if it is illegal.” WTF?
This lead is so utterly barbaric that it confirms what many thoughtful people believe: behind what it thinks is the integrity of its deep borders, and from the green leafy streets of Evanston, the United States thinks it can assault others like a bully in safety, with drones and now with “Bomb Syria, even if it is illegal.”.
“Throw my ex-wife and the kids, Mother Courage undt seinem kinder out on the street.”
“Bomb Syria, even if it is illegal.” Yeah, screw you Ian Turd, and screw your “associate professorship”, you animal, and screw the way, in all probability and in
“My mind’s eye, Horatio” – Shakespeare, Hamlet
you abuse students. One of the reasons my son took his own life was the way in which he was bullied by academic and teacher thugs of which you appear to be a specimen. Blow me and bite my crank.
O give me civet, good apothecary…
First Meditation on the Fear of Death
“I shall miss the pleasures and joys of this life”. My spiritual mentor a couple of years told me that John von Neumann was in timor mortis because after death there is no math, he thought, and the only joy he had was in doing math intensely while smoking and watching H bomb tests (no, I am not making this up).
But the statement “I shall miss” is neither true nor false. “After death there is no other”: Death so radically reshuffles the cards. Furthermore, as Adorno writes in the triumphant last aphorism of Minima Moralia, this life is infected, shot through (zuschammen) with flaw and deficiency that it may be the case that any way is “up” as it was for Dante at the end of Inferno and start of Purgatorio. The point is we know less than nothing and antinomies similar to those discovered by Kant crack over our heads on a darkling plain. Both sides of the question “after I die there will be x” can be validly argued to be true which shows the question less than true.
The point is that we don’t know and best remain silent than talk such utter nonsense as “I shall miss my math.” I ask you, for a smart fella, von Neumann was just stupid in all areas save computing and mathematics. When I found myself turning into him in 1981 I jerked myself around, cultivating my right brain instead of my left.
My Problem of Pain…Continued
The pain hasn’t yet taken over my executive function. Even last week when I encountered severe breastbone pain that got worse as I breathed I found it rather amusing to find a solution, and that was, don’t breath, or breath as little as possible by being still.
But this blog certainly isn’t a guide to dealing with severe pain since I just haven’t had enough apart perhaps from mental pain.
Don’t come out here for Hegel’s Recognition. I was always a selfish little prick and now that I’m in pain or gorked out half the time, it’s not like I have turned into Mother Theresa. The only creatures deserving of Recognition by me at this time are my grand-daughters who need the radiant bath of total approval I used to give Peter when Peter was a good little kid. “Peter!” I used to yell. And Peter (junglee Peter) would say, “what?”. And I’d say, “Nothin’. Just PETER!!”. I want to give Recognition at this time only to my grandchildren, saying to them in a strong, portentous voice, Grankle Kamankle!
My grand-daughters also need books including “Alexander Stories” by Judith Viorst, and “The Daring Book for Girls”, a British book of naughty projects and stories for girls such as “Women Spies” and “Wearing High Heels”. I bought a copy of “The Daring Book for Girls” for my girl students back in 2007 and it’s now in storage with my effects.
I missed their first birthday since nobody bothered to tell me the date but I have been sending cartoons and love to them thru my son.
Don’t get me wrong. I already have had it up to here with discrimination against single, divorced grandfathers. Of unfashionable age and gender, we make the most convenient whipping boys and Devil figures. Well, please allow me to introduce myself…
…but in compensation I have friends on Lamma who yesterday undertook to move my crap out of my flat in 35 degree Celsius heat without financial gain. I couldn’t even make it out to the island in my condition so I was essentially kicking it while they were humping it. That’s OK for when I was in good shape I have done my share of humping my stuff. Love goes to Bookman Nick of Lamma, the BAZ and Caroline of Lamma Grill, the best restaurant on the island. Check Bookman Nick’s stall on the High Street in weeks to come for some VERY interesting books: they were mine: I’ve read ’em, the knowledge is now in my noodle: you can now own them at Nick’s low low prices.
For a memoir of physical pain see how Ron Kovic dealt with burn injuries in the book Born on the Fourth of July. I’m fairly certain it was Kovic but it MAY have been someone else who chronicles burn pain, writing that he imprinted his fingers in the solid steel bed-rail while his burns were debrided. I just have a pain in the butt.
The fun may start when this thing metastasizes to bone. It already is metastatic but is apparently having too much fun chomping on my butt to want, at this time, God be thanked and Christ save me la, to get into my bones. I am scheduled for a bone scan, so we’ll see.
30 Aug 2013 Add connectivity between interpersonal barbarisms in divorce and international barbarisms
30 Aug 2013 Removed some info.