The Common Cold - A Rare Event (an accidental posting)

Life goes on, recurrence of the old familiar aches, pains and dysfunctions (primarily ME related) nag me into acknowledgment of my presence in the material world. Don't get me wrong, whatever  ailments are thrown my way I still manage a smile, a laugh and, dare I say it, pure enjoyment and delight in the presence of my beloved.

The last few days I've been quite knocked out by a quite severe cold and, who knows, this may be a good sign - fingers crossed for the moment but I won't hold my breath; last time I had a real cold was best part of thirteen years ago. In 2003, a cold or flu-like symptoms seemed to accompany my every day, never materializing as a full-blown anything. Two thousand and three was also the year of my major collapse leading to an eventual ME diagnosis; in the meantime, whatever discomforts and anguish I've been heir to, a full blown cold has eluded me.

Actually I had no intention of writing a full post, just wanted to say that I've posted a brand new poem (both text only and illustrated version) on my Mal's Factory poetry weblog. It very much reflects the present ambience in which I have my being.

Link: http://malsfactory.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/twice-removed.html

wonderment and guilt - spontaneous jottings

A strange combination of wonderment and guilt are today's companions. Having allowed myself time to just sit, in the silence of the living room, looking out onto the garden, my mind is once again filled with the question, why is there something rather than nothing? Because there is something, imagining nothing (or a non/state of nothingness) seems impossible - I find myself watching the clouds slowly drift by and, I'm lost in wonder.

To be honest, most of my life these days is spent in some kind of wonderment and, it is because of (rather than in spite of) this appreciation of the wondrous awesomeness of life that I cannot avoid being committed to issues of social justice and hence politics. There must be an alternative to people being bogged down in the vicious cycle of wage slavery and debt; the world has a sufficiency of resources for everyone to be able to enjoy leisure time without being wearied and overburdened about how to acheive even a subsistence lifestyle.

But, you may well ask, where does the guilt enter the equation? It's that old protestant work ethic no doubt - how can I justify stting doing nothing rather than taking some positive action? The straight answer is that I don't need to justify it but, the guilt remains anyway, ignoring the logic of my answer.

Thermostatic Quirks and Simple Pleasures

Quite when it happened, I don’t remember; all that I know is that for a number of recent years my body thermostat, though somewhat erratic, tended to play up in such a way that night-sweats, and even passive day-time cool room sitting sweats, have tended to dominate my life experience. The ambient temperature bore little, if any relationship, to my body heat and subsequent seepage of saline solution from pores all around my body, limbs and head.




It has come as something of a surprise, in more recent weeks, as the realization dawned that I’ve started feeling the “cold” to an apparently greater degree than others around me. It seems as if the thermostat has swung from one extreme to the other and, as a result, I no longer (if ever) have any realistic awareness of the ambient temperature. It’s actually quite a positive experience to be rid of the “night-sweats” but, not so the cold shudders experienced when sat in what I would have considered a comfortably heated environment. On the “up” side it suggests that I’m unlikely to suffer from hypothermia but, the “down” side is that we’re definitely going to be confronted with higher energy bills this fall and winter.




Is it possible that this thermostatic change could relate to my having doubled up on my ppi intake; could a reduction in the production of stomach acids serve to reduce my perceived body temperature. Of course, this “cooling down” also coincides with my most recent sustained period of refraining from smoking but, in normal circumstances (with the supposed deleterious effect of smoking on ones circulatory system) one would have anticipated the opposite result.




I could so easily produce pointlessly circular arguments at this point so, a change of topic is called for. And the subject today is …. SIMPLE PLEASURES!




In fact, simple pleasures, in spite of my regular moans, are a dominant feature of my life; I feel truly blessed with an ability, at times, to simply be still and bask in the wonderful phenomena of breathing. I look out of the window and observe the goldfinches, blue, great and coal tits, dunnocks, collared doves, jackdaws, house sparrows, all successfully scavenging for food, both from our feeders and natures natural bounty. I frequently feel quite overawed by the sheer variety of life forms that have evolved on this amazing planet.




Of an evening, as my beloved works on her laptop, whether for service preparation or updating her weblog, sat opposite me in the living room, I find myself quite simply lost in adoration, contemplation, care and concern for her well-being. Just to see her smile, watch her sing along with ‘Songs Of Praise’, even animatedly reading whatever novel or short story currently engages her attention, I just want to reach out and hold her, hug and squeeze her!




These simple things, a source of warm glowing pleasure, simultaneously serve to reinforce a sense of responsibility to look after and protect that / those for which / whom one cares.

Much Ado About Nothing

A day of hollowness; an aching void replaces any kind of fulfillment. A sense of frustration started yesterday when I set up a recording using PDC (possible only with analogue transmissions - no such luxury afforded when digital is the only option), only to discover that the BBC, in it's wisdom, had interposed an additional programme advert into the schedule resulting in the 34 second advert being all that was recorded; a confusion of signals!  Today I set off a recording of a classic movie, direct to DVD, only to let the recording overrun by twenty minutes which proved quite irritating. At least I have the recording of the film, albeit rapidly followed by far too many minutes of some Aussie soap.

Any regular reader of my blogs will be well aware of my antipathy to sport but, this morning, I made an exception to that rule to watch Murray vs Federer. I was swiftly hooked on the match even though my mind, or perhaps my soul, was telling me that I was just wasting time. This sense of squandering precious hours was not subject to any probable outcome of the match, it's quite simply that observing grown-up people chasing a ball around is a time-waster, nearly as much so as participating in the sport. Had I been listening to music, watching a film, reading, or even just browsing a reference book, no such thoughts of wasting time would occur. That privilege is apparently reserved for sport alone. This sense of vacancy almost distracts me from the sundry aches, pains and general discomfort my flesh is all too frequently heir to.

Earlier this afternoon, Radio 2 provided background accompaniment to our lunchtime dining experience; on several occasions EP, the programmes presenter, told us that a song was performed by "the late ..." but, I very much doubt it! Adam Faith, Jean Simmons etc. may well have recorded the songs whilst they were alive, prior to attaining the status of "the late", but, I couldn't help being haunted by the vision of a medium channeling the voice of some ectoplasmic projection onto the acetate. The deceased, in my experience, very rarely if ever, perform songs in or out of the studio. 

In an attempt to overcome this negativity of absence, encouraged by my beloved, we go out for a walk. As we pass the local pharmacy, my attention is caught by a notice proclaiming "Chlamydia Often Has No Symptoms"; if I was feeling in the best of health that could prove worrying, I have no symptoms therefore I may have got that disease. Truth be told, I have symptoms of all sorts of possible conditions so, I'm hardly likely to have that one. Honestly, I don't know who the message is aimed at but, in small letters the notice says "ask the pharmacist for a confidential test"; I just imagine thousands of people, not knowing what chlamydia is, popping in to the chemist for a confidential test because they have no symptoms. The least they could do is incorporate a few words saying that it could be contracted through unprotected sex!

Listening To Mahler - a poem in six movements

A Special Privilege

Some events quite simply serve to put one’s life, with all its privileges and setbacks, into a more realistic perspective. Some people, though still young, brighten the lives of all those they encounter; without these people the world will be much poorer but, at the same time we can count it a real blessing that our paths have crossed.

Today, my younger step-daughter, Cathy, received the news from a friend (one who has been a friend, confidant, travelling companion right through from childhood) that the friend has been given 9 – 12 months to live. The friend, Kate, a remarkable and radiant young lady, is 28 years of age and, 21 weeks pregnant; it seems as if the pregnancy, and its accompanying hormonal imbalance, may have hastened the growth of a brainstem glioma.

It’s only a couple of years ago, after much humming and hawing by the medical profession, that a tumour was removed. In spite of the loss of peripheral vision, epileptic seizures, chronic migraines, Kate always has a ready warm smile for all whom she meets. Having been given the “all clear”, she was assured that the best course of action was to get on with life as normal and, yes, it would be alright to start a family. (The latter advice, in retrospect, seems to have been more than a little suspect).

Last year Cathy had the privilege of attending Kate’s wedding, when Kate married Luke, a young man from Essex she had met during her travels in Australia with Cathy. Cathy has always been determined that Kate would be her bridesmaid when she marries!

The news has been devastating to all of us and, as Cathy says, it’s impossible to imagine a world without Kate. Certainly the world will be much the poorer when the inevitable happens.

The only time we have is now, and whilst our thoughts and prayers go out to and for Kate, her family and all her friends, we must always remember the privilege of sharing / having shared the same planet!

tempus fugit - carpe diem

Doesn’t time fly by when one has nothing to do? Maybe I should correct that; one can usually find plenty to do but, time is always too short, especially when one has no fixed agenda.

There was a song, “Who Knows Where The Time Goes”, to which I always wanted to respond, “don’t ask me; it’s one of life’s little mysteries!” Mind you, there have been occasions when time seemed to hang like a leaden pendulum, especially when working as an accounts manager and we suddenly changed from old fashioned double entry book-keeping to a purpose built computerized system. Whereas on the one hand it was a much quicker process, much time was spent twiddling the thumbs, whilst we awaited the snail-mail delivery of our weekly printouts from the mainframe situated some ninety miles away.

Where once a simple glance at the ledger would show where any discrepancy had occurred, thanks to new technology, we now had to trawl through sheaths of lined paper filled with endless repetitions. Don’t get me wrong, accounts work was never mine by choice but rather a means of sustaining me whilst I got on with the important things in life. In those days, the only time that flew by was those hours outside of the office ones!

Later employment, working for the museums and art gallery service, both front and back of house, proved much more rewarding (even if somewhat less lucrative). Once the opportunity arose, not infrequently, to get on ones hobby-horse, time passed as if it had a rocket assisted launch. Even my last paid employment as a caretaker/steward at a thriving parish church, where I frequently toiled well beyond the appointed hours, saw the hours float away!

Nothing to do? I’ve been thinking about that, as my digits stray across the keyboard on auto-pilot: there’s always too much to do, especially the tasks for which I possess neither the necessary physical or emotional stamina! Stamina and intermittent brain-fog permitting, I can get on with my writing, watercolour painting, amateur website building etc, tending to the aquarium and pond inhabitants needs (sometimes not as frequently as I ought to – a missed filter clean/change here and there seems to occur due to lack of time and focus) and general pottering around in the garden.

I even manage to fit in the occasional socializing visit to ‘Open Church’ or ‘Café Culture’, events which health reasons had deprived me of for a rather prolonged period of time. One of these days, I may regain sufficient stamina to go to a gig or concert which was at one time a fairly regular part of my life.

I am extremely grateful for all that I can manage although still succumbing to bouts of frustration regarding the many things that I can no longer manage. Fortunately, “pacing” imposes itself on me when otherwise I would be tempted to return to the old boom and bust cycle. It’s almost as if my self-discipline now disciplines me.

Who knows where the time goes? I don’t really care, we only have one life and we’d better make the most of it!

Facing The Void

Perspiration comes at the flick of an invisible switch, trigger factor unknown; unfortunately inspiration refuses to disclose itself. Yes, the body’s thermostat is playing up as usual but, the mind seems to have just stopped functioning altogether. I find myself staring at a blank screen, expecting something, hopefully in a verbally understandable form, to appear. A sense of vacant distraction seems to be the present role-play in which my mind sits uneasily.

I just wonder could it be the lack of caffeine, since last Friday’s doctor’s order, which leads to this almost perfect lack of stimulation. I’ve even sunk back into the nicotine habit, by way of compensation for this absence; I suspect that isn’t what the doctor had in mind. It may be slightly better if I only knew what this decaffeination process was in aid of; which of the multiple ailments, my psychosomatic being endures, will be alleviated by this exclusion from my dietary regime. It almost seemed like an afterthought when my GP threw out this proscription just as I was about to leave the surgery!

Perhaps it will take time before any benefit is realized, if nicotine poisoning hasn’t already undone any prospective benefit. At present I’m all too well aware of an aching void of boredom, taking the place of tearful frustration.

Find out how Malcolm enjoys A PRIVILEGED LIFE! [ The link is to a posting on MAL's MURMURINGS]

Through the night ....

Some days, the body just doesn’t belong to the skin which encapsulates it. No matter what the elasticity may be, there’s quite simply too much flesh to quietly co-exist within these restraints. To be honest, in my case, this experience of existential (and probably somatoform) disease and despair is more likely to occur at night time, when total exhaustion overwhelms the necessity of sleep.

Last night was a case in point; having already been shattered earlier in the day, my recumbent body alternating between disparagingly cold shivers and shudders and clammy overheated perspiration. More about the, most enjoyable, day’s preceding events later**; suffice it to say, some couple of hours before the witching one, I was already in a sufficiently somnolent state to anticipate a solid night’s sleep. Unfortunately, my whole psychosomatic being chose to rebel against nature’s course.

Everything was fine as my beloved snuggled up but, inevitably, there came a time to turn over and, this led to the discomfort switch flicking itself to the ‘on’ position. Left side, right-side, back-side, front-side; none of these postures bore any resemblance to comfort in any manner. Hands under the pillow, between pillows, pillows propped up; none of these proved the necessary perquisite for slumber. But the searing aches were worst of all; starting from shoulders, hips and ankles, these debilitating arrows swiftly became all pervasive.

Each slight movement led to a nauseating tearing of the armpits and the groin; disrobing was definitely the order of the night, pyjama tops and bottoms were swiftly discarded but, it still felt as if, at each susceptible body juncture, these discarded robes were tearing into the flesh. The accompanying sense of nausea, caused in no small part by the post-nasal drip, my all too persistent companion did little to alleviate my overall sense of distress. It was quite impossible to hold back the gut-wrenching screams emanating from somewhere deep within my psyche.

Visits to the bathroom, and occasional dressing gown bedecked ambling saunters around the room, served little purpose other than to relieve the bruising monotony of simply lying there in the hope that sleep would soon befall.

A few years back, similar nocturnal discomforts were par for the course; it’s strange the alarm that their excruciating return causes. Come morning, the longed for sleep (and relaxation) arrived and I’ve just managed to raise myself from the duvet lair at 1.15PM. And I’m here to tell the tale.

**************

**PS (21/02/09 - 8.28PM) unfortunately I've been lacking the necessary stamina or resolve to fulfil this prediction: a very worthy report can be found on my beloved's blog 'Bright Light' - "Our Wedding Anniversary - Part One" and "Our Wedding Anniversary - Aftermath"

Slow Running

 

I doubt that it’s possible to resist this inbred protestant work ethic, and its consequent guilt trip. I’m the guy who, for many observers, seemed so laid back that, even when standing upright, my spine must have been around 45 degrees from the horizontal and yet, this gnawing guilt persistently upsets me.

For the past few years, for health reasons, I’ve been unable to undertake any employment paid or voluntary, each day being so unpredictable, presenting the unexpected obstacle or fresh hope; physical and emotional stamina rarely coincide even on the best of days. A major regret is that, when I was enjoying better health, I pushed myself that bit too far; my current ability to pace myself, to subsist on a lower altitude plateau, does not come easily.

A very good day for me, these days, means running at as high as 35% of what would have been a quite sluggish activity level for me a few short years ago, and yet, I’m still plagued by guilt. I ought to be doing more; forget the fact that taking a shower is frequently a daily task too far, cleaning my teeth an effort too much when exhaustion suddenly overtakes me, I should be doing more; I should be out there earning an honest living.

Of course the media, and politicians of all persuasions, almost daily attack anyone living on disability or incapacity benefits as degenerate scroungers. If only some of that vitriol could have been spared to attack the greed driven recklessness of the banking fraternity, or the many hours wasted (and billions of pounds lost to treasury) by those working out ever more devious tax-avoidance schemes for those who already have more income annually than most of us can expect to earn in a lifetime, our economy might now be in a far healthier state.

Perhaps in a few months time, when I chronologically comply with / qualify for the Old Age Pension, the “guilt” will flee from me. Somehow that could be the time for freeing up; it’s currently difficult to admit that I’m enjoying being a gentleman of leisure, whilst I so wish for the energy to be running in a far less leisurely mode.

Matters Arising

 

 

Tensions mount as the appointed hour for the great disclosure approaches. Although pretty cool about the whole thing, the nearer the disclosure the more, at an almost unconscious level, little anxieties creep in; “what ifs” abound. Perhaps some sinister shadowy condition is the source of my ailments, an organic disease that I’d rather be unaware of.  The whole episode becomes quite absurd, one has a scan to try to find out the cause of a certain condition only to (belatedly) realize that perhaps it would be better to remain in the dark about such causes.

 

My beloved was becoming more overtly concerned about what the scan may have disclosed; worried about organs of the body that may be diseased and, of which my severe discomfort may simply be an obscurely veiled indicator of a much more critical condition. Her obvious upset with this thought, found a counterpart in me as my (only vaguely considered) concerns were given body and substance. This was perhaps the transforming motive whereby my “Que Sera, Sera” was converted into an anxiety laden wondering what.

 

We visited my GP this morning; he soon put our minds at ease by saying that the report sounded much more sinister than it really was; amongst other things, the MRI had disclosed a 12mm hernia on one of the discs, it really is amazing what havoc such a tiny intrusion / protrusion, in the vicinity of the sciatic nerve, can wreak. He then presented me with the options of consulting a neurosurgeon or, “doing nothing” – quite simply continuing with a programme of pain management as and when necessary. For the time being, I’ve settled for the do nothing option as I’m all too well aware of the risks involved in any spinal surgery.

 

Should the extreme pain be sustained for increasing periods of time, becoming incapacitating on an even more regular basis than at present, that’s when the neurosurgical route will have to be followed.  

Sonic Vibrations

Disrobed and prepared, time hangs slowly, waiting to enter the unknown zone.

The first bit’s nice, lie down, head on the pillow; a pillow propping up the knees to ensure optimum stability and comfort, alleviates my anxiety regarding maintaining stillness for the duration. Headphones firmly clamped in place, emergency / panic button placed at ones fingertips and it’s all systems go. Just a last check to make sure one’s arms are well tucked in, before the slide into the cylinder begins.

Curiosity takes over and, I’m desperate to know how light or dark it’ going to be in the belly of the machine. As it turns out to be light, next decision to be made is do I close my eyes or leave them open; the awareness that its light also enables one to be fully aware of just what a confined space they are within. Close the eyes and this restraint has gone; there could be all the space in the world out there so, what’s the worry? To my surprise there are no worries at all, nor is there any real awareness of time.

The soundscape is rather like an avant-garde techno-trance experiment. What’s lacking in the drum and bass field is more than compensated for by the healthy bass balance in all the proffered sounds, bass, treble or mid-range. To my ears, this random array of note clusters strikes me as quite tonal, a remarkable absence of discomforting dissonance.

It’s virtually impossible to apply any regular time signature to this precocious rhythmical melody; at times one is aware of the absence of note-clusters, a blanketed industrial washing machine being heard some distance off, before the music begins again.

Following on from this excursion, to a rather exclusive little music club, my GP will be informed of the results of my MRI scan within two weeks.

Waiting Time

 

An almost crystalline purity and perfection pervades the morning sky. The  brightness, that clarity of light synonymous with crisp cold days, swiftly elevates the spirit,a kind of exalted invitation to the dance.

Having managed to strugglingly manouevre myself downstairs, on finding  a relatively comfortable chair, I gaze out across the bedraggled garden. This little landscape has been victim of a far from modest elemental buffetting; the combined artillery (both light and heavy) of wind, rain and cold brigades, has beaten the earth into submission.

I'm all too well aware  of those little preparatory tasks. that remained undone, in the run up to winter but, hopefully, I will feel more up to tackling the  necessary recuperative tasks when the the season changes.

Malcolm - 7 January 2009

Body Talk

A crisp bright day encourages me to venture out for a stroll. My body instinctually vetoes the idea.

I know, on this occasion, that the body is correct – I’m quite used to listening to it these days – but the thought of a little stroll, accompanied by my very own breath ghosts remains appealing. Momentarily, a surge of resentment washes over me; why should I tolerate these corporeal restraints?

A searing bolt of transferred pain replies, as if to demonstrate the wisdom of the body. The spirit yields to the assured pragmatism of the flesh.

Returning Home from Being There

 

An endless numbness, a dull sullen hanging sense of nausea and, barely the energy to read a single word, listen to a note of music; if only I had the stamina to put a thought together it would probably turn into a single-syllabled question. The querulous word would, I suspect, be more on the lines of “What” rather than “Why”.

I’ve long since given up on the existential / metaphysical why; more an exercise in futility rather than to proffer any result. “What” keeps the world alive, “why” seems more like an evasion.

Well, that’s yesterday dealt with; today I have returned to me. The preceding days, and nights, had been dominated by intensely excruciating pain, ranging from the numbing tourniquet, to the slightly blunted arrow; the bone and muscle crumbling ache in combat with those swiftly-fleeting nerve-tingling darts that seem to take one’s breath away; a kind of Topsy-Turvy Terpsichore:

Dance rules over all – it prevails against reason, common-sense and substantial portions of ritual belief. Trouble is that, we are never in control; I am currently in thrall to a kind of voodoo dance –nature’s response to a crushing debilitating pain scenario.

When all else fails, randomly fling limbs in whatsoever direction they feel like; if it causes further discomfort then that adds a whole new terpsichorean overlay, disclosing hitherto undreamt of fraught sequences of space displacement.

On Monday my pain-killing medication was changed, to a 3 day slow release opiate patch. Having applied the patch, late afternoon, my familiar discomforted restless night was in attendance, so nothing different then but the following morn was quite a different proposition. A total inability to concentrate, a generalized dull ache underlining the spasmodically erupting specific sharp pains; all was eventually blanketed under a heavily nausea spiced  airless cloud of unbeing, crushing a body wracked in turn between hot and cold shivering sweats.

Needless to say, all the remaining patches have been returned to the pharmacy and, my routine has been switched back to Tramadol, this time of a non-modified release type, to enable me to remain in control, modifying the dosage as necessary. Meanwhile, I’ve once again been referred to the hospital for further investigative work.

The 18 hours respite, including some ‘real’ bed rest, between removing the patch and taking a further pain-killer, has served to enhance my appreciation of the home environment. For the first-time this season, I was aware of the seasonally decorated dining table, and the various Christmas ornaments and tinsel sundrily scattered around our abode. This awareness of one’s habitation, the taste of food, the sound of music and always one’s loving companion is a gift to be truly celebrated. The return from a pain-riddled drug addled stupor makes me feel like the fabled Prodigal Son; although at heart I am always aware of the love that surrounds me, it’s good to receive a whole-hearted reminder, for one’s abode to find it’s rightful status as Home.

 

The Art of Affirmation

 

Sometimes I think that I’ve grasped it, at other times the whole technique seems to elude me. That sense of gratitude for the many blessings that have come my way is so easily submerged beneath current setbacks, whereas the fact of these setbacks should serve as sufficient reminder of those blessings, rather than a blanket which veils them from view.

 

To give thanks, show appreciation for, the simple fact of being, ensures that the simple ‘given’ takes pride of place. It’s always easy to celebrate a great step forward but, the more consciously we are able to affirm each action, each moment of our lives, those instances become more worthy of affirmation.

 

Sometimes it feels as if one should squeeze the last drop of pleasure out of each experience, wallow in the moment and, if possible ….  What am I talking about, we should try to squeeze the last drop of pleasure, out of each experience, all of the time!

 

Right, I’ve grasped the theory, now all that’s needed is the determination and stamina to practise this affirmative art.

A Nudge and a Wink

Night-time trips between bed and bath rooms are fraught with a sense of adventure; my faith in the stability of bed end, stair rail and wall, has not been undermined so far. As long as the muscular and joint pains remain discomfortingly persistent, I remain on guard for the possibility of a random stumbling collapse; at least, in this one respect, the rest and sleep destroying acute discomfort seems to serve a useful purpose!

 

Somehow “collapsing” sounds far more dynamic than “creaking”, at least the results are far more spectacular when, knee, ankle, or hip joint, suddenly give way. The competition between “creaking” and “collapsing” into action becomes increasingly intense.  The sheer unpredictability of which joint takes priority ensures that my enforced sedentary lifestyle never becomes boring.

 

 

What I’m missing most of all is a decent night’s sleep; no matter how exhausted / positively shattered I may feel on retiring au lit, by the time I’ve struggled out of daytime attire, donned pyjamas and, performed the appropriate ablutions I’m far too fatigued to sleep.

 

I can usually guarantee that I’m going to be alerted into wakefulness at least once or twice in every hour by some chronic jarring discomfort emanating from anywhere between small of back and ankles. I still fail to understand the logistics that require the shifting (and adjustment) of the whole of my body, in order to achieve a minor adjustment in the alignment of the right lower limb; we’re talking microns here!

 

Somewhere between 3.00 and 4.00 am, I usually seem to achieve a state of full alertness although this effect has usually been squandered some time before my beloved stirs in anticipation of preparing herself for work.

 

All being well, I manage to remove myself from the duvets hypnotic allure by 11.00 am, only to fall asleep again mid-afternoon, my wife not uncommonly returning from work to find me in a dazed stupor.

I'll be back

 

How strange it is to feel almost human once again, frightening to have rediscovered how a few short days could hang like a leaden eternity around one’s spirit, almost blinding them to the possibility of light. Those of you who follow my beloved’s blog will be well aware that I have been quite literally “off colour” and, you may as well add to that, off food and fluids too.

 

 At least it made a change from my familiar resident aches and pains, providing me with a rather more centred point of focus. Come to think of it, the “point of focus” is a bit of a disgusting image; just imagine all the ways a tummy bug can effect one, multiply that effect by your chosen factor and, it still doesn’t quite manage to describe just how ghastly things seemed. Worst part about it was that I couldn’t even bear to be touched, in even the most caressingly gentle caring fashion, at one stage; such was my general sense of distraught fragility!

 

Anyway, I’m relieved to be back to a state of being rather than merely existing/vegetating and may even get around to blogging ere long.

Who Knows ... ?

Who knows where the time goes? Is it a song, is it a bird or, is it quite simply a statement of my reality? Truth be told, I love the song but, even more, I find myself wondering exactly where it does go! Strange how it sounds like either a metaphysical or a pure physics question.

 

Where once I regularly managed, or indeed needed to, post a blog entry every day, in these days of idleness it’s often difficult to find the space in my non-routine to fit it in. Sometimes, I’m quite amazed that I manage to get anything done; day-dreaming proves such a time consuming occupation!

 

My thoughts often turn to serious issues like how a military force that moves in defence of a brutally repressed separatist movement in Eastern Europe (think South Ossetia) can be considered wrong, as it thwarts the goal of an American educated and supported President with an army partly American trained, whilst the people who offer such condemnation think nothing of slaughtering innocent Iraqis in the course of perpetrating an illegal war! Issues of sovereignty suddenly loom large. Sadly, when the big boys play their self-interested games, it’s always the innocents that suffer most.

 

When it comes to politics, there seems to be little room for morality. There was a time when I was a truly political animal, it served to take the place of the evangelical religious faith I had recently rejected owing to its reactionary asocial outlook. Even then though, I was a creature of contradictions, a would-be pacifist longing to man the barricades in the cause of social justice, a pothead serving a puritanical Trotskyite sect, a Buddhist clinging to the material world.

 

This isn’t the post I sat down to write but, who knows where the words flow?