Sunday Walk With Diggery

Sunday afternoon I decided to take the dog for a walk. Diggery had been locked up all day, while the sheep grazed around the house, and the walking helps relieve the pain in my hips (courtesy of Gleevec). I suppose you could say that we were both in need of a good walk.

So we walked down the road, and around the corner, to a little place where I enjoy frivolous the fantasy of it being my own. It is about thirty acres of abandoned farmland. With the exception of a handful of orange trees about a leaking irrigation valve, and the smattering of struggling survivors scattered amongst the gullies and drainage ways, the trees are all dead and bulldozed, lying scattered about like the bones of the dead from some forgotten battle, fought and lost some time ago. As we picked our way among the bodies, with the cries of Redtail Hawks above us, I thought of how the gullies could be contoured to store water on site. I noted how weeds were struggling forth to life, as the effects of years of herbicide slowly wear off, and wonder if a pasture could be seeded. As Diggery wondered about, sniffing and searching, I thought of how a small stand could be set up on the corner to sell meat and eggs, after I filled the fields with cows, sheep and chickens.

Of course this is, as I stated previously, a frivolous fantasy. The land will be sold to developers and split up into many little plots, upon which many overlarge cookie-cutter houses will be built. Even if I were not flat broke, after half a year on disability, I could not afford the inflated price that the developers will most certainly pay. That is, what they will pay once they begin building houses again.

Nevertheless, I find pleasure in this exercise. That pleasant afternoon fantasy was poignant, if only from the news that it is now becoming quite likely I will some day be able to obtain health insurance, outside my current employment. With my life depending upon a $32,000 a year prescription, plus thousands more in blood tests and doctor visits, such a thing is a prerequisite for even considering farming. It opens up the possibility that some day, if my medicated body does not give out on me and the string of impoverishing events cease, I may have a piece of land and make a living from it.

The stupidity of the "Obamacare" rants I am almost daily subjected to aggravate me to no end. One must wonder what is particularly bad about forcing the healthcare industry into serving those who subsidize it with their taxes, and are subjected to its legislatively enforced inhuman scale and monopoly. It is perhaps not the correct answer to the problem, but it is indeed better than anything the other side has ever proposed…

So, as Diggery and I reluctantly left that piece of neglected land, we continued on with our walk. Unfortunately I noticed that the road had once again been scraped and wet - signs of a road being prepared for "improvement". It seems that even in these hard times the beast does not cease extending its ugly black asphalt tentacles into the countryside. I miss the dirt roads between the groves of citrus and avocado, and the shepherds with their sheep in the hills. I mourn for what we have lost, while watching the little pockets that remain succumb. My Riverside is fading. I pray we leave before it is gone.

Faith therefore is not an aesthetic emotion but something far higher, precisely because it has resignation as its presupposition; it is not an immediate instinct of the heart, but is the paradox of life and existence. So when in spite of all difficulties a young girl still remains convinced that her wish will surely be fulfilled, this conviction is not the assurance of faith... Her conviction is very lovable, and one can learn much from her, but one thing is not to be learned from her, one does not learn the movements, for her conviction does not dare in the pain of resignation to face the impossibility.

-Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

Addendum to Dark Thoughts - Religious Embodiments of Cultural Pathologies

Perhaps as a strange addendum to the wonderful comments provided to my dismal ramblings, I was provided this strange and twisted note:

"We bear in our bodies the dying of Jesus so that His life may be made manifest in them." (2Cor 4:10) This is the Mystery you're living.Say Yes to it!

Of course there is a sort of ridiculous irony to give this statement in reply to the earlier post. It does, in its strange way, give me a comfort that I am not often placed in close proximity with this sort of ridiculous religious manifestation of the previously mentioned cultural pathology of positive thinking. I find the secular version loathsome enough. This indeed demonstrates the broad universality of the ever so hip middle class exercise in religious banality which, above all, necessitates the incorporation of all middle class cultural popularizations of third rate philosophy, psychology and morality.

It often leaves one in wonderment whether such people even know, or care to know, what it is they are blithely emoting. More likely they are regurgitating an infantile imitation of positive think speak, which is in itself infantile. Though they likely think it sounds so very deep and erudite, and would most likely receive knowing nods and perhaps an "amen" if retorted to the correct crowd. I suppose this person never gave much thought to what "it" is, and what saying "Yes" to this "it" would imply.

The Newly Illumined Servant of God, Gwenevere

Named


Churched


Baptized

Dark Thoughts: On the Cult of Positivism, Insincere Inquires, Abercrombie and Fitch, and Death by Cancer

On my way to work today I listened to an interesting interview on NPR concerning the cult of positive attitude, and other societal pressures placed upon cancer patients; a number of which I can very well relate to myself. A poignant example was my recent visit to my doctor and her attempt to reassure me with some positive thinking. She proceeded to inform me again that 90% of CML patients on my medication are still alive after five years, and that it may take as long a ten years for the cancer to stop responding. A current patient of hers is only now, after eight years, beginning to stop responding. Of course, once the medication stops working, there are two other medications to switch to. Lastly, in her friendly manner, she gave me the good news that now people with CML are dying of natural causes.

Unfortunately, with my negative temperament, I quickly calculated that I have about a 70% chance of making it 15 to 30 years, which I suppose is fine if you are the average sixty-six year old patient, but being in my twenties, it becomes fairly obvious that it is unlikely I will die of natural causes.

But who do I relate these dark thoughts to? Only to the faceless realm of blogdom, I suppose. As the interviewee and callers of this show note, we are expected not to think this way. We are to be positive, happy, up-beat, and sensitive to the feelings of those around us. My wife has been under enough stress, and asks me to not even joke of my death - which is my primary way of dealing with it. My mother has told me that I need to come to acceptance – whatever that means – and believes I need to eat healthy and become a general health nut. I can only imagine what she would say if I told her my thought that I might as well smoke more, as it is highly unlikely tobacco will be the cause of my death. My father seems to think I am well now, and the fatigue I feel is due to the baby... And so I continue to go down the list.

The thing I hate most is going to church and other places where there are many people who marginally know me, where I receive constant questioning and advice. I think I can go the rest of my life without having people asking me how I feel, when they expect – and often explicitly let you know they expect – you to answer “well” or “better”, with a smile. I always oblige them with their answer, for if I were to answer, “Like shit, but I suppose that is better than feeling like death,” that would invite advise. Advise is worse that insincere inquires. I honestly do not know if I can politely sit through and pleasantly nod at another suggestion to eat healthy chocolate, talk to someone's relative who had some type of cancer – or, even better, thought they had some type of cancer – or some other inane thing.

Sometimes I feel as though I may deliver my fist to the next smiling face that tells me “it must be nice to have lost the weight.” As though there is anything nice about losing 25 pounds in two weeks, and needing your five foot pregnant wife open jars for you because you have so little muscle left. Perhaps instead I will tell them, “Thank you all for letting me know how morbidly obese I used to be. It is my sincere desire that you all get cancer as well, so that we might all look like models from Abercrombie and Fitch.”

I do wish I could swear it all off, and live out my days in peace on my little farm, with only my family and real friends to deal with, and be allowed to think I am going to die from my cancer – as I almost certainly will. I dearly want to see my children grown and off to marriage, or even a monastery, but otherwise there is a strange comfort in having a reasonable idea of what is going to kill you, when it will kill you, and how it will feel. I am comforted that when I was so close that I mostly just prayed and prepared for my final confession. I pray it will be that way again.

A Step Back Into The 21st Century

As of now I am once again connected to the internet, and now may - or may not - begin to update my blog again with some regularity.

Presenting Gwenevere

This is my dear little Gwenevere, born three weeks early - to the day - on September 3.

She is named for St. Gwenfrewi (Winifred/Guinevere) of Wales.

Feeling Better

I would like to thank everyone for their prayers and concern for my family and I. I had a brief stay at the hospital, once again, after my last post. It was, of all things, do to my medicine working far too well and completely shutting down my production of blood cells. Thankfully I am now doing well, and have finally returned to work part time.

Above is a picture of my little boy "herding" the sheep with the help of Diggery the Border Collie.