nandupress
click on nandu for the NEW homepage
Friday, November 7, 2014
Friday, October 31, 2014
New Post - New Site: The Waiting Game
Go HERE to view new post at the new FIVE PLUS and nandupress webpages.
If you sign up at that website you will receive newsletter from me that will update posts and other activities I am engaged in. Then simply unsubscribe from this website. This site will remain up more as an informational page about kidney cancer. I get hits from around the world and I believe it is the cancer and not my cleaver writing about it. I will be, in fact, redesigning this page to that end.
Best to all, and get out next Tuesday no matter what your political interest is, and vote!
If you sign up at that website you will receive newsletter from me that will update posts and other activities I am engaged in. Then simply unsubscribe from this website. This site will remain up more as an informational page about kidney cancer. I get hits from around the world and I believe it is the cancer and not my cleaver writing about it. I will be, in fact, redesigning this page to that end.
Best to all, and get out next Tuesday no matter what your political interest is, and vote!
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Something new at the new site...
Click here for new blog entry....
or click on the nandu icon and it will take you to the new homepage, go to recent posts and find the newest one at the top of the list...
or click on the nandu icon and it will take you to the new homepage, go to recent posts and find the newest one at the top of the list...
Saturday, October 4, 2014
NEW FIVE PLUS in the works....
For those of you have been readers of this blog over the past year, thank you.
I have enjoyed writing it, and sometimes let myself hang out there, so to speak, with what is taking place in my life, the cancer thing, and all.
However, I have been working on a new webpage connected to my new homepage. This page will eventually go away if I am successful with that page and the new site. In the meantime I will keep this site open as an archive and connect to any new blog made at that webpage with the appropriate link to it.
The new page has a place to comment at the bottom of the blog. I will still post to Facebook and connect the best I can.
You can connect to the new blog by entering your email. You will know where when you get to that page. It's self-explanatory.
Connect here ...http://nandupress.wix.com/timnorris-nandupress#!blog/c2fu
...to view new site. Comments appreciated.
I have enjoyed writing it, and sometimes let myself hang out there, so to speak, with what is taking place in my life, the cancer thing, and all.
However, I have been working on a new webpage connected to my new homepage. This page will eventually go away if I am successful with that page and the new site. In the meantime I will keep this site open as an archive and connect to any new blog made at that webpage with the appropriate link to it.
The new page has a place to comment at the bottom of the blog. I will still post to Facebook and connect the best I can.
You can connect to the new blog by entering your email. You will know where when you get to that page. It's self-explanatory.
Connect here ...http://nandupress.wix.com/timnorris-nandupress#!blog/c2fu
...to view new site. Comments appreciated.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
On the road, 1983-84.
I took a bus ride once. Phoenix Arizona to Portland Maine, and back again from Savannah to Phoenix.
It was during the Christmas holidays of 1983. I was attending graduate school at Arizona State University, doing what turned out to be a concurrent masters programs in fine arts and art history.
So, as the Trailways bus turned out of the Phoenix bus station, northbound to Flagstaff, I settled in.
It was nice in Phoenix, warm 60s and it was late afternoon. All the buses were pretty full because of the Greyhound drivers strike that year. The route was going to take me north to Flagstaff, then across what was the old route paralleling Route 66. Yes, that Route 66, which only existed in pieces and is now more a legend than anything approximating a route that can be followed.
As with any long trip the first part, for me anyway, is getting out a map and looking at the route and studying the towns, cities, and land I will be crossing to my destination. Phoenix to Portland, long ride, I thought at the time, so I sat back into my seat, which I was grateful to have at the front of the bus.
We rumbled along out of the valley and up the slope toward Flagstaff about 3 hours away. The desert turned to high desert scrub and occasionally pine forest could be seen on the distant mountains. Making one last push up toward Flagstaff we left the valley that contained Sedona and the beautiful red rock country there. Somewhere in the back was Sedona, Jerome, Cottonwoord, and the real west of legend and fact. Ahead of me was the paved lives of the future.
Quick stop in Flagstaff where we left a few passengers and picked up a few more. It was early evening as we pulled out of the Flagstaff bus station. We headed east for the first time.
At Winslow, about an hour or so out of Flagstaff, the bus stopped at a MacDonalds so people on the bus could get something to eat. Cross country bus ride, then, and maybe now, is like something out of a film noir movie. Unfortunately Marilyn Monroe or Claire Trevor was not one of the riders. There was a mixed bag of folks. Taking the bus is not the first choice for travel, even in 1983. But it was Christmas and most flights were full or too expensive, thus for the underclasses, like college students, the poor, the cheap, or the I am only gittin' ta the next town, we all assembled a quiet bunch as we lined up for our MacDonald's burgers, fries and drink. We had a half an hour to eat, digest, and take care of whatever business we wanted to on solid ground before we returned to the swaying rhythms of the bus. We headed toward Gallup, the New Mexico border with Alburqueque somewhere in the night.
I slept, woke, slept again, and then woke when we arrived at Alburqueque, then slept again.
It was morning when I woke to stay awake for the day.
The flat lands of eastern New Mexico spread out in all directions. The Texas border came and went unnoticed as we were somewhere up in the panhandle, Comanche country only a hundred or so years ago. It was rolling land and Amarillo could be seen in the distance as its early morning lights sparkled on the horizon, fighting against the light of the new day.
The sky was pretty clear when we left Phoenix, and Arizona for that matter, but in the panhandle the morning sky was gray and didn't look like it was going to break anytime soon. This was 1983 so the internet was still just a figment of Al Gore's imagination, say nothing of wifi.
We had no idea what was ahead of us.
The land was flat, encompassing, and except for the road east and northeast into Oklahoma, only the occasional farm punctuated what we could see. In the old days, the real old days, the driver would take his wife along and she would be the stewardess, so to speak. They would work the long distant drives together as a team. When I was in Korea, I took some long distance drives and even then, 1973, the buses had an attendant in uniform, who would pass out drink or small snacks. The MacDonald's was long pass and now food was scrounged from Bus stop vending machines. during our quick stops to extrude tired passengers onto the bus landings or to gather up new riders.
By the time we left Oklahoma City, I had rarely seen land so flat. It was pushing late morning and the gray sky began to give up some light white dust that blew across the road northeast toward Luther, Bristow, Chandler, and by the time we reached Broken Arrow, the snow was coming down pretty hard, which slowed us up.
We had changed drivers somewhere along the route. Can't remember when. The snow was coming down and as we got into Missouri night had fallen to the steady snow that accumulated on the highway. I was sitting in the front sit, shotgun, and at Springfield, Missouri we stopped at a diner to get some food. I was not going to loose my seat so I stayed onboard and napped a little as the bus stood its ground on the curb.
When the passengers got back on a rather large woman asked if she could sit next to me. She was about my age, wearing what appeared to be a homemade knitted shawl to cover what mass lay beneath. My answer was sure. We chatted it up sometime, and I soon found the benefit to my riding companion as we headed north east on I44. She filled her seat quite nicely, and part of mine. Under other circumstances I might have felt a bit uncomfortable being so close to someone I had just met, but the bus had only marginally heat and she brought her own environmental package along with her, as well as a pleasant personality, so I nestled up as close as modesty would permit, and we shared some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she had brought for the trip. I wonder what happened to her, I just remember her as some gift from mother-nature on a cold, snow swept ride through Missouri.
By the time we reached Ft. Leonardwood the snow was a good 6-8 inches deep and the bus slowed considerably but the weather was not enough to stop the bus. I remember the bus driver as a sturdy looking black man, focused on the drive. The roads hadn't been plowed, except by the front of the bus as we pulled back onto the interstate taking us north to St. Louis.
When we arrived in St. Louis, the arch was no where to be seen because the only thing we saw was the inside of the bus stop, the slush that fell over the undercarriage, puddles inside a large building. The driver grabbed his stuff and jumped off the bus, glad his mission was over. Apparently this was the end of the line for him.
An attendant got on and told us that we had to get all our stuff off the bus as we were getting a new bus before we left. I had two duffle bags stuffed in the overhead so I grabbed them and found my way into the waiting area. There was a surly looking crowd of people in the bus station and I planted myself somewhere distant from the bathrooms that stunk of human bodily fluids and the grim of a snowy, wet, night. Still not a tourist stop on maps of St. Louis.
Dunno why not.
On the bus platform the crowd assembled and I thought, oh shit, maybe I won't get my seat back, my disciple of mother-nature having disappeared into the night.
We were called back, the ones who had been on the inbound bus, and we had to push out way through the crowd of others who wanted to get on. I remember putting one duffle on each side and using them as blockers to push my way back to the bus, and getting that look, like why do you get a ride on the lifeboat and we stuck in this fuckin' dirt bag of a bus stop. The death stares did not create any detours in my path back to the bus. Once on I found a seat a few rows back, got the window seat, stuffed my gear in the overhead and sat down, watching the crowd get a little more unruly.
Finally seats were counted and filled, leaving behind more than we drove away with. No gun shots, but the police were called to get people from blocking the buses departure as they had swarmed on both sides. The new driver let them have a few finely tuned phrases that he must have been practicing for sometime because they seemed entirely natural to his speech. We received some unkind salutes of fists in the air, some with the requisite single middle digit flashing at the driver as the bus finally rolled out onto the snowy streets of St. Louis leaving behind a pretty unhappy mob to wait for the next bus.
I slept eastbound to Indianapolis, and by the time light had come back up, the snow had stopped and the highways were clear. Columbus, we arrived late morning. It was cold and getting bitter cold like it does in the northeast. I knew I was getting back into my homeland, I could smell it and feel it.
St.Louis was to be repeated in part, only this time we didn't have to get off the bus. The Columbus mob pushed up to the bus, but no one got off, so we were still riding full. Three men got on the bus and walked up and down the aisle. They were looking for a seat and espousing the sermon of motherfucker to all who would listen. Finally, threaten with arrest they got off, the driver shut the door and off we went, heading northeast toward Pittsburgh.
I had never been to Pittsburgh, and as we arrived I remember the long ride down into the valley, the city lit up, beautiful in the clear black of the night. Uneventful I slept during the ride across PA to Philly, woke for the usual hubbub at the bus station and then off again for Port Authority in NYC. By the time we had gotten to NYC it was the middle of the night. When we left I slept again as the constant travel was wearing me out. Somewhere northbound on I95 was Boston, and beyond that Portland.
We arrived in Portland during the early afternoon at the small bus station that still is where Greyhoud buses arrive and depart. The new Trailways bus station is part of a larger transportation hub that also includes the train from Boston. I use this bus station a lot, now, but still remember arriving on that sun filled sky in mid-December and waiting for my ride to my hometown in northwestern Maine, Rumford, a small paper-mill town that has since gone the way of many other small towns in Maine. Dried up is not the word, but diminished of the vitality that used to be part of the small towns of Maine is probably a better description.
I spent the holidays in Maine and had the usual good time and the comfort of being home. From there I visited my brother in Savannah, flying down to see him. Enjoyed the city which I hadn't visited before, and then it was early January, time to return to Phoenix.
I was on the early morning bus to Jacksonville, south about two hours. There I connect to the long distance bus heading westbound. Somewhere out of Jacksonville and before we got to the Florida panhandle it started to rain. Rain in that southern way. Drenching swamp forming torrent of wet that swept the road clean. I had a book so the roadside passed by well into the night, when we arrived in New Orleans. The bus parked near the Super Dome, which appear like a giant black mushroom in the night sky. The wet skies still lingered overhead. It was uneventful and when we passed out of New Orleans and into western Louisiana, the feeling of wet was encompassing. We passed into Texas sometime in the night and early morning, I remember the road-sign to El Paso indicating it was a thousand miles to El Paso. I tried to fathom how big Texas was, over a thousand miles from one side to the other.
The land slipped by as did Houston and other Texas towns. Time slipped away as did the road. I remember being in San Antonio and walking down to the Mission, the Alamo. It was early evening and it seemed beautiful to me. Back on the bus another night, El Paso and then morning on the winter plains on the road toward Tucson. It was morning, frosty, and cold. Clear, the antelope herded on the east facing hills to catch the morning sun.
Then it was Tucson, and the two hour ride to Phoenix, January 1984.
Some memories of the Christmas bus tour of 1983-84.
At the food court, Logan Airport, tim
It was during the Christmas holidays of 1983. I was attending graduate school at Arizona State University, doing what turned out to be a concurrent masters programs in fine arts and art history.
So, as the Trailways bus turned out of the Phoenix bus station, northbound to Flagstaff, I settled in.
It was nice in Phoenix, warm 60s and it was late afternoon. All the buses were pretty full because of the Greyhound drivers strike that year. The route was going to take me north to Flagstaff, then across what was the old route paralleling Route 66. Yes, that Route 66, which only existed in pieces and is now more a legend than anything approximating a route that can be followed.
As with any long trip the first part, for me anyway, is getting out a map and looking at the route and studying the towns, cities, and land I will be crossing to my destination. Phoenix to Portland, long ride, I thought at the time, so I sat back into my seat, which I was grateful to have at the front of the bus.
We rumbled along out of the valley and up the slope toward Flagstaff about 3 hours away. The desert turned to high desert scrub and occasionally pine forest could be seen on the distant mountains. Making one last push up toward Flagstaff we left the valley that contained Sedona and the beautiful red rock country there. Somewhere in the back was Sedona, Jerome, Cottonwoord, and the real west of legend and fact. Ahead of me was the paved lives of the future.
Quick stop in Flagstaff where we left a few passengers and picked up a few more. It was early evening as we pulled out of the Flagstaff bus station. We headed east for the first time.
At Winslow, about an hour or so out of Flagstaff, the bus stopped at a MacDonalds so people on the bus could get something to eat. Cross country bus ride, then, and maybe now, is like something out of a film noir movie. Unfortunately Marilyn Monroe or Claire Trevor was not one of the riders. There was a mixed bag of folks. Taking the bus is not the first choice for travel, even in 1983. But it was Christmas and most flights were full or too expensive, thus for the underclasses, like college students, the poor, the cheap, or the I am only gittin' ta the next town, we all assembled a quiet bunch as we lined up for our MacDonald's burgers, fries and drink. We had a half an hour to eat, digest, and take care of whatever business we wanted to on solid ground before we returned to the swaying rhythms of the bus. We headed toward Gallup, the New Mexico border with Alburqueque somewhere in the night.
I slept, woke, slept again, and then woke when we arrived at Alburqueque, then slept again.
It was morning when I woke to stay awake for the day.
The flat lands of eastern New Mexico spread out in all directions. The Texas border came and went unnoticed as we were somewhere up in the panhandle, Comanche country only a hundred or so years ago. It was rolling land and Amarillo could be seen in the distance as its early morning lights sparkled on the horizon, fighting against the light of the new day.
The sky was pretty clear when we left Phoenix, and Arizona for that matter, but in the panhandle the morning sky was gray and didn't look like it was going to break anytime soon. This was 1983 so the internet was still just a figment of Al Gore's imagination, say nothing of wifi.
We had no idea what was ahead of us.
The land was flat, encompassing, and except for the road east and northeast into Oklahoma, only the occasional farm punctuated what we could see. In the old days, the real old days, the driver would take his wife along and she would be the stewardess, so to speak. They would work the long distant drives together as a team. When I was in Korea, I took some long distance drives and even then, 1973, the buses had an attendant in uniform, who would pass out drink or small snacks. The MacDonald's was long pass and now food was scrounged from Bus stop vending machines. during our quick stops to extrude tired passengers onto the bus landings or to gather up new riders.
By the time we left Oklahoma City, I had rarely seen land so flat. It was pushing late morning and the gray sky began to give up some light white dust that blew across the road northeast toward Luther, Bristow, Chandler, and by the time we reached Broken Arrow, the snow was coming down pretty hard, which slowed us up.
We had changed drivers somewhere along the route. Can't remember when. The snow was coming down and as we got into Missouri night had fallen to the steady snow that accumulated on the highway. I was sitting in the front sit, shotgun, and at Springfield, Missouri we stopped at a diner to get some food. I was not going to loose my seat so I stayed onboard and napped a little as the bus stood its ground on the curb.
When the passengers got back on a rather large woman asked if she could sit next to me. She was about my age, wearing what appeared to be a homemade knitted shawl to cover what mass lay beneath. My answer was sure. We chatted it up sometime, and I soon found the benefit to my riding companion as we headed north east on I44. She filled her seat quite nicely, and part of mine. Under other circumstances I might have felt a bit uncomfortable being so close to someone I had just met, but the bus had only marginally heat and she brought her own environmental package along with her, as well as a pleasant personality, so I nestled up as close as modesty would permit, and we shared some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she had brought for the trip. I wonder what happened to her, I just remember her as some gift from mother-nature on a cold, snow swept ride through Missouri.
By the time we reached Ft. Leonardwood the snow was a good 6-8 inches deep and the bus slowed considerably but the weather was not enough to stop the bus. I remember the bus driver as a sturdy looking black man, focused on the drive. The roads hadn't been plowed, except by the front of the bus as we pulled back onto the interstate taking us north to St. Louis.
When we arrived in St. Louis, the arch was no where to be seen because the only thing we saw was the inside of the bus stop, the slush that fell over the undercarriage, puddles inside a large building. The driver grabbed his stuff and jumped off the bus, glad his mission was over. Apparently this was the end of the line for him.
An attendant got on and told us that we had to get all our stuff off the bus as we were getting a new bus before we left. I had two duffle bags stuffed in the overhead so I grabbed them and found my way into the waiting area. There was a surly looking crowd of people in the bus station and I planted myself somewhere distant from the bathrooms that stunk of human bodily fluids and the grim of a snowy, wet, night. Still not a tourist stop on maps of St. Louis.
Dunno why not.
On the bus platform the crowd assembled and I thought, oh shit, maybe I won't get my seat back, my disciple of mother-nature having disappeared into the night.
We were called back, the ones who had been on the inbound bus, and we had to push out way through the crowd of others who wanted to get on. I remember putting one duffle on each side and using them as blockers to push my way back to the bus, and getting that look, like why do you get a ride on the lifeboat and we stuck in this fuckin' dirt bag of a bus stop. The death stares did not create any detours in my path back to the bus. Once on I found a seat a few rows back, got the window seat, stuffed my gear in the overhead and sat down, watching the crowd get a little more unruly.
Finally seats were counted and filled, leaving behind more than we drove away with. No gun shots, but the police were called to get people from blocking the buses departure as they had swarmed on both sides. The new driver let them have a few finely tuned phrases that he must have been practicing for sometime because they seemed entirely natural to his speech. We received some unkind salutes of fists in the air, some with the requisite single middle digit flashing at the driver as the bus finally rolled out onto the snowy streets of St. Louis leaving behind a pretty unhappy mob to wait for the next bus.
I slept eastbound to Indianapolis, and by the time light had come back up, the snow had stopped and the highways were clear. Columbus, we arrived late morning. It was cold and getting bitter cold like it does in the northeast. I knew I was getting back into my homeland, I could smell it and feel it.
St.Louis was to be repeated in part, only this time we didn't have to get off the bus. The Columbus mob pushed up to the bus, but no one got off, so we were still riding full. Three men got on the bus and walked up and down the aisle. They were looking for a seat and espousing the sermon of motherfucker to all who would listen. Finally, threaten with arrest they got off, the driver shut the door and off we went, heading northeast toward Pittsburgh.
I had never been to Pittsburgh, and as we arrived I remember the long ride down into the valley, the city lit up, beautiful in the clear black of the night. Uneventful I slept during the ride across PA to Philly, woke for the usual hubbub at the bus station and then off again for Port Authority in NYC. By the time we had gotten to NYC it was the middle of the night. When we left I slept again as the constant travel was wearing me out. Somewhere northbound on I95 was Boston, and beyond that Portland.
We arrived in Portland during the early afternoon at the small bus station that still is where Greyhoud buses arrive and depart. The new Trailways bus station is part of a larger transportation hub that also includes the train from Boston. I use this bus station a lot, now, but still remember arriving on that sun filled sky in mid-December and waiting for my ride to my hometown in northwestern Maine, Rumford, a small paper-mill town that has since gone the way of many other small towns in Maine. Dried up is not the word, but diminished of the vitality that used to be part of the small towns of Maine is probably a better description.
I spent the holidays in Maine and had the usual good time and the comfort of being home. From there I visited my brother in Savannah, flying down to see him. Enjoyed the city which I hadn't visited before, and then it was early January, time to return to Phoenix.
I was on the early morning bus to Jacksonville, south about two hours. There I connect to the long distance bus heading westbound. Somewhere out of Jacksonville and before we got to the Florida panhandle it started to rain. Rain in that southern way. Drenching swamp forming torrent of wet that swept the road clean. I had a book so the roadside passed by well into the night, when we arrived in New Orleans. The bus parked near the Super Dome, which appear like a giant black mushroom in the night sky. The wet skies still lingered overhead. It was uneventful and when we passed out of New Orleans and into western Louisiana, the feeling of wet was encompassing. We passed into Texas sometime in the night and early morning, I remember the road-sign to El Paso indicating it was a thousand miles to El Paso. I tried to fathom how big Texas was, over a thousand miles from one side to the other.
The land slipped by as did Houston and other Texas towns. Time slipped away as did the road. I remember being in San Antonio and walking down to the Mission, the Alamo. It was early evening and it seemed beautiful to me. Back on the bus another night, El Paso and then morning on the winter plains on the road toward Tucson. It was morning, frosty, and cold. Clear, the antelope herded on the east facing hills to catch the morning sun.
Then it was Tucson, and the two hour ride to Phoenix, January 1984.
Some memories of the Christmas bus tour of 1983-84.
At the food court, Logan Airport, tim
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Cancer, & me
Well, it's been one year since I took up a short term residence at my hospitdal of choice, Beth Isreal in Boston. When I went in last year just about now...I was going in for IL-2 treatments for renal cancer. The idea was that the IL-2 would be the silver bullet to kill the disease. Only about 10-12 per cent of patients receive a positive outcome from this treatment.
For the past year I have been radiated, magnetized, and otherwise watched like a child waiting to say its first word. I have seen medical fellows come and go, and I have encountered the human element in this rather extensive medical inquiry into cancer treatments and the thrist of a cure. My last tests three months ago, they gave me a positive reading of my scans, only to find that they hadn't read them correctly.
Some of these experiences have given me greater clarity about the industry of politics and science of cancer in America, if not in the world, and how they form a troika that interacts to serve up treatment, or not to serve up treatment, mostly because of cost metrics.
Metrics control a great deal of our world today...those numbers that point this way and then that way, depending upon who is coloring the wall upon which they are projected. As our local football coach has said, "statistics are for losers." And, as each cancer is an individual journey, trying to round out the patients into a generic fold that somehow shapes our treatment is not a positive step for for the patient. Because, in the end, it is our cancer that we are most worried about and the larger existential role it is now playing in our lives. As a patient I am a little more self-interested than a non-patient.
So, fuck you metrics.
OK, I promised myself I would make this a short piece, so let me wrap up now by saying that last week I had all my magnetized, radiated, and vein popping experiences - on Wednesday. That afternoon I spoke with a new fellow, and my lead doc here in Boston, a brilliant man at the very cutting edge of cancer research...so feeling pretty good about him. They had only my chest CT to study and measuring, this time with me in the room, they found that the tumor in my chest has not grown, and may have in fact gotten a weeeee bit smaller. Take that you terrorist motherfuckers.
The renal cancer encamped on my pancreas, not as significant as the lymph node in my chest, has grown some, but seems to also have taken a summer holiday. I am all for cancer taking a holiday, by the way.
So, as it is, I am back on the shelf waiting for the new PD-1 drugs to come out and to fall into whatever group they think I belong to receive treatment.
For me, the patient, I always refer to Herm Edwards..."the purpose of the game, is to WIN the game..."
So, on the bench and waiting to get in the game, Capt'n Jack Moonbeam, otherwise known as Tim...
For the past year I have been radiated, magnetized, and otherwise watched like a child waiting to say its first word. I have seen medical fellows come and go, and I have encountered the human element in this rather extensive medical inquiry into cancer treatments and the thrist of a cure. My last tests three months ago, they gave me a positive reading of my scans, only to find that they hadn't read them correctly.
Some of these experiences have given me greater clarity about the industry of politics and science of cancer in America, if not in the world, and how they form a troika that interacts to serve up treatment, or not to serve up treatment, mostly because of cost metrics.
Metrics control a great deal of our world today...those numbers that point this way and then that way, depending upon who is coloring the wall upon which they are projected. As our local football coach has said, "statistics are for losers." And, as each cancer is an individual journey, trying to round out the patients into a generic fold that somehow shapes our treatment is not a positive step for for the patient. Because, in the end, it is our cancer that we are most worried about and the larger existential role it is now playing in our lives. As a patient I am a little more self-interested than a non-patient.
So, fuck you metrics.
OK, I promised myself I would make this a short piece, so let me wrap up now by saying that last week I had all my magnetized, radiated, and vein popping experiences - on Wednesday. That afternoon I spoke with a new fellow, and my lead doc here in Boston, a brilliant man at the very cutting edge of cancer research...so feeling pretty good about him. They had only my chest CT to study and measuring, this time with me in the room, they found that the tumor in my chest has not grown, and may have in fact gotten a weeeee bit smaller. Take that you terrorist motherfuckers.
The renal cancer encamped on my pancreas, not as significant as the lymph node in my chest, has grown some, but seems to also have taken a summer holiday. I am all for cancer taking a holiday, by the way.
So, as it is, I am back on the shelf waiting for the new PD-1 drugs to come out and to fall into whatever group they think I belong to receive treatment.
For me, the patient, I always refer to Herm Edwards..."the purpose of the game, is to WIN the game..."
So, on the bench and waiting to get in the game, Capt'n Jack Moonbeam, otherwise known as Tim...
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
GOOD MORNING AMERICA!!!
Good Morning America....
Just watched a great Robin Williams comedy routine on Youtube. The thing about his humor that I liked, is he took no prisoners, so to speak. Everyone's hubris and pomposity was at risk once he started talking. That was his genius, just to let the truth out as his mind saw it and responded to the insanity of the world around him. Like Jonathan Winters, these are rare individuals with a sense of play that is a gift and for which we will be looking for when explaining the world through our normal logic tree just won't work. Winters and Williams were key reminders, despite their mental illness, that life should be fun, and many things need to have less importance than we give them. I hope the memory of his death will be but a footnote to the fun he provided to us all while he was alive.
Today, I am sitting in the Food Court watching the rain come down on Boston. I find it amazing how many people are focused upon their devices. I have a crash pad, so to speak, in Boston. Which means that I have to share a space with other commuters. It is a strange mix of folks, but what ties them together is the small light in their hand spewing forth information of no interest to anyone, especially late at night when the lights are out and others are trying to sleep, including themselves, other than that they might miss the ongoing unimportance of it all. And, to be detached from the unimportance of mediocre flow of things would mean that you'd have to take some time and actually thing about something. People thought email was good, but it takes too much time to delete all the shit that accumulates there.
The tide of mediocrity is far easy to focus upon than the real events growing like the forces of the Dark Tower that seems so far away, but that is undermining our world everyday. Let's face it, we are the latte society and we'd rather be plugging in our ear buds and sipping the whip cream off our coffee than to sit down and say, "man that is really fucked up, let's do something about it." You know, like those folks in 1930s who saw the black tide rising, but couldn't get the attention of the populace until it was too late. As Mark Twain said, history doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme. Leader's today think because they say it is not so, it is not so. Think POTUS here. I've disagreed with my POTUS's since I can remember thinking about what they have been doing, but I have never been as upset by the current POTUS's inaction than any of the actions by former POTUS's. He is a victim of his own hubris...a milk chocolate narcissus failing because he is too concerned by his own image.
Thinking is becoming not so much a lost occupation, but one fighting a war with the new technological world that seeks to replace thought with sensory experiences that dominate the space between our ears. We fool ourselves with the idea that we know shit, and when we do know shit we tend not to do anything about it. You can see it in our politics, religions, and unfortunately, as a crutch for our supposed intellectual class. Instead of arguing for some sense of truth or justice, the argument is to swing our emotions through hot buttons issues, like abortion, rights of women, rights of minorities, rights of vegans, rights of the right whale, rights of the tiny fishes that live in the mud flats of San Francisco Bay...solutions are not the issue. Well, guess what, gang, sometimes the opposition (in a democratic society, qualification needed here) has some important ideas that will help shape these issues.
Are we suffering from global fucking warming? Who really knows. But are we polluting our environment to the point that illnesses are becoming more apparent because of that pollution, yes. So, while the discussions rages about global warming the focus is diminished that, hey, let's not put so much plastic into the oceans, or PCBs, or mercury, these are all things that we do everyday. Let's fight the little wars in this area first, then see some successes there before we try to say that the earth is getting warmer, getting colder, and that it may be sun spots, the natural life of the earth's environment, or whatever that is causing temperatures to swing. It's not a political issue, but putting shit into the ground is and we need to focus upon that. Not everything has to be an extreme non-negotiable issue. Sometimes we have to agree to fix shit, even it's not on our honey-do list.
Our youth, I wonder when they'll wake up and see that my generation has not left them in a good spot in the world. I have to accept that Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, and whoever is next is on us, and the reading of history will not be kind. And, they are the product of my generation. Fuck me, man, not good kimo sabeeeeeeee.
I was on the bus the other night, commuting from Boston to Portland ... the bus was full ... and a young girl who sat one row back and to the side of me put on her head set. The music was of some contemporary band of neanderthals that pounded out electronic syllables of an incredibly course kind that made me want to stick an ice pick into my fucking temple. The fact that the music was so loud that I could hear despite it being played through her ear buds says something of how fucking loud it was.
Now, don't take me for a musical prude in this area, because I grew up with rock and roll and still enjoy Clapton and blues rock with the best of anybody, but what I got from this music and her toe tapping and head weaving in her seat performance, to say nothing of the elderly gent next to her who was taking his pulse every few minutes to make sure he was still alive, was that the music seemed to announce her presence on the bus and to make her a mindless cypher. After about half an hour she turned it off, pleased with her announcement on the bus that she was there, and that she had interrupted the Jerry Seinfeld episodes that everyone else was watching just enough to feel good about herself.
I don't think it is so much a return to primitivism, which is one explanation I have heard of the supporters of the retreat by so many young people into the mind meme of the repetitive syncopation of electronic cleverness, but the new modernity into which we are falling that requires little thought, and too much of a retreat into the wall citadel of our hubris. Good music is good music, and I may find myself listening to Muddy Waters or B.B.King, and then to Chopin and Liszt...to say nothing of my life long love of Beethoven and Gershwin. Note: I am a well-rounded guy.
Modernity has many problems as we try to find our place in an ever alienating world. One is the force that channels thought toward sensory experiences without a parallel course of intellectual and emotional maturity that seeks to understand. I find people today less fun, less thoughtful, more willing to be alienated and to retreat behind banners...some faiths do this, some do it pathologically...The Dark Tower awaits, too bad we won't have Robin or Jonathan, or Mort Sahl to poke fun at the nonsense, so that we can be relieved for a moment and to recognize the nonsense every once in a while and not take ourselves too, too seriously.
From the Food Court, Capt'n Jack Moonbeam...
P.S. I am trying to get a melanoma this summer by sitting in the sun a lot. No luck thus far. The reason for my interest in multiple cancers, not that I am keeping score in this area, is that the drugs I need to combat my Kidney cancer are being approved by the F - fucking - DA for skin cancer. The thing about getting drugs is that to be treated with them, and to have insurance companies pay for them, they have to be approved specifically for the type of cancer you have. Otherwise, go fish muthafuka...Think Dallas Buyer's club, but for most of us cancer patients who await treatment drugs that show promise, we can't just get a prescription, we have to wait and be part of a trial. I've had cancer for about 14-16 years, I think that is trial enough. To me, if a drug is approved for use, it should be used, but the irony is that the science and the politics of it is that going out and helping people as best we can, we restrict it to the politics of who can be helped and who will get credit for the helping. The system is not good here, because it places, like everything else, the power of these decisions in the hands of people with little interest in the process except in their own advancement. The fight to cure cancer is really not the battle we are fighting, it's the fight for the right to say I have cured cancer. Not gonna happen, buckwheat. If we are fighting an illness the doctors have to have more freedom from the politics of it all.....every fight is individual, and every fight is new for that individual...the politics of health care, cancer fighting, and government control of resources is something we all should pay attention to, because someday, it may be you waiting to get treatment for something and your doctor will say, I am not an approved provider of that service....not fucking good, kimo sabeeeeeeee.
Ok, I kind of rambled today, but it's raining out and I am in Boston with not much else to do...
Just watched a great Robin Williams comedy routine on Youtube. The thing about his humor that I liked, is he took no prisoners, so to speak. Everyone's hubris and pomposity was at risk once he started talking. That was his genius, just to let the truth out as his mind saw it and responded to the insanity of the world around him. Like Jonathan Winters, these are rare individuals with a sense of play that is a gift and for which we will be looking for when explaining the world through our normal logic tree just won't work. Winters and Williams were key reminders, despite their mental illness, that life should be fun, and many things need to have less importance than we give them. I hope the memory of his death will be but a footnote to the fun he provided to us all while he was alive.
Today, I am sitting in the Food Court watching the rain come down on Boston. I find it amazing how many people are focused upon their devices. I have a crash pad, so to speak, in Boston. Which means that I have to share a space with other commuters. It is a strange mix of folks, but what ties them together is the small light in their hand spewing forth information of no interest to anyone, especially late at night when the lights are out and others are trying to sleep, including themselves, other than that they might miss the ongoing unimportance of it all. And, to be detached from the unimportance of mediocre flow of things would mean that you'd have to take some time and actually thing about something. People thought email was good, but it takes too much time to delete all the shit that accumulates there.
The tide of mediocrity is far easy to focus upon than the real events growing like the forces of the Dark Tower that seems so far away, but that is undermining our world everyday. Let's face it, we are the latte society and we'd rather be plugging in our ear buds and sipping the whip cream off our coffee than to sit down and say, "man that is really fucked up, let's do something about it." You know, like those folks in 1930s who saw the black tide rising, but couldn't get the attention of the populace until it was too late. As Mark Twain said, history doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme. Leader's today think because they say it is not so, it is not so. Think POTUS here. I've disagreed with my POTUS's since I can remember thinking about what they have been doing, but I have never been as upset by the current POTUS's inaction than any of the actions by former POTUS's. He is a victim of his own hubris...a milk chocolate narcissus failing because he is too concerned by his own image.
Thinking is becoming not so much a lost occupation, but one fighting a war with the new technological world that seeks to replace thought with sensory experiences that dominate the space between our ears. We fool ourselves with the idea that we know shit, and when we do know shit we tend not to do anything about it. You can see it in our politics, religions, and unfortunately, as a crutch for our supposed intellectual class. Instead of arguing for some sense of truth or justice, the argument is to swing our emotions through hot buttons issues, like abortion, rights of women, rights of minorities, rights of vegans, rights of the right whale, rights of the tiny fishes that live in the mud flats of San Francisco Bay...solutions are not the issue. Well, guess what, gang, sometimes the opposition (in a democratic society, qualification needed here) has some important ideas that will help shape these issues.
Are we suffering from global fucking warming? Who really knows. But are we polluting our environment to the point that illnesses are becoming more apparent because of that pollution, yes. So, while the discussions rages about global warming the focus is diminished that, hey, let's not put so much plastic into the oceans, or PCBs, or mercury, these are all things that we do everyday. Let's fight the little wars in this area first, then see some successes there before we try to say that the earth is getting warmer, getting colder, and that it may be sun spots, the natural life of the earth's environment, or whatever that is causing temperatures to swing. It's not a political issue, but putting shit into the ground is and we need to focus upon that. Not everything has to be an extreme non-negotiable issue. Sometimes we have to agree to fix shit, even it's not on our honey-do list.
Our youth, I wonder when they'll wake up and see that my generation has not left them in a good spot in the world. I have to accept that Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, and whoever is next is on us, and the reading of history will not be kind. And, they are the product of my generation. Fuck me, man, not good kimo sabeeeeeeee.
I was on the bus the other night, commuting from Boston to Portland ... the bus was full ... and a young girl who sat one row back and to the side of me put on her head set. The music was of some contemporary band of neanderthals that pounded out electronic syllables of an incredibly course kind that made me want to stick an ice pick into my fucking temple. The fact that the music was so loud that I could hear despite it being played through her ear buds says something of how fucking loud it was.
Now, don't take me for a musical prude in this area, because I grew up with rock and roll and still enjoy Clapton and blues rock with the best of anybody, but what I got from this music and her toe tapping and head weaving in her seat performance, to say nothing of the elderly gent next to her who was taking his pulse every few minutes to make sure he was still alive, was that the music seemed to announce her presence on the bus and to make her a mindless cypher. After about half an hour she turned it off, pleased with her announcement on the bus that she was there, and that she had interrupted the Jerry Seinfeld episodes that everyone else was watching just enough to feel good about herself.
I don't think it is so much a return to primitivism, which is one explanation I have heard of the supporters of the retreat by so many young people into the mind meme of the repetitive syncopation of electronic cleverness, but the new modernity into which we are falling that requires little thought, and too much of a retreat into the wall citadel of our hubris. Good music is good music, and I may find myself listening to Muddy Waters or B.B.King, and then to Chopin and Liszt...to say nothing of my life long love of Beethoven and Gershwin. Note: I am a well-rounded guy.
Modernity has many problems as we try to find our place in an ever alienating world. One is the force that channels thought toward sensory experiences without a parallel course of intellectual and emotional maturity that seeks to understand. I find people today less fun, less thoughtful, more willing to be alienated and to retreat behind banners...some faiths do this, some do it pathologically...The Dark Tower awaits, too bad we won't have Robin or Jonathan, or Mort Sahl to poke fun at the nonsense, so that we can be relieved for a moment and to recognize the nonsense every once in a while and not take ourselves too, too seriously.
From the Food Court, Capt'n Jack Moonbeam...
P.S. I am trying to get a melanoma this summer by sitting in the sun a lot. No luck thus far. The reason for my interest in multiple cancers, not that I am keeping score in this area, is that the drugs I need to combat my Kidney cancer are being approved by the F - fucking - DA for skin cancer. The thing about getting drugs is that to be treated with them, and to have insurance companies pay for them, they have to be approved specifically for the type of cancer you have. Otherwise, go fish muthafuka...Think Dallas Buyer's club, but for most of us cancer patients who await treatment drugs that show promise, we can't just get a prescription, we have to wait and be part of a trial. I've had cancer for about 14-16 years, I think that is trial enough. To me, if a drug is approved for use, it should be used, but the irony is that the science and the politics of it is that going out and helping people as best we can, we restrict it to the politics of who can be helped and who will get credit for the helping. The system is not good here, because it places, like everything else, the power of these decisions in the hands of people with little interest in the process except in their own advancement. The fight to cure cancer is really not the battle we are fighting, it's the fight for the right to say I have cured cancer. Not gonna happen, buckwheat. If we are fighting an illness the doctors have to have more freedom from the politics of it all.....every fight is individual, and every fight is new for that individual...the politics of health care, cancer fighting, and government control of resources is something we all should pay attention to, because someday, it may be you waiting to get treatment for something and your doctor will say, I am not an approved provider of that service....not fucking good, kimo sabeeeeeeee.
Ok, I kind of rambled today, but it's raining out and I am in Boston with not much else to do...
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Moonbeam Adventures, New Gods, & Future people
I've been away.
...away on a trip...
Now this sounds weird because I have not actually gone anywhere that my wife or friends have been able to recognize and ask, "Hey Capt Jack Moonbeam, what was that trip like?"
At first I thought it might be an acid flashback. You know, one of the 60s-70s bad choices come back to haunt...
But, what I have come to recognize is what my true experience was. So, let me tell some of it the best I can.
I was driving home one night from Boston, which is a common enough experience for me. Usually a two hour drive, but like the S.S. Minnow and Gilligan's assembled misfits, my two hour tour turned into a trip from which I have only recently returned, and may slip away again at moment's notice.
Where did I go? Why did I go? and what did I learn?
Well, it all started when I switched the radio channel from my usual talk channels for sports and news, and tuned into a soft rock channel with music that was easy to listen to. That in itself was a key mind bending experience. The music was hypnotizing in its blandness and soon I found my mind drifting, the lights flashing, and the darkness surrounding me on the road to ...Cap'tn Jack Moonbeam's Adventures into the Future.
The drone of the radio kept going and my mind kept wandering, lost in the timeless of the road, the lights, and the great dome of darkness and stars above me.
Suddenly, someone asked me where I have been and why I was there.
Dumbfounded, and a little startled, I looked around to see who it was. Which in a Mini Cooper, well, there's not much room to hide. But what I found was that I was standing on a darkened street with many people standing just in the shadows. They blended with the darkness except for the light glow of their faces, still indistinguishable, but there like little anonymous lanterns that had just lost their light.
Where am I...I asked toward the Shadow People?
You are in the land of the Jo'tess, came a unified reply.
One figure stepped forward, it was a man, I think?
Yes, you are here in the realm of the Prophet Jo'tess. We welcome you from the darkness.
Then he led me away toward a small house not far away. I mean, you'd go too, right. Anyway, the Shadow People around me kept at an acceptable distance, so the weirdness of it all didn't seem to bother me much, Well, until I remember it all, which is right now, so I am feeling weird about it now, and if I wasn't in the Food Court, I probably run screaming into the bay and try to swim away from the madness.
Back to the story, er, I mean my experiences in the Realm of Jo'tess, the Prophet. Which I'll just call the Prophet from now on unless I do otherwise.
Now this sounds weird because I have not actually gone anywhere that my wife or friends have been able to recognize and ask, "Hey Capt Jack Moonbeam, what was that trip like?"
At first I thought it might be an acid flashback. You know, one of the 60s-70s bad choices come back to haunt...
But, what I have come to recognize is what my true experience was. So, let me tell some of it the best I can.
I was driving home one night from Boston, which is a common enough experience for me. Usually a two hour drive, but like the S.S. Minnow and Gilligan's assembled misfits, my two hour tour turned into a trip from which I have only recently returned, and may slip away again at moment's notice.
Where did I go? Why did I go? and what did I learn?
Well, it all started when I switched the radio channel from my usual talk channels for sports and news, and tuned into a soft rock channel with music that was easy to listen to. That in itself was a key mind bending experience. The music was hypnotizing in its blandness and soon I found my mind drifting, the lights flashing, and the darkness surrounding me on the road to ...Cap'tn Jack Moonbeam's Adventures into the Future.
The drone of the radio kept going and my mind kept wandering, lost in the timeless of the road, the lights, and the great dome of darkness and stars above me.
Suddenly, someone asked me where I have been and why I was there.
Dumbfounded, and a little startled, I looked around to see who it was. Which in a Mini Cooper, well, there's not much room to hide. But what I found was that I was standing on a darkened street with many people standing just in the shadows. They blended with the darkness except for the light glow of their faces, still indistinguishable, but there like little anonymous lanterns that had just lost their light.
Where am I...I asked toward the Shadow People?
You are in the land of the Jo'tess, came a unified reply.
One figure stepped forward, it was a man, I think?
Yes, you are here in the realm of the Prophet Jo'tess. We welcome you from the darkness.
Then he led me away toward a small house not far away. I mean, you'd go too, right. Anyway, the Shadow People around me kept at an acceptable distance, so the weirdness of it all didn't seem to bother me much, Well, until I remember it all, which is right now, so I am feeling weird about it now, and if I wasn't in the Food Court, I probably run screaming into the bay and try to swim away from the madness.
Back to the story, er, I mean my experiences in the Realm of Jo'tess, the Prophet. Which I'll just call the Prophet from now on unless I do otherwise.
The man that led me to the small house was tall, with seemingly long blond hair that was cut to look shaggy but seemed well taken care of. And when I was able to see the other Shadowed People, they too seemed to wear their hair in a similar fashion and they all dress the same, a casual, yet stylistic assemblage of light sweaters and slacks. I looked for women, but everyone looked the same and blended together into an enormous mass of sameness. Creepy.
What is your name, the man asked?
I am Jack Moonbeam. You can call me Jack if you wish.
Well Jack, I am Him of the Prophet Jo'tess.
Where am I? I asked again, the eyes of many looking into the window of the small house. Their heads swaying like the tops of tall trees in a light wind. Some only opened one eye, others blinked rapidly, and others stood with both eyes closed and hummed a tune I couldn't understand, the sound of which swelled and ebbed with the soft light inside the house.
Well, Him of Jo'tess, (...and I found it convenient that Him of Jo'ess spoke English, with a slight twist that seemed a caricature of our language. What if they spoke Hot'tentot, I'd be really screwed and this account would have taken a completely different direction.)
...Yes, Jack, I am Him of the Jo'tess and we welcome you to the land of the Prophet.
We follow his word as written in the Book of Rules, and for that we have survived the great calamity that has fallen amongst the peoples of other Prophets and other lands.
What calamity, I asked, curious to know, but wondering why I wanted to know.
Peoples followed many different rules, and those rules came into conflict with one another. They sought not to live with acceptance and tolerance, but to exterminate one another...we came here to the land of Jo'tess to survive and to follow the Rule of the Prophet, Jo'tess, who guides us with wisdom.
Suddenly in unison the voices around the house sang together, which is what unison means, the following........Produce isn’t as nutritious as it used to be. Experts say the fruits and vegetables we eat today are grown faster, and picked earlier – which leaves them with less time to absorb valuable nutrients like calcium, iron, phosphorus, and Vitamin C. In fact, a recent study found at least 43 common garden crops that have lost as much as six nutrients since 1950. Woooow....A recent study found.....mmmmmmmmmm.....
What is your name, the man asked?
I am Jack Moonbeam. You can call me Jack if you wish.
Well Jack, I am Him of the Prophet Jo'tess.
Where am I? I asked again, the eyes of many looking into the window of the small house. Their heads swaying like the tops of tall trees in a light wind. Some only opened one eye, others blinked rapidly, and others stood with both eyes closed and hummed a tune I couldn't understand, the sound of which swelled and ebbed with the soft light inside the house.
Well, Him of Jo'tess, (...and I found it convenient that Him of Jo'ess spoke English, with a slight twist that seemed a caricature of our language. What if they spoke Hot'tentot, I'd be really screwed and this account would have taken a completely different direction.)
...Yes, Jack, I am Him of the Jo'tess and we welcome you to the land of the Prophet.
We follow his word as written in the Book of Rules, and for that we have survived the great calamity that has fallen amongst the peoples of other Prophets and other lands.
What calamity, I asked, curious to know, but wondering why I wanted to know.
Peoples followed many different rules, and those rules came into conflict with one another. They sought not to live with acceptance and tolerance, but to exterminate one another...we came here to the land of Jo'tess to survive and to follow the Rule of the Prophet, Jo'tess, who guides us with wisdom.
Suddenly in unison the voices around the house sang together, which is what unison means, the following........Produce isn’t as nutritious as it used to be. Experts say the fruits and vegetables we eat today are grown faster, and picked earlier – which leaves them with less time to absorb valuable nutrients like calcium, iron, phosphorus, and Vitamin C. In fact, a recent study found at least 43 common garden crops that have lost as much as six nutrients since 1950. Woooow....A recent study found.....mmmmmmmmmm.....
Him spoke again...we learn much from the Prophet about how to care for our lives, what to eat that will keep us healthy, and how to be inquisitive into the lives of our fellows and sisters.
Hmmm. I thought. No, not Him, but Hmmmmmm?
The Prophet cares for us and proclaims the rules of our god so that we can live a good life, nurture our kind, and live separate from the chaos caused by the great calamity that befell all the peoples of the world.
Are you the only people to have survived?
No, there are others, but they do not to follow the Prophet.
Where are they?
They are cast out into the wilderness of chaos. They have no Prophet, and thus, live without order. We protect ourselves from them with our Rules, proclaimed by our god.
I heard a soft murmur growing outside...
Rule of Th....Rule of ummmmm...they sang it over and over again......We’re eating more calories than ever before. Researchers found the average person drinks about 450 more calories a day from beverages alone. Those extra calories can easily pack an extra 29 pounds to your waistline each year. Hosanna, Hosannah, Ho....
Him spoke again...yes we live by the words of the Prophet found in the book of the Prophet that has laid out the Rule.
Then another chorus broke in and seemed to swell with the conviction of the singers..."...most chickens are cooped up in a cage, where they’re fed processed corn and soy that’s designed to help them grow faster – but not healthier....hosannah, hosannah, ho, healthier more attractive chickens is what we want, so sayeth the Prophet, Jo'tss...ummmmmmmmmmmm....
Him brushed lightly at his blond shaggy (almost) hair, and leaned into the light where I could see his face more clearly. He spoke with a deep voice that was melodious and soothing........he sang....Rule as spoke by the Prophet....You find someone with the same priorities. Studies show that the happiest couples have long-term goals that are compatible, as well as similar ideas about hot-button topics, like money and parenting.
His head started to sway back and forth and the People in the shadows sang a chorus that sounded remarkably like what Him had said to me....you find someone with the same priorities....hosanna, hossanna, ho....
How did you come to know the Prophet.
Him spoke: Him lead us here and we came together to share the same priorities. We follow the Rule, the Word, and our happiness depends upon our faith in the Prophet's truth and in his explanation of the Rule of our god, Thum.
Him looked at me, his blue eyes sparkling in the soft light of the room, the many eyes of the shadowed people looking in through the windows, their heads forming a sea of continuity that stretched back into the forest of the Prophet in the land of Thum.
Cars and trucks rolled by in the darkness, their lights flashing across the pavement.
I thought I saw many heads in the darkness, coming closer to me, rising up from the forest, singing a soft melody, you must follow the Rule of Thumb, you must follow the Rule of Thumb....Rule of Thumb proclaimed by the Prophet, John Tesh....
Wanting to scream, I found it inadequate in my loneliness on the road...I restarted the engine and drove away into the night, seeing the crowd of blandness and followers of the Prophet swam over the road and overtaking other autos and trucks like a locust invasion from which we will not survive....
This is a warning. Beware the Prophet and the Rule of Thumb, whatever it may be!
Friday, August 1, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Capt'n Jack Moonbeam Calling
The Day of Hope came and went.
During this period I have been radiated again just to see what's going on. Usual suspects are still at work trying to undermine life as I know it.
Doctors have all said to wait for PD1 the new elixcir that will slow these buggers done. Sort of like watching Obama try to decide if he will bomb the terrorists or just watch them continue to make headway against civilization as we know it. How many heads will roll, literally, before action is taken? And, what is it with those people that they feel they need to cut off someone's head? Fucked up, man.
Oops, off track again and fallen into that politic ditch.
Let me see if I can pull myself out?
I had a thought the other day that our civilization, like my cancer, needs a strong and determine force to fight those forces that seek to undermine. I elect John Tesh!
But, in the meantime, the cancer is slowly continuing to grow. As Fred, my oncologist, told me, it has grown a little, but if it grows a little everything time I get checked, which is every three months, then after a while we can just say that it has grown. Like any problem that seems small but continues to grow, after a while its a bigger problem than when we first looked at it. Fucker.
Not good kemo sabe...
So, I continue to get radiated like a piece of spam in the microwave. Right now the powers that be feel that I should wait until I become symptomatic. In other words, until the cancer is ready to say, here I am folks. That could be a year or two waiting for that bus to come in.
Right now I am asymptomatic, showing no signs of having anything except advancing years. For which, I celebrated with a number of friends, my 62nd birthday.
Yippee for me.
Also my 32nd wedding anniversary, yippee for us.
And, to top it off, there is a new member in the Norris household. Rugby is just 11 weeks, and weighs about 21-22 pounds now, the picture above was taken a couple of weeks ago and he weighed about 15 pounds then. Nothing like having a new dog in the house.
I am thinking that I will compute my life according to dog years. Yes, I know, we have been down this path, but it is a fruitful philosophic place to be. I mean, when you get a certain age, you are closer to the end then the beginning, just by the position of the planets and stars in the heavens. So, if I begin counting my life in dog years, then...
....well, it's OK to call the EMTs and have me committed now. But, dogs have it great if they are with the right people and people have it good if they are with the right dog.
I sit back and watch the world collide with it's failed hubris, as my culture, narcissistic as it can be, blinds itself to reality, wallowing in self-pleasure and amusement.
Really, we know more about J-Lo, Kim, and Lebron, than we do about anyone who might be our future leader and steer this wreck toward safer waters, and one with enough strength to synch up the saddle that has gone slack the past 6 years. I mean, com'on Kemo sabe, let's get our collective shit together here.
Are we ready for the sacrifice? Honestly, I don't think we are. I know I am not really ready to start Chemo or whatever is in store for me, know what I mean Kemo Sabe, to extend my life into my dogs older years. But, sometimes there are no choices but to call in the marines and fight like hell.
So, here's to patience, a good weapon and the will to use it, and to living life like someone is trying to take it away from you, which they are, and it is.
Signing off,
Captain Jack Moonbeam, who has more radiation onboard than a groundhog at Chernobyl.
During this period I have been radiated again just to see what's going on. Usual suspects are still at work trying to undermine life as I know it.
Doctors have all said to wait for PD1 the new elixcir that will slow these buggers done. Sort of like watching Obama try to decide if he will bomb the terrorists or just watch them continue to make headway against civilization as we know it. How many heads will roll, literally, before action is taken? And, what is it with those people that they feel they need to cut off someone's head? Fucked up, man.
Oops, off track again and fallen into that politic ditch.
Let me see if I can pull myself out?
 |
| Rugby our bouvier des flandres puppy |
But, in the meantime, the cancer is slowly continuing to grow. As Fred, my oncologist, told me, it has grown a little, but if it grows a little everything time I get checked, which is every three months, then after a while we can just say that it has grown. Like any problem that seems small but continues to grow, after a while its a bigger problem than when we first looked at it. Fucker.
Not good kemo sabe...
So, I continue to get radiated like a piece of spam in the microwave. Right now the powers that be feel that I should wait until I become symptomatic. In other words, until the cancer is ready to say, here I am folks. That could be a year or two waiting for that bus to come in.
Right now I am asymptomatic, showing no signs of having anything except advancing years. For which, I celebrated with a number of friends, my 62nd birthday.
Yippee for me.
Also my 32nd wedding anniversary, yippee for us.
And, to top it off, there is a new member in the Norris household. Rugby is just 11 weeks, and weighs about 21-22 pounds now, the picture above was taken a couple of weeks ago and he weighed about 15 pounds then. Nothing like having a new dog in the house.
I am thinking that I will compute my life according to dog years. Yes, I know, we have been down this path, but it is a fruitful philosophic place to be. I mean, when you get a certain age, you are closer to the end then the beginning, just by the position of the planets and stars in the heavens. So, if I begin counting my life in dog years, then...
....well, it's OK to call the EMTs and have me committed now. But, dogs have it great if they are with the right people and people have it good if they are with the right dog.
I sit back and watch the world collide with it's failed hubris, as my culture, narcissistic as it can be, blinds itself to reality, wallowing in self-pleasure and amusement.
Really, we know more about J-Lo, Kim, and Lebron, than we do about anyone who might be our future leader and steer this wreck toward safer waters, and one with enough strength to synch up the saddle that has gone slack the past 6 years. I mean, com'on Kemo sabe, let's get our collective shit together here.
Are we ready for the sacrifice? Honestly, I don't think we are. I know I am not really ready to start Chemo or whatever is in store for me, know what I mean Kemo Sabe, to extend my life into my dogs older years. But, sometimes there are no choices but to call in the marines and fight like hell.
So, here's to patience, a good weapon and the will to use it, and to living life like someone is trying to take it away from you, which they are, and it is.
Signing off,
Captain Jack Moonbeam, who has more radiation onboard than a groundhog at Chernobyl.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Day of Hope, 2014
I've been asked to speak again at my companies Day of Hope event. This will be my third or fourth time speaking about my life with cancer and a few tidbits of what it means to me, and perhaps to you.
Maybe I am not suitable bowed under by the idea of cancer, although I have been knocked down a few times, but as long as I can think about it and talk about it, there's something to be said about active resistance to the notion of something that highlights the existential reality of our lives.
I dunno what I am going to talk about, because as you have read in this blog I have a lot to say, sometimes about nothing at all.
No Krell or space aliens in my talk today.
Too bad, that's some really fun shit to think about...
No talk of how our climate changes and thus changes history, really interesting stuff...but that's not a bad lead in as the physiological climate in my body has changed, but I am weathering it pretty good.
I will probably speak about how the War on Cancer, bad name I think, not everything has to be militarized, is really an expanded research that helps everyone and creates new forms of therapies and techniques that either helps sustain the nameless souls of gods metrics or saves them altogether...
Yeah, that's it...talk about hope, I mean it is the Day of Hope after all.
Best to you all, Tim
Maybe I am not suitable bowed under by the idea of cancer, although I have been knocked down a few times, but as long as I can think about it and talk about it, there's something to be said about active resistance to the notion of something that highlights the existential reality of our lives.
I dunno what I am going to talk about, because as you have read in this blog I have a lot to say, sometimes about nothing at all.
No Krell or space aliens in my talk today.
Too bad, that's some really fun shit to think about...
No talk of how our climate changes and thus changes history, really interesting stuff...but that's not a bad lead in as the physiological climate in my body has changed, but I am weathering it pretty good.
I will probably speak about how the War on Cancer, bad name I think, not everything has to be militarized, is really an expanded research that helps everyone and creates new forms of therapies and techniques that either helps sustain the nameless souls of gods metrics or saves them altogether...
Yeah, that's it...talk about hope, I mean it is the Day of Hope after all.
Best to you all, Tim
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Return of the Krell, Ahab, and Ishmael...
It's April 16th and we had some snow here in New England last night.
Dunno 'bout you, but I'm pretty much all set with winter. Looking forward to seeing my Cherry Tree blossom and feel the warmth of spring sun.
It's been an interesting and long winter. I remember when I was a kid that I loved winter. Digging in the snow making tunnels like a groundhog gone arctic. When I was little I'd sometimes loose my mittens or they'd become too wet to wear and the freezing pain would be excruciating. Anyone from the north knows what cold pain is like.
The pain was only because, well, in those days we didn't have cortex or any of the new stuffs that parents buy for themselves and their kids, so in my time once the little paws became wet, well it hurt.
Working with the public I see strollers that cost more than I paid for my first car, make that my second car...my first car I paid 50 bucks for and was a red Rambler American station wagon, and everything costs more than that. You can't even buy a winter coat for less than that now.
Kids wear all sorts of expensive clothes that made my 50s era wool coat and hat look like something from another era...never thought I'd live long enough to see the history of the world in my life. But then, I never really knew what the history of the world was.
I have a pretty good idea now.
I was reading a pretty good essay a while ago that noted consciousness was determined by the subjective feelings of our experiences, and that aspect of our life separated us from other life forms. The writer said that well, as far as can be known, rocks don't have a conscious life, and well, other life forms have limited or no conscious understanding of the world, driven as they are, by instinct. Our particular problem, by our I mean anyone reading this, is that we also have instincts but they are also framed by our emotional world, and sometimes that emotional world overwhelms those instincts making them seem like greater than they are. And because of that, we try to understand the before, the now, and the future.
Thus, history is born.
Now, in a world where popular culture teaches us how we are suppose to feel about things and really, why worry about what happened before and no need to think about the future, this can all be very confusing to any Buddha-like understanding of what is of real value to us, individually speaking, and to a larger extent, to us in the village sense. We are bombarded with things of no value.
Cotton-candy anyone?
We have become the caged monkey who has learned to push the blue button to get food, because we know the red button gives us an electric shock.
Kids are exposed not only to the cold of Mother Nature, but to hyper-sexualized images through a culture that has no off switch and we get it 24/7/364. For a teen, there is some pain in this, if they have any sense of thought about who they are and what they want.
Think self-consciousness.
Really, in such a world going crazy, where do the kids fit in? In a culture that diminishes social responsibility by saying that anything goes, well, it can be all very confusing. They look like adults at an early age, but they aren't adults.
It's still confusing to me, but it doesn't mean as much to me as it once did.
I look at other human forms, and they struggle with what their instincts tell them they want, the liberty to take what they want, and the sense of doubt their consciousness burdens them with.
It's all very disjointed.
Popular culture tells us we should be a certain size, wear certain clothes, live in a certain type of house...I watch HGTV a lot and it's amazing to watch young couple deciding whether or not they want a four bedroom house of say 3000 square fucking feet, or a a Chateau in the suburbs.
Popular culture is its own religion, and it craftily undermines the values of the old faiths and traditions, then wonders why kids go nuts because teaching them values and traditions might upset somebody. Sometimes the kids are just nuts. I know I had a "nuts" period in my life.
As culture becomes more disjointed and driven by the false conceptualized world of some marketing scheme, by say, Abercrombie and Fitch for example...I mean, can anyone over who has gone through puberty really wear they pants that low on their hips...we learn from this, and now that kids have access to the electronic world, they for the most part don't need parents anymore, because they are parented by the web, tweets, Facebook, and the larger social village that has no moral or ethical values to teach them, except to want certain things and to act a certain way. We are creating a future of zombie-people hooked on electronic self-gratification.
We are all creatures of our self-consicousness, tempted by the apple of the bright colors that represent not what we want, but by what the culture tells us what we want. It's hard not to be seduced by it all, no matter what age you are. But there are somethings that are wrong and somethings that are good, and they have nothing at all to do with one's waist size or the credit limit on one's credit card. Not to be too Greek or too much the Siddhartha on the river bank, but finding the middle in this morass is a good thing, balance is a good thing, perspective is a good thing, but in a culture dismayed by acts of senseless violence, we have no answers.
We are soften by all the stuffs in our world, and we will loose these things because there are stronger forces of want in the world that will take them away from us, because we will be busy looking into the white light in our palm, while the barbarians of need will come, take our shit, and make us primitive once again.
The conceptual world of the marketing giants continue to Balkanize the world with little corners of consumerism and self-indulgence...I think the world will eventually be controlled by Brands and oligarchs and not nations...driven like Ahab to track the white Dick, we are on a voyage of self-discovery and destruction, just hope the one happens before the other. If we try to hold onto values, we will be the lonely Ishmael floating in the wider world that knows nothing of our self-interest, or like the lost race of the Krell, we will destroy ourselves, victims of our own hubris.
Thoughts from the food-court, Logan Airport.
Tim
Dunno 'bout you, but I'm pretty much all set with winter. Looking forward to seeing my Cherry Tree blossom and feel the warmth of spring sun.
It's been an interesting and long winter. I remember when I was a kid that I loved winter. Digging in the snow making tunnels like a groundhog gone arctic. When I was little I'd sometimes loose my mittens or they'd become too wet to wear and the freezing pain would be excruciating. Anyone from the north knows what cold pain is like.
The pain was only because, well, in those days we didn't have cortex or any of the new stuffs that parents buy for themselves and their kids, so in my time once the little paws became wet, well it hurt.
Working with the public I see strollers that cost more than I paid for my first car, make that my second car...my first car I paid 50 bucks for and was a red Rambler American station wagon, and everything costs more than that. You can't even buy a winter coat for less than that now.
Kids wear all sorts of expensive clothes that made my 50s era wool coat and hat look like something from another era...never thought I'd live long enough to see the history of the world in my life. But then, I never really knew what the history of the world was.
I have a pretty good idea now.
I was reading a pretty good essay a while ago that noted consciousness was determined by the subjective feelings of our experiences, and that aspect of our life separated us from other life forms. The writer said that well, as far as can be known, rocks don't have a conscious life, and well, other life forms have limited or no conscious understanding of the world, driven as they are, by instinct. Our particular problem, by our I mean anyone reading this, is that we also have instincts but they are also framed by our emotional world, and sometimes that emotional world overwhelms those instincts making them seem like greater than they are. And because of that, we try to understand the before, the now, and the future.
Thus, history is born.
Now, in a world where popular culture teaches us how we are suppose to feel about things and really, why worry about what happened before and no need to think about the future, this can all be very confusing to any Buddha-like understanding of what is of real value to us, individually speaking, and to a larger extent, to us in the village sense. We are bombarded with things of no value.
Cotton-candy anyone?
We have become the caged monkey who has learned to push the blue button to get food, because we know the red button gives us an electric shock.
Kids are exposed not only to the cold of Mother Nature, but to hyper-sexualized images through a culture that has no off switch and we get it 24/7/364. For a teen, there is some pain in this, if they have any sense of thought about who they are and what they want.
Think self-consciousness.
Really, in such a world going crazy, where do the kids fit in? In a culture that diminishes social responsibility by saying that anything goes, well, it can be all very confusing. They look like adults at an early age, but they aren't adults.
It's still confusing to me, but it doesn't mean as much to me as it once did.
I look at other human forms, and they struggle with what their instincts tell them they want, the liberty to take what they want, and the sense of doubt their consciousness burdens them with.
It's all very disjointed.
Popular culture tells us we should be a certain size, wear certain clothes, live in a certain type of house...I watch HGTV a lot and it's amazing to watch young couple deciding whether or not they want a four bedroom house of say 3000 square fucking feet, or a a Chateau in the suburbs.
Popular culture is its own religion, and it craftily undermines the values of the old faiths and traditions, then wonders why kids go nuts because teaching them values and traditions might upset somebody. Sometimes the kids are just nuts. I know I had a "nuts" period in my life.
As culture becomes more disjointed and driven by the false conceptualized world of some marketing scheme, by say, Abercrombie and Fitch for example...I mean, can anyone over who has gone through puberty really wear they pants that low on their hips...we learn from this, and now that kids have access to the electronic world, they for the most part don't need parents anymore, because they are parented by the web, tweets, Facebook, and the larger social village that has no moral or ethical values to teach them, except to want certain things and to act a certain way. We are creating a future of zombie-people hooked on electronic self-gratification.
We are all creatures of our self-consicousness, tempted by the apple of the bright colors that represent not what we want, but by what the culture tells us what we want. It's hard not to be seduced by it all, no matter what age you are. But there are somethings that are wrong and somethings that are good, and they have nothing at all to do with one's waist size or the credit limit on one's credit card. Not to be too Greek or too much the Siddhartha on the river bank, but finding the middle in this morass is a good thing, balance is a good thing, perspective is a good thing, but in a culture dismayed by acts of senseless violence, we have no answers.
We are soften by all the stuffs in our world, and we will loose these things because there are stronger forces of want in the world that will take them away from us, because we will be busy looking into the white light in our palm, while the barbarians of need will come, take our shit, and make us primitive once again.
The conceptual world of the marketing giants continue to Balkanize the world with little corners of consumerism and self-indulgence...I think the world will eventually be controlled by Brands and oligarchs and not nations...driven like Ahab to track the white Dick, we are on a voyage of self-discovery and destruction, just hope the one happens before the other. If we try to hold onto values, we will be the lonely Ishmael floating in the wider world that knows nothing of our self-interest, or like the lost race of the Krell, we will destroy ourselves, victims of our own hubris.
Thoughts from the food-court, Logan Airport.
Tim
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Excuses and other Diversions
No maniac trip through the biosphere today.
It's 815am on a Thursday morning.
Saw a grim picture of Jim Kelley the other day. He is suffering an advanced stage of oral cancer that has him laid low as no defensive lineman could ever do.
I like Jim Kelley, and I liked the Buffalo Bills of his time.
The Bills should have won at least one of the four shots at the ring. But, ...that's life, there are no guarantees. You have to go out and compete ever day. And Jim is a competitor and I love him for that.
Sometimes I get tired. It's easy to say, well, maybe its the cancer?
It's too easy to say that.
Sometimes, I am just tired, but once you have cancer, it lurks in your mind as an excuse for everything that might go wrong with the body...and its wrecks havoc on the spirit.
So, in quiet moments one has a tendency to make a pact with the disease.
If I am tired, well, it's the cancer.
If I get a cold, I am weak because of the cancer.
If I have an in grown toenail, well, it's the fucking cancer.
And, at my advancing years, if I feel tired, it's the cancer.
Last year, I was tired and everyone thought it was the cancer.
Well, guess what, Batman... Bam, Pow, Jeezam!
...it was the heart that was making me feel tired.
The pain in the ass part of it, is other people make the same pact with your disease. If you look tired, well...
...Tim's got the cancer, you know.
...Look how tired he looks, they say while looking you in the eye like you are not in the room.
...What's it like to have something growing inside of you?
...Don't you just want to rip it out?
I don't know how you do it?
Do what? is my response.
These are all things people have said to me, because, well, it's like being pregnant and everyone want to put their hand on your belly, but it's not life that is brewing in there, and there's a sick feeling that people want to feel the death seed as much as they want to feel the life seed. This embryo doesn't have a name, yet, so keep you prying hands off my cancer.
And this time, I am just tired, because, well, I am tired. It's doesn't have to be the cancer everytime.
In fact, I am tired because this winter has been a pissah and caused me more than once to sit on my ass and not exercise my body and spirit the way I should be.
So, Spring is arriving today on the backside of a Nor'eastah that blew through yesterday, and warmer weather is coming. I can feel it, well, because of the cancer.
Everyone, get up and get out there and play the game for Jim, and maybe a little for Tim, it's what we are here to do. I know that Neil will be in Berkley, my brother will be on Tybee, and Jack, wherever you are in Arizona, I know you will be too.
I love those who go out in the face of whatever wind is blowing and put their head down and go forward and live it the way it should be lived whether it's on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, or on the bow of a boat surveying the incoming tide coming up the Savannah River.
Best to Jim Kelley and a speedy recovery,
tim
It's 815am on a Thursday morning.
Saw a grim picture of Jim Kelley the other day. He is suffering an advanced stage of oral cancer that has him laid low as no defensive lineman could ever do.
I like Jim Kelley, and I liked the Buffalo Bills of his time.
The Bills should have won at least one of the four shots at the ring. But, ...that's life, there are no guarantees. You have to go out and compete ever day. And Jim is a competitor and I love him for that.
Sometimes I get tired. It's easy to say, well, maybe its the cancer?
It's too easy to say that.
Sometimes, I am just tired, but once you have cancer, it lurks in your mind as an excuse for everything that might go wrong with the body...and its wrecks havoc on the spirit.
So, in quiet moments one has a tendency to make a pact with the disease.
If I am tired, well, it's the cancer.
If I get a cold, I am weak because of the cancer.
If I have an in grown toenail, well, it's the fucking cancer.
And, at my advancing years, if I feel tired, it's the cancer.
Last year, I was tired and everyone thought it was the cancer.
Well, guess what, Batman... Bam, Pow, Jeezam!
...it was the heart that was making me feel tired.
The pain in the ass part of it, is other people make the same pact with your disease. If you look tired, well...
...Tim's got the cancer, you know.
...Look how tired he looks, they say while looking you in the eye like you are not in the room.
...What's it like to have something growing inside of you?
...Don't you just want to rip it out?
I don't know how you do it?
Do what? is my response.
These are all things people have said to me, because, well, it's like being pregnant and everyone want to put their hand on your belly, but it's not life that is brewing in there, and there's a sick feeling that people want to feel the death seed as much as they want to feel the life seed. This embryo doesn't have a name, yet, so keep you prying hands off my cancer.
And this time, I am just tired, because, well, I am tired. It's doesn't have to be the cancer everytime.
In fact, I am tired because this winter has been a pissah and caused me more than once to sit on my ass and not exercise my body and spirit the way I should be.
So, Spring is arriving today on the backside of a Nor'eastah that blew through yesterday, and warmer weather is coming. I can feel it, well, because of the cancer.
Everyone, get up and get out there and play the game for Jim, and maybe a little for Tim, it's what we are here to do. I know that Neil will be in Berkley, my brother will be on Tybee, and Jack, wherever you are in Arizona, I know you will be too.
I love those who go out in the face of whatever wind is blowing and put their head down and go forward and live it the way it should be lived whether it's on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, or on the bow of a boat surveying the incoming tide coming up the Savannah River.
Best to Jim Kelley and a speedy recovery,
tim
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Pequod, Distractions & Consciousness, or just call me Queequeg...
howdy...
Somedays I feel like I have been shanghaied onto Ahab's doomed whaling ship the Pequod...
My bunkmates are Ishmael and the tattooed wonder Queequeg...
My part is to fill the space between them while the rest of the story swirls around me, Queequeg harpooning the great beasts and Ishmael lurks gloomily around the deck house watching the one legged captain scan the horizon for the burning ambition that dooms us all.
"Where is that damned Malaysian 777!" he grumbles as others hide the truth and he chews on the fat of his imagination. "It's been two weeks..."
The thing about the Dick story is that Melville based it on true accounts of whalers who, like himself, spent time in the great Pacific Ocean. Some of them never to be heard of again, as an occasional whale might ram their boat or ship and send them to the bottom.
The mystery of the real.
Their travels only slightly making an impression on those few who knew them...
Like us all.
Today, we wonder at how on this planet we could have lost an entire aircraft with 270ish or so people on board.
Poof, it's gone into the deep, maybe? Pakistan?
I'm betting on the Indian Ocean, or somewhere else...
Some, throwing their bones of chance and speculation on CNN, wonder if a new black hole could have swallowed them in their entirety, leaving no evidence of their passing.
Others like to cast the bizarre plots of TV shows and movies around like this is indeed a fiction that we can manipulate with our ideas and wide-eyed craziness until the final act when everything will be resolved.
I have speculated that the plane is imbedded in my left side, because I had a cancer there for seven years and no one could find it...and, roughly, it was the size of a lode stone...but, I digress, again...
Somehow, I think the ending with have nothing to do with all the beginning.
Can you imagine going to a movie with these people. They'd be chirping the entire time about what they think will be happening next. Homicide would be happening next. That's a guaran--tee...
I stand amazed as Queequeg and Ishmael gaze upon the world with inquisitive eyes wondering how we can play the games of the shore keeper, stunted in our imaginative growth that only surmise a fiction from the truth by forgetting that it is indeed the reality of our time bending their minds into inadequate contraptions of what they want it to be, instead of what it is.
But that is the power of self-delusion...
Indeed, have we become so civilized that the only answer is the one we can think of, a product of an overheated imagination and not the truth-evidence? Somewhat narcissistic, too. Think politicians here of any color.
The truth is a distraction and it gets in the way of reality...which will all be forgotten when reality sinks in and we have to admit that aliens have not come and abducted our Boeing 777...
Although I know aliens are watching me, they drive an old Ford truck and work at the local On the Border...they're very nice but have no interest in Boeing airplanes...a new toro lawn mower or weed-wacker, maybe, but not a Boeing...
We are an impatient bunch of monkeys.
I was reading an interesting piece the other day about what separates us from other things in the universe, like the grass in our back yard or the rock that lines the Maine coast...
It is our consciousness. Otherwise, we are just machines. That was what made Queequeg so interesting, an alternative consciousness to the mundane reality of Ishmael or the machinations of madness by Ahab, the captain.
And to be conscious is to have a subjective understanding of the events that mark our lives. A short digression, some people do believe that grass and rocks have a consciousness, just one to which we can not (yet) communicate...
It doesn't mean that because we have a subjective understanding of the events that that makes them correct. It just means we have feelings that give them significance in our emotional worlds.
I mean really, look around, there are many states of consciousness altered by our beliefs of ethnic purity, pluralism, left wing, right wing, Shiite, Sunni, Hindi, Buddhist...and Christians seem to be everywhere preaching peace and understanding between people...I wonder if that will ever catch on?
What the fuck are we supposed to do with all this consciousness...I mean, gawd, it's everywhere...
It's a MF overload...of consciousness...we are simply too subjective for our own good...being a rock might be OK, look at their lifespan...
And the more we communicate our consciousness into the world, the more reality is dissolved by it...because whose consciousness is the correct one...???? I am thinking Putin's consciousness is in the lead right now.
As someone who has tried to understand my place in the flow of the Pequod's cresting through the waves, my shipmates many times confuse me while Starbuck handles his morning coffee with the cynical eye of someone who deals with authority gone mad...
Reality is illusive and truth is subjective...don't we know how unimportant we are?
When did we forget that? It's hard to keep track when we are looking for the next piece of information that will do nothing but excite a part of a brain that we are not currently using...
We love to be distracted because it is stimulating, and nothing results from it...sort of like watching a SYFY movie...the Japanese used to distract themselves in the 50s by watching Godzilla movies, of course after being crushed in the war, they needed a distraction that had nothing to do with reality, that was a dose too strong for them...so bring on the giant lizard...
The currents of history and time are our own creation, we try to lunge after them and hold them prisoner, like some vast beast that we can conquer and control.
"Put the giant lizard back in the cage!"...
We are forgetting our own mortality. The distractions of what we want it to be always gets in the way...every once in a while we get a wakeup call, but that's hard when you're punching the hell out of a little plastic phone that constantly requires attention...it's worse than having a misbehaving child...
The more we conquer, within the confines of our limited understanding, colored with the subjective feelings of the small beasts that we are, the less we are able to understand the limits of our world.
We think we're beyond the patterns of behavoir that appall us, only to find, that no, we still are capable of being a beast pounding our chest in the forest...
Ride a bus, a plane, or stand on a street corner, everyone is looking into their palms for the latest information over which they can deign to have an opinion, (the modern version of simian chest pounding) like that will give them some power over events that have nothing to do with them...
I cast my eyes to the horizon and look for the whale, I only see the long drawn line of blue against blue, whilst the sounds of the creaking ship moan below and the dragging of Ahab's leg scraps against the wooden deck...
The only pattern of consciousness that I can see uniting us is that we either really only want a window seat or an aisle, preferable an aisle...Ishmael gets the window and Queequeg gets the aisle...he will need the extra legroom....Ahab will not be making the flight...he is otherwise busy.
random thinking gone astray....excuse me, I have to go see if they found they plane yet, or if the Russians are in Kiev...
best, tim
Somedays I feel like I have been shanghaied onto Ahab's doomed whaling ship the Pequod...
My bunkmates are Ishmael and the tattooed wonder Queequeg...
My part is to fill the space between them while the rest of the story swirls around me, Queequeg harpooning the great beasts and Ishmael lurks gloomily around the deck house watching the one legged captain scan the horizon for the burning ambition that dooms us all.
"Where is that damned Malaysian 777!" he grumbles as others hide the truth and he chews on the fat of his imagination. "It's been two weeks..."
The thing about the Dick story is that Melville based it on true accounts of whalers who, like himself, spent time in the great Pacific Ocean. Some of them never to be heard of again, as an occasional whale might ram their boat or ship and send them to the bottom.
The mystery of the real.
Their travels only slightly making an impression on those few who knew them...
Like us all.
Today, we wonder at how on this planet we could have lost an entire aircraft with 270ish or so people on board.
Poof, it's gone into the deep, maybe? Pakistan?
I'm betting on the Indian Ocean, or somewhere else...
Some, throwing their bones of chance and speculation on CNN, wonder if a new black hole could have swallowed them in their entirety, leaving no evidence of their passing.
Others like to cast the bizarre plots of TV shows and movies around like this is indeed a fiction that we can manipulate with our ideas and wide-eyed craziness until the final act when everything will be resolved.
I have speculated that the plane is imbedded in my left side, because I had a cancer there for seven years and no one could find it...and, roughly, it was the size of a lode stone...but, I digress, again...
Somehow, I think the ending with have nothing to do with all the beginning.
Can you imagine going to a movie with these people. They'd be chirping the entire time about what they think will be happening next. Homicide would be happening next. That's a guaran--tee...
I stand amazed as Queequeg and Ishmael gaze upon the world with inquisitive eyes wondering how we can play the games of the shore keeper, stunted in our imaginative growth that only surmise a fiction from the truth by forgetting that it is indeed the reality of our time bending their minds into inadequate contraptions of what they want it to be, instead of what it is.
But that is the power of self-delusion...
Indeed, have we become so civilized that the only answer is the one we can think of, a product of an overheated imagination and not the truth-evidence? Somewhat narcissistic, too. Think politicians here of any color.
The truth is a distraction and it gets in the way of reality...which will all be forgotten when reality sinks in and we have to admit that aliens have not come and abducted our Boeing 777...
Although I know aliens are watching me, they drive an old Ford truck and work at the local On the Border...they're very nice but have no interest in Boeing airplanes...a new toro lawn mower or weed-wacker, maybe, but not a Boeing...
We are an impatient bunch of monkeys.
I was reading an interesting piece the other day about what separates us from other things in the universe, like the grass in our back yard or the rock that lines the Maine coast...
It is our consciousness. Otherwise, we are just machines. That was what made Queequeg so interesting, an alternative consciousness to the mundane reality of Ishmael or the machinations of madness by Ahab, the captain.
And to be conscious is to have a subjective understanding of the events that mark our lives. A short digression, some people do believe that grass and rocks have a consciousness, just one to which we can not (yet) communicate...
It doesn't mean that because we have a subjective understanding of the events that that makes them correct. It just means we have feelings that give them significance in our emotional worlds.
I mean really, look around, there are many states of consciousness altered by our beliefs of ethnic purity, pluralism, left wing, right wing, Shiite, Sunni, Hindi, Buddhist...and Christians seem to be everywhere preaching peace and understanding between people...I wonder if that will ever catch on?
What the fuck are we supposed to do with all this consciousness...I mean, gawd, it's everywhere...
It's a MF overload...of consciousness...we are simply too subjective for our own good...being a rock might be OK, look at their lifespan...
And the more we communicate our consciousness into the world, the more reality is dissolved by it...because whose consciousness is the correct one...???? I am thinking Putin's consciousness is in the lead right now.
As someone who has tried to understand my place in the flow of the Pequod's cresting through the waves, my shipmates many times confuse me while Starbuck handles his morning coffee with the cynical eye of someone who deals with authority gone mad...
Reality is illusive and truth is subjective...don't we know how unimportant we are?
When did we forget that? It's hard to keep track when we are looking for the next piece of information that will do nothing but excite a part of a brain that we are not currently using...
We love to be distracted because it is stimulating, and nothing results from it...sort of like watching a SYFY movie...the Japanese used to distract themselves in the 50s by watching Godzilla movies, of course after being crushed in the war, they needed a distraction that had nothing to do with reality, that was a dose too strong for them...so bring on the giant lizard...
The currents of history and time are our own creation, we try to lunge after them and hold them prisoner, like some vast beast that we can conquer and control.
"Put the giant lizard back in the cage!"...
We are forgetting our own mortality. The distractions of what we want it to be always gets in the way...every once in a while we get a wakeup call, but that's hard when you're punching the hell out of a little plastic phone that constantly requires attention...it's worse than having a misbehaving child...
The more we conquer, within the confines of our limited understanding, colored with the subjective feelings of the small beasts that we are, the less we are able to understand the limits of our world.
We think we're beyond the patterns of behavoir that appall us, only to find, that no, we still are capable of being a beast pounding our chest in the forest...
Ride a bus, a plane, or stand on a street corner, everyone is looking into their palms for the latest information over which they can deign to have an opinion, (the modern version of simian chest pounding) like that will give them some power over events that have nothing to do with them...
I cast my eyes to the horizon and look for the whale, I only see the long drawn line of blue against blue, whilst the sounds of the creaking ship moan below and the dragging of Ahab's leg scraps against the wooden deck...
random thinking gone astray....excuse me, I have to go see if they found they plane yet, or if the Russians are in Kiev...
best, tim
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Prayers, ideas, & handoffs.
Greetings,
I am sitting here this morning in a food court at Logan airport contemplating the bits of flotsam and jetsam of life.
Well, to be honest, I do this a lot.
The human experience is always a fascinating bundle of serendipitous events that are sometimes connecting, and other times just a bunch of co-inquidinks.
When I was a kid, I played in the Little League, always loved that name, and sometimes I still feel like I am in the Little League, but I digress.
I wasn't very good as a ball player at that age, and only marginally improved as I got larger and played in the Larger League in high school.
My problem was that I couldn't catch the ball when it was hit to me. However, one time while I was playing left field, another appropriate place for me, the ball came and with a hand up the ball suddenly jumped into my glove.
Stunned, I looked into my hand to see the ball there and not somewhere at my feet. What miracle of cosmic forces had deemed it right for my hand to have been in the right place at the right time?
Certainly it was some synergy of divine will.
Pondering this at age 12, I broke myself out of this meditation to look up to see the other kids running, shouting, and otherwise trying to get my attention.
What to do next?
Life is really all about the handoff. I have learned this little tidbit of life's processes on many occasions. It is not that you do something right or wrong, accidental or not, but what you do next.
Not really knowing what to do next with the ball, I grabbed it and threw it in the direction of the dugout where I was sure someone else would know what to do with it.
Not the best handoff, but one that was successful in that now someone else had the ball and my small heroics, which for me was still making my heart beat wildly with the thought I had actually done something significant to the game, was filling my head with pride and fear.
God knows, I might have to do it again.
As a historian, also in the Little League, I read a lot. I was struck recently by a passage in a book on the Pacific War (WWII against the Japanese). The fatalism of the Japanese when the generals and admirals knew the war was lost, but they continued to fight anyway, sacrificing a great majority of their generation in battles that had no meaning except in the honor of not having given up, because, frankly, they didn't know how to surrender, a handoff to their nation's people that would have avoided greater disasters ahead for them.
But they were believing hard in the myth of their divine providence and their invincibility, even when it had been shown that they had none. It was all they had in their bag of beliefs.
It is difficult for me to admire that mentality. Because, expecting to lose, experienced men made mistakes that junior officers would not have. They marched into battle, or sailed, as the case may be, with the idea that they had already been beaten, thus their actions reflected those of doomed men, instead of those with the courage to make decisions that were aggressive with the idea they could win for the moment.
Very un-bushido of such a bushido warrior country.
Their hand off was even less heroic than my own.
Their gods of war and personal sacrifice failed them and their belief in those gods had failed.
Doomed, they blundered forward committing national suicide as the perverse manifestations of their empty ambitions.
The collected wisdom of their ideas were awash with failure, assuming they had failed before the battle had even begun, and unable to manage the deeper meaning of that failure they thought death in battle the only way out.
Who knows, there may still be some ancient Japanese soldier lurking in the jungles of the Philippines, holding out against the sweep of history as it lurches forward.
What happens when a society loses its belief system, the faith in the ideas that underpin its daily progress? Not good things.
But it is that way for individuals too. What happens next? Do we give up in the face of failure, handing the ball off carelessly to the next without the wisdom of what we have done or accomplished? And, how do we judge failure to begin with?
Good question, Tim. Go to the head of the class.
My own feeling is that I despise negativity, either the self-righteous who predict doom at every turn, or the careless weakness of those who have given up to their own nihilistic world and want everyone to be sucked down the rabbit hole with them.
While I fight my delaying action against illnesses, that has in some cases it has been a significant battle that has almost taken me down, I have maintained my inner sense that I am still going to live and laugh another day.
I do not feel the doom of defeat, because my expectation is not that I have lost, like those poor Japanese who surrendered not to their enemies but to the failure of their beliefs. My expectation is that life is what it will be. I have lived longer than god intended, saved a few times by medical intervention, so I am hanging around knowing, like we all should, that life is a terminal experience, and I am enjoying it the best I can when I can. There is really nothing wrong with having a little fun from time to time. I see so many people that forget that.
For those people that keep me in their prayers, thoughts, and otherwise think positive things about me and anyone else in their lives, who may need some human kindness, that is the real handoff we give in life, to connect ourselves to one another, maintaining the tribe, the sacrifices we make to sustain the tribe, and the belief that our actions today through faith, philosophy, and friendship, leaves some mark on those that we pass along to the next generation, should they be willing to learn it.
some random thinking, tim
I am sitting here this morning in a food court at Logan airport contemplating the bits of flotsam and jetsam of life.
Well, to be honest, I do this a lot.
The human experience is always a fascinating bundle of serendipitous events that are sometimes connecting, and other times just a bunch of co-inquidinks.
When I was a kid, I played in the Little League, always loved that name, and sometimes I still feel like I am in the Little League, but I digress.
I wasn't very good as a ball player at that age, and only marginally improved as I got larger and played in the Larger League in high school.
My problem was that I couldn't catch the ball when it was hit to me. However, one time while I was playing left field, another appropriate place for me, the ball came and with a hand up the ball suddenly jumped into my glove.
Stunned, I looked into my hand to see the ball there and not somewhere at my feet. What miracle of cosmic forces had deemed it right for my hand to have been in the right place at the right time?
Certainly it was some synergy of divine will.
Pondering this at age 12, I broke myself out of this meditation to look up to see the other kids running, shouting, and otherwise trying to get my attention.
What to do next?
Life is really all about the handoff. I have learned this little tidbit of life's processes on many occasions. It is not that you do something right or wrong, accidental or not, but what you do next.
Not really knowing what to do next with the ball, I grabbed it and threw it in the direction of the dugout where I was sure someone else would know what to do with it.
Not the best handoff, but one that was successful in that now someone else had the ball and my small heroics, which for me was still making my heart beat wildly with the thought I had actually done something significant to the game, was filling my head with pride and fear.
God knows, I might have to do it again.
As a historian, also in the Little League, I read a lot. I was struck recently by a passage in a book on the Pacific War (WWII against the Japanese). The fatalism of the Japanese when the generals and admirals knew the war was lost, but they continued to fight anyway, sacrificing a great majority of their generation in battles that had no meaning except in the honor of not having given up, because, frankly, they didn't know how to surrender, a handoff to their nation's people that would have avoided greater disasters ahead for them.
But they were believing hard in the myth of their divine providence and their invincibility, even when it had been shown that they had none. It was all they had in their bag of beliefs.
It is difficult for me to admire that mentality. Because, expecting to lose, experienced men made mistakes that junior officers would not have. They marched into battle, or sailed, as the case may be, with the idea that they had already been beaten, thus their actions reflected those of doomed men, instead of those with the courage to make decisions that were aggressive with the idea they could win for the moment.
Very un-bushido of such a bushido warrior country.
Their hand off was even less heroic than my own.
Their gods of war and personal sacrifice failed them and their belief in those gods had failed.
Doomed, they blundered forward committing national suicide as the perverse manifestations of their empty ambitions.
The collected wisdom of their ideas were awash with failure, assuming they had failed before the battle had even begun, and unable to manage the deeper meaning of that failure they thought death in battle the only way out.
Who knows, there may still be some ancient Japanese soldier lurking in the jungles of the Philippines, holding out against the sweep of history as it lurches forward.
What happens when a society loses its belief system, the faith in the ideas that underpin its daily progress? Not good things.
But it is that way for individuals too. What happens next? Do we give up in the face of failure, handing the ball off carelessly to the next without the wisdom of what we have done or accomplished? And, how do we judge failure to begin with?
Good question, Tim. Go to the head of the class.
My own feeling is that I despise negativity, either the self-righteous who predict doom at every turn, or the careless weakness of those who have given up to their own nihilistic world and want everyone to be sucked down the rabbit hole with them.
While I fight my delaying action against illnesses, that has in some cases it has been a significant battle that has almost taken me down, I have maintained my inner sense that I am still going to live and laugh another day.
I do not feel the doom of defeat, because my expectation is not that I have lost, like those poor Japanese who surrendered not to their enemies but to the failure of their beliefs. My expectation is that life is what it will be. I have lived longer than god intended, saved a few times by medical intervention, so I am hanging around knowing, like we all should, that life is a terminal experience, and I am enjoying it the best I can when I can. There is really nothing wrong with having a little fun from time to time. I see so many people that forget that.
For those people that keep me in their prayers, thoughts, and otherwise think positive things about me and anyone else in their lives, who may need some human kindness, that is the real handoff we give in life, to connect ourselves to one another, maintaining the tribe, the sacrifices we make to sustain the tribe, and the belief that our actions today through faith, philosophy, and friendship, leaves some mark on those that we pass along to the next generation, should they be willing to learn it.
some random thinking, tim
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Sun Still Shines....
You know, I am only mildly insane...
Just heard the other day that a mother of my daughter's friend had recently died of Lou Gehrig's Disease. ALS. Fuck.
Three days on I am humbled by the gods of chance as they toy with the ambitions and achievements of we mortals.
I am sure POTUS is wondering why his achievements don't match his lofty rhetoric and the ambitions of such a brilliant mind, at least that is what he said...
I have always had an affinity for the Greek gods of old, who were so small minded and liked to fuck with the little men of the Aegean Sea. They, like the old testament prophets, toyed with guilt and a self-conscious appreciation of the world around us and how the emotions we felt controlled that view.
Well, fuck you Zeus, you doodling old fool with your human wants and rapacious appetite for mortal girls.
Being sick, well, I am.
But, aren't we all.
I mentioned to a friend the other night that I am just waiting to hear what is next.
But aren't we all.
I, at least for the moment, know what I am contending with. Some poor fuck in the middle of nowhere America, China, or whatever-ville is going about their business without any appreciation of the 24 second clock as it ticks toward the final shot.
Just watched a few good movies as I prepare for the Oscar test tonight. Liked the Robert Redford lost at sea story, and in that light watched Captain Phillips again...in both a spell binding move toward the tense final acts of the story.
Couldn't help cheer when the Seals shot the MFing pirates. I guess I am a little Old Testament kinda guy, because I'd hose that whole part of the world. But the gods aren't gonna make me a co-worker for the day, so pirates, terrorists, and mindless psychopaths will live to be the instrument of our darker side to demonstrate that part of our nature we try to hide from ourselves.
The good has to kill the bad, or otherwise, we are all fucked.
Punishment is a good thing.
I loved the movie Nebraska. Bruce Dern has always been one of my favorites, and his performance is subtle and spot on. He's my underdog winner tonight. Would love to see him win.
I am humbled by life, got a lot to do.
Cry more often then I like, but it's a private indulgence that makes me feel human.
I also like to say fuck you to things I don't like, like people aping toward a self-importance they don't have...again, POTUS, are you listening you weak MFer.
Things change despite the best laid plans.
Waiting, well patience is really irrelevant. I got things I want to do, and will do some of them, but others, well, the 24 second is ticking, and I hope to hoist a few more shots before the other team gets the ball. But, my team is playing some tenacious defense, not quite the shut-down defense I would like, but we are keeping them on their heals.
So, as I drive toward the basket, old Zeus is trying to stuff me into his sack of odd assortments of crazy mortals that thought they could go up against destiny.
Napoleon once said, Geography is Destiny. Well, the Geography of the human planet is also destiny.
The sun still shines brightly for me, humbled as I may be by my own story, others face greater odds and trials.
tim
Just heard the other day that a mother of my daughter's friend had recently died of Lou Gehrig's Disease. ALS. Fuck.
Three days on I am humbled by the gods of chance as they toy with the ambitions and achievements of we mortals.
I am sure POTUS is wondering why his achievements don't match his lofty rhetoric and the ambitions of such a brilliant mind, at least that is what he said...
I have always had an affinity for the Greek gods of old, who were so small minded and liked to fuck with the little men of the Aegean Sea. They, like the old testament prophets, toyed with guilt and a self-conscious appreciation of the world around us and how the emotions we felt controlled that view.
Well, fuck you Zeus, you doodling old fool with your human wants and rapacious appetite for mortal girls.
Being sick, well, I am.
But, aren't we all.
I mentioned to a friend the other night that I am just waiting to hear what is next.
But aren't we all.
I, at least for the moment, know what I am contending with. Some poor fuck in the middle of nowhere America, China, or whatever-ville is going about their business without any appreciation of the 24 second clock as it ticks toward the final shot.
Just watched a few good movies as I prepare for the Oscar test tonight. Liked the Robert Redford lost at sea story, and in that light watched Captain Phillips again...in both a spell binding move toward the tense final acts of the story.
Couldn't help cheer when the Seals shot the MFing pirates. I guess I am a little Old Testament kinda guy, because I'd hose that whole part of the world. But the gods aren't gonna make me a co-worker for the day, so pirates, terrorists, and mindless psychopaths will live to be the instrument of our darker side to demonstrate that part of our nature we try to hide from ourselves.
The good has to kill the bad, or otherwise, we are all fucked.
Punishment is a good thing.
I loved the movie Nebraska. Bruce Dern has always been one of my favorites, and his performance is subtle and spot on. He's my underdog winner tonight. Would love to see him win.
I am humbled by life, got a lot to do.
Cry more often then I like, but it's a private indulgence that makes me feel human.
I also like to say fuck you to things I don't like, like people aping toward a self-importance they don't have...again, POTUS, are you listening you weak MFer.
Things change despite the best laid plans.
Waiting, well patience is really irrelevant. I got things I want to do, and will do some of them, but others, well, the 24 second is ticking, and I hope to hoist a few more shots before the other team gets the ball. But, my team is playing some tenacious defense, not quite the shut-down defense I would like, but we are keeping them on their heals.
So, as I drive toward the basket, old Zeus is trying to stuff me into his sack of odd assortments of crazy mortals that thought they could go up against destiny.
Napoleon once said, Geography is Destiny. Well, the Geography of the human planet is also destiny.
The sun still shines brightly for me, humbled as I may be by my own story, others face greater odds and trials.
tim
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Hokey Pokey Witch Doctory
Greetings.
Well, I had my meet with the doc's last week. Quick really.
I got there early and after they tapped a vein and took my vitals, I was brought back to an exam room.
I sat there for a while, but soon the White Wizard made his appearance. He stuck his head in the door and said that on the whole nothing much had changed. I like this guy.
In other words, the total remission I was hoping for was not going to be proclaimed at this appointment. Only about 10-15% of IL-2 patients get that, and well, my sample is the 85% group.
Damn.
He said that there appeared some growth but nothing that was striking, and that the strategy at this time is to continue to wait.
All and all, I am pretty good with that. And he said, shortly his Fellow would be in to talk. Which she was.
We talked a little bit more about what the White Wizard had said, and she went over some of the info more thoroughly, and all and all my tests demonstrated nothing remarkable across the board, except for that colony of rebel angels in my chest.
And now, after almost a year of CT-Scans that found the malicious barnacle, they are talking about the spot on my pancreas as pancreatitis. What am I to make of that? Well, the radiologist was trying to pad the game in favor of the other fucking team. Sort of like when the Celtics play in LA.
Hey, I need some hometown refs.
But, I digress. Back to the thing we know what it is story.
No the change in dimension of the thing was a curiosity to me. It had changed from 38X30 to 35X43. What I wanted to know was how this happened.
She explained that it could have been how I was laying on the CT-Scan table which would provide a different dimension on the slide they were looking at to gather the info.
It's all fucking hokey pokey witch doctery shit after a while.
Sometimes I expect when I am there, that they take out a bag of bones of former patients and rattle them around. Throwing them up against the wall like dice to see what result they will get.
Well, I am all in and have anted up, so I am in the game whether I want or not.
Waiting for Godot, Tim
Well, I had my meet with the doc's last week. Quick really.
I got there early and after they tapped a vein and took my vitals, I was brought back to an exam room.
I sat there for a while, but soon the White Wizard made his appearance. He stuck his head in the door and said that on the whole nothing much had changed. I like this guy.
In other words, the total remission I was hoping for was not going to be proclaimed at this appointment. Only about 10-15% of IL-2 patients get that, and well, my sample is the 85% group.
Damn.
He said that there appeared some growth but nothing that was striking, and that the strategy at this time is to continue to wait.
All and all, I am pretty good with that. And he said, shortly his Fellow would be in to talk. Which she was.
We talked a little bit more about what the White Wizard had said, and she went over some of the info more thoroughly, and all and all my tests demonstrated nothing remarkable across the board, except for that colony of rebel angels in my chest.
And now, after almost a year of CT-Scans that found the malicious barnacle, they are talking about the spot on my pancreas as pancreatitis. What am I to make of that? Well, the radiologist was trying to pad the game in favor of the other fucking team. Sort of like when the Celtics play in LA.
Hey, I need some hometown refs.
But, I digress. Back to the thing we know what it is story.
No the change in dimension of the thing was a curiosity to me. It had changed from 38X30 to 35X43. What I wanted to know was how this happened.
She explained that it could have been how I was laying on the CT-Scan table which would provide a different dimension on the slide they were looking at to gather the info.
It's all fucking hokey pokey witch doctery shit after a while.
Sometimes I expect when I am there, that they take out a bag of bones of former patients and rattle them around. Throwing them up against the wall like dice to see what result they will get.
Well, I am all in and have anted up, so I am in the game whether I want or not.
Waiting for Godot, Tim
Saturday, February 22, 2014
KIDNEY CANCER - new developments from the City Of Hope
Future kidney cancer treatments show promise (w/VIDEO)
December 21, 2013 | by Denise Heady
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Treatments for kidney cancer have improved dramatically over the past few years — particularly for renal cell carcinoma, the most common type of kidney cancer. And the future looks bright as well.
Treatment for cancer of the kidneys (shown here) is improving, with more advances expected.
The Food and Drug Administration has approved seven new drugs for the treatment of renal cell carcinoma, especially significant because it approved only one drug between 1992 and 2005. Further, targeted therapies are improving standard care for patients with the disease, and several promising studies could lead to new treatment advances.
Sumanta Kumar Pal, M.D., co-director of the Kidney Cancer Program at City of Hope, summed up the field in a recent interview with OncLive. “This is so incredibly promising for patients and their families,” he said of the recent developments.
But, as with most cancer treatments, new, innovative approaches are always needed.
“What I think the field is really lacking is that there are no novel approaches,” Pal said in the interview. “So I’m really looking for trials with PD-1 inhibitors, PD-L1 inhibitors, and novel dual-targeting agents such as cabozantinib to really reshape the treatment paradigm for this disease.”
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