Monday, March 2, 2015

Is It a Chronicle Candidate?

This past year has been the oddest year of way too many odd or stupid years.  I am not sure if this is a stupid one or not.  We measure February to February.

This is a merry go round that I can't seem to exit, and it is speeding up.  I imagine that sooner or later it will go so fast that I fly off.  It's the whole centripetal versus centrifugal force routine.  Actually, centrifugal force is a made up force.  It is really momentum at play which out weighs whatever the force is trying to hold me in the circle.

That is how it works.  Why does that leave one a sentimental puddle of mush and in no condition to face another human being at this instant?  No answer.

I'm thinking that by the time I see people who haven't seen me in awhile, they will think I got way older.  Which I did.  I use the word "got" in unsophisticated ways, just because I can.

I think I am following a saga that some may consider a little grim.  Only a couple of people are fully in the loop.  I curse myself for that, but they know medical things and want to be in the middle.  I believe they are scared, to some degree.

I'm going through the process which may give definition and finality to the trouble shooting phase, but if it is as it appears, I will likely go on a rampage of joyous nonsense until money or other things run out.   Maybe I should anyway.  I should not do it alone though.

RR shot me down about a year ago.  I do not know why, but sometimes people get all wrapped up in religion or other super natural endeavors, and they queer the deal.  How maddening.  I've been exposed to all the blind fanaticism I can take for one lifetime.

Anyway, I think it could have worked out, but not really.  Looking for gurus and magic?  Better pass me by.  That kind of thing is not real.  Fake spirituality born of peer pressure and wishful thinking, if any thinking at all is at play.

That is what recovery from alcohol or drugs can do--lead you to another kind of emotional addiction which offers continual validation and reinforcement, but can also screw up a young man's fancies.
Or an old man's.   Still, most things are better than active alcoholism or drug addiction.  I just have to back off from certain things.  It is personal to me.

We'll see wednesday if the last bit of blood study defined anything.  Then they drill into your bone to sample bone marrow.  With luck it won't happen, though it appears inevitable.   On Monday they want me to swallow a pill that is a tiny camera.  It sends pictures to a receiving unit you carry around all day.

I do not think this will yield any info at all, and I told them.  I think everything is higher up and that's that.  Allegedly this anemia circumstance is an energy sapper.  I thought I was just depressed.   It may be that I was oxygen deprived on a cellular level.   They think my ill formed blood is disappearing somewhere.  So they go looking for it everywhere.  Right here between my chin and my navel, I guarantee it.  Who listens to me?  It's my house and I know what is what.

This is why I walk away rather than invite anyone into my world these days.  I have nothing to offer and I'm falling apart.  So, the more I like someone, the less likely I am to leave the opening.  It would be too selfish and self absorbed, even for me, if you can imagine that.

We did OK on our Saturday night gig.  I wonder if anyone can tell how hard it is to do these days.  Probably not.  I may have a little missing in the realm of ultra fast garbage, but I manage with new ways of doing things; lots of gentle chording encouraging the violin to show off.

I feel like I should somewhere write down everything going on; good days, bad, symptoms, procedures, the entire case as it flows.  Where to do that?  I don't seem to be able to.  I can have a horrendous night, but if I feel ok later, I forget and feel odd mentioning it to paid professionals.  In my mind, somewhere, is the idea that I probably am not tough enough, or that I made it all up, and I'm actually 100% fine.

I have to do without real food all day Sunday.  I will do all I can to wake up very very late that day.  My stomach will be killing me.  It is for the pill cam.  It wanders down the small intestines taking snapshots like a Japanese tourist.
(I hope that is politically incorrect enough for morons to label me racist.  We've allowed our culture to be molded and shaped, more and more, by charlatans, fools, and complete imbeciles.)

People talked me into the pill cam. Maybe they are right, but I will bet the cam that nothing is amiss there.  You win, I give you the cam when I'm done.  You can wash it off and sell it on ebay. Who will know?  In any case, I am not sure this is necessary.  And I am probably right.  I don't think this will leave me in lasting pain like their recent foray down my throat with a camera on a stick.

I think it is good to chronicle some of this.  Otherwise I forget the sequence of things, and entire events.  It is all very surreal.  I want to know what's up, and then I want to fix it and be done.  Even if they can't fix it, I can do OK, armed with all the facts they have.  I'm a better trouble shooter than these beleaguered medical people.  They have to be like government agents and paper pushers to stay out of jail.  It sucks and soon we'll all die as a result.

Sande, the singer I back up, has a song that seems to fit me for many reasons this year.  The first lines are; When the rug gets pulled out from under your feet, and your world's spinning out of control...'s just a moment in time, but it's the rest of your life. all must be told...
Great tune.  But I don't know how long I can keep playing with this group if the sternum/stomach/skin issues get any worse or just stay the same and wear me down.

Nothing stays the same.  That much is fairly certain.  So, we shall see.

I'm pretty sure I've become used to a way of life which is not quite right or normal.  This is probably not at all a normal way to feel.  Tonight is working out to be another difficult one. But, I have what I need and more.  Compensate and improvise.  That is what I have to do.


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Ballistic Mountain, CA, United States
Like spring on a summer's day


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