After Life

 Had a dream last night that I was dead and there was, in fact, a happening afterlife. It wasn’t a traditional heaven/hell sort of thing, no. Post-life was just a different dimension. From my new stiff-state I could check in on my former live-state but couldn’t interact in any way. Possibly this was due to all the planet's mediums being on their lunch break—no one was on duty to take my call?

Annoying but okay, fine. I started to explore Dead World and found that I was in a hospital. I had outpatient doc appointments and had to hurry up so’s I’d be on time.

Lemme just point out one little fucked up thing here—in the dream, I’m dead and STILL have zillions of big-ass med appointments. Even when I’m no longer sucking down oxygen, I’m at fucking Mass General Hospital! Could the universe, please, cut me some fucking slack?

The upside of this new dimension was that I didn’t need to walk. I got around like Casper—floating, flying and just zipping through the halls and walls. That was fun.

Possibly my weird-ass dream was precipitated by yesterday’s events? Hillel and I sat out on the porch in the abundant direct sunshine having mega deep convos about god, family, art and a bunch of other stuff. It’s the first time I’ve spent more than a minute outside in the scorching, almost-summer sunshine in a few years. Why the sol avoidance? Eh, I’ve been busy ducking COVID and having a bazillion neurosurgeries. Also, as The Amazing Bob put it, “we shelled out a lot of dough to buy this nice cottage, why would I sit outside of it?”

The point I’m getting at here is that, all that time sitting in the sun earned me a nasty sunburn. Hard to smoothly sleep with dreams of fluffy, sugar plum kittens when you’re a crispy critter.

Yes, my dead dream is totally connected to Hillel, sol’s blazing rays and me forgetting about the existence of and need for sunscreen. Really!

Things You Should Know

Today is the one year anniversary of Cake entering our lives. Our little panther has, I believe, settled in nicely. He has his routines:

• When Ten has a smoke on the front porch, Cake sits at the door waiting for him to come back in. Cake then flops out at his feet, waiting for pats and skriches.
  

• Cake waits by the front door for Jen to return from her hard day in the print mines. Our boy accompanies her upstairs for a visit with me. Afterwards he escorts her back downstairs so she won’t get lost during her travels back to Casa Skitter.

• While I’m being a slug from Planet Sloth, our angelic beast naps at my side. He always lets me know when I need to put down the book, get the fuck up and move around a bit. How does he do this? He jumps off the bed and stares at me fixedly. Cake walks toward the door, looks back at me—clearly saying “c’mon, let’s go.” He repeats this until I get off my ass and follow him.

Such a good communicator. I’m pretty sure he’s part sheepdog and understands that his job is to herd us.
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* Brian Eno is John Cage’s little brother or cousin or something. HONEST!
* King Crimson were time travelers. They came to us from the distant future. We are grateful.
* Emerson, Lake and Palmer were aliens from another, clearly more advanced, planet.
* Frank Zappa was a genius with a great sense of humor. Captain Beefheart was his badly behaved punk buddy. I think...
* Long John Baldry, contrary to what you may *think* you know or have read in Wikipedia, was not a pale white young Englishman but an elderly Black blues man from Mississippi.
* Tina Turner didn’t die—she was transported back to her home dimension (whose atmosphere is rife with energy, hope, strength, music and joy). She’s their queen—they missed her. Of course.

Also, Terry Bozzio and Micky Hart—mmm mmm mmmmmm. Percussion, yeah Babies. Quite possibly, these two gents are gods.
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Peanuts have a lot of protein so peanut butter must then have a lot of protein. Protein is essential for a balanced diet.

Dark chocolate is good for us human types. It’s chockful of antioxidants (tied to lowered risk of heart disease) AND it has groovy vitamins and minerals too.

It follows then that peanut butter/dark chocolate chunk cookies are bountifully good for me and I should have some for breakfast.

Obviously!
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One more reason to be pissed off that I’m deaf—Tina Turner doing Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love. I can’t hear this and that’s making me more than a little annoyed and sullen this morning.

I only mention it but I'd be a whole lot less pissy and unpleasant if I had another peanut butter/choco chunk cookie. World peace would be great too but I'll settle for a cookie.

Status Check

What if this, my current mobility and balance, is as good as it gets?

This past winter was hard in that I didn’t gain any ground. I was going gangbusters in November—able to walk farther, with less tippiness and pedal on the elliptical longer. Each week, seemingly, I hit a new high. I figured I was only a few months (tops!) away from ditching the rollator and just using a cane.

December came and knocked me way the fuck down. I had to work extra intensely hard to keep from losing every last one of those hard-won November victories. In January and February, I snatched back some, not all, of November’s progress. March and April were better still. May has felt like another colossal, disappointing struggle just to stay on this meager plateau.

I just checked the How’m I Doin’ step app on my phone and got a wicked surprise. Yes, this past December was not stellar and my assessment of January and February is accurate. In March though, I actually hit November’s heights again (YEA!) and May? Despite how it’s felt, I’m actually walking/pumping more than I did during November and March’s peaks.

So, apparently I’m back, Babies! I can start dreaming of getting around with a cane versus walker again. YIPPEE! While my strength and endurance is improving, I need to do more about my wonk-ass balance. Perhaps, Doc Plotkin can prescribe another round of outpatient physical therapy with equilibrium improvent as the main focus.

Two years ago, I was in a wheelchair—couldn’t walk at all or climb stairs. Even rolling over in bed was a challenge. My bean surgeon told me that my brain wasn’t communicating with my left leg anymore. I needed to get them talking again. Seemed impossible and yet…here I am.

Here’s more good news—I got weighed at my last check in. I’ve now lost more than 30 of the motherfucking pounds I put on while I was in hospital/rehab hell. I want to shed another 15. As long as I don’t give in to my tempura, lasagna, CAKE, ice cream and fried food (fish and chips,mmmmmmm) cravings, I’ll get there.

But, but, but I WANT cake and I feel like I deserve some. Don’t you?

Lastly, to answer my what if  question—NO this is not the best I'll ever be. It's devastatingly unlikely I'll ever climb Kilimanjaro or run a 10k but, seriously now, was there ever even a wisp of a chance that I'd do either. I mean, honestly, why sweat and struggle to hike up a mountain when I can look at a bunch of lovely pics without tripping over rocks and creating stinky perspiration? And running? For Bast's sake, the lime wedge will fall out of my martini glass if I do that!

Tits and Pics

Watching a show last night—one of the main characters is in hospital, near death from a mysterious illness.  Her hair and makeup are perfect and, though she’s lying flat on her back, her boobs are conical, stand-in g straight up, pointing at the ceiling. She’s defying gravity—rocking the whole Blonde Ambition look.

Hell's bells, my very own unenhanced airbags wouldn’t do that at 20 or 40 let alone now. Was the actor wearing a steel reinforced bra under her johnny or do silicone implants just not move—always pointing skyward? Seriously, it looked like she was smuggling baby pyramids.

This was in the, generally, fun show Eureka. It’s a comedy/drama about science geeks, their accidentally life threatening hijinks and the town’s new sheriff—not a science guy but definitely savvy. I like the show, firstly, because Joe Morton is one of the leads—Morton is an awesome actor (I’ve had a crush on him since Brother From Another Planet). Also, with the exception of this ridiculous breasticle move, the women actors aren’t relegated to secretary, wife, mother, girlfriend roles. They’re scientists, doctors, high level managers, villains and saviors just like their vaginally deficient fellow thespians. It’s refreshing…except for the stalagmite tit action.

Alright, I’ve got nothing else to say today. Have some pics. Yur welcome.

Muses

In Greek and Roman mythology the Muses were the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. They were in charge of inspiring the arts and sciences. Also, they were goddesses who danced a lot.

Calliope was the muse of eloquence and epic, heroic poetry. Somehow, this is also the name for the steam-whistle organ. Its shrill voice can be heard for miles and is played at circuses and county fairs to pull in the marks. Make it make sense, please.

Clio was the muse of history and creativity. She was also the goddess of memory. History, memory and creativity. I’m guessing this would be Obama’s muse. He knows history, has an excellent memory and a deeply creative mind.

Erato, muse of lyric poetry, particularly erotic poetry. Given that this sort of work is/was often intended to be sung (as in song lyrics, duh), I’ve just got to figure that Erato was whispering in Trent Reznor’s ear when he wrote Closer.

Euterpe was the muse of music and lyric poetry. I guess Euterpe specialized more in non sexy songs. Possibly John Lennon’s muse? Robert Plant’s? Paul Simon’s?

Melpomene was the muse of tragedy. Sounds like a total bummer BUT, c’mon, have you seen Warhol’s Death and Disaster series? What about Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope  or, frankly, any of Bacon’s grizzly work. Tragedy can be deep, transformational and inspiring.

Polyhymnia—muse of sacred poetry and hymns. She’s also considered to be the muse of geometry, meditation and agriculture.

Geometry AND hymns? Ya know, I can see meditation and agriculture going together but math and some of the crappiest songs ever written? Sure, there’s Handel's Messiah,  the Hallelujah Chorus and all that but, seriously now, most church music blows major chunks. The Old Rugged Cross? How Great Thou Art? Please, mes amis, please—that’s some seriously dull, uninspiring bullshit. Amazing Grace? If Aretha’s singing it, oh baby, yes. If not? meh.

I feel bad for Polyhymnia. It’s like she was the last muse in line when Zeus was handing out responsibilities. She got stuck with all the disparate bits.

Terpsichore was the one who oversaw dance. She was also considered the mother of mermaids. But…but…mermaids can’t dance. Oh wait, as long as they’re in water, of course they can.

Thalia was the muse of comedy. Robin Williams, Richard Pryor and Mel Brooks undoubtedly had/have deep personal relationships with her.

Urania was the muse of mathematics and of all the exact sciences. You know, physics, chemistry, astronomy—that sort of thing. How's come there are three muses for poetry but only one for science and just two for math?

Note bene, there is NO muse for painting or sculpture and yet there are, again, THREE babes in charge of poetry. What the fucking hell Zeus? Mnemosyne, you got anything to say on this?

Fighting Back

Does it make me a bad person that I’m smiling when I read all the stories about orcas attacking yachts?

No, it does not.

Scientists think a traumatized orca initiated the assault on boats after a "critical moment of agony" and that the behavior is spreading among the population through social learning.
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Orcas have attacked and sunk a third boat off the Iberian coast of Europe, and experts now believe the behavior is being copied by the rest of the population.

Three orcas (Orcinus orca), also known as killer whales, struck the yacht on the night of May 4 in the Strait of Gibraltar, off the coast of Spain, and pierced the rudder. "There were two smaller and one larger orca," skipper Werner Schaufelberger told the German publication Yacht. "The little ones shook the rudder at the back while the big one repeatedly backed up and rammed the ship with full force from the side."

Schaufelberger said he saw the smaller orcas imitate the larger one. "The two little orcas observed the bigger one's technique and, with a slight run-up, they too slammed into the boat." Spanish coast guards rescued the crew and towed the boat to Barbate, but it sank at the port entrance. (source)

So this is a thing now. The orcas are sick of human’s callous, self-obsessed, assholian ways and they’re not gonna take it anymore. We’ve pissed off the wrong fish (errrr, marine mammal).

Hey, I betcha orcas heard about the castle doctrine and stand your ground shit in the US. They’re simply doing the same thing.

In other Orcas versus Stupid Human news

Orcas chased a yacht during bad weather off the coast of Morocco, sparking fears among British tourists on board that they would have to abandon the boat.
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There have been more than 100 incidents involving orcas and boats in the Strait since 2020. (source)

Abandoning ship in bad weather while being attacked by killer whales? Gee, sounds like a great way to fucking die. I wonder if the Brits on board realized that orcas, in the ocean, have the home field advantage. Also, did these folks not get the memo about yachts and the orca not being besties? I’d have thought the 100 ‘incidents’ would make the rich people boating news. Wouldn’t you think that sensible, smart people would, if nothing else, understand that taking their fancy schmancy barge out for a pleasure cruise in pissed off whaley waters was, ya know, not so bright?

It’s taken a very long time but maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning. Nature’s mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore.  Keiko’s descendants, (AKA Willy of Free Willy) are pissed and all you yachting motherfuckers are going down!

Sick Days

Can I still take sick days when my only boss is me and, apart from seemingly endless rehab exercising, I no longer punch a time clock?

Yesterday, I took a 'sick day' despite not feeling particularly ill or being in exceptional pain. It was a mental health day. Mental health days are good and necessary. This is true, despite the fact that I’m doing little (compared to a healthy person’s daily activity) and it feels, on most days, that my progress is infinitesimal.

What’d I do with my day? I got up (eventually), had a shower (which should still count as exercise, dammit!), got dressed, went next door for a bit to visit/annoy Jen and Oni. Mostly, I laid in bed reading, petting my boy Cake and bothering Ten with my warped sense of humor. It was awesome.

Why do I find myself in a fog of guilt about this though?

• I normally do my rehab exercising five to six days out of seven. In taking yesterday off, I only worked out four of the past seven days. How can I realistically expect to, eventually, walk sans rollator if I slack like this?!

• I was raised Catholic. Though I dumped the church billions of years ago (when I was a teen—back when disco was hot and pterodactyls still graced the sky), the guilt reflex remains strong.

I need to chill the fuck out. One extra day off every now and then is NOT going to kill my momentum (such as it is) or cancel out the modest gains I’ve made. Really (she says in an attempt to talk herself into rationality).

Balance and some dark chocolate—that's what I need.

My Buddy Beelzebub

Here’s one big thing that I miss now that I don’t live in the city:

SatanCon

No, this isn’t ComiCon for devil worshipers. It’s a gathering of members of The Satanic Temple.

Members say they don't actually believe in a literal Lucifer or Hell. Instead, they say Satan is a metaphor for questioning authority, and grounding your beliefs in science. The sense of community around these shared values makes it a religion, they say. (source)

So, not the same as the conventions thrown by the obscenely hypocritical, wealthy, evangelical, big box, predatory, christian-in-name-only asswipes. I expect SatanCon had fewer narcissistic, greedheaded, grifting pedophiles.

I’m just pissed that I missed out on the chance to get one of this year's t-shirts.

Speaking of Satan, I was watching one of the last episodes of Lucifer last night. In the final scene, he and his daughter sing/play (piano and guitar) an impromptu duet of the song Bridge Over Troubled Water.

For the first time it really hit me. I’ve always appreciated the lyrics but they describe something that was foreign to me until well into adulthood. As a kid, I didn’t have a bridge.

When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
Oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

Back when the album came out, I much preferred The Boxer. In my angry, violent and neglectful home, the lyrics spoke to me more clearly.

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains

I was a fighter (in a nonviolent way). I survived and I left. So many decades later, the fighter still remains.

In last night's show,  I couldn’t hear Lucifer and his daughter, obviously (for new readers—late deafened adult here), but when they duetted, in the context of the storyline—man, I totally landed in Resonance City.

Ya know who my bridges have been as an adult? The Amazing Bob, Jen, Oni and my beloved Ten. The best thing about childhood? It ends and, if you're smart, you unlearn the shit lessons that were pounded into you. You move on to grow and evolve, to become yourself.