Monday, July 17, 2017

The itch

It wasn't always easy to navigate the challenges of life. All institutions had their flaws, nursing homes among them. Divine guidance was helpful. He was just itchy. Daytime wasn't bad, but night came and it started. Slowly at first, a little itch here, a pin prick there. By the time he crawled into bed and said “Night night” to his cats the itch would begin to consume him till he was a bundle of nerves, scratching here and there, waiting for the next electric prickle to strike. No use. He'd get up and make a pot of coffee.

He used Nix, thought it was scabies. The conscientious care givers at the home said no, they'd done tests, she didn't have scabies, it was psoriasis. She had a scaly white scalp and fingers thick and cracked with thick dry white skin. Red blotches on her back and legs. It had started a month before Christmas, after her room mate had scabies. They washed the clothes, washed the walls, stuck the stuffed animals in garbage bags and hid them, and gave them the treatment. It never went away. She didn't know, her dementia mind couldn't fathom it. She pulled her hair out, said it didn't itch though. She didn't know.

A few days after he used the Nix the itch was gone. He slept the sleep of abandonment, dreams of cupcakes floating over fairy landscapes, awoke refreshed the whole world to explore. Then came the time for the daily visit. His feet would not go through that door. Anxiety overtook him, the remembrance of that horrid itch filled his being numbing his mind black. He couldn't think. He sat on the bench outside.

Oh what to do? What would a sane person do? He phoned the nursing supervisor. Of course he got the answering machine. Left his message, “I got itchy, had pimple bumps, used Nix, it went away. Could my dear wife possibly have scabies? Please phone me.”

His phone rang. The nursing supervisor said no it wasn't scabies, the doctor had said so. He said maybe I should go see a dermatologist. I hummed and hawed and said my wife was not improving. He said she was refusing her medicated cream. I asked if maybe she could see a dermatologist for a different solution. Was a brilliant manoeuvre on my part, if I can so say. He said yes if I would accompany her, as she was prone to refusing these escapades into the unknown. In my glory I said “Yes, for sure” and thanked him profusely.

With this unforeseen outcome at my disposal I got up from that bench and marched happily through that door. Found her in the rec hall and gave her a big kiss. She grinned from ear to ear. I know I'll pay the price, but it isn't scabies. Maybe.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Arrested views

I've not had much to say of late, at least not out loud. My prostate keeps my vanity in check with excruciating pain six minutes out of every hour as I curse the learnรจd idiot who invented brachytherapy. As a humongous captive grizzly swinging his massive head side to side in woe at his predicament, I seat on my throne swaying my noggin to and fro in anguish that this is my punishment for crimes against the arrested views of humanity, and not at all sure it will not last for all eternity. It does make one question their faith in the doctors who say in three more months all will be normal. Does it end with a whimper or a bang?

So, in my reconciliation with the powers that be I set forth my will and testament in proof that I have seen the light. Oath under torture has been viewed as constitutional by many constituencies.

  1. God created the earth in six days about four thousand years ago.
  2. Evolution is a myth.
  3. Man was created to have dominion over all living things.
  4. Global warming is a hoax.
  5. Oil was placed in this earth for man to use.
  6. Supply-side economics and posterity with rock bottom taxes is key to mans' success.
  7. Democracy and the freedom to bear arms will speed us to the second coming.

I set forth this treatise in surety that our omnipotent and forgiving father reads Google+. Also I promise to never tune in to CBC Radio ever again. Such progressive views have obviously got me into this mess. I'll just have to get used to reading The Sun with the sunshine girl. By immersing oneself in the wisdom of the right, those cravings for the avante-garde will soon wear off.

Please wish me luck.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

A tentative reality



Did we ever tell you about the imaginary us? It's much like an imaginary friend, but it's really ourselves, handling life's ins and outs with grace and composure. As we've aged we've kind of lost track of the real us, we've just let the imaginary us lead us forth subduing the human angst. Unflappable as Cortana, we navigate life as a treasure trove of endless fascination, sanguinely.

Belief is all it takes. As we navigate the realm of social opportunism when we're asked where we live we can unblinkingly say “Under the bridge.” It becomes quite fascinating that some people still live in houses and have to mow their lawns and pay for water. We can listen endlessly to their stories of irate neighbours and having to get up each morning to trudge off to work. Why anyone would live such a lugubrious life is beyond comprehension, only a demented soul could facilitate such woes of importunity.

The food in dumpsters is free, people. What are you thinking? Do the birds worry? Only idiots would want to navigate their lives through reality. Find some form of chicanery, visionary religion, fanatical politics, anything to distract you from the misery your social status brings. Trust not the real you, it's just a fabrication in your head, trying to maintain some semblance of sanity in the chaos of humanity. Any make believe vagary is better than the lies two million years of evolutionary engineering has provided us with. The universe laughs at our savvy eidolon.

We must of course proceed with life in a somewhat orthodox manner, else they'll take us away. Be friendly with the laws and let the surgeons do their cutting and sewing. Let the politicians have their fun, little do they care about the effervescence afforded under our bridge. Humour your parents, they believe they brought you into this world. Pain and pleasure are mere responses to keep us reproducing, it's that evolutionary thing. Soul is all we have and it makes no sense at all.

Did we ever tell you about the imaginary us?

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Radioactive man



Our prostate it withers, we're now radioactive man
Our trip to the airport for a coffee proved provocative
Those sensors at the entrance set off quite the jam
That cop's car seat got wetter as the hours dragged on
Just can't hold it no more

Brachytherapy will cure us from this malignancy of body and mind
But these meds they distort gravity, one's wits get misconstrued
We lost our inhibitions as they poked our tender behind
We now walk with a swagger, catheter bag eased the yearning
Sleep the whole night through

The seeds got implanted, the wallet got a card
Says to please not incinerate this dear man,
The fumes may do you in, just lay him to rest
Under six feet of clay, cause he's radioactive, man
Dust to dust

We gave up our hideaway under our bridge
To endure benignancy at the local shelter c/w bugs
Our four legged Bessy is lonely as can be, what a dear cow
If only our wife missed us as much, no memory, 30 second compassion
In her swanky care home, we love her still

Six months they tell us and we'll be all cured
The seeds will give up their puissance, our prostate in ruin
So we'll live out this winter in our luxurious digs
In spring to smell flowers fresh under our bridge
Come what may

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Imaginary us

Our wife has been sitting outside with her friend in the evening this summer, waiting for us to walk up the sidewalk from our bridge which we live under. Always greets us with a big smile and a hug. Said to us the other day something regarding the real Len. Apparently the real Len is from her past life, before she came to the care home. She doesn't remember much about the real Len or where they lived, but the real Len definitely did not live under a bridge with his cow, Bessy. We're just not the same Len, we persona's. That took a hit out of our impudence.

We asked her kindly if she would care to come back with us to our abode and she answered wisely with a frown “I don't want to live under a bridge.” We told her that was good because we'd never get her wheelie chair back up the river bank if we rolled her down there. She said something also about not fancying a rock for a pillow either. We gambolled that Bessy would really like her though. She gave us that big big smile.

Made us think, that evening as we avoided the evangelicals on the way back to our bridge. Every similitude in our brains is really just our whimsical take on the masses of atoms which make up ourselves and our surroundings. Real people, imaginary people, is there a difference? We all live in our own little fantasy world. If we can't handle our present quandary we just embellish it with a more virtuous take. Imaginary solutions to imaginary problems, this mollycoddly adventure.

Mollycoddly? Sweat pouring down one's face as one endures the ecstasy of some aficionado apotheosizing the leanings of an implacable societal monomania, cringing as the lashes burn one's back, scoring us for the rest of our life? So, our imagination is not all fun and games. Our imagery can feel devastating because it is. Embellishment just doesn't cut it, we take to drink, to revenge, we loose our esteem. Our imaginary self has lost it's resilience. The imagination of others has overburdened our own.

You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one,
I hope some day you'll join us,
And the world will live as one.

We will live on in our imaginary world under our bridge, with our good cow Bessy. Our good wife will have an imaginary Len, not the same Len which reality disposed of in favour of posterity. He's not bound to the whims of palpability, makes it a more pliable world in which to experience his perdition. Who is that man walking up the sidewalk?

Saturday, August 6, 2016

When we get to the pearly gates

When we get to the pearly gates we're going to ask for a refund, just to see if they have a sense of humour. We signed up for this spiritually enhancing break from fraternizing with it's oneness and all we got was drugs, sex and violence. So much for our transcendent state of mind. They'd see through it if we claimed we were a yogi immersing himself to the virtues of being the humble servant of worldliness. May as well just admit our guilt and try to win our way in with joviality. It was our calling we'll claim, our mission was to bring whoopee to the heavens.

We remember it well, the day we signed up. Picked a little pristine planet in one of the discretionary universes. It looked so charming, just into the age of self awareness. Our buds all wished us the best, said we'd return as a renewed entity. Now we have our doubts they'll ever let us back in. Wasted our days and wasted our nights, first on playing hooky and never doing homework, and then maturing into wandering the highways and the byways, always looking for the easy way. Honesty and integrity where just diversions from tomfoolery, the antics of which were lost on the befuddled minds of saints and other lesser beings.

It was quite the falling, out of the light, out of the glorious oneness with love and unity, falling, falling into the darkness of this universe, overcome with unspeakable selfishness, avaricious grasping for more, ever more. Finally ended up totally maniacal, absurdly laughing at a ludicrous mind which knew no prudence, justifying existence with the joys of absurdity. We've learned the folly of responsibility, no rational or irrational mind can truly believe any choice is within impartial achievement. It's oneness is going to have to make do with our effervescent take on it's fine creations. One wonders, will it take this lightly.

Those pearly gates get ever closer. We have aged beyond our wildest dreams. Carefree and stupendous decisions have done us well. We wonder, do we have to knock, or do they have drones who just zap us into the endless inferno if we're a threat to preponderancy. This fine life has left us with no delusions that we'll ever grasp the complexities of wisdom and sacrifice. To face this universe with anything less than shamelessly audacious humour would leave us in the throws of despair. It must be the devil we hear, taunting us... “You learned your lessons well.”

Friday, July 22, 2016

Oh give me a home

It is not every day that lightening knocks out the power. We were ready however, and in five minutes we had it accomplished. Helmet light strapped on and exacto knife in hand we wiped off the already loosened conduit cover and scraped the insulation from the now dead wires. Twisted three inches of bared #10 wire around two conductors and electrical taped them up real quick and threaded the wires through a hole methodically filed just below ground level into a trench we had at ready. Just in time as the street lights flickered back on.

Living under a bridge needs patience and a shade of ingenuity. We now have an electrical box fastened to a short pole behind the pile of rocks which we call home. No one's the wiser, except for our cow Bessy and our two cats. We can now have fresh dripped coffee and charge our phone and laptop without trucking across the avenues to the parking lot with plugs. We'll be searching the dumpsters for more modern electrical type inconveniences shortly.

We do need a good little heater for next winter. We're digging a cave, so to speak. Had to shore it up with posts and boards from an unneeded fence up the riverbank. Two sheets of plywood on the floor. Eight by eight is really cozy, we hope. Styrofoam boulder made from twenty sheets glued together and fancied up with a grey spray bomb and lots of sand and dirt covers the entrance. Planted some local shrubs beside it too, just for laughs. Bessy says she'll live outside, she's made friends with the deer in the bush downstream. The cats think it's neat, attracts a few varmints for them to toy with although they're friends with the local skunk.

      Oh, give me a home where the Buffalo roam
      Where the Deer and the Antelope play;
      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,
      And the sky is not cloudy all day.

A vaguely religious affirmation of fortitude in the face of peril, it would seem, this life bestowed upon ourselves. The wild west still within our grasp, with some modern amenities. Canned beans are real good. So is the hydro. Just preparing for the new world order, you know, with the bankers hell bent on swindling the western world out of it's superiority complex. Got the ceiling lined with fourteen layers of tin foil under five feet of clay under the concrete span of our bridge, unlikely those infrared heat sensor drones will spot us before they drop from the sky in Armageddon. Just got to make like a fisherman with our pole when we come and go. Trying to figure out how to hide a horse, they're a bit more high strung than an old Hereford.

Making coffee in the morning, seemed to take a long time to get a cup. Plugged the radio into the outlet and it would come on for a minute and then off for a minute and then on for a minute, got us scratching our head. Went for a little stroll down Bessy's path to ponder on it and then we saw it, the lights at the intersection at the bottom of the bridge. If we hadn't hooked into the green light circuit. If we don't get another wicked lightening strike this summer we'll be saving the city a bit of power we suppose.