Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The flu shot

We're off to get our flu shot, in the magical land of Oz
We hear it's a whiz of a wiz, if ever a wiz there was
If ever, oh ever a wiz there is, in the magical land of Oz it is because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things it does
We're off to get our flu shot, in the magical land of Oz
We are, we are, we are, we are
And there's nothin you can do, so there

Oh me, oh my, and now we're sick
Our arm is sore, our stomach churns, the nausea overwhelms
Our body aches, the earth it quakes, our head's convoluted in pain
Our nose it runs, our throat is sore, the tongue is contorted with cramps
But me, oh my, it was a whiz, a whiz it was, in the magical land of Oz
Because of the wonderful things it does
Because, because, because, because, because
And there's nothin we can do, so there

We called our doc, he said “Take stock, you've only one day to survive”
And then he laughed and laughed and laughed that miserable sob
Because of the wonderful things it does he laughed and laughed and laughed
Our body aches, the earth it quakes, our head's convoluted in pain
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things it does
It was a whiz, a whiz it was, in the magical land of Oz
And there's nothin he can do, so there

The river flowed along it's green banks, the cows they munched their cud
They had us in a coffin nailed, because of the wonderful things it does, it does
We sat up straight and bumped our head, they heard the clamber inside
The eulogies halted, the lid it was vaulted
The doc, he laughed and laughed and laughed, because, because, because
Of the wonderful things it does, it does, in the magical land of Oz
Our aches are gone, the earth is still, (so is this damnable funeral parlour)
And there's nothin the gods can do, so there

Because of the wonderful things it does, it does
In the magical land of Oz

Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Magnanimous Party of Canada

It is an interesting aspect of introspection, the business of political illusion. One's mind a small atom of universal consciousness, it's separateness the mere force of psychic charges keeping that mass of raw primordial energy in tight focus. The transitory blip of a human life span, popping in and out of existence in search of the big answer to “Why did she make us aware, our creator, could have saved us from all this illusive introspection by just by keeping it all to herself.” Really no need for any of us to see the light of day, can't much see it as but a hoax.

Asked our cat on the epitome of human achievements and he come up with greasy chicken using a matrix of wishful versus vital possibilities in his version of this universal consciousness thingy. “Interesting” we reassured him after putting him through this torturous introspection. He usually pretends to sleep when we use him for a sounding board.

Are you hungry tonight,
Do you miss your chicken delight?
Are you sorry you ate it all for lunch?

'Tis but nonsense, this mind of ours. We thinks our recent election has did us in. We were all ready for a coalition, yes we were:

The Magnanimous Party of Canada (French: Parti Magnanime du Canada), colloquially known as the Coalition, is the newest federal political party in Canada. The party espouses the principles of altruism, and generally sits at the left of centre of the Canadian political spectrum. Historically the Magnanimous Party will been positioned to the left of the Conservative Party of Canada and to the right of the Green Party. At the head of the party will be our virtual Primed Minister, Skippy the Beaver, who will be an encyclopedia of information, the epitome of transparency, and at everyone's fingertips on every platform of the internet with his own mainframe and personal server. Skippy will be held to account by 30 cabinet ministers, elected by the party's Members of Parliament, each in charge of their own ministry. Skippy will not be allowed to make any decisions without a vote from the cabinet, and it is felt he will be an effective ambassador for Canada needing only a screen big enough for his two front teeth at international events.

Shall we write a ditty, our kitty, to the power of the positive approach? Oh diddly dum, what have we done. Include a line from a motivational seminar. Surrounding ourselves with driven folk. Add a wee bit of legitimization from the fables of old. Please all, and you will please none. Then liven it up with a sense of antiquity. Spread your cheer to the earth's foursquare. And a speck of humour. To find your Lorde hath made it round.

Yes we voted, all us personas, even took our wife along. We couldn't leave her at home, alone, with her dementia. Came out of that booth with the biggest smile, really likes to fill in boxes, she does. They did send her a voters card, they did. Then we went to the ducky pond. Just exercising our constitutional rights, you know.

So we await our Primed Minister in waiting. The transitory blip of his human life span, popping in and out of existence in search of how to lead a country of hosers. Take off eh.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Cakes of anthropocentrism

Our world is veritably a fascinating place. Our reveries really just poke their fun at it from different perspectives. A single word pinpoints one tiny bent in an infinity of dispositions. A picture captures one angle of an infinity of the slants of a kaleidoscope of scapes. A composition of music isolates one wee moment from the infinite reverberations pulsing our cosmos. Our supreme courts rule on the outcome of such a myriad of possible outcomes of an evolutionary ladder of biological and philosophical possibilities, those poor souls must wet their knickers when they mull the perplexities. It is rumoured that even Sarah Palin once had this fleeting moment of awe at the languor of capitalism from amidst an astonishing variety of egalitarian vistas.

It becomes a burning question in our fascinating world. Shall we simply let the poor starve and the terrorists terrorize, building walls around our neighbourhoods and countries? A few well placed bombs will frustrate those dens of hackers, working so hard to circumvent our superiority. And let them keep those hallucinogens to themselves, we will live in utterly sane complacency. We can fence ourselves off from the primordial escapades of the ignorant outlanders caught up in the ravages of sex and killing and illegal philanthropy while we languish in peaceful oblivion, our hand guns the ultimate tool of a harmonic society. What a brave new version of anthropocentrism it will be!

But, but you may say, you with your flagitious sarcasm. Those terrorists are hell bent on destroying us, they wish to rule the earth with their thwarted conceptualizations of utopia, and those vile drug lords care naught for our sweet children. It is rather us who should rule the world with our omniscient version of utopia and let their sweet children scavenge the dumpsters for crumbs. We have every right to seduce our malls with titillating garments so those ravishing dark eyes of modest immigrants can peek forth and behold the sweet undulations of freedom. We fought our wars of confederacy years ago so our whites and blacks and native Americans could live side by side in unmitigated harmony, and those fanatical lowlifes should have fought their wars years ago too. So now we're just going to bomb the bejeezus out of them all so we can have some peace and quiet on our side of the pond.

The symphonies play on. Tchaikovsky dissolves the curtains between east and west. Mendelssohn crumbles the walls of division. The Archies open barriers of trade and commerce with the Orient. All those undulating reverberations, puissant waves transcending the background rumble of canon fire as capitalism builds the bridge to new worlds, chow mein topped with cherry pie for dessert. The rudiments of fine fiction inspiring religions in a sea of multicultural plurality. The precise legality of a single word in our courts of law empowered by the txtspk of social media, ZOMG. Selfies epitomizing the instant gratification of our modern Rembrandts, those masterful undulations! Politicians carving up our earth with ever more outrageous ways to stifle dissidence by inciting divisiveness. The proof of evolution, this compulsion towards divagation.

But we divagate here. We must stay on our topic by considering in closing the cake. If have it we must then have it we will. It's not all that innocuous for your teeth anyway. I personally propound the many tiered Tower of Babel varieties built on those tiny pier poles so the ants can keep climbing as they purview the pantry. What a veritably fascinating world it is.

(We had 13 hits on the last blog. Got to slow things down a bit.)

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The shadows of evening

Like grey wolves lurking in the shadows of evening, just out of sight you sense them, but they wait quietly. There is no rush. They will get the chickens no matter what fences you build with love and and planning and determination. The chickens are toast. Night after night they will come for more, the wolves. The hen house will persevere for years sometimes, the squawking alerting passersby of the angst. But those grey beasts, they have cunning. Into the darkness they will vanish their prey, the few remaining of the roost ever more timid to crow their glory. We may shelter the chickens in homes of benevolence, but the spirit of the wolf knows no walls thick enough to deter it's hunger. The last of the flock will be taken. Only then will the wolf den move on to a another conquest.

That is one flitting perception of dementia. As my wife smiles the biggest heart felt smile imaginable at the littlest wee bit of attention, I bring her a morning tea, my heart breaks. I wish to run away, to hide from the knowledge that she will never again put down my idiotic rantings with one small word of wisdom. She will only smile, the introspection of her soul growing ever deeper as her eyes concentrate on that inner world, her place of refuge it seems, till I break the spell once more with that wee bit of attention, “Madam, would you mind some scrambled eggs and toast for your breakfast?” And she smiles, somewhere deep inside knowing that I jest, and answers with a soft “Yes,” and I wish to cry.

This morning she brought to her place where she sits near by me, three pairs of 'dry' jeans we purchased at the 'Valued Village' just yesterday. I had hung them on the line in our cats bedroom to air a bit, the smells of used clothing, even though new looking, being overpowering. The meds for dementia have helped her memory, but the facilities to make cognizant sense of those memories often need a helping hand. We will launder those jeans later, and she will be so proud of them. It is for those meaningful episodes in our routine for which we live. The outside world has lost it's significance. She asked me for the longest time what day and month it was, and we would find it on the calender, and five minutes latter she would ask again, a compulsion of sorts. But no longer. The day of the week is irrelevant. The season is noted by the amount of sweaters and jackets she puts on when she gets outdoors, since it is not 'cold' enough inside the house to dress. I'm not an arguer, I just put lots of stuff in a bag and let her adjust her temperature as she sees fit. So far it works. Tomorrow probably not.

The need to think for two people, my dilemma. I spent my whole life avoiding my own better judgment, and now I'm thrown into this awesome duty our civilization imposes on caregivers not to screw up. “Did you go #2 today my deary?” “I know you don't like bathing, but it's been two weeks my deary!” “Just one spoonful of peas my deary, please, no not in the garbage!” “Did you take all your meds?” as we rummage through her purse to find the ones she doesn't like which she sneaked there when I turned away one second. One second! And as I sit for a moment to try to remember what the agenda is for today, I look up and meet her eyes which break into the great big smile which makes all worthwhile. “How did you know my name was Vicky?” she quietly asks. “Well my deary, we've been married for over thirty years, I'm guessing you let it slip once upon a time,” and she gives me that look of incomprehension, thirty years being a time frame much to vast to fathom.

I used to walk the neighbourhood every evening, that masochistic adventure of an arthritic sojourner exercising those squeaky painful joints. She would watch the tele, lost in her world of déjà vu. That was ok for several years with only minor problems to face when I returned. But then I started to come home to destruction, my desk and bookshelf contents on the floor. She did not wish to be left alone so I began taking her with me wherever I went. We took the car because she can't walk very far. My exercising dwindled as I used to walk everywhere putting in miles a day. So now we play 'a game' as she puts it. She sits in her chair and I walk back and forth, wearing a path in the flooring from the far bedroom window to the kitchen window at the other end of our abode. She meditates upon this adventure, uttering a single quiet word as I pass by. Sticks out her tongue at me, she does, in her more lively moments, so she shyly tells me, us laughing at the treachery. When the lack of attention from my introspective thoughts overwhelms her she quietly says “Holler,” and I know it is time to sit her up straight and give her a big hug and some much needed attention before I continue on my journey.

The wolves will come for yet more chickens. They just wait in the shadows biding their time. Makes an old fool mature a tad. But an old fool can dream. Bicycles built for two, riding off into adventures in reckless irresponsibility, her spirit riding in glory on the seat in front. Perhaps I will someday have that freedom once more. I will take her with me on journeys to the far ends of our country and laugh at the wolves lurking in the bushes. Old fool I am.