Multiphasic (Blessings)

The second week of this new year is approaching its end. It is the weekend of Malanka: the Orthodox(Ukrainian) New Year according to the Julian calendar. For me, it marks the official end of all mid-winter holiday feasting, at least those days that I’m familiar with, and not too soon either. There is no crueler and more brutally honest critique about how swinishly gluttonous one has been throughout the end of December/beginning of January than the discovery of how red the skin along the waistline turns, and how crushed one’s gonads feel, after trying to slip on and sport a pair of the tighter jeans that one owns in one’s wardrobe for the first time after the holiday season. It triggered a new motivator (see further below), but I digress. It’s so early, and I’m still trying to fix my bearing. This entry writing exercise has no fixed topic, and is as erratic and multiphasic as my periods of sleep have been. Throughout this second week of the year I was handed a mixed bag of blessings and curses; more of the former than the latter, thankfully.

I won’t get too specific about the curses except that they involved trying to muddle through toxic environments, which included: being almost overcome by fumes, and bracing for what I was suspecting to be a vermin infestation. Thankfully, the latter issue didn’t actually end up manifesting itself, and I could put my paranoia to rest.

My blessings were realizing that the stuff I put effort into learning a whole year ago didn’t just simply evaporate and disappear into the ether. I’ve been daring myself to use the Swedish and German I learned to read correspondence and interact with other new contacts by text. No one has reported to me yet that I’ve been too flawed or incomprehensible (or they’ve been too kind to say so). The fact that I’ve been cogent enough to remember these languages despite the lapse of their usage (and a fume-fogged mind) amazes me. The jeans issue as mentioned above, was my personal Harajuku moment (see The 4-Hour Body, by Tim Ferriss, page 38). It forced me to recollect what I did when I first primed myself to begin my journey back in the years when I became the fittest I’ve ever been. I realize that I’m actually in a better state of organization now, than when I started way back then, as I’ve been trying to reconfigure and reclaim some space in my office to set up a sensibly useful home gym. My last medical results shown that my lung tissues are now just about completely regenerated, and so I have no excuse to not get back into a regular exercise regimen. First, I must build up my core strength and joint flexibility, especially in the arm I injured back in 2016. Reclaiming and reconfiguring my space is a source of giving me some clarity of vision and purpose, nothing wrong with that, an extra motivator to reorganize other things beyond just this room.

Another bit of a blessing I guess, albeit a bewildering one for me, is for the fact that the New York Times recently listed the top 52 places in the world to visit in 2018, and strangely enough, my city, Saskatoon, was on that list. It made something like number 18 on it, and weirder still is the fact that it was the only Canadian city to appear on that list. If Saskatoon is considered to be such a gem, how bad off are the other places in Canada really? I won’t complain that it appeared in this card deck full of places on this globe that merit a visit. I guess it’s even more of an impressive accolade considering that the dominant buzzword circulating in the news for this week, to describe other places, even though it isn’t even being said outright, is “shithole” (no thanks to the grand poohbah of all idiot US presidents, Trump). Thankfully with this review, Saskatoon has managed to rise above all that. I’m just befuddled though as to the how and why it became selected. I would reckon that their research team obviously didn’t account for the winter months. They cite the Remai art gallery as an attraction; I have yet to see it myself, because I’m saving that visit for company who would genuinely appreciate it with me, so I can’t yet judge based upon that. But if I were asked now what makes Saskatoon an attractive city, I would suggest that wandering the Meewasin valley trails in the summer is the best thing you can do to figure that out for yourself, or visiting the Farmers Market, or else grabbing a coffee and enjoying it outside around the park by the Bess or by the river, or a pint in one of the pubs downtown or on Broadway. It’s quite festive during summer (to offset our all too brutal winters). It’s a bigger city that still feels like a small town, with enough people around who’ve been raised rurally, or remain connected to each other in a down-to-earth, close-knit folksy manner, who help diffuse away the pretentiousness and snobbery of something more urban and edging towards elitism, sided along with a huge multicultural blending that gets along a lot better with this sort of mix than most other places on Earth. For the most part, the people are generally approachable and friendly. The food scene is very diverse for a smaller urban centre. People from out East who come here for the first time generally express surprise at how seemingly cosmopolitan Saskatoon is, with their beliefs dashed by not finding more of a redneck culture being prominent for this place, as what is typically expected by them about Saskatchewan. One point of infamy about Saskatoon though, is its perceived high rate of crime. The city has been rated in the top ten worst Canadian cities for criminal activity for many consecutive years. I argue that Saskatoon actually isn’t that much more harsh or severe for criminal activity over most other cities in Canada. Sure, it’s higher, but not so much as to make it among the worst per capita. It’s just that with the close-knittedness of the community here, citizens here are far less likely to be complacent or dismissive when dealing with, or witnessing, suspicious activity in their neighbourhoods, and so are far more likely to report it, while people in most other larger centres tend to under report actual criminal activity. This naturally skews the crime stats on a higher rate for Saskatoon, I’d even say drastically. The shithole parts of this city (or of any city) is where people under report crime because of the sectors of the population that are intermingled in gang activity, and thus won’t squeal on each other. The police here are awesome too, both in terms of response times and availability, and dealing with most civic problems very tactfully, responsibly, and professionally no matter how trivial or severe on the spectrum. The city isn’t huge, so they can respond faster than bigger centres, and they give attention to calls that cops in larger centres wouldn’t trouble themselves to expend manpower for (and thus not recorded and accounted for in their  statistics). Naturally then, this extra availability and responsiveness of the peace officers here thus generates and facilitates more stats processed for criminal activity. In reality, I feel quite safe here in this city, as opposed to someplace like East Hastings in Vancouver. The Pareto principle also applies to crime stats where it’s figured 80% of criminal activity is done by 20% of a sector of criminals, except here in Saskatoon I’d say that it’s more like 90% of such crime is committed by 10% of the criminal population.

Throughout this week, the best blessing of all of them all was reuniting and reconnecting with someone from my past on a more soulful level. Thank you, you know who you are.

A Full 360

I’ve been up since 4:00 AM . . .  again, like five hours before sunrise. Doing upgrades and fixes to my laptop was is the only activity I could think of doing that seemed half-assed productive, and yet not loud enough to disturb any of my neighbours at this hour. While waiting for the scans and optimizations to finish, I’m filling the gap of the period used to all this with some writing to clear my head as well. My phases of insomnia have been getting progressively worse now for the past few weeks. There’s still another month yet to pass after the recent solstice until maybe things normalize themselves with the wonky sleep issues as the extra darkness recedes after then. Being exposed to fumes, dust, and debris containing noxious chemical compounds in both fresh and old deteriorating forms of adhesives (NOT WILLINGLY!) from the past three days probably hasn’t been doing me any good physically or mentally either. I’ve came home from work feeling a bit sickly and even more de-energized, and I have been falling into a cycle of collapsing on my chesterfield napping, and ruining the phases and timing of more appropriate sleep hygiene. The closest geographical place right now that suits my phases of wakefulness of normal diurnal activity where I won’t be disturbed by jet lag is probably Iceland. Also, for some reason as of late, unknown to even me, I’ve been gazing up skyward to note the positions of planets and constellations as well when I walk the dog in the early morning and mid-evening. Perhaps, it’s something that’s becoming instinctual:  to tune into and immerse myself deeper into nature’s flow of rhythms and cycles, in the middle of a winter season which never seems to budge from either coldness or lack of daylight around here. In any case, a more intensified consciousness of timelines indeed occupies my mind around this part of the year. I tend to think and process time in shapes along with numbers: another weird way my brain works.

The first five days of this year involve my usual messing about with planning and scheduling for the whole calendar year ahead, which inadvertently leads to me playing around with the trivialities of time equations*. January 6^th isn’t just where Christmas eve falls on the Julian/Orthodox Christian calendar, or Epiphany on the Gregorian calendar; it is also Day 1 of the remaining 360 days left of this year, signifying in a sense the first degree of a full circle. I’d like to suggest that making New Year’s resolutions just prior to, or after, New Year’s Day is really an exercise in futility. One should never use just a couple spontaneous (usually guilt-spurred) moments to make a full commitment that’s supposed to take you the rest of the year or beyond to achieve. I’d say avoid that impulsivity, and plan for something within the first five days (not just five minutes, or something blurted out in five seconds) of the New Year, doing such things as:

·         Setting a timeline for steps

·         Writing the goals down (I won’t be doing that here though, it’s too personal)***

·         Prioritizing the things that are important

·         Reviewing what resources and materials you have, and what you still need

·         Looking through an actual calendar to establish dates for milestones for setting reasonable goals

·         Setting a budget for this stuff

Today is the first degree of a small step on a journey of coming to full circle. Check your progress throughout. Be a real geek about it. Check the first 15 degrees of this special circle (on date January 20^th), check on Pi (π) day, a day devoted to circles (March 14, 2018), check on the first full quadrant (April 5^th), check on your birthday after this point**, check the midway point from here to year’s end (July 4^th), and three quarters of the way through (Oct 2^nd). Take time to cull out whatever isn’t working and replace it with something that does along the way.

But, what do I know . . . typing stuff like this on an insomnia-addled and chemical-fogged brain doesn’t necessarily qualify as sage advice for myself and others for movements toward betterment for the year ahead, but it’s better than no real plan of movement at all, which 95% of the time is wasted efforts by people who use impulsive and rash resolution making on New Year’s Eve or Day.

So, Happy Epiphany, and Merry Christmas to the orthodox celebrants. Do realize that three hundred and sixty days is a quicker cycle than one usually expects, try to do the best with it.

Addendum: My friend introduced me to an app that is very fitting for this endeavor: HabitBull. I'll give it an exploration and test through.

*-Like the statistical frequency or rate of goal scoring needed for how one team to tie or surpass another in some IIHF Word Junior hockey games, for example.

**- January 6^th is special to me because it is exactly a full 9 months from here until my birthday (an entire human gestation period). Thus, I would guess being conceived on Epiphany (derived from the Greek, meaning “manifestation”) is as significant as an extra holy day for me, as being born on Christmas day is for my Dad.

***- The one thing that I will note here that was a success from last year’s go around was learning some elements of other languages, with better fluency than I thought I’d have.

Autumn Equinox Weekend 2017: Getting Bitter, Getting Sour

Friday

It was actually one of my more pleasant Fridays of this year, and counting in last weekend’s effort to re-organize stuff from Fall cleaning, and successfully riding out a storm of some other bad karma, I feel more able to do some steps toward other forms of betterment. I thought if I’m going to do more Fall brewing of beer in the days ahead, I should make an effort to craft it in such a way where it’s more therapeutic. Google flashed a dedication to Asima Chatterjee, a noted medicinal plant researcher and organic chemist from India, as it would have been her 100^th birthday today, and it strangely coincided with my recent interest in researching the healing power of hops: the getting bitter part of the weekend.

Back in the days when I was on a property on which I had access to garden space, my efforts to cultivate things were pretty much reduced and restricted to plants that were necessary staples for

bachelorhood, i.e. the crop outputs were the elemental ingredients for making pizza and beer. I was hit and miss with growing my tomatoes; a complete failure with herbs like basil and oregano. The only thing that I really had success at growing there were hop vines, which came from cultivars that I mail ordered from the Richter’s seed catalogue. I was tempted to go by the old place a few days ago and see if the plants were still there, and to perhaps snip a few away that were straggling into the public space of the back alley. I remembered though that a friend of mine said that she had some vines at her place, and she offered me a few cones. I happily accepted. She didn’t know what variety they were, but after some research on the visual and aroma profile (low bitterness, earthy, herbal, no real citrus notes to them) plus the elimination of varieties that wouldn’t thrive in this wretched climate of ours, and memories from previous experience, I think I narrowed them down to being maybe Hallertau or Saaz hops; either variety is most likely used for lighter lagers and Pilsners. Thankfully, the cones were not touched by frost yet*, and I got them at their peak ripeness. They needed to be dried before I can use them. I picked, sorted, and checked them for insect hitchhikers, and so now I’m experimenting with using a food dehydrator setting for a milder desiccation temperature rate: starting at 50 degrees Centigrade. Too low and slow risks incubation of molds; too high and dry risks the same sort of damage to the oil glands as freezing them.

If I am already regulating myself on the amount of alcohol I’m allowed to drink, then enhancing the sedating properties of beer in other ways has to be done if drinking more of it isn’t an option. Hops are supposed to have the natural properties of reducing anxiety and eliminating insomnia. Adding more to my brew kits seems to be the way to receive the benefits of them. For flavour, I’m targeting for somewhere a third of the way between the bitterness of what I remember Big Rock Traditional Ale tastes like, and that kicked-in-the-face-by-Satan-himself kind of bitterness found in Double India Pale Ales. There is no doubt about the medical potential of hops because they belong in the phytochemically super-rich botanical family of Cannabaceae, the same family as that of Cannabis Sativa, which is of course marijuana. I’m surprised that, or I at least don’t understand why, there is not more research done on hops, because we’ve only been using them since beer was invented 6000 years ago; it being such a pivotal beverage for civilization and all. The priority for research attention between the two plants shifts to hemp because there is more pressure to either discover more benefits of the plant by pro-hemp/marijuana legalization institutions, or for taking a contrarian stance for more research dollars focused to find evil in it by the forces that want to justify keeping it suppressed and criminalized. Either way, hops aren’t controversial enough to get the same attention. The side effects of higher intake of hop extracts, from what I’ve read, is like that of using too much refined soy products: a greater potential of overconsuming phytoestrogen. It seems growing beer titties might be more of a risk than growing a beer belly if your ale is infused with more hops.

Saturday

The getting sour part of the weekend. I made cabbage rolls today, with soured cabbage leaves and pressure preserved the sauerkraut that was being brewed under them in my fermentation crock. I already described the process involved in the previous entry, Fermentation Experimentation (On Baba’s Magic Rocks). The effort to clear out older bulk dry stock from my pantry is almost complete. Other results from that: Dutch Style Split Green Pea Soup with my remaining bacon, and my rendition of chili con carne with the remaining beef, tomatoes, onions, beans and other odds and ends. 

Sunday

I wanted to get sweet today, but I can’t let go of sour quite yet. I was gifted some sour apples (Battleford variety) I need to use and not waste, and there’s sour cream in the fridge, plus some raisins in the pantry. This means aggravation, because I settled on making pies with this stuff, which means messing around with goddamned pastry dough. I don’t know why I have no patience for it. Making regular bread or pizza dough isn’t a big deal for me. However, if there is any one thing I do in the kitchen that has me so challenged that I’m swearing like a salty sailor, it’s trying to mix and feel out that right interplay between flour, lard/shortening, and the exact amount of moisture and temperature It needs to bind it all together perfectly to allow it to be rolled out right for a pie. It’s somehow too technical for me. I committed to it today in the spirit of practice and persistence. If I screwed up the pastry, I at least have a crack at redemption in trying to craft a good filling. My sour apples were doctored up with plenty of cinnamon, and the sour cream and raisin filling for my other pie was spiced up with vanilla, cardamom, and cloves, and minimal of brown sugar was used for both.

My Sour Cream and Raisin Pie, so far my best attempt at

using a meringue. My apple pie was OK too taste-wise, but an

embarrassment to the visual aesthetic, and far too damn

fugly to add to this gallery.

The proof of how infrequently I cook with sugar, i.e.

brown sugar that looks like it needs to be dynamited out of the jar.

That's what the good old mortar and pestle is for.

Maybe my waning interest and ability in baking dessert-like things is perhaps a sobering and humbling indication that I’m aging. It’s a scientific fact that the taste palette shifts more from the sweet to the bitter and sour as we mature and approach middle age and beyond. I can only concur given that my taste for beer is stronger now than it was when I was a younger adult (I was more into rye whiskey at that age). I try more bitter things and am more forgiving of the pungency of other things now (like certain cheeses with their sudoriferous, or even fecal-like, stenches) that I would have been revolted by as a teen. I suppose I made pies to feel younger and spark a sense of a sweet tooth that I'm losing. At least I’m finding out that the aging tongue is nothing to be afraid of, it just gives cause to make one more adventurous. Coming to a point of appreciating things like more bitter beers, astringent wines, and smellier cheeses may be a sign of maturity.

*- I shouldn’t have to mention this to experienced brewers, though I suppose it could be done, but never should one use frozen hops for brewing, or store them in a freezer for later use, even if they are in pellet form. The humulone and lupulin glands in the flowers that produce their characteristic bitterness profile are essentially ruined when crystalized and then ruptured by frost and ice. I’m just saying that I wouldn’t do it myself. What’s the point of going through all the effort of searching for an ingredient with a specific aroma and flavour profile, a rarer commodity at that, only to destroy that which you’re seeking for the greedy act of preservation? After drying them and letting them cool to room temperature, refrigerate them for a short while in a vacuum pack if you can if their usage will be delayed, but don’t freeze them.

Two Weeks Gibbled

I don’t know why I’m troubling myself to write this. It’s not like this is a life event that I’d like to ever remember happening. Perhaps, it’s for the sake of reading it later in the future when I’m going through a rough period of real misery and suffering to remind myself that I have some ability to cope when I’m going through some sort of limbo when dealing with impairment. It’s now 4:51 AM, and I had nothing else to do. I’m sleepless because it’s been a full two weeks plus a couple days without being set in a regular rhythm of a typical workweek cycle. I’m also an insomniac due to being woken by either jolting surges of pain, or failing miserably to find an alternative resting position that has been relaxing enough to have a decently long stretch of recuperative nighttime sleep almost every night since the accident. The rest of my muscles in my neck, shoulders, and upper back are becoming loaded with tension with the exhaustion, and from hauling my defective arm around in a sling much of each day. Maybe the problems are also exacerbated from me being too stubborn and frugal, by not opting for a full and regular dosage of pain medication that I should perhaps be using. I’ve been reluctant to just cut loose to take the pills every time I feel pain and soreness. I’ve been trying to make three days worth of meds stretch out for a week. I’m not fond of how they make me dull-headed and absent-minded; taking away from my lucidity. They also seem to be harsh on my stomach; until recently, my appetite has been poor* because of that. Even though I know I don’t really have an additive personality, I’m not interested in approaching a place where I’d be constantly reliant, or hooked, on using opiates or codeine as a crutch to get me through an average day. The pain has finally at least become more tolerable: at least to a point where I don’t feel I need to bite on a leather belt to ride around in a lurching vehicle. It is tempting to gulp whatever hard liquor I have left around here to tranquilize me and knock me out for the count for some sleep, but I’m not curious as to what it would be like mixing poisons, especially while I’m trying to get my blood chemistry right again. Except for a brief tour of Beerfest last weekend for some small samples, I’ve had no alcohol since my accident.

Before I sat down to write this, I used the past half hour I’ve been awake to check and re-dress the wound site (looks OK), to hand wash my sling and hang dry it, and to piddle around with other light housework that wasn’t too noisy. Inadvertently, I’m also being a creepy security presence for the building. Having a light on behind me, and being this eerie-looking, black robe clad, shadowy figure in the window (as would be seen from the view from the parking lot) has made a couple of hooded sketchy-looking little bastards quicken their step to disappear out of the alley way as they walked past the building at this hour. I filled a glass of water, fitted on an ice pack, and stepped outside onto the balcony, with my housecoat draped sloppily around me. The sky had nothing interesting to display or reveal astronomically speaking, but the air was at least somewhat soothing and refreshing. It’s rich and saturated with the signature smells of early fall. I think about the one with whom I’d like to share this moment with: be it with this same silence, breathing this same air, or else for me to be simply absorbed in the pleasure of listening to her talk. It was she with her good heart and positive attitude, more than anyone, despite the distance between us, who has helped me to focus on better things and helped give me the mindset to endure all this by myself.

I’m trying not to get hung up on the hundred other things that put me in a peevish mindset that I’m encountering with losing full use of an arm while trying to manage everything alone. It’s frustrating not being able to do some things like: entering and driving my car**, flossing my teeth, opening containers, tying shoelaces, or even simply putting on and fastening a regular pair of jeans, or anything else requiring two arms and heavy lifting. I’m trying to think of the comparisons and differences between this spell of long-term recovery time, and the time when I came out of the hospital with impaired heart and lung issues. This ranks as only slightly better: in that my energy and capacity for activity is a lot more predictable, my brain isn’t being starved of oxygen, and it’s nothing from which I could potentially collapse if I strain too hard. If something does snap again, I can at least get myself to the hospital more conveniently.

The issue with my circulation after having the hematoma removed is still a little finicky. My coagulation (INR) numbers aren’t quite right yet; my blood chemistry still needs work on being normalized (normal for me). I’ve been given some extra doses of Tinzaparin injections for the next few days for the time being to treat that. My stomach is going to look like a dart board, with my bellybutton as the bull’s eye. That’s where the injections go, and there is usually pronounced bruising around the injection sites. The palm of my left is still a sickly shade of bluish purple and tender, but the rest of the swelling and bruising along my arm has gone down substantially. There is still feeling and (stiff) movement in my fingers, but I can’t yet pivot my wrist at all. I haven’t dared to try flex arm yet without the doctor’s say so. Thinking about all the bloody craziness I had to go through just to get treated, I’m very disinclined to do anything that would put my progress in jeopardy, and going through the hell of waiting to readjust my blood again, and repeating another risk of a dangerous bout of internal bleeding, all for the sake of preparing to get cut open again because of trying to do some unnecessary and foolish movement.

I realize that my birthday is soon approaching. I hardly think that I’ll be in a celebratory mood for it. I don’t really care to enter and note the beginning a new year of life being at a state where I’m far from the better version of myself. I’m scheduled to have my dermal stitches removed next Thursday, and then getting an assessment and fuller picture of what to plan and adapt for thence.

*- Since the day of my surgery, it wasn’t until yesterday that I’ve really put some effort into doing some food prep. Operating a knife one-handed is a test of my patience for sure. Handling a vegetable peeler and food shredder isn’t much easier either. I managed to make some homemade soup, and dabbled with East Indian food for my supper prep. I was just trying to use up the stuff in my fridge and freezer, but maybe I subconsciously chose to make Indian food to draw some lesson from it, because of the cultural etiquette of handling and serving food with just the right hand. Offering or passing food with the left hand is considered a major no-no. Some street vendors in India, cooking for all the public to see, go so far as not handle or touch any food at all with the left hand while preparing it. It would be bad for business if one is witnessed them touching food with the hand, in their no toilet paper culture, that’s reserved for such personally hygiene ablutions.   

**- I just think that driving with half the physical capacity, while one’s brain is doubly fogged with analgesics, isn’t a very bright idea, even if I could successfully squirm into my vehicle without feeling tortured.

Pre-Surgery

I’m just barely awake this morning: pain, anxiety, and frustration kept me from getting any rest. I'm writing to distract myself from my thirst and hunger. I can’t just take the route of just eating breakfast and drinking coffee to make an effort to liven me up for the day. I’m supposed to be fasting, as I wait for a call to go back to the hospital. A complicated series of events that transpired since last Wednesday have left me in a less than an upbeat mood. I’ve been injured at work, the result being that my bicep tendon has been torn away completely, it least that’s the initial assessment that was made by an orthopedic surgeon. I waited eight hours there before I was sent back home, without even anything practical to use, like a sling, or pain-killers. I could have been in surgery the very day I arrived in the hospital on Wednesday, but things, of course, can never flow that easily. I have to be taken off other medications I use first before they can cut me open, or else I’d just bleed to death. I’ve been made to endure four days of pain, to allow for my blood chemistry to be readjusted, before they can admit me to reattach the connective tissue. In the meanwhile, I’ve been watching my arm swell up, and the skin around the injured area and the forearm sort of chameleonize to weird mottled shades of vermillion, blue, and purple. I was called on Sunday, told to get there for to prepare for surgery that morning. What ended up happening was an almost 10 hour wait in the emergency waiting room, only to be sent home again. It ended up that a couple of other accidents occurred while I was on my way to the hospital, and then as I waited there. The operating theatres became used for these emergencies, and my procedure got deprioritized, and eventually cancelled for the day. I ranted about it on a Facebook post, but I realize how senseless doing that all is. It’s mostly the pain talking. A friend commented that a silver lining has to be found here somewhere. I’m trying to find it.

I arrived home to find Ella very anxious, squeaky, and whiny. She either sensed how irritated and upset I was, or she was triggered by the tell-tale hospital stench that clung to my clothing after nearly 10 hours of waiting there. She has learned to associate that hospital smell with something bad. When my clothes were brought home, without me in them, from the last long stay at the hospital I had nearly two years ago, she went into melt-down panic mode. It was the longest that we’ve ever been separated from each other, and along with the hospital stench the clothes no doubt smelled with, they also stank with my own fear and angst tainted sweat, which made her upset. It has also been disappointing her for the past few days that I’m not allowing her to eagerly charge at me like a bullet to jump into my arms, and to sniff and kiss my face to greet me when I arrive home. She probably feels rejected. As much as I appreciate the welcome, I wouldn’t be able to stand the pain of the impact.

This morning, since 5:00 AM, still aggravated, all I could think of doing was tidying up the place as best as I could with only my right hand and arm, and a semi-useful left hand on an arm I can’t flex without pain. It wasn’t like I was doing anything too delicate or complicated: like threading needles or tinkering with engines. Tasks like changing razors, stocking my shelves, filling the fridge with frozen leftovers, throwing out garbage, folding laundry, and changing fitted bedsheets was enough of a challenge with just one hand and a quarter hand/arm capacity to use. I thought silly things like this stuff should be done before my arm gets put in some cast, and rendered even more immobile and useless.

So, where is the silver lining in all of this? I suppose if I was ignorant about how useful my left hand really was, I’m certainly not anymore. I’ve had a lot of time given to me watching people getting carted in the emergency ward who are in worse shape than I’m in. Something to remind me that my days could be a lot worse. I have that going on everyday for me at work really, but somehow one has to tune it out to keep oneself functional and sane. It sounds selfish, but it’s really a defense mechanism, especially now for the last while as my duties changed over to doing something more analytical. It struck me two entries ago, about how I said how important it was to keep strong and fit if one wants to do well with living in singlehood. I don’t exactly have that going on anymore; having a fraction of my physical capacity now. I’ve been forced to reach out to people I like and trust to ask for help with things: I’m terrible at doing that sort of thing.

I’m not posting this to any of the social media links I’m on. If people really care to know this personal stuff, they’ll trouble themselves to find this entry themselves. I was told that there is a regularly small risk of heart attack, stroke, or death during an operation. Given that I have some precursors that elevate my risks for those things somewhat, I’ll just say that to those who are dear to me, I’ll be thinking of all of you before they put me under. Thank you for being part of my life. I hope things don’t be going from bad to worse, but if they do, I’m going to be taking my memories of you with me.

They'll hopefully calling me soon, time to wrap up and get ready to go. I hope the next few weeks of healing from all this won’t be too hassle-laden and turbulent.

Toxicity Taking Away Toxicity

Neo Citron is a troublesome over-the-counter remedy for me because I make less-than-prudent decisions while using it, and I begin perceiving cause-and-effect events in a whole different realm*. It makes me more disinhibited in thought and deed: more so than alcohol ever does. I know I experience strange occurrences which have bizarre repercussions triggered every time I consume the horse-tranquilizer strength form of this cold medication, but after this time around, I experienced one of the weirdest series of consequences that I ever had under its influence. This time it made me realize how even my most passive involvement in things could unravel some wild series of consequences. For this time around, its use, along with being extra irritable and less tolerant to nuisances since I became sick, plus the lack of sleep due to coughing and sneezing all night which put me into my disinhibited insomniac state were factors in the equation that prompted me to make a 911 call.

A raging domestic dispute was happening down the block. Such things have been happening repeatedly during the early mornings of the past few weekends, and sometimes midweek, from this one particular house; sometimes so loud and wrathful that their arguments wake me even when my windows are closed. I just ignored all the previous battles as best I could. I wasn't even really able to pinpoint the source of all of them until that morning. So, this couple have been fighting and verbal feuding openly on various mornings, screaming and playing out their petty drama at each other taking it out on the street. However, this time it escalated to one them starting to destroy property: racing out and breaking down a staircase guard rail at the front entrance, and taking a large column of it and swinging it around and threatening to club the other with it. It seemed pretty obvious that they were intoxicated. After witnessing that, and knowing that there was a legitimate enough concern to report a violent outbreak, I jumped on the chance to call the police and end this ongoing loud and toxic bullshit once and for all. Even after the cops came, they didn't tone down their jostling and hollering. They were so oblivious to everything else that they didn't even notice the police arriving, so I felt pretty assured that they had never noticed me witnessing this drama unfolding from my distant vantage point. My blood ran cold when I heard the woman then screamed out, "He murdered my sister!" repeatedly. Another police cruiser came, a prolonged period of de-escalation and intervention ensued with more cops entering the home. The police didn't clear out of there until an hour afterward, taking away a guy in handcuffs. If there was a killing, I don't believe it happened at that site, since no ambulance came there that morning.

What makes my head spin, apart from the cold medication, is realizing that my simple expressing of a complaint with the intention to just have a morning peaceful enough to enjoy my coffee** outdoors on my balcony for one of the last weekends of summer, and to make it feel less like one of my precious few days off for summer was being stolen from me by illness and other intrusive frustrations, may have by some fluke led to a homicide suspect being taking into custody. There was nothing heroic in this on my part. It was dumb luck to have this kind of negativity simply cleared away in this manner. I hope it will ultimately bring some peace to that household and the rest of the neighbourhood. This time, I'm thankful that using Neo-Citron probably had a lot to do with setting off this particular chain of events, because truthfully, I don't believe I would have made that call if I wasn't using it. I would have probably just instead took the regular course of action of either ignoring it, or leaving my place to go elsewhere for some peace, failing to be around to actually witness the real implications and results of that feuding, and thereby allowing this crap to continue and having someone get hurt or worse. I thought this all was a story worth writing about because it's one of those weird ironies and rare cases where a disinhibiting side-effects of a mind-altering chemical was used to actually prevent a crime and possibly linked to solving, or leading to an arrest for another more heinous one.

Another thing to note to be thankful for is how the police here dealt with this situation, and comparing it with what has been going on in Ferguson, Missouri in the past few weeks. I can honestly say that I'm thankful for the fact that we have a police presence here that operates more with civility and less with brute force and active militarization.
 
*-The worst sentence I've ever written where I am over-using-hyphenation.
**- Actually, it was another dose of Neo Citron.

Re-Motivating for More Clicks

For myself, guilt was the prompt to make me examine the subject of psychological motivators for running more closely. It follows from last night after making the mistake of having my first, last, and I'm sure to be my only experience of dining on poutine. The spell of a sluggish indigestion is still haunting me. It seems funny to admit this now, especially being that I'm Canadian and that it's this late in my life for doing so, but I have never actually sampled poutine before (for which I'm now grateful). I either need the constitution of a much younger man, or I'd have to be completely wasted to dare myself to eat this kind of crap again. For those Non-Canadian readers who have never heard of this stuff before, let me explain to you what poutine is (pronounced "pooh-TEEN", not like the current Russian president's last name). I'm ashamed to say that it was invented here in Canada. Some while ago in Quebec, some bozo of a chef took a look at a plate of ordinary and already greasy fries and gravy, and thought to himself: "Hmm, let's see, what else does this need . . . Aha, I know, MORE ANIMAL FAT WITH THE ADDED POTENTIAL TO OBSTRUCT ONE'S BOWELS!" (Perhaps that idea sounded better when it was said in the original French). And he thence and thusly proceeded to plop on some nice gooey cheese curds onto this warm greasy mass, and TAH-DAH, poutine was born. In summary, poutine is the one of the most perverse ways to introduce the greatest possible number of calories in a single mouthful whilst instantaneously elevating your body's blood triglyceride index to levels of lethality. It's like the "fugu"* of the world of French fries. Consuming this stuff falls just slightly short on the spectrum of calorie ingestion depravity as drinking an entire litre of melted butter followed by another litre of whipping cream; or just taking a short cut to bypass digestion altogether, and getting a liposuction done in reverse, with the cannula inserted directly into your aorta and filling it in with 100% pure whale blubber. I sheepishly admit that the curd and gravy component of the mix was rather tasty, and that is what halts me from completely branding this stuff as downright obscene. I could only finish a third of the portion I was offered. I'm not really a fan of French fries to begin with, and yet I stupidly chose this avenue of having a dish which should best be served with a side of nitroglycerine tablets.

 
But I'm digressing. Back to the subject of running. I finally returned (after a whole flippin' week!) to a pattern of recuperative sleep again after this past cycle of insomnia; enough such that I thought I could finally get back into the swing of running again without risking some serious injury to my already stiff legs, back, and neck. My physical conditions for it are improving, but I also realize that I've been rather lax in setting the right tone for the mental ones. Any real honest runner will tell you that the activity is more mental than physical. So, what I thought I would do is slap down some reminders in print to keep me focused on why I should continue to keep up with it. Some are carrots; others are sticks. I hope to be listing more of the former than the latter. They are as follows:

1. A Pound of Butter (stick) – It was brought into mind after what I wrote about the poutine. For accuracy, I should be using a pound of pork lard for an example, but I don't handily have any around the place to serve me with a visual. The grams per litre density of butter is roughly more or less equal to that of human body fat. Butter is about 911 g/L, while human fat is generally about 918 g/L: that's about two of these 1 lb bricks of butter in a litre. Now, having a concrete visual of what this actual volume is like, and imagining having 14 more of these things being pressed, packed, and tucked into me subcutaneously gives me more of a disturbing and disgusting picture of what would result if I just let myself go for half a year, because knowing from past experience, 15 pounds of extra weight is what I can easily acquire through an entire winter of idleness. It's also a disturbing picture when I imagine how much of a substantial proportion of matter with this consistency and density might be actually be coating my arteries and heart. The seven kilometer run I did today used about 685 calories, and that can be computed as to how much volume of fat which that run potentially shredded away, assuming there is approximately 3,500 calories in a pound of adipose tissue (again, roughly the same as butter), amounts to cutting away about a fifth of that pound of butter you see there. This is perhaps the most depressing calculation to make for this entry: knowing that I'd have to run 35 kilometres to make that entire block of butter, representing the same volume of body fat, completely disappear given my age, mass, height, and metabolism.
2. The Views (carrot) – I'm fortunate to have a lot of great vistas around this town that can only be seen from the running trails, like this one on the pedestrian deck of the North CPR Bridge with the view of towering over the weir of the river. The torture of running to there from my place and then scrambling up the stairways to get up there is sometimes really worth it just to feel the breeze. The Bessborough is also a nice feature that is omnipresent from most views along the trails between the University and Broadway bridges.
   
   
   
3. Encountering Random Spontaneous Social Events (carrot) – I occasionally spot free public events, like this one I found in Rotary Park while on my way home. I participated with this group for a little bit, practicing some outdoor yoga long enough to discover just how seized up and inflexible I really am.
   
4. Sleep (carrot) – We generally tend to underrate sleep too much. When you sleep, you aren't spending money you don't have, nor are you mindlessly cramming your face full of excess food, you're not stuck listening/arguing with annoying people and being in toxic relationships, and generally not finding and creating more reckless ways of sinning and hurting yourself and others (unless you fall asleep while operating machinery or a vehicle). It heals both body and mind. The Dalai Lama says that it's the best form of meditation. If we all thought this way, we would all try to nap/sleep more. Running is a great way to snap you back into a pattern of a more relaxing sleep. Soreness usually (inevitably) finds you the next morning, but believe me, it's a hell of a lot better than getting no sleep at all and then waking up repeatedly to the same kind of pain knowing that you've done really nothing to acquire it other than just staying awake too long.
5. Beer (carrot and stick) – I try to avoid drinking my calories as much as possible, but when I do this is my favourite way to do it**. I like beer too much to stop drinking it, but I can't drink it as liberally as I used to without some bad physical consequences if I don't exercise. So long as I continue to like beer, I'll have to run more to keep it off of me. There is an entire site devoted to people like me who are geeks who can brew beer, and are around this certain age/maturity where they have this cyclical carrot-stick relationship with their beer consumption and appreciation/need for running so they can drink more beer. The site is called Brew/Drink/Run http://brewdrinkrun.com/ , in which the title itself is a pretty obvious and brief mission statement. In a fitness perspective, I'm lucky that my favourite pub is in a Goldilocks Zone, not too conveniently close; yet not so far away that I can't walk or bike there. I can leave my car at home, and still not have to trouble myself with calling cabs. The walk there and back usually amounts to the exercise I'd need to burn off the couple pints I had. Thus things balance out.
   
    

*- In Japanese cuisine, fugu is slices of sashimi trimmed from a pufferfish, which contains a highly reactive nerve poison called tetradotoxin, concentrated in some parts of its skin, flesh, and organs. Even small residual trace amounts of it can be lethal. The supposed thrill for diners eating such fare is knowing that if it wasn't cleaned and prepared by the chef properly, the next bite could be your last, sort of like a sushi Russian roulette.
**- I just realized I said that sentence in the same way the "Most Interesting Man in the World" would in the Dos Equis beer commercials.

Leaf Cutters and Bitcoin. . .WTF!

It's only two days away from the solstice, and it aches my spirits knowing that so far almost every day off I've had since the first week of May, including today, has been either too cloudy/gloomy, or chilly, or rainy. The downpour this morning prompted the dog and I to go out only far enough for some of her relief essentials during her walk before she quickly dragged me back in; so she could then burrow and crawl back under my bed sheets to find that token warm spot she left. It was tempting for me to do the same thing, and just swear today off as another wasted, lazy, unenjoyable day for this season. Any day during the summer season when I can't start it by enjoying my breakfast and coffee on my balcony in the fresh air and sunshine seems like the beginning of a lousy day. I could have followed the dog's idea, but I have too much on my mind to allow me to rest. I decided to divert myself and escape from all that mental clutter and noise by writing here.

I sense now more than ever, after being so cooped up because of the dreariness and rain, how desperately I'm missing and being estranged from traveling, and just freely being able to walk around in nature and being bedazzled by brand new places. I realize that it's been more than a year since I just simply went fishing. I spent much of my evening last night in my armchair exploring destinations and favourable lodgings in Bing Travel and AirBnB. I also studied and tried to make sense of some literature on Bitcoin* and other digital crypto-currency movements that are happening, and all the unique options, securities, and freedoms they are allegedly supposed to allow when booking online and traveling abroad. More comments about that down the page.

With the setting being so gloomy and dreary for this time of the year, outside it seems almost too green. Normally, that wouldn't ever be a complaint from me around here (It's certainly better than when it gets too grey and white around here), but with the absence of sun, there has also been a sparseness of any flowers and blooms, making it look barren in another special way. Walking down the street under the canopy of thickly-leaved elms in the gloom and rain, I was struck with a special memory: of the insect nature, of all things.
 
More specifically, the verdant trees and the early day gloom triggered and took my wanderlust stricken mind back to a time when I was trekking through the rain forest, along some jungle trail that cut through some foothills near the coast when I spent time in South America**. On that excursion, something caught my eye on the trail. At the first flashing glance I had of the movement, it struck me that there was a little reddish-brown and green snake crossing the path slowly. However, on closer inspection with a clearer view, I discovered that it was really a dense column of ants carrying bits of fresh leaves on their backs. They looked like little surfers heading towards some beach carrying along their little green longboards, all in unison at a perfectly synchronized rate of marching in one direction to make them all look like one organism. This was my first encounter with leaf-cutter ants.
 
As strangely interesting and fascinating as they were to me at the time, I still didn't hold them in any special regard in the grander scheme of things that were happening in and beyond that jungle. I had enough of my own challenges I was going through in trying to adapt to that environment and the social scene of the nation I was in back then. However, later on I did gain some perspective of this creature's role in the interdependent symbiosis of that particular ecosystem. It turns out that this seemingly insignificant ant and its bizarre behaviour is greatly responsible for being a balancing component for keeping an entire forest system alive.

Most of us, who appreciate biology, are already familiar with the intricate role of honeybees, who work symbiotically as nature's reproductive postal workers/surrogate penises for flowering plants. The leaf-cutter ants are just as critical as an element of a life support system in a rain forest. The leaf-cutter ants act as a soil conservationist, habitat builder, gardener, and farmer. The leaf-cutters trim the leaves from select trees in the upper parts of the forest canopy. The consequence of billions of them trimming away these leaves is that it allows more sunlight to penetrate onto the forest floor so other smaller species of plants below can then photosynthesize and survive, and hence introducing more food and habitat, allowing more animal species to thrive in the middle and lower parts of the forest matrix. The ants take the fresh leaves back to their colony, where they are used not to directly feed the ants, but to nourish a specific type of fungus which is grown on the cut leaves. The fungi consuming the leaves is actually what the ants and their larvae feed on. The fungi also work in a copacetic union with other microbes to then accelerate the decomposition of the leaves which greatly helps to replenish nutrients and minerals the rapidly depleted/leeched topsoil on the rain forest floor. It's an intricate and sensitive system that has cycled for millions of years. Even though the ants have an important and integral role in it, they are not its most dominant force nor its weakest link. The system they interact in, without any one dominating power, is self-sustaining, interdependent and completely de-centralized. I reviewed this process, because it was supposedly important to know before I could try to get the gist of what the Bitcoin author was trying to explain.

By coincidence, the author of this Bitcoin book was trying to explain its workings by trying to use the life dynamics of these particular ants as an example. I was eager at first for the comparison, since I was indeed awestruck by them when I first saw them working, and I thought the author could actually somehow use these very same creatures as a relatable, comprehensible, and meaningful example to me to posit his analogy to the workings of Bitcoin. His leaf-cutter ant metaphor involved the establishing and creating a functional new digital currency, where there is no real direct intervention or regulation by any one national government authority on settling on what the value and potential transaction opportunities/limits can be for this type of crypto-currency, and the actual bottom-of-the-pyramid users generate and control this self-sustaining transaction system instead. Did you understand any of that? Who knew that social insect behaviour and digital currency macro-economics were so much alike? I sure didn't, and do you know what . . . I STILL F*&^%ING DON'T!!! I feel like my time was wasted now for reviewing something so bizarre, and I failed to anchor any of this crap to a workable concept that's meaningful to me. I confess that I'm no stranger to at least trying to study and attempt to understand some pretty wild esoteric ideas in a lot of fields, but the one that makes me want to gouge out my own eyes when I glance upon it is the subject of economics, and the words of people who think they have all the answers about it, and can't produce an intelligible and tangible example to explain so abstract. I don't know what qualifications you need to write a textbook explaining economics which now include more abstract computer coding for transactions and more esoteric tech-lingo, but after reading this stuff, I think it involves going to whatever school it was that Nostradamus went to, or whatever one the crazy old bastard who wrote the book Revelation did. I only got to wondering afterward about what it was, and much of it that he had actually smoked from some bong while he wrote that stuff. I don't intend to bash the guy who wrote this book too harshly: he did openly declare that it was his raw, unfinished copy, meant for more editing. I'll give him some great credit for daring to do his best to make describable a technical phenomenon that is itself changing very quickly in leaps and bounds as app development for it gets enhanced. It's still all gobbledegook to me. The comparison to Nature's ecology with human economics doesn't help me much either. I tend to think that Nature didn't account for human stupidity and human greed in her design, which the real workings of human economics is full of. Look how she is suffering now because of it. As a result, his example became nullified for me. Trying to follow any economic trend or related news just disturbs me, I can even see the result of doing it reflected by the quality of my own writing now. Rambling and discordant; lacking of a real central theme: just as I find regular discussions about the dynamics, theories, and policies in this field.

Between the two subjects of the ants and crypto-currency economic practice and theory, one had me a bit enthralled and interested; the other put me to sleep in my armchair. Hint: I didn't wake up with drool rolling down my chin, as if coming out of a coma, after reading about the ants. The subject of economics, especially as it is today, is all too cryptic, complicated, boring and nonsensical for me. It's all loaded with a bunch of cold and prickly theories which have more to do with making hyper-competitive businesses and corruptive governments flourish, and less to do with satisfying the real and current needs of the human condition. Google defines it as: the branch of knowledge concerned with the production, consumption, and transfer of wealth. It sounds sweet and simple, but it's a little too general, and it also has too much wiggle room to allow for doing perverse, greedy, and unethical things as options to gain wealth. My personal simplest, yet exact, definition of economics (or at least as to how I try to apply it in my own life) is: the knowledge, practice, and study of managing and transferring given resources, assets, energy and time in a responsible, practical, effective, efficient, and ethical manner. The inclusion of the words "responsible" and "ethical" alone to the definition of economics shows you just how screwed up this world is when brought to light in the way we are living in under today's current actual economic system realities (or I should say tyrannies). My idea of what economics should mean doesn't jibe well with that used by most of the rest of the world. Maybe that's why I've been a poor student of it, or maybe I'm just pragmatic, and don't want to really waste time learning any more about a convention that really hasn't been working well for us to begin with. 

When it comes to Bitcoin, I can see now how those in power in institutions that are too archaic to readily adapt to this (like most governments) being really scared of it, along with those who are without technical savvy. Black market activity is not as easy to do with Bitcoin as people think it is, so those who are trying to sidestep accountability and transparency will have even more difficulty doing it as the technology evolves. Those digits still leave trails. I wonder what other propaganda wars/changes will ensue as it becomes more established. Boning up on some knowledge of Bitcoin is something not I'm really doing out of real interest; I'm just regarding as a necessary labour/evil because I might someday be forced to use it and comply with its terms; plus I may at the very least need to learn how to avoid being screwed over by it.

If we already avail ourselves to use some sort shopper's card for collecting 'points' for discounts and freebies from our favourite retailers, a casino card, or some means for collecting Air Miles® or any facsimile thereof, we are already resorting to de facto alternative forms of digital currency with an arbitrarily assigned value. So, why should we really be surprised, or feel so threatened that such a thing is Bitcoin has come along? We already seem to not mind too much about blindly feeding our personal information and data about our shopping and consumption habits for the fungus that is the market researcher to gather and exploit whenever we use such points cards. Using Bitcoin may actually lessen some of this sort of intrusion. The threatening thing I suppose is that it's a lot more abstract and more technical than other forms of payment that we use, but that's the way money has already been constantly evolving through the decades and centuries. Money, in any form, will always be used in corruptive ways so long as greed, waste, and stupidity in people exist. People might actually have to try to be a little less ignorant, and make an effort to actually tune into markets, and learn how to read candlestick charts and conversion tables to protect their interests as this digital convergence with money happens. I can see how that is intimidating for some, especially those who just want simple. All I know is that: a. there will be a huge powershift that will arise from this, and b. that for now I'll be studying the degree of convenience, security, and volatility of the Bitcoin system a little more before I commit to changing my dollars to binary digits in a QR code.
    
*-The weird and seemingly unrelated imagery on one of the EPUB books I was reading about Bitcoin also no doubt compounded the thought-triggering (it was a picture of a leaf-cutter ant).
**- Cue in me mimicking David Attenborough's voice and accent here . . .
 

Seeking Answers for the 13th Game

I did a night shift last night, the first time after many months. I should have made a date with a whiskey bottle when I got home, or used some other means of hardcore sedation. Instead, I rode along with the momentum of residual anxious restlessness doing all sorts oddly random household chores: from fixing furniture, to troubleshooting tech components, to laundering non-clothing items, to making perogies and meatballs.*

The only good thing I can say about the night shift is that I endured it, but as always, there followed bad physiological effects, and a mind that gets warped into making strangely random observations and weird connections, especially when I start touring around town. My impulse control gets drastically lowered. For some strange reason, when I wandered by some place, and with my insomnia-addled brain, I somehow was triggered to remember that it was the same spot a while ago where I saw Yann Martel . . . If you recognize the name, yes, it's the same Yann Martel who is the author of Life of Pi. He resides here in Saskatoon, and I see him around from time to time; as much as I admire his work as an author I chose not to bother him, or impose upon his time.** After that day of seeing him at this one particular place, I was compelled to read another book he wrote: Beatrice and Virgil.*** Like  Life of Pi, animals are used to add an allegorical element about the human condition in the story, this one is centred around the Holocaust. I don't wish to spoil the story for anyone, but I will say that at the end of the book, there is a set of "games": really a series of questions related to deeper themes of morality centered on stuff people actually faced in the Holocaust. The last question, Game 13, is simply a blank page for you to fill in after you've deliberated all the dilemmas and ethical issues from the previous twelve, and you are left trying to figure out what your consequential place is in the scope of this most horrendous human tragedy. So now I'm sitting here blowing off the dust of some of the junk in the attic that is my insomniac mind by means of writing, re-examining the 13th game.

I only came up with a single word as a broad query for Game 13: a name of a place, Drohobych. Attached to it are a lot of "what if" questions. I found myself getting hung up on this particular word when I thought of the history of World War II, the Holocaust and the stuff dredged up in that book Yann wrote. Drohobych is the name of town in what is now western Ukraine. Historically, throughout the time since its founding sometime in the fourteenth century, it has been claimed and conquered numerous times by various Eastern European empires and nation states. According to my findings in Wikipedia, in 1939, the census showed that almost 40% that town's population was Jewish. During Hitler's invasion of the Soviet Union, this town was seized by the Nazi troops, and the Jewish ghetto there was liquidated. Thousands of these citizens were rounded up and shipped off to the Bełzec extermination camp in Poland. The census information of that place afterward in the 1950s then had only 2% of its population listed as being Jewish.

Why is this of significance to me? On a formal level, I studied some of the broader historical patterns of force from that country when I used to work in one of the Ukrainian cultural centres here. On a personal level, it was out of genealogical research. This is the community where my grandparents came from before they immigrated to Canada. Originally, they didn't leave there with the intent to escape anything they foresaw as a prelude to war or oppression, they simply left to try to prosper and garner a new life in Canada. Luckily and thankfully, they managed to get out of Drohobych before the Soviets/Nazis set foot in there. If they hadn't done so, of course, I wouldn't now exist. Had they remained there though, in what would become such a volatile and hostile place, they could have been damned to subjugation or slaughter by tyranny under either fascists or communists. They themselves weren't Jewish, and may not have been overtly targeted for extermination, but it is just as awful of a thought that if they had remained there, that they could have lost their humanity from being swept up in the insanity of that time and place, and could have been pressed into being servants who either actively or indirectly took part in some role the purging of the Jews in that region.

It was a doomed place, where higher ideals of justice and right and wrong were erased by the more immediate need for self-preservation. There seemed to be no right side to be on during those times as a Ukrainian, and it was worse if you were Jewish. Before the Nazis came, Ukraine already suffered a man-made famine under the Stalin regime, known there as the Holodomor (it roughly translates to murder by hunger), where the land, grain, and food was confiscated.  Millions died, and the living got starved into submitting to the Stalinist authority. When the Nazis came a few years later, many Ukrainians welcomed them as liberators from this regime. However, to avoid being slaughtered off by these new invading overlords, people were forced to comply with measures which meant that maybe only a few of the surrounding neighbours they knew got shipped off someplace on a train, never to return. Being put in that dilemma, it was comparatively better than watching you and all your family and neighbours being executed, or starved to death, for non-compliance. It was a shameful tragedy all around.

I have no contact with those who are blood relatives who still live in Ukraine; who may possibly still inhabit Drohobych. The decades of political and social isolationism through the communist years effectively severed such ties with our families. I have been ignorant of their histories and accounts of who they were as people living through such an ordeal and how it made them what they are today. If I could speak with any of them who witnessed such stuff during that phase of history, for the sake of gleaning answers to Game 13, I would be asking them things like:

• What happened with the family during the years of the Holodomor?
• Was anybody in the family in the military during WWII? If so, which side were they on? (Red Army, Nazi collaborators, independent partisans?) 
• What did you do when they came to round up the Jewish citizens in the village?
• How did you reconcile with all these things afterward?

I'm sure a lot of the answers would be disquieting and unnerving. I'd probably be better off not knowing some of them.

I don't know why these reflections of such morbid things strike me now. Perhaps it's a consequence of the stress of the series of negotiations I'm involved in, which seems to be wearing at me as we'll. Perhaps it's because I'm going through something like what they did in Drohobych during the war years, minus the matter of life and death urgency: having the back against the wall and the only options given seem to be just different entrances into hell; dealing with powers of authority who are indifferent about anyone's welfare. Maybe the thoughts of my grandparents' courageous choice to get out of the old country is a prompt for me to think more seriously of making some sort of exodus of my own: before seeing things taking a turn for the worse.

*- Two foods commonly found in the community Fall suppers that happen in October and November in the rural towns of Saskatchewan. Perhaps I was getting nostalgic.
** - I'm not divulging when, where, and what circumstances it happened, I see no need to violate any aspect of his privacy. Sure, it was tempting to gush, and accost him with praise, platitudes, comments and questions about his work, but acting like a star-struck groupie isn't respectful, nor does it make for a good first impression to someone whom you regard, even indirectly, as a mentor. I'll leave my appreciation for his brilliance as a writer to be reflected here while still respecting his peace. It was enough that we just exchanged good mornings with each other as civilized men, as we each went about our separate ways to attend to our own affairs.
***- Stretching leather while fixing my furniture today made me think of taxidermy, which was probably another prompt to remember the book. You'll have to read it to get it.

That Kind of Day

Today is a long dreary rainy day. It's coming down in sheets now. It's hard to believe that the summer solstice is only a week away. It's the kind of day where one feels obligated to settle down and relax. What it could be is:

1. a homemade soup and bread making while listening to tunes kind of day
2. a blog some crazy ideas kind of day
3. a browse the bookstore kind of day
4. a start reading a new novel kind of day
5. a pencil and puzzle book/sketch pad day
6. a blow the dust off the Wii console and play video games day
7. a cheesy sci-fi/cult comedy movie from Netflix watching afternoon kind of day
8. a read Make, and other such magazines, and dream up of a project kind of day
9. a rewire my sound/home entertainment system kind of day
10. a watch TED talks kind of day
11. a reorganize my playlists and iTunes library kind of day
12. a nap with the dog on the chesterfield kind of day
13. a get my ass to the gym and do some back/core/strength training kind of day
14. a cocktail experimentation/formulation kind of day
15. an embracing one's inner nerd kind of day
16. a learn some more programming kind of day

But that's not the kind of damn day it's going to be. I've only managed to do (a half-assed job of) points 1 and 2. The reality is that this is day eight of a 14 day stretch of work days; I'm feeling so burnt out already, and it's like there has been no way to find any solace. There has been only one night during this time that I haven't slept like crap.

The list I produced is the stuff that I feel like I only have enough energy for. Running usually is a remedy, but for some reason, it has become a greater challenge than usual. I'm trying it today, despite the heavy rain. Lately, on even short distances, I feel like I'm slowly being smothered, with my breathing becoming badly arrested. I'm hoping it's not some kind of seasonal pollen allergy or something. I hope the heavy rain will settle it down if it is, but I'm not optimistic. If it occurs again next time, I think I'll need to see a doctor. The only sort of social leisure I have lined up ahead is a supper after a convention I'm attending next week, but I honestly don't think I'll be up for it if I'm even more drained than I am feeling now.

I found an app to try to deal with this failure in my resilience. It's called SuperBetter. However, I've been slacking in using some time to commit to interface with it. The concept of it is really quite interesting. It will make more sense after watching the TED talk by its developer, Jane McGonigal.

I touched on www.codeacademy.com for a bit. The format of the site is great for anyone wanting to learn some programming. I think I found my substitute for TV, now that I discontinued my cable service.

Zen and Car Shopping

This morning is close to feeling frosty, but I still troubled myself to make time very early this morning to drink coffee on the deck. It's probably the only real moment of peace I'll be able to find today. Some co-workers lately have commented to me on how stressed I look. Sure, I have some weighty issues to contemplate, but it's mostly due to lack of sleep, because I am still having a challenge in being able to settle myself where I'm physically comfortably enough to be free of my remaining aches and pains. I notice how badly I've been dragging myself through the latter half of each day for the past week as a consequence of it.

I've healed up enough though, and now physically mobile enough where I can finally get on with wrapping up the sordid business of settling my insurance claim, so I can finally ditch my old wreck of a vehicle instead of still relying on it to get around. I'm grateful that I'm finally made it to a state where I can walk almost normally, and can endure a prolonged biking trip at least halfway through the city and back. I'll have to manage with doing more of both walking and cycling; since as of today, I'll be carless for an indefinite period of time.

Running, however, still has been too physically demanding and problematic. I still can't push my pace or breathing anywhere near to the intensity I used to do: not without risking more damage. The inner muscles surrounding my lower leg bones are super-tight; my tibia and fibula feel like they are encased in steel pipe. My chances for racing by month's end are looking really hopeless.

Along with that, I've been frustrated and disappointed with so many other things during this week. They range from car shopping still being a bothersome gong show, to discovering the deceptive means that our province's social services use to screw over care aide workers and those they serve, all with the attitude of: "you're just pawns in this game". It's an ongoing adventure in discovering how ignorant, corrupt, and stupid people are, and the lengths they'll go to try to shaft you. I don't mean to get preachy, but it's a good moment to reflect and examine some of the past-goings on, and to put them in a Zen context.

I think of the example of dealing with the matter of car shopping alone to illustrate this. I have been delaying car shopping for quite some time. Procrastination? Maybe, perhaps a little of that . . . but there was also a strong, nagging, instinct in me telling me that I wasn't ready for it yet. In Zen Buddhism, there is the teachings of the three unwholesome roots, also referred to as "the three poisons". They are: hatred, greed, and delusion. On a more primary level, they in turn are generally connected with ignorance, attachment, and avoidance, which are the components and sources of all suffering. In car shopping, while trying to heal myself, it's inevitable that I'd be confronting and clashing with those three elements within myself and in others. The (incomplete) breakdown is as thus, with crossovers and connections between each point:

• Hatred (Avoidance) - hating getting injury irritated by moving around, to appointments that could turn out to be just a pointless waste of time; more negativity and distrust of the sellers, frustrated by misrepresentation in the ads; frustrated by limited mobility; hating not having a work schedule that accommodates me to look at cars at the times when most are available for viewing; dealing with insurer and the idiot who rammed me; I dislike shopping most of the time to begin with, and it's now worsened by feeling pressured to do so out of necessity; ultimately wanting to avoid the feeling of being deceived and cheated; new debts, higher registrations fees, etc.
• Greed (Attachment) - Sellers assigning too much value to a high mileage/older car; me being strict and inflexible with a personal budget; me wanting to use time to rest rather than kick tires; wanting/liking a car and then finding out too late that it has been sold; feeling a lack of options, and forced to buy something out of some duress; buying more than I can afford in the long run.
• Delusion (Ignorance) - my impatience for wanting to heal faster, yet still forced to do things that are counterproductive to allow for it; seeing a person not acknowledging the flaws I detect when I examine a vehicle, and/or flat out trying to bullshit me about them; not having the right senses to detect the real performance of the car and poor/rash decision making (being on pain-killers); failing to ask the right questions/missing details; lacking a consumer confidence in making the right decision for myself; the clash between the reasoning about what is practical need, and what I find more sensually appealing; having too high a standard on things that matter less: having too low of a standard on things that matter more.

Along with healing to get better mobility, delaying (procrastinating) was one way to mentally detox, to clean some of these poisons out of the mind, if I really wanted to put a champion's effort into wisely buying a vehicle, but it's important to limit it before it turns into another form of avoidance.

So today, I face the reality of trying to crack open the trunk for the first time since the collision*, to clear out and salvage my vehicle's contents, and load my bike in there to permit myself a means to ride to the bank with my settlement afterward, and return home. My car served me well enough, but I'll be happy to finally rid myself of that little beast, and move onward. I have no special sentiments attached to it: no regrets, no tears. It just gave me lots of lessons (and repairs) to process for the time I had it.

Back to a more intensified effort toward walking, biking, and hopefully running, better . . . for a little while hopefully.

*- It doesn't matter if it can be shut again, since the car is heading to the scrap yard after I drop it off at the claims centre. Addendum: as expected, the damn trunk didn't close once I dropped it off there.