thoughts

Diverticulitis Dining Diet

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I’m on a battlefield.  Bombs are going off. I’m in a trench filled with mud and stink.  My socks are wet.  Another bomb explodes overhead. I duck and cover my head. I’m sweating like a red lentil in boiling water. Then out of nowhere – I need to poop, but not in this intestinal muck.  The battle is over.  I have scars. A new day.

Diet is right up there with the other biggies – exercise, sleep and alcohol use. Diet jumped to list top after 3 diverticulitis attacks (two months apart). On these occasions, I woke up at 2am with retching gut pain and the sweats. I felt like I had a flu and food poisoning combination. When I tried to pee, slight pain (inflamed colon pressing against my bladder). After the first attack, I went to the doc who said it was diverticulitis, not uncommon for a man of your age (64 – knocking on the senior citizen’s door). He gave me some nasty antibiotic pills – Ciprofloxacin (very harsh) and Metronidazole ten days on this shit, literally.

Now, the first 24 hours are brutal, but 24 hours later, I’m out running 10k. What the?  On to Dr. Google and his assistant Dr. YouTube – the resounding and agreeable result, drum roll please. You need to switch to a high fibre diet. Ok, can’t hurt, right? My diet is already very good.  More beans please.   The advice was slowly increase fibre.  Did eye? Nope. The gut was yelling at me for the first few weeks, but I pooped on.

My dietary changes were – psyllium husk fibre every morning (in my blueberry, banana, high protein almond milk and plain yogurt smoothie), beans at lunch (added to my avocado, cheese and egg on sour dough toast). In the evening some high fibre veggies – potatoes, sprouts or beans (roasted chickpeas ever the ready). With these minor additions,  I am getting close to 30 grams of fibre every day. Poops are awesome. I can always tell a good ‘ol fibre poop (no description here, but you’ll know). I also decreased red meat to maybe twice a month (lean sirloin only) and I stopped alcohol consumption (I dunno if it helps, but it doesn’t hurt).  And finally, probiotic Kombucha, every afternoon at 2.

So far, so good. I’m coming on three months and nothing but good poops and evening bean farts (sorry honey). What have I learnt from the experience? One needs to eat what agrees with them (and this changes with age). I changed my diet for medical reasons. Even if I wasn’t scared of impending attacks, adding more fibre to a diet is a great idea. I feel great and really that’s all that matters. Right.

Good Night Irene

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I had a dream we were sipping whisky neat. I threw the glass in the campfire. Darkness surrounded me.  I heard a noise in the bush. Out came a giant Scottish dude named Balvenie. He shouted in an accent I couldn’t decipher.  I got up and ran, fear over my shoulder.  I woke up in the middle of the night sweating. Panting. The next morning, I looked at my watch. Dr. Garmin yelled at me  with a 34-sleep score. Holy shit. Not good. I need to get better.

Now, I’ve always been a great sleeper. I can sleep anywhere – at a movie, concert even while driving (not too often). Sleep is very important right up there with the other two biggies, exercise and diet. But with the invention of smart watches, monitoring is both a blessing and a curse.   How can you not take an interest in your sleep? The device is either yelling at me or stroking me with positivity.

However, how accurate are sleep monitoring watches? When you get a sleep score of 93, they are the greatest invention to man. A 34 score and they are shit. From what I’ve read, watches are very good at monitoring how long you’ve slept and that’s about it. Deep sleep and REM, not so much. I was getting such poor scores on my Garmin (average 82), that I decided to funnel the data into Apple health.  She (you beautiful gem) regularly  gives me a 97-100 score every night, so uplifting. Garmin is nothing more that a scolding old bitty who enjoys picking the wings off flies . Constant low scores surely affects your sleep. We all want a 100 percent right? The highest I’ve ever gotten is 93. Once.

With all these poor scores, I decided to try and enhance my sleep score. First magnesium bisglycinate. Made me sleepy before bed, but if you stop taking it,  your body needs time to readjust. It’s like taking a sleeping pill. Once you use, you become dependant and I don’t want to become dependant on anything, except warm socks in the winter. I tried it for two weeks. No change. Then Gabapentin, another sleep inducing medication.  Same – no change and hard to come off.  Blue filter glasses (I use a reader every night). Nope. In fact for the first week, my score was worse. So none of this shit works – what does work?  Going to bed at the same time. Routine is king. And I’m happy with Apple scores.

Does Garmin really matter – you old cantankerous dick? How do you feel when you put your feet on the floor? Five years ago, I didn’t have a sleep monitoring watch and I felt fine. In fact, I think my sleep has gotten worse (for a time) from the constant nagging and negative Garmin reports. I know more than one person who turns the Garmin sleep data off completely. Switching to the more positive Apple is an eye closer for sure.

Sleep is great. I have a routine and I stick to it. I also make sure my bedroom is cool and dark. And no alcohol. If there’s one good report for Garmin, it’s how shitty your sleep is with even one glass of wine too close to bed. I wonder how many people, like me, who have given up booze after damning sleep reports.  The giant nasty Scottish dude is still chasing me, but good luck trying to catch me.

Move It or Lose It

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I just turned 65. I am now officially a senior citizen – bring on the discounts, extended health care benefits (in my Province) and my Old Age Security cheque (coming in the new year).  I’ve taken pretty good care of myself over the past few decades (I want to enjoy my retirement). I am physically fit (or so my watch tells me), I have a plan – first exercise.

My favourite  motto is  – “Move it or Lose it.” With my exercise plan, it’s not how many kilometres I run or walk, it’s about getting out and moving every day, no matter what weather conditions. Last week we had a  -31C with the windchill snap, but as the Swedes say – “No bad weather, just bad clothing .” Every morning, I get up,  drink half a litre of lemon water and immediately head out the door for a run or walk.

Running is unique – I run to the conditions. If the paths are too snowy, or if it’s too cold, (-15C or more – running gear gets too bulky), I do a 3k walk (in any condition) and run later. I am very lucky because I can afford winter walking/hiking gear – fleece hoodie, puffer jacket, windproof shell, two layers of pants, light gloves inside mitts, toque and a buff for my neck and face. Walking gear for really freaking cold weather (I am good until -25). If it’s -5C to zero get out the shorts and flip flops (kidding). I follow my walk with a 6k run on the treadmill (another luxury, a gift from my daughter).

If I can run outside, it’s a very slow 7k to 10k (winter max). Winter is not the time to set speed records.  Last thing I need is a broken ankle (please see winter emergency rooms). One more item, I cannot hit the trail or path before 8am because it’s too dark out (the sun does not rise before 8:30 – mid winter). Double danger whammy – darkness and ice. The Swedes have another saying, if it’s too dark and cold, go to IKEA. Always sunny among the meatballs and Björn Borg shelves.

Now the best benefit with waking or running  outside are what I call morning bombs. Moving outside in the early morning sun, the radiance fills your bones like drops of sweet honey dew. As you move, you are literally elevated, your entire mood is lifted atop the mountains or clouds. I cannot think of a better mental health medicine than an early morning walk or run. Every Sunday I walk through the forest near my house (another lucky nugget) and feel the energy of nature buzzing in me bones. Even in -25, my bones are tingling. Face stings like a metal glove slap, but the bones are very happy.

Now here’s my weekly movement schedule:

Sun. Mon. Tues. Wed.  Thur. Fri. Sat.
5.5 k nature walk 7k outside run with weights 7k outside run 3k walk/6k dreadmill run with weights 7k outside run 3k walk/ 6k dreadmill run with weights Long run 8-10k

All weather permitting – see, ice, snow, cold and emergency room broken bones. And yes – three fifteen minute weight session each week to keep the upper body muscles strong and osteoporosis at bay (and looking nice in the mirror – vanity goes a long way at 65). And remember as King Julian says, “I like to move it,  move it.”  It is NEVER too late.

Update – I had to cut back on the running days. Wednesday and Fridays are whatever days – stationary bike, 5k walk or a light 5k dreadmill run (but only one day). Too much running (I worry about injury and honestly, boredom).

On another note, I ran in Mexico City on a recent vacation. I nearly died. My city is 1500 metres above sea level, CDMX is 2200. The altitude increase was brutal. However, on the bright side, on Sundays they close Paseo de Reforma, so you can run, bike or walk unhindered for close to 15k. A great way to see the city.

Alzheimer’s Aware

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I listened to a great podcast (Dan Harris – Ten Percent Happier) yesterday on Alzheimer’s – my biggest scare. I can’t imagine having your life slip away into an empty sunny field where nothing is familiar. Everyone you know is gone. Now I don’t want to say a dark hole because you’re not dead. You are alive physically, just in an unknown world, on a new planet so to speak. You can see the flowers, the waving grass and the sunshine, but you don’t know the names of the people who pass you by. You feel the warm sun on your face, and it feels good, but where and with whom you have shared this experience is beyond your present grasp.

The guest, neuroscientist Lisa Genova, made the disease more human (she has many TED talks). And it’s good to know that only two percent of all cases of Alzheimer’s are genetic. The disease really comes down to lifestyle and the big three: sleep, diet and exercise.  She also calmed my fears. I can’t think how many times I’ve forgotten where I parked my car, but, according to the scientist, it’s not that you forget where you parked (everyone does), it’s when you can’t remember getting to the mall or what your car looks like (Phew!!).  She has many comforting suggestions. Write shit down.  Lists are fine and it’s OK to Google shit. Young folks do all the time, so why struggle. No one needs to power through forgetfulness. The stress is worse.

Now the lifestyle choices, first sleep. You need to get your seven to nine per night because when you get a good night’s rest it clears your brain of a chemical that erodes your hippocampus – the area where our memories reside. She also stated it’s OK to get up and pee in the night (can I have another Phew!); it doesn’t have to be completely uninterrupted sleep.  Even when I was twenty, I never got a complete sleep unless accompanied by too many beers or sixteen-hour waiter shifts.

The diet recommendation is, of course, the Mediterranean (for the umpteenth time) – lots of veggies and a reduced amount of red meat. I’m already on this, but I could use less red meat and more fish in my diet. I also need to watch the pasta, rice and potatoes –  refined carbs not a good idea.  Eat more whole grain.

The exercise suggestion is at least twenty minutes of moderate activity or fifteen minutes vigorous per day. Just go outside for less than half an hour and walk like you’re late for work and boom you’re done.

However, the brain needs work, so enhance this by learning something new; another important aspect of keeping the brain in tip top shape. Learn new things – it keeps the brain sharp and creates new pathways – rewire baby.  For example, try a new sport like cross country skiing or go for a run or walk in a new place. Today on my run, I made sure I took notice of new people I see on my run. Not a new place, but new people. She also suggests team sports, the socializing while on a court or rink helps the brain keep in shape.

Nothing prevents the disease one-hundred percent, but be aware or beware. Now  I gotta walk to the store as if chased by the coppers or a T-Rex. I need blueberries and plain yogourt.

More Information:

 

 

Spicy Harvest

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Yep, crop gathering in the backyard.  Many herbs, peppers and fruit.  Now, it’s time to preserve my gems for the long cold winter. If leaves are falling, can snow be far behind?

The reason we had such a bumper crop this year is due to the massive rainfall we had in early summer. I’m not sure if it was a record, but we had almost double the normal amount for July. Then came our late warm summer – it’s nearly October and I’m still outside drinking my morning coffee in me skivvies  (the best undies on the planet). Just last week we had over plus twenty temperatures for the whole week. Whooohooo. Slap on the sunnies and lotion. The weather combination means an amazing autumn crop.

My herb crop was:  basil, oregano, thyme, rosemary, sage and parsley. I picked up sage late, just so I could say – parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (check out the song). The first three, I dried over the summer months, filling two large jars. The rosemary is still happy in the garden, so have at ‘er. I had a massive amount of basil, so from pesto, to salads, to margarita pizza to caprese to whatever – it did not go to waste. I also froze some ice cube pesto for whenever. The kitchen smelt like a spice spa all summer. The dried sage is for the Thanksgiving turkey.

My peppers were also amazing – yellow banana, jalapeno, and habanero.  The yellow I just chopped up and put in salads as soon as they were ready. With the jalapenos, I made salsa and pickled them (along with the yellow). Now the habanero were an issue. I’m past the days when I would eat hot peppers whole just on a dare – me stomach and bottom half has burning issues.  Then I found this fantastic recipe for habanero sauce. Deliciosa! I watered it down a bit with a can of fire roasted tomatoes and removed some seeds. Not too spicy. I also had some leftover and yes you can freeze them – remove stems, air tight ziplock.

Now my final crop – apples. The tree only gives fruit every couple of years, so I’d hate to see them go to waste – although the critters love the fruit. However, I find them very bland to eat raw. The squirrels and birds must have a different palette. I have a ton and I don’t know what to do with them.  Apple sauce? Apple Cider? I can fortify the fruit with honey and make an excellent energy meal for my long runs or hikes or bikes. I’m sure the kiddies might like the sauce (or hooch) as well. I will need to test. Much honey. The youngins’ do not have rodent tastes.

Ok, gotta run and find out what to do with those apples. And in case you’re wondering because I was: Spicy poop. “Yes, spicy food can lead to soft poop or diarrhea because it contains capsaicin, which irritates the digestive tract and speeds up intestinal contractions. This can result in a quicker passage of food through the gut, often leading to loose stools. ” Who woulda known?

One final reminder – use gloves with the hot peppers. My nose is still burning as if I did a 10k barefoot walk on desert pavement.

 

Table Manners

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I’m waiting for an old friend, a tall skinny dude with short cropped grey hair and a long-drawn-out face like a tragedy mask pulled down from the chin.  I am sitting in a restaurant – a corner hole in the wall, shaped like a piece of cake with white fifties Formica counter tops running the length. The chairs are bolted to the floor cushioned with red puffy faux leather. They squeak when  swivel. I wait.  I never know if he’ll show. Is he worth the wait?

 Finally, he walks into the slice of time, swaying with slumping shoulders, wearing a long dark wool coat hanging down to his knees.  He falls beside me. I say you should really give me your phone number so I can call you and arrange meetings rather than this wait and hope game we play.  I get tired. He shrugs. Puts his head down. I didn’t mean to scold?  He’s a past I need. A measure to know how far I’ve come.

We sit at the counter. More coffee, please. I say, do you wanna go skiing?  Friday night?  Only problem, many drunk kids on the hill, I add. He says, he doesn’t drink.  I say the town is very busy on weekends. Accommodation short. He says he knows a guy. I nod. He shrugs.  He says, he has a meeting.  Do I want to join? Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do. We put the slippery hill on hold.

We go to another restaurant.  Green and pink neon swirling letters with no organization.  We move to a round half circle booth, made for twelve. Only four shows. Slick brown faux leather this time. What is the arrangement, I think. On the reclaimed wood table, stand glasses half full with melting cubes. Wet circles in no pattern. I strain to  understand. Sounds like baby gaga.  Naiveté? They laugh. Heads bobble. Facial wrinkles. Crows slash faces.

They are eating something bloody, red puddles on plates.  One show, Sherry or Shirley, points to a raw picture with a long shiny nail. I say wow that’s too much. I don’t eat red meat. She rubs her belly and smiles.  I return a grin and order, but it’s only half. Did I misunderstand?   Still too much. They keep talking. I only listen. They continue to laugh.

I want to join, eager to make friends. I mimic their noises. Conversation dies. The table loses energy. I hear ice reforming into blocks. A grey tattered face, stands and says that’s not funny. I finally understand. Shirley or Sherry says she’ll pay for the show. The table evaporates like rings on the table.

I put my head down. Hard fluorescent gum under the table. When I look up, the group is gone.  What did I say? I stopped the laughter.  I killed the language. I walk out, staring at my shoe tops. My past deserts me. Solo skiing isn’t fun, but he knows a guy.

A Letter to America

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Maybe it’s time for a little reminder, America before you march cross the 49th parallel. I’ll say one thing for trump, he’s brought this country together like never before. Even the Quebecois are championing Canada.  Do you know how hard that is? We’ve  been trying to get the French onboard for 157 years. Here’s a a little reminder from Margaret Atwood, a Canadian treasure.

Dear America: This is a difficult letter to write, because I’m no longer sure who you are. Some of you may be having the same trouble. I thought I knew you: We’d become well acquainted over the past 55 years. You were the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck comic books I read in the late 1940s. You were the radio shows — Jack Benny, Our Miss Brooks.You were the music I sang and danced to: the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, the Platters, Elvis. You were a ton of fun.

You wrote some of my favourite books. You created Huckleberry Finn, and Hawkeye, and Beth and Jo in Little Women, courageous in their different ways. Later, you were my beloved Thoreau, father of environmentalism, witness to individual conscience; and Walt Whitman, singer of the great Republic; and Emily Dickinson, keeper of the private soul. You were Hammett and Chandler, heroic walkers of mean streets; even later, you were the amazing trio, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner, who traced the dark labyrinths of your hidden heart. You were Sinclair Lewis and Arthur Miller, who, with their own American idealism, went after the sham in you, because they thought you could do better. You were Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront, you were Humphrey Bogart in Key Largo, you were Lillian Gish in Night of the Hunter. You stood up for freedom, honesty and justice; you protected the innocent. I believed most of that. I think you did, too. It seemed true at the time.

You put God on the money, though, even then. You had a way of thinking that the things of Caesar were the same as the things of God: that gave you self-confidence. You have always wanted to be a city upon a hill, a light to all nations, and for a while you were. Give me your tired, your poor, you sang, and for a while you meant it. We’ve always been close, you and us. History, that old entangler, has twisted us together since the early 17th century. Some of us used to be you; some of us want to be you; some of you used to be us. You are not only our neighbours: In many cases — mine, for instance — you are also our blood relations, our colleagues, and our personal friends. But although we’ve had a ringside seat, we’ve never understood you completely, up here north of the 49th parallel.

We’re like Romanized Gauls — look like Romans, dress like Romans, but aren’t Romans —  peering over the wall at the real Romans. What are they doing? Why? What are they doing now? Why is the haruspex eyeballing the sheep’s liver? Why is the soothsayer wholesaling the Bewares?

Perhaps that’s been my difficulty in writing you this letter: I’m not sure I know what’s really going on. Anyway, you have a huge posse of experienced entrail-sifters who do nothing but analyze your every vein and lobe. What can I tell you about yourself that you don’t already know?

This might be the reason for my hesitation: embarrassment, brought on by a becoming modesty. But it is more likely to be embarrassment of another sort. When my grandmother — from a New England background — was confronted with an unsavoury topic, she would change the subject and gaze out the window. And that is my own inclination: Mind your own business.

But I’ll take the plunge, because your business is no longer merely your business. To paraphrase Marley’s Ghost, who figured it out too late, mankind is your business. And vice versa: When the Jolly Green Giant goes on the rampage, many lesser plants and animals get trampled underfoot. As for us, you’re our biggest trading partner: We know perfectly well that if you go down the plug-hole, we’re going with you. We have every reason to wish you well.

You’re gutting the Constitution. Already your home can be entered without your knowledge or permission, you can be snatched away and incarcerated without cause, your mail can be spied on, your private records searched. Why isn’t this a recipe for widespread business theft, political intimidation, and fraud? I know you’ve been told all this is for your own safety and protection, but think about it for a minute. Anyway, when did you get so scared? You didn’t used to be easily frightened.

You’re running up a record level of debt. Keep spending at this rate and pretty soon you won’t be able to afford any big military adventures. Either that or you’ll go the way of the USSR: lots of tanks, but no air conditioning. That will make folks very cross. They’ll be even crosser when they can’t take a shower because your short-sighted bulldozing of environmental protections has dirtied most of the water and dried up the rest. Then things will get hot and dirty indeed.

You’re torching the American economy. How soon before the answer to that will be, not to produce anything yourselves, but to grab stuff other people produce, at gunboat-diplomacy prices? Is the world going to consist of a few megarich King Midases, with the rest being serfs, both inside and outside your country? Will the biggest business sector in the United States be the prison system? Let’s hope not.

If you proceed much further down the slippery slope, people around the world will stop admiring the good things about you. They’ll decide that your city upon the hill is a slum and your democracy is a sham, and therefore you have no business trying to impose your sullied vision on them. They’ll think you’ve abandoned the rule of law. They’ll think you’ve fouled your own nest.

The British used to have a myth about King Arthur. He wasn’t dead, but sleeping in a cave, it was said; in the country’s hour of greatest peril, he would return. You, too, have great spirits of the past you may call upon: men and women of courage, of conscience, of prescience. Summon them now, to stand with you, to inspire you, to defend the best in you. You need them.

The letter was posted in The Globe and Mail on, 28 March 2003.  The letter was penned while  George W Bush as president. Man he looks good now, eh? I removed the paragraph about the Iraqi war, but we’re in another war, n’est-ce pas?

Government Man

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Free Images : aircraft, army, vehicle, aviation, fire, explosion, war, dramatic, chopper ...Not much happening today, but last night I was at home lounging, when I heard a very loud noise above me.  My foundations started rocking like crêpe paper in a hurricane. The world is ending right now. The windows rattled and popped as if a tornado were ripping through town. The sound thunderous as a large machine dropped into my space.  I ran to the boom and inspected my front yard. The view easy because our picture window gone. A petrol breeze flew through the portal.  I put my hand to mouth and gasped for air.

A large military helicopter crashed into our once manicured green space. The cadet grey blades were still moving, digging a large ditch into the earth metres from what was moments ago, my front window. The rotors stopped. I had no front yard – my planted daisies and roses now mulch.  The front of my house was nothing more than a giant gap in the universe. All that was left was space.  I was thankful for my crêpe soled shoes because shattered glass littered the living room carpet like tiny diamonds scattered on a jeweller’s felt.

I was still in shock when a man jumped through the open window. He wore a dark pin-striped suit with sock inserted sandals. He gripped a metallic clipboard in his hands as though swaddling a baby. He plucked his lanyard from under the suit and flipped it in my face. I saw a golden government logo. No name. No department. Just a smiling government man with a fake tan. He could’ve been from the ministry of pills and elixirs for all I knew. The flash brief. He put the credentials back with such quick movement I thought his side hustle was a card shark or fake billionaire. Don’t worry sir, the government is in control. We’ve got you covered. I rolled my eyes. Trust was not coming.

Two other men quickly darted from behind the government man and within two minutes they removed the entire front of my house. Studs and debris removed. A clean cut. Clipboard man made notes and then jumped through the open gap and examined the broken whirly bird. He didn’t take long. He jumped up into my living room with a metal chunk in his grip. It looked like the lock mechanism for a door – where the bolt slides into. He thrust it in my face.  I squinted. Here’s the problem, said the official. Not standard issue. He jumped through the broken window, giggling like a teenager who knows they got away with murder.

He spoke reassuring words a month ago. Compensation in hand. I wait. I sit in my living room in a lawn chair waving to the awe-struck people who walk by. I lounge here twenty-four seven for security reasons, wrapped in a mummy style sleeping bag, zipped to the hilt. I am my own reward.

Lost Brother

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Two nights ago, I lost my brother. He  vanished into darkness.  I must find him.  Anxiety raging inside me  like a  bowie knife slash.  I check his email, but I can’t read anything. Symbols in awkward positions – upside down, left when right, nothing in a regular pattern. I listen to his voice messages and realize  he’s a character in a play.  Where is the stage?  I just arrived –  new town soul. I need direction. I don’t know any streets or landmarks. The town only names and numbers. 

I go into his bedroom. The sheets crisp, never slept. Along the wall under a dark window  is an ornate desk, lion carvings on the corners,  a green banker lamp on top. The light points to a drawer. I pull it, but it’s stuck. I try harder. It opens, but I nearly send  the contents flying across the room. Inside I find torn map pieces.  A jigsaw puzzle. I put the map into coherent order, but I can’t read the symbols.   I finally decipher the theatre’s location. A red circle around two intersecting lines. A northern cross. 

I get in my car and drive. The radio blasts, “I am just a rat in a cage.” I desperately need to find my brother. Something is wrong. I don’t understand what. The knife cuts deeper with every lost second. I drive but the weather conditions are horrible. Snow and ice slashing through the air.  I can’t see the road in front of me. The car slides down a hill. I’ve lost control. I crank the wheel hard.  The vehicle glides into a linear course. It stops,  facing an ornate door with lion carvings. A cross facing north.

I go inside the theatre, but it’s empty. Rows of cold mahogany seats. I yell, Where is my brother? My fear echoes around the silence like a phantom twister. A tap on my shoulder,  a man with no face. He tells me in a whisper, the theatre is closed because the weather is so awful. Where’s my brother? I ask. I imagine the blank stare on his features. Everyone left for the Yukon. Where? I ask. I dunno, the voice shakes,  go north. 

I must go. I fear the repercussions. I leave the unknown town and drive with the blizzard. The signs on the road draw a blank. More unknown direction. Undecipherable language.  I keep driving. My compass says north. I’m getting tired. I turn up the radio, “What is lost can never be saved.” I pull over. The snow is pounding the car. I can’t see. White out. I close my eyes.

When I wake the sun is beaming. The car is warm, cozy. The road ahead is clear. A Kodiak points the way. I find the theatre. Where is my brother, I shout. A voice comes over the speaker, “What is lost can never be found.”

 

Two Novels, a post

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Right now, I am reading two novels. The first is “Yellowface” by Rebecca Kuang. Holy shit. My first reaction is I will never publish a book on the traditional road. What a nasty, horrible process. How does one keep their sanity? As a theme in the book, it’s not always possible. If I were ever to publish, it will be self-published. I will be my own team.  I never want to go through all that shit. What a horror story.

And social media, my goodness, the novel makes we want to delete  all my socials (again).   Professional online people are packs of blood thirsty  animals dedicated to destroying the lives of others. Who  would want to deal with that crap?  How do these predators wake up and look in the mirror every morning.

Ethnic quotas?   Only one Asian story a year, please. And do not criticize the white  authors, so says the right wing cancel culture groups. Holy limiting Batman. So much for writing about whomever and whatever.  However,  I find it ironic that an Asian girl is writing about a white girl who stole a book from an Asian girl. But that’s the point,  right? It gets across very well. 

I know the book is a satire,  but at one point we find out for many authors themain reason for writing is immortality? Are you serious?  The need to live forever through your art.  A lasting impression should be through the people you love not through some nasty assholes on the internet. Is this where we are as a society? 

A great eye-opener. A shocking read. However,  whenever I feel the need to publish,  I’m going to pull out this book – motivation indeed. Thank goodness Faulkner or Woolf or any early twentieth century writer were never around to experience this mess. Or maybe they were, but we never heard about it.

And if the publishing industry wasn’t horrible enough, the other book on  my night table is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. I’ve read many of his works and if one idea threads through his work, it’s the belief humans are horrible, blood thirsty creatures (see above article).  If destructive social media isn’t bad enough, how about storing people in a basement so you can eat them later. Or is there a relationship here? Isn’t this what the internet is all about – eating people alive.

The dystopian novel takes place after some horrible catastrophe. A boy and his father are travelling across a landscape filled with ash and destruction. All life destroyed except for a few dogs and travelling bands of nasty people who are ready to kill, steal or eat you. The pair are attempting to make their way to the coast where it’s warm and hope possibly lives.

The dad is dying and the boy was born into this decaying world. He knows about birds, but he’s never seen one. The journey leaves you  feeling cold and damp.  They camp, eat food from tins when they can, pull a shopping card filled with their few life possessions (I love the mirror on the cart – not a bad idea for all shopping malls). Not a happy novel,  but one that makes harsh comments on the nature of society and where we are heading.

Even though hope runs through the novel – the boy is hope. The major question is, who wants to live in a world where we are afraid to help people and human creatures are ready to devour us?  Why are we so horrible to one another?

 Ok, I gotta go and plant a tree or hang a decoration on one.