I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
I sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley,
Of thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
Amd half a hundred bridges....
And out again, I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
Mom told me that dad bought an encyclopedia
called The Book of Knowledge (circa 1946)
and that while I was still a babe
in my crib, he would sit by my bedside,
and while I fell asleep,
would read to me from this book
such things as this poem by Tennyson,
along with other more scientific passages.
This story, was one of the things I can remember,
which helped me heal my relationship with my dad...
For as I got older , I can still remember him
sitting at the kitchen table
with more than a few beers under his belt reciting:
I come from hooten scooten skern...
Never realising the hours he spent by my bedside,
years earlier, after a long day at work,
in an effort to help his son become a wiser,
more knowledgeable human being.
This is one of the things being a parent,
gives some perspective on.
A few years ago, at a yard sale,
I stumbled on a copy of the encyclopedia,
Volume I (Copyright 1926-1931 by The Grolier Society, The Amalgamated Press [Ltd] 1922.)
Maybe the only volume dad acquired
as a perk to purchase the entire set of volumes...
But what a host of memories it brought back to me. I recalled many of the passages and chapters in intimate detail, as the book remained in our house as we grew older, and I would dip into it from time to time.
Dad wanted me to become a successful business man, and he was also a World War II Veteran and had a perspective on the trials that I might have to face growing up. I don't believe he wanted me to become a musician given his prior knowledge, but wanted me to have an income, some security, sentiments I now advocate for my own children, knowing what I know now.
He was a gifted musician/violinist recognised by many of his family members. We as children were never told how the family respected him, though he played at home often until I was about 12 years old, at which time he sold his violin for good.
I learned more of the details in later years.
Although he had a terrible temper and disavowed anything other than hard physical or mental labor to me, he would cry at the drop of a hat at any beautiful music, poetry or words.
Is it any wonder he fathered an aspiring poet?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Blood Pressure Blues
I got them...
blood pressure blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes....
It was back to the doctor this afternoon to see if the new meds were working and as I already knew, just from the feeling in my body, they were not.
A lot of the time it feels like I am plugged into a high tension voltage circuit and even breathing doesn't do much to ease the feeling.
If I wake in the middle of the night, it is an uncomfortable feeling to know you are out of sync with something as basic as your own pulse.
I have been practising a lot of prayer and meditation and a shift in diet but these remedies are not doing the trick.
So the doc says it's out with the Ramipril and in with maximum dosage of Plendil, this one shrink-wrapped by AstraZeneca pharmeceuticals in Canada.
"What happens if I don't take them?" I asked.
"You could have a stroke", he bluntly responded.
He explained that the drug expands the blood vessels thus increasing the blood flow.
"I don't like getting old", I complained.
"It has nothing to do with age", he said, "it's hypertension and it's a disease."
Me: "What causes it, a virus?"
He: "It's not a virus. We don't know what causes it, but it could be inherited."
But the doctors don't know everything and my jury is still out as to whether I will start on the new meds, when I finish the Ramipril, as he suggested.
"How long do I have to take them?"
"For good", he said.
With my medical coverage, they cost $15 but if I don't have work in a few years the same 30 pills cost nearly $50 and how am I gonna pay that?
So for today...I'm singing...
...them BP blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes...
blood pressure blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes....
It was back to the doctor this afternoon to see if the new meds were working and as I already knew, just from the feeling in my body, they were not.
A lot of the time it feels like I am plugged into a high tension voltage circuit and even breathing doesn't do much to ease the feeling.
If I wake in the middle of the night, it is an uncomfortable feeling to know you are out of sync with something as basic as your own pulse.
I have been practising a lot of prayer and meditation and a shift in diet but these remedies are not doing the trick.
So the doc says it's out with the Ramipril and in with maximum dosage of Plendil, this one shrink-wrapped by AstraZeneca pharmeceuticals in Canada.
"What happens if I don't take them?" I asked.
"You could have a stroke", he bluntly responded.
He explained that the drug expands the blood vessels thus increasing the blood flow.
"I don't like getting old", I complained.
"It has nothing to do with age", he said, "it's hypertension and it's a disease."
Me: "What causes it, a virus?"
He: "It's not a virus. We don't know what causes it, but it could be inherited."
But the doctors don't know everything and my jury is still out as to whether I will start on the new meds, when I finish the Ramipril, as he suggested.
"How long do I have to take them?"
"For good", he said.
With my medical coverage, they cost $15 but if I don't have work in a few years the same 30 pills cost nearly $50 and how am I gonna pay that?
So for today...I'm singing...
...them BP blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes...
Friday, May 25, 2007
A Simple Dream
Last night I dreamed a very vivid simple dream.
I was walking towards a plain looking two-story adobe building without any windows lit up by bright sunlight. There was a flight of stairs leading up to a door, quite high up which seemed to be the only entrance. Half way up the stairs stood a man and at the bottom another man. They both appeared to be East Indian but dressed in Western clothing.
I had a strong premonition they might be looking for my Sufi teacher. So I asked if they were looking for him. They didn’t reply directly but the man at the bottom of the stairs motioned for me to follow him.
We proceeded into an adjacent building, again nondescript and while walking I felt impelled to tell him I had been to the dargah. He looked at me blankly as though not understanding. “In Delhi…” I continued but he didn’t respond.
We walked through a door into the building and then through another door into a smaller room, pushing the door open as we entered. “Look behind the door,” the man instructed.
I pushed it open wider so that I could see behind it.
I was looking at sunlight and shadow playing on a blank wall. There was a feeling of complete silence though I thought I could hear the wind blowing lightly outside.
The man accompanying me was standing to my left and facing what appeared to be a closet door, slightly ajar, his back to me. “What do you see?” he asked.
“Nothing”, I replied and as I turned back to look him, I saw his body fading into nothingness against the closet door.
I put up both hands to touch the apparition, my fingers coming up against the door, the contours of the vanishing body surrounding my hands.
Postscript: I guess it was not too surprising to receive an email forwarded by a friend this morning with the subject line "Unconditional Love". But when I opened what I thought was a powerpoint attachment, guess what?
Nothing!
I was walking towards a plain looking two-story adobe building without any windows lit up by bright sunlight. There was a flight of stairs leading up to a door, quite high up which seemed to be the only entrance. Half way up the stairs stood a man and at the bottom another man. They both appeared to be East Indian but dressed in Western clothing.
I had a strong premonition they might be looking for my Sufi teacher. So I asked if they were looking for him. They didn’t reply directly but the man at the bottom of the stairs motioned for me to follow him.
We proceeded into an adjacent building, again nondescript and while walking I felt impelled to tell him I had been to the dargah. He looked at me blankly as though not understanding. “In Delhi…” I continued but he didn’t respond.
We walked through a door into the building and then through another door into a smaller room, pushing the door open as we entered. “Look behind the door,” the man instructed.
I pushed it open wider so that I could see behind it.
I was looking at sunlight and shadow playing on a blank wall. There was a feeling of complete silence though I thought I could hear the wind blowing lightly outside.
The man accompanying me was standing to my left and facing what appeared to be a closet door, slightly ajar, his back to me. “What do you see?” he asked.
“Nothing”, I replied and as I turned back to look him, I saw his body fading into nothingness against the closet door.
I put up both hands to touch the apparition, my fingers coming up against the door, the contours of the vanishing body surrounding my hands.
Postscript: I guess it was not too surprising to receive an email forwarded by a friend this morning with the subject line "Unconditional Love". But when I opened what I thought was a powerpoint attachment, guess what?
Nothing!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Victory Music (the days before the name...)
Last night I checked email and there was a great comment from my friend Jim Page on my Dorothy blog page, which bought tears to my eyes. And he invited me to go down to a Victory Music “Old Timers” open mike in Tacoma in June. It will also be a late celebration of founder Chris Lunn’s 70th birthday! Jim said that it would blow Chris’ mind if I showed. After all, it all started with the open mike at The Tangent coffee house on University Avenue in Palo Alto in the late 60’s, and we were there!
I think it was the summer of 1968 and I remember being stranded in San Francisco with no money and being rescued from a night on the street by two young gals from Santa Barbara who let me sleep on the floor of their hotel room, smuggling me past the front desk.
The next day I was wandering through the downtown streets wondering what I was going to do to survive, and stumbled into Union Square where a stage and sound system had been set up and performers were playing guitars and singing.
I was carrying my guitar of course, as I always did in those days, and perhaps it was this that attracted the attention of a couple of the musicians who came over to talk to me.
After learning that I was from Canada and had come south of the border to find my fortune in music, they introduced me to Chris Lunn. He was tall (well over 6 feet), lean and handsome with an angular face topped by a bushy mass of ash blond hair (clean cut by the days’ standards) and a winning, infectious grin. He was the organizer of this event and many others like it and the founder/big brother of a musician’s collective in Palo Alto, where he worked in a small office by day, and played music by night.
I was told that if I came down to Palo Alto that I could perform at the local open mike and that might lead to some gigs in the area.
That same afternoon as they were tearing down the stage, I hit the city limits, stuck out my thumb and headed for Palo Alto.
Before long I was haunting the open stage at the Tangent coffee house, which was just a couple of blocks from Stanford University. I might have been impressed to learn that Jerry Garcia also played here, if I’d had any idea who he was.
There is an old saying that when the student is ready the teacher appears. I guess for many of us younger musicians, Chris was that teacher and guide. He himself was a singer guitarist and a devotee of the blues, and had a staggering record collection of blues greats like Bessie Smith, Lightin’ Hopkins, Robert Johnson, and Billie Holiday. I had never even heard of Bessie Smith until Chris introduced me to her on an old heavy-weight disc recorded in the 40's, which he played for me on a visit to his spartan digs in the Palo Alto highlands. If memory serves, and it tends to be a wee bit hazy these days, he told me he had inherited these records and much of his musical education from his parents. I remember thinking something like the 60's version of "How cool is that!"
But he always put himself in the background, and made the foreground available for the young players he was mentoring. He taught us by not teaching, but by befriending us, inviting us to spend time with him, getting us gigs in local coffee houses, restaurants and by boosting us into the spaces to practise performing what we said we wanted to do. This is what he continued to do all of his life in the Pacific Northwest once he moved up here.
I began the first serious attempts at writing my own songs during this California period and Chris published one of the first of mine titled Another Land in a little newspaper musical review that he compiled and distributed called The Kept Press. What a confidence booster that was for an aspiring young songwriter!
Those were the days (my friends, we thought they'd never end) and this is a tiny sampling of the seeds that informed us, shaped us, and took us into our future incarnations.
And Chris if you are reading this, thanks for the enormous and invaluable gifts of your friendship and of your life that you have given us.
For a more fleshed out version of the early days and some pics check out Jim Page's article What Victory Music Means to Me in the March 2006 edition of the Victory Review (page 6 in the downloadable PDF version) at: http://www.victorymusic.org/pdfs/2005-6/vr_mar06.pdf
I think it was the summer of 1968 and I remember being stranded in San Francisco with no money and being rescued from a night on the street by two young gals from Santa Barbara who let me sleep on the floor of their hotel room, smuggling me past the front desk.
The next day I was wandering through the downtown streets wondering what I was going to do to survive, and stumbled into Union Square where a stage and sound system had been set up and performers were playing guitars and singing.
I was carrying my guitar of course, as I always did in those days, and perhaps it was this that attracted the attention of a couple of the musicians who came over to talk to me.
After learning that I was from Canada and had come south of the border to find my fortune in music, they introduced me to Chris Lunn. He was tall (well over 6 feet), lean and handsome with an angular face topped by a bushy mass of ash blond hair (clean cut by the days’ standards) and a winning, infectious grin. He was the organizer of this event and many others like it and the founder/big brother of a musician’s collective in Palo Alto, where he worked in a small office by day, and played music by night.
I was told that if I came down to Palo Alto that I could perform at the local open mike and that might lead to some gigs in the area.
That same afternoon as they were tearing down the stage, I hit the city limits, stuck out my thumb and headed for Palo Alto.
Before long I was haunting the open stage at the Tangent coffee house, which was just a couple of blocks from Stanford University. I might have been impressed to learn that Jerry Garcia also played here, if I’d had any idea who he was.
There is an old saying that when the student is ready the teacher appears. I guess for many of us younger musicians, Chris was that teacher and guide. He himself was a singer guitarist and a devotee of the blues, and had a staggering record collection of blues greats like Bessie Smith, Lightin’ Hopkins, Robert Johnson, and Billie Holiday. I had never even heard of Bessie Smith until Chris introduced me to her on an old heavy-weight disc recorded in the 40's, which he played for me on a visit to his spartan digs in the Palo Alto highlands. If memory serves, and it tends to be a wee bit hazy these days, he told me he had inherited these records and much of his musical education from his parents. I remember thinking something like the 60's version of "How cool is that!"
But he always put himself in the background, and made the foreground available for the young players he was mentoring. He taught us by not teaching, but by befriending us, inviting us to spend time with him, getting us gigs in local coffee houses, restaurants and by boosting us into the spaces to practise performing what we said we wanted to do. This is what he continued to do all of his life in the Pacific Northwest once he moved up here.
I began the first serious attempts at writing my own songs during this California period and Chris published one of the first of mine titled Another Land in a little newspaper musical review that he compiled and distributed called The Kept Press. What a confidence booster that was for an aspiring young songwriter!
Those were the days (my friends, we thought they'd never end) and this is a tiny sampling of the seeds that informed us, shaped us, and took us into our future incarnations.
And Chris if you are reading this, thanks for the enormous and invaluable gifts of your friendship and of your life that you have given us.
For a more fleshed out version of the early days and some pics check out Jim Page's article What Victory Music Means to Me in the March 2006 edition of the Victory Review (page 6 in the downloadable PDF version) at: http://www.victorymusic.org/pdfs/2005-6/vr_mar06.pdf
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Dorothy
Yesterday at work I got a nice surprise. (Before I go into this, let me preface that these days I fall in love on a daily basis, with almost everyone I meet, but don't always write about it).
I was sitting at my terminal taking calls and noticed Danny and Tracy talking with a tall slender dark haired girl dressed in black. I didn’t look too closely but thought she seemed familiar.
After a while, Danny brought her over to my terminal, hit my meeting button so we wouldn’t be interrupted and I looked up to see the woman who was with him.
“Is it Dorothy?” I hesitated. I was not sure, but indeed it was Dorothy, the same girl who crafted the white origami roses that grace my bookshelf and accompany my Tibetan bell. She worked with us in CRES last year.
When she left CRES, we exchanged a few emails for a while, and then there wasn’t much left to talk about and so the communication dropped off.
What is it about Dorothy? She is tall, very slim, and not really pretty, but she is absolutely lovely in a way that I can barely explain. It is as though she is a shrouded in mystery and nobility, perhaps a princess in disguise who has stepped out of the Hidden Dragons world and is on some secret mission that she can tell no one about.
Our eyes met briefly but we didn’t really connect on the physical plane, yet I could feel her embrace in my spirit.
Her black dress, slim body and long hair pulled straight back into a ponytail made her look almost severe.
Because of the formal nature of our meeting at my terminal, and my penchant to not hear things clearly when I have my headset on, I missed the few clues that led up to the revelation that she has now passed the bar (learned later that the bar exam is upcoming in September) and is working in a law office across the street from us, in the old Mac-Blo building which now houses Coast Capital Savings.
I was stunned, as I had asked her if she was manning the phones there, completely forgetful of the fact that she had been studying law and with no idea she was so close to graduating to begin practice.
I joked, “You are a martial arts black belt, and now a lawyer? There will be no beating you in court!”
I suggested she might help me draft my will. “I have to think about these things now,” I said sotto voce.
“You’re not going anywhere for a long time,” she said, and touched my shoulder warmly. “I’m going to hold you to that!” I joked and all three of us laughed.
We both seemed at a loss for words. I think we said, “It's nice to see you again” at least 3 times each.
But she hesitated before leaving and seemed to step towards me. I realized that I had been sitting the whole time and so stood, and we embraced briefly. Once again, I felt that strange and beautiful sensation of the bodies barely touching, but the spirits embracing.
And as she left, and walked across the office, stumbling slightly in her stiletto heels and grabbing Danny’s arm for support, I felt myself missing her presence already.
I was sitting at my terminal taking calls and noticed Danny and Tracy talking with a tall slender dark haired girl dressed in black. I didn’t look too closely but thought she seemed familiar.
After a while, Danny brought her over to my terminal, hit my meeting button so we wouldn’t be interrupted and I looked up to see the woman who was with him.
“Is it Dorothy?” I hesitated. I was not sure, but indeed it was Dorothy, the same girl who crafted the white origami roses that grace my bookshelf and accompany my Tibetan bell. She worked with us in CRES last year.
When she left CRES, we exchanged a few emails for a while, and then there wasn’t much left to talk about and so the communication dropped off.
What is it about Dorothy? She is tall, very slim, and not really pretty, but she is absolutely lovely in a way that I can barely explain. It is as though she is a shrouded in mystery and nobility, perhaps a princess in disguise who has stepped out of the Hidden Dragons world and is on some secret mission that she can tell no one about.
Our eyes met briefly but we didn’t really connect on the physical plane, yet I could feel her embrace in my spirit.
Her black dress, slim body and long hair pulled straight back into a ponytail made her look almost severe.
Because of the formal nature of our meeting at my terminal, and my penchant to not hear things clearly when I have my headset on, I missed the few clues that led up to the revelation that she has now passed the bar (learned later that the bar exam is upcoming in September) and is working in a law office across the street from us, in the old Mac-Blo building which now houses Coast Capital Savings.
I was stunned, as I had asked her if she was manning the phones there, completely forgetful of the fact that she had been studying law and with no idea she was so close to graduating to begin practice.
I joked, “You are a martial arts black belt, and now a lawyer? There will be no beating you in court!”
I suggested she might help me draft my will. “I have to think about these things now,” I said sotto voce.
“You’re not going anywhere for a long time,” she said, and touched my shoulder warmly. “I’m going to hold you to that!” I joked and all three of us laughed.
We both seemed at a loss for words. I think we said, “It's nice to see you again” at least 3 times each.
But she hesitated before leaving and seemed to step towards me. I realized that I had been sitting the whole time and so stood, and we embraced briefly. Once again, I felt that strange and beautiful sensation of the bodies barely touching, but the spirits embracing.
And as she left, and walked across the office, stumbling slightly in her stiletto heels and grabbing Danny’s arm for support, I felt myself missing her presence already.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
There but for the Grace of God...
Ah, the first cup of morning coffee! There’s nothing like it. And then, sitting down to my journal after checking the spate of spam in my email inbox! That’s even better!
I mean, if I don’t receive anything inspiring or any love from friends or family first thing in the morning, then what better gift than to be able to sit down and produce some love.
If I do some creative writing each day, I feel I have fulfilled a need in myself that is a healthy one.
I have said many times before that writing is my therapy. I get to talk to myself, be real about the happenings in my life, the people who love and who challenge me daily, the tasks and obstacles before me that I need to address.
I feel especially lucky when I realize that there are people who pay a psychiatrist an ongoing hefty fee for just such an exercise in self expression, believing it will help heal them of their doubts, fears, insecurities and all other ills that stem from the mind, whose roots go down into a broken heart, a shattered spirit. Counseling is of course a valid way of dealing with pain, but so is self expression in whatever forms it may manifest.
And then there are those you meet on the street everyday, who are a walking breathing example of such ills left to fester untreated.
Of course the spirit cannot be broken, but what can be broken is our connection to it within us.
Every morning I pray that my connection to Spirit not be lost, that I maintain vigilance in the delicate balance between living in the world and dancing in the spirit. And I pray for the same for all my family, friends and relations. Relations include all with whom I have a relationship, co-workers, store clerks, people passing on the street sharing a friendly smile, and of course, those in desperate need huddled in blankets on the streets.
If I can’t give them anything tangible, then I say a silent prayer for them and don’t allow myself the luxury of judging their plight.
As the old saying goes, There but for the Grace of God go I.
I mean, if I don’t receive anything inspiring or any love from friends or family first thing in the morning, then what better gift than to be able to sit down and produce some love.
If I do some creative writing each day, I feel I have fulfilled a need in myself that is a healthy one.
I have said many times before that writing is my therapy. I get to talk to myself, be real about the happenings in my life, the people who love and who challenge me daily, the tasks and obstacles before me that I need to address.
I feel especially lucky when I realize that there are people who pay a psychiatrist an ongoing hefty fee for just such an exercise in self expression, believing it will help heal them of their doubts, fears, insecurities and all other ills that stem from the mind, whose roots go down into a broken heart, a shattered spirit. Counseling is of course a valid way of dealing with pain, but so is self expression in whatever forms it may manifest.
And then there are those you meet on the street everyday, who are a walking breathing example of such ills left to fester untreated.
Of course the spirit cannot be broken, but what can be broken is our connection to it within us.
Every morning I pray that my connection to Spirit not be lost, that I maintain vigilance in the delicate balance between living in the world and dancing in the spirit. And I pray for the same for all my family, friends and relations. Relations include all with whom I have a relationship, co-workers, store clerks, people passing on the street sharing a friendly smile, and of course, those in desperate need huddled in blankets on the streets.
If I can’t give them anything tangible, then I say a silent prayer for them and don’t allow myself the luxury of judging their plight.
As the old saying goes, There but for the Grace of God go I.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Why not laugh?
Yesterday morning, as planned I walked up to Davie Street for a haircut. I was cropped by a lovely platinum blond with a husky Russian accent who always flirts playfully with me and makes me feel like I am 22 again.
That being done I came home, did laundry and then went back up to the Clinic to get my latest BP results, bracing myself for yet another lab slip for a cholesterol test.
My doctor called me in, and to my surprise and relief had ordered the test from my previous blood sample and he informed me, “It’s very high”. This was what I had expected as the blood pressure too is still very high. He asked me if anyone in the family had heart problems, as these things can be hereditary. I said not that I know of, but it occurred to me later that mom died of a stroke, which is a kind of heart attack I guess.
I expressed my astonishment that my cholesterol could be so high given the shift in my diet over the past year but he told me it could be the body manufacturing it, a hereditary thing.
Then, in his inimitable fashion (he was present at the birth of Chaya 26 years ago and so we have got to know each other fairly well) he told me that the high cholesterol could be medically treated but that my health insurance would not cover it and what was the point if the Lymphoma was going to kill me anyway.
He said this with one of his sly, impish smiles and we both laughed at the comment. I don’t care what the prognosis is, that is good medicine from my perspective.
He has doubled my daily dose of Ramipril (from 5 to 10 mg), but other than that there were no further tests ordered, thank God. Also, I have a few weeks before my next visit as he re-proscribed the higher dose for me.
Back home, I decided to take advantage of the sunny afternoon, which had come as a surprise after the muggy cold morning and so strolled down to Sunset Beach for a seawall walk.
There, paused beside a park bench was a familiar figure in plaid jacket, plaid pants and Mao cap, adjusting his digital camera. It was my friend David, out on one of his photo shoots gathering clips for another video I guessed.
So that he couldn’t spot me (I knew he had buzzed my apartment earlier, as he always does when in the area) I made my way down the grassy slope out of his view, and stalked up behind him.
He had already started to walk westward and so I fell into step behind and spoke loudly, “The carver, armed with the tools of his trade, proceeds westward along the seawall.” I could see him momentarily stiffen and then turn to see what manner of tormenting creature had stumbled into his wake. I think he was expecting the worst.
Later he told me when he heard the voice he said to himself, “David, that’s what you get for coming to the West End.”
When he saw me, his frown lightened into a wide smile.
So we had a great slow walk and philosophical talk as we always do, all the way to 2nd Beach and back. It was one of those pristine and serene afternoons where there is barely a breath of wind and the water is like rippled glass.
We admired and commented on the beauty of the scenery surrounding us, and like the 2 old rogues that we are (I can hear him saying, “Speak for yourself Baba”), the beauty of the beauties walking and jogging past with their non-stop motion dancers bodies.
I told him what the doctor had told me earlier and we laughed about that too. Why not laugh? We are all on the same journey, with it’s ultimate destination and portal into who knows what! And for me the trip has been so amazing that I can’t help but be grateful and thankful.
In many ways I feel that my journey is only just beginning.
That being done I came home, did laundry and then went back up to the Clinic to get my latest BP results, bracing myself for yet another lab slip for a cholesterol test.
My doctor called me in, and to my surprise and relief had ordered the test from my previous blood sample and he informed me, “It’s very high”. This was what I had expected as the blood pressure too is still very high. He asked me if anyone in the family had heart problems, as these things can be hereditary. I said not that I know of, but it occurred to me later that mom died of a stroke, which is a kind of heart attack I guess.
I expressed my astonishment that my cholesterol could be so high given the shift in my diet over the past year but he told me it could be the body manufacturing it, a hereditary thing.
Then, in his inimitable fashion (he was present at the birth of Chaya 26 years ago and so we have got to know each other fairly well) he told me that the high cholesterol could be medically treated but that my health insurance would not cover it and what was the point if the Lymphoma was going to kill me anyway.
He said this with one of his sly, impish smiles and we both laughed at the comment. I don’t care what the prognosis is, that is good medicine from my perspective.
He has doubled my daily dose of Ramipril (from 5 to 10 mg), but other than that there were no further tests ordered, thank God. Also, I have a few weeks before my next visit as he re-proscribed the higher dose for me.
Back home, I decided to take advantage of the sunny afternoon, which had come as a surprise after the muggy cold morning and so strolled down to Sunset Beach for a seawall walk.
There, paused beside a park bench was a familiar figure in plaid jacket, plaid pants and Mao cap, adjusting his digital camera. It was my friend David, out on one of his photo shoots gathering clips for another video I guessed.
So that he couldn’t spot me (I knew he had buzzed my apartment earlier, as he always does when in the area) I made my way down the grassy slope out of his view, and stalked up behind him.
He had already started to walk westward and so I fell into step behind and spoke loudly, “The carver, armed with the tools of his trade, proceeds westward along the seawall.” I could see him momentarily stiffen and then turn to see what manner of tormenting creature had stumbled into his wake. I think he was expecting the worst.
Later he told me when he heard the voice he said to himself, “David, that’s what you get for coming to the West End.”
When he saw me, his frown lightened into a wide smile.
So we had a great slow walk and philosophical talk as we always do, all the way to 2nd Beach and back. It was one of those pristine and serene afternoons where there is barely a breath of wind and the water is like rippled glass.
We admired and commented on the beauty of the scenery surrounding us, and like the 2 old rogues that we are (I can hear him saying, “Speak for yourself Baba”), the beauty of the beauties walking and jogging past with their non-stop motion dancers bodies.
I told him what the doctor had told me earlier and we laughed about that too. Why not laugh? We are all on the same journey, with it’s ultimate destination and portal into who knows what! And for me the trip has been so amazing that I can’t help but be grateful and thankful.
In many ways I feel that my journey is only just beginning.
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