What should occupy one’s mind at any given moment? The answer, regardless of what it is, consists of a judgment. What “should” happen now? What “should” happen next? Depending on my mood, my response might begin by defining “should.”
must; ought (used to indicate duty, propriety, or expediency)
used to express an expectation
used to express a correction
Next would come my soliloquy on all the expectations we heap upon ourselves. There would be no purpose for launching into a speech, yet the urge to orate—when it comes—is unstoppable. And on and on and on. One thing after another and before the next. Over and over and over again until a quarter past the end of Time. That’s as close to purpose as we will ever get. We will forget it, though, before a complete memory forms and suddenly turns to warm mist. Old, inaccessible, recollections strewn with embarrassment take physical form when their use as memories is no longer viable. The burial vaults and wrought-iron fences of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans began taking physical form in in 1833, paralleling the death of a number of New Orleanians. Clever survivors of family violence and farm accidents and attempted murders on Bourbon Street took to having elaborate stone carving made to mark the graves of their prominent predecessors. More than a little black magic prompted the creation of those headstones and private stone grottos. Rumor had it that an eternal resting place untouched by black magic would become a cauldron of unspeakable agony for the resident, hence the proliferation of stone grave markers. At least that’s the story I’ve been telling to children I’ve wanted to terrify.
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Another trip to the oncologist’s office today, this time to get routine blood work done and talk to the doctor and/or her nurse. I’ll request a new prescription for painkillers, inasmuch as there’s just one tablet left. Ideally, the aches and pains will disappear by later this morning; still, I’ll get the tablets just in case I need them for the next chemo session, two weeks hence. If this series of chemo rounds is like the last one, though, I’ll be back to see the oncologist at least once or twice a week.
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Three significant shots last night of powerful Crown Royal Peach Whiskey, coupled with two gummies, led me to sleep long enough to feel at least moderately rested this morning. I hadn’t had anything alcoholic for a week or thereabouts, so my intoxicating intake was enough to put me right to sleep, though I woke a few times during the night. Still, though, I feel close to becoming a member of the human species again this morning.
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I began this morning by focusing on the top of my head, first, then moving down slowly to the back of my head, my shoulders, and my chest and arms. My focus was to drain the stresses from every part of my body. I got part way there. I think I need instruction. Or a coach. Or an enabler. Or something. I can be distracted by a swirl of abstract black & white shapes I see through my shut eyes. I remain convinced the way to achieve complete relaxation is to be sedated by a skilled anesthetist for four days running. It could be three, could be seven; whatever is the “correct” number of days to remain in a comatose state. The combination of meditation and medication could be troublesome, though, so I’ll do whichever is safest. Except I sometimes need to take some risks. Maybe I do not need to; I just want to. I wonder if I am alone in getting the more-than-occasional urge to take risks? What is it about risks that rattle one’s brain? It is the fact that risk and romance both stimulate the same neural pathways (actually, I just made that up…may be or may not be true).
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Progressive anarchy may be the fairest and most efficient form of governance. Or, maybe, progressive monarchy. Or benevolent matriarchy.
