Can't stomach it?

  I'm recalling the medical ad in yesterday's newspaper which illustrated a depiction of a person with a gastrointestinal condition. The ad showed a sketch of a person with bricks piling up in his digestive tract, the bricks representing the weight of the discomfort he was experiencing.  If pain had mass and volume, I suppose that's what it would look like.  The discomfort is real; mustn't then, the measure of it take up space somewhere?
     I've always felt the same about words, or rather thoughts: that is, if all thoughts are capable of being verbalized.  I understand that some believe it possible to think without words.  I have never been able to accomplish that, not even years ago when I tried unsuccessfully to achieve what was presented as mental prayer.  The Zen of it eluded my grasp.  Words, though, dominate my mind.  For years, I was paid to talk, and did so all day long, to more than a hundred people a day during my classroom days.  Words poured out, in exchanges, back and forth.  Conversations existed, between co-workers, family members, merchants, and in phone conversations with friends.  There was never a thought that the flow of words would dwindle, almost to a stop some days.  That is the truth, though, but only with the uttered words.  Talking is a vanishing part of my life.  I watch daytime talk shows on TV, listen to the repartee of the various hosts, and yearn for the days when conversation was part of my life.  I come across words when I'm reading, and wonder if I've ever used them in conversation or writing, as familiar as those words might be.  For example, the word prerogative.  I can't think of a time when I'll use it in the future, but surely I must have in the past, all those hundreds of papers and exams, all those long philosophical discussions deep into the night trying to understand the meaning of the universe. 
    No longer though.  The audience diminishes as time goes by, and your voice becomes largely unheard.  But the fact remains that thoughts, and thereby words, keep accumulating, for at least sixteen hours a day.  Like the pile of bricks threatening to disrupt the unfortunate patient's digestive tract, the sheer volume of unspoken words serves to suffocate the mind.

Fade Out

     All the people, about half a hundred, gathered together to extend their best wishes and support.  All engaged in dining, drinking, dancing and conversation, with no regard to the truth that this certain assemblage of people  would never come together again.  All the dances danced, all the words spoken, all the joy and celebration in existence for the present time only, enclosed in a capsule of time, leaking out now and then in small remnants of what we call memory.

Snakes Alive---or Not

   I couldn't help it this time.  The picture was already there. This time the snake had swallowed a centipede.  Unlike the previous snake, which had swallowed a crocodile, this snake had not killed its prey first, and the centipede had chewed its way out of the snake's body, or almost out, before it succumbed, most likely to venom, the report says.  ....I wonder what happens in an anteater's  stomach.

Diner's Choice

"Can I have a piece of cake?" was the question, right about noon time.    That would be the Entenmann's cake that Papa likes.  "Of course," was the answer, "but wouldn't you like some lunch first?"     "Oh, no thank you, " he said, "that would spoil my supper."  

A Sin Is A Sin Is A Sin, or Is It?

When did Our Father go back to forgiving us our trespasses after our trespasses were converted to sins?

News Flash

I just heard that a man was arrested for sexual FB contact with a 13-year-old girl who turned out to be a 45 year old woman.  Time flies when you're having fun.

Humor me...

....Though I watch a lot of TV, including those shows which include comedians, I find some fairly amusing, but only 2 things  have made me laugh this long and dreary winter. (1) The show called "Rake" starring Greg Kinear is funny, especially when it features a Rottweiler.  (2) I can't help it, but I have to laugh every time they show News Anchor Schauble ducking under the desk during the L.A.  earthquake.

Times 3

    If you ever visit a neurologist, or I suppose other doctors of a related specialty, you might get the impression  that the doctor is friendly and interested in you.  That is a possibility, but be aware that what you interpret as casual small talk may well be part of the intake examination.  In other words, "ORIENTATION x 3"  which  tests your awareness of 1) Self, 2) Time and 3) Place.  All those seemingly spontaneous queries about your family, what's happening in the world today, and what you think about today's society are noted and rated.  A good score is x3.  Common core, you might say.
   Here is a quick assessment:
      What is your name?        Correct answer-- x1
      Who are you and where are you?      Correct answer--x2
      Who are you, where are you, and who is the President of the United States?   Correct----x3

Insult to Injury

   I've posted before how depressing, and yes a bit humiliating, it is to have to rattle off your date of birth at least once for every medical visit or procedure you undergo.  You might as well have a chip placed in your body which could be scanned at every visit.  More aggravating is when, after the obligatory date of birth question, you are asked how old you are.  I feel like saying you do the math, it's not that difficult, but so far I've just answered the question.  Grrrr.

Little Mystery, Big Headache

   It was a cold and rainy morning, a week ago.  I was at the computer when he got up at the usual crack of dawn to prepare for his morning duties.  I saw him leave, and I went back to bed and fell asleep.  I woke up a short time later, and looked out the front window to see both cars in the driveway, with the trunk lid of my car wide open.  He must be getting something out of the trunk, I thought, and peered out to see what was going on.  I could see nothing more from the window, so after waiting a while, seemed like a long while, I put on my coat and reluctantly went outside, reluctantly because I didn't know what I would find.  I walked around both cars, peering inside, but saw no body slumped inside either vehicle.  The birdfeeder, I thought, or the garbage cans (though it was not a garbage input or output day).   I walked around the house, calling his name, as I'd been doing ever since I saw the raised trunk.  Nobody there, garbage cans and birdfeeder in usual positions.  Maybe inside the basement?  I had to go back inside as the basement door was locked.  I go back in the house, down the cellar steps, calling out as loud as I could, but no response, and nobody in the basement.  Back upstairs, I go outside to look at the situation.  Did someone ask to borrow a tire jack, thence the wide-open trunk, and then did he go with them to help?  Did he go willingly?  I went back inside, pacing the floor, and trying to decide what to do; the time is not yet 9:00 a.m.  I notice the bedroom door is closed and I look inside.  He's sound asleep in bed.
      Retracing the scene, turns out that in fumbling for his key to unlock the front door, he'd inadvertently activated the remote trunk control and the trunk flew open without his noticing.  Not by him anyway.

Ouch!

  I was there for a follow-up visit.  The doctor, looking at my chart, said to me,   "There are 3 conditions which are the most painful that people ever experience:  the first is kidney stones, the second childbirth, and the third a  heart attack.  And you've already had two of the three."   He smiled though.

FYI, linguistically speaking

     Almost all of the dramatic or perplexing things happen now in my dreams and this is no exception:  I was in a lecture hall and the professor was asking questions from that superior stance that they often take, so everyone was pretty much intimidated, with answers not readily forthcoming.
   I had already answered one of his questions, the answer being "raison d'etre" though I cannot recall what it was in response to.  I was racking my brain over the second question.  He asked what "cyber" meant.  Nobody knew:  I thought I should know, but couldn't answer, and finding that answer  became a matter of sublime importance, which preyed on my mind throughout the night.  I think I was still dreaming but when I woke up this morning, the question was still on my mind, niggling away.
    It is now six o'clock in the morning and here's what I found out:
         Cyber is a prefix coined by a group of scientists in the early 1990's.  It is taken from the Greek word, kybernetes, meaning statesman or governor, and is defined as "the science or study of control or regulating mechanics in human and machine systems, including computers." 
         All we really need to know is that cyber means "of or relating to computers or the Internet."  However, the full explanation lies in the stuff of which dreams are made,  in my dreams anyway.