Creation Transfusion

There's still a little too much stimulation for me in most mind places. When overwhelmed I am comforted by my face pressed into a static corner of Nil. I called to myself and arranged for some transfusions of creation. A few deep breaths and I'll function here, once again. Its a test. Failure is not an option. I'm regaining my ability to stab a pick into the Candy Mountain of Life, and up we/I go.

People in life work. I went back to work. People in life laugh. I went back to laughing. People in life - if they intend to have a quality life - have hope. I have hope.

Now what could possibly have stopped all these things that I've now gone back to? Ultimately it can be defined as Fear.

I speak most clearly to myself in metaphor and misdirections. I am not going to offer up acceptable examples of Sargent Friday's most repeated edict - "The facts, just the facts, ma'am." This is my world. I create it in my image of myself. The face I see when I look into the inner mirror. Picasso would be entranced.

Spinoza the Cultist Bear.

The Death Channel.

WWF in Pediatrics.

These are the things my face speaks to me now. I am taking notes...

Spinoza is a talking bear. He has a very smooth voice and background music. He's wonderful for children with chronic or life threatening illnesses. He comes with nine tapes that are designed to inspire, sooth, and provide a doorway to a peaceful state of mind. For example, Spinoza says, "Hi, I’m Spinoza Bear. Who are you? You are? I’m happy you’re you. You’re very important. I’m happy to be me (music and the bear begins to sing) ..."

"Would you like to hug me?"

"Where would you like to hold me?"

"What are you wearing?" Okay, so THAT one is one of my creations. Spinoza is an alt.life furry. Possibly.

Now I'll stop talking to my face and address the phantom "normies" that have no business inside my mind mirror and yet decided to read what pours from its wavery glass lips. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Everybody deals with trama differently. Laughing with my family and adding a kink to the most benign things is a preferred coping mechanism. Go ahead drink your liquor, take your pills, smoke your dope, perform your rituals of mind over matter. We all have our way of healing and hoping. This is mine, in this place, at this time.

The Death Channel. This is the tv channel that you can access on the hospital television. It doesn't present anything except pictures of trees, grass, flowers, and landscapes, while ambient piano runs trill through your ears. Its actually quite soothing. But I almost fell off the hospital rocker when my daughter told me the moniker she's given to that particular channel. I laughed so hard because her saying that meant, to me, that she is feeling hopeful and confident that everything will be okay. I know it, she does too.

WWF in Pediatrics. No, not the World Wildlife Federation. The old school WWE - the world of Rowdy Roddy Piper and The Hulk. A doctor came in and wanted to look at the throat of my grandson. He has no platlets. The chemo therapy has a mission - seek and destroy. The destruction is not as fine tuned as what one truly wants. The good temporarily goes with the bad. Infection is of primary concern now. He had a fever today. The doctor was there to determine the cause.

"Please hold his arms down, while I look into his throat." She said.

The old boa constrictor hold. Guaranteed to spark an instantaneous reaction of screaming, crying, and general anarobic activity while the idea that he could free himself from the entrapment morphed into a physical reaction.

My daughter - who is an expert at chemo catheter iv bandaging now (please make sure the seal is airtight, practioners), and who has learned a whole host of other unexpected skills in her excellent and extrodinary devotion and care of her son - slid her arms under his little baby arms while he sat on her lap. Then she raised her forearms up and linked her fingers over his head. His arms were totally out of the way, his hands resting peacefully on her forearms, and he had absolutely no sense that he could break free. The urge to fight wasn't there. The perfect submission was achieved.

The doctor blinked and was impressed. "I have not seen this move before."

Randy Savage would have recognized it in a testosterone filled heartbeat.

Mmmmm...creation transfusion complete.