Friday, June 18, 2021

A good day

I wanted to be a writer. I began writing poetry as a teen and explored all the different types of writing.  A few years back I found the blog. I’m a blogger now. A modern journalist. Being a ‘journalist’ was not the modern idea of a commercial writer but rather a person who ‘journalled’.  To be a writer, one writes. I’m writing in this blog. Somewhere I have boxes of scraps and journals of writing. Cursive journals.  

Jim Donahue,”I think it’s sad that all over the world there are boxes of people’s writing. Their deepest creativity is stored in basements, often lost.”
Jim was a guitarist and song writer.  We talked about art creativity, culture.

Andy Warhol said everyone deserved 20 minutes of fame.

These last decades the electronic age has given us all an outlet for expression and share.  My Space devolved to Facebook.  Business and commercial interest, financial and power addictions and status seekers moved to Linked in, the arty set chose wordpress.  Traditionalists chose blogger. I like origins.  There was even a word for it, ‘blogging’.  Then there were all the spinoffs.  Dating sites even had their fiction writers. Porn hub even had journalists. It’s a profusion of self expression epitomized by the selfie.  You tube for the moving images.  All of it reflecting a desire to be and to be seen. 

I have just read a delightful book of a childhood friend. Tannis Laidlaw is an author of mysteries.  Yesterday I spoke to a trans personal psychologist who said he was writing a book.

“I’m writing a book too.” I said.

I have dozen or more blog books in the cupboard. I availed myself of ‘blog2print’ and kept a record in paper and on digital. As well I really am writing two books. They’re early complete but I need to re write and organize them to some ‘audience’.  I am a woman who lies naked on a beach hoping to be found by a knight in shining armour.  There is that wonderful dream of ‘being found’.  Hollywood humour.  

I loved ‘travels with charley’ by Steinbeck and imagined paying my way in my camper writing as I travelled around America. I liked black like me too so I imagine driving about the country au femme, anonymous, a cross dressing writer.  There’s nothing more passé.  It’s what we all do. Wear a persona, adopt an attitude, play a part. All of life is a stage. In old age we can explore those parts of ourself the world had no need of when we were young. My doctor friends in retirement are doing variations on the themes of travel, art, and some gardening, others making caves and mound burial sites.  It’s a shame that old age pension wasn’t more considering all the investment and work we put into this. Instead the government as always robbed the workers and gave the money we made to the slackers and criminal.  If we’d had our pension money to invest in our own investment portfolios we’d have considerably more wealth but the fixed nature of the pension did force savings by us workers. The indolent though are rewarded by this corrupt and evil government lead by a perverted ignorant sock doll. It’s all so ludicrous. Now I work because I can and I’m apparently good at it. I’m a consultant.  I wouldn’t mind if I could just pick up and move to Arizona or Alaska. Wander there over time and spend the mornings video conferencing.  I envy my really private colleagues, the psychologists who thinking ahead selected rich clients and served them so they were outside the public pay systems.

I would just work from my garage and travel. I wanted to do that on boat. There wasn’t the internet connectivity.  I’m using satellite wifi and in the US there’s a satelittle coverage for RV’s in motion. My is a stationary satellite coverage.  My brother did his investment and trading bicycling and using the wifi at Macdonald’s cafe’s.  I would like to do work 4 hours a day , maybe 20 hours a week. I’m still doing 40 hours. I like the 4 day week. I like working in the morning. I like being useful.  I like prescribing and recommending medication . I like consultation and diagnosis.  I like motivational interviewing and insight psychotherapy.  I’d like to do analysis again.  I liked teaching.  I’ve been accredited for this medical legal interviewing.  Yet I like the present situation.  I go into clinics a half day a week, keeping physical contact and they manage administration. I give a percentage of my income to the group. There’s a Canadian internet virtual psychiatry company I spoke with. I never got to the dollars and cents in discussion. I want to pay off my mortgage though it’s not much and I have savings which certainly manage maintenance even with the terribly tiny pension. I did find sailing that after the first few months the cost per month was only a thousand dollars for two. The grossest mismanagement of the economy by the criminal traitor spend thrift, the budget will balance itself, sock boy, has resulted in us losing our credit rating as a country and inflation. My money in the bank loses value even as it gains interest.  There’s a major cost to maintain a place in the city. Vancouver is the most expensive city in the North America. What we found sailing was that any ‘new’ place was it’s own entertainment. I find when I travel I like to go for walks. I’m going for walks now. But if I was parked in Squamish I’d like the walks as much as I do here. But the cost of being parked in Vancouver is $40 a night whereas in Squamish it’s $10 a night and I’m equipped to park many days at a time in wilderness.  I just have to reduce my storage locker.  

I’ve given up scuba diving so no longer have that. If I was travelling I’d leave behind all the paraphernalia of hunting. I dreamed of travelling in my camper with my trailer around BC to the Yukon and even Alaska for 3 months or so and hunting on the return.  I’d tow my ATV and a freezer.  I’d then have a year of moose and gladly work another year in clinic. It comes down to my needing to take 3 months vacation rather than even consider moving or changing my life.  I could manage staying in touch for that time. I know Madigan would like that time and I’d do it but partly I muddle along doing what I’m doing now and enjoying because I can and Laura whose company I so enjoy is still desperately working.  Her boss is working like I am and we’re all uncertain of the future given the utter incompetence and corruption of the federal government that we don’t want to stop saving in case there is war or famine. I’m well equipped but only have to pay the mortgage and that could be solved by selling this place for a smaller place.  

I imagine three trips in North America , an au femme tour with sight seeing and camp fires. I imagine my camper with the Vespa just enjoying being feminine and free.  See my anima as liberated. I see the animus as a life of fighting for the underdog, defending women and children , facing evil full on, being falsely accused and fighting through, and now when in the old days I’d be rewarded with peace for a life of service, the young are taking all the money and easy times and wanting the old to euthanize while calling us all manner of names taking as entitled all we fought and gave for them.  I’d no fun being an old white man. Meanwhile I imagine getting breast from Thailand and wearing mumus and summer clothes travelling about the Us. I’ve always wanted to do the RV tour. Mom and Dad loved it , they did the north. But I’d like to do the circle, the south and the east, visit civil war sights and enjoy the local cuisine and art. I love travel writing. I love photography.  I might well enjoy it au drab. I wonder if au femme is a reaction to the tyranny of authoritarianism and corruption. I don’t want to fight the feral cannibals anymore. I always imagine Madigan along as a chaperone. I love churches and meetings and imagine I’d have to leave him to guard the camper as he gets older and is less of risk of theft.  I don’t know about that.  I am always afraid of leaving him for fear he’ll be stolen or hurt.  

 I wish to be a monk.  That’s certainly an alternative.  

I have an au drab dream of going north in the camper and fishing and hunting and writing.  I did this once before and worked in the Yukon and loved it but by then she was gone trying to fuck my married boss, drugs taking their toll, the relationship strained, she’d tried to kill us both too many times. I couldn’t trust her and she was so loud to be with. I hoped to rally to blow a spark the whole time,  but the emptiness alone was palpable and all she wanted to do was live in her mausoleum.  The loneliness of living with her depression, untreated addiction, her anger and passive aggression and the constant betrayals, the lies and broken promises, I was never so despairing than the loudness of attitude that comes with being alone together.  I learned to be sensitive for work but the screaming neediness of the walls of anger and resentment and unforgiving arrogance. I had moments of joy. I remember good times but not a sense of them together but rather of my own happiness , my joy in looking at mountains, my joy in hunting, the fun in being with other men, the pleasure in helping a friend, while she was trying to fuck him and breaking things like she always did with my friendships, she’d broken all her own and left them fallow so she could pillage through my life knowing one day she could return and feast on the friends she had before. Living with a borderline, soul sucker, she had moments. But in the end I felt like I had to be a constant clown for the princess.   

I imagine doing this trip with Laura and Madigan. sometimes.  But then I worry. Women prefer Paris. I’ve taken women camping and hiking and sailing and motorcycling and they’ve always kind of treated it like they were doing me a favour coming along. Then I take them to a 5 star hotel and a restaurant meal and she beam more than when they’re tenting in the wilderness or canoeing int he wild.  It’s like they are doing me a favour coming outdoors with me. I owe them whereas the good men, the lawyers and drug dealers and city businessmen buy them houses and put them in gilded cages and that’s what a real man does. I remember she wanted me to be happy in the house. All they ever wanted was the house. I gave women three houses. I devoted twenty years of my life to serving their dreams of ‘houses’ and they only wanted bigger houses or better houses.  I laughed when I saw the joke that the women were divorcing the two richest men in the world so what could I hope for.  I certainly failed in marriage.  Twenty years of marriage and thirty years of long relationships and more than half my income and work devoted to sharing and all we hear is men are bad and a constant litany of condemnation.  

So often I just want to be alone.  I see such horrors of good men working to pay the courts so that they can raise their children, the only thing women want is the money.  They don’t want men, their culture, their language, their individuality. Meanwhile there is outrage about the stealing of the culture of the natives but that was yesterday, today single mothers are stealing the culture of men.  Half the children are without fathers and the lie is its because ‘men are not doing their job’.  Well that just isn’t true. It takes two and women are blamers and shamers in this scenario.  Every ex of a woman is bad yet I see all these great men who could be great fathers if the princess wasn’t so angry and unforgiving.

So I appreciate MGTOW and continue to be with women despite my ex repeated nearly killing me and if I’d not had skills and God I’d be dead today.  I survived that marriage and many a man I know has also being beaten by their wives. So many men tell me when I ask why they say tell me, ‘she hits the women less when she has me to hit.’

The industry and the female tribal lies about it being one sided is like living under communism.  I can’t believe how little women know about men.  It was like when we as interns and residents surveyed the nurses about call and 90% thought we got to go home after a night of call and sleep then.  Here we worked in the same hospital as the nurses and they didn’t know we were doing 1 in 3 call and no it was n’t a unionized job and now women don’t know what men do at all.  They are utterly ignorant about men because they are so loud. 

It’s quiet among men.  The heterosexual space is dominated by women.  Queens and princesses and men who are drones with the image of leadership with the classic matriarchal male having the appearance of dominance while the real power is with women behind the throne.  With men’s groups its easy as adults.  I certainly fought my adolescence away having every little shit want to gain status by getting me, the dangerous, quiet one.  I was stabbed in adolescence by one of these inferiority complex guys. I have a brass knuckle scar on my eye.  As adults we mostly find our place in men’s groups.  Like my dad men defer to me, unlike the young Turks who feel they have so much to prove.  We old guys just don’t.  I’ve walls of awards and trophies and accomplishments but admire most the grandfathers and those who’ve stayed married 50 years. And these old guys like me probably because I’m dangerous.  I’ve served jails and asylums and served the queen forever.  We look at old guys together and we admire that they can contain the rage and tolerate the abuse. We’ve been tortured together.  And still smile.  

The gay and lesbian world is busy by comparison.  I don’t feel the peace I feel among old heterosexual men, the fathers and the grandfathers caring for the next generation and feeling that they’ve done their time. The LGBT community is still vying for position and so many seem caught in adolescence and still seeking 20 minutes of fame. Not my friends, mind you. I miss seeing my retired gay friends. They’re travelling, fishing, doing home repairs. I’m still working so rarely have time for the visiting of the retirement set. I see the retired lesbians who are friends and they seem happy mostly gardening and doing projects involved with their children still.  It’s important to compare apples with apples, I’m one of the older folk now and this older crowd is homogenizing. Laura laughs and says men and women look alike. My transsexual friend told me of the 70 yo who had breast implants with the plastic surgeon who told her that she didn’t much facial work because she already looked like an old lady. The women and men faces become androgynous with age.  I’d just like breasts and wear dresses and lipstick and say, don’t ask me to fight your wars, don’t ask me to fix your diesel, don’t ask me to get dirty.I’m effete and if there’s any lifting,a war, or any defending to do, or any masculine job, ask a feminist. Let them carry the load. My female friends who work jack hammers and ride harleys have no time for the huffington post girls on CBC. Real women literally hate these loud demanding complaining feminists more than me.  Same with the mothers who have no time for the single girls demands more privileges and condemning men and fathers. I want to retire as a man. I can be a doctor. I can be a dancer , a chef a secretary.  

 I want to relinquish my male card. My only fear is this won’t last long because the Toxic Masculinity called Communist China and Sharia Iran are just going to invade Trudeau Canada and rape all the Hufington Post girls killing the ugly ones and history will repeat itself.  Pollyanna-ism loses. The New World Order is toxic masculinity girls . Naziism and Communism were embraced by girls and the men of the day died in defence.  Divide and conquer.  Mrs Churchill stood with Churchill and Eva Brawn stood with Hitler.  The former lived together and later committed suicide together.  No one talks about the utter whack job that was Mao’s wife. She made Imelda look like a stain.  Far worse than Kamala.  I prefer the Queen Judith and Queen Boudicca of the world not the Hanoi Janes or Benghazi Hillaries.  I miss Melania.

Well now I’ve squished all the puss out of my brain. I’m blessed that Laura is coming for the weekend. Madigan and I so enjoy her company.  I’ve got a few little tasks to do but I really like serving her. I barbecue for her and do whatever I can to make her visits enjoyable. We share and I like caring for her.  She’s a grandmother.  She’s a worker. She’s less selfish than so many women. Her self pity isn’t bottomless. Her silent treatments and mystery mood games aren’t too frequent. I once thought I ‘caused’ the ex wives raging mood swings and attitudes and lack of civilization and inability to work together or focus or stay on task, whatever we’d agreed to, I’d actually get her to write down any plan so I could come back and say ‘no this is your plan and I’ve been working on your plan and this is what you agreed and we’ve been doing this because you said this is what you wanted’. I would then get the rage and a litany of excuses. “I didn’t really mean that….I didn’t really agree….I just said that because you made me’.  I’ve lived a life with women who won’t own their own choices and refuse to tell the truth and wouldn’t say “I want you to pay for me to do fuck all…..I want you to be my daddy’.  I married children and thought they were adults and they never got past being teens and blamed me. I thought Dylan wrote the greatest breaking up song ‘Don’t think twice’.  I was knew a woman ,a child I’m told.”

The story of my life was ‘she’s a young girl and can not leave her mother’. I married to women involved in incestuous emotional relationships with violently insane mothers.  

I’m just so glad I stopped drinking and smoking dope.  My family didn’t drink or smoke dope,. I married into  family of drunks and took my position in the family of addiction. Each person in the untreated family has a ‘role’ to play. I was the ‘rescuer”.  I’m so weary or being ‘rescuer’. I’m am so weary of taking care of girls. I don’t mind in my work being an adult. I love to care for people in my work. I used to say to my ex “I can take care of a 100 people and get paid or I can take of your, I can’t do both.” I was seeing a psychiatrist and I did all this self help and always felt and still feel I’m taking emotional baths only to be wth someone who likes their stink and the drama and the hell they create with their immaturity and grandiosity. She refused to get help. When I sent her for drug and alcohol treatment to California she didn’t go to treatment but instead plotted to kill me.  She had all these people who believed her drug addicted lies. I just went along and did as I was told. I was fully cooperative with the authorities. The same authorities had let me be raped and covered up the rape and lied and cheated and now they even offered me drugs and alcohol and I stood there aghast refusing to drink and do drugs with them and walking away.  It’s surprising I stayed a doctor. I am so thankful for Graeme, Ray, Bernie and Willie and Philip and all these men who were true and didn’t lie and cheat me but were true good caring men, Hippocratic colleagues, and I felt sorry to leave her. I couldn’t help her any more.  Funny I liked that she had her own drug dealers as friends when I met her and that she’d always liked to party and we could have such fun together away from her mother …it was so sad to see all the notes her mother had left with her, the disgusting perverted sayings and the demonic curses and how insane her mother was…..I’d never seen or heard anything like her except in locked wards and she hated her family.  I wish I was a better person. I wish I’d somehow been closer to god then.  I’d return to church and prayer and meditation.

This is June.  June was the Month.  It was an anniversary of horror.  She would keep me up all night with her raving.  I’d need to sleep to go to work and she’d not let me sleep. I left and took hotel rooms repeatedly to get some sleep but she wasn’t showing up for work. She’d sleep in and do drugs and not care. She lived in a world of lies and alibis. I was paying all the bills and she was secretly moving all the money into secret accounts and had the horrible little weasel of a lawyer borrowing money in my name and I was paying everything . What didn’t go to her drugs and was taken. The friend of the man who raped me and wanted me silenced and said I shouldn’t give up drinking and smoking dope was good and my own psychiatrist who lied at the time saying I didn’t spend two years talking to him about being raped by the man who turned out to be his friend. Bisexuals and homosexuals I met when I was smoking dope and drinking and they were doing dope and drinking stuck together. Thank god the women who were doctors knew her addiction and lies and vouched for me. I was so thankful for the women back then who told the truth about her rage and addiction and lies and depressions and how I was simply long suffering and a good guy.  

What a nightmare. I went from the frying pan to the fire looking for a place where my dog and I would be safe because I couldn’t trust her not to kill me because I wouldn’t get her more drugs and I thought she’d hurt my dog.  I stayed with the growers I knew in the country not knowing they too were now into coke. It seemed in that last year all these people her and my friends got into coke. The same had happened when that boat of dealers came into Mexico and the ‘scene’ changed. We’d been hanging out smoking a joint and drinking a curveza and suddenly all this coke came into the community. She liked it. I hated coke. Tried it in California and it just made me impotent and horny and having a coke jaw that made me look like a monster and scared eeryone away. Now the old hippy guys I knew turned out like her to be into coke.  I loved my other female doctor friends who hated coke and had left them men who had got into coke. Here I was like these women. I left. The coke addicts stole my money and like her they’d become feral. I was smoking dope and drinking beer and then stopped . I phoned a Christian and asked if he’d come get me and my stuff. I came with his car, didn’t have van, they guys took my stuff. My friend said they did that. Invited people to stay and then took their stuff for coke.  I was a ‘mark’.  Mark was the name.  I had all these red light’s I didn’t pay attention too.

And left.  

My dog and I went to a trailer . I talked to Graham and  Willie and they still didn’t know that their drunken, drug addicted perverted deceitful colleagues were who I was wanting to stay away from.  I had gone into carpentry when I was expelled from school.  I got back into carpentry now making tables and chairs for the trailer I was renting. I’d been loaned it but would pay as soon as I had month, a month later, maybe two, and then I got the insurance I’d paid for for years, a special disability insurance. I tried to get welfare and the dark skinned woman screamed at me in the office ‘you’re a doctor, you can’t apply for welfare!!!!”  Shouting in front of everyone. I was thankful that the friends in church fed me. I was hungry like I’d been another time in my life , that first time I’d smoked dope and those I was with stole all I had. I met Bernie and we talked about the bad times in my life and the worst ones certainly had been when I smoked dope and drank. Not always but the people I had then , lower companions in high places.’

I was asked what I wanted. “All I want is for her to stop drinking and doing drugs and go to AA”.   The College of Physicians and Surgeons Psychiatrist said ‘Women don’t go to AA.”  I never spoke to this flake politician psychiatrist again but loved Bernie in AA and Willie in church and would spend the last years of his life, going to AA with the former head of psychiatry of UBC. I really liked him sober.  

I felt sorry for my ex.  That was the time when all women were told to leave relationships and that the men were to blame.  Same as the days when all the women had hysterectomies until the famous study in Manitoba showed the greatest risk for hysterectomy was proximity of a surgeon. I had been married to two women who drank and did drugs and I’d had enough of that world. I was going to be clean andd sober and live with those who didn’t drink and do drugs and avoid people who lied and cheated. I’d done my time. It wasn’t the world of my family and it hadn’t worked out for me.  Women who drink and do drugs are emotionally unstable and they simply won’t take responsibility for their actions. They don’t do this very well under any circumstances since blameing me in all the rage today. Maybe generations back blameing women was the rage. In my life time it’s blaming men.  Marxist Identity politics , men are bad, women are good. Men oppress women. I had an Assistant Head of the College of Physicians and Surgeons say with manifest psychosis. “Women don’t lie about sex.”  The trouble with being a psychiatrist is you really see when people in authority and power are truly psychotic.  

I was happy to be clean and sober and no longer worried about what she’d do stoned. I didn’t worry about the safety of my dog. We got by. I loved being back in church.  Before my  marriages I was president of the almagamated baptist youth, I studied theology, my family were Christians and my mother was devout.  I married women who weren’t religious. I loved black bra girls and when I fucked I felt that I had to make it right , make this women who I now loved, holy, by marrying her. I think the women would have been glad to keep fucking.  I don’t know if they needed to be married. I think at least one was shocked by the proposal but it was what we did. Fuck and marry and be respectable and the state makes a lot of money. They weren’t at all religious, maybe spiritual but mostly party girls who were great in bed and we had fun.  I assumed we’d marry and have children only to find that one didn’t want children and didn’t plan to have children and didn’t want her figure ruined and the other didn’t want to stop drugs and had didn’t want to be anything but the child princess and my job was husband wife and daddy.  

Now I know ‘marriage is an institution for family’.  Not a fuck fest.  Marriage is an institution for community. Not a fuck mobile.  I married women who wanted me to get them houses so they could play house and be respectable and have stuff but they didn’t want children. They were career girls. I know women who want children, family and Communty today. They want to be mothers. My wives didn’t .They wanted careers and they wanted to be the princess. And I was the daddy and I didn’t get any kids or family or community just paid the bills. 

I like the gay community because even though there’s parents there’s a theatre adolescence quality to it. I miss the theatre world. I started in theatre and at university got this ‘calling’ to medicine. It really was numinous. I want to be a play wright and live in the world the theatre , I was studying arts only to have this path open and who would have guessed I was gifted in science was a natural for chemistry…I wondered later if my ability to see virtual formulas in the and 3 d chemical molecules just reading formulas was a left over from LSD. Did my brain change when I dropped acid that time or was it always dormant. It certainly has been a gift. I don’t have it with physics. Biochemistry was like breathing to me.  Clinical medicine was equally easy. Constantly I made diagnosis that everyone missed As a GP I cured all these disease. It was like Lazarus.  But it was like one dimensional chess.I d loved surgery like carpentry but there was a deluge of surgeons at the time and my friends who were the best couldn’t get OR time. I had learned how corrupt the hospital beurocracy was , the government corruption was so overt, the money for a baby incubator had been stolen by the administrator at the hospital for a new desk and office furniture for the administrator. I never met anyone lower than the administrator at the mental hospital .  When they made the big stink about residential schools I knew it was all propganda and lawyer make work because the y went after the priests and teachers but no one touched the administrators. The administrators in the institutions I worked were the lowest cads. I actually asked one ‘how did you get this job’. I ‘ m friends with the premier he told me. Then it studied the Communists and Fascists and learned how gangs worked. ‘Loyalty’ all you needed whereas meritocracy was a wholly different things.. .I love when the prime minister said ‘I don’t need you to agree with me when I’m right. I need you to agree with me when I ‘m wrong’

I did community medicine and was blessed to work with Jack Hildes and Fish.  Truly great men but I was attracted to psychoanalysis and didcn’t know then that it was a tool and narcissists could use it as well as good men so I was dominated by a narcissist analyst  who said I could be his or I could be Hildes but he didn’t want me to be shared with Jack and I was having enough trouble when with my wife become depressed when her mother was trying to kill her husband and they were dealing with all the drama of that alcoholic household and I was living alone with a wife who was never present emotionally at least.  I was told I was supposed to man up and bear the burden of women. 

It’s June.

I stopped drinking wine and smoking marijuana even though the psychiatrist I’d seen before I saw the addition medicine doctor and Christian psychiatrist and addition psychiatrist all thought I would do best clean and sober, the other psychiatrists didn’t think I had that much of a problem given I was dealing with a cocaine addicted wife who had a long history of abuse dealing with a psychotic mother where all the men in the family were suicidal or addicted to heroin.  

I wanted to leave. I wanted to get a job as a carpenter or go back to general practice. I loved Dr. Lam. When I chose medicine for no really good reason since carpentry and theatre and writing and real drama not the insane drama of the government and hospital world and institutions like marriage were worse than fiction, well. I’d liked medicine. I still had the calling. Dr. Lam and all the doctors I were meeting weren’t like the plotting scheming drunken doctors I worked with. This whole world of doctors I met sober and not smoking pot were like the Jack Hildes and Fish doctors I knew and the doctors who’d taught me in medical school and my mentors in psychiatry who didn’t do drugs or were sexual perverts preying on students.  I kept meeting all these incredible doctors like Ray and Bernie and the CMDA crowd and Hank. Hank was the godsend, my true angel. He told me in Toronto he needed someone to help him find a Tilley hat and I went with him looking for one. I miss Hank.  A Baton Rouge Psychiatrist and former Flight Surgeon he convinced me to give psychiatry another goal, told me all the tales of the drunken administrators and the big money in drugs and smoke and alcohol and didn’t get upset or jaded by the evil in the world, was Anglican and a Christian doctor but in AA and lived the ideal off ‘live and let live’.  He and Art became my friends. Art was another Psychiatrist who was a true mensch with the most beautiful wife Carole.  I just kept making friends of people like the men I’d known before my marriage, friends like the Quaker medical student I met in Oxford and stayed in her rooms, good men like Dr. Carl Ridd who taught me Literalture of the Bible. Willie and his family were the most amazing collection of salt of the earth Christians who’d known my grandfather who was totally against alcohol.  

I could write a Count of Monte Christo about my June but I rather like Jesus and the Dalai Lama better. I concluded that I could never do unto others as they had done unto me so left the divine retribution to God knowing that God was perfect karma. I’d paid off a lot of past life shit in that one month and now would try to be aware.I love graham saying to me , some people run with the turkeys and some people run with the cheetahs,  you’ve been running with the turkeys.  I ‘d thought of killing myself before I met him.  I was so thankful to know Sam too because he taught me that there were good Jews and Bad Jews, good Christians and Bad Christians, and just as I’d learned from Hank that there were sober psychiatrists and godless drunken and drug addicted and sex addicted psychiatrists.  I still have trouble trusting people. I was spent a year going through records to prove that the College lied. I later for that the same person lied with other doctors.  That person was picked because they lied.  I studied Arendt and Nuremberg to learn about that kind of person. They are in all the worst of organizations. Loyal. Terrified sick people who are loyal to the leader. Eva Brawn sorts.  The feminist like Eva Brawn and hate Queen Judith.  

 

It wasn’t easy to stay a psychiatrist.  But eventually the leadership which had been dominated by drunks and addicts burned out and really good men took charge.  I began to know all these really good psychiatrists who were salt of the earth like my psychiatry mentors who had taught me before taking advantage of me. Good men, good teachers, the kind of psychiatrists I ‘d most been attracted too, people who worked with the most marginal of the world.  I no longer was around any psychiatrists who did drugs or alcohol.  I loved our meetings of sober pschiatrists, 30 one time, holding hands and saying the Lord’s Prayer. I was so thankful to meet Philip an amazing mensch of a man, a sailor and radical man of God.  Not at all politically correct. I’d had Dr. John White for my psychiatrist mentor for 6 months in my residency but had been lead astray by this child psychoanalyst who hated Jack Hildes and had all manner of power issues.  Something about psychoanalysis caused a weird narcissism. The analysts in the city competed with size of houses and cars, weird. Here I had dr. John White as a mentor and I didn’t appreciate his under spoken wisdom till much later. He was so wise and so spiritual. I’d see his like in Dr.. James Houston. 

George made life so fine. Never have I known a better friend than George. For 20 years I had this sober general practitioner jazz piano playing woman loving, father of sons and daughter baseball fan friend and we’d meet each month and go to concerns and get together for dinners and just laugh and laugh and laugh until the day he died and I felt like I lost a brother like I felt when I lost my mother and father and brother. Now I’ve lost a sister and I’m present. I didn’t run from the pain in alcohol like I did when I lost my friend much younger, I was so thankful for sobriety for the end of life of my father and mother and brother. I could be present. 

It was hard being a doctor and not doing drugs and alcohol because the administration had so much drug and alcohol abuse and perversion . I’d been much loved and ‘one of the gang’ when I drank and smoked dope. Only when I stood up for the natives against the drunken abuse of the greed of the authorities took a stand like Jack Hildes had on the side of the abused did I experience the full wrath of government . Now for years I’ve had to deal with the drunken and addicts in government and their edicts and the persecution of good male and female doctors while celebrating the ‘loyal’.  Steal a little and they put you in jail, steal alot and they make you king. I ‘ve watched repeatedly the men and women I most admired be attacked by the demonic authorities. They killed God, the leaders of the government and the church in the day.  Why should I be surprised.

I was there when they crucified my Lord as the song goes. I was watching and weeping , maybe I didn’t pierce his side but I wasn’t any better than Peter who denied him. I realize what a coward I am. I’m so afraid and so sad. I’m getting older and I look with admiration on my friend John who was persecuted and mauled by the disgusted College …..he was king Lear, ‘more sinned against than sinning’ and the women and men involved will see hell and their children and families face the karma of their despicable evil behaviour.  Lies and cruelty.  Jezebels and Herods.  

I’m afraid of the way seniors are treated by dictators, communists and by this Trudeau sock boy government.  A day doesn’t go by when there’s more abuse against the elderly all th while some other group screams ‘me first’.  Slackers and posers and malingerers all get fed first while the seniors are offered euthanasia.  Kill the old!!!!!@!


Oh well. This too will pass

Thank you God for all your blessings. Time to focus on the positive. It’s June. Another anniversary of the new life.  A new accord. Thank you Jesus.  








Wednesday, June 16, 2021

Dream

I dreamed I was in a mystical place, the hills and valleys by the ocean, the peninsula, where I’ve often come to hunt and 4x4 or just walk.  Today I was walking up hill, carrying a shot gun and a rifle, my little dog was with me, I believe it was Madigan.  A little kitten crossed my path and ran up the hill. A moment later a great banging occurred and I turned to see a water buffalo charging me. I fumbled to get my rifle clear and was able to shoot two 30:06 shells into his chest. He veered to the right of me going over the hill. I was thankful I’d been able to shoot from the hip, there was no time to raise the rifle and look through the scope. He was barely 20 yards off when I shot. I believed both bullets went into his chest and he was wounded. I thought I’d have to let him die and go looking for him. It was going to be heavy work. I walked on a bit to a camp where an old man was and I told him about the water buffalo. I asked him if he’d seen anyone else and he told me a family with lots of kids had passed that way chasing a bear but that was hours before nearly at dawn. I laughed thinking of my god children and their parents charging up the mountain looking for bear.  

In the same dream I was walking along the river with Madigan and the kingfisher landed feet away on a post so close it looked huge and I was able to get a beautiful picture with my iPhone camera

I awoke then. 

Madigan is jumping on my face not long after dawn these days. I was thankful for the dream.  They were positive and rewarding. I believe they are heaven, another dimension, where I will one day go. I often seen people who have died in these dreams and young people. There are young people from the dance and hippy days and later my sailboat and also the hunting though I don’t even know if I killed the water buffalo.  The success was surviving and saving my puppy. I so often forget that success in a hunt is so often coming home safely and having a grand adventure. The game is the cherry on the cake but not the cake. 

I had a lovely visit last night meeting the girls last night and having a regular hen meet. They cooed and cawed over Madigan,”He’s so adorable. He’s prescribes. He’s so cute.”  I beamed because I think so too.  He was so happy to make friends. They bought me ice cream and we sat on a park bench enjoying the ice cream , a summer evening in the city. They’d been to the Van Gogh experience and said it was wonderful. As usual I felt badly later I didn’t ask more about it.  With Covid it was just so exciting to be meeting and having a relatively normal encounter on the street. We actually hugged in greeting and no one was wearing masks. On the streets it was about half and half.  Dr. Bonnie Henry has loosened restrictions. The church has opened to two different groups but I wasn’t on the list so will wait till it’s even more open.  I’m considering a meeting tonight. I’ve begun to reconnect in little bits like this. It’s summer and with covid restrictions lifting a kind of blossoming.  

I’ve been trying to send some money to an African fellow but I don’t know if it’s a scam it’s just a little money and I’d like to learn if there is an easy way to transfer funds. It was quite involved in terms of the bank information I needed when I transferred money to Alan and Meagan in Ireland.  I have been generous here at home but sometimes make an offer before I know what’s entailed. I even opened another bank account for the safety of having a hub independent of work.  I had to have an account too where I could receive payments. These are all complicated beurocratic things that weary me and give me little joy so can only be done in stages as my work is so exhausting and demanding and has me so commonly involved in solving computer problems Even today I have to find a way to get the screen back on and last night I was too tired to remember passwords.

I loved the Amber dress and jewelry. I brought home some jewelry I’d left in the camper last year and was glad to find it.  I had cancellations yesterday so had more energy at the end of the day than normally. It only takes seeing one less and I’m able to do something in the evening.  My routine is constricted by the draining exhausting nature of my work. The sun though changes everything. It was so bright and the light goes on so late.  I am having moments of almost ecstatic nostalgia as views and scents of summer trigger such positive recollections.  I can’t help but think so many in the world don’t know the luxury of summer. Growing up in Winnipeg with blizzards and cold in the longest winters and mucky springs, the short summers were a joy to be treasured.  Summer and fall , a few months of heaven. Now I’m living in a coastal rainforest. I can ride a motorcycle year round but there’s so often rain and clouds like when I lived in London.  The Mariana Islands were a joy. Now I know what I’ve been missing when the sun appears.

I’ve booked several camping trips with Laura.  I will book plane flights for the wedding visit in HayBay and Ottawa perhaps this week. Graeme has been making the most beautiful pictures with the drone.  I sent the virtual goggles east as well. I am more excited by a 2 way water pump that is coming this week.  I’m waiting for the ipad too.  It’s supposed to arrive this week. So many positive events and I’m still able to work and be of service.  My cake is next week. June is always a rough month.  

Thank you Jesus.










Tuesday, June 15, 2021

Mental Illness is Infectious

One moment you are there standing strong against the collective insaniety.  
Then the next  the legions of despair are on you, pushing you back,  sweeping over you.  

With just a little surprise, bafflement, really, before the horror envelopes you
You consider how your perfect shield just crumples with the onslaught

As you feel the spears of fear and swords of hate cut deep
You go under, the marching  boots of callous shame and self pity

Mental illness is infectious.

The armour given so many decades ago grew thin and weak countless  blows of illogic 
Even denial, the go to place failed you

The government is mad.  The mob is upon you. The officers all stood far back from the war.
Shooting their own from behind while in the distance generals toasted their victory in another loss.

The fear is coming now in endless lines money fueled greed. 
It never mattered what you believed. All lies in the ‘horror, the horror!’

Now looking up,  the boot heels, all past, your position over run, praying for relief in darkness,  
You surrender, Vanity, all is vanity. Meaningless and absurd. 

The pain is overwhelming, excruciating, relentless.
You went down one too many rabbit holes,  you lost your way

It really is a maize. The signposts left by Freud and Jung long fallen
You can’t bring any more back  from the underworld. The Gods have ruled. Doors are closed.

You like  Sisyphus doomed.

Mental Illness is infectious.

The King is dead. The Canabalism is returned. Strips of dreams and promises are torn from your flesh..
All your faith in you and me and thee is lost in gnashing teeth till there is simply no one.

Alone in darkness, afraid, angry,  helpless. Waiting for the light. They promised there would be light.
And gold watches and awards, medals and ribbons, titles and burial mounds.

The weight of humanity,  and anxiety bore you down.
The cruelty of the world, the lies and deceit, the money and greed,

It all overwhelmed you. 

I feel a heart still feintly beating. I feel blood is leaking on the once again fertile earth
I can’t get up. A shaft of wood pins me  like an insect in a child’s collection

No one cares. As far as the eye can see there are writhing dying, the still in grotesque tableau 
We once loved. We once loved and laughed.

Now we cry till tears run dry and moans silence. 
There is a time for every purpose

Mental illness is infectious.

In the end all I can say is,  sorry.


Saturday, June 12, 2021

A perfect Saturday

Today was such a perfect day. I slept in despite Madigan walking over my face a couple of times at our normal time of wakening.. I pushed him away and slept in. Normally, up at 630 but today 9 am. Unbelievable. I was tired.  It may throw my sleep off but I was finally rested. I’ve had disturbed sleep for nights.  This was that glorious wakening,  feeling rested and ready to go.

I walked Madigan all the way to the Burnaby Lake pier.  Beautiful morning with geese and goslings, lovely spring flowers in bloom, squirrels, ducks and birds. The sun came and went with the clouds. It was warm. The air was sweet. . Madigan was a little happy boy delighted with this long walk, delighted meeting the corky, delighted with the birds , squirrels, scents and nature. It was good to be with such an exuberant walking companion.

I came home to breakfast and coffee. I avoided FB. No need to let my mind be high jacked. It was just such a good day. The sun came out steady. I had my shirt off, enjoying the heat, sweating,  enjoying putting the New Zealand wheels on my Boatify dinghy. It’s my 8th or 9th inflatable.  I remember doing this more than 20 years ago for one of the dinghy’s, probably the one I had on the sail down to Mexico. Now I can pull this one rolling to the water where I can flip the wheels up after I launch.  

It took me 2 and a half hours. I had to find the drills and ratchets and goops. Everything was in separate places. All the while Madigan kept getting tangled.  Then, naturally I put things back to right and upside down having to back track. I have such a problem with left and right, when building. I did measure everything. I even used a template. I was lucky to find the plastic bits I dropped.  I used th  Seal All I had though would have preferred secoflex sealant I’d used  on SV GIRI.

It was good to be messing with boats. For decades I spent endless weekends and countless days  working on Diesel engines, doing installations, cleaning bottoms. I’ve work to do on the GIRI yet. Some epoxy needing doing last I was there.  Just a couple of places. I was always sanding and expoxying. The joys of a steel ship.  Now I’ve a dinghy here and will use the 2.5 motor or the electric when we spend 5 days on the river by Ashcroft in a few weeks. I plan to fish.  Introducing Madigan to a dinghy and fishing. It’s all a work in progress.

Tonight I laughed watching again the ‘spy who dumped me’.  I had baked potato and sour cream with the left over chicken from yesterdays hot chicken feast.  Madigan loves chicken. 

Now the evening walk with Madigan I was reminded of the evenings of youth. Playing with kids. Not wanting to go home.  I actually felt for the first time in forever, not wanting the day to end. It was so beautiful, the scents so fine and me sad and happy at the same time. I walked with my friends and their dogs. The ‘black and white brigade’. I talked with neighbours. I really like my neighbours.  Guys standing about and somtimes the ladies, just chatting. Dave was charged by a momma bear at his cottage yesterday. What a tale! He’d been taking pictures of the Cubs. Naturally bowel retention came to mind as he ran paces back to his truck. Brought back all my memories of similar bear encounters.  So blessed to be alive. 

Lovely seeing the god kids yesterday.  Anna’s new baby is  hardly a handful .  They are bear hunting last day of the season.  I felt a bit guilty for not going bear hunting.  I could have but Thursday and Friday I was exhausted. Soul sick.  It took me a day to recover. Vivian’s death really. Other patients failing. A suicidal man and a suicidal women. All I could do to comfort them and encourage them. I’m burnt out with Covid and lockdowns.

I am so disappointed in the news.  The lies and corruption.  The political lockdowns and totalitarianism.  Censorship and loss of freedom.  I just don’t think there’s enough drugs to handle the despair and fear. It’s June too. My anniversary month when the past assails me, the incomprehensible demoralization with all the betrayal and deceit, the drug addicts, alcoholics, and perverts turning on me when I walked away. Everything was fine when I was in that camp but it’s Hotel California when you want to leave.  Now I’m here.  It hasn’t helped reading the story of Anne Dell’in, Tone and Robert Emmet, the brutal bloody put down of the United Irish uprising in 1798 and the hangings of all the good men in 1801. Belfast and Dublin and the abuses of power. So sad. 30,000 killed on Vinegar Hill. 

Here felt good today.  I miss the prairie summers.  I don’t miss the winters but I miss the friends and people.  I do miss the endless open sky and the hot dry sun.  

I liked not wanting the day to end. I liked connecting with all the other times when my days were so good I didn’t want them to end.  

Thank you Jesus. Thank you God. Thank you Mother Mary. Thank you Saints of All Religions. Thank you God of Gods. Thank you Creator. Thank you wee small voice and Lord of all Creation. Thank you for the matter and anti matter experiment this week. Thank you for UFO’s . Thank you for the  planet. Thank you for home. Thank you for love and belonging. Thank you for friends and kind folk. Thank you for Madigan.















Friday, June 11, 2021

Friday, What am I going to do.

I have Friday as an unscheduled days. Some Friday’s I’ve seen as many patients as I do in a scheduled office.  The work just spills over and fills my Friday. That was the case in the first year of Covid. I liked not having that sense of imprisonment that comes with the schedule, a sense of being in a factory conveyor belt with the patients coming along on the hour. I don’t like working to the ‘clock’. Some people only need a half hour, others an hour and a half.  I used to fluctuate my billing between one half hour and one and a half hour but the bean counter robots made it by the hour.  Then the lawyers said for every 15 minutes with the patients you must have a 15 minutes with the chart. The judge turned medicine upside down saying ‘if it wasn’t written down it wasn’t done’ .  So now if the patient dies no one cares, really. Just so long as the chart is pretty.  There were courtly times throughout history when idiots were promoted for good penmanship.  The history of the military is replete with cowards and perverts and incompetent soldiers being promoted because they told grandiose stories about themselves and sense what the authorities wanted to hear.  It’s no different today. I’m on the front lines. I keep foolishly trying to treat the patient and do what’s best for him.  He is the tax payer but the government has painted me as the enemy and said the bureaurocrats are doing all the work saving their lives. Those are the guys who get paid highest with the indexed pension, infinite holidays, perks and benefits. But they attend committee meetings too. I don’t. I don’t work for the government anymore. I don’t have to think about the Peter Principle. I don’t have to consider suicide as my brain and soul were sucked from my still warm being by some administrative type not understanding why I didn’t love them.  Administrators have mommy and daddy issues. If it doesn’t show up in life it’s a factor of their sex lives.  
I’m considering a sex change. I have thought about that since I was rape. I ‘ve been exorcised, maybe twice. The thought was that another’s semen planted in my anal canal might be DNA that somehow transferred.  The black interracial porn is all about ‘breeding the white sissy’.  I’d been bred.  It was a ‘demon’ idea. In a parallel universe or somehow inside me there was this unseen ‘idea’ growing.  I was changed and changing.  Perhaps I’d been impregnated by the ‘other side’. It all seemed to begin with homosexual anal receptive sex. It was painful. I felt linked and unable to fight back. I tried to get away and then I was penetrated and the pain was excruciating. I bled for days. I blacked out at the time, dissociated, saw my life pass. It was horrific.  It’s just ‘bursting the cherry’, as the guys later said.  No big deal. Just like a little girl losing her virginity.  But I changed. I felt weaker and less daring and less courageous and careful.  I felt the world wasn’t a safe place. I felt that ‘no’ didn’t mean ‘no’ when I said it. I’d always been polite, raised well, and here I was leaking blood and sperm and poo out of my anus.  It was frightening.
I didn’t talk about it. I kept it a secret.  Now I wonder if my DNA was reprogrammed because after years of robust maleness, a consummate lover with great praise and much demand and no complaints till I grew weary of the sameness, I didn’t think about it.  I had enjoyed being stoned on pot and drunk and having an older man perform fellatio on me. The sensation was exquisite.  It was as close to riding on a barge down the Nile being fed grapes as a person can come. Effortless orgasm. I’d even enjoyed penetrating a man before that fateful day, all that happening in the first month or two that I’d smoked marijuana. The summer of 69.  And I’d gone home and my family had taken me in while I took a job to pay my way.  I wanted to be an artists, had friends who were homosexual, didn’t think of myself as such. I loved girls. I masturbated to images of naked women. I loved sex with girls.  There was no choice. I forgot about men except the night my girlfriend went out to have sex with another man and I had the thought I’d like to know what it was like to have oral sex. I’d done everything else.  It wasn’t anything.  More like mutual massage. No semen.  Bodies enjoying.  Then a decade of heterosexual life and not a thought about men or homosexuality or oral sex or anal sex. I was doing a lot of cunnilingus.  She’d told me she’d never had an orgasm with intercourse with men and rarely with me, so needed to do manual massage and best was oral.  So I served for years and hours and saw a chiropractor for the neck strain and enjoyed the experience except the ‘dismissals’. Then the movie ‘deep throat’ came out and I asked if she’d do that and she said “That’s dirty. That’s gross. No woman would like that. It’s disgusting”. And here I’d been years between her legs and felt humiliated.  I was loathsome to her. Real men don’t care for their women.  Real men treat women like accessories, throw them aside when they’re finished with them, like she’d dismiss me and want me to finish quickly. As long as she had her orgasm that’s all that matter. And I knew.  Her mother talked about men as owing her for very very presence and I felt the nightmare close in.  I had wanted children and there was no children but all the talk about how her perfect body would be ‘deformed by childbirth’ and how ‘women who have children’ are ‘ruined’ phusically. It was a time when women were chanting that a man is as useful to a woman as a bicycle is to a fish. I was listening all day year after year to women complaining and criticizing their men viciously, collectively and individually. And all she wanted to do was go home to her mother who was certifiably insane. She tried to kill the father and had to be stopped physically with no charges and everyone understanding that ‘women get distraught’ and I saw that the ‘victims’ were the victimizer. I saw good men and bad men but ‘identity politcs’ said ‘men are bad and women are good’. That’s when the first female judge found 320 cases consecutively against men.  I was studying cooperative behaviour and realized that people didn’t want cooperation. The ‘people carrying signs, mostly say hoorah for our side’ just wanted to be on top.  I had fucked and been fucked but a whole lot of people just wanted to fuck. When they weren’t fucking they wanted to fuck you over too.  I loved the angel that night in the hot tub on the trip I’d begged her to come on but she’d wanted to go with her mother instead. I was drunk on champagne , celebrated by all my colleagues, loved for my presentation and participation. I’d never had any praise at home. It was all about her career and I’d spent nights helping her while working my three jobs and here I was alone and everyone was praising me and she turned to me in the hot tub, that utterly gorgeous brilliant beautiful woman with old pockmark scars by her ears of adolescent acne, the crack in the Japanese cup, the imperfection in an otherwise perfect being. And we kissed. And she said to me. Have you ever had deep throat? I said no. I experienced bliss. I died and went to heaven. Champagne sated, in a hot tub with such heavenly relaxation and the most gorgeous voluptuous dark haired angel sending me over the moon. And she smiled, a big smile of pleasure and accomplishment and skill and just delighting in my obvious joy. And I’d felt good giving women pleaseure. I’d thought that the idea was mutual pleasure. I’d later serve her and she’s serve me and we’d miss the final day of the conference and love our time in the fine hotel room with room service and sex on the hour.  Heaven on earth.  And she didn’t ‘dismiss’’ me when I gave her pleasure. I didn’t feel like I’d just been ‘dismissed’. I didn’t feel inferior or superior in sexual relationships except the one time I was ‘used’ and ‘raped’ and screamed ‘no’ as I was been torn inside and thought I’d die from internal trauma.  Rapists often say that ‘you’ll never forget me.’  It’s nothing to do with the size of the cock. It’s the violence and threat and lack of lubrication and speed. Today I imagine I might like him. I’d take all his anger and hate and transform it to love. I’d not be disgusted. I know women who do that and men who like the men beaten down by life who pound their women and men like they punch their fists in the wall helpless against the authorities that have abused them. I know that feeling. Pinned down and ploughed. Not at all the way to introduce a virgin to the world of sex unless you are an insecure little psychopath with a little dick and a need to cause pain and in my mind his cock was huge but now I know it wasn’t.  I was threatened by a little man I’d stopped beating up his pregnant wife, a real ogre, a satanic spawn and he turned on me and I was ready to fight.  A show down in the obstetrical unit. Me in my white lab jacket, all set to go into my old street fighter movement watching his eyes, ready to react.  And he ran. When the police asked for a description I’d said he was my height 6 feet.  He was only 5’4” by the description of all the other observers. So we know rapists dicks are little but they feel bigger like the four inch knife we say was 8 inches.  The damage is done. The pain is great.
And I told my secrets to my mentor and told him how the woman had punished me and rejected me and how I was persona non grata and I was in my final days and told him all the failure and shame and pain and the rape and deep throat and the hours of cunnilingus and chiropratcters and he told me it was all spiritual and drunk and stoned in his house after dinner and sadir dinner with his wife and children he’d undressed me like a fly in a spider web and I kind of smiled as I lay unable to move and he sucked my cock hard and ten turned me over and penetrated me with oil slowly and sensuously and I loved the feeling.  I didn’t say no. I was shocked. I’d trust him and shared all my secrets and realized I knew nothing of him except his title and his home and he’d promised me a spiritual sexperience and I supposed I was healed in a way.  He filled me with his cum and I felt truly bread like I was impregnated with knowledge and love. He was a kind man in many ways, spiritual and Fay like me. I sensed his connectedness. I had spent years in meditation and days mediated dawn to dusk with monks and he’d done some spiritual proactive himself.  I felt I was in training to be a Druid and accepted this was part of the arcane training. I talked to a woman in my program and her mentor had had sex with her and she was as confused as I wondering if this was necessary for graduation. We’d never been told. There were several of us. The good looking ones, the sexy ones, and the top of the class and we saw that the uptight Christian wasn’t included, The married ones seemed not have had to do what we did.  And I wanted to die.  I didn’t want to be his receptacle. Because I felt now that when I said ‘no’ he didn’t listen. He ‘d come to my home and I felt used.  I’d begun to feel dirty and ashamed.  He spoke lovingly about how we’d be able to work in the same department, I’d been offered a job as a head and he was a department head and our offices would be in the same hospital and he’d try to thrill me with the thought of quickies and he loved risky sex, it thrilled him to fuck me in the car or in an alley. I was terrified of exposure and still married though my wife wasn’t having sex and saying she never could forgive me and I left and it was a nightmare and I just wanted to get through and get out. And the other girl came into my life and she knew him and they would go on to be lovers and there was this whole group of people , men and women into sex and drugs and they all studied the drug addict satanist ……..I liked the feelings. I felt like Rosemary’s Baby.  I missed the normalcy and respectability. I left the insaniety and forfeited the much coveted position because I didn’t want to be a ‘quickie’ bum boy.  I loved women.I dreamed of women. When I masturbated rarely it was too women. But I’d liked when he asked me in his wife’s black lingerie and ‘d looked in his eyes as his filled me with his cum and I’d felt safe in a way and loved.  But I knew he was crazy.

I escaped in an old Volkswagen bug with a bag of Thai weed and smoked it all before I head south to California to do my American exams and take the job at Stanford or perhaps the one at Berkeley.  But my car broke down in Vancouver when I came that way to see the Holograph exhibits at the World Fair. I’d concluded that god and our relationship was best described as holographic and the DNA and holographs and all that idea of the idea of god and the word I’d held since days of monasteries and had never changed with electron microscopes and nope I was ‘bisexual’ having lived and loved a woman who was sexually fantastic and cute and sweet but I’d taken to wearing women’s clothes when she was away. I’d not done that since childhood and now I like to dress in skirts and leotards and walk in the woods. There were rapists and I imagined that I was playing bait and that if they tried to rape me I’d kill them. I was smoking a lot of ‘sesamia’ then and thought it would be okay to kill a rapists so I walked in provocative clothing at night where rapists were sited.  I imagined beating them and killing them. Getting back at them for hurting women. I know it’s about me and who knows maybe I wanted to be raped. All that Stockholm syndrome stuff and identification with an aggressor.  

I’d see a psychiatrist and talk to him for two years about his colleague and about the rape and all the feelings and the sense of demoralization and I drank then. I’d been betrayed by a colleague, a liar who’d killed a patient by mismanagement and tried to displace the blame on me. But I’d made a copy of the records showing he’d given the orders that lead to the patients death. Naturally the records disappeared and only when it came up and he was denying any involvement pointing the finger at me in public meeting did I pass around copies of his notes and his orders. He lost his position as head and I was scarey. And I saw a psychiatrist because i was scared. My life was being threatened phone calls at night. Lies and lies and I was with this nurse who’d admitted to working at night in a massage parlour for money, no sex, just hand jobs for tips and she was the most beautiful incredible sexual and exotic woman but it unfolded she was doing coke on the side and that’s what she needed the money for after she took mine and I escaped but I told all this sexual stuff all the feelings and all the betrayal and the ambivalence and wearing women’s clothes comfortable at night to come home and shut the door and put on a black negligee and smoke a joint.

But when I stopped drinking and sought help the addiction doctor said I needed to report the doctor who fucked me. I did.  Those silly men didn’t know how powerful he was and how many there were like him. The death threats again. Phone calls in the night. And the psychiatrist said ‘he’d never talked to me about sex’.  Weekly sessions for years and I’d come back and discuss them with my psychologist friends and they were saying I was psychotic and making up the story about this great man…..and my psychologist friend wrote a letter saying I discussed our sessions weekly and they were all about the sex and I wondered if I was losing my mind and I was clean and sober and now the lies were lies and more lies and all my journals had been stolen by my ex wife. She was smoking pot and doing coke. I was in the divorce and all my money was taken and I just wanted to get away from her. She’d tried to kill me that last year when the drugs got bad and she was insane and refused to go to a treatment centre….so I stopped everything. I needed all my wits about me. I was smoking pot and drinking a bottle of wine a day but I was in that last month smoking a couple of packs of cigarettes.  

This is an anniversary of that time.  

The psychiatrist said he was sorry he hadn’t kept notes and he wouldn’t speak against a colleague. He told me he was a coward. He told me he was weak. He’d asked me why I’d seen him and I said I thought he cared.  He did. He was a sweet shallow man.  A failure. I read the Bible and thought of Peter and the cock crowed.  

I wouldn’t today denounce a colleague. The government police are so corrupt and evil that nothing a colleague did short of murder and continued murder and pedophile warranted involvingly the despicably evil corrupt doctor police in the matter. I’d lose years of my life being punished by one woman after another for saying the ‘word’ fuck.

The other psychiatrist said I was schizophrenic and bipolar and told me I should drink and smoke dope and he turned out to be a friend as well of the doctor who fucked me. They were all friends. A close knit group of sexually liberated men who had wives and children but had sex with students and patients and didn’t share the same boundaries and morals.  I learned about the history of the department and the field from senior colleagues in years to come. No longer drinking and smoking dope I began to know the doctors who didn’t drink and smoke dope and they were by far the majority but they knew the sex addicts and drunks and gamblers in high places in the department and in the college and in the courts and parliament. I was trusted and sane and vetted and now welcome in a world of stability.  “Yes, we always knew he liked the male students but no one came forward.’  “He was in the military and a drunk but he had family and was good in his work. If he hadn’t drunk so much and run around with women he might have risen higher’ they said of another. “He was always weak..spiteful…nice….did you know he only saw 40 people for 40 years. …you were probably the only real psychiatric case he’d seen in twenty years.’…..he’s a member of the government….they gave him his house….don’t you remember the CIA mind experiments….he was the one who did it …he left Toronto and the partner took the rap…..of course he had sex with all those women….that’s why he hired psychiatrists with perverts.  Thank God for the new head ….he’s just a researcher and doesn’t like all that nonsense so the department has benefited for the last 20 years , none of the drugs and sex that was there when you came, at least not in the open. The majority of people just want to go to work and not have to deal with that drama.  Remember the day when they stopped serving alcohol at the faculty and people had to buy their own….that was a major fight in the back rooms but that was then.’

It all goes on. Scandal.  Top dogs and bottom dogs.  

I was uncertain what to do today. I thought of getting dressed in a wheat coloured linen skirt and cute sheer summer blouse. I thought of putting on my armored sweat jacket and riding the Vespa with the dog on his back to Commercial, sitting outside and writing. I like to sit in a skirt and blouse and write on the side walk. I like to sit in a suit and write on the side walk. I like to write and I like to sit and watch people and drink coffee. My dog likes to sit at my feet and smell everyone that walks by. When I travel I like to do that too. I have the fondest memories of Laura leaving me in Ireland while she went to shop and I sat in an outdoor cafe plucking away at keys.  I have another memory like that in Italy.  I have such fond memories and so enjoy her companies. We’ve been together over 20 years, not married, but intimate. I have some of my fondest best sex greatest nights of sensuality with her, she’s gorgeous in a bikini and a wonderful lover. I don’t want another woman. I liked strap ons.  A woman switching roles.  I liked a woman who liked to be on top. I so enjoyed her. I liked a woman who wanted sex desperately and took me.  Laura is traditional feminine.  I wish I’d met her and had children with her but I expect she was a wholly different person and might well have killed me or I her when we were younger if we had kids.  Her husband and she fought. He was an alcoholic. She left. She raised her children and often has nightmares. I wake her , calm her.  

I don’t have so many nightmares now. I had them for years.  There was such violence in my work.  I was held hostage, I was in plane crashes, I went through ice on skidoo and thought I’d die walking across the winter freezing. We left the skidoo at the bottom of the lake and I could only trust the lost guide as we couldn’t see trudging for hours to the reserve unable to see in the blizzard, clothing frozen like boards, I save two lives that day.  In addition to my own.  

I didn’t like being shot at. I never liked being stabbed. I’ve only been injured by the car crash and motorcycle crash and ATV crash. My back hurts. I don’t like to have sex on top because my back hurts. I feel badly saying that. I’ve used viagra.  I’m in pain alot but I don’t trust doctors. The police read everything and punished over and over again their women and their junior doctors coming into torture me.  I staggered from one bludgeoning celebration to another my lawyer protecting me from death.  Pulling me from the room when the doctor police doctors screamed ‘Women don’t lie about sex’. I’d fired the secretary doing crack at the office stealing and she retaliated by demanding $5000 dollars extortion money and when I refused and paid lawyers tens of thousands of dollars and exposed her using my computer for pornography on the job, nothing was done and the women banded to get her and her boyfriend threatened to kill me and smiled as she claimed then that she was afraid in my prescence , retaking of drugs once working as  a street whore and they said there’s only one victim card and you’re white and a man and a doctor and ‘women don’t lie about Sex’. She was laughing and lying and there is a special place in hell for these women who lie about sex.  The new industry …..I was fucked and I told the truth and I was fucked over and I was fucked over and over and over again and all I did was say ‘fuck’. “This is fucked’.  

I’d written a blues song ‘Hey man what a fuck up “ in my teens and was physically attacked by a pastor when I played it at a coffee shop and expelled from school when I was asked to play my music and recite my poems at the school.  The doctor police said “You should have learned by now.” I was told I couldn’t say ‘fuck’ .  The Prime Minister lies. Fuck yes , the book made million but the whole bureaucracy and years of my life and a time and hundreds of thousands of dollars and lawyers forever because “You can’t say fuck” she said, he said. The doctor police didn’t care that I was fucked . They didn’t care that I defended the falsely accused repeated. They didn’t care that children were killed. It didn’t matter that the patient died. Just make sure the chart is pretty.  You can do anything in a suit. Just don’t do it in jeans.  And don’t say the word ‘fuck’.  I learned years later how many other doctors were persecuted men and women. The corruption in government was unprescednted.

I kept hearing from one source after another ,”you’re the best clinician I know….you’ve treated the most complex cases I know…..you’ve had the toughest practice…you’re the best doctor…you went where no doctor would go….you served in the most dangerous places …..’. My colleagues and patients and all the referring doctors were so kind…….I just heard over and over again…..’you can’t be a professional and use the word’fuck’……a gentleman wouldn’t use the word ‘fuck’…..you musn’t speak like you do….you mustn’t ask questions of patients….you must turn in your colleagues…..you must watch them…the other doctors are dangerous….and I did turn in the doctor who was killing patients and tried to blame me…I’d not have if he didn’t try to blame me….all my most illustrious colleagues stood by and were mum when he was killing….his assistant told me the damage and deaths and injury he caused and that I was the only doctor who had said anything….she thanked me …said she was afraid she’d have been thrown out of her university position if she’d said anything. Her family was poor.  The rich have infinite resources. I know. I was fucked by a man from the wealthiest most powerful family and no one dared speak out against him, even my psychiatrist. It’s a clique.  Trudeau paid off his victims.  The Judge finally got caught in Prince George. The Epstein Island got exposed and the media turned away from the scandal . Of course Epstein committed suicide, no doubt with a little help from his friends.

I went sailing when my wife was insane and I had nightly threats of death, phone calls telling me that I was going to pay for going against the powerful.  I thought it was best to leave. I never wanted to come back. I had a job in Tennessee. She wasn’t so crazy when she was not at home in the mausoleum, and she had no dealers.  

I don’t know.

Today my mind jumps back to those days. It’s like this every June.  June I stopped drinking and smoking dope and tobacco and walked into a church because I’d always felt safe in church. I’d been always feeling good with God and felt I’d turned my back on God. I felt that smoking and drinking had eventually become more important than prayer and meditation. I began to devote my life to Christ again in June. She’d not wanted to go to church.. I’d married two women who didn’t like God and ‘church people’. They were both party girls, liked the ‘party’ , liked night clubs.  I danced. I liked to dance but I’d always been in spiritual places, churches, ashrams, monasteries and i began to read the bible again, I spoke with men of God….I had studied theology, I’d felt a ‘calling’ to practice medicine , left my study of theatre and instead ended up with a scalpel cutting flesh and delivering babies and eventually curious about non cooperative behaviour and non compliance and addiction when a boy lied and died because he lied and his family lied and he wasn’t on the medication he’d been given. I learned that 80% of pscvyhiatric patients don’t take their medications and 30 to 50% of normal patients don’t follow the doctors advice. I saw millions of dollars of drugs in the cabinets on native reserves because mothers don’t ‘force ‘their children to take pills so the multi million dollar assumption fort the multi billion dollar pharmaceutical industry was they needed a more expensive treatment. Then I found the revolving door detox was just that. I’d moon lighted as acting head of detox to pay for residency and the fine things my ex wife wanted, my wives demanded I make money for them and I always made 2 or three times the income and did the ‘wife’ jobs and ‘husband ‘ jobs and was ‘grateful’ and they made it clear that I was a loser, “Do you know that I’m a better woman than you are a man….I’m better looking and smarter than other women..I’m the A…I’m the hostuff…you’re a B in the mating game , B plus at most but not in my league….I could have had anyone I wanted…men and women worshiped me for my looks and brain so don’t think you’re okay…you’re lucky to be with me….I’m out of your league.”  I missed something . I never thought like that. I liked her .  I liked she fucked me….I liked she married me and then she began to talk just like her mother…that was the mother…she’d said the same to the father but I wasn’t a failure. I was being applauded, top of the class and she was struggling and I was helping her all the time. I was always helping women. Intellectually , emotionally, financially.  i think women see men as tools.  We’re the drones and they’re the queens. as long as I was fucked I was happy but then the witholding and rationing begins.  Sex as a reward.  The female game of marriage.  

I’ve raised dogs.  I know. But I don’t like the game and I fart. And you point one finger and three are pointing back. And she was perfect and I wasn’t . I bought her a house and her sisters’ husband bought her a bigger house and the house I loved now was no good and my dad and I had worked on the house and my friends had worked on the house and she didn’t want a psychiatrists. She wanted a surgeon. She didn’t want to work except in the university and wouldn’t go to the country and wanted more and more and more and I was working all the time and she just loved fine restaurants and clothes and this whole stifling world. I liked to camp and canoe and fish and hunt and it was the day she painted the walls pink and told me she didn’t want any of my photographs of bears and moose in the house , I had to get rid of that and she didn’t like my parents and my friends and her mother didn’t like my friends …..what a nightmare.  But she was perfect and I’m a man, men are scum.  

A day doesn’t go by that CBC doesn’t tell us about ‘toxic masculinity’.

So I thought to fix my dinghy.. I’ve got a set of wheels to put on it and a security light to go in. It’s dark now the sun has gone behind clouds. It’s cool. I have cleaning to do.  I think of male task, and female tasks, what we called ‘blue jobs and pink jobs’ on the sail boat. I fixed Diesel engines and cleansed bilges and climbed masts and faxed a countless array of fears and was always dirty but I gained skills and also I cooked. I don’t ask women to do anything. I ve been yelled at so many times just asking to pass me the wrench. I’ve had a million lectures from x wife’s and spent decades hearing women complain.  They compare men who go to work and come home and pay the bills to Hitler.  The news is a constant scream of the failures of men and no one is allow to question the performance. I watched a woman doctor permanent disable a child and my ex knew her, a political doctor, no one said anything. My wife cried one night.She ‘d worked with the nurse later found to be a serial murderer. “I want to report her but I saw what happened to you. I need my career.” She felt even worse when weeks later the story hit front page and she had seen the nurse poisoning the person.  “I saw her. I could have stopped her continuing.” I comforted her. I told her it was past. She was caught. She’d probably seen her last victim.  She was getting sloppy. You don’t criticize nurses.  I worked in a hospital with 28 perfect nurses and one psychopath. I was in terror when I was on call with her because she lied all the time and went for coffee and left patients to die. I’d saved several patients and repeatedly reported her but she was married to an important man. 

Politics and connections.

I wonder if it’s sex addiction. I think of wearing a sun dress and walking along looking ‘pretty’ .  Having children is what makes women women. Their capacity for child birth is what is the number one differentiating factor in biology but the most ardent feminists are the greatest abortionist. They call ‘women who have kids are cows, breeders’. I have lesbian friends, a couple of nurses I knew for years, cared for them as a doctor but first as a friend. They were not. Like this. Two beautiful older women who worked for decades in the north because there they could be lovers. They’d stay with me. They loved everyone. Several of my lesbian friends today had children first before they left their husbands so they’re mothers and don’t disparage families.  Yet there’s these young angry women who are offended by everyone and looking for a fight and dangerous to be around. I had some in my practice and I felt my tongue was always on egg shells. They ‘re like the violent bullies looking for an exude to hit you.  I’ve looked in the eyes of a hells angel ready to die, “are you disrespecting me’.  No. I said Looking him back thinking as I have ‘it’s a good day to die’…..I’m aa predator. I fight and bullies are always looking for easy prey.  But I don’t like big egos and walking around on eggshells or being with people especially in the LGBT community looking for a slip of the tongue.  A teen ager just last month secr3eamed at me that I was. “Racist …you’re racist…you shouldn’t be allowed to be a doctor….doctors like you hurt the natives….you’re a disgrace.”  She’d responded like that because I said ‘when i worked for ‘Indian Affairs’……she was a very rich priviledged special smart kid who’d never served spent years working with aboriginals where they couldn’t get doctors to go because it was too dangerous or too ill paid.  I got TB , always remember running from a gang of natives drunk ‘screaming kill the whitey’.  But that’s not what stays with me. It was the aboriginal nurse, I worked with a couple, this time this little nurse screamed at me to run to the chief ‘s cabin and then turned an ran head first into the belling the biggest fastest knife wielding young guy who I thought was going to kill men.  The chief took me in and told the drunken guys with knives and broken bottle, ‘don’t kill this whitey….he’s the doctor….if we kill the doctor we ‘ll never get another doctor…go kill some other whitey’….he was very drunk and naked children were all around on the floor with naked women but he saved my life……I’d been the first doctor to go to that reserve in years.  I was there and saved an old ladies life giving her digitalis for congestive heart failure.  Many of the reserves I worked on , the drunk ones, the RCMP wouldn’t go, and doctors had stopped going.  I asked the incredibly brave nurse why she’d done that. “He wouldn’t hurt me….I have family here… I didn’t want him to hurt you or you’d never come back and we need doctors and you’re a good doctor.”

Now I’m a toxic masculine racist….and I’ve been crying a lot because my native friend died and I can’t get over it . Too many of the people I most admired have died these last few years. It’s like the “Rapture’s come and gone and I’m stuck here on the ground”.  I’m cried out. I miss them so.  

I think if I’m a woman I can’ start a new. I feel I ‘ve not been ‘good enough’. I ‘ve never been ‘good enough’.  I didn’t give her a big enough house. I didn’t keep covering for her drug abuse…I didn’t do this….I didn’t do that. I shouldn’t have let him rape me. I shouldn’t have spoken up ….I should have taken the fall…. I should have trusted. I should have stayed and cared for my parents.  I gave them the city, her and him.  I went away. I just want peace. I let her have the house. I left her millions and took my boat. I have enough now. I’ve a trailer and motorcycle and a truck. It’s more than I need. I’m blessed but I don’t know what to do. I work.  I miss church. I miss meetings. I miss friends who now have died.  

I used to fish when my boat was here.

I could be bear hunting right now.  I could be hauling my trailer and truck up into the mountains. I’ve shot moose and bear but I’m older now and the trouble getting them to the truck afte I shot them. The elk took a whole day. The bear took a whole afternoon. I’m so tired these days. My back hurts so much. I’m tired of lifting and carrying and fighting with wrenches and axes.

I like putting on lipstick and cooking and even cleaning. I cook all the time. I formally trained as chef, worked part time as short order cook.  I loved raising chickens. I loved butchering. I’ve butchered thirty or more deer.  I’ve plucked hundreds of chickens.  But I’m not good enough .I’m the ‘worst man there ever was’. I’m the ‘worst doctor’…I’m the worst.  The problem is bad people and mad people say a lot of bad and mad stuff and good people don’t praise.  It’s most ly a Canadian things but there’s also no time for praise. We learned to do our best and keep doing it. And yet says the word ‘fuck’ and you are a terrible doctor. That’s the joke, I”m Gisuppe, the greatest architect of Grecce,…I made that building, that building…alll my life I built the greatest building, I was known all over Greece as the greatest architect and one goat just one sheep, do they say there goes Gisuppe the greatest architect, no, they all say there goes Gisuppe the goat fucker.

Women don’t get it.  The whole world hears that Trump liked women, had sex with women, had sex with a prostitute, had two wife’s, cares for both of them, but he’s republican.  The main contender was of a religion that long supported men have ing many wives. Kennedy boys fucked everyone. Hillary fucked everyone.  Clinton fucked everyone and probably everything.  Meanwhile Kamala the new VP is the ‘blow job queen of California’ who fucked Governor Brown and fucked over his wife but it’s okay he’s Democrat. Demcrats fuck goats even but it’s not okay to fuck even your wife if you’re a Republican, while maybe it’s okay to fuck your wife, but only missionary style.

The doctor police have told the doctors not to talk about sex with patients as it might upset them. My gynaecologist friends almost dies laughing telling me about the college police and their perversion and cernsorship and what they expect of her , a gynaecologist, can’t talke about sex and it might upset them.

i save the sight of two babies because the mother told me her husband was seeing prostitutes and his dick was dripping and her old doctor was offended that I’d discussed sex with her as he didn’t think Doctors’s should talk about that and it was all very disgusting that this pillar of the community and his wife pregnant should be spreading gonorrhea which he as a very upper classs doctor felt was dirty….so i gave the wife penicillin and we made sure the kids eyes didn’t go blind from gonorrhea and the man got penicillin for a disorder his wife ahd developed and no one meantioned sex but I was frowned at. Leper doctors are as stigmatized as lepers.

I’m a dirty doctor. I tried to visit a patient on the surgical ward and she sneered when I told her I was the patients psycchiatrist, ‘You’re only the psychiatrist. Not a real doctor like a family physician . We only let family physicians and surgeons see patients now.”   I ‘d not heard that ‘you’re not a real doctor’ since my wife mocked me and pschiatriy. She and her family weren’t crazy, alcoholics and suicidal and insane, “but we’d never see a psychiatrists…..psychiatrists are as crazy as their patients….you’re not a real doctor.’ She sneered. Now here I was thinking the nurse and walking away 

“I’d rather see a psychologist but I’d have to pay for them because they’re so good but you’re free so I came to see you.”

I did a step 4 a couple of times and laid out the long lists of resentments and prayed and surrendered and let go and know that it’s perception. I know life is a road and there’s roses on the right and manure on the left and that the road floods with shit but that i just have to keep on trekking and I don’t need to go over there and watch the shit because it dones’t help to know it’s coming I can’t get off the road…so it’s better to walk over on the right hand side and focus on the flowers. There’s also enough shit now that I don’t need to look at past shit. it’s done. The psychopaths and sociopaths won.  Maybe one day w’ell get better leaders, but now they like sock boys with pretty hair. What’s with the celebration of stupidity in the world, stoner and stuttering dement. They made Trump do an MoCA but I don’t think either the US or Canadian guys could consistently pass. Where’s the drug tests too. If we had the minimum standards that pilots or even school bus drivers have to meet for guys who drive the country it probably would be better. I didn’t smoke dope at work or drink at work. That was for vacation. Now I wear women’s clothes and turn off the phone or get out of Canada. When I’m overseas I go to churches and sit…..it doesn’t matter if I’m au femme or au drab…I just feel safe out of Canada and in a church.  Mostly I feel safe in the woods and in wilderness or off shore at sea.  

All shall be well . All shall be well. All manner of things shall be well.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
God, I offer myself to thee

Our father who aren’t in heaven

Be still and know that I am good.

Thank you God.  


Good Mood, Blue Sky

I used to hand out a series of circles labelled as follows:
1. Weather
2. Government
3. Community
4. Work
4. Recreation
6.  Friends
7.  Extended family
8.  Spouse
9.  Children
10.  Self

I taught people that healthy people asking themselves how they feel began at the outside and moved in, whereas unhealthy people began at the inside of the circle and moved out.
eg.  I’m a terrible person and my children are terrible and my spouse is terrible.
Meanwhile I tend to think it’s a rainy day so I’ll probably feel badly. My government sucks.  There’s too much construction in my neighbourhood and not enough parks.  
The solution for the first person is to kill themselves.  The solution for the next person is to know they’ll probably feel better when the weather changes. Sailing made me really appreciate weather and how it comes and goes. I learned to adjust my sails to the weather.  
We have a tendency to go back to thinking that if I feel bad today and I once felt bad because my spouse was sleeping with the government administrator I’m probably feeling badly today because she’s probably sleeping around.
Cognitive behavioural therapy teaches that my feelings are mostly a problem of my thinking.  So if I expand my search I might find I’m feeling badly because my boss promoted my coworker and that my wife is older and the government administrator is probably sleeping with the next guys wife.  


Thursday, June 10, 2021

Rainy Day Pissy Mood

I supposed gratitude might lift the spirits. Thank you and appreciation for all the blessings I have. A spiritual giant would do that. I think I’m a flower thought. When it rains I don’t open my petals. I’m become pissy like the rain. It’s good that it’s not a shitty day.  It’s cloudy. Dark. Cold.  Yesterday there was some sun and I was uplifted. Yesterday I felt better. Today I could have slept more. I woke tired. I’ve gone through the motions, walked the dog, had coffee. Coffee and showers kick in usually. I’ll work. I like work. Being of service. It’s a bit routine. The scheduling and factory feeling of the pace wear me down.  I take the cheque as the applause. I’m at the end of a long career and find maybe for the first time I’m working for the pay. When it was a profession and excellence was desired I and meritocracy was rewarded I really thrived. It was joyful to study and answer the questions and do the right things but the authorities siding with the politically correct, the mob, the psychopaths and sociopaths eventually wore me down.  Identity politics and communism got to me.  Seeing the poverty of leadership and that it just didn’t get better. The wankers remained wankers. There was too much support for mediocrity. Why work when you can steal. It’s too late to get back pay.  I really know if it would matter. I’m lacking vision. I’m at the end of a career with no future on the horizon. I continue to do the same old same old and I do it well because I was well trained, studied and am still at the top of my game. But I can see it doesn’t excite me to study more of the same. I’m wanting a change. I had purpose when I was planning expeditions and getting extra degrees and learning to survive or just becoming good as a motorcyclist.  
Today I fancy a sex change. Not the whole thing. I would just like breasts when it comes down to it.  A face lift. I’m perpetually immature at times.  I loved Travels with Charlie and I love road trips.  I enjoy camping and exploring the woods here. But when I think of a road trip I think of ‘Black Like Me’. I think of being a cross dressed old drag queen travelling across the country with a dog camping and chatting with folk, not as the person people turn to for advice and ‘use’ all the time, and carry a whole deluge of propaganda generated predjudices. I think back to the path not taken. The day I left the world of theatre, the day I left dance and being a free spirit.In many ways I look at my adult life as ‘duty’ and ‘service’, ‘going to war for the country’.  Caring for crazy women at home fighting the government always to get the services promised to my patients. I think I’m depressed at some level. It’s just that when I’m cross dressed I lose the burden of identity. I walk out and am incredibly vulnerable in a sense but I don’t feel I have to ‘fight through’ this. My male adult life has been constant struggle and constant fighting the authorities to allow me to heal. I sometimes want to write a list of times that administrators behind closed doors have in politically correct terms told me to let my patient die or kill the shit and I’ve fought for their individual life even if it’s not good for the whole. Now they’ve brought in euthanasia and gagged the doctors and threatened to discipline doctors who don’t shut up and do as they’re told. I’ve been obedient and compliant but it doesn’t matter. We are supposed to worship our lords and masters and they say the silliest things like ‘you can’t swear’. ‘You need to cut your hair’.  “You need to wear a tie’.  Repeatedly I’ve been told to lie and to support psychopaths. “Do you know whose friend Mrs. Jones is, you can’t treat her like everyone else.”  And I have and I’m tired. I’m tired of constantly looking over my back.  I trained in ‘morbidity and mortality’ and my ‘morbidity and mortality’ stats are the very best. The age of deference is gone is one thing but communism encourages corruption.  I feel like Klinger in MASH.  
I’m literally afraid of women, children any of those people who have a ‘victim card’ or “I’m special card’.  Last year when a native threatened to kill me and my dog when his off the pit bull tried to attack my blind old cockapoo I got in the way and the dog attacked me and then the owner a young punk came and threatened to kill me and the dog. I was ganged up on. I was bullied. I had an older patient who was walking into a store and the pit bull of homeless drug addicts sitting in front of the store attacked her for no reason and clamped onto her hand which is now permanently disabled and makes it hard for her to dress. She can’t do buttons. I identified. Not being able to type, to play guitar to hold a motorcycle grip. All that happened to her and there was no consequence for the ‘special people who have a weapon not a pet’.  I stool watching this young punk waving his arms and his dog beside him and my dog cowering blind and old between my legs and I had no fear I could take this silly boy.  I could kill him or even disable him. I was in charge of the dangerously insane ward and repeatedly took down the violent alone and with others. I did martial arts most of my life and have won countless street fights. I’m old but he was all Hollywood. It was apparent to him he was in difficulty when I just stood and stared back calmly quietly. I was weighing the odds that the dog would defend his master or go for my old guy. I’d fended off the pit bull’s initial attack catching his leap with my hip so his jaws had nothing to grab on. I’d defended myself against a pit bull once before disabling it when it trying to kill me so I knew their weakness. I had no fear except of being maimed if the master hit me and I defended myself but I couldn’t protect my little furry blind old friend from an attack if the pitbull went for him rather than me. 
The police didn’t care..
No one cared that my life and my dog’s life was threatened. I stopped working in the DTES shortly after.  I’d had my life threatened by three guys with guns on North Vancouver Island and the police and courts had protected them so I left the north some 20 years ago not because it was dangerous. It’s just that the police and courts are so afraid of the bullies, they cut deals and don’t want to offend the real rulers in these areas so they sacrifice doctors and priests and teachers.  I now feel I’m not safe in this country.
I feel ironically I’m safe in a dress. I never have felt women could protect me under any circumstance. I’ve met individual women over the years who were literally unique. I’m not talking about my mother or mothers in general. Mothers will protect their children but not me.  My mother’s dead and that makes me more afraid.
I realized camping with women in the woods that if I’d broken a leg they couldn’t get me to help, they usually didn’t even know where we are. They collectively had all this bravado but were ‘dependent’ and ‘arrogant’. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.  But I’ve know I could protect others. I”ve repeatedly ‘saved the day’ .But older I don’t feel safe.  I’m afraid. It’s a thing of aging. When I’m with suburban white middle class friends they live the lie that the police will protect them that all is well. But I’ve seen too many psychopaths and psychotics and especially good people dangerously insane with drugs.  I’ve been in ghettos, Harlem, in DTES. I can’t stand talking to academics who live in suburbia and believe the news.  I just feel I’m dirty with the experience of the dangerousness of the world and how the bureaurcracy doesn’t care and the media constantly lies. It’s a very thin veneer of civilization. My friends from school days cling to their utopia ideals with fairytales of namaste and everyone is good. Meanwhile the very small group of Brown shirts followed Hitler to take over a civilized country just like a tiny number of murderous killers called Lenin, Stalin, Molotov and Trotsky began a reign of terror no different from the night of guillotines.  Life is not safe. Dying in bed of old age is a luxury.  
This last year working from home, being alone and safe has helped heal me.  But I can’t shake the feeling that being a old white man is not as safe as being and old white woman.  My friend says we look the same but if I was young I’d fear rape. I feared rape as a young man, being raped and having to fight off several gang rapes as a teen boy. But the media play the game of the ‘victim girl.’  Chivalry and femimism …you can’t lose. Meanwhile history shows that boys die and girls weep. I’d rather be a hammer than a nail. Other than mothers girls are totally self centred and they even have boys who surround them wanting to get laid so agreeing with what ever hog wash they spout this day. I
Personally I’ve been blessed with the women I’ve known. I know my anger and resentment is with the media and the propaganda and the favouritism. I’m like the kid is the family who sees the sister cheating and then getting off by giving teacher a blow job. I lost jobs to women fucking the boss on the interview. I had lesbian bosses try to fuck me in interviews.  Yet to listen to the media it’s only the Jews, women, Muslims and natives, who are the flavour of the month.
It’s just self pity.
It’s disguise. It’s anonymity. It’s a new face. It’s privacy. I’ve lived my life in a fishbowl. Nothing about women’s clothing is associated with fixing engines. I know women wear flannels and jeans and the exception not the rule fix machines. I’ve a friend who works a sledge hammer and I trained with Canada’s foremost silent kill master a female sergeant. They are ‘exceptions’.  
Women’s clothing is ‘relaxing’.  It’s also sexual or inviting. I think of sex as a male as work in a way as I got older. The days spent for years with wives bringing them to orgasm.  Thank you darling.  I was the husband, wife and sex slave all rolled in one. When I just took her and had my way I was a self chauvinist who only thinks of himself. I hated years of criticism and no praise. I hated all the put downs and the snubs and the general expectation of perfection and never being ‘good enough’. It’s a life time of that. I always thought one day I’d ‘pass’. Now I’m an old man and realize that was the ‘lie’. We’ll give you praise, the bonus, the reward, ‘next time’.  
I gave a doctor an A and the head objected and said “I’ve never given a student an A’.  I responded ‘Did you ever get an A?”  Of course, he said. I looked him straight in the eye and didn’t back down and said, “That says it all, doesn’t it.”  He began given his students A’s at the end of a long career, fucking narcissist wanker.  
I’m pissy. It’s the rain. It’s the dark clouds. It’s constantly anti white , anti male, anti intelligence propaganda. I read in face book this morning a text book calling ‘white men priviledged and parasitic’. I’m so tired of the war and that the women don’t defend us. I feel suicidal sometimes thinking of all we’ve done for them and so many just want more. I can’t give more. I’m old. I’ve given my life to the company store. When I say I was on call for ‘free’ the unionized all don’t get it. They think I’m ‘rich’.  There are rich doctors but they didn’t get rich doing primary care. They got rich working in the courts or doing something different. I work for the poorest and most marginalized and though I was one of the top in any class,sometimes the top, I’ve turned down millions of dollars to ‘serve’ and now I’m a ‘fool’. The very people i care for ‘bite the hand that feeds’. All it takes is a complaint and I lose $10,000 and am taken into the principals office when they beat me with rulers and straps, or behind closed doors where they hit me with billy clubs because I was ‘long haired peace nik’.
I don’t like getting old. I want a new identity. I’m afraid. I’m ready to be a bug. Just give me a hard shell. People don’t understand how ‘loud’ the world is emotionally.  I’m only safe and at peace in the woods or at sea.  I’ve faced a home invasion. I’ve face police coming in the door because they got the wrong address.  I’ve been shot at. I’ve been knifed and I’m scared. I want a new face. I miss Leonard Cohen. All my friends are dying. Just last week another good one died.  The best died last year and the dirty filthy disgusting evil sullied his great name and character.  Such shit.  My mentors, men and women I’ve most admired are being lied about by the perverts in power now little dictators in Ottawa spouting filth and lies.
I’m okay. I’ve got heat and water and indoor plumbing. It’s just this self pity that kicks in in the rain. I fight it every day. The past and the future. I pray. I meditate. I hate the horrible pain. I’m so tired of the pain. I really have a great life when I don’t get in my head. It’s been an adventure. But a face lift and breasts and some new shoes would be more fun than another motorcycle or a another rifle or building another cabin or fixing another Diesel engine. I’ve no desire to party. I just want to walk to an outdoor cafe and write in a skirt. I don’t even know if its’ a skirt. I miss Mexico and living in tshirt and sarong.  I don’t even mind shorts. But this whole northern male military style dress mode with pants and jackets and frankly I loved the joke that cargo pants are ‘purse pants’. Going out of the house I need so many things and now a mask as well and hand cleaner. Too many things to forget. 
I see women as light and free and I want to be light and free. I want to lie back and think of England rather than worry about erecttions or viagra or being distracted by something and having my erection respond to my mind’s aimless wandering these days. I know it’s not the woman. I want her to be happy. I want women to learn to care for men, not mothers they’re all doing their bit. I love mothers but I have no time for little girls and little boys. All those sings childless men and women and the lesbians and gays who haven’t contributed children but want to tell parents what to do. And that evil little rich bitch from that horrid elite family screaming ‘how dare you!!!”  How dare you.  Pull your weight shut up and learn something .Everyone ‘s a doctor google and amateur self proclaimed genius. It’s a mob and I didn’t mind them but where can I go to live and die safely.
I don’t know where to go to finally have a safe time.  I did my work and served and more than served. I worked in the areas of greatest need and danger when I could have taken the easy high paid street. I could have serve the worried well or worked with the safe and wealthy.  I could have stayed in a variety of places.  But I dion’t and now it really comes down to what am I going to do when I grow up.
I actually like my work now mostly but I don’t like people threatening me anymore. I am afraid when people raise their voices. I’ve seen too much death and saw colleagues permanently maimed or die and know that yest they bang their pots at night and that’s sweet but in the end you suffer alone and pain is lonely.  
When the patient threatened to kill me, that’s what he did, that’s what crystal meth does,I got asked by an ivory tower salaried shit, ‘what did you do to upset him’. When I refused to see the person who wanted to kill me, “why could you not just have one last session with them to give them closure’ said the  idiot in power.  Why did you fire her?  She was using drugs at work and her boyfriend threatened to kill me.  She was psychotic. She lied. She scared my patients.  She threatened my patients. She didn’t like East Indians. She thought her job was to get her friends services. She stole.  Well, we believe women over men and you have so much power and priviledge.

I’m sometimes just unable to face the day, face the next lying psychopath.  She says she can’t work but she’d doing two jobs under the table and flying back and forth to her country and demanding that I sign her lie that she unable to work. She ‘s extorting me . She’s a lying psychopath and bully and the authorities side with her and I’m afraid to reach into the black hole because every once in a while there’s a snake .  99% of the time there’s no snake and you can take the tiny little frightened person out of the dark hole and walk them back to the light. But every once in a while there’s a snake and that’s when you learn that the people who police you who are in charge are snakes and it’s soul destroying. I want to have faith. 

I have to look on the ‘bright side of life’.
I have to see the irony and humor.

Some days I just have to get in the shower and have another cup of coffee and get on with it.  I have to shake my pissy mood, stop thinking about myself, stop the pity party. Get on with it.  Do the next right thing. Believe in the best. Psych myself up.  

Maybe I need to go back to Mexico and hang out in a sarong and tshirt before I fly to Thailand to get breast implants. I certainly don’t want to be a woman. The idea of having children and the uncertainty and all that mothers and grandmothers go through is beyond me. I ‘d like to be a rich little girl, someone wearing rich soft lace panties saying ‘I m offended’ and ‘kill the fathers’. I frankly didn’t like what they did to Harper and Trump. I miss my mom and dad and the respect they had for each other and the love.  

It’s going to be okay. The sun will shine. The summer will come. I’ll get through another day. I have a wonderful friend and a wonderful dog and any day now I’m grow up.