Wednesday, December 31, 2014
“Do as I say or die!"
“Give me money or the world will end!”
Meanwhile everyone is being reasonable. But nothing is ‘enough’. Nothing less than perfection is ‘good enough’.
I’ve heard this message, this critical, whining, complaining, message all my life. The ‘position’ has been different but always it’s the ‘new religion’. This Cult of Death cries over and over again.
“Do as I say or die!” “Listen!, Listen!”. "Listen to me alone!"
Today they claim ‘science’ but science is debate. This isn't science. It's histeria. It's fanaticism. It's politics. It's hustling.
I am a scientist, The science they slogan is pseudoscience. It's not real science. The money they want is real money. It’s always about money. Give me money and I’ll save the world. Give me your money. Do as I say. You can’t trust anyone but me. I’ve heard this all my life.
I’m getting old now. It's getting old.
Yet another New Year has come. Love has won, again. I’m thankful. I’m really thankful for all the real scientists, all the real problem solvers, solution based folks building and making and winning despite the complainers and whiners.
The United Nations is an industry of third world dictators. The Security Council is the headquarters central for the arms trade. I’m not being cynical. I simply know casinos don’t want to stop gambling just limit the gambling to those who don’t lose control and sell their children. I know the bars don’t want to stop selling booze just not sell it to those who have already had one liver transplant. The tobacco industry was fine with selling cigarettes as long as you had both lungs. Really after you’ve lost one lung to cancer you really should move along. The images of the victims of these industries are bad for their business. The same is true for the UN. It’s industry is war. The ‘security council’ doesn’t want to stop war. It's in the business of selling weapons and ammunition. It just doesn’t want the war to get out of control. It’s same old game. It's the Great Game.
Now the climate change hysterics are on about saving the world with their latest set of regulations. They want another set of United Nations climate change police. We've got police for the police and committees upon committees. It’s all hysteria.
“Trust me! Trust me! Trust me!” "Give me your money!" "Give me your life!"
You’re wrong. Your predictions have all been false. The world hasn’t ended. The sky isn’t falling. The war to end all wars didn’t end all wars. Just get on with it. You do your thing. I’ll do mine. But stop your incessant childish bullying. Stop your name calling and your false advertisements and your claim to represent ‘science’.
You’re the United Nations and you're not even United. The number of mistakes you’ve made , the terrorists you’ve backed, the dictators you’ve supported and the money you’ve wasted is irreverent.
Now you claim that by having another meeting, another committee in your unending rounds of government committees with your resolutions , your exorbitant salaries, and your dictates, that you will save us all from ourselves. You talk. You talk. You talk and you talk and you talk. And you talk to each other. And you agree to agree and you want us to pay for your party. While the rest of us are digging holes and planting trees. We’re building while you tear down.
You criticize the whole history of human kind. You condemn all that has brought us thus far. You deny life on this planet. You deny the very life that has blossomed and risen. You are insane.
It’s a New Year.
Despite your incessant hysteria. Despite your promise of death, we have lived. I'm here to tell you we are in a "Life Change" equation but today We are alive.
I know you will rain on this parade. You rain on any parade. You're soul suckers. Meanwhile, I’m going to laugh and sing and celebrate another New Year. BecauseI believe. I believethe future is safe even from your soul sucking. I believe and I have faith. I believe in the present and I believe in the future and I believe in the past. I believe good men and good women will prevail. I believe we will survive. We will survive and we will thrive. I am in love with life. I am just damned tired of your constant whining, complaining, criticizing and negativity.
It’s a New Year.
We’ve survived despite your claims otherwise.
It’s a New Year and the planet is still here.
Wake up. Arise. Celebrate.
Get over yourself. Get out of yourself. Hear the fear that is you. Change yourself. The planet is fine. We’re fine. There’s lots to do. There’s all manner of work to be done. We don’t need another committee. We don’t need any more ‘threats’. Stop selling your mealy mouth wares, hawking your worn out slogans with that same old hysteria. Become the solution. Be the solution. Show me, don’t tell me.
It’s a New Year.
I’m frankly thankful. With your mass hysteria,collective stupidity. brain washing the young, and the corruption of the media, I admit I’ve had my worries. I know climate. I know science. But the truth be told nothing is more dangerous than my fellow man except maybe my fellow woman. And the folk who make up the United Nations are the power brokers of the greatest killers of all times. You don't get to sit in the United Nations unless you've pleased the man whose selling the big guns in your nation. Sure they'll outlaw guns for common folk but all the leaders in the United Nation they have guns. They have the biggest guns of all times. They can change the climate or the planet anytime they want. They can kill us dozens of times over but they don't want to. That would be bad for business. And they're in the business of war. That's why it's called the Security Council. And they don't want things to get out of control. Not out of their control, anyway. The leadership of this world is based on survival. They may not be the fittest by any sense of the word but they are survivors. And they want to survive and they want their kids to survive. While no one wants to talk about that elephant in the room, that elephant is saying ‘trust me to fix the climate’ . Frankly I don’t trust them to fix squat! They’re wanting to meddle for profit and nothing else. Their science is pseudoscience. And they lie. Some say that the biggest brain was made for the biggest lie.
But it’s a New Year.
And I’m glad for it.
It’s a New Year. I’m going to dance and sing. I’m going to tell everyone to dance and sing and celebrate whether it rains or it shines.
Ding dong the witches dead! Beware of her negativity and incessant complaining and whining and threatening and bullying and demanding. Just because it kills her doesn't mean it has to kill you. Mostly beware of anyone saying they're doing it for someone else good but not their own. Beware of give me money to help a snail. Or I'm going to kill him for his sake. I”m saving the planet for the children and the grand children. Hell, that’s prophecy and religion. Predictions and projections are just fancy words for “I can see the future”. Give me your money.
Well I can see the future.
t’s a New Year.
Despite all their doom and Death Cult chants we’re alive.
We survived. Dance, sing, celebrate!
I thank God for that!
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Gilbert has been a therapy dog since he was a puppy. I’ve had him at work with me in both my psychiatry and my addiction medicine clinics. He’s been a ‘greeter’ and ‘play therapist’. He’s also had a great intuitive depth as to who needed his love and care. Several of my most disturbed patients isolated in their psychosis and misery have been helped out of their morbid depression by Gilbert’s paw and wet nose or gentle tongue.
I think he’s my therapy dog as well since I’m happiest with him around. It’s hard to be angry when I watch his enthusiasm with life and little critic antics. So finally with the help of friends and authorities Gilbert received his formel Therapy Dog vest. He’s now credentialled and official, his years of selfless work acknowledged.
Normally he doesn’t like wearing jackets and such though that doesn’t stop me and my staff from dressing him, he actually doesn’t mind this lose fitting ‘vest’ . He really does look professional now.
The Christmas Eve service and the Christmas Day service at St. James Anglican Church was blessed. Father Mark Greenaway-Robbins in his sermon this morning asked us “What would Jesus think this Christmas Day?” He spoke to all the amazing acts of generosity which were occurring around the world and not really being covered as such by the media. The first ‘giving’ he described was to the millions of refugees around the world who are being taken in by strangers and organizations. There’ the Red Cross and the Red Crescent and many more. He celebrated all the Christians doing missionary work and caring for the poor and sick around the world. He spoke to the local work in the Downtown Eastside by the Salvation Army, Union Gospel Mission, the United Church, and of course the many volunteers from St. James Anglican. He thought Jesus would see all this charity and love pouring out from individuals far away and near by and be thankful.
Father Mark Greenaway-Robbins and Ruth Greenaway-Robbins will be in Wales in the New Year. In person, at the end of the service, he asked that I pray for them. Naturally I was grieving his imminent departure and thinking all about my loss, fearful about who the new minister would be. And of course Father Mark said just the right thing and took me out of myself yet again. Leaving I saw Father Mathew whose street clinic is to the old men in the DTES. I always feel better just seeing him. My friend Helen is preparing to leave on missionary work in Africa. The Muslims have been killing the Christians but it’s not really the Muslims, just bad men, claiming God on their side. It won’t be the first time, that has occurred. But even now Muslims of 4 countries are joined with the US to contain the plague of ISIS. These fanatics dinosaurs have arrogantly claimed their vision as jihad when indeed they’re nothing more than barbarians and pillagers. The sad part about religion in war is that it’s always the ‘comic book’ brand that gets the followers.
I’ve enjoyed Father Mark these last years at St. James Anglican because his message in sermons and in the Thurible he writes each week speaks to the highest and deepest in Christianity.
Personally I admire Helen because she goes with love to help the children in Africa. I’d personally rather go with the French Foreign Legion or a British Expeditionary Force. I’m like the ‘machine gun preacher’. I should feel complete with my Bible but frankly I am never comfortable without a knife handy and really would gladly have a Glock 9 mm pistol at hand always. I don’t have a pistol. I let my licenses for these expire and sold the two I had some decades back. I’d had fun for a while shooting at targets and would gladly return to that but the bureaucracy and propaganda irritate me.
And Jesus, son of God, was born to Mary in Bethlehem. God the creator entered His Creation and changed the fabric and nature of the universe from that day forward. The Cosmic Christ was created. The world had been in black and white before that, a kind of Darwinian place of Kings and Queens, Emperors and empires, with their richest followers and most powerful adherents. Jesus by contrast was the ‘servant king’. As an adult he’d wash the feet of his disciples and welcome children to him and celebrated women. The secular authorities in the name of Herod would seek his death shortly after his birth. His family would escape to Egypt before returning in later years. There is mystery to that time in the east. Jesus was learned always beyond his years. Christmas Day though he was a baby in swaddling cloth in a manger. His birth was the promise, “he so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son’. The birth of Jesus was the essence of hope. This world is just a passage. The real world is much more.
Now I’m on my sailboat, enjoying the peace and calm in the harbour. The sunshine today has been splendid. I’ve some time off from work and a trip to Turkey planned. As usual I move any valuables to storage and have arranged for friends to manage my ‘stuff’ while I’m away. Gilbert stays with his surrogate mother. He’s sleeping now beside me. He enjoyed our time in church today. He has so many friends there. Then we played ball. Now he’s eaten a “little cesar” and is sleeping. The ceramic heater is sufficient for the boat. I’m cozy and have found the electric blanket so will check that out as I’ll be sleeping here this week. I have hoped to take the boat out but had second thoughts because the forecast has been for rain but now I see that that’s only on Saturday so once I get the RV repair arranged I just may get out. I have this lethargy which is only made worse by giving into it. That desire to hide in bed under the blankets and never come out comes over me this time of the year. I really must resist it. There are so many things to do and see.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
"Methadone is a godsend," my patient just told me. He's looking to return to work. No longer fearing the deadly diseases associated with IV drugs, he's looking to return to work in the New Year. "I couldn't work." Heroin had taken over his whole life. Now he has a girlfriend whose also on methadone and they're celebrating Christmas together with turkey dinner.
So many of my patients have had the last dime of their money taken by the drug pushers. Drug pushers are sad. At the top of that dung heap is the guy addicted to money. At the bottom is the guy whose psychopathic devolution is such that he'll enslave his fellow man for his own comfort. Most of my patients are just victims. They used their welfare checks, turned tricks, gave blow jobs to bullies, did petty crime. When they'd had enough self abuse they walk through the doors of Doc Side Medical Clinic on Main Street.
There are other such places. Clinics where methadone doctors are licensed to help this marginalized population of ill.Some start their journey going to NA and AA. Others start here , stay on methadone maintenance like any other medication but become abstinent in all other regards, return to work and families, pay taxes, and return to law abiding citizens remembering their days of addiction as a bad nightmare.
Right now my friends are helping the homeless with coats and food. Many of those helping once had addictions themselves. Not all homeless have addiction. Too many of the homeless here are those sad and tragic people who because of mental illness were well cared for in state mental institutions. Now those have closed and too many of the mentally ill are the prey of the drug dealing predators, those parasites on society. Too often I see the families of the mentally ill who can't wrest their loved ones from the representatives of organized crime. The police do all they can.
We do what we can.
(Patients come and go. It's steady.)
Christmas eve is the lowest time of the year.
In the morning we will celebrate the Birth of Christ. Hope for a new age. The promise that another year will come and life will move forward. In pre Christian days the winter festival celebrated the hope of the new year.
The crocuses come out in February here, at latest March. Patients seem so low then at some nadir they rebound and come back as if from the dead. Dark night of the soul. The 'bottom'.
The New Year comes that way. This year waning. The light dwindling. Then the return of the sun. My generation's Beatle song "Here Comes the Sun!" celebrates the spring as none other can.
The renewal. The new beginnings. And a baby cried in a cradle. A new age began.
There is hope.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Frankly, I don't think Darwin knew sperm. Imagine a billion little men trapped inside suddenly let lose. They're not going anywhere but away. They're escaping. They running en mass away from the prison or asylum. The Latins are forming congo lines. The Irish are doing jigs. The French are pontificating and gesticulating while they run. The Americans are trying to take charge while bringing up the rear. The Canadians are being polite but running no less fast.
It's a mad dash for the first stretch, given the propulsive release. After that it's like any other billion group of men going no place. They're spread out. Some are out in front, not competitively, but just to get away from the other guys and see what's around the corner. There's some guys bringing up the rear because that's where they can keep an eye on things. The meanderers are muddling along in the middle.
The Vagina has always been a confusing place for men. Imagine the poor little guys without GPS (or a woman to ask directions for them) trapped in cul de sacs. If they were hell bent on reproduction like Darwin claims they'd find a way forward. Yet once they come up against a wall they head the other way happy to be helped along by Gravity. Turned around, they joyfully escape to the great outside where there are bright lights and terrific musky scents. There's also that spectacular Whistler Blackcomb ski ride along a satin smooth inner thigh. Maybe these sperm are the winners, the great escapees who end their short exciting lives puddling the sheets. It's not like sheets and sperm are unknown to each other. That alone shoots hole in Darwin's mere intellectualism.
Darwin selected the tunnellers to prop up his less than perfect theory. His little 19th century brain gave all his attention to the sperm that entered the Cervix and headed up the Uterus. Now what a long trek that will become for these little guys, their little tadpole tails wagging slower and slower, no doubt. You just have to know a whole lot of them faced with the wonder of that great ocean probably turned back thankful for Gravity and the Great ski resort below.
The remaining sperm randomly headed off. Those straight arrows that raced right up the centre only banged their teeny heads against the Great Wall. What sort of devious arrangement is this that those who angle off to the side, shiftilly, actually find a way out. It goes against the very ideals of Darwinian 'fittest'. There's no efficiency in this arrangement. The muddlers and amblers are as likely in the Uterus to find their way to the Fallopian Tubes as any Neitzian Superhero hell bent on the 'race'.
Besides anywhere along here an Egg might be stalking, already having slid down the Fallopian tube ready to pounce on an unsuspecting sperm simply minding it's own business, looking for a way out of a gooey maze. It's the Egg that's selective and probably seeking some poor schmuck trying to escape.
Mostly the sperm get waylaid in the Fallopian Tube. Here their way of escape is blocked by something like a black gartered Dominatrix Egg. . Most of the sperm might very happily sneak around the sides of this engulfing Gaia mother just to get out the back door. Maybe they draw lots. "Okay, Ernie, you're the slow one, we're going to leave you here to face that Egg alone. The rest of us guys will go get help". Next thing poor Ernie is trapped for life in an Egg sucking the very DNA out him. The Egg meanwhile is already pissed that she was just expelled from her home so isn't too pleased with Ernie. The two of them start housekeeping under threat of an abortion guillotine as well. Meanwhile the 'gang' are partying their way up the Fallopian Tubes ready escape to into the great Abdominal Mall. Without responsibility they live out the wild full life of a happy unattached little sperm man.
There's a billion of these guys. They end up all over the place. Some in the wrong hole. Some in kleenex. There's no reason whatsoever to think that the one sperm that gets tackled by an Egg is the fittest. Darwin was simply wrong. Darwin was a 19th century English chauvinist. The Egg could as easily captured Ernie because he was slowest or stupidest. No one is saying he's not a nice guy. He just might not be the fittest.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Was there God and building blocks?
Was there God and nothingness?
Or was there just God.
And God Created all from himself (Thyself).
The One became many. The journey outward.
We are created in the “image of God’. That’s the “imagination of God”.
I remember Dr. Carl Ridd telling us that when he taught Literature of the Bible, at University of Winnipeg in the early 70’s. I was struck by the ‘face’ of it. Later I’d appreciate 'appearances' as described by the theologian, Owen Barfield. The psychiatrist, Dr. Carl Jung, called the outer layer of our individuality “persona’ , that face we showed to the world, the mask we wore. Indian mystics meanwhile sung “I am the bubble, make me the sea.”
Asking the Burning Bush who he was, the answer came to Moses, “YHVEH” That name of God, that could never be spoken, for to know God fully was to loose oneself, YHVH was later translated “I am that is who I am.” Part of the great mystery is that only an approximation of reality in analog.
The depth of each of us, that very ‘beingness’ of each of us, the soul, that individual dream of God was, in deed, our very connection to the One Dreamer, or Creator. The greeting "Namaste", means simply 'the God in me salutes the God in you." Jesus Christ translated means 'God Within", "God will come again". The meaning of the word Gospel, was simply the "good news".
I am a child of God. I am made of the same 'god stuff', the 'soul stuff' of creation. I can think of God and know God because I’m actually "God thought" or to use a term from science fiction writer, Robert Heinlein, "God grok".
The prime being, or prime number is 1. There is an alternative beginning in zero. The life myth in the east was more circularity while in the west linearity prevailed suggesting a possible gendered yin or feminine and yang or masculine masculine understanding of matter or energy. Of course, the physicist, Albert Einstein joined them in his famous equation E=MC2 which connected the matter of energy and mass such that later we could think of matter as 'slow energy', or energy as 'fast matter'. It was really relative.
Because of the nanoseconds involved in human thought and the individual experiencing of experience, if God is "Number 1" then I am "Number 2" ,despite how desperately I might wish to be “Number 1’. Hence the notion of Humility as a spiritual concept like grace that follows the study of history where an endless stream of Nietzean supermen claimed they ware ’number #1” only to pass away like leaves of grass while the idea of God remained. Even the atheists build on the platform of anti theism.
Martin Buber called the experience of God, “I and Thou” in contrast to the essentially paranoid position psychiatrists call "I and It." In one there is a sense of awe and wonder whereas in the other there is that primitive sense of fear and alienness. In the sense of not being alone, even in the depth of my aloneness, in that place that Kierkegaard called ‘existential angst’, I can retreat or stand and embrace. At the essence of embracing there is the ultimate surrender, some call 'love'.
In prayer, especially that personal relational prayer James Houston describes, I build the path to that awareness. In calling out to the other, even in the Dark Night of the Soul, in love, in seeking the light ,in turning outward from my own ‘morbid depression’, I ascend to that that place of eternal lightness of being. I am lifted then ‘as on eagles wings’.
And the journey home begins.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Before AA began Bill Wilson was being an interventionist in what would later be called '12 step calls'. He himself was approached by Ebby who as an 'evangelical' Christian reached out to help his friend.
Personally, as a psychiatrist I have no difficulty with the notion of 'intervention'. It can be a concern when abused as was the case in police states like Communist Russia. When I was a member of the Psychiatrists against Political Abuse of Psychiatry we were advocating commonly for scientists incarcerated in asylums for disagreement with the political regimen of the day.
In traditional medicine a patient comes to a doctor with a complaint and the doctor prescribes a medicine which the patient takes or doesn't take. Only in 'public health' is the intervention approach taken or in life threatening emergencies. I remember a women walking in for a routine obstetric visit and me wheeling her up to the delivery room with the help of the nurse after my examination revealed she was nearly fully dilated. She delivered a healthy baby in the delivery room within the hour. If I hadn't 'intervened' she'd have delivered in my office.
In psychiatry it is normal for me to sign a committal paper for a dangerously in sane person. Once I've done this the police will escort the patient to an asylum for their and the community's safety.
Generally speaking everything in medicine and psychiatry is voluntary and driven by the patient. This is the same in addiction medicine. Patient's 'seek' help. They commonly admit that they've been told by their boss or family that they should see a doctor but their decision to see me is their own.
Many addicts and alcoholics simply curse everyone and leave. This is called the 'geographical cure'. Having burnt all their bridges they move on to a new set of potential victims taking their disease with them. Geographical cures are notoriously inadequate treatment for serious addictions.
The disease of addiction and alcoholism is associated with minimization and denial. Denial refers to the refusal to see that alcohol or drugs aren't the solution but rather the source the problem. Denial is most apparent to a physician treating the myriad physical consequences of alcoholism and addiction, such as pancreatitis, cancers, ulcers etc. I heard the statement "I don't have a problem with alcohol, I can quit anytime I want to" on liver failure ward from a yellow skinned 'flapper'. In end stage liver disease you ask a person to put their hands face up and over their heads and because of the associated neurological disease the patients hands 'flap'. Commonly alcoholics in denial come into emergency vomitting blood whereas addicts will be picking bugs out of their skin and seeing CIA agents hiding in trees. Addicts in psychiatry wards insist that all they need is to be released from the psychiatric ward to get a little more cocaine and that will stop the aliens attacking the world.
In the days of Freud alcoholism was considered worse than schizophrenia because the alcoholic could have periods of lucidity that would fool them and those around them for a time into believing the person was cured. In contrast schizophrenia was a steady deteriorating disease at the time without the episodes of apparent recovery. The first reproducible 'cure' for alcoholism came in 1935 when the first 50 men in Akron Ohio remained sober following the steps that later would become the program of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Now we know that if a person developing addiction or alcoholism can stop their substance abuse in the early stages (while they still have a job and some vestige of family left) then the success rate of treatment is roughly 80%. End stage addiction and alcoholism associated with isolation and deteriorating physical disease have as poorer prognosis. This is to other 'end stage diseases' whether they be in mental illness like schizophrenia or physical illnesses like cancer. In the last decades there has been considerable success in 'staging' alcoholism. The well known John Hopkins University "Are You an Alcoholic?" 20 questions survey is less frequently used as a diagnostic tool today but it remains an excellent staging tool.
Some would say making the diagnosis of 'alcoholism' or 'addiction' is the first 'intervention' . While I've never been attacked for diagnosing cancer which I've done frequently I've been physically attacked, repeatedly threatened, had my home windows broken and my car windows broken, and had multiple complaints to the College of Physicians and Surgeons for diagnosing addiction.
Because of the denial associated with the disease of addiction and alcoholism, Prochaska developed 'staging' for the 'readiness to change' noting 'pre contemplation', "contemplation', "determination' , and "action' phases. Making the diagnosis to someone in 'pre contemplation phase' is a potentially threatening scenario but thanks to a lot of trial and era and experience 'motivation therapy' 'interviewing techniques' offer some excellent tools for practitioners.
The complaints are never 'supposedly about' the diagnosis. Alcoholics and addicts are not so direct. All too often inexperienced, inadequately trained, or simply negligent 'complaints officials' have been royally duped. The idea that 'one can make a diagnosis of addiction or alcoholism' without some patient getting angry is the greatest fallacy of the inexperienced and negligent. My favourite forensic psychiatrist working in the jails after a life threatening attack said, "I'd always been told if I worked long enough in forensic pscyhiatry with the most dangerously insane people, there would come a time when I'd feel my life was in danger. That was it." The patient had been strangling the man with his own tie when his secretary intervened.
The joy for me working with front line workers in general is that they lack the ignorance and arrogance that is stinky and pervasive among the effete Monday Morning Quarter Backs. If you make enough diagnosis of alcoholism or addiction you will get a complaint. Indeed the complaints department is increasingly one of the principal reasons for the collective failure of the medical system to address what has been called the 'public health crisis of the century'.
Diagnosing alcoholism and addiction, because of the stigma and the history associated with the disease, is commonly taken less favourably than diagnosis of cancer. When I diagnose cancer the patient may question the diagnosis, express sadness and may well want a second opinion but they won't be 'angry at me'. If they are angry it's because I didn't make the diagnosis sooner.
In contrast with the disease of addiction and alcoholism the first reaction is commonly 'defensiveness' and the second is 'kill the messenger'. Patients are commonly 'angry' at the diagnostician if only because they've been able to see a long list of 'enablers', negligent physicians. Commonly the alcoholic or addict due to the psychopathic tendencies associated with progressive disease have been actively lying to clinicians and experience the 'diagnosis' as being 'caught'. A trained diagnostician will ask how many are "two beer" since 'two beer' is the knee jerk answer of the alcoholic confronted by the question of 'how many beer do you drink'. "Two". I suspect there are those who do drink 'two beer' and I feel genuine sorrow for them because they probably don't know that 'two beer' is alcoholic code for 2 'cases of beer".
It was common among 'enabling' doctors for them to be the least competent clinicians missing the diagnosis sometimes because they themselves suffered addictions. It was even joked that you only had a drinking problem if you drank more than your doctor, especially if your doctor worked in government services. I intuited early a colleagues later diagnosed severe addiction because he never diagnosed addiction in patients I'd subsequently see with advanced disease of alcoholism and addiction but rather diagnosed them as Bipolar or Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.
If you see a psychiatrist he may even miss the diagnosis of alcoholism or addiction because of the overall poor teaching of addiction medicine and addiction psychiatry in the general programs. The psychiatrist commonly diagnosis 'depression' instead. In the workplace a person with a diagnosis will be expected to take a medication and see a counsellor at most. However if you receive a diagnsis of alcoholism you can be denied work in safety sensitive areas, be required by union contract to attend a 1 to 2 month inpatient treatment centre, have 3 meetings a week of follow up and get random urine testing for any number of years following the diagnosis. Given the denial involved in addiction, the diagnosis of 'depression' by the negligent or incompetent or addicted physician won't have any effect on the alcoholism or addiction. However if you receive a diagnosis of alcoholism or addiction from a caring and conscientious well trained clinician then the treatment will most definitely cut into your drinking and drugging. So naturally the simplest thing to do is get a lawyer or make a complaint to the College of Physicians and Surgeons about the character of the doctor.
My favourite complaint of this nature was from a pot smoking pilot who swore at me and threatened me when I said that they would need to have a urine test for drugs. They insisted they had a 'right to smoke pot' and I countered they might but that if they were smoking pot they couldn't continue by law to be a commercial pilot. The proceeded to complain to the College of Physicians and Surgeons in an attempt to have my license rescinded. The severity of their cannibis addiction was that they would rather destroy a physician and risk the lives of thousands rather than stop smoking marijuana. In their complaint which never mentioned their occupation or their chemical dependency on marijuana, they objected to being sent by Transport Canada to a psychiatrist and addiction medicine specialist who had a Bible in his office. I had a Bible on my bookshelf beside the Koran, Bhagad Vita, Plato and countless other philosophical, theological and psychiatric texts. The College of Physicians and Surgeons investigated me for a year about my religious affiliation. Not long after a similiarly 'impaired' pilot caused an accident which took countless lives. Transport Canada said to me after the whole ordeal that they routinely had difficulties of this nature.
I was called 'too confrontational' whenever I made the diagnosis of alcoholism because "making a diagnosis of alcoholism" was synonymous with 'confrontational". I was also called 'insensitive' and one woman alcoholic said I didn't 'listen" to them when they were insisting that their boss expecting them to come to work every day. She wanted to talk about anything but her DUI and her addiction and thought that if she could just distract me to focusing on her boss "rigid' behaviour. I listened and eventually it became clear that her 'solution' to her problems was for me as a physician to write her a carte blanche letter which she could use whenever she wanted because she just "sometimes" (weekly or more ) needed to have a day off from work after a heavy drinking session. It's discouraging to know how many colleagues would have provided just such a letter out of fear more than anything.
Intervention is the act of 'confronting' an alcoholic or an addict with their disease, how it's hurting their health, how it's affecting their work, how it's affecting their family and friends. The common intervention pattern (as seen on television) is a 'group' or 'family meeting' with or without professionals in which the person is invited to come and "listen'. At this meeting each person expresses what they see, to the loved one, and then what the disease is doing. With that the group or family asks for actual committment that the person will go to a treatment centre or rehab center or detox. The cornerstone of the 'solution' is an actual 'action' taken by the alcoholic or addict, not just 'talk'. Addicts and alcoholics love to 'talk' about detox, rehab or treatment but usually a 'written contract' or threat of consequence is necessary before they will take action. Some consequences that have been highly effective in the family have been "if you want to see your kids, you must attend treatment and have random pee tests.'
In the work place, treatment and 'accountability' go hand in hand. "If you want to keep your job, you must follow the treatment program and under go urine testing for a minimum of three years." The best accountability measures are attendance at support meetings such as AA/NA/Smart, and active urine testing. Sometimes it is set up that a person go direct to rehab on the same day as the family intervention. When people generally speak of 'intervention' this is what they are thinking of. I tend to use the word 'intervention therapy' more broadly. In any 'intervention' the person is being 'told' what is expected rather than it being only a 'suggestion'. Intervention therapy is sometimes called 'accountability therapy'. Interventions are commonly associated with expectations of action and consequences or accountability.
Treatment centres and rehab centers are one in the same. They are an 'active intervention' in a person's life. Their first and major effect is to remove the alcoholic and or addict from their 'environment' of addiction. Alcoholism and addiction are a 'culture' of addiction. There's 'ritual' involved. There's the 'friendly ' bar tender, the 'dealer' on speed dial, the using friends and the drinking buddies. The initial intervention involved in going to a treatment centre was for 28 days, with treatment centers providing counselling, group therapy and recreation and even work without the added drug or drink. This 'inpatient' process with drug testing and 'rules' and 'conventions' 'normalizes' the routines of addicts and alcoholics. They are socialized into a 'healthy lifestyle' beginning in rehab. This can go on for 1 to 6 months.
An intervention which ultimately involves a recovery house where a person lives with other addicts or alcoholics in a clean and sober environment with expectations to attend groups and even have urine testing not uncommonly can go on for a month to 2 years sometimes more.
Interventionist therapy was used for children kidnapped and 'brain washed' with crazy Jones type religionists or jihadist radicalization. Removing the individual from the source of the 'insane thinking' was recognised as a first step to the person 'resocialization'. The effectiveness of the 'interventionist approach' has been by those who see drug and alcohol abuse as a 'disease' and that it is indeed 'highly contagious'. Those who are most successful at staying abstinent for five years or more are commonly associated with a group of non using or non drinking individuals who support their recovery and abstinence. In contrast to highly effective interventionists there ware the minority of politically correct wishy washy laissez fare drug and alcohol counsellors who consider drugs and alcohol a 'life style choice'. The key to good intervention is knowing clearly the outcome planned and desired and having everyone on board to this clearly stated goal.
In motivation therapy the initial contact, best by a clinician, is an expression of concern and a question such as 'do you think you might drink too much.' "Do you feel marijuana might be the reason you can't hold spit in your mouth today but used to be a straight a student?" Family members and friends can ask but if denial is strong the person will wave off the question but only become angry if one persists. Intervention is usually saved for a person careening out of control or with multiple relapses or one whose going through money rapidly, risking their health, beginning to be on the verge of losing their job or any number of signposts. In intervention it's obviously beyond the 'question' stage and the individuals, family and work all know there's a problem with alcohol and drugs whether the individual knows or not.
Intervention has been lifesaving for many.
CS Lewis talked of 4 loves , sibling love, friend love, love of parents and eros or sexual love.
The truly single distinguishing feature of marital relationship is sexuality. I have relationships with many in life but only have one or a few of the totality as 'lovers'.
Sexual Medicine is a division of psychiatry and medicine which addresses sexual difficulties. The DSMV has an extensive list of sexual dysfunctions such as 'hypo arousal' and 'premature ejaculation. In this world sexuality is considered in the context of the pillars of science: determinism, materialisms and empiricism.
Love is more often scene as a matter for the 'arts' , something more 'poetic' when indeed there's long been a 'science of love' in the relationship studies of psychiatry and psychology. There the term 'love' is exchanged for such things as 'bonding behavior', 'mating behaviour', 'object relations'. There's all matter of scientific study of 'love' but it's not called 'love'. Sex in contrast is definitely a matter of study with scientific journals being devoted to the top of sexuality and sexual behaviour.
Sex is about both procreation and recreation. The 'pleasure' of sex is considered by scientists of a particular school to be the 'reward mechanism" for reproduction. The two are definitely not linked solely in this matter so sex is not solely for procreation. Homosexual sex seen in many species of nature is clearly not related to procreation in the traditional way of thinking. Neither is masturbation which is so pleasurable that actual 'taboos' are found against it in many religions and cross culturally.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Saturday, December 13, 2014
When my friend lived here though, she didn’t like the drugs. Described needles and paraphernalia in her car park each morning. I wouldn’t like that. Whereever there’s drugs there’s theft. And stupidity. And arrogance.
Commercial Drive is diverse. I’ve always liked that. Once so Italian with the international soccer game bars. I’ve always liked the coffee shops. People watching is the best here. Gilbert likes the eau de dog butt.
I’m sitting across from the Royal Canadian Legion. New blue paint job and golden writing beside painted red poppies. Lest We Forget. I tell people that it’s not just about fallen soldiers. It’s the fact that the elephant in the room is every nation is an arms producer or consumer. The fact is that the west is just better at making weapons. That’s what raised us to such prominence. The irony in anger management is that we don’t want citizens en mass to embrace passivity but rather that they only use their anger in answer to the call of the nation. I was in the Peace Movement and worked with Veterans Affairs. I think a lot of very silly and stupid people would like to forget history and live in a haze. I love real politick. I love the saying, "if you want peace, prepare for war." I probably have been working on the street too long knowing too many sociopaths in high and low areas. I believe in Peace. This is the season for Peace. Peace on Earth. Good Will to All. But the lesson of Meteora and Cappodoecia is the same lesson that Tibetans learned when faced with the machine guns of the Chinese.
People stop to talk to me on the street here, mostly visitting Gilbert. It’s cloudy but not raining. I was at the boat earlier checking on it after the storms. I'd been down one evening to check the mooring too. All’s well. The neighbours said they’d been there for last nights blow and one of the docks had been lifted out of it’s mooring.
I stopped at MEC (Mountain Equipment Coop). My hiking boots I’d had with the othotics are losing their sole. I was pleased to replace them with a set of KEEN’s that seem right enough I won’t need to wear the othotics. My injury has healed sufficiently that hiking is less and less painful.
A new overcoat shell is light weight enough that I think it will be the trick for traveling where flying is involved.
My friend is coming into town to visit family in the hospital so I’m planning on meeting up if only to provide support. I'd been planning on hunting but Gilbert’s being sick all Thursday night and lethargic yesterday made me wait a day. He’s recovered fully now so I could have gone hunting but caution is best. He certainly gets me to work each day.
Aim and Marc are off to Australia. Aim has a position as professor at University of Sydney in political science. It’s hard to believe but we’ve all been friends for 5 years now. Laura and I interviewed her to work as my assistant that long ago. She was doing her phD at UBC and welcomed a day of work. Thanks to her Joanne and Hannah followed and now she’s trained Angel. I’m so very thankful for her contributions. She's such a brilliant good spirited young woman of such high character. Laura accompanied me to the dinner and we all laughed recalling Aim's life with Gilbert. “I’ve never had a dog’, she said. Gilbert only a handful of love when they met was glad to teach her all there was to know. He lead her all over the neighbourhood pulling her behind him on 'their' walks. We’ll all miss her. Marc’s friends were there as well. It was their last night in Vancouver with everyone wanting to see them one last time before they left.
The big news this week wasn’t on CBC. Apparently Obama was supported by Warren Buffet who has billions invested in the railways that move the oil now in the US. So Obama’s not favouring the Keystone Pipeline isn’t about the environment but more about political patronage. The cost of transporting oil by train is $30 a barrel versus $10 a barrel by pipeline and the pipelines are a whole lot safer environmentally. Meanwhile Russia continues to insist it’s in the Crimean Ukraine to protect ethnic Russians. Well no one would not think that maybe Russia is motivated financially by the hugely important Crimean Port system, here in the west people really think ‘idealism’ is only what the ‘environment movement ’ is about. I just ask everyone to 'follow the money trails'. I don’t care that environmentalists are extorting millions or billions on behalf of the spotted owl, or some other cuddly creature, it’s just the hypocrisy and dishonesty that offend me. I work and I do pro bono work. I give to charity and church. It’s just the way the adult world works. The real work goes on despite the drama. Naturally if I want to sell windmills I'll knock the oil generators. It's not rocket science and life goes on. Meanwhile the propaganda folk play the masses like the sports casters promote their teams and play with the passions of the masses. Team sports prepare the kids for war and finally now that women are playing hockey they're not so gullible politically. One day they'll wake up and understand how 'sexual harassment' concerns lost the citizenry all the gains since Magna Carta. It's not about race or gender or any such distraction. It's about power and money and the smart investors invest in both teams.
It’s Advent though and I’m really happy to see a painting of a mother and child being sold by a street vendor on Commercial. Hallelujah! I say that it’s better to celebrate those things one most appreciates than to denigrate those that one doesn’t. I’m thankful for Aim’s present of the biography of Prime Minister Harper. I really did like him when I met him. I liked Prime Minister Turner too. We've been very fortunate to have the high caliber of leadership we have in Canada. I’m now looking forward to reading the life of our country’s leader. He's a regular Goreski, Hadfield with a little bit of Lenard Cohen and Russel Peters and Celine Dion added to the mess. Canada rocks.
A car with a Christmas Tree on top just went past. There is a certain festivity on the street. I loved the Santa Claus going by on the motorcycle. A couple of stylish girls have adorned their heads with antlers. I’ve not put much money in the parking meter so will have to leave soon. My MEC jacket is certainly as comfortable as the new shoes. There’s not much colour in the coats and hats that people wear but their running shoes are dayglo psychedelic. Oh well time to move on.
It had been a long time since he carried poison on the off chance he changed his mind about living.
There were exotic women in his life in those days. Impossibly sexy women whose lithe bodies captured rays of moonlight them hostage for eternity. Fifty such women, some more beautiful than the others and some definitely far wiser. He remembered them all fondly, like family, like goddesses. If he could crawl back into his past it would be to those warm places where such angels made nights bearable. That was before he knew the joy of the electric blanket. He suspected though he might well have sacrificed too much for security.
Our hero hadn’t made it far. Only as far as the toilet. He emptied his bladder reflecting on privilege and the average size of his satisfactory penis. They’d been discussing racism in the cafe the night before. A mixed group of post grads and other intellectuals. They were dissecting the recent police shooting of a black man with little to go on but the comic book media stories and other farcical renditions of reality. Our hero had begun to expect that in the not too distant future the news would be given as musicals because it was simply that time they came back around, especially in the fashion of entertainment. Then the robbed business man could express his angst and joy at rescue by the junior policeman who might just do his part on point in tutu while the black man died white faced singing a monty python song or whatever else the ratings would suggest.
Our hero had wanted to counter the discussion about ‘privilege’ with his own idea that white men and oriental men especially, and even the brown men, simply envied the black man for his outrageously huge cock. Our hero had known cocks. Not necessarily the way the scandalized reader might think but rather from working in an inner city morgue. Even after death there was little doubt that the black man was more often superior. And that is where the word 'privileged' had come to mind. How the cafe crowd had pattered on about privilege in terms of wealth and materialism when he’d been thinking about averages. Everyday our hero reflects on his personal inadequacy. If there had been no globalization, or for that matter, porn, he’d have grown up happy in his hobbit like existence thinking average was okay in a vanilla sort of way.
Now especially after the photographs of Colonel Hadfield he felt small and insignificant, and vulnerable. What if an even more superior race lurked just outside the galaxy waiting to invade. He'd not even lost his perfect ex wives to black men. The truth be known, he'd lost them like others lose their keys or drunks lose their cars. Sometimes he our hero in his cups couldn't remember who he'd come to the party with. Still he thought with envy, what if a superior race of golden men with a better set of jet pods and mansion cribs in worlds with three moons were just waiting for him to let his guard down. What privilege was it to forever be ready to protect any one of the impossibly beautiful women that didn't even know he existed today from invading aliens with huge slongs and love potions. But that was what he lived for.
When he finished pissing in the centre of his own private indoor tiny pool, the product of thousands of years of civil engineering experimental hit or miss, he felt thankful at least for the steady stream. His was a thoroughly robust waste disposal unit. All systems go. He didn't even need Saw Palmetto, yet.
Our Hero next sat down to meditate, still wearing the camel coloured t shirt but now noticing the red and black plaid flannel pyjamas bottoms. Cross legged, on the divan (translation:couch) , he focused his mind on the centre of the universe, the creator, god of gods, all or nothingness, nada, the supreme, number one, zero, all being, love, peace, Jesus Christ and countless other matters divine and transcendental. He always hoped for a lift off, some sort of transcendental fireworks, burning bushes or angelic choirs, speaking in sophisticated foreign tongues, or even nirvana. He wasn't greedy. He just wanted a tiny bit of paradise, like that flavoured candy that burst in back of one's mouth after you bit into it or those fireworks that kept fire working blossoms of light after the first big bang. Admittedly he wanted multiple orgasms like a girl but he wasn't really sure about big black cocks.
Besides he couldn’t get the jar of Kirkland roasted cashews out of his mind. He'd seen them on the table just before he closed to eyes to leave the physical and contemplate the spiritual. The cashews even displaced thoughts of young girls and black cocks and childhood candies till that was all he was thinking about and opened his eyes. He truly savoured the first after meditation cashew, chewing slowly and swishing the fragments of ecstasy about his mouth before swallowing.
Then he lay down on the couch. The bed seemed too far away, despite the promise of the electric blanket. This was perfectly fine inviting black leather couch (translation: divan) Pulling the white Hudson's Bay blanket over his head our hero thought maybe lying down was as good a way to meditate as sitting up.
Lying on his side facing away from the light and door, he thought about old battles, schoolyard bullies by the dozen, the same ruffians morfed into judges in courts with sheriffs and Glock sidearms, loud mouthed university cretins became journalists with poisoned pens, military units and swat teams surrounded him, muggers in foreign cities accosted him. . He tried to still his mind with holy names but instead thought of the Count of Monte Christo and Bruce Coburn with a rocket launcher.
What would Arnold Schwartzenagger, Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson do, even if they were white guys with only average penis size, given the galactic dimensions of the universe. He'd just watched Brad Pitt in Troy and didn't want to think about Brad Pitt. Only yesterday he'd heard physicists postulating a parallel and opposite universe to account for the Einstenian unidimensiality of time. By that formulation there were still two Brad Pitts and two Angelina Jolies. In no equation was our hero, the writer going to get the leading lady even if he was Seinfeld or Woody Allen. Humanism itself had that dirty kleenex scent of masturbation that made the Mystery that much more palatable if only in a Monty Python dead parrot kind of way.
Our hero's dog found him in a fetal position and licked his cheek.
He got up and let the dog out watching him pee for an eternity on the same long suffering bush that clearly hadn’t considered the dog in it’s seedling choice. of real estate.
Our hero is something of a European hero. Not at all the Robert Redford hero of America. There was no clear vision. He’s was a man who was going anywhere. There was no manifest destiny. He was Canadian. He was caught in an Existential angst of history and rewrites with lamentation. If he'd been truly European his mothers might be the impossibly desirable Angelina Jolie which would explaining in some weird Frankfurt School way Alexander the Greats conquest of history. How different things would have been for the young man if Ellen Degenes had been his mother. Or he'd been born in Quebec and his mother had been Celine Dion. In any of a vast array of possibilities, he might well have ended up sipping lattes in a Roman suburb with a fat mink of a lover not at all interested in charging elephants on Arabian horses. Meanwhile Ghengis Khan and his brothers obviously never heard of sex addicts anonymous.
Our hero has made himself a cup of coffee on the gas burner stove and reflected, in a European style, not quite Russian Doystoyevski but almost, on the subject of Ethical Beans. Even as the black aromatic substance boils he wonders if Unethical Beans wouldn’t faste more savoury. If he were a business man he'd definitely start an Unfair Trade Unethical Bean company knowing with certainty he'd become rich in this world of cosmic losers
It’s the Christmas season. Our hero told a friend in the Downtown Eastside drop it shelter that it was That Season again. The celebration of drunks and bad driving. He'd commented on how people react to yawns by yawning. Now daily he found himself thinking of picking up a drink of yuletide misery. He’d never wanted to drink like a gentleman. A single glass of spirits had no real appeal. Our hero had always had hard drinking Humphrey Bogart as his hero. He truly loved his saltry long legged lover and hard drinking companion Lauren Bacall. The black and white era of television never captured the Kodac truth of the vomit technicolor on the urine stained porcelain altars hard drinking men and women worshipped.
In the Yuletide season our hero never remembered the time the flying saucer beds and rooms, guts aching with dry heaves. Instead he thought of white table clothes and black bow tied waiters and the song “Tiny Bubbles’.
Now our hero is now looking down at his fat white belly thinking of the old time images of success envisioned in Hugh Heffner mansions, Los Vegas casinos, Metallica stadiums and Willie Nelson smoke filled rooms are today replaced by men and women of wealth, power and significance are taking selfies at the top of Everest or jumping out of planes dressed in elephant suits. There are no more after hour parties at the lounges. Winners wake early and flock to the gym. The fall of Wallstreet sounded the death rung on Cocaine. Sweat lathered bodies make now love like porn stars with the stamina of stallions. The whole generation of our hero is wasted in old folks homes re encountering their youth in IV’s and better living through chemistry.
No one cares if he the Troudeaus smoke dope or Colorado sold it's Rocky Mountain High to new corporations of pot smoke. Doctors encouraging mothers in posters to smoke to make smaller babies are lost on the new generation of stoned 'medical marijuana' users It’s not like anyone in Canada, Jamaica or Colorado or Washington for that matter is going to be climbing moutnains or jumping out of planes. The baby boomers have long gone to seed and listen unthinkingly to the ranting paranoia of David Suzuki delusional about climate change denial as if anyone ever doubted the rain. Why not lie on the couch all day?
Finding our hero curled up on the couch again in a fetal position the dog has brought him a squeaky toy in hope of cheering his master up.
The new Pope, Pope Francis, has declared animals go to heaven. Our hero is now at a loss. All his life he’d thought that animals weren’t welcome there. He didn’t want to go anywhere that didn’t welcome his dog. But now that heaven was a place for more than saints he reflected on changing his ways. He'd always known he was welcome in hell, especially given the authority with which his ex wives spoke of the institution. He'd even known many who’d gone there before him. Having taken to reading the mortuaries in hope of seeing the names of old enemies he'd seen instead the names of long forgotten friends. But now that animals were welcome in heaven maybe he might have to re consider his life. It was the season for that. A child was born, they said. Maybe there was more to life than shit and bones. He couldn’t go on sniffing asses forever. What was this place called Heaven anyway.
With that our Hero tossed the squeaky toy for the dog to fetch and reached for the jar of Kirkland cashews.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
When people yawn we tend to yawn with them.
Now that’s over. I loved the shower and the soap and was thankful again. Thank you God for the simple blessings of hot water and soap. Thank you for the warmth of my bed last night too. The storm with rain and chill went on late but I was cuddled deep in down. It was a good night Lord. I’m truly blessed. I dreamed fond dreams of friends. My ‘stout’ friend and I felt obliged to do sit ups on waking in my dream. Now here I am and truly I should be doing sit ups to address the Christmas girth but no I’m sitting at another desk. Desk jobs. Executive functions.
I miss the sea and wonder about trade wind sailing and the healthy daily exercise of moving with the boat and waves. It’s enough that I’ve been hiking mountains on weekends in search of the elusive buck deer. All week though I sit in my office. At night mentally exhausted I come home and watch tv and eat, good food, but more food than I really need.
I hear of people hibernating and complaining about that as I complain about egg nog. The luxuries of affluence and mental illness. Isolation is not an option elsewhere as it is in the decadent west. One learns loneliness in crowds not in empty rooms.
Cooperation is matter of global concern but here in my locality it’s not a thing we speak of. I’ll drive to work in a bit and run the gauntlet of men and women walking in the middle of the street playing suicide by commuter or just not caring.
I’m thankful for my car. My little Miata. I’m thankful for the ITunes University and the ability to listen to lectures coming to and from work. This week it's been history, philosophy and theology. Over the years, I’ve listened to hundreds of hours of medical lectures. For decades I religiously ordered weekly audiotapes that I played wherever I drove, thereby staying abreast of family medicine and internal medicine while practicing my own speciality. Then it was pod casts. I miss the mini cassettes I got from the Medical Library on loan. The CD’s I used were mostly for talks on addiction. Thank you God for my new book, Psychiatry and Addiction. It was a few years coming.
The years pass. The retooling of an old mind for the new tasks. I’m a constant learning machine. I enjoyed reading physics yesterday, hearing the words of Max Planck once again. Reading the scientist Madame Curie was fun too. Maybe one day I'll have the time to read Louis Pasteur again. I read these greats first a quarter century ago. They were dead by then. The "new" sciences were called new long after those who’d created them had passed. It makes me wonder what the "new" science is today. It will only become clear after we’re dead. Life is movement. Creation is creating. Im in the thick of it today. Living in the present.
Richard Rohr has been good to read. My morning meditation often with Emmett Fox. I'm looking forward to hearing the Bach Cantatas again.
I’m looking forward too to Turkey. More churches, more art and mosques this time. I’ll see architecture and people and have a taste of history and the world will be a little closer. I’d set out to bicycle through Istanbul in the 70’s but the mountain passes were closed early by snow so we’d headed south to Morrocco. Now I’m doing a leg of an ancient journey.
There’s porridge and coffee and yoghurt to eat. Then I’ll shower and dress. I don’t have to shave. I’ve a regular Santa Claus beard for the season. Gilbert has his little bear coat too. Thank you Lord for family and friends. Thank you for all your blessings. Help me do the next right thing. Help me help others. Thy will be done, not my will.