Daylight Saving

I didn’t make it to church today.  I had thought I night wear a suit then I thought a jean skirt would be an idea.  I thought a tartan tie and leather overcoat or blue leggings with the mauve wool coat.  I was going in and out of a dream in my favourite place.  A peninsula with hunting in the woods above and sailboats in the harbour. I was in this Greek condo with beautiful people coming and going, I was looking for something. A treasure hunt in my own room,

I didn’t have anything planned today.  I’d hoped to go to church.  I wanted to meditate.  Be still and know that I am God.  Listening.  I thought of sex toys and bibles.  I miss the library days. Now I often get the same feeling outdoors typing up a journal.

I don’t think of mansions in the sky but more often brothels.  I’ve not been but I think of it.  My ascetism of younger years seems past glory, Today I wonder if this sojourn on life is just a planetary vacation from an energy existence.  It will all pass and I will be asked to write an essay on ‘what I did on my earth vacation,’

The people of the book talk about the ‘relationship with Jesus’.  I’m in touch. Speed dial communication. Hide and seek. I’m praying constantly or listening to the wee small voice. I love God.  

The idea of addiction and idolatry is thinking that this world is God.  Worldliness or asceticism. I’ve served for decades and devoted my life to others.  I’ve a very small window of debauchery and selfishness.  There’s no much time for  ‘partying’ when all you do is study, work and do call. Now I’m faced with a great vacation. I did a year bicycling a cross Europe, learning the limits of my education and Canadian propaganda. I studied geography, culture, literature and dance and love that year.  I came back to be a doctor.  A scholar and succeeded.  I had a ‘calling’.  A truly bright light spiritual awakening in a university chapel and that led to become a doctor. It started in a room in Oxford with a Quaker medical student and a daughter of a doctor.  I’d wanted to be a play wright. I was a dancer and an actor at the time. I became a monk. I meditated and prayed and chanted and studied.  I married again.  I didn’t want to be celibate and when marriage became such I moved on. That was the months of smoking dope. There’d been weeks of hashish in Morocco and drinking Guinness in London.

Then years of coffee and study and call and occasional weekends of drunken parties Christmas and Summer canoeing and work hard and play hard and a kind of adolescent dating between marriages.  More years of hard work and wine and pot. It’s legal now.  We thought we were bad for our tokes back then,  

“You’ve never drunk more wine than normal people do,’ the psychiatrists I spoke to told me.  

‘Your wife’s love of cocaine is a concern but smoking pot and drinking wine isn’t as big a concern as you make it. It must be difficult dealing with her depression and mood swings and violence, suicidal homicidal rages,  How long do you go without sex? “

Many months. 

And I worked and meditated and prayed and then I was free.  The drunken psychotics pedophiles objected to being pointed out. The white man hated the white man who served defended the natives. The drunken drug doing colleagues objected to your leaving.  The privileged and wealthy joined the lying ex who had gone to treatment  but detoured back to drugs and alcohol.  The authorities backed the lying psychopaths yet again.  

No wonder you turned back to Jesus.  He too was killed by government and church,.  He was perfect.  A son of god. You were adopted.  Imperfect but good hearted. You’d never hurt any one except you refused to lie for the authorities or wife and you stood up to evil over and over again.  Now again you became a monk.  Prayer and meditation,  Congregation.  Forgiveness. Acceptance.  You have to quit smoking. It didn’t matter what you smoked tobacco or pot but you’d quit for 4 months only to start again on a binge drinking session. A bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes.  Leave them behind.  A year of sacrifice and abstinence.  The ex wife preferred drugs and alcohol and lies. You couldn’t go back. 

You sailed away.

Solo sailing the winter pacific through hurricanes.  

Tropical islands and Jesus.  Theology classes for a decade.  Masters of Theology on line.  More papers and books and the Hound of Heaven,  Seeking Jesus.  God within God will come again. Learning Hebrew. Israel. Pilgrimages.  Rome, Ethiopia.  Ireland,

Now to my surprise I’m older and the Black Like Me adventure of transgender seems a direction to go. I’d planned to sail the Atlantic but solo my boat is dauntingly large.  I’d consider 30 fooot but not 40 foot though I love it.  I have trouble moving along accepting that my back hurts and could I bring the sails down in a storm. Do I want to?

All the women I’ve known complained of how tough their lives were. Always complaining. Always depressed.  I understood the mothers. Such a burden it is for me to have a dog I know men and women who don’t even keep a plant so their lives revolve around their bodies, Narcisists who insist they are spiritual and all their money goes to them and their epicurean lives. I’d rather have a bubble bath than fix an engine in the high seas. I’d rather call a tow truck than fix my truck beside the road. I’m tired of all the heavy lifting and hard work,

I no longer seek the most difficult cases. I worked with those who no one else wanted to see. I served in the areas of greatest need. I worked in the most dangerous and surreal surrounding. I’ve so often managed without any resources.I remember her only wanting to be in the middle of the university safe zone surrounded by the best of the best. I was a scout way beyond the wire and she never understood the ‘need’. 

“It’s just a job’, the fat cat woman resistrar said having spent a life in medicine doing the ‘easry’ ‘light lifting’ jobs and now functiong in all arrogance and stupidity as an apparatchik.  I’ve never received the ‘back pay’ I’d be entitled to if it was just a job. It was a profession, a calling, an act of service.  I got paid enough too little but never more,  My now dead friend and I figured we’d never been paid minimum wage by the hours we devoted.

But now I’m questioning what to do to keep on going,

Hunting, fishing, sailing no longer are the avocational pursuits that balanced work. The travel, always pilgrimages, the study of theology, the practice of the spirituality of imperfection no longer move me,

I”ve paid my dues and then some,

What do I do now? 

I could have a new identity, Take hormones, get breasts, a face lift. I don’t need my penis or testicles.  I’m rejected as a DNA donor . The baby I could have had aborted, The women who had children preferred to have babies with the bad boys but want the safe and caring guys to take care of them and be their ‘friend’ in old age.  The world is increasingly populated by ‘bad boys’ children.  The girls of my feminist era had abortions and gave up the land and heritage to the Son of the Great Abortionsist Trudeau could invite the Muslim hoards with countless children and wives to take over the country while excluding the Catholics from South America who like bikinis and don’t want to kill homosexuals.

I’m bisexual. I love and loved girls but they became angry and blamed men for the acts of politicians and judges.  They told lies and I was among the ‘falsely accused’ , and the authorities angry at Christians or those who weren’t ‘unethical as they’ used the lies to attack.  I’ve been castrated by my government. I’m Klinger.  I’d rather wear a dress, identification with the aggressor or imitation, the sincerest form of flattery.

All over old men are attacked.  The old women fair better..  Better to be a Molly in a dictatorship.  If rape is inevitable better to lie back and enjoy it. I was sodomized by the government and the government protected the false accusers and sodomite rapists.  

I don’t want to struggle.  

I’m older and I’ve done my 40 days alone with God.  So many people think they know God but they don’t fast from this world like that. I’ve fasted from food for weeks and alcohol, cigarettes , marijuana , for decades. I went without sex for years and some of that in marriage.

What if this sojourn on earth is just an adventure,

Buddha went on about ‘reincarnaton’ and wanting to escape Maya. Why?  All life is suffering. Kierkegard,  Life is suffering unto death,  Namaste Badaste. We all die.  I do believe in reincarnation.  I continue my consciousness here or in heaven. Jews believed in reincarnation. Christians did to till Emperor Constantine at the Nicene Creed rejected the idea.

So I continue. I woke up today. This life goes on,  Life is better when I’m hopeful and positive.  The law of attraction does apply.

But if I fuck a stranger or a man will I attacked negativity.  Fucking spreads disease We’ve been collectively isolated from others. No touch, Covid. Avoid intimacy. APA says depression is all time high 3 x the rate of before the lockdowns, The Overdose and relapse death appalling,

Yet we persist in the 1950’s ‘Bad Bug, Magic Bullet” model of disease, the one I left for the multi factorial psychosomatic reality of psychiatry and immunology in the day. Where did we go wrong?

I can’t question anything or the authorities will hurt me. They have hurt me again and again for doing right and telling the truth,. They hurt me and shamed me and humiliated me and wasted my precious time with their mediocrity, a collection of drones who failed to study Nuremberg, the banality of evil. I would rather treat the stinking sick street person than listen to the inanity of hypocrites who are chosen for the fear and shallow loyalty.

I have no children ,They may take the jobs for fear. There is one who is scab labour and using the position to promote a divisive agenda.  

It’s all politics.

If this is a prison, it’s a pretty nice prison. I made great chilli yesterday. I have this dog friend. Like the cult classics a boy and his dog I’m well dressed, Netflix and prime. So many good movies. Great books though I’m tired of the similarities.  It’s all transparent. I grow weary of the narratives like the stupidity of politics and the illusion of change.

I was pinned by him as his cock tore open my anus. I was crying with pain. The shame came later. I bled from my anus for days.  The sperm must have been there too. This ‘hard man’ bred me.  I would only ask for a little time to day.  Maybe some lubricant. I’m no longer an anal virgin,  He took great pleasure in my pain and his hard cock ripping me apart as he slammed me down, holding me down, his weight and his strength controlling and dominating me till he released his seed in me and I was left damaged and bleeding, 

Years later I’d work in jails with psychopaths and sit in board rooms with men who ordered the knee capping of others, I have known enforcers and security who ‘were just doing their jobs’ and others who said “ I had to have him removed.  He was hurting my business.  I need money to put my children through university.’  So many people I’ve known say’ everyone lies’, “everyone cheats’.  “Everyone “.  ,No they don’t . Psychopaths and sociopaths do and we all have a bit of that,  But most people don’t know the real ones, They think their ‘ex’ was one because they don’t like their ex.  But you change your perspective on relavitive reality when the barrel of the gun is behind your ear or in your face.  

I just muddle on, I like walking the dog.  I like working, I know the pharmacy and diagnosis, I can be a cog in the machine,  I’m a team player on a good team offering help and solace. I’m like the parts guy at the service department.  I used to feel I needed to do everything in my power to get you well. I prayed all night, I read literature from around the world. I treated everyone as special, I gave the care to anyone only the prime minister gets here. Now I do as I’m told. I’ts ‘good enough’ and ‘better than so many’.  I’m okay. I’m no longer the best.  I’m past my shelf life.,  I wonder how long I can do this,  It’s not sustaining,  It pays the mortgage.  It’s ‘right livelihood’.  I’m still doing good in the world.  

I believe I’m still doing God’s will Thy will be done not my will.

It’s not much fun for me.  I miss the intimacy of sex. I miss the adventure of travel. I miss the challenge of the impossible dream. I’m grateful.  I’m okay. Tm blessed and looking back on my life it’s a miracle.  I’m still alive after the many deaths I faced and those who threatened me are no more.  I thanked Archangel Michael for his protection.  I feel I’ve been repeatedly avenged and I still do God’s work.

I imagined old age a pipe and wood jacket writing in a library, maybe teaching but not in a politically correct dictatorship with feminists waiting to hear a word that they can take to the thought police and play out their ‘save the world from men’ designs denying that all the greatest killers were supported and celebrated by a woman and they all had mothers. So suddenly Eva Brawn is a victim too, I’m so weary of the maggots crawling off the dead body of Marx.  

I almost thought to teach medicine in Ethiopia but I don’t know the language so I thought of anywhere they speak English and imagined I know a lot compared to most an how I’d like to share what I know of clinical psychiatry. I’d be that old man in Oxford but now it’s young women who demand those places and they don’t want old white men who are the enemy.

Like King Lear I’d talk of courts things

I fluctuate between hope and indifference. I imagine the Quebec judge who works wearing a gown and robed and eye shadow I like the General who fat like me enjoys wearing a bikini and doesn’t seen to care she doesn’t look anything but a rather plain old lady.  The transexuals who are old don’t look so different from the old ladies and we do about the same.  

I could talk to a psychiatrist again. The specialist in gender I saw said that my cross dressing wasn’t sexual but rather a way of dealing with anxiety. He ddin’t think I’d benefit fro a sex change and it’s obvious I prefer women when they don’t want to use me , abuse me or are insane or self serving.  They say in AA the Al Anon’s who don’t practice a program are crazier than the craziest ‘sober’ drunk who doesn’t practice a program.  ‘Be ware of them the psychiatrists always tell me,’ “You are their drug and they’re bring you down to their level.’

Isolation is addiction Participation is recovery. So many people surround themselves with their “mirrors’.  I’m alone and together.  

They cannot play when they are afraid There’s always manipulation and control and they lie to themselves.

I’m glad the ultrasound device has scared off the mouse who came in from the cold.  I’d thought to get a cat but the little blue light works so much better. I miss a cat. They inhabited this world and the other.  I love when the other touches.  

I didn’t go to church today. I walked the dog and he’s due for another round of his sniffing spots.  Probably should walk him again in the rain, breathing deep, thanking God for life.  Even the confusion.