Constipation

[Reader Advisory: Ugh]

Mitchell never thought much about constipation (who does?) until it quietly arrived in his late seventies.  His body had been a tool he used.  He never thought about greasing it, feeding it fibre, forgetting fries, having his tires rotated.  Turns out, took quite a while to realize he was constipated, almost two years of being unsettled.  Fatigued, without realizing it.  He noticed his poops were irregular, marked by occasional cramps, feeling wrong, no way to wake every morning. 

Mitchell spent hours in the washroom but never felt like a King, sitting on his throne. 

A colonoscopy—thankfully, he was unconscious—resulted in a diagnosis of diverticulosis.  Or diverticulitis.  Either way, his gut was not pushing stuff through, crud was caught and laxatives were introduced—for the rest of his life.  Constipation with periodic diarrhea, an ironic combination. 

Fatigued and unsettled in the mornings, better in the afternoon but by then his body was tired, needed sleep.  Mitchell resented the naps.  He was in his late seventies.  Naps were lost time.

Mitchell had enough savings for practical solution: a metal gut.  It was stainless steel, would never rust, and it oiled itself.  The surgery took several hours, but after regaining consciousness he already felt better.  Mitchell went home a happy fellow.  He knew his metal gut was green technology and would not digest most meats and fried foods but did not realize how much he would miss them, ice cream, cream puffs. 

It grew more difficult when his gut required regular updates and sent him messages through an app on his phone.  Some were embarrassing: you exceeded your monthly quota for fries in three days…you must consume less sugar…if you continue, for elimination of undigested foods you will need sphincter widening and a larger toilet.   

Mitchell was still constipated–in an all encompassing way, for his own good.     

Presidential Extraditions

God smiled when the new President called upon the Devil.  It was not enough for the new President to deport people, not enough to criminally prosecute anyone who opposed him.  The new President wanted to send them all to hell.  

The Devil, as one would expect, liked the idea.  But every deal with the Devil has a price.  The Devil’s price was that the new President go to church. 

The new President agreed to such a simple cost.  He smiled as one by one his opponents died in accidents, were murdered or simply were never seen again.  The new President went to church that Sunday a happy fellow.  He had paid no price, much less sell his soul to the Devil.  He fell asleep during the service. 

When the media asked how he found his first church service, he replied “Great.  God is almost as important as me.” 

The next few Sundays, he slumbered during the service.  The media noticed.  His religious base was furious and in, the next election, he was replaced by a golden idol who never spoke.  Many felt that a serious improvement. 

The new President, living in isolation on top of a casino he owned, found he now lived in his own personal hell: isolated, powerless, disrespected.  Because of so many cheeseburgers, he spent much of his waking hours walking on a treadmill, sweating.      

God smiled.  God works in mysterious ways.

Rising prices

Cassandra, in her seventies, remembered going to movies as a child.  She walked to the theatre on her own, it was safe.  Cost twenty-five cents, plus ten cents for popcorn and a drink.  A plump roaster chicken at the grocery was under two dollars.  Gas was pennies.  Homes were sold on fixed mortgages.  The sky, although grey from pollution, was mostly sunny.  No one had heard of bomb cyclones. 

Now retired, she had reasonable savings but going to the grocery store was unsettling.  Electricity bills went up, never down.  Her children had a tougher time, barely holding onto what they had built.  Her grandchildren?  They told her they were screwed. 

Everything was more expensive, except human lives. 

She saw videos of citizens shot to death on her streets, laws repealed to prevent air pollution.  The necessities of life were expensive but life was cheap (except on the international slave markets.)  Cassandra was alarmed.    

Was it a rule that as life went costs rose but you were worth less? 

She gave money to her grandchildren and children, to ease their lives.  It helped them and gave her value.   

Destiny

Humans had not evolved to live beyond the Earth but a consortium of wealthy tech entrepreneurs believed it was humanity’s destiny—to create colonies in space (not on the Moon, boring, but on Mars.)  Destiny must be fulfilled and the entrepreneurs had money. 

Getting colonists to Mars held imposing problems, including lengthy exposure to solar radiation.  It was a one-way journey.  Return rockets could not be built on Mars.  When colonists arrived, after a year’s journey, they would find the Mars atmosphere toxic, the planet in a deep freeze, swept by withering winds.  Yet the colonists were determined to go.  Some called it destiny, some ego.  Some said what’s the difference.     

Destiny in this instance took ten years to recruit colonists, train them, build and finally launch the interplanetary spaceship.  There were forty colonists at first, living in tents built to withstand windstorms and hold in breathable air.  A year later, two hundred colonists, living in buildings.  Two years later, a protective clear dome covered the buildings.  Of course, to venture outside, they had to wear cumbersome suits. 

Mars was dead.  There was nothing to explore, no minerals worth mining.  Colonists often spent hours playing video games, the most popular being outer space shooters, destroying aliens.  Colonists came to believe their destiny was galactic high scores. 

Turns out, destiny is what you decide. 

Hummingbirds

Hummingbirds are a tiny miracle.  They race through life.  They are the smallest of living avian therpod dinosaurs, eating flower nectar and insects.  They are known as hummingbirds because of the sound created flapping their wings, which can reach 99 flaps per second.  They must eat a great deal and hibernate when foods is scarce, slowing their metabolic rate to 1/5 its normal speed.  They can fly at 54 kilometres an hour.  Their eggs are the smallest of any bird.  Their feet are not shaped to walk but to perch. 

The Earth rotates yet we are not thrown into space.  Our atmosphere protects us for solar radiation.  Tides mysteriously rise and fall. 

Nature is full of miracles.  We are miracles.  Life is as miracle.  We live among miracles–that we live among miracles is a miracle itself.  We rarely appreciate who and what and where we are.  We are too busy being alive. 

Ruth

Ruth was born in Brooklyn of parents who immigrated from the Ukraine around 1920, a shoemaker and a homemaker.  In the late 1930s, she met Sidney at a Communist Party meeting.  She believed in workers’ rights and equality.  He was there to meet girls. 

They dated, married, had two sons.  He formed a jewellery business, a decent living.  They sold the house in Brooklyn and moved to Long Island.  Sidney retired, seemed lost.  She knew he was no longer working, had nothing to do.  He was creative, she suggested painting.  She found work clerking in the local library and started a union. 

Their boys moved out.  Ruth had a garden in the back yard, by then was head of the union, which worked with the library.  She continued her involvement in politics as the secretary of Women’s Strike for Peace on Long Island.  Sidney painted.  At 72, he passed from a heart.  She found him on the porch, he died in her arms, she never spoke of it to the boys. 

Ruth continued with the library, living alone, one son in California, the other Canada.  She had nieces and nephews nearby, and her sisters, and they held regular family dinners with lots of home cooking.  While at work one day, someone broke into the house and stole most of her jewelry.  One afternoon, after shopping at a local mall, she fell approaching her car, fracturing her hip.  Ruth did not want to leave the car in the lot so she got in and drove home.  It was hard driving, she could not move her right leg.  When she reached home, she made it into the house and called for an ambulance. 

She continued working, living alone, receiving regular calls from her sons and seeing her nieces, nephews and sisters.  Then she fell again, this time breaking her hip.  She needed surgery, had general anesthetic and afterwards could not make sense out of her check book.  One of her sons brought her to Canada, to a retirement home.  She remained cheerful but was confused and felt isolated.  By then one sister had moved to a retirement home in Florida, the other had died.  She spoke with friends and relatives on the phone, long distance.  Still, Ruth found much to enjoy. 

After a heart attack at 92 her son was with her in the hospital, by her bedside, reading poetry to her.  When he left, she quietly passed during the night.  Many turned out for her service in New York, where she was celebrated for her love, political commitment and knishes. 

Sidney

Sidney always felt shortchanged by life.  Yes, he had a fine, loving wife and eventually two sons.  But he wanted to go to college, make something of himself.  Instead, as jobs were scarce, he and his two brothers formed a jewelry business, making rings.  Sidney created the gold and silver rings, his two brothers were the ‘setters,’ putting jewels onto the rings.  Sidney did not make nearly as much money just making the rings, which took longer.  It did not feel right, but he got along with his brothers, they played hearts every Friday night, so Sidney went along.  He wrote little stories he never sent anywhere.

Eventually the brothers retired the business.  One of the kids was already out of the house, at college.  Sidney wondered what to do.  He took up painting, oil painting, learned from books.  He copied old masters, Rembrandt and Renoir and others, learning to duplicate their colours, lighting and styles.  Eventually, Sidney had created a large number of paintings.  He could not take them to a gallery or agent, being copies, so he took them straight to the public.  Next Sunday he took the framed oil paintings to the local flea market.  He put them up proudly and sat waiting for buyers.  He waited all day. Then he took the paintings home. 

It was crushing. 

He knew the paintings were good.  Were they good if no one else agreed?  Was he fooling himself?  It was not that they were copies–people hung copies on their walls all the time.  But they looked at his work and never even asked a question.  He was insecure to begin with, the flea market confirmed it, he never painted again. 

He took up woodworking.

He died from congestive heart failure after carrying home the Sunday New York Times, on the porch, in his wife’s arms. 

Everyone copes with bad feelings, Charlene included: bad feelings from relationships, from family, from her colleagues and supervisor.  None of them directly affected her, except the break-ups.  Work was okay enough.  No, it was when a movie ended badly (poorly written.)  Feeling angry, jealous, depressed.  Charlene had relationships full of eventual bad feelings, though they started with promise. 

Charlene spent time with a therapist, who prescribed drugs.  The drugs had side effects, she kept getting different ones until one was found which had her smiling.  It was a vacant smile. 

Bad feelings, Charlene was told, often fade, over time.  How long did she have to wait?  She knew the meds created their own bad feelings so she stopped them, her mind cleared, leaving her  more depressed.  Her limited solutions were going nowhere fast.  And she had bad feelings about medicating her bad feelings. 

The bad feelings came from her relations with people. 

Charlene moved to a cabin in the woods. 

There were no people for twenty miles.  Charlene settled into the cabin, already feeling better.  She walked outside, to enjoy the lovely sun, when she saw an approaching mother bear and her cub.  Charlene fled inside, closing the door.  She had to wait until they left.  Then she heard noises in the ceiling and the lights went out.  Squirrels.  When a bird looked at her through the window, Charlene yearned for its freedom, except of course there were hawks. 

Charlene returned to her apartment in the city.  At least there were no wild animals there except people, and they had no claws.  She felt better.  At least she had done something.  She found good feelings in memories, and grew happier, because this tale should end with good feelings.   

Building Empires

Kings believe ruling a small nation is not enough.  They need bigger: more territory, more subjects, to expand their borders, conquer other lands, killing the people living there if they objected.  It was a natural process.  Expansion was important.  Kings believed if they could show they were bigger, even the Kings with small hands, they would be even more important to their subjects. 

Kings pray to the Gods for more territory and the Gods willingly oblige–if people believe in Kings that led to support for the Gods.  Kings on Earth and in Heaven.  It was good for both. 

Ghosts also supported Kings seeking new territories–it meant more folks for the ghost community—as did Lust, whose control of the King expanded with every new territory. 

Kings seek immortality and the find it through building their Empires.  The larger the empire, the more important the King.  They also build statues honouring them.  Where there are Kings, there are statues.  And portraits.  Every King has his portrait painted, repeatedly, and hung throughout the Kingdom.  Every King ensures his face is everywhere, including on postage stamps.  No honour is considered too small.  It angered the Gods, whose faces were never on postage stamps, but Kings think only of immortality in history.    

Kings have less success with drama.  Even in ancient times, they were depicted as powerful but making basic mistakes and ending tragically.  Dramas mostly depicted Kings as regular folks struggling with a tough job, which Kings also considered tragic.  Kings recognized they would often not be caricaturized well—but at least they were being caricaturized, and any publicity is good publicity. 

Kings promoted their new subjects as thrilled to be conquered.  History  never saw it that way.  Either way worked for Kings. 

When it finally arrived, democracy was considered a threat.  Kings were less popular, there were less Kings–but those who remained, including some Presidents, loved power and yearned to be memorable.  They continued the tradition. 

Democracy is no safeguard against tradition.