THE BELLY OF THE BEAST AND HEAVEN'S DOOR - A DISCUSSION OF MANIC-DEPRESSIVE ILLNESS;----------HOW TO PREDICT YOUR DANGEROUS TIMES

                                 I've been in the belly  of
the beast for three weeks now, underwater, in the
tunnel. And the worst part of it - I didn't know it.
I thought the Doom that I was feeling
was permanent: feeling doom was simply reality, just the way it things are. Learn to live with it.
            Right! That is horrible advice!


            I feel just fine now. The cycle is moving
along in its inexorable way and I don't worry about 
a thing. I can organize twelve things at once
that's what I think in the manic part of my life.
And the problem is, at that particular time, I
really can do it!
                        So I get twelve projects started,
and people agreeing to work with me. I
can make million dollar deals. I once
put a bid in for a gravel pit.
            I put in a call to the owner at
7:30 A.M. and he was up.  I asked
him how much he wanted for his pit
trucks, conveyers and loaders. He said
7 million.
            We phoned each other back
and forth. By breakfast I had him down
to 4 million.I'm good at that kind of
bargaining. 
           Problem was I had about
three dollars in the bank. 
           There was also the fact that
I didn't really want or need a gravel pit
to begin with. You might say, "How crazy
can you get? Buying something
you don't even want."
          Well I can get a lot crazier
than this. Once I get an IDEA and
I'm manic, well, I'll follow the idea
through rapidly...
          
            It's all this manic energy running
through me. You can make deals that
you think you can manage. And maybe
you would be able to manage a major
enterprise, if you stayed in that manic
state.
            Problem is, next comes depression.
And when you are in deep clinical depression,
 all your ability to follow through is gone
and all urges to follow through are extinguished.
You are immobilized. And you can be in
serious trouble.
           In deep and ongoing depression,
 the only creative urge you might have,
is the urge to end the utter misery
of your worthless life...(you are saying
this to yourself. The negative script
is a component of depression - and the voice(s)
in your head telling yourself how stupid and useless
you are, how lazy... And on top of these things,
what a shit you are!
            This continuing script, in my view,
has to be attacked.


            One quarter to one third of manic
depressives kill themselves. So obviously
it's a dangerous disease.
             I hadn't been taking my diagnosis
seriously. I just thought I was way, way out
there. I started plotting out my cycle for
the depressed period, way before I knew
about any diagnosis, I knew I was subject
to a disturbing cycle.
            
             There's a short period of time
during your depression, I call it "the depressive
peak." That's when you have to really
watch yourself. You can really go over the
top, during the peak ( which might be
3 days or thee hours or three weeks).
 You have to counter the negative self-talk 
with  positive images, which you have prepared
repeatedly.

         There are ways to train yourself
to picture  one scene of a place you love,
or a person you love with whom you feel
grounded, or tender moments with a dog or cat.
 You find these moments of joy within yourself
(And sometimes it takes a week to think up
even one such image. Don't worry. Just
don't stop. You need the positive image to
counteract the ravening beast who is calling
you names, deep in your own mind. )

       Press one index finger on one hand
against the index finger of the other hand.        
This becomes a trigger for you.
        Every time you press the two
fingers together, you imagine your
beautiful scene.
        When you have a horrible
suicidal thought, you trigger the scene
to offset the doom and gloom of
the thought , and it helps...truly
it does help. But it takes a while
and it takes practice.
       You have to practice. The
non-medicinal cure takes work.
It works better if you can borrow
a hypnotist to help you with your "imagining
sessions"     and to help you embed your image
into your mind so you can call up the scenes
of joy and happiness quickly, when  you  are
in desperate straits. When you are under 
attack...
       We all get in desperate straits. I used
to hit the depressive peak every thirty-four
days. I'd map the times of my cycle. I had to, 
to protect my life, it was a lot better when I knew
the timing of each phase my cycle time  map.
        I used to call it my 'psyche map'. At
least when you are attacked, 
when this dark curtain is pulled across
your heart and mind, you know  when it's
 coming. You have a calendar of days.
       You have a map of your own psyche. By
writing down notes on each stage of your
cycle, as you pass through each cycle,
you can nail the time frames down. It will take
about three times through, to get a somewhat
accurate cycle time map.
       You know when your depressive peak is coming
 And more important you know when it's leaving, and
you know it IS GOING TO LEAVE.
         You know this dark beast is
leaving. And you have a projection
as to how soon it will leave. So you
know this terrible darkness will stay for just
so long. 
          This way you are dealing with
a finite situation. You are no longer facing
 infinite misery. The feeling of Doom 
will NOT stay with you for the rest of your life.
         
          Just this one little step
can make a huge  improvement
in your life. You are going from
passive to active.  And that
always feels good and helps relieve
the feeling of "helpless" and "hopeless"
       
       Of course , there are
exceptions! I've just come out
of a 2 or 3 month depression
and I didn't even know I was depressed!
Sometimes it comes up on you from
behind...
       And creeps into your being
slowly, oh so slowly that you don't
feel its presence or it's growing
power over you, until you're  in a situation
that seems impossible to change.
(This is starting to sound like a sci-fi
 movie)
.     The weird stuff happens. There's
no denying this fact. But I'd say the 
'psyche cycle',the timing of your cycle,
which enables you to project your dangerous
time... I'd say this works and will help you
8/10ths of the time. 




                                     Good luck and happy hunting.
                                     Respectfully submitted, R.R.R.
                                     (C)2014 by William G. Milne 

NANCY SAYS:, I CAN'T FOLLOW YOU.. YOUR STORIES LEAP ABOUT... THE CURE? EDITOR 666 HAS ARRIVED

FORGETTING THE NIGHT BEFORE


         I  feel as if I'm hungover, but that can't be possible,
can it?
         I used to have just about every bad habit you can name,
but now I'm older and wiser. OR wiser because I'm older.
But his doesn't prevent me from behaving repeatedly
like a crazed slathering fool , sniffing after the remains
of the cake at  a toxic birthday party.
        
         
         I've gotten out of the habit of writing each morning.
This is strange because writing is an activity I really
enjoy.  Editing...not so much. So...not so much editing!
         
         BUT:

Editor 666 has made it down from the Arctic,
and I've given him a room... we'll see if this works out.
He's not the type of guy who understands the word,
'compromise'. Reasonable discussion, he cannot engage.
          And his table manners are atrocious!
          But apparently I need him.

      
         So here goes:
   
          Thank God that the Christmas season is over!
(The season of the mushroom man, old Saint Nick
under the pine trees preparing the winter's
harvest..)
        I tend to go into a real nosedive with the weight of the solstice approaching. A Bob Dylan line comes to mind: "a trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field."  Those pre-
 solstice days make me feel that way - bogged down... in a magnetic field...
        
Editor 666:  "LIGHTEN UP! You son-of-a-bitch!  I'm not reading you so I can been dragged down into a sub-oceanic trough of morbidity and terminal  mind-warping depression!
I'm already depressed out of my mind, and out of all remedy! 
               After my five month stay with the Mad Poet of Rat River.Hell! Most people would go through a psychotic
breakdown!
         
       I don't remember drinking last night, but I slept
on stage behind my amplifiers, and that's not usually
a good sign.
         I seem to remember someone handing me a pewter
stein of hog-wrestling-strength moonshine. I knew what it was
because I could see the little wavy lines above the surface
of the drink, even in the lights above the stage. That usually means it's really evil shit - just
what I like...a drink so strong it'll curl your hair, or your
toes, or both at the same time! A drink that'll hit you
hard front-on, straight-up, then circle around and bite you
in the ass! 

Ed.666: "You're really pushing it...And you're boring me!"

Me:         "O.K. This is going to get ugly. For one thing, an editor is supposed to edit, not insert his opinion into the text
every 200 words!"
 
                     The problem is, the prick is one of the best
editors alive today. I just have to find a comfortable
place for him (comfortable for me)  like a heavy cement-
walled basement with a vault door, locked from the
outside.

                    Now, I know the Mad Poet of Rat River, and
I'm aware of the utter disaster his cabin was in.
I know he couldn't find most of his own writings...
and he wrote all the time... so you figure it out.
Ratty has some kind of complex... I do not even
want to speculate.
         So we called Editor 666.

         Editor 666 was caught in some 
bowel-wrenching
scandal in New York City, some company
involved with the New York Times -
he was caught in an embarrassing situation
with a director's wife. In fact he drove
her car into the hotel pool.
       So he wasn't going to
be a manager any more...!
          I hear he was caught in some pink Tutu...

Editor666: "That simply was not true."
           
            Not true, eh?  What was that pink
thing wrapped three times around your neck?

Ed666: "I thin it's called a feather boah.
         
             You think! You know what it was.
You haven't had a moment of uncertainty
in print in the last ten years!

















                       I just got back from two weeks in the Big Smoke. (that's Toronto for those of you across the seas.)
           I'm back now but the trip was nerve-wracking.
     I used to make the trip every week, when I was performing,
but I can see now I'm relying on habit to keep myself 
between the white lines, both mentally and physically.
          So now I must have routine. Routine can be very helpful - to keep myself from going bat-shit and running naked across people's back yards, at 3:00 A. M under a full moon, all the while howling out a Rastaferian chant I happen to know. And beating a drum.
           
          Nope, none of this
           No obvious displays of absurdity... this is
the pattern I'll follow. This is the plan.
       
           Every time I start to write, well... most times... I have
a big doubt that I can do it. I have the Fear to face the virgin page.
        
         My sister, Nancy, told me she had trouble following me
in some of my stories.
        I said: "I'm often drinking when I write the articles..."

       And, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this
story...so if you're having difficulty following my thought -
it's understandable. Maybe there is no thought; or perhaps
a glimmer is growing in the vast world down below -
in the huge and vast darkness within, unconscious regions.
far below, deeper than any ocean's floor.
          ((You can travel in that darkness.))
         
       Bukowski's advice was, "Don't try."
 In October 1963, Bukowski recounted in a letter  how someone once asked him, “What do you do? How do you write, create?” To which, he replied: “You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

                                        I'll take that advice.
                 
                   The vast  ocean within - the storm
on which we ride...light years of darkness.
                  You can travel in this darkness.
Without taking a step, you can travel  far.
You can go very far indeed.
                   But...

                   A certain calm is required. 
                   And I've just had some kind
of panic attack that I was out of wine.
A real, panting, hard=breathing, ass-kicking
attack of nerves. I turned the whole fucking place
upside down, armchairs included. In about 3 minutes.
                   It's ironic
that I should be writing about inner travel exactly
now.   But this contradiction doesn't matter.
We've got a journey to take and now the train
has fuel!

     'DO I CONTRADICT MYSELF? VERY WELL,
I CONTRADICT MYSELF.  I AM LARGE,
I CONTAIN MULTITUDES."       Walt Whitman 
indeed.

       All I can say, Nancy, is you may not  know how rough
I feel these mornings. Rough. I mean really rough... Hands shaking, belly swelling with what I hope is gas... Apparently my LIVER is fine.

        So I write down any sentence - just to start
the flow... and to see where these words will
take us... in our travels through the Mind,
our  journey through unspeakable depths. 
                Any sentence can open the door in the wall.

HANK AND FRANK IN THE COSMIC DARK OF WAIT-A-BIT!

                 I got the Fear today.  Most of the time I don't
know it, but I got it with both barrels today. And
it was a very unpleasant feeling.
       Hunter Thompson wrote about the fear. No, Hunter
Thompson S. Thompson wrote about The Fear.
        The Fear = normal terror +  blanket
paranoia + no blood sugar +  psychosis + toxicity.
 This, of course, includes toxic-psychosis
which Frank is fast becoming an expert in. Madness
resulting from being stoned out of your tree.
       Frank has learned lots about the subject,
primarily from experience with the insanity
of his neighbours, Frank tells himself.
       Many of Frank's neighbours would say that
the situation is reversed: that they've learned
a lot about toxic-psychosis because of visits
from Frank.
         
         Santa, the monster-sized ex-jailbird and 
criminal attorney, he's  written a book about surviving all
manner of weirdness including, toxic-psychosis...
        For example,the weirdness of some evil drug grasping the brain in its talons...all of a sudden you are in the
grip of THE FEAR. And you're in Santa land.
        Gentle self-talk is useless, and logic has no effect!

         Couple this with a healthy dose of cabin fever...
and you'll know intellectual solutions are useless.
It's time to get right down to the ground of your being,
sit on the earth itself. Sit with your spine
straight and watch the river of your own being
slowly clear... and while you're at it,
you might as well start loading your rifle.
         Dangers lurk in unseen places. And no place
is more dangerous than the human brain,
when it's on TILT!
           
           If you've been through at least one
episode of primordial weirdness; if you've
survived your own special blend of toxic-
psychosis... then there are certain things
that you know; you are experienced in matters
that are very hard to describe. What you can
do is describe similar experiences, because your
own experience will be too horrifying to delve into -
and you will not willingly enter into that
evil country again...
           For example, if the turkey you're
cooking sits up in the pan... turns that little
light on in the oven... and starts peering at
you through that clear window in the oven
door - you know you're getting toxic-psychosis.
          And then you go back to reading your
book and you hear a whispering. And you look
up and now the turkey's standing in the window
and gives you the finger, then you know you're
gettin' it...
        Then when you hear the turkey say:
"I WEEL KIEELL YOU!" And he's beckoning for
you to come over across the room, to come
closer....no, closer than that!
         You know you've got the TOXIC-PSYCHOSIS and
you'd better see an expert QUICK to get the cure!

         Then you'll know what most mornings are like
for Hank! He's been nutty as a fruit-bat for the last
two weeks. Clocks no longer can be trusted. And the endless bush to the East is calling him again... The caves of
the people of the Cave-Bear - a place from which there is,
all too often, no returning!
       
        Hank writes: "This is a very unpleasant subject at the moment. I'd bettor go in search of some major tranquillizors...
or I might fall off the flat of the world..."
        "ooooOOOoooOO! Did someone put something
ugly in my food? Some depraved hallucinogen that gives
a guy the sensation of sitting alone, hot sweaty and
naked...with the spiders coming... and More
Spiders crawling all over my naked skin....hahahahuhuh!
            More spiders crawling in my gut.... and more
scuttling up the  rut of the road, coming, coming, coming
my way....(I wonder how they'll taste!)
       And me - mortal, mortal, mortal...hee! hee!
and me cats have worms... eeeep! And I been
walkin barefoot in dah kitchun.... ooop! And I going
down like last week's discards at the butcher's...
Goop!

         Frank thinks, "Oh, oh!"  He doesn't breath a sound
He's reading this disturbing passage
from the dark behind Hank.

           Hank keeps writing down his secrets :  "See? Whiff of the fear... for you, not me. More than a whiff for me... For me a real low blood sugar chemically induced mind-fuck...
Can't talk yer way out of DIS one, Bruno!"
        "Time for me to be dressing down - like the butcher dresses down...meat!"
         (FRANK's snuck up behind HANK and he's reading this
over Hank's left shoulder. He's very careful about
making no sudden noises. Hank might not be able
to shoot, but he's gotten very accurate with an ice
pick... of late.  And he's getting stronger with
 this incessant digging....)

        
         Oh, the North will make a man out of you...!
And if you already were a man, it'll make you into the
beast you always subconsciously knew yourself
to be....!

         Frank crawls back across the bunker floor....
 Dark thoughts for impenetrable times... "Screw it!
I'm going to light one of those horrid yellow candles."
Frank snaps a match alight.

        There's a scream from twenty feet down the tunnel!
It's getting bad - any noise, any movement, any
surprise and Hank comes unhinged - a full-throated
blood curdling scream, like a woman in a swamp
creature horror movie - "Return of the Swamp Thing"...
When the woman first sees the Swamp Thing...The scream! emerging from the murk and the dark...  The scream!
Response to a horrible surprise...

           "That's what Hank sounds like when I light a match... 
Frank's thinking, " What's
he going to do when I shoot something?"

       Frank sits silently back down at the wide shelf which is his desk. He drips some wax on the wood. Sets his candle in the hot wax where it stands and burns in
the silence.

             "This "dressing down like the butcher,"I don't like that
thought," Frank says

           "I don't like that thought, either." Hank replies.

              They're both astounded that they've spoken out loud.
If they gave it any thought, they'd be more astounded
that they both are talking about EXACTLY the same thing.

                  They don't know they're having a conversation.

        The bunker is much more spacious now that Hank has
entered into his committed digging project.... always
EASTWARD to the east he goes... Eastward, HO!
Eastward, YO! 
         He's cleared about twenty feet of tunnel to the east...
What wuz a cozy bunker now looks like some mad
mining project...

         FRANK is thinking about some of the thing's he's
read off Hank's notepad:"Mortal, mortal, mortal hee hee hee!
 And my cats have worms, are wormy...eep!"

         "OK, that's creepy, but it doesn't bother me
too much," Frank thinks, but what was that other
phrase? Oh, yeah...

"OR I MIGHT FALL OFF THE FLAT OF THE WORLD!"

         "That's a phrase that'll make you think,"
Frank whispers to himself. "That's a phrase that might
make you ditch your roommate!"

ONTARIO LIBERALS - HAVE THEY BETRAYED THE NORTH? IS ONTARIO NORTHLAND PAYING FOR ONTARIO HYDRO BLUNDER?

        Any commitment to Northern Ontario is a commitment
to the transportation of people across the North. 
       Is this a losing proposition?
       Of course, it's a losing proposition,
if we look at the situation using a very narrow perspective.
If we look at the costs of transporting one person
to South Porcupine, Ontario, assessing the costs of the
entire railroad against that one person: well, the
costs are enormous...
       But we always knew that. When we built a railroad
4,000 miles across Canada, we knew the costs would
be enormous... but there would eventually be a major
upside. Yes, there would be an upside... And do you
know what the upside would be called?
        It would be called Canada.
     
         That one man the railroad drops off in South Porcupine,
Ontario, might be a prospector - prospecting for diamonds,
uranium, or gold. If this one man discovers a diamond
mine, how much did it cost to transport that man
to South Porcupine?
        The figures change quite rapidly...the expensive
trip becomes a highly profitable trip, But of course
this is not a matter simply of profit and loss...
the railroad is  the fabric that holds this
country together...And not just freight rail, but
passenger rail.

           The question becomes - what is the
cost of not binding this country together?
What is the cost of having no passenger rail
service to areas that have no highways?
           Living in Toronto, it's hard to imagine
the disaffection of one person walking along
the track where the railway used to run,
walking through five feet of snow with nothing
but a big coat, boots, a 1917 303 rifle and
safety matches in a canister in your
inside pocket - with no sound ....
           No sound except the howl of the wind
whipping granulated snow in your face... and
the sound of your own heartbeat, beating
in your brain with every step growing more
exhausted.
          And why?

          Because some incompetent in Toronto
made a mammoth mistake organizing Ontario Hydro -
a 2 Billion dollar mistake...No, the party
really don't want to talk about that one!
          So what happens?
          Passenger rail service in Northern Ontario picks up part of the tab for a major miscalculation made in the South.
           
          Is that right? Is this what is happening? Or was
closing Ontario Northland a punitive measure?
          I simply do not understand why the government is closing such an essential service, when the monies lost
running Ontario Northland are such an insignificant
amount comparatively. I mean, we're talking a loss
of  millions, not billions.
          Perhaps someone from the current Ontario
government could explain the logic they're using.
Becuase it doen't seem logical to me.
          
         We'll get into the exact figures later.

STATE OF HEART-MIND, STATE OF SOUL

        I've always wished we had a word in English
that meant "heart-mind"
       Or soul-mind with feeling:  "Heart-Mind-Soul"
An aware, perceptive state of feeling that unifies
with all things... A feeling Mind One with the Universe...
We don't have such a word, unless we incorporate a word such as, "prajna" into English usage.
       The word, "Mind", used alone in our language
has a feelig of coldness to it, which I do not mean
when I say phrases such as, "It is necessary to realize
the Mind of Christ." I mean heart-mind.
___________________________________________
Anyway, here's a poem I want to share with you.



Finding Home

The peace that passeth understanding
Exists...
And that place, this place,
This state of soul, heart-mind above
         death
This realization, soul state
         thru Grace
Can really be reached...
All that is necessary is utter trust
          and giving over completely
To your Self, the True One, the Christ
          the One who we are
           and who is with us
           always.

Finally Odysseus
Traveller on uncharted, wine-dark
Seas, comes Home,
Beyond confusion
And Home is not a place
But a state of soul.

CATS! NOT THE MUSICAL! part 2

       O.K. O.K. One thing you have to admire
about cats is their totally focused attention
to detail.... every little thing is done
with awareness of mind.
     Zen masters are compared to cats
for this very quality .

           One thing I've got to say...
(I can't pretend to be an idiot all the time...
even if it is a role I enjoy and slip into 
 easily) ... you can learn something
by watching a cat closely...Especially
this mother, she won't eat herself
she watches her seven babies eat first.
      The babies don't think to return the
favour.

       I remember talking to this big
band leader standing by a cottage
he'd given to his sons. He said:
"One father can take care of seven
children... Seven children can't take
care of one father."
        Smart man. Witty. I always 
respected him. He played a great
trumpet. He died just weeks after
making this statement.

     And can we get any more depressing?
Sure we can! But not today.

      The slow, gentle movements... the
utter concentration...the patience.
What is it about this cat's consciousness
that's different? What can I say
about this being that is exceptional?
      (1) she is so completely there/here.
      (2)her consciousness is not divided:
          she is so completely herself.
      (3)she does not have a divided soul.
       (4) she does not have piggy-back consciousness;
            ie: she doesn't watch herself doing things.

        No. Instead she watches me... 
       

CATS! NOT THE MUSICAL! CAN WE EVER REALLY BE FRIENDS WITH THE LITTLE DEVOURING JUNGLE-BEASTS?

         Now I have eight cats in my kitchen.
And to tell you the truth, I never much liked
cats...but I've learned to like them a bit.
         The fact that, if I were to die in these rooms,
these eight supposedly friendly little beasts
would have my bones picked clean before next
week - this does tend to influence
my already jaded judgment.
            Years ago, when I used to cleanse myself,
dress in clean clothes, give salutations to the sun
etc., etc...I would then take a massive dose of
LSD and sit quietly facing east
and wait for BLAST-OFF!
         I'd then run across the fields and hills of
snow, freezing temperatures... I'd run up
to the nearest snow fence and then I'd rip
an eight foot t-shaped steel post out of the frozen
ground and run to the top of the nearest hill,
where I remember letting out a howl of glee, 
and triumph and menace - in order to intimidate
all the wildlife in a radious of about eight miles.
I was spoiling for a fight. I was daring something
to attack me ... three or four wolves, perhaps, or
ten coyotes.
           The howl, I'm told was loud enough,
and just gleefully primevil enough, to have
neighbours five miles away calling the district
police...
     
     Ah, well, they weren't my neighbours.
I lived farther north.

         But to get to the point, I remember
returning to the farmhouse at the bottom of
the hill in the dark, with very little
ambient light... The same conditions I could see
clearly in hours before when I was beginning
my long circular hilltop trek of howls, the same
light now seemed almost impenetrable darkness
to me...
             So after a good workout, running and howling
over the snow for five miles and more, I returned
to the farmhouse of my hosts. I stepped inside
and about five cats were staring at me across
someone else's kitchen floor.
             Not a word was said. I stood there quietly
inside the kitchen door.  All I did was return the stare
of these luminiscent-eyed feline beasts, pretending to be
domesticated.
             Well, they weren't fooling me! I wanted to
kill, but I didn't move a muscle. I didn't
have to - just by my staring at them, the
cats started sprinting back and forth across
the living room... 
           I watched, growing more agitated by
the moment. I wanted to join the chase,
hunt them, pursue them and devour them.
          I didn't. Instead, the perfect house guest
at 3:00A.M., I shouted out like a drill instructor: 
        "Would someone come and take these cats before
I kill them all!"
          Several women ran down in their nightgowns
from the second floor, and nabbed their little
darling housepets and got them the hell out of the
way - of the 200 pound, six foot, well-co-ordinated
raving monster who was going to eat
the eyes of their sweet little furry friends.

        Ah, but that was twenty years ago, and it's
hard to find acceptable acid now-a-days. AND THE
LITTLE FUCKERS ARE IN MY KITCHEN NOW!
        I've fed the little bastards about ten
times  today already, refilled the water, removed
the huge clumps of catshit... 
       It's 8:00P.M. now and I'm just cooking my own breakfast...whereas these
little beasties have eaten about a pound and a half
of my meat already...
             And the mother still has the nerve...
             The mother of seven meat-eating 3rd week
kittens has the nerve to STARE at me EXPECTANTLY...
as if saying, "Well, what's wrong with you, fool? Do your
job!  Can't you see we're a little peckish..."
              I can see the staring eyes of that mother
cat right now, even though their room is in
darkness... expecting me... expecting me... expecting....
staring, wanting more, more, more...
              And I can't blame the mother much. Because
soon as I fill the large bowl with soft foot, seven kittens
are in the bowl...The mother watches patiently...
I can't believe her self-sacrifice and patience. I'm
not patient.... and I don't need any more
expectant eyes on me!

            OK, I finally had breakfast at 9:00P.M.
About cooking a pound of rare lean hamburger... And the
little pricks wanted that as well!


                                  (to be continued, you'd better believe it!)

HOW TO SURVIVE THE DENTIST

                   
          In dentistry and in hockey, good hands are essential.
Both professions involve unimaginable pain. In hockey we
like to see the pain. In dentistry... not so much.
          I went to see my dentist this morning.  Things have
gotten a lot better in the modern dentist`s office. Agony is no longer an expected event.
          Of course, agony is always better when it`s unexpected.         


          I`m lucky. My dentist has good hands. He can be agile and careful. He doesn`t tend to lurch as he`s walking across the rug... And he doesn`t lunge at you suddenly, when you least expect it, when he has a sharp
implement in his hand.
          
            "Laughter is the best medicine." That`s the maxim. 

             It doesn`t always apply in dentistry          

             I  find I`m often giddy when I show up at the dentist . I tend to talk too much and blurt out odd statements, like: "I love to hear my sister vomit, she really shouts it out. She makes guttural sounds you can hear across the street!
 It's almost worth the three hundred mile trip for that alone!"
          I'm giddy probably because deep down inside my body is bracing itself for some REAL PAIN...  Real Pain is mostly
a thing of the past, but not always...

              If  you have gout in the knee, you know Real Pain.
If you are engaged in childbirth, you know Real Pain.
               I'm told agony in dentistry went out with those
rubber band drills or woven rope drills and pretend
freezings that didn`t work.

          Those old magnifying glasses extenders
that gave the dentist a really good view of your teeth -
and gave you  an immaculate examination
of the  nose hairs of your doctor. If he is a doctor...
they're mostly gone, too.
          
             My last dentist turned out NOT to be a doctor
at all.... I was starting to wonder about him. I swear
I used to hear the sound of laughter over the high-
pitched  howl of his drill, or the low-pitched rumbling
 drone of his more primitive drill.
          (I later learned the low-pitched drill had been
outlawed decades before. It was illegal to use it
on humans or farm animals...  ... 
           In this respect it was similar to the elastrator...
But I digress... )
           
           I`d sit in his waiting room and listen carefully,
pretending to read a magazine. I`d hear the shudders
and surprised squeals of his unseen patients. And then
the low groan that sounded as if it came from a
400 pound man.
          I`m thinking,  "What`s he doing - working at
two patients at once in there? A six year old child and
a wrestler? I mean, mercy!... mercy me!"
         It got so I started taking my lunches into that waiting
room. I knew something was weird and strange. As
your Roving Reporter it is my duty to investigate such
events, such warps in the fabric of time, such weaves
in the force.  TO PENETRATE ANY THIN MEMBRANES
INTO THE EXISTENCE OF A DARK AND MORE 
TERRIFYING REALITY. This is my job.

         I saw many mothers with small children. I saw
them have to leave in a hurry.  I`d watch with complete
absorption the poignant scenes... 
        To see a male child, more or less innocent at
the age of four... play with the bright plastic ducks
and inflated balloons in the corner of the old
doctor`s  apparently cheerful rest area... 
        To see the expression  on the 
little toddler`s face as he heard
the high pitched whine as the  modern drill
 did its work
         To see the child`s expression mature as 
the drill started to howl and scream like
some sort of  electronic whistle... and the realization
was setting in: "that was no mechanical device,
that was a human scream."
        The little fellas would start
to bawl and scamper and look around in all directions...
 and back out slowly, slowly towards the door...
       The look of recognition in the child`s face
was priceless.The kid knew the game had changed - 
he was no longer in mommie and daddy`s parlour...
He was in a different world where unspeakable dangers lurked... even under the plastic chairs and the bright lights. 
      Something medieval had crept into the little tot`s existence and there was no disguising the fact.  No phony
reassurances from his mama
were going to be believed.
          Soon as a new customer walked in
the little tike bolted for the door.  He had no trouble
walking on two legs now. He was running like
he was in the Preschool  Olympics. The mother
had to get up quick, or she`d never catch her son.

          I could hear her running down the
carpeted hall, calling after her child, "Nemo! Nemo!"
Nemo had made his escape and turned the corner
toward the elevators.

           Imagine my surprise one lunch hour
when the police suddenly came in. Six
of them in uniforms and two guys in raincoats
 entered the waiting room.
          They didn`t wait.
          They walked down the doctor`s hall.
 Immediately one was reading the Miranda
warning in a loud voice.  Two more cops were opening
their handcuffs. And was it my imagination
or was one of them carrying a butterfly net?
           No,  I`m sure that was just in my mind.
I don`t remember that part too clearly, as
soon as the cops showed up
I didn`t stick around.


                    
        
         My new dentist has a genuinely good sense of humour
and that`s always a delightful surprise. But
humour can be a dangerous thing in a dentist`s office,
especially when patients  already have a tendency towards
giddiness and panic.
        The doctor cracks a joke.  When I`m in the chair, I want to tell another. But of course I can`t speak a word
with at least two hands in my mouth. The most I can manage
is an inarticulate mumble.  I find myself shaking with laughter, though I can`t say a thing.
        I try not to make any sudden movements
when the drill is in my mouth.
           A loud noise, perhaps, or glimpsing
a motion out of the corner of my eye - anything
sudden - can revive an atavistic terror. That terror is
of course more appropriate to standing among ancient Indian
 artifacts  and totem poles in the late evening,  than it is
sitting in a modern office.
       Or standing beside one of the heads on Easter Island around midnight in the absolute darkness, when there are 
no sounds - (that`s when you remember the sacrificial
platform down below) - terror is appropriate at such times - but not in a competent modern dentist's office...
when the man actually is a dentist.
         
                If sudden fears do arrive, this may result
in sudden movements. That`s when you appreciate
a dentist with good hands and quick reflexes. I do subtle
tests when I`m sitting in the chair, to make sure
the doctor`s reflexes are up to par for the day`s
drilling.
            These tests are totally subjective and I
invite you to make up your own. 
             Here are a few of my favourites:

        (1) Pretend to be dropping a glass of water
and carefully notice how quickly his hand reaches
yours to catch it;
        (2) Carefully examine his retinas, make sure
they are not pinpricks or overly dilated.... If you're
reading this text, chances are you already have
considerable experience in judging the
various hierarchies of intoxication, so use the
observation skills you have already learned.
         (3) Toss him a ball briskly, as you enter his
office - see which hand catches the ball. Make
sure he is using the same hand he catches with
when he places a sharp implement into your mouth...
make sure he's not using his good hand to fondle
the buttocks of his attractive assistant, behind your
back, where you won't notice... it's not so safe for you, if
 he's inserting his less coordinated hand into
your mouth with a razor sharp pick in it;

           (4)  Make sure he's not a sadist, 
I've been informed by a psychiatrist that professional
dentists are the one person sadists most often
 pretend to be, when they act as charlatans and draw up
phony degrees to place impressively on their
waiting room walls... anybody can put up a
diploma. So it's best to check names and birth dates,
accents and countries of origin.
             
              When I started harbouring dark
suspicions about my former dentist, as I said earlier,
I started having my lunches in his waiting room for
a period of some weeks. Doing so, I was able to
observe his laughter patterns.
             A laughter test is this: if you shout out
a sudden grunt of agony, your true sadist will
invariably laugh. If he laughs each time you
moan in pain - you've got him! He's not
a real dentist. 
           He's a sadistic charlatan,
who has not yet learned to control his
laughter when a patient screams in pain.

         The true professional dentist and
his assistants  will have learned how to
disguise their laughter, control it,
and hide it behind a thin  professional
veneer.

 







                                                                                                         RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED, RRR
                                                                                                       
****NOTE: If you liked this story you'll love "SANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE"!
             This story is one of the chapters.                                    www.amazon.com/kindle-ebooks