Both sides now

I have long held metta - or the Buddhist meditation practice most akin to prayer - at arm's length. Perhaps it's because I'm a recovering Catholic, but I think it runs deeper. The very basis of so many eastern religions/spiritualities, including Buddhism, is non-duality. Or a more positive word: unity. The idea of calling forth to something other than this moment, or this breath, for 'happiness,' or 'peace,' or even 'freedom from suffering,' seemed to fly in the face of unity. Isn't everything right here right now anyway? And isn't the act of thinking or saying something like 'may I be healthy' not too far removed from 'may I win the lottery'? That is, an individual isolated 'me' asking for a favor from somewhere or somebody or something else?

I have lately been reading Tara Brach's seminal work, Radical Acceptance, subtitled 'embracing your life with the heart of a Buddha.' I came to know of Brach as she holds weekly dharma talks at the nearby Bethesda Unitarian Church. A clinical psychologist and long time yoga and meditation practitioner, she puts on quite a 'show' - weaving anecdotes, personal stories, New Yorker cartoons, humor, ancient poetry, the wisdom of other faith traditions, etc. - into her talks about the Buddhadharma. Only recently did I borrow the book - which I'd heard about for some years - from my girlfriend. My girlfriend who is neither Buddhist nor a meditator, but found the book inspiring. (I will add here that I also am not a 'Buddhist,' though I've been meditating for years - ever since the realities of impermanence were no longer possible to ignore. A cultural Jewish friend describes himself as being Bhuddish, which as a cultural Catholic works for me too.)

There are chapters of the book dedicated to prayer and metta, (often translated as 'lovingkindness'), and have helped me further my understanding and practice of same. Beyond the basics - may I be free of suffering, etc. - she shows how to lean into the fear, or sorrow, or pain, or whatever it may be that our suffering arises around, and find sources of peace within. Which is to say, it's a non-dualistic approach. Perhaps by calling forth an image - God, Jesus, the void, the unity of all, the Buddha, Gandhi, MLK, maybe even a person you know who has been a loving presence in your life - and letting go into the power this image may hold within our hearts, we can tap into deeper connection, or unity. By starting with our fear, our vulnerability, as a bridge to connection with this infinite source of love.

Which may sound like a bunch of gobbledygook moonie madness. To which I might say to the atheists among my vast readership, call forth a Christopher Hitchens or Sam Harris if you find his to be a loving presence in your life. (Much as I admire these intellects, the concept of 'loving presence' is not one I'd ascribe to them. I'll go with the Buddha, or Gandhi, or Atman, or Mother Theresa...or my mom!)

In any event I have been working on a metta with MS as something of a theme. I would attach it here, but can't see how to do so. I'll try to copy and paste, but unfortunately the narrow layout of this blog might make the text less easily read. No matter - the prayer is for me, and I will have it in a more readable format. Only the intrepid need attempt to decipher:

May I be free from suffering. May all beings be free from suffering.

May the symptoms of MS awaken compassion within me for myself and for all beings. To wit:

May the heaviness in my limbs awaken compassion for myself and all beings with illnesses of the limbs.

May the nystagmus in my eyes awaken compassion for myself and for all beings with maladies in the eyes.

May the cane, walker, or other walking aids I use to help my balance and gait awaken compassion for myself, and for all beings with such aids in their lives – and may we be free of the psychological weight these are prone to occasion.

May the occasional klutziness and spasticity in my limbs awaken compassion for myself and others with such disabilities.

May my breath anchor in me each moment the healing power of mind.

May my breath awaken in me each moment the healing power of my heart.

May my heart freely beat blood each moment to cleanse my brain and central nervous system.

May my craniosacral fluid rise and fall – in counterpoint with my breath – free of obstruction, and cleanse my central nervous system.

May my immune system remain calm, expending neither energy on, nor sending T-cells or any other immune response elements in any other service than to protect this organism from infection.

May my whole body relax into the healing power of the present.

May I lean with grace and gentle vulnerability into the fear that this progressive condition may continue to progress.

May I also note with gentle awareness my desire to get back the physical functions which have been impaired – while fully accepting conditions as they are right now.

I’ve looked at life from both sides now

from well and ill, and still somehow,

It’s life’s illusions, I recall; I really don’t know life, at all.

May this ignorance of life – and its illusions – inform each cell of my body with the infinite wonder and miracle of this moment.

May we all be free of suffering. Amen.

The Nepali word for MS (as best I have learned) is kathinaya, which means approximately 'wood-like,' or 'to harden.' Kath, the word for wood, is also found in the name Kathmandu, literally the capital city's eponymous 'wooden temple.' Perhaps this is an image that could be helpful to recall in my prayer, that is, maybe I'm am turning into a wooden temple. Or into Pinnochio. Or into a church pew. How about Pinnochio kneeling at a pew in the wooden temple, hands held in supplication to Atman, breath of the universe?

Very hot today, busy with errands and medical appointments, including an MRI. It's a procedure that I've become surprisingly fond of. Maybe ten times now? Black Sabbath's Iron Man (a band and song more anathema I could hardly imagine) came to me a couple times as I slowly hobbled about with or without cargo in the blazing sun. I am Iron Man, da da da da da...

When I think about it, climbing into the MRI machine is a bit like Robert Downey Jr. putting on his costume in the movie. My movie title: Wooden Man.

Izod, Youzod, we all zod...

It was a This American Life (TAL) story that inspired this American's purchasing choice. I'd long tried to avoid buying clothes or shoes 'made in China.' Unless they are second-hand: my favorite stores being Valu-Village and Goodwill. But it's hard to find affordable new clothes made elsewhere than in our largest creditor nation.

But of course, I love so many things Chinese - the food, the philosophies, the people - but I am not too keen on its government. Especially the way it has annexed many formerly independent neighbors (e.g. Tibet). It has loosened its grip on economic enterprises allowing for tremendous growth, which is kind of a good thing I suppose. But at what costs: environmental degradation, dangerous working conditions, etc.

So Ira Glass, host of TAL, introduced - or told, I can't remember - a story that explained how the Clinton administration had persuaded the government of Cambodia to adopt certain labor standards (such as allowing unions) and perhaps also environmental regulations, in exchange for receiving 'most favored nation' trade status (MFN). Having such status grants countries things like lower tariffs I think. Anyway they did it, and their fledgling garment industry boomed. Then during the Bush administration - big surprise - they lost their MFN status. As far as I can tell, however, the industry is still doing fairly well. And looking at this site, http://www.betterfactories.org/ it seems that unions there are still at work. Or on strike, as the case may be.

Though this concept might smack of social engineering to some, and run counter to the GATT (a treaty riddled with dubious implications), I think it would be fantastic if we could do it for every country - even our landlord's, China.

At Macy's one day some years back, shopping for the boys (and maybe a new shirt for me), I discovered some sale piles and racks of Izod shirts and shorts. And as is my habit, I started looking at the labels to see where the clothes were manufactured. And, as I'm sure you all have been expecting to hear for some time now in this long-winded (redundant) palaver, they were all 'made in Cambodia.' And I liked some of them. As did Eli (then). He's outgrown them, and would likely not care for them now. They tended (in the men's shirts) toward a large lined plaid pattern. At least the few I bought.

Thanks be to Zod, amen. Ahem.

The tenth is in!

...the tenth visa, that is. Four to India, four for Nepal, and two for Brazil. (Just Spencer and Miller will be going on a cruise up the Amazon with extended Ruppe family. I didn't want to risk my health before the big Asian adventure - not to mention an already maxed-out travel budget - and Eli remained faithful to his skateboard and friends. Or something like that.)

The last four visas I got were from the Embassy of Nepal. This is located in a little townhouse on Leroy Ave., near Dupont Circle. Arrived Monday morning, parked on Connecticut (Leroy was a 'one way' preventing a right turn), and put all my silver in the parking meter - sixty cents - which yielded me a grand total of eighteen minutes parking time. This is a bone of contention for many, I know - the new rates - and to the extent that folks in general are suffering in this G.D. II (second great depression), it does seem a bit cruel. On the other hand, if it is one more reason to walk, bike, ride the bus or metro (fare increases notwithstanding), telecommute, or in any other way leave that darned private automobile in the garage (or sell it), then I support the rate hike. Which may sound a bit 'let them eat cake' Antoinettesque; I would counter, however, it is more the opposite: 'how about they eat bread' since we are running out of cake (gasoline, parking spaces, roads, clean air, clean oceans, etc.)

So, huge digression behind me now, on to the next. My eighteen expensive minutes afforded me enough time to walk up Leroy to find the embassy, and some parking spaces (unmetered - which due to my lack of coins was more good than bad). I wheeled my walker back and moved the car closer.

Not knowing what the embassy would be like, I had brought the walker instead of the cane. Something to sit on, if necessary, waiting in line, etc. And - he adds cynically - it tends to elicit kinder regard by bureaucrats than a cane. Unfortunately, in front of the embassy are approximately eight concrete steps up from the sidewalk, with no hand rail. What to do? Sick the ADA on them? No, I'll just go slow, that's what: while breathing in, push down on the walker handles (this is one of the four wheel jobs with a seat - we'd bought if for Loret), to set the front wheels up on the step; while breathing out, lift the handles and set the back wheels on the step below. Pause, feel the balance return to the inner ear and the MS affected regions of the brain and spine. Repeat these steps eight times. Then wheel ahead to five more steps up to the door. Not a problem, I'm moving now folks. Not even the ninety degree heat is slowing me down - there is much more important stuff slowing me down. Like, what is the improbable miracle that dropped me here in this infinite moment, walking past the tall white pole bearing the strikingly unique flag of Nepal. You can see it here: http://www.embassy.org/embassies/np.html

(Anybody know how to put a picture in a blog post? Or make a 'hyperlink'?)

I lift the walker inside. Wooden floor with the dust and dirt of decades ground in. There is a stairway on the right side of the hall - put there as if to taunt me, dare me - I shrug. There is a door on the left slightly ajar. Nothing in the way of ornamentation or directional signs. A few years ago there surely would have been pictures of the late king Birendra and his wife queen Aiswarya. But the monarchy is no more. (Which tempts a huge digression here, but I'll let the curious do their own research on the web - or maybe at the library: just look in...what were those things called, you know, you could get a set of them, they'd weigh a zillion pounds, and make book shelves sag, twenty volumes, thirty maybe? Wyclopedia Britannica or something? World Facebook?)

I push the door open and say 'namaste,' and in Nepali ask, 'do you speak English?' A friendly man - sixty maybe? - sat at a desk with a big ledger book open atop it. With wavy hair and glasses, he had Mongolian features (suggesting Tibetan origin, though I didn't want to ask his ethnicity. I routinely ask Brahmins, Newars, and Chetris their ethnicities - or 'castes' - in order to confirm my guess. And am relatively assured that they will not take umbrage at this, middle to upper caste as they are. I will eventually learn this clerk's caste from his name, Dig Bahadur Tamang, his last name referring to the 'horse warriors' who migrated from Tibet to Nepal over the last several centuries. His 'caste' is the same as mine, that is, non-Hindu, aka. the drinking caste.)

He offers me a seat, and we begin a dialogue in Nepanglish: my Peace Corps years, how long he has been at the embassy - thirty years - how he does not much care for the Maoists (currently in control of the parliament), etc. Very ramailo (a word which translates as gemütlich in German, or cozy, relaxed, harmonious. At which point I will note briefly how often a German word will come into my head as I'm looking for the Nepali - as if there is just one 'foreign language storage locker' in my brain, where words and concepts can get mixed up.) Practice will help with this. I'm currently reading a book in German, as well as The Tin Drum in English. Maybe it's time to focus on Nepali...

At one point somebody shows up - could be thirty or sixty, red polo shirt, coiffed yet natural flowing sandy blond hair, khaki pants: which is to say, a stereotype of privilege (did I mention how judgmental I can be?) - and hands Mr. Horse Warrior his passport and visa application, which he will have to come back in some days to pick up. He leaves, and Dig Bahadur tells me he will process my visas right then and there while I sit and chat. He gets the correct impression that I am in no hurry, which by the laws of judo mean that I sometimes get there sooner. (And even occasionally realize that I'm already there: there is really nowhere, ultimately, to go.) Then he offers me coffee, goes and retrieves two steaming styrofoam cups - his black, mine with what tasted like creamer powder. It was delicious.

He gives me his phone number at his home in Gaithersburg in case I should need anything else, and he helps me with words like 'multiple sclerosis' and 'metastatic breast cancer' which I will want to know if we make it to 'my' village to explain the porters who will have carried me there, etc. He offers to help me down the stairs, but I take the opportunity to sit-walk it down, another physical therapy opportunity. Was nearby the Indian/Nepali restaurant, the 'Polo Club,' so I called my sister and niece who work nearby and they joined me for lunch.

After the drive home, the heat was starting to get to me; but oh what a beautiful morning it had been! The corn as high as an elephant's eye...

This bud's for me?

What's that? Let me mute this a sec.

I don't know, the jury is still out.

On Saturday I listened to 'This American Life' in the privacy of my own little portable head phone/hd radio I got as a premium from the local NPR station.

What I had been promised was a day sponsorship in memory of Loret from me and the boys. On her birthday. But they missed that day. So they tried again, on the anniversery of her death - May 27 - and the one time I tuned in to hear it (out of three total), Garrison Keillor made no mention of my deceased spouse. The times they gave me, I was later told, were only approximate. Anyway, the message had indeed aired they assured me, and a friend mentioned hearing it. And besides, I am such a huge fan of public radio, it is like icing on the cake - a 'premium' that is - I'm very happy to support one of the last vestiges of independent journalism.

Saturday's T.A.L. episode was rather brilliant, I laughed out loud several times - like a lunatic, such outbursts coming from no stimuli apparent to my sons. I wanted to call them over to listen, but didn't, they couldn't without interrupting the flow of the story, turning on the radio, and maybe the funny part was done anyway, etc. Sometimes when the show is on the radio they will listen in. (But more often ask me to please turn it down as they watch Scrubs or Family Guy, or some other wholesome show. Or play a video game.)

While it is true the sound quality was superior to our usual radio, and I could move from room to room, push a vacuum or broom, lift a barge, tote a bale, whatever. Maybe sit down and write a symphony or play Halo 3. Or in my case do my p.t. exercises then eat lunch.

Which seems just about as complicated an activity as I could be expected to do - and still enjoy the show. But I'm not sure I even want to do that. I'll try it again, maybe wear it to the gym tomorrow. It's not like I talk to many folks in the gym anyway. But when people wear the ear buds listening to god knows what, it's like they aren't there - or I'm not.

Old dog, new trick? Maybe. I'll see how the gym goes. If I remember, that is.

Next day update: went to the gym today. Instead of the hd radio I went with my son Eli.

Also, here is a blog my sister mentioned that teases out some of the baby boomer generation's angst/disgust about the new media: http://www.londonlee.com/page/2

Six degrees...

of obfuscation?

Many of you may recall the movie, Six Degrees of Separation, in which the theory is posited - and exposited - that all of us are connected by no more than six steps away from every last living person on the planet. Or something like that. (This concept apparently was first espoused by Frigyes Karinthy, a Hungarian author and playwright of the early twentieth century.)

I recall enjoying the movie well enough, and within the framework of its plot, it worked. But having lived and worked in a remote village in Nepal, the basic idea just doesn't add up for me. Unless of course a 'step' of separation (or connection, rather) could be as tenuous as something like: 'I know Peter, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in Nepal, and in the village of Khateda where he lived was a widow named Kamala who prepared his evening meal of chapattis each night, the flour for which was ground in a tiny mill by the stream, a stream at which a village child played, by the name of Amar Bahadur who went to school each day with a girl Laxmi, who was married off to a village two days' walk away, and whose mother-in-law was uncharacteristically kind, and was thereby spared her life when Laxmi took up an AK-47 and joined the Maoist revolution...' Actually, this one seems to be 'working.' But what of the other millions of Nepalis who never met or saw a PCV? To say nothing of the billions of villagers across the globe who have little or no contact with the 'outside world'?

It's one thing to feel connected by our hundreds of Facebook 'friends,' and thence to each of their hundreds, etc., but such connections seem to loop in on themselves. Basically, I need to see a study which takes two randomized people and attempts to connect them. Thousands of successful times within six steps. This skeptic doesn't think it possible. With something much more than 'he visited China once, where a small boy in Shang-hai by the name of Ang-li lives' - as a step.

Just saying, doesn't add up for me.

However, I now have a direct connection with an acupuncturist in D.C. The connection - this past Tuesday - did not involve any needles, at least not on my first visit. There was much more talking, and discussing posture (like avoiding that slump which I now exhibit rather acutely), and other strategies to address what she seemed to agree was stress related. (She is also a physical therapist.) Or more to the point, how I carry tension. In this case, largely, at night. I am able to sleep okay, but by morning, my jaw is pretty tense and sensitive. It gradually lessens during the day, yet seems to intensify with apprehension, for example, of taking that first bite, or at the approaching tooth brush. Did this visit do the trick? Insofar as keeping me on a path of betterment through non-invasive means (drugs or needles or worse), I suppose so. Will I go back for more? Depends on how much my insurance picks up of her not inconsiderable fee. (She doesn't submit...)

A dharma teacher invoked the 'Heisenberg uncertainty principle' the other day. Simply put, the principle states that when observed an action will have a different outcome. This principle came out of quantum physics, and has elegantly complex math to support it. (I'm kind of weak here on the hard science bit, correct me if I'm wrong, any math-physicist out there who may be reading this - you know who you are.) I don't recall exactly what the relationship to the dharma the teacher had in mind, but while observing the pain in my jaw, the principle seems rather clear. If I move my tongue around the sensitive areas with an intention to note the level of pain, it is greater if I in fact am hoping for there to be little or no pain. The same is true if I take a bite of food, or put in my mouth guard, or whatever. That is, depending on what the nature of my observation is, the outcome is unique. This is perhaps enough solipsistic navel gazing for now...

I will watch what arises, and what precedes it, and gradually figure it out. I feel it slowly lifting. Also will remain connected to y'all, and beyond, by however many degrees of separation it takes.

Where did I put my keys?

Researchers have found that certain blind persons who have lost their vision due to neurological events, like strokes, can actually avoid randomly placed obstacles on the floor - as if they could see them - as they walk down a hallway. I'd be curious to know if there was a control group - maybe with the lights turned off - and how well that group did.

In The Snow Leopard, we learn of Sherpa - and other ethnic Tibetan porters - going into a 'lung-gom' state (or something like that) which enabled them to negotiate particularly difficult terrain, or even to walk quickly in the dead of night, without a torch, on unknown trails. Or they would be walking happily along, barefoot in the snow and ice, chatting, telling jokes and laughing, thumping their 50kg loads; when the trail would narrow to a veritable foot-wide cliff hanger. They would go silent, seeming to look inward - as if in meditation - then successfully make the pass. And pick up their cheery banter where they'd left off. Matthiessen, with his much lighter pack and thick soled boots, would have to crawl these particular ledges on his hands and knees.

Could there be a neurological explanation linking these two phenomena?

Then a few weeks ago I heard on Morning Edition (I forget who, what, when, etc.) an interview with a researcher who'd focused on memory. Specifically, how memory fades as we age. Anybody who has either lived on this planet for more than forty years - or knows somebody who has - is quite aware of so-called 'senior moments.' However, the researcher described a change in the brain's neuro-chemistry (or something like that) that begins in middle age, and enables older brains to make meaningful connections far more readily than younger brains. (Hah! take that all you gen x, y, and z's out there...)

But seriously, this little connection about the blind leading the blind, isn't exactly earth shattering. However, as I lose my keys gradually a bit more often as the years go by, it seems that there are just more and more things floating around up here between my ears; it's not hard to imagine them making more connections. (Actually, it was Miller who lost my keys the evening before last when he went down to get the mail... The next morning was a bit of a panic till I found a spare key to the Civic. And later our house guest Sara found the keys.)

The connection I'm making these days is between life's tension and stress on the one hand, and various psycho-somic pains and maladies on the other. Pains so very real, the term psycho-somic literally means 'mind-body,' (from the Greek?). And not the denigrated 'it's all in your head' that it has come to mean in the popular usage. My lingering dental pain is bringing such ideas to the fore. I have started eating whole - though generally softer - foods again. (E.g. oatmeal instead of granola, etc.) Got my new nightguard last Thursday, and was able to wear it for two hours the first night. (Over the weekend it's gone up to six hours.)

It is disappointingly hard - I'd hoped for something soft and chewy. Don't know if it's gonna help with the pain (so far it hasn't), but it will likely help preserve my teeth. The pain is moving around in my mouth - seemingly after a certain area's muscles have learned to relax the pain away, it goes somewhere else. This makes it a clear candidate for psycho-soma, that is, tension caused pain. (But the jury is still out; I hope to see an acupuncturist this week.)

While sitting in the dentist's waiting room, I read the article about plastics in the latest New Yorker. Though not a sure thing, it seems clear that BPA - an additive to certain plastics - does come with some environmental risks. The studies are not yet conclusive. I didn't ask whether this new dental appliance had any in it - I'd just paid almost five hundred bucks for it! - and like I said, it was hard: BPA is used to soften plastics or some such thing. (Maybe I should just put a rag in my mouth? Organic unbleached cotton?)

The article was fascinating and mentioned that the European Union requires companies to do all the scientific research to prove a new chemical will be safe in the environment before it is approved for use. I have heard of this referred to as the 'precautionary principle,' and was one of the stipulations placed on post World War II Germany by FDR's Marshall Plan (or something like this...). Unlike in the U.S., where a new chemical - unless it is intended specifically for food or medicine - can be introduced willy nilly. Thousands of new chemicals are introduced annually, and it is up to the EPA to review the safety of these; in a good year they can get to maybe 10% of them. Why don't we have the precautionary principle here? It hasn't exactly crippled the EU. Though I'm sure industry would argue otherwise, perhaps it has even made the Union stronger.

Instead, what we have is a chemical free for all, and if a substance is found to be dangerous - at tax payer expense, of course, and often after significant damage is done (e.g. DDT or ALAR) - it might be banned. Again, after litigious struggles with industry. Does this not sound like a completely backward way of doing things? As a friend tells me, it's just one of a number of unfortunate things we Americans put up with, not knowing any better. (Such as this small example: why do we have to pay for cell-phone time when we are called by somebody else? Doesn't happen in most the rest of the world...) I'm starting to sound like a dirty socialist.

Maybe this is an example of my middle-aged brain making far too many connections? It does kind of wear me out. Time to get ready for bed, bonne nuit.

Food, glorious food!

Until, that is, the pain, inglorious pain.

This dental thing is like nothing I have encountered before. I take that back, it's a bit like the kidney stones I've had in my few years on this planet. (With the first I spent a dark night writhing in agony on the floor of a night bus to Kathmandu, watching the vomit - not mine - slosh back and forth in the rivulets of the aisle mat. Nepali villagers tended to have a hard time with locomotion...future blogpost. If my readership can handle it.)

But here and now, back to this pain through which Rumi's light is supposed to be able to 'enter' me. It is not an ache, but rather intermittent stabbing, brief jolts of high voltage electric charge. When I swallow, brush my teeth (oh, the irony...), or, especially, masticate. There is no pain associated with pressure on any particular tooth. And no pain at rest - thankfully sleep has been undisturbed. Today talking has become painful - don't call. Ibuprofen and Tylenol haven't helped a bit, though their placebo effect abides - I just put a blindfold on, then swallow.

I have found high correlation between the acidity of the food, and its propensity to cause pain. For lunch, it has long been my custom to have a nice big salad: arugula and other leaves, some nuts, and a liberal dousing of Annie's Goddess. Which you may know is incredibly tangy, which is to say, acidic. So haven't had that for several days. (And as far as plain leaves go, spinach seems much milder than arugula. Fyi.)

How about a p.b. and j. sandwich? Dispatched one for lunch on Saturday and one on Sunday without too much pain. And as I ate, some 'bridging' seemed to occur over the mysterious entry point to the raw nerve - somewhere in the lower left molar region - which would greatly reduce the pain. I considered using caulk or glue to provide a short term barrier. Thought better of that, not sure how short term that would be. Or toxic.

I picked up some Anbesol today on the recommendation of the pharmacist. Before my sandwich I applied some of the paste (which includes three artificial colors, and saccharine - what are they thinking?). And the jolts of electricity only intensified. Maybe the pH was too low, or it acted as an electrolite, or something. Then I put some Vaseline over that (btw, I'm getting huge product placement commissions for some of these), which did nothing to help. One could easily imagine why, trapping the Anbesol for some machine-gun fire in the enclosed space. So, rinsed everything out with tap water, a liquid with neutral pH, and which usually causes no pain. Or only while swallowing. After each of these steps I would try to take a bite of sandwich, but each time, no dice. Like the Buddhist 'hungry ghost,' my vast appetite much larger than my mouth. I then applied a layer of Vaseline, which calmed the jolting a bit, but still could not take a bite.

So, time for a new recipe: take one p.b. and j. sandwich, break in half, place in mixer. Add cup of milk. Blend for one minute. Drink carefully, head tilted far to the right. Followed that with Citrucel, and two medicinal squares of dark chocolate, 71% cocoa butter. Immediately expel these onto plate - the chewing is excruciating - and chop into several pill size pieces, and wash down with water. Rinse out with more water.

This morning as I waited for the local bus that stops by many of the nearby high-rises, some birds swooped down to fly under the valet entrance to our building. One of them attempted to transubstantiate and pass through the glass my left shoulder was leaning against. He didn't pull it off, and plopped onto the ground. He was the shape and size of a robin, but his breast was beige in color - not yellow like the pictures I have found on-line. Within a second he was standing. Within a minute he trotted off, then took flight with a buddy. I felt like giving it a try - maybe the bonk would leave me senseless, or a transmogrification would remove my pain. The bus arrived, and when I went for the glass door I passed right through - whoosh - miracle of miracles. I swallowed and found the tooth pain was still with me. C'est la vie.

The earliest dentist appointment I could find is tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. Wish me luck.

Addendum in p.m.: for dinner, a quesadilla/fried egg/water smoothie. This tasted far better than it sounds. Probably not the first savory smoothie ever made, but it was the first I ever had, and it really wasn't bad at all. Then for dessert, a fruit smoothie. Who needs teeth anyway? Of course I can't wait to get full dental potential back; however, I might just make a daalbhaat smoothie for lunch tomorrow (I've got leftovers). With spicy lime pickle, mmm.