Oct 20, 2005

Chapter 31

As It Is, As It Was, As It Was Meant To Be

Dear Sir,

Yes, I received your letter yesterday, at the same time the doorknob broke. Right now I can't read so good. You ask how I am doing. Is that some kind of joke?

You come too late; the price of tickets just went way, way up; opening hours have been vastly decreased; and it is now by invitation only.

Your status in your own world is no credential here. We unplugged the cables; we over-turned the tables; that voice in your head that you don’t admit to having no longer broadcasts on the frequencies that we receive.

Sort of like CBC Radio; a storm took down their broadcasting tower, but no one noticed because there was no one left who listened to them. That’s pretty much your situation: you will have to go back to your sociological cohort to be safe in a place where all the respectable people believe the same bullshit that to you has become a religion that cannot be contradicted, else the thin logic that holds together the patchy incoherence of your lists of who should serve and who should be served disintegrates from internal incompatibility, the same gravitational laws that caused the collapse of the Berlin Wall.

You have all the witnesses on your side and the unanimity of opinion in your cohort is a polished marvel: it is saddening but very educational to observe one asshole talking to another asshole about shit.

Yours sincerely,
Bob Dawson

P.S. If you have difficulty following the thread, what you have above is called "a shot over their bow". Shows them it won't be the cakewalk that they expected in dealing with a spastic.

JimiBear e-mailed:
Yeah, we ain't the chickens.
We be the chicken hawks.
We eats chickens.

Dear Liar,

I am surprised that after all these years the lynch mob that enforces your power is still pretty much the same crowd as it was years ago. Does your brand of fascism not inspire younger recruits? Surely the thrill of damaging other people's lives by bearing false witness is still popular. Maybe what you need is more publicity. Things have changed: you can no longer rely on me being silent. And you have not taken inventory of just how much I might decide to say. If you are lucky, everyone will think I am speaking a language that no one else speaks. But it's a risk for your outfit; I might just turn out to be a credible witness. Prudent people would advise disengagement at this point. Are you feeling prudent? Because I have nothing to lose, and the line that is being crossed is generational, and that is wrong.

Bob Dawson

The moral of the story
the moral of the song
is simply
that one should never be
where one does not belong
In honor of the 48 Parkinson’s volunteers for the Amgen GDNF experiment. That was when we started to learn our place in the scheme..- the industry that grew around our illness has been taken over by bandits who should not be allowed to have anything to with Parkinson’s patients, given the drug dealers' track record of heartlessness, greed, and deceit.
Pharma flunked. They are finished. If not today, then tomorrow, or in 30 years. But they are finished. They do not believe that there are consequences for treating people like garbage. But there are.
When we lived at Clayton's old place, where they stopped plowing the road when we moved in, and started plowing it again when we moved out:
Me to a government official who said, correctly, that Ursula was an illegal immigrant: "You see that fence way down there? That's my fence. On this side of the fence, it is my land. On the other side of the fence, it is government land. I highly recommend that you get on the other side of the fence, right now."

The truancy officer got a similar reception, when he came to tell us, correctly, that the "community" as he called it, was getting increasingly agitated that certain children who should be in Grade 8 had never been to school at all. Hey, slipped our minds. We would put it on our agenda but at the time we did not have a calendar. Or a TV. Or a radio. Or any idea what year it was, much less month, week or day. We did not have a clock. We were snowed in all winter. It was great. But we missed a few appointments, such as school. The school officials said the law requires us to send them to school. Wrong. I got out a copy of the law and showed them: it says children have to be educated. What could that possibly have to do with going to school?

Actually, we did send both children to school. Once. Both got beaten up. Normal school yard stuff, wherein children act out the will of the adults. From then on the children stayed home and we spent 45 minutes a day on school work. More than enough to cover the curriculum taught in the schools, which had become a mass baby-sitting service.

The rule was we could eat what we could grow or kill. We heated with wood that we cut by ourselves. We gradually became unaware of what was going on in the outside world.

Writing a new letter for buddy of Marty's who has ten years left to go on his sentence; has developed PD in prison. The prison doctor - a government employee, like the cops and the prison guards - scared of handing out drugs in the pen, says levadopa okay (after all, it has been around for half a century; costs 4 cents to make a pill that they sell for a dollar; so big bucks for kick-backs all around - doctors get a commission on sales) - but Prison Doc is refusing to provide agonists, such as Mirapex. Agonists seem to be increasingly restricted to the Right Kind of People.
Hey, if you can't do the time, don't do the crime. But imagine living with Parkinson's in a penetentiary, and imagine you can't get the drugs you need, in a prison where heroine, hash, grass, speed, etc. can be bought from other prisoners, visitors, and especially guards. How come I get to write these letters for Parkies-getting-screwed? Well there ain't no glossy newsletter or annual convention for spastics in the slammer. There was that world congress of Parkinson's organisations in Ottawa but they forbid me to enter; some more reasonable patients were allowed in but professors and scientists walked out because they did not want mere spastics being part of the discussion about how society can rid itself of us --- errr, I mean rid itself of our mentality.... errr, rid itself of our incurable disease. It is a disease that makes you see things differently, and that's a dangerous side effect.
If you have PD, ALWAYS assume your doctor is a stoolie for the cops. In some jurisdictions they are obliged by law to report each new Parkie to the cops, so the process of stripping them can begin -- revoke driver's licence, signature invalid on contracts, obliged to listen to instructions telling you to swallow the pill, sit in the chair, and stare at the wall. One home for the terminal they stopped the music and the dancing BECAUSE IT MADE SOME OF THE SPASTICS CRY.
Well, I can't even talk about that. Ten years in a rocking chair, someone puts on your song of 50 years ago and asks you to dance, and somebody weeps? And that is bad?
But they should stop talking to us like we are retards. We are the spastics, we are not the 'tards. The 'tards are on the 4th floor. Go screw them for awhile. We don't need you.

Samuel Beckett asked me to pass this on. He was a saintly man, if you could get past his wicked pretending.
how it was and i am now quoting how before her and with her and without her which has never been and may never be how it is how it was how it was meant to be

should be in three parts to be logical

I try to quote the natural order. the light said to have been mine
going on and off
a few creatures in the light some still standing
there are certainties in the mud
push pull in the mud
10 yards 15 yards right leg forward right arm forward push pull through the mud
warmth of the mud soft
can't talk so good right now
invent your own world if mine is so shabby in your sight
it is a poor nation that needs heroes
we are nature in the mud; just go away
no callers just go away

no wish for callers
to tell me about myself as if nothing had happened
just my luck
to be found
underneath their truck
I throw away their empty container
it falls without a sound
right leg forward right arm forward left arm forward push pull through the mud

in each forgotten face...
bitter dance of loneliness...
broken mirror...
Like Cain,
I now behold this chain of events
that I must break
say sorry

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