I'm still waiting.

Your sick but you don't know it.

Your a worn wheel turning counterclockwise
and your wobbling against a sad current.

You cannot understand this feeling, a want
for escape.

You have tried, you've left, and all you
have found were more wheels, more mechanisms.

As you wheel and deal, you wonder.

If there is a place of peace. Is it hidden
in this quagmire, or has in bounced loose
upon a greater apparatus.

You ask the boss why when you turn to the
left you hate, and when right you well up
with compassion, and understanding.

The boss say's "eyes front!"

and your sigmoid flexure tighten's.

You ask the axle about faith and gospel
and query about "according to the son".

The axle grunts' and grinds and tells you
"we survive in the end", " and "yes I stuck
around".

You feel another tooth decay.

What wonderment to flow with folly.

The song continues and the day becomes dark
and you puzzle about this consciousness.

What is next?

It's understood that there are limitations.
But what are they. maybe your a non-believer.

You bump and titter and work with this ominous
existence.

And yet you still feel stuck. You feel there
is something bigger, fulfillment lies elsewhere.

lessons from the poor.

You've tried travelling, you have been transferred
from here to there, tried different gimmicks and gears,
and yet you still felt like you were going around in
a circle. A bigger circle, yet the circumvolution was
what you've already experienced.

Curious.

a weird wetness ensues. and you lose your dimension.

This certainly is a primitive gadget you hear yourself
mumbling so as the boss doesn't determine.

You realize your consciousness was a blessing
but believe your hurt began at birth.

And you wonder if you still have the ability
to love.

somebody say's "suffering succotash" and wally
the wobbling drive-train is removed from the
line. His breakdown makes you nervous, maybe
your next.

Sold for scrap, everything has it's worth.

a parallel gear warns of the polarity of a pulsar
and your mindful of the flashing emanating from his
mouth, the timing between beams is perfect.

and your ascending colon tightens like leather in
the desert sun.

The beat speeds up, as the power from the top
adds fuel to the fire. You understand that with
time the pieces will all deteriorate, impossible
to hide the erosion from within.

As you spin faster and faster your suddenly aware
that everything is calculated. You view the
power at the top as a frozen emotion whose
mind is a chaotic bulb ready to pop at any ulterior
perspective.

You view this image with pristine clarity and begin
to giggle.

You realize you are rolling with the punches
and this adds to the hilarity of the moment.

As your filled with an insatiable hunger you break
from your bind.

Your having fun, that's the habit.

The gears have shifted.

This is method.

This is purpose.

The best intention is comic.

The best moments are merry.

The best creations are fun.

The cure to all disease is just this,
make it a merry whirl.

Break past the pain, and sorrow,
fight hard to get over that mountain.
Once surmounted you will find new
perspective. You will see there
is not death, that death was
invented by the great mechanism.

Here you will find laughter. You
will laugh as only a child can.

A child who does not understand mortality.

Here you will find your bliss.

Here is eternity.

...gatsby~

more from the spirit.

Joseph introduced me to Freud, whom conjured
up a constant chuckle as Ralph turned his vision
into a world made of crippled phalases and
broken mechanisms. Haha! I yelped as Carl
caught my attention and the world of archetypes
mixed well with all of my hinted hallucinations.

Henry comes over and spouts out persective and
philosophy and answers all my questions about
psychology in one foul swoop, as the adage goes.
He quotes Freud's Interpretations of Dreams--
reading it out loud with the perfect frenetic cadence
of a German grob behandeln [Person].

"into the night life seems to be exiled what once
ruled during the day." then he says the soul has
it's origin and is built in strata, and what
we learned before in the organic field apropos of the
construction of the big brain from the anatomic-evolutionary
standpoint of vanished aeon's, is revealed by the dream,
revealed by the child, revealed by psychosis as a
still existing reality. We carry the ancient...

"David Gatsby!!

ummmm Magnivovich....

Mr. Maivocivocios!.....

And I awake to what sounds like a uni-lingual nurse chewing
her gum in between syllable pronunciations.

Wha!! oh yes I'm in a doctors office. I must have
dozed off.

That was some party last night.

The christening of the backyard, and the return
to a social existence, was it...?

Yes! Monday morning, nine A.M. and my head is
spinning with creative fervor.

It seems my unconscious was practicing me for this
meeting with the doc.

It's got me wondering what's in store, as the last
meeting heard talk of surgery, and something
about "were running out of time".

I remember pounding my fist on his desk and barking
out something like " I wont hear anything of the sort doc!"

Yes, that was how it ended three months ago.

I look up and catch the doc giving me a good looking
over. He watches every detail. How fast I stand-up.
My posture, the way I move. As he's sizing me up he grabs
me by the shoulder and gives me a big smile and
say's "your still working out I see."

This lets me know that were already on the same beat.

He understands how serious I take life, he understands
the work I put into my body, even through the letters
he's received about me getting fed up with medications,
would have one think otherwise.

I notice the doc too looks healthier, he must have put
on a good fifteen pounds of hardened flesh.

Curious.

We find a seat and I take my thinking position
ready to record all the 'doc's words.

I immediately apologize for the lack of blood-tests, correspondence,
and the like, telling him I needed a break of everything medical.
" I"m sure you understand, it was getting to me.
I needed to separate myself from all things medicinal,
Doc, i exclaim.
I needed to disinfect."


He laughs out a huge bellow. And says " it's for you."

I shrug as he goes into his usual medical foray.

Yet this time I sense something different.

He knows that I want desperately to get off of the "wonder"
drug Remicade.

And he assures me he's not under any influence from the drug
companies.

Weird. I'm impressed that he figured out I was cautioned by
the sway of the dark side over my favorite doctor.

Humm. This is getting interesting.

Next he tells me he's not ruling anything out.
He's embracing a more holistic approach to healing.

This from the top Gastroenterologist in the field.
One of the leading physicians of Crohns disease.

He says' fuck Remicade, but, at the moment it's all
we have.

He tells me how his job is to translate all he has
learned and is learning about medicine into layman
terms so as the patient can understand, equally what
he knows.

He is not ruling out psychotherapy, diet, medicine, he
says we don't know enough to put all our butter on one
slice of bread.

My jaw hit's the floor as I realize that this man sitting
in front of me is the real deal.

After sixteen years of battling with doctors I have finally
met a man who is willing to explore all directions leading
home. He's cashed in his ego and his growing at a rapid
pace. This explains the weight gain I say to myself.

He sums it up by telling me he is fascinated by the disease,
after hearing him talk about it, so am I.

I tell him I have a love of science also, and if I wasn't
going into Film Animation, it would have been astro-physics.

He tells me Animation is a science.

And a doors opens up and my mind, body, and soul
are standing in front of a what seems to be an infinitely
tall mountain with a hundred million holes in it.
Blasting through these holes is what seems to be raw energy;
bursting through it and into me.

I realize I'm looking at the harmony of existence,
and at that moment as i struggle to move forward
I cease laboring altogether and create.

With that single thought the holes fill up and
the mountain looks bold and beautiful a
silhouette against the light of infinity.

And I am cured.

All of this before breakfast.

As I take my shirt off to absorb the elements,
as I sit on my bike and peddle downhill with the
wind at my back.
I start to wonder when the dream I was
having in the waiting room ceased being a dream,
and try to determine the exact instant reality took over.

I look around me at the comings and goings of what usually
would look like the chaos and discombobulation of the
city, suddenly it finds a rhythm, a method.

And I realize that no matter how hard I try, I will
never come to understand the complexity of the universe.

I wonder what I would do with that information anyway.

Try to awaken humanity out of the big sleep they seem
to be in.

As I'm terribly allergic to crucification I find the
task impossible.

What then, in God's name is the remedy.

Fun? Creation? Happiness?

I arrive at my destination, I'm fifteen minutes
in advance of my next appointment.

I lean my bike against a bench, sit and meditate
along with the napping ducks.

I remember a word of advice read backwards
in crayon on my elementary school lesson planner.

"Creation is play, and play is divine."

I seem to have found my answer.

I laugh out loud and scare the ducks out
of their afternoon slumber.

Perspective is everything. If you're not having
fun, you've either stopped moving. Or
your sick with fright.

Swallow your fear or take a nap.

Napping is stopping.

Dreaming is life in fast-forward.

Fun is life, laughter is a reminder.

Dreaming is everything, which is possible.

The bigger the dream the more rewarding
the game.

To stop is to die. The faster one moves
the younger one is.

Win the race.

The ducks land with grace as the sun moves
behind a cloud.

I hop on my bike and vow never to hit the breaks
again.

It's all downhill from here. And I feel a force
is with me.

Someone yells at me "attention" as I drift through
a yellow light.

I arrive at work and immediately quit due to the
lack of forward momentum.

The only reason I could give the grieving businessman
is "Consumption is being standardized,
and we are in need of a creative dissent."

He hadn't slept in weeks and believed it a bad
apparition. Superstition.

I hop back on my bike and choose the open road.
A welcoming place, the big circle.

I hoping this time that I indeed do fall off the
end of the world.

Maybe I'll never land.

Maybe I'll end up in some kinda never never land.

what a grand idea!

...gatsby~

dear committee, I am well.

It has been six-teen years now, since I was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease. It came to me in the night, with sweating and cramps, the summer before high school and my first job were to begin. It was to be my coming of age, and I was to jump into the world head first. It was supposed to be a time of boundless energy and possibility. Yet that humid August night I found a reflection staring back at me wild and wide eyed, consumed by an emotion truly foreign to a twelve year old boy ;, fear.

In the beginning the symptoms were subtle, observed as anti-social by my peers. As I was a gregarious person, popular, never without friends, involved in a variety of recreational activities. Suddenly, I found myself alone and in pain. I was half my size, and strange. I was withdrawn from the world, obtuse and irritable. It was as if I was living in a plastic box where all the outside sounds were muffled, and the images blurred. It was here that my first philosophy was born. I told myself that if I can conquer loneliness, I can do anything.

It was a difficult three years of high school and the part time factory work was physical .; the workers hardened and of a particular breed, did not make it easy. It was a test of endurance, strength, and courage. In these factory walls was where living beyond the bounds of disease took shape. In those austere surroundings the basic life that was in me took over. In that stark landscape I learned what hard work was, I learned how tough life could get. I saw how people could sense your illness and become afraid, whether they’re conscious of it or not. Some people, even those you considered friends, take the opportunity to benefit from your struggle. Looking back I see myself moving, it was as if I stopped my flesh would die, all intelligence was gone, I was living an inward journey.

This recent episode I have had with Crohn's was with me during my greatest accomplishment. It was alive and wild inside my belly at the summit of my boldest dream which was a four-year trip around the world. At my meridian hour I gained a perspective that took me quite by surprise. It seemed I was looking at the world from the wrong angle, I wasn't seeing it at all! At the summit I found clarity. This disease was not working against me like some sort of evil nemesis.
It is a part of me, challenging me, willing me to seek out a deeper purpose. As travel, movement had been my expression of self, compensation for the experience I had missed. Animation and film will be an outlet to share the inner journey I had lived.

In battling this disease I have began to take control of my body. Through diet, exercise, and meditation I am starting the beginning motions of a very complicated revolution. I have begun a blog in the hopes of encouraging understanding of disease and personal health. With my recent success of casting Crohn's back into remission at record speed, I wish to give hope to the silent majority, people living with disease. I wish to share the knowledge I have gained through new media, to show kids who have been recently diagnosed that the disease feeds off of negativity and that by looking at Crohn's from a positive perspective is the first step to a rapid recovery. I hope that by getting people aware of their bodies, their health , they will in turn gain an awareness of the environment, and realize that the two are intimately connected.

In living with Crohn’s I have found that stress opens the door to a flare-up, at least in my case. Traveling, although glorious, and beautiful, can be very stressful. This is what sent my disease into overdrive and had me coming home half-broken and out of tune. This bursary will eliminate that challenge of earning money to live on, and allow me to focus all my attention and energy on this next bold objective ; a university degree in film animation. Growth is life, and I intend to grow with this disease as my ally. Only by accepting it and working with it will I be able reach my maximum potential. In accomplishing this next goal I will be demonstrating to all, especially myself , that with hard work and the right attitude anything is possible, especially your wildest dream.

The Merry Whirl.

I told him I did,
I'm tatooed up and down myself,
Like scars on the surface.

He smirked an ugly finale,
bit his lip upon release of
what would be his last utterance.

"What, uhg, is the meaning of this
racket."

And so he went, just as fast as he
lived his life, the bulb burnt,
and it told me on the seventh hour,
on the seventh day, he's gone for
good now. A bad animal if there ever
was one, a silent know-it-all who
kept all the truth to himself.

I sat there for hours watching this
shell smell out stiffness. After the
first hour his tongue sprung up,
efflorescing, beginning new bloom.

I laughed as this thought occurred to me,
and his final erection followed.
Rigor Mortis is a happening thing.

It's a wonderful wondering wandering
around a corpse as life's going's got
everywhere around the dead sentient.

Pages in your life unfold and a blindness
is blatant. How you've wasted so much time.
Worrying, withdrawn, self absorbed, alien.

As you have now become witness to the ultimate
truth. All could be taken away in such an
instant.

And you turn your head to your left and watch
wallets bounce to a backward rhythm as dollar
bills slacken a crippled noose and hundreds
are screaming to be "CUT LOOSE".

Journalism unwinds and headlines read simplicity
and people are curious about the words
" the one thing of value in the world
is the active soul."
"this everyone carries inside
them."
Emerson signed it.
My heart beats with each puzzled utterence,
as these people see free, and want to be.

Oddly I glimpse, at past and present, there at the
corner ready to greet me.

I shake his hands and double kiss her cheeks,
wundering, fumbling for words, it's just
I don't remember them.

" What, you don't remember me?"

" No, I don't," I said.
" Really, I don't. Who are you?"

"I'm a fictional faction of wisdom unearned". She whistled.

"And I be thee, after of coarse, you promise to be free." Said He.

Silence ensued as I wished the dead had voice.
He certainly would know what to make of this situation.

Well, here it is all laid out in front of me, willing
me to it's back beat.

I turned inward for something to say to these bizarre apparitions.
These ghouls who found escape from a vault I'm sure, where
the bad trips be barred.

All I found was static, and I felt my bowels move as
the apparitions let out a laugh that was more like a cackle and curiously
reminiscent of a crow gibbering.

Finally I said, " WHAT IS ALL THIS GOD FORSAKEN NOISE! "
I made a great effort to sound calm and pensive.
But howled out my despondent response and was
relieved to see it got their attention.

She uncorked a bottle and led me to a table made
from recycled parts of the recently deceased.

My face must have led her to my puzzlement and
she handed me his donor card.

"Ahhh, I never thought him the type."

We shared the bottle without discourse.

Me trying to tune out the clamor emanating from my
inner-self, they humming to it's rhythm.

I sat there curious in intense clamor pondering
the wine label titled "Rhythmic thought Impact".

Finally I said, "So, what the hell is this
raw fracas."

" What is going on here! "

They looked at each other as if they didn't know
how to say it in English.

"What God Dammit, has the messiah been killed, again?"

That garnered a giggle.

" Then what is it? "

Well she said,
"Simply put, you're dead."

"Shit." Said he.

"whole life is practice." Said she.

"I don't want to die." Said I.

" It's okay to cry."

"Neither do I, want to cry." Said the guy.

She gave me her hand as he poured me my final drink.

"Cheers'"

"To all the SIGHT ANDS OUNDS."

"Slow". I muttered, glass raised, knuckles blanched.

" I feel in myself a lift so luminous " said she.

" how so you like that " said he.

Sweating out emotion at what I felt was a raw
deal.

" I wonder, I asked, if it was possible, well,
for me to return to the sea."

I turned my hand upright so all could see,
and showed them my scar, which read blood,
bold, SON OF THE SEA.

Yes.

"Sure I can do that," he said.
as he fished out a worn nickel.

"that's mighty white of you," I exclaimed.

"It's nothing really," said she.

" No, it's nothing." said he.

I got my motor running, and set off in
the closest direction, tires squealing.
Windshield freezing.

And made one goal,
To keep the light in their eyes,
and bag it without any trouble at all.

soon the static lifted.

soon we understood her freedom.

awakened
by the true spirit.
he was kept under
wraps.
asunder tantrum,
you lit.
thee match has been
met
stranger.

better funded.
it was waiting,
now it's over.
aghast.

river, wisp,
memories.

i did try.


...gatsby~

Circus Phénomène.

Benefits, to having crohns.
It brought me a discomfort then
it brought me this song.

laa laa laaa laaa na na na la la la.

The sickness forces
you to take care of your body.

One of the many things people
take for granted is the durability
of human biology.

I have a hard time to digest, when I'm
rotten, watching healthy people
gorge themselves in fat and nicotine,
sweating out grease and tobacco
at each incline. And thinking. Christ.
What a waste. I aint talking about
no self-destructive clown, I'm talking
about slow death and I don't care.
I'm talking about waiting for delivery
and demise, about negativity and all
those people who have to work under it.
bang!

What does it take to appreciate life.
Why do we have to come close to death
to understand how lucky we are to be
alive.

I chalk it up to bad education. A lack
of interest. What makes a person seek
out the source, as opposed to those
who float through each day humping
dead dreams. Even worse, other peoples
dreams. Automation believers, as is written
out silly on the wall to my right.

Disease is not so much an unwelcome visitor
as a quotation around the mark.
It's an inward journey, an opportunity
to see what your truly made of.
It's like your a child again, where every
emotion is raw. Every decision is instant
and instinctive as you've not the energy
to think anything through.

It's an opportunity, a blessing. An
obvious trial. Like navigating through
societal rhythms with a head full of
hallucinogen.
You're guaranteed to garner a curious perspective.

I look around and appreciate the change.

Yes. I am in control.

While ill, I was apt to notice the animal
in people and I'm reminded of something my
father told me. " You will always know who
your friends are, when you ask for money."
(In that case dad, you and mom are my best friends)

The same goes for when your sick. People's
true nature comes to light. Whether it's the
R-Complex.

What the hell is that?

Well, it's the seat of aggression, ritual,
territoriality and social hierarchy. A place
in the brain which evolved just above the brain stem
hundreds of millions of years ago from our
reptilian ancestors. People, friends, will
take this opportunity, while your in a weakened
state, to pounce on you, right for the jugular.
It's weird, to be sure, but very true.
As I'm prone to notice these things, I'm always
curious if they do too. Or how they rationalize
their behavior.
People always know when your sick, whether they're
conscience of it or not. I suppose it depends on how
aware they are. How honest.
It's as if a sense of fear arises in them. A fear of death? How
can you be afraid of death. Could it be your
regrets haunt your memories, like a mouse in
the cookie cubbord.
I remember when I started getting a hard-line
of Remicade.
What's it like? I'll explain.

You sit in a lazyboy for two hours,
the drug dripping steadily into your veins.
When it's time for a morning movement, a morning
poo is good for you, you wheel the IV down the corridor
and into the toilet.
I started to notice how people were looking
at me, giving me queer looks,
or looking past me as we crossed paths.
Judging, always judging aren't we.
I found it so bizarre as I feel perfectly
healthy, in this persons eyes, I'm sick, and
diseased, a leper.
The lizard, and the leper.
It made me laugh. Still does. I'm laughing right now.

To balance the scale you've the limbic system,
or the mammalian brain. The next step in human
evolution. The limbic system is the major source
of our moods and emotions, of our concern and
care for the young. These are the people you
want to have around you. People who shower you with
love, and understanding. Patient people who
will take any bombardment of negativity you
can throw at them. They take it, absorb
it, rinse it out with compassion, and empathy.
These people will get you through the hard
days.
These are the ones that stick around.

And as your fight with disease progresses just
as many people exit your life as come into it.
I look at it like passing through a sieve,
filtering out all the corrosive energy
that got caught between the gears.
It's a cleansing.
No pun intended, but it fits don't it.
You come out of the illness free of
some of the burdons that bound you.
You have a new perspective on life,
you are reborn, without the help of
evangelical lizard linguistics.
Now your spinning around in awe and
can faintly hear Ogives, Ogive n° 1
whistling welcome on the morning breeze.
Cold comfort, a blatant solace.
You start to feel embarrassed.
You look back at past behavior
and it's like looking at a wild
tumultuous child ravaged by pain and
confusion. Fighting against everything,
abusing love, and setting fire to
anything with extra tinder.
This neglected savage who wears
your face pitted atop a skeletal
body seems alien to your reflected
person. And you find it's hard
to swallow.
You deny what your told, and find
a truth inside.
You've begun a new life, you have
been reawakened.

Pain has brought you out of misery, how
can it be?

Intense pain will wear away any exaggerated
self opinion, any loftiness, any pomposity,
any conceit, it will abort any misconceptions
you have about life.

Someone told me once, in a bashful abuse
of a friendship gone awry. "Your not the
center of the Universe, Man!"
I had understood that he, had just learned
this lesson, and that he had had a terrible
time adjusting to what he believed to be
a very hard truth.
Little did he know that there are an infinite
hierarchy of universes. That within a elementary
particle, an electron, if cracked open
would reveal itself to be an entire closed universe.
Inside would be an immense number of smaller particles.
Which are universes at the next level.
An infinite downward regression, universes within universes
within universes.
We're all the center of our own universe.
Watching galaxies wobble
with each pretensions swagger.

Sounds like automatic writing, without
the speed.

The point I'm trying to make folks is that
nothing is everything. Depending on your point
of view. I once heard a man dying of pancreatic
cancer, that's a bad one, say the doctor's only
gave him six months to live. He lived a year past
expectations stating to the reporter, "I bet
I'm the luckiest man you've ever met."
As he was in the rare position to appreciate
every second, every inanimate object, every
sound, color, mother and brother. He
was glowing through his pale skin, he
was free.
The same as I yearn to be.
You, me, we be free,

"freedom is just another word
for nothin' left to lose."
he said.
"get it while you can"
he said.
"because it aint gonna be there when you
wake up man."

la la na na na la la la

...gatsby~

The Silent Majority.

I didn't know where to begin.
The pain was so intense each
thought came out a scream. I was
clawing at my chest just to
see the pain on the outside.

All of the sudden the howls
stopped, and in a moment of
clarity I heard...

" Lay off the
dairy products,
Chill on the Citrus.

Crispy Clean
No Caffeine."

I laughed at the fact, that
I had finally found where
to begin.

What triggers an "episode", a "relapse",
a "red bowl repeat".

Maybe it's what I ate
or maybe,
it's this confounded stress.

All the doctors I've talked to tell
me it's out of my control, I'll
never know when it's going to hit.

I think they get mixed up with other
diseases and lack the memory to distinguish
specific characteristics in the encyclopedia
of human genetic dysfunctions.

The last conversation I had with my doc, I
was trying to explain to him my goals with
regards to eliminating medication from
my life. As was the case with my last run around
with Crohns.
I woke up one day to
an empty medicine cabinet and a great
surge of energy filled my mind, a sensation
which could only be described as freedom.

I want to feel that again.

I was explaining to the doc that I understand
what brought about this episode of Crohns.
It was the incredible amount of stress I
put myself through in travelling around the
globe.

I told him of crack-head Newfoundlanders,
M.J. and his crazy cars.
A diet of frozen pizzas, rum, and magnums
of red wine.
Automated mutants driving boats two hundred
meters above the water mark.
Frothing and spitting and following and
chewing, tormenting our spirit with
the audacity of a machine bent on bad voltage.

The doctors perplexed smirk could only
be described in old Italian, hand gestures and all.

I believe this disease feeds off of the extra-sensitive.
People with a tendency toward anger, a pot easily
over-filled with stress and paranoia.

I believe by being aware, you can say to yourself
whoa! (like keanu) slow down, take a step back,
your working to hard.
Your meant to enjoy life, here's a pill, it's
new, it's called a sense of humor.
It's guaranteed to get you through any sort of
wild rancor.

I told the doc about my idea with regards to this "new"
drug remicade. I told him how when
I begin the infusions, I was already feeling better from
the antibiotics.

I said, Doc! as the pain from the infections I had in
the dark hole south of my lower
back subsided, somewhat. I was able
to pull myself out of bed and simply walk around.
When I moved back into the city, I began to
walk more and more, until it seemed, progress
was made. With this new energy I was able
to cook. A strict diet of stir-frys, protein shakes,
bagels, and bananas.
Doc! I was able to think again.
Oxygen to the brain!

By the time I received my first injection
of remicade I was already idling at
sixty percent. Remicade gave me the placebo
effect, and sped me into total remission.

It's easy to say it was the drug that healed me.
It's strange that for most people it's easier to
believe it was the drug that caused my record
breaking recovery, rather then all the hard work
I put into it.

It scares me to think about the addiction
people have to all types of medications.
Whether it be illegal or legal, if you
were able to visualize everyone who indulged
in these "meds", more then half the population
would be walking around on crutches.

It's like you break your leg, the doctor
puts a cast on it, but neglects to tell
you to stay off the leg.

Isn't it a little weird that you go see
a gastroenterologist, he gives you a handful
of pills, but doesn't mention diet or exercise,
or a simple change in lifestyle.
He doesn't tell you, that in order for the
medication to work to it's full potential
your going to have to work with the drugs.

It gets me depressed.

Bringing me to my next point.

Depression and disease.

Your sick, you've finally accepted that
all this pain, blood, and fecal failure
is far from being normal. You need to
see a doctor. He gives you pills, tests,
probes. etc. You loose all your energy,
your quick tempered, and slowly all
your friends trickle away. Rather you
pushed them away, or they just couldn't
deal with your negativity anymore. They're
gone.

Your body shrinks, your work begins to
slide. All you can think about is getting
home, wrapping the covers around you
and retreating to that dark cave at the
back of your mind. Where no one can reach
you, where you're all alone.

Depression is hardly the word.
Your much further away then that.

Now you find yourself in the worst possible
place. Sick, alone, and scared. Or in my case
angry. Very angry.

You sit and wait, why aren't these drugs working
GODDAMMIT! It's all happening to slowly.

Over time your body begins to pull itself together.

You have the energy to think again.
The screaming has subsided.

You begin to look at your brain and your body
as two separated entities.

You realize that it wasn't until you got over
the hump of being depressed and self absorbed
that your rapid recovery went into the next gear.

You realize that by thinking and figuring things
out, you were able to work with your body, and
feed it what it was asking for.

You realize your body has a voice.
If you've the right receptiveness it
will tell you exactly what what to do.

You realize the band-aids helped, like crutches,
it kept you on your feet while the real work
was being done. Inside your brain.

If you think about it, if I have this right.
The drugs tell your brain what to do. Sort
of like rewiring the great mechanism.
I believe without a shadow of a doubt
that by figuring things out, by training
yourself to live a different way, curbing
your stress. Looking at foods that taste good
but hurt you, as disgusting,
you can accomplish exactly what the pills
are doing.
Hard work indeed, if you want to look at it that
way.
If you have lived with pain, you learn ways
of controlling it. Like a weight lifter who
learns to love the "pump", the point where
your muscle reaches it's peak and begins
to rumble in contest. It hurts but you
understand that only by pushing the muscle to the max, will
you achieve the best result. Or a marathon runner
who learns to fight past the screaming in his thighs to
win the race.
Anything is possible.

Is it a wonder that the Asian population has
a dramatically lower rate of cancer then westerners.
Is it because of diet, or philosophy, or a combination
of the two?

I'm finding that all the stigmas we were taught
to believe, are crumbling with age.
People are learning to trust only in themselves,
and are beginning to be suspicious of the money
handlers.
People are beginning to notice that all employees'
at banks wear ridiculously large watches, why,
when there is a clock on every wall.

Something to think about.

Imagine two hands. In one you have natural instinct,
the other you have control.

You are to combine the two in harmony. Ying and Yang.

If you have one to the extreme you become un-scientific.

The other extreme you become mechanical.

A mechanical man is no longer a human being.

Wearing watches in a watch factory is like wearing roller blades
on a road of wheels.

All this to say that the first step in overcoming disease, whatever
the disease may be. (Because folks,
diseases like people,come in many shapes, sizes,
colors, and forms.)
The first step is simply to accept.

Accept - Separate

Depression - Illness

Mind and Body.

Harmony.


I'll end this with a quote that has got me thinking in a new light.

Life is a tragedy for those who feel,
a comedy for those who think.

...gatsby~

Ain't No Telling.

"At the darkest moment,
comes the light."

What is it like living in disease?

It's like crawling into a scream
of faulty phonics.

It's like having layers of willing acts
wound backwards, until the seeds able
to breathe and your witness to your
own birth.

some words will always look like they're spelled wrong.

Disease is like the idea of western religion
discovered lonely at the foot of the catskills.

it always looks like it's spelled wrong.

Imagine all those people who actually
took to the vicar, and thought life a son of a bitch!

God darnnit, I sure can't wait to die,
as heaven must be better then what's
goin on here.

"you people. sure are depressing."

I think I just understood what extremism really
means.

I suppose extremism is the 'ism of "literally".

the rhythms, running in parallel lines, how are
we ever to connect.

What is it like living with disease.
It's war.
All the symptoms are the same.

Parallel lines.

I imagine soldiers in trenches.
I imagine pain, and blood. A swelling from within.
At a distance watching friends ripped to
pieces, having love emptied on the killing
floor.

I imagine unspeakable horrors, and having
to distance yourself from all that's happening,
if only to take hold of some sense of sanity.

I imagine thoughts come to you in sporadic
bursts as you manage minutes of sleep.

I imagine all the color in the world fading,
mimicking grey, a fascination with black and white.

I imagine survival and tunnel vision, many
versions of home, visions of bliss and new blossom.

I imagine time stretching out into the infinities,
impossible to sleep with all this noise. This madness
is deafening.
Napalm.

I imagine coming home from war and viewing what you left behind
as a shattered mirror on a tiled floor.
It will take time to piece this mess together again.
( I heard Hitchcock say once " it all started with red riding hood".
or, had it ended with humpty dumpty.)

I imagine waves of frustration and depression as some pieces
have disappeared, and others are two small to grip with
blood on your fingertips.

Like a soldier who has lost the use of his legs, the
world looks askew from this new angle.
"Everything has changed now", you hear yourself whispering
into the reflection of the grocery store security mirror.
* your reminded of the carnival, look carefully.*

I imagine tugging war with fear, and winning only half the time.

I imagine a new kind of confidence, as you realize you made
it home alive. You survived, your a survivor. What,could
possibly be harder than this.

Yikes and away.

Who has the courage to stand in my way, you whistle. If
your wise you look forward to meeting them.
As you will most likely have questions.

I would like to share our rhythms, run parallel with an absolute.

I imagine persuading theology into a conch shell and listening
to the crunch at a happy birthday banquet.

I imagine a star burning brighter as you realize that all your
pain wasn't pain at all. It was quite the opposite.
When they told you "welcome to hell", you weren't meant
to take it literally, as hell isn't colorless, dreams are.

You sense that at the bottom of the abyss sprouted the voice
of salvation.
pictures.
Jesus starving in the desert, prisoners finding god under
clumps of skelp and rat droppings.

The darkest moment was the moment when the real message
of transformation came.

At the darkest moment came the light.

You realize you had it all backwards, and as you were in
the tunnel your instincts took over, and your brain took
notes.

You realize what a gift to have had a partner along the
way.

You realize she took a whole other set of notes.

Her's are more legible.

Parallel lines.

You realize your not afraid of death, and life suddenly
has new meaning.

You imagine a world you can't sense, hidden dimensions,
a evolutionary hurry, a voice from within.

You imagine death as a last laugh, serendipity, impotent to sleep,
Santa's coming.

You imagine death like warp speed, and Beethoven's fingers
have seven joints, and your happy to be able to keep up.

You always knew you could.

Every second then becomes precious, every thought
has a positive charge, your running everywhere.

You sense a purpose, and cannot pretend any longer.
Pictures in motion and "all revolves around
the whims of the great magnet."

The phones ringing again and it's always saying
the same thing.
Never compromise, the hour has shifted.

You laugh and wonder if this has anything to do
with the never ending struggle. As they always
seem to win, it doesn't mean we have to join them.

You remember someone telling you once that when
it ever got hard, you quit.

You were mad, but in time agreed.

And showed him with audacity that
change is as swift as it is decisive.

An obvious example, why can't you see?
That there are no more bears left, all
the men are dead.

It all makes you anxious,
you hope they don't catch you flogging suicide.
you hope. As the generations dwindle,
understanding too much an effort, the
heart gave out like a laughing flatulence.

We are all turtles with shells of varied pattern.

We must try not to stay hidden to long.

A symphony explains to you the nature of you.
and all you want to do is be me.
I mean you.
and now you accept the philosophy of "flow",
and become obsessed with the adventures of
huckleberry finn, so it goes.

first the little things start you laughing,
and slowly it all becomes funny.
Like having to lay your body parallel with
the floor for eight hours, or sitting down
for fifteen minutes to eat smoked salmon on
a sesame bagel.
What the fuck?
You try to explain, and realize your laughing
at your own evolution,
Jesus your watch is slow.

Sex is funny, and you think religious zealots
lost their sense of humor. Severed like a foreskin,
their path was bleak and barren. Lifeless, grey,
not worthy of black, or white. Out of
jealousy, fat with power, they pawn them into
fighting each other out of a fear,
hardly worth the cost.

The jesters make a game out of it,
and chess is invented.

Money is funny, as you pass a playful face over the
counter you receive the right for alcoholic disobedience.
Is that all it takes!
Yes! Seven funny faces.
You play a Violin Concerto In D Major and throw
the secret of money in the air and dance
naked with her curled freedom.
You both laugh a shared
symphony.

Where did you get it.
I bought it.
Happiness?
Yeah happiness, it was easy.

Like drinking water at twelve o'clock high.

You just can't play it loud enough.

the old fashioned flush.

Disillusionment? Sorrow? Disappointment,
Certainly.

And the piece peaks, and the world
swells, we compress, liquored.
Sent through the opening
with the angst and status of an
emperor on his way to Egmont.

Shy.

Sheltered,
a beam,
the invention of lazers,
was illustrated
in the book of dave.

merci geoff.

Chapter three,
verse twenty-nine.

good night.

...gatsby~

Gedankenexperiment.

A thought experiment.

"There are no penalties for breaking the laws of nature,
because there are no crimes: Nature is self-regulating
and merely arranges things so that its prohibitions are
impossible to transgress."

"pa rum pum pum pum"

I played my drum for him,
I played my best for him.

"pa rum pum pum pum"

and then he smiled at me.

Thanks Carl.

They tell me that the faster you go, the slower time moves.
A speed is the distance divided by a time. If you travel at
the speed of light you would hardly age at all, but your friends and
your relatives would be aging at the regular rate.

Journeying back to your hometown after three years of travelling
the globe has a similar effect. With your feet set firmly on
crisp canadian soil, your observations of a storied past, look
odd and bloated. From babies to beer bellies, your eyes become wide
reflected arciforms. Friends understand paranoia, an acquired ego.
You sense lethargy, and try desperately not to sound pretentious
as your sister checks your pulse. Fear tends to the result,
pa rum pum pum pum, Ludwig Van on speed.
You retreat to the back of your mind, a candle burns to light the
way and you wonder where your confidence has gone.
A certain song brings back the rhythms of a softer existence,
the rocking of the train brings you back to a new beginning.

You become depressed, oppressed by ideas, a haunting, hard to exhume.
Taunting, eternally. You wonder of sin and gratiot road, and
the exodus of home. You were not the first nor will you be the last.
Slowly you fall, down and down the well, your armor abused by
a violent tumble.
There you find yourself tunneled into a cave allegory wondering
how different things would be if Socrates was sold but not bought.
You dream about time travel and how it could have all turned out
different. You feel alone as all your philosophy is eaten by
roaches and worms with sharp teeth.
You hear heroes speak of leeches and how they faked death
to sense freedom.
You think this fucked up, you think this crystallized.
You link this depression to an inner hurt, and feel for
the rope.
It burns your hand as you punch at shadows, listening to
the blood drip into the pool below. The leeches cry out
in ecstasy and you start to hate Cake and Christmas.
Pulling back veils, slow, hardly effortless, take my
ear please. You laugh as you realize they're shaped like
fingertips, you wonder who will understand.
All who await wonder at your laugher as you ease
yourself over the edge. Is he Mad?
"Your song haunts me!"
She howls clawing off the bark of her sisters oak.
Eternally I'm yours, it replies.

You look around at the faces who've come to see, and
can hardly sense the jest.
You wonder why, and they wonder who.
They say you,
you count two.
A blanket,
thank you.

You tickle a tightness and realize your skin
is shrunken, ribs with no meat, a skeleton switch-side.

Footsteps at midnight you trail the floor.
Side-splitting side-step, you cry out,
no more.
You sense an end,
but no one links the two.
Depression and this disease,
the brain and the bottom,
fix one and the other is through.

You shout out "this is the best of Beethoven!"

There are holes in you, He says.

And my dreams are leaking out, you reply.

He nods and blankets his face with fast speech
and blows bubbles, you become distracted.

You ruminate about the rhythms that connect us all,
a language you yearn to understand.

He's still talking about odds, and chances, and percentages.

At first his ideas seem perplexing. Like the idea of twelve
dimensions. Voices from within, a conservative state, living in
America?

Jump in line and do your thing.

Jump in line and rock in time.

You believe your answer lies between the lines of
this new language.

Dancing wild, your senses adjust, and simply. Turn off.

And now your gripping at strings, and travelling through
esoteric tubes. Lighting adjusts underneath and they
are all laughing at the ideas of human evolution, of
these politics.

You hear your doctor rock back and forth as if his education
hadn't prepared him for a bending back of flame at the head
of a match, he fell in.

You dance with light and wear it like a bracelet,
they become wings, and you sense a great space
between you and them.

You realize the fight is over, your laces are
untied.
Your flowing with the river, your bright and
beautiful, the instant spanning out like a bowl
of glue over the tile floor. an endless note.
Only two saw it and your seeking the other out.

Phantoms battling for control you reach out to
share an embrace but the magnetism is broken.
and it begins to smell like empty pages in a new
book, automaton believers.

You land and overlook an ocean of stars,
seemingly inhaled and exhaled by chords of
frozen sentiment.
The waves break where your shoes have landed
and you believe in your answer.
your toes squish pattern,
walking round and round like holmes,
the old holmes, toying with watsons
check mate. You make him believe,
and hold back a spasm.

There's a plaque on the wall and
you whistle over to let it speak.

The award said it won,
but regretted
to say,
the world hadn't the answer.
you needn't pay.
look, I like your rhythm,
maybe it's time,
spark a truth inside.
myself which only,
loneliness can dismiss.


She was gone,
but she just arrived.
and began to remember me,
the secret of houdini.

...gatsby~

The devil grabbed, the devil threatened.

I had a dream.
I was standing side by side with crohns.
Crohns was a he pas de she.
And had hands the size of basket-balls.
Outweighed and out manuouvered my confidence
cracked, as the second split my leverage
was lost.
I became aware, and a clock counted backward.
can you see time in a dream?
maybe, i rationalized reason.
what is important?

it, crohns or this devil. Began eating
me up inside. cognizant of a forgotten
pain.
a strength began to well up from
what felt like, a well buried in bricks.
rhyming, resentful, i found the path labeled
in bold color, and took the highlight highland.
the difficult road, the long way home.

why why was the song playing skip skip skip.
a nagging relation, a drunk roommate bent on
withdrawal, have you read him, thomas?
No was the answer, and I found myself
in a distant decision wild in advertisement.
Cool kids recruited by sentient force began
to believe in purpose. Flashing like
methane, popping with presence their tattoo's
sold like michaels memorabilia.
no sound was sleep.
wild in aggression it couldn't be understood.
my nails grew long, rabid was the tune.
internally combustible I felt my insides whine.
tearing and clawing at indecision, when did
faith turn commercial.
laptop faces and faceless books, a horror,
a child's closet monster.
who do they think they are.
28 --- --- resumes received, 28 hired.
pinatas with moon faces, i made
truth all over the walls.
why, we herd howls through halls of
corporate present.
why, is the world we live in.
the phone rang, and spike lees skinny
truth sang out ambush and area codes.
fortune was promised and autographs agreed
for a caricature of eleven figures, not
a contract to be withheld.
wait, as my lion leaped out.
wait, as my adage is received.
wait as spike was integrated with the
evil steed.
greed.
all the while devil was gnawing on a backbone,
a sharp turn,
second and twelve,
what a mix.
quick fix,
give me your key.

seven satan stand-up,
toe to toe.
I faced him, and heaven waited,
as all whose death was not believed.
aching, lonely, bleeding.
the clock continued to whined.

something more believable then a face-off,
like material spread around necks,
the stuff of super-novae,
speckled star stuff.
I'll eat you.
a stumble in the dark,
it's end revealed,
super-symmetry.
it retreated.

the turning point, add in my heavy favor.
how cool are you that paycheck commercial,
sold for bargain, your style is octagonal,
like dead poems.
defunct antibiotic,
curtain cause,
paranoia.

thee who believed in me,
a willow tree.
it is always wise to give
wolves wide birth.
scratch, scratch, scratch
went the pen-stroke,
fish heads and lucky charms.
I lived there.

You'll never know, nor do I expect
you too, a life aimed high.
a talent undiscovered.
after death,
well received,
thus was my dream.

the habitat for life is everywhere.

applause.

...gatsby~

Unification.

Like a beast with his horns,

I have torn everyone

who reached out for me.

but I swear by this song

by this song,

and by all that i have done wrong,

i will make it all up to thee.

Thanks Leonard.

And just as Leonard Cohen

struts past my front door.

seemingly understanding

the impressive rhythms of

springtime symmetry,

the day takes a poetic

turn.

So I beat this disease, what's the

next step, I overheard, while

listening intently to the bad connection.

wires crossed, message in a bottle.

Pick a fancy, make it a dress rehearsal.

I heard myself hesitating order to

the crick crackle of modern technology.

The answer was tickling an announcement,

musing through misinterpretation.

Harness that energy.

Winning at anything is a conquered mountain.

The harder the training, the more determined

the effort, the richer the reward.
I once was witness to a marathon.

I saw men and women running what looked

to me, an impossible race. What are they

running from I mused, catching glimpses

of determined legs seemingly detached

from the rest of their body.

What are they running from indeed.

I find after coming out of a battle with Crohns,

I'm filled with a unbridled determination.

The knowledge that I'm in control of my body,

that I have solved the problem of "internal bad

wiring", simply by figuring out what caused the

flare-up in the first place.

It get's me thinking

about how I can apply this knowledge to

dreams and the working world. I don't know

how many times I've heard, usually in intercourse

with money, "well that's the world we live in".

Insinuating that my dreams are separate from

the everyday comings and goings of money passing

hands. Fighting Crohns has empowered me, and

taught me that I'm in control of my life. How

nobody but I, will hold me back, or push me through

the dreams that feed me energy through the hours

of two thirty through four in the AM.

Crohns has taught me that I'm responsible for my

health. That nobody, not even the greatest doctor

in the world can know my body better then I.

I'm reminded of a teacher who points

her crooked index in my direction, threatening

a future digging ditches unless I accept reading

as a way of life, "No matter what you do, You'll

always need to read!". Thanks Mrs. Steele.

Teachers always seem to neglect to eleborate

on the lessons they continually bark at you. That

by learning to love reading it'll make it easier

to study in preparation for interviews, business

deals, debate.

Whether it's negotiating a price for

a used car. Or swallowing whole what information

your doctor decides to peddle out to you.
If you've not studied, or read everything you can

about the subject at hand. Your either going to get swindled

by a greasy gutted glutton, or led astray by an

absent minded medition (doctor). Not to say all doc's are

bad, as I'm batting about fifty-fifty with medical

practitioners. What I'm saying is Fifty-fifty aren't

very good odds, especially if your a betting man or women.

Maybe it's because in our minds, us the regular Joe's and Jessie's,

doctors are on another astral plane. They sit atop a cloud, akin

with Gods, and Goddess's, they deal out life and death like a

frustrated kid perched over an ant hill.

People have this idea that Doctors are above them.
I used to. Until I watched a doctor in Melbourne who "googled"

my symptoms. I laughed, more like, squealed out giggles,

as this realization took hold. I wondered on the walk home,

who he copied his homework from. Was he some rich chinese kid

whose dad bought his degree. Can someone really take a bribe

for something like a medical licence? Do Corporations own Congress?

I also realized that doctors all have beds in their offices. I thought

being a doctor would be a good occupation to have if I felt

for an afternoon siesta.
Anyone can be a doctor folks. But not everyone can become

a good one.

"How am I to tell the dark side from the bad". says Luke.

"when your calm at peace, studying." says the grenouille with the Kermit like voice.

Out of all that you've learned from your illness. What's

the most important lesson you've learned?

Patience.

If you pay attention to intelligent people. You'll realize

they've a certain calmness about them. Sort of like

a twenty-something with a trust-fund.

They don't get frustrated because they take the time

to understand the situation. Someone whose angry is

only angry because they lack the understanding of

that which frustrates them.

Instead of taking a few minutes. Breathing back

some fresh air, a wonderful wondering while.

Thinking to determine what the lesson to be learned is. Rather then

hammering their chest, or whining a sophomore simile,

where the lesson is lost, and no growth was gained.

Imagine an ultimate fighter face to face with string theory.

A simple image that demonstrates how fast one can fall

into the deep abyss of peonic principles.

Take the time to understand is what I'm trying to say.
Humans have developed consciousness for a reason.

It's what makes being alive so wonderful, figuring things out.

I visualize my body like a circuit board. Each sickness simply

put, bad wiring.
I see myself outside my body, the system administrator.

Thinking, desperately at times, problem solving.

When I need help with a problem, I seek out those who

hold the answers, getting many opinions, and through

logic, utilizing the scientific process, coming to a conclusion.

I met this dude in Melbourne, we're in Melbourne today.

Who subscribed to this magazine whose sole purpose was

to keep the reader informed. Upon subscription they

sent you a mini reader about the history of the world, the

french revolution. Political readers, explaining the origins,

of anarchism, bolshevism, communism, socialism, democracy.

(* I wonder how many people in america who chastize Obama

as a socialist, even know what the #*#& a socialist is.

Not very many, my intuition boasts*)

I asked him "why the hell are you reading that stuff bud."

"So as not to get my information from some schmuck who

get's his knowledge written on the toilet walls."

" Huhg", I exhaled, letting him know I understood.

Letting him know I knew what was going on.

"Huhg" a lapse in time, a triggered treasure.

Huhg.

...gatsby~

A candle in the Dark.

PARIS (AFP) - Scientists unveiled Wednesday a complete genetic panorama of microbes in the human digestive track -- an advance that could help cure ailments like ulcers and inflammatory bowel disease (IBD).

"This completely changes our vision," said Stanislav-Dusko Ehrlich, a researcher at France's National Institute for Agricultural Research, after the study was published in the journal Nature.

Knowing which core bacteria populate a healthy intestine should lead to more accurate diagnosis and prognosis for diseases ranging from ulcers to IBD to Crohn's, which also causes painful inflammation, he said.

"In the future, we should be able to modify the (microbial) flora to optimise health and well being," he told AFP.

"This also opens up the possibility of prevention through diet, and treatments tailored a person's genetic and microbial profile."

More than 100 researchers working over two years found some 3.3 million distinct genes spread across at least 1,000 species of single-celled organisms, virtually all bacteria.

"The study is a blueprint," said co-author Jeroen Raes, a scientist at Vrije University in Brussels.

"The vast majority of bacteria found were not known before. But now we can start sorting out what they do in terms of function, and how they might relate to disease," he told AFP.

The intestinal census was carried out on 124 adults -- some healthy, others obese or suffering from IBD -- from Denmark and Spain.

Using new DNA sequencing techniques, scientists gathered a mass of data equivalent to 200 complete human genomes, Raes said.

The number of bacteria discovered is double many previous estimates.

But the big surprise was not the diversity, said researchers, but the fact that most humans -- despite different diets and environments -- appear to share a sizeable least common denominator of microbial flora.

Previous studies had suggested that there was relatively little overlap, especially from different corners of the globe.

Each individual in the study had at least 160 different species of micro-organisms, adding up to more than half-a-million separate genes, the researchers found.

About 40 percent of these genes were shared with at least half of the other volunteers.

There are 10 times more microbes in the body than there are human cells, with trillions of bacteria concentrated in the mouth, skin, lungs and especially the gut.

Microbes are essential to health, helping to break down indigestible foods, activate our immune system, and produce vitamins.

But recent research also points to previously unsuspected roles in obesity, heart disease and intestinal disorders such as Crohn's disease.

The new research also sets a benchmark in the methods used to sift through billions of bits of genetic code.

"This enormous sequencing effort -- the largest of its kind -- was made possible by the use of novel technologies," said Raes.

With the so-called Illumina Genome Analyser "you get huge bags of very, very small bits of DNA," he explained.

"Putting that puzzle back together again is an enormous task. Many people believed that it would not be possible."

My endoscopy revealed ...

A ascending love of bok choi.

A polyp in tango with rolled oats.

Bleeding ulcers fascinated with the

digested remains of seedless red grapes.

"Amo bishop roden" was what it whistled

up at the snake-like peeping pervert.

The doc and I had a hard time believing

a colon could whistle something aside from

the usual bombastic claps. A quick rewind

brought us proof and another glimpse of a smiling

left lumbar.

He told me he'd never saw such a beautiful smile, and how he would post it on his wall of success stories. To be sure he would forward my progress onto children and adults battling with the downs that come with the chronic outs, of Crohns.

I high-fived the optimistic doc, and bid him farewell. For I felt good about my progress and he too. Maybe I thought my rapid recovery could aid others, when all hope was lost.

Pondering past mis-adventures, catastrophes, and soiled undergarments, what could aid my fellow intestinal inmates?

Maybe I could share the re-discovered beauty of baby-wipes, when toilet paper loses it's silky white three-ply image, looking more like a rough roll of sand paper.

How baby wipes brought back memories of the cool wipe and warm love of mothers caress, sweet relief.

How about some tricks, how flexing your stomach muscles, when the road to the toilet becomes out of focus and just too far away, can save your guests a smelly surprise.

How to this day I wonder why after walking three kilometers, sweating, and silent, looking like a man or women possessed by the greatest of goals, you finally make it to the bowl. Only to lose control one second before reaching your final destination.

How you talk to your bowels like it wasn't apart of you. Like they were a monster out to get you, a scoundrel out for the soul you sold at the crossroads. Alor! Instead of collecting your soul the devil thought it drôle to play a little game and replace your healthy insides with that of an octogenarian's crippled calamity.

Napalm, when the bombs activated and mutilated you lost control.

I often wonder how these diseases came to be. How as I traveled from Gastro-physician to Gastro-physician across this large country called Canada, I never saw anything other then a two hour wait to see the doc.

How when I went to Australia and was forced to see the Gastro, his office looked like an old western ghost town. The Australian doc was fascinated by me, like he only read in stories about cases the likes of mine. "Must be the water." he told me before he told his secretary "no charge" as if I made his day, and he mine.

How auto immune disorders are on the rise and no one seems to have the foggiest idea why. How there are people walking around with bags instead of colons, and how that's my worst nightmare. There must be some other way?

How I'm told it changed their life for the better, and how my goal in life is to attain total freedom, and how it would take just that away from me. fear, paranoia, old Chinese proverbs haunt my dreams.

How I wonder what will happen to me when I am an Octogenarian, and the many fears that come with age.

How my only comfort is living as healthy a lifestyle as I possibly can. Sprinting at my goals and dreams as if I could internally combust tomorrow.

How I walk through grocery stores in my home town and marvel at how healthy people squander their health with giant shopping carts full of frozen pizza's and microwavable heart-attacks.

How the drive-in's at fast food restaurants have a line up half the day.

How cooking a meal instead of watching television can benefit their lives.

How and when they lost their dreams.

I wonder, as I sit on the toilet questioning it all.

I wonder where it all goes,

whoosh.