Post Gall Bladder Surgery Thoughts

The Annulus　

   There is a region between two concentric circles, that amounts to an in between point. At this gray intermediary fulcrum, when two concepts become indistinguishable from one another, where no discernible separation can be observed by an outside spectator, this annulus is what I’m interested in.

   A trip without a suitcase, my body carried the luggage of bandages. Tiny tape piecing incisions from last weeks surgery, rest, on my abdomen. I grumble and I grunt. With cautiousness I quiver at the possibility of waking up; I assess the value of rising at the vellum of dawn. Pulling myself out of bed, to knit together a new day, seems so disconcerting. I, a rubble woman sing in lamentation. When rubble is at stake, who better to chorale the world? I pull myself together and receive another day.

  A fog machine fluctuates in my head, I have drifted apart from myself so many times, I feel as though I am lost. My playback reel gabbles its third decade. Morning to night only transmit’s a shitty king of waltzes. I tell myself that I will sing on, I will sing for the child at heart; as she wonders on her rocking horse… of life. There must be something left to wonder at, isn’t there?

   I look into the mirror and do not recognize myself. A small pampered architect weeps. I search for a substitute for the stagnating grate between my teeth. I touch my eyelids, the hollow, classical pillars of my sight. Who can impregnate the moment, when the threads of ourselves come loose? Who can help restore the coloration in our eye, our soul, when all hope is lost?

   We humans beget openly, but sometimes distrait, we are tender. I reach for an eraser, but with the wrong strokes, I am left unchanged. Scarcely my pupils change their shape. My breath missed the needles eye. Lurking behind the toothpaste, was a patriot to cancel out the disaster of a question that plagues my mind.
  
   Post surgery, I am alive, I live, but the haunting echoes of the frustration of being cruelly judged and condemned by a young doctor still tortures my weary mind. Harsh judgments condone life, in plumage they are superior. A bridegroom over words, I believe, is he who gives himself the possibility of being wrong. An open eye with a willing heart, looks the owl in the eye. The curtains close, angels hang in the air, as I add the finalizing touches of my mascara on. With a candid glaze I prepare to face the day.

   Gilded by confusion, an image-- some good natured fowl peered it’s ugly head out my bathroom door. The incubation of an idea that the progress of the jaded is not progress at all, began. The offspring of the genuine need for a sense of belonging was hatching. Breed from necessity; I a collarless, headstrong woman, prepare to wander into the scores of human fodder to interact.

   I, the unlabeled woman, like a un-muzzled dog, unscrew the nameplate from my front door. I carry my patented seating contraption and it’s unpatented owner to and fro, as I prepare for adversity’s departure. I advertise a repository of desperate “Sorry’s”, as I emerge under the windy cloche. Too gawky might I tread, when my hearts original knock beckons me.

  My nerves are frayed. Stones eternal pulse-less longing, felicity I can not hoard. Fishing this way, I can not resist to fling a precept at a dizzy aphorist walking by me. An upsurge of starosity rises, all falls silent. How sad changes are, I think to myself. Recently saved by emergency surgery only to return to an emerging apathy in this snake-belt-antithesis of a community.

   Scores of fodder… from here my neighbors expropriated all the pronouns and saved off the private shadows of little innocuous men. Serious embryo’s-- hope, filled with flesh, falls silent. Potential-- our aborted children pale-- crease the linen 6 feet under, where we buried the possibility of Being. With my eyes full, I anticipate the movement of my own death at the hands of men that simply do not care. The romping, idling spirit of wrath leaves me maintaining serious reservations.

   The journey from flesh is the longest. The child in its first loneliness… liquescent… becomes clearer in sunlight. The mist of cattails lifting, fishing this way, can not resist…a knock. Steel rips through conflicting steel. Prisoners of speed tarry by me. The sounds of the phallic city, the lingo of exasperation. Nymph forgive me, for I know not what I do…

   A rebellion accosted, I am committed to the tedium of a- this journey. Why must one engage? Integrity-- we can’t even agree if the sun is shinning. We as mere mortals are already limited. Yet liberally we embody the rights of a God.

   Life is a pilot tested champion who stands alone to conflict and challenge human fatuity. The abysmally low quality efforts to create dogmatic absolutes and project our demands onto the world, as though we could assert control over all that is or ever was, is absurd.

 With egocentrism some men destroy ruthlessly and justify their acts of hatred as though their every act was to be praised. Vigilantes exploit the greater good of life. Once nomadic IK. Beggars of questions, a curriculum confines, I confide, but the curricula are not a proper vehicle for it.

   Totschweigetaktic. My little tra-comic scene of threat. I confront. A society that depends upon and utilizes their co-ercive services sucks. The self- destructive shake a common wall. I sit still a solid figure. I sigh. A surgeon saved my life. I surrender my will, till mystery is no more.
        
   The surgeon restored my faith in man, but for how long can such a treatment endure, in a world so harsh in “her” opinions?



　
Abacus 

 The Ancient Greeks created an authentic place-value system, where positional numbers posited importance. The ancient’s had socially agreed upon realities, so that humans could advance themselves into communal superpowers that dominated our native Earth. An ancient person, just as modern man, would have questioned the ubiquitous stuff of life around him, and received no answer other than the echo of his own voice. The silence that befalls a man inquiring, demanding reprieve from a world that simply refuses to answer much less entertain his inquisition, is deafening.

   The tantalizing curse of needing to find security and safety, a sense of stability and certainty in our environment, seems universal. Unfortunately our sole solace seems to derive from the comfort we receive from recognizing other frustrated mortals that also are condemned by our burden. When accepting another into our lives, a sense of belonging helps fill the empty void of confusion we must face, as we are thrust into the world and forced to sustain while being accountable for our own actions. Every man is responsible to create his own destiny. And in short, every action carries with it innumerable consequences that has the self as the ultimate author.

   The Greek word axioma constituted a concept of: that which is thought fitting, self-evident, to weigh as a decision, something weighty. What is an axiom? Any formal system combines a set of axioms and rules of derivation. The rules are used to obtain (derive) theorems from the axioms. Axioms are something weighty enough that you can base a logical system on them. A algorithm is a sequence of unambiguous instructions for solving a problem; I.e. for obtaining a required output for any legitimate input in a finite amount of time. Einstein interrelated criteria relativity to absolve the idea of absolute truth.