The Good Loser

I am a sore loser. Bet that was a surprise, yeah?

I won't beat cancer in the long haul, but I can win ugly every day 'till then, by accomplishing most of my goals (say, writing sonnets as blog comments) even if I am on my knees at nightfall.

Even if my skivvies are soiled, and there's blood on the floor.

Anything for the win.

Show me a good loser,

and a loser's all I see,

a goody-two-shoes poser,

and that is not for me.

You've got to fight the good fight,

and if you fail, just smile

Then go out in the dead of night,

catch a small crocodile.

Drag it, snarling, back to camp

and set it in the winner's bath,

drain the oil from washroom lamp

and prepare to laugh

as you hear a scream and splash

before nude hundred-metre dash.

Here's a fitting clip from Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is FAST. I'll be quick 

Skittering across the floor,

pirate-shouts, Avast!

Chihuahuas racing out the door;

short legs, but they move fast,

barking others from their way

as they madly race

to see what on this brand-new day

they are going to face

with hearts aflame and eyes afire;

a monster, maybe or a dragon?

Whatever, dude, it will retire

from Chichi's onslaught, tails a-waggin'!

Behold, there! Under grim duress,

it's the man from UPS!

Four minutes, under Chihuahua supervision.

Sylvia says that victory is ice cream. Can't argue with that.

He's Not Santa God

As for the telly, I only watch Trinity Broadcasting, bar the odd sporting event.

TBN has content that's quite good. Well, mostly.

There's still quite a bit of God repaying you in kind...give us money, and God will bless you with MORE money!

And...God wants you to be well. Illness isn't a physical problem, it's a SPIRITUAL problem (and for a love gift of $100, we'll show you how to activate your angels).

I can understand where these folks are coming from, and I do believe them to be sincere. But they are perilously close to turning God into a vending machine, or, worse, a kind of almighty Santa Claus.

The vending machine analogy makes God into something mechanical...put a penny in the slot, get your desire... but the St. Nick thing is way worse, because it implies that our actions can control God's behaviour.

I think that the reality is quite different.

We give to God, of our material wealth, or of our labour.

We receive strength and grace for the long journey home.

We want to be well, but wellness is not physical. It's peace with divine will, which purpose we know not, but which we choose to accept.

The metastasis in my left humerus has resulted in a fracture (don't ask how, I feel SO stupid!), and I have to move my left arm around with my right. As in, when I lays me down to sleep, I have to use the good arm to position the broken one on a supporting pillow.

But it's OK. The worse it hurts, the more I want to work hard, use my words as I can to soothe the pain in others.

Cancer has made me better than I thought I could ever be.

Cancer makes me want to hug the world.

And that, dear hearts, is recompense enough for all I have given, and lost.

Things may not be going well,

and life's fatally flawed,

but even at the gates of hell,

keep on praising God,

not like it's some mantra

that will help you escape,

rescued by a Santa

in a superhero cape.

Even as the flames lick high,

and you're marshmallow-on-a-stick,

do not pause to wonder why

God ain't like St. Nick...

just know and say before you fall,

"I am Yours, and You are all "

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is RUN. You're kidding, right, with pancreatic cancer? REALLY?

Ah, well.

Every day I got the runs,

and Imodium's my best friend,

for it isn't really fun,

what comes out the other end.

Diet sometimes seems to help

things from getting too darn runny,

but I then I'm giving out a yelp

and there I am, back in the dunny,

if, that is, I am in time

(no, I will not wear Depends!),

and thus the obligation's mine

to wash my briefs, as clean new friends,

and there is grateful thanks that's owed

that this is not a pay commode.

Three minutes. Must be my heart talking. Or something else.

Music from The Beach Boys, with Don't Worry Baby.

Sylvia's all for hugging the world in exchange for ice cream.

 

God's Colouring Book

There's a scene in one of the Star Wars movies where our heroes are stuck in a watery trash compactor, and Luke Skywalker says that it could be worse.

There's a beast-bellow from the muck, and Han Solo says, "It's worse."

And then a slimy tentacle pulls Luke underwater, and the fun begins.

Yeah, it's worse. My voice is taken, and there's another metastasis, this one on my left humerus, which, when, you think about it, my being right-handed, is really kinda funny. Geddit?

Seriously, I can't raise my arm above waist level, and trying to put on a shirt is... interesting.

But I can still count it all joy. Yes, it hurts, yes, it's limiting, but there's something of a liberation in the pain, and in this durance vile. I can see beyond what used to be so important, so very solid... all of my ambitions and hopes and dreams.

I'm not denigrating them. They were worthwhile, but now I see that the good in them, good I will not see fulfilled in this life, is but the lines in a colouring book, to be filled in by God.

And meanwhile...

 Chihuahuas running this-a-way,

Chihuahuas running that,

with them there is hell to pay,

if you are a cat.

Chihuahuas running kitty down,

oh, kitty-cat is trapped!

And then they imitate the clown,

and kitty now is rapt

to see them bouncing in their play,

rolling, now, and once again,

and kitty cannot see the way

that their waggy tails remain

attached to them, the game all through,

and tries a grab on one or two.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is DENY. Yeah, ok.

I would rather set aside,

and in point of fact deny

that I want to run and hide

from knowing that I'm soon to die.

I lie awake because of pain

that really truly will not stop,

and wonder how my mortal brain

can handle going o'er top

of the bar do ably writ

by poet-friend, Lord Tennyson,

how to smile, and be quit

of an earthly benison,

and letting go my hard-gripped rope

cast my soul upon Christ's hope.

Four minutes fifteen seconds. Maybe there's something to this one.

In respect to the science fiction intro, here's the funniest scene from any SF movie (it's from the underrated 'Star Trek Beyond').

Sylvia counts ice cream as all joy. Me too.

 

How Dry I Am

Ok, serious week. Two comas (defined as, "You were completely unresponsive.").

And huge setbacks in physical ability, like, hey, breathing.

So I won't be serious here. This is the time to get completely plastered, except that Josephus Daniels might not agree.

He was Secretary of the Navy from 1913 to 1921. He ordained that the Navy should be dry.

Yeah, well. Smuggle the booze past the Jimmy-legs, and let's go.

 Josephus Daniels, nasty man!

Josephus Daniels, why

did you have that evil plan

to keep the Navy dry?

A ship's a floating prison

inhabited by goats,

deserving the derision

of calling vessels 'boats',

and that's why the tradition

that Nelson understands

of granting kind permission

of tots to all the hands...

but, Josephus, you're a bum

for holding back our tot of rum!

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EXPLORE. Let's explore that.

We have explored the question

of why the Navy's dry

at Daniels' cruel suggestion

that's echoed, my, oh, my

through a pair of global wars

and piping days of peace,

through each swabbie who ignores

this edict, to unease

of harassed division-head

responsible for conduct pure

of his men, but instead

of making double-sure

legality won't come a-cropper,

turns blind eye to the chain-locker.

Five minutes, and it is what it is.

Music from Jimmy Buffett, with Margaritaville.

Sylvia will have some rum-flavoured ice cream, thank you very much. So will I.