Pain Management Clinic

Half an hour ago I received a call from the Chronic Pain Care Center , they just had a cancellation and would I like to come in tomorrow at 8 a. m.? My answer was an immediate yes, the two month wait to see them has now become little more than half a day.

They had sent me a series of questionnaires about my pain, my health, my attitude that I was going to answer in June; so I had to do them this afternoon. To question closely the specifics of pain is unsettling, like most people I had made a mental accommodation, a day to day way of handling this thing, my special way; now I have described it by questionnaires for medical and psychological doctors. All my previous accommodations are upset and would like to be back to their almost once comfortable positions.

This is my first professional visit to pain specialists; not only do I expect that they have all the possible modes of handling whatever it is that I have, there is the thought that if they don’t have an answer, the answer, then I am in trouble. I have been avoiding, denying that my pain may be impossible to relieve, the rheumatism or fibromyalgia pain; in the back of my mind there was the belief that there is a cure, but if I don’t search for it I can maintain that belief, that fiction. That notion is about to be tested.

Now that I have put the idea down here, that there is or is not an answer I can see that there will probably be a complex answer, things that will relieve the pain and things that will assist me living with whatever pain is left over. This is not an uncomfortable afternoon.

A series of questions has to do with my significant other , they are insistent that I list someone in my life to whom I turn, this isn’t an easy question. I saw in the paper that a recent survey found just over half of all women are single, from that I assume that a fair number live alone, are divorced. For every divorced woman there has to have been a divorced man: that means there are is a big bunch of divorced guys out here, and many of them are not living with someone else, many of us have parents who are dead, more than a few are alienated from their children, or never had any, perhaps don’t have a close friend, haven’t had a close friend since they growing up. I don’t think that I am alone in having trouble naming this significant other person. I mention only men because that is what I happen to be part of, if someone wrote that there are a large number of women who would have trouble with that question I wouldn’t be surprised.

About a decade ago I had to go to an Emergency Room at 3 a. m. I had thought that there is nothing lonelier than going to the E. R. alone at 3 in the morning. Even when I had a wife who didn’t like me she would have felt it her duty to go with me; I think that there are a number of situations where an unhappy spouse gives in to duty, I remember when I did it for her, she for me. Now I sit alone.

I volunteer to sit with people who are about to die, I have yet to have a situation where there is a spouse present; children often are in denial about the situation, are present physically but not fully. There can be nothing fucking lonelier than sitting someplace and waiting to die; yet it is a necessary, the necessary, act of our life. It can be described as the second most common act, the first being when we become alive. I sit with these people in order that their loneliness is lessened.

Several people have commented that I have been writing about weird stuff, that I have difficulty writing about everyday things. Yes, that’s the truth. Is there anything more everyday than the knowledge that I am alive but someday will not be? I guess that I am writing weird stuff, and so what?

It is a beautiful spring afternoon in Chicago, daffodils and tulips are spots of strong color after months of gray and brown smudges. Almost everyone I have talked with in the last few days has mentioned how much they are enjoying our spring; it doesn’t last for long, but that makes it even more precious.

That is all I have time for now, it is time to open a beer and cook some orange roughy fillets, fingerling potatoes, green pepper, broccoli, a fair amount of olive oil and garlic are about to be ingested by this occasionally weird guy; there may be a third beer tonight.

Pieces falling into place

I went to the supermarket yesterday afternoon with no plan for dinner; I was focused on not falling on the polished ice that defined my path to the store; walking around with a basket that contained only my gloves I waited. Walking down the canned goods aisle I waited; saying hello to the pharmacist, asking how is Roller Derby Weekend went, I waited; I looked to see if they had my beer in stock, Newcastle Brown Ale, and I waited; I was waiting for the pieces to fall in place. I had walked past the meat counter, the ethnic foods aisle, the produce counter, all while I was waiting for the pieces to fall in place:Then they came together; there was a special on Hormel pork tenderloin, the 1-1/2 lb. piece will make 3 good size meals, pork tenderloin is as tender and moist as beef tenderloin; it was a long time, if ever, that I have bought a jar of salsa verde that would go well with the pork; fingerling potatoes are expensive, and so that will keep me from eating too many at one sitting, I picked up a bag because they are the best tasting potato I have had in a long time; red peppers were the same price as green today, so one firm one, they go quickly when they start to go so buy only what I’ll eat in a day or two. And the beer, it is the smoothest that I know.It turned out that the tenderloin was on sale because it was not trimmed cleanly, there was fat, nerves and gristle that take so much time to cut away, this is how Hormel could offer them at that price. After trimming I made 1/2 inch thick slices that I would sauté quickly, slightly underdone, then put on the salsa verde that was already on the warming plate.

To prepare a pepper lay it on its side, slice off the bottom, sit it on the cut side and make 4 box cuts, I was left with the stem and seeds all of apiece to be thrown away; the sliced pepper would be cooked in the pork pan; deglazing would be with some beer.

The boiled potatoes would go into the bowl of fresh garlic and olive oil, salt and fresh ground pepper that was also waiting in the warming oven, a handful of chopped parsley is mixed in just before serving.

It was just a matter of waiting for the pieces to fall in place to make a good meal.

I lay in bed most every morning waiting for the pieces to fall in place; whatever dream I remember floats through my consciousness to see if anything interesting remains; I’ll let a daydream develop for a short time, then categorize it to see what it was about. If there is nothing interesting immediately I’ll nap for a while, waiting for the pieces to fall in place; it is time to get up when the certain pieces stick, images or words are what I am about in the morning; it is time to write.

The bible story of the father who was commanded by God to kill his son came to mind, I had read something by Kierkegaard on it a week or so ago; Kierkegaard thought that it had to do with the suspension of morality, I think differently. Whenever a story has lasting power it is because it is allegorical, generations and cultures can use it because there is something behind the literal obviousness. That story means that to know the divine, to have a personal relationship with God, to know what is in the depth of my heart, I have to transcend even the closest bond, the one with my child.

That need has been on mind a lot; has been there for a long time, not by choice is there alienation with someone who loved me without judgment, some time ago, and now doesn’t; this is the most painful thing that I have ever had to endure, because of that I have come to see deeper into myself, closer to what is divine and infinite; not by choice, but by luck the pieces have fallen into place.

I write this story completely because it is necessary; to restrict or cut it would be to deny the experience, the opportunity; that others may or may not read it is immaterial, it is the writing and publishing that is important.

And those are all the pieces today, and they are all in place, I feel a complete story.

What’s new

The desire to write, to put words down for others to see, this act of arrogance; is that someone might want to spend time and effort in reading some more ordinary words of mine. There is no new story, there hasn’t been a new story, a different observation, a new thing for a long, long time; there are only the old themes and passions re bottled and new labels applied.

And yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee, I am putting down words, never a new word, never a new emotion, there hasn’t been a new story for thousands of years; and yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee and the need to write.

Leo Tolstoy never came up with anything that hadn’t been said previously; he wrote of family matters, love affairs, politics and war. And we love it that he did.

I am hung up on this idea of the new, a blind belief that newness is the same as life; but it isn’t, life is just life, it is being now, and making sure that there will be life after me.

The brown sparrows are at the feeder, they may be the same as were there yesterday, will be there again tomorrow, and the occasional cardinal. I don’t fill the feeder in hopes that an eagle or an ostrich will come to feed, I put seed there so that there will continue to be life outside my window.

I have written a few posts about how to cook, no detailed recipes, just how something is to be made into food the best way that I know. A good meal isn’t about new recipes, different ingredients, it is about enjoying what you are eating, what is in your mouth, the satisfaction of food well prepared, and food is the fuel for this body. Tomorrow we will all be hungry again, somebody will have to cook again. I might write a few more items all about how to make food again.

The sparrows eat, they warm themselves when there is a break in the clouds, they take advantage of eating a bit of snow for the water.

I ought to visit Bert in the home today, it has been over a week since I was there; it is not that I have signed a contract, am not receiving money, haven’t made a promise to his relatives, nor that he remembers me; visiting Bert is like putting out seed, cooking dinner, doing the laundry, taking a shower; none of it means anything in the long run, but it is necessary for today’s run.

My earlier mistake was to be buying into this notion that new is important, that there really might be something new, that the tiny novelties displayed for amusement are important; bullshit—there is being, and there is nothing, being is the important one.

That’s it for today, and tomorrow, just as it was yesterday.

Cooking chicken

Yesterday was my first post about how to cook. I posted a comment below it that I wasn’t comfortable with the product but that I needed to be finished with it, to get on with my day, today I make another attempt.

As always; turn on the oven its lowest point, usually less than any number on the thermostat, aim for 140° F; continue using the oven thermometer until you have the feel of the oven, it is important that the oven not be above 160°; put in all the plates and serving dishes.

Recently I have been cooking and eating skinless, boneless chicken breasts with more frequency; that it is not a red meat, that the skin is removed and the fillet has been trimmed are for health reasons. I needed to cut down on my consumption of the red and the fatty; many of you may have been given that same advice by people in white coats. I continue to feel a need for the protein that comes from flesh that satisfies me in ways that plant protein does not; this fillet fills both requirements, and it can be made to taste pretty good.

The skinless breast doesn’t have much of what is needed for browning, there can be some surface browning but it comes at the expense of driving moisture from the fillet. To get around this one can put another surface on top of the meat, flour or breading. Breading is the better tasting and has a good appearance to it, but it is done with eggs, milk and white bread crumbs. Dredging with flour is a good alternative, the flour browns up well, it combines with whatever fats and oils to make a blond sauce; but it brings those fats and oils to the plate.

I don’t attempt to brown the skinless breast; I watch to make sure that I have made a white cooked surface on one side before turning it over, but don’t do more than that, no searing or dark browning. My idea, the one that I have been using for a year or so now is similar to pot-roasting or the French poele;the meat is cooked by the vapors driven out of vegetables, flavored steam would not be an inaccurate description. It has always been the best way to cook a whole bird, and for those of you who want the most flavorful and juicy bird, look into this method.

Traditionally, browned aromatic vegetables make the base of the pot, the meat is placed on there, the top put on, the cooking is done in the oven, with frequent basting; the top is taken off the pot for the last 20 minutes in order to brown the skin.

Here are two ways that I use this ancient method: Add a prepared sauce, use the vapors and the emphasized flavor to cook the meat, and to give taste to the meal; after all, a sauce is nothing but liquid flavoring. There are store-bought tomato sauces, everyone has familiarity with them. A variation that I have been using recently ischipotlesauce, and its cousins. If plum tomatoes look good I might skin and seed a few of them, let them cook along with the chicken, adding a fair amount of herbs for both tomato and meat.

Other vegetables, (yes I know a tomato is a fruit, it is also a vegetable) such as small potatoes, mushrooms, onions, green or colored peppers can be put in with the breast; pretty much the whole meal is in that one pot.

Here comes the important part:–cook slowly, pour another glass of wine, check the television schedules for the night; no, don’t get on the phone, that would distract for too long, you might lose sight of the process in the pot. Lift the lid and touch the chicken breast frequently to see how it is cooking, long before it is due to be finished touch it, become used to the resilience of the meat, learn its internal temperature, how close it is to the 160° F point. Never, ever, whatsoever, let the liquid boil. When the breast is firm, remove it to the plate warming in the oven.

If the sauce is too watery, turn up the heat and reduce it, stirring constantly to prevent sticking and scorching. If other vegetables were used check their done-ness; some things such as onions and mushrooms come into their own when cooked long and slow, potatoes and peppers shouldn’t be overcooked. Although I admit that I occasionally like well-cooked green peppers, it remains your choice. Because you have the warming oven going you control items that are finished, which are to be left in the pot, all without the pressure of time, become familiar, daily, with the warming oven.

One more thing about touching the meat: If you have steaming vegetable you had best use the spoon or tongs for touching, don’t let the steam burn your fingers, or the hot liquid. It is okay to touch a chop cooking alone in an uncovered pan because the top surface will be cooled by room air. Remember how the egg cooked, from the edges, toward the center, remember how its resilience changed, get that same memory about a fillet of chicken; repeat it as it becomes natural.

Our aim is to serve a tender, flavorful piece of chicken; flavors and moisture have wasted into the exhaust fan, they remain, as much as possible, within the meat. It is your decision as to when the meat is done, what the flavors will be, how it is presented on the plate, how long you can linger over the meal without everything cooling off; and then you can try it again tomorrow.

Cooking flesh

Animal protein coagulates when it is heated to 160°F.

I am an omnivore, I enjoy eating the variety that being an omnivore offers; and I know that when I prepare flesh I have a moral obligation not to waste what that animal has provided; I try never to ignore that the trout was alive, and that because I wanted to eat it it is dead; now let’s get on with it.The flesh of that trout is fully cooked when it reaches that temperature, if I heat it higher I am drying it and I driving off flavor. The craft of cooking is knowing what is going on with the food, deciding how it will be, how it should be. Trout flesh is delicate, the flavor is subtle; that is why I eat it, that is why I will not destroy the texture or the flavor. I try to slightly undercooked fish, I think that it is better that way; and as cook that is my decision; I know how to slightly under-cook it.

This would be a good place to put in the first thing that I do when I am about to prepare a cooked meal; I turn the oven on to its lowest temperature, somewhere around 140°; I put all the plates and serving dishes in the warm oven, leave them there. When the trout is cooked I put it on the plates, then put them back in the oven while I complete whatever else I am cooking. Get it out of the way first, the oven will hold it, that 140° won’t overcook it. Oven thermometers cost about $5; use one to find the low temperature that the oven can hold, use it to check the accuracy of the thermostat; home ovens can vary as much as 50° from what is indicated, restaurant ovens usually hold to with 3 or 4°. After I learned how to do this well I learned how to cook several dishes simultaneously, but in the beginning do one thing, then move to the next, that warm oven is your very good assistant.If it is a Thanksgiving turkey I will want it finished 3 or 4 hours before the meal, get rid of the hassle of waiting for the bird, there are other things to be done, the pressure of preparation is lessened. I can remember a summer event at Ravinia Festival when I was told to cook half a dozen beef tenderloins, make them rare, and then I was told to hold them for what turned out to be 2 hours, hold them at that state. It was tricky to do, but was good practice, especially as we were outside, using charcoal grills, metal cabinets and Sterno. If any guest wanted beef cooked more, it was done by throwing a piece on the still hot fire and bringing it to medium rare or well-done state.

As an exercise in learning how to do this-fry an egg: Put the pan with oil or Teflon over a low heat, allow the pan to warm before carefully breaking an egg into the center of the pan, watch what is happening. The white of the egg will go from clear to milky-white slowly, the demarcation line between the clear and the white is the 160° line. Touch the clear with your fingertip, then touch the cooked white; remember the difference in resilience between the two. This is important; this is something that cooks do with fish, with chops, roasts; they touch it to gage the temperature. And they use that little thermometers that carry their breast pockets.

I’ll write more about judging and knowing; but I think that it is important to say here that this is start of the true fun of cooking, this is beyond recipe, beyond what the guests think of the meal; this is the beginning of the feeling that comes from knowing that food has been made the way you have decided it should be made, this feeling lasts long after the last dish has been washed, the last pot scoured, this is the feeling that is private. And the next time you make that bird you will make it just slightly differently, you will have been thinking about how to do it better, you will be looking forward to doing it again, and then again; and with respect to that animal.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.

We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.

I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .

After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.

So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.

I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.

I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.

The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

Cooking for one: salmon steaks

I had intended to write about how I cook fish, but I have changed my mind.

It is Friday, the pathologist’s report on my polyps is due today; the previous two annual reports said that the majority of the polyps removed were either precancerous or malignant, today I have difficulty thinking of anything but this.

I’ll wait until 11, I’ll call him then.

What I am having difficulty getting my head around is that these people are good, have been on top of the problem from the beginning; everyone is going to have something happen, it is good to have people who will take care of it as soon as possible. So I am in good hands-right? It is just the way that I handle anticipation that makes me anxious this morning.

I was without health insurance for about a dozen years, when I turned 65 I was eligible for Medicare and also bought the Blue Cross Supplement; after badgering my then internist he finally ordered a gut exam, that began with a barium enema, then a cat scan and then a colonoscopy, that is when they found the 2 cm. polyps, big ones, and cut all the bad shit out. Good. I promptly fired my internist, asked around to come up with the deputy chief of internal medicine at a teaching hospital, very good.

To get back to the beginning: I was going to write about salmon steaks with baby spinach, fingerling potatoes in olive oil with parsley and fresh garlic; that is what I was going to describe in case someone would like to hear how an ex-cook makes dinner. I have become a fan of fingerling potatoes, their shape and size means that they are cooked quickly and evenly, and they have great flavor. I put the salmon and spinach on a pool of Chipotle sauce, a nice smoky flavor.

A big bird has just landed, all sparrows are gone. Its back is brown with white dime-size spots. A long black blade like tail. The bill is short and stubby, I think. This is one strange bird, the size of a crow. The colors are what gives it the unusual look, I see now that the wings are covered with the white spots as well. I suppose it could be a large pigeon, but it has an erect posture different from a pigeon, it sits tall, swiveling its neck around it is now looking at me through the window, their is a white ring around the collar. A white belly, with long shaggy feathers–am I looking at a hawk? Now I wish that I had taken the window screen off, and maybe even washed the windows, the oblique angle of the sun brings up all the dust and screens my view.

The sparrows are not waiting in the bushes for this guy to leave, they exited the area completely.

He has taken my mind off what it was; those long white breast feathers can be seen in profile, waving in the wind.

When he or she flies I’ll know more from the shape of the wings and spread tail, for now it is the spooky bird on the branch of the apple tree. He went— went fast, couldn’t see much.

Now I understand what it is that gets into bird watchers, that was a special sight.

Its an hour and twenty minutes before eleven, maybe I’ll call early, they gave me no time when results would be ready. I have put on the Brandenburg Concertos with Yehudi Menuhin, Bach is good medicine for whatever is wrong.