when we were gods

These are the days of darkness and cold. It's barely above freezing outside. While I was cleaning the downstairs windows (I enjoy cleaning windows BTW), I notice that something or someone has been gnawing away a bit of the frame from the patio door. The door is made from very hard hardwood and has been unblemished until six weeks ago when I last washed the glass and the frame (I take window cleaning very seriously). We decided that it's not the end of the world and that for now we shall observe hoping that the door will not collapse. Maybe the termites are coming to take over the house. Last night I dreamt of being back in Africa fighting with never ending columns of red ants.

My mind is otherwise blank and blissfully useless. I got yet another letter from the pension people in Ireland promising even more arrears to be paid shortly. As a matter of fact, shortly could mean anything and R thinks it's a scam anyway. 

Here are some mostly anonymous bits from the wise internets. That's all I have the energy for.

History has shown time and again that defeating injustice is much easier than achieving justice.

 

You can relax. If you decide against climate protection, it does not mean that you are selling your soul. You are only selling those of your children and grandchildren, and if things go well for you, you won't even have to watch.

 

Lauren Hough

For all the mothers out there, I wish you would read this post, it's longish, so take your time. I admit that I got quite emotional reading it. And I am a hard nut as the saying goes.

https://katywheatley.substack.com/p/a-very-long-post-about-maternal-burnout

diagnostic dead end

 

In fairness, it was kind, the way he told me over the phone. In my mind's eye I could almost see him shrug. We have reached the end of diagnostic options. And I replied that I understood, obviously. I almost laughed. After four experts and I lost count how many procedures, it has been agreed that the displacement of various bowel segments due to chronic inflammation scars and whatever else could - in theory - be surgically repaired but what's the opposite of in theory here, maybe in fact. In fact, surgery is not an option because of the compromised immune system due to the past 10+ years of immune suppression therapy, which most likely saved my life or at least the life expectancy of my liver, kidneys, heart and lungs. Also eyes and ears. And ayway, surgery in otherwise healthy people without an autoimmune disease has a success rate at only around 50 percent.

In short, this is the shape of things from now on. Me, hoping in the morning that the small bland yet pleasant breakfast portion will not cause a wave of painful bloating that could last until evening, while creating an Ottolenghi style lunch with said bland ingredients.

I have long ago accepted how limited my personal autonomy actually has become with a body that's a site of complication and now that eating has become a trial-by-error assault course, I can only shrug.

As Virginia Woolf said, in illness, the mind gives way to a thousand fantasies we don’t find time for in health.

Other than that, it's winter and cold and wet. I push myself outside, well wrapped, listening to a gruesome thriller, feeling slightly embarrassed for doing so when this is the view.

I could share my thoughts on stuff, like how the more feminist achievements there are, the more patriarchal violence increases. And how the crisis situations we are living in - climate crisis, wars, increasing poverty - motivates men to abuse and humiliate those who are below them in the hierarchy and how this behavior is increasingly accepted. How global right-wing extremism celebrates a traditional, alpha image and how religious fanaticism, whether evangelical or Islamist, celebrates the oppression of women. But then what? Right now, I just want to get from one day to the next, have a decent walk, digest my food without too much pain and find out who did it (in the thriller).