Moving Home

For reasons of my own, I am now posting to by own blog on my own server at home.  That is not to say that I will never blog here..., I might. But most of my posts will be on my home server from now on.  


Going to Town...With a Gun

There are two articles that I ran across today regarding the issue of gun control.  One in the NYT which shows a partisan divide between gun owners and non-gun owners -> Nothing Divides...., and the other talks about gun owners dictating to non-gun owners ->Why the Majority Does Not Rule on Guns

The NYT article shows some interesting statistics and comparisons. It is more informational in content, and yet other articles in that publication clearly show there is bias towards the federal government stepping in to deal with gun violence through legislation and regulation.  The second article from the Capitol Times also points out some interesting data....

Apparently, we rural folk, in spite of our dwindling numbers, are dictating to the urban folk on gun regulation. We have a lot more representatives pulling for us than the majority does. I won't reiterate the stats here, but they seem more or less feasible.

The Cap Times article surmises that we need to change the rules to make us safer, and the federal government should be the point at which this starts. I disagree.

The problem with the federal government is that rule changes are so broad and general that the majority get impacted when it is a minority that cause the problem. Looking at the issue from a geographical standpoint, there are very few mass shooting problems in rural areas which make up most of the United States. In addition to that, non-gun owners don't contribute the the mass shooting problems either.

The article points out that the majority of Americans now live in urban areas (where the problems are most likely to occur), and that the minority of us that live in the rural areas are preventing the federal government from dealing with the problem because we have more representatives representing us and they are unlikely to vote for more stringent gun regulation. I would agree. But.....!

I would suggest that the federal government enable the states to set regulation of weapons; And more to the point, let cities with populations over 35 thousand do so. In other words, leave us rural folks to continue on as we have, and address the problem where the problem mostly lies: In larger population densities. 

I am all for a law that says you have to have a background check in order to purchase a gun. I would take it further and say one has to have a solid two week course in the safe maintenance and operation of the weapon you choose to own before being allowed to purchase it. And I would require the gun manufacturers and the NRA to sponsor that training 100%(and I mean pay for it!)

But legislating gun laws at the federal level (outside of fully automatic weapons and artillery, those things meant exclusively for military battle) is throwing all the babies in the same bathtub whether it fits them all or not. Concentrate the solutions where the problems are, don't make everyone pay for the problems that are primarily concentrated in small segments of the country. The reason we have a Republic is that it allows for more local solutions.

How about lets keep it that way.


Tweeting is Destructive

You can't say much in a tweet.  Oh, I know... it only takes a few words to encourage someone or to bring them crashing down. The power of language is often expressed by being succinct. (Not one of my strong points...). But in the context of making policy, Twitter is the worst tool one could choose to use.

There is no way that one can explain ones thought process in a tweet, or even in a series of tweets. To attempt to deal with policy issues on Twitter is obscene and any politician worth their salt should know better. Policy deals with complex issues. Issues which require a great deal of research, analysis, reflection and open dialogue to address. Policy is not Twitter material.

Twitter material might be a reminder to turn off the oven and set the chicken on the counter when someone gets home. Or it might be a quick show of love or appreciation. Maybe a reminder that the kids have dance class tonight.  Very handy....

However, twitter is not a medium to discuss or comment on foreign policy, national security, health care, what one thinks about a given group of people, or anything that I can think of that a policy maker might have to say. A politician that uses twitter falls into one of two categories in my mind:

  • Someone who has not thought through an issue and therefor has little of value to offer.
  • Someone who has fallen into the trap of responding to someone in the first category.
It the first case, the natural response is to ignore the idiot. In the second case, the natural response is to understand that the respondent does not have the temerity to ignore the idiot that tweeted in the first place and therefor should also be ignored.

We have a president who not only tweets, but thinks in tweets, guides the country on a series of tweets, comments on the performance of the members of his own team in tweets. This president tweets because he does not know enough about anything to be able to do more than tweet.

I can think of nothing more destructive to the fabric of a national community than someone who expresses the state of the nation in 160 characters or less.


Truck Repairs and ...Well... Story Telling

I took my truck over to my mechanic today.  There is a bill from previous work that has been sitting there for at least seven months which I wanted to get taken care of. That and there were a few additional items that needed addressing anyway.

When I arrived, Charlie dug out my outstanding bill and added it up. A lot less than I expected! I listed in prioritized order the items that I wanted addressed and told Charlie not to exceed a certain dollar amount.  He said 'no problem' and spent the next half hour getting everything set up to work on my ride.  I hung out in the shop and watched as he and Mike got going on things.  We yammered about various things as they worked. Eventually, Charlie let Mike take the job on in full and started setting up for another car he was working on.

All the while the three of us talked about various subjects, laughing at some, cussing about others, asking questions...just jaw-jacking. Mike got quiet as he focused in on my truck. Charlie and I continued to talk, which is Charlies style.  I have on other occasions watched as Charlie worked when there were other customers about. He just chats them up while he works. It is what he does. God knows I can converse too! So it is quite the visit when I go over there and am the only customer around.

After a bit, Charlie paused working, looked at me and asked: "Do you have any black dirt you would be willing to part with over on the farm? Jenna mentioned she used some for her flower gardens from your pasture."

"Sure." I answered.  And then came the crux of it... "How about we trade? I need black dirt and you need work on the truck".

Now what am I supposed to say to something like that? My answer was plain, simple and in shop vernacular... "Fuck Yes!"  We sort of organized the black dirt part of the deal; who's equipment, when (more or less).  The we got back to visiting.  No idea what it was we talked about anymore.  It does not matter. It was good.

A bit later, Charlies eldest daughter came out to the shop. She is an intelligent, good nature'd individual. We joked around a bit and then I asked her about her work and how things were going in general. She told me of some challenges at work and we discussed it a bit.  ...And then I got to going... story telling of jobs and places of work. Technical issues we faced. Working with people.  I must have gone on for quite a while I think. But the funny thing was, all three of them; Charlie, his daughter, and Mike, would ask questions when I came to a stop, launching me into another explanation or story. I have no idea why they were interested, honestly. But they were. The question were not the 'polite' sort. They were probing. And they would comment and tell their own stories. The were engaged.

I realized somewhere along the way that I very much miss work. It is good not to work; I couldn't anyway now days. Not really. But the work that I did over the years, in so many fields, many of them non-technical in my early career, were interesting. I learned so much! And I remember so much of it!

But, alas, my career is just a collection of stories now. I wish they were worth something beyond chattering on about. I wish I could somehow pass on what I learned. Don't get me wrong: I am not trying to boast.  The humility I feel when I think of the patient folks who taught me or helped me work through problems along the way is ... well ... it was such a gift from them. I guess what I wish is that I could somehow honor all I was taught as well as what I learned on my own in some way.

The day drew to a close, and a few parts had to be ordered for later installation.  Charlie and Mike got my truck back together and and cleaned up the shop as we continued to talk. And then it was time to go. Many stories had been told. We all know each other better now. I know some of where Mike has been. More about how Charlie thinks, and some clues as to the aspirations of a young lady just starting her career. And they know more about the world of automation and business systems and of some of the places I have worked. They let me tell part of my story. I am grateful.... 


A Break From the Litany...

I grow weary of the constant stories which focus on the division in our political identities.  I am even more weary and disturbed by the constant barrage of news about the divisions in our society, of the reaction to the natural changes which occur in an open culture that we profess to have. Bad news sells, and bad deeds which foment bad feelings are the focus of bad news these days. And it sells, so we see a lot of it.

And yet, hear is a story that evokes a vision of hope. It is a hard story, well written, about a community which does evolve and as a community works through problems. It isn't perfect by any means, but this is a story about values and ideals that represent the best of what America is and can continue to be.

It is the struggle, the process, the willingness to move forward. Not by stamping out change, but working through it. Stupidity does not go away, it happens. How we respond to the actions that stem from stupidity is our choice.  This community has responded well, not perfectly, but well.

I wonder when the rest of America will begin to forgive itself for being imperfect, and move forward in the spirit of doing well, of being well, of being willing to face the change that makes us unique: And doing it well.

This is a long read. There is a lot of background information in it. It is worth the time taken just for the hope it brings to the reader.  I hope you might take the time....

The Article


Conservative - What it is...

I recently ran into a post by David Brooks which lays out the ideals that I as a conservative hold as important. I have been trying to articulate this for myself for a long time. I provide the link to the original article below as well as the full text which is important to me. I hope I am not infringing on copyright by doing it this way...

There are references to the current administration in this that provide context, but are incidental to what I believe is the enduring strength of the proposed characterization of a Conservatives values.  Those things that are important to my way of thinking have bold headers.

The original article here:

The text of the article below:

Donald Trump is not the answer to this nation’s problems, so the great questions of the moment are: If not Trump, what? What does the reaction to Trump look like?

For some people, the warriors of the populist right must be replaced by warriors of the populist left. For these people, Trump has revealed an ugly authoritarian tendency in American society that has to be fought with relentless fervor and moral clarity.

For others, it’s Trump’s warrior mentality itself that must be replaced. Warriors on one side inevitably call forth warriors on the other, and that just means more culture war, more barbarism, more dishonesty and more dysfunction.

The people in this camp we will call moderates. Like most of you, I dislike the word moderate. It is too milquetoast. But I’ve been inspired by Aurelian Craiutu’s great book “Faces of Moderation” to stick with this word, at least until a better one comes along.

Moderates do not see politics as warfare. Instead, national politics is a voyage with a fractious fleet. Wisdom is finding the right formation of ships for each specific circumstance so the whole assembly can ride the waves forward for another day. Moderation is not an ideology; it’s a way of coping with the complexity of the world. Moderates tend to embrace certain ideas:

The truth is plural. There is no one and correct answer to the big political questions. Instead, politics is usually a tension between two or more views, each of which possesses a piece of the truth. Sometimes immigration restrictions should be loosened to bring in new people and new dynamism; sometimes they should be tightened to ensure national cohesion. Leadership is about determining which viewpoint is more needed at that moment. Politics is a dynamic unfolding, not a debate that can ever be settled once and for all.

In politics, the lows are lower than the highs are high. The harm government does when it screws up — wars, depressions — is larger than the benefits government produces when it does well. Therefore the moderate operates from a politics of skepticism, not a politics of faith. He understands that most of the choices are among bad options (North Korea), so he prefers steady incremental reform to sudden revolutionary change.

Truth before justice. All political movements must face inconvenient facts — thoughts and data that seem to aid their foes. If you try to suppress those facts, by banning a speaker or firing an employee, then you are putting the goals of your cause, no matter how noble, above the search for truth. This is the path to fanaticism, and it always backfires in the end.

Beware the danger of a single identity. Before they brutalize politics, warriors brutalize themselves. Instead of living out several identities — Latina/lesbian/gun-owning/Christian — that pull in different directions, they turn themselves into monads. They prioritize one identity, one narrative and one comforting distortion.

Partisanship is necessary but blinding. Partisan debate sharpens opinion, but partisans tend to justify their own sins by pointing to the other side’s sins. Moderates are problematic members of their party. They tend to be hard on their peers and sympathetic to their foes.

Humility is the fundamental virtue. Humility is a radical self-awareness from a position outside yourself — a form of radical honesty. The more the moderate grapples with reality the more she understands how much is beyond our understanding.

Moderation requires courage. Moderates don’t operate from the safety of their ideologically pure galleons. They are unafraid to face the cross currents, detached from clan, acknowledging how little they know.

If you have elected a man who is not awed by the complexity of the world, but who filters the world to suit his own narcissism, then woe to you, because such a man is the opposite of the moderate voyager type. He will reap a whirlwind.


Little Friend

Dyada, park go
Says my little friend

Dyada, big truck up
Says my little friend

Dyada, I want ants house looking
Says my little friend

We walk to the park
and along the way

My little friend stops to show me ants
letting go of my hand

And then taking my hand, we walk

My little friend finds mushrooms
letting go of my hand, he shows me
he counts them

Dyada, more mushrooms
Says my little friend
He takes my hand
We walk on

Dyada, butterfly
Says my little friend
letting go of my hand
He squats down to look

Dyada, flying away butterfly
Says my little friend
He takes my hand
We walk on

Dyada, I want swinging
Says my little friend

I give my little friend a push
We count to three

Dyada, sit down
Says my little friend
I swing with my little friend

Dyada, more swing push
Says my little friend
And I push

Time to go home
I say to my little friend

And as we walk
he takes my hand

Dyada, more park after sleep
Says my little friend

Yes, I say
to my little friend


Gender Equality?

I posted this on FaceBook, and it is one of the few posting I have made on a relatively controversial topic for which I received absolutely no responses in the first twelve hours.  Too touchy a subject?  Was I too adamant?  Am I just plain offensively wrong?  I have no clue...  But I figured that it was worth posting here regardless of the reason.  Whatever the reason, it must have struck some nerves or scared some folks off.... that makes is worth the effort!

Social Opinion on Gender "Equality": Some may find this offensive. Tough stuff! Ignore if so inclined.

This is an interesting list of responses to another article entitled "How to Raise a Feminist Son" found here -> https://www.nytimes.com/…/upshot/how-to-raise-a-feminist-so…

Let me be blunt: 
Men <> Women (To be clear, that is "not equal").
Boy <> Girls

The whole concept of gender equality is stupid. Men and Women, Boys and Girls are 'equivalent', not equal. The first step in solving a problem in a group is to come up with reasonable definitions of what the problem is. The word 'equal' simply does not fit. It means the same. I don't know about y'all, but I am not the same as my Wife, nor was my Mother the same as my Father, etc... ad nauseum.
It is time we taught our kids(and ourselves) the difference between 'Equal' and 'Equivalent', and started applying that terminology to our attitudes toward gender. We need to apply that concept not just in the area of gender, but in the area of humans in general. 

I <> You! We are different! And yes, there are rules which vary depending on which 'equivalence' we are facing. That is hard to teach to kids, or anyone for that matter. But without some rules, some standards, we end up with a bunch of navel gazing like we have now.

It seems to me that we need to (re)teach ourselves to recognize 'consideration' in a multi-faceted way. It is just as valid for me to hold the door for another human being who is loaded down with bags of groceries as it is to hold the door for a woman who is simply going through the same door as I. I do the same thing for different reasons, and both are valid. It is just as valid for me to advocate for women in combat(assuming they meet standards that ensure they are not a danger to themselves and their mates - just like males have to meet those standards) as it is to demand equal pay for equal work(note the word equal there) for all humans who do the work.

These distinctions are what we need to get back to. It is not about being equal. Equal is boring! It is about understanding that equivalence is a multifaceted set of 'equals' and 'non-equals' that apply to all human beings.

We invited readers to share their stories of raising boys to believe in the full equality of men and women. Here is a selection, with responses from experts in the field.


Poverty - A State of Mind

Original Article Here  (New York Times - Upshot)

Carson is both right and wrong here. And the Times misses an important point as far as I am concerned.
According to the article, we have more poverty in this nation than there is in any other developed nation. I don't doubt that. The question is why.

One possibility is that of the perceived lack of opportunity or a level playing field. A level playing field is really a myth anyway, but the perception that it is at least gently sloped as compared to a sheer rock face that must be climbed is important.
While the article cites studies done on children who have or have not climbed out of poverty to the middle class or beyond, it seems to me that one of the factors left out is this perception of 'it is possible'. Whether that perception is based empirical evidence or anecdotal data, it is very important that two things exist in that perception:
1) That there is a way to 'climb the ladder' without someone actively trying to dislodge the climber.
2) That the goal is worth achieving.
That second one is I think is as important as the first. Why should I bust my ass to get out of poverty and off welfare if the general economy is such that when I reach the middle class, it is not going to benefit me much more than when I was in poverty? Now days, it is not even stable! We have plenty of proof of that from the 2008 melt-down and it's subsequent devastation wreaked upon home-owners, retirees retirement accounts, and job losses which have led to folks who used to have steady jobs now working two or three low paying jobs with no benefits, just to pay the basic bills.
Then there is the debt picture: Why would I bust my ass to save for my kids college education, pay my own education loans, save for my retirement, buy and pay for a house when all of it can disappear in a heartbeat if my job goes away, or I get hurt? Oh yeah, all the while my spouse is busting ass to pay for their educational loans and make enough to "do those extras". Needless to say, we have limited time to spend with our 2.5 children who on average spend 5 hours a day yammering on facebook or tweeting like the President does.
Yeah, I am going to get right out there, dive in, and bust my ass to bootstrap myself up for that kind of risk...?
So given that gloomy outlook for what I might achieve by bettering myself, what is my compelling reason for getting off welfare and climbing out of poverty? Whether or not that gloomy outlook is accurate or not, that is the perception that I think many have, and that is a big problem.
And if you wonder why we have had populists getting all the attention and winning elections the last four presidential elections, I think at least part of the answer is in what I am postulating here. Perception....
Ben Carson is not all wrong, but he is a long way from right....


For Her We Are Wieland

As I sit and watch her sleep lightly on a cold and rainy May day, her wrist and hand curled and resting on her shoulder, the breathing in her chest so faint it can hardly be described as movement, I am struck by a paradox.  What some would describe as frailty is not that at all.  It is a symbol of incredible strength.  This woman who is almost not here, breathing eleven liters of oxygen through a mask into a body which is about to stop functioning, represents the indomitable adhesive which has bound our immediate family together since it became a family on the day she chose to travel through life with a partner: Our father.

Back when we became Wieland.

On that day back in 1960, she became Wieland in name, and our tiny branch of the family became hers to nurture, and guide.  Guide.  That probably describes Charlotte Jean Wieland better than any other word I can think of.  Mom is if nothing else, rational.  While not unlike all the rest of us in our humanistic need for companionship, one thing Mom did not need from anyone was much in the way of support when it came down to analyzing an issue.  Unlike the mostly alpha males she was surrounded by, she could be dispassionate and pragmatic without being unsympathetic.  The capacity and capability to be all of and each of those at once was one of those things that bound us together.

And thus, we are Wieland.

The rain on the South facing window of this tiny room in the nursing home is wind driven.  The bird feeders are empty of consumers today.  This is one of those pragmatic days.  There will not be a lot getting done, but instead we will all be transitioning to what we have to do next.  I will be heading back to Albertville to help my wife Oxana with a few things and to get myself ready for the next round of chemotherapy.  My brother will be finishing up arrangements that ensure that Mom is taken care of and working on the family homestead which is now his, and getting ready to return to his life and family on the West Coast.  And Mom will work on her crossword puzzle and drift in and out of sleep.  She having decided that being her role in life right now: Waiting patiently.  And in doing so, yet again providing an example for my brother and me.  Mom, the guide, showing us how it is done.

And so, we are Wieland.

Mom was born to and lived an early life I can only barley imagine in spite of the stories she and her brothers and sisters have told to me.  Their individual and combined experiences as kids are so real and yet so very detached from the world we live in today.  Born to Thomas and Murial Matthews in 1933, Mom was third of six children. Grandpa was a grader operator on roads mostly in Southern Wisconsin, helping to build highways like Hwy 61 through places like Reedstown and Soldiers Grove. They moved often as I understand it.  It was from Murial that Mom got her ability to draw, paint, and create.  But it was from Thomas that she learned to sing, aas Mom told me.  He would sit on the front porch with her and a little friend from down the street and sing with them after a long day driving the mules behind the grader.  That form of art would later play into her adult life, as she sang with our Father so beautifully.  Picture that if you will.....contrast it with what we live today.  Imagine the change this woman who lays sleeping in front of me has seen and experienced. And change is what she guided us through, teaching us to accept it, work with it, even when we don't like it.

And as such, we are Wieland.

Mom stirs.  Her eyes flicker open and closed, stay closed for a time, then her hand moves away from her shoulder and the pale eyes slowly focus on the wall where by brother has hung pictures of the family and a painting or two that Murial did long ago.  She does not yet realize that I am present, sitting in a blue recliner to the left of her simple hospital bed.  I say nothing, letting her get her bearings and adjust to yet another short time of wakefulness and waiting.  In a minute she does notice me, taking a few seconds to adjust to this unexpected reality.  She looks briefly surprised, then not.  A small knowing smile and a spark in her eyes.  And there is Mom.  All and completely here, just like she has always been.  All the strength and accumulated wisdom and fun and laughter and pain and joy. It is at once overwhelming and comforting.  And there is nothing I can do but simply accept that. This is Mom, here and now.

And I am Wieland.

Dad has been gone for about a year now. To speak of this woman without speaking of Dad would to be like speaking of rain without acknowledging clouds. Mom and Dad.  This was a union the likes of which can only be described as a force of nature. Each was an elemental, and together they were, to me anyway, indescribable.  However, these two were not in any way similar in anything other than those things they chose to share.  Dad was a driving force with the determination of a head strong mule and a keen, directed and hungry intelligence.  Mom was the rock to which he and my brother and I anchored. The always available sounding board for ideas, frustrations, and anything else we Wieland boys had to say.  Many a conversation I heard where Mom played the role of pragmatic planner while Dad dreamed and schemed.  Dad the visionary, Mom the planner and guide. This was how they operated. This is how they taught us. Vision and pragmatism. I see these in my brother, and to a certain extent in myself.

And so together, Mom and Dad defined Wieland.

Mom and I visit for about fifteen minutes.  There is no reason to try to push the time further. To do so would be to search for something which does not need to be found. We are each on our own way to where we need to go next. It is that simple. I can't feel sad. Perhaps a bit melancholy, but not sad. I know full well that I may very well not see Mom alive again. She knows this too. But then I might, and that would be a very good thing. We are together and yet individual and today is like all days, a part of the process we call life. God gave it to us and here it is to celebrate.

And we celebrate it as Wieland.

She is tired. It is time for me to go. I take her hand and smile with a certain pride. Mom smiles and re-iterates that she is doing what she wishes and this is what she wants. I understand and tell her so. She holds my hand for almost a full minute, just looking at me. Then she smiles and says see you later. One way or another I know we will.

We are, after all, much to her credit, Wieland.

Monday appears sunny, bright and warmer.  I have slept a lot since Saturday and wake very late, a bit after 09:00. Oxana asks me to drive her to get some errands done and I oblige. As we begin our excursion I notice there is a voicemail waiting for me. I slip on the bluetooth and dail up.  It is my brother informing me that Mom has died. I am momentarily taken aback, as the new day has not yet reminded me of Mom in her room where I last talked with her.  I hang up to adjust to this reality for a few. I choke up briefly, then recall that I knew this was likely.  Oxana is supportive and asks if I will be OK, and of course, I am and will be. Mom has been granted her passing as she wished it to be. There is nothing to be sad about. Her life here is completed. All that she was has filtered into the continuum of existence. This is our faith, our belief stated in terms different than what she or Dad would have used, but the core is there. In the words of the faith we were taught by Mom and Dad, both are now with God, and those words work too. They remind me of the hymns Mom and Dad sang together as they worked in the gardens we often grew, or in church sometimes. Mom with that beautiful contralto and Dad a gentle tenor. Harmony... she knew how to establish that in more than music.

And Wieland we continue to be, after her and because of her....


This is so different than what I wrote about Dad, and it should be. I wrote of Dad after he had gone.  It seems fitting that I wrote of Mom after what turned out to be our last visit. I can't say exactly why, though I think perhaps it is because she inspired calm strength, and I needed to capture that for myself while it was right there in my mind. All that incredible strength and accumulated wisdom gently waiting to transition to that which is next. No fear, no regret, no sadness. Just quiet acceptance and gratitude for a life she cherished.

As I re-read this writing, I find it clumsy and disjointed. I begin to think I should edit and polish it. Mom deserves better. And then I realize that this will never be smooth and polished, and making it so would be a lie. Understanding a Mom is the realm of the little boy become man, knowing full well that he will never really understand the love of a mom. I see this even now in my wife and my daughters as they live this extraordinary role: Mother.

And perhaps Mom would be proud. I am experimenting with a different style of writing, borrowing from two amazing authors: Bobbi Pauling who deftly bends time in her hopefully soon to be published book and Patrick Junk who recently wrote and shared a short piece which uses the repetition of a phrase to enhance the theme. Mom was an artist. There was a beautiful pencil sketch of my brother on the counter in the room where she lived her last few days. Perhaps Mom would be proud of this clumsy attempt at ....what? In the end, it boils down to the simple, a statement from a little boy inside a man:

I love you Mom. For because of you, I am and will continue to be, a proud Wieland.


Lyrics of "Tripping On.... Dex?"

There are songs about cocaine, songs about weed (remember Panama Red and Sweet Leaf?), songs about mushrooms, songs about Oxycontin (Oxycontin blues by Steve Earl), songs about uppers and downers (Gracie Slick), songs about all sorts of drugs.  But I have never heard one about Dexamethzone. I suppose it is not one of those things you go out on a dark night to a street corner and ask for.  It just has not been billed as sexy I guess.

But I tell you what: It is a trip.  No pretty colors, or melting ceilings...but a trip none the less.  And it lasts!  This is not your typical two hour high...this shit goes on and on and on....  Take it on Wednesday and you start to crash Friday night.  And the crash is just as weird as the plateau.  I won't go into the details, as I figure the reader really does not need or want to know.  Just accepts that this cortico-steroid is both nuanced and intense, sometimes both at once.

But the point is that there are lots of folks that use this concoction, usually along with other concoctions that no one would ever call natural, and would not volunteer to consume.  And those folks don't have a song to hum along to while ..er... enjoying ...   the scheduled event.

Aha!  Now that is a unique characteristic of Dex: It is scheduled! I will have to work that into the lyrics somehow.

A long time ago, I had this really cool job for a really cool company where we made the circuit boards for super computers. I worked second shift because I was going to school at the time.  I had this idea for a song entitled "The Second Shift Blues".  I even worked out some of the chords for the song. But the lyrics never quite came together.  (See, this is what Dex does: My thoughts are fragmented and I just butterfly from one thing to another.  I can't write but a few paragraphs and my mind wanders off to another, somehow related subject.  Welcome to Dex...)

...oh yeah... Dex.  So ones thoughts wander a bit, or a lot sometimes.  Makes the process of checkout at the grocery store interesting.  I stand there and watch items getting scanned and the next thing the cashier is looking at me asking if I am going to pay for this shit, but I am thinking about the protocol used between the bar code scanner and the cash register.  Then I look down and realize that I have my debit card in my hand and while I am waiting for the scanner to make sure I am ok, end up wondering how many scans one could get out of that tape on the back of the card before enough quantum particles mess up enough of the magnetically stored ones and zeros such that the stored data is corrupt.

Oh shit!  I was supposed to be bagging my own groceries.  Don't they have high school kid to do that anymore?  Now the person behind me is on the same page as the cashier.  I can see them in my peripheral vision(which seems to be enhanced when tripping on Dex) and the sideways looks and body language says "Early Alzheimer's maybe? I didn't smell booze so he isn't drunk...must be a wierdo....".

I bag my groceries and leave, having switched to perhaps three or four other subjects while bagging. Oh yeah... I parked in the North lot, a bit of a walk.  Wonder how many subjects will flutter through my mind between here and the truck.  Hmmm... carrying at least 18 pounds of bags, am only supposed to lift no more than five pounds according to the Dr.  But I left the damn cart at the check out counter. Oh well, I don't feel the extra pull on the atrophied muscles or pressure on the compression fractured vertebra....nope, Dex masks that.  Not much pain when one is on Dex. (hmm... there is another thing to add to the lyrics...)

I see an elderly woman carrying enough bags of groceries to feed a whole brood of grand kids.  She must be 80.  It does not even slow her down.  I can barley lift mine into the seat of the truck.  She is long gone by the time I get the key in the ignition.  Damn!  Dex does not give me artificial strength!

Hmmm... NPR has a thing on about the cost of drugs....my mind shifts to politics...

And on and on it goes.  Like right now.  I can feel my ability to write about this starting to be overtaken by the other thirty things I thought about while trying to focus on writing about writing lyrics about how Dex makes it hard to write about writing lyrics.  Yeah!  Oooohhh... listen to that circular statement!  It is almost spherical!  Wow!

I missed my Wednesday dose of Dex and ended up taking it Thursday morning. I might get five hours of sleep between then and Saturday night.  The crash will come tomorrow morning.

Welcome to Dex.  (Not as catchy as "Welcome to the Grand Illuion" is it? Oh well....


Dumping Velcaid

So Velcaid is a bit much.  The resultant side effects of distal nueropothy are debilitating in my case. The bottom of my feet are numb making balance a real issue.  Weakness in my legs has made it difficult to do much walking around.  My stamina is minimized.

Additionally, the feeling of constant surging tingling throughout my torso is distracting to the point of driving me to constant irritability.  Every breath sends a wave of tingling though the skin from may navel all the way up to my sternum and spanning my entire frontal rib cage.

Having cut off the Velcaid for the last eight weeks made some improvement.  Adding Lyrica as a replacement for the previous nuero-inhibitor may have had some impact, but only in the trunk area, not in the legs.  My legs are showing some improvement I think.  I am hoping that the long term side effects will mostly disappear over the next few months.

So the regimen is now a weekly dose of Dexamethizone and a monthly IV of Darzalex.  It will be interesting to see whether or not the combination is enough to hold back the cancer and see if the kappa light chain count stays low.  The combination of Velcaid, Darzalex and Dexamethazone had reduced the kappa light chain count from ~63 down to 0.70.  A remarkable improvement.  However, the full protocol was cut short by six weeks due to the side effects.  Thus, it is hard to predict the longevity of the protocol.  Had the full protocol been followed, the expected increase in efficacy was 60%, giving me perhaps nine months of low kappa light chain counts.  I would suspect that the efficacy will be reduces somewhat due to the early cut-off of the protocol.  Time will tell.

I figure that if I can make it through the summer without major relapse, I will be doing damn well.  I hope to spend a fair amount of time down at the farm.  I always gain strength, both physically and mentally when I am there.  I miss Daveed of course, but my trips back give me some time with him and he is always happy to see me.

Again, this is here for my own reference, so will not push this out for the general public.