Where now is the hero
Where is thy singing sword
That spelled the bane of dragons
And sent the Ogress to Hell?
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I had a busy day today. I went to see Dr. Biller. We talked uselessly about my c-pap machine. I don't understand how it works. I don't understand how its supposed to work. It is no help whatsoever in sleeping to the contrary it keeps me awake. Still he wants me to continue with it. I have to find some solution.
After Dr. Biller I went to lunch with aubuchonz. He confided to me some changes in his life that were most interesting and over coffee, then lunch, we talked about this'n'that. He is into A Course In Miracles (ACIM). I borrowed some tapes from him and have already listened to half of one tape. I find the whole thing interesting and oddly evocative of the '70s. Billed as a thought system for finding inner peace through forgiveness, it resonated with a funny story my sister brought home last week.
My sis is now the cook at Algoa Correctional Center and is undergoing "boot camp" training for her duties in contact with prisoners. One of the courses in "boot camp" is stress management. The instructor was talking about stress being like a ball stuck in your stomach that you could allow to stay, causing heartburn and ulcers, or through forgiveness to allow to pass out of yours system. This produced hilarity and the specious question "So forgivenss is, like, ... farting?"
Using my newly awakened gastrointestinal awareness and, perhaps, philosophical nuances from ACIM, I am developing a philosophy that I'm calling "Fartgiveness". It will be convenient. Should I break wind in an embarrassing social venue, I can always claim it is my forgiving nature coming to the fore... or from the rear, so to speak.
aubuchonz and I had coffee at Dunn Bros. Coffee. The lattes we had were a promotional "caramel" latte kinda thing. They were a bit lame. I liked the coffee, but I prefer a double shot mocha or something of the sort. I will try Dunn Bros. again. "Anything worth doing is worth overdoing" or at least giving a second try. Afterward we went to the next door Quizno's on Edgewood. I had the prime rib on garlic bread. I was actually impressed. The sandwich was good and the staff was at the top of their game. I don't often compliment a restaurant that is less than stunningly impressive, and almost never have much good to say about fast food. This particular Quizno's was good.
From Quizno's I headed to the Dollar General on Missouri Boulevard just in time to snap up the last of their diet pepsi supply. I was actually checking out while some cracker who sounded like a refugee from a Tex Avery cartoon stood around loudly bitching about how they were sold out for the second day and theorizing that they had never "even got no more diet pepsi in a'tall!" Funny, if he had walked up and been disappointed, I probably would have split my order with him (I bought 6, it's the only place in town to get 'em for $1). Since he was being an asshole, I just said nothing and lugged my haul out to the bus. The trip home was uneventful, but the bus driver was one I don't know well. We didn't talk (I was the only passenger) and the ride was a bit rough.
Dr. Biller set me up with a pretty lengthy series of tests. In just a couple of days I go to the local outpatient center for blood work. It will be the usual A1C, a test for cholesterol, valproic acid, and a few what-nots. That same day I'll go through the whole EEG thing again. I am getting bored with EEGs. About 3 weeks from now I'm going through an EKG and stress test. So basically, we're checking out my heart, my brain, and my chemical make-up while I'm working on attaining nirvana through farting.
We watched him ascend, knowing in our hearts we would not see him return. Brave we thought him. Valiant and foolish, vain perhaps we thought him. Some though him unequal to the task, that his courage was false and would fail him in the end, but it was not so. The hundred-odd of us who lived in the village in those days and were overshadowed by the old fortress that was the source of so much woe could not believe that he was any different than others who had entered there. He was different. For five days we stood vigil while witchlights played behind the gaping holes in the fortress walls. We heard the banshee wails and indecipherable cries that sounded like a man in torture. Crashes as of walls tumbling, and a rush as though a dam had burst tumbled down the hill as boulders of sound to torment us.
When all had been silent for a day and a night, we left. Thinking his a valiant death, we left and went about our business, fearing the reprisal from the fortress that we knew would come. The ogre would descend. Homes would be crushed flat, and lives snuffed like candles in a storm. Some fled to the forest, but most simply waited. There was no outrunning the monster, nor escaping him if he chose you as his prey.
A'noon of the seventh day, Stehan, son of Han the woodwright, came shrieking into the village. We thought the Ogre upon us, as, in a way he was, but not as we expected. Out of the foothills, down the lane that was our main street came Ardulf, dragging one leg and stumbling under the weight of his trophy. He bore across his shoulders, like a deer taken in the forest, the head and the attached shoulder and arm of the Ogre. He stood as solidly as he might in the center of our small village and flung his grotesque trophy to the ground. In a second he fell beside it and was unknowing.
At the end of seven days we buried Ardulf where he fell. We dug deep and placed the Ogre at the bottom of the pit. Then we laid a floor of pine logs and piled it high with sweet scented flowers before we lowered Ardulf to his grave. None may walk through our village without seeing the stelae and honoring he who slew the Ogre. Ardulf had no family that we have discovered, no heirs, no legacy save that the lives of one hundred souls and all their descendants will know his name and keep it for as long as there is voice to sing his praise and memory to know his name.