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One must carry on.

Most days I feel like I have been pulled through a hedge backwards physically and cognitively. But to be still alive is maybe all. Autumn has come now to colour the landscape into yellow butter with flecks of dried red chilli.

There are days when I don’t feel like dying. There are days when I don’t feel like I am dying. But it is like a fog that creeps across to obscure my otherwise refulgent life. I had hoped for more energy. The sudden lack of my spatial awareness e.g. judging distances, hand-eye co-ordination has been a blow. I miss my garden and my gardening projects. As Helen Dillon quotes “When the gardener goes, the garden door is closed for ever“.

I still expect a big bang or two as new lesion shock waves hit. I was taken with a comparison to the Cassini spacecraft story from last week where they deliberately crashed the probe into Saturn’s atmosphere because it had run out of fuel. Twenty years it had been in space. But Cassini was the opposite scenario – it was planned.

Of course I still do not want to die but I know I have no choice, and I must not waste the time I have left. I want to be stoic and accept it. I want to change things actually in my power. I want to harness my energy for the end. I want to make it easier for others, especially my loved ones, to survive my loss with least disruption.

Culture keeps me going now. Stuff such as “My Ireland” by Stephen James Smith. I think it is a masterpiece. I love it for the line “Naysayers and Peig Sayers” even though that doesn’t actually mean anything. Simply put, this poem is a masterpiece.

I felt sad about the death of Holger Czukay and still in awe of how he made the song “Persian Love” in 1979 using only analog technology.

I have been thinking about Döstädning, this Swedish term for the art of death cleaning “by which the elderly and their families set their affairs in order“. It doesn’t appear to have much to offer for me because I’m not in control. It’s back to the Cassini scenario.

I like it that Jenny Diski is remembered. It seems so long since the deaths of Kate Gross in 2014 and Jenny Diski in 2016.

I’m going to add a cannabis oil product to my treatment. This is me acting alone, in addition to the doctors advice. Sadly, the one I will use – Canabidol™ – is THC free, meaning it is a non psychoactive and will not get me high. You’d need to be in the USA, on personal use and not importing to UK to stay legal for THC.

Last weekend I steered the family towards the Devil’s Dyke to pick sloes. I could not go but I gave directions.It all went to plan. Three litres of sloe gin are now maturing for Xmas.

 

Not so good. Have lost ability to type. It may be time now for Döstädning, or “the gentle Swedish art of death cleaning”. I want to make sure that I say this first:

I wrote in the Book of Love and, better still, I found my name written there too.

They say almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes including you. I guess we’ll find out.

I just wish there was more time to see plays such as Woyzeck in Winter. In 1837, just as his unfinished play Woyzeck was nearing completion, the German dramatist Georg Büchner died of Typhus. Before he was twenty-four years old. In many ways he was the first Punk. He also said in 1834: “I despise nobody, least of all because of their intellect or education because nobody can determine not to become a fool or criminal.”

And, as W.H. Auden says, “Time will say nothing but I told you so.