My my, some truth dropped, by accident of course. From Steve Strang of Charisma Magazine, a hotbed of bullshit:
“What would you say to believers that are still struggling with Donald Trump because of his tweets, his bite-backs on people, some of his conduct, some of his language?” asked host Perry Atkinson. “What do you say?”
“I would tell them, ‘Get over it,’” Strang responded. “I mean, what leader is perfect?”
“Donald Trump is not perfect, he doesn’t pretend to be perfect, but what is he doing that is so terrible?” Strang continued. “I think that what happens is that people get a political mindset, they look at things from a certain political point of view—Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative—and then everything they see is through that filter. Our filter as Christians needs to be the word of God, it’s got to be Christian principles, those kinds of things. And on those kinds of things, nobody could be stronger than Donald Trump.”
So, the tweets, the back-biting, conduct, language, they don’t matter. There you have it. As for what is he doing that is so terrible? Oh my. Going by the christian sin list, wouldn’t that be everything? According to ol’ Steve here, the christian filter of the bible and christian principles allows for all those terrible, awful things which Jehovah promises to torture you forever for, if you indulge. In plain terms, christians are more than willing to embrace an obvious evil in order to get what they want. Good to know.
This is an incredibly long entry, with a great deal of misinformation.
Here begins the account of fish. Fish, pisces, get their name, like cattle, pecus, from the word for grazing, namely, pascere. They are called reptiles because, when they swim, they have the appearance and manner of crawling. Although they can dive deep, nevertheless they crawl as they swim. On this subject David says: ‘So is this great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable’ (Psalms, 104: 25)
Okay, I need to start with a disclaimer here. These cancer posts are to be able to inform, demystify, and for people to be able to talk about cancer, something which is still remarkably difficult to do. There is not one person who has taken part in these conversations who has said anything wrong at all; and I am grateful beyond measure for all the wishes and encouragement, which is appreciated beyond my ability to express it. So, I am not talking about anyone here at all, or in a specific sense. Most people who end up hearing “you have cancer” are going to end up angry at some point, and that anger will lash out, often in some unexpected directions. In my very short experience, I try to shelter those who care for me from it, but I am not always successful. While you realize it’s on the futile side to be angry with a random disease, it doesn’t stop the anger, and there’s plenty of actual things to be angry about.
Today marks my 36th day in from diagnosis. I have a minimum of eight months of treatment left, with at least two more surgeries awaiting. I really did not want the anger to come on so damn fast, because this ride is going to get much worse. But it’s there, itching under your skin from the start. People’s attitudes towards you change immediately. Some people ignore you; others treat you like a cracked porcelain doll; some people crumple; some people run from potential contagion of bad luck; some people immediately start whispering, which is weird as fuck; some people set themselves up as your hero; And the most dreaded: the leering clown faces wearing a rictus of positivity, stalking the halls like a latter day Death, wielding a smiley face instead of a scythe. In 36 days, I have already said not dead yet way too many times. How many times will it be by the end of this year? The only time it’s okay to talk about someone like they are dead is when they are actually dead, and well beyond caring about anything one might say.
On Monday, in the oncologist’s office, while waiting, bored, and standing because Butt Pain, I started poking about in cupboards. (Everyone does that, and the worst ones for snooping are medical people who find themselves in the patient seat.) Upon opening the cupboards over the sink, I let loose an exclamation, along with “I know what those are!” The infamous breast cancer swag bags, filled with pink. I read about these in Bright-sided: How Positive Thinking Is Undermining America by Barbara Ehrenreich. Welcome to Cancerland. At least with colon cancer, you get to avoid the aggressive, cheerful, infantile pink positivity which comes with breast cancer. Colon cancer is more low key, but you still find yourself stalked by the bad science of positive thinking. The pervasiveness of must have a good attitude and victim blaming is about as toxic as chemotherapy. I recently noticed, with dismay, that a couple of my chronicles were liked and picked up from my personal blog, and was highly unhappy with seeing these blogs writing about ‘being cancer preventative’, which is probably the most insidious method of blaming people for getting cancer. That is something to be absolutely fucking furious about. If you’re one of those people writing that kind of crap, telling people it’s on them to live a cancer preventative life, stop that godsdamn shit right fucking now. You are being a toxic, traumatic, obnoxious asshole, and you sure as hell are not helping anyone. Why? Because shit happens, that’s why. You can be a bloody saint and get cancer. Tiny children get cancer. People who exercise, eat right, don’t drink, and don’t smoke? Yeah, they get cancer too. The older you get, the more likely you’ll get cancer. So fuck you if you’re doing this brand of victim blaming. It’s random, it happens. As Charly notes in the comments, yes, you can certainly do things which may increase the possibility of certain cancers, but you cannot do one damn thing to prevent it.
Treatment. The one moment I emotionally embraced my oncologist was when he went on for a bit about how just barbaric cancer treatment is – he reminded me of DeForest Kelley playing Bones, stuck in a 20th century hospital, aghast at the barbarism of treatments. That was a good moment, because truth matters, and the truth is that cancer treatment sucks. In my head, I see myself chained, from the left and the right, being torn apart by two malign forces: cancer, treatment. It’s not easy to give people tacit permission to poison you and bombard you with radiation. Smart Monkey says: fuck, bad, run away! After you’ve beaten Smart Monkey into submission, you learn what my fellow traveler in colon cancer learned: all treatment is TRAUMA. It pings all the trauma: physical, mental, emotional. And you’re surrounded by people who truly want to do the right thing, and truly wish to help, but they don’t know what to do or say because no one ever fucking talks about cancer or treatment. It’s all hushed whispers in hallowed halls, with a chorus of puking and silenced rage behind it.
People. Oh, people. You’ll see and get the best and the worst, and everything in between. I know it’s difficult, but if you end up being the loved one of someone with cancer, treat them like you always do – yeah, circumstances have changed, but the person you care about is still the same person, and everyday normality and sanity can be hard to come by, so it becomes that precious to you. You can certainly offer to help with this, that, and the other, but if they say ‘no, got it’, let it go. We can’t just retire to the corner and wither, and we don’t need people encouraging that. Please, please, please, don’t keep repeating how great cancer treatments are now. They aren’t, and we know all that shit already. Everyone. Knows. That. Please don’t decide to treat us like dim 5 year olds. Rick has already picked up this habit of asking me “can I carry anything out to the car for you?”, as if I’ve decided to move house or something. All I ever have is my bag full of art supplies and paperwork, and I can still handle it. When you are in treatment, you have to remember and remind yourself to allow those who are caring for you to express such things, and to allow them to care for you. That can be very difficult, especially at the beginning, before you start feeling so diminished. It can be very difficult after you start feeling diminished too, because there’s going to be a fucktonne of resentment that you feel so fragile, ill, and diminished, and there you are angry again. As for all you friends and loved ones, please, please, please remember that this is a person you know well, your friend, your loved one, not cancer patient number whatever. You need to think of us as us. And whatever else, please leave the positivity crap behind, unless that’s something your friend or loved one is into. As for myself, I think the leap concluding that positivity is the opposite of stress is a very stupid leap. Stress is not helped by Perky Pollyanaism. As Barbara Ehrenreich writes in Brightsided:
But rather than providing emotional sustenance, the sugar-coating of cancer can exact a dreadful cost. First, it requires the denial of understandable feelings of anger and fear, all of which must be buried under a cosmetic layer of cheer. This is a great convenience for health workers and even friends of the afflicted, who might prefer fake cheer to complaining, but it is not so easy on the afflicted. Two researchers on benefit-finding report that the breast cancer patients they have worked with “have mentioned repeatedly that they view even well-intentioned efforts to encourage benefit-finding as insensitive and inept. They are almost always interpreted as an unwelcome attempt to minimize the unique burdens and challenges that need to be overcome. One 2004 study even found, in complete contradiction to the tenets of positive thinking, that women who perceive more benefits from their cancer “tend to face a poorer quality of life – including worse mental functioning – compared with women who do not perceive benefits from their diagnoses.”
Medical staff. Oh man. Well, you get all kinds. Me, I love the smart asses. I can’t even begin to say just how much honesty matters. Unless you have a specific reason to do so, don’t treat all your patients like they are somewhat stupid toddlers. We are all individuals, with different reactions and actions. It doesn’t take much time to assess whether or not a particular patient is well up on knowledge or not; whether someone is a bit quicker on the uptake or not, and so on. The condescending pat on the head treatment doesn’t do anyone favours. We aren’t dogs, waiting to wag our tales at you for a job well done. Please, I beg of you, if you work with cancer patients, don’t pretend you know what treatment is like unless you’ve undergone it yourself. That’s much more likely to make a person very angry, and find yourself wanting to shove a chemo pump up their arse, nostril, or other convenient orifice. Humour is great, and often helpful, but there are times when you’ll be able to tell, right away, when someone is just too damn exhausted for a sense a humour. Let us take a nap instead.
For all people dealing with a cancer patient: when it comes to anger, fear, anxiety, or all three: let us complain. Let us yell. Let us throw some shit at the wall. Whatever. Please, don’t try to talk us out of our anger, fear, or anxiety. It has to be dealt with, and trying to ‘cheer’ us out of it, or refusing to acknowledge it, or our right to both the feeling and the expression, that doesn’t help. You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to make it better. You can help by allowing, by listening, by commiseration, or even yelling along. On the caregiver’s side, it’s not easy listening to such a litany, over and over, any easier than it is listening to your loved one puking their guts out, or crying quietly, or pushing food away. Being a caregiver sucks, too. All you caregivers, you need a caregiver yourself, or at least someone who can provide you with respite now and then. Don’t be afraid or ashamed of needing that, or simply taking time to be yourself for a while, with no demands on you. No one’s going to give you a reward for being a fucking martyr, and the person in your life with cancer doesn’t want that. It’s quite alright for you caregivers to get angry as hell too, and fearful, and anxious. Cancer isn’t fun for anyone. Patient or caregiver, if you think counseling or therapy is a good thing for you, go for it. If you don’t, then don’t. If someone is not interested in therapy or counseling, don’t push it. We know what will and won’t help us.
I’ll probably think of more stuff later. Right now, gotta go give some love and food to my animals, and they are grand. They don’t care if you have cancer, they still love you, and embrace you, and treat you like the household god of food and doors you have always been.
Dutch Sheets, who claims to be internationally known and acclaimed, is saying that the Tiny Tyrant will be revealed to be a latter day John of Patmos, weeping from the intense religious feelings he will have. Honestly, I can’t picture anything less likely.
It is of interest to note that the whole Book of Revelation got into the bible pastiche by mistake, with some people mistaking their abundance of Johns. Once it was in there, it was difficult to get it out, so it was left in. Not that most zealot christians recognize this; revelation is a wet dream for them.
“I am very confident that there is an encounter with God that this man is going to have that is going to transform him,” Sheets said. “I already believe that God is using him, but I believe He wants to make him a father for this nation, to this nation.”
Sheets recounted that a friend of his had a dream before the 2016 election in which she saw Trump sitting in a hotel room, weeping as he read the Bible, which Sheets took as a prophetic sign that Trump would win the presidency and that “God is going to do something with this man to give him His heart, God’s heart for America.”
I’d swear they have a completely different person in their heads when they say shit like this. If we’re going to talk ‘hearts’, what fills the one beating in Trump’s chest is nothing good. It’s a vanity chest overflowing with self interest and utter idiocy.
Sheets also revealed that a fellow worship leader’s 7-year-old son claimed to have been told by God that “John” was going to win the 2016 election, which was also prophetically significant because that is Trump’s middle name.
“It’s significant to me that God didn’t call him Donald, He called him John,” Sheets said. “‘The Donald’ is his brand, it’s the tycoon, it’s the billionaire, it’s the guy that took New York, you know. But God, I believe, wants to transform him into ‘The John.’ John was John the Revelator, the guy that could hear, the guy that God said, ‘Come up higher, I’ll show you what is coming.’”
Oh FFS, talk about reaching. Trump is “The John” alright, but not in the way you mean.
Sheets said that once Trump “has this encounter and can hear God’s voice,” he will become like “John the Beloved” who “knows the heart of God, hears God, [is a] worshiper, reading, weeping.”
“I see this coming,” he said. “He is going to have an encounter with God that is going to baptize him in the Holy Spirit, open him to a new world and I believe even prophetic dreams will come to this man.”
“I do believe that he is going to know God and he is going to realize that God put me here, and I’m going to do everything possible to follow His leadership, His will and do for Him what He wants in this nation,” Sheets concluded.
The Tiny Tyrant is interested in playing war, much too interested in using nuclear weapons, fostering racism and hate, fascism, junk food, golf, money, and sexual assault. Fuck him, and fuck your imaginary godmonster, too. That’s not any sort of god anyone should be on the side of, in any way.
Here begins the account of worms. The worm is a creature which generally springs from flesh, or wood or some other earthly material, but not as the result of intercourse, although occasionally they are hatched from eggs, like the scorpion.
There are worms that live in earth or in water, in air, in flesh, in leaves or in wood, or in clothes. The spider, aranea, is a worm of the air, and gets its name from the fact that it lives on air; it draws out long threads from its small body, and devotes itself continually to spinning its web, never ceasing to toil, constantly suffering loss in its art.