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James Hamilton
297 followers -
A po' It who likes to write prose.
A po' It who likes to write prose.

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Me and my less colorful younger brother.
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Well, I became 76 years old a few  minutes ago, yet woke up fighting the contents of my dreamtime with great ferociousity. I'm gonna try to go back to sleep for a while because I begin my third set of chemo therapy sessions a few hours from now, and I wanna look refreshed while stretched out on my death bed. Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes. '-)
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Love the color of this azalea bush out in my yard. 
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One of my current health problems has to do with my heart rate. It's too high. So high I was in the hospital for three days. It caught me off-guard and I immediately entered denial. Who? Me?

As a result I copy-catted my brother and his wife (both of whom have their own troubles with their own hearts) and purchased a FitBit bracelet to get some feedback on what my heart rate is in real time occasionally. My cardiologist attempted to dissuade me from buying this thing because he thought I might carelessly use it to worry myself to death. Literally. For a while this morning I thought momentarily that he might be right, but then I reached for a more reasonable conclusion that has to do with my breath, and how to use it to slow my heart rate down when it approaches the Afilb rates. 

There is a learning curve that I'm just this morning beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. If I don't croak first I may be able to bring my heart rate around to something more reasonable. Oddly enow, this bracelet also buzzes when I get a phone call and informs me of the quality of my sleep if I remember to double-click it before I retire to my bed. My main problem there is that I don't have regular sleeping patterns and I don't intend to. I haven't grokked these features yet, but I'm interested. 

There has been a spam artist posting about astrology. When I checked on current events here yesterday Google had removed his posts to a place only seen by me as the owner of the community, and made it easy for me to reject his posts. He was back again this morning. It didn't do any good to mute him, so banning him forever and a day seemed like the only permanent solution. If you enjoyed his cumbersome posts I'm sure you can find him in lots of other Communities. 

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Have you ever found yourself screeching, "They're trying to kill me! They're trying to kill me...", and "they" were? How was I supposed to know that when the medicos were telling me that my only chance for living was that they were going to poison my old body to death in the hope that it would resurrect itself in a new body. Like rebooting my computer back to it's default condition, and hoping doing that would resolve it's insurmountable issues? Nobody told me. Contrarily, they might have told me, but I didn't get it. I certainly didn't know what I was in for. Not until yesterday. Then, yesterday, when I went to return my sister-in-law's FitBit watch that she had loaned me so I could keep up with my heart rate. She laid it on me. Even so, she told me as if I knew the deal, and that we were discussing an issue that we both grokked. Later, in one of the long-drawn out FaceTime conversations I frequently have with my niece, and I was telling her how shocked I was about this disgusting venue, she also found it incredulous that I hadn't realized that she had told me her own damnned self. She swore she had told me, but I must have thought she way talking about her dearly departed boyfiiend of twelve years. They killed him too. That's probably why we had our long conversations. Neither of us thought she would mourn his death with such great passion. She thought they'd be together until death did them part, and they were. But, being together was something they took for granted. Not that Paul would die an agonying death. To use her expression, "He bled out." The dis-ease he died of caused his blood platelets to croak, and without any platelets to staunch the bleeding, he became like Ol' Dan Tucker: "...he died of a toothache in his heel."
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Does this quote from the bottom of the Slashdot page:

"There's no future in time travel."

mean the same thing as the line of poetry below?

"The sun don't shine in light year's time,
and I don't go to sleep at night."
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This machine appears to do something similar to 3-D printing, but it makes molecules instead. There is a good HTML5 video in which the inventor explains the process.

http://www.gizmag.com/complex-molecule-automated-machine/36527/
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This I-am lives in the mythical belly of a beached whale that, only incidentally looks a lot like me. It's easier to say that it's my whale of a belly that creates a natural hiding place for indecision within it's huge rolls of fat. The punishment for not enjoying an active sexual life for three decades, solicits a mythical force for implementing a new form of air fucking in order not to publicly impinge upon the lewdness of an occasional fling with a roughened garden hose end-piece to assuage the reckless pride of its goody-goody brand nayme. It's a disgusting heritage embellished with a turgid sense of oily, sideburned self respect. This ad-less I-am blows itr's own gaudiness away by it's stormy nature and it's silky smooth whirlpools that sucks hapless victims down past the event horizon into an inky irretrievability that suddenly explodes from the mud pot globules and spits them into an unheated pool of abject despair. If by then the I-am) it  has not exchanged a ballot box for the romantic inclinations of healthy teens or forgotten the gutteral terms of it's un-abandoned lust, to the bottomless pit of blasé reductionism that steeps the aromatic pulp into a two-for-tea configuration of how a thing transforms from One in to another. Lusty handbills might soon cover the paint spots and ink stains even more than usual upon an artist's oily floor, with a patchwork Papier-mâché overkill that sucks the life out of what's left to seek secure contentment... This "by-hook-or-by crook" abandonment of common decency reveals that many deluded souls might be unprepared for a squalid, government-imposed future that deceptively explodes with colorful confetti when bespoken to from a multi-versed infestation of domestic yard fowls who unintentionally set the going rate for butterball turkeys. Dull night for avid conversation?
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