WHY AREN'T WE TOLD WHY?

A headline in the BBC today says Obesity fuels cancer in many women. As in many of the 'studies', there is no indication of the physiology or number of physical variables involved other than obesity. Did they just take a database and look at it for cancer, age and weight? Did they check for drinking, smoking, immune deficiencies, family history of cancer? Why am I always left feeling that articles like this are a waste of my time?

While I consider myself 'pleasing plump', not grossly obese, in medical lingo I AM obese. Responding to my imminent doom, I immediately signed up for some tips on losing weight by email. (Note: sending emails does not cause weight loss, I tried that. Using tips gained on the Internet might.) I read a profound expression with anticipation: Not surprisingly, the steps to prevent weight gain are the same as the steps to lose weight: Daily exercise, a healthy menu, a long-term commitment and constant vigilance. What a surprise! Now that sounds like a fun lifestyle, doesn't it?

At some point in life one has to make the serious choice: Is living really worth it? After all, the longer you live the more aches and pains you develop, and the more part replacements are required. If you say something reasonably funny or clever, you are looked at like some sort of senior prodigy. (Did you hear what she said and she is such an old lady!!? Isn't she cute?)

A dilemma with weight loss is the apron of hanging flesh that appears. Another is a tendency to avoid of the mirror. This can lead to embarrassing moments with unwanted things hanging off my face or person, unmatched apparel and other social unmentionables. The hanging flesh from the shoulder to the elbow looked good as Dolman sleeve on a sweater sleeve but doesn't quite make it for style on my body.

I recently read an article asking if my body was trying to tell me something. Half the time it is speaking in forked tongue or some other foreign language. Not even my doctor can translate it. I was given an anti-histamine for vertigo which made me almost comatose and unable to function. I later read on the Internet that one of the pills I was taking (perhaps because I had lost weight and needed less of it) was the culprit. I cut it in half, told my doctor who then looked it up on the Internet and said, "I never knew that side effect!"

I guess I'm stuck with that bit: Daily exercise, a healthy menu, a long-term commitment and constant vigilance. There seems no alternative other than 'out of body' experience.

BLOGS

Since I am a senior, my blogs would probably appeal most to seniors...though not always limited to that audience. However, many seniors still don't understand what a blog is and are apprehensive about it. Quite a few have told me they read the blog frequently, and it shows up on a sitemeter map that people in that area have been onto the site, yet they rarely leave comments. I think the site should be interactive. Silence does not convince me that what I write is agreed to by most readers.

It frustrates me that those who claim not to know what a blog is, make no attempt to look at one to learn. Some think looking at your blog downloads it to your computer. Others seem not to understand that the site is a URL...or even understand what a URL is or that the Internet is full of many interesting blogs, full of informationand far more informative than many other sources.

I checked blogs by category and none fit mine. There should be a category of Miscellaneous. I write random subjects that come to mind or events to which I respond. Sometimes I just share some of the things I've learned in life. I've learned that life is not lonely when one is in touch with lots of people in lots of places. A blog is one way to touch people, as is the telephone, chats, letter writing, and personal visiting.

Blogs are safe. Even if strangers disagree, (hopefully you have given no personal information) you make no plans to personally meet. All practical rules of safety and precaution should apply in everything one does.

HEAVEN SENT

The chapel was filling gradually, slowly (Greek time as we call the disregard for the clock), some stopping to light a candle and place it with others then stooping to kiss the framed icon before taking a seat. The two front rows on either side were reserved for 'memorial families'. My only living brother, his wife and I were there at 9:50 and waited for the mnimosino service to start at 10 AM, as congregates flowed in steadily. On the left stood the motley crew of choir, some in Aegean blue robes with yellow trim in the back, some in street clothes, one woman with her young son, about eight, by her side.

The priest usually spoke with his back turned away, visible through the door in the center of a wall of religious figures, a couple of them doors through which the altar boys passed. To the right were two trays of 'koliva', one in memory of my brother and the other for another family. Apparently, if you are Greek Orthodox, your soul wanders in limbo for 40 days until a priest mumbles a ritual that cleanses it of earthly sins and sends it along to Heaven. Nothing is mentioned of any other route to the hereafter, suggesting it is a sure thing you will get to Heaven if you go to church and do this.

As the priest chanted and read into the mike, a Cantor, sounding like an audio tape being played backwards, echoed him randomly. The choir dropped a 'kyrie elaison' now and then. The congregates seemed to know when to rise, cross themselves, or sit down again. Tediously, each section was given successively in Greek then English. As more candles were being lit, consuming more of the oxygen, the priest then walked around the chapel shaking the smoke from incense burner until those of us with compromised lungs were left coughing and struggling to breathe. After one hour, the smoke was so thick I believe I did stop breathing and coughed constantly for the second, unbelievably tortured hour. The choir chanted a frequent 'allelujah'.

Apparently time stands still in religion. I heard the priest say, "The Apostle Paul said today in his epistles....". I wondered why the church was still making the air unhealthy with the candles and incense, stuck in their time warp of parables and fiction. This day's reading was the parable of Lazarus from the Gospel of St. Luke, again given in two languages...the parable of the great reversal of riches in life. (Lazarus means God's help, we were told). His poverty ended with God, in Heaven. While in Greece the government has traditionally taken on the major expense of the church, in America the congregates shoulder the entire burden, making the plight of Lazarus easier with which to identify.

After 70 minutes, the liturgy repeated in both languages, the Lord's prayer said multiple times over, people knelt though there were no kneeling pads. As a child in the church I was taught that one of the distinctions between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is that we didn't kneel. At this point I felt as pained as someone being water-boarded and would have confessed to any sins just to be out of there. This was not to be. The church was full of small children, speaking in that loud voice in which the deaf and small children do. As I wondered why the parents had them here, I saw it was communion day for them. We sat as they filed up to the priest, who held the same red napkin for all of them to breathe and drool onto, as he popped a demitasse spoonful of wine in their mouth. This was followed by the chaser, a square inch cube of bread. Any adult, wishing to receive communion, was next. We went back to the getting up, sitting down, making the sign of the cross, with an occasional kneel for variation.

As the priest now stood before the two trays of Koliva, an altar boy coughed, trying to hold the incense burner for the priest whose hands were busy blessing the koliva. The incense smoke rose to the altar boy's face so he held it away from his body. I smiled as it blew into the face of the priest, who then also began to cough.

The word 'dead' was never spoken, only 'those who have fallen asleep'. I longed for the religious equivalent of Mr. Clean, fast-acting and thorough, to cleanse one of the 'earthly sins'. It was not to be had. After two hours, the priest pronounced the two being memorialized were now without sin and sang Omonia, with the choir, or Memories, which had been sung ad nauseum at the funeral a few weeks before. The service ended with local announcement and news before the two plates were passed, one for the church and one for the ladies society. People filed forward to kiss the hand of the priest and receive a cube of bread. This must have been sinner's communion for not having fasted. I finally had enough. Two full hours of my life had been wasted. Amidst glares, I walked to the end of the pew and escaped out of the chapel muttering, "I'll be damned if I will kiss a priest's hand". Who knows, maybe I will be, but will I know why, when or where?

Symphony Review

My habit is to not read reviews prior to a concert or a play. Most reviews are subjective because I rarely agree. The program started with a piece written by Mozart when he was 9; with all the depth and passion and musical genius of that age whose life had so far consisted of playing the piano or violin all day. As the brief Symphonic piece progressed, it speeded up, indicating that the composer had anticipated the audience wanting it quickly over.

The next piece, by an Australian in 2006, Brett Dean, was The Lost Art of Letter Writing, better titled The Lost Art of Musical Composition. Composers really can't write words with musical notes that create the same picture by pretending the ears are eyes. It was another composition in which the orchestra tuned up for four movements, the first featuring Temple Bells. If a theramin had been added, it would be great background music to a remake of Spellbound.

The piece was written with violinist Frank Peter Zimmermann in mind He played so many high notes so fast, it looked as though he was bowing on his nose. After crescendos ascended for several measures, it resembled nap time at day care. Even the orchestra looked bored, waiting for some music to happen beyond soft temple bells and lots of low notes on the basses. Meanwhile, violin notes high enough that only a dog could hear them were leaving the older audience nodding off in their silence until sudden crashing music woke them. In the next two movements, the full orchestra was engaged in playing unique solos, in random keys, and tempos sounded like an off pitch a cappella choir of strings. The movements each represented an historic letter. Since it was unlikely many in the audience had read these four letters (Hamburg-1854, The Hague-1882, Vienna-1886, Jerilderie Letter-1879) it added to the difficulty of identifying the images. Despite the high decibels, an approximately four bar theme emerged, quickly obscured by the atonal accompaniment and, finally, cavalry arrived (light snare drums and lots of running sounds) to rescue the orchestra just in time for Intermission.

The third piece was Mozart's violin concerto No.2, written when he had grown up to 17. It was played beautifully by Mr. Zimmermann who was loudly applauded to four stage call-backs, though he used a fraction of the virtuosity he displayed in the Dean piece. This suggested I was not alone in my lack of appreciation of the 'modern piece'.

Finally Schumann's Symphony No. 2, melodic, rhythmic and pure vanilla brought it all back to the real world.

STAY OUT OF THE HOSPITAL TO STAY WELL?

Hospitals are supposed to be places to make you well. Many question that today, with toxic cleaners being used and fast food being served. When you visit the next person in the hospital, or, God forbid, you are in one yourself, notice how many times your nurses or other medical personnel who touch you, wash their hands between patients.

Even hospitals are writing about the lack of safety offered their patients. Gone are the days when your doctor took total charge of you health and records. Today you need to manage your own health care. I cringe when patients tell me they don't know what medicines they are taking or have taken. They tell me their doctor has the records. I ask if they are sure the doctor's records can't be burned in a fire or that they will keep the same doctor to their death. (Fat chance of that in today's world...they are lucky if they get to see the same person for long.)

The lesson here is similar to the one I saw in the sign behind the desk in a hospital once" "Pick up after yourself; your mother doesn't work here." One might say something similar: "You can do a lot to take care of yourself; don't expect the medical profession to do it all for you."