Lung transplant victims of past repressions' repressions

4.


"The crystalline teseract hyperdimensional transport matrix".

The arabic font’s strict translation to English which struck me as exceedingly odd.
I mean, come on. Is this an embedded find, or what?! Like a door closing, and opening again, as the wind has it’s way with it. I cast the I-ching open at supposed random, as if the concept exits and enters at will, despite myself, and freed a disbelief which wells at the core of my soul. Does this, or does this not reflect my inner state? I could not help but conclude it did. The next entry to its credit, did not, and neither did the entry before it. Just as allopathic medicine treats the treatment of suffering, chaos is the treatment of health. Seeing order under the chaos of order liberates us. I slap the book shut, ask a question and open it again. "What did you say?" she yelled from the other room. "Nothing." I yelled back, glancing down to a revealed page in front of me, addressing emptiness from the standpoint of things and non-things in tension. I’d asked about the opposites of belief and collective causality; under what circumstances do they honor each other, or join. What part illusion, what part reality, when I stumble across them in bed, romping around. "Your nothing was quite startling."
she noted.



It was easily five o’clock in the morning, and Shelby had to do a double shift at the hospital starting at seven am. Wine bottles and chocolate wrappers littered the small elephant leg table corralled tooth and nail in opalescent abalone shells bristling with expensive cigarette butts. I could scarcely believe she was patently capable of dealing with dying lung transplant patients, in our depraved, sleep-compromised state, but she insisted it brought he rmore into the state of love, where he mind, exhausted, stepped from the fray of routine, to show her the divine, in what needed to be done, and said. I suppose it made sense; some of the greatest insights I’d rendered were under the influence of dire circumstances, which often included a sparsity of food, security, or sleep. The room smelled of bacon and sage, and the luminous San Francisco fog boiled outside.


You have to train them to live, she said. Their minds habituated to curtain normal activity off, and worry every literal step of the way. If their heart rate goes up, they freak out ... it’s not like getting a new heart, which people adapt to ... the breath is a sacred act, which liberates us, or diminishes us, as the repressions we accumulate compile, and block our channels to the outside world. I see threads of similarity running through each of these patients, as I spend long hours attending to them, asking them about their pasts, their families, their fears and beliefs. What I feel is what the eastern and homeopathic schools have long recognized in conjunction to illness, and character types. Lung failures seem to arrive from nowhere; it is baffling to doctors and scientists alike when patients have no history or reason for the disease, or no reason, with new lungs, not to recover from it. The answers are more complex than we give them credit for, and yet, they are so simple we are blind to them. Christ girl, shouldn’t we go to bed? I suppose you’re tight too? Totally. Fat and sassy, well-fed, exhausted, saturated with wine, ecstatic with chocolate and tobacco. You know, ready for flannel sheets, hide before the birds twitter, and the sneaky sun pokes through the cotton wool outside. "You’re right," she said, "I suffer if I don’t get at least an hour and a half of sleep." "Really?" I muttered aghast. "Clearly, you are part supernatural." "Aren’t we all." She deftly noted.