Stream of consciousness

(Note: I know that when I began this blog, I promised it would not be a “rant” journal. Please forgive me when I occasionally stray into that realm. Today’s post might fall into that category.)

So, I finally plowed through a giant history of Lewis and Clark (the long book I mentioned a few posts back) and it was quite informative. I learned, for example, that some Native American tribes did not treat their elders with respect; some of them actually left the oldsters behind with a day’s rations and well wishes for their trip to the afterlife. This is not the admirable picture that had been painted for me in school… And I also learned that often, tribesmen would offer up their wives for the visiting white men’s entertainment, as a means of trying to lay hold of the white men’s power, or something like that. (Stephen Ambrose explained it much better than I.) Anyway, all the time those men were traipsing across the country, bravely hunting and camping and building boats and foraging and that sort of thing, they also were often living it up with the Indians’ wives. End result? Many of them, most of them even, suffered from VD which they’d contracted from Indian women. (Which, oddly enough, Lewis treated with mercury…but that’s fodder for another post.)

Again, this is not the picture that was painted for me in history class.

One particularly striking image that Ambrose shared was of a Pacific Northwestern tribe; because of the warm but wet climate and their reliance on canoes for transport (is it possible to climb into and out of one without getting at least a little bit wet?), these folks simply went without clothes from the waist down. I suppose it must have been a losing battle to keep such duds dry and clean, and they probably gave up after a few days of waddling around in heavy, sodden pants and skirts. The downside was that Lewis was able by simple visual examination to determine which tribe members had VD and approximately what stage of the disease they were in.

Nice.

And this got me thinking about how nasty diseases have always been part of any culture where “modern” man has trod (the Europeans were likely the initial carriers of the infections, which they happily passed to Native Americans) and how many people of every culture will philander if given opportunities—especially when those opportunities are encouraged by other people who are around.

And that, for some reason, got me thinking about how people can be hiding all sorts of secrets inside about their bodies, but can still be quite obsessed about their cleanliness. This seems to be especially true for Americans. They have less than admirable sexual habits, if the stats are to be believed—even the kids are misbehaving more—and to top that off, most of them eat like pigs, greasy nasty processed stuff that does not do a human body good… but by golly, they’ll never miss a shower in the morning. I don’t get it. Why are Americans so worried about smelling like a living being instead of a bar of soap? Or worse yet, a bottle of cologne? And why aren’t they more worried about their insides?

And that thought, for an even more obscure reason that eludes me, reminded me of women who choose to squat in public bathrooms, and then leave their drippings on the seat for the next hapless restroom visitor. Why? Now, some toilet seats are scary, nasty things, I know—I can see why you would choose not to sit on bare porcelain. But most toilets are pretty harmless. Lay down some TP, or use one of those fancy paper seat covers, or whatever, but don’t fret: well-respected doctors all over the world have explained that nasty diseases don’t live on toilet seats. They can’t. Unless, perhaps, people leave wetness on the seat and give the nasties a good place to hang on and breed. So, I hope that if there are any squatters out there reading this, they’re also responsible enough to do a quick wipe-clean when they’re finished.

And where can you pick up nasties? Where do they actually thrive? In warm, wet places—like the public jacuzzis at that fancy club or expensive hotel. Now THAT scene is a hotbed of nasty microscopic activity.

Since that is such a nice, happy thought, I think I’ll end this post.

The tastes of battle

All three of us are now battling some form of the cold that invaded our lives last week. That’s right, an entire household, paralyzed by rampant, mutant germs that have infiltrated every corner and cranny, spreading their badness. And the ongoing illness has reminded me of something I recall each time I battle a malady: Sickness has a taste.

There’s the foul, sour taste of unwashed mouth, of tongue that’s welcomed only tea and chicken noodle soup for days on end with nary a sighting of a toothbrush. And there’s the dry, bile-tinged taste of a ravaged mouth that’s been trying very hard to keep stuff from coming up into it, stuff that has no right traveling upward instead of down and out. The taste I’m recalling now (because I’ve been cruelly reminded) is the taste of sore throat and chest ailment—a strangely metallic flavor. Where is that coming from? Metal? Huh? But it’s true. The minute something goes awry in my chest and lungs, that’s the taste in my mouth.

Makes you wonder what’s going on down there, in the depths of your amazing body, as it fights this fight against evil germs. Can you picture the white blood cells at a rally, pepping each other up before they take arms against the germ? It’s crazy, really, when you think about it—and especially crazy because our bodies are always doing some kind of battle, even when we’re healthy. While we’re totally clueless, feeling fine, going about our business and even neglecting ourselves as so many of us do, all the components of our intricate and awesome bodies are still working to keep a good balance: making sure there are just enough germs to keep the defenses in good shape, being certain that the bacteria we need are in good supply but aren’t getting too cocky… I’m no doctor or scientist, but I’m still rendered speechless when I ponder all the wonderful things going on inside me at any given time. Even looking at the monitor as I type this, thinking about the image going into my pupil, being reflected somewhere on the back of my eyeball, images being sent to my brain via millions of tiny nerves… It could really freak me out if I dwell on it for very long.

So, I’m hopeful that we’ll all beat the current bug. It can’t last forever; even at this moment, forces are being assembled to kick its bum out of my and my family’s bodies for good. And then they’ll regroup, those marvelous forces, and prepare to do battle again when the next enemy enters the scene via an eye or nostril.

Our pastor said something that stayed with me yesterday: he said that, after pondering the Earth and everything in it, that he “didn’t have enough faith to be an atheist.” He’s so right. If I think about even my own eyes, ears, hands, body in general, my origins inside a womb, for Heaven’s sake!—all I can see is an amazing designer behind every detail.

Looking forward to healthier days—hopefully soon.