[Marxism] From the Edge of the Fog

Hunter Gray hunterbadbear at earthlink.net
Wed Dec 22 11:59:02 MST 2004

When I close my eyes, I can sometimes see the light of the fires and hear
the drums in the insular seclusion of closed and guarded night ceremonials
in the sagebrush and cedar country -- which I often experienced from
childhood on.  And sometimes I see the light of our hunting campfires on the
yellow pines in the Sycamore wilderness.

As always, I need these -- and very much now.

And more as well.

It has been about a year or so since I left the local mountain hospital for
the third time in three months. I could not really walk. At that point, the
lead physician in my extreme SLE Lupus situation [ I had just been diagnosed
with diabetes to boot], looked at me and pointedly said, "Lupus is a
ravaging wolf. This may be the time for you to divest yourself of your
possessions." [We did not do so.]  A few days later, a rheumatologist told
me, somberly, "You have a very, very serious case of Lupus."

Although committed, as always, to a fight to the mat, I did plan tentatively
for inexpensive cremation and a move into a Chase and Sanborn coffee can
which we duly purchased.

>From the onset of this acute vampire-like -- or should one say werewolf? --
malevolence, things had been tougher and tougher:  extreme weakness, pain,
rashes, acute anemia, massive sweating, cramped hands and feet, and much
more.  Finally, after several weeks of procrastination on my part and once
at the hospital in early September ['03], they did a colonoscopy which
produced no evidence of cancer -- but did see me suffer two major heart
stoppages in less than 30 minutes.  Every available doctor was immediately
rushed into that situation but, when my grandson/son, Thomas [21], tried to
enter the room he was blocked.  Eventually, I went home without a
diagnosis -- and we then went through all sorts of other cancer checks:
countless x rays, blood tests, cat scans, bone marrow testing.  No cancer --
blood or otherwise -- surfaced.

But our hematologist, tops in his field, with a fine dermatologist,
eventually arrived at a diagnosis of SLE.  However, the medicine they
prescribed was not enough to check the rampaging systemic assault which was
now producing massive facial sores, vasculitis, pneumonia, thrusts into the
liver, and kidney reverberations.  Another stay in the hospital [November
'03], stronger meds, and I again left unable to walk with much
effectiveness.  Then, diabetes struck.  With a blood sugar reading of almost
one thousand, I staggered into the hospital [December '03] and passed out.
There was another cat scan -- and more -- and a young doctor told Eldri
gently, "Not everyone survives this. If he succumbs, do you want him brought
back?"  Her response was, "Bring him back."  Obviously, wherever I was at
that point, I returned.  But it was weeks before I could walk in any real

SLE -- rare, with no cure, and frequently lethal -- has been known to attack
one's mind and nervous system in general.  But I do seem to have retained
control in those quarters.  [At least no one has dared say otherwise.]

There have been a million tests since then, but no more hospitalizations.
The kind and splendid Tribute in which many participated has been a Very Big
Card -- along with all of the other kind words and good thoughts. Last
Spring I began to walk, in my old rough hill and mountain country which
begins virtually in our back yard, and, however slowly, I keep at it with
significantly increasing success.  And very recent and full blood work
indicated things are now much better.

I am still on this side of The Fog.

The Chase and Sanborn coffee can sits, now almost forgotten, on my dresser.
But Eldri and all of the kids still worry and very much so -- especially
when the omnipresent SLE is attempting, as it periodically does, a full
dress open comeback [sudden fatigue, wobbly legs, pain, cramped hands and
feet, shortness of breath, etc.]

There are always those who "have it worse."  Maria is involved in a care
facility in which a patient -- obviously once a young and vital ranch
type -- has Huntingdon's Chorea.  This, which did in Woody Guthrie, has no
cure, and no positive stability of any kind at any point.

For my part, I have done a pretty thorough life review of my own this past
year and a half, am pretty well satisfied [though I'm of course far from
perfect, there are no faces from the past into which I can not look with
equanimity], but do hope to accomplish more on the social justice front.
[And I constantly dream that I am again teaching.]  But via medicines and
doctors and all, my movements are still circumscribed -- and I do get badly
bored.  I have had no personal religious revival -- my basic faith in that
realm remains quietly intact.  The other day, I lined up my seven firearms
in a Gun Mass [five big bore Western lever actions, one .10 gauge 3 1/2 inch
magnum single barrel shotgun, one .22 mag six shooter revolver] and, in
priestly fashion, anointed them one by one with oils and caressed them with
words and felt gun cleaning patches.  Idaho had two more earthquakes, a 3.0
and a 3.5 last week -- north of Boise [western Idaho]. A few days ago, at
Boise, a distraught father called the police on his inflamed teen age son
who had a bayonet.  The police took care of that situation by shooting the
kid to death.  Over here at Pocatello and environs, racism certainly
manifests itself -- but nothing recently lethal.

We have had a few weird phone calls and I have spotted strange vehicles
moving slowly in our immediate area, but there is nothing definitive to
connect this with, say, the Stormfront White Nationalist Community which has
shown some interest in us.

I do keep writing.

A bona fide Native ceremony is always Genesis.  I will get that as I always
do.  And, hoping to go black bear hunting either this spring or next fall,
I'm researching good and promising country in southeastern Idaho [Soda
Springs region]. Bear meat is good medicine for us. [Grizzlies in Idaho are
rightly protected these days.]

And in a comparably critical dimension, social justice activism is our
life's blood.  We will never give that up and keep as busy on that front as
we possibly can.

And I can say this:  If I ever pass into and through The Fog, I won't be
sticking around for Blissy stuff.  I am coming back to this world -- quickly
and nosily.

Our best to all.  The coyotes howl, the bobcats yowl, and as the old
Western saying goes, "It's a great life if you don't weaken."

In the [now snowy] mountains of Eastern Idaho

HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR]   Micmac /St. Francis Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
and Ohkwari'

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and mysterious and
remembering way. [Hunter Bear]

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