Life in the Second Class - What is Ideology and How Can We Get Rid of It?

I have commented on ideology here before, but have never given it the proper whacking I feel it deserves. In the past I have mentioned ideology in the context of other subjects, such as politics, economics, religion, and science. Today I'm going to attempt to address ideology on its own; my interpretation of its problematic effect upon society, and a proposal for how we might move beyond it.

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I suppose that my aversion to ideology - all ideology - never truly rests. In the last decade I've come to the conclusion that ideology is, at best, stultifying, and at worst, globally destructive. My observations of the participation of individuals, groups, and worldwide society have left me with a consistent personal need to separate myself from ideology and a strong desire to abandon it in every way I can.

Before I dive into my own subjective thinking about all of this, let me first give as much objective conventional information as I can.

Merriam-Webster gives I think what most people most often think...

Full Definition of ideology
plural ideologies
1
:  visionary theorizing
2
a :  a systematic body of concepts especially about human life or culture
b :  a manner or the content of thinking characteristic of an individual, group, or culture
c :  the integrated assertions, theories and aims that constitute a sociopolitical program

The above definitions certainly touch upon my own interpretation, in a way. But they neglect what I consider to be an important detail; one which I will explain in a moment. After looking up the word in several other sources and finding essentially the same wording--with an emphasis on politics, I think that I prefer Wikipedia's initial definition...

Ideology is a collection of beliefs held by an individual, group or society. It can be described as a set of conscious and unconscious ideas which make up one's beliefs, goals, expectations, and motivations. 

Official definitions are not ends in and of themselves. They are starting points for common ground in the discussion of singular concepts. Each of us has our own mental dictionary composed of our individual interpretation of concepts. And sometimes, we may hold several individual definitions at once, using them respectively to address the angles of a concept. The context of a discussion is made more accessible by choosing a specific definition, while keeping in mind that all others (whether one's own or those of another) may remain valid in alternative contexts.

I mentioned above that my own interpretation for the concept of ideology in the context of this essay has an important detail that needs to be added to the conventional sources already mentioned in order to make my point. I must also narrow the aforementioned definitions for consistency. Therefore, I offer the following...

My Interpretation of Ideology

An ideology is any collection of beliefs held by an individual, group or society, which do not originate from a non-human source (like the natural world or supernatural world).

In this way, only a human individual can either formulate an original ideology from within his or her own mind or adopt another individual human's ideology as his or her own. I contend that in nearly all cases, ideologies have a one-individual origin. 

Once an ideology is formulated and adopted, an individual is then compelled to disseminate that ideology, as clearly as they can understand it's original intention, to other individuals. Consequently, groups form with a particular ideology at their core. Groups with an ideology that is straightforward and easily disseminated by their member, tend to be the ones that dominate a society.

Again, it is important to restate that the process whereby some individual's belief - once codified as an ideology and adopted by a group who then dominates a society - is not a pattern found in nature, aside from the functioning of human behavior. 

Before I expand upon this, let us remove one particular bit of confusion that sometimes creeps into understanding the static thought patterns of ideology versus the dynamic belief systems built up by adopting of philosophies...

The Difference Between Ideology and Philosophy

I was going to make my own comparison between these two concepts. But in looking for ways of explaining myself, I found that one particular website had already made a superior examination. Having found this high quality site, I will certainly use it as a reference in the future. You may consider doing the same thing. I like the following article, because it is slightly weighted or biased toward my own point of view, while not being overly so. I offer the following excerpt from DifferenceBetween.net (I have underlined statements relevant to my position)...

Philosophy vs Ideology 

There are very fundamental differences between philosophy and ideology. Ideology refers to a set of beliefs, doctrines that back a certain social institution or a particular organization. Philosophy refers to looking at life in a pragmatic manner and attempting to understand why life is as it is and the principles governing behind it. 

Ideology expresses dissatisfaction with the current state and aspires to be some future state whereas philosophy tries to understand the world in its current state. In other words, ideology is aimed at changing the world whereas philosophy is aimed at seeking the truth. 

Ideology is rigid and once fixed on certain beliefs, refuses to change its stance irrespective of any change in the surrounding environment. Challenging an ideologue can be the most difficult task. A philosopher, on the other hand, may arrive on some construct for the basis of life and other things but will be willing to discuss and ponder other philosophies. A philosopher is open minded and willing to listen to criticism whereas an ideologue will refute anything challenging his or her ideology outright. This also suggests that while philosophy encourages people to think, ideology discourages any thinking that goes against the basic doctrines that govern the ideology.

[Snip]

The above is very direct about the limitations of ideology. Once adopted by one individual or a group of individuals as a core belief, ideology loses its ability to be tweaked or altered. Only that ideology can fill the niche it has carved out for itself. The eyes, ears, and minds of the individuals who have chosen said ideology are to be figuratively (and under extreme conditions, literally) sealed shut in the context for which that ideology is thought to provide its usefulness. No fundamental change is permitted, lest the chaos of redefining the ideology be required.

Group Ideology

From this point forward it is more appropriate in this essay to rename the individuals who now comprise the group as...members. On the group level of ideological adoption, social and/or political power may be wielded in proportion to how easily the group's ideology can be explained by members of the group and thence understood by individuals outside the group. Thus, the group membership is added to or subtracted from accordingly. Leaders of the group must then function as high priests of, or intercessors for, the core ideology; praising it when growth occurs and defending it when defections threaten that growth.

Presently, the ideology is stripped down to its most basic components and solidified. This saves the members of the group from having to interpret the ideological points. All they need to do is repeat them to people outside of the group. For the members, the requirement becomes a simple matter of doing two things: (1) growing the group by adding new members who buy into the ideology, and (2) preserving the settled components of the core ideology. This is when things can begin to come undone.

Groups Have One Goal

Groups always have one overriding goal that is more important than preserving their ideology and the activities of their members. That one goal is: perpetuating the group, by any means necessary. This is the easiest thing to understand about groups. Accordingly, individual members, and even the ideology at the core of their group belief (counterintuitively), mean nothing to the group as a whole.

This is where the notion of a platform comes into being. Platforms carefully spell out a list of specific group tenets that are interdependent. Having an ideological platform means that out of five major ideological tenets, for example, all five must be carried together or risk losing platform cohesion. If you are a member of that group and you strongly agree with all but one tenet, you become a potential threat to the group as a whole. It is when this happens that the offending "heretic" learns that the wholesale belief in all tenets of an ideology precludes his or her liberty to take an opposite stance on any one of them. Each platform describing a group's core ideology requires individual members to agree with this list of tenets as the group's standard accessories.

The Pattern of Group Dissolution

Inevitably, some member of a group will always object to at least one tenet. Wishful thinking and propaganda about group unity will eventually lose momentum as time goes by and the friction of a growing, ever diversifying, membership tries to tow the same line. Family and friendships tend to supercede group loyalty--although, as we well-know, religious and political ideologies certainly can contentiously divide these more personal institutions. Nevertheless, the group member is very likely to find a sympathetic ear among closes acquaintances, and often these folks will be co-members of the same group in question. This higher personal loyalty can provide the virus of apostasy. And as the term implies, this interjection of divergent individual thought can be disastrous to groups--especially religious groups.

I think an example of the fallacy that assumes groups using ideology can have their unity maintained indefinitely while continuously growing their memberships and meeting the needs of the individual, is best demonstrated by the formation and then subsequent break up of the Roman Catholic Church, and thence Christianity in general.

I will simplify this extremely complex time line for brevity sake while attempting to suggest why it may serve as the ideal pattern for the rejection of ideology and its inevitable failure.

Through a series of early church councils occurring after the emperor Constantine, after his amazing change of heart, precipitated by a great vision, decriminalized and then adopted Christianity as the state religion of Roman Empire (with the Edict of Thessalonica in 380), the ideology he set in motion - being later tweaked, amended, reformed, codified and then solidified as "Church Doctrine" - became the core of a single group ("The Church") that dominated Europe and Mediterranean society until 1054.

After the historical person of Jesus was put to death, the religion that bore his name seen in the ancient world as passionate, novel, incredibly powerful; it appealed to all kinds of people across all borders, and spread faster than any other religion before or since then.

Suddenly the common man and woman could hope for eternal life, where once only kings and priests could expect life after death. The success of The Church during this period and its ability to secure itself as a extremely strong group based around its core of Christian ideology, made it the biggest influence of Western daily life that has ever been.

It must have seemed at that time that an eternal institution had been established on earth. But fate would decide otherwise.

In 1054 the first great split in The Church occurred (called the East-West Schism), creating a dual system. There was now the original Roman Catholic Church in the West, based in Rome, Italy, and the Eastern Orthodox Church in the East, based in Constantinople, Turkey (which Constantine had moved the Capital of Rome to in 330). This is a fascinating chapter of Christian history and well worth further study.

What once was a single group, had now divided into two groups. And, what was the cause of this split? You guessed it... a disagreement over certain tenets of their core ideology...

The ecclesiastical differences and theological disputes between the Greek East and Latin West pre-dated the formal rupture that occurred in 1054. Prominent among these were the issues of the source of the Holy Spirit, whether leavened or unleavened bread should be used in the Eucharist, the Bishop of Rome's claim to universal jurisdiction, and the place of the See of Constantinople in relation to the Pentarchy.

Wikipedia: East-West Schism.

Rejection of these tenets was finally instigated by a single individual, Humbert of Silva Candida, who boldly excommunicated the Patriarch of Constantinople, leading to the permanent split.

Although other minor sects and faiths split off of the Catholic Church, and its ideology continued to be altered from time to time, another major dissatisfaction would not arise until Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses on the door of the Wittenberg Church, an act that ushered in the Protestant Reformation.

Now there were three major branches of Christianity: Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant. Division grew into an accelerating pattern. All three of the major branches developed groups that then separated into even smaller groups.

John Calvin became the symbol of heresy in 1552. Where the break from Catholicism (Lutheranism) was called the Protestant Reform, the break from Lutheranism was named Reformed Protestantism.

Both Protestantism and Catholicism continued to splinter as the political interests of certain nations outweighed loyalty to strict Christian traditions.

What happened in England (during the aptly-called, English Reformation in the 16th and 17th Centuries) is the best example of this. Anglicanism (with its Episcopal doctrine) was a result of reforms to both Calvinism, for English Protestants, and to the former state religion of Catholicism. Although Anglicanism violates my hypothesis of single individuals creating new ideologies, to some degree, inevitably, individuals did catch the concepts of further reform and ran with them.

Protestantism in particular lent itself to unending denominationalism. As we all recall from grade school, one of these denominations, commonly known as Puritans, left England to find religious freedom in America. These folks were dissatisfied with the Protestant reforms, which they believed had not gone far enough, and were dead set against the Church of England (Anglicans), which they deemed to be too much like Catholicism. They saw King Henry VIII's separation from Rome as purely political--which it was. And, they crossed the ocean to set up a new life in America.

America subsequently became the land of prolific religious fragmentation, with Protestant denominations falling apart and reforming into the many churches we see today in this country. Presently, even denominationalism itself is fragmenting into so-called "postdenominational" and "nondenominational" sects. The former, being largely a trend involving evangelical movements, with charismatic ministers, and the latter being any more liberal faith, whether Christian in origin or not...

The term has been used in the context of various faiths including Jainism, Baha'i Faith, Zoroastrianism, Unitarian Universalism, paganism, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Wicca. It stands in contrast with a religious denomination. Religionists of a non-denominational persuasion tend to be more open-minded in the views on various religious matters and rulings. Some converts towards non-denominational strains of thought have been influenced by disputes over traditional teachings in the previous institutions they attended. Nondenominationalism has also been used as a tool for introducing neutrality into a public square when the local populace are derived from a wide-ranging set of religious beliefs.

Wikipedia - Non-denominational 

My study above about how major religious groups with ideological cores splinter into smaller and smaller groups, based on ideology, is far from complete. Yet, I think it does make a point about seeing the ideological forest for the trees. By that, I mean that ideology proves itself to be an ineffective way to change the world. When leaders of churches (in this case, for social religions--though it could be any other interest, such as political or scientific groups) rely upon requiring members to hold rigid central ideological group beliefs, they set themselves up for inevitable failure.

A Solution for the Future?

I think the 21st Century trends for religious groups make this point even more effectively. As we saw one group split into two, then three, then dozens, then hundreds, now we see those groups splinter into the most basic components of all--right back into the individual people. The farthest possible division of any group is simply the inDIVIDual.

It is a fact that churches are hemorrhaging members. The younger generations are leaving the churches in greater numbers than ever before. This does not mean that spirituality is fading in society. Rather, it is an indication that individuals want to develop their own belief systems, separate from cults of personality, priests, ministers, and other intercessors.

Groups who seek to hold onto members by restricting their individual interpretations of group ideology end up losing those members. Ultimately, individualism always ends up winning.

Because of this I believe that in the future personal religion will be the rule. Social religion will be seen in a completely different way than it is now. When ALL individuals are allowed to form their own worldviews, while agreeing to the someday-obvious and common belief that each person should be free from being proselytized at by others, while simultaneously accepting that it is unwise to proselytize to others, the ultimate social religion will have been created. The Personal Religion of Humanity.

And, as I have indicated, religion is just one aspect of society where ideology limits individual freedom. As the rule of group ideology breaking back into individual belief can hold sway in religion, so shall it do so in politics and all other social systems. As long no one in the highest offices of power decides to end the world.

The need to use group-based ideology as a crutch for not thinking for one's self must be replaced with personal philosophical responsibility. When that occurs ideology will cease to be a significant factor in society.

Will this ever really happen? It certainly seems unlikely in the current climate of unthinking adherence that we see today, and in the polarized political climate of today's America.

Yet, the trend for polarization between right and left can only push society so far. Eventually, such social extremism must bend and then break the current order.

In the past this kind of situation is a characteristic of pre-revolutionary change; usually in the form of violence. America tends toward the use of violence as a means to solve its social problems anyway. However, even for the most hard-headed among us, logic must assert itself to some degree. One ideological side of the political spectrum can never hope to rule or "win" over the other side while also expecting that peace will result. At this point in history that would be impossible.

In my opinion, and for all the reasons listed above, we as individuals separately not only should have the power to decide the philosophical future, we WILL. 

Life in the Second Class - Just What Am I Up To?

This is a little essay I put together to answer an honest question from a great guy and strong supporter of my IWALLK efforts. He has only been following along for a relatively short amount of time, but his excellent question has given me the opportunity to attempt to clear up a bunch of misunderstandings that have happened lately.

At the IWALLK America - Journeys Facebook group, I mentioned that I had been distracted by writing a business plan. And this is what he asked...

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Are you not content with what you do have? No problems just some, like wish I could just walk and meet ppl, simple is better. I think

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Here is what I wrote back...

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Sorry, not exactly sure what you're asking? Do you mean starting a business? I guess I can understand why you might see it that way.

First of all, the grass is always greener in someone else's yard. I wish I had a bunch of property (like you have) to settle down on and put all of my dreams for selfsustainingproperty.blogspot.com into action.

Secondly, if you or anyone else, wishes they could walk around the country and meet people, living the ultimate simple life, the only person stopping you is yourselves.

Rent out your house, buy a backpack, stuff a tent and sleeping bag in there and take off down the road. Seriously!

And, now with all I have learned and reported on from every possible situation you would run into, you have the perfect manual for becoming a Modern Nomad, camping in every single urban, suburban, and rural scenario known to man. Different weathers, climates, landscapes, regions, creatures large and small, people nice or hateful, my blog has it all, right at your fingertips.

Why young people who tell me they live vicariously through my travels and say they are jealous or would do it too, "if only..." don't, is way beyond my understanding.

If an overweight, 46 year old man, with heart disease, social anxiety, a umbilical hernia, iritis, psoriasis, depression, thoughts of suicide, a family who didn't support him morally or financially, an expired license,  no credit or debit card, no job, no savings, and only $6 in his tattered wallet can cross the country - twice - and do all that I did.....? Why the hell can't you...or ANYONE? :-D

You personally have come rather late to all of this, so you didn't see just how intensely difficult the IWALLK life was. There was nothing simple about it, except for my living arrangements--primitive is more like it. It was a stressful struggle, every single day. It finally got old, and stayed old.

I no longer have the traveling life I am showing here at the group. I did the traveling thing for two years. It was never meant to go on and on. Heck, it was never meant to happen at all when I left Maine back in 2014.

And by the time I felt forced to go back out on the Maine Journey? No, I wasn't content at all. I was miserable, but trying to put a good face on it.

Now, I'm a 48 year old man who is tired of sleeping outside like an animal. For a young man like yourself, a decade could be spent doing what I did.

But, I had a heart attack (my second one), while rough camping,  and am not able to keep doing this. I have no money (people don't donate anymore, because I'm not traveling).

If you actually have the chance to read each of these posts from the last two years, you will clearly see that it was not a romantic walk in the park. Every single day I struggled just survive. There would be stretches of four and five days when I'd have nothing to eat. That isn't fun. It sucked...badly.

It seems like a romantic adventurous life, until you have no idea when the next donation is coming in or whether there would even be one. Or, when you spend two weeks sleeping in a smelly soaked tent, while every single day it rains.

I leave a testament of what I did on the blog, and soon in print, because I think people should know what it is like to leave a conventional life and wander in uncertainty. I wanted to show the extreme of ultimate simplicity.

But, I have never wanted to do what I did. I did it because it happened to be a way to make a living. I enjoyed it because people supported me financially and the story spread enough to feel like I was reaching a larger and larger audience.

But, by the time I had gotten back to New England, and instead of reaping the fruits of working 24/7/365 with some kind of book deal, or grant for my self-sustaining property (what I worked on before having to leave Maine in the first place), I faced fewer and fewer donations to survive on.

People lost interest, knowing that I was about to finish up. They thought I'd be all set, or they just didn't give a shit either way. I imagined - fantasized - about all of the accolades I would receive; all of the newspapers and TV stations who would be falling all over themselves to get an interview with the guy who traveled 10,000 miles, slept outside over 400 times, kept up a daily blog, complete with pictures and videos, essays, inspiration and commentary, etc. These thoughts literally kept me going through the longest, loneliest and most dangerous days and nights on the road.

When June of this year came, and I realized just how badly I'd deluded myself about my coming fame and fortune, completely understanding, all at once, just how unlikely it was that anything at all would come back to compensated me for risking my life (perhaps foolishly), I couldn't stand the idea of returning to Maine.

I became more and more broke, and less and less relevant. I looked to people who had followed every footstep to be thrilled about my success in completing this unbelievable feat--and what I got back was a collective......YAWN.

This got to the point where I literally had nothing to eat for the last three days in Boston. That was my reward for all of the work I did. My triumphant return became an embarrassing ordeal--the ultimate let-down. I depended on other people to validate what I had done. But all they told me was that I should be happy for myself--that should be good enough. But, that was never the point. I was in this thing to improve my life by being seen as a winner--not return as big an apparent loser as I was when I'd left.

When I finally did return to Maine, I wanted to find a way to buy my acre of land and build the little house I've planned for - having dreamed of nothing else - for the last ten years. But, instead, there was *nothing*--zero - no money - and I essentially starved for *another* month, until I decided I had to get back out on the road again--literally, in order to survive.

That worked pretty well until that heart attack forced me out of the IWALLK life.

Rubbing salt into my scraped and raw ego was the fact that I was now saddled with $70K in medical debt, with no insurance. I HAD to rejoin the game that I despised so much and criticized so vehemently as IWALLKed.

I would have no choice now, but to become a hypocrite and join back into a game that made me sick--had stressed me out to the point of giving me my first heart attack back in 2006. I hated everything again, just as much as I'd hated it in 2014 when I left Maine as an alternative to slitting my wrists.

So if you are wondering why I'm not content with what I have, you should understand that it is because I have NOTHING. And, I no longer have the option of living like a homeless vagabond for everyone's amusement and entertainment anymore. 　

I have other dreams and ambitions--like this business I'm seeking to build. That is my next-best way to keep control over my own life, rather than working for someone else, and contributing something to society.

The lifestyle I demonstrated in IWALLK and have very carefully documented is something I am proud of; something I will never forget, but also something I can no longer do, nor want to do.

Everything I've just explained above has been written about in the blog, in much greater detail. I wrote it there so that I wouldn't have to re-write it for every person who hadn't yet had the chance to go through it with me the first time, by reading it.

I don't mind summarizing what I'm doing now in this way though, because *you* honestly asked. There was no way you would have known otherwise.

I have found that a few people still don't know why I am doing or not doing things now.

Another long time reader asked me a couple weeks ago if I was still camping out. I have been living at my sister's house for the last two and a half months since being discharged from the hospital, and wrote all about where I am now. She had no clue, though we had interacted on Facebook many times during that period. 　

Another long time reader told me she thought that I shouldn't live such an "isolated life," and told me that if my writing isn't working out anymore, I need to stop banging my head "against the wall" and "make a change." Then gave me all kinds of advice about how to re-enter the conventional world. Ha!

Someone else was "worried" about me, because of something I posted last night--a thing taken out of context. She thought I didn't have anyone to speak with "one on one"--again, there is the implication that I am somehow camped out in the woods somewhere, or live in isolation, or have no one to talk with. Ha!

People don't read CAREfully enough, and they get "concerned" about *my* life, without even investigating what that life is now.

I guess someone will now tell me that I should be flattered that folks are watching out for me. But, if they are really paying attention, I should say that I would be much more flattered if people actually took the time to READ what I've already written about it all; whether in the blog (just go to the archives and read the last few recent posts) or on Facebook (look down my profile page--it's all there).

I love attention. Don't get me wrong! Ha, ha! But, if anyone really cares enough to freak out about how out of touch they think I am with reality or whatever, I would really prefer that they do a bit of research before assuming, then drawing conclusions, or worst of all *advising* me on my life plans.

It amazes me that with the enormous effort I've put into telling nearly every single detail of my travels I still get the same questions and misunderstandings about what I did, what I'm doing now, and the reasons behind all of it.

It is fascinating! My life could not fit the literal meaning of an open book any better than it already does. It used to really bother me how clueless people are, but now I just have to laugh. And, write occasional, long winded essays like this.

I'll probably need to write another one in December, after I'm told that I should get a "real" job, or sleep in a ditch reporting about it with no expectation for money for my trouble--be a martyr so they don't need to be, or give up on my dreams, beliefs and philosophies just because I don't fit into what they understand about life, or complain that I'm this or that...

Honestly... I happened to run into a friend a few weeks ago who told me I should get more exercise--do more traveling--get out and see the world. ?

I don't mean to make it sound like you [xxxx] should understand all of this already. Like I said, you've just begun to get interested in my story. But, your question is a good opportunity for me to - once again - try to tell folks what is up with me. So, I thank you for that.

For other people who are just realizing some of this, I encourage you (if you are actually interested in my current situation) to check in at my profile page--which I update my living status at at least once a week. I do love you guys!

Well, I'm going to repost this at the blog itself, because I think it might help clear up some misunderstandings that have still been swirling around lately, and some folks don't "do" Facebook.

Life in the Second Class - Anything Helps

Being back in my home state of Maine has been a mixed blessing. It feels like home, but I literally suffer from a broken heart here. That's okay. Even Dorothy knew that when you bump your head, "there's no place like home" to recover. But, when I'm out in public - which is everyday - I certainly feel less like a prodigal son and more like an eyesore.

I have a good bed to sleep in at night. My tent is stored in suspended animation, but always ready to go (though it really should be repaired and cleaned). Being able to spend more time with my very busy sister and her kids has certainly made up for losing the adventure of the road. It isn't what I planned for, but if the side effect of a heart attack is getting to see them after two years and a summer of being away, that blessing will be counted every day that I am here. 

Yet, I have had no income for a month and a half--nothing, zero. Getting back to posting regularly here at IWALLK is something I've been looking forward to, not just because I always have a lot to blab about, but because I'm hoping people will begin to follow it again and hopefully be moved to send a few bucks every now and then.

Being figuratively in mid air right now, as I jump through the hoops of the DHHS and Maine Health systems, no career plan can be established. The only thing I can confidently say about myself is that I am now fully immersed in the Second Class citizenry at the very bottom of society. The Second Class is not only filled with non-English speaking immigrants and refuges, LGBT folks, people of color, and, um, a large percentage of the female population, but also with below-poverty types, like me.

Yes, I was passing through this same level when I was working on my Journeys, except that I had a job (this blog). However, with no money at all now I'm really feeling like I am one of the people I used to examine and report on. 

Like them, I can be found walking through parks--like Thomas Knight Park shown here, where other Second Class folks spend much of their time...

An abandoned cart, displaying a very direct message.

A young homeless couple catching some Z's.

I can also be found crossing the Casco Bay Bridge from South Portland to Portland at least four times a week, stepping out of the way for bicyclists. I still walk 8-10 miles a day every day. I'm always crossing something. 

Even crossing the road can be a Second Class experience. Most drivers are not patient and unaware that pedestrians (even ragged backpack-wearing ones) also require a bit of attention, just like other cars do. When I'm waiting to cross the road, cars at a stop sign will often not use the blinker if no other cars are around--walkers are apparently invisible. Because I follow the rules, I assume they are going straight and I try to cross, then they turn right into my path. When this happens, their anger is directed at me of course for my inconvenient inability to read their minds. I can tell you though, that after nearly ten thousand miles of travel and dealing with the passage of hundreds of thousands of cars, that I am no shrinking violet in situations like that, and I have no problem letting the expletive-beast off its leash. No problem at all.

Anyone, even a brain surgeon making a million dollars a year, out for a refreshing jaunty little stroll around town, would face the same inconsideration from drivers. Yet, he or she might be a bit more forgiving than I, since almost being plowed over by drivers is not a daily occurrence for them. Building back up a tolerance for intolerant drivers is a separate personal project of mine. And, admittedly, it is going rather slowly...

When I went to the DHHS (Department of Health and Human Services) office a few weeks ago - home away from home for the economically-blighted of the Second Class - in order to apply for MaineCare (Maine's version of Medicaid), I had to return bottles to buy a one way bus ticket ($1.50 is 30 cans--a quantity otherwise known as a "backpack-full"). But, I still had to walk home again (six miles).

By the way, this is the procedure for applying for FreeCare--the very last resort of the Second Class for health coverage...

One must be rejected for MaineCare before one can apply for FreeCare. For me, being rejected was already a foregone conclusion, since Governor LePage, for purely ideological reasons, decided not to accept the matching federal funds from ObamaCare, which would have allowed single, childless males like myself to shelter under the MaineCare umbrella. Instead he threw about 40,000 of us away, like the trash that he though society had decided we are. Still, I had to do make this ritual trip to the DHHS office way out by the Maine Mall in order to formally and bureaucratically be recognized as a waste and therefor eligible for FreeCare. Ever wonder what it's like waiting to be seen at DHHS? 

The buzzing florescent-lit reception area of the DHHS waiting room.

Upon walking in, you are told by the receptionist - every time, and no matter what hour you arrive - that there is no guarantee you will be seen that day, nor how long it will be before you are seen. So, if you are lucky enough to have a job, let your minimum wage employer know that you will need the whole day off, just in case you have to go to DHHS.

After waiting for an hour, and about ten minutes before they closed, a frazzled looking case worker called my name. I followed her back into her windowless office and together we entered the information needed for my symbolic application and rejection. She was very kind and did her best not to let the fact that she was overburdened with tasks get in the way of denying me my MaineCare benefits. We were both playing our parts in the hyper-redundant, red tape-lined performance art necessary for keeping the convoluted game in play. It is a game designed by legislators to be purposefully complex and maddening, in order to discourage the poor from using it.

When we were done, and I had been properly rejected for MaineCare, she let me know that, by coincidence, I did happen to be eligible for EBT food stamps, at $120 per month (or about $4 per day). After proudly supporting myself through my 24 hour per day, 7 day per week, 52 week year-job of work so intense it led to a heart attack, without food stamp assistance or welfare, this was my American Dream reward. I had contributed to the local economies of all the places I passed through, from sea to shining sea, since June of 2015. Now I was a food stamp recipient; derided by conservatives; pitied by liberals, shunned by the non-Second Class.

Why? Because I had a heart attack that cost as much as a house, was now imprisoned by doctor visits, and was forced to buy and choke down five pills a day--probably for the rest of my life. All typical for throw-away people who won't conform, and a perfect preparation for the enrollment in Second Class citizenship. Nevertheless, I was happy to have something which would partially put food on my dirty paper plate. As the sign at the top of this post said, "ANYTHING HELPS." Right?

Today after a walk into Portland, I returned back through Thomas Knight Park and saw that some anonymous person had left lunch bags on each bench. I opened one and discovered just how generous these folks really were...

Two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two cereal bars,

a banana, a juice box, and even a brownie!

There was a different handwritten note in every bag. I read each one... "You are worthy!"..."Believe in yourself!"..."You are special!" 

I actually choked up a bit at the effort that had been made. I think this donor must have been a church, but no religion or dogma was peddled. It was simply love in action--old school, like I used to talk so much about here at the blog. 

To love is to give, with no indoctrination, no strings attached and no expectation of receiving anything back. This person (or organization?) not only gave food, but encouragement. 

Very honestly, I was deeply touched. With all of my jaded sarcasm and snarky criticism of "the system," I couldn't ignore the evidence before me: sometimes the Second Class is not forgotten.

When I got back into the Mill Creek Shopping Center area of South Portland, I decided to window shop at Goodwill, cash in some bottle return slips at Shaw's and buy a juice at the dollar store. That's we Second Class folks do. People with more money may choose to shop at these places (I used to). But we with no money have no choice...

I don't own any long pants. I was hoping to see some at Goodwill that would be under $5. That way I could collect and return enough bottles to get a pair, now that the colder months are coming. Unfortunately the pants were all $5 and up, and most were dress pants. This particular store used to have a good selection of jeans but not lately. I'd have to check in some other time. Maybe more clothes would arrive soon.

After, cashing in $0.75 in bottle slips at Shaw's and adding it to the $0.30 I already had, I walked to the...

I hadn't really had much to drink today and craved something cold and sweet. While checking out the drink cooler, I stroked my beard and realized just how overgrown it had become. For a moment, I considered buying a razor instead of a juice. I could see my own reflection in the cooler door and felt pretty scruffy. I really was fitting into the part. It wasn't rough camping and traveling that I could use an excuse now. I decided to grab the juice, paid for it, and enjoyed it as I walked over to Mill Creek Park to do some work online at a table there (they have a nice fast public Wi-Fi signal).

About an hour before sundown I saw a reporter and camera man awkwardly skulking around the park. They stopped by a woman who was sitting on the grass about 20 feet away from me. I heard them ask her if she would comment on the town council's meeting to vote about whether to ban e-cigarettes on all public property, particularly parks and school bus stops. She agreed, but gave a bit of a rambling opinion. It gave me time to formulate my own view on the matter. When they finished with her they came to me. I was then happy to give that view, which you can see by clicking the link below, and advancing the video to 1:24 (you'll also notice the shave I need)...

Interview by News Channel 13 about banning e-cigarettes on South Portland property

I said a lot more about how I didn't agree with legislating behavior in general. But, of course, that was all cut out. 

When I was running out of laptop power, I folded it up, stowed it in the pack, and walked back over to Thomas Knight Park to watch the sun go down from a private spot I've named Site A. 

I noticed that all of the lunch bags were gone except for one, which had only the two peanut butter sandwiches remaining. Rather than let the seagulls have their way, I snagged it and went to my spot to relax for a few minutes where I enjoyed my Second Class meal in the golden light of a Fore River sunset. 

A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine - Epilogue: Personal Notes, Reassurance, and Plans

Usually, after every Journey I post seven Epilogues. I am not going to do that for the aborted Grounded in Maine Journey. There was no wrap-up or summation. There will be only this post.

Regardless of the reason, I feel like I failed to complete my project. That has not happened before since I'd left Maine in 2014. It all just fell apart. That's all. It's done.

Unless I have steady funding (either by saving up or obtaining a patron or benefactor of some kind) I think those months-long Journeys are over. Physically I can still handle them, but the uncertainty of revenue - not that there wasn't enough, only that I never knew when or how much would come in - is just too much for me to handle now. I proved that it is possible, even in perpetuity, to live as I did. And, I feel that I have made my point about the extremes of simplifying life--maybe several points about it. Now I'm ready to use what I have learned in the varied fields I reported on to build something more lasting.

The Modern Nomad should know when he or she has proven to the world and himself or herself that there are still ways to live independently outside the most hypocritical parts of the social game.

Curiously, only one person out of the 2,000 or so who had supported and followed my adventures across America in the last year has contacted me privately by email or Facebook message on their own since the end of August. I did receive a very nice handmade get well card in the mail from another friend (thank you, Sandi!). I also received one donation since leaving the hospital 40 days ago. The lack of donations is certainly understandable. Why donate if there's nothing being posted?  

Physically, I'm really back to where I was before this second heart attack. There was some damage done, but it isn't going to slow me down physiologically. I'm ready to get going with my life again. I'm certainly not disabled!

As usual my barrier is stress, financial and psychological. The pressure of owing enough money to buy a house is stifling for someone without any kind of healthcare insurance. But I'm working on that. I am phobic about debt to begin with, having not incurred any for about ten years. Yet, after three hospital days I now owe more than I ever have in my life or ever will be able to pay off. Furthermore, being forced back into a healthcare system that I utterly despise accounts for the psychological part of my stress. I told my new and very kind cardiologist about this, and he said in his thick Indian accent, "No! No stress, NO stress! Not good for the heart!" I just looked at him. He nodded and turned away, fully understanding the irony.

My freedom of movement is curtailed for the foreseeable future, not because I'm sick, but because I need to be available for doctor appointments. I am biding my time and examining what actually is and isn't necessary with all of this medical attention and medication. When I have a real handle on what is really going on, I will determine my own priority list. For now, diplomacy with the white coated ones and the gathering of information is what is required. These appointments will thin out as the weeks go by.

On another subject, I find myself frequently remembering back to different events that took place during the Manifest Destiny and Living Magazine Journeys. These memories are very much like flashbacks. I think this is happening because subconsciously I am trying to reassure myself as I starve again for a while longer--due to the stagnant life in which I am currently living. It makes sense that I would still be processing those Journeys. The last two years weren't just a waste of time. There was something of substance to it all.

That these flashbacks to roadsides, campsites, cityscapes, people I met all across America, etc., are happening at all are - I think - the natural consequences of having lived through a very intense, dense, and drawn out experience. It is very much like what a soldier must go through upon returning to the so-called "normal" life. Though my vivid memories are mostly positive, like the soldier I cannot control when they will occur nor what will be presented in them. I suppose there is also a bit of PTSD going on from the heart attack. Who knows?

I still don't know what my living situation will be over the winter. You can bet that I will report on whatever it is as best I can. When I was on the road I could always rely on the fact that I'd be in another place soon. It was dynamic. I never became a fixture in any one place. But being stuck here in the Portland area is giving me a real lesson in just how much of a second class citizen I have become.

I will expound upon this occasionally in coming weeks. Everything from crossing the road, to shopping for food, to dealing with DHHS, to being in the health clinic waiting room; it really is amazing just how differently one is treated here at bottom of society. Retailers are dismissive, professional people are patronizing, everyday middle class people are judgmental. Whether this "lifestyle" is chosen or forced, those of us immersed in it can really feel and see how different we are. We can expect a lack of respectability and a loss of personal power. People ignore and become impatient with the poor simply because they can.

Unless self-controlled by higher ethics, human beings like to feel like they are part of a winning group. It makes them feel better to know that others are below them. The very poor have to just accept their lowest-level standing. They can't do anything about it, usually.

I am fortunate that I have the intellectual and educational capacity to at least write about what it's like. I also have the advantage (if you can call it that) of having once lived life on the more financially fortunate side of the tracks. It gives me a much broader perspective about the stark differences, even as I know more surely now just what I am missing (besides respect and personal power)--the security I used to have.

Most of the people who live here at the bottom are not like me. They are what I would call the "indigenous poor." They are the result of generations of poverty. For them, it isn't a trap. It is where they believe they must belong. They have accepted their second class status as did many of their ancestors. They do not have the education nor the personal experience to oppose their lot in life. Of course all of society in general has taken the bottom for granted, while paying lip service about changing the situation. I know, because I was once in this latter group.

My point about all of this today is that, like it or not, I am in a unique position as a writer, and I will seek to exploit it, by reporting on this second class existence.

Finally, I have come up with a plan for the foreseeable future. It will include...

1. Publishing new posts at this IWALLK blog every Monday and Friday, covering a variety of topics. 

2. Continuing to repost the Living Magazine and Homecoming adventures from last year at the IWALLK America - Journeys Facebook group (please join it if you haven't already), day by day, until June 21 of 2017. At this time we are at the 114th day's post of 367 there.  

3. Reposting the Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up Journey, starting on October 22 of this year, while tweaking it, cleaning it up and filling in missing days. In other words, on October 22, two Journey posts a day will be published at the Facebook group at the same time; one from last year and one from two years ago. 

4. Publishing new posts at the Self Sustaining Property blog every Wednesday, as I continue to plan for buying land, building a small cottage with off grid utilities and developing the property into a sustainable garden. 

5. Writing three books related to my Journeys which will eventually be published both digitally and in print. 

6. Recording and producing some music. 

7. Picking away at a business plan for a creative cultural club.

For the most part, the focus will be on the blogs, since they have the largest potential for bringing in desperately needed contributions. The books are next in priority, because they can be sold and be a modest source of income. Yet, I also aim to hedge my bets by returning to music with recording and production, while keeping my business instincts sharp by steadily developing the club venture.

I guess that pretty much fills in the gap between the Grounded in Maine Journey and whatever will eventually offer a more secure life. For the hell of it, I am open to paid suggestions for other projects too.

* * * * * * *

Thank you for reading, sharing, and morally and financially supporting these projects. If you would like to send some funds my way, please click on the PayPal Donate button at the top of this blog page. 

A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine - Day 40 - When Misery Needs Company

I closed my eyes and tried several different breathing techniques. Being on my side made the pain worse. I tried the other side. No difference. The thought occurred to me that maybe I should try lying on my stomach. That did feel slightly better. There was something about having all my weight pushing down on my chest that briefly competed with the pain. Still, it just wasn't comfortable enough to rest.

Whenever I opened my eyes I saw that the small shards of light jabbing into the woods from the street lamps above seemed to create a barely developed photograph; unmoving, static, black and white. I was somewhere between worlds, locked in a moment from which I could not escape. Truly,  hell would be that moment--lasting forever... 

Then, in an almost unbelievable slap of bad fortune, a raindrop hit my face through the tent screen above. I'd forgotten it was due to rain that night. Now I had to sit up, pull out the rainfly, get out of the tent and secure it in the correct orientation, then stake it down. I did all of this, not consciously, but by sheer instinct. I actually felt better moving around doing something than lying in a pain that I couldn't ignore for a single moment.

The hours passed very slowly and my mind kept crossing the aisle from childhood memories to bitter anger, but it mostly settled down in the sadness between them. I wasn't completely there/here anymore. I heard myself moan over and over again, but looked around each time to see if it might have actually been someone else. I was outside myself, but still tied down to the meat. Dying must be exactly like I felt, but actually being dead would release the connection to this broken body. I could imagine what the release would feel like. Life in flesh and blood is the umbilical cord of the soul. Removed too early, the soul can not live on its own. But I knew my soul could survive, even without a body to tie it down. I was angry that nature didn't just make the choice for me and shut down my heart. Instead, I was left to make all the decisions.

I don't know if it was temptation thwarted, fantasy thrown aside, or maybe those feelings about people not being able to find me if I did consciously decide to snip the umbilical cord? Whatever it was, I knew it was not yet the right time. This was probably the biggest disappointment of all. 

I was tired. I am tired of venturing off to do great things, only to come home to my own hunger, poverty, lack of legitimacy, and now involuntarily having to play within the insane medical and social system that I have attacked here at this blog so tenaciously. This heart attack was not going to last for only these couple of days. Instead, it would form a crater in my life; like the result of a terrorist's bomb blowing up right at the end of so much effort to do something novel with all of this Journeying... I knew it then, and I am now dealing with the consequences of this bomb's destruction as I write this very blog post from weeks in the future. 

The rain poured down. Boston, Seattle, Athens, Chelmsford, Falmouth... This night was all of those drizzly times overlaid upon each other and punctuated by intense pain. It was raining within me and without me. If I could make it through to morning, then I could send Melinda a message and let her know what was going on. Maybe she could help me rest at her house or at least get me to a hospital without my having to take a $5,000 ambulance ride? Always, money comes before all other considerations. That is the American way!

At around 5:30 am I took the other two aspirin. There was nothing to wash them down, so I sat up and opened the tent flap to catch a few rain drops in my mouth. Sitting up felt better than lying down. But whenever I sat, I found myself getting really tired. Then I'd lie down and the pain would keep me awake. My stomach hurt from the aspirin and my hernia was also acting up from the sandwich I'd eaten earlier. I cycled between the two positions - sitting and lying - until the sky was finally bright enough to be called "morning."

I consoled myself with the lowest common denominator--at least things weren't any worse. But I was killing my heart's muscle with every bit of oxygen that was not getting there. Over all of those hours, I had managed to decide only one thing for sure: I was going to pack up everything and take it with me in the morning, no matter what. I wasn't going to leave anything behind. 

I did exactly that, even packing the rainfly stakes in their correct bag, getting it all zipped up. Then I climbed the hill back up to the roadside where I walked along the edge of the bridge to the road itself, and made my way to Dunkin Donuts.

I walked in to find probably the crappiest Dunkin Donuts to which I'd ever been. It wasn't that it was dirty. It was just dark, looked thrown together, was lacking merchandise and (I thought) mismanaged. The employees were obviously overworked. Customers came and went as I stood before the half empty cooler trying to decide what to buy, and pounding myself on the chest. 

After all that standing, I simply chose a water and then stood in line behind a customer who'd had her simple order screwed up at the drive thru window and was now inside demanding justice. The uncomfortable truth is that this "Dunkin Donuts" was in fact just a cover story attempt at squeezing a few extra bucks out of the gas station half of the business. The owners had apparently done the absolute minimum possible to gain their Dunkin Donuts signs from corporate. But this was hardly even an excuse for a store.

Some teenage kids came in and loudly pranced around, sitting at the table I was planning to use without buying anything. Brats! I thought. Finally, it apparently became my great privilege to buy the water I'd been holding in line for ten minutes. The unsmiling girl at the register didn't say hello and didn't thank me after I paid. I guess I shouldn't have cared, given everything else. Maybe I was looking for reasons to be even more miserable. Sometimes misery leads to masochism. After all, having control over wanting more pain, was better than having control over nothing at all.

I sat down at a table abutting the door to the only restroom (unisex) and struggled to get online. Dunkin Donuts has a convoluted process of up to four splash pages before they allow you online. Some work. Some don't work and constantly need refreshing. It was only because I had experience navigating this Wi-Fi salad many times before that I was able to conquer these pages. But, that wouldn't be the last of my internet concerns. Every ten minutes the site would end my session and I would need to do it all over again.

Meanwhile people would come in just to use the restroom, along with the customers and employees who also needed the room. They practically stood right on top of me. The restroom was occupied continuously while I was sitting there at the table and it smelled horrible. There was such a line of impatient people that conflicts began to surface about who was really in line first. To me, in my discomfiture, this was the symbol of our American culture. This scene was the carefully nurtured result of a hundred years of consumer society, fast food living, and car-based culture. If consumer society had actually been the answer for leading any country into a Utopian age of some kind, surely America would have gotten there by now! Naturally, this thought didn't make me feel any better...except perhaps for its masochistic value.

I was able to get a Facebook message to Melinda. She was understandably shocked at the news and asked me why I wasn't at a hospital. Explaining that it was complicated, I asked if she would just come and pick me up, since she was planning to meet me there in town later for lunch anyway. Again, understandably, she thought that I should call an ambulance immediately and it took a lot of my replies, the frustration of losing my internet connection and re-logging in, to convince her that I really just needed a friend to be with me through this. I was afraid I might be mistreated if the hospital knew I had no insurance and no one was there with me. My misery needed company. She reluctantly agreed and left for the 40 minute drive. 

As I waited, I paced around a bit outside, distracting myself by taking a couple of pictures... 

Green Bean, surprisingly well-packed.

Pretty little asters enjoying the morning light.

I went back inside to check if Melinda had messaged me, but I couldn't get back online. I assumed she would be there shortly and was eager to see her minivan coming up Route 1. I desperately tried to remember that it was a nice day and be thankful the night was over. But, my ability to think about anything at all was seriously declining. Instead of being able to find things to distract myself, the pain was distracting me from everything else.

She showed up sooner than I thought she would and I climbed into the passenger's seat. We decided that it would be best to go to the Lincoln Health Center Hospital, Miles Campus, in Damariscotta. I had just left that town the day before. It was all so strange...and continued to make me sad. Over this day I would be briskly driven down the same Route 1 I'd spent the last month and a half climbing up, passing through all the towns I had walked through to get as far as I'd gotten up the coast.

When we arrived I got out and went straight in the Emergency Room door. I let them know I'd been having a heart attack for the last 12 hours. This began the process I'd anticipated so accurately and grudgingly. I was re-entering "the system."

Paperwork flew by, ECG's were hooked up and analyzed, an X-Ray was taken of my heart, nitroglycerin was introduced and failed to open my blood vessels. I was trying to get the message across that I was in pain and could really use a little something. Melinda became my pain advocate, and finally they administered 4 mg of morphine. It should have been 10 mg, but between the undue opiate fear that causes doctors to be stingy, and presumably not wanting to risk a bad reaction, they did what they "could" for the moment.

After determining for sure that the stent in my right coronary artery was indeed blocked, the decision was made to transport me by ambulance to Maine Medical Center. There is no better place in this part of the country for what I was about to have done. They transferred me from the hospital gurney to the rescue stretcher and wheeled me out back to a waiting ambulance.

Then we were off and out onto the highway. Two very nice young women talked with me as we flew first class southward toward Portland. The ironic act of watching each town I'd just been to and reported on here at IWALLK, pass by and fade away through the rear windows behind this speeding vehicle, was not lost on my metaphor-laden mind.

I hated it. I'm not a quitter. To be dragged back through a project I couldn't finish made the trip that much more difficult. The pain returned after a half hour or so, and I told my attendants. They decided to give me a shot of fentanyl. They were authorized to give me 1,000 mcg, but chose to give me only half. Once again the pain only diminished slightly. They should have given me the full dose.

Pain management is held hostage by so many things. It is unfair and illogical. At the very top of this problem - overseeing what doctors are allowed to do for their patients is (of all things) the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). This law enforcement organization (besides locking away nonviolent recreational "illicit" drug users) oversees the medical use of all drugs. It is almost beyond belief, our society is so messed up that doctors themselves have their hands tied by this militaristic and failed organization (the DEA). The American government, through the manipulation of ideological politicians, have chosen the DEA to be the final authority for how to properly treat pain? Seriously?

For now, I guess it is what it is. Still, I want it to be crystal clear to every person who reads this post that, on this day, because of the fear originating from heavy handed DEA oversight, twice I was denied the full amount of medicine that would have safely relieved my pain. You tell me. Is that okay?

When I arrived at Maine Medical Center the ambulance backed right up to the "cath lab"; a place so often used (heart disease being "the leading cause of death for both men and women" in the United States) that this operating room apparently gets to have its own catchy nickname. It reminded me more of an oil changing station or a meat processing plant. But the cost for utilizing their services aint no $19.95! I said goodbye to my ambulance mates and was wheeled into this "lab."

As they transferred me to the cold stainless steel table I asked them to let me know what was going on, and that I might not want a stent. The doctor (Mary C. Fahrenbach) literally laughed at me. The implication was, "...silly patient, you don't know what you need!"

They pulled off my shorts and underwear and shaved my crotch in case the catheter needed to be stuck in there. Thankfully, the latest and the greatest technique since the last time I was in their graces was to go in through the wrist--a welcome innovation for we regular stent customers. An assistant twisted my wrist awkwardly and told me to keep it positioned upward. They injected a huge dose of some kind of benzodiazepine, which left my head swimming in a blurry soup while I tried to keep up with what was going on.

Dr. Fahrenbach was chewing on a piece of her sandwich while everyone was drugging and shaving me. She seemed bored. They all joked about their slogan in a sing-songy way, "Serving Maine and saving lives!" (or something like that), then everyone seemed to yawn and roll their eyes...

Indeed, I feel like a piece of meat. It was singularly the most non-compassionate medical environment I have ever been in. They could have been aliens for all I knew. And, I was a thing in their lab. My impression was that they didn't really give two shits about me. Like any other animal making noises in any other indifferent laboratory, while strapped to a table, my words were just noises to be ignored. Someone mentioned something about my wrist and an assistant chastised me for moving it out of place. I slurred a "...sorrryy" and she twisted it back enough for them to insert the catheter.

Well, at this point, I didn't have to be a genius to determine that they were going to do whatever the hell they wanted and not honor my request to tell me what was going on. As they began the procedure, I said that I heard something metallic. The assistant, as if irritated by having to talk to the animal strapped to the table, said it was just the catheter traveling up through my shoulder and into my heart. Ho hummm...

I assume that people (including these folks) go into medicine because they care about other people and want to help them. But, I also think that things can become so routine that empathy and bedside manner become secondary after witnessing the two hundredth procedure. Every job can become tiring--even exhausting. This is understandable. But the medical industry should be held to a different standard, considering the immense amount of reverence they have been afforded in this country. I know for certain now that these are not the gods that society has made them out to be. They are human beings. Like any McDonald's employee, have long days that they are just trying to get through. I believe that was the situation in this case and on this long day.

It was unstoppable now. Within five minutes they had placed a new stent inside the old one and expanded it to allow for the blood to pass through. I now had two stents in the same place. The first one had been placed in 2006 with no information provided to me about alternatives, and to some extent also against my will. And, the second one had been placed after no discussion with me, by these machine-like mechanics in this garage-like "cath lab."

The first stent gave me heart disease and now the second one was locking me into the inevitable cycle of blockages and procedures for the rest of my significantly-shortening life. I would now have to take drugs to combat the propensity of these stents to clog. Win-win-win for the medical industry! They got to force me to buy some of their most expensive gadgets--twice, roped me into their system of perpetual future doctor visits, and could presently make my reliance upon their somewhat poorly understood drugs permanent.

Yes, I felt better but was still in some residual pain. Twelve hours with a blocked artery had taken a toll. And it still is.

When they were done with me they wheeled up to the ICU of the cardiology wing (Floor 9) without even a "good luck." This place would be the first of my little $10,000 a day bedrooms. They injected me with something else and I restarted the endless introduction pills again. When the nurse left the room I sat alone for a moment, hooked up to a dozen tubes and wires just as I had been ten years before. I was even in the same room! Then Melinda - who had driven down to Portland - and my dad, and his partner, Themi--who had seen the news on Facebook and come into town, were allowed in to visit...

My dad and Themi.

Melinda.

I was all bloated and unshaven. I hadn't taken a shower for five days. Not pleased about being in this situation again, I was determined to get out of the hospital as soon as I possibly could. I knew how to play this part of the game now. I did not feel the same dread and uncertainty that I had in 2006--like I might never be discharged. This time, I knew exactly what was going on and that I simply had to accept it, play along and ride my way back to the outside world. It was just another form of long distance walking. I was at point A and needed to get to point B.

I couldn't decide what I would do about the Grounded in Maine Journey, nor anything else. This was a situation for which I had not professionally planned. Of course, I always knew it was a possibility, but the chances for heart problems (I wrongly assumed) were so slight as to be nonexistent...

My monitor.

The nurse and nurse's assistant were very kind and attentive. Nothing negative can be said about them, nor the parade of subsequent RN's and CNA's who would smile while they poked and prodded me for the next three days. 

During this second time around, I made many observations that I had not noticed the first time. In posts to come, I will get into much more detail about these--including the shocking lack of communication between doctors, residents, techs, nurses and assistants, the mind-numbing repetition of asking the same questions over and over again, the complete disregard for the importance of sleep, the overreaction to small and anomalous events leading to knee-jerk changes in medication, the use of numbers, rather than mixing them with intuition, in this entirely science-based theory of Western Medicine, which runs by the unspoken assumption that treatment is to be prioritized over healing. Each system is to be singled out and treated, while the whole is largely disregarded.

In this artificial, meme-dense, American social/medical system, complaints based on facts, skepticism of the conventional ways of doing things, and honest criticism are reviled by both the industry and the general public alike. 

To talk about the problems at a hospital seems to many people to be in bad taste. It is assumed that medicine is blind to profit, that "doing no harm" has a whole list of "reasonable" caveats beside it, and that fear of error-exposure is an acceptable excuse for covering up mistakes. What I observed during the three and a half days I was detained at this hospital turned out to be a revelation like no other. Had I better foresight, I would have made recordings and taken videos of each of the things I will eventually disclose.

By and large, it became exceedingly clear to me that - aside from their unquestioning loyalty to the broken medical system, and the resulting complacency which keeps it stumbling forward - the people of medicine were good at what they had been trained to do. They were well-meaning and worked very hard and their difficult and sometimes-thankless jobs. They cared about their patients...within the parameters of systemic acceptance. 

But the system itself is so incredibly hypocritical, illogically designed, unabashedly profit-based, not objectively overseen by any impartial body or public reporting authority, overly assumed to be nearly error-free (keeping in mind again that medical error is the third leading cause of death in America), inefficient, and deeply hostile to honest evaluation. 

Depending upon the attitude of the patient, a hospital stay can be, at best, a place of silly misunderstandings, humorous redundancies, and where innocent, culturally-deified emperors walk around wearing no clothes under their white coats, making courageous decisions about life and death. Or, at worst, it can be a prison filled with torture chambers, where strangers wake you up every hour of the night, ask you the same questions ad infinitum, stick needles in you, use you to experiment with different medications and say they need "vitals"--when, in fact, the readings taken during each of the prior hours are usually quite sufficient for keeping an eye on things. 

I relearned very quickly the reinforced lessen that nearly every procedure followed in a hospital is for the convenience, training, experimentation, and fear of litigation for all staff members involved, and has very little to do with what is holistically best for the patient. 

Between the mortal fear over malpractice litigation (well founded apparently considering the statistic for medical error I mentioned above), and the common instinct to appear as though one is always doing something (for job security sake), the patient is really of secondary concern. Maintenance of the system itself (a $3.24 trillion industry in the US) must rise above all other concerns. This is not just me being jaded. It is self-evident and observable fact.

One of the best examples of this intense medical industry self-interest is exemplified by the practice of not letting the patient have uninterrupted sleep for more than an hour at a time. I will have much more to say about this when I discuss the torment and travesty that my poor roommate, George, went through, in a separate essay.

For me, the lack of concern about sleep - sleep, being what anyone with or without a white coat would agree is one of the most important aspects of healing, a most obvious no-brainer, recognized throughout all of medical history - typifies and perfectly represents just how disconnected and illogical is the 21st Century American hospital patient experience. 

How can a system that deprives its patients of this most basic human need--sleep, also be so unquestionably accepted as an industry operating by "best practices"? I'm tired of the politically correct peer-pressure that compels thinking people to follow the "Well, we don't talk about that..." bullshit when trying to confront these problems. The good intentions of the people who work in medicine are not a sufficient enough reason to ignore profound systemic problems in the industry.

In my case (and for millions of others), what further compounds all the above is the lack of a compensatory financial system for those who can't afford insurance. This profit-driven, unaffordable, convoluted and easily abused third world marketplace called "the American healthcare insurance system" doesn't just allow people like me to slip through the cracks, it hopes we do. It then encourages us to just shut the hell up about it by being intentionally complex and confusing. 

Well, I assure you all that this bee is going to remain buzzing in the bonnet of both the stethoscope-draped "heroes" and the red tape-wielding bureaucrats. Both have way too much power.

After my visitors left I was back in the rubber-gloved hands of the staff, as they struggled to determine what drugs to give me, the dosages, and with what frequency. At least we were both on the same mission to some degree: making sure I stayed alive long enough to be discharged without too many errors occurring. 

I slept much of the afternoon whenever a spare moment offered the opportunity, knowing well that I would be visited multiple times that night. I'd had no sleep the night before, so resting was my number one priority, no matter what.

As I slipped in and out of sleep on this first night in the hospital, I looked around and caught sight of a fruit fly, exhausted from trying to escape through the sealed window. He would walk a few steps from the corner of the window, lift his legs up onto the glass, remembered there was no way out, then turn and walk back the corner. In some sense, he and I were as close as cell mates--creatures who had made it through all of the bullshit of growing up, trying to do what we thought we were put on this earth to do, only to be imprisoned in sterile isolation. We paced our respective window sills and looked outside at the world we were no longer part of. The only action we could take was to lift a limb up to the glass... 

By about 7:00 pm, I looked back at the window and noticed he was lying upside down in the corner with his lifeless legs up the air. I thought then, as I'm thinking right now, that surely he was the lucky one............released...........

* * * * * * *

      

This post represents the abrupt end of the Grounded in Maine Journey. Perhaps it is fitting that like the Manifest Destiny, Living Magazine and Homecoming Journeys, it concluded with personal disappointment--this time, profoundly so. Perhaps my only bragging right is: consistency. 

I'm sorry that I could not put a positive spin on it all. To do so would be disingenuous. The purpose of this blog has changed many times over the last five years. But, it was never designed to be artificially "uplifting." It is simply the honest record of my interpretation of the experiences I've had traveling at ground level around Maine and America and how these adventures have affected me. 

There will be more at some point, sooner or later. I just hope the reader got something out of what has been written here in the last two years. 

I thank you for wallking along with me and for reading, sharing and loving this Living Magazine.