People Are Lost Without Truth

It was nearer 10 p.m. last evening than it was 9:30 p.m. before I settled into my bed for the next few hours ─ my cellphone alarm was set for 2 a.m. to alert me to rise and ready for my 5½-or-so-mile walk. 

When it did wake me later, my start was a little overshot, for it was 2:17 a.m. by the time I was standing on the street outside and getting set to be on my way. I don't like taking more than 15 minutes from the time I am awakened to my alarm, but this was tolerable.

I had eaten overmuch yesterday ─ my wife had left two types of commercial 'fast food' preparations in the fridge that were 'up for grabs', but which I do not believe anyone else knew about. They were highly condimented, and I ate them both. I also ate a portion of pre-packaged lasagne that my youngest stepson had left for me.

The consequence was that I was probably suffering a degree of water retention. 

This partial loginess likely affected my performance at the four sets of pull-ups early into my walk ─ I engage these on gymnastics-style rings at an elementary school playground. Certainly, I managed 6 - 2 - 2 - 2 insofar as repetitions for those four sets; but attaining six in the first set left me so strained that managing to eke out two further repetitions in the remaining three sets was nearly beyond my ability.

It was not a pretty performance.

I left the school grounds breathing hard, and already feeling a little overheated ─ the atmosphere even seemed muggy or humid. 

My route of late has exclusively been the rectangle formed by 96th and 100th Avenues on two sides, and 132nd and 148th Streets on the other two sides, with the 9800 block of 140th Street as the geographical centre point (Google Map).

For much of my younger adult life, I was something of a runner until I effectively crippled my knees around 1993 or 1994 and was in such pain that I could not even hustle across a street, nor even jump up onto a curb.

It took me months and months to start feeling normal again, although the cartilage damage was not something that could be undone. There was no return to my regular six-mile runs.

Then in early November 2010 when I managed to tear my left leg's quadriceps tendon entirely from my kneecap, that effectively terminated even occasional running. It took me most of the ensuing year just to be able to fully bend my knee again. But even so today nearly a dozen years later, to get down on my knees and to try and get my butt to touch my ankles takes several seconds ─ a half dozen or more ─ of concentrated effort, for the tendon still resists that full stretch.   

I am not one who can exercise publicly ─ I have always been inhibited in that fashion. Thus, trying to get my body to become familiar with the act of running again is not anything I have made a practice of. I have nowhere that I can try running that can be privately done, and my fragile ego will not permit me to be a public spectacle of patheticness. 

I do not drive, so it is not possible for me to climb into a motor vehicle and drive off to some secluded region where I could regularly redevelop my former technique.

So I lost the ability to run.

Well, these past two or three weeks, I have been using a stretch of 100th Avenue on my walks to try to run for maybe 2½ blocks, which is a bit better than ¼ mile. If you refer to this Google Map, you can see my starting point at Green Timbers Access, and I sloppily run to within a power pole or two of 148th Street.  

There is only forest on each side of 100th Avenue along that stretch, so there are no homes where someone might witness me. A few motor vehicles will of course pass, but only a very few. And since they are coming from behind me, and whip on by quickly in the dark, I do not feel too conspicuous.

I can make the first block in reasonable form, but my style quickly becomes sloppy. My feet slap the paved wide walkway harder than ought to be happening, but I am hoping that in time ─ running twice a week ─ my style will improve.

I need an improvement on endurance, too! After that first block, I am sucking air. It becomes so intense that I am audibly voicing the act of harsh breathing, unable to keep from articulating my inhalations and exhalations. It even occurs to me that I might possibly incite a cardiac event, or else force some unknown aneurysm to burst.

I am less than three weeks from the imminent arrival of my 73rd birthday. But quite apart from that, just under a year ago ─ it was last October ─ I spent 10 days in hospital after becoming bedridden here at home from what was diagnosed as "COVID pneumonia", but which may have just been a usual case ─ I have no faith in the glee with which every respiratory issue is labelled as COVID in origin.

Whatever I had, it left me with ─ I was told ─ scarred lungs, and there most definitely was something terribly wrong with them. Even after forcing the issue to get myself released in order to finally come home and end my hospital incarceration, I could not speak a full sentence without needing to have my breathing interrupt myself. I was breathless.

During my first week home, I forced myself to perform 50 partial knee-bends or squats. I swear that I almost killed myself ─ I could not breathe. I would try to fill my damaged lungs, but the volume was not present, and all I was doing was wheezing so wickedly that I was panicked that I might well be coming to my end.  

I managed to get myself upstairs to my bed ─ I was home alone, or I would not have tried any exercising ─ and sat on its edge, breathing violently until things gradually settled down and I could see that I was recovering.

So when I manage to run possibly as much as 2½ blocks, it involves an enormous taxation of my lungs. I could try to make it to the 148th Street intersection, but that is the boundary for the forest. The other side of 148th street where I make a right turn on my walks is heavily residential. I do not want to be wheezing and loudly gasping for breath in that area, nor do I want to arrive at that intersection if there are motor vehicles sitting and awaiting a traffic light change. I could never stand for occupants in those vehicles to bear witness to my travail ─ my debility is a private matter that no one else needs to be privy to.

I am hoping to improve on these runs such that perhaps before too distantly into the future I will be able to run from 140th Street all the way to 148th Street ─ a full mile.

All I need is perseverance ─ and the good fortune of not incurring a heart attack or some similar event.

There was nothing else remarkable about my walk, and I was back outside the locked front door at something like 4:12 a.m. 

Incidentally, my wife had come home at some point earlier while I had been in bed prior to my walk. She had put in a full day at the Thai restaurant where she is employed part-time. She had another such day today ─ the restaurant opens at 11 a.m., so she tends to be up from bed around 9:45 a.m. to start readying for her day and the fairly long drive.  

In all likelihood she will not be home tonight, for she tends to spend her weekends in Vancouver. Our marriage is strictly one of her convenience for the most part. I still do love her, but I am ineffectual and multi-impotent.

My younger brother and I only watched two videos this morning, and he backed out of the second one with much of it to go because he wanted some bed rest ere heading away to hook up with at least one of his drinking buddies to play pool.

The first video was a half dozen minutes short of 1½ hours in length (1:24:02) ─ it was Odessa Orlewicz's latest from yesterday: Canada's Most Recent Amber Alert. Who Was The Real Kidnapper? I Interview The Mother That The Amber Alert Claimed Was A "Kidnapper."

My brother and I actually watched the video here on Rumble.

What a wonderful communicator young Wiloh A. Skyspeaks is! Nevertheless, as much as I sympathize with the poor woman's plight, I simply do not understand why she uses that name if her actual name is Jenny Chanthabouala, as my research has discovered.

Additionally, I am wondering if she is the same person on YouTube who goes by V. ILA, as well as Sashaé.

This is that latter's website. More correctly, her commercial or entertainer name is Sashae’ ─ that terminating "e" has that weird accent that is not the more familiar "é". So maybe the accent mark is not for the "e" itself, but is an indicator of some form of utterance for which English has no symbol.

This practitioner bio photo for Sasha Spronk at The Samadhi Tree certainly does resemble the young woman in Odessa's video interview.

Incidentally, I believe that "Angela ─ Public Minister, Divine" is Angela Albright.

I wonder why it is that all of these specialists in Common Law (such as Angela Albright) who profess to want people to open their eyes to what is possible through Common Law ... will not provide the required Common Law education without a rather dear fee?  

They keep that knowledge exclusive, barring most of us from the enablement that they profess we all require.

Enough about all of that.

The second video (the one that my brother never sat through) was by another Common Law expert, Christopher James Pritchard (A Warrior Calls) ─ this one was also a little under 1½ hours in duration (1:20:37), and we tuned it in on Rumble as well: People Are Lost Without Truth.

It was good to learn that Pam Deol ─ another mother with even worse child custody crimes committed against her ─ has been released from jail.

I feel sorry for Christopher. I believe in his sincerity, but his day is never going to come. He will never have the numbers of Canadians behind him to end the establishment and bring in Common Law.

Today has been solidly overcast, but the clouds have refused to rain. I tried sitting outside in the afternoon, but it fast got so damned boring that I came back into the house after a very few minutes. I need to live somewhere in which I can go out in the daytime and walk in peace and privacy for miles ─ not have to hide away here at home all the day through under a self-imposed house arrest because I cannot bear the traffic and people everywhere around me.

I have said enough for today.