All Glories and Nine Pennies

All glories. I used to bum around a Hare Krishna temple in Columbus, Ohio around 1982. Throughout their religeous services the group would say the affirmation, "All glories."
That affirmation stayed with me more so than the more suplicant parts of their services. When you are a secular person by gene, you can't sing, chant, bangle or trancend your way out of frozen common sense and displeasure. But one can affirm by the hairs on the chinny chin chin.
I am perhaps a boor, but permit me to share:
It is now, age fifty. Eligible for a host of health problems. No health coverage. And a brand new week of brand new pain. It was diverse crabbed throbbing and stabbing pains between the navel and thigh. But I am being coy.

The run back to Krishna has to do with jogged religeous insecurites, connected to newly awakened fear of death and worse pain. Too, I was worrying about what it costs to have eight or nine wickets through the hospital, and the Hun of the billling office. Prostate cancer, prostate inflamation, and the discovery that an organ is not like all the other men's organ were among many pulsing terrors.

The Whitman sampler of hurt I was getting all week put me off my feed. And then the chariot came from behind the puffy cumulus glow. Months before this episide, in a moment of rare caprice, I bought a tube of roid cream at my favorite dollar store. Walking funny to the powder room, I squeezed a total of nine cents worth of the eponymously priced cream onto the right middle finger and worked it up the coal shoot. Had to do it in three separate attempts to get the stuff deep enough into the temple, at three cents a pop.

It took all night to work, but it did. Roids. The internal, bedevilling kind. The cream will fix 'em. All glories.