On the Seventh Day, God rested.

It may not be the seventh day, but I've been taking a break since the hellish firestorm series of tests finished last Thursday.

After a few days of lounging around and finishing up R. Scott Bakker's The Darkness that Comes Before, Nicole and I will board a plane at 7 tomorrow morning, and wing out way first to Puerto Rico, then to Panama, and finally, we will land in Buenos Aires!

Today, we purchased a few books for next semester (mostly pharmacology and pathology), and sat out on the upper deck registering with the state department.

How sweet it is to have nothing to do -I finally got to read a bit, and am anticipating starting Elantris; I got to watch a few movies, including Hellboy 2, Taken, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding; and we've had the luxury of some much needed gym time.

Mini 3 grades came out yesterday. I must say - neuroscience unexpectedly spanked me - but I still might end up with an A in the class. This was a good semester for me overall - it looks like I'll have the option of being an anatomy TA, and, if the shelves don't lower things too much, I should still come out with some pretty decent grades.

I'm going to have to start thinking in Spanish - time to tango!

Firestorm

The scholastic firestorm is underway (because I'm now bored with the "marathon" metaphor). It technically began last week, but yesterday was the first of the Shelf exams - physiology. It wasn't that bad, actually - I'd been going over it all pretty thoroughly, and I've gotten fairly comfortable with the information. I still have to see how I did, but with the whole strange double curving and all, I don't know if it'll be an accurate representation after all is said and done. Today we had the biochemistry shelf, and I suppose it went alright as well. So far, I have the general feeling that these were written to see what we (as students) could figure out, or how obsessively we read. I don't think I could have studied too much more for either one of them and significantly changed anything. Not everything tested was covered in our classes, but I don't feel like we're getting any less of an education than our on-shore counterparts. I feel like I've got a decent grasp of the information (and I've been doing well academically), but this is the first real comparison. I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Even though I just got done saying that I completely believe we're getting an education comparable to that of U.S. medical students, allow me to add the following: a physiology professor (a Ph.D who shall, obviously, remain nameless), when questioned, did not know what dysmenorrhea was. It was not the case that he didn't know exactly the specific prostaglandin implicated in its etiology (an actual question on our physiology shelf exam). Rather, when asked about it, his response was "You mean amenorrea, right?" Perhaps more alarming is the fact that I knew the difference before ever starting medical school - it's not that rare of a condition. More alarming still, is the fact that this man taught us reproductive physiology! So, when someone says to me that they want to ask a professor something, and I respond with a sardonic "They probably don't know" - I may just be tellin' it like it is.

A few days ago - sometime last week - Nicole and I went strolling down the beach. Here are some pics from that evening walk - I think sunsets are this country's greatest natural resource. I mean - look at that. They're all different, and every one is absolutely picture perfect. I need an external hard-drive just for pictures of sunsets! I could stay here for my 5th semester AICM (advanced introduction to clinical medicine), but I'm pretty set on going back to Miami. Those sunsets'll be one thing I miss.

Fighting to concentrate

I have the physiology shelf exam tomorrow morning at 8am. I'm struggling to keep my head in the game. Yesterday, I went through some physio in First Aid after doing Dr. Linda Costanzo's comprehensive review at the end of the BRS. Today was filled with mini-3 reprodutive physio, and I currently have EKG basics open before me. It's hard to pay attention right now - I just want to be sitting somehwere reading a book. That being the case, I figured I'd add another chapter from that book I'll probably never write - this one through the eyes of a precocious high-school boy (I started ages ago, and can hardly remember what's in it). This is off topic, but aren't you glad we spanked France in the 400m men's swimming last night? That's what they get for smack-talkin'!

Ok, here it is.

Juan-Miguel's Chapter

Try as he might, Juan-Miguel was losing the war. This was no athletic challenge, nor even a game of wits; yet he found himself soundly trumped at every turn in the blistering, staggering war of attrition within his mind. It was as if his id had laid siege to his ego; as if the immemorial great, growling bear deep inside his being – that claws about hungrily and never says “enough” – had cornered the esteemed avatar of his intellect and humanity, and crouched - mere pulse-pounding seconds away from tearing the shivering thing limb from bloody limb. For, though he desperately wanted to concentrate on The Picture of Dorian Gray or the construction of his essay, or what his teacher was saying, or anything – all Juan-Miguel could think of were beautiful, luscious, tear-drop shaped breasts.

Ah, but Lord Henry Wotton was but poor cannon fodder in the onslaught against his raging hormones! For the glib corruptor himself offered not opposition, but seemed at every turn, in young Juan-Miguel’s mind, to offer only maddeningly logical reasons for indulgence. He sat rigid in his desk, gripping the edges with white-knuckled intensity, glaring off into the distance with grim determination, willing himself to concentrate. He had an essay due, and he’d better get to planning it – and slowly, but surely enough, the structure and shape of the essay began to take form. He saw magical, shining-golden lines coalesce as the form of his argument appeared, as he began to delineate the parallels between Dorian’s descent into perversion and the universal loss of innocence and coming of age – but the still rough-hewn, unrefined form of this majestic composition was smashed unto nothing, shattered in a cloud of mortar and of dust, by a beautiful, luscious, tear-drop shaped pair of breasts!

"Fine! I’ll yield to you", he thought, feeling his palms moisten. Just for a little while…..The walls were already breached; he could rebuild later. And he relaxed, straightening his glasses, cradled in the warmth of his thoughts, as the tempting flesh-pears danced before him. He could almost feel them in his hands, filling his palms with a near tactile fullness, his greedy finger molding to the inviting elliptical curve, as if one was made for the other. He imagined a firm softness that he knew would make him tremble, as these stately pleasure domes sat, smooth and delicious, gleaming pure and golden beneath a beaming sun. He heard the siren song not with his ears, but with his heart, with his hands and his loins – the tantalizing, tangible melody teasing him and torturing him beyond what endurance he thought humanly possible. He wanted to touch, to have and to hold, to -

“Oh, and let me remind everyone that the National Merit Scholarship Qualifying Test is being held here in the auditorium two weeks from Wednesday – I’m sure every one of you have been preparing oh so diligently.” Haha! The tide has turned, thought Juan-Miguel! He breathed a long sigh of relief, for with those few words, the English teacher had sent in the cavalry, buttressing his concentration with much needed, much appreciated reinforcements, effectively fortifying the gaping hole in the castle walls. The situation was dire for a second there, but now the fierce specter of academic achievement loomed even larger, darkening the horizon far more than the maddening insistence of his 17 year-old passion. He’d been prepping all summer; there was nothing to worry about.

Mrs. Robledo (decidedly not the object of his lust, to be sure) paced back and forth in front of the class, her thin lips drawing into a tight line, bunching up newly-formed wrinkles.
“But miss….I mean…..what’s a thesis?” A student to the left of Juan-Miguel had, apparently, just woken up. Mrs. Robledo rolled her eyes, making no attempt to hide her disgust. Juan-Miguel followed suit. The teacher lifted a pale hand, smoothing her newly dyed, newly coifed hair, and then extended a half-piece of chalk.

“Come here Eddie. I would like you to write this on the board so that you do not forget what a thesis is. Ever.”

“Yes miss………” A lanky youth with greasy, black hair down to his eyes slipped out of his desk and sulked up to the dusty green chalkboard. He took the chalk and waited while Mrs. Robledo turned back to the class. Juan-Miguel was suddenly very glad that he hadn’t been called on.
“A thesis”, Mrs. Robledo continued, “is the main argument in your essays.” She glanced over her shoulder at Eddie as the chalk tap-squeaked on the board. “An example of a thesis is ‘Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet has become the archetypal bittersweet romance’. You would then use your supporting points to build a cogent, cohesive essay. You all know how to write a paper. If you don’t, I don’t see why you’re in my class – but I can call some 6th grade English teacher.”

Juan-Miguel had stopped listening when she began explaining what a thesis was. It really irked him – some of these kids had no clue what they were doing here, and didn’t really care. Stupid distractions like this were a complete waste of his time – he should have been discussing serious stuff – not taking baby steps. Losers. He sighed heavily, shifting in his seat. You’re supposed to know how to write a damn paper in AP English 3. Losers. Damn public schools. Come to think of it, he could have chosen something a bit headier than The Picture of Dorian Gray. He’d considered expounding on hell and damnation with a look at Dante’s Inferno (Ciardi’s translation, of course), but somehow, he just wanted something more Glib – and Oscar Wilde had that in spades. Besides, Hell was cool and all – but it just didn’t have the allure of the corruption in Dorian Gray. That theme was going to hold a central place in his paper – the idea that everyone, somewhere in their coming of age had a corruptor, be it one person or a group. He scribbled down a few ideas for supporting points, as well as some phrases that he’d want to throw to look intelligent – like sine qua non and inextricably intertwined. Juan-Miguel chuckled at his own inventiveness; those college essays would be a piece of sweet, sweet cake. But at the thoughts of scholarship and writing gave way to the pleasures of corruption and cake, he soon pictured candy and apples and…..damn it…..melons.

Another siren called – this one in the form of a piercing, shrieking bell, marking the end of the period, and the end of another Wednesday. Finally those losers in the back could wake up and go home. He slammed shut his binder, slipped it into his blue mesh backpack and slung it over his shoulder, tucking a pen behind his ear as he joined the crowd waiting for freedom. The same thought popped into his head everyday around this time; the same sad, disappointing idea. “So this is what cattle feel like”. The crush was maddening; people didn’t just walk the halls – at the end of the day, the halls were packed. These were the mindless hordes, the cattle who, directly after graduating, would proceed to go work for a mechanic – if they got that far. Some of them would make it out of this sleepy little town – he knew he was going to be one of them. Swept by the massive throng he shuffled to his locker, pondering the merits of UT at Austin and UT Pan American, in Endiburg.

The halls were decorated with posters and blue and gold streamers, heralding Friday night’s big football game against their cross-town rivals – the West Camino Diamondbacks. School spirit was high and he could see people in the stampede who already had painted faces. He could feel the energy in the air; the East Camino Rattlers had lost the 2 previous “Snakefights”, as the students called the games, and felt that this was their year for redemption.
Mechanically spinning the dial on his combination lock, he grabbed a book from his locker, tucking it into his backpack. Suddenly a body launched itself from the crowd and pinned Juan-Miguel to his locker. Soft, wet lips pressed against his cheek.

“Hi!” She was petite indeed, a head shorter than the not-particularly-tall Juan-Miguel. She beamed up at him.

“Hey Gabby – I was just thinking about you!”

“Oh? What were you thinking?” She tilted her head, giving him a coy, innocent look.

“Just about ….y’know…..the football game and stuff. We’re going, right?”

“Yeah – of course!” She wrapped her arms around him, giving him a big hug. He smiled to himself; feeling her ample bosom pressed against his chest had been the underlying fodder for his frustrated fantasies. Looping an arm around her neck, he gave her a quick peck on her forehead.

She stepped back and he looked down, as always pleased at the sight of her body. Gabby was petite and curvaceous, with full lips and big brown eyes. She held one of his hands between both of hers.

“I like hugging you” she giggled. “You’re like a big soft teddy bear.

“Heh….thanks….” It was great that she wanted to be close to him, but Juan-Miguel would exchange all that softness for the defined musculature which many of his classmates had already attained.

“So how was class Gabby?”

“It was alright….we’re doing orbitals and stuff in chemistry now…..I kind of like it. How’s that project coming?”

“I’m so excited about it – I can’t wait to start! It’s -” but he was interrupted as a beefy arm threw him into a headlock.

“Hey Gabby – have you seen that loser Juan-Miguel? I haven’t seen him anywhere.” Juan-Miguel struggled under the arm, finally pushing it off.

“That’s because you’re too busy looking for potato chips, you stoner!” The three of them laughed. Alberto Garcia stood half-a head taller than his friend, and was nearly three times as wide. He brushed his longish black hair out of his eyes, shifting his books from one hand to the other.

“Man….I really hate this stupid extra practice with Mr. Villarreal – he expects to, like, know everything already.”

“Yeah, but think – it’ll help prepare you for the PSAT – it’s worth the extra practice at least.”

“It’s worth passing…” Alberto mumbled under his breath.

“Alright, well I have to go get started on this precal stuff. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Laters, Alberto.” Gabby turned to Juan-Miguel as their rotund friend waddled away.

“Do you want to go outside?”

“Ok….right, your mom’s coming at 5?”

“Yeah, I got to wait again.” The halls were emptying out, as students descended upon the parking lot, or else milled around in front of the school, waiting to be picked up. It was still sunny and warm, even at this time in early October. South Texas was like that – it defied winter. Hazy clouds hung lazily over the trees on the small campus, and an ever-present breeze kept the warm air from getting too stagnant. The grass was still cool and green, but Juan-Miguel and Gabby opted for the benches, set in a semi-circle beneath the trees. From here, they could watch the parents pick their kids from the crowd on the circular looping road between the front parking lot and the school. Gabby kicked off her sandals, wriggling her toes in the cool grass.

“Have you started on your paper yet?” She crossed her legs, lightly bobbing her foot.

“Almost….I’m still trying to work things out just right. How are classes?”

“Oh….they’re fine. We barely started Oedipus Rex today…I like the ancient Greek stuff.”

“That one was so good!” Juan-Miguel’s eyes lit up. “It’s like, the archetypal tragedy, I mean, do you know what happens? He -”

“No no no! I heard it’s really good, don’t ruin it for me!” She gave her best little-girl pout, and Juan-Miguel just laughed. He sat back against the bench, placing his arm around her, and shifting as she leaned in to him.

“Ok, I won’t ruin it. It’s amazing, though – one of my favorites.”

“I hope it’s good – so what are you going to write about?”

“It’ll be….ah…..” His train of thought was momentarily and effectively derailed – from this vantage point, he had a frustratingly blissful view down Gabby’s delightful cleavage. He felt the familiar arousal, and quickly crossed his ankle over his knee, glancing off at the line of cars.

“I’m going to talk about Lord Henry Wotton’s suggestive corruption, and how that parallels every person’s coming of age.

“Oh? So everyone gets corrupted?”

“Yeah, something like that.” He spared another peek down her light-blue spaghetti-strap top. Her chest was so…….perfect…so full and round and….

A sharp elbow to his side brought him back to reality.

“Ow! What?”

“You were staring again – you know it makes me uncomfortable.”

“I only stare ‘cuz you’re so pretty, though.”

“Ok but…. what’s wrong with staring at my face?”

“I do……I mean………I’m sorry.” Gabby crossed her arms over her chest, obviously in a huff. Juan-Miguel readjusted his glasses, and leaned over to give her a peck on the side of her head.

“C’mon….don’t be mad……”

“Ok fine, just don’t do that anymore. I like you because you’re not a horn-dog like those other guys.”

“Right.” He nodded, slipped a notebook from his bag, opened it to a blank page, and stared off at the line of cars. They sat there, watching the crowd dwindle, and chattered the time away. One of the things he liked about her was that was sweet and innocent, and he knew that she’d never go to a party, get drunk, and hook up with anyone. “Ah…my nymph”, he thought. “I’ll figure you out soon enough. But if I didn’t have you, there wouldn’t be anyone…” She snuggled against him.
The sun was well on its way down – little more than a rusty orange marble low in the purple-gray sky. The crowd had dwindled to nothing, save for the stragglers. Alberto waddled towards them.

“Vamonos! I don’t wanna be late for mom’s enchiladas!” Juan-Miguel stood up and slung his bag over he shoulder, chuckling under his breath. Gabby stood up and threw her arms around his neck. Her shoulder-length hair smelled like hairspray, but he loved it.

“I’ll call you tonight, ok?”

“Ok.” He gave her a quick peck on her forehead, and headed towards the parking lot with Alberto, casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

They crossed the mostly-empty parking lot in silence and creaked open the doors to a 9 year old, blue Chevy pickup. The old engine struggled to life as Juan-Miguel looked back to the luscious light-blue blur that was Gabrielle Rosado.

“Man, this old piece of junk is gonna die and strand me some day, I just know it.” Alberto eased forward, crunching over loose gravel.

“Huh? Oh...nah, I think you’ll be alright, at leas for a little while.” He reached for the old radio and turned up a lively Tejano song. They were on a main road now, skirting the town of Camino.

“I don’t know if this college thing is for me.” Alberto stared straight ahead, his broad shoulders hunched over the wheel. “I mean….I’d probably do a lot better to start working on something….I dunno….be a mechanic or something…” Juan-Miguel squirmed in his seat, remembering his earlier thoughts about the kids who became mechanics.

“Yeah…..but, I mean, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have to go far from home, and I’m sure you could get financial aid.” They rolled to a stop beside a Whataburger, the breaks squeaking painfully.

“You can say that ‘cuz you’re smart, and you’ll make something of it. What if I go and spend all that money and have to drop out or something like that? Ah…….I don’t know.”

“Don’t give up just yet, you never know what could happen.” But deep inside, part of him agreed with Alberto. Some people just weren’t meant to do certain things – like he was never meant to be an athlete. Alberto had been a linebacker, but he blew out his knee in the last Snakefight. He was avoiding bringing that up – if Alberto couldn’t take him and Gabby, he’d have to find someone else. He hoped Alberto wouldn’t be too bitter about it.

“Yeah, I know, I know. The teachers all say the same thing. But hey – I guess we’ll see what happens, though, right?” The light changed. They moved along, took a left, and rolled right out of town. The road they traveled was like an ancient, mythical barrier, separating civilization from the wild unknown. Juan-Miguel imagined that this road was like the fences that had protected wild-west towns from the hard, barren desert; or perhaps it was more like the reach of a campfire’s soft light – beyond that little circle of warmth and safety was the cold forest, filled with wild animals and things unknown. He imagined the hideous, ancient monsters from before the birth of mankind’s consciousness, snarling and crouching just out of sight, forever kept at bay by this blessed barrier. But here, there was only an old road – with subdivisions and neighborhoods to the right, and endless field of sugar cane to the left, staking out their lonely dominion beneath the big Texas sky.

Famous folks always die in twos.

It's a sad day in the world community. Isaac Hayes - the original bad-mutha *shut 'cho mouth* - has gone to that great recording studio in the sky. I hope this means that there'll be soul music in heaven.

His demise is hot on the heels of Bernie Mac's untimely exit from the stage, due to complications with sarcoidosis. Famous people always die in twos.

I almost see the miracles of the Saints

Except for a brief period - perhaps between the ages of 5 and 13, when I wanted to dig up dinosaur bones or be a marine biologist - all I've ever wanted to be is a doctor. I've thought of other thing, including perhaps a counseling psych Ph.D, but it's always only been medicine. I've never thought of being a career writer, but I love the escapist part of reading so much, that, over the years, I've tried my hand at writing. I have all of these ideas in my head, but right now I need to push them aside and focus on the upcoming storm of tests. That being the case, I thought it might help to symbolically and literally (briefly) set those things aside - by posting a brief glimpse here. This is an excerpt from a book I started once and will probably never finish. Just so you know, "Casimiro Milagros De Los Santos" roughly translates to "I almost see the miracles of the Saints". For those of you familiar with Harlingen, I think you'll see the similarities.

The Padre's chapter

Padre Dagoberto Casimiro Milagros de los Santos slipped behind the wheel of his maroon 1990 Ford Taurus. A look of heavenly peace graced his strong features as he rested his weathered hands on the dash and leaned his head back, thankful for a blessed few moments of solitude. It was a beautiful, bright afternoon –a cool, crisp breeze lazily rolled stray clouds across the sky like eiderdown scattered on cerulean glass. The passenger side door opened, and the Padre’s peaceful countenance fled as quickly and unceremoniously as a crow dodging a child’s stone.

“Good afternoon, father Dagoberto! My, but this is a blessed day!” Father Brian McFadden had that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed fervor of personality normally seen in caffeine addicts. The padre glanced over at him, thinking instead, of a yipping wire-haired terrier. It wasn’t a bad comparison – father Brian’s unruly red hair stuck out at every improbable angle.

“Hello, Father Brian.” The padre cranked the engine and took a quick glance at the fuel gauge. So much for peace and quiet. He eased the Taurus out of the yard of St. Angelo – one of the many Catholic parishes in Camino. He had parked on the grass, preferring the shade of one of the few oak trees to the too-small parking lot.

“I’ve got everything written down right here, father. First, we should go and see how Mrs….del Campo is doing, and then on to…hrmm….Mrs. Rangel…oh, and we’ll be back in plenty of time for catechism class!” The padre responded by merely fumbling for a cassette and popping it into the deck. He pressed play, smiling at the first few notes of the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s 40 Days. He’d always thought that the opening piano solo could have fit very well in the most solemn of masses, and he relaxed a bit.

“Excuse me father, but do you happen to have any…err…Gregorian chants? I feel like…..I mean…..” Father Brian had a way of appearing to be unsure of what he was about to say so that it would appear to soften his disagreement. “If we’re… going out doing the Lord’s work and praying for the sick….shouldn’t we attune our hearts to His will and….not…..divert our minds with….secular music?”

The padre rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. Father Brian had only been here a week and already thought he knew how to run things.

“There aren’t any words – how do you know this song isn’t glorifying our Lord?” His voice was deep with the thick Mexican accent of one who’d learned English later in life.

“It doesn’t sound sacred……it doesn’t feel holy.” Father Brian shrugged. “And you know where the first played jazz music, right father Dagoberto? It was in the brothels….surely we -”

“If I remember my Old Testament correctly, father Brian,” The Padre had tossed in that condescending tone he’d found himself using more and more lately, “Rahab the harlot was one of Jesus’ ancestors. Now – I’m not at all condoning prostitution; I am merely saying that this….eh….” he paused, making vague motions with his hand. “ This ‘holier than thou’ attitude could alienate members of the parish. Remember who Jesus’ friends were.”

“But father -”

“However, if you are unable, father Brian, to see the beauty in the rhythm and cadence of this song – as one might find in Pachelbel’s Canon, or even How Great Thou Art – then I suggest you spend a bit more time with Him, asking Him to reveal to you His wonders.

“Father, I see, but -”

“I like this song” the Padre snapped, turning his head sharply. “You would do well to pay a bit more attention to Paul’s epistles and not be so quarrelsome.”

“Yes father.” The Padre cleared his throat as he saw father Brian deflate. He hadn’t wanted to snap, but this idealistic youngster, fresh from seminary, had come with his head so full of theoretical ideals that there would be no place at all for any practical learning. It was strange having him here at all – the padre had agreed to help Father Brian learn to lead a parish as a favor to a friendly priest in Boston. This, among other things, added to the Padre’s growing sense of unease.

“Please forgive me, father Brian – I didn’t mean to speak so sharply.” He stared straight ahead, clicked his blinker and turned left onto a main road.

“Forgiven”, father Brian said, somewhat sullenly. They were an odd pair, the Father and the Padre – as different as different could be. One was a gangly redhead from the better Boston neighborhoods, and the other had chosen to serve the Lord rather than the cartels in central Mexico. They both wore black, short-sleeved clergy shirts with the instantly recognizable clerical collars. Both had a strong commitment to the work of the Lord, but where they differed most was, perhaps, experience.

For Father Brian, the choice to become a man of the cloth had been one easy decision among many options; he’d grown up in Somerville, and came from a well-to-do Irish-Catholic family. Always active in the local diocese, his decision to become a priest had been praised as much as his older brother’s decision to become an ophthalmologist. The Padre, on the other hand, had grown up in the lush, historical Mexican city of Zacatecas. As the drug cartels became more and more powerful, he honored his mother’s wishes and relocated to Monterrey to become a priest, and, with the church’s help, soon immigrated.

Father Brian had seen people struggling to survive, but only in the soup kitchens, or the other outreach programs that his parish performed. However, to him, it was like looking through a window. He felt pity for them, and even felt that serving them was part of his duty – but he did not identify with them. At the end of the day, he would always go back to his nice warm bed in his wealthy parish – truly thankful that he was not in their place.

The Padre, however, thought he knew better. The poor in spirit – these were his people. He had seen the things that people would do to survive; he had been there. He felt that he had a full understanding of true human need, and what it made people do. Always, he’d thought that the search for the Lord could overcome the baser drives of human nature. If only he could get Father Brian to understand that it was not easy, and that the choice was at times very difficult – he would have done his work.

It was on these things that the Padre meditated as he drove through Camino. He pulled into a gas station on one of the two main roads that ran through town, idling the car for a moment. Unbuckling his belt, he turned in his seat.

“Father Brian, there’s something I’ve been wanting to share with you.

“Oh? What’s that?” Father Brian looked caught off guard, as if he was about to be the recipient of a particularly difficult confession.

“Where you come from……the choice to follow the Lord has probably been an easy one.”

“Yes…..it wasn’t so difficult.”

“Well here, things are a little different. The Lord calls to the hearts of the people, but so do drug money, prostitution, alcohol – most of these people don’t have much hope, and it’s difficult for them to put their faith in something they cannot see….perhaps more difficult than it is where life is a little easier. I feel sometimes that the Walk in a place such as this can be very difficult. Do you see what I mean?”

“I suppose…..” Father Brian stared thoughtfully through the windshield. “I suppose you’re asking me to be a bit more sensitive?”

“I’m glad you understand, father.” The Padre brightened, shut off the engine, and opened his door. “Would you mind pumping the gas?”

“Of course, of course.” Father Brian pushed open his door as the Padre closed his and walked briskly towards the small convenience store. Lonely crows cawed loudly from the power-lines above him as he reached for his wallet, shaking his head in dismay at the unforgiving prices.

A tub of ice filled to the brim with canned beer singles was the first thing he saw, followed by the colorful lotto display. He stepped up to the counter, handing the teller a $20.

“Put it all on pump four, please.”

“Pump four….ok…..” The teller punched in the keystrokes, but frowned at an error message. Must be new – thought the Padre. He glanced around at the blaring assault of colors, waiting patiently for his receipt. Hot dogs turned slowly on steel rollers in their glass heater to his left, and beside them steak and egg breakfast tacos grew stale in their thin foil. Brief movement caught his eye – he had a slightly-blurred view through the glass to the other side – right to the booze in the back. Three youngsters were greedily eyeing the inviting aluminum cans and bottles. They kept glancing around nervously, just oozing with adolescent shiftiness. A flash of recognition hit the padre, and he stepped away from the counter, the frustrated teller still trying to figure things out. The padre shoved his hands into his pockets and put on his best fake grin.

“Ahh – look who it is! Luis, Josue – I havent’ seen you boys in a while! And who’s your friend?” Like kleptomaniac deer caught in holy headlights, the boys froze, and quickly exchanged nervous glances. Luis stepped forward.

“Uhh…hi Padre…..this is…uh….our friend…Leo.” Leo didn’t move. So, the Padre stepped forward, extending a strong hand. Leo shook it reluctantly.

“Nice to meet you, Leo. I see you’ve made some good friends here – Luis and Josue usually come to mass every Sunday, and I know some mornings one can forget to set the alarm – Don’t worry about it.” He paused, glancing from one boy to the next, not releasing Leo’s hand. “I hope they’ll invite you when they come back – you’re welcome at St. Angelo.” The color draining from their faces, the boys continued their silent collusion. The Padre took a small step back, not wanting them to feel any more cornered. The well-practiced grin still plastered on his face, he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced up to the ceiling, as if deep in thought – or perhaps listening to the very words of God.

“Hmm. I’m glad the high-school is giving you boys so much freedom at lunch time. It is good to know you can be trusted with responsibility. I hope your classes go well for the rest of the day – It was nice seeing you boys again – and Leo it was nice meeting you.” The Padre pointed at him, nodded, and turned on his heels. The register had taken pity on the poor teller, and obediently spat out a receipt. The Padre thanked him and returned to the car, brushing a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Everything alright?” Father Brian asked, as he buckled his seat-belt.

“Oh yes, just fine. I ran into some boy from the parish, and I saw how they were doing.”

“Boys…but isn’t it a school day?” Confusion spread on the father’s face as he glanced behind them at the little convenience store. Beside him, the Padre cranked the engine to life.

‘Yes it is, and they were skipping school. I hope they will go back now – but that is in the hands of the Lord.”

“Should we……I mean…..should we give them a ride back?”

“No – they’ll be fine. They know where it is.” They were back on the main road, riding with the windows down, the velvet jazz of the Brubeck quartet still forcing its way through the crackly old speakers.

Padre Dagoberto shook his head. That right there - he thought to himself - that was the perfect example of what was going on with the parish. No one seemed to care anymore – it was like he was waiting for attendance to drop until it was just himself, Father Brian, and a few old ladies with their rosaries. It was frustrating, but it also saddened him. In his most honest moments – of which he sincerely repented immediately – he wondered if God cared about Camino anymore. It wasn’t as if this town was a modern day Gomorroah (maybe Tyre, or Sidon) – but it certainly felt like there had been a change over the past few years. He’d watched everything from weekly mass and catechism class attendance to baptisms decrease sharply, and he wondered if perhaps it was not God who did not care, but the people. His mind was filled with passages from Isaiah and Jeremiah, in which God expressed His sorrow at being forsaken by the Israelites. Stories about the rise in high-school dropouts and municipal corruption, increasing gang violence and larger-than-ever drug seizures made him wonder what had happened.

The ever-humble Padre certainly considered himself no prophet, but he felt that his words were just as useless, were just as ineffective in the ears of those they fell upon. Those boys back at the store? Sure, they looked sorry – but only because they’d been caught. If he hadn’t been there, not a single thought about skipping school or mass would convict their hardened little hearts.

Shaking his head once more, trying to clear his thoughts, the Padre reminded himself that he should not be so hard on them – he should love them. What good would it do to get frustrated? Of course he was frustrated….but he still had to be a shepherd, and be there for the faithful few. What kind of priest would he be if he let his annoyance at delinquent parishioners cloud his ministry to those who needed him? He certainly didn’t want to set a bad example for Father Brian – then his speech about Camino being a hard place to follow the Lord would seem to apply to himself also, and that was not something he wanted. What was there to do? It had been so pleasant, so full of life and dedication to the Word only a few years ago…

Guíame por el camino eterno– he silently repeated. “Lead me in the way everlasting.” He knew that he shouldn’t mope about not having the same spiritual gifts as Padre Jaime – but his felt so small by comparison. He shook his head once more. All his life there had been the assurance that the Lord had a definite plain for his life….and he was still sure that that was true. He just…thought that it would be something more important. The Walk was not supposed to be easy…but all he felt that he was accomplishing was slowing the rate at which Camino turned from the Cross. The Padre shrugged wordlessly, staring through the windshield, forgetting that he wasn’t alone. Father Brian had missed the tinge of bitterness in his voice earlier, but now he picked up on his frustrated, unconscious movements. He sat silently, wondering if he should interrupt the Padre’s thoughts, and then figured that it couldn’t hurt.

Father Brian opened his mouth to speak, but instead slipped a string of dark-wooden rosary beads from his pocket, held them reverently between his fingers, and bowed his head.

“Eternal Father, we humbly adore Thee, and thank Thee for this day, which Thou hast seen fit to give us.” Padre Dagoberto glanced over at him, the lines of frustration and weariness softening. He slowly reached up and turned down the radio. Father Brian continued.”

“O Loving and Most Gracious Lord, Thy humble servants Dagoberto and I do so deeply thank you for calling us to your work, and we know that You shall not give unto us more than we can bear. We ask Thee O Lord to give us the strength to persevere through difficulty, and the grace to be sensitive to the needs of your Lambs. O Gracious Mary, Immaculate mother of Jesus, I implore you to pray for me.” He slowly lifted his head, letting out a breath. A peaceful calm filled the little car, broken only by the gentle hum of the motor.

Padre Dagoberto was the first to speak. “I thank you Father Brian.”

“It’s alright. You looked upset.” Father Brian slipped the rosary back into his pocket.

“That I was. If I had but bowed my head and prayed – as you did – instead of indulging my memories of bitterness, I could have saved myself much annoyance.” They continued on, the radio turned back up as they talked about the weekly schedule. The chatted like new friends until they pulled into the neat gravel driveway of a small house, the porch covered in houseplants and colorful chairs.

“Shall we go see how Señora del Campo is feeling today?” The Padre asked, unbuckling his belt.

“Sounds like a plan father.” With that, they closed the doors of the little Ford Taurus and crunched up the driveway to visit and fellowship with one of the faithful parishioners.

A Descent into the Maelstrom

You won't hear from me much in the next few weeks. I've just completed the first exam-hurdle in my scholastic marathon - the neuroscience practical. It was 84 questions, covering the entire semester up until now, and you know what? It wasn't that bad. Sure, I busted my butt to make sure I knew everything, but I think this one will turn out ok - it feels like a good start. Now I'm back at my favorite study space, getting ready for the histology and anatomy practicals tomorrow - it's like I'm girding up my loins for battle. And a battle it will surely be - there are 8 more to go. At the risk of sounding pompous, it's a little like Hercules' tasks. I can't remember any except for the hydra, and I'll reserve that particular metaphor for something that bats me around a bit more. However you say it, it's going to be a rough few days - it's go time. Time to get down to work, time to focus like never before. Sink or swim, it's time to dive into the maelstrom.

Something's gotta give

Things like this make me seriously wonder what health care will be like when I'm practicing in a few short years. I haven't really been keeping up with everything going on in health care, but the general gist is that it's a bad situation for everyone involved -patients don't have enough access to docs, docs don't get paid enough, beauracracy doesn't want to pay, etc. I don't think there are any easy fixes. Nevertheless, It's probably a better idea for me to focus on neuroscience right now, instead of theorizing and pontificating about healthcare's ills. I'd really like to look more into it, and move ahead in my medical training with a greater understanding of the nuances surrounding my field, much less those within it. Certainly, I'm going to have to arm myself with a firm understanding of the politics of medicine before I get there - it sounds like many docs today are sheep among the wolves of the money-holders. Money isn't everything, but this is America. I could go on about how I feel that a lot of problems we see today are manifestations of the dark side of the principles upon which America was founded - polarization of the goals of competition and individuality and all that, but I digress.

I have an interesting theory concerning some of Jesus' healings. The blind were made to see, the lame were made to walk, the dead were raised - pretty clear cut. But what about the people who had demons? Some of those afflictions looked remarkably like grand-mal or status epilepticus seizures (Mark 9:14-29). Perhaps Jesus knew what they were, and simply didn't want to explain the neurological reasons to people of 2,000 years ago. Although there is the fact that these demons talked to Jesus (on occassion), and called him by name.

Here's a shot of the Cabrits at dusk. It's fun to play around with the night-time setting, but since the shutter speed is incredibly slow due to the time it takes the lens to gather light, the pictures aren't even clear when I set th camera on a hard surface.

Just checking in

I don't have any rant today - no news, nothing interesting. I just thought I'd check in. I spent all weekend studying for the three practicals we have coming up, and only remembered at the end that I do, in fact, have all of my other classes to worry about. In fact, towarsd the middle of this month, I'm going to have 9 tests in a span of about 2 weeks. I'm having to do some reasearch on the breakdown of the Shelf exams, but word on the street is that they don't really hurt, and that we should focus our attention towards making sure we greedily gather up as many points as possible for mini 3 - cruelly placed at the end of this scholastic marathon.

As Nicole and I made our way back from the study space last night, these littel fellows caught my eye.

Yes that is, in fact, a land crab up on the wall, which was higher than my head. Only in this Dominica... I was wondering how he got up there - until I saw his friend.

I don't really know how to comment on this - maybe they were bored. That's the most interesting thing going on in my life right now - that and air sinuses in the head. These last few weeks are going to be a battle of wills, essentially. It's getting towards the end of the semester, and I'm already getting tired. I'd like nothing more than to sit and home and read R. Scott Bakker's The Darkness that Comes Before, since I've kind of paused in the middle of Salvatore's Dark Elf Trilogy, but I've got to blindly focus on all things medical for the next few weeks - then it's off to Argentina! That's my carrot.

Wonders Never Cease

I just had a bottle of wine delivered to the big, brigh warehouse-type building where I've been studying neuroscience and histology labs all day. But that's beside the point (really, it is). I've also just read what may be the most amazing medical breakthrough in my few years upon this earth - the first ever double arm transplant. Here's another article, with slightly more information. There was another forearm and hand transplant a few years ago, but that wasn't as cool as this.

This German famer lost his arms in an accident some six yeas ago, and they decided to try to give him some new ones. Apparently, the operation with off without a hitch, but they're still watching him very closely. I'm guessing the matched up the MHCs just right ( major histocompatibility complexes - they're the things responsible for graft rejection). However, due to the severance of neural connections, they're hoping that his nervous system will regrow the nerves. The best and most amazing thing would be for this guy to say "Meine neuen Arme prickeln", which roughly translates to "My new arms are tingling". That would be the first sign of axonal regeneration.

It's things like this amazing surgery which make it easier to sit here, day after day, and stare at words on a page, or pictures in a book. This is something straight out of science fiction. Heart transplant? Old hat. New kidneys? Not so new. Separation of craniopagus (joined at the head) conjoined twins? Hell, even that's been done. But a double arm transplant? I guess we should wait to see if it works before counting our chickens, but this is the coolest thing I've read in a long time.