23 February, 2012

Palpating the hybridoma... or how not to be a worry-wart


Ascension. It can be a frustrating journey of fumbling, tumbling and grumbling.

I am, for the most part, more akin to a Neanderthal stumbling in a dark cave trying to find a light switch, not realising that electricity hasn't been invented, nor modern walls, plastics, and light bulbs. But how do I instinctively know about light switches? Arguably it is because a lot of my subconscious activities are actually my higher self attempting to invent that which only my higher self knows to be already existent. More likely, sheer frustration has melted my cognitive processes and I am in autopilot mode.

There is a constant fumbling in the dark that has reverted to something more immediate and sinister, an obsessive compulsive scratching at my forehead. I feel of late that there is a tumour growing on my forehead. I scrape it constantly, pulling at the skin that welts off like small orange peels. I watch as it bleeds then grows as I look into the mirror. This tumour (which my doctor has diagnosed as a benign keratoma, and immediately dismisses me as a worry wart) does not appease my fears. As a trained physician, I instinctively know the darker implications of unusual growths. Intuition tells me this growth of hyperkeratotic cells are accosting the healthy skin beneath it. In response to this self-inflicted inflammatory torment, I apply Flamazine lotion, then cortisone cream, but to no avail. Could I be dying? Could the pathologist be wrong and what I really have is a malignant tumour?

I believe I have a hybridoma, which is a benign growth of hybrid cells, a mixture of monoclonal antibody producing cells. I call it a hybridoma because I like the name. It is far more regal a name than any other insidious cancer, but what's in a name that by any other is not as sinister or replete?

At the cellular level, hybridomas represent a pure cell line free of any traces of inpure antibody-producing cells. At the symbolic level, hybridomas are an outgrowing of normal thoughts - we call them memes. It is present in society as emergent concept that grow from constant irritation, resulting in revolutionary changes in social structure and rapid industrial inventions which change the way humanity operates. Memes are a new name for what has been known since long before I set foot on this planet as 'the shift' or ascension. My best friend, a Queen of her local Wicca colony, is also struggling with her download of new spiritual energies. She suffers a plethora of unusual symptoms including tinnitus, vertigo, temporary blindness and at times a most embarrassing blondness. I prefer a wart on my forehead. It is far less problematic for the active worker ant that I am.

My guru says the lump on my head is from where my third eye is awakening, but we don't get on much any more and because of that, his diagnosis is unsuspectingly circumspect. He seems to laugh too much, care too much, sympathise too much. Everything about him has become excessive. I think he is going insane, or possibly has been all along and I am just beginning to realise the truth - when the teacher is ready, the student disappears. So I have reluctantly embraced the guru-less phase, wandering the path alone, my path growing ever more faint behind me, ahead only fresh grass and alpine shrubs. Sadly, the reasons for this journey have long been forgotten. My days of total recall are well and truly behind me, and I have trouble remembering what I had for breakfast (which is usually a 6 am coffee). I forget where I place things, and sometimes walk out of a room because I couldn't remember the purpose for entering it. It's an ageing process, yet chronos is a lord who, though he steals small daily pleasures, has the good graces to at least replace them with intermittent intractable joys. A fair trade I conclude. At least the joy of solitude is more enriching than it used to be. A silent room, a blank page to fill, an empty head like a cloudless sky - these things are humorous and enlightening of a heavy body.

The prognosis is that eventually I shall succumb to the ravages of this hybridoma, in five years or fifty, and though all that will be left is a small jar containing the mouldy formalin remnants of biopsied tissue, I shall have left a contribution to humanity; my immortal self embedded as DNA in my daughter, my preserved hybridoma in some dusty laboratory, my thoughts out in cyberspace for the antiquity collectors of future spacetime historians. Alas poor Yorick, I knew thee well...

I must constantly remind myself, like a morning mantra, that I am more than mere worried flesh that toils and moils. When the wheel no longer spins, and gravity has ceased her hold upon this spirit, what remains is the timeless, placeless ineffability of the divine.