Tag: cancer and life changes

Positively Connected

“Suffering is necessary until you realize it is unnecessary.” Eckhardt Tolle

Our personalities and sense of self do not stem from our opinions. Not even in our age of entitlement formed through the public ramblings of one single ego-driven tectonic plate moving dictatorial notion. Important, no doubt, to someone impressive to all their tweets and likes command. Of course, every human being beginning at birth has a perspective. Narrow though a newborn’s and pickled though an alcoholic’s – and no single moral standard claims any higher reaches than another. Despite what seems evident to me, there still exists a subsection of hostility driven people, trapped in a prison of anger. Their approach to the world carries an unwavering intent to cause suffering. Yet, we are all responsible for our own suffering as well as responsible for suffering in the world.

So how can this be possible?

I can choose to live as a source of conscious positivity. A great example to illustrate Richard Feynman’s excited and animated discussion of how rubber bands work. Feynman explains in this must watch video by the BBC, how atoms jiggle when excited by other atoms in some way. If I recall one example is a racketball hitting the court. The jiggle created by the contact of bouncing a ball hitting the boards, which ever so slightly increases the heat in the floor because the ball is moving faster than the floor. The measure of increase in temperature then becomes a proof of energy transfer at a molecular level. The floor’s atoms are disrupted by the ball hitting it and that is not even the point although voila, his excitement creates a curiosity in us and an excitement about learning. Similar to positive consciousness of living in the presence of now.

Pedestrian example…notice on days when you’re in a bad mood how others pick up on your negativity and they respond negatively to you in kind? Perhaps you’re driving more aggressively because you spilled coffee all over your car and now speeding over the roads towards a meeting 15 minutes delayed. I can simply arrive at the meeting a bit late, calmly and apologize with a smile. Certainly my reception may start cold, but my cheerfulness and tenacity inevitably override my unfortunate tardiness. My associates’ experience a graceful and present human being and eventually respond in a like manner. I guarantee someone else in your meeting went through a similar situation at some point in their lives. Maybe even that very day. They will remember only what you tell them to remember – meaning how you transfer your energy to the human beings with whom you’re engaged – positive or negative.

Perhaps on my drive I make a negative detour and make myself even later by running a stop sign and getting a ticket. Instead of ruminating and becoming angrier, instead of cursing my spouse or partner, the inanimate coffee, my boss, the other drivers…so much negative energy transference I create in a single drive into a small blip in the course of my life. Why?

Think about it this way perhaps. An opinion in your consciousness when applied to others sets the alarms off, erupting in arguments allowing negative energy to break into your positive space, like a thief. If I view others as equal – no matter their origins and opinions – with an open heart and mind and listen, we find ourselves in positive space with diverse rich colorful discussions, opening minds and knocking on doors rather than knocking them down.

This in 52 years? I earned the understanding of this concept and I’m not sure it’s something I even learned at all. In fact it’s more a feeling in the spiritual sense, than knowledge or a meaning in the mind. Here’s my confusing formula for you science types:

“Now” = what is, what’s gone and what’s going to be. It’s a triplicate paradox – ergo, appropriately, a “tripledox.”

To review how I got there and why that crazy logic train makes sense to me. Some days, my words refuse to connect to any discernible emotional or mind state – or anything I believe worth the investment of my time to sit down and pick up a pen and a piece of paper. As I wrote that last sentence, I realized that is the very worth my time, even if no one else ever reads what my thoughts became. And that’s not why I’m writing. In this moment when the past present and future dance together forever entangled in an infinite ring, what I write becomes very important. Not necessarily to you the reader. (If it does, how Cool is that? We connected.) I write for my physical, spiritual, and mental health.

My connection of mind to pen and paper help me plough through the work I must do to live. And it’s all work right now. I wish I could say differently. But this as all things must pass. Like a fart. Or a tailgating asshole. Or depression. Or bad weather.

And with that, I loathe waking up sometimes. You mean…Princess Positive? Miss Merrymaker? Lady Laughsalot? Moi?

Even hypocritical me. I get so angry I just want to fall off the flat earth and pound hard on the door of the universe – I bet Monty Hall answers and asks me about which door I choose. I say “all three” because you can do what you want in alternate dimensions. Or just because I want to see silver taffeta curtains opening like birthday gifts in my next reality tunnel where I win lunch with Douglas Adams, Dick Feynman, along a three piece lounge set from mid-century modern Michigan circa 1950. Did I digress? Yup. Sorry. And no the women I’d want to lunch with us remain with us. Diverse dream meals-r-us.

In the past 48 hours…

I’ve thrown up, thrown upset crying fits, tossed annoyed looks at The C. Twisted myself emotionally, felt alone, experienced the panic of financially worry about my healthcare, and I can’t get any good deli anywhere in San Jose. But this, too, shall pass. I realize I am where I am because I must be here. And there’s no way to go it alone given the stress of a change of residence and my enemy, thy name is stress. See, I’m dealing with this fucking liver metastasis at the moment. My veins and arteries have no blood count, and my bones work overtime at night so I can’t sleep. I have no appetite, no energy. No visitors. No shit. Lost 25 lbs. not a recommended diet, kids. I’ve had a bad week. It’s hard saying goodbye to everyone and everything all the time. But I can’t linger in this space much longer.

Open all three doors, or Monty gets it – and I’m not in the mood to make a deal. But I will say with the saccharine sweetness of a diabetic candy and the artifice of the broiled roast chicken brown skin from a tanning bed light, you’ll want to go plant wild flowers and kiss your loved ones all on the forehead, and hug your annoyed cat. Or slobbering dog, if your so inclined.

P.S. Another tale of opinions pissing on the heads of others: It would have been my mother’s birthday on the 31st. I wasn’t given any chance at closure because my aunt and brother decided I didn’t get to say goodbye to Elaine Rothman Kaminsky Tramonte. So laughs on them, she’s not gone to me. She’s around telling me I look fine stop worrying, wiping my face with a wet index finger (eww), hugging me, telling me how I’m her beautiful girl. How proud she is of me. And for all the shit our lives dumped in our laps, she was my mother. She loves me. I’m her first born, her daughter. Because they didn’t want me to upset her. How do you keep a child away from a parent, even as she aged I was still her angel, her shayna maydelah, Esther Williams, “mouth”, and the other 100 nick names she bestowed upon me – and she was my mammelah, mah, mom, mommie, my mom.

Flawed. Forever part of me. Forget? Never.

Lessons from the Present

In my darkest hours collapsing under the weight of my own perceived adversity, I wonder how to find the energy to bring happiness to myself and others while in this life. One relatively recent shift that’s come via studying the practice of presence and living in the “now.” I search for strength from within myself, hoping to find an ore of clarity in a vast cave of stone and archeological discovery. To focus on the present seems implausible on a dry infertile landscape littered with anxiety about my past actions or insidious worry about events or emotional fallout that may never transpire in any of the potential future scenarios that lay stretched out before me.

Whew. Yet all these realizations happen despite the complexity of my given task at hand. An unexpected benefit of my focus in the now: I’m defocussing away from the heaviness, the sadness, the darkness of life with metastatic cancer, throwing away and cross shredding my membership card to Club Cancer. I learn to find clarity here where the present moment provides me with strength cooking at the stove or sitting behind the wheel of my car. Instead of the usual sigh at a routine task, I smile and do what I used to perceive as mundane chores with flawless efficiency and with joy.

The results become a happier self and a much better outcome. Even a moment of silence can bring about deeper meaning in these everyday tasks. The boring becomes the beautiful, the Wonderbread(TM) becomes the wedding cake. Finding beauty in everything I take into my senses for example while stopped at a traffic light on a peaceful Sunday evening. A routine drive becomes magical, sparkling with blue, red, green, purple, pink, gold, and white lights and holiday decorations on houses and buildings. Or while preparing soup from scratch, an activity that certainly brings the past into the present through kitchen skills learned over a lifetime to create a fresh bowl of soul-warming bisque.

The increased value of the ingredient of my presence requires relatively zero investment. It’s really a divestiture of an investment of negativity, rumination, hostility, or even aesthetic snobbery. Instead of focusing on getting to the destination, the journey instead uplifts my heart with more joy than I expect; I float above the paved roads just for a while with the ease of an untethered spirit. Similarly, if I become present in a moment with my pet I find happiness and peace through a relationship to the natural world and with this animal. He consciously plays with me, which sets a good example for me to follow.

Strength, too, I realized comes from human courage exhibited through people’s stories. Our personal narratives bring us to the present with our past experiences. Everyone’s present self must therefore contain and be informed by our past and none are more important or less fortunate than any others – it’s simply a matter of scale and influence: from a great leader of human kind to a single person overcoming a physical handicap.

Ridiculously, compared to how much work I produced in the 11-hour days of my career, I find it difficult some days to write and post a blog piece. My comparably easy tasks sometimes require more strength than I can illicit from my tired and chemically-thrashed body. If I live in my past or concern myself with the future of what might happen I’d never write a word. In other words if I don’t exist in the present, I only focus on the perceived value of the words I write. How insane to think I know the worth to any reader of my discourse? If my expenditure of energy brings any return on investment it must only be for the present situation of this moment for me and in that same line of reasoning, for you in reading my words.

Perhaps my essays or poetry bring you a smile. Maybe they give you a bit more strength in knowing you’re not crazy or you’re not the only one who feels the way you do. I believe then in this moment, in the here and now where our individual thinking intersects, we become friends. Whether you’re a new friend or a friend come to read a while for a visit, I’m so glad you came to share your presence with me – I treasure your gift.

Some might arrive as a short respite from of a world severed from it’s once well mapped out future, now thrust into the cancer culture where we’ve a lot to share with each other. Here, either a love giver to one with a disease or a cancer survivor, we can walk hand and hand. We step to a rhythm of head nods of recognition as we see of ourselves in one another like mirrors. Our circle contains everyone who continues to prove that we can live on as a reluctant card carrying member of Club Cancer. Including those who love us.

And to those who pop in for a visit without your identification card – newsflash – you don’t need a card. We welcome your visits and love and time, so stop by often. Please, just don’t remark when you hear one if us has cancer, “well you could get hit by a bus.” We throw people out for saying ignorant, insulting crap or regaling us with some vaguely fictional cancer story about your aunt’s neighbor’s ex boyfriends third cousin’s adopted brother. Stories couched in empathy but only meant to alleviate your own guilt and the inability to not make another’s pain about yourself.

I welcome anyone who cares enough to visit: now is always the best time.

Florida, State Your Name

You carry our secrets whispered into cardboard boxes tied tight with candycane twine
(That kind you find in old-time kosher bakeries.)
Tall cakes topped with buttercream flowers in new-fatigue green and suburban-Mustang blue whose
Stemless petals rise above yellow spongey layers with strawberries.
Pure as curbside snow. Pure as little girls with pinch pink cheeks.
Too early for my birthday the trail of a mistake runs upstairs from cheap paper doilies.
Pin striped suit coat and sea glass blue shirttails waving gooodbye, or hello,
(I never knew the difference.)
My hair twisted into a gilded fist as you push my resistance down,
Down into the drowned warped boards.
Raising my right hand, I swear you found a pushover:
A raggedy doll tape and bubble gum, of bare burlap, plaid, and buttons, of red yarn
Covering my torn skin where I stitch myself up and over
(And over to hold myself in again.)
A stray calico cat sits in the window right above your shoulder, startled by your loud heart.
I can still hear you slapping your thigh and then,
Distant laughter cries at your day-old jokes jokes and overtold stories.
Your hysterical, foul, scorn defers a look at me.
I hated you for that minute, then carrying on again I forget you already told me.

My face looks tired, uncooked, undone.
While white hot light sheds the palmetto scrub
Covering the non-natives invading our country- bright boisterously green parrots.
Which fly in on an uncommon flight schedule,
Catching a torrent of wind the turkey vultures wind into a tornado
Turning up higher and faster into the late afternoon rain.
Here, every shower comes in on time right at four.
Bursting open ladies with umbrellas, with daisy dresses, tulip capris, white rose tanks,
Waltzing by the front porch screen doors squeaking,
Slippery dimpled thighs sing together,
All sweet, easy, glide by leaving their perfume behind.
Then zipped into black patent leather hand bags powders, compacts,
Glossy rippled heat waves us in on a 45 degree right angle sun ray.
Show up the hidden mildewed sinews of ductwork,
And the hum of air conditioners masking our words.
Slowly dripping outside busy windows pelted by huge mosquitoes,
Or rain?
(Probably rain cries outside)
Only two minutes, like soft boiled eggs on timers,
Now done cooking. Her eyelashes, false
Newly bred widows sit with spidery eyes,
Single fingers silently making reservations for you.
They reapply the glue, so unkind, that damned humidity.

Present Perfect

Ashen long shadow-colored faces stare back from my past.
Time sits in my lap a small child, hands raw and worried, consoled
Comforted by stories of never lands and ever mores.
Today, my words rendered illegible, erased nervously.
All the while
Darting back
Shoulder
To shoulder –
left right
left right.

Somewhere a darkened classroom with every wall covered
By blackboards waiting, vacant for me.
Now, turning deserted like a Western town,
With chalk wisps ghosts, picture the sentences
So long ago hung on a nail struck by an invisible hammer.
Tonight’s erasers let out old chalky coughs, like a smoker’s
Thick with phlegm and gravel. Cleaning the felt gills free
From years of numbers and letters,
I beat
Them
Together
Hard
And fast.
The remaining clouds too thin to grab hold
By the sky, shimmer, unlined heavy lids shutter eyes
So weightlessly, lashes feathery, they move too easily,
Then blow past us, like a divorce.
Folding myself in to bend at the cracked window,
Seeing a reflection in the mirror panes,
I shiver first at the draft, and as the stars give way to the day,
I see everything.

I find all the sunshine ever shined,
Filtered through my forests, my pin pupil eyes.
And I, without permission,
Acting out against all advice –
Finally stare into the sun.

Overcome by warmth in my extremities,
My silhouette against the wallpapers,
In a still house framed by night.
Looking over the unnatural hills a flutter appears.
No birds yet, not a song, no flights, no song.
Though late enough for a gray mourning dove.
Listing up over the trees, on currents along moves
The flightless wings floating delicately, white.
At my feet: paper with a single seam
Addressed to only me,
Retun to a boy named Eternally
I unfold but once, then read.

“Make one promise if you please: only now and for you,
if for want of love to capture the clouds,
snapped still like a photograph,
take just enough and give your heart to listening alone.
Talking creates your deafness of thought
and silences your laughter.”

Saving Rescuers

I.

My love how wrong I am no star,
Somehow near but towards afar,
I leaned against your song.
Saving myself, I once sat up high –
Tall as a lifeguard tested and tried.

All zinc white nose, a clownish umbrella,

The angry preservation of a tune, a cappella.
Only block the violets from burning my skin.

Yet I rescind. Did I seek my mortal coil
Before drowning in the soil? So dusty.

Just before the burn wraps around my effigy,
Familiar arms grasp and pull you from the sea,
As your weight rises like an apogee –
Why must you make my job so hard?
A soaked coat draped over your bare

Hairless shoulder, While on the beach

Your chest fills with breath.

My waves, my shore.

II.

We slowly crest.
Yet you weigh nothing, even wet.
Simply the dearth of your will,
So short and without regard or debt.
We hear the oceans excess cheers,
And feel it’s drag upon our boney years.
Like an owl’s catty joke –
All height without heft. I let go
Just as you parade and poke
At the grievers and the bereft.
Stronger than knives or strokes and
Beleaguered, lonesome old oaks,
Together again, those wings, the trees,
Gasping at them as I forgot to sing.
Spanning years’ dimly stated demands
Its our last night in the Neverland.
And thus we fly away and apart –
Your good leg tied inside paper.
A pigeon homed to name the saint.
Save for you, I cannot restore restraint
Of discord’s time off or it’s application.
For now slippers of silver, icy with complaints,
For in the shadows of Mercury’s elation,

Heaving words, breaking bones, ingratiation.

Ever! and yet now you take your final stand?
Yet who but I deserved to walk in chains and receive all reprimands.

Not a single one dared, none but you understands.

Friendship, Cancer, and The Jokers

“We suffer more often in imagination than in reality” – Seneca

On my 52nd birthday my husband comedically quipped, “From her on baby you’re as old as a joker.” Why? “Because your age is equivalent of the number of cards in a deck.”

If you look in a card box after retrieving the deck of 52 necessary for the game you have in mind, such as solitaire, a pair of Jokers and the deck’s informational card sit, left over. I am the leftover — and now I’m entering the stage of life, the unwanted, the leftovers. I am in at the dawning of the age of the Joker.

Have a listen to the Australian band Wolfmother’s song, “Joker and the Thief.” It’s very catchy and if you like that song and haven’t had the pleasure of listening to Wolfmother their eponymous first album is great and has another song I like quite a lot called “Woman.” A three piece band, their sound is that of a love child, borne of Spinal Tap and Jack White. Here’s a link for The Joker and the Thief on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lkPfgzR6Hw

“Can you see the joker flying over / as she’s standing in a field of clover.” Great visual for song lyrics, dreamlike and yet ominous, a girl whose innocence is her honor, and the bringer of death the Joker poised to take her away. At any rate, clover as I visualize it carpets the fields of Scotland and of Holland. Furthermore, when you find one with a fourth leaf, rather than the common 5 leaf species, it’s considered very very lucky. The green carpeted field conjures up the impression of a girl rolling in a field of money without a care in the world. The Joker takes away that innocence and invincibility – I’m no longer a girl anymore.

I’m now firmly planted on the other side of 50 years old – more than half a century on this third orbital from the dying star in our solar system. Remember when youth outweighed the cataclysmic teenage ubermensch-ism? Remember when 50 seemed extraordinarily old? 50+ years to a teenager seems so ancient. God, like, you know Stonehenge or the Pyramids at Giza. Rude punks, my other mohawk prickly friends and I would elbow one another and smirk towards those who crossed the half century line and to any person over 50: “wow that’s so old.” So, turning some kind of sharp corner, I’m now the joker in the pack with the deck of cards. The cards that don’t matter and stay in the box, and no one cares if the jokers get lost.

I suppose if given the choice to see what I’d become now at this age, I think I’d like who I am and what I accomplished. Hopefully, you can look at yourself now, and know having all of those years to look back upon and smile with happiness in the warmth of good memories, or with bad decisions and hurt and sometimes embarrassment, the chill of regret comes and goes in a fleeting moment. Sometimes, we get the chance to undo a past regret. The opportunities come along infrequently, so try to recognize one when you happen upon it. I think it’s a strange enough concept, given the premise that you make your fate and take what’s in front of you – and make yourself better, create an improvement for your future self to incorporate. Use the good in front of you to drive your decisions.

Allow me to illustrate this phenomena with a personal example. About three years ago, I felt awful. However, I’d just gotten through a bunch of personal dramas — my dad died, my cat almost died, and a person who was a “friend” did something to cause enough stress to kill a normal human being. That was also when my husband tumbled deep into the dark well of depression.

Exactly thee months into 2015 I was really feeling awful and after watching me curl up into a ball on the bed, hands reaching and crying in absolutely the worst pain I’d ever physically felt in my life, he said that’s it we’re headed to the ER. We all thought it was food poisoning. Wrong diagnosis. There were 7.5 liters of ascetic fluid that built up in my abdominal cavity. If you’re unfamiliar with how cancer travels from one place to another in the body, they can only travel via your blood stream or your lymphatic system. When cancer goes rogue through the blood stream, it goes through the liver which goes into overdrive and other extreme chemical reactions happen. I’ll skip the details, but the net effect causes a fluid to build up, and floating metastatic cancer cells coagulate without real purpose like Mercury in an old anal thermometer. The silver beads attracted to one another and make larger more expansive ones that light up on a CT scan like tiny oil slicks.

Hey, congratulations you’ve got stage IV cancer of the breast and bone lesions. Well, that explains why I wasn’t feeling so well. I recall receiving an email right before that most horrible week from a good friend and the email required my immediate attention. My attention won’t relate to anything at all back then when I had the diagnosis come down on me so hard I didn’t know when or where I was in the scheme of life. I don’t think I even opened email from back then yet. It sits, unread in my inbox – all of it.

I lost the chance then at giving my hand to hold for a moment if she chose to pick it up so she could feel even slightly better – because I know intimately now tragedy causes loneliness. Let me say though, as a Joker I feel magically imbued with some preternatural ability to move around the here and now without being seen. Everywhere I go, I am not needed especially, yet I am empowered by my invisibility and the wisdom that improves with age. My wisdom tells me to go see her – call her – send flowers. DO ANYTHING to apologize that my physical state hasn’t allowed me to give her the attention then she probably didn’t need but I should have given her.

The Joker flies over and takes innocence like gasoline and soars over more clover until I find the lucky one, the one with four leaves. I am the luckiest Joker alive. So, to my friend who sent me a birthday card, now that the fireworks of the fourth are over I want to somehow tell her I love her and I think of her very often. I do hope she’s forgiven my remiss, having found out about my situation coinciding with her life’s loss. I hope so anyway.

She’s one of the good people I’m blessed in my life to know. The four leaf clovers? I now realize they’re the people in your life who I should never let go of and never give up on – regardless of the situation. They don’t care about a miscue. They’re too deep to be so shallow. They care about me and send the most positive thoughts they can.

Thank you my dear clover in the hills, I hope to see you very soon.

My Loves Electric (Not Anymore)


Our “Friends” Electric Gary Neumann

There’s a knock on the door/ and just for a second I thought I remembered you.
So now I’m alone / and I thought I could fend for myself.
(From Our Friends Electric by Gary Neumann)

I’m in a terrible dream from which awakening may prove worse. My house in a state of disrepair, crumbling down around me. I try to run as the floorboards warp and break behind me with each step, I scream moving towards a closing door my hand grips inches from the handle as it shuts and locks me inside our home’s sweet wreckage. My good dreams of the future simply exist as memories never made. Each new day wakes me with only the potential of a kind morning. And still alone, my mind races back to that door slamming in my dream single lingering question: I face myself and ask – where do I go from here?

My partner of 10 years decided in his state of untreated general anxiety disorder and depression to quit the miraculous rTMS treatments that incrementally could save him from a life in darkness. The magnetic woodpecker that sat over his head for 40 minutes and gave me five memorably glorious and wonderful days with him. Days and nights when his eyes returned to their beautiful sparkling turquoise with flecks of gold from cold, grey, and dead.

We want to sell our townhome. Simon our cat and me probably, for my longer term mortality, must move away from him should he remain embodied in anxiety’s bouts of rage and pain. Because metastatic breast cancer should take poll position over his anxiety, my life simply cannot continue in the same manner. The last hellish three years of watching the love of my life deteriorate from the vibrant and wonderful man into a nasty and cold asshole. My own coming months and years cannot be spent writing behind bars of someone else’s prison, a prison I handed him the keys to but he refuses to leave.

The keys to my prison do not exist, there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but Einstein said not all things that can get counted, should be counted.

Many women must experience similarly traumatic stress events with cancer ravaging their bodies. My life’s spirits’ exhaustion shows. I burn hot on fuel called cortisol down unpaved roads, climbing hills to where I believe waits my husband only to drop 10,000 feet until I can stop myself from falling. In the uglier more humiliating moments, I feel useless and unrepentantly inferior to able bodied non-disabled women. People say, “just move out!”

If it were only so easy.

The energy, money, and help (none of which I have by the way) moving takes and the emotional toll of the move itself and consider just the breakup – could shave years from my already shortened life. Yes, I do need to reconsider my options. Unfortunately, I’m unable to work much ouutside of my home and if I have any of my own money I don’t qualify for Medicare. In our great country, one must live far below the poverty line to become eligible to receive medical insurance to cover the incredibly high costs of living in a body full of metastatic breast cancer.

I’m watching my life expire, while my love lives imprisoned by something preventable and completely unwarranted since the keys lay in his reach. I imagine what the feelings of excitement of embarking on a new future, unladened by the heaviness of a partner with depression would feel like. However, given the genuine sadness, memories of pain and ugliness and tears combined with my MBC, and my heart and soul feel nothing even close to free. It’s so unfortunate my new direction will bring only lonely, empty, impoverished days and sleepless nights.

It’s as though his depression, rather then a hug and an apology, will be my runner up prize when it comes time to hit the road. I don’t want this new life, but I cannot stay in this one either. For three years I fought to try to help him. And now I cannot help him any longer. If you’d known us before you’d know why I struggled for so long to try and take care of him at the risk and loss in years of my own health.

What the fuck is life without love? What is life without purpose? What does it feel like to truly live alone with pain? How do I go forth into a life without anyone’s name to put on my advance directive? There’s no one left I can trust to see out my end wishes. No one who I can trust to speak for me when I cannot. Everyone’s gone – dead or left when cancer entered my bloodstream. Never did it occur to me that I’d become this lost so late in the game, but My Love is gone. He is not going to come back to me. I mourne him as he was and don’t know this person who says ugly horrible things and teases me with hope of his wellness and then maligns his state of mental health like a monster from an old movie in front of me.

It’s torture. He believes I am having him go to these treatments to have his brain scrambled like eggs. Yet rTMS was incrementally helping him. Now in his refusal to continue he’s just cruel and it makes me wonder what I did to deserve this horrible life. You’d think – why would anyone do this and choose to hurt someone and himself? How egotistical can one be?

You’ll have to ask him. He may indeed become my last love and now my lost life. Indeed, the friend was electric, but he chose to leave its tapping on his door unanswered and thus, unbeneficial. If life as I hoped truly is over, where to from here?

Plan 9 From Inner Space or The Week from the Black Lagoon

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
The Tempest by W. Shakespeare

Some weeks just suck out loud. Seven days when you swerve from lane to lane avoiding wrecks. Alone in your car, you sing along to a song you love, of your own aural detriment and the unlucky winner who pulled up next to you at the long light lottery. This week’s highlights, with a stressed set of vocal cords, included both Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel and Somebody to Love by Queen. Tonight brought on an earthworm of West End Girls by the Pet Shop Boys. Perhaps once I return to the century we find ourselves led through by accidentally drawing a trump card, I may find music worth my ears and my brain time.

Yeah, the kind of week when you wish for humanity to take a piss up a rope. Then magically, someone comes along and makes your heart warmly humble. Gives you a case of the humilities. A roaring, hair blowing, house flooding giant tsunami of love in your heart. For anyone who wants some. And some folks, too, who don’t seem to want any of your kind of love at all. Screw them, not literally of course unless you really want to, they’re getting loved by you irrespective of attitudinal tapeworms.

There’s people in our midst who quietly and with a dignified grace sweep beautifully and lovingly for no apparent reason into your world. They may stay for a week, a month or maybe a few months or a year. They cannot remain a permanent fixture physically in your life, but change you spiritually and create space for you to accept ideas and postulations that contemplation in the past would bring up your lunch.

Imagine with me of a time when cancer finds you and you find it eventually at any stage – doesn’t really matter. Just as the people who come in and out of your life during your cancer journey: they find you and you find them. Two specific people came into my life recently, each of them so different yet perhaps not so different if you didn’t know what they looked like or what either of them do or did for a living. We measure people by what they do in our culture, rather than the quality of the spirit they bring to our physical world – with a voice that roars quietly in your ears, almost miraculously, when they’re not in your presence. No discussions about why it’s so fucking miraculous that we’re even reading and writing to one another or having heated or gentle discussions together and how unbelievably unlikely it is that we’re here at all…they embody why it’s just so cool to be human.

The first person to find me lost on my own verbose path and take my and pull me gently in a healthier direction, began as a business relationship and grew into a friendship. I am 52 she is a damned fine looking woman in her early 70s with the most piercing green apple eyes I’ve ever seen. I love her as a friend can love a friend when you know how unlikely the friendship but how likely once you dig a layer under the other persons skin and vice versa. She’s gotten me to my current psychologist. My psychologist has had breast cancer, and I’ve met with her twice in seven days and again Monday next week. She along with my green apple wise woman gave me a gift of female co-thinkers to help me through the tunnel I am currently in and not letting me drift into the walls of the tunnel as I find the other side with my speedometer going just a tad slower. No wrecks.

The other signs his email this way:
Peace in peculiar times.
And with this quote:
“While waiting for the other shoe to drop, hop around on the one you’re wearing.”

I find along side the road I’m currently on in my life with cancer, not waste and detritus, but people. Not hitchhikers, but people waving to me and telling me to keep going and not to stop since its rather unnecessary.

The second person has a plan in this life of mine but more on him later. Just know that he’s a cat of many lives and doesn’t stop to lick any wounds. He simply stretches and stretches on with life leaving behind the ugly, the illness, the angry, the negative, and the weight of the past. He’s lighter than air. I hope when I meet him in person I can breath a bit easier knowing that we are not in this journey of ours alone and that other humans in this consciousness came before us to allow free passage of our own loves and lives from one to another and that’s what it’s all about.

Peace out.
Next week should provide for better spiritual happiness and music to tap my foot to the beat of in order to move ahead one more space on the board.

I hear Closer to the Heart by Rush and leave you with this song for by which you may contemplate your navel lint.

Closer to the Heart

Maps and Legends

My epic signed by blue,
Pencils edited, erased.
Pages loosened and flew,
White winged birds sung,
Tightened claws bound to lines,
Snap and fly to inner space.

Shortened pagination,
Politely taken wayward
A palace ‘tross seaward.
My imagination skips,
Hissing gently, a light kiss,
Skip the lights aquatic,
Swan dive into the record.
Hole round against,
Metal and rusted center,
End over a feather,
A light in a jet stream.

Dripping ink and rain,
The last page set,
Down in a spring,
Slowly changing everything.
My books marked still,
On page one. Your laughter,
Soaked and heavy with disaster,
Sitting in the oak’s shade,
You kiss my nose and mark,
With cooled breasts. Wonderful
Of you. A park and your hand,
Reaches to shade your face,
As we read from the book
Of the dead and avoided,
The looks of their eyes,
Ashsmed and exploited.
Slaves and a haurcut.

You forgot.
Cash piles stashes,
Ashtrays and snug graves.
We all fall down.
The ground grows smaller,
As I pass the tree line,
Bangs on the Earth,
Becoming her daughter.
Funny to stand today,
Eclipsing the sun,
Looking down?
Avoiding blind faith,
Pin hole in a box,
Gentle and round.
Protect the last epoch,
Hidden in a rainstorm.
Injustice of ghost town.
What substance, space
She left us, just as wraith.

Why I Love Vintage

https://www.etsy.com/listing/500887842/vintage-rhinestone-encrusted-button-with

Buttons – it started with buttons. Vintage and old buttons to be precise. Hundreds became thousands. My theory: button mitosis. The rhinestone 1950s button you see above, one of the latest acquisitions, stands alone as a thought prototype come true by a nameless, faceless designer. I look at them as though I can save enough to button up my life. Like Eliot used coffee spoons, I measure my time in buttons.