In which our heroine finds herself clutched in the monster’s filthy, razor sharp claws, afraid for her life. Introduction: The scripting process begins and ends This narrative slowly opens and possibly took several years for the writer to realize the finished script. Editing the story of a life continues beyond publication, past the timeline of
Traversing my inner space wearing the lens of metastatic disease, my inner eye wanders into dark places at times. The glasses have me reading invisibilities into ideas that have no real importance. Ideas such as what my life’s purpose what could I possibly serve the world when at the moment I was diagnosed with #metastatic breast cancer three years ago, my needs far outweigh my ability to give. Many days my questions return only an inner sigh of response. My contributions and defining myself and my roles becomes so foggy, so unclear to me.
In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
To find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen reflect in receding ice cubes and
Swinging across Elm into urbanite cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated dinners
With a side of dry rye wit
A blue velvet bag opened by this single Movement – her hand reached Into the spaciousness above And all stars’ light unpacked, and Secreted away in drawer full of daydreams. Now the seashore glistens With the promise of night, and Eternally luminous With all the befores, And all the ever afters, Moving our millions of tears Into a single smiling river. “Goodnight my beautiful bodies,” And we fly away home, laughing.
From Werner Herzog’s remake with Klaus Kinski as Nosferatu, based mostly on the silent Murnau adaptation of the Stoker novel, I leave you with a quote, and one that says maybe it’s not Lucy with whom I should resonate, but the monster himself:
“To be unable to grow old is terrible… Death is not the worst…”
Poetry Foundation I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock It’s 9:15 a.m., a frantic and rainy Monday after thanksgiving weekend, cars spinning like