Still on the Edge in Sumas

Well in the interest in not keeping a detailed record of things recent, I've elected to never write again. A collective "you're welcome" to you all.

I am such a liar.

Instead I'll just skip to what I've been doing. Swedish five times, and Mark is as okay as can be. But I am a bit sick of the ER. Back on the chemo, this time with new (and improved?!) drugs. I guess one and one-half years is good, but I was really hoping we had seen the last of it. People keep asking, Yes, but how are YOU doing? Like that's going to help me voice some inner plea for support, or sympathy, or courtesy. Like I won't be toast when he's dust, and he won't even be reasonable enough to wait for me (and how dare I be pissed at him?). And until we're there, I'd better obey his every whim, because he gets to be the One. Just like Charles. Jeez.

And I'm also a thief. And a con. I wonder how long I'll last in this little town w/o him. The ladies at Bromleys are all up my ass to get the electric star on the porch lit, like its CHRISTMAS and all, and aren't I therefore obligated?! Not. I didn't say anything about Jesus being an absurd fantasy, on a par with gangs of leprechauns ravaging your garden with tiny golden shovels. Which is the bigger fantasy?

Maybe people would better put their faith in a purple dragon with pink wings and white spots, as their personal savior.

I do believe there are means of dissipating and manipulating energy; I do think we humans have access to a multitude of means and modes to influence the currents around us. I do also think that those multitides often have their own behaviors--their own rules, which may or may not be revealed to us. I do think there's room for more than just blind emptiness and vacuum. So yea for me.

I find myself contemplating a life w/o him, and of course I can't. I can't even imagine my life before, let alone see into the future. The past is a grey blur, not very welcoming. The future, completely unknowable. Probably that's a great relief, or would be--could I see it. That's the def of a pessimist.

Would I ever enjoy the crowded city streets again? In rainiest bitter, cruel, December? Like I can even now?

I find myself wanting to know more Cole Porter. And maybe play one Chopin tune on the piano. Again. I practice, then forget. Practice, then forget. Maybe I should get a piano up in Boston Bar. But, no. Performance of any stripe is not in me. Sentimental wishing doesn't keep. Surface, ornament, building on what's there...those things are mine--that's what I'm good at. And I've still much heavy fruit to pluck. But don't ask me to pose in front of it. It never looks as good.