Afflicted
I’m afflicted by the red eye
And the creeping crud
My junkyard heart is jury-rigged
While the prostate’s shot to hell
Osteoarthritis
Keeps advancing through my joint
If I’m in the mood for self-pity
It will rarely disappoint
My lower back (like everyone’s)
Gets crankier every year
My skin continues rusting out
And these ears can hardly hear
To add insult to injury
I’ve gotten kind of stout
I’m getting dumb and balder
And my teeth are now take-out
Can hardly see ten yards these days
And my brain is misaligned
I started out afraid of death
But I’ve slowly changed my mind.
January 2013
I know, I really, really do, that I made the right decision – no extraordinary measures – it’s the choice TAB wanted.
Alice had a scream lodged in her throat, and if she gave vent it she would never stop. So she didn’t scream or weep or tear her hair or pound with her fists until they were bloody, though she wanted to do all those things. Instead she grabbed on to one thought and wouldn’t let go—every spell can be undone. She had to believe this, though she had no evidence of its truth. She had to believe that she could get Hatcher back.
~ Christina Henry – Red Queen, The Chronicles of AliceMe and Alice? We've got some serious shit in common.
Henry’s paragraph above really hit me last night. I read it just after I’d passed the 6:15 point. For me, sub in every mammoth, monstrous loss can be survived for every spell can be undone. Replace had to believe that she could get Hatcher back with must believe TAB, ethereally but clearly and solidly, lives on.
Without TAB by my side I’m, once more, in distrusting, mondo skeptic mode. Now though, I strive to see the full picture, all the angles and root causes. That's his influence, his presence.
Pre-TAB, I was a 24/7 Suspish-o-tron. After a childhood chock full of bullying girls and boys, disgustingly over-the-line teachers, coaches and “mentors,” friends who weren’t and three years with a traveling carnival, I became misanthropically hyper-wary and arch.
TAB was kind and giving but nobody’s doormat. He was cynical but not without hope. He showed me that it was possible to be strong, cautious, questioning AND open (or open-ish). Forgiving? Eh, dunno how relevant that is. When wronged I'm now able to let go of anger and move on but “forgiveness?” Greedheads, fartbrained asswipes and friends who prove that they are not, don’t get second chances. I learn my lessons well.
I’m not as quick with the sneers, jeers and condemnations but, hey, don’t tempt me (she writes with a grim, kinked out smile).
Donna had a scream lodged in her throat, and if she gave vent it she would never stop.
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