Up and Down

Dragging one more step

   

A false history may settle comfortably in the medulla and cerebellum,

Erasing the actual history that's hell bent on marauding, pillaging and fleecing the rest of the brain?

Emerson said, "...Courage is universally admired, meanness despised..."

Yet what if there is only a finite amount of courage allotted to each of us?

What if I used my courage up and all that's left is the sticky resin at the bottom of the honey pot?

What if I am called on to raise my shield and blade and the whole thing crumbles before me. 

Do I siphon my tears into the sticky pot and loosen my last remnants of courage? If I purge long enough I will fill that pot; however, diluted my courage may be, it's still mine and I will not harrow my thoughts in directions that do not strengthen the soup of my courage.

Blue Beds

Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer 
The Mag 192






I have to hid away from the revelers
They steal too much oxygen.

Blue beds
empty tanks

I've been gone a long long time.
Baby kitty love eyes
while I nebulize.

lazy lazy dog daze
sad stares
heartbroken gaze.

A friend here and a friend there
love and compassion fills my air.

Hospice days 90 and counting.

Time

Lately time has really been at the forefront of my consciousness. I am living on borrowed time. I am trying to finish a novel in 30 days and I can't even be sure that I can actually work on it everyday. In the past seven days I have spent four and a half in bed. I am in end stage respiratory failure due to the progression of muscular dystrophy. I have made the decision to go into hospice. This means no ventilator for me and no trach. I feel like I have a list of things to do but I have no real time frame for completing them. I procrastinate like I will be here for years and perhaps I will be. However, there is a real chance that anything can happen at anytime.

I don't know who reads this blog. It is not even my main blog but I almost feel like I can open up here easier than on my main blog. I am trying to push through and steal little pieces of energy. I am not talking on the phone as much because it steals too much energy. I don't go out as much. I hate to shop. I must be the only woman in America that hates to shop because it steals too much energy. Writing and painting they do not steal too much energy.

three years later

This boy "Tobi Teeth" became mine. He was my mother's dog until she passed away, 18 days after I worked tirelessly on Framescape for thirty days straight. I felt an enormous sense of guilt because I spent all that time writing this story not having any real idea where it would take me instead of spending her last month on this earth with her. Now three years later I am in hospice with end stage respiratory failure and advanced muscular dystrophy trying to finish this story. I finally figured out what it is about and who my characters are. well at least of few of them.

For the time being my plan is the try to reach my goal and write this book. I haven't touched it in three years. My official start date is Friday, November 1st. I will be posting my word count daily in case anyone out there is interested. Mainly it is for myself. It helped keep me going last time, here's hoping it will do it again.

The Slip

Joseph Lorusso
Magpie Tales 155

He is walking in now. Just keep your face close to mine. There it worked, he spotted me, umm well us. And he's gone. Thank you. By the way what is your name? I really appreciate this. I just couldn't deal with him. I knew his ego wouldn't tolerate my being with another man. Well I have to go. Thanks again.

Rejected

Central Library, Manchester, U.K., by Robin Gosnall - Magpie Tales

He looked down at the crowd gathered below, it seemed a shame to take one of them out. So he sat Indian-style at the edge and patiently waited for the coast to clear. "Umm, maybe I shouldn't wait, maybe one of them deserves to go with me?" He voiced from above. Yet no one heard him. Not one person looked up. Not one person noticed his knee caps dangling from the edge.

The fall would be considerable. How high was it? 50 feet, 100? He didn't know. His spatial intelligence had always failed him and this time he worried it would fail him again. What if it wasn't high enough? Leaving the job undone? That would be a shame. That might be the only thing to change his mind. The pain would be considerable. It didn't concern him.

He closed his eyes and the breeze hit his face. Where was the sun? Why couldn't he feel the sun on his face?  Day in and day out, he sat alone in his apartment watching TV and thinking and reading and scratching himself raw. Eating the same old Top Ramen . Piling his clothes in a black garbage sack and donating them as soon as they were too disgusting to wear, even for him. Turning around and going to the same donation store and finding new clothes, cleaner clothes to wear. He stank. Nothing could remove the odor. He stood up, looked up and jumped.

He was no longer alone, with him at the door of Hell was the pedophile he nailed on impact. Hell was pleased. Hell took the pedophile with open arms and thanked him kindly for his donation but then  slammed the door in this face. Hell had no use for him. No use at all.

Rejected again! He shrugged and moved on...