When clouds gather unexpectedly, I quietly ask myself whether something is going on above or behind them. Are Greek or Roman gods deliberating about something important? Matters of celestial significance? Or have greedy politicians corruptly snatched the power away from mythology and now are using that control to eliminate the thorns that interfere with the comfort of their coup d’é·tat?
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I still feel a sense of sanctuary, but I hear sounds like the walls—made of egg shells—are cracking, then imploding into a thousand misshaped pieces. Once broken, it is said egg shells cannot be repaired. But, when the walls of a sanctuary begin to fracture, does some mysterious force cobble the fragments back together and seal them with a protective emotional shield? Does the sanctuary outlive its physical expression—or, once demolished, are its protections forever gone?
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Crepe myrtle leaves, before being shed by their most branches and twigs, turn bright orange-red, the color of fresh rust on new steel. If I had been asked, two months ago, to describe the transition of crepe myrtle leaves from their shiny green summer look to the point they have reached today, I would have been inaccurate with my reply. Memories can take up so much space that they run out of room. Or it could be shrinking space, not expanding content, that crowds out memories.
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Proceed with caution. A warning. A plea to exercise care. A suggestion that trouble lurks ahead. A piece of ominous advice. An admonition to be wary of the unknown. People who are enamored with the fog of language and have an almost perverse affection for thesauruses (thesauri, for the snob set), are called word nerds; they refer to their enemies, with derision, as illiterati. Ah, but if only the animus between nerds and illiterati could be confined to limited to words. Both sides of the battle, though, carry weapons “for protection.” Nerds insist their weaponry is for defense; illiterati justify carrying arms by asserting they are for preemptory offensive engagements. Inf fact, though, both factions lie; weapons are carried as security blankets to combat fear. Both groups’ fears differ in their expression…one more likely to be forthright and the other wearing a mask that hides motive.
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I think I am emerging from the fatigue and related side-effects of my most recent chemotherapy. Ever since the middle of last December I have been fighting illness—two hospitalizations for pneumonia at first, followed by a recurrence of my lung cancer after five years. Various other physical frailties attempted to derail me during the course of this year, but I have so far successfully plowed through them. Yet when I realize it has been almost a year since these intrusive health issues began again, it occurs to me that 2024 has largely been a lost year. And, if recent oncological experiences and plans are any indication, the process will continue for an indeterminate period. It could amount to perpetual maintenance of an unsatisfactorily low level of existence. Ach.
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My eyelids are red and puffy. My eyes are rough as a cat’s tongue. The skin on my arms and legs torments me with its angry and dry attitude. My hair is thinner and shorter than the fur on a newborn kitten, struggling to survive. Unused skin and flab hangs loosely from my chest and gut, crying out for a back-alley cosmetic surgeon to return me to a version of myself that never existed.
