news poetry

I am home daily, watching daytime TV instead of writing for my life. There is much to complain about, but I won't embarrass myself by outlining the shortcomings of Kelly Rippa or Ozzie Osbourne's wife. Its the news that drives me mad. Here's a tiny example: "She was released from prison after 28 years and her family released its joy." Do they need an editor? Is the news so pressing it has to go out for wholesale consumption before anyone can reel it back in for a literary check? Or, conversely, is the news so bland that journalistic poetry might save it? Might keep consumers from seeking straight talk on the web? I'm just wondering.

The other menace is the barrage of  pre-news questions posed by newscasters: "What did one family find in its closet that left claw marks on the front door? We'll let you know on our midnight newscast." Why do they do this? Do they really think their questions are so intriguing that we'll stay riveted to our 50" screens until the tell us it was a cat? Maybe they do. Maybe we will.

I feel better now.

mood

Been down so long it looks like up to me. I think Bob Dylan said that. I am so near the end it feels like coasting. In three days my last chemo can have a week or two of my life then I'm having it back.

fait accompli

Chemo is over. I am feeling better every other day, climbing out of the abyss, clawing, grabbing, each handhold familiar as I transition into the light of spring. I'm so glad I planted bulbs two years ago. Daffodills are opening, the Daphne is amazing. I looked up in my Western Gardner book to see about pruning them. Most nursery plats are pruned after blooming or in fall, but "Daphne is Different." She needs to be pruned while still in bloom. So I found my pink pruning shears (clippers, really) put on my gloves and chopped off all the weird growth that happened over the cold snap of winter. My garden is otherwise a poster of neglect, the neighbor you don't want to have. Thank god for perrenials.

As this part of the process draws to a close, my old pal bladder infection arrives. Again and again, just to remind me that I am still human. It doesn't seem fair, but then, what is fair? So, I spent the morning offering urine samples to the uro gods to do with me what they will. I'm just tired of being sick and sick of being tired. Ah well. On to spring and radiation. I will ask somebody to clean my deck, find me a lawn chair and lay back and enjoy the sunrainsun that is Portland in the springtime.

I don't have cancer, though. That is good.