Go to FIRST post –> Diary of My Death, Post #1
Just a few texts to family and friends:
- The silver lining in all of this is that I have found a marginally rash but very effective way to get away from the worldwide embarrassment of Trump! Ha!
- Ya, I’ve had a tight run of bad luck lately. First I broke my eyeglass, then my Jeep frame rusted out, and then I got diagnosed with cancer. All of this really upsets me because those eyeglass frames were my most favorite-est, ever! Everything is expiring!
- Y’know, with me sleeping only two hours at a time, I find a special satisfaction by shutting down my laptop by clicking “Sleep.”
- Woody Allen: “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve it through not dying.”
And a few stray thoughts:
As winter is rolling in like a huge, gray grindstone, I realized I’m getting tired of living on a boat. When a day and half of strong winds blew all the water out of the creek, my boat settled into the mud, and I had to climb up out of it to the dock. I thought, “Y’know, even a tiny apartment with central heating would be sweet. I’m about ready to move off the water. Ya, I think this will be my last winter on my boat.” A few moments later I thought, “UH, YAA! This probably WILL be my last winter on my boat! DUH!”
I am sick, and I’m uncomfortable, but I’m not in a lot of pain. Mostly it’s just a dull ache below my ribs on my right side. There are, though, those unexpected little gasps – like a single hiccup – that cause the ache to sharpen and bite. (Because deep breaths awaken the ache, I think the surprise gasps are serving as substitute yawns.) Those gasps bring a momentary pain that makes me cuss, and then I’m back to normal. I picture the source of the ache and pain as a raisin-sized organic PacMan eating my guts. It is chewing me in super-slow motion, but it is steadfast in its mission to make me hollow and lifeless like a mannequin. It will never stop. It will grow from the size of a raisin to the size of a cherry, then a grape, then a plum, then a peach, then . . . well, eventually, the size of ME! I’ll become a 180-pound tumor slurping down the hospital hallways, a big blob moving forward vaguely like a PacMan . . . and some bespectacled, slightly bored and annoyed hospital admin person walking backwards while looking at a clipboard, saying, “Sir, you have been officially discharged. You must leave the premises, and you must immediately stop wandering the hallways and absorbing staff members. If you cannot arrange your own transportation . . .”
Chances are that as the cancer grows, my time will become progressively useless. It has occurred to me that whether I have less or more than a year, that fuck-shit PacMan is NOT going to leave my body, ever. No shit, man, the clock is ticking. I can’t let myself forget that. I can’t allow myself to waste time on petty problems or negative emotions. I’ve often said that for all of us, all the time, it is always later than we think it is, but for me, right now, no shit, man, the clock IS ticking.
Go to next post –> Diary of My Death, Post #8