 ©1999-1999 ICFTP What're you, kidding? |
3 May 1999, last night
Lyle Lovett on the stereo, Powerbook in my lap. Was just thinking.
Feeling, really.
Thank God this misery is almost a luxury.
Say what? Well, I don’t often revel in the miserable aspects of where my life is fixing to go. Not a lot of percentage in that, and it don’t feel good. To do it, I have to be alone, and I’m rarely alone these days. And this is what I am thankful for: that they want me to be with them, that they want to be with me. That I will revel in, freely. So mostly I don’t get down. It’s hilarious in some ways, because I am happier right now than I ever have been. Ever. Things are pretty much going my way. It’s still work, but that’s actually a component of happiness... I firmly believe that humans need to strive, to work, to be challenged to be happy. So mostly I’m good. Sometimes I’m not.
Went out to my parents tonight.
My stomach is still a tight ball, parked somewhere immediately south of my heart. Thought to myself today, as I was walking through the parking lot, pictured myself explaining the pipe in my lap to Amelia’s mom, telling them I was going out to my parent’s, them asking me why I dreaded it so, me explaining that parents do not do well when their oldest child is terminally ill. ‘Cause they don’t. Think about that for a sec or two. You’re not supposed to explain things to your parents. They’re just supposed to know.
Hmmmf. Anyway.
Good things, man, it’s the good things. Yup, gotta be.
Lyle Lovett. Good Thing. Like some kind of personal songwriting physician, sent to entertain and heal. Go, man, go. I love him, he doesn’t need to say the obvious things. He moves right on into the absurd when it suits him. Absurd stories told with a straight - well, actually quite crooked - face, to something country with a dash of gospel, a hearty dallop of blues and a stinging tang of smartass wit.
Watch out folks, harsh segue ahead:
“Lilu, that’s an orange. You don’t want that. Oh, now you want the laptop? Hey ya’ll, she wants to type.” Now she's in my lap. Sweet kitty. Pet, pet.
“She has literary aspirations,” says Christy. “Perhaps she's the reincarnation of Emily Dickenson?”
Ok, now she’s abandoned me for the big brown Glad bag in the floor. I love it when it gets dark in here, her pupils get huge and her face looks totally different. She looks like little miss innocent now, instead of something predatory, with eyes narrowed to vertical slits - providing her with better depth perception so she doesn’t miss that vital first swipe.
Hehehehe. Lilu the Jungle Cat. You should’ve seen her in the peace lily. I don’t think she’d get along too well with David’s new housemates.
4 May 1999:
Goddammit, goddammit goddammit. Why do I read other people's leukemia webpages? Fuck. I am so sick of this shit, ya'll. I am getting angry, trying not to. Remission/relapse/drugs/diabetes/insulin/needles/slow recovery for years and years and chemo chemo chemo... fucketty fuck fuck FUCK. GRRRRRR. Maybe I shoulda just cradled that asp, uh I mean copperhead, to my breast. GRRRRRRR.
Oh woe is me, oh pity me, world. I kneel before thee arms raised and beseech the heavens, oh what cruel fate is this waaaah waaaaaah my pussy hurts.
Sheeeeeeit. Gimme a can of Budweiser. I'm a Southern man, it's my goddamn natural-born right. On second thought, make it a can of Old Milwaukee's Best. Nothing better in the morning. (!!BUUUURP!!) I'll crush it on my forehead if I wanna.
Fuck it. At least this morning was interesting. Read on, constant reader.
4 May 1999:
I had to protect my household this morning, by doing something I really didn't want to do, but knew I had to.
Killed a copperhead in our parking lot.
I walked out and Cleo, the oldest of the cats, was yodelling her "Hey looka here boss, I got somethin', c'mere, c'mere" meow. I wandered over, saying "Cleo, whatcha got now?" Looked down...
Holy shit. Not good. A small, very pretty, very poisonous snake. Cat playing with snake. Potential dead cat scenario. And... well, Cleo's a wise old campaigner. She might be able to get away with it. Miles and Ella would think that a young copperhead was the coolest thing since scratchy sticks. VERY not good.
Dammit, I like snakes. I hate killing snakes.
But I love the cats. So... Trey went to Amelia's apartment and beseeched her mother for something large, heavy and blunt. She handed me a claw hammer, and I went over and did my unpleasant duty, removing the bucket I'd put over the snake so the stupid cat wouldn't get killed, opening it away from me, of course, whacked the pretty little snake on it's tiny head - once, twice. After a moment it stopped writhing.
Dammit. I hated doing that.
Derby Day!
Here we go, tons of pics of Derby Day 1999. My horse didn't win, but I got sloshed. I just put up the pics for now, clever notes and anecdotes coming soon. Gotta get to work.