on a totally un-cancer related note:

LEANNE WON!!!

yay.

Ironically, I've never watched project runway because I've been too poor at school to afford cable.

vicarious joy. Her collection was the only one that was truely cohesive and innovative. It is paaaainful that I can't be designing my senior collection right now.

I just keep telling myself that good things come to those who wait...

me and the devil blues

Sorry that last post was so depressing. It's like I was damned to Hell for two weeks and then given pardon for the last two days. Now I'm back. The Yerba Buena fashion symposium was refreshing. Although I didn't have anything new to sell, I made some money and good contacts, and (surprisingly) got to catch up with many friends and acquaintances.



Chemo today. Adriamycin. They call it the Red Devil because of its color and inherent nastiness. During my three hour powwow with the devil I read a small article on Robert Johnson and his elusive history. I wrote a paper a couple of semesters ago on persona poems based on Leadbelly, having been a fan. I had never heard of Robert Johnson though. Oh, is he good. soso good.



"she got a lein on my body now, mortage on my soul..."





His history is convoluted with folklore. They say he died at 27 after drinking poisoned whiskey by a man jealous of his wife's affection. They say that he recorded his 78 with his chair facing the corner of the room, back to everyone. They say he sold his soul to the Devil for his talent.



I have always had a love affair with music rooted in blues. It comes from my dad singing and playing his guitar for me as a little girl. I don't think he knew many songs, but House of the Rising Sun was the one I remember most. I didn't understand the song. I knew it was sad. New Orleans was a place I'd never been to, but my family had roots there, so somehow it felt personal. I reveled in the stories my dad told me about his guitar, how he bought it on a Vietnam stint, how the inlaid dove was real ivory, shiny and smooth. When I got older I tried to learn to play. The strings hurt my hands; I could never press hard enough. It never occurred to me that there was anything else to learn on but steel.



Here is a little playlist of my favorites, including Leadbelly's version of House of the Rising Sun, and a song from Dylan & Cash's Nashville sessions.

a memorial for something or another

I feel obligated be candid on this blog, despite the desire to protect myself. Voyerism is a vulnerability. So is cancer, so is life. And, life is all about other people, living things, only diffused through one's self and then back again, sharing, hopefully infinitely. The lack of blood is making me crazy.

So I write, even though earlier I kept my face firmly planted in a bathtowel crying, sobbing hard, so that my family in the next room wouldn't notice. I am broken down. My body is a mess, my mind slowly slipping into the grips of phobia. The thought of having a needle biopsy in my neck tomorrow is terrifying. I will simply. refuse.
I am only two decades long.
and so much more pain to come

What thread do I have to hold onto? Little mediocre things to satisfy.

my shoulders are numb
no great weight, just
lack of bloodflow
feeling
my heart beating
my body senseless
literally.
incessantly
trying to make it up to me
it's ok baby.
i dont mind if you
let me down
again.
i can
pick myself up
just fine baby my
shoulders are numb
anyway.

I will be in sf this weekend.

I feel so weak.

My heart breaks for little insignificancies while my body only breaks for the monumental. For some reason I thought that my dire situation would heal me of all past insecurities and mental calamities- your priority will cure what ails you. How wrong I was. I am still the same.

Chemo has made me anemic- I can feel my heart beating hard, trying to make up. Parts of my body are numb due to this inadequacy. I will need a transfusion soon. This is such an odd thought- someone else's blood inside me. I could make so many epic metaphors right now it's disgusting.

communication 101

It occurs to me that many of my readers are either from PlanetCancer, friends of friends, or simply people I know nothing about. In addition to this, I've got friends and family that I've been forced to separate from, and as we all know, chemo is a bitch with keeping acquaintances. I can barely lift my texting finger to tell you all I haven't croaked.

I am sending out an open letter to anyone who reads this. Send me something. Anything. A heart-felt confession, a joke, your deepest darkest secret, a toy soldier you found on the sidewalk, a piece of a puzzle.

I will send you something back. I probably won't have the energy every time for a hand-illustrated masterpiece, but you can bet it will be something. Maybe a Polaroid. Maybe a receipt with pornographic cartoons drawn on it, maybe some of my extra percocet. Maybe a page from my journal.


And MAYBE, if you give permission, I'll post one or two on the bog.

Happy Sending.

Email kaylinmarie@gmail.com to get my address...

tumor justice league

I'd really like to know when this obscene chemolestation of my body will subside so that I can finally press charges on the pervy bastard and begin years of therapy for latent memories of torture to subside.

What would have been a much-needed reunion with one of my favorite people this weekend collapsed anti-climactically into a one-woman sleep/puke fest.

It is the most miserable thing my body has ever been through. Death, essentially. Drugs teasing your body with the hot, muddied sensations of death. I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

Luckily my lady made me a special talisman with a glittery gold tooth.



rawr.

Adventures of Cancer Girl, pt. 2

I will update this post with more images once chemo week is over. I am a weakling right now.

One night, hopped up on Decadron and robbed of sleep, I decided to draw out a comic entitled "The Cancer Girl Chronicles". This basically involved my tumor with a hitler moustache trying to invade my body after Poland. I will scan the original story line eventually.

Here is what my improper illustrator and I came up with:





My kitty looks great on roids. We have at least 5 stories in the works. Click the donate button if you want to see more, as these things take a hell of a lot of time! Or specify that you'd like to donate to Cure Sarcoma, another great cause :)

Upcoming stories include scenester alien fetus possibilities (oh thank god that's just a tumor in my pelvis), how god sucks at bingo, and more medical marijuana smoking exploits.