on holding one's breath

A few of you have said you want to see less "cute girl" on the blog and more gritty truth. Is this morbid curiosity? Or are you just tired of balloons?

Some of you will see me around on my good days, or you'll see self portraits and say "You look great and healthy and happy as ever". This is not entirely untrue- for those precious few days I am very, very happy.

I am not acting but you are still seeing a show.

here is my reality:


My life now is hooked to an IV 24 hrs a day, five days a week. My life is nausea, my life is too tired to speak. My life misses the comfort of fingertips along my back, taking my mind off of pain. These days I am not touched without gloves. My life now is a ritual of treatment, my place of worship the hospital. Every Sunday offering up my blood to white-robed oracles and praying my counts will be ok. In Sunday school, long ago, didn't I accept the blood of christ? emanation, martyrdom. I can't help but draw parallels. You get to the point where you can do no more unless it's for others. That's what I'm feeling now- I wouldn't be doing this if it were not for others. If I was alone I'd be content with an untimely end. I'm sacrificing for all of you.
blasphemy.

It's day one. I will hold my breath and come back up for air four days from now.

wish me luck.

moving day, moving on

The only thing left to eat in my apartment this morning was quick oats. the irony does not escape me.


People often ask me if having cancer is a surreal experience. Can you imagine only having a year or two to live? Neither can I. I usually say that I've acclimated by now and grown accustomed to the "realness" of my situation. When I awoke today in my beloved apartment for the last time, third story sun shining through my big victorian windows, everything felt like another dimension. In a way, it was- I was waking up to my past. The life I lead before cancer is history, and I'm having a hard time letting go. I want to hold on with white-knuckled desperation because at 23 I was finally coming into my own, for the first time in my life. There was an inclination of something monumental just upon the horizon, and I was right, though it was not what I had expected. Because of this I've started to ruminate on fate, or purpose, or whatever you'd like to call it. I felt cancer coming intuitively, and now I believe it is a roadblock I am meant to overcome. My fate has more glorious and catastrophic things in store.

now you see it

now you don't.


Moving day is today. I've always loved the idea of leaving things behind to be found in old houses. I want to find something or leave something- little pieces of the past, a sentence to a story you'll never know. The idea of a legacy left behind, even to a stranger. Other people's lives fascinate me. I always thought I'd have a child eventually, and I could leave all my writings and odd things behind to be passed down. I'd be someone's crazy great-great-great grandmother that left all of her love-letters and ramblings. Now I'm faced with the very real possibility that this won't happen, that I'll die prematurely in some hospital bed and slowly be forgotten. My story will rot in a box somewhere, just as I will. Perhaps the only way for me to move on from this is to leave a part of me behind.

I need to pry up some floorboards and get to it.

The people all call her Alaska

Today has been the first day of relative normalcy in almost 2 weeks- finally my symptoms are not too painful and the grey haze of fatigue has lifted. I have three days to enjoy this.

I have been writing a lot lately, not here, but in my notebooks, gathering phrases and ideas. The idle hands have a lot to do with it- I am pretty much stuck in this house without a car. I still feel like the odd one out in suburbia. It makes me stir-crazy. People stare at my tattoos and strange dress. I miss the homeless yelling at me, I miss the hot tranny messes spilled all over the sidewalk. I miss the beautiful houses and trees and weather. I miss the gays. I miss designing things. God damnit, I miss San Francisco.

I have a wonderful friend who recently bought me a remote to my Nikon, so here are a couple of self portraits today. The odd one out and soooo not kosher:






Now off to drink something I have invented that is the greatest thing since ever:
Soy hot cocoa with liquid morphine and whipped cream on top.
Try it sometime, you will not be sorry.

technicalities

I've just figured out how to allow unregistered users to comment- duh! comment away. I've still yet to unlock the mysteries of reply comments...

Also, letters have been received and I am awaiting my boxes of things from SF so that I can return the generosity. You guys (even those I've never met) know me surprisingly well... art projects and old things really do float my boat!

<3

things on strings

First of all, I must salute whoever came up with this p.c. slogan:

"Planet Cancer: We've done drugs Keith Richards never heard of."

My insides feel like Keith Richard's face right now. Recovery after each cycle seems prolonged, replacing recuperation with utter frustration. Not feeling strong enough to get out of bed or eat for weeks at a time just sucks ass. I can't really sugarcoat it.

One of the things I initially thought when searching the web for other twenty-somethings with cancer was, "Fuck, now I'm going to have to start smiling in all of my pictures." Everyone smiles, lots of bald shiny heads smiling to show they're getting through it with optimism. I have always been a bit dramatic and at times thoroughly pessimistic (hey, it makes good art). Where will my sarcastic pouty half-smirk fit in cancer land? NOWHERE.

So, something that truly makes me smile every time I watch it: Le Ballon Rouge. Lamorisse, 1956.

This is the end, which is my favorite. All of the other balloons come to save the boy. I have always been fascinated with childhood perceptions of flight- balloons, kites, zeppelins- all vehicles for an imaginary escape plan, all reaching places one can't quite reach. I use them as metaphors in my writing quite frequently. I have often cited this guy as my hero:

Just a guy, a lawn chair and a dream.

So, when I feel a bit better, I want to do a series of self portraits with balloons. It has potential to be both whimsical and cynical. After all, what do cancer patients receive at their bedside? Things on strings.

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.