Blood gushed out of my nostrils for over forty hours as I waited for the doctor to bring me the good news.
“Everything is A-O-K with you: the lungs, the kidneys, and all the bloodwork came up negative,” said the diminutive doctor who reminded me of Burl Ives in “Frosty the Snowman.”
“Cancer-free?” I asked.
“You got it,” he said as he closed the drapes behind him on ER 15.
Still, Michael Douglas and Genevieve Bujold came to mind.
The mind is the true cancer. It can manufacture the unimaginable. What I am imagining now, though, is how lovely it would be to have a picnic around a tree with the male nurse, noose around his neck, swinging to and fro in the breeze.
“Piñata time!” I would abruptly yell to all the younguns as I hand them each a thorny bougainvillea branch. . .
I decided to post a few of my Twitter quotes on the blog since stories and memoirs take a bit of time. Perhaps by reading the following, you get a better picture of who I am. Enjoy!
“Words with the letter “s” sound strange if you have a forked tongue”
“Two friends, one family member, many alligators, hyperactive platypus. The circle continues to shrink but he (me) always defiant against all . . . ”
“Why hold up a convenience store when you can steal a leg?”
“Oh, the sun, the heat, the humidity. I will become skin marmalade with useless excess chopsticks. Ignore the puddle by the clutch . . . tis I”
“Why be mainstream? Conventionalism is boring. Expand your mind.”
“Everyone’s a politician. The best ones are mute and only have thumbs on their hands.”
“They posted pictures of their pets, grandchildren, and dinners. They were human once before they were programmed to be obedient sheep.”
The “what if” came as a nightmare. Saturated with vividness, I witnessed the slow demise of my sister in her deathbed. But how can this be? I had been granted the opportunity to experience what it would be like to have my deceased family members still alive in real time. Does this signify that my sister would be the first to “go” under normal circumstances? I wanted to inquire the octagonal table with the enigmatic deck of cards about my mortality. I wanted to know if I was inside looking out or outside looking in. No sooner I took a step towards the left frame of my split sepiatone illusion, the blue flame from the candle began to dim. I will have to decipher this one out on my own.
Both my father and mother were agile, walking and running around like prepubescent teenagers but their speech was unintelligible. Pure gibberish flowed out of their respective mouths at the velocity of a fully functional telex machine. It was then that I realized that they couldn’t see me. I stood helplessly trying to make sense out of the pandemonium.
I will be working on two projects this summer. One of these is a memoir which will be based on a period in my life when everything was unconventional and bizarre. Think Palahniuk meets Welsh. . .
I would rather be behind the wheel of my old 1982 silver Honda Prelude but it being the spring of 2017, I had to settle for a new, rented Lincoln with a push button transmission if that’s what they call it.
Small Southern towns are still home to Faulkner’s misfits as they materialize traipsing from between antebellum edifices. Their obstinate existence piqued my curiosity. Are they vestigial artifacts of days past struggling against an industrialized conundrum? The GPS kept instructing me to drive through the most rudimentary Mississippi and Louisiana neighborhoods but I resisted its monotonic demands after detecting its incertitude.
On the sixth hour, I created “Lee the Tree” and “Ken the Hobo”, both nemesis of “Small Fang,” the raspy-voiced predecessor. These unique characters materialized along the way and between roach-infested hotel rooms. Soon after developing personalized characteristics, they kept me company and blurred my eyes with tears of laughter as glorious vintage neon signs from roadside motels whose days are numbered flash rapidly before me like tasty slices of illuminated oranges, limes, and maraschino cherries. The immortal Michael Waring answers the phone on my satellite radio and The Falcon was resuscitated after numerous decades of decomposition.