Saturday after the World War

in 1984, I wrote a poem that was by my tastes one of the best I've ever written--"Samstag Nach dem Weltkrieg" or "Saturday after the War World." Incidentally, I was in a deep funk with life when I wrote that poem--nothing was making me happy at that moment of existence. I don't honestly remember why now--probably my ass was too fat or I was too poor to go Joni Mitchell tour Both surely terrible situations to face, but both utterly First World Problems. I'm certain the South Sudan might kick up two people who have heard of Joni, neither of whom have spent any time wondering whether Joni breaks into the Jazz mainstream with The Hissing of Summer Lawns or Mingus, but here in Markville, that mess matters.

Anyway, I'm in that funk again today, and again for very first world issues, now some 28 years later, fueled by the first world problems I face in not having all 6 drains removed today by the docs, along with my cast off the leg. No, I only had 2 taken out. Damn the life I live.

I know that my problem today is that i didn't sleep last night...and I probably didn't sleep because I was greedily calculating the lovely way I'd feel without six additional drains hanging off my body as if I were a bad Christmas Tree. I was imagining myself, a Colossus astride the hallways of University Hospital and instead I'm still the 52 year old bitch from the corner room with dark circles under my eyes.

I want to go home Wednesday. OMG I would not want to be the person who tells me Wednesday will need to be Thursday. Heaven, protect the creature that would try to tell me that I will stay here until then. HELL TO THE NO. I simply will not accept it.

I have entered the death match phase of initial cancer treatment--the point at which a surgical patient realizes that being in the hospital is no longer tolerable or viable. I have healed enough. I'm ready to relearn jogging. I feel good enough that I'm ready to re-engage navigation. I want life to be jammed up one end and down the other and I'm won't be happy until the two threads meet in the middle and explode in one great satiation of blathering, messy, ugly, stupid life.

Mark my words and don't get in the way. This MF is ready to fly.