The turkey is dead. The last turkey is dead.

Who will bury him? I can't even lift him. It matters. I didn't think it would. But he just picked the exact right day to. And so it was, there he went tapping all of our tears and worries and it just filled him to death. We're sick and we can't tell anyone just how much we are. So sick it killed the turkey. And he's still laying RIGHT THERE.

You can't get hit by lightning if you're not standing out in the rain.

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning —
Lightning — lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed — was I — yet not by Venture —
Stone of stolid Boy —
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure —
Who mine Enemy?




Robbed — was I — intact to Bandit —
All my Mansion torn —
Sun — withdrawn to Recognition —
Furthest shining — done —

Yet was not the foe — of any —
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me — afraid.



Most — I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me —

Best — at Setting — as is Nature's —
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.
(e. dickenson)

¿¿ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'ʇıɐʍ

I'm taking less medication, which means I'm laying clutching my stomach for longer spells in the morning. I force my eyes to sleep through much of it. I get up and use the walls to balance as I walk to the kitchen for some early food when I give in to the pain and desire the "treat" from the orange pill bottle. Those plastic receptacles don't really seem much like bottles.

I think bottle has a few different nuances. I hear that Highwaymen song and I have no idea what "lost her bottles" means.

Today is sort of a TCB day. Business being hospital and school communications.

I just got off the phone with someone who is sending me a charity application to take care of my bill. I haven't even seen the dollar number attached to the doctor hospital business, and I'm certain it isn't going to be something that will please me or my empty pockets.

I'm kind of curious to know what the lab who analyzed the thing that was removed from my insides has to say about it. They said the results would be back in a week. Something wasn't supposed to be in there. It grew to the size of a goose egg and ruptured. I didn't care before, but now I really want to know why. I called the doctor and jussohappens that he'll be gone for a week. His assistant too. "Oh." I said and accepted another week of wonder. I know they said it wasn't cancer. But there is that little voice that sounds like "whatif." They didn't think the minor abnormality that appeared in my mom's mammogram was cancer until after they removed it and found out it was.

People keep asking me what I want to eat. I have no preference. My preference, actually, is to not let the pills make me throw up. As long as you present me with a meal, I don't really care. Wait, I DO care. And I really appreciate it. It can just be anything.

I feel a little out of it now, but it is apparently nothing in contrast to how I was when I took the nighttime doses. I fell asleep while continuing to communicate with my scientist friend, Lisa. I have the chat transcript to prove it:

me: My legs keep tripping

Lisa: ha

me: I'M not even walking

Lisa: literally or metaphorically?

me: I rolled my ankle
Like when you feel like you've been falling

me: Who Ii ty yyyy

Lisa: who what?

me: F ty u rob fu

Lisa: oh boy

me: I'm keeping the poltergeist

Lisa: sounds scary!

me: j can see him
They pullout pillow is texting

me: I have ny hand on my phone I keep squeezing a hand
But is the phone t

Lisa: hmm

me: It isn't.
Too far.
AND then they'd pull you t h chat records (like i did, i was onto my future self)
This phone turns into a tricky machine
Its ny brain.

[2:06 AM]
me: Don language, is eat

Lisa: hmm

me: I think I have small jerky seizures

Lisa: they're probz not for reals seizures
just little pilly blips
that happens

Clearly, I cut out most of the chatter, but for the most of it, Lisa was talking about real things and I was just mashing my keyboard in response. Actually, swyping on my smartphone. Same thing.

So that is my proof that I am still being medicated and it does nothing to contribute to my thinking brain.

I have been drawing. I stopped drawing pathetic self portraits and moved on to portraits of better looking people that I know. Also, each of them are awesome.

There's the aforementioned scientist. Who does not have an eye patch, but I couldn't help but take the Jeff's advice when he said, "have her wearing an eye patch that has an eye crudely painted on it."


The vintage clothier. Carmen, outfitter to the stars. I drew the logo for her brand, Closet Case Vintage.



And the musician. Caitlin Rose. She's on her way to being a really big deal. She has a unique sound and serious songwriting skillz. Go buy her new record. It's better than yours.



I'd like to do better drawings of all those folks and their interesting faces, but I think getting those out in my sickness ain't so bad. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get as much homework in as I can. Today has already exhausted me.

I'm the Queen of This Condition.

Six days post surgical. Five home from the hospital. I still hurt. Days alternate deliriums. I am frustrated because I want to write well, and I can't even think well.

Fee Fi Fo Fum. I wake with pain that hollers down the hallway throat. I will rip out of you! And then I have to eat, because none of my medicines sit without food ottomans to put their feet up on.

The pain killers make my vision fuzz. The head only finds comfort in one position on the pillow. I must not move or read or watch tv. I am really afraid of what heaving will feel like in my stomach.

The anti-nausea drug that takes the pain killer's hand just bring me to a sudden sleep. Until my mom wakes me up telling me she's going to get a sandwich.

The pain killers and the iron pills both constipate me. The one day I managed movement was the most miserable pain yet. I'll just take the anemia.



Then there's the stool softener to battle that.

There are more kinds but that's all I'm going to mention for now.

If you put both grapes and blueberries in your mouth, it tastes good. I really wish I had the capacity for finishing my homework.

Laparoscopic Salpingo-Ooph!orectomy

I keep attempting to write more, but the drugs sort of grog the inclination away. My attention span has been limited to 150 characters or less and listening to podcasts. Today was the first time out of bed since coming home from the hospital. I went back to the hospital. They said I would have to make an appointment with the dermatologist to get a Latisse prescription.

My mom kept asking what I should/should not be doing at this point. They gave her extra post-op instructions:



I think she was hoping it would be more like, "Do go to the grocery store. Do not vacuum." I'm really not feeling like doing anything outside of bed anyways. Walking around the grocery store today was a bust and the old people teased me for sitting on the old people benches by the door.

The doctor explained that I may still be sore from any blood that might remain in my abdomen and also, because they removed something 3" in length that had ruptured (in addition to my tube and ovary). They looked for my appendix to take it out while in there but did not see it. I have a sneaky appendix.

They took some more blood. I got some more pills. I have plans to play scrabble with Max when he's home from work. He thinks he'll win because I'm medicated. We shall see.

I got a sweet get well card from Nashville. I'm day dreamy and tired. Back to my fruit and celery plate. Most boring post ever. I really wanted to write something interesting. Whoops.

Small Town Ovary Blues.

While I was waiting in the emergency room for more doctors to come and tell me about the surgery I was going to have yesterday, I searched the internet for ovary jokes. I couldn't find a thing.

Right now I am wearing hospital issue underpants and I have three slices opening my belly. Orange creamcicles are the only things that ease the discomfort of the raw throat from intubation. They help the medicine go down. I dislike taking pain killers very much.

I've never had a surgery before. This was my first. As soon as she gestured the size of the abnormality inside me, I knew my trip to the E.R. was justified. And I began to cry. Oh no, it's not like cancer, I think she said.

I had just been through the most invasive and painful set of ultrasounds in my life. I had an IV snaking into the ditch of my arm. My abdomen was tight with blood.




The night before I had gone into Edison for drinks and was well into enjoying the evening with my friends when the bad thing hit. Sonja and I went for a pleasant first-time visit to John's, and I excused myself to the bathroom. As soon as my bladder emptied, I was struck with a sudden sharp pain and the feeling that something was very wrong. I pulled my pants up and braced against the sink hoping it would pass. It didn't - and all I remember was going to tell Sonja we had to leave. I don't remember walking down the stairs, but I do remember the pain bringing me to my knees and loosing my lunch. All over poor John's patio. I couldn't get up. I think I cried over and over again "Why does it hurt like this?" Nothing in the world had ever hurt as bad and I asked for an ambulance. I rattled off Max's Nashville telephone number. And I cried and cried.

The pain is what fills my memory of the rest of that evening. Pain and utter humiliation. I opened my eyes and my third grade teacher was talking to me, asking me what was my name, what I had had to drink, where it hurt, and Sonja said he also asked me about my artwork. She told me I frustrated one of the paramedics by refusing to get on the gurney. Even in that much pain I know what an ambulance ride costs. I noticed a crowd of faceless people. I'm sure they all thought I was drunk sick. That's what you think when you see someone collapsed in vomit, right? Sonja was able to walk me to her car and she took me home.

I tried to sleep the pain off, but the night was filled with more pain and more sick. In the morning Max and I tried to figure what the pain could be using Web MD. We concluded I was probably passing a kidney stone and I was looking at more pain coming on.

I called my friend Jennie to cancel the plans that we'd made. (This is the first time in years I've had plans with Jennie.) Jennie recognized the pain in my voice and put me on the phone with her doctor parents who just happened to be in town from their home in Costa Rica. Immediately kidney stone was ruled out and I was being sent to the Emergency Room. I would not have gone without that conversation.

Good thing I went.


to be continued...

"There's no place like home. That's why I left."

the winter months bloom wooden blocks
clacking early evenings

our fingers spider over hot whiskey death
i don't wash my hair for days.




sounds of effort from the kitchen remind me of
hedonism, the greeks and royalty: pale skin

my layers of bruised fat, the things i don't like
about myself on television, projections abetting

sloth. me, i say, i'm writing. survey bookshelves
for words. it is more cruel to talk about the weather.




i did that job for a day, i silk my fur like
the cat's. i mop, he sweeps: more productive

every female child draws herself a bride, none of us
calculated the word wife, like our mothers. smile

lines cut deep in my face, it's her face i touch, he
touches. i know words like bound, but i cannot



reconcile ones like homemaker. house item. nor
academic. the sun set at four pm, his cigarette breath

cold exhale. opportunities for
redefinition.