Wednesday, October 11, 2017

No Pink, No Battlegrounds

     I've delayed writing about the theme of breast cancer for a couple of reasons.  First of all, there are so many people writing about their experiences and a I'm not an expert on the topic in any way.  Secondly, the other question is how long will I be here to write.  That' I have no way of knowing.  But here goes anyway.
      On my last visit to physical therapy (to try to mitigate the effects of a mastectomy that leaves nerve damage among other dilemmas) there was a trampoline set up in a corner.  I mentioned to the PT that it was good for lymphatic drainage.  Her response was, "really?"  Every cancer patient I've encountered has heard about it and some have a mini trampoline installed in their homes. 
     Therein lies the disconnect.  Through treatments I've spoken to many women who are trying alternatives to the standard chemo, radiation, and pills.  Almost none of them discuss this with their doctors unless they're lucky enough to be in an integrative medical center. 
        When I mentioned to a nurse that I was trying fasting before chemo to lessen the severity of the effects, she didn't think it was a good idea.  No wonder there is no discussion here. It helped me a great deal and it's written about in alternative and traditional articles.  Instead, she described a patient who loaded up on chicken wings before treatment. 
        Conventional treatment has turned the physical body into a battleground which is precisely the metaphor that is not working for us.  Cancer cells are in everyone's body.  The key is to keep them in check, from growing and invading  healthy tissues.  Another point is to keep them from returning.  Conventional medicine gives their cure rates of 5 years with some luck and a lot of suffering.  How many patients have a recurrence?  A cure in my definition means it does not come back. There are no guarantees on this journey.
        So keep the faith.  Try whatever works for you.  Don't blame yourself for not being cheerful enough or whatever else you may be told.  Give yourself a break!  
        
      

Saturday, June 17, 2017

This was a fun story about cars I've been meaning to post.



The Car is Ready to Blow

Calvin was always complaining about progress and how the US was falling behind. Now he was back on the same jag.  ¨It´s true, Doug.  Look at China.  Cars show how far a society has come.  Progress. Now they´ve got more than us.  That´s an indicator; everything is Chinese; it´s because they´ve got cars now.¨
¨Come on Calvin, what are you nuts?  What´s this poison soup we´re breathing? Carbon m-o-n.-o-x-i-d-e.  Take a deep breath of that shit.  Fill up those lungs.¨
The two men were standing on the overpass of Route 20 A next to the mall waiting for the AAA to pick up Calvin´s car.  Smoke was billowing out from under the hood and the engine looked like it was ready to blow.  Even with his car practically on fire, Calvin wouldn´t stop defending cars. 
¨The Chinese are now ahead of us in pollution too.  They got big black clouds there.  You can´t see the light of day in some of those cities.  That´s progress?¨  Doug continued.
¨Think of it; the smell of a new car. Picture it a Jag or, let´s say a Porsche.  Soft leather, heated seats in the winter when you get into that baby.  Cream color interior, GPS, a sound system better than you got at home.¨
¨Get out of here, it´s not sex we´re talking about.  Dude, dream on. Where do you see a Jaguar?  What do you call that smoking up a storm?¨  Doug pointed to the 20 year old Chevy ten feet away.   ¨You think it could explode?¨  He stepped farther away.
¨Nah, only on TV.  It takes a lot to get one to blow.  You got to cover it in gasoline.  My car is fine.¨
¨What´d you do, forget to put oil in there?  You with your cars.¨
Calvin ignored Doug and continued his reverie.  ¨Power’s what you want under you.  You can take on the world.¨
¨How long did they say?¨ Doug was getting impatient.  ¨They´re usually pretty good.¨
¨An hour about.¨
¨That Chevy has seen better days.  Maybe you should get that dream car.¨
¨The Chevy was Dad´s.  Still got some life in it.¨
¨Yeah, if you keep pumping your paycheck into it.¨
¨At least I´m not on some corner waiting for a goddam bus.¨
¨Well, at least, I´m not poisoning anybody.¨
¨You kidding. With those buses.¨
¨They´re ecological now.  They burn natural gas.¨
¨Next you´ll tell me they burn chicken shit.  You luddites are going to set us back a few centuries.  Then you´ll be happy.  You won´t have any cars, no lights, no TV, now that´s ecological.  Get your garden going.  Make your own clothes.  What kind of future is that?¨
Doug laughed, ¨I´ll keep my way.  You stay in that pile of shit.  I´m going to walk to the mall.  I got to get my daughter´s birthday present.¨
¨See how you get home.¨
¨Hey, I´ll take a bus.¨
¨Remember that´s why we´re in this mess.  There is no bus.¨


Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Autumn- Streets of Gold

It's here- my favorite short-lived season.  Here's a poem I wrote when I first returned to Western New York after years of living in Spain.




Another Look at Happiness


 


 


Not the shock of orange leaves,


autum so bright it hurts,


Not your eyes tight on mine,


the stomach fall of your kiss.


 


Nor my country, Spain, distant


steeped in red wine and salt,


nor your Burma,


smell of woodsmoke and green,


when you close your eyes.


 


But this small space within


where solitude cushions


each fearless act.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

En el bolsillo

I enjoyed reading Borges in Spanish and working with Lynn and Misty today.  So here it is- my attempt at writing a poem in Spanish!



 En el Bolsillo

En mi bolsillo
llevo el mundo
su  presencia afilada
siento en todo cuerpo
para recordarme
lo que puede pasar.
Un mundo
no girando
en circulos suaves
pero gopecitos
llenos de esperanzas.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Midnight in Barcelona




Buffalo is becoming unrecognizable!  Bicycle rentals like in Barcelona!  Here's a story I wrote on the theme.  It was published in "Ride", a collection of bicycle shorts.


MIDNIGHT IN BARCELONA


It was getting close to midnight as I got to the bicycle station located just down the hill from my house, and, as usual there wasn’t a single space left to leave my rental bike. The Catalan bicing, the city bicycle share system, had become so successful that the bike stations were always filled.  In theory, bicing was a great plan. You paid for a yearly membership, took a bike out of a station and then returned it to any station in the city. But the reality was different.


            As usual, my options were the same.  Wait until someone came to pick up a bike was the first but that was not going to happen since the riders were probably safely tucked in their flats on a Monday night.  The next option was to try the next closest bike station which was about a fifteen minute ride away.  Parking the bike so far away and walking home negated the convenience that the bicing plan was supposed to provide.


I was cursing under my breath as I started out.  In the Gracia neighborhood, the streets were narrow and dark with names like Revolution and Legalitat which always gave me a moment of pleasure thinking of the ideals of the 19th century working class community that this area once was.  I was shocked out of my reverie by a deafening horn as a car swerved around the corner, just nicking my bike. I fell over with the bike on top of me.  The driver of the Seat stuck his head out the window and screamed a string of curse words ending with, “Watch where you’re going.”


“You watch it.”  I was furious.  “You could have killed me.”  It had happened so quickly the danger was starting to sink in.  I tested my arms, one at a time, and then my legs.  The guy, middle aged with a portly belly, got out of the car and helped me stand up.


“Sorry.”  He acknowledged.  “Good thing it’s one of these rental bikes.  They look like they could stop a truck.”  He laughed a nervous laugh and I joined in, a tad hysterical, from the sheer relief of being alive.  “Can I take you anywhere?”He asked.


I shook my head, and examined my knee where the jeans had torn and I had a scrape, just like when I was a kid.


“They’ll be fashionable now.”  He pointed at my jeans.


He was annoying me so despite the pain, I got on the bike and kept going though I was shaken.  Expat life was starting to wear on me, what with the long nights out, and pointless conversations that led nowhere.  I should have been in bed, not looking for a place to park my bike.


            I pedaled up another steep hill and arrived breathless at Travasera de Dalt.  Just as I slid off my bike to examine the possibilities of empty bike slots, another rider came up and spotted the one empty slot left in the long row of bikes just as I did.  As if we were in a slow motion movie we both tried to shove our bikes into it at the same time with the result of the wheels of both bikes getting tangled.  “It’s mine.  Don’t you dare.”  I tried on my fiercest expression.


            “No way.”  That immediately pegged him as an American.  With a Catalan or a Spaniard, I might have had a chance, chivalry wasn’t totally dead in Europe; after all, they still loved their mothers. 


            In the moment that he was distracted, I untangled the bike wheel and pushed my bike into the slot.  It gave a satisfying click as the computer registered the bike.  “See. Got it.”


            He laughed, “Yes, you did. You’re tougher than I thought.”


            “Hey, I almost got killed on my way here. This is my last ride on this damn bicing.  I just want to go home and crawl into bed.”


            “I’ll keep looking. There’s one more station I can try.  Hard to believe you can’t find a place to park your bike on a Monday night.  It’s worse than driving a car.  You, know I’m sorry. I’m not usually like that.”  He looked attractive in the light of the street lamp.  “Barcelona is making me aggressive.”


            “Where are you from?”


            “Chicago.”


            “That has to be worse.  Big people fighting over everything.”


            “They may not be big here but have you ever tried to get in line in the market with those senoras here?  They’ll run their carts over your feet.”


            “You have to ask, “Qui es el ultim?  Who’s the last person in line? There’s a logic to it.  If you don’t ask, you don’t exist.”


            “Maybe for you.  It’s still early.  Can I buy you a beer?”


            I was still a bit shaken, and I’d have company for the walk home so I said okay.  My knee ached and I peered down at it to see if it was bruised.  “My name is Stephanie.”


            “The steamroller.  I’m Jed.”


            “Are you studying or teaching?”


            “Neither.  I’m working in an architectural firm.”


            “No kidding.”


            “It’s an internship.  Means you work like a dog and earn no money.”


            “Good deal.  I’m studying Spanish but I chose the wrong place.  Spanish is almost taboo in Catalonia.”


            “I’m still fighting any language.  But I can order a beer.”  I walked first into what was a neighborhood bar transformed into a modern space with long lists of international beers where the owners were Belgian.  I grabbed a seat at the bar while Jed dragged his bike indoors. 


            Ca va Steph?  The bartender asked.  He pointed to Jed, “Tu novio?”


            “No, we were fighting for a bike space.”


            “Don’t bother with that.  Just buy your own.”


            “I don’t want to buy a bike.  You know how many are stolen.  After tonight, I’m not even sure I want to ride one on this city.”


            “These are some really heavy bikes.”  Jed pushed it into the corner.


            “Tell me, one fell on me. They’re supposed to survive tons of people using them.  I can’t imagine any American city with city bikes available everywhere.”


            “This city has some heavy duty hills.”


            “The worse part is having to ride home uphill.  You get the hard part at the end of your day.”


            By the second beer I was starting to feel my body relax and the pain in my knee subside.  Jed  was starting to be scintillating company which was too good to be true.  It was nice to hear the nasally sound of his voice though in the charm department he had nothing on the Catalans.  He did walk me home and pulled out his cell phone.  I gave him my number.  “Call me.”  I said as I started up the four flights of stairs.  The elevator had a tendency to stall and I couldn’t handle one more machine tonight. 


           





Tuesday, April 5, 2016

The Time Machine and Poem


     Much to my surprise I discovered I have a time machine in my living room. It only goes backwards, not forward.   It is a TV with no cable connection, just the regular broadcast channels of which there are dozens.  Most of them show old series, movies, and sitcoms.  They must cost nothing or there wouldn’t be such a glut of them.  Surprisingly they have brought me pleasure.

    When I was living in Europe watching TV was a taboo.  I remember calling a friend and saying, I hear a TV in the background. “Oh no,” he replied, “I only watch documentaries”. In the States I resisted having a TV for years since I could no longer use Spanish or Catalan soaps as an excuse for learning language.  Finally I got a TV as a birthday present, but in my larger flat in Buffalo, I kept it hidden in an unused bedroom.  After all, whatever I wanted to see, I could view on my computer.

   Now in my smaller space in Atlanta it has prominence though I still viewed it with a touch of disdain.  Then after sifting through the endless religious stations and Latin dramas, I found France 24 which gives me a chance to see news from places like Africa or Latvia which the US newscasters typically ignore.  And then I found the channel with old game shows that go back to “Tell the Truth” or “What’s my Line” and stop around 1975.  My Spanish friend on seeing it said, “those people all must be dead by now”.  And it’s true.  I looked up Bert Convey, a popular host, and found the sad news that he died just three months after his second marriage.  Patty Duke, who was a regular on many of the game shows, recently passed. 

Why have I become interested in these shows and people?  They represent a time that was far less restricted than the world we live in with its fundamentalist values and anti-women rhetoric.  There is a progressive consciousness and innocence that we’ve lost along the way.  An added plus is that I started watching Star Trek. I never could stay up late enough to see it when I was a kid.  Those old episodes reflect on parallel universes and worm holes- subjects that are not out of place today. 

 

 

After I am Dead                                     a poem after Christina Rossetti

 

 

After I am dead my dearest”

fill my grave with companionate figures,

ceramic men and women

toiling the soil,

and standing guard,

the tasks of life

I no longer share.

 

Close my eyelids

with a kiss,

my lips too cold,

Purify the corpse

with fire,

Collect remains

In a bright ceramic vase

painted with birds and bears.

Lay it deep in the earth

with my terra cotta

statue friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, February 28, 2016

The "Outsider" and a poem, "Immigration"

      Outsider, Stranger, Foreigner..  A stranger comes to town- this is a standard plot line for films and stories alike.  In my own writing, I often have a character who is standing outside, looking into the brightly lit windows of a house, simply observing but never part of what appears to be a warm, happy place. 
      What makes one an outsider?  I have a friend who despite growing up in and inhabiting a middle class milieu confessed she's felt like a refugee her entire life. How did that happen? 
     For many years my own feelings of being an outsider carried a touch of resentment. Another friend commented that I didn't look any different from him and therefore, couldn't be different.  My response was  I grew up speaking a different language, eating different food, and never quite understanding all the rules of the world outside my home.   But yes, I look like I do fit in. 
      These days I listen to the drawl around me and realize, just as if I were in a foreign country, I am an outsider here in the South.  I don't have the same history, the same connection to the red earth or the sad past.  Surprisingly enough, I don't have that sensation when I'm the minority on all the buses and trains I take.  I have the sense all of us are in the same day to day struggle. Perhaps I  have a privilege of race, but not of sex or social class.
     Is that still important in America?  Judging from the election campaign, race, sex, and social class are bigger than ever and most likely, will determine the outcome. 


Here's one of my poems on the theme. 




                             Immigration


 


I come to Bilbao in self-exile,


no romance circa Paris 1930.


I am at my  best


in new cities.


Smokestacks, black suits,


men on every corner staring


across the river


the city demands


to span time, give meaning.


 


The faces of unsettled conflicts


here in the modern dream


of a homeland.


The farm floats in the distance,


the place in all our pasts


competes with the cave,


from which we emerged,


to the weak sunlight


of a winter.


 


I return


with the accent


of a stranger


Circle completed,


You came here,


I go there


But not so close


I can´t breathe.


I choose a strong tongue


that shakes,


where the stranger


who arrived through centuries,


mixed and forgotten,


peers through blue eyes


in the marketplace.