Everything is eerie and wrong when I go for my mid morning walks. Dare I blame the daylight savings time on this one or is it global warming or is it just the fact it's been since January I have really been outside walking on my own. It's one of those. I am sure of it.

I walked out to the park and threw my body into an unfamiliar metal bench that sits by the pond- this isn't my regular bench and for reasons that are confusing I sit in this new bench and watch two men in suits eat lunch out of shopping bags. I am having a difficult time since one looks like my brother and I am pondering if I should wave or say something. I stay silent and I realize everyone walking around reminds me of someone somewhere I have met once before… no paranoia only a dull sick feeling as if I am standing on a very tall building when I look past faces flickering street light repetition of those lingering from the past. The feeling is so intense it hurts, your body rejecting everything soaking in around you from the sick molding air to the pointless burning sun.

I contemplate admitting my confusion, this endless vertigo that is the current state of my waked hours, my frustration growing towards every dead end personality and brick wall hand trying to beat you off your way. I hung it all on a tree and came home when the sun was still shining and fell asleep on the couch…

"The problem with advice like that is it's coming from a man like HIM," Gail howls at me pulling the hood to her fur-lined parka. She's leaning over the bridge as we break off sticks and toss them into the water running below us. It wouldn't be that lousy of a place if it wasn't for the sharpie graffiti etched in the woodwork cursing a world of pubesant pointlessness.

"That's what I mean. He acts as if I am totally won over with his character that I can't see what kind of total scum he really is," I say running my fingers over the word F-YOU. "I wonder if he realizes I am onto it."

"Onto what?" Gail Asks. I look at Gail's face nested in the opening of the parka and watch her lips spell out each word as she surveys the obscenities written under our hands.

"That I can see how phony he is," I say. "He tells me on Monday I should be strong, I should be a woman, I should be all what I can be despite what is around me… by Thursday all is forgotten and he's making excuses, telling me lies. He yells at me when I confront him with the proof of his true nature and wickedness like a coward. He usually gets upset and will give me the silent treatment for as long as he can resist whatever it is that draws him to me… a light that is unattainable to a moth wearing a dusty suit."

Gail's eyes slant and now she's smiling and leans closer to me, whispering, pointing to a line of graffiti. I look down, notice it, slant my eyes and laugh.

On days when the spinning is minor and the pain is limited I set up the office and paint. I am on basic supplies- all my brushes are chewed, the paint bottles hunch together in a cardboard tray lids half on and oozing with brilliance. I lined the writing desk with cardboard and slop paint as I source and read and read and read the history and essays that scholar's pen and students argue as I block out the sun with a towel in the window. It is spring- its life and death and rebirth and I paint as I wonder when will I get better.

Spring

Every year with the arrival of spring the arts come out from their winter sleep in search of kitchen scraps. IN later years the ants have been larger which made me assume they were Carpenter ants chewing away at the frame of the house that I rent. This year the ants are smaller and thief like stealing every last crumb right down to what the cat won't finish in her bowl. The arrival of these new pesky houseguests is unwelcomed such as a drunken school chum looking for a couch to crash on after a stint downtown at the local bars. Each day I am there trying to stay one step ahead of my new house enemies- sweeping them up, cleaning the floor, picking up the tiniest of crumb as it falls to the floor despite the cats pleas for my regular sloppiness.

I am starting to feel better as well. My health is improving with the turning good weather and my desire to paint is met and matched by the wonders I can think up in my head. Spending long periods of time shut-up and starting out of windows only to be released into a melting world of warmth is to what I feel criminals get like when they finally end those 5 years in a cell- beating the street with wild eyes, desperate for a connection, starved for social interaction… how much money do you have in your pocket and how fast can we spend it on something cheap?

I have desires to plan and scheme to get moving…

I had a rude awaking on Saturday when my doctor's office called announcing that I had failed my last medical test. Yeah. I guess 'failing' is not the best word to use when describing a medical test since it raises too many questions to what I failed leaving those who check my blog to wonder "what the hell is wrong with this girl now?"

The details of the test are as follows dumbed down for a public blog post:

The found a few 'abnormal' cells in me. There is a good chance that these 'abnormal' cells are something not good. In three months I have to go back in and get re-tested to see if the cells continue to 'mutate'. If they have 'mutated' then I will have to go in for what they have described as a routine procedure to remove the mutations. Catching 'bad cells' early, as they tell me, is a good thing as it saves me from major cancer or other complications later on in what they expect in my so-called 'long and fruitful' life.

Currently I am at a loss at what I am to do in my regular day-to-day life. I am thinking what am I to do about all my charity and volunteer work I have currently put on hold because of the complications I have suffered from the mono. I don't know what to expect in my daily work life. Since Justin moved out last week I spend hours at home alone in a very echoy apartment looking at my cat and wondering how cruel it is to leave someone like me guessing what it is I have to do for the next three months as I wait for what happens next. It is like the first shoe has dropped and I am lying on the floor waiting for the other to maybe or maybe not drop.

I don't like to talk about it. I really don't like talking about how I feel sick or anything remotely connected to 'how I feel' since I deal that way. It's bullshit when I go out on work assignments and I see people who ask me questions regarding my health and it's getting to the point where I figure if I make charming note-cards on pink floral paper that explains where I have been and what I am going thru now it will save me from sounding like a broken record. Please, when you see me, don't talk to me about it. I hate it. Ask me questions about my art, my family or my work- just don't ask me "how are you feeling?"