Clowny's Hallucinations

James could start his own blog on every monkey wrench he has to stick in whatever diabolical plan I have up my sleeve. This morning I was supposed to make some nonsense happen downstairs, and James kept telling me to relax and go back to sleep.

Life has gotten a lot less stressful since James has taken over my drug dosage and distribution levels. He's taking care of laundry right now, leaving me in the care this afternoon of Celia and Adam, who's chilling in front of "The Dreamers" right now.

There's been a lot of comments and encouragements out there the past few days. Thank you so much. But I'm missing the something inside that used to lift up my spirits after hearing those messages.

I spent the afternoon watching rather than writing and contemplating the situation. "Tony Bourdain", "Ming Tsai", anyone who can usually get me cheery and in the mood has me wondering if alcohol, fried pig skin, and a fresh grilled eel salad would be anything delightening my distant world anytime soon.

Everything tastes like the chocolate/mocha basement of a cancer patient's lazy mouth. Should I believe that after 2 chemos there may yet still be a moment when I someday order carnitas in a red mole platter, that "I am Lazarus come from the dead." Someday.

Is it bad to hope for the day when the pain in your mouth will subside long enough for that window of opporunity when you can swallow 80 mg of morphine as quickly as you can just for the glimmer of real, un-pureed, non-dairy, fine wine included, teeth-gnashing, heaven... followed by the warm nestle of Anthony Bourdain's arms slowly tucking me into 800-count Egyptian cloth sheets before one last espresso truffle dusted in Valhrona powder slides me into... oblivion.