We
are all terminal but Linda is the only one I know who has a
measurement in weeks or months
– nobody
is
able to give her anything more definite than that, and she seems to
feel strong, apart
from the pain,
so all the signals are mixed. When
we left she looked
pale and tired but happy to be part of pretty good crack
between me, her two cousins, and Angela; the laughter spilled all
over our table in the massively packed, busy restaurant on the first
floor of the brand new billion pound hospital wing.
And
now I've just finished eating flame-grilled cow with cheese in Burger
King, waiting for my movie to begin; I can't pass up a trip to the
city and not catch a film, get my money's worth from my yearly
ticket; £16.40 a month, and the cinema is way out of my way...and
I'm such a lazy bitch I can't get myself out of the flat on my days
off. The year is up at the beginning of December and I won't be
renewing it – I'll
be rich!
Money
will have to be spent in The Works; I can almost see it, along the
road from where I'm sitting. Acrylic paints have been bought from
Lidl's, and new brushes...I'll
be creating a lot of my Xmas presents; Tibetan silver pendants and
beads,
and finger and
hand puppets
are winging their way towards me from all over the world. I
love
Ebay...and am itching to get crafting and arting.
Last
night I was listening to a bit of Isabelle Allende's biography and it
made me think of returning to mine. Linda's news enforces that, and
again I find myself thinking that I must tidy up the pile, leave
proper files and instructions behind when I saunter off this pitch.
But now I want to wander a few yards of Sauchiehall
Street in the late summer sun before the rain returns, and before the
shop shuts.
LUCINDA
Oh,
my eardrums echo with her white noise;
she's a ghost of herself, carving her desk
into a monument of waiting. Long
weeks hoot like quiet owls. Cancer doesn't
whisper: it growls deep in her bowels.
Surgeons cut and thrust the necessary,
bagging her like a take-away...and we
are left to wander. Memories, pale nights,
and three of us discussing possible
properties of money-oil – and how to
cast a spell to decimate financial
dyspepsia. Her laugh, like a cartoon
dog, wheezing in, and out of damaged lungs
reminds us to howl at the bloody moon.
she's a ghost of herself, carving her desk
into a monument of waiting. Long
weeks hoot like quiet owls. Cancer doesn't
whisper: it growls deep in her bowels.
Surgeons cut and thrust the necessary,
bagging her like a take-away...and we
are left to wander. Memories, pale nights,
and three of us discussing possible
properties of money-oil – and how to
cast a spell to decimate financial
dyspepsia. Her laugh, like a cartoon
dog, wheezing in, and out of damaged lungs
reminds us to howl at the bloody moon.
