Yes. Back then. Before I became a full-time beach comber with “ninth stage” terminal colon cancer…
That’s right. The Ninth Stage Cancer Adept-Realizer. I don’t know what else to call it?
Fourth stage in cancer is the “end of the line”. Death’s doorstep. The grave. Syonara, sucker.
So, I’m officially dead and buried. Long gone. Beyond the beyond. I died peacefully at home alone in my sleep… fully enlightened… in 2014.
Complications of surgery… massive post operative infection… over ran my diaphragm and lungs… lungs filled up with muddy green mucous… couldn’t breathe anymore… Genghis got me with that nifty compound bow shot riding backwards on his trick pony by the river… whatever… stage four colon cancer… brought to its rightful conclusion.
Colon Cancer Case #1,234,567,890… closed.
Adios, amigo. Nice knowin ya.
It seems confusing. The technical language of modern medicine.
Like the mysterious stages of cancer… stage 1, stage 2, stage 3, stage 4…
I reached the cryptic fourth stage in 2013. Right on schedule. But, of course, they didn’t find the… cocktail-grapefruit-size… metastatic neoplasm in the right lobe of my liver… with their $12 grand a pop… “yearly surveillance”… “here kitty kitty”… ct scan… until the very last day of 2013. Which implies…
But. Never mind. Don’t get bogged down in the technical language, or, the costs… mental, emotional, familial, financial
Let me make the staging principle very simple, clear… easy enough for a five year old to understand.
Stage one is year one… the first year with confirmed metastatic cancer. That is. Cancer which has sprouted, blossomed, fruited and seeded the blood… moved beyond its site of origin… in this case, my sigmoid colon.
With full capacity and willful intention to… grow at the next convenient site. With colon cancer, nine times out of ten… the next fertile ground to seed itself… “to jump up and live again”… to sprout from is… your liver and mine.
With full capacity and willful intention to… grow at the next convenient site. With colon cancer, nine times out of ten… the next fertile ground to seed itself… “to jump up and live again”… to sprout from is… your liver and mine.
Got it? So. In my “easy to understand” system—
Stage 1 is year one. Stage 2 is year two. Stage 3 is year three… one’s third year with confirmed, scientifically-proven metastatic cancer… and so forth. But. In their system, which I believe to be flawed. Nevertheless… In their system, it goes…
And, now… the year we’ve all been waiting for…
Please, hand me the ct scan results, sir…
And, STAGE 4!! it is… congratulations.
Wait a minute. Hold on.
If. If. AND IT’S A REALLY BIG IF!!
If the patient… if the cancer patient lives. If the cancer patient lives five years with this faithful killer… his own chosen cancer… his/her
Accomplice, co-conspirator, murderer, friend, teacher, benefactor… beloved, whatever.
If a cancer patient lives on somehow into year five. With this fatal partner. Through chemo, radiation, clinical trials, multiple surgeries, lethal infections post-op, botched hospital procedures… whatever.
If a cancer patient “survives”… “the war on cancer”… the gauntlet of the modern medical hospital holocaust into year five. Which is highly unlikely. Then, and only then. Is she. He’s awarded the grand medical cancer prize.
He’s entitled to wear the word… to put the invisible “post cancer” badge on his hospital gown… “cured”
And, sent on his merry way. Told to get lost. We already told you good bye, pal. You’re still here? What’s your fucking problem?
You’re “cured”. Like Madame Curie. No more geiger counter, son.
There are no more convenient labels, plastic wrist tags… honorary awards, sir, madame. You lived five years. That’s all you get. No more stages. No stage 5. We’re very sorry sir, mam
What a ripoff!!
Stage 4 is the end. Go somewhere and die. You were. You are suppose to die. Leave us alone, or we’re going to call border security. The national guard. The Trump shirts.
Get your ass out of my marvelous death machine, damn it!!
So. Here’s the secret. The Secret. The one… “they”… the medical mafia establishment… ain’t going to tell ya. Very hush hush
Like 5fu… the cream, the pump, the package insert… your chances—
FIVE FEET UNDER! The joke. It’s a joke. Get it?
Stage 4 is all you get. In their “staging system”. Sorry, Charlie.
If, or rather… as it happens. In most cases. Within 1-3 years. With colon cancer. When the cancer returns… with a post chemo-induced, mutated vengeance, perhaps… in year five? Right on schedule. Like it did, and did not, for me
2009-2014… equals… one two three four… five years. Do the math.
When the cancer returns one day before or after year four ends?
Nope. You don’t get to graduate… go on to cancer graduate school… work on your colon cancer thesis in… the luxurious campus lounge of
STAGE 5!!
This is not a video game, folks. Sorry. There are no bonus rounds.
Go home and die! Now!! Got it?
You’re “cured”.
Released.
Done here.
We’re over you.
You’re “cured”.
Released.
Done here.
We’re over you.
Well. I did that. I went home with my post-op hepatic infection from the insidious John Wayne Cancer Institute in April 2014, and… I died.
It was a process. Death and dying. We will get to it in these Confessions, maybe. But. From my perspective—
That is how I became “stage 5 in year five”, stage 6 in year six, stage 7 in year seven, stage 8 in year eight…
And now. In the wobbly year, 2018. Nine years on from 2009. The year I was diagnosed with “stage 3”… the year the “staging clock”… the Dick Tracy death wrist watch… Senor Cancer’s grandfather clock… started… ticking suddenly… dramatically… lethally… almost without warning—
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK… BONG! BONG! BONG!!!
Well. Actually. I could back up even further. In my staging/restaging proposal. Add three years. To account for early life in the ghetto. Then I would be stage 12… But. Never mind.
Here’s how I figure it. It took three years for the polyps to blossom into full blown, fully rooted… “Little Shop of Horrors”… man-eating cancer plants. Those cute, squiggly little baby polyps were “just a twinkle in their father’s red eye” then… back in 2006… in my case. So. They didn’t reach stage 3… until year three, 2009.
Truly. In 2009, the decisive year. In 2009, when the cancer was found growing merrily along in my worm garden. That little seed bed. That tiny garden of earthly nightmares had been growing since… more or less…
2006. The very year that Jessica… she, un-willingly… and I, desperately… moved to the new house I bought on Upper Bay Road in The Bottoms in Arcata, CA…
To grow. To make money. For the… “sake of the ssshildren”!
Right. So.
Those rocks. You remember. The rocks I’ve been writing about so diligently for the past few Confessions. Jessica’s rocks. The feng shui river stones.
Those “magical mystical” river stoppers. The ones which Jessica collected herself from the Mad River… and placed with careful intention in the corners of her room… on G Street in the rental… in the marsh near the junkyard… in south Arcata. The grounding anchor stones… the very same ones which she carted to Upper Bay against my better judgement… against my stated request not to—
Those very same “black magic woman” river fangs.
Those damn ankle-biting, toe-cracking river plums!!
Those dank, deadly witch curses!! They were installed in the central channel… embedded in the central connective tissue… laid in the central tube… dropped onto the main road of traffic… movement to and from the restroom… placed ritually in the central organ of flow… dumped in the long hallway of the house on Upper Bay in…?
Exactly, the moving year, 2006.
Coincidence, perhaps?
The same year the fateful polyps started growing in my large intestine… happens to be the same year the rocks…
Not just any rocks!! Jessica’s Bloody dripping-fangs Blarney Stones!!
Baby dragon eggs!! That’s what they were!! Bloody incubating incubi
c.1200, from Late Latin (Augustine), from Latin incubo "nightmare, one who lies down on (the sleeper)," from incubare "to lie upon" (see incubate). Plural is incubi. In the Middle Ages their existence was recognized by law.
Or, supernatural succubi—
Succubus
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
A succubus is a demon in female form, or supernatural entity in folklore (traced back to medieval legend), that appears in dreams and takes the form of a woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual activity. The male counterpart is the incubus. Religious traditions hold that repeated sexual activity with a succubus may result in the deterioration of health or mental state, or even death.
In modern representations, a succubus may or may not appear in dreams and is often depicted as a highly attractive seductress or enchantress; whereas, in the past, succubi were generally depicted as frightening and demonic.
The word is derived from Late Latin succuba "paramour"; from succubare "to lie beneath" (sub- "under" and cubare "to lie in bed"),[1] used to describe the sleeper's position to the supernatural being as well. The word "succubus" originates from the late 14th century.[2]
According to Zohar and the Alphabet of Ben Sira, Lilith was Adam's first wife, who later became a succubus.[3][unreliable source] She left Adam and refused to return to the Garden of Eden after she mated with archangel Samael.[4] In Zoharistic Kabbalah, there were four succubi who mated with the archangel Samael. There were four original queens of the demons: Lilith, Eisheth, Agrat bat Mahlat, and Naamah.[5] A succubus may take a form of a beautiful young girl but closer inspection may reveal deformities of her body, such as bird-like claws or serpentine tails.[6] Folklore also describes the act of sexually penetrating a succubus as akin to entering a cavern of
ice, and there are reports of succubi forcing men to perform cunnilingus on their vulvas that drip with urine and other fluids.[7] In later folklore, a succubus took the form of a siren.
Throughout history, priests and rabbis, including Hanina Ben Dosa and Abaye, tried to curb the power of succubi over humans.[8] However, not all succubi were malevolent. According to Walter Map in the satire De Nugis Curialium (Trifles of Courtiers), Pope Sylvester II (999–1003) was allegedly involved with a succubus named Meridiana, who helped him achieve his high rank in the Catholic Church. Before his death, he confessed of his sins and died repentant.[9]
According to the Kabbalah and the school of Rashba, the original three queens of the demons, Agrat Bat Mahlat, Naamah, Eisheth Zenunim, and all their cohorts give birth to children, except Lilith.[10] According to other legends, the children of Lilith are called Lilin.
According to the Malleus Maleficarum, or "Witches' Hammer", written by Heinrich Kramer (Institoris) in 1486, succubi collect semen from men they seduce. Incubi, or male demons, then use the semen to impregnate human females,[11] thus explaining how demons could apparently sire children despite the traditional belief that they were incapable of reproduction. Children so begotten – cambions – were supposed to be those that were born deformed, or more susceptible to supernatural influences.[12] While the book does not address why a human female impregnated with the semen of a human male would not produce regular human offspring, an explanation could be that the semen is altered before being transferred to the female host. However in some lore, the child is born deformed because the conception was unnatural.[citation needed]
King James in his dissertation titled Dæmonologie refutes the possibility for angelic entities to reproduce and instead offered a suggestion that a devil would carry out two methods of impregnating women: the first, to steal the sperm out of a dead man and deliver it into a woman. If a demon could extract the semen quickly, the transportation of the substance could not be instantly transported to a female host, causing it to go cold. This explains his view that succubae and incubi were the same demonic entity only to be
described differently based on the tormented sexes being conversed with. The second method was the idea that a dead body could be possessed by a devil, causing it to rise and have sexual relations with others. However, there is no mention of a female corpse being possessed to elicit sex from men.[13]
Holy Shit!! It’s all there. It’s all there in Wikipedia!! In bold black and white and digital color.
Jessica’s little garden of dragon eggs. Soon to hatch into my little stage 3 colon cancer nightmare.
And, you think I’m kidding… “mushroom, eyeball, rainbow, bird”… “listeners at the (bleeding) hole”… mien Turske folken!?
De Turkske folken binne in kloft folken dy't mien hawwe dat sy allegear talen sprekke hokker troch taalkundigen by de famylje fan Turkske talen rekkene wurde. Fan dy folken binne guons dy't oerienkomsten hawwe op kultureel en histoarysk mêd of entysk besibbe, mar ek guons dy't nochal ferskille. Meastentiids wurdt lykwols de term "Turksk" brûkt foar de ynwenners fan Turkije, yn wide sin hat it troch de taalkundige oerienkomsten in folle widere betsjutting, dy't net needsaaklik etnysk hoecht te wêzen. De Turkske talen wurde faak beskôge as in ûnderdiel fan de Altaïske taalfamylje. Oer de hiele wrâld wenne tusken de 150 en 200 miljoen minsken dy't in Turkske taal sprekke.
De Turkske folken hearre by de geografysk meast wiidfersprate folken yn de wrâld. De fersprieding fan folken mei Turkske kulturele eftergrûn rint fan Noard-Sibearje yn it westen fan it Russyske Heine Easten, dêr't de Jakoeten wenje, troch Sintraal-Aazje nei East-Jeropa. Op it heden wenje de grutste kloften fan de Turkske folken ferspraat oer Sintraal-Aazje yn lannen as Kazachstan, Kirgysje, Turkmenistan, Oezbekistan en yn de lannen Iran, Azerbeidzjan en Turkije. Fierders wenje der Turkske folken op de Krim, yn de westlike selsstannige Sineeske regio Sinkiang, Noard-Irak, Israel, Ruslân, Afganistan, Syprus en de Balkan; Moldaavje, Grikelân, Bulgarije, Roemeenje en it eardere Joegoslaavje. Der wennet ek in grutte
groep fan Turkske komôf yn de haadstêd Filnius fan Litouwen. Ek binne der grutte minderheidsgroepen yn Dútslân, de Feriene Steaten en Austraalje, dy't fral út Turkije fuort komme. Sy binne dêr terjochtkaam as gefoch fan de migraasjes yn de 20e iuw.
It bliuwt dreech om in krekte grins te lutsen tusken de ferskate Turkse folken.
It bliuwt dreech om in krekte grins te lutsen tusken de ferskate Turkse folken.
So there I was. Caught in a witch’s dark binding spell. Unable to go forward or backward. Completely powerless to break the hidden chains that bound me to her golden-eyed memory.
And this is in the days before I read Harry Potter, mind you!
How the hell was I suppose to know about Voldemort and the Mirror of Erised ?
The round, runic-charged frame… shaped into the semblance of a Chinese coin… with a square hole and a mirror in the center… which hung on my bedroom wall… right next to my bed… at the far end of the long central hallway. The rocks… the dormant dragon eggs… planted strategically in the belly of the beast… incubating in the centrally heated nursery of the central hallway… of the house where I remained… abandoned, alone, betrayed… but… oh no—
Not forgotten by a long bow shot!! Poison arrow?
Me… the fool on the edge of the abyss… sitting there in The Bottoms… with cancer rooting in my bottoms.
Walking walking walking… like a mad zombie through the dunes. Talking to ravens. Watching turkey buzzards swarming all around me.
While Jessica was on her way to Transylvania. That’s right, my dear invisible readers! On her way to meet the boy, her beloved Che—
King of the Gypsies!! Behind the circled gypsy wagons in Transylvania, Rumania!!
I’m not making this shit up!!
The bluebird of love.
The love bird flew the caged nest.
She rented a rental car in Istanbul, Turkey.
Abandoned the puppy.
The French bull dog.
Yeah. Whatever.
She headed out in a frenzy to meet the boy in Rumania—
Che was being forced to do his Turkish “military duty” in Rumania for two years.
The love bird flew the caged nest.
She rented a rental car in Istanbul, Turkey.
Abandoned the puppy.
The French bull dog.
Yeah. Whatever.
She headed out in a frenzy to meet the boy in Rumania—
Che was being forced to do his Turkish “military duty” in Rumania for two years.
You see?
The kiss.
The kiss had not been a miss.
Che was waiting.
Broke. True.
As usual.
But. Hopeful.
Anticipating a poetic, miraculous… last second snatch—
The kiss had not been a miss.
Che was waiting.
Broke. True.
As usual.
But. Hopeful.
Anticipating a poetic, miraculous… last second snatch—
A Zapata/Guzman whisking release from jail!
Surely.
Zit is certain!
Zit is certain!
Yes. Yes. She was going to kidnap him!!
She just needed enough money and time to.
To elope.
Make it all work.
She just needed enough money and time to.
To elope.
Make it all work.
To fly both of them to Humboldt. And…
Make little gypsy children with him!!
What else!?
