What a long, strange trip it's been.

Did you miss me?  Did you notice I wasn't even standing in the shadows, or behind the potted palms at your fancy affair?  Seven years.  Am I, as the old saw goes, a totally new person whose cells have regenerated during my absence?  Or am I in the midst of a seven year cycle of Individuation, a time during which I have questioned my core identity merely because -- OMG -- merely because the face that was mirrored back was not my face.

November, 2010, during surgery for a blocked tear duct, I was diagnosed with Muco Epidermoid Carcinoma of the right nasolacrimal sack.  Muco Epidermoid Carcinoma -- sounds like a Latin lover, doesn't it.  An abusive lover.  I lived over two years with a hole on my face between my eye and my nose, open to my sinus, open to every breath, open to every dry breeze.  I barely endured six weeks of targeted radiation therapy, restrained to a table in a plastic mask, isolated with massive machinery.  I have had five facial surgeries to date.  I may need more.  The open fistula is closed.  But I will never again see my face mirrored back to me.

Who would you be without your face?

resolution 2007

It was a group discussion regarding the futility of anger. The best quote: That's like setting yourself on fire and hoping the other person dies of smoke inhalation.

That took my breath away!

Welcome to the year of James Bond.

Oh my! Oh yes!

I received my first acceptance to publish two poems. Small literary journal. Local. Did I say that I'm being published?

Oh yes!

I had said in my cover letter that my style is rather film noir. The note that accompanied the acceptance letter said: beautiful pieces.

Now I have to compose a short biographical note.

Oh my!

My assignment

Okay, I've been avoiding this. I thought I would be more diligent, writing everyday -- or every other day -- or once a week at least! But I haven't.

I could make up all sorts of excuses but right now I can't think of one. What a challenge! Come on, think! Why can't I write . . . anything?

Um, maybe I'm afraid. No, I know I'm afraid. And writing that, I want to shout from the nearest rooftop: I used to be fearless! Well, maybe not from the rooftop. Heights, you know. Jelly knees. Don't look down. That sort of thing. Excuse me as I crawl back into my corner under that rock. Yes, that BIG rock. That's mine. Yep. My rock. My hard place. My home.

Good Lord!

Okay. Here's the deal. On May 23, I return to my therapist and she expects something "creative." A painting, a poem, a short story, a sketch. No revision of old work. Something new and "creative." (Hats don't count; I already checked.)

I, of course, expect something perfect.