I have, as I have before, recently hit the limits of my physical existence. The doctors gave me my news and I’ve done my best to accept my fate. I have been poked and prodded and left with the certainty that I am going to die of cancer. Just like many others in my place, I have made my peace. In doing so, I realize that I haven’t yet published a damn thing, nothing that would even bestow me with an honorable mention. This can’t be right.
Thinking back, I remember my accident five years ago when I broke my neck and back. Had I not been laid up for so long in pain and agony, I would have sued that hotel – and won. Nevertheless, as I sat in the lobby of the renowned Mayo Clinic in Rochester learning that my spinal cord injury had triggered a dormant cancer, it dawned on me that I was too young to die, not in age, but in accomplishment. I was determined to beat my diagnosis and show them just exactly who they were dealing with, namely one of the most obstinately stubborn women on the planet. A natural designation supposedly earned by my astrological birth sign of Taurus.
In any event, I traveled far and wide looking for healers and lo and behold, ended up living, while simultaneously, somehow also being cured of Type 1 Diabetes, a welcome parting gift.
Much like the complicit glances two people give one another when exposed to utter stupidity in public, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, Good thing I can never finish what I start.
With an uncertain fate, I am confronted with publishing my many stories, theories on consciousness, and expounded philosophies on the nature of the universe. But, where? Here, in an anonymous, insignificant blog amid millions of others? A self-publishing, vanity press? That can’t be right.
I have decided not to comply with fate’s wishes for I take the greatest pleasure explicating the philosophy of laughter, despite my curious unknown superintelligence.
While my present circumstances seem to rouse nothing other than sympathy from others, it has roused in me my own sleeping skeptic and possibly signified my own survival for yet a number of years to come.
Hopelessness will not tighten around my throat, the perfidious doctors and obliging, bigoted nurses will not stunt my creativity with their sickly hospital corridors, and indifferent meanness. If anything, their lack of humanity will deploy only a renowned purpose for me to fly high above the darkening gloom of the ironic cycle of birth and death. Skipping, running, and dancing through the corridors, I disdain their specialist’s opinion, laugh at their prognosis, and fidget ceaselessly until they grant me my freedom to work out my own miracle.
Meanwhile, my modest, unpretentious, self-effacing blog has been politely received. From Indonesia, South Korea, and the Philippines to the United States, Mexico, Japan, Denmark and Germany. How I have built even the inkling of an audience since April 17th is unbeknownst to me.
Perhaps I do not have a readership, but rather a stat button picking up page views accidentally registered by someone having clicked on the wrong link. In any case, I take pleasure in believing that my miniscule contribution to the world of art and elegance in letters may be considered a welcomed addition. And while this may have seemed like a rather gloomy post, opposed to my usual eclectic diatribe on the origins of humor and laughter, I thought reading my own sketch would enrage that stubborn Taurus within me and help me shoulder the painted scene placed before me with renewed animosity and loathing resentment, allowing me to close my eyes, pick up a bucket of paint and thrust it at a canvas, erasing any sign of prior ceremony.
From a tousled, shabby canvas, I hope to charm, enlighten, and potentially unlock some intriguing considerations about the world around us for a few perspicacious readers who have either scanned, inadvertently clicked, or potentially followed my musings.