Sometimes things are just *wrong*...

One of my love's oldest friends, D, has been in the hospital since April 17th. And although I haven't known D long or all that well yet, he is my friend too because he is dear to my S. Maybe it was a cold that developed into pneumonia because the AML was progressing so quickly? As soon as he was admitted to the hospital he was in ICU faster than you could say, "huh? D?" Shortly after his admittance into ICU his organs were compromised: AML was discovered. The doctors wanted to start on the chemo with his immune system so shot to hell...Understandably they had to. And understandably D's liver and kidneys were not successfully filtering out blood impurities like mutant blood cells because those WBC still had his DNA. Damn those rogue white blood cells.

But outside cells and human physiology--it really all is incomprehensible.

If you look back, it really was a week where all seemed wrong with the world: NJ was officially being governed without a governor; the spring rains brought serious flooding to an area that had just recovered from Floyd (1999); the Virginia Tech shootings resulted in absurd, in the Camusian sense, murders. And I could continue on like we thought the rain would... Yes, well, some of us already knew that the world is wrong, has been wrong for a while now.

But then, like the homecoming of the prodigal child, the vernal equinox just waltzed in and stunned us with its splendor. The great tree of treaty lore seemed to transform overnight: buds, flowers, and leaves in quick succession, leaving a lawn of fierce pollen yellow confetti-blossoms like the morning after a parade. And soon the humus earth could breathe again.

This is the season of marked perennial rejuvenation, not life support and a tangle of tubes. Sometimes, more than others, we feel like we're hanging on by a thread--financially, emotionally, or the symptoms of the week. Sure, we do dramatize our doldrums into ailments--but if we're not hanging on with the aid of morphine, tubes and machines, we're doing quite well, aren't we? Grateful, should we be, but not at the expense of those dear to us. We the survivors of this life do seek respite from the all-too-frequent reminders of Death's sly, eely act.

We are only survivors
until...
the vine snaps,
the marble rolls into a floorboard,
and until...
the watering hole is poisoned,
the night swallows the shadows..