In front of me: a very large electrolyte-charged bottle of water and a turkey sandwich from Trader Joe’s. I spent most of the afternoon receiving chenmotherapy in Scarborough at the Doc’s office and now have bag full of the stuff to be pumped into me for the next 48 hours.

The dishwasher is full and the last thing i want to do is deal with it, but, as they say, God is in the details. God is in me and in front of me, God is the thing I least want to do. Ha- I have no idea; these are just the loose thoughts that float through my chemo brain like wisps of clouds.

I was empty long before I ever got into drugs or learned of this cancer; I recall isolating a great deal as a child. On a sailboat my father rented for the day I would hide and sleep below decks. The shadowy warmth of simply being alone; there was great comfort in spending time with my only companions- depression and my fantasies.

The laughter of my peers as a child felt like a stab to my chest; I couldn’t understand how they could know anything like happiness. There were entire dimensions that seperated me from the child sitting next to me in math class.

Suicidal mindsets followed into adulthood like an echo. There were a scarce few scattered romantic relationships, but for the most part it was me and my bed and my self pity.

The happiest I remember being was when I had a career in radio- I spent much time writing for the station: imaging statements and such. It was an easy listening station. I think they still use one of my imaging statements: “Easy 99.1…. putting the soothe in smooth.”

It was cocaine and enraptured frenzied writing. I found something finally, or something found me. Entranced, I would bury myself in the desk in front of me, writing intro poems for the romantic air time which followed my shift. Cocaine locked me in and gave me a vitality I never had. It gave me a promise of something biggger than myself. It gave me the hope for love.

I remember one night, blood in the bathroom of the radio station, my eyes darting at the video cameras to see if anyone was around the station, my heart a drumbeat of fear- I remember falling to my knees and praying for the first time I can remember.

“God, please help me.” I knew I was licked but it would be some time before I would ask for help. It would be some time before something else would begin to fullfill cocaine’s empty promise.

I saw my social worker today and we worked on the concept of letting things go that don’t neccesarily concern me. Most of my life I have seen myself as the eye of the tornado, the center of a chaotic force, tearing up the landscape of those around me. The intentions of this metaphorical tornado can be good, but the end result is always destruction and confusion. I want people to act the way I think they should act; I want people to be present for me even though I make little effort to reach out to them.

It involves a sibling who has more or less been estranged from the family for some 20 years. The tornado wants to stir things up so that the winds blow, uproot her life, and have it fall back to earth in such a manner that it arranged in the way I want it to be. I realize that my desire to have my sister back in my life is more about me than it is about her happiness:  The tornado arranges blows apart the lives of others and rearanges the disparate parts to suit the tornado. I am the eye of the storm.

I want her to be there for me to suit my wishes, without regard to whatever issues she may have. I want peace in my family, at the expense of my family.

The tornado is the ego, blowing things apart, lifting them up into the air, and bringing them back onto new ground, everything in a different place that suits the eye of the storm which sees things from only one unblinking eye. It takes nothing into account but its own wishes to arrange the people things around it to suit its comfort level.

Sometimes the winds of the tornado are quiet as a whisper, manipulating the enviroonment to rearrange itself. But the eye is always clear and unblinking, virtually unable to see things from the point of view of the ground beneath it. There is on tenderness to eye, no awareness beyond its wishes.

I wish the winds would quiet and I would fall to the earth in simple harmony with all that is.