More Boob Talk

It’s been a bit of a while, hasn’t it? Well, getting ready for chemo and radiation and such… is busy business, particularly when one is healthily fixated on finding out as much as one can about the procedures… the drugs… the side effects… and whether or not one can get a cranial prosthesis that looks just like Storm’s hair.

I mean, if cancer undearest is going to take so much of my time, the least the bastard can do is help me cosplay. I’m thinking… Okoye while my head is totally bald, Imperator Furiosa when my hair starts growing out, Misty Knight after my hair is a few inches long, and my Storm wig (I mean, cranial prosthesis  *cough, cough*) for whenever I am feeling like flinging wild lightning and making my eyes look creepy (which, knowing me, will likely be fairly often).

So… there I was, waiting to be fitted for a fake knocker—I doubt I will ever wear it with my regular clothes but need one for specialty items (like a paintball armor), which have spaces for two boobies). Anyhoo, I was sharing this gloriously creative idea with another prospective breast cancer ass-kicker, when the look of raw horror on her face made me… burst into laughter. I know… how awfully inappropriate of me, but… when have I been known for my social appropriateness? Exactly.

I apologized to the lady and explained that I was not laughing at her. But at the fact that her facial expression had been so extremely vivid that it looked cartoonish, and well… I have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy (or a 9-year-old girl) who believes that nothing could be funnier than saying “fart” aloud or watching a cat get almost murdered by the mouse it wants to kill and devour (Tom and Jerry rocks!). I also told her that finding a way to make the best of things is what keeps me radiant (earlier in our conversation, she asked me how I managed to stay so radiant while she can barely get up in the morning, and she is not even as ill as I am).

After all the explaining was done, and after she started wondering if the wig people would let her get away with a cranial prosthesis that resembled Chaka Khan’s hair in the 70s (and before we were asked to step out of the waiting room because our raucous roaring was disturbing others), she decided that she would try really, really, really hard “to have fun with cancer treatment”. Once I heard those words dance out of her smiling lips, I walked around like a peacock—feeling all superior and all shiny all day. Not because I convinced someone to walk in the wilder (and louder?) side, but because I might have helped another human being find a way to make the best of an impossible situation, to do that honestly, and to do it for herself. It was… magic!

For moi (and for most, methinks), living with a collection of chronic illnesses and then being slapped with a disease that could be terminal isn’t easy, but… it doesn’t have to be the most difficult thing in the world. Like I’ve tried to point out in every Trinkets and Armor post I have shared, I believe that we can turn any torment into something we cannot just live with but thrive through.

I also believe that we must achieve this thriving in our own way. I do it by never allowing any person or group or social expectation to have the power to make me feel anything but perfectly me. Like I told the person, who while fitting me for a breast prosthesis, told me, “What your eyes see from above, when you look at the prosthesis, is not as accurate as what I see when I look at you from the front, and what others are seeing is what matters.” I gave her a smile fueled by the sort of hostility that kind of nonsense rips right out of my gut, and said, “Oh, my dearie, the way I see me and what I think of the seeing will always matter to me a whole lot more than anything you or anyone else can come up with. And since I am the first one on my list of who and what matters to me, whatever you say is less than crap.”

I know this person was just doing her job. And heck, she might even be right about my bird’s-eye view of my boobage. But… we start losing who we are when we stop correcting people about what is true about our Selves. And what I am, my Wicked Luvs, is sure… proud… and protective… of what I see in the mirror. Also, only a blinded fool could look at me without seeing purest Magaly-perfection. And, yes, I am also proud of understanding that my modesty goes beyond anything anyone can withstand without bursting into fits of uncontrollably wild adoration (or rage). 😀

Breathe… my Wicked Luvs, breathe… it gets easier when you breathe… then laugh!

 

and out of life, poetry:

I see perfection
in the mirror, pure wonder—
me, unchangeable
in spirit, willing to grow
into better fitting flesh.

 

 

a wee note…
– I stopped posting weekly Trinkets and Armor prompts because participation went down to almost zero. But worry not, my Wicked Luvs, I shall continue using the tag and you are always invited to add your insight to all my posts.

 

Life Is Selfish…

…and thank goodness for that bit. The moment life stops being self-centered, death comes and steals the show. Nothing against death, who looks so chic in all her black and bone motifs. But… some of the best feels require some flesh.

Like coffee, can you see me delighting in coffee without using some tongue?
Exactly! Tongueless coffee might be joyless (and, perhaps, impossible),
especially on cloudy days (when we want to grin even if the sun is in a mood).

Anyhoo, life wants more Magaly for herself (who can blame her? I’m freaking awesome), and I must indulge her wants. No major changes. Just that I’ll post stories and poems only on Tuesdays. But worry not (well, maybe a bit), since I promise (threaten?) to stalk you on Facebook and Instagram every single day.

And for the 13 or 31 of you who are not on Facebook or Instagram, I shall post FB and Insta recaps (photos, poem bits, random rants) every other week or so. These recaps shall include writing updates and riotous ramblings about what I (and one of my parasols) get up to in The Woods and in The City.

 

the recaps and rambles will look something like this:

Last year, my Piano Man got me a red parasol.
I love it (not just because it’s red), but because it makes everything cooler.
Also, someone on FB said the pattern looks like veins and arteries,
which makes it cooler in a whole new way.

 

The pomelo seedling below was birthed from a fruit I ate some months ago…
I’m wondering if the tea (I hope to get from its leaves) will be just as sweet.
The wee stone in the pot followed me home from Friday Harbor.

in the spring,
soft leaves and heart stones
grow beauty

 

writing and stuff…
– I am rewriting some of my old stories and poems, trying to decide which collection to publish first. Or if I want to go for a twosome. We shall see…

What about you, my Luvs, what have you and life been up to these days?

Of Blacking Out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and… a Skull-Full of Chili

I wrote a letter to Freud’s ghost, inquiring about his stance on ink. Freud’s ghost didn’t respond. But I received replies from his superego, ego, id, and… a wraith, named F. Slip, who follows Freud’s ghost around, moaning, “Are you my mummy?” The superego letter included a discount coupon to the Pi circle of laser surgery hell. The ego sent a 1001-page essay on how I hadn’t been properly potty-trained. The id wants naked photographs of my deepest inner self… in color (the word color was underlined and italicized). F. Slip wrote sex, anger, dreams, angry sex dreams, dreamy angry sex, blacked out the initial attempts (not very well), and ended with, “Are you my mummy?”

After all this, I’ve come to the conclusion that Freud’s ghost is probably too busy to care about me turning The Psychopathology of Everyday Life into blackout poetry. So, it’s getting inked… along with one of his biographies, and a half-drowned copy of Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover. It felt… appropriate.

.
some wee notes…
– for my dear Y, who asked for something hysterical that included Sigmund Freud, Doctor Who, and food that tastes yummy, but “looks slightly gross.” (Y is having stomach surgery in a couple of days, and she wanted “a riotous belly laugh” while she can still feel it in the tummy she was born with).
– I’ve always thought the superego is way too sanctimonious to actually pay attention to what’s going on. The ego is probably a mad scholar so focused on research that it can never see people. And, let’s face it, the id is a pervert. If a Freudian Slip was personified, his eternal confusion would make him a great companion for Doctor Who’s “Are you my mummy?” creepy kid.

scripts on autumned leaves
waiting for my muse and ink
to spring them anew

 

And, the slightly gross bit…

woman needs not be
a zombie to crave what lies
luscious in a skull

Y, I hope you laughed.