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Percolating against the darkness

August 19, 2016
The Body Snatchers. Fizzies. Percolation ponds. I lie in bed. I think of how one would peel the steam of a plant and see the sticky substance that was a delicate part of the flower. And I think of the filaments that linked every part of me before the cancer and the operation and now how they are percolating, and how when I was a kid and stuck a Fizzie tablet in my mouth its intensity was overwhelming and I had to spit it out, and how in the body snatches the bubbles around the people as they were shaped within the pod. Restorative bubbles, sizzling effervescence of the receding waves. I think of how I used to blow dandelions, and spray out the white seeds–and I think that’s what I’ve been through, what if I could inhale and put the seeds back on the bud.
 
So I lie there reassembling, feeling the percolation, the layers. The dandelions, fizzies, body snatches. A restorative—and so I listened to Duke Ellington’s astounding “And His Mother Called Him Bill,” which was dedicated to his co-composer Bill Strayhorn, who died from cancer—and there’s a powerful song called “Blood Count,: about his struggle. But the music, so many levels and counterpoints and simultaneous solos—everything is going off, every one, but as an individual, the brilliance, and I let that music soak through the dandelions, Fizzies, and body snatches into one percolation pond of me, trying to reconstruct, restore, and drive out where death or negative dreams tried to take me.
 
As I hack, this almost steady steam of Gorilla-like hypertension coughs that sometimes bring up white or yellow bile gobs that smell lie something pressure-washed out of the bottom of Dracula’s coffin, I cling to that rope of home, thinking of the every beginning, and my Mom and Dad and I softly sob as I say with all the determination my weakness can muster, “I was meant for something, I was meant for something.”
 
Another day of having to listen to the body and go with it—sometimes it doesn’t take much.
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