June 2009
I walked south on Madison Avenue on a September morning. It was ‘fall’ in New York, and warm. A clean, white light bounced off the concrete pavement and buildings. Everything seemed to angle upwards and outwards. I sensed the spaciousness.
My elbows lifted ever so slightly, enough for the warm air to get under them. It’s mainly downhill heading for south Manhattan, so walking was more like floating. I felt I was a bird about to take off. I started to stride out, easy and long. With my arms away from my body just that little bit, I felt I could take deeper breaths. I heard my nostrils sucking in the air.
I’d just been to Brooks Brothers and bought some button-collared shirts. I was on holidays. Life was good. New York gets into you like that.
Ahead of me, two metres out from a restaurant window, stood a table set in the middle of the wide pavement. There was plenty of space around it as there was not a lot of foot traffic. A red and white check cloth neatly covered the table. One corner of it fluttered lazily in the warm air.
A large white ceramic bowl sat on the cloth. It was so big it almost extended beyond the edges of the square table. The whiteness of it reflected even more of the mid-morning light.
This huge white bowl, set on the red and white check cloth, was full of tomatoes. Deep red tomatoes piled up high. The light effect of the check cloth, the white bowl and the red tomatoes drew my eye in.
A clump of basil leaves still attached to their stalks rested on top of the tomatoes. A mass of green, on red, on white, on a red and white check. On Madison Avenue, New York, in the light of the sun.
It was just before lunch. There were no chairs at the table. And no blackboard. No menu card or spruiking waiter, either. Just the colours floating, like me, on the expanse of the pavement.
There was nothing that needed to be said. Tomatoes and basil. Perfect.
I feel healthy just thinking about that.
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June 2009
I am intrigued by your poem, Sailor. And I am chuffed (privately) by your reference to mail from pathologists.
I don't recognise the class logo on the sail in your picture. What type of dinghy is it? I grew up in Sabots and Mirrors on the Bay. We sailed at Half Moon Bay - when the Cerberus was still looking like a vessel. Haven't seen it for years. Is it sad now?
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May 2009
Three from Dorevitch
Two from Gribbles
One from Southern Health
One from Knox - then another one
(for the other tests, yes that’s right)
One from Ringwood
Two from the ambulance
(we thought we were covered, but we weren’t – were we!)
If-I-concentrate-I-think-I-can
-fill-in-my-membership-number
-on-the-claim-form
Do you understand all this? Please check the box.
Sign-your-name-here
Today’s date? Last I remember it was April.
Is it June already?
Three from Dorevitch
Two from Gribbles
Please pay immediately
I-think-I-can-print-my-name-now
Is it really June already- what happened to May?
Dear Dorevitch
What happened to May?
P-O-Box-2-0-0-3
No stamp required if posted in Australia
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May 2009
I don't recognise the class logo on the sail. What type of dinghy is it? I grew up in Sabots and Mirrors on the Bay. We sailed at Half Moon Bay - when the Cerberus was still looking like a vessel.
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May 2009
The following site is really useful:
http://www.labtestsonline.org.au/index.html
I like following up on my blood tests by finding out what each component means. It's a really useful, informative, site.
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May 2009
I like this too. Good for you that you wrote it then and can now use it as a building block. I'm only starting to document now. I made some notes during treatment for things I wanted to write about. The time has come!
Have you read John Diamond's book C: Because Cowards Get Cancer Too? That's a really good collection of pieces that were written in 'real time' ie. as his cancer progressed. He was Nigella Lawson's husband. It's a very funny and insightful book.
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May 2009
OK, I'm colour blind then. But I'm not known for letting the facts get in the way of a good story. And I'm not starting now.
I did want to cover up, I remember. It was cold, sure, but there was more to it than that. Something like this:
I usually just go to a barber and say 'Number 2 all over'. It's cheap, easy and quick. My hair had just starterd to fall out and I had sores across my scalp. I said to the hairdresser, a Vietnamese woman, 'I'm taking some medication which is making my hair start to fall out'. I wanted to hear myself saying it, I guess.
Her response was 'Oh, well, we are all going to die sometime'.
She might as well have slit my throat.
It's not just about the cold, but I'm not sure it's all vanity either - even for your lot!
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May 2009
I selected the picture of the man with the green cap to be my on-line face. The particular green hat he's wearing reminds me of a very similar hat I bought when my hair fell out two years ago. I remember being very cold that winter -'07 - as I had lost a lot of weight, had sores, boils and puncture marks all over, and generally felt like crap. I bought the hat for nine dollars as it was unusual, all cotton and was stretchy.
I wore it once. My wife smiled at me when I donned it and gave her my look, but it made me feel like an exhibit. That wasn't what she intended, I know that, but I distinctly remember feeling something stab into me. Here I was living the cancer cliche of covering up 'chemo baldness' with a funny hat.
Soon after my family - parents, siblings, children, 27 of us - went away to a bush retreat for a weekend. Lots of fun and we'd never had a clan gathering like that before. I had two brothers out from the States where they live, so that was special.
By the end of the second day I was sick of people taking photos of me. I knew they didn't mean to be invasive, but it was really obvious that one by one my extended family were trying to get photos of me smiling. I didn't say anything. I'm too polite and passive. But I knew they were wanting to have a nice photo of me in case I wasn't there any more. I felt a bit like an exhibit then.
So, I never wore that green hat again. Until now.
I do have a cashmere golf cap, which I love to death. I prefer that. I'm not an exhibit in that. Putting on a show, maybe, but not an exhibit.
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