Space Chips (not the same as Ghost Chips)

Broken headgear and emotional outbursts?
People around you starting to act like you’re being repetitive?
Driving everyone nuts, starting with yourself?
Maybe you own a spaceship you haven’t built yet.
Maybe it’s OK to act a bit “weird” or “unorthodox” or “like a fuckin’ weenie” so long as you have a main directive you believe in.
Also, make sure to speak up when everyone else is dicking around during a crisis.
P.S.: I’m pretty sure a lot of excellent people act this way all the time and not just in stories.
I hope I’m right about that.


What’s Eating Me (or This Was Hard to Type and Title)

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and yes, I'm looking pretty good in this one.

Clock face all up in your… face…

I haven’t been myself for a long time. I don’t know how to word that a whole lot better, but I’ll try.

Quite a long time ago, my mother had a health scare. Luckily, the issue was caught in time… just. I panicked, then I researched. I figured that the more I knew about what happened and why, the better I’d be insured against this threat. I got my check-ups and apparently, I was in the clear. Despite this, ever since I found out the problem likes to run in some families, I just knew I’d be one of the unlucky ones.

Years later, I was right.

And now I see the inside of a lot of plain rooms with clocks in them.
I see a few doctors.
I fill in a lot of forms.
I make a lot of jokes.
I create a lot of silences.
And I wait. For phone calls, test results, for the receptionist to call my name.
I wait for the right time to tell my loved ones. And when I get the guts to do that, suddenly the information has changed. If my condition improves, I tell myself I can inform people when it’s all over and done with. If my condition worsens, I tell myself it’s not time to burden anyone with such news.

I’ve just been informed that I’m in remission from cervical cancer. Again.

I don’t know how to feel about that or what to do. All I know is that some days, everything tastes like metal and I’ll sick up anything I eat, in triplicate. And then some days, it’s like nothing’s wrong. The other days in between are spent waiting. Not living. Not dying. Just being. Just waiting.

Anyway, I made some appointments and found a thing I wrote the first time my symptoms remitted. Here’s the thing.

A stay of execution,
a sigh of relief.
A sign of improvement
somehow incomplete.

If I’m going to die, I’d like to know why.
I want to live with terms better defined.

Saved from blades,
but not waiting-room charades.
Fears can only deepen
when you’re stuck in a bed you can’t sleep in.

May I trade a subsidy of pain
for my god-given right to complain?

Tell the reaper I’m not here.
Tell the house I have no bones.
Tell my parents I love them
and that I need a minute to be alone.

Formes Frustes – Remission (2014)