Daily Archives: November 29, 2020


I’m going to be honest. There just haven’t been that many days as of late that have left me breathless. In the best of all possible ways. Today was one of them.

My friend Jim picked me up at 2 pm and we headed to Plum Island Reservation. It was glorious weather. Cool, clear, comfortable. Perfect for a stroll along the beach. We walked and walked, finally coming upon a rather large group of people, all with telephotos drawn. I was initially confused–was this some sort of memorial? There was a lobster pot on the beach with what looked like a cross propped in it. But then I looked closer. All eyes were fixed upon an enormous snowy white owl. Had my photos done it any justice, I would share but this was a you just had to be there moment.

It was a long trek back to the car. As we left the island I looked back over the marsh and the full moon was rising. Two spectacular moments in one day! Damn it felt good to be alive.

Afterward we stopped at Brine, a wonderful oyster bar in Newburyport. Clam chowder and fried oysters with bacon and a soft boiled egg eaten al fresco. The perfect end to a perfect day.


The push and the pull

My new therapy, or rather combination of therapies, has afforded me more energy. I suspect it is the lorlatinib.

This has felt wonderful. I’ve taken advantage of the amped up feeling to get some major projects done. Long (and rather sad) story short, the vintage clothing business in its current incarnation is kaput. The combination of a pandemic and some major miscommunication between partners and we are no more. Circumstances willing, it shall rise again as a small, manageable, online version. But first things first.

I had to relocate the stock and furnishings, first to one storage unit and then a major downsize to a smaller one. I figure it’s as if I’ve stacked several cords of wood at this point.

There was also an old wooden shelf–heavy as hell–that I wanted to take to my studio. My friend Brian helped me load it into the back of my 4-runner. However, I got that puppy out and up to my studio by myself. My deceased mother (the queen of do it yourself) would have been proud. It was a classic combination of brain and brawn, as I employed physics (tipping and spinning across the parking lot) as well as brute strength (shoving it down the long hall).

My back is pissed as hell right now but there is something oh so satisfying about hard, physical labor.

Of course I wish I could tell you that this surfeit of energy was a positive indicator per the effectiveness of my current therapy.

Not. It is, I am afraid, merely a smoke screen. My shoulder feels better (go figure, after all the lifting) but my lungs sound like shit. When I lie down at night the audible wheeze is often enough to waken me from a deep sleep. A strange sort of bubbling going on as well.

Gross, I know. Even more so if it’s your body. And, fucking A, it means the cancer is just perking along. My big plans and hopes and dreams be damned.

So there you have it. In as plain a language as possible. I am alive but, well, not well. Still strong enough to fight but I’m going to need some more effective tools if I hope to gain some ground here.

And I do. I really do.