I walk to the song of heroes.
I have no time for surveying the road, getting its square-foot, soil composition, and traffic surveys and feasibility studies, I don’t care where the sidewalk ends or the road begins. I don't care if whatever I want to achieve doesn’t work out, and I have nothing to fall back on but a broken compass.
I walk to the song of heroes, dreamers, and the honorably defeated and the underdog's who are triumphant. Idon't mark my progress by other's accomplishments and care not if someone is older or younger than me. I find those who always do the math have lives that don’t add up to anything. I don't want to be the sum of my parts. I was designed for speed.
And I walk towards the song of heroes--whether I'm Gary Cooper after taking care of Frank Miller in High Noon, Bogey walking off with Claude Raines at the end of Casablanca, Oliver Hardy lightly touching his chin at the end of "Chumps of Oxford " and forgiving a slight and joyously hugging his buddy Stan (If you've seen the movie and have a comic heart, this is one of the greatest moments in comedy), and when a bomb flies through the window in :Duck Soup" and how Groucho runs over and then pulls down the shade, and and Tubby The Tube when he gets to sing his song and becomes part of the orchestra, Don Quixote singing the "Impossible Dream, Soupy Sales doing the mouse, those inspirations that propelled the child into the man and ruined me from ever pursuing a re-run strewn career arc and sealed me in the world of what are you going to do with the Fred within you that was inspired by songs, music, and film, and comics, and writer. I couldn’t let him down.
The chemo shells burst around me in the grey barren world of cancer’s war zone, my fingers ache, but my smile is draw back into a wide cocky and assured Technicolor smirk like a string pulled on the bow by all the love and support of friends and families and memories…
And walk in the song of heroes,
As my battle against cancer rages around me, shells, arrows, catapulted boulders, bayonets, incoming napalm, I humbly drop to one scraped and bruised knee, battered and dented muddy shield in one hand, a broken lance’s splinted tip dripping with the dead matter of cancer’s ooze, on its the other, and I humbly thank all my friends and supporters who either given me their time, money, their hearts, prayers, thoughts, sent me shirts, books, music, and reinforced the walls that kept me powered with a life worth living to give, fight, and knock down the bad guys. I nod by head in gratitude, even my humbleness gets humbled, I’m racked with deep happy sobs, then I pull myself up slowly, aching, queasy, and catch my breath to regroup.
I’m on the most dangerous part of the battlefield an open plain before an hill. The chemo shells burst. Shrapnel sprays and splinters into me. I remain on one knee, thanking all I can thank for this life.
My heavy head rises and I detect movement above me on the hill.
I see cancer’s scuttling spirit, moving like some sick crab—typical movements for a bottom feeder. I see the sharp glint on its gooey helix’s sheen—cancer is a well streamlined mass. Everyone thinks all cancer cells are misshapen, they aren’t, they’re sleek well designed for speed. And cancer is the master of disguise. That gray, burbling, loveless mass, and marvel of death’s engineer, it’s much easier to take than to build, the perfect design that even consumes itself (Maybe it was written by Ayn Rand.).But cancer does have a weakness. It’s heartless. It can’t only move sideways to make you hit the bottom.
I smile. The bottom feeder has made the mistake trying to take me down—its pincer movement assumed a higher ground. I have to dig deep within myself to beat it and if there’s one thing that’s possible in fighting cancer, its knowing how to get beneath the bottom.
I’m walk forward are sinking deeper and deeper the liquefying ground into a new point break (which makes sense in cancer’s battlefield, it can only build its world on an unsteady foundation).
I take a breath as I walk deeper into the darkness’s depth of liquid chemical soil, I kick and squirm, and tunnel down.
I emerge beneath cancer’s smooth sharply defined thoracie-sterna abdomen (I’ve studied my enemy’s body parts, cancer’s crab legs are flat—even cancer’s feet have no sole!). I shove the broken lance deep into it belly, impaling ti above, and I drive my lance deeper with all the songs and movies and loves of friends powering my thrust, a brutal, loveless thrust of joy.
No matter how well designed cancer is, when you wound its design, the pseudo-impervious beasts find a way to scream like a baby.
Cancer works its way free and skitters away on its soulless flat feet, whimpering like Hitler. I see is smooth cells, blistering and drying out on my lance
I emerge on solid ground, weakened, but gathering strength in the pursuit. What can one do when you suddenly find yourself greater than the sum of all your parts and you’re all by yourself? I might have lost my sense of taste, but I haven’t lost my taste for battle.. There is always a right fight. There is a right fight.