No longer a patient

Ten things I can do, if I want, now that I'm no longer a patient with a colostomy or bandanges or homecare nurses arriving every morning at 8:15 in the morning.

1. See my entire belly.



2. Rub my belly.



3. Wear jeans.



4. Wear anything with a 32" waist.



5. Clean all the tape adhesive off my stomach.



6. Never shave my tummy hair.



7. Get rid of all the medical supplies cluttering my dresser.



8. Rearrange my bedroom.



9. Lie flat on my belly.



10. Take a shower anytime.



11. Sleep late.



12. Sleep over at a friend's.



13. Spend an entire day without talking to anyone.



14. Take my shirt off at the dance.



15. Have sex without anything getting in the way.



16. Pick up guys without having to explain anything.



17. Avoid doing any housework for a few days.



18. Go away for the weekend.



19. Fit through small spaces.



20. Hug my kids and friends tightly.

(no subject)

My camera has suddenly become a vehicle for curiosity. Yesterday evening I headed to the river for a walk, but my feet turned toward the Owens Corning fibreglass plant which overshadows the park. I wanted to capture images of its strange siloes and spires against the sunset. Then I remembered the flags that startled me on Monday evening, I went and captured them, too. On the way home I shot magnolia blossom and the building where I live.

The photographic fervour carried over to this morning. I went for another walk and took diverse, unrelated photographs: a black cat, graffiti, wild ginger.

I passed a mat of yarrow, stopped and plucked a leaf. Crushing it, I inhaled the medicinal fragrance. It aroused instant childhood memories: wandering down the gravel road in summer sunshine. Yarrow grew there, alongside the potato field. It was one of the first wild herbs I ever discovered. I took a picture of the patch of yarrow and published it in texture.

I'm startled and intrigued by this burst of sensual hunger.