#Another idea I am rotating like a rotisserie chicken in my head

[kelpiemomma]

tf I know Titanfall is human piloting Mechs but like. Titanfall/PacRim fusion where Jaegers are piloted by one human and one machine (similar to the simulacru in tf instead of two humans (or in addition to two humans).

Lastimosa was both a Jaeger pilot and an instructor, with mech BT as his partner. He was still training Cooper on the side in addition to his other training. Lastimosa died in a Kaiju attack and BT brought the Jaeger back (like the opening sequence of PacRim). BT was "retired" from piloting with a human after his AI was found to be too unstable (too emotional). He ends up training with Cooper who is still a relative rookie (no Kaiju piloting experience, lots of training under his belt) and finds they're a good match. One of them approaches Briggs about it, who's not sure putting a rookie with a compromised mech is the best idea (she's REALLY against it) but when a double event happens and there's only so many Jaegers and pilots that can be deployed, she gives them a chance.

[definitelynotshouting]

Hello!!!

It is I, the 🌠anon ^.^ (and also the same anon who once wrote an ask to you with a lil apology for not being able to finish the fic, I am indeed the same person ahahaha)

Your AU kept rotating in my head like a rotisserie chicken after that ask, despite the fact that I initially nope-d out of it so hard, and I just felt so compelled to lean into it a bit, and.... yeah, that's what we got out of it c:

I'm so very glad and happy and delighted and just... gsgakajgahajgsh, the fact that you liked my little take on the AU means the world to me!!! It's always a bit tricky to create stuff inspired by another writer, more so even than just writing fics based on canon media, and I'm really happy that I did all that right and that you saw it and even reblogged it <3

And now, don't mind me, I'm gonna go circle your fic again like a skittish cat, because I just saw you posted a new chapter, and I'm CURIOUS (but I'll take care of myself, don't worry/gen)

(Also now that I read my ask again I noticed all the mistakes I made, that's what I get for rushing to send things and not proof-reading enough, whoops/silly)

Anywhoo, hope you have a wonderful day!!! 💙💙💙

Anon!!!! Hello omg!!! It's good to hear from you again, i was wondering if you were the same person when i read that fic bc of what you said before the submission-- ive been beaming you the good energies ever since i got that first ask ❤️❤️❤️❤️ im real glad you're taking care of yourself!!! And im so genuinely flattered you were so inspired by the au despite being unable to finish the fic 🥰🥰🥰🥰 i know some writers dont always like stuff inspired by theirs, but im not one of them; as long as i receive credit, i'll always be excited to see what other people make using my ideas!!!

I did indeed update, and i trust you'll know if you need to back off again, but i do feel compelled to warn you theres still a lot of explicit suicidal ideation and a second attempt being planned in that chapter!! However, that attempt wont be successful, and like i mentioned before, the ultimate ending for this fic is a happy/hopeful one, so hopefully thats a good reassurance that things WILL get better.

If you want a little summary of what happens in it, i'll be happy to give you the cliff notes version so you can still know whats going on without having to immerse yourself in it. Take care anon, i hope you have an excellent day too :]

[amiwritesthings]

Picking at random! 3, 27, 33, 41 :)

hey hiiiii thanks for the ask!

3. Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic.

Okay, straight into the deep end.

Fic: Get idea (a snippet, a scene that of course goes straight in the middle part), rotate it in my brain like a rotisserie chicken for 7-30 business days (or alternatively, bang out 1k in two hours and then not touch it again for 7-30 business days), start writing, the characters run away with the story and what was supposed to be a one shot is now a trilogy in my mind, agonize about word choices, hit myself in the feels, be super relieved when after a month of not working on it i get a sudden burst of creativity and finish the sucker. tinkering with it. grammar check in word, another in a different font, grammar check in google docs, italicize what needs to be italicized, post.

chapters: i hate chaptered fics. i do. i only have two of them: one with 11 chapters where all chapters were ready to go except chapter 8 (and i almost gave myself brain damage trying to labor through getting that missing chapter done) and one with currently 2 chapters posted and i HATE CHAPTERED FICS SO MUCH. About to scrap the drafts i have for the next two bc nothing is working and i hate everything. I do not enjoy the process of chaptered fics kthxbye.

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

Most favorite: when that idea hits and you keep spiralling in your head about where the story goes and how fucking awesome it is.

Least favorite: actually putting the movie in my head into words.

33. Do you want to be published someday?

Uhm. No, I don't think so. I know a few fanfic authors who have de-fandomized their fics and published them but a) i suck at big projects so the most you'd probably get out of me is a novella and b) i don't need that kind of pressure. i do this for fun (haha bc most of the time it's fucking agony) and i am way too lazy to rewrite a story for a broader audience tbh.

41 I'm gonna answer later!

[rusquared]

since more ppl than expected r noticing this (mwah kisses u all) i should mention another detail

the project does include me drawing OCs as well - would anyone want to be included or have their OC included? like a general description of physical features and clothing u like. not required btw i am just rotating a million ideas in my head like a rotisserie chicken

hey you- yes you- orv reader- please help me with a project

i'm gonna open my submission box and i'd rly appreciate it if orv folks could send pictures of landscapes from where they live/their hometown/etc. doesn't have to be anything specific or identifiable ! just a shot of a some kinda landscape :)

(idk if i should credit people's @'s in said project but if u wanna be anonymous u can let me know!)

looking for maybe 5-6 photos? its just a tiny personal project i wanna do during summer break. pls. if u ever loved me and my inane orv rants.

[tmnt-obsessed-ace]

Sometimes I want to co-write a story with someone, it would he cool to bounce ideas with another person instead of keeping them in my head

And then I remember that:

1. I am shy as hell

2. ADHD brain would make it so I disappear for several weeks at a time and leave the other person alone wondering why I havent written jack even though the ideas continue to rotate like rotisserie chickens in my head

So no I can't work with other people :(

[giorgiastastes]

Cidade De Deus (2002)

“Why return to the City of God, where God forgets about you?”

 Let’s start from the title, which is certainly enigmatic. Calling city of God, a suburb that is the scenario of a reality abandoned by God is not a mistake, nor is the frequent recourse to religious faith seen as the only motivation, the last hope of these young men for a better life, that does not lead them in a coffin before the age of twenty. I am in favor of full religious freedom and belief, but I cannot fail to notice how, if faith can lead to extremism, bigotry and fanaticism, very often it is also the only light of those who have already touched the bottom or are about to do it.

Speaking of the plot, the film begins in medias res, in the Cidade de Deus, one of the most dangerous favelas in all of Brazil.

The initial scene, so frenetic and almost surreal, is part of the history of cinema, with the chicken running away through the alleys of the neighborhood, while at least twenty boys chase her, trying to catch her with guns and rifles, as if it were Pablo Escobar reincarnated.

The chicken finally ends up clashing with our narrator, aspiring photographer, now stuck between the street gang and the police.

 Masterfully we see the camera rotating around this boy, over and over again soon becoming an hypnotic rhythm, while at the end of the last turn we find ourselves in another time space, in the 60s, accompanied by the phrase A PHOTO COULD HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE, BUT IN THE CITY OF GOD IF YOU ESCAPE YOU ARE DONE, AND IF YOU STAY YOU ARE DONE, IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN SO, SINCE I WAS A CHILD.

The protagonist, faced with such a difficult choice, returns to the past with his mind and begins to tell us about a naive gang of thieves in order to narrate with their story, also the reality of the favela, which, using the the film’s wording, is too far from the idea of a Rio’s postcard that the government wanted to portrait at the time.

After a series of episodes that I don't want to spoil, we will move on to the next decade. This initially will seem like a positive turn and then will turn out to be only a patination of the neighborhood, which in the end is even more socially structured and cruel than how it used to be.

 Finally, let’s move to the strongest part of the film, the children. They are the ones who make the choices that will most mark them.

In the city of God you cannot live your childhood with carefree, you must immediately decide which side to stand on, and this childish decision, you will take to your grave.

Among the children there are those who immediately think of themselves as an outsider in that climate of crime and violence, but according to them, not because of a sense of morality,but simply because they’re afraid of getting a bullet.

Then we find those who were born for it, and even plan for new robberies, who feels strong and great showing off a gun often bigger than their head.

To say that the film offers us several times the philosophical doubt of WHO ARE GOOD ONE AND WHO’S THE BAD would be redundant and perhaps too direct even to be discussed, with the police who often behave worse than the bandits, and the only “non silent” citizen is the one acting the most violent crime, so I want to focus on other points.

 

Can you choose which side to fight for or are you facing a one-way street? And then, badness, evil and violence are innate or you learn them, you discover them with living?

Answering the first question, the most objective and direct of the two, there is certainly no doubt that in such ill-famed neighborhoods, it is the crime that pursues us and not the other way around. When you are so abandoned by institutions and authorities, often even with a lack of reference figures from which to take example, Crime is not a choice, simply because there are no choices, it is the only option, even if unjustly glorified.

About the second question, on the other hand, in my opinion, the evil is innate, but not because it is to be considered hereditary, more because but it is part of the human nature, of the animal part in each of us, which, unfortunately, is not held back by human intelligence, but brought to extreme sadism from this intellectual capacity which other animal species lack.

It is morality that then represses these instincts, but if we left the world to anarchy, only a few would stop, and as Plautus says, Homo homini lupus.

To better explain my thoughts, I must refer to another masterful work.

I'm talking about Dogville by the controversial but brilliant Lars Von Trier. I won't talk about this film, but just to summarize the idea, we are faced with a town where cruelty is so eradicated in the population that it is a same child who starts the cycle of violence and abuse. This episode perfectly reflects how human’s evilness is, in my opinion as much as that of the director, genetic, and that can also be seen in City of God.

The undisputed head of the city, Ze Pequeno, begins his rise to power at the age of eighteen, as soon as he realizes that he wants to become the absolute king of the favela.

But if we were to talk about his desire for blood, that was born much earlier, when he was still a child and, as the narrator tells us, "he wanted to act out his whim of killing" and then took advantage of the robbery at the motel to make a massacre.

Certainly the number of its victims grows with its age and so its desire for power but, however questionable this choice is, it was not homicide for futile reasons. In fact, he decides to exterminate all the main drug dealers in the area with the intention of becoming the only owner, when he begins to understand that it was necessary to switch to the drugs field.

What makes me reflects is that, although the character will always be easily triggered, and it is not uncommon for them to put a hole in someone’s head, the reason why he killed as a child was not even money, it was just an innate desire to kill, to take the life of another human being and watch him take his last breath.

 

His disturbing laugh proves it.

Even the punishment, albeit excessive, that will lead him to death, inflicted on children who had robbed a rotisserie, is still part of his plan to be the owner of a favelas that respects him because in good or bad it is he who protects the city.

And it is precisely in that scene that we see how the cycle begins again, when Ze Pequeno forces a child to kill another child, or when those same children make up any type of story just to receive a weapon or the same one who will then take control of the city at the end of the film, probably taking the man they killed as an example.

They are always the victims and executioners, as well as the heart of the story. Of course, in the seventies we see the protagonists grown up, but of adult men they only have the appearance.

Their character is still that of the decade before, as well as their choices and behaviors. One of them was marked by the sight of a camera as a child and this became his greatest passion as a teenager and then an adult. The same one, despite knowing who his brother's killer is, decides not to take revenge in order to respect the choices he made years before, that is, to abstain from evil.

I don't even need to dwell on the exceptional and impeccable shots because, although there are unforgettable scenes such as the death of Benny between the screams and the intermittent lights of the disco, each shot would have to be studied and likely more than that, the transitions between one and the other.

The plot remains a rhythmical crescendo, we never get bored and the story remains in evolution: we don't have a real incipit, a problem that upsets the balance, a resolution of the problem and then a conclusion, it is a story that it follows changes without actually being a real beginning and end, just like a cycle.

Another and final theme is the power of art, the only means of escape from such a difficult reality, but art itself can often be used improperly to advertise and almost glorify this underworld. In this case we are talking about photography, but it could be any type of art from poetry, cinema to music.

The film must be said that it has no clear defects, but if I could have put my own I would have made the symbol of the camera even more important, since mainly we see it in the very first scene and in the change of decade, and then obviously for the whole last half an hour, while I would have made each photograph part of a chapter of the story, which did not happen.

All in all, I went too far and if you still didn't get the message, run to discover this masterpiece of cinema.

[sludgebf]

Eddie and Venom Get High as Shit

Okay, so—once in a while, maybe, if they have the time, and if Eddie is feeling petty enough, maybe, perhaps, occasionally they might sometimes loot their food.

They’ve acquired some knives in pretty good condition that way, and a sick ass jacket that Eddie can’t even wear outside or sell because he doesn’t want to be arrested for murder. And two guns that they keep in the apartment, but Venom won’t tell Eddie where he hid them. And a decent amount of cash.

And now, an unopened packet of gummy bears.

“Awh,” Eddie says when they find it, because gummy worms are the superior shape, and now this guy is too dead for Eddie to explain that to him.

•

“Do you think it’s gonna work on you?” he asks as he rips the bag open. “Because this is really, really different to alcohol.”

THIS IS STUPID, says Venom. WE ARE ALREADY HUNGRY AT ALL TIMES AND OF ALL THE THINGS WE COULD EAT RIGHT NOW, YOU WANT TO EAT THE THING THAT WILL MAKE US HUNGRIER.

“Okay,” says Eddie, “but you wanna eat ‘em too.”

Irritation trickles down the back of his skull.

I GUESS, says Venom.

•

It is not even ten fucking minutes before Venom says, OKAY.

Eddie continues to scroll through the List of Times People Died in Amusement Parks page on Wikipedia. “Okay what?”

OKAY YOU ARE IN THE PROCESS OF GETTING HIGH.

Eddie stops scrolling.

Actually, he, yeah, now that Venom brings it up, he does feel a little familiar something. “What the fuck?” he says.

THAT WAS THE IDEA, WASN’T IT?

“W—yeah, but. Now?”

OUR METABOLISM IS PERHAPS WHAT YOU MIGHT DESCRIBE AS “BANANAS,” Venom explains. I ASSUMED YOU KNEW.

“I—I knew—“ A very small pocket of Eddie’s brain is gearing up for full-blown panic. He sits up and looks at the trash can in the kitchen. “I figured there’s two of us so it‘ll act twice as slow and be half as strong.”

OH, says Venom. NO, THAT DOESN’T SOUND RIGHT.

“Well, why didn’t you say something about it before I ate them all?”

YOU SAID YOU COULDN’T DIE FROM IT SO I QUIT PAYING ATTENTION AFTER THAT.

Eddie contemplates for a minute, lies back down on the couch, sighs, “we’re going to fuckin’ Jupiter, I guess,” and resumes the amusement park death list.

•

Eddie unfocuses and refocuses his eye on the digital clock’s LED display. “I kinda feel like we should be at the beach for this,” he says. “You getting anything now?”

NOT THAT I CAN TELL. Venom swirling around in his body feels real nice, especially when he rubs up against the inside of Eddie’s face. It’s like stretching muscles he didn’t even know he had. Eddie puts his hand against his face and does his best to rub Venom back.

THAT IS NOT HOW OUR PHYSIOLOGY WORKS, Venom says, BUT THANK YOU.

•

“We’re gonna rock! Down! To! E-lec-tric Avenue,” sings Eddie, “and then we’ll take it higher!”

ANYTHING ELSE.

“We’re gonna rock! Down! To!”

EDDIE, I WILL STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN HANDS AND WE WILL BOTH DIE.

“E-LEC!-tri-caa-ven-oo! And then—“

CAN WE LISTEN TO ANYTHING ELSE.

•

The hunger comes on gradually. It kind of occurs to him and then he forgets about it, and it occurs to him and he forgets about it, and then at a certain point he pries his teeth off of the arm of the couch and says, “Is it dinner?”

I DON’T THINK SO.

“I think maybe so.” He pulls out his phone and looks at the numbers. Those are numbers, alright.

EDDIE, IT IS ONLY THREE FORTY EIGHT.

“That is close enough!” declares Eddie, vaulting himself onto his feet and rounding toward the kitchen. A pile of black goo congeals at his hip and anchors him to the corner of the couch. “Hey, what.”

NOT HUNGRY YET, says Venom.

“Don’t shit me,” says Eddie, “you’re hungry always.”

NOT NOW. I AM FEELING PRETTY NICELY FULL NOW, ACTUALLY. I WANT TO SAVOR IT.

“Absolute bullshit,” Eddie insists, and then he sticks his finger in the goo. Huh. “Huh,” he says.

He presses until it’s knuckle deep, hooks it, and drags a trench down the middle of the mass. The mass repairs itself almost immediately. Eddie grins and grabs a whole squirming handful.

OKAY, says Venom. ACCEPTABLE.

•

He’s gnawing on a mouthful of Venom when he remembers Buffalo Wild Wings exists.

“Ogghh m’gohd,” he moans, “you ha’n’t had winggh yet. I ough’a innadooshyu to winnggh.”

I’M STILL NOT ALL THAT HUNGRY.

Eddie shoves the goo aside with his tongue, and it recedes into the flesh of his mouth. “You serious?”

IT’S VERY REFRESHING.

A little loop of goo rises out of Eddie’s chest and writhes around itself like a snake with indigestion, but it’s happy. Eddie can feel it being happy. He half-wonders whether it’s the gummies keeping Venom full, but as a thought it’s just not as interesting as the happy little dance he gets to watch right now.

•

“Am I still getting higher?” he asks. Bob Ross is painting trees on YouTube and Eddie’s not watching, ‘cause there’s a handful of little black worms sliding around on his chest like ice skaters.

Another little worm slides in an arc over his forehead. Tickles. JUDGING FROM THE BLOOD AROUND HERE, says Venom, YOU SEEM TO BE LEVELING OUT.

“Okay,” says Eddie with several heavy nods, “good, that’s good, that’s good, I feel good.”

•

“Oh,” Eddie moans, “ohh, no, no, I don’t, I, I don’t feel good, I d—Ve’m, I don’t feel good, I really—I doooon’t feel good, Ve’m.”

THAAAAAT’S OKAY, croons Venom, HERE YOU GO. A tentacle nudges Eddie’s head down between his legs so his barf lands in the trash can. Behind him, the window jiggles open and fresh air rolls over his back.

He stares into the soggy mess of trash. The empty fuckin’ gummy bag peers up at him. “Get that gone,” he slurs weakly, and a black thing adheres to the bin and drags it out of his line of sight. “Thanks.”

INCOMING, Venom answers. Another dish towel, heavy with cold water, smacks against his face and stays there. Eddie sticks out his tongue on it.

•

The little pile of goo squelches out from between Eddie’s fingers. His legs would be jiggling if he wasn’t on his back, but as it is, it’s just his feet waving frantically back and forth.

He opens his mouth, lines the words up, and dispenses them in what he’s pretty sure is the correct order: “Gihhh... gimme another ice tea.”

Venom snatches another bottle from the shrinking twelve-pack on the counter and opens it for him.

“Ohhhh,” moans Eddie as he‘s wrapping his hands around the bottle, “thannnnks,” and he drinks half the bottle all at once before crashing down on the couch again. A little movement on his chest catches his eye.

Venom’s got another of those worm shows going, but it’s harder to watch now. Eddie shuts his eyes. “Uh, oh boy. I’m, I’m seeing a lot.”

NOOOOO PROBLEM, says Venom. I CAN DO IT ON YOUR BACK. HOLD ON.

There are two wet thuds, and then Eddie’s hovering over the couch, suspended by thick ropes of goo at his shoulders and hips. Their roots, the places where they connect to his body, creep to the left. Eddie rotates in the air like a rotisserie chicken.

“Why are you even doing that, anyway?” he asks.

FEELS GOOD, says Venom. LIKE HOW WE IMAGINE THOSE CATS PROBABLY FEEL WHEN THEY STRETCH THEIR BODIES.

Eddie watches the ceiling drift out of his peripheral vision. “Wow,” he says. “Is this you, high?”

THIS IS ME HAVING FUN NOT BEING HUNGRY, says Venom, and he deposits Eddie on the couch face-first.

“Oh,” says Eddie.

The worm dance resumes, on his back this time, like a shitty little massage.

•

“If I die,” Eddie mumbles into the pillow, “you need to go to the White House and possess the president.”

A flipper of goo strokes Eddie’s scalp from front to back. YOU ARE NOT DYING, coos Venom, YOU ARE SLEEPY.

“Make him a communist or make him shit his pants and die,” Eddie continues.

EDDIE.

“It’s all up to you, man. I’ll be dead.”

YOU WILL NOT.

Eddie’s head jerks up. “Wait, I want the rest of my iced tea,” he slurs.

YOU FINISHED THOSE.

“Wwwwww,” says Eddie, and puts his head back down. “Why not peeing?”

YOU ARE STILL PRODUCING, explains Venom, I HAVE JUST BEEN PUTTING IT ELSEWHERE.

“Okay,” says Eddie, “okay. Don’t talk anymore.”

AN IMPOSSIBILITY.

Yeah, fair. “Well, then, talk about something nice, then.”

So, for the rest of the night, Venom tells Eddie all about Eddie.

[theamericanscholar-blog]

Radiation Days

Belly down on the hot seat, I can feel the liquid Styrofoam

Shape itself around me as both armor and target. What I can’t feel is the bull’s-eye BB delicately placed Dead center on the wrinkled sphincter, as the tattooist Inks five blue beads around my pelvis, mapping A constellation that begs to be dubbed Anus Major.

*

The three chemo pills There on the kitchen counter— Hard fates to swallow.

*

My nurses, Kamal and Caesar, behave Like courtiers to the late QM, Steadying me by the elbows on the stepladder, Discreetly hiking up my gown, guiding My knees as if onto a pew where a kind soul Has ballpointed X’s on the sheet for my knees. Now I am aligned with the routine, and lower My face into the rubber crown of office As if in shame for what I have done To deserve such fear, such care.

*

It is less the procedure itself that is painful Than the getting to and from it—the constant Motion: the long subway ride and extra blocks To the hospital, the waiting room delays, The bowlegged trip home, getting into and out of bed, Sitting, walking, chafing, squirming. Only by lying perfectly still most of the day later Does the pain recede, even nearly vanish. If pain is caused by motion, the necessity To move from one thing to another— Not unlike metastasizing cancer cells— Will that explain why, say, the furtive appointments Adultery mandates are exhausting and finally Cause an anguish nothing can soothe, Or why dining with a rival who sees right through me Or sitting in on a meeting that denies him a prize Prompts an ache I irritate until the doctor is puzzled? Probably not. We all keep moving, restlessly, Willfully, toward something that will hurt. But by now what can pain teach any of us?

*

When I’m shown the inserted scope’s view of things, The tumor itself looks like a hard candy, Lemon chiffon with thin bands of red and white stripes, Almost the pattern of the parlor’s wallpaper In a Jane Austen novel. As the weeks go on, I can see in the bowl the sloughed cells The beam has killed, shreds of gray mucus, Just as winters in Bath would have blistered the top edges Of the wallpaper Mother keeps meaning to mend But never does. You get used to anything.

*

My arms are folded and tucked beside my head Like the legs of a rotisserie chicken, Before I am slid into the oven. If I check an hour later and open the door, I can hear the skin crackling, The juices running down the thigh. At the back of the oven a phone is ringing.

*

The Linear Accelerator I lie under each day Looks like throwback sci-fi, sleek metallic Compartments a bank of computers rotate. The electro-magnetic force surges up Through the klystron amplifier, Through the waveguide to the bending magnet Which sets the fluence of x-ray photons Into the gantry’s hovering circle of metallic lights, Blinking red signals and vents that control The radio-biological effect aimed at my alpha cradle, And then deep inside to the already smouldering tissue.

*

Forbidden caffeine And alcohol, how do I Goose or soothe an hour?

*

Yanking down my pants—in time or not— I think how each day’s scorching diarrhea Disrupts the fatuous idea that my body is Under my control. But why am I—spent, Soiled, acid-stung—so exhilarated By my own helplessness, possessed By a lower power bent on humiliating me? I spread my legs and bend over the bowl. There is the mess of pottage I stare at, Wondering how the inside of me has come To hate the rest of me which has done nothing, Nothing to aggravate it but be a body.

*

My first day at the hospital, I was given a PET scan And injected intravenously with a thick sugar syrup. Cancer cells—as who does not?—love sweets And light up when the syrup oozes near them— Allowing the scan to track where they have clustered, Where they are heading. For that one moment only They are still, grateful, joyous. Or is it me they like? Short-tempered, blunt, Vain, miserly, revengeful, diabetic me? They may not light up but they do return. This is the second time they have taken up residence In the same part of my body, the one that oversees Reproduction and elimination, the minimalist’s Methods, though my cancers seem blowsy. And why me again? Is that “right”? I mean, morally, morally right—the wrong question I ask because I was brought up to believe everything Is either right or wrong. So is cancer “wrong”? Cells are behaving unnaturally but only because we do Not know why. In their own way, they are like the man Who stands beside me day in, night out, his love And patience undeserved and unfathomable, Which may, in this instance, be how best to understand Right and wrong, or join the blessing with the curse.

*

The doctors pronounce themselves pleased At the start of what will be months more Of surgeries, ileostomies, long chemo drips. But for now, that is next, and they are pleased. The young Vietnamese radiologist wants a last look. Already naked, I lie sidelong on the examining table, And he gingerly spreads my now withered buttocks. I cannot see what he is looking at But I can hear his smile. “Wonderful!” He assures me. “It looks just like Dresden.”

*

The last chemo pills— Gulped in anticipation Of the end of things.

*

The final sessions are two Cone Down days. All the charts are rejiggered. New stars Are taped to my pelvis. The collateral damage Of occasional lethal leakage—the scrotum molt, The festering ulcers at the tip of my penis— Is ignored. The ordinance map of my insides Is erased: the lymphatic suburbs, The malignant hedgerows, the bladder’s white cliffs, Everything is erased, so that whatever is left of the tumor Is the only target, and for two days Big Bertha is dropped There, only there, as if through the imagined Cone The photon chorus is crooning Die, oh die.

When it is over, I cannot walk or sit, So I lie across the backseat of a taxi. I tell the driver to hightail it, and we skid away From the cure. I can smell the tire rubber burning.

--J. D. McClatchy, who died on April 10, 2018 at his home in Manhattan, wrote “Radiation Days” in the SCHOLAR’s Spring 2018 issue. He was 72.