Amazing.

Those of you who know me well know my distaste for the rampant overuse of the word “amazing.”

“Oh my god these fucking cupcakes are AMAZING!

Shut up, no they’re not.  Unless they were baked with strains of wheat re-engineered from samples of 20,000 year old pre-Mesopotamian DNA– then they might be amazing.  Or, if they magically appeared in your hands in a giant poof of glittery chocolatey smoke right at the instant you thought to yourself that you kinda wanted a cupcake– those cupcakes would be literally amazing.

Somebody asked me recently if a piece of pizza or something I had in my mouth was amazing, and I dickishly responded “Sorry, I have really high standards for ‘amazing.’  The Grand Canyon?  That’s amazing.  Still being alive after three years with brain cancer– THAT is amazing.  The pizza?  It’s delicious.  It’s not amazing.”

I actually said that.  What a dick.

So when I realized a few minutes ago that three years ago — exactly three years ago today — I was in Hong Kong and I had just survived brain surgery and I posted my first entry on this blog, I made note of this on Facebook (because Facebook was the one who’d reminded me.  [And this is the last kind thing you’ll hear me say about Facebook this year]).

And what was the first response I got?  The very first response, within seconds?

“Amazing.”

Amazing!

Amazing!

When I saw this comment appear, I actually laughed out loud.  I don’t know if Nick wrote this on purpose because he knows about my dickish Take-It-Easy-On-Amazing crusade, but either way, he’s right.  (He’s literally correct.)

Three years with brain cancer is amazing.

Three years!  With brain cancer!

Time really flies when you’re being alive.

2015 So Far

2014 didn’t end so great.  I got the flu, and I almost pooped my pants.  At least I got to do both of those things with my family, where where I grew up, which is a real pretty place:

The Old Rushland Railroad

Also, despite my last post, I didn’t appreciate (or celebrate) my 39th birthday nearly as much as I’d have liked to.  This might have had something to do with the fact that, unlike my previous birthday, on this one and I didn’t randomly fly to Newfoundland to run a solo marathon in the snow.  And, having NOT done that this time, I realize now that the one bad thing about randomly flying to Newfoundland to run a solo marathon on your birthday is that You Will Never Do Something That Cool On Your Birthday Ever Again, So You Just Made Every Future Birthday A Tiny Bit Lamer, You Big Dummy.

See how hard it is getting older?

See how easy it is to complain?

Especially when you have the flu.  And brain cancer.  At the same time.

I was real depressed.  What a big sad cancerful fluevolent mess I was.  Influenza glioblastoma.

But then I got home, and I went for a drive and a hike and a swim in some hot springs and saw some real pretty mountains, and I managed to turn things around.  I managed to feel a lot better.  I wasn’t sure it would ever happen– I really didn’t know, because I felt really sad.  But it did–  it happened!  Suddenly, I felt a lot better!

And I still do.  I mean, look at those damn mountains!

IMG_0390

 

So then, feeling better, I drove home from those pretty mountains, because I had to get inside an MRI machine the very next day to find out if my time was or was not up. As I do every 60 days.

So I drove home, and I got inside that MRI machine, and when Dr. Hu came in to tell me the results, this is what he looked like:

IMG_0408

How could any bad news come out of that face?  The answer is: none can.

Dr. Hu and his Dr. Who mug had good news for me, and I’ve got good news for you if you like me having less cancer: The brains look good!

They look so good, in fact, that I didn’t even bother to look at the MRI images, for the very first time in all the MRIs I’ve had since all of this started.  Doc Hoo said there was nothing much to see.  So that’s good.  So then we move on!

Two More Months!  Worry Free!  And I don’t even have the flu anymore!  Let’s celebrate by asking the nurses if there’s any chocolate lying around that I can eat while they stick me in the armpit with experimental brain cancer vaccines!

Success!  And Chocolate!

Success! And Vaccines! And Chocolate!

And while I was sitting there eating chocolates and keeping my arm up in the air for the clinical trial-mandated 15 minutes (complain complain), my mom sent me a picture of me and my grandpop that she’d just found and she thought would make me happy:

Me and Pop Pop, circa 1993

Me and Pop Pop, circa 1993

It did make me happy.  I sure loved that guy a whole lot.  I still do, actually.  And he’s been dead for 20 years now.

See?  Being dead– big whoop!  You’re still awesome if you were awesome, even if you’re not alive anymore!

So that was my MRI day.  It was good day.  And I’ve felt pretty good since then.  To be honest, I’ve felt pretty good since the day before then, when I saw them mountains.  I mean, MRIs can be good, but mountains can be pretty spectacular.

So now I’m back in LA.  And the other day I’m driving by the mall, and a friend texts me and tells me she sees me there.  But I’m not at the mall, I say, I’m in the car by the mall!  This doesn’t make any sense, you crazy person!

But my crazy friend insists, and I’m hungry anyway, so I park the car and go into the mall, to see what the hell is going on.

Oh, there I am!

IMG_0435

You see, a couple months back, some folks at my hospital heard that I had jogged to my latest brain surgery, and they asked me if they could make an ad campaign out of it.  Since they save my life all the time, I felt obligated to say yes.

They also filmed some commercials, which you can see here:

http://cedars-sinai.edu/brain/  (Just click on my weird face and you’ll see a little story and a video.)

Or if you don’t like clicking, there’s a second commercial on YouTube,which I have conveniently e-situated here:

So that happened.  And I guess I’m kinda braincancerfully famous now.  And so is Dutch the Dog!

And so that was January, of 2015.

I am still alive, and feeling pretty Cancerful.  How are you?

I Turned 39 Because I Am Alive

Yesterday, I turned 39 years old. The major reason for this is that I am still alive.

Here’s a heartening fact for those of you with glioblastoma (since, if you have it, heartening facts are unusually difficult to come by):

I can tell you with absolute certainty that it is possible to be four (4!) different ages with this kind of brain cancer!

How do I know this? Because I have now officially had glioblastoma at 36, 37, 38, AND 39 years of age. It’s true!  Now, this may sound surprising to those of you who know me (I know me, and it just surprised me myself). If your math and memory are reasonably sharp, you may now be thinking “Wait, has he really had it for FOUR YEARS?”

The answer to that question is, no. I haven’t. I’ve had it for 2.75 years. I was just twisting the numbers to make it sound more impressive–

Wait, 2.75 years?! That’s 33 months! That’s more than TWICE the Median Survival Rate for this, The World’s Most Dangerous Brain Cancer! And I’m doing pretty good! I can run, I can write, I can dance, I can play old-timey piano… wait, I can’t play old-timey piano. But I can see!

See, yesterday I didn’t care that much about turning 39. I was a little down-in-the-dumps and tired and wasn’t having the best day, and I didn’t think much of my birthday-big-whoop. But now I’m realizing that the 36, 37 and 38 year-old versions of me would have been really fucking psyched to know for sure that they were going to turn 39.

I just caught myself taking a birthday for granted! What an asshole!

It isn’t always easy, not taking things for granted. For example, I probably just breathed like 132 breaths in the last couple of minutes without not taking every one of them for granted. What a breath-wasting jerk! So you know what I’m gonna do right now, as I sit here typing this at the Doylestown Public Library and admiring the totally reasonable suburban view out the window that includes some cute little lady walking two dogs– wait that looks like my dog — wait that IS my dog, who’s that fuckin’ lady — oh that’s my mom! Hi mom!

Anyway, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna close my eyes, since I’m clearly very easily distracted by the goings on outside this window, and I’m gonna sit back, and I’m gonna take a big, deep breath, and I’m NOT gonna take it for granted.  Like crazy.  And then maybe I’ll like being alive more.  OK here goes, ready?…

{BRIEF PAUSE, LEANS BACK, EYES CLOSED, DEEP BREATH}

OK that just made me a little dizzy. But it was great! And it also made me laugh. So that’s good! I totally like life a little bit more than I did a mere 10 minutes ago! Weeee!  (NOOOOO moldy librarian lady, I’m not a crazy 39-year-old well-dressed hobo meditating and laughing and talking to himself at the back table, I have brain cancer and I just really enjoyed the shit out of a single breath so stop staring at me and actually you’re kinda foxy here’s my phone number, OK?)

Where were we?

Oh yeah, not taking things for granted. Appreciating the heck out of stuff. Like my 39th birthday! Shit it’s too late that was yesterday…

OK so what, you know what?  I now officially un-take my 39th birthday for granted!

And I hope to heck-and-cancer that I turn 40, because man, now that would really be somethin’ else.

You Will Always Have Been Here

I’m tired.

But this time, it isn’t from chemo.  Or radiation.  Or having my head opened up and fiddled around with for a third or fourth time.

This time, I’m tired because I’ve been working.  Hard.  Building something.  And this kind of tired feels good.

Building something feels good.  It feels good to make something; something that you can turn around and look at, and with deserved and uncomplicated satisfaction think to yourself:  “I did that.  And that is good.”

The thing you make can be as simple as a bouquet of flowers, or as complex as turning your friend’s garage into a guest house.  It could even be as high-falutinly aspirational as a feature film about cancer, or a not-for-profit charity Foundation dedicated to making that film, and helping people with cancer.

I actually worked on building all four of those things today.  And I completed two of them.

And that is why I am tired.  And that is why this kind of tired feels good.

I’m tempted to wonder why this “building things” impulse satisfies us… whether it’s just another one of our vain (and vain) attempts to disprove our own mortality– to make something / leave something behind that gives us permission to think “Yes, see, look at that!  I made that, and that is bigger than me!  That’ll last longer than I will!  Because I am afraid– I am oh so afraid — that I am not very big at all, that I might not last very long at all.”

I am also tempted to stop wondering about things like this.  And I suppose you are too.  And so I’d like to revisit something that I wrote about briefly… something that occurred to me when I was in the middle of an “oh my god I’m gonna die what the hell am I doing with myself I didn’t enjoy today enough did I enjoy today enough maybe if I stopped worrying right now I could be enjoying today more does any of this have any meaning anyway oh my god I’m gonna die what does all of this mean” kind of moment.

So I was thinking something like the run-on thought above, and then suddenly, some calmer, far more mature (and probably better dressed) version of me crept up to the plate, and he put his hand on my shoulder, and he said something to me.

And this is what he said:

“Dude.  Calm down.  You’re not always gonna be here.  But you will always have been here.”

And then I paused, and I thought about this.  I thought about something I had just said to myself.

“I will always have been here.”

“Yeah.  You will always have been here.”

“I will, always, have been here.”

“You will, always, have been.  Here.”

And then a wave of calm came over me.  Because I realized that there’s an indisputable truth to this thought.  And this truth carries with it an indisputable answer to The Biggest Fear There Is:  the fear of death.

You will die, but there is nothing impermanent about you.  Because you will always have been here.

The only question that’s really worth asking is this:

“How were you?”

bouquet

I’m happy to say that today, I was good.  Today I made a few things.  Some big, some small.  Either way, I will always have done that.

And that’s good enough, for today.
That, I suspect, is good enough for most days.

It might even be enough for all of them.

 

 


 

UPDATE!
(Since this blog was originally conceived as a means of Updation, here’s the latest, in brief):

• Brain surgery #3, 3 months ago.  Successful.
• 1st MRI after surgery showed some stuff.  Could be cancer, could be healing tissue.  Only way to know is wait and see.
• Started on new clinical trial (immunotherapy vaccine, similar to the last one.  Who knows if it’ll do anything, but having the option at all is very, very lucky).
• Latest MRI (2 weeks ago) showed same stuff as previous MRI.  Said stuff is not growing.  Which means it’s probably not cancer (if it was cancer, it would be growing).  This is good news.
• Feeling relatively good.  Working on things big and small.  Extremely grateful to be able to do either.
• Next MRI in 2 weeks.  We’ll see.  This is how it goes.
• It goes!  Hooray for that.  Above all, hooray for that.
• And I’ve got work to do!
• But I am tired.
• I’m gonna get some sleep, then get back to work.
• (In between those things, I think I’ll have a nice breakfast.)
• Good night!

A Sunday Homily

So much of what we build, so much of what we paint, so much of what we create, is in essence a reflection of our realization and deep desire to ignore that we are going to die.

We are probably the only species to have evolved to the point where we recognize our own mortality.  We are certainly the only species to build churches.

We see our own death coming, and we are unable to accept it.  For our unique ability as homo sapiens to recognize and process the world around us and our seemingly singular place within it, is utterly at odds with our absolute inability to understand why.

This all seems so magical… how can it just end?

This connection feels too beautiful, how can it just cease to exist?

And so we construct ornate palaces dedicated to our immortality.  We build them with marble, and rhyme, and brush strokes, and song.

We build them with the other spectacular gifts we as a species have been given– those higher powers which set us apart, the kinder cousins of that terrible ability we have to relentlessly know.

To know what is coming.

To know that everything that is now, will not be.

So look at that gleaming façade of pink and green marble– surely that will last forever.
Read those fragile words inscribed on a white page, whose incandescence somehow sets your mind aflame– therein lies magic.
Listen to that soaring chorus and its smiling refusal to do anything but livethat makes me cry, that makes me feel alive.

Better yet: make more of these things.

For the beautiful gifts which have fallen upon us– those higher powers to create and reflect and amplify life— may indeed outweigh that terrible talent which dogs us: the awareness of death, of that which we wish we were not aware.

There is nothing impermanent about impermanence.
There is nothing fleeting, about going away.

You will always have been here.

So make your mark, if you need to.  Regardless, you will already have done.

Sing your song, if it soothes you.  And do so especially if it gives others ease.

Build your church, in public or private, even if that church is as small as a smile.

And listen, always, for the hymns around you.

For how we live and that we will die should not be of equal concern.  Only the latter is unchangeable.

 

 

 

 

 

Inspiration

As much as you know you have to, it’s just hard having to convince yourself every single day to keep going, to keep doing this.

It’s just hard, and I’m just tired.  I’m tired of it sometimes.  Like right now.

And I’m quite sure I’m not the only one.

And I guess this is why we seek, and need, inspiration.

Because it’s hard.  It’s hard to keep your face and your feet pointed forward, unrelenting, despite the raging swirl of fear and uncertainty that licks at your heels, and perhaps undermines the entire path you think you are walking on.

This is why, I suppose, it’s important that we lift each other.

Since in those moments, when life is coming to us with ease, and with beauty (those moments do come; several of them came to me yesterday), we can create a reflection of that experience– that utterly bearable lightness of being that sails through our soul like a cool drink or a child’s laughter– to remind others who are struggling that it will not always be so.

This is what inspiration is.

It can take many forms: some as simple as a smile, some as elaborate as a song, or a painting, a movie, a joke, a heroic act, or an entire lifetime built from bricks like these.

Whatever form it takes, inspiration is a reminder — a missive sent back to Earth from the outpost of Ease — that things will not always be so.

You will laugh, again.  You will love, and be loved.  You will be moved by a song, brought to tears by a joke, deeply touched by an act.  You will be rendered speechless by something you see in nature that stretches credibility with its raging, searing, and utterly surprising beauty.

These things will come to you again.  Your burden will not always be so.  And rest, assured, it is shared by all of us.

So let us complain, together, to the world, to the wind, with a deep and honest sigh.

For it is hard.

But it is, also, beautiful.

And it will always be so, again.

 

 

(Here’s proof: after writing this, I just inspired myself, and was brought to tears, by something that someone did forty-five years ago.)

Well How Do You Like That?

There’s a story that I wrote before I became Cancerful, one that I’d been working on for a long time (I’ve continued to work on it while being Cancerful, and hope to one day work on it post-Cancerful).  It’s a story about our world, and about mankind’s place in it.  It’s not a short story.  It’s a long one, but a good one (and a scary one, and a funny one) that I’ve realized is pretty much nothing more than my attempt to process the insanity of what is happening to us, and around us, and because of us.  Climate change, cultural wars, species extinction (including, possibly, our own)– you know, those easy Sunday afternoon conversations.

The name of this story, which is about the end of the world, is this:
Well How D’ya You Like That?!

This has always been the name, and I’ve always known it is the right name.  But it wasn’t until just now that I thought about why this is the right name.  Why would I would give something so serious such a silly title?

The reason is this: the question is unanswerable.  And maybe the predicaments the story is about (climate change, cultural wars, species extinction, etc.) are unanswerable too.

Maybe some dilemmas are actually unsolvable.  And maybe that is our real dilemma.  And this is where I began to see the connection between that story–and that title– and having brain cancer.  And this is why I am writing this on this blog.

If some dilemmas/questions/problems are unsolvable (i.e., brain cancer), I find that the reaction I lean toward (or at least try to) is something akin to “Well how do you like that!”  Now, this isn’t a cop-out, or an attempt to laugh off or ignore with feigned ease things that are clearly and unarguably terrifying (climate change, cultural wars, species extinction, brain cancer…)

Rather, the feeling behind this beautiful (and beautifully funny) statement-question is essentially just marveling at the spectacle of life– at the impossibility, magnificence, horror, and beauty of the world– all at once.

Cancer:  Well How D’ya Like That!?

For if there is no answer to a problem–if there truly is no answer– then why not occupy ones-self with the beautiful unhinged perplexity of the problem itself?  Rather than A) turn away and ignore it, or B) invent solutions to it that you know not to be true.  (Even though these latter options are certainly attractive, and have their obvious benefits, it is not in my mind’s charge to wander down those paths.)

As much as I’d like to ignore, I can’t.
And as much as I’d like to believe, I can’t do that either.
Some people (many people) might find that tragic, but I would say to them:

The willing acceptance of unknowing (and, particularly, the unknowable) does not exclude you from truth.  (In fact it will, in many cases, lead you more quickly toward it.)

Neither does the recognition of horror– of the often unavoidable pain, and suffering, that the world churns out– lead one away from the ability to see, and feel, and bask in beauty.

And so, with my eyes wide open, I look at this world, at the hand I have been dealt, and I smile.

Because I can see.  I can smile.  I was dealt a hand.  (Two, in fact.)

I was given the gift of life!  And then I got Cancer!  And… well…

Well how do you like that?!

Isn’t that something?

Return To Kowloon, Part 3: Return to Hong Kong

PREVIOUS POST: Return To Kowloon, Part 2: Prelude, Thanks, and a Possible Seizure

So here we go with the “real time” notes & pics from my  few days in Hong Kong…

Saturday April 26th, 1:39PM
Hotel Room, Hong Kong Island.
“It feels really fucking cool to be HERE, thinking about the movie and working on the movie.  The movie that started here and contains so many places and faces and feelings and ideas from here, that I’ve been thinking about so much for two years and now I’m actually HERE. It  feels so right.

IMG_8860

It feels like I’m being led somewhere… From Hong Kong to Hong Kong.  Let’s see where we’re headed.  So whatever you do, DO NOT STOP!

 

Sunday April 27th, 7PM
Long Fu Shan Country Park

Convinced my friend to climb up to the top of the closest mountain to where we are staying– the same mountain where the picture at the top of the BrainChancery website was taken.  Last time I was here I had a tumor in my head, and it hurt.  This time, not so much.   Both times, had to do a little convincing to get my friends (Erik, the 1st, Ludo, the 2nd) to follow me up to the top.

Here’s the picture we got this time.  A little darker, but at least I had a new clever t-shirt to wear.

Top of the Mountain 2

Top of the Mountain 2

NEXT POST: Return To Kowloon, Part 4: Finally Returning to Kowloon

Return To Kowloon, Part 2: a Spoiler, a Thank You, and a Possible Seizure

PREVIOUS POST: Return To Kowloon, Part 1: Guess What I Just Did?

The Spoiler:
I am no longer in Hong Kong, or in Kowloon.  Because I am home.
I flew to Hong Kong… and back!  And I didn’t even get a lousy brain tumor.
And for the next few posts, I’d like to share some excerpts from my journal, things that I wrote while on my trip these last few days, and the photos I took while I was writing them.   A real-time travelogue kind of thing, if “real-time” means  “a few days ago.”  Let’s just pretend it’s happening right now as you’re reading it.  Hong Kong’s in the future anyway, right?

The Thanks
But before I begin, I’d like to first repeat my humble and deeply felt thanks to the generous and loving friends who helped me get back to Hong Kong.  I couldn’t have done it without you.  And now that I know how important this trip was for me, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did.  And I can’t thank you enough for getting me there.  So thank you again, friends.  I made it.

The Smoothie
SHIT.  Just as I was typing the last few sentences, I suddenly felt a smoothie (seizure aura) coming on.  (More on smoothies here and here). I’d rather finish writing this post than have a seizure right now, so just to be safe, I swallow a few Ativan (anti-seizure drugs), alert a friend or two to check on me, then I sit myself safely down on the couch and try to keep typing while ignoring the weird hallucinatory swirling soundsin my ears.  But the Ativan should kick in soon…

1o MINUTES LATER:

…and it does.
Whew.  Feeling far less smoothy, and far more groovy now.  No seizure coming.  I’ll be fine.

And if you’re reading this post, that means I managed to stay awake and unseized long enough to keep writing this post, and to post it.

To be clear: I am including this whole smoothie episode as it plays out in real time –really in real time this time– not to gin-up suspense for my Return to Kowloon (it’s coming,  I promise), but rather just to share the experience of someone living with brain cancer.   This happens sometimes.  It’s one of the things you have to get used to.

But I’m happy to report–and this is an important point– that the smoothies popping up for me every once in awhile are now far more likely related to having had 2 brain surgeries, as opposed to having a new brain tumor.  In other words, these potential seizures are probably not “new cancer” related.   While they are still really worrying (and really inconvenient at times) my last few scans seem to show that the cancer isn’t having anything to do with them.

So here we go: on to the next post… Return To Kowloon, Part 3: Return to Hong Kong

Return To Kowloon, Part 1: Guess What I Just Did?

I Flew To Hong Kong.  Again.

I flew to Hong Kong.

And this time, despite the T-Shirt, I’m totally sure I’m not gonna get a brain tumor.  Hell I’m so sure of that, I’m not even going to bother to get an MRI while I’m here!

“But isn’t that what you normally do when you’re in Hong Kong?” you say, quite perceptively.

“Yes, that is historically true,” I reply, “but why would I need to, when I just got an MRI yesterday in LA, and it looked exactly like this!

Clean as a whistle!

Clean as a whistle!
(If that whistle was made of healthy non-cancerful brains.)

Not a spot of cancer to be seen!   Just like the last one, and the one before that.  Hooray!

And guess what else happened yesterday?  I got my last (and arguably most painful) TRIPLE SHOT IN THE ARMPIT!

IMG_8847

 

See that little bulge under my girlish armpit hair?  That’s the ICT-107 Brain Cancerful Vaccine (or sugar water, depending on my luck) seeping into my lymph nodes.  For me, the most painful part of having one of the most deadly forms of cancer has been getting needles in my armpit, and then having to hold my hand up in the air for 15 minutes afterward.  That’s how lucky I am, and why you will not often hear me complaining about any of this (although if you’re scoffing right now because you have heard me complaining– hey, step off!  Have YOU ever had 3 needles stuck in your armpit and then had to hold your hand in the air for 15 minutes afterward?  Yeah, didn’t think so.)

So anyway, yesterday I got a clean MRI, and I got my last shot of (hopefully) magical armpit juice.  And since it’s almost exactly two years from the day that I was checking out of this place…

Saint Teresa's Hospital, Kowloon

Saint Teresa’s Hospital, Kowloon.
April 20, 2012.

… I figured this might be a good time to go back to Hong Kong.

But why the hell would I want to Return To Kowloon?  (As my mother asked, quite expectedly and quite hilariously, when I told my parents on the phone yesterday.)  OK, I’ll tell you why.

See, there was a moment when I was here two years ago (two years ago!), post surgery, when I was walking around somewhere weird (which is everywhere here), looking around at the weirdness, and thinking to myself…

“I wonder if I’ll ever come back to this place.”

My gut immediately said “Probably not.”  The Law of Probability (ungoverned by my gut) said (quite rudely) “No fucking way, Peacock, are you kidding?  You’ll be lucky to survive the flight home!  How about settle for Ocean City, New Jersey.  I might be able to get you back there.  Even that’s only a 37.24%”

Now I’m not one who likes to be told what I can’t do, so when all of this rushed through my head, it made me sad.  It put a limit on my life.  It put a cap on my hope.  It was the beginning of the glass ceiling that all of us Cancerful People feel above us at almost every moment, when we’re feeling uncured.

But then–BUT THEN!!– my next thought was a nice one.  My next thought was this, filled with wonder and unknowing and certainty and hope:

“If I ever do find myself in this place again, if I ever am able to come back to Hong Kong… that will mean that something really really good happened.”

And so it has.

And so I decided to come back.

HK flight note

Touchdown!

Touchdown!

And after I landed (safely!), just when I was leaving the airport, I SAW A SIGN!

HK sign

 

And when I saw that sign, I thought to myself “I’m so sorry, sign.  I hope you had a good service life.  I’m just now reaching the beginning of mine.”  And that thought made me happy.

And so now I find myself back in Hong Kong (miracle!), feeling great (miracle of miracles!), working on a movie.  A movie that cures cancer. (Miracle of miracle of miracles!).

HK Laptop

And if those first two things could happen, then why not the last one too?

Speaking of signs, when I went for a walk around the block about an hour ago, I saw another one:

a good sign

a good sign

That’s a pretty damn good sign.

(And if you’ve ever wondered where I got the title for this blog, it’s not from there.  That is a complete coincidence.)

More signs to inevitably come tomorrow, when I Actually Return to Kowloon.

So stay tuned: I almost guarantee you that I am going to end up in the hospital!

 

PS: A humble and deeply felt thank you to the generous and loving friends who have gotten me this far.  And by “this far” I mean both “to Hong Kong,” as well as “still alive.”  I certainly could not have done (or even dreamed of) any of this without yous.

NEXT POST…  Return To Kowloon, Part 2: a Spoiler, a Thank You, and a Possible Seizure