The Golden Apples of the Sun

Kage Baker loved apples, and apple trees, and the sight of a field of blossom-thick  boughs in a spring orchard. But it was  the autumn season she loved best, when the aisles and aisles of apples came ripe, and could be found easily in perfumed stacks and piles in the local farmers’ markets,

She was in bliss then, wandering among the several stands in the Pismo hills, sipping fresh-pressed cider from a paper cup and selecting rare apples by twos and threes. I followed along with the grocery bags, packing the apples in carefully to be weighed and purchased. The best of the stands published weekly lists of the apples that had c0me ripe, so we could head out anticipating Arkansas Blacks or Rhode Island Greenings or Limbertwigs. Kage always said the Limbertwig was the name of some famous yendri erotica … and who knows? Maybe it is.

It’s a darned fine apple, I know that.

The hilariously named Gopher Glen fruit stand had the most varieties, and made the best cider in the area. Maybe in the world – although I am not entirely certain they were actually in the world. You could reach it by only one narrow  road, which spent its winters being a stream …

They had a delightfully antique and  eccentric apple press, in which the least cosmetically perfect apples of any and all varieties were dumped – then the press would squeak and thunder, and a golden surf of fresh cider would splash and rise in the receiving hopper, ready to be bottled. It was never the same twice, varying wildly from bottle to bottle. Kage would dance with it across the parking lot to our car, white-sneakered feet scuffing through the shed apple leaves and pebbles of jadeite and jasper weathering out from the seaward hills.

That weird, perfumed canyon of apple stands was one of the places Kimberly and Michael and I intended to go this past summer. And the fall, too, when lovely treats like Baldwin and Nittany were available along with more commonplace apples like Honey Crisp and Pink Lady. However, cruel and downright insane Fate intervened, and all the harvest I’ve been able to reap from the advancing dark has been my own threadbare old person.

Not that I am unsatisfied with that! I’m not only safe at home now, I am patently benefiting from being in my own place. I’m walking just over 1,000 feet a day, traversing the house between my recliner and the bathroom. My voice is getting stronger and clearer, I’m eating and sleeping well; although I’m still burdened with a trachea tube, I see the doctor this coming week in order to begin the process of losing it. (God speed the hour!)

All day my sensorium is enriched by the familiar and well-loved: not only my multi-species family, but Kimberly’s dedication to holiday decor: when I walked in last Saturday morning (at 1:30 AM. The ambulance was 8 hours late …) all the autumn lights were lit in the front yard, golden and warm white like honey. The living room was entirely lit with golden lights in garlands of autumn leaves, and it was like walking into a room carved from amber.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, now, and even with all the lights out, the shape of the room is as familiar to me as any room in which I have  ever lived. I just gaze at the shadowed lines of the walls and windows, and feel peace bubbling up in me like a spring that has been stopped and is now cleared. Old Billy Yeats must have been longing for this kind of tranquility in the poem I referenced in the title of this blog.* I dare say, my memories of apples surpass his in glory, and I’m not chasing any glimmering girl through the woods …

In the meantime, Dear Readers, consider this fascinating article on recently re-discovered heirloom apples:

Do check it out, there are wonders described therein. And if you are fond  of day trips, you might consider checking out Gopher Glen yourself. You can come home with a basket full of jewels – rubies and topazes, beryls and amber, russet and rose and chrysophase. And then – you can eat ’em.

Even Aladdin didn’t get to eat the jewels in his cave of wonders.

*The Song of the Wandering Aengus.  Read it, my children, and be enlightened.

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A Night In the Hot September

Kage Baker

Dear Reders, I have been trying for 45 minutes to make this program work, and have almost totally failed, Mind you, I have been assisted by a power brownout (not long; this IS a hospital; but long enough for the Kindle to drop the site. Also, my jury-rigged keyboard support failed to function tonight, forcing me to rely upon an even more jury-rigged support consisting of a plastic cup – which insists on skating about on the table top at unannounced intervals. And then my RT (respiratiin therapist) knocked my Hot Spot on the floor. The back came off, the battery popped out, and it took me 15 minutes to get it put back together and for it to draw enough power to function again, The Internet connection keeps groping in the aether …

I’ve had it. But tomorrow, I will regale you with horror stories – the season approaches for them! And mine have the nice moral strength of being true.

Except for the ones I hallucinated. But Kimberly will alert me to any of those that creep in.

Fortune keep you all from brownouts.

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Where Am I?

Kage Baker considered one of the key phrases from the movie Buckaroo Bonzai one of the truest philosophies ever elucidated:

No matter where you go, there you are.

She said either it was either deeply existential, bedrock self-awareness or it was totally looney nonsense, and God was laughing at us all. She also said she didn’t care which it was; it was just so deep, you know?

If God wasn’t laughing, Kage certainly was.

During the March/April cusp, I found myself waking at intervals to wonder just where the hell I was, anyway? I went from Glendale Memorial, where they thought I was brain dead and discharged me with a lung infection when I turned out not to be; to Barlow Respiratory Rehab, where they had me off the ventilator so quickly I had a sudden collapse and relapse; to my present abode, the Chateau or Chalet (I’m not sure which) where they are carefully and successfully restoring me to a working condition.

I’ve been pretty sure of my whereabouts for a couple of months now. I’m doing all kinds of big girl things, But I a really, really exhausted right now, Dear Readers, I must beg your indulgence, and call it a night. Or day. Or wherever I am.

Kage would know, I am sure.

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Steps Toward Renewing Life

Kage Baker was leery of miracles. She appreciated them as much as anyone else, but her view of them was influenced by an old physics cartoon. A scholarly fellow is standing in front of an enormous blackboard covered in complicated formulae. He is gesturing at the final answer, saying “There’s the answer.” And at the very bottom right of the blackboard are the words: AND HERE A MIRACLE HAPPENS.

Too easy, was Kage’s view. Miracles take work, and often some sort of repayment. Kage was well aware of that, having been lighting candles beside her mother in church from an early age. Saying thank you to the Virgin Mary, she was taught. Her own thank yous and presents veered a little off the true Catholic norm as the years passed, but there were always candles in there somewhere. Her faith never veered at all.

Personally, I was never really a Christian, but I too knew how the system worked. At the present time, I owe a young oak tree to the Lord for the gift of my second chance at life. I’m not sure where Kimberly will want me to plant it, but I owe the debt. I will plant an oak.

Every day, as my recovery advances, I am reminded of it. Tonight, I am exhausted – because I am now walking! I arrived at my present abode on the Hollywood Memorial Medical Center campus – a rehab facility called the Chateau, la dee da – speechless, hallucinating, unable to breathe, walk or eat. Today, I walked 260 feet, wearing actual shoes, and chatting with my Physical Therapist as we went along. And I was breathing on my own.

At the moment, I have been off the ventilator for 14 hours. Dear Readers, I hope you never have cause to find out, but the joy of being able to breathe without the assistance of a machine is … miraculous. A few more expansions of my hours off, and we will be able to start capping the trach tube to see how I tolerate that. And then – I get to go home.

I’ll still have work to do. There will be doctor visits and continued therapy, and I shall be using a walker for a while. I’m already thinking of mounting squirt guns and a klaxon on it, so I can get people out of my way. Hey, I’m a crippled old lady, they can’t yell at me!

In the meantime, I rest between treatments and therapies, walk my legs off when I can, and fill my falling asleep time with prayers of gratitude. Alleluia, alleluia, thank You for this second chance.

I’ll buy you a tree, Old Man.

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Kage Baker always said that it didn’t matter where you started, as long as you did, actually start. But today being the first of September, it just seemed like a nice, tidy place to pick up this utterly unravelled skein of a blog.

First, Dear Readers, I apologize for the quality of this entry, and for any moth holes in its fabric. It’s been literally months since I tried to type two-handed; my right hand is still pretty numb (explanation later); the equipment is brand new – my brilliant nephew Michael found a way to instruct me how to add a real keyboard to my Kindle; and I am constantly interrupted by medical staff requiring my blood or attention.

Second, it’s gonna take days to explain the many weird twists and turns of the last 6 months. but I can start with a brief recap of my adventures in the maw of the medical system.

On March 16th I went into Glendale Memorial Hospital for repair of my mitral valve: as close to a minor open heart surgery as there is. And the procedure went flawlessly – I should have been home within a week, and pretty much back to normal by May. However …

I have a condition called delayed response to anesthesia. It means I wake up late, slowly, and usually fairly insane. Kimberly knows this, and has for years accompanied me to my surgeries, to ease me back into consciousness and protect everyone else from my amiable hallucinations. But, with the city in the throes of Covid 19, Kimberly was not permitted to be with me. (Later on, she and Michael would not even be allowed in the hospital. This has been a tragedy for many families, and damn near was for us.)

I didn’t wake up when expected. In fact, I didn’t wake up for the next 3 weeks. Somewhere during this, my panicked anesthesiologist determined that my breathing tube was actually beginning to damage my mouth. I now have a new scar at one corner. I rather fancy it enhances my sneer. But in order to prevent further damage – my throat was beginning to swell – they gave me a tracheostomy, stuffed my esophagus full of plastic tubing, and stuck me on a ventilator.

For 3 weeks, the hospital staff kept telling Kimberly – who was still not allowed to see for herself – that I was “gone”. As in, no longer at home, nor ever would be. They told her I had had a massive stroke, though my EEG was clear. But my darling little cardiac surgeon insisted that I was responsive, at least to her: my eyes opened, I squeezed her hand. I apparently had a grudge against the Glendale Memorial staff.

But thanks to my doctor’s careful monitoring, and Kimberly’s intractable refusal to pull the plug on me, I finally returned to the world.

I don’t remember anything about this, except for many violent nightmares. In fact, I’ve also lost most of early March and all of February. Retrograde amnesia is not uncommon in cases of coma, I am told.

Some things of which I am sure though, Dear Readers. Always try to engage the sympathies of your surgeon; they may end up fighting for your life long after your incision heals. And, if at all possible, make sure you have a loving, stubborn sister (or relative of your choice). She will have your back. And your medical Power of Attorney.

Well, that wasn’t very brief. And there is lots more to tell. I am only just now to the point where I CAN tell it, and stay awake long enough to do so.

But I’m alive. And I’m back.

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The Day The Buzzards Return To Hinkley, Ohio

Kage Baker, like all writers, was often asked where she got her ideas. Had she been sure of their provenance, I suspect she’d have lied – they were her ideas, after all. Instead, like several other science fiction writers, she told inquirers that she got them from a PO box in New Jersey, to which she regularly sent self-addressed stamped return envelopes.

I think she got that idea from Roger Zelazny.

The moving finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it. — Omar Khayyam.

The above stanza from the Rubaiyat is a pertinent example – while nothing ever comes back around precisely the same way, everything is remembered. All and any days can be be recalled and celebrated (or rued, as the fit takes you). Nothing is lost, anything can be memorialized; but in the long run, none of that is up to you or me. Time keeps everything, and nothing we do can change that.

Approaching, as I am, the Large Life Marker of open heart surgery, I am paying attention to what the recent days mean or will mean to me. St. Patrick’s is coming, of course – I shall spend that day sleeping determinedly, I suspect, only roused to sit up and try to remind my body that it has functions to resume … I never actually enjoy the strain of coaxing my aging flesh to remember to cycle waste and process nutrients after surgery – but it is much preferable to the alternative. The most I have to look forward to is seeing Kimberly, and pressing the button on my morphine pump. Those are both pretty cool, though.

Kimberly will only be allowed to see me for 10 minutes a day, at least until I am moved out of Cardiac ICU and into a more ordinary room. I mean to cherish those 10 minutes. The rest of the time I shall spend happily blurred out, until I can get my eyes to focus on my Kindle tablet.

And in the meantime: tomorrow is the Day the Buzzards Return to Hinkley, Ohio! Every March 15th, they return to mate, nest and lovingly feed bits of dead dog to their fuzzy little offspring. Baby buzzards are cute; like many baby birds, they have white bunny suits of fluff before they fledge.Kimberly and I have celebrated this for years. I need a stuffed baby buzzard …

Also on the topic of really specific memorialization, today is PI Day! March 14th; or, 3.14. Having no especial fondness for mathematics, in my household we celebrate this date with actual, tangible PIE. In this specific case, we have blueberry, lemon meringue and classic custard on hand for our family delectation. The blueberry is calling my name tonight … especially with several weeks of TOTALLY BORING FOOD waiting for me in hospital. No sugar, no caffeine, no salt, no fat, no carbohydrates. I think I get beige protein spun out of liver.

Yestreday, I spent several hours at Glendale Memorial doing pre-registration things. This will spare me doing it on Monday at 5:30 in the morning. It took 3 hours of repeating my DOB and the spelling of my name – which is a tough one for most people, I must admit – but it seemed to stymie everyone even while reading it off my ID bracelet. I have become exotic in my old age. I think its the multi-syllabic nature of my name, and the plethora of digraphs and diphthongs it possesses. Especially since in both my first and last names, the digraphs are followed by alveolar lateral approximates, and then by the inevitable diphthongs …

But I babble. Or I will. This should be interesting, as waking from anesthesia usually leaves me with perfectly astonishing hallucinations. Kimberly always tells the recovery room staff to just assume that no matter how lucid I sound or how readily I agree with their instructions, I don’t mean it. Nor will I remember anything they tell me. They need to just save all their instructions for her, because I will be amiably convinced I am on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise with an aquarium bolted onto my head …

And this leads us back, in a cheerily circular fashion, to where do a writer’s ideas come from? Because every insane factoid, injudicious memorial and cock-eyed holiday yields them, actually. The trick is not to find out the secret P.O. Box in New Jersey (although the  efficacy of it cannot be denied), but to pay attention to all the bizarre and charming things that happen to you along the way. Like the buzzards. And pie. And parts of speech.

Or, as my dear friend Tom Westlake said, when asked where he got his ideas, replied: “What doesn’t give you ideas?”

Right on, Tom. Right the hell on. And not a single line of it all will be unwritten.





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Life Is So Interesting

Kage Baker was constantly at war with reality. She simply didn’t care for it much, that is true – but her main complaint was that it interfered with real life. Hers, anyway.

John Lennon once wrote: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”* Kage agreed with that observation, but felt that it did not address the fact that those sorts of interruptions simply were not REAL life: they were just static, the stuff that occurred while the miracles and wonders of your actual existence were really happening. And she resented it.

Her entire life was an effort to get inside her own head and live in the stained-glass, true-love, gods-coming-to-dinner worlds that existed there. She succeeded to an amazing degree, and along the way brought a lot of other people in there with her. She was generous that way. Although, she always said that she only got away with it because Reagan closed all the mental institutions when he was governor of California – and because she had me to run interference with the sordid minions of reality.

I sometimes wish I had someone to do that for me. Usually, though, I am content with things the way they fall out – I’m awfully good at ignoring the bad parts and grabbing all the peculiar glories and graces that Life also provides.

For example, this morning I got this email from the lovely Elizabeth Story (what a wonderful name!) at Tachyon Books:

Excellent news – your book is included in a Humble Book Bundle: Celebrating 25 Years of Sci-Fi and Fantasy from Tachyon.  Here’s the direct link to the bundle:
Humble Bundle has a “pay-what-you-want model” that benefits both authors and charities. This bundle contributes to the Electronic Frontier Foundation and Girls Inc.
This bundle is a limited-time offer that begins today and ends March 31st.  We will be posting about it regularly.  Please help us promote early and often!

Yep, the book Ancient Rockets is included in this bundle. That’s a collection of reviews of silent SFF films, by Kage and I, in the last year of her life. It’s clever, insightful, and frequently funny as hell. Saying so as shouldn’t … And the other books in this bundle are simply marvellous, and you should all read them anyway.

So here is the promotion, which makes me endlessly happy to pass on to you, Dear Readers.

Also, today I got the date for my heart surgery – the waiting is almost over! On Monday, the 16th of March, I go into hospital for open heart repair of my fossilized mitral valve. My only regret is that I have to check in at 5:30 in the freaking morning (which is likely to kill me dead all on its own), with no coffee to animate me. Oh, and I am going to miss all the St. Patrick’s Day goodies at home – corned beef and cabbage, tatties, Guinness, green foil chocolate harps from See’s …

Luckily for me, Kimberly always buys at least a half-dozen corned beefs, and we eat ’em until Easter. So I will get my dinner, eventually.

Oh, and while I will miss St. Patrick’s, I also avoid most of the Ides of March. Which is absolutely a good thing. I am hoping to see some other, more deserving tyrant, fall.

Am I worried about COVID19? No, not really. I am a tough old tabby, and I seem to have inherited a super-charged immune system from my Neanderthal ancestors. I usually heal in half the expected time, as well. So I am pretty confident.

In the merry meantime, Dear Readers, spare a thought for me on Monday morning. And on Tuesday, think of me when you raise a glass of Jamison’s or Guinness.

Oh, and look at those books from Tachyon – it’s a fantastic bundle!

Life continues miraculous and amazing. I’m certainly never bored, and have no intention of quitting it any time soon.  Onward!








*Beautiful Boy, 1980

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I Now Have A Small Thoracic Surgeon

Kage Baker was, in some ways, a much stronger woman than I am.

She had a will of iron. I am adequately stubborn, but my will is apparently made of damp sugar floss; like candy floss, it’s only long-lasting when it gets sticky. Kage worked at her writing until, literally, the last 6 hours of her life – she only stopped telling stories to those of us cuddled on her bed when she actually went into her final coma.

She would periodically give up some luxury of food or drink and go into nunnish abstemia, for no very good reason that I could ever ascertain. She claimed she missed giving things up for Lent, and so would occasionally deny herself  goodies for awhile. She said it made the chocolate, gin, maraschino liqueur or KFC taste all the better when she got back around to indulging herself.

That was too ascetic for me. I’ve never enjoyed giving up things.

For the last several weeks now, I have been denied access to the surgeon assigned to fix my wonky mitral valve. I’m afraid it has never even occurred to offer up my sufferings for the souls in Purgatory; I gave that sort of  self-righteous denial back when you could still donate your milk money to buy pagan babies … I’ve been lolling around, feeling sorry for myself, and slipping further and further into a cranky sort of twilight sleep. I never seem to get enough rest, and tend to just sit in my recliner and pant. I can lie down for a little while when I get exhausted enough, though – consequently, I’ve been awake maybe 6 hours out of 24 for the last several days.

I’ve been doing my best to sleep until I could hobble forth and make the acquaintance of Dr. Mastaneh Ahmadi-Kashani. And today was the day! Despite the temperature here in Los Angeles soaring to a completely unnatural 85 degrees – despite the Glendale Department of Traffic deciding to dig up the entire street in front of my doctor’s office – despite said office being a weird, empty, echoing Brutalist cavern of brick and polished concrete: and remember, Kage wrote in Garden of Iden that concrete is one of the few things that looks worse when polished. Despite the front office staff of my cardiologist having neglected to send the front office staff of my thoracic surgeon any of my records: I managed to hobble in and finally see Dr. Ahmadi-Kashani.

She’s another tiny, cheery lady surgeon. I have good luck with those so far, and Dr. Kashani is a delight. She was appreciative of my having done my own research, especially since the procedure I wanted to have done was the same one she was planning to do anyway. We’ll be going for the full open-heart surgery, and replacing the entire mitral valve. That ought to give me another 15 to 20 years of vastly-improved health before any subsequent work is needed.

Hey, before then an asteroid might hit us.

I need some blood work done, and an angiogram. Dr. Kashani needs to call my cardiologist’s office, and yell at his staff until they send her my damned records. I will probably be going into hospital in 2 to 3 weeks; then I can expect a week or so in hospital, and another 4 weeks at home healing. But I should be walking long before that, driving by May, riding my trike by summer. And I shouldn’t be panting at all!

Of course, all this relies upon the procedure going well: no infections, no power outages while I’m on the heart-lung machine, no alien parasites found tacking up their rock posters in my thorax. My remaining kidney must not pack it in in a fit of nephritic pique. I have to keep my blood sugar stable.

I have no real fear of any of those things going wrong, though. Tonight, I am glowing with renewed hope and expectation. Things are finally in  train!

Oh, and by the way, Dear Readers: Happy Fat Tuesday! I’ll keep everyone posted on how my surgery schedule unfolds.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!



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In Freefall

Kage Baker did not reveal what turned out to be her mortal illness until just a few months before she died. In the meantime, she wrote like a madwoman  (which was her usual technique, actually) and continued on as if there were nothing wrong with her and Death would never come knocking on her door.

The main advantage to her course of action was, obviously, that she didn’t have to give any explanations or endure any sticky sympathy. She detested both those obligations, and felt that having a fatal diagnosis should at least free her from annoying social norms. She also greatly enjoyed shocking people when she did make her first and last public appearance as a sick person: at the World Fantasy Awards in 2009. Kage attended in a wheelchair and had enormous fun startling people who asked too familiarly what was wrong with her.

You know the type, Dear Readers: they give the ailing person a look of roguish disapproval, demanding: Well, what have you done to yourself THIS time? It gave Kage deep satisfaction and amusement to respond brightly: I have advanced cancer! No one ever had an immediate response to that …  All weekend, Kage left encounters like this with a triumphant  Home, Rasputin!*  to her faithful entourage, and departed scattering Halloween chocolates behind her.

We had a great time, overall. Within the week, Kage was in the hospital for the first surgery, on the months’-long journey to her end. We looked back on that last weekend with great joy, so glad to have had it before she was too weak.

I’ve been unable to find a celebratory event with which to mark my coming heart surgery. Though I must admit, I haven’t looked all that much – too tired, even though Kimberly and Michael have been perfectly amiable about wheeling me about. What they don’t like doing is letting me out of the house at all – I have all the stamina of a wet Kleenex, tend to pant and gasp in an unnerving way, and, of course, am really not in a good condition to go out and confront influenza viri. Kimberly is understandably determined to prevent my contracting any infection before it’s time to open my chest.

I haven’t had a great time writing, either. I would if I could, but … mainly, all I can do is  sleep. When I am awake, I read. I’ve begun to worry a bit about being sicker than I thought I was, because lately I haven’t even had the energy to read. I can’t seem to focus my intellect on the subjects (and they are not all space operas or zombie stories, really!) and  find myself re-reading the same paragraph on the dissemination of squamous fish over and over … discouraging, that.

In an attempt to find something that really stirs my emotions, I’ve even been working my way through the “kiss and tell” books being regularly published by losers in the wars with Donald Trump. Some are just tabloid trash, even when they are writing truthfully about the tabloid trash currently lairing in the White House. One way to verify the more egregious anecdotes is to see who else reports them, other than the original tattler. Some of the most hilarious stories cannot be supported by anyone or thing other than the original report – others, like Trump’s amazingly ignorant order to evacuate Seoul due to its unfortunate proximity to North Korea, do seem to be true. But they are so depressing …

Still, I have been slogging on, counting down the days until my surgery can be scheduled.

My initial appointment with my cardiac surgeon,  Dr. Mastaneh Ahmadi-Kashani, was supposed to be yestreday. Sadly, a couple of hours before the appointed time, the doctor’s office called to cancel: the surgeon was called in to the hospital for an emergency. She only keeps office hours once a week, so I have been kicked back to next Tuesday. I admire her devotion to the patient with the emergency, but … Sigh. At this point, I am willing to go into surgery the very next Wednesday – I don’t care about what method they choose, or how long it will take to recover, or how much it is supposed hurt: I just want it done, so I can begin healing. I am degenerating into a coral polyp, and want to resume life as a vertebrate.

I’ve been told to expect post-surgical discomfort similar to an elephant standing on my chest. Well, I am already feeling that, every time I walk to the bathroom. I’d at least like to feel it and know that it means something different – like, maybe actually filling my lungs. I am longing to be able to walk again; to accompany my sister to the grocery store; to drive without worrying about passing out, to climb stairs without the world growing black, to sing. I really miss singing.

These days, I cannot hold my breath for longer than one or two words; it gives my singing an unfortunate mechanical staccato. Which would be amusing, if I was doing it on purpose, I guess.  Harry doesn’t like it, though. He regards funny noises as his particular domain.

So, Dear Readers, please bear with me for a while longer. It’s taken me all day to write this blog entry, in between lengthy naps; and I am still falling asleep as I write. I’ll have to edit it extremely carefully, to avoid amusing and demented typos. For instance, in the first line of this entry, Kage did not die of a”moral disease”. She was a person of absolute probity. The idea would have made her snicker, though; so I guess it’s worth it to have committed it.

In the meantime, Dear Readers, please keep me in your thoughts. Or, if not me, then my over-worked surgeon, Dr, Kashani, so she can manage to meet me long enough to tell me how she intends to get at my heart. A matte knife and a crow bar would be acceptable to me right now.

In the meantime, my old school chum Cynthia has sent me an exquisite blue and gold macaw feather – thank you, Cyth! It is just the accessory for having your heart removed. I don’t think they’ll let me bring it into the operating room, but I think I’ll wear it in my hair next Tuesday. It’s retro fashion, after all.




*Bewitched. The incomparable Agnes Moorehead, in her role as Samantha’s mother, Endora, used to issue this command to her chauffeur: who would then proceed to drive backwards out through the walls of Samantha’s suburban living room … Kage found it hilarious.

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Another Symptom Heard From

Kage Baker had a heart murmur. An innocent heart murmur: a distinction that means it did not affect the functioning of her heart. It merely unnerved physicians who were examining her for the first time. She got very nonchalant about disabusing them of the notion that she was about to have a heart attack.

We figured she must have had rheumatic fever as a child. There was a year or so around age 6 when she caught everything that produced a rash, a fever and/or a sore throat. We figured that was when rheumatic fever snuck in. It was probably the cause of her arthritis that began at the tender age of 8, as well.

But she didn’t have a bad heart!

I, on the other hand, do. And for the last 2 days, I have been experiencing the old-fashioned sounding symptom of palpitations. It sounds like I need smelling salts, and should be languishing on an S-shaped divan, fluttering. a lacey lawn handkerchief. What it actually means is that I get a feeling like wings beating in my chest, followed by a hollow sucking sensation that drains all the air from my lungs. My heart is skipping beats – then stumbling forward in a cartoonish fashion in an attempt to catch up to itself.

It is very tiring.

Consequently, Dear Readers, I’m not up to much tonight. I will answer all your lovely comments and notes, though, tomorrow.

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