hi,

The last two days have been a heroic narrative for hope. With leather gloves and shears in my hands and snow falling, light and lazy i take on the Rasberry patch. As the blades cut through the old canes, i pay close attention to what is going on inside my head. I don't get much of a warning when the gas-demon awakes. When the top of my brain begins to burn there is nothing i can to do to escape the pain. The invisible flames fall over the sides of my brain, torching my soft folding tissue. "i hurt." i sometimes say to Amy.

Yesterday, i almost said outloud, "I feel pretty damn good." The day before the pain low. Hope dies last. And though today the petro-burn returned, the bastard left earlier than usual. Yesterday, Seth, my surgeon said, for every step forward, you may fall two steps back.
"Why is that?" I said.
"I don't know," he said.
Eight months ago Seth sat next to me on my front porch and said infections in the brain can be very mysterious things. I have never forgotten those words. It is why Seth spoke with truth yesterday. As advanced as modern medicine is, the mystery of illness and the miracle of the human body to heal create an astonishing dance of intrigue, and wonder.

I am exploring our city with long walks. Today, under snow-globe flakes, Amy and I on the count of three raced up a small hill and back down. I love pushing myself. Time and memory sometimes gets the best of me, this illness somedays ripping chunks of flesh off my ribs. Not today. Even though i hurt, i also smiled, laughed and feel gratitude for my family, for a chance to better myself while i'm borrowing this energy. Uncertainty has no place for the heroic version of this narrative.

Peace,

ken