At that moment I vaguely thought about a lithograph of Guiramand's.
On a sunny Friday afternoon at 3:15, at Dr. T's office.
The handsome doctor pointed at the fuzzy gray shadow on my CT images,
then looked at me with his tender but serious eyes and softly said,
"Here, Katie, this is a 3cm be%*@#?$★.............."
Suddenly my consciousness seemed to refuse his words and showed me this picture
in a little screen of my head. It's not either the familiar one or even my favorite.
Yet I started to look at it like seeing a boring old movie or something.
Okay, he did good on colors, maybe, but who was that white shadow?
Must be a woman in sick bay, or brokenhearted, just plain soggy or ecstatic...
Did he like it anyway? I don't.
Vivid red, stunning pink, electrifying blue and brilliant green.
Those sensual colors should be what I've always loved about his paintings but why?
The one that I've never known its name and liked? Indeed I'm sick.
"At least it's not in the red zone yet." All I heard clearly was that.
A bolt from the blue, just like that.
So I've been pitifully feeding an evil guy living in my body, and his name is Tumor.
Right now in my den, I'm not nervous or upset, and certainly not wigged out
except calling my assistant to tell her,
"I need caffeine, maybe the strongest espresso in the whole universe."
I just swallowed the end part of my words,
"to cast away the somber resonance of that stupid picture."