9:32 -- And yet, so what do you do? Buy a motorcycle and a large format camera and go ride around and take photographs? And two years later you haven't died yet and have no money? It's the kind of thing like... "oh yeah, live like you're going to die tomorrow!" Well yeah, but what happens if you don't? You know, that's the reality -- I haven't died yet! So I think that's the biggest challenge. Figuring out how to reconcile the notion that I'm very aware that anything could happen... I have to kind of behave as though I 'm not going to die next year. I have to behave as though this is something that actually has a future.
C.A.S.: I thought we mutually decided to Fuck Cancer, not to make it cry.
You would all do me an amazing service if you would entertain the notion that the fight metaphor may not be the most helpful one. Or maybe it’s not as helpful now as it was in earlier stages. It’s difficult to change the language around something when it is so engrained. “Fighting cancer..” “died after a long battle with cancer..” etc. But this implies that there are winners and losers. That if we die we have lost. But we ALL die. No one makes it out alive. That shouldn’t make us all losers. The most pernicious part of the fight metaphor for me is the notion that if someone dies young from cancer they simply didn’t fight hard enough. That if someone decides to forgo treatment, they have “thrown in the towel.”
I don’t see any grace in the desperate clinging to life that we call fighting in this metaphor.
Maybe instead I’m having a slow dance with a handsome and charming mad man who has made it quite clear that eventually he’ll have to USE the straight razor that he’s holding to my throat. I believe him. He doesn’t seem like a guy who lies. Why he has to cut my throat isn’t clear. In the mean time, it’s a warm embrace. I’m holding him, he’s holding me. He’s whispering the most beautiful and insane shit to me, all wise, all true. I’m trying to enjoy the dance as much as I can, trying to learn as much as I can, trying to stay present despite the knife at my throat. And now he’s starting to cry. You dig?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fighter all right. I have been from the start. Walking around barefoot with fists cocked. But this isn’t a fight.
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