Lump Lives…

I am in the midst of receiving a thought from an inside voice. I see on the display that Lump is calling. We have a Mr. Lump on the line— do you want to take the call, or let them go to voicemail? That old favourite, Lump, our ubiquitous cellular everyman is calling me from inside the house. I wasn’t expecting a call, but Lump is no regular caller. Lump is a random dialer. Lump is a robo call from the room with no view. If this were a Zoom call, we would see a shadow wearing a hobo disguise, their face smeared with cold cream and coffee grounds.

I can no longer remember more than 4 digits in a row. I used to remember every one’s phone number, but now I get mixed up if I see more than four digits. I write down the four I remember, then go back to get the rest. Like Mama bear carrying her cubs across the 4 lane highway. Is it broad daylight or a dark rainy night? Those details are not important.

My recollections of time passed is fuzzy. Lump is a clear present danger that must be unwrapped and deciphered, but Lump is also a fuzzy Future. Feeling is flailing. Forgetting. Forever.

Lump is relegated to a holding cell. Bring on the interrogation, they seethe. Lump is here to remind us of the fragility of time. Lump says that the passing of time is similar to the passing of gas—time always finds a way out. Lump knows how to stink up the room.

I get lost in less than two year increments. Two years ago, Lump was born. Lump was visible for about 7 months, and then vanished in a wave of radiation. Lump was no more. But never underestimate the mutability of Lump; on one hand Lump was taken from me. Forcibly removed under protest. But Lump stubbornly remains. Lump exists to protest. Not in me, not in reality, but as living memory. Lump is the original shape shifter.

Just when I thought they were passe, Lump appears in repertory performances, finding new hosts, new stages to strut upon, always coming back for one last bow, one final Hurrah. Lump lives on in those around me. Lump lives on because cancer is ubiquitous; cancer is everywhere. Cancer can breathe in rooms where there is no air. Cancer is both democratic and fascist. Cancer is yesterday and tomorrow.

Cancer is us. We are Lump. We sweat the small Lumps, and rightly fear the large Lumps. We will never escape the ever present shifting reality that is Lump.

The Law of Lump is that Lump will always be, filling voids, changing lives as it takes on new roles. Lump mutates at will and whim. Lump is the Spackle that never sparkles. Lump grows in shadows and popularity. You can’t measure Lump in Likes or Followers. Lump was cancelled, yet never really went away. Lump is the latest, a favourite follower. Lump never gets many Likes.

Lump is an influencer. Lump is the social glue—the great leveller. Lump should never be underestimated.

Locally, I can attest that it has been two years since Lump was last seen in these parts. Back then, young Lump was as clear as the Lump on my face.

Ahem, look a little lower.

Right there, on the left side of the neck.

Yes, that Lumpless smooth folding skin of my neck. The skin of the neck resides below the skin of my teeth. The scars are not visible, unless they masquerade as wattle. Lump is invisible. For me, Lump is a memory. I was going to say distant memory, but does two years really count as “distant”?

Lump was born to outshine, casting large shadows, like drift nets hiding in the ocean. You can’t see Lump working below the surface.

Lump says you have to creep before you peep.

Periscope Up. Is that a harbour seal or an enemy sub? A quick way to tell —seals don’t carry torpedoes. They are coming up fast, Captain.

The Lumps are back in town.

They never really left.

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It is that time of year, when gifts are given. Was I naughty or nice? Perhaps it us time to take the big plunge and become a sponsor of This Is Not Music!

If you want to impress, there is Founder. There will is also Annual, and of course, Monthly. We accept all forms of readership. You are free to remain free.

It is a holy paywall, that allows all to peak in.

We accept all currencies, but as I reside in Canada, it converts to the northern peso. I thank you, and the Governor thanks you. We exist for your pleasure.

I know who butters my bread.

Whether it is rings or asses, I’m a good kisser.

Dm