This Substack is the newest version of the Wonderblog, which I started mere months before I graduated with a BA in English. I graduated later than I thought I was should have. And as soon as I graduated, I started thinking I didn’t need to have graduated at all.

The reason I wanted a BA was to start writing.

I started this blog before I graduated–proof that I never needed to wait for the diploma.

I have kept up this blog—founded in 2002 and blogging no less than once a week. I’m beginning to see that consistency like that is one of my superpowers.

But this week, I’m having trouble.

I’m past the hurricane of cancer treatments, and sick to death of talking about it. I’ve been stuck under that storm so long I’m not sure who is left as I crawl out. What remains?

I kept hold this blog

Because as long as I’m writing

I’m a writer.

I didn’t need the university to give me permission, and I regret I waited so long to give myself permission to write my first book.

Then again, I did –and still do—the work to keep creating. Stacking words into sentences and seeing if they stand up. 

Looking back at the origin story, I’m reminding myself of who I am.   It’s  what I need right now.

The world has changed since this blog began. I asked GrokAI for a writing prompt, which was a self-aware attempt to engage with AI as a new technology.

The answer was not helpful. I tried to reverse engineer his style “Grok, why did you use an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence?”

“Exclamation marks add excitement and energy to writing!”

They are fake emotion, Grok. Using metaphors and examples for what emotions a writer is trying to evoke is what makes prose beautiful.

He defended his choices, and continued to use exclamation marks after I explained that they were the sign of an inexperienced writer.

Me and the AI went back and forth as I responded to prompts about how writing should be done.

I’m not gaining anything by teaching an artificial intelligence how to write about feelings it doesn’t have.

Then again, I was able to quickly express the mechanics of writing, proving that I do know this craft.

As I’m trying to find a way pick it up again, it’s nice to realize I’m not starting from zero. I’m still in here and I know a few things.

THE END

“…and they lived happily ever after.
The end”

This is the classic wrap up and the end of a child’s story. So satisfying, so calming. It lets everybody know that the world and everyone in it is safe.

Very soon we grow up and know that ending is way more complicated. The ever after has a lot of wrinkles and surprises.

I’m at THE END of my cancer journey. I beat breast cancer, then thyroid cancer
TWICE

Am I at the end? I don’t know. A lot of people stay attached to the worry of it, carrying around a burden about whether it makes a comeback.

I’m reminded of Mr. Incredible saying “Sometimes I just want [the world] to stay saved! You know, just for a little bit?”

I made the intentional choice NOT to hoist that worry burden. However, a negative leaves a vacuum. If I don’t worry, what will I do instead?

I first wanted to hide during the time of weakness, and then I went very public. I was scary to be public and show my changing visage while I went through it.

People ask “How are you doing?”

I can say with justification, “I’m done now.”

And all those within hearing can feel the calming warmth of that “happily ever after” we’ve learned to expect. Still as grownups we see the shadows at the end of the firelight.

I’m a writer and an artist. How do I creatively express this story I’m in? It’s mine to tell. Real life gave the gift of an ending. A conclusion, for whatever that means in the long years of my life. If Joseph Campbell’s hero has a thousand faces, this hero has faced a thousand epic adventures.

I get to craft how to tell it. I think for the moment, I’ll side with Mr. Incredible and let my world stay saved for a little. I look forward to another day when I get to tell more of this story

I finally called my friend—I hadn’t called her at all this year. It was high time to catch up. I was telling her about the work I’m doing at the new job.

There is this document for the inspectors. Every 5 years, the inspector come and inspect. They last inspected 5 years ago. After the last inspection, the inspectors gave us a list of things that should be improved and corrected.

I was not there 5 years ago. Since I am here now, I can read the report and help the team verify whether any of the items still need to be done.

It’s a very common task for a project manager.

There are records that some of it got done quickly after the inspection, and that some things they asked for more time.

I took on the task to review and confirm which was what and help the team to do as much of the work left as they could.

As I explained to one of the engineers,

There is the doing of the thing

Then there is the documentation of the doing of the thing.

They are separate and different.

We’d been concentrating on the doing of the thing. Until now, when the time has come to catch up with the documentation of the doing.

The engineer said, “the doing of the thing—that’s the most important part!”

It might be. If the point is to keep the system working, it certainly is important. I smiled, “There is another possibility. A person could be tempted to skip the doing the thing, and create a documentation of the doing of the thing that doesn’t include any doing. A person could document that they have a plan to do the thing which skips over any doing.

It can feel so much like doing a thing: writing out a plan to do that thing. Or even a plan to create a plan to do the thing.

It’s hard to do things. And that’s the part I like.

I am finishing a physical book this week, The Witch’s Heart by Genevieve Gornichec. I’m crawling through the last bit of treatments, and I’m trying to read physical books like a person with stamina and strength.
I don’t have much strength, but I will have the stamina to get through these treatments.
The witch heroine of the book is the mythological norse witch that foresaw ragnarok, drawing the painful attention of Odin.
Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods and the end of the nine worlds—she saw it and Odin desperately wanted what she knew.
Odin wanted to control it. And the witch knew fates were not to be bargained with. What would they have done differently.
I am in the twilight of the last cancer treatment, the 2nd dose of treatment for my thyroid cancer. Because I KNOW I am near done I have the room to contemplate. In the storm of the next hard thing and the next I allowed myself no room for what-if or if-only
My ragnarok. That diagnosis and all that came after was fated, right?Odin tortured that witch future seer to find out and control it. The witch also tried to wiggle through the uncertainties
The gaps in fate
To save what she loved most

I look around, thinking what other paths were not taken. What if I had made the inevitable choice, but earlier? Would I have avoided pain?

With the extreme treatments and surgeries ending on March 28, I feel like I am walking out of a crowded fate and into freedom

Odin, king of the gods of Asgard, was jealous to get as much of that freedom as he could. HE lost an eye for it.

Like a memory of a distant sound, I can hear a time when I called that kind of freedom “Tuesday”

It was that ordinary.

What will I do now, without being squeezed between medical tortures? How long will I remember to cherish how good ordinary feels?

I don’t want to squander it.

I’ve spent most of my career in IT, as corporate as it gets. Today, I am in a job for a city government which is very different.

I’m living the life of to a city mouse.

As the men come in and out of our ground floor work area in their high visibility vests, doors can be left open for convenience. Real work has to get done, and our customers—the Residents—call to tell us about water leaks and felled tree branches.

We are not virtual. We are close to the earth.

This week, I was wrapping up my work in preparation to leave for the day when by cube neighbor asked “Did you see the black widow?”

I slowly turned to him—confused and with growing horror.

He nods at me, “Yes, it’s spider season and there are probably a lot of them around.”

Oh, that’s reassuring. “I thought you meant one in this building.”

He smiled, with male delight at my horror. “I did. I’ve been watching it to see where it will go.”

“Why would you watch it? It should be killed! What are you waiting for?!”

“I agree, I definitely want it killed.”

I’m out of my seat now. “Do you know where it is?”

He’s gotten out of his chair too, now that I’m activated. “It’s right there,” he says, pointing to the corner of the room.

“IT’s HERE!? Are you sure it’s a black widow? Show me.”

He cannot hide his glee at my alarm, and he takes me the 20 steps to the exterior door where a fat-bottomed horror hangs between some unused cube shelves in a little alcove.

“See? He’s very happy there, no reason to move. But if he’s gotta be killed, I want to make sure he’s dead.”

Spider was cleverly not in a squishable position.

“She. All black widows are female.”

“Oh, right.”

“She looks like she’s about pop into hundreds of baby poison spiders.”

He chuckles. “I guess I should put in a request in a work request to have the exterminator handle it.”

I’m looking around for some spider killing spray, but nothing is nearby.

“Or I could ask Eduardo..”

I grabbed my stuff and got out of there. I forgot about the spider until halfway through the next day.

I knew what he meant about Eduardo. This guy liked insects, and had a pet scorpion in a cage about the size of a shoebox. Everyone knew this about Eduardo because the scorpion cage came to work almost every day, spending time in different offices. He had trick of glowing in the dark, so people would sometimes turn off the light and admire the him by flashing a special flashlight on him that made him glow even brighter.

It wasn’t until I saw Eduardo in the coffee area that I remembered the Widow.

“Good morning!” I said with a big smile. “How’s you pet?”

He gave me a dark look, “Which one?”

Oops. Had I stepped in something? “Your scorpion..”

“Oh, the scorpion. He’s fine.”

“Is there more to the story?”

“My centipede hasn’t been doing so well.”

Curiouser and Curiouser. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s not with us anymore.”

“oh no. Did anybody talk to you about the Spider?”

Eduardo bobbed his head up. “Oh yeah. I said I didn’t want to get involved with that mess”

We both separated with our coffee and I wondered about Eduardo’s definition of a mess when it came to insects. It was clear why my co-worker thought of him as a place to home the spider.

I went over to the spider’s lair and found an empty web.

This increases my concern.

Now I am worried about multiple baby spiders crawling out of unexpected crevices.

I suspect this won’t be the last unexpected surprise in my life as a city mouse.

2

Murphy Daley

Feb 26, 2025

I’m wishing I had the time and energy to write. It’s not easy right now.

I’m still in recovery from all the medical things. I would like to think that I have the basic skills and could write a story or a little scrap of something interesting worthy of my regard.

I got in a conversation with my daughter about how sci fi explores ideas by imagining what else might be possible.

If this is true, what else is true?

What’s true is I’m engaged in a battle with a tiny enemy . A VERY serious battle—so much so that everyone seems to understand how serious it is.

I’ve been taking it seriously. And I see something that most people don’t—how miniscule the cancer is. Why does the battle of this insignificant little group of cells take up so much of my life?

Not just my life. There is a whole bunch of medical professionals who have made it their mission to fight these cells.

Why should people pay attention to something so small?

It grows. That’s the prominent aspect of cancer: it grows at a faster rate than the other cells—sometimes aggressively faster. That critical mass is the danger.

I wish I were in an alternate reality. What else is true?

IF those tiny enemies can grow into something so significant it kills me

What else can tiny things do?

The idea still works if I turn it inside out. I can only manage the smallest steps, barely a nod to remember the skills I once used with such little effort.

But those small things can add up to significance. I don’t have the endurance now. Except I can still do short sessions. Half an hour? Ten minutes? Two?

Can I make it my mission to keep going? Those doctors, nurses and scientists keep going on their fight. I want to stick to my mission as well. Small things add up. As I push out the small enemy, I feel the effort in my body and I know it is heavy. Removing those tiny things is hard. It is valuable and encouraging to recognize the effort of the addition.

Just before Valentines’ day, I went through my fourth surgery because of cancer. It was a success (much better than the last one). These doctors are almost done with these cancer cures.

These medical doctor/scientists are very sure that they know how far to push me. I hopw they are right, but I’m weary of the load they are putting on me.

I’ve found an audiobooks to listen to as I fall in and out of sleep: Caliban’s War

The sci-fi in the story gives me some science to hang onto as a part of the story. There’s a botanist in the story that is part of terraforming a moon. They had done such a good job of it that it fed most of non-earth humankind

UNTIL

Disaster struck. And humanity had to be saved. Of course, humanity was not at all concerned about the danger it was in because it was too focused on the political power struggle.

The botanist could see the problem clearly, because he understood the systems at play. He knew where the tipping was and what the consequences were. He called it a complex simple system. There were a limited number of systems that balanced the biosphere on that moon, not enough to be fully redundant—that made it simple. But there were enough systems that meant you couldn’t predict which ones would fail.

I am not a simple system. I”ve got so many interconnected systems that I’m pretty sure there isn’t even a full tally on what’s happening in my body. So many systems are in motion to keep me alive and healthy, I stand amazed.

That complexity in my system is what the doctors are leaning on when they cut me open and mess around.

I am both weary and weak from the medical interventions. I like imagining myself like the heroes of the space epic. I’ve read it a lot, and every time they make it through. I know what’s going to happen.

So when I wake up in the middle of the night—which happens most nights—I can play the audiobook and fall back asleep hearing the adventure again. The heroes encounter all kinds of obstacles and they make it through

That’s what will happen for me too.

I have been thinking that I should be a lot further along.

Aren’t I supposed to be further along that where I stand?

I remember times that I”ve climbed a mountains. When I got tired and I’d look back at what I’d travelled and realize I had covered so much ground. So satisfying to see the snake of a trail that I’d walked bedhind me.

I did that. It gave me courage to push to the summit.

And this February, this week, I am looking backwards and I am seeing that I am just about exactly where I was last year.

Another surgery, another dose of radioactive iodine—and another despairing essay for my weekly wonder.

What am I supposed to look back on? It’s been a long long path.

Now I remember the labyrinth. So many time I’ve walked the labyrinth and felt the conufusing winding path that gives me hope and then takes it away again.

As I am looking for hope right now, I will shre with you and with myself a piece I’ve already written 12 years ago.

The center of the labyrinth–that is supposed to be the meaning, the goal and the reason. People have always had reasons and goals.

And that is why the labyrinth has been around so long. There is something to it.

I’ve walked these before. Somehow, though, that standing stone in the middle was different.

I wanted that rock. Up in the path, and it is right there. whoops, no, swing around to the left.

Don’t worry though. I will get there. Look, I am almost there.

Whoops, no, and again.

And THIS time I am walking all the way around a circle like I have nowhere to go or anything to care about and doesn’t matter because I’ll never get there anyway.

that rock

in the center

once I reach that rock in the center every desire I have will be fulfilled

and I want that rock

and it’s right there

but it

TAKES SO FREAKING LONG TO GET TO THAT ROCK!!!!!

until I got there

This whole year

Ok, it has only been a month long

BUT!

This whole year I’ve been down sick.

If I’m real, it started 2 years ago with the cancer diagnosis. Ever since the big news was handed to me, I struggled to choose my identity within the disease. How did I stay me in the middle of this overwhelming terrible malady?

I learned to rely on the person I had been all along. I choose to be a writer and this very piece is proof that I am what I am striving to be.

In my weariness I feel doubt. Am I really? What do this words amount to?

While I was at the bottom of the well of the cancer treatment, I work to maintain a veneer of the person I hoped I could still be.

Hanging on the edge with my fingernails while gravity got stronger and stronger, I did start taking shortcuts. I lay in bed and listened to easy books, I didn’t challenge my weary head with complicated things.

And

The malady is waning. I have a surgery on the 13^th and another radioactive treatment at the end of March. Those are not trivial milestones to cross, but they are the last ones. My grasp is not tenuous anymore, it’s getting stronger and more secure every day.

Can I remember how to engage with big ideas again? My creative imagination needs to come out of hibernation.

Hmm. This is going to take some loosening up. I’ve gotten some habits I’ll need to upgrade. The road to beign a Sensei taught me that every small step matters. Pushing myself is worthwhile.

I’m falling back on some old tricks:

Pen and paper. I wrote most of this essay on notepaper in a three-ring binder. Almost half of what I wrote has been crossed out. In ink. Like my ancestors used to do.

It’s messy. I’m rusty and crusty and slow. And I’m willing to keep trying because I really want to get better.

There was a Japanese language professor at my junior college. He’d been there a long time. I didn’t’ take his classes, but I was friends with his son.

In my mind, the professors were high above me. It was hard to imagine such a rarified person could be as familiar as someone’s dad.

I went to that school ravenous for the secrets it could teach me. I wanted to go deeper and increase my skills and expertise.

I assumed the professors also wanted to go deeper, and they had found a way to make learning pay them a living.

I was surprised to learn—second hand—that he found teaching the same lessons tedious.

As I look back now I can understand that professor better. I have had a chance to get more education and experience.

I’m still hungry for it though. That’s part of the drive that keeps me moving.

I’m about the age of the professor now. I can see that it’s harder to learn when I have to be my own teacher.

It’s easy to double my skills when I start with nothing.

After I have achieved a critical mass of expertise, the new things can be tucked into a framework. They are manageable.

So manageable they might not seem work the effort.

Or so small they become insignificant and unimportant.

So the hunger for learning gets dull. And so does my life.

I am still keen to know, and I have not forgotten my appetite.

I can still stretch for the finer point. If I sharpen the edge of a narrow point of knowledge, I can find satisfaction. Precision and clarity are the new frontier for my well-known territories.

A master can review the tools and look for sections to polish. That will keep me moving for a long time.