Never Again

So, you know I am a portrait photog who shoots people wherever I find them. The accent here sits on the “find”. Some people don’t want to be photographed. Some do it reluctantly only after I apply some people skills. Some readily cooperate and even pose. I will write the next few days about recent experiences and include portraits.

Yesterday during a photo walk with my photo friend Art, this woman with a rollator cruised by. I asked if I could take her picture, holding up camera. She asked the traditional question, “why do you want to take my picture?” I said, “…, because you are beautiful.” She said yes and I shot.

I gave her my card and told her if she emailed me I would send her a file. She  said she wouldn’t because she gets too many emails and besides, then I would have her address. Well, I pointed out, “if I were going to steal your identity, you have my card with my picture and address.”

We parted. All I am left with is the image.

Lorin Duckman at 78

So, I made it. A year ago, I sat in a hospital bed, didn’t know if it was my birthday or death day. Have regained my spirit, if not my endurance, memory and flexibility. Blood perfect for CLL/lymphoma, but not for humans with good blood. Hard not to reflect on my failed existence. I’ll pass.

Still have Sharon, a few friends and a passion for photographic art.

Born To Live

Well, I am putting on some weight and building muscle. Not much cooperation from my body which has sprung a hernia (operation scheduled for January 13, 2025). Lots of doctors still on the list and not a lot of options. Have adjusted to the new cancer meds and my blood has been storing oxygen. Go Hemo, Go!


So, I keep walking and talking. Put here to live and then die. Walk and talk. No need to worry about what the future holds. The sands on the hour glass trickle at an excruciating rate, which, for me, is just fine. More time to do what I do and more time to play with Sharon.

Blast From Past

Sharon was cleaning out her closet and found a blue jean jacket I had grown out of. Err, it shrunk and I expanded. The sleeves were rolled up girly style, like Sharon is prone to do and there was a tissue in the pocket (I use the sleeve for drips).

In years past, I wore this jacket. Oh, yes, how the years pass. Went from rebel to pariah. Saw things differently from many. Not always right. Seldom totally wrong.

Some years,  not so painless. Used pot to ease the pain, all bought illegally until recently.  And the last years, the ones to come, will be no different, pain wise, though more peaceful. ☺️  I will use the same remedy with my chemo pills and the blood transfusions.

The jacket I turned over to Sharon had been personalized. The one I got back had no decorations. Kowing what they meant to me, Sharon had saved them.

On the sleeve was a “Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers” patch. Do you even know what I’m talking about or does it make you wish you were high? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fabulous_Furry_Freak_Brothers

On the back was an American Flag, upside down, a sign of distress or extreme danger for the country or for the person flying it. Today, however, people have begun using this old war cry in response to political uncertainty or as a way to show their unhappiness with the direction the country is heading.

Also on the back, somewhere, was a Liberate Marijuana patch. Now, who would know now that one day in the not to distant past great penalties were exacted from people suspected of using marijuana. Oh my, stop and frisk, Reefer Madness, teen pregnancy (sic), Paul Sinclair, people sentenced to jail or forced to do community service. Worse than that, people rejected people who smoked or ate the drug and talked the talk or those who had seen the stars (and lived on them). Now, many states have made marijuana legal or available with a script from a doctor.

Debating whether to buy another jacket, one that fits. Florida whether makes it inutile. And who can predict the size I’ll be or whether I will be alive long enough to wear it, wash it, or decorate it?