Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 6

MY BODY WANTS TO BE SPANISH SO I’M DOING AS IT BIDS

Good morning !

I’m flying back to Spain today, with all my new medication. I have my certificate from my doctor to say I’m not a drug smuggler, and am allowed to travel with my magic injections! I’m taking them in a little cooler, as the medications needs to be kept refrigerated. It’s suddenly become really hot, both in Switzerland and in Spain.

I’m trying not to get too excited, because I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m feeling much better after my last injection on Tuesday, so maybe something has tipped to the good side? Fingers crossed. My next one is in two weeks. It will be my first self-injection.

Anyway, I filmed myself reading My Body Wants to Be Spanish, which is from my new (it was released in April, so I think I’m allowed to still call it new, right?) poetry book, Illicit Croissants At Dawn, which would be a great little book to take to the beach, or the pool, and to dip in and out of! It’s a poetry book for people who are not sure they like poetry but enjoy honesty and humour. It’s playful, mischievous and moving. Why not give it a go? It also has a matching Spotify playlist, with a song for each poem! So you can put your ear-buds/air-buds/or whatever they’re called and enjoy the music under your parasol.

Here is My Body Wants To Be Spanish, read in Switzerland with wet hair!

THE BIG BAD EGG: scrambled, unfit to serve

Humpty-Dumpty has a big head.

Humpty-Dumpty lights powder kegs.

He’s playing with fire surrounded by liars,

While the whole world looks on with dread.

 

Humpty-Dumpty sits on his wall,

Swagger-tweeting he’s winning it all.

He’s sequestered the army to come to his party,

And most of the country’s appalled.

 

Humpty-Dumpty’s out of control,

Humpty-Dumpty has selfish goals.

Now many are fuming because nothing’s improving.

How long until Humpty implodes?

 

 

LIKE A PRAYER: For those lucky enough to rise gently

Come caress me, breeze,

Welcome me into the gift of today,

Let morning sunbeams

Enjoy my skin.

No sound but sparrows,

No one but me,

Lucky to just be.

 

 

Good morning,

It's one of those stunning, still mornings of another Swiss summer, and I'm sitting beneath my plane tree with my cup of tea, feeling ridiculously lucky. Little birds hop happily around the grass, butterflies enjoy the meadow area of the garden, while behind me, along the Jura mountains, two buzzards circle in the sky, enjoying the glide. The sky is finally blue again, after being tinged a milky-grey for a few days by smoke carried all the way from the Canadian wildfires.

 

And if that doesn't show us how connected we all are, nothing will.

 Have a gentle day,

 Love

 

Francesca xx

THEY ONLY READ GOOD POETRY

Good morning!

This poem is for anyone who’s ever been spoken to about their work in snarky or condescending terms. I read about it happening to someone on Substack the other day, so I thought I’d read this one, hoping they see it. It also happened to me, years ago. I’ve forgiven, because I like to believe it came out wrong, but I’ve certainly not forgotten.

So, yes, dears, when you say mean things to us, we’re bound to write about it!

I had read this a few times because I kept getting the giggles. When you spend loads of time alone you go a bit gaga!

Love Cesca xx

SPACE-AGE CHEMIST PANDEMONONIUM

Hello again,

Yep, I’m back! Third time’s a charm, right? I just wanted to tell you a funny little story.

I was in the pharmacy earlier, picking up some medication, and ordering more. It took ages, because the place was like Casey’s Court, as my Nana used to say. It was all topsy turvy, because they’re making it all modern, sort of Space Odyssey meets Aqua-Park, with corkscrew metallic medication-slides built into the ceiling.

My chemist typed instructions into her computer, and after a bit, my medication came whirl-shooting down towards her. And when I say whirl-shooting, the stuff really shot. In fact, the poor chemist manning the computer and the slide next to mine kept getting hit in the chest with paracetamol! It was bonkers.

Also, half the space was closed off for the refurbishing of the cosmetics area, so all the salespeople were smushed into far too tight a space, and kept bumping into each other as they raced around, because nothing seemed to be working properly, and they couldn’t find anything. A fancy looking lady wearing lots of labels wanted Clarins fake tan, but the poor salesgirl couldn’t locate it even though the computer said there was some, and the lady got really irate.

Add piped pop music, and workmen with power-drills, and you’ve got a recipe for opening your mouth to whatever drug is coming down the chute next!

Meanwhile, a little blonde girl dressed in pale blue shorts and a matching top was dancing wildly to a Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” next to the Scholl plasters and corn removers. I wanted to join in, just for fun, and to watch people’s reactions.

I’m almost excited to go back tomorrow to get my injectable pens!

Love,

Cesca xx

🥐 🥐❤️My poetry book, Illicit Croissants At Dawn, and my romantic comedy, Just Like A Movie, are both great fun, make great gifts, and are available on Amazon 😉🌞🎬📽️❤️

CHOCOLATE FACE

If you take your selfie from above your neck doesn’t look so crap. Unless you’re 23 of course… In which case snap away…

Hello again,

It’s me, reading a poem with a chipped front tooth and bright red lipstick on, because what the heck! It’ll be fixed next week. This is a poem called Just Eat It, from Illicit Croissants At Dawn, read while birds chirped behind me.

And now I’m off for my injections!

Enjoy the chocolate,

Lots of love,

Francesca

Switzerland, Sunshine, Self-love, Poetry and a Cracked Tooth

Good morning!

This is just a straightforward, chatty little newsletter. With a poem about self-love, too.

How are you? I’m back in my Swiss house and brought the Spanish sunshine with me! Everyone is delighted to have some sun here, as it’s apparently been rotten and raining for ages. I was hoping to do an in-and-out, returning to Girona tomorrow, after my first sub-cutaneous immunosuppressant injection at my gastroenterologist’s this afternoon, but I forgot about having to order my new self-injectable immunosuppressant medication from the pharmacy to take back to Spain with me, as I will have to self-inject every two weeks. The pharmacy won’t have it in stock, and the order won’t arrive in time for me to catch my original flight tomorrow. No biggie; I’m now scheduled to fly back Friday afternoon.

Also, yay me - I managed to crack a corner of my upper left front teeth last night! It’s happened before, but not quite so badly. Maybe it will teach me to stop eating hard crusts, which I love! I’m also guilty of grinding my teeth a lot. Actually, I grind my teeth almost all the time. It’s a terrible habit, and I catch myself doing it constantly, but it’s proving hard to stop. My dentist here is away until next week, so I’ll have to have it fixed in Spain. No flashing my widest grin so much these next few days. And I must get the grinding under control.

Speaking of smiling, on Sunday night I wrote my first love letter to myself in Elizabeth Gilbert’s weekly Letters From Love. I’d been skulking in the background of her posts for months, never daring to jump in myself, but on Sunday night I did. I’d been carrying a lot of sadness and frustration for some time, and I wrote my letter fast. And it felt so good! Something cathartic must also have happened during the process, because I was so tired yesterday and had to go to bed for a few hours in the afternoon. Of course, this happens to me a lot due to my illness, but this felt different.

Right after I wrote the letter, Jay - Wild Lion*esses Pride asked whether I might find some compassion towards myself, which immediately led to me writing this poem. I’ve since tweaked it ever so slightly, but its essence remains. I hope you like it, and that it speaks to you. Maybe you might catch a glimpse of yourself in it, too? Let me know.

I really recommend Elizabeth Gilbert’s Substack. I’ve loved her writing for a long time, and she’s such a lovely, genuine person.

So, here is the poem that came through me, ever so quickly, the other night. As I mentioned, it’s been lightly tweaked for readability.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

WEIGHTLESSYou try so hard To live in the joyzone,Forever in the upper echelons of gratitude,Of happitude,Because others face greater challenges.But you are not responsibleFor their life-grudges,Their mistakes,Their angerTheir problems.Let yourself dissolve into peace.Float.Balloon into air.As you know,Breathing isn’t as simple as it sounds.You have your troublesAnd they are not weightless.So,Be thereFor them,For all,In love,But in lightness.Open your heart to yourself.Live your gentle truth.Heal.

Lots of love

Cesca

GOSSIPEERS: side-effects may include sauerkraut breath

(Image AI)

When gossipeers waggle their chins,

Huddling close, foreheads touching,

Their beady eyes sparkle with glee

At bitchy treats shared eagerly.

 

But if they read gossip’s fine print,

The side-effects of chinwagging,

They might roll up their wicked tongues

Coat them with sugar, not venom.

 

Gossip incites chin hair to sprout,

And gives you breath like sauerkraut.

It shrivels consciences like prunes

And leaves your karma out of tune.

 

So, guard your tongue, don’t get swept up,

In semi-truths and nasty stuff.

Have empathy, stay kind, stay true,

What you put out comes back to you.

 

Illicit Croissants At Dawn is available on Amazon

THE RONAN KEATING EFFECT: on health, music, poetry and sparkling baked potatoes

Quite a long time ago - depending on how old you are, I suppose - Ronan Keating had a hit single called Rollercoaster.

“Life is a rollercoaster,” he sang, his blue-eyed Irish charm twinkling at me from the television.

I always quite liked Ronan, initially when he was in Boyzone, and later, when he went solo.

In fact, I saw Boyzone live once, in Zurich, in the late 90s, but Ronan was clearly in a filthy mood that night because the whole vibe was off. Maybe he had a tummy ache. It happens to the best of us.

Anyway, I found myself thinking about Ronan Keating this morning. Actually, let me rephrase that.

I found myself thinking about how my life is a rollercoaster, which led my brain to Ronan’s song, which led me to thinking about what a lovely young man he was. It was quite a sweet segue while my eyes were still sticky with sleep-grit, even if the “lovely young man” bit probably makes me sound like an old granny.

Health-wise, my life really is a rollercoaster.

The day before yesterday was horrendous. I spent most of it between the bathroom and my bed, my mood stuck in the fear zone, wondering whether I’d ever have a relatively normal life again.

This illness is so destabilizing. Occasionally, I’ll get a day where it feels like my body is responding to my meds and I might be slowly gaining a little freedom. Like Tuesday, when I went into Girona with my daughter, saw an exhibition, and indulged in a bit of retail therapy.

But then two days later, I’m whacked over the head with a baseball bat and sent scurrying back to play music chairs in the bathroom. And even when the next day isn’t as bad, I’m so flattened by my Big Sicko Day that I become a grumpy zombie.

Today, however, there I was, lying in bed with Ronan on my mind, having slept like a sparkling baked potato. And yes, I know I’m still sick. That’s part of my life now. There’s no cure. There’s only managing the damn thing. Hopefully.

But I think today might be relatively calm on the intestinal front. I’ve already had a swim, videoed myself reading two poems, and I’m feeling quite chirpy.

Maybe my illness is responding to the medication.

Maybe I am pottering out of the woods.

Maybe.

Sometimes, like yesterday, all these maybes do my head in and I spiral deep into a rabbit hole, worrying I’ll never get out again. And then, the next day, I’m relatively normal.

Whatever that means.

I suppose it just means “one day at a time”.

Tomorrow I fly back to Geneva from Barcelona for my immunosuppressant treatment on Tuesday. This time, I’ll be learning how to self-inject subcutaneously, which should give me more freedom.
Maybe.

I’ll return to Spain on Wednesday.
Hopefully.

Meanwhile, here’s a poem from my new collection, Illicit Croissants at Dawn.
The book also has a matching Spotify Playlist, with one track per poem, lovingly selected for maximum mischief.

If you’ve already read Illicit Croissants at Dawn, or my romantic comedy Just Like A Movie, and enjoyed them, I’d be so grateful if you could leave a review. Apparently, when enough people do that, the Amazon algorithm gets excited.

Illicit Croissants At Dawn
 Just Like A Movie

You could also just leave a few words in the comments, or share this post with someone who loves books, music, poetry, or sleeping like a sparkling baked potato.

Here’s Let Us Prey, with backing vocals by two squabbling pigeons in the willow tree.

THE SCENT OF WHO YOU WERE: a journey down Jasmine Lane

First, prepare your nostrils joyfully.

 

Whisper to them about their imminent journey, as though explaining the wonder of a walk through an enchanted rose garden to a small, inquisitive child. Feel the tip of your nose twitch with excitement as tiny nasal tendrils flutter in your breathy breeze, ready to interpret the floral hush.

 

Lean into the olfactory delight; feel the excitement build, let the ceremonial begin.

 

Wander slowly down Jasmine Lane, eyes soft, senses bliss-aligned.

See sepia memories swim into focus as the heady scent calls to them, one golden summer at a time.

 

Stop. Listen.

 

Hear the metronomic tick-tick of a garden sprinkler,

The squeals of biscuit-skinned children in swimsuits defying the swinging spurt.

Smile at the gasp of the white lace petticoat in the evening breeze,

At the Supertramp melody floating from the upstairs window,

At the dusty scent of your mother’s Rive Gauche,

And at the powdery perfection of your grandmother’s cheek

As she admires the sweeping green valley before her.

 

Follow each molecule back to who you once were,

Before the noise,

Before the rush,

Before you forgot

The simplicity of a single breath.

 

Pause.

You are here.

Jasmine Lane has been expecting you.

 

 

Have you discovered my new poetry book , Illicit Croissants At Dawn?