There. I said it.
Both arms looked a bit as if I had taken up residence in some dripping alley-way, accompanied by other lads and lasses who had found a medicinal way to stay alive or do whatever they do down drippy alley-ways ... bruised and battered and surrounded by yet one more caring attendant searching for a place to slip in yet another bit of improvement ... "just a little pinch."
Day by day passed. The hellishly-tan walls, the ones that lacked even a bit of hotel-and-motel art, seemed relaxed and smug: "You're sick," they whispered with assurance and "we're here to take care of you." The attendants, like the walls, were ever so nice.
The drugs fucked with my mind. Like the elderly warehoused in old-age homes, mind and body sank lower and lower into the comfort of circumstances. The one bit of dignity that went un-offered was the obvious means to commit suicide. The window looking out on the hospital parking-lot and evergreens was three stories up ... but was locked tight against the wiles of Harry Houdini. A man or woman who is not offered the right to do what is rightfully his or hers is surrounded by poseurs.
Eventually, I got out, got home, got to a place where the mess made a remembered sense, even if things have become less cranky. Not much has changed ... sort of. The Christians still believe. Zennies too. Hamas and Israel pretend they want peace without making serious sacrifices that would actually assure such a peace ... i.e. war is so much easier to bemoan than peace is to assure. I wanted to write and couldn't find much to write about. Dick Cheney and his insurgent Middle Eastern pals still think they should/could/would run the world. "Meaning" is still meaningful if you insist.
I suppose I could do the "organ recital" and laundry list the ailments, but if I honestly found that interesting, I would have become a doctor. Bureaucracy is not my favorite sport.
The sky is mottled today.
There are pictures on the wall.
And my mind is still a mess.
Inch by inch, Adam. It's good to have you back.
ReplyDeleteQuantification.
ReplyDeleteIf I were inclined to do the math of life I'd probably believe that fear is greater than clarity plus honesty. I wonder if this what motivates some seemingly primitive cultures in their fear that photography is the stealing of the essence of a person.
If something is non-quantifiable can it actually exist? By extension, if we refuse to label and quantity things or if we avoid labeling and quantifying something do we delays it's coming into existence?
Ah well, thank goodness for diversions like movies, TV shows, the news and the internet.
The fact that your mind was heading into a train wreck has been pretty obvious for some time to anyone able to be objective about your writings.
ReplyDeleteI don't suppose that caused your physical problems..age alone does that to us all sooner or later, but it does mean that when the wreck came you had no resources to fall back on except for words about words about words.
Which is only noticeable because the system you purport to represent leads AWAY from words.
Cue your response that you represent no system..despite your Zendo and your faux- Japanese handle.
Adam, sorry to hear of your health troubles. Hope you are feeling better. Anon, why are you being such a dick?
ReplyDelete