Sunday, February 26, 2017

Seven years ago, my little brother died. His life I remember well. My grief after his death I remember less well, or rather not in the same way as my memory worked before that point. The week in the hospital I remember clearly. The angle of the hospital bed, which wall the chairs were against, the faces of the nurses and doctors as they hunched over the machine that was oxygenating his blood and returning it to his body.

I remember my father gently arranging Luis's favorite pillow (which Luis had had for years and served as a sort of abstract teddy bear that he had named "Pika" ) against his side. As he did so, I had remembered that same image from the first year of Luis's life that he spent entirely in the hospital, from the perspective of the child that I was, my father seeming so tall, bending over his pale infant, and the tears on his cheeks. The first time I had seen my father cry.

Endings are foretold by the beginnings, I'd read, and it appeared to be true this time.

That's the last period of time that I remember linearly. The images in my head that followed after Luis's death are rippled and warped, like a stained-glass window. Then that window shattered and fell into the ocean, colored shards dancing erratically into the depths, a glimmering swallowed by the darkness.

I imagine now, that grief is an ocean planet, with no solid core, a sea with no floor. Those broken pieces sank all the way to that center, fell through, and began to rise.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

My father fell ill a couple weeks ago. He has always been reluctant to seek medical treatment and this was no exception. Eventually, he was convinced.

Seems better now. He came over last weekend to hang out. We watched The Force Awakens. We've spent more time together this past year.  He doesn't like going out, but I guess I'm just across the street so he makes an exception.

Monday, January 09, 2017

The beauty of the internet is that is reveals how much we live in our imaginations. Stories we tell ourselves, repeat to each other, and treat as "real" as all the other experiences that don't require a power source.

We stare at pictures of people and imagine they're looking back at us. Maybe I should take a series of photographs in which I look at the camera and think of specific people. Would that come across?

Donaldo is doing fine. The final analysis is complex migraines or something. A pain in the ass, certainly, but it shouldn't kill him.

Kelly got snowed in at work in Raleigh, North Carolina. The hotel lost power and they were shuttled to another one. She is flying back now. Watson L. Dog seemed pretty concerned last night when she didn't come home. I think so, anyway. He can tell the time of day pretty well, (having woken me up more than once when I slept through my alarm for work) but I'm not sure how far that extends. He moped all evening and didn't sleep in the bedroom like usual. When I got up to check on him he was curled up by the front door. It's possible he was clued in to my usual Sunday routine, like laundry. Maybe.

I dreamed a lot this weekend. More than usual. My medication limits my dreaming, I've noticed. In almost all aspects, the stuff makes me about 50% less interesting. Since the Venn diagram of "Interesting" heavily overlaps with "Being An Ass", I've come to accept it. For now. WINK.