wildcat

After seven days straight working, I made it to the market to pick up things for dinner (brie, italian bread, boccocini, raspberries, two-bite brownies) in the bright sunlight while losing bits of my sanity along the way in small ruptures that bled out into the world. Holding it all together, it = me, with piano wire and leftover wrapping paper from Christmases past, I made it into the house and up the stairs and into my suite before the pieces really started falling off and hitting the floor, buttons spraying forth to plunk and scrabble across linoleum in behind the stove and under the table. Books! How I piled them. Groceries! How I stacked them next-to-neatly in the fridge with the dull and listless light bulb shimmering over them foggily much as I shimmered over them. All my pieces of technology are powerless and demand recharging, they gobble up as I will gobble (shortly), amid the wreckage of my apartment like laundry waiting to be bundled up and taken down to the Old Sparklebright in the morning for washing, the pots & pans & blender picked out Michael's grandmother's things - handed over to lighten the load as we moved her into an assisted living facility.

I could do with an assisted living facility, and think lingeringly upon the plan that Joy has, to retire early with imbalanced humours to lie in an old age home by the time she's forty, to be waited on and play canasta while I sit in an adjacent building and shuffle over to play shuffleboard and listen to gaggles of depressive writers coming in to shout our poems and stories at us the way we used to shout Ginsberg's.