firm, prehensile thumbs
This has been a difficult month. Mark stayed up late talking with me Tuesday night, and I have felt more myself since then. In the interval between Mark's admittance to the mental hospital and this Tuesday's conversation, I was more miserable and more deranged than I'd been in a long time.
The swoons and shrieks, the suicidal ideations. The dissociated trajectory of razor to wrist, tenuously averted.
I collapsed in the street a week ago Thursday. It was after work, right in the loop, at rush hour. People were startlingly nice to me; they gave me food and water, and a hotel doorman helped me inside to a chair, where I sat until the tingling faded from my face and hands and the sensation returned to my fingertips.
Today I had my first French lesson! It went well, better than I'd anticipated. Afterwards I looked for books on cephalopods, on octopi and squid. Lately Mark and I finished reading aloud Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. This evening we began The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
Sam and I haven't talked in several days; we haven't been capable of holding a conversation in weeks. Strange, to compare this to the year we were seventeen-- our four, five, EIGHT hour gluts of intimation by telephone. It nags me like a bad knee.
The swoons and shrieks, the suicidal ideations. The dissociated trajectory of razor to wrist, tenuously averted.
I collapsed in the street a week ago Thursday. It was after work, right in the loop, at rush hour. People were startlingly nice to me; they gave me food and water, and a hotel doorman helped me inside to a chair, where I sat until the tingling faded from my face and hands and the sensation returned to my fingertips.
Today I had my first French lesson! It went well, better than I'd anticipated. Afterwards I looked for books on cephalopods, on octopi and squid. Lately Mark and I finished reading aloud Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. This evening we began The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
Sam and I haven't talked in several days; we haven't been capable of holding a conversation in weeks. Strange, to compare this to the year we were seventeen-- our four, five, EIGHT hour gluts of intimation by telephone. It nags me like a bad knee.