(no subject)
Everything is so painful.
We take turns sleeping beside him, feeding him baby food, lifting him to bleed in the bathroom. I am so terrified his madness will crack; I am so terrified he will figure it out: there isn't long. I thought he would know when he couldn't stand, I thought he would hear his own confusion, his heartbreak. when our hearts all break together in tonal collapse, the sound of ice buckling under warmth of a well-loved little body, they'll scream the snake charm upside down; our heart notes will hiss from the nasal reed and bite him awake to horror. I hate it. I hope not. We muffle the shifting with idiot bounce.
But he is playing house, and saying "I'll be hope, and you be lies and you be selfish; you be useless." And he manages to speak of the future. He manages to speak all the time, out of gaping brain holes with unnatural lips, and in his scull there is a cacophony of disagreement - a whole clan with that familiar family know-it-all lilt. Except it is not annoying anymore, when it is so foolish, when they overlap and embarrass everyone except the one. But he is often lucid - awful lucid. Engaged in dangerous looking around. Sometimes he begins well - a chorus boy on key on verse; except the chorus falls out as he forgets the words, loses the string, and he is left sounding out alone in half ad lib, mostly phonetic guess. For once, in my house, someone is wrong and no one corrects. My father is always right . . .
The X-box manages your music for you.
If you ask nicely, the people at Blockbuster will rent you movies that haven't opened in theaters yet.
genomics is the same as genetics.
all of my relatives are coming today, and they will need chocolate chip cookies.
He is getting stronger. Eating is not causally related to strength. There is no need to eat.
He has changed so much in one day. I believe I have said this before. But it keeps on.
If we call Hospice, if we let them come and lift him for us, bathe him for us, let him have the IVs, he'll know. I think then he will know it's over. But what? skipping his fantasy treatment anyway, only because we can't get him from the wheelchair to the car seat. He is heavy. The more you look like a fortress in your youth, the more the dead places weigh when they die. Shall I surround myself with nothings? It almost looks that way, anyway. I realize how few friends I have. I realize how let down I feel, by you and life and my own nature. Maybe everyone is afraid of how heavy all my dead places will be. Maybe I look like a fortress. I wish I could figure out who all my enemies are so I could kill you all.
I think this must be how so many wars started. This might be why we have it. It is awful, for everyone, that our best thing is unprotectable - that when we lose, we can't exercise our need for it. Our attachments are irrelevant. Whether the sacred is well-guarded rarely has anything to do with love. It mostly has to do with whether it can be. So we build churches and set gems and write our thoughts down, so if we want to keep them safe, we can do our best, in a world where our best has no impact on death. But some of us will die before sitting down and some will die ashamed, and eventually we'll all watch something treasured humiliated that we wish could have been ourselves, and wonder why there is so much pain, and if pain is fallen expectation, why we teach our children anthropomorphism and anthrocentricity and paint the walls of their rooms baby blue.
It's so hard to get out of bed these days.
I wish I hadn't written all this. gave it a bit of oxygen and now it only hurts more. No more for a while.
We take turns sleeping beside him, feeding him baby food, lifting him to bleed in the bathroom. I am so terrified his madness will crack; I am so terrified he will figure it out: there isn't long. I thought he would know when he couldn't stand, I thought he would hear his own confusion, his heartbreak. when our hearts all break together in tonal collapse, the sound of ice buckling under warmth of a well-loved little body, they'll scream the snake charm upside down; our heart notes will hiss from the nasal reed and bite him awake to horror. I hate it. I hope not. We muffle the shifting with idiot bounce.
But he is playing house, and saying "I'll be hope, and you be lies and you be selfish; you be useless." And he manages to speak of the future. He manages to speak all the time, out of gaping brain holes with unnatural lips, and in his scull there is a cacophony of disagreement - a whole clan with that familiar family know-it-all lilt. Except it is not annoying anymore, when it is so foolish, when they overlap and embarrass everyone except the one. But he is often lucid - awful lucid. Engaged in dangerous looking around. Sometimes he begins well - a chorus boy on key on verse; except the chorus falls out as he forgets the words, loses the string, and he is left sounding out alone in half ad lib, mostly phonetic guess. For once, in my house, someone is wrong and no one corrects. My father is always right . . .
The X-box manages your music for you.
If you ask nicely, the people at Blockbuster will rent you movies that haven't opened in theaters yet.
genomics is the same as genetics.
all of my relatives are coming today, and they will need chocolate chip cookies.
He is getting stronger. Eating is not causally related to strength. There is no need to eat.
He has changed so much in one day. I believe I have said this before. But it keeps on.
If we call Hospice, if we let them come and lift him for us, bathe him for us, let him have the IVs, he'll know. I think then he will know it's over. But what? skipping his fantasy treatment anyway, only because we can't get him from the wheelchair to the car seat. He is heavy. The more you look like a fortress in your youth, the more the dead places weigh when they die. Shall I surround myself with nothings? It almost looks that way, anyway. I realize how few friends I have. I realize how let down I feel, by you and life and my own nature. Maybe everyone is afraid of how heavy all my dead places will be. Maybe I look like a fortress. I wish I could figure out who all my enemies are so I could kill you all.
I think this must be how so many wars started. This might be why we have it. It is awful, for everyone, that our best thing is unprotectable - that when we lose, we can't exercise our need for it. Our attachments are irrelevant. Whether the sacred is well-guarded rarely has anything to do with love. It mostly has to do with whether it can be. So we build churches and set gems and write our thoughts down, so if we want to keep them safe, we can do our best, in a world where our best has no impact on death. But some of us will die before sitting down and some will die ashamed, and eventually we'll all watch something treasured humiliated that we wish could have been ourselves, and wonder why there is so much pain, and if pain is fallen expectation, why we teach our children anthropomorphism and anthrocentricity and paint the walls of their rooms baby blue.
It's so hard to get out of bed these days.
I wish I hadn't written all this. gave it a bit of oxygen and now it only hurts more. No more for a while.