In no order of preference:
My son's life.
My mother's death.
I was the last person to understand my mum's speech. I had to use telepathy, most of the time, but I understood her. The reverse of the toddler experience: when a small child speaks, people ask the mother, what did she say?
I translated my mother to the world. She'd speak, and I'd repeat what she said, and I really believe I managed to make the repetition pretty natural, so that my mum continued to remain a partaker in conversations for a good while longer than she would have without me. Finally, it became almost completely impossible for me to understand her either. She stopped speaking, once and for all and forever, in January. I am not sure I can now remember my mum's voice. I'm sure I will, one day, again, when enough time has passed between myself and the deterioration into such depths of grotesque grunts and groans they became indecipherable even for me, and the voice-synthesising devices that have followed the cessation of the grunting.
I am having to telepathise with the voice-synthesizer device now. It's much harder, and I'm not anywhere near as good with that. The voice-synthesizer didn't bear me, I didn't learn to speak from it.
Recently, I read Alice Munro's Dear Life. She tells how she, too, was the last to understand the speech of her mother, dying of Parkinson's. It would be interesting to know if this is an experience shared by others, not just Alice and me. Alice, of course, doesn't know she shares this experience with me, but she does.
As for the other things, finances are shit, my son's life I won't speak about, and certain uncertainties regarding my future are not of the exciting, but rather, the neurotic-vortex inducing kind.
I'll live, unless I die, like everyone else.
Oh, I just can't resist it, it has to be said, no matter how poncy and over-dramatic; nay, verily, I cannot resist saying it precisely because of its very poncy over-dramaticness:
Friday, November 29, 2013
In no order of preference:
Friday, September 13, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Today at my doctor's (she is a saint), I cried and cried and cried so much, I wouldn't have believed beforehand that I could open up that much to anyone.
My doctor (she is a saint) was so good, even though doctors don't even shake hands with patients these days (swine flu, baby, swine flu, don't you know, the hysteria that surrounded that took away our one way of physical contact in everyday interactions between people), even though doctors don't even shake hands with patients these days, my doctor (she is a saint) actually hugged me when it was time for me to leave, and not only could I allow that, but I actually sniffled against her shoulder like a child and said "why are you so lovely when I am so horrible" and she said "I am no lovelier than you are not horribler", which is a peculiar way of putting things but it came as her immediate response and I'm sure I understand what she meant, although I don't feel it, I don't, that's for sure, children, I don't.
I left her room and walked the few steps to the bathroom in the corridor, and I had a cup of water from the tap because miraculously and thankfully, there was a plastic-cup dispenser thing there, and I checked myself in the mirror and I had cried so hard there was not any mascara left even on my face, and so I washed my hands and opened the door with the paper towel protecting me from touching the lock, and disinfected my hands, for which I took off the ring I got from Kriszta as a present from Croatia, as I'd given her the Kuna that I had left from last year to get a few things, because there's the population of Europe in bacteria lives under each one of your rings, you know, and then I opened the door to the stairwell and started walking down the five flights of stairs and while walking, disinfected my hands, taking off my ring of course, given I had touched the lock and the door handle to enter the stairwell, and I walked all the way down and opened the stairwell door into the lobby, and forced myself to refrain from disinfecting my hands (taking off my ring) until I had also opened the front door and left the building.
There's no sense in any of this. I want people to continue shaking hands and I have to disinfect three times when leaving a building.
So my doctor (she is a saint) told me I should take fifteen minutes to myself to calm down before going to see the living dead that the woman who bore me, my mother, has become. I should walk to the park, Sibelius park, right round the corner:
In the park there were two Chinese ladies with two large plastic banners on the ground, telling us about the atrocity of organ harvesting the Chinese government perpetrates: using Falun Gong members, Uyghurs, Tibetans and political or prisoners of conscience as a supply of sellable organs, harvesting crops of kidneys, livers, corneas, hearts, for there are plenty of prisoners nobody gives a fuck about or at the very least nobody who could do anything about it, and plenty of rich Westerners and perhaps the odd rich Chinese as well who will happily have the organs without question, and I read their leaflet and dared myself to look at the pictures on their banners, and signed the Doctors Against Forced Organ Harvesting petition, and
Labels: lama sabachthani
Friday, July 26, 2013