in and out of boxes, continuously

Two hours ago everything was fine. I was happy.

But something has been bothering me.

Where is that photo?

That one photo.

All photos being packed carefully away in various places.

With the absolute favorites all piled loosely together in one particular box.

As it's always been.

But established patterns got thrown off.

I became overwhelmed with all that I inherited from my dad.

Namely his photos. His millions of books and pieces of paper and mechanical drawing tools.

His bottles of windex.

His bottles of wine.

His jars filled with nuts and bolts (and sometimes just jars filled with smaller jars).

His furniture.

His millions of business cards.

His plaster-of-paris death mask of his own face.

His method of perspective.

His endless recipes and personal notes on everything.

His literal shoes.

His figurative sweater.

(and on and on)

Just boxes upon boxes of another person's life.

Cherished. And too much.

So I decided to move.

I just wanted to halt what was happening.

With all of these boxes.

I needed more space, yes, but, really, at that point (with all the dad-related boxes that had accumulated around me) I just wanted everything to be in boxes.

To make all things equal.

So I packed up everything and moved to another apartment (down the street).

This was so each kind of box could be unpacked with the same measure of (practicality, love, detachment) attention.

It was around this point that I met my boyfriend, Tom.

And I began ignoring the few left over dad-related boxes (as well, moving-related boxes).

Really, any boxes.

I was "living my life"

And I was in love.

And it went like that for a few months.

Then one night Tom was robbed and nearly killed in our neighborhood.

And we had always been so mindful about local criminal activity.

Really. Truly.

We had discussed the situation so many times.

Almost too many times.

But it was in the air.

So when he got attacked, lots of "things" were lost, shuffled around and ignored. But none of that mattered.

He made it out alive.

Which is incredible.

So, somewhere along the way, I lost a photo.

So what.

It's a picture of my mom and dad walking down a familiar street taken by me when I was little.

Just of them from their knees down.

I'm not sure why it's so important to me.

It's somewhere.

One day it will fall out of a book.

Or be found in that one last box I have yet to unpack.

Yes.

40

I'm about to turn forty.

Forty.

I'm not really feeling it.

I just edited this, but - the more I write forty the less it means. The more it seems misspelled.

forty

Huh. Nope. Nothing.

Nothing has happened yet.

My left knee does hurt a little when I sit like a geisha for too long.

And (these days) I have what can only be described as more manageable acne.

And each year has brought me a better understanding of my hair-do.

But that's to be expected.

Admittedly, I've weighed less.

Though, to be fair I've weighed more.

I've felt worse than I do right now.

I've been closer to death.

More confused.

Less informed.

More focused.

I've been less responsible.

Now, I'm irresponsible, unfocused and informed.

In the past I've been less restrained, yet more repressed.

As well, less tolerant, and more anxious.

I've known less while I've assumed more.

I've had bigger problems, more money, less savings.

I've learned things, abandoned what I've learned and come back again.

That is, I've known that I was right, then (with time) realized that I was wrong - then (with more time) realized that I was right in the first place.

(and that sort of thing takes at least thirty-five years).

Yes.

In ten years I may feel differently, but right now I wouldn't want to go back.

Except if I could go back to childhood knowing everything that I know right now. And do it all over again.

And only under those conditions.

Some part of me believes that that's possible.

It must be.

Next time.

As in, next time I turn twenty I won't worry about turning forty.

If only I had known..

other kitchens, other lives

Today I looked through a magazine that had this whole five page thing (photos, personal accounts, recipes) on this couple and their ground breaking new kitchen.

I realized that these guys have the basic floor plan for what is my existing kitchen.

Funny.

Life is funny like that.

Unlike me, they (the couple in the magazine) own their space, have a disposable income, time, and photographers.

None of that mattering, at some point, while reading this article, I moved in (into their kitchen).

I live there now.

In other news, I should be shopping right now. At least part of me thinks so. I still have my boots on (melted mud-snow puddles are forming beneath my desk as I write this).

No.

I can't get comfortable just yet.

Because I know I am supposed to go out and shop.

But I don't want to shop.

If I did, I would shop.

(right?)

And by shop I mean grocery shop (I've barely begun the other kind).

Why can't there be three or four of me?

One who would do the errands. The other two or three who would do everything else.

Shopping.

I don't enjoy it.

I went Christmas shopping once so far. If you can call scrolling through Zappos during my lunch hour shopping.

It was a successful mission.

(so far, this season)

I got my boyfriend some nice new warm boots which I already gave him (the weather dictates necessity).

Zappos. It really is overnight.

The boots arrived yesterday. He wore them today.

All day. Out there in the bad weather.

Bad wet weather. Melting snow. Icy sidewalks.

It messy and cold.

But, for at least his feet, it is warm.

And dry.

And cushioned (that's important).

I will use Zappos again.

Zappos = immediate.

It's too easy.

This is why I've never used Zappos before.

This is why I will use Zappos again.

I'm taking my own boots off, now.

I'm going to push off grocery shopping one more day.

What the hell.

Their kitchen (the guys from the magazine)? STOCKED. With everything.

Mine? Not so much.

Peapod?

Maybe.

Pizza? Deffinitely.

tv

At some point last night I fell asleep while watching television.

Oprah must have come on in the form of a rerun - and it integrated into a dream I was had where someone was talking about me to Oprah as though I had serious problems with something.

I woke up to my boyfriend asking me if I needed anything.

I should have gotten up at that point and said,

Yes, lets go out..

I didn't. But I should have. Because, right then I had had enough sleep.

Because I have a problem with leaving the warmth of my apartment these days.

The Oprah dream was so real.

In other news - a plug for Picante on Division in Wicker Park:

We love you.

And your sign that explains (so straightforwardly) that you no longer make tamales (because they take too much time to do it the right way - and refuse to do it the wrong way).

Integrity. Got to love that.

bad, it's not good

I was trying to remember something the other day.

What I was trying to remember was insignificant. But that's why it was so important to me.

It's very insignificantness* was the driving force.

I was focused.

Since my journals are in a box underneath many boxes in my utility closet (all the boxes being heavy) I had to rely on memory to do this.

What I've learned is that I can recall the smallest details about things that happened decades ago.

Brains. They're just fancier computers (in most cases).

But minds and brains - aren't they different things?

Whatever. It's all in there.

I've heard it before.

I was never old enough for it to be remarkable.

(until now)

In any case, I remembered what I was trying to remember - and everything else.

This kind of activity takes time. Mulling things over while trying to not think about anything else (electing to become preoccupied with something insignificant) - requires focus, requires not reading, not watching movies, but only cleaning, only mopping, only folding (as well as a few sheets of paper, a pen, both yellow and pink highlighters, and beer).

Consequently, I'm now indignant about certain things that happened (fifteen) years ago (all over again).

Because what was good was good. But was bad is bad.

Was. Is.

And bad is not good.

It's a pot best unstirred.

My mind.

I know this now.

It's sweet and sour.

It's olive oil, lemon juice. A couple sprigs of parsley.

Or cilantro.

(maybe some horseradish..)



* not a word

realtime

Blogs don't run in real time.

The first post I ever wrote was about my Thanksgiving hangover.
Actually, it was about the dry toast I ate after having become sick due to my Thanksgiving drinking escapade - that began on Thanksgiving (but bled into the next day) and those were altogether different times (with altogether different problems) that (thankfully) are no longer the case, but (and) it makes sense (that I was hungover to such a degree).

It was titled toast. That first post. And it was deleted millions of years ago.

I started this blog three years ago.

But it might as well have been nine years ago.

Time - weirdness.

The same memories about events that I've blogged about back then - seem more or less as many days or months ago as those events actually were.

Yet the posts that I wrote regarding said events - take on an ancient quality that I can't explain (to myself, I'm talking to myself - I know).

(pause)

Just now someone downstairs threw an incredible amount of beer bottles into the garbage. I'm on the third floor. The window is open tonight as it is unseasonably balmy.

That was a lot of beer.

Whatever. I am sure that time is warped in this medium. Integarted into one's life, the blogger produces a record of sorts. The kind that (at least) I can't shred - or otherwise toss out.

Because the DELETE THIS BLOG button..?

Is priceless.

fege yogurt: anytime, anywhere

It turns out that holding down a job while trying to maintain a google ranking is not as easy as it sounds.

Particularly when it comes to Fege yogurt.

Sometimes my google ranking is gone altogether. As though I've never written the words Fege yogurt anywhere. Ever.

And I feel bad.

And this, even when I employ very specific key words. Or quote my entire post in the cache bar.

No. Nothing.

Then, after I've completely calmed down, dried my eyes, and made myself a salad - that is, gone through the full spectrum of emotions that leads to real acceptance - am I suddenly back. In there. Somewhere in the middle of the google page that corresponds to the keywords Fege yogurt.

Then, a few hours later, quite casually (no alarm sounds) my listing is gone.

Then, it's back.

And I'm laughing, and everything is going to be alright.

Maybe it's the second listing. Maybe the third. But that's ok.

Then it's somewhere on the page.

Somewhere could be anywhere.

Which invariably leads to being nowhere on the page.

And on and on.

(reprise)

Once, briefly, my google listing for Fege yogurt was in a little cloud that formed above the top of the page.

Actually, it was above the top of my desk. Quite near my computer.

But this was only once, and very briefly..

yogurt

Thank you to a little vintage store called Lenny and Me (Chicago). Not fun-me shopping, but gifts. Alas, I love this store.

That's one.

Two:

A friend of mine (without any provocation) decided to lend me some movies. How did she know I wouldn't feel like supplementing my netflix with a trip to video store this weekend?

Three:

As well, my boyfriend's friend - who is certainly lending him some dvds as I write this. Because he always does. And that's always good.

Six:

I skipped five. Just now I learned something bad about five. Thank you, six. For stepping up.

And, finally, seven:

Fege yogurt. Where have you been hiding?

I love Fege yogurt. I have never felt as free to simply eat sour cream right out of the container like this before.

I know. It's yogurt. Only it's thicker, smoother.

Probiotic-ier..

butterflies: not necessarily free

So it's Thursday and I've got a few things on my mind.

Things are looking up. People are opening up businesses, turning corners, getting inspired. It's really busy at work. And my brother landed himself an amazing gig. He's squarely on the path to career satisfaction.

Maybe even artistic satisfaction.

Which is amazing, and has me thinking.

About paths taken or not taken. How minor changes made in the past would have a huge impact right now.

This was best demonstrated in an episode of The Simpsons.

It's the butterfly effect.

And hindsight is a bitch. Consider:

1974: I begin to use and flush q-tips down the toilet on a daily basis (for two years).

This makes perfect sense to me at the time.

1976: A few plumbers arrive and extract something out of a pipe in the wall.

My parents begin asking questions pertaining to q-tips

(nothing ever comes of it).

1983: Daily avocado activity begins!

1984: Daily avocado activity (and the occasional peanut butter and jelly on waffles instead of bread - sandwich) has a negative effect on me that I can't deny.

1985: Daily avocado activity ends.

1989: I decide to wait tables for a couple of months. Just to get ahead of my bills.

1994: I get comfortable and take up with avocados again (but not the waffle thing).

2005: I discontinue waiting tables.

2007: I finally push off doing laundry for too long. There is no turning back.

Also, avocados=over. For real this time.

So should one attempt to live in the present while simultaneously reading it as the past? Is that not the formula for living in the future?

But wouldn't that be as bad (and way less glamorous) than simply living in the past?

Wouldn't it..?

wrinkle spray

The people (and I do mean four or five people) who used to live in this apartment left everything behind when they moved out.

So I kept their cleaning supplies.

These cleaning supplies were put into utility by me (over the year and x amount of months I've lived here) on a desperate-need basis.

Because I hate Fabreeze and its ilk.

Still, a particular product stood out. And not even remotely for its utility.

I'll explain.

It's this something that's meant to "release" wrinkles, which - although it sounds lazy, and is lazy, smells incredible.

And now, it's scent sends me back in time. I'm sentimental about this scent.

Which is funny because I haven't lived here more than a year (and a half) if that (not a very long time) and I admit (I really don't know how long I've lived here) it feels like forever.

I'm starting to believe that time is elliptical.

It's called rain. This wrinkle spray.

It's a product from another land that is neither Chicago or America.

I'm sure there is a counterpart called sun.

And I'm sure sun smells like oranges.

But Rain is not sun.

Rain is a dark, gloomy, defiantly unhappy blend of white musk and black pepper.

That's my take.

A rainy day spray. For un-sunny days.

That removes wrinkles. Without an iron..

Victoria lives in Chicago and writes in her blog occasionally.

don't take this the wrong way, ok?

Ok.

I won't..

Immediately assume the attitude of taking it the right way.

(ahem)

Certain elements of conversation are impossible. Certain things can't be said.

Things such as:

what makes you think that I care what you think?

That's too many thinks.

And retorts get confused by awkward language. They lose their mojo.

Less words. Always good as a rule.

For that matter, less twenty dollar words.

Sometimes the five dollar word is more effective.

Sometimes someone must tell another person bad news about something they have done.

Ok. No problem.

How does the recipient of the bad news get it across (to the messenger) that they are ok with this?

Because anything the recipient says in that respect will seem defensive.

So the recipient says nothing.

But there's the nagging question of why exactly did the messenger make such a production of breaking such news (to me) so gently?

Wasn't it a bit contrived (the kid glove handling of one who is clearly already a well adjusted recipient of so much bad news)?

Had the recipient ever given the messenger any reason to feel that they couldn't simply, unemotionally inform the recipient of ANY bad news?

Had they?

And as I write this I realize that there's an episode of Seinfeld about this.

One time I mistakenly wandered into a website that was designed to teach kids strategies for defusing potentially violent situations with words (complete with colorful graphics).

It listed every possible insult one might endure.

When I clicked on an insult, a matrix of non-escalating responses would open up.

The person who designed the website had considered the myriad of ways these conversations could go.

The responses were designed to unravel hatred via mild confusion.

So that the response to:

"..hey nice Kmart t-shirt.!"

might be:

"..thank you, it's 3pm.."

Brilliant. Sad.

This led to googling verbal self-defense.

Millions of things popped up.

Just as I suspected.

bookcase

A quick note on blogs:

I realized today that some of the blogs that I used to read are now gone.

I'm editing my blogroll as I write this, as I found certain addresses bought out by either adult or splog sites.

That kind of discovery is alarming.

..what on earth has happened to you.. where was I ..? maybe I could have helped.. I had no idea it had gotten so bad..

Others blogs were abandoned, that is, not updated in over a year (in one case, eighteen years).

Where was I?

It's about time and interest. I get it.

I have no time and little interst. Yet I update today.

Why?

Why don't I let go of my blog?

Yes, why..

********

I got a new bookcase and it turns out that I hate organizing books.

Arranging books by color is pleasing to the eye- but simply makes no sense.

I don't want to stage my apartment as I stage things for a living.

So I put my books into catagories. This alone took hours.

And some things fit in more than one catagory. So this required that I decide some things about my books (in some permanent way). Something that I knew as I was doing it would not matter to me whenever I walked away from the bookcase, but mattered so much right then.

And the new bookcase is tricky. At first glance the shelves look to be uniform in height. In reality, they increase in size in increments of a quarter inch from top to bottom.

This threw off my (finally) established catagories in bad way.

So I worked on this all day.

Now all of the books are in the bookcase and it probably weighs about five hundred pounds.

And I stand back and realize that the whole thing needs to move about six inches to the left.

And the books look ugly..

(though they make sense)

emergencia

I sit here in my cloud of smoke (both real and imagined) and I realize something is wrong.

I walked into a pothole.

I got stuck in a sticky spider web.

It's emergencies.

It's people who reappear suddenly back into one's life. In desperate need of something.

And the resulting vicious circle.

For years and years and years.

Poof.

It's random violence.

It's stupid mistakes.

Bad habits.

Lack of money.

Death in the family.

Falling in love.

It's time.

Distance.

Miscommunication.

But - I was going to school.

Minding my own business.

I can't even recognize that woman now.

She.

She and I wouldn't even hang out together - if that were even possible.

And it must be.

Because that girl couldn't have been me.

That girl shakes her head at me.

From (high up at) her drawing board.

She frowns.

She has her mascara on.

Her boots are all laced up.

She's ready. For the apocalypse - or any design related emergency.

She's smart.

She's all in.

Me.

I wait and panic.

I plan.

I scawl things on the back of random pieces of paper.

I never apply what I know.

I experience relief. Not happiness.

I call myself lucky.

I sketch on post-it notes with a Bic ballpoint pen.

It's all such a mess now that it seems impossible to unravel.

Or it's just a state of mind.

This is that thing that happens.

When a person starts to delude herself for the rest of her life.

In order to survive.

That's not what I had intended.

Flying around as though operated by an outside influence.

I haven't taken anything into consideration.

I haven't taken any vitamins.

This has got to stop.

Serioulsy.. gotta stop..

I've lived here my whole life

And I've never been to the South side.

Hi.

I'm from the North side.

And I'm an ass.

I didn't know where I was.

I had no idea that deer would roam (the hospital campus).

And trees (!) it was like a forest.

I think it was a forest.

It was quite lovely.

And horribly confusing.

This is the biggest, most interconnected complex of buildings I've ever seen.

It was like those dreams. No matter how far you walk, you're never there.

Each corridor leading to another exact replica of the corridor before it.

With no visually compelling landmark anywhere to distinguish one station from the next.

It was like the first day in high school.

But worse. Bigger. More confusing. More dire.

I just wanted to get to you.

To your room.

This place.

It's where you will use your incredible strength to get better.

This is where you will heal.

And, baby, I will get to your room. Eventually

And I'll get the South Side all figured out.

I could drive illegally to the hospital in your truck.

As you suggested.

But that might create more problems (though Cassevettes would approve).

I called you tonight, when I got home.

You're doing well.

One more month.

You have some gaps - but your brain is ok.

It will all work out.

I'll make sure of it.

We all will.

You are the most loved motherfucker I've ever met.

Badass.

Truly.

There is no such thing as an ex Marine.

Strong.

Willfull.

Angry.

Sweet.

Good as the day is long.

Tommy.

This is the place.

The far, far away, South-Side place.

a perfect life

Alive.

Pissed off. Like waiting in line.

But that's perfect, too.

Mistakes. Mine. Theirs. Yours.

This isn't me.

This is me under duress.

Rendered down to a ghost.

You told me what happend.

Yes. No. Hand gestures. Words.

And the cryptic:

I Remember / I Forget

The same thing. Same value. Remembered. Forgotten.

Printed onto the page. No explanation.

I've become quite protective of you.

Don't scare him.

Don't tell him that.

Wait. He isn't ready.

I try so hard - not to say anything.

You trust me.

I trust you.

Then you undo all your tubes.

Yes -

I've been drinking a lot.

Because as it turns out - I'm really bad at this.

You made an ok sign - then pointed at me.

It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

But I didn't expect you to remember. I guess I was afraid to ask.

And I didn't expect to see it so clearly in my mind.

Ever.

I wasn't there for you.

Later we all sat around. Watching tv. Reading.

And someone asked if I had your car keys.

I said that I did.

And you wrote:

to my car
my heart
me

It happened at the hospital. On a pad of paper.

The lighting was bad. My outfit was bad.

The best, best, best thing that anyone has ever said to me ..

Then a doctor came in.

They always remark on how incredible it is that you're alive.

But it doesn't surprise you.

You knew that you'd be ok.

This hospital.

My happy hospital where you're alive.

Please bring me my shoes.

You want to get going.

I hate not giving you your shoes.

Your shoes. The only thing standing between you and the outside world.

So decent.

You would never consider leaving in just your socks..

one hundred

I called your room to talk to your sister.

You answered the phone. I don't know how you got to the phone, or how it is that your voice was a audible as it was.

A conversation. That didn't involve pen and paper. Fragments of sentences. Or penguins.

Not eye language, or lip launguage

But words.

On the phone. Making it stranger.

Sweeter.

Harder.

Better.

Are you coming to see me? I'd love to see you..

I told you I was coming right after your surgery. That I was at work.

You said you were at work, too.

When I got there they had wired your jaw shut.

For some reason I dreaded this more than anything else.

I knew your jaw would be a bigger issue for you than your brain.

The doctor came in and said six weeks.

You just looked at her.

Later you counted to one hundred. On you fingers. It was what you wanted to do.

You know I love you, right?

I can hear you

Can you hear me?

Acne's back. That's ok.

And just now I just stepped on something.

It was a cheeto.

The proverbial cheeto.

On the floor. Of my life.

This is what happens.

You haven't lost your dignity, Tommy.

And the people who love you - they haven't lost their dignity, either.

Everyone is excused.

Dignity. It's a state of mind.

It's where you're standing.

Personally?

My life is a mess.

There's laundry climbing all down the hallway. Like a path of fallen leaves.

Fallen laundry.

That's where it goes.

In the hallway.

I always wanted a hallway.

It was years and years. But I finally got one.

Hallways. Piles of books.

I have nothing to eat.

Nothing clean to wear.

Nothing to take this out of my mind.

I have plenty of cigarettes, though.

I told you today that the blanket has to be straight in order not to have bad dreams.

This wasn't a lot of bullshit shop talk.

What I've learned is that I am torturing myself.

I let the bed be all crazy and I sleep in it that way.

I don't want to make it nice.

Not without you.

I don't care.

I can't make it nice.

and no I DON'T WANT TO TAKE CARE OF ME.

Everyone keeps telling me to take care of me.

To take a bubble bath.

Everyone says bubble bath.

No.

I can't take a buble bath right now.

And there is no glass of wine (big enough).

I can't. Really.

Stop it. Not now.

I don't want to.

Not without you.

I want you here.

I was fine before I met you.

I was fine after I met you.

But I am not fine when you are hospitalized. re tom curtis

My bed. My job. My bills. My bath. My life. My kitten.

I will catch up.

You?

What has happened to you?

I can't ask.

I've had opportunities. To ask. This week. Today.

I can't.

I should. The way you look at me sometimes.

I can see it in your eyes.

You're safe. Everyone loves you..

And I almost ask.

But I can't.

I don't want to push.

I don't want to hurt you.

You can tell me anything..

This morning you needed help standing up and as I steadied you - you said something.

And I heard you. I heard your voice.

Later it was explained to me. But at that moment I was astounded.

I wondered if I hadn't imagined it.

If I hadn't finally become so (crazy) accoustomed to things - that I was able to fill in the gaps.

If I wasn't "hearing" things.

And no one was around when this happened.

When you became audible.

And it was hours before there was an explaination regarding the "just what" of your audilble voice.

..Wait! What did you say? Did you hear yourself, too?

You did. You nodded. But you were unimpressed.

Your voice.

You've heard it all along. The fact that we can't is curious and frustrating to you.

Your voice. Of course, your voice.

How I've missed your voice.

Slowly, one by one, your voice-mail messages have been eliminated by my asshole cell phone.

I kept hitting save.

But each day one more would be gone.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Then, one last voice-message hung on by a thread. For a while.

I don't know why.

So I listened to it. Quite a bit.

Knowing it would go the way of the other messages.

Then it did. Last week.

Poof.

Sometimes out of nowhere you ask me if I'm ok.

Am I ok?

And just for that I have to kiss you a million times.

scrabble

Yes scrabble. And walking. And progress.

I cheated - mostly to make him laugh.

batgknit

He questioned the G in batgknit. But not the word itself.

Wive

Ooy

Yes. Yiddish. I know, I know however..

He walks.

He eats.

One month ago today.

One month ago.

I wish I had had been there for him.

One month.

One to go.

hey handsome

It wasn't all that different today than on other dates that we've had.

I put my mascara on in the taxi.

Tommy..

You were still asleep. I didn't want to wake you.

Hey, handsome.

I kissed you hello.

I found myself wondering how it is that I am watching football.

Almost enjoying football.

An ex jar head who also loves The Sound of Music.

I love that about you.

You smiled.

My day started. Right there.

My whole focus is in keeping your hands off of your staples and stitches.

This is new.

And I find myself worrying about stupid stuff. Like becoming someone I don't want to be.

Like a harpie.

Or a nag.

Continually pulling your hand away from your head.

Not new.

I worried about that before.

I edited myself. In the past.

From saying stupid things.

Stupid things regarding health or vitamins or the practice of proclaiming FUCK first thing in the morning.

No, not fuck. Yes.

Say yes to the new day.

I put the kibosh on myself that day.

Don't tell someone how to live, Vic.

(Ok. I won't.)

Man, I'd give anything for you to be crabby in the morning right now.

It's all about stitches and staples.

I have to keep your hands off of those.

I watched in horror as you pulled one out today.

Then you looked at it. The staple from your head. Like you were expecting it to be something else.

Nothing bad happened as a result.

But, Tom, THEY WILL KILL ME (they, the nice people at the hospital) if you get an infection as a result of you touching your head.

And, I will have to kill me, too. I will. If you get an infection.

Somehow they are nice enough (the nice people at the hospital) to let me remove your restraints in the first place.

It's all in the interest of "allowing you to be unrestrained".

So when I get there I take them off. The restraints.

That's the understanding.

The happy moment.

You love me right then.

In the interim I constantly monitor, intervene, stop you from touching your skull.

And I am outwitted by you.

I turn around and realize that you are touching your skull.

When I leave I put the restraints back on your arms.

This will prove to be bad for our relationship.

Later on.

I'm certain of this.

So, I have you write on a clip board.

You request chocolate.

Not new.

You did this even when in the best of health.

Tonight I fed you fruit and a protein shake.

I've never fed you before.

I was reluctant on the grounds that it might make you feel weird - me feeding you.

But you were ok with it. I'm so glad. Because today it was about getting you to eat.

I even got you to eat the puree of turkey.

Sorry. I know that sucked.

You ate five spoons of it. That was five spoons of protein.

And the doctor said that it will be protein that gets you out of the hospital.

I was so glad she said this in front of you.

Chocolate was the reward for the turkey.

I will bring you pureed pasta fazool or lentil salad. Whatever you want.

Meanwhile.

You are so affectionate.

You kiss me. You put your arms around me. Hug me close.

It makes my day. There is nowhere I would rather be.

I love you.

Leaving sucks.

I don't want to. But I know my being there exhausts you.

Five hours of me.

Fawning over you. Grabbing your hands away from your stitches. Watching football. Putting the red glowing thing back on your finger.

You really want that red glowing thing off.

You really hate that red glowing thing.

More than anything.

I finally let you throw it on the floor.

That's bad.

I know.

But it turns out that the red glowing thing isn't very important.

I just wanted you to have the satisfaction.

Of thowing it on the floor.

I was tired.

Besides, it felt like solidarity.

Because, when you look at me and mouth the words, "get me out of here" - a big part of me wants to.

Despite the obvious.

It's the purity of your request.

You want out.

You pull at everything. All of your tubes. In preparation for your escape.

You want to leave.

And I want to help you.

I want to hatch plans towards your escape.

I look you deep in the eye. I nod my head. I understand.

Yes. Let's go.

I want to pull up on a motorcycle and get you the hell out of there.

Sneak you out.

Steal you. Run away with you.

Fast.

As though you are imprisoned.

Bring you home. Nurse you back to health.

Yes.

Everyone would be so mad at me if I did.

None the less.

The red glowing thing.

It moves around. From hand to foot.

Today it was on your middle finger.

So you kept pointing it at me, giving me the finger.

And I gave it back a couple times.

In solidarity.

Which was funny.

Then I went to grab a piece of gauze and when I returned you had undone all of your tubes and wires.

And you had both hands resting on top of your head.

That is, your stitches.

Clever.

You are.

Later I asked you if I was bugging you. If you wanted privacy.

You shook your head no.

But I know it has to be otherwise.

Even in this situation - you're polite.

Sweet. Decent.

I watched you become drowsy from whatever they gave you tonight to sleep.

I said goodnight. Told you that I'm going to dream about you.

You just looked at me.

Incredulous.

You shrugged. Raised your eyebrows.

Just like in life.

Tough.

Protecting me from me.

I worry about you

Ok sleep. Just sleep.