left without them today,
our deacons are in the aisles now,
passing out notepads and pens.
I try to write without them. The
scrim that has taken the place of
my brain becomes parchment.
Who am I kidding? I’ve no memory,
except of the other day when I passed
a dog on the street who’d been hit by
a vehicle. Presumably. It hobbled
behind me until we got home. Dogs
don’t like cat food much. Is that true?
How would I know? I’m just a loser
battling pancreatitis. Or something.
Gallstones. Celiac disease? I’ve no
idea. Meanwhile Conan O’Brien is
chatting with Ron Chernow about
Mark Twain. ‘Life makes cowards
of us all,’ seems a general theme
for Twain, says Chernow. He also
describes Twain as ‘glandular’ and
‘volcanic.’ I’m with the cowards
this morning, test results pouring
in from my bloodwork done a
couple of days ago. Perhaps I’m
fine, or will be. But so singularly
alone in real life. So that oft-post
poned plans (one must have finances
in order to enact most plans) put me
where, facing the world head-on, my
only non-virtual engagement with
strangers, finding ways to make these
positive experiences, on the whole.
