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Skywalking
Sep. 30th, 2002 04:08 pm"Write write write," says Patrick, who sits in a chair where the ceiling falls on him. Small white plaster flakes make constellations of his hair.
He is curmudgeonly at the moment; he hasn't slept all week and now he's got something that's almost - but not quite - the flu. His attempts to soldier on with accounting and rehearsals are almost convincing, but the illusion is shattered as soon as he moves. It's slow, like wax dripping into water; he cleaves to walls to keep from falling.
Stubbornly, he refuses to sleep. He's been plagued since last Sunday with terrible nightmares, and wakes up more tired than when he began. I watched over him last night with ice for his fever; twice in his sleep he tried to run, and twice I had to push dreams away before they could form.
He is certain I have a good entry in my head and I don't have the heart to tell him I don't. He needs dreams to muse on, and I can't write him one. Not right now. My day's been a blur of caring - 4:30 and the edges seem cotton-y, like old newspaper. I'm almost afloat on a bed of eucalyptus, eyes soft and tongue coated with baking soda. A waitress is just like a nurse, or a holy man - in each case the trick is no ego.
The byproduct is no unique narrative voice.
I will write tomorrow - this evening - when I am further away from this lack of self.
He is curmudgeonly at the moment; he hasn't slept all week and now he's got something that's almost - but not quite - the flu. His attempts to soldier on with accounting and rehearsals are almost convincing, but the illusion is shattered as soon as he moves. It's slow, like wax dripping into water; he cleaves to walls to keep from falling.
Stubbornly, he refuses to sleep. He's been plagued since last Sunday with terrible nightmares, and wakes up more tired than when he began. I watched over him last night with ice for his fever; twice in his sleep he tried to run, and twice I had to push dreams away before they could form.
He is certain I have a good entry in my head and I don't have the heart to tell him I don't. He needs dreams to muse on, and I can't write him one. Not right now. My day's been a blur of caring - 4:30 and the edges seem cotton-y, like old newspaper. I'm almost afloat on a bed of eucalyptus, eyes soft and tongue coated with baking soda. A waitress is just like a nurse, or a holy man - in each case the trick is no ego.
The byproduct is no unique narrative voice.
I will write tomorrow - this evening - when I am further away from this lack of self.
