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rinueI have been unsufferably clumsy and distracted this past week. For someone who's normally on-the-ball and uncommonly agile, this is thoroughly disconcerting. I've been dropping things, knocking chairs over, driving in the wrong direction; I can't win a simple board game to save my life, or even put up much of a fight. Today, I polished the piano bench twice, neither of which I remembered until Delia stopped me from doing it a third time.
This must be what it's like to be old.
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It's a time of strange reversals; Patrick and I went to a baseball game Friday, (my first baseball game,) and watching the scores in concurrent matches we found they all suddenly flipped in the fourth, eighth, and ninth innings. Patrick suggests sports scores as a means of fortune telling, for what better way is there to tap the collective unconscious? And truly, all my relationships have reversed polarizations.
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Evidence that Romie is overly lazy and really ought to be shot:
(interior monologue. Saturday.)
I'm hungry. I don't want to eat anything. Do I want to eat fish? Perhaps I would enjoy eating fish if fish were provided to me. I probably ought to eat fish. I am not going to get it on my own. I am, in fact, opposed to the idea of getting out of bed. Ever. No fish for me. I didn't even want fish, really. Could I persuade Valancy to bring me fish? Most likely I could. It is possible that she already believes I am ill, for here I am in bed. In her bed, in fact, which she will not be getting back. Unless she decided to drag me along in pursuit of fish so as to keep an eye on me. I bet she would; that's just like her. But I shall prevail. I shall call to the fish psychically. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiish. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiish.
Damnit.
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My hand has healed enough that I can play the piano again, but not the guitar. I also cannot make a fist.
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Delia says that when she looks at people, she sees two faces: the face, and the face behind the face. Mavis's back face is much more afraid, Chad's second face is much more concerned, and Patrick wears a bland first face in an odd show of ettiquette. I rarely see that face. I also rarely see Val's second face any more, although this seems to be getting better. My faces look alike ninety percent of the time, but they can be dramatically opposed.
And every once in a while, the second face isn't mine.
========================================
I miss Patrick, which is rather novel. Almost unprecedented, in that I don't miss people for more than seconds at a time. Also faintly ridiculous in that he's only been gone for four days.
========================================
It's all there if you care to see it, although I admit I am actively obfuscating for political reasons.
========================================
My bandaids glow in the dark. This prompts me to flicker the lights on and off repeatedly, although I try to restrain myself in polite company.
I distract with my hands like woodpolish,
and I look at the dirt in my toes.
If there's anything worse than a secret,
it's a secret that everyone knows.
This must be what it's like to be old.
========================================
It's a time of strange reversals; Patrick and I went to a baseball game Friday, (my first baseball game,) and watching the scores in concurrent matches we found they all suddenly flipped in the fourth, eighth, and ninth innings. Patrick suggests sports scores as a means of fortune telling, for what better way is there to tap the collective unconscious? And truly, all my relationships have reversed polarizations.
========================================
Evidence that Romie is overly lazy and really ought to be shot:
(interior monologue. Saturday.)
I'm hungry. I don't want to eat anything. Do I want to eat fish? Perhaps I would enjoy eating fish if fish were provided to me. I probably ought to eat fish. I am not going to get it on my own. I am, in fact, opposed to the idea of getting out of bed. Ever. No fish for me. I didn't even want fish, really. Could I persuade Valancy to bring me fish? Most likely I could. It is possible that she already believes I am ill, for here I am in bed. In her bed, in fact, which she will not be getting back. Unless she decided to drag me along in pursuit of fish so as to keep an eye on me. I bet she would; that's just like her. But I shall prevail. I shall call to the fish psychically. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiish. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiish.
Damnit.
========================================
My hand has healed enough that I can play the piano again, but not the guitar. I also cannot make a fist.
========================================
Delia says that when she looks at people, she sees two faces: the face, and the face behind the face. Mavis's back face is much more afraid, Chad's second face is much more concerned, and Patrick wears a bland first face in an odd show of ettiquette. I rarely see that face. I also rarely see Val's second face any more, although this seems to be getting better. My faces look alike ninety percent of the time, but they can be dramatically opposed.
And every once in a while, the second face isn't mine.
========================================
I miss Patrick, which is rather novel. Almost unprecedented, in that I don't miss people for more than seconds at a time. Also faintly ridiculous in that he's only been gone for four days.
========================================
It's all there if you care to see it, although I admit I am actively obfuscating for political reasons.
========================================
My bandaids glow in the dark. This prompts me to flicker the lights on and off repeatedly, although I try to restrain myself in polite company.
I distract with my hands like woodpolish,
and I look at the dirt in my toes.
If there's anything worse than a secret,
it's a secret that everyone knows.
