|||
Some mornings are better than some afternoons, and some afternoons are better than some evenings. The furious pain that accompanies cancer makes its own rules. A guy with a mouth like a wound and a laugh like that of a demented seagull puts an arm around my shoulder, whispers dark proposals in my ear. Everyone is an individual and reacts differently. Me, for instance, I can’t remember important thoughts just seconds after having one. Bobbi says I should download Calm, “the #1 app for meditation and sleep.” But there are times I must act in haste to save what’s fallen from its nest.
The devil on his red throne farts sonorously. Men of substance huddle in the basement, bracing for the booming echo. The same strong gusty winds whip up the waves that drown animals and crops and African boat people. You can tell a lot about a country, a friend said, by the number and variety of empty faces. Seated at one of the outdoor picnic tables at Seafood Shanty, I sneak glances at the cadaverous woman at the next table in the turban of a chemo patient. The air feels close, heavy, unbreathable. And Melania Trump knows exactly who she’s married to.
A woman calls 911 to report hearing terrible noises in men’s heads. Where would we be without cell phones and computers? Astronauts rocket into space in search of solar systems where the planets are made entirely of drugs. Today’s sky has the yellowish tinge of tarnish on old silver. The masses remain baffled, angry, but strangely inert. An unknown caller leaves a voice mail for me, a series of threatening gunshots. The faces on U.S. currency must/must not change. l press myself further into the background, loyal only to what is lost and stifled and goes uncreated.
