1 2 3 4 daddy’s gone and fucked a whore
5 6 7 8 I can hear him ‘jaculate
9 10 11 12 will my daddy go to hell?
13 14 15 16 if he does then I’ll be leadin’
17 18 19 20 I’m'a make sure we got plenty
21 22 23 24 ain’t gonna need him no mo’
Her parents didn’t believe in schooling, proper schooling, because they knew that all those teachers and priests were rapist sodomites and when they read and reread those passages in Ezekiel they got so angry and started yelling at their eight year old child about how they wanted to put their penis in her asshole she got scared and cried and so during the day they told her to go out and live, and learn from the world, from nature and they let her run off and they went back into their field and toiled to make vegetables and feed cattle to slaughter.
She woke to the sound of a door slamming shut, remembering where she was and that she was alone in someone’s house. She sat straight up in the bed and pulled the blankets up, panicking.
“Someone’s smashed in the window!” Mr Bear yells out.
“Someone’s had their gut full from the lunch pot” cries Mrs Bear.
“Someone gone and got in our house Pa” says kid Bear, going over his chest and flinging it open to see what’s missing. “They ain’t taken any of my stuff Pa!”
“Ma! Go check the bedroom will ya. I’m gonna get me rifle, go on now”
Goldilocks hears them moving about, hears what they say and hides herself under the bed, seeing there’s no windows in the room and the only way out is the door she came in. The door to the bedroom swings open and she hears the feet coming across the room.
“Pa! Someone’s been messin’ with Junior’s bed, look” and the Bears all pile into the room, walking over to the bed she was sleeping in. Pa Bear puts his hand on the mattress and feels it’s warm.
“Go damn there’s been someone in this bed” and his face appears under the bed, looking Goldilocks straight in the face.
“Well well, look at what we have here” and she squirms away but Ma Bear is on her, pulling her out from under the bed by her thin wrist and dragging her over into the corner of the room.
“What you doin’ in here little girl?” asks Pa Bear
“Nothing, I..I…I was just, exploring, ’cause, my mumma says, to…to, go out and…”
“You exploring in our house cutie pie?” says Ma Bear.
“I saw, that…no one was in her so I”
“You busted by damn wind-a that’s what” says Pa bear, resting the rifle on his hip.
“She’s pretty” says Junior, walking over to her.
“Now. Don’t you go touching her son, that there’s a devil woman” says Pa Bear, holding his son by the arm “see, we gotta get that devil outta her”
“Oh no Pa, nah we ain’t. She just a little thing with, look at her Pa, that golden hair, like, like an angel”
“Ain’t no angel son, you’ll see. Ma, pick her up”
And Ma Bear picks the girl up and places her on the bed, Pa Bear takes his pants off and moves over to her, Goldilocks stares at the man, stares at the boy and waits, terrified.
“See son, she just a lil rabbit, ain’t cha?” and Pa moves closer, gets to her, pulls her shorts down and opens her legs. Goldilocks, crying, thrashing, Ma holding her wrists down, Junior tugging at his father undershirt to let her go, crying too but Pa heaves into her and Ma laughs revealing her teeth and Pa grunting like a bear; “urgh urgh urgh eee-urgh” and Junior crying now and Goldilocks screaming out but soon Junior comes and puts his hand over Goldilocks’ mouth saying “sssshhhhh” and trying to get her to relax, soothing back her hair and she locks her eyes onto his and he says softly “it’s ok…it’s ok” and they stay like that her moving in that jolting way as Junior looks into her eyes and keeps saying “it’s okay it’s okay” and when it’s done they put her dress back on and she is crying and running into the forest hearing their laughter getting softer and softer.
I live in that place
Where they come from
And I can tell you
No one is there
And they don’t care about
You.
Invariably (and in a way attempting to destroying any reverence I had for Lego) every other child I knew had a mother fucking huge BAG of the stuff (which I found out was Lego approved, a common way of storing massive collections). They cared little for the dissemination of pieces and distinction between genres I had come to self-teach[3] was the proper way to control ones Lego collection (using various boxes and cataloguing systems, carful to archive the manuals and partition the pieces into their correct “brand” grouping. I was not insane after all). The large bag exalted a way of treated Lego as a pile of garbage, as a toy, as a thing you ‘got out, messed with and then collapsed into a incoherent mess’ with no deep value other than perhaps an aggrandised ownership. I felt no guilt in stealing amazing pieces from these heathens. They did not appreciate what they had, I appreciated it far more, they would not notice any losses for they were fools with gold (or swines with pearls, whatever analogy you want). So I left their houses with my pockets full with reward. My only disgust came when these ill-gotten pieces from incomplete collections did not fit in with my carefully matriculated collections. They stood out like sore thumbs, they were singular and abhorrent[4].
Back in my bedroom, sitting over my modest yet superior Lego collection, I stared at it, processing the confusing mix of anger, disgust and admiration I felt toward those with grossly overpopulated übercollections. I stared at the pieces before me and felt love for every piece (except for maybe the two-ers[5] which, let’s face it, are pretty perfunctory and not very stable). I began to build, using colour matched pieces which a Lego perfectionist would know is the key to creating master works, a working industrial complex replete with security and staff quarters, an open plan building mimicking a cross between Die Hard (the movie) infrastructure and neo-terrorist capabilities (for the infiltrating party…this is ‘space’ Lego after all, they need advanced clever tools). It quickly became clear that my ability to creating fully fledged finished Lego-company quality pieces out mastered the kids with massively ambiguous grey-goo collections. They had no attention to detail. They had no idea of how to get the most out of every piece. They had no idea even of colour matching! They built like imbeciles seeking to create the tower of Babel. Red, yellow, blue (colours foreign to me for I had sets of pristine mainly white space Lego) were used indiscriminately…they made pieces that needed explanation, they made pieces that were abhorrent to nature and architecture. “Where do you see buildings like that?” I’d say. And they would answer feebly and without heart: “In the future”. Like that was a blanket rule that allowed them to create ludicrous monstrous-cities (sorry), as if human evolution would do away with aesthetics. Bah! I knew what they were doing. Quantity over quality. Having my refined collection meant I had to be smarter, more aware. My impoverished collection forced me to become much cleverer, less like a blundering buffoon who used Lego as a way to fill in time, avoid boredom, to luckily connect pieces like an ape.
Imagine them, opening their big bag and hearing the pieces settling, but not hearing it in a loving sense, in a noise sense, white noise, or worse even suffering it as an annoyance. The sit and draw their hnds through the pieces, inspiration-less, trying to find a base to begin with. Finding a landscape plate that inspires them! I’ll build a house! And hey build an ugly house. That will do, they think. Even with this sea of potential they crate a stock standard replication of their surroundings, enough for the inhabitants of this brief existence. In their exuberant living conditions they managed to fashion a cold dead ugly reflection of themselves. No awareness of a desire to create beauty, to produce a version outside of the current world, to give value, to offer a better version of life. These are the privileged children who go into government, make the rules they think we al can live by. Devoid of choice, value, appreciation and worst of all awareness that these things mater at all. My understanding of the preciousness of a single piece sets me apart from these conglomerate spoilt for choice moguls who, with it all, instead chose to develop ill-formed, visually disgusting normalities. And we wonder why things turn out like they do.
Mainly, Lego built in disdain is built for destruction. The pieces are built without any longevity, almost deliberately brittle and hollow, only visually useful, but mainly, once boredom has been replaced by a need to build with Lego (which is the reason/purpose/point of Lego) the next level (only ten or maybe twenty minutes later) was to smash their creation back to noting, back to a pile. There’s more fun in the destruction for these unimaginative irreverent gluttonous humans. Joy in destruction. Satisfaction in wreaking their crappy inventions. And here’s the clincher, the fat that they knew it was crappy, that it was always destined for the junk pile, that their eagerness to create was underpinned by the eventual desire to destroy. This is the real reason why they didn’t care about their huge collections, or the attention to detail in creating something everlasting. They wanted a quick dirty build followed by a triumphant suicide. The joy in killing what they made outweighed their joy in creating.
THE END
[1] That’s the great thing about Lego, it actually promotes a level of excitement in mundane cooperative actions, like setting up a moon base, like sharing resources, like fixing a vehicle et al. The greatest socialist tool is not killing all of the upper-class, its aggrandising common perfunctory interactions. Socialist propaganda? Space exploration as a tool for global supremacy? Want to be a town planner?
[2] Further, and the horror again, you realise that the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-you present you received from a somewhat distant and let’s face it probably poor adult you used to think were interesting and ‘big’ were those cheap as hell Chinese made rip-offs (fake crappy transformers) that I, now, would never consider giving to a friend’s child, or even as a gift to a acquaintances child let alone a true blood family member! These things happen over the years and you correct your history with them. The fact that you can add detail to historical events is bizarre, and it usually leads you to even further disgust for the moments you in your (youthful) gut knew were distasteful in the first place. You just couldn’t articulate them back then, beyond things like ‘this toy is CRAP!’.
[3] Thus creating a higher ideal I would hold all Lego owners unto.
[4] Not because they were stolen, no! Because they were orphans. Symbolic of the destiny I had rescued them from and juts didn’t fit in with the rest of the collected kits (mainly because I could visualise the finished kit just by seeing a single piece, hence the conceot of belonging).
[5] If you don’t know what this is either you are not versed enough in Lego or (being nice now) for some more or less common terminology start here http://www.themorningnews.org/archives/opinions/a_common_nomenclature_for_lego_families.php
They were all kissing and drinking and vomiting and they said ‘have a drink!’ loud but he didn’t want to and he was skating out on the street and could hear the party going on and three guys came over, drunk and told him how cool he was and how they thought he was so cool all the stuff he said in class and he was weird and cool and like that (drunk style) and he thought you are fucking idiots and skated home.
What they do is everyday after school go to the small town of Lambert because they live in an interconnected line of small towns and hang out under the footbridge to the train station and eat hot chips with gravy and smoke cigarettes.
“Fuck you mother fucking cunt!” Mike yells out to a maybe sixty year old woman who kept looking over to us for being so loud and it’s hilarious; she just gets up and leaves and we’re laughing and Mike says “man, should I go and say sorry to that dried up whore?” and Ken says “fuck that old ass wrinkly whore man” and we keep going on and man Ken throws his coke on me and I leap up and punch him in the face and he tries to wrestle me and Kate says, “hey guy this is Newtown” and we get off the train because we are going to smoke joints in the cemetery.
I take the stem out of the bong and use a pencil to push all the resin out form the stem into a bowl and chop some tobacco into it to get it dry and smokable. We couldn’t get on again and it’s ten thirty so shit we have to smoke this shit and its funny, its funny kind of thing and it tastes like crap. I pack myself a nice soggy cone and smoke it down and I actually like it, sick fuck that I am. I give Brendan the bowl and he makes himself one and I feel good and relaxed and it’s all for free. Then my turn again.
They’re all standing around outside the hall waiting to see some bands and they don’t realise that they all look the same, all these individuals looking the same trying to be different and it’s beautiful like that.
Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All www.oddfuture.com SWAG
Years later:
I got a job because I could talk the talk, I know what it’s like, I’ve been there and done that and now I am the best equipped to sell product to these teenagers. They’re actually really easy because (a) they are driven by pack mentality (b) their non-conformity is easily adapted (Christ its 2011 and still they wear Nirvana and worse Ramones t-shirts) (c) they have no purpose other than what is presented and available (what I mean by presented is discovered, they have to think they discover it, and it’s east to ‘hide’ stuff online) (d) it is amazingly clear what they love and hate (as opposed to the general public who are more or less fickle and unencumbered by a role they need to design and live my, i.e. quasi-moral code).
DISCLAIMER: I have always been a fascinated observer. I just do not believe that I am alone in realising that actions are at their core fake and are a (loving) re-enactment. Also, to solidify my case, when pressed people have little depth so in that sense the cause and effect is one and the same; their reasons for living that way are irrelevant and the outcome is to achieve a version of a desired repetition (read: morose) that they know they want and so press to achieve. This is the way of death. The other way: honesty, indifference, soulfulness, depth, individuality…authenticity…keeps alluding us.
To understand the state of mind of a person these days you have to take into account a great deal more than any person in the existence of humanity has ever had to process. Here are the major ones:
To write a sentence now you have to be continuously and openly aware of all three precepts and propose a solution, an acknowledgement and a placebo to these themes. To say ‘this is this’ is no longer possible. To say ‘this is like this’ takes reams of explanation. To say ‘this can be this’ lacks awareness. To say ‘this’ is the only possible reality for art and life and culture. We have killed the importance of imagination and fantasy because it is not enough. We have killed reflection because we already know. We have killed curiosity because it is replaced by research. We have killed opinion because there are too many of them. What do we say to the world of self-corrupted sentiment? What do we scream now that hasn’t been screamed already? Why do we reflect upon ourselves in the moment of screaming to ask ‘why am I screaming’ or ‘what does it look like that I am screaming?’ or ‘do they believe me because I am screaming?’ or ‘do I want them to believe me because I am screaming ergo I am screaming so that they will believe me’ or ‘am I screaming because that is what you’re supposed to do in this situation’ or ‘I am screaming for real…really for real and there is nothing else I can do and feel inside but scream out loud and feel like there is nothing else I can possibly do’.
Here’s an attempt to address the three precepts:
Freedom: everyone is allowed to do whatever they want, of course, but there should sill be an impetus to improve. There is still such a thing as progression.
Mass media: at no other time in the history of humanity have we had such equal access to information. Instead of burying ourselves in shit, we can become gods.
Authenticity: we have come to learn that nothing is true, it is all an act, a representation of what is real. Worse, that people have come to understand reality as based on mimicries of life and are sustained by this and believe in their actual hearts that that is real life. Freedom (as above) has caused this false evolution.
More soon.
See see see the problem is you want to do too much too soon. As if one sentence can make it, can make someone stand up and change their whole life. Their whole way of being who they have become after, what, forty years! If that sentence exists and you can just read it then its too powerful and scary. Its not even contained in any bible type thing (although sometimes proponents of written religious works think it is). So now the new advertising is a message that is spoken to you by you and can change you:
“Michael. Michael. Mi—chael…we know. We have been listening. Keep walking, it’s ok, we’re with you. Down this same old street. There’s something you need just down the way. Down the, no Michael not there. That’s not for you. That’s an adult theatre. You can walk past it this time. See? And we’re right here with you. What you want its to see this bedding. It’s soft, thick. Everything you need to be comfortable. Can you imagine being that comfortable, on a rainy day? Michael? Have a look here”
Slater & Slater were the first to invent “I” advertising. Not like radio, not like TV, hell, not even like Back To The Future II holographic stuff. This was the real future, the kind of real future you at first feel sick about and think is incredibly wrong but after only a few months accept and move on from. Basically what it is is everyone with an ‘i’ device or pretty much any other “smart” thing is automatically hooked up via either a wifi, 3G or Bluetooth connection to neighbouring users and so can be pinpointed by location and targeted thusly. Google were reluctant to get on board but in a meeting they persuaded them that it would yield more ad impressions and clicks on said keyword ads, warranting a new touch-what-you-want-wherever-you-are kind of point and click and so, they aren’t idiots…
Ok, here’s how it works:
You, with your iThing, walk around, plugged in like you normally are. Bing! a message comes in; a voice message. Through the speakers or right into your headphones. What? You didn’t sign up for this (and sure you can opt out but it’s hard because we’ve built it in to your plan. If you want to get rid of it you need to move to a different plan, a ‘free’ plan that will likely cost more (freedom is not cheap). So, a few discrete messages that you actually want based on who all of your accounts say you are OR anonymity at a price? You can choose of course but by default (check your contract) it’s ON. The outrage is subsided by relevance. Its almost like a friend cajoling you towards a destination. We don’t even like our friends, most of the time, making us go places and do things, so we can tolerate this. After all, it’s your own openly available, personally contributed to social identity talking to you. And who created that? You did, and you kind of respect yourself for being so careful about your online identity. Etcetera.
Read: it’s only your responsibility to ensure these invasions are not invasions so you must maintain a high level of connectivity and online presence to exclude you from unwarranted messages, i.e. the better you are at existing within this landscape the better we are at not bothering you i.e. delivering you what you actually want (and you agree that it is what you want).
Homeless writer – I paid 20c for this piece which means he has officially made more money from publishing fiction than I have.
His technique is to stand with a vaudeville-esque hat on the ground (the brim slightly tilted in an homage to Chaplin), pointing at the hat to illuminate it. It works. It is amazing the simple marketing tactics of homeless people (more on that soon).
The syntax of this piece is amazing:
It’s ten thirty but the clock on the dashboard here says its three thirty. But it’s not, it’s, I believe it because I remember back when it was eleven, so yeah, it makes sense. Some time as gone, must be about four hours. The worst thing is the bugs, they give you a nice uniform but it…there’s bugs in here. And so I scratch at my arm all the time and its red and hot and it’s hard to pull the sleeve up and I dip my finger into my water bottle and spread the water on my forearm and it feels good, good so I put more and more water on and the lights of the next station come so I press the button and slowly move the brake handle up to slow and press the other button that tells them…ah you know. Stuff like that.
There is a little girl between Central and City Square. She lives in the tunnels with I think her mother but I’ve only seen the mother three times. She is so cute and small, like a dream, always in the same dress. I like that she is in a dress. That her mother perhaps makes her wear a dress like it’s possible she will be married. I saw the movie ‘Emily’, Jane Austin it was. It’s like that. She watches me drive by and I think about her, and the rats, and that she is standing there, watching the lights come, the loud noise come, the train come and she stares into my eyes it seems but it’s only a second I see her and only those black things for eyes.
I’ve circled the subway twelve times, its four thirty it says but I can’t be sure after twelve hours under here. I thought four thirty am maybe but when I asked a station guard he laughed and blew a whistle and I thought he was the devil. He had teeth missing, the two either side of his front teeth. Not the devil, a rat, another rat in here with white skin and a shrieking whistle. He laughed and looked away, he laughed without looking at me as if I was so much of an object or wanted him to laugh and again blew on his whistle and held up the white flag. I can’t remember if it was him again or someone else at a different station. Some other rat. They spend so much time down here.
Slowing into the station you see the difference in mankind. You see the scum, the fake rich, the idiots, the partiers, the children, the homeless, the regulars, the weirdos, the old people, the pathetic, the unusual, the dead, the living. You let them in. They come in. They get on, ‘aboard’ it used to be called. All aboard. Like an adventure, like something meaningful. Going somewhere. Not just there to fall off and go on and get back on and move around and circulate. Rats. I see them because I have the lights on up front, see them scurry every time. What do they eat? Toes and nibble on scum, the thick scum that comes down from above. Through the sewer, out through the old pipes.
Its getting to midnight. The clock tells me eight thirty. I don’t know what eight means. Morning? The people are dressed well. Night? They look stupid all together like that. They should go home to their wife who has a nice meal ready. My wife used to cook meals. Proper meals with meat and gravy and potatoes and corn. God. I used to pray every night. Knelt beside my bed and felt small because the bed was so high. Like a child I would pray in slippers and flannel pyjamas and like a boy sometimes my penis would slip out of the slit while I was praying and my mind was distracted by this which made me think of God more fully.
The radio, hard to hear it say “Barry (?)….<unheard>…night…<unheard>…city will…to…station for…<unheard>…under…for there can issa (maybe?)…when issh…<unheard>…” and like this and it stops after a while and I pick up the receiver and talk to the guard who says something in not really English and I say “did you get that?” and he says “what?” and I hang up. The lights are coming again.
My arm, again. Keep scratching at it, along the forearm, look at it, nothing there but a redness. Still aches to be scratched. I try to ignore it, got a sudoku magazine that was left on the train, half finished but they made mistakes. I turn to a new one, write a few numbers and throw it back onto the seat. It’s infinite. Infinite with no point. There are bugs in here but they are too small to see. They are around and in here. There aren’t any scientist here to take them and say “you poor man”. Is it Museum station already? The girl with the dress will be coming soon. But like an old man I get my hopes up and quickly kill them down. She will not still be there.
I move the handle up a notch. From stop to run. My reflection in the mirror, in my uniform, catch myself pinching my arm. The itch is being killed by self inflicted violence. Violence. I see the tunnel coming, the shape of the internal void forming as a curl, a black, charcoal curl coming and coming in an ever developing arc. Seen it half an hour ago, the same thing. This time the girl comes and she is bright and alive, moving, dancing, she is…wait, move, little girl. Get off the tracks little girl. And it’s so fast. The train moves along, pushes along like a silver smooth beast, moves so fast and along that it crushes her and she falls away, as brief as a moth and quick and fragile as a tissue. Hit and gone and no sound and only I saw it.
No no no. And the time says nine thirty six pee em. I am on the train that is stopped at Central station. I need to go. I open the door and come out onto the platform. This one is outside, with air and people and the bits of sky out from under the awnings. There are lights and stars in the sky. It is night, I thought it was night, did I? A hand on my shoulder, turns me around, has a whistle in her lips, a flag down by her side, saying words. Words that sounds like “what .(and). you .(and). doing .(and)…” and I hear that and I push her hands off me and she catches up and I sit down on the ground.
My wife died three years ago. At home I put a frozen pie in the microwave and press ten minutes. It goes on with the sound and that light. I walk away from it, sit down on the lounge and turn the TV on. Its people talking of course. I stare at their mouths. They are loud and saying things. They have their hair done. The scene changes so fast all the time I don’t know what’s going on. I see her face, in the tunnel. Her little face with black eyes. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t there really. The clock says midnight now. It’s not midnight. The microwave finishes.
| BIBLE: Wisdom book 1: For inquisition shall be made into the thoughts of the ungodly, and the hearing of his words shall come to God, to the chastising of his iniquities. |
You know when you are really in-the-gut yearning for just, just a kind look, a reassurance that this horrible shit that you are in is actually temporary, that this too shall pass (as they say), and you know that other thing inside that says “fuck it, who gives a shit” and so the look on your face transforms into some type of serenity which (when seeing it) is just when you get that reassuring look or hand squeeze? That, for eons, has been the dichotomy of good and evil, god and the devil, life and suicide etc. Which is which?[1]
| BIBLE: Wisdom book 2: For they have said, reasoning with themselves, but not right: The time of our life is short and tedious, and in the end of a man there is no remedy, and no man has been known to have returned from hell. For we are born of nothing, and after this we shall be as if we had not been. |
Jeremy was burning. He was one of them that thought that hell couldn’t exist. He came back, born as we call it. A sickly child, almost died choking on the umbilical cord. His first breaths were strangled, pain and the threat of death straight away. I don’t want to talk about that. Instead, when he was in pre-school. trying to touch the little girls cunts, trying to gouge out the boys’ eyes, trying to get the teacher to kiss him on the lips, trying to get his mother to play with his cock. He killed his rabbit by shutting its neck in the escape hole and leaving it there o’ernight.[2]
| BIBLE: Wisdom book 3: As for the children of adulterers, they shall not come to their perfection, and the seed of an unrighteous bed shall be rooted out. For though they live long, yet shall they be nothing regarded: and their last age shall be without honour. Or, if they die quickly, they have no hope, neither comfort in the day of trial. For horrible is the end of the unrighteous generation. |
“Jay-den, git dahn orf thair” (sic) of such dialect she spoke, a high-pitched command followed by five or six hoarse coughs “fuckin’ bronchitis” followed by another long drag on her menthol cigarette. I got up, left the ‘ladies’ there to talk of how much (read: little) their husbands were earning in this or that trade. I sat with the ‘men’ and tried to join into their conversation.
“He’s a little poofter” says the father of his wife’s child from a previous marriage.
“Really?” I ask, “how do you know?”
“He fuckin’ runs around in hi sown little world, dancing around hur hur hur hur hur” (that’s a laugh).[3]
“Ok. He’s, what, ten?”
“Fucked if I know hur hur hur hur” drinks his beer, head fully back, deftly changing the topic to how he fucked a barmaid from his local pub.[4]
| BIBLE: Wisdom book 4: Better it is to have no children, and to have virtue: for the memorial thereof is immortal: because it is known with God, and with men. |
11:30 The nurse again not saying anything, it’s like, fucking hell what the hell is going on I mean fuck
11:34 I went to the desk again and that same dark haired girl is sitting there on the computer so I’m tapping my fingernails in a repeating pattern and it’s like minutes until she looks over and just smile and I say ‘can I see my wife?’ and she asks again ‘which room’ and I tell her and she says ‘go over there and see the nurse and I say ‘I did that and she said to wait out here’ and she looks back at the screen, sees nothing and says ‘you can go and try again’ and I don’t know what I say but I walk the twenty paces over to the door and knock and knock.
11:43 The door opens and the nurse comes out and walks past me and I actually grab her. ‘Yes’ she says and I say ‘what’s going on can I see my wife what’s happening?’ and she says ‘you can go in’ and it’s like what the fuck was she just going to walk pat me?
11:44 ‘Hey what’s happening?!’ and she is white and there are tubes on her nose and out of her arms and I take her hand in mine and hold it but not too tightly and kiss her face so much I don’t want to stop. She has her eyes closed and says things like ‘I dolt know’ and I’m crying I don’t know why and kissing her wet forehead and then wiping her forehead with my shirt
11:58 Trying to get her to drink some water and it feels like I’m nursing a dying soldier and the doctor walks over with his clean hair and waits for us, looks at us and it’s scary
12:02 I don’t know, I don’t know, what the fuck fuck and the tears are not like any tears I’ve ever had and I’m helpless and dying and trying to breathe and the doctor is telling me he wants to give me something in my arm and my wife is trying to get up and I’m trying to hold her down and its all crazy and turning around and where are we and what the fuck is going on![5]