Tuesday, May 31, 2005


What can be done to help me? I don't know how to answer but I am grateful for the question. I like to lie here and think that something can be done, I just don't want to do anything. There's been no word from my "friends" for quite a while. Presumably there are good reasons, but it leads me to think how quickly one is discarded, etc. The truth is I don't want to be rescued. If I don't heal completely I don't want to keep going, and let G. think I abandoned him. I won't be trapped inside a useless body in this damned house. The house, if you're interested, is a one-room shack with a pitched roof and exposed beams strung with spiderwebs, and narrow windows with bumpy glass looking out on the ocean. My narrow, musty smelling bed is sectioned off by a sheet. V. is here, chopping something up for lunch. There is a small town not too nearby, and she has arranged with a friend of L. the delivery of necessities. I don't worry about these things anymore. I don't care. I feel sorry for V., shamed by all she must do for me, and yet I'm growing sick of her kindly patience, which fairly reeks of her religious fervor. She must see that I don't deserve it, or maybe she thinks all her sacrifices will lead to some great reward.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

one can still be deadly

I am out of danger? The thought shakes me with silent laughter. I don't even remember how I got here. I only remember refusing any doctor. Even in my state I would have killed any doctor who approached me with a bag large enough to conceal a handsaw. I suppose out here we would resort to common tools. I dreamed of my father, spinning circles around me in his wheelchair and laughing (he never laughed in life): "Daughter! You still have one good leg!" I awoke frightened, but somehow bandaged and whole. V. says the infection is better.