Hoping for Special

I couldn’t sleep.  My intention was to go to the computer and write.  Instead, I discovered that there were nine Mozart symphonies being distributed in honor of his birthday by a Danish radio station.  They had to be downloaded, categorized and tagged, of course.  They also have to be trimmed to cut out spoken commentary and audience applause at the end.  

There was also my curiosity about a movie I watched.  I had to add my comments to the IMDB.

That was over two hours ago.  

I spend hours in front of this damn computer, totally engrossed in one thing or another, and yet to what end?  

I’m avoiding.  

When my sister Sharon doesn’t want to deal with her situation, she throws it out to me.  Yesterday, she pondered why she was getting weaker.  Of course, she is afraid the MS has progressed again, but she is afraid to say so out loud.  I already noticed the weakness and have been heartsick.  I told her it was because she was getting fatter but neither of us really believe that.  

The recognition churns up the memories of her homecoming during the last seige before she had to be --  I was going to write “institutionalized” but couldn’t.  But there it is!  My sister lives in an institution; I’ve lost my best friend; and my life is in the homestretch with little to show.

I intended to do so much more.  I was going to succeed.  I was going to have a good life, filled with friends and fun and laughter.  Hah! I’ve had a mediocre life filled with sorrow.  I can’t believe how ordinary I am.  

That’s the worst part.  Hoping for special and getting anything but.  

Now I feel sleepy again of course.

Wasting Time and Energy

What was I saying about 500 words a day? [Clears throat.]  I guess life got away.  I mean there was a blizzard.  According to some, the worst blizzard since they kept records of those things.  And then there was my cold; the second one in three months, which is kind of weird because I don’t get a lot of colds.  There was Bonnie’s fall; and the fight we had about Sharon yesterday.

So all in all, I have some excuses.  But not really.

I saw a putrid movie about the difficulty of writing the other evening, The Shadow Dancers.  In it Harvey Keitel (whose talent seems to get worse rather than better with age) plays a J.D. Salingeresque writer hiding out in an absolutely stunning Tuscan village cum Cicely, Alaska or Stars Hollow, Connecticut.  This Italian village is simply lousy with colorful characters who are devoted to Harvey.

Shitty movie, yes, but the plot hinges on his inability to sit down and write something more after the phenomenal success of his first novel.  They showed him weeping at the sight of his portable typewriter.  Me? I just screamed, “Just start typing, you fucking moron!”

That’s my theory.  That’s why I’m here.  I’m just typing and hoping something will emerge.

[At this point in the narrative, I decided I needed a shower.]

Ah yes, clean.  Now I’m clean and hoping for something to trickle down these fingers and onto this page.

Hmmmmm….I think I’ll call my sisters.

[I did. Another 45 minutes with nothing written.]

Where was I? Oh yes, the movie.  There’s a better movie that I saw this week.  Oh hell, I’m hungry.  I’ll meet you in the kitchen.

Mourning, Moaning, and Morning

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time bemoaning the deaths of people I don’t know.

Two days ago, an inanimate object on which I’ve become dependent died and I got even more upset.  No, it’s not one of my computers.  It is my gleaming white Ipod which has died.  I was making some useless point about the 21st century’s new media delivery paradigm, grabbed my Ipod out of my purse to punctuate, and it flew out of my hands onto the floor.  Unbeknownst to me until much later in the day, I squashed the hard-drive.  

I spent a sleepless night after discovering that fixing the hard drive costs almost as much as a new Ipod.  So I bought a new Ipod; but I’m mourning the death of this one.  I have combed the Internet looking for answers.  I may try to revive it.

What does that say about me?

Today I accompanied my sister to the dentist and witnessed her being tortured by a 30 year old sadist who refused to tell us her name lest anyone report her, she said.  I thought she was being facetious.  She wasn’t.  She was telling the truth.  

I was both appalled and afraid.  She yanked out two of my sister’s teeth with barely enough novacain.  I watched helpless as my poor sister screamed in agony.  I didn’t want her to hurt my sister any more than she was already doing; but I was incredulous.  There shouldn’t have been any pain at all.

“Why is she in so much pain?”

Silence

“Perhaps she needs more anethestic.”

Silence.

The teeth were out.  I asked again.  This time this sadist said it was the infection.  The pain medication doesn’t reach infection.  Bullshit.

I let it go.  

My sister was in shock, literally.

I tried to comfort her but also tried to keep her awake.  Talk about gruesome.  It was beyond gruesome.

The three of us went back to Sharon’s room.  I told Bonnie.  We discussed what to do.  Bonnie told the medical director.  I’ll have that woman arrested before she touches my sister again.

I’m postponing calling my dentist for a much-needed cleaning.