A Stain Upon the Silence

I've been with you quite awhile now as you were sleeping.  This is my third attempt at today's post.  I wrote long and hard on each of the others, but they turned into jejune complaints about trouble in my life and time.  Then a defense.  When you begin to defend, you know you are losing.  And though a narrative by someone losing can be excellent, mine were not.  And so. . . I'll make this post short and sweet.  

What do I have?  Oh. . . I could describe the actions of my day, a recounting of the dull events and mundane chores that are wearing out the fabric of my soul.  

"You're soul?"

Yea. . . I'm not going there.  Not today, anyway.  

I could opine about the failing of the democratic way.  

"What the fuck is 'the democratic way?'  Do you even know what you are talking about?"

No.  I'd just be opining.  It's not really my specialty.  Let's eschew aesthetics, too.  That was the first attempt at today's post.  

So. . . I'm pretty much at a loss.  I felt that great shock of love when I met my mother's new occupational therapist yesterday, but she is not going to love me back, so. . . that bums me out.  

I had a text from a cafe last evening that filled me with longing, but that, too, is useless.  

My life is cooking and cleaning and caring.  There is no break in the routine, no time for a glass of wine and fun conversation.  I've been out after dark one time in seven weeks now.  All I have to look forward to right now is my mother's next therapy session.  

Oy!

"Do you want to watch one of your shows?"

Oh, fuck. . . here I go again.  I should delete this post, too, but I haven't time to write another.  I need to make breakfast and get my mother started on her therapy exercises that are to be done three times daily.  Though she has nothing else to do, my mother will have a difficult time getting all three done.  

Jesus. . . I just can't seem to stop.  Let me think of some positive note on which to end.  Uh. . . the weather sucks.  Trump is president.  Russia is our only friend.  Egg prices, bird flu, a new corona virus. . . . Nope.  Can't find anything, though I like to think of sitting in a cafe as sunset with a glass of wine and a new thrifted faux-animal print purse, "alone. . . pondering."  That old comfortable melancholy.  

"Being alone always has potential.  No restrictions.  No reservations."

"Evenings of longing and adventure," I said.  

But I have chores and duties and responsibilities, so adventure and romance are put on a shelf until. . . . 

I'll just have to end with another line from Beckett who so hideously nailed the thing itself.

"I can't take it anymore."

"That's what you think."  

I just looked Googled him.  I guess he knew of which he spoke.

Cause of death:

Beckett had been suffering from respiratory problems for some time.

His health had been deteriorating, and he had psychosomatic illnesses like coughs, boils, and hallucinations.

His emphysema was made worse by years of smoking cigarettes in Paris cafes and bars.

Other details:

Beckett was moved to a nursing home after falling in his apartment.

He spent his last year in a small, poorly furnished room.

A nurse found him unconscious in the nursing home on December 6, 1989.

He was taken to the hospital, where he slipped into a coma and died on December 22.

(link)

 

"I can't go on.  I'll go on."

I really wish I had just written about how much I like the portrait.  I think it is lovely.  I've wasted it on this post.

Oh, Christ. . . I forgot.  I had a whole narrative built around an "Arrested Development" scene in mind yesterday.  I don't have time to go back and write it now.  But damn. . . that was the weirdest, funniest show ever to hit television.  Huh.  

So. . . let's end on a fun note.