Rene Magritte, Not To Be Reproduced
“Stay up as long as you want to,” Dad says, as if I need permission at this stage of the game, at this point in my life, at this time of night. The nurse practitioner came, she made suggestions, she was very nice and was totally charmed by my parents. “What are they, 4 feet tall?” I smile inwardly at her inadvertent audacity. She’s rather on the tall side, and of Slavic extraction, which she spoke of at length when my Dad showed interest in her surname. If only he could have heard her clearly that would’ve made a big difference–he’d have launched into an enthusiastic linguistic conversation. But still, he doesn’t quite know why she’s visiting and if it was indeed for him that she came.
On the horizon, New York looms. But like Pi, I’m stuck on the ocean bobble-heading back and forth and feeling as if perhaps there never was any ground under my feet. Nevertheless, the time zone will change for me magically and for close to two months I’ll experience a very different rhythm. A change in focus and dynamic. I will be on my own in my home.
Go to sleep, go to sleep, you’re changing into a pumpkin. Soft and unconscious and yearning to dream again. Trance music and zen vistas. The world’s a twisted mess, my blood sugar exceeded 400 almost all day, and the Middle East is far from peaceful. Hillary’s looking for a replacement, or the administration is looking for one to replace her. Who knows? Everyone’s burned out. All the switch and baits on the world stage render us burnt out, and everything has a patina of overkill. The change in time is that it races ever faster, with no regard for anyone, least of all me. Think I’ll go hang myself up in the orchard and scare crows. I’ll sit up as long as I want to. I no longer want to. At least not tonight.