Her absence is like the day, spread over everything.-- CS Lewis
It is
very difficult not to write about the end of my life, circling it as I have been
since September 2017, fleeing this building in a battered power chair on its last
legs, when Donald Trump simply completed his own remarkable subversion of conservation
to become the nominee under the party of Abraham Lincoln, then winning, now
embattled for reelection, that day I stalled dead in the PECO parking lot, an
officer strolling his patrol car next to me as I limped the Magee ordered Jazzy
back to Riverside. I have almost willed myself to die since, giving into what
the minority administrative class of Presbyterian Homes wants, to move
portfolio dividends from nursing home investments into capital gains on the
basis of biological entropy. Is this a healthy form of capitalism? I couldn’t
say. I still have a self-styled hillbilly, circa 2020, prattling her plague
induced anxiety in my head, having committed the cardinal sin against followers,
departing from her feed with public distain, reminding myself that using
irritants as a trigger to work is an invidious spark, at best. I am folding laundry and looking at
Twitter. This is my life now. These are the type of tweets she posts daily,
fifteen or twenty a day, certainly prone to identification. I used to do my own
laundry on Riverside’s first floor above the ground floor vestibule, not my
favorite activity. It is now left to the bandy ass caregiver who reminds me I
have nothing good to say about anybody, nothing good to say about people anymore,
unless I choose to elevate a certain trait. There is another woman, similar to Wilder,
who is also a follower, to whom I am benevolent. Her observations are more grounded,
less addled. So why did I chastise the 35 year old chasing in vitro
fertilization with her husband, as opposed to maintaining the implied contract with
the other? Because I think Wilder Larkin needs to find some other outlet for
mental health, so I hurt her feelings, and god as my witness, I never want to
hear from her again. Certainly other people never want to hear from me, like
Virus Empathy out there in Denmark. She was Mike’s friend. Who’s Mike? A credo
libertarian who led me by the nose, local to me. I don’t know if his name is
really Mike, and I wondered if he and I might become real life friends. The
answer to that is no, but I wasn’t looking primarily for a lover in him, my
physiology being too exhausted for sexual intimacy, my rectum like sandpaper. Mike
is a broken litmus test, a lumbering puppy who spends too much time in the
operating theater. He still sounds lonely, and we live close enough together in
this city that an accidental meeting is entirely possible, if I do not join the
cluster. This includes Monica Carr, who joined the ranks of SARS
casualties in Pennsylvania by virtue of her underlying obesity, lupus, a prior
cardiac arrest which cost her a front tooth—Covid 19 was merely icing the
pastry chef laboriously applied to her broken leg. She and her two aunts died
nearly simultaneously, then came Erik von Schmetterling. This post was supposed
to be about Erik, about the invidious influence of this rabid woman’s presence
on my career, my life, but the sultry advance of the tropical storm air is too
much for me. I wanted this transsexual dead, and the failed torrential
physician who only completed an internship obliged, ten years my senior, with
only marginal help from my voice applied lash, slightly larger than the Higgs
boson. She died some time in the last days of Wolf’s lockdown, so I owe the
governor something despite my hatred of the Keystone State’s political osmosis,
although what helped Erik along was a smoking addiction impossible to shake. I
hated Monica in a superficial barred fangs posture. I do not know about death.
Abusive attendants come a dime a dozen. She traumatized many of our lives,
however, was a key figure in the dissolution of Homemaker Services, which is
nothing. Waiver services consort and dissolve like baby black holes outside of
our galactic spiral. These are the reverberations of an antagonistic space, one
that no longer endears me to the collective Twitter cacophony.
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