The Lost Pedestrian

I ‘braved’ going out in the midst of a pandemic surge to see an allergist to see why I am having all of these sneezing seizures of late. Like sneezing 6 or 7 times in a row. Not that I am complaining. There is something pleasurable about the buildup to and release of a sneeze (the non-infectious kind). It’s not quite erotic. It’s not quite unerotic.

What a perverse thing to say.

Anyway, once I arrived at the allergist’s office, I realized I had forgotten my hearing aids. I hardly ever wear them. I mean, in quarantine, there really isn’t anything to hear, except for music and TV and podcasts, all hearable with headphones. Otherwise, I can go days and weeks without hearing or speaking a live human voice.

Which makes hearing aids kind of extraneous.

But even if I was wearing them, I don’t think I would have been able to decipher the words spoken by people wearing masks and plastic shields over masks.

So this allergist was very patient with me and all of my questions. She gave me all sorts of great information, none of which I could hear. But I acted as if I could. And maybe I did, on a subconscious level.

And it’s so strange but I have not sneezed, even once, since I left that appointment. Maybe the allergist was invoking some sort of magic, behind the mask and the shield.

OMG. I can’t believe I haven’t written anything in over a month. And so much has happened in the world, so much as happened in me, I would not know where to begin.

How strange it is to be back in my home city, reunited with my community of friends who I have had absolutely no contact with, because of covid. I traded in my New England quarantine for a Chicago quarantine and it feels almost exactly the same. But with better take out options. It’s true.

Strangers are a bit friendlier too.

Even behind masks.

But not being able to smile at anyone… this is no way for people to live. Which I should not be complaining about because the main thing to do right now is to try to keep living. Try as hard as one can.

Writing makes me very tired.

Any effort makes me tired.

But I should not complain.

At least I still inhabit a body that is still capable of getting tired.

In last night’s dream, I had just been elected as Senator of Massachusetts. I have no idea how that happened. I wasn’t even on the ballot.

At first I thought there was no way I wanted the job. But then I thought it might look good on my resumé.

And then I thought it might not be a good career move because it would narrow my options once my term was completed. I would only be qualified for Senator jobs in the future which felt way too limiting. So I should probably not accept the election results.

And then I thought about all of the people who were expecting me to serve in the Senate and how embarrassing it might be for me to back out of it, and maybe it would be easier for everybody if just I accepted the results.

But then I thought maybe this would not be such a good idea because if I had to deal with issues related to the economy, I would not be very good at it because I’ve always been terrible at math.

In last night’s dream, I killed someone and hid the body in somebody’s bedroom, in between the bed and the nightstand. I can’t recall the act of murder, how I did it, or the identity of the (male) victim. Or why.

I can recall the guilt and fear of the consequences for my crime. I think I spent a large part of the dream (a very long dream) trying to figure out where I would move the body, and how I would move it by myself (which I didn’t think would be possible).

I should be more diligent in writing down dreams while they are still fresh. Because I missed a lot of details. But the feeling of fear and guilt has lingered with me all day.

There may have been a woman friend, returning from some far destination. And I may have been really concerned that she would think less of me when she learned I was a murderer.

Or possibly she may have forgiven me because it was an isolated occurrence that hopefully would not happen again. Perhaps I had learned a lesson of some sort.

It seems like the location was significant. It may have been a house with many many bedrooms. And the room where I hid my body may have belonged to my friend.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something and it might be significant. Or it might not. But it feels like something’s coming.

It might be my vision from my left eye, slowly returning.

Or an impending move.

Or the new job.

Or a new mystery person.

Or an old mystery person.

Or a person without mystery.

Or it could be a journey.

Or a bag of potato chips.

Or a jar of herring.

Or my performance in 3 weeks

Or a pond of koi fish in the middle of a courtyard.

Who knows what it could be?

Today was a retina surgery kind of day. An interocular lens replacement kind of day. It was quite an ordeal. The anesthesiologist somehow managed not to anesthetize me and I was awake for the entire procedure which was supposed to take 1 and was at least twice as long.

They had me flat on my back, staring at some sort of curtain over me. And all I could see were these gelatinous shapes that kept changing color and form. And it was a struggle to breathe through my face mask and the curtain. And then my back started spasming. I was much more alert and awake then I normally am in my non-anesthesiatic life.

The doctors and nurses were chattering constantly. Sometimes one doctor giving the others instructions. And sometimes they were playing some sort of name-that-country geographic word game. What is the country south of Senegal? What is the country just east of Ecuador? Etc.

I also learned that my retinalogist was a serious hiker and mountain climber. He talked about trying to climb Mt. Rainier and failing at it. He seemed humbled.

I may have accidentally outlived my body’s usefulness. And now I’m not quite what to do next, other than to pretend that it never happened.

If I had a way to count the number of barbecues I have missed this summer, I am not sure if I would use it.

They would be innumerable. Insurmountable.

And I am not sure why I would even attempt it.

We’re it not for the pandemic.

I just want to nap all of the time. Except for when I need to sleep. When I have nothing left but weariness, my body or maybe my spirit seem to rebel against it.

So I try to count the barbecues I may have missed. It’s a fruitless endeavor. Which is fine because I probably eat too much fruit.

But I’m sure that’s not why I put on 20 pounds the other day.

Though it could have been a factor.

It’s strange. To suddenly love summer, the season I hate the most. But now I love it and I am sad that it is about to go out. When it leaves, where will that leave me?

It’s too much for one person to contemplate.

I’m exhausted. Exhausted by all of the nothing that is happening. So much nothing. It’s endless. This nothingness.

I am at a loss for words to describe all of this negative space I occupy. The only thing that feels different are the clouds hovering above this space I occupy. Right now they are gray and blue and white and orange and quite thick and rich and deep. Thank you, clouds.

Somebody just told me in an email how lucky I am to spend the summer in Rhode Island. Why have I never experienced this as anything but exile… as a place that is not L.A. or NYC or Minneapolis or Chicago or Seattle or San Francisco?

And now I’m about to leave.

I feel foolish that I haven’t experienced it.

I can blame it on my work schedule and how lazy I was when I was not at my job or commuting for 3 hours 5 days/week. And being a vegetable on weekend.

And then when it came time to not blame my job, it was only because I lost it at the onset of the pandemic. Which is when I grew afraid to leave my apartment, even to walk down the hallway to take out the trash.

And then I could blame it on rehab from hip replacement surgery and a fractured foot which is all legitimate.

But it feels like a personal failure that I not risen above any of that.

In the meantime, time has not paid any attention to my nothingness.

I’ve been coasting all day. Avoiding anything remotely uncomfortable or decisive. But I guess avoidance leads to numbness which leads discomfort about numbness and uncertainty about how it will end, except in a sentence such as this one.

I have a real talent for avoiding the sun, as you probably know by now. And avoiding thinking about where i will live in 3 weeks. Whether I am coming or going to who knows where? Somebody knows. But not me. .

Maybe I will live under a different sun that I won’t work so hard to avoid all of the time. Maybe that sun would prefer to avoid me. I think I am ok with that, I tell myself.

So now I’m watching the sunset. Actually watching the parking garage that blocks the sunset. But I can sense the dimming glow.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I have a craving for a dirty vodka martini. But I haven’t done much to earn it.

I don’t understand why dusk goes by so quickly these days. I am dusk-deprived.

What else don’t I understand? Why am I always 32 years late for everything?

It doesn’t seem fair.

It’s not fair that i am the oldest one in this room. Always. No matter what room I am in.

I don’t quite get why I sigh so frequently. Even when a sigh is inappropriate, it doesn’t stop me.

I don’t understand how I can think and type all of these words. And none of them mean anything. There’s no substance. They’re insubstantial. I don’t quite know when they became that way.

I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do next. 32 years late and possibly not another 32 years remaining. What do you do in a situation like that?

I guess you can watch basketball or read different sentences in different books and not remember any of them.

I guess you can order take-out with the hope that it is Covid-free.

I guess you can pretend that the world is Covid-free.

But what’s the use of pretending it’s not there when all you can think about is that it isn’t there?

I guess I’d rather not know the answer to that question.

I am trying my best to distract myself from the fear that the world is closing in on me.

But then when I turn away from that fear to look at the world outside of me, another fear emerges that the world is closing in on itself.

Most of this is at least partially caused by Trump.

I’m exhausted thinking about him. Exhausted from the dread he instills.

Usually by 3:00 in the afternoon, I am completely exhausted. And I attempt a nap, but then notice that my heart beats faster and my thoughts wander back to Trump.

And then I focus on my breast and try to stay focused to count to 100 inhalations and exhalations. But I usually lose count after 3. So I start over again and I might make it to 7. But that’s about it.

And then there’s my age which is closer to 100 than to 7. And my fear that he will outlive me. That he will be the last president of my lifetime.

And then I start to think about his destruction of the environment. And then the perverse thought…. why does the doom of the Earth bother me so much when I won’t be around because Trump will have already killed me?

Which leads to pity for the next generation, a pity which is completely unhelpful for anybody.

In my dream early this morning, I had an appointment with my hepatologist to discuss the results of my MRI. She said that they found something wrong with my pituitary gland and that things would begin to deteriorate in the not far off future. And then there would be a second wave of further deterioration. And then I woke up just in time for my actual zoom appointment with this very same hepatologist Only in the non-dream, she told me that my liver had not deteriorated since last year’s MRI and that some of my liver function tests had actually improvised.

I would have to say I am a fortunate one.

I would have to say I think I am still alive. Unless I am only dreaming that I am still alive. But do you still dream when you’re dead? And how would a dead person know if they are dreaming? Is there any difference between a death state and a dream state? This definitely demands more research.

A friend who has always struggled to find work came up with a brilliant idea to support herself, or semi-support herself. She is going to be a professional listener. I was not aware there was such a thing, but apparently there’s an entire industry of listeners. She asked if I could be reference for her and I said, of course, because I cannot imagine a better listener than she.

That seems like a much safer option than being a professional cuddler. Although I could surely use one as soon as I finish this sentence.