In the Absence of Mother Teresa
Nov. 12th, 2007 05:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI’ve never had a premonitory dream in my life, and I don’t think last night was the start of my exciting new career as a psychic. Still, it was unsettling to dream I was watching Mark die.
Sweeney, Mark’s caretaker, was smoking. The lit tip of Sweeney’s cigarette fell on Mark’s bed. When Sweeney realized Mark’s bed was on fire, he was too embarrassed to call 911 and instead began running around the apartment looking for half-empty cups of coffee to dump on the flames.
I woke up terribly, terribly sad. Thinking: I should call Eleanor. Knowing: I won’t call Eleanor. At least, not about that.
“Oh, you know, I rattle on,” said Eleanor last time the painful subject was raised between us. “He doesn’t say anything. I asked him once, ‘Why don’t you talk?’ And he said, ‘My mind doesn’t work anymore.’”
“But you still call,” I said.
“Less and less,” said Eleanor.
One time Eleanor and Bill came down to Monterey to visit me. The three of us were sitting in a vegan café. They were eating, I was watching them eat. The subject arose. And I guess Eleanor and I got into it a little too much because finally Bill snapped, “So which of you is going to fly up there to empty his urine bag?”
Eleanor and I exchanged looks. I sighed.
“O-kay,” said Bill. “Now that we’ve established Mother Teresa isn’t at the table, can we please change the subject?”
In other news, it rained on Saturday. I suppose it’s craven of me to put my own needs before those of the planet’s but hey! I’m the center of the universe after all and Saturday started out so strong, goddamit. So – mediocre Friday, mediocre Saturday, strong Sunday = Just Under the Nut weekend.
Sweeney, Mark’s caretaker, was smoking. The lit tip of Sweeney’s cigarette fell on Mark’s bed. When Sweeney realized Mark’s bed was on fire, he was too embarrassed to call 911 and instead began running around the apartment looking for half-empty cups of coffee to dump on the flames.
I woke up terribly, terribly sad. Thinking: I should call Eleanor. Knowing: I won’t call Eleanor. At least, not about that.
“Oh, you know, I rattle on,” said Eleanor last time the painful subject was raised between us. “He doesn’t say anything. I asked him once, ‘Why don’t you talk?’ And he said, ‘My mind doesn’t work anymore.’”
“But you still call,” I said.
“Less and less,” said Eleanor.
One time Eleanor and Bill came down to Monterey to visit me. The three of us were sitting in a vegan café. They were eating, I was watching them eat. The subject arose. And I guess Eleanor and I got into it a little too much because finally Bill snapped, “So which of you is going to fly up there to empty his urine bag?”
Eleanor and I exchanged looks. I sighed.
“O-kay,” said Bill. “Now that we’ve established Mother Teresa isn’t at the table, can we please change the subject?”
In other news, it rained on Saturday. I suppose it’s craven of me to put my own needs before those of the planet’s but hey! I’m the center of the universe after all and Saturday started out so strong, goddamit. So – mediocre Friday, mediocre Saturday, strong Sunday = Just Under the Nut weekend.
