Friday 1227 21 July 2023
i’m underwater now.
at least, that’s how it feels crumpled on the couch trying to breathe; trying, unsuccessfully, in stifling the monologue in my head; trying, hopefully, to find some respite. later, i’ll spin up the studio and listen to last week’s mix; but for now, breathing is effort. and since i’m underwater; a risk.
mother is worse off, of course.
she really struggles to breathe. whereas i — a psyche tourist — am only in a state of being.
it’s getting difficult to keep track of all the details; especially the semi-colons i so desperately need for this post. no but seriously.
medical appointments (so many), bills (manageable for now), her identity (still stolen, but also, slowly fading in the twilight of her years).
it’s a lot.
we just fought about the concept of money. she has none. neither concept, nor money. but that didn’t stop her from applying for credit at her favorite online stores.
“what’s the point of life if i can’t buy something”
there it is: the mantra i grew up with. declared fiercely with conviction.
mostly, we argue about banalities. occasionally, about something real. quote-unquote real. and rarely, about something serious.
she likes to fight. or, the 16year old girl inside the 80 year old body likes to fight. and i’m worse for wear because of it.
the couch feels good. the insistent, terrifyingly din of the gameshow channel shrieks in the background like a synth pad playing its own countermelody against the bassline voice monologuing behind the scrim of my mind.
if i could get up, i could go upstairs and leave the timpani of winning and losing behind. spin up the studio. slip into my Beyerdynamics and listen to last week’s mix.
if.