4.27.2009
4.24.2009
Greetings, From the Hospital
Jack Sullivan's sister has the cure for cancer.
It's a magical, secret recipe that she developed that saved her from breast cancer and will save Jack from his anal cancer.
She just needs five weeks with Jack once Jack is dismissed from the hospital.
Meanwhile Jack lies in the bed next to mine and keeps me up at night ringing the nurse for the bed pan and, when he's in high spirits, for more graham crackers.
There's an old woman down the hall who doesn't even ring the nurse by using the bell, she just shouts in a nasally voice, "Hello?"
followed by "I know you can hear me"
and then, "I need help"
(and she usually holds the last note to let it sing out)
And, when a nurse finally arrives, she quickly states, "You're not my nurse."
I laugh and it hurts my broken nurse.
It's hard to explain why I find this poor, senile old woman amusing but maybe it's a matter of circumstance I suppose.
Sanchez--who gives me morphine on Sunday evenings--tells me that he and the other nurses call her Grammy grams. As he depresses the plunger, he explains that she showed up a few days and no family have claimed her as of yet.
The other nurses give her tasks to do if she's being too loud, such as counting as high up as she can. Grammy grams counts in a way that a young adolescent would when first learning of the 70s, 80s, and 90s on the number chart--repeatedly listing off the numbers in quick succession, but then slowing down once they get to the higher-ups--the uncomfortable numbers that they may not have committed to memory--ultimately lowering their voice or skipping some.
To prevent blood clots, I get to go for walks.
I don a second gown to cover my backside and in my reflection against the dark windows of the fourth floor I look as if I'm wearing a cape. I quickly study the inhabitants of each room I pass, their portrait framed in the doorway. And as I pass a room down the hall from my own, I catch a glimpse of a plump, egg-shaped old woman seated on her bed. Noticing me walk by, she jerks her head up, staring at me with thick glasses that enlarge her eyes and says aloud, "...74...75..."
And I laugh and it hurts my broken nose.
It's a magical, secret recipe that she developed that saved her from breast cancer and will save Jack from his anal cancer.
She just needs five weeks with Jack once Jack is dismissed from the hospital.
Meanwhile Jack lies in the bed next to mine and keeps me up at night ringing the nurse for the bed pan and, when he's in high spirits, for more graham crackers.
There's an old woman down the hall who doesn't even ring the nurse by using the bell, she just shouts in a nasally voice, "Hello?"
followed by "I know you can hear me"
and then, "I need help"
(and she usually holds the last note to let it sing out)
And, when a nurse finally arrives, she quickly states, "You're not my nurse."
I laugh and it hurts my broken nurse.
It's hard to explain why I find this poor, senile old woman amusing but maybe it's a matter of circumstance I suppose.
Sanchez--who gives me morphine on Sunday evenings--tells me that he and the other nurses call her Grammy grams. As he depresses the plunger, he explains that she showed up a few days and no family have claimed her as of yet.
The other nurses give her tasks to do if she's being too loud, such as counting as high up as she can. Grammy grams counts in a way that a young adolescent would when first learning of the 70s, 80s, and 90s on the number chart--repeatedly listing off the numbers in quick succession, but then slowing down once they get to the higher-ups--the uncomfortable numbers that they may not have committed to memory--ultimately lowering their voice or skipping some.
To prevent blood clots, I get to go for walks.
I don a second gown to cover my backside and in my reflection against the dark windows of the fourth floor I look as if I'm wearing a cape. I quickly study the inhabitants of each room I pass, their portrait framed in the doorway. And as I pass a room down the hall from my own, I catch a glimpse of a plump, egg-shaped old woman seated on her bed. Noticing me walk by, she jerks her head up, staring at me with thick glasses that enlarge her eyes and says aloud, "...74...75..."
And I laugh and it hurts my broken nose.
4.14.2009
Also
...I did this drawing of my neighbor's station wagon interior. It's a beautiful piece of equipment.
And speaking of Damien Jurado, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Damien Jurado preform at the Blind Pig in Ann Arbor on Sunday evening.
He sat on stage in a swivel chair with his acoustic guitar and he kept his eyes closed and his eyebrows furrowed when he sang.
He writes some of the most pathetic and depressing characters, but he sings so confidently that you're moved by their stories.
Powerful stuff.
BEAUTY SHOTS
my roommate of three years, matt chung, took this photo of me in my studio space for his thesis.
he also did an interview with me about me and what i think about art and i kept on screwing it up because i was answering the questions thinking NPR while he was thinking Police Interrogation.
it's late and i should get some rest.
4.08.2009
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