My favorite books from memory are: Rent, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Short Short Stories, No One Writes to the Colonel, Love In a Time of Cholera, Choke, Reasons To Live, At the Gates of the Animal Kingdom, Tumble Home, The Dog of the Marriage, The Importance of Being Ernest, Invisible Monsters, Songlines, The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo, Esther Stories, Adverbs, How We Are Hungry, The House of the Spirits, Eva Luna, The Stories of Eva Luna, Survivor, Peter Pan, Man and Superman, Pygmalion, Macbeth, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, The Iliad, The Fuck-Up, Twenty Love sonnets and a Song of Despair, Innocent Erendira, Memoirs of My Melancholy Whores, Death of a Salesman, Cherry Blossoms, Smokes and Mirrors, Fragile Things, The Happy Prince and Other Stories, Leaf Storm, Picture of Dorian Grey, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, Gulliver's Travels, Things Fall Apart, In Evil Hour.
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How much did that say?
Sunday, July 29, 2007
The House of the Spirits
On the paper, there’s more and more ink. More and more nurses are filling reports. These are for everyday things he needs. Oxygen tanks. Malto-dextrose. Pain killers. For real, every day they replace the tanks eight times. Whenever it’s time for him to eat, a tube through the respirator.
Not that he notices.
The crowds build gradually. It starts one person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin or two, even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk. The respirator is nine inches into the mouth he can’t close, and oxygen is being pumped into lungs he can’t use.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. That he’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
So we leave him to sleep, not that he could be awoken. The room is silent with incessant chanting. The rosary being read, recited, and rewound and he doesn’t hear a word.
He is asleep.
Neruda asked, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. They are ghosts that waft by, he feels only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
*************************************************************************************
Decided not to add any of the additional notes I took. I’m happy with the little that I have and how it turned out.
Incase you don’t know, “The House of the Spirits” is a novel written by Isabel Allende, under the genre of magical realism. Magical Realism, a genre that was made popular by the Nobel Prize winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, is a style that attempts to make the familiar extravagant and vice versa.
Not that he notices.
The crowds build gradually. It starts one person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin or two, even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk. The respirator is nine inches into the mouth he can’t close, and oxygen is being pumped into lungs he can’t use.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. That he’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
So we leave him to sleep, not that he could be awoken. The room is silent with incessant chanting. The rosary being read, recited, and rewound and he doesn’t hear a word.
He is asleep.
Neruda asked, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. They are ghosts that waft by, he feels only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
*************************************************************************************
Decided not to add any of the additional notes I took. I’m happy with the little that I have and how it turned out.
Incase you don’t know, “The House of the Spirits” is a novel written by Isabel Allende, under the genre of magical realism. Magical Realism, a genre that was made popular by the Nobel Prize winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, is a style that attempts to make the familiar extravagant and vice versa.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
WELCOME TO HERITAGE PARK
Just so you know, this looks breathtaking. It’s a Wednesday, and all the plots are full. The grass, glistening with moisture. The front park is crowded with people, six feet below, headstones up to three feet high.
Welcome, the sign says, to Heritage Park.
Part of what I have to do today is look at land. They offer single and double plots, also they have mausoleums and cremation walls. The service is impeccable. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cheery woman who led us to all the best locations.
On the golf car she pointed out, that’s Henry Cy’s, grinning, he bought two mausoleum plots.
You should see the designs, she tells us, they’re magnificent.
Turns out corporations have bought most of the plots already. On the map of available plots, the unavailable ones read coca cola corp. They own everything, and even this woman is only a real estate broker.
She points outeverything on this street is three million, the one after, two-point-eight.
We decided on a single mausoleum plot two blocks away from the main road. My father doesn’t want to leave it up to them to design. He asks, can we use marble?, when she tells us granite is a must.
She continues on telling us of the service package. Saying, you can contact me immediately postmortem. Smiling she tells us, this is my land line, and here is my cell phone. Once you buy from Heritage you receive the whole package.
Just for reference, the package includes post mortem handlings, with various chemicals to be used that aren’t formaldehyde. We’ll be given full access to the funeral hall complete with buffet and Eucharist sessions. The buffet will be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she says, and if you do not know a Priest, a Priest may be provided for you.
Welcome, the sign says, to Heritage Park.
Part of what I have to do today is look at land. They offer single and double plots, also they have mausoleums and cremation walls. The service is impeccable. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cheery woman who led us to all the best locations.
On the golf car she pointed out, that’s Henry Cy’s, grinning, he bought two mausoleum plots.
You should see the designs, she tells us, they’re magnificent.
Turns out corporations have bought most of the plots already. On the map of available plots, the unavailable ones read coca cola corp. They own everything, and even this woman is only a real estate broker.
She points outeverything on this street is three million, the one after, two-point-eight.
We decided on a single mausoleum plot two blocks away from the main road. My father doesn’t want to leave it up to them to design. He asks, can we use marble?, when she tells us granite is a must.
She continues on telling us of the service package. Saying, you can contact me immediately postmortem. Smiling she tells us, this is my land line, and here is my cell phone. Once you buy from Heritage you receive the whole package.
Just for reference, the package includes post mortem handlings, with various chemicals to be used that aren’t formaldehyde. We’ll be given full access to the funeral hall complete with buffet and Eucharist sessions. The buffet will be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she says, and if you do not know a Priest, a Priest may be provided for you.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
*Notes on an entry*
On the paper, there’s more and more ink. More and more nurses are filling reports. These are everyday things he needs. Oxygen tanks. Malto-dextrose. Pain killers. For real, every day they replace the tanks eight times. And when it’s time for him to eat, a tube through the respirator.
Not that he notices.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. He’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
The crowds build gradually. One person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a few cousins. Even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk.
Neruda posed the question, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. Like ghosts that waft by feeling only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
(notes for an entry "The House of the Spirits")
Not that he notices.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. He’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
The crowds build gradually. One person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a few cousins. Even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk.
Neruda posed the question, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. Like ghosts that waft by feeling only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
(notes for an entry "The House of the Spirits")
Monday, July 9, 2007
Finish
“Explain the difference between experiencial and agreement reality,” is one of the questions. I took a test to find out how much I’ve retained from my Communication Research class. The way to do well in this is to read prior to taking it. This is not obvious, the way it sounds.
It’s always an attempt, everything done or unfinished. An intention to do things the way it is supposed to be done, always how it is. Problem is just doing things as intended is not obvious. And of course there are the distractions, your friends, your computers, your whatever and filtering through them is far more difficult than initially thought.
It becomes obtrusive to the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to when you decide to finish something. It has to take over it just won’t get done. It may be a week of your life gone, or a month, even only a hour, but it is a hour spent finishing something when you would much rather be doing something else.
At the start of things intention is always there, but follow through rarely exists. One day I’ll finish this entry and be able to look back at it and say I accomplished something, however small or insignificant, I finished something.
It’s always an attempt, everything done or unfinished. An intention to do things the way it is supposed to be done, always how it is. Problem is just doing things as intended is not obvious. And of course there are the distractions, your friends, your computers, your whatever and filtering through them is far more difficult than initially thought.
It becomes obtrusive to the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to when you decide to finish something. It has to take over it just won’t get done. It may be a week of your life gone, or a month, even only a hour, but it is a hour spent finishing something when you would much rather be doing something else.
At the start of things intention is always there, but follow through rarely exists. One day I’ll finish this entry and be able to look back at it and say I accomplished something, however small or insignificant, I finished something.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Kings of the World
The wish is always as it should be, you get what you want. Things, they never go this way. Sometimes you’ll see others, they have everything you want and more, and they could be anyone. Men selling cigarettes in the street, laughing, sharing their lives with their coworkers, is who they could be. People building, renovating your condominium lobby, with not enough to eat and barely enough money to get home, telling lives, smiling at what they are, also. They could even be you. It should really get you going. It should really make you feel better with what you have, but it never does.
You should feel lucky, is what they say to you every time you complain or cry about your wants. There are people, they follow up shortly, that are jealous of where you are in life.
Tell me about it.
In the plaster and fake wood that is the Tuscanny lobby, there are men with towels on their heads, white face or wiping towels, lampins, wrapped around their forehead, covering their hair. These towels, they’re shades of grey and pearl white from saw dust, ash, and cement. They’re monuments to their lives, tributes to the work they have done. These towels, they’re crowns to their kingdom.
Kings of the world.
As a child, the nannies, the ones your parents hired to take care of you through the first four or five years of your life, they would put these lampins on your back themselves, robe you, appoint you. Those capes, those robes, they collected your sweat, your cries. They collected your excess while you would run around, and give the nannies orders to fetch your toys, or get you water. You would tell them to dress you, put on your socks for you, kneel down. And these people, they gave you your cape, your robe. They handed you your kingdom.
Those capes, when they’re used, they have no shade. They’re white as when you wore it, but wet with your sweat or soaked in your tears.
I have no lampins now, my towels are big and coloured. Bed sheet wide, heavy and will not hold in place.
Now I have neither a crown or a cape.
You should feel lucky, is what they say to you every time you complain or cry about your wants. There are people, they follow up shortly, that are jealous of where you are in life.
Tell me about it.
In the plaster and fake wood that is the Tuscanny lobby, there are men with towels on their heads, white face or wiping towels, lampins, wrapped around their forehead, covering their hair. These towels, they’re shades of grey and pearl white from saw dust, ash, and cement. They’re monuments to their lives, tributes to the work they have done. These towels, they’re crowns to their kingdom.
Kings of the world.
As a child, the nannies, the ones your parents hired to take care of you through the first four or five years of your life, they would put these lampins on your back themselves, robe you, appoint you. Those capes, those robes, they collected your sweat, your cries. They collected your excess while you would run around, and give the nannies orders to fetch your toys, or get you water. You would tell them to dress you, put on your socks for you, kneel down. And these people, they gave you your cape, your robe. They handed you your kingdom.
Those capes, when they’re used, they have no shade. They’re white as when you wore it, but wet with your sweat or soaked in your tears.
I have no lampins now, my towels are big and coloured. Bed sheet wide, heavy and will not hold in place.
Now I have neither a crown or a cape.
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