right now
listening to antony and the johnson’s “epilepsy is dancing” (which i rigged to be my ringtone: call me on my beautiful iphone, do it) on repeat.
(epilepsy is dancing / she’s the christ now departing / and i’m finding my rhythm / as i twist in the snow.)
the black dog is in the hallway with his huge dog bed, which is naked, its fluffy part unzipped because this morning i sewed it for the third time — after he had gnawed a hole and an unlikely mint-green stuffing poured out. he has just come in to find another fluffy blanket and dragged it out to sit on.
the brown dog is with me in the bed, sleeping under the covers, her head sticking out, her eyes twitching.
i am sitting on the bed unable to turn my head to the right or left or look down. though i can look up. the pain is enough that i want to disappear, so i sleep. the reproductive doctors will not give me any more medication because they are worried, i presume, that i am a drug-addled hysteric.
the white cat is perched on steve’s dresser, staring at me but mostly staring at the brown dog to make sure that i don’t love it more than i love him.
the christmas quilt is still on our bed because it is just so warm, but it is sad in march to see it all the same. the curtains are drawn but to undraw them would mean pain. it is sad and dark in here.
steve spent the last two weeks tiling our laundry room in real slate, and it is truly gorgeous. we have not been able to wash our clothes for these two weeks. steve bought more underwear instead of washing them by hand or going to a laundromat. this morning he reassembled the washer and dryer, and now the house is filled with the whishing rumbling whirring sounds of progress.
