Memory Becomes Shot
Sunday. Again, no alarm, so I slept in a half an hour later than usual, getting to bed just after nine, to sleep I assume by ten. It's hard to say when you drop off to sleep, but all in all, the day has started well. It's nine, the overcast is breaking and I have no idea whatsoever what to do with myself other than to take a bath and maybe a nap before deciding on a walk. Or a drive. (Where did that come from?) A drive? I don't usually think “drive”. Too ambitious, perhaps. Too outside my seemingly set in cement routines.
I mentioned last month I'd made an appointment with a neurologist (finally) after one of the “hallucinogenic” episodes and, of course, having made the appointment, I haven't experienced any symptoms since. I have notes, handwritten, I made in a paper journal attempting to accurately describe two or three of the incidents and I'm going to write them up in the form of bullet points later, print them out and bring them tomorrow.
I want to communicate as best I can the ongoing symptoms of the aching upper palate, sinus thing - the subject of many visits to two now retired neurologists some years now in the past - and these much different more recent “episodes”. He may have a light bulb go off, more likely he'll nod his head and say call and make another appointment if it happens again, but I need to explain these symptoms as well as I can to ensure a chance for an accurate diagnosis. This guy is supposed to be good, but it always helps to help him along. So, to the notes. (Hup! Hup!)
Later. Well, I did lie down for an hour. Didn't sleep, but drifted onto that foggy plain where logic still prevails, but at a tenth the pace. Then a bath. I needed a bath. Nothing going on to offend, you understand, but there are certain standards that must be upheld. And baths are pretty nice, although now that much of my padding is gone, the tub seems harder and less forgiving now when you bang a leg against a side or sit too quickly. And the legs look, well, in need of insulation.
The veins stand out like blue cords on the lower arms and lower legs. Where did they come from? Probably best to have done this proper weight thing when I was young, saved the tonnage for the later years. Looks more wholesome as a kid and gives you a better chance of checking out quickly from one of the various weight related things they warn you about, no need to linger on because the body is stronger and puts up a better fight.
What's that about? I doubt any of that is true, by the way.
Well, I suspect we're living at the whim of the gods in this particular sense: checking in, checking out. Any control we're able to muster comes through their largess until the DNA crew over in the university figure it out. These days, where facts and hard learned experience have almost entirely left the national discourse (except for thee and me, of course), I suspect it's best to carry on, get with the program, keep up with the pack, learn a turn of phrase before you worry about learning the alphabet. Fiction over fact, votes over substance. Do I ramble? Does any of this connect with the question we started with? Best now to get out? And about?
Later still. A walk down by the lake to sit out on a bench in the sun, taking one or two pictures because that's what I tell myself I'm doing there with a camera. Actually, thinking the one or two I'd taken were taken just so I could say I'd tripped the shutter, they turned out better than I had reason to suspect. I mentioned walking back from the downtown a couple of days ago, happy with the photographs after running them through Photoshop and then, no more than a day later, thinking what in the hell was I talking about? Most if not all of them were crap. One must not be too judgemental until one has had time to think, says the little voice. Look twice. Think thrice. Before you speak.
After my brief outing I set out again to the morning restaurant, where I had a grilled cheese sandwich and another bowl of mixed fruit. My waitress brought the mixed fruit, as she does in the morning. I think she worries about my diet, coming in as I do every day for breakfast, giving me two apples to take home this morning as I left. That or they don't have all that many customers with my attitude toward tips. I certainly don't do it everywhere, but for places I frequent I like to have the people who work there happy to see me when I show up. No more than that, but just, you know, no real signs of upset. That and those years I spent bussing tables in Bronxville after school and on weekends. Some things you remember, some things you forget.
OK, I think the rest of this day is a day of rest. I am tired, took the bus back from the restaurant after lunch not wanting to face a walk. The head has been in a bit of a bubble. Oh, and that bullet point list of symptoms for the doctor tomorrow. Maybe there are reasons, good reasons, for keeping a journal, particularly once the memory becomes shot.