Today I'm quite sick. My head feels like it's made of wood. My temperature is leaping about on the roof of a neighbour's car. I am suffering - to a degree - triple sensory impairment which is affecting my sight, hearing, and smell. I'm surrounded by a faint injured air. Have I a cold, a heavy cold, or a very heavy cold? I'll weight it later when I'm feeling better. The headlines in the morning newspaper confirm a "heavy cold" is sweeping the country. Surely that's a job for Council personnel, not a heavy cold? I considered embracing a tin of meat for comfort when Doctor Wobbleski strutted into my bedroom. Given that I was downstairs in my living room I found his behaviour outrageous!He had brought his three-pointed, black and white beard which looked ridiculous hanging out of his trouser pocket. He spoke simple, terrible words! "You scum!" I stayed silent. Although I had the gift of the gab I was damned if I was going to give it back. I resumed listening to myself growing old. I glanced at Doctor Wobbleski. He looked like a man who worked hard all day but had nothing to show for it. His jacket was shapeless, baggy; totally in league with his face.
'Well, doctor,' I said, in a polite murmur, 'what do you think?' He seemed indecisive, scratched himself, ignored me, and attended to the "faint injured air"! Suddenly, I remembered why I dislike people who smell of carbolic acid.
I began to howl - as most hypochondriacs do for attention - but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the injured air.
'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside ... No, indeed ... But you look in terrible shape ... It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough'. The injured air looked paler than ever, and had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet, and whistling.
Just as I felt all was lost, Doctor Wobbleski approached. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state ... You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one ... Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit, ' he replied, looking at nothing, and thinking of nothing. 'First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears ... Get out of bed ... shave ... go out into the street and kiss the first women you meet who is blessed with full, pale thighs ... Also, get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember ... It may be foggy, but it's not raining ...whatever the hell that means!'
After Doctor Wobbleski left, I thought while sometimes I feel I live by myself - like a god or an animal - I can't afford to waste a minute of time looking back on my life. I felt an intense inner glow deep inside melting the icepack that had built up over the last thirty years. I recalled that no one really sleeps alone. Not while memory exists. I put on an extra layer of clothing and got into a warm scented bath. I lit my cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend who rinsed my back with her soft hands ...
Reflections: Sometimes words serve no purpose, especially when you know the score, the person, their pleasure in complaining about all things on this earth. In such circumstances music is hard to resist. It enters your soul and heart, and you don't require to debate, argue, proffer advise you never take yourself. Sometimes silence speaks for itself and brings peace.
Of course, some people and things - once important - lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely?
I began to howl - as most hypochondriacs do for attention - but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the injured air.
'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside ... No, indeed ... But you look in terrible shape ... It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough'. The injured air looked paler than ever, and had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet, and whistling.
Just as I felt all was lost, Doctor Wobbleski approached. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state ... You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one ... Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit, ' he replied, looking at nothing, and thinking of nothing. 'First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears ... Get out of bed ... shave ... go out into the street and kiss the first women you meet who is blessed with full, pale thighs ... Also, get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember ... It may be foggy, but it's not raining ...whatever the hell that means!'
After Doctor Wobbleski left, I thought while sometimes I feel I live by myself - like a god or an animal - I can't afford to waste a minute of time looking back on my life. I felt an intense inner glow deep inside melting the icepack that had built up over the last thirty years. I recalled that no one really sleeps alone. Not while memory exists. I put on an extra layer of clothing and got into a warm scented bath. I lit my cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend who rinsed my back with her soft hands ...
Reflections: Sometimes words serve no purpose, especially when you know the score, the person, their pleasure in complaining about all things on this earth. In such circumstances music is hard to resist. It enters your soul and heart, and you don't require to debate, argue, proffer advise you never take yourself. Sometimes silence speaks for itself and brings peace.
Of course, some people and things - once important - lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely?
2 comments:
Time does interesting things to us. What/who is so important to us can sometimes be forgotten. The ones who really count and are important stay around for the ride!
"I recalled that no one really sleeps alone. Not while memory exists" - I absolutely liked these lines. Sometimes there is a crowd with whom we sleep.
Your writing has a certain tone that reminds me of Wodehouse.
Splendid read for today!
Joy always,
Susan
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