August 25, 2011

Another Shitty Post

Briefly: after I pay the September rent next week, I'll be close to completely broke. Some other bills need to be paid.

Also, I'm spending most of my time right now taking care of Wendy, who's dying. We're in the roller coaster of the final phase: every second or third day, I think that perhaps she's rallying, and the situation will mercifully level off for a short while. Yesterday, she ate very well, for the first time in three or four days. Today, she's back to not being interested in food at all. Her face is still very beautiful; otherwise, she's a bag of bones. I spend hours with her on the bed, gently stroking her, talking to her, singing to her. I make up little songs, about how much I love her, how much joy and fun she's brought into our lives. She raises her head and tilts it toward me, asking for her ears to be massaged and scratched. She purrs a lot.

I don't know if I'm doing her any favors by letting this go on. She doesn't seem to be in pain ... but how do I know? And she still eats, sometimes. She's still able to get on and off the bed without difficulty. And she seems to enjoy the company. How can I have her killed? I can't, not yet.

Chances are I'll need some more money to pay for a few things in these last days for her. I don't have any.

Despite this, I think I've managed to do some good writing recently. Nothing mysterious about that: it's a distraction from the awful pain of watching Wendy die, and sometimes I'm grateful for it. There's more I want to say about the London riots, about Libya, about tribalism and its many manifestations and complicated dynamics. Aside from the usual very small circle of somewhat likeminded discontents, almost no one gives a shit whether I say any of it or not. Why do I bother? I don't bother a lot: I have a huge number of notes for future essays, I've had a huge number of notes for years. Very few of them are translated into published pieces.

And who cares? I don't much care myself any longer. The world, and most readers of blogs, have given me no reason to care.

I do it, when I do, because I can't do anything else due to my own extremely rotten health. There's a rallying cry for you. Fuck.

Anyway, I need some money. If you have some you can spare, I'd be very grateful.

I wish I could still care about being "positive" and "upbeat" for you. Sort of. Actually, not so much. Fuck.

Wendy is dying, and she remains a great source of joy and love. That's considerably more than I can say for myself, or for most of you for that matter. The capacity and willingness of humans affirmatively to choose unnecessary suffering, when there's so much suffering in life that we can't avoid, try as we will, never ceases to astonish and horrify me.

I'm going to spend some more time with Wendy now. I'll take two or three or four dishes of food to her; maybe something will appeal to her.

Do what you will. Thanks, I guess.