The inner room, part 2

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 The inner room, part 2  

I came a little early. I’m always worried about being late. Dr. Feight came to fetch me from his waiting room.

     And we went into the other room with the chair and the desk and the couch and the walls of books. And he said again this time, after he’d sat in the chair and I’d sat on the couch, “Tell me what’s going on.” And I said again that I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t going back to work tomorrow. I had planned to since he’d said I could, but.

     He asked but what? why? had I heard something from work?

     “Yes,” I said. I had been granted a three-month leave of absence, beginning January 1, when my accumulated sick leave (excluding holidays) expired, which meant I wouldn’t go back until April – the third since the first was a Saturday and the second was my birthday. Something like that: it wasn’t entirely clear, except that I would go back on April 3rd.

     “Is that okay with you?” he asked.

     “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said.

Nobody said anything for a minute or two. Then I said: “I stayed up last night and finished the Tanizaki book, the one Uncle Albert bought in Seeville – we talked about it last time. Do you remember how it ends?”

     “Remind me,” he said.

     “It doesn’t,” I said. “The characters are still drifting, and now they’re not sure what they’re drifting toward, maybe not what they thought.”

     “Are they happy about that?”

     “You said they seemed to think that destiny might as well be kind as unkind.”

     He nodded.

     “It seems at the end as if that’s true and the reverse is true as well.”

     He nodded.

     “Destiny might as well be kind as unkind. Also, it might as well be unkind as kind.”

     He nodded.

He kept nodding, and I kept talking, except I wasn’t really talking but blathering: That’s when you put on words like layers and layers of clothing; but if you were to take off the layers, peel them away, you’d find not a naked body but air.

     Then we made another appointment for Monday – I am going to see him Mondays and Thursdays for a while. Then I came home.

Last night Uncle Albert and I went to a service of prayer for the nation, led by a rabbi, an imam, a black Baptist preacher, and the rector of the church where we’d heard Clara Bow preach. Roz went with us.

     Afterward, we all went for pizza. Roz had a glass of wine and Uncle Albert half a pint of stout; I had a Pepsi, because I can’t drink with the medicine I’m taking.

01.20.17

Three from Uncle Albert

Lee and Uncle Albert at the General's
190th birthday, Berlin, 1997.

 Three from Uncle Albert  

[in his cups on the occasion of Robert E. Lee’s 210th birthday]*

Our assumption that the future will be unkind unless (dammit!) we do something about it, only irritates it, makes the future want to strike back at us.

We may name the days of the week what we want, but naming them is no guarantee they will come in the order we assign. This week, for example, Echtmittwoch preceded Dienstag.

Narcissism the philosophical system begins with the proposition, «Ich bin, ergo du bist nichts.»

_______________

* The brackets indicate a stage direction.

01.19.17

The inner room

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 The inner room 

This is still about Tuesday.

     Dr. Feight and I went into the other room in which there was a chair and a desk and a couch and books. “So,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

     I said I wasn’t sure.

He motioned toward the couch and leaned toward the chair.

     Books, lots of them. I walked along the shelves - a half dozen or so by Tanizaki. I pulled Some Prefer Nettles from its place between Naomi and The Makioka Sisters.  “My uncle is reading this one,” I held it up.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

     I said I didn’t think so. Did he remember what the book was about?

     He said he did, about people that knew where they wanted to go but didn’t want to go there. “They hope,” he said, “that if they drift long enough the current will carry them where they want to end up. There is no reason, they seem to think, that destiny shouldn’t be kind, cooperative.”

     “Is there?”

     “What?”

     “Any reason that destiny shouldn’t be kind . . . instead of unkind?”

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked again, moving closer to the chair. “You can bring the book with you, if you like.”

     “No,” I said and put the book back on the shelf, then came and sat on the couch.

     “You may lie down, if you prefer,” he said.

     I shook my head, thinking, “Maybe next time.” But I didn’t say it: “Maybe next time.”

He asked me again what was going on, and I told him about the last several weeks right up to the time we left the house to come to see him.* He made notes on a clipboard.

     He said, “Okay.” He made one more note. “What’s next?” he said.

     “I can go back to work?”

     “I think so. Why don’t you plan to start Friday?”

     I said, “Okay.”

     “We can meet again Thursday,” he said.

Then he asked Roz to come in. He told her he thought I could start work on Friday, and he and I would meet again Thursday.

     She said, “Okay. Good.”

______________

 * You can read about them, beginning with the post for 12/15/16, “Mad House.”
 

01.18.17

Dr. Feight

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 Dr. Feight  

I am looking at the calendar over the phone in the kitchen. Today is Tuesday, January 17th. Yesterday, then, was almost certainly Monday the 16th, the day before Sunday the 15th, and so forth. Tomorrow, pace David Hume, will be Wednesday, January 18th.

On Sunday, Uncle Albert and I went to church. Roz went to coffee with her friend Charlie. In the afternoon, the four of us, Roz, Charlie, Uncle Albert, and I went to Seeville to take back a coat Charlie had bought for her husband Ray and to buy shoes for me. We returned the coat, and Uncle Albert bought a book, something about Nettles by Junichiro Tanizaki; but I couldn’t find shoes that I wanted. We ate a very late lunch or very early supper at a deli. Then we came home.

     Uncle Albert wasn’t feeling well, he said, so he “retired” to his room.

When I checked on him on my way to bed, because Roz said, “Don’t you think you should check on Albert?” – meaning, “At least knock on Albert’s door and see if he’s still alive” – he was sitting at the desk, writing in his notebook. He had the book by Tanizaki open beside the notebook.

     “What are you writing?” I said, then quickly: “Are you all right?”

     “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m trying to write a sentence, but I can’t get it short enough . . . ” He hesitated. “Sharp enough.”

     “Can I see?” I asked.

     “Yes, come in.”

Here is what he had written:

We can fall out of life without dying. Instead, we become abstemious: we stop drinking and smoking and even thinking about women. We begin collecting antique tea sets. We wrap the past in cotton gauze and the present in the past.

“I like it,” I said. “I don’t think it’s too long.”

     “Maybe not,” he said.

     I said, “Are you feeling better?”

     He said, “Some. I’d feel even better if I thought I could get this right.”

    “Well,” I said, “good night.”

     Good night,” he said.

Down the stairs

That was Sunday, and yesterday was Monday, which was a holiday, Martin Luther King Day, so I didn’t go to work; but Roz did, because someone had to be in her office, and it was her turn. Besides she was going to take off part of Tuesday – today – to take me to the doctor.

     So, today we went to the doctor.

His name is Feight. He went to Johns Hopkins, then did a psychiatric residency at the University – that’s what I gathered from his diplomas; I gathered also that he was at least ten years older than I am, which made me wonder. I will be sixty this spring if I live that long.

Dr. Feight’s office is in his house. There’s a separate entrance down some stairs to the basement. You come into a little hallway, and there are two doors, one straight ahead and one to the left marked “Waiting Room.” In the waiting room are two chairs and a couch and a table with magazines: The New York Review of Books and Scientific American and Poetry and Dissent. We had hardly sat down when he opened the door and stepped in, a small, round man in suit and tie, a spray of white hair. Nothing quite fit. The suit-coat was too small, and the trousers too long; the white hair seemed to hover a few centimeters above his head.

     He and I went into the other room in which there was a chair and a desk and a couch and books. “So,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

     I said I wasn’t sure.

to be continued

01.17.17

Prayer

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 Prayer 

We went to church again this morning, Uncle Albert and I. The sermon was from the passage where Andrew and another disciple of John the Baptist ask Jesus where he is staying and he says, “Come and see.” They do come, so I suppose they see. But we do not. It is an irritating aspect of the gospels that they contain no descriptions of people or places. So, we don’t know if Jesus has a room in someone’s house or he has his own house all to himself. Or he might live with his mother, or in a yurt.

On the way home, Uncle Albert said apropos of nothing that had gone before: “No one that doesn’t pray has any real depth.”

     I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Several minutes later as we were climbing the steps to the front door, he said, “None at all - depth- but he can fool anyone else that doesn’t pray.” Then, he stopped, so I stopped, too, as I was holding his elbow. “No!” he said. “Not anyone else. He can fool anyone that doesn’t pray, including himself.”

There was a note on the door: Her friend Charlie had picked Roz up, and they had gone out for coffee.

     “I used to pray,” I told Uncle Albert as I took down the note, “but I don’t anymore.”

     “Maybe you will again,” he said.

     I said, “Maybe.”

01.15.17

Saturday evening post

 Saturday evening post  

Roz had to work again this morning. She had to work last Saturday morning, because she had taken off Friday afternoon to pick me up and bring me home. She had to work this Saturday morning, because someone was coming in from out of town for something and she had to meet him.

     She told me last night what for, but I’ve forgotten. I remember though that I asked her when I was going back to work – would it be Monday? “No,” she said, “Monday is a holiday.” “Oh,” I said. “Tuesday then?” But no, Tuesday I have another doctor’s appointment. “Then,” she said, “we’ll know more.”

     “Are you going with me this time, then?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, she was. I thought: That’s like Bill Murray said in Caddy Shack about being blessed after he caddied for him with perfect karma by the Dalai Lama. “So, I’ve got that,” he said. “I’ve got that”: Roz will be going with me on Tuesday.

The Premier League is back in action after a week off, so Uncle Albert and I watched Arsenal beat Swansea City this morning. It wasn’t close, but that wasn’t because Arsenal played all that well.

     After the game, Uncle Albert read. He’s reading Cousin Pons by Balzac. I watched and listened to him turn the pages.

After lunch and after my nap, Roz and I went for a walk. I asked her about the guy that had come in from out of town. I apologized for forgetting why she had to meet him. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m not sure I told you.”

Pero suenan, suenan los timbales.

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We had pork roast for dinner with mango chutney – and mashed potatoes and a salad. Roz had a glass of wine, and Uncle Albert did, too; but I drank water. I’m not drinking wine these days because of some medicine I am taking. After dinner, we did the dishes as merrily as we did before. I washed, and Uncle Albert dried, and Roz put them away.

     Now we’re listening to music from the TV again. We’re listening to Jazz. It’s Tito Puente, “Ran kan kan”: Ran kan kan kan kan. Pero suenan, suenan los timbales.

01.14.17

Friday the 13th

 Friday the 13th 

Today is Friday, the 13th. Tomorrow is Saturday, then Sunday, then Monday is a holiday, but I don’t remember for what.

When I came down to breakfast, Uncle Albert said, “Friday the 13th, she come on a Friday this month.” He was referring to a running gag from the old comic strip Pogo. I said, “Yes, she do.” And I sat down.

     Uncle Albert got up to pour my coffee. I usually do that – first thing. But I was a little shaky, so I sat down. He looked at me and he could see I was shaking and got up to pour the coffee so I wouldn’t spill it. He put the cream in and the sugar and stirred. He put the coffee on the table in front of me. He asked me if I wanted a slice of toast, he didn’t mind making it.

     “I don’t think so,” I said.

We sat at the table for I don’t know how long. The kitchen clock was behind me, and I didn’t want to turn around – I felt too stiff. I need clocks to keep track of time these days, it seems.

Uncle Albert with cat eyes and reading glasses

     Uncle Albert kept reading the paper. And I drank my coffee until the cup was empty. The last few swallows were barely warm.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked, when the cup was empty. He put the paper down and his reading glasses on it. Uncle Albert has this cat-like vision: 96 years old and he doesn’t need glasses except to read.

     He said, “I don’t know. What do you feel like doing?”

     I said that I didn’t know that I felt like doing anything, but shouldn’t we do something?

     “Not necessarily,” he said.

01.13.17

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