Eyeless in Gaza
A little more than two years ago,* I
wrote about the day my foot came off and my forearm; skin on my torso was
rolling up like window shades and blowing away like tumbleweed. I found the
foot, eventually, in the clutter on my desk – and the part of the arm, fingers
still wiggling, in a book I’d almost forgotten I had. It was marking my place
where I’d stopped reading years before. The skin was stuck to the screens of
two upstairs windows and worked miraculously like tape, so I got myself back
together in time for an appointment I had for lunch, though I did miss a
morning’s work.
When I woke up this morning I couldn’t see, and I didn’t know how I
would find my eyes without them; but they hadn’t gone anywhere – it was just
that my eyelids were glommed shut. A hot cup of coffee applied directly to the
sockets usually takes care of that.
 |
| Bob, puttin' on the Freud |
I called Bob, my amateur therapist,**
while the lids were coming unglued. Did he want to join me for a drink*** today
after work? “I’m not working,” he said.
“I know,” I said, “but I am.”
“So, why are you calling me from home?”
10.10.16
_______________
*
See here.
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