Nightwood

 Nightwood 

“Ted,” I hear. I look from where I’m lying down on the couch across the coffee table. Roz is sitting in her chair, feet tucked under her hips; she has raised her head from her book. Roz’s chair is blue. It has an aura that wavers a little. She is wearing gray, a lighter gray sweater-top and a darker gray skirt that she’s pulled down over her knees.
     I took medicine once that made everything shimmer under incandescent light. Except for Roz. She always sat, and she always sits still, except when she raises her head, and says, “Ted.” Then I look up. Behind her, shimmering in a different way: a Pat Matheny Album she likes, songs from the sixties and seventies, “The Sound of Silence,”“Cherish,”“Rainy Days and Mondays,” “And I Love Her,” among others. The name of the album is What's It All About.

Roz's chair

     “Did you hear what I said?” she asks.

     “I might have,” I say. “What?”

     “Are you okay? I don’t think you want to go to sleep right now.”

     “What time is it?” I ask.

     “It’s a little after eight.”

     “It’s Monday, right?” I ask.

     “No, hon. it’s Tuesday.”

     “Did I see Dr. Feight today? I was thinking it was tomorrow.”

     “No. You see him on Monday. And on Thursday. You saw him yesterday and you see him again the day after tomorrow.”

     “What are you reading?” I ask.

     “Nightwood.”

     “Oh, I remember that. I think I must have read it once.” Djuna Barnes, I know that;but I’m not sure I ever read the book any more than I’m sure what day it is or how it could be eight o’clock and not ten or eleven. The new drugs aren’t used to each other yet. Some days they seem to get along, and some days every one is angry at every other. Or, some want to cooperate and others are intent on forming alliances.

     I try to think how many there are, probably not this many but it seems as if I have one to calm me down and another to keep me awake, one to keep my stomach from buzzing and another to keep it from shutting off. There’s one to keep my brain from imploding and another to keep it from exploding. There’s one to open my lungs to the world and another from keeping my spirit from escaping through my nose. And there’s Vitamin D.

     “Why don’t you try reading something?” Roz asks.

     “What?”

     “Well, I don’t think Nightwood,” she says.
     “No,” I say, “From what I remember, not that.”

03.20.19