Do not reveal your thoughts to everyone, lest you drive away your good luck. — Apocrypha, Ecclesiasticus 8:19
A certain daily reading came to me at the right time. When I think about all those Dave Eggers/Ricky Moody/Jonathan Franzen-esque poetic and exhibitionist accounts of a parent dying slowly and gruesomely I get a little sick. The objectification. “Fiction” or not, I don’t care. These days, I don’t like it. On another hand, I have the desire to bear witness. To tell someone all theses little — and big — things I’m living … horrible, sad and sweet alike. Texas catheters, seizures, and the ongoing crumbling of a once fiercely strong man.
No one ever accused me of being an open book, that’s for sure. But how to know what to do with all of this. I would tell someone. I am sure I will tell someone sometime. But right now it is all just bunching up.
I watched a movie the other night, The Savages, in which I imagine the writer was bearing witness. The story was weak, tho, and I couldn’t believe they got Phil Hoffman and Laura Linney to do the film. Probably just killing some time. Right now I am a fairly jaded and biased judge of just about everything. So don’t mind me.
One thing I’ve noticed: seems like every other commercial on TV is for Cancer Treatment Centers of America or a similar facility. Has it always been so or do I just notice more now? Was also wondering … all the famous people dying in the past year — is it the usual rate? Feels like more than usual. But it may just be that I am older and more aware than I once was.