Subject: John Michael Gort
Year: 2066Location: Jupiter Florida Retirement Home
Journal: Entry #1
Sun-light pierces my eyes as I jolt awake blinking and struggle to gain a regular breathing pattern. The night nurse has done her usual. My catheter bag has long since overflowed and the pool of urine on the floor had plenty of time to congeal. It is now a toxic piss bag stew that physically makes my eyes cringe and water in defense. I subconsciously evaluate the angle of the sun's light through the window and my realization makes the pee-stink become a comforting blanket around my mind excited about my last pleasure in life. It is finally time; I am allowed. I rise with pained cracks and pops of hollow death and curve my back forward while blinded by tears. I clasp sporadically in the air in a desperate attempt to grasp the dangling Morphene pump and collapse into narcosis. In these sweaty moments of agony the nasally chatter of the morning nurse in the hallway, ignoring my many immediate needs, is like steel-wool scrubbing the inside of my skull. The intense pain makes time pass more slowly and I ponder the importance of self-examined speech. While most speech is vanity, people talking to hear themselves talk, some individuals achieve a greater quality of speech by listening to the silent existential abyss and attempting to speak something worth breaking the silence. After countless painful blind attempts I finally feel the plastic pump appear in my hand. Without hesitation I compress the button and snap limp in the bed without saying a word.
Senate posts have become far too lessened as of late. I myself am to blame indeed for the post modern presence has been lacking for some time on the Senate floor. Perhaps the moves and changes in life are to blame, perhaps the struggle to stay busy when in fact not has led to distraction, and an absence of literary or philosophical inspiration. But I say that upon returning to my computer for what has become an exponential amount of email checking, my mouse hand subconsciously, or habitually moved the little arrow to the Bookmarks tool bar and link entitled "The Senate". Run-on sentences aside, I was delighted to discover this Kevorkian post from Nero. A glimpse to the inevitable future of life in Jupiter, Florida? A story from a day in the life of a patient transporter? Whatever literary truth may be written above this rambling comment, I am anxious for Entry #2, and promise to walk the Senate floor again soon, hopefully accompanied by a sun burnt and farm fatigued Senator, and a dutifully absent Daddy.
ReplyDeleteThank you Nero.
Long live Senate.
Yea unto ye both. Forever senate, long live these kings.
ReplyDelete"The greatest comfort I have in continuing to live, is the assurance I might end it whenever I so choose"
--Unattributed, due to embarrassment for its source.
Nero, in reading-- I wanted to immediately assert the poetic planned death. Steal you from the hospital bed, catheter and all, put you in that convertible with the Smith and Wesson revolver-- so we might drive together into the grand canyon of death, shooting at the moon.
but no. Poetics are too convenient. We must all grasp our own morphine pump at the days end. Our urine bags overflowed.
Breaking the living shroud of silence, with the act of a final silence.
Wanna order some spring street jim dandy's?
--Senator
Warm Spring Street sandwiches are just what the Doctor ordered! We must order now before they close! Cheers Senators! And may our gobbets overflow! *later our piss bags*
ReplyDelete