Welcome To My Bed

The briefest of briefs, late night delirium edition.

1. Yesterday was finals night at CUPSI. I yelled a lot. Hampshire won best writing, which, in my opinion, is more valuable than winning finals. I also drank a lot of rum. It was nice to run around a hotel and give lots of hugs and not worry about things for a hot minute. Also, observing people, especially poets, is one of my favorite pastimes, so I was sitting in the nosebleed seat at the Cutler Majestic and practically in heaven. I'll write real things about this later (maybe).

2. Papa Bear is out of the hospital now, which is a relief, but things are not what I wish they were. He has something like seven stents in the veins and arteries around his heart. The artery on the front of his heart is 98% blocked, which means that if anything changes for the worst, it's for the absolute worst. He needs robotic surgery, which is highly specialized, and most of the doctors capable of performing the surgery are either booked for several years, reluctant to take on such a risky case, or just plain disinterested in a first-time patient with such a complicated condition. I am beside myself on a daily basis. People ask me about it at work and I shut down and talk as matter-of-factly as I can to keep from absorbing what I am saying. People ask me about it at home and I end up crying. There is nothing to be done, at least not that I can do. I want to go home so badly, but I know I'd only be restless and not know how to spend my time there. I don't want to give this anxiety permission to rule my life, but it comes up in everything.

3. Cass and I are scrambling for apartments. Because of circumstances beyond my control, time has gotten away from me in the worst way. I want to find a place and get settled already. I am tired of my physical living space being on someone else's very rigid terms. I want John Lennon's bed-in-the-floor from Help! and bookcases that required climbing to reach the top. I'd be happy with a roof over my head for now.