it's a deadmans party

this morning

i had seated myself at the humble table, at the equally humble hour of 7:20 am, and regarded my bowl of potato?/onionish curry, unable to take the next step of lifting it to my lips. so i sat unmoving in silence. the others were happily babbling away in kanadaa, glancing at me and giggling. glancing then pointing. their goddamn language. i took a breath and squeezed my eyes closed, but it was too late. i slammed my black tea down on the table, opened my eyes to them and a week of pent up hostility came flowing out from between my clenched teeth, punctuated here and there with a snarled spanish curseword.

I ascertained their astonished faces and smiled slightly: ok, I don't know how much of that you understood, but I think my basic point is clear. Got it? Thanks!  

[my tshirts are too tight for these people

i cant jibe with their constant superior moral self glorification and prostration before the plastic saints;

essentially one could say im perceived like my Shockingly Garish undergarments hangin on the line next to the saris and habits.] 

i poured the curry out and departed to serve the patients without another word.

we are carrying dishes and again, like every day, with the gerund they are indicating the state of my hair and wardrobe thismorning: you are looking very nice today, you are combing your hair differently?

this constant use of the verb lends the surreal feeling that everything is in a constant and uninterrupted state of occurrence; nothing ever finishes or ends or can be stated in a truncated manner. after saying OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN and all that,  

i see that the tall, wide shouldered man (a desiccated echo of what he used to be) with striking features has a dark look in his eyes today. As he gets up he stumbles and finally moves forward with difficulty; the virus in his blood has finally kissed his brain and his limbs are beginning to phase in and out of existence.   

anyone who has known me for any period of time can attest that my heart burns, beats, bleeds at a rate i often feel is unsustainable. therefore when the work is done at last i must climb aboard the mango trees and drift on the branches in and out of the world here for a while, having tiny epiphanies that stem from the insects crawling all over me... like the way ants die: they are hurrying along on their pointless path and they suddenly just stop in their tracks.  

the people here are an exception to this generally universal experience. here its more protracted; they cant hurry no more down the path but must instead watch and do nothin as their bodies dissolve underneath them, knowing that they are going to trip and fall.

this four year old girl with legs like mothbitten matchsticks and bloated in all the wrong places walks down towards me like an old woman, patient and holding her hips painfully, eerily silent and slow moving. her mother pays her little attention and so she sits quietly dying in the road rubbing dust over her arms.     

i move towards the next group. in the middle of them this man is joking with me in a wheelchair he has only one usable eye. what is coming out of his catheter bag is beet red.

FUCK i close my eyes and  there are intravenous lines dangling in the wind like cheap jewelry,  legbones wrapped in nothing but veins, shoulderblades that come to a razor point.  

i go to the room after food and retreat frighteningly deeper and deeper into my own consciousness indeed the proximity between my waking and dreaming self is beginning to get too close for comfort. distraction is impossible: the town is dry for miles, and though the other night i attempted to quiet the situation with a few sleeping pills before dinner (hoping that starting on an empty stomach would work more effectively), it ended badly because they kicked in sooner than anticipated and i was not able to escape the refectory before i lost motor coordination and pirate stumbled back to my room, much to the confusion of the desk attendant.  

and even then, i was unable to sleep, i just laid there hazily till midnight; the stupor didnt wear off for hours and hours.

even though i know better, i blame the insomnia on thoughts that are screaming to be heard and swarming exponentially with each time i have to repress them but i cant articulate shit to these old women and pious men, and so they echo louder and louder throughout the course of the day and peace becomes completely out of the question by the time its time to lay down.