wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins

double vision is a ghost hovering under every object, a shadow made of light. one squints. a tremor is an automatic paradox; the tighter one grips, the more energetically things fly out of one's grasp. things like coffee. fatigue is a constant mystery. blue hands white hands red hands, the changing colors, the unhealed scratches, the see-through skin, these things are bizarre. one becomes weary. novelty becomes fright and hopelessness. the task of Concealing All becomes more arduous.



the patient wants to see into the future, to be able to plan, to brace themselves. the doctor has been coached to Promise Nothing and will not hazard a guess. what's second-best? "i will not abandon you?" but if one can't really ante up the $75 per visit, one abandons the doctor. then what?

i'm writing a paper about essentialism. again. it seems there's no hope; essentialism is the star we steer by, the way we go round the mulberry bush. one can hope that some doctrine or other of fellow-feeling will expand one's horizon, but when push comes to shove, when patient A comes to exam room B, that fundamental attribution error goes to God. the patient is sick; the patient is recognizable by their sickness; the sickness shrinks the person to patient-size. the sickness, like skin color (if there is one), like gender (if there is one), is essence. the sickness keeps you over there, me over here. a system of privilege based on location in the exam room. i go back and forth across the room like any physician who gets sick, and become a conundurum like mixed-race or transgendered. no, only a conundurum to myself. the physician will identify my essence for me. ah, well.



that the fallen world is a vale of tears is the oldest story, and the ways to escape that wheel of karma are many and detailed. back to work! back to work! on saturday the priest said we are to give glory to the divine, to turn the light to shine on the divine rather than on our teensy little selves - "or we'll never become saints!" it's a juggling act, shining brightly out across the firmament while also writing a paper on essentialism, squinting at the indeterminate squiggles on the page, and trying not to shake the coffee into one's lap.

so you better get right with god. you sons and daughters of hungry ghosts. i ain't no square.



none of this makes sense! it's the error of waking up too early, not being able to get back to sleep; the illogic of dreams gets up and puts on a robe and starts typing.