So the Beatles are on. I always get emotional when the Beatles are on and she comes up whenever I get emotional.
A. I’ve been changing so much lately
I smell a freshness, I smell a chilly winter breeze.
“So you’re not constantly inspired. What does it matter?” she asks. Of course it doesn’t matter much. It’s just that I’ve to stop beating myself for it. My muses are flaky. They’ll come and have coffee from time to time. They’re the kind of people who sleep over after the house party and sneak out before it’s cleaning time.
Meanwhile, I’ll do something useful with my time. Like maybe try and cure Alzheimer’s.
I’ve seen Alzheimer’s close up. It’s no longer an abstraction.
It’s a guy who keeps answering the same question five hours after I’ve asked it. “I’m 6 foot two.” He answers, while I bathe him. “Oh come on, you look taller than that.” I joke for the twentieth time.
C. Lola Carmen
I am reminded of my grandmother.
We used to spend summer vacations in her house. She loved me and my brother from childhood.
Between then and my college years she began forgetting things. She insisted I was eight years old. She insisted that long-departed friends are coming over for dinner. My mother and aunt were constantly frustrated with her, and my brother and I decided to see as little of her as possible. She made us uncomfortable.
Lola, I’m sorry.
D. She ain’t heavy, she’s my lola
Not that it matters to you, of course.
You’ve gone somewhere else and apologies for wrongs done a couple of years ago are apologies for wrongs you don’t even remember. I’m apologizing to your existential being, the being that was, is, my lola. I’m apologizing not so much as to spare your feelings but to soothe mine.
E. Don’t worry,
“Your muses will be back. You know how they dislike orders. You of all people should understand.”
So I sit down and she whispers to me:
That the gray-tipped bird
Who broke a foot while drinking
Has nowhere to go