entr’ acte

I’ve started coughing up blood. Maybe from the coughing. Maybe from my lungs. I don’t know. I feel more dreadful than I could have imagined. Why does this keep going? Something Polly used to say. Why can’t it just stop. I’m done. It took me some time before I was able to really listen to her when she said that. I didn’t see my own near future when I finally did listen. Its better if its fast. Not this malingering tortuous hateful decline.

Lola stares at me from across the sofa. I keep pushing her away because she wants to sit on me and it is uncomfortable. I’m sorry Lola.

So she stares at me. Sometimes smiling in her doggy way. Sometimes worried with her ears back. I look back at her. I’m sorry I can’t do anything for her anymore.


Rereading Vida. This edition with a preface by Merge Piercy reflecting on the book. It is an apt portrait of recent history, and an insightful rendering of personal and political. It also concerns a time of war. I was a child then, the music of my growing up. It was beautiful and hopeful to me. The danger and the struggles were outside any reference point for me. Just the ideas of justice, and rights and progress in circulation, that resonated with me. So the book is an important intimate history of the times, for some of the people who took those risks, lost heart, lost all. Some I imagine, if they are still alive, are fugitives still. What must they make of Trump and the utter backlash against every gain so hard won, that he represents and the dark future he imminently heralds?


Visits from palliative care and district nurses. They wish they can help. I can see that.

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