I realised today that I must ensure Ive saved this blog in some other format, including printed out, so it won’t be suddenly lost. I don’t know why I think its important. Yesterday when A was trying to stretch and break up the fibrotic impasse of my locked knees, he asked me how many books I’d published. Seven, I said. That’s good he said. It’s good to leave something behind. It made me tearful. But then everything does these days. And that is, in fact, how I feel. Impelled to leave something behind, an imprint, an imprimatur, a hauntological artefact. To say I was here. And that it made some difference. Romantic narcissism, I can see that. But it is a deep feeling too and I can’t repudiate it with criticism or scorn, or even simple self awareness.

S told me that Carlton University was attacked by ransomeware so the entire University system is now hostage. People’s work, records, everything. I found local reportage on it, but nothing international. G’s theory about this being the dark ages, all records on the verge of being wiped out, or just lost as formats replace formats. No monuments, no history. Just an end of times, even as we all make our ways through it daily, link ourselves up, create our information bubbles, obsessively record, worry about the impossibility of erasing records. And yet there it is. Only one of the awful paradoxes of our time. What can we call it. What comes after post-modernity. Neofeudalism, I suggested once to S. A conglomerated corporate version, a media regime. A rule of billionaires who live nowhere, and everywhere. Government serving a brand. Trumps modus operandi as everyone can see, but capitulation is the metier and miss en scene of this next era.

[From my letter to S this morning]

On goodbyes. I don’t know. I feel the same as you. I want to hold to people I care about forever. I don’t want to say goodbye to myself either, but I guess I’m past the point where it matters what I want. Or rather where what I want can be realised. I have stopped wanting those things, or many of them at any rate. I just want some respite. To be more comfortable. There is an inevitability I don’t have the energy to fight or question or even lament. Much of the time I just wish it was done. To go to sleep and not wake up so I could stop suffering and stop being afraid. Yet that doesn’t seem on the cards for me. So I registered a DNR. I asked G that if I went into unsconsciousness, to let me stay there, spare me coming back to more suffering. I know it’s upsetting to say this, and hard on him and anyone else I say it to. But sometimes it’s kinder to just let people go. My mom and brother are planning to come over to visit the second week of January. But I find myself hoping I won’t still be here then. A, my physio thinks I will be, as does M the palliative care team member who visits. The district nurse thinks I’m on the way out for real now. I can’t tell. A my oncologist, when I asked her, said that I would be able to tell, when it was happening. But who knows.

I think we all have to live in the indefinite conversation. What else is there? It makes time easier to bear. And it’s part of what is hopeful about life, and politics too.

Love and hugs,

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