I remember when I bought a box of pencils some years ago. I thought to myself: This is the last box of pencils I will ever purchase. I just did not see a trajectory for my life which included using pencils any more. Pens, sure. But pencils? Very unlikely.
I thought of that as, tangentially, my thoughts moved from place to place. I have been trying to break in a new habit. Taking a bath instead of a shower has proven to be surprisingly awkward for me. The risk of overflowing the tub is quite real, since there is no overflow opening. But it is a more relaxing way to start the day. I do not worry about falling in the shower, though every time I step in I remember the girl from Sunswick who died, and apparently all that happened was that she fell in the shower. I do not know if alcohol was involved.
But I reminded myself last night of my fall a few weeks ago, which left a gash in my head and blood on my face and on my pillow. As it happened I was drunk enough to be blasé (ooh, just figured out how to do accents on this keyboard. nice. Didn’t think I could). But I know what I was thinking. I was thinking that another accident like this could kill me, and I would be gone. Death felt heavy. The possibility of death felt heavy. The blood felt heavy.
So I found myself in a somewhat hypocritical spot today, describing my Aunt’s alcoholism. The subject came about because my aunt died last week. I was surprised to hear she was even still around. She must have been well into her 80s.
I stayed at her house when I moved to Atlanta for 6 months. I think I stayed there less than a week but it’s been a lingering presence in my record because it shows up on my credit report as a previous permanent address. I guess that is because I received mail there.
I had never been around this kind of alcoholism. She was blasted morning noon and night. All it took was a whiff of bourbon to make her incoherent. She walked into walls, knocked pictures off their hangers, broke glass objects. It was actually scary to be around.
I moved to a transient residence, where I stayed for a couple of weeks before moving in to a highrise near Piedmont Park. I always hated that palce. It was very fancy and such, with three grand pianos on the first floor and I think there were 2 swimming pools. The building eventually became a Trump property. Yuck.
After I moved there I heard from my dad that my Aunt had fallen and broken her leg, or arm, I forget which. He claimed the ER staff treated her badly because she was so fucked up drunk. I don’t know if that is true but he seemed pretty sure of himself.
I summoned this anecdote of self-injury caused by drunkenness without peppering it with “Like I should talk” sentiments. I have not been to an ER on account of injuring myself but I can say that I was treated with nothing but respect when I did check in for alcohol abuse. My sister does not know about that episode. I would have no problem telling her about it. I just don’t think it matters that much.
This is a confusing subject. I was sorry to hear my Aunt was gone but I don’t see myself reaching out to her son (my cousin). He never liked me. I don’t really believe that extended family needs to be kept close to the vest, or contacted upon every death of a distant relation. That started happening after my dad’s funeral. I can’t remember her name now but a second cousin called weeks later to report the death of some distant cousin I had never heard of. She sounded like she was continuing some kind of tradition, which I guess would be appropriate if I had ever known who she was before my dad’s death.
I miss both my parents. But neither of them made keeping in touch with their extended families any kind of an issue. In fact they kind of eschewed the very idea. All those drunks and deaths of questionable circumstance on my dad’s side. My mother’s evil cunt mother and the father who just walked away. Even my mother’s sister and she had a pissing match that lasted years. It involved lies their mother told. Who needs that kind of fucking drama in their personal spaces?
