Feeling Sick

The sounds of people eating nauseates me.

The sight is even worse. I can’t find a spot on the ferry where masticating jaws of my particularly disgusting species of ape do not obscure the blue view of mountains and sea.

My appetite is too small to describe.

I took the cooler down, as usual, to Vancouver on another trip to see Mom, who’s not feeling too chipper. Brought her chocolate, which she has foolishly given up at 92 because of "cholesterol". Also brought her the right recipe for fruitlax. and other minor thoughtfulnesses….what else can one do?

I ate nothing in that polluted land except a piece of cake, as a courtesy. My mother and step-dad "make" it. Actually, it’s another package of poison, mixed with god knows what—water or the poisoned milk they buy. It’s garbage, but one piece won’t kill me. I eat it tenderly, finger-bit by bit, as if it were the food of love, which is probably its best description.

I read Nancy Huston’s Instruments of Darkness while waiting for the agonising heat to subside enough for sleep. I realised that someone forced the author to change the title: it used to be Instruments in Darkness, as in music in the dark, not necessarily the devil’s tools of destruction.

How wearisome, this religious crap pretending to be literature!

The book is about something important: mothers and their dead children. So, why am I so irritated? That fucking contrived demon doesn’t work. It’s a blatant trick. I skip over those parts. They’re awful. But they won the author’s pretty face the prizes. Dear God–you must have pulled the usual strings..

Okay, I have no pretty face (there’s a masterpiece of understatement!). Ugly old folks don’t win prizes unless they already have won prizes. As in, substantial prizes. Which mine are not. I will be obscure. Minor. Okay, that’s fine as long as people buy, read and enjoy my books. They’re good books, Better than most, quite likely.

The editor of Instruments should be shot. Error, error, error. Five run-on sentences on one page, followed by nine in the next paragraph. What? Have we forgotten the very existence of the semi-colon? The period?

Not to mention, of course, the dangling modifiers, the case errors, the number blunders.

English is moribund–why survive it?

The cooler had everything in it that one could wish: salmon, rice, chocolate pudding, bread, cake, greens, an orange, sausage, cheese.

Almost everything is still in it, and I don’t care.

I had to force down all those great supplements: astaxanthin, Vitamin D, chelation stuff, vision goodies, Cockle-a-doodle-do-10. Ate barely enough to get them down..

Do I want to live if it means giving up all thoughts of a future? Because that is the horrid vision surmounting the watery horizon….

Tonight was to have been a joy. Hah!

About Wolffy

Kaimana Wolff, novelist, poet and playwright, survives in a small community on the coast of British Columbia with her friend, a beautiful soul housed in a wolfish body. Often Lord Tyee and Wolff can be heard devising new howls, songs and dances on the lawns, in the parks, and in glens of the great forests still permitted to stand.

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