Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Turn the other way

Oh, no -- here I am, wired in bed again, reminding myself that when I was on tour I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe, I mean still able to breathe but always with one nostril closed. I did wake up in the middle of the night, but not with the breathing trouble, except for one or two places. So it’s something about my apartment -- at the moment I’m thinking it’s the mold, I need to remind myself to get out of this apartment at some point but then I remember my last apartment was worse -- the back of the kitchen cabinets decaying, the counter covered in roaches every time I turned on the light, mice and rats and dying pigeons in the walls, the outside of the bathroom air shaft coated in a thick gray mold. So that was much worse.

I wonder if there are any apartments in San Francisco without a mold problem, or if I’ve ever lived in an apartment where I didn’t have allergy problems. Provincetown? Yes, there was mold I could smell in the bathroom, although I don’t remember having terrible problems. Of course, that’s where the glamour of my fibromyalgia started, in the acute sense of not being able to hold the handlebars of my bike, not being able to chop vegetables or open doors because of the pain oh maybe something’s wrong. Before that, in New York, I lived above a lamp shade factory -- there were no rats or roaches, probably everything was killed by the fumes, the fumes I didn’t smell but that’s where my sinus troubles became unbearable and I’m guessing that was from the chemicals. And the 12-story electrical power station across the street probably didn’t help. Before that was Seattle, I can’t imagine there’s anywhere in Seattle without mold. And before that? Oh, I don’t know.

I’m supposed to be sleeping, but here I am going back through every apartment I’ve lived in and I don’t remember as many problems on Fillmore, or in East Boston, or Dorchester, or Providence, or my first two apartments in San Francisco. But all that time I was drinking and doing drugs -- so most of my problems I would’ve associated with all that.

I’m still not asleep. Now I’m wondering if it’s the dust from all my books that’s irritating me -- I wish I could hire someone to build shelves into the walls with glass doors to keep the dust away, if I ever own my own place that’s the first thing I’ll do. How deep would I want the shelves -- deep enough for books, but what about magazines? The glass doors would need to be designed so that they didn’t let any dust in our out, that would be the point. Then I start thinking about what else I might be able to do in that place that doesn’t exist, might never exist and I definitely know it’s not in this bed and then I start getting angry, angry that I’m still awake, angry that I may have to get up and when I start to think about getting up suddenly there’s nothing but sadness, let me turn the other way, anger, let me turn the other way, sadness, let me turn the other way.

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