Pernicious trends in the accumulation of memory’s residual plaque (plague) create re-associations that muddy the surface this gestating cathexis. Lulu is lying in bed with Linda. I had been lying there with them after changing Lulu’s diaper, wiping away what the small amount of white, foaming regurgitation that didn’t project beyond her turned to the side face. Shit. The vomit is still there. After bringing Lulu back to bed and running my fingers lightly over the surface of her angle haired head, I felt compelled to jot a note in the journal I began the day before she was born. “Insalubrious neon traces of purple turning green is all that remains to be of the scene where memories finest torture seams and iron beams?.”
I’m gonna’ wipe up some baby puke.
Well, the chuck soaked some of the moisture. Some scrubbing will be necessary.
Not enough sleep, my head is light upon a hard rubber neck.
Almost eight, this is the last day of the year 2002. Lulu is 3 weeks old. I’m drinking tea (chai my mother paid for during our visit to Fairway at 125th) instead of coffee.
Yesterday I woke at 2AM, washed Danny’s pasta dish, put away his uneaten noodles, checked the refrigerator, put my brown butt-worn casual slacks (sweats) black sweat coat and a pair of shoes on and slipped out to buy some prune juice for my baby. I thought if she took some juice early in the morning her stool would soften by the time she woke,
palliating the passage past her burning and bleeding hemorrhoids.
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