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The problem is that sciatica keeps me from sitting. If I cannot sit, how can I write? I write on top of a chest of drawers in the bedroom. It requires me to stand.
It is necessary to clear a space. This surface has been employed as a small shrine for my dead companion, Ms Keogh, with three photographs of her. They need to be pushed aside. Her favorite pen rests retired in a narrow Wedgwood tray of blue jasperware. There is a bottle of her favorite perfume - our favorite perfume - Nina Ricci’s Premier Jour, still half full. She had insisted it needed to be a scent we both liked on her. There are other things, too.
I am waiting for my turn to die. There are moments when I wish death would come sooner than later, but they are brief moments, far apart. I am too much a hedonist to waste the remaining time. A compelling curiosity keeps me turning pages, opening doors, going for walks, wondering about tomorrow, and eager for the next conversation with friends. And I write.
Writing is my favorite form of communicating. I write at least one letter a day and often more, costing over £50 a month in postage. These last four years, my notebook-journal entries are fewer as I have diverted experiences into letters. No one is expected to read the notebook-journals, nor should they. The writing in them can be sloppy or pathetic. They were written for me, if I ever find the time to read them. My letters will be read by others and this brings greater satisfaction.
It has been a bad month. I don’t like to write about my health. It is too commonplace and boring, unless it is especially serious or unusual. I have many of the ailments typical for my age, nothing special. Still, this has been a disappointing month.
The month began rich in promise. On Sunday, 2nd October, I had my fourth COVID vaccination. I felt so good afterwards, I walked the 3 1/2 miles home. The next day, my right knee began to hurt.
Two American poets, Michael Czarnecki and Bart White, were travelling through Wales. They paused in their adventure to meet me on Tuesday, 4th October. They could only stay for an afternoon in Cardiff while on their way to Swansea. The meeting was arranged by a mutual friend, Teri, yet Teri is someone I have never met in person. She is one of my snailors (people with whom I swap letters). They were a pleasure to talk with and I was sad at their early departure, considering all that Cardiff has to offer and I didn’t have the chance to show off my beloved city. Later that night, I came down with COVID.
That the COVID episode felt no worse than a cold, I attribute to being fully vaccinated. The fact is, I have suffered plenty of colds far worse than this bout of COVID. Among nearly all my friends, I’m the last to contract COVID. I was beginning to think I was immune.
The COVID pestered me for only a week, but the pain in my knee increased to an annoying degree. This was a novel experience. It reached a point where it became difficult to rise from chairs and impossible to walk down steps. Fortunately, this building has an elevator. I live on the top floor. The knee did not stop me from taking strolls along the River Taff.
When, after two weeks, the pain did not dissipate, I contacted the doctor. Like magic, merely contacting the doctor caused the knee to begin improving. I am still awaiting the results of an x-ray. Meanwhile, as my knee improves, sciatica has moved into my lower back, left hip, and left leg. My health has a wicked sense of humor. I find myself laughing the moment after pain catches me off guard. Arthritis is playing tricks and I am amused when I am outwitted. However, my sense of humor remains intact only as the pain remains tolerable. Okay, so I don’t sit and I compose this essay while standing.
The best of the Founding Fathers, Ben Franklin, advised us, “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” I apply that strategy to my essays. These essays are letters to a broader audience. I am motivated by a sense of debt for having mysteriously been afforded existence. It is a need to offer something in return within the scope of my limited talents. It is a record of how I experience this place at this time. It is an effort to amuse or provoke thought as payment for being alive, preserved in writing because I’m mortal. I want to extract from existence the experience that deserves to not get lost, but I write distracted by discomfort and can think of little else.
This essay is finished. I intend to put on my socks, which, under the circumstances, will not be easy, and take my routine stroll through Bute Park and along the River Taff.
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
