October 11, 2001
I was on the West Side, realizing it is a month later but nevertheless enjoying one of those days that we live for: light strained through prisms of lemon essence, an astringent to every edge, the climate resolved briefly to perfection. A police car with a siren going is accompanying a van East on 23rd street. I continue with the efficient knitting of the self absorption of my days: leaving the dentist, relief at the end of a series of unpleasant treatments, the pain in my jaw retreating, excitement at the prospect of more time on the North Fork. Only the faded underline of guilt beneath the pleasure. I notice the van has the words City Morgue written on it. There is nothing clinical about the van, it is a gray cube van. Shouldn’t it be white? Morgue, America’s charming love affair with older English, mortuary is a more recent term. What are the other words illustrating the archaic strains of American English? What is it carrying? I become fixated on the arrangement of the interior of the van. Is it like the bread van that used to deliver bread to our house? Layers of narrow shelves with deep wooden trays each containing the fresh, soft loaves in waxy wrappers. Are there torsos, limbs, fragments of bodies laid out on trays, in body bags? Parts that were cherished. It occurs to me that dying in a less violent fashion, to die whole, not to be in parts, is a great privilege. I can’t get beyond the imagined horror of the van’s interior, wondering at its system, but only the van brings me close, briefly, to what has happened.
we need more posts, rachael.......
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I was on the West Side, realizing it is a month later but nevertheless enjoying one of those days that we live for: light strained through prisms of lemon essence, an astringent to every edge, the climate resolved briefly to perfection. A police car with a siren going is accompanying a van East on 23rd street. I continue with the efficient knitting of the self absorption of my days: leaving the dentist, relief at the end of a series of unpleasant treatments, the pain in my jaw retreating, excitement at the prospect of more time on the North Fork. Only the faded underline of guilt beneath the pleasure. I notice the van has the words City Morgue written on it. There is nothing clinical about the van, it is a gray cube van. Shouldn’t it be white? Morgue, America’s charming love affair with older English, mortuary is a more recent term. What are the other words illustrating the archaic strains of American English? What is it carrying? I become fixated on the arrangement of the interior of the van. Is it like the bread van that used to deliver bread to our house? Layers of narrow shelves with deep wooden trays each containing the fresh, soft loaves in waxy wrappers. Are there torsos, limbs, fragments of bodies laid out on trays, in body bags? Parts that were cherished. It occurs to me that dying in a less violent fashion, to die whole, not to be in parts, is a great privilege. I can’t get beyond the imagined horror of the van’s interior, wondering at its system, but only the van brings me close, briefly, to what has happened.
- rachael 10-12-2001 1:01 am
we need more posts, rachael.......
- anonymous (guest) 10-24-2001 11:05 pm [add a comment]