The Care of Myself

So why can’t everything be perfect? God love him, he appealed to me. He had startled me into feeling an incredible amount of affection for a stranger—him—this inspector who rang my doorbell, who had dressed himself as a fireman.

“Do you have a wound? Is that a bandage on your head?” I asked him.

He tugged on the stretchy cloth which was not sup­posed to be hidden under his helmet. He said, “We all wear that.”

The days and the years pass so swiftly.

Now, what I am doing for my wound is this: I stick any old rag or balled-up old sock I can find as close to it as I can get. Belly-down on the floor, with my reading glasses on, I’ve also got some filler sticking almost into my asshole. With my bawdy book here to comfort me right in front of my nose—we are both, the book and I, products of a great civilization—I take the plunge. I am thrusting mightily, and sometimes I manage to get hurt again.