Very First Draft
I actually overheard the conversation I'm describing in this story. It was one of the scariest things I've ever heard, and I hope to capture here a bit of the desperation I've felt since.
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Virginia Woolf wrote an essay titled "A Room of One's Own". I haven't read it yet. I will eventually. I'm trying to keep my mind clear of the meanings Woolf associated with the phrase, at least until I've finished telling you this.
I've also been worrying about something I overheard yesterday:
A senile woman in a wheelchair suddenly speaks up, loudly, "is there a chair behind me?"
"No Margaret." Says the nurse filling out reports.
"Is there anyone behind me?"
"No Margaret."
The nurse glances towards me, sharing the desk on her right. This floor smells like washed out urine and apple sauce; other residents occasionally moan phrases much less sane than Margaret, and the sound seems perfectly in tune with the smell of carpet and sharp overripe fruit.
"Has the nurse come yet? She's supposed to be here in fifteen minutes."
"No Margaret."
The nurse was originally from Trinidad and Tobago, but she only spoke in the accent with other nurses from small islands in the Caribbean. Occasionally I would come upon a group of them riding the elevator up or down (there were two male nurses - if you met a nurse in that place, even with your eyes closed, you would know that she was born on a small island in the Caribbean, wore a shapeless uniform almost as deep red as her skin, and was profoundly tired. This was true at 9 am, at lunch in the cafeteria, and even sitting on the benches outside as we left for home. The two men were never seen outside the third floor), and the women would ask me about the lunch menu or new equipment they needed in just barely a hint of the accent they spoke in only seconds before.
"This is all trash isn't it?"
"Your nurse will be here at 3 Margaret."
"Just trash, trash words."
We were both carefully avoiding the old woman's voice. I expected the nurse to be better at it, but neither of us knew what to do.
I just read Woolf's first few paragraphs. She writes with a much better voice than I could ever use.
The thing about this other woman, this senile woman wearing jewelry older than me, the thing is that I still can't imagine living in her world. Right now, me talking, for me, is My World. And that world just can't live with the simultaneous existence of an insane world.
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Virginia Woolf wrote an essay titled "A Room of One's Own". I haven't read it yet. I will eventually. I'm trying to keep my mind clear of the meanings Woolf associated with the phrase, at least until I've finished telling you this.
I've also been worrying about something I overheard yesterday:
A senile woman in a wheelchair suddenly speaks up, loudly, "is there a chair behind me?"
"No Margaret." Says the nurse filling out reports.
"Is there anyone behind me?"
"No Margaret."
The nurse glances towards me, sharing the desk on her right. This floor smells like washed out urine and apple sauce; other residents occasionally moan phrases much less sane than Margaret, and the sound seems perfectly in tune with the smell of carpet and sharp overripe fruit.
"Has the nurse come yet? She's supposed to be here in fifteen minutes."
"No Margaret."
The nurse was originally from Trinidad and Tobago, but she only spoke in the accent with other nurses from small islands in the Caribbean. Occasionally I would come upon a group of them riding the elevator up or down (there were two male nurses - if you met a nurse in that place, even with your eyes closed, you would know that she was born on a small island in the Caribbean, wore a shapeless uniform almost as deep red as her skin, and was profoundly tired. This was true at 9 am, at lunch in the cafeteria, and even sitting on the benches outside as we left for home. The two men were never seen outside the third floor), and the women would ask me about the lunch menu or new equipment they needed in just barely a hint of the accent they spoke in only seconds before.
"This is all trash isn't it?"
"Your nurse will be here at 3 Margaret."
"Just trash, trash words."
We were both carefully avoiding the old woman's voice. I expected the nurse to be better at it, but neither of us knew what to do.
I just read Woolf's first few paragraphs. She writes with a much better voice than I could ever use.
The thing about this other woman, this senile woman wearing jewelry older than me, the thing is that I still can't imagine living in her world. Right now, me talking, for me, is My World. And that world just can't live with the simultaneous existence of an insane world.
posted by Fifth at 3:24 PM
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