This has been a real, real shitty week. Just a litany of misery and bullshit. So that's what I'm drawing from. If things go how they've been going, I think my work is going to take on a really raw personal quality. As much as I try not to hide to much of myself, I think this stuff is just much more intimate than I'm used to, and I'll be writing about it much more emotionally and less intellectually. Maybe that's what art is, why I've been getting it not quite right all along. Or maybe its just angsty drivel. Que sera, etc. So anyway, preamble aside, what I'm thinking about writing for the next round is something that honestly I don't think will fit that well into the format, but I'm going to try it.
When I was really young, I couldn't tell my dad's sisters apart. There were four of them, and they all looked and sounded alike. They would always ask me, and I could never remember. Now, my grandfather is confined to his bed, and most times of most days, he can't remember who they are either. They come in and out and joke with him, ask him questions in loud voices, ask if he knows them. I saw him on Sunday for the first time in a while. I wasn't going to see him because I was afraid to. And I went to see him, and it was what I was afraid of. It was worse than that.
So here I am, cheerful, sunshiny Matt Jacobi, and I'm going to write to you, reader, a short piece in which I parallel my experience of being a child surrounded by this large and cacophonous yet loving family, with watching my grandfather, the patriarch of that family, slip away from us. I'm going to jump back and forth in time a little bit. I'll maybe include the scene, just so nobody has any questions about this being a happy story, in which we all stood around my grandmother's hospital bed as she took her last breaths. I would do this not to be heavy-handed, but to talk again about all that loving shouting that is always happening.
"Hey Matt, who am I? Aunt who?"
"It's ok Mom, if you need to go, its ok. We're going to take care of Daddy, and we're all going to stay together, always. You gave us that Mom. This is your family. We love you, heart and soul."
"Dad? Do you know who this is? This is Matt. Petey's Matt."
So maybe the whole thing is kind of about grandma anyway. I don't know. It's going to be too long for a short piece anyway, so maybe i'll do something else. We'll see what happens.
I'm really late on things, but this is so emotional. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s too and to parallel the experience you had with your aunts and your grandfather's with them is really interesting. I understand your concern for if it is too long, not is certain until you write it. I'm sure whatever you do write about will be awesome.
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