a salt shaker, a(for) stitch in thy (em)
[Email to Prayery 21 Sep 05]:
Funny you should think of me as having gotten bonked on the head. As a matter of fact, I did. And I was going to mention how fortuitous and prescient it was of you to send me a book on amnesia, because I remember nothing of the “simple assault” (as my police receipt put it) that caused my concussion that caused my amnesia. I remember stepping out of a taxi in Myrtle Beach (on a darkened side street 10:30ish at night, of course), and kind of remember a man in the distance walking towards me. Then I remember sitting up on a stretcher as it was wheeled collapsibly into the back of the ambulance, my shirt soaked in blood. Then I remember the doctor in the ER asking me where I was. “Man, I honestly don’t know.” What month is it? “June,” I said.
The four or five stitches in my lip I recall vaguely as a fishing experiment or Pinochio playing at The Theater of the Absurd.
Then the CAT scan–no memory of it.
Then it’s 6:30AM and I’m handing over my Amex Blue (all pretty translucentness) to the money nurse to charge like $1600.
It wasn’t the forget-your-name kind of amnesia, but the book says that hardly exists outside of fiction, and I’ve never not been able to remember something before. It’s unnerving. Weird. I went back to the hospital for my medical records for clues, which is what brought back the summertime dialog I had with the doctor. Should do the same with the police but suspect it’ll be too fruitless a hassle for my lazy, busy, paranoid life. So, I have the book to process it with–one of the few books I brought down here with me. Thanks.