Prosebox, a blogging site where I keep my backup blog, lists past diary entries running down the right side. I read a few yesterday. I was thinking later how well I could write. Concisely. Interestingly. Then last night I dreamed I forgot myself. Wandering around, or driving around in a red sports car, aimlessly haunting the home of new friends as they move in.
Now I know I am losing myself. I don’t just forget one or two things a day, but I often forget five or more. Sometimes G feels more like a caretaker than a lover. Yet the house is clean, the laundry done, the trash out, and there’s art on the walls…much of this thanks to G.
Today we are both going to the doctors. He for his knees, and I for my skin. I didn’t forget the appointments. They are written in an old appointment book, and both of us remember to look. Even Marta is written in just so we remember to clean up after ourselves. For on top of everything, we admit we are slobs.
Himself: At work at 6 so he doesn’t lose the day’s pay. His appointment is at 2:30pm.