My dear Emili,
Today seems a good day to write. Milky skies, not a peep of sunshine, Easter Holidays stretching before me with unfilled possibilities. I've made a little home for myself at my desk, surrounded by books, and the various language tasks I have to complete are endless. I wanted to get the ink and ideas flowing- to unblock my creative faculties- with this letter.
The most interesting and problematic task I have to do is an essay for German literature. All of the books we studied deal with the aftermath of WW2 from a German perspective- and surprisingly take on the subject from an angle which emphasises German suffering.
The question is: To what extent can we say these texts are trauma narratives? It's interesting because Germany is historically considered the aggressor, the invader, the perpetrator of hideous Nazi crimes, and yet these authors seem to not want to engage with Holocaust-guilt or accept national responsibility, rather they put forward the idea that German civilians were just as much victims of war and circumstance and Nazi-crimes- yet not all of them can be guilt-free, some must have participated, or participated through their silence in the face of crimes such as genocide.
Well, that's what I've got in store for myself for today.
My boyfriend just rang me from G hospital. The scan on his pancreas didn't show anything to worry about, although it's possible they may have to test some cells, just to make sure. They do that by sticking some little device down your throat and remote-controlling it to go to the desired part.
Hospitals fascinate me. It's funy how much trust we put in these doctors and nurses- but they're people just like us, who get tired and frustrated and argue with their spouses and make errors of judgement.
I feel pretty happy that he's "in there" while I'm away down here though, because, as people like to repeat to each other, he'll be "well looked after". The food in there is damn good too.
I visited yesterday. It was icy cold and kept threatening to snow. I got off at G Metro station and then got a bus which climbed for ages an endless ten minutes up a steep hill, past grim houses and grim shops. The hospital itself was a big, unmodern block.
I navigated endless corridors, right-turn, left-turn, double doors, up stairs... passing and leaving behind branching corridors labeled with horrors such as "open chest surgery" and "critical care".
My boyfriend was on "ward 9" and I was told he was in the end cubicle by a harassed nurse. He got his own little room, what a luxury! En-suite and everything. That medical smell pervaded everything though.
He was lying in bed wearing one of those ridiculous hospital-gowns, open at the back, that look like they're made out of paper. He was all groggy from the morphine and not as smiley to see me as he usually is, hair all a sexy mess, and confused and slightly mad eyes.
I sat in bed next to him, but he kept feeling nauseous. Then a doctor came in (a girl who looked barely older than me!) and started talking about calcium deposits and scans and mentioning the "C-Word".
But back to the lunch menu- you tick your options for the next day- and there's more choice than at a school canteen! One of the side-dishes was called "mashed swede" which made us laugh, cos that was pretty much a description of Dan when he got admitted.
I feel fairly guilty for not being in N. A heart-stabbing, itching seems to be attacking me. I want to write to him, but I don't think the hospital has a postal service. Perhaps I could make a package and get someone up there to personally deliver it to him? But who? French Charlotte? Who would go out of their way like that for a friend in need? I feel that you would. That's real friendship I think. All the others I would feel i couldn't "put on them" or "bother them". With real friendship, these considerations don't even come into question.
But... how are you? How is the London life? The bars, the club-nights, the tube, the rain-splattered pavements radiant with neon lights...
And as for the whole egg situation, not to be a nagging mother-hen, but it is somewhat concerning. Even if one brushes it off as "fooling around" or "a joke" D's aware of and in control of his actions and how far they're going... was it all really in good-spirits or was there some subconscious, concealed aggression? Perhaps some childish spite and jealousy behind his egg-crush?
The way I see it- here you are, making money, getting out there, giving it your best shot. Despite his big-talking, you're the beautiful one, and the one who's come out top. Perhaps it's a frustration at himself and subconscious jealousy that made him act in this way?
In any case, you should make sure that you keep that self-confidence and belief in your own strengths and identity firmly established and impermeable to outside influences.
Today is four months since M's death. I'm not sure what to say about that really, except I still disbelieve it. I guess I'm horrified at the way it happened and that fact that he "took his own life". I can't "come to terms" with the nature of the death, so I can't move on to properly mourning him and missing him.
But do I really miss him yet? I hardly see you and I don't miss you as such, because I know you're still there, a part of my life, and instinct and clairvoyance tells me, our paths will cross many more times, for many more years.
I think when summer comes. Then will be the time that I properly miss him. We would spend the majority of our free time together, every long, lazy summer, for the past four years, from 2008. Those summer days are gonna come and shine on me and warm and scorch my unprotected soul, but hey won't shine on him, and his absence in the world will be very marked. For me at least.
And I've worn myself out with these melancholy thoughts. Write to my S address- tell me all; weave me stories and illuminate the tangled pathways and dark tunnels in your mind, so that I may see your thoughts.
Thinking of you. Lots of love.
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