this came on the classical radio station during a calm-in-the-eye-of-the storm moment at work around 3am last night while i was checking a long hallway of resident bedrooms to make sure everyone was still breathing while they slept. sometimes they are not. working at night, i am often the one who finds them. i can't imagine a nicer way to die, though.
 

work later tonight. a dated fine arts quartet lp version of this piece is crackling from my record player. sometimes i love that i can talk to 70 + year olds in the nursing home about chamber music with the same sort of sincere enthusiasm and curiousity as i do with people in their 20s and 30s about metal.
 

the withered old woman who reguarly communicates with ghosts in the walls and thinks i am her son has been seeing children. all this week she's been calling me into her room to drive them off, insisting they are intent on taking her to the cathedral. today she finally became unresponsive and they wheeled her out to the hospital. i miss my friend already.

 @work tonight i assisted in the restraint of a howling hysterical old woman who, in some midnight transformation, had managed to claw right through her brief & furiously smear its contents all over her body & face like fecal warpaint. we had to cut off her nightgown to begin the cleanup. as i held her hands & she screamed about the bugs under her skin, i glanced down into her gaping angry mouth, saw her exposed tonsils & realized just how much she resembled the soap lady from the mutter museum. my heart swelled. philly, i am deliriously homesick.

one of the most consistently demented old women in the nursing home has a background in opera and told me last night her favorite role of all time was singing in a production of Aïda as the title character, so that is what i call her.

(@ work, 5am, taking morning vitals on withered old woman)
WITHERED OLD WOMAN: say..
ME: yeah?
HER: i thought you were my son cliff. but you're not him.
ME: (impressed) no, i'm not.
HER: well, who are you then?
ME: my name is myles.
HER: myles?
ME: yeah.
HER: there was a fellow here a little while ago named myles.
ME: oh yeah? what was he like?
HER: very kind and handsome.
ME: (smirking) did he look like me?
HER: no.

rediscovering how much i love the string arrangement on this. poison girls remain one of the only "anarcho" bands besides kukl that ever did anything for me. also one of my favorite new hags in the nursing home asked me tonight what all the protests in new york are about and when i told her she rolled her eyes and grumbled "well, it took everyone long enough."
 

(@work, midnight, changing diaper of grimacing, uncooperative former new yorker crone.)
NEW YORK CRONE: (grabs my arm suddenly) dear god!
ME: what?
HER: what? whaddaya mean 'what'? what the hell did you do to yourself?!
ME: oh i got a tattoo. it's not done.
HER: (scowling) well what is it?
ME: it's a blindfolded queen design based on a baroque instrument scroll--
HER: (raising eyebrows) a queen? aren't you worried people will think you're..y'know..(bends wrist flamboyantly)
ME: gay? no that's never been a problem.