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Hollow-Holler

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November 14, 2005 - 4:26

I got my cast off, and so I am trying to type with two hands. Feels pretty cool.
My arm is really not as withered as I thought it would be, but it's the subtle deformities that disturb me. An almost total lack of ulna, contributing to a sloping wrist definition, and a shock of fine, dark hair on my hand. "The greenhouse effect", voracious growth beneath a covering.
Actually, I'm getting pretty into my hand looking like the pale one of a black-haired Irishman.
Fucking ulna, to be so aware of my bones is unsettling. I defaulted to one-hand typing again.
Today is Grandpa Nelson's funeral.
The last time I saw him:
This August in Coeur d' Alene. His eyes were jelly-red where they had been white, and I don't believe that he recognized me, even after I reminded him who I was. At his request, I played their organ. With my back turned I cried, because I knew that it would be the last time that I would do this for him. I wanted to stop, because I felt that I would almost be condoning his death if I played what I recognized to be a last song. Noah joined me, because I did stop, once that train of thought had set-in. We played duets for him. Noah is better than I am. I think he should get the organ, should it come to that. Tattoo of mermaid.

Pieano