So many vital structures reside in the neck, all the highways that keep us alive, upright, sentient—an airway tube, a spinal cord cocooned in bone, and those magnificent vessels transporting blood to the brain.
Our heads are filled with the native rhythm of an aerobic beat and hot anticipation.
You know what they say—never trust anything that can bleed for a week without dying.
And here is another thing you do not remember: your parents telling you that you have polio, and that they are taking you to St. Margaret’s Hospital in Northridge.
Underneath is a body cast, my new ectoskeleton, my nautilus, crawled into, where I live now.
In the 1940’s, a young Marine returns from China to a small Pennsylvania town. One year later finds the body of the mother-in-law sprawled on the kitchen floor and the body of the wife in the living room, both perforated with bullets.
This is a temple for them, I thought. This is where the gods will be merciful or not. And I speak for the gods.
The thing about soap operas—and this gets left out when people criticize them—is that virtue is always rewarded, and vice is always punished.
When sick New Yorkers failed to find a place in private institutions like New York Hospital, they turned to public hospitals like Bellevue.