Waking Up

The one thing that can be said about London's oppressive heat wave is that it makes one sleep. Without these muggy tropical nights...with global warming, the British capital is projected to have Marseille's current climate by 2030...well, all I would do with the darkness is worry. It hits me as I slide off to sleep in the dorm room night, then returns in the morning, something between rage and fear, always at the back of things. But shoved well back by the thing that's always in the front of the spinal cord injured person's hot-weather physiology...exhaustion and the hope of something cooler. That something comes about five in the morning, a pleasant breeze, just enough to send me right back into another couple of hours of slumber.

I can tell that I am in the hysterical departure thing. Alastair who helped me pack up my Gloucestershire stay and set out for London five days ago would identify this as a clinical condition. He knows the contents of my suitcase. After complaining that the Cotswolds were too cool and purchasing a bunch of sweaters...not to mention a new jacket...my bags were full to bursting when we finally headed for the Moreton-in-Marsh rail station. Now in London, I am beyond that now, into another dimension, something that approximates nuclear fusion...or maybe the mega-force of a black hole's gravitation...because it will take a mega-force to close the suitcases after today's Oxford Street sortie...several more pullovers, trousers, socks. In short, it's hopeless. Or I am hopeless. Or to put a finer point on it, I am pinning all my hope on Jake, Caroline's son, who may have the human strength to cram the clothing genie into the suitcase bottle.

On going home I am divided, stretched in opposite extremes. I need to get back to where I live. Yes, it's where Marlou died. And as my friend Barbara pointed out today, it's where she lived. Where we lived. And I live. Because the tomato harvest should be on a roll, and the crookneck squash reaching out toward Oakland. And I need to get back. That's why in the last couple of days I've been asking people what it costs to buy a one-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury. Who cares? Why would I throw the last of my crash-depleted savings into a tiny residential space in London? In London, where the snows come in the winter. Where there's no room to grow tomatoes. Where the curb ramps are sometimes too steep for a wheelchair, sometimes nonexistent. What am I thinking?

I am not thinking. I am dreaming. That's why after buying all these clothes this afternoon, I rolled into a Whittard's and bought some tea. As the shop assistant pointed out, there was a three-for-the-price-of-two sale on, and only a fool would buy one box of tea. Which explains the presence of three boxes on my dormroom desk, awaiting the strong trash-compactor hands of Jake.

I am not disappointed. We cram, force, mash and reduce much of Marks & Spencer into a few liters of air space. Thus, Jake.

We have dinner. I had promised a ritual curry, but it's too hot, I'm too tired, and fortunately Jake doesn't seem to care. We sit in the same Italian restaurant in the Brunswick shopping arcade staring at the now familiar menu. We talk life. I find myself erring in the direction of giving Jake advice. This doesn't work, feels forced, and in the end all I can do is commiserate with his life in progress. He needs a job at a time when the British economy is not terribly robust. And what do I need? I tell Jake that I need to get published. This is not only my dream, but my evidence of failure. This has hung as a possibility in my life, and an accusatory finger, forever, it seems.

Jake tells me to send my writings out in all directions. Multiple publishers, several publications, just go for it. I tell him this isn't protocol. Why, he asks? I don't know. I really don't. Maybe he's right. In fact, I know he's right in spirit. Marketing myself is the hardest ego testing thing I can do. This realization, the fact that I am discovering this in the company of a much younger person, makes me feel sad. Life is so long, we progress so little...and last night, it drifts through my mind, Marlou was in a dream.

So was Perry, my physiotherapy assistant. Marlou and I were hugging and Perry was waiting to begin a therapy session. I realized that even though we were being watched, and something else was going on, I needed to embrace Marlou. This would be our last chance, it seemed. I pulled her close to me, ran my hand up and down her and...woke up. I am waking up now. There are things unfinished, and they happen to be in California. The cab for Heathrow turns up at 10:30 AM.