I want to make a video for Of Montreal’s “Fun Loving Nun.” Like a sitcom intro video. Can’t you just see a nun popping around trees and giving ice cream to criminals? And like, opening a chocolate pudding and it accidentally gets on her habit and the priest looks at her all worried like, “Oh no she’s gonna lose it this time!” but she just laughs, and then he realizes it’s okay and they laugh together? And then the camera pans in on her laughter and when it pulls back out she’s in a funny movie with a bunch of kids? I just think that would be nice.
After a lifetime with a penchant for case sensitivity that could choke an anaconda, I find myself all higgledy-piggledy over the matter. ENPS MAKES ME TYPE IN ALL CAPS. and facebook means never having to say, “i matter enough to capitalize my own pronoun.” What’s a girl to do anymore?
Running tonight, I tripped (JUST A LITTLE BIT) on the uneven sidewalk that parallels my street. It was really dark out, and to be fair, I was trying not to look down, so I didn’t feel that bad about myself. They say when one sense is dampened, the others rush in to compensate for it. But I think when I can’t see, it’s my memory, not my other senses, that floods my mind’s eye, leading to wildly overly contemplative instances like tonight. Huffing and puffing down 9th Ave., I could only see the tire of a 20″ bike, shakily negotiating the fractured concrete outside of my grandmother’s house in Beaver Falls. And then all of it: meatballs, TV trays, throwing rocks at cars, kids I didn’t want to talk to, my little brother’s fractured skull and toads in the backyard.
She sent me a card today. Probably several days ago, but I got it today. I can barely read her looping cursive anymore, but I can see so vividly the gold and black velveteen wallpaper in her living room and hear like my own voice the way the cabinet on the back of her bed rattled so pleasantly that sometimes I’d lay on it just to roll around.
She lives in a nursing home now, an “assisted care” place, though there’s really no assistance involved–they do everything for her. My dad sold her house–the house he (and for a lot of my childhood, I) grew up in–over the summer. And now I live in some stranger’s house, thinking how strange it is that I can never see the inside of her house anymore. At least not until I run down 9th at night again.