the hand

I was getting these daily injections of antibiotics the whole week. They’re a strange thing, this I might’ve already said. To pop in a pop-culture reference, “I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure”. This is antibiotix philosophy. I can’t complain too much – they worked on me, I am not dead. The whole thing was worth the thought of -> what if I’d received this sickness 100 years ago or 400 years ago? What state would I be in right now? What chance is there that I’ve have klercked off? I am indeed the kind of person who has in the past suffered from acne, and still do now and then. Part of this is always having the odd red spot on my chest. Getting a suntan can sometimes alleviate this but it’s obviously not a solution. But y’know after the treatment of antibiotics I didn’t have a single blemish or impurity on my skin. Weird.

For over half a week I was travelling up to the metropolis to get the shot. On the Sunday the main parts of the hospital were closed and I was told to show up at the Emergency Room and they would stick the thing in. It was a one per day thing. It was quite hefty; a small bag of liquid that’d be attached to something overhead which would drain into one of my veins. The ER was kind of interesting – lots of things going on to watch.

At the end they’d pull it out and I’d be asked to hold a small wad of wet sanitised paper over the puncture hole until it stopped bleeding. On this day maybe I didn’t hold it there long enough, over the vein they’d hit between my index and middle finger knuckles on the back of my hand. I chucked the paper thing in the bin and headed out, stopping at the can on the way.

Sometime the next day I noticed the vein was swollen in the way they do when it’s really hot or you’ve been running hard. Except neither of those things were happening and it was the only vein behaving this way.

At different times a golden brownish or purple-red blotch would appear on the back there.

I was a little concerned. Hospitals are great places to get sicker than you already are. For some reason ‘Golden staf’ came to mind. I don’t really know if it’s short for Golden Stafford … sounds like a dog. That’s just the way things are in Australia — everything gets shortened. I think mostly I’d only heard it reffered to as staf or staffy. Through vague association I knew this guy who’d had his whole fucking arm amputated because of some hospital fubar involving this doggy-sounding, institution-lurking disease.

But I’m sure if it was that then something like that would’ve happened by now. Something like the opposite is happening.

It taps. My right hand taps and thrums of its own will. It seems to like latin rhythms – rhumba, pachunga, samba. It only does it now and then but it’s perturbing. This morning I woke and found my arm hanging half out of bed, a stadtler 2B cradled in the hand, which seemed to be asleep. The matress is on the floor so it’s not like it was hanging down a long way. There was a scrap of paper under the pencil tip. Scrawled on it, I could decipher:

Plastic swords are no match

or jasmine records always

solar green and partial

as authors klercking chickens sharks

sharks are beaten, wake up.

The rhythms are one thing, but I’m hoping the bad poetry was a one off.