Continuing Confinement

Well, the weather has cleared up outside for the day today, it looks like. Yesterday’s storm has passed. The sun is shining brightly, and the trees outside my closed window are as still as death in the late December afternoon sunlight. It’s just after Christmas; just a couple of days before New Years. The clock on the wall is hammering out its singular seconds, one after the other: click, click, click, click. It’s almost too loud to ignore sometimes, as I sit trying to work. It clicks across the room, where I can look up and read the time on the antiquated-looking time piece. It adds to the Victorian flavor of the furnished suite. All the furniture looks old, but it all belongs to me.

The old-looking clock hangs on the wall across the room from the couch, where I sit to write at the moment and do other things on the internet with my laptop. The clock hangs over the back of the Queen Ann’s chair, on the opposite wall, where I sit with my back to it to read, talk on the telephone, or drink beverages. I refuse to have beverages near my laptop. I have designated places for doing the things I do here in my modest suite. There’s also a folding chair, of some quaint antiquity, where I sit to rehearse my guitar. That last item was a gift from the maintenance man. The folding chair is close enough to my music stand, that I can read the sheet music I’ve documented on my computer program, of the music I’ve written, whenever I can get around to relearning some more of my songs I’ve forgotten how to play, in the years my left hand was healing from the time I sprained it so badly, when I had that bad fall.

I’ve had another minor accident with my left hand here, earlier today. I’ve received a package in the mail, of something I’d ordered and paid for. It’s a modest digital camera, and I accidentally gouged my thumb open with the scissors I was using, while I was struggling to open the tightly wrapped shipping package the staff brought me. It’s such a nuisance that I can’t have a knife or box cutter any longer. Opening packages with a pair of scissors is a dangerous proposition anyway you look at it. Everyone packages things so soundly these days. One can scarcely get anything out of the packaging to use what they’ve purchased, anymore.

I keep hoping I’ll be able to record some guitar music in a few weeks, and then I go and have another accident with my left hand. What a nuisance it is, but I’ve already said that.

The day is another one of confinement, here at assisted living, near the beach. They’re trying to stamp out an in-house epidemic of an intestinal virus that’s infected nearly one third of the population in the building here. I’ve even had a touch of it myself, but managed to fight it off easily enough. My immune system is still pretty strong. It’s one of the strongest features of my health these days, to have a good immune system working for me.

I find that I’m still having troubles eating, since I only have three teeth in my bottom jaw. I’ve told them and told them, but I continue to have to struggle, especially during the quarantine, to get enough food that I can actually have something I can eat. I end up making at least one call to the desk around meal times, when the girls get the idea that I can get along on less than a snack for a meal.

In just a couple of weeks, all my trouble eating will be different for me. I’ll be getting permanent dentures before the middle of January, and I really can’t wait another minute. I realize the dentures will necessarily be an adjustment for me, but I’ve been looking forward to getting them for months now. It was a long, involved process of needing to have my teeth removed. Now, I’m on the brink of getting the choppers.

It’s relatively quiet here at the moment, except for the clock, which I find a little bit obtrusive of my thoughts. Earlier, there was a gaggle of working girls outside my door, having a moment’s conversation amongst themselves. There’s nothing wrong with hearing them get together to discuss this and that. I wasn’t really interested enough in what was going on with them, to even focus well enough eavesdrop on what they were saying, much less feel like popping out the door to the hallway, to add my two cents into the conversation. I’d almost like to have a conversation with someone, but writing will do.

My door, even with it standing slightly ajar, does not let most of the noise in from the hallway outside the room. But people tell me sometimes, that they can hear me play guitar with my door ajar, which I don’t mind at all. I don’t worry about people eavesdropping when I’m on the phone, either. I don’t waste energy that way.

The confinement is not really a very welcome development in the way things are going around here, although I frequently find myself in an anxious moment in the public dining room downstairs when we’re all free to gather. But we’re in a quarantine for the past three or four days, and that’s the decree of the medical staff.

I did get out of my suite last night, to go to the break room to buy some cookies from the vending machine downstairs. I found myself too hungry to put off eating more food until morning.

The day hurries on, now that I’m writing.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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