valve in forearm

an impossible to anticipate monday morning field report indeed. might i be so bold as to reveal that i have just now returned home from a most unexpected four-day episode spent recovering in a hospital bed from a relatively serious throat infection which beset me with great discomfort and high levels of fear and panic in the small hours of wednesday-night into thursday morning having returned home from a meeting with the wonderfully talented paulina stulin to aid me with the completion of my final 'nova conditions' manuscript.

i feel the need to share this information with you all, if only to explain my absence from all things decorative stamp and jamesreindeer-related since the middle of last week, a frustrating truth, largely due to the fact that there are serious amounts of projects afoot and not a moment to lose in working on them. sadly, a good deal of moments have been lost, but i am once again at near-full-strength and eager to bring everything back up to date over the coming days, so please expect a lot of news to emerge from both here and the decorative stamp as we wend our way towards mid-week.

so, might i just now briefly hint at some of what is in store, including revelations of the next three decorative stamp releases, including the first official 'jamesreindeer' solo release [of sorts], some seven years after my first commercial available musical outing, another very special and highly limited re-release of an unexpectedly very popular album from the decorative stamp and the next offering from everyones favourite anti-rap-alt-folk duo... shhhh...

so til then, might i leave you with this small prose-poem i found myself assembling in the early hours of last night, a mildly-fictionalised and overly-dramatic version of the events of my last four days and a very clear indication that i am certainly far from the best patient one could hope to be... my intense fear of hospitals something of a burden at an instance like this. enjoy! or, cringe in horror...

...and, might i also be so bold as to offer some personal 'shout-outs' to the very, very awesome and very very patient miss nadia d'alò, for visiting me on a daily basis despite her chaotic university and work schedule, for bringing my lots of tasty treats to supplement the hospital food as well as some essential english-language reading materials and for putting up with my abysmal mood. to the equally cool miss wirginia lewandowski for sending me wonderfully kind sms wishes and whom i still owe a telephone call, and the very, very, very wonderful oskar ohslon and winterismyname for hailing me on my cellphone at regular intervals to keep my spirits lifted, and to one herr schmidt, my room companion who was most kind a supportive despite our language barrier... i am most grateful indeed... and to my dearest mother, father and sister, i must sincerely apologise that this may be the first you're hearing of this, but i really, really didn't want you to worry unnecessarily! 

keep well

jamesreindeer

valve in forearm

gentle readers. we find ourselves in foreign hospital bed, valve in forearm staring long at the words emerging on the page before us. insect chirps and birdcalls in the night. distant trailing language rising up from unknown rooms below us, the droning hymn of the occassional aeroplane sailing by, the rattling of mechanical blinds in the evening breeze, intermittent bleeps and hospital noises from behind the closed door. at some stages laughter and grim moans coming in. 

we have been trapped here for the longest while, a seemingly simple ailment soon becoming a matter of utmost urgengy; infection, blood tests, antibiotics fed intravenously. the gim food arriving on plastic trays three times a day, the sound of herr schmidt* dying slowly in the bed next us. we feel utterly lost and alone in this dark, strange place. there is a silence in the still of the night, in between the cackling and whining, in between the rattling and heavy breaths of the sick and helpless. 

we feel our way through the night, each sigh a step closer to complete abandon. we are watching the grey paint of walls, the rounded corners of the plastic light switch, the geometry of the waste-basket by the doorway. our mechanical bed groans and purrs with each press of its automated button panel. our water and salbei tea in rectangular glass jugs, white plastic lids, brown plastic mug, dropper, tablets laid out in blue plastic containers, foggy air inhaler attatchment resting in grey card kidney bowl. 

we gaze long into the silence and curse our luck, curse our failing body, wish that we could escape into the cool of the night. to race out within the green of the forested hills surrounding the hospital, ride the tramline back into the city, back to the calm solitude of the safehouse, our plants laying dying on the windowsill, one already tossed down to the courtyard through lack of water to stabalise itself amidst even the gentlest of winds. 

there is a strange long misery that holds us. we long for escape, but slowly cannot be sure what we want to escape for. what is there beyond these four walls, beyond the corridor that leads us to the bathroom, to the inhalation room, to the consultation room, even to the elevator that takes us down to the lobby and the few lonely benches sitting idle at the foot of the vast concrete building. 

where are we going to indeed. what ride are we hoping to take. we long to rush out into the night, but are more and more filled with the strange unfolding misery that there is indeed nothing else beyond this place. we are destined to feel hopeless and lost after this strange interval. we may leave this place but our path has been irreperably broken, or skewed in some awful fashion that cannot repair itself. we have somehow been shifted off our course and can no longer find our way back to that simple moment before the affliction of grim infection bore down upon us unexpectedly in the night, reducing us to a scarcely breathing panicked wreck, a pathetic shambles of skin and bone trailing unknown miseries into the spring night. 

we are frightnened and lost and clambering wildly at some unknown in the hopes of finding solace amongst the half-sleep, that it might lift us up into the miracle abandon of some impossible plain beyond all this worldly sorrow and corporeal grit. we are desperate to escape, to pass out into the open sky, to leave this sick and frail body, a frightened spirit emerging from valve in forearm.

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*it seems only fair to mention that herr schmidt wasn't dying at all, although it really did sound like it at intervals. he was a very lovely, kind man and, despite the serious-sounding nature of his ailment, he actually got to go home before i did... setting the record straight in his honour.

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