Chapter 22: $ = N(1/Q)

Marshall, [Wed 9]

First off, two things: 1) Sorry about the early start, and b) thanks for driving me to the airport.

I’ve arrived in Sydney and await my connecting flight across the ditch. Seeing as I have a couple of hours to kill I’ve hunted down an internet connection and here I sit, writing.

Last night was pretty full on emotionally. I had to contend with the conflicting emotions of wanting to be with my Dad, and not wanting to leave you. I know that you don’t begrudge me this trip, but I also know that you are suffering. As strange as it may sound (stay with me on this. I think I have a point), even after 9 months together (or maybe because of it only being 9 months together), that intense stab of emotion shows how much we love each other. Not that I ever doubted it, but sometimes it’s important to have it highlighted. I love you so very much and am sorry that I have abandoned you so suddenly (don’t protest this point. I know you feel abandoned despite your sentiments of ‘you have to be with your family’). It’s stupid, but part of me still feels that my actions over the past 48 hours have been selfish, but I am hopeful that this will not cause you to love me even a little bit less for fear of this happening again. I am not even sure that makes sense. I know what I’m trying to say, just having problems finding the right way of saying it. And I hope I’m not being misinterpreted.

I hope that this time has some positives for you (bed-hogging, time with the boys). Get drunk, and I shall see you soon for some world-class spooning action, hanging out and general life loveliness.

I love you so, so, so, so, so much.

All my love always

Hazel XXX

Hazel, [Wed 9]

I imagine that you have now made it safely to Christchurch and that your Dad is OK. I doubt you will be checking your emails tonight, but this message will still be in your inbox in the morning.

I think I understand what you were trying to say, and I’m in complete agreement with you. I hope you didn’t mis-interpret my emotional state last night as me trying to manipulate you into staying in Perth. Please know that I would never try to keep you from your family, especially at a time such as this. They need you there, and you need to be there. I hope you don’t think me selfish after my comments last night. I have to let you know that my upset for you far, far, far outweighs my upset for myself. I am glad you went, even if it means that I’ll be lonely over the coming however long.

I went in to work briefly this morning. Yoshi, Piers and Karl send their best wishes. I wasn’t in the mood to fool around, so I came home early with a few journal articles. It remains to be seen whether I even get them out of my bag. I’m tired after last night, so I can’t even begin to imagine how tired you must be by now.

I love you and hope you are well, and that the outlook is not as grim as you imagined.

Marshall XX

Marshall, [Thurs 10]

Morning. I hope you managed to get a good night’s sleep sprawled out across the bed.

Anne picked me up from the airport and took me to Mum’s. I wanted her to whisk me away to Dad’s side before dropping my suitcase at home, but it was midnight and well past visiting hours, so I had to be content with going in first thing this morning. I’m a little underdone sleep-wise as I’m sure you can understand, but cest la vie. I’m staying with Mum as morale support. Anne, Sid and Elise are talking about sleeping over at the old house tonight as well. Elise is super excited that I’m back and has already called dibs on sleeping in my bed tonight. She is constantly grinning at me through her missing front teeth, lisping my name (Aunty Ha-thel) and generally being cheeky about the place because she knows I’ll let her get away with it.

While it’s great to be here by his side, seeing Dad was also quite confronting. All kinds of wires and pads are taped to his freshly shaved chest either side of a raw, black-stitched scar. Tubes exit and enter his nose, and machines bleep, blink and wheeze out of time, composing a fugue on the theme of purgatory. He’s still in an induced coma. They are going to start weening him off the drugs either this evening or tomorrow morning. All things going well he’ll be awake tomorrow.

It’s kind of disturbing just how quickly I’ve settled back into my old life in Chch. A wave of sepia toned nostalgia hit me as soon as I hit the tarmac. Maybe it’s the circumstances for which I am back here, or maybe it’s the sheer amount of time and memory I have invested here, but straight away I felt safe and calm. It’s as though the air itself is composed of something different; less bleached, softer. The chewing gum pressed into the concrete spell out familiar shapes, telling the stories of the city.

Take care of yourself. Much love,

Hazel xxx

Hazel, [Thurs 10]

I’ve composed myself and am thinking clearly again. Sorry for being a douche the other night. I’m sorry that I was standing between you and your family at this terrible time. I feel really bad about it, so: Sorry.

We had a talk in the department over lunch today by some epidemiologist. It may even have been a good talk, but I was permanently distracted by her upward inflection at the end of every sentence? Making everything she said into a question? I couldn’t even tell you what the talk was about aside from the preamble introduction. Apparently she’s won all sorts of awards and shit. I noticed the inflection from the second sentence she said, and I couldn’t let it go. And it just wouldn’t stop. I thought that once she got into her stride and relaxed a bit she might start talking normally, but alas no. Leigh got the giggles, which set Karl off, and they had to leave the room.

Again, sorry about my behaviour. Please send my best wished to your father and everybody else over there. I can only imagine what you all are going through.

With love,

Marshall X

Marshall, [Fri 11]

Good morning. I’ve been at the hospital for most of the day. We slept in till 10 this morning, having stayed at the hospital well past visiting hours last night. The nurses eventually managed to persuade us that it was in the best interests of everyone for us to go home and reconvene in the morning.

Right now I’m in the visitors lounge. My legs are curled up beneath me on the chair in a far corner, notebook on my knee. Well away from the prying eyes and fast questions of other visitors looking to compare notes on who I’m here to see, their ailments, their prognosis- the macabre symptom death-match played out in hospital waiting rooms the world over. Some call it polite empathetic chitchat. I call it NONEOFYOURGODDAMBUSINESS.

Dad is doing OK. They pulled him out of the coma, and within a couple of hours he was able to briefly converse and confirm that ‘yes indeed, I’m still alive’. He’s napping atm. Anne has ducked out for a smoke and Elise has gone for a walk with Mum. It was hard to prise them away from the bedside. They’ve been shaken up pretty badly. Mum looks like she hasn’t slept a wink. Who would have thought I would be the one holding it all together, being the supportive shoulder, the one who gets shit done? You’d be proud of me. I cooked up magic porridge and pancakes for breakfast, and have been the one entertaining Elise and running those little errands you don’t notice during the regular course of the day. I make it my oath that the vending machine at the end of the corridor will be empty by the time I’m through with it.

I am actually a bit scared that, now that I’m with my family- near my father- that I’m not feeling the emotion of the situation as fiercely as when I was in Perth. Whether it’s because time has passed and I have gotten used to the idea of Dad being sick, or something within that has closed off from the outside world to protect me from the intensity of the emotions involved, I don’t know. But I’m feeling a little edgy about it. I don’t want to turn into this cold-hearted bitch that can no longer empathise with others, even family. It is that possibility that scares me, regardless of how stupid that may sound.

So that’s pretty much it for now. Sitting, waiting, surfing, reading trash, trying to write, reading more trash, waiting, waiting, waiting. There’s not much else to do, but it has to be done.

I’ll nip in and see whether Dad is awake again. If not I’ll go for a bit of a walk and get some clean air into my lungs. The hospital is located pretty much within the bounds of the botanical gardens, and is usually a good place to just sit and clear your head.

On a lighter note, Elise insisted this morning that she wouldn’t be leaving the house without her hot pink tutu, pink leggings, pink shoes, pink top, pink gloves, pink earmuffs, tiara and fairy wings of, you guessed it, pink. With her pink face and pink tongue sticking out through pink gums she was terrifying little ball of pink. Oh yeah, and it’s currently 30 degrees outside. She’s nuts.

I hope you are OK; that nothing too dramatic is going on. Of course I hope there is some drama, but just enough to keep life ticking over in interest. No more, no less. Keep on ticking along. Also, keep me up to date on any Karl/Leigh developments, and tell Yoshi he’s a sex pest for me.

Love you,

Hazel.

Hazel, [Fri 11]

I can completely understand your fear of becoming some caricature of a cold-hearted bitch. I think it’s perfectly natural to relax once you are with your family again. All the uncertainty that you felt has been eased because you now know, and can physically see, exactly the same as the rest of your family. I think it’s probably that you are more relaxed, and so the emotion associated with all the uncertainty is no longer as intense. You can see that your father is doing well and is going to be okay and get better, so now those heightened emotions are no longer required. So don’t be scared that you aren’t as emotional as you were. You are reacting in just the right way.

In unrelated news, there is a hole in the crotch of my jeans. I guess my balls are too big and chaff-y.

Right, I’m being hassled to go to the Tav. I guess I must do as my captors bid… I’ll call when I wake up tomorrow afternoon.

Marshall XxXxXxXxXx

Marshall, [Sat 12]

Thanks for your words of empathy today. It’s good to know that how I’m feeling is perfectly natural, that I’m not the cold hearted bitch I thought I was, and that I have somebody who cares enough to reassure me of that. Thank you.

I know that as I left you at the boarding gate I said that I’d write. Not just email, but physically write. But alas I must apologise for my failure to do so (thus far). There is something about the tactile nature of paper that makes the act of writing- and reading- so much more special. There is a sense of excitement in opening the letterbox to find a personal, hand-written envelope buried amongst the bills. The palpable, tingling anticipation of opening the envelope- trying, failing to open it without tearing. The rush of reading the scrawled script, reading it slowly to savour the voice and ideas contained. Devouring it as you would a good meal- all senses heightened. The idea of letters fills one with romance, but how often do we actually take the time to write and send. It is a romance laced with lament.

I will endeavour to write- my thoughts are with writing- but whether letters will ever materialise is a subject for the passage of time. Until then I hope you’ll be satisfied with this electronic form.

So how was last night? I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you got drunk, went to The Cellar and got a kebab (doner w extra garlic sauce) on the way home?

Me? Well I could now quite reasonably be considered an expert on the art of C.M Coolidge (the guy who painted the series ‘dogs playing poker’. There are examples of his work hanging in the visitors lounge). Last night we all went out for pizza, and then I sat on the couch and downed a bottle of pinot while watching old Cosby and Sinatra movies. Thrilling stuff. Stay tuned for the next exciting instalment of ‘Hazel goes to Christchurch’ for details of her ride on the tram. Certainly not to be missed.

I love you.

Hazel x

Hey Hazel, [Sat 12]

Remember, you’re not the only one who promised to write. I’m afraid that I am just as culpable as you are. So you see, the two cancel each other out, so neither of us is in the wrong. Perfect!

Well, as you expected, Tav-times ended up snowballing out of control again, and preceded in much the same manner as you imagined. We ended up at The Cellar again (where else?), where we flailed the night away. Pilar, Alby, Zach, Donna, Mattias and the rest of your crew appeared at about 12, and our groups merged somewhat. Karl decided that Leigh was getting overly friendly with Mattias (even though Leigh was more like a deer in Mattias’ headlights), and Leigh was upset with Karl for chatting and joking around with Pilar (who was off her chops and consequently talking closer than soberly appropriate). Rather than talking rationally about it they both huffed around and decided, independently, to leave the other to it, leaving at pretty much the same time via different exits. They are a regular comedy duo. But aside from those two the rest of us were in fine form; taking turns to dance (ridiculously) in the centre of the circle and grinding ghetto-style against each other; gay-chicken between Zach and Alby. Importantly however, Alby and Pilar had a bit of a pash in the line for the toilets towards the end. But then, this has all happened so many times before so it’s hard to gauge its importance. As to the question of after-dancing kebabs- no such luck. I did have a pie from the servo on my walk home, though.

Anyway, it’s hot here again and your crew are on their way here to pick me up on the way to the beach, so I’d better get my togs on, put contacts in and grab a towel. We all miss you, love you and hold out the best hope for your Dad (this was a common topic of last night, before memory cuts out). Know that.

Love you,

Marshall xxx

Marshall, [Sun 13]

Awww, Friday night sounds like a hell of a lot of fun. I wish everything was fine and that I was back there celebrating life with you all. Your stories make me nostalgic. I miss you guys, and take your love and thoughts in the spirit in which they were sent.

Me? Well, it is my very firm belief that technology is the scourge of creativity. The hospital in its wisdom has seen to having free Wi-Fi available throughout its halls. I suppose this is invaluable to the staff, and a useful tool for patients and their visitors to have some sort of access to the world outside the cloistered corridors and wormholes, but truly the internet is the enemy of art. To steal a phrase from Jonathan Franzen, “It's doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.” I’ve rarely had this sort of time to sit, contemplate, read and get down on paper the stories that clutter my mind, and yet I’m not doing as such. The internet is proving hard to ignore.

I haven’t read anything with any real depth since I landed. Every last word has been trash- soul-destroying ‘women’s mags’ and tabloid newspapers litter the coffee tables in the visitors lounge. Not only that, but my writing has gone down the crapper. I tried earlier to write something, anything. I took out my notebook and pen, opened it up, but nothing came out. I tried reading back over what I’d written on the flight, but was hit by a wave of revulsion at my own preciousness. I flicked to a few pages earlier hoping to find wisdom and inspiration in the quotes that litter the pages, but was crushed by their brilliance. Let me give you the tip: never keep quotes from the literature you read in the same notebook as you write in. When you read back over them you will only feel depressed. I feel like a charlatan. There is no possible way I can live up to the standard of my idols.

Be that as it may, I have to do something about this funk. I can’t keep going along reading naught by crap and expect greatness to somehow fall on me. I have resolved to take some time out either this afternoon or tomorrow morning to hunt down a bookshop. I feel lethargic, numbed and slack. But I can’t keep going on like this. It has to break.

Yours in torment and torpor,

Hazel xx

Morning Marshall, [Mon 14]

Just as I set out to do, I found a quaint little second-hand bookshop yesterday squirreled down a side street between the hospital and the centre of town. It’s either new, or a store that had completely missed my attentions all those years ago in school. But in either case I couldn’t have dreamed up a better result. It’s one of those long narrow stores stacked with shelves up to the rafters, and any spare space on the floor was taken up with stacks and stacks of paperbacks teetering precariously above my head. The musty homely smell of old paper greeted me at the door; the owner remained engrossed in his readings hidden behind piles of magazines atop the counter to my left. I could only manoeuvre through the store sideways like a crab, and had to lead with my satchel as my prow. The slightest nudge would have caused a rolling wave to fan out across the room and drown anybody in its path.

Anyway, piled amongst leftover copies of Dickens, Austen and anthologies of Shakespeare I found a 1930 hardback copy of Anna Karenina (sans dust-jacket unfortunately). It was actually ‘catalogued’ alongside an ironically water-damaged copy of Moby Dick. Anyway, I bought Anna for a scandalous $25. I feel as though I’ve stolen it. I’m tempted to go back there and hand over some more money. It’s certainly one of my more exciting second-hand finds.

It’s sitting on the coffee table in front of me. I’m imagining it jittering and jumping on the table, begging me to open its pages and savour the words within. I have a tingling sense of excitement and anticipation when I’ve just bought a new book and I know that I’m about to delve into it. I can’t help but grin. I guess this would be akin to you discovering a new and important piece of scientific information. It’s the thrill of discovery of the new and unexplored.

I’ll leave you with that little anecdote. I will now take a deep breath and start reading. Hopefully I’ll be able to immerse myself straight into the story and ignore all distractions. Who knows, maybe it’ll get my creative juices flowing again.

So long. For now I’m off to Russia. With love.

Hazel. XX

Hazel, [Mon 14]

That bookshop sounds amazing, like something out of Ali Baba. And I’m glad you are excited about reading/writing again.

So yeah, not much happened yesterday. I’m sorry that I didn’t email you, but I got caught up staring at the TV (cricket, you see). I only left the house to get Cheetos and ginger beer from the servo. Didn’t put clothes on until then (5pm), and certainly didn’t shower. I haven’t had a day like that in, like, forever! The TV was my power cord and I recharged in its warm electric glow all day and into the night.

Yoshi was just in my office telling me about his latest plan to help foreign women get permanent residency by marrying them, or by finding someone else to marry them, so they don’t have to leave the country. A network of pimped out marriages across the land. Sometimes I seriously wonder about his sanity.

Yours in lethargy,

Marshall

Marshall, [Tues 15]

It sounds as though your television is my bookstore; I feel alive again, sparking on all six.

Just as you said, the finding and reading of a good great book has reignited my flame for writing. I’m taking the liberty of wallowing in the minutiae of Tolstoy’s world, his precise descriptions and poetic meanderings. I didn’t get to start reading until after dinner, and I found myself not turning out the light until 3am. I’d curled up within the warm embrace of a high-armed chair with a bottle of pinot, a thermos of Earl Grey and a pack of Tim-Tams by my side, and got completely transported into the elegant and sophisticated world of 1800s Russia. I’d forgotten the magic spell that literature has over me. I haven’t been in that position in quite some time. I feel reinvigorated, in love with words again.

Dad’s condition has improved a lot these past couple of days. He’s lucid again, and itching to be out of this place, but the doctors are saying it’ll be another week or so before he can be sent home. They’ve backed off his pain killers, and he’s getting back to being the man he always was, albeit one that is confined to bed and short walks to the bathroom. He’s already bitching and moaning about not being able to leave the ward, not having the energy to shower unassisted, and the interminable stupidity of everything on the ‘idiot box’ bar the news. The rest, in his opinion, is garbage. The spouting of one of his pet gripes is heartening (if you’ll excuse the pun) to say the least.

Yours in resuscitation,

Hazel xx

Hazel, you magnificent beast! [Tues 15]

It’s great that you’re getting back in to the game. I’m here in the office eating the gustatory triumph that is the Katsu Chicken Curry from the Japanese place down at Broadway. You just KNOW it’s bad for you but by god it’s tasty. The chef is surely a giant amongst men.

I have a Western running at the moment, so I have about another hour to kill. Then it’s back to the lab for fun blocking, incubating a washing times. Fuck yeah. You can’t hold me back. Don’t even be trying.

I rode to uni this morning along the windy cycle path on the foreshore. The Easterly was starting up again after yesterday’s cool change, so I figured I could catch it in to work, then float home on the sea-breeze this evening. Riding is so much more fun when you have the wind behind you.

I spent the morning trawling PubMed for papers of interest, and trawled the Nature and Science websites for things that might not be immediately relevant. I’m tying to write at least my lit review as I go so that when it comes time to discuss my results all the references I need will already be catalogued and notarised, so it’ll be less work at the end. That’s the plan anyway. Whether it works or not is up for debate. Mostly what happens is I get sidetracked by a tangent, read up on it extensively, then when I take a step back realise that it actually has very little to do with the precise mechanisms of my thesis. Still, mind expansion and all that.

Yours in literature,

The man with the ever-expanding brain

Marshall, [Wed 16]

I am excited. This morning I was struck by the overwhelming urge to write. I took out my notebook and pen and started to put down the ideas as they came to me, weaving lines into each other. Usually I like to have some semblance of a plan of what I’m going to write about, however often the story takes on a form and course of its own ungovernable by my initial intentions. It is only once it is all down on the page that I can start to cut and change and direct the story into a form befitting its themes. The hard part is often taking these seemingly disparate threads and ideas and moulding them into one coherent narrative. It’s like a wild steer pulling against the ropes and constrains placed against it. The best I can do is let it have its head and go wherever it wants to go.

So my mind has been purged of all these snippets and ideas. They are still weaving into and out of each other in my mind. The earthquake may have occurred, but the story will continue to roil with aftershocks until they feel they are bedded down into the landscape that best suits them. I feel as if I am merely their conduit to the outside world.

Anyway, this is all a bit Meta. I feel I may have embarrassed myself by putting it out there like that, but once I’m moving I find it exceedingly difficult to put on the brakes. I’m excited by the speed and mystery, adrenaline surges along the path from my head to my hands. All else is superfluous.

Oh dear, there I went again. I’ll calm down now. Promise. The central thesis I wanted to discuss with you today is this hypothesis I have come up with. I am fairly confident that my writing output- its scale and quality- is directly influenced by the quality and quantity of my reading. A few days ago I was reading nothing but trash, and writing nothing but trash in response. But now having read half of Anna Karenina- often in vast swathes and in single sittings- I am again inspired to write. This morning I covered nine pages in scrawl. And while I haven’t read back over it (I usually like to have a cooling-off period before reading and editing), I am fairly confident that much of what I wrote is salvageable into one, maybe two, short stories. To steal a cliché, I feel as though I’m walking on air. I’m elated. This must be how you feel upon having your scientific ideas validated by hard data. You know, when something is just right, and then having that feeling validated by actual evidence.

Yours in inspiration,

Love you, Hazel

Hazel, [Wed 16]

So what you are saying with regard to your writing is that your writing output is directly proportional to the amount and quality of your reading? Or in mathematical speak:

$ = N(1/Q)

where $ is output (obviously); N is the quantity; and Q is the quality of those words on a sliding scale from 0 to 1 where 0 is shit and 1 is perfect. That ought to do the trick!

In Yoshi related news (you have been warned), this morning he tried to give me a USB loaded with porn. He figures that with you being away I may be in need of some extra stimulation. There is no way I could use it without having the image of Yoshi beating his meat popping into my head. It’s just plain wrong.

Yours in mathematics and masturbation,

Marshall

Marshall, [Thurs 17]

You, Sir, are a massive NERD. It made me literally LOL.

Rarely have I ever had this sort of space and time to hunker up with my own thought and form ideas and plot. Hard to believe given my history of unemployment, but it is true. I feel refreshed, energized. I’m starting to understand your compulsion for space. There is something about having time, space and complete freedom of thought that imparts on you this incredible internal poise and grace.

Yours in a world of time and space,

Love you, Hazel