Issue 46, Spring 1969
It is morning, about ten o'clock. An hour ago I slipped and fell against the dull rim of the bathtub and broke what must be my right clavical. Afterwards, I lay on my back making a prolonged humming sound because the fractured bone was causing me so much pain. By now it has lessened to a throb-bing ache and I have become quiet.
The bathtub is one of the old kind, white, very deep and raised on legs which look like slightly cupped hands. Under it stray wisps of dust tremble sightly like ocean grass but never blow out onto the clean, dry floor where I lie. I never realized before how well defined the domains are in bathrooms. I've also noticed that the paint under the washbowl is hanging in jagged chips which never seem to come loose and fall on the floor. Evidently that is as far as the decaying process goes for washbowls. The paint becomes disturbed, cracks, turns down and there it hangs for an eternity or until an earthquake perhaps. At least my little fall has not shaken it any.