I was born in 1952. The numbers add up to a Prime of 17 sandwiched between 13 and 19 and is the sum of four consecutive primes; 3, 5, 7, 9. Any other four prime would add up to a number divisible by 2 and thereby not prime.
For the most part 17 is considered a number of love, although the Latins regarded 17 as an unlucky number. One anagram of the Roman numeral XVII is VIXI, which in Latin translates as “I have lived”, with the implication “My life is over” or “I’m dead”.
This summer on August 1 I ran to the toilet into which I spewed a copious treacle of black blood.
I reckoned I vomited about a quart, a definite sign that something was seriously amiss within my body.
I took a taxi to NYU Langone on 1st Avenue. The ER said with a sense of urgency that I need to stay in the hospital for a four or five days of observation.
“I thought so.”
I had brought CLAUDIUS GOD by Robert Graves.
The doctors had their way with me, but I survived the episode with the staunching of the weeping lesion within my stomach.
The test and treatment of the past four months had exhausted my body and soul. My movement is minimal and I am hit by bouts of listless limbo. I actually feel good. Not great, but and am ready to write again. Shit I have nothing else to do.
17 come my way again.
