LEVY ERWIN is a writer who cares about the materiality of forgetting. They teach writing at the Pratt School of Architecture and live in Queens, New York. Their work cannot be found in several journals that no longer exist.
On January 24, 2025 the New York Times broke an essay by Charles Piller titled “The Devastating Legacy of Lies in Alzheimer’s Science,” exposing widespread fraud in Alzheimer’s research and treatments. On March 8, 2025 the same publication reported“A Haunting Coda” on the details of the deaths of Gene Hackman and his wife, Betsy Arakawa.
Did you know that Gene Hackman died from Alzheimer’s related causes? First, one week prior, it was his wife–his caretaker, spontaneous death from a rare viral illness, collapsed mid-action, pill bottle and pills strewn on the floor and counter. How long did Gene, in agony, lie fallen on the carpet? Sweat gathering in the fibers, searching for his cane. The dog whimpered and starved to death in his crate. How far had Gene retreated into the mass of decayed flesh in his skull? Did he think to pick her pills off the tile, to dial the phone, or to let the dog out—he might have forgotten the finer motions of his wrists, could not intuit the movement from desire to outcome, or perhaps was so far gone that he didn’t even see that she was dead. And now I have to go to work? Who cares about Gene Hackman? I needed to think for a moment if I’d even seen his films. Of course I had. We had “The Royal Tenenbaums” on DVD, I watched it over and over as a teenager. I’ve seen his newest film—I can’t turn it off. It’s the one where Gene Hackman plays himself, dead on the carpet, dog whimpering in the background until he’s silent, and my mom is in the chair in the corner, she’s intravenously receiving Leqembi but her hair looks a little different. I ask “is any of this shit even working?” and a New York Times reporter whispers “no, it’s a scam,” but his voice is so quiet under the din of real god-honest fascism.
I wrote this in the dark, now it’s daylight. I’m on the highway driving towards Jersey City to meet my family for lunch. I’m in the spot along the Hudson where I’m always patiently waiting to merge to the left. I’m rehearsing a speech about pill bottles with timers on their caps and the like for my mother, while I play at convincing myself not to tell my parents that I’ve gotten back together with my ex-girlfriend again. It’s all a waste of time, it’s too soon! Which is true, in the sense that the disease is still early, in the sense that we weren’t “off” for very long, and also in the sense that I don’t need to tell my parents about everything all of the time right when it happens. It’s a logical narrative structure, like the Tenenbaums’ reconciliation, like lovers finding their way back to each other, like an Alzheimer’s diagnosis. You have a feeling you know exactly what’s going to happen, and the rest is a waiting game. Now I’m recording my speeches on my phone and playing them back, I honk my car’s horn over a minor inconvenience. I think of Step 4, a fearless moral inventory. I’ve got a big mouth, I wrote in my workbook. What does it mean to be ethical, to be compassionate in my intrepid searching? Does it mean breaking the structure, severing desire from outcome? I’m impatient. Case in point, I wrote this before the fact of the driving. I’m here at my desk in the dark the night before the lunch in New Jersey will even take place. I knew I could do it, I’m so familiar with the highways and the waiting.
The pill bottle, the crate, the door handle. These objects reveal their program. The contours of their outer edges, where hands have tread; I click the top of my pen, I flip on the light switch. My mother walks around the window blinds, perplexed. I want to tell her “to the right, just pull on the chain” but I think it would be better to wait.
Volume 15.2 ✧ Summer 25
Levy Erwin
