Mnemosyne
You don’t know me well enough to know if I’m doing this to be ironic or not.
You don’t know if I’m humming the old song we used to sing because I want to remember or because I can’t forget.
Oh, how maudlin we’ve become in our twenties.
There’s a few things I think are memorable about this gray, odd, awkward day. I’ve made a plan to make a new life plan. This plan is currently in only the outline stage, but it involves me shedding lame old habits and picking up fresh, tremendous, dynamic new ones. Like this dear haunt, for one, and the dressing I am sewing for its windows. Apparently, the plan involves purchasing a vibrator. And lots of water glasses being ticked off a very large chart. And it involves me cooking – which I seem to avoid like the plague of late and I don’t know why. Which is to say, I know exactly why, the kitchen’s a mess and I really can’t be arsed to clean it. Because I only have have the desire and ability to do one thing well and if I give it to an apple green kitchen, I can’t be giving it to you. So, really, aren’t you happy with my choice?
I don’t know why I’ve given up on the question mark. Another way I’ve failed the English grammar, I suppose.
The plan will go into effect whenever it will be most efficacious or whenever I feel the strongest longing for a greater happiness that outweighs my natural sloth and terror. Soon, I hope, probably when I feel my tether slip. I’ve already been clocked about the head about the need for the plan by people I both love and loathe, so we’ll have to see what becomes the trigger. I’m getting myself open to it. I’m counteracting the inertia. Clever!
I have no idea how I ever got to 500 words ever before. This is a sort of agony tonight, but I will soldier on. It’s cooler, anyway, and the rain has stayed the grievous heat that has made its way under my skin and would not give me peace. What else?
The man in hospice was sitting up today. It’s not disappointment, or even awe that he’s still alive that I feel, it’s more a sort of feeling that you know that someone’s playing hooky. It’s not your business, and you won’t tell, but you wonder if someone’s waiting on him, tapping their feet. But I don’t think he’s the one keeping him there. I think he’s got every limb tied to someone who loves him and can’t manage without him, even though they have to. Even though one of his best friends told us about the plans for the service, the cremation. Even though he was sitting up today. So they increase the morphine, he turns yellow and corpse-like, and we talk about what we’re doing for the fourth of July and how much we’re looking forward to the fireworks.
Also, as a post-script, I may have flashed a woman today by accident. Sorry, it’s a horrible shirt!
