Pop Can in the Freezer

July 7, 2009 at 4:09 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , )

Oh, oh, oh. 

This is the therapy I got.  This is what I can afford.  

I really wish I was two people.  Then maybe some of my hours would be free of dread.  Not such a hot day, really.  And I have to get up early tomorrow to finish what I couldn’t finish tonight.  I feel really exhausted and overwhelmed and when that’s the case, I make bad decisions.  I totally pulled out in front of oncoming traffic.  I told myself as I drove off all numbly, that this completely justified the ice cream I bought at the grocery store.  This is my near-miss life.  But sometimes, I hit dead on.

Maybe you don’t want to hear about that.  I don’t know what to say in response to that because this is the story I have and if you want another story, you have to find a storyteller….or at least one a bit more in practice and a little bit less burned.

My necklace.   I don’t have to tell you it broke last night.  It was a little bit frightening in its immediacy.  But, in the most positive and optimistic manner, I put it back together on another rope and I put it on this morning.  We’ll continue to see.  24 hours with almost all of them trapped in an office isn’t really telling.  I guess I was hoping for proof for my faith.  For faith in a honey pill.

So, things of the day, things that you need to know – I’m not sure what they are.  I worked.  I went to the grocery store.  I came home.  I came to the page looking for a clue. 

I’m trying to get well, stir up some courage for tomorrow so I don’t crumble again beneath the waves of responsibility.  I’m trying to figure out what to do when I’m scrambling and what I’m doing is pulling me down harder. 

I need to write.

Boy, I’m not feeling all that precious tonight.  My hands hurt, the computer’s hot, and I’m watching Touched By An Angel on youtube.  I like myself a lot better when I’m not cowering, but I expect that’s fairly universal.  Apparently, as I’m learning from this show, most everything can be affected just by fixing the lighting.  A warm glow and you stop questioning.   I like its sweetness, though.  I like imagining angels that are so keen to help, to help with every problem, every distress.  Just being emotionally less than is a reason for them to call in the troops and soft light you back into correctness.  Gauzily straightening in a breath everything you’ve allowed to corkscrew.  Saying you’re blameless and good and have purpose and hope.  Sometimes even a cynic wants to buy in.  It’s a good short-term solution which is about the only solution I have to turn to right now. 

Time, I think, to spend a little quality time with my friends and not just the voices in my head, my sarcasm and my defeatist attitudes.  Right? Right.

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Badinage for One

July 4, 2009 at 4:46 am (diary) (, , , , , , , , , )

Well, I really don’t feel like doing this tonight. Like at all.

I should do drugs.  I did carry around a box tonight with the single word COKE printed on it.  And another one that read: BEER.  Coulda been a fun night if it was more than just words.  Story of my life.

I don’t have any clue how I’m going to get to 500 words without ending up complete gibberish.  We just finished eating at Village Inn which was pretty quiet except for a group of seven or so self-righteous teens and some kind of parental supervisory unit and they were all talking about the immorality of abortion.  My sister and I actually got up and got our food to go.  It was ridiculous because not only were they full of asinine confidence about the moral state of the soul and when conception happens (all this decided at the Village Inn, alert the media) – they were abrasively loud.

So tonight – it’s late at my crepes benedict feel like a wheelbarrow full of bricks got dumped in my stomach.  I don’t know what to talk about.  We can talk about tomorrow and freedom and fireworks and hanging out and being rad at the farmers’ market.  Or some variation thereof.  I’m not great at plying my words tonight.  Too tired and guilty.  It doesn’t grease the wheels.

Stupid man continued to be stupid.  I don’t know what he’s thinking.  This kind of overweening praise only serves to make him look…well, overweening and desperate and obnoxious.  At least to me.  I don’t need every time I see him to be complimented on how I have it together, or how I handle everything so well, or my overall aplomb or how I’m looking good or how if everything gets better with age in a few years I’ll be fucking Gandhi (that was my paraphrasing as I’m sure the actual wording was too lame to exist on this blog.)  It’s creepy.   It’s just creepy.

And it makes it difficult for me as I’m wildly in love with the voice of another man with the same name.  Yes, wildly.  His voice.  Yes.  It’s this David Duchovny-esque monotone and it sets my soul aflame.  This is a dangerous conflation of sign and signified.   They really couldn’t be more different except that both are convinced that I’m professionally more professional than I’d ever profess or than could ever be reality.  Yeah, say it three times fast.  And one has this tragic conception (it doesn’t begin with the sperm and the egg, kids, it begins with the dolt and the flapping jaw.  SHUT. IT.) that I might turn to him and bat my fucking eyelashes and give him some sort of satisfaction.  The other is oblivious to the fact that I may have saved his freaking life, that I bring him cake because I’m in love with his voice and I want to hear him talk about, well, everything in that sardonic manner that reduces everything to a pithy, dismissive soundbite.  He wasn’t in tonight so I had to give cake to the semi-rastafarian chick who ran the desk and look over my shoulder in despair to see if he was hiding in the racks.  Not so.  Another thing let go for another day.

Tomorrow I’m bringing my Decameron, my poetry, my Ipod, a pen and paper, maybe my laptop and a winning smile to our farmers’ market and see what I can pick up.  If the nice guy is there, as expected, the great plan involves staring at him until both of us are really uncomfortable.  I didn’t say it was a good plan…just a great one.  

The man in hospice yet lives.

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