Wednesday, November 26, 2014

4 years, 11 months, 2 days, 23 hours, 8 minutes

"You get your marbles back at 5."

Whatever that means...

It's easier some days than others to find meaning in any of the slogans, despite knowing in one's heart of hearts that life could be so very different if that sudden left turn back there had been ignored.

Or had I just zipped by it.

Then there are other days.  There are rainy days, sad days, introspective days, lonely days, days filled with too much reflection, days filled with too many thoughts despite that everyone knows how bad it is to think too much.  Think, Think, Think upside down somewhere on every wall in every room and people smile when they explain it but sometimes it's pretty certain that they don't get the joke themselves and they're repeating something they heard and smiling the same smile someone smiled 

Knowing smiles...


Maybe in some cases.  Maybe not in others.  That remains to be seen.  

There are days when it seems more prudent to stay in bed, and sometimes there are several of those days in a row.  I mostly ignore them now and soldier through but even the way I phrase that irks me.  I annoy myself.  It's rather a luxury problem to have to get up out of bed and go to a job that pays the rent and the light bill, isn't it?  Soldiering through doesn't quite capture the truth of it, on the surface anyway.  What lies beneath the surface remains to be seen.  


“I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite."

Thank you, Fyodor.

In spite of myself...

So I sit here to day, feeling dull yellow and jaundiced, though there is nothing to see in the mirror, at least on the surface.  I lift my shirt and poke at my mid-section there beneath my ribs where I presume my liver to me and everything feels in order.  It's actually one of the few spots today where there is no pain at all.  Curious, that...

So it must be in my head and maybe these marbles they speak of will appear suddenly and I'll have to grab at them.  Do I get them all at once?  Will I even recognize them when I see them?  Will they be neatly tied in a sack or will they be scattered about the floor where I have to chase them beneath the furniture?  Will they be rocketing about the place like in a pinball machine?

Or will it be like exhaling?

The image that remains stuck in my head on mornings like this is the Headmistress from the Madeleine books my sister read when we were children.  She sits upright in her bed and says, "Something is not right!"

Indeed, something is not right.  There has at least been gratitude at this point in recent years, where now  it is elusive, rolling about the floor like those marbles.  It's rare that a shopkeeper takes a thorough inventory and finds nothing at all on his shelves.  It would be dishonest to say that my cupboards are bare, but at the same time there seems to be very little that is edible, or at least palatable.  There is a great divide between edible and palatable.  You may not like it, but...

Still, something is not right.

The man himself wrote in these shady lines, like "trudging the road of happy destiny."  He never comes right out and says that some days are just plain and simple going to suck as horribly as any you've ever known, but it is implied in several places in his writing.  Some days will not be happy, nor joyous, nor free, nor any small combination thereof.  Some days will just be today.

Today is certainly today.  It is just a cold, rainy Wednesday in November.  People will be well-wishing and talking about gratitude, and they will be talking about relativity and how we should all be "fucking thankful" that we are not this or that, nor here or there, because some people would just fucking love to be in our shoes right at this minute.  Is it fucking annoying because they are right or is it just fucking annoying?  Who knows?  I've never been good about being told how I should feel about anything.

Today is today.

4 years, 11 months, 2 days, 23 hours and counting, today is today.  Tomorrow will be tomorrow and maybe things will look different than today.

Monday, November 24, 2014

Am I my brother's keeper?

Yes, I am...

Every so often something pops up on Facebook that bears reposting.  People will see what they want to see, though, so here I am trying to not think so much about why impossibly sad songs resonate so deeply.

Is this the saddest song ever?

Well, why the fuck not?

Sartorial Splendor

When I moved here thirty years ago, NYC was still a 24/7 celebration of self-expression by any means necessary.  This gentleman makes me homesick for 1979.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Thousands are sailing...

Now see...

If they controlled everything, why would there be incriminating evidence so easily accessed on the most commonly used search engine.  I see flaws in this statement.

Get a job.

Get a life.

Take a seat.

Have a sandwich.

Do some fucking thing.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Questions? No...

Then there comes a point where you not only stop asking questions, but shut out the possibility that there are any questions at all.

No lack of information.

No missing details.

No mystery.

Because you know from experience that all secrets are bad and if they're not talking about it then it must be really, really secret and hence, doubly bad.

So you block it out.  This is what there is.  This is all there ever has been or ever will be and you're going to content yourself with that as best you can.  At some point you will disappear like the things nobody will talk about and you will be somewhere else reinventing yourself.

And that will be that.

Friday, November 07, 2014

Thursday, November 06, 2014

The Freedom Flow Chart

Or it seems to make sense that it should flow like this, towards release:

Existentialism > Nihilism > Zen

Because if there is no good or no bad and everything is equal anyway, or at the very least is equally meaningless...

Then nothing really matters and one can simply let go of the stone.

The weight.

I don't know.

I'm not telling.

I think I'm asking.

Or perhaps it's nowhere near to bleak as it feels on a rainy autumn morning after 24 hours of election results on top of job anxiety on top of mid-life reflection.

Just walk.

Count steps and clear the mind of everything but counting steps.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, Friday, Saturday, December...

Saturday, November 01, 2014

La Peste

When you look at the early survival rates for people in North America infected with ebola, it kind of makes you wonder if the demands for travel restriction are to keep ebola out or to keep people with no medical benefits out. The one person to die so far had none. Hmmm...

Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt...

"The Man with Night Sweats," Thom Gunn
I wake up cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat
Wake to their residue,
Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
My flesh was its own shield:
Where it was gashed, it healed.
I grew as I explored
The body I could trust
Even while I adored
The risk that made robust,
A world of wonders in
Each challenge to the skin.
I cannot but be sorry
The given shield was cracked,
My mind reduced to hurry,
My flesh reduced and wrecked.
I have to change the bed,
But catch myself instead
Stopped upright where I am
Hugging my body to me
As if to shield it from
The pains that will go through me,

As if hands were enough
To hold an avalanche off.