Syracusa Soda Fountain Blues

I am doing that terrible thing where I touch the piles of work, scan through them, but don’t actually do anything about them.  Pretty sure that’s one of the key strategies of ineffective people.

A few things were accomplished. If that’s all I can say about this week of clerical fury, then, I’ll take it.  I’ve got an hour left and I suspect that I’ll be diving back into Dragon Age 2 again, so here we go.

I need, I am thinking, to get on some sort of a plan.  I know this because my willpower has somehow left me. I’m getting extra anxious (when right now should be my most relaxed time of the year – the boss is gone – but all I can think about is trying to set everything I ever did wrong right) and I’m telling myself that the best way to cope is the old formula.  Food.  And at this point, I’m following the formula without deviation.  I changed what I’m giving up for Lent.  Chocolate is A LOT easier.

That’s not right!

I need to just go lie down someplace cool and quiet and cry.  I haven’t cried, properly, in a while.  I suppose we could consult the archive here to see if that’s true, maybe I cried and cried last week and don’t remember.   If I can’t cry, even better, I’d like to write.  I’d like to put all these walls down and let a poem happen.  Mr. Rochester, may he rest in whatever peace someone like him deserves, is perfect fodder for a poem. 

I feel like Billy Collins’ “By A Swimming Pool Outside Syracusa” is now the story of my life.  That somehow by communicating with people who speak another language and truly the discursive community of this office is a whole other kind of language, a meshing of eye movements and volume modulation and this social sweater we’ve knitted around ourselves, I’ve lost my facility with my own hidden lexicon.  The argot that only my cells can pass to my other cells.   It fades, almost imperceptibly, this access until you find yourself struggling to create a letter expressing more than fact about a thing you know a great many facts about.   The fluid dries up and the way becomes overgrown.  You stand at the center of yourself, ape-ing yourself, and waiting for some graceful light to flicker this on-coming dusk into meaninglessness, some engine to turn over and its burr to fill you with relief.   Sometimes, with some help and good spirits, you can start to feel a little better.  More often, you just struggle until you have to turn off the awkward dreaming just because it is so awkward. 

You don’t realize that so long as you struggle to find your way in, you’re still in the domain of the Muse.  When you give up your scratching, don’t mind and forget the ache, start wearing heels to work, that’s when she leaves you to your own devices. 

Thank goodness I’m not so far gone.

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