Resurrection of the Flesh

I have to forgive myself for today.  I have to, otherwise, these razor blades in my belly are going to stay razors and like everything else will have to pass through.   Make them into marshmellows, something sweet and inconsequential.

Still have a lot of things to do tonight and I’m failing.  Failing all over the place.  I have to work on my directory project as it’s dragging on and on and on and I want it done.  You have to forgive and do better, otherwise the forgiveness doesn’t mean much.  So, we’ll hurry, trudge along towards our number five hundred.

Tomorrow is the boss’ surprise party.  Tomorrow is a slightly snowy day for which I’ve already procured a ride, though it means I’ll be at work an hour and a half early.  Maybe I’ll leave early.  Not unless I get what I need done and I haven’t yet and have no real plans as to how I will.  I have no earthly idea.  Shackles, I has them.   Tomorrow has no real potential to be a better day.  So all I can do is enjoy this mattress beneath mine arse, which is firm enough (the mattress, dear me) to make my legs feel like they’re levitating out from under me.  Enjoy the now of now before it slips away.

There were things to say yesterday that I noted I didn’t get to, but damn if I can remember them  now. Big important happenings.  I don’t know.  I’m awash with a weird hunger that I can’t deal with until we’re done here.  I really feel like, extraordinarily, I have nothing to say.  Nothing worth saying whatsoever and that all this tap-dancing across the screen means nothing to you and how could it, because I am not saying anything relating to anything.  There’s not even a whiff of revelation.  Just the same story pressed into digital matter over and over again.

All of this makes one almost necessarily ask why I am posting if I have nothing to post.

Well, great nation of silence, we post because we have to.  We post because maybe there’s a deep chasm of nothingness, a pit from which I am but a surrounding tube of flesh, a conduit for this emo and neurotic empty space.  But sooner or later, if we keep up the muscle memory and develop the calluses, the knowledge will be with us when something does arrive worth writing about.  We won’t be overcome by the need to translate this great intangible, consuming and absorbing unknown into text and failed by our ability to approach it.

So I talk about salsa and chips.  I talk about cold feet.  I talk about how Mr. Polite has not yet written me back, a solid, choking taste of my own medicine.  I talk about work and stress and I say things are terrible while people are starving and dying, frostbitten and with love on their lips and in their hearts.   My suffering is of my own making, which doesn’t make it worse, it just makes it persistent, intractable, embedded.   It makes me have to dance with it every day.  And when I am better, I at least find some joy in the dancing.