The Girl Who Spit in the Sea

I don’t know why I fret over the permanency of language.  I shy away from writing down how I actually feel, using tangents to distract us both, instead of being clear about what it is that’s on my mind.  I think if you knew what was on my mind, you could categorize me and write me off.  I would so rather being Schrodinger’s Cat than Schrodinger’s awkward afternoon encounter with a less than average person.

But sometimes you fail and sometimes you suck.   And sometimes you spend all day thinking about how you fail and suck and try and avoid actual failure and sucking that you just procrastinate on failure and suckage and make things infinitely worse to continue the cycle all over again.

These are technical terms, but I am in a philosophic frame of mind so I hope you’ll allow me that bit of sealing wax.

My sister made me lunch today, despite how obnoxious I was yesterday, and I am considering, briefly, how nice that was of her and how beneficial, really.  How it could help me get on the right track.  It leads me to consider how much I want to get on the right track for myself.  How boring and staid and accepting of fact I am.

I see a picture of myself and that picture’s not right.

A lot of things aren’t right.   I’m not in the right job.  I’m absent someone who would gather me up in their arms in these instances of self-doubt.  I’m not free to drive where I want.  It snowed in the high-country today.    That feels rather unacceptable.   Askew.  But yet, entirely natural.  Prepared for, whether or not I myself am ready, the calendar has marked off the days.  And here we are.

I really hate this time of year.  I really hate the coming-to.  The sobering up.  I really hate that I am never the right thing for the right day.  I really hate that I can’t seem to knuckle down.    I have this sense of waiting for something to physically strike me that I can’t seem to calm down about.  I have this sense of being boiling angry below the surface.  I have this sense that I’m repeating myself.

So when I leave you, I’ll play the simple chord progression I know on the ukulele, I’ll do the bike, lay down on the floor and do ten situps, and then consider watching some more Doctor Who.

Saw a picture of myself today.  All of this is vanity.  It’s all it ever was, to be honest.

But take all of that with a grain of salt.  Because as miserable as I claim and as miserable as I am and ought to be, I have poetry.  And friends who write in limericks.  And I have Billy Collins.  And Galway Kinnell.  And Maya Angelou, and damnit, I have good ol’ Sylvia.  And a ukulele and dry socks.  And a Mumford record!

And as much as the sea will take me, I would still spit in the sea.

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