I’d misplaced my phone.  I was just on the edge of worrying about it though it had been gone probably days longer than most modern people would let such an absence go un-rectified.  I knew unless I dropped it on the pavement and wandered off unaware, it had to be in one of three spots.  And, today, it is found and charging and I feel as though this, illogically, is a sign.

Time to get one’s shit together.  As our possibly next president has said, it’s a season to “get started.”  I want to get this room rearranged.  There’s something fucked up and irritating about its feng shui.  I want a quirky little corner desk and keep this laptop on it rather than sitting on the bed, cross-legged.  I feel this will help.  A place for everything and everything in its place.  Freedom to be creative and weird rather than swallowed by material items that make me feel nothing.

In one way or another, at least.  It’s about an hour until I need to gag down some yogurt/applesauce.  Those earaches have been kept at bay by this morning’s dose and I can feel them beginning again.

Medicine: check, I need to get more yogurt.  That was bearable.  Passable.  Endurable.

I’m looking for a desk.  It could replace this nightstand and that awful pine laminate thing over there.  Distractions.


Got to shove off early.  If I don’t take more time for my dreams, they start to push at the edges, make my eyeballs bulge.  I keep double-checking to make sure I’m not feeling.  And when I start to, start to, start to, I run the track and hit the spots and sigh long and deep until all there is is unheard breath – the one faith we keep.

I would say if you turned up.  Maybe you know this and would prefer my silence, and this is the cause of your distance.  And in a vacuum where I don’t believe that something has gone wrong, mistranslated, been bent by an amused whim of the universe like the kid who grabbed hold of my radio antennae and subtracted 90 degrees of upright, attentive purpose just because he could – in that place of all things being equal, I’ve got this mustard seed of rage about it.  It’s in glass, of course, a little stomach of glass protects us from each other, lets me bear it out in the daylight like a charm.

It is just your life playing out for you as mine is playing out around me.  You are the center of your own Beckett play and I have Durang scripting mine and the highs and the lows, and the clever jibes, and the laughing for a reason we understand we don’t understand completely, but the circumstances imply we should.  Everything tells me I can’t blame you, but jesus fucking christ, who do I blame?  The ever-loving universe don’t let me in her bed these days.  And I would just like to lay this heart down somewhere.   This bird was given wings and took off before she realized they forgot the legs and we’ve been circling and circling and sinking, but in the end, the only way to stop is just to stop.

I’ve been listening to Daughter and Angel Olsen all night long.  This may have altered my brain patterns a bit.


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