Wrong, Wrong, Wrong


Don’t look back.

  • If I didn’t acknowledge the impulse I have to stop writing tonight and just build up my reserves and thoughts for tomorrow, what would I write?
  • But damn, the well feels dry.
  • I could sing the praises of my mother who when I show up at her house with five minutes to spare on route to work and tell her I need food – loads me up with teriyaki chicken and noodles and belvita cookies and doesn’t make me feel too much like crying over the fact that I have had to do that.
  • We are still adjusting to the fact that in the course of three months we’re going from owning three cats down to one.
  • I still need a drink.
  • I still need short, Hemingway-style sentences.
  • I need something other than this.
  • I need to stop grinding my teeth.
  • I need some sleep, deep, deep, uninterrupted sleep.
  • I need to cut these endless distractions.
  • I need to begin.

It is a curious thing when you are so stressed that the stress has been shoved, hard, into a toy chest in the far corners of your mind.  It rattles, shakes, lurches side to side and sometimes even appears to jump a few inches in the air.   But nothing really breaks out. Nothing really threatens your blissful separation of reality from pleasant delusion.

And that is, perhaps, a dangerous place to hang your hat.  But it also does produce some interesting mental effects.  Such as when you are driving home, and contemplating the contents of your own Pandora’s Box and contemplating what exact level of hell you are at, and suddenly, you start grinning.  Laughing to yourself.  And the sky looks surreal, beautiful and fake and real and completely immune to your petty problems and you can actually feel yourself breathing for a moment.  You can actually feel yourself detach from the idea that you need to suffer every waking moment of your life and what’s beyond that is…kooky.  It’s people riding bikes with helmets on that match their shoes.  It’s the pizza brand sign on top of the pizza delivery car that looks like a shark’s fin at this one particular angle.  It’s this carbonated air.  It’s this curvature of this road and the way your eyeballs grab and process the movement as though the scenery were painted on a screen and it’s moving too slow on the reel.

And for a few moments, no bullet could permeate you.  You could only just make room for it and let it go.  You are just loosely held ideas and water and everything else is comedy yet to be.

Then, of course, holy shit, how am I going to live and when will I find love and what about this book and what about this baby and what is going to happen…but for a bit, just a bit, I didn’t have any of those anvils weighing me down.

I have to say…if we get to choose, make my heaven a bit like that.


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