For Want of a Title

Just on a whim, I thought i might record some of the notes of the day – the week, really.

Because someone ought to know and the man has me so confused, his upness, his downness, what feels like his complete desertion of me being followed by a haymaker of an overture, all of which has me way too dizzy and exhausted to run through much of my day.   The small little details which need saying.  I forget they need saying so often that they haven’t been said and they’ve balled up, filled up my insides.

I worked hard this last week.  Figuring out – albeit only as a result of being able to afford purchasing transport – how to deal with an enormous four days of meetings that I had to feed eight others in a place where you can’t even get a cup of coffee without importing the shit from Colombia and the donkey it has to ride in on, too.   When you go from a place where you can’t turn around without office supplies and projector screens and meeting amenities slapping you in the face, to a place where the walls aren’t entirely drywalled in…twas tough.

And I was not a hot knife through that butter.  I have been ill, but not so ill that it would have made any sense not to be there at my 6:45am call time.  I can breathe, I can type, and I can walk and order overly salty poutine that weighs on your soul.

I woke up at 4:30am recalling the traces of the most amazing dream – an empty restaurant nobody goes to, a dream of how it ought to be full with 60’s era dancing and revelry, turning dark and mad with everyone racing a lawnmower race, an epic kiss, Madonna bra, violence and being chased by police until we became some sort of painting, maybe Crossing the Rubicon, only with lawnmowers…so strange and delightful to feel a creative mind freed to create, unafraid of the imperfection of that creation, just conjuring and building and breaking until something new comes of it, and letting the waves take that thing so that something new can come in its wake.

Small stretches in hope do seem to pull you out.  Pull me out of my morass, emphasis on the ass.  A bit more water.  Taking my medicine.  Saying no the one time.  Recalling that you have capacity to look ahead just enough to recognize that yes, you will need to wear clothes tomorrow and if you pick them out tonight you only need to put them on in the morning.  You only need to do a bit then, if, with all your energy, you do some of it now.  Imagine!  The logic and foresight.

Rising up from your supine position to realize that there are only a hundred more worlds to finish this up.  To wipe the slate and try again tomorrow.  Only two days until I go to Indianapolis.  Where who knows what obscure and unusual hijinks I could get into.