Bellini: Day 19

Even on the weekends, the toll must be paid.

I am a strange one.  But that’s a good thing.  Strange and weird and ready for work.

You become far less interesting when you stop – even in the short term – working on yourself.  You sort of turn into a putty.  A paste.  You need that latticework to rise up, the trellis to climb, little clematis.  You need the idea of a self that could do so you can lay down in the chalk of what that shadow was and bend and move to fit.   You need to know what to do with yourself otherwise you start to get dumber and dumber ideas, eventually, you stop bothering with ideas at all.

A laziness in language is far harder to read, I suppose, than it even is for me to write.   Let’s not aim for the freedom of inactivity, but instead, the freedom of design and order.   Not order v. chaos, but a thing has a purpose and a place and letting it be purposeful and placed means an efficiency of a psychic field.  It means you can trust reality enough to protect you when you go way out onto the Zee and sail into blackness.

The internet has died aggressively throughout the day.  Each resurrection has been incredibly short lived. I’ve been supplementing with Sunless Seas and watching my boat explode if I try and speed it up beyond the MPH of a snail on quaaludes.

But there is light at the end of the day, having escaped the terror of the snow and things largely returned to normal.   The sister has returned from Portland, this is good news in that she would eventually need to come home, though I will not argue that I could have used a good weekend here.  Not that I was wildly productive with the slab of Saturday I ended up with, but some laundry got done.  Some recycling got out.  The Mississippi Pot Roast was carved into.  I drunk half a Smirnoff Peach Bellini thing until I started to feel something and immediately quit.  I spent an hour on the phone with J speaking about the Gillette ad and moral marketing and everything else under the sun.

He was chipper as all hell.  More productive than he thought.  My attempts to cheer him seemed to be absorbed, which is always a bit more gratifying than it should be.  “There should be a character in my game that reminds me of you…the beautiful woman from the mountains.  That’s you.”  “If there’s anything you like, just tell me and if I see anything related to it, I’ll send it to you. I just want you to be happy.”

I mean, I’d had a drop of alcohol, so I could only take this in the extremely earnest way it was tendered. Funny how both of us seem so capable of completely strangling our own happiness in the hopes it could somehow inflate the other person’s…it doesn’t work that way.  But still, I said “No, no, no, be happy on your own and then I am just the cherry on top…”

Things, whole armadas of things, were said unsaid.

I need to sleep.