Were it possible, I would kick both of my dogs square in the nuts. They deserve it for all the worry and strife they cause. Of course Mudd's testicles were removed seven years ago and Crumb never actually had them (although she does have a strange pseudo-penis that Tegan refuses to acknowledge. In my opinion, she is a canine hermaphrodite.)
Um... that is all I really had to say. Internal mono-blog: Is it a good idea to blog about non-existent dog nuts? Probably not.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tim: A True Story
Tim just walked past my window. His story will make a good post—a memory from our first days in Eugene that refreshes itself periodically.
We had lived in our apartment in the big yellow house for 3 weeks or so. My eyes were grainy with sleep as I opened the door at 8 AM. The knocker was a bald man, early thirties, with two huge satchels and an oil drum. The barrel had been modified with creativity, an oxyacetylene torch and no small amount of patience into a gigantic candle holder, the likes of which you can find, in miniature, at any number of hippie-trinket stores nation wide.
He stood there smiling, but nonplussed. "Is Steve here?" "No," I replied. "There is no Steve here."
"I just got in from Indiana, and my friend used to live here..." He seemed genuine, so I frowned and nodded sympathetically. "Could I leave my bags on your porch? Just for today. I will be back to get them tonight or tomorrow." Our porch was expansive and, at that point in time, fairly free of clutter, leaving plenty of room for his parcels. I looked past him at the driveway.
It might be noted here that a man lived in our driveway, his bunk set up in the back of a toyota pickup. It has little bearing on the story, as he rose early to procure McDonald's breakfast and dine on the riverbank and so had not been roused by the commotion, but it sets the ambiance for our situation.
Next to the Toyota was a Vespa scooter, red and dented with a front Indiana inspection sticker. There was a motor oil box bungeed to the tail. It was only then that I noticed the Indiana license plate affixed to one of the stranger's bags. He noticed my puzzlement. "It does really well on the flat, but going over the mountains... Man, sometimes I couldn't get over 25 or 30 miles per hour." I looked at the two huge duffles and oil drum again.
"OK," I said. "You can leave that box, too, if you want." "Oh no," he laughed. "It takes about a quart of oil every day." He pulled out in a big blue cloud of smoke and ruckus.
Three weeks later we sat pondering those bags. "Fuck it," our neighbor finally caved. "He's not coming back. I like the giant candle holder/lantern barrel, but what is in those bags?" He opened one and and shocked us all.
"Garbage." Nelson (our neighbor) emptied wrappers, cans, crumpled paper and finally a medium-sized oak branch from the duffle. "It's a bunch of fucking garbage."
Literally, as if scripted and on cue, the beaten Vespa pulled into our driveway trailing it's blue streamer. Tim dismounted and came up the steps. "Hey," he said. Nelson had successfully stuffed some of the trash back into the bag and was now holding it with a guilty look on his face. Tim took the duffle and opened it. He removed the oak branch.
"Oh, yeah. That's right, I was invisible..." He was congenial, smiling as he stuffed one garbage sack into the barrel and slung the other on his back. We watched as he roped the smaller sack atop the oil box and wedged the drum (second sack within) between his legs, turned a tiny key and vanished in a stinking blue cloud. Did I mention he had a sparkly red helmet? Well, he did.
So, as I said in the beginning of this story, I still see him regularly. He does not recognize me, thankfully, even though twice I have called him by name and followed with an explanation of how I know it. I have run into him everywhere, from our friend's rock and mineral shop, to catching him chucking trash into the street outside the dog-wash in the middle of the night. A few weeks ago he popped up at the tavern we frequent with an upside-down pentagram tattooed on his forehead and concentric circles above his eyebrows. I know now that they must have been either Henna or ball-point pen, because they are no longer visible.
He is not the craziest person we've met (I'll save "Medley" for another time) but he holds a special place in our memories.
We had lived in our apartment in the big yellow house for 3 weeks or so. My eyes were grainy with sleep as I opened the door at 8 AM. The knocker was a bald man, early thirties, with two huge satchels and an oil drum. The barrel had been modified with creativity, an oxyacetylene torch and no small amount of patience into a gigantic candle holder, the likes of which you can find, in miniature, at any number of hippie-trinket stores nation wide.
He stood there smiling, but nonplussed. "Is Steve here?" "No," I replied. "There is no Steve here."
"I just got in from Indiana, and my friend used to live here..." He seemed genuine, so I frowned and nodded sympathetically. "Could I leave my bags on your porch? Just for today. I will be back to get them tonight or tomorrow." Our porch was expansive and, at that point in time, fairly free of clutter, leaving plenty of room for his parcels. I looked past him at the driveway.
It might be noted here that a man lived in our driveway, his bunk set up in the back of a toyota pickup. It has little bearing on the story, as he rose early to procure McDonald's breakfast and dine on the riverbank and so had not been roused by the commotion, but it sets the ambiance for our situation.
Next to the Toyota was a Vespa scooter, red and dented with a front Indiana inspection sticker. There was a motor oil box bungeed to the tail. It was only then that I noticed the Indiana license plate affixed to one of the stranger's bags. He noticed my puzzlement. "It does really well on the flat, but going over the mountains... Man, sometimes I couldn't get over 25 or 30 miles per hour." I looked at the two huge duffles and oil drum again.
"OK," I said. "You can leave that box, too, if you want." "Oh no," he laughed. "It takes about a quart of oil every day." He pulled out in a big blue cloud of smoke and ruckus.
Three weeks later we sat pondering those bags. "Fuck it," our neighbor finally caved. "He's not coming back. I like the giant candle holder/lantern barrel, but what is in those bags?" He opened one and and shocked us all.
"Garbage." Nelson (our neighbor) emptied wrappers, cans, crumpled paper and finally a medium-sized oak branch from the duffle. "It's a bunch of fucking garbage."
Literally, as if scripted and on cue, the beaten Vespa pulled into our driveway trailing it's blue streamer. Tim dismounted and came up the steps. "Hey," he said. Nelson had successfully stuffed some of the trash back into the bag and was now holding it with a guilty look on his face. Tim took the duffle and opened it. He removed the oak branch.
"Oh, yeah. That's right, I was invisible..." He was congenial, smiling as he stuffed one garbage sack into the barrel and slung the other on his back. We watched as he roped the smaller sack atop the oil box and wedged the drum (second sack within) between his legs, turned a tiny key and vanished in a stinking blue cloud. Did I mention he had a sparkly red helmet? Well, he did.
So, as I said in the beginning of this story, I still see him regularly. He does not recognize me, thankfully, even though twice I have called him by name and followed with an explanation of how I know it. I have run into him everywhere, from our friend's rock and mineral shop, to catching him chucking trash into the street outside the dog-wash in the middle of the night. A few weeks ago he popped up at the tavern we frequent with an upside-down pentagram tattooed on his forehead and concentric circles above his eyebrows. I know now that they must have been either Henna or ball-point pen, because they are no longer visible.
He is not the craziest person we've met (I'll save "Medley" for another time) but he holds a special place in our memories.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Hook
"I'm going to start a pineapple farm."
Like a giant, rabid moth beating it's powdered wings frantically against his apple-shiny cheeks, the makeup girl made no discernible acknowledgment of his comment. He was but simulacrum seated before her, one of many light-bulbs against which she could bash her talcum talents into exhaustion. Certainly her metal had been honed by richer, more idolized figures. Her disinterest interested him. He swallowed a lump in his throat that was his pride.
He had the intense urge to say something outrageous just to get a reaction — like, "Your mother mentioned something in bed last night..." Her stoic gaze and carefully metered patting was almost animatronic. She didn't even apologize after slapping her dust-bunny into his open eye when he had flinched at a sweat bee sting. After all, he was the one who jerked. He was the jerk.
A man in tight shimmering pants strode past carrying a xylophone mounted to a harness. A very disenchanted llama followed behind him, which of course evoked the question: Who was that harness was for? Did the llama play xylophone? Did it dance as the man in shiny pants played? What was the hook?
Sitting in the make-up chair, his hook was obvious, as it was a foot long 7/8th inch tapered piece of curled chromoly jutting from his right wrist. The hook itself was not the hook, however. That proxy had held his hand's place for nearly 22 years. The reason CBS executives thought people would want to see him on television was entirely unrelated.
The audience wouldn't want to hear about when he was twelve and the boat carrying 40 cuban refugees, himself among them, had broken apart 25 miles off the Florida coast. His mother had drown along with 28 others.
The crowd didn't care about his daughter's courageous fight against Melanoma, surviving numerous rounds of chemotherapy and skin grafts, never allowing her fear to surmount her will. She was at home in bed, dreaming.
All those people watching had no interest in his struggles, inspirations, affirmations, insights — in him as a human. He was a grinder monkey, a nameless automaton with a flawed nasal canal that allowed him to whistle through his ears. He would close his eyes and blow, people would clap, and he would slink back off into obscurity.
Suddenly overwhelmed, a tear ran down his cheek. Which, consequently, finally got the make-up girl to acknowledge him, and in her startling husky voice, she said, "Shit."
Like a giant, rabid moth beating it's powdered wings frantically against his apple-shiny cheeks, the makeup girl made no discernible acknowledgment of his comment. He was but simulacrum seated before her, one of many light-bulbs against which she could bash her talcum talents into exhaustion. Certainly her metal had been honed by richer, more idolized figures. Her disinterest interested him. He swallowed a lump in his throat that was his pride.
He had the intense urge to say something outrageous just to get a reaction — like, "Your mother mentioned something in bed last night..." Her stoic gaze and carefully metered patting was almost animatronic. She didn't even apologize after slapping her dust-bunny into his open eye when he had flinched at a sweat bee sting. After all, he was the one who jerked. He was the jerk.
A man in tight shimmering pants strode past carrying a xylophone mounted to a harness. A very disenchanted llama followed behind him, which of course evoked the question: Who was that harness was for? Did the llama play xylophone? Did it dance as the man in shiny pants played? What was the hook?
Sitting in the make-up chair, his hook was obvious, as it was a foot long 7/8th inch tapered piece of curled chromoly jutting from his right wrist. The hook itself was not the hook, however. That proxy had held his hand's place for nearly 22 years. The reason CBS executives thought people would want to see him on television was entirely unrelated.
The audience wouldn't want to hear about when he was twelve and the boat carrying 40 cuban refugees, himself among them, had broken apart 25 miles off the Florida coast. His mother had drown along with 28 others.
The crowd didn't care about his daughter's courageous fight against Melanoma, surviving numerous rounds of chemotherapy and skin grafts, never allowing her fear to surmount her will. She was at home in bed, dreaming.
All those people watching had no interest in his struggles, inspirations, affirmations, insights — in him as a human. He was a grinder monkey, a nameless automaton with a flawed nasal canal that allowed him to whistle through his ears. He would close his eyes and blow, people would clap, and he would slink back off into obscurity.
Suddenly overwhelmed, a tear ran down his cheek. Which, consequently, finally got the make-up girl to acknowledge him, and in her startling husky voice, she said, "Shit."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Unfinished yarns
Earlier tonight, as the recliner I perched upon pitched north (quite expectantly... since reclining is what recliners do), I watched a shabbily encased cord unwind from its chrome enclosure as the lamp I was attempting to repair (while plugged in) was further traumatized. After stabilization, the frayed weaving and electrical components protruding from the lamp's base illustrated a greater deficiency.
This particular fixture exudes robust durability. It's trifecta of positional lamps appear bomb-proof. When one of the illuminating colanders popped from it's pivot last week, both my spouse and myself were baffled. Since the hour was late, my response was to deal with it later.
It is later. So now, attempting to calm my racing heart after nearly electrocuting myself and/or pitching strait off the chair and out the window, I discount the allegorical substance in those frail and frazzled wires jutting like guts from a steel pole. This experience was about the moment...
I remember thinking, as the chair shifted beneath my stupidity, "Don't do anything stupid, like kill yourself." This was not a magnanimous revelation. No, I was thinking of myself and all the stories I have started and not finished. I've got too many ridiculous tales that are already, in one way or the other, preserved as lasting legacy yet need major overhaul. To surrender those yarns like tadpoles into the trout stream, immature and incomplete, would be my warped vision of a true tragedy.
This particular fixture exudes robust durability. It's trifecta of positional lamps appear bomb-proof. When one of the illuminating colanders popped from it's pivot last week, both my spouse and myself were baffled. Since the hour was late, my response was to deal with it later.
It is later. So now, attempting to calm my racing heart after nearly electrocuting myself and/or pitching strait off the chair and out the window, I discount the allegorical substance in those frail and frazzled wires jutting like guts from a steel pole. This experience was about the moment...
I remember thinking, as the chair shifted beneath my stupidity, "Don't do anything stupid, like kill yourself." This was not a magnanimous revelation. No, I was thinking of myself and all the stories I have started and not finished. I've got too many ridiculous tales that are already, in one way or the other, preserved as lasting legacy yet need major overhaul. To surrender those yarns like tadpoles into the trout stream, immature and incomplete, would be my warped vision of a true tragedy.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A story about a bridge
Standing alone in the dark, brittle and bleached, the old structure still allowed safe passage over Willup Creek. It's reliable fingers plunged down, perpetually testing the tepidness of the waters. Headlights would crawl across it's splintering beams less and less frequently as the night spooled past. Cars that carried strangers, lovers, dreaming children, quarreling parents; It's shivering timbers supported them all alike.
The sweethearts who stole kisses below it's weathered canopy would etch their epithets into it's beams. And each scribe would step back with their pocket-knives, absorbing all those letters and hearts, the cluster of identities, and feel a ring of guilt. Smooching here, below their vandalism, would no longer feel so secret or spontaneous. One small act of graffiti had amputated that small piece of youth, whittled it off with a dull drug-store edge.
Occasionally the vibrations of tires would shimmy a knot from it's hole, releasing it to plink into the ripples like some old fashion bobber. Damsel flies would use it as an island, a ship, as it bumped it's way along the water path, eyed by fish and craw-dads, eventually to sink or rot or be swept beyond what could be imagined. Tiny bits of a bridge whose sole purpose was to be solid and stationary, immobile, would drift off on epic adventures.
And the night that it collapsed, sending all those planks and lumbers to join their departed parts, all those carved proclamations of love and fidelity to rush into the blue, it was vacant. The next morning people of the community gathered to view what wasn't there. They looked at the hole in the road leaving air over the maw of the river. They looked at the air and thought private thoughts. And while it was agreed that the bridge had obviously been an antiquated bit of unsafe infrastructure, it was missed.
An industrial grey overpass replaced it, sturdy and uninspiring. The only bits of itself to break loose were pebbles that would plummet into the sediment to be buried and forgotten. The only graffiti it would accept came from an aerosol spray-can, the passionless mischief of hooligans. Most folks found themselves taking the long loop to town. When they looked at the new concrete fixture, all they saw was a hole. All the imagination and fallibility had washed away.
The sweethearts who stole kisses below it's weathered canopy would etch their epithets into it's beams. And each scribe would step back with their pocket-knives, absorbing all those letters and hearts, the cluster of identities, and feel a ring of guilt. Smooching here, below their vandalism, would no longer feel so secret or spontaneous. One small act of graffiti had amputated that small piece of youth, whittled it off with a dull drug-store edge.
Occasionally the vibrations of tires would shimmy a knot from it's hole, releasing it to plink into the ripples like some old fashion bobber. Damsel flies would use it as an island, a ship, as it bumped it's way along the water path, eyed by fish and craw-dads, eventually to sink or rot or be swept beyond what could be imagined. Tiny bits of a bridge whose sole purpose was to be solid and stationary, immobile, would drift off on epic adventures.
And the night that it collapsed, sending all those planks and lumbers to join their departed parts, all those carved proclamations of love and fidelity to rush into the blue, it was vacant. The next morning people of the community gathered to view what wasn't there. They looked at the hole in the road leaving air over the maw of the river. They looked at the air and thought private thoughts. And while it was agreed that the bridge had obviously been an antiquated bit of unsafe infrastructure, it was missed.
An industrial grey overpass replaced it, sturdy and uninspiring. The only bits of itself to break loose were pebbles that would plummet into the sediment to be buried and forgotten. The only graffiti it would accept came from an aerosol spray-can, the passionless mischief of hooligans. Most folks found themselves taking the long loop to town. When they looked at the new concrete fixture, all they saw was a hole. All the imagination and fallibility had washed away.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Underpants Update
Several months have passed since an absence of regular tagless Hanes medium size boxers forced my purchase of the premium variety. It's stingy 2-pack left a wanting of value, therefore I expected the quality to be tops. Would I be disappointed after the proper breaking-in period? Here is an update.
Lets begin with the positive points. Comfort: The soft cotton cloth and comfy waistband proves luxurious. Despite having a tag sewn into the back, it is unnoticeable. Fashion: The bright striped pattern provides the piece of mind that should there be some nightmarish episode involving the loss of trousers, I can blush confidently.
But now the negatives. First of all, they seem to shrink after washing. Granted, they return readily to their stretched state soon after their rare laundering. So it's a minor flaw which is easily sidestepped by not washing them.
My main problem is with the button on the fly. Underwear, in my opinion, should be free of hardware. A simple ungapped over-flap is sufficient for its basic function. To stand in front of a urinal, fumbling through the fly-hole of one's blue-jeans in an attempt to re-fix a fastener not only looks foolish but seems redundant.
So there you have it, interested parties. Weigh the evidence for yourself before dropping $20 on two pairs of boxers. For my part, I will stick to the $15 three pack of regular tagless.
Lets begin with the positive points. Comfort: The soft cotton cloth and comfy waistband proves luxurious. Despite having a tag sewn into the back, it is unnoticeable. Fashion: The bright striped pattern provides the piece of mind that should there be some nightmarish episode involving the loss of trousers, I can blush confidently.
But now the negatives. First of all, they seem to shrink after washing. Granted, they return readily to their stretched state soon after their rare laundering. So it's a minor flaw which is easily sidestepped by not washing them.
My main problem is with the button on the fly. Underwear, in my opinion, should be free of hardware. A simple ungapped over-flap is sufficient for its basic function. To stand in front of a urinal, fumbling through the fly-hole of one's blue-jeans in an attempt to re-fix a fastener not only looks foolish but seems redundant.
So there you have it, interested parties. Weigh the evidence for yourself before dropping $20 on two pairs of boxers. For my part, I will stick to the $15 three pack of regular tagless.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Exactly true
The diner served dry hamburgers. The false fifties memorabilia (Route 66 signs, wide Chevy grilles, a cornerless jukebox) weren't distraction enough for the two men crammed into the red and white pleather booth, so the dry hamburgers certainly weren't helping. Thomas set his seeded bun down next to his cold crinkle-cut fries.
"I killed a man once."
This wasn't exactly true. To say he killed a man, actively ending his existence on this earth, removing him from the 6 cubic feet (or so) of specific space he occupied in time, was inaccurate.
Thomas referred to a night two years earlier. Walking to a free concert, he passed a man sprawled on the concrete in front of a 7-11. The unnatural angles of his limbs paused Thomas' gait. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily. He said, "Hello." There was no motion from the figure splayed on the stoop. Thomas poked him gently with the toe of his shoe. Nothing.
And so Thomas stooped, noticing on his decent the scuffed paper cup perched on the curb, it's insides stained with the coffee or tea that it had once held, now encompassing several coins. He placed his fingers on the transient's jugular. Nothing.
The flesh wasn't cold, however. Thomas had thought about CPR, about the cup, about those chapped lips and his own. He abruptly stood, and after depositing 17 cents into the cup, briskly walked away. It was only several hours later, after the concert, after seeing the coroner at the 7-11, after thoughts of phone calls and emergency medical personnel and their wages and society's burdens; only after all the whores in his mind had peddled their wares did Thomas realize he might have held a role in this timely passing.
Russell looked at Thomas across the faded red diner table. He found himself trapped in a small corner booth with a person who might be capable of terrible things. "What was it like?"
"I get a boner thinking about it." Thomas tried to act nonchalant, picking up a soggy potato wedge and wondering why he had divulged that truly intimate bit of information. He felt some strange camaraderie for this person he had met online several weeks ago. It was true; his arousal at the memory of that night and it's obvious violence. Even though his participation was limited to the possibilities of his inaction (his neglect, indirectly causing death which might have been delayed), he felt very pivotal.
Russell nervously pushed catsup around on his plate with a fry. "I've, uh... I've never killed thing."
Which also was not exactly true. From a lawyer's standpoint maybe, it was asphyxiation and traumatic spinal injuries and internal ruptures that had caused the deaths of 12 men he had met at various diners over the past six months. Russell watched the waitress lean on her hip after forcefully smacking the chrome ringer. She chewed gum, so Russell watched her chew it. He did not become aroused thinking of his violent trysts. He became aroused during them.
And so the strangers exchanged inexact truths for 45 minutes before mounting the nerve to retire to a hotel room with their perversions. Later that night, one would leave.
"I killed a man once."
This wasn't exactly true. To say he killed a man, actively ending his existence on this earth, removing him from the 6 cubic feet (or so) of specific space he occupied in time, was inaccurate.
Thomas referred to a night two years earlier. Walking to a free concert, he passed a man sprawled on the concrete in front of a 7-11. The unnatural angles of his limbs paused Thomas' gait. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily. He said, "Hello." There was no motion from the figure splayed on the stoop. Thomas poked him gently with the toe of his shoe. Nothing.
And so Thomas stooped, noticing on his decent the scuffed paper cup perched on the curb, it's insides stained with the coffee or tea that it had once held, now encompassing several coins. He placed his fingers on the transient's jugular. Nothing.
The flesh wasn't cold, however. Thomas had thought about CPR, about the cup, about those chapped lips and his own. He abruptly stood, and after depositing 17 cents into the cup, briskly walked away. It was only several hours later, after the concert, after seeing the coroner at the 7-11, after thoughts of phone calls and emergency medical personnel and their wages and society's burdens; only after all the whores in his mind had peddled their wares did Thomas realize he might have held a role in this timely passing.
Russell looked at Thomas across the faded red diner table. He found himself trapped in a small corner booth with a person who might be capable of terrible things. "What was it like?"
"I get a boner thinking about it." Thomas tried to act nonchalant, picking up a soggy potato wedge and wondering why he had divulged that truly intimate bit of information. He felt some strange camaraderie for this person he had met online several weeks ago. It was true; his arousal at the memory of that night and it's obvious violence. Even though his participation was limited to the possibilities of his inaction (his neglect, indirectly causing death which might have been delayed), he felt very pivotal.
Russell nervously pushed catsup around on his plate with a fry. "I've, uh... I've never killed thing."
Which also was not exactly true. From a lawyer's standpoint maybe, it was asphyxiation and traumatic spinal injuries and internal ruptures that had caused the deaths of 12 men he had met at various diners over the past six months. Russell watched the waitress lean on her hip after forcefully smacking the chrome ringer. She chewed gum, so Russell watched her chew it. He did not become aroused thinking of his violent trysts. He became aroused during them.
And so the strangers exchanged inexact truths for 45 minutes before mounting the nerve to retire to a hotel room with their perversions. Later that night, one would leave.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Personal Anxiety Exposition
There is a bubble inside of me. A marble. A swollen, pregnant orb that dives and floats. It bumps against organs. It's filling of cold gas causes twitches and flutters of the guts and heart and epiglottis as it ascends toward the brain, only to end up slithering southward again; redundant in reverse.
Some suggest a chemical cure. Pills, well... we all have our irrational phobias. No pharmaceuticals shall quell my jitters due to a very complex jigsaw puzzle of personal predisposition. Tablets and capsules and caplets shall remain piled in their powdery bins, across town, across the street, elsewhere. I choose my frets and fusses over them.
It's like looking at a picture of a stranger standing with hands on hips. You look at his yellow jacket with it's strange fringe and the angles of his geometry. His eyes are downcast, yet he is you, in a jacket you do not recognize on a street you cannot place. The more you stare at this figure, this self-effigy, the more uncertainties you fight.
So the clothing is not familiar, the street nameless... Things are lost occasionally. But then, who took the picture: A forgotten lover? A passer-by? Why the look of resignation, the feeling of defeat? Why is this image in your hands, anyway?
Searching for answers, for certainty, only mounts questions upon questions. Your back itches in a place you cannot reach, so you ignore it as best you can.
There you have it: what my anxiety is like.
Why do I delve into these ridiculous tirades about personal psyche instead of just posting the actual tribulations of my day-to-day existence? Well, I need to write this down. Why publish it in digital public instead of just journalling privately? Well... I need an excuse to make it worth reading.
Some suggest a chemical cure. Pills, well... we all have our irrational phobias. No pharmaceuticals shall quell my jitters due to a very complex jigsaw puzzle of personal predisposition. Tablets and capsules and caplets shall remain piled in their powdery bins, across town, across the street, elsewhere. I choose my frets and fusses over them.
It's like looking at a picture of a stranger standing with hands on hips. You look at his yellow jacket with it's strange fringe and the angles of his geometry. His eyes are downcast, yet he is you, in a jacket you do not recognize on a street you cannot place. The more you stare at this figure, this self-effigy, the more uncertainties you fight.
So the clothing is not familiar, the street nameless... Things are lost occasionally. But then, who took the picture: A forgotten lover? A passer-by? Why the look of resignation, the feeling of defeat? Why is this image in your hands, anyway?
Searching for answers, for certainty, only mounts questions upon questions. Your back itches in a place you cannot reach, so you ignore it as best you can.
There you have it: what my anxiety is like.
Why do I delve into these ridiculous tirades about personal psyche instead of just posting the actual tribulations of my day-to-day existence? Well, I need to write this down. Why publish it in digital public instead of just journalling privately? Well... I need an excuse to make it worth reading.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
