With a Little Ice-Pick
About two months ago, when I was two months in, two months through this stretch of inactivity, woeful neglect, I vowed that it was over. I had reigned it in, I thought to myself, called the dogs of sloth to heel.
That was, perhaps, optimistic.
I think I've been mildly depressed these past few months without registering it. Or, if not depressed, tired.
I realized this when Paris died.
With Paris cancelled, my bone weary, leaden posit of self into the divan of the sofa -- the lump of my rump -- spoke to me of something more than simple disappointment. There was more going on. Oh, yes. And whatever it was, it had been going on for a while.
I've had trouble sleeping, then rising; it's been a travesty to make plans; a disaster (waiting to happen) to construct goals.
I've been waiting, and half-expecting, for it all to bottom out. It, of course, being all my hopes and my plans.
For no good reason, I might add. At least, I've been feeling like there wasn't. There was.
My life has been in upheaval. From standstill to disaster. From boring to almost terminally interesting.
I think I needed a rest. So, besides working, I've been doing sweet fuck all for the majority of the summer. Chipping away at that glacier of time; time itself moving at a glacier's pace.
We are still the power brokers. We are still the merchants of the hours.
And no one can make decisions except that one and only. The chooser. The choice.
This has been the theme of this entire blog. It's the theme of the age: no action exists without making it.
I could not make it to Paris because I didn't have enough money to go. It's a simple but arresting fact. Work has been slow this past while. The boys tell me that it has been unusually so; we're having a bad run. At least it's not just me. I mean, with that trial of the personal psych-up, and the frightened, inside jelly-making stage of actually doing it, you'd hope that you weren't just bad at it. That would be a kick in the nuts.
But the fact remains, the print on my ticket got hit with an eraser. The free trip got totaled. It was a dangerous thing to happen. No matter how unavoidable, it made my life feel more like a prison, immutable, and each atom that much harder to move.
Oh, there's that gulf of depression....
Wait.
There is a more intrinsic layer of detail. Clustered together inside those little bricks: electrons, protons and neutrons; and inside those, strings; the little serpents. Some of them wriggling freely towards a definition, other ones eating their own tails, enclosed in a system, but all of them moving. All of them vibrating their place in space and time.
It's working out.
That was, perhaps, optimistic.
I think I've been mildly depressed these past few months without registering it. Or, if not depressed, tired.
I realized this when Paris died.
With Paris cancelled, my bone weary, leaden posit of self into the divan of the sofa -- the lump of my rump -- spoke to me of something more than simple disappointment. There was more going on. Oh, yes. And whatever it was, it had been going on for a while.
I've had trouble sleeping, then rising; it's been a travesty to make plans; a disaster (waiting to happen) to construct goals.
I've been waiting, and half-expecting, for it all to bottom out. It, of course, being all my hopes and my plans.
For no good reason, I might add. At least, I've been feeling like there wasn't. There was.
My life has been in upheaval. From standstill to disaster. From boring to almost terminally interesting.
I think I needed a rest. So, besides working, I've been doing sweet fuck all for the majority of the summer. Chipping away at that glacier of time; time itself moving at a glacier's pace.
We are still the power brokers. We are still the merchants of the hours.
And no one can make decisions except that one and only. The chooser. The choice.
This has been the theme of this entire blog. It's the theme of the age: no action exists without making it.
I could not make it to Paris because I didn't have enough money to go. It's a simple but arresting fact. Work has been slow this past while. The boys tell me that it has been unusually so; we're having a bad run. At least it's not just me. I mean, with that trial of the personal psych-up, and the frightened, inside jelly-making stage of actually doing it, you'd hope that you weren't just bad at it. That would be a kick in the nuts.
But the fact remains, the print on my ticket got hit with an eraser. The free trip got totaled. It was a dangerous thing to happen. No matter how unavoidable, it made my life feel more like a prison, immutable, and each atom that much harder to move.
Oh, there's that gulf of depression....
Wait.
There is a more intrinsic layer of detail. Clustered together inside those little bricks: electrons, protons and neutrons; and inside those, strings; the little serpents. Some of them wriggling freely towards a definition, other ones eating their own tails, enclosed in a system, but all of them moving. All of them vibrating their place in space and time.
It's working out.
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