It’s the end of the day. I’m not sure if I should just head upstairs
and call it a night or ride the fumes a bit further until gravity pulls me
down. Writing involves motion beyond simply pupils and page turning. I might be
able to make it through a few paragraphs.
I suspect my reading wouldn’t make it much further than a page text
before I’d be off to the other world. I’ve
a rand jdddd.
That didn’t take
long. A “rand jddd.” Well rendered. The wife has just said she’s heading up to
bed. The girls are already long since
out. I get it into my head to set two
calendar invitations that need to happen, in order to be “productive.” This sort of rudimentary task would normally
take two to three minutes. I’ve been
working on one for about ten minutes now, as if trying to perform the task
under water, within a sand storm, heavily sedated. I blink in and out of the dream world, still
determined to get the task done. The
odds of a stupid mistake happening, like inviting the wrong people to the wrong
date has amplified, considerably.
A midnight snack. Yes. That
will get the blood moving. Stand up for
a bit. Go to the refrigerator and get a
hunk of cheese and some sunflower seeds.
A sip of white wine. Heading back
it is very clear though that I need sleep and will only do compromised work
with sleep standing so near by, ready to lull me.
More then ever, I notice
my addiction to the news. It is now mid-morning
back home in the U.S. however the
landing page of the New York Times hasn’t changed for nearly half a day. Why should I care? Me like two thirds of the rest of the country
is waiting for the Trump train to reach the washed out bridge that awaits this
administration, at point obscured but clearly pending, up behind a corner
unknown. My checking for it won’t make
it come any quicker. But I confess, I
just can’t stop looking. What a waste of
time.
Thursday, 8/17/18
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