I lay there facedown in the dark with the fan desperately working to make the room livable. I was hot and thirsty and felt like I was awake. Contemplating forcing myself up to go downstairs and raid the Brita, I realized that there were sentences and phrases coming to me – no, falling on me. One after another they spilled onto my shoulders and back, letters and words bouncing away in flashes of bright blue, splashes of color that formed geometric shapes, arcane symbols, nonsensical fireworks. Close up of a drop hitting an pool again and again and again. Words hung in the air above me and I knew that what they said was important but I couldn’t bring myself to understand or to write them down. Now it's all gone and it's because I had to get up to get a glass of water.
Have I mentioned how good Poe's Haunted is? "... while you were busy destroying my life, what was half in me has become whole."
I couldn’t get up Sunday. After finally coming to terms with the house, everything kind of broke down and I fell back to patterns of sloth and apathy. I managed to rouse myself long enough to get the dog walked, but not much else. I’m not even really sure what I ate. Saturday night, I was up too late watching Cowboy Bebop on the Cartoon Network. I think I let myself stay up too late because I watched Donnie Darko with Paul and Brenda and my mind was racing with images and ideas.
Question: Was it Frank who said, “I’m sorry,” in the movie theater?
My house-sitting gig is over. I’m back in Medford and will now have to go through the long process of reclaiming that space. Paul was asking me if it would be good to sleep in my own bed, but I didn’t really know how to answer. In some ways, I feel like I haven’t really had my own bed, my own space, or my own reality for the past couple of years. I’m feeling a stranger to my own life. When I say “reclaiming that space,” I mean something far greater than just getting settled back in.
I need to make peace with who I’ve become.
Granted, this all seems less pressing today than it did yesterday when I wrote the bulk of it. Still, the disjointed feeling remains. I’m tired of being just another fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt. I’m tired of not feeling connected. I’m tired of not feeling. In some ways I wish I were in the midst of a psychotic break because it would make all of it easier to explain away. Really, I’m faced with problems that are not only my responsibility, but also my doing. I’d best get to work.
Apropos to nothing, I may pick up a copy of The Dharma Bums soon.